Interlude II — Selling One's Soul

The trees did their utmost to trip him at every terrified step. Brian Hendricks was running like a man with the devil at his heels—and for all he knew, that was precisely what chased him through the rain-slicked forest. Drops peeled off leaves from the canopy above and struck him with incessant reminders of his drenched clothes. The cold was only held at bay by the pulsing adrenaline still rushing through his blood. He felt the heavy impact of every footfall on the thick forest floor, his way forward marked by seldom-used hiking trails that he could only desperately hope would not end.

He fled a sight no man should ever witness. Demons had appeared from within the Earth, blank-faced figures of fire and smoke. Flames writhed about them in streams, spinning the dance of the devil. Brian could still hear the screaming in his head. The two men at their feet—men who had only moments earlier declared their defiance proudly and attacked him with otherworldly powers—reduced to whimpering children in an instant. Begging could not save them from the demon who controlled these monsters. He'd simply waved his minions forward and walked away, while they screamed in agony as the flesh was seared from their bones until they were pulverized into dust.

The man had spotted Brian, and his eyes lit up in a way that struck terror into Brian's soul. Brian didn't think twice; he bolted into the trees, and behind him the firelight followed. So had he run for what felt like hours, though the adrenaline coursing through him meant that it could have been no time at all.

He chanced a look over his shoulder, and that was what did him in. Taking his eyes off the path ahead for only a moment, his foot caught the next root jutting out from the soil, and he was sent tumbling. He crashed through the thick underbrush, and only just had the wherewithal to tuck in and try to absorb the blow. The musty ferns engulfed him as he rolled into the bushes with a crash and an unpleasant popping sound. Mud and dirt caked his clothing as he tumbled to a halt underneath a large fir eerily reminiscent of a tree near his home, where his daughter probably sat even now waiting for a dinner that wasn't to come.

He groaned and tried to struggle back to his feet, but a sharp pain in his ankle kept him floored.

Please, God, don't be broken, Brian prayed desperately. I know I'm not the best father, and I haven't served you well, but I can't die like this. I don't deserve it, but please, God, don't let me leave Natalie all alone.

He knew it was futile. God had never answered one of his prayers. Brian assumed He was much too busy to pay mind to a simple landlord out in the middle of nowhere in Washington, much less one with as broken and disillusioned a past as himself.

He tested the foot gingerly and winced even harder. It was likely only sprained, from his unqualified opinion, but it still hurt like hell—too much for him to keep running. Brian looked around his immediate surroundings. He seemed to be safe for the moment. He'd fallen into a particularly thick patch of underbrush, and the ferns managed to provide him with enough cover. With a lump in his throat and terror in his heart, he slowly looked back to where he had tripped.

The flicker of light on the path nearly stopped his heart.

Brian stopped breathing. He stopped moving. For all intents and purposes, he may as well have been a stone statue left out in the forest. The only activity left in his body was his brain, frantically rushing through every possible outcome. As the light grew nearer, most of those faded into black, and only visions of his charred body left to rot in the woods remained. It was the flicker of torchlight, but as the figure emerged from the underbrush, Brian could see once again that there was no torch.

There was only the fire, which the man held just above both hands, letting it dance across his skin like a demon of hell. He didn't look like a demon; in fact, he could have been any ordinary college student in his all-weather black overcoat, denim jeans and plain polo shirt. Yet Brian had seen what this young man could do. He knew that the devil could have a servant in ordinary garb, misleading the innocent astray. Brian had never believed in such things.

Not until today.

Brian's lungs were crying for air, but he dared not open his mouth. The slightest sound might bring him to ruin. He could only hold as still as possible, and hope the young man would lose interest and wander away once more.

"Come out already. I know you're still here," the man called. His voice was deep, the kind that could rumble through bones. Brian recoiled at how close the sound was, and winced once more from the pain as his foot shifted, but to his credit he managed to keep silent. "I don't want to be out in this any more than you do. Let's just get this over with."

As the man grew closer, so did the flames dancing away around his hands, with angry hissing sounds when raindrops struck the fire. Brian couldn't help it. He shrunk away involuntarily once more, and his foot struck a rock behind him that he hadn't spotted. He let out the softest cry of pain, and the man was on him at once.

Jets of flame sprung forth from the man's outstretched palms. Intense heat radiated around Brian. The twin streaks burned away the undergrowth. The man was so precise and controlled with the burst that Brian only felt pleasantly warmed, but it only heightened the fear Brian felt in his bones. This was the day he was going to die. He knew it already.

"Please," Brian said softly. He had always been a bit on the quiet side. Kept his head down, stayed in line, never strayed from the path in front of him. Never raised his voice, never got confrontational unless he absolutely had to. He was the sort of person who would just fade into even the smallest of crowds, and he preferred it that way. The less attention given, the easier it was for him to keep living. It kept his life sane and simple.

Today he was alone with this strange young man standing over him, and it was the most utterly terrifying experience of his life.

"Please what?" the man asked, and for the first time in his terror-fuelled flight through the woods, Brian saw a glimpse of sympathy and surprise in the man's dark-skinned face. He looked confused—and if there was one thing you could always count on in a human being, it was confusion. If the young man wasn't an agent of the devil or whatever other unholy power might have granted his abilities, Brian might still be able to appeal to his remaining humanity.

"I have a daughter. She's only twelve. Her mother's—"

"Easy, man. You don't need to start begging." He sounded annoyed, but he hadn't killed Brian yet. There might still be hope left for him.

"Her name's Natalie," Brian continued. "She's expecting me home for dinner tonight. She wanted to cook, she was looking forward to it. She made me swear I wouldn't help, that she could do it all on her own."

"Seriously, please, stop. I'm not going to kill you." Relief surged through his veins. Though he didn't quite trust the man yet, Brian could at least conclude that if he was going to die, there was no reason he shouldn't have been killed already. Maybe Natalie won't be alone tonight after all, he allowed himself to hope.

But, Brian reminded himself, this man chased me through the woods in the rain. He clearly had some kind of agenda that involved Brian. The man sat down on a tree root nearby, looking particularly uncomfortable with the entire situation. Brian pulled himself up to a sitting position against a nearby trunk, since his life was apparently no longer in immediate peril.

"Brian, right?" the young man asked.

"Yeah," Brian nodded hesitantly.

The man pulled his hood down, revealing a handsome, dark, clean-shaven face and a shiny bald head. He was tall and imposing, but he had a certain charm about him. An intelligent friendly giant, perhaps, if not for the way he'd watched those men burn at his feet with such an impassive look. Brian fixed that image into his mind—of this young man standing over burning people writhing in agony and not lifting a finger to help.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked, as if it were common knowledge.

"No, I don't, and I don't need to. Please, just, let me go," Brian started again. The young man held up a hand.

"I can't, Brian. I'm sorry, but you've seen too much."

Brian's heart sank. It was a deadly phrase. "I'm a normal guy. I've lived a normal life for thirty seven years. I can keep living that. Don't need to tell anyone anything."

The man shook his head. "Could you really go back to living a normal life, after seeing this side of reality? After discovering such things are possible?"

Brian considered for a moment. He was desperate, and his mind cast about for anything that might appeal to the man's humanity. "I once thought the same thing about music." The young man looked surprised, so Brian continued. "I used to play jazz. Got pretty good at at it too. But that's all done now," he trailed off.

Memories flooded his thoughts. Sitting at his drums, tapping out a set for Natalie lying on her bed with the eager fascinating of a child discovering something new. She'd wanted him to teach her how to play, but she could barely reach the kit from her tiny height. They'd switched to the piano instead, and she was getting better every day. He'd been looking forward to hearing her play full songs, improvise her own pieces, and jam together as father and daughter.

A future that was barely flickering in the distance now, a flame sputtering and close to being snuffed out.

"Look, Brian. I'm trying to help you out, okay?" His voice was deep and comforting, the sort of pleasant baritone that lulled many into a false sense of security—but Brian was still feeling the after-effects of adrenaline from the frenzied rush through the woods. He wasn't about to trust this apparition of the devil, no matter how he might coax.

"You haven't even told me your name. How can I believe you?"

"My name is Jackson."

"Oh," Brian answered, taken aback. He hadn't expected such a direct response. "Well, Jackson—"

"Why did you stop playing?" Jackson interrupted. Brian stared at his eyes, which were the inky black of the deepest night sky, with only the tiniest glimmer of light twinkling to show life where there was only darkness.

"I—" Brian stopped, thinking back. The memories were long since buried, subsumed by the life he'd chosen since then, and he'd actively pushed them away for so many years. "I found something more important to live for."

"Your family."

"Someday you'll find the same," Brian continued. "I loved those drums, and I'd play every day if they came to town, but I couldn't live on that scene. I had a newborn, and she came first. My entire life is my daughter now."

Jackson nodded. "So you left Chicago."

"Yeah... how did you know I used to live in Chicago?"

"It's not exactly a secret, Brian. You've lived in this town long enough. I know everyone worth knowing in this town by now."

"But I don't know you."

"Well, that's easy," Jackson said, the sad smile returning to his face. "I'm the bad guy, Brian."

Brian felt a chill echo through his blood like a dark note in an empty concert hall. The phrase seemed completely at odds with the young man, with his sports team shirt and his jacket. Dread crept into his veins like ice. Whatever this man wanted, Brian wished he could be far away. He sent a silent prayer to God—begging for help—before he spoke again.

"What do you want with me?"

Jackson raised an eyebrow.

"You haven't killed me yet, so you must want something."

"You and I are connected now, Brian."

"What does that mean?" Brian asked nervously.

"Right now? Nothing," the man answered, and Brian felt briefly reassured—until he continued speaking. "But some other people… might not see it that way."

"Other people?"

"Let's just say I don't exactly have many friends," the man said, with a sad-looking smile. "But I do have enemies."

Brian shook his head. "I don't want to know." Something felt wrong suddenly. He glanced around, as the rain continued to trickle through the forest, an orchestra of drops striking leaves and twigs all around them, but not on them. He held out a hand, and not a drop fell on him. In fact, relative to a few minutes ago, he felt quite warm. Heat was radiating out from the spot between them, with no fire or light as its source.

Jackson smiled. "I thought you might appreciate a chance to dry off."

"What are you?" Brian asked nervously.

"A student," Jackson replied. "Of history, but not officially. My major was engineering, but I was always more interested in people than machines."

"You went to the university?" Brian was taken aback. Someone like this didn't belong at a university. Someone like this didn't belong on the planet.

Jackson nodded. "Until I found something more important to do."

"But… how—" Brian started.

"To explain would be to grant you the same power, and I get the feeling you don't want that," Jackson said dismissively. "Believe me, you're better off without it, though I believe you might be one of the few in the world sensible enough to handle yourself. No, for now, let's simply call it magic and be done with it."

"But, you are human… right?"

"As far as I know, yeah." Jackson smiled. "Relax, I'm on your side. In a way."

"What do you mean?"

"If I'm reading this right, you don't trust me. Fear me, even. Which is smart. Anyone with this kind of power at their fingertips is someone to be wary of. Those men from earlier didn't realize that."

As if Brian needed a reminder. "You killed them. Brutally."

Jackson nodded, his expression dark. "I did. Honestly, I enjoyed it a little too. If you'd known what they'd done, you'd agree."

"What could they have done?" Brian asked, anger rising in his core. "What could anyone do that deserves their skin set on fire? You know they feel that pain all over while they choke to death on the smoke, right?"

"I know. They deserved every moment of it." Jackson stood, brushing dirt from his pant leg. He offered an arm to Brian. "I can show you what these people do."

Brian didn't want to know. He didn't want to see it, but he knew that Jackson wouldn't let him leave alive unless he cooperated. All Brian could do was try to give the young man whatever he wanted, and hope that he could go home at the end of the day. Natalie needs me, Brian reminded himself. This is for her.

Brian grasped the young man's arm, feeling like he'd betrayed God and his own humanity by doing so.

"This will feel a bit strange," Jackson said gently. Brian shut his eyes tight, waiting for Hell to reach up and take hold of him.