FIC: Ghost Rider: Season of the Witch 7/??
Title: Season of the Witch
Author: ghanistarkiller @ mrs_peel_fanfic
Fandom: Ghost Rider
Disclaimer: Marvel and the filmmakers own 'em, I just play with 'em
Rating: PG-13 mostly for language (will warn if porn--it's my motto!)
Characters: Johnny, Carter, Mephistopheles
Warnings: Suffice it to say, spoilers
Summary: Visions of the past, as well as some personal demons of his own, are drawing Johnny to a small town in Arizona where Mephistopheles' force is gathering, entangling him in an ever growing web that encompasses a lost tribe of the desert and a new friend, Linda Littletrees.
A/N: Carter fans rejoice, for their is much of Mr. Slade in this chapter. So much, I considered making it just his chapter and cutting out the Johnny bit, but that wouldn't do! Again, I thank all of you who have read and commented; y'all just make my day and you definitely make it all worth it :-) EDIT: And my apologies for any errors you might come across; the storm last night caused me to lose my final draft and I was working from memory.
Other Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six
Gorgeous stroy graphics by: jadeblood
Graphic by jadeblood
7.
The night was waning, the deep, rich cobalt of the sky was steadily diminishing into an airy shade of indigo until the horizon broke with a heavy orange glow, alighting the few clouds that loomed. Carter had covered a staggering distance within the hours of darkness, but the curse was now rescinding and he feared the consuming fatigue that dawn would bring not only him but his trustworthy steed, Banshee. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t allow himself to, until he reached the mission.
Its bluntly steepled bell tower rose against the lightening heavens, the ghost of the moon lingered like the memory of a dream and was swept away with the oncoming daybreak. The bell tolled and the cloisters rang with a slow, mournful resonance across the desert sands. Banshee slowed beneath him and he could feel himself turning, his flesh and blood returning as the monster he became departed his weary bones like so much ash on the wind. The large wooden entrance was propped open, an attempt to alleviate the heat for the poor souls lodged within; he could hear the piteous moaning as he approached.
The stone floor inside the modest building was still clinging to cool of the night temperatures, which was a small blessing to those laid out upon it. They called them survivors of the massacre, lucky; Carter thought maybe those who’d perished had been the fortunate ones. Their minds were broken, twisted, tormented as they wept, muttering incoherently and praying to their gods and that of the Spaniards’ to show them compassion.
Carter removed his hat in respect as his keen eyes glanced over the small crowd, the faces that he knew well and some who were unfamiliar to him; he was searching for that one, the one that was forever graven into his mind as every pleasant memory he held onto since the day he sold his soul. “Padre,” he inclined his head as a priest drew close, bowing deferentially, “I’m looking for…”
“Carter Slade, she has been expecting you,” the young man interrupted, raising his hand sympathetically. “Follow me,” he motioned, leading him to a little room off of the main hall, such as it was. A sparse cot was set in the corner, beneath a window that shone with the first tenuous rays of sunlight. She lay upon it, unmoving, drifting in and out of delirious sleep; it looked unnervingly like she was spread upon her own bier. “She calls your name when she is awake, whispers it when she dreams. We figured it was only a matter of time before you arrived here.”
It had been thirty years, thirty long years since he had last seen Spotted Doe and she was every bit as beautiful as she had been back then. Her smooth bronze skin bore tiny little lines, slight creases chiefly around her mouth and eyes; she always did have one of the sweetest smiles. Her two long brunette braids, which were carefully draped over either side of her body to just past her waist, were intertwined with the most elegant of silver threads. She was still lithe, well muscled, with curves in all the right places. He felt a pang of regret, a clutching fist about his heart, as he knelt beside her.
She breathed out, her chest falling gradually like a deflating bellows, and it reminded Carter chillingly of a corpse’s last sigh, that rheumy gasp that escaped the lungs as life departed a body. He was absolutely still for a moment, rigid with alarm until her amber eyes fluttered open, at first bleary and stuporous, then straining to focus on him. She smiled and he took her hand, pressing it between his. “I was waiting for you,” she said, her voice hoarse and pained.
“I’m here now, darlin’,” he assured her softly.
“It’s true,” she gasped quietly in hushed awe, running the backs of her fingers along his jaw; she may have aged gracefully, but he seemed not to have at all, or very little at the least, as if for every ten of her years, he had only lived four. “Forgive me, for I did not understand. You tried to tell me, but I could not know how powerful and dangerous he is, your white devil. But I do now.”
“Tell me what happened,” he urged gently, but she resolutely shook her head from side to side, whimpering with the agony of her memories. A woman crouched beside him, a petite Spanish girl with large, dark eyes and simple dress; she held a hairbrush in her small hand, which she placed upon the cot beside Spotted Doe’s shoulder, and Carter guessed she had been caring for the Indian princess. She shook her head mutely and gingerly lifted Spotted Doe’s arm, turning it so that Carter could see the underside of her wrist; on it was a circular weal, two perfect incisions at its center. A snake’s bite. It was the same on her other hand.
“There was fire, horrible and fierce,” she moaned. “Snake Dance conjured an inferno and the Serpent Men came; I did not know so much turmoil and death could be wrought by so few. It was as if the medicine man’s words were magic themselves; he is stronger and more treacherous than we suspected.
“I am a warning,” she told him. “Above all else, he seeks to bring you back into his control, to subjugate you into loyal service once more. He will destroy everything you have ever held dear, kill everyone you have ever loved.” She enunciated each word clearly, emphasizing every syllable so he would comprehend the seriousness and gravity of her speech as she gripped his arm, “He. Will. Make. Them. Suffer.”
“Then yielding to him is my only option,” he said soberly.
“No, you mustn’t!” she insisted. “I did not endure his torture only to have you surrender; I lived so that I may ask you this with my dying breath: Promise me, promise me you will never submit to him again. Run, hide from him for as long as you must, but do not bow to him.”
He knew it was an oath that he could never hope to honor. If Mephistopheles made good on his threat, and Carter had no doubt that he fully intended to, he would not be able to abide having such innocent blood staining his already damned soul. “I promise,” he muttered, lying with as much conviction as he could muster. It broke his heart, the ease with which she believed in him as she relaxed visibly, her worries alleviated.
She closed her eyes, exhaling as if she was breathing out all of her sorrow, all of her burdens. “Darlin’, stay with me,” he urged desperately, touching the place at the corner of her mouth where a small smile curved her lips. Peace washed over her, a blessed release from the cares that troubled her; he could feel her slipping away from him and was startled to find himself comforted. It was the one place she could go that Mephistopheles could never follow.
The padre said a quiet prayer, the lilting tones of his soft Spanish speech rising and falling like the billow of a cloud riding the gently gusting wind. Light filled the room, touched Spotted Doe’s aristocratic brow with soothing golden fingers. Carter was humbled in the face of it, both in awe and fear of what he would never have, what he had eternally doomed himself to never experience when he made that bargain with Mephistopheles. “Go to your ancestors with pride, daughter of the desert,” he whispered to her resignedly.
Just as her spirit seemed to be flitting away evermore, shadows crept over the four walls with grasping claws, she gasped loudly, bolting upright against his chest as he leaned over her; she was rigid, panting hoarsely but drawing no air into her lungs. Animation had returned to her, but it was a malicious and harsh mockery of the liveliness she had always possessed. An angry shroud of clouds blotted out the sun, casting a pall upon them as she convulsed stiffly, staring at Carter with wide, shocked eyes, grasping his arm and managing to croak out before she again fell limp, “He is here, he is come for me!”
“Dios mio!” the priest cried, clutching his rosary and repeatedly crossing himself as he stumbled backwards, bumping into the doorframe before falling through it. “What devilry is this?”
“The worst kind,” Carter growled, lifting Spotted Doe into his arms; her chest was heaving with small, shallow exhalations without sign that she was truly breathing; her lips were pale with death’s pestilent kiss, her eyes glassy, hooded and unseeing. He cradled her to him, the soft white cotton of her unadorned frock, the edges frayed and singed, became a ghastly cerement clothing her cooling skin.
“This-this shouldn’t be,” stammered the priest, still staring dumbly at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. “It’s an affront in God’s eyes! She’s dead, she’s-she’s dead; this shouldn’t be.”
How very insightful of you, Carter thought to himself with a heavy, agitated sigh; the padre was going to be of less assistance than Slade had hoped. He caught the attention of the missionary who had been attending to Spotted Doe and instructed, “Get them that are capable on their feet and helpin’ them that ain’t, and get ‘em away from here quickly as you can. This ain’t a safe place anymore. Do you understand?” The woman nodded and hurried off, enlisted the help of the other priests and, in earnest, began her task.
Carter watched the humble exodus wend its way through the parched desert terrain, heartened by the distance they had managed to put between themselves and the mission in such a short time, until they were nothing more than a dark outline among stony foothills, a snake twisting between the rocks. The nearest town was miles away and the party was laden with the sick and injured; he didn’t know how far they’d get, but Carter was grimly relieved that, should they meet their deaths, it would not be at the mission, at the mercy of a demon.
The sky had blackened with a supernatural forcefulness and was now akin to night, lightning broke the dry air, illuminating the landscape, bathing it in a ghoulish white light and imprinting the scene into Carter’s vision. Movement became a series of still life images, changing slightly with each new fulgent flash from the heavens. The mission bell now rang of its own impetus, echoing a wild and mournful death knell. He held Spotted Doe tightly and circled about the mission. “Stop hidin’ yourself, you wily old bastard!” he shouted, his voice competing with the howling of the blusterous wind.
The black figure materialized, the shadows gathering about him, moving with him, shifting and stirring to accommodate his unhurried hobbling saunter. Carter gently set Spotted Doe upon the ground, pointing his finger accusingly at the man clad in black, “Mephisto.”
“Slade,” Mephistopheles chuckled, spreading his arms wide in a gracious greeting. “Oh, don’t look so righteously outraged. You knew this was coming, you brought it upon them when you disobeyed me.” Momentarily, the demon in his passion lost control of his mortal form and a wide grinning mouth of needlelike incisors appeared against the sickly skin of his protruding jaw; his eyes were black as pitch. With a growl, he reverted to his human guise, cross with himself for revealing his rage. “I knew, even after all this time, that you would go to her, to them. You left me with no choice.”
Carter gritted his teeth, reluctantly admitting to himself that Mephistopheles spoke some truth. The demon denied nothing, so venting his fury and grief by incriminating him of the torturous excesses of the slaughter of the tribe would have been futile. Carter had unwittingly doomed them all; it was a pattern he seemed to be noticing as of late. There was one thing, one action that he could charge Mephistopheles with. “What have you done to her?” he rumbled gruffly, gesturing towards Spotted Doe. “She made no bargain with you; you’ve no lawful claim to her soul.”
“Don’t I now?” the demon arced one wry eyebrow. “Not even when it’s been…offered to me? And ever so politely, too.”
Carter hissed through his teeth; finally he began to see the Devil’s trap, the twisted thread wending, weaving, worming their way into an inescapable web about him, so carefully planned and implemented. “Ritual sacrifice,” he muttered as if the breath had been taken right from his lungs. “The snake bites, Snake Dance used her to conjure his Serpent Men, didn’t he?”
“It was an unnecessary if,” Mephistopheles paused to savor each word, “deliciously advantageous act; two birds with one stone, as they say. But you are right about one thing, Rider: I have no rightful claim to her. Sacrificial rites are tricky old things, aren’t they? She’s a will of iron, and I can’t forcefully take her-and believe me, I’ve tried. And so she remains here, in a state of grace, as they say, in purgatory. Me? I think it’s as agonizing, as excruciating, as harrowing as punishment I could have invented.”
“This ain’t over,” Carter spat out through clenched teeth, lifting Spotted Doe back into the secure and protective hold of his embrace.
“I never thought otherwise,” Mephistopheles flashed him a thin, tight sneer, lips curling back over sharp white teeth. “You could end it, though; you have the power to. You just need give me the contract and I will set her free, I will set them all free, and no one will ever be the wiser as to the role you played in this.”
“Some things are more important than love,” Carter mumbled bitterly, squeezing his eyes shut tight as if to escape the dispiriting consequences of his decision, the images that played before his sight, assailing him, only to find more within his mind haunting him.
Present Day-
“Oh, we’re not, you know,” Linda had said quickly, looking to Johnny diffidently. “Engaged, me and him, we’re not…”
“Well what are you telling him that for?!” Sam had objected. “No offense, brah,” he said to Johnny, who shrugged affably, “but for all you know,” he rounded on Linda once more, “he’s some sort of psycho serial killer rapist, no offense,” he assured Johnny. Why had that become the mantra of everyone whose company he kept lately? It was really almost starting to annoy him.
“Sam Silvercloud, we’ve had this discussion before; the point of my living out here alone is just that! And I gave you back the ring,” she interjected, holding up her left hand and bending her ring finger at the knuckle in illustration.
“Threw it at me, if I recall correctly,” scoffed Sam, rubbing his ear as he screwed up his face, remembering too well the sting of impact the modestly jeweled band had inflicted.
“Phhht, that part you remember,” she retorted, puckering her mouth in vexation. That’s when the two began to bicker, reciting timeworn and trite topics with tired words.
Johnny stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, wondering just what to do with himself, scuffing uneasily at the floor with the toe of his boot. When he was sure both Linda and Sam were too wrapped up in their own squabbling to even be aware of Johnny’s presence, he sneaked out of the kitchen and back to his bedroom. He tried watching television, but was too restless; tried to read one of the books he’d taken from Linda’s bookshelf but his mind was too preoccupied. He wanted anything but to be lost in his own rumination at the moment; he needed an out. Idle hands, Johnny reminded himself with a humorless scoff.
He discovered that the ranch house’s front door was jammed shut, which explained why no one ever used it, preferring the porch door at the back of the home. Wherein lay his quandary, because his only chance of escape was through the kitchen and the very thing he was attempting to escape. Why? Why was he so eager to evade the argument that was simmering over, emanating from the dining area? A lot had happened in the past twenty-four hours; maybe he was just feeling a little overwhelmed by it all.
Linda finally stormed out of the kitchen and, soon after, Johnny could hear the shower running. He strolled through the kitchen and found it empty; where and when Sam had gone, he couldn’t say. He walked out to the garage, glaring ruefully at the charred remainder of the door. “Hey there, beauty,” he cooed to his bike, tenderly running his hand along the sensuous curve of the leather seat.
“You always talk to your bike like that?” a voice asked, and Johnny started, turning to find Sam squinting inquisitively into the darkened shed.
Johnny busied himself, locating an old toolbox sitting forlornly on a dusty shelf. He pulled it down and knelt beside Old Bess, running his fingers along her framework, knowing almost by instinct, by adept touch, where she could use improvement and repair. “Sometimes,” he muttered, without thinking rifling through the box and selecting a tarnished old wrench to work with. “Only when they’re worth talkin’ to,” he said absently.
“And you know which ones are?” Sam inquired keenly, leaning against the door’s frame. “Worth it, I mean.” Johnny paused for a moment, clearing his throat onto the back of his wrist, shrewdly aware that the two men weren’t about to have a discussion about cycles.
“I like to think so,” he shrugged, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t care for games, the macho posturing that men assumed over a woman; Johnny was a straight shooter, and he disliked those kinds of petty amorous manipulations, the romantic competitions and rivalries guys tended to fall into over a pretty gal. There was no reason, he was abashed to find himself thinking, that Linda should have told him about Sam in the short time they had known each other.
Sam nodded thoughtfully, scratching his chin and narrowing his eyes at Johnny. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he furrowed his brow, peering closely at Johnny, trying to get a clear look at his face. Johnny didn’t let him, telling him flatly that he must be mistaken. Sam shrugged, “Eh, all you white guys look alike.” Johnny chuckled, a genuinely easygoing and cheerful sound, and Sam loosened up a little, clearly thinking better of Johnny for his self-deprecating sense of humor. “Linda loves that antique pile of rust,” he jutted his chin towards Old Bess. “It scares the hell outta me, though; I always think she’s gonna break her neck riding it out there in the desert.”
“That’d be the least of her problems nowadays,” mumbled Johnny beneath his breath; if Sam’s perceptive senses picked up on it, he gave only the faintest sign of it.
A deliberate silence passed between them, only the casual sound of the lazy breeze, the bat-bat-bat of the pinwheels in the dust and the gentle tinkering of the wrench against Old Bess could be heard. Johnny was aware, but not bothered by, Sam’s stare on him the entire time, measuring him, appraising carefully what to say next. “This is gonna sound kinda...douche bag-y of me,” Sam cleared his throat, squinching his eyes into the blinding light of the sun that washed the landscape white just beyond the shade of the shed, “like a ‘stay away from my girl’ kind of thing, and it’s really not. But, you don’t know her.”
He shrugged and continued, “I’ve loved her since we were seven, and I know better’n anyone else that Linda’ll always do whatever the heck it is Linda wants. I’m not telling you this for you-I’m not pretending to be your bestest friend-or for me-those bridges have already been burnt-but ‘cause I don’t wanna see her get hurt again.” He put his index finger to his temple, “She’s damaged goods, brah. I get that the two of you have formed some sort of connection over ‘the hell happened out here last night, but you’ve known her for a day. You don’t know what she’s been through.”
‘Damaged goods, huh?’ Johnny thought to himself. ‘Ain’t we all just?’ There was no denying the truth in Sam’s words, Johnny didn’t even try, and it was obvious that there were things that Johnny didn’t know, though he’d never really believed differently. But Sam didn’t know everything either, not just about what Linda could do, but about Johnny he knew only what his eyes had told him thus far, and appearances could be mightily deceiving; he couldn’t “get it,” he never would.
“So, do chicks dig this whole king of angst thing?” Sam asked after some time had passed and it became clear that Johnny was content to remain pensively taciturn. “The brooding, it’s a turn on?”
“I dunno,” he drawled thoughtfully. “I mean, it’s never hurt, you know? But I’ve never, like, deliberately employed it to woo a gal; I’ve always thought that any guy who goes to such lengths to demonstrate how deep and inscrutable he is must be pretty superficial. You know?”
Sam wrinkled his nose. “You always talk funny like that, white man?”
Johnny laughed. “S’pose I do.”
“Yeah,” scoffed Sam, “bet Linda loves that. Finally found herself an intellectual to have meaningful conversations with.”
“Well, I’ve never thought of myself as such, though I do suppose I consider myself a student of the world.”
“Oh, yeah,” sighed Sam, “you’d get in her jeans no problem.”
“By the way, it was implicit” Johnny quirked an eyebrow, a small smile curving the corner of his mouth. Sam looked at him, his brow furrowing in bewilderment. “Telling me to stay away from your girl,” clarified Johnny, “I thought it was pretty implicit in what you told me." Sam scowled at the bright smile Johnny then displayed and stalked away.
Peace, Ghani
Author: ghanistarkiller @ mrs_peel_fanfic
Fandom: Ghost Rider
Disclaimer: Marvel and the filmmakers own 'em, I just play with 'em
Rating: PG-13 mostly for language (will warn if porn--it's my motto!)
Characters: Johnny, Carter, Mephistopheles
Warnings: Suffice it to say, spoilers
Summary: Visions of the past, as well as some personal demons of his own, are drawing Johnny to a small town in Arizona where Mephistopheles' force is gathering, entangling him in an ever growing web that encompasses a lost tribe of the desert and a new friend, Linda Littletrees.
A/N: Carter fans rejoice, for their is much of Mr. Slade in this chapter. So much, I considered making it just his chapter and cutting out the Johnny bit, but that wouldn't do! Again, I thank all of you who have read and commented; y'all just make my day and you definitely make it all worth it :-) EDIT: And my apologies for any errors you might come across; the storm last night caused me to lose my final draft and I was working from memory.
Other Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six
Gorgeous stroy graphics by: jadeblood
Graphic by jadeblood
7.
The night was waning, the deep, rich cobalt of the sky was steadily diminishing into an airy shade of indigo until the horizon broke with a heavy orange glow, alighting the few clouds that loomed. Carter had covered a staggering distance within the hours of darkness, but the curse was now rescinding and he feared the consuming fatigue that dawn would bring not only him but his trustworthy steed, Banshee. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t allow himself to, until he reached the mission.
Its bluntly steepled bell tower rose against the lightening heavens, the ghost of the moon lingered like the memory of a dream and was swept away with the oncoming daybreak. The bell tolled and the cloisters rang with a slow, mournful resonance across the desert sands. Banshee slowed beneath him and he could feel himself turning, his flesh and blood returning as the monster he became departed his weary bones like so much ash on the wind. The large wooden entrance was propped open, an attempt to alleviate the heat for the poor souls lodged within; he could hear the piteous moaning as he approached.
The stone floor inside the modest building was still clinging to cool of the night temperatures, which was a small blessing to those laid out upon it. They called them survivors of the massacre, lucky; Carter thought maybe those who’d perished had been the fortunate ones. Their minds were broken, twisted, tormented as they wept, muttering incoherently and praying to their gods and that of the Spaniards’ to show them compassion.
Carter removed his hat in respect as his keen eyes glanced over the small crowd, the faces that he knew well and some who were unfamiliar to him; he was searching for that one, the one that was forever graven into his mind as every pleasant memory he held onto since the day he sold his soul. “Padre,” he inclined his head as a priest drew close, bowing deferentially, “I’m looking for…”
“Carter Slade, she has been expecting you,” the young man interrupted, raising his hand sympathetically. “Follow me,” he motioned, leading him to a little room off of the main hall, such as it was. A sparse cot was set in the corner, beneath a window that shone with the first tenuous rays of sunlight. She lay upon it, unmoving, drifting in and out of delirious sleep; it looked unnervingly like she was spread upon her own bier. “She calls your name when she is awake, whispers it when she dreams. We figured it was only a matter of time before you arrived here.”
It had been thirty years, thirty long years since he had last seen Spotted Doe and she was every bit as beautiful as she had been back then. Her smooth bronze skin bore tiny little lines, slight creases chiefly around her mouth and eyes; she always did have one of the sweetest smiles. Her two long brunette braids, which were carefully draped over either side of her body to just past her waist, were intertwined with the most elegant of silver threads. She was still lithe, well muscled, with curves in all the right places. He felt a pang of regret, a clutching fist about his heart, as he knelt beside her.
She breathed out, her chest falling gradually like a deflating bellows, and it reminded Carter chillingly of a corpse’s last sigh, that rheumy gasp that escaped the lungs as life departed a body. He was absolutely still for a moment, rigid with alarm until her amber eyes fluttered open, at first bleary and stuporous, then straining to focus on him. She smiled and he took her hand, pressing it between his. “I was waiting for you,” she said, her voice hoarse and pained.
“I’m here now, darlin’,” he assured her softly.
“It’s true,” she gasped quietly in hushed awe, running the backs of her fingers along his jaw; she may have aged gracefully, but he seemed not to have at all, or very little at the least, as if for every ten of her years, he had only lived four. “Forgive me, for I did not understand. You tried to tell me, but I could not know how powerful and dangerous he is, your white devil. But I do now.”
“Tell me what happened,” he urged gently, but she resolutely shook her head from side to side, whimpering with the agony of her memories. A woman crouched beside him, a petite Spanish girl with large, dark eyes and simple dress; she held a hairbrush in her small hand, which she placed upon the cot beside Spotted Doe’s shoulder, and Carter guessed she had been caring for the Indian princess. She shook her head mutely and gingerly lifted Spotted Doe’s arm, turning it so that Carter could see the underside of her wrist; on it was a circular weal, two perfect incisions at its center. A snake’s bite. It was the same on her other hand.
“There was fire, horrible and fierce,” she moaned. “Snake Dance conjured an inferno and the Serpent Men came; I did not know so much turmoil and death could be wrought by so few. It was as if the medicine man’s words were magic themselves; he is stronger and more treacherous than we suspected.
“I am a warning,” she told him. “Above all else, he seeks to bring you back into his control, to subjugate you into loyal service once more. He will destroy everything you have ever held dear, kill everyone you have ever loved.” She enunciated each word clearly, emphasizing every syllable so he would comprehend the seriousness and gravity of her speech as she gripped his arm, “He. Will. Make. Them. Suffer.”
“Then yielding to him is my only option,” he said soberly.
“No, you mustn’t!” she insisted. “I did not endure his torture only to have you surrender; I lived so that I may ask you this with my dying breath: Promise me, promise me you will never submit to him again. Run, hide from him for as long as you must, but do not bow to him.”
He knew it was an oath that he could never hope to honor. If Mephistopheles made good on his threat, and Carter had no doubt that he fully intended to, he would not be able to abide having such innocent blood staining his already damned soul. “I promise,” he muttered, lying with as much conviction as he could muster. It broke his heart, the ease with which she believed in him as she relaxed visibly, her worries alleviated.
She closed her eyes, exhaling as if she was breathing out all of her sorrow, all of her burdens. “Darlin’, stay with me,” he urged desperately, touching the place at the corner of her mouth where a small smile curved her lips. Peace washed over her, a blessed release from the cares that troubled her; he could feel her slipping away from him and was startled to find himself comforted. It was the one place she could go that Mephistopheles could never follow.
The padre said a quiet prayer, the lilting tones of his soft Spanish speech rising and falling like the billow of a cloud riding the gently gusting wind. Light filled the room, touched Spotted Doe’s aristocratic brow with soothing golden fingers. Carter was humbled in the face of it, both in awe and fear of what he would never have, what he had eternally doomed himself to never experience when he made that bargain with Mephistopheles. “Go to your ancestors with pride, daughter of the desert,” he whispered to her resignedly.
Just as her spirit seemed to be flitting away evermore, shadows crept over the four walls with grasping claws, she gasped loudly, bolting upright against his chest as he leaned over her; she was rigid, panting hoarsely but drawing no air into her lungs. Animation had returned to her, but it was a malicious and harsh mockery of the liveliness she had always possessed. An angry shroud of clouds blotted out the sun, casting a pall upon them as she convulsed stiffly, staring at Carter with wide, shocked eyes, grasping his arm and managing to croak out before she again fell limp, “He is here, he is come for me!”
“Dios mio!” the priest cried, clutching his rosary and repeatedly crossing himself as he stumbled backwards, bumping into the doorframe before falling through it. “What devilry is this?”
“The worst kind,” Carter growled, lifting Spotted Doe into his arms; her chest was heaving with small, shallow exhalations without sign that she was truly breathing; her lips were pale with death’s pestilent kiss, her eyes glassy, hooded and unseeing. He cradled her to him, the soft white cotton of her unadorned frock, the edges frayed and singed, became a ghastly cerement clothing her cooling skin.
“This-this shouldn’t be,” stammered the priest, still staring dumbly at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. “It’s an affront in God’s eyes! She’s dead, she’s-she’s dead; this shouldn’t be.”
How very insightful of you, Carter thought to himself with a heavy, agitated sigh; the padre was going to be of less assistance than Slade had hoped. He caught the attention of the missionary who had been attending to Spotted Doe and instructed, “Get them that are capable on their feet and helpin’ them that ain’t, and get ‘em away from here quickly as you can. This ain’t a safe place anymore. Do you understand?” The woman nodded and hurried off, enlisted the help of the other priests and, in earnest, began her task.
Carter watched the humble exodus wend its way through the parched desert terrain, heartened by the distance they had managed to put between themselves and the mission in such a short time, until they were nothing more than a dark outline among stony foothills, a snake twisting between the rocks. The nearest town was miles away and the party was laden with the sick and injured; he didn’t know how far they’d get, but Carter was grimly relieved that, should they meet their deaths, it would not be at the mission, at the mercy of a demon.
The sky had blackened with a supernatural forcefulness and was now akin to night, lightning broke the dry air, illuminating the landscape, bathing it in a ghoulish white light and imprinting the scene into Carter’s vision. Movement became a series of still life images, changing slightly with each new fulgent flash from the heavens. The mission bell now rang of its own impetus, echoing a wild and mournful death knell. He held Spotted Doe tightly and circled about the mission. “Stop hidin’ yourself, you wily old bastard!” he shouted, his voice competing with the howling of the blusterous wind.
The black figure materialized, the shadows gathering about him, moving with him, shifting and stirring to accommodate his unhurried hobbling saunter. Carter gently set Spotted Doe upon the ground, pointing his finger accusingly at the man clad in black, “Mephisto.”
“Slade,” Mephistopheles chuckled, spreading his arms wide in a gracious greeting. “Oh, don’t look so righteously outraged. You knew this was coming, you brought it upon them when you disobeyed me.” Momentarily, the demon in his passion lost control of his mortal form and a wide grinning mouth of needlelike incisors appeared against the sickly skin of his protruding jaw; his eyes were black as pitch. With a growl, he reverted to his human guise, cross with himself for revealing his rage. “I knew, even after all this time, that you would go to her, to them. You left me with no choice.”
Carter gritted his teeth, reluctantly admitting to himself that Mephistopheles spoke some truth. The demon denied nothing, so venting his fury and grief by incriminating him of the torturous excesses of the slaughter of the tribe would have been futile. Carter had unwittingly doomed them all; it was a pattern he seemed to be noticing as of late. There was one thing, one action that he could charge Mephistopheles with. “What have you done to her?” he rumbled gruffly, gesturing towards Spotted Doe. “She made no bargain with you; you’ve no lawful claim to her soul.”
“Don’t I now?” the demon arced one wry eyebrow. “Not even when it’s been…offered to me? And ever so politely, too.”
Carter hissed through his teeth; finally he began to see the Devil’s trap, the twisted thread wending, weaving, worming their way into an inescapable web about him, so carefully planned and implemented. “Ritual sacrifice,” he muttered as if the breath had been taken right from his lungs. “The snake bites, Snake Dance used her to conjure his Serpent Men, didn’t he?”
“It was an unnecessary if,” Mephistopheles paused to savor each word, “deliciously advantageous act; two birds with one stone, as they say. But you are right about one thing, Rider: I have no rightful claim to her. Sacrificial rites are tricky old things, aren’t they? She’s a will of iron, and I can’t forcefully take her-and believe me, I’ve tried. And so she remains here, in a state of grace, as they say, in purgatory. Me? I think it’s as agonizing, as excruciating, as harrowing as punishment I could have invented.”
“This ain’t over,” Carter spat out through clenched teeth, lifting Spotted Doe back into the secure and protective hold of his embrace.
“I never thought otherwise,” Mephistopheles flashed him a thin, tight sneer, lips curling back over sharp white teeth. “You could end it, though; you have the power to. You just need give me the contract and I will set her free, I will set them all free, and no one will ever be the wiser as to the role you played in this.”
“Some things are more important than love,” Carter mumbled bitterly, squeezing his eyes shut tight as if to escape the dispiriting consequences of his decision, the images that played before his sight, assailing him, only to find more within his mind haunting him.
Present Day-
“Oh, we’re not, you know,” Linda had said quickly, looking to Johnny diffidently. “Engaged, me and him, we’re not…”
“Well what are you telling him that for?!” Sam had objected. “No offense, brah,” he said to Johnny, who shrugged affably, “but for all you know,” he rounded on Linda once more, “he’s some sort of psycho serial killer rapist, no offense,” he assured Johnny. Why had that become the mantra of everyone whose company he kept lately? It was really almost starting to annoy him.
“Sam Silvercloud, we’ve had this discussion before; the point of my living out here alone is just that! And I gave you back the ring,” she interjected, holding up her left hand and bending her ring finger at the knuckle in illustration.
“Threw it at me, if I recall correctly,” scoffed Sam, rubbing his ear as he screwed up his face, remembering too well the sting of impact the modestly jeweled band had inflicted.
“Phhht, that part you remember,” she retorted, puckering her mouth in vexation. That’s when the two began to bicker, reciting timeworn and trite topics with tired words.
Johnny stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, wondering just what to do with himself, scuffing uneasily at the floor with the toe of his boot. When he was sure both Linda and Sam were too wrapped up in their own squabbling to even be aware of Johnny’s presence, he sneaked out of the kitchen and back to his bedroom. He tried watching television, but was too restless; tried to read one of the books he’d taken from Linda’s bookshelf but his mind was too preoccupied. He wanted anything but to be lost in his own rumination at the moment; he needed an out. Idle hands, Johnny reminded himself with a humorless scoff.
He discovered that the ranch house’s front door was jammed shut, which explained why no one ever used it, preferring the porch door at the back of the home. Wherein lay his quandary, because his only chance of escape was through the kitchen and the very thing he was attempting to escape. Why? Why was he so eager to evade the argument that was simmering over, emanating from the dining area? A lot had happened in the past twenty-four hours; maybe he was just feeling a little overwhelmed by it all.
Linda finally stormed out of the kitchen and, soon after, Johnny could hear the shower running. He strolled through the kitchen and found it empty; where and when Sam had gone, he couldn’t say. He walked out to the garage, glaring ruefully at the charred remainder of the door. “Hey there, beauty,” he cooed to his bike, tenderly running his hand along the sensuous curve of the leather seat.
“You always talk to your bike like that?” a voice asked, and Johnny started, turning to find Sam squinting inquisitively into the darkened shed.
Johnny busied himself, locating an old toolbox sitting forlornly on a dusty shelf. He pulled it down and knelt beside Old Bess, running his fingers along her framework, knowing almost by instinct, by adept touch, where she could use improvement and repair. “Sometimes,” he muttered, without thinking rifling through the box and selecting a tarnished old wrench to work with. “Only when they’re worth talkin’ to,” he said absently.
“And you know which ones are?” Sam inquired keenly, leaning against the door’s frame. “Worth it, I mean.” Johnny paused for a moment, clearing his throat onto the back of his wrist, shrewdly aware that the two men weren’t about to have a discussion about cycles.
“I like to think so,” he shrugged, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t care for games, the macho posturing that men assumed over a woman; Johnny was a straight shooter, and he disliked those kinds of petty amorous manipulations, the romantic competitions and rivalries guys tended to fall into over a pretty gal. There was no reason, he was abashed to find himself thinking, that Linda should have told him about Sam in the short time they had known each other.
Sam nodded thoughtfully, scratching his chin and narrowing his eyes at Johnny. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he furrowed his brow, peering closely at Johnny, trying to get a clear look at his face. Johnny didn’t let him, telling him flatly that he must be mistaken. Sam shrugged, “Eh, all you white guys look alike.” Johnny chuckled, a genuinely easygoing and cheerful sound, and Sam loosened up a little, clearly thinking better of Johnny for his self-deprecating sense of humor. “Linda loves that antique pile of rust,” he jutted his chin towards Old Bess. “It scares the hell outta me, though; I always think she’s gonna break her neck riding it out there in the desert.”
“That’d be the least of her problems nowadays,” mumbled Johnny beneath his breath; if Sam’s perceptive senses picked up on it, he gave only the faintest sign of it.
A deliberate silence passed between them, only the casual sound of the lazy breeze, the bat-bat-bat of the pinwheels in the dust and the gentle tinkering of the wrench against Old Bess could be heard. Johnny was aware, but not bothered by, Sam’s stare on him the entire time, measuring him, appraising carefully what to say next. “This is gonna sound kinda...douche bag-y of me,” Sam cleared his throat, squinching his eyes into the blinding light of the sun that washed the landscape white just beyond the shade of the shed, “like a ‘stay away from my girl’ kind of thing, and it’s really not. But, you don’t know her.”
He shrugged and continued, “I’ve loved her since we were seven, and I know better’n anyone else that Linda’ll always do whatever the heck it is Linda wants. I’m not telling you this for you-I’m not pretending to be your bestest friend-or for me-those bridges have already been burnt-but ‘cause I don’t wanna see her get hurt again.” He put his index finger to his temple, “She’s damaged goods, brah. I get that the two of you have formed some sort of connection over ‘the hell happened out here last night, but you’ve known her for a day. You don’t know what she’s been through.”
‘Damaged goods, huh?’ Johnny thought to himself. ‘Ain’t we all just?’ There was no denying the truth in Sam’s words, Johnny didn’t even try, and it was obvious that there were things that Johnny didn’t know, though he’d never really believed differently. But Sam didn’t know everything either, not just about what Linda could do, but about Johnny he knew only what his eyes had told him thus far, and appearances could be mightily deceiving; he couldn’t “get it,” he never would.
“So, do chicks dig this whole king of angst thing?” Sam asked after some time had passed and it became clear that Johnny was content to remain pensively taciturn. “The brooding, it’s a turn on?”
“I dunno,” he drawled thoughtfully. “I mean, it’s never hurt, you know? But I’ve never, like, deliberately employed it to woo a gal; I’ve always thought that any guy who goes to such lengths to demonstrate how deep and inscrutable he is must be pretty superficial. You know?”
Sam wrinkled his nose. “You always talk funny like that, white man?”
Johnny laughed. “S’pose I do.”
“Yeah,” scoffed Sam, “bet Linda loves that. Finally found herself an intellectual to have meaningful conversations with.”
“Well, I’ve never thought of myself as such, though I do suppose I consider myself a student of the world.”
“Oh, yeah,” sighed Sam, “you’d get in her jeans no problem.”
“By the way, it was implicit” Johnny quirked an eyebrow, a small smile curving the corner of his mouth. Sam looked at him, his brow furrowing in bewilderment. “Telling me to stay away from your girl,” clarified Johnny, “I thought it was pretty implicit in what you told me." Sam scowled at the bright smile Johnny then displayed and stalked away.
Peace, Ghani