sniffed again, it was coming from behind one of the cars parked next to the house. Christopher started toward it. High Voice jumped up from behind the car and ran down the street. He got in the passenger side of a large black sedan. As soon as he was in, it pulled away from the curb with a squeal of tires.
Doors were opening and neighbors were stepping out on their porches. He didn't have time to see their reaction to a man cloaked in shadows wielding a large flaming sword.
Again acting almost on instinct he crouched down and leaped. He landed with a loud thud and dented the top of the sedan.
Before he could be thrown from the car roof, he held the sword in both hands and thrust down into the passenger side. The Weapon cut through metal and flesh easily, he felt it sink home in High Voice's soul and heard the same faint warbling scream as High Voice's soul was ripped from his body and sucked into the ever-thirsty Weapon.
Before he could pull the Weapon free and strike at the driver, the driver screamed in terror and made a sharp right turn. Christopher was thrown from the roof of the car, but he managed to hold onto the Weapon.
He landed on a parked car, smashing through the windshield. He kicked open the passenger door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, the cuts and scrapes from the fall and glass slowly fading.
At the end of the street the sedan turned north and disappeared. He could go after it, but he was suddenly tired. He staggered slightly as the realization of what he had just done started sinking in.
He had been running on adrenalin and instinct since the moment he came back from the Library. Now it was all leaving him. The anger, the hate. He felt himself calming down.
Around him more neighbors were coming out of their homes and looking around. In the distance he heard sirens. In New York you heard sirens all the time, but this time he thought these might be for him. He had to get out of here.
He ran into the alley nearby. Without knowing how, he dismissed the shadows that formed his clothes and the sword once again become a Swiss army knife that easily slipped into his front pocket. The Book became a small book of some sort in his back pocket. Now clad only in jeans he ran through the alley that became a garden area for the nearby homes and then across the street to the courtyard area at the rear of his home.
Once there he took only a few steps before the shock of what had just happened fully hit him. He sank down into an over-sized living room chair and tried to understand what he had just done. He had killed, had almost been killed.
He had been... possessed by some sort of power that he now understood came straight from Hell. His hands shook, his whole body shook. He heard a noise and it took him a moment to realize it was his sobs.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ambros Falk was not in a good place. There was blood on his shoes and maybe a piece of flesh. He did not really like this part. It was necessary, but he did not enjoy it the way Rath did. That man seemed to revel in the smell and feel of blood. To Ambros, it was just good business.
Ambros turned back to the chair where the half-alive body of what had been a former business partner slowly bled to death. Rath stood above him, blood dripping from his red, wet hands. His tall, gaunt body showed no signs of exertion, although he had just spent the last ten minutes progressing from simple beating to ripping out the man's intestines and playing with them in front of him. His mouth, too wide for his face, was split into a maniacal grin.
Ambros had the horrible idea the Rath was using everything he had to hold back from diving in to the man’s gut with that large mouth. A part of him believed that if he left, Rath would just dive right in.
He was wearing that stupid black wide brim hat. Ambros thought it looked ridiculous on top of his head, especially with Rath being so tall. It made him look like a clean shaven, demonic Abraham Lincoln. Why couldn't he
Doors were opening and neighbors were stepping out on their porches. He didn't have time to see their reaction to a man cloaked in shadows wielding a large flaming sword.
Again acting almost on instinct he crouched down and leaped. He landed with a loud thud and dented the top of the sedan.
Before he could be thrown from the car roof, he held the sword in both hands and thrust down into the passenger side. The Weapon cut through metal and flesh easily, he felt it sink home in High Voice's soul and heard the same faint warbling scream as High Voice's soul was ripped from his body and sucked into the ever-thirsty Weapon.
Before he could pull the Weapon free and strike at the driver, the driver screamed in terror and made a sharp right turn. Christopher was thrown from the roof of the car, but he managed to hold onto the Weapon.
He landed on a parked car, smashing through the windshield. He kicked open the passenger door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, the cuts and scrapes from the fall and glass slowly fading.
At the end of the street the sedan turned north and disappeared. He could go after it, but he was suddenly tired. He staggered slightly as the realization of what he had just done started sinking in.
He had been running on adrenalin and instinct since the moment he came back from the Library. Now it was all leaving him. The anger, the hate. He felt himself calming down.
Around him more neighbors were coming out of their homes and looking around. In the distance he heard sirens. In New York you heard sirens all the time, but this time he thought these might be for him. He had to get out of here.
He ran into the alley nearby. Without knowing how, he dismissed the shadows that formed his clothes and the sword once again become a Swiss army knife that easily slipped into his front pocket. The Book became a small book of some sort in his back pocket. Now clad only in jeans he ran through the alley that became a garden area for the nearby homes and then across the street to the courtyard area at the rear of his home.
Once there he took only a few steps before the shock of what had just happened fully hit him. He sank down into an over-sized living room chair and tried to understand what he had just done. He had killed, had almost been killed.
He had been... possessed by some sort of power that he now understood came straight from Hell. His hands shook, his whole body shook. He heard a noise and it took him a moment to realize it was his sobs.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ambros Falk was not in a good place. There was blood on his shoes and maybe a piece of flesh. He did not really like this part. It was necessary, but he did not enjoy it the way Rath did. That man seemed to revel in the smell and feel of blood. To Ambros, it was just good business.
Ambros turned back to the chair where the half-alive body of what had been a former business partner slowly bled to death. Rath stood above him, blood dripping from his red, wet hands. His tall, gaunt body showed no signs of exertion, although he had just spent the last ten minutes progressing from simple beating to ripping out the man's intestines and playing with them in front of him. His mouth, too wide for his face, was split into a maniacal grin.
Ambros had the horrible idea the Rath was using everything he had to hold back from diving in to the man’s gut with that large mouth. A part of him believed that if he left, Rath would just dive right in.
He was wearing that stupid black wide brim hat. Ambros thought it looked ridiculous on top of his head, especially with Rath being so tall. It made him look like a clean shaven, demonic Abraham Lincoln. Why couldn't he
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