Demon and the Fox - 28. The Final Act

The obnoxious sound of car horns being honked startled him every time. He hated being stuck in traffic. He hated the noisy drivers—especially the ones listening to bad music very loudly—and he hated that the cars advanced just a little bit at a time. Cars were designed to take you from point A to point B faster, not slower.

Malachy leaned closer to the front seats. “Can’t you go any faster?”

The cab driver made a show of ignoring him completely.

Malachy sat back. He glanced at his phone. 9:00 am. He clicked on the envelope icon and re-read Sasha Reed’s text message.

‘I remembered who you are. Come to Nicholas’s apartment right now. If you don’t, I’ll call your girlfriend. I’ll tell her the truth. What you did to me. I’ll tell her everything.’

‘Calm down.’ Malachy had texted back. ‘I’m coming.’

And he had jumped in a cab.

He crossed his arms against his chest and looked out the window, his eyes gazing upon the buildings lining the street without really seeing them as they crossed Midtown. The buildings towered so high he couldn’t see the top even if he craned his neck. They made a turn on 49^th toward Hell’s Kitchen. So many people strolled the sidewalks, wearing summer clothes.

Malachy was drowning in his own messy thoughts. How could Sasha remember so soon? That was impossible.

It had taken Shay years—a century. No, nearly two centuries. Malachy frowned as he recalled Shay telling him he had become a spirit guide—therefore losing all previous memories—in the first half of the 13^th century. And when Malachy had met him, in the beginning of the 15^th, Shay still hadn’t uncovered anything. He’d remembered when Malachy was around. And it was always painful and difficult. Malachy was anxious even now, so many centuries later, as he thought of how it had felt to see Shay suffer so much, toppled over, holding his head like he was afraid it would burst.

As Shay remembered both his harsh human existence and his even harsher time in Purgatory, Malachy could only be there for him and tell him it would pass. And it passed, eventually. But it took time.

How could Sasha possibly remember only one week later?

Rebecca had to be involved in this. Of course. It was the only explanation. But that didn’t change anything. Malachy had to go meet Sasha anyway. He didn’t want him calling Hazel and telling her the truth over the phone. She couldn’t find out, not like this. She deserved better.

“We’re here,” the driver said, pushing the brakes.

Malachy snapped out of his reflection, taking in the massive brown apartment building with the barred first floor windows.

“Thanks.” He gave him the money, and leaped out of the vehicle.

He shoved his phone in his jeans pocket and instead took out his keys, the metal clinking in his hand. He wore only a thin t-shirt, and the sunlight’s touch felt warm and nice against his arms. Under his shirt a bandage was wrapped around his shoulder. The arrow wound still stung, but it was a dull, constant ache, and Malachy wasn’t a stranger to pain. He could handle it.

After barging in the building, Malachy took the stairs two at a time until he reached the third floor. He spilled out into a narrow, bad-smelling corridor and went to jam his key into the lock. He pulled back when he remembered there was no need; that door had been busted in the week before.

Malachy shoved his keys back in his pocket and carefully padded inside. Well, it didn’t matter if he was careful; the old wooden floors creaked under his black sneakers anyway. His nerves jangled as he closed the door behind him. That, too, creaked in protest. Malachy let out a sigh. He really hated this apartment.

It wasn’t lit. Only the daylight spilled in from the living room window, washing over the floor and revealing a thick layer of dust. Malachy made his way toward the light, his breathing sounding extremely loud to his own ears. His heart pounded. He didn’t like the silence.

So he broke it. “Sasha?”

Malachy found him standing in one corner, shaded from the bright daylight. He didn’t look good. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were chapped. He wore ill-fitting clothes that threatened to slip from his scary-thin frame any moment. But his gaze was unswerving as he stared Malachy down; pale eyes with revenge written all over them. Malachy stepped further inside the room until he stood in its center, and he scanned his surroundings, wondering if he would glimpse a flash of white. Nothing had changed since he’d last been here. Most of the furniture was knocked over. Blood still stained the floor. Malachy’s eyes flicked to the pieces of shattered glass.

He reminisced how darling Rebecca had drained the last sip of scotch before throwing the glass over her shoulder.

“Where is she?” Malachy’s voice cut through the silence again. He dropped the American accent. What was the point, now?

Sasha stepped out of the shadow. “There’s no one else. Just you, and me.”

His voice was raspy and dry. Lanky dark blonde strands shadowed his eyes but he did nothing to push them away. Malachy noticed Sasha’s left hand was clumsily wrapped in a bloody bandage. He seemed shaky and ill, but he stood firm somehow.

As Sasha approached slowly, Malachy reflexively stepped back. He wasn’t one to run away from an enemy, but Sasha’s eyes were the eyes of a madman. And Malachy was always rendered uneasy when an enemy looked madder than himself; it didn’t happen very often.

“I know Rebecca put you up to this.” Malachy raised up his hands. “Do not listen to her, Sasha. She will poison your mind. Manipulate you. She’s no angel. She’s a demon, just like me. Or rather—there are no angels, and there are no demons. That is the truth. The only truth. And if you don’t believe me, you’re just a blind idiot like the rest of them.”

Sasha kept approaching, and Malachy kept stepping back. But he hit an invisible wall and stopped in his tracks. Malachy swiveled round, looking behind him. There was nothing. But then his gaze flicked downward, and his nerves twanged with renewed intensity.

There was a circle etched on the floor, in the middle of the room, about four or five feet wide. Malachy had missed it, what with all that dust. But now he felt like an idiot. He’d been too impulsive, like always; never careful enough. The circle was very thin, made of some muddy substance, a mix of gray and red: ashes and blood.

This was witchcraft.

Sasha stopped before his feet reached the circle. Malachy’s first reflex was to try and smudge the line with his sneaker, but Sasha raised a fist and in a fraction of a second, the circle burst in flames. Malachy jumped back with a start. Whitish yellow flames coiled upward from the line Sasha had drawn. They didn’t burn the floor, and they didn’t produce any smoke, but Malachy could feel their heat. That fire was meant to burn him, and him only.

Malachy looked up at Sasha. The flames reached up to their waist level.

“Rebecca isn’t here, Malachy.” Sasha spoke the name like it burned his tongue. But then he smiled; the cold-hearted but passionate smile of a man with a sick obsession for revenge. “I’m perfectly capable of destroying you by myself,” Sasha added.

The flames rose even higher, as high as their chests now. Malachy felt beads of sweat trickling down his temples.

“Don’t use witchcraft on me. Don’t make the same mistakes your parents made,” Malachy warned him.

Sasha’s smile vanished. “Don’t you dare talk about my parents!”

The flames got thicker with a frightening hissing sound that tightened Malachy’s insides. Fire had never been his worst fear, the way it inflicted many souls who ventured in Hell, but Malachy wasn’t particularly fond of it either.

“Do you even remember them?” Malachy retorted, determined not to let fear lace his voice. “Do you even remember anything at all?”

A good part of Malachy’s pride came from never being scared. He usually always came out of every situation unscathed, no matter how precarious. But there was something about Sasha that troubled him deeply. The kid was stricken with uncontrollable anger, Malachy could tell. He realized with a start that Sasha reminded him of himself.

Whenever Malachy was too angry at someone, too enraged and hateful, he had to resort to violence. It was a need, and it consumed him, like a thirst that wouldn’t be quenched until that person was dead. The thought conjured up Louis’s face in his mind. And Lance. And so many others before those two, all the way back to the year 1351, when Malachy had had enough and fought his own father, almost killing him. Malachy felt dizzy, and he wasn’t sure it was the heat.

Sasha’s voice cut across his thoughts. “I remember enough. I know you killed my parents. Made my brother suffer. ”

As he looked into Sasha’s eyes, Malachy got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The delicious pancakes Hazel had cooked earlier to try and cheer everyone up threatened to come back out.

Yes, Malachy thought. This was why he felt fear. Sasha needed him dead, wouldn’t stop until he was dead. However rare and foreign, Malachy recognized the fear. It made him feel stunned and diminished. The problem with seldom being afraid was that whenever it did happen, he had no idea how to deal with it.

His heart hammered. He sweated profusely. The pale flames became bluish. They inched inward, closing in on him slowly, slowly.

“You need to calm down,” he told Sasha even though he knew it was pointless. “To wait until you remember more. I did not kill your parents. That is not what happened.”

Malachy coughed even though the magical flames produced no smoke—some kind of physiological reflex, perhaps.

“You’re a liar! I won’t listen to you. So shut up.”

Malachy tried something else, in a weak attempt to stall for time.

“What happened to your hand?” He glanced down at the bloody bandage wrapping Sasha’s left hand through the dancing flames.

Sasha shrugged. “This spell is a bit gory, I’ll admit that. The ingredients included my own blood and ashes. So I cut my finger.” He said it like it was no big deal. “I collected the blood. Then I burned it for the ashes.”

“You blasted idiot! Why would you mutilate yourself for some spell—”

“It’s not just some spell!” Sasha yelled so loud the entire building must have heard him.

Good, Malachy thought. If someone came, then Sasha would be forced to stop.

But no one was coming.

The heat stung Malachy’s eyes. He blinked tears away.

“I’m going to destroy you,” Sasha continued, narrowing his eyes. Had he been in fox form, his ears would have sunk very low. “I’m not sending you to Purgatory, Malachy. Not this time. You’re right about one thing: I won’t make the same mistakes my parents made. Today you die. For good. Do you understand now?”

Malachy thought of something. He tried to teleport to Hell. But it didn’t work. No black smoke enveloped him, no matter how hard he concentrated. He was trapped inside Nick’s body. Nick’s body that was going to burn very soon; on the floor, the circle got smaller as the flames closed in on him some more. Panic drained the blood from Malachy’s face, and made his heart race faster than a human heart should. No, he thought. Not like this.

Sasha went on, “Believe me, my finger was a small price to pay. Because, you know what? If I had to sacrifice myself for the spell to work, I would.” His tired eyes were unyielding. His fists were clenched at his sides. The left one was bleeding through the bandage, but Sasha didn’t seem to notice. “But I guess I don’t have to. So hey, Rebecca’s spell gets bonus points. What’s wrong, Malachy? You’re sweating, man. Getting a bit hot in there?”

“Look at yourself, Sasha. You’ve gone mad. You say you don’t have to sacrifice yourself, but you look like you’re about to drop dead any moment. You’re dehydrated, starved. You have a fever, I can tell. You’re not well. Don’t do this. You’ll regret it. I promise you, you’ll regret it. Don’t you realize you’re robbing Nick of his only chance to live his human life? If you kill me—”

“I don’t care!” Sasha’s eyes glistened; he was almost crying at this point, but he didn’t seem to realize it. “I don’t care about anything. I can only remember one thing. One thing, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Finding my parents dead. Disfigured. Their heads bashed in. So much blood… Their throats choked. My brother trembling and scared on the floor. Traumatized, because you possessed him and did this to them. It was your fault.”

There was no reasoning with him. Malachy made a desperate attempt at teleporting again. He closed his eyes and thought of smoke and blood. If only a portal could appear, if only he could shift away from Sasha’s circle of fire. He thought of black skies and white snow, and he thought of his Frozen Fall forest, with all its yellow leaves and flowers—

Sasha’s voice snapped him out of it as he yelled again. “You can’t get away, so stop trying! Those are my ashes, my blood, my flames. When you burn, you die, demon. Any last words?”

Some of the flames almost came to lick Malachy’s sneakers. It wouldn’t be long, now. The skin on his arms—on Nick’s arms—was turning red. Soon there would be blisters.

Not like this…

The apartment door was slammed open then, startling them both. Malachy had almost forgotten that the rest of the world existed. He’d been so lost in his fear of the flames, in his fear of Sasha.

Heavy steps echoed in the apartment, and came in the living room.

Malachy’s heart leaped as he saw him through the sinuous flames. “Gabriel!”

“You need to stop this right now,” was the first thing Gabriel said to Sasha. He sounded breathless.

He stood tall and handsome in businessy clothes, and his short black hair was slightly windblown. His slanted brown eyes were alarmed as they flicked from the fire to Sasha. Those eyes reminded Malachy so much of Gabriel’s mother, it was insane. Whenever Jade was worried about Gabriel, she would have that same panicked look in her eyes, and Malachy would reassure her that their son would be okay.

“You don’t understand,” Sasha snapped. “He’s not who he seems. He’s a demon hiding in his body.”

Something twisted at Malachy’s heart, and he was almost too afraid to look at Gabriel.

But Gabriel said, “I know.”

Sasha faltered. “You know? And you still want me to stop?”

“He didn’t kill your parents.” Gabriel looked at Sasha, avoiding Malachy’s gaze. “I did. He didn’t possess me. I killed them.” Gabriel’s voice was laced with guilt.

The fire disappeared, and what was left of the circle on the floor burned away, vanishing along with the flames. It was like nothing had happened. The room, even with the wrecked furniture, seemed too normal and peaceful to be real. Malachy let himself drop to the floor. His entire body felt charred, like he had really bad sunburns all over. For a moment he thought himself back in Purgatory, when Lance had used those ultraviolet lights to scorch him as a torture method.

To top it all, Malachy’s injured shoulder started to hurt again. He rolled over on the floor, gasping for air. He held himself up on his elbows.

The look on Sasha’s face was like he’d just been slapped.

And Gabriel wasn’t done. “I was sick, and Lilya and Stephen had nothing but good intentions. But instead of destroying the powers inside me, their magic drew them out.” Gabriel touched his own chest. A weight seemed to be lifted off his shoulders, but instead of leaving him relieved, it seemed to render him drained and miserable. “And it consumed me. I went in a trance. I barely even remember, it’s all blurry and my mind’s been trying to block it out ever since, but I know I killed them. You deserve to know the truth. I couldn’t tell you because… because you loved me so much—loved me like a brother. And when you found me next to… next to them, you immediately assumed I’d been possessed by the same demon that possessed my biological father.” Gabriel shook his head. “You even helped me cover it up, telling the cops we came home together and found them like that… You wanted so much to believe it wasn’t my fault. And I don’t even know how I managed to go on, how I lived with myself after that…”

With every word, Sasha blanched even more. He was so livid he looked like he would throw up. Instead he just fell on his knees. One of them hit a shard of broken glass, and Sasha’s knee began to bleed. Gabriel reached out to him.

But Sasha glared. “Stay away from me.” Gabriel froze.

Malachy had managed to sit up. He was catching his breath. His heartbeat slowed back to normal again.

“I’m not gonna let you bleed to death,” Gabriel told Sasha, and there was authority in his tone.

Malachy’s heart reached out to Gabriel. Even if Gabriel didn’t know how he’d managed to go on, Malachy knew; Gabriel was strong. He bounced back. When life was too hard and painful, he fought through it anyway. Malachy didn’t think he had ever felt proud of someone the way he felt proud of Gabriel.

When Gabriel reached out to him again, Sasha was about to protest, but… he passed out. He crashed into the dusty floor, his bandaged hand next to his face, his closed eyes hidden behind a curtain of messy hair. Gabriel immediately fell next to him and checked his knee. He removed the glass and examined the cut through the ripped jeans.

“It’s shallow,” said Gabriel with a relieved sigh. Still, he pressed on Sasha’s knee to stop the bleeding. “He’ll be fine,” he added, nodding like he was trying to reassure himself more than anything. “He just needs to sleep it off. Fox spirits are really tough creatures.”

So are, Malachy thought, werewolves. Hazel had assured him that when he transformed on the full moon, his shoulder wound would heal completely; not even a scar would remain.

“He might not want to live with me anymore,” Gabriel said, “or even see me ever again. But as long as he’s alive, that’s good enough for me.”

“Thanks for saving me,” Malachy said, and Gabriel turned to look at him. “I know you probably did it just to save Nick’s body, but still. Thank you. You had really good timing, actually. For a moment there, I thought—”

He interrupted himself as Gabriel crawled over to him and hugged him. It took Malachy by surprise. They were both sitting on the floor, it was awkward as hell, and Malachy was in a lot of physical pain, but they held each other tight.

Then Gabriel pulled back, and said, “It wasn’t just to save Nick.”

Something warm spread across Malachy’s chest, and for a moment the physical pain didn’t matter so much anymore. But it was short lived.

Gabriel punched him in the face.

Ouch. Malachy gasped and cupped his cheek. It hurt so much it had to be bruising up already.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you!” Gabriel snapped. “God damn it. After everything we’ve been through. You should have told me the truth.”

“When did you figure it out?” Malachy’s lip was bleeding, and he tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

“After the coffee shop, I had my doubts. I thought I was crazy, but this,” he waved a hand, “when I saw what was going on in here, that just confirmed it. You should have told me,” he said again. “When I was a kid, okay, I get it. But this is two decades later! Don’t you think by now I have a right to know when you’re possessing a member of my family?”

Malachy still held his cheek. “I guess I deserved that.”

They both looked up and tensed as they heard footsteps coming into the apartment. It was a reaper, stomping the floor with heavy boots. That blonde-haired kid. Cyan. He was shirtless, but his wings were pulled back in. A dagger was sheathed at his belt.

“What the Hell happened here?” Without waiting for an answer, Cyan raised a gloved hand. “Gabriel, get away from him. That is Malachy in Nicky’s body.”

Malachy stared. “He already knows that, Rapunzel.”

Cyan frowned, touching his long hair self-consciously.

“Moving on. Nicky’s with me right now.” Cyan pointed a thumb toward the seemingly empty space next to him. “He just doesn’t know how to show himself to humans yet. That, or he’s wing-shy. Probably both. Anyway, he asks if Sasha’s okay. He looks slightly dead. To be more accurate, Nicky’s quite hysterical about it at the moment.”

“Sasha’s fine,” Gabriel said, rising to his feet.

Cyan went on, “Nicky also asks what the Hell you did to his body.”

Malachy touched his shoulder. “There was crossbow girl.” He then considered his raw skin. “And Sasha tried to burn me. And then Gabriel punched me. Not,” he added when Gabriel stared, “that I didn’t deserve it.”

“Right,” said Cyan.

Malachy staggered to his feet, and spoke to Gabriel quietly.

“Leave, now. Take Sasha home. Take care of him. He’ll forgive you.”

But Gabriel seemed unsure, and sad. Incredibly sad. Malachy hated to see him like this.

“Don’t be silly, Gabriel,” Malachy said, searching those dark brown eyes, “Sasha will still blame me. And he’ll be right to do so. Every story needs a bad guy.” Malachy chanced a little smile. “I’m okay with being the bad guy.”

Gabriel still hesitated.

“Just take him home,” Malachy urged him.

Gabriel went to bend over Sasha. He squeezed his shoulder and Sasha woke up. He was hazy and wobbly, but he was able to walk out of the apartment as Gabriel held Sasha’s arm around his broad shoulders and supported most of his weight.

With one last look at Malachy, Gabriel left the apartment.

“Well,” Malachy stepped closer to Nick. He couldn’t see him at first, but as he concentrated he started to see a silhouette. Tall and lean with folded wings behind his back. “I think,” Malachy said, “it’s about time you and I should have a father and son conversation.”

In a flash Cyan took something out of his pocket, but Malachy scoffed as he saw him coming. He twisted away from the syringe and caught Cyan’s thin arm in a fist. Cyan yelped and dropped the syringe. Before anyone could reach for it, Malachy crashed his knee into Cyan’s stomach. As Cyan toppled over, breathless, Malachy stole the dagger from his belt. Cyan stepped back reflexively.

But Malachy pointed the dagger toward himself.

“Hey,” Cyan screamed out, “wait, what do you think you’re—?”

It was too late. Without hesitating, Malachy stabbed himself deep and hard, twisting the blade inside, like a samurai wanting to die with honor rather than fall into enemy hands—and Malachy used to have samurai friends, so he knew.

Cyan’s face turned white from the shock. “Why did you, why would you do that?” His voice trembled.

“It is unfortunate,” Malachy admitted, but he never stopped smiling. Smiling through the pain, the way he always did when Lance tortured him. “I thought I could have some more fun, living this life for just a little while longer. But it looks like…” He fell to his knees, still holding the dagger’s hilt. Warm blood leaked onto his fingers and trickled to the floor. He tasted it in his mouth, and consciousness started to fade thin, and yet he kept smiling. “It looks like it’s time for the final act already.”

Life slipped away before his head hit the floor.