Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2) Page 29

  I didn’t even know which way was right anymore. Even Heaven was against me.

  I shook my head and began to get ready for my last hoorah. A hot shower would be nice. I wanted to look good before I died. And I needed to redress my wounds, which might take a while without Othello to help. Thinking of Othello, I checked my phone but didn’t see any messages from her. Odd. I figured she would have at least checked up on me by now. I called her but it went straight to voicemail. Maybe her phone was dead. Oh well. I didn’t have time to worry about it. I had slept longer than anticipated. I thought about texting her, but didn’t know exactly what I could type. I wasn’t entirely sure of my plan yet. So I decided I would wait until she called me.

  I turned on the shower and waited for it to get warm. And waited.

  And waited.

  It remained just a hair above freezing.

  I turned it all the way to hot, hoping it just needed a boost. But it stubbornly remained frigid. “Give me a break!” I yelled into the empty apartment. A neighbor stomped on the floor above me in complaint. With no divine intervention warming the water for me, I resigned myself to taking a cold shower, which brought back the guilt over making out with Othello the night before. What the hell was I going to do about that? Indie would forgive me, right? But it had been the only way to stop me from destroying the neighborhood. It had been a smart move on Othello’s part. But would Indie see it that way? Then I began to laugh. I couldn’t help it. It was simply too ridiculous not to laugh about.

  Here I was, about to die, no magic, no friends, a fugitive of the law…

  And I was worrying about what my girlfriend would think.

  Man, was I hopeless. Not that I didn’t feel terrible, but it literally wouldn’t matter by tomorrow morning. My wounds were that bad. Thinking of that, I glanced down. I was bleeding noticeably, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was on borrowed time. At least I wasn’t bleeding as badly as I had been before. I wondered how bad the wounds might have been if they hadn’t been partly cauterized. Would I have even made it out of the deli? I was lucky that I had even woken from my nap. I really should have been in the hospital. That sobered me up. But I had no time for hospitals. I would see this through to the end. My parents deserved it.

  Shaking my head and rubbing my arms to prevent frostbite, I finished washing as quickly as possible, eager to dry off and put some dry clothes on. Highly motivated to maintain my core temperature, I instinctively jumped out of the shower in an effort to escape the icy water faster. Which wasn’t a wise move, given my wounds. My injured leg touched first and I collapsed into the sink, shattering the cheap porcelain to the linoleum floor and snapping a pipe in half. Icy water instantly arced up into the air, splashing the room and my already frozen torso with more cold water. “Motherfucker!” I roared, stuffing my old clothes into the broken pipe in an effort to halt the spraying water. The neighbor upstairs began banging on the floor again. I wiped the water from my face so I could see more clearly now that I had somewhat stopped the water leak. The sink was destroyed, now a pile of cheap porcelain rubble, and my leg was bleeding freely thanks to my sudden acrobatics. Then my arm and side decided to join the bandwagon. My vision began to tunnel. I left the bathroom in a drunken crawl in order to find the medical kit and tie off the wounds before I bled out. Numb fingers and dwindling strength fought my inexperienced medical attention every step of the way, but I finally managed it. Once finished, I leaned back against the dirty couch, naked, panting heavily, and feeling very sorry for myself.

  I couldn’t even call Dean to help fix the bathroom. I was literally helpless without my friends. I growled to myself. “Pick yourself up, Nate. Don’t be a little man-bitch. Roll your sleeves up. People are depending on you.”

  Feeling marginally better, I snatched up my bag and began digging through it for a fresh set of clothes. Apparently I had left a can of shoe polish in the bag at some point in my life, because every single item inside the bag was coated with a heavy layer of the oily, black goo. I blinked in disbelief, shaking out the bag. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I whispered to myself. I spotted the bottle of absinthe on the floor by the couch and decided I deserved a quick drink. I gulped it for a good five seconds, the fire helping me wake up a bit. I coughed heavily at the pleasant burn, feeling my body warm up a bit as the liquor hit my bloodstream.

  Having exactly no concern for my sartorial savvy any longer, I picked the least offensive clothing and began to dress myself. It was a pair of black sweatpants and a tee that I had picked up to sleep in. It had a single word on the front, Touchdown, and sported a cartoon image of a baseball player hitting a homerun. Indie had gotten it for me, mocking my sports knowledge. I sighed, tugging it on — accepting the cosmic karma for making out with Othello. The back was liberally coated with shoe polish, but at least a coat would cover that up.

  The cabbie honked outside and I growled. I didn’t see my coat anywhere, but I also remembered that it was covered in blood anyway. I groaned with frustration. No time. I finished dressing in a rush, shoved my various knick-knacks in my pockets, and flipped off the bathroom for good measure. I snatched up the bottle of absinth and stormed out of the apartment, not even bothering to lock up behind me. The cabbie was waiting, and eyed me dubiously as he realized that the drunk, dirty, wet man limping towards him wasn’t a homeless vagrant, but his fare. I couldn’t blame him. I looked like I had just escaped Fight Club, I didn’t have a coat, I was dressed like a dirty derelict, and I was clutching a bottle of liquor like my life depended on it. But it was Mardi Gras. Maybe he was used to it this time of year. “Soulard. Near a church if possible.” I added as an afterthought, realizing with a sinking feeling that I was officially out of options, and that I would have to summon the Greater Demon, Sir Dreadsalot, after all.

  My parents’ murderer.

  I leaned back into the headrest and closed my eyes.

  This was it. My last hoorah. And I didn’t even look cool.

  I began guzzling the absinthe.

  Chapter 32

  M ardi Gras was in full swing as the cabbie stopped the car. We sat there in silence, the car idling. The cabbie finally turned to face me, announcing the cost of the ride, and holding out a hand for his money. I abruptly broke out in a sweat, realizing that I was broke and had no money to give him. I reached in my pocket instinctively and almost gasped in relief. I whipped out my hand to find a crumpled fifty-dollar bill. I could have cried. I hadn’t even considered how I was going to pay for the fare, what with fighting to stay awake and not pass out from blood loss in the backseat. I handed him the whole thing, and muttered a thanks as I exited the vehicle. He stared back, stunned that his vagrant passenger had so much cash, and was willing to part with it.

  I took a pull of the bottle of absinthe in my fist, swishing the liquid around my mouth, hoping to absorb the alcohol faster and alleviate some of my increasing aches. It wasn’t helping too much, but I was feeling a bit tipsy. I decided to slow down a bit. I hadn’t eaten much after all, and I was severely injured. Not a good mix. But I knew the buzz was practically the only thing keeping me on my feet. Still, moderation.

  I began to walk in order to maintain my body temperature. It was a little warmer today but still below freezing, and it looked like it might snow again soon. And I was only wearing a tee. I watched the parade for a few minutes, delaying the inevitable, and took a small sip from the bottle. An old church loomed ahead of me. They were serving hot cocoa at the door. That decided me. I pocketed the large bottle in my sweatpants pocket and immediately felt a firm hand grasp my shoulder.

  “No drinking out of glass bottles in public, sir. Even thought it’s Mardi Gras…” I turned to face him, probably faster than I should have. He had startled me though.

  He lurched back, hand darting to his service piece. Great. A cop. At least he hadn’t recog-

  “Master Temple!” He shouted in disbelief.

  I wanted to groan, but remained calm. I had been so close.
All I had wanted to do was confront the Demon that had killed my parents so that I could die in peace. Or pieces, as was most likely the case. Then dumb luck had to intervene.

  “Listen. I can explain,” I began weakly.

  “You were kidnapped! Are you under duress?” He abruptly scanned the crowd with cop eyes. People were beginning to notice. This wasn’t good.

  I shook my head. “No. I’m alone. I-”

  “I think it’s better for everyone if I placed you into my custody. We can sort everything out at the station.” He began to reach for his cuffs and my frustration spiked. That was it. He’d brought this on himself. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but I didn’t have time for this. So I called my magic to fix the problem.

  And promptly collapsed to the icy street with a blazing migraine, barely able to breathe.

  Oh. Yeah. I didn’t have magic anymore.

  The cop scooped me up in his beefy arms and began carrying me away, shouting into his radio for backup. I couldn’t even raise my head to see where I was being taken. I tried to mumble an argument to him but I was pretty sure it came out as “Mrghh mnnow.” The world tilted back and forth crazily as if I had just stepped off a carnival ride. It was all I could do to not throw up on the cop. But throwing up straight absinthe would feel not good, so I stomached it like a man. People flashed by me, looks of concern and astonishment on their faces. This was it. I had hit a wall. No more magic, no friends, my wounds finally getting the best of me, and I was in police custody. I almost laughed at the fact that Detective Kosage wouldn’t even have the chance to charge me.

  Because, well… I would be dead by then.

  My body was gently placed down on an uncomfortable chair.

  My vision slowly steadied after a few minutes and I noticed two people staring at me in disbelief and concern. We were in a peaceful, warm room. The cop was nowhere to be found.

  Apparently he had brought me to the church.

  Huh. That was convenient.

  The two people watched me for a beat, eyes flickering hesitantly to my bleeding wounds and back to my face again, before moving closer. One was a nun, and she was clutching a Styrofoam cup of hot cocoa. The other was the pastor, and he was clutching his rosary, murmuring a soft prayer with his eyes now closed. I managed to signify with my eyes that I wanted me some hot cocoa. The nun smiled and knelt next to me. I wasn’t strong enough to hold it so she lifted it to my lips. “Careful, son. It’s hot.” Then the sugar hit my lips and I groaned in ecstasy, greedily drinking the entire cup. It didn’t feel hot at all. But I was practically frozen by that point. My body began to shiver uncontrollably. From both the cold and my blood loss. I slowly touched the bandage on my leg and noticed that it was wet and sticky, leaking through my sweats. I hadn’t done such a great job after all. How long had I been slowly bleeding out?

  The nun slowly pulled the empty cup away, motioning for another nun to replace it. The woman shuffled back to the front door with a nod. The saintly woman returned her warm brown eyes to me; pure concern and compassion filled her deep gaze. “Better?”

  I nodded slowly. “Thanks.” I rasped. “Where…” I was interrupted by a coughing fit.

  “He’s just outside. Waiting on the arrival of his partner.” Her eyes slowly lowered to my obviously bleeding wounds. I noticed that I had a slight puddle beneath me. “Would you like to pray with me?” She asked softly.

  I almost argued with her, but then had an idea.

  “Do you think it would be a problem if I visit the confessional booth instead?” I pointedly glanced down at my wounds. “You know. A few things I would like to get off my chest before…”

  I left the sentence open ended, hoping she would buy it.

  Before she could answer, the pastor stepped closer. “Of course, my son. I’ll deal with the policeman if he has any issue. This is a House of God after all. The Big Man comes first here.” Then he was supporting my weight as he led me to the booth. He set me down inside and I managed to get my breathing back under control from the short trip. “Comfortable?” He asked.

  “As good as. Considering…” I motioned to my leg.

  His eyes tightened. “All will be well, my son. Do you need me to listen, or would you prefer privacy?” I was pretty sure confessions were a two-person job, but I appreciated his thought to ask my preference nonetheless. He wasn’t sure how long I had left and wanted to grant the fugitive a bit of dignity.

  My eyes grew a bit misty at his compassion, genuinely realizing that I was almost about to take my last breath. And no one was here to hold my hand. “I’d prefer the privacy if you don’t mind.” I whispered, my head sunk low so that the words were directed at my lap. He patted me gently on the uninjured thigh, and then hesitated as he felt the liquor bottle there. I looked up guiltily. He smiled softly, and then winked with an amused shake of the head. Then he left, gently closing the door behind him.

  I sat there for a few moments, fully comprehending my situation. These two humans were the good guys. The Angels should take notes from them.

  I knew I was on borrowed time so I shook my head softly. Did I feel bad for what I was about to do?

  Yes.

  I was about to make a deal with a Greater Demon in a House of God. After everything they had done for me in my time of need. And they had given me cocoa. Little did they know that their holy friends had done this to me in the first place.

  But I could think of no other options available to me. The Angels had refused to help. Their Nephilim had — for all intents and purposes — killed me. Slowly. Just like Eae had told me they would. And my own people had tied my hands and pushed me into the ocean.

  I delayed in calling the Demon for a few moments.

  I deserved some me time.

  So, I pondered my sins, feeling like this was the appropriate place to do so.

  I had cheated on Indie. Sure, I hadn’t known I was doing it, and I hadn’t consciously chosen to do so, but the action was there. Intent didn’t matter. I abhorred cheating. If someone was unhappy with their romantic situation, they should simply end it before seeking other opportunities. That didn’t really apply to my situation, but still…

  Now I was one of the cheaters.

  I wondered if Indie would have been able to forgive me, if I wasn’t about to die, that was. I sighed sadly. The best thing that had ever happened to me, and I wouldn’t even get to say goodbye. I hissed as I felt one of my wounds break open, reminded of my limited time. I hadn’t let Othello know, but I had known that the wounds were fatal, not merely superficial. I was literally dying. I was lucky that my nap earlier hadn’t been permanent.

  Then again, going out in my sleep would have probably been better than what I was about to experience. I pondered the upcoming battle, if you wanted to call it that. Without my magic, it was hopeless. Not a battle. An execution. I was making a last stand with no Ace in the Hole.

  Merely for the sake of my pride.

  I knew that I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I gave up now. Not that I had the option of living with myself afterwards anyway. Hell, I didn’t even know if I would make it to the fight. I shook that thought off. I was freely choosing to enter the ring for a confrontation where I was hopelessly outmatched. After all, I had proven that without my magic, I was a joke. I was no hero. Apparently, the only special thing about me was my magic, my money, and my friends. Without them I had been a wreck. Indie deserved better. My friends would be safer without me around to get them in trouble. The Academy was too ignorant to help, and even the almighty Angels were too proud to stand beside me. I had thought we were on the same side.

  But I had been wrong.

  With a sigh of regret, I pulled out the Tarot card the Demon had told me to use.

  I prepared to light the card on fire with my magic, and was rewarded with another blinding headache and a deep warning tingle in my spine. I groaned, breathing hard. Of course, idiot. I didn’t have my magic anymore. How dense was I? To be fair, it’s easy
to know that my magic was gone, but it’s an altogether different concept to remember that the everyday actions I took using magic were no longer available to me. My subconscious was so used to doing things a certain way that it took an effort to remember those abilities no longer applied to me. I could only relate it to losing a hand. A phantom presence, where the amputee still felt like they had fingers and tried to use them to grab a glass of water, only to knock the glass from the table.

  I looked down at the card with a scowl. The Thirteenth Major Arcana, as it was called. I guess I needed a lighter. Too bad I didn’t smoke anymore or else I would have had one in my pocket.

  That brought a grin to my face. It had been almost a week now, and over the last three days I hadn’t even thought about smoking. Go, me!

  … Just in time to die. I sobered up a bit at that thought. Then I shrugged, whipping out the liquor bottle, and taking several deep pulls. Why not?

  As I studied the image of the skeleton gripping a scythe on the card I was reminded of my own impending death. Several decapitated bodies surrounded the skeleton. The words La Morte were printed below the grisly image. Despite the somewhat obvious depiction, scholars and Tarot experts academically debated the card’s meaning. Many thought that it didn’t represent a physical death, but that it typically implied an end instead, possibly of a relationship or interest, and therefore implied an increased sense of self-awareness — not to be confused with self-consciousness or any kind of self-diminishment. Meaning that one should live every moment as if it were their last. Memento Mori, or remember that one day you too shall die. It was a reminder to make the most of what was given to you.