Rodney tried to crawl away, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the bright light cast by the flames, but the going was slow and painful. Blood seeped from his nose and he had to pause every few feet to wipe it from his lips. He expected the slithering limb to latch onto him at any moment.
Are you finished with me, God? Is this the price of arrogance?
But as he clawed his way inch by inch over greasy dirt and protruding rocks, he wasn’t sure he’d be granted such a quick release. After all, the blood of at least eight people was on his hands. Sure, it was all part of his holy work, but that didn’t bring them back to life or give their souls peace. Like Belial and the other fallen angels who did God’s dirty work, he was a necessary evil.
But an evil nonetheless.
And evil masquerading as “good” was in a class by itself, and deserving of a jalapeno enema in the scorching bowels of hell.
After the flames died down and the embers fell into a lulling pulse that made a mockery of a heartbeat, Rodney checked the luminous dial on his wristwatch. It had gone dark, along with the lamp attached to his headgear. Most of his equipment had scattered during the demon’s assault, but his digital camera was still strapped around his neck. Its batteries, too, were dead. The demon had drained all the energy from him, which explained his enervation.
He must have dozed again, because he awoke to near-total darkness, the embers dampened as if the source was entering a long sleep. He could barely make out the stairs, and figured they’d provide some refuge until he could recover enough to climb them. He dragged himself under them and huddled with his prayers.
“Give me a sign, Lord,” he whistled through his shattered mouth.
And the Lord provided, as the basement door creaked open above him and He let there be light.
Rodney thought about calling out when the woman and man descended the stairs, but he wasn’t sure whether one or both were possessed. Belial could have changed hosts, or Eloise might be manipulating people by now, spreading its profane influence like an infection.
Rodney recognized the young woman as one of the hotel hostesses. The man was obviously trying to make a move on her, in the slick, clumsy way of someone who hadn’t mastered his own power. The source would take them both, Rodney decided, and he controlled his uneven breathing so he could watch unnoticed.
The teasing of their coy embrace gave way to an argument. Then she mentioned the boiler and Rodney couldn’t help looking at the rusted hulk. The glow of embers had given way to a roiling pile of smoke. The tendrils of smoke looked solid, and Rodney recalled the tentacle that had brushed his leg. The woman said the things were rats, but she wouldn’t be able to know the demons for what they were.
Only the Chosen could see.
When the woman slapped the man and fled up the stairs, Rodney had called out for her to wait, but his mashed-up mouth could only emit a moan. After the door slammed, giggles slithered from the corners of the basement.
After the door slammed, the man gave a slow turn at the foot of the stairs, as if only now acknowledging his surroundings. “Beetch,” he said.
Rodney called again, this time doing a better job of wiggling his tongue.
“Who’s there?” the man said, squinting beneath the stairs and backing up a couple of steps. Toward the furnace.
Rodney slid a hand in the gap between the crude steps so the man could see he was human. “SSI,” he said, in a sibilant mush.
“One of the paranormal people?” The man had a French accent.
Rodney used his grip on the step to raise himself to his knees and moved his ruined face into the light.
“Mon dieu,” the man said. “What happened?”
“Belial happened,” Rodney said, though the words were unclear and he doubted the man would know the demon’s name anyway.
The man rushed to help him, but Rodney was reluctant to leave the relative safety of his hiding place. He licked the blood from his lips and said, “She locked you in?”
The man nodded. “What were you doing down here?”
Rodney pointed to his camera and the meters on his belt.
“Ah. The ghosts in the basement, no?”
“Worse than ghosts.” His words were still a little mushy, but his tongue and lips were now on speaking terms with one another.
“You must have fallen in the dark? The manager was afraid this might happen.”
“I’ve fallen, all right.” Rodney let the man help him to his feet, and the rush of blood to his head carried an electric jolt of pain. He leaned against the steps and checked his equipment. The EMF meter, audio recorder, and thermal-imaging camera now seemed like stage props. He hadn’t needed them to detect the demons. All he’d needed was his blind faith. “Do you work here?”
“I’m a chef.”
“My cell phone and walkie talkie are dead,.”
“I’ll check the door,” the man said. He thundered up the stairs and tried the handle, though they’d both heard the lock click into place after the woman slammed it. “American women. I should have heeded everyone’s advice. Don’t play where you make your pay.”
Rodney wasn’t listening. He was studying the coal boiler at the far end of the basement, where Nancy’s body had been consumed. If Belial were upstairs, inhabiting Eloise’s body, then what entity was down there feeding?
The man banged on the door. “Maybe one of the ghost-hunting groups will come.”
“No,” Rodney said, fingering his crucifix. “The basement is off limits.”
“Then why—oh. You don’t like to follow rules, either.”
“Join the club.” Easing around the steps, holding on for balance, Rodney’s head began to clear a little. His night-vision goggles lay in the dirt 20 feet away. He retrieved them, along with his video camera and flashlight. The camera lens dangled loose and the data card was cracked, the card slot crammed full of mud. Any footage he’d taken of the encounter was likely ruined. So much for proof.
“What do we do now?” the man said, sitting on the top step. “Wait for morning?”
“There’s probably a service access that leads to the outside.” Rodney checked his flashlight to verify it was dead. “You want to wait here?”
“As if she’s going to come back? No, mon ami, I have been slapped like that before.”
“Okay, then, let’s get out of here.”
“Your face—”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” It was probably worse, but he didn’t want to risk slipping into unconsciousness again. If he kept moving, perhaps the pain would keep him awake.
“This isn’t a place for a man to be alone.” The man tried the door again and came down the stairs. “I’m Phillippe.”
“Rodney,” he replied, without shaking hands.
“So how does this ghost-hunting thing work?”
“You get all this equipment out, you raise hell, and you hope you get some evidence.”
“Have you ever found anything which convinces you?”
“Not lately.”
“You sure your head is okay?”
“It only hurts when I laugh.”
“That is funny, no?”
“Yeah.”
Rodney tried to recall his reconnaissance of the building’s foundation. Because of the Margaret Percival disappearance, SSI had made notes on the structure and its access points. Such maps helped debunk noises caused by wind, rain, or even someone’s inadvertently entering a hunt zone and later being dubbed a supernatural anomaly.
Because Rodney had suspected demonic activity in the lower levels of the building, he’d paid particular attention to the stonework. If demons had been passing through on a regular basis, there were apt to be scorch marks in the cracks.