Tim Marquitz - Echoes of the Past

He grinned. “Not true, Triggaltheron.” He pulled himself to his feet, struggling to stand on his wounded limbs. I didn’t bother to help. “Though Raguel has dominion over my magic, the part of my essence that holds the truth of what I know is still here.” He tapped his temple and then his heart. “Were you to slay me, you would inherit my spirit and all the wisdom and memories it contains.”

“You’re talking about a soul transfer?” Though I’d only experienced a few of them in my time, it was common knowledge a demon inherited the power of another supernatural that he killed, but I’d never known it to pass along memories. I haven’t had it happen. It sounded like Azrael was playing me for a fool. “I’m calling bullshit. I’ve had my share of soul transfers, and never have I inherited more than the magic of those I’ve killed.”

“You have never killed anyone like me.” His grin spread, his pale cheeks stretched in its wake. “I am no average angel whose power can be so easily separated from him as Raguel presumes. While he might steal my magic and keep me imprisoned in my flesh, he cannot take the essence of who and what I am while I still live. Let Raguel gloat upon his hollow trophy, but I offer you the true spirit of Azrael, the Angel of Death.” He drew closer, limping, doing his best to puff his bony chest out. “You have only to kill me, Triggaltheron. Free me from this eternal prison of nothingness and all you wish to know will be yours, and so much more.”

Azrael stopped right before me, meeting my eyes with the rigid brown of his own. I stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to do. Would killing him truly give me access to the answers I was looking for? Did it really matter? He had no intention of talking to me no matter how much I tortured him. I could be at it for days. As fun as that sounds, I’d likely never learn anything, so what was the point? He wanted to die. I wanted to kill him.

Done deal.

I nodded and pressed my gun under his chin. He smiled. I pulled the trigger.

The shot ripped through his head and exited the top of his skull. Blood and brains exploded in a volcano of chunky gray and red. Azrael crumpled as the last of his life rained down over his body. He was dead before he hit the ground, the swirling haze burying him in a cloudy grave.

I stood there a moment, feeling nothing, and then the soul transfer hit. It wasn’t much of one. I felt a vague warmth bubble in my belly and a slight tingle across my skin, but that was it. Normally orgasmic, filling your veins with a methamphetamine rush mixed with ecstasy, this one felt more like I’d accidentally rubbed up against a dusty TV screen. A little bit of a static tickle and it was done.

Certain that Azrael had tricked me, I dug down deep to look for his essence. To my surprise, I found it easily. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. The closest thing I had to compare it to was when Baalth had me swallow a portion of his powers, the process leaving them inside me until I called upon the magic and made it my own. Thinking I had to do the same with this, I pushed against Azrael’s essence with my senses and willed it to surrender to me.

Nothing happened.

I could feel it in me, pick out the subtle flicker of Azrael, the scent of the tomb, but there were no memories I could find. The essence felt as though it were sealed against me, keeping me from prying inside. Something stopped me from cracking the shell of it and absorbing Azrael’s history.

Disappointment welled up, and I growled at my stupidity. I’d let Azrael trick me into killing him. He’d told me the truth, but not all of it. I should have known better. There’d be no answers from him or the tiny remnant I’d acquired through the soul transfer. He’d gotten what he wanted, and I’d gotten nothing more out of it than the pleasure of putting a bullet into his head.

It’d have to do.

Azrael a bust, I was running out of people who might know something about Lucifer’s relationship with my mother. They’d apparently had a baby together, at some point, but the letters weren’t dated so there was no telling if my mother was pregnant when she was killed, or if I had a brother or sister somewhere out in the world I didn’t know about. Both were a horrible thought.

I could probably use the summoning stone Hasstor gave me and call on Dip and Shit to take a message to Lucifer, but that didn’t seem productive. He managed to keep their fling a secret from me for five hundred years without a slip, so it didn’t seem likely he’d suddenly divulge anything. He kept it to himself for a reason, whatever that was. No, I wouldn’t be getting answers from Lucifer, so I had to settle for the next best thing: Baalth.

Still worried about the freak who’d come a knockin’ after the werewolf attack, I drove along the main streets, doing my best to stay amidst traffic. I was probably putting everyone at risk as the guy had shown he didn’t really care too much about witnesses or passersby, but if nothing else, it might stop the weres from springing an ambush.

As I wheeled into Old Town, it was clear there was something in the air. Just past the line of downtown, the traffic on the streets dwindled to almost nothing. There were a few homeless folks wandering the sidewalks, but they stopped and stared as I drove by, all of them appearing to hunker close to the buildings and alleys as if they expected violence.

I kept my head on a swivel as I drove, trying my best to see what had spooked the locals, but there was nothing to be seen. My senses weren’t picking up anything, so the threat didn’t appear supernatural. Maybe they were just antsy about all the crap going down lately and were waiting it out.

No idea what was up, but certain something was, I figured out where Baalth was hanging out and pulled into the parking lot of a rundown strip mall, which covered half the block. I stashed one of my guns and an extra clip under the driver’s seat, then got out of the car and made my way to the comic book store that looked like it hadn’t seen a customer since the early eighties. It still had a poster advertising the New Mutants, for Starbuck’s sake.

I went to the door and pulled it open. Alexander Poe met me before I could step inside.

“Good afternoon, Mister Trigg.” He greeted me with his usual cold professionalism. Dressed as he always was, in a tailored suit fitted to his exact dimensions, he was intimidating despite his advanced age. His thinning gray hair immaculate, he stared at me through ice-blue eyes that didn’t blink. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak to Baalth, and don’t give me any of that vacation stuff, because I know he’s back.”

Poe nodded. “He is, but he’s not up for visitors, having more than his fair share of uninvited and unwelcome guests today.” He glanced casually toward the rooftop of the building across the street, his eyes lingering.

I followed his gaze, and there, plain as day but out of sight from the street, were several men dressed in SWAT uniforms without emblems. They all carried some variety of automatic rifle-Ar-15s, or some such thing-and had their faces covered. That explained why the locals were hiding. The feds had moved in. One of the men waved and mimed shooting me. I flipped him the bird and turned back to Poe.

“I guess the Department of Supernatural Investigation is taking their job seriously.”

“It would seem, so you can understand why Baalth wouldn’t want to see you right now. They’ve been hounding him since his return.”

“ Deja vu.” I still didn’t know where Baalth had up and disappeared to during the Heaven fiasco, but apparently everyone knew he’d come back…except for me. If he hadn’t burst in on us ransacking Lucifer’s chambers, I wouldn’t have had a clue. I didn’t know whether I should be offended or not. Of course, seeing how I’d blown a gasket and poked old Baalthy boy in the chest, I figured Poe’s reluctance to let me in had more to do with that than the government agency perched across the street. Baalth didn’t have much to fear from the feds.