Bitter Waters

By Brian Hurd

Youve never heard of the existence of angels and demons such as these.
When a killer appears in 1936 Chicago, a realm beneath the earth emerges, where angels and demons exist and are able to beget children with humans. Among these entities, there is none more dangerous to the human race than the mad angel Wormwood. Shunned by both heaven and hell, he dreams a future for Earth to rival his greatest triumph: the Fall of Rome and the Dark Ages that followed. To achieve this, one man must diethe only one who can make a difference. Unable to intervene directly, Wormwood sends the best assassin to carry out the task, Mr. Tarragon. The hunt ensues when Tarragon procures the services of a private investigator, Harold Darnier. What follows is a discovery of the age-old discord between the ascended beings of Heaven and the alliance of the fallen and ancient demons, with humans caught right in the middle. When things go awry, Harold is soon forced to fight for his life against supernatural forces and creatures, only to be saved by two unlikely charactersa man named Crito and a pale, mysterious man in black.
Bitter Waters is a compelling new read by Brian Hurd. Dark, imaginative, and thought-provoking, the story takes the reader to a world where supernatural entities coexist with humans to find power and dominance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499066395

Book preview

BITTER WATERS

BRIAN HURD

Copyright © 2014 by Brian Hurd.

Cover Illustration By: Ramir Quintana

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014915341

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4990-6637-1

                Softcover         978-1-4990-6638-8

                eBook              978-1-4990-6639-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/27/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

656838

CONTENTS

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

T he old man stared at the world. High above it all, he floated in the inky black silence and watched it turn. Such a bright, shining thing it was, bathed in the light of that distant yellow fire. There was nothing like it in any realm he knew. Just to look on it filled him with a sense of peace and wonder. It was an ephemeral escape from the eons of memory that burned and twisted his mind. He took solace in the simple beauty of its unlikely existence. Against the odds, it was there. Despite its fragility, it thrived. If ever there was a grand design, he applauded its eye for detail. The old man moved closer, letting the gleaming sphere fill his vision from all s ides.

With a sigh, he took form. The reflected light stung his eyes as it washed away all thoughts of the void. He found that he was wiping a tear from his weathered face. They were a beautiful species, rivaling even the beauty of their world. What they lacked in intellect, they compensated with imagination. It was this that gave birth to an emotional complexity that was equal to, or perhaps greater, than that of his kind. If he concentrated, he could walk among them, if only for a time. The risk was great. Like an artist who restores a masterpiece, he would need to affect minutiae with an unfaltering hand. His sober mind fell prey to a sudden stab of urgency. The risk of inaction was greater. He saw in them a cancer of the same size and shape that would take the heart of him and all his brethren. There was only one answer for such things, but his mind abruptly twisted. There was one problem. It was such that the madness started to take him. A crippling realization came, unwanted and unwelcome. It was a damning notion, made even more so by the fact that it was irrefutably true.

He loved them all, every one, and much more than he should have.

The passionate heart makes mistakes, he muttered into the vacuum. The old man buried his sentiment. The tide was rising in him. He did not have long. If he was to effect a change, he would need to become cold. With great effort, he thought on his plans. They were too grand. This much he knew, but if he did not act, then who would? It would be the death of them if left unchecked. The old man’s mind began to spasm. A short laugh escaped. His bright-green eyes turned wild. With a single gesture, the old man fought back. He buried his leonine head into his hands, his silver hair floating like vines in the void. He had stayed too long in his own thoughts. Slowly, he returned. Once righted, he gave the cancer a name.

Complacency, he whispered with feeling. It was a plague. He saw it clearly, for he had seen it before. The more they learn, the more they lose, he said steadily, firmly holding his mind despite the ever-increasing weight of his insanity. He was losing the battle. Precautions would need to be taken. I must begin, he told himself forcefully. With a flicker of command, he moved himself from the sight of the world. It was the last thing he accomplished, for at that moment, and far before he was ready, his personal curse overpowered him. Eons upon eons of memory came crashing in. The old man went mad.

With a crazed smile and a sudden spin, he laughed. "That is ever so much better!" he declared fervently. His mind both quickened and crawled at the same time, leaving every whim flashing brightly and every hint of stability in a stupor. He was a contained explosion, a slow motion scream. Stretching his newly formed limbs, he found that he had neglected to clothe himself.

"Let’s see, he said, his eyes and thoughts racing. Clothing slowly accreted to cover him. Soon he was wearing a suit, deep green in color and of the finest modern manufacture. Crisp and silken, I do believe I’m puttin’ on the ritz," he said coyly, brushing his flawless sleeve. The old man looked at the bright yellow star. It was occluding everything in the area, leaving him squinting. With a quick retrace of his steps, he followed his finger and was soon hovering above the blue planet again.

"Little matters, big matters, can’t love the rain and still fear the splatters," he sang in a beautiful arc of notes, but there was no air to carry them.

Spinning again, the old man looked at the moon. He held his hand to his bearded chin and hummed ruminatively. Someone should really get that fixed, he said idly. He stared at it for a long while, imagining faces, designs, and even words before he finally snapped out of it. As if matching his mind-set, the old man snapped his fingers in the noiseless space between worlds. Sanity was a distant memory, but it still dragged on him slightly. Even in his madness, he still had some modicum of rationality, however small. It was a thing that would eventually turn into an uncomfortable middle ground between the extremes.

"Now where was I?" he asked himself hazily.

Small matters first! he declared happily. The old man was emotional in his madness. Let’s see… I know just the thing! he said with another noiseless snap of his fingers. He honed his vision on the northern part of one of the passing continents. Time to call in that card, he muttered darkly, observing the date. He started to fly downward through the atmosphere, absentmindedly burning his beautiful clothing and body as he did.

This should be fun, I think, he said, laughing. He was once again formless by the time he got close to his target, streaking like a falling star across the sky.

1

B y the reckoning of man, or more specifically, by the reckoning of one of the twenty-four slices of their little world, it was almost midn ight.

It was a dark Thursday in a place known colloquially as the Windy City. There, on a reeking, run-down street, stood a ragged looking red-haired boy of perhaps fourteen, wrapped in a threadbare coat. He was holding down a stack of newspapers to keep the top pages from tearing in the sudden gust. He did not hear the man approach. The sudden tap on his shoulder was a startling shock. All on the dark street had been quiet as the grave, without another soul in sight for at least ten minutes. The boy had been dreaming in the dim streetlight.

"Tribune, please," said the man in a deep growl. The boy practically jumped.

Sure thing, sir, he croaked in a broken, nervous voice. Haven’t got the Fridays in yet, sir. Not until about 3:00 a.m. You still want the Thursday, sir? The man let out a long sigh. He was well dressed, as far as the coat and the shoes were concerned, but the boy noticed something strange. The man’s hands were clenched into bony, sharp-looking fists. In color, they were a bluish ivory. Also, the rest of his clothing looked ragged as a drifter’s.

Uh, only two cents for Thursdays, sir. Do you want it, sir? the boy repeated nervously. The man just looked at the boy, at first with a stern look, then his features softened by degrees. His face was only half-lit in the incandescent light, and to the boy, it looked something like a skull. The thought gave him a cold shiver.

I’ll take it, boy, he said a little clearer. His face worked into a gradual smile. The boy neatly smoothed the cover of the paper second to the top and handed it to the man. The man handed him a nickel. The boy dropped it in the can on his belt and went to hand him the change, but the man held up his hand in refusal.

Keep the change, boy, but let me have your name, said the man in a nearly familiar way.

Uh, thanks, sir. It’s uh, Johnny, sir. Johnny Fleck, he quickly responded.

Johnny Fleck, you say? the man said with a raise in vocal tone. "Well, Johnny, it is a small world then, isn’t it? You see, I know your mother." The man shook his head, smiling at the apparent coincidence.

You knew my ma, sir? the boy said nervously. Johnny’s anxiety was not the cringing of a craven soul. For his part, Johnny was brave and aged beyond his years. Rather, his apprehension was a testament to the unsettling nature of the man before him.

Oh yes, I certainly did, Johnny, answered the man. "But how terribly rude of me. My name is Mr. Tarragon. The man hummed pensively and turned his face to the streetlight, as if dredging memories from its glow. He put a bony hand to his gaunt chin. I met your mother back in ’29, before the crash, he said after a few muted seconds. Yes… yes, that was the year, and I remember her red hair, Johnny, said Mr. Tarragon with a sudden flourish. But I strain to recall. Was her name Janice? Do forgive me for forgetting, boy. It was… such a busy year." Johnny’s sudden interest was sufficient impetus to quiet his unrest.

"Oh wow, sir. Gosh. I guess you did know her, sir, answered Johnny faithfully. I thought you were fooling, sir. Or maybe just mistaken, sir, uh Mr. Tarragon. Yes, sir, you were close on her name, sir. It was Jenny. Johnny’s growing smile faded. He lowered his gaze as he continued. And she… uh died in ’29, sir. I moved here to live with my uncle, sir, on account of my pa run off to California."

Mr. Tarragon took a step forward and removed his fedora in solemnity. His hair was black and slicked back, revealing his prodigious widow’s peak. My deepest condolences, Johnny. Oh my, what terrible news. Oh dear… but, it has been a long time now, yes? Look how young Johnny has grown. Jenny, poor Jenny, she would be so proud, I think. Look at how her young man works for his living, said Mr. Tarragon, nodding his approval. There was something about his tone and articulation that seemed strange, but Johnny, being a young man, could not identify what it was.

Uh, thanks a lot, Mr. Tarragon. Yeah, I do okay, I guess, Johnny replied, still fighting his restiveness. It was a battle that he was losing. Are you, uh, from Indiana, too, Mr. Tarragon? he asked earnestly. It was all he could think to say.

Oh no, Johnny. I was only… visiting there, you see. I met her quite by chance. Oh my, now I remember it well, said Mr. Tarragon, with a finger to his temple and a growing smile on his face. "She was… a very large woman, wasn’t she, Johnny? So very large." Johnny stumbled back a step, shaking weakly. His heart was suddenly pounding.

I guess so, sir. I was real little… I mean, uh, I don’t really know… She was my ma… Johnny trailed off into an uncomfortable silence. His face was flushed. Something was wrong.

"Oh, please do forgive me, Johnny. Please do," Mr. Tarragon said in a genuine conciliatory tone. "You see, I know your mother was a bit of a gambler. She did so love to gamble, Johnny. Do you know what gambling is, Johnny, my boy?" he asked, asking the question with an inadequately restrained condescension. Johnny’s face turned downward, hiding his expression.

Yes, sir… I know what it means, he answered softly. Gripping himself, he forced his gaze back to Mr. Tarragon. There was defiance in the boy’s eyes. Mr. Tarragon raised his eyebrow slightly.

Your father, he went on. "Oh, he would get so very cross with her. Mr. Tarragon planted his bony fist into his fedora sharply in a pantomimed gesture of domestic abuse. He paused a moment for effect. And she… oh she was so very sad." Johnny stood silently in a petrified state of bewilderment.

"So sad and so alone, except of course for you, Johnny. Yes, you, Mr. Tarragon went on dramatically. And then she had nothing left at all in this world, he said with a wide theatrical gesture. Johnny dug his fingernails into his palm. That… was when I met her, Johnny. You see, she so wanted to gamble, and… she having nothing, I helped her, Johnny. Mr. Tarragon’s voice rose slightly. She was so very certain that her luck would change. But… so sad to tell you… that she lost what I gave her, too," he said, bowing his head, but still with the hint of another smile on his smooth, pale face.

It was all too much. Johnny wanted to cry and scream, but he just nervously muttered some garbled vowels before desisting in his efforts. He wanted Mr. Tarragon to stop talking. He wanted to be far away. He wanted to run away from those eyes. They were dark and unblinking, like glinting onyx. They made him feel naked and powerless, like the little orphan he was, so long ago. He started to cry, but fought against it. He was a man now, and he must be strong.

"She lost it all in a great… crash. I daresay it was… the greatest crash… that started these hard times, you see, Johnny, Mr. Tarragon continued mercilessly. I’m sure… you’ve seen the headlines and all the news. That, my dear boy, is why she… killed herself." These last words were little less than a growl.

Johnny could no longer hold it all back. He began to weep uncontrollably. He had known without knowing. He had been told so many stories. An accident. Yes, an accident. It had been an accident. Johnny shielded his face and sniffled.

No, he said weakly. No, she didn’t. Mr. Tarragon took an unwelcome step forward. Johnny held his ground in a feeble attempt at defiance. Try as he might, he could not force his eyes to meet those of the looming Mr. Tarragon.

"Oh yes, Johnny. I’m afraid she did," he declared, no longer hiding his smile. But… not before losing this one last thing to me.

Johnny heard a click and felt a sting, followed by a warm rush on his leg. Mr. Tarragon grabbed the back of his neck, and then the boy felt another sting. His other leg was suddenly warm as well. Shaking, he looked down, and saw a great pool of his own blood, gathering around the newsstand and running down the cold sidewalk. His pants were slashed at the thigh, and the legs beneath were slashed as well, straight down to the bone. Johnny felt a cold rinse wash through him. He was suddenly very tired. He closed his eyes.

Seven years, said Mr. Tarragon, to no one except perhaps the corpse in his hands. His smile was gone, and his eyes were as cold and distant as a foreclosing banker’s. He laid Johnny down on the sidewalk, and then held the pearl-handled straight razor in to the light. With a flick and a whistle, it was clean, folded, and back in his pocket. With a light sigh, he looked down on his victim. He scrutinized the boy’s face.

Even damnable business is business just the same, he muttered stoically. He went to put his fedora back on, but stopped. Instead, he knelt and put it over the boy’s face. "Now, Jenny. For you," he said, leaning forward with intent.

With a soft rumble in the air, rain started to fall, painting the world and street a darker shade. The scent of fresh blood mingled with the stench of the wet gutters. The nearest lamp flickered, as if in somber recognition of a light snuffed in the glow of its own luminance.

2

H arold sat, listening to the sound of rain against the window. He ran his hand through his brown hair, and then along the stubble on his cheek. He rarely went a day without shaving, but this had been a day without rest. It was a rest that he felt was now owed. All things were trimmed up, nice and tidy, except for that stubbly cheek and neck of his. With a single finger, he slid the handwritten check across his desk to face him. He regarded the sum again and sm iled.

Not bad, Harold, he muttered. He imagined a bigger office as a possibility, maybe even a secretary. His reputation was growing after all.

From the top drawer, he withdrew a silver case. He opened it, and as he did so, the lamplight sent a tiny glint into his large blue eyes. He took a second to lift the open case to his face, and in a candid moment he drew in the sweet scent of the fresh Turkish tobacco. Harold withdrew a single cigarette and tamped it once on the desk.

He leaned back and lit it, watching the smoke rise like sensuous streamers from the hot, red ember. Harold’s eyes glazed over, momentarily mesmerized by the smoke. He waved the match out, and then paused. Memories washed in. With a deliberate exhalation into the light, he filled the room with dreamy dancers. Harold scoffed lightly.

Like everyone else, he was at his weakest when he was tired. Brick by brick, he built his wall back up to the needed height. It was not a moment too soon. There was a knock at the door; a door that read Harold Darnier–Private Investigator. Before he could answer, or even rise, the door swung open, and he was greeted by the sight of a woman that defied a hasty description. For Harold, that was saying something.

The woman was utterly grotesque. She was also enormous, but these words failed to encapsulate what Harold was feeling as he looked at her. Every pound of her seemed to ooze another pound. Flesh dripped from her frame like candle wax. More than this, every joint was calloused and ashen like chalky rubble in a sea of flesh. She took a step forward toward the doorway, her fatty rolls pooling softly at her heels. It was her filthy fingernails that clenched it. Harold felt his gorge rise. He scanned her face quickly, fighting the impulse to shudder.

A moment of panic struck him, though he knew not why. He had no memory of a viler thing to behold as this. And Harold had seen a war. His eyes shied from the woman, but certainly the panic was unfounded. He furrowed his brow, trying to calm himself. He mustn’t be rude to this lady.

After a long silence, she spoke, in a voice that was deep, sweet, and yet gravelly somehow. He was reminded of sugar crackling when sprinkled onto a hot range.

"Are you Harold Darnier?" Harold stared at the huge woman for a full three seconds before he was able to answer the simple question she had put to him. Was he Harold Darnier, or had he just Shanghaied the poor man’s office? Harold was privately irritated by trite conversation, but he was also too polite to reveal it. Platitudes had their place.

Well… that is my name, Harold answered. But the fact is that it’s midnight, and I’m not open right now… Mrs. he said, trying to mask his disgust with a weak smile. The result was a kind of sour grimace that looked a bit like an infant with gas pains.

"Oh, it’s Miss… Ms. Jennifer Fleck, she said sweetly. My friends call me Jenny, and… I think you’re about to open right up, Mr. Darnier, when you hear what I have to say. Oh, and I do apologize for the late hour… but you see, I’m desperate." The flirtatious tone the woman used had a counterintuitive effect on Harold. This resulted in an involuntary retch that he managed to deny and keep hidden with an expertly conspicuous cough. Then the smell hit him. It was almost too odious to bear. And that was just the first wave.

With watering eyes, he managed to say, I really am very sorry, ma’am, but I’m… not very well…, which was certainly becoming the truth. He managed his best sheepish smile, all the while in a growing state of agony.

Harold was always polite whenever possible, occasionally to a fault. This was a fact that had, in part, lead his superiors at the Chicago Police Force to develop the opinion that Harold was too soft for the detective position he occupied. As with all such things, it was political. He had been a brilliant detective, but that didn’t matter. Harold had refused to play tough with the perps, and the wrong people had taken interest. He had been upset at first, but then tripled his income in his first year on his own, which aided his ability to recover from the blow.

There he was, choking at the sight and stench of an unwanted caller, still unable to say an unkind word.

"Oh, but Mr. Darnier, you haven’t even heard my offer. How does… 150 dollars strike you? All for maybe a week’s work and… as you boys always say in the movies… plus expenses?"

Harold looked down at his desk, considering the offer. He almost felt his nausea subside momentarily, but then made the crucial error of looking up again. She was smiling at him, and her mouth, if it could still be called that, was a carious wasteland of blackened rot. It was the combination of this sight, and the onslaught of the second wave of stench, that pushed Harold over the edge. With the sound of a belch, he violently erupted into his small wastebasket. He was sweating all over, and his whole chest was like an aching wound. He quickly took a swig of water from the glass on the desk, and spit that out, too. Jenny covered her mouth, a look of girlish surprise on her face.

"Oh, dear, but you really are ill," she said, but oddly enough, she did not move an inch. Despite his dulled senses, Harold pulled something from his pocket and put it to use. With his handkerchief over his face, Harold felt almost immediately better.

His mind suddenly flashed back to October 1918, when he lay in a trench in Northern France, his face buried on top of his coat due to a small tear in his gas mask. He had breathed in painfully slow and shallow breaths through the thick fiber, and doing so had saved his life that day. But this wasn’t like the war. He felt very silly and embarrassed for a moment, but then it hit him. He sat up and looked at Ms. Fleck again, and her eyes had turned an inky black. He flinched away. Jenny looked from one side to the other. Her eyes narrowed.

"Oh my, Mr. Darnier, are your eyes really so sharp that you can see me? she said in a tone of surprise. And is your nose really so keen?"

Keen nose? Harold thought. I’ve smelled corpse-ridden trenches that weren’t this bad! He was utterly perplexed. She glanced at the window, which caused Harold to do the same. Harold shivered from the sudden startle, his handkerchief still pressed to his face. He saw the reflection, and it couldn’t have been more in contrast to the reality. In the window was the image of a lovely redheaded woman of about twenty-five, voluptuous, but certainly not overly so.

What… the hell… is going on? he muttered, controlling his breath as he had in that trench so many years ago. It suddenly dawned on him that the handkerchief really ought to be wet, so he splashed the remaining water on his face. It helped immensely. Jenny opened her large arms and sighed in resignation.

"Oh, Mr. Darnier. I had so looked forward to hiring you for my employer. You come so highly recommended. But now… well, now . . . you just have to die."

3

I n a different part of the city, there was another man. He was also sitting at a desk, although there was no such telling of his identity to be seen anywhere. Not in that place, nor even in that country, with only scant clues remaining in the world. His work required pri vacy.

He was dressed entirely in black. His pale skin in stark contrast seemed almost ethereal. Long hair, the color of dark honey with thin streaks of white, hung down in vines that reached his chest, hiding his eyes from certain angles and brushing across the surface of the desk. He sat with fingers steepled, a look of inscrutable severity on his well-cut face. He was lightly built with a slender frame. His overall appearance lent itself to a certain aura of oddity. So still he was, that the bald, lumpy man seated in front of his desk sought to break the silence in a low growl. The men had been having a conversation only seconds before when, from nowhere, the pale man had gone silent.

My lord? Some time passed before the pale man responded.

We have a new enemy, Crito, he said in an almost