Thorn Page 9

  “Thorn.”

  He looked up to find twenty of his former followers staring down at him. He nodded solemnly and resigned himself to face judgment.

  “Mighty Thorn,” the demon continued as all twenty of them knelt down to Thorn’s level. “Your display of violent murder has left us all profoundly impressed. You are truly one of the most cunning demons on the face of this forsaken earth, and you deserve all the power you once had. Will you allow us to follow you again so we might learn from your ways?”

  In his daze, Thorn took a few moments to comprehend the demon’s words, and even then he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. When he didn’t reply, the demon prompted him.

  “We will understand if you cast us aside for having so carelessly abandoned you, but if you accept us back into your fold, we will work to exalt you to your former position of power in Atlanta. We will force Marcus out of the city for now and for always.”

  They didn’t hear me, Thorn realized. His whispers had indeed been whispers. With all the frantic running, screaming, and gunfire, the other demons had heard nothing Thorn had said to Jed. They’d merely seen him whispering. And I, oblivious, played the part the whole time, floating beside Jed as if steering him every which way. I must have looked like I was causing the shooting rather than trying to stop it.

  Searching for an answer for his followers, he turned to the crayon ark next to him. There in the center was Noah, robed in white, the multicolored beasts organized two by two around him on top of the great wooden boat. Thorn chuckled numbly when he saw a black figure prowling off to the picture’s side. Outside the ark, apparently falling toward the water, some child had drawn a wolf.

  •

  “God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay”

  The carolers’ glum music floated down the street through the drifting snow. Thorn tried to ignore it as he hovered in the boy’s front yard, several houses away. If only I were as bereft of hearing as I am of tasting, smelling, touching…

  He stretched out his imaginary hand and felt none of the falling snow. When he stuck out his imaginary tongue, the snow drifted lazily through it, and Thorn tasted nothing. If my body is imaginary, perhaps I am imaginary too, he considered, not for the first time. My life is just a bad joke in the Enemy’s mind. This morning he’d had no charges and no followers, yet now he was back on top of the demon world, lauded by Atlanta’s devils as the orchestrator of one of the most heinous public shootings of this century. Now he had leverage over Marcus, who was currently the subject of a citywide manhunt, at Thorn’s request. Thorn had security, safety, power, and glory. The city was his again just before Christmas, and his followers were explicating to him all the dark presents Santa might bring the city tonight.

  “Remember Christ our savior was born on Christmas Day”

  Thorn observed the boy in pajamas lying on the living room carpet, gazing up at the television. He thought of the fifteen other young boys and girls who had died to return his prestige to him. Human death was to be celebrated, of course, but somehow Thorn felt only loss and sorrow.

  “To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray”

  The boy was watching “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” as he had been the last time Thorn had seen him. At least he survived this mess. Living with his aunt in a safe neighborhood, the child would have a good future, and Thorn took some solace in that. He wondered whether Flying Owl would enjoy Christmastime, would be as entertained by the Grinch as this boy was.

  “O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy”

  Of all the days for the rare sight of snow to grace Atlanta, Thorn thought, what a sour omen that it would appear on the same day as the shooting. The weather had been sunny a week ago, with no snow in the forecast.

  But much had changed in the past week. Turning from the boy and the television to face the white, Thorn marveled at how eons of learned behavior could change on a dime. Marcus’s return, the fight for his life, the shooting, all of it… it had shaken Thorn, disturbed him, and most frighteningly, it had changed him.

  “O tidings of comfort and joy”

  The song faded behind him.

  Thorn’s journey through the ground was long. When he was sure he’d lost his followers, he peeked his head aboveground to find himself in some woods beside Chamblee Tucker Road. Some demons in the traffic saw him, so he retreated back under the earth and traveled northwest toward the quarantine zone. When he encountered rock slick with groundwater, he realized he must be beneath the Chattahoochee and had gone too far, so he doubled back and eventually found himself near the old warehouse complex. As usual, hundreds of demons lurked outside, so Thorn was careful to stay in dark alleys or wooded areas. The snowfall helped to conceal his approach. Still, in the end it came down to an educated guess, and when Thorn plunged through the ground for the last time, he could not be exactly sure of the distance.

  He rose inside of a wall, just inches from the exterior where his peers would have seen him from their perches on the roofs across the street. Eyeing them through a crack in the plaster, he found himself grateful for the demons’ taboo against entering the quarantine zone to pester the angels, lest other demons mistake the pesterer for a defector. Thorn would encounter none of his own kind in here.

  He assessed that he was somewhere in the largest warehouse. Relieved, he rested a moment to consider his next move, which in here could easily be his last. This is madness. I should leave immediately. But he exited the wall toward the building’s interior and found himself in a corner by some crates. As he wandered through and around them, searching for an angel, Thorn hoped he would at least be spared Thilial’s presence. This would not go well if she were here.

  But the angel he found was not Thilial. He was a hulking, imposing figure seated at a humble desk, writing. The Enemy had unfairly allowed angels to keep the ability to influence physical objects after He’d cast the demons out of Heaven, so the simple sight of this angel lifting pen to paper would once have enraged Thorn. He might even have attacked the angel out of mere spite. But now he was paralyzed with fear, hiding behind a crate, examining the lamplight gleaming off the angel’s white robe and heavy brawn. This creature could kill me in a heartbeat.

  Thorn couldn’t recall the last time a demon had been inside an angel quarantine area. Whether that was because it hadn’t happened since the days of Altherios, or because none who entered angel territory lived to tell about it, Thorn couldn’t say. He kept telling himself he was overreacting, that they would just mock him then send him off…

  But Thorn would not accept being sent off. Not after this past week. Not after today.

  Old chalky dust stirred on the floor as Thorn slunk around the edge of the crates, briefly giving the illusion that he had once again entered physical space. When he looked down, though, he saw it was just a passing rat that had agitated the dust. Though dusk had not yet settled, the thick snowfall let only a dreary gray light through the foggy windows. An inch at a time, Thorn drifted toward the burly angel, until at last the creature glanced up and saw him.

  The pen dropped and bounced on the floor. The cherub’s body froze while his wide eyes studied the abject demon in the dress suit floating toward him. Still a distance away, Thorn decided it was safer if he made the first move.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Thorn said. “I mean you no harm. I… I need to speak with you.”

  The angel looked Thorn up and down, then retreated a foot backward in his rolling chair so that his face stopped just outside the lamplight.

  “I have grown discontent with my kind. I wish to…” He could not bring himself to say it, so instead he said, “I wish to open up a dialogue, so that we might—”

  “Enough, demon. You are not welcome here.” Despite his ominous size, the angel’s deep voice was soaked in fear.

  “I am Balthior, at one time a servant of the Most High God. I have come to—”

  “You are no servant of God. You are Thorn.”

&
nbsp; “I was once an angel like you, long ago.”

  “You are a fallen angel. Your place has been made for you in Hell.”

  Thorn arrived at the table and the angel rose from his seat. Though he loomed over Thorn, his wings were tucked behind his back and his posture was one of defense, so Thorn raised his hands to show he was no threat. “Please, my friend. I only want to talk.”

  The angel shook his head, then turned and strode toward the back wall, behind which he could escape if he so chose. Thorn quickly maneuvered around him, placing himself between the angel and the wall. “You must hear me out. Just listen, is all I ask. Just listen to my plea.”

  The angel’s face twisted into an expression of puzzlement over Thorn’s strange behavior. “Plea? The great Atlanta demon has a plea? Shouldn’t you be demanding we plead to you?”

  This is not going well. “Will you make me beg?”

  “Did you make Ezandris beg?” He crossed his arms into his flowing white sleeves and turned his face away, as if unwilling to make eye contact. He tried to sound gruff, but the quiver in his voice was palpable. “Very well. Speak your plea.”

  “As I said, I have grown discontent with my kind. Our lives are savage and meaningless. Every day is a struggle to win some rivalry or retain power over some human. Never a moment of peace. I have had enough. I want no more part in it.”

  “Defection is forbidden and impossible. An angel’s sin is permanent.”

  “No, you misunderstand me. I have no desire to—I—It’s just that I want—” Why am I denying it? If he was going to say it outright, he knew he needed to speak soon. But the demeaning words would not leave his lips. How can I make this sound like something he’ll listen to? Something other than what it is?

  As Thorn stuttered, the angel abruptly turned and paced away toward the vastness of the warehouse. Thorn rushed after him. “God is all-knowing, so perhaps—Maybe He could see my thoughts, right? He can see my change of heart?”

  “When you rebelled, He separated Himself from you. He can see your thoughts as much as you can see His. You know this. Now leave me.”

  No, it can’t end like this. I won’t let it. The angel’s gait was so tremendous that Thorn could barely keep up, so he drifted into the air and over the angel’s head. The angel yelped, ducked, swatted at him, changed directions. This time Thorn grabbed his robe, forcing him to stop.

  He spoke quickly. “It’s not just that I’m tired of my life, okay? I mean that’s part of it, the endless power struggles and the empty achievement and all that, but it’s—I think—” Now it was Thorn’s turn to avoid eye contact. “I think now that it’s probably wrong. I think I made a stupid, stupid decision choosing this for my life, and I regret that now, and that’s the real reason I’m here. Not to—Not to escape my choices, you know, but to—” He paused, tried to steel himself. “I want to change.” He could barely believe his own words. But he did.

  The angel stepped back and raised his arms protectively, but seemed afraid to touch Thorn. Thorn couldn’t let him retreat again, so he pulled around to the angel’s front and madly clutched his robe by its collar.

  “I don’t want to be the cause of hate and narcissism and ignorance anymore. I don’t want to make the elderly suffer, or make kids insecure, or make people waste their lives on dumb things that don’t matter. I don’t want to murder children anymore. So please. Please! You angels are the only ones who might know how to help me do the right thing. And I badly want to do the right thing now!” Thorn had not noticed until this moment how fully the idea had blossomed inside him. It had been coming for a very long time, he realized, and he could hold it back no longer.

  “I WANT TO BE GOOD!”

  During Thorn’s rant, the overwhelmed angel had turned to face him as if in shock at what he was hearing. Now that their eyes had met, neither could look away in the silence that followed Thorn’s bold words. Though Thorn knew his voice could not interact with physical space, he thought he heard it echo around the enormous room. He felt the angel’s quivering breath as his fierce eyes clung to Thorn’s just inches away.

  Only then did Thorn recognize him. The impeccably square jaw, the wide mouth and thin lips, those intense blue eyes that had once seemed so icy. His powerful body was just as terrifying as Thorn remembered it, and even his voice had retained its liquid bass tone, though it was not as thunderous as it had once been.

  But this was preposterous. Impossible. How could this heavenly being staring into his eyes be the same friend and leader Thorn had lost so long ago?

  “Xeres?” Thorn said.

  The angel held his gaze. After a moment, his immense wings unfurled, and in a second he was through the roof, and gone.

  THORN’S STORY CONTINUES…

  CLICK HERE to read A Demon in the Dark, the next book in the Thorn Saga, and to see other books from Joshua Ingle.

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  Acknowledgments

  I owe loads of gratitude to Robert Eichenberg, Robin Ingle, Marissa DePasquale, and David Sigurani for their feedback and encouragement during the writing of these Thorn books. Extra special thanks goes to Fedor Steer, whose dedication to this project and willingness to give continued criticism over the span of years is humbling and greatly appreciated. Thank you, Fedor, for offering your sharp eyes to these books from the very beginning—and for lending your face to their covers! Thanks also to Reid Nicewonder, for challenging me to always think deeper.

  The largest slice of my Thank You pie goes to David Gatewood, whose deft editing took my raw story and raised it to the next level. David, thank you for your honesty and your keen insight, and for helping me craft these books into something truly special.

  Last but certainly not least, thank you, dear reader. You’re the reason I write. Without you taking a chance on my books, their stories are just thoughts in my head that I happened to scribble on a page. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

  About Joshua Ingle

  Joshua Ingle is a pathologically curious sci-fi and fantasy geek. The Thorn Saga is his first series of books.

  Learn more at www.joshuaingle.com.

  Connect with Josh at www.facebook.com/joshthestoryteller.