Black Rain, page 25
His words felt like a punch to the gut, his perverse logic cutting deep. I was reminded of a monster gazing into a mirror, recognizing its own reflection. It was a twisted kinship I wanted no part of. I could feel my control slipping away, my composure fragmenting under his penetrating gaze.
The only thing that kept me from cracking under Cross’ penetrating glare was the ink still regaining its strength inside me. It was almost there. Not long now and I would be able to use the ink to cut myself free from these bonds so I could then take care of Cross… once and for all.
However, even as I drew solace from the resurgent ink, a new sensation abruptly shattered my fleeting calm. A tangible sense of foreboding seized me, a feeling so intense it stirred a visceral unease in the pit of my stomach.
Strapped to that table, I turned my head to the side to see that things were not as they should’ve been. From the corners of my eyes, I watched as the rock-hewn walls of the room began to subtly morph. Inky-black tendrils resembling veins, pulsating with an eerie life of their own, began to creep down from the ceiling, seeping into the rock like insidious vines, and snaking their way down to the floor.
The myriad concoctions contained within the Alchemist's vials, which had been shimmering in a variety of colors, now began to turn an ominous black. The viscous liquids thickened, the colors darkening until they were as black as pitch, bearing a malignant essence. And then, as if possessed, they began to overflow. The thick, black substance poured out of their glass confines, pooling on the table, creeping toward the edge, like the tentacles of some unseen creature reaching out for prey.
A horrified "What in God's name...?" escaped Cross's lips, his eyes darting about the room. His visage reflected a mix of terror and confusion, his brows furrowed and lips pulled into a tight line. He swiftly turned his accusing gaze on me. "Is this your handiwork, Drake? Are you orchestrating this?"
"I... no," I managed to stammer out. Though I couldn't entirely comprehend the situation unfolding before my eyes, a gnawing suspicion began to carve its place in the back of my mind. Despite the uncertainty, a familiar feeling began to stir.
And what I witnessed next went a long way to backing up that feeling. The previously pristine liquid inside the glass tanks, where the bodies were suspended, began to transform. With a relentless pace, the fluid shifted from its crystal-clear state to the hue of a deep, dark crimson—the unequivocal tint of fresh blood. The bodies, once pale and lifeless, floated in their now blood-filled chambers like ghoulish marionettes in a perverse puppet show.
The bodies then began to stir, their slack expressions morphing into grimaces of pain and fear. Their eyelids fluttered open, revealing blank, terrified eyes. They began to move, flailing in their dreadful tombs, hands pounding against the unforgiving glass walls with a desperation that was palpable, even from my restrained position.
As if the room was not bad enough, their frantic gestures and muffled screams added a new layer of horror. The room was not just changing, it was awakening, stirring into a nightmare of animated horrors, the bodies in their bloody tanks the unwilling participants in a hellish pantomime.
I watched as the room continued to transform, a silent witness to the unspeakable horror that was unfolding before my eyes. The world around me was changing, gradually succumbing to the pull of something dark, something demonic.
Fucking Infernum…
This was not the overt metamorphosis that had occurred before, when the world had turned into a fleshy nightmare. This was subtler, more insidious.
No, no, no… this can’t be.
How was this happening? I hadn’t called Nephraxia. My inner torment had been kept in check. So why was Infernum seeping through?
The eerie harmony of the unfolding pandemonium hit a nerve-wracking crescendo as one tank in particular, its occupant frenzied with a strength that defied comprehension, became the focal point of the room. The young man inside, even more frenzied than the rest, was visibly struggling against the liquid constraints of his glass prison.
"Xavier..." Cross breathed, his voice hardly more than a whisper yet still carrying the weight of stark terror. With a sudden urgency, he dashed toward that specific tank, his fingers splayed against the cold, crimson-soaked glass as though trying to console the desperate figure within.
But consolation was beyond reach. The figure inside—Xavier, Cross's own son—hurled himself against the glass with a primal force. The tank quaked ominously under the barrage, sending ripples cascading through the bloody bath.
Then, with an ear-splitting crack, the glass gave way. A deluge of the crimson liquid erupted from the fractured tank, cascading onto the stone floor and carrying Xavier's limp form along with it. He slumped onto the hard ground, soaked in the blood-like substance, a ghastly sight that had Cross frozen in wide-eyed horror.
A beat passed before something extraordinary happened. Xavier, drained and frail, started to move. His arms quivered, fingers clawing at the slick ground as he gathered his strength. With a guttural roar, he forced himself upright, trembling violently yet defiantly standing.
Then, he pointed. A frail, shaky finger extended toward his horrified father. An accusing, condemning gesture that held more weight than any words could carry. In Cross's lab, his own son stood as the judge, jury, and a harbinger of the reckoning that was to come.
Fuck this.
Taking advantage of the chaos and Cross's horrified distraction, I closed my eyes and willed every fiber of my being to communicate with my ink. I forced every thought, every ounce of consciousness, to seep into the liquid darkness beneath my skin, stirring it from its induced slumber. It was a battle of will, a desperate plea for the ink to resist the substance that was trying to suppress it.
I felt it stir, responding to my call. It was as if an unseen connection between my psyche and the ink was rekindling. A warmth began to radiate from my tattoos, pulsating with a steady rhythm that matched the beating of my heart. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The ink was responding—it was awake.
Channeling all my focus, I willed the ink to form a blade. The dark substance under my skin roiled, before slowly seeping out from the tattoos, twisting and solidifying into a sharp, obsidian blade in the palm of my hand. Its presence was an assurance, a silent promise of deliverance.
With a swift, determined motion, I slashed the blade against my restraints. The hard leather bindings gave way easily, falling away from my wrists like they were nothing more than paper. My heart pounded in my chest as I sat upright, finally free.
But I soon realized that I had freed myself from one nightmare only to emerge into another.
Suddenly, the shadows at the far end of the room swirled and coalesced into a monstrous figure that emerged into the flickering light. The priestess of Infernum, Nephraxia, the epitome of a sadistic nightmare, had arrived. Her spectral form seemed to glide rather than walk, an ethereal terror sliding across the stone floor.
She paused as her gaze fell on Cross and his son. Xavier was standing now, his accusatory finger still pointing at his father, an image of a betrayed, drowned son turned vengeful accuser. Cross looked back and forth between his son and the demon priestess, his face a twisted mask of conflicting emotions. There was unmistakable terror, yet also a strange, sick sort of awe, as if he was both horrified and honored by her very presence.
His gaze lingered on her hideous form, the metallic armor that clung to her deathly pale skin, the strips of desiccated skin forming a skirt around her waist. He watched as her fiery eyes danced in the dim light, reflecting the pulsating crimson radiance of the broken tank and casting long, sinister shadows across her face.
Suddenly, Nephraxia's gaze shifted from Cross to me. I felt her eyes burning into me, searing through my flesh and into my soul, a penetrating gaze that held an unspoken promise of unspeakable torment. I held her gaze, refusing to let her see my fear, the dread that was twisting my insides into knots. I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.
"Ethan," purred Nephraxia. "How rude. You haven't introduced us."
For a moment, I was robbed of speech, rendered silent by her sudden presence. "What are you doing here? I didn't—"
"Our bond, Ethan, it grants me certain... liberties," she replied, her voice as cold as it was enticing. She shifted her gaze to Cross, her smile all venom and allure. "And this one's inner turmoil was too delicious to resist. A delightful morsel."
Cross swallowed hard, his eyes shifting nervously from his son, who glowered at him with undisguised hatred, to the dark seductress before him. "Who... who are you?"
"I am Nephraxia," she replied, her tone deepening into something far more menacing, "High Priestess of Infernum, and soon, your cruel goddess of torment."
"W-what? I don't—"
"Silence, Ezekiel." Her command was sharp, forceful, yet the wicked grin remained on her lips. "Soon you will comprehend. When I shape you into my faithful acolyte, every piece will fall into place." Her gaze shifted to Xavier Cross, her eyes predatory. "And your son, of course. The two of you will share an eternity of exquisite pain. An appealing prospect, wouldn't you agree, Ezekiel?"
Cross looked utterly taken aback. He was always a man of words, but in front of Nephraxia, he found himself mute, awestruck by the terrifying force that was the priestess.
Darkness, Cross, I mused, you only thought you were familiar with it. You are on the precipice of a pit so deep, you can't even begin to comprehend.
"To become my acolyte is an honor few are granted," Nephraxia stated, her gaze never leaving Cross, assessing him, the predator sizing up its prey. "I will sculpt you into a work of art, your form as tantalizing as the ceaseless torment that will consume you."
The silence that fell upon the room was as cold as the stone floor beneath our feet. Cross stood, trapped in the menacing aura of the demon priestess, his eyes wide with a newfound comprehension of his impending fate. All his grandeur, his intellect, his control, had evaporated, leaving a shell of the man he once was, staring into the face of the monstrosity he had summoned.
His gaze flicked to his son, the young man who bore his name yet stood as a vehement adversary. Xavier’s accusing finger never wavered, his silent condemnation ringing louder than any spoken words. And then, Cross’ gaze shifted back to the demon priestess, the harbinger of his imminent damnation.
His eyes darkened, the icy blue irises clouding over, hinting at a dawning realization. The once-arrogant scientist, the man who thought he controlled the tides of life and death, stood defenseless before the merciless tide he himself had summoned in an albeit indirect way.
For all his supposed understanding of the darkness, the true depth of the abyss was now being unveiled before him. And it was far more horrifying, far more relentless than he had ever imagined.
Nephraxia towered over him, her bluish-white skin glowing ominously under the room's hellish light. Her voice, cold and cruel, echoed within the confines of the chamber, promising him a twisted honor and a perpetual existence in agony.
"Agony?" Cross echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. His face paled, the color draining away as the reality of his fate sunk in. His life’s work, his deranged pursuits, were all leading him to this unthinkable state of torment.
"But it will be balanced by the pleasure you will derive from it, Ezekiel," Nephraxia cooed, her voice a sadistic lullaby that wound its way around the room. "All your tormented existence has been leading up to this. What you've experienced here will fade compared to the experiences that await you in my realm."
As his impending damnation loomed, Cross's arrogant mask shattered, exposing the terrified mortal beneath. His body trembled, the once unshakeable scientist now just another helpless pawn in Nephraxia’s monstrous game. His grim future had unveiled itself, and it was more horrifying than he ever could have anticipated.
Nephraxia’s arm outstretched itself, her abnormally long fingers extending toward Cross. “Come willingly with me now, and experience the delights of my realm. If I have to force you, your experience will be very different, believe me.”
Cross seemed to sway on his feet, the weight of his fate pressing heavily on his shoulders. His gaze bounced from his son to Nephraxia and back, his face a mask of torment etched with understanding. Slowly, a reluctant nod rippled through him, a silent surrender to the inevitable.
“And my son will be with me?” His voice, though trembling, carried a desperate hope. It was the plea of a father about to be damned, clutching at the one thread of solace in his impending doom.
Nephraxia's response came with a sickeningly sweet smile that curled around her monstrous face, a sadistic delight dancing in her fiery eyes. “You two will be closer than you could ever imagine. You will be as one.”
The promise echoed ominously around the room, the words imbued with a malevolent certainty that left no room for doubt. For a moment, Cross just stared, his eyes widened in dreadful comprehension of the twisted union that awaited him and his son.
“As one?” His voice was barely above a whisper, the echo of his words carrying the fear, the despair, the resignation of a man being led to the gallows.
Nephraxia nodded, her gaze never leaving his. “As one,” she confirmed.
Slowly, with a sense of inevitability, Cross reached out, extending a shaky hand toward the demon priestess. His fingers hovered for a moment before making contact, settling on the cold, metallic armor of her hand. The moment they touched, a shiver seemed to ripple through him, a visceral response to the cold acceptance of his impending fate.
With his other hand, he reached out to his son. Xavier, who was still standing accusatorily, locked in his silent confrontation, offered no resistance as Cross's hand found his. The frailty and warmth of his son's hand in his was a stark contrast to the cold, unyielding grip of the demon priestess on his other hand.
And so they stood, a grim trinity in the pulsating red light of the macabre laboratory, bound together by the horrifying promise of a future that was about to unfold.
Nephraxia's gaze then rested upon me, her molten eyes flickering with a glimmer of wicked anticipation. "Our little encounters have always been quite the delightful diversion, Ethan," she confessed, a note of unsettling cheerfulness tinging her voice. "Rest assured, we're bound to cross paths again in due time." The curve of her smile, sinister and predatory, made it abundantly clear that she was more than just fond of that prospect.
Rooted in my place, I bore witness to the macabre procession that unfolded before me. Father and son, their hands entwined in an eerie unity, followed the demon priestess across the chamber. Their destination was the swirling veil of darkness that had birthed Nephraxia into our realm. As they approached, the shadows seemed to pulse and throb with an unseen life force, a hungry maw waiting to consume its chosen morsels.
In the next heartbeat, they disappeared, swallowed whole by the ravenous shadows, leaving behind an echo of their presence and a cavernous silence that felt almost deafening in its intensity.
It was then that I turned my attention to the captives, suspended in their glass sarcophagi. Their eyes bored into me, a medley of accusation and resentment reflected in their gaze. There was a palpable hostility radiating off them, as if each soul encased within the tanks held me responsible for their dire plight. Despite the silence that blanketed the room, their eyes seemed to scream their silent curse, a chorus of recrimination that echoed ominously within the void left by Nephraxia's departure.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Darkness had long fallen by the time Knight, Martinez, and myself made it out of Cross’ manor house, with me having Pearson’s body draped over my shoulder. Somehow, Givens had also made it out as well. We found him outside in the SWAT van, having locked himself in the back. When Martinez finally got him to open the doors, Givens appeared to be a quivering wreck, barely able to speak. He was a man wrecked by terror, his eyes holding the glassy, distant gaze of someone who'd stared too long into the abyss. His lips moved, but his words were replaced by barely audible whispers, as if he was afraid the darkness would hear him if he dared to speak louder.
Martinez, perhaps feeling a little responsible for Givens’ current state, climbed into the back of the van to try and console him, though he didn’t seem very responsive as he rocked back and forth like a traumatized child.
Seeing Givens, I was reminded that not everyone was capable of bearing the darkness that came from fighting monsters. If Givens ever recovered, he should stick to busting in drug dealers’ doors and sniping hostage takers from a rooftop.
Smoking a much needed cigarette, I called Routman and gave the captain a brief rundown of events, leaving out the part about Nephraxia.
“Pearson is dead?”
“I’m afraid so, Jim. A specter possessed him and then he tried to kill us. We had no choice but to put him down.”
“A fucking specter, Drake?” Routman sounded incredulous. “Are you kidding me?”
“Afraid not, Jim.”
“Jesus Christ. And what about Cross? Did you get him?”
“Cross ran when we confronted him,” I said. “We gave chase and he fell into a pit underneath the house. I don’t think his body will be recoverable. The things that live in the pit have probably devoured him by now.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line, before Routman finally said, “Stay put, Drake. I’ll be there soon.”
“You’re coming out here? Why?”
“There’s some people here that want to take a look around Cross’ manor.”
“What people?”
“I’ll be there soon.”
“What fucking people, Jim?” I asked again, but the line went dead before Routman could hear me.
Shaking my head, I lit another cigarette and went to talk to Knight. She was lingering near the SWAT van, a thin stream of smoke rising from her own cigarette held loosely in her hand. Her gaze was unfocused, faraway, like she was trapped in a recollection of the horrors we'd just witnessed within the manor. Her usually bright eyes held a certain haunted quality, a stark indicator of the toll the day had taken on her.
