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Tim would have to admit that maybe he was about to die tonight.
The underground chamber smelt of rot and damp, both scents intertwining with blood to make a horrendous stench that burned the hairs in Tim’s nose. He stood in the middle of a pentagram with magic that bound him to the spot and made it impossible to lift his smallest finger. He was in a small circle, barely big enough to fit him, which sprawled out into intricate patterns that covered the entirety of the cold ground. Tim wanted to say they were drawn with red chalk, but the metallic smell must be coming from somewhere.
Over to the left stood the reason for Tim’s predicament. He wasn’t very tall, maybe five feet and eight inches, white with short brown hair and black eyes. He didn’t look like anyone important and probably would not have been if not for two very important reasons; one, as of right now he was possessed by an evil sorceress hell-bent on raising her evil army from the dead in order to conquer the world and two, he was Jack Drake. Tim’s dad.
Dad, or the evil sorceress, were saying something. Tim couldn’t catch any of it, it was in no magical language that he’d studied before. The words were harsh and guttural, almost as if the sounds were ripped out of Dad’s vocal chords. Though Tim didn’t know exactly what was being said, he was tuned into the aura of the room, and the heavy sense of darkness and sulphur that grew in intensity could only mean one thing.
Demon.
One of the first thing any practitioner of magic learns is that it doesn’t matter if you’re a witch or a vampire or a fucking dragon, everything has a price and there are laws in place to ensure that price is paid. And everyone knew, a deal with the Devil, or any one of his many scions, could only lead to a ruination.
Tim watches as Dad’s eyes, which are normally a brilliant jet-black that brims with intelligence and knowledge, grow grey and glazy as the dopamine overpowered any inhibitions and protests Jack Drake would have about what was being done to his body. In his trapped state, Tim could not yell nor could he cry, but the urge to do so was so overpowering that had it not been for the spell, he would have collapsed onto the floor.
The sulphur was choking him now and he could do nothing to stop it. The room grew darker and darker and Tim watched with a paralysing sense of doom as a demon emerged from the shadows.
Back when he was younger, on the cusp of maybe 6, Tim had stumbled upon a demonology grimoire in Dad’s study. The book was thick and old, and young Timothy was immediately interested when he spotted the illustration on the page the book was open on. He recalled hoisting himself onto Dad’s chair and peering intently at the undecipherable language.
It didn’t make sense, but the drawings next to it were brilliant. He saw an almost lifelike depiction of a man, only he wasn’t really that. Most of his features were humanoid, he was tall, dark-haired and had a nose, ears, mouth and eyes, but he was not human. There were huge, jet black wings that sprouted from his back, they were the size of his entire body, maybe bigger because Tim couldn’t get an accurate estimate with the way they flared out behind him. He didn’t look scary though. Not to six year-old Tim. Even if he might’ve been a demon banished from Heaven, he looked… soft almost. His head was slightly bowed, black hair falling over his forehead, and sky-blue eyes peered out from the book at Tim. His eyes traveled to the stylized script.
He couldn’t read it. The words were not in any language Tim was familiar with. But… They were hypnotic. For some reason he could not look away. Black ink, lightened by years on yellowing pages, seemed to twist and twirl on the paper. Teasing Tim, enticing him into following their strange patterns. He hadn’t realised he was speaking. Long, soft sounds escaped his mouth, a language unlike any other. It was distinctly unfamiliar, nothing like the harsh tongues normally required to summon a demon, or alien enough to call on another species.
Strangely, he couldn’t stop himself. Tim realised that it wasn’t normal to be reading this, and it was downright troubling to say it outloud, but even the inherent knowledge that he could stop wasn’t enough to deter him. The sensation is hard to explain, now that he looks back, but he remembers being unable to stop because it felt good. Warm light filtered through the giant windows in his father’s study, there was silence punctured by the sounds of the wildlife near the house and though Tim hated being alone, he couldn’t help thinking he wasn’t. Someone was there. Someone was with him.
He only looked up when the antique clock on the wall read midnight. Tim panicked, hurriedly sliding off the chair, only just remembering to be careful with the book on the chance that it was something Dad had found on one of his digs. He should be in bed right now. His parents were due to arrive in the morning and if he wasn’t asleep now then he would be tired to enjoy having them in Gotham. That wouldn’t do, he would never forgive himself if he was too sleepy to spend time with his parents.
The dark office looked scary and Tim had no idea how he’d managed to look at the book so late. But when he opened the door to leave, his hands were only a little shaky at the thought of traversing the empty manor by himself. The deserted hallway stared back at him, with tall shadows that seemed as though they were staring right at Tim. The moon that peered through the windows provided little remorse, because even in Bristol which was so far away from the main city, Gotham smog still hid the only bit of light he had. He didn’t want to go, but there was nowhere to sleep in the office. His parents warned him against napping in their respective offices anyway. They said the creatures from the books could slip into mind if you weren’t alert enough to stop them.
And suddenly, there was light. Light washed away the shadows, setting the normally vacant Drake Manor alive. Tim looked up and saw that it wasn’t coming from the bulbs installed in the ceiling, it was just there. Tim peered down the hallway and all he saw was a bright light that illuminated what looked to be his entire house. It had to be magic, but performed by who? He didn’t think his parents had set up anything of this sort before they left for Hokkaido, and he still wasn’t strong enough to cast anything so extensive.
He looked back into the study, his eyes drawn to the book he left on the desk. It was open on the same page he had seen during the day with the blue-eyed man.
Tim was saying the words before he knew what he was doing. “Thank you,” he said, his voice a little breathless. It echoed in the room and Tim cringed as his high voice echoed back into his ears. If his parents saw him now he would be marched to the purification room and kept there for a month under surveillance. He shut the study door and scampered into the hallway, nothing felt malicious, otherwise, the numerous charms on Tim’s clothes would have deafened him and activated the protective measures his parents had set just in case something went wrong at home while they were at a dig.
As it stood, all was silent, all was calm. He continued down the corridor and took a left, gaping at the light but continuing on his way. Tim would need to ask his parents about the magic. There was no way they had managed to set up something like this while he was at school, and even if they had, out of the three of them Tim was most tuned into the house, he would’ve known something was different.
He reached the door of his room and yanked it open, eager to get into bed. It was as if all the hours he had remained awake decided to weigh on him with vengeance at that moment, and he yawned several times as he stepped through the threshold of his room. That’s when he heard it. A low voice, but loud in the silence.
Goodbye
He remembers falling asleep and dreaming of men with wings and blue eyes and waking up and recounting the story to his parents and never finding that book again.
It was just like that day now. A sudden light. But… it all went dark. Everything went dark-
-
He woke up seven days later. Tim knew this because of the calendar tacked to the wall left of him. He also knew it was seven pm and he knew this due to the alarm clock on the nightstand right of the bed he was on. What Tim didn’t know, and what was probably the most important thing, was where he was.
It wasn’t home, he knew that for a fact. Drake Manor was built on old land, but the actual structure was pretty recent. Tim’s great-grandfather had lived there and when he passed, there were arguments and scuffles over who the true owner of the family home was. The competing parties reached some sort of standstill a year or two later, and around this time his father married his mother who bore him Tim, and the keys to the home were discovered in Tim’s hands in the morning.
Tim didn’t remember this, what with being all of 2 months at the time, but he asked after it once and was subjected to Jack Drake’s Crash Course In Conditional Magic. He’s pretty sure he blocked out most of it, but the essence of the lecture had been that it was a complicated spell that appeared to say that the blood heir who was strong enough to carry on the family magic got the rights to the house. Which was actually the reason he found it difficult to leave Drake Manor for longer than a few days, and he definitely knew that wherever he was, it was not home.
Also Mom would never allow that carpet within three feet of herself, much less keep it in her house. Tim gazed at the worn brown fur on the ground, obviously old and he was pretty sure it was real, but he couldn’t identify what animal it came from. A bear perhaps? The size was probably most compatible with a large creature.
He looked back at the bed he was on, which was a large king single if he had to guess, with a light blue bedsheet, matching pillow and a navy blanket that had pooled around Tim’s waist when he sat up. It was soft and smelt very faintly of roses. He’s pretty sure Mrs Mac uses a lavender scented detergent.
So anyway, Tim was not at home and he was not at the weird chamber he was about to be sacrificed in, so where was he? He spared a few seconds to wonder what happened to Dad before prioritising on working out his surroundings. He wouldn’t be much help if he didn’t know where he was.
The door opened. And the man from the book walked in.
It had been almost a decade since Tim spotted the grimoire on his dad’s desk and spent the afternoon reading the same page. Looking back, the book had probably contained some traces of demonic energy that had managed to coerce him into staying there. Coupled with the fact he hadn’t even noticed the time going by, the demon would have been very powerful. The magic with the lights must have been from the book and it would’ve gotten its power from Tim. His father explained Energy Transference to him a few years ago, the theory that coming into contact with an object that held traces of a magical entity could give them the ability to use your energy to power their magic, even very remotely.
It had not explained why the magic only lit up the manor so Tim could walk to his room, rather than strangling him with his own hands or something equally sadistic as most demons tended to live on the barbarous side of insane. Dad said it was probably because no one could claim to be in the right mind after spending millennials in Hell, Tim agreed.
Usually when faced with a mystery he couldn’t solve, Tim hounded after any clues or answers, but he hadn’t looked very deeply into that particular demon. His parents had not discouraged it, but he had the feeling they were not very supportive of his endeavours. Younger Tim would have done anything to make them happy and older Tim was much the same, and so he laid it to rest and eventually his mind fogged over the details so much that most of what he could say about the event would be fantasy. And yet, something must have triggered his memories, because he could recall everything vividly.
In the illustration, he was bare apart from black trousers. Tim observed that it was not the case presently. The demon wore a long robe of what looked to be silk, it was black with wide sleeves and its hem reached the demon’s calves. The robe was not closed and exposed his heavily defined torso and abdomen, Tim felt his cheeks warm up, and quickly averted his gaze to the man’s face. It was the same as it had been in the picture. Dark hair and blue eyes.
According to most texts on demonlogy, what you saw infront of you was rarely the demon’s true form. Most of them had the ability to alter their physical disposition to appeal to the human, probably to lure them into a deal they could not hope to benefit from. So it was highly likely that the Vogue-model worthy man at the door was not the true appearance of the demon. Tim repeated the words in his head and shifted his attention to the bat wings on his back. He thought of them as dragon wings when he was younger, which are actually pretty common amongst demons along with wolf teeth, scorpian tails and snake penises. Tim hopes this demon does not have a snake penis. He scolds himself for this thought. But the bat wings are huge, just as large as he remembers. They’re a foot shorter than the ceiling and only because he has them snapped shut tightly against his back.
“Hello,” says the demon. “How are you feeling?”
Tim’s only heard demons speak when his parents summon them, and usually, they all sound as though they have really sore throats and someone decided to remix the sound somewhere in their vocal chords. In short, it’s not pretty and when he was younger he used to be terrified of it.
Therefore, he’s 95% certain that demons are not supposed to sound like they belong at one of the galas his parents drag him to bi-monthly. But, Tim digresses. “Fine,” he answers carefully. “Where am I?”
The demon sits at the foot of Tim’s bed and it does something strange to Tim’s stomach that he valiantly avoids acknowledging. There is no way he’s having a Horny Teenager Moment™ in a unfamiliar room with a demon. “This is my home.” The demon gestures at the surroundings. “You are in one of the guest rooms and when you feel better, I would like to request your presence downstairs. The boys want to meet you.”
So had the demon helped him? He wasn’t dead, atleast he didn’t think he was. Nothing hurt either and he’d checked earlier to make sure all his clothes were his own and he was wearing them. “Were you at there? At the ritual?”
The demon’s eyes darkened abruptly. “Yes, one of my own was summoned and they alerted me.” He shifted to look directly at Tim. “The summoner was delt with, I assure you that you have nothing to fear.”
And that would have been ridouculously hot to his sixteen year-old mind had the summoner in question not been his father. Oh holy fuck the demon had killed his father. Shit, shit, shit.
“You-you killed him?” Tim’s voice broke a little. He felt his eyes water up and there was a horrible feeling in his throat and oh fuck he was crying. His dad was dead, dead, dead and it was possibley all Tim’s fault. He didn’t have to read that book. He didn’t have to be in that study. God, how could he be do stupid?
“Are you alright? What’s the matter?”
Dad was dead. Dad had been murdered. Dad who read to him. Dad who talked to him. Dad who loved him and was now dead and it was all Tim’s fault.
Large hands grasped Tim’s chin and jaw, tilting his face upward so he was looking into sky-blue eyes that rested a scant few inches away from him. The edges of the demon’s dark hair brushed the skin on Tim’s forehead. His large fingers are strangely gentle as they wipe away the tears on Tim’s face and he smells like rose detergent.
“Why are you upset?” he asks, his voice low as though he does not want to spook Tim.
“You killed my father,” croaks Tim.
The demon backs away, quickly reaching the door. “That man was your father?” he asks, something like horror coating his words. His eyes are blown wide, black pupils stark against blue irisis.
Maybe looking back Tim would realise that the demon’s reaction to someone sacrificing a teenager was most likely justified (if, you know, you take out the fact that demon’s cause pain for fun) and that though it wasn’t actually his father trying to murder him, it had still been his body.
Only, he couldn’t help but think Dad would have broken free of whatever spell he was under, or that maybe one of their friends would have come to help. Perhaps the witch would have not been powerful enough for the spell, or maybe the demon would refuse Tim as a sacrifice altogther. So many other things could have happened, his father could’ve been alive now he’ll never know because someone had killed him.
“It was,” says Tim, the tears falling faster now that there is not anyone to wipe them away. “That was my dad and you killed him!” Oh great, now Tim was yelling at a demon. The demon whose house he was in. But he couldn’t stop. “How could you? How could you just murder someone like that? You didn’t even know what was going on! Why didn’t you just leave it alone, it was none of your business!”
“Your father was trying to kill you, or at the very least trade you to a demon of questionable intentions,” says the demon.
“No he wasn’t!” replies Tim. “He was under someone’s magic. He wasn’t trying to hurt me and now you’ve killed him!”
The demon suddenly lunges forward with a speed no human could ever hope to compete with. His bulk knocks Tim back into the bed, the demon on top of him. His wings, previously pressed tightly to his back now flare open so Tim can’t see anything beyond their unending darkness. His mouth is wide open, in the process of saying something but Tim can’t focus on anything except how big his teeth are. Curved, massive canines with sharp tips that could penetrate bone. If the demon tried to kill him, there was nothing Tim could do.
Fucking hell this is what he got for yelling at the murderous demon who had just murdered his dad. You would think with the combined intelligence of Janet and Jack Drake that Tim would inherit a passable intellect but maybe it skips a generation. Not that Tim could tell you about his kids. He was going to die before he got to have them.
“Calm down,” gritted the demon, his fucking fangs sliding together and creating a discordant sound. “Calm down.”
That’s pretty damn stupid of him considering that their position plus context is making it very difficult for Tim to calm down. It’s something out of those porny romance movies he used to watch with his friends for fun, the kinds that Tim would openly ridicule. He thinks this is his karma for laughing at Mafia Daddy: The Sequel (probably not the film’s real name).
He does take a few deep breaths because he isn’t going to tell the big guy with the big teeth no. Tim doesn’t exactly calm down, but the demon leans back a little which is good for Tim’s overall health.
“You’re father is not dead. Not… exactly,” starts the demon. He pauses, looking around like he doesn’t know how to say something. “Not in the way of Hell.”
Oh, duh. Demons live in hell. Death probably isn’t a big thing for them. This guy was probably neighbours with Stalin and Dahmer. But Jack Drake was a good guy. He was responsible with his digs, he cleaned up after every excursion, donated money to educational charities in the countries he visited, and fought for artifacts to stay in their native countries. His dad probably wouldn’t be neighbors with Stalin.
“Is he here?” asked Tim. He knew, objectively, he should be unhappy at the idea his father was in hell, but at the same time, he had not lost him. That was the worst part about death, Losing someone. If… if his dad was still here, then he wasn’t gone. Not like his mom.
“Not exactly. He is… trapped.”
And Tim knows what has happened here without the demon having to say it. His father may not deserve Hell, but the witch inside him certainly did. Two souls should not inhibit one physical vessel. His father was likely stuck in purgatory because of it. “So, he is dead then. Just not the way you think of it.”
“I was not aware of the relationship between you and the man. I admit my actions may have been hasty,” said the demon. He sits back on his haunches and gathers his wings in. “I am honour-bound to assist you.”
Tim doesn't want to spend any more time with his father's murderer than he already has but what other choice is there? If Dad's in purgatory because an evil soul is clinging to him then Tim's going to do his best to send him on his way. After all, his death may have even been Tim's fault.
“Help my father to heaven,” he says, looking straight into the demon's blue eyes. Blue like the eyes from the book that helped him long ago.
The demon nods. “Of course.”