At the Behest of the Dead by Timothy W. Long Page A

underground. A siren peeled in the distance, the sound rising and lowering. Pretty soon this place would be swarming with cops. How in the world were we going to explain this? I would just have to work under the assumption that Andrews would back up my story, and more importantly my activities during the investigation.
    But before any of that could take place I needed answers.
    I touched the man again and dove deep.
    His soul was a mess, shredded and hurt. Like an abused child , it shrunk from me. But souls didn’t feel pain. This one was trying to depart, to escape from me or run from whatever had caused it so much anguish. I held on, delving, feeling around the confines of its prison. There was something there, in his chest. I could feel it like an anchor that wouldn’t let him go.
    Then an angry force ripped through the body. It felt like a red hot blazing hand raked my innards from chest to groin. I reared back in shock then howled as pain flooded my body. I th ought to say a word, just one. Something powerful, but then it was gone and I was flying backwards. I was thrown onto my back, the air exploding from my body. But that wasn’t the worst of my problems, as I felt like my entire form was suddenly on fire. I howled again, but it was a wordless cry. For a few seconds I swam in a haze and stared at a mural on the ceiling. Angels and demons made up animated figures that fought. They struggled against each other, ripping and tearing. Demons with feet and talons. Angels with swords and shields. The ground was covered in blood that made it slick, but they continued to dance across the sea of crimson. No, that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. I was in a coffee house on good old earth. Not some plane of existence where the forces of good and evil constantly faced off.
    The hand had been red hot, glowing, evil with intent. If it was real, and not some malevolent apparition, I had no doubt it would have killed me. It would have reached into my chest and torn my heart from it like a man tearing the wings off a fly.
    A demon spirit had somehow possessed the changer.
    I tried to take a breath but it was so hard. Then Andrews was there and leaning over me. She put her hand over my chest and recoiled when she felt the metal pentagram affixed there.
    “I’m okay,” I croaked between dry lips.
    “You don’t look okay, partner. You look like you just got dropped from about twenty feet. What the hell was that? I mean I thought I saw a giant red hand going at you.”
    “I don’t know. Something reached in and …” I heard a whoosh. I thrashed to the side because my body was in flames. A conflagration that coated my body from head to foot. I rolled, desperate to smother the blaze.
    Andrews moved fast. She tore her jacket off and jumped on me, smothering the fire. I thrashed beneath her but she held me down. To be honest, I had about as much energy left as a tired puppy.
    The barista, Ashley, came to the rescue with a pitcher of water, most of which ended up on my face. I beat at any spots that still seemed warm and looked down. Smoke rose from Andrews’s jacket but at least the flames were out.
    The same could not be said for the man I had killed.
    I rolled out of the way again as I got a glimpse of the changer. He was on fire as well but the flames were white hot. His body crackled and the smell of burning hair made me want to gag.
    “Ah Christ!” Andrews yelled and grabbed anything that looked wet and poured it on the body.
    I rolled over and patted at the flames as well , but I didn’t have a potion ready that could possibly help. Where was all that water from my trip in the river the night before?
    “Does this kind of stuff happen to you all the time?”
    “Not until you showed up.”
    “How was I to know Lon Chaney Junior was hiding underground waiting to wreck havoc on half the city?”
    “I distinctly remember asking you to stay out. Remember? I clearly said ‘This is very dangerous.’ But you followed