Book 8 - Messenger

“Holy Mother and the Saints. Is that you, Faith? Faith Savage?“ The rough, grumbled voice startled me from my wandering contemplation. It pulled my thoughts back together like a clap of thunder, and I blinked up at the hard, pounding sound that resembled nothing of rain. The tone was somewhat recognizable. The voice from the past now vaguely familiar as a warm and smirking face came into view through the fog of my dark day. Soft green eyes blinked back at me from the top of a memory I thought long buried.

“Wow, it’s been what, fifteen years? Damn, Faith. You look amazing. I see that God’s been good to you.“

I blinked. Has God been good to me? I truly wonder.

Jason Staffman still looked like the punk kid I’d met in the foster home on Sixth and Welman, fifteen years ago. Only now, his hair, once having a touch of auburn mixed with dusty brown and hints of sandy blond, was rife with streaks of premature grey. He still wore it a bit too long and pulled back from his face so you could see the wide-openness of his features. Innocence everlasting, despite the hand he’d been dealt. Wholesomeness still glowed in his eyes, in spite of life’s cruelty.

Time had offered him a few laugh lines near his eyes and around the curve of his soft, full lips. And his eyes were still that same amazing flash of green that always struck me as a field of moss against a perfect boyhood tan. Only now, I had to crane my head back a bit to get the full effect of them. Little Jason wasn’t so little any more.

I rose, and he pulled me into the circle of his arms. “You look amazing, Jason.“ I quickly stepped out of his hug. “So, what are you doing here?“ I asked. He was the last person I expected to run into this morning. “I’d heard you got adopted and moved away to Cleveland or Detroit or something.“

He waved at the table and we both sat. “New York, actually,“ he said with a half-smile, the lightness in his voice not quite meeting his eyes. “Did you know my adoptive parents were both writers, historians?“

I shook my head.

“They mostly studied the effect of the supernatural on the natural world throughout history. I ended up having a great childhood. They were both incredible people.“

“You say ’were’. I take it they’ve passed on?“ I asked tentatively.

“They were murdered by demons.“ There was no change in the inflection of his voice, no shift or twitch to his body, eyes or lips. He blinked once and stared at me blankly.

“I’m sorry, did you say demons?“ The instant switch threw me for a moment. I was a bit taken back by his unresponsiveness while I took in the cool, calm demeanor of his body language. A chill brushed my spine and I tried to shake it off, but it refused and lingered. Like some sort of hunting hound, I shifted my head, nose to the wind, searching a sniff of brimstone. I felt that kink in that line of your neck that waits for the graze of evil unease to brush it while I tried to get a clear summation of his account. This wasn’t information normal people just put out there. But by the blank green pools of his eyes, I could tell he was deadly serious. He sat utterly motionless, breath even, pulse calm, while he maintained a total lack of emotion, staring at me, waiting for my reply.

His face finally moved, lips in a solemn, flat line. “Demons, Faith. I know you know what they are. That’s why I’ve come back to Larkson City. So you can help me find the demon that killed them.“

It was my turn for the blank stare, the even breathing. My turn to show the cool play of casual demeanor and nonchalance. Was he out of his mind? And how the hell did he know that I hunted demons? Was there some sort of internet link or something that I wasn’t aware of? A web page devoted to slayers? Or worse, a Faith Savage Demon Huntress fan page? The thought churned my morning coffee.