The Marquis (The 13th Floor)

Chapter 5


Harriet was still resting and Meira wasn’t home. The paint in the hallway darkened to a deep green. Marc slammed his fist against the wall. A furious fire burning hotter within him.

He had doomed Mae by being seen with her. How could he be so stupid? And then he agreed to see her again. He was doubly damned. He deserved a long and painful death.

Once upon a time, human casualties were nothing. The Marquis would’ve torn through without a single emotion weighing him down. Neither did he enjoy such massacres nor did he loathe them. He did as he was ordered with deadly efficiency for a reward he had foolishly believed would be coming in the end.

There was no happy ending for him. Whether he’d be beaten by Vetis or die a weak old man alone and forgotten. Marc’s stomach churned at the thought of either option.

Mae deserved a better end even if he didn’t. Thinking of her smile made him groan.

He leaned against the wall, and a chill settled around him. Best way to do so would be to surrender himself. Put up a bit of a fight for a good show or else Vetis would know what he was doing. Once Vetis had him, he wouldn’t waste his time on anything else.

Every instinct within him screamed with their protests. Marc had spent centuries listening to such pleas. He could ignore his own.

One cup. One more cup of coffee with her and then he’d end it. End himself.

Walking down to the end of the hall, he pushed on the door. It refused to budge. He frowned and gave it another shove. Nothing.

There was no other way off the 13th floor. If he could fly, perhaps, but he was no angel. Far from it.

With an unearthly roar, he pounded on the door. He punched and kicked and rammed it with his shoulders. Everything had been so simple until Vetis came along. He had almost been happy.

Marc’s chest heaved. He gave the door one final smack and pressed his forehead against it.

For the first time since he had entered his Master’s service, he had almost been happy. He had a good safe place to live—one that was presently locking him in—but one that had sheltered him and kept him sane for decades. He watched over the other tenants, outcasts like himself. It had given him purpose. The city was his territory, his domain, and he knew every inch of her. And, of course, there was Mae. Her smile was all he needed to sustain himself.

Happy. What was he thinking? He didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t even deserve that one last cup of coffee.

The door softly clicked and moved under the weight of his head. Marc peered through the crack into the stairwell. It was dark and empty.

“Thanks,” he said, patting the door frame. He almost apologized for his outburst, but walked forward to go down the stairs instead.

The walk down thirteen flights helped clear his head, but stepping out onto the ground floor, Marc was greeted by people screaming on the street. He dashed out the front door as a woman came tearing toward him, slipping under his arm to get in. She wept hysterically, but he didn’t smell any blood on her.

The stench of death surrounded him.

A few people bravely peeked into the buckets hanging from the light poles only to shout out with horror. One old man had a bowl full of water he dumped into a bucket. The flames fizzled out, and he vomited into his empty bowl.

Marc moved to the nearest post. His height allowed him to see the bucket’s contents without having to get too close. Rage and disgust boiled up in him.

A head sizzled amongst burning garbage. Unrecognizable, but human.

How many buckets were there? How many people had died?

Sirens blared throughout the city and the screams echoed from every block. Carmine would have nightmares for months. Vetis’ first attack on his city would leave it scarred forever.

Vetis was never the subtle sort. Nor was he patient.

Mae.

Marc raced down the street, cutting through an alley to the café. Only a little time had passed since Vetis saw them together, but a few seconds was enough to kill. A few minutes were enough to do it painfully and paint the walls with blood.

He pushed past a group of college students huddled together by the front of the café and ran inside. Two young women sat on the stools at the far end of the counter, one holding the other and rubbing her back as they both cried.

“Mae!” Marc’s bellow rattled the cups on the counter. He jumped over it and looked into the kitchen. “Mae!”

One of the women screamed at his shouts and the other shushed her. The less hysterical one sucked back a sob and spoke, “She isn’t here. I don’t know ... She isn’t here.”

Marc gripped the counter. What did Vetis want? Did he wish him to look in every flaming bucket in the city searching for Mae’s head? It was just like the bastard to play some sort of sick game—

“What’s going on? Is everything all right here?” Mae rushed inside. Her hair was wet and loose. She started toward the women and then paused when she saw him. “Marc. Thank goodness you’re okay.”

His knees felt weak. She was alive and unharmed. He needed a chair.

The big plate glass front window shattered and the women screamed. Shards sprayed across the floor like chaotic musical notes. A black equine beast jumped through and skidded to a stop. Its hooves clacked too loudly on the black and white tiled floor.

The scent and gore of a thousand deaths clung to the snorting monster. Its eyes gleamed red and teeth too big for its mouth snapped. On top of it sat a rider dressed in the finest of rags. Rotted flesh was visible through the tears and around the collar where it lacked anything above. A howl that sounded like “heads” rang out from the hole where its head once sat.

The younger women dove behind the far end of the counter, wailing hysterically. Mae was the closest to the thing. She stood frozen with her terror.

The headless rider snapped a whip, and it wound around Mae’s neck. It jerked her closer to the demonic stallion and the bloody blade in the rider’s other hand. She stumbled, unable to keep standing, and it saved her from an immediate beheading.

Marc threw himself over the counter and into the side of the beast. He bounced back a bit, and the monster kicked at him, grazing his right shoulder. Snatching the rider’s wrist that held the sword, he yanked with all the strength he could muster. The rider didn’t budge.

The stallion reared and knocked Marc backward. He fell against the counter, smacking his head and cutting his hands on the broken glass. His psychic vision kicked in as he cursed his inability to pull the rider down. He growled when he realized why he couldn’t.

It wasn’t a rider and its mount, but a single creature. No, even that was wrong. It was a construct. Greater demons could create them out of lesser demons. Marc had made armies of them when he served in Hell. The fact that they were lesser demons made them no less dangerous, and he hadn’t the power to smite them as a whole.

Mae screamed his name as she was pulled off the floor. Her feet dangled as the rider drew her up, choking her with its whip.

“Mae!” Marc grabbed a stool in both hands and swung. The first hit the stallion’s front leg, breaking into several pieces as it snapped the limb. The second stool smashed into its rear leg, and a satisfying crunching sound told him it had connected with its knee.

To destroy a construct meant to take apart its pieces. It fell, rolling to one side. Mae was dragged with it.

Of course, that was easier said than done. Taking a leg from a broken stool, Marc rammed it down the rider’s neck before yanking the whip out of its grip. With a practiced flick, he unwound it from around Mae and yelled at her to get away.

Mae scuttled back and into a booth. Her hands fluttered to her bleeding neck. Marc had never seen her scared of anything. She looked younger, fragile. Humans were so easy to break. And he had almost lost her to this infernal construct.

Marc roared and barely dodged the rider’s sword. The stallion kicked him in the chest with its one good rear leg. Marc flew back and hit the wall hard. He groaned as he slid to the floor.

He waited for the pain to drain away, for his strength to return. But he was too close to mortal now. Pain like nothing he remembered burned throughout his body. Marc had lived so long in the human world. He had become a pathetic old man.

Hissing, the rider forced its mount to stand. It towered over Marc. Snorting black smoke, the stallion pawed at the ground causing glass to sail backward. The rider raised its sword.

“Marc!” Mae threw a napkin holder and then a coffee cup. They hit their target and ghastly laughter bubbled up from the rider’s headless hole. The construct turned and clomped over to the booth to smash the table. Mae’s scream was echoed by the other women.

Marc was up in a blink of an eye. With a snarl, he grabbed the construct by its rear haunches and spun it, knocking it against the counter. It howled, and the one noise suddenly became that of dozens.

Demonic imps spilled over the broken countertop. They were tiny compared to the headless rider and stallion, but they were just as deadly. Lifting the cash register, Marc didn’t hesitate in squishing the dazed critters. A few might have escaped out the front, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t stop until he could sense no more.

Panting, he tossed the ruined machine onto the floor. His upper canines poked into his lip. Peering around at the mess, the world was clearer than it had been in decades. He felt good. He felt strong.

“Marc?” Mae stood up from underneath the booth bench. One hand still rested upon her wounded neck, but the other came to cover her gaping mouth. “What are you?”

His brows furrowed. He glanced over his shoulder to the mirror on the wall near the kitchen entrance. Sucking in a breath, Marc turned away from the demon that stared back at him.

“Mae,” he said and took a step toward her, holding out a hand. She cringed, and he flinched. Dropping his hand, he and his self-hatred made a quick exit.