Not this Lemure, apparently.
Sam crouched down next to the body. A dark fluid was leaking out of the horrendous neck wound. That wasn’t right — Lemure didn’t bleed. Then he noticed the other differences — minor ones that weren’t immediately apparent. The arms weren’t as long as normal Lemure; the horns at elbow and knees were absent. The skin of the creature was, for lack of a better word, more human looking. It was still yellow with an unhealthy pallor, but still, much healthier and anthropomorphic than regular Lemure.
So — it wasn’t a Lemure then. At least not a pure Lemure. It was part Lemure and part something else. And then it struck Sam — struck him so hard that he staggered backwards.
This Lemure was like him — it was part demon and part human. This creature at his feet, this demonic thing, was more kin to him than any other living creature other than his father, his presumably-dead twin brother and possibly other demon Princes and Princesses in Hell. The thought made him feel vaguely nauseous.
His father was sending him a message — not just with words. This creature was a message in itself. What was his father trying to tell him? That the world was destined to be inherited by half human, half-demon hybrids? Cambions. That was the name for his kind. Not a word used lightly. In fact, the word was often associated with the worst forms of evil and whispered hurriedly amongst those who knew of their existence.
Sam’s brother had proven to Sam that he was not the only Cambion, but now it seemed that there were more. He shuddered to think what the consequences would be of breeding an Astaroth or a Horned demon with a human. What about Succubi? Surely these would be deadly foes. Game changers, in fact. Did his father really think he could change the outcome of the final battle? Was this what he was trying to tell Sam: that his half-breed kind was the future? Sam didn’t know and a part of him no longer cared. At the end of the Tribulation, in just over three years’ time, Christ would return at the head of an army and throw the anti-Christ and Satan into a bottomless pit for a thousand years. Sam’s brother and father. Essentially, his only blood relatives.
Where would Sam fit into all this? He didn’t know. No-one had told him. Would he be banished to the deepest parts of Hell along with his blood family or would he get to be reunited with Aimi and his foster-father, Hikari? He wished he knew. In the meantime, however, he still had a job to do — one that he was unlikely to stop doing, despite that fact that no one, on either Earth or in Heaven, seemed to appreciate it.
He sucked in a deep, sulfur-tinged breath and let it out with a huge sigh. This half-breed creature in front of him was a problem for another day. He’d think about it later. Right now, he still had some humans to deal with. Whether they would be saved or punished, he would soon find out.
There were still about two hours ‘til dawn when Sam finally made his move. He’d watched the humans from a nearby rooftop for a few hours, noting their numbers, their weapons and when they changed the guard. He’d observed them before, of course, but Hikari had told him never to assume. Things might have changed since the previous evening. Depressingly, they hadn’t. Demons, mostly Lemure but also the hulking Horned Demon, prowled the streets in numbers. Above him, Sam had noted the huge flying presence of at least five Astaroth. Tellingly, the demons completely ignored the humans on guard outside the two-storied warehouse. Without a doubt, those humans were in league with the demons. If that hadn’t been proof enough, then what he had observed an hour ago certainly was.
Three other humans had appeared on the street below Sam dragging two others between them. The contrast between the captors and their captives was stark. The three captors were grown men, well fed, glossy and bloated, dressed in expensive if dirty hunting gear. All three carried weapons: two had hunting rifles while the third was armed with a sawn-off shotgun.
Their two captives were an altogether different story. One male and one female. Probably both in their teens. They were skinny and undernourished, clad in scraps of clothing and smeared head to toe in dirty ash. They were also patently terrified, the whites of their eyes clearly visible to Sam from his vantage point above. Still struggling, the two teenagers had been dragged into the warehouse. The three men emerged some minutes later to smoke with the two guards, their crass laughter drifting up to Sam’s ears. If what he hadn’t seen earlier wasn’t enough to confirm his suspicions, then what he saw next erased any doubts he might have had. As one of the men raised a cigarette to his lips, the sleeve of his jacket slid up to reveal his wrist. Even from that distance, Sam knew what it was: a tattoo of a stylized outline of a horned face. He couldn’t see the details but he knew what was tattooed inside the face. The name Abaddon and the number 666. The name of his father. The mark of the beast. There could be no doubt. They were in league with Satan.
The three men had gone back inside at least half an hour earlier, leaving only the two guards outside. Sam hadn’t seen anymore movement either inside or out. The amount of demons around was also decreasing as dawn approached. It was a sleepy time of night, when human and demon consciousness was at a low ebb. Sam could sense it, and knew that the time had come.
With cat-like stealth, he moved to the edge of the building he was perched upon. The gap between his building and the warehouse of the humans yawned in front of him. The distance was at least fifteen feet — too far for a normal human. In fact, almost too far for Sam. It was at the very limit of his leaping abilities but he thought he could probably do it. He’d have to do it; it was either this or go in the front entrance, waking every single human in the building and bringing every demon in the vicinity running, flying and stomping down upon him.
Problem was, there wasn’t much room for a run-up. Probably five feet. Edging backwards, Sam sighed and adjusted his swords slightly. It would have to do. With a last glance upwards to ensure his movement wasn’t observed by an Astaroth, he sprinted towards the edge and leapt, eerily silent, just another flying shadow moving through the night sky. He made it — but only just. If the distance had been a single foot more, he would’ve eaten the side of the building and tumbled to the ground. The very tip of his leading foot scraped the parapet that marked the boundary of the warehouse roof and then he was over it, desperately rolling to avoid any sound of impact.
At the end of his roll, he froze, listening to see if his intrusion had been noted, nervously watching the ash he had disturbed slowly fluttering about him. When there was no sound or movement forthcoming, he relaxed, exhaling with a long tiny hiss.
He stood up and moved towards the skylight that he had scouted out two nights previously. It was as he’d left it — still slightly ajar, unnoticeable from casual inspection. He eased it open, wincing at the slight noise, his heart fluttering nervously as some ash from the rooftop drifted through the gap.
Unstrapping both swords from back and hip, he placed them on the rooftop before sliding through the gap. About seven feet directly below was an old wooden walkway, probably only used to gain access to these windows and provide some ventilation in the warehouse. He let himself hang by the window ledge before dropping. Bracing his legs, he landed catlike, crouched with arms outstretched. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have made the slightest noise but the walkway was old and it was inevitable that his 6’3’’, 220lb frame would have some effect.
It creaked — a very slight noise, but alarmingly loud in Sam’s ears. He froze again, listening to see if his presence had been noticed this time. Beneath him, he could sense humans moving about. There was certainly no outcry and he could detect no alarm in their minds. He registered curiosity in one person’s mind, but they were looking in the direction of the walkway.