Conversations with the Light Bearer (Religious Satire)

CHAPTER XIII - Temptation of the Devil

CHAPTER XIII

TEMPTATION OF THE DEVIL

A flash of light exploded into the night, only to vanish as soon as it appeared. Sleeping cars erupted in alarm, stirred by the sudden blast of wind. Teleportation was the first of my powers to return, as my dear brother learned the night of our escape. Unfortunately, I found the skill a tad restricting, in that it required physical contact with the girl to be of any use.

In other words, no Dani, no flash bombs.

"What's her name again?" I asked, still holding her hand. The quick transition from indoors to the chilly outdoors provoked a rousing thrill down my spine.

Her grip was strong. "Sarah."

Soon the breeze settled. As we reached the house, a fit and healthy chap in his fifties answered the door. The man of the house had grey hair and sported a fringe, perhaps with the faint hope of concealing his receding hairline. He had a very pronounced jaw, which you can practically lay flat on a table, and his firm handshake almost crushed my hand.

"Good evening, Sir." I squeezed his hand in return. "Condolence."

The man narrowed his eyes on me, then shifted to Dani, who was still holding my other hand. Somehow, he knew who Dani was, but he didn't speak. After an awkward moment, he simply nodded and let us in as he closed the door behind us.

I looked around for familiar faces, but there were none. The casket sat peacefully by the living room, surrounded by an intricate arrangement of marigold, violets, calla lilies and so on, all labeled with the name of the donor, or some such group or organization. A few guests chattered on the loft upstairs, a chandelier hovering over everyone else.

"Does he know you?" I said without looking at her. "The father?"

"Maybe. Maybe not," she said nonchalantly, as usual.

"Hm..."

"I need to pee."

"Sure. Go ahead."

She stared at my grip. "Can you let go of my hand?"

I looked down and almost forgot. "Oh, sorry."

Dani then pulled her grey hood on, strolled casually, and grabbed a handful of assorted sweets from the tray beside the attendance book. In a moment she was gone, and I began to browse the list. Our next case was to investigate the sudden death of her classmate, Sarah, who apparently committed suicide a few days earlier. For Dani, she considered it strange, not because her classmate committed the act, but because she wasn't informed, nor were there any letters written. They made a pact that they would commit suicide someday, together, and Dani was very upset she was not invited. They were that odd, and that close.

I dragged my forefinger down the list, then back up to the previous page, and so on. It was common for entities to use the name of their host, such as me, but oftentimes they would leave their own signature. Old habits, I suppose. It was easy to miss, especially if the mark was incomprehensible, though some signatures were as simple as a question mark. I searched at a glance: Parker, Anderson, Pullman, Martin, Campbell, Hayter, Gaiman, Westerfeld, Lovecraft, Grey, Brown, White, Black, Taylor, Smith, Ericson, Jones—

Then, I stopped, and noticed the signature. Beside the last name 'Jones' was not a name, but a single letter. I narrowed my eyes, leaned closer, and realized it wasn't a letter, nor even a character at all. It was a symbol, and a very old one at that. In place of a common sign was a round shape, a snake in a circle, swallowing its own tail. It was a sign of a person I was very much acquainted with—the mark of the Ouroboros.