Inside the cave, a young tattooed woman with an eyepatch gestured at a knife lying on a table. The knife levitated, spun on an invisible axis, then flew toward a freestanding wooden target at the other end of the room. When the knife struck the target, it sank up to the hilt, shearing through the wood as if it were water.
In an adjacent cave, a young man reached into a fire and flames danced up his arm without hurting him. Watching the sight was almost unbearable to Warren, bringing memory of pain and the stench of burning flesh. Turning, the young man held his flaming arm up ahead of him. A second later, the flames flew from his arm and struck a wooden target a few feet away, engulfing it at once.
“There have always been instances of people able to wield the demons’ energy in our world,” Tulane said. “Once they touched our world, as we believe they must have done, the demons opened fissures that were never truly closed. Some of that energy leaked in. Not enough to do the things you’re seeing today, things that you’ve apparently done yourself. Nor on a scale so wide as we’re now experiencing.”
“That’s because of the Hellgate,” Warren said.
“We believe so. Since it opened, there has been a sharp increase in both incidence and ability.”
“Why was I brought here?”
“To teach you, of course. And to learn from you.”
“Learn what?”
“Whatever there is to learn.”
“What makes you think there is?”
Tulane looked at him meaningfully. “No one,” he said, “has ever withstood a demon’s attack before. Not one of us, at least.”
“We don’t combat them,” Tulane said as he switched on a holo-vid mounted in the table they surrounded. They sat in an expensively appointed study with wooden paneled walls. Only the fact that there were no windows reminded Warren that they were in a cave far belowground instead of in the massive house. “We observe them.”
Images of demons battling military tanks and airplanes in the streets of London played in the vid projection. A huge demon slammed his oversized fist onto a tank’s main gun. The barrel wilted before the onslaught, then finally snapped off. Another tank fired at almost point-blank range, but the shell burst against the demon’s hide without doing any apparent harm. The demon roared and turned to face the tank, gripping the main gun barrel and ripping the turret free of the vehicle’s body. He used it as a hammer to flatten the tank and kill the soldiers inside.
“This is Shulgoth, one of the primary demons,” Tulane said.
The note of reverence in the man’s voice almost made Warren ill. “Do you know him?”
“We know of him.” Tulane watched as the battle progressed. “We know that he is a fierce warrior, totally merciless. I would like to know more, but that hasn’t proven feasible at this juncture.” He cut the vid and focused on Warren. “How long have you known you were different?”
Warren hesitated, wondering how much he should reveal. He didn’t want to tell the man anything. Tell him. It’s the only way you’re going to survive.
“I don’t know that I am different,” Warren answered.
Tulane held his gaze for a moment, then casually tapped the keyboard mounted in the table. The vid returned, this time bringing with it images of Warren’s parents.
“Your stepfather’s name was Martin,” Tulane said. “But he wasn’t your biological father.”
A chill sickness blazed through Warren. His father’s broad, cruel face had always had that effect on him. His father’s skin was so black it held a bluish tint. He shaved his head, but wore a short goatee that framed his blunt chin.
“Your biological father’s name was Hakim N’Bush,” Tulane said, “but you don’t carry his name.”
“No. When I was in foster care, I chose my mother’s maiden name instead.”
“Tamara Schimmer.” Tulane punched another key.
The image this time hurt Warren, but it also confused him. His mother was white but showed her Jewish ancestry. Her dark eyes looked soulful and her dark hair hung in ringlets down to her shoulders. She was too thin and too pale. Warren had never known a time when she looked healthy. He hadn’t looked at a picture of her in years. Now, though, he was struck by how young she was. No more than a couple years older than he was.
“She was married to Martin DeYoung, who became your stepfather.”
A third image materialized on the vid, revealing a sallow-faced white man with wispy blond hair and small eyes. Martin looked feral and rat-like.
“Your stepfather murdered your mother,” Tulane said.
Warren felt Kelli’s eyes on him. He didn’t look at her. She took one of his hands in hers. For a moment, he felt guilty about using his power over her, but he was too afraid and too hurt to be there alone and have to face this.
“Yes,” Warren answered in a thick voice.
“Neighbors called in the attack,” Tulane said.
A recording of a frantic phone call came from the vid. “Yes. Police? It’s my neighbors! I think he’s going to kill her this time!”
The conversation rolled for a moment, including the screaming voices on the other side of the wall or floor or ceiling. Warren had never known who had called in the domestic disturbance.
The memories opened up and swallowed Warren down. For a moment he was no longer in the cave with Tulane. He was back in that flat, listening to the argument between his mother and father. Then the flat cracks of his father’s gun punctuated the conversation between the neighbor and the police.
“I’ve had enough of both of you,” Martin DeYoung declared.
In Warren’s mind, he could see his stepfather shoot his mother, then turn the pistol
