Sin Eater's Journal -Entry 41 Entry 41 I woke to Crawford pulling his blade from my gut. He did it slowly, twisting it a quarter turn. The pain was electric, but different, not as hot as moments before. I lay still. I could feel the pain in my back (from the shotgun wound) dialing itself back. I gave an experimental squeeze of my shoulder muscles. They still hurt, but I was healing. Crawford whispered his poison to me, telling me how he cut Nina Franks and spoke my name in her ear as he did so. I took mental stock of my weapons. My gun was pinned under me in it’s holster. One of my knives was in my father’s shoulder. One was still in its sheath between my shoulder blades, and one I dropped when I was shot. I couldn’t reach the one in my father’s shoulder or the one behind my back. My best option was the one that I dropped. I thought back. It was in my right hand when I got shot. Did I fling it or just drop it when the buckshot hit me? I thougt I just dropped it. The sudden shook to my spine made me go rigid. So it should have been on my right side, but Crawford rolled me over…which way? I had been in so much pain, I wasn’t sure. I stretched the pinky of my right hand, hoping beyond hope that it would touch the cold hard steel of my knife. No luck. My face lay to the left. Crawford was bent over whispering how he was going to find Amy and her sister. His lips were hot and wet against my ear. I hoped his eyes were closed as he envisioned the vile acts that he described. I took a chance that he wouldn’t notice and opened my left eye, the one closest to the floor, just enough to give myself a blurred vision of the space around me. And there it was, my knife. I would have to move my arm to get it, but it was within reach. If I went for it, the movement would alert Crawford and probably cost me. I needed something to give me that extra half second I would need to grab it and use it before Crawford could stop me. I felt the wounds closing on my back. The pain slackened to a dull ache. If I only had more time to heal…to get my speed and strength back. If I could play possum just a bit longer. Crawford’s left arm slid down to my right side. I felt the point of his knife as he lined it up against my side. There was no more playing possum. I couldn’t afford a blade in the kidney. I had to act. Thankfully, by dropping his arm, Crawford exposed a prime target. Before the brute could plunge the knife into me, I snapped my right fist up and over into the side of his neck. The shot wasn’t hard (I had no way to get leverage), but it landed close enough to the Vagus nerve that it shocked and surprised him. He reared up, taking his weight off my upper body, allowing me a fraction more freedom of movement. My left hand snaked out. My fingers found the loop at the end of my knife handle and pulled it into my grasp. I did a modified stomach crunch and brought the knife around in an arc, hoping to find Crawford’s neck, but he either sensed or saw the movement and rolled away from it. Instead of his neck, my blade buried in his shoulder. Crawford howled as the blessed metal sank deep into the heavy muscle of his upper arm. He rolled off me, jerking the blade from my still weak grip, leaving the knife in his shoulder as he pulled away. I rolled the other way, still not fully recovered, still slower than I wished I was. We came out of our rolls and up to our knees a few feet apart at about the same time. As I rolled I reached for my gun, making a clean pull from the holster, hoping to end this quick. Crawford smacked my hand as I brought the gun around and the weapon fell from my grip. Crawford slashed at me with his knife. I rolled backward away from it, carrying my momentum over my shoulder and up onto my feet into a crouch. The muscle-head had put everything he had into the swing and overextended himself when it hit nothing but air, causing him to be a second behind me getting to his feet. I sprang forward, lashing out with a front kick that caught him in the left hip as he tried to stand and come for me. The shot forced his hip back, and the leg went out from under him. He went down hard, losing the grip on his knife. I threw an ax kick at the back of his head, but he was rolling before he even landed and the kick grazed his ear instead of finding true purchase. Crawford was quick. I had no doubt he was drawing speed from the demon riding him. He made it to his feet, throwing a backhand at me to ward me from drifting in before he could right himself. I jumped back to avoid the blow and used the time and space to pull the knife from the sheath between my shoulders. We stood panting and staring each other down. Crawford growled as he pulled my other knife from his shoulder. He dropped it and shook his hand as if it burned him. “I’m going to break every bone in your body,” he huffed at me in a ragged cadence. “Then as you’re broken and bleeding, I’ll make you watch as I ravage that pretty little detective you like so much.” I knew he was baiting me, trying to dull my thinking with anger and fear, but he’d already whispered worse things in my ear. He’d already failed breaking me with words. I pointed at Crawford’s arm. “That’s not healing up there, big guy. You must have an allergy to holy weapons.” Crawford glanced at his arm. Blood soaked his shirt sleeve and was starting to run down his forearm. His eyes flicked back to mine, and I saw the slightest hint of fear reflected in them. He kicked the knife he pulled from his arm so that it slid under the couch behind him. I shrugged and and spun the knife in my hand. “Got another one for you.” I acted like I was going to throw it. Crawford dodged left away from my throwing arm. I slid my feet and met him with a side thrust kick to the outside of his right knee. The leg buckled, and he went down on all fours. I followed with a downward stab of the knife, looking to severed his spinal cord high between his shoulders, but Crawford spun to his knees and got his arm up to block. His forearm was like steel, and the sweeping block acted more like a blow, catching me an inch below my hand on the inside of the wrist. My entire forearm went numb for a three count. Thankfully, I managed to hold onto the knife. Crawford got a foot under himself, twisted at the hip, and threw a rising uppercut. It landing solid in the right side of my stomach. I gasped from the force of it and stumbled back. My muscles cramped from the punch. I forced myself to maintain my breathing, and slowly, mercifully, the knot in my side began to unwind. Crawford lurched to his feet. His knee almost gave out, but he caught himself and stood. He was breathing heavy. He took a few weakened steps on the knee I nailed, but then started to straighten. I was used to picking guys apart piece by piece during competitive matches, but this was different. This was for keeps, and the guy in front of me healed to quick. I was going to have to land hard and fast and not give him time to recover. I saw Crawford tense and roll his weight forward onto the balls of his feet. I moved right, hoping he was still feeling some effects of that blow to the knee. Crawford was a hulk and space in the living room was limited. I realized I wasn’t going to be able to avoid him when he charged me. He threw a reaching hook as his big frame leaned forward to tackle me. I lunged back to avoid the swing. My foot caught something as I moved, and I realized what a smart move Crawford made. I fell, arms pinwheeling, over the prone form of my father as the bulging form of Crawford zeroed in on me. I didn’t have many options. Crawford was going to land on me and tripping over my father robbed me of the choice to make lateral movement. I sacrificed bracing my fall to strike a blow. If this didn’t work I was in trouble. I snapped my arm at the elbow and flicked my wrist. The knife flew less than two feet in the air before it hit Crawford. The blade sliced him, hitting at a an odd angle and only going in about an inch. He let out a groan of pain before he landed on top of me. The weight of him knocked the air out of me. I felt the edge of my knife cut into my gut, but from the gasp of pain, I guessed the blade pushed deeper into Crawford. He was slow to take advantage, but I was pinned under him, unable to roll his bulk from on top of me. A strong hand found my throat. I punched at Crawford’s side, but it was weak blow. He didn’t even flinch from it. I threw three or four more rabbit punches, but they had little effect. Crawford’s other hand found my throat, and I knew I was in trouble. The deep wound in his right shoulder may have been the thing to save me, because he couldn’t get that hand to squeeze as hard as he would otherwise. Regardless, if I didn’t do something, he’d choke me out for sure. The weakened grip was merely buying me precious seconds. When I tried to plant my thumbs in Crawford’s skull and drive his eyes into the back of his head, he straightened his back and his arms, raising himself up and out of my reach, while using my neck as the point to bear all his weight. My vision began to blur and little white lights popped behind my eyes. I punched at Crawford’s side, and my hand grazed the knife sticking crookedly in his gut. I wrapped my fingers around the hilt and twisted as my head swooned. Crawford gasped, but his grip only slackened for a second before he fought through his pain and laid as much weight as he could on my neck. I yanked the knife from Crawford’s gut. He flinched, but didn’t let go of my neck. Bad move big guy. I drove the knife into his uninjured shoulder, pulled it out, and ran the sharp edge across the inside crook of his elbow, slicing deep right where the bicep connects. His arm was thick. I didn't cut deep enough to disconnect his bicep from it’s anchor, but he let go of my neck, screaming madly as he reared back. I gasped in air. It actually hurt my lungs they were so drained, but that didn’t stop me from drawing hard again and again, until the spots blinding my vision began to fade. Crawford blocked my next attempt to slice him and landed a heavy elbow to my face. My nose popped and blood exploded from it. The shook of the blow rammed my head against the floor, and everything went black for a startling second. I came to as Crawford was wrestling my knife from my hand. He yelled as the blade sliced his palm, but he managed to take the knife from me. He reared back and throw it through the door into the entry room. My head was spinning, and I could taste blood, hot and metallic, in my mouth. I pushed through the pain and dizziness, intent on taking advantage of the opening Crawford left me as he disposed of my knife. I punched him right in his stomach wound. The exposed nerves and flesh gave the punch an extra measure of pain, causing the monster to roll off of me. He went scrambling for his knife a few feet away. His breath was short and panicked. Blood covered both arms and his stomach. His left arm gave out under him as he scrambled on his hands and knees. He fell hard on his shoulder, but immediately pushed himself back up with a cry of defiance. He lunged forward using his legs to propel him, and his right hand found a hold on his knife. He spun and lurched to his feet, holding the knife out before him ready to continue the fight. What Crawford didn’t see as he made that desperate scramble was my own mad scamper. While he made a move for his weapon, I had done the same, noticing my gun on the floor about five feet from me. I was faster to the prize. When he turned with his knife in hand, I was standing with my Glock in mine. Crawford roared at me. The noise sounded unearthly. I didn’t cock off. I didn’t smile with grim satisfaction. I simply blew his knee out with a silver bullet that had been dipped in holy water. He fell like a tree being timbered. I walked over, stepped on the hand holding the knife, and placed a bullet into his shoulder. Then his other knee. Then his other shoulder. Crawford laid, mewling in pain, unable to move. I wasn’t sure if he would be able to heal from the bullet wounds (at least those bullets), but I had a feeling he wouldn’t be. I walked over to the ruined body of my father. He had fallen backwards from the shot that he placed under his chin. The worst of the damage was to the back of his head, which was mainly hidden. I could still see part of the ghastly wound, but his face was intact, and for me that was the important thing. Really, it was trivial at this point, but it was still important to me. I closed his eyes with my hand. “Love you, dad. Hang strong. Maybe I can find a way.” I pulled my knife from his shoulder and spun it in my hand. Crawford struggled as I walked over to him, but all he could really do was twist his hips, just not enough to roll over, not that he would be able to go anywhere if he did. I sat on his gut. He stared at me with hatred. I brandish the knife so that he could see the symbol on the hilt. Crawford snarled. The noise was deep and guttural. His eyes turned dead black. “I’ll be back, Sin Eater. You and I now have vendetta.” It wasn’t Crawford’s voice, but that of the demon riding him. I flipped my Holy Sight so I could see the beast. It had melted into Crawford, covering him like a gelatinous coating. The beast snapped at me, spiritual teeth clipping the air. I could see it’s ball of power shining on Crawford’s forehead, imbedded in the skin. It’s light was weak as the wounds caused by holy weapons stole its power. Could I really just release this thing back to Hell? “Do it!” the demon barked. “No,” I said. “You’re done.” I held up my hand showing Crawford and the thing inside of him the silver ring with the jagged edges, the ring containing Nina Franks hair. I twisted the ring, driving the sharp edge into the meat of my finger until blood ran down my hand. I snagged Crawford by the chin and squeezed making his mouth popped open, then I slapped my bleeding hand over his mouth. He struggled under my grip as my blood spilled into his mouth. I willed the wound on the finger to stay open and the blood to flow. When I felt it was enough, I slammed Crawford’s mouth shut and held it with my hand so he couldn’t spit the blood out. I held his nose until his body acted on instinct and he swallowed. I watched as the demon struggled inside of him. I watched as the angel in my blood flowed over the denizen from Hell. The beast yelled in agony as it’s core of power was encased with the bright light of the angelic spirit. Then I called on the power inside of me, and just as I would eat sin, I pulled on the angelic spirit that I had released inside of Crawford, calling it back to me, calling it home. A cloud of white mist encasing a swirling black mass flowed from Crawford’s mouth and nose and into mine. I felt the demon slide into me. I locked it away. You have no idea who you’re supposed to be. I was now a prison for two demons. I searched myself, and thought I had room for plenty more. Crawford moaned. In the mist of it all I’d forgotten him. To be honest, I had no idea if what I just tried would work, and if it did what it would do to Crawford. He was still alive, but just barely. I could have watched him die. I could have placed a bullet in his brain. I did neither. Somewhere along the line, things went wrong for Crawford, and he became determined to take that out on the world. What if things had gone different for him? What if one event changed him and filled him with love for #life instead of rage for it? Everyone deserves their chance at redemption. I realized that now. And I knew it wasn’t my place to judge someone’s soul. That was for a power much greater than me. I leaned forward, called on the power of my ancestors, and inhaled. Whatever sin was left in Crawford that I failed to take the first time and all that which came after, flowed from him in a dark cloud. I inhaled it tasting the char and honey. Mathew Crawford fell to dust under me. Copyright 2014 Wade Hunter

Sin Eater'sJournal -Entry 40 Entry 40 Crawford whispered in my ear, telling me of my failure, telling me of how long my father had been under his control, telling me the sensation of the knife as he forced my father’s hand to slide it into my mother while she slept. The demon inside of me whispered in my ear, telling me of vengeance, telling me that it could give me the strength to heal my wounds, telling me of the reserve of power that I could take if only I reached out and claimed it. One was my enemy. One wanted to be my ally. In my guilt and pain, I started to believed both of them. I wanted to reach for that which was offered by the demon inside of me, the power. I coveted the idea of vengeance, for retribution against the monster that had taken my family. I wanted to give up the pain and the sorry and the guilt that was crushing me, and turn it into rage. At the same time, I was breaking, allowing my weakness and fear to roll me in its undertow and drag me out into a deep ocean that I would not return from, that would drown all of this nightmare away. I just wanted it all to end. Crawford rolled me over onto my back, breaking my scattered train of thought. The pain was immense- first as I landed on the raw shotgun wounds, second as he settled his hulking frame on top of me. My vision was still a red haze, and my head was fuzzy. It had been a very long day. Stabbed, shot, kicked…my body had used up its store of supernatural juice. The angel in my blood was struggling to hold the demon back and having a damn hard time of it. I hadn’t fed either of the spiritual creatures trapped in my body, and because of that the one I needed was weak and the one I had to control was to strong. Crawford knew this. Crawford had played me this entire time to get me to this weakened state. He had me chasing him and the Marked, using up my energy. He distracted me from maintaining my own needs as I followed the carrot he dangled in front of me. I had not fed the demon sin. I had not partaken from the joy of #life. Crawford was taking me to the edge and was trying to push me over the cliff. The demon inside me offered me power. The images of all those that had fallen flashed in my mind. Rage, hot and liquid flowed over me. I wanted Crawford’s head, needed to crush it between my hands. He killed my family, used my father like a puppet, took everything from me. I wanted to hear him squeal as I carved him like he carved up those three young women. I wanted him to beg, only to see his absolute ruin on my face. In my mind, I pulled myself from my prone position up onto my knees and I reached for the demon’s proffered gift. Just before I stretched my fingers out to grasp the glowing ball of power offered by my demon, Crawford drove a knife into my gut. I didn’t think the pain could get worse, but it did. My vision faded to black as Crawford twisted the blade and fresh waves of agony rolled through me. Back inside of my head, my fingers froze a half inch from the demon’s gift. I thought of my father. I remembered how he drove a K-bar through my gut (in much the same spot Crawford just had) to see if I was strong enough to survive, to see if I would fight or take the easy way out. My hand pulled away from the ball of power. And in a flash of intuition, I realized what Crawford’s game was. He wanted me to take that power. He didn’t want me dead. He want me broken mental and physically until my only choice was to reach out for help. He wanted me to bind with the demon inside of me. He had done everything in his power to break me down mentally and physically so I would be weak, so that the demon inside would be able to overwhelm me if I gave it even the tiniest sliver of a chance. Crawford was trying to help my charge escape it’s cage. The demon inside of me roared with frustration as my hand fell to my side. The darkness that surrounded me sprung to #life with flame. The demon reared up in front of me vast, and powerful, and unimaginably horrible in all it’s splendor. I rocked back on my knees shielding my face from the heat and stench of the thing. This was what was inside of me. I could feel it’s cold hate for the world, for me, for everything. I could feel it’s malice like toxic gas in my lungs. This is what Crawford wanted me to release onto the world, this denizen of evil. I may have failed my family in protecting them, but I couldn’t fail them in my duty to maintain control of this beast. I couldn’t unleash this thing on the world. It would be better if I died and it was sent back to Hell than allowing it to gain a material body (my material body) and using the world as its playground. The demon arched it’s back and screamed. Fire shot from it’s mouth in a geyser of heat and flame. I should have cowered. I’m sure that’s what the demon wanted, but I was to far gone to cower. I was all but dead, and fear had fled me. I looked at the beast…at the nightmare of it. I could see that ball of power nestled in it’s forehead, one bright star amongst the darkness, pure and white and perfect. It seemed so wrong, so out of place with the terror that possessed it. Crawford's voice leaked into the darkness, accusing me of killing everyone around me, telling me that my touch was death. I looked at my hands. They shimmered in the darkness. Pulses of light raced through my fingers, my arms, my legs, my body like blood pumping light through my body. I thought of the shimmer of Amy's blood (blessed by the holy water) as it ran down her face. I looked at the ball of light in the demon's head. I looked at the light pulsing through my veins. It was all the same power. Demon's are angels cast from Heaven. I looked up at the beast…at the ball of shinning light in it's forehead. I flipped my vision using the power inside of me, the power in my blood. Small smudges of darkness swam around that bright pure star, drinking in the light of that shimmering center of demon’s power, that core essence that was once the pure spiritual heart of an angel. Small dark smudges of sin. I looked at my hands. I read the sin of my guilt as it flowed over my aura. I looked back at the demon. It had no aura, no shimmering vail around it, no soul. I realized then that the demonic sigil that Crawford was drawing on people’s forehead’s didn’t eat their sins. It ate their souls. That’s why Ward and my dad’s aura looked so rotten, because the demon had been feeding on their soul, the thing that made them human, one of the things that made the Fallen hate humankind so much because we had one and they didn’t. I looked back at my hands. I watched as my sin boiled over my aura and absorbed the radiance of the angelic glow of my blood, and I understood. Human souls were the key, casting an aura to keep the sin away from the core of what God made us from. The human aura was a shield that allowed us to maintain ourselves against our sins until such time as we were cleansed. Demon’s had no such aura. They just had the core essence of the angelic power that God used to create them. They had nothing to shield the purity of their core essence from sin. I was a cage. The angel bound in my blood acted as a safeguard, but that didn't explain the need to eat sin. I looked at the ball of the demon's power, the essence of it's angelic makeup. The beast may have been twisted and mutated when it was cast from Heaven, but the core of it's power was still pure, and that purity, that core power, could be shielded. I searched myself, gathered my pain and my guilt, gathered my failure and arrogance, gathered my sin. I offered it up to God. Romans 3:23. For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. I had fallen way short, but I was not done fighting. I felt the power allotted me as a Sin Eater (the strength of an angel) flare with warmth and light. There was a sensation very much like gentle hands on my shoulders. Images of my mother and father filled my head, good images, happy memories. My grandfather’s laughter filled my ears, drowning out the evil whispers of Crawford. I focused on these gifts. They filled me with hope, helped me remember what goodness was, gave me power over my feelings of guilt. I used that strength to push all that gathered sin from me. I fed all that pain and anger and guilt into the act, letting my faults and failures fall from me, letting it go. I watched as the sin flowed from me in a thick dark smog. It coalesced in front of me then drifted towards the demon. The beast raged as my sin gathered around that bright core in its forehead and drank in its light. I felt the demon's grip on my mind loosen and fall slack as the cluster of my sin engulfed the source of the demon’s essence, shielding it’s power. I looked down at my hands. The light pulsing through my body was brighter without the burden of my sin to drown it out. I felt strength come back into me, building in my limbs, making me whole and stealing away the pain. In my mind, I rose to my feet as the demon across from me fell to its knees. Copyright 2014 Wade Hunter

Sin Eater's Journal Entry 39 Entry 39 Downstairs. I had to go downstairs and face what no one should ever have to face. The laughter stopped as my foot fell on the first step. My hand shook as I reached back and retrieved my Glock from the holster under my shirt. I stopped on the steps and locked at the gun silhouetted by the light at the bottom of the stairs in the entry room. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t just shoot my father. I put the gun back into the holster. How was I going to do this? How was I supposed to take my dad down without killing him so that I could cleanse him of the demon sigil. He was a fit man, trained in martial arts…and my dad. If he was branded…if he as branded, then my dad was gone. I had no way to save his #life. I could only release him from the demon’s control before he was…before I had to…before I lost my entire family. I pulled a knife with each hand. At the bottom of the steps I looked at the front door and considered walking through it. I could get in my car and go, drive from away from all this. But I knew I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t leave my dad in the hands of that beast. I would never forgive myself. The light to my father’s office was out. I turned from the front door and walked across the entry way, through the dining room, and into the living room. My father was standing by the couch. He had a gun in his hand. It was pointed at me. I flipped my vision to confirm what I feared, to confirm that there was a mark on my father’s forehead. The sigil was there, but what I saw was so much worse. Detective Gary Ward’s aura had been slick and oily. My father’s aura was a rotted husk, dripping from him in dark, thick veins of cancerous sludge. His eyes were voids into the darkness. The sight of it revolted me, twisted my gut and dragged me down into a cold pool of despair. “Oh, dad,” I muttered. I turned my Holy Vision off. I couldn’t stand to see him like that. Not that I’ll ever be able to forget it. How long had it been since Crawford marked him? It occurred to me then that I had something wrong about what that demon sigil did to the one bearing it, but it wasn’t time for me to ponder on such things. I had much more dire things to worry about. I took a step forward. The gun on my dad’s hand wavered and fell away from me. Maybe there was still some humanity (some of my father) locked inside of that dark husk. I had to cleanse him, to give him relief from that awful burden. I kept my eyes trained on his, hoping beyond hope that the core of my father, the core of his love for me, was looking out at me and fighting whatever the demon was doing to him. He came from a line of Sin Eater’s. He must have some of that fortitude in him to fight. I took another step. The gun went off, but my dad was shaking so badly that the shot went wild. I lunged back, cocking my arm to throw a knife, expecting a second shot, but the gun was pointing away from me. Sweat ran down my dad’s face as he wrestled and invisible force that was trying to point the gun at me. He spasmed. The gun roared, and plaster exploded from the wall behind me. I started to throw, but halted. I couldn’t do it. Maybe if I rushed him, I could get close enough to get at the mark. My dad looked at me and for one blazing second I saw something flash in his eyes, strength, defiance, determination. “Bram, please,” he said in a strangled voice as if he were drowning and fought his way to the surface for one final cry of help. It sent a chill up my spine. I snapped my arm forward. The blade buried itself in his shoulder. His arm went limp, and the gun fell to to the floor. Now, I could rush in and cleanse him. Now, I could release my father from the torment that resounded in those two pleading words. I spun the knife in my hand. The sound of the shotgun was deafening. The pain of the pellets eating into my back was beyond anything that I had ever felt, electric hot and full of acid. The force of the blast sent me slamming face first into the carpet. I couldn’t feel my legs through the pain. I don’t remember much of anything from that moment, other than the all consuming pain. My father stood not five feet from me. His eyes had glazed over once more, all trace of the true man inside washed away. Through the red haze that was my vision, I watched as he bent over and picked up his gun from the floor. A boot landed beside my head. A knee pressed down on my shoulder. The pain burned white hot across my back. I tried to speak, to say something, anything, but nothing came out. I’m pretty sure at that point one (or both) of my lungs was punctured. I didn’t know if I was going to have the strength left to heal from such damage, or if I would even get the chance to heal. Rough fingers snared my hair and raised my head, sending flashes of bright stars across my vision. “Watch, little Sin Eater,” Crawford’s voice whispered in my ear. “Watch and know it’s all your fault.” My dad raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. I wish I could say death released him, but he died with that sigil on his forehead. I was so close to removing it, but I failed. My father died marked by a demon, sentencing him to damnation, because I failed in so many ways. I had nothing left. My entire family was gone. The weight of it crushed me. The truth of it burned my spirit. “It’s all your fault,” Crawford whispered in my ear. He was right. It was all my fault, because I created the thing pinning me to the ground and whispering in my ear, this monster that chopped my family down around me. The demon inside of me offered me strength, offered alliance, offered me vengeance. I listened with interest. Copyright 2014 Wade Hunter

Sin Eater'sJournal-Entry 38 Entry 38 My knees were weak under me as I tried to stand. I couldn't pull my eyes from the face of my mother…my dead mother. The sight of her drained my already flagging will power and my knees buckled. I placed my hands over my face, trying to block the sight of my slaughtered mother from my eyes, to give me a minute to gather myself. But that ghastly image was still there even after I managed to close my eyes and cover them with my hands. I thought I was prepared, but I was prepared for a different scenario. I tried to tell myself that it wasn't that much different. I had come expecting my mother to be marked and to find my father dead. The reverse had happened. For some reason it was so much worse. Crawford knew it would be. Through gritted teeth and blurred eyes, I fought for control of myself, fought to stamp down the grief and torment inside of me for at least a little bit…dear God, for at least a little bit. I fought the rage. As much as I wanted to wrap myself in it’s warm embrace, to engulf myself in it’s power, I fought the rage. I needed to be in control. I had another parent to say goodbye to. The demon caged inside of me whispered in my ear, taunting me, pointing out all the things I missed, telling me what a fool I’d been, working to topple the final restraints that were holding me together. I knew that I mustn’t let it. I mustn’t let it, but it was so hard not to listen, not to give in. I clenched my hands into fist, squeezing as hard as I could. The jagged edge of the ring containing Nina Franks’s hair bit into the flesh of my finger. I accepted the pain and squeezed harder, until I felt blood running between my fingers. I focused on the pain, used it to ground the torrent of my emotions. There was still hellfire I had to walk through. Without averting my eyes, I found the edge of the sheets on the bed and pulled them up, hiding the bloody stain on the bed. I managed to stand. I walked around the bed and settled the covers back over my mother’s shoulders, making it look like she was asleep. I leaned over and kissed her brow. Her skin was cold against my lips. The sensation made my gut churn. “I love you, mom.” I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and turned. With effort, I walked away from my mother and into the hallway. I gently pulled the door shut behind me, turning the knob so the latch wouldn’t click. Downstairs, I heard laughter. Copyright2014 Wade Hunter

Sin Eater's Journal -Entry 37 Entry 37 I sat in front of my parent’s house rubbing my hands on my face. They lived outside the city in an old victorian style house that sat at the back end of a couple acres worth of land. I was afraid to go inside. I was afraid to see my mother. I admit my total shock when my dad called and said he had found mom and gotten her home. He didn’t let me ask questions, didn’t offer up any tale on where he found her. At that point Amy and I were already on our way to find her sister. Crawford’s note told me to choose. Did Crawford somehow know that I’d chosen to go for Amy’s sister first? Is that how dad so easily snatched my mother form the demon and his charge? How did dad get mom without running into Crawford? Unless Crawford allowed dad to take her without confrontation. There was only one reason I could think of for him to do such a thing. Crawford marked my mother. He marked her then let my dad take her, hoping I would assume she was safe. Dad would have no idea if she bore the demon sigil. He would assume her listless nature was do to her traumatic experience. Crawford never expected us to find Mary. He left no clues (that he knew of) that would have led us to York’s house. He expected me to fail in that endeavor and then come home to find my mother marked. He made me choose and he was planning on taking both, planning on breaking me as much as possible. Why would I ever think otherwise? Idiot. So, I didn’t want to go inside. I didn’t want to see that burning brand on my mother’s forehead. I didn’t want to have to defend myself against the woman that bore me. I didn’t want to watch as she turned to ash by my hand. I thought of dad then…dad alone in the house with my mother, who was marked by a demon. Dad who didn’t answer his phone when I last called him. He could be dead already. Rage boiled in me at that thought. Rage at the possible loss. Rage at Crawford and the beast that rode him. The demon inside of me reared it’s head and whispered in my ear. It liked my rage. I realized then how long it had been since I fed it sin. I could feel the demon struggling inside of me, testing the bars of its cage. I had taken from Jim Guthrie but that hadn’t calmed my charge because his sins were deteriorated from the demon that marked him. I willed the demon back down, drowning it’s words, refusing to pay it attention. I’d have to save the sin eating for later. Right now, I had to muster the courage to get out of my car and go inside. I had to go see my mother and look upon her with the power in my blood. I would have to… I pushed the car door open and stood swiftly. If I sat and continued to think, I’d be frozen there. I needed to act as much as I didn’t want to. I needed to face this. I didn’t knock. I grew up in this house. You don’t knock when you’re coming home. The door was unlocked. I took a deep breath and entered. No one was there to great me. That was good in a way. I had visions of Mom standing there with a butcher knife in hand, fire blazing her forehead. I heard papers shuffling from down the hall in dad’s office. With a quick glance up the steps, I went towards the noise. The door was open. I stopped just before the doorway. I heard typing. My fingers tickled the handle of my knife. I stepped around the door frame and let out a breath. My father sat at his desk, working on his computer. He looked up with a piercing glance. “Bram.” I couldn’t help but take a long deep breath. I feared him dead, but here he was plugging away at his keyboard. “I called your cell.” He looked around absently, and said he must have left it upstairs in the bedroom. Not like him but okay. It had been a long day for all of us. “Mom?” I asked. He said she was upstairs sleeping. That I could go up, just not to wake her. I almost laughed at that. Waking her was the least of my worries. I left dad in his office and made my way up the stairs. The door to my parent’s bedroom was ajar by about an inch. There was soft light spilling through the crack. I placed my hand on the door, waited a few ticks, then gave it a gentle shove. I had one of my knives in my right hand with the blade running up my arm. It was ready for it’s job. I didn’t think I was. My mother was laying with her back to the door. Her bedside lamp was on. The covers were pulled up to her shoulder. She looked peaceful. I took ginger steps until I was beside her. I reached for her but stopped. I walked around the other side of the bed so I could see her face. The light from the bedside lamp cast her features in shadow. Her eyes were closed. She looked sunken and worn. I closed my eyes to steel myself. I pulled on the power inside of me and switched to my Holy Vision. I opened my eyes and saw…no demon sigil on my mother’s forehead. I opened my eyes and saw no demon sigil on my mother’s forehead…I opened my eyes and saw no aura what-so-ever surrounding her. My mother was dead. I ripped back the covers to reveal a large, dark, red stain on the bed under my mother’s body. The blood wasn’t fresh. I sunk to my knees and made a noise akin to an animal with it’s back broken. Tears blurred my eyes, and a great empty hole filled my gut. The demon inside of me whispered in my ear, pointing out that which I had missed. My father didn’t ask me if we found Mary Kennedy or what had happened. I realized it was because he already knew. Crawford had warned him. Copyright 2014 Wade Hunter