Painted Faces.

Skin was ripped from Emmet's shoulder blade sending agonising waves through his body. He screamed out even though he knew, if he did, the pain would only increase. A whip was cracked against his spine, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending his frail body crashing forwards. The cool sensation of the concrete soothed the burning on his left arm and he let slip a sigh of relief. But it was short lived as the steel blade of a sword was thrust into the left side of his thorax, hitting him hard between the ribs. A burning sensation unlike anything Emmet had ever felt stemmed from the wound and he clawed at the ground, desperate for something to take hold of. The acidic sound of laughter rose above him as the blade was carelessly withdrew, bringing with it a cloud of crimson.

" What a little rat!" jeered the high-pitched voice of Belial , " And you said this one was strong, Abbadon."

This was met with a snort issued from Abbadon's nose.

"I assumed he was strong. That little Kappa...," he snorted again, as if the very memory of the water sprite left a foul taste in his mouth, "...told me, that the Irish were a strong race. I honestly thought this one would last us longer." He sniggered, “Mind you, he might just, if my blood makes good work of him.”

Gasping for air, Emmet attempted to push himself from the blood stained ground. Tears ran down his cheeks and as he opened his mouth, deep red bile slipped down his chin.
"Fuck you." a stabbing pain ran from Emmet's chest to his jaw as he choked out these words.

“I’m so sorry my dear boy, but your mother is more to my liking.”

More laughter broke out behind him. Like a flock of demonic hens.

“You leave my mother alone!” Emmet snapped, “Or….I’ll fucking kill you!”

"You hear that boys! ." they all sniggered at the suggested sarcasm in Mammon's deep voice.

A large clump of Emmet’s hair was seized and his head was pulled back so much that he could look up into the eyes of one of his attackers. The handsome, yet petrifying, face of Abbadon was not something that could be forgotten and to this very day he can still see the sallow and gaunt features. As if they were burned into his skull. A grin spread wide across the demons face, revealing two rows of yellowing and pointed teeth.

"My boy," his breath smelt of fester and smoke, “It’s a good thing that you are so feisty. Because what we're going to do to you, would bring down the devil himself. "
*******

Ascent from the darkness came with less terror and pain than he had previously felt but there was still the same amount of fuzzy confusion as before. The low mummer of voices could be heard from somewhere nearby, nothing more than a collection on syllables - not one word stood out for him to actually understand.

The growing awareness brought with it the realisation of the throbbing in his left arm, thorax and shoulder blade. There was no doubt in his mind; he was losing control. He tried to concentrate, as the voices became more urgent, trying to figure out what was being said. But it made his head spin and he shifted on the fabric of John's couch, biting back nausea.
John appeared at his side, accompanied by Emily and a quite large looking needle. Emmet flinched at the thought of being pierced by its cold steel tip. Emily tightened a rubber tourniquet around Emmet’s right bicep and gently felt around for a raised vein.

"It's alright," Emily insisted, she placed her hand softly on Emmet's forearm above a pulsing blue vessel, "This will take away the pain for a while. I'll be as gentle as I can. "

Her words were barely auditable but could just about be heard over the haze on
unconsciousness. John retreated, Emmet assumed, to the kitchen judging by the faint sound of steel soled boots on the tiles. His fear of needles was one that Emmet shared and if the shoe had been on the other foot, he would have run a mile too.

Emily's hand shook, despite her comforting words, as the needle penetrated the skin on Emmet's bicep. He bit down hard on his lower lip, squeezed his eyes shut and started counting to ten, a trick he had been taught when he was a child. He could feel the metal moving against his contracting muscles, the liquid being forced into his veins and then suddenly it was all over. As the injection was withdrawn from his flesh, it brought with it a soothing and encouraging numbness. All the throbbing and stinging that he had felt before was nothing more than a dull buzzing, much like pins and needles.

Emmet's tense muscles relaxed and he rolled on to his back to stare at the white plaster ceiling.

"We ought to make him some tea John." Emily sighed; she was cleaning the needle with a tissue and alcohol.

"Aye. I have the pot on Em's." John reported from the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway and lay coolly against the frame, a drying cloth in one hand and a mug in the other. “I’ll give him a round of toast too. It'll do him the world of good."

Emily kneeled back down beside Emmet, pushed his sandy, shaggy fringe to the side and gently placed her palm on his forehead. Her skin was so cool against his.

"His temperature has gone down. That's a very good sign; we might not need to ring anyone after all." She looked up at John, her large puppy eyes in full view.

"No Em's. We still need to ring Ol' Hannah. “He sighed, " Old bitch is a complete diva, but she knows what she is doing."

The whistle of the kettle shrieked from the kitchen, soft at first then growing louder and louder. John disappeared from the doorway while Emily examined the bruise on Emmet’s arm; dark blood was clotted where the needle had penetrated. She wrapped it with a sticking plaster and retreated to the arm chair across from the coffee table and started sterilizing scalpels with her lighter.

Emmet twisted his head so he could watch her; he blinked as sunlight blinded him with colorful spots.

"W - What can H-Hannah do?" He slurred, the sound of his own voice seemed almost alien to him and the vibrations of his throat made the raw flesh burn.

"You shouldn't try to talk Emmet," Emily replied, she lowered her head further, “Just let the medicine work."

As she glanced in his direction, she caught sight of his canines glittering beneath his thin lips. They were larger than any normal persons.

From what she can remember, there had been a few cases where people had been bitten and survived, only to die and become restless in the afterlife, or their bodies refused to die and suffered an eternity of bloodlust. These may have only been half-baked tales, cooked up around a camp fire but then so was everything else that she devoted her life to; half baked notions and bullshit reality.

Looking into his eyes, she couldn't tell whether he was worried or pleased. He could hide behind his eyes well, like any other hunters that she knew.

"I don’t know what’s happening.” he coughed quietly.

Emily said nothing; she just kept on looking into his eyes.

John entered the room holding a cup of steaming tea and a single plate piled with toast. He glanced grimly from Emmet to Emily as he placed the food on the coffee table.

Emmet sat up and opened his mouth to speak, only to be silenced abruptly by a stern 'Eat your toast lad' issued from John. He obeyed immediately.

"Emily. Kitchen." John commanded, motioning with his fingers for her to follow him.
She, too, obeyed.

Two mugs of tea, one milky white and the other black were already sitting waiting on the table for them both. Emily sat down on one of the bar stools (John figured it was easier than going out and buying chairs, to just use old furniture from the bar) while John lifted his white tea and stood beside the stove. He had an anxious expression on his face, his brow was furrowed and his lips were puckered into a tight frown. His deep blue eyes usually hid his emotions well, but his expression was a dead giveaway. He had stubble on his chin and his dark crop of hair, although short, was still un groomed.

“I’ll be blunt Emily,” He sighed heavily, “This isn’t looking all that great.”

Emily looked down at her tea; she placed both hands around the mugs body and stared into the black liquid.

“I know.” She whispered.

What else was she meant to say? There was no point in going over the reasons why it wasn’t looking great because they both knew damn well why, and discussing it verbally would just add salt to the already stinging wound.

John sighed, reached into his pocket and lifted out his mobile phone.

“I’ll ring Hannah.”

*******************

Before Joel had even started to serve the customers in the bar, he knew his heart wasn’t in it. While he was down here, in the cosy interior of the bar, Emmet was upstairs, writhing in pain. He couldn’t help but feel guilty about that.

Joel usually kept an ear open, easdropping on conversations going on around him for any leads on local activity but tonight, nothing seemed interesting to him.

“…his dog shot ‘im in the ‘ead with a .45…” said one hunter sitting at the bar to his companion whom nodded thoughtfully.

“…and I shot that son-of-a-mother right through his icy heart with an iron tipped bullet. Then I burned him just to make sure he was dead.” a quite giddy and arrogent woman boasted from one of the stalls.

But Joel couldn’t grasp onto their conversations, no matter how strange they seemed. He sighed, leaned his elbow on the bar and rested his head in his hand. The smell of beer, vodka and smoke filled his nostrils giving him the feeling of warmth and familuarity.

Like many bars in Ireland, they didn’t allow smoking within the premisus; instead the smoke came from candles and such other sources. However, people often went out to the back of the bar to light up and the smoke often floated in.

Bored and uneasy, Joel emptied a small bowl full of salted peanuts onto the wooden top of the bar and started counting them. Eventually, after four minutes of counting, he had managed to bore himself further and instead resorted to flicking them across the surface. This brought a small childlike enjoyment and as each peanut went skidding down the wood, Joel found himself grinning mischievously.

“Joel Black?”

Joel jumped at the sound of the gruff and demanding voice. He immediately straightened up and met the gaze of a short balding man with dark uneven stubble scribbling his chin. His eyes were small and dark, the hands he had laid on the bar where rough and the fingers stubby. He wore a black, wrinkled shirt with a white religious collar. A priest.

“Are ye’ Joel Black?” he repeated.

“Er, aye. That’s me.” Joel answered, nodding his head.

“Tell yer Da, some troubles gone down at Fagan’s house. The man’s in the hospital.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, “And you are?”

“Doesn’t matter. But it’s important that your da gets that message.” The priest fiddled with the rosary beads draped around his neck, “I’m heading that way now.”

“Which hospital did you say?”

“I didn’t.”

“Right.” Joel shook his head, “Okay so where is he?”

“Mater Misericordiae.”

Before Joel could react the priest was quickly trotting to the door. He looked back briefly before disappearing from the warmth of the bar, into the harshness of the night.

“…mysterious old bag. If you ask me, Fagan’s mad for appointing that guy as his apprentious.” A middle aged hunter with his hair tied back in a pony tail was saying to his comrades.

“Fagan gives anyone a chance, even past drunkards like him. But I agree with ye’, only thing he’s good for is messenger boy.” Replied another, “Besides. I hear he’s a fag.”

To Joel, it didn’t matter a bit about this messenger boy; it was only the message that remained in his mind. Without another thought, he locked the till and bolted up to the flat. He took the stair two at a time.

Much to Joel’s surprise, Emmet was sitting upright, a blanket gripped around his shoulders and a plate of toast in front of him. He had a mug gripping between his hands.

“Emmet! Your up.” Joel ran around to the other side of the coffee table, so he was facing his friend.

Emmet dopely gazed up at him, his eyes half glazed and his face as pale as death. He looked like a junkie who had just gotten a fix. Under the blanket, his bare torso was covered in a sheet of cold sweat and his left shoulder, just slightly visible, was spidered with small red veins and was bordering on a grey colour. Like something from a horror movie.

“How are you feeling?” The quesition seemed clince and extremilly un-nessesary. He obviously couldn’t be feeling too great

“M’kay.” Emmet slurred, he lifted a piece of toast and chewed at it lazily.

John and Emily slantered from the kitchen, they looked weary and anxious. Emily took a seat in the armchair opposite the sofa, while John came round beside Joel.

“Why aren’t you down at the bar son?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The fella who works with Father Fagan, you know the one with the shifty eyes?”

“Father O’Reilly, yes I know him. What of it?”

“He came in just there now. Fagan’s in the hospital. Apparently something happened down at his house.”

John’s expression fell a mile.

“Damn!” He exclaimed, briefly catching his lower lip “Right. I’ll go over to the hospital. The rest of you stay here and wait for Hannah.”

Quickly, he lifted his coat from the hot press in the hall and threw it over his broad shoulders. Joel followed him to the door while Emily remained seated across from Emmet, who sat quietly eating his toast.

Everything that had just been exchanged within the living room, just went right over his head. The drugs had him so numb that he even was struggling to hold his charred bread, let alone chew it. The knowledge that Hannah O’Gara, by far the most experienced and frightening wicca he had ever met, was going to be paying him a visit didn’t seem to intimidate him, which was his usual response. Instead he sat uninterested, half-listening to the buzz of noise going on around him, half – concentrating on chewing and swallowing the food in his mouth. He now had an idea of how an infant learning to eat solids felt. Although, he doubted that an infant’s throat would be red raw from screaming and vomiting blood and bile.