When Devils Sing(109)

Now.





NEERA


NEERA SANG THE blues in the truest way she knew how. She played “Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground” by Blind Willie Johnson—a song without any formal lyrics, only a baleful surrender of the soul as she slid her fingers across the Yamaha’s steel strings.

It was a risk to play a song without words that night. How could she control an audience without creating a story for them to become lost within? But part of her believed, deep down, the song was enough. Instead of words, she wove an image of the void through sound alone.

The audience became transfixed by the story Neera conjured in her head, what she believed the music represented, as well as what she felt while playing it. She imagined Blind Willie Johnson’s song sent out into the ether of space, achieving immortality as the purest and most resolute form of the human spirit. Neera knew the crowd wasn’t deserving of the song, but she played it nonetheless, with its slow, lilting tune that never quite reached a crescendo.

Neera closed her eyes, allowing herself to become lost in the song, in the chasm the music had conjured. For the briefest moment, there was no one and nothing else. Just her and the Yamaha and the twang of its steel strings. But then she opened her eyes and looked onto the crowd. The audience was wholly, utterly transfixed, entirely unmoving.

And she was the one who had turned them to proverbial stone.

It was the kind of melody that could be played forever with none the wiser, which was why she chose it.

Until she knew the boys had been successful in their rescue, she intended to keep playing until her fingers bled. Because Neera now knew, without a doubt in her bones, she could weave magic through her music alone.





REID


REID HAD THREE minutes and eighteen seconds. He ran to his father’s side and gently pulled the key from his pocket, careful not to wake him from his dreaming state. Except it wasn’t just that his father was dreaming, but something else entirely. Russ’s eyes had gone entirely black, welling up with an oozing substance, as if he was weeping crude oil.

Isaiah appeared a moment later, mumbling something to Reid he couldn’t understand. With their earplugs in, they relied on elaborate hand gestures and pantomime.

Reid pointed to his father’s face, with Isaiah’s own eyes going wide in response. They looked around the clearing, taking stock of the Chosen, as well as the captives. It wasn’t just Russ with blackened eyes, but everyone. They were all frozen in place, faces pointed in the direction of the music, with dark liquid trickling from their eyes, staining their pastel clothes black.

Was this the effect of Neera’s magic? What had she done to acquire such power?

Isaiah shook his head, as if he couldn’t comprehend any more insanity that night.

One key, Reid finally mouthed, holding it up for Isaiah to see. Ten people to unchain and wake.

Isaiah nodded.

The pair made quick work of their task. Reid unlocked, while Isaiah pulled more earplugs from his pocket, shoving them in the captives’ ears. A minute passed before the surviving captives were responsive, each of them struggling to wipe the black goo from their eyes. Slowly at first, then more frantic, despite their burnt and blistering skin.

Reid lingered before Dawson as the film cleared from his blue eyes and they looked at each other, actually looked. There was so much he wanted to say to his best friend in that moment, but there wasn’t time.

The ground beneath their feet gave another tremulous rumble then, more aggressive than the ones that came before. All around the clearing, entranced bodies collapsed. Beside Reid, his brother and sister fell to the ground, too. He flinched at the sight of their blank, empty faces—black liquid seeping from not only their eyes, but their noses, their ears, their mouths. Whatever Neera sang, it was wholly unlike what she’d performed at the Tavern. This was something that affected not only the mind, but the body.

Is she killing them? Reid thought, guilt twisting inside his gut like a knife. He shook the question away. It didn’t matter now. His family was willing to murder innocent people for their own gain. The last shred of love he had for them was gone.

Another thirty seconds passed before the captives could each see. Thirty more seconds before they were on their feet, although they were all slack-jawed and stained with blood, as well as whatever had pooled from their eyes.

The ground shook again, the sensation growing violent and angry, sending the towering pine trees swaying and thrashing above. In the middle of the clearing, the split in the earth grew wider, racing toward them. The cicadas that had disappeared into the yawning darkness began to crawl back out, spreading across the forest floor in all directions. The insects moved differently this time, pulsing and scrambling over one another as if they were being controlled by an unseen force.

Screaming, they headed for the captives.

Reid looked to Isaiah, and he understood the panicked look on his friend’s face. The devil demanded its sacrifices, one way or another.

The cicadas reached Sam first. She was barely upright when the bugs swarmed her legs, crawling up her bare, burnt skin. She screamed, frantically swatting at them as they overwhelmed her entire body, sending her tumbling back to the dirt. The cicadas were dragging her into the hole in the ground. Dawson leapt forward, trying to save her, but the insects only multiplied, spreading from Sam’s body to his.

Reid was frozen in place, immobilized by the horror of it all. This wasn’t in the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was one thing to stop the human captors, but how could they stop the devil?