Branches Above, Damned Below.

The Dead Keep All Our Secrets

The Evening Report with Emily Sturn sifted through a set of stereo speakers perched on either side of a barely used television. Once or twice, had it been turned to the news when needed. Otherwise, it sat, screen blank and dormant, nestled between the speakers on a small black entertainment stand. Her mother had bought the television for her after her first professional commission, and Cross didn't have the heart to reveal how seldom it was actually used in her household. She favored record players, stereos, devices that didn't obey a swipe of the finger.
White cloth lapped in a light breeze shifting in through the open window. Evening traffic trudged by now and again, a bit of noise and headlights dancing on the walls. Cross always turned the lights off while she was in the shower, an odd childhood habit in which an origin had never been discovered. She often sat in the dark, claiming that light could play more tricks than the dark. She'd encountered enough of the dark to know this, after all.
Cross drifted through the small, vacant family room of her rented British townhouse, where she'd been staying for the last few days, a towel wrapped around her petite body. Wet black waves hung loose just past her waist, the tips already drying in the evening heat. A cup of coffee was clutched in one small hand despite the considerably late hour.
"...A teenager was found dead this Morning in Avon, the body was found washed up on the shoreside of a private estate lake a little after eight O' clock..."
Cross found the stereo controller and turned up its volume, perching on the edge of the sofa to listen better. A glance at the digital clock on the shelf above the television told her it was just after ten in the evening.
"The body has since been identified by a member of the respective family. Authorities are questioning the source of what appeared to be several human bite marks on the corpse, which was found with chunks of flesh seemingly missing, the area around the wounds black where the teeth would've sunk in..."
Cross shut off the stereo and sifted through her art bag for her laptop, suddenly ignited in thought by the details. Seconds later, results were pouring in for her browser search on the supposed murder.
Though most people knew Cross as an artist famous for her charcoal drawings and portraits, she had a much more pressing profession that hadn't required her service in over five years. She was an exorcist. If she'd been taught anything about demons, it was that they were known for their vicious attacks when they struck. Over the years, she'd slaughtered everything from your average nightmare under the bed, to a demon wreaking havoc on a city the size of Manhattan. The small detail that'd caught her attention was the black teeth marks. Flesh eating demons possessed tar like saliva in which often poisoned their human victims, assuring they were dead. The photographs in which nearly every news feed in the area had uploaded within the last six hours cemented her suspicions. Then, a particular comment posted on one of the photographs caught her eye.
I told Derek to leave the dark things alone, that something was going to happen to us if we didn't stop, but he didn't listen to me. Trust me when I say no human could ever leave marks like that. God, Derek, I'm so sorry I ever picked up that book. This is my fault.
Cross clicked on a new tab, readjusting the towel around her now dry body, and typed in the name given on the comment. Luckily, the individual had an address listed in the online city directory. After scribbling it on a piece of scrap paper, she went to dig out a few articles of clothing she hadn't seen in five years.

They all still fit her the way they had five years before, her combat clothes. The reinforced leather jacket with characteristic brass buttons, the thick cotton vest and black cargo pants. Her blades were tucked away in a wooden box the size of a confectioner's tray on the top shelf of her bedroom closet, still sharpened and gleaming. One went in each boot, one at each hip. A small average pocket knife was tucked in one of the abundant pockets of her pants, just in case. She could never be too prepared. It took her several minutes to locate everything she could need for a possible confrontation. Silver detainment cuffs, black salt, holy water. They all found their respective places in a pocket. Finally, pocketing her cell phone, Cross ducked out of her apartment, locking the door behind her.
Oliver Lovewell lived an estimated five miles from Cross' own apartment, in the more rural part of Avon. Perhaps a mile or so into her drive, she found the houses and buildings dwindling gradually, until they sloughed off into the starting of gently rolling farmland on one side, and woods on the other. Autumn was creeping in, leaves stirred across the roadway, colors unidentified in the dark. Soon enough, the farmers would be readying things for the harvest. Ironically, a pregnant, full moon graced the sky and put the bright English stars to shame. Too soon, the quiet drive ended, and Cross found herself pulling into the drive indicated on her GPS. The house was fashioned after a Victorian farmstead, complete with Gingerbread trim and the existence of asymmetrical towers and windows cleverly inserted into the design. The porch wrapped around the perimeter of the house, columned and painted a traditional shade of off white.

"Who are you?"
The boy who answered the door had an accent so cruel it made the American born exorcist shiver. His appearance chilled her. Hair a shade of Blonde Cross doubted a box could copy, eyes the color of glacial fragments set deep in shadowed sockets. Pale, unblemished skin and a staggering stature that forced her to look up at him.
"Are you Oliver?"
The boy nodded, looking her over.
"I'm Cross Courier. I heard about your friend."
"And?", He raised a brow.
"I'm an exorcist," she didn't know what, else to give him but the truth, "I think something other than a serial killer did him in."
He looked as if he didn't believe her, then opened the door to let her in.
"Sit. Tea?"
She politely declined, watching him sit across from her on the sofa.
"How did you find me?"
"Your comment on one of Derek's post mortem photographs."
Cross left out mentioning that she'd searched him in the city directory. Judging by the bulging, well toned muscles in his arms, she opted not to provoke getting punched.
"I see. An exorcist, are you? You think a demon got him?"
Cross nodded.
"What does that have to do with me?"
"From your comment, I safely assumed you two were delving in witchcraft."
Oliver looked away.
"He was dabbling in it. Witchcraft runs in my blood. He was interested in my copy of the Necronomicon, so I let him borrow it. I didn't think he'd be such a fool as to try it."
The raw energy that seemed, to surround the teenager attested to his claim. Cross furrowed a brow.
"Did he intend to summon a demon?"
Oliver nodded, crossing his arms.
"I tried to warn him, but he didn't listen. This could just be the beginning of something much worse if that demon came from Hell, and wasn't some sort of rouge," he leveled.
"I know."

It was several hours later that Cross emerged from the teenaged Warlock's house with the full story and a another copy of the Necronomicon. The sun was starting to dominate the trees by the time she ducked into her car and made for her apartment.

A/N: Please bear with the beginning, the action is much more immediate than it seems. Enjoy, and don't forget to vote and comment or whatever. Love you guys.
~ Zombie.