Rooms - James L. Rubart [122]
Each word pressed into Micah’s chest and tunneled into his heart.
“Your supposed king will not, cannot, help you. You have built a fortress for me stone by stone that I will not leave. Ever. You have made agreements giving me the right to your very life. But I will give you one chance for survival. Surrender to me now and live. Give up your pretend religion, and I will show you true might, true power, true dreams.”
The demon breathed through its teeth, then silence. When it spoke again, its voice was honey. “Who do you think brought you your fame? Your fortune? The favor of the world? And what do you have now by following this pretend king? You said it yourself, not less than a day ago. Nothing. But surrender now, and I can bring it all back. All of it. You have my word.”
Micah’s mind flooded with images of the power and money he’d had and of the people who clamored for him. A life part of him longed for again.
“I can feel it. You want those things to return. Why wouldn’t you? You’ve not forgotten your dreams. You’ve tried to bury them, but they remain. Return to them. The tangible ones. Not some fairy tale, romantic religious fantasy hollow down to the core. And that’s not all. Far, far from it.” Its voice, so smooth, like water in a summer pond easing down into a stream, drew him in. “I can even bring back Sarah.”
Micah gasped.
“Yes. Yes. You’ll be with her again. All your times together back in her memory. It can be done in an instant. Just surrender. Sweet surrender.”
Could it be true? Could the demon make it happen?
“Yes, Micah. I can make it happen. Instantly. Surrender to me.”
He pictured her running up to him, burying herself in his arms. Yes. He needed her. With her back—
“No! You lie. Not even Sarah is worth turning my back on my King. Get out of my head.”
“So be it.”
Instantly Micah’s lungs felt like they were being squeezed in a vise. Tighter. Tighter. He couldn’t breathe. Stars swam in his eyes and his throat constricted. Laughter played at the corners of the demon’s mouth. In seconds Micah would black out.
“Yes, my dear friend. You are about to die.”
“Jesus, help me,” he rasped with the last of his air.
Immediately the pressure on his lungs and throat vanished, and the demon’s gaze shifted to something behind Micah. Recognition flickered in its eyes, and the quiet, penetrating cadence it had been using changed to a snarl.
“What right do you have to come here now?” the demon spat out.
Micah turned. Rick stood in the doorway, his face unmoving, as if carved from marble. He said nothing in response but stepped forward till he stood beside Micah. Rick stared at the demon and fear flashed across its face.
“Turn now, Micah Taylor, or the destruction promised will fall on you.”
“I’m scared, Rick.”
“Look at its wrists,” Rick answered softly.
Micah looked at the demon’s wrists lying on the armrests. Two white cords, thick and rough, cut into its skin. The demon strained against them, but there wasn’t the slightest flexibility.
“You know you did that, don’t you?” Rick said.
Micah stared at the demon’s wrists and then back at Rick. The realization staggered him. He had done it, through his words, through Christ’s power in him.
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood. . . . The weapons of our warfare are powerful, for the pulling down of strongholds, of principalities, and demonic forces in high places,” Micah said.
“Yes,” Rick said.
Even in the midst of the revelation of what he had done, fear swirled, searching for a crack. For a way into his heart.
“One last chance before you die,” seethed the demon.
“How do we get rid of it?”
“Send it to Jesus,” Rick said without emotion.
“No. You will not. Not there.” The demon tried to steady its quavering voice. “Listen to me, Micah. We can go to heights you’ve only imagined. Will you throw it away for nothing?” It screamed; its back arched, straining to be free of the chair.
“Don’t answer him, just send it.”
The demon writhed in the chair, an inky blackness oozing from its eyes and its wrists