Burn the Dark

by S. A. Hunt

“Dammit,” she told the mechanical voice. “Heinrich, when will you ever get with the times?”

  This wouldn’t be the first time Robin might be forced to go after a formidable witch alone. She peeled back the lapel of her shirt, looking not only at the algiz on her chest but the stab-wound scar at the top of her right breast. The Oracle of the Sands had been a hell of a fight—Symes had been hiding out in one of the smaller, dinkier, run down casinos on the outskirts of Vegas. Robin had gone in masquerading as one of the customers, but as soon as the Oracle realized she was there (thanks to a particularly eagle-eyed pit boss and an armada of surveillance cameras), every customer in sight lost their minds. Suddenly the casino was full of crazed cat-people out for her blood, and Robin barely made it out with her life.

  The only reason she was still alive was because of the cavalry—Heinrich had busted in at the last minute and provided the distraction she needed to escape. It had cost him, though. A .45 round to the guts. That had been a harrowing couple of days. She found out after the fact Symes had gassed a cage full of house cats in a specialized panic room in her penthouse suite. A familiar-bomb, basically. As soon as it had gone off, almost every customer in the casino went feral.

  Joel borrowed Robin’s cell phone and tapped a number into it. “Hello? Blackfield Police Department?” he said, pressing it to his ear. “I gotta talk to y’all about something, and you gonna want to hear this. I think I just got rescued from a serial killer.”

  He paused. “Yeah, I’ll wait.”

  Kenway handed out the coffee and pulled back into traffic.

  “Hello there, Mr. Officer,” Joel said, hugging himself. “I almost got killed by some maniac, and I thought y’all would like to know about it. Yeah, he drugged me and when I woke up I was chained to the ceiling next to a dead guy. Yeah. Yeah, I got out. No, he said he was going to bleed me dry, because he needed ‘blood for the garden.’ No, I have no idea what that means. No, the only enemies I got live in glass bottles. Yeah, glass bottles. As in alcohol. It was a joke.” He sipped coffee. “You want me to come up there and file a statement? A report? Aight. I’ll be up there in a little bit. I got to go get my car and some clean clothes.”

  “What you gonna do now, Hollywood?” asked Kenway.

  “After we take Joel to the police station, I want to head out to my old house and formally introduce myself to Mr. Parkin,” said Robin, glaring daggers out the window. “If there’s really a monster in there, I think my mother had something to do with it, but I’m sure there was a good reason. And I want to take a closer look at that ring. The witches seem to be interested in it, and Weaver looks like she’s willing to kill to get it.”

  “So you think it’s really magic?”

  “Yes. Weaver said it might have Conjuration magic in it. Or on it. Or however that crap works.” She leaned over to eye him. “Also, don’t call me Hollywood.”

  “Point of order,” said Joel, holding up a finger.

  “Hmm?”

  “I need to get my car. Black Velvet is not at my house.”

  “Where is it?” asked Kenway.

  “I drove Velvet to my booty call with the mysterious Mr. Big Red last night.” Joel massaged his face with both hands, talking through his fingers. “I left it parked in front of the serial killer’s apartment.”

  20

  The stethoscope was cold on Wayne’s back. A latex-gloved hand cupped the curve of his ribs as he breathed in, out, in, out. “Do me a favor and breathe real deep,” said the doctor. Morning sunlight streamed in through the window, throwing bars of gold over Leon. He stood at the end of the bed, his arms folded imperiously, his eyes red and squinty.

  Wayne filled his lungs with the hospital’s minty-sweet air and expelled it slowly.

  “Hrrm. This is weird,” said the doctor.

  “What’s weird?” asked Leon.

  “Well…” The doctor took a Dum Dums sucker out of her lab-coat pocket. She was a diminutive woman with clever, vulpine eyes and a hazel complexion. As she spoke, she emphasized her words with the sucker. The name tag on her lab coat read DR. MARISSA BAKER. “We gave your son a dose of antivenin last night when he got here, but I’ve got to say, this is the fastest I’ve ever seen anybody recover from a snakebite.”

  She gave the sucker to Wayne, then lifted the boy’s left leg with gentle hands and placed it on the bed. “The swelling’s gone down precipitously.” The bandage had been removed so the bite could be examined. “Very little discoloration, there’s no necrosis or infection at all in or around the punctures. I don’t know what this lady Mrs. Weaver put on you before they brought you here, but whatever it was, it must have been some kind of miracle salve.”

  Wayne unwrapped the cream soda Dum Dum and stuck it in his mouth.

  “Obviously I’ve never been one for homeopathic bunkus,” said Marissa, picking up a clipboard and clicking an ink pen. “But judging by the effect this had on your son, Mr. Parkin, maybe it’s time to start believing.”

  “Maybe she’s one of those crazy religious snake-handlers you hear about in this neck of the woods.”

  Marissa grunted.

  They hadn’t told the hospital about Wayne’s strange absence in the middle of the night. As far as the ward’s nurses were concerned, Leon had fallen asleep and his son had unadvisedly wandered out to the parking lot for some fresh air. This explained why the soles of Wayne’s feet were dirty, and Marissa didn’t seem to even be aware anything had happened, so they didn’t trouble her with it. Which was good, because he really didn’t want to have to tell the story again.

  “So he’s gonna be fine?” asked Leon.

  Marissa nodded. “Oh yeah,” she said to the clipboard, writing. “He’s more than okay—all things considered, he’s fantastic. A week or two taking it easy, maybe stay off that foot as much as possible, and he’ll be good as new. And that’s a liberal estimate. Honestly, I think he ought to stay here another night for observation, but in truth he’s not really gonna get any better day-to-day care here than he would at home.” She winked. “And there’s no Xbox here either.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Any pain?” asked the doctor, gently feeling the flesh around the bite. “On a scale from one to ten, ten being the worst pain you ever felt?”

  “One?” said Wayne. “I mean, I guess it just feels like a bruise.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. “Like I said, he can stay here another night if you’re on pins and needles about his condition, but if you want to take him home, I’m not going to put my foot down. To the best of my knowledge, he’s through the worst of it. Usually a bite from a copperhead isn’t much to an adult man—most of the time it doesn’t even warrant antivenin—but to a child his size and frame, it can be serious. Your son actually had an allergic reaction, which is why he’d initially gone into anaphylactic shock and gone unconscious. But whatever Mrs. Weaver did eliminated that factor. She saved your son’s life.”

  Leon picked up his jacket. “My insurance is probably turning over in its grave. I guess we’ll head on home. Maybe give you guys a call or run him up here if anything happens.”

  Marissa peeled off her glove and dropped it into a wastebasket. “I’ll have someone bring you a wheelchair … and then I guess I’m going to go turn in my resignation and take up faith-healing.”

  * * *

  As the elevator door eased shut, Wayne reached out and tugged his father’s sleeve. Puzzlement came over Leon’s face.

  “You know I’m not lyin’, right?” Wayne looked up from the wheelchair. “About the door in the wall … and the monster. Jo-elle was there. He saw it all.”

  He had changed into the fresh clothes from the bag he’d seen under the chair the night before. Wayne wondered if he’d see the pretty girl with the shaved head again, so he could give her her clothes back. It’d felt supremely strange wearing them … but admittedly he had liked it, because they smelled like her.

  Leon leaned against the wall. The lights in the elevator were stark but
dim, turning his skin from its usual healthy umber to a greenish beetle-black. “I don’t know what to believe, son. You ain’t got a very good track record.”

  Wayne glumly sucked his upper lip.

  “I thought we were gonna—I thought this was gonna be a fresh start, Wayne. For both of us. I thought we were done with street shit. I brought you to the country, got you away from the wannabe gang kids in Chicago, and … you got me away from Johnnie Walker and Jack Daniels.”

  “I’m tellin’ the truth.”

  Leon watched his face. “Yeah.”

  Reaching into Wayne’s shirt-collar, he pulled out the ring. It lay on the pale of his fingers, twinkling dull in the elevator lights. “I didn’t even know you had this. How long you been walking around with it? Did I even say you could have it?”

  “I got it that day you and Aunt Marcelina talked about moving to Georgia. That night I tucked you in the bed after you sat and watched the ball game and finished off that bottle you had hid in that basket Mom put on top of the bookshelf.” Wayne made no move to take the ring away or even lean back, only stared up at his father. Adrenaline thrummed in his veins. Be stronger. Adapt and overcome. “Anyway, I found it in your cupholder and I took it. Put it on my chain. I call it your stupid tax.”

  “Stupid tax,” said Leon, slowly, gently, suspensefully tucking the ring back into his son’s shirt, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

  Kinda says something you didn’t even realize I had it.

  The bizarre notion occurred to Wayne he was about to get hit in the face, which had blessedly never happened before. Leon might have had a drinking problem, but even in his worst moments, he never struck his son. He may have put a couple holes in the walls, but that was the extent of his furor.

  Leon winced, rubbing his chest as if he were having a heart attack. He leaned against the wall and pressed the Lobby button.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He gasped and gave a slow sigh. “Pulled a muscle clockin’ that dude in the snoot.”

  “He’s all right, you know,” said Wayne.

  “Maybe.”

  “Was that the first time you ever punched a guy?”

  Leon cracked a crooked grin. “Heh, yeah.”

  “You hit him hard as hell.”

  “Language, man,” said Leon, getting behind the wheelchair as the door clunked open.

  He pushed Wayne down the hall and into the waiting room, leaving him in front of a television while he went to the receptionist to process out. The TV was playing the local sports scores, which were Greek to Wayne. He took the opportunity to polish his glasses, feeling like a gigantic nerd. Luckily, it was still early in the morning, so the lobby was relatively quiet except for the gurgle of the aquarium. A man and two women sat in the waiting area, reading magazines.

  Leon asked incredulously, “What do you mean, it’s taken care of?”

  Wayne turned the wheelchair to look. His father scratched his head in confusion, rotating an upside-down clipboard so he could read it. “Karen?” he asked, pressing a fingertip to the paper. “That old lady?”

  The receptionist smiled. “Yes sir. She paid you up in full.”

  “Just the co-pay, right?” He added with a mutter, “Is there even a co-pay for something like this?”

  “No sir, Mrs. Weaver paid everything in full. She was the one who brought him in, and she took responsibility for his care, so your insurance is totally irrelevant.”

  Leon’s hand crept up to his mouth and he rubbed his mustache, either contemplating or trying to put his brain back together. “How … how much was the bill?” He flipped through paperwork and actually ducked in surprise as if he’d been shot at. “Thirty thousand dollars?” His eyes were bowling balls. “How was that thirty thousand dollars? All they did was give him a shot and keep him overnight!”

  The receptionist helped him look through the papers. “Right here … the CroFab antivenin, twenty thousand a vial, plus the medical procedure, the room, workups, all—see this?”

  “I see it, I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, it’s not quite thirty thousand.”

  “Close enough, twenty and some change.” Leon signed where signatures were needed, but he shook his head as he did so. “A hell of a lot of change. How is an ambulance ride worth several thousand dollars?”

  The receptionist smiled. “It’s a bit of a sticker shock, but look at it this way, Mr. Parkin: thanks to your new friend, it’s totally out of your hands, and out of your wallet.” Taking back the clipboard, she went to work typing up the information. “Sounds like you’ve got the biggest thank-you card of your life to write.”

  * * *

  Leon was quiet crossing town in the morning rush-hour chaos. Wasn’t exactly Chicago-busy, but everybody drove like they were in a funeral procession. He chewed his lip, so deep in thought the glacial flow didn’t even elicit his usual fussing and complaints. Wayne was glad. At the moment, he was savoring the relative peace and quiet of the car after sitting in the hospital all morning.

  “That Weaver lady said she lives in the hacienda across the highway,” said Leon. “I think we ought to go over there and say thanks. Maybe invite her over for dinner. What do you think?”

  “Sure.” Wayne fidgeted with the crutch in his lap.

  “The doc says you should be fine in, like, a week. You won’t be on that crutch long.”

  They rode on, neither of them saying much of anything. The Subaru was gliding up Highway 9 into the hills when Wayne happened to glance at his father and saw a tear slip down his cheek.

  Leon swiped it away and saw he’d been caught. “Thought I was gonna lose you yesterday, man.”

  Wayne smiled. “Adapt and overcome.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “The guy at the comic store in town.” He remembered the job offer from Fisher. “Oh! He gave me a job helping him run his comic shop after school!”

  Leon grinned. “Pretty cool. Gonna have you running the register, or…?”

  “Yeah, I think so. And helping him do his Thursday Movie Nights or something.”

  “All right, my son’s a workaday man now.”

  “I can walk there from school in the afternoons. It’s only a few blocks down.”

  “As long as you don’t go back in those woods.”

  “Nope.” Wayne drew it out long and deep: “Noooooooope. Nooooope.” Leon joined in and they made a frog-chorus of Nopes.

  As the Victorian sidled into sight, Leon thumped the steering wheel. The U-Haul truck still sat in their driveway. “Shit—! With all the drama I forgot to take the truck back yesterday.” He pulled in next to it. “Hopefully they’re open on Saturdays. Think you can chill here at the house while I take care of that?”

  “Sure.”

  Wayne got out of the car and put his weight on the crutch, shoving the door shut with his snakebit foot. He was at the bottom of the stoop when he realized he was about to go back into the house where he saw the owlhead Sasquatch thing, and a cold wet blanket of oppressive fear fell over him.

  Leon unlocked the front door and looked over his shoulder as it eased open. “Hey, you all right?”

  Some dark part of Wayne expected to see the monster standing in the foyer behind his father, peering over his shoulder. The steps in front of him exuded some repellent force, as if they were magnets and his shoe-soles were made of metal.

  “Remember how I told you I saw that monster in our house when I went through the door in the wall?”

  Annoyed concern flashed across Leon’s face. “Yeah. I get it, man.” He came back down to the front walk and gave his keys to his son. Wayne felt a bit patronized, but he accepted them. “Tell you what. I’m gonna leave my keys with you. You can be my wheelman. I’ll go check the house and if I come running out, you start the car.”

  Taking the tire iron out of the Subaru, Leon crept into the house.

  Out in the middle of the expansive front lawn, the boy stared up at the windows, looking
for shadows, glowing eyes, twitching curtains, the vaguest hint something other than his father was lurking inside. The siding was raincloud-blue again, which mitigated some of his fear.

  Shoes scuffed behind him. Wayne twitched.

  Pete and Amanda were coming across the highway from the trailer park, followed by little Katie Fryhover, who was carrying a plastic kite with a picture of Sully from the movie Monsters, Inc. on it.

  “Hey, man,” said Pete. “You’re out of the hospital already?”

  Amanda broke into a run and wordlessly gathered Wayne up in a hug, pressing his face against the cool vinyl of her windbreaker. She was wearing some kind of perfume that reminded him of pancakes.

  “We’ve been worried as hell, Batman,” said Pete, his hands crammed in his jacket pockets. “Figured you were gonna be up there for at least another week.”

  “Doctor said I was doing really good. Said the main reason I was even there was because I had an allergic reaction.”

  Pete stared at his feet. “That’s good. I mean, not that you had an allergic reaction. It was good it wasn’t something serious. I mean, that it wasn’t the venom itself?”

  “I know what you mean. Hey,” said Wayne, pointing at him with his crutch. “I saw what you did before I passed out. I saw you hit that snake with that hammer.” The smile spreading across his face belied the burn flowering in his throat. “Man, you got balls.” He let out a hoarse laugh. “Thank you. For smacking that snake.”

  Pete looked up, one corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Just wish I could have gotten there before it bit you.”

  Wayne spread his arms, putting his weight on his good leg. “I’m fine,” he said, holding up the crutch. “I’m fine, you know? Everything aight.” He tucked it under his arm and leaned on it. “Just gotta take it easy and stay off it for like, a week.”

  “Sounds like time to bone up on your PlayStation skills.”

  “Heh heh, you said bone.”

  Amanda was meticulously wiping tears out of her eyelashes with her fingertips, trying not to ruin her mascara. “You kids are a bunch of nerds.”