by Mark Eller
* * * *
Ani wearily brushed her hair. At twenty-six, she knew she looked tired and too old. Life since Larson's death had taken its toll. Still, she might be thought beautiful by some, she supposed, if she could ever lose the appearance of haggard weariness. Even then it would be a sad and wasted beauty, a mockery of what she truly was inside. She felt nothing of the youth she still possessed. Her blue eyes, once shiny and sparkling, were now deep and troubled. Laughter, what was that? The only thing she still possessed of her old self was her strength of will and an unwavering desire to survive. She had only managed to keep those because of Missa. If not for her daughter Ani would have ended her life when Larson was murdered because his death took away so much of her light. However, with the passing of time she had discovered that life sometimes had its lighter moments. During some of those moments she occasionally smiled. Mostly, those smiles occurred when Missa's bright and beautiful soul wrapped itself around her and chased away the darkness wanting to claim her thoughts and memories.
Sighing, Ani set down her brush. It was late, and she needed to get up early to go to a job she hated and had once tried to avoid. The work wasn’t so bad, she supposed. As a rule, she made adequate tips passing ale and beer, and most of the daytime customers knew by now they would draw back a stub if they accosted her with wandering hands. No, the problem with her job was that one particular person made her dread the start of each new day. Unfortunately, Missa needed a secure home, and Carrid Brewer was the only man who would hire Ani. Some others had made offers, but those offers were always withdrawn before the next day. One potential employer was murdered within hours of Ani accepting his job. Desperation had given her no choice but to work in a tavern Larson had loathed.
Rising, she walked over to her window and looked toward the back strip of land she called her yard. The patch was only fifteen feet deep and completely dirt covered. Truthfully, she didn’t own the land, but nobody else had bothered to claim it so she tried to keep it clean. On the very edge of the strip was a small building she called her shed. Only four and a half feet wide and seven feet long, it had been the home of more than one beggar since she and Missa moved here after the unpleasantness regarding Miss Simta’s family. Most of those beggars had moved on. A couple died, forcing her to drag their bodies out of the shelter and into the street.
The building now housed a clumsy-footed spawn.
Responsible for the spawn for over four hours now, she still knew little about it. She knew it was mostly stumble-mouthed and incredibly stupid, but on one occasion something happened, some growing sense of comprehension occurred, and it’d seemed almost brilliant. She didn’t know why it changed from one extreme to another, but the thing came from Hell. Who could explain anything about Hell?
Turning away from the window, she sat down on her bed and released a heavy breath. This was madness. Hell's creatures could not be trusted. If she didn’t regain her senses and send the thing on its way, the spawn would likely try to murder her in bed.
She fidgeted, nervously pulling her wedding band up and down the too thin length of her finger. It was the one thing she had refused to sell, a constant reminder she had been married to one of the good men, married to a man with principles. Larson would have known the right answers. He always knew the right thing to do, but he wasn’t here anymore. According to rumor, a demon named Bent had murdered him.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember what it felt like when Larson held her, the touch of his lips and the sound of his voice, but she was tired. He had been dead for so long even those memories were fading. Anithia held her single blanket up to her nose and tried to breathe in his remaining scent, but it, too, was gone, lost long ago to the incursions of dust and household odors. All her reminders of him were disappearing, and this truth made her want to cry.
Ani stiffened her shoulders. "Larson’s dead. There's no sense in wishing him alive."
Exhausted, she lay awake until well past midnight, and then she fell into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of demons, gods, and Missa. In them all she saw the floating face of a scarred spawn and the wicked curve of an evil green hook.
