Chronicles of Devon

by W. J. May

  “Everyone all right back there?” she called airily, flashing a sweet smile at the tourists gawking on the other side of the street. “Look, honey—you pulled yourself free!”

  Julian glared shakily from the backseat, still clutching at the chrome, while Devon crossed himself in a gesture his mother used to make when he tried sneaking out of the house.

  “This is why people hate you,” he said darkly. “This is why you’re a societal menace, who’d be better off locked away in some—”

  “This is why you got fifty-two.”

  A dangerous silence filled the car, broken only by Julian’s nervous—

  “I found parking.”

  The second the car stopped moving, the three friends leapt onto the sidewalk and dashed up a shaded lane towards a little school nestled amongst the trees. Even through the closed doors they heard the drone of children’s voices, punctuated with occasional bursts of laughter and a spattering of applause. They paused on the steps, giving each other a cursory check.

  Julian removed a piece of ash from his hair. Devon pocketed the inhibitor, while Angel flipped his collar to hide a stain of blood. Then they eased open the door and slipped inside—

  —only to immediately freeze upon entering.

  When Devon’s seven-year-old daughter had raced home from school one day, gushing about the upcoming play, he’d imagined it to be something a little closer to what he’d grown up with himself. A mismatched flurry of felt costumes, stitched alongside mothers’ late-night tears, parading on stage whilst the audience slowly choked on the steam of a dozen casseroles and Shel Silverstein.

  ...this was something different.

  Despite having been trained to assess and analyze myriad situations, this one was throwing him. It might have been the taffeta. It might have been the life-size pears.

  The trio tilted their heads as a live parakeet careened across the stage.

  ...run.

  He ignored his first instinct and went with his second, scanning the seats until he found a head of dark hair. His wife was sitting next to Molly in the front row, tuning out the general chaos while the rest of the auditorium slipped into a psychedelic trance. It didn’t seem possible that she could have noticed the late arrival, but she turned ever so slightly and flashed an arctic glare.

  Angel nudged him with a little grin. “Looks like someone will be setting you on fire after all.”

  ...seriously, run.

  Fortunately, a group of slightly less-volatile people was sitting closer to the back. The trio shared a quick glance, then eased down the aisle to join them.

  “Please tell me you were late, too.”

  Devon slipped into the chair beside Luke, still feeling his wife’s punishing gaze.

  “Are you kidding? Molly would have killed me.” Luke handed him a program, then fixed him and Julian with the same expectant look. “Well?”

  Neither one could answer. It was Angel who did the honors.

  “...fifty-two.”

  There was a look of surprise, followed by a burst of muffled laughter that was lost amidst the commotion. Julian glared daggers at the seat in front of him. Devon was grinding his teeth.

  “You know,” Luke gasped when he finally resurfaced for air, “I think your dad once did that course in thirty-seven.”

  Thirty-four, actually.

  “And what’s your best time, Fodder?” Devon swatted him silent with the program when he started laughing again. “Anytime you’d like to—”

  “Be quiet, both of you,” Gabriel muttered, eyes glued to the stage. “We’re coming to the best part.”

  For the first time since sitting down, the friends turned their eyes to the stage. It had hardly been a conscious decision, but most of them had been avoiding looking at it straight on. It appeared the show was reaching some kind of climax. A small mob of children had gathered in the center as the desiccated husk of an organist swelled into song.

  “A curse upon the proletariat! We’ll tear these laborers apart!”

  Gabriel leaned forward intently, mouthing the words.

  Devon glanced at his program with a frown. “What the...?! What is this—”

  “Shh!”

  The friends might have missed the first act, but that had little bearing on the rest of the performance. What the show lacked in discernable plot it made up for in wild imagistic metaphors and a slightly aggressive style of dance. Halfway through a musical interlude, when a pint-sized newsboy crab-walked up the aisle demanding alms, Devon found himself emptying his pockets.

  Jason was lying motionless on the floor with a pair of chopsticks poking out of his hair.

  Lily was in the chorus, dressed as a turnip.

  As things continued to spiral Devon glanced several times at the program, but found little guidance in the drawings. But the billing didn’t surprise him. Nor was he at all surprised when his daughter dragged a birdcage full of sock-puppets to the middle of the stage.

  He was slightly more surprised when she set the cage on fire.

  By the time a teacher ran out with an extinguisher, looking ten years older than she’d been at the beginning of term, the sordid tale had finally reached an end. Aria and Benji launched into a feral operatic duet while the rest of the class nodded gravely behind them, then the same newsboy swept up the ashes as half the remaining children fell to their knees and spontaneously wept.

  At the last possible moment Aria pulled a candied dove from her pocket, which fell to the floor with an unceremonious plop.

  Then all was quiet.

  ...run?

  There was a moment of silence, then the friends pushed collectively to their feet.

  The applause was deafening. The children couldn’t be happier. The teacher nearly fainted backstage and the ancient organist shuffled to her aid.

  “What the hell just happened?” Devon asked, lifting his hands in applause as his daughter beamed back at him, waving furiously from onstage.

  Julian was clapping beside him with a fixed expression. “Just smile.”

  “I’M TELLING YOU...WE should have called a priest.”

  Devon and Gabriel were standing in the back of the lobby, trying to avoid the refreshments and over-effusive parents whilst waiting to take their children to the car. There had already been one crisis, as the parakeet was revealed to have been illegally borrowed from a sibling. There had been a not-so-subtle proposition afterwards by an unnaturally determined divorcee taking advantage of the fact that both men were stranded in the auditorium without their wives.

  “I love how you think that’s a service provided by the church,” Gabriel murmured, eyes on the unruly crowd. “Like ordering a pizza.”

  Devon ignored this, rubbing absentmindedly at his arm. “Is that unreasonable? Think of the donations they receive. There should be a button you can press for divine assistance.”

  “I believe they call that prayer.”

  “We could have used some of those today.” He stifled a shudder as strains of that demonic singing echoed in his ears. “Setting fire to puppets...” he muttered. “Oh, and I’m sorry about Jase.”

  The boy in question was racing towards them, one of the chopsticks used to murder him still tangled in waves of messy hair. Gabriel softened with a smile, answering under his breath.

  “It was worse when he was alive.”

  There was a violent impact as the boy hurled himself skyward, landing in his father’s waiting arms. His cheeks were flushed with adrenaline and he was unable to stop grinning. The remains of a homemade toe-tag were still looped around his shoe.

  “I fell down just like you showed me!” he exclaimed before either of the men could say anything. “Weight on the back ankle, aim for the center...it was my most believable stabbing yet!”

  Devon shuddered again, while Gabriel removed the chopstick with a smile.

  “You were magnificent. I recorded the entire thing.”

  “Can we watch it tonight?”

  “I imagine we’ll
end up watching it several times...” Gabriel kissed his forehead then started carrying him through the lobby, glancing over his shoulder with a quick, “See you at the house?”

  Devon waved a hand in acknowledgement.

  He had already begun the search for his wife, when Gabriel paused suddenly by the doors, turning around with Jason still draped over his arms.

  “Oh, and Dev...”

  Their eyes met.

  Fifty-two?

  He didn’t even need to say it. He didn’t need to do anything but stand in the middle of the lobby, twirling a chopstick with his free hand. That infuriating twinkle dancing in his eyes.

  The men stared at each other for a moment, then Gabriel turned away with a grin.

  “Good luck with the wife.”

  Just kill me now...

  Angel and Julian had already recovered their daughter and were swiftly making their way through the crowd. The green tuft of chiffon in the girl’s hair kept wafting into the psychic’s face.

  “—trying to represent the sudden decline in agrarian culture,” Lily was saying before trailing off with a sigh. “But there’s only so much you can do as a turnip...”

  Molly spotted them and doubled back, trying to free the neon plume from the girl’s hair. A few steps away, her son was in a heated debate with a boy twice his size over the rightful ownership of several stage props—most of which Benji had assumed would end up belonging to him.

  Devon gave them both a wide berth, scanning for his own child, when the sound of familiar laughter drifted through the crowd. He glanced towards the doors to see his wife standing with a lovely woman he’d never seen before. Both were smiling with the same restrained amusement, as a slightly inebriated parent ranted against civil injustices and the general inequities of the world.

  “—no excuse for that kind of spending,” he concluded soundly, thrilled to have found a receptive audience. “We talk about fiscal responsibility? Makes you want to set the palace on fire!”

  Rae laughed again as her friend placed a soothing hand on the man’s arm.

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  They watched in silence as he wandered away, off to regale the next group of unsuspecting parents, then turned to each other with the same look.

  “We may need to step up security...”

  They dissolved into laughter once again as Devon started winding his way towards them, taking care to avoid the man himself. He was almost there when the woman glanced at her watch.

  “I should get back,” she murmured, reaching into her purse to return a flask the two had been sharing during the performance. “Alfie’s going to throw a fit.”

  Is that...?

  “But thank you for inviting me,” she added with a grin. “It was...enlightening.”

  Rae chuckled and tucked the flask into her coat. “I’m glad you could come...and for the entire performance.” She glanced pointedly at her husband, who froze mid-step. “That face should wear off in the car, by the way.”

  The woman kissed her cheek, then headed for the doors—pausing only to give Devon a quick squeeze as she passed by. “Good luck with that, Wardell.”

  He nodded faintly, keeping eyes on his wife. “Your Majesty.”

  He took another step forward, suddenly grateful for the roomful of witnesses. His wife was smiling sweetly, but those were the smiles he’d learned to fear the most.

  “Hey, sweetheart...you look beautiful.”

  The smile sharpened.

  “More than beautiful—you’re a vision. Is that a new dress?”

  Little curls of smoke drifted unnoticed towards the ceiling.

  “Let’s not do anything hasty...” He placed one foot carefully in front of the other, closing the distance the same way one might approach a wild beast. “They’ve already had one blaze—”

  “Kiss me.”

  He froze where he stood, sure he’d misheard.

  “...sorry?”

  Rae’s eyes caught the fading sunlight, sparkling with her most radiant of smiles. “It’s been a long day, Devon. Your wife would like a kiss.”

  Could use some of that divine assistance right about now.

  With an expression that did nothing to alert the people around them, Devon closed the distance between them—skin prickling the way it did on missions when he realized it was a mistake to have holstered his gun. His heart quickened as he leaned down with a bracing kiss—

  Bloody hell!

  “Oh honey, are you all right?” She pulled back with a look of concern, eyeing the scorch marks at the corners of his mouth. “I must have shocked you.”

  He brought a hand to his mouth, swallowing the smoke. “...must have.”

  A blur of color raced between them as Aria detached from the crowd and threw herself into her mother’s arms. The girl was babbling so fast no other participants were required. She didn’t even notice when Rae gave her husband a smirk and started walking towards the car.

  “See you at home, dearest.”

  He stared after them, rooted to the spot.

  It took a few seconds to realize that he wasn’t alone. Another few seconds to process that the little boy who’d plopped down in front of him had been costumed to resemble a shrew.

  “I couldn’t remember my lines,” he said without provocation.

  Devon stared a moment, then let out a sigh. “It doesn’t get easier, kid.”

  Chapter 2

  It wasn’t a long drive from the school back to the residential block the gang called home, but they made it a grand affair—rolling down the windows and screaming their theatric success, pausing without provocation in the middle of every intersection and honking in a ceremonial chorus.

  By the time they turned onto the shaded lane, the caravan had accrued all the pomp and circumstance of a militaristic parade. But the festivities weren’t finished yet. The children had toiled away for almost four weeks preparing the play—and the celebration had only begun.

  “Rae—the laurels!” Molly commanded as they piled out of the cars.

  Instead of parking in front of their respective houses and simply walking to the Wardells’ for the dinner, each of the friends had screeched to a stop in a chaotic pile bordering the lawn. It was the kind of thing that was sure to warrant some retaliation from the city, but Julian had scanned the future and assured them that no one would get a ticket as long as the cars were moved by eight.

  Rae ducked obligingly back into the passenger seat to hide her hands, then emerged a few seconds later with conjured wreathes of golden leaves—each of which was placed with Olympic ceremony atop the head of each child.

  “A truly spectacular performance,” she declared as Molly hovered in the background, taking pictures. “One that made me deeply relieved you didn’t recreate The Hobbit, after all.”

  Devon froze with his keys halfway in his pocket.

  Dragons, floods, a kitchen sing-along...?

  Yes, he was quite relieved they’d picked something different as well.

  “Now let us partake of a celebratory feast!”

  The children let out a collective cheer and traipsed inside, admiring the leafy points in their shadows and reliving the highlights of the show. Their parents followed just behind, making a conscious effort not to think about it. As they neared the door Aria left the others and doubled back, slipping her hand into her father’s and staring up at him with enormous blue eyes.

  “Did you like the play?” she asked breathlessly. “Benji wrote it himself.”

  The boy beamed proudly behind her—as his parents simultaneously considered therapy. He had donned a flat-cap and glasses for the occasion. The laurels were perched awkwardly on top.

  “It was...I mean, honey, it was so...” In a flash, over a decade’s worth of training failed him and he was left with nothing but the truth. “I was overwhelmed.”

  Aria nodded knowingly, as if she’d foreseen this several weeks back.

  “It’s about the repression of the
modern-day workforce,” she explained. “The exploitation of fixed-income laborers to secure a wider profit margin for those on top.”

  Said my seven-year-old...

  Devon nodded a bit nervously. “And how did you feel about that?”

  She smiled brightly. “We sided with the oppressors.”

  “Of course you did,” Rae muttered before pointing to the door. “Go get changed for dinner. I don’t want any of that plebian soot on your fingers smeared around the house.”

  The three children let out a feral shriek and charged up the front steps, leaving the little psychic trailing in their wake. Lily stared after them a moment, then let out a weary sigh.

  “I wanted to side with the unions,” she confided under her breath.

  “Good girl,” Julian said quietly.

  “That’s when they made me a turnip...”

  TRANSITIONS WITH CHILDREN were never easy. They were made a hundred times worse when those children had staged a bizarre puppet incineration, then eaten their weight in candied fruit.

  “Do not run on those stairs!” Devon called as his daughter streaked past, still raining tiny pieces of ash behind her. “Aria Juliet, I’m not telling you—oh, thanks, Brandy.”

  He stopped in his tracks as a smiling teenager descended the staircase—one who was proudly displaying her newfound lack of braces.

  “Looks nice,” he congratulated. “When did that happen?”

  “Earlier this week,” she replied, shaking back a long sheet of silky hair. “My mom had promised that I could get a nose ring to celebrate when they came off...but now she denies it.”

  Given that the girl came from a highly-traditional Japanese family, he highly doubted such a promise had ever been made. He nodded in silence, avoiding the subject altogether.

  “So how did it go?” he asked instead. “Did the force-field work out okay?”

  When tasked with finding babysitters, the members of the ‘Kerrigan Gang’ usually didn’t have far to look. Not only had the supernatural community been a bit over-enthusiastic about showing their gratitude since the magical showdown against Vivian, but each of the children in question had a set of equally fervent grandparents waiting to abduct them with a single call.