by Brian Corley
“Those don’t even match,” I said.
“Heyyy,” she replied. “We have history. These are my lucky socks.” She bobbed up and down on her heels, further displaying them. “One of my old roommates used to buy these socks—in matching pairs. Somehow these ended up in my sock drawer, and I never wanted to give them back. Four years on, I think they’re officially mine.”
Max smiled, admiring the socks. “Oh, on that note, I’m wearing one of my original Willards.”
He gestured with his hands in a display worthy of any game show from the ’80s to present the original Willard meme on the front of his shirt.
“Sounds like we’re ready then,” I said.
Max snapped his fingers. “Oh, also, Debra got her friends together tonight, and she said to tell you hi.”
“Great,” I said. “That’s great. So—what now?”
“I think Lin brought over a new game,” Max said and then raised his voice. “Lin! Did you set up the game?”
“Yes, relax!” she replied from the kitchen. “We’re waiting on you two—three—sorry, Jonah!”
“Shall we?” Zoe made a theatrical bow and waved her arm toward the kitchen.
“Yeah, uh-huh,” Max said, cracking his knuckles as he strode into the kitchen and threw himself onto one of the old chrome, diner-style chairs.
The group once again pulled several chairs from around the house to help accommodate everyone at the table. Lin was leading the game, and everyone had a handful of small dice in front of them or in their hand.
The game moved fast, and the wins were pretty evenly distributed over the next few hours until Zoe put everything on hold around eleven thirty.
“Alright,” she said as she pushed back from the table. “Everyone make sure your station is ready. Same plan as last night if they actually make it in past the front door. Luckily for us, this guy is a creature of habit, so we can expect him to be here at midnight—be ready.”
The group broke, and people spread out in different directions. Max and Quinton collected coffee cups that were scattered around the kitchen and put them in the sink, while some of the other Psy-kicks headed off to the bathroom or directly to their station. Zoe went into the living room to distribute the swords from her huge canvas bag to the person or at their station if they weren’t there. Everyone took their position, either bouncing around or stretching, all preparing themselves for whatever happened next.
Around midnight, I could hear Willard’s screams from outside but couldn’t make out just what was being said. It sounded like he was talking to someone, but I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation. The speakers started to pick up his voice as he apparently came closer.
“… gone! They knocked it down! What do you mean? Look at it!”
I decided to peek my head up over the roof to see what was going on. Willard was apoplectic, zigzagging across the lot in furious fits of speed while yelling at the gargoyled version of Masephson between bouts of coughs.
“Calm down, Mr. Hensch,” he said, coughing into his arm. “It’s here—just look.”
“I can’t even stand to be here—it’s making me sick!” Willard exclaimed.
“It’s a trick—it’s smoke and mirrors—almost quite literally,” he replied.
Willard kicked a part of the house disguised as debris. “We had a deal, Masephson. I want my house back!”
“Relax,” Masephson replied. “We’ll get you your house back—trust me. Just go back there with everyone else and let me handle this.”
The plan worked. Willard was beside himself, but I forgot that angels could see through the various planes—guess that meant demons could too. Masephson wasn’t fooled.
Willard retreated to the street in front of the house to join about a dozen menacing-looking spirits. I couldn’t tell from here if they were ghosts or demons, but I would venture to guess that the group was a mix of both. They calmly bobbed up and down, floating just above the pavement and glaring toward the house.
“I see you, Jonah,” Masephson said, spinning into his humanoid form and looking up at me. “Why don’t you join us outside for a little talk?”
“Hard pass,” I replied.
“We can come in anytime we like, Jonah. You may as well make this easier on everyone inside.”
I thought about it for at least a half a Mississippi count before replying, “No, you can’t.”
He materialized a lacy handkerchief from his waistcoat, coughed politely, pounded a fist against the front door, then laughed.
“Clever. Same as the weapon that injured me last night. The Demon Tree, the Tree of Mount Tu Shou, the Tree of Life—all derivations of a simple peach tree.”
He held the palm of his hand just off the door, feeling the energy, and disappeared the handkerchief back inside his waistcoat.
“Good sample, good ceremony—well done. My compliments to the young lady and her team. These trees stand sentry at almost all the gateways to the other plane—Hades, Sheol, Abaddon, Tartarus.” He waved his hand in front of his face to help displace some of the smoke. “Whatever you want to call it. They can’t get out—we can’t get in. Very clever, but it will not save your friends this night.” He floated in perfect posture until he was eye level, fifteen feet away from me. “That is,” he continued, “unless you decide to come with me.”
“Hollow threat, you’re not getting in here tonight, and you can’t lay a finger on my friends,” I replied.
He smiled as his feet floated up, turning him on his side so he faced me as though he were lying down. “Oh, I see—you’re confused. Not those friends,” he said and clapped his hands.
Two hideous, greasy, winged reptilian creatures emerged from the darkness and floated about thirty feet above the assembled group on the street. Each creature held one side of a pole stuck through a large cage, which looked to be about ten feet by ten feet by ten feet. Within the cage, clinging together and scared, were George and Ramona Rodriguez, both doing their best to put on a defiant face.
“Why do they look like that?” I asked.
“Who? The two in the cage or the ones holding it?” he replied.
I rolled my eyes. “Holding it.”
“Scarier—wouldn’t you say?” He straightened his collar and pulled on his white sleeves underneath his jacket. “Look, boy, we’ve spent millennia cultivating an image. Just admit that you’re impressed or at least a little terrified and let’s get on with this.”
He looked back toward the floating cage, then focused on me again with a smile somewhere between genuine and condescension.
“Now, they both said they don’t know you, but I think you know them—am I correct?”
“Yeah, I know them.”
“Good, I didn’t want to have to tell you that we were the ones running by you that night in Hyde Park—although I suppose I just did.” He twirled into an upright position. “Yes, Jonah, you’ve made some enemies, and you’ve made some friends. I’m happy to use both against you if that’s what it takes—and it’s easy—believe me.
“Now, I’ll give you a few moments to say goodbye to your friends back inside. I expect you to repeat Mr. Hensch’s wishes again to your roommate, and then we’ll meet you back here.
“Oh, and I suppose we should compensate him for the property. I could come by tomorrow afternoon with an agreement and a check,” he added, looking back at me as he moved back toward the group on the street. “I won’t—but I could.”
Masephson rejoined the group, and I sank back inside like a slowly deflating balloon.
“We heard most of it,” Zoe started solemnly, sensing the change in temperature to the room. “We could hear him outside, and you were coming through the speakers.”
“Don’t go back out there, Jonah,” Max said. “You can’t trust that guy, and we know they can’t get in here.”
“They have George and Ramona in a cage, Max,” I said. “I have to go back out there.”
“In a cage—damn. That’s messed up,” Max replied. “Still, I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. I don’t want to go … I think I need to though,” I replied, thinking through what I was about to say next.
I thought about showing up to college without knowing a soul, waiting in line to register, and turning around to strike up a conversation with someone I’d spend most of my time with for the rest of my life. Late-night taco runs, all-night studying at various diners, road trips, holidays—I even stayed with his family for a summer. Now I was about to say goodbye for possibly the last time.
“Goodbye, Max,” I said.
“Bye, Jonah,” Max replied, looking up with tears in his eyes.
I floated up through the ceiling and over the roof where I hovered for a moment.
“Let ’em go,” I said.
Masephson strutted forward, now outfitted with a jaunty, crystal-handled cane. He had style—I had to give him that—a style anyway. He threw his right hand above his head so far that it bent backward.
“Release them,” he said in a loud, projected voice.
One of the greasy, winged, reptilian demons kicked
the side of the cage, causing the bottom to drop out like a
trap door.
“Jonah, don’t do this,” Ramona said. “This isn’t our first time behind bars.”
“It’s cool, man,” George said. “We’re old pros at this.”
I smiled at the sentiment, but Masephson cut through our moment.
“Goodbye, George. Goodbye, Ramona—be on your way.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “The bargain has been struck. The deal is done.”
“And neither you nor any of your associates bring any harm to any of my other friends after this. You steer clear of them forever?” I asked, making sure I understood the deal.
“Sure. Yes, of course. Come, Jonah. Your chariot awaits.” He smiled wide and motioned toward the cage.
Both demons holding the cage rose up, leaving George and Ramona behind, and flew toward me. In an effort to retain some semblance of control, I decided to meet them halfway. They lowered the cage over me while Masephson walked underneath and swung the bottom of the cage shut with his cane.
There I was, stuck in a cage. The bars were made of wood, peach—tree of life wood—the whole bit from before. I tried to blink out and head downtown, but no luck. I was in.
“Are you comfortable, Jonah?” Masephson asked.
I didn’t feel like talking, and I couldn’t think of a witty reply, so I said nothing.
“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you, at least for the next half hour to hour. Cheer up.” He smiled back at the group and got a little murmur of approval. Masephson sucked in air through his wolf-like teeth. “Fine. Not my best work. Let’s go.”
My two captors rose at once, as did Masephson. I looked down at the group below and could make out some familiar shapes. Willard sunk to his knees in defeat; in his eyes, the house was gone. He could have phased through a door or window if he were lucky enough to guess where they were through the disguise, but those entrances were blocked with the Psy-kicks’ wards. I could recognize the three goons from last night, and they seemed to be reveling in Willard’s bad fortune.
As we rose higher, I noticed the figure of the man from the diner and the Electric Fern concert just behind a neighbor’s tree across the street. I knew it—he was with them all along.
Chapter 31
We rose high enough so that the rest of the group became outlines against the landscape as we headed northeast. We flew over I-35, which cut just east of downtown with north- and southbound traffic. I-35 (or just “thirty-five” as it’s known to locals) through Austin is feared throughout Texas for its gridlock. Go ahead and add twenty to thirty minutes per mile if you need to take it for any reason between the hours of 6:00 a.m. and 10:00 p.m. (excluding holidays—they’re worse). The interstate diverges into upper and lower decks just east of campus, and the two demons holding my cage dove toward the lower deck and down through it.
Down, down, impossibly down at a rate of speed that I could hardly comprehend. I imagined I was experiencing a feeling similar to what the families on the out-of-control boat ride felt in the Gene Wilder version of Willy Wonka as we continued on with no signs of stopping.
But then we did stop abruptly, which is to say—immediately. No reduction in momentum, no warning, just an end. We stood stock-still in a gray, imageless, colorless space, a void without sound or feeling. I guess there was a feeling, but it was hard to describe. Internally I felt fuzzy—like the inside of your mouth after drinking tea that has steeped too long.
A passageway yawned open in the void somehow without spilling forth any light. Inside, oranges and yellows danced against limestone walls that curved out of sight. We moved slowly and steadily forward in silence, gliding past the entrance and into a tunnel that curved to the right, and then up, over, and through an Escher-like maze my captors seemed to know by heart. I looked down through tunnels as we passed by, some filled with a similar lighting scheme: orange, yellow, and red dancing across the walls as if lit by fire. Some were brilliantly lit by a bright-white light, some with a dappled-blue hue, as though a light were bouncing off water, while some were completely dark. We entered a clearing, or maybe just a large room lit in a warm, brownish-orange light. I guessed the dimensions to be somewhere in the range of a fifty-foot ceiling, a football field in length, and a basketball court in width. Gnarled stalactites hung down from the ceiling with sharp stalagmites rising to meet them like the pointed teeth of a viperfish.
My wooden cage settled to the floor with a solid thunk, and I heard a rush of wing beats as my captors ascended to the ceiling of the cave. The sounds of their wings faded as they reached the top, and I watched as they hooked their claws in and dropped to dangle down headfirst like two enormous bats.
“So, are you reptiles or bats?” I said, looking up. “Pick a classification and stick with it.”
One of them ignored me; the other hissed out a laugh. “Bats are mammals, but I get what you’re saying.”
“What?” I shot back, confused.
“You said pick a classification—bats are mammals. You chose a classification—reptile, and an order—bats,” he
hissed back.
“Oh yeah, I guess I did. Order, huh? Wouldn’t bats be in like a family or genus?” I replied. I was genuinely interested; I didn’t expect this discussion.
“Oh, you might think,” he started and waggled a finger. “But it’s an order—Chiroptera, second-largest order behind rodents—Rodentia. Bats make up about twenty percent of all mammalian species—they’re actually quite fascinating.”
“Hey, thanks,” I said, “I genuinely learned something today. You’re really smart.”
He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Naaaah, I just have a lot of free time on my hands,” he hissed and then shrugged with two open palms.
“Did you just say that because you’re hanging by your feet and you wanted to make a pun on how your hands were free?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, blinking at me with big, frog-like eyes. OK, so frogs aren’t reptiles. Horned frogs are though.
“Mister Preston.” A voice interrupted my internal dialogue and reverberated around the limestone cavern.
“Please call me Jonah. My dad—forget it. Hey, Masephson,” I drawled, turning to try to locate the voice of the slinky, overly theatrical demon.
He was practically dancing into the room in his humanoid form. “How was your flight? Did you enjoy the view of downtown lit up at night? I do hope so, because I’ll hazard to guess that’s the last time you’ll be seeing it for quite some time,” the demon said, almost singing the words as he twisted and twirled his way into the room. �
��Welll?” he prodded.
“Oh, I just assumed those were rhetorical questions.”
“We know what assuming does, Jonah,” he said as he rounded my cage like a shark with two legs.
“Yeah, yeah, it saves time,” I shot back.
“Humph,” he laughed. “You’re probably wondering what you’re doing here.” Masephson held his arms wide and slowly twirled as he held his head back to look at the ceiling.
“Not really, I was thinking about horned frogs,” I replied. “Did you know they’re not really frogs?”
Masephson’s expression changed mainly because his face changed, and his face changed because his body changed as he raged into his gargoyle-like form, grabbed two bars of my cage, and ripped it in half. Wood splintered, and the walls echoed with two large cracks followed by various diminishing crashes as the sides of the cage hit the walls on opposite ends of the open space.
Slowly and menacingly, he moved closer until he was just a few inches from my face, inhaling and exhaling huge gusts of air as he tried to bring himself back under control. I took that moment to reflect on how grateful I was not to have the sense of smell at that moment as his breath would have been heaved into my face in two-second intervals.
“Focus, Jonah,” he said.
He took a deep breath, exhaled, and straightened himself up. His wings folded behind him and morphed back into his humanoid form.
“Let’s start over,” Masephson offered. “Do you know where you are?”
He floated up with one arm set over the other, like you would normally cross your arms, but he wasn’t—kind of like
a genie.
“Is this Hell?” I asked.
“That’s the spirit, no! You’re not in Hell. Hell doesn’t exist—not yet, anyway—and it won’t if we can help it. No, this isn’t Hell, but we’ve done our best to create a version of what people’s concept of it would be. For starters, we set it underground, created bits based on Dante’s descriptions, borrowed a little from this movie, that movie, a TV show here and there. Personally, I enjoy a good stalagmite, so I had this room created as my own little holding area.”
