Elatsoe

by Darcie Little Badger

  The others tried to help. They kicked the wood, and Ronnie even whaled against it with a pair of silver stakes. Unfortunately, their combined efforts did little more than dislodge old chips of paint, baring the raw underlying material. It was a dense, grayish wood that peeled away in fine splinters.

  Behind the door, a swell of terror-raised voices suggested that the situation in the ballroom was not improving.

  “Stand back!” Vivian shouted, retreating to the far wall. “The doors are blocked with a supernatural barrier!” She didn’t know what could wield such tremendous power. Trevor’s ghost? Allerton’s magic? Whatever the case, Vivian knew the best battering ram in Texas.

  She just had to call her.

  What did innocence feel like? Vivian used to sit on the roof of her playhouse car and watch plumes of dust rise between distant juniper and sage as the mammoth played. A creature of the Ice Age, it must have found the sweltering desert to be strange and endlessly surprising.

  Like young Vivian, a child who marveled at every pretty stone and bug she encountered during her ambling walks. Back then, she’d pretend to go on adventures, inspired by the stories of Five-Great-Grandmother. Saving lives, slaying monsters, meeting new people. She and her best friend, Miss Mammoth, would become new heroes.

  Wake up, Vivian thought, extending her heart to the cavernous Below. We need you, Miss Mammoth.

  A whispering responded. She was coming. She’d save them.

  No. She was enormous. It was too dangerous! She’d kill them.

  In her mind’s eye, Vivian witnessed the doors bursting inward, an explosion of splinters, wooden shards impaling frightened people. The charging mammoth would crush bodies underfoot. She was summoning a bloodbath!

  Or maybe the mammoth would crack the supernatural barrier that trapped Ellie in a room with certain death.

  Vivian had to take the risk. But she couldn’t hear the whispering from Below anymore. All she heard were muffled screams. Voices pleading for an escape. She squeezed her eyes shut, balled her hands into fists, and searched for the sense of calm that amplified her inner voice. Normally, meditation helped, but there wasn’t enough time for that.

  Wake up, she thought. Wake up!

  Nothing happened.

  Please! Wake up! Ellie needs you! Please, wake up!

  “Ms. Bride,” Ronnie said. “What are you doing?” She and her friends stood with their backs against the wall, waiting.

  “I’m trying to open those doors,” Vivian said. “I’m trying!”

  “Maybe there’s another way in,” Ronnie said. “An underground route! We have to try.”

  With a shriek of frustration, Vivian threw herself against the door and wrenched its bar. “Ellie!” she shouted. “Can you hear me? Wake the mammoth! Knock the doors down! Get out of there, Ellie! Elatsoe! I’m coming!”

  As Vivian backed away from the door, following Ronnie’s group down the hall, she wondered if anyone could hear her in the ballroom above the cries of terror.

  THIRTY-TWO

  THE PIANO LANDED on its side. It splintered upon impact, shards of hardwood rim and lid popping outward. Keys clattered across the floor, and wires twanged as they snapped free. Ellie and Jay tried to reach the accident site, running against a flood of screaming, retreating people. Somebody elbowed Ellie in the ribs. Another guest almost knocked Jay to the floor. Kirby barked, but nobody seemed to notice.

  “Did it hit anybody?” Ellie asked, finally reaching the piano. A ring of Good Samaritans rushed around it.

  “Yes!” one man said. “Careful, miss. Stand back.” He and several other men lifted the piano’s main body, including its inner iron plate. They heaved it to one side. A shattered, bleeding body lay among the remaining pieces of piano scrap. Ellie gasped and clasped her mouth with a trembling hand.

  “Doctor Allerton!” somebody shouted over the roar of the room. “Help him!”

  Dr. Allerton remained on the stage, his expression inscrutable. Ellie preferred the blank face to his arrogant grin, but she expected at least a sign of horror or anger from the murderer.

  His victim had returned.

  The body in the piano rubble was Trevor’s. Bruised, bleeding, dying Trevor. The same Trevor who first visited Ellie in a dream. He’d returned. Had the emissary been in the ballroom the whole time, invisible and waiting for the perfect chance to demonstrate his wrath?

  “Tonight,” Trevor’s body whispered, and it was a whisper, but Ellie heard it so clearly she wondered if the emissary could transmit its voice directly into her skull, “you’ll wish that you had died in your Mercedes-Benz. Murderer.”

  Ellie was vaguely aware of a frenzy behind her, of people throwing themselves against doors that wouldn’t open, of fists pummeling windows that cracked but didn’t shatter. Her gaze, however, remained fixed on Dr. Allerton’s face. On his eyes. Dr. Allerton looked down at the people on the ballroom floor. At Trevor. At Ellie. At the frightened guests who could not escape.

  “What are you?” Dr. Allerton asked. “Death at my red masque? Come to teach old Prospero the error of his ways?”

  “You murdered my cousin!” Ellie shouted, striding toward the stage. “Trevor was just being a decent man! Just trying to help! And you murdered him!”

  “Frank!” Dr. Allerton shouted, ignoring Ellie; he wouldn’t even look at her anymore. “Frank! Frank, I need you up here now!”

  “If Frank’s your exorcist, he’s gone,” Ellie said. “Vengeance killed him. Tell everyone about the night my cousin died! Tell them how you kill the poor to heal the rich. Confess!”

  Dr. Allerton leaned toward the microphone. “Please stay calm, everybody!” he announced. “My team of exorcists will make quick work of the devil that has attacked my home!”

  A pair of hands, ghostly manifestations, popped from the stage floor and grabbed Dr. Allerton by the ankles. The fingers seemed to be rotting, and Ellie couldn’t help but think about B-grade zombie movies, about the dead emerging from their graves, hands first, to feast on brains. Trevor used to love those movies. He’d watch them with a bowl of popcorn and shout instructions at the characters on TV. “Don’t go in that graveyard! Don’t split up! Don’t forget your cell phone!”

  What would the real Trevor shout at Ellie? What would he tell her to do now? She wished that she knew.

  “He won’t confess!” the emissary boomed. Its voice was amplified by the microphone speakers, which had been turned up to the maximum volume. Ellie covered her ears, cringing at the thunderous sound. It was almost as loud as Kirby’s howl.

  “He won’t confess, ladies and gentlemen and spelling bee champions,” the emissary continued, “so how about a demonstration? The last time Abe Allerton was gravely wounded—by the way, how fast were you driving, Doctor? Twice the speed limit? Faster? FASTER!—he transferred his injuries to a local schoolteacher, Trevor Reyes, a devoted father and husband. An unwilling sacrifice. But I suppose that’s old news to most of you. So tell me: who will be Abe’s victim tonight?”

  Invisible hands dragged a child across the polished dance floor and toward the stage. “Mom!” the boy cried. “Mom, help!” A woman tried to grab the child’s hand, but the emissary flung her back into the crowd of dancers.

  “Our volunteer,” the speakers boomed, “is a brave kid named Brett. Place your bets. Who thinks Abe Allerton will kill his own son?”

  “Stop him!” Dr. Allerton shouted. “For the love of God! Hurry! You don’t need to demonstrate. They already know!”

  The crowd was evenly split between those who were trying to escape at the perimeter of the ballroom and those who watched the confrontation between Dr. Allerton and the emissary with rapt horror. None of the bystanders moved to help Brett. They seemed rooted in place, although no ghostly hands held their feet. Then, a dozen red-robed people emerged from the crowd.

  Ellie recognized their outfits; the dead exorcist had worn something similar. Of course a man like Allerton would be amply prepared for a haunting, especially after
robbing a grave. She almost called out, “Cuz, watch your back!” but the impulse was extinguished by one look at Brett’s terrified little face.

  That thing wasn’t Trevor, anyway. Her cuz wouldn’t want anybody to suffer, least of all his former student. That was, perhaps, the worst part of his death. So much cruelty and suffering had filled the gulf that Trevor had left behind.

  “They already know what I can do,” Allerton said. “They know.”

  “Ah,” the emissary said. “Is the wager unfair? Have you killed another son befo—”

  “Stop,” Allerton interrupted; his voice, loud as thunder, almost drowned out the speakers. “This is my confession. I am descended from Nathaniel Grace. No better wizard has ever existed, and I inherited his wisdom, his magic, his responsibilities, and his town. If I die, Willowbee rots with me.” He spreads his arms. “The people in this room understand why your death was necessary. I do not keep secrets from my own.”

  Ellie looked at the people around her. Most had removed their masks during the chaos, baring ordinary faces. “How could you?” she whispered.

  The piano fragments floated and started revolving around the emissary’s battered body. Glass flutes, loose jewelry, utensils, cell phones, and every miscellaneous sharp or hard ammunition in the ballroom flowed into the spinning mess. The galaxy of odds and ends moved sluggishly, as if caught in molasses.

  “Jay,” Ellie said. “We need to find cover.”

  She could not see any available hiding spot.

  The ballroom lights buzzed and flickered, promising greater mischief. Except for the exorcists, people crouched in defensive postures, waiting for a tornado to strike. They shielded their heads with purses and arms; many adults used their bodies to protect children and partners.

  “House’s choice, you Jedi-looking freaks,” the emissary said, nodding at the nearest exorcist. “Do you want to move first, or should I?”

  “What now?” Jay whispered, kneeling with Ellie. Kirby paced around them.

  “I can help send the emissary to the underworld,” Ellie said. “But the exorcists have to act.”

  Every cell phone in the ballroom rang. Electronic bring-bring-brings, techno beats, classical melodies, and cheesy jingles trilled in a mismatched chorus. Soon, the sound shifted from music to voices. Ellie heard her mother weeping and screaming; the sound came from the phone in her pocket. Others must have heard personal horrors, too, because smartphones (and a few flip phones) skittered en masse across the polished floor, cast away like venomous scorpions. Some were stomped underfoot; the broken electronics joined the tornado of junk that spun around the emissary.

  The floating phones continued to speak. Ellie heard one ask, in a child’s voice, “When will my head stop hurting?”

  Another phone begged, “Stop it! Please! Oh, please! Why won’t you stop?”

  In a synchronized motion, the exorcists whipped knives from their cloaks and sliced their own palms from pinky to thumb. They charged the emissary, their bleeding hands extended.

  “Damn!” Ellie said. No time to retreat. She threw herself over Jay. “Kirby, don’t let us die!” It wasn’t a command he knew. Ellie hoped that, on some level, he understood that flying objects could injure his mistress.

  Wood, glass, metal, and stone exploded outward, riding a psionic blast. With the ease of a fetch-master, Kirby blocked the junk that sailed at Ellie and Jay. An invisible wall knocked the two on their backs, but it did not hurt. The crowd, which cowered at the edge of the ballroom, toppled over like bowling pins.

  The lights went out. Every phone squealed and crunched—the sound of a car accident. Ellie could feel the wooden floor warp beneath her.

  A tremor shook the mansion.

  “Big howl, Kirby!” she shouted, hoping that the sound would distract the emissary more than the exorcists. Ellie didn’t want the ballroom to become a mass tomb.

  As Kirby keened, the floor stopped writhing, and the emergency lights turned on. Three exorcists, the only ones left standing, descended on the emissary with their red-slicked, outstretched palms. “Traitor,” screamed the phones and speakers. “Elatsoe, you are a traitor!”

  The floor beneath Ellie dropped. No. She wasn’t falling. She was floating. Every person in the ballroom rose. The emissary wanted to lift them toward the dome ceiling. Let them touch the cherubs and clouds on the fresco before they plummeted three stories. A fall like that could kill. Even survivors, the lucky people who landed just right or were cushioned by other bodies, would have serious injuries. Broken bones, punctured innards, permanent aches and hardship.

  Thankfully, one exorcist reached the emissary. He slapped its back, leaving a bloody handprint. The print glowed exit-sign red and expanded, transforming into a giant, three-dimensional hand. Its fingers wrapped around Not-Trevor’s chest and squeezed. The emissary cursed, and his concentration must have faltered because Ellie suddenly stopped rising. For a disorienting moment, she simply hovered.

  Then, Ellie fell. She dropped three feet and landed on her side, slightly winded. In front of her, the emissary thrashed like a fly ensnared in a spider web. The glowing hand was sinking, pulling him below the floorboards. Not-Trevor seemed unable to break free.

  “Just go,” Ellie said. “Please.”

  With a pained grimace, the emissary of vengeance looked at her. The anger leached from his eyes, leaving nothing. His last word, before vanishing from the world, was a quiet, “Why?”

  * * *

  “Ow!” Jay said. “Ah, ow, ow!”

  “Are you okay?” Ellie asked, turning away from the emptiness in Not-Trevor’s wake. Although the main lights had not turned on again, the emergency lights were bright enough to cast everything in dim relief. She couldn’t make out details across the ballroom, but she could see Jay’s pain-pinched face. Blood dried on his upper lip.

  “My tailbone,” he said. “I’ve felt this before. It’s just bruised.” He crawled closer to Ellie before collapsing facedown on the warped floor. The hardwood planks resembled solid waves. Nobody would dance on them again, but the ballroom could be converted into a challenging skate park. “Is it over?” Jay groaned.

  Ellie rewrapped her bun as the town of Willowbee, led by Dr. Allerton, staggered and limped toward her. A long sliver of wood protruded from Allerton’s chest. He wheezed, as if one or both of his lungs were injured. “Not yet, Jay,” Ellie said. “Don’t let him touch you.”

  Dr. Allerton ripped the stake from his body, flung it aside, and shook hands with the man beside him. The hole in Dr. Allerton’s body closed as a red spot blossomed on his ally’s shirt. “Thank you, sir,” the doctor said. “I appreciate your sacrifice.”

  “Anyone is fair game, huh?” Ellie said. “You don’t care who dies. Including your own.”

  “He’s fine,” Abe said. “That puncture wound is survivable, even without my treatment.”

  “Why didn’t you keep it, then?” she asked.

  “I’ll need my strength to clean up this mess.” He rubbed his face and sighed, as if deeply exhausted. “Not my best dance.”

  “Why bother?” Ellie asked. “After tonight, your minions won’t be the only people who know Willowbee’s secrets. Your secrets. Some of the guests here are from other cities.”

  Now that the emissary was gone, the few innocent guests could leave the mansion, and they were evacuating quickly. Ellie didn’t see anyone phoning for help—the phones must have been fried by paranormal energy—but it was only a matter of time before dozens of witnesses shared their experiences with uncorrupted police, reporters, lawyers, and social media.

  “You can’t possibly believe,” Abe said, “that I’m a one-trick pony? That we, the children of Nathaniel Grace, have escaped persecution for centuries because of luck?”

  “Persecution?” Jay demanded, standing. To his credit, he barely flinched when the movement jostled his bruised tailbone. “People don’t want you to kill them. That’s self-defense!”

  Behind Dr. Allerton, the Willow
bee minions closed their eyes and bowed their heads, as if praying. Static electricity crackled between them and lifted filaments of hair, as if they’d rubbed their scalps with balloons. There were many powerful magic users in the town; that was unusual. Willowbee must have close ties with the fae realm.

  “I am a neutral force,” Dr. Allerton said. “My healing balances my harm. Ellie, I tried to help you and your family. Did you know that I collected scholarship money for Trevor’s child? Well? Enough to pay for college! For grad school! You just wouldn’t let it go. Everything is a mess now.”

  “Shut it,” Ellie said. “All the scholarships in the world can’t be a father to Gregory.”

  “So I should have died that night instead? Taken Nathaniel Grace’s strongest spells with me? Left my son without a father?”

  “Yes?” she said. “Obviously? Why is that a question?”

  He had the gall to appear insulted.

  “Just stop,” Ellie said. “Let us go. All the magic in the world can’t sweep this mess under the rug.”

  “You’re wrong,” Abe said. “We’ve recovered from worse. History is intrinsically malleable. Even without magic. It’s carried in our minds, our records. Enchanted tongues spin convincing lies. With a spell, we’ll persuade the world to forget this night. To forget you, Ellie, and your family. The town … we’ll have to move again. Where now? West coast?”

  “Near the sea,” a Willowbee minion suggested. He was a forty-something man with bushy black eyebrows and a slightly oversized suit.

  “Not enough room,” argued a sixty-ish woman. She wore a long-sleeved black sequined dress. “The coast is packed.”

  “I can’t stand another desert,” a third person huffed. He was a gray-haired guy with a well-trimmed, pointed beard.

  “Wait, did you say move Willowbee?” Jay asked. “Like a mobile town? How?”

  “Nathaniel Grace secret, I’m afraid,” Abe said. “Willowbee was founded in Massachusetts. We’ve only been in Texas, oh, about thirty years. All land is ours, and no land is ours.”