by James Maxey
It’s Cerberus.
They’ve summoned Cerberus.
They’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake.
Since leaving the monastery, my faith in the monk’s teachings has slipped away, nibbled and gnawed by the modern world until it was easy to believe that my own absurd, impossible history was all a lie.
If I were completely human, I’d be dead by now.
I turn my eyes toward heaven. Father, I pray, silently. I need your strength.
It’s not God I’m praying to.
I feel a jolt rush through me and I’m no longer cold. I’m full of hot lighting, my heart thundering in my ears. The hemp rope tying me to the ceiling snaps like kite string. I fall forward, my feet still tied to the girder. I kick, breaking free, then bite through my gag and spit it out.
Grasping my belly, I rise to my feet. Loops of intestine slip out, suspended in my fingers. I clench my teeth as I push my guts back inside.
Cerberus is the size of an elephant. No one is looking at me. Westcott raises his hands and informs hell’s guard dog that he’s been summoned to serve and obey. He holds up a photo of his ex-wife.
“Your first mission is to find this woman and kill her.”
Cerberus responds by nosing forward, opening the jaws of his left head, and crushing Westcott’s skull like an egg. For a half second, the other twelve men fall silent, staring as Westcott’s body wobbles, then topples backward.
Everyone runs. Most make it to the door, but not Patterson, and not Skater. I feel what must be heartache as the big dog gulps down the only boy who ever kissed me. I’d hoped to feel the stubble of his face again, when I pummeled him to within an inch of life.
Cerberus jumps out of his summoning circle. I’ve got to send him back. The three-headed hound dog isn’t stationed at the gates of hell to keep people out. He’s there to keep the damned in. Once they realize he’s gone, the world will be overrun with vengeful, insane spirits. Happy Halloween.
I spin around and place my hand on the girder. I whisper a prayer that has appeared in my head as if by divine inspiration and the girder melts like a candle. Cold liquid iron flows down my arm and across my torso. I pull my hand away as the metal covers my belly and stiffens. At least I won’t be tripping over my own entrails.
As the iron flows over my legs, I flex my right hand, summoning steel into it, forging a sword by sheer willpower. I bring the fresh iron to my lips and kiss the blade. The fever heat in my blood jumps into the metal; with a WHOOSH it bursts into white flame.
I jerk my head forward and the faceplate of my just-formed helmet drops into place with a satisfying clang. With a rapid prayer of thanks to my angel dad, I run forward, brandishing my sword, unleashing a battle cry as Cerberus hunches down to slip out the open doorway.
He spins around, bloody spittle foaming in his jaws, snarling as he sees me. He lunges, faster than my eyes can track. One second, he’s ten yard away, the next, he’s got a set of jaws clamped around my left thigh and his middle mouth chewing on my ribs. His third jaw goes for my wrist, to make me drop the angel blade, but now it’s time to surprise him with my own speed. His jaws snap down on the foundry-hot steel of my sword and all three mouths turn loose as he jerks away, yelping.
“Bad dog!” I shout, jamming the gauntleted fingers of my left hand into the nostrils of his middle head as deep as they will go. I hook my fingers up and he howls, shaking his heads violently. I stand firm as Gibraltar, clamped down on his nose, immune to his fury.
With angel blood powering my muscles, I drag him back toward the pentacle. I’m not sure what I’ll do when I get him there. If I kill him, it might leave hell wide open. The left head keeps snapping at me, but the right head hangs back, its mouth still smoking from its flaming-sword snack. My armor resists the worst of the left head’s assault, but his hell-dog slobber feels like battery acid as it seeps through the joints.
I hum “Hound Dog,” as I drag him over the smooth concrete floor, his claws leaving long scratch marks.
I get Cerberus back in the middle of the pentagram at the part of the song where the dog is scolded for his failures as a rabbit-catcher. I slap the right head across the nose with the flat of my blade, then twist my fingers deep in the middle head’s nostrils. The left head yowls.
“Listen up,” I say, going for the direct approach. “I could try all night to guess the magic words that send you back. Or, I can just keep hurting you until you’ve decided you’ve had enough. In hell, you get to hurt people. Here, I get to hurt you. This should be an easy choice.”
The dog stops struggling, his six eyes glowering as he studies me. He sighs. A shudder ripples along his body.
I blink.
When my eyes open I’m sure that he’s a little smaller. Five seconds later, there’s no question that he’s smaller still. Before I know it he’s no bigger than a German shepherd. Waves of dark energy swirl around me, toilet bowl fashion, as the hell-spirit departs the dog flesh and heads back home.
I’m left with a dazed, bloody-nosed Chihuahua hanging from my fingertips. He whines pitifully, his whole body limp, as I pull him off.
My armor is suddenly very heavy. I drop to my knees as my sword sputters, then goes black, coated with ash. Once again energy spins around me, a bright whirlwind of fire. A dark-haired angel floats above me, his arms spread wide as the flame flows back into his chest, leaving a heart-shaped glow on his breast.
My vision is blotted by black spots as the light fades, but I swear the angel winks at me as he turns his thumb up in a gesture of approval. He grins and says, “Not bad, but a better song would have been ‘Return to Sender.’”
“Noted,” I say, barely able to hold my head up. My vision blurs and the angel is gone. The only thing above me is a tin roof. I cradle the dog to my breast as I stagger back to my feet, stumbling toward the open door. I need fresh air.
There’s a splash near my feet as I make it outside. I look down. I’m standing in blood. I barely push my faceplate up before I start to vomit. As Sherry might say, I “puke my guts out.” Only, literally. By the time I’m done, my intestines have slipped out of my wound and are wedged between my skin and breast plate. I hope that girder was sterile.
I finally gather my wits enough to wonder about the source of the blood. It’s not all mine, is it? I look around and find a dead cultist a yard away. Nine other bodies lie scattered across the weed-covered parking lot.
There’s a single car, headlights blazing, the motor idling. I inch toward it, spotting the dark-robed figure silhouetted beyond the lights, pistol in hand.
I stagger past the headlights. No longer blinded, I see who I thought I’d see.
Brother Anthony takes the Chihuahua from my rubbery arms.
“This was the vessel?” he asks, in a business-like tone.
I nod.
“We’ll have Brother Berthold examine him. Perhaps his life can be spared.”
“You can’t tell because of the armor, but I’m bleeding to death,” I whisper.
He places an arm around me and helps me into the car. It’s a big Mercedes. Even in my armor, the back seat is roomy. I drape a steel clad forearm across my eyes as I collapse onto the soft leather.
“We’re fortunate that it’s Halloween,” says Brother Anthony. “It may be the only night a monk can bring an armor clad woman to an emergency room without arousing undue curiosity.”
“Way to see the silver lining,” I say, or try to say; I have no idea if he understands my mumbles.
“Despite your injuries, this night has been a victory. We defeated the Golden Veil, and you dispatched Cerberus swiftly enough to avoid a large-scale escape. After the doctors mend you, you can recuperate at the monastery while we research any evil spirits that may have slipped loose.”
I move my arm and open my eyes. I can see the stars pass overhead through the back window of the car. I feel a little stronger now that I’m on my back. What blood I have left is finding an easier path to my brain. I don’t feel
great, but I might be able to fight off slipping into a coma for another five minutes.
“I’m not going back to the monastery,” I whisper.
He’s quiet.
“I want to stay in school. I can heal in my dorm room.”
“There’s no point in attending this college. Your studies have taken you far past the level of anything the classes here have to offer.”
“The stuff I need to learn isn’t in books. I don’t know how to talk to people. I don’t know how to judge who to trust.”
“You need only trust us.”
“You said if a razor touched my skin I’d lose my strength, like Sampson. I shaved my legs and still yanked Cerberus around like a puppy.”
There’s a strange sound from the front seat.
“Are you grinding your teeth?”
“The biblical texts do not address whether Sampson shaved his legs,” Brother Anthony admits.
I laugh, but quickly stop as my innards slosh.
“I drank coffee this week. I even tried a beer.”
I can see the side of his head. The vein in his temple is bulging.
“Maybe it’s not prayer and fasting that gives me my powers. Maybe they’re just part of me. My father is an angel who thinks that earth has rewards that heaven can’t offer. Perhaps wanting to have fun is just part of who I am.”
“These are dangerous thoughts.”
I close my eyes. Everything fun is dangerous. Perhaps I’m on a path angels should fear to travel. Treading down to the end of Lonely Street, straight on through the Heartbreak Hotel, out the back door, to whatever lies beyond. The angel spark that dwells within me won’t be nurtured by prayer and meditation in some quiet, hidden valley. If I ever hope to blow the spark into a flame, I’ll need the whirlwind of the wide, wild world.
Even an angel needs a little Elvis in her soul.
Pentacle On His Forehead, Lizard On His Breath
I RAN THREE RED LIGHTS trying to reach David before the cops did. I steered with one hand and had the cell phone in the other, trying to talk him down. Five minutes had passed since David called me for help, whispering, sounding paranoid, which was good, paranoid was good. Paranoid might keep him cautious. With luck, he hadn’t given anyone a reason to call 911. What worried me was that he’d stopped responding. I was pretty sure he’d dropped his phone. I kept yelling, “It’s okay! I’m almost there!” but the only reply was distant shouting, something about keys. Or maybe monkeys.
I slowed to a less noticeable speed before reaching Adam’s Art Supplies. I was relieved that only a few passers-by stared at David as he waved his arms and shouted at the open door of his van. Probably the cops weren’t on their way, but I decided to assume they were. This scene was the worst nightmare of every friendly neighborhood drug dealer. Acid was developed as a truth serum. Who knew what David might tell the cops about me?
“David,” I said as I got out of the car, two parking spaces behind him. He looked up, then down, and stopped shouting. He reached to the asphalt and picked up his cell phone.
“Buzz?” he asked into it.
I kept my voice calm and steady. “I’m right behind you, David. You don’t need the phone.”
“Okay,” he said into the phone.
I switched from calm to condescending. “David, man, I’m disappointed. You know what I told you about set and setting.”
He twisted his torso and neck around to look at me, as if his shoes were nailed to the ground. He stood in the middle of a messy smear of paint. He’d dropped his bag of art supplies and had been stepping on the tubes, bursting them. Muddy, flesh-toned sneaker prints showed evidence of his pointless meandering around the van.
“Buzz! Thank God you’re here.”
“How you doing, David?” I noticed that he’d drawn an upside-down pentacle on his forehead in ballpoint pen. “Looks like you might be having a little bit of a bad trip.”
“No, no. I was doing fine until they took my keys.”
“Who?” I asked, worried that some conscientious citizens had already tried to intervene.
“The monkeys.”
“What monkeys, David?”
He rolled his eyes and pointed at the van. He stammered, plainly frustrated at explaining the obvious. “The monkeys in the van.”
“I don’t see any monkeys,” I said. “It’s okay. I think they’ve gone.”
He ran his hand through his hair, leaving a wet red streak. I thought he was bleeding, until I realized it was paint. He stared at me, looking nervous. “No,” he said, dropping his voice to a raspy whisper. “They’re invisible monkeys.”
I nodded. “Makes sense. I can’t see them.”
“They’ve taken my keys and locked the doors.”
I looked into the open vehicle. The keys were in the ignition. I leaned in and grabbed them. He snatched my arm and yanked me back.
“Are you crazy?” he asked. “They crush skulls with those jaws. They eat brains, Buzz. It’s their Jell-O. Don’t you know anything?”
I pushed the van door shut with my free arm.
“It’s okay,” I said, jiggling the keys so he’d notice them. “They’re trapped now.”
David loosened his grip on my arm. I could see him trying to fit this turn of events into the fractured dream-story in his head. I carefully, cautiously placed my arms around him and hugged him. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re safe now.”
Some people think pushers don’t give a damn about their clients. But this is a business like any other, and the secret of any long-term relationship is customer service. I sold David the acid. I’d help get him down. David was my favorite customer. His money/sense ratio was heavily skewed toward money. He spent in a weekend what other clients spent in a year. It would break my heart to see him go to jail.
David swayed in my arms for several long seconds, then pushed me away, shaking his head.
“I’m cool,” he said.
“You’re cool?” I asked.
“Cool. It’s cool.”
I looked around. Everyone watching turned away. My appearance on the scene had released them from the potential responsibility of dealing with the psychotic screamer in their midst. They could now stay uninvolved without guilt. But the sooner we got out of the open, the better.
“Why don’t I take you back to your place?” I said. “We can come back for the van later.”
He nodded.
“Why’d you come out anyway? You know what I told you. It’s set and setting. You’ve got to have the right mindset, and you’ve got to be in a place with positive energies. You definitely shouldn’t be out driving around.”
“Ran out of ghost juice,” he said. “Decided to make a mayonnaise run.”
I nodded, figuring it made sense to him, and wasn’t important to me. I knelt down to gather up the scattered tubes. A large tube of white had somehow escaped trampling. David dropped to his knees. I winced at the sound of his kneecaps hitting the asphalt.
“My God,” he said, staring at the smeared and swirled paints that coated the parking space. “My God.”
“What?” I asked.
“Don’t you see?” He opened his arms before him, encompassing the scene, a look of serenity over him.
“What?” I tried to control my impatience.
“It’s him,” he said, contemplating the muddy smear. “It’s my father’s face.”
I rubbed my temples. Of course. David has this thing about his father.
Luckily, David fell quiet after that. I was able to guide him into my car. I noted the paint he was getting on the seats and floor mat. I would add the cleaning cost to his tab. He wouldn’t mind. David had a nearly bottomless well of money from some kind of trust fund. As I closed my door I heard sirens, still a few blocks away. I drove off calmly, merging into traffic as a black and white pulled into the parking lot. No problem. Everything was good. No harm except for a little mess from spilled paints. The cops wouldn’t waste time on this.
“Teak
ettle,” David said.
I nodded in agreement. Occasionally, acid will make you pull the wrong words down from the little shelves in your head. No sense in trying to puzzle it out.
“We’ll get you home in a jiffy,” I said. “Get you to bed. You look tired.”
“I haven’t slept in three days.”
“Really?” I asked, forgetting the question was useless.
“Three or seven.” He held up four fingers. “The ecstasy keeps me boiling.”
“Right.” Whatever was keeping him going wasn’t ecstasy, though, since the E he’d bought from me was just generic Sudafed.
Fortunately, David didn’t live far, just down by the campus. He lived in the attic of this old Victorian house. The whole floor was his, a huge space, which he used as a studio for his paintings. David’s stuff was pretty good, but he was nowhere as famous as his father. Of course, his father hadn’t gotten famous until after he was dead. I guided David up the stairs. His body was trembling, his face pale and sweaty. The drugs were still riding him hard. But once I got him into his apartment, I could turn him over to his girlfriend Celia and be done with this.
Except, of course, Celia wasn’t home. Or at least she wasn’t answering the knocks. The only sound from inside was a steady, shrill whistle.
“Where’s Celia, David?”
“Oh. She left. We had a fight.”
“Too bad.”
“She was trying to hide all the knives.”
“Hmm,” I said.
“So I had to do the ritual with a toenail clipper.”
“Ah,” I said.
Fortunately, I still had his keys, so getting in wasn’t a problem.
