Slowly, things crept back to him. Barry had wanted him to do something.
No. That wasn’t right. Barry had quit with no notice and moved down to Costa Rica to work for some acquaintance of his. It all seemed so vague and fuzzy, but that was what he remembered.
The idea of never seeing or hearing from Barry again didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. Then he felt a tinge of guilt, but another dreamlike memory drove it away. He had been chosen to take over Barry’s old position and given one hell of a promotion bonus.
He picked up a black envelope from his nightstand. It was a very nice letter from the CEO, Lucille Romana, thanking him for his loyal service and congratulating him on the new position.
“Lucille Romana,” Tim said. “I hope I get to meet her one day so I can thank her in person.”
Tim put the letter aside and forced himself to get out of bed. His headache was getting worse. He knew he had to get some coffee—otherwise the lack of caffeine would make him a real monster.
Something Wrong
S.M. Reine
©2011
All rights reserved.
There was something wrong with her.
I could tell from the beginning. It was something I knew with the same certainty that I knew we were not of the same blood. We had the same ink-dark hair and bone-white flesh, but the resemblance ended at our skin, no matter what Father said.
It's easy to recall the day she came to us. Take care of her, Father told me. She's fragile. And then he put her in my arms, this new pink-skinned baby, and I looked into her little baby-black eyes and wanted to kill her. I put my hand on the paperweight at the desk, but Father was looking, so I set it down and gave her back.
I regretted letting that tender skull remain intact.
She had no interest in the mobiles dangling above her crib. They were bright shiny things with pink ponies and blue bunnies that whirled and twirled and reflected fragments of sun on the walls. Father gave her toys that glowed and pulsed like a heartbeat during the dark hours of the night so she wouldn’t feel lonely or scared, but they would not shine for her. She seemed to prefer the darkness anyway.
I found her standing in her crib one night, staring at the sliver of the waxing moon through filmy pink curtains. Her eyes rolled over and she looked at me with a toothless smile. She smiled. It was a dark smile, an ancient smile, and I thought again of that paperweight and the soft spot on her skull.
It was worse when she crawled. She always wanted to be at my side. She came to my feet while I sat in the rocking chair, her hair a puffy black cloud around her face, and opened her mouth to grin that foul grin with two sharp little teeth. I didn't pick her up, and she never cried.
She became as quiet a toddler as she was a quiet baby. Father dressed her in fluffy pink skirts with white trim. I sat her in the sandbox in our back yard and she didn’t want to play. She stared unblinkingly at the sun as I sat in the shade. I wanted her delicate skin to burn. I wanted to watch it turn red and crisp and boil.
I left her on the hot sand and hid in my room so I wouldn’t hear her cries as she scorched, but she did not cry and she did not burn. I brought her inside before Father came home, and she pressed wet smiles on my neck. Her skin wasn't even warm.
I watched her as she grew. I always liked children, but I never liked her, and when I held her I wanted to put one hand on her small chin and another on the back of her head and twist hard enough to hear the snap. I would do it later, I thought, because she was too small now and there was still time. Later. Always later.
It wasn't long before she dressed herself. Father insisted I needed to take her shopping, and she selected her clothing. It was all black or blood red, but she never touched anything gold. For her birthdays I got her a little necklace, bright pure gold, and I put it on her. She screamed, and with her short nails clawed at her throat and Father made me take it off.
She still liked me. She sat on my lap when I read during the day, and knelt by the computer when I tried to ignore her, her large dark eyes just staring at me. And smiling.
She didn't go to school, nor did she learn from Father. She taught herself, reading what Father told her to read and writing what Father told her to write, but her real education came from the things she did when nobody watched.
I found the first one when she was seven: a little mockingbird pinned to the bark of a tree with one of her ruby-encrusted hairpins. Dried blood caked its feathers like stigmata. It was still twitching when I took it down. I held the bird like I held her, and watched the blood flow over my hands until it finally stopped moving. I buried it under her childhood sandbox.
She sat by me while we ate Father’s lasagna at dinner that night. Father lectured us about his work that day, and she nodded along as though she was listening, but her eyes stayed on me. She smiled like she had when she was a baby. Her teeth were white and her lips were dark red. It looked like the blood of the jay.
Later. I'd have time to kill her later. I would pin her hands to the tree and slit her throat quickly. I'd wait until she bled dry from her hands before the actual cutting, and then I would bury her somewhere under the moon she admired so much. Her pale dark eyes would close, and she would never look at me again. She would not suffer like the bird had.
She grew curves, her breasts before her hips, and her cheeks hollowed out. Her dark eyes grew darker, her black hair blacker, and still she loved me. I found the cat under my bedroom window, stomach slit from its genitalia to its chin with its innards artfully arranged amongst the flowers. They were concentric circles, perfect and bloody.
Boys asked her out. Girls asked her out. She never said yes, and she spent her nights with me while I watched television, while I cooked and ate dinner, while I cleaned the house. She didn't often speak. I saw the words in her eyes and her movements. She seduced me with her silence in its infuriating grace, and I wondered if she seduced the animals with her sweet princess charms before the slaughtered.
She finally grew to the age I'd been when I'd first found the bird. She dressed like a slut, the little tease. Children came to our door asking if I had seen their lost dog, and I said no. But I knew she had buried it by the river. She took her kills further away as she got bigger and could walk further.
Father died that year. The police didn't know what happened to him. I found him in the forest, his skin eaten away by animals and his skull bleached by the golden sun.
Later would be too late.
I studied her long legs and slim waist and sturdy arms. She could match me now. She was too fast, too strong. I'd have to do what I had to do while she slept.
I went into her room, where she slept on her back tangled in silk sheets. Her bare breasts reflected the moonlight splashed through the window. I thought of the grinning baby, the grinning toddler, and even in sleep I thought she grinned at me.
She didn't wake when I took the paring knife and the nails from the kitchen. She didn't wake when I straddled her hips, looking down at her blank face. Her black hair made soft circles around her head, like the cat's guts. I would slit her open like she had slit open the cat, and crucify her like she crucified the bird, and bury my knife in her stomach like she did to Father.
She finally roused when I nailed her palms to her bedside tables. Her eyes were wide, afraid, but I put my hand over her mouth to keep her silent. She tried to bite me when I shifted to smooth my hand over her sweaty brow.
I knew then that I had always waited—later, always later—because I loved her.
It's for the best, I told her.
She shook her head. No.
I pressed the knife into her blossoming vulva, where black curls opened to the slit between her thighs, and sawed it up her gut and stomach and chest. I had to press harder on her breastbone, but it eventually cracked, and I slipped the blade along her cheeks to give her a final bloody smile.
Her eyes were open, but she didn't shake her head or try to fight anymore. Blood dried on her hands like it did on
the mockingbird’s wings. I could see the way she had cradled it lovingly while she tacked down its limbs. I could imagine how she spread the cat’s stomach and intestines in the flower bush. I could even see how Father had died, how he had begged, and how he asked for her to spare me. Or had he begged me to spare her? It was all too confusing. I couldn’t tell anymore.
It's for the best, I wanted to tell her again. But now she was gone.
There was something wrong with her.
The Reaver
India Drummond
© 2011
All rights reserved.
Edited by M.T. Murphy
Krel went to his private gallery to think. He walked among the delicate hovering globes and tapped the thin glass with an extended claw. The souls within shimmered as a perfect tone echoed off the stone walls. Each orb would produce a different note, dependent not on its shell, but the timbre of the human life within.
As he stood in the centre of the chamber, he recalled the taking of each one. The only pleasure that exceeded visiting his collection was expanding it by harvesting new human ore.
The newest of his collection still struggled within their confinement. He stroked the cool glass with the dark green flesh of his palm and heard the magical echo of two voices. A smile played across his gnarled lips. When he had coaxed the female’s essence from her body, another tiny flicker came with it. She’d been with child. The challenge had delighted him: how to encase two as one, and yet still keep the casing thin and the sound clear. It had been tried before, always with disastrous outcomes. But no two souls were as intimately connected as a mother and child, and his triumphant artistry had stunned everyone who’d seen it. They swirled together, blending their blue and golden light, then flew apart as though dancing. It filled him with pure delight. He had considered giving this one to the clan warchief, but found he could not part with the pair.
His thoughts of the warchief reminded Krel of the summons he’d received. The hour had come to attend his patron. He turned toward the door, bracing himself for the meeting ahead. His heavy boots thudded against the stone floor as he strode with purpose to the stairwell.
His thoughts lingered on his collection, distracting him to the point of obsession. He nearly collided with his daughter at the top of the stairs.
Krel’s heart swelled with pride at how beautiful Ruygret had become. Her black hair hung over her shoulder in a braid that reached her waist, making her the spitting image of her mother. Krel thought of his lost mate often since her death in the Battle of Curtol six years before.
“Father,” Ruygret said. “I want to bring my new pet to live in my rooms, but Hyug won’t allow it in the house without your consent.”
Krel scowled. “Another? But what about Crush?”
Ruygret met his eyes fiercely. “My wolf died nearly a year ago, father. I told you. The new pet needs more attention. It gets bored tied up outside all day.”
A pang of remorse shot through him. He’d neglected Ruygret since her mother died, but his work had helped fill the gap left by his wife’s death. His collection had grown to number in the hundreds. If he sold it, he could retire in comfort and buy his daughter a legion of her own bonded warriors. But he knew he couldn’t part with any of his creations. He found it difficult enough to offer the required occasional tribute to the warchief.
“So I’ll tell Hyug it’s all right with you,” Ruygret said, bringing him back to the moment.
“Why would he say no? Hyug is our servant, not you his.”
She shrugged. “He worried the noise might disturb you. The creature is not fully trained and it tends to howl at night. But I think having it inside will help.”
“I must attend the warchief,” Krel said absently.
“So I have your permission then.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes, my heart,” Krel said and started to go, but paused at the archway leading out. “Keep it on a leash until it’s domesticated.” He shuddered as he imagined the wolf, or perhaps a werecat cub, clambering around in his gallery.
“Thank you, father,” she called as he walked away.
The conversation was forgotten within moments, and he considered the meeting ahead. The warchief possessed ten of Krel’s orbs. Not his finest. Those, Krel kept for himself. None could match his rate of success or the complexity he achieved in his designs. Reavers were not the only artists of their race, but they were the most sought-after. The powerful wanted soul-orbs decorating their strongholds, reminding visitors not only of their wealth, but of their hand in the subjugation of the indigenous humans.
Krel climbed the long, stone staircase that led into the warchief’s stronghold. Scarred and battle-worn warriors stood guard at intervals, their marred and tangled faces showing that the warchief’s legion was the one to be feared above all others.
The audience chamber had an immense fire burning in the centre of its dome-shaped space. The flames burned blue, fuelled by magic. At the back of the room, the warchief sat on a raised crescent-shaped dais, looking glorious in full battle armour, with his black hair pulled into a top-knot. His face broke into a snarling grin when Krel stepped forward. “There you are,” he said with an excitement that made Krel wary.
The reaver followed the path around the fire and approached the iron throne. He knelt, as was customary in such a formal setting. “Warchief,” he said with a fist over his heart.
“Come,” the warchief replied. “Stand beside me.”
Krel dared not hesitate. He rose and stood to the warchief’s left and slightly behind the throne. “How may I serve you this day?” he growled.
Instead of answering, the warchief bellowed, “Bring the prisoner!” His voice echoed in the huge chamber, and the magical fire leapt and crackled in response.
A grated wooden door on the left side of the chamber groaned as two warriors worked a crank and chain to draw it open. It led to the dungeons many floors below, in the base of the stronghold. A female warrior emerged from behind the rising portcullis. She dragged a small human behind her by one leg. It wore with a filthy satin gown, and its tangled chestnut hair was adorned with sagging ribbons. Its face was purple with bruises, and dried blood caked around its mouth.
The warchief roared. His dark eyes flashed as he extended a claw toward the guard. “I told you to keep it alive.”
The warrior dropped the human’s leg and then prodded it none-too-gently with a toe. “Get up,” she hissed. When the prisoner didn’t move, her green skin flushed darkly. “It’s unconscious. The humans are not strong.” She strode back toward the iron grate and passed through it, returning moments later with a bucket of foul water.
Krel couldn’t take his eyes off the human. He must have been called for a commission. In the past, he’d always chosen the subject for his art. Every human soul had a different quality. Some spoke to his sense of beauty, some did not.
The water splashed all the way to the bottom of the dais. The human choked and spluttered, and the guard grabbed its hair, forcing it to kneel on all fours with its head up. “See?” the guard said. “It breathes.”
The warchief turned to Krel, his eyes shining. “I want the largest globe you’ve ever done. Can you add etching to the glass without ruining the tone? I want it suspended here.” He pointed a gnarled finger toward the centre of the room, above the fire.
Krel stared at the human, entranced, and inched down the stone steps. “A glaze on the glass will give a better effect than etching,” he murmured absently.
“The soul of a princess.” The warchief barked a laugh. “It was captured in Guitanmarsh. A rare find, wouldn’t you say? It will be like a beautiful shining jewel, yet it will strike fear in their rebellious hearts. How long will the process take?”
The human shook, whether from fear or shock, Krel didn’t know. “Stand it up,” he said to the guard as he closed the last few steps toward the pair.
“No human stands before the warchief,” the guard growled.
Krel glan
ced over his shoulder at his patron. “The time required depends how complex its strands are. I need to examine it.”
“Do as the reaver wishes,” the warchief said, leaning forward on his iron throne, watching eagerly as the guard lifted the young human to its feet.
Krel began his inspection. With a ceremonial knife he kept on his belt, he cut away the filthy fabric wrapped around it, baring the skin down to its navel. The human trembled, but held itself as still as it could as long as the blade was next to its pink flesh. Krel slipped the knife back into its sheath.
Something wet hit his face. He looked up in disbelief. The thing had spit in his face. It began a stream of the high-pitched babble language the primitive creatures spoke. Its legs flailed forward, tiny kicks landing on Krel’s hardened muscles like the slaps of an infant. “Restrain it,” he said.
“Does it need to be conscious?” the guard said, sounding hopeful.
Krel shook his head. “Just alive.”
The guard delivered a heavy blow to the side of the princess’ head, and its movements stopped immediately. Green hands as hard as steel held the human upright while Krel continued his examination. He retrieved a thin glass bar from his belt-pouch. He had created the divining rod with the same enchantment he would use to make the orb. Running it along the path from the chest bone down to the navel, he began to delve, looking for the seat of the human’s soul. The strand presented itself quickly. There was only one.
Krel shook his head with disappointment. The creature’s soul was simple, plain, uninteresting. Worse than that, it was unworthy. He sighed.
“There is a problem?” the warchief asked.
“I do not think this subject will yield an adornment worthy of your hall.”
The warchief’s fist banged against the arm of his throne. “It is a princess. It is adored above all other humans. It is my prize,” he shouted.
“It is ugly,” Krel said, looking deeper, hoping against hope his first inspection would have proved wrong.
“Of course it is ugly,” the warchief grumbled. “It is human. It’s the soul orb I want.” He paused. “Eight thousand crescents.”
Here Be Monsters - an Anthology of Monster Tales Page 3
