by Dan Thompson
John waited.
“You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”
John put his arm around her and leaned close. Quietly, he said, “His dad died in a hunting accident a few years ago. Shot.”
Lizzie closed her eyes and shook her head. “Shit. Earl.”
“Yeah,” John said. “You can see from the conditions they’re living in, this camp is much too small for their numbers. The chief is having a hard time keeping the older boys under control because he’s busy trying to feed, clothe, and house his people.” John bumped her hip gently. “Accept the kid’s apology. No permanent harm was done; I’m fine.” John tipped her chin up so she was looking at him. “The chief won’t accept help from IPPC with relocation unless you’re satisfied with Ernst’s apology. It’s a question of honor.”
“Ugh. You’re kidding me. Of course he’s responsible and honorable and awesome. All the better to make me feel like an ass.” Lizzie frowned. “Wait. How do we know Harrington will help them relocate?”
“Seriously? We’re inches away from a massive exposure scandal here. Harrington will help. And I think the chief’s a good guy; I’ll give him my full endorsement. So?”
Lizzie snorted. “Like there’s a choice.” She rubbed her forehead. “It was really bad. You have no idea.”
John laced his fingers with hers. “I know.”
When they returned, the chief poked the kid with his stick again.
The boy’s lips twisted, flashing tiny fangs. “Sorry.”
Lizzie bit back the nasty retort that was burbling on the tip of her tongue. These people needed help. It was the right thing to do. The chief seemed a decent guy. Dammit.
“Apology accepted,” Lizzie said. And weirdly, she felt a little better. Not so much better that she couldn’t remember the terror of imminent loss she’d felt the previous night. But just a tiny bit less angry.
The minion let go of the boy’s arm, and he immediately scampered off into one of the trailers.
The chief reached out his hand for the second time that evening. “Deal.”
John shook his hand firmly. “Deal.”
The chief looked at Lizzie, that subtle smile again tugging at his lips. “Ollie will deliver you to the river.”
The minion, apparently named Ollie, nodded eagerly, clearly pleased at the prospect. “I have a car.”
“Oh, thank God.” The words fell from her lips before Lizzie could self-edit. She could feel the tips of her ears burning. “Uh, thank you.”
The chief chuckled. “You’re welcome.”
Chapter 5
The next morning, Lizzie woke up and groaned. “It’s over, and it never even started.”
“Hmm?” John was in bed next to her, reading.
How romantic.
“Our supposed engagement honeymoon.” She stretched. “Bacon makes most things better, but even bacon can’t whitewash the fact that our vacation was hijacked.”
“True.” John put his book down. “But we don’t have to leave for at least two more hours…”
Lizzie laughed. “If that’s your subtle way of making a pass at me”—she flashed the ring on her finger—“I’m already caught, buddy.”
“Uh huh.” John nudged the book off the bed with his elbow. “No need to remind me.”
A few hours later, Lizzie was standing on the landing, the halfway point down the condo stairs, staring out at the lagoon. She shifted the phone on her ear. “They may be little, but they are a lot meaner than you implied.” Lizzie closed her eyes as the images from the night of John’s attack flashed through her mind. “A lot meaner.”
“Krampuses do have a vicious bite. I told you they bite.” Harrington didn’t sound even the least apologetic.
“They didn’t try to bite. They tried to tear John apart. At least now I know where the huge monster of legend comes from. No one would believe such tiny creatures were such wildly vicious little bastards.”
A silence followed.
“Harrington, you still there?”
“Hm. Yes.” Harrington cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
Lizzie closed her eyes and shook her head. “Right. You’re going to fix up the chief and his people?”
“I’ve already got an emissary on the way with secondary and tertiary locations to propose. He’s already made email contact with the chief. I had no idea your Krampuses might be on email.”
Yeah, that had shocked the hell out of Lizzie when John had told her.
“Well, something good came of this whole mess. They really did need a hand. And no one would have known except for their little deranged frat-boy outings.” Lizzie watched John pile their few belongings together near the door of the condo. She covered the phone and whispered, “He’s got an emissary en route.”
John nodded. “Good news.”
“Yes, well, again, IPPC’s thanks,” Harrington said. “Hope it didn’t interfere too much with your holiday.”
Lizzie could feel a growl building in her throat. She clenched her teeth. Once the urge passed, she said, “Goodbye, Harrington.”
And then she hung up. For once, she was the one ending the call.
“Take that, Harrington.” Lizzie gave her phone a nasty look.
John made a choked noise, but by the time Lizzie looked up she couldn’t quite make out his expression. Eyeing him askance, she said, “Are you laughing at me?”
“Absolutely not.” John pried her fingers away from her phone and slipped it in his back pocket. He grabbed their bags and then nodded at the door.
Lizzie sighed and opened the door. When she reached the landing of the stairs, she looked up at the bright orange-tiled roof of their condo. “Is it insane that I don’t actually want to go home?”
“They say that’s a sign that you’ve enjoyed your vacation.” John gave her an innocent look.
“Don’t be a smart ass.” She wrinkled her nose. “I just keep waiting for the moment when our personal lives aren’t hijacked by magic, or IPPC, or the Pack.” She rested her arms on the railing and stared out at the lagoon that separated the condo from the beach. Eventually, the chilly breeze started to make her nose run, and she realized how silly she was being.
John handed her a handkerchief. She loved that about him, that he carried a real handkerchief.
When she turned to take it from him, she saw him texting on his phone. “Good grief. What now?”
He tapped a few more keys then turned his phone off. “We’ve got three days.”
“What?” She dabbed at her nose. “Don’t tell me: the Pack is on the brink of revolution. Three days until the biggest fur-flying series of fights Smithville has seen in decades.”
“Not at all. We’ve got three days to ourselves. Logan’s handling everything: your parents, Christmas celebrations, and our excuses. It’s all fine. We’ll celebrate Christmas privately—then a few days late with the rest of the family.” John reached down and twined his warm fingers through Lizzie’s. “Sometimes, we get to be a priority.”
Lizzie snapped her mouth closed. “But…how…?” She tipped her head and examined him closely. “How in the hell did you manage that with a few texts?”
He raised his eyebrows but remained stubbornly silent.
“Right. Don’t care.” She raced up the steps, dragging a not-at-all-reluctant John behind her.
Their bags might have been rained on, they might not have had any clean clothes, and the fridge might have been bare—but those three days were priceless.
The End
Turn the page to read the next story, or click here to read an excerpt from Kate’s Spirelli Paranormal Investigations: Episode 1.
THE GOBLIN INFLUENCE
An Indwelt Novelette
Linda L. Davis
Chapter 1
Elisha Short, or Eli, as his mama called him, awakens from a glorious rest and is blinded by pure light. He stares at his hands of flesh and bone, then flexes one long arm’s stringy muscles and tendons. He admires his youthful body: the
slender twelve-inch feet made for Tony Lama and Justin boots, small hips and waist that Levi Strauss sewed the first pair of 501s to fit, and a thirty-something face with clear blue eyes. The color is different, not brown as before, but that’s okay with Short. It feels good to have substance again.
Glancing toward the gold posts near the gate, Short sits upright and swings his legs off the white cloud, stretching his newly made arms and legs. He stares into the light, searching for the sign. It will be soon, he knows. It is grace that has given him mortal flesh. He sees it then, the opening in the solid wall dividing the kingdoms of Heaven and Hell. The shape that is him awaits his departure, for only Elisha Short may maneuver through the gate and return through this opening, where every dimple and jut of his immortal self must glide without a whisper.
“Elisha, you have a duty. Do you accept?”
There is never a doubt, no need for clarity; it will come moment by moment as he is made alive on Earth.
“Yes, sir,” Short says loudly, using his most respectful tone. No matter how far the location, he will travel there within the snap of a finger. His corporeal skin will not blemish nor age, no matter the turning of clock hands.
“You have passage. Lucifer will not interfere at any time.”
“Yes, sir,” Short says again, thinking, It has been arranged. He does that.
What else is there to say but “Yes, sir”? Short nods and tests the new vertebrae, bends and flexes muscle on bone, jumps and lands on previously broken feet and toes, and notices adjustments have been made to all his old injuries.
“I’ll be going, sir,” he says as the opening in the wall beckons. He watches as it closes behind him without sound. Already he feels deep despair out of the Creator’s presence.
Chapter 2
Bells are ringing in front of a Walmart where a grizzled old man holds a cup and a sign that says, “Give.” A few coins rattle upon the plastic cup bottom: not enough to buy even a pint. A young woman stops, reaches into her purse, and withdraws a limp dollar bill, making the panhandler’s heart race. Suddenly she changes her mind, and shakes a finger in the old man’s face.
“Gotcha!” she says cruelly, continuing on into the store.
Inside, four people stand in line, waiting for the clerk to pass their goods through the cash register’s computerized reader. They do not seem hurried, but one of them, a fiftyish woman, steps ahead of the others and glares, daring them to object. There is a skirmish and the woman lies on the floor, the contents of her purse scattered. A large gun lies half inside her old, worn bag, half on the shined tile floor. The woman quickly recovers, rising onto her knees as she gathers pens, papers, nail file, and lipstick into the large opening of the purse. She leaves the store quickly, before actual violence is done.
The other customers desert the line, no longer interested in the checkout procedure of the store. They wish only to leave the area, to get away from the whiff of violence they smell on the woman. It is sulfur, and rotten eggs, terrible odors that reek of death and destruction. The man directly behind the woman knows he should have been next for checkout, and although he is not hurried, it is the principle of the thing that binds and pulls him back to first in line. He has made his move already; it was his foot that tripped the line-breaking bitch.
Across town, in Artie’s twenty-four-hour donut shop, two policemen, one fat, and one thin, wait for their coffee and cream-filled chocolate pastries. Five minutes have passed since the two first sat down at the serving counter. The clock on the wall points to ten minutes to six, and it should be getting dark already, for winter is definitely here.
“Hey, man, where’s my coffee?” the fat cop shouts to the guy at the coffee machine. “I don’t have all night.”
The clerk grumbles, and his face grows red with outrage. “Here you go—shove it up your ass, you fat prick,” he screams, sliding the entire pot of boiling coffee down the slick Formica counter.
Shouts come from both policemen, as the scalding liquid wets uniform shirts and burns skin. Mopping the coffee away, they keep eyes on the little shit behind the counter. He’s their first collar of the night, and they’ll treat him a sight worse than he deserves.
“Cuff that son-of-a-bitch, take him outside,” the fat cop says. “Let me have him.”
It is an all-out revenge beating that opens gashes on the clerk’s face, and bloodies his shirt and apron as the policemen rejoice in extending the hands of justice. They load him into the back of the patrol car and slam his head against the door and the grate.
“You’re going downtown, motherfucker,” the thin cop says. “Ruined my clean shirt.”
They drive to booking and press him against the concrete walls before going inside. “Merry Christmas, asshole,” the fat one says, bending his knee for a fast kick to the man’s scrotum.
The government projects in the heart of the city shelter a mother who lies on a couch bed, comforting her asthmatic son. She holds him against dry breasts; there is no food for her, nor milk for him. The room is undersized, a mere closet, but it is their home.
“Shush,” she whispers as the child wheezes and screams in fear at the loss of breath. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” Her fingers move gently toward the child’s chest, then back to her own face. Suddenly, without warning, her right hand closes around the baby’s throat and his crying stops forever. She has become a vessel for evil. The small .22 pistol fits her hand as though made for it. From inside the micro-kitchen, the family dog, alternately barks and growls with anticipation. He hears the muffled pop from the bedroom, and runs to the front door to greet visitors.
Across the way, in suburbia, three children are watching television with entranced expressions. On the screen a group of animated figures bounce back and forth spouting gibberish that only a child can love. The oldest boy is ten, his sister eight, and his brother almost six. Outside, in the neighborhood, a pack of wild dogs is patrolling the streets in a disciplined march. They have appeared out of the green belt that borders Williamsburg Ranch—A Kyle Development. The oldest boy sees them, and, recognizing his pet, goes to the door smiling.
Diesel, the leader of the pack, a brindled mastiff, is the largest of all the dogs. He is thick-furred, with big, dangerous teeth. Like the other animals that run as one, the mastiff feeds his hunger by chasing down live prey, the way nature intended. No one has called him by name for many months, and he has forgotten the sound of his master’s voice, but he remembers the smell of human children. He licks his jaws, and enters the house with several of his pack.
In the real estate office adjacent to Kyle Development’s grass-thatched bungalow, a young woman eyes the computer screen as she types. It is almost six o’clock, and she wants to be off work, drinking with her friends at the Chocolate Bar. If she doesn’t get there by ten after six, all the seats at the bar will be gone and the tables taken. Wendy Matthews is twenty-two, old enough to drink, and old enough to know her mind. She has worked for her boss almost three months, and already understands the real estate business.
“Mr. Kyle,” she calls out, “I’m done with the Henderson contract. Want me to send it now, or wait till morning and have it couriered?”
“Fine, Wendy. Tomorrow will be early enough. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay, goodnight,” she says, putting away files, straightening her desk.
She makes her way to the door and pulls it closed behind her, glad to see there is still time. The red sun is high in the cold western sky, or so it seems. Strange, she thinks, how bright it is, being winter and all. She puts her wondering aside and walks to her car where it is parked behind the building. Wendy’s beige skirt is still clean and unwrinkled, for she has taken care during work, avoiding any liquid spill or smudge from copier paper. Her blond hair is still crisply curled from the mousse she applied early in the morning. A little lipstick on her mouth and a smear of color deftly applied to her cheeks make her very presentable, if not as fresh as she would like. She adds mascara to the
lashes of her green eyes, and stares this way and that at the girl in the mirror.
Wendy’s mother always said, “Any old barn looks better with a little paint on it.” She has to agree, and hurries along after putting the makeup away. Watching her step near the broken concrete, she reminds herself to tell Mr. Kyle about the crumbled cement and broken rebar, for he will want the parking lot fixed.
She is near the car when a series of deep, fierce barks begin. They start low then increase in volume, and Wendy feels afraid. Weakness touches her knees as a chill circles her stomach, and settles there. She has always been afraid of growling dogs.
“Foolish,” she says aloud. “Don’t be foolish, Wendy. It’s only a few dogs barking. That’s all.” Nevertheless, she runs the rest of the way to the safety of the car, but her hand shakes, making it difficult to unlock the door. The key seems small and hard to hold.
Finally, she is inside, and breathes easier, feeling safer, though she doesn’t understand what caused the fear. The key in the ignition turns easily, the engine starts with a reassuring sound, and Wendy revs it to cover her uneasiness. Redness in the far west is quickly rising across the horizon’s periphery, encompassing the sun. Wendy is reminded of Alaska and the midnight sun, with its long days that run into night. But this is Nebraska, and there is no midnight anything in Nebraska.
The house across the street belongs to a family with three children, two parents, and a grandfather, who keeps an eye on things during the day when the parents work. The curtains are open, and the Christmas lights are blinking, a sign that someone is home. Off to Wendy’s left, the community pool sits forlorn, with its winter coat spread across the blue, rectangular body. Layers of leaves have settled upon the sturdy mesh cover. Wendy doesn’t see them; she just knows they are there, as they were last week. The pool glistens as she stares, for a light shines out along the edges above the dark water. That makes her shiver even more, for the thought of falling into cold water in winter is unpleasant. A giant blow-up snowman dances in the wind, his black top hat dipping with the sudden gusts from the northwest. He is the closest thing to snow they have had all winter.
