Demon's Delight: An Urban Fantasy Christmas Collection

by Dan Thompson

  Without thinking of reasons why not, she steps out in full view of the meanest demon in Hell, puts her hands on her hips, and calls him out.

  “Hey, Gorgel, someone I know says you’re lily-livered and can’t handle a mortal woman.” She turns this way and that, twisting inside the workout pants and oversized sweatshirt, her Marshmallow Man body moving seductively, “Come a little closer, if you dare,” she taunts. All the while, her bravery from the dust off Short’s fingers seems to be lessening, but she still stands her ground.

  Gorgel rises to his full height of twenty feet and turns his one eye toward the puny thing who dares speak to him with such disdain. He is not only surprised, he is intrigued by a mortal without fear. Stepping off the highest part of the rock’s face, the demon takes a step toward her and opens his maw.

  Fire and brimstone projectile flames are roiling in the demon’s throat, for he is preparing to disintegrate her. The stink of evil overwhelms her. Gorgel glowers, and extends his talons toward Wendy, preparing at the very least to skewer her.

  “Mr. Short, if you’re going to do anything, would you please hurry? I don’t think I have much time left. It’s getting warmer by the minute, his breath is frying me so get moving, okay?” Wendy speaks to him out of the side of her mouth.

  The shotgun is loaded, both barrels filled with a full measure of angel dust, and it ought to be enough to send the demon back to Hell, Short thinks. Little Wendy is getting anxious, so he aims his barrels down Gorgel’s throat and fires. At the same time, Handy and Draper begin firing their angel dust buckshot into the crowds of goblins, seriously wounding some, and outright destroying many. The bodies of the townspeople are not affected by the shot, for it is only destructive to the evil in immortal bodies.

  Gorgel takes a step forward, and weaves, holding his throat; his inner works are seared, and will be out of action for at least a century. Demon construction is of beaten fire and coal dust, with alabaster gravel in the lining of the maw. The angel dust has attacked the gravel, and melted it into the seams and crevices of the demon’s body. There will be little future communication from Gorgel. This knowledge concerns him, for his position is sought after by four others, who will relish seeing the top demon in a compromised position of silence. He grabs his throat and glares at Short, planting the immortal’s picture in the recesses of his memory.

  The demon hunter reloads and aims both barrels at the demon’s chest, another vulnerable spot. “Yeah, I know you’re thinking of the bad things you would like to do to me, but I suggest you get along back to your own kingdom, and take those slimy creatures with you. The Creator has given me authorization to disintegrate you, and I will if it’s necessary. Now, move along, and stay in that hellhole where you belong.”

  Gorgel hesitates, and lifts his talons, prepared to throw fire. “Go ahead, old son,” Short says, readjusting his fingers on the trigger. “I guarantee, I can fire this load before you can fire yours,” he says, without a quaver in his voice.

  Wendy has been holding her breath since the second the big monster thing put his eyes on her. She takes a few breaths and coughs from the heated air. Brimstone definitely is odorous, she has discovered, but it not only stinks, it sucks up the clean oxygen in its path. She watches Mr. Short and is afraid for him. He is definitely out of the monster’s size class. What can I do to help? She wonders. Hiding behind a rock won’t protect me, so why bother? Without thinking, Wendy steps away from the outcropping where Short dropped her and moves closer to the angel dust standoff. Personally, she couldn’t tell anything happened when the stuff got all over her, except it made her skin sparkly. From the way the demon thing reacted, it caused him major pain and discomfort when Short pulled the trigger of the shotgun.

  Wendy sees two of the small toothless things sneaking up on Short’s back, ready to pounce. She knows there is nothing worse than a sneak, and begins scaling the rocks toward them. A good-sized pile of angel dust lies upon one of the rocks where it was discharged by the gun, its iridescence in the midst of the red light almost a neon sign saying, “Use me, Wendy.” She quickly pulls one of her shoes off and scoops the dust inside, using her hands, sweeping it in to get as much as possible, then begins her own sneak toward the goblins. They are so intent on ambushing Short they don’t notice her blond curls bouncing as she takes steps closer to them.

  The rocks are stacked precariously, and Wendy would usually be scared to death of falling, but not today. There is little that can frighten her now, not even goblins, the slimy things that usually hide in closets and under beds, scaring little kids at bedtime. Edging higher, she gets just above the two backstabbers and empties her shoe over them both. They begin to scream and writhe, drawing the attention of Gorgel. The big demon’s one eye searches and finds her standing at his level. He reaches toward her, intent on destroying the upstart once and for all.

  Short yells, and the demon turns to see the big gun aimed at him again. Wendy can see there is a decision in the thing’s mind: whether to grab her and get fried again or leave and avoid more pain. She looks from one to the other, and decides the nice man isn’t new to this kind of warfare; he seems calm and at peace as his arm cradles the big Smith & Wesson shotgun. She wonders if he is up to saving them all, but she glares at the scourge from Hell and refuses to tremble. Backing away, she struggles to hold on to the rock’s craggy surface and tucks her body behind a tall projection, praying for safety.

  Across the fields and road, dozens of ugly goblin creatures lie flat on the ground, some trying to get up, while others don’t move at all. The rest are running toward holes in the ground, stumbling over their own four feet and the legs of other runners that are trying to get away. The two demon hunters have destroyed some and badly hurt other goblins with their buckshot loads of angel dust. Handy and Draper stand together, watching the crowds.

  People mill about head in hands, staring at their surroundings for the first time. Children cry for moms and dads who sit on the ground, or lie where they fell when the goblins pulled their influence. Dogs of every breed sit or lay stunned wagging long or short tails, panting, mouths dry, needing water.

  Back on the big stage, where the true battle is being fought, Gorgel holds, refusing to leave, but he draws back from capturing Wendy with his talons. He is now more focused upon destroying the immortal with the dangerous weapon. Mammoth-sized compared to Short, he weighs his chances and pushes for victory. The demon lets out a loud screech, head back, his newly cauterized throat capable of nothing more than a horrible sound. Goblins listen where they stand and pay little mind, more afraid of staying beyond the boundaries of their home than they are of Gorgel, for he is maimed. They jackknife into the deep, protected cavern, their use of his private entry an affront to the demon. He sees them and their disrespect, and screeches again.

  Elisha Short has a great deal of patience, but he is quickly losing it. The demon incinerates the land in front of him, covering Wendy’s rock hideaway, and seems prepared to do more damage. Short has reached the end of his forbearance. He snaps two fingers together once, readjusts his aiming eye, and hunches his shoulder, ready to fire.

  “Oh, hell’s bells, you just do not listen,” he says to the menace in front of his gun. Pulling the trigger hard, but sure, Short releases the double load of angel dust buckshot into his enemy’s midsection. Gorgel falls, terribly wounded. He is in agony, and Short can see the demon has finally been quelled.

  “Can you crawl?” Short asks, reloading. “I would say in Earth time you have about one minute to get to your hole in the ground. Now git.”

  The behemoth moves, a little at a time, his appendages wrapped around his chest where the pain is centered. Loud groaning brings the few remaining goblins round, and they support his exit from Earth’s crust. Falling into the deep cavern, Gorgel spits fire and brimstone inside the open portal and upon the rocks that border it, searing the way back to his dimension.

  When it is over, Wendy emerges unharmed and runs to Short, suddenly shy.
“Thank you, Mr. Short,” she says sincerely. “It appears you’ve saved the world, or at least Rosedale.”

  “You mean we saved it, Wendy; couldn’t have done it without you. That was a mighty brave thing you did, keeping me from being jumped. Thanks to you, all I got was a few burns from old Gorgel.”

  “It was nothing,” she says, blushing. “Look, the sky is clearing.” She is embarrassed at his compliment. “The red has almost disappeared and I can see the stars.” She glances at her watch and notes it is after midnight on Christmas Eve. She feels a sudden need to call her dad. “Will those things come back?” she asks Short.

  “Probably not here. Gorgel is a prideful thing, and this defeat will haunt him for centuries. I doubt he will show that ugly face anywhere on Earth for a long time.”

  “Oh, look, I see Claudia. Thank God,” she says, taking a deep breath before going to her friend.

  “Yes, Wendy, you should thank Him,” he says. “After all, it was His will that sent us here.”

  “Mr. Short,” she says, turning back, “what you did to me, sprinkling me, will it really last?”

  “Afraid so. You’ll have to get used to being brave and unafraid,” he says, winking at Handy and Draper, who have arrived and are listening. “Meanwhile, we’ll be leaving after we close those holes. It’s time we made our way home.”

  Wendy runs to him and hugs his shoulders. “I’ll miss you,” she says. “But I have to rescue my friend. Merry Christmas, Mr. Short.”

  “And to you, little girl. I wish you a merry Christmas and much happiness.”

  He smiles a goodbye, then pops the dust off his hat. He and his two partners look over toward the big stage, which is nothing more than stacked rocks. They quickly set charges of angel-grade explosives inside each cavern the demon opened, charges that will fire as soon as the crowd departs and heads home. Elisha reminds himself to thank Michael for the tools of holy warfare.

  Across the county, a damp wind is blowing, pushing old smells and odd behavior away. The air smells of rain. The old man with the tin cup decides to give up drinking for twenty-four hours and goes home, where he finds his old wife sweet-talking a stranger. The old man sits on a chair in the kitchen, then picks up a broom and goes after the other man. The wife is frightened at first, then pleased because the john didn’t have but ten dollars on him, not enough to pay for a cab ride to the welfare office. She and the old man settle down for the night, and talk for the first time in months. It is a blessing, she thinks, eyeing the gun in her purse beside the nightstand. What might have happened has been set aside, the craziness all gone. She will go back to the store and apologize for her rudeness, forever wondering if her husband had stayed away, would she would have used the gun to get money?

  The two cops are finally off duty after the second crazy night, working the streets. The fat one says goodnight, and goes home to his one-bedroom apartment. He has no one waiting for him when he gets there, no dog or cat, nothing. The refrigerator calls him, and he pulls a bag of chocolate kisses from the shelf, along with a six-pack of orange soda then falls into a hypoglycemic coma while watching Walton reruns. One of his neighbors complains because the television is too loud, and finally a manager opens the door and finds the cop lying dead in his recliner.

  The thin cop has a sister who, in the past, took pity on him, gave him a place to live, but when he gets to her house that night, there is a padlock on the door. An envelope hangs on the doorknob, addressed to him, and inside is a note from her, saying she has taken the train to Chicago, because the landlord locked them out for non-payment of rent. She wishes her brother well, but says she can no longer help him, for she can’t help herself. She wishes him merry Christmas, and hopes he has a good life.

  Inside some of the stores—most, in fact—people are nicer, wait their turns, and finish the last few minutes of Christmas shopping for family and friends. Several Christmas wishes are exchanged, and the store finally clears. The manager pulls the microphone close and announces an early closing for Christmas Day; he wishes all the employees a good holiday.

  The brother with the .22 pistol weaves his way to the cemetery and cries to his mom and dad that life is getting harder, then buries the pistol, and lies down to sleep, dreaming of angels and demons.

  Into the star-studded sky, three old cowboys ride the air currents upward, taking the long way home. They pass a fellow heading north, wearing a red suit and red hat, riding in a sleigh pulled by reindeer. The sounds of bells fill the air. Short looks at Handy and nods. “I guess he is real. I always wondered about that.”

  “Elisha,” Buffalo John says, half-asleep, “what did you put on that girl?”

  “Um, it was some dust I had in my pocket,” he says with a yawn.

  “Nothing magic about it?”

  “Nah. She just needed a little encouragement.”

  “So you lied to her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s what I thought. Goodnight, Elisha. See you there.”

  “Night, John; night, Augustine,” Short says, watching Earth’s light dim in the distance.

  THE END

  Click here to read an excerpt from Linda’s The Indwelling of Jenny.

  DAN THOMPSON

  Author of

  Yes, Virginia, There is a Satan Claws

  Dan Thompson started writing fiction at the age of ten. Luckily for the world, all copies of that early Star Wars rip-off have been lost to time and Sith retaliation. Moving on from that six-page handwritten epic, he wrote short stories through the 1980’s and 1990’s and sold a few of them to magazines that rarely lived past his stories’ publication.

  After three or four abandoned novels, he finally started finishing some and decided they should do more than collect dust and red scribbles. Because of the shakeup e-books have brought to publishing, he decided to pursue self-publishing. Ask him about this decision, and he will feign reluctance before talking your ear off.

  He lives near Austin with his wife and three children, drives old police cars, wears kilts when the weather permits, visits with friends as much as possible, and is generally considered to be the weirdo next door. Fortunately, the neighbors don’t know how weird he really is.

  An Excerpt From

  Hell Bent

  It was already ten-thirty, but I could not pass up the chance to talk to Dillon face-to-face. Then again, the temperature had already dropped into the teens. Even if I could wear something suitable under my coveralls, that was getting to be too cold for riding my bike. I called a cab and dashed for my closet. I had a hot little aqua dress with a plunging neckline and a cozy black suede coat to throw over it. Add heels and some cheap beads, and I was ready go by the time the cab pulled through the apartment gates. I pulled my arms in tight as I made the dash to the cab and gave him the address.

  He punched it into his GPS and looked back at me. He was older and looked a bit like I imagine my grandfather would have. “Are you sure about this address, miss?”

  “Positive.”

  I had forgotten to wear a watch, but by the clock on the cab’s dash, we made it to the club only twenty-two minutes after Carmen’s call. I had been quick, but not quick enough. Just as we were pulling in to the parking lot, a black and gold Trans Am came roaring out. I twisted my head as it passed, but I could not make out the driver. However, I did catch the license plate: GLDNHNDS. Golden Hands, Dillon’s nickname from his years in the Pitt Panthers.

  The driver stopped beneath the portico. “Sixteen dollars.”

  I scrambled for my phone to call Carmen back. “Hang on a second.”

  She answered with a grumble.

  “Can you still track Dillon?”

  I heard keystrokes on the other end of the line as the cab driver looked back at me. “He’s moving east,” she answered. “I can’t tell where. He’ll be off this tower in a minute. I can’t do squat after that.”

  The driver saw my indecision. “Look, Miss, this isn’t the place for a young girl like you. If yo
u’d like to go back home, it’s no charge.”

  There went my idea of a high-speed pursuit in the cab. I’m sure he meant well. So had Mother.

  “Thanks, Carmen. I’ll make do.”

  “Okay, but the next call is on your tab.”

  I hung up. By this point, the fare had ticked up to seventeen. I handed the driver a twenty. “Thanks, but I know what I’m doing.”

  I stepped out of the cab and pulled my jacket close. I most certainly did not know what I was doing, but I knew it was in that club. I walked up to the doorman, but he did not move to open the door.

  “How can I help you this evening, ma’am?”

  That may have been the first “ma’am” I ever got from someone older than me. Grandma’s elfin features make me look perpetually underage. I looked him in the eye and gave him my best attempt at bedroom eyes.

  “I’m here for a good time, same as everyone else.”

  “You’re not looking for anyone in particular, maybe a boyfriend?”

  “Of course not,” I replied. No, I was there looking to question a dancer about cross-realm conspiracy aimed at the mayor’s office.

  He still did not move.

  I tugged open the buttons on my coat and showed him the neckline on my dress. “I didn’t get dressed up to pound someone. Come on, it’s freezing out here.”