The Hollow Gods
Page 33
“Are you the dream demon that calls itself Drekalo?” Miya stopped several feet from the grotesque creature, spindle-like with a head too large for its elongated neck. Its dappled skin was a chalky grey, scaly and splintered like a stone gargoyle.
The phantom’s jaw unhinged, and it released a bone-shattering shriek, its sharp teeth bound only by strings of thick, red saliva.
“How did you come here, witch?” its reptilian voice quivered.
“It doesn’t matter how. I needed more time.”
“You can’t kill me,” Drekalo slavered. “This is the dreamscape, where all is timeless. Death doesn’t exist here.”
Miya regarded the demon, then shrugged. She was waiting for the man made of smoke to become flesh and blood. Slipping off her leather jacket, she watched as it evaporated into the fog. When the last specs of mauve disappeared, she turned to the demon.
Throwing her arms back, she cut across the expanse. Her hand shot out to wrap around Drekalo’s throat. His gangling body careened to the side, but he couldn’t escape. Violet swirls enveloped Miya, then erupted into a billowing cloak of spectral feathers. A raven beak made of bone drew over her face, black and purple bleeding onto the ivory like oil mixing with water. The bottom edge of the mask cut over her lips in a sharp V, and she flashed the demon a wicked smile.
“Let’s take you somewhere death exists.”
Drekalo gasped—the start of a protest that never came. Miya hauled Dawn’s tormenter into the in-between—a sliver away from either realm. She could see the faint outline of the kitchen—all blurry lines and morphing shapes floating behind an ethereal curtain. The in-between was neither here nor there; it was a cell, trapping the demon where he couldn’t roam.
The bars to this cell were open to the blade, and the executioner always struck from the earthly plane.
The demon shrieked and flailed as Miya released him. “Y-You’re no witch!” His voice sounded garbled. “You’re—”
Drekalo’s accusation died in his mouth when a knife was thrust through his throat, then twisted for good measure. The man, it seemed, had finally arrived, and he’d reclaimed his beloved weapon.
The fissure in the wall sutured shut, and Miya returned to Dawn’s kitchen. She snatched up the half-full wine glass from the table and raised it in a toast.
Wiping his hunting knife, slick with black viscera, Kai turned to the Dreamwalker. He took the glass from her and spilled its contents onto the floor, then tossed the delicate crystal aside. Tilting Miya’s chin up, he swooped down and stole a kiss before she could say the words. He pulled back, grinning rakishly, and said them in her stead.
“Long live the fucking king.”
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About the Author
A. J. Vrana is a Serbian-Canadian academic and writer from Toronto, Canada. She lives with her two rescue cats, Moon- stone and Peanut Butter, who nest in her window-side bookshelf and cast judgmental stares at nearby pigeons. Her doctoral research examines the supernatural in modern Japanese and former-Yugoslavian literature and its relationship to violence. When not toiling away at caffeine-fueled, scholarly pursuits, she enjoys jewelry-making, cupcakes, and concocting dark tales to unleash upon the world.
www.thechaoscycle.com
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