by Remy Wilkins
The building radiated heat, but the bright green grass was thick and miraculously cool. He had to walk to the far end to get to the door. As he drew near, he could see a heavy padlock. He was about to wiggle it to make sure it was locked when an outburst of barking caused him to jump.
Pinwheel squealed and Rodney was pushed face first into the shed. His cap fell off as his lip split and the hot metal thundered from the force of the blow. He fell back and rolled to see his attacker. He found himself face to face with a snarling black Labrador.
The dog crouched again. Rodney cringed against the building as the dog lunged. It yelped as Pinwheel grabbed the chain connected to his collar and yanked back. “Rodney!” he yelled. “Run!” He struggled to hold the dog back.
Rodney scrambled back to the woods. He looked back over his shoulder as the beast bucked free. The chain jerked from Pinwheel’s hands. He felt teeth sink into his shoe and he fell. The dog dragged him back. Rodney kicked and spun only to be pinned at the shoulders by the full weight of the dog. He screamed as the dog leaned low. The dog’s hot wet breath washing over his face.
The dog paused and spoke. “Scream, pink-mud. Your days are set.” His voice was low and grunting. It lilted as if holding back a cough. “No strays!” he roared.
“What?” was all he could manage before hearing another voice. Lucasta.
“Mordecai, Mordecai!” she called. The dog looked back silently. Rodney saw Pinwheel ease out of the way as Lucasta took up the chain. She tugged gently on the chain attached to the dog, and he obediently came off him. “Bad dog. We have a guest.” She smiled, looking down at Rodney, who was pale and shaken.
“Thanks,” was all he could manage. He examined his shoe, the puncture marks in the rubber sole. The teeth had missed his foot, so he rose and lifted his cap from the ground.
“Rodney, what a pleasant surprise.” If it were possible, her face brightened. “Come in, come in.” She turned and walked back to the house. Rodney followed, catching Pinwheel’s eyes and motioning him inside.
His heart slowed, and he wiped the sweat, like thick molasses, from his forehead. He watched Mordecai trot back to his place under the shade near the chicken coop. In the dark hovel his black fur hid him. He looked like any other dog, but it felt so real that it had spoken to him.
They entered from the back porch of the long thin house, a “shotgun house,” Lucasta said. The first room was the kitchen, eggshell blue, she noted, as she pulled out a rag, put ice in it, spun it closed, and wet it under the faucet. She handed it to him. “For your lip,” she said, and waved for him to follow her.
They entered the next room. The middle room was a dining room, a dark yellow color, a dull gold, with a heavy wood table and a staircase leading upstairs to her bedroom. The front room was her living room—three red couches, a fat rug, and an oval table in the center slathered with books and magazines. The white walls were hidden by paintings, three large ones with smaller pictures scattered around them like offspring.
Lucasta sat down on the billowiest couch, which looked like a deflated valentine’s heart. She tossed aside pillows and flopped down on it. He sat on the smallest couch near the front door. He placed his cap on his knee.
“Sorry about Mordecai. He hasn’t been the best of dogs lately. Whew, but that’s twice for you, right?”
Rodney remembered Ray telling him about his first encounter with a dog. “Yeah, guess so. That’s the same dog?”
“I’m afraid so. Nasty little dog now, but he used to be so sweet. Right before your first visit, he was such a cute doggy. Something’s gotten into him these last five or so years.”
He saw Pinwheel creep into the room. He must’ve been exploring. Lucasta was telling a story about Mordecai when he was a puppy. Her eyes were lost in the past. Rodney inspected the large paintings. One was a swirling blue painting of the night sky. He’d seen it before, a river of wind with stars flowing toward a moon as bright and yellow as the sun. There was a big black tree looming opposite the sun, interfering with the flow of the night sky.
Lucasta’s voice hit a pitch that brought him back from the painting. “Oh, my goodness. Ice cream.”
“What?”
“Would you like some?” She stood, raising her eyebrows in expectation.
“Yeah, sure. That’s what I remember about last time. I got to eat ice cream.”
“I’ve got chocolate, strawberry, and my special eggnog ice cream. Which do you want?”
“Eggnog ice cream?”
“Oh yeah, it’s so good.”
“I’ll try that.”
“Good choice,” she said as she left the room. Pinwheel scooted out of the doorway to let her pass.
He crept up to him and whispered, “Sorry, Rodney. I did not see the dog in time.”
“’Sokay,” he whispered back. “Did you find anything?”
“I can’t find a key to the building.”
“Look upstairs.” He looked through the doorway watching Lucasta getting the ice cream. “I’ll stall her, but hurry.”
Pinwheel scampered out and a few moments later Lucasta returned with two bowls of yellowish ice cream.
“Yum,” she said as she handed it to him.
“You must like ice cream.”
“It’s all I eat,” she said and giggled. She kept her eyes on her bowl and shaved off fat curls of ice cream with her spoon.
Rodney chiseled off a nugget of ice cream and placed it in his mouth. “Wow,” he said as the cold pebble dissolved on his tongue. “That tastes just like eggnog.”
“I know.” She scrunched her nose and giggled again. “I can’t get over it. It’s my current favorite.”
“You must like eggs.”
She laughed again. “Oh, yes. I’ve got thirty-five chickens. I sell most of my eggs to Grover’s, but I could eat omelets forever. Omelets and ice cream.”
“Uncle Ray said Grover’s is out of local eggs.”
“Oh?” she acted surprised. “Well, yes, that’s true. I’m saving them up.”
“What for?”
She paused and her face cringed. She made a sound like oop! and clenched her fists. “Ice cream headache,” she informed him.
He chuckled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pinwheel wave at him and point to the back door. He was leaving. He heard Lucasta sigh in relief, and he pretended to look at the painting on the wall in front of him.
“You like it?” She asked.
“Yeah.” It was a giant wave crashing down on some boats. He shoveled the ice cream into his mouth without looking.
“Some people think it’s scary, but I think it’s exhilarating. But this one,” she pointed at the third large painting of two people in the air above a little town, both had wings, but one was soaring upward and the other, whose wings were frayed, was tumbling down. “This one is the scary one.” Below the tumbling figure was a man plowing his fields and beyond that a large body of water. Lucasta continued, “I’ve always hoped he hits the water. Maybe then he’ll be okay.”
Rodney took the last bite and stood. “Thanks for the ice cream.”
“Would you like more? I’ve got so much.”
“No, this is plenty.”
“Can you stay and let me show you my chickens?” She stood and took his bowl from him.
“I should get back.” He settled his cap on his head and walked toward the back door anxious to see what, if anything, Pinwheel had found.
“I’m so glad you came for a little visit and I’m sorry about Mordecai. Next time come to the front door.”
“I will.” He walked off, keeping as far away from the dog as he could. Beneath the low roof of Mordecai’s shelter he could see the dirt scatter at each breath of the dog. He saw Pinwheel just inside the tree line.
“Goodbye, Rodney,” called Lucasta behind him. He waved without looking. “A
nd goodbye, little friend.” Pinwheel’s eyes grew big. He looked at Rodney and then ducked.
Rodney heard Lucasta giggle to herself one last time and shut the door. He found Pinwheel curled beneath a bush with the rabbits nuzzling him. He sat up and said, “She looked right at me.”
Chapter Eleven
LET GOODS AND KINDRED GO
What is going on?” Rodney couldn’t stop the dismay from seeping into his tone. He and Pinwheel were jogging through the woods back to Ray’s with the rabbits doing their best to keep up.
Pinwheel leaped and stretched out his leathery wings to glide down again. “She must be with them. But how could she see me? And why does she have chickens?” He’d been muttering such things since they’d left Lucasta’s.
Rodney pulled up, holding his sides. “Wait, stop. Let’s break a moment.” He collapsed on the ground cross-legged. “Why does it matter that she has chickens?”
“Chickens attack demons if they can see them.”
“And what was with that dog? Did you hear it speak?” The rabbits joined them. Ebenezer clambered into Rodney’s lap, while Thundertrump and Jerome confronted Pinwheel. They tittered at him, and Pinwheel leaned close. Jerome spoke in quiet chirps, then he’d turn while Thundertrump would bark his contributions. Pinwheel kept saying, “Yes, uh-huh, okay.”
Rodney grew impatient. “What? What are they saying?”
Pinwheel looked up. “I couldn’t see it, but Mordecai is demon-possessed.”
“Why couldn’t you see it?”
“Possession is different than cruentation. The spirit is hidden.”
Their failures were mounting. They couldn’t find the Alvarium, nor the twelfth room of the Honeycomb House. They had no idea what Lucasta’s role in this was, what was inside the Armamentarium, and why her dog was demon-possessed. Rodney picked up a stick from the ground and snapped it in half.
“We’ve got one last option.”
Pinwheel looked up from stroking Jerome’s head. “What is that?”
“We have to contact an angel.”
“I agree, they will advise us, but you said you do not know how.”
“I got an idea. Ray’s got some novels. He’s always talking about how much you can learn from stories, and I saw one on angels. Maybe it’ll have something about how to find them.”
Pinwheel’s expression sank. “I suppose since we have no other options . . . ”
The rabbits followed them into the house. Rodney felt safer with them around, but if it were true that chickens attacked demons, then maybe it would be best to have a few of those around too.
They went into the library and Rodney pulled a few of the worn paperbacks off the shelves. The first was The Order of Angels. Its cover showed a circle of bright dots on a black background. Faint outline of angels could be seen in the brightness. The cover of the second, The Flood of Demons, depicted a black column of smoke in a red sky, but within the smoke were demons, rushing downward. After that, anything faintly related to spiritual powers was snagged—titles like The Fall of the Draconis, The Rainbow Warrior, Sagittarius and the Stargazer, and the hardback book he had come across on his first day here, The Jawbone of Heaven. Taking it off the shelf, he saw that the author’s name was Filippo Campanella, the same man who had sent the plans of the Alvarium to Uncle Ray. A quick scan revealed that Campanella was also the author of many of the other books he’d pulled down.
“There’s gotta be something in one of these,” he said, and tossed a book to Pinwheel. “Here, scan this for clues.”
Pinwheel took up the book and turned it over. “I cannot read.”
“What?”
“I do not know how to interpret your symbols. Words are a dangerous realm.”
“Hm. Looks like I have a lot of work to do. Why don’t you get the rabbits some food, and I’ll see if I can find out anything.” He picked up The Jawbone of Heaven and began skimming.
* * *
In the belly of the earth beneath them, Smugbog labored to dig out a place to hide. Since his cruentation, he’d been digging tunnels and alcoves for the new demons arriving daily. Whenever he wasn’t digging, he was pierced and drained of ichor so that new warriors could be brought into the material world. He stuffed a few fistfuls of mud into his mouth, swallowing it rocks and all, to keep himself anchored to this world. He felt the wriggle of worms in his belly. A dull ache flared up in his body. Unfit for substance, his cruentated flesh groaned to bear such weight. He gnashed his teeth and continued to dig.
The army was growing slowly. Had Smugbog’s ears not been filled with wax, they would have been filled with their cries and curses. Any time he raised his eyes in the pitch black, he could see the filthy mutterings of his fellow demons careening down the tunnels.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ripples of sound, someone coming, and the whirlpools of the slop and suck of the mud announced his impending arrival. Smugbog dove into his small crevice and curled up.
“Out, you simpering pile,” the demon announced at the opening of his hiding place. The sound waves jostled the darkness. He stood there huffing until Smugbog exited. “Spit-thicket needs one last wastrel, and your rank carcass has been chosen.”
Spit-thicket was one of the higher-ranking demons on base. He was nearly human sized and had a fang that twisted out of his mouth sideways. He’d been here for years and knew the traitor adam personally.
“What do you demand of Smugbog?” he said, once he stood.
“Spit-thicket has been given the bearded adam. The Old Master allows it, and Murkpockets roars for it. He falls to the diaboloi.”
Smugbog looked up. “Heaven has abandoned him?”
Spit-thicket struck Smugbog across the brow. His head collided with the dirt wall, and he slipped to his knees. Spit-thicket leaned down into his ear and said, “Do you think Hell reaches for what cannot be had?” He put his foot on Smugbog’s neck and pushed him into the mud. “Hell does not stretch out its hand for defeat.”
“Anymore,” Smugbog squeaked from beneath Spit-thicket’s foot.
“Ever again,” He said, before shoving Smugbog one last time. Spit-thicket spun around and marched quickly off through the darkness.
Smugbog stood up and had to hurry to keep up with him. “What of the boy?”
“He is not required of Hell.”
“Then Heaven holds him dear?”
Spit-thicket growled. “Hell cares not. The Old Master says to leave the boy for now.”
“And the stray?” Smugbog winced even as he said it. This had been the murmur of all since it happened. It was not a topic the leadership wished to address.
Because of this stray, all diaboloi must have their ears sealed with wax, lest they be subjected to the Name. Because of the stray, all had to peer into the black for the shape of the commands, for the whirls and eddies of sounds. It was a demanding and tedious job added to their other labors and inconveniences.
“The stray,” answered Spit-thicket slowly, “will be dealt with soon. Right now, he can only cause the child panic. His fear will spawn fear in the boy. And when the time comes, vengeance will be mine.”
He followed Spit-thicket up the twisting tunnels and couldn’t help but envy the expansion since his arrival. The tunnels were wider and bustling with activity. They entered into a huge dome.
The drain station had been expanded, and the cavern was filled with moaning demons. Buckets of ichor were carried to a giant pulley in the center of the large room. The contents spilled out as they were hoisted upward to the Alvarium at the top of the underground fortress.
Down the spiral staircase that lined the cavern trudged the newly cruentated demons. They were lethargic and disgruntled as they were shuffled into the draining stations, their blood going back into the hive so that new warriors could be recruited.
“The army will soon be full,” observed
Smugbog still following on the heels of Spit-thicket through the crowd.
“Bah,” he barked over his hairy shoulder. “There are hardly six thousand fouling the dirt.”
“How many are needed?”
Spit-thicket paused. He looked up at the hundreds and hundreds of laboring demons. “Murkpockets is a fool if he thinks it will take less than the first army.”
“As many as at the first uprising? But we do not battle angels, but breathing dirt.”
Spit-thicket turned to face him again. Smugbog instinctively flinched. “If it were the windbags only, then you and ten other worms would be enough to bring this land to ruin, but do you not know that heaven loves these adams and eves? They are Heaven’s teeth and tongue to enjoy this world.”
Smugbog shrunk back as Spit-thicket warmed to his lecture. “Let me tell you what will happen the moment Hell squirms out from under the boot of the angels.” Spittle began to fly from his mouth as he spoke; it was like a spiderweb fountain. He picked up a stone from the mud to make his point.
“Heaven will break open, like last time, and pour out her wrath.” He split the rock with his hands and held the halves out wide. “She strikes sevenfold for the least effrontery to her precious grubs.”
“But how?” asked Smugbog. “Hell is material here. The angeloi cannot touch these diaboloi.”
Spit-thicket considered his answer. “Hell is shrewd, but Heaven is far more shrewd. Their wickedness upends Hell’s. The Name will have something, some trick, to rescue this world. And do you know why?” Spit-thicket let his face split into a horrible grin.
Smugbog shook his head. He felt a table at his back. A demon behind him whittled a wood dagger to assist the draining.
Spit-thicket snagged a small demon from the air. The demon grunted and flailed in the larger demon’s claws. “Let me show you why,” he said as he held the captured demon before Smugbog’s eyes.
As he watched, Spit-thicket inserted a claw from each hand into the demon’s stomach. The demon kicked and cursed, and swallowed an anguished cry while slowly, horribly, Spit-thicket ripped it open, allowing the gore and dark liquid to splash and mix into the mud at their feet.
