by Lita Stone
She took a drag and blew smoke from the corner of her mouth. “What do you have that I could possibly want?”
“Next time they call you into the farm, I’ll fill take your spot.”
Carmen scanned for police, saw none and whipped a U-turn. “Fine.”
“One more thing, slut.” Shane made obnoxious masturbatory grunts into the phone. “Eat my nuts.”
“Sure assburgular, but not before chewing ‘em like jerky and swallowing hard.”
Chapter Eight
Amy sat on the front porch stoop, head hung low. Squeezing her eyes shut and covering her ears, she pictured herself on a beach in some tropical locale.
No headless rat spirits looking for vengeance.
No rude voices in her head.
No strange lights and sounds in the woods.
Just the sound of warm waves splashing on a sunny shore. In her mind’s eye, she held a Mojito in one hand and pair of sunglasses in the other. Those sunglasses with the sparkly frames.
The sound of a distant crunching broke her reverie. Carmen’s Corvette rolled up the gravel driveway.
Amy dried her sweaty palms on her shorts and faked a smile before approaching the driver’s side.
The window lowered with a hum. A gust of frigid air and punk music greeted Amy with Carmen’s face hidden behind a cloud of smoke.
Carmen draped an arm over the open window and tipped her cowboy hat up. “Mami?”
Her dress barely concealed her well-endowed chest and shapely legs. Loop earrings—large enough to toss a baseball through—hung from her lobes. Her body was curved in all the right spots where Amy’s was flat as Uncle’s Steve’s fedora after three-hundred-pound Aunt Susan had accidently sat on it.
“Shane sent you,” Amy said.
“Shocker. I know.”
Hands on her hips, Amy frowned. “I can take care of myself.”
“Sure you can, chickie.” Sighing, Carmen gave her a sidelong look. “What’s it this time?”
“Another dead rat.”
“So, bury it. Thought you said that’s all it’d take to keep the bad mojo away?”
Amy rolled her eyes. “Not that easy. I got to bury it whole. Alamo ate the dang head.”
“Let’s blow the stink off you and hit The Bull tonight.”
Amy pulled a leaf from her hair. “I’m a mess.”
“Well, roll on some deodorant, wash your face, throw your hair in a ponytail and sprinkle powder in your panties. Good to go. Ten minutes. I’ll wait.”
Amy looked back at the dug up rat’s grave.
Sighing, Carmen shifted the car into gear. “So be it. You and the rat have fun. I’m going to the Bull.”
“I’ve got bad mojo. You don’t want to be around me right now. It might be catchy.”
“I’ll take my chances.” She waved her away. “Go get ready.”
Amy let out a breath and vanished into the trailer.
She followed Carmen’s instructions right down to the sprinkle of powder in her panties. Clean tank. Clean shorts. Pausing by Carmen’s car, she looked at her reflection in the passenger window. Was she dressed appropriately? Maybe she should fetch one of Shane’s western shirts to wear over the tank. She spun to reenter the trailer but Carmen pounded the horn.
“Okay, fine.” Amy got in the car. Carmen was hanging her sidekick doll from the rearview mirror. Bastian flashed a Joker-smile, as if to say, You’re in for a crazy night.
“I don’t know why he calls me hunny bunny,” Amy thought aloud.
“Better than what he calls me…sour dumpling.”
As Carmen shifted to drive, Amy opened the vial Abe had given her and sipped the dark liquid. The bitter taste used to make her gag, but she coped by imagining it was a drop full of vanilla-scented sunshine. Even if it smelled and tasted like liquid road kill with pulp, she’d never give it up.
Carmen turned onto FM 1085. “Do you even know what’s in that?”
“I’ve been drinking it for years with no side effects.”
“Right,” Carmen said, dragging the word out in a sarcastic whine. “Abe probably has you chugging possum piss and fish shit.”
“I bet it’s something he learned from his Wichita kinfolk.”
“It’s not the Indian side that worries me; it’s the Cajun. Those backward swamp rats got a thing for spice...and those nasty mud bugs and sausage stuffed with pig guts. Probably’d season a deep fried boot full of turds and cayenne pepper.” Carmen shuddered. “And serve it up for Sunday dinner.”
“Would you stop?”
Smoke seeped from the corner of Carmen’s mouth. “We all have our vices.”
Chapter Nine
Elder Cai righted Atticus, gripping his shoulders and steadying him. “Son?”
Desert night wind warmed Atticus’ face. A distant coyote bayed. Somewhere down below the tower the buzzard’s cawing could still be heard. He forced himself to look at his mentor. “Master.”
Elder Cai held his gaze. “Do you understand the gravity of what has happened?”
“Rourn would not abandon us to the fate of the coming Beast.” He pulled away and gave Elder Cai his back. His voice cracked into a broken whisper. “He would not.”
“Things are not as they seem.”
“Rourn is dead.” Atticus whirled to face the Elder. “It seems very clear.”
Elder Cai reached inside his robe and retrieved a black leather-bound book.
Atticus took it and opened the cover. An inscription:
Where I go, you shall not come.
Where I lead, you will follow.
~Rourn
The leather felt cold in Atticus’ hands. With a slam, he snapped the book closed. “Rourn’s journal?”
Elder Cai nodded.
“You carry this on your person?” Atticus glanced at the last spot Rourn had stood and back at his mentor. “What prompted you here at this hour?”
“Isn’t the answer obvious?”
Heart racing, Atticus gripped the journal tightly in one hand and balled his other hand into a trembling fist. “I don’t understand any of this!”
“I knew of Rourn’s plan,” Elder Cai said in a matter-of-fact tone. “That is why I am here now. To council you.”
Rourn had betrayed the Order and so had Elder Cai. Atticus tilted his head back. His gaze challenged the stars above until he fell to his knees. As if he’d summoned ancient powers, Atticus unleashed a thunderous roar that echoed across the vast desert.
Even the buzzard shrieked and fled on tilted wings.
The Elder gripped Atticus’ arm and helped him to his feet. He nodded at the journal in Atticus’ hand. “Seek wisdom in its pages.” He sipped from a canteen hung from his neck, the source from which his mentor often sought wisdom.
“What could the words of a dead man offer?”
“Rourn’s death was unfortunate, but necessary. Soon, you too shall learn the fate of us all hinges upon his sacrifice.”
With a scoff, Atticus said, “And what of the much revered adage of the High Templars, Alone you shall ascend, together we shall fall? If Rourn is to perish then should I as well?” He set a foot onto the ledge and stared down at Rourn’s body. His twin…one of the great warriors had jumped without a moment’s hesitation.
Could I do the same? I swore to follow my brother to the end of the worlds and into Hell.
Elder Cai clicked his hornbeam staff on the stone tile. “Cease this foolishness!”
A gust of wind tossed Atticus’ long red hair into a flurry. The wind heaved his boots from beneath him. Atticus fell with his face planted on the stone battlement. Gritty sediment bit at his lips.
Elder Cai stood over him, his staff pressed in the middle of Atticus’ back. “Do not be selfish. It is unbecoming of a Paladin knight, especially of a Twin.”
Atticus pushed off the ground, into a kneeling position. He leaned back on his haunches and sighed.
Elder Cai said, “The ancient adage you speak of is nothing more than a
tale given to naive cadets and jaded knights.”
Atticus looked up at him. “Nothing but a farce?”
“Being a warrior of the Order of Abel is not as glorious as some would have future knights to believe. You are due to graduate and become a Selector in the ranks of great warriors. The time for meaningless slogans is long past.”
Atticus stood. Absently, he brushed grit from his robe. He bowed his head. “What must I do?”
Elder Cai turned. His robe fluttered as he strode toward the mechanical lift. “Preparations are to be made. Midnight oil is to be burned.” He opened the brass door and beckoned Atticus inside.
The lift smelled dry and musky, like a tomb ripe with a most recent death.
From his flask, Elder Cai gulped more brandy. He extended his hand, offering the spirit to Atticus.
Atticus exhaled and took the canteen. The pungent liquid burned a stringent trail from his tongue to his abdomen. He spat on the floor of the lift and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Blazing ghost! It does take like sun-roasted bile.”
“That is the freshest muskeydyme brandy Old Lady Ebben has to offer.”
“How can you be so indifferent about Rourn’s death?” Atticus spat the words just as he had the brandy. “Are you without heart?”
Had a curse diseased the entire compound? Was it that vile gypsy Ebben who had soured the mind and heart of all? When the lift reached the ground would he discover that he was the only Paladin who maintained any semblance of lucidity?
“In due time, my young pupil, the mysteries of this universe will reveal the answers you seek.”
Atticus stared unblinking at the copper walls, listening to the rhythmic clang of the steel chain. He felt a thousand miles from all life, floating in a vast emptiness, a quiet void.
As junior cadets, he and Rourn had chased imaginary goblins. During the heat of one July, with wooden swords, they had slayed the ice dragon, M’nastacarra of the Chilltalon Brood. That same summer they had taken a swim in Gypsy Creek where Atticus became smitten by a pretty laundry maiden. Rourn had torn him from the brink of hormone-driven madness. It was the season Rourn taught him a skill that all young men must master.
The lift clamored to a stop.
Around the curve of the stone tower, Rourn’s lifeless corpse awaited them. A woman knelt by his head and gently turned Rourn onto his back.
Atticus caught a glimpse of the bloody mask upon his face. Body tangled. Eyes wide open. Lips split and busted. Crimson blood oozed from his nose and parted mouth. Rourn did not wear death well.
Atticus looked to the left where Prefect Cauldrick strode toward them, his gait wide and swift.
When the Prefect stopped before them, Elder Cai and Atticus gave a half bow.
“What insanity is this!” Cauldrick bellowed. “A demonic creature has defeated a Twin?” He narrowed eyes at Elder Cai. “What do you know of this?”
“I am deeply saddened by the loss of a mighty warrior and friend.”
“Not a mighty warrior,” Cauldrick screeched. “The mighty Satican Prince. A Twin warrior, prophesied to save us all. And he’s not lost. He is dead! Rayden Cai, you miserable drunk, he is dead!”
Elder Cai shook his head. “One Twin remains.” He lifted his chin at Atticus.
Prefect Cauldrick threw up his hands and looked at Atticus, as if to ask if he followed this logic.
Atticus glanced over his shoulder at Rourn’s body and back at Prefect Cauldrick. Unable to find words, he deadpanned at Elder Cai.
“What good is only one Twin? The duality has been shattered. We have lost this great battle before it has even begun!”
Elder Cai firmly planted his staff on the ground, narrowing his eyes at the Prefect. “Rourn was no Twin,”
“You blaspheme?” Cauldrick gritted his teeth. “I shall have your status of Elder revoked! And cast you out into the Pit of Punishment for such an atrocious declaration.”
Elder Cai kept his silence.
“And what do you have to say about Ortho’s prophecies?” Cauldrick asked. “Atticus cannot defeat the Beast alone.”
“He will not face the Beast alone.” A bitter smile curled Elder Cai’s thin lips. “And with regards to the ancient mage, it saddens me greatly that anyone would take heed with regard to anything the mage professes. He is ripe with senility and has been for a decade.” Cai tapped his staff on the ground. Sparks skipped from the tip and along the desert sand. “Fools of the Templar Court! Lift the ignorant veil that is so proficient at blinding you to the blatant.” With his staff, he gestured toward Atticus. “Alive and well is your precious Twin and you all will come to know soon that he is not to carry this burden alone.”
“Madness!” Prefect Cauldrick’s face flushed with crimson. “How could you know such things without having consorted with devils?”
“The other genuine Twin will be revealed...in short time.”
Four healers rushed past, robes red as blood. They knelt around Rourn, checking vitals, as if they had not already concluded the Twin was no more.
“On what authority do you proclaim this lunacy?” Cauldrick asked.
With the hook of his staff dangling from his wrist, and his arms over his head, Cai cast his wide-open eyes skyward and proclaimed, “By the authority of the Dark Trinity!”
Chapter Ten
Concealed amongst a flock of bl ackbirds, Isaac soared across the evening sky. Obeying the call of his Mother’s shrine that served like a lighthouse, he flew westward until he reached a gated community near the province of Houston.
A modest four-story mansion sprawled over a twenty acre estate. In the center was an open stone courtyard. Galmoria’s sculpture glowed with a purple mist.
Still masked by the birds, he alighted and set down on the circle drive. Now that Isaac morphed into humanoid form, the flock of escorts returned to the sky.
He entered the front door and stepped into a foyer large enough to serve as a banquet hall. His loyal wraith servant Ira had furnished the interior with his treasures from kingdoms and realms across the stars, using her inherit wraith powers to pull inanimate objects through the voids. Several slender white snake-like skins of yag-yagts hung like wall art. And an enormous gorgon rat’s skull was mounted above the corridor’s threshold. The ashen skull blended spectacularly with the dark marble walls rimmed with almond trim.
Isaac admired the mounted rat skull as he recalled the last time he had encountered one of the ancient beasts from the barren lands on Pelodrimch—a fierce beast whose acid saliva had nearly cost Isaac his face, leaving behind a splotchy scar along his right cheek. But the meat of a gorgon rat was more succulent than a human’s first born child.
The wraith Isaac had acquired nearly two centuries ago floated toward him. Her nude silhouette hovered above the stone floor. “Evening, Master.”
“Food.”
“Of course.”
Isaac followed her down another long corridor and into a spacious dining area. When she disappeared into a neighboring room, he ran a finger along the long cherry wood table which he had acquired from the last king of a Brimstrahdt clan nearly a century ago, days before the king’s assassination by the Reingar Legions, the king’s own nephew’s army.
Ira returned, rolling a dinner cart with a raw female child strapped to it. The child’s tongue had been removed which pleased Isaac. The small girl could only protest with wordless utterances. Otherwise, her pathetic pleading would grow tiresome and sour his stomach.
Chandelier light reflected off Ira’s scalp as she stood beside the table. “I have stocked the freezer with the freshest of meats. The master bedroom’s closet is full with plenty of garments of this world and era.” She gestured to a stack of neatly folded clothes on the edge of the table.
Clothes. A temporary annoyance he would be forced to endure before returning to his lair.
Isaac’s gaze slid down Ira’s naked body. His finger traced her inner thigh until it stopped at her hairless groin. “Continue.”
“Your private sanctuary has been prepared as you instructed: third floor, west wing, fourth door on the right. Your Mother’s altar has been constructed. It is located in the courtyard.”
“You have done well,” Isaac said.
“This was once my home world. I am very pleased to have returned.”
“Turn around.”
“Yes, Master.” Ira turned and braced her palms on the wall.
He positioned himself behind her and pressed his erect penis against her naked backside. He gripped her hips, steadying her as he thrust into lithe folds. The black specks in his Narkush stone turned ruby once again as he shoved inside her phantom but corporal sex. She eternally smelled of fresh lavender and felt like silk petals, unappealing. But she was tighter than any living creature he had ever fucked, so he tolerated the lack of primal aspects.
Claws grew from his fingers. Pools of frothy saliva oozed from his snarling lips.
Ira dipped her head to the side, opening herself for him. She panted and whimpered, squealing like a helpless hare.
His teeth bit into her cold, spongy shoulder. His body shook when his seed exploded into her phantom womb. Claw marks were left etched into the wood walls.
Isaac tore away from his wraith and turned toward the child on the serving tray. He bore his canines and licked her tear-stained cheek. But she did not move. Not so much as a flinch. Pathetic.
How he longed for the hunt and detested being fed like a caged animal.
A light knock resounded from the foyer.
Isaac snorted and snatched slacks from the table. Claws retracted as he stepped into the pants. He strode down the long hallway. Ira followed. Isaac opened the front door and was greeted by a slender human female with dark hair and glasses standing on his doorstep. “I’m Waverly, head of the subdivision management committee.” She extended her tiny manicured hand.
Isaac waited.
The woman nodded and let her hand fall to the side. Her gaze drifted past him and found Ira. Naked. Smiling. Recently fucked.
The human’s complexion flushed red. She played with the hem of her white shorts, diverting her attention back to him. “Just stopped by to welcome you and your wife to the neighborhood.”
