Nobody's Ghoul

by Devon Monk

  “I don’t—”

  And then the worst thing happened. Gladys, who ran the Pop Shop popcorn store, and who was also a Siren, got up on stage to sing.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ordinary’s rules were very clear about god powers—they were to be safely stowed and not used while the god was in Ordinary.

  But all the other supernaturals followed different rules.

  As long as their powers, magic, or abilities didn’t harm anyone, didn’t give away the secret of supernaturals in town to the mortals who didn’t know their neighbors were the sort of people fairy tales were written about, and didn’t break any mortal law, they were free to be who they were, and do what they naturally did.

  So when a Siren steps up on a talent show rehearsal stage, there is just one thing that she’s going to do: sing.

  Gladys started softly at first, almost too low to hear over the construction, nothing more than a sweet cascade of notes as fleeting as birdsong floating in winter snowfall.

  Still, there was a tug to that sound, a draw. My breath evened out, quieted without me thinking about it. I held still, my head bent so I could better catch those notes again.

  A second roll of notes rose from the stage. The drill silenced, the saw stopped, the hammering halted.

  Even the screaming children and laughing crowd fell still, holding space for the song. To witness it. Waiting.

  Gladys began to sing.

  The music, the magic in it was blinding. Each note built on the next, climbing, skipping, tumbling, joyous, and free.

  A shout of laughter punched out of me, a cheer I couldn’t hold back. A cheer echoed by everyone around the stage.

  Then we were walking, jogging, running down that hill to be closer to the stage, to worship at the feet of song and promise, woven through with words I didn’t understand. My soul craved that sound, my spirit caught in the delicate net of a voice that could bring the world to its knees.

  Being the Bridge for Ordinary meant magic didn’t hit me as hard as it did others. So while I was running toward the stage, a part of my mind knew this was a bad idea.

  I knew I needed to break the Siren’s spell and get Vivian out of here before she caught on that there was something otherworldly, that there was something magical about the woman on the stage.

  But we weren’t the only ones rushing toward the stage. Everyone within four blocks was headed this way, a nearly silent stampede of people desperate to get closer to the song.

  This was bad. This was really bad. People could get hurt in crowds like this.

  I yelled for Ryder, who was just a few steps ahead of me, and even over the Siren’s song, he heard me and spun toward me, his arms open. My momentum threw me into his arms, and he wrapped them around me.

  I was found, tethered, harbored against the storm.

  “We have to stop her,” I said near his ear. “We have to stop Gladys.”

  His arms tightened, and he nodded. I didn’t know if being in contact with me made it easier for him to resist the song, or if it was because he was claimed by a god, and therefore had his own bit of resistance to magic.

  But just in case it was contact, I held on to his hand and tugged him sideways to the flow of people, over to the stairs that led to the stage.

  I was surprised the crowd hadn’t swarmed the stairs, but instead they were pooling out below the front of the stage like an ocean wave fingering out across the sand.

  Gladys had control of her song, maybe not of the initial draw, which was especially strong on humans, but definitely of the tone and message of it.

  The first notes had tempted, the next notes had drawn people in. But now the song held them, speaking of family and friends and the sorrows and victories of life, of togetherness, of love.

  No one rushed the stage, because her song drew them together, cherished them, loved them, and it was enough just to be held in that thrall.

  But if she kept it up, things could very easily get out of hand. I stood on the stage, hidden behind one of the heavy purple curtains.

  “Gladys,” I called out. “Stop. You need to stop!”

  I moved toward her. I didn’t want to tackle her, but if it meant ending the song, I was on for it.

  The crowd below me gazed up with adoring eyes. Humans, yes, but there were vampires and werewolves, shape shifters and dryads in that crowd. Our town gilman, Chris, was down there, as were several gods—Odin, Frigg, and Athena.

  The gods were watching me instead of Gladys, which made sense. They weren’t as susceptible to her magic either.

  Ryder, who had been right behind me on the stairs, was nowhere to be seen.

  I didn’t have time to worry about him. Vivian had found the other set of stairs and was walking in a trance toward Gladys.

  “Hey, Gladys!” I tapped her on the shoulder. “Good job. That’s real good. Show’s over folks!”

  She stopped singing and looked back at me. “Oh, hello, Delaney. Didn’t see you there.”

  “That was just great,” I said, making eyes toward Vivian who stood halfway across the stage, a confused look on her face. “You really have a fantastic set of pipes.”

  She glanced at Vivian and her eyes went wide. “Oh gods,” she whispered. “Is that…?”

  I stepped up to the microphone. “That’s right. That was just a sneak peek at one of the great acts you’re going to see tomorrow, folks.”

  A groan rolled through the crowd. “I know, I know, but we don’t want to give it all away. Buy a ticket, bring a picnic lunch, and you can see all of the acts from start to finish. It’s a terrific family-friendly event, and all the ticket money goes toward charities.”

  The staccato click of a set of heels coming my way fast, told me I was about to get kicked off announcer duty.

  “But hey, let’s give Gladys a hand.” I turned toward the blonde bombshell and started clapping. The crowd joined in with whistles and shouts.

  Bertie’s heels were still clacking, but she clapped too as Gladys took a bow and waved, then walked backstage.

  I stepped back from the microphone, and Bertie stepped up. “Well done,” she said as she passed me.

  I didn’t think I’d ever heard those words out of her mouth before. I almost tripped over my feet.

  “Now get rid of the hunter.” Bertie put her smile on high beam, spread her arms wide and took the microphone.

  “It is wonderful to see you all here, but as our Police Chief Delaney Reed has said, this is just the warm-up. The main event will begin tomorrow at eleven o’clock and will run into the evening. We’ll have food, games, plenty of entertainment, and fireworks. You will get to choose this year’s Ordinary Show Off! I hope to see you all right back here tomorrow.”

  She cut the mike, waved to the crowd, then followed Gladys behind the curtain.

  I crossed the stage to Vivian. “You’re not supposed to be up here on stage,” I said. “This is rehearsal.”

  “Her voice,” she said, like she was picking through memories to separate the chaff of reality from the blossoms of dream.

  “Oh, Gladys? She’s amazing. Was offered a record contract back in the day but decided to settle down here by the ocean instead. You’d think she’d win every one of these Show Offs.”

  “She doesn’t win?” Vivian sounded more like herself, and fell right into step as I walked her toward the stairs again.

  “Nope.”

  She glanced back at the microphone. Bathin was walking toward it, which made me burn with curiosity. He hadn’t been in the Show Off before, and I didn’t know if Bertie had forced him to perform, or if he really had some kind of talent.

  “Who could top that?” Vivian asked.

  “There’s a guy in town who does armpit music. Bach. Mozart. That sort of thing.”

  “No,” she said sounding slightly horrified. It was probably the first real emotion she’d shown.

  “Yep. Small town. You can take the pits to the city, but you’re never gonna get the country ou
t of the pits.”

  She shook her head. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Neither does Phil winning the Show Off two years in a row.”

  We were almost there, almost down the stairs. The crowd was dispersing now that the Siren call was gone. About a third of the people remained, kids squealing, the construction sounds banging out through the air.

  Bathin cleared his throat, and the microphone whinged with feedback static. “Testing,” he said. “Testing. This will be a dramatic reading of Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll.”

  The audience didn’t seem nearly as interested in that statement. Someone shouted, “Do it with your armpits!” and people laughed.

  Bathin was unfazed. He took a breath and began in a spooky, quiet bass: “’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe.”

  Someone in the audience made an armpit fart, and another person followed. Pretty soon, it was an off-tune chorus of flatulence.

  I glanced at Bathin to make sure he wasn’t going to get mad about the hecklers, when I saw a shadow behind the curtain move.

  The shadow had a sword in one hand and an ax in the other, and my first take was that Bathin was about to turn his boring poetry reading into live-action battle slam poetry.

  And honestly, I wanted to see that.

  But then the shadow stepped into the light, and I knew this was not a performance. This was not a play.

  That was a real sword. That was a real ax.

  And the shadow, was a real demon.

  A demon I’d only seen once before.

  Bathin’s brother, Goap was moving faster than my brain could adjust to the fact he was here, now, in Ordinary.

  Or maybe he wasn’t really here. The last time he’d shown up and stabbed his brother, Goap had been a projection and the weapon had been nothing but air.

  This time, this time details, solid details hit like lightning.

  His heavy boot tread. His controlled breathing, the scent of him on the wind—charred wood, basil, and something sharp like whiskey.

  He was not a projection.

  Goap was here, really here. And he was about to cut off his brother’s head with an ax.

  I ran.

  “Bathin!” I yelled. “Behind!”

  Bathin pivoted, but it was late, much too late. I put my hand on my gun, but they were too close together for me to get off a shot without hitting Bathin.

  “Stop!” I yelled.

  The crowd had caught on that this wasn’t a show any more. Someone screamed, Goap swung the ax at Bathin’s head, yelling, “Die!” and all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Everything happened lightning-fast. Ryder running the stairs, panic wide and harsh on his face, Bertie practically flying toward us, her speed incredible, the crowd yelling, screaming.

  Vivian, slower than me, much slower, but I had the sense she’d drawn a gun out of her purse and was getting ready to squeeze the trigger no matter who took the bullet.

  And the worst, the gut-wrenching realization that I’d never get to Bathin, get in front of him before that ax cut off his head.

  It didn’t stop me from trying though.

  I threw myself at Bathin, hoping to knock him sideways away from the main impact point of the blade.

  My feet left the stage, and I angled my shoulder to hit Bathin mid-body.

  But just as I connected, the ax blade slicing air inches above my ear, my whole body ready to tuck and roll, everything stopped.

  Well, I didn’t stop. I rammed into a brick wall named Bathin who didn’t even grunt from the impact, even though I was pretty sure I’d just dislocated my shoulder.

  I fell on my ass and knocked my head so hard on the floor everything blacked out for a second. My shoulder slapped the boards, and pain exploded, bringing me fully awake in a white-hot nebula that burrowed sparks through my muscles.

  “Fuck!” I yelled, grabbing my shoulder, trying to blink away enough of the pain that I wouldn’t barf.

  I was sure I’d see Bathin chopped in half. I was sure I would see Goap smiling his evil villain smile, then probably doing some sort of monolog about how much he’d always hated his brother.

  But when I could see, when the pain had faded from a universe of heat to maybe just a small galaxy burning in my shoulder and back of my head, what I saw were both brothers, standing, facing each other.

  They were opposites, these demons, Bathin solid and wide as a mountain, Goap lithe and fluid like smoke and oil. But their coloring was the same, and their eyes—one look at their ice-green eyes, and anyone would know they were brothers.

  “Are you okay, Delaney?” Bathin asked, not looking away from Goap.

  “Yes. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Goap? I assume this is the real you this time?” I got my good hand under me and levered myself to a sitting position. The world spun. I swore softly and hung on until the ride came to a full stop.

  Goap ignored me. “You have mother’s ring.”

  “It looks like I do,” Bathin said. “I’d always supected it could stop time.”

  I took a quick assessment of the world around us.

  Bathin was right, every person was freakishly still, frozen in place. Ryder tilted mid-run to my right, the panic in his eyes burning with fury. Bertie was more than just running—she was actually floating an inch above the ground, her skin gone gold, powerful, nearly invisible wings spread out behind her, wings so large they would block the sun if they were fully solid.

  Vivian was in a shooting stance aiming for both the demon’s heads.

  The crowd below and around were all in various stages of fear and confusion, but no one was fleeing yet, though the children’s eyes were being shielded by adult hands.

  My stomach rolled for another reason: even the gods in the audience were frozen.

  There would be no help there.

  There would be no help from anyone.

  “Of course it stops time,” Goap said. “Mother has always cheated in battle.”

  “Lucky for me,” Bathin said, “and lucky for you.”

  Goap scoffed. “You were about to be beheaded, brother. This is only a slight delay.”

  “Let’s see, shall we? Kneel.”

  Goap’s eyes narrowed with rage, and every muscle in his body locked up. His face went red from the effort to fight the command, and sweat rolled down his temples.

  Bathin pointed downward, like he was telling a dog to sit. Goap dropped, knees hitting the board with a massive thud that revealed he was much, much heavier than he appeared.

  “You’ve gone soft,” Goap said, his hands on his thighs, his face tipped up in a sneer.

  “And yet you are the one kneeling,” Bathin replied. “Release the weapons.”

  Goap dropped the sword.

  “Both.”

  He dropped the ax.

  Bathin looked over at me. “Are you injured?”

  “Shoulder,” I said, pushing up to my feet. “I’ll be okay.” I took an unsteady step toward him.

  “Don’t,” Bathin said. “I’d rather not have him try to take you hostage.”

  I was going to argue that I could take care of myself against demons just fine, but decided he was right. I was injured, Bathin only had the upper hand here because he had his mother’s ring, and I didn’t know the range of its powers.

  So I stayed put.

  “Come closer, Delaney Reed,” Goap sing-songed, “I promise not to eat you, my pretty.”

  Bathin kicked Goap in the face. Goap grunted as his head snapped back. The kick would have knocked my teeth out, but it didn’t appear to do any more harm than a love tap to Goap.

  He just glared harder at his brother.

  “Manners,” Bathin chided.

  Goap turned his head slightly. It looked like it took every bit of energy he had to force his head to move. He spit blood onto the wood. “Soft,” he repeated.

  “I c
ould say the same to you,” Bathin said. “You brought the wrong weapons. I cannot imagine that was a mistake.”

  “I nearly took your head off with Bunny Kisses, the King Killer.”

  “But I am not a king,” Bathin said, glancing at the ax. “Bunny Kisses would not have harmed me.”

  Goap smiled. “That’s why I was going to gut you with Feather Duster, the Brother Stabber.”

  “Wait,” I said, wondering how hard I’d hit my head. “The ax is named Bunny Kisses, and the…sword? That huge blade is Feather Duster?”

  “They are demon weapons,” Bathin said, like that explained anything.

  “Demon weapons. And they aren’t named something like Grave Digger or Earth Shaker?”

  “Those are monster trucks,” Bathin said, while Goap muttered, “Obviously.”

  “All right, okay,” I said, “fine. Why did you try to kill Bathin with something that only kills kings? Why even bring that here?”

  Bathin crossed his arms over his wide chest and nudged Goap’s knee with his boot.

  “Father is coming for you,” Goap said. “For you, for mother, for Avnas—who I can’t believe just packed bags and is shacking up with her. He is shacking up with her, isn’t he?”

  “She’s keeping her options open.” Bathin shrugged.

  “Oh.” Goap frowned. “Disappointing. I always thought they made a good pair.”

  Bathin grunted. “So did I. You’ve told me this before—not about Anvas, but that father wants to kill me. I knew that even before I left his kingdom. Of course he’ll want to kill mother for breaking their contract, and Avnas for leaving his service.

  “This is obvious. Why are you here? Again. Warning me. Again. What are you up to?”

  “Is it so difficult to believe I am just worried about you?”

  “You tried to behead me.”

  “It got your attention, didn’t it?”

  “Tap…”

  “Don’t call me that. You left me. You both left me. You don’t get to use that name.”

  Bathin’s nostrils flared, but he nodded. “Apologies.”

  The anger shifted in Goap, settling into stubborn lines. “He is not as you remember him. He is much, much worse. There are some among us who would stand against him.”