The Grimrose Path

by Rob Thurman

  This was Cronus. This was the thing that had put on its casual clothes, a human suit it couldn’t be bothered to get correctly although it could create living human beings if it wanted, beautiful, intelligent, amazing human beings. When you could make gods, human beings were as easy as chocolate cake out of an Easy-Bake Oven. A lightbulb and some batter. What was difficult about that? But it . . . No, best think nice, the better to play nice. . . . He . . . He had put on the casual attire, because the real deal was too much of a boring chore, and was impassively waiting for Leo to show up and play checkers.

  Gods, Titans, how they both got their rocks off, it was usually freaky. The kind of freaky that would have a cross-dressing Furry who put pickles where pickles weren’t meant to go giving it all up and deciding The Price Is Right with a microwave dinner was as far away from vanilla as he planned to ever get again.

  Checkers though . . . That was a new one. Not chess, the supposed game of Death—just simple, childlike checkers.

  As I sat in the chair across from him . . . badass mother trickster—that’s one for you, TV censors—badass mother trickster, badass motherfucker, I reminded myself one last time. I opened my mouth to repeat his name, when the front door opened and a “customer” walked in. It didn’t matter who had unlocked the door, Cronus or the demon in a much better human and a familiar disguise; it was just one more thing to go wrong. I put it aside and went on as he took a seat across the room and pretended to read a shiny new copy of Dante’s The Divine Comedy. Cute. I wondered which circle of Hell he was on. The silver hair and dark eyes—it was our friend Amdusias, better known as Armand from the casino. Eli had sent a minion he might actually miss. He truly did want the info on Cronus to offer up his future version of a fine cut of Kobe beef in the hopes of getting it.

  Because, after all, I might lie to him.

  Me? Never.

  Or Cronus might erase me from reality as if I’d never existed, which would make passing on that info to Eli difficult. That Eli, so thoughtful, always thinking of others. Always thinking . . . period. Mother Teresa and Machiavelli had had nothing on him. But time to get back to the matters at hand—staying alive being part of that. For that I needed to be in top form, my attention focused.

  “Cronus,” I tried again. I didn’t bother to introduce myself. I had a hundred names, not quite legion but more than a few, and Cronus wouldn’t give a damn about a single one of them. “Leo . . . Loki asked to speak with you on my behalf.”

  Nothing.

  “It’s about the demons you’ve been killing, their wings, the map to Lucifer. I was curious . . . just a little . . . as to what’s going on in that whole area. Anything the rest of us païen should be concerned about? Lucifer going to take a peek out of Hell like a groundhog? Checking for spring or Armageddon? Should we head to the Hearth?” The Hearth was païen sanctuary. The Light of Life shielded us there, from Heaven or Hell. It was our bomb shelter should the Penthouse or the Basement decide to take us or each other out. The Hearth was, ironically, the Noah’s Ark for pagankind. We were here first and we would be here last. End of story.

  My questions to Cronus were good questions, I thought, païen pertinent definitely, and Titan or not, he was one of us . . . païen. Yet it was the same. Nothing.

  “Okay,” I exhaled, pushing the shower-damp curls back. I’d tried playing nice. It hadn’t worked. Instead, I’d try playing a different way—I’d try playing first. “How about this?” Red was on my side . . . I took that as a sign. My color, my signature, my move. I pushed one of the round plastic circles forward on the board.

  The head tilted downward, not as much taking in my move—Cronus didn’t need his empty eyes to be aware of that—as taking in my sheer audacity to make myself known to him. To stand up on my back legs, tiny ant that I was to him, and wave the others at him. Look at me! I exist! I exist right now, right here, the same as you!

  Or he simply wanted to play the game. I was sincerely hoping it was the game, because ants who get noticed almost always get squashed. By a snotty little kindergartner’s foot or by the whim of a Titan. It didn’t matter which. Squashed was squashed, to ant or trickster.

  A long pale finger extended and moved a black checker diagonally right.

  I’d made it one second without being stomped flat. Good for me. I made my next move silently. We know how to talk, my kind, not as much as pucks—no one alive, dead, or in between could touch a puck for talking—but we know when to stay quiet as well, which is something no puck has ever known. I knew, very clearly, that if a Titan didn’t want to talk, I couldn’t make him. I would have to wait him out or wait until Leo showed up and see if it was a Boys’ Club. Guys and guys. Titans and gods. Too good to talk to down-to-earth fun-in-the-sun Trixa. I gritted my back teeth, then smiled victoriously ten minutes into the game as I jumped him and took his checker. Such a simple kids’ game and this is what he played. “So this is what you do for entertainment?” I asked more cheerfully as another customer, a tourist this time, came in and sat at yet another table to study the plastic laminate with four wide and wonderful choices of appetizers. Fried cheese. Fried chicken wings. Fried potatoes with ranch dressing. And all three combined on one plate and fried just a little bit more. “You play this for fun?” I went on.

  The unnaturally smooth lips parted. “For keeps.” In the next moment with his turn, he took one of my checkers and the tourist immediately went limp, his face colliding with the table, his eyes nothing but red, blood trickling from his nose, ears, mouth. Gone . . . just like that.

  For keeps. Cronus said it: He didn’t play for fun; he played for keeps.

  I decided right then I liked it much better when he wasn’t aware of me or who was in my bar. A man had died because of me . . . and what I’d wrongly thought were some stellar checker skills. He’d died because of a stupid game—me and a stupid game that I hadn’t taken seriously. I took Cronus very seriously, so seriously that I thought he was beyond something as petty and throw-away spiteful as this. Killing more than nine hundred demons, yes, that I could see. Killing one polyester-clad tourist, who I sincerely hoped was right with whichever religion, philosophy, or lack thereof he nurtured in his soul, over a move in a game five-year-olds mastered—that was no better than pulling the wings off a butterfly. Who did that?

  A Titan asshole apparently.

  Armand shimmered. He might work for Eli and aspire to someday get lucky enough to stab his boss in the back to take his place, but I didn’t think he liked what he was seeing. I didn’t think he knew what he was seeing. Demons thought they were killers and they were. They thought they were monsters and they were. They thought they were evil and, yes, they were. They thought they were the first evil.

  They weren’t.

  They thought they’d invented evil.They hadn’t.Thought they were the very epitome of evil—they were only a shadow. I wasn’t proud of it, but the first evil had been païen. Cronus wasn’t the first evil, but he wasn’t a shadow of it either. He was the genuine article and Armand was only another ant, the same as me, and running for his anthill, which was better known as Hell, as fast as he could go. It wasn’t fast enough.

  Cronus was gone from his chair and holding Armand up off the ground before pinning him against the wall, a butterfly soon to lose its wings. Armand, physically bound to earth, did what he thought would be his best chance of escaping. He changed to his true form: the scales, the snapping alligator j aws, the thrashing tail, jagged talons. They didn’t help him. Cronus didn’t bother to move as claws passed through the fake flesh that instantly repaired itself behind them. The only thing that helped Armand/Amdusias escape was his wings. If he considered death an escape and if I’d been the one facing a Titan who did not care for me at all, I would’ve happily considered it so. A vacation. A party.

  I didn’t think Amdusias agreed with me. He screamed as one wing was torn off in Cronus’s hand. And then he was gone, a black puddle. His wing stayed, which was apparently a Titan trick, as normally i
t would’ve melted along with Amdusias.

  I’d gotten to my feet to run. Not to help the demon. That was way beyond my capabilities and Amdusias wasn’t my problem. Locking the door and preventing someone else from walking in on a scene of dead tourist, demonic puddle, and Titan holding a demon’s wing like a cheap Vegas souvenir, that was my immediate concern. Large black puddles were easy to explain. . . . If cleanliness was your thing, then this wasn’t the bar for you. A bizarre eyeless fake human, a red and ebony dragon wing, and an expired tourist soaked in blood, that was more difficult than what looked like a very bad bathroom leak.

  I was about to lock the door when Leo walked in. He took in Cronus, the wing, the dead man, and he shook his head. “I don’t know why I ever listen to you,” he said to me. I closed the door and gave the lock an annoyed twist shut. I didn’t worry about the blinds. They were closed. This was Nevada and this was a bar; there was no reason for them to be open.

  “I feel bad enough about the guy,” I said, folding my arms. Did I look defensive? Probably. I sure as hell felt that way. I hadn’t planned on any collateral damage during all this unless it was demons. “I didn’t know Titans took checkers so seriously—that anyone took checkers that seriously.”

  “Titans take all games seriously. I’m more of a free spirit. Make up the rules as I go along and then smash them into tiny pieces—along with the rest of the world,” Leo remarked as he leaned back against the door, as casual as they came. “Rules never were worth my respect, not even my own. What’s the point of creating something if you don’t destroy it? What goes up must always come down. What we make, well, damn, we have to break.”

  It was said with a dark acid humor I hadn’t heard in a long time from him. From the bad old days when world destroying was as easy and as natural for him as reaching for the remote. He’d been a bad boy before the concept of bad boy had been spawned. That’s what Cronus would remember about him and that’s who Leo would be for the trick at hand. Who he’d be for me.

  Pretend to be for me. Only pretend. No trick, no information was worth Leo going back to what he’d once been.

  Loki. Lie-Smith, the Sly God, the Sky Traveler. And one of the few that Cronus might actually give a real answer to—dark and chaotic enough to be at least worth a pat on the head like a clever little doggy. I could feel it coming from Leo as I stood beside him, ripples in a midnight black lake—the darkness of space where the earth would have once been before he incited a war to blow it apart. Only a might-have-been, but a very close might-have-been.

  And Cronus remembered it.

  “Sly one.” This time when he opened his mouth, I saw what I hadn’t seen before; there was nothing behind his lips, the same as his eyes. Only shadows of things no one should have to see. “What game play you now?”

  “None that would take a thousand wings to find that fallen pigeon Lucifer. What use would you have for a failed pretender to the throne in a hell literally of his own making? What could he give you who’ve had that and a heaven too?” The disdain was automatic for Loki or Leo. Lucifer might have the power of all the demons in Hell combined, but to us païen, he was and would always be another pigeon with scales. We were stubborn that way. Lucifer was one of them; whether lording it above or hiding below, he didn’t count.

  At least he didn’t until Cronus gave Leo the answer he wouldn’t give me. It was one word. It didn’t need to be any more than that.

  One word to tell us why a Titan would devour Lucifer and make that Hell his own.

  Chapter 7

  “Rose.”

  It’s what I said as soon as Eli manifested in my bar. I’d called him since Armand wasn’t going to be making any calls ever again. Cronus had left after giving us our answer, losing interest in his pet Loki quickly or on the way to bag more demon wings—it didn’t matter. He had slowly spun out of existence, streamers of faux skin and the slickly spongy material beneath it disappearing like a dust devil settling slowly to die. He took the wings and the checkerboard with him. The dead man and puddle of Armand he left behind.

  I’d told him the Titan was gone, but Eli was no fool. He waited a good two hours before he showed up. Two hours I’d spent mopping up Armand while Leo covered up the tourist with a sheet. We’d seemed to have lucked out and he was either alone, a regular Vegas gambler who made the pilgrimage several times a year, or he wasn’t alone, but whoever he was with had no idea where he’d gone. It was sad to say that if he were a lonely gambling addict with no one in his life to miss him, it would be a good thing for us. Sometimes to do good, you take the risk of others being hurt. It shouldn’t be that way, but there are a lot of things in life that shouldn’t be as they are.

  The physicist I’d once hung over a volcano hadn’t explained that one. The nature of time was simple. Why all things weren’t fair and just—he hadn’t had a clue on that one. Mama would say it’s all about balance. There can be no good if there’s no evil. No right if there’s no wrong. No light if there’s no dark. Then again, there’s often no mac if there’s no cheese.

  The last perked me up and I had less of a desire to impale Eli with the mop handle as he straightened his tie, although the mop was a loss anyway. You couldn’t get demon out of anything, not even cleaning utensils. I’d already leaned it against the doorway leading to the alley for disposal.

  “I suppose I don’t have to watch my back against Amdusias any longer, although you can feel free to watch any part of me, front or back.”

  He was wearing all black. Black suit, black silk shirt, black tie with a muted pattern in a different weave. Even a black rose, ironically. “I’m in mourning for my comrade killed in action.” He spread his arms and did a turn so we all could get a good look. “But I’ll still be sexy. It can’t be avoided.”

  “I do believe it can.” I did the shot of whiskey sitting in front of me. I was sitting two tables over from the one holding up the dead man. “In so many ways. I don’t need Leo’s help either, not that he wouldn’t enjoy it.”

  “Just like old times,” Leo offered from behind the bar, having his own whiskey. His mood was more positive than mine . . . because it was like old times for him—a faint reflection of them anyway. He might not be that way anymore, but memories were memories, and whether the world judged them differently didn’t matter. They were Leo’s to do with as he pleased. If he felt nostalgic versus guilty, as long as he didn’t reenact those days, it wasn’t my business how he felt about his mental echoes.

  Still, Leo’s upbeat was Loki’s upbeat and Eli saw that plain as day. He came in smooth as oil on water, wary with the one whom he still thought a god. “I was always a fan of Vikings. Brawny men. Brawny women. Hard-drinking and hard-killing. And when they die—Valhalla. More hard drinking and hard killing. Destruction all the way around. What’s not to like?”

  “The killing in Valhalla isn’t permanent. The next day the dead come back and that’s what’s not to like.” Leo swirled his whiskey. “I like my destruction very permanent, but that’s me, and not some worthless lizard who imagines he can comment on my playground, much less survive in it.” It might’ve been odd to someone else seeing an American Indian telling you the downside of Norse afterlife from personal experience. But Leo had made his body as I’d made mine. He could deal with the details of that confusion on his own.

  But tiptoeing around a god versus his ego, Eli didn’t have a chance when he made that choice. “Ah, such a mouthy and aggressive god. Your playground, eh? Perhaps one day we’ll see . . . when I beat you to death with a large set of monkey bars.” Eli shifted his attention back to me. “‘Rose’ is what you’re telling me Cronus said. Rose and only rose. Nothing else. Pardon me if I find that both wildly mysterious and completely inadequate.” The emphasis on “inadequate” was as black as the suit.

  He sat at the table with me, suddenly holding a glass of wine, which he raised to toast the dripping black mop leaning against the door frame. “Valeas, Amdusias. You were an almost satisfactory minion. Now, T
rixa, my one true love, shower me with roses and explanations and we won’t have to find out who is the baddest and most toned of asses around.” He took a sip of wine. “Although the last, I think we both know, is obvious.” His lips curled with a smug satisfaction. Smugness and Eli almost always went hand in hand.

  I didn’t pay attention to the ass part since I did know the answer and I didn’t like it. “Since the big badass demon was too afraid to show up for two hours, we had time to hit the trickster network and linked up the word ‘rose’ with Cronus.” I waited and I made him ask. Any chance to stick it to the demon whose ass might be a little bit more toned than mine.

  “And?” He tapped his fingers on the wood of the table. “I can’t believe you’re so petty. Wait, you’re a trickster, so yes, I do.”

  “Yes, I am, and yes, I am.” I took the glass from his hand and a swallow of the wine myself. It was excellent. “Cronus, the Titan, a creature I wouldn’t believe could love, did fall in love with, of all imaginable things, a human. That’s why I was in the dark regarding any motivation for his psychotic behavior—not that he needs motivation. The few tricksters who heard the story passed it off as the very worst concocted of rumors, and we love rumors, even more than the truth. But a Titan falling in love? With a human? That was too ridiculous to repeat or toss into our gossip network. Yet the ridiculous and unthinkable turns out to be true or Cronus wouldn’t be waging war on Hell. He did fall in love . . . with a woman. Rose, Rosemary, Rosita—no one knows her exact name, only that she was his Rose.”

  “Was,” Eli exhaled. “I sense a pattern here. Was. She was his Rose.” He let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling glumly. “Let me guess. His Rose was a naughty, naughty girl. Stupid, stupid human.”

  “Maybe not that naughty. But she wanted fame, fortune, what most humans want, and Cronus, to test her love, loved her as a human. In a human body I’m guessing he was a damn sight more convincing than the one he showed up in here today.” I grimaced slightly. Bad work was bad work, whether it was lack of talent or just not giving a rat’s ass. “Emotions too. For some reason, maybe boredom, he did become human, if only temporarily. He felt as a human feels, he loved as a human loves, and Rose thought he was human. She didn’t know about païen or Titans. But she knew about demons when one came around and enlightened her, tempted her, and then she traded her soul for what Cronus could have given her for free.”