Devil Take Me

by Jordan L. Hawk

  Naomi’s sobs echoed. There was no sign of anyone alive except for the three of us, the little girl, and Blue. Everyone else had either fled or died. So no one else was around to watch the Red Queen fold in on herself to become a quivering, slack-skinned woman in an ill-fitting red gown.

  Her wings had fallen off, pieces of her scaly skin lying in rolls and sheets across the now-muddled, gritty squares. Her crown was broken, and the hair once strung through it hung limply around the shattered filigree, her silvery locks stripped away to colorless shanks. Age hung on her, as thick as fog on a Northwest coastline.

  “You will not kill me, little girl,” she choked out, her bony finger pointed at Naomi. “I will destroy you. I will—”

  The ribbons broadened, stretching the air thin, and I saw glimpses of trees, Ferris wheels, and a boardwalk set on an ocean shore in their turns. Naomi’s face went pale, and she clutched at her shirt, wrinkling the broad pocket sewn into its front. Streams of smoky black shadows wisped out of the fabric fold’s edge. A breeze caught at Naomi’s hair, pushing it away from her face. Her sobs seemed uncontrollable, hiccups racking her tiny body. Jean Michel held me tight, his arms digging into my wounds, but I didn’t care. The pain was familiar and anchored me to the world we were in.

  The same couldn’t be said about the Red Queen.

  She became nothing. The slices of our worlds merging poured her years into her immortal body. Her flesh could not take the Time, could not withstand the creep of death’s touch on her skin and bones. She turned to dust in front of us. A slow march of her body’s reaching for decay until it finally dawned on her, she was dying.

  I watched her soul leave her remaining eye, but the madness remained. It raged with an unholy glee, a mirror of hell’s flames burning behind the emptiness of her gaze. She watched me as she crumbled, hatred keeping something alive within her disintegrating flesh until death finally sucked the last bit of her life from her.

  Her jaw fell, toppling free from its place beneath her upper teeth and cheekbones. It was dust before it hit the floor. Her skull puckered and bowed, then in an anticlimactic rush, slithered down the pile of her ashen remains. The malevolent light of her madness lingered, illuminating the spot in the red-tinged powdery heaps for a long, seemingly eternal second before blinking out in a puff of smoke.

  My heart pounded beneath Jean Michel’s arm, and he heaved a sigh, letting go the breath he’d been holding. We lay there, listening to Naomi’s weeping slow, then her gentle comforting when Blue whined.

  “It’s over,” Jean Michel whispered into my ear. The sand was uncomfortable, but I had no intention of moving. Not yet. “I guess it’s time for you to go home.”

  “Yeah,” I replied slowly. Skies were turning gray once again, and the sound of seagulls’ laughter faded gently away, leaving only the brush of snow falling on our upturned faces and the stink of the pawns’ animated flesh turning to ooze where their bodies lay. “It’s definitely time to go home.”

  Epilogue

  “SIT STILL,” Jean Michel admonished me. “Some of these straps have been here for decades.”

  “Just cut them off,” I said between my gritted teeth. “It’s not like I ever want to wear this damn thing ever again.”

  The Ace of Spades’ armor was stuck to my body as a shattered carapace of black plates, chain mail, and inert magic. I’d been forced to wear it all the way back from the Red Queen’s Palace, hunkered in the back seat of Jean Michel’s motorcar with Blue and Naomi sitting in front. The little girl had fallen asleep about a minute into our trip. Exhaustion had bled the color from her face, and dark circles were under her bright eyes, but she gave me a wavering smile before she wrapped her arms around my armor-clad knees.

  That was when I asked her about the black feathers she’d brought with her, and Naomi dug through the pocket of her T-shirt to come up with a handful of glittering ebony souls.

  We arrived at the Painted Rose in the early hours of the morning. Dawn was still a long way off, and I was wrung dry. A few curt words from Jean Michel had the staff hopping to take care of us despite the crowds of gamblers and partiers who filled the gambling hell. He ushered me into his private suite, his arms burdened by a sleeping girl and a glowing blue terrier at his heels. I followed slowly, the weight of my armor nearly too great for me to bear. Once he’d gotten Naomi tucked away into one of the bedrooms, he came out with healing stones, medical supplies, and a large bottle of potent whiskey.

  The whiskey was already half-gone, and Jean Michel was busy trying to unravel my former life off of my battered body.

  “Okay. I got this one loose, so brace yourself.” It was a good warning. I’d heard it a few times since we started to peel my armor off, and it allowed me enough time to take a gulp of whiskey. He waited until I swallowed and grunted my assent. “I’m sorry.”

  Yeah, I’d heard that one before too.

  The shoulder piece wasn’t as bad as my breastplate or the back side, but it was one of the few places I’d rarely been hit, so its hold on my flesh was firm. Jean Michel dug his fingers underneath its edges, and I tightened my stomach muscles in preparation. He didn’t tug carefully. We’d learned that lesson at the very start of this. This time he used every bit of strength he had and yanked downward, ripping the pauldron from my skin.

  Like every other piece, it fought and refused to be discarded, but the enchanted filaments binding it to my body tore as Jean Michel cursed.

  “Hold steady. I’m going to stanch the bleeding and then run a stone over.” He spoke to me as though we hadn’t done it six or seven times before. I took another swig of whiskey and felt the pain dissipate as he depleted the healing from yet another charmed crystal.

  They were expensive, and once invoked and drained, they were useless afterward. Slowly the crystal went gray and cracked into powdery shards when Jean Michel was finished. Then he moved on and worked to get me free from the next piece, and I was left to stare at the remains of a fortune lying on a bar towel and tried not to think of how much more I was going to cost him.

  The armor had grown through my clothes, leaving them shredded on my body, and once we’d taken care of my lower half, Jean Michel offered me a pair of loose cotton pants to wear while he dealt with the rest of it. The cuirass had been torture to remove, loosening in small pieces at a time, and I had to endure the waves of nauseating agony until he could remove it fully. It had taken two crystals to heal my torso, but when Jean Michel was done, the single spade keloid on my chest whitened and faded until it was barely a shiny ripple on my skin.

  At the very least, it seemed I was free of the Queen of Hearts’ curse, just in time to leave Jean Michel behind.

  “I wonder if any of these is anyone I know,” I said, contemplating the tiny rice bowl full of feathers on the table next to another whiskey bottle if I needed it. They were hard to see at times, wispy at their edges, and when waved about, they left a trail of shadows.

  “I wonder if any of those are yours,” Jean Michel said, kissing my temple. The helm hurt—not as horribly as my cuirass, but I wouldn’t want to go through it again. With his fingers he traced the faded, healed-over scar on my chest and then returned to undo the straps on my other shoulder. “Ready?”

  “No,” I confessed as I got a better grip on the bottle. The liquor no longer burned, but it also didn’t seem to do much to numb the tearing apart of my flesh. “But go ahead.”

  We continued to work through the pieces, saving the hook of bone in my ribs for last. My mouth was bloodied from where I bit my lip by the time he extracted the horn piece from my side, and the bottle of whiskey was bone dry.

  It was only then that the devil came to collect.

  Az emerged from the bedroom, cradling a still-slumbering Naomi in his arms. Blue rushed ahead of him, whining and barking. He slammed his tiny body against my legs, urging me to do something about the man holding the girl he’d fought so hard to save. I picked up my squirming dog to calm him down, but Blue wasn’t ready to
give up the fight.

  “Hush,” I murmured, willing him to still. “He’s come to take her home.”

  “And you as well.” His angelic face held a blend of wickedness and promises, but I’d been down that road before. “I see you have my feathers. Sprinkle them over my wings. They’ll find their place.”

  He was close enough that I could toss them at him, and they swirled in the air, a carousel of shadows and hematite as they settled down into the stygian depths. I wasn’t too sure how I felt about returning a handful of souls to the devil who’d taken them, but I’d promised.

  No matter what I’d become, I stood by my word and could only hope Az did as well.

  The fallen angel’s wings fluffed and shimmered and left threads of black dust in the air. Az closed his eyes for a moment to reabsorb what was taken from him, and then asked, “Are you ready to leave? If you haven’t said your goodbyes, do so now. My time is short.”

  The world was already beginning to eat away at Az. Misty swirls flowed over his shoulders and softened the edges of his form. Jean Michel tightened his grip on my shoulders, his warmth a welcome relief from the brittle coldness left by the healing stones. I set Blue down and stood up, breaking our contact.

  “If you can’t exist here, why can the feathers?” I gestured with the empty bowl. “And you promised to give me back my soul first. That was part of the contract.”

  Az did the one thing I kind of expected him to do, but for an entirely different reason.

  He laughed.

  “So you’re going to go back on your word?” I challenged. Anger fought with my disbelief, because in the past he’d delivered on every promise he made. Still, I’d made a deal with a devil, and they were known for their lies. “I thought you couldn’t. Aren’t you bound by your rules? With unknown dire consequences if you break them?”

  He shifted the girl in his arms, adjusting how her legs draped over his elbow, and then chuckled. “Humans are so gullible. I never had your soul. No one can take your soul. That’s the whole point of human creation. No matter what realm you’re from, you have the free will to shape your existence. The contract we had allows me to borrow it, in a way. But you’re right, I am bound by my word, so in exchange for borrowing your soul, I am obligated to fulfill your desires in some way shape or form. You wanted to live in a world that didn’t care you were gay. So I brought you here.”

  “And the feathers?” Jean Michel growled. “Are they pieces of people’s souls you’ve shaved off of them?”

  “No, the feathers are… possibilities. That’s what angels’ wings are made of.” Az shrugged, and a saturnine smile settled on his ethereal features. “I couldn’t let her, with her chaos and her little-girl dreams, run amok in this world with a handful of angelic possibilities. So, Xander Spade, are you ready to go home?”

  I wished I were drunk, but the pain of stripping my armor left me fairly sober despite the whiskey I’d swallowed. Blue was at my side, pressed against my leg, and Jean Michel was stroking the small of my bare back. A standing full-length mirror set between the living room and the dining table began to wobble and its silvery gleaming surface to flow into a sinuous kaleidoscope pattern. Echoes of conversation spilled from its now-liquid face, and I once again saw glimpses of a seashore and laughing people.

  “I can’t take Blue?” I challenged my devil. Still reeling from the news that I’d never lost my soul to a fallen angel, my distrust ran deep. I needed to question everything Az had told me. “Or was that a lie too?”

  “No, it wasn’t.” He shook his head, and the glitter of gold in his mane flashed brilliantly. “Nothing from here can go there. The fantastical cannot exist next to the mundane. It could only be dreamed about, imagined. That’s why Wonderland City sometimes needs a human. Without one, the realms cannot dream.”

  “So if I go, what happens?” I asked. Jean Michel’s hand stilled but remained on my back.

  “There are other humans here. Wonderland City will continue on,” Az promised. “Now let’s go.”

  “If I can’t take my dog, then I don’t want to go.” Jean Michel gasped next to me, and I bent over and scooped Blue up. “You don’t just abandon the people and things you love. So I’m not going.”

  “Suit yourself,” the devil said with a grin. “Just don’t think I owe you anything. We’re even. I offered you a chance to go home, and you refused to take it. The deal was struck. Those were the terms.”

  “I know.” Every part of me wanted to lean against Jean Michel, but I didn’t trust myself. It was a sad day when I trusted a fallen angel more than I trusted myself, but I was where I was. “You better go. If you stay too long, Wonderland City will eat you alive, and Naomi will be stuck here. I don’t think any one of us will survive that.”

  Az was gone in a flurry of shadowy feathers and rainbow sparkles as he plunged through the looking glass a few feet away. A moment later, the flashes of my world slipped away, replaced by a silver-backed pane.

  I put the dog down, and Jean Michel cupped my face and gave me a kiss.

  We both probably tasted foul, mostly whiskey and grit, but it was the sweetest kiss I’d ever had. It held everything dear to me—a bit of home and the promise of banter with a dash of arrogance and contrariness. I never wanted to let him go. I didn’t know if I could live with him or if he wouldn’t kill me after spending more than a few hours with me in a small room, but there was something there for us to build on, something more real and tangible than anything I’d left behind in the world I’d been born into.

  “I love you, Xander,” Jean Michel whispered into my mouth when we finally broke apart. “I would give up the world for you, or if you wanted, I would take it and make it mine… make it ours. You say the word, and I will change the world.”

  I laughed. Not as hard as Az, but close.

  “I don’t need you to change the world for me, Jean Michel,” I murmured back and removed the wispy, shadowy feather I’d tucked into my waistband a few moments before.

  “You kept one.” He cocked his head and narrowed his dark eyes slightly. “Why?”

  “You never know when you’re going to need a favor, especially one from the devil,” I replied, leaning in for another kiss. “And our world could never have too many dreams and promises.”

  RHYS FORD is an award-winning author with several long-running LGBT+ mystery, thriller, paranormal, and urban fantasy series, and is a two-time Lambda finalist with her Murder and Mayhem novels. She is also a 2017 Gold and Silver Medal winner in the Florida Authors and Publishers President’s Book Awards for her novels Ink and Shadows and Hanging the Stars. She is published by Dreamspinner Press and DSP Publications.

  She’s also quite skeptical about bios without a dash of something personal, and really, who doesn’t mention their cats, dog, and cars in a bio? She shares the house with Harley, an insane gray tuxedo, as well as a ginger cairn terrorist named Gus. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep a 1979 Pontiac Firebird and enjoys murdering make-believe people.

  Rhys can be found at the following locations:

  Blog: www.rhysford.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/rhys.ford.author

  Twitter: @Rhys_Ford

  Dark Favors

  By Jordan Castillo Price

  Most folks in the crumbling metropolis of Calvary are ignorant sheep, but not Johnny Lockheart. He’s Chosen. Half a lifetime ago, when he was young and stupid, he sold his soul to the Devil… and he’s been regretting that choice ever since.

  Now the Devil is back with a new and improved offer. Kill a major TV personality and walk free with his soul. It should be simple, if not for the star’s bodyguard. Adam is Chosen, too, and he has no compunctions about using his powers. When the two of them rub up against each other, their raw chemistry ignites—but there’s no way he’d let Johnny go through with the murder. The only way out is to cut off the power at its source. Is their connection enough to rid Calvary of the Devil’s influence for good?

  Chapter One
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br />   1961

  JOHNNY

  I WAS young enough to think I knew everything, but old enough that my stupidity could get me into some serious trouble. I bused tables at the Inferno for a buck and a half an hour and a share of the tips. It was a fancy steakhouse, the type of place where people only went for birthdays and anniversaries, ordered a T-bone big enough to feed a family, and bragged around the water cooler the next morning about how much it set them back. But the kitchen was home to just as many rats as the Chinese joints by the river.

  If you’d asked me back then—eighteen-year-old Johnny—whether or not I thought the world was fair, I would’ve scoffed. Secretly, though, in my heart of hearts, I must’ve been clinging to that childish belief. Faith is a funny thing. What else can be strong enough to cure cancer but brittle enough to shatter over a single slight?

  The Inferno’s tips all went into a big glass jar under the counter by the till, where the hostess and the waiters could keep an eye on things. Because the place was every working-class Joe’s idea of fancy, tips tended to be big. Lots of Lincolns swam in the pool, and occasionally a Jackson. “Got a date with Old Hickory tonight” would thread through the staff in a subtle game of telephone, and everyone worked just a little bit harder in hopes of breaking the triple-Jackson record.

  The last birthday boy had staggered out into the night with whiskey on his breath and a passable steak in his gut, and the staff was just about ready to head home. I was heaving chairs up onto the tables in the dim half-light when I first noticed the raised voices.

  I kept my head down and minded my own business. I was a lowly busboy, a teenaged nobody, the type of kid who could walk into a room, look you in the eye, and walk back out without ever being noticed. But by the time I turned over the final chair, the yelling was too loud to be ignored.