by Dyrk Ashton
She swallows hard. As if on auto-pilot, she licks her lips, waits for a good point in the song, then, with a great force of will, begins to play. The airy notes of the flute float above those of the guitar and piano. She’s never performed this tune, but to her surprise it flows effortlessly, as if she’s played it a thousand times before.
Except for the pale young men, everyone in the room listens attentively, their taut intensity seeming to dissipate. Fi can almost hear the slowing of their breathing, sense their shoulders relaxing--but she notices that none are as absorbed in the song as Kleron.
Lightning flashes much closer to the house this time. Kleron doesn’t blink. His eyes flit to Fi and an icy-hot sensation rises in her stomach, spreads to her chest and limbs. Somehow, in some way, she feels drawn to him, pulled by the vacuum of his empty black eyes. Though he’s looking right at her, his gaze is distant, focused on something long ago and far way.
Lightning flashes again, and Kleron remembers--and so does Fi...
* * *
Wind and frigid rain blast her in the face, drench her clothing where she stands on a hill overlooking the stony Field of Clontarf, in a country that today is called Ireland. How Fi knows this, she can’t hope to guess, but her confusion about it is nothing compared to the burning question--how did I get here?
She realizes she’s lost her flute. Peter’s warning rings in her head--do not stop playing, no matter what happens. Her panic melds with coursing excitement, fear, and rage--but these feelings aren’t hers.
It’s a stormy night like tonight. On the battlefield below, opposing armies rush headlong toward each other through the mud and lashing rain, hurtling war cries. And somehow she knows--on one side are Viking mercenaries and renegade Irishmen, on the other the forces of King Bóruma mac Cennétig, known today as Brian Boru. The vanguard of Boru’s forces are led by a small force of warriors--among them the big man with red eyes, Cù Sìth, who accompanies Kleron today, as well as bearded and pale fighters much like the French weres and the pretty-boys, though not the same ones. There are other men as well, large and very strange. One towers taller than even Cù Sìth, built like a bear. Fi knows his name. Bödvar Bjarki. Matunos. The group emerges from a blinding sheet of rain and mist, and suddenly they aren’t men at all, but shrieking, howling monsters.
Lightning splits the sky--
Seeing through eyes other than her own, she approaches an old man, red-bearded and crowned, who is sitting on a carven throne. The king rises, meets her in the center of the royal hall. She reaches out with a black gauntleted hand to greet Brian Boru, and feels great affection for him.
Lightning blazes--
She’s back on the Field of Clontarf, standing beside Kleron, who is armored in black enameled steel and boiled leather, with a high collared black cape. Next to him, Brian Boru is mounted in full regalia atop an armored horse, watching the battle. She hears the clash and clang of arms, stomping of feet, bodies hitting the wet ground, and screams of agony.
Thunder roars--
The old king is kneeling before an abbott in a monastery, kissing his ring. Fi is next to Kleron as he watches from the shadows, unseen, and she feels his outrage at the betrayal.
Thunder rolls--
The monster warriors stand among the dead Vikings and rogues, surrounded by the Irishmen they fought for. Exhilaration flows through her as they roar in victory, thrusting bloodied fists and weapons to the sky.
* * *
Lightning flashes again and Fi is back in Peter’s house, her heart thrashing in her chest, somehow still playing the flute. No episode, no fit, no seizure--but she wants to scream. She looks desperately to Peter for some indication he understands, that he knows what’s happening to her, but he’s focused on the piano, mindless of her plight. She sees him close his eyes--
* * *
Back in Ireland it’s still night, but the rain is now merely a drizzle. There’s a white tent on a hill, a hand holding a sword over a yellow sun embroidered on the blue background of a banner that whips in the wind outside it. Oil lamps silhouette the old king as he kneels before a crucifix to pray.
A dark figure slips into the tent behind him. Lightning flashes again and again. A curved knife is raised. Immense bat wings unfold. The knife descends. An overwhelming sorrow washes over Fi, coming from the tent, but also--she’s startled to see a man beside her, bearded and robed, standing beneath a gnarled leafless tree. He pulls his hood back in spite of the rain. His hair hangs drenched and bedraggled over sad, emerald green eyes--
* * *
Fi’s suddenly back in Peter’s great room. Nothing has changed. How can this be?! Lightning flashes again--
* * *
Her hand is black and clawed, scrawling musical notation on parchment with a feather quill. She reaches for a lira and begins to play the notes--the same tune that Fi, Zeke and Peter are playing now--
It’s a foggy, dreary day. Fi stands beside a rocky path lined with people in peasant’s clothing, all weeping and moaning. She hears “Brian Boru’s March” performed with fifes, drums, and bagpipes. Out of the fog come the musicians. She lowers her head as they march past in deliberate cadence. Her hands are clasped before her, clad in black gauntlets. She feels rage, but great sorrow as well.
Then she is next to Kleron, watching him bow his head at the approach of regally clad pallbearers carrying a grand casket. As they pass, she catches sight of a bearded man in the crowd across the path, wearing a robe, hood up, his green eyes peering at Kleron.
* * *
Lightning strikes just outside the window, searing the great room with blinding blue light. Thunder shrieks and booms, shaking the entire house. The windows clatter in their casings, so hard it sounds like they’ll shatter.
Fi almost drops her flute--don’t stop playing, no matter what you might see!
Her eyes find Zeke. He hasn’t missed a note on his guitar, but he’s white as a sheet, his eyes fixed on the three men in fur coats.
As if emerging from their own reflections in a shaken mirror, the men are changing--and growing. One-armed, yellow-eyed Surma and blue-eyed Wepwawet now stand at least seven feet tall, massively muscled with straight broad shoulders, covered in long shining fur so deeply black it’s almost blue. And they have tails. The one with red eyes, Cù Sìth, looks just like them, but he’s over a foot taller and proportionately broader. The three of them stand so close together their fur intermingles--one enormous shaggy figure with three heavy muzzles full of long sharp teeth, three sets of tall bristling ears, and three glowing pairs of eyes.
Zeke can see it now--Cerberus... Can this really be the mythical three-headed dog-monster that guards the gates of hell?
Awesome is the first word that comes to his mind to describe them--but in his mind it has its original definition, “to inspire an emotion of combined veneration, wonder, and dread,” as opposed to just meaning “really cool.”
The knees of the creatures bend backward like a dog’s, and their clawed feet are hinged in the middle, the front part shaped much like a dog’s paw. Their fingers are long and thick, the backs of them rough and calloused except for a shining black ridge that runs along the top of each finger. The biggest of the brothers, the one Peter called Cù Sìth, clenches one hand and Zeke sees that the ridges are claws, four inches long at least, which extend from the second knuckle of each finger. With his hand closed like that, callous-padded fingers folded underneath, it is a dog’s paw. Zeke recalls how he ran on all fours at the hospital swimming pool. At least that makes sense now.
Behind the Cerberus, or Cerberi, or whatever they are, the bearded men have changed as well. Unlike the monstrous triplets, who never really had clothing, they still have theirs, and though their bodies remain humanoid, they look like, well, werewolves, with tongues lolling from wolfish chops, dripping slobber.
Zeke focuses on the notes of the piano behind him, mostly to reassure himself Peter is still there, and turns to Fi, who is playing her flute, with her eyes glue
d to the leader of the villains, the one Peter called Kleron, as if she can’t look away.
Like the Cerberus triplets and the bearded men, Kleron has also changed, only even more horrifically. The high collar of his trench coat is now wrinkled pointed ears, and the coat itself has become wings--bat wings--membranous black skin stretched over slender bone, draped from his shoulders down his back and sides, each terminating just above the floor in a single black claw. The crest of each wing is appointed with a talon that hooks over his shoulders. What was his brown angora vest is russet fur on a barrel-chest. His black, leathery legs culminate in slim bony feet with claws for toes. Folded at his chin are hands with shining claws at the end of slender knobby fingers. The eyes are the same cold glistening voids, but his head appears larger, the skin creased, the darkest gray, with an upturned and splayed snout. Raven hair flows back from low on his forehead, up over his scalp and down to his shoulders. His abnormally wide rictus grin is cracked enough to reveal translucent pointed teeth and vicious fangs.
Fi jerks suddenly at another report of thunder, blinks as if she’s woken from a dream, but she continues to play her flute as if by instinct. She finds she can now tear her eyes away from the hideous visage of Kleron--and her thoughts go to her uncle, as they always have when she felt like she was in trouble or lost. Right now she’s both.
Edgar hasn’t moved a muscle, but his eyes are glued to the little hobo, Max. Max hasn’t changed in appearance like the others, but he smiles broadly at having garnered Fi’s attention. She quickly looks away. The pale pretty-boys haven’t changed either, except they’re now grinning, their fangs clearly visible.
Peter stops playing the piano, sustaining the last chords so they fade gradually. Zeke strums the remaining notes, sits silently amazed. Fi lowers the flute from trembling lips, and “Brian Boru’s March” has come to an end.
* * *
Fi blinks to test her vision. Kleron and the rest are as they were when they arrived--just very odd, frightening men. She and Zeke look to each other for affirmation that what they’ve seen is real.
Peter rises from the bench, places a hand on Fi’s shoulder, and smiles approvingly at Zeke, who responds with a look that screams, What the fuck?!
Kleron rises slowly from his chair, clapping idly. “Well played, Pater. So you know the truth of Brian Boru’s demise.”
“I should have killed you then.”
“Dear, dear Pater. You should have killed me long before that.”
The wampyr are clearly perturbed by the inaction of their master. Derek glances at the others, emits a high pitched shriek and attacks.
Kleron reaches for him, shouting, “Nein!”, but it’s too late. Derek and Tod launch straight at Fi, Curt and Hedwig toward Edgar.
The two Frenchmen, returned to their werewolf forms, attempt to dart past the Cerberus brothers. Cù Sìth clotheslines Henri, knocking him flat on his back, and snatches Didier by the back of his vest like a parent preventing a rambunctious child from darting into the street.
If Fi blinked she’d miss it, the pale men move so quickly. But Uncle Edgar and his dog are faster. Blood sprays the high ceiling as Edgar’s sword slices through Curt at an upward angle. Edgar then immediately bashes him with his shield--and Curt catches fire at its touch.
Mol snatches Hedwig’s face in his jaws, slams him down, eviscerates him with his claws and crushes his skull in his teeth.
Curt hits the floor in two pieces. His burning upper half slides to a stop at Kleron’s feet, where he spits blood in utter disbelief and beats weakly at the flames. Kleron steps back to keep his feet, now appearing clad in shiny pointed boots, out of the expanding pool of red. The flames die out, Curt’s eyes go dim, and he is still.
Peter was even quicker than Edgar and Mol. When Derek and Tod leapt, he stepped in and caught both in mid-air while Fi stumbled backward and Zeke tipped over in his chair. One hand is now thrust through Derek’s stomach, fingers and thumb protruding from his back, clutching his spine, while he firmly clasps Tod by the throat with the other. Keeping his eyes on Kleron, he squeezes Tod’s head from his body with a squishy crunch.
Fi lurches further away, almost falling over a chair, barely avoiding the blood that spouts from Tod’s violently convulsing body. Peter drops the head on top of it.
Max cackles, high pitched like an old witch, his filthy teeth bared and curded in slime.
On the floor from his tumble from the chair, Zeke scoots away, clutching the guitar in front of him like it might protect him. He clambers to his feet and scrambles around to the back of the piano, where Fi meets him, both of them quaking in terror.
Recovering from his initial shock, Derek lets out an ear-splitting scream. Stunted pink bat wings rip through the back of his shirt, flapping ineffectively. He rams his fangs into Peter’s neck--or onto Peter’s neck is more like it, because he jerks back with a shrill cry, blood spurting from his shattered teeth.
Fi and Zeke grab hold of each other reflexively.
Kleron groans at the indignity of his progeny’s actions. “Not... yet,” he mutters to himself.
Max laughs harder, spittle bubbling on his lips, his little round body shaking with coldhearted mirth.
Derek writhes and shrieks and pounds at Peter with his fists. His forearm snaps on Peter’s shoulder, making a new elbow, and he screams even louder. Peter’s face is stony, eyes cold. He doesn’t even blink. He tightens his grip, crushing Derek’s spine. Derek twitches and folds over backward like a garment bag. Peter tosses the body on top of Curt in front of Kleron. “Take that with you,” he orders, then kicks Tod’s corpse and accompanying head onto the pile as well. “And those.”
Zeke sets the guitar on the piano, drops down behind it and pukes.
Max laughs uncontrollably, both hands holding his stomach.
“Max,” Kleron appeals, “some decorum, please.”
Max’s titters recede. “Oh-h-h, wampyrs...” After a final “tee hee,” he is silent.
“My most humble apologies,” Kleron offers Peter with a small bow. “But you understand, Pater, better than anyone. There is no accounting for blood.”
Cù Sìth lets go of Henri, who is now back in human form and not at all interested in continuing the attack. Didier picks himself up off the floor and cowers at the back of the group. Fi helps Zeke up. He leans on the piano, almost as pale as the dead wampyr.
“What did you presume to accomplish here?” Peter asks of Kleron, speckles of blood on his face.
Kleron shrugs as if there’s no reason not to tell. “We were going to make this easy on everyone, cast you down in your weakness, rule peaceably. But even in light of your miraculous recovery, there can still be mercy.”
“You know nothing of peace or mercy.”
“Not true, Father, not true. I propose an accord, sealed with a gift, and a proof.” He nods to Wepwawet, who marches through the arch and out the front door.
Peter eyes Kleron askance, slides a hand surreptitiously into his pocket. “Be chary, little one.”
Kleron observes him warily, but continues, “In the last 24 hours, just that tiny sliver of time, our Asura brethren--and sistren,” he offers to Fi, “have struck in all four corners of this world, and many others. The Deva are broken.”
Edgar glances at Peter.
Zeke mutters under his breath, “Deva and Asura...”
“Will you stand aside, Pater,” Kleron asks, “allow what was always meant to be, to be?”
“You know I will not.”
“This can go easily for you and yours, or very, very hard. We will destroy all that you hold most dear.” His eyes go to Edgar and Zeke, then linger on Fi. “All will suffer.”
“Did the Holocausts teach you nothing?”
“Oh yes.” Kleron replies. “This time we have might like you have never seen, an army, nay, armies, unprecedented in all the history of the worlds.”
“You dare, Master Kleron,” Peter challenges, “after all that has transpired?”
> “Now you pretend to care.” Kleron shakes his head in scornful condemnation. “It is time, and you know it.” He fixes his gaze on Peter, red fire smoldering in black coals. “All the worlds of promise have fallen.”
Peter’s eyes narrow at the significance of Kleron’s words. Fi and Zeke watch closely as they glare at each other, an arcane knowledge seeming to pass between them. A knowledge, it would appear, of which Peter did not realize Kleron was aware.
“Why should I believe the Lord of Lies?” Peter asks.
“It doesn’t matter. You will see with your own eyes, and despair.”
“You will fail, yet again,” Peter cautions. “We will stop you.”
“You will try.”
Wepwawet returns, dragging a canvas sack that thrashes and snarls through the arch.
“Ah, here we are,” Kleron announces.
Wepwawet steps between Surma and Cù Sìth, hugs the sack upright to his chest.
“I offer this charity,” Kleron says with a wave of his hand. Cù Sìth rips the sack away.
Bound tight and gagged by silken ropes, is Kabir.
The gray suit and heliotrope tie he wore at the concert hall, where he was working as a bodyguard just this morning, are bloodied and torn. His upper lip is puffy and bruised, and one of his canine teeth is missing. He struggles, emits a muffled roar through the gag, then sees Peter. His shock and shame are evident.
Edgar gasps, “Kabir...”
Peter utters his Truename, “Zadkiel.”
“Zadkiel...” Zeke mouths quietly. “This is... I...”
Fi sees Zeke shaking, obviously freaking out. And so is she. She can’t even chew her nails, she’s gripping the flute so tightly. It’s happening! her voice cries in her head. I’m losing it! Do something, Peter!
“He is yours,” says Kleron, “and those who still breathe shall be spared, if you pledge the yielding vow.”
Kabir shakes his head adamantly and groans. Wepwawet presses the claws of one hand to his throat.
Peter gazes dolefully at Kabir. “That, I cannot do.”
Fi can’t stand it any longer--all the violence and death and secrets and monsters and this macho posturing bullshit!
