Brimstone

by Daniel Foster

  There were many good reasons with which Garret could have justified his choice, but he knew none of them were true. He just loved Molly and Sarn too much to let anything happen to them. As long as there was a way to keep them safe, he knew he’d take it. The creature knew it too. The image of Molly, screaming as her calves peeled away, flashed through his mind again, making him shudder. A sick part of his mind wondered, now that he had seen what would happen if he did not, could he torture Grey?

  He knew it was wrong to kill Mr. and Mrs. Malvern. He knew it was all wrong, but when his mind started down the path of right-verses-wrong, it would reach a certain point and skip like a scratched phonograph record, starting over until it reached the skip point again. Garret wasn’t trying to dodge the moral dilemma. His inability to complete the thought came from a much simpler, more feral problem: the sight of Molly dying had broken something in his mind. His basic human judgment no longer worked correctly. The creature had never intended to kill Garret. It had meant to break him.

  And it had done so. The creature had won.

  Some part of Garret knew that if he started down this path—the path the creature had been goading him towards since the beginning—it would twist, pervert, and eventually ruin him in ways worse than death. Yet he would do the creature’s bidding anyway, until it left him a shell of a person, even a shell of a wolf. He loved Molly and Sarn too much not to do whatever it took to keep them safe.

  So I’m gonna do something evil because I love somebody. He could think of nothing more demented or more perverse than that. So it was with tail tucked that he moved through the night towards the Malvern’s mansion. I will never stop hating myself for this. Molly will hate me too. Only then did he see the depraved perfection of the creature’s trap.

  I lose Molly either way. It’s doing this to take her away from me. Why? Why does it hate me so much?

  The mansion was brightly lit when Garret entered the yard. He padded down the front walk, in plain view of all, his head hanging, his tail curled. Some part of him dimly realized this was the first time he had not approached a dwelling from the rear, hidden in the shadows.

  The Malvern’s Great Danes came baying around the corner of the house. Garret merely bared his teeth and gave them the look that all canines understood. It was the look of one who was defending that which was ultimately important, and nothing in creation would stop what he had to do next. The Danes slowed to an anxious halt. Garret passed them without incident.

  A maid opened the front door at the wrong moment. She saw Garret and screamed. He moved past her into the house. She continued to scream and shout, raising a ruckus that others began to join. Garret ignored them, moving instinctively. He could smell Mr. and Mrs. Malvern all over the place, but he wasn’t following the scents. He knew where they would be. Both of them, together. They would be where he and Molly had been. Humans didn’t consciously know it, but they were sensitive creatures, like wolves, and they naturally gathered where love had been. People fled the darkness, yearned for the light, and lingered where their spirits felt a touch of kindness, as did all living things. It was only right that they should do so.

  Garret stopped at the lofty double doors leading to Mr. Malvern’s study. He and his wife were inside, exchanging angry words. Their voices were exhausted with worry, and they were taking it out on each other. Garret hung his head. Feelings of anger and chastisement would be the last they had for one another.

  Garret stood in the shadow of the doors while servants yelled and tramped through the house, looking for him no doubt. He waited quietly. The door would open soon, and he would finish it. It was the way of things. The sound of Mrs. Malvern’s angry shrilling approached from the other side, then one of the brass knobs turned. Garret lunged at the door, knocking it open, and tossing Mrs. Malvern away.

  Perhaps as a nod to decency, or perhaps as a last grasp at his own humanity before he threw it away with both hands, Garret stopped and pushed the doors closed with his nose so no one else would have to see what was about to happen.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. The words came from his wolf’s throat, but this time, and only this time, they were perfectly human. He lunged at Mr. Malvern who was, despite his size, making a valiant try for his burnished rifle cabinet.

  Garret hit the heavyset man in the chest, knocking him away from the cabinet. They landed in the corner. Mrs. Malvern screamed. Mr. Malvern flailed pointlessly. Garret set his jaws gently around Mr. Malvern’s throat, and steadied himself to bite down and lose everything in the world worth having. Garret couldn’t think about losing Molly, or it would incapacitate him, but he knew it was going to happen either way. If he killed her father, she would hate him as much as he would hate himself. As much as he already hated himself. At least this way, she would live, and so would Sarn.

  Garret prepared to bite down, then Molly screamed.

  Garret flinched and retreated, confused.

  It wasn’t Molly, it was Molly’s mother. Her voice was older, more careworn, but the tone, the inflection, the fright, and the pain were the same as Molly’s. Mrs. Malvern was on her knees a few feet away, where Garret had shoved her when he came through the door. Her hat was knocked askew, blood trickled from her nose and down her chin, and her grey hair had come loose from its arrangement. She was injured from the fall and unable to stand. She knew she was about to watch her husband die, and she could not endure it. As Garret had been pushed to his breaking point, so he had pushed her to hers. He had stripped everything from her, all her defenses, all her pride, her decorum, her self-worth. He had torn her down to nothing, and amid Mrs. Malvern’s wrinkles and age spots, Garret saw Molly’s eyes, terrified, begging Garret to spare the life of one she loved. For the first time, Garret saw Mrs. Malvern for what she was: a lost, frightened girl who had never been shown how to love.

  Garret had thought that Mrs. Malvern had everything. Money. Power. Prestige. Respect. In reality, she had nothing but the people she loved. Just like Garret. She needed her husband like Garret needed Molly. She was begging Garret to spare him, just like Garret had begged the creature to spare Molly.

  His strength left him. He crumpled against the wall. His wolf form slipped away, fur retreating, teeth dulling. He fell apart. Completely. Head lolled back against the wainscoting, legs and arms lying out beside him, Garret wept.

  For the longest time, no one moved. Neither of the Malvern’s said anything. There was no sound, save Garret’s quiet weeping, and the muffled shouting of the servants as they ran to and fro. The door opened and the old butler stuck his head through.

  “Sir! There’s a wolf—”

  “Get out now!” Mr. Malvern ordered. The butler only hesitated a moment, then was gone.

  Mrs. Malvern moved first. Cautiously, she approached Garret. He didn’t care. Not about her, not about her husband, not about anything but the coming horror he couldn’t seem to stop no matter what he did. Through the tears, he saw her kneel in front of him.

  “Garret. Where is Antonia?” she asked.

  He only wept. She waited. So did Mr. Malvern. Perhaps a minute later, perhaps an hour, Garret said, “I don’t know. It has her, and it’s going to kill her and Sarn if I don’t kill you.”

  “What has her, boy?” It was Mr. Malvern who’d said it, but it sounded more as if one of his spinning, razor sharp mill blades was doing the talking.

  Without standing, Mrs. Malvern looked over her shoulder and said, “Powell. Do not say another word.” She turned back to Garret. “Garret, tell me what’s going on.” Her face didn’t change, but he saw her age-spotted hand clench around the handkerchief she was holding. “Tell us where Antonia is. Tell me what happened.”

  So Garret did. It burst out of him like a dam giving way before a river it could no longer contain. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d been dying to tell someone, to ask someone, anyone for help. Just to share the load. So he did, with the last two people on earth he would have wanted to trust. It came out in a huge, tear-stained f
lood of words. He told the whole story. Well, all except the part about him sort-of making love to Molly.

  They listened to every word. Mr. Malvern stood at some point during the tearful saga, but his expression was unreadable. Cold and barracuda-like. He did not help his wife to stand. She stayed on her knees for the whole thing, and she never took her eyes off Garret. She may not have blinked. Her expression was guilt-ridden. When Garret finished, he was still slumped in the corner, deflated. He met Mrs. Malvern’s eyes. They no longer reminded him of Molly’s, but they shared his heartache. Mrs. Malvern stood. It took her a while and a lot of effort, but when she made it, she tried to help Garret stand. He stared at her, uncomprehending.

  “Sit in the chair, Garret,” she said.

  Powell’s voice was as cold as his visage. “Don’t touch him, Colleen.”

  She rounded. “Powell, Antonia’s gone. We don’t know where. He’s the only one who can help us find her.”

  At the insistent tugging of her old, weak hands, Garret hauled himself into the nearby chair. Mrs. Malvern found another and pushed it across the floor so she could sit in front of him.

  “Garret,” she said, barely keeping her voice steady. “Do you know why this thing has taken my daughter?”

  Garret shook his head miserably. “It hates me.” Only then did Garret realize that she actually believed his story. “You believe me?”

  A stricken look passed her face, but it was quickly gone. “Yes.” She swallowed. “I do.”

  Powell paced around Garret and his wife, but watched Garret all the time, studying him. Calculating.

  “Mr. Vilner,” Mr. Malvern said. “I don’t know who or what you are, but you seem willing to go to any lengths to retrieve my daughter safely. Is that true?”

  Garret nodded, with head hanging. Then he remembered that the Malvern’s were still alive and talking to him at that moment, which was, literally, Garret not going to any lengths to save her. The thought made him cringe and press a fist hard to his mouth.

  Mrs. Malvern was watching her husband, her expression shifting from concern to suspicion as he talked.

  “Then,” Mr. Malvern said. “I expect you to finish what you’ve started.”

  Garret raised his head at that. “How?”

  “Powell,” Mrs. Malvern interrupted. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but—”

  “Kill yourself, Mr. Vilner.”

  Mrs. Malvern was dumbfounded. “Powell, he’s telling the truth! If you don’t believe him, then believe me! He’s the only one who can find her!”

  “How would you know that Colleen? What aren’t you telling me?”

  She didn’t reply, but her knuckles whitened on the handkerchief again.

  Garret’s hands started shaking. “Why?”

  Mr. Malvern was wintry. “As you said, the creature hates you. If what you have told us is correct, then it has abducted both your brother and my daughter in order to harm you through them. If we remove the object of its interest—you— from the playing field, then it will have no reason to hold my daughter as collateral.”

  Garret’s shakes moved over the rest of his body. He thought through Mr. Malvern’s words, slowly. It made sense. But… kill himself? He was hoarse when he asked, “Are you sure?”

  “Powell! This won’t work! It’s not what you think!”

  Mr. Malvern cut Garret to pieces with his stare. “Either you die, or my daughter does. Do you love her, Mr. Vilner?”

  Garret nodded while his vision swam.

  “Do you love her more than yourself?”

  He nodded again.

  “Then make the trade that saves her.” As Mr. Malvern said it, his demeanor was so much like the creature’s that it sent a chill through Garret.

  Mrs. Malvern had hold of her husband’s sleeve, yelling, slapping his shoulder. He didn’t seem to know she was there. “Stop, Powell! Stop it right now!”

  Mr. Malvern was right. Garret’s head pounded.

  It’s the only way.

  Mrs. Malvern was screaming. “Powell, you’re going to kill our daughter!”

  Garret nodded. Just once.

  Mr. Malvern leaned closer. “What was that?”

  “I’ll do it!” Garret screamed. “Just hurry!”

  Mrs. Malvern went berserk. She wasn’t making sense. Mr. Malvern walked to the gun cabinet, wife in tow. Garret heard him open the door. He rummaged around. As he did, placidity settled over Garret. The shakes went away. It wasn’t peace, or anything close to it. It was just empty finality.

  Garret felt his tattered, bruised body relax. It was over. Or it soon would be. Just one last thing to do. Maybe this was the way it was supposed to end. He just had to work up a little more courage, and it would all be done. Garret heard the solid click of a pistol hammer. Malvern had cocked whatever weapon he’d selected.

  So he’s going to kill me. It was strangely relieving. That’ll be easier.

  But Mr. Malvern walked back to Garret’s chair, virtually dragging his screaming wife, and handed Garret a heavy, .45 caliber revolver. Bullets shone dully around the cylinder. The hammer was cocked. It was ready to kill him. The gun was plated with silver. The monster’s weakness. Garret was going to kill himself with the monster’s Achilles’ Heel.

  Except for the wooden scales which formed the grip, the pistol was all metal, so it was a cold, heavy weight pressing down on his palms. Even more on his heart. Garret swallowed hard, and put the barrel to his head. He felt hollow and weak on the inside, but dimly, he realized he was hyperventilating.

  It took him a while to begin putting pressure on the trigger. A cusp snapped off one of his molars. He was gritting his teeth.

  All he could think about was Molly, kissing her. Making love to her. Sarn and that skunk in his shop. His Pa, laughing at something Garret had said, while prying the iron tire off of a broken wagon wheel. Just pull the trigger. Pull it, and it’ll all be over.

  Garret’s face was wet. He didn’t know why. He was lightheaded.

  The words hitched and hiccupped as they came out. “Tell Molly I love her, okay? Sarn too.”

  He didn’t know how long he sat there, trying to do it. Incrementally more and more pressure on the trigger, until the sound of Molly’s scream came out of nowhere and filled his mind.

  He pulled it.

  * * *

  Click.

  The hammer fell, but nothing else happened. Garret wasn’t dead. He shuddered, exhaling explosively. Mr. Malvern was still looking at him with arms crossed. Mrs. Malvern stared at her husband, mouth open.

  Garret’s hand, the one holding the gun, wobbled and fell to his lap. He sucked in several deep breaths, and his swimming head began to level. Before he could ask, Mr. Malvern took the gun from him, opened the cylinder, and removed five bullets from the six-shooter. It had looked like it was full, but it wasn’t. The chamber hidden by the barrel had been empty. That was why Mr. Malvern had cocked it before handing it over, to make sure the hammer would fall on the empty cylinder.

  Post-adrenaline weakness came over Garret. What just happened?

  Mrs. Malvern seemed to know. “Powell,” she shrieked. “You son of a bitch!”

  Mr. Malvern put the gun away and said calmly, “I do not trust this boy, and neither should you, Colleen. If he had not been willing to pull the trigger, then I would have known he had abducted Antonia, and the story was the fiction it sounded to be.”

  “I told you he was telling the truth,” she yelled.

  Mr. Malvern returned, sans gun, and coolly assessed Garret. “Whether his story is true remains to be seen. His actions prove only that he believes what he said.”

  “He was willing to die for Antonia!” Mrs. Malvern barked. There was a moment of silence after she said it. Garret didn’t see what passed between them because his head was in his hands.

  “You didn’t want me to kill myself?” he asked.

  Mr. Malvern didn’t grace the question with a response.

  Garret tried again, beca
use he was still trying to figure it out. “So it won’t help her if I die?”

  “Of course not,” Mr. Malvern snapped. “If this creature is in any manner as you say it is, then it loves violence. It loves to rule and dominate and command. It feeds on power and hungers for others to manipulate and abuse. You or my daughter. It will make little difference.”

  When he heard Mr. Malvern say it, Garret realized he was right. Or at least partially right. Through the days and weeks, Garret had not managed to understand the creature’s motivations. Mr. Malvern seemed to have put it together in a matter of minutes, as if it made sense to him. As though he was familiar with its way of thinking.

  Mrs. Malvern had sat down and was far off in thought. She had a hand over her mouth. She did not utter a word. The ruckus outside had risen to a war-like din. The door opened again, and the butler cautiously peeked in. “Mr. Malvern, I’m terribly sorry to intrude, but sir, your mills are on fire. Both of them.”

  Mr. Malvern did not react. For several seconds he did not move at all, but narrowed his eyes in thought. He turned bodily and looked down at his wife. Then he strode out of the room. “Bramley, send someone to find Sheriff Halstead. We’re organizing a search party. My daughter—”

  He slammed the door behind himself, cutting off the rest of his sentence.

  Garret looked at Mrs. Malvern and she looked at him.

  “Find my daughter, Garret,” she said.

  Garret closed his eyes. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “You can find her.”

  “I don’t know where to look,” Garret said miserably. “I went all over the place. There wasn’t any scent to follow.”

  Mrs. Malvern stood over him. “It’s buried down there in your mind somewhere.”

  Garret was lost. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Don’t you think if I knew where to find her I would have done it!”