by Irene Gallo
Charlie swallows and looks away. I let him think about it a moment.
“We forgive the Yith for what they do, though they leave whole races abandoned around fading stars. Because their presence means that Earth is remembered, and our memory and our stories will last for as long as they can find younger stars and younger bodies to carry them to. They’re as selfish as an old scholar wanting eighty more years to study and love and breathe the air. But we honor the Yith for sacrificing billions, and track down and destroy those who steal one life to preserve themselves.”
He narrows his eyes. “That’s very … practical of you.”
I nod, but look away. “Yes. We say that they do more to hold back darkness and chaos than any other race, and it is worth the cost. And of course, we know that we aren’t the ones to pay it.”
“I wonder if the … what were they called, the Leng … had a Nuremburg.”
I start to say that it’s not the same—the Yith hate nobody, torture nothing. But I cannot find it in me to claim it makes a difference. Oblivion, after all, is oblivion, however it is forced on you.
* * *
The day after my fourth meeting with Spector, I did not go to work. I walked, in the rain and the chill, in the open air, until my feet hurt, and then I kept walking, because I could. And eventually, because I could, I went home.
Mama Rei was mending, Kevin on the floor playing with fabric scraps. The Chronicle lay open on the table to page seven, where a single column reported the previous night’s police raid on a few wealthy homes. No reason was given for the arrests, but I knew that if I read down far enough, there would be some tittering implication of debauchery. Mama Rei smiled at me sadly, and flicked her needle through a stocking. The seam would not look new, but would last a little longer with her careful stitching.
“You told him,” she said. “And he listened.”
“He promised me there would be no camps.” Aloud, now, it sounded like a slender promise by which to decide a woman’s fate.
Flick. “Does he seem like an honorable man?”
“I don’t know. I think so. He says that the ones they can’t just let go, they’ll send to a sanitarium.” Someplace clean, where their needs would be attended to, and where they would be well fed. “He says Wilder really does belong there. He believed what he was telling the others. What he was telling Bergman.”
And she believed what he told her—but that faith would not have been enough to save her.
No one’s faith ever was.
Flick. Flick. The needle did a little dance down and around, tying off one of her perfect tiny knots. Little copper scissors, a gift purchased with my earnings and Anna’s, cut the dangling thread. “You should check on her.”
“I don’t think she’ll want to see me.”
Mama Rei looked at me. “Aphra-chan.”
I ducked my head. “You’re right. I’ll make sure they’re treating her well.”
But they would, I knew. She would be confined in the best rooms and gardens that her money could pay for, all her physical needs attended to. Kind men would try to talk her back from the precipice where I had found her. And they would keep her from drowning herself until her blood, like that of all mortals, ran dry.
I wondered if, as she neared the end, she would still pray.
If she did, I would pray with her. If it was good for nothing else, at least the effort would be real.
RUTHANNA EMRYS lives in a mysterious manor house on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., with her wife and their large, strange family. Her stories have appeared in a number of venues, including Strange Horizons, Analog, and Tor.com. She is the author of the Innsmouth Legacy series, which began with Winter Tide. She makes homemade vanilla extract, obsesses about game design, gives unsolicited advice, and occasionally attempts to save the world.
Brimstone and Marmalade
Aaron Corwin
All Mathilde wanted for her birthday was a pony. Instead, she got a demon. Sometimes growing up means learning that what you think you want is not always what you need. Edited by Liz Gorinsky.
Mathilde didn’t want a demon. She wanted a pony.
“Ponies are expensive,” Mathilde’s mother said. “How about a nice little demon instead?”
“I don’t want a demon!” Mathilde stamped her foot. “Demons are ugly and creepy and they smell bad!”
“Ponies are hard work,” Mathilde’s father said. “You wouldn’t have time for your homework.”
“I would!” Mathilde said. “I’d work really hard and take good care of him!”
“Well,” Father said. “We’ll see.”
Mathilde knew what “we’ll see” meant. It was one of those special lies that only grown-ups were allowed to tell. When a grown-up said “we’ll see,” it really meant “never.”
It wasn’t fair. Becky Hamilton got to take riding lessons on weekends, and she never stopped talking about them.
Peter Voorhees brought his demon to school once. It was scaly and slobbery, not sleek and pretty like a pony. It got loose in the classroom and tried to eat Mathilde’s hair.
How could anyone think that a demon was better than a pony?
* * *
The day before Mathilde’s birthday in September, the sky was gray and drizzly all afternoon and the puddles swirled with little flat rainbows. On that day, something different happened.
“Mathilde?” That was Mrs. Pressmorton, the vice principal. Mathilde looked up from the floor, one galosh halfway onto her foot.
“Mathilde, your parents called to say you don’t have to take the bus home today. Your grandmother is picking you up from school.”
Mathilde’s heart began to beat faster. Nana? She thought. Nana’s here for my birthday?
She tried not to hope. She tried so, so hard, but little bits of hope started to creep in anyway. Nana always brought presents, even when it wasn’t her birthday. And—and this was the deepest, most secret hope of all—Nana lived in the big house in the country; the big house with the old barn and the great big field.
“Oh my goodness!” Nana said. She swept Mathilde up in a great big hug, just like she always did.
“Nana!” Mathilde definitely didn’t peer over Nana’s shoulder, looking for a pony in the back of her car. Not much, anyway.
“Look at you!” Nana said. “My little Matty-Patty’s all grown up! Soon you’ll be as tall as me!”
Mathilde giggled. Nana was almost as tall as Father, but that was another kind of lie grown-ups were allowed to tell. Mathilde didn’t mind. Especially if it meant she was old enough to have a pony.
Nana’s car smelled like grass and old books, but it didn’t have a pony in it, of course. The rain made blurry lines down the windshield while the wipers went squeak-squeak back and forth. Mathilde drummed her heels against the floor of the car and tried to imagine the squeak was the sound of her saddle shifting as she rode her pony through the rain. She was so caught up in her thoughts that she almost didn’t notice when Nana turned left instead of right at the corner with the big yellow restaurant.
“Where are we going?”
Nana smiled. “You didn’t think I’d come all this way and not bring you a present, did you?”
Mathilde took a breath so big she felt like she might burst.
“But my birthday’s not ’til tomorrow!”
“That’s true.” Nana gave her a great big wink. “But I won’t tell if you won’t. Besides, I think this is the sort of present you’d better pick out for yourself.”
Mathilde could scarcely believe it. After all this time and all this waiting, she was finally going to get a pony of her very own.
Becky Hamilton was going to be so jealous.
But when the car stopped, it was in front of a store that didn’t look like it had any ponies inside. The whole front of the store was covered in steel plates and the air smelled just a little bit like rotten eggs. It was very dark inside, but when Mathilde saw the rows of wire cages she knew she had been tric
ked.
“This isn’t a pony store!” Mathilde said. “This is a demon store!”
Dozens of demons looked over at the sound of her voice. There were little, slithering ones and great big horned ones, almost as big as Mathilde. There were skinny ones with wings and spiky ones with eyes that flashed different colors. There was even one with brightly lit smoke seeping from the sides of its mouth as it chewed on something she couldn’t quite see.
“Well, of course it is!” Nana said.
“But I don’t want a demon!” How many times would she have to say it? “I want a pony!”
“Ah.” Nana knelt down to put her hands on Mathilde’s shoulders. “Demons make wonderful pets, you know. When I was a girl, we had a Belgian Muncher on the farm. They’re smart as a whip if you train ’em right. Some can even talk. But do you know the best thing about demons?”
Mathilde shook her head, her lip quivering.
Nana leaned in very close and whispered in Mathilde’s ear. “They’re great for convincing parents that little girls are responsible enough to take care of a pony.”
Mathilde didn’t know what to make of this. Was it another grown-up lie? “Really?” Her voice trembled.
Nana smiled. “I’ve already spoken with your parents about it. If you prove you can take care of a demon … then maybe we can see about that pony.”
Mathilde looked at the nearest cage. The demon inside was walking around on tiny cloven hooves and merrily cracking a little barbed whip. It grinned at her with a mouth full of teeth that gleamed like needles.
“Well, hello there!”
Mathilde jumped a little. Behind the counter was an old man with a checked shirt and large, round glasses. His face became a pile of wrinkles when he smiled. “Are you here for a new demon?”
“No,” Mathilde said.
“Yes.” Nana smiled. “It’s her birthday.”
“Oh.” The old man gave that too-long nod that grown-ups gave when they thought they knew something but really didn’t. “I see! Is this your first demon, miss?”
“… Yes.” Mathilde looked at her shoes.
“Then this is a special occasion! What sort of demon were you looking for?”
Mathilde looked back at him. “I want the kind with the pretty eyes and the long, shiny mane!”
Nana sighed. “That’s a pony, dear.”
“Well, that’s what I want!”
Nana gave Mathilde a sharp look, but the old man just laughed.
“Oh, I think I have just the one for you.” He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small glass cage.
The demon inside didn’t have a long, shiny mane. It didn’t have any hair at all, at least not that Mathilde could see. All she saw was a tiny, black, hooded robe that hovered above the bottom of its cage on a billowing cloud of inky blackness. Its eyes were two red stars that twinkled in the darkness of its hood like distant Christmas lights.
I guess that’s kind of pretty, Mathilde thought.
Nana said, “Oh! What type of demon is that?”
“He’s a Miniature Dark Lord,” the old man said.
Nana clucked her tongue. “A Dark Lord? I thought they had great big horns!”
“Normally they do.” The shopkeeper shook his head. “But this poor little guy was born without any. All the other Dark Lords rejected him. Even his own mother didn’t want to take care of him! Can you imagine that?”
Mathilde could imagine it. She didn’t want to take care of him either. But … “What’s his name?”
The old man smiled behind his big, round glasses. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Mathilde peered through the glass cage. She looked at the Dark Lord’s tiny clawed fingers, at his dark billowing cloud.
Mathilde thought about her pony. “Hello,” she said. “What’s your name?”
I AM IX’THOR, MASTER OF THE VENOMOUS PITS OF KARTHOOM! The creature raised his arms over his head. He had a voice like the truck that picked up their garbage in the morning, only smaller. BOW BEFORE YOUR MASTER, SMALL ONE!
“How about that!” The old man raised his fuzzy white eyebrows. “He told you his name first thing! He must really like you.”
“Well, I don’t like him…” Mathilde crossed her arms. Ix’thor lowered his arms and hung his head a little. “… But I guess he’ll do.”
* * *
IX’THOR … HUNGERS. The Dark Lord’s voice rumbled from within his cardboard box.
“Dad!” Mathilde put her hands on her hips. “Hurry up! He’s getting hungry!”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Father said. He was kneeling on the floor of Mathilde’s bedroom, carefully hanging the curtains on the big glass cage. “You have to be firm with demons, you know. Give in and they’ll walk all over you.”
IX’THOR DEMANDS SACRIFICE!
“No!” Mathilde tapped her finger on the box. “Be good.”
“All right.” Father stood up and stretched his back with a soft pop, then turned down the light. “You can put him in now.”
Mathilde placed the cardboard box in the cage and pried the lid off. Ix’thor wafted out, his black mist coiling around the bottom of his robe. He floated back and forth a few times, exploring his new cage.
“Here,” Father said. “See the little altar down there? Put one of these on it.” He handed her a small, softly glowing ball, about the size of a pea, from the big plastic bag Nana had bought. The bag said things like “Nutritionally Balanced” and “Now with extra innocence for a healthy glow!”
At the sight of the red pellet Ix’thor raced over to the altar and stood on top of it, his arms outstretched.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Father said. “He has to take it from the altar. Make him wait for it.”
“Shoo!” Mathilde waved her hand toward the demon. “Back up. Back up! He won’t move!”
“Use the flashlight,” Father said. Mathilde picked up the little light that came with the My First Demon book and shined it on the altar. Ix’thor went scurrying off into the shadow of his box.
Mathilde put the pellet on one of the divots in the flat stone and turned off the light. After a few seconds, Ix’thor came out of his box and drifted over to the altar. He leaned over, as if to peer at the pellet, then snatched it up with both hands.
IX’THOR ACCEPTS YOUR SACRIFICE. The Dark Lord bowed his head over the pellet and devoured it. NUM. NUM. NUM.
“Wow,” Father said. “I guess he really was hungry.”
Mathilde glared at him, her eyes wide and her cheeks puffed out. “See!”
* * *
Mathilde had a hard time sleeping that night. She was excited about her birthday party, but her thoughts kept drifting toward the pony she would have someday. What color would he be? What would she call him? She knew her pony would be gentle and tame, not pushy like Ix’thor.
How long would she have to take care of a stupid demon, anyway?
When she did fall asleep, she dreamed of ponies with glowing red eyes.
Mathilde woke up to something poking her in the chin. “Mnm.” Mathilde swatted it away.
A moment later it happened again. She opened her eyes to see two red, twinkling stars and dark, clawed hands hovering over her face.
KNEEL BEFORE YOUR MASTER, MORTAL!
“Aaaaaah! Mom!”
Mother came to the door with Father and Nana close behind. When Mother flicked on the light there was a grinding squeal from Ix’thor and the little Dark Lord scurried under her dresser.
“Turn that light off!” Nana said. “Or he’ll never come out.”
Father ran into the room and stumbled around in the sudden dark. “Where did he go?”
“How did he get out of his cage?” Mother asked.
“I see him!” Father lurched to the corner, but when he bent down he banged his head on Mathilde’s dresser. “Ow!”
Mathilde saw a black shape dart under the bed. She grabbed the little flashlight and crawled underneath the springs.
“He’s right here!�
� She turned on the light.
Ix’thor tried to dart away from the beam, but he was trapped in the corner. When he hid himself in his robe, her hand darted out and wrapped around his leathery body. “I’ve got him!”
But she didn’t have him. Tiny claws slashed at her hand, right between her finger and thumb.
“Eeeeeee!”
* * *
“I hate him!” Mathilde said through her tears. Mother wiped at her face, at the bubble of snot that was hanging from her nose. “I don’t want a demon! I hate demons!”
“Oh, sweetie,” Mother said. “It’s just a tiny little cut. He was just scared of you, that’s all.”
“I don’t care! I don’t want a demon! I want a pony!”
Nana shook her head. “Sometimes ponies bite too, child.”
Mathilde had had enough of this. “They do not!”
“Oh, you think so?” Nana said. “When I was a girl, my best friend, Sheryl, had her finger bitten clean off!”
Mathilde looked up through a blurry curtain of tears. She couldn’t tell if Nana was making fun of her or not.
“You have to be careful with animals, Matty-Patty.” Mother stroked Mathilde’s hair. “Sometimes when they’re scared they lash out. They don’t know any better.”
“But I was being careful!” Why didn’t anyone believe her?
Mathilde looked up at the sound of Father’s footsteps.
“Well, that’s that,” Father said. “He’s back in his cage. I don’t know how he got out of there, but he’ll need a cutting torch to do it again.”
“I don’t want him in my room!” Mathilde said. “I can’t sleep when he’s in there.”
Nana sighed. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Fred. I’m sorry. I’ll take him back to the store tomorrow.”
Mathilde suddenly felt queasy. Too late, she remembered her promise, her pony. “Wait!” Mathilde said. “I didn’t … really mean it. He can stay.”
