by Sam Witt
He knew they were scared, and he wasn’t helping matters. He’d showed up with new wounds and murder in his eyes, and as far as any of them knew, Joe’d just strangled Frank in his daughter’s bedroom. They were scared, and at least a little of that was his fault. He took a deep breath. “He’ll be fine. You’re all going to be fine.”
But he didn’t think he was very convincing.
Joe pointed at Stevie and Zeke then tilted his head toward the kitchen. “Need to have a little powwow,” he said. He didn’t wait to see if they’d follow into the kitchen. He poured himself a tall glass of iced tea from the pitcher in the refrigerator. It wasn’t sassafras, but the icy chill and shot of caffeine and sugar would do in a pinch. He sat down at the table with his wife and Zeke and pressed the cold glass against his forehead. He felt better already, though, from the looks of his wife and the old man sitting across the table from him, he must not have looked so great.
Stevie reached out and tugged at the gashes in his shirt. “You look like you got into a fight with a wildcat.”
Joe chuckled at that. “Not a cat. A handful of bat fuckers. They weren’t feeling very friendly.”
Zeke and Stevie both narrowed their eyes at the mention of bats. Zeke was the first to speak. “I thought you took care of the bats.”
Joe shrugged and eased his shotgun’s strap off his shoulder. He put the gun on the table in front of him and let out a deep breath. “It’s like everything else in this goddamned county. You put something down, it’s just as likely to crawl up out of the dirt as stay where you left it. I think I dealt with it for good this time, but who fucking knows.”
“Wards are all in place. The sheriff is still out, or at least she isn’t making any noise, and I haven’t seen or felt anything moving toward the house. Of course,” Stevie shrugged and let out a weary sigh, “the way things are, something might get pretty close before I felt it.”
Joe felt Stevie’s pain and embarrassment at her failing power. He wanted to comfort his wife, wanted to tell her it would be all right, but there wasn’t time for them to fool themselves. They were taking a beating, and there was no denying that. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder with one rough hand, and she leaned her cheek against the back of his knuckles. He felt a lump in his throat at the love he felt for his wife. Not so long ago, he didn’t dare imagine they could share a moment like this. And now it might be one of their last.
“Elsa!” He called for his daughter.
She scampered into the kitchen on hands and feet and swung up onto the table next to Joe with the ease and grace of a monkey. Her lion’s mane of blonde hair hid her face, leaving only her pink lips and soft chin visible. “There’s nothing out there,” she said, anticipating Joe’s question. “All my friends are gathered around the house, and none of them can sense anything.”
Stevie squeezed Elsa’s elbow and winked at her daughter. “You tell us right away if that changes, okay?”
Elsa swiveled on the table and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Sure, Mama.” She paused then tilted her head toward Joe. “And I’ll tell Al to keep an eye on our guests.”
Joe watched his little girl bounce off the table and disappear from the kitchen, giggling as she ran away on bare feet and calloused palms. He tried to remind himself that she was just a little girl, but she seemed to be inside all of their heads more often than not these days. It made him wonder what other abilities she hadn’t revealed to them. More importantly, he wondered where those talents sprang from.
“Joe,” Stevie said, her voice flat and cold. She knew how he felt about Elsa, knew about his worries about their little girl and her dead friends, and she didn’t like it one little bit. “Now what do we do? Hunker down until the spider goddess gets bored and leaves town?”
Joe buried his face in his hands. He didn’t want to get into the details of his plan, but he knew there was no sense trying to avoid it. Stevie deserved to know what he was up to, and it wouldn’t hurt to have Zeke’s input as well. He leaned in and lowered his voice, doing the best he could to keep his words at the table.
It wasn’t so much a plan as a theory, and one that he had a hard time putting into words. But between what he’d done to the cultist and what had happened with the sheriff, it was a theory that had at least a chance of working. The problem was if it didn’t work, Joe’s ass was going to be way out on a ledge with no way to climb down.
He was also afraid of what would happen if his plan succeeded. He knew it would change him, but he didn’t know how. That part, he kept to himself.
Stevie considered what he’d told her. She scowled at him and wrapped both hands around his right forearm. She stared into his eyes so he could see her misgivings and feel her fear. “You’re risking an awful lot for people who don’t really give a shit about you. I don’t think think you ought to do it.”
Zeke scratched at his scruffy beard and gnawed at his unlit pipe. “Yer messing with powers none of us really understand. It’s not just yer boss yer going to piss off. I reckon it’ll work, but even if ya survive it, yer going to have a whole passel of new enemies when it’s over.”
Joe knew their arguments held merit. All the old legends he’d heard about someone messing about with this kind of thing always ended poorly. And while it might save Pitchfork from Itsike’s grasping claws, it wasn’t a permanent fix. The Long Man was right—there was always someone looking to claim an empty throne.
Joe chewed his lower lip and sighed. “You’re both right. It’s dangerous as hell, and maybe some of these people don’t deserve saving. But, it’s not just about them. It’s not even just about Pitchfork. Something tells me that all these problems popping up are part of something bigger, something that started when those dipshits poked a hole in the world and tried to bring their bat god through.”
And maybe, he thought to himself, the little stunt I pulled back then helped kick things off, too.
He felt like ever since he’d run into the half-made girls the world had been unraveling, spinning itself apart one thread at a time. He had to keep yet another monster from ripping up a chunk of reality and gobbling it down. He had to take a stand.
Stevie squeezed his hand. “If you think it’s the right thing to do, I’ll back your play as best I can with my magic all busted up.”
Joe returned the squeeze. He turned his attention to Zeke. “What about you, old man? Any words of advice from your years of wisdom? Or you holding out on me until the shit blows up in my face so you can tell me what a stupid plan I had?”
That last hit a little bit closer to home than Joe had intended. Zeke’s eyes watered at the reminder of the secrets he’d kept from the Night Marshal. Joe wanted to take it back, but at the same time he wanted the old man to remember the pain and trouble his secrets had caused. If Joe had his way, Zeke would never hide the truth from him again.
“I suggest ya get going and finish it quick. Once ya start, a lot of things are gonna know what yer up to, and they’re gonna want to stop ya.”
“What happens next?” Stevie asked.
Joe pushed back from the table and retrieved his shotgun from its scarred surface. He slung the weapon over his shoulder and grinned. “I’m gonna go break all the goddamned rules.”
29
Joe stopped at the staircase opposite Elsa’s room and clapped his hand on Al’s shoulder. “Anything but me comes out of Elsa’s room, you’re gonna need to kill it.”
Al raised an eyebrow. “Mom’s not gonna be happy if I get blood all over the carpets.”
“You’ll just have to take one for the team.” Joe pulled the chair out from underneath Elsa’s doorknob. “Stick that back under the knob once I get inside. Don’t open the door no matter what you hear. It’s probably gonna get noisy.”
“You? Noisy? Certainly not.”
“Don’t be a smartass, kid.” Joe opened Elsa’s door and slipped inside. He shut the door and leaned back against it. He didn’t move until he heard Al slide the chair back un
der the knob. No sense taking chances.
Frank looked like he’d managed to wind himself up into a hissy fit in the short time he’d been alone in the room. He was off the bed, face red with exertion, wrists rubbed raw from his attempts to escape. He stared up at Joe like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and tried inchworming away from the Night Marshal.
Joe watched his old enemy for a few moments, wondering if any of this was worth the effort. The world was full of people like Frank, assholes who believed everyone owed them something, people willing to tear down everything to get just a little bit more for themselves. None of that that was going to change even if Joe’s plan worked. Dickheads would just keep on shitting on everyone until they drowned the world.
On the other hand, Joe wasn’t going to just give up because he didn’t like most of the people in the world. Some motherfucker had come to his county and tried to take it over, and he wasn’t about to let that slide.
Joe walked over and used the toe of his hobnailed boot to flip Frank onto his back. “You’re hurting my feelings, Frank. All the work I did to save your sorry ass, and all you can think about is trying to sneak out on me? That’s some bullshit right there.”
Frank was trying to relieve the pressure on his arms and legs, which were bent back behind him and flattened under his weight. “Let me go,” he gasped. “You’re tearing my arms out of their sockets.”
Making Frank comfortable wasn’t going to work to Joe’s advantage. He needed the man in pain, terrified for his life. It turned Joe’s stomach and reminded him of the bad old days of boozing and bashing skulls, but sometimes the old ways were the only ones that still worked. Joe stepped on Frank’s chest, bringing all his weight to bear. “You think this hurts? You don’t know anything about pain. Not yet.”
Terror nailed Frank’s eyes open. “Whatever you’re thinking about doing, just don’t, man. If this is about those bat freaks, that wasn’t my idea. You’ve gotta believe me: I didn’t have no choice.”
Keeping his weight on Frank, Joe let the shotgun slide down from his shoulder into his right hand. He pressed both barrels against Frank’s lips and made a shushing noise. “I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up unless you’re answering a question for me. Here’s your first chance to make yourself useful. What do you know about this bullshit with the spiders?”
Joe removed the shotgun from Frank’s face. Frank opened his mouth and immediately began spewing a torrent of panic-spurred nonsense. “I don’t know anything; I have no idea what you’re talking about; what do you mean, spiders?”
Joe put all his weight on the foot holding Frank to the floor. He lifted his other leg and held his position until Frank’s eyes bugged from their sockets and his words trickled off to a high-pitched whine. “See? That’s not useful, so now I have to hurt you.”
A dark, ugly thread of satisfaction wormed its way into Joe’s lizard brain. He knew this wasn’t something he should enjoy, but he couldn’t deny the primal pleasure he felt in venting his rage and frustration on a man he knew was a complete piece of shit. Before he could get used to that feeling, he stepped off Frank.
“I don’t know,” Frank blurted once he could breathe again. “Please—”
Joel returned the shotgun’s barrels to Frank’s mouth, and the cold steel kissed him with enough force to split his upper lip. “Okay, Frank, let’s do this the hard way.”
Joe closed his eyes and let his vision drift into the occult. It was time to get down to business.
From the time he’d spent with the sheriff outside, and what he’d seen when fighting the cultists, he knew that stress—whether from pain or fear—loosened the tie between the gods and their followers.
“What’re you gonna do to me?” The fear was still holding Frank’s eyes open and locked on Joe. The Night Marshal let Frank stew in his own terror, watching as fear of the unknown burrowed into the man’s thoughts. Years of violence and threats of violence from Joe wore on Frank, pouring gasoline onto the flames of his panic.
Joe didn’t say a word, didn’t even stomp down on Frank or push the shotgun at him. He just watched, his face a blank mask of indifference. A familiar dead feeling, the dark instinct that had guided his hand when his brain was too soaked with whiskey to handle the job, was filling him up. If he let it, the darkness would snuff out Frank’s life. He did his best to hold it at bay, to keep it right there on his face where Frank could see it without letting it go any further.
It was hard to straddle that line, but nothing in his job had ever been easy. Joe kept his stare burning into Frank’s eyes, let the man see how close he was to the kind of murderous rage that had earned the Night Marshal his reputation in Pitchfork. It made Joe sick; he’d worked so hard to back away from the fear and the blood, only to find himself returning to it when the chips were down.
The air above Frank shimmered, and Joe could see what he needed. A gossamer thread stitched Itsike’s eight-legged symbol to Frank’s forehead, and its free end floated up and away, headed for the spider goddess. “Got you, bitch.”
Joe pulled his badge out of his pocket and jammed it against Frank’s forehead. Frank bucked against the badge’s touch. Sparks danced around the badge, and Joe felt his skin tingle with a cloak of static electricity. Itsike tried to pull away from Joe’s grasp, but she was bound to her follower. As long as Frank was alive, she couldn’t escape.
Joe concentrated on twisting the connection between Itsike and Frank to his badge. He reeled it in, ignoring the screeches of protest from the Long Man and the Haunter in Darkness. His plan was working.
Frank’s head twisted on his neck from left to right and then back again as if denying what was happening to him. As Joe wound Itsike’s power around his badge, Frank’s eyes rolled back into his skull, and his entire body began to tremble.
Sudden resistance shocked Joe. His mind spun as the adversary’s power stung his hands and whipped free of his badge. It lashed out at him, and Joe felt his own power being sapped. If he didn’t come up with a new plan soon, his little trick was going to cost him a lot more than he stood to gain.
He was dizzy and nauseated, and his balance deserted him. Joe found himself kneeling next to Frank, their faces a foot apart. The symbol blazed on Frank’s forehead, reasserting its control over the man. Joe ground the badge against Frank’s forehead, but he couldn’t reconnect to Itsike’s bond.
“You aren’t strong enough,” Frank whispered through bloodied lips. “You can’t just take me from her.”
Joe let the shotgun fall from his grip and grabbed the sides of Frank’s head with both hands. “Let her go,” he growled as he squeezed his hands together. He ground his palms against Frank’s ears and twisted the cartilage in them. “Let her go, or I swear I’ll rip your fucking ears off.”
The adversary pulled at Joe, sucking at his power like a vampiric mosquito latched onto his carotid artery. He could feel himself fading. He didn’t have much time left. The tug-of-war between Itsike and Joe was wearing the Night Marshal out. Frank wasn’t faring any better, and Joe didn’t know how much more of it the man could take. He needed to end this before one of them wound up dead.
To be sure Frank could hear him, Joe leaned in close to his ear. “She’ll kill you before she lets you go, Frank. You keep calling out for her, she won’t need to send the spider-beast after you. If you want to live, there’s only one way out.”
Joe whispered what Frank needed to do. He hoped the man could hear and his instructions were clear because if Frank didn’t do his part, they were both fucked.
He let Frank go and rocked back onto his haunches. He needed to turn all of his attention to holding off the spider goddess and making sure she didn’t turn him inside out. Joe’d thought his internal struggles with the Long Man were bad enough, but they were nothing compared to this new war. Itsike was hungry and furious and wanted Joe dead.
Frank’s eyes flickered open, and heavy tears rolled from their corners. He glared at Joe and sobbed, “Y
ou won’t be happy until you’ve taken everything from me, will you?”
The distraction cost Joe, and he felt Itsike steal away more of his energy. He curled his fist in Frank’s shirt. “This isn’t about you. Do it, or we’re both going to die.”
And for that moment, Joe believed Frank would be satisfied with that ending to his miserable life. This was Frank’s big chance. If he wanted to kill Joe, all he had to do was let it happen.
But like all cowards, Frank didn’t really have the strength of his convictions. As much as he hated Joe, as much as he wanted to see the Night Marshal die, he wanted to live even more.
“I forsake her,” he murmured.
Joe shook Frank like a pit bull with a chew toy. He jammed his badge against Frank’s forehead until he felt the skin split. “You can’t just say the words! You have to mean it.”
“She’ll kill me.” Joe could see the fear in Frank’s eyes. He’d known all along what was happening but hadn’t had the guts to come to Joe for help. Even now, he was hedging his bets, trying to hold back until he could see who was going to win this thing, and Joe knew that would get them both killed. It was time for Frank to see the light.
The struggle against Itsike was grinding Joe down to nothing. This was his last chance. He grabbed the shotgun, swung it toward Frank’s head, and squeezed the left trigger.
There was a flash of silver smoke and green fire, and Elsa’s room filled with the stink of scorched blood and fresh piss. Frank was screaming, which relieved Joe. He hadn’t really been trying to kill the guy.
But he’d made his point. The shotgun’s blast had been close enough to shred Frank’s ear and scorch the left side of his face black. His green eyes blazed with a frantic energy that shone through the soot on his face.
“I forsake her!” Frank screamed. “I forsake her! I swear to you! There is no power greater than you!”
