by Amber Fallon
“It is not the sacrifice with which I am concerned.” She reached for Davik's callused hand. His fingers dwarfed hers in a way that was almost comical.
Onya's hand felt impossibly fragile in Davik's. “If you are worried about money,” he began, but Onya shook her head.
She leaned forward and looked into his face, her eyes searching for something that wasn’t there. “There are things,” she whispered, her eyes growing apprehensive, “that no man, not even one such as yourself, can control.”
Davik's fist clenched involuntarily, the tendons bulging. Onya felt the power in those hands, knew he could crush the life from her with the slightest effort, yet she did not pull away.
“There is nothing…” he hissed, tone dripping with venom, “…nothing…”—he slammed his fist on the table, causing patrons throughout the bar to jump—”…that I cannot control!”
Onya's eyes grew pleading. Her expression became sorrowful before her face clouded. She pulled her hand away, keeping her eyes on Davik. She nodded slowly before exhaling an almost imperceptible sigh. She reached into her bag and withdrew a cigarette already attached to a long, bejeweled holder. “Da,” she said, lighting it before inhaling. She held the smoke for a moment before exhaling in a rush. “For you, I will do this thing.”
The slightest hint of a grin swam over Davik's face. He stood, and the pair of them exited the bar.
* * *
The moon cast an eerie glow over the abandoned rail yard. The air was sharp and cold, the icy wind relentless. Davik took great loping strides across the stone and iron and rotten wood, Onya scurrying to keep pace. A tightly wrapped bundle slung over one shoulder did nothing to impede the brute. He surveyed the area briefly before his eyes settled on a destination—a long, deserted railway car. It had once been red, but had faded to pale pink. Much of the remaining paint had flaked off, exposing rust and ancient metal beneath. There were holes in the roof and the floor, but for his and Onya's purposes, it would suffice.
Onya labored with a burlap sack containing the tools of her trade—mystical and powerful objects. Her cheeks were flushed pink from both cold and exertion, perhaps even a trace of excitement. The goosebumps that prickled her flesh were from apprehension as much as they were from the chill, though she was loath to admit it. Somewhere in the distance, a shot rang out and Onya startled, barely managing to compose herself before Davik could see the fear in her eyes. When she had rolled the bones earlier, their message had not promised hope.
Onya was afraid, but she was also experiencing a stronger emotion, at present, one that had overridden her better judgement and put her in the middle of this unwelcoming place: love. She cared for the tall, brusque man with the dark hair and scarred face, though she had never told him. Davik didn't feel anything for anyone other than disgust or revulsion, and most certainly not for the little slip of a witch who dabbled in the arcane as a means of supporting herself now that she had grown too old to draw much of a price in other ways. Even now she watched him, marveling at his strength as he effortlessly lifted the captive whore as if she weighed no more than the cloth she was wrapped in. Yes, Onya thought, I will do this thing for him. I will raise Kassogtha, and, with it, Davik shall rise to power. He shall keep me beside him, as I have proven myself useful. In time, perhaps he will come to need me, maybe even think of me as something other than a tool…
Onya was pried from her reverie as Davik wrenched open what remained of the rail car's door and stepped inside, sliding the now semi-conscious girl from his shoulder.
“This will work, yes?” he asked Onya, who struggled again with her parcel.
“Yes.” Onya looked around. “This will do.” She tugged once more on her bundle before Davik strode over and lifted it over the doorstep. He set it down on the sturdiest place on the floor. In the corner, the whore struggled with her bonds and cried softly around her gag.
Onya undid an ornate knot. There was an audible gasp as the magic she had used to bind the tie was released. The corners of the bundle fell open, revealing implements of the arcane: books and candles, feathers, bones, little pouches of dried herbs and powdered organs, vials of noxious fluids, and stones carved with ancient symbols and mystical markings.
Onya knelt before the pile and began making her final preparations. Onya drew a pentacle on the floor with chalk. She traced the outline of the five-pointed star seven times, pausing to whisper something under her breath with each pass. Around the simple design, Onya chalked intricate patterns, perhaps letters in a language Davik didn’t understand. Onya scribbled swirls and spirals between two concentric rings around the great star. They seemed to squirm and writhe of their own volition. Next, she placed a black candle at each of the pentacle’s five points. Kneeling, she held aloft a large red candle. She raised her arms above her head and began chanting and swaying slowly, as if manipulated by an astral breeze. Onya lit each of the black candles in turn, beginning at the northernmost point and working counterclockwise. When all six flames were lit, and the interior of the rail car shimmered with an unearthly glow, Onya beckoned to Davik. She gestured at the bundle in the corner, and Davik withdrew the cloth.
The whore’s eyes were wide with fear. A fresh bruise stood out against her cheek. The rags Davik had shoved into her mouth prevented her from uttering more than muffled moans. Her wrists and ankles remained tied with the rope Davik had bound her with in the alley behind the bar. Her hair was a tangled mess that hung around her face like a hobo’s version of a halo. She looked frantically around the room, eyes lighting on Onya’s improvised altar. She began shaking her head and struggling frantically with her bonds, making plaintive mewling noises from behind her gag. Davik caught her with a cold, unyielding stare. The girl stopped struggling.
Onya gestured with a sharp jerk of her head, and Davik lifted the frightened prostitute and placed her in the center of the circle.
Onya rose to her feet and opened a small vial. She spilled its contents in swirling spirals on the floor. The whore was crying openly, tears spilling down her dirtied cheeks in rivulets. Onya stood over her for a moment before withdrawing a dagger from the folds of her dress. It was long and curved like a fang, the hilt carved with an elaborate scene of beastly things devouring human beings. Here and there it was accented with jewels the color of freshly spilled blood. At the sight of the weapon, Davik’s interest piqued, and he leaned in, looking like a curious child at a museum exhibit.
Lips moving fervently, soundlessly, Onya raised her left hand, piercing each of her fingers and her thumb with the blade. She allowed a drop of blood, like a single pearl, to fall onto the flame of each candle. The witch rolled her head, her incantations growing louder. They rose in volume until she was nearly screaming, uttering words in a language more ancient than even the dagger she now held. Onya drew her hand over her face, streaking her mouth and chin with blood that looked like fangs and a serpentine tongue in the dim light. She spat on the red candle, and, instantly, all light in the room was snuffed out.
Moments passed, and no one dared breathe. Swirling balls of green light emerged from the darkness, hovered over the still-smoking wicks, and began to rise before suddenly racing toward the whore.
Her back arched violently and she rose from the floor, hovering in midair. The center of her chest began to glow with the same green light as the spheres. Her eyes widened to an inhuman level, the outer edges nearly cracking. Her arms and legs flexed, rope that bound them snapping like rubber bands.
Onya raced forward and plunged the dagger into the glowing spot on the whore's torso.
The girl collapsed in a heap on the ground, blood pooling around her and steaming in the freezing air.
The atmosphere in the room changed. Slowly, the warmth that had been building in the rail car became impossible to ignore. In the middle of a harsh Odessan winter, a pocket of almost tropical temperature had formed, with humidity to match. Beads of perspiration formed on Davik's forehead and dripped down his face
. The room took on the unfamiliar smell of rotting plant life and ancient swamps. In the center of the pentacle, the whore’s body twitched. There was a ripping sound, followed by a wet, slopping noise as the gag was forced from her mouth. A slimy green tentacle took its place, followed by another.
The serpentine appendages seemed to possess some sort of intelligence in the way they moved and swayed as if searching for a meal.
Suddenly, the largest appendage shot out and encircled Onya's throat, choking her as it lifted her off the floor. Onya struggled as more of the tentacle emerged from the whore's mouth, separating her jaws like those of some hideous reptile. They were powerful, and Onya, in her weakened state, was no match for them.
Davik watched in horror while the woman he secretly loved flailed in their grasp. The thing released the frail woman, and she fell to the floor, unmoving, eyes open, throat mangled. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
Davik gasped, staring down at the body of his beloved. He had hoped to rule the world with her, but now she lay in a battered heap as more of the things emerged, splitting the girl's head open, followed by her chest, until she was nothing more than an empty husk that had served its purpose. The air hung thick with the scents of death and decay as Kassogtha, tasting blood for the first time in centuries, awoke from its ancient slumber.
* * *
THE DICK-MEASURING CONTEST AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE
Hellen Marshal was your typical millennial woman. She had a decent job as a data entry clerk, a shitty used car, a tuition bill she was likely to someday pass on to her future children, and a Tinder account that only caused her moderate aggravation…on good days.
There was nothing especially remarkable about Hellen. She was of average height and weight, five-foot-four and solidly built, though not fat. She had sandy, shoulder-length hair and brown eyes set into an utterly forgettable face. She was perfectly okay with all of that. She had absolutely no desire to look like a super model. She was content with her everyday, ordinary, even somewhat boring, life. Until the day it ended.
It was snowing that day. The roads had been treated, but they were still icy in spots, especially the hilly road she lived on, so Hellen decided to take the train in to work. There was a commuter rail station less than a mile from her apartment, and she thought the walk would be kind of nice. She loved the winter, the way the snow washed everything clean and bright with its sparkly whiteness, the shimmery flakes alighting on her eyelashes, the fact that it was the slow season at work so she could spend most of her time giggling at silly cat memes on the Internet. Winter was wonderful. and a 15-minute walk in the early morning fresh air was just what she needed to lift her spirits.
The snow hadn’t been falling for very long yet. There were still brown patches of dead grass and bare earth everywhere. The flaky white stuff was starting to collect near the edges of the road and on tree limbs, but it would be a while (probably a few hours, at least) before the world became a winter wonderland, and, by then, she’d be at work, in a dull cubicle with no windows. Sad face.
The walk was pleasant, if uneventful. The air had a nice chill that pinked her cheeks. She wore a newish wool jacket over her usual cardigan/slacks combo and topped it off with a bright purple infinity scarf. All over the neighborhood, people were waking up to the weather, checking school cancelations—kids cheering if their school was on the list even as their parents groaned—making coffee, and having breakfast. Today was going to be a good day, Hellen thought as she arrived at the little station.
Given the cold and the early hour (the train took almost twice as long as driving did), Hellen decided to splurge on a cup of steaming Earl Grey tea. It was a bit of a luxury, especially since payday was still more than a week off, but what the heck? You only live once, right?
Cheery red paper cup in hand, Hellen stood on the platform and waited, along with half a dozen other commuters. She never saw the train that hit her. Isn’t that a saying or something? You never see the one that gets you? She wasn’t even sure how she’d gotten in its way. Hell, she didn’t even know what had happened, at first.
She suddenly found herself in a modern office building with shiny chrome accents and glass everywhere. At first, she assumed that she’d somehow zoned out on the train and had accidentally walked into the wrong office building, but no. That couldn’t be it…there weren’t any exterior doors. She spent what felt like an hour looking for a way out of the building, another person, or even a goddamned phone before she gave up, dejected, and flopped down in a corner.
She’d somehow lost her purse. (Had she left it on the train? She had to have! But that was so unlike her!) So she had that to deal with. She couldn’t remember finishing her tea, either. In fact, she couldn’t remember anything after standing on the platform, cradling the cup in her hands, enjoying its warmth and the way it smelled while waiting for it to cool down enough so she could drink it. Then what happened?
The fact that she couldn’t remember was frustrating. The fact that she seemed to be trapped in some sort of weird office prison was even more so. What the hell was going on? Was this place closed due to the snow? That didn’t make any sense! Even if it were, there should still be doors! Phones! Windows! Anything! Instead, there was nothing. Just more shiny chrome furniture, upholstered in stylish and hard-to-maintain white leather, fancy coffee tables with nothing on them, and a whole lot of glass walls showing endless rooms filled with more of the same things in every direction. Hellen was so upset she felt like screaming. So she did.
Loud and long and until her throat felt raw. She screamed her anger and frustration at being trapped, at losing her purse and her memory, and the stupid train and her expensive tea she never even got to drink. When she was done, she felt a whole lot better. Then she heard the voice.
“What’s your problem?” it asked.
Hellen whirled on the sound and came face to face with…herself. Only not exactly.
Leaning up against a shiny chrome planter almost as tall as she was stood a woman who could’ve been Hellen’s sister or cousin, if not her twin. She was a bit thinner than Hellen was, and she wore more makeup. Instead of Hellen’s simple, shoulder-length haircut, the newcomer had a trendy, if somewhat risqué, pixie cut with long, styled bangs that had splashes of purple at the ends. She also wore several pairs of earrings. Hellen had never gotten her ears pierced. The doppelganger wore a leather jacket, leggings, and neon sneakers.
Hellen tilted her head at the other woman so sharply she must’ve looked like a comically quizzical dog. “Who are you?” she asked. “And how did you get in here? I didn’t see any doors…”
“Same way you did, numbskull,” the other woman quipped. “I took the hard way in.”
“I…don’t know what you mean,” Hellen said, her initial feelings of relief at encountering another human being already melting into annoyance and further frustration. “And you didn’t answer my first question. Who are you?”
The woman rolled her eyes and cracked her gum, also neon. “My name is Hellen Marshall and I just washed a bottle of sleeping pills down with a fifth of vodka.” She said, voice dripping with condescension.
Hellen’s eyebrows shot up, then wrinkled in confusion. The woman who claimed she was also named Hellen Marshall stood up and smacked the first Hellen in the forehead.
“I’m dead, dummy!”she sneered. “And so are you.”
“Dead?” Hellen (the original Hellen, who had very recently decided to call herself Hellen Prime) took a staggering step backward before shaking her head.”I’m not dead. You’re crazy!” she said.
“Oh, I’m crazy, all right. But you’re still dead. We both are. Deal with it.” And, with that, Hellen Two turned on her heel and stomped off down the hallway in the other direction, leaving Hellen Prime to stare after her.
Dead? She wasn’t dead! She had thoughts and feelings and memories! She had her infinity scarf, for Chrissakes! She wasn’t dead! But…it did sort
of make sense. She didn’t remember getting on the train, or entering this insane building…and what was with the rude “other her?”
Wait, was she high? Could the snotty barista have slipped something into her Earl Grey? Was that it? It had to be!
Hellen Prime looked down the hallway in time to see Hellen Two turn and enter a room on the left-hand side. She scampered after her.
The room was a standard issue office break room, all done up in shiny chrome and glass like everything else. Hellen Two was standing in front of a very fancy looking refrigerator, staring at pristinely lined up, identical rows of soda and yogurt. She grabbed a shiny silver can, which magically didn’t appear to diminish the supply remaining in the fridge.
“Want one?” she asked Hellen Prime, popping the top on her can with a familiar sound and taking a long drink.
“Uh, sure, I guess.”
Hellen Two grabbed another can of soda and tossed it at her counterpart, who caught it with ease…which was odd, considering she was the world’s biggest klutz.
Hellen Prime looked down at the cold can in her hands. It was shiny, smooth, and oddly featureless. There was no writing at all to mar the flawless surface, no corporate logos or nutrition facts, not even an indicator of what was actually inside.
“Um, what is this?”
“It’s a can of soda, doofus. God, I’m glad I don’t come from your reality.”
“No, I mean what flavor?” Hellen Prime chose to ignore Hellen Two’s condescending attitude, at least for the moment.
Hellen Two took another sip and shrugged.
Hellen Prime stared at her for a moment as if waiting for ill effects from drinking the unmarked liquid to appear, then shrugged herself and popped the top.
The soda didn’t taste bad, per se. It really didn’t taste like much of anything. It was cool and fizzy and sort of sweet, but it had no actual flavor. Hellen Prime took another sip and examined the can again.
