The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 3: Red Reunion (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #3)

by Michael Panush

  Peggy took him by the hand and they walked to her house, just across the street from Silver Hills High School. Weatherby politely greeted her mother, receiving a warm smile at his extreme formalities, and then waited as Peggy changed. She came out in a white dress, held up by only two thin straps. She smiled as she turned around, letting Weatherby see how well it clung to her. Weatherby sputtered and pushed up his glasses.

  “What do you think?” she asked with a giggle.

  “M-marvelous. I have beheld many things in my short life, but never such simple beauty.” He looked over his shoulder, back at the school. It was getting dark, the shadows falling on the cement structures. “Should we head to the dance now?”

  “Yeah. Remember to take your shoes off. They don’t want us to scuff up the floors.”

  They left Peggy’s house and crossed the street. Students were being dropped off by their parents, or getting out of their own cars, and making their way to the gymnasium in the center of Silver Hills High. The boys wore tuxedoes of various pastel shades, and the girls wore long dresses. Weatherby felt a little odd in his frock coat, but that was not a new feeling.

  The tiled floor and walls of the gym were the color of cream. Low light cast long shadows around the gym, as the couples got together and started to dance. Refreshments, including a large bowl of cherry red punch, sat in the corner. A full Negro band in matching blue tuxedoes played in the corner. It was something slow with a warm melody, and Weatherby felt his heart beat faster as he looked at Peggy. He gulped as she took his hands and put them around her.

  “Just follow my lead, Weatherby,” she said. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

  “T-thank you,” Weatherby replied. They weaved to the middle of the dance floor, and Weatherby stared into her eyes, losing himself in their depths. He barely heard the footsteps outside, and the gym doors slamming open.

  Slowly, Weatherby turned. He saw Butch Waller standing in the doorway, flanked by his usual two football player friends. Butch looked straight at Weatherby and Peggy, his lips curling back like an angry dog. He carried a silver suitcase in both hands.

  Butch pointed at Weatherby, as the flustered chaperones hurried to the door. “I knew it!” he shouted. “I knew it! This little runt stole my girl! He stole my girl and all of your just let it happen! You turned your back on me, just when he did a slick little magic trick. Well, I’ll show you. I’ll show you a real magic trick, and just how pathetic he is!”

  “Butch, don’t—” Peggy started, but Butch shook her head.

  “Shut up. You’re a little slut. I should have realized it sooner.” He patted the suitcase and moved his hand to the clasp. “You want a new boyfriend? Fine. I got a bunch right here. Why don’t you get better acquainted?”

  Before the chaperone could stop him, he undid the clasp. The suitcase fell open, revealing nothing but darkness inside. Weatherby couldn’t see the back of the suitcase. It was like Butch held the square entrance to some shadowy cave in his hands, which was far bigger than the suitcase could possibly contain.

  A bright neon blue arm reached out of the suitcase, followed by a grinning face with a long nose and pointed ears. The creature tumbled out, leaping onto the floor and emitting a chattering hiss of malevolent joy. The creature was the size of a monkey, with long claws, beady eyes and pointed teeth in a permanent smile. Weatherby recognized it instantly. This was an imp, angry lower demons who were the most brutalized creatures in the Pit – and loved to take out their frustration on others.

  With a chattering howl, the imp leapt into the dancing students, slashing out with his iron claws and tearing the fabric of dresses and tuxedoes. Butch tossed down his suitcase, and more and more imps poured out of it like smoke from a fire. They leapt around the room, screaming and laughing as they overturned chairs, chased students, and broke the instruments of the band. Smoke rose in thin ribbons from their iron claws, which grew red hot whenever they struck.

  Butch nodded to Weatherby and Peggy as he closed the gym doors. “I’ll just leave you two alone,” he said, and slammed the door shut.

  “Weatherby!” Peggy screamed as an imp came bounding toward them. Weatherby thought quickly, already reaching through his pockets. The imp leapt into the air, its claws poised. Peggy’s foot lashed out, the tip of her high heel striking the demon in the throat. The imp fell writhing on the ground.

  “Come on,” Weatherby said, grabbing Peggy’s arm and pulling her to the refreshments table. “I might have a way to stop these little devils.” He pulled a leather pouch of tiny pebbles. “These are from Europe, from soil that minor saints have walked on.” Weatherby spotted the punch bowl and ran for it.

  Another imp jumped after them, and Weatherby grabbed a fallen chair and hurled it at the little monster. The metal chair slammed onto the imp’s back, and it howled in rage. They reached the refreshment table, and Weatherby got to work. His hands were shaking as he poured the holy rocks into the punch. Against powerful demons, the charm would be useless, but it might work against the imps.

  The imps were running riot in the gym. A few of the students had been savaged by their claws, and lay crying in the corners, while others managed to escape by a small door in the back. The poor chaperone struggled in vain to restore order, until an imp clobbered him with a guitar stolen from the band.

  As more and more imps headed toward the refreshment table, Weatherby dipped a finger in the punch and whispered a few words in Latin. “Weatherby!” Peggy cried. “They’re gonna eat us!” The imps were closing in, forming a circle of waving tails and chattering teeth. Their red hot claws clicked across the tiled floor as they approached.

  “I am well aware of that.” Weatherby looked up from the bowl. “Right,” he whispered. “Let’s hope this works.” He grabbed the end of the punch bowl and lifted it up. His thin arms strained under the weight and the cut glass felt rough against his fingers, but he eventually got the bowl above his head.

  Weatherby turned around and faced the imps. “All right, you demons!” he cried. “Have something to drink!”

  He upended the bowl and sent the punch spilling down, washing into the imps like a crimson flood. The holy punch burned through them, and their voices rose in a chorus of high pitched squeals. As the punch washed away, the imps were nothing but piles of soggy ashes. Weatherby stepped carefully around them.

  “They’ve been returned to Hell,” he said, walking to the door. Peggy stayed close to him, and Weatherby had a desire to protect and shelter her. “Don’t worry. We’re safe now.”

  They reached the door and Weatherby forced it open. He stepped out, blinking in the bright moonlight. While other students ran away in terror, he spotted Butch and his friends standing calmly in the hall, their arms folded. Butch smiled as Weatherby hurried to him.

  “You monster!” Weatherby cried, rage rising inside of him. “Innocent people were seriously injured! You played with demons and you could have doomed us all!” He pulled back a fist, about to slam it into Butch’s smug face, when he caught himself. He stepped back, reaching into his coat for the handle of his revolver. He knew how terrible he was with the gun, but perhaps he could use it to frighten Butch, instead of relying on his weak fists.

  But Butch merely smiled. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Jewboy,” he said. He pointed down the street. “Remember yesterday when I said I was planning to summon Astaroth to do my bidding, and you told me he wouldn’t bite unless I gave him a human sacrifice? Well, guess what? I got me a human sacrifice. My parents are out of town, and I’m all set for a major party.”

  “Butch, you wouldn’t murder someone just to—”

  “Well, why don’t you come to my place and find out?” Butch asked. He grinned at Weatherby. “Unless your new boyfriend is chicken, of course.”

  “You’re as fiendish as the devils you wish to deal with!” Weatherby cried. “Take me to your house, then. I’ll do whatever it takes to stop you from harming an innocent.”

  “Figured you’d say that.
Let’s go.” Butch turned on his heel and started down the street, even as sirens wailed in the distance.

  His two friends fell into step behind him, and Weatherby and Peggy followed. They walked down the sidewalk, past the rows of identical suburban palaces. Weatherby thought back to Castle Stein and the Black Forest. Butch’s victim was probably some poor vagrant drifter, a hobo he had captured and tied up in his house. Weatherby couldn’t let whoever it was die. After what he had gone through in Castle Stein, he refused to allow cruelty to go on unopposed.

  They reached Butch’s house before Weatherby realized it. Butch made a show of holding the door open for them, and ushering them inside his spacious house. They walked over the hardwood floor to the kitchen. Weatherby kept his hand in his coat, fastened on the handle of his revolver. As soon as he had the opportunity, he would draw the gun and force Butch to release his prisoner, then call the police and put an end to this whole sorry incident.

  They crossed the living room and reached the kitchen. Butch pointed to the table and Weatherby gasped, weakness filling his knees and a cold weight settling over his chest. Morton Candle sat in the middle of the kitchen, strong ropes tying him to a high-backed chair and a gag in his mouth. He had a purple bruise on his forehead, and his pistols and knife rested on the kitchen table, along with the pentagram-inscribed book of spells.

  Mort looked up at Weatherby. The gag stopped him from talking, but he gave the boy a quiet nod.

  Butch laughed as he sat down in one of the chairs and put his feet on the table. “I found him snooping around, and hit him with a baseball bat. Put him right out. He woke up and told me everything.” He pointed to Weatherby. “They’re private detectives. Peggy, your new boyfriend is some shamus, and he’s only hanging around with you to get more dirt on me.” He reached out and yanked the gag from Mort’s mouth. “Tell them.”

  “I never said that,” Mort muttered. “You’re making things up, kid. You’ve gone screwy with jealousy. Do yourself a favor – untie me and call the cops. A stretch in the county jail is the only thing that can cure you now.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I’m getting Astaroth on my side. And then, there will be nothing I can’t do. The Silver Hills Centurions will win the championship. I’ll graduate with full honors, get to be elected president – anything. And Peggy and me will go steady.” He grabbed Mort’s Ka-Bar and nodded to his friends.

  They moved faster than Weatherby. One slugged Weatherby in the chest, and the boy felt something explode in his midsection. His eyes burned as he tumbled backwards. He managed to get the revolver half out of his coat before they grabbed his wrist and pulled the gun away. Weatherby was slammed against the wall, and held there by strong arms. Peggy screamed, but Butch’s other friend grabbed her.

  “Butch?” the kid holding Weatherby asked. “You sure about this? I mean, isn’t it murder?”

  Butch had already taken up the book. “Shut up, Petey,” he said, and started to read.

  Outside, the only light came from the full moon, which suddenly passed under a cloak of clouds. The ancient words grew in volume as Butch read, and the electric kitchen lights began to glow a faint blue. Peggy stifled a scream and pointed to the stove, as more blue smoke emerged. The oven fell open, and the demon Astaroth emerged.

  He seemed bigger than the kitchen, the top of his head brushing the ceiling. Smoke poured around him, and his eyes glowed like dying coals. Astaroth was a naked man, with curling horns emerging from his head and a long bristly beard like steel wool reaching down to his waist. He carried a great serpent in his hands, which curled and writhed around his shoulders and neck, its big forked tongue flicking in and out endlessly. His demonic servants, lean creatures resembling the imps but big as a man and armed with pitchforks and red hot cudgels, followed him into the kitchen.

  Astaroth pointed at Butch. “You have summoned me.” His voice was like the crackle of a roaring fire. “For what purpose?”

  “I am Butch Waller, your infernal majesty, and I would have you do my bidding, in return for the blood of an unwilling sacrifice,” Butch said, carefully reciting each word. He walked over to Mort, and raised the knife. “Let me just get that blood for you now…”

  Weatherby felt the thick hands of the football player, around his neck and chest. He saw the flat blade of the Ka-Bar knife coming down, aiming for the center of Mort’s face. He had to do something. He glanced at the football player holding him. Quickly, Weatherby reached down and bit the wrist of his captor. He bit down hard, tasting skin and then blood.

  With a strangled cry, Butch’s buddy let go of Weatherby. The boy dashed for the table and grabbed one of Mort’s automatics and his revolver. He started shooting, squeezing hard on the trigger until he heard the sudden explosion of the gunshot. It shattered a plate in the one of the cupboards, and did nothing more. Weatherby didn’t know what to do, so he swung the gun to face Butch.

  But Mort was already moving. Mort rammed his head forward, delivering a painful head butt to Butch’s chin. Butch went down, and Mort managed to grab his knife. He cut his ropes and sprang up, running for Weatherby.

  Astaroth roared. “You mock me!” he called. “You have denied me my sacrifice! You will pay!” The serpent’s mouth opened and fire came out. Mort grabbed Weatherby and pulled him to the ground, seconds before the blaze tore through the kitchen, shattering plates and silverware and blackening the walls. Weatherby felt the floor rush up to him as fire burned above his back.

  Peggy was screaming. Weatherby came to his feet, but Mort grabbed his arm. “Come on, kiddo!” Mort cried, pausing to grab his spare pistol from the table. “If we stay here, we’re fried!” He pulled Weatherby to the door. Weatherby realized he was crying too, as they went through the living room and managed to get away from the rising crimson flames.

  Mort smashed the door open with his boot, and they collapsed onto the perfect green lawn. Weatherby was coughing and crying, but he stood up and looked back at the house. The flames were already rising.

  “Peggy!” he cried. He turned back to Mort. “We have to go back for her. We have to go back inside.” He held tightly to his revolver as he handed the automatic back to Mort. “She could still be alive – alone in there with Astaroth, and those demons, and that monster Butch!”

  “You sure?” Mort looked back at the house. “We go in there, we might not be coming back out.”

  Weatherby put his revolver back into his coat. He dug into the pockets, grabbing every charm and relic he could, everything that might be useful against Astaroth and the demons. “I’m certain, Mort. I love Peggy. I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

  “I know the feeling. I’ve grown to hate it.” Mort walked to the door, and nodded to Weatherby. “Stay close to me. Don’t let the demons separate us. And let’s go and get your girlfriend.”

  They stepped back into the house. The odor of brimstone was everywhere, making Weatherby’s eyes water and his nose wrinkle up. He felt the pain in his chest and his face from his recent injuries, making each movement ache. But he didn’t care. Peggy needed him.

  The demons charged at them from the kitchen, howling as they leapt over the couches and armchairs. Mort raised both his automatics and started firing. The heavy bullets plowed thick holes through the demons, raising clouds of reddish smoke when they hit. The demons gibbered and snarled as they died, their clubs and pitchforks falling from their hands.

  “Get the girl! I’ll cover you!” Mort cried, as they hurried to the kitchen. Mort kept shooting, as Weatherby scanned the kitchen. Blue smoke was everywhere, hiding the room in a choking mist. Weatherby looked around, his heart pounding as he tried to find Peggy.

  Astaroth had her. He was holding on to her slim waist with his clawed hands, his mouth open to reveal sharp teeth. On the tiled floor, the giant serpent had wrapped around Butch. Its heavy coils choked him, and Butch’s eyes bulged, his mouth open in a frozen scream.

  Weatherby started toward Peggy. Butch’s two friends were on the
ground, a pair of demons poking at them with pitchforks and laughing. Weatherby moved quickly, hurling a pair of crucifixes at the demons. The crosses burned as they touched red demon skin, and the fiends stepped back.

  “Get outside! Get out of here!” Weatherby told the two football players. They stood up and followed his instructions, running away as they clutched their bloody wounds and sobbed. Weatherby looked up at Astaroth, and at Peggy and Butch. “Let them go!” he demanded. “Return to the Inferno! You’ll have no sacrifice tonight!”

  The demon Astaroth stared up at Weatherby and the boy quaked under his gaze. Everything about Astaroth spoke of death, terror, Hellfire and despair, and looking into the demon’s eyes was seeing light and love banished forever. Weatherby held his ground. Astaroth licked his lips, the demon’s tongue forked like that of his serpentine companion. “What do you have that could stop me, boy?” Peggy was crying as Astaroth held her, tears silently falling down her face.

  Weatherby clutched tightly to the two handfuls of crucifixes, blessed coins, vials of holy water, and other magical detritus. “Just this,” he said and hurled them all at Astaroth. The trinkets struck the skin of the demon, rising thin lines of steam. In sudden surprise, Astaroth released Peggy, and she ran to Weatherby.

  Mort stepped into the kitchen, holding the smaller demons back with his pistols. “Let’s go!” he cried. “We ain’t got the time and I ain’t got the lead!”

  As he held tightly to Peggy, Weatherby looked down at Butch. Astaroth was still writhing from the effects of the holy devices, and was stepping back into the smoldering oven – the portal to Hell. His snake was coming with him. Weatherby reached down and grabbed Butch’s shoulder. He kicked at the giant serpent, trying to free Butch from its coils. But it was like kicking a brick wall, only hurting his foot.

  Butch looked up at Mort. “Tell them it was a fire!” he managed to say. “Don’t tell my parents… about this. I don’t want them to be… disappointed.” The serpent pulled him away, following Astaroth into the glowing portal. Weatherby’s hand fell away from Butch’s shoulder.