by Chuck Wendig
Aphrodite sighs. “You’ve made a mess of things.”
“I know.”
“I can’t help you.”
“What? But... I called you. And I gave you Frank—”
“My old toy escaped. Given what you’ve just told me, and the infernal sigil carved across his chest, it’s safe to surmise he’s on the Devil’s payroll, now.”
“You don’t have him.”
“I don’t.”
“Then I can help you get him. I’ll do anything. Please, just get me—”
“You’re not understanding me. I can’t. This is a prison. A cage. If anybody could just hop in and hop out, it wouldn’t be particularly secure, would it? But I’ll give you a hint, Cason. You belong to this place. It belongs to you, in return.”
He barks at her: “I already know that! That’s not new information.”
“Then you’re not thinking hard enough,” she barks back. “But I can’t help you. I want to. I really do. There’s a part of me that feels for you. That cries out for your plight. And I’ll confess I wonder what you’d be like as a lover. You’re visceral. Passionate. The lengths you go to for the ones you love is...” She shudders in a wave of imagined pleasure. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”
“Wait—”
“Goodbye, Cason.”
And then she’s gone.
PSYCHE LIES BLEEDING.
The pain is like nothing she’s ever felt. It wracks her body again and again—like someone pouring fresh gasoline on a wound. Once the throb dulls, more gas. Pssshh. Then someone lights it on fire and the cycle begins anew.
The Devil was right. She won’t die by this wound, but it’ll mark her. It’ll cripple her for a long time. Centuries. Maybe longer. The weapons of the gods are like that—and Lightbringer, Satan’s infamous sword, is just such a maker-of-misery.
She’s in such agony that when she sees Aphrodite appear, she thinks she must be dreaming. Or hallucinating. But she knows her own mind; such self-deception is rare, if not impossible. Which leaves the unlikeliest choice: this is really happening.
Aphrodite stands over her. Arms crossed.
“Come to see me suffer?” Psyche says, her voice a shuddering whisper.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I was called. Now I’m here.”
“Go on. Gloat. Kick me while I’m down.”
Aphrodite sniffs, then stoops and offers a hand.
Psyche stares at it like it’s a venomous snake.
“Take it,” Aphrodite insists. “I’ll... help you.”
“Why? After all this time, why?”
“You were my son’s wife. And you’re all I have left of him. We will never be friends, but we will always be family.”
“Family.” The word tastes strange on Psyche’s tongue.
“Will you take my hand?”
Psyche nods, reaches for her. Aphrodite helps her stand, then places the flat of her palm against Psyche’s chest. A warmth radiates out, and sheer bliss rises and thrives in her mind. When Aphrodite takes her hand away, the shirt is still torn, but the wound between her breasts is healed over—a scar like a toothy mouth in its place. The pain is still in there, too; an ache, with dull teeth. But it’s manageable.
“Let’s go,” Aphrodite says. “We have something to do.”
HE FELT SO clever. Get the Devil to throw him an apple. Find his reflection. Conjure Aphrodite from across the miles to free him. But then she told him no. Can’t help. Sorry.
Now she’s gone, leaving him only with the tidbit of information that somehow, someway, he can do this himself.
Cason wracks his brain. Tries to feel the forest through the mess beneath his fingers, then at the roots themselves. The forest is there, all bright shadow and tangled vine, all of it reachable in the front of his mind, and yet no amount of effort will make the roots part. They don’t even twitch.
He snaps. He can’t hack it anymore. Anger burns in his mind—a sunflare. He channels it into the forest all around; the trees shudder, and black leaves fall. The ground rumbles and growls. He hears the beasts whimpering in the distance and—
Something is beneath him.
Suddenly. Something massive. He can’t see it, can’t feel it, but he senses it. A presence like a blue whale rising to the surface.
Then he does feel it. Outside the cage, the ground cracks. From the dirt, steam rises. A mound forms. Starts to break apart. At Cason’s feet, the water ripples.
Beyond the roots, two bone spires rise from the earth. Then four. Then eight. Bony tips, woven together like the roots of an upturned tree.
Antlers. Massive antlers.
The Huntsman rises. Clods of dirt and moss-rugs cling to his leathery shoulders before finally tumbling to the earth.
In the distance, the beasts howl and wail and gibber at the arrival of their master.
The man—no, the god—stands twice as tall as Cason.
He sniffs the air. Nostrils flaring.
Black almond eyes blink, then turn toward Cason.
Cernunnos growls, and the sound vibrates Cason’s bones. He can feel it in his organs, his ribs, his teeth. The god lifts a hand—a human hand, though his feet are massive oxblood hooves—and angrily swipes it across the root cage.
They shatter like splinters, like toys thrown from the table by a petulant toddler.
The monster picks up Cason like he’s nothing. Bares teeth that are not sharp, but blunt—like flat pieces of slate shoved up into red, red gums.
Cason knows he’s dead.
But then the god drops him to the dirt. Leans down, his lean face pressed tight against Cason’s. The Huntsman’s lips peel back and he utters—in a human tongue that seems a chore to produce: “Child.”
Then he lifts his head, turns, and stomps away.
BOOM, BOOM, Boom, Boom, boom, boom
That’s it.
The root cage is destroyed.
Cason is alone.
And he’s pretty sure he just met his father.
Holy shit.
THE DEVIL THROWS open the shack door, saunters out across the concrete top of the silo. The sun shines down on his face, warming his cheeks. It’s almost like the light pulls his face into a big, shit-eating grin.
He’s happy.
Excuse the saying, but, he’s happy as Hell. Not that Hell was all that happy. It was for him, once upon a time. Though boredom set in and—
That’s really not what matters right now.
What matters is: happy.
He waves to Frank, who stands there next to a white Dodge rental, gun hanging from his hand. Frank nods.
“When the Devil’s happy, the world should fret,” Lucifer boasts, clacking his teeth like he’s taking bites out of the blue sky above. “I feel good, Comrade Polcyn.”
“Cason. He still...” Frank points to the ground.
“As was the plan.”
“I feel bad about that.”
“You should. You betrayed someone who considered you a friend. And now he’s in an eternal prison, likely never to escape. Way to be a pal, Frank.”
“Look who’s talking. You’re the guy’s family.”
“Only in blood. I don’t know him. You do. Or did.”
“You’re not helping!”
The Devil shrugs, the grin never wavering. “This your ride?”
“What? No. It’s—it was Cason’s. Had a guy with him. I shot the motherfucker.”
“He had someone down there with him, too. The girl. The one with the frizzy hair? A goddess. Whatever. I stabbed her.”
“Oh. Good.”
Lucifer shrugs. “You bring the boy?”
“He’s at the car about a quarter mile back.”
“So, we have to walk?”
“We have to walk.”
“Yuck. Well, it’s a nice enough day, at least. And the church is nearby?”
“Not even five miles away.”
The Devil snaps his fingers, forms them into
guns and fake-shoots Frank. “Super. Let’s take a stroll, Frank.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Collision
ALISON SITS NEXT to the man with the long, greasy hair. She grips the seat belt like it’s a safety line, like if she clutches it tight enough the strange man will stop driving down these narrow Kansas backroads at a hundred miles per hour, slicing a scissor-line through corn and wheat and other grains.
The man hums. Mmm-mm-mmmm...
“Who are you?” she finally asks after ten minutes of driving.
“Hm? Oh. Just a friend.”
“A friend. My friend.”
“Didn’t say your friend. Just a friend. Friend to the world. Trickster extraordinaire. Defender of the golden thread. Which is, I think, close to snapping...” He looks down at the dashboard, then presses on the accelerator. The car whips forward. Rows of cornstalks fly past, blurring into an indefinable green smear.
“Please. Don’t kill me.”
“Kill you? I would do no such thing. Oh, that reminds me—” He holds the wheel with one hand, reaches across her lap and wrenches open the glove compartment. Inside, a knife rests on the maps and old receipts. He snaps his fingers and the knife rolls out, bounces off the lid, and lands in her lap.
She yelps.
Quickly she fumbles with the knife, picks it up, and holds it to his throat.
“Really?” he asks.
“You stop this car.”
“Not yet.”
“Stop the car!”
“I just gave you that knife. And now you’re threatening me with it?”
“Stop the car!” she screams.
He slams on the brakes. Tires squeal. Smoke from burning rubber rises up on both sides of the car. Her own head smacks against the dashboard, and she almost loses the blade.
Before she knows what’s happening, he’s snapping his fingers again and her car door flings open from invisible hands.
He waves at her. “Bubbye, now. Nice to see you. Keep the thread intact.”
Then he pushes her out and accelerates away.
A CADILLAC SITS on the side of the road. A few bumblebees buzz between white wildflowers as the wind shakes the corn. The Devil peers into the back seat of the car. There lies the boy—his great-grandson.
“Barney?” he says to Frank. “Ugh. That’s his name. Barney?”
“Mm,” Frank says. “Short for… I dunno. Barnabas or something. Wasn’t easy sneaking that kid here, by the way. Thank God for your guy with the plane—”
Lucifer wheels on him. “Did you just say, Thank God?”
“I—wait—”
“I’m sure you didn’t. Because the ‘guy with the plane’ was my guy. He was a Devil worshipper. He’s in my pocket. God had nothing to do with this. Nothing.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—it’s just a saying. Everybody says it.”
Lucifer’s scowl turned back to a smile. “Well, soon they’ll be saying Thank Satan when anything good happens. Or anything bad. Or anything at all, because I’ll be the one turning the clockwork gears that make the whole universe go.” Again he peers back in through the window. “Barney. What a horrible name. It just... falls off the tongue. Like a bridge jumper plummeting to his death. Remind me to think up a new name for our young Prince, here. Something infernal. You know? In the tongue of my corrupt angels.”
“Sure. Whatever. Why you need the kid, anyway?”
“Like I said, I need a prince. The throne has rules, Frank. God had one of His blood with Him ruling Heaven—nobody’s seen Jesus yet, have they?”
“Nope. It was like he didn’t come to earth with the rest of the... the rest of you.”
“Mmm.” The Devil pulls himself away from the window, opens the passenger side door. “Well, whatever. I need someone with me on the throne. Someone who has my blood. Plus, that way I can leave the little prince behind as I go do... you know. Whatever it is I do. I don’t want to be shackled to that fuckin’ chair all the time, do I? No, I do not. Kid’s my proxy, he’s my blooded regent on the divine—oh, shit.”
Frank turns.
A white Dodge SUV appears down the road.
Barreling down the asphalt toward them. Erratic. Swerving like a drunk is driving.
And it’s headed right for them.
Frank cries out. He’s got the gun up. Firing shots into the car. Three bullets drive into the grille. Two more punch uneven holes in the windshield.
Lucifer growls. Mercy is not a thing he particularly enjoys—it’s a fucking chore is what it is, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do, so he whips open the Caddy’s back door, grabs the kid, and backpedals away—
Just as the SUV plows into the Cadillac.
The two cars, like crumpled soda cans, do a funny cockeyed waltz further down the road before both slide off and into the corn. Both cars honk—a droning horn that keeps going and going, as if each is trying to drown out the other.
The Devil sets Barney down in the weeds just as Frank stalks past him.
Frank roars, gun up. Fires another round into the SUV—the back window shatters.
The front door of the Dodge pops open.
And out comes a big sonofabitch. Black as the tar-pits of Hell itself. His gut a blood-soaked mess, the blood already turning brown and black.
The Devil stands back, decides to watch.
Frank breaks into a run, the revolver raised—
He’s pulling the trigger but it’s almost like he doesn’t realize it’s not firing. The cylinder is turning with every pull, the hammer clicking, but no bullets are coming out.
The black fellow, well, he’s got a tire iron in his hand, which he brings down hard against Frank’s skull.
Frank drops like a sack of rocks.
His body is still.
Ooooh. Ouch.
Now the big bastard has turned his attention toward the Devil. His face a contorted mask of pain and rage, he stalks toward Lucifer, the tire iron again raised.
“No,” the Devil says, then points at the man with an index finger. The SUV’s driver stops, frozen and in considerable agony. “Nuh-uh. Sorry. I’ve got plans and now you’ve gone and slowed the proceedings down. The church is five miles away, which is perfectly fast by car, but now I’m going to have to walk. And I’m not carrying the kid. What am I, a common mule? So, here’s what I’m offering you”—he searches the man’s mind—“Tundu? Is that your name? Loyal to my grandson, I see. Yes. Gods, even half-gods like Cason, tend to draw devotees, and I can see the connection. So that means you won’t mind helping Cason’s boy, right? Carrying him for me? Good. Great. Whatever.”
He reaches into Tundu’s mind, flips all the right switches and pulls all the wrong levers. The man is his. At least, for a time. He’ll die soon: that gut shot is pretty bad. But for now, he’ll serve. Penance for his crime.
Nearby, Frank twitches. Moans. Still alive, then.
Lucifer walks over. Kneels down in the gravel. “Your job is done, Frank. You’re fired. Pink slip. Do they still give out pink slips? Mm. Disappointing that our journey together comes to this end.” Blood pools beneath Frank’s head. “Bye now, Frank.”
He points at Tundu. “Grab the boy. Let’s walk.”
CASON OPENS THE shack door, stumbles out into the light. He’s not sure what’s real anymore. He knows this is the reality, but down there in the forest maze everything felt crisper, more real than this—that tiny fracture in his expectations troubles him.
But he can’t stop to think about that, now. He’s tired. Bedraggled. Muddy.
The Devil is free, and it’s all his fault. Before he entered the missile silo, that wasn’t even an option—it wasn’t a problem he could’ve possibly imagined. And now it’s real. And the Devil is his grandfather. He has no time to ruminate on how fucked up that is.
Down there in the silo, he didn’t see Psyche.
And up here, he doesn’t see her, either.
Or the Dodge rental.
That’s a problem.
Cason cups his hands, yells out. His voice echoes over the corn.
He yells again—for Tundu, for Psyche, for anybody.
No sign. No Devil. Nothing.
He feels alarmingly alone. A tiny seed inside sprouts a germ of fear—the Devil is free and he’s already gone and ruined the world, and this is Cason stepping out into that world, not the world he remembers. Or maybe he’s been down there for hundreds of years and all that he knows has passed him by.
What he knows is that he’s worried about Psyche and Tundu.
Which means it’s time to walk.
ALISON DROPS THE knife. It sticks in the dirt past the road’s shoulder.
She looks around like this is some kind of joke.
She’s alone. The road stretches in both directions, an asphalt ribbon parting the seas of wheat and corn.
Everything about her feels like a raw nerve exposed to the air. Alive, but stinging.
Then she picks the knife back up. And puts it back down again. A fear fantasy plays out in her mind where the cops—the real cops—show up and see her carrying a knife and suddenly everything goes bullet-shaped as they fill her full of lead.
But then she’s afraid that the other guy, the fake cop, will come back.
Him, or the Indian.
Or the strange little man.
Or the horrible narcissistic woman with the mad mane of hair and the ability to crawl inside her mind like a mouse.
She picks up the knife again.
And it’s then a voice echoes out over the corn—
Indistinct at first, but louder the next time:
“Tundu. Psyche! Hello?”
The voice. Familiar. All her senses awaken. It’s an overwhelming rush, a powerful flashbulb inside her head—
Rage rising—
Blood in her vision, red haze, red rage—
Cason.
Alison clutches the knife and heads toward the voice.
CASON STAGGERS UP the drive and toward the road. Sees tracks on the ground—car tracks. Looks like a second set. From the Dodge, maybe. They swerve. With each turn, the rubber gets a workout—black track-streaks. If Tundu was driving, he got out of here in a hurry. What happened?
