Bad Little Girls Die Horrible Deaths: And Other Tales Of Dark Fantasy

by Harry Connolly

  Podor took out a slender golden skewer. Obair did the same. Podor gazed at his younger brother for a moment, seeming almost as though he might smile. Without a word to each other, they each skewered a nugget and lifted it.

  They did not hesitate. The brothers popped the food into their mouths at the same time.

  Their faces contorted. Obair made a low, choking noise. Podor leaped from his chair.

  "That was awful!"

  Obair stood. He and Podor clasped hands. They swallowed and their sour expressions twisted into smiles.

  They had survived.

  A cheer rang out in the hall. More food was brought out and the celebration began.

  Altane went to the captain of the guard and berated him for allowing armed men inside the family hall. The captain swore he had acted on Laurent's orders and cleared them immediately.

  Barlo was brought before the crowd and toasted. A song was sung in his honor, and two lithe dancers twirled around him to much roaring and lewd laughter. Barlo stared at the floor and waited for permission to go.

  Altane turned his back on them and walked out of the hall. Maybe he would be one of them someday, but today he wore riding leathers and lived at the edges of the holding, serving his master as his master served another.

  He asked the stable master to bring his horse and the oldest dray they had. It was a pitiable thing, but it would do. Altane lead it toward the kitchens.

  The golden cart and its venomous cargo sat in the corner of the courtyard. A single push could send it through the garbage chute into the river below, but Altane had a better idea.

  He hitched the horse to the cart. "One last burden for you," he said as he stroked its neck.

  The kitchen door opened. Barlo emerged alone. "I'm glad you're taking that away. None of the boys will throw out scraps."

  Barlo went behind the beast. He drew out a long knife with a golden handle and gently cut the basilisk between its legs. "Just in case someone thinks to check," he said. He tossed the blade onto the cart.

  "Thank you," Altane said.

  "Thank you," Barlo said, "for returning my family. What can you do with a thing like this?"

  "There's an inlet about six days up the coast that's choked with tangle grass. Some 20 years ago, a Kolchin merchant was put off that no one wanted to buy his hats and he threw some seeds into the riverbank. Now, no one can go near without being dragged into the water and drowned."

  "You're going to poison the inlet?"

  "The venom will clear away in a year or year and a half. Then the creatures that belong there will return."

  "Including the people," Barlo said. "It sounds dangerous. Shouldn't you wait for your master?"

  "We both have too much to do."

  Altane led the dray through the courtyard and into the still morning.

  Cargo Johnny

  Man

  Lives.

  In the sunlit world of what he believes to be.

  Reality.

  BUT…

  ------ ---- ------

  He is on his way to feed Amy's damn cat when the tree jumps out in front of his car, pretty much. The accident is Amy's fault and she owes him a phone call, minimum. He struts on over to her place. Cargo Johnny doesn't walk. Cargo Johnny doesn't let the world know when he's been hurt, either.

  He lets himself into Amy's condo. The shutters are closed up tight, and the stale air stinks of cat. Johnny picks up her land line to call one of his ladies--maybe even his wife. There's no dial tone. Her phone doesn't work any better than his cell. No sweat, though. Cargo Johnny doesn't lose his cool when faced with a conspiracy of telecommunications.

  He can't open the windows to let in fresh air--they're stuck. He can't open the shutter to let in fresh light--they're on the other side of the windows. He pushes the damn cat aside with his foot on the way to the bathroom mirror.

  Cargo Johnny doesn't kick cats. He pushes them, sometimes with his feet. No kicking. At least not when said cat's owner is such a dynamo in the sack.

  He can't see a bruise on his forehead. It throbs like he cracked open his melon, but nothing shows. Cargo Johnny doesn't shrink from the obvious; obviously, wrecking his carriage gave him a bone bruise or something.

  The damn cat rubs against his leg, forcing him to push it again. Johnny searches the kitchen cupboards for its food. If Amy hadn't asked him to feed it, he'd be at the bar already. If Amy had asked after he'd unloaded his freight, he would have said no. But she didn't, and Cargo Johnny doesn't go back on his word. Even when it costs him his high-rider.

  No food anywhere. What does Amy expect him to do, buy the stuff, too? He feeds the lady, the lady feeds the beast, in every possible way. Hell, there isn't any human food here, either. Not even a dusty pack of soy sauce.

  Fine. He'll pop over to Ralph's and be back in twenty. When Amy comes back from New York, she'll be grateful to him, in every possible way.

  The front door won't open. It's stuck, like it's nailed shut. He strains at it until sweat runs down his face. He throws the locks back and forth, back and forth. He kicks at it (not pushing with his foot, no siree). He even pounds with his fists and shouts, in a manly way, for a neighbor to help him.

  No one does. How is Cargo Johnny going to get to the bar?

  The damn cat rubs against his ankle again, and Johnny feels a sudden sharp nip.

  Damn! Tiny droplets of blood spatter onto Amy's white carpet. The damn cat begins to lick at them. Johnny lunges for it, but it darts behind the sofa.

  Johnny checks his clothes. His ankle is slashed, and he has bled onto his sock, shoe and cuff. Cargo Johnny doesn't go to the bar in funky clothes, and his wife raises a stink if he goes home to change before a lady hunt.

  Time to settle up with the beast. He yanks the sofa away from the wall and sees the damn cat's white tail vanish under the end table. He reaches for it.

  It leaps at his hand and bites. Johnny yelps in a voice way too much like a little girl's and jumps back. The pad of his pinky fingertip has been torn off, and now he's bleeding like a punctured box of Franzia.

  He holds his arm away from his body and drips the blood safely on the carpet and furniture. This shirt cost fifty dollars. He rushes to the kitchen and knots a dish towel around his finger.

  Cargo Johnny doesn't play games. He grips his pen knife between his teeth and hefts a skillet. With his injured hand, he knocks over the end table, skillet held high.

  No cat.

  Something small suddenly lands on his back between his shoulder blades. Tiny hooks tear through his fifty dollar shirt and dig into his skin. Johnny reaches back and, just as his hand passes below his ear, feels tiny claws tearing through his knuckle.

  Johnny spins, shaking the cat off his back. Before it hits the ground, the skillet connects like a tennis forehand, which he will now pretend was his plan all along. The pan rings like a bell and the cat flies against the door. Johnny lunges at it, throwing his 170 pounds against the beast's eight. He hoots like a primate when he drives the knife home. Cargo Johnny carries freight.

  He has the funny feeling that, now that the cat is dead, the door will open. It doesn't. He pounds on it and shouts for help again. Still no answer. Cargo Johnny doesn't shrink from the obvious. The building is empty. He'll try again in a hour.

  But his watch is broken, thanks to the reckless tree. And Amy doesn't seem to own any clocks.

  Father-sir taught him how to skin an animal and Amy has one of those rotisserie ovens. "Set it and forget it," right?

  He turns on the TV, but there's a problem with the cable. Every channel is showing reruns of The Donnie and Marie Show.

  By the time the little beast is cooked, Johnny's starving. There's no silverware except the pen knife (did she take her knives and forks to the convention?) and the water is shut off. He can't do anything but slip on barbecue gloves and grab the beast. It smells like roast pork but gamier, and the flesh is exactly the way he likes it: crispy on the outside and juicy as hell. He lifts it to his
watering mouth and bites into it.

  The cat suddenly yowls and twists out of his hands. Johnny leaps out of his chair and screams long and high. The skinned, roasted cat walks across the top of the dining room table as if taking stock of the room. It looks at him with burned-out sockets.

  "I have bad news for you, Johnny," the cat says.

  Cargo Johnny doesn't hallucinate. Cargo Johnny doesn't hallucinate. Cargo Johnny doesn't hallucinate.

  The cat leaps at him. Johnny back pedals, bumping his foot against the sofa and falling. He strikes the back of his head on the end table and then, darkness.

  Johnny slowly realizes he's looking at slanting rays of light beaming through the shutters. The light hasn't changed its angle, so he must have been out a minute or two, tops.

  He sits up. His left hand and forearm have been stripped to the bone. He has only a few bloody rags of flesh hanging below his elbow. His left thigh looks like a mole has tried to burrow into it, and his freight...

  His freight has been torn out.

  The cat backs away from him, hissing. It has grown bigger, and it does not have brown, roasted flesh anymore. It has hairless tanned skin much like his own. There, on its left shoulder, is a tattoo identical to the Theta Chi tat Johnny has... used to have on his left wrist. Where the cat once had a forepaw, it now has a well-manicured left hand. And Johnny can see, pressing against the cat's belly, that it's carrying his freight.

  Did he mention the cat's bigger?

  The cat reaches out with its new hand and grabs his pen knife off the carpet.

  Johnny kicks at the beast and struggles to his feet. His arm and leg tingle slightly, but the bone bruise on his forehead is killing him. Stupid tree. If he hadn't slammed his head against the windshield he wouldn't be in this damn mess.

  The cat retreats behind the sofa, hissing. Johnny's glad. He isn't ready to fight yet.

  Johnny staggers into the bathroom. He tries to shout for help but his throat is parched and he can only make a strangled sound. That demon cat is out there, wearing his flesh. He has to do something. He has to catch the beast and take his flesh back, even if he has to do it with his teeth. Time to put Father-sir's hunting lessons to the test.

  His head throbs as he steps out of the bathroom. Weirdly, the dim light sneaking through the shutters flickers like a bonfire, as though the place across the street is burning down.. Not that it matters. He can't imagine how he got into this situation, but Cargo Johnny doesn't shrink from the obvious.

  The Yellow Mark

  This is probably the oldest story in the collection, written many years ago for an Clark Ashton Smith tribute anthology. Ii received a very nice personal rejection and had been sitting on my hard drive ever since--until I revised the hell out of it for this collection.

  ------ ---- ------

  "Oh, father, must we stop in this city? I am sure it will be no better than the others."

  Tunj eased his horse closer to the carriage. "Do not scowl, Perdama, my sprite. You will wrinkle your delicate brow." He leaned toward her, stretching in his saddle to adjust her parasol, but his arms were too short and his belly to broad to reach. He wiggled his fingers instead, and Perdama tilted her silk parasol to shade her porcelain throat.

  "You are too sweet to be so pessimistic, my pixie. Keep an open mind; one never knows where one might find a hidden treasure. And no scowling!"

  The train of horses topped a hill and there, sprawled below them, lay the walls of Zul-Bha-Sair. The stones were of the same pale red as the sand, and to Tunj it seemed that only the sharp-edged shadows of the cornices and the square roofs against the dull white sky suggested there was more than sand and pebble there at all.

  An hour later they passed through the high stone gates. Perdama drew her veil across her face, as much to filter the stench of rotting vegetables and emptied chamber pots as to preserve her modesty. The bodyguards cleared a path through the mobs that clustered around the slapdash merchant stalls. Dirty children paused in their chases and sneering old women leaned from their windows to stare at Tunj's entourage.

  Perdama kept her expression blank and her gaze focused on an empty spot ahead of her. Her father, however, fidgeted in his saddle, glancing from one snide of the street to the other. Young men leered at them like wolves.

  It is the same in every city, she thought.

  Then the people parted. Tunj's horsemen pulled up short and the carriages halted. Silence descended.

  Four hooded figures, carrying a huge bier made from black leather and bones, lumbered down the cross street. A corpse lay upon the bier, partly concealed by a crude blanket.

  The street rabble backed away as if from a pride of lions. The hired guide leaned toward Tunj and Perdama, speaking in a low voice: "A local funeral procession, sir."

  Zim, Perdama's young maid, stood on the carriage bench, peering over the horsemen in front. "Are they deformed?" she asked, too loudly.

  Perdama noted that the figures were oddly shaped beneath their purple cloaks, hunched and thick, like huge apes. Rather than answer, the guide gestured for silence. The procession disappeared among the twisting streets, and Perdama decided she must inquire about the local customs at her first opportunity.

  Their guide led them through the maze of streets into a broad courtyard. It was the most opulent inn to be found in the city, and the proprietor owed a favor to Tunj's patron.

  "Welcome! Welcome!" the man cried as he waddled toward them. He was red-faced and sweating, as if hustling his great soft body here and there drove his heart to the brink of collapse. "Wonderful to have you as my guest, sir! How fares your noble patron, the Duke?"

  "Quite well. His holdings expand toward the sea even now."

  The innkeeper exclaimed that it was excellent news, then praised the beauty of Perdama, the quality of Tunj's guards and servants, then Tunj himself.

  "What brings you to our city, if I may ask, sir?"

  Tunj climbed from his horse. "We are to take possession of a piece of land beside a certain river. It is quite isolated, and I am determined to find a suitable husband for my daughter before our pleasant exile. We meet this evening with Orsinix, fourth son of Count Ord."

  "Well, well!" the fat man said. He smiled and leaned close to Perdama. "You will find many handsome men of good breeding in Zul-Bha-Sair, but few more dashing than Orsinix."

  The girl was unmoved by such remarks. "I do not value such things as appearance, which fades over the years. I am seeking a man like my father, whose modest grace and virtue will last all his life."

  The innkeeper bowed. "In that case your search may be long indeed."

  Tunj tilted his head to acknowledge the compliment, then glanced at the closing courtyard gates. A crowd of men in tattered red and purple rags stood in the street, staring at the ivory ornamentation on his carriages.

  As their belongings were carried into their rooms, Tunj and Perdama enjoyed a lunch of egg and bulgur cakes, with roast squab. Tunj talked business with the innkeeper, selling him a flagon of potion that would help his aged mother sleep peacefully through the night, but turning aside an inquiry into something that might "ease her of her many difficult years."

  They napped for an hour, then Zim helped prepare Perdama's toilette. At dusk, a team of riders with golden cloaks and tasseled helmets rode into the courtyard, and Tunj, Perdama and Zim were conducted to the home of Orsinix.

  Orsinix was young and handsome, with long hair and a braided beard. His voice was deep and low, forcing his guests to stand quite near him while they talked. When Tunj asked why he would move so far from home to marry Perdama, Orsinix explained that there were three estates and four brothers in his family, and hinted at a deep sibling rivalry.

  They ate another meal of squab, and afterwards, the Lady Ord suggested Perdama accompany her on a tour of the house. For a quarter hour they walked through parlors and ballrooms without a word passing from the Lady's pinched lips.

  They paused at a doorway. The Lady Ord slid back the co
ver of a peephole, glanced inside, then indicated Perdama do the same.

  She saw a long fire-lit hall. Zim leaned her back against a door jamb, with her hands resting in the small of her back. Orsinix loomed over her, his hand resting on the wall beside her head. Both were smiling. He whispered something that made Zim blush and giggle.

  The Lady Ord shut the peephole. "My son would destroy you."

  Perdama went to her father. Zim was summoned, and they left. In the carriage, Perdama unhooked her veil and leaned toward her father. "I find it more credible that he flees outraged husbands rather than treacherous brothers." With a sidelong glance, she noticed Zim's frown of disappointment.

  That night Tunj and Perdama awoke to the sound of screams echoing through the inn. They wrapped themselves in their robes and ran through the halls.

  Two of the guards stood by the carriage house. The innkeeper paced beside them, wringing his hands.

  "Good sir Tunj, I'm appalled. Nothing like this..."

  Tunj shushed him. "What happened?"

  The shorter guard gestured toward the carriage house. He bore a bloody cut on his cheek, and his hand ax was stained with blood made black by the firelight. The other guard was unmarked.

  "Have you left your post?"

  The unwounded guard sheathed his sword. "I heard a cry and…"

  "Yes, yes. Return to it. Perdama, wait out here for me, my pixie." The bloodied guard led him through the door and lifted the burning lamp high.

  Unbidden, Perdama stepped into the room and gasped. Five men lay sprawled in the dirt, their heads and necks cleaved with terrible wounds. They wore dirty rags, identical in color to those the men outside the gate had worn that afternoon. She felt a clutching in her stomach. Perhaps these were the very men, dead only hours later, their fists still clenched around their notched, rusty knives.

  She stared at the bodies, her eyes wide, her fingers pressed against her lips. How still, they looked. How peaceful. Before her father could order her to her room, she knelt beside a sixth corpse, which was propped against the wall. This was a guard.