I Come with Knives

by S. A. Hunt

  Screwing open the back of the watch, Robin examined the gears inside, where she found a lock of dark hair. This was where the power originated, a wellspring that darkled weakly but constantly, sending off the eerie staticky signal of a long-dead radio station.

  Hair in the watch.

  A tooth in the pearl.

  What was all this?

  When she looked up at Gendreau, the question must have been plain on her face, because his own held an expectant solemnity. He looked twenty years older than he had when they’d met in her hospital room Tuesday; his bone-blond hair now seemed more silver than platinum, and his eyes were rimmed in blue shadow. He produced the tooth that had been inside the head of his cane and put it on the table, sipping his coffee and regarding it as if he could divine the meaning of life from it.

  Presently he asked, “Robin, have you ever heard of a ‘teratoma’?”

  “No, can’t say I have.”

  “It’s a type of tumor that contains a piece of organic matter. Some teratomas have teeth in them … some contain hair, some bones, some have entire body parts in them like hands and eyes. A few of them have even been entire fetuses. Pale, gnarled little goblins wadded up in a pouch of skin, quietly and insidiously stealing their host’s blood supply. Sometimes, they’re called ‘parasitic twins.’”

  “Well, that’s gross as shit.” The concept was terrifying to think about, like something out of a Japanese horror movie.

  “Indeed.” He picked up the tooth and held it at eye level. “Teratomas are rare but not super-rare. One out of every forty thousand births. Doesn’t sound like many, but it comes out to about five a day. Anyway, the witches’ libbu-harrani are teratoma, usually located around the heart, which is why they’re called heart-roads.”

  “A cancer that channels ectoplasmic energy.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Wait,” said Robin, “you mean when they do their ritual, the heart isn’t actually replaced? It’s still there?”

  “You’ve never looked for yourself?”

  She thought about it. “It’s kind of hard to do an autopsy on a pile of ashes.”

  “Ah … yeah. I suppose it would be. But yes, the heart is still there. It just beats really slowly. The witch is”—the mage made air-quotes with his fingers—“‘undead.’ Animated by the heart-road and kept from rotting by the dryad fruit. When the ritual is done to surrender her heart to Ereshkigal, what’s happening is, the witch has agreed to lend Ereshkigal her life-force. You know, sort of like when an expatriate working in another country sends money home to their family. And in exchange, the goddess endows them with undeath. They are liches—immortal sorcerers, walking cadavers who are animated by the goddess of death.”

  Pacing slowly around the kitchen, Robin said, “So, it is possible for a demon to completely revert a witch to human form by closing her heart-road.”

  “And doing so temporarily reverses the liche ritual, yes,” wheezed Gendreau.

  “Liche-ual,” chuckled Lucas.

  “With enough caution, skill, and knowledge,” continued Gendreau, “it’s also possible to similarly … ‘un-witch’ a witch with surgery to remove the teratoma, though it’s only been done successfully a couple of times. Normally, the procedure kills the witch, or the witch kills the surgeon. Because, dear Miss Martine, these cancers are not natural occurrences. They are … how shall I put this?… Attempts. Trespasses.”

  “Attempts at what?”

  “Entry. Something’s trying to use our bodies as doorways.”

  Robin’s neck bristled. She stared at the curl of hair nestled inside the watch.

  “We assume Ereshkigal. She’s trying to force her way into the corporeal world. Teeth. Hair. Bone.” His eyes were dark and steely. “She’s trying to use humanity to give birth to herself. Each one of these body parts is a link to the whole, a piece of the original.” He took a slurp of his coffee and placed it kindly back on the table with both hands, in a meditative fashion. “Consider the watch your enlistment bonus. If you’ll join us. You’ve got the experience. You’ve got the power—”

  “The po-werrrrrr!” sang Lucas, strumming an air guitar.

  Gendreau eyed him. “—and if you’ll accept my proposal, I can guarantee you the arrest warrants you’ve racked up in your vigilante adventures the past couple of years will … shall we say, get lost in red tape.”

  “Red taa-aape!” Lucas power-chorded.

  The curandero gave him a disapproving scowl and continued. “There are arson and murder cold cases out there, Robin. Breaking and entering charges floating in the legalsphere. Carjackings. Missing people—witches, child molesters, rapists, wife-beaters.”

  Robin’s skin went cold.

  “The FBI is looking for a Caucasian woman in her late teens, early twenties. You’ve got millions of YouTube subscribers. You used to never use real names in your videos—your operation is going to shake to pieces because you’re getting cocky. How long do you think it’s going to be before the wrong person finds out about your videos and puts two and two together?” He leaned forward. “We can protect you.”

  Did I think I was going to be invisible forever? Robin sighed, feeling stupid and reckless. He has a point. Did she think the goodwill of the beat cops and neckbeards lavishing secret praise on her videos and offering allegiance in her video comments would continue forever?

  Could she even be certain they would still be on her side if they found out the incidents in her videos were real?

  “I don’t do well with leashes.”

  “Trust me, it would be a long one.” Gendreau gave her an earnest smile. “The longest. You get to keep your videos, your van, your life … for the most part. Look, you saved my life. I will do everything in my power to make sure yours stays intact and the worst analysis you’ll have to endure is a cheek swab. Maybe a urinalysis at the worst.”

  She swallowed, biting the inside of her cheek. A tin sign nailed to the kitchen wall said, DRINK COFFEE! DO STUPID THINGS FASTER!

  “Can I have a couple days to think about it?”

  Gendreau nodded. “Of course. It is not an easy decision.”

  “Speaking of videos,” Robin added, “I uploaded my latest video today as a Halloween special. Almost an hour long. People are going apeshit for it. Ten thousand views since breakfast.”

  The front door opened and closed. Kenway came into the kitchen, his keys jingling in his hand. “Looks like I’m missing a sweet party.” He sidled around the crowded table and framed Robin’s face with his big hands, kissing her on the forehead. “Hi, you.”

  Her heart leapt. “… Hi.”

  Gendreau shotgunned the last of his coffee and pushed his chair back, rising.

  “Don’t let me run you guys off,” said the veteran.

  “Oh, we were just leaving,” said the curandero, leaning on his headless cane. “I’d like to relax and find a good meal before we head home tomorrow. There’s a Mongolian grill on the way to the hotel and I’ve heard lovely things.”

  “Happy Halloween, by the way,” said Kenway.

  “Happy Halloween,” agreed Robin.

  “Happy Halloween,” the three Dogs of Odysseus echoed in unison.

  “Thank you for the coffee,” Gendreau told Robin, handing her the empty mug. As she reached for it, he locked eyes with her. “And again, for saving my life.”

  * * *

  Out front, a white Toyota Sienna waited by the curb. Kenway and Robin stood on the front porch and watched the magicians march down the front walk. Sara wedged herself behind the wheel, grunted something about a “fucking Oompa-Loompa,” and readjusted the seat.

  “You don’t strike me as the minivan type,” Robin told Gendreau.

  “I’m not,” he rasped, tossing his cane in the back with Lucas. “But the rental selection here in Podunk leaves much to be desired. And thank the stars for good insurance, or we’d be walking back to Atlanta. Hertz isn’t going to be pleased the Suburban’s been smashed and shot full of bul
let holes.” Gendreau slid the side door shut and turned back to them, one hand tucked into a jacket pocket like a Napoleonic dandy. The healer-mage tipped the blue velvet top hat, folding himself into the passenger seat. “I await your answer, Miss Martine.”

  Robin waved with a halfhearted smile. The Sienna pulled away and rolled down the street, where it flashed its taillights at the stop sign, turned right, and disappeared.

  “What was he talking about?” asked Kenway.

  “Joining their wizard cabal. Probably want me to be their pet demon-girl or something.” She sat on the front stoop, where the wind tugged and swept at her silky black wig. “Where have you been all day?”

  “I got you a surprise.”

  “A what?” Robin’s face burned. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know. But I wanted to.”

  “What is it?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

  She screwed up her face. “How much was it?”

  “Some dollars.”

  She got up and slap-pushed him in the chest. “That’s not a real answer, Hammer Boy.”

  He laughed and snagged her witch-gown, pulling her in and crushing her against him, and suddenly she was intoxicated, his cologne (Was he even wearing cologne? She wasn’t sure) making her dizzy. The wig tumbled down her back as he lifted her face and gave her a deep kiss.

  Her hands balled into fists of their own accord, scrunching his shirt.

  He broke away, then kissed her several more times all over her cheeks and forehead, slow and methodical. His beard was like being blessed with a loofah. “Come on,” he told her, heading into the house to fetch Wayne. “We’ll go check out your surprise.”

  33

  They drove slowly up Broad in Robin’s utility van. Even after two days, the street was still littered with a rock-concert aftermath of trash and cast-off clothing. The city had towed away Doc Gendreau’s overturned Suburban and the water company capped the broken fire hydrant, but the amount of debris in the road was … well, the word excessive came to mind. Many of the shopfronts near the central plaza were busted out, leaving jagged-toothed mouths plundered of their contents.

  Nobody could give the cops a straight answer as to why a riot had broken out in uptown Blackfield. But the prevailing theory, going on hearsay and conjecture, was the car accident that kicked it off—the garbage truck running a red light and causing a Suburban to hit several people and plow through a fire hydrant—started with bystanders pulling the driver of the garbage truck out with the intent of beating him to death, and it escalated through mob mentality and panic into a full-fledged riot.

  They never learned who the driver of the truck actually was, or how he’d even gotten his hands on it. But the mutilated body of a man named Roy Euchiss (brother of renowned shitheel Owen Euchiss) had been found in the wreckage of Fisher Ellis’s comic book shop, beaten to death. The acid damage to his skin seemed to corroborate Joel Ellis’s story of what happened Sunday, and the fact that Michael DePalatis’s (partner of renowned shitheel Owen Euchiss) body was found with Joel’s stolen car seemed to link the brothers as accomplices. The cops were still processing his fingerprints against prints found in Joel’s car, but Robin was sure they were eventually going to agree the guy with the smashed face was the Serpent that had been sending them creepy, taunting letters for the last couple of years.

  A deep sigh blew from the little boy beside her. The look of stony misery on his face broke her heart. Robin took Wayne’s hand and leaned over, looking into his eyes.

  We’ll find him.

  Kenway pulled into angle parking in front of his art shop, put the van in Park, and turned it off. He sat there so long, even Wayne looked over at him.

  “You okay?” asked Robin.

  “I sold the shop,” said Kenway. One of his big hands came up and he scraped an eye with the heel of his hand.

  His face scrunched up and that was all it took to compel her from the van and around to his side. She opened the driver door and took his arm, and Kenway turned in his seat, dropping his face into his hands. He started crying into them, urgently, a great shuddering-shaking that elicited deep, hitching gasps, hup-hup-hup-hup-hup.

  Robin took his wrists. “Hey! What’s wrong?”

  “I sold the shop, Robin,” he said between sobs. He let her pry his hands down. His face had turned a livid red and his eyes were bloodshot. Sitting sideways had tugged the cuff of his left pants leg up, and the prosthetic foot clanked against the rail under his seat. “I sold it early this afternoon over”—hup-hup-hup—“lunch.”

  “Can’t say that was the best of ideas,” she said, “but why are you crying?”

  “Because I’m letting him down again.”

  “Who? Let—”

  Oh. Ohhhh.

  “Hendry,” he said, “Chris. My old buddy.”

  “… Ah.”

  “I made breakfast and I let him d—” Pain flashed across his face. “… I let him down, and now I’m sellin’ the shop and leavin’ town.” With the last word, anguish tightened inside him and he squeezed his eyes shut, leaning forward until the steering wheel met his forehead.

  Fresh tears rolled into his mustache. “I’m leavin’, man. And it’s like he’s dead all over again.”

  Seeing this big man crying his eyes out made Robin want to bawl too. She pushed his hair out of his face and held his beard. Veins thumped in his temples. “You’re not letting him down, babe,” she told him, her own eyes burning, “you’re letting him go. You’re lettin’ him go on. He’s letting you go.”

  He shook his head.

  Wayne got up on his knees, putting a hand on Kenway’s back. She caught his eyes over the vet’s shoulder and they traded a concerned vibe.

  She let him cry it out for a little while.

  “I did it because I needed to,” he said.

  “You did,” she agreed.

  “I need to quit … quit kicking around this town—”

  “Quit kicking yourself. You’ve got to stop blaming yourself for what he did.” For a change, she took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead. “You did what you could, and he did what he felt like he had to do. None of that was on you. Okay?”

  Kenway nodded, scrubbing his eyes with the collar of his shirt. He looked so tired, with the bandage around his head, and his purple eye-sockets. She could have sworn she saw the first hints of gray in his beard.

  “I saw his ghost,” he said, staring out the window.

  By now it was completely dark, and bright, sharp stars glittered through holes in the gray tent of the sky. The Halloween night air was brisk and drafted down the street in damp, heavy canvas waves. Down the street, a troupe of college-age trick-or-treaters walked by on their way to some party, screaming and laughing.

  “Saw his ghost in the witches’ house that night with Heinrich,” he continued.

  Jesus, thought Robin.

  “That’s what scared me off, made me run away. He was all bloated and gross, and his eyes were all blown out, and he had puke all over his fucking shirt.” He turned, and the sorrow in his eyes hardened into a hot, red-eyed resolve. “That frontier witch, the illusion one. She made me see him. Hallucination.” He chewed his upper lip. “I think that’s part of why I want to go with you. To get away from Blackfield, where he died. And to … to help you end the kind of cruel monster that could make somebody see shit like that.” His fists clenched. “I hate them so much.”

  When the knot in his chest finally loosened, Kenway dug in the door pocket for a handful of napkins and mopped his face with them. A sodium vapor streetlight cast a dismal, rust-orange light over them. “I’m probably ruinin’ your surprise, ain’t I?”

  “No.” She couldn’t help but chuckle. “No, not at all.”

  She stepped back to let him out and he wadded the napkins into a ball, stuffing them into his pocket.

  “Come on,” said Kenway, taking a shuddery breath.

  Georgia heat
lightning flickered silently across the dark sky. They followed him down the block to the little side parking lot reserved for the dentist’s office and the Mexican restaurant. In the slot where Kenway’s truck was usually parked was now a motorhome. It was one of the ugliest, boxiest things she’d ever seen. It resembled an ice cream truck, with a racing stripe down the side that formed a heartbeat W near the front fender.

  “Oh, my God,” said Robin. “You did not.”

  “1974 Winnebago Brave. I know a guy … he collects stuff like this. You should see his property, he lives on the road goin’ south out of town, across from the Methodist church. Old VW Bugs all over the place.” Kenway unlocked the door and opened it, and she climbed a tiny set of metal stairs into a wonderland of wood paneling. Inside was a cross between a treehouse and an armoire. “I thought you might appreciate sleeping on a bed,” he was saying, “even if it’s an RV bed, a lot more than a sleeping bag in the back of a panel van.”

  Her throat closed up. The sink was full of ice and a champagne bottle.

  “For drinking, not for smashing,” Kenway said, climbing into the motorhome. The whole thing lurched to one side as he filled the narrow space. “But if you really wanna christen it, I got a bottle of Boone’s Farm somebody left in my fridge last Christmas after my Army unit party.”

  Wayne climbed in and sat in the dinner nook. “Cool,” he said, listlessly staring around. His eyes were dim, bleak flashlights with old batteries. His hands rested on the table as if he couldn’t remember what they were for.

  Kenway stood in the galley, gauging him. He opened the cupboard over the stove and took out a stack of clear party cups. “You know what, kid?” he said grimly, but encouragingly. “You need to take the edge off. How about you share this champagne with us?”

  “Really?” Wayne stared into the back of the RV. “Okay.” He checked his phone for the ten thousandth time.