Holy shit. I look over a Sil, who is basically starting to hyperventilate. “Is this true?” .
Those green eyes take on a desperate look. “Honey, I never lied to you. I just never thought I needed to explain.”
“I told you she was dangerous, Arthur!” Shey grabs my arm. “She broke Maldgorath and made him a slave. I told you! I just didn’t know the name.”
Sil is standing straight; a rigid, unnatural kind of straight. Her eyes are locked on me.
“Arthur—”
“Jesus Christ, Sil, what else aren’t you telling me?”
My attention is distracted by the very large dark purple hand on my shoulder. I look up at Znuul.
“You’re my brother,” he says. “You need to know. If you do her, you’ll end up like our terrorist friend there. Look at him and imagine yourself.” He turns to Sil. “Sorry. As they say in America—bro’s before ho’s.”
Sil is trembling visibly. I can’t tell if it’s rage or fear. Then there’s no question.
“He’s my Wielder! How dare you!”
Her wings flare, legs flex, and she catapults herself upon Znuul, deadly black nails flashing out. Znuul, not expecting an attack, actually takes a step back and puts his arms up. Her nails draw blue rivulets of blood from his arms and his cheek.
Sil is screaming madly, shrilly, claws swiping. Quickly though, Znuul regains composure. He sweeps one of her arms to the side and delivers a thunderous head-butt to her forehead.
That head-butt stops her, just plain stops her, in her tracks. Her legs go rubbery—almost cartoonishly so. Then she falls flat on her butt. I can just imagine the little tweety birds flying around her head.
Suddenly, Jalal is upon Znuul, beating him with his fists, kicking him. Znuul pushes him away and Jalal sprawls across the floor.
Znuul looks down at Sil, then regards the slashes on his arm. He touches his cheek and looks at the blue blood on his fingers. Something I can only describe as hatred fills his face and red rattlesnake eyes. He reaches down to Silithes and grasps her by one of her horns. With a violent twist he breaks it off. She lets out a deafening, blood-curdling scream, along with a stream of her own blue blood.
Jalal again jumps to the defense of his mistress. This time Znuul offhandedly grasps him with one hand under the chin, lifts him up, and turns his head ninety degrees, snapping his neck. He hurls the twitching body across the warehouse into the metal wall with a resounding clang.
Sil is panicked and trying to escape. Znuul grasps her by the shoulder and the crotch and plants her on the ground, belly first, with extreme prejudice. He steps on the small of her back and his hands take her wing, twisting it until a loud sploot is heard—the wing is out of its socket.
Sil screams and tries to thrash herself away. That’s not happening.
I start to move in to push Znuul away and am grabbed by large Vetisghar arms. “Do not, my Wielder.”
I see that Znuul has raked his nails over Sil’s desocketed wing. Then, in one final, brutal twist, he tears that wing from her in a spray of blue blood.
Sil’s screams pierce our ears.
I run my finger along her sigil and send her away. She may be what she is, but she doesn’t deserve that. Who does?
Znuul isn’t exactly happy about that. Slowly, he turns to me. Menacingly is more like it.
“You will bring IT back here, right now.”
The it part isn’t lost on me. But there’s only one answer. “No.”
A low rumble comes from somewhere deep in Znuul. Even the metal of the warehouse flexes in response. A faint black aura appears around Znuul, and his scrapes begin to heal. His eyes are riveted on me. I notice that I can see my breath now. The temperature has fallen that much.
“Bring it back now. I will kill it slowly. Then you will bring it back again as I wish. Do not test me, human. It has shed my blood, and I will shed its blood over and over again until I have had my fill.”
I’m about ready to tell him no again when another voice pipes up.
“Yer gonna hafta pick yer rules, demon.”
All eyes go to Pffiferil, who is now standing in front of Znuul, jabbing his fingers into the demon’s thigh, because that’s about how high he stands.
“What’s it gonna be? Yer old rules? Or the new rules taught ye by the Grey? We need to be knowin’, cause if yer with the old rules, we know there be no real friends.”
The warehouse metal walls flex again in release, and I feel the temperature begin to climb. Znuul’s dark aura disappears and his posture deflates a bit. He closes his eyes.
“Well, beasty?”
“You have some balls, Mr. Luchorpean.” Znuul’s eyes open and he trains his gaze on Pffiferil.
“That’s Mr. Pffiferil, ana I take it that be the new rules?”
Znuul takes a deep breath. “Yes, Mr. Pffiferil, thank you for reminding me.”
“Needed to be done.” With that, Pffif pulls out his flask. “Here, pull off this. Ye be needin’ it.”
Znuul drains the flask. He looks at Pffif. “So, how do you refill it?”
“Rub the red gem on the front and shake it.”
Znuul does that and drinks the flask down again. Znuul plops down on the floor, cross-legged, and hands the flask back to Pffif.
“Sorry about that, Arthur,” Znuul says. “She crossed some lines. But those are old lines, as the boss man here reminded me. He tosses a wink to Pffiferil.
“It's okay,” I say.
“All the same, Arthur, that bitch is no longer welcome on my house.”
I nod.
“But I have worse news. Jalal didn’t know anything about how to contact the fake Znuul or how to find the Walker. We have nothing except the knowledge of a nuclear device—one hopefully we’ve averted from going off. That, and some really interesting bank account access codes.”
“Shit for us. But if that bomb doesn’t go off, it’s still a good day.”
Znuul picks himself up off the floor, slowly. “If that bomb goes off, Mr. MacInerny, it’s the beginning of the end of humanity as you know it.”
Chapter 40
Znuul elaborates on his “end of the world” statement as we make our way to the Dubai bunker. He explains that the nuke’s detonation and the retaliations that would follow would, as he put it, “shred the balance of good and evil.” And somehow that could lead to Znuul’s home dimension more easily entering ours.
Our plan is to get to the bunker, rest up, and figure out our next move. Along the way, we have a body to dispose of. Znuul has thought ahead there too. Jalal’s coffin is a fifty-gallon waste drum. It’s a good thing that Silithes isn’t with us, because that drum takes up space in the van. That is, until we stop in the middle of nowhere and Znuul chucks it well out into the wilderness.
The drive is long, but driving keeps us off airport security cameras better. And it is mostly quiet, except for two diminutive females who won’t stop talking about Sil. One is Shey, wanting me to be crystal clear about what Silithes did to Maldgorath, what she could do to me, and basically how she is an incarnate, evil creature. The other is Kitten, who is bending Znuul’s ear constantly with the argument that he should cut her a break and let her back in the house.
“If someone tried to get between me and you, I’d sure try to kill them,” is the crux of her argument.
Both themes are repeated continually. And Znuul is always made the center of it. Shey calls out to Znuul to tell me about Sil’s sisterhood thingy. And of course, Kitten’s pleas are to the man; or, being himself.
And Znuul is not pleased to have to address them.
Eventually, Kitten wears him down and he concedes. I think it is mostly so he can listen to the radio.
After all, should there be a devastating nuclear blast in Israel, the news will be all over it. I find myself focused as well.
I take over driving for Kitten after about twelve hours. She was putting up a good fight, but the tired is winning. Ten hours later and no news over the radio.
We pull up to a cookie-cutter identical version of the Znuul bunker in Kentucky.
Znuul unfolds from the van once in the garage. “Can’t promise you it’s totally furnished. Don’t know exactly how well things work here.” He checks the two deep freezers in the garage and gives a sleepy-eyed Kitten a thumbs up.
I take advantage of the time to summon up my hound, who’s been away too long. Shey and Vets are stretching and commenting to each other how nice a bed will be.
Once inside, I see it’s exactly the same. Even the furniture is the same.
Pffif and Vets waste no time claiming their rooms and disappearing into them. It has been a long haul.
“How many of these are you having built?”
“Six up and ready, with another six on the books.” Znuul strides to the kitchen area and opens up the freezer, pulling out a bottle of Stoli with a smile. “Kitten, keep the freezer stocked for me. I’ll be on media watch for the next day or so.”
That gets a doe-eyed “Okay” from Kitten. She turns to me next. “Bring Silithes back.”
Znuul nods and says, “Just have her keep her distance.”
Kitten is bouncing in anticipation, despite her tiredness. I trace Sil’s sigil and call her. The air ripples and there she is.
Sil meets my eyes for just the briefest of moments and then looks down subserviently. “Thank you for releasing me, master.” Kitten crushes her in a hug, which is mostly unmet.
Znuul from the kitchen bellows, “Keep your distance. You and I are not good.”
“I will.” She glances up briefly at me, then back down. “Which will be your room?”
I let out a sigh. Some things never change. “I guess I’ll just take the same one.”
“Good enough.” A flex of the legs and a whoosh of the wings and she’s on the second-floor walkway. Then she disappears into her room—one as far away from mine as can be in this place.
Some things do change. I’m a little surprised.
“She knows she’s been busted,” says Shey, hugging up to me.
Kitten announces, “I’m going to go check on her. ” She gives Shey a stern look, then walks over to the stairs to get to Sil's room.
Znuul booms out, “Arthur! Join me in the office. We have a bomb to look out for and plans to discuss. Grab a bottle and come on.”
There’s a tug on my belt. I look down at Shey. She whispers, “You can’t trust him. You can’t trust any of their kind. They’re monsters.”
I put my hand on her shoulder and tell her I’ll try to be careful.
All the TVs are on, with several set up in quadrants with four channels. The sound is off and Znuul has AC/DC blaring through the speakers.
“I figure if we don’t hear anything over the news in the next eighteen hours, it’s been handled.” Znuul looks me over. “What? No bottle? Go grab yourself one. Tell the leprechaun to help himself too.”
I take a seat in front of his desk. “Pffif will figure it out. Me, I don’t drink a whole lot—especially when millions of lives are hanging in the balance.”
Chapter 41
We pass the time talking small talk, agreeing that neither of us has a clue how to find Maldgorath. That, and commenting on how vapid the news seems. And it is repetitive too, with religious extremists of all sides doing unspeakable things. The world is in chaos.
After about three hours of media watch, Znuul comes back with a bottle for me and a fresh one for him. He even brings me a soda to wash it back with.
When he hands me the bottle and soda, Znuul makes an interesting proposition. “Ask me anything. I’ll answer honestly. I know you have questions about me, my kind, the world I come from, the balance of this realm and its importance. Stay and drink with me. This bomb thing has me quite bothered. I’d rather have company.”
I crack the seal on the bottle and take a short pull. The familiar burning sensation is nice. I used to drink—a lot, starting at age 16. I guess working for a bootlegger does things to young men.. That was before I was gifted with my summonling crew and, for whatever reason, my life came into focus.
Maybe it is the fact that I’ve been up for well over twenty-four hours, or maybe it is just because...But when that Stoli creeps into me it feels pretty damned good.
We take the next hours or so as we had, just bantering and commenting on the madness engulfing the world. I know better than to try to go drink for drink with Znuul. First, he’s huge, and second, he’s not human. But then, I guess I’m not entirely human anymore either. My spirit-fueled metabolism heals me incredibly fast, keeps me young, and works alcohol out of my system pretty darn quick too. Still, the hours pass nicely.
“Need to reload,” Znuul says, holding up his empty. Mine isn’t even a quarter of the way—and that’s okay. “Gimme a sec. ” Znuul closes his eyes and appears to focus. A few moments later Kitten appears, frosty bottle in hand, and skips over to Znuul.
“Do you need snacks? I can make some. We have wings and stuff.”
Snacks sound real good, so my vote is a resounding YES.
Kitten nods to that, then stops. “Your Silithes is acting very strange. You should check on her. I don’t think she’s doing okay.”
She’s freaking busted and knows it, I’m thinking, but to be courteous I tell Ms. Kitten thanks. She heads out of the room, happy to be on her mission of snacks.
“You haven’t asked me anything, Arthur. Why is that?”
He’s right. “Tired, worried, not wanting to ask something that makes me look like a pinhead?”
That gets a great big laugh from Z.
“So what’s your first question?” It’s truth or dare without the dare.
I take a large pull, wash it down with soda, and consider that challenge. I take in the burn and I pose a question that I hope isn’t totally stupid. “Why care? I mean, there’s that one true law thing. So why care about anyone else, much less a bunch of lowly human things you don’t even know. This bomb thing has you bugged. Why care?”
Znuul responds with a pull and a wry smile. “Well, that’ll teach me. Do you mind if I get comfortable before I answer that particularly soul-baring question?”
“Your house, my brother. I hold my bottle up to him in a toast.
With that, he pulls his t-shirt up over his head, tears it at the back, and lets it slip back on. Then he drops his trousers. I know what’s next… The sounds of his expanding into his more natural demonic form play against the music like a percussion of their own. He stretches lazily and pops his neck.
“Much better. Okay, Dzemond whisperer, here’s the thing. To understand my point of view now, you have to have some understanding of my circumstances. So this will be somewhat long winded. You sure you want to hear all this?”
I take a swig of my bottle and wash it down. “After that buildup? Come on.”
Znuul takes an even bigger swig. “Okay, history. I came to this realm with the worst of intentions. The people that brought me over did so thinking to use me as a weapon. My intention was to crush and dominate all. After I had won their war, I was tricked and locked into a spirit trap. You knew all that, right?”
I nod.
“I was in that trap for over five thousand years. Of course, I had summonlings that I could snack on. And like an idiot, I did. The devouring is a bit of a compulsion I have. But devouring them just prolonged the hungers and left me with nobody to share time with. The hunger is only really bad for the first sixty days or so, then starvation kicks in and it becomes kind of okay. The first couple hundred years without company are more or less bearable—you can count them down. Then you kind of lose track. I don’t really know when I lost it—you can’t reach out, nothing can reach in—totally alone. I’d like to think it was after a few millennia.” He chuckles.
“But, Arthur, make no mistake, at some point I lost my mind. I broke. I became delusional—hallucinations—the whole thing. It was not good, because there would always be those times where I’d have a moment of clarity and realize what was happ
ening.”
Znuul is downplaying the mental torture. But I get it. “Shit, Z. That...that’s harsh.”
“Yeah,” he says offhandedly. “Anyway, story forward. An archeological team finds the tomb, I’m uncovered, and I’m thinking, “I’ll just stay real still and once they’ll break the trap threshold, I’ll be free. But no. Not happening. I am greeted by this grey-haired magus type, who basically calls me out. I try to intimidate him into releasing me, and his response is that if I want out, I must be bound to his will. You think I want to be leashed to another human? Oh, no. I let him know what will befall him for crossing me. He tells me they’ll be sealing up the area, and doing so in their way—that it won’t be opened forever. You know what I did?”
“Obviously you negotiated.”
“You are too kind, Arthur. I caved. I experienced complete panic. I could not imagine an eternity in that place. I allowed my will to be bound, as I was, which was a clever swerve to this magus, and awaited the gradual return of my power so I could overwhelm him. So we went to the Chateau, and I went about trying to be my fearsome self. But when I would get too fearsome, he would make me go to this damned closet. That was hell all over again—a tiny, dark little enclosed space.
Anyway, I did as you would expect and tried to manipulate him. I told him that he and I could own this world—he just needed to let me exert myself. You know what that man told me? That he was fairly happy with his life and didn’t need to rule the world. Then he asked me what would make me happy, outside of ruling the world, flipping open the gates to Helterzen, etc.”
He takes a pull off the bottle. “I could not answer that question. Not honestly anyway. I guess I wasn’t ready. I remained my own vile self, and for whatever reason nobody really wished to be around me.”
Znuul has a huge grin on his face.
“Grey was the only exception. He would take time with me. After more than a few times in and out of the closet, I began to realize that what I craved was company. Yet the more I asserted myself, the more alone I became. Finally, Grey brought it into focus for me: nobody wants to be an inferior, and I was demanding that everyone around me realize their inferior nature. I was creating my own loneliness. I had a decision to make—either my ego or my need for company.”
Mid-Arc Page 46
