by James R Tuck
My mind raced through the contents of the trunk. Normally I loaded it up depending on the job. Since this attack came out of nowhere it was full of leftover gear from the last few small jobs. I knew there was a .30/06, also know as a Redneck Sniper Rifle, in there that I'd used to drop some ------------- that had infested the tiny town of Cleveland, Ga. It was powerful and accurate, but it was also made for shooting long distances. It wasn’t going to work. There was no way these witches were going to let me have the room to use it.
I pushed the thoughts from my mind as the exit raced up to meet us. Whipping the steering wheel right rocketed us down the ramp. Trees whizzed by as I stomped the brake to slow us down. I stood on it as we hit the end of the ramp, leaning into the door as I spun the wheel. The big musclecar slid into the turn, ass end slinging round. Foot to gas, the tires squalled out smoke that billowed up around us. The motor torqued, rocketing us forward in a lunge.
The witches swooped down behind us. Magick crackled the air carrying the plump one’s words to us from outside. “You will never escape us! Give me what I want or I will boil the blood in your veins.”
The Comet screamed as I rammed my boot to the floorboard. “Kiss my ass.” I didn’t know if she could hear me. A wide white and red sign jumped out of the darkness with the words CORN MAZE TURN HERE painted in tall block letters.
“Hold on!” I screamed, jerking us onto the dirt road that split the field beside the road. The Comet immediately began to buck and bounce, stiff Detroit suspension trying to work on a rutted dirt road. Red clay dust roiled out from the tires behind us. It wrapped around the witches, enveloping them. They disappeared in the cloud. My head slammed into the roof of the car, clacking my teeth together.
Dammit! That shit hurt!
I wrestled the car along the dirt track as corn began to sweep the sides. Giant stalks thwapped by as we crashed through. I headed the hotrod for the center.
The corn split like the Red Sea, falling away around us. The Comet left earth as it vaulted over a little ravine and crashed into the open area. Pulling hard on the steering wheel and fighting the cars momentum flung us into a circle. Centrifugal force pulled my stomach, stretching it like taffy.
The big car skittered to a stop, shuddering into place. One hand slapped the gear shift into park and then yanked the keys. The other jerked the door handle as I scrambled out of the car. Dust swirled around me, stinging my eyes and crawling down my throat. My finger stabbed the keyfob making the trunk pop open. Dropping the device into my pocket I snatched the .45 from under my arm as I dashed around the end of the car.
Tiff was coughing as she came around, but she had the shotgun up, searching the sky. Kat and Larson got there as I began digging through the pile of gear that was in a jumble from being bounced down the dirt road. I could feel the witches out there on the edge of my power, hidden in the night and dust. Their magick was building, singing tension along my skin, setting my teeth to grind.
I needed to find something that we could use.
My hands tossed useless junk one way and then the next. The .30/06, an uzi with no bullets left, silver nitrate and garlic water bottles, iron crowbar.
Dammit!
I had shit for hunting, shit for vampires, shit for faeries, but no shit for witches.
Black static electricity began to pop off my skin as the magick grew. Each tiny spark of black was like being poked with a needle. My eyes began to water.
“Deacon. . . “ Kat’s voice had a brittle edge to it. I glanced over. Thick honey blond hair whipped around, standing on end. She was down by the rear wheel with her gun out, pointing the way we had come into the maze. Magick crackled along her skin too. She flinched every time a spark snapped off her skin.
Larson stood over her. Moonlight made his orange-red hair look like dull brown. A snarl pasted his face. His jacket was gone and in his hand was the Glock he’d had at the restaurant. Holding it in a two-hand grip his head jerked back and forth, trying to see everywhere at once.
The magick doubled in pressure, striking sparks that drove nails instead of needles now. Chanting cut the air. I couldn’t tell what the words were, but they slashed the night in a cadence, growing closer.
My hands locked on something I could use.
I pulled a watering can out of the trunk.
The tin handle felt grimy in my palm. Shaking it made a dry hissing sound. It felt about half full. The chanting was close. Magick pressed in on us, filling the air with ozone.
I wasn’t going to make it.
Turning the can up, the weight inside slid forward, running down the spout, thumping against the bulbous dispersing head at the end. Tiny white grains of blessed salt began to pour out. Shaking the can to speed it up I poured them in a small circle on the ground, making a salt ring. There was barely enough for the last few inches. As the last grains fell the magick reached the breaking point.
“Inside the circle!” I screamed.
Kat darted in, followed by Larson. Tiff was a few steps behind them. Her dress had fallen, the hem dragging the ground around her feet, slowing her down. Stepping out, my hand clamped on her arm. The sky over our heads split with black energy. Yanking, I pulled her with me and we fell into the circle.
The world went white as the magick fell like lightning.
Now the last story to tie the whole kit and kaboodle into a bundle. This one appeared at the Cabin Goddess blog and it's another version of meta-fiction. She wanted us to write an interaction between ourselves and our character. I chose to bring Deacon to my tattoo shop. When I started this I didn't intend for it to cap off the story arc of Season 1 so wonderfully but it does. This is truly the final part of the arc coming almost immediately at the end of the events in BLOOD AND MAGICK. It's not the end of the Deaconverse, or the series itself, but a nice capstone.
FRESH INK
I walk through the door and all I see is red.
It covers every wall, blaring out at me, screaming at my eyes.
A buzzing fills my ears.
“Hey, how's it going? What can we do for you today?”
I look down from staring at the art covered walls and see a young, thin teenager standing by the couch, his hair spiked messily over clear horn-rimmed glasses and wearing a Doctor Who shirt.
Before I can say anything a big man stands up from the back of the large open room.
“My Sho-nizzle! C'mon back.”
Stepping through the opening between two four foot high half walls that divide the room into lobby and work area, I walk towards him. The teenager follows. The man, James, moves around the hydraulic chair he's using as a desk, a tiny red laptop perched on a shiny metal tray. Boots, jeans, and a black t-shirt.
He's dressed just like me.
Clasping outstretched hand, we both lean in, hugging like brothers.
We pull back and stand eye to eye.
The teenager watches us. “This is just really bizarre.”
The man smiles. “This isn't bizarre, son. This is Deacon Chalk.”
The teen looks at me. His eyes widen. “Oh.” He thinks for a second. “Oh!”
James nods. “Yep. The main man himself.”
I shrug.
“Deacon, my son Conor. Conor, Deacon.”
I stick my hand out. “Nice to meet you.”
We shake.
My son would be this old now.
I clamp that down HARD. Fold it, push it aside.
Maintain.
James shoos his son toward the front of the shop. “Alright, back to work. Let us talk.”
Conor smiles and walks back to the lobby area.
I indicate the walls. “I like what you've done with the place.”
“Really? I was a little worried you'd be pissed. I mean, that didn't stop me, but it did pass through my mind.”
“It's your shop now. You can do whatever you want. Besides, this is much better.”
“I'm so happy with it that my teeth hurt.”
“This looks like
a tattoo shop now.”
“Looked like a tattoo shop when I bought it from you.”
I shake my head. “Nah. Those walls I built were rubbish. This is much better.”
“You're knocking your Frankenstein seams on the drywall?”
“Hey! I was a tattoo artist, not a construction worker.”
“That was definitely not construction, more like con-fuck-tion.”
We both nod at the same time.
This feels good. The back and forth, the chit and the chat of two people who know each other pretty damn well.
I nod at the laptop.
“How goes the writing?”
“Working on a Lovecraft urban fantasy.”
“Not book 4?”
“That's next. Book 3 just came out.”
“Yeah, Tiff picked it up. She liked it.”
“Good.” He picks up a sketchbook. “You wanna see your design?”
“Hell yeah.”
He hands it over to me. The page is filled with thin, red lines. They swirl and squiggle across the recycled paper, making big, loose forms. Over them is a series of darker lines, number 2 pencil lines, that sculpt and define the image, drawing a shape out of the chaos of the sketch.
It's a Sailor Jerry-style pinup of a girl leaning on a pole. The banner under her feet reads POLECATS in traditional tattoo-style letters.
I look up. “I love it.”
“No changes?”
“Nope, run it.”
He nods. “I'll get set up. Make yourself at home.”
I wander back to the lobby, grab a tattoo magazine, and sit on the leather couch.
I've just flipped past the third article on a different TV show with the word ink in the title.
When the holy hell did tattooing go on television?
I've been out of the loop for a while since . . .
since . . .
I look over at Conor. He's wiping down the jewelry case.
Fuck it. I'm not thinking about my family. Not here, not now.
The door chimes.
A guy who looks just a year or two older than Conor walks in. He's also thin, but where Conor looks wiry, this kid is damn near hollow. Sunken cheeks, jutting jawbone, eyes in deep caves under his eyebrows. If they weren't steady, and his skin smooth and clear, I'd think he was strung out on some shit. He has a black portfolio clutched in skeletal hands and the shoulders of his t-shirt are stained blue gray from the shitty, Black No 1 dye job on his shaggy hair.
Conor closes the jewelry case. “What can we do for you?”
“I want to talk to somebody about an apprenticeship.”
Oh, this should be awesome.
I put down the magazine.
Conor turns and speaks over the half wall where James can hear him. “Hey, there's a guy here asking about an apprenticeship.”
James doesn't look up from setting up his station for my tattoo. “Tell him to piss off.”
Conor turns back. “You heard that, right?”
The hollow kid puts his boney hand on the jewelry case, smearing fingerprints on the freshly windexed surface. “But I need to learn how to tattoo. I want someone to teach me.”
Conor shakes his head. “I don't think that's gonna happen.”
“I think it will.”
James walks over in a clomp of boot on tile floor. “We don't do apprenticeships.”
The hollow kid looks up. “But you didn't look at my artwork.”
“Don't need to.”
“I'd be an awesome tattooer! You're afraid I'll be better than you and take all your customers away.”
James laughs so hard spit flies from his mouth.
“You? Take my business? Fuck you, shithead. I've been at this for near twenty years, two fucking decades of shedding blood to get worth a damn. You couldn't catch up to me if you tried. My customers would never go to you.”
Anger makes the kids face dark. “But I . . .”
James holds up his hand. The kid stops talking.
“How old are you?” James asks.
“Twenty.”
“Show me your ink.”
The kid blinks. “Wha . . . what?”
“Show me. Your. Ink.”
“I don't have any.”
“You've been legal in this state for two years. Why not?”
“I only want to tattoo my art on my own body, so I'll wait until I learn how and then get tatted up.”
Oh shit.
I can't believe what I just heard.
The cap board on the half wall creaks under James' hands as they clench and unclench.
His whole head is a dark shade of crimson. His voice comes low.
“You arrogant little prick. Get out of my shop before I toss you out on your ass.” The words seethe out of his mouth, red hot with anger.
The kid steps back, looks at Conor. “Is he kidding?”
Conor shakes his head. “No, he's not. You'd better go.”
The kid turns to the door. His hand closes on the handle. “You'll regret being an asshole to me.”
“Being honest with an idiot ain't being an asshole, kid. One day you'll learn that. Now, for the last time, piss off.”
The kid tries to slam the door on his way out but the weatherstripping softens it to a shush.
“Anyways.” James turns to me. “Aren't you glad you don't have to deal with that shit anymore?”
I laugh. “It's better than some of the assholes I run into on my job.”
“I know, I've written the stories.”
“Yeah, but you make shit up too.”
“Maybe. Only sometimes.” He shakes his head. “You ready to get started?”
I stand. “Sure thing.”
The second my ass clears leather on the couch my power kicks in and nearly drops me to my knees.
It swirls up inside my guts like a whirlpool of bumblebees, zinging and stinging between every organ and my mouth suddenly tastes like pennies smell and sour milk.
Which, for the record, tastes like shit.
My hand moves to the gun under my shirt and I look around.
James has his hands up. “Everything cool, mang?”
Through the window on the door I see a mop of cheap-box-dyed-black hair hustle away.
I'm moving. “It's all good. I just forgot something in the car. I'll be right back.”
“I'll be right here.”
The door chimes as I open and shut it again.
The bees in my guts become a hailstorm of stinging pellets inside.
My eyes scan, looking for the source.
It takes me about 2 seconds to find it.
Smeared in spit on the doorjamb is a symbol. An eye with an arrow pointing up and an X drawn through it. I lean in and the taste in my mouth gets worse. I swallow the gag that's climbing up the back of it. I don't know the symbol, but I know what it is.
Death magick.
Sonnuvabitch.
Death workings and curses have a way of hanging around, spreading their taint like a deadly mold. They tend to work to their bitter end long after the victim thinks himself safe. They're like slowly ticking time bombs getting worse and worse the longer they sit, leeching out death and staining even the air around them until their victim is taken in whatever sick manner the witch or warlock imbued the spell with. They're the radioactive waste of sorcery. Just evil, evil shit.
My hand pulls the knife out of my pocket, flicking open the spring-loaded blade. It's silver coated, shining dully in the sunlight, but the edge is finely-honed surgical stainless steel and razor sharp. The doorjamb is made of cheap wood, soft and porous; a dig, a twist, and a flick of the wrist and I carve out the chunk of wood around the spit symbol. It burns my fingers as I hold it.
I owe James for a new doorjamb.
Not that he'll let me pay.
But some little prick just laid a curse on his business, on him, on his son.
And I'm going to shove this spell right up his narrow ass.
The kid's almost
at the end of the shopping center when I start walking after him. I don't pull my gun. I want to, but it's daylight and there are people around.
So I walk, with purpose, to catch him.
The end of the shopping center is a small gravel lot holding the dumpster and a few cars belonging to the employees of the business on the end. The kid's nowhere to be seen.
I keep moving.
Past the dumpster is a footpath that cuts through a small patch of woods on the outskirts of the neighborhood behind the shopping center. He had to have gone that way.
I step onto the path.
And am immediately knocked on my ass by a slathering, muscle-bound demon dog.
It knocks me sideways, it's bulk driving me into a thin pine scrub, the green needles jab me in the face finding every inch of open skin to prick and poke. Thick claws dig into my chest and back as the hellhound tries to pull himself up my body, heavy square jaw snapping for my throat.
The damn thing weighs nearly what I do, crushing me against the pine and its body. I can't reach my gun.
But I still have the knife in my hand.
A roar tears out of me as I shove, moving the beast back on the dirt, opening a gap between us.
I twist, the knife blade out. It catches the hellhound where hip meets belly, slicing open the skin. The creature yelps, high-pitched and shrill in my ear, and its paws scrabble against me, trying to push off, to get away from the biting pain in its guts. Hot ichor splashes up my arm from the guts of the beast.
It falls aside as I push off the pine-scrub, landing heavy in the dirt and leaves. It climbs to four legs as I shake hellhound gore off my arm.
That shit burns like acid.
The hellhound looks at me with crimson eyes. It's black fur is slick, matted with some vile fluid, and sticky-shiny. Intestines trail the ground underneath it like an abandoned jump rope. It snarls through a muzzle of green-flecked foam.
