by Matt Wallace
“This is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life,” Cindy marvels, watching him. “Like, even better than seeing him play live. Which I never did. But I heard it was lit as fuck.”
Marcus suddenly leaps up onto the tips of his steel-toed boots, waving his arms in excitement as if he’s at a sporting event and just witnessed an impossible scoring play. “Dude, did you see that? The guy who plays Aquaman just threw his axe so hard, it went through one demon and into the demon behind him!”
“I hear they call him ‘The Conqueror,’” Ritter offers matter-of-factly.
“He can conquer my panties anytime,” Cindy mutters.
Marcus looks over at her, his enthusiasm vanishing, replaced by the hurt-feelings look of a very small child.
“Boy, get over yourself,” Cindy chastises him. “I mean, you’re cute, but damn.”
Their voices begin to fade far away for Lena. It’s all too surreal. Moments ago, she was coming to terms with the fact they were all most certainly going to be killed, and this after mourning the brutal loss of her mentor, and now they’re watching everyone who has been interviewed on the E! Channel in the last five years slaughter a demon horde in the middle of Long Island City.
Even for an employee of Sin du Jour, there’s only so much a person can take.
The Royal Goblin Army overcomes the majority of the Vig’nerash clan’s force in a matter of minutes. With their ranks collapsed, the demons begin fleeing in any direction not barred by the path of an armored horse and a sword-wielding member of the Hollywood elite. A few even try to escape through the devastated front entrance of Sin du Jour itself, but they’re cut down by the halberds of a bubbly YouTuber who does makeup tutorials and a blonde woman who makes videos about living with ADHD.
The clamor of battle begins to die down as the stallions clop carefully over the forms of slain demons littering the street. There’s the odd reptilian hissing as a soldier delivers a mercy blow to a mortally wounded Vig’nerash warrior, or a stray whinny, but they are only spikes in otherwise eerie silence that settles over the scene.
The General in Purple’s mount glides from the center of the battlefield and leaps onto the sidewalk in front of what used to be Sin du Jour’s front doors. He idles there, turning his piercing gaze to the ledge of the roof and the half-dozen of them lined up there. His smile flashes under the pale light of the moon with the heavenly fire of comets breaking apart in the atmosphere, and he raises his Love Symbol–hilted sword in salute to them all.
“Never stop living in your hearts, Sin du Jour!” he calls to them in his unmistakable and singular voice. “It’s the home we all share!”
None of them knows what to say to that. Fortunately, the slight general doesn’t wait for a response before galloping off to muster his fellow goblin troops.
When Cindy finally breaks the silence, she sounds as if she’s about to cry. “Y’all, I want the last ten seconds to keep happening forever.”
“I’m just glad we get ten more seconds,” Lena says, her eyes finding Ritter’s once more, only now the look they exchange is open to the future instead of resigned to fate.
“It’s never enough,” he says quietly.
Darren’s voice rips them both from the moment. “Sometimes, it’s too much.”
Lena looks back at him, seeing the ghosts that still haunt the space behind his eyes and probably always will. Her heart suddenly feels as though it’s being twisted inside her chest.
“We’re still here,” she assures him. Then, forcing as much levity into her tone as she can muster, “And, dude, you apparently still have superhuman evil Darren strength. So, you got that going for you.”
His expression doesn’t change at first. Darren still looks as though he’s just attended his own funeral.
Then, just barely yet clearly enough to lift Lena’s entire being in that moment, he grins.
She smiles back at him, gratefully, feeling new tears well up in her eyes.
Marcus is completely oblivious to these subtle emotional exchanges, his attention still utterly focused on the bizarre field of battle below.
“I think I just saw Oprah take a demon’s eyes as her trophies,” he says. “Actually, nah, never mind. Couldn’t have been.”
THE DEBT
“We should get downstairs,” Ritter says to the rest of them gathered on the rooftop. “We still need to check on—”
It’s as though his voice is violently sucked down into his chest. Ritter’s right hand flies to his chest, fingertips digging through his shirt.
“Ritt?” Cindy asks, concern washing over her as she reaches for his other arm. “Ritt, what the hell?”
Ritter drops to his knees, still clutching his chest. The others quickly encircle him, wanting to come to his aid but trying not to crowd him at the same time.
“I’m okay,” he assures them all in a constricted voice.
But he’s not. The twisting in his chest, like an invisible blade, only churns more painfully. Ritter’s distressed gaze falls between their bodies, glimpsing the rooftop door. At that moment, the confusion on his face melts away. He looks up at Cindy, then to his brother and finally Lena, his gaze settling on her.
Ritter smiles.
“I’m okay,” he says, and there is a quiet and undeniable acceptance in the words.
His hand falls from his chest. The rest of Ritter’s body slumps gently to the ground.
Marcus can barely speak through staccato breaths of panicked shock. “Holy fucking Christ. Is he . . . is he . . .”
Cindy crouches low and checks Ritter’s pulse, her face almost blank as she confirms, “He’s gone.”
“The debt is paid,” a new voice informs them.
Cindy stands and the rest of them whirl around to see Cassandra standing in the light of the rooftop doorway.
Marcus stands and racks his shotgun, pointing it at her head. “You goddamn harpy bitch!”
“Did you do this?” Cindy demands, tears staining her cheeks as she unhooks her tomahawk and draws her dagger.
Cassandra says nothing, only stares at them coldly, hands folded in front of her.
“You start talking now or I’m going to cut you in fucking half!” Marcus yells at her.
“It was his choice,” Cassandra calmly explains. “It was his offering. His life for our aid in this fight, and to balance the scales.”
“Bullshit!” Cindy practically spits at her.
Cassandra shrugs. “Believe what you will. The bargain was struck. He offered his life to us freely. His only condition was that we leave his brother in peace. Personally, I hope you never find peace, Marcus Thane. You don’t deserve peace. Neither of you do. But you will have no fear of us. I honor my commitments. As he honored his.”
“I don’t give a single solitary fuck what you say or what he did,” Cindy says with a deadly coldness. “I’m about to split that Cousin It wig of yours in half.”
She strides forward with every intention of cutting Cassandra down. The solitaire never moves, nor does her expression change. Perhaps she has a defensive spell in place, but what halts Cindy is Lena, who steps between Cassandra and the blades and shotgun threatening her.
“Stop,” she orders Cindy, eyes darting to Marcus as well.
“You move,” Cindy warns her quietly. “She doesn’t get away with this. Uh-uh. She doesn’t cut him down right in front of me and—”
“He’s dead! He’s dead and it was his choice and this isn’t what he would want you to do and you know it, and if you’re his friend, then you have to honor that, however the fuck you feel!”
Cindy shakes her head, eyes judging Lena venomously. “You cold bitch.”
Lena’s expression only hardens further, though new tears well quietly beneath her eyes. She looks from Cindy to Marcus.
“Do you want another woman’s blood on your hands?” she asks him. “Do you want to put that on your brother, too? Haven’t you killed enough of them?”
The questions hit him li
ke a fist. Marcus stares over the barrel of his shotgun at Cassandra, and in that moment, Lena knows he no longer sees the woman. Marcus is staring into the faces of every woman, every girl he and Ritter and their team of witch hunters murdered.
He lowers his weapon.
“She’s right,” he tells Cindy, hoarsely. “Fuck it, she’s right.”
Cindy takes a deep, angry breath. Her eyes fall harshly on Marcus, then back to Lena.
“I don’t care what he did,” she repeats.
“You don’t have to care,” Lena says. “But Ritter did care. And you have to respect that. He made his choice, and it was his to make.”
Cindy slowly nods. She lowers the tomahawk and carefully sheathes her dagger.
“Don’t ever let me see you again, bitch,” she says to Cassandra. “Don’t let me see you or any of your vanilla sisters, not ever. Because I will rain the fire of God himself down on y’all if I do, and you better believe that.”
Cassandra nods her head just once. Stepping back through the access door, she turns and disappears down the stairwell.
Cindy walks back to where Ritter is curled upon the rooftop. She drops her tomahawk, kneeling beside his shoulders. As she strokes his cheek with her fingertips, her tears come on in earnest, torrential in their fury.
“My beautiful boy,” she whispers between tidal waves. “You beautiful, stupid boy.”
Lena finds she can’t watch, feeling the resolve she displayed threatening to crack like ice at the edge of winter. She lowers her head and closes her eyes, fighting her own tears.
Darren walks up and slides an arm around her shoulders. She lets her temple rest against his.
Marcus refuses to cry, but the pain is etched on his face all the same.
“Was all this shit worth it?” he asks Lena. “Was it really? Just to cook some food?”
“It’s not about food,” Lena says. “It’s about family. You’ll understand that if you stick around long enough.”
For a moment, it seems as if Marcus will meet that sentiment with his trademark cynicism, but somehow, he’s run out of words; they all have.
All they can do is stand there among the fallen, atop the roof of the only real home most of them have ever known, hoping the fight has finally, gratefully passed.
PART III
WAR IN THREE COURSES:CLEARING THE TABLE
RED TAPE
“You again,” the little nebbish clerk greets Bronko with an utter lack of enthusiasm.
Bronko sighs. “Me again, yeah.”
The television studio around them is dark. The bandstand is empty. The set of Bronko’s late-nineties cable cooking show has been broken down. He’s been sitting on an apple crate for what feels like five minutes and a hundred years at the same time. The last time Bronko laid eyes on this place, he was made to butcher an exact replica of himself over and over again before a live studio audience of animated mannequins. He was freed from that torment only because he’d sold his soul to Allensworth before becoming Sin du Jour’s executive chef. With their contract torn to pieces, Bronko had no illusions about walking out of this place a second time.
Yet here he is, and the torment hasn’t picked back up.
Bronko recognizes the “man” who sprang him from the personalized torture scene before, and who is now standing in front of him again. The small, balding underworld clerk wears the same gray suit and red vest, the same wire-rimmed spectacles, and carries the same clipboard and old-style lead pencil sharpened to just shy of a nub.
He also looks terribly annoyed with Bronko.
“Mr. Luck—”
“Chef Luck, if you please, sir.”
“Chef Luck, do you have any idea how many people die on Earth every day?”
“I don’t think a lot would be an incorrect answer.”
“And of the people who die on Earth every single day, do you know how many are remanded to what you in the English-speaking Western Hemisphere holding Christian derivative values and/or mythology refer to as hell?”
“Again, I imagine it’s a lot.”
“And of the people who die on Earth every single day who are then remanded to our custody, do you have any notion how many of those cases I personally handle?”
Bronko says nothing.
“All of them,” the clipboard-toting hellion informs him.
“I see.”
“Why is it, then, statistically speaking, I seem destined to deal with this one case throughout eternity? And by this case, I obviously mean you.”
“I honestly haven’t a clue, fella.”
The clerk licks the tip of his impossibly worn-down pencil and consults his clipboard with a sigh.
“You are not supposed to be here,” he says.
“Yes, I am,” Bronko contradicts him.
“No, you are not,” the clerk insists, his impatience growing.
“Allensworth ripped up my contract.”
“Yes, yes, I have the third-party transfer form right here. I shouldn’t, however, because it should’ve been sent to the correct department. I reiterate, you are not supposed to be here.”
“But I . . . My life . . . The things I did . . . The way I was . . .”
“Yes, according to my records, you were slated for remand here until your fortieth year on Earth. Before that time, you lived a selfish life filled with the betrayal and neglect of friends, family, and loved ones. You were spiteful, even vengeful, not to mention greedy. Oh, you’ll be happy to know the man you hit with your car in Saginaw, Michigan, in 1997 before fleeing the scene lived. He subsequently forgave the driver, you, and apparently found God or Buddha or Yahweh or whatever the trendy name is on Earth for that over-publicized human resources manager now.”
“Wait, wait, wait! Are you tellin’ me . . . are you sayin’ . . . I redeemed myself, somehow?”
“I wouldn’t put it that grandiosely, but the result is the same, yes.”
“That’s . . . that’s impossible. I didn’t . . . I didn’t do anything. I didn’t have the chance to . . . That bastard Allensworth just up and did me—”
“Yes, he, on the other hand, is here and will be for a very, very long time. I don’t envy his stay, either. Apparently, he sponsored an ill-fated coup against the boss. He and the elders of the Vig’nerash will not be receiving such a reprieve, I assure you.”
“I mean, that’s swell and all, but my point is I never had the chance to do anything—”
“What? Sacrificial? Saintly? Epic? You people, you humans, you think in such self-serving terms. This idea of the ultimate act of redemption . . . I don’t carry a giant set of scales, Chef Luck; I carry a ledger. You have columns. You filled up one column with indefensible acts, and then you filled up a slightly longer column with selfless ones. You spent every day of the latter portion of your earthly existence helping, guiding, and teaching others. It’s a simple concept, Chef Luck, of checks and balances. I could show you a graph if it would help.”
“It’s just . . . it’s hard to believe—”
“Yes, I know. You no doubt had visions of sacrificing yourself to save another or the world or a busload of children. You all harbor those fantasies. There is no one big redemptive act, Chef Luck.”
“There isn’t?”
“No. It’s never about giving your life. It’s about living your life. And you lived enough of yours well enough to make the difference. That’s all.”
“So . . . I mean . . . does that mean I get to y’know, go back? Like last time?”
The clerk laughs. “No, sir, no. You died. You are dead. Without your soul contractually bound to an earthly holding entity, it was permanently separated from your body, which is now decomposing at the standard rate.”
“Then what’s going to happen to me?” Bronko asks. “Where will I go?”
The little man shrugs. “I’m afraid I don’t have a form here for that,” he says.
GRAND REOPENING
“I swear, I have rebuilt and redesigned this lobby more times th
an I’ve done anything else in my career!”
Jett carefully unpeels the paint and drywall dust–spattered clear plastic coveralls protecting her Chanel sweat suit. Balling up the coveralls, she tosses them in a nearby construction debris bin. Planting her fists on her hips, she stands back to admire the newly painted drywall. She’s chosen a vibrant yellow, and you’d never know a horde of meat-puppet copies of the current President of the United States piloted by fanatically patriotic gremlins had crashed through the doors and windows.
“You done good, Jett,” Lena praises her. “You’re the one who really holds this place together. Literally, I mean.”
Jett almost blushes. “Why, thank you, Executive Chef Tarr.”
Nikki, leaning against the reception desk beside Lena, begins giggling madly.
Lena reddens. “Thank you. Thank you both. You’re really helping me ease into this massive transition gradually.”
“Sorry,” Nikki says. “I just know how much a part of you hates hearing that.”
Jett waves her hand dismissively. “You’ll get used to it. You’re going to be a fantastic boss. I have an eye for administrative talent.”
Lena isn’t so sure, but accepting the responsibility was her only choice. The morning after the battle at Sin du Jour between Allensworth’s forces and the staff that claimed far too many people close to Lena, a small army of unmarked cargo trucks surrounded the war-torn building. They all thought they were screwed until a tall man with beautifully sculpted blond hair and wearing a suit worth more than Lena’s first two cars disembarked one of the cabs.
“Good morning,” he’d greeted the confused survivors. “My name is Allensworth.”
“Of course it is,” Lena had said. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it be?”
