Devil's Taunt and Other Stories

by Percival Constantine

  He waited there for several minutes before the door finally opened. Sheriff Gardner stood in the entryway, dressed in his uniform, and he looked surprised to see Luther.

  “Mr. Cross,” he said with a sneer. “You mind telling me what you’re doing on my property?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do mind, Sheriff,” said Luther. “I’m not here for you, I’m here for your son.”

  Gardner crossed his arms. “You mind running that by me again? The hell you want with my son?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “You stalking my boy most definitely is my concern. I don’t know if you’re some sort of scam artist or just a raging lunatic, but I want you gone.” Gardner pointed at the Camaro. “So get back in your vehicle…” Gardner then pointed off into the distance, “…and get the hell out of my town.” He jabbed that same finger against Luther’s tie. “Am I making myself clear?”

  Luther sighed and removed his sunglasses. “Two things, Sheriff. First…” he grabbed Gardner’s finger and twisted it, causing Gardner to groan in pain. “…Never touch me. And second…” Luther released Gardner’s finger and gave a wave of his hand. An unseen force threw Gardner back, slamming him against the wall and pinning him there.

  Luther stepped inside the house and glared daggers at Gardner, his red eyes burning like hot coals. “…I don’t have time for your bullshit. Your son is messing with something far more dangerous than he realizes. It’s already killed fifty people and if I don’t put a stop to it here and now, it’s likely to go on killing.”

  “Wh-what the hell are you?” asked Gardner.

  Luther’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Someone whose bad side you want to stay far, far away from.”

  “Dad…?”

  The voice came from the second floor. Luther looked up the staircase near the front door and saw the same teenage boy he’d gotten two glimpses of before. “Matt. Remember me?”

  Matt shrunk back behind the corner of the second floor hall. Luther calmly walked up the stairs, and the Sheriff was released from his invisible hold, falling to the ground. Luther turned the corner and saw Matt retreat into a room. He followed and saw Matt on the floor, shoving something under the mattress.

  “Something tells me that’s not a Playboy, son.” Luther looked around the room. Pinned to the wall were posters of movies and video games, many of which featured characters not unlike the assassin who shot up the school. And also several drawings.

  “You don’t understand…” said Matt.

  “How about I take a stab at it: you were sick the day of the shooting. School records say it was the flu, right? I’m betting you were too weak to even get out of bed.”

  Matt offered no response and Luther stepped closer.

  “But it wasn’t the flu that made you weak, was it? It was because you’d committed that energy to something else. Something that had grown pretty powerful. Powerful enough to do your bidding.”

  Luther turned from Matt and looked around at the drawings. Some of them were of characters from comics or movies or video games, but some were strange symbols. Luther grabbed one and tore it from the wall. “I see you like to draw, huh? Symbols and the like?”

  Matt fidgeted under Luther’s gaze. The larger man approached him, holding up the drawing.

  “But this isn’t a symbol, is it? It’d probably be more accurate to call it a sigil. And sigils are very important in chaos magic.”

  The sound of footsteps grew louder. Luther faced the bedroom door to see the Sheriff enter, his gun pointed at the investigator. “I dunno how you did…whatever the hell that was. But I’m through playing nice with you, Cross. You barge in here like you own the place, threaten my kid, and now—”

  “Silentium.”

  Gardner’s lips continued moving, but no sound came from his mouth. The confusion was evident on his face. He tried shouting, trying to discover what had happened to his voice. Luther just grinned.

  “Relax, the spell is temporary. But we can’t have you waving that around, can we?”

  While Gardner attempted to speak, he was distracted enough for Luther to move toward him in a lightning-fast movement, taking the weapon from him in one hand while Luther’s other hand provided an open palm strike to Gardner’s solar plexus. And with Luther’s strength, the blow threw Gardner against the wall in the corridor outside Matt’s room.

  While Luther turned back to the boy, he unloaded the gun and disassembled it with military precision and speed, dropping the pieces to the floor. “As I was saying, sigils are very important in chaos magic.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Matt, backing away from Luther.

  “I think you do.” Luther stepped closer. “One of the concepts in chaos magic is the creation of a servitor. A being borne of your energy, sent out to do your bidding in the world.

  “At first, I wasn’t sure what it was. But the amount of negative energy present at the school was unbelievably high. And yet, despite fifty people being shot, not a single bullet was recovered. Because there weren’t any actual bullets used, were there? And what’s more, the perpetrator was dressed up like a character out of a B-grade action movie. The kind of character a teenage boy might think of as bad ass.”

  Matt delivered a nervous laugh. “You’re crazy…”

  Luther was now just a few inches from Matt, and the teenager had nowhere else to back away to, having hit the wall. Luther’s bright red eyes bore into Matt’s very essence, as if the strange man was staring into his soul.

  “Then you sent your little pet after me. I was able to fend him off, sure, but something was very interesting about the trail of blood he left behind—it wasn’t blood at all, was it? No, it was ink.

  “But one question is if you were so sick when the servitor made its attack, then why do you look okay now? Maybe you’re getting stronger?”

  Luther’s eyes maintained their deep stare, and Matt could have sworn he saw them flash with a glow of some kind. Luther shook his head and gave a little grin. “No, that’s not it. Controlling servitors is no easy task. Because eventually, like all children, they want to assert their independence. Maybe that’s why the servitor is getting stronger. But maybe it hasn’t managed to break away from whatever commandment you issued.”

  “You sonnuva bitch…”

  Luther sighed and turned from the son to face the father. Gardner leaned against the door frame, clearly exhausted. “I’m gonna bring your ass in. And once I get you alone in an interrogation room, I’m gonna do shit to you that’s guaranteed to piss off those pansies in the ACLU.”

  “You again,” said Luther.

  “I’ve got no earthly idea what the hell you’re babbling on about, but you can take your particular brand of crazy and shove it up your ass! You trying to blame my son for what happened at that school? What happened to his friends?”

  “That’s just the thing—they weren’t his friends.” Luther glanced at the boy out of the corner of his eyes. “Isn’t that right, Matt?”

  Gardner’s gaze moved from Luther to his son. “Matt? What’s he goin’ on about?”

  Tears began to form in Matt’s eyes. He moved his lips a few times but with no sound. Going over to the bed, he reached under the mattress and pulled out a weathered piece of paper from a sketchbook. It had been folded and refolded several times, it seemed. Matt opened it up and held it for the two men to see.

  Luther recognized the drawing immediately as matching the servitor that attacked him. Long black trench coat, sunglasses, thin frame and wielding massive guns. Gardner fixated on the inked drawing, mystified. “What the hell is this?”

  Matt’s eyes were now leaking tears. “I-I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I just…I wondered what it would be like if I could fight back. If I could just teach the bullies a lesson. And I found this website that talked about how to make things happen with sigils and drawings…just by focusing on them.”

  Matt looked away, forcefully wiping his tears on his
sleeve. “I didn’t want any of this! I just wanted to scare them…just wanted to scare them…”

  “You mean you—”

  Luther cut off Gardner’s sentence. “I get it, you wanted to feel strong for once. But it backfired and that thing you created is now like a mad dog without a leash.”

  Matt spun on Luther, his eyes and face red. “So you stop it! That’s what you’re here for, right? You’re the one with the real magic!”

  Luther shook his head. “It’s not that simple. The servitor is your creation, and that means only you can stop—”

  A loud crash interrupted the conversation. Luther led the charge from the room, moving to the stairwell. Gardner and Matt followed and in the foyer, they saw the servitor, having broken down the front door. The magical construct turned its face upward and a sickly smile appeared when it saw Luther.

  It was silent as it raised one of its massive guns. Luther grabbed Gardner and Matt and pulled them to the ground along with himself. The gunfire echoed in the interior of the home, splintering the wood, punching holes in the plaster and shattering glass. Luther drew his revolver and checked the ammunition. He looked at the Sheriff and the boy.

  “Stay down.”

  Luther sidled up to the corner and peered around the edge to look down the staircase. The servitor had begun to move up the steps and Luther stepped out, firing two rounds into its head. Luther pounced, tackling the servitor and the two of them rolled back down the stairs.

  Cross was up instantly and fired a third round into the servitor’s chest before darting down the first floor hall and into the kitchen. There was a center island counter and Luther jumped over it, crashing to the cold tile on the other side and pressing up against the back just as the servitor had recovered and opened fire. Luther reloaded his weapon and waited for the gunfire to come to a halt, but the servitor had an endless supply of ammunition.

  “‘Bad juju,’” muttered Luther, repeating what Whitey had told him. “I hate it when you’re right, you dead bastard.”

  Luther needed a distraction to get in another shot. He opened the cabinets on his side of the island counter and found one of them held a bottle of cheap rum. Luther grabbed a dishtowel hanging from one of the cabinet handles and shoved it into the bottle. He focused on the end of the towel. “Ignitus.”

  The end of the cloth combusted and Luther tossed the bottle over the counter at the servitor. It burst and the servitor screeched. Luther jumped to his feet and squeezed off all six shots, each one striking the servitor dead in the center of its chest and the creature fell back.

  Luther took a speed-loader from his jacket and snapped fresh ammunition into place. He approached the servitor, keeping his weapon trained on it, and moved back to the foyer. “Matt!”

  The boy’s head peeked around the corner. “Is it dead?”

  Luther shook his head. “It won’t stay down for long. You’re the only one who can stop this thing, kid.”

  “How can I stop it?”

  “You gave this thing life with your own energy. It’s a part of you and the only way it will stop is if you can re-absorb it.”

  “But how?”

  “You need to—”

  The servitor cut off Luther, wrapping its spindly fingers around his throat and raising him above the ground. The servitor slammed Luther against the back of the door and stared at him. The servitor’s mouth opened wide and Luther saw a vast abyss past its lips. He could feel himself beginning to grow weak. The servitor was trying to break free of Matt, but to do so, it needed to consume more and more energy.

  “M-Matt…” Luther found it difficult to speak, and he pulled at the servitor’s fingers with both his hands, yet its grip was like steel. He saw the boy coming down the staircase and behind him, saw the Sheriff trying to stop his son.

  Matt moved cautiously down the steps, holding something in his hand. Luther could see it was the drawing of the servitor, what had initially given it life. Matt’s lips were also moving. Luther strained a bit to hear what it was the boy was saying.

  “You’re a part of me…” he said. “You’re a part of me…you’re a part of me…you’re a part of me…”

  The servitor turned now, sensing a new threat. It dropped Luther and he fell, taking the moment to compose himself. The servitor had now faced Matt and was staring him down, but it made no move toward the boy. It seemed like it had no desire to harm its creator.

  Matt raised the picture, holding it in both hands and the servitor hissed, backing away. “You’re a part of me,” he repeated again, before tearing the picture in half.

  The servitor screamed and its form blurred, moving toward Matt. The servitor tried to pull away, wailing as it did, but found itself being sucked back. As the servitor’s form flowed into Matt’s body, the teenager screamed as well. A flash of light came next and Luther had to shut his eyes to prevent himself from being blinded.

  Once the light faded, the servitor was gone and Matt lay on the ground, unconscious.

  * * *

  Luther sat in a waiting area of a hospital, hands folded and resting on his lap. His gaze was fixed on the end of the corridor, where he saw Sheriff Gardner speaking to a doctor dressed in blue scrubs and a white jacket. Gardner looked like he’d been put through the wringer. He listened to every word the doctor said, but wouldn’t look at him.

  The doctor laid a hand on Gardner’s shoulder and then turned away. Luther rose and walked down the corridor, passing the doctor as he did. When he reached Gardner, he saw the Sheriff looking through the open door into one of the patient rooms. Luther looked inside as well and saw Matt lying in the bed, still unconscious and connected to several machines.

  “Doc said Matt’s in a coma,” said Gardner. “Said he’s not sure if he’ll ever wake up again. Said they got no idea what could be the cause of it.”

  “Creating a servitor requires a great deal of energy,” said Luther. “As the servitor spends more and more time separated from its creator, it finds new ways to acquire the energy necessary to continue its existence. And soon, it can exist completely independent of its creator. Reabsorbing it can require a higher degree of energy.”

  Gardner looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you, Mr. Cross. You were just trying to help an’ I did nothin’ but give you hell for it. Had no idea Matt was into this satanic black magic shit. If I knew, I swear I woulda beat it outta him.”

  Luther’s nostrils flared and he shoved Gardner against the wall. The Sheriff was put into a state of shock and his face showed his confusion.

  “You think that’s the answer?” asked Luther. “Give him yet another enemy in his life? He’s your son.”

  Gardner scowled. “The hell do you know?”

  “I know what it’s like when a boy doesn’t meet his father’s expectations.” Luther removed his glasses, his red eyes burning like coals. “I know what it’s like not having anyone to turn to. What it’s like to feel that you’re completely alone.”

  Luther backed off. “You owed it to that boy to try to understand him for who he was, not to despise him because he wasn’t who you wanted him to be.” He pointed into the room. “If he ever wakes up, I expect you to learn what it’s like to be a real father.”

  Luther covered his eyes with his sunglasses. “Don’t make me come back to this town, Sheriff.”

  He turned his back on Gardner and walked down the corridor toward the exit.

  Ties That Bind

  A Luther Cross Short Story

  In the last rays of sunlight, Sam Dixon emerged from the forest, his Remington 783 hunting rifle held in both hands. He approached his red Ford F-150 and unlocked the passenger side door, setting the butt of the rifle on the floor and resting the gun against the seat. Circling around to the other side, Sam climbed into the driver’s seat, inserted the key in the ignition, and turned.

  The car sputtered but the engine didn’t turn over. Sam groaned and tried again, receiving the same result. He hoped the third time wo
uld be the charm, but still the Ford refused to start. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Dammit, not again.”

  Sam pulled the hood release and stepped out of the car. He lifted the hood and leaned over the engine, rubbing his thin, brown beard that made him look older than his twenty five years. He couldn’t determine what the problem might be and stood upright. Sam took his cell phone from his pocket, but was greeted with a NO SERVICE message across the top. “Sonnuva bitch.”

  He looked down the road that cut through the forest. It was a ten mile walk back to the town of Wolcott—not impossible, but definitely not ideal. Especially now that the sun was setting.

  Sam turned around and looked down the opposite end of the road. He heard an engine off in the distance and squinted. Another truck came down the path and Sam went into the middle of the road, waving his hands above his head. The black Chevy Silverado slowed as it approached, pulling up alongside him. Sam stepped over to the passenger side and peered in through the open window at the middle aged man behind the wheel, wearing a Chicago Cubs cap.

  “Car trouble?” he asked.

  “Yeah, damn thing won’t start.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  Sam glanced at his Ford then back to the driver. “You know anything about cars?”

  “Little bit. Couldn’t hurt, right?”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah, thanks. That’d be great.”

  The man climbed out of his Silverado and walked to the Ford’s open hood. He squinted as he bent over the engine, testing a few things with calloused hands. He stood up, shaking his head. “Sorry, brother. Don’t think I can help you here.”

  Sam huffed. “Perfect. You got a phone on you?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t have a cell phone?”