by Derry Sandy
“He opened his desk drawer, retrieved the handgun he kept there, and sprinted for the door. Just as he was about to turn the knob, the door swung open, his wife and his three children were shepherded into the room by the man who had accompanied the tall stranger. The man’s proximity to his family sickened Lucien. He leveled the gun at the man’s chest. The man moved quickly and the next thing Lucien knew, he was staring at the ceiling through blurry eyes, the taste of blood in his mouth and a gap where his front teeth used to be. The gun lay on the carpet just out of reach.
“The man lined Lucien’s family against the wall where Lucien could look at them. He then picked up the phone on the desk and brought it toward Lucien where he lay. About half-way to Lucien the telephone cord came up short and the little man simply yanked it out of the wall. He placed the receiver in Lucien’s hand. The voices on the other end of the line did not seem to care that the phone had been ripped out of the socket. They were as incessant as ever. One voice, male, rose above the others. He was hungriest, neediest, and most likely the spirit that took physical form. A white liquid the consistency of melted latex erupted through the perforations in the receiver. Lucien’s wife shrieked and the children buried their faces in their mother’s bosom. The liquid continued to flow, coalescing into a creature with limbs jointed as if it was some unholy cross between a man and an insect.
“It sat astride Lucien’s chest. The thing grabbed Lucien’s arm and bit into it. The ugly little man looked on with glee, his cracked yellow teeth displayed in a rictus grin. Suddenly an explosion erupted in the room then another and another. Ghita had grabbed the fallen gun and had shot the ugly little man in the back while he was distracted.
“Lucien could clearly see his daughter through the hole in the ugly man’s chest. The man roared in rage and surprise. He spun around and was on Ghita before she could shoot again. He hit her and she fell to the floor in a heap. Lucien struggled to rise but he had lost so much blood he was losing consciousness. The thing on his chest continued to savor the flesh of his arm.
“The ugly little man produced small black box from his pocket and set it on the floor. The box grew until it was a cube about waist-high. The man then picked up Ghita and leaped into the box, piercing through the side as if it was a curtain of viscous tar. The thing on Lucien’s chest stood, grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him into the box as well. That was the last that was seen of Lucien Sardis. Crick crack monkey break he back for a piece of pomerac.”
The clouds of smoke Crayfish exhaled while he spoke hung about them like a mist. The man’s voice sounded as if he was speaking directly between her ears. His every word blossomed in her mind to paint an image as vivid as if she had been there. She struggled to make sense of his story. “So Ghita died?”
“Yes she died,” Crayfish replied.
“And Lucien was taken? Does the story say what happened to him?”
“No, he was taken into the box. That’s all the story says. However, the original bargain was for a living girl, and that, I assume, is an important fact. Instead of a living girl, the obeah man got a dead girl and an almost dead Lucien Sardis. I would think that this had to affect his plans.”
“Why did he want Ghita in the first place?”
“Me? I don’t know but there are stories about special children whose births are very rare. These children can channel power from the Ether.”
“So Lucien Sardis is Ghita’s father and was kidnapped by the obeah man. If he has her father that explains why she works for him and it also explains why she is resisting him. Voss, we must go. I’m fairly certain I know who we are dealing with.” Kat made to stand but found her legs unusable. She could not move them and they definitely would not support her weight. She looked over at Voss and he was unmoving, his eyes had rolled back and he sat in a trance-like state, a line of spittle wetting his chin.
“What have you done to him?”
“I’m tired of being a nomad Katharine, tired being chased and hunted. I was offered peace in return for delivering you,” Crayfish said as he blew another cloud of smoke into her face.
“When this is over, I will come for you.” Kat promised as a small ugly man stepped out of the shadows cast by the cocoa house. He stood projecting silent malice looking down at the paralyzed Kat. Kat returned his stare and smiled. “I know who your master is.”
The short man, unimpressed walked over to Kat and kicked her violently across the jaw. Her head swam, she could not even lift an arm to defend herself, but she did not fall unconscious. The man ignored Voss. He slung Kat over his shoulder then produced a little black box. He set it on the ground allowed it to grow. It took six more vicious kicks before she finally blacked out.
***
It was several hours before Voss’ body shook off the effects of the smoke. When he came to, he had a piercing headache and there was trace of neither Kat nor Crayfish, but there was blood in the leaf litter and one of those infernal boxes sat on the floor. Voss placed a call to Stone then leapt into the box.
***
Voss’ words on the phone had been brief. He believed that someone had taken Kat through one of the boxes and he was going after her. Rohan relayed the message to Kamara. They had to hope that wherever the box led, that Voss could place a call when he arrived and let them know where to lead the cavalry. After hanging up the phone, Rohan and Kamara went to check on Agrippa. The dog was doing a lot better and was now able to sit up and eat. The pair stood observing the dog as it ate from a bowl when a low growl started deep in the beast’s chest and eventually erupted into a snarl. Rohan tried to calm the animal but the dog would not be mollified.
Agrippa was focused at something beyond the window and had he been healthy enough to run Rohan had no doubt he would have charged out to meet whatever it was. Rohan and Kamara shared a look. Kamara picked up her sword from where it lay propped against Agrippa’s couch. Rohan shouldered a semi-automatic that was always close at hand of late. They waited, staring out the window following Agrippa’s gaze. Dusk had descended. Tarik was with Jonah and Imelda which left just Rohan and Kamara in Stone. When the target of Agrippa’s rage finally appeared outside the window in the red glow of the fading sun, Rohan was filled with disgust and sadness so deep that his weapon fell from his hands. A gut-wrenching pain tore through him.
He heard Kat whisper. “Rohan, be strong, they are not who you remember them to be.”
Beyond the window, wearing the same clothes in which they had been buried, their pale faces smeared with grave dirt, stood Dorian and Isa. Dorian was armed with gleaming axes and Isa with a short sword. Their eyes were empty as they met Rohan’s gaze through the reinforced glass of the window. They did not attempt to force their way in and there was no need. Rohan was honor bound to put the reanimated corpses to rest. He instinctively knew that guns would not work on them, only dismemberment and fire. From a cabinet in that same room he took his weapons of choice, two machetes one twice the length of the other. ” Kamara, this is something I have to do alone, I owe it to them.”
Kamara nodded.
Rohan unlocked the door and stepped outside.
Chapter 30
Sam felt like he had reached a truce with the voice in his head. They were friends, almost and strangely he felt a sort of kinship with it. Sam was teaching the voice about the modern world and in turn the voice told him stories about the time when it had been alive. Sam now knew that the voice in his head had been named Bitol when he was alive in the fifteenth century. He was surprised at how comfortable he had grown sharing his mental space.
Sam did odd jobs for money by day and slept in underground car parks and empty lots at night. Maybe at some point he would feel stable enough to go back home. Or maybe he never needed to go back home. He felt self-sufficient out here on the streets. He was not hungry, he could earn whatever money he needed and most importantly out here he was not placing his family in danger.
That day had been a good one. He had done some heavy lifting for
a lunch cafeteria in Port-of-Spain and in return they had given him fifty dollars and as much food as would fill one of the Styrofoam lunch containers. That night he took shelter in one of the multistory car parks on Frederick Street. He had snuck past the lot guards and settled down in a secluded corner behind an SUV that he hoped would remain parked there until morning. He was eating his dinner and chatting with Bitol when he heard the hum of an engine followed by the hydraulic whine of brakes as a vehicle pulled to a stop close by.
Something about the voices of the people who had exited the vehicle caused Sam to pay closer attention. There was something familiar about the voices, not the actual voices themselves but the tones. Then a dreadful thought dawned on him. The voices conveyed the same ugliness as the maboya that had killed the people in the Tamarind Square. Sam was suddenly mortified. Bitol spoke to him.
It’s them, Sam. You cannot run. They are sure to see you.
What am I supposed to do let them eat me?
They will not eat you, they want me.
Oh, and that makes it better. You and I are sort of inseparable. I’m going to run.
Please don’t run.
I’m running. Sam got to his knees, preparing to make a dash for it.
Remember our deal, you promised to listen to me and I promised not to try to wrest control of your body.
Those words gave Sam pause. He had promised that in times of supernatural danger he would listen to Bitol’s instructions.
Yes, I remember the deal.
Good, give me control, not partial control, I need all of it. It is the only way we will survive this.
What?! No way. I’m going to run.
Sam no…
Sam bolted out of his hiding place not even bothering to look for possible pursuers. Before he had gone twenty steps someone grabbed him from behind and clapped a hand over his mouth. The person lifted him from the ground and began taking him back to the car as if he weighed no more than a small bundle of linen. Sam struggled but the arm was like a steel cable around his body.
Let me take control Sam.
No! just tell me what to do.
There is no time to teach you all that needs to be done, just let me control.
Sam craned his eyes upward and glimpsed the faces of the car’s other occupants. They seemed ordinary but liquefied evil might as well have been oozing from their pores for all the fear those ordinary faces inspired.
Will you ever let me back into the driver’s seat? Sam asked through the silent mental connection he shared with Bitol.
You have my word…if we survive.
Sam wrestled with the decision. He had been struggling so long fighting to survive, fighting to maintain even a shred of human dignity on the streets of the Capital. It would be nice for another person to take over for a little while. The stress of surviving had frayed him, he needed a break. So Sam relinquished control of his own body. As soon as he did he knew he had made the right decision.
Letting go was easier than he thought it would be. He felt his own consciousness recede like a falling tide. It was like his consciousness was a power cord plugged into the sockets of his muscles and he had unplugged all those sockets. He felt disembodied, as if the events were unfolding without his participation. As his consciousness receded, his body began to dangle loosely in his captor’s arms. But then he sensed another sentience sweep past like the wake of displaced air left by a large truck speeding past on the freeway. He was the observer now. He watched as his hand rose to touch his kidnapper’s arm. Where his hand made contact, the arm of the kidnapper turned to a finely powdered ash. Sam’s body fell to the floor. Sam looked on as his body landed on hands and toes with catlike grace, rolled to the left, and was up and running in a dead sprint.
A little spell from my days of witchcraft.
Nice. Was all Sam could reply.
The Other, now in control of Sam’s body, leapt through one of the open ventilation gaps in the parking garage’s walls. It was a three storey drop to the pavement but Bitol aimed for the branches of one of the ornamental sidewalk trees and quickly clambered down to the pavement. Sam wondered at Bitol’s ability to marshal his body into such an easily graceful economy of motion.
I lived in a place and time where we had to hunt to survive, the Other responded to Sam’s silent musing.
That was the problem with a shared consciousness, no privacy, Sam thought.
Bitol chuckled.
They were now running down Frederick Street. The maboya were nowhere to be seen. Sam began to feel relief. Maybe this had just been a dinner hunt and they had moved on to easier prey. Then something slammed into them. The force lifted his body clear off the sidewalk. Sam was glad that in his current state of physical detachment he could not feel the impact of the landing. As it was, Sam’s body under the control of the Other landed hard but nimbly.
They started to run again but this time they tripped on something. Bitol struggled to get Sam’s body back on its feet but a shadow, like a small swarm comprised of billions of black midges, danced around his legs and prevented him from moving.
Do you have a spell for this? Sam asked.
No, no I don’t, I was only an apprentice when I died.
Oh, now he claims limited capacity.
This really isn’t the time to point fingers, Sam
They were caught. A tall man sauntered out of a dim alley. The streetlight seemed unable to illuminate his face.
“Hello Sam.” The man spoke in a cultured, unaccented voice.
Neither Sam nor Bitol replied. The man stooped in front of them, his proximity was not at all welcome. His face remained indiscernible.
“I have been looking for you, Bitol. I need your help with a very important task.”
Bitol allowed Sam to speak.
“My name is not Bitol.”
The man’s shoulders heaved in a genuine chuckle. “Hmm, so you haven’t been communicating with a voice inside your head?”
“I have no idea what voices you are talking about sir.”
The man’s smile vanished. “Oh Sam, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Stop lying to me, Sam. I saw what you did to my assistant’s arm. I know that he is controlling your body now, cleverly allowing you to speak so that he does not give himself away. It is in your best interest to cooperate.”
The man never raised his voice in anger, in fact he maintained the same pleasant, radio announcer baritone the entire time. Sam however, was under no illusion that the man was anything but deadly serious.
There seemed to be no point in stalling any further and potentially angering the man. He obviously knew everything. Sam allowed Bitol to control the conversation.
“When I triggered the Recompense it was purely by mistake. I was actually trying to call spirits from the Ether, assistance from the gods to beat back the Spanish. I have no idea how to repeat the trick.”
“Ah, but you must try. Besides, I have ways of resurrecting those memories, tapping into your skill.”
“I do not have the power to do it. My gods all died when there was no one left to venerate them. The only power I have is that which I can channel using the strength of my vessels life force.”
“Don’t worry about power. There will soon be sufficient power to tear the veil ten times over. Your gods may have died, but some of that raw power remained for anyone who has a key.”
“And if I refuse to assist you in this foolish plan?”
“Then you will suffer. Maybe I will send another four or five spirits to join you two in that body, nasty spirits. Maybe they will make you a passenger while they slit your father’s throat and stab your mother in her belly.” The man mimed a stabbing motion.
Sam shuddered and gagged at the thought of being forced to kill his parents. Bitol replied, “Well it does not seem like there is much of a choice.”
“No, no there isn’t. So what is your answer?”
“We’ll come. But I ask that you allow Sam to go free, provide me another body to
take possession of.”
“Bitol, you are not merely a summoned spirit, Sam is you, your latest incarnation. You two are inseparable. Whatever harm comes to Sam because of a choice that you make will be self-harm.”
Sam realized that the memories he had experienced in his fugue state, the actions he had taken, they were not merely the actions and memories of a usurper, they were his own memories from a past life. To some degree this made his situation easier to bear. Bitol was not a stranger.
A panel van pulled to a stop next to Sam. Inside were the three kidnappers from the garage. The shadows binding Sam’s body dissipated but Bitol made no move to run again.
The tall man spoke to the driver. The two passengers got out. One of them was missing an arm. Bitol smiled up at the man.
“I hope you can wipe your backside with the one you have left,” Bitol sniggered.
The man responded by punching Sam in the nose, breaking it. The tall man walked up behind the one-armed man and placed his hand on the crown of his head. The one-armed man’s body burst into a cloud of fine ash which floated away. Within moments there was no trace that a man had even stood there, even his clothing was gone.
“See, I know a few of the old tricks too,” the man said looking toward Sam, while Sam thought, Hold your breath, Bitol, do not breathe that man-dust in.
Then the man spoke to the remaining two. “Sam is to be taken back, placed in a cell, and guarded. Not a hair on his head should be made to be out of place. If anything is amiss when I return, you will all be set to float in the breeze like Daniel.”
