Demon Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  “You okay?” asked Brinke. He nodded, wiping his brow with his tie, which he then loosened as he took a deep breath.

  Well, she thought regretfully, here goes nothing.

  She took out her notebook and a pencil and began to write, careful to obscure the words from Herve, though he was well occupied with his own internal turbulence.

  Strange-sounding thunder rolled through the fuselage, underscored with a discomfiting low-frequency noise.

  She scribbled quickly, raising a subtle chant that was meant to seem secret while calling attention to itself. Brinke hated to deceive. But she was willing to pay the price if her ploy succeeded.

  “What are you…whispering about?” asked Herve between unsteady breaths.

  “Just an old nursery rhyme,” Brinke said. Then she lightly placed her hand on his chest, allowing the journal to fall open at the right angle for him to see the runes, which his subconscious would then absorb.

  “Is your heart all right?’ Brinke would have been horrified to know she had just employed the same spell Violina had, just the day before, on poor Officer Kebbler at the Cronus County Evidence Annex.

  Herve put his hand on hers to push it away, and she felt how cold and clammy his palm was. “Please…don’t…”

  The man who had so lasciviously ogled her not long ago now couldn’t stand her touch. Brinke’s plan was working.

  Brinke stood and called to a stewardess.

  “May I help you?” Her name badge read Helene.

  “I’m afraid he’s having a heart attack.”

  Helene went through the usual motions and queries to be sure the problem was beyond her limited training and finally whisked away to consult with her superior.

  Brinke patted the man’s shoulder, regretfully restraining herself from projecting any healing intent into him. “You’ll be okay,” she told him.

  Herve nodded minutely, clearly unconvinced. Brinke felt his terror and helplessness quickly becoming despair. Tears of shame and guilt came to Brinke as she withdrew her hand. Herve seemed baffled that a woman who barely knew him was practically mourning his imminent demise.

  Captain Winchell, the practiced reserve of his voice beginning to falter, addressed the passengers. “Evening, fellow flyers. We have a possible medical emergency. If there’s a doctor or cardiologist on board, please contact a stewardess immediately. Thank you.”

  “Oh, God…” Herve murmured. “I’m going to die up here.”

  * * * *

  Hudson had not been in Pedro’s apartment for more than five minutes when an urgent knock came at his door. It was Ophelia, his ten-year-old upstairs neighbor, wringing her hands. “Are you in trouble?”

  “Huh?” Pedro saw her nervous glance at the lawmen. “Oh. Nah. Believe it or not, these doughnut addicts are my friends.”

  Hudson and Yoshida smiled and waved.

  “Are you sure?” asked the little girl. “I can give you my allowance…”

  She was interrupted by the call of her name from upstairs—her mother, Camilla.

  “Don’t she know you came down here?” Pedro asked.

  “I snuck! She didn’t want me to…bother you…” Ophelia gave the deputies the same jittery look—and Pedro understood. Ophelia’s family either had questionable immigration statuses or feared that the deputies might make up some.

  “I’m just signing autographs for these fanboys. Nothing to worry about.” He smiled, and she relaxed. “Go back to your ma, before you get us both tuned up.”

  Ophelia waved and ran off.

  “I help her with her music-class homework.”

  “Dude, we could use you for immigrant relations,” noted Yoshida.

  “Nah, I like wrecking my eardrums slash rescuing you losers from terrifying deities.”

  “‘Entities’ you mean.”

  Pedro kicked back in his dingy and ripped recliner, a gift, coincidentally from Ophelia’s parents as a thank-you for his work with Ophelia, and settled the tranquilizer rifle across his lap. “But you should definitely give me a badge and uniform, Hudsy, as much sheriffin’ as I do these days.”

  “Babysitting a grouchy mongrel-man doesn’t show up in any of the sheriffin’ scenarios I’ve ever seen,” Hudson answered, absently thumbing through Pedro’s vinyl record collection, which numbered well into the thousands. “But I can get you on as a dogcatcher.”

  Pedro’s cat, Joan Effen Crawford, appeared from the bedroom. She halted on catching Yoshida’s scent and ran behind the recliner.

  “Sorry, Joanie,” Yoshida said.

  “Don’t you worry, Yosh. We’ll get our witch pals on the case and have you smelling like your old square self in no time.”

  “Sure,” Yoshida responded. “Just keep that thing aimed right at me, if you don’t mind. Every time I change, it seems to last longer and become more dangerous. You sure you don’t want to put the chains on?”

  “I’m a little concerned about this sudden chain fetish, weirdo,” Hudson quipped. “You never changed twice in one night. With a little luck, we’re good for at least twenty-four.”

  He put on his hat and went to the door. “I’ll come back and relieve you at the end of my shift.”

  “Forget it. You need sleep too, tough guy,” Pedro said. “Me and Yoshi’ll just crash here and doze till Dennis gets back with the bruja babes.”

  Chapter 19

  Psycho Magnet

  “Passengers, it looks like we’ll have to make an emergency landing. This is gonna be…” Captain Winchell searched for a word that balanced truthfulness with reassurance. Not finding it, he clicked off.

  Herve, milky sweat dripping from his eyebrow, looked at Brinke, seeking more comfort. She patted his hand, trying to remember the words of a Tibetan spell that would stabilize his condition, hoping he was generally healthy enough to survive the stress of the attack on his heart.

  Lightning pulsed, thunder cracked and the plane shook like an alarm bell, drawing panicked yelps from all around.

  Herve gritted his teeth and clenched his eyelids shut. His breath came in abrupt rasps.

  * * * *

  Settlement era

  “You were right to come only to me,” praised Conal with a grin that was indistinguishable from his more common grimace. “This could shake our settlement to its soul.”

  Schroeder covered his nose against the stench, marveling that O’Herlihy seemed untroubled by it. He felt more relieved than sad that Hezekiah’s corpse, worse for wear under the autumn sun and the pecking of crows, was at least still here.

  “Who could be responsible?” he asked the Irishman.

  “I gamble we’ll soon know,” Conal answered. “But that’s not important now.”

  “It’s not?”

  O’Herlihy held out his ruddy hand. “Give me your knife.”

  Schroeder drew the bone knife from its sheath and handed it over without hesitation. Conal immediately set about stabbing Hezekiah’s body several times, distributing more scent of decay.

  “What are you doing!?”

  O’Herlihy wrapped the knife in a handkerchief and stuffed it in his waistband, penetrating Schroeder with his fiery stare. “I need to know I can trust you.”

  “Well…of course, you can. But…”

  “This is God-sent,” whispered the big Celt, “our chance to do away with that blasphemous robber baron!”

  Schroeder still did not understand why O’Herlihy had jabbed the corpse with his knife, but he was beginning to. As for the “robber baron,” Schroeder had no doubts just who Conal meant.

  “Now help me with this.” O’Herlihy took a large oilcloth from his horse, and together the Dutchman and the Celt wrapped Hezekiah up. No words of mourning were spoken for him, only an oath of loyalty to Conal.

  * * * *

  “It appears we have a killer in our
midst,” Bennington said, examining the wounded guest. “Or someone who would be.”

  Once he and maidservant Chloris got the unconscious stranger into the guest-room bed, Bennington watched over him while Chloris fetched calming tea and an herb poultice. Once these took effect on the peculiar man and he began to doze, Bennington decided to remove the burlap hood.

  Underneath was the strange face of a young man with unruly black hair matted around pale, gaunt features. Despite Everett Geelens’s present placid state, Bennington and his maidservant remained ill at ease—there was something about him.

  “He can be no more than twenty,” said Chloris. “Where could he have come from?”

  “Perhaps there’s another settlement nearby,” Bennington answered. “But there is still the matter of his dress.”

  “Taken from Schroeder’s effigy, you say.”

  “The boy could have found the figure and taken the clothes. But then…the wound.”

  “Wild animal? Cherokee?” wondered Chloris, patting Everett’s face with a handkerchief.

  “It’s too clean and deep a wound for bear or wildcat.” Bennington leaned close to peer at the gash between the shirtless guest’s rib. “And it’s unlike the Cherokee to leave a foe alive.”

  “When he’s better, perhaps he’ll be more lucid.”

  “Yes, delirium seems likely. Yet there’s something else about him. Something very odd.”

  “He should sleep for many hours, and the medicines will rejuvenate him. Then we could query him?”

  “I hope.” Bennington pulled the quilt up to Everett’s chin. “Don’t speak of this to anyone else, Chloris. Not yet.”

  Chapter 20

  The Bottle Called

  Modern day

  Ever genteel, Violina covered her yawn, looking at Steve with no concern for his bedraggled state. “You stand at the window and keep watch while I get my beauty rest.” She sipped her chamomile. “Come nightfall, we’ll be busier than ever.”

  “We?” asked Steve, as his enslaved legs took him to the window for the coming hours of tortured vigilance.

  “There’s still some dirty work, dear.”

  Steve had no reason to think she was being anything but literal. The well-heeled witch had made him break into the library to steal the ancient cask containing the last of the mushrooms, bury Maisie’s body, scrub off the blood sigil and generally return the church’s underground chamber to its previous state.

  He had to hide his rig in the depths of one of the abandoned cornfields, then drive her home in her Cadillac, where she showered and changed into silk pajamas, prattling on about her scheme the entire time.

  She didn’t even bother to make her own tea, commanding his hands to do it while she sat three feet away and nitpicked.

  “When can you…whatever you’re gonna do?” Steve asked. “Kill me, I guess.”

  “Don’t be whiny, or I’ll have you do nasty things to your little family,” threatened Violina, as she applied her nightly cold cream laced with the powdered uterine flesh of a pregnant woman. “If anyone comes, tell them they have the wrong house. If they’re persistent, either kill them or keep them busy until I can get away.”

  Violina dimmed the lights to a pleasant ambience and closed the bedroom door, leaving Steve to hate his already-aching feet and hope his family never learned of what he did.

  * * * *

  Brinke was initially relieved that medical professionals, undaunted by the storm, were on the ground waiting to take charge of Herve. As they rushed aboard with a stretcher and started preparing him, she realized she had a pitiably small window of time to undo the magic-induced heart attack.

  She needed to touch and speak to him simultaneously, but the EMS workers strictly enforced their no-contact rule. As he was being transported out, Brinke had no choice but to hit full-on giant crazy bitch mode. She leaped up, shoved past the rearmost med tech and lunged across Herve, beginning the incantation as soon as her hand touched his hand.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, lady!?” The forward tech grabbed her hand and tried to yank it away, forcing her to grasp Herve’s hard enough to make him cry out in pain.

  Then the other one grabbed her around the waist from behind and called to the shocked stewardess, Helene, to get an air marshal.

  “I have to do this!” Brinke screamed, barely maintaining her grip as she continued the chant.

  She did not look at anything but Herve. Even a witch of her skill could lose focus if highly distracted.

  Three repetitions were in order—but given the circumstances, one would have to do, with hopes that Herve’s system was strong enough to bridge the gap.

  The tech behind her wrestled her off and tried to drag her away, but Brinke stopped his spin with her foot against a seat, an inch from the face of the wispy teen girl sitting there judging her.

  “I’m sorry, Herve!” she called. The apology added nothing to the reversal chant, but Brinke’s conscience demanded nothing less.

  “Calm down, lady!” said the restraining tech, but she already had.

  Brinke relaxed so abruptly the EMS worker released her for fear she had passed out, or worse. She took her seat—Herve’s, actually—and looked up at the confused tech. “I’m okay. You should get going.”

  * * * *

  Violina had just closed her eyes, gratified and calmed by the sounds of the growing storm she had raised. A different rumble disturbed her relaxation: a powerful motor coming into the drive.

  Recognizing the roar of The Chalk Outlines’ hearse, she went to the living room, where Steve was trying to stop himself from taking up the fireplace poker he would use to kill the newcomer.

  “Stop!” Violina ordered. “He could be useful.”

  “Are you going to take over his body too?”

  “‘Too’ is not accurate,” Violina answered. “He’s going to replace you. Now get in the closet.”

  Dennis took a closer look at the Caddie in the drive to be sure it was Violina’s, then went to the door and knocked softly.

  In less time than he expected, Violina answered, smiling graciously as she pulled her red satin robe around her. “Dennis, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry to bother you this late.”

  “Come in.” She stepped to the side and raised the lights by a degree. “Tell me what’s the matter.”

  “There’s not a lot of time.” She moved to take his jacket, but he didn’t give it up.

  “Oh,” she went to the kitchen, “let me at least get us drinks.”

  “Just water.”

  “I didn’t take you for a teetotaler.”

  “These days, yeah.”

  “Ah,” she nodded. “Say no more. Surely, I can find you something more interesting than water though.”

  “Got any Drenal-Ade?”

  Violina laughed. “Sounds like this might take a while.” Her smile bore the tiniest hint of innuendo. She took a bottle of organic cherry cola from the refrigerator and poured it over ice.

  “I was looking for Maisie too. Seen her?”

  “Hmm. Not since yesterday. Isn’t your bandmate interested in her?”

  “It’s about our deputy buddy.” Dennis gave the short strokes about Yoshida’s unusual strain of lycanthropy.

  Violina distracted him with a pair of vaguely pertinent questions, while prepping his beverage.

  As she returned with the potion-infused cola, a muffled bustle sounded from the closet, where Steve had been made to hide. Amusing as it was to make the hapless trucker stand in place for hours, she cursed his occasional involuntary muscle reaction.

  “What’s that? You got somebody else here?”

  “No, I…propped my bag rather precariously in the closet,” she said.

  “Your witch gear? Shouldn’t we check on that?”

  “It’s fine.”
She glanced at his cola, mentally urging him to drink.

  “Look, I don’t wanna keep you. I just need you to help my buddy. He gets worse every night.”

  “Of course, I will. But I’ll need assistance.”

  Dennis stood and went to the house phone. “I’ll try the Blue Moon again for Maisie and Ysabella. If that’s a bust, I’ll get Hudson to swing by.”

  “No, don’t.” Violina stood and took the phone receiver out of his hand. “Shouldn’t you…kiss me?”

  Dennis stepped back from her. “What gives, lady? You on somethin’?” He yanked the phone back. “This is an emergency.”

  “You need release, Dennis.” Violina put her hand on his groin. “I can feel it.”

  Dennis slapped her hand away. “Only reason I don’t slug you is ’cause Jill’s gonna want first crack. I’m leaving.”

  “Steve!” she shrieked. “Come out and knock this man unconscious!”

  Dennis laughed at the clunky exclamation, shaking his head. If he had known that she had to be very specific in her commands, he would not have so easily dismissed Violina as out of her mind.

  The closet door swung open.

  The man who lunged at Dennis bore an incongruous look of such regret, dread and sheer terror that it slowed the singer’s reflexes. The fireplace tool arced across his head and sent him straight down.

  “You’d better not have damaged his motor functions, you imbecile!” Violina took the poker from Steve and swatted him across the back of his legs with it. “Now put him in my car.”

  “And then…you’re going to kill me?” His throbbing legs already carrying him to the door, he asked her with less dread this time, more hope.

  “Shut up!” she yelled. “I’m trying to think!”

  * * * *

  Just inside the arrival entrance, there was some back-and-forth with the air marshal, but Brinke’s poise and compassion gave the officer no reason to pursue the matter further than a stern reprimand.

  That done, she went to the nearest airport directory to find a rental-car office. Gathering her bearings, she felt a strange presence—something…tortured.

  A man in a long, brown trench coat stood in the dimmest section of the airport bar’s low light, staring toward the arrival entrance. As if his personal energy wasn’t troubling enough, the man wore large-lensed, dark sunglasses and a black scarf around the lower part of his face. The overall effect was of a man painfully aware he was conspicuous and wishing not to be seen.