Delightfully Twisted Tales: Fire, Fangs and Brimstone (Volume Two)

by Nicky Drayden

DELIGHTFULLY TWISTED TALES:

  VOLUME TWO

  FIRE, FANGS AND BRIMSTONE

  by

  Nicky Drayden

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Delightfully Twisted Tales:

  Volume Two

  Fire, Fangs and Brimstone

  Copyright © 2011 by Nicky Drayden

  Firedancer photograph by Taro Taylor, Creative Commons

  Volume One – Close Encounters of the Worst Kind

  Volume Two – Fire, Fangs and Brimstone

  Volume Three – The Weirdos Next Door

  Volume Four – Wisps, Spells and Faerie Tales

  * * * * *

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  With Good Intentions

  Forgotten Prayers

  Hellhound Rescue

  Blue Moon

  WITH GOOD INTENTIONS

  BY NICKY DRAYDEN

  First Published by Necrotic Tissue, 2009

  Vervek pressed his fingers to his temples, waiting for the migraine to pass. The last few days of the month were always hell for him, catching up with paperwork he'd neglected, forgotten, or outright ignored. Form after form lay sprawled across his desk, awaiting his tallies for travel expenses, souls acquired per day, and brimstone usage down to the nearest ounce.

  Crilloc passed by Vervek's desk, boasting a stuffy suit and hooves buffed to a patent leather shine. Vervek hated Crilloc's smugness, how he tramped around like he owned the place. Crilloc had never been late with his paperwork, not once in the last millennium, but newbies tended to adapt better to change than old-timers like Vervek.

  "Staying late to impress the Boss?" Crilloc said, picking pink man flesh from his teeth with one claw.

  Vervek didn't acknowledge his presence, hoping he'd go away. He waded through the pile of soul receipts before him, relying upon sparse scribblings to jog his memory. How many idle hands had he steered towards darkness? How many sulfurous temptations had he whispered into vulnerable ears?

  "You know, it'd be easier if you reconciled your ledger at the end of each day," Crilloc said, arrogance steaming from his flared nostrils.

  "Aren't there any politicians you could be corrupting? I've got this under control."

  "The devil is in the details," Crilloc said, running his claw under item 13B of form WER-10 leaving a flesh-colored highlight across the text. "You've hardly dipped into your vice allowance. Avarice, sloth, barely touched. A lot of lesser demons don't bother to fill them out, but when it comes time for promotions, the Big Man notices those sorts of things."

  Crilloc popped his collar, tugged at the spiraling bristles of his beard, then strutted off with his tail whipping behind him. Vervek slit his eyes and forced the envy out of his fetid heart. He'd heard the rumors circulating around the blood cooler. Crilloc was a contender for Legion Chief of the Third Circle. Vervek grumbled, wistful over how things used to be – when he could cull evil and wreak havoc without the nagging bureaucracy, red tape, and senseless bean counting. It took all the fun out of being a minion of hell.

  But Vervek was in too deep now. He'd accrued a ton of vacation and sick leave, and the benefits couldn't be beat. Plus with three little hellions at home to feed – the youngest with too-straight teeth that needed mangling, and the oldest going off to Damnation U. next fall, he didn't exactly have the latitude he'd had in the old days.

  Vervek clenched his jaw, and before he pushed on with the endless task at hand, he uncapped his red marker and exed out another square on his calendar. Only two million, eight hundred fifteen thousand, three hundred forty-seven days left until retirement.

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  FORGOTTEN PRAYERS

  BY NICKY DRAYDEN

  Original Version Published by Everyday Weirdness, 2009

  I'll never forget the taste of Mother's tears on the day the Chambersire came to bestow fortune upon my family. He stood in our doorway, layered in fine linens of the style I’d seen royalty wear when they passed through our village. Gold chains adorned his jacket, more than I could count, draped like garland across his chest. The coin pendants hanging from them rattled with his every move and boasted the crests of all the families that had danced for the goddesses.

  I hid beneath the tail of my father's tattered cloak, grasping his waist tightly so the Chambersire wouldn't see me, and if he did, wouldn't be able to pry me away. Peeking out to one side, I saw my mother plead with our guest, certain there had been a mistake. He shook his head and unrolled a slip of leather before her, branded with the crest I knew so well: oxen and ivy, the Marapese clan hailing from the scrublands of Lathan.

  And I'd been chosen to dance the tale of my people.

  Turns out the Chambersire was built for wrangling little girls – low to the ground, wide as he was tall, and his ears impervious to my shrill screams. That evening, during the first of my lessons, I flapped and flailed and even sank my teeth into his meaty arm, the bitterness of his blood only reminding me of how empty I felt inside. I thought he'd beat me right then, put me out of my misery, but he only looked at me with his soulful eyes.

  "You will dance, child. Be proud of your destiny." Then he began to hum, loud enough to break through the sound of my sobs. I recognized the notes, those my mother had sang to me each night before bed – the prayers of my clan.

  * * * * *

  It was a good night to be Marapese. From my perch above the crowd I saw my grandmother with her fiddle, playing like she'd never had an ache her entire life. My aunts held their chins high and had their chests poked so far out, I'd thought they'd topple right over. And my mother, I'd mistook her for the queen when I'd first seen her, with linens of purple and red and gold, so thick she couldn't have felt the lingering cold of the year's last frost. She smiled wide and proudly accepted the blessings and praise of a hundred strangers, but never once did she look me in the eyes.

  A sharp familiar whistle came from below me, and I smiled as I saw my cousin Tazoo, his nose red from too much wine. "You look like a princess!" he called up to me, and the laughter that followed warmed my heart because we both knew I was far from it. Tazoo and I spent our summers throwing rocks at stray cats, our winters building ice forts, and our springs splashing through mud puddles.

  Tazoo tossed something up to me and I caught it out of the air – a coin nearly as big as my palm, with our crest on one side and my face on the other.

  "You're famous! You're so lucky to have won!" he shouted over the whine of pipe organs, and I believed him because Tazoo had never lied to me, not once. He smiled with his mouth but not his eyes, then lost himself in dance, so graceful, so expressive. So much better at it than me.

  * * * * *

  I keep a brown rat as a pet now, mostly to remind myself that I am not the smallest living thing in these caves. His name is Tazoo, after my cousin, now another life away. Tazoo’s home is a box I made from scales and mud, the iridescent sides too slick for him to climb up and escape.

  The goddesses, they're still sleeping. This winter has been especially long, but the sunlight that flitters into the cave strengthens with each day. I'm thankful for the extra warmth, though the comfort it gives will only hasten my fate.

  I rub my ankle where the iron shackle has bruised my skin, wishing my cousin had been born a girl, so he'd be sitting here instead of me. I know he's my blood, my best friend, but still it's been my only wish these past eleven days and has hardened my heart like a fistful of stones.

  I take Tazoo into my palms and rub his head, slicking back his fur. His nose twitches a
cross the tips of my fingers, searching for traces of my supper. Harder and harder I pet him. He squirms and tries to bite, but I force my thumb between his beady eyes and press until I feel his skull snap. Tazoo's dying squeal rips through my heart as I wonder who my cousin will share our mud puddles with this spring.

  An eye, round and big and pale as the moon, slowly opens, then fixes on me. I stand to dance for the goddesses, to protect our lands from their fiery wrath, and to make my clan proud. I hold my breath and try to recall the words to the Marapese hymnal, or even its melody, but my mind betrays me. There is only the memory of the Chambersire standing in our doorway as he pulled that purple silk pouch from his jacket. Coins jingled inside as he'd placed it into my mother's hand. She hadn't smiled, but the melody had lifted her frown ever so slightly.

  "Go with him, dear," she said, peeling me from the safety of my father's cloak. "And behave yourself. Do what he says."

  I held back my sniffles as she brought her cheek down to me. I kissed it, still wet, though her eyes had stopped shedding tears. For eleven days, I've tried to lick the bitterness from my lips, but even now, it still remains.

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  HELLHOUND RESCUE

  BY NICKY DRAYDEN

  First Published by Flash Scribe, 2009

  Three-inch fangs pierce my flesh. I seethe and withdraw my hand from Vaughn's maw, my blood glistening on his teeth.

  "Bad dog!" I scream, but Vaughn bats those big brown eyes, irresistible even with the fiery depths of hell lurking beneath. They're crossbreeding poodles with everything nowadays: cockapoos, schnoodles, and now my foster dog – Vaughn the demon-doodle.

  The doorbell rings. They're here. I should feel bad about placing Vaughn with this nice family, but he's already devoured my ottoman. My shoes.

  My roommate.

  I swallow the pain, pocket my maimed hand, and open the door with a smile.

 

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  BLUE MOON

  BY NICKY DRAYDEN

  The desert chill was quick to strike once the sun sank behind Bartlett Peak. The wind pierced through to the bone, but it wasn't something that a little friction couldn't remedy. Zamara caressed Rusty's face with her muzzle, then clawed through his flannel shirt, revealing a carpet of matted chest hair. As Rusty's body tensed up beneath hers, Zamara bared her teeth in a way he'd interpret as a smile. "It's okay. I won't bite."

  "It's not that. It's him I'm worried about." He nodded up the mountainside at the fortress-like laboratory precariously nestled into the cliff. Moonlight glinted eerily from its gray stone walls, windowless and foreboding.

  "Who, Bubba?" Zamara asked, her coarse voice trailing up at the end.

  Rusty nodded weakly.

  "My ex-husband will be too busy to even notice we're there. We'll sneak in, get my grandmother's china, and sneak out. I know that place like the back of my paw."

  "Maybe I should stay here. I'm just slowing you down ..."

  Zamara licked the bridge of Rusty's nose. "You're so adorable when you snivel." As she nipped gently at the waistband of Rusty's pants, a twinge of pain surged through her. The fur on her back crested as she felt a tick gnawing at her skin. Mind over matter, mind over matter, she chanted to herself, intent on maintaining her poise. But that little parasite bored deeper, and Zamara couldn't help herself. She feverishly scratched behind her ear with her hind foot.

  "You know, it's nothing to be embarrassed about," Rusty cooed, seeming sincere, but he had a knack for saying the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. All heart and no filter.

  "Not a word, you hear me?" Zamara lifted her top lip to reveal a row of porcelain Ginsu knives that gleamed in the light of the full moon. Technically, they were classified as teeth.

  Zamara felt Rusty's eyes running over the rigid contours of her Changed form, assessing her. He jutted his chin. "I reckon ol' Doc Peterson could set you straight with some of that prescription K9 Advantix stuff, no questions asked. What do you weigh, about a buck fifty–"

  Before he could finish his sentence, Zamara had Rusty pinned to a boulder, his back arching in a near-perfect parabola. "I am not a dog. I do not need a vet."

  "Course not! I didn't say that, did I?"

  "And you never ask a woman her weight. Never!"

  Zamara gnashed her teeth and resisted the urge to lick away the froth forming along her muzzle, ropes of drool hovering an inch above Rusty's nose. His Adam's apple kicked around excitedly in his exposed throat. Rusty wasn't the ideal candidate for a mate, but in the months following her divorce, Zamara had discovered that the pool of single, gainfully employed, straight men had dwindled down to just about nothing. Most days she'd settle for two out of the three. Add being open to inter-species dating to the criteria, and the only man on Match.com within a hundred miles of Alpine, Texas had been Rusty.

  "I'm just sayin'," Rusty pleaded, "that Ol' Doc has worked wonders for my Whinny–"

  "I don't want to hear another word about that goat of yours, either!"

  Rusty stifled a squeal. The blended scent of fear and arousal seeped from his pores and played cruel tricks in Zamara's mind. A welcome tightness curled through her abdomen and resonated like a plucked string. Being a werewolf was tough, but being a middle-aged divorcée without a reliable date on Friday nights was tougher. Talk about being hot under the collar.

  She tugged at the elastic of Rusty's undershorts, revealing more of his cinnamon-colored hair. She'd never seen a human so well covered! That ex of hers had been so fleshy and bare. Jagged memories of her old life overwhelmed her. She tried to put her ex-husband out of her mind, but being up here, secluded a mile above the world, only reminded her of the years she'd wasted, watching from the sidelines as Bubba immersed himself in those ridiculous experiments.

  Choking back the resentment, Zamara let her jaw slack and Rusty's undershorts snapped, dealing him the sting of misplaced vengeance.

  He winced, tears beading up in his eyes. "Did I do something wrong?"

  "I'm not in the mood."

  "But, sweetheart ... " Rusty begged, running his fingers through Zamara's fur.

  She unleashed a menacing growl.

  * * * * *

  As they neared the summit, Zamara could make out the details of the lab, the insanity of its design magnified from this vantage point. Its shape was almost organic in nature, like the skeletal remains of something partially buried then forgotten. The portcullis yawned wide as if it were taunting them to enter through its iron gates.

  "What kind of scientist goes and builds a laboratory on the lip of a dormant volcano anyway?" Rusty asked.

  "The mad kind," Zamara replied.

  Bubba was mad in every sense of the word. She hadn't helped matters any by provoking him during the divorce settlement. Zamara had actually thought she'd heard his blood vessels rupturing when she'd disputed Bubba's claim to his Elvis LPs. She'd gotten them, too.

  Zamara clawed at the lock, then slowly pushed the door open, trying to mute the screech of stubborn hinges. The place was a mess inside, littered with trash and reeking of broken dreams. Bubba hadn't taken the breakup well, but that wasn't her problem any longer. After she'd reclaimed those heirlooms that were rightfully hers, she'd put the last six miserable years behind her for good.

  Zamara opened the china cabinet and her heart collapsed. Half of the place settings were missing. "That dimwit has actually been eating off my plates!" she said as she assessed the dried food remains on the pile of dishes stacked in the sink, then pawed at the faucet. "Pack up what's in the cabinet. I'll soak these."

  "Do we really have time for that?" Rusty asked, his eyes shifting nervously.

  "Just pack the dishes, Rusty," Zamara barked, managing to turn it into a seductive growl. "Pretty please?" She needed Rusty for his opposable thumbs right now, not his bravery. It'd cost a fortune to replace a chipped plate.

  Rusty swallowed, his eyeb
rows arching like his lotto numbers had hit. Not a second went by and he was at the cabinet, pulling out a gold-rimmed saucer.

  Zamara opened the sterling drawer. It was empty.

  A sharp click echoed behind them. Zamara spun around on her haunches. The barrel of her ex-husband's shotgun was aimed squarely at her chest, but she looked past it and into his appraising eyes. She used to feel naked under his stare. Powerless. That look might have silenced her before, but now she'd harnessed the strength of her inner bitch, pedigree traced back over forty generations. Zamara gnashed her teeth. "Where's my silverware, Bubba?"

  "I knew you'd return eventually. So this must be the wolf you left me for, huh?" Bubba asked, swinging the barrel in Rusty's direction.

  "He's not a werewolf. He's just a little hairy."

  "You've got to be kidding me. He's got a thicker coat than you do!"

  "And how many times do I have to tell you there was no other man. Perhaps if you'd come out of your lab once in a while, you would have noticed how miserable I was. Now, I'm not going to ask you again. Where's my grandmother's silverware?"

  "You'll be getting your silver back soon enough, my pet." Bubba swiveled the shotgun towards Zamara and stroked the barrel with an eerie tenderness. His unkempt hair and patchy beard brought out the glint of madness in his eyes. Zamara's gaze darted from the empty silverware drawer to the shotgun and back. Suddenly, she knew where her sterling was.

  Before she could blink, a flash of reddish-brown came between her and Bubba. "Don't shoot! Take me instead!" Rusty shouted, the stench of reckless bravado steaming from his entire body.

  What chivalry! Not even the tremble in his voice could betray the sincerity of his intentions. Rusty had renewed Zamara's faith in men, just as she was about to tuck her tail and surrender. Sure he had his quirks, but all in all, Rusty might be the one.

  The floor rumbled severely and unexpectedly, causing Zamara to reach out to Rusty for balance. She oozed into his arms–firm and reassuring, and if her ex-husband weren't threatening to fill her with a spray of melted down teaspoons and salad forks, she would have liked to live in this moment forever.