IGMS Issue 16 Page 3

  Patterson opens the book and begins to read. The words of the Gibbering Codex are a long string of nonsense, random syllables, grunts, and clicks. This is going to be a very stupid way to die. Yet, fear of impending death isn't the worst thing going on in my head. The worst thing is feeling like a complete idiot. I thought Skater liked me. He's been playing me all along and I fell for it.

  I can't believe I shaved my legs for him.

  Then Westcott stabs me.

  The blade slides in just beneath my belly button, digging deep as he draws a long, curved line up toward my ribs. Pain jangles along my spine; sweat erupts from every pore. I arch my back, banging my head against the girder. Despite the gag in my mouth, I scream. It comes out as a low, long groan.

  Unable to inhale, I go limp, my head dropping forward. I look down at my blood spilling into the silver bowl. It fills with disturbing speed.

  When the bowl overflows, the three men turn and walk toward the dog. I can barely lift my head. White stars spark at the edge of my vision. The roar in my ears drowns out the chanting.

  Skater kneels before the Chihuahua. Westcott bows down, untying the dog's twine muzzle. Hercules is too terrified to make a sound as Westcott shoves the dog's mouth into the bowl.

  All color drains from the world. I'm staring down a gray tunnel at Hercules, who kicks and wiggles as he drowns in my blood.

  The dog swallows.

  Then grows. And grows. The three men step back as the twine bindings snap. Hercules is on his back, twitching, as he swells to the size of a Saint Bernard. I raise my head higher, forcing myself to watch. Now he's the size of a horse, rolling over onto his feet. He whines and whimpers. The dog's shoulders bulge as tumors like twin watermelons grow beneath his skin. Eyes open near the back of the tumors, followed by sprouting ears. There's a sickening rip as the bulges split open, revealing mouths. Hercules is now the size of a Brahma bull, with three heads and six eyes that glow red like brimstone.

  It's Cerberus.

  They've summoned Cerberus.

  They've made a terrible, terrible mistake.

  Since leaving the monastery, my faith in the monks' teachings has slipped away, nibbled and gnawed at by the modern world until it was easy to believe that my own absurd, impossible history was all a lie.

  But if I were only human, I'd be dead by now.

  I turn my eyes toward heaven. Father, I pray, silently. I need your strength.

  It's not God I'm praying to.

  I feel a jolt rush through me, and I'm no longer cold. I'm full of hot lighting, my heart thundering in my ears. The hemp rope tying me to the ceiling snaps like kite string. I fall forward, my feet still tied to the girder. I kick, breaking free, then bite through my gag and spit it out.

  Grasping my belly, I rise to my feet. Loops of intestine slip out, suspended in my fingers. I clench my teeth as I push my guts back inside.

  Cerberus is the size of an elephant. No one is looking at me. Westcott raises his hands and informs hell's guard dog that he's been summoned to serve and obey. He holds up a photo of his ex-wife.

  "Your first mission is to find this woman and kill her."

  Cerberus responds by nosing forward, opening the jaws of his left head, and crushing Westcott's skull like an egg. For a half second, the other twelve men fall silent, staring as Westcott's body wobbles, then topples backward.

  Everyone runs. Most make it to the door, but not Patterson, and not Skater. I feel what must be heartache as the big dog gulps down the only boy who ever kissed me. I'd hoped to feel the stubble of his face again, when I pummeled him to within an inch of life.

  Cerberus jumps out of his summoning circle. I've got to send him back. The three-headed hound dog isn't stationed at the gates of hell to keep people out. He's there to keep the damned in. Once they realize he's gone, the world will be overrun with vengeful, insane spirits. Happy Halloween.

  I spin around and place my hand on the girder. I whisper a prayer that has appeared in my head as if by divine inspiration and the girder melts like a candle. Cold liquid iron flows down my arm and across my torso. I pull my hand away as the metal covers my belly and stiffens. At least I won't be tripping over my own entrails.

  As the iron flows over my legs, I flex my right hand, summoning steel into it, forging a sword by sheer willpower. I bring the fresh iron to my lips and kiss the blade. The fever heat in my blood jumps into the metal; with a WHOOSH it bursts into white flame.

  I jerk my head forward and the faceplate of my just-formed helmet drops into place with a satisfying clang. With a rapid prayer of thanks to my angel dad, I run forward, brandishing my sword, and unleashing a battle cry as Cerberus hunches down to slip out the open doorway.

  He spins around, bloody spittle foaming in his jaws, snarling as he sees me. He lunges, faster than my eyes can track. One second, he's ten yard away, the next, he's got a set of jaws clamped around my left thigh and his middle mouth chewing on my ribs. His third jaw goes for my wrist, to make me drop the angel blade, but now it's time to surprise him with my own speed. His jaws snap down on the foundry-hot steel of my sword and all three mouths turn loose as he jerks away, yelping.

  "Bad dog!" I shout, jamming the gauntleted fingers of my left hand into the nostrils of his middle head as deep as they will go. I hook my fingers up and he howls, shaking his heads violently. I stand firm as Gibraltar, clamped down on his nose, immune to his fury.

  With angel blood powering my muscles, I drag him back toward the pentacle. I'm not sure what I'll do when I get him there. If I kill him, it might leave hell wide open. The left head keeps snapping at me, but the right head hangs back, its mouth still smoking from its flaming-sword snack. My armor resists the worst of the left head's assault, but his hell-dog slobber feels like battery acid as it seeps through the joints.

  I hum "Hound Dog," as I drag him over the smooth concrete floor, his claws leaving long scratch marks.

  I get Cerberus back in the middle of the pentagram at the part of the song where the dog is scolded for his failures as a rabbit-catcher. I slap the right head across the nose with the flat of my blade, then twist my fingers deep in the middle head's nostrils. The left head yowls.

  "Listen up," I say, going for the direct approach. "I could try all night to guess the magic words that send you back. Or, I can just keep hurting you until you've decided you've had enough. In hell, you get to hurt people. Here, I get to hurt you. This should be an easy choice."

  The dog stops struggling, his six eyes glowering as he studies me. He sighs. A shudder ripples along his body.

  I blink.

  When my eyes open I'm sure that he's a little smaller. Five seconds later, there's no question that he's smaller still. Before I know it he's no bigger than a German Shepherd. Waves of dark energy swirl around me, toilet bowl fashion, as the hell-spirit departs the dog flesh and heads back home.

  I'm left with a dazed, bloody-nosed Chihuahua hanging from my fingertips. He whines pitifully, his whole body limp, as I pull him off.

  My armor is suddenly very heavy. I drop to my knees as my sword sputters, then goes black, coated with ash. Once again energy spins around me, a bright whirlwind of fire.

  A dark-haired angel floats above me, his arms spread wide as the flame flows back into his chest, leaving a heart-shaped glow on his breast.

  My vision is blotted by black spots as the light fades, but I swear the angel winks at me as he turns his thumb up in a gesture of approval. He grins and says, "Not bad, but a better song would have been 'Return to Sender.'"

  "Noted," I say, barely able to hold my head up. My vision blurs and the angel is gone. The only thing above me is a tin roof. I cradle the dog to my breast as I stagger back to my feet, stumbling toward the open door. I need fresh air.

  There's a splash near my feet as I make it outside. I look down. I'm standing in blood. I barely push my faceplate up before I start to vomit. As Sherry might say, I "puke my guts out." Only, literally. By the time I'm done, my intestines have sl
ipped out of my wound and are wedged between my skin and breast plate. I hope that girder was sterile.

  I finally gather my wits enough to wonder about the source of the blood. It's not all mine, is it? I look around and find a dead cultist a yard away. Nine other bodies lie scattered across the weed-covered parking lot.

  There's a single car, headlights blazing, the motor idling. I inch toward it, spotting the dark-robed figure silhouetted beyond the lights, pistol in hand.

  I stagger past the headlights. No longer blinded, I see who I thought I'd see.

  Brother Anthony takes the Chihuahua from my rubbery arms.

  "This was the vessel?" he asks, in a business-like tone.

  I nod.

  "We'll have Brother Berthold examine him. Perhaps his life can be spared."

  "You can't tell because of the armor, but I'm bleeding to death," I whisper.

  He places an arm around me and helps me into the car. It's a big Mercedes. Even in my armor, the back seat is roomy. I drape a steel clad forearm across my eyes as I collapse onto the soft leather.

  "We're fortunate that it's Halloween," says Brother Anthony. "It may be the only night a monk can bring an armor clad woman to an emergency room without arousing undue curiosity."

  "Way to see the silver lining," I say, or try to say; I have no idea if he understands my mumbles.

  "Despite your injuries, this night has been a victory. We defeated the Golden Veil, and you dispatched Cerberus swiftly enough to avoid a large-scale escape. After the doctors mend you, you can recuperate at the monastery while we research any evil spirits that may have slipped loose."

  I move my arm and open my eyes. I can see the stars pass overhead through the back window of the car. I feel a little stronger now that I'm on my back. What blood I have left is finding an easier path to my brain. I don't feel great, but I might be able to fight off slipping into a coma for another five minutes.

  "I'm not going back to the monastery," I whisper.

  He's quiet.

  "I want to stay in school. I can heal in my dorm room."

  "There's no point in staying in this school. Your studies have taken you far past the level of anything the classes here have to offer."

  "The stuff I need to learn isn't in books. I don't know how to talk to people. I don't know how to judge who to trust."

  "You need only trust us."

  "You said if a razor touched my skin, I'd lose my strength, like Sampson. I shaved my legs and I still yanked Cerberus around like a puppy."

  There's a strange sound from the front seat.

  "Are you grinding your teeth?"

  "The biblical texts do not address whether Sampson shaved his legs," Brother Anthony admits.

  I laugh, but quickly stop as my innards slosh.

  "I drank coffee this week. I even tried a beer."

  I can see the side of his head. The vein in his temple is bulging.

  "Maybe it's not prayer and fasting that gives me my powers. Maybe they're just part of me. My father is an angel who thinks that earth has rewards that heaven can't offer. Perhaps wanting to have fun is just part of who I am."

  "These are dangerous thoughts."

  I close my eyes. Everything fun is dangerous. Perhaps I'm on a path angels should fear to travel, treading down to the end of Lonely Street, and straight on through the Heartbreak Hotel, out the back door, to whatever lies beyond. The angel spark that dwells within me won't be nurtured by prayer and meditation in some quiet, hidden valley. If I ever hope to blow the spark into a flame, I'll need the whirlwind of the wide, wild world.

  Even an angel needs a little Elvis in her soul.

  Through the Blood

  by Mette Ivie Harrison

  Artwork by Anna Repp

  * * *

  The day had been long and loud, with the constant roar of the crowds outside the palace cheering for Elwell. Now it was dark and the man himself was inside, with the king he had deposed, carrying a heavy crystal decanter and a white powder in a bag.

  "There's not enough powder here to kill you, but enough to make you forget who you are and how you will end," Elwell offered gently, as if with real compassion.

  Haber, no longer King, stood at the window, looking out on his last sunset.

  Elwell shrugged. "It's your choice. The end won't come any sooner or slower for it, but I wanted you to know that I do have some scrap of mercy left for you. We were once friends, were we not?"

  "I was your friend," said Haber. "But I think you've been planning this for a very long time indeed. Revenge for boyhood slights? You have capitalized on every misstep, on the queen's death, on the rebellion I put down so bloodily, on the raised taxes after the drought. I trusted you."

  "Trust is a fatal flaw in a king, sadly." Elwell put another log on the fire.

  The room was plenty warm. Elwell was making it hot enough that Haber's robes would become acutely uncomfortable. But to take them off -- no. They were the last sign of kingship, the last thing he had left that Elwell had not taken, and he would die with them on.

  "What is the price, then?" asked Haber, gesturing to the powder though he had no intention of taking it.

  "Gifting your son with the magic," said Elwell. "Of course. What else do you have to offer?"

  The magic that protected the kingdom from outside attack. It did not extend to civil war, nor to drought or plague. But so long as the king held the magic and the king held the throne, the kingdom of Triborn could not be taken by an invading army from another land.

  In his youth, Haber had twice been tempted by his friendship with Elwell to tell him how the magic passed from one king to the next, but both times had stopped himself. It was perhaps his only wisdom in all those years. If Elwell knew, how different this scene would be.

  "No," said Haber. "Giving the magic to him would be the same as giving it to you." Elwell would use Berick worse than he had used Haber.

  "Your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider. Think of how frightened your son is. He does not know how to be king. He is only a boy. Barely six years old. You cannot be angry with him. Why deny him his rightful inheritance only because you must die?"

  "He has his mother's eyes, but he does not look like me." At his birth, Haber had had no doubt that the boy was his. Now he had nothing but doubt.

  Elwell had been the one to bring back the portrait of Princess Yara. Elwell had spoken praises of her grace and queenliness. He had lit a fire in Haber's heart for her, and had stood as translator for her time and again. Now Haber wondered what else Elwell had done for the queen before she had died of the plague.

  "What will you make of him?" Haber asked, his tone still demanding, for he had no other.

  "King," said Elwell.

  Haber smiled bitterly. "That is the one thing I am sure you will never do. For if he is king, then what of you? He would have no need of you, and you cannot allow that. That is the difference between us, Elwell. I am capable of love."

  "I loved you once," said Elwell. There was a hint of color in his cheeks.

  That one night, that drunken kiss. Was that the beginning of this grudge? They had been only a few years older than Berick then, and still in school. But it was true that Elwell had changed afterwards. Haber had thought it was only embarrassment, and had been so eager to show his friend that it did not matter.

  "Bring him to me, then," said Haber with a sigh.

  Elwell's eyes lit, and he left the chamber.

  It was not long before he was back. Certainly not long enough.

  Haber felt the tears start in his eyes at the sight of the boy. He felt the love of a father to a son, no matter what was in the blood.

  "Father!" shouted Berick, and ran to him. Then he stopped and looked at Elwell.

  "Go on," Elwell said with a wave of his hands.

  This time Berick came more slowly, his arms outstretched. But he did not embrace his father with any strength.

  "How are you, boy?"

  "I am well, Father," he said, licking
his lips and looking at Elwell again.

  "Good, good."

  "I missed you, Father."

  "I missed you, too, boy." Berick was named for his grandfather, and suddenly Haber found it very hard to taste his father's name in his mouth.

  "I love you."

  "I love you, too. You are a good boy."

  What else was there to say?

  "Give him your gift, Berick," Elwell prodded.

  Berick put a hand to his pocket. He took out a tiny stone flower. "For you, Father," he said.

  Haber held it up. The details were astonishing. Each petal had been delicately cut into the stone. It had been years since he had seen such beauty. Since school, when Elwell had enjoyed showing off his skill to the young Haber, who had never been gifted in the arts.

  "You made this yourself?" asked Haber, his heart sinking at this last, damning bit of evidence.

  Berick nodded. "Duke Elwell has been teaching me."

  Haber spoke stiffly. Elwell had once tried to teach Haber, with no results. Why should the son be so different from the father? "Thank you, Berick. I will treasure this. It is a beautiful gift."

  "Father --" said Berick.

  "Yes?"

  "Do you have a gift for me, as well?"

  Part of the script Elwell had prepared for this meeting.

  Haber put his hands behind his back, clasping them to keep then from shaking. Now it was time for his own script.

  "Has Elwell told you how I will die?" he asked.

  Berick looked away.

  "He knows it will be the gallows," said Elwell. "Do you think that he will hate me more if you tell him the details? Shall I get a rope to let him feel it around his own neck? Show him the drawings of criminals who have been left to rot?"

  "But a king is never hanged," said Haber. "Do you not remember your histories? It has been many years -- but still, there must be courtesy given." Now he had surprised Elwell. There was some pleasure in that. "A king must be killed with the axe," said Haber.

  Berick flinched.

  Elwell's eyes narrowed, searching for the purpose behind this. "You think that this will give you a reprieve, of hours or days, while I search for an axeman?"