by Sawyer Black
Henry raised his eyebrows and looked at her past the edge of the page. “What, in my attic?”
She stared at him, her face slack with mock boredom.
Not a girl like he first thought, but a young woman. Late twenties, if he had to guess. Blonde and pale and slim. A rung or two below Samantha, but under all the dirt and dried blood, she was probably pretty. For this place, anyway.
She continued to stare without comment. He shrugged and returned to his paper with a mutter, “I guess it’s just me who’s dead.”
The woman hugged herself and scooted to the front edge of the couch. “I’m hungry.”
Henry gave her the same treatment she’d given him, but Adam looked over the top of his book. His weight shifted across Henry’s shoulders as he pointed. “We got lots of stuff in the cabinet over there. Mostly junk, but there are also some wrinkly apples we picked yesterday.”
Henry jumped in from behind his paper. “Twinkies from World War One. Some Girl Scout sugar cookies from the 30s, I think. Fairly modern Slim Jims, which I highly recommend by the way. A couple of boxes of whole milk. I didn’t even know that shit came in a box, but it does, and you can just put it on a shelf for like, forever. The apples my young friend here mentioned, and two cans of New Coke from the eighties, but to be honest, I’ll never be thirsty enough for those.”
“Do you have any real food?” the woman asked.
Henry tapped Adam’s calf and bucked his shoulders. “Get off me, kid.”
“Okay. I was done with Corinthians, anyways.”
While the boy snapped his book closed and climbed down, Henry folded the newspaper into his lap, taking his time with the answer.
Pretty or not, she’s irritating the shit out of me.
Henry took a calming breath. “As duly elected representatives of the after-life, we don’t really need to eat. Just water and sleep. Skittles and Pepsi.” Henry cocked his thumb at Adam, who had moved to the desk with a box of Bri-Tone crayons. “He doesn’t even get pimples. Or cavities. Fortunately for me, there’s always the shadow assholes running around.”
“The Lost,” she said.
“That what you call ’em?”
She nodded, swallowing with an audible click in her throat.
“Yeah, well. Those fucking guys are everywhere. And I can feel ’em. Their twisted wanting. Their despair. Some of the folks down here are just that. People. Looking for a way out, psyching themselves up to follow the light, but these guys? I can feel it in ’em. Stubborn refusal. Terror. They turned away from the choice, and now it’s too late. They just take up space and try to remove the choice from everyone else.”
“That’s why you hunt them?”
“Well, that. And they taste better.”
She recoiled in disgust, and Henry felt smug satisfaction. He wasn’t sure why he was annoyed by the woman, but he was. He’d become increasingly agitated ever since he’d been in this damned place.
“How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know,” Henry said. “More than two months, less than three? Can’t find a goddamn clock anywhere.”
A smile flashed across her face then got lost in a grimace as if she were trying to hide it. But Henry was sure he’d seen it. She looked into the corners as if searching for something, her eyes tracking along the baseboards. Surely she’d been through some shit.
He wanted to give her a minute, but the back of his neck was getting warm.
“What?” he shouted.
She started, her eyes connecting with his before sliding away. “Why did you save me?”
“Why did I …?” Henry drove his fist into the arm of his recliner, and the paper fluttered to the floor. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re the first person who wasn’t trying to eat us. Or kill us for our clothes. I was gonna say normal, but I don’t know if there is normal in this place.” His voice rose to a shout, and Henry decided to let it. “But you know what? I didn’t even want to. The real reason we saved you was because Adam heard your prayer.”
Henry leaned over and snatched the newspaper off the floor, opening it in angry pantomime. “You were saved. You were healed. So, fuck off and take the New Coke with you. Leave the Slim Jims.”
“Adam? The boy’s name is Adam?”
“That’s right.”
“Is he an angel?”
Henry lowered the paper and looked up at the ceiling — rough beams and oak planking, so much like his attic office back home. He wondered if Mike Stone liked it. Sitting up there and balancing his checkbook. “I’m literally done talking to you. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Henry?” Adam said.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“You're not being very nice.”
Henry looked over at Adam, sitting with his arms crossed in severe reproach.
Amélie’s face sprung into his mind. The same pouting disapproval. Longing twisted his gut, and he had to bite back the sudden swell of tears. One week, when Samantha had been down with the flu, Henry made all of Amélie’s lunches. Every time he assembled the sandwiches, he put the cheese on the outside as a joke, and she put her fists on her hips. “That’s not how it goes, Daddy!”
“Fine.” Henry turned back, and the woman’s face glistened with fresh tears. “What, you’re crying now? Jesus, okay, you can have the Slim Jims, too.”
Adam giggled, and Henry sat back, the warmth of pleasure replacing the heat of his anger. Making somebody laugh, anybody, was enough to make him relax.
The woman wiped at her tears with a grimy hand. “Is there somewhere I can get cleaned up, please?”
“Sure.” Henry pointed his nubbin at the same cabinet that held their food. “There’s a can of wipes and a mirror. Go out the door right next to it, down the stairs, and there’s a running stream smells like piss. Help yourself.”
“Don’t worry,” Adam said. “The shadow people are afraid of us. Well, Henry mostly.”
She nodded and walked across the attic like her boots were soaked in glue. She was dressed like a fantasy novel. Brown leather pants, creaking with her movement. A leather jacket belted at her waist, flaring out to cover most of her ass. Brass buttons shining out from a green flannel shirt. A battered messenger bag bouncing on her left hip, the strap crossing to hang from her right shoulder.
Henry could smell her under the dirt and sweat and blood. Not fruit and flowers, but a sweet earthiness, like baking spice.
She pried the lid off the plastic can and made a dirty pile of crumpled wipes at her feet. If she noticed Henry staring, she didn’t show it. Muscles in her thighs flexed and separated through the tight press of her pants. She slid her sleeves up, and her lean forearms rippled with the movements of her fingers.
Her softness was an illusion. His imagination. This woman was hard. Strong. She made him uncomfortable, and he wanted her gone.
She kicked the dirty wipes into the corner, opened their pantry cabinet, and wrinkled her nose. She closed the door, turned around with crossed arms, and looked directly into Henry’s eyes. “You’re not like any other demon I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, yeah? Out of how many?”
She shrugged. “Not that many, but I’ve been told about your kind.”
“Told what?”
“You’re liars. Cheats. Selfish and ugly. Spiritual forces of darkness that corrupt the flesh of this world.”
“That is …” Henry shrugged, “unkind.”
“It’s the truth.”
Fatigue settled over Henry’s shoulders. Weeks of keeping his spirits up, for Adam, for his own sanity. Faking the smile every morning, or whatever passed for a morning in this place. Dodging every hint of any agents from Heaven or Hell. Always on the lookout for answers. And now it was hard to not feel like he was cracking.
“I’m tired, lady. Let me tell you some truth. I love my daughter. More than anything else … I just don’t have words for how much.” Samantha’s face hanging in his memory, looking over his shoulder in horror as Amélie came out of her b
edroom to scream his name. The cramp in his guts when he had known he couldn’t save her. His life gone in a flash.
Now, I’m crying, too.
Fucking perfect.
“I couldn’t save her when I was alive. And now she’s in Hell. Because of me.” He pointed to Adam. “But this boy? I love him almost as much. I’ll hide him from the Devil himself. I’ll lie right to God’s face!”
He jumped from his chair, his vision turning a hazy, ugly red, her face in the center like a bullseye. He stomped and the house shuddered. Henry was losing control, but it didn’t matter. He was sick of keeping it inside. Forcing it down. “And fuck you! I’m doing the best I can with what I have. Judging me like you know me. Or him! He’s the only light in this dark suck hole, and he’s all I got.”
Adam ran around the table and threw himself at Henry to bury his face in his thigh, holding his leg in a fierce embrace. Henry dropped his hand on the boy’s head, and the anger flowed like water to wash him clean. “He’s the only thing I have,” he whispered. “I’ll do anything to keep him safe.”
“You haven’t been a demon forever?” Her voice was quiet, but it still held the defiant strength of someone who knew they were right.
Henry looked up and shook his head. “Were you a born a bitch?”
She shrugged. “You’re probably not the only one that thinks so, but no. Thank you for saving my life.”
He waved her away. “Whatever, lady.”
“Aela.”
“What?”
“My name is Aela.”
“I don’t give a shit, lady. If you hate demons so much, why are you still fucking here?”
She pointed at Adam. “I’m here for him.”
Henry grabbed Adam’s shoulder and pushed the boy behind him.
He growled at the woman, lowering into a crouch and drawing on the shadows, pulling them to him like dragging on a rope hand over hand.
The lanterns flickered and dimmed. Henry felt grim satisfaction as her face showed uncertainty. Then fear.
She took a step back, and Henry drew in a breath to roar.
“Baelzor asked me to find him!”
Henry released the breath and let go of the shadows to stand straight, spreading his arms in confusion. “Jesus Christ, lady! Why didn’t you start with that?”
Adam popped out from behind Henry’s leg. “You know my father?”
Aela sagged in relief, then paused. “Your father?”
Henry nodded. “That’s right, lady. Adam’s only half angel. The other half is just like me.”
The boy jumped from foot to foot, clapping his hands. “Can I see him? Is my mother here?”
She stared up at Henry in a panic, but he crossed his arms. “Well? What about it, lady?
“I don’t know where he is. I was bringing him back to Solitude when we … were separated.”
Henry felt a little of his good mood return. Watching her squirm was fun. “Solitude, huh? Bringing him back for what? A trial? An execution?”
Her eyes widened, and she looked down at Adam, an artificial smile spreading across her face. “Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“Is my father still alive?” Adam asked.
Aela put her hands on her hips and glared at Henry. “I don’t know.”
Adam spun and looked up at Henry. “Can we look for him?”
Henry ruffled his hair, and it fell back into perfect waves. “Sure, buddy.”
Adam pumped his fist in the air and grinned, wiping his tears with the other hand. He shot past Aela and pounded down the stairs.
Probably gonna get those cowboy boots and that fucking sword.
He and Aela stood staring at each other. Henry finally nodded. “Okay. I feel like people in Solitude don’t much like demons. Is that fair to say?”
Aela tipped her head, raising her eyebrow.
“There a lot of people there?”
She nodded and looked at the floor, rubbing at a spot with the toe of her boot.
“People who can protect him?”
Her eyes snapped up to his.
“People who can take care of him?”
“Yes.”
“I told you. I’ll do anything to keep him safe.”
“They won’t let you in.”
“Yeah, but will they let him in?”
She nodded.
Henry laughed, and a great weight fell from his shoulders. He was no longer the boulder being pushed uphill. Somebody else’s burden, threatening to roll back and crush them. Pass his responsibility off to somebody more capable and head to Hell.
Daddy’s still coming, baby girl.
“Alrighty, then. Let me go get a new coffee can.”
Chapter Three
Henry stepped out of the cottage in a pair of canvas carpenter jeans and some heavy black work boots unearthed from a crumbling storefront. A rusty sign hung over the door, squealing as it swung in the wind: Schuhfachgeschäft Das Handwerk.
An eleven-and-a-half in life, these bad boys were a snug fifteen. He topped it off with a 6XLT light blue tee that had a rainbow across the chest. Everybody’s Gay! in a script font across the bottom.
He wished he could summon Mike’s body and, more importantly his normal clothing sizes, but Henry was having trouble imagining himself into human form in this place. If anything, he was feeling uglier and more demonic.
His coffee can had been a fortunate find. Still half-full of grounds from a Hill of Beans, a coffee chain known for their over-roasted bullshit. The coffee brought back memories. Sitting across from Sammy Roth and banging out a script for Just-Right Jasper, a cartoon about a redneck superhero that Comedy Central had passed on.
The empty can perfectly covered his nubbin, and if Henry flexed the muscles that made a fist before he lost most of his hand, that nubbin swelled to hold the can in place. Good for smacking stuff, and it kept him from seeing the ruined mess Boothe and Randall, in all their angelic power, had been unable to heal.
A big mountaineer’s backpack with fur trim was strapped to his back, holding all the crap they’d collected during their weeks of hiding. Mostly useful. Matches and candles. Baby wipes. Mandyel’s cell phone, only buzzing when open, faint whispering voices in the static.
All the stuff a pampered city boy thought might be useful for survival. Adam’s bible, and the Playboy that Henry had done an interview for ages ago. It was weird the shit he’d found since coming here, especially a magazine he just happened to have been interviewed in.
The essentials.
Ten minutes of following Aela, and Henry wasn’t sure where the hell they were going. The boy paced along beside him, boot heels clomping on the wet sidewalk. His sword, dark and dull, rested on his shoulder like a baseball bat.
They had found it in the back of a milk truck. Silver plastic with faux jewels in the handle, the scabbard and matching shield of dented tin. Once vibrant paint chipped and faded. “Watch this, Henry,” Adam had shouted, and the toy sword became a blade of pure white fire.
He reached out and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. Adam’s grin shone out in the dark, and Henry hoped Aela was telling the truth. Adam deserved more than what Henry could figure out.
“Where are we going?” he asked the dark shape in front of him.
She threw an irritated glance over her shoulder. “I’m looking for the Way Home.”
“Yeah, I thought you knew the way.”
She sighed. “Not the way home. The Way Home.”
Henry mimicked her sigh as they walked down a wide street with houses of different generations and locales oddly located next to one another. An American fifties midwest home next to a pioneer’s cabin next to an early German cottage, and even more homes whose origins Henry only vaguely recognized. The only thing the homes had in common were that nobody was outside beneath the perpetually dusk sky.
Flickering lights in windows died as they passed.
He could feel the subdued fear of the people behind the glass. Not the twist
ed need of the Lost, just the deep fear of the unknown. The sad worry of those stuck in this dark limbo.
The street ended at a delivery truck in front of a wall of giant buildings, as if someone had plopped a sprawling metropolis at the end of a suburban street. They couldn’t see past the closest buildings, as the fog only thickened around them, masking their size and scope.
Aela scraped her feet across a rough spot in the stone a few yards in front of the delivery truck’s gnarled shadow. She looked up then turned in a slow circle. Henry couldn’t tell what she saw in all that darkness, but she nodded with a satisfied smile and eased into a gap between buildings.
He heard the jangle of keys and the turning of a lock. The bottom edge of a door scraped through the muck on the ground, and Aela disappeared into a square of black so dark, Henry might as well have had his eyes closed. He grabbed Adam’s shirt and pulled him into the doorway, turning to close the door, feeling his way up the jamb until he found the deadbolt. He threw the lock, and a candle flared behind him.
Aela held the tiny light aloft, and they stood in a room of shelves, floor-to-ceiling and packed with supplies. She used the candle in her hand to light a another set into a sconce on the wall.
“Neat.” Adam rammed his plastic sword into the tin scabbard, then set the little shield against one of the shelves. Shafts of reflected light danced off the ceiling.
The glittering chains in the corner caught Henry’s eyes. Gleaming and oiled, they didn’t look like iron.
Stainless steel, maybe?
He crossed the room to touch them. They didn’t burn. Cold and hard.
Not plain iron, for sure.
Aela stepped in next to him and lifted a latching manacle off a hook, turning it over to catch the light.
“What are these for?” Henry asked.
She snapped the manacle over his wrist and danced back.
Henry stared at the metal cuff on his wrist in a paralysis of confusion. His inability to understand why she had done it drizzling ice over his anger.
She looked at him with a haughty rise of her eyebrows. “I’m not going to present myself to my grandfather looking like this. I’m going into the next room to take a bath, and I don’t want you following me. Forcing yourself on me.”