by Sawyer Black
Henry wasn’t sure if it was merely the power of suggestion. He felt like his body was turning inside-out. His hands found his midsection as his body swayed with exhaustion.
“You’re like a car, Henry. Run your tank to nothing, and you'll break down. Never waste your body’s fuel on turning invisible if you can turn shadows into friends. People don’t want to see you, Henry. Ever. You’ll horrify them. Fortunately, their terror makes it easier for you to gel with the shadows. Less concentration to start and minimum focus to control. Once you’re rested, we’ll try invisibility. Then, when you’re drained, I’ll show you how even one breath in your body is enough to help you sink into shadow.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve sunk into shadow. I usually prefer a bath.”
Boothe narrowed his eyes on his apprentice. “More questions, Henry?”
“Why don’t you just help me? You could show me where all three men are, teleport us to them, and BAM! Asshole sausage.”
“I don’t know how much clearer I can make things for you. As I’ve said, there are rules, for this and for everything. I’m not all-knowing or all-seeing. In order to appear somewhere, I must have been there before. Or be with someone who has. I can’t just blink you right in the middle of the bad guy secret headquarters.”
“Okay, I get that. But it still seems like we’re going the long way around. I’m not so fragile, at least not after what you’ve shown me. Unless I’m missing something, I’ve a total of three guys to kill. I did that before lunch back at the White Trash Castle, and I’m saying that without even trying to be a dick.”
“You’ve answered your own question. You have three men to kill. Not me. Revenge isn’t my job. My job was to get you here. That’s finished. Now I’m doing more than required by making sure you don’t get too much blood on my white linen. Every death has a cost, even for a demon. Taking someone before their time, and yes, there is a time, always alters the balance. The universe may seem chaotic to you, Henry. It’s not. You see but a pixel in its picture. Upset equilibrium, and you upset those who pull the strings.”
“Who pulls the strings?”
“I’m tired, Henry. I brought you to somewhere from Nowhere, and am running close to empty myself. I don’t have long before I fade. Might we discuss this later?”
There was something so sad and honest in how the demon asked. He seemed hollow and exhausted. Henry nodded. “Okay.”
But he knew Boothe was showing him only what he wanted him to see, and in his calculated order.
CHAPTER 9
Boothe stood over Henry, who lay on the couch with his eyes already closed. “Promise you’ll sleep.”
Henry nodded and curled his body tighter.
“I mean it. You’re vapor-empty. If you leave this apartment in the next few hours, you will likely die, ridiculed on your way to Hell. Understand?”
Henry nodded again. He wanted to ask what Boothe meant about him going to Hell but was too exhausted.
“If it’s day when you wake, wait until dark. The night harbors millions of shadows, one reason you expel less energy after hours. Going out after dark is always better, as the daytime can be quite dangerous for our kind. Do so only if you must and never when drained. Too many things can go wrong. Promise?”
Henry nodded again, then Boothe was gone.
So was Henry.
In the dream, he was up in his office. Not the new one downstairs. There he had a cinema screen and projector, an endless wall of his favorite books, a treadmill-mounted desk — a contraption that helped him hate himself while writing his routines — three monitors to fulfill his ADD’s every need, with his newest iMac in the middle. Any routine, song, book, movie, or TV show he wanted to inspire him only a click or two away. Plus, the new office held the small safe where Henry kept his weed. And yet, for all its awesomeness, it wasn’t his office of choice.
He sat in his attic office, instead. His favorite room in the house. The place where he preferred to work on new material, especially the untested stuff. He couldn’t think in the fancy office, where too much other shit battled for his attention. Upstairs was sparse and dark, the perfect nest to nurture creativity.
They had built his new office after moving in. Samantha wanted the construction done early, so Henry’s workspace was ready along with the rest of the home. Construction took longer than planned — a wall needed to be removed, and Henry grew impatient and made a temporary office in the attic instead. No wall-sized screen or any devices larger than his laptop. But the lack of distractions was more conducive to writing, anyway. That, and the weed. Henry realized he preferred the tiny space. When people came over, which they were doing more all the time, they always went to his downstairs office. For his private place, it was awfully public, and that stripped much of its magic. But not even Samantha went in the attic. Only Amélie, who would sometimes sneak inside when he was working, giggling the entire time since she knew she wasn’t supposed to be there.
Dreaming, Henry sat at his attic desk, working on the most important comedy routine of his life. In both dream and memory, he’d been trying to nail it for a week. His first Tonight Show gig was days away, and the act wouldn’t write itself. He had to ace the beats. One shot and a few minutes to get everything right.
As the perfect closing bit entered his head, Amélie burst into the room, laughing.
She was five at the time, still at an age when she didn’t understand why Daddy needed to be alone for his work. If he was home all day, then of course he would want to play before dinner. She ran through the attic like her butt was on fire. Henry spun from his chair, ready to scream at her as he had in the memory from five years ago, but she waved her jazz hands, palms to her audience of one, fingers splayed so proudly it was impossible for Henry not to laugh.
“Hey, Daddy, I invented a new word. Wanna hear it?”
He couldn’t be mad at Amélie for being the kid he always wanted, the one he never had a chance to be.
“Yes, honey, of course I do. What is it?”
“It’s called reintarnation. It means when you come back from the dead, you live in Texas.”
Henry slapped his knee, surprising himself with a genuine laugh, rather than the manufactured one he expected. Reintarnation had been Amélie’s first made-up word, though she followed with plenty in the years that followed. Six months before the blow to the head that sent Henry to Nowhere, Amélie had asked, “What’s an ignoranus?”
“A person who’s both an idiot and an asshole?”
“Bingo, Dad. Use it in your act.”
Henry had never been prouder.
At only five, Amélie stared up into her daddy’s eyes, waiting for approval. “Reintarnation. Do you like it? Do you think it’s funny?”
“I do! Could be a comedy classic. Think I should add it to my set?”
“Yes! Do you promise you will?”
“No, I can’t promise that. But I can promise to try. Funny’s less funny when you stuff stuff inside it. Comedy has to be natural. But I promise if I can ever find a way to fit reintarnation into my set, and I almost totally probably can, I will. Cool?”
“Yes!”
“That it?” he asked, wondering if that was her reason for interruption. And even though Henry had used his mouth and not his fist, Amélie looked beaten all the same.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean it like that.” Henry eased himself from chair to floor, walking toward Amélie and taking her hand as she started to cry. He bent to his knee. “I didn’t mean anything, Ami. I just have a ton to do. I have a big show coming up, and there’s going to be a fancy-pants guy watching. Since he wears fancy pants, he gets to make fancy decisions. Those fancy decisions turn into suggestions for fancier people in even fancier pants. Once the super-fancy people hear the fancy ideas, they decide whether those ideas are worth doing something extra super fancy with. And guess what?”
Amélie smiled.
“Say it …”
She shook her head, gigg
ling.
“Say it!”
Amélie laughed, and said, “Then super-fancy things can happen to us?”
“That’s right.” Henry sat back in his chair, turned back to his desk, and pulled Amélie up on his lap. “Would you like to hear a story?”
“Is peanut butter nuts?” Amélie said, trying to make a pun, and coming closer than she ever had, even if the wording didn’t quite work.
“Sometimes.”
Amélie nuzzled into her father’s chest as he told the tale of Wordslinger Wendy, the space cowgirl who could never be destroyed since her words busted down every door, even if they were triple reinforced with titanium and coated with rubber and glue that made everything bounce off the door and stick to the courageous cowgirl.
Henry had made up the character one night at bedtime, by accident, and bit by bit had added to the story many bedtimes since.
Though Henry faced the desk, with his daughter on his lap and his back to the attic entrance, he could feel Samantha watching as he recited the story. Amélie had fallen asleep with the heat of her back warming his chest, and he had carried her to bed, tucking her in with a soft kiss on her forehead.
After he left Amélie, Samantha met him in their bedroom.
“Thank you,” she whispered, kissing him on the mouth, then his nipple, and then of course the only place that mattered.
Henry woke up alone, sadness and hate roiling in his thoughts.
It was as dark outside the apartment as it was inside of him.
He couldn’t stay.
Henry had no idea how long he had slept, but he felt energized and strong. Boothe had either exaggerated his need for a nap or he’d been sleeping far longer than he thought. Either way, Henry wasn’t staying in the apartment a minute longer. He had to see Samantha.
Henry threw on his hoodie and jeans, then headed for the door. His hand hit the handle as he realized his stupidity. A monster like him didn’t roam the halls or take elevators. Monsters weren’t even welcome on stairs. Henry had surprisingly little information on how to get around.
But he knew what felt right.
He went to the window, opened it, and with barely a thought, leapt out of the apartment and onto the fire escape. After clinging to the metal railing for a second, Henry launched himself several feet, grabbing an iron rain gutter running up the building’s side. He relaxed his grip and slid to the bottom. A sharp current shocked his body from toe to earlobe as Henry’s heels hit the concrete.
The hard landing energized rather than hurt him.
Henry fell into the first shadow as if he’d been doing it all his life, then slipped into the second as smooth as if he were sliding on ice, except he didn’t collapse on his ass like he had the few times he had attempted to ice skate. He crossed the street and turned back, looking up at Boothe’s building. The Mason Lofts, fourteen floors of high-end apartments layered above four floors of offices, having once been a department store owned by the Mason family in the early 1900s before the Burg had become the bustling city it was now. While the building’s interior, at least on his floor, looked to feature the latest in architectural aesthetics, the exterior still looked a century old.
Soon Henry was at the corner of Kress and Walker, two-and-a-half miles from his real home.
Slipping from shadow to shadow made for immediate travel. Henry reached his house. Even not living there, it was impossible to think of it as anything else. The goll, who’d been sitting on the roof, saw Henry first. An excellent indication of Samantha’s quality protection.
The goll leapt to the ground, landing a few feet in front of Henry, and greeting him before he’d finished his first bounce. It was as ugly as Boothe had said it was, surprising Henry with its odd appearance. Of course, Henry wasn’t one to talk about odd appearances these days.
The creature spoke. “Master Henry, how are you tonight?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not your master. Just Henry, please.”
“Sorry, Master Henry. But that’s your name, at least for me. Every goll has a master. You’re mine, until Master Boothe says otherwise.”
The beast’s voice was deep, a bit on the slow side, but formal and polite. And yet there wasn’t a single thing Henry liked, or even appreciated, about being loaned a goll.
Except that at least Samantha was safe.
“Thank you for protecting her, my wife, I mean. I appreciate it. Who am I thanking?”
“My name is Ezra,” said the goll. “I’m one hundred and three.”
“Impressive,” Henry said, finding it curious that the creature introduced itself like a child, stating its age. The only thing missing from the scene was the goll holding up its fingers ten times, followed by three fingers once. “Do you normally tell people your age on the first date?”
“It’s custom.”
Henry stared at Ezra, not knowing if the goll was joking or even capable of humor. His smile seemed simple and sincere, even if the teeth Henry glimpsed were incredible in number and sharpness.
“Did you come to say thank you, Master Henry? Surely your time is more valuable.”
“I’m here to check on my wife.”
“But that’s what I’m here to do!”
“If I thought a hobbit could do the job, I wouldn’t be here.”
Ezra looked down, either ashamed or unwilling to fight. “You’re not going to let her see you, are you, Master Henry?”
He hadn’t spent enough time around golls to know if they were easily scared, but the creature was trembling. “No. Why, what happens if I do?”
“You cannot let her see you,” Ezra breathed, like fire from his throat. “Trust me.”
“Why?”
“Just. Trust. Me.”
“Okay. I think I have the invisible-thing down. How’s this?”
Henry flared himself, sending his body into a different vibration, still with no true understanding of what he was doing or how. The ability came to him, like instinct, as if he’d learned it in his sleep. His eyes hummed under their lids as he blinked, certain of his invisibility.
“I can still see you,” Ezra said as Henry opened his eyes. “But don’t worry,” he added, waving off Henry’s frown, “there’s no problem. You did everything right. Golls see more things than most creatures, especially humans.”
Henry said nothing, staring past the goll and at his house.
“Promise you’ll be careful?” Ezra seemed genuinely terrified. “Master Boothe will be angry if you’re not.”
Henry never had a chance to tell Ezra not to worry, because the goll was screeching almost as soon as he ended his sentence, hopping frantically on the sidewalk while pointing madly at a white van behind him. “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here! I can smell the death on him!”
Henry turned toward the van and instantly recognized the driver. The man with the tiny eyes who had held a gun to Samantha’s head.
CHAPTER 10
Henry reached the van as its door started to open. He pulled it the remainder of the way, grabbed the guy’s left hand, yanked it toward the opening, then pulled him by the wrist, slamming the door so it raked across the top of the bastard’s knuckles.
Blood splattered the white paint in a fan of red.
The murderer screamed, then surprised Henry by throwing the van door back open, and kicking him in his gnarled nose. Henry reeled back as the door slammed shut.
The fucker gunned the engine and peeled into the street.
Henry primed his body to race after the van, but the van stopped a block away. Then it turned around, engine racing, and rocketed back at Henry.
He stood, snarling.
The van got two inches from Henry before he flared, leaping ten feet into the air. Three away from getting crushed by the grill. He misjudged his landing by an inch, maybe two, and flew to the pavement, ass first. He growled, bounced as if made of rubber, then roared toward the van.
It accelerated, going faster than Henry, but only because his new demon body was alread
y exhausted. He gave the chase everything he had, and more, reaching the van’s back and grabbing onto the bumper.
He clung to the metal, dragging himself toward the van as his knees scraped along the asphalt., skin dragging and leaving a black trail of blood.
Pain is only thought.
Henry’s right hand found the back-door handle, frustrated to find it was the kind that lifted, with nothing to pull, and nowhere to gain purchase. Still growling, he clutched the bumper with his left hand and reached up with his right, pressing his fingers into the metal. Black claws bloomed from his fingertips, puncturing the door and pulling Henry to it like a magnet.
He ripped the back door from its hinges and released it into the air, where the white painted metal stayed for a half second before falling back and bouncing off the road with a horrible screeching. Henry pulled himself into the van’s back as the murderer drowned the whipping wind with his terrified screams. His bald head gleamed with the reflected glow of streetlamps.
The van swerved wildly, as if the murderer at the wheel was more frightened by the thing that had ripped his door off than he was by any danger of dying in a crash. The vehicle slammed to a stop and the man moved for his door as Henry flew forward, unable to halt his momentum.
Henry grabbed the murderer by his jacket collar as he was about to jump out of the van, then flung him over to the passenger side. The killer’s nose smashed against the window, crunching cartilage and spattering blood on the glass. The coward lay crumpled in the corner of the passenger side, crying.