by Tim Waggoner
Jayce pulled free from Nicola’s grasp, intending to run toward the Harvest Man and claim his daughter’s head, but even in his grief and anger, he realized doing so would be suicidal. He saw what had happened to the twins, but he couldn’t leave without Emory’s head. It was all that remained of her, all that he and Mackenzie might have to bury if the rest of her body couldn’t be found. A memory came to him then, of when Nicola threatened the dog-eaters last night, how she’d told them she’d throw the vessel she’d bought at CrazyQwik at them if they didn’t let him go. They’d been scared at the thought of what the vessel might do to them and had backed down. Jayce knew that not all vessels were dangerous – at least, not dangerous enough to be considered weapons. If they were, then people like Ivory wouldn’t be able to use them safely as she had a while ago. And while Emory had become deeply involved with the world of Shadow and the beings that inhabited it, he couldn’t believe she’d stock her refrigerator with the Shadow equivalent of live grenades. But some vessels had to be more volatile than others, or else Nicola’s threat wouldn’t have worked on the dog-eaters.
Jayce turned and ran toward the bar. Nyla was gone, no doubt having taken off with everyone else when the Harvest Man began reducing people to ash. He didn’t blame her. If it hadn’t been for Emory’s head, he’d have been long gone too. He’d lost track of Trevor as well, but despite the man’s lack of eyes, he seemed to get around fine, and Jayce hoped the man had made it out of the club safely.
He hauled ass behind the bar and stopped in front of the refrigerated cabinet where the club’s supply of vessels was kept. The bandage on his wounded hand was dirty and starting to come apart, so he pulled it off and dropped it on the floor. He didn’t bother checking his stitches. He had more important matters to deal with right then. He opened the cabinet’s glass door and, since he couldn’t interpret the strange markings carved into the jar’s clay surfaces, he grabbed two at random – one for each hand – and ran back to where Nicola still stood. The vessels were so cold it hurt to hold them, but he didn’t care. The Harvest Man hadn’t moved while Jayce had been gone. He stood motionless, ebon-eyed gaze trained on Emory’s head, which he held up before him as if he were some grotesque parody of Hamlet contemplating Yorick’s skull. The Harvest Man brought Emory’s ravaged head close to his face – Jayce saw dark patches of skin on the head now, almost like mold – and the creature inhaled deeply, like a goddamned gourmand testing a fine wine’s bouquet.
Jayce ran past Nicola, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding in his ears. The most exercise he got these days was an occasional walk around the neighborhood where he lived, and his middle-aged body was far too out of shape for him to keep on abusing it like this.
He stopped when he was within five feet of the Harvest Man. He was covered in sweat, and the sharp pain from his injured ribs made him grimace. If he hadn’t known what the pain was, he might’ve been convinced he was having a heart attack. He intended to hurl the vessels at the Harvest Man – he didn’t think a mere threat would have any effect on the creature – but before he could do so, he saw that poor Emory’s battered head was beginning to…well, dissolve was the only word for it. Her flesh became darker and lumpier, as if it were riddled with mold, and then it sloughed off the skull in liquid strands that ran past the Harvest Man’s clawed hand and fell to the floor with soft pattering sounds. The same thing happened to her hair, and within seconds the Harvest Man’s obsidian eyes gazed upon Emory’s naked skull. But then it too began to liquefy, and after only a few short seconds it had joined the gooey puddle on the floor, leaving behind nothing but a thin viscous layer of slime on the Harvest Man’s palm. He regarded it for a moment, and then flicked it onto the floor with a couple of sharp gestures.
Jayce stared at the puddle that was all that remained of his Emmy. The Harvest Man had used yet another method to absorb her head, and although the rational part of Jayce’s mind – what little of it still functioned at the moment – knew that Ohio Pig had been the one who’d killed his daughter, the Pig wasn’t here. But the Harvest Man was. With a howl that was equal parts fury and despair, Jayce hurled the first vessel.
His aim was good, and the jar struck the Harvest Man’s chest. It bounced off, and when it hit the concrete floor the seal cracked and the lid popped open. The Harvest Man seemed unaffected by the impact, or for that matter even aware that Jayce had thrown the vessel. He didn’t take his gaze from the liquefied remains of Emory’s head. Nothing emerged from the jar at first, and Jayce thought he’d grabbed a dud. But then a mass of beetles came scuttling out, far more than should have been able to fit inside the vessel. They swirled around the Harvest Man’s bare feet and then began climbing onto him. They moved swiftly up his legs, onto his torso, down his arms, up over his neck and face until he was completely covered. Jayce allowed himself a few seconds of hope that the insects would strip the flesh from the Harvest Man’s bones. But then the Harvest Man inhaled and sucked the beetles inside him as if he were some sort of monstrous vacuum cleaner. Within seconds, the last of the beetles disappeared down his throat and were gone. Jayce realized then that no matter how much the Harvest Man took into himself, he put on no weight, as if inside him were a gaping void that could never be filled, not even if he managed to harvest the entire world.
You got that right, kiddo, Mother said. He’s a direct link to the Gyre, and beyond that, to the Vast itself.
He had no idea what she was talking about, which was weird since her voice was nothing more than a projection of his own personality, a manifestation of his self-doubt and fears. But he didn’t care what the part of him that pretended to be his mother had to say. He only cared about taking vengeance for his poor dead Emmy, and so he threw the second vessel, putting all his strength into it.
The jar flew toward the Harvest Man’s head, but this time the creature was ready. Without looking away from the viscous mass that had been Emory’s head, he reached up lightning-quick and caught the vessel in one of his taloned hands. He made a fist and the jar shattered. Pieces fell to the floor, and as near as Jayce could tell, the vessel had been empty. But then the sound of soft laughter filled the air – dark, cruel, becoming louder by the second until it reached deafening volume. Wind accompanied the laughter, swirling around the Harvest Man, becoming stronger and more intense until he was trapped at the center of a small tornado. The wind buffeted the Harvest Man, knocking him off balance, although he did not fall. The laughter continued, so loud that it echoed through the club, so painful that Jayce clapped his hands over his ears. Beside him, Nicola did the same. Whatever the hell the second vessel had contained, it was clearly more powerful than the beetles, and Jayce was heartened upon seeing the Harvest Man being affected by both the laughter and the wind. He too pressed his hands against his ears, and the vortex lifted him several inches off the floor. The Harvest Man, as terrifying as he was, wasn’t all powerful, and that gave Jayce the first true glimmer of hope he’d felt since the creature had walked into Crimson Splendor. He imagined the swirling wind growing stronger, becoming so violent that it would flay the meat off the Harvest Man’s skeleton with scalpel-like precision.
But then the laughter began to die and the wind weakened. Whatever force had been contained within the vessel was spent, and the Harvest Man was lowered until his feet once again touched the floor, and he removed his hands from his ears as the laughter trailed to silence. The wind was nothing but a gentle breeze now, and then it too died.
The Harvest Man trained his glossy black eyes on Jayce, and Jayce expected the creature’s lamprey mouth to widen and exhale a cloud of darkness that would engulf both him and Nicola, stealing their lives and reducing their bodies to ash and grit. But the Harvest Man’s mouth remained closed. Even so, Jayce heard the creature’s voice inside his head.
Soon.
Then the Harvest Man got down on his hands and knees. He lowered his head toward Emory’s liquid remains, and a black ap
pendage that looked more like a serpent than a tongue slithered out of his mouth, and he began lapping up the viscous mess. The fucking thing was eating what was left of Jayce’s daughter.
Jayce started toward the monster, but Nicola grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him backward. He didn’t resist this time, didn’t have the strength or the will, and he allowed Nicola to lead him away from the Harvest Man. As they fled, he heard the soft, wet sounds of the creature feeding on Emory, like a dog lapping water from a bowl.
Chapter Nine
Jayce knocks softly on Emory’s bedroom door. She doesn’t answer, but he can hear her crying inside. The sound is muffled, and he imagines her lying on her bed, her face buried in her pillow. He knocks again, a bit louder this time.
“Emory? Sweetie? Can I come in?”
Again, no answer. He tries the knob, finds it unlocked, so he turns it, opens the door, and steps inside. He debates whether to close it behind him, and he decides that Emory might feel more comfortable talking if the door’s shut. And he doesn’t want Mackenzie coming by, noticing them talking, and deciding to intrude on their conversation. He closes the door, almost locking it to keep Mackenzie from entering, but he doesn’t. If she tries to enter and finds the door locked, she’ll get angry, probably yell at him and pound on the door. Emory doesn’t need that kind of stress right now, and honestly, neither does he.
Emory is thirteen, the same age he was when…when.… The memory refuses to coalesce and it fades before fully being born. He lets it go. Whatever it is, it isn’t important right now. All that matters is Emory.
She is indeed lying facedown on her bed – the same one she’s had since she was a little girl. She’s tall enough now that her feet almost hang over the edge, and he marvels at how fast the time’s gone. He knows this is a cliché, that all parents think the same thing as their children age, but that doesn’t make what he feels any less powerful.
She’s wearing a pair of purple pajama pants and a black T-shirt. He can’t see it the way she’s lying, but there’s a cross-eyed cartoon monkey on the front, below it the words I’m Bananas! It’s one of her favorite shirts. He wonders if she’ll come to associate it with tonight, and if so, if she’ll ever wear it again.
The walls and ceiling of her room are painted blue, and covering them are cute ocean creatures – an octopus, a stingray, a shark – all painted bright colors and sporting smiling faces. Jayce drew and painted them. He knows he’s not an artist by any stretch of the imagination, but he thinks they turned out all right. Even though their expressions are unvaryingly pleasant, he imagines they’re looking at him accusingly, as if they’re thinking, How could you do this to her?
It’s a question he’s been asking himself.
Not all of the happy sea creatures he painted are visible now. Emory’s taped up several posters of boy bands on the walls, covering some of her aquatic friends. More signs of how fast she’s growing up. The boys all look somewhat feminine and harmless, but they’re male and that makes them a threat, at least in Jayce’s eyes. She has a bookshelf against one wall filled with her favorite series – Narnia, Oz, Warriors, American Girl – and next to it is an open chest filled with stuffed animals that she no longer sleeps with but which she can’t bring herself to get rid of.
She doesn’t look up as he crosses to her bed. It’s a youth bed, low to the floor, and when he sits cross-legged next to it, the mattress comes up only to his waist. He could easily reach out and rub her back, just as he used to do when she was a toddler and needed his comforting touch to help her drift off to sleep. But he doesn’t touch her now. He doesn’t feel he has the right.
“How are you feeling, Emmy?”
He doesn’t feel he has the right to speak with her, either, but he’s her father. It’s his job to take care of her, to try to heal her hurts, even those that he helped cause. Especially those.
She keeps her face pressed against the pillow, and her voice is muffled as she speaks – no, wails.
“I wish this was a dream!”
Me, too, he thinks.
He does reach out to touch her now, lays his hand on her back, and her body stiffens. Realizing he’s made a mistake, he almost jerks his hand back, but he knows that would only compound his error, so he leaves his hand where it is.
Several minutes pass while Emory sobs into her pillow. He considers leaving the room to go get her some tissues, but he realizes the impulse is just an excuse to get away from his daughter – or more accurately, from the crushing guilt he feels. So he stays.
When he and Mackenzie married, he hadn’t wanted children. Not because he wanted to be able to live life free from the responsibility, but because the world was a dangerous place, and how could he justify bringing an innocent life into it? How could he protect a child from all the hazards that came with living? He couldn’t, of course. Bad things would happen to his child – some maybe very bad – and despite all his efforts, he wouldn’t be able to prevent them. How could he then, in good conscience, help create a new life?
But he had other needs working in him as well, and one of the strongest was the need to be the kind of father he’d never had. He understood that it was, at least in some ways, a selfish desire, that he wanted to make up for this profound lack in his own childhood. Mackenzie wanted kids, and she worked on him, trying to convince him, and little by little she wore him down until finally he gave in. And now here he was, living his worst nightmare. Not only hadn’t he been able to protect Emory from this hurt, he’d caused it. He and Mackenzie had sat Emory down on the couch and tried to explain to her what was going to happen in simple terms, each of them working hard to make it sound like divorce wasn’t a tragedy but a transition. Halfway through their sales pitch, Emory had jumped off the couch and ran down the hall to her bedroom.
“Emmy, I know this is hard, but.…” He trails off. But what? He can’t find the words to comfort her, doesn’t think there are any.
Emory rolls onto her side and looks at him. Her eyes are red and puffy and her nose is running. She glares at him with anger so strong it strikes him like a physical blow.
“I’ll never forgive you.” Her voice is steely cold. “Never.”
That makes two of us, kiddo, he thinks.
* * *
Jayce feels like he’s burning up, but at the same time he can’t stop shivering. He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, and he keeps blinking to clear his tear-filled vision. He felt crappy when he woke up that morning – achy, a bit lightheaded, stomach touchy – but not so bad that he thought he needed to stay home from work. But he kept feeling worse as the day went on, and after vomiting his lunch into a men’s room toilet, he told his supervisor that he was going home, and after commenting that he looked like shit, she enthusiastically endorsed this idea. His condition worsened as he drove, and now that he approaches the house, he hopes that he can pull into the garage without hitting one of the sides. Fuck it. He’ll park in the driveway and go in the front door.
It’s a two-story house, white siding, black shutters, not much different than the others in this suburban neighborhood. There’s a huge oak tree in the front yard which Mackenzie loves, but it’s a pain in the ass in the autumn. All those damn leaves.… But it’s not his problem anymore, is it?
He pulls his Nissan Altima – which received a high rating from the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety – into the driveway and parks at a lopsided angle. Good enough for government work, he thinks. He turns off the engine and sits for several moments, staring at the white garage door, brain enshrouded by flu fog. Mackenzie got the house in the divorce, naturally, and Emory lives here primarily, spending only alternate weekends with him in his cracker box of an apartment. Mackenzie’s gone on a week-long trip to Vegas for her forty-fifth birthday with ‘friends’ – more likely a boyfriend she doesn’t want to tell Jayce about – and she’s asked Jayce to stay at the house to ‘kee
p an eye on’ Emory. Emory was upset by this, of course. What fifteen-year-old thinks she needs a babysitter, even if it is her dad? And it’s weird to be staying in a place that used to be his home, but in which he’s now a visitor. But he jumped at the opportunity to spend more time with Emory. Their relationship hasn’t been great since the divorce, and he hoped that spending a week with her might help bring them closer, if only a little. And now he’s sick. Wonderful.
He opens the door, steps out of the car, shuts the door, and immediately drops his keys. As he bends down to pick them up he experiences a wave of dizziness and almost falls over. He manages to retrieve his keys and straighten, and he figures that if any of the neighbors are watching, they probably think he’s drunk. He wishes he was. It would be a hell of a lot better than how he feels right now.
It’s only after he goes in through the front door that he realizes it’s not locked. He left for work before Emory had to leave for school. Did she forget to lock it when she left? It’s not like her, but then again, he no longer lives with her full-time. Who knows what she’s really like these days? He locks the door now, and while in a situation like this he would normally go through the house and check to make sure that everything’s okay, that no one entered while they were gone and stole anything, he’s too sick to bother doing that today. Besides, all the stuff in here is Mackenzie’s now. He doesn’t give a damn if any of it is stolen.
He plans to head upstairs, undress, crawl into bed – trying not to think about how many lovers Mackenzie has fucked on it since their split – and hopefully sleep off whatever bug he’s caught. With any luck, he’ll feel at least a little better by the time Emory gets home from school. His hand’s on the railing, right foot on the first carpeted step, when he hears music. The sound is muted, but a driving beat makes the wood beneath his hand vibrate, as well as the floor under his feet, and he realizes the music is coming from the basement.