by Ash Krafton
"So what's next?"
"What else? We get a good night's sleep and tomorrow we take her home. And..." He took a deep breath and gave her the full touch of his gaze. "We talk."
"About?"
"You opened a hell gate to get back."
Oh. There was that. She knew it would come up, eventually. Such a critical time as this needed complete honesty. "Yes."
"What price did you pay for it, kid?"
She blinked, taken aback. Of all the things she thought he'd follow up with, personal concern was near the bottom of the list. No accusation, no reprimand or disdain tinted his tone. And his body language was completely open.
He was worried about her.
She reached over and stroked his arm. "None of consequence. I promise."
"I don't know if you're lying to protect me or if it's actually the truth. In which case...I hope it's the lie." He grinned, lopsided and charming.
She returned the grin. Intuitive man.
Not long afterwards, Chiara stood watch over Simon and Sarah as they slept. He'd tried to eat something but said he was too tired to chew. He sprawled face down on the other bed and was twitching himself to sleep in less than a minute.
Chiara never left the foot of his bed, never let her guard down. Mack remained outside against the door. It was as safe as safe could ever get for a child who'd been rescued from Hell and the man who never gave up on the hope of getting her back.
It was an idyllic morning in Belmont. Birdsong and early morning traffic, dog-walkers and school buses. This was what life was like when Simon was sixteen years old, back when magic was more evident in the force of an early spring than in a kid messing with powers he didn't understand.
He pulled the car over diagonally from Sarah's parents' home and switched off the ignition.
Sarah hadn't said much on the drive over. What would she have to talk about? He'd only given her a muddled version of the last few days, just enough so that she could see straight and acclimate herself into the real world again. Not enough for police to interrogate before setting off on a misinformed manhunt for abductors who didn't exist. On this plane, anyway.
Chiara had bought her a new outfit that, thanks to current trends, looked sufficiently broken in. Her hair was in a hasty ponytail that looked like a little kid did it.
Well, technically…but that was neither here nor there.
There was a fat wad of bills in her jacket pocket, all the money he'd squirrelled away over the years. Lean living, in more ways than one. It seemed a fortune to him now, only counted and realized the day Sarah came home.
Not that he needed to put a value on such things.
"Simon." She leaned around the Chiara's seat, waiting, watching the house. "I remember that house."
"See? Told you it would all come back to you. Can you picture the inside?"
She squinched her lips to one side and tilted her head. "A pink room."
"That's right, a pink room. Your bedroom, right?"
"Yeah!" She grinned. "I had a clown collection."
Simon groaned and laughed, suppressing a shudder. The clowns had always freaked him out a little. Creepy little things. No wonder he blocked the memory. "You did. They sat on your windowsill."
"My clowns. Can I see them?"
"In a moment. I want you to remember something else." He glanced out the window. "Can you picture who lives there? Who is inside?"
"Hmm." This time, her thinking face included pushed down eyebrows. "A man. And a lady."
"Yes?"
The seconds ticked by.
"Oh." Her voice became a breathy whisper. "Mom and Dad."
She leaned through the seats, grasping Simon's sleeve. Staring. Frozen. "Mom and Dad are in there."
"Yeah, they are." He shook her hand off playfully. "Well, go on, kid. Go home."
She had trouble getting the car door open—had to fumble with the automatic locks—but managed.
Sarah didn't look when crossing the street, so intent was she on the old house with the big bay windows and faded yellow curtains. Simon had to stall an oncoming Toyota just so she wouldn't get mowed down. Didn't even look like she noticed the car that had rolled to a stop a few yards from her.
She paused to brush her hands against the clematis blossoms hugging the fence post. Slowly, she walked up the sidewalk, testing each footstep, looking in every direction.
Knocking twice, she turned on the door step to look back at him and smiled, one last time, the same wide toothy smile she'd given him all those years ago. She was the same Sarah he'd lost. And she was finally found.
The pain that lanced through his heart was a different kind, sharp and fresh. He wanted to keep her just a moment longer, just enough to let it all sink in. Just one more moment of feeling like he had everything he'd thought was forever lost. That toothy grin, maybe another bout of laughter. Precious things that couldn't be tallied and couldn't be his again.
It was selfish, but he probably could have done it. Thrown up a cloaking spell and portaled the hell out of there to a fixed moment in time, where the sands in the hourglass paused mid-stream. But keeping her a moment longer would have been a greedy thing. It would have spoiled all the good that had finally been done.
Remembering his place, he swallowed hard and denied the impulse to clutch tight that bit of happiness. He had to let go. This time, he could let her go to a good place. That knowledge was the only thing he could allow himself to keep.
He waved his fingers and murmured, setting the final part of the spell. Sarah's smile faltered, confusion drifting in while she looked at him. Do I know you?
He let his breath leak out. Only her manufactured memories remained. Good. Slowly they'll be replaced with ones of a happy reunion.
The door opened and her mother cried out at the sight of her, her father close behind. Crying and shouting, laughing and hugging, the family, reunited at long last, disappeared into the house, the door closing behind them, a new life before them. The sounds of happy tears drifted through the open windows.
Simon watched silently, knowing there would never be such a homecoming for him.
Chiara rubbed his arm. "You did it. You brought her back. It's over."
He shook his head, a quick negation, and blew out a breath. He wasn't looking at Sarah's house. He stared beyond it at the plain house next door. "Far from it."
Tugging out a chicory stick and his lighter, he opened the car door and got out.
Chiara leaned over her seat. "What are you going to do?"
"Clean up my mess." He swung the door shut. His jaw clenched, he walked slowly past Foster's to the house next door, a plain square of a two-story home Chiara had remarked how out of place it looked when they drove past it the morning before. He crossed the lawn, steps slowing as he got halfway to the porch, his hands raised. Coming to a standstill, he lit the chicory stem and exhaled into the smoke, blowing it forward.
A barrier glinted and sparkled briefly, revealed by the smoke. He rapped on the barrier, two taps with his knuckle, and stepped back to watch. The shimmer streaked outward in all directions, hinting at a great dome that covered the property. Nodding to himself, he shoved his fingers into his pocket, pulling out a fistful of charms. He flipped through the medals and amulets until he found a crystal, a long oblong with a chiseled point at one end.
He started to chant, words that had been taught to him by Ngangkari from Australia's Western desert. So many years ago, he'd cloaked the remains of his childhood home within the realms of the Dreaming. It would take a lot more than chicory to pass through this ward.
He palmed the crystal shard, rotating it until the pointed end protruded from his fist, and dragged the sharp tip across his palm. Blood streaked through the split in his skin. Cupping the crimson stain until a sufficient amount had pooled, he drew a wet vertical line down the shimmering barrier, slicing it open, creating a flap.
Stepping through, Simon saw the true, undisguised ruins of his childhood home. Windows shatte
red, roof caving in, paint long past peeled and quite nearly gone.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a smudge stick. A special one. This was no ordinary sage blend—in between the leaves were twigs of mallow, cedar shavings, lime zest and horseradish root. The smoke it would produce was sure to be a riot of smells that would most likely put him off eating for several hours, but the extra elements would boost the power of the cleansing.
Exorcism. Protection. Healing.
Love.
A weathered letter from the sheriff's office plastered the front door. If Simon looked hard, he might have been able to make out the date. He hadn't looked when he placed the property into this pocket of the Dreaming, and he had no plans to look now. Placing a hesitant hand on the wood, he pushed, just a little. The door cracked off its rotted hinges and fell open.
He ducked through the dismantled doorway into the dim shadows. A part of his spirit crumpled to see what was left. Debris covered the floors, dead leaves and ceiling tiles. The floors were splintered, shoved up in shards after the pipes had frozen and exploded. The walls were mottled with musty-smelling spots, the paint peeled. Everywhere was decay and destruction.
Nowhere was any sign of the home it once had been, so very long ago. Mom wasn't in the kitchen, following along with some cooking show chef. Sarah wasn't playing on her swing set in the backyard next door. No happy reunion here. Just the ghosts of regrets and immaturity and very, very poor judgement.
He tugged a feather out of his jacket. Time to banish those ghosts.
He vestured as deep into the parlor as he dared, kicking the trash and the rot out of the way, clearing a space. Opening a small amphora, he carefully poured the contents out in a circle around him. Salt with a kick. This circle needed to hold. He stooped and peered at the thick line. A quick inspection showed it was intact, no breaks or skips. So he hoped.
If he was wrong, at least it would be his last mistake.
He took a deep breath and held the smudge stick to the flame of his lighter, waving it to get the smolder going. The scents of sage and herb stung his nose as he turned to each of the four directions, wafting the smoke and chanting.
Creaking in the ceiling started first, groaning in the walls followed. Clatters beneath him sped his pulse. Simon closed his eyes and continued the cleansing, instinctively finding each direction, one after another. He didn't need to see the circle aglow at his feet to know it was working. He needed only to listen to the old ruins give up their grip on the past.
Boards crashed around him but he kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to see. Chanting louder, he counted the waves of the feather. One, two, three to the North. Turn on his heels. One, two, three to the East. Block out the sounds. Don't breathe in the scents. Don't watch the past come down on its knees.
Sudden sunlight danced over his eyelids, a warm ruddy glow. Count, turn, chant, sustain.
And then there was silence.
Simon finished the third wave toward the West, completing the ninth turn, and opened his eyes. He stood in the center of a square patch of soil. No rubble, no weeds, just clean scorched earth.
Almost done.
He stooped to scratch a hole between his feet and buried the remains of the sage stick, patting the soil back in place around it, before stepping out of the circle.
"Goodbye, Mom." The words came out tiny, so much smaller than the man he thought he'd become. "I have to leave. If you were here, I'd stay. But you're gone. And I have to let you go."
And then he simply walked back toward the car. The barrier let him pass without as much as a whisper across his skin.
Halfway across the street, he paused and looked over his shoulder. The ward was still in place, the plain white house that used to be a home. But the ward would fade now that he'd dissembled the power that kept it in place. The false image of the house would disappear in time for neighbors to finally remember that it had been knocked down years ago. They'd just forgotten in the excitement of Sarah Foster's return.
Memories were funny that way.
A sprinkling of tiny blue flowers popped out across the exposed lawn. Forget-me-nots. A ghost of a smile played on his lips and he glanced upwards. Whatever magic brought these bright little blossoms, it wasn't his.
He blinked, the sunlight bringing an unexpected sting to his eyes. Now. Now he could say it was done.
Chiara watched Simon smooth a few crumpled bills he'd found in his pockets and shook her head. "So. You barely have enough for your cigarettes, let alone a ticket back to Baltimore."
"Yeah, well." He scratched his nose. "I guess we'll have to ask Mack for a ride. That money, it was always for her. Or, at least her family. I wanted to do something for them, but never knew what. Not until you came along."
She squelched the unbidden flip her stomach made when she considered Mack and his "rides". Swallowing thickly, she persevered past the thought. "So. You do know the taste of hope, after all."
"I wouldn't call it—"
"Yes, you would. You just aren't brave enough to admit it. You're a silly superstitious man, Simon. You can't destroy a hope simply by admitting it exists."
"That's where you're wrong, love." The smile he gave her wasn't cocky, or sarcastic, or lopsided with boyish glee. It was heavy, one of sadness and resignation and acceptance. It was the smile of a man who knew exactly where he stood and wasn't proud of it. "You can jinx things. I should know. I made a career out of doing it."
She reached for his hand, squeezing it. "Well, you can rest that fear now. Sarah is safely home. You can't jinx a hope that has already been realized."
He turned the key and shifted into drive, pulling away. "It does feel weird to be able to breathe all the way in, you know?"
"What next, now that your demon has been banished?"
"I don't know about that. I think he'll be closer behind than ever."
"Oh. Bal." She lowered her eyes. Couldn't tell him the whole truth, could she? Couldn't say while in Hell, I stopped by my dad's place and asked him for a favor. Balazog won't be a problem anymore. She couldn't tell him, not without telling him how and why and who she really was. "Right. I'm sorry. I hadn't meant—"
He shushed her with a lopsided grin. "It's okay. This is my life. It's hunt and be hunted. The problems don't go away just because we set one lost girl to rights."
He stretched his arm over the back of her seat.
"Onward and upward. Clean slate. Well…" He winked. "Cleaner, anyway. It's time to see what else needs correcting. But first things first."
He rounded the corner and pulled into a convenience store parking lot. "I need a fresh pack of cigs. Back in a flash. You won't even know I'm gone."
Chiara watched him saunter in, saw him chatting with the cashier at the counter. Their eyes met through the window as he waited for his change and he smiled at her.
Suddenly, a look of sheer terror crossed his face. A split second later—
A tug on her hair, hot breath on her cheek. Someone leaned forward from the previously empty back seat.
Her breath snagged in her throat, and all she could do was stare at Simon, his awful, telling expression, caught between one thought and the dreaded next.
The stranger wrapped her arm around Chiara's neck and chuckled, the sound dark and brittle. "Hello…Daughter."
Chiara screamed, terror flash-flooding through her.
And then, with a thunderous crash, her senses faded and she knew nothing more.
Simon watched helplessly from the checkout counter. The blinding light filled the car like a silent explosion. Cigarettes forgotten, Simon bolted outside, screaming her name.
When the light shrank, the car was empty.
She was gone.
The story will continue
in part two of The Demon Whisperer series
MURDER THE LIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ash Krafton is a speculative fiction author from the Pennsylvania coal region. If she's not writing, it's probably because she
's distracted by all the cool junk on her desk or by the stacks of books that have grown up around it.
She writes novels, short fiction, and poetry for mostly adult audiences. (She's mostly an adult.). Some of those novel titles include:
The Books of the Demimonde: urban fantasy trilogy
Enter the world of the Demimonde.
Look outside your window. Same old town, same streets, same people, same stories you've lived all your life. Or... are they?
Sophie Galen is an advice columnist from the suburbs of Philly. Like many sensitive women, she's done her best to create a shelter for herself in order to live in a safe, predictable world, protecting her vulnerable self: her mind, her heart, her soul.
Then he came into her life and blew the walls in.
When Marek Thurzo arrived, he brought with him all the secrets she never wanted to know: the world outside was not what she thought. There were people and creatures and powers she'd never dared to believe exist and at the very center of this humongous supernatural web was one single person.
Her. The Sophia. The one hope for redemption for the Demivampire race.
Some days, she still can't wrap her head around the whole thing. Other days...
...she's ready to do whatever it takes to protect her demivamps, no matter the obstacle, no matter the enemy, no matter the personal cost.
While meeting her deadlines, of course. Who says a girl can't multitask while saving the world?
Bleeding Hearts (Demimonde #1)
Blood Rush (Demimonde #2)
Wolf's Bane (Demimonde #3)
WORDS THAT BIND: paranormal romance
Social worker Tam Kerish can’t keep her cool professionalism when steamy client Mr. Burns kindles a desire for more than a client-therapist relationship—so she drops him. However, they discover she’s the talisman to which Burns, an immortal djinn, has been bound since the days of King Solomon…and that makes it difficult to stay away from him.