Dead Easy

by Mark William Simmons

  For my son.

  I could not allow such things back into the world where my son would be born!

  And I saw the remains of a great city, smashed into rubble and kindling. In a hazed, gray-green twilight, a great army of deep dwellers moved among the ruins gathering corpses and stacking bones. Reptilian work gangs constructed edifices of bone and a great cyclopean throne, preparing it to receive a god. A god who would rule a world of eternal night. Where love and virtue were unknown, alien concepts. Where all life was cattle and human life prized only for its greater capacity for fear and suffering. The Great Old Ones would return and rebuild the slaughterhouses they esteemed as temples.

  But, to prepare the City . . .

  . . . and the Throne Room nestled among the crushed spires of the St. Louis Cathedral . . .

  . . . there had to be the Perfect Storm . . .

  Holy shit!

  Marie Laveau was going to flatten New Orleans!

  Mama Samm's reaction was more practical. >Now that I know exactly what she's about, I have a better idea what to do about it.<

 

  Her only answer was to plant herself, massive, tree-trunk legs apart, and spread her arms like twin battering rams. >She's used up all of her mojo. She's got nothin' left.< And then she began to chant in some unknown, arcane tongue with lots of clicks and tongue clacks thrown in.

  Almost immediately the howl of the storm overhead began to lessen. As it did, Laveau began to howl the more. I fancied I could see the rotating ring of clouds slowing and the funnel already looked shorter.

  Rasputin-reconstituted redoubled his efforts at whatever he was doing and the winds began to freshen. Lightning cracked, thunder boomed, and the turbine of purple-black clouds kick-started a renewed power cycle. Maybe Marie Laveau was running low on batteries but her Russian proxy still had plenty of juice, it seemed.

  Mama Samm tried some variations in the chants she was using—that was as much as I could discern from the gibberish above the rising sound of the storm. And I noticed two new things as I fumed in my own, helpless impotence. One: the big, black shadow shaped like a kitty cat had circled around the roof and was creeping up behind the giant, bearded, Russian eunuch. And, two: while seemingly undiminished in power, now, the whirlwind formation had moved off center—was actually still moving—and the "eye" was now staring blindly down over the intersection of Poydras and St. Charles.

  Given enough time, we might have managed a more fortuitous outcome. Timetables and fate, however, rarely accommodate one another. This was no exception.

  Laveau screeched, produced a knife, and rushed at us. The panther, stalking the staretz, might have intervened but seemed totally focused on the mad monk. If Mama Samm broke the spell to defend herself, she might lose the opportunity to regain mastery later. Assuming she could adequately defend herself, in the meantime.

  There was just enough time for me to process this and for her to say >Goodbye, Mister Chris . . . <

  Then the world, the entire universe, was shattered by an explosion—a blast that tore us apart and sent my shredded consciousness hurtling through the darkness

  * * *

  and back into numbed solidity.

  There was an awful familiarity to the waking/reconnecting sensations that mingled mind with matter, animus and anima, body and soul. I was home! Back in my own flesh!

  Tied to a chair.

  Correction: chained to a chair!

  It was immediately obvious that no slice-and-dice fingernail action was going to be helpful here. Assuming I could even produce my monstrous manicure for a third time.

  Bad enough.

  Worse: The Mullet was sitting watch over me. In the forward salon of my own houseboat.

  So much for the sanctity of home and I was definitely gonna have to rethink the security angle of being surrounded by running water.

  Questions about Mama Samm's survival and whether she had been successful in disrupting the storm would have to take a back seat to escape.

  Looked like my best hope would be a rescue from Cama—

  ZZZZZzzzzzZZZZZzzz

  I turned my head and looked at Camazotz who was slumped over in human form in the chair next to me. Unfortunately, sawing logs wasn't the same as sawing through the heavy chains that bound his small but wiry frame to the chair back. And even if he were to awaken I doubted that the metal links were the only restraining factors in play here.

  Unless I missed my guess, the "Doctor" was in.

  Chapter Ten

  The big guy Fand had called "Setanta" had made himself at home. In my home.

  He was draped across the sofa with his size 14 boots crossed over an armrest. The smoke detectors had either died from the overload or had their batteries pulled because his cigar had created a nimbostratus layer of blue haze throughout the gallery. The overhead lights were visibly dimmer and bluer.

  He was busily engaged with a wireless Playstation 3 controller and coordinated acts of mayhem on the plasma, flat-panel monitor on the far wall. Oblivious to my newly awakened status, he was urging his on-screen Raiders from the "Land of Oak" and making oral supplications to the great deity Madden for victory.

  "Setanta!"

  Even though the voice was filtered by the reinforced-steel, load-bearing ceiling of the main cabin, Fand's bellow was like an ice pick thrust to the brain. Even Zotz' snoring faltered as The Mullet erupted from the couch.

  "Is he still out of his head?" she yelled from somewhere above.

  My chin was back on my chest and my eyes closed before he could turn and look. Still, I felt his eyes all over me as he clomped around the salon.

  "Aye!" he bellowed back.

  "Then get up here! We seem to have attracted some attention!"

  There was the sound of the aft door opening and closing, then heavy footsteps on the spiral ladder to the third deck.

  After a moment's silence I raised my head and turned to see Zotz wide awake and looking back at me.

  "Welcome back," he said quietly.

  "Hell of a homecoming," I answered, keeping my voice equally low.

  He shrugged sheepishly. "They came prepared. Fey Folk . . . what're you gonna do?" he asked rhetorically.

  "We'll get to that in a moment. I'll need some intel. Like how many there are?"

  "Two for sure," he admitted reluctantly. "Maybe a couple of others, coming and going, that I haven't seen. But I did get a callback from your buddy Ancho before Blondie and her boy-toy arrived. I can give you a little background on them."

  "Anything helpful?"

  He leaned in. "Your vivani said you're messin' with royalty. One of the faerie queens, to be more specific. And while these girls all got reputations for playing the field, ole dandelion head, upstairs, has been down the road and around the bend a bit."

  "Do tell." I glanced at the aft corridor. "And quickly."

  "Seems she was once married to the Celtic sea god Manannan . . ."

  "Was? Once? Widowed or divorced?"

  "Divorced. With extreme prejudice from what I understand."

  I nodded. "I certainly can."

  "Anyway, after hubby dumped her she got herself in bit of a fix going up against some kind of warriors—'Fomorians,' Ancho called 'em—for control of the Irish Sea."

  "Sounds like she likes to pick fights."

  "That would be my guess. Only she bit off more than she could chew, it seems. She had to recruit this Irish hero, Koochy-koo or sumptin'—"

  "Irish? Sounds like Cuchulainn," I said. "Sort of the Celtic version of Hercules with berserker tendencies."

  "Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was serendipity, seeing as how they sound like such perfect soul mates," the demon mused. "By all accounts she would have been 'canned Fand' if she hadn't have recruited him to her cause. Problem was, Cuch wouldn't get on board unless queenie would marry him."

  "Lotta street cred," I mused, "even for the great Cuchulainn: mortal marrying an elf. And royalty at that."

  "Not to men
tion she's a hell of a good lookin' dame."

  "Looks only go so far," I fumed. "And the key word in your previous sentence: 'hell.'"

  Zotz shrugged and the chains clinked a bit. "Well, she agreed to his terms and, surprise, according to reliable sources, she fell hard for the big lug."

  "Yeah, I bet they all lived happily ever after."

  Zotz grinned. "Yeah. Well, things didn't work out as Emer—this was Cuchulainn's wife—was the jealous type and even Manannan wasn't crazy about his ex's newfound happiness."

  "That's just so typical."

  "Actually, more practical than petty," Zotz elaborated. "There was some sort of prophecy. Apparently the union between Fand and Cuchulainn would have eventually destroyed the Faerie and brought about the end of the world. They didn't care though, they were just two crazy kids in love."

  "Any minute now you're going to tell me why this is important."

  "So the elves got together and held a council of war."

  "One Tolkien over the line, sweet Jesus?"

  He eyed me. "You feelin' all right?"

  "A little light-headed," I admitted.

  "Not surprising seeing as how you've had nothing to eat while you were—uh—gone."

  Right. Step one: escape. Step two: grab blood from the fridge on the way out. Step three . . .

  "But in the end, it was her ex-husband, the sea god Manannan—"

  I threw myself against the chains. "Is this in any way helpful to us, here and now?" I grunted. "I have got to get down to New Orleans! I don't have time for this!"

  "Hey, you're the one who's always quoting the 'know thy enemy' stratagems. You want intel? I'm intellin' ya what I know."

  I strained against the chains again. No acetylene torches popped out of my shoulders to help cut me loose. "Okay! Okay. I just can't be sitting here right now! Something really bad is going down right now and I really need to get back to New—" I shook my head. Mama Samm was in her element. I needed to think a little more clearly about my own circumstances. I took a deep breath. "Keep talking. Tell me everything Ancho said."

  Zotz looked at me suspiciously. "Is the D'Arbonne woman all right?"

  "Now who's changing the subject?"

  He blinked first. "The sea god did some mumbo jumbo with drawing his magic cloak between Fand and this Cuchulainn while they slept together. The upshot? They never could meet again nor remember each other. Sweet, huh?"

  "Yeah. Sweet. Think of all the plot lines you could tie up on Desperate Housewives. Did Ancho offer any practical advice?" I asked meaningfully.

  "Oh yeah. He said, too bad you didn't meet up with her sister, instead. Seems she's a goddess of health and earthly pleasures. They used to call her the 'Pearl of Beauty.' This Liban is supposed to be a real sweetie."

  "Um, yeah. That's. Real. Helpful." I sighed. "So what about this Setanta character? Do we know anything about him? He doesn't have the pointy ears so, unless he fell into a mechanical rice picker at an early age, I'm guessing he ain't one of the Fey Folk."

  Zotz gave me another one of his "oh yeah" looks. "Sorry. Got sidetracked, I guess. I don't know if this is important or not but it sure got your vivani's panties in a wad. He said to tell you that Setanta is his real name. His birth name."

  "And this is significant . . . why?"

  "He said to tell you that Setanta is the Hound of Ulster."

  It took another moment to sink in. Then: "Holy crap!" I said. "That means—"

  But what it meant was lost in the next moment as the sliding glass door at the front of the salon opened and my heart stopped.

  * * *

  I died, of course.

  Anytime your heart stops, it naturally follows that you die. Of that you can be sure.

  What you can't be sure of is where you will go next—though I've known more than a few smug SOBs who thought they had it all figured out.

  In this case, however, I went to Heaven.

  No dinking around on the Ethereal Plane like the last time. Just the heavenly glow of golden sunset light pouring in through the opened doorway, framing the unearthly beauty of an angel coming to take me into Eternity.

  The Bible says something poetic about being "gathered unto the bosom of Abraham" but there was nothing patriarchal about the bosom that stressed her orange wetsuit. The neoprene top was unzipped and gaped wide. Multiple strands of pearls, puka shells, and antique gold draped from her neck and provided a modicum of modesty. She glided toward me until she was close enough for me to count the copper flecks in her sea-green eyes. We both stared, studying each other like two completely alien species meeting for the first time. She leaned closer, her perfect lips the color of coral parted and—

  "Liban!" bellowed Fand's voice from the aft passageway, "Get away from the prisoners!"

  My angel gently turned to face my once and current warden. Which left me to figure out that I was still alive and still chained to a chair on my houseboat.

  "He's too dangerous!" the platinum-blonde-haired fairy was saying. "So don't be fooling around with him!"

  "Well, of course he's dangerous," the wetsuited dream answered softly, "but you're only making him more so."

  "Hard to believe they're actually sisters," Zotz murmured to my left.

  At first glance, maybe not. Both women would be considered great beauties, possessing that exotic, otherworldly appearance that marks the Fey Folk as a separate race from humankind. Tilted eyes, flawless skin over sculpted cheekbones and fired with an inner glow like a backlit rose petal. Liban shared familial traits with my captor but there were striking differences, as well.

  Her hair was longer, a veritable waterfall tumbling past her shoulders in marked contrast to Fand's corona of white. And it was dark, giving the impression of a deep, chocolate brown on the first glance. A longer, more careful look revealed deep bands of forest green—like rich striates of moss thriving in brown loam. Or chocolate mint. The luminosity of her skin was less tincture of rose, like Fand, and more phosphorescent, like moonlight on the water. In contrast, her smile had more warmth than the sunrise. Bad enough she looked the way she did. Being a Sidhe and probably faerie royalty, she automatically gave off a mortal-befuddling glamour without conscious effort. I had to bite the inside of my mouth to stay focused. And if she was, as Ancho claimed, an actual goddess . . .

  "Maybe they were separated at birth," I whispered back.

  "And Fand raised by wolves."

  "Dire wolves," I agreed.

  "Maybe she was adopted," the Bat-demon mused.

  "They might be half sisters," I theorized. "Or foster sisters . . ." And suddenly noticed that we were the only ones talking.

  Fand and Liban were looking at us.

  We looked back.

  After a moment Fand turned to her sister and said: "Do you see how he disrespects me? Not just one of the immortal Sidhe, but a queen!"

  "Hey, sweetheart," I shot back, "I'm not breaking into your throne room, hogtieing your pet demon, threatening your kid, and tying you to a chair, so let's be a little more judicious about who's doing the disrespecting, here."

  "Wait a minute," Zotz said. "Did you just refer to me as your 'pet' demon?"

  "He's got a point, Sis," Liban was saying. "You really need to reevaluate what you're trying to accomplish, here."

  "I mean," the demon continued, "I may have implied a master/pupil dynamic on rare occasion . . ."

  "I know what I'm doing!" Fand snapped.

  " . . . but to characterize our relationship in such derogatory and demeaning—"

  "Like you knew what you were doing with Manannan?" Liban asked. "Or the Fomorians? Or how about the big himbo up topside?"

  "For heaven's sakes," I said to Zotz, "I was making a point to Sidhe Who Must Be Obeyed. So chill. Or I'll swat you with a rolled-up newspaper."

  "This is different," Fand argued. "He is immune to the power of the Sidhe. He can only be restrained physically. And then only with great difficulty."

  Liban's attention swung back
to me. "Really . . ." There was an all-too-familiar look in her eyes.

  "Ohhh no!" Fand grabbed her sister by the arm and dragged her out of the salon and, presumably, topside.

  Zotz and I were left to our own chair-bound recognizance.

  "So," I said after a meaningful pause, "I'm guessing the reason you're still sitting there is they've either done something to you or to the chains so you can't escape."

  "How would I know?" he sniffed. "I'm just a 'pet' demon."

  "Great Solomon's barking seals, man! If I had a pet demon, I'd train him better than to be taken captive by a bunch of elves!"

  "Not so much a bunch as one with an overgrown gofer."

  "Not helping your case, here."

  "You're a fine one to talk, Mound Man."

  "That was different. I didn't see them coming. You had a complete description—"

  "Not complete," he argued. "You neglected to tell us how hot the elf playing doctor was! No wonder it took you three weeks to escape—even with Special Forces training."

  I blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "You were what? Navy SEAL? Army Ranger? Air Force Commando? Marine Force Recon? Green Beret?"

  "Army National Guard," I snapped.

  He stared at me. "Oh, right. They said your military records were sealed." He nodded knowingly. "Top secret. Black Ops. Keeping it on the QT."

  I shook my head. "No. Really. I was Army National Guard. Not R.A. Not Special Forces. Up until I developed Swiss Army fingers my hands were not considered deadly weapons."

  "But your sealed records. I heard—"

  "You heard wrong. I was a communications expert. My platoon was out on training maneuvers. A Special Forces group was nearby and down a radio operator. I got loaned out." I closed my eyes and fought to not remember. "Things got seriously fucked up. Everyone who was involved got their records sealed. That's the closest you can put me to the word 'seal.'"

  "Oh," he said, after a moment.

  I ground my teeth. "The point is, I escaped. How about these chairs? If you're limited to human form and strength, and the chains are out of the question for either of us—then maybe the furniture is the weak point . . ."