by J-F. Dubeau
The decision had come suddenly to her. Katrina had predicted she would meet her end trying to prevent whatever future had been foreseen for Venus. The old woman had also said that she would fail, but her prophecies were vague and made no promise about how or when Virginie would take part in this fatal game.
So while mourning her husband’s death in a lonely tent at the traveling circus, Virginie had weighed her options. She could wait there for the inevitable, like livestock mindlessly awaiting slaughter, or she could choose to meet her destiny head on. She decided to see for herself what had become of Paul. To see how much truth there was in Katrina’s predictions. Maybe even throw them out of balance.
“Mrs. McKenzie?” the voice scratched from the phone in her hand. “I have Inspector Crowley on the line. Should I patch you through?”
Virginie’s hand shook to the point where she almost dropped the phone. She knew about the long quarrel between Stephen Crowley and Nathan Cicero. While she didn’t quite see the inspector as an enemy, she had always been wary of him. Seeing Venus with his son had been a surprise indeed. Yet she herself had never witnessed any kind of nefarious behavior from the Crowley boys.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. McKenzie?” The inspector’s voice cut through the static of the portable phone. He sounded worn-out and tense. “I understand you have an unusual problem?”
It was an understatement, to be sure. Virginie cleared her throat. “Yes. I think you should come here and have a look.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “Bring . . . bring everyone.”
The inspector acknowledged her, but she couldn’t hear him. Her hand dropped to her side again, and the phone fell into the grass.
That was her first gambit. Crowley was the enemy, according to Nathan. A misguided fool who stood to let everything fall apart. But what if keeping him from the god in her shed was what allowed him to survive the coming events? What if, like so many before him, meeting the god would be his end? What if that was all it took to derail Katrina’s prophecy about Venus?
Gathering her wits and courage, she took a step forward to address the creature before her. It was time to attempt her second gambit.
This wasn’t the monster she had expected. At first glance, it seemed to be a mass of writhing tendrils of exposed flesh and bones. A living lattice of animal and human remains, but at the center, she could see the god for what it was. Its proportions were that of a child no older than her own daughter. If it were made of mortal flesh, she might have felt sympathy for the creature. But all she could see were blood and shadows, along with two glowing eyes. Every move it made, from the steps it took to the most subtle head turn, felt awkward and wrong.
Careful inspection of the beautiful cape of bones and organs it wore revealed the disassembled bodies of a teenager and her husband, Paul. Where one finished and the other began was impossible to tell. As the god stepped forward, more sections of the grisly robe peeled away from the wall of the shed. The horrifying garment subtly writhed and twitched, suggesting that not all its elements had been allowed to die.
Still, the monster worked on its creation. Moving this tendon or nudging that bone shard, ever perfecting its art. Virginie tried to make sense of it. Was it art? Clothing? Or did the garment serve some darker purpose?
“H-hey . . . ,” Virginie called out. “I want to make a deal with you. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Make pacts?”
The thing kept working, its nimble, blood-soaked fingers moving swiftly and with calculated grace to readjust living flesh on its creation. Had it heard her? Minutes passed, the heat and stench in the shed becoming increasingly unbearable as the rising sun warmed up the charnel house.
“Not with you,” it finally answered, its voice devoid of all emotion but hate and contempt.
“Why not?” Virginie felt almost insulted. What made her unworthy of being granted what so many others had received? Or was the god aware of her plans?
“You have broken your word to me. We are unbound.”
“You’ve never met me! You . . . you don’t even know who I am!”
The god halted its work and slowly turned to face Virginie. Her heart thundered under her breast, fueled by the adrenaline that surged in her veins. Surely the creature would reach out for her, take her flesh to complete its work. The idea, as terrifying as it might be, had a twisted appeal. To have her body merged with what was left of her husband. To have the pain, grief, and fear be obliterated along with her brain, mind, and soul. But the god just stood there. Studying her.
“I know you,” the god said in its skull-splitting, unspoken voice. “Katrina. You have broken your word before, and you will break it again.”
“What? No. Katrina is my mother . . . ”
How did the thing even perceive the world around it? Images? Smells? Souls? No matter what she looked like to it, Virginie had to convince the thing that she was her own, unique individual. That she was trustworthy. That she could bargain with a god.
“I can free you! I can set you loose. Please,” she begged, but the god turned back to its work, patient and uncaring.
She was still pleading with it when Stephen Crowley’s SUV rolled into the McKenzies’ driveway.
CROWLEY
STEPHEN CROWLEY STOOD in silent awe. For eighteen years he had been hunting down the thing that now stood before him. A god of hate and death. He’d read the line so many times, but now he knew the truth. As terrible as the powers before him might have been, they were contained. A madman had kept the creature jailed in a cave for eighteen years. A miraculous painting of an eye had come before him, and a cabal of fools before that. Now this so-called god was being held by an old garden shed and a fifty-dollar digital camera. Even with the door lock busted open, the thing couldn’t move outside a limited perimeter.
All thanks to the curse of Cicero. Like a genie in a bottle, the god could grant one’s deepest desires. Or so Crowley hoped. Marguerite had known more, of course, but after her father’s death at the hands of the god, she had vanished. The inspector had always thought that fear had chased her away. Francis’s return seemed to suggest otherwise.
The wound on his right hand tingled this close to the creature. It felt like his blood wanted to crack open the scab and ooze toward the god.
Not that the creature needed any more material. It had already turned the McKenzies’ shed into a museum of horrors. Bones and guts and veins decorated the walls, seeming to pulse in time with Crowley’s increasing heartbeat.
The inspector leaned down, turning off a portable phone that lay beeping on the ground. Virginie McKenzie, who had placed the call to the station, was nowhere to be found. It was difficult to know if she’d become part of the god’s terrible artwork.
The god.
It turned to observe Crowley with its glowing red eyes.
“I’m, uh, here to free you.” The inspector’s voice came out weaker than he had intended. The creature did not answer but stood motionless. Expecting more than words. “In exchange for a few favors.”
“You are . . . new,” the creature spoke. Its voice was legion, each syllable a scream from hell itself, somehow harmonized into words and branded upon Crowley’s brain. “You presume to bind me in fresh chains.”
“No.” Was there a point in lying? “I just want to help, but I know you have little love for humans. I don’t want to suffer your wrath.”
“My freedom for your safety? Done.”
“And my son’s!” Crowley was quick to add. It was said that to be touched by a god changed a man. Gave him power. His search had cost him so much already. He didn’t just want more; he deserved more. “And . . . and your blessing.”
The god cocked its head to the side in a gesture that was deceptively human. It stepped closer, the stench of fresh blood emanating from its crimson-slick body. Crowley could finally see through the gory lattice to the details of its face. It had no lips, no pores, and no nose. Only two burning red eyes. It was little more than a child’s drawing of
the human form.
“You wish to share . . . my power. To have my blessing . . . ,” The god of hate and death pondered, amused. Each word like a knife through Crowley’s thoughts. “Step forward.”
VENUS
VENUS LOOKED AT her reflection in Penny’s blade. Her emerald eyes were bloodshot and tired. Everywhere she and her friends had turned, hoping to find help dealing with the thing in her shed, they had been met with disappointment, failure, and horrid revelations. Each of them had suffered a terrible loss. And unless Katrina and Cicero were wrong, the god was now free, and it was coming for them.
It all came back to the old woman’s predictions. Vague in places, precise in others, they were all unfolding, coming together. By tomorrow nearly every one of her prophecies would be fulfilled. Katrina could see little beyond the coming day, and even she could not say why.
“How much do you believe them?”
Venus looked up. Daniel Crowley stood over her, hands in his pockets, doing his best to look composed.
“I have no reason not to believe,” she answered. “Everything else they’ve said is true.”
“Except for the fact that it’s all crazy nonsense, of course.” He sat down next to her on the ground, giving her a sympathetic nudge with his elbow.
“Of course,” Venus said. “There is that.”
The morning had passed without further incident. The circus was meant to open that day, but no customers had shown up. Yet the performers and other employees went about their business, unperturbed. Popcorn was popped and cotton candy spun. The Ferris wheel was lit and turning.
“What are you doing with that?” Daniel pointed to the knife. “Isn’t it dangerous if it can kill a god?”
“Katrina gave it to me.” Venus brushed the tip of her thumb on the edge of the knife, appreciating how sharp it was. “She said I’m the one who is supposed to fight the god. She doesn’t say if I come out victorious, though. I don’t think I’m our savior.”
“They do dance around their words, don’t they? Like they’re not sure what they’re talking about.”
“I don’t think they do. I think that they gave up a long time ago. You’d think they’d have more to say about your situation, Daniel.” Venus switched her focus from the blade to the inspector’s son. She wasn’t sure if her comment was meant as an accusation or a casual observation, but it was odd how Cicero had been shocked by Dan’s appearance.
“Maybe it’s because I’m the only one whose parents aren’t dead so far,” he said.
Without a word, Venus stood and walked away, leaving the knife on the ground.
“Aww, shit.” The Crowley boy picked up the kitchen utensil and stumbled to follow her, cursing his insensitivity. “Venus, I’m sorry! I didn’t—”
She stopped, and Daniel felt relief course through his mind. The last thing he needed was for some ridiculous faux pas to ruin his remaining relationships. His father was lost to him, his estranged brother was a psychopath, and Sasha was dead. He’d never felt so alone.
As he caught up to Venus, though, his relief melted into dread.
Flashing red and blue lights reflected off the tents near the circus entrance. Performers walked out from their stalls and canopies to stare, forming a large circle around a lone police SUV.
“Dad?” Daniel said.
Despite the silence, the air was electric. Performers and circus workers of every shape, size, and color gathered around the vehicle. Some were visibly hostile to the new arrival. Others were obviously afraid, huddled together like terrified animals. But all of them seemed to recognize that this was Stephen Crowley and that he was an enemy.
Venus stepped toward the entrance of Cicero’s tent. Her eyes still blurry and her stomach still aching, she waited for what would happen next. Part of her wanted to run home, in the hopes of finding her father working in the garage and her mother drying tea leaves. Part of her wanted the inspector to reveal the whole thing had been a terrible prank, concocted by the cruel circus performers. But her legs kept her rooted in place. Morbid curiosity had taken over where common sense should have prevailed.
The driver’s-side door swung open. Calm and purposeful, Stephen Crowley got out of his SUV. With tired, emotionless eyes, he surveyed the small crowd. Venus saw that his right hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage. His uniform was dirty and grass-stained. It had been a rough night.
“Nathan Joseph Cicero!” Crowley called out. He placed his good hand on his sidearm.
Venus recognized something in his voice. Nails on a blackboard. Needles in her mind. The god was free, and part of it was now inside Stephen Crowley.
The inspector was here to kill the circus owner. Venus knew it, and so did everyone else in attendance. That was why the circus had come. This was the only performance they planned to give. To bear witness to the death of a man who had cursed a god.
Venus looked at the crowd. Each of these people had traveled with Cicero, some of them for decades. Each had a relationship with the old man, and each knew that this was his destiny. Yet they had followed him.
She was pulled out of her reverie as the old man walked past her. He had put on his powder-blue tuxedo and matching top hat. The ostentatious accoutrement, like its wearer, was ancient and faded. The circus owner supported himself with a wooden cane so old, it might as well have been fossilized. He continued on, without so much as a glance in Venus’s direction. This was his time. His moment.
The circus workers parted as Cicero made his way through them. Some patted him on the back or shook his hand; some begged and pleaded with him. As the master of ceremonies approached the SUV, Crowley pulled out his firearm, holding it awkwardly in his left hand. That was when it dawned on Venus that this wasn’t a confrontation; it was an execution.
“What the hell is he doing?” she asked no one in particular. “Why isn’t anyone doing anything?”
“He’s meeting his destiny,” Katrina the fortune-teller answered from behind her.
“Screw destiny! There’s one of him and two dozen of us! We can’t just let him do this!”
“Why not?” It was Ezekiel who broke in this time. “Crowley could kill several of us before we got that gun out of his hands. We’re all willing to die for Cicero, but none of us want to see one another be killed for him.”
“Besides,” added the old woman, “it’s what he wants.”
In the distance, Venus could see Cicero finish his walk toward the gallows. Perhaps it was the bourbon in his veins, but the old man was smiling. Not with joy or happiness, but relief.
“Why?” the teenage girl asked, grasping to understand.
“He’s old, Venus. So old. He could be my grandfather,” the fortune-teller said. “And he’s been carrying the god’s burden since he was a child. It’s time he passed it on.”
To us,Venus thought.
“I should have done this eighteen years ago, Nathan,” growled Crowley as he raised his weapon. “Prepare to meet your god.”
Venus wanted to turn away but knew she had to watch. Not out of morbid curiosity, but a sense of duty. To witness the passing of a man she’d met only yesterday, but who had had a profound impact on every aspect of her life.
There was a disturbance in the crowd. Daniel. The inspector’s son was being held back by a handful of performers. Despite his athletic build, there was little he could do to escape the grasp of those restraining him. Venus felt sympathy for the boy, knowing that he was witnessing the final damnation of the man he admired most.
“Back off, Dan!” Crowley barked at his son. “I’m doing this for you.”
Turning back to Cicero, who was leaning patiently on his cane, the inspector’s demeanor changed. Venus couldn’t hear them, but the old man said something to Crowley that softened his features. For a moment she thought the crisis had been averted. That the old master of ceremonies had been holding an ace up his sleeve all this time and that, through magic or convincing words, he had avoided his own death at the last possible min
ute.
Crowley gave a polite nod and then, without hesitation, he shot a bullet through Cicero’s head.
RANDY
“LAST CHANCE, ERICA.”
Randy had recovered from his ordeal. At least, as much as could be expected in the little time he’d had. He heard a commotion upstairs. Footsteps. Phones ringing. The few people in the station were scrambling for some reason. Considering the discussion he’d had with Cicero, there was every reason to believe that the shit had finally hit the proverbial fan.
As much as the medical examiner wanted to contain or kill the god, he was more concerned with Erica’s survival. Actually, survival wasn’t the appropriate word. Dying was one thing, but dying in Saint-Ferdinand was quite another. He’d have slit her throat himself if it meant she could escape the torment of what awaited her beyond the veil. But if the god was free, there was no telling how long its grasp had grown.
“I’m staying,” she said. “I want to help.”
There was courage in ignorance, Randy thought. She stood her ground because she was a good person, but also because she couldn’t fathom what they were up against. Yes, she’d seen a ghost, but it meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. The die had been cast. The cards had been dealt. There was nothing to be done about it now. The medical examiner had never heard Erica’s name spoken by the fortune-teller at the circus. Perhaps she was destined to live.
“You need to get us out of here, then.”
“Both of you?” Erica was surprised. Seeing Finnegan strangle the life out of Randy had shaken up her belief that, despite his history of mass murder, the old man was relatively harmless.
“Both of us.”
“Okay. How?”
Randy thought about that for a moment. Escape was another problem he’d pitted his intellect against during his incarceration. Unfortunately, he simply didn’t know enough about the workings of the jail to solve it. He’d assumed that Crowley would have freed him by now.