by R. M. Ridley
He had used tidying and reorganizing the closet as a way of keeping himself focused on something other than his addiction.
The mention of the attack last night put a burr in Jonathan’s brain. He got up to survey the outside world. Everything looked normal—copacetic—at first glance, but Jonathan knew something wasn’t right.
It took him a moment, but he finally realized what bothered him—The Lucky Monkey wasn’t open.
He glanced behind him at the old clock above the office door. It read quarter after ten, just the time he’d remembered it being. Bao always had the open sign glowing by ten sharp.
The incongruity swam briefly through the back of Jonathan’s thoughts. Before he could catch hold of it, Wendell emerged from the closet.
“And that’s why I was never a big fan of camping,” the lanky man said, walking back to the chair inside the protective circle.
“You’d hate this job, then,” Jonathan replied, with a final glance down at the street.
“Seems pretty exciting,” Wendell replied wryly.
“Yeah, but too often, what I get is fidelity cases.” Jonathan settled himself back behind his desk. “Following around some husband, or wife, because of a found condom or too many late nights. You think crapping in a closet is rough; try doing it in a car.”
Wendell grimaced. “Ugh.”
They ate a breakfast of cold noodles and dumplings. For Jonathan, this breakfast was nothing out of the usual, though today it did make him wonder about the restaurant not being open yet.
Most mornings, his first meal of the day was leftover Singapore noodles and a beer. Wendell passed on the beer, but did take a Coke to wash down his meal.
Jonathan noticed that, as Wendell ate, his eyes constantly darted to the windows. When they did, he would pause in his chewing.
“It’s unlikely something will come during the day.”
Wendell looked towards him and gave a half-hearted smile. “Unlikely, but possible.”
Jonathan sighed. “Yeah.” He took a swig of his beer. “Unfortunately, anything’s possible.”
Wendell glanced to the window again.
“Maybe if we . . .” He shook his head and filled the gap in his speech by taking a sip of his Coke.
“You’re worried about the windows.”
“They look even worse than they did last night. What if—I mean, if something comes . . .”
“If something comes, I’ll deal with it, as I did the sluagh.” Jonathan stabbed his fork into his noodles.
“But if we could cover them . . .”
“With what?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“We might be able to jerry-rig something, Wendell, but consider it. Do you really think a couple shelves haphazardly nailed over the windows will make you any safer?”
“It might . . .” He dropped his shoulders. “No, probably not.”
“Besides, the only nails I have aren’t big enough to hold anything heavier than a sheet of cardboard,” Jonathan confessed, pushing his meal away from him.
“Can you—you know, magic them?”
“I could, but if I ward against the undead and something else comes . . .” He took a smoke out of his case. “Look, there are simply too many variables.”
He picked up the book he had started reading last night to better prepare himself, Cox’s ‘Death Among Us: a Guide to Reapers, Revenants, and the Returned.’
“I could spend the entire day trying to ward against everything in this damn book, for something completely different to come at you.”
Jonathan put the book down and sighed.
“I’m sorry, Wendell. I’m not happy about the state of the windows, either. I just . . . I can’t see wasting time doing something for nothing. Our biggest defense is that circle around you. It hasn’t been fool-proof, but it has given us the edge.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, too.” Wendell said, “I just . . . well, my sleep wasn’t exactly soothing.”
Jonathan nodded and lit his smoke.
“I’m also worried that if we did manage to seal up the windows, we’d be at a disadvantage of not seeing what might be coming.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” He looked at the windows again, but his eyes had lost the glassy look they had before.
“So, those things.”
“Sluagh.”
“You’d never had to deal with them before.”
“No, no that was a new experience for me.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Let’s just say it’s another reason I keep myself so well-read on things.”
Wendell seemed to have finished eating as well, though from nerves or being full, Jonathan didn’t know.
Jonathan realized the smoke in the room only came from his cigarette. Putting it down in the only free space in the full ashtray, he got up and went into the closet.
“Something wrong?” Wendell whispered.
Jonathan looked over his shoulder and saw Wendell, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’m just refreshing the brazier. It’s something I can do to help keep you safe.”
After grabbing a bottle of patchouli oil and a handful of caraway seeds, he came back out. A few drops of the patchouli on the dark red coals and the room filled with a sweet earthy smell.
“It’s like placing a ward in the air itself,” he told Wendell calmly, brushing the caraway seed off his palm over the brazier.
Something rattled against the window behind Jonathan’s desk, and they both jumped.
Outside, on the small ledge, stood a raven.
Jonathan cursed silently.
He hadn’t even realized he had raised his right hand until he felt the skip of his heart as the energy touched it.
He rolled the fingers of his hand into a ball, digging the nails into his palm. Fighting back against the need to let the power flow, he pushed at the white dragon, wrestling it back to the place behind, between, and beyond his own self.
When he has succeeded, he grabbed up his smoke and dragged deep on it. He finished what remained of his beer in one long swallow, trying to remember what he had been doing.
The raven hopped outside the fractured glass, looking in. It unnerved Jonathan, but he thought it best, for Wendell, if he didn’t react to it.
Jonathan pointedly sat in his chair with his back to the bird. He poured a double of bourbon and picked up the book once more. He tried his best to be calm, but after last night’s attack, he knew he needed to be ready for anything—thus the book. However, he found it hard to concentrate on the pages.
Wendell kept his eyes on the bird. Jonathan didn’t think the fascination was due to any ornithological leanings.
“It’s just a bird,” he said, after failing to concentrate on his reading.
In truth, Jonathan had run through his mind all possibilities of what the raven might be, other than ‘just a bird.’ It was associated with Morrigan of Celtic myth, the goddess of the battlefield—she who knew who would die in battle. Jonathan dismissed this association. Wendell wouldn’t be battling; that was his job.
Most other references for ravens related it to a trickster god. That they had always been associated with death was undeniable. Wolves and ravens—the two benefactors of battle.
Jonathan almost said, ‘it’s just another psychopomp,’ but caught himself in time.
Lunch came and went without incident. However, at one o’clock, Jonathan’s mind felt as if an aggressive throw pillow had started a fight with it.
Opening the center desk drawer, he quietly pushed his chair back and stood up. Taking the revolver out of the desk, he told Wendell to stay put. His client turned in the chair to look towards the doorway but kept his ass planted on the seat. He was well out of sight, or danger, from anything coming through the front.
Jonathan dashed into the outer office, careful not to touch the line of basil and salt that stretched across the doorway between the two rooms.
He tried to listen for any
sign of what may have tripped his warning system. He thought he heard the sound of feathers rustling. It was faint, though—the memory of a sound in his head more than the real thing reaching his ears.
Raising the gun, he thumbed back the hammer, and readied himself for whatever might step in front of his doorway.
All was still.
He heard nothing but his own heart counting the seconds as they passed.
Then something stepped into his view. Something beautiful. Fair of face with flowing dark hair. Tall and commanding, yet graceful and delicate in its movement.
He actually began to lower his gun as he took in the magnificent sight. Its lush lips smiled and Jonathan felt warm. Then he looked—truly looked—into the eyes of the one that stood before him.
He snapped the gun back up and slid his finger from the guard to the trigger.
The eyes housed in that handsome face were cruel. The gaze that regarded him spoke of hunger and death.
Jonathan remembered the sound of wings and a creature from the book that lay open on his desk.
Memitim.
“Yea, his soul draweth near unto the grave, and his life to the destroyers,” Jonathan quoted at the figure before him.
The lush lips curled back into a grimace. The long, delicate fingers spread and resembled nothing less than claws.
It vaulted towards him, ignoring the salt and basil completely.
Jonathan had known, as soon as he’d realized what form of life he faced, the salt would be ineffectual in deterring it. He didn’t hesitate to unload two rounds into its chest when it moved.
The winged figure spun in the air as the rowan slugs caught it in the sternum.
Jonathan, wanting to make sure he hit it squarely, hadn’t moved until the last possible second.
The momentum of the soul taker’s leap had been enough that, even while the bullets smashed into it, it had slammed into Jonathan. He’d been knocked aside, a bowling pin spinning from the passage of the ball.
Jonathan shook his head. His chest had three long gashes that wept blood from the claw-like hands.
He tried to get up.
The first time, he didn’t make it, slipping and collapsing back to the floor in pain. But he heard the sound of wings, the rustling of the feathers once more.
Close now—a vulture over his shoulder.
Thrusting himself up, ignoring the pain, he saw his unwanted guest also pushing itself from the floor.
The feathers of his large, black wings looked like sculpted oil spread out from the back of the humanoid—a swallow from hell.
Jonathan looked about for his gun. He spotted it under the desk and lurched that way.
Using the edge of the desk for support, he tried to kneel down. The next moment, his right side slammed against the frame of the door.
His arm went numb and he dropped to the ground.
The soul taker wavered and doubled in his vision as it stalked towards him.
Jonathan took some gratification from the fact that, even with his eyes unfocused, he could see the pain the memitim was in.
With his arm not working right, Jonathan couldn’t perform any spell worth speaking.
This adversary would only be stopped by serious magic. Although he itched to call up that sort of energy, he was shit out of luck at the moment.
Jonathan hoped the wounds would be enough to slow the creature down.
Ignoring the pain threatening to envelope him, and the grief he was about to cause himself, he got his legs under him.
The moment the creature closed in, Jonathan vaulted up. He slammed himself into the body of the being keen for his client’s soul. It bellowed in pain as Jonathan aggravated the gunshot wounds with his own body.
He might as well have thrown himself at a parked van, but the creature staggered slightly. It was enough and Jonathan slipped past.
He dropped to the ground with a cry of agony but managed to snake his arm out and snag the weapon. Rolling onto his back, Jonathan brought the gun up and fired.
The memitim’s head snapped back and it crumpled to its knees.
Slowly, it toppled sideways, leaving Jonathan to gasp in breaths, each bringing sharp, constricting pain. He wasn’t entirely certain the thing was dead. For the moment, though, all he could do was sit.
Quite certain from experience that he had more than one cracked rib, Jonathan felt comforted by the fact that nothing seemed to be punctured or ruptured.
He had not been sure he could make the necessary shot with his left hand. However, it seemed unlikely that putting more shards of rowan into the creature’s chest would have had the effect Jonathan had been looking for.
He kicked out at the body of an angel-gone-bad. The creature gave no reaction—even when assaulted.
Jonathan remained unsatisfied.
The silence must have been too much for Wendell. His voice rang out asking if Jonathan was all right.
Jonathan chuckled at the question, then regretted doing so. “Matter of perspective, that.” He crawled around to the front of the desk to look at the memitim.
The shot had caught it just above the left eye. Any further over and he doubted it would have stopped the thing. It was certainly dead.
Mostly.
Using the desk, Jonathan struggled to his feet. From there, he slowly and cautiously made his way to the outer door. He raised the gun in his left hand, glad he had decided years ago to go with the compact three-inch revolver and not a cannon.
His right arm had starting to tingle like fire ants hosted a party there.
He leaned out and glanced down the hall. The corridor was empty and, though his head throbbed, it was just a good old-fashion headache—and possible concussion—and not because of anything stumbling over a symbol.
Returning to his office, Jonathan looked at the body on his floor.
He didn’t physically have the ability to do anything about it, but he was highly skeptical of the wisdom behind simply leaving it there.
Weighing the risks, Jonathan finally asked Wendell to come out to the front and give him a hand.
Even with the sights that had visited them last night, Wendell still did a double-take when he saw the corpse on the office floor.
“It’s a—”
“No,” Jonathan interrupted, “but it has inspired some artists in the past.”
Then Wendell noticed just what shape Jonathan was in.
Before he could say anything, Jonathan cut him off again.
“Don’t ask. Look, I don’t want this thing in here, just in case, but I can’t move it. Think you can?”
“I’ll try.”
Wendell bent down and struggled to get the body over a shoulder. Jonathan ended up having to help. With the extra hand, Wendell managed to rise while bearing the memitim alone.
Jonathan could only guess at how heavy it was. He didn’t waste any time leading Wendell out into the hall and to the bathroom.
They could not afford the time it would take to try and dissolve the body, even if Jonathan knew what to use on this creature. However, his plan for bringing it to the washroom lay elsewhere.
He told Wendell to go to the back of the long room and dump the body on the windowsill. When he caught up, Jonathan opened the window which, unlike the ones in his office, was made from a single tall pane. It swung out on a side hinge.
“On three. Ready?”
“What? We are just going to—to push it out?”
“Yup,” he answered with nod. “Now, hurry up, I don’t like the look in those sparrows’ eyes.”
Jonathan kept watch on the large number of birds grouped on the power lines, fire escape, and rooftop of the buildings on the other side of the alley of which the washroom window opened.
“One. Two. Three!”
They both shoved the memitim out of the window.
For a moment, it looked like they would be forced to give it another push. Then, gravity took effect and the body slithered out, head first.
The
corpse tumbled twice before the broad wings snapped open. Both men jumped back.
Jonathan saw the way the arms and legs still hung like a marionette with no puppet master. “Just the wind catching them.”
Even as he spoke, the corpse banked and one wing collapsed around the body. After that, it began to speed toward the concrete once more.
They both peered at it, leaning out in sick fascination, when the sparrows moved.
Jonathan hadn’t entirely stopped being aware of them. Pulling on the back of Wendell’s collar with his one good hand, he yelled, “Grab the window!”
Wendell grasped the small handle and hauled on it as he leaned back.
The window closed and Jonathan heard the lock catch as the sparrows, all in a group, swept past the window and down towards the ground.
Straining to watch their progress, both men pressed their faces to the glass.
The alley directly under them was covered with hopping, flitting, brownish grey shapes. At the center of the mass was a roughly human shaped mound.
Jonathan watched, flabbergasted, as the sparrows tore and pecked at the remains of the memitim. Gruesome and wrong in such a fundamental way, it made the Sluagh seem almost natural.
With a shudder, Jonathan turned away from the window.
“Come on, better get you back to the circle.”
When Wendell was once more ensconced in the chair within the protective circle, Jonathan allowed himself to relax a little.
Gingerly, he undid his shirt and dropped it on the wastebasket. He opened the left-hand bottom drawer of his desk and took out a new shirt, still in the package.
Since his right hand still sent mixed signals, he had to wrestle it out one-handed. He managed to accomplish it, and got it on, but the buttons proved simply too much.
“Would you?” he asked Wendell, stepping into the circle.
“Of course,” Wendell said, rising, but his eyes stayed on Jonathan’s body.
Jonathan knew what he saw there, white lines and irregular circles, the flesh’s memories of past encounters. Now, new ones had been added. The scores made by the memitim had crusted over, even as his side was transfigured into a rotting bruise.