Flytrap

by Stephanie Ahn

  It can’t get footing, so it can’t get momentum—I push it, it tries to push back, but as long as I don’t stop pushing I can keep winning—I pulse strength from the floor up my legs to my back and arms, using the better grip of my boots on the bathroom tile—

  “Kate!” I gasp, as I force Behemoth just past the hole in the wall. “Run!”

  She dashes past me to the right, her ballet flats giving her a surprisingly athletic advantage. The pressure of Behemoth against my shield suddenly lets up as it turns to follow her—I slam the shield into it, readjusting my feet and bracing to block that direction. I don’t know what’s going to give out first, my shield or my arms. It’s like every second I’m giving it my all, then the next second I have to push even harder, wring just a little more out of what I have left.

  My injured thigh is burning, has been burning. I’ve been able to ignore it as long as it was only in pain, but now that it’s losing strength I can’t brush it off—so with one last push, I shatter my shield into a hundred jagged shards that I send flying into Behemoth’s face.

  I limp at high speed to join Kate, but the gallery is a godsdamned maze of white walls. I feel like a lab rat running to avoid an electric shock. All the art looks mostly the same too; I have a better chance navigating by the blood splatters on the walls. Behemoth must be as spatially confused as I am, because I hear it behind me, sliding across the floor—then crashing to a stop, unable to build a straight path to momentum.

  Kate appears out of nowhere and grabs my hand. “This way, there’s just one set of windows at the back,” she pants.

  She yanks me forward but I stall for a half-second, turning her hand upward so I can put the corked syringe in it. “Keep this on you!”

  “What?”

  “Just hide it, hide it on you, keep it close to you, and if you get cornered, curl up—”

  She slips it into her bra as she runs, compensating for my limp with socket-wrenching arm strength and a champion sprint. I’ve been running so long I don’t even feel the burning of my dry throat or my feet anymore, just air rushing past, and Kate’s hand in mine. We almost, almost make it to the windows—but I know Behemoth is right behind us by the sound of a wall bursting through, the characteristic snuffling, the smell of corpse breath blasting into the air surrounding us.

  I swing Kate behind me, standing between her and Behemoth with my arms out. “You can’t kill me!” I shout. “You know you can’t kill me—you kill me, I dodge Hell, and your master’s pissed!”

  It skids to a halt, bumping up against me in an almost comically gentle fashion. I stumble back into Kate’s arms; this close, Behemoth’s skin smells damp and musty, like mold. It thumps a few steps backward, spraying spit, turning a circle like it’s going to leave the way it came—then its tree trunk tail knocks into me so hard the whole world rushes around me, and I think, Oh, this is what it feels like to fly.

  I hit the wall, and things go… fuzzy. Heavy, like a thick comforter over my head. My arm throbs dully under me. I hear Kate screaming, sobbing, but I can’t get up. I keep telling myself to get up, but I can’t. My heart beats in my ears, in my head, all around me. I want to believe it’s a matter of willpower, but the electric signals I need to send from my brain to my limbs simply aren’t delivering.

  When my vision somewhat clears, Kate is a dark smudge curled up on the floor against the wall, sobbing, covering her head. Behemoth is slamming its head into the wall above her, again and again, grunting, snorting, stomping at the floor anxiously, almost despairingly. I try to get up, but my throbbing arm loses strength and I fall right back to the ground.

  “You can’t kill her,” I gasp, propping myself up on my other elbow.

  Its head whips around toward me, and it squeals, anguished.

  “H-Harry?” Kate tries to say, but the words get muddled in her sobs.

  I try to nod reassuringly at her, but I’m wincing too much. I roll onto my knees, getting up, the destroyed gallery spinning around me. But I manage to limp back into my position between Kate and Behemoth, even pressing Behemoth back a few steps.

  “Your orders are to kill her, but you can’t kill her.” I have to breathe deliberately, to fill my aching lungs with air even as my ribs protest. “You’re in a bind, and I’m the only person who knows why. So you sit still and listen to me, or I screw you forever.”

  Those compound eyes glower at me; I imagine that, in its view, my bruised and battered form is reflected a million times over on a million identical TV screens. Then its back legs buckle, and it slumps back like it’s taking a seat, legs splaying outward as it reluctantly pays attention to me.

  I am so fucking glad that worked. There was a huge, massive, incredibly dangerous chance that it wouldn’t—but my memory didn’t fail me when I heard Beelzebub say that Behemoth couldn’t harm any bodily component of him, including his blood. As long as Behemoth can’t tell that it’s the syringe tucked into Kate’s bra, not Kate herself, that it can’t attack, I have a chance to do this.

  “Now,” I say, “you’re at least part demon, right? In the flesh, at least. Demons speak tongues, which means you should be able to talk to me. So talk to me.”

  What passes for the beast’s lips distort. They twist, forming words painfully, as though it doesn’t recognize which muscles are moving in its throat.

  “I SPEAK.”

  I hear the clap of Kate’s hand covering her mouth behind me. I wish I could comfort her, but she seems to understand that, whatever’s going on right now, she’s gotta lay low and let it play out.

  “Okay, okay, good. You’re trapped in a body bound to Beelzebub, right? But he doesn’t own your mind, or your soul.”

  “OWN THE CAGE… OWN THE BEAST.”

  “Okay, yeah, I get your logic on that. I actually got a glimpse into your head earlier, before the mall—there’s just this thing urging you on, right? You see prey, and you—you feel compelled, drawn to them.”

  “YES.”

  “You want to eat them.”

  It starts shaking, huffing—its nostrils flare in distress, its jaws snapping open and close.

  “—Okay, okay—you don’t want to eat them? You want to stop eating. You’re not hungry, but you’re still eating—only because Beelzebub keeps forcing you to eat. Is that right?”

  Behemoth slumps to the floor in exhaustion, and I finally pay full attention to its appearance. Its eyes, its eyes are barely open anymore; they’re swollen nearly all the way shut. And the sound of its breathing is labored, not just because of its size, but because its face is so distended around its nostrils its own skin is smothering it. When I first saw it birthed in the hospital, it was a more defined set of shapes: a ribcage, limbs, head, feet—now its hands are misshapen lumps, skin sags off the uneven structure of its skull, and one of its tusks is drooping lower than the other. It’s a horrifying scene of… carrion-like, melting flesh, too much weight, too much mass, struggling to hold itself together. A powerful engine forced into a frame it was never meant to fit, blistering and melting the whole structure, tearing it apart.

  I reach forward, hesitantly. “Buddy, are you—are you okay?”

  “…NO.”

  “How… exactly has Beelzebub bound you? What can I do to, like, unbind you?”

  “BOUND BY BLOOD AND FLESH. FREE ME FROM THE FLESH.”

  I press a palm against its face, just above the nostrils. The skin slips, as though not attached fully to the muscle underneath, and when I hastily pull my hand away there’s a tear in its forehead. “I’m sorry, buddy, I seriously, seriously am—I think I’ve done everything I can to free you from the flesh. Remember the mall? I dropped like, twelve Molotov cocktails on you. I put a harpoon in your brain. If you’ve got any convenient weak spots I’m all ears, but otherwise… I don’t think Beelzebub was kidding when he said you’re unkillable.”

  Behemoth blinks its big, blood orange eyes.

  “WHA
T… DO I DO?”

  “I… I don’t know, man. I don’t know.” I press my forehead against the base of its nose. It lets me, even though the weight of my head makes its skin droop and struggle to keep its elasticity. I’m crying again, but not frantically like before. The tears just drip quietly down my face, purely for someone else, just this once. “Beelzebub, the little shit. He got both of us good, didn’t he?”

  Liquid drips down its face too, milky white, yellowish, looking more like pus than tears. A dark, viscous red mingles into the yellow, seeping into the branching cracks in its skin.

  Blood.

  Blood.

  I pull back, looking Behemoth up and down. “Hey, are you fully, biologically, a sire of Beelzebub? Chloe said they used in vitro fertilization. You can’t disobey him, right?”

  “CANNOT.”

  “What happens when you think of disobeying?”

  “I FEEL… DEATH. FALLING INTO ME. THE MIND DOES NOT FEAR DEATH, BUT THE BODY DOES. THE BODY OBEYS. THE MIND SCREAMS. THE MIND ONLY WANTS TO SLEEP. TO DREAM AGAIN, UNDER THE WEIGHT OF THE SEA.”

  “What are your orders again? Forbidden from—crushing a fingernail, snapping a hair, spilling a drop of his blood, yeah? Those exact words, those exact terms?”

  “YES.”

  “Okay, we’re going to try something. Put your arms up. Wave ‘em in the air like you just don’t care.” I demonstrate, hopping up and down—my injured arm sears through with white-hot pain when I try to raise it, so I have to resort to using just my left. “Manseh, manseh!”

  “Harry, what the fuck?” Kate shouts from behind me, where she’s still curled up against the wall.

  “Just—just trust me. Come on, manseh!”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Kate’s arms go up. I turn around, waving my hand. “No no, not you, sorry. You—” I point at Behemoth. “Manseh!”

  It rolls an enormous eye at me.

  “IS THIS NECESSARY?”

  “Just, humor me, okay?”

  It lifts up on its hind legs, half-heartedly, and falls back down with an earth-shaking THUMP.

  “Okay, let’s do that again. Manseh!”

  It goes up higher this time. Back down. I watch where its feet land, carefully.

  “Okay, one more time. One more time, and give it absolutely everything you’ve got. Manseh!”

  It rises up all the way to the ceiling, muzzle waving in a triumphant arc. It stays there, hovering, upright—“So sorry about this,” I whisper as I shove my hand into Kate’s bra, grabbing the plastic syringe of Beelzebub’s blood. I slide it across the floor, and it rolls to a stop.

  Right where Behemoth’s foot lands.

  I barely hear the crunch of it, muffled under so much solid flesh. Behemoth crashes to the floor—then keeps on crashing, its legs crumpling in on themselves like the bones have disappeared, chest flattening onto the floor with an almighty noise, the jaw dislocating with an ugly CRACK. And when I think it can’t sink any further, the flesh simply comes apart, like the glue between its parts just can’t handle anymore. A wave of melted flesh splooges outward in a massive puddle that rapidly engulfs my boots, Kate yelping behind me as she gets the worst of it. It smells like… old feet, wet callouses, dead skin. As I curse and stumble, my toes making the stuff splash, I look up—and all that’s left of the beast is a cage of tall, white ribs, the last scraps of bloody, ragged flesh dripping off them to join the mess on the floor. In the center of those curving ribs is a gleaming crowbar, my crowbar, polished by stomach acid and winking like treasure in the broken hull of a shipwreck.

  Kate covers her mouth, and I hear her gag. I walk forward, feeling a bit like I’m stepping in paint. I reach the ribs, touch them. They’re dry, parched even. “And from its ribs, they fashioned a cage,” I whisper, reverently.

  “…Harry?” Kate calls. I turn.

  “Yeah?”

  Kate points at the red and yellow flesh gunk that’s soaking her pants and her ballet flats, her eyes trembling. “Harry, look.”

  It’s congealing, gathering on its own, like it’s being drawn toward me by some kind of magnet. I skip hastily backward—no, the melted flesh isn’t drawing toward me, it’s drawing toward the ribs. It starts climbing up them like reverse footage of the wax melting off a candle, forming… the glistening, rubbery grayish tubes of intestines, the bloated sac of stomach and liver, lungs, and—the pink, toddler-sized sac of a heart. Beating, beating, being encased by smooth and skeletal red, pink, stringy muscle, as the ribs are joined by more white bone, arranging into four limbs and a long tail.

  More muscle draws onto the bones, until there’s a semblance of the shape Behemoth was in before. But the neck is longer, the head more—defined. As the mass now coats over with yellow-white blubber, the tendons of the thighs and hindquarters draw tight, raising itself on strong knees and webbed toes. There’s a difference in the movement; it’s fluid, effortless. The skin comes, not pale and sickly like before, but blue-gray, spotted with brown, and white on the underbelly. Tough and elastic.

  The head is fascinating as it forms. It looks at first like a bird’s, like a big beak hooking downward, but it splits down the middle from the flared nostrils to the pointed tip. Teeth appear, sharp and even, lining that strange, vertical mouth. I see the brief wink of my crowbar melting on a wet, wide pink tongue—the mouth shutters, then opens, and the teeth are now coated in a classy silver sheen. Finally, the eyes roll open—these beautiful, big brown eyes, the mixed color of clay and good dirt.

  My injured leg is shaking with the effort of keeping me upright. My nails dig crescent moons into my palms. “You—Behemoth, is that you?”

  This time, Behemoth’s mouth doesn’t move. Its words simply rumble out from where it’s standing like unfurling mist, entering my mind rather than my ears.

  FREE.

  My heart is pounding giddily in my throat. “Oh my gods. Really? Seriously, for real? You’re not bound anymore?”

  All the bristles on its back stand and fall, and it rears up like a peacock showing its feathers. Kate cries out and covers her face.

  FREE. NO MASTERS. NO LEASHES. NO ORDERS.

  FREE.

  “You—look at you! Look at you!” I feel like dancing—I do just a little, just because I can’t help it—it doesn’t matter what’s happening with me right now, it doesn’t matter, because this is something so big and beautiful I can’t help but laugh and cry with joy at the sight of it. “Look at how beautiful you are!”

  FREE TO KILL.

  My stomach drops faster than an anchor. “Oh, oh no no no. Kill what? No, I thought you said you didn’t want to eat—”

  EAT THE ONE WHO WOULD CALL HIMSELF MASTER.

  It turns and runs, frantically, excitedly, like a colt trying out its new legs. I hear sirens through the windows leading outside—a swell of shrill screams, and the popping noise of ineffectual bullets.

  “Harry…” Kate says, slowly picking herself up to stand beside me, her arm curling around mine. “What the fuck just happened?”

  I breathe in, out, processing.

  “I think… I just killed my nemesis.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lullaby, and Goodnight

  We stumble out of the gallery onto the slush. I slip on a frozen bit of it, collapsing, and Kate helps me up even as she screams, “What was that? What was that?”

  “I—I can explain—”

  “So explain! The fuck, Harry? Oh my god—”

  She slips on the ice too and lands on her ass on the curb, sobbing into her hands. I try to crouch in front of her, still cradling my broken arm, but I end up slipping onto one hip, barely keeping my injured thigh off the ground.

  “It’s—I’m sorry, this is going to sound fucking terrible—”

  “Just tell me!”

  “Demon! That was a demon! But it wasn’t really a demon, which is the whole reason I could even g
et it to stop trying to kill you—”

  “Why was it trying to kill me? What did I ever do to this—demon? I didn’t do anything!” Her voice cracks. She sounds so heartbroken I can’t help the remorse that bubbles up in me, like the whole world is going to end if she doesn’t smile again in the next minute.

  “I know, I know, and I’m so sorry—you didn’t do anything wrong, all you did was associate with me, and I’m so sorry, it was my fault—”

  She smacks my chest, screaming, and I let her get it out. She calls me “a selfish, lying bitch,” then “an asshole, a stupid handsome asshole,” and, finally, “a fucking weirdo I should’ve dumped the second you brought up grave robbing—” She leans on me, and I yelp as she presses on my injured side. She yelps too, her hands fluttering, and she uses my other shoulder as a brace as she slows her breathing.

  “So… so what… what was that you did? In the bathroom? That, that wall that you put up, red, and—what—”

  “Magic, Kate, it was magic. I’m a witch.”

  “Magic… witch. Demon.” Her head droops, and she makes an “eeeuuurgh” noise at the back of her throat.

  “Kate? Are you okay?”

  “None of this makes sense to me.”

  I hold her arm, trying my best to be an anchor. “I know it doesn’t, and I’m sorry. None of this was ever supposed to come back on you. If you never ever want to see me again, you can. You can get in one of the ambulances, you can get taken care of with everyone else who got hurt. I can even make you forget me, forget everything, make it so no demon can get to you again—”

  “Forget?” Her voice turns shrill, and her eyes are wild. “How could I forget? How could I forget—” she waves her arms, “—all of this!”

  “Magic, Kate. I could make you forget with magic.”

  “I—oh.” She stops waving. “…How?”

  “It’s this thing called cutting ties. Basically, I take everything I know about you, everything we’ve had together, everything I… I… love about you, and bundle it all together into a spell, and sacrifice it to keep you safe. You wouldn’t remember this night, at least not clearly. You’d have a big sign hanging around your neck that says Off Limits to demons, even the one that just tried to nix you to get to me. And you definitely wouldn’t remember me.”