by Kevin Lucia
They were wrong.
Deflecting thoughts of Sadie and their unborn child, he drew on his pipe. The Presbyterian blunted the jagged edges of his turmoil. He trotted across the empty street, slipped under the tape and into the alley. Squatting, he brushed the cold, damp asphalt with his fingertips, detecting faint psychic vibrations of turbulent death. A veiled stain, left behind by great emotional and physical torment.
He needed to know more. Fortunately, he came prepared.
Unfortunately, it involved magic. More like mundane spell casting, really. He loathed magic, but he’d no room for personal preferences. Abyss-bound had been misclassified before. Often, even the most brilliant minds misinterpreted vague, ancient texts. Most likely, Bothwell hadn’t. But she wasn’t the one dancing on the razor’s edge. He had to know for sure.
He reached into his pocket, withdrew a pouch of lime salt, along with lime chalk. With that, he drew a pyramid with an eye inside—the All-Seeing Eye—then circled it. Around that, he drew nine smaller versions that intersected with each other across the larger pyramid diagonally.
He tipped the pouch open and sifted the salt around the circle, careful not to cover the small sigils. He felt a small measure of comfort that this spell was so utilitarian. It could hardly be counted as magic, really. Most spells were only ancient methods of accessing the Veil, developed by long forgotten peoples, nothing more than pseudo-scientific, alchemical formulas blending elemental science and the supernatural in esoteric ways.
No one really understood how it worked. He likened it to operating a car or computer without understand its inner mechanics. He turned the key, hit the gas, saw the results, but didn’t really understand why. That’s what unsettled him most; that, and he considered it lazy. He preferred doing things with his own two hands. Right now, it couldn’t be helped. Magic—like silver, hawthorne stakes or consecrated water—was simply another tool at his disposal.
He put the salt down and removed a small tin from his pocket. Inside nestled dozens of chewable mescaline tablets measured to small doses. They brought users to a higher state of awareness, flooding the pineal gland of the brain with melanin. In theory, this connected him to the electromagnetic fields all around him, opening what the Ancients had called “the third eye.”
He inhaled deeply, removed his pipe, then pinched a tablet from the tin and placed it under his tongue. It tasted bitter … like almonds or cyanide. From his pocket came an old matchbook from the UberNacht. Morbidly ironic, considering its demise.
The mescaline dissolved under his tongue. He lit a match, then closed his eyes.
Everything left a psychic soul print. An electromagnetic trace. When the mescaline activated his pineal gland, his “third eye” would open and show him these traces. The All-Seeing Eye served as a focusing agent. Lighting the lime-salt proved an elemental catalyst that opened a conduit between him and any ambient electromagnetic energy.
He felt it. Everything slowed. His heart thundered. Re-opening his eyes, he detected silvery wisps that crept and slithered, puffs of eldritch vapor clinging to the walls and ground.
“Posluzitelj mene, istina, i osuisetluti.” Serve me, truth. Illuminate. He tossed the match onto the salt.
White-blue flames flared and poured down the alley, liquid fire that touched everything, burned nothing. In them, thousands of faces swirled. Bluish ghosts leapt and crawled. So many traces of people long since gone: pedestrians, vagrants, hookers and their johns, constables, shopkeepers, thugs, street children. The third eye showed him surging ghosts, both distant and near. One by one they winked out, the oldest fading, fresher traces taking more defined shape. The mists swirled, convulsed, finally coalesced into a solid image. Wisps of energy became arms, legs, bodies—forming into glowing still life etched in cold, ghostly blue.
A young woman stumbling backwards, hands upraised. What looked like a boy—but was not—stepping from behind a dumpster. Though the cloudy-blue image lacked detail, the boy’s midsection appeared a mass of twisted flesh, glittering with inhuman eyes.
The image flickered. The mescaline wore off. The shimmering vista dissipated, leaving only a dark alley. Hiram rocked back on his heels. “Damn.” The odds of Bothwell being mistaken were slight, indeed.
He needed to think. Sort things out. A bar. A good, stiff drink or three. Remembering a place the airport cabbie had mentioned, Hiram collected his things and set off.
The place called Jimmy’s looked nearly empty, its only patron a young woman seated at the bar, facing away from him. She didn’t look up as he passed. A large man with thick arms swabbed the bar with a dirty towel. “Closin’ soon. Last call’s ‘bout an hour.”
“That’ll suit. Want to raise my feet for a spot.” He nodded at a table in the shadows at the back of the room. “A pint of Guinness and a Bushmills neat, mate.”
“Aye. JENNIE!”
Hiram turned and threaded through tables to one he wanted. He sat down, leaned back and rested his head against the wall, closed his eyes. Instead of his mission, as always, there loomed Sadie. He didn’t know how to make her go away. Kali knew he’d tried. He’d drowned himself in absinthe, opium, assorted other liquors and pills, yet Sadie’s face—pale, thin, slightly elfin and entrancing—still begged for salvation.
There had been girls after Sadie. Pretty little things with black lips, plaid schoolgirl skirts, studded collars. They hadn’t helped. Sadie called to him still. Whispering in his ear while he worked, knocking on his brain as he slept. Though he’d never bedded Sadie, every girl since had worn her face.
He opened his eyes and dropped his hands into his lap. “Ridiculous. She was nothing. Just another tart, that’s all.”
Really? All those Jodie Foster collages at home? The gifts from Sadie? Those are nothing, eh?
“Of course. Foolish testaments of a childish infatuation, nothing more.”
“Yer pint and a Black Bush. That it?”
Hiram looked up and grimaced. Jennie was short, portly, with a crooked nose. “Quite.” Jennie—apparently sensing his dislike—scurried off. Satisfied to be alone again, he ignored all sensibilities and drained the deep amber whiskey in one go, relishing its smooth warmth. Staring at the frothing tan head of his Guinness, Hiram wondered how many pints it’d take tonight to dull the jagged holes inside him.
Maybe she should go home. It was clear Reggie wasn’t coming. It’d been over an hour, and he still hadn’t answered his cell. She felt tired, and a headache throbbed through her buzz.
That was it, then. She was free. It sucked that she was alone again, but she’d manage—resurgent nightmares or not. She leaned forward, ready to leave. Before she could, however, strong hands gently grasped her shoulders, fingers probing tenderly into that meaty place just below the neck that always ached when she was tired. A strange sensation ran through her; oddly thrilling yet depressing: Reggie had made it after all.
She settled down. “What the hell, Reggie? I’ve been waiting forever.”
“Sorry, love.” His voice sounded strange. “Got caught up with something.”
“Caught up? At this time of night? With what?”
There was no answer as Reggie continued to massage. A stray finger dug painfully, and she winced. “Watch it, Regg. You always get too carried away …”
The barest suggestion of … something … felt its way onto her neck. She turned and almost gagged when she saw a thick maggot curl off Reggie’s hand and onto her skin.
“Oh, hell … Reggie …!”
His fingers clenched. Her heart sped. She wrenched around and saw what remained of Reggie Bannister. Time froze, until a thick, bloated maggot squirmed from his left nostril. Smiling, he revealed a mouthful of worms. “Hello, Therese. Good to see you, love.”
Therese screamed and tried to flee, but her clumsy legs twisted. She toppled to the floor, hard. Somehow she rolled onto her back and scrambled away. Reggie loomed over her, awful face smiling. Waggling a pale finger, he made a muffled tsk-tsk. “Now, now. R
unning away, are we? That’s a bad girl, Therese.”
She skittered backwards into a wall and ran out of room. Briefly, she imagined leaping to her feet and running, but fear short-circuited her brain’s frenzied messages to her limbs. As Reggie slurped, leaving slime-encrusted maggots on his chin, she screamed.
Hiram’s chair slammed down, causing him to drop his pint. “Ridiculous. Can’t a fellow take time to …”
Another tortured scream. Quickly Hiram found the source: a man advanced upon the young woman from the bar. Fear painted her face.
Hiram frowned. Something felt wrong. The barkeep rushed the attacker, only to be swatted aside like a paper doll, with nary a break in the man’s stride. Something felt very wrong.
“Damn!” Hiram bolted from his chair. Closing the distance in bounding strides, he grabbed the stranger’s shoulders, slammed his head into one of the pub’s columns, then flung him against the bar. He drew the Webley, only to have it batted away. He ducked as a punch sailed over him and struck the column, which shook and splintered. Spinning, he unsheathed his trusty Pritchard and slashed at his attacker’s ribs.
He was rewarded with an ululating howl and the scent of charred flesh. Years ago, the 8.3-inch steel blade had been blessed by Hopi medicine men as thanks for saving a Nevada reservation menaced by skin-walkers. He’d give them this much; the Native Americans knew their alchemy. The cold steel of the bayonet contained enough iron to hurt Abyss-walkers, but the blessing gave it an extra kick.
Something burned Hiram’s hand. Glancing down, he saw his blade coated with dozens of writhing white maggots sizzling under Hopi magic. Fleeing, one of them had oozed onto his hand and was burrowing into his skin.
“Hell!” Hiram dislodged it, but not before it took a chunk of flesh with it. If even one had gotten inside him …
He looked up, his stomach clenching at the sight of the wound he’d scored along the beast’s abdomen. Masses of white maggots teemed inside red, dripping tissue that sealed itself liked putty. He recalled the vision in the alley.
Tanara’ri.
They circled. Hiram faced the bar; It stood in his way. How to beat this thing? Elemental fire always proved a good bet. Of course, he’d left his most effective supplies at the safe house; the Webley lay out of reach. He had an old lighter for his pipe, nothing more.
Regular fire would damage necrotic tissue just fine, however. Hiram scanned the bar. Behind it, shelves of sparkling, multi-colored bottles reached to the ceiling, everything from Glen Fiddich to Bourbon to Beefeater. His lighter and liquor equaled fire. One problem: this thing blocked his path.
He brandished his blade. The Tanara’ri hissed and lunged, outstretched hands dissolving. Hiram bent and sliced a whistling figure eight, severing both of the creature’s hands at the wrists. They exploded into gore. Maggots rained everywhere. Hiram spun, unfortunately away from the bar and its liquor treasure trove. Fire, dammit! I need fire!
The Tanara’ri screeched and shook ragged stumps smoldering with Hopi magic. Hands reforming, it howled and attacked again. Hiram twisted, sidestepped, ducked, tried to find an opening to the bar. He cut away large swaths of necrotic tissue, but still the Tanara’ri blocked his every turn.
Hiram’s thighs and calves ached. He needed fire, now.
It happened quickly. Looking for a hole to slip through to the bar and its liquor stores, Hiram overcompensated and stumbled. The thing’s belly split open and something wriggled out. As Hiram scrambled for footing, his heart skipped. Nestled inside a dripping gullet was something small, rubbery. Hideous eyes blinked and tentacles uncoiled.
“Kali’s tit!”
Leathery snakes punched him in the chest. Something roared as he crashed through wood and sheetrock. Everything went black.
Hiram blinked, shook his head and cursed as he struggled amid the debris in the bar’s restroom. He slipped and banged his head against the wall. Another curse on his tongue, he heard something roll. He glanced up in time to see a long white cylinder pitch off a shelf above. It fell and struck his forehead.
“Piss off!” He grabbed the metal tube to throw it away, but large black letters caught his gaze. INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH SANITIZER. CAUTION …
“ … aerosol contents highly flammable.” Fire. Splendid.
Hiram glanced upwards and smiled. “Bloody hell. Maybe you don’t hate me, after all.”
A shrill scream came from the pub. Hiram scrambled to his feet.
Therese didn’t understand what was happening, but two items were plain: that thing wanted to kill her, and the strange, ugly man that moved with destructive grace was the only thing stopping it—but now he was buried beneath the rubble of the restroom behind her.
The thing panted, spit wads of plasma. Its tentacles snaked back inside its belly. Flesh oozed over the horrible mass beneath. It straightened and approached her. During the fight its features had melted, but in a final cruel act, it reassumed Reggie’s face and knelt before her. “Tasty. Powerful. More than the others.” It drooled slime.
“W-why? Why … me?”
It mimicked Reggie’s voice. “Bound to you. Must eat you. Will be fun.” Grabbing her chin, it slammed her head against the wall. “Reggie is still here, inside. Still wants you.” It pinched her cheeks, forced her jaws open, and leaned forward. “Kiss, kiss!”
Therese’s heart pounded. The Reggie-thing’s mouth morphed into a cone-like snout. As it descended, she peered inside and saw a single large worm, nestled amongst the smaller ones, waiting for her. Something oily brushed her mind, and she screamed.
“Hello, dears. Miss me much?”
The Reggie-thing’s head jerked up. Its eyes widened. Next came heat, flame, and howling.
The improvised blowtorch worked better than expected. Bluish flame engulfed the creature as it jerked away. Fire scorched its newly formed hands up to the forearms. Blackened ends smoked. A sickening odor filled the air, along with a piercing screech.
Hiram released the nozzle and shook the spray can. The Tanara’ri bounded away, crashed through Jimmy’s front window, and fled across the narrow street into a dark alley. He followed, shaking the spray can again, realizing how foolish it was to pursue an Abyss-bound without the proper tools. For the moment, however, he had the upper hand. He meant to press it further.
Hiram followed its screams. Wind tufted refuse along the ground. Small things rustled behind rows of trash cans. Sprinting as close as he dared, he flamed away again. The glow of burning flesh lightened the alley, and the aerosol can warmed his fingertips.
He stopped. The alley had come to a dead end. What remained of the creature slumped against a brick wall, mewling. Wary of its tentacles, Hiram circled. He tried to ignore how empty the spray can felt. Once expended, he’d be weaponless. Time to end this.
He triggered the nozzle and flicked the lighter. The Tanara’ri flattened itself against the wall and screamed. Flame sputtered from the can’s tip … then nothing.
“Oh, shit.”
The Tanara’ri leaped at him, tentacles snapping from its gut. Tossing away the now useless spray can and lighter, Hiram dove towards the trash bins behind him. With one hand he swept a lid off one and flung it at the creature. Tentacles slapped it aside. Hiram threw up another bin cover as a battered shield. The Tanara’ri surged forward, a liquid, coiling shadow. It struck the lid, driving him back and pinning him between brick and tin. Hiram jerked and pushed. His feet scrambled in spilled trash as he fought for leverage.
A tentacle plunged for Hiram’s face. He dodged, and it blasted into brick. Another tentacle glanced off his shoulder. Even as he tried to duck, more of the beast’s appendages wrapped around the lid’s edges, tore it from his hands and pulled him close. Hiram kicked in vain. A crude hand morphed from the swirling mass, grabbed Hiram’s chin and forced his jaw open. Hiram gnashed his teeth, kicked harder, to no avail. The Tanara’ri’s face elongated. It hissed and jammed its newly-formed snout between Hiram’s lips. He bucked as the air in his lungs dwindled. P
ulsating things filled his mouth.
Something roared, and then quickly thundered again. The Tanara’ri jerked, pulled its snout free, and howled. With a wrenching abdominal thrust, Hiram hacked up mucus and maggots. More of the things were still inside him, though, slithering down his throat.
The Tanara’ri shook its head. It lunged forward to resume its awful kiss when something boomed again. Hiram recognized it —the Webley. The Tanara’ri’s head exploded. Bits flew as the husk dissolved. Something dark and leathery squealed and scrambled away into the trash.
Hiram sank to his knees. He felt the maggots squirming in his gut. He jammed two fingers down his throat, then vomited onto the pavement. His stomach burned, felt torn in half. He blinked through tears at his vomit. Speckled with crimson splotches, it squirmed with maggots.
He sagged onto his heels. With bleary eyes he saw his savior. Sadie? He blinked. Sadie vanished, replaced by the girl from the bar. The Webley shook in her tiny hands.
“Good show, love. Wonderful, really. Now—some help? I’m a bit winded, and I …”
The world tilted. “Oh, damn.”
Hiram fell backward into darkness.
Therese stood still for several seconds, clenching the huge revolver. Pure adrenaline had driven her across the street. Now it faded.
Her grip relaxed. The heavy gun fell from her fingers and she fled.
Cold asphalt pressed into his back. His head ached and he drowned in nausea. He tried to roll his legs underneath him so he could stand, but they merely jerked a few times, then lay still. Seeing his Webley on the ground nearby, he pulled himself over to it and retrieved his father’s weapon, clutching it uselessly in weak hands.
Hiram licked his lips and coughed. He was tired. So tired. Get up, dammit. Get the hell up. Dammit, Hiram …
“Dammit, Hiram. Why do you always have to fuck things up?”
Hiram blinked. A face hovered above his. Its features shifted. One moment it was Sadie, the next his mother, then the girl from the bar … his mysterious savior in the burning UberNacht … that woman from Boston … back to Sadie, his mother, then …