Pockets of Darkness

by Jean Rabe

  Her demon mumbled and closed four of its eyes, the fifth locked onto the bowls. Though she couldn’t pick out a single word from its ramblings, she found a pattern in them, like a song chorus. The demon’s voice rose and its fifth eye widened so it appeared double-sized.

  There was a warning in her head to get the hell out of the museum, not to do this. She ignored the warning, thinking of Otter. “Fine. Fine. Fine.” She brought her leg up and angled her heel, drove it down over the bottom of the bowl she’d just delved. “Let’s see what happens, eh, you scuttering gobshite. Let’s see—”

  The demon chanted louder still; Bridget had never heard it manage this volume before. Its fifth eye turned blackest black, as if it tried to draw in all the meager light in this room. She watched in horror as the broken pottery shards started to shift and skip against the floor. Her demon was playing a role in freeing the Aldî-nîfaeti.

  “Holy crap,” she said. “Something’s really coming out of—”

  “Hey! Don’t move, you!” That was a new voice. Strong and gravelly. “Joe, this is Carl. I’ve got a thief in four-eight-one. Repeat, section four-eight-one. Call for a squad. Probably more of them around. Check the feeds.” To Bridget again: “Don’t move, you.”

  Bridget spun, intending to run from the room, back the way she’d come; couldn’t allow herself to get caught. But she was suddenly struck by something. Jolting, jarring, painful. Two needle-tips in her arm connected to electric cables. “Christ on a tricycle.” She’d been tasered.

  Bridget’s legs gave out and she dropped to the hard marble floor, falling and striking the second bowl and shattering it as the electric current from the guard’s weapon cavorted through her.

  “Bridget unshackled Aldî-nîfaeti,” the demon pronounced. “Aldî-nîfaeti liburrrrrated.” It began its horridly loud, songlike chant again and the shards from the second bowl started to dance.

  ***

  Twenty Four

  Bridget grabbed the thin cables and tugged the needle-tips out, fighting the effects of the electric jolt. She got to her feet just as the security guard dropped the taser, drew a Glock, and fired.

  His target was what she had freed by smashing the bowl. At first it looked like oily smoke that rose in a thick, lazy spiral from the jittering potty shards, resembling one of the shadows she’d glimpsed on the ancient wall with her psychometry. She jumped back to buy herself some distance, watching as the form expanded quickly, and he fired again. The emerging creature lightened until it became the shade of early morning fog with solidifying tendrils that flowed away across the floor.

  Bridget darted farther back and saw that the color of it changed once more, and with that the scent of the thing became pronounced, like something burnt and biting. Her own demon was still singing or chanting or evoking … or whatever the hell it was doing. And the shards from the second bowl were becoming more agitated.

  “Sweet Mary Mother of God!” the guard fired on the tentacle-beast and advanced, the bullets either missing and striking the display case or passing through the creature with no effect. At the same time, he talked into a microphone on his shoulder. “Joe, you’re not going to believe this. Joe! Get everyone over here. Everyone, hear me! Section four-eight-one. It’s a monster! A God’s honest monster! Trigger the main alarm! Do it now! Now!”

  The newly-formed creature looked nothing like her demon, which hovered at the edge of her vision, its song finally ended and all its eyes open.

  It looked worse.

  “Bridget unshackled Aldî-nîfaeti. Unshackled!”

  The tentacle demon was easily the height of an NBA center. It had a dozen or more octopus-like appendages at its base that twitched against the marble floor, and a cylindrical body that rose in the middle of them, smooth and straight like a Roman column. It sprouted two mannish arms, furry and black and ending in snapping lobster-shaped claws, and a head that was simian and topped with broken horns. Everything but the arms was a mottled green-beige, patches on the tentacles scaly, and a few places on its head where tufts of dark green hair stood up at odd angles like stubborn crabgrass.

  Bridget’s stomach flip flopped and she grabbed the edge of a case to center herself.

  What had she expected?

  That nothing would happen? That in coming to the museum and breaking bowls no demon would pop out because it just didn’t seem possible—despite the images from her delving?

  Or had she thought that if something did come out, it would be a carbon-copy of the demon that dogged her? Certainly not something this massive and even more threatening.

  And what should be happening now? The guard should be killing the thing, splattering its otherworldly guts all over the display case and sending its soul to hell.

  Which, of course, wasn’t happening.

  The guard fired twice more, the bullets striking the beast squarely now, but doing nothing other than maybe pissing it off.

  The column-creature opened its mouth and let out a sound like a thousand fingernails scratching across a blackboard. The guard shouted into his mic, but Bridget couldn’t hear him over the demon.

  Indecision held her. Flee, that would be the safest thing. Don’t get caught, run back to the brownstone, and think. Think. Think. Think. The police would be coming soon, and more museum security was certainly on its way—though that might take a few minutes, the museum being so spread out. She couldn’t get caught … what would happen to Otter? Let all the security deal with the monster.

  Flee, that would be the best course.

  Flee.

  Or do something rash and stupid like helping the security guard and risking her own capture.

  The tentacle creature slid toward the guard, making a “slorping” sound against the marble and leaving a slimy trail. The pitch of its screeching changed and suddenly ceramic objects inside the Plexiglas display cases cracked, and some of the fluorescent tubes in the cases exploded. Bridget slammed her hands against her head and darted toward the security guard, skidding to put herself between him and the demon. She thought: invincible, right? If getting hit by a car and stabbed by a robber didn’t kill her, this demon couldn’t touch her, right? Her own demon wouldn’t let it. If something happened to her, how would the rest of the damnable demons get released?

  “Stay back!” she hollered at it. “Stay the hell away!”

  A lobster-claw grabbed her wrist, picked her up and hurled her into a display case as if she was a near-weightless ragdoll.

  Bridget watched the guard fire again and again until the Glock was empty and he dropped it. Then she saw a second patch of oily smoke rising. It had taken the other demon longer to escape its shattered prison.

  “Nooooooooo!” Once more she darted toward the guard, who was screaming for help into his mic. She was intent again on interposing herself, but this time she was a heartbeat too late.

  Flames flowed away from the demon’s tentacles in a great “whoosh,” reaching the guard and enveloping him.

  “No!” Bridget wailed, stopping in mid-stride and leaping away, narrowly avoiding the flames herself. The fire continued to wash over the floor and she sprang to grab the top of a display case, hanging there, listening to the flames crackle and the guard scream, faintly hearing the pounding of feet—more guards coming.

  “God, no!” Bridget pulled herself up on top of the case and lay flat, aware she was triggering probably a dozen alarms. “Stay back!” She hollered to the approaching guards. “Stay out!”

  The fire swirled across the marble, casting everything in a hellish orange glow and engulfing the four guards who charged into the room. The stench and heat were incredible, and at the edge of it she saw the second freed demon. It had finished forming, looking like a giant slab of Silly Putty, almost comical in its appearance. It rolled itself into the flames, and like a cocoon wrapped itself around the closest burning guard. Within heartbeats it moved onto the next guard and the next, the flames dying down and showing … nothing. The gray putty-demon had dissolved the b
odies. It rolled itself toward the first charred victim and started devouring him, just as more security guards arrived and the tentacle demon sent a wave of fire crashing toward them.

  Weren’t there sprinklers? Shouldn’t they be coming on and stopping the fire? She looked up and spotted a few strategically placed so they wouldn’t damage the exhibits. The sprinklers had been melted.

  Bridget could hardly breathe. What she’d witnessed … and what she held herself responsible for because she’d released the two monstrosities … kept her lungs captive. She turned her head so she wouldn’t have to look, certain the putty-demon would dissolve the rest of the burning corpses. Bridget had thought her stomach empty, but she managed to retch something up. She peered over the edge of the display case and saw her personal demon; it was grasping one of the column-beast’s tentacles. Faintly, she heard them talking in the long-dead tongue.

  Her lungs felt seared, and she was unable to work up any saliva. She wanted to scream at the demons and to holler out a warning to more guards; she heard the slap of leather against the marble, and the shouts of men. But her tongue was sandpaper and she could muster no sound.

  How many more were going to burn?

  Get out of here, she thought. You can’t help the guards, but maybe if you leave, the demons will follow. Save the guards by fleeing. She eased herself over the edge of the case and dropped to the floor, feeling the heat through the soles of her shoes.

  Really, what had she thought would happen by releasing demons in the museum? That nothing bad would happen? That they would happily skitter away and start new lives in some dark alley, subsisting on rats and trash? She had to have known something horrid would result. Or maybe she’d thought that breaking the Sumerian bowls would release nothing at all. The first bowl had not spilled out a demon. What right-minded person would think that clay bowls could possibly contain ancient creatures of nightmare? She’d never doubted that such monstrosities could exist. Bridget had half-glimpsed enough things when Jimmy took her on a tour of the city’s subterranean communities. But a part of her had truly doubted that they could be caught in a bowl … and subsequently released…

  … and then to embark on a fiery slaughter.

  She rushed from the room, keeping her eyes down so she wouldn’t have to see the demons or the guards who were burning; she heard the screams of the new batch of victims. Darting down a hallway and finally catching her breath, she still couldn’t find her voice. What the hell had she been thinking?

  She’d been thinking about Otter; that if she broke a few bowls maybe the demon that dogged her would leave her alone and go away. Otter would be safe.

  Otter.

  She had to get back to her brownstone. The screams and crackling flames receded as she hurried down a back staircase, climbed a display case to get to an air vent, and shimmied toward the back of the museum, all the while working to stay in the shadows and away from security cameras. Bridget pictured the various wings, turning here and there, popping out and taking another staircase, always mindful of the cameras, worrying that she might have been caught on a video feed somewhere.

  She felt in her pockets—cell phone, lock picks, a shard from one of the pots she broke, cards from the three broken bowls … along with the damnable buckle that bound her to the demon. Bridget wanted to make sure she’d not dropped anything that could be traced back to her.

  As she neared the back of the building she heard sirens—several, muted, suggesting that the police or fire department were not directly behind the building. Bridget trembled all over, sweating; she’d never felt a fear so thick. Still clinging to the shadows, she held her breath and pushed open one of the back doors, triggering a shrill alarm that competed with the police sirens. The air was cold and warred with the heat that still held to her lungs. She nearly fell on a slick of ice as she ran from the building, watching the play of red, blue, and white emergency lights that bounced off the brickwork all around. It was all so loud … the sirens, shouts, cars honking, her heart hammering … and her demon jabbering. Suddenly it had appeared at her side, talking about God-knew-what, its words coming fast and with a brittle hardness to them.

  She picked out “Otter.”

  It continued to say Otter every so often, mixed with words she couldn’t understand. She would have to delve into the Sumerian seal back at the brownstone to gain more words. Bridget had to more effectively communicate with it, explain that she couldn’t release more demons, couldn’t be responsible for anyone else dying. She couldn’t get the image out of her head, of the museum guards being incinerated and devoured.

  “Otter,” the demon said.

  “You’ll not hurt him,” Bridget said, as she slipped into an alley and stopped to catch her breath. She’d finally worked up enough saliva to talk.

  “Otter. Otter. Otter.”

  “You’ll not feckin’ touch him.”

  “Mmmmmmmmmm.”

  ***

  Twenty Five

  There were more police cars and fire trucks arriving, judging from the crescendoing sirens and the increasing light play against the buildings. And there were plenty of lookiloos drawn out onto the sidewalks despite the hour. Bridget cut through a throng of young people with drinks in hand who’d emerged from a dance club, their breath puffing away from their faces like they were all smoking invisible cigarettes, the sequined dresses of the women glittering under the streetlights.

  She took the steps down into the subway two at a time, her demon following.

  Lord knew where the other two demons were. She hoped they weren’t still in the museum immolating police and firemen. She hadn’t the ability to stop them. Could anyone? Call the National Guard or drop a tactical nuke on the Metropolitan Museum of Art; maybe that would do it.

  “Are you okay?” A doughy-faced woman with an ankle-length winter coat gave Bridget an up and down as she claimed a spot on the platform. “Young lady, you should see a—”

  “Doctor? I’m fine, thanks.” Bridget brushed past her and stood farther away, rocking back and forth and still hearing the sirens. What the hell had she done? Releasing demons? What she had to do, she told herself, to keep Otter safe.

  There were only a dozen people on the platform, two of them pointed at her. All of them regarded her curiously. She knew her clothes were singed and she likely smelled like a charcoal briquette. The stench of the museum fire and the charred bodies had coated the inside of her mouth; it was all she could taste and smell.

  A train rumbled into view and she hopped on as soon as the door slid open. It wasn’t the one she needed to get back home, but it would take her to where she could make an easy connection, probably adding ten to fifteen minutes to the trip. She needed to get home, but she also needed to get away from the vicinity of the museum.

  She shuffled to the far end of the car and sat; the plastic so cold she felt it through her pants. Rarely were the cars heated to a satisfactory level, but there were usually enough bodies to make up for that. Not at this hour, though. Bridget and her demon were the only riders in this car. The lighting, what there was of it with some of the lights out, flickered eerily. Still, there was enough to reflect her face in the window. There were soot smudges on her chin and forehead, and her once-long red hair was about a foot shorter on one side; it had caught fire and melted, her cheek and ear burned, making her look like a Goth freak. Bridget hadn’t felt the flames that had done it, but then she was numb during much of what had happened minutes ago in the museum.

  She gripped the bar in front of her, the metal chilling. “Damn.” Bridget stared at her bare right hand. She remembered taking off one of her gloves in the museum to connect with a bowl. She must have dropped the glove. Probably wouldn’t come back to bite her, though, it was no doubt ashes. Her demon settled across from her and closed its eyes, oddly—thankfully—quiet. She couldn’t even smell its stench for the taste of the fire.

  Three riders entered her car just before the door hissed closed. The train lurched forward. Th
ey were men.… boys, she mentally corrected, maybe Otter’s age. Shouldn’t be out so late. Should be home in bed, like Otter should be—though she was certain her son wasn’t. Please let him be safe, she thought. Dear God, please let Otter be safe.

  The tallest of the three swaggered toward her. He was dressed in jeans—pants, jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, tattoos of steer skulls on the backs of his hands. “Smells like a fire sale over here,” he said. He gripped the pole for balance as the car wobbled, and flashed her a yellow-toothed smile. He made an exaggerated sniffing sound.

  “I’ve got no money,” she told him. “Well, five bucks. Here.” She pulled the bill out of her pocket.

  He shrugged and took a step closer, plucked the bill out of her fingers and made a show of tearing it in half, then quarters, the pieces fluttering to the dirty floor. Then he thrust his right hand in his pants pocket.

  “You’ll live longer if you leave me alone.” Bridget noticed that her demon watched the boy and made a smacking sound with its bulbous lips. “Go away,” she added. “And quickly.”

  He laughed. “Well, I ain’t interested in money.” He looked over his shoulder to the other two, who sniggered and elbowed each other. Bridget was certain they were no older than Otter. No business being out this late. They all had tats on their necks, but she couldn’t see the designs clearly because their collars were turned up; meager protection against the winter cold. Probably gang members, and certainly up to no good. Definitely up to no good. All three reached to the backs of their jackets and pulled the sweatshirt hoods up over their heads.

  “Seriously,” she tried again. “This isn’t going to end well for you. Back off.” Crime had been going down, politicians and cops touting New York City as safer than Chicago, Detroit, and LA. But there were still too many assaults, including in the subways in the late, late hours to lone women on empty platforms or in uncrowded cars where not all the lights worked.

  The closest youth drew a switchblade out, flicking it open. “Don’t put up too much of a fight, fire sale, and you’ll live through this. I promise.”