Pockets of Darkness

by Jean Rabe

  “Pissmires! I’m trying to keep you alive. Keep all of you alive. And I don’t have time to argue.” She flailed an arm behind her. “You can’t see it, but there’s a demon behind me.”

  “You said that before, Mom, a demon, and—”

  “—and it’s still behind me. We don’t have time to argue this, Otter.”

  “Okay.” Otter nodded. “Okay. C’mon, Dustin, Alvin, let’s—”

  “No. Sorry, Brie.” Dustin brushed his lips against her cheek, wriggling his nose at the scorched scent of her hair. He gently tipped her face up. “Call me when—if—you come to your senses.”

  Then he was gone.

  “Mmmmmmmmmm,” the demon said.

  Bridget spun and put her face down to the beast. “Listen you feckin’ monster. Leave him alone. You want your Aldî-nîfaeti unshackled?”

  “Unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti,” it said.

  “Who’s she talking to?” This came from Alvin.

  “I assume a demon,” Michael said. “An invisible one.”

  “Otter, Quin, coats. Spare blankets if you’re fast. We’re going camping.” Bridget turned back and pointed to the exit. “Michael, Marsh—”

  “Yes, Miss O’Shea,” Michael said. “Duffels filled with food for your camping trip.”

  “Our camping trip. Rob, you and me will—”

  “Boss … what do you want me to do with this?” He held a package the size of a breadbox. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. The stamp on the side was smeared. “I think he ripped me off, but—”

  “Bowls.”

  “Two, boss, I told you—”

  “Move. Move. Move.” Bridget waved at the others. “Coats, food. Move. Meet in the kitchen.”

  A moment later she and Rob were alone.

  “The antique guy, boss. He brought over two bowls. Eleven hundred bucks. Bet he ripped us off.” Sweat had beaded up on Rob’s forehead. Bridget could tell he was nervous, probably the one person in the house who really believed they were in the midst of something very bad.

  “Bring them with us. We’ve got to—”

  “Hurry. Yeah, I get that.” Rob headed toward the doorway. “Boss, you look like hell.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “And hell is surely where I’m going.” Then she raced to her bedroom and tugged off her singed clothes and boots, seeing that the sole of the right one was partially melted. She listened to the demon babble the entire time. She struggled into tight leggings, put loose sweatpants over them, and found her heaviest sweater and most comfortable shoes. Last, she grabbed her wallet and Swiss Army knife off her dresser and jammed them in a pocket; she’d not taken her wallet to the museum, not wanting any identification on her. She flipped up a false bottom in a drawer and pulled out a stack of hundreds that she wedged into another pocket—just in case she needed some ready cash. She filled a tote with items from the bathroom: a few bars of the milled soap Dustin had given her, a razor, bottle of shampoo, two hand towels, a package of unopened toothbrushes, all for the “camping trip.” A glance in the mirror as she rushed from the room: Rob was right. She looked like hell, barely human.

  They weren’t waiting in the kitchen; they were sitting in the adjacent dining room, two stuffed backpacks, a bulging duffle bag, and the wrapped package from the antique store. Coats were draped on the backs of chairs, and all of them were red-faced from rushing.

  Rob had been talking, something about the package with bowls in it, but he shut up when she hurried in.

  Michael stood. “I have worked for you, Miss O’Shea, for—”

  “Can it,” Bridget was purposefully terse. “Oh, the hairy word! I said I’m trying to keep you alive. There’s a feckin’—”

  “Demon. Yes, Miss O’Shea. You already—”

  In a fast, fluid movement that belied his age, Alvin rose from his seat, pulled a Walther from his pocket and fired two shots at something behind Bridget. In that same moment, Otter jumped up so fast he tipped his chair over.

  “Mommmmm!” Otter hollered.

  They could see her demon? Bridget whirled and jumped back so quick she ran into Marsh and knocked him down. She saw her demon, but she also saw something else—the tall, tentacled thing she’d released in the art museum.

  Lava flowed from the demon’s tentacles, spreading across the floor and scenting the air with something foul and acrid.

  Bridget stared, incredulous. She hadn’t thought the beast would come here. How could it know where she lived? “Christ on a tricycle! Run! Otter, run! Grab everything all of you and run!”

  Otter acted first, snatching his coat and a backpack and dashing out of the dining room, knocking a serving tray over and sending china flying. The others shouted and grabbed for the bags and coats, save Alvin, who kept firing.

  “Outside!” she shouted after them. “Rob, the package! I’ll meet you on the sidewalk!” Marsh hesitated only a moment and she waved him away. “Look after Otter. Stay together! Alvin, get out of here. Bullets won’t work.”

  Alvin turned and ran, replying, but she couldn’t hear him. The lava had caught the drapes on fire and flames crackled and danced toward the ceiling. The sprinklers kicked on, but they weren’t enough to put out the flames. The entire room was becoming engulfed, and she watched in horror as part of the floor gave way, taking chairs and the table with it.

  Amid the flames, her personal demon squatted, regarding her with all five of its eyes. It was talking too, but she couldn’t hear it over the fire.

  Bridget felt her blood boiling. The lava reached the tips of her shoes, more of the floor fell away, and she jumped back just in time. The lava and flames had spread toward the hallway, leaving only one way out of the dining room now, and that was into the kitchen. She wheeled around and dashed through the doorway, past the stainless steel counter, and hit the intercom. Her tote bag fell from her shoulder. “Fire! Everyone out of the house now!” Bridget didn’t think anyone else was inside, but she gave the warning nevertheless. “Everyone out!” The sprinkler kicked on in the kitchen as she grabbed up the tote again. The marble floor was as slick as an icy sidewalk, and her feet shot out from under her and she went sliding. She crawled to the far door and grabbed onto the jamb and pulled herself up.

  Another “whoosh!” and everything wood in the kitchen was blazing. She took the steps two at a time. She was going to lose the brownstone, all the treasures inside it. An image flashed into her mind as she raced down to the next floor and then the next. She saw a little Turkish boy hug the weaver of her prized oushak. “Seni seviyorum babaanne.”

  “Seni seviyorum,” the weaver had returned.

  It had been many years since Otter had told Bridget he loved her.

  Out the back and slipping through the narrow alley to get to the street out front, the icy snow spat at her, providing a sharp contrast to the heat that blasted out in waves from the brownstone. The others were gathered in the middle of the street, their faces glowing orange in the light from the fire. Neighbors were up and out, too, coats thrown over pajamas, several of them on cell phones, a few taking pictures. Bridget heard sirens: someone had called the fire department. She knew the building couldn’t be saved.

  “Move!” she called to Otter, rushing toward him, falling on an icy patch and landing hard, tote bag flying lose. Rob was closest and picked her up, cradling the package with one arm. She grabbed it from him and nodded to her tote bag. He retrieved it and turned his attention to the fire. “Move,” she said breathlessly. “We got to move!”

  Through a high window she saw a column move amid the flames, the tentacle beast. Her own demon hadn’t come out of the house; maybe it was reveling in the fire. Maybe it reminded the demon of hell and it was having a grand time.

  “Move,” she said again, no power in her voice. “This way. Move. Move. Move.”

  She ignored the neighbors, their voices swirling with the ashes and the snow.

  “There’s Bridget O’Shea. Get a look at her.”

  “Lik
e a bomb went off there. I knew she and all those men were up to no good.”

  “Looks like she’s hurt. Did someone call an ambulance?”

  “Look at her hair!”

  “Bridget! Bridget!” This from one of the neighbors she was friendly with. Bridget waved the woman away and shouldered through the growing crowd, keeping her head down.

  “My condo! It better not get my condo!”

  “Gotta be arson. Nothing goes up that quick otherwise.”

  “Hey, where’s O’Shea going?”

  “Mom, where are we going? With all this stuff? Shouldn’t we wait for the fire trucks? The police?”

  “No cops,” Bridget said, steering her group toward a side street.

  “The demon,” Otter continued, walking backward in front of her. “That … that … octopus-monster. Won’t the police—”

  “I don’t think the demon will let the cops—” living cops, Bridget mentally amended, “—see it. I don’t think it likes witnesses.”

  “My stuff,” Otter said, turning around and falling in step at her side. Behind them Marsh, Rob, Alvin, and Quin walked double-file. She noticed Michael was in the rear, reluctant, but keeping with them. “My stuff, mom. It’s toast. My books, clothes, all of it. My school—”

  “I’ll buy you more stuff, Otter.”

  “Mom, my laptop and—”

  “Please shut up.” Bridget said, as she led them down three more side streets, picking a subway entrance that was far enough away that the sirens and the fire and the conversations of the lookiloos were deadened by the urban canyons. Sparse traffic shushed by, sluicing up the sleety snow mixture. The steps down were an icy mess, and Bridget took them slow; she didn’t want to risk dropping the package, hoping it contained what Rob advertised: two demon bowls.

  “Mom, where are we—”

  “Going?”

  “Yeah,” Alvin said. “I’m old. Not used to this walking.”

  “Not used to seeing monsters, either,” Quin said. Softer, but still Bridget could hear him. “I’m quitting, Alvin. After this, I’m retired. To Florida, I’m going.”

  “Where we going?” This from Marsh. “Boss?”

  “To a pit,” Bridget said, stopping on the bottom step. “Three connections from here.”

  “A pit? Mom?”

  “It’s nowhere you’re gonna like, Otter. But you’ll be safe there. All of you will be safe.” She squared her shoulders and headed toward the turnstiles. Good thing she’d grabbed money; she wouldn’t be able to sneak them all through. “One of you brought a flashlight, I hope. Please tell me we have at least one flashlight.”

  ***

  Twenty Seven

  Bridget glanced at her watch: 3:44. It looked black as night in this godforsaken neighborhood, the sky so overcast, most of the streetlights in this block broken, apartment windows dark, the sidewalk empty. As crowded as New York City was, she found it odd and disconcerting to be alone, save for the company of her babbling demon—which had rejoined her after she’d stuffed her entourage into Adiella’s pit and made a stop in a subway bathroom to cut her hair, leaving about an inch all the way around and wondering if she should have just shaved it all off. Bridget had no clue where the other two beasts were, and didn’t want to think about them right now. She knew the tentacled beast had visited her antique store; she’d stopped there to retrieve the other Sumerian piece, the astrology tablet the history professor was buying, thought she might delve into and gain more language and insight into ancient Sumer. But she discovered fire trucks on the scene, watering down what was left of her place. It would be a total loss, most of the treasures ashes or slagged. The astrology tablet? It was a rock and would survive; maybe she’d come back and sift through the rubble for it later.

  It was snowing again, fat flakes that settled on top of the curb drifts and cut some of the sooty-cityness that made winter look dirty. Bridget loved New York and normally couldn’t envision living anywhere else. But a beach in the Caribbean wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Blue sky and sunshine, sipping something sweet and intoxicating with a paper umbrella in it, not a demon in sight.

  She couldn’t stop the tears, and her shoulders shook as she walked. She’d been crying since the squatty demon rejoined her. It had blood on its claws and on its lower lip.

  Bridget knew it had killed Dustin.

  And it was her fault. She could have let the subway tough keep the buckle.

  The last thing Dustin had said to her: “Call me when—if—you come to your senses.”

  “Mmmmmmmmmm,” the demon had said as Dustin left.

  Bridget could have stopped him. She could have used Alvin’s gun … and what? Threatened to shoot him if he didn’t go with her little entourage down into Adiella’s pit in the subway? She could have tied him up, carried him if necessary. She could have kept him alive. She should have. Her feckin’ fault Dustin was dead. One more body because of her.

  One more.

  She’d known the demon would kill him, known it the moment she let Dustin walk out of her house.

  Her fault. One more death on her fingers.

  One more.

  Empty. Bridget felt wholly empty. Had she loved Dustin? Maybe, or close to it. She loved the way he made her feel, loved the way his hands and lips traveled over her skin, loved the scent of him, loved the sex, his cooking, his smile, that he called her “my Brie” and mon amour. She hadn’t let anyone else get so close to her, not since Tavio. Hadn’t let anyone into her heart.

  Now all she had left was Otter.

  Her crew? She had them, some would remain loyal and with her while she rebuilt her smuggling operation. No doubt she’d have to start from scratch. If the lava demon had burned her brownstone and her antique store, it had certainly slagged her warehouse too. Her crew was a family of a sort, but it wasn’t the same … it wasn’t Tavio or Dustin. It wasn’t like her “adopted” son Jimmy.

  Why the hell hadn’t she let the subway thug keep the damn buckle and the damn demon? Why did she have to grow a feckin’ conscious and go all righteous about saving strangers? Dustin would still be alive. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t feel like worthless garbage.

  Could she keep Otter safe? She couldn’t make him spend the rest of his life in Adiella’s pit.

  A crumpled up fast food bag scudded past her in the wind, coming to rest against a snowdrift wrapped around the base of a street sign. A skinny mongrel poked its head out of an alley, regarded her with matted eyes and worked its nose.

  “Nothing to feed you,” she told it. “And you better disappear or my demon might eat you.”

  The dog made a snuffling sound, and then darted away.

  Not a two-legged denizen to be seen. Within an hour or so that would change. The Mexican bakery a handful of doors down would open, renters would come out heading to work. Cars would chug by with more frequency on the street. The noise would ratchet up to its comfortable and cacophonic New York City level.

  Where the hell was the witch?

  Adiella had not appeared in the hole where Bridget had left Otter and the others. Granted, the witch had other pits in the city, probably all of them underground, and maybe Adiella was sound asleep in one of them right now. Or maybe she had an apartment somewhere in this very neighborhood. Bridget had figured some magical gewgaw or ward would have alerted Adiella that they’d trespassed last night in one of her holes, and that the witch would have arrived out of anger or curiosity.

  Though Bridget hated the woman, she didn’t know where else to turn right now. And since the witch hadn’t showed down in the subway, and since Otter had fallen asleep, Bridget set out to find her. Was it possible the demon had slipped away sometime in the past few hours and killed Adiella like it had killed Tavio and Jimmy and no doubt Dustin? Yes, possible, Bridget had to admit, but she doubted it. The demon only seemed interested in eating the hearts of people Bridget cared about.

  It didn’t look like Adiella was in the bookshop. The front window was softly lit, dis
playing an array of hardcovers and paperbacks, some new, some used. Bridget pressed her face to the glass and made out the shadow-images of shelves upon shelves farther back, but nothing else, nothing moving in any event. But the shop was deep, and she couldn’t see all of it. “Pissmires. Where the hell are you?”

  She reached into her back pocket for a small leather case. She selected a thin metal pick and started working on the lock, using her body as a shield to hide her hands. Bridget hadn’t seen anyone on the street, but that didn’t mean there weren’t early-risers or all-nighters up in apartments overlooking this sidewalk. Let any lookiloos think she had a key and was supposed to be here.

  It was an old brass lock and an almost-effortless pick. She twisted the knob and swallowed a scream as a burst of fiery pain hit her. Bridget was a statue. She couldn’t move and the agony intensified, turning from fire to ice, then again a searing heat hit her that was even worse than the previous jolt.

  The witch didn’t need traditional security or burglar bars like the other establishments in the block. All Adiella required was her accursed bone-numbing magic. Bridget had expected some sort of arcane defense, but nothing this severe.

  The alternating waves of extreme heat and cold chased each other through her body as she finally managed to inch forward. One step, two, pushing the door wider, and then feeling like her teeth had been replaced by constant lightning strikes. A third step and the pain wholly consumed her, all of it scalding now. Bridget fell into the shop and fought for air. Her pulse, the rush of blood pounding in her ears, was as loud as a crashing wave.

  She didn’t know how long she lay there before she could move again, though likely only moments, curling into a fetal position but able to crook her foot and give a kick that closed the door behind her. Faintly, she heard the latch catch, and in that moment the fiery pulses stopped and the crashing noise in her head died away. The pain lingered, though.

  The demon had followed her into the bookstore, apparently unaffected by Adiella’s magical ward. The light that spilled from the front display window made its warty hide faintly gleam. It scuttled close and sat in front of her face, babbling in its ancient tongue and Bridget of no mind to attempt to pick out familiar words. Rivulets of pussy goo continued to trickle down its hide, wider than before. Or maybe the rivulets hadn’t changed at all and only her perspective had; she’d not been this close and eye-level with its repulsive skin for more than a few seconds before. One thing that certainly had changed was its odor. The demon still reeked, just as horribly, but there was a different component to the stench, a strong sulfuric acid odor that clung to the roof of her mouth.