The Mammoth Book of Angels & Demons (Mammoth Books)

by Paula Guran

  Pushes past the women and in the kitchen paws through the drawer scattering cutlery that falls to the floor, bounces and clatters and there’s the big carving knife in his hand, his hand shuts about it like fate. Pushes past the women now in reverse where they’ve followed him into the kitchen, knocks his one-hundred-eighty-pound older sister aside with his elbow as lightly as he lifts bags of gravel, armloads of bricks. Hasn’t he prayed Our Father to be a machine many times. A machine does not feel, a machine does not think. A machine does not hurt. A machine does not starve for love. A machine does not starve for what it does not know to name: salvation.

  Back then inside the bathroom, slamming the door against the screaming women, and locking it. Gibbering to himself, Away Satan! Away Satan! God help! With a hand strangely steely as if practiced wielding the point of the knife, boldly inserting and twisting into the accursed eyeball. And no pain – only a burning cleansing roaring sensation as of a blast of fire. Out pops the eyeball, and out the sign of Satan. But connected by tissue, nerves. It’s elastic so he’s pulling, fingers now slippery-excited with blood. He’s sawing with the sharp blade of the steak knife. Cuts the eyeball free, like Mama squeezing baby out of her belly into this pig trough of sin and filth, and no turning back till Jesus calls you home.

  He drops the eyeball into the toilet, flushes the toilet fast.

  Before Satan can intervene.

  One of those antiquated toilets where water swirls about the stained bowl, wheezes and yammers to itself, sighs, grumbles, finally swallows like it’s doing you a favor. And the sign of the demon is gone.

  One eye socket empty and fresh-bleeding he’s on his knees praying Thank you God! thank you God! weeping as angels in radiant garments with faces of blinding brightness reach down to embrace him not minding his red-slippery mask of a face. Now he’s one of them himself, now he will float into the sky where, some wind-blustery January morning, you’ll see him, or a face like his, in a furious cloud.

  Alabaster

  Caitlín R. Kiernan

  Caitlín Kiernan created the character of Dancy Flammarion for her second novel, Threshold (1998). She also wrote several short stories about Dancy, of which this is one. Dark Horse comics recently began a series of comics featuring the albino girl who wanders the South killing monsters that only she can see. Dancy believes herself to be guided by an angel. Ascertaining the veracity of someone experiencing angelophany – angelic manifestation to a human through one or more of the five senses – is difficult. In ancient Judeo-Christian belief, angelophanies were often extraordinary visionary experiences involving brilliant light, fire, lightning, thunder and even earthquakes. Sometimes angels appeared as fellow humans and were not immediately recognized as heavenly beings. Like Dancy’s, these angelophanies were usually personal and rarely witnessed by others.

  The albino girl, whose name is Dancy Flammarion, has walked a long way since the fire in Bainbridge five nights ago. It rained all morning long, and the blue-gray clouds are still hanging sullen and low above the pines, obscuring the wide south Georgia sky. But she’s grateful for the clouds, for anything that hides her from the blistering June sun. She’s already thanked both St George and St Anthony the Abbott for sending her the clouds, because her grandmother taught her they were the patron saints of people suffering from skin diseases. Her grandmother taught her lots of things. The damp air smells like pine straw and the fat white toadstools growing along the side of the highway. Dancy knows not to eat those, not ever, no matter how hungry she gets. Her grandmother taught her about toadstools, too.

  She stops, shifting the weight of her heavy old duffel bag from one shoulder to the other, the duffel bag and the black umbrella tied to it with hemp twine, and looks back the way she’s just come. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if the voices she hears are only inside her head or if they’re coming from somewhere else. The highway glistens dark and wet and rough, like a cottonmouth moccasin that’s just crawled out of the water. But there’s no one and nothing back there that she can see, no one who might have spoken her name, so Dancy turns around and starts walking again.

  It’s what you don’t see that’s almost always the worst, her grandmother told her once. It’s what you don’t see will drag you down one day, if you ain’t careful.

  Dancy glances over her shoulder, and the angel is standing in the center of the highway, straddling the broken yellow dividing line. Its tattered muslin and silk robes are even blacker than the wet asphalt, and they flutter and flap in a fierce and holy wind that touches nothing else. The angel’s four ebony wings are spread wide, and it holds a burning sword high above its four shimmering kaleidoscope faces, both skeletal hands gripped tightly around the weapon’s silver hilt.

  “I was starting to think maybe I’d lost you,” Dancy says and turns to face the angel. She can hear the wind that swirls always about it, like hearing a freight train when you’re only half way across a trestle and there’s no way to get off the tracks before it catches up with you, nowhere to go unless you want to fall, and that sound drowns out or silences the noises coming from the woods at the edge of the road.

  And there’s another sound, too, a rumble like thunder, but she knows that it isn’t thunder.

  “If I went any slower,” she replies, “I’d just about be standing still.”

  The thunder sound again, and the roar of the angel’s scalding wind, and Dancy squints into the blinding light that’s begun to leak from its eight sapphire eyes.

  “No, angel,” she says quietly. “I ain’t forgot about you. I ain’t forgotten about any of it.”

  The angel shrieks and swings its burning sword in a long, slow arc, leaving behind bits of fire and ember, ash and cinders, and now the air smells more like burning pitch and charred flesh than it smells like pine trees and summer rain and poisonous toadstools.

  “Oh, I think you can probably keep up,” she says, and turns her back on the Seraph.

  And then there’s only the dead, violated emptiness and the terrible silence that the angel always leaves behind when it goes. Very slowly, by hesitant degrees, all the murmuring forest noises return, and Dancy walks just a little faster than before; she’s relieved when the high pines finally fall away on either side of the road and the land opens up, changing once more to farms and wild prairie. Pastures and cows, barbed-wire fences and a small service station maybe a hundred yards or so further down the highway, and Dancy wishes she had the money for a Coke. A Coke would be good, syrupy sweet and ice cold and bubbling on her tongue. But at least they won’t charge her to use the toilet, and she can wash up a little and piss without having to worry about squatting in poison oak.

  She doesn’t look back at the woods again, the trees standing straight and tall on either side of the highway. That part of her life is over, lived and past and done with, one small stretch of road she only needed to walk once, and, besides, she knows the angel won’t come to her again for days.

  After the rain and the Seraph’s whirlwind, the afternoon is still and cool, and her boots seem very loud on the wet pavement. It only takes her a few more minutes to reach the service station, where an old man is sitting on a plastic milk crate beneath a corrugated tin awning. He waves to her, and Dancy waves back at him, then she tugs at the green canvas strap on her duffel bag because her shoulder’s gone to sleep again.

  There’s a big plywood billboard beside the road, but it’s not nearly so tall as the faded Texaco sign – that round placard dangling from a lamppost, a perfect black circle to contain its five-pointed red pentacle, that witch’s symbol to keep out some great evil. Dancy already knows all about pentagrams, so she turns her attention to the billboard instead; it reads live panther-deadly maneater in sloppy whitewash lettering.

  She leaves the highway, skirting the edges of a wide orange-brown mud hole where the Texaco’s parking lot and driveway begins, crunching across the white-gray limestone gravel strewn around the gasoline pumps. The old man is standing up now, digging about in a pocket of h
is overalls.

  “How ya doin’ there, sport?” he asks her, and his hand reappears with half a roll of wintergreen Certs.

  “I’m fine,” she says, not smiling because her shoulder hurts too much. “You got a bathroom I can use?”

  “You gonna buy somethin’?” he asks and pops one of the Certs into his mouth. His teeth are stained yellow-brown, like turtle bones that have been lying for years at the bottom of a cypress spring.

  “I don’t have any money,” she tells him.

  “Hell,” he says and sits back down on the plastic milk crate. “Well, I don’t guess that makes no difference. The privy’s right inside. But you better damn flush when you’re done, you hear me? And don’t you get piss on the seat.”

  Dancy nods her head, then stares at him until the old man leans back and blinks at her.

  “You want somethin’ else?”

  “Do you really have a live panther?” she asks him, and the man arches both his eyebrows and grins, showing off his yellow-brown, tobacco-stained smile again.

  “That’s what the sign says, ain’t it? Or cain’t you read?”

  “I can read,” Dancy Flammarion replies and looks down at the toes of her boots. “I wouldn’t have known to ask if I couldn’t read.”

  “Then why’d you ask such a fool question for? You think I’m gonna put up a big ol’ sign sayin’ I got a live panther if I ain’t?”

  “Does it cost money to see it?”

  “You better believe it does. I’ll let you use the jake free of charge, ’cause it wouldn’t be Christian to do otherwise, but a gander at that cat’s gonna set you back three bucks, cold, hard cash.”

  “I don’t have three dollars.”

  “Then I guess you ain’t gonna be seein’ my panther,” the old man says, and he grins and offers her a Certs. She takes the candy from him and sets her duffel bag down on the gravel between them.

  “How’d you get him?”

  The old man rubs at the coarse salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin and slips what’s left of the roll of Certs into the bib pocket of his overalls.

  “You some kind of runaway or somethin’? You got people out lookin’ for you, sport? You a druggie?”

  “Is he in a cage?” she asks, matching his questions with a question of her own.

  “He’s a she,” the old man grunts. “’Course she’s in a cage. What you think someone’s gonna do with a panther? Keep it in a damned burlap sack?”

  “No,” she says. “How’d you say you caught him?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Did someone else catch him for you?”

  “It ain’t no him. It’s a she.”

  Dancy looks up at the old man and rolls the quickly shrinking piece of candy from one side of her mouth to the other and back again.

  “You’re some kinda albino, ain’t you,” the old man says, and he leans a little closer. He smells like sweat and Beech-Nut chewing tobacco, old cars and fried food.

  “Yeah,” she says and nods her head.

  “Yep. I thought so. I used to have some rabbits had eyes like yours.”

  “Did you keep them in cages too?”

  “You keep rabbits in hutches, sport.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  The old man glares at her a moment and then sighs and jabs his thumb at the screen door. “The shitter’s inside,” he grumbles. “Right past the Pepsi cooler. And don’t you forget to flush.”

  “Where do you keep him?” Dancy asks, looking past the old man at the closed screen door and the shadows waiting on the other side.

  “That ain’t exactly none of your business, not unless you got the three bucks, and you done told me you don’t.”

  “I’ve seen some things,” she says. “I’ve seen black bears, out in the swamps. I’ve seen gators, too, and once I saw a big ol’ bobcat, but I’ve never seen a panther before. Is it the same thing as a cougar?”

  “You gonna stand there talkin’ all damn day long? I thought you needed to take a leak?”

  Dancy shrugs her narrow shoulders and then looks away from the screen door, staring north and east down the long road to the place it finally vanishes, the point where the cloudy sky and the pastures collide.

  “If any police show up askin’ if I seen you, don’t expect me to lie about it,” the old man says. “You sure look like a runaway to me. No tellin’ what kind of trouble you might be in.”

  “Thank you for the candy,” she says and points at her duffel bag. “Is it okay if I leave that out here while I use your toilet? It’s heavy.”

  “Don’t make no difference to me,” the man says. “But don’t you forget to flush, you understand me?”

  “Sure thing,” Dancy says. “I understand,” and she steps past him, climbs the four squeaky wooden steps up to the screen door and lets it bang shut. Inside, the musty air stinks of motor oil and dust, dirty rags and cigarette smoke, and the only light comes from the door and the flyspecked windows. The walls and floor are bare pine boards gone dark as rotten teeth, and a huge taxidermied bass hangs above the cash register. There are three short rows of canned goods, candy bars in brightly colored paper wrappers, oil and windshield wipers and transmission fluid, snack foods and mousetraps, bottles of Bayer aspirin and cherry-flavored Maalox. There’s a wall of hardware and fishing tackle. She finds the tiny restroom right where he said she would, and Dancy latches the door behind her.

  The restroom is illuminated by a single, naked incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling. Dancy squints up at it, raises her left hand for an eclipse, and then glances at her reflection in the smudgy mirror above a sink stained by decades of iron water. She isn’t sure how long it’s been since she’s seen herself like that; not since sometime before Bainbridge, so more than a week at least. Her white hair is still wet from the rain, wet and tangled like a drowned thing. A drowned rabbit that spent its whole short life trapped in a cage called a hutch, maybe, and she lowers her hand so the stark light spills down on her again.

  The albino girl in the mirror lowers her hand, too, and stares back at Dancy with eyes that seem a lot older than Dancy’s sixteen years. Eyes that might have been her grandmother’s, if they were brown, or her mother’s, if they were the easy green of magnolia leaves.

  “You should wash your face,” the albino girl in the mirror says. “You look like some sort of hobo.”

  “I didn’t know it was so dirty,” Dancy replies, embarrassed at her own raggedness, and almost adds, I thought the rain would have washed it clean, but then she thinks better of it.

  There’s a stingy violet-brown sliver of soap on the sink, but when she turns on the hot water, the knob marked “h”, she remembers how badly she has to pee and turns the water off again. She loosens her belt, and the pearl-handled straight razor tucked into the waistband of her jeans almost falls out onto the floor. She catches it and slips it into her back pocket. The razor, like the duffel bag, was her grandfather’s, and he carried both of them when he fought the Nazis in Italy and France. Dancy didn’t take many things out of her grandmother’s cabin in Shrove Wood before she burned it, and the bodies inside, to the ground. But she took the straight razor, because the old man had shaved with it every morning, and it helped her remember him.

  After she pees, Dancy wipes off the seat with a big wad of toilet paper, even though there’s not a drop of urine on it anywhere. She drops the wad into the porcelain bowl, flushes, and the water swirls round and round like the hot wind that always swirls about her angel.

  “You look like hell,” the albino girl in the mirror says and frowns.

  “I’m just tired, that’s all. I didn’t sleep very well last night,” which is the truth. She slept a few hours in the back seat of an abandoned car that someone had stolen, stripped, and left in the woods, and her dreams were filled with images of the things she’d seen and done in Bainbridge and Shrove Wood, the angel and the things that want her dead and damned, the past and the present and the slippery, hungry future.


  Dancy turns the hot water on again and uses the yellowish sliver of soap to wash her hands, her arms, her grimy face and neck. The soap smells like soap, but it also smells very faintly of black-eyed Susans and clover and sunshine, and she doesn’t remember ever having smelled that sort of soap before. When she’s done, she dries with brown paper towels from a chrome dispenser mounted on the wall. All that hot water’s steamed up the mirror, and she uses another paper towel to wipe it clear again.

  The albino girl is still there, watching Dancy from the other side.

  “That’s better,” the girl in the mirror says. “Don’t you think so?”

  “It feels better,” Dancy says, “if that’s what you mean. And I like the way that soap smells.”

  “You know, I think you’re running out of time,” the girl in the mirror tells her, smoothing her hair with her wet hands, just like Dancy’s doing. “I don’t even think you’re going to have to worry about Waycross, or Sinethella and her hound, or the nine crazy ladies in their big house in Savannah, not the way things are going.”

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Who’s Sinethella?”

  The mirror girl looks skeptical and furrows her brow. “It hasn’t even told you about—”

  “He tells me what I need to know, when I need to know it. He tells me—”

  “Just enough to keep you moving, and not one word more, because it knows the big picture would shut you down, send you running off back to the swamp with your tail tucked between your legs.”

  “I don’t have a tail,” Dancy says, wishing the albino girl in the mirror, the girl who isn’t her reflection after all, would shut up and go away.

  “You might as well, as far as the Seraphim are concerned. To them, you’re nothing but a trained monkey, an ugly little freak of evolution they can swindle into wiping their Heavenly asses for them.”