Sirens of DemiMonde (HalfWorld Trilogy Book 1)

by N. Godwin

  Don’t tell me it’s only thunder. I know thunder; I live in Florida, the epicenter of lighting and his thunder and I can name them by their decibels. Those distant drums have been beating a lot lately and I believe it’s an omen.

  Well, there are those drums and the distinct possibility I’m being followed by something dark and huge, something capable of treading on hallowed ground. And I don’t even want to go there because that screws with the entire concept of sanctuary and the basic rules of nature!

  Yep, I’m certifiable.

  Do you think the devil is real? Does he walk among us as a man? Does he project pure evil, and, if so, once he marks you can you ever get away?

  Suddenly, I’m gasping and my heart is beating too quickly. I open my eyes and shield them from something unseen. I can’t seem to breathe and I’m feeling too weak, too exposed.

  What in the world is up with today, anyway? It’s only 10:38 in the stupid morning and I hate it already! I can feel my cheeks flush and fan myself with the church bulletin and quickly contemplate motivations.

  Where do you think evil comes from? Was it simply predestined in some of us, like some dormant, genetic code? Is it environmental, hereditary, or cultivated? Do you think God planned for evil, because if He made everything, simply everything, wouldn’t evil fall under that umbrella? Unless, of course, He was forced to strike a deal with the devil and is stuck with a Catch 22?

  Are we the catch?

  “Ssh,” I whisper to the ceiling behind my finger.

  When your mind dangerously wanders sometimes, have you ever secretly wondered if God might not be what we all think He is? How can a mortal mind understand the absolute power within this source, and by default we are taught to worship this entity who just might not be all that? You see, men worship absolute might and women worship men. What if that’s what Eve learned after she took that first bite?

  But this is an evil thought and I clear my mind quickly.

  As I look around the congregation, it’s apparent most people here believe they are having a divine relationship with a benevolent, heavenly father. How many benevolent fathers do you know personally? Who, apart from Jesus (and he’s related), even says God is so benevolent any way? The Old Testament certainly doesn’t make Him out to be one happy dude. I mean, Jesus is one righteous dude but His Daddy’s a tad on the scary side, clearly not a happy camper amongst his creations. But, then, there’s always the possibility that God took one good look at us and yelled: “Flush job!” which probably explains all those floods and tsunamis and such.

  I don’t think you can have it both ways, vengeful and benevolent. Isn’t that far too human a trait? Who was the editor’s editor? How much wine did those monks drink, anyway?

  I can count nineteen similar faces in the congregation with whom I share a genetic bond; blood, cells, history. I would further state that the majority of them are actually here by choice, which makes me wonder what they were like when they were younger, were they always this way.

  Was I switched at birth, because I believe that my God does not live here among all this anger; He just makes the occasional appearance.

  Oh my God!

  What if—what if all my relatives were just like me at a stage in their lives and then somewhere in their aging process, some dormant genetic code signals some recessive gene, and voila!, I wake up Them one morning?

  This is an awful though! It’s the kind of thought that makes me want to add nineteen new names to my Labor Day list for reconsideration. However, I’ve been told the only rule of battle is that I must not, under any circumstances, sacrifice any member of my family, which hardly seems fair.

  Even though it seems like nepotism to me, I suppose it isn’t proper because it’d be too cliché, seeing how it’s been done one time too many. Cane and Able come to mind first. Lizzy Borden second. Besides, it would undoubtedly be far too easy an act, spontaneously carried out in two seconds flat with a blunt instrument or a bazooka.

  I know that whomever I’m supposed to, you know, must be chosen on a purely mathematical basis. Some divine logic only God will understand, I have no doubt.

  Nevertheless, here’s what I’ve accomplished towards my mission so far: there’s Killer-Ken, Eunice, Randy, Hobie, Freckles the beer man, Horst the transplant, the three wise fishermen (Bud, Bubba, Otis), Fat Sandy, our best friends from the amusement park (John Alazar and Alan Mulligan), and then there’s the some random person named Harold category; the poor lucky Harold who just happens to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, God have mercy on his annoying soul. These are the only choices I must now consider; all other candidates are off the table and have missed the cutoff date. These thirteen names are written in stone.

  I figure there must be some essential lesson I need to learn from each candidate before I can understand who is to be chosen and why. But, God knows, thirteen divine lessons in one summer seem monumental to me because even one lesson every thirteen years or so is enough to drain your soul. I bite my bottom lip and stare at my hands. Small hands, untrained hands, chained hands these, my hands.

  My decision has been firmly guided toward the obvious transgressions within the seven deadly sins I was reared on, and, as per static instructions, because I’m pretty-sure I was told that “All save one is pure of heart.” Of course, muddled in all that static between my ears, the garbled words might have said “All, save one, prefer art,” or even “All gave one a pretty fart,” which doesn’t seem likely. But who am I to question divine logic?

  I can find no other commonalities for the people on my list beyond their association with me and my belief that each of them has traits that test logic to its breaking point. I think I am somehow meant to address those flaws, obvious though they may be. I also believe each on my list are diamonds in the rough, in good need of consistent polishing, which, I figure, is probably why they’re on the list in the first place. Either that or they just piss God off.

  Yet, I will not fall victim to prejudice in any guise since flaws can be even bigger decoys than names. I must find the one who is a demon among my sheep, and it is my job to send it back to hell or die trying. Or wind up in the loony bin. Would that it could be that simple…

  This nonsense just gives me a headache every time I think about it and, cross my heart, so far I’m a little hung up on deciding which one of these sheep is wanted dead, and why. That is the question, after all, isn’t it?

  I’m sure it can’t be as simple as sacrificing the one I care about the most because there are obvious choices here, like Ken, or Hobie, or Eunice, so why would we even need a competition if that were the case? And surely, my sacrifice isn’t to be as simple as eliminating the one I like the least (like Randy, or Fat Sandy, or that Harold). That would be too cliché and riddled with prejudice and pissdom, and I refuse to submit to a cliche!

  That is my only catch. So, if that’s where all this is headed then zap away now because I’m not doing it. I mean it!

  And while we’re at it, would it be too much to ask to be allowed to off someone the world could just downright do without? There are probably tens of millions of evil people out there who should be under consideration. That I suppose (if whacked upside the head enough; because I’ve always believed killing any of God’s creatures is a sin) you might-could brainwash me to get behind with some proper training. But I guess that isn’t the point either, killing out of pissdom. That would be a sin.

  In rote I stand with the choir and begin hymn number 352 while I study the people in the pews below me, finding a routine, homogenous exterior to each of these faces of radical religion. They scare me, the women in their bland expressions and dresses, with hollow, unadorned smiles, three and a half kids and husbands made of stone. Add to that the annoyance of their absolute lack of fashion sense because, don’t you know, God will not tolerate the sins of vanity.

  Uh huh, then explain me. If I’m not a whiff of God’s vanity then what is?

  I turn my head slowly studying their fac
es, pew by pew, and inhale their stale air into my lungs because I still cannot take a deep breath. As I begin to scan row two, I can suddenly feel a welcome stream of unexpected cool air on my face and turn my face side to side playing a game of hot and cold trying to find the source. As I begin verse three, I detect that strange quickening again accompanied by another current of seductively cool air on my face. I can’t seem to control my eyes as they are pulled down the center aisle to the back left row of the church’s ancient wooden pews.

  I suddenly find myself staring at the most incredible face I have ever seen looking back at me with the most corrupt eyes imaginable; bottomless black pools of cunning and deceit, powerful eyes that are predatory and hungry, and I cannot help but gasp.

  This dark stranger is a huge beast of a man, with long black hair and a deep tan. The bottom half of his face is concealed behind a mustache and a long black beard which he casually strokes as our eyes connect. His face is sinister, beautiful, a chiseled face with probing x-ray eyes that seem to stare deep down into my soul, and I cannot look away.

  I swallow hard and try to catch my breath as he studies my every move and masterfully holds my gaze hostage while his eyes probe mine. He rakes his long hair back away from his face with a large hand while he cavalierly dissects me with unabashed candor. As I tilt my head to study his absurd beauty, the right side of his mouth slowly curls into a dark smile. His expression is provocative and indecent, and yet even then his dark eyes are intoxicating and hold mine in a peculiar trance. It’s impossible to look away, even though I know I should.

  When I finally manage to pull my eyes away from his, I study his massive physique, finding it amazing how casually he’s sitting with his left arm draped over the back of the pew, smiling wickedly as if he finds us all amusing, or as if he owns the place.

  I foolishly read far too many fashion magazines because I am weak-minded and like fashion (and expect to get zapped for that guilty indulgence sooner or later), so I recognize the cut of his $7,000 gray, pinstriped Armani suit even though I have never seen one in person.

  There is an elegant ease to this particular beast as if his skin is accustomed to many guises. His black hair brushes the top of his too broad shoulders and is far too long to belong in this place. There’s something in the way his hair curls over his left eye that reminds of something … a picture, a memory maybe? Something...

  Judging by the way he sits so high in that pew, he’s got to be pushing seven feet tall, and his smile is arcane. If he’s a Catholic Fundamentalist then I’m a Muslim!

  He watches me sing and the audacity projecting from his smile is flustering. He is obviously trying to provoke me and nods his head at me, giving me a silent command with an intimate gaze as if he knows me…

  I try hard to place his face. Nope. I’d remember this face.

  He winks at me. He winks! Here!

  I am flushed and my cheeks are burning and I feel a shiver creeping down my spine as he meets my eyes again, burning black on icy blue. I safely avert my eyes just like I always do with any other lunatic. Yet, I can’t seem to stop myself and look back. This time, his eyes engage mine with a searing corrupt look I have seen on too many other faces and it is easy to look away.

  Just the same, I begin my solo carefully, making certain there is nothing special in my voice today. I move in rote as the room grows deathly quiet until all I can hear is my heartbeat and my voice emulating the music inside my head and the sound of unwelcome drums in the distant thunder.

  I steal a glance back at him. He’s still smiling.

  I glare back. Okay, dude. You can stop staring at me! There’s no point in it. Trust me on this one. Look away now!

  As if he can hear me, he stands and slips out of the pew, and I watch as he takes a few giant steps up the center aisle towards me. He moves like a warrior, powerful, arrogant holding himself gracefully, oblivious to the incredulous stares from others in the congregation who’ve just noticed this anomaly among us. Curiosity keeps my eyes locked on his as he smiles and bends elegantly at the waist, bowing before me like a fabled knight out of some silly mythic fairytale.

  I fumble my song. I feel as though this dangerous beast has just tossed his gauntlet at my feet right out in front of God and everybody. And it pisses me off because I’m just trying to relax and go with the flow here and put this ridiculous Sunday behind me with as few bizarre interruptions as humanly possible!

  I hate Sundays.

  I tilt my head when I hear another sound. There it is again, an off-key peal of laughter, or maybe a flute? Yet another something weird in an endless stream.

  I watch as the beast straightens up and rakes his hair away from his face. He smiles darkly into my eyes one final moment then turns his back on me and strides away. I sing louder as he throws open the church doors. There is a sudden bolt of bright light and an unsettling wind blasting into our somber sanctuary as he stalks outside without looking back, and the solid steel doors slam locked behind him.

  My knees buckle and I struggle to stand and remain singing. I am trembling like a fool because I believe I’ve just looked the devil in the eyes and lost.

  I breathe deeply, carefully and recover my solo. My cheeks burn and my palms are sweaty as everyone in the congregation begins to whisper at once. All eyes are on me as I contemplate the meaning of this encounter. I mean, I’m already afraid, I know what I’m up against.

  I hate it when everyone stares at me so I inhale and attempt to force my voice around them, to shock and bring them in close, then soothe them. I sing louder as I close my eyes and try to lull myself back into breath and equilibrium.

  I sing and quickly concentrate on the only clear objective I’ve been granted. I will myself to tune out the other voices and concentrate only on the words inside the static; only this and nothing more. Because I have learned when gravity is off-kilter objective must be found quickly. Oh yes, indeed, it must.

  I find singing almost painful as I force my purpose into focus. I compel my eyes to stay closed and not be corrupted as I contemplate the communiqué I faithfully seek. I will my mind to see nothing more than hated algebraic absolutes, because it’s become painfully apparent to me that many scientists believe that the abstract symbols of math have a much higher meaning.

  Albert Einstein insisted that in order to discern the mind of God we must first make physics coherent. Do you know what a lepton is? A quark? I’d be willing to bet most people don’t. So, then, is communicating with God accomplished through divine selection, after all? Must we know true math to know true God?

  I finish singing and sit as Nancy Pittman gives me a scalding frown as if my very thoughts were transparent to all those gathered together today. But she hates me anyway, because she told me that I think I’m better than her since I’ve memorized the hymnals and don’t need sheet music (and absolutely refuse to practice with the choir because they know I won’t jump through those hoops any more). I can feel her animus from here. I think that’s why she wears that stupid white, circa 1980s bow, because she can sense how much it pisses me off. For a second, just for fun, I contemplate adding her name to my list even though I know I’m not allowed. I meet her eyes.

  Look away, Nancy. Look away now. Stop while you’re ahead.

  Let us pray.

  Okay, if the selection process was hurdy-gurdy, my sanity questionable, and the future unfeasible, then this meager information is all I have to go on. Numbers 1 to 12 have little to nothing in common beyond a connection with the cafe, and number 13 , my Harold, will be determined by chance because that’s how logic seems to exist in my world.

  I find myself asking terminally stupid men their names because I just know that out there somewhere is a deserving Harold dying to tell me the name of his Johnson after five seconds of conversation.

  The order in which their names appear has nothing to do with their standing in the competition. Just like Randy over there, dramatically working the blender with his mango daiquiris is number 6. He�
��s a bruiser isn’t he? He’s like one thick gorilla with all that fuzzy hair everywhere except on his head. He keeps his thinning, brown hair combed over his forehead in an effort to hide his bald spot. Randy is very self-conscious about his hair, so when he annoys you, and he will, just say something about his hair. Hobie does this often. Randy hates Hobie too.

  I don’t think Randy likes any of us. When Eunice wants a drink she tells me even though Randy’s bar is directly in front of her table. The two of them never exchange a word. Rumor has Randy breaking in the back door one rainy night and downing an entire pot of chili, then falling asleep on the bar. This is twenty years later; he’d still sleep on that bar if we’d let him.

  I guess in some abstract way Randy views Eunice as a mother figure. Well, in the abstract way Randy is capable of viewing a mother because it’s avid speculation whether he ever had one to begin with.

  I’ve put down my book and am studying Randy. I have decided to take the bull by the horns tonight and tackle my first candidate elimination while there is relative calm. I’d been drawn to studying Eunice earlier (as she railed me about missing Sunday supper with my parents) but have now turned my attention to Randy. I’m seeking whatever message I’m supposed to find in his peculiar chemistry, and I do mean peculiar. He’s such a cliché that I don’t even have to get up close and personal to discover his deep, dark mortal-sin. This is clearly one book easily judged by its cover. But there are no lessons to be learned by assuming, yet the thought of scratching through his surface, even a little, is repugnant to me.

  I know he knows I’m watching him because he’s holding in his gut, making his cheeks even ruddier than normal, and he keeps running his hand over his bald spot. He wants to corner me somewhere behind his bar again and try to touch me, but he won’t. Even Randy’s not that foolish.