The Monster's Corner

by Christopher Golden

  “Glen!” she yelled. “Glen, it’s me, Della.”

  The aberration went to swipe her out of the way, but stopped. It lowered its huge head and stared at her. Then, after a pause of a few seconds that felt like forever, it leaned back and crashed down onto its backside, the force of impact like an earthquake. Della’s armed guard held back, more out of fear than anything else, though what difference a couple of meters would make was debatable in the circumstances.

  “I just want to know why, Glen,” she said, still walking closer, not sure whether it could hear or understand her. “All those people killed, and for what? I know you must have been scared, in pain even, but why … ?”

  The monster stared at her, eyes squinting, trying to focus, massive pupils dilating and constricting. Then it lifted its head to the skies and roared louder than ever.

  On the ground a single figure ran through the trees. Cress-well weaved around the soldiers who stood frozen to the spot, staring up at the massive creature, and grabbed Della.

  “Come with me, Della,” he said, trying to drag her away. “That’s not Glen anymore. Damn thing can’t understand you. Stay here and it’ll kill you. You’ve got Ash and me to think about and—”

  He stopped talking when he realized the Chambers creature was looking straight at him, glowering down. He began to back away, cowering in fear, but there was no escape. A single massive hand wrapped around him and tightened, its grip so strong that every scrap of oxygen was forced from his body. The monster lifted him up and held its arm back as if it were about to throw the doctor into the distance.

  “Dad! Dad, don’t!”

  Glen stopped.

  Had he just imagined that? For a second he swore he’d heard Ash’s voice, but how could it have been? He pulled his long arm back again, ready to hurl Cresswell out of his life forever. Out of all of their lives …

  “No, Dad, please.”

  Glen looked down and saw his son standing in front of him. And suddenly, nothing else mattered. He stretched out and dropped Cresswell far enough away not to have to think about him, then carefully moved Della and the remaining soldiers out of the way, too. Ash stood in front of his dad, completely alone and looking impossibly small.

  “Hello, Big Man,” Glen wanted to say but couldn’t. “I’m sorry, Ash, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “You okay, Dad?”

  “Not really,” he didn’t say as he gently picked his son up and held him close to his face. Ash sat down cross-legged on the palm of his father’s hand.

  “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Me too, Ash.”

  “They’ve been saying all kinds of things about you,” Ash said, pausing to choose his next words carefully. Glen’s heart seemed to pause, too. “But I don’t believe them. I mean, I know you are a monster now, anyone can see that, but I know you didn’t want to be one. I don’t think you wanted to hurt them all. I kept trying to tell the man that you didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I told him to try and imagine how you must be feeling. You’re big and strong and everything, but I bet you’re scared.”

  “I am.”

  “I said they should leave you alone. I said they should find you somewhere big to rest, maybe build a big house or something like that, then let the doctors work out how they’re going to get you back to normal again.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen, sunshine. I think it’s too late now.”

  “I miss you, Dad. I’ve been really scared.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  “They said you were coming back here to kill everyone, and I told them that was crap. I said you were coming to see me. Was I right, Dad?”

  “You were right, son. I just wanted to see you again. Just one more time …”

  Glen Chambers sat in the park with his son in his hand and listened to him talking until his massively engorged, broken heart could no longer keep him alive.

  RAKSHASI

  by Kelley Armstrong

  FOR TWO HUNDRED YEARS, I have done penance for my crimes as a human. After twenty, I had saved more lives than I had taken. After fifty, I had helped more people than I had wronged. I understand that my punishment should not end with an even accounting. Yet now, after two hundred years, that balance has long passed equilibrium. And I have come to realize that this life is no different than my old one. If I want something, I cannot rely on others to provide it.

  I waited in the car while Jonathan checked the house. Jonathan. There is something ridiculous about calling your master by his given name. It’s an affectation of the modern age. In the early years, I was to refer to them as Master or Isha. When the family moved West, it became Sir, then Mr. Roy.

  My current master does not particularly care for this familiarity. He pretends otherwise, but the fact that I must refer to him by his full name, where his wife and others use “Jon,” says much.

  He called my cell phone.

  “Amrita?” he said, as if someone else might be answering my phone. My name is not Amrita. My name is not important. Or, perhaps, too important. I have never given it to my masters. They call me Amrita, the eternal one.

  “The coast is clear.” He paused. “I mean—”

  “I understand American idiom very well,” I said. “I have been living here since before you were born.”

  He mumbled something unintelligible, then gave me my instructions, as if I hadn’t been doing this, too, since before he was born.

  I got out of the car and headed for the house.

  As Jonathan promised, there was an open window on the second floor. I found a quiet place away from the road, then shifted to my secondary form: a raven. Fly to the bedroom window. Squeeze through. Shift back.

  There wasn’t even an alarm on the window to alert the occupant to my intrusion. Quite disappointing. These jobs always are. I long for the old days, when I would do bloody battle against power-mad English sahibs and crazed Kshatriyas. Then came the murderers and whoremasters, the Mob, the drug dealers. It was the last that made the Roys rethink their strategy. On the streets, drug dealers always came with well-armed friends. I may be immortal, but I can be injured, and while my personal comfort is not a concern, my income-earning potential is. They tried targeting the dealers at home, but there they were often surrounded by relative innocents. So, in this last decade, the Roys have concentrated on a new source of evil. A dull, weak, mewling source that bores me immeasurably. But my opinion, like my comfort, is of little consequence.

  I took a moment to primp in the mirror. I am eternally young. Beautiful, too. More beautiful than when I was alive, which was not to say I was ugly then, but when I look in the mirror now, I imagine what my husband, Daman, would say. Imagine his smile. His laugh. His kiss. I have not seen him in two hundred years, yet when I primp for my target, it is still Daman I ready myself for.

  I found the target—Morrison—in the study, talking on his speakerphone while working on his laptop. I moved into the doorway. Leaned against it. Smiled.

  He stopped talking. Stopped typing. Stared.

  Then, “Bill? I’ll call you back.”

  He snapped his laptop shut. “How’d you get in here?”

  “My name is Amrita. I am a surprise. From a very pleased client.”

  I slid forward, gaze fixed on his. For another moment he stared, before remembering himself.

  “But how did you get—?”

  “I would not be much of a surprise if I rang your front bell, would I?” I glanced back at the door. “I trust we are alone?” Jonathan said no one else was in the house, but I always checked.

  “W-we are.”

  “Good.”

  I sidled over and rolled his chair away from the desk … and any alarms underneath or guns in the drawers.

  I straddled Morrison’s lap. Indecision wavered in his eyes. He was a smart man. He knew this was suspicious. And yet, as I said, I am a beautiful woman.

  I put m
y arms around him, hands sliding down his arms, fingers entwining with his. I leaned over, lifting our hands … then wrenched his arms back so hard he screamed. I leapt from his lap, over the back of the chair, and bound his wrists with the cord I’d used as a belt.

  I have subdued lapdogs that gave me more trouble than Morrison. He fought, but I have bound warriors. He was no warrior.

  Next, I tortured him for information. It was a bloodless torture. Mental pain is the most effective of all, and with the power of illusion, I can make a man believe he is being rent limb from limb, and scream with the imagined agony.

  As for the information I needed, it was a simple accounting of his misdeeds: details on the financial scam that paid for this mansion. I forced him to write out those details in a confession. Then I tortured him for the combination to his home safe.

  With my help, the Roys kill—sorry, eliminate—the basest dregs of the criminal bucket. This is their divine mission, handed down to them millennia ago, when they were granted the ability to control my kind. They seek out evil. I eliminate it. A very noble profession, but one that does not pay the bills. Finding targets, researching them, and preparing for my attack is a fulltime job. So the Roys, like other isha families, also have divine permission to take what they require from their victims.

  Once I had what I needed, I forced Morrison to take out his gun and shoot himself, leaving his confession on the desk and adequate compensation for his victims still in his safe.

  Before he pulled the trigger, he looked at me. They always do. Seeking mercy, I suppose. But I know, better than anyone, that such sins cannot be pardoned in this life. If they are, mercy will be seen as a sign of weakness, and the perpetrator will revert to his former path once the initial scare passes.

  Still, they always look at me, and they always ask the same thing.

  “What are you?”

  “Rakshasi,” I replied, and pushed his finger on the trigger.

  Rakshasi. Morrison didn’t know what that meant. They never do. Even those of my own heritage rarely have more than a vague inkling of my kind, perhaps from a story told by a grandmother to frighten them into obedience.

  The word means protector, which has always made me laugh. We are demon warriors, cursed to walk the earth as monsters, wreaking havoc wherever we go. Disturbers. Defilers. Devourers.

  It is only after we accept the bargain of the isha that we become protectors. When we rise from our deathbed, we are met by a member of an isha family. He tells us our fate. Misery and guilt and pain, forever suffering everything that, in life, we visited upon others. Yet we can redeem ourselves. Submit to their bargain, work for them until we have repaid our debt, and we will be free.

  I did not take that first offer. I doubt any rakshasi does. We are men and women of iron will and we do not cower at the first threat of adversity. I truly do not believe the isha expect agreement. Not then. They simply offer the deal, and when it is rejected they leave. Then, on every succeeding anniversary, they find us, and they offer again.

  In the end, it was not the misery or guilt or pain that wore me down. It was loneliness. We are doomed to be alone as we walk the earth. I might have held out if the isha had not brought me a letter one year. A letter from Daman. He, too, had been doomed to this existence. Our crimes were shared, as had been every part of our lives from childhood.

  Daman had accepted his isha’s bargain, and he pleaded with me to do the same. Take the deal and we would be together again. So he had been promised. So I was promised. And so I accepted.

  We returned to Jonathan’s house. It is the same one I have lived in for sixty years, though Jonathan and Catherine only arrived two years ago, when he took over as isha from his uncle. I came with the house. Or, I should say, it came with me.

  It was no modest home, either. For size and grandeur, it was on a scale with Morrison’s mansion. There were no vows of poverty in this family of crusaders. Like the Templar Knights, they lined their pockets extravagantly with the proceeds of their good deeds, which may be part of the reason behind the switch to corporate sharks. We are in a recession. To some, that means tightening the purse strings. To others, it means seeking richer sources of income. I cannot argue with that. I felt the same way when I walked the earth as a human. But it does bear noting that if the Roys free me, they will lose this income. Which gives them little incentive to agree that I have repaid my debt.

  Jonathan took me to my apartment. As cages go, it is a well-gilded one. Sleeping quarters, living area, kitchen, and bath, all lavishly furnished. The shelves are lined with books. A computer, stereo, and television are provided for my amusement. Anything I wish is mine. Anything except freedom. The walls are imbued with magic that prevents me from leaving without my isha.

  Beyond a recitation of events, Jonathan and I had not spoken on the four-hour drive from Morrison’s house. Every isha is different. With some, I have found something akin to friendship. Most prefer a more businesslike relationship. Jonathan takes that to the extreme, talking to me only when necessary. To engage me in conversation might lead to asking about my thoughts or feelings, which would imply that I have such things. That I am a sentient being. Best to forget that.

  In my apartment, I prepared dinner. A glass of human blood. A plate of human flesh. It is what I need to survive, and my ishas provide it. At one time, they used their victims. Now, that is inconvenient. One of the isha families without a rakshasi saw a market and filled it. Jonathan orders my meals. They come in a refrigerated case, the blood in wine bottles and flesh neatly packaged and labeled as pork.

  I fixed a plate of curry. I may be a cannibal, but I have retained some sense of taste. When I finished, I waited for Catherine. She gives me time after a job to eat, preferring not to visit while the scent of cooked flesh lingers in the air. As a courtesy, I cracked open the windows.

  Catherine extended me a return courtesy by knocking before she entered. Most of my ishas do not—either they don’t realize I may have a need for privacy or they wish to remind me of my place. Jonathan regularly “forgets” to knock, which is his way of asserting his position without challenging me. I would hold him in higher regard if he simply barged in.

  “How did it go?” Catherine asked as she entered. One might presume she’d already spoken to her husband and was simply asking to be polite, but with this couple, such a level of communication was not a given.

  As I told her it had been a success, I accompanied her to the living area, walking slowly to keep pace with her crutches. Catherine suffers from a crippling disease that today has a name—multiple sclerosis. In general, I’m not interested in the advances of science, but I have researched this particular ailment to help me better understand the first isha’s wife who has sought my companionship.

  Most wives have no knowledge of their husbands’ otherworldly abilities, and thus no knowledge of me. For decades, I have been shunted in and out a side door and otherwise kept in my soundproof apartment.

  Occasionally, though, the Roys take a wife from within the isha community. That is where Jonathan found Catherine. And if such a choice—not only an isha’s daughter, but a cripple—helped him win his position over his brothers … It is not my concern.

  As to what Catherine and I could possibly have in common, the answer is little, which gives us much to discuss. Catherine is endlessly fascinated with my life. To her, I am the star in some terrible yet endlessly thrilling adventure.

  “Have you been doing better?” she asked as I fixed tea.

  “I am surviving. We both know that I would prefer it wasn’t so, but …” I smiled her way. “You have heard quite enough on that matter.”

  “I wish you could be happier, Amrita.”

  “I’ve been alive too long to be happy. I would prefer to be gone. At peace.” I handed her a cup. “But, again, we’ve talked about this enough. It’s a depressing way to spend your visits. I would prefer to talk about you and your happiness. Did you ask Jonathan about the trip?”

&nbs
p; Her gaze dropped to her teacup. “He said it wasn’t possible. He’d love to, but he can’t take you and he can’t leave his duties here.”

  “Oh. I had thought perhaps he would be able to take me. That the council would consider it acceptable to revisit my roots. I am sorry I mentioned it, then.”

  “Don’t be. You know I want to see India. You make it sound so wonderful. I just hope …” She sipped her tea. “I hope by the time he’s free of his obligation, I’m still in good enough health …”

  Her voice trailed off. I didn’t need to remind her that it was a fool’s dream.

  “He would like to take you,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “He would like to go himself.”

  “I know. But his obligation …”

  Could be over anytime he chooses. Those were the words left unspoken. Also the words but he does not have the strength of will to do it, to defy his family by freeing me on his own, despite the fact it is his decision to make, and the council will support it.

  “I would miss you,” she blurted. “I’d miss our talks.”

  I smiled. “As would I. If you were free to travel, though, you would see these places for yourself, make new friends. Here, we are both prisoners.”

  Jonathan insists she stay in the house. He says it is for her own safety, so she can’t be targeted in retaliation for our acts.

  She suspects, I’m sure, that he keeps her here because it is convenient. She is as much his property as I am. Without his obligation as an excuse, she’d have more freedom, whether he liked it or not.

  “Jonathan knows best,” she said finally. “He will free you. I know he will. It just isn’t time.”