Tales from Null City

by Barb Taub

  “Claire. Stop what you’re doing and stand up.” She stood, hands still clasped to the back of her head, but her eyes looked into Peter’s eyes. “Call your goddess. Do it now.”

  “Bygul.” Her voice was wooden. That tree house we’re going to make love in. “Bygul, I need you.” One corner of Peter’s mouth curled up slightly. My mouth tracing your fish tattoo. The knife in his hand trembled. No! Oh no, Peter, O Goddess what have I done…no don’t… Fast, so fast, he turned the knife and plunged it into his own chest. He stared at her for a moment, that ghost of a smile on his face, before slumping forward.

  Chapter Six

  “Claire! You will look at me.”

  No, please, I need to get to Peter… But her head turned obediently to the Worm. He moved closer, and he was holding another knife to her throat with hands that shook. Peter… Her mind sobbed but her lips only shaped sounds that never emerged. It was every nightmare she’d ever had, the screams in her head moaned out in only the smallest of breaths.

  The Worm heard her tiny whimper, and his mouth stretched in a grotesque parody of his earlier grin as he raised his voice in a shout. “Listen to me, Goddess. If you can hear this, you know that I’ll kill Claire. Come now or she dies.” He pressed the point of his knife against her throat. It pierced the skin, and the jolt of pain pushed the snakes back further from her brain.

  He tore his eyes from her and screamed, “Bygul!”

  He’s not talking to me, so not controlling me. She concentrated on blocking the snakes, forcing herself to think only of Peter. The Worm pressed his knife further against her throat, the point entering slightly, and Claire felt the same shock she saw mirrored in his eyes as her own hand holding her athame smoothly parted the skin of his throat and entered. It slid in so fast she didn’t even feel any resistance as she slashed sideways. Destroy the vocal cords and he loses his control.

  She staggered back, bloody hand clutching her knife. He was gargling as he collapsed into a chair. As blood ran down his throat—not enough, damn it—he tried to talk but couldn’t. He couldn’t control her! With a sob, she pulled back her arm, whirled, and hit his jaw with every ounce of the fury boiling in her. He folded over the back of the chair.

  She raced to Peter and turned him over. Blood soaked the floor beneath him, and the wound was still bleeding. She whispered his name, but his beautiful eyes didn’t open. With her own knife, she slit his T-shirt open. Think, Claire. Pressure on the wound. Don’t pull out the knife. She rolled him to his side in the recovery position, and raced to her kitchen for towels and her first aid kit. Packing towels around the wound, she taped them in place as tightly as she could.

  For long moments she watched as both Peter and the Worm continued to bleed. A trickle ran down her own neck and she remembered his knife there. Mechanically, she ripped a piece off her shirt to tie around the cut. Thoughts swam through her mind like fish trying to move through molasses. I should do something about the Worm. He’s not quite dead. Tie him up. She could hear the others outside, a sullen murmur on the wind. They know he’s still alive. They’re not trying to come in because they think he’s still stronger than them. Okay…he needs to stay not-quite-dead.

  She should move, do something. Don’t just sit here. But the memory of the Worm’s voice froze her, the feel of his hands, of his triumph that he’d control them all… She heard a high, whimpering sound. How annoying. Make it stop. Oh, no that couldn’t be her… The Worm wasn’t moving, and his throat wasn’t bleeding. In fact, the wound looked like it was closing. Dead or healing? Neither was good. Shuddering with effort, she stopped the moans and sat up. His eyes snapped open.

  Okay, so not dead. Think Claire. Physically, he might still be stronger than her. But he never had to fight because his voice was his weapon. She had her Academy training and an epic hissy fit going on. Right now the important thing was to stop his voice from controlling her. Carey Parker could have done it six ways to Sunday, but Claire only had one ritual knife and a barrowful of determined.

  His hands were already coming up as she leaped the space between them to slide that knife so sweetly into his throat again. More blood, more gargling. Slashing his throat didn’t kill a fiend. Losing so much blood wasn’t killing him. She wanted to keep going, take his whole head. Let’s see you survive that, you son of a bitch. For Peter. But the greedy screams of the others outside rose on the wind. Okay, Claire. You’re supposed to be the smart one. Carey says you can figure out any problem. Figure this one. What she needed was for him to be alive, just not able to talk or move.

  More experienced witches could bind him with his own blood and his Name. She had no problem with getting more of his blood, but didn’t know his Name. And none of that mattered because she was just too damn young. She must be losing it, because the voice in her head sounded suspiciously like Carey Parker. And it snorted. “Yeah, and you’ve been working spells that other witches can’t manage when they’re thirty years older than you. So pull up those big girl panties, make like your running shoes, and Just. Do. It.”

  She staggered to her bedroom, pulled the sheet off her bed, and began tearing it into strips even as she came back to the living room. The Worm’s flat eyes watched her, and he smiled again. Peter…the screams in her head came out as shuddering breaths. Peter. The monster smiled, ran a finger through his own blood, and shook it at her. No! Peter couldn’t be dead. “You’re lying. He’s not dead.” The Worm’s eyes never left her, his smile pretended to pity her, pretended to know. He put the bloody finger into his own mouth and sucked it.

  She could almost hear his voice telling her she couldn’t do it and to just give up. Right. Like Carey wouldn’t follow me to hell just to slap me upside the head for even considering it.

  “Belief and intent, Claire.” She remembered Nana’s voice. “When it comes right down to it, there’s not much a witch can’t do with belief and intent.”

  “See.” Claire realized she was talking to him as she slashed the sheet. “It’s not about you. You know why? You’re not my father. Your old body might have donated a little DNA, but there is nothing of you in who I am. And this is only about me, Claire Danielsen. It’s about my intent. My belief.” She stuck the knife in his throat again and then pulled each sheet strip through the oozing cut. Twice she had to reopen it to get more of his blood. Winding the strips around him, she reinforced each with her belief. “I may be young.” She knotted another strip around his legs. “But I’ve got seven generations of Danielsen witches behind me. And they, every one, spelled witch with a capital B.” She watched as he flexed his arms, contemptuous of her attempts to bind him without knowing his Name. His eyes opened wider as he realized they actually held.

  “Thing is, witches aren’t magical.” She sat back and they stared at each other. Her hand holding the knife was shaking a bit, eager to slide into his throat again. Too eager. To distract herself, she kept talking. “Spells are just some family recipes, but the power behind them comes from somewhere else. Our family, we get it from Bygul so we’re just going to sit here, Daddy, and wait for her to come back. And she’s one feline, ancient, bitch so I’m betting she’ll be purring as she removes the rest of your fingers, one by one, and then goes on to the other bits of you until all that’s left are those damn dimples.”

  She saw it in his eyes, in the watchful way he sat back. Waiting. Oh, yeah he knew. Knew she was too young to have her spells last long. They’d have to be reinforced, she’d have to keep draining him. Sooner or later she would stumble, maybe even doze off, without renewing her spells in time. So he watched. She held Peter’s hand and watched him back.

  Chapter Seven

  Nana had a stupid clock with pictures of birds who sang every hour. For the last week, Claire had listened to that clock marking her hours of torture every night until the robin sounded at dawn. Now it was her sentinel. Twice she was dozing off when the clock began singing, Nana warning her to check on the Worm. I just have to make it till the robin sings, Nana. The assau
lt would weaken in daylight, especially without the Worm to direct them.

  She tried to plan, but it was still so hard to think. She was holding Peter’s hand and reasoning out loud, as if he could hear and offer suggestions. “At dawn, I’ll go out and try to find my car.” She rubbed his hands. Why were they so cold? “Somehow I’ll get you into the car, and we’ll go to the hospital.” She pulled more blankets around him. “Or at least I’ll get to a phone and call Director Jeffers.”

  That damn robin. Why wouldn’t it sing? She was almost dozing off again when she heard his breathing change. Peter’s breath rattled in his chest. Then there was nothing. Over the next minutes, the rattle would start again, then stop, but she could take several breaths before it resumed. Peter was dying.

  Deliberately, she marched over to the Worm and slashed at his throat, already almost healed again. Each time, there was less blood, but he still managed to heal. She dipped more sheet strips through the trickle that oozed from his sliced vocal cords, covered them with her belief, and sealed them around him with her intent.

  Then she went to Peter and put her arms around him. She was whispering to him that she was fine, that he’d protected her, and that she would always love him. Then she told him it was okay for him to go. The rattle started again and stopped. She waited. Nothing.

  From the clock, the robin sang. There was a footstep behind her. The Worm. This time she would take his head. Gripping her athame, she staggered to her feet and turned around.

  A tall woman wearing an intricate amber necklace was looking down at her. And she was…glowing? Claire stumbled back a step. The woman didn’t move, except to pet the gigantic cat in her arms. Bygul purred back at Claire, looking smug. She’d brought the Goddess Freya, so Claire supposed she had a right to feel pleased with herself.

  “My old friend tells me you are in trouble,” Freya said. “What do you need?”

  Wordlessly, Claire pointed to the chair where the Worm’s eyes were open. He glared back. The goddess turned to look him over. “I see.”

  “He needs to be gone.” Claire was astonished to hear that her voice sounded calm and level as always. “He murdered my mother, caused Peter’s death, and tried to capture Bygul. He needs to not be on the Earth.” She pronounced the clear emotionless judgment. “Can you do that?”

  “If you tell me his Name, I can take him with me to Fólkvangr.” Bygul leaped from Freya’s arms and padded over to Peter’s body.

  Claire slumped. “I’m too young to channel our goddess. So I can’t compel him to tell me his Name.” She closed her eyes and felt herself sway. Warm, strong arms wrapped her, and Freya guided her to the couch. She almost fell to the cushions, but the fury boiling inside refused to rest. “What should I do?”

  Freya looked troubled. “What do you know about…?” She waved an imperious hand toward the Worm. “What do you call him?”

  “I call him the Worm, but I think he’s an ancient god wannabe the Egyptians called Apep.” She tried to think. “I know his ring shows a worm or a snake. My mother left me a drawing of his crest labeled herald with serpent rampant.” She frowned. “Although…that was written in Latin, and the Romans called him Apophis. Which was a weird way for her to record it. Unless…” She smiled. “Oh, Mom, you did figure it out. Of course.”

  She stood and turned to the Worm, her face serene. Belief. Intent. “Apophis. I Name you and I bind you through my goddess Bygul.”

  The Worm shuddered but shook his head. “Apophis. I Name you and I consign you to Freya’s will.”

  The Worm rose to his feet, and his throat gurgled. Her voice was steady, strong, a Danielsen witch in full control of her spell. “Apophis! I Name you and I banish you to Fólkvangr for all time.”

  His face twisted in disbelief, the Worm glared at her and vanished.

  Freya smiled. “Nicely done. My Bygul has partnered well. Now I must go and make sure that my guest does not get too comfortable in his new home. You have been a brave warrior, and brought honor to your ancestors. But if I know Bygul, she has things to discuss with you. She said something about you owing her six daughters. Really, six? You have my blessing. And my sympathy. Far vel dóttir.”

  Claire heard a sound behind her and turned to see Peter lying on his back, knife and bandages to the side. Bygul was licking his chest. The chest that contained only a shiny pink scar. The chest that was moving. Bygul padded over to her and butted impatiently. Claire absently removed the makeshift bandage from her own throat, but paid almost no attention as the cat’s rough tongue swiped her injury. She was too busy watching the color returning to Peter’s face.

  She dropped to her knees beside him and watched in awe as his eyes fluttered open. “Claire?”

  Her face crumpled, tears flowing down her cheeks as she struggled to breathe.

  “Shh…” His hand shook only slightly as it reached for hers.

  She leaned closer and slapped him.

  “Um… Claire? I’m pretty sure I was just dead. Should you really be hitting me?”

  “That’s for being so stupidly noble and all that I’ll-die-before-I-hurt-her shit.” She was sobbing so hard, the words were barely audible. “You are never to die again, do you hear me? Never!”

  “Okay.”

  She collapsed on his chest, sobbing. After a few minutes, when she felt his arms close around her, she managed to add, “And most places have family bathrooms now. You will so be helping with the potty training.” She lifted her head to glare at him.

  Peter smiled.

  Just for the Spell of It by Barb Taub

  Superpowers suck. If you just want to live a normal life, Null City is only a Metro ride away. After one day there, imps become baristas, and hellhounds become poodles. Demons settle down, become parents, join the PTA, and worry about their taxes. But outside of Null City, now that the century-long secret Nonwars between Gifts and Haven are over and the Accords Treaty is signed, an uneasy peace is policed by Wardens under the command of the Accords Agency.

  Liam is an ungodly soccer-playing card sharp on a mission from God. Eirie is a beautiful punk fairy princess with her own daytime radio talk show. They’ve worked cases for the Accords Agency before, but with war between realms looming and her baby sister as the bargaining chip, partnering just got personal.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Chuck Wendig at terribleminds.com for the prompt that sent me to the unholy fascinating meme generator, They Fight Crime! (now at http://paulm.com/toys/they_fight_crime.html) Warning: this can be habit-forming!

  Chapter One

  “Hello on Line One—you’re live on Sharing With Eirie, Seattle’s number one station for talk-radio. What’s on your mind today?” As the caller gushed, Eirie glanced at the list of prescreened callers on her prompts and yawned.

  Caller holding on line two—woman whose father is marrying her adult stepdaughter wants to know if they have a baby, does that mean she’s her own grandmother?

  Holding on line three—man who says you are his soul mate wants to know if you will marry him, and if so are you free early this afternoon because he has a meeting with his parole officer later.

  Holding on line four—woman who says her husband is a podiatrist from an alien planet wants to know if they’ll go to different heavens, and if so, will she get a new husband in her heaven?

  It was same old, same old ever since Jo, her producer, issued the ultimatum prohibiting the mystery caller who managed to get a call through on almost every broadcast. Their intern-flavor-of-the-month—Brad? Brent?—swore to personally keep Jo’s tormentor off Eirie’s air. “You sure it’s not him?” she mouthed to the window of the broadcast booth, pointing to the list of callers. Brad/Brent nodded solemnly from the other side of the glass. His arm muscles flexed as he placed one hand over his heart, the other palm-up, the station’s logo on his white T-shirt straining across his chest as he threw back broad shoulders and clenched a determined jaw.

  Nice, but her current obsession required dark h
air and a day-two beard. While the commercial played, she took a polite moment to appreciate the view and then held up two fingers as the intro jingle played for her afternoon radio talk and music show. “And hello Line Two—you’re on the air and I’m Eirie Danu. What’s on your mind today?"

  Her lips twitched as a deep male voice spoke with a faint Irish lilt, “My intern is pretty hot but she can’t file worth shit. Would it be better, you think, to do the firin' of her before or after the sex?” Brent/Brad’s jaw dropped at the familiar voice. Producer Jo appeared next to him, drawing a cut! line across her throat.

  “What makes you think the intern wants to have sex with you?” Eirie imagined him smiling as she slipped into the signature do-me drawl that Jo called her drop-trouser voice.

  “Well, every time I see her she’s wearing less. Today she came into my office and I think her skirt was missing…”

  “Miniskirts are back, you know.”

  “And I for one am glad to see them. But what she had on was more in the way of a Band-Aid. So to get back to my question, I really need an answer right away. Winter’s coming and I don’t know how much longer the poor little thing can keep coming in without clothes. Plus eventually I might need to find something in my files…”

  Jo’s throat-slashing motions escalated to a level that had Brad/Brent paling as he cautiously moved pointed objects out of her reach. Eirie cut the caller’s line feed and smoothly continued, “Well sir, I have to say we don’t recommend consummation while the intern is still on staff. Aside from the whole ick-factor, you’d be amazed how often they tend to have large, combative relatives. Going by your voice, I’d say you’re a middle-aged guy, maybe older. In reality, I’m guessing she sees you as a father-figure. So my advice to you is to avoid the whole situation. Take a vacation until that intern is gone, maybe read a good book or spend some quality time in church with seniors your own age. Your heart doesn’t need the stress, so why don’t I help you relax with classic Sinatra from back in the day. Stay tuned after that for a caller with a very special question he wants to ask me.” She leaned back with a thumbs-up for Jo as the first notes of Here’s to the Losers floated through her headset.