A Mosaic of Stars: Short Stories From Other Worlds

by Andrew Knighton

  “Who the hell d’you think you are, boy?” Stenson’s voice was even more menacing coming from the darkness behind the lanterns. His men cackled at his words. “Goddam faggot as well as a nigger now, huh?”

  “My name is Meredith.” It felt natural, not just the name but the dress and the shawl. Becoming more than just the man he had been. Becoming both parts of the divination.

  As the person who had been Menelaeus placed the corn kernels on the drum, she could feel the power flowing through her, her spirit twin stronger for sharing her change, for breaking a line that defined and divided him.

  “Always knew you were an uppity nigger.” Stenson’s gun clicked. “Now we gonna end that.”

  “No.” Meredith slid a kernel across the drum skin, from the sign for the overseer to that for death.

  A shot rang out.

  “Oh shit!” A different voice this time. White, male, scared.

  “What the hell you done, Hank?” The lights shifted, illuminating Stenson’s body and casting Meredith back into shadow.

  “I don’t know,” the man whimpered. “It just gone off in my hand. I don’t…”

  As fear turned to panic and accusation, Meredith picked up her drum. The plantation men would be busy for a good long while.

  As she walked away into the night she touched the totem hanging around her neck and remembered Octavia. She felt torn by loss, and yet, more than ever, she felt whole.

  Betting Big

  Remi lowered Fiscal and Tromp into the brackish water of the pool, the two otters sliding in with soft splashes. Sleek fur glistened as they swam around the edges, testing the wooden fence that set this place off from the rest of the bayou.

  “Y’all ready?” Bobby Reed called out. Not waiting for an answer, the big man tugged the rope hanging from an overhanging branch, raising the gate at the pool’s far side. The gleaming menace of an alligator slid out of its cage, slit eyes scanning its surroundings, mouth wide with pointed teeth and hungry for flesh.

  Bobby dropped five whole dimes into the tin cup hooked to the fence, and looked to Remi to do the same. Along the bank on this side of their improvised arena, other men and women were also placing bets. Remi could hear that the odds were against Fiscal and Tromp.

  He felt a familiar tingle, a thrill of something more than just excitement, as he matched and then doubled Bobby’s bet.

  Already the gator had the otters on the run, chasing them around the pool. They split up, and as the gator chased Fiscal, Tromp gouged at the beast’s side with paws and teeth. The gator snapped at her and she twisted away, but blood trailed from one of her paws. Remi could almost feel her hurt, a stab at his own heart. He kept strong, kept accepting bets as they came his way.

  “So much for your pets.” Bobby grinned as the gator chased a panicked-looking Fiscal. “Don’t reckon you’ll be boasting ‘bout how fierce they are no more.”

  “It ain’t over yet.” Nervousness tightened Remi’s chest. He dug into his pocket and pulled out an old copper coin he’d taken from a Union soldier back in the war, a coin with symbols like no other he’d seen, but one that had been worth the saving of that man’s life. He dropped it into the tin cup, and as he did so he felt the thrill of their game grow, become something more powerful, something that energised him in proportion to the growing bets and the cheers of the crowd.

  Out on the water, buoyed up by that same power, Fiscal turned and gouged the gator on the nose, making it rear back in pain.

  “You still in?” Remi asked.

  “Course I’m still in.” Bobby fished out a dime, then peered at Remi’s coin. “What do you call that?” He picked it up with a sneer. “This ain’t worth shit to me, boy.”

  Without the coin in the pot, Remi could feel power flowing away again. There was a thud as the gator flung Tromp against the fence. Fiscal, suddenly losing the energy that had powered her attack, fled from the snapping jaws.

  Remi tensed as those teeth sliced the end from Fiscal’s tail, winced as blood flowed out behind her.

  “Here’s another dime then.” He flung it into the pot, then snatched the special coin from Bobby’s hand and dropped it in on top. “This one’s for free.”

  “Sure thing.” Bobby added his own dime and turned, grinning, back toward the pool.

  His grin melted as he saw the two otters turn, fast and fierce. Fiscal leapt over the gator’s open jaws, planting her claws straight into its eyes. As the creature writhed in pain and panic, Tromp dived beneath it. A red stain spread across the water. The gator rolled over, revealing a deep gash along its belly. It writhed and snarled, but its energy was fading. As the otters swam back toward Remi, the gator finally went limp.

  Remi tipped the contents of the tin cup into his satchel. Beside him, Bobby Reed stood slack-jawed.

  “How…?” the big man said. “What…?”

  “Maybe next time you shouldn’t bet so big.” Remi felt the power of the moment fade as he slid that special coin back into his pocket. But the thrill of the game remained.

  Secret Sinners

  Detective Shadowvalt flicked his tail restlessly from side to side, his trench-coat flapping with it. Coming into churches always gave him the creeps – too many items that could be used to hurt or to banish him. And old churches like this, their grey stones soaked in a thousand years of faith and desperation, they were the worst.

  Its secret sanctification to Hell only just took off the edge.

  He ground his cigarette out beneath his hoof, was amused to see a look of outrage cross the face of the Reverend Green’s husband. What sort of person suffered such a petty feeling when his wife was freshly dead in front of him? Or wore a brown jumper and slacks, for that matter? Sometimes humans were just too funny.

  Shadowvalt peered down at the body in its priestly vestments. Bullet hole in one temple. Brains spattered across the pews. Gun in hand. Could it really be that simple?

  ‘Um, excuse me?’ The grey-haired lady was Mrs Welby, the head of the local Women’s Institute. Apart from the Reverend and Mr Green she was the only person on church grounds when the death took place. She was apparently fighting down fear in favour of an old-fashioned calm. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hell takes care of its own.’ Shadowvalt glanced at both humans. Neither seemed shocked at his claiming a shared allegiance with the late Reverend Green.

  ‘Like gangsters take care of their own?’ Mr Green’s voice was hollow, broken.

  ‘Sometimes.’ Shadowvalt lit another cigarette, waved PC Griddlenotch in from the back of the church. ‘Let’s deal with the obvious possibility first.’

  Griddlenotch had a sniffer imp on a chain, the little creature’s skin shifting from green to a sickly brown as he led it down the aisle. The constable stood picking one of his noses while the imp sniffed around the body, its skin changing once more, this time to a glaring yellow.

  ‘That means it smells fear,’ Griddlenotch said, yanking the imp back as it starting gnawing on the corpse’s ear.

  ‘Not depression?’ Shadowvalt asked.

  ‘Depression’s more a sort of blue-grey.’

  ‘Not suicide then.’ Shadowvalt wasn’t surprised. Handguns weren’t easy to come by in middle England. There were far easier ways out.

  He turned to Mrs Welby.

  ‘What were you doing on church grounds at ten at night?’ He leaned forward, deliberately exuding a cloud of sulphur to keep her off guard.

  ‘Flower arranging,’ the old lady replied. ‘For the Harvest Festival.’

  Shadowvalt nodded towards the half-assembled arrangement on the pew beside her. It was riddled with poisonous berries, bound in tangles of Japanese knotweed.

  ‘That’s a dark sort of arrangement,’ he said. ‘Only an expert flower arranger could pick them so well.’

  ‘Thank you dear.’ Mrs Welby smiled.

  ‘And only a minion of my dark master would make those choices.’ Shadowvalt watched her face fall before continuing. ‘How senior were you
in the local cult? Second in line? Making you the leader now, I suppose.’

  ‘Please.’ Mrs Welby fell to her knees, hands held out in front of her. ‘You’re right. Take me. Take me away to Hell to face our dark master.’

  Shadowvalt took a deep breath. If there was one thing he hated more than a sycophant it was a stupid sycophant.

  ‘You do know that the fate of His loyal minions is different from that of murderers sent to the Pit?’ he asked. ‘Some people operate the racks, others are strapped to them.’

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Welby smoothed down her floral print dress, eased herself arthritically back into her seat. ‘Then it wasn’t me. I was in the vestry, making offerings of blood. You can ask by demonic supervisor.’

  Shadowvalt turned to Mr Green. He was staring in despair at his wife’s corpse, his face pale, hands trembling. Unlike Mrs Welby, who now seemed fascinated by the bloody sight, he was clearly in shock.

  ‘How long have you known that your wife was a Satanist?’ Shadowvalt asked.

  There was a pause while Green realised that someone was talking to him and then looked up, blinking as he processed the question.

  ‘Since yesterday,’ he said at last.

  ‘It’s still sinking in?’

  Green nodded.

  ‘You believed didn’t you Mr Green?’ Shadowalt asked. ‘In what she preached publicly, the Christianity she claimed to hold dear?’

  Green nodded again.

  ‘How did it feel, knowing that her heart belonged to someone else?’ Shadowvalt leaned in closer, staring into the man’s eyes.

  ‘I could cope,’ Green said, tears running down his cheeks. ‘When I thought that she loved God more than me, I could live with that. But this… Him… You…’

  His face turned from sorrow to rage. He jerked to his feet, glaring at Shadowvalt.

  ‘This is sick! This is wrong! This is not the woman I loved!’

  ‘So you argued, and then…’

  ‘Yes!’ Green practically spat the word. ‘She betrayed me. She betrayed him. And so I… So I…’

  He looked down at his dead wife. Sorrow once more crumpled his face.

  ‘Oh God, I killed her.’

  He sank back into his seat, sobbing like a child.

  Shadowvalt had his answer. He turned and walked off up the aisle.

  ‘Wait!’ Mrs Welby called out after him. ‘Aren’t you going to arrest him?’

  ‘A Christian kills his secret Satanist wife, in a church, with a weapon of modern secular industry?’ Shadowvalt laughed bitterly. ‘This one will be a complete jurisdictional mess. I’m leaving it to the locals.’

  He lit a cigarette and, with a huge sigh of relief, stepped out of the church and into the night.

  All's Fair in Hell

  Detective Shadowvalt curled his tail up beneath him and pulled the hood of his jacket forward, covering his horns. He didn’t like to leave his trenchcoat behind, but at least he could still smoke while undercover. Lighting a cigarette, he enjoyed the smooth, sulphurous taste. He was sure the cigarettes tasted better in Hell.

  Shoulders hunched, he stayed with the dozen lost souls walking through the barbed gates of the warehouse, past the watch demons guarding the place. Even before they crossed the yard, he could tell by the smell that this was it, the centre of the supposed people smuggling ring. There was an acrid tinge in the air, the smell of fallen spirits being consumed for others’ purposes.

  Still following the damned, he walked through the double doors of the warehouse proper. At the far end a yellow demon with six tentacles stood by a stone gate. The air in the portal glowed blue with arcane power as a soul stepped in and vanished.

  Seeing what was really happening made this all the more sickening. There were scores of mortals here, and they probably all thought they’d bought a way to freedom.

  That was it. Probable cause to raid the place. He needed to fetch backup.

  Shadowvalt turned and bumped into one of the watch demons.

  “Not this way.” The demon blinked six of its eyes. Others emerged on writhing stalks, peering under Shadowvalt’s hood. “Hey, you’re not a mortal. You’re a-”

  Shadowvalt flicked his cigarette into the demon’s face. It yelped and jumped back as he flung back his hood and pulled out his badge. “Police. Nobody move.”

  The watch demon grabbed at Shadowvalt. He punched it in its sensitive, eye-covered head, sending it slumping to the ground in shock and pain.

  “You want out of here?” the yellow demon bellowed, gesturing toward the portal. “Kill him!”

  The lost souls, still bearing the marks of their deaths as well as their eternal torments, looked at each other in confusion. They’d probably never been told to attack a demon before. But they were desperate, and Shadowvalt new all too well what desperation could achieve.

  They advanced toward him, fists clenched, eyes wide.

  “Stop!” he bellowed. “You’ve been tricked. That’s not a portal out of Hell. It’s a construct to turn souls into power. They’re going to kill you.”

  “Why should we believe you?” The soul who spoke had burns across half her face.

  “Because this is a battery factory.” Shadowvalt pointed to the wires leading away from the portal, ending in a charger against the far wall. “What do you think we use down here, Duracell?”

  They looked back toward the yellow demon. Clearly a specialist in technical arcana rather than convincing lies, it hesitated too long. Some of the souls sank to the floor in despair, while others rushed at the demon in rage.

  They’d never win the fight, but it was enough. With everybody distracted, Shadowvalt stepped outside and over to the gates. He waved down the road, toward the abandoned building where his backup was waiting. Uniformed constables poured down the street toward him, horn tips gleaming, as the burned woman came up beside him.

  “It’s not fair.” She spat the words. “All we wanted was to escape torment.”

  “If you’d acted fairly you wouldn’t be here.” Shadowvalt lit a cigarette. After a moment’s hesitation he offered her one. “Just be glad I didn’t leave you to walk through the portal. I’d say justice has been served.”

  Counting the Spoils

  “I don’t get it.” Fred dipped his pen in the inkwell, made a note of the jewel-encrusted sword. It glowed even in the shadows, one more magical trinket in Europe’s strangest treasure trove. “Why didn’t Napoleon take all this with him? Or hide it and send someone back later? I know he’s a prisoner, but he’s got a whole island to keep it in.”

  “Simple, mon ami.” Jean-Luc set the sword back on its shelf and picked up the next item, a simple jar covered in Arabic writing. He blew dust from the top and then frowned as it settled on his tailcoat. “The Emperor expected to win. Who could have foreseen Waterloo, eh?”

  Fred set aside his pen, shook out the cramp from his wrist. Logging all the treasures in this isolated hunting lodge was tedious work. He’d rather be outside taking in the fine weather and the French countryside.

  Jean-Luc twisted the lid from the pot. There was a crack of breaking wax seals, previously hidden by the dust. The two clerks glanced at one another nervously. Even the lowliest item here was worth a fortune. That was why there were soldiers outside, and why an inventory was needed – so that the heads of Europe could share out the emperor’s magical hoard. If he and Jean-Luc broke something they’d be in a world of trouble.

  “It’s alright,” Fred said. “No-one need ever-“

  The lid shot off the pot and a stream of fire burst out, coalescing into a glowing figure half the height of a man.

  Jean-Luc yelped in pain as the pot glowed red hot. He dropped it and it shattered on the floor.

  The creature giggled and dashed off down the room, leaving a trail of smoking footprints on the floorboards.

  “A djinn!” Jean-Luc exclaimed in pain and wonder.

  “Quick, catch it!” Fred rushed after the creature. He grabbed it as it made for the door, then jerk
ed back in pain as flaming flesh seared his hands. As he stumbled back he knocked a head-shaped mirror and it crashed to the floor, ghostly figures of noblemen emerging from the shattered remains.

  “We need something to trap it,” Jean-Luc said as he emerged from between the shelves, catching the djinn between them in a corner.

  Fred glanced around. To his right was a crate, its side branded in French and Russian.

  “Here.” He grabbed it, relieved to find it much lighter than expected. It must already be empty. “I’ll just open-“

  “No!” Jean-Luc’s eyes went wide as he saw the writing.

  It was too late. Fred had cracked open the lid, which now burst off. An icy wind blasted forth, frost forming on everything it touched. It rushed up the chimney and blew open the window shutters as it kept coming, an endless stream of cold.

  Fred dropped the box as ice started to cover his hands.

  “Russian winter!” Jean-Luc shouted over the howling wind. “Napoleon’s sorcerers must have captured it, a souvenir of his greatest failure.”

  Outside the windows the sky was darkening, snow fluttering out of what had been a beautiful spring day.

  “We are in so much trouble,” Fred said, staring dumbfounded as winter fell both indoors and out.

  “I can help,” a tiny voice said.

  They turned to see the djinn looking at them from its corner.

  “Let me go and I’ll burn this place down,” it said.

  “How’s that helping?” Fred snapped in frustration.

  “You think you’ll be in trouble for breaking a few treasures?” the djinn said. “Think how much worse it will be if they find out you broke summer for everyone.” It kicked at the fallen box. “I can burn all the evidence faster than anyone can put the flames out. You say some coals fell from the fire, the place burnt down, everything was lost – mirrors, boxes, the lot. Not your fault.”

  Fred looked at Jean-Luc, could see his colleague making the same calculation. Could they get away with this? Could it get any worse?