Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  “You think because you break in here and threaten—” he began, but I thwacked him on the forehead with one finger, knocking his head back into the pillow and leaving a bruise. While he was stunned, I reached into his mouth, grabbed a tooth at random, and pulled it out. He started to scream again and I had to cover his mouth a second time, clamping one hand over his mouth and the other on the back of his neck. I waited patiently for him to quit squirming and screaming.

  “That’s one piece,” I pointed out. “You have a whole mouthful of pieces. After the teeth, I’ll start on the toes. So, by all means, feel free to argue some more.”

  He glared at me. I could feel the blood in his mouth oozing into the palm of my hand. I wondered how it felt to him.

  Go big or go home, Boss.

  Ah, yes. Thank you for the reminder.

  No problem. You keep him busy; I’ll listen in.

  “What we have here is a failure to communicate. Let me introduce myself. I’m the Dark. And you should be very, very afraid of the Dark. Why? Because I’m not a human being. I’m a monster that looks like a human being.” I grinned. Teeth help. What really convinced him, though, was the tongue. It’s easily a foot long, maybe eighteen inches—I haven’t measured it. I ran the tip of my tongue along the bridge of his nose and up over the bruise forming on his forehead. The bruise swelled and turned darker almost immediately—an effect of my blood-attracting nature? Possibly. I withdrew my tongue and went back to showing teeth.

  “Think of me as Mark’s guardian demon,” I told him. “I can’t protect him. I won’t even try to protect him. Kill him anytime you feel the urge. What I will do afterward is your problem. I will inflict suffering and loss on anyone who causes him harm or distress. Kill him and I’ll kill a hundred of you, as high up as I can find, before I simply walk away, whistling cheerfully, and go on about my business. It will cost you at least a hundred times what it’s worth. Can you understand that?”

  Powers nodded, slightly. I let go of his face.

  “You have to understand,” he insisted, “I can’t do what you want. Not that I won’t—I get it, you’re pissed—but it isn’t in my power.”

  “I’m not unreasonable,” I replied, and let go of his wrist. “Keep talking.” He cradled his broken arm to his chest with a wince.

  “It’s not up to me,” he continued. “I can act as a go-between, since you’re so serious about it, but Henderson is the only one who can let a man go. Spotznitz knows too much to walk.”

  “Like what? No specifics; just in general.”

  “He’s been trusted. He’s seen places and people and merchandise. If he goes to the authorities, it could get hot all over the place, and heat rises. If he walks away from us, he could also get pressure from Carlo to give up what he knows. Then Carlo could push Henderson. Cops or competition, it’s a chance Henderson won’t take.”

  “All right. Things for you to tell Henderson—in private; I don’t want him feeling humiliated over this.” As I spoke, I picked up a piece of semi-abstract sculpture from a sideboard. It was a silvery metal like chrome or polished aluminum. It bent in my undead grip as I twisted; I played with it in a casual fashion, trying to make it look like an absentminded gesture.

  “What you tell him is what I already told you. Explain to him about the Dark and guardian demons. Then tell him I will burn down every piece of property he owns, kill everyone who works for him, destroy every business he has a finger in. Think about that,” I instructed him. “How many houses does he own? Where are they? How many warehouses? What do they store? How many businesses? What to they sell? If they were all to burn, what would be the financial damage? If a building collapsed and the police showed up to examine the corpses of everyone inside, how would that affect business? It’s food for thought.”

  Powers kept staring at the sculpture I was mangling. Firebrand chuckled into my head and urged me to continue quizzing Powers while he was distracted.

  “Now imagine Henderson, himself. How many people are directly under him? Do you think I can find them? And how many people are under them? Consider everyone in that organizational tier. If they all wound up dismembered and in a pile, would there be much mourning?”

  Good work, Boss. This guy knows everybody.

  And I may need to know who they are. And where to find them.

  Gotcha.

  “I’m not going to do this for any reason but spite,” I continued. “Not to make money; not to take over. For no reason at all but to ruin him and everyone associated with him. I won’t go through the courts. I won’t need a warrant; I won’t listen to a lawyer. If he gets investigated in the process, I’ll kill his lawyer and any lawyer—every lawyer—that tries to defend him.

  “Convince him of the seriousness of this situation. Do you think you can do that?” I finished, dropping the metallic knotwork on the bed. Powers’ eyes were practically riveted to it. I had to repeat my question.

  “Yeah, yeah. I think I can do that. Yeah.”

  “Good.” I pocketed the pulled tooth. “You’ve got a lot to do, but you can start in the morning. You’ll want to get that arm seen to, I’m sure.”

  I turned my back on him and walked slowly to the bedroom door. He didn’t go for the nightstand. I didn’t hear him move at all; I think he was afraid to. Nobody tried to stop me leaving, either. A last party guest departing is well within the limits of the spell. I walked away for a while before getting a cab and going home.

  Sunday, November 1st

  The Four-minus-one reported immediately after noon, presumably after church. They had lists of things they would miss if they didn’t have a home. Good lists, too; between them they hit pretty much everything. You wouldn’t think kids would realize how important an oven is; they don’t do the cooking, but they listed it. Most of their lists were things like that, part of a house. Oven, yes, but also carpet, lights, electricity, toilet, bathtub, sink… They were thorough, I give them that.

  “So,” I asked, setting up a workbench and some power tools, “how much of that do you think Gary is going to need?”

  “All of it,” Edgar suggested.

  “Do you have anything you could spare? Any of that you could give him?”

  “I don’t,” Luke said. “Dad says I have to take care of my sneakers because they’re goddam expensive.”

  “Luke.”

  “Well, that’s what he says.”

  “All right. But you don’t have to quote him.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, if we can’t get all this together, who can we get to help us?”

  “Our parents?” Patricia asked.

  “That’s a start. Anyone else?”

  “Kids a school,” Edgar suggested.

  “Could be. Anyone else?”

  “Teachers?” Luke asked, hesitantly.

  “Possibly. They’d be good people to ask, certainly. Anyone else?”

  They traded glances with each other, puzzled. Thoughtful, but puzzled.

  “Do people ever knock on the door and ask for contributions to a charity?” I hinted.

  “Yeah,” Luke said. “Dad says the… um. He says they’d drain the… um. There’s always… some… body… asking for money?”

  “Good work. But you can’t go door-to-door asking for money. We’re not an official charity. We could put up a stand in Gary’s front yard, though.”

  “A lemonade stand?” Patricia asked.

  “We could sell lemonade,” I agreed. “Whatever we make, we can save for him. We could also have a sign asking for donations. If people want to help, they can give stuff to you and you can keep it for him until he gets out of the hospital. Anybody want to help me build a lemonade stand?”

  To judge by their response, that was the best idea since digital watches. So we built a stand (I let them use the power tools under close supervision) and we painted a sign. A few two-by-fours and some plywood and we were almost in business. Luke and I carted it down to the yard while Patricia went home to mix lemonade a
nd Edgar went home to get chairs.

  People on our street were soon greeted by the sight of a large lemonade stand with the sign: “House Fire! Please DONATE!!!” It’s not a through street, of course; it’s a cul-de-sac. Still, it was a start.

  They manned the thing all day. I took a couple of pictures with my skinphone and left them to it. There was cybering to do—first, to various charities and relief organizations on Mark’s behalf, then to the local news agencies about the wonderful kids who decided to help.

  They were at it all afternoon and into the evening. I brought them snacks and all the instant lemonade I had while checking up on them. The rest of the time I was mixing concrete. Special project.

  We didn’t have much by nightfall. Mostly, it was canned goods and loose change. Still, I stowed the loot at my house while they went home. Their spirits were still good; they got something for their effort. Not much, maybe, but there was tomorrow, after school! I promised to look after the stand during the day.

  About eight-ish, well after dark, my chimes rang. I answered the door and the gentleman on the porch snatched his hat off his head.

  “Master Smith? Master Vladimir Smith?” he asked. His English was excellent, but his accent sounded French.

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Roland Etierre, and I’ve come to apologize.”

  “Etierre? Oh. I thought I told you to send a letter.”

  “Yes, sir; so you did. Grandmother insisted on a personal touch. She would have come, herself, but at her age,” he shrugged, “it did not seem feasible.” He pulled out a thick, old-fashioned envelope, sealed with wax. “I’ve brought the apology, sir, direct from her hand to yours, as she instructed.”

  “I suppose you had better come in,” I allowed, and held the door for him. He wiped his feet on the mat and came in, still holding his hat and the envelope. He didn’t sit down.

  “All right,” I told him. “Say it.”

  He proceeded to give a speech, still holding his hat. It was a good speech. He explained how his sons, being somewhat local to the effect—in the country, at least—immediately rushed to investigate and, in an excess of zeal, upon discovering the house was empty, had intruded in a most inappropriate fashion. The whole family was grateful at my restraint in the face of severe provocation and wished to make clear there was no animosity whatsoever—indeed, they felt themselves indebted to me, both for offending me in the first place and for letting the boys go. (Apparently, other families have been known to be less tolerant of other magi tromping uninvited on their sacred ground, if that’s what they call it.)

  “I have to say,” I told him, “I haven’t heard an apology that impressive since… actually, I’m not sure anyone has ever apologized to me so well. Good job.”

  “Thank you, sir. Once again, I regret disturbing you, but it was the express wish of Grandmother to have this matter attended to with dispatch and with personal attention. I trust you can see my dilemma?” he asked, shuffling his hat between his hands, slowly working around the brim.

  “No, but I gather it’s a troublesome one for you. I won’t hold it against you. You’re off the hook. Your whole family is off the hook. I accept your apology. Won’t you sit down?”

  “I would love to, sir, but I’m afraid I must decline. Grandmother’s health really is failing and I have to fly back to Avignon as quickly as possible.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry on your behalf. Avignon in France?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You left the bedside of your dying grandmother to come all this way to tender a formal apology to me?”

  “It was her wish, sir.”

  “If I hadn’t already forgiven you, I would now. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I’m afraid not. Not unless you know a ritual to undo old age.”

  “No… no, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “There is one thing I need to ask, before I go.”

  “Sure.”

  “Roger tells me he dropped a box while he was in your home. It’s a rather precious box. If you’ve found it, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “Yes, I have. I presume you would like it back?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, yes, sir.”

  “Certainly; it’s yours, after all. One sec.” I went off, found it, pulled out my hotwiring spells, and brought it back to him. He accepted it with a little bow.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he asked, “I’m afraid I really do have to hurry.”

  “By all means. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your grandmother’s bedside. A pleasure to meet you and I would not be against meeting again. Goodbye.” I showed him out the door to the tune of a repeated thank-you and farewell. Polite fellow, I thought. Maybe I should be less grouchy about my personal space. From everything I could see, he really did regret what he viewed as a terrible misunderstanding.

  Once he was gone, I built myself a chair. A crude, heavy thing, but something I could lug down to the stand to sit on. I put it in place, then took down my minimal Halloween decorations. I wondered if Myrna had noticed—probably—and whether or not she would have anything to say about them—probably. The candy bowl certainly noticed; most of it was missing.

  My magical zones were still charging, so there was nothing much to do with them. Instead, I whipped up a flyer, printed several dozen, and cruised around to coffee shops, ATMs, and similar all-night places to post them. Then I came home to mix and pour more concrete.

  Monday, November 2nd

  I manned the charity stand shortly after dawn. The kids waved at me as they hummed off to school in their schoolbus-cab. I gave them a thumbs-up in return.

  A number of people came by with contributions, including a guy who wanted to take pictures. I explained I was only keeping the stand open while the proprietors were out. It was their idea; all I did was donate some lumber and paint. Anything anyone else wanted to give should be brought by after school if at all possible. If it wasn’t possible, then yes, I would accept it—but if you can, please come back this afternoon!

  Most people could, including the guy who wanted pictures. I suspect I’m not nearly so newsworthy as the kids. Certainly not as photogenic, even though I show up in cameras and suchlike during the day.

  Susan went out of her way to be helpful; she kept me supplied with lemonade, hot tea, eggrolls, and flirting. Olivia came with her on those trips and was overjoyed to see me. I wound up baby-sitting to avoid the crying and screaming when Mommy wanted to take her home. Fortunately, her afternoon nap coincided with Myrna showing up. Susan took an exhausted Olivia home when Myrna arrived.

  I can’t prove the timing wasn’t a coincidence, but I have my doubts.

  “I see you’ve taken down the symbols from your doorway,” she noted. Her voice was sweet and her expression cheerful, but there was a rebuke in there, anyway.

  “Well, yes. I certainly wasn’t going to put them up all week, like some people,” I pointed out. That seemed to take some of the wind out of her. “They were only there to let the kids know it was okay to come get the candy. Naturally, I took them down when the candy ran out.”

  “Do you know the origins of that superstition?”

  “Yep. And if it earns me goodwill with a bunch of neighborhood kids instead of goblins and fairies, that’s good enough for me.” Myrna was nonplussed at this idea. I’m sure she wanted to go on about how it was catering to superstition, but I jerked the rug out from under her.

  “Well. Good. So, you’ve started a charity for Mark and his boy?”

  “Nope. I’m minding the store for the kids who did.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “They asked me to keep an eye on their lemonade stand while they went to school. I guess it comes with the territory when the kids know you’re a decent person.”

  “Then why wasn’t I informed?”

  I didn’t say what leaped to mind.

  “Informed of what?”

  “As the president of the neighb
orhood association, I feel I should be kept abreast of developments and plans along our street. Don’t you?”

  “I didn’t know we had a neighborhood association.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. I’ll expect to have a report on everything collected.”

  Suddenly, I’d had it with her.

  “Go to hell.”

  I couldn’t have shocked her more with a cattle prod.

  “What!?”

  “I’m sorry; language. What I meant to say was, ‘No. This is none of your business.’ My mistake.”

  “It most certainly is my business! I’m responsible for everything on this street!”

  “Then why didn’t you stop the fire?” I queried. “If you’re responsible, that is.”

  “That’s not what I mean!”

  “Oh. Then why didn’t you put together a charity donation drive? You’re responsible for that, at least. Right?”

  “I had planned to discuss the matter with Mister Spotznitz when he was released from the hospital!”

  “Yes, I’m sure he’ll be in a mood to discuss it while he’s wondering about his next meal.”

  “Fred has made arrangements!”

  “I’m so glad you’re on the job,” I observed, drily. “In the meantime, I’m expecting a reporter this afternoon. If you have the authority to order the kids to tear down their stand and remove it, go ahead—I’ll let the news know you shut the kids down. If you don’t have that authority, go away.”

  “You can’t order me to leave!”

  “You have a point. It’s Mark’s property, not mine. Feel free to stand there all day, if you like.” I put my boots up on the stand and leaned back in my chair.

  “You just wait! You can’t get away with this!”

  “Get away with what?” I countered. “What, exactly, am I getting away with?”

  “This!”

  “I won’t get away with minding a charity stand for the neighborhood kids?”

  “You know what I mean!”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. What am I getting away with? I’m not making anything off this; I even donated to their charity drive. Did you?”