That’s when I noticed the smoke. It rose into the air like steam from the surface of the spaghetti sauce, its deep purple color and sulfurous smell like no smoke I’d ever seen before. I’d started enough fires in my day—by accident mind you, well, mostly by accident—to know that this was deeply unnatural.
It hung above the pot like a lurid, purple storm cloud, roiling with an inner life all its own. For a moment I stood there frozen, ransacking my brain for the ‘‘In Case of Magical Emergency’’ instructions my wife had given me years ago, but before I could act or even remember, the cloud disappeared with a muted pop.
In its place hovered a scaly creature about the size of a small dog. It had a spiky little face, replete with vicious-looking horns and fangs, and it wore what appeared to be an ill-fitting business suit.
‘‘Tu evocaveras; ego venieram,’’ it said, staring at me with eyes the color of burning embers.
‘‘Er, what?’’ I replied.
The little creature considered this for a moment and then said, ‘‘You called, boss?’’
I could not for the life of me remember doing anything of the sort, so I resorted to the old standby: ‘‘Who are you, and why are you calling me boss?’’
‘‘Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce myself,’’ the little creature said, taking a matte black business card case from his coat pocket and popping it open. ‘‘The name’s Steve. Here’s my card.’’
I took the proffered card from an outstretched claw and examined it:
STEVE
Demon (minor) of Wanton Destruction
Havoc & Associates, Ltd.
‘‘So, uh, Steve,’’ I said, turning the card over. There was nothing on the back. ‘‘You’re a demon of wanton destruction, are you?’’
‘‘Minor demon,’’ Steve corrected. ‘‘I’m new to the firm.’’
Pocketing the business card, I asked, ‘‘How did a minor demon of wanton destruction end up in my kitchen?’’
The little demon blinked, as if confused by the question. He glanced down at the pot of spaghetti sauce simmering beneath him and said, ‘‘You summoned me here. It sure looks like a summoning to me. You’ve got flesh of ox . . .’’
‘‘Ground beef,’’ I murmured, shaking my head.
‘‘. . . in a broth of blood . . .’’
‘‘Blood?’’ I asked, wondering what my wife had been adding to the spaghetti sauce when I wasn’t looking.
‘‘. . . or acceptable blood substitute . . .’’
‘‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’’
‘‘. . . and last but not least, stuff of flame.’’
‘‘If by ‘stuff of flame’ you mean ‘chili powder,’ I’m going to beat you senseless,’’ I said, glowering at Steve.
‘‘Don’t be silly,’’ he said, lashing a tail I hadn’t noticed at first. It snapped back and forth above the surface of the spaghetti, reminding me of the single most important consideration in this whole affair: not making my wife angry.
Despite the whole demon thing, the sauce was still edible, and I needed to make sure it remained that way, so I herded Steve off the stove and down the counter a way while I said, ‘‘There must be some mistake, I didn’t put any ‘stuff of flame’ in the spaghetti.’’
‘‘Are you sure?’’ Steve asked.
Suddenly I wasn’t. I snatched up the plastic bottle to double-check. Sure enough, written on the label in my wife’s neat hand were the words, ‘‘Essence of Flame.’’
‘‘Drat,’’ I muttered.
‘‘Hey, don’t worry about it,’’ said Steve, rummaging about on the countertop and trying to look inconspicuous about it. ‘‘It happens all the time. Why, a cousin of mine once told me about a guy who tried to make a stir-fry and ended up summoning a demon of wonton destruction. Get it? Wonton.’’
‘‘I bet you’re a riot at company parties.’’
Steve looked up from his reconnoiter long enough to fix me with a suspicious stare and then went back to sniffing around on the counter. That’s when he found the cookie jar, the one my wife’s great aunt Hildegaard had given us as a wedding present.
‘‘Can I break this, boss?’’ he asked.
‘‘No, you can’t,’’ I said, snatching the jar away from the little demon and setting it down again out of his reach. ‘‘Look, I don’t need anything destroyed today. Why don’t you go back to whatever hell you came from and take the day off.’’
‘‘Can’t do that boss,’’ Steve said. ‘‘A summoning is a legally binding contract. You’ve called me into this plane of existence to do your bidding, and in exchange I get to destroy things before I go back.’’
‘‘What sort of things?’’
‘‘The world,’’ the little demon suggested hopefully.
I shook my head.
Steve sighed, gave the laminate countertop a half-hearted kick and said, ‘‘Oh, well, I suppose that was too much to hope for. Truth be told, it doesn’t really matter so long as I get my quota in.’’
Glancing around the kitchen, I contemplated the potential for destruction and came to the conclusion that there was a great deal of such potential. The counters were strewn with all the pots, pans, bowls, and utensils my wife had used to prepare the food.
I couldn’t let Steve loose in the kitchen, though; he might ruin dinner, and at the very least I’d be tasked with cleaning up after the little demon. That was a prospect I did not relish at all. Clearly he had to be let loose somewhere else. Somewhere his destructive tendencies wouldn’t cause a stir. Somewhere like . . .
The sound of the electric garage door opener humming to life interrupted my train of thought. My wife had arrived home from her trip to the grocery store; I’d run out of the time I needed to deal with Steve.
My new priority became hiding the evidence. Putting the essence of flame back where I’d found it was simple and quickly accomplished. Steve was another matter. I needed a cupboard and I needed it fast.
Not just any cupboard, though. It had to be one my wife wasn’t likely to open any time soon, and one where there wasn’t anything particularly important for him to destroy. My eyes fell on the cereal cupboard. Exactly what I was looking for.
‘‘Steve. In. Now,’’ I said, yanking the cupboard open and sweeping aside the boxes of cereal.
‘‘Whatever you say, boss,’’ the little demon said, hopping up into the cupboard. He gnawed on the corner of one of the boxes experimentally and then asked, ‘‘Can I destroy this stuff?’’
‘‘Sure. Whatever. But do it quietly, okay?’’
Steve flashed a thumbs up and I slammed the cupboard shut. Just in time, it turned out. The door from the garage to the utility room off the kitchen opened, and in came my wife, carrying a couple of bags full of groceries.
‘‘Honey,’’ she said, ‘‘there’s more out in the car. Can you help me bring it in?’’
‘‘No problem,’’ I said, squeezing past her on my way to the garage, ‘‘but I thought you were only going to pick up some parmesan cheese?’’
Her shrug was apologetic. ‘‘You know how it is. When I got to the store, I remembered that we needed salad dressing and we were running a little low on toilet paper and, well, there you have it.’’
I didn’t really mind, but I felt certain ‘‘there you have it’’ included at least one item that would have to go in the cereal cupboard. In that regard I wasn’t disappointed. In the trunk of the car I found three more bags of groceries, one of which contained a brand new box of cranberry almond cereal. My wife’s favorite.
‘‘Drat,’’ I muttered, grateful that my wife was in the kitchen and couldn’t hear me. Then I remembered Steve was also in the kitchen. That thought made me snatch the grocery bags, slam the trunk closed, and hurry back posthaste.
My heart skipped a beat when I saw her standing over the spaghetti sauce, wooden spoon in hand, with a thoughtful expression on her face.
‘‘Is something wrong?’’ I asked, setting the bags down
on a clear patch of countertop.
‘‘What?’’ she said, glancing toward me. ‘‘No, nothing’s wrong. Thank you for stirring my spaghetti sauce.’’
Relieved, I smiled and said, ‘‘You’re welcome.’’
A muffled thump from the cereal cupboard reminded me that I wasn’t out of the woods yet.
‘‘What was that?’’
‘‘What was what?’’ I asked.
My wife furrowed her brow—she looked cute when she did that—and said, ‘‘I thought I heard something in the cupboard go thump.’’
‘‘It’s probably nothing,’’ I said, taking the box of cereal from the shopping bag. ‘‘Why don’t you go set the table, and I’ll put the groceries away.’’
‘‘Thanks,’’ she said, setting the wooden spoon down next to the stove.
She opened one of the drawers and took out the silverware, then gave me a quick kiss on her way out to the dining room. When I was sure she’d gone, I opened the door to the cereal cupboard to find Steve crouched among the wreckage, savaging bags of oatmeal with gusto.
‘‘Shhh!’’ I hissed, whacking the little demon over the head with the cranberry almond cereal box.
‘‘Sorry, boss,’’ he whispered back. ‘‘Wanton destruction is physical work. There’s bound to be a thump or two from time to time.’’
‘‘Fine. Try to keep it down, will you?’’ I said, shoving the cereal box into the cupboard and closing the door. Then I thought better of it, opened the door, and snatched the box from Steve’s eager claws. It wouldn’t do to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire. The rest of the groceries I stored with minimal fuss.
As I finished, the doorbell rang. By the time I reached the living room, my wife had already let her sister Carol and brother-in-law Alex in. I ushered them to the dining room, then helped my wife get the food from the kitchen. As an afterthought, I brought a pitcher of water as well.
This turned out to be a clever bit of foresight.
‘‘I made the most amusing potion today,’’ Carol said as we dished up the food. ‘‘Its taste and color are almost indistinguishable from coffee, and it turns the subject into a five-lined skink with an unhealthy addiction to free cell.’’
Alex leaned over to me and whispered, ‘‘Beats being a newt, but I don’t think that free cell had anything to do with the potion.’’
I grinned. ‘‘Ah, the joys of life with a witch. What was it like being a skink?’’
‘‘About the same as every other small, highly caffeinated vertebrate,’’ Alex replied. ‘‘As far as coffee goes, it was almost worth being a skink.’’
At about this point in the conversation, I noticed two things: First, no one had so much as blinked an eyelash at the taste of the spaghetti; second, we had emptied the entire pitcher of water.
‘‘This is great spaghetti,’’ said Carol. ‘‘Is this Mother’s recipe?’’
My wife nodded. ‘‘Yes, it is. Thanks.’’
‘‘I thought so,’’ Carol said, smiling. ‘‘It seems a bit spicier, though. Did you add something to it?’’
‘‘No,’’ my wife said, but she gave me a questioning look.
I projected innocence for all I was worth.
She looked about to say something else when a loud crash came from the kitchen. For once I was almost grateful to Steve.
‘‘Honey,’’ my wife said. ‘‘Can you go find out what that was?’’
‘‘Sure,’’ I said, getting up from my chair. I already had a good idea what I’d find.
The kitchen was pretty much as I left it, so I made a beeline to the cereal cupboard and opened it to find Steve ripping apart the thin, wooden shelving.
‘‘Sorry, boss,’’ he said, not even bothering to look up from the debris. ‘‘It’s physical work.’’
‘‘That was not a thump. That was a crash.’’
‘‘Relax, I’m a professional,’’ he said. ‘‘I know what I’m doing.’’
I glared at him. ‘‘I’ve company over. Are you going to be much longer?’’
The little demon shook his head. ‘‘I’m almost done in here.’’
‘‘Good.’’ I shut the cupboard door.
When I returned from the kitchen, my wife and her sister had finished their meal and wandered to the living room to discuss matters arcane, leaving me and Alex alone.
‘‘So what was it?’’ Alex asked.
‘‘A couple pots fell off the counter,’’ I said, glancing past Alex to where my wife sat, pointing out something from the latest issue of Witch’s World to Carol.
Alex lowered his voice. ‘‘No, really, what was it? You accidentally summon a demon?’’
I glanced over at my wife again to make sure she hadn’t overheard and then nodded.
‘‘No kidding,’’ Alex said with a chuckle, ‘‘I did that once. I will never stir-fry again.’’
‘‘You’re that guy? How did you get rid of it?’’
Alex shrugged, ‘‘The little bastard vandalized three Chinese restaurants before he tuckered out and went home. You just have to let them wreak havoc until their quota is full.’’
‘‘Great,’’ I muttered, wondering what Steve’s destruction quota was and whether I could confine it to the cupboard.
As the evening wore on and I didn’t hear anything more from the kitchen, I began to hope maybe the cupboard had sufficed. Steve had mentioned he was almost done, after all. Alex and I chatted at length about cars, sports, and power tools, and before long I began to relax and enjoy myself.
When Alex and Carol decided it was time to go, we saw them out to the car and then retired to the house. When the door shut, I gave my wife a big hug.
‘‘Great dinner, hon,’’ I said
‘‘You think so?’’ she asked.
I nodded and said, ‘‘Carol and Alex seemed to enjoy themselves.’’
‘‘You didn’t think the spaghetti was too spicy?’’
‘‘Not at all,’’ I said, managing to keep a straight face with a great deal of effort. ‘‘It tasted great.’’
‘‘Thanks,’’ she said, then kissed me.
It was a long, languorous kiss, the sort of kiss that hints at things to come. Later. When it was over, I could only say, ‘‘Wow.’’
‘‘I’m going to take a shower,’’ she said, ‘‘and afterward . . ."
Her words trailed off seductively as she ran one hand down my chest. I stared, but as a husband that’s my prerogative. She was gorgeous, with that long black hair and shapely hips, and the . . . and her . . . and those eyes! Gah!
‘‘I’m just gonna do . . . check on . . . that thing . . . over there,’’ I muttered, waving in the general direction of the kitchen.
‘‘You do that,’’ she said with a mysterious smile.
She headed off to her shower and I dashed into the kitchen, grinning like the little boy I am deep down. I’d deal with Steve while my wife was in the shower, and then life would be grand.
I tossed open the door to the cupboard and peered inside. The interior was decimated. All that remained of the cereal boxes was a fine powder laced with bits of plastic and colored cardboard. The shelves were reduced to splinters. I had to hand it to Steve, he was certainly thorough.
Of the demon himself there was no sign. I could only assume he’d filled his quota of destruction and gone back to wherever it was he came from. In any case, it was over. I’d managed to survive, and things were going to go very, very well tonight.
‘‘Honey, what’s a minor demon of wanton destruction doing in the bathroom?’’
Then again, maybe not.
Narrator: As this husband discovered when he misspelled . . . three is most definitely a crowd.
NATHAN AZINGER lives, works, and writes—no particular order—in Washington state along with his constant companion, a stuffed beaver named Winston. He likes to say that he’s just an average guy, and some people actually believe this. Others note that he is, in fact, rather weird. Perhaps
the beaver tipped them off. Nathan currently attends Saint Martin’s University, where he majors in religious studies. In his spare time he reads and writes fiction, dabbles in local politics, and watches birds. He believes that the best education is one that never ends, and his long term goal is to be better at what he does tomorrow than he was today.
Untrained Melody
Jim C. Hines
Narrator: It’s said music can touch the soul. Most of us ignore music’s true power, content to sing along or dance as we wish. But, as Laura Polaski discovers, a musician can have particular responsibilities.
There was a dwarf on Laura Polaski’s coffee table.
Even as Laura searched the small apartment for something heavy to throw at him, she could hear the too-perky voice from the Kiki’s Coffee House orientation video reminding her of the importance of sensitivity.
Fine. Not a dwarf. A little person. A Little African American Person, to be precise. Wearing a brown pin-stripe suit and a black fedora. Sitting cross-legged on the end of her coffee table, working on the crossword puzzle in the back of the TV Guide. Laura stepped back into the bathroom, retrieved the still-hot curling iron, and waved it like a sword. ‘‘I don’t know how you got in here, but—’’
The dwarf whistled a jazzy melody that climbed two and a half octaves and ended on a chord.
The curling iron twisted out of Laura’s hand and landed on the coffee table. The cord twitched along the floor as the curling iron balanced on the handle, like a puppy begging for treats.
‘‘How did you do that?’’ Laura asked.
He doffed his hat, revealing a scalp of white stubble. ‘‘You learn a few tricks over two hundred years. The secret is to hear the melody at the core of a thing, so you can—’’
‘‘No, the whistling. You whistled a D-minor chord. That’s impossible. Unless you’ve got three throats?’’
‘‘Not that I’m aware of.’’ He pulled a silver pocket watch from his suit and glanced at it. ‘‘My name is Aleksander Yusupov. Al, if you prefer. You’re a hard woman to track down. The wedding company said they weren’t using you anymore, and the fast food place told me you quit a few weeks back. Fortunately, they had your address—’’
Misspelled Page 25