The Price of Brimstone

by Allie Gail

  Max secures the padlock before steering Russ in the direction of the front door. When I don't make a move to follow, he looks back at me uncertainly. “Aren't you coming?”

  “Yes, she's coming.” Still bossy in spite of his predicament, Russ feels obliged to answer for me. “She's damn sure not staying here by herself.”

  As always, his controlling behavior gets under my skin. “I haven't needed a babysitter in a long time,” I inform him sweetly. “Pretty sure I still don't.”

  “I'm not leaving you here alone with that thing!” he objects.

  “Why? What's he gonna do?”

  He opens his mouth and then snaps it shut again, having no valid argument.

  “Your lack of self-control is not my problem. Neither is you breaking your hand because of it. So while you two are hanging out at the walk-in clinic, with all the sickies who have rotaviruses and the flu and all manner of lovely contagion, I'll be here soaking in a nice hot bubble bath and cream rinsing my hair.” I waggle my fingers in a cheeky wave. “Toodles!”

  Max snickers behind my brother's back.

  Russ is less amused. “Get your ass in the car, Jude. I don't have time to argue with you.”

  “Get your own ass in the car! Mine is staying here. I have no intention of catching someone's stomach bug and spending the next week with explosive diarrhea just because you don't have sense enough to use a baseball bat instead of your fist.” Uh-oh, maybe I shouldn't have said that. I don't want to give him any ideas. His torture methods are warped enough as it is.

  “Why do you deliberately do the exact opposite of everything I tell you? What, is that like fun for you or something? Do you get some kind of charge out of it?”

  “Why are you always telling me what to do in the first place?”

  “Because I'm older than you and I know better!”

  “Oh yeah, right. Says the guy who just smashed up his own hand.”

  “Uh, guys...we really should get going.” Max unlocks my brother's Mustang with the key fob and gives us both a pointed look.

  Exasperated, Russ looks from me to Max and then back to me. I can't help but feel a little guilty. It's understandable that he isn't exactly keen on leaving me behind, alone in the same house with the literal definition of a monster. Even if it is trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. But seeing that I'm not about to change my mind, he has no choice but to relent.

  “Stay out of the fucking basement, Jude,” he warns me, in all seriousness. “You hear me?”

  “What are you worried about? You've got it locked up like Fort Knox. Unless I can figure out how to walk through walls, I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

  Apparently satisfied that there's no way I could get down there even if I wanted to, he gives a reluctant nod. “Okay. Well...we'll be back in a little bit. Call me if you need me. All right?”

  “I'll be fine,” I assure him. “I'm just going to take a bath and maybe rent a movie off Amazon.” Which is the truth...sort of. I didn't lie. Not exactly. I really am planning to do everything I said.

  I just have something else I want to do first, that's all.

  “Take care of that hand,” I add innocently.

  “If he makes any noise down there, just ignore it,” Russ instructs me before sliding into the passenger seat. “Better yet, call me.”

  “Worrying causes premature wrinkles, did you know that?”

  “Go back to Tulsa then, and save my complexion!”

  I make a point of rolling my eyes before turning to go back inside. When the door closes, the sound reverberates through the house. It's ominously quiet in here with everyone gone. The rain has stopped, and though the air is getting colder, it hangs heavy and thick. The wind has died, not a breath remaining. The world seems tired and worn down after the fury of the storm. A sleeping child, exhausted after a tantrum.

  I try not to think about what's downstairs and the fact that I'm all alone here. It's like having a live rattlesnake taped up inside a box. Logically you know you're safe, you know it can't get out and hurt you, but just the thought of it being there is enough to creep you out and give you a major case of the willies.

  I shake off my sense of disquiet and concentrate instead on the padlock.

  Lifting it with my fingers, I study it thoughtfully. It isn't new. That much I'm sure of. If I'm not mistaken, and I'm fairly sure I'm not, then I've seen this lock before. The red paint is a dead giveaway. Most locks you see are plain brass or steel, bland and utilitarian in appearance. This one is steel too, or possibly a strong aluminum, but with a powder-coated red finish that makes it easily identifiable.

  Is it to keep the demon in? Or to keep everyone else out?

  I think I know the answer to that. If the demon were to escape the pentacle, if it had full use of its diabolical powers, then no amount of chains or bolts or locks would stop it. This would be about as practical as using daisy chains to cuff a prisoner.

  No. This is to ensure that no one, other than Russ and Max, can get to him.

  Only there's one thing they didn't count on.

  They didn't count on me having a key.

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  Chapter Five

  I guess you could say I have an inquisitive personality. As a child, my curiosity was insatiable. I was born with an inherent need to know everything about everyone. Always asking questions. Always wondering why. Life was interesting, people were fascinating, and I didn't want to miss a thing. If there was a mystery, I wanted to solve it. If there was a riddle, I wanted to crack it.

  And if my older brother was hiding something, I wanted to snoop.

  Russ used to have this vintage steamer trunk at the foot of his bed. It was just something my mom picked up at a yard sale and varnished to make it look pretty, but to me it resembled a pirate's chest. I'd nosed through it before when he wasn't home, of course, hoping to find secret compartments filled with treasure. To my disappointment there wasn't much there to interest me, just your typical boy junk. Sports trophies, video game manuals, hand weights, comic books, old computer parts. Nothing special.

  But the day he came home with a brand new padlock for it...well, let's just say that made the contents of the trunk a thousand times more intriguing.

  The three buttketeers (that's what I called him, Max and Owen – I was only twelve, don't judge) had just come back from town and were out on the porch comparing their fishing rods and debating whether they should use crickets or worms. Me being me, I sneaked into his room so I could poke through the bag he'd left on his dresser. Just to see what he bought. There was fishing line, a cork bobber, beef jerky, a Snickers bar and a bright red padlock in plastic packaging.

  Except for the candy bar, which I was considering asking him to share, none of it held any interest for me.

  Although...

  I did wonder what the lock was for. The thick plastic had been sliced apart, as if he'd opened it in the car because he couldn't wait to check it out. Impulsively, I worked one of the little keys off the metal ring and made off with it. Funny part is, he never even suspected that I took it. I saw him later, digging through the bag, lifting up the packaging to reread the label to make sure that it really was supposed to come with two keys.

  I guess in the end, he just assumed someone at the factory had goofed.

  But I knew that key was going to come in handy at some point, and I was right. Two days later the shiny red lock was securing the trunk at the foot of his bed, and suddenly that trunk had become the holy grail to me. If he'd locked it, then that must mean there was something in there I wasn't supposed to see.

  So naturally, I had to find out what it was.

  Turns out, it was just a bunch of dirty magazines. Nothing but tits and ass and muff as far as the eye could see. You'd think they'd at least have one dick pic in a publication like that, wouldn't you? But, no. Trust me. I scoured every page of every last one of them, dying to see something good. All I got was a lot of naked women, some crude jokes and a
bunch of ads for products that had me mystified.

  What, I wondered, was a person supposed to do with flavored condoms? You weren't supposed to eat them, were you? Were you meant to chew them like gum and then spit them out? It made no sense to me.

  Thinking back to my naïveté, I snort a giggle under my breath. God, I was such a pain in the ass in those days. It's a wonder Russ didn't stuff me in that trunk. No one could have blamed him.

  As for the key, though...

  I clearly recall what I did with it. I stuck it in my jewelry box in case I ever wanted to go snooping again later.

  The question now is, what did I do with my old jewelry box?

  That's the million dollar question. After an hour of rummaging around in my closet, searching through boxes and digging beneath piles of old clothes I was saving to donate to Goodwill, I'm about ready to give up on the whole idea. I've found just about everything I ever misplaced in my entire life – everything except the one thing I'm looking for. Why does it always work out that way?

  I wish I could remember when I last saw it. It's been a long time, I know that.

  I stand up and brush some sweater lint off my jeans. My legs are stiff from sitting cross-legged on the closet floor for so long, and I have nothing to show for it except a cute pair of boots I forgot I had and an American Eagle hoodie I thought I'd lost.

  Where could it be?

  I'm almost positive I wouldn't have gotten rid of it. It has to be here somewhere. The only place left that makes any sense would be the attic, but I can't imagine why it would be there. The only personal stuff I remember storing up there is a box of stuffed animals and dolls, favorites I was too old for but wanted to put aside in case I ever had a little girl to pass them down to.

  I don't remember putting the jewelry box in there with that stuff, but you never know. It can't hurt to look. So I climb the ladder to the attic and pick my way around dusty crates and old furniture and plastic reindeer until I locate the cardboard box I'm looking for. Scrawled on the side in magic marker are the words Property of Judith Sterling – Do Not Throw Out! I lift the flaps and smile as my childhood friends peer up at me with button eyes.

  Foraging through the contents, I whoop in triumph when I discover it, wedged at the bottom between Paddington Bear and Cookie Monster. The little yellow box with the ridiculously girly floral pattern.

  Yes!

  I open the lid, and the tiny ballerina springs to life in a slow, jerky pirouette. A few stray notes tinkle sluggishly from a music box that hasn't been wound in years.

  And there on the pink satin, mixed in among the array of plastic barrettes and friendship bracelets and cheap novelty rings, is a small brass key.

  The key to Pandora's box.

  I lift it with ice-cold fingers as my heart thuds against my chest. Am I seriously considering doing this? I've jumped headfirst into some pretty reckless shenanigans before, but this...holy shit, this doesn't just take the cake, it takes the entire bakery. Thinking about it is one thing, but having clear confirmation that the idea is attainable? Well, let's just say it's a scary thought.

  Scary, but exhilarating. Knowing that the choice is mine to make.

  I can play it safe, forget the whole thing, or I can come up with an interrogation strategy of my own. Try out a different game plan. If you ask me, the current one is going nowhere.

  I don't know why exactly, but the thought of seeing Locryn Price again has my hands shaking and my pulse racing. Fear? Definitely. But also anticipation. That adrenaline rush of dread and excitement you feel just before getting strapped into a roller coaster that you know is going to scare the very life out of you.

  And yet, as terrifying as it is, you simply can't resist the ride.

  Nothing this exciting has ever happened to me before. The opportunity to negotiate with an actual cambion. To be within arm's length of something as alluring as it is lethal. Something as elusive as the Jersey Devil and as dangerous as a pit viper.

  My God, I can't believe I'm actually considering this.

  Matching wits with a demon. It's madness.

  Clearly I'm as crazy as my brother.

  I climb down out of the attic, consoling myself with the knowledge that I don't have to make a decision tonight. There isn't enough time, anyway. Russ and Max could be back any minute, and the last thing I need is for them to catch me down there fraternizing with the enemy. They'd both freak, or at least Russ would, and I'm really not in the mood to be packed into a crate and shipped back to Tulsa.

  Not that he would do that, but the threat would definitely come up.

  For now, I shove the key underneath my pillow and run myself a hot bath instead. There's been enough insanity today. All I want right now is to bury myself chin deep in a tubful of bubbles. It's been a weird day and I could use a soothing dose of normal.

  I'm downstairs in my PJ's, watching Family Guy and polishing off my third slice of leftover pizza when the dynamic duo returns.

  “So what's the verdict?” I demand, noting that three of Russell's fingers are taped together and his whole hand is splinted in some sort of cast.

  “Fourth and fifth metacarpal bones are fractured,” Max reveals. “He won't need surgery, but he will have to wear this for at least three weeks.”

  To my amazement, Russ gives me a lopsided, goofy grin. “Oh. He-eyy there, sis,” he drawls, sounding way too happy for someone who just spent his evening getting patched up. “When'd you get here?”

  I blink at him uncertainly. “Um. I've been here since yesterday. Remember?” What the hell's the matter with him? Concerned, I ask Max, “Is he okay?”

  “Doc gave him a little something for pain.” His lips twitch as if he's trying hard not to laugh. “He may have gone a little overboard, since the king of pussies here was hamming it up like you wouldn't believe. You'd have thought he got his hand caught in a wood chipper, the way he was carrying on. It was embarrassing. I think the doctor was just fed up with hearing him bitch and complain.”

  “Oh, no way!” I have to give credit to Max, he has way more self-control than I do. I can't even begin to restrain my laughter. “You're kidding me, right? Not Mr. Macho here!”

  Unfazed, Russ lifts his injured hand and pokes out his bottom lip in a pout. “I got a boo-boo.”

  “I see your boo-boo, you big baby,” I giggle.

  “I don't know, buddy.” Winking at me, Max pretends to seriously inspect his hand. “This might not qualify as a boo-boo. Looks more like an owie to me.”

  Russ stares back at him with wide, serious eyes. “It is?”

  “Yeah, I think so. But that's a good thing. Trust me, girls are way more impressed by owies than your standard, garden variety boo-boos.”

  “I like girls.” His face breaks out in another broad, sappy grin.

  “I know you do.”

  “Oh my God, he's wasted!” Still snorting giggles, I wave a hand in front of Russell's face. His sluggish eyes try to follow but they just end up looking confused. “This is too good to be for real. I don't suppose Dr. Feelgood happened to write him a prescription for this stuff? I'll slip it in his food every day if it makes him this easy to get along with.”

  Max shakes his head with a chuckle. “Sorry, no. If he has any discomfort he's just supposed to take ibuprofen.”

  “Well, shoot.” I snap my fingers, feigning disappointment. “And here I thought this attitude adjustment was going to be permanent.”

  “Nope. It's only temporary, so enjoy it while you can. He'll be back to his old Grumpy Cat self tomorrow.”

  “Did someone say cinnamon rolls?” Russ blurts randomly, trying to turn his head in all directions at once.

  By now, Max has also succumbed to laughter. “Holy shit, man!”

  “Are you sure that doctor's medical license is legitimate?” I snicker. Maybe I'm wrong, but it doesn't seem normal to medicate a patient that much for something as simple as a boxer's fracture.

  “Well, he did a good job with the splint so I'm
not complaining.”

  Russ gives me a hazy look. “I like hamburgers,” he announces arbitrarily.

  “Wow. Sounds like somebody's hungry.” Putting an arm around his shoulder, I gently guide him over to the couch. “Maybe you should try and eat something. Tell you what, how about you have a seat right here and I'll go warm you up some pizza. That sound good?”

  “I like pizza.” Beaming at me, he collapses unsteadily on the couch.

  “Well then, why don't I go get you some. Okay?”

  “Here, let's get your shoes off.” Kneeling in front of him, Max unties his sneakers and proceeds to tug them off while I head into the kitchen. I'm not sure why we're both treating him like he's three years old, but there you go. The occasion just seems to warrant it. Besides, there's something so sweet about the way Max is taking such good care of him. He's a truly loyal friend. Always has been.

  When I return with the food, Russ's whole face lights up with delight. You'd have thought I was serving him a thick, juicy sirloin with all the trimmings.

  “Pizza!” he exclaims joyously. “Oh, boy. I love pizza.”

  “Eat up,” I encourage him cheerfully. This may have been the most bizarre day of my life, but I have to say it's ending on a hilarious note. I've never seen my brother act this way before, not even when he was slobbering drunk.

  “What's that?” He points to the glass I set on the coffee table in front of him.

  “Iced tea. Try not to spill it.”

  He sighs blissfully, nodding his approval. “I love tea.”

  “I know. I made it with extra sugar, just the way you like it.”

  “Tea.” He cocks his head to one side, staring off into space. “Ever notice what a funny word that is? Te-eea...”

  Max and I exchange looks. His eyes are twinkling and I'm doing my best not to start laughing again, but it isn't easy.

  “Tea, tea, tea, tea, te-eea...”

  “Look.” Max motions to the food in an effort to distract him. “You have some pizza there, buddy.”