What Goes Around

by Rollins, Jack

  “Yeah,” shouted a bald, tattooed man from another cage. “Get us out!”

  Others took up the cry, some even banging on the bars as though they were in a position to make such demands.

  Morgana turned to them, staring for a few seconds before she threw back her head and snarled, enraged, bestial, letting them see what she was, what she could do.

  The room fell silent. She braced her feet against the bars of the cage and grunted as she tried to push the hatch past the tipping point and force it open – it had, after all, taken three of the keepers to open it. A loud reverberating crash sounded and it fell back at last on its hinge.

  She climbed out and hauled herself onto a ledge three feet above the top of the cage. Except it wasn’t a ledge; it was part of a curved concrete walkway that filled most of a vast, windowless room. Why the cages had to be crammed into a slurry pit was a mystery. Perhaps it flavoured the meat as she herself was wont to do. The captives began to shout again, finally shocked out of their torpor, aware something out of the ordinary was happening.

  “Shh,” she said, echoing her former cage-mates’ words. “Or they’ll come.”

  “Hello,” called a man’s voice. “Did you just break out?”

  “Help,” many voices clamoured. “Get us out of here.”

  “I’ll come back for you,” said Morgana. She laughed as she passed the cages and headed for the closed door at the far end of the room.

  ***

  The door was unlocked – another bad sign. Maybe someone was toying with her as they had done to others. She opened it a crack and saw a long winding corridor with nobody in it. She was stronger now that she was out of the cage. Not full strength, not even close, but it was an improvement.

  A tuneless whistle and the tip tap of footsteps sounded, faint but getting louder. She flattened herself against the wall. The steps and whistling paused. Did they know she was here? Time passed and she forgot to breathe.

  The footsteps resumed and the door opened. Morgana flung herself on the hooded whistler, snapping the neck with a sharp crack. The body fell supine to the floor and the hood fell back, revealing the face of a young man barely clear of his teens. His glassy eyes bulged and his mouth hung open, showing the yellowed donkey teeth of the first keeper she’d seen. No time to feed from the man, however; stripping him of his clothing would have to do for now.

  The keepers had mentioned a pool and, sure enough, there it was just a few feet away, sunk into the walkway. Slipping off her dress, she lowered herself into the clean water and washed off the worst of the fecal matter. Even with the keeper’s robes on, the smell of shit would give her away to anyone with half a nose. The threat of discovery spurred her on, but silence reigned unchallenged, punctuated by sobbing from one of the cages and an odd high-pitched sound she had been hearing since she’d arrived. Were they playing with her?

  She tugged on the keeper’s stiff hemp robes, which had an odour of stale sweat and tobacco. The high-pitched sound came again, accompanied by a babble of voices. She could make out what they were saying, indicating a distance of at least a hundred yards.

  “Our Lord needs more. Go get Murdo and see to it,” said the girl.

  “Aw, c’mon, he’s a big boy now. Why can’t he do it on his own?”

  “You know fine and well he can’t open the bloody hatch on his own. You also know,” she said, her voice louder, “you can’t leave him unsupervised. He’s completely unreliable. Last week I found him trying to talk to one of the sacrifices as though he was on a date. We can’t risk any of them escaping and all it will take is for some bloody girl to persuade him to let her go and then we’ll have to up sticks and relocate. Again.”

  “I’ve told you I’m handling it. And I am.”

  “Well, handle it quicker, for Christ’s sake.”

  He was coming down the corridor. No whistling, just the clatter of boots and the scratch, scratch of his robe on the floor.

  Morgana licked cracked lips and resumed her position against the wall, waiting. She was starving. She had resisted the first keeper but the food just kept flinging itself in her path. The door opened and a burly, bearded man appeared, stopping short when he saw his dead charge lying on the floor. Before he had time to react, Morgana struck. Fangs bared, she ripped his throat out and guzzled the quivering chunks of flesh. Blood frenzy took over as she dug talons deep into his chest and snapped the ribcage to have at his still-beating heart. She ripped it out and bit into it, blood streaming down her chin and robes.

  “They do say the only way to a man’s heart is through his ribs,” said the girl, stepping into the room. “And I have to say, I agree.” She was slight, her thin mousy hair scraped back from a sharp little face, but her appearance was belied by an air of assured confidence that spoke of experience and an ability to handle herself.

  Morgana roared, enraged at the distraction.

  “Please don’t speak with your mouth full. It’s not polite.”

  And with that, the keeper lashed out with one of the pole collars, trapping Morgana’s neck and wrenching it tight. The collar burned, forcing her to let go of the heart. With a sour smile, the keeper tightened the collar further by pulling on the pole as though it was a dog leash, choking Morgana and forcing her to her knees.

  “Ah, yes. Should’ve said that’s a specially made collar. It’s got a very high iron content, y’know. Higher than the bars of the cages.” She smiled, a sly, sliding affair. “We don’t see many like you, your majesty, but when we do, we know just how to treat you with the proper respect.” She wrenched the pole again.

  Morgana collapsed onto the floor. She clawed at her neck, drawing blood, the world reduced to pulsing bands of white-hot agony.

  “You are going to make an extra special treat for our Lord. We didn’t realise what you were at first. But we’ve got hidden cameras to help us keep an eye on things. Nothing human could have escaped from the holding pens. You really are a remarkable specimen, you know.”

  She hauled Morgana, stumbling, to her feet. “But you’re not so strong and special with this little baby round your neck, are you?” She grinned, the cynical expression ill at ease with her obvious youth. Her dark eyes burned a zealot’s fire. “What’s that? Oh, that’s right, you can’t talk, can you? Did you think you’d steal my Lord from me? Did you? Well, you’ll serve him soon enough, just not the way you’d planned.”

  Did the stupid bitch think she’d come to date whatever was haunting this seventh circle of hell?

  “Come, my Queen,” sniggered the girl, jerking on the leash. “Destiny waits.”

  Morgana’s newfound strength had dissipated as fast as deserters from a losing side, and she was dragged along a series of ill-lit, grey corridors until they arrived at a huge steel door upon which was a deadbolt set in a key pad. Whatever was inside clearly couldn’t be allowed to roam free. Water dripped from somewhere overhead and the lights buzzed and dimmed as though the electricity was going to cut out.

  “We have a backup if the ‘lecy goes tits up,” said the keeper as though reading Morgana’s mind before forcing her to her knees. Fumbling in her capacious robes, she fished out a bunch of keys and set about unlocking the assortment of bolts on the door.

  Despite the pain, Morgana growled. The contemptuousness of this human, holding her at bay as though she was nothing more than a stray dog!

  “Which reminds me, we’re going to need reinforcements,” the girl continued, producing a pager and pressing a button while keeping her eyes on the vampire.

  Morgana motioned to the collar.

  “What’s that, sweetheart? You want me to tighten this?” She pulled on the pole, causing Morgana to fall forward onto her front.

  Struggling to her knees, Morgana considered her options. She put out a placatory hand, knowing the girl wouldn’t come any nearer to her than the extent of the pole’s reach. “Wait,” she said, gasping. “What’s in there?”

  “What? Don’t you mean ‘who’? I know what you’re
doing, by the way. Your desperation to rip my throat is only equaled by your need to play for time and get some information that might help you. Well, I’ve seen you’re kind before, Sith bitch. Don’t think I haven’t. And in the end you all just plead and bleed like the rest of us. Did you know I was the one who killed Lilith?”

  Morgana averted her face to mask her reaction. She hadn’t known that, but she had known Lilith, a powerful Baobhan Sith who had just vanished, leaving her nest to fend for itself. Most assumed she’d just upped sticks because the idea that something or someone had been powerful enough to kill her was nothing less than inconceivable.

  “Well, I say ‘I’, but I really mean my Lord,” she said, giggling like a schoolgirl and loosening the collar a little. “I just popped her in there” – she indicated the door – “and the rest, as they say, is history. Not a well-known history, of course, but the best ones aren’t.”

  Morgana found her voice. “Don’t… don’t you think you should give your Lord a little appetiser? He might even reward you.” She stopped as a coughing fit wracked her.

  The girl loosened the collar more. “Reward?” she said, frowning. “Serving Him is reward enough. We are his loyal servants.”

  The door moved, just a little. It was open.

  “And what do you mean, ‘an appetiser’?”

  “I was in a cage with two other women. You could give them to your god before me.”

  “Nice try. I’m not going back to the cages trailing you with me. And you’re going to be with Him before my backup buddies arrive. Anyway, don’t sell yourself short: you’re a tasty wee snack all on your own. After Lilith, our Lord displayed new powers I hadn’t seen before.”

  “How did you know I was Sith?”

  “You wouldn’t have been able to escape – you’ve been the only one. Lilith didn’t get a chance, by the way. She put up such a struggle when we tried to get her in the cage – killed four of our order – before we realised she wasn’t human. That’s why we keep these handy.” She tugged the pole, grinning.

  In a blur of motion the door crashed open, and both keeper and vampire were hauled inside by invisible hands.

  The girl gasped. “My Lord, I didn’t realise the door was unlocked – I hadn’t undone the last dead bolt. Please forgive me.”

  The windowless room was cavernous and covered in droppings, white like guano. The girl was still, eyes downcast, not daring to move or even breathe.

  A low rumble started up: a vent blowing hot air into the room and violating the silence. Man-sized deposits littered the floor. One of the deposits twitched and a low moaning started up: “Ohgodohgodohgod.” Robert was still alive. A white femur poked out, the head shiny and picked clean, the rest of it wreathed in scarlet and black shreds of flesh.

  “Where is it?” Morgana asked.

  “Shh. It’ll hear,” whispered the girl.

  An interesting switch from divine reverence to the impersonal pronoun – humans were so bloody fickle. But there wasn’t time for anything else because the mound moved, a swishing like a parting of curtains, a whirr through the air. The girl screamed in agony, a long drawn out shriek that became more frenzied.

  And there it was, its flexing wings resplendent with soft, downy feathers. It towered above Morgana at over six feet, neon orange eyes blazing out from a feathered head above a short curved beak. Below the beak a red glistening maw opened and shut, drool running in ropes to the down-covered, male human chest. The mouth was human too, the lips well-shaped, the teeth tiny and razor sharp. The creature plunged the beak into the girl’s eye and the human mouth tore great chunks of flesh from the keeper’s cheek. Her screaming changed in pitch when her flesh was ripped open, becoming a hopeless gurgle when the monster took her tongue.

  It held its victim still with a great taloned foot, with the foremost claw plunged into the girl’s neck. From the lack of movement from the neck down, it looked like her spinal cord had been severed. The beast’s eyes held Morgana as it tracked her slow, sidling movements by turning its head as it feasted on her former captor. Then it started the serious business of crunching bone and snapping sinew. The maw widened like a snake as it swallowed the girl’s head, widening further for the shoulders and then on down the trunk of the body, pausing only to spit out the keys, which landed at Morgana’s feet.

  Its eyes and beak proclaimed an unmistakable owl heritage and yet it was human too. Precisely what that made it or where the divine fit in was anyone’s guess.

  “I’ve got something tastier than me if you let me go. I’ll bring you a shape-shifter.”

  The air rippled as though something was speaking in a frequency she couldn’t hear. It could take her before she reached the door, there was no question about it.

  “I promise,” she said. Promises, like names, had their own power, and woe betide the breaker. Its eyes flickered and the creature turned its back and resumed its feast in earnest.

  She didn’t need to be told twice. Ripping the collar off with bloodied hands, she bent down to grab the keys and then sprinted back the way she’d come. She looked back, doorknob in hand, ready to slam it shut, but the Bird Man was as good as his unheard words. He eyed her with an incurious fiery gaze as he finished off the dead girl’s legs.

  “I won’t be long.”

  A sound filled the room, so low and prolonged that vibrations threatened to burst her chest. She slammed the door and bolted it. This thing could never be allowed to get out. It would spoil everything for predators like her because it didn’t care about the rules, number one of which was: thou shalt not draw attention to thyself. She was careless and had a lot to answer for, but nothing like this.

  She sped through the ill-lit corridors, guided by the shouts and screams of her fellow captives. She would need them as a distraction if more keepers were going to show. Damn. Her hunger flared and she opened her mouth in a soundless growl. Time enough for that.

  Running into the room with the cages, she was greeted by shouts, howls and desperate sobbing.

  “About bloody time,” said a voice she knew only too well. Jade clung to the bars, teeth bared, eyes rolling in her head.

  Morgana knelt down on the walkway and hand the keys to Claire. “Pass them on.”

  “There’s an empty cage next to ours,” said Claire. “What if the keys fall into the water?”

  “Then you’ll have a lot on your conscience. Reinforcements are on the way. For the keepers, I mean.”

  And with that she walked toward the distant sound of car engines and slamming doors, eager for the slaughter to come.

  ***

  Back home on Ann Street, Morgana gazed past the fly-blown body parts in the kitchen sink. There was unfinished business and she was damned if it was going to stay that way. Of late her lack of control had been such that the nest was now avoiding all contact with her. Five dead children bore silent witness to just why that was.

  It was dark and the sky was clear. An infinity of twinkling stars gazed down with alien indifference. The first few flakes of a coming snowstorm crisscrossed their way to an unwelcoming earth. She left the house and made her way to the Snake-Pit, slipping in a backdoor she had bribed one of her human acolytes to keep open and clear. Bumping into Esther, voodoo queen extraordinaire, was not part of her plan for tonight.

  She spotted him at the bar, shirtless, sipping a drink and checking out the room, black hair unbound. She sashayed over, smiling at the expression of naked fear on his face.

  “Hey there, good lookin’. I would say I have an idea about what we could get cooking later on, but something tells me you taste better raw.”

  He turned to run, but she grabbed a handful of his thick, shiny mane and slammed his face onto the marble-topped bar. His nose broke with a sickening crunch, blood cascading onto the floor as though in tribute to her.

  Noah was going to be a very busy boy tonight. He had a date with God, and Morgana was going to make sure he kept it.

  Those Borrowed Faces by Craig Saunder
s

  A man sits facing another man. Both have worn many different guises throughout the centuries, and not just clothing. No matter the attire, they would have looked like different people. They had been different people. And, as fashions changed from laced leggings and long socks, or tunics, long gloves or short, cloaks or coats, the faces humanity wore changed, too. They’ve worn smiles just as easily as frowns, and sideburns or sideboards, grey whiskers and the soft down of young faces, mutton chops and shitkicker cowboy moustaches and heavy beards in the wild snows of Canada’s Yukon, trapping, and further afield, too – Alaska, and to Siberia, and once in 1642 with a ship captained by Abel Tasman all the way to New Zealand, long, long ago, when the Maori danced unfettered and Captain Cook had yet to be born.

  Long centuries and cold years on blank-white land or sea, though no matter how frozen a man gets, he might still know heat. Perhaps because of that constant chill, a moment’s warmth is a bright, lurid spot on an otherwise blank landscape. One knows the painful bite of the Arctic seas and the delight of hot whale blood splashing on chill-bit skin that wasn’t his own. He knows blood well and wears pale faces, most often, that seem well suited to snow and ice, enlivened only when splashed with blood or scorched with gunpowder, or, like during the Crimean War, cannon and bloodfire both.

  The other, the man in the chair who is bound and waiting, has known warmth and light, the friendship of men and women and the things that bring humanity back to the hearth away from the bitterest cruelties they inflict upon themselves. He tends toward darker faces, and lands bleached by sun, not ice. He has lived in hot lands with sweat running down whatever face he wears, that face only borrowed for a time.

  Both have worn humanity all those centuries, a cloak or a mask to hide what is within.

  The unbound man, he is the kind who leans into that peculiarly human coldness and smiles as it blisters his skin.

  The man in the chair longs for the warmth, and only warm. That longing, though, will not help. Not here. This is a cold place, once again. The chair is cold, the wires that bite into the dark-skinned man’s flesh are cold, and the landscape outside is white and hard bright as a winter day in South America’s mountains.