by Vicky Loebel
“Miss Khlara.” the boy croaked painfully.
“Oh, no.” My strength left me. Without intending to, I found that I was sitting on the floor.
“Grover?” Ned rushed past me and scooped his brother into his arms.
A pair of strangers helped me up onto a bar stool.
Mr. Aimsley, the boy’s father, started our way.
“Oh no,” I whimpered. “Not Grover!” That was too awful. “Not him!”
“What is it buddy?” Ned set his brother on the bar. “What’s wrong?”
Grover reached down, found someone’s Orange Blossom, and gulped a sip before Ned caught him. “It’s those monsters.” He pulled his notebook out and waved it, gasping. “The ones from out of town.”
Mr. Aimsley joined them, frowning. “Harry Gibraltar’s men?”
“They’re smashing tires,” Grover reported. “Attacking people. Burning sheds.”
“Burning?” I frowned. “But why?”
“Mr. Hearst says it’s the apopolypse.”
“The word’s apocalypse, buddy,” Ned told him. “But I don’t think—”
A new sound reached us. A wailing, shuffling moan.
Outside, the town’s fire bell began to ring.
XII: Hard Hearted Hanna
Never put all your eggs in one casket.
—The Boy’s Book of Boggarts
Bernard:
I DREAMT OF RUTH dancing the Charleston, au natural, on top of the Fellowship’s slate roof. Inside, on the ground floor, bottles rolled sideways along two ninepin bowling lanes. Each time one of the bottles hit a pin, booze fountained upward and rained down burning ash.
“Hey, sweetie.” Cinders caressed my cheek. “Surprise!”
“Luella?” I blinked awake in utter darkness. “Is that you?” Cold, pungent fumes clawed at my useless eyes. My head was throbbing. “How about a light?”
Luella’s fur coat was wrapped about my shoulders. Her scent, Narcisse Noir, tickled my nose. But it was not Luella slicing my linen vest with razor claws.
“Ruthie?” I sat up on the coffins, seeking the radium dial of my father’s Waltham wristwatch. Eight thirty. Apart from tiny glowing numbers, I couldn’t see a thing. The air seemed vaguely smoky. “What’s going on?”
The coat slipped from my shoulders. I shook my muddled head, wishing for water to wash the fuzz out of my mouth. I’d spent the afternoon with Gaspar, playing Bunco with a set of ghostly dice. He’d won Babe Ruth, Mae Murray, and taken my i.o.u. for trading cards from ten packs of American Caramels before I’d given up and switched from playing dice to drinking gin.
My vest popped open. Feminine fingers grasped the neckband of my broadcloth shirt.
“Ruth.” I hiccupped and fumbled unsuccessfully for my lighter. “Ruth, cut it out.”
The broadcloth ripped. Buttons flew off with little pinging pops.
Gaspar—with me as host—had not been able to lift objects or, more to the point, unlock the icehouse door. At dusk, I’d tried to send him through the walls for help, but the building had been surrounded with a ring of rock salt that the ghost couldn’t get past.
So I’d sipped booze, rationed my cigarettes in the dark, and watched the glowing hands of the Waltham creep past eight o’clock, wondering whether or not my baby cousin was still alive.
Construction note: the double thickness of an icehouse wall is sturdier than a crate of booze, no matter how furiously you hurl the second item against the first.
“What happened with the judging?” I couldn’t have been asleep more than ten minutes. “How’s Clara? Where is Hans?”
Ruth climbed into my lap. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
She wasn’t wearing…. My brow furrowed. That is, she didn’t seem to be?
“I’m thrilled,” I said. “I can’t see anything. It’s dark.” I tried to concentrate. “Will you please make a light.”
“Sure thing,” Ruth purred. A gentle glow suffused the air.
She wasn’t nude. There was a feathered headband in her hair.
“Bah— bah—” My head was woolly. Perhaps that’s why I bleated like a sheep.
Ruth leaned forward, sliding her palms downward along my union suit.
“Bah—” She was the loveliest woman I’d ever seen. I turned my head to keep from looking. “Th-thank you,” I stammered. “Now how about opening the door?”
The genie licked my ear.
“Ruth, please.” I grabbed her shoulders and held her at bay. “Tell me what happened with the dance.”
“I won!” she squealed. “That is, I qualified. It turns out all I had to do was this.” She slid my hands down to her bosom and started wiggling.
“B-bah?” She was the loveliest woman I’d ever felt, as well.
“That’s the shimmy. In case you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed! I mean, I know!” I tried to will my hands to move away. My hands shot back that they’d willed me to fondle girls dozens of times, and I rarely complied.
Ruth kissed me. And then we kissed again. And then her hands began to fondle me.
It tickled. I would have jumped like a rabbit if there’d been more room.
“Wait, Ruth.” I quivered like a plucked ukulele string. “Not here! We need to talk.”
“I don’t think so.” She pushed me down onto the coffin bench and tweaked my—well, my chest—right through the one-piece union suit. “I want you now.”
Parts of me enthusiastically agreed. Parts were perplexed. “When you say want…?”
Ruth sent a clearer signal of what she had in mind.
I quivered.
“Good boy.” The genie snuggled on top of me. “Come to mama.”
“Wait. Stop.” I pushed her back. “What’s the big rush?” I sat up awkwardly, trying to clear my head.
It wasn’t easy. I’m not a saint. And Ruth was powerfully distracting.
“Men wear too much.” She grabbed my back collar and jerked the open shirt and vest clean off my body in one impressive yank. Then she snuggled against my union suit and purred.
I had to hold her, purely in self-defense. She had to hold me to keep from falling off my lap. Ruth’s mouth met mine, liked what it found, and stayed. And since no proper gentleman orders his guest away, we spent several delightful minutes visiting.
But I had sense enough to wonder why. I’m handsome, sure. Around campus, coeds call me Hot Stuff, and several have gone for long drives in my Nash without complaint, even when I was in the car.
But Ruth was no coed. She was a demon’s servant. And demons prize intimacy, to put it bluntly, above all things. If I gave in to Ruth without negotiating, things could get ugly. I might, decades from now, father an unknown child. I might be targeted by nasty spells. What’s scarier, Ruth might owe me a favor and I’d have no control over the way she chose to pay it back. Sex isn’t evil among demons. Or so my golem tells me. But it’s worth karma and, in demonic circles, everything’s a trade.
These thoughts were sobering.
Ruth, wriggling in my lap, was not.
I groaned. We kissed again. My hands made up for girls un-fondled in the past. And not just bosoms. Her soft, sleek nakedness seemed tailor-made for tender touch.
Ruth whispered an invitation in my ear.
I blushed.
She added adjectives.
My blush grew hotter. Gladys’ childhood warnings rose in my mind, and my enthusiasm dwindled.
That’s when I saw the ghost, arms crossed, leaning against a wall.
“Gaspar!” I flailed, knocking the genie off my lap.
“Go right ahead,” he drawled. “Luella never lets me watch.”
“I don’t either.” I bit my lip. “That is, there’s nothing—”
“Oh, sweetie.” The genie rubbed her head and stood up slowly. “Stop playing games. There’s not much time.”
“Not time for what? That is, I know for what, but why right now? Why not the same what later in another where?”
&n
bsp; Ruth’s head tipped sideways. “Huh?” She grabbed my battered bracers and yanked them off. “Trust me. I’m doing you a favor.” The genie’s hands went to my waistband. Mine went there too. We tugged in opposite directions.
“I think” —Gaspar glanced through the wall— “somebody’s coming.”
“Luella?” I squeaked in horror.
Ruth ripped my slacks in half and pulled them off my feet, taking my shoes.
“No, not Luella,” Gaspar replied. “Stoneface, looks like. With some more thugs.”
“Oh, sweetie, hurry!” Ruth clutched my BVDS.
“I’ve had a thought.” I grabbed her wrists. “Please, jump in if you spot a flaw. How about we all escape?”
“Huh uh. How about this?” She demonstrated…something….
My head arched back involuntarily and thumped the wall. I saw stars and felt comets shooting along my spine.
Ruth pressed her nakedness against me.
I ducked and rolled onto the wooden floor. “You know,” I gasped. “As rescues go this leaves something to be desired.”
Ruth flipped me over and landed on my chest.
“I’m not so sure it is a rescue, old man,” Gaspar contributed.
“Shut up, you parasite!” Ruth uttered a low, forbidding growl. Ribbons of red light—some sort of hostile magic—began to swirl and close in around the ghost.
“Try other words starting with ‘r’.” Gaspar whipped out his sword and sliced the ribbons into bits.
The genie tore my union suit down to my waist.
“Stop it!” I bucked her off.
The light went out, leaving me blind.
“Ruthie?” I crab-walked backward and hit a wall of ice. “Aren’t you getting me out?”
Oddly, the ghost glowed, just as visible as ever. But he didn’t illuminate the room.
“I can’t,” Ruth wailed. “Hans would boil me in oil!”
I felt the wind of her lunge and shimmied sideways to crawl across the floor.
“I don’t suppose,” I asked Gaspar, “since you’re here to protect me, you could help?”
Ruth caught my ankle and began dragging me toward her, hand over hand.
“Go left,” the ghost advised.
I kicked free and dove face-first into a wooden crate. Pain lanced like a hot poker into my brain and I collapsed in agony.
“Sorry, old man,” Gaspar said distantly. “I meant my left.”
One hand went to my nose and filled with blood. The genie caught me, wrapping me in her arms, and I debated the relative merits of a girlish scream vs. a low-pitched whimper.
“Oh, sweetie,” Ruth crooned, licking the blood off of my face.
The low-pitched whimper won.
“Oh, sweetie, don’t you see? I can’t just help. It’s got to be a trade.”
Headlights swept the icehouse, dazzling my eyes. A truck rumbled, tires crunching to a stop in the dirt yard. Knife-blades of light outlined the wooden door.
I thrust my arms back in my union suit.
“Listen.” Ruth punched her fist into an ice block and placed a chunk of frozen water against my nose. “I heard those gangsters. They’re going to kill you.”
My stomach sank.
“I can’t help you unless we make a trade.”
“Like what?” Well, I knew what. “But why?”
Door’s slammed. Voices sounded outside.
“Look,” I said. “Just get me out of here. I’ll trade something of equal value later.”
“I can’t.” She shook her head sadly. “It’s not enough.” The genie changed to silver mist. A moment later, she’d turned into a tabby cat.
“You! You tripped me this afternoon?”
Gaspar ducked through the wall and back again. “How many tins of fuel do you suppose,” he asked casually, “they usually carry on delivery vans?”
“Gasoline cans?” I frowned. “A couple? None? Depends on how far they’re driving, I suppose.”
“What if they’re driving here?”
The lock clicked loudly. Headlights blazed as one of Gibraltar’s thugs opened the door. I raised an arm, shielding my eyes. Behind the thug, carefully outside the ring of salt, stood Stoneface, clutching a Tommy gun.
Gaspar frowned.
“What the devil?” The mobster’s voice slammed through the room. He stared at my bloodstained unmentionables, the broken crate, the bits of clothing scattered around. “What the devil has been going on in there?”
“Nightmare,” I said. “I’ve always been a restless sleeper. You see—”
“Never mind that.” Stoneface leveled his Tommy gun. “Back up, real slow, and put your rear end on the coffin.”
I did. The cat followed, rubbing my shins. “Ruth,” I implored. “You can’t just leave me here to die!”
“Shut up! No mumbo jumbo!” Stoneface turned toward his men. “You three. Get in there. Get the booze. And don’t, by god, disturb that ring of salt. And as for you,” he called to someone outside, “get busy with them cans.”
Three men filed in. Gaspar drew his épée.
The gangster ratcheted his gun. “Anything happens to them and you’re not going to live to regret it.”
“I see.” I nodded. “How am I going to feel if nothing happens to them?”
That almost brought him in. He raised his fist but at the last moment stayed safe behind the salt.
The men grabbed crates and lugged them to the truck.
“All right,” I asked the cat. “What will it take to get me out of this?”
Stoneface laughed scornfully. “You got a million bucks?”
The cat scratched effortlessly on the wooden floor: YOUR SOUL.
“Sadly,” I said, shaking my head at both of them, “no.”
Gaspar stretched out his sword and pierced one of the thug’s ankles. The man staggered. His footsteps slowed.
“Unless you got a cool million, forget it,” Stoneface said. “Them Woodsen girls is gonna make me more than that.”
“Them Woodsen girls is gonna eat you for breakfast.”
Gaspar pricked both remaining thugs as they walked in. Their tread grew heavy.
I looked at Ruth. “Name something else.”
“There’s nothing else,” Stoneface told me. “I want more booze. I want a lotta booze, and you’re gonna teach that cupcake cousin what happens when she don’t cooperate.”
Ruth scratched the floor again: YOUR GOLEM.
I sighed. “Be serious. I don’t own Gladys.” More the reverse. “I could owe you a favor. A big favor.” The sound of sloshing came from outside. Gasoline fumes clogged the air. “Even—” I swallowed. This was no time for modesty. “What you w-wanted just now.”
Ruth scrawled another option: FIRSTBORN.
I’d read those stories. “No.”
There was one thing remaining I could bargain with. The Benjamin legacy. A little box stuffed full of trouble. Each time the lid was raised, so I’d been warned, something different slipped out into the world. Maybe a good thing. Possibly very bad.
I wasn’t about to hand that wild card to a demon.
Which left nothing. I slumped against the wall. My head pounded. My nose was sore. My chest already burned from the foul stench of the icehouse combined with gasoline. I’m no clairvoyant, but my future was pretty clear.
But on the other hand…. I bit my lip. On the other hand, Gaspar’s attack was having an effect. Men dragged their feet, staggering under the heavy crates of booze, scuffing—if not breaking—the ring of salt.
Two more thugs came to help load the truck. Gaspar skewered their ankles as well.
“C’mon. Get a move on,” Stoneface encouraged.
“This stuff is heavy, boss.” One man dropped his crate with a crash.
“Come here. Hold this.” Stoneface passed his machine gun to the thug. “C’mon! Let’s go!” He strode inside, scattering salt, driving Gaspar back toward my bench.
Stoneface picked up three crates at once. His
men, inspired, picked up their pace. Within minutes, the building had been cleared back to the stacks of ice and shelves stocked with embalming fluid.
The last thug emptied a can of gasoline around the room while Stoneface watched from outside.
“That’s it, boss.” The man left hastily.
Stoneface lit a cigar. “Perfect.” His boot, unnoticed, kicked through the ring of salt.
“I had an uncle died in a fire.” The mobster drew his revolver from a pocket. “It’s a bad way to go.” He shrugged. “If you want, I’ll shoot you and let your cousin think you burned.”
“No, thanks.”
Gaspar, flat as a sheet of paper, threaded between the chunks of scattered salt.
Ruth’s tail flashed silver. The ghost went poof and drifted, like green and sparkling dandelion fluff, into the amulet around my neck.
“Well, kid. You got more guts than I expected.” Stoneface shrugged. “So long.” The red cigar flew through the air.
I dove forward to catch it and stumbled on the cat. The icehouse door banged shut.
Flames whumpfed, slamming me back onto the coffins.
Ruth landed in my lap, human again. “I can’t save you! But if you fuck me fast, I’ll take away the pain.”
Smoke boiled out of the fire. My eyes watered around poisonous fumes.
“That’s your best offer?” The heat, ten feet away, already burned my skin. “Go fuck yourself!” Outside I heard the roar of fire around the building. The structure shook, or maybe that was me.
Cinders showered along the walls.
Ruth shielded me with her body. “I can’t rescue you,” she wailed. “I can’t! Don’t you see?”
Flames crackled across the wooden floor, danced up the walls behind the stacks of ice. The air was black, orange, and billowing white: smoke, fire, and hissing steam.
“Hans wants Clara all to himself. Without your help.”
My lungs howled for fresh air. “I’m not that helpful!”
Ruth grabbed me through my underwear.
“No! No deal!” I shoved her off. Heat flashed into the space she’d vacated. My mind flooded with fear, but I’d been afraid so often in my life, I hardly noticed.