Kate Fox & The Three Kings

by Grace E. Pulliam

  “P-p-pastor Sprite,” I backed away, knocking over the display of palm tree refrigerator magnets.

  “Miss Fox?” Hemming called from his office.

  My wrists stung where the pastor branded me months prior, as he stalked forward, placing a single finger over my lips. “Shhhh,” the Pastor winked, as my chest rose and fell quickly. Hemming emerged, and Pastor Sprite backed away, placing his weight on his cane. Without saying a word, Hemming walked past, locked the front door, and flipped over the open sign.

  “Katie’s been a very bad girl,” the pastor cooed, ignoring Hemming. “And ya know what happens when you sin against the church, don’t you, sweetie?”

  “Go back to my office, Miss Fox,” Hemming demanded, though his voice was calm. He gave me a reassuring nod, but my feet were firmly planted and I couldn’t move, even though I wanted to.

  I trembled, struggling against the oppressive force holding me there. Hemming rolled up his sleeves when I didn’t budge. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words passed my lips.

  “You must be Katie’s boss?” the pastor asked, not waiting for an answer. “How do you punish her when she just won’t listen? After you’ve given her a fair number of warnings? When you’ve tried to fix her behavior?”

  “You’re from Blood of Christ Baptist Church?” Hemming asked the pastor as he studied my panicked expression.

  “Indeed, son. You can call me ‘Pastor’ as you confess all of your sins to me while you’re beggin’ for your life,” the pastor tapped his cane, advancing toward me.

  “No confession for me, seeing as I’m a Jew,” Hemming stepped in front of me. I tried to speak, scream, squeal, anything, but no sound emitted from my mouth. I urged my right foot to move forward, and visualized freeing my legs from the floor as though I was a weed being plucked from a garden.

  “God said, ‘I will destroy your high places, and cut down your images, and cast your carcasses upon the carcasses of your idols, and my soul shall abhor you,’" the pastor spat out at him, standing on his toes to reach Hemming’s height.

  “’But the one who endures to the end will be saved,’” Hemming scowled down at him.

  “Go on, Katie. Tell this young man here how God really feels,” Pastor Sprite grinned, prompting me.

  “G-G-God hates me,” I heard the voice in my ears and recognized it as my own, but monotone and defeated. Those were the same words I uttered after the pastor had branded me.

  Pastor Sprite nodded in approval, pleased with my involuntary recital. “God’s love is the greatest lie ever told,” he lifted the cane, removing the knob at the end to reveal a sharp, blade point. “You’ll know soon enough, Jesus Killer,” the pastor yelled as he plunged the knife into Hemming’s chest.

  “No!” I cried out, the scream strangling my raw throat. Pastor Sprite appeared startled at my cry. He turned his back to Hemming, wiping off the sharp point of the cane with his pocket handkerchief.

  “What was that, you wretch?” the pastor raised his hand to strike me. My eyes grew wide, not from the anticipation of the impending sting, but at the growling, one-eyed beast leering behind Pastor Sprite. This beast was unlike Beastie. He stood a shoulder higher, and where Beastie had two red eyes, he only had one. In one, swift movement, he had his jaw latched around the pastor’s right arm, and swung him into the counter with a satisfying thud.

  Instead of moans of agony, maniacal laughter pierced the air. The pastor scurried to his feet with an unnatural speed, especially for his age, and lunged at the one-eyed-beast, holding on to his thick neck and twisting simultaneously, rendering the beast powerless. A snap, followed by a long yelp filled the air, and the beast slugged to the ground, lifeless. The pastor stood over the animal, admiring his handiwork, before striding to my side, as I was still frozen and unmoving. His cold hand snaked around my elbow, and he released me from his spell. I moved as he pulled me forward, trying to fight him every step of the way. Between my frantic struggles, I caught a glimpse of the dead animal, which wasn’t so dead anymore. Its chest moved up and down with slow breaths.

  The only emotion more powerful than fear is hope. In my mind, I visualized all of the horrible pain I yearned to inflict on Pastor Sprite, and the satisfaction I’d feel seeing him dead. Something wet trickled from my nose, over my lips, and down to my sweater: blood. My blood. I needed to see his.

  “No,” I muttered as he dragged me. I fought. I fought back with my mind. The void that was nestled in my cerebral peduncles, causing my motor skills to be comprised, strained. This was my body. This was my life. The pastor hurt my Hemming, and the happenings of the next few minutes would be of my own volition. I remembered one of the first pages I’d read in the book Hemming gave me. The first pages covered the anatomy of a Fox.

  When the Fox reached his prime and was in command of his power, his blood was lethal to any foe. I wondered if a Fox was not in her prime, if her blood might be sort of lethal to a regular ol’ Baptist pastor. There was only one way to find out. I coaxed my hand to my face, smearing scarlet on my fingers. I strained against the void, and plunged my fingers into the Pastor’s mouth as he shouted at me. Steam rose from his mouth, and he hollered profanities my way, and I felt the void lifted from my mind.

  The beast stirred, re-emerging with new-found purpose. He stalked over the pastor, sniffed at his lips, bared his teeth, and settled his jaw over the pastor’s head, tugging softly at first, then snapping it off in one, fluid crunch. Blood pooled from the cavity, not the normal shade of red, but a darker color resembling the night sky. I dipped my hands in it, coughing and stirring around the viscous liquid, watching it bubble and spit like a pot left too long on the stove.

  “Are you alright?” Hemming appeared in the form I was most used to, fastening his belt and buttoning his shirt. I didn’t speak for a long time. He joined me on the floor, cleaning the blood from my face and hands with a wet washcloth. Helen appeared, tapping on the glass door.

  “This is why we can’t have nice things, brother,” Helen commented on the state of the Soda Fountain, nudging Pastor Sprite’s headless body with her patent leather pumps.

  “You,” Hemming cleared his throat, rising to meet Helen. “You did this,” he pointed at the dead body.

  “Is that what baby Fox would have you think, or did you come to that conclusion on your own?” Helen purred, winking at him. She strutted around the shop and settled herself on a stool.

  “Why?” Hemming demanded, retrieving the mop.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you let them know where Miss Fox would be this evening?”

  “Oh, please brother. You know as well as I do that Kate,” my name hung in her mouth like spoiled milk, “needed a fire lit under her ass. She was never going to do the Three Kings Game without a little push. So, I gave her one. I figured she’d be safe with you hanging around, should the situation get hairy,” Helen smiled, showing off perfectly straight and white teeth. “I did it for us!” she whined when his mouth turned to a frown.

  “You orchestrated this mess,” he handed her the mop and retreated to the back of the store. “Now you get to clean it up,” Hemming hollered over his shoulder.

  “Why do you two keep handing me this mop? I’m not Cinder-fucking-rella,” her tone empty of guilt or regret.

  I staggered over to her, coughing in my elbow. “Your brother loves you,” I shook my head. “He’s wrong. Anyone who loves you is wrong.” Helen opened her mouth to speak, but her jaw quivered and slammed shut.

  Hemming reappeared with my jacket slung over his forearm, and he led me outside to the Audi. “You’re on the precipice of becoming the Final Fox, and it’s clear to me that the transition is taking a toll on your body,” he explained as we drove through the night. “I can see the power surging, teetering just beyond your reach. I saw it the night of Samhain. It reemerged tonight, as you fought your way out of Pastor Sprite’s spell,” he gulped, taking a long moment to consider how to communicate his next statement.

&n
bsp; “I don’t say this for my own benefit, or for my sister’s. If you do not play the Three King’s Game soon, your power will consume you. You will die, Miss Fox. And not the kind of death where you go to sleep and don’t wake up,” he parked the car in front of a wooded area, clearly marked “NO TRESPASSING AFTER HOURS,” and opened my door, ushering me out.

  “What’s this place?” I groaned, wishing for a warm bed.

  “Leon Sinks. I’m looking for a particular sinkhole,” he started off into the woods with no further warning, and I followed after letting out a loud sigh.

  “The land we’re walking on,” he continued after I’d caught up with him, clicking on a cheap flashlight. “Is like a giant chunk of Swiss cheese. There’s a system of underground caves here, filled with water. We’re on the hunt for a sinkhole called Black Water. At the bottom of Black Water, there’s a cave entrance about a hundred feet down.”

  “But...It’s pitch black out here, if you haven’t noticed,” I trailed the sound of his voice, taking cautious steps, as the ground was saturated and mushy. I shrieked and flailed my arms as I collided with a sticky cobweb.

  “Black Water is actually a neon orange color—should be a breeze to spot,” Hemming replied gruffly, and reached out to find my elbow in an effort to keep me in tow. “At any rate, locating Black Water isn’t the difficult part. Finding what I’m hunting for within Black Water shall prove to be quite challenging, I am sure.”

  “Which is?” I prodded him.

  “Belladonna. This—hmph— particular strain grows within the caves of Black Water.”

  “Oh,” I coughed into my elbow. “So, you’re just going to swim down there and get it? Why?” I tugged on his sleeve, urging him to slow his pace as I wheezed. I shook my hair out to ensure there wasn’t a spider hanging out on my head.

  “Belladonna, also referred to as deadly nightshade or devil’s berries,” he cleared his throat. “They’re extremely poisonous to those with supernatural abilities,” Hemming dipped his hand into the eerie orange water, causing the still surface to ripple. He unbuttoned his shirt, which he neatly folded and pushed into my arms. Next, he stepped out of his trousers and slipped off his shoes and socks. Clad only in his form fitting boxer-briefs, Black Water produced the tiniest amount radiance to outline Hemming’s form in the night, and I felt my face flush and was suddenly grateful for the darkness. “If you ingest a few berries, it should provide enough poison to quell the Fox for the interim, leaving your human form time to prepare for the Three Kings Game. Three berries, I think, will do the trick. Sit tight.”

  Before I was able to open my mouth in protest, he dove into the iridescent water, disappearing into its depths. I placed his folded clothing on top of his shoes, allowing myself an indulgent whiff of his shirt before parting with it. On my knees, I flopped down at the water’s edge, watching, waiting for any sign of movement. The various sinkholes we passed on our way to Black Water, with all of their depressions rimmed in spongy limestone, glittered with shades of aquamarine. The December chill lingered in the water, causing a shiver to run down my spine as I dipped a single finger into the bowl. The water glowed a combination of bright orange, with streaks of black, like an entire truck of gasoline tipped over and emptied its contents into the pool’s bowels. Elongated blades of dark grass danced in the soft current, with the occasional fresh water eel peeking out. I wasn’t sure how much time passed before Hemming surfaced, gasping for air, but it felt like an excruciatingly long while. As he climbed from the fluorescent water to the mossy shore, he shoved a handful of flower buds into my hand, which appeared to be a dark shade of violent or midnight blue.

  “We must go,” Hemming dragged me from my kneeling position and snatched up his clothing. “Mmm...Now,” he beckoned.

  “Why?” I croaked out, winded already.

  Hemming’s voice was low: “I—hmph— wasn’t the only one down there.”

  11

  The Fox & The Hound

  As Hemming instructed, I ate the berries from the flowers that night and interrogated him over who or what he encountered in the caves. He stood in my kitchen, monitoring my reaction as I chewed the berries. They burst in my mouth like tiny wild grapes, with the lingering flavor of sour lemon, making me pucker as I swallowed.

  “I can’t be certain of what I saw,” he shook his head, retrieving a box of chocolate chip cookies from the cabinet. “The—hmph— figure was shadowed. I felt its presence before I ever spotted it. The presence was heavy—smothering. Melancholy, even, but not quite malevolent. I think—” Hemming busied himself with opening the package. The foil relented in a satisfying rip. “I think...it was...familiar. I grabbed the Belladonna and didn’t investigate further. I know very little about spirits. But what I am sure of, is that the majority are tied to a location or person, but the dark form followed me from the cave, which is unusual, to say the least. That’s why I insisted we leave.” Hemming’s tone was casual, but the tension in his jaw relayed worry under the guise of a cool demeanor.

  “Did it follow us here? I mean, do you sense its presence still?” I asked in a hushed voice, directing my attention to the windows and door.

  “Mmm...No...I don’t think so. But if we’re being completely candid here—I feel an overwhelming sense of dread that I didn’t experience before going in the cave,” Hemming frowned, leaning against the counter. I snatched the half-eaten cookie from his hand as he guided it to his mouth.

  “I think tomorrow night is the night,” I announced, meeting his weary gaze. “I must play the Three Kings Game tomorrow.” I nodded, convincing myself with whatever false confidence I could manage.

  “Another night,” Hemming shot back, growing more rigid with each word. “You’re being too impulsive after tonight’s events. Just because you’re young and impatient doesn’t mean you’re prepared to play the game.”

  I blushed to my ears when the words “young”, “impulsive”, and “impatient” escaped Hemming’s mouth. Of course he viewed me as a silly child. He’d never see me as any different. I was in a perpetual state of missteps from his perspective: first, navigating my escape from W.H.O.R.E. without a trace of finesse; second, assuming his interest in me was more than platonic and kissing him; third, my inability to get a grip on what was happening to me without assistance from him or his awful twin sister.

  Embarrassment evolved into fury in a matter of seconds. If not for Hemming and Helen’s insistence on utilizing me as a hit woman, I wouldn’t be in a pickle. Or would I? I’d noodled over this question ever since encountering Helen and Hemming at the farmer’s market, when they revealed that it had been a team effort, liberating me from W.H.O.R.E. and relocating me to my Aunt’s house. I felt manipulated. Hemming hired me at the Soda Fountain and didn’t utter a single word about knowing who I was. The siblings kept their end of the bargain with my father, ensuring my safety, in exchange for my willingness to end their lives once and for all. An essential piece in the moving parts of the equation involved playing and winning the Three Kings Game, in which I had to participate if I didn’t want to walk around feeling like a cancerous growth was spreading inside me.

  But what if Helen never intervened? Surely, on that hot Saturday of picketing, the same events would’ve played out, with Gideon’s attack and my escape into the woods. Our supernatural altercation stirred the Fox inside. Prior to colliding with Beastie, my plan involved finding a highway, perhaps hitching a ride. Then what? The only place of retreat was Aunt June’s. The process certainly would’ve taken longer than 24-hours, but I was confident that I would’ve ended up in Apalachicola regardless, which meant W.H.O.R.E. would continue hunting me. I’d eventually become ill, with the Fox eating away at my insides. And to ever have a fighting chance against W.H.O.R.E., I needed to play the Three Kings Game.

  I rolled my eyes at my inner dialogue. With the realization that either scenarios ended with the same conclusion, I expected to be less annoyed with Hemming. Unfortunately, my mind was littered with confusion
, mostly processing the difference between what Hemming said and what he actually meant.

  “I was under the distinct impression that me playing the Game was the entire point of our—” I pointed to the empty space between me and Hemming. “This—whatever ‘this’ is. After all, I’m just a means to an end, right? So, run along, tell Helen. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” my words were laced with sourness as I tried to push him towards the door.

  His towering frame didn’t budge. “You need to calm down, Miss Fox. You’re being—”

  “What I need is a lobotomy after I’m done. Maybe then, I can forget about you,” I laughed without humor. I couldn’t look at him anymore: the way his fists were balled and his jaw was tensed. The way he studied me with a million unspoken intentions. So, I turned around and distracted myself with the leather bound book containing all the details of the Game. I flipped to the inside cover, where “George Fox” was scribbled in cursive handwriting.

  “Mmm...I’m sorry,” he muttered, his heavy footsteps thumping toward me. “I’m sorry I did this to you,” he placed his hand on the small of my back.

  I whipped around to shake off his touch. The action forced me to absorb his defeated expression. “You don’t get to say you’re sorry!” I yelled back at him. Something about his undoing pushed me over the edge. “What’s set in motion—this is exactly what you and Helen wanted,” I smacked at his hand as his fingers tried to reach out. “Don’t you get it?” I tried to ignore the shake in my voice. “Either way, I lose. If I lose tomorrow, I die. If I win, I lose you.”

  Hemming cleared his throat to speak, but I stopped him. “Maybe I should hate you for everything you’ve done to me—but I don’t. I can’t. And that’s the worst part.”