“I did that,” Set said. “I wandered the banks of the river. I ran between the feet of soldiers who were sent to kill me. They were looking for a man, but I was no longer a man. I slept by their fires and ate their food. One morning, after the floods had receded, I found my brother’s casket lodged in a tree by the riverbank. The lid had fallen away and Osiris was there, smiling at me. His eyes were open. I am certain now that he was dead, but...”
“But what?”
“He was smiling. He was watching. I tore him to pieces.”
“Fourteen pieces,” Panahasi said. “And you scattered them to all of the corners of the kingdom.”
“Yes.”
Panahasi leaned close and whispered.
“Do you want to know what happened next?”
Set closed his eyes.
“Isis found them,” Panahasi said. “All but one. And she wrapped them in linens and made him whole again. And the missing piece—the courtiers attached a gold phallus to Osiris. And there was magic as Isis danced, and the gods descended, and a great storm of lightning shook the desert, and Osiris was alive again!”
Set opened his eyes. The sunlight beat off of the sand and nearly blinded him. He blinked and turned to Panahasi. Blotches of light pulsed in his vision and obscured the priest’s face.
“It is not possible,” Set repeated.
“As impossible as a man turning into an animal?”
Set closed his eyes again. “Is Osiris still alive?”
“No,” Panahasi said. “He lived just hours, but long enough to give a child to his wife. It will be a son. They will name him Horus.”
Set stepped forward, into the darkness of the cave, and knelt before the image of his mother. Nut stood, facing the west, in the blue dress that she wore when Osiris married. She held Geb’s hand. And the writing, which Set could not read, not because it was faded or marred but because he could no longer read, must have proclaimed the glory of their lives, of their gift to the Nile with the birth of Osiris. The writing must have promised a treasured corner of the afterlife to them, but how could it be? The gods had willed an order, a way. Osiris had broken the natural world. He had elevated peasants and destroyed monuments. But, then again, the gods had allowed it to happen.
“Tell her what you have done,” Panahasi called. “And tell her the news. She will be a grandmother!”
Set knelt, bringing the bundle to the table at his mother’s feet. A sack of rough brown cloth, not larger than a fist—dried blood was just a darker brown in its fabric. The flesh within, by now, was a hunk of leather.
“Mother,” Set whispered. “I have killed your son, my brother. I bring him home to you so that he might nourish you in the afterlife.”
5
Panahasi knelt before a fire just outside of the colonnade. He blew into the embers and smiled as the fir caught and consumed the scraps of brush and twigs. He raised his palms to the weak flame as if its warmth were significant. Set kicked the fire, watching the sparks spread across the sand and die into darkness. Panahasi frowned.
“Where do you go now, Lord Set?”
“To the desert. To the jungle. Perhaps I will drown myself in the river.”
Panahasi exhaled loudly through his nose and gazed at the stars. It was night. Set felt the attention of tombs, of ghosts. Many caves dotted the ridge. Each was a portal to the afterlife. Through each, the dead watched him. Places like these, at times like these, were powerful. Things passed between worlds in such places, and both worlds became different.
“See?” Panahasi said, pointing. “There is Ma’at in the stars. The feather of Ma’at. The balance. And there—there you can see the last light of Ra fading. The last of the sunset still lingering on the horizon. And above that. Do you see those three stars?”
Set nodded.
“That,” Panahasi continued, “is the belt of your brother. Do you see him? Do you see him raising his arm? He fights the ram. Do you see?”
“My brother is now a god.”
“You have created a new world, Lord Set. You have created a new world, and you say that you will kill yourself in the river. Look up! Do you see the river? Do you see the ribbon of stars?”
Panahasi swept his arms across the whole sky, as if plowing it all away. Set swallowed hard, imagining those stars gathering into a glowing mass at the edge of the priest’s arm as he pushed them from view. And there was a tight, dim group of them left. They burned far and cold, blue specks in the infinite black.
“Do you see?” Panahasi said. “That is Set, Lord of the Southern Sky.”
“I am a god,” Set whispered.
“Balance, Lord Set. There is the animal, and there is the man. And there will always be the animal and the man. This is the world that you have created.”
Panahasi lowered his gaze and smiled. The corners of his mouth rose so high that his nose, his ears, his eyes climbed upon his small face.
“Why do you smile?” Set asked. “Do you think that you will be my priest? You will control my gifts? I will not be controlled.”
“Nor they,” Panahasi said.
Down the slope, some distance to the south, campfires dotted the plain all to the way to the banks of the Nile and beyond. The river was a black snake through this camp, which seemed to grow as Set watched. More and more fires flared, and the encampment soon stretched as far as he could see. The fires were like the stars, a mirror of the night sky. Set moved forward, nearly falling down the gravelly slope. He strode across the plain, reaching the edge of the encampment in just several minutes. Panahasi was far behind, but running to catch up with Set. Set was bounding, his robes falling away and billowing. He was on all fours, heaving, the cool night air of the desert rushing through his fur and pinning his ears to his head. He raced through the crowd. They were peasants and slaves, soldiers, foreigners. Osiris had provided for them, but Set knew that he offered something that made more sense to them.
He arrived at the center of their camp. A bonfire reached to the stars. Men chanted, beat weapons against their chests, and bowed to his constellation. They promised blood and sacrifice, smoke and embers.
Set climbed the rippling heat of their bonfire. The flames singed his fur. His ears burnt away. He ascended to the stars but a frame of his physical self, but with the power of a god. It took him days to find his place in the black of the sky. All the while, they chanted and worshipped. As he watched them from his perch in the sky, he knew.
They would follow him.
They would carry his world to the son of Osiris.
J. P. MOORE writes in southern New Jersey—a long way from the settings of his novels and stories. He has fond memories of a childhood in the Jersey Pine Barrens, where endless tracks of mossy wilderness informed the spirit behind his fiction. Toothless, his first novel, won the ForeWord Book of the Year 2010 Gold Medal in Horror. Praised by critics and fans alike for its original spin on the zombie apocalypse, Publishers Weekly hails Toothless as “moving, intriguing, and highly entertaining.”
BACK IN THE DAY
Ryan T. McFadden
Vernon Archer slumped in his leather chair, listening as lawyers debated the usual topics: sorcery, slavery, drugs, magic, lycanthropy.
He just wanted to take a nap.
Twenty-five years ago, he was just another grunt fighting in the trenches for a slice of the pie. Now, he fought in the boardrooms for the whole pie. Fortune magazine listed Vernon Archer as the 179th highest paid CEO in the world. If he’d declared illegal holdings and transactions, he’d have rocketed into the top thirty.
The boardroom door hissed open and the room fell still—the door had been magically and mechanically locked; it shouldn’t have opened before their business was complete.
A small man stood in the doorway, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. LaFage, the Friendly. Vernon was suddenly very awake.
/> “Meeting’s adjourned,” Vernon said. When no one moved, “Now.” There was a flurry of papers stuffed in folders, briefcases shut, and electronic equipment beeping.
When they were alone, Archer said, “I thought you were dead, LaFage.”
LaFage placed a wooden four-inch box on the table.
“You owe me a favor, Vernon. I trust you haven’t forgotten?”
The favor given to him at the beginning. Before boardrooms, before suits. Back when Vernon was a nobody. He hadn’t forgotten the favor because how could he? It was the keystone of building his empire.
“What do you need?” Vernon asked, gaze tracing the perfect finger joints on the box. He wondered if there was a way to open it, like a puzzle box.
“You need to deliver this to a client.”
Vernon took the box, judged the weight. “What’s inside?”
“Confidential.”
“I don’t want to break the contents.”
“You won’t.”
“Where am I delivering it?”
“To Sam Hurst.”
The name scratched at Vernon’s memory. Perhaps an acquaintance from his past.
“I’m sure you understand,” LaFage continued, “this requires your services, and your services alone.”
“And where do I find Sam?”
“He’s somewhere in the city.” LaFage stood, straightening his ruffled shirt. “This must be delivered tonight.”
“Tonight? I’m an old man, LaFage. I don’t have the energy to find this Sam fellow. Let me make a call. I can have my best men deliver this within the hour.”
LaFage swept his hand at the board room, to the glistening glass windows, to the cherry conference table, to the leather executive chairs. “It appears that you have used my favor to its fullest potential.”
Vernon sighed. He knew better than to underestimate his visitor. The favor LaFage had granted twenty-five years ago was potent—the reason that Vernon was captain of the underworld. And yet, he knew his power paled next to LaFage who was driven by obscure motives like a demi-god out of a Greek tragedy.
Even more importantly, however, was that Vernon had been waiting for LaFage all these years, wondering when he’d come to collect. Vernon was a man who repaid his debts, and this was the last one. He was tired of the business. Tired of working. Tired of wearing suits. But every morning, the favor hung over him.
LaFage bowed graciously then shuffled from the boardroom.
Vernon stood, his back sore. He had to go back to the streets. Just like the old days.
Showtime.
He straightened, flexed his fingers, shook them to get the blood flowing. He parted his suit jacket, revealing the hip holsters carrying his twin SIG-Sauer P220 semi-automatic pistols with shortened barrels and slides. Newer models had hit the market, but these were the guns he’d used to get to the top. He wasn’t going to abandon them now.
Vernon took a couple of deep, even breaths.
With a quick motion, he reached for the pistol grips. The first 9mm twisted, then slipped off his finger and spun to the floor. Compensating, Vernon gripped the other too tightly. With a pop-pop-pop, he fired three bullets into one of the wall-to-floor windows. The glass exploded in a cloud of shards.
“Crap.”
He glanced around sheepishly before retrieving the pistol. Didn’t matter. All he needed to do was deliver one little box.
One small favor.
He probably wouldn’t need his 220s.
5
In the wardrobe at the back of his office, Vernon changed out of his William Fioravanti suit into street clothes; street clothes he’d worn twenty years and three inches ago. A Kenneth Cole double-layer sweater, $175; denim 5-pocket jeans $225; and ox-blood, cracked leather loafers, $235. He shrugged on a double-stitched leather jacket $875 to complete the outfit.
Then he typed his personal code into the secret drawer of his bathroom vanity. With a click, it popped open. Vernon reached in, grabbed the container, unscrewed the lid, and slathered the cream onto his face.
The cream was $625 an ounce in New York’s finest skin salons. Proven to remove wrinkles and signs of aging. Except no matter what skin creams or conditioners he used, the brown age spots on his hands and cheeks refused to retreat.
He judged himself in the mirror, turned sideways, sucked in his gut, let it back out, and sighed. He shut off the light. Vernon was always surprised at the old man staring back.
Vernon took the elevator to his limo in the parking garage. His driver, the Kid, opened the door for him.
“Where to tonight?” Kid asked.
“The Highwayman.”
“Where?”
Vernon sighed. Passed on the directions. How could a modern-day criminal not even know the location of the Highwayman?
As they drove across town, Vernon pulled the box from his jacket and studied it. Why did the name Sam Hurst sound familiar? No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall anything beyond a vague familiarity. He returned the box to his pocket.
The car crawled to a stop along a greasy sidewalk. The black glass partition slid down.
“You sure this is it?” the Kid asked.
“This is fine.”
Vernon Archer shifted from the limo, straightened his jacket, and took a deep breath. Perhaps he had grown a little soft over the years, his reflexes a little slower, but his mind was as sharp as ever.
“I won’t be long.” Vernon saw a flicker of confusion cross Kid’s face. “This isn’t about a woman. This is business.”
“I’ll follow.”
“Kid, I used to do this stuff for a living.”
Kid’s disbelief was apparent. Vernon was having a hard time believing it too.
The Highwayman Tavern was the place for information. If anything was going down, it could always be traced back to the Highwayman. And if someone needed to be found, no matter how deep they were, this was the place to start.
Vernon Archer pushed on the front door of the Highwayman.
Except here, wasn’t the Highwayman anymore.
A small bell tinkled above the door. The air smelled sweet, like sugar and honey.
A young woman was smiling at him, eyes blank as if possessed.
“Things have…changed,” Vernon said.
“Have they?” she said. “We had some renovations, but that was a year ago. We’ll get you settled in.”
She sat him at a booth, a ‘50s diner table with rounded metal edging, except this table doubled as an aquarium. Vernon gave a tap on the Plexiglas. The goldfish inside weren’t moving.
A family of four sat beside him, twin girls working on a deluxe sundae. In the booth across from him, a couple was on a date, taking turns feeding each other ice cream.
The woman with the dead gaze was smiling at him again.
“Our specials today are Three Cheers for Sundae and Field of Creams.” He wondered if she was a zombie, but her coloring looked a little too alive. Perhaps she was spawn.
“I need to talk to someone,” he said.
“At Tastes, there’s always a party.”
And she stood there.
Finally, Vernon turned his attention to the menu, picked the first one he saw. “I’ll have the Field of Creams.”
“My favorite!”
Then she was gone.
He felt a twinge of something. Regret? Nostalgia? The ultimate den of villainy had been transformed into a family dessert bar. No matter, he didn’t have time for this. Vernon knew another place, a little further away, a little more dangerous.
The Cage.
He flipped open his cell phone, hit Kid’s number.
“This is a dead end, Kid. I need you to pick me up.” He paused as the Field of Creams was placed in front of him. A plate awash in vanillas, white creams, strawbe
rries, and angel cakes.
“Give me five minutes.”
5
The Cage was tucked away between dumpsters at the end of an alley cordoned by barbed wire. Vernon squeezed through a cut in the fencing, the ice cream and cake churning in his gut. Maybe he shouldn’t have eaten the whole thing. Too late for regrets.
The building could’ve been a box factory, or a slaughterhouse, or a warehouse. Except for the Minotaur who stood beside the open door, arms crossed.
Beyond him, laser lights and drum beats poured into the alley.
The Minotaur snorted and barred the way.
“Where’s Norm?” Vernon asked.
The minotaur rolled its head, then replied, “Huuuooohar.”
“Right. Well, the name’s Vernon Archer. I should be on your list.”
“Huuuahaaroo.”
“Look, buddy, I’m always on the list. I’m on every list.”
Vernon tried pushing past but a massive hand clutched his chest. Vernon swayed backwards and used the Minotaur’s momentum against him. Eight hundred pounds of bovine slammed into the concrete. Vernon tapped his pistol against the Minotaur’s temple.
“Is there going to be trouble?”
The Minotaur narrowed his eyes, did the math, then shook his head. Vernon straightened, holstered his pistol, and extended his hand. Except when the Minotaur took the offer, his immense weight caused Vernon’s back to pop.
The Minotaur dusted himself off, then thumbed Vernon inside.
“Thanks, chum.” Vernon stood there, afraid his back would give out completely. So he breathed deeply, tried to bury the discomfort, and wobbled into the cacophony of the Cage.
No ice cream here.
The crack of a cue ball cut through the din of conversation washing over cheap tin roofing and exposed asbestos insulation. A permanent haze clung to light bulbs dangling from the ceiling.
He smelt fermenting piss, beer, and vomit. It was good to be back.
Six trolls played Russian Roulette with a .44 Magnum. One troll was already on the ground, his brains splashed across the floor.
Vernon made his way to the bar.
Despite indigestion and a strained back, he felt good, leaning against the bar, foot up on the railing. He avoided staring at the shattered backbar mirror. It threw a thousand reflections, and in every one, Vernon still looked old. But standing there made him feel younger—like back in the day.
When the Villian Comes Home Page 32