The young girl who had been driving this motley crew on the road to disaster finally spoke. Her voice was soft and lilting and sounded rather like a song. “Can you tell us something?” she asked. Her little sister was pressed into her side, not crying just listening. Her eyes were vacant and empty, and I realized that the little urchin was blind and had not witnessed any of the terror that had left her little brother a blubbery mess.
“Sure,” I replied. “What do you want to know?” I expected her to ask me where I was from, who my parents were, and all of that assorted mortal gobbledygook.
Her eyes were green and bright, the color of fresh growth in the spring. “Can you tell us if the monster is gone?”
When the girl used the word monster, my heart sank, and I felt a strange empathy for this group. Monsters come in all shapes and sizes. The little boy had stopped snuffling, and was looking for me to answer, his lip still quivering. The truth of the matter was that the Bogeyman was like any other immortal and would eventually regenerate itself. Garlic’s bark had caused such damage that it might literally take years for the creature to reassemble itself. Or not, I really did not know.
“Yes, it is,” I lied, avoiding another volley of tears and snot.
“Forever?”
I paused. I had not seen that coming. “You saw what Garlic did to it. It is gone.” For a while, at least, I hoped.
For seemingly the first time in her entire life, the oldest girl looked like the weight of the world had been lifted from her tiny shoulders. “My family has been hunted by that monster for centuries,” she said. “We were cursed by a witch who was rejected by one of my ancestors. When he married another, she cursed our family to have the Bogeyman hunt us until the last ones were dead. It got my older brother a fortnight ago. And without you and the dog, we would have been surely doomed.”
My brow furrowed. Bogeymen did not obey witches or anything else for that matter. They were attracted to fear, and this family must have been able to project their emotions in ways most mortals could not. Over the centuries, the Bogeyman legend had taken on a life of its own with this family, and as each generation dreaded it more and more, the stronger the fear got. “You are fine now,” I said, hoping I was right. “What are your names?”
The oldest smiled at me. “My name is Veela,” she said. “This little sweetie is Marmitte.” She motioned to the girl still hugging her side. “And that is Jova next to you.”
I estimated Marmitte was about ten years old and that Jova looked to be about seven or eight. Jova had big gray eyes that had the look of wisdom despite his youth. When he fixed his gaze upon me in greeting, he reminded me of a great horned owl because his dark hair was streaked with tufts of red. “Hello, mate,” Jova said, a finger stuck firmly in his nose. “Can I pet the puppy?”
“Her name is Garlic,” I said. “And, yes, you may.”
The children descended upon Garlic and petted her, and to her credit Garlic ignored the booger fingers on her fur and took a place curled up in the back of the wagon. “Sirio,” Jova said. “I love Garlic.”
I laughed and grabbed the reins, urging the horses forward. “So do I, Jova. So do I.”
Veela and I made small talk until the little ones fell asleep in the back of the wagon, and then Veela, exhausted by her ordeal, joined them. As the sun rose in the sky, I pulled up to Harvis’s farm. I spotted Harvis digging fence posts and pulled up beside him.
He stuck the shovel into the ground and eyed the wagon. “Nice wheels, Sirio,” he said. “The flowers are a nice touch. And by the smell of them, you have brought me some company.” He walked over and put his big hands on the side of the wagon and peered in at the sleeping children. “Nice litter you got there.”
I sniffed the air. “You should talk,” I said. “Clearly, you have been laying too much manure lately because it sure smells like we are knee-deep in the stuff.” Just then, a stocky farmhand who looked to be as old as the dirt he was carrying hove into view. And like a cloud of carrion, the stench got worse. Perhaps it was manure he was carrying. But I soon realized that was not the case. “Who is Stinky there?”
Harvis laughed. “Who? Old Man Tyler over there? Best worker I have had in at least a century.”
I sniffed the air again. “And that is probably the last time he had himself a bath of any sort. How old is that fellow?”
Harvis shrugged. “He is Molly’s distant, distant cousin. And his mother was a gnome. He is not really that old. He just looks that way. And when he started working here and had to go into town all the time, the mortals started calling him Old Man Tyler, and it just stuck.” He saw the look of glee on my face when he told me old short and stinky was related to Molly. Molly and I had always clashed for some reason. Okay, for a sisterly reason, but that was not my fault. “Do me a favor, don’t mention that little fact, eh?”
“Sure thing, but in a remarkable bit of coincidence, I need you to do me a favor,” I said. “I am going to Immortal Divorce Court, and I need you to watch Garlic.”
Harvis spat and ruffled the fur around Garlic’s neck. She nipped at his fingers playfully. “You can try and leave her with me, but you know she will try to follow you.”
“If I travel by crystal, she won’t be able to scent me,” I said.
He raised one furry eyebrow. “That is what you think,” he said. “Trust me, she will find a way. Why are you going there anyway? You have never been married, have you?”
I laughed. “I didn’t think I had, but apparently I am mistaken.”
“Must have been a good night.”
“Not exactly,” I grimaced. “And I need another favor.”
Harvis began backing away from the wagon, sensing where the conversation was headed. “Oh no,” he said. “The dog is okay, the mortal whelps are not. I just got rid of my last litter.”
“Who cannot stay here, Harvis Finnegan?” I turned to see Harvis’s mate, Molly, with her hands on her hips. She was nearly as tall as Harvis, but instead of his muscle and girth, had long shapely legs and arms that literally made the werewolf by the wagon whistle. Or perhaps Harvis was exhaling a little too hard, knowing what was about to happen next. No female werewolf could resist a litter, mortal or immortal.
Molly walked over to the wagon, and her angry eyes softened into limpid pools as she saw the sleeping children slowly stirring awake in the morning sun. “Oh, they are so beautiful,” she cooed. “They must stay with us, Harvis.”
“But, Molly,” Harvis protested.
“But, nothing, Harvis Finnegan,” she snapped. “We can’t very well leave them with the likes of him.”
“Hey, Molly,” I said. “I said I was sorry. I didn’t know she was your little sister.”
A low growl emanated from Molly’s throat, and Harvis did what any fierce werewolf would do and slowly backed away. I was saved from her wrath by Jova waking up crying, causing Molly to scoop him up in her arms. “It’s okay, honey,” she said, her voice sweet and soft. “Are you hungry? I have breakfast.” Marmitte and Veela were awakened by their brother’s cry.
Veela looked at Harvis and Molly, trying to assess if they were a threat to her and her siblings, or not. “They are friends,” I said. “Good people.”
“Good people, indeed,” Veela agreed.
“I am hungry,” Marmitte announced. “And I have to pee.”
Molly took her by the hand, and they all followed her into the farmhouse. I looked up to see Harvis shaking his head in disbelief.
“Well, that worked out great,” I said. “Thanks for watching Garlic. Now, how about that breakfast?”
I survived breakfast, avoiding Molly’s wrath for the most part because the children’s needs came before her dislike for me, aside from the bowl of stew that she “accidentally” dropped in my lap. Garlic pounced quickly and put the stew out of its misery to the children’s amusement. Harvis merely snickered,
knowing it was not in his best interest to get involved in this little spat. “She’ll be okay,” he said. “She forgets her own full moon days.” It did not matter to Molly that it was her sister that was the aggressor in our little tryst, and who was I to refuse the wiles of a willing, wild-in-the-sheets werewolf? I did not know what Harvis meant by full moon days, and assumed he meant taking her in the ass. Molly’s sister and I had coupled on the darkest of nights with but a sliver of moonlight shining down upon us, and little sis was more about putting me into her crescent rather than her full moon, which was quite all right by me!
The children took to Molly naturally, and for the first time I could see Veela was relaxed and comfortable. I told Harvis all about the Bogeyman, and he assured me what I already knew—no bogeyman was a match for a full-grown male werewolf. Harvis was almost seven feet tall and well muscled in his mortal form. But when he was suitably enraged, he was a sight to behold, seemingly growing bigger, hairier, and more deadly. I had only seen this happen once, and it didn’t end well for the poor chap that Harvis had thought grabbed Molly’s ass. As it turned out Harvis had imbibed a few dozen ales and assaulted the wrong man, who I understand they buried with his hand still shoved up his own ass. It was just bad luck to tangle with a werewolf. But all this was a distant memory to Harvis, because he instead made a joke that Garlic and her powerful bark would be around to protect him, except from Molly.
Harvis and I stood off to the side, watching the children play with Molly. Garlic raced around the barnyard nipping happily at Jova’s heels, causing him to shriek with utter joy. “How long are you going to let them stay here?” I asked. “Surely, they have some relatives somewhere that will claim them.”
Harvis shrugged, looking at the joy in Molly’s face. “They will stay as long as she wants, thanks to you,” he answered, playfully punching my shoulder. “If this keeps up, I know that look in her eye. She will want another litter. And I am going to name the runt after you!”
“Well, it is high time I get this nonsense over with and go to the Immortal Divorce Court,” I said, cinching up my pack. It seemed like a good time to make my exit as Garlic was so preoccupied with the children. I slipped out of her sight and into the barn. Harvis followed me.
“I think that little puppy of yours is going to find a way to follow you even if she has to travel halfway across the earth to do so,” he said.
I laughed and, reaching into my pocket, picked out a handful of crystals. “Exploding barks are one thing. Willing yourself across the world is quite another,” I replied. “Give my regards to Molly.” I picked out a crystal and dropped the rest back in my pocket, not noticing that I had dropped one on the barn floor. There was a strange pulling sensation as I focused on my destination, and then Harvis and the barn disappeared. The last thing I heard before the barn disappeared and the coastline of Greece appeared was the forlorn howl of a heartbroken Maltese.
Immortal Divorce Court is in a nondescript village located on the Peloponnese peninsula in southern Greece. I had a three-hour trek on a dusty road leading deeper into the peninsula. I stopped for a quick lunch off the road, finding a rock outcropping overlooking the Gulf of Corinth which was well hidden by a thick stand of trees. After a moment of peace to collect my thoughts, I was on my way again. About a dozen times, I thought I saw Garlic out of the corner of my eye, but it was only the reflection of the sun off gleaming bits of quartz in the rocks. I could see the IDC village up ahead, an ominous dark cloud behind it seemingly a permanent part of the landscape. I knew the cloud masked the Gates of Hell and the screams of the lost souls it contained. I walked up to the gates of the village and was confronted with a gap-toothed faerie guardsman posted to keep out the riffraff and the mortals.
“Your papers,” he said, yawning in his boredom.
I handed over the papers. He read them and laughed excitedly. “She must really hate you to have hired Feminera the Wicked.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Who is Feminera the Wicked?” He kept laughing, ignoring my plight. I bared my fangs and drew my sword and was instantly surrounded by ten of his ilk. I sighed and sheathed my blade. “Can I have my papers back?”
He threw them to me. “Who’s your counselor?”
I shrugged. “I have come here to find one.”
“Good luck with that.”
The faeries jostled each other and winked. This was not going to go well, I thought.
The faerie smiled at his cohorts. “Fine, go into the center of town, where you will find the courthouse. To the left of the courthouse is an inn. Go to the bar, and you will find plenty of attorneys there. Hold on one second. Sirio Sinestra, by the power vested in me by the Immortal Divorce Court, you are hereby referred.”
The same rainbow that had come from Buttercup’s seal shot from the guard’s sword and struck my money pouch, magically lightening it by ten gold coins. “Whoa, whoa, I have been served already, so why are you people taking my gold?” I exclaimed.
The faerie could barely contain his glee. “That was not a service fee, my friend. That was a referral fee for telling you where you can find your attorney—nonrefundable of course, assuming you can even find one to take your case. You asked, the IDC provided, you paid the ten gold coins, so now you may pass.”
As I walked through the gates of the village, my nose was assaulted with the unmistakable scent of brimstone, and I knew I was right outside the Gates of Hell. I was joined by other immortal men plodding forlornly along as they held their soon-to-be-empty gold pouches close. Behind the courthouse, I could hear the wails of demons and see the flames flickering from deep below. A nearby inn had a sign that read “The Golden Rule,” with a picture of the scales of justice weighing gold equally on both sides. “He who has the gold makes the rules,” read the inscription. Lawyers. Maybe I really was in Hell after all.
I pulled the heavy oaken door open and entered the inn, feeling one hundred eyes upon me, each judging me instantly as prey, threat, foe, or potential client. I stood my ground, baring my fangs slightly, and let the door slam shut behind me. The inn’s many tables seemed to be mostly filled with litigants and their lawyers doing business over tankards of frothy brew and flagons of wine. Smoke filled the air with the stench of tobacco and clove, combining nicely with the unmistakable twin odors of desperation and despair as I shouldered my way toward the bar at the other end of the room.
I was no creature’s prey and boldly met the gaze of immortals of all kinds who dared to stare at me as I passed, including some creatures that I couldn’t even identify. If only, once again, I had gone to Barcelona to see Hedley Edrick, I might know just what in the Hell, or more accurately what just outside of Hell, I was looking at. On a plaque behind the bar was a sign that read “Make sure the screwing you get is worth the screwing you get.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and hoped I was going to find my attorney here. If I didn’t, I was surely screwed.
Tending the bar was a satyr well up in years, limping from customer to customer on hooves that were chipped and dirty. His thick spectacles were perched precariously on his long nose, and he kept wiping his hands on a tunic on his humanoid half that had been stained by drinks for the better part of eternity. His lower goat half was mangy, gray, and thinning, and his spindly legs were atrophied from his time tending bar. This guy had been long sent out to pasture. “What will you have?” he bleated in my general direction, his eyes not truly focusing on anything.
“Your finest wine, good sir,” I replied.
He either coughed or laughed. I could not tell which. “We have no fine wine here for the likes of you, vampire.” I’d had enough of insults this day, and before I knew it, my hand was around his throat. The patrons of the bar ignored what was happening in front of them, except for the one werewolf who took the barkeep’s predicament as an opportunity to come behind the bar to top off his beer, and he merely nodded at us. “No,” the barkeep uttered as my hand began sque
ezing his throat even harder. “You do not understand.”
“Understand what?”
He motioned to my hand, and I loosened my grip. “Tell me what, then, you ignorant goat.”
The satyr rubbed his throat gingerly. “The finest wines have been reserved for the attorneys by rule of the Immortal Divorce Court. Only they may partake of this world’s finest beverages. I can, however, offer you a nice one-year-old port newly in the cask.”
“No, thanks,” I replied. “That does not seem fair at all. Why do the attorneys get the good stuff?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But shortly after Feminera the Wicked was admitted to practice before the Immortal Divorce Court, the Head Magistrate deemed it so.”
“Feminera the Wicked?”
The satyr shuddered. “Yes, she is the worst, most diabolical, most evil, most overwhelmingly unpleasant divorce attorney known to immortal man. A true nightmare to face in court, and she has gotten so utterly bloodthirsty that no magistrate wants to rule against her, and no attorney wants to oppose her. Now, who is representing your ex?”
“That would be Feminera the Wicked,” I said. The room instantly went silent, and one little elf shrieked and collapsed in a heap on the floor. The collective group of immortals raised their drinks to me in a showing of fraternity and outright pity. “To the vampire,” one yelled out. “May he leave this place with a single gold coin in his pocket and his manhood safe in his breeches.”
“To the vampire,” the room cheered in unison, downing their drinks and returning to their business. The little elf was revived with a splash of grog and propped back up by his tablemates. Embarrassed, he pulled his hat low over his little pointy ears and focused only on the drink in front of him. I turned to see the satyr pouring me a drink from an ornate cask into a fine crystal goblet edged with gold.
My Ex-Wife Said Go to Hell Page 4