by H G Lynch
When the microwave pinged, I took out the bottle and squirted a little of the milk onto my hand, testing it. It was just warm enough. I turned around, and saw Ruairidh holding Peter by his ankles. The first time I’d seen him do that, I’d almost had a heart attack, but this time, I just smiled. Peter was giggling happily, clearly ecstatic with the game.
Ruairidh’s eyes flicked to me. “I think your baby bro is going to be a daredevil when he grows up. He really seems to like this.”
Setting the bottle on the table, I held out my arms to take him back. Ruairidh turned him right side up and moved to hand him over, but Peter wasn’t having any of it. He gripped Ruairidh’s t-shirt and scowled at me. I rolled my eyes.
“Why is it that my brother seems to like everyone more than he likes me?” I muttered.
Ruairidh snorted. “I know the feeling.”
He had a point.
“Here. Pass me the bottle. I’ll feed him.” He sat down, settling Peter on his lap.
I slid him the bottle. He picked it up and held it in front of Peter, tipping it toward his puckered little mouth. Peter turned his head away, pressing his lips together stubbornly. Ruairidh moved the bottle and tried again, but the result was the same.
I sighed. “I’ll do it. He can be a pain. He is hungry, but he just won’t take the bottle until you—”
“Hang on, let me try something.” Ruairidh righted the bottle, holding it within Peter’s grasp. With a grunt, Peter clasped the bottle in both tiny hands and tried to tip it toward his mouth. Ruairidh held the end of the bottle, steadying it as Peter put the dummy end in his mouth and suckled eagerly. Ruairidh glanced at me and shrugged. “According to my mum, I was the same way when I was a baby. I always wanted to do everything by myself, wouldn’t accept help. Guess I haven’t changed much, huh?”
I slumped into my seat and put my head on the table. “Oh my God. Why didn’t I think of that? I wondered why he kept fighting me when I knew he was thirsty. Crap.”
“Hey,” Ruairidh said softly. “Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. You’re doing a great job with him. Not a lot of teenagers could do what you’re doing, taking care of a baby on their own.”
I raised my head but kept my gaze on the table. I sniffled. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Listen, if you ever . . .”
He paused, and I looked at him. He frowned, his gaze on the baby in his arms, happily slurping away at his bottle.
“Ever what?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Never mind. Stupid idea.”
“No, tell me.”
He sighed. “I was just going to say, if you ever need help looking after him . . . I mean, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do, not while I’m grounded. And I’m pretty sure Mum would let me out if I told her I was helping you. But . . . never mind. It was just an idea. I mean, you’ve got Angus, and he’s probably better at this stuff than I am.”
He glanced at me, and I was pretty sure he was blushing. “No,” I blurted. “I mean, it’s a great idea. I mean, I’d appreciate the help. Um . . . thanks.”
His smile was a little crooked, a little shy, totally unlike his normal cocky grin. I smiled back, feeling sort of shy myself.
** Ruairidh **
Almost as soon I got home and collapsed on my bed, my bedroom door swung open and Angus glared at me from the hallway.
“How did your session with Islay go?” he asked, his voice hard.
I shrugged. “Fine.”
His eyes narrowed. “Fine?” he repeated sceptically.
I nodded, bending over to unlace my boots. “Yup.” I felt his glower burning into the top of my skull, and I looked up, sighing. “What were you expecting to hear, Angus? That we had wild sex in her Dad’s bed while her baby brother slept in his crib?” From his expression, that was almost exactly what he’d expected. I ran a hand through my hair. “Christ, Angus, I’m not a fucking animal. And even if I was, you should trust your girlfriend more than that.”
At that, his glower faltered, and a flicker of guilt passed over his face. I thought about what Islay had told me—or rather, what I’d guessed and she hadn’t denied. Part of me wanted to rub it in Angus’s face that I knew the truth that she and him weren’t actually together, that he was busted. But another part of me, the part that still felt bad about the bruises on my brother’s face, told me to keep my mouth shut.
“Yeah, well,” Angus muttered. “I trust her. I don’t trust you, and I know how good you are at getting what you want. No matter who it hurts. You’re a selfish bastard that way.”
I blinked, aware that he wasn’t talking about Islay anymore. I remembered being thirteen years old, right before Dad and I left for Ireland, and I remembered Angus begging me with tears in his eyes not to go. He’d begged me to stay with him and Mum. Dad had even said I should stay with them, that it would be better for me that way, but I’d been stubborn. I’d pitched a fit until he gave in and agreed to take me with him.
I remembered watching Angus standing with Mum on the porch as we drove away, the misery on his face mingled with the beginnings of the anger he now held toward me.
He was right; I was a selfish bastard. But then, I already knew that. I’d almost forgotten it until recently. The thing that reminded me was Islay—the fact that I wanted her when I shouldn’t. Even if they weren’t together, it was obvious my brother really liked her, maybe even was in love with her. I had no right to want what was his, or to try to take her from him. But hell, I really wanted Islay for myself.
Maybe the best way to start to fix things with my brother was to do the first unselfish thing I’d ever done in my life and help him and Islay get together for real. Even if it would make me sick to my stomach to do it.
“You’re right,” I mumbled.
Angus frowned at me in confusion. “What?”
I levelled my gaze on his. “I said, you’re right. I am a selfish bastard. I went with Dad when we were kids because I wanted to be a warrior like him. I didn’t think about how you and Mum would feel. I didn’t care. Would I take it back if I could? No, probably not. I am a warrior. It’s who I am. But maybe I could’ve at least come and visited once in a while. I left you behind, both of you, and now look at us, Angus. I mean, come on, we had a punch-up in the hallway, for Christ’s sake! Maybe if I’d at least visited, things would be different.”
Angus stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. I could hardly blame him. It was the closest thing to an apology I’d ever made. Nonplussed, he lost some of his tension and said, “Yeah. Maybe they would be.”
I shrugged. “Hindsight is a bitch. You think maybe we can have a truce? At least until our bruises heal up.”
He squinted at me as if trying to figure out what the punch line was. But I was sincere, and he seemed to know it. Finally, he nodded.
“Yeah, sure . . . just as soon as hell freezes over.” He slammed the door as he left.
I rubbed my temples. I was getting a headache.
Well, I tried, I told myself. Now whatever happens is his own fault.
Chapter Fourteen
** Ruairidh **
That night, I lay in bed wide-awake, almost trembling with impatience as I waited for Angus to go to sleep. Mum was already in bed, and she was a heavy sleeper. Dad used to say that she wouldn’t wake up even if a demon bit her on the nose. Angus was another story. My brother had always been a restless sleeper. When we’d been really young, he‘d crawl into my bed and sleep next to me because that was the only way he’d been able to settle.
I could hear him speaking in his room, his voice low, and I assumed he was on the phone to Islay, making sure I really hadn’t tried to get naked with her during our study session. I stared at the ceiling, clenching and unclenching my fists on the edge of the duvet, wishing he’d go to sleep already.
Somehow, I must’ve dozed off, because the next time I opened my eyes, the house was silent. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table, and it told me it was almost half
past midnight. I’d dropped off for a little over half an hour. Slithering out of bed, I was already fully dressed, and I opened my bedroom door a crack and peered into the hallway. The gap under Angus’s door was dark—he’d finally gone to sleep.
I crawled back to bed and waited another half an hour, just to make sure he was really asleep, and then went to my wardrobe. I knelt down and pulled up the loose panel at the bottom, revealing my stash of knives and a couple of guns. I could shoot well enough, but I preferred using knives because gunshots drew attention, which I really didn’t need. The cops already suspected me of pulling a knife on a woman, although I hadn’t heard from them in a couple of weeks, so I thought I might be off the hook for that one. Still, better safe than sorry.
Pulling out a couple of my favourite knives and some leather holsters, I strapped a hunting knife to my right thigh on top of my black jeans, fixed my normal dagger to my leg in its ankle sheath, and attached another knife to my tattooed forearm for good measure. Normally, I wouldn’t carry that much weaponry for a Lesser Demon hunt, but without my sword, I might need the backup.
I took a second to curse Angus once again for hiding my sword, and then went to the window. I slid it up and leaned out, peering down at the ground two storeys below, and had a flashback to the night Dad was killed. I met the demon’s glowing hellfire eyes. It leaned forward, clinging to the window frame, and hissed at me. Then it turned and leaped out the window into the raging storm.
With a curse, I ran to the window, ignoring the blood I stepped in, and stared down at the ground. The demon was crouched on the grass below, its red eyes glaring up at me, teeth flashing in the rain. It didn’t think I would chase it. I was on the second floor of the house—it was a long drop, dangerous, especially since I was bare-footed and carrying my sword. I could easily break a leg.
I put one foot up on the wet sill, regardless of the shards of glass cutting into my flesh, and launched myself out the window into the night. The wind whistled past my ears as I fell straight downward, so fast my stomach lodged in my throat. I hit the ground hard.
I shuddered, shoving the memory away, and swayed slightly against the windowsill. Keep it together, Ruairidh, I told myself. I sucked in a couple of slow, deep breaths, and threw myself out of the window before I could panic any more. The meeting with the ground jolted my knees, and I rolled in the grass, absorbing some of the impact and turning it into momentum as I sprang to my feet on the edge of the pavement.
Gasping, I looked back up at my open window, waiting to see if anyone had heard the impact and would come and investigate. But my room stayed dark and empty. I looked down, adjusted my blades, and then took off sprinting along the road in search of a demon while the rest of the town slept on, blissfully unaware of what was lurking in the night.
The stench of the demon’s nest was just as bad the second time around, and I fought not to choke on the stink, lest I make a noise and wake the monster. I knew it was home because the instant I stepped into the wrecked, disgusting apartment through the window I’d jimmied open, my instincts started screaming at me, and the hairs rose on the back of my neck. I stood just inside the window, trying to get my bearings and waiting for my throat to stop spasming from the smell.
The room was even darker than when I’d come in the daytime. My eyes could only adjust so much, so I pulled out the tiny key-chain LCD light I kept in my pocket and shone its faint white beam into the room, sliding the dagger from my wrist sheath into my hand in case the demon lunged out of the shadows to attack me.
With the miniature torch, I got a clear view of the mess of the flat, and it seemed as if there was fresh blood on the walls. That made my stomach churn, and pounding rage seeped in behind my eyes. I couldn’t stand the thought that the monster had killed again while I’d been playing house with Islay, or arguing with my brother, or doing fucking homework.
Gagging on the bitter taste of guilt and the spicy burn of rage, I shifted further into the room, carefully stepping around piles of demon faeces and scraps of human flesh, broken shards of glass and splintered wood from the smashed furniture. If I looked closely, I could see pieces of shattered bones amongst the wreckage, as well as torn shreds of clothing.
As I slid silently through the dark apartment, I listened for sounds of movement, keeping my breathing shallow and quiet. The place was silent, but the alarm bells in my head were blaring, sending jolts of panic down my spine. I swung the mini-torch around the wrecked kitchen, peered into the open bedroom just to make sure there weren’t any other demons lurking about, and returned to the living room. I shined my light into the corner where I’d seen the demon’s bedding last time, and the light reflected off the slick spikes on the demon’s head. It was curled up, naked, and fast asleep amongst the pile of torn bedding and human remains.
Too easy. This is way too easy, I thought, twirling my blade anxiously in my sweaty palm. This felt like a trap, like the second I got too close to the demon it would spring up and snap my neck. I shined the light over it again, but it didn’t twitch. It really seemed to be asleep.
I approached it cautiously, keeping the small torch pointed at the ground in front of my feet, making sure I didn’t step on any broken bits of bone. When I got close enough, I could see the small spikes that ran all from the base of the demon’s skull and down its spine. For the most part, the body was similar to a human’s, spikes and claws aside, but it lacked genitals of any kind—sort of like a really ugly Ken doll.
Staring down at the demon, I shifted my feet apart and lifted my blade, ready to drive it into the chink between spikes in the back of the Catchi’s neck. But before I could bring the dagger down, the demon’s eyes flicked open, reflective yellow pools glaring up at me. I swore and leapt backward, but the Catchi’s arm shot out and grabbed my leg, pulling my feet out from under me. I hit the ground on my back, shards of bone and glass digging into my shoulder blades. The wind was knocked out of me, my dagger flying out of my hand, and I wheezed as I scrambled to reach for the blade.
The Catchi loomed up in front of me and grinned, its fangs dripping venom. Then it brought one clawed foot down on my reaching hand, its curved toenails sinking into my wrist, and I cried out in pain. I glared up at it and yanked the hunting knife from the sheath on my thigh, slicing it cleanly through the demon’s calf. It howled and hobbled back as the lower half of its leg hung on by a few threads of muscle. I’d cut through the bone.
Pulling the dismembered foot free of my hand, I tossed it aside and rolled to my feet, blood leaking down my fingers and dripping onto the floor. I knew I had to move fast because Catchi could regenerate limbs. I hadn’t crippled it for long. All I’d done was really piss it off. The neon green blood gushing from its severed leg was already slowing, the stump already knitting flesh to bone and stretching out.
Without waiting for it to heal any more, I lunged while it was still off balance. I crashed into it at the waist, tackling it to the ground. We skidded along the wreckage-strewn floor and slammed into the wall. The demon scrambled to shove me off, its claws raking my arm, but I ignored the flare of agony and brought my blade down in a vicious arc, ramming it hilt deep in the demon’s throat. Green blood sprayed over me as I yanked the knife to the side, ripping open the Catchi’s neck.
The monster’s eyes widened, its mouth opening to display brown fangs the length of my pinkie finger, but the only sound that came out was a faint gurgling. Breathing hard, dripping blood—both its and mine—I started to get up, but the demon grabbed my arm, and with one last surge of energy, head-butted me in the stomach. I gasped as I felt the poisonous spikes drive into my gut and stumbled backward, clutching a hand over the wound.
The Catchi went limp, finally dead, but I couldn’t enjoy the success because it had just condemned me to death along with it. “Fuck,” I wheezed, already feeling the venom going to work, the acid eating at my insides.
I needed to get out of there. I’d dropped my LED torch somewhere during the fight, but I found my
other dagger and tucked it away in my wrist sheath. I wiped my hunting knife off on my jeans and shoved it back into my thigh sheath. Then I fumbled my lighter out of my pocket, lit it, and set fire to the pile of rags in the corner. The flames leapt hungrily, spreading fast, engulfing the demon’s body. I didn’t worry about burning the whole building down—someone would call the fire brigade. They always did.
As I stumbled my way to the open window, choking on smoke and sulphur, my head spun with a wave of dizziness. I slammed into the windowsill and hauled myself over it, shutting the window behind me. I pressed harder on the holes in my stomach, bunching my t-shirt around the wound, aware that I couldn’t afford to leak blood at the scene of a fire or the cops would pin me for arson.
I scrambled down the fire escape and dropped onto the dumpster below, groaning at the pain of impact with the lid, and rolled onto the stinking alley ground. Nausea rolled through me, my vision blurring, but I ran as fast as I could out of the alley and toward home.
I was almost home when I heard the sirens of a fire engine and knew someone had called the brigade. Good.
Stopping outside my house, I looked up at my open window, and knew I wouldn’t be climbing back in that way. I swore and searched in the letterbox, where Mum always kept a spare house key. I found the key, but it took my shaking hands three tries to jam the key in the lock and turn. The door swung open, and I stumbled up the stairs, not caring if I made a racket. My gut was on fire, sweat dribbling down my face, agony making it almost impossible to walk.
I had only one chance of surviving this. If he would help me.
I slammed my fist into my brother’s bedroom door repeatedly until the door swung open. Angus was shirtless and wearing boxer shorts, his hair a mess and circles under his eyes. He glared the second he saw me.