by Sam Hooker
"Not long now," Mrs. Knife said through a clenched grin. She gripped the knife firmly, holding it inches from her own face, pointed at Greta's. "Your precious Vlad will watch you die. Count on it!"
She turned and walked away, sheathing her knife as she went. Her footsteps faded away, and then silence took a turn at running the conversation for a bit. It was a thick sort of silence, one that had no respect for personal space. It got right in Sloot's face and dared him to say something. Sloot, who had never risen to a dare in his life, remained silent.
Greta remained in her defiant pose long after Mrs. Knife had left, perhaps to ensure that she was really gone before she sagged to the rotten-straw-covered stone floor to consider the psychopath's threat.
"That was unusual," she said after a while, at which point the thick silence slunk off into the shadows, with an urgency that implied it was late for ruining another conversation.
"Right," said Sloot. "It definitely stood apart from her usual death threats. You're taking it rather well." So am I, though Sloot, who generally responded to threats of any sort with all-out panic. He was panicking, to be sure, but perhaps only half-out.
"She's going to kill me or she isn't," said Greta. "Crying out about it won't change the outcome."
That was a lot for Sloot to take in. While his ideas about the operations of the world around him were challenged on a fairly regular basis, the concept of panic and worry being utterly useless hit particularly close to home. Perhaps now, more than ever, he desperately wished for a long soak in a hot tub.
"Her little meltdown," Greta continued, "what do you think she meant about 'the Dark?'"
"Er, well, it's dark in here."
"Yes, but that's not what she said. She said 'the Dark,' like ... proper dark."
"The Dark," said Sloot, as properly as possible. "Nope, doesn't ring any bells. What are you doing?"
"Looking," said Greta.
"Looking," Sloot repeated.
"For some Dark," said Greta, pronouncing the word very properly again. "Mrs. Knife is the Eye of the Serpent now. They're involved in all sorts of evil, I imagine."
"I try not to."
"Imagine?"
"Generally, yes."
"That's sort of ... sad."
"Oh, I dunno," Sloot shrugged. "I think it's cozy, living with the world the way it is. No surprises."
"What about that?"
"What about what?"
"That bit over there." Greta was pointing to a particularly dark corner near the ceiling. Sloot wasn't exactly sure what he was looking at, or for, but he had to agree that it was particularly dark.
"I don't recall her having stabbed in that direction," said Sloot.
"Perhaps not," said Greta. "You were right about the other thing, though."
"I was?"
"Directions to Carpathia. You go far enough to the north, and there you are. There's a road from the northern gate of Salzstadt that leads right to it."
Sloot remembered all too well. It didn't matter that he was a Carpathian himself, or that he'd been there, sat at Vlad the Invader's table as her guest, and had his first kiss there. A lifetime of having been professionally fear-mongered by the Ministry of Propaganda left him quivering at the very mention of the cannibal-ridden vortex of depravity to the north. Even in this mouldering dungeon, he found himself giving thanks for the Domnitors that came before the current one, long may he reign, for having built the great wall at Salzstadt's northern border.
“Ow.”
“Hmmm?”
“Nothing. Well, not nothing. Probably someone trying to summon me, but they can’t pull me out of this lamp.”
“Spirits trapped in lamps.” Greta scoffed. “Gregor’s work, I’m sure. He's an odd duck.”
“I can’t argue with that. We’ve got our own necromancer now, though.”
“What? You can’t trust necromancers, Sloot! What were you thinking?”
“It sounded reasonable when Agather suggested it.”
“Agather … from the Witchwood?”
Sloot nodded. Then he remembered he was just a grey flame in a lamp and said “yes.”
“So a witch told you to cozy up to a necromancer, and you thought it sounded reasonable.”
“At the time,” Sloot squirmed. “It was for Nicoleta, mostly. Living people’s magic doesn’t work for her now.”
“Hmmm. Well, you’ve got me there.”
That was the last thing that Sloot wanted. Winning arguments was not his forte, and he didn’t love the idea of learning how to deal with the responsibilities that went with being right. He countered with the classic Coward’s Defense and said nothing at all.
Time passed, as it was wont to do. Nothing changed, really. Greta maintained the look of grim focus she generally always had, aside from when she and Vlad were making eyes at each other. She’d get all smoldery, and Vlad’s gaze would become infinitesimally less aggressive. If that wasn’t love …
“Ugh,” said Sloot, after what seemed like an eternity, “how long have we been here?”
“I don’t know,” said Greta. “I haven’t slept, so it’s not been a whole day.”
“Really? I thought it had been weeks.” Though time seemed to pass at its normal rate in the Narrative, there were no windows or clocks in the dungeon.
“It’s maddening,” said Greta. “I’ve never been without a clock in my life. I’ve never had to guess at the time before.”
“I don’t sleep,” said Sloot. “It’s impossible to tell time when you’re dead.”
Greta made a thinking face.
“That makes sense,” she said after a while. “You don’t have a heartbeat, do you?”
“I mean, that’s … personal.”
“Oh, come off it. Of course, you don’t have a heartbeat. If your body doesn’t tick or sleep—”
“Or exist, for that matter.”
“Right, that. Well, you’ve got no means of reference, do you? You’d need a heart for that.”
Sloot knew that Greta was talking about the blood-pushing organ that resides in the chest, but he couldn’t help thinking of it through the lens of the most despicable profession: poetry. He had a heart in that sense, lamentable though it was. Even the dead could love, it seemed.
But what about demons? He and Myrtle hadn’t really sorted out where they stood since the fall of Salzstadt, and he’d assumed up to that point that she felt the same as she’d done in life. But did she?
It was a good thing that Arthur wasn’t around, because that particular ponderance led him down an existential rabbit hole he’d certainly have avoided, had he seen it coming. Did he feel the same way about Myrtle as he’d felt in life? He thought so. He certainly still loved her, but so many other experiences were pale by comparison, now that he was dead. What if his heart —metaphoric as it now was—simply wasn’t in it anymore when it came to balancing ledgers, properly knotting shoelaces, or Myrtle?
“There you are,” said Myrtle, who was suddenly standing in the cell.
“Myrtle!” exclaimed Greta. “I thought you were dead! How did you get in here?”
“I followed Sloot,” she said. “It’s easier when he’s thinking about me, which was very sweet, by the way. Where is he?”
“Here,” said Sloot’s lamp.
“So, you’ve got special powers now?” Greta’s expression implied that she wouldn’t be put off.
“I died,” said Myrtle, “but I’m a demon, not a ghost. Not sure how it happened, but I promise I’m not evil or anything.”
“As far as you know,” said Greta.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you wouldn’t really know, would you? I mean, you may not be feeling evil at the moment, but how many stories have been written about nice demons who come up from sulphuric pits to grant wishes?”
“None that I know of.”
“Precisely. You’re probably being honest, but people don’t usually trade their souls to your sort in exchange for
soup kitchens or hospitals, you know.”
“I suppose not,” said Myrtle. “I should probably do some research after I rescue the two of you, just to make sure I’m not going to start demanding sacrifices or anything.”
“Oh, I’m not going with you,” said Greta.
“Of course you are,” said Myrtle.
“Mrs. Knife just promised to kill you, no matter what!” Sloot was aghast. A ghost aghast. He’d have been more entertained by the wordplay, had he been the sort of person who trucked with entertainment.
“Yeah, but she hasn’t yet, has she?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Look, the more time she has to kidnap the Domnitor, long may he—” Greta said a swear word. There was a faint “pop” and the sound of scuffling feet. “I’ve got to stop saying that! Anyway, it would be bad if she succeeded. I’ve got to stay here and do my part to stop her.”
“What, from inside this prison cell?” asked Myrtle.
“Oh, what,” Greta spat, “you too? Just because I’m a woman in a prison cell, I’m some helpless damsel who needs to sell her soul to a demon to be rescued?”
“No souls,” said Myrtle, “I just—”
“That’s what you say now,” said Greta. “You’re all the same, all of you! I’ve worked with some of the most intricate machinery the world has ever seen, and you think that a pair of manacles and a rusty gate can keep me wilting like a delicate flower in the dark, until a big strong man or an unwitting denizen of evil—no offense—comes to whisk me away?”
“None taken,” said Myrtle, with a smirk. She snapped her fingers and the lamp burst in a shower of bright yellow sparks.
“Come on, Sloot,” said Myrtle, as she began pulling them back into the Hereafter.
“Wait!” said Sloot. “We can’t just leave Greta here to die!”
“She’s stated her position,” said Myrtle. “What would you have me do, kidnap her?”
“Well, if you put it that way—”
“Looks like you’ll be the only damsel I rescue today.”
Rescues and Abductions
“Try it vithout the exuberance,” said Bartleby.
“I thought you’d know me better than that by now,” said Nicoleta.
“I never said it vould be easy. Thunder doesn’t rumble ominously over sunny meadows, you know.”
The balcony was the only part of the house not presently flooded by the thick black sludge that was pouring out of Willie. It seemed that while Sloot had been away Willie had been left unattended, and this was the result. Constantin had spotted Nan in a hallway and given chase. While they were playing hide-and-seek, Sloot could only imagine all of the sitting in the circle that Willie wasn’t doing. He may have burned off a bit of his power with a one-man-child fashion show, as he seemed to be the only one among them whose outfits kept changing.
“A fine mess, Peril,” Grumley chided. “I don’t know where it is you keep gallivanting off to, but you have responsibilities!”
“Keep it down, vould you? Ve’re trying to make thunder over here.”
“We’ve got bigger problems at the moment,” said Myrtle. “I’ve run this a hundred ways in my head, and I can’t find a way out of it. If Greta doesn’t escape, Mrs. Knife is definitely going to kill her.”
It turns out that demons are not all the same, despite what the League of Casual Racists would have everyone believe. Each one has a special power and purpose. Some are very grand, which is very irksome to blockage demons, who spend the vast majority of eternity wedged in the plumbing.
Myrtle, as it turned out, was a causality demon. Her special power was a lot like seeing into the future, but it was far from a clear picture. She wasn’t able to make predictions with any certainty until events took root in the present. For instance, she’d have had no way of knowing that Mrs. Knife was going to kill Greta before Greta had refused to leave. That act of defiance set several eventualities into motion, one of which would eventually become the future, then the present, and then the past.
“I haven’t quite figured out which one is which,” said Myrtle. “You’d think becoming a demon would have come with a manual or something.”
“Irrelevant,” said Grumley. “For the last time, you are no longer alive. You’ve crossed into the Hereafter. The affairs of the living are no longer your concern!”
“Tell that to Willie,” said Nicoleta, who was working very hard to grimace, but could only manage it in an adorable way. “He’s been droning on about ‘woe unto the mortals’ all day. Or night. Whatever it is right now.”
“Concentrate,” said Bartleby. “Let the ambivalence flow through you like … vhatever. Veren’t you ever a teenager? Vhat kind of poetry vas in your private journal?”
“That’s none of your business, Dad! Oh, that was embarrassing.”
“Not exactly the reaction I vas looking for, but you’re starting to tap into some serious darkness.”
“Can’t you do that somewhere else?” shouted Grumley.
“No,” growled Bartleby, suddenly shrouded in black smoke. A bolt of lightning sizzled through the air, casting ominous shadows across his gaunt face.
“Oh, well done,” said Nicoleta. “Do you think I could do flowers instead of smoke?”
“There are no flowers in necromancy. Vell, dead ones are probably okay.”
“It’s a start.”
“You’re not leaving me much choice here, Peril,” said Grumley. “The order has sent me to ensure that things are running smoothly. You’ve been charged with managing Lord Hapsgalt’s affairs, and look! Just look at what’s going on in there! If you’re not able to get this under control straight away, I’m going to have to relieve you of your post!”
Sloot smiled.
“And given all that you know about the Serpents of the Earth,” Grumley continued, “you’ll have to be remanded to the Well of the Void, where your soul can play out the depths of its worst torments until eternity comes to a close.”
“Oh,” said Sloot, his smile quickly turning to a frown. “And how long will that take?”
“Eternity is a very long time,” said Grumley. “Leave it at that.” Grumley nodded, and then disappeared in a puff of black smoke.
“Vicked,” said Bartleby. “I’ve never seen the smoke exit done vithout the bats before. Simple, but elegant. I’ll have to try it sometime.”
“I like the bats,” said Nicoleta.
“I do, too. Never mind. Vait a minute, are you vearing any eyeliner?”
“I didn’t know ghosts could wear eyeliner!” Nicoleta’s face was engulfed in a gleeful, open-mouthed grin.
“You’re not going to be doing any necromancy vith all of that smiling. Vhat did I tell you about raising eyebrows?”
Nicoleta sighed. “One at a time.”
“And eyes opened vide?”
“One at a time.”
“It takes practice,” said Bartleby, patting Nicoleta on the shoulder. “You’ll get there.”
Meanwhile, Sloot was quietly spiraling into a panic.
“I know that look!” Arthur shouted, jumping up from his recumbent position on the balcony’s railing. “You’re having a crisis! Which sort is it, existential? Moral? Is it full-on melancholy, or is it a simple conundrum?”
“Melancholy!” shouted Bartleby. “That’s the vord I’ve been looking for.”
“Sure,” said Nicoleta, “when I was a teenager. But that was just an affectation! I’ve seen enough of the world to know there’s beauty in it, regardless of how dark and drab things may seem.”
“Unchecked optimism!” Arthur was shaking with rabid glee. “How dare you bandy that about without fear of reprisal, while I still draw breath?”
“You’re not breathing,” said Myrtle.
“And you! What have I told you about the wanton use of literal interpretation? Honestly, it’s as if—”
“Shut up!” shouted Myrtle in an impossibly low octave, her scaly wings suddenly appearing from between her shoul
ders. “The philosophical ramifications of any state or series of events are secondary to the consequences they bear in any real sense!”
No one moved. The wings folded themselves down into nothingness. Myrtle took in a breath and gave an enormous sigh of relief.
“Vicked,” said Bartleby, admiration gushing from him without restraint.
“I can’t tell you how long I’ve been holding that in,” said Myrtle.
“What about the Domnitor,” asked Sloot, “long may he reign?”
“I’m sure he's embroiled in a crisis of his own,” said Arthur. “It's not every day the proletariat rises up and throws off the yoke of oppression, sending you running for exile with your tail between your legs!”
“The proletariat didn't do anything,” said Sloot. “It was the walking dead.”
“There it is, the people’s curse.” Arthur folded his arms and shook his head, frowning with all the condescension he could muster, which was quite a lot. “The aristocracy has you believing that you’re powerless against them.”
Arthur had a series of arguments that he insisted were incontrovertible proof of the power of the proletariat. Unfortunately, their validity lay in the willingness of the proletariat to sit through all seven hours of his lecture without stopping for lunch; therefore, if Arthur’s arguments were valid, the people’s only obstacle to overcoming the aristocracy was their affinity for lunch.
“This is all beside the point,” said Sloot. “We have to stop Mrs. Knife from kidnapping the Domnitor, long may he reign!”
“That's a good idea,” said Nicoleta.
“Really?” asked Sloot. “I didn't think you were a supporter.”
“We should tell Vlad, so she can kidnap him instead!”
“Heresy!” Sloot shouted, his voice cracking ever so briefly into the soprano.
“It isn't,” said Myrtle. “Not anymore. Actually, it never was for her. She's from Carpathia.”
Nicoleta grinned and nodded. “Patriotic of me, in fact.”
“But you can’t,” cried Sloot. “We can't! Set aside kidnapping being wrong, this is the Domnitor we’re talking about! Long may he reign.”
“She's got a point,” said Myrtle. “He'd be much safer with Vlad, don't you think?”