Harvester

by Erik Henry Vick

  “I abandoned her?”

  Abyzou said nothing, only crossed her arms and bored into Brigitta’s gaze with her own until the younger ifrit turned and took a few steps away. Then Abyzou turned her focus on Lamia. “How far you let yourself go…”

  “I wonder how well you would have done had Hera murdered your children instead of mine.” Lamia drew herself up on her tail to tower over Abyzou.

  Abyzou stepped closer, and her fiery substance burned brighter still. She glowered at the djinn, sneering and jutting out her chin. “Not all of us were so blessed,” she hissed. “Do you also need‍—‍”

  “Ladies!” Brigitta shoved between them. “Remember where you are! And for my mother’s sake, speak English! No one has spoken Akkadian on this planet for centuries—and never on this continent.”

  Abyzou stared at her a moment through narrowed eyes, then she nodded once and walked away.

  “Really, Lamia. Do you know no better?”

  Lamia hung her head and settled closer to the ground. “My apologies, Mistress.”

  21

  As the Suburban passed over the state line into Pennsylvania, Benny grimaced. With each mile marker that blurred past, he felt worse and worse—as if he were abandoning Shannon, throwing her to the wolves. It didn’t matter that the SPECTRe operatives had already arrived in Rochester, had already assumed his and Mike’s alter-identities so the hospital could list them as family. It didn’t matter that an entire tactical unit in plain clothes stood ready to surround and infiltrate Strong Memorial Hospital. It didn’t matter that they carried enough firepower to repel whole groups of demons without taking casualties.

  He peeked at Mike surreptitiously. The man stared out the windscreen, his eyes darting from landmark to landmark as they zipped past them. It would be so easy. Frustration nipped on the heels of the thought—he’d entertained the idea far too many times in the last hour and a half. It was a purposeless idea, a worthless idea.

  But still, said that thin voice in his head. You could do it. Mike would never even realize a change was made. You could make sure of that.

  In the backseat, Eddie Mitchell cleared his throat.

  I wonder how deep their power runs, Benny thought. Can you hear my thoughts, Mr. Mitchell? He didn’t send the words; he only thought them. He glanced over the seat at the Mitchells—both seemed lost in thought. Should I take a peek? Could I sift their minds and know for sure where things stand?

  The answers to those questions were both in the affirmative, but Benny didn’t want to invade their privacy.

  Not yet.

  22

  As if no other business could thrive along I-86, bar after bar after bar blurred by as they drove west. The signs flashed with bright neon colors, colorful paintings of scantily clad women, logos of beers and whiskeys. Mike tried not to notice them, tried to ignore them when he did, but it was getting harder and harder to force his mind to skip past them.

  That his mouth watered every time bothered him more than the signs, however.

  It’s been years! he raged at himself. And the stress has been overwhelming many a time. So why now? Why this sudden wish to sink into the oblivion of drink?

  Having a drink or two to calm down is an age-old practice. And what would be wrong with that? Having just a drink or two?

  Mike wagged his head from side to side.

  “You okay?” asked Eddie. “Getting tired of driving?”

  “No, I’m fine,” said Mike, watching as a sign drew closer. On the sign was the image of a Viking, complete with a horned helmet. The caption read, “There are no strong drinks, only weak men.” He caught himself grinning at the tagline and snarled.

  23

  “What?” asked Shannon.

  I remember you. Doctor Walker darted a glance over her shoulder. “I grew up in Oneka Falls. I had my own disasters in 1979, but a person living in Oneka Falls couldn’t avoid following what happened to you and your friends. And I remember your picture in the paper a few years ago.” She pressed her lips together. Not only because we are both from Oneka Falls.

  “Are you…” Shannon swallowed hard. Are you going to report me to the authorities?

  Doctor Walker jerked her head back as if Shannon had slapped her. What? No! No, of course not. No one kidnapped me and chased me through the Thousand Acre Wood as you were, but my husband, who’s also from Oneka Falls, rescued me from a similar fate that fall.

  “Your husband?”

  Doctor Walker nodded. “Yes. I was involved with the boy next door.” She grimaced. Only he wasn’t a boy.

  A demon?

  “That’s what my husband says. His name’s Sean. Do you remember him? Sean Walker?”

  “He was older than me, but I bet…my friends would remember him.”

  Benny Cartwright and Toby Burton.

  Shannon peered up at her, reading her eyes for duplicitousness. “Yes,” she whispered.

  Doctor Walker lay her hand on Shannon’s shoulder. “My maiden name is Benchly. Kristy Benchly.”

  Shannon remembered her—a pretty blonde who dressed slutty.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, hon,” said Kristy. “I’ll take care of everything.” She glanced across the helicopter at Greg. “I assume he’s…”

  “He’s not from Oneka Falls, but he would benefit from your attention.” Shannon fought the woozy feeling that was stealing over her. He’s Greg Canton, from Genosgwa.

  Kristy patted her shoulder. “I understand.”

  24

  Naamah watched with amusement as overloaded cars sped toward the town limits. The story of her mother’s little show downtown had spread like wildfire, and now the weakest of the mazzikim were heading for the hills. She knew it was a bad idea to let them go, that panic would only breed more panic, but she found she had a hard time summoning the energy to care.

  “Are you going to allow this?”

  With a sigh, Naamah met Abyzou’s gaze for a moment, trying to convey boredom, then turned to Lamia. “Stop them,” she said.

  The djinn performed her unique bow—torso hunching, scaled tail slithering back to give the appearance of lowering her head. “How…persuasive…may I be, Mistress?”

  “They are not to leave. If that means you have to eat, digest, and shit them into your garden, so be it.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Lamia before slithering toward the town hall building.

  Abyzou stared at her as she issued the orders, she could feel the ifrit’s stare as though it burned.

  “What now, Aunt?”

  “Nothing. I like to watch you work. You remind me of myself as a youth. Why do you pretend not to enjoy it?”

  Still facing away from Abyzou, Naamah rolled her eyes. “Why do you have Chris Stanton buying land for the foundation?”

  Abyzou chuckled. “There’s no harm in enjoying the power of command, girl. No harm in enjoying the status your caste and pedigree imply.”

  “At first, I thought it was a game you were playing with a pet or something. But I don’t think that’s all of it.”

  “You’ve always been bright, Naamah. Always a sound tactician, but I fear your time among the mazzikim has blunted your mind. Such backsliding is not irrevocable, provided we address it.”

  Naamah raised both hands to scrub her forehead. “Are you going to play games all day, or will you eventually answer me?”

  Abyzou laughed aloud, filling the small downtown area with sounds of chainsaws blunting themselves on iron. “Consider this hint: your mother wants the land accessible.”

  Naamah squinted at the sidewalk, snarling at her shadow. “Has it come to that?”

  “There’s no sense leaving the circle unprotected. Plus, this way, it’s ready should we need to bring more across. The hunters have been quiet of late, but they haven’t quit. This morning’s fun underscores that point.”

  Naamah grimaced but nodded.

  25

  Toby’s gait had decayed in his slog across the burning dunes. His steps h
ad lost their crisp precision, and the tracks trailing him like a balloon’s string painted the real picture of his deterioration. His tracks appeared almost as if someone had crawled around on his knees, rather than a man walking upright. Tracks from his left and right feet drifted in and out of parallel with one another, sometimes giving the appearance that his feet wanted to travel in different directions.

  His lips burned, as did his cheeks, but his forehead ached from within and without. The nerves in his throat screamed and burned and stung and throbbed. When he thought at all, he spent his energy picturing the ruin of his throat—minced meat, roadkill, hamburger.

  Bleary-eyed from the brightness of the burning sun, almost blinded by the constant pressure of light reflected from the golden sand and the threat of wind-blown grit, Toby stepped wrong and pitched down the dune face, tumbling ass over teakettle for fifteen yards. When he came to rest, he lacked the strength to fight his way to his feet. His breath whistled in and out in rapid, shallow gasps. A blessed coolness descended on him, and he sighed with pleasure at the shade.

  “You will die out here if you keep this up, Tobes.” Her voice lilted, almost mocking in tone.

  His right index finger twitched.

  “The Bādiyat al-Shām does not suffer fools. What the hell were you trying to do? Commit suicide?”

  Toby groaned.

  “Ask me for water, vato.”

  Through a herculean effort of will, Toby cracked his eyelids open. Lily stood over him, one black-leather chrome-heeled boot to either side of his hips. She’d inclined her head to look at him, and her hair cascaded toward him, the sunlight seeming to ignite it into cherry red fury.

  She sucked her teeth. “I can give you water, bizcocho, but you have to ask me for it.”

  Toby took a deep breath and let it sigh from him.

  “Is it so hard? To ask me for help?”

  I didn’t give up in those three days Herlequin had me, he thought. I didn’t give in. He groaned and rolled to his side, where he rested a moment before pulling himself out from between her boots and into a seated position. He drew his legs under him and wobbled to his feet.

  Lily hadn’t moved—she still stood with one foot to either side of the drag marks he’d made pulling his legs from beneath her. Her face was a study in irritation, her eyes spinning, nostrils flared. “Are you rejecting me, chingado?”

  Toby gazed at her a moment, her features seeming to warble in and out of phase with reality. He opened his mouth to speak, but it seemed like too much effort. He shook his head.

  “Then, ask me, esé. Ask me for water before you die out here.”

  Toby stepped past her and began to climb to the dune’s ridge again.

  She snapped her tongue on her teeth behind him, and the sand slithered as she turned to follow him. “Don’t be stupid, Tobes. I can give you water. I can keep you alive. Just fucking say something.”

  It seemed to Toby that his answering her had more importance to her than the actual request for water. “Am I going the right way?” he croaked, wincing at the sandpaper feel of his tongue in his mouth.

  Behind him, she sighed, and it sounded more akin to what a teakettle might emit than a human sigh. “The right way to where? But to answer your question, no, climbing to the top of the dune is not a good idea. No shade, no chance of shade. Going anywhere in daylight is a horrible idea, Tobes. This desert will crush you in the daylight.”

  He chuckled. “Haven’t seen any Motel 6s. Sorry.”

  “Can’t you ask for help, motek? For me? I can’t do anything if you don’t ask. It’s the rules.”

  Rules set by who? Toby wondered. He stopped and turned to face her. “Point me in the right direction.”

  For a moment, her face worked with emotions—hope, anger, desperation, lust—then her expression hardened into a thing of granite. She stared and stared at him as the sun tried to burn them both to cinders. Her pale skin reddened as he watched.

  She shrugged. “Close enough for a first step,” she muttered. “But I can’t let you die so soon.” She turned and waved her hand, murmuring, “Kaṣû ṭābu mû.” The face of the dune beside her distended, forming a bowl arising from the sand. In it, water bubbled as though from out of the air. “Clean water from the Tigris, Tobes. I have made it safe to drink.”

  “From the Tigris? The river in Mesopotamia?”

  “From the Akkadian Empire of old.”

  Once his eyes found the impromptu cistern, he couldn’t tear his gaze away, but he heard absolute satisfaction in her voice. “And if I drink it? What will I owe you?”

  She laughed, her voice burbling like a brook overflowing with spring runoff. “Nothing, Tobes. This is a gift, freely given. I give it because you have asked me for help‍—‍” He opened his mouth to object, and she raised her hand, traffic-cop style. “No, you didn’t ask me for water. You asked for a direction to walk in, and for our first bargain, it is enough to satisfy the rules of the game.”

  “The game?”

  She regaled him with a Cheshire grin. “All things are games, chavo.”

  “Who are you?” he asked in the weariest tone he could summon.

  “If I believed you wanted to know, I’d tell you, but we’re not there yet. For now, I’ll reiterate: Call me Lily.”

  “Maybe I asked the wrong question,” muttered Toby, staring at the water. “I should have asked what you are, not who.”

  Again, her burbling laugh surrounded them. “Oh, that’s different. I’m the devil, Tobes. Plain and simple. Now, drink the water before it evaporates, and I have to summon more.”

  Toby released a sigh, and a smile crooked his lips. He sank to his knees and drank.

  Chapter 2

  Sunday

  1

  Mike tossed and turned until the wee hours of the morning. Worry about Greg gnawed at him, and Scott’s death filled him with sadness, but more than either of those things, the impromptu bar his housemates kept in the living room kept him awake, screeching at him, kicking at him, scratching at his mind, his resolve.

  That, and he was sweltering under the blankets.

  His mouth watered just thinking about the bottles of alcohol a few steps away. Bottles of Johnny Walker Swing, Tanqueray Gin, Plantation Rum, and Skyy Vodka waited for him, taunted him.

  He flung the covers away and rolled to his side. I owe it to Greg to keep it together, he thought. I can’t let myself go.

  The image of Greg lying bleeding on the macadam flashed through his mind. What will one drink hurt? The voice that uttered the thought in his mind sounded like Sally McBride’s, and Mike’s lip curled. Fuck you, Sally.

  He opened his eyes to examine the clock—for what seemed like the three hundredth time since he crawled into bed. Five o’clock. Close enough for government work. I’ll make breakfast for everyone. At least that will give me something to do other than lie here awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking about drinking.

  He swung his legs to the floor and sat up, stretching and yawning.

  Would an early morning drink hurt? Who would know?

  2

  Toby awoke as the sun woke the sky, blazing across the eastern horizon, murdering the darkness like a spear through its black heart. Overnight, the temperature had plummeted. Cold had assaulted him—invaded him—making sleep impossible until the wee hours when his exertions and exposure to the desert sun had caught up with him.

  He slept in the sand, right at the base of a dune so that its eastward face loomed above him, and the dawning sun lit it like a movie screen. For a moment, shadows formed by clouds dancing in front of the sun drifted across the face of the dune, painting an abstract mural of darker and lighter shades of gold.

  As he watched, the mural resolved into an image of her face—Lily’s face. The image winked.

  “And you expect me to believe this isn’t all in my head?” he muttered.

  “Yes!” boomed the basso voice of the mural. Lily’s image contorted until it appeared to look down on
him from the dune’s face. “Because that is the truth.”

  “Did you watch over me all night? How cute.”

  With a ripping sound, the image made of shadows abandoned the face of the dune. It shrank until the walking silhouette was human-sized, then the air gave a soft pop, and Lily stood before him. She smiled at his expression. “Ay, que chulo,” she said.

  “More Spanish? Don’t speak a word.” Toby stood and brushed himself off, more to have something to do than as preparation for the day. His calendar had only one event planned: walking. “You could have at least brought me a bagel.”

  “I look like some kind of waitress to you, montro?”

  Toby shook his head. “Not like any waitress I’ve ever known.” He glanced at her, and her thousand-watt smile almost knocked him over.

  “You say the sweetest things, Tobes.” Lily patted his cheek with fingers that felt as hot as lava. “Hungry?”

  Toby scanned the horizon in all directions, hoping the morning light would show him something the evening light had not. “Famished.”

  Lily stepped closer. “Ask me.”

  He turned to gaze at her. Her chrome-heeled boots made her tall, even in the loose sand. Then again, the stiletto heels didn’t sink into the sand. “No.”

  “Aw, vozlyublenny, don’t make this hard. You’re hungry, I can help. Let me help.”

  Toby narrowed his eyes. “Why do I have the feeling that your help comes at a price?”

  Lily flashed a muted smile at him, then began to hum. The song made Toby’s skin crawl—an eerie, mournful dirge of woe and gnashing of teeth. Her lips parted, and he could have sworn she began to hum two separate melodies at once, the notes of one lay intermingling with the notes of the other strain, forming discordant jangles in his brain.

  “What are you doing?”

  She tipped him a wink but didn’t stop humming.

  Toby squinted at her for a moment, standing still despite the urge to move, to dance, to whirl to the tempo of the ghostly elegy. As the two songs built toward a rhythmic crescendo, the melodic dissonance also increased, but instead of wearing on his nerves, it drew him in, and part of Toby listened with an intensity reserved for hunting demons. Whatever that shit is, I can’t stand around listening to it. He had no idea where the idea had come from, but he trusted it instinctively.