Gods and Monsters: Unclean Spirits (34 page)

He waits. Calms his breath. Looks down.

He can see himself. Reflected in the turbid broth.

Barely. But he’s there.

He gently brings the apple to his mouth—

Crisp apple skin crackles as teeth puncture into the fruit’s flesh. A taste both sweet and bitter fills his mouth, and suddenly there comes the sound of the ocean surf crashing against craggy rocks and his nose fills with salt air.

And there stands Aphrodite.

He wants to lay before her, pressing his face into the muck until he drowns—

But he controls it.

He can. He must.

“I didn’t expect
you
to call,” she says. Gliding over to him atop the water, never once disturbing the murk. “If there is one thing you have proven to me, Cason Cole, it’s that I still retain the capacity for surprise.”

“The Devil is free,” he says, the words hurrying out of him. “Lucifer. This was his prison and now I’m here in his place. He’s responsible for my wife and son wanting to murder me, and I’m responsible for setting him free.” He begs: “I want out of here. I want to make things right.
All of it
. I want it over. I want to end it.” He finally adds, with a ragged gasp: “I want to be with my wife and son again.”

Aphrodite sighs. “You’ve made a mess of things.”

“I know.”

“I can’t help you.”

“What? But... I called you. And I gave you Frank—”

“My old toy
escaped
. Given what you’ve just told me, and the infernal sigil carved across his chest, it’s safe to surmise he’s on the Devil’s payroll, now.”

“You don’t have him.”

“I don’t.”

“Then I can help you get him. I’ll do anything. Please, just get me—”

“You’re not understanding me. I
can’t.
This is a prison. A cage. If anybody could just hop in and hop out, it wouldn’t be particularly secure, would it? But I’ll give you a hint, Cason. You belong to this place. It belongs to you, in return.”

He barks at her: “I already know that! That’s
not
new information
.”

“Then you’re not
thinking
hard enough,” she barks back. “But I can’t help you. I want to. I really do. There’s a part of me that feels for you. That cries out for your plight. And I’ll confess I wonder what you’d be like as a lover. You’re visceral. Passionate. The lengths you go to for the ones you love is...” She shudders in a wave of imagined pleasure. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”

“Wait—”

“Goodbye, Cason.”

And then she’s gone.

P
SYCHE LIES BLEEDING.

The pain is like nothing she’s ever felt. It wracks her body again and again—like someone pouring fresh gasoline on a wound. Once the throb dulls, more gas.
Pssshh
. Then someone lights it on fire and the cycle begins anew.

The Devil was right. She won’t die by this wound, but it’ll mark her. It’ll cripple her for a long time. Centuries. Maybe longer. The weapons of the gods are like that—and Lightbringer, Satan’s infamous sword, is just such a maker-of-misery.

She’s in such agony that when she sees Aphrodite appear, she thinks she must be dreaming. Or hallucinating. But she knows her own mind; such self-deception is rare, if not impossible. Which leaves the unlikeliest choice: this is really happening.

Aphrodite stands over her. Arms crossed.

“Come to see me suffer?” Psyche says, her voice a shuddering whisper.

“No.”

“Then why?”

“I was called. Now I’m here.”

“Go on. Gloat. Kick me while I’m down.”

Aphrodite sniffs, then stoops and offers a hand.

Psyche stares at it like it’s a venomous snake.

“Take it,” Aphrodite insists. “I’ll... help you.”

“Why? After all this time, why?”

“You were my son’s wife. And you’re all I have left of him. We will never be friends, but we will always be family.”

“Family.” The word tastes strange on Psyche’s tongue.

“Will you take my hand?”

Psyche nods, reaches for her. Aphrodite helps her stand, then places the flat of her palm against Psyche’s chest. A warmth radiates out, and sheer bliss rises and thrives in her mind. When Aphrodite takes her hand away, the shirt is still torn, but the wound between her breasts is healed over—a scar like a toothy mouth in its place. The pain is still in there, too; an ache, with dull teeth. But it’s manageable.

“Let’s go,” Aphrodite says. “We have something to do.”

H
E FELT SO
clever. Get the Devil to throw him an apple. Find his reflection. Conjure Aphrodite from across the miles to free him. But then she told him no. Can’t help. Sorry.

Now she’s gone, leaving him only with the tidbit of information that somehow, someway, he can do this himself.

Cason wracks his brain. Tries to feel the forest through the mess beneath his fingers, then at the roots themselves. The forest is there, all bright shadow and tangled vine, all of it reachable in the front of his mind, and yet no amount of effort will make the roots part. They don’t even twitch.

He snaps. He can’t hack it anymore. Anger burns in his mind—a sunflare. He channels it into the forest all around; the trees shudder, and black leaves fall. The ground rumbles and growls. He hears the beasts whimpering in the distance and—

Something is beneath him.

Suddenly. Something massive. He can’t see it, can’t feel it, but he
senses
it. A presence like a blue whale rising to the surface.

Then he
does
feel it. Outside the cage, the ground cracks. From the dirt, steam rises. A mound forms. Starts to break apart. At Cason’s feet, the water ripples.

Beyond the roots, two bone spires rise from the earth. Then four. Then eight. Bony tips, woven together like the roots of an upturned tree.

Antlers. Massive antlers.

The Huntsman rises. Clods of dirt and moss-rugs cling to his leathery shoulders before finally tumbling to the earth.

In the distance, the beasts howl and wail and gibber at the arrival of their master.

The man—no, the
god
—stands twice as tall as Cason.

He sniffs the air. Nostrils flaring.

Black almond eyes blink, then turn toward Cason.

Cernunnos growls, and the sound vibrates Cason’s bones. He can feel it in his organs, his ribs, his teeth. The god lifts a hand—a human hand, though his feet are massive oxblood hooves—and angrily swipes it across the root cage.

They shatter like splinters, like toys thrown from the table by a petulant toddler.

The monster picks up Cason like he’s nothing. Bares teeth that are not sharp, but blunt—like flat pieces of slate shoved up into red, red gums.

Cason knows he’s dead.

But then the god drops him to the dirt. Leans down, his lean face pressed tight against Cason’s. The Huntsman’s lips peel back and he utters—in a human tongue that seems a chore to produce: “
Child.
”

Then he lifts his head, turns, and stomps away.

BOOM, BOOM, Boom, Boom, boom, boom

That’s it.

The root cage is destroyed.

Cason is alone.

And he’s pretty sure he just met his father.

Holy shit.

T
HE
D
EVIL THROWS
open the shack door, saunters out across the concrete top of the silo. The sun shines down on his face, warming his cheeks. It’s almost like the light pulls his face into a big, shit-eating grin.

He’s happy.

Excuse the saying, but, he’s happy as
Hell
. Not that Hell was all that happy. It was for him, once upon a time. Though boredom set in and—

That’s really not what matters right now.

What matters is: happy.

He waves to Frank, who stands there next to a white Dodge rental, gun hanging from his hand. Frank nods.

“When the Devil’s happy, the world should fret,” Lucifer boasts, clacking his teeth like he’s taking bites out of the blue sky above. “I feel good, Comrade Polcyn.”

“Cason. He still...” Frank points to the ground.

“As was the plan.”

“I feel bad about that.”

“You should. You betrayed someone who considered you a friend. And now he’s in an eternal prison, likely never to escape. Way to be a pal, Frank.”

“Look who’s talking. You’re the guy’s
family
.”

“Only in blood. I don’t know him. You do. Or did.”

“You’re not helping!”

The Devil shrugs, the grin never wavering. “This your ride?”

“What? No. It’s—it was Cason’s. Had a guy with him. I shot the motherfucker.”

“He had someone down there with him, too. The girl. The one with the frizzy hair? A goddess. Whatever. I stabbed her.”

“Oh. Good.”

Lucifer shrugs. “You bring the boy?”

“He’s at the car about a quarter mile back.”

“So, we have to walk?”

“We have to walk.”

“Yuck. Well, it’s a nice enough day, at least. And the church is nearby?”

“Not even five miles away.”

The Devil snaps his fingers, forms them into guns and fake-shoots Frank. “Super. Let’s take a stroll, Frank.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Collision

A
LISON SITS NEXT
to the man with the long, greasy hair. She grips the seat belt like it’s a safety line, like if she clutches it tight enough the strange man will stop driving down these narrow Kansas backroads at a hundred miles per hour, slicing a scissor-line through corn and wheat and other grains.

The man hums.
Mmm-mm-mmmm...

“Who are you?” she finally asks after ten minutes of driving.

“Hm? Oh. Just a friend.”

“A friend. My friend.”

“Didn’t say
your
friend. Just
a
friend. Friend to the world. Trickster extraordinaire. Defender of the golden thread. Which is, I think, close to snapping...” He looks down at the dashboard, then presses on the accelerator. The car whips forward. Rows of cornstalks fly past, blurring into an indefinable green smear.

“Please. Don’t kill me.”

“Kill you? I would do no such thing. Oh, that reminds me—” He holds the wheel with one hand, reaches across her lap and wrenches open the glove compartment. Inside, a knife rests on the maps and old receipts. He snaps his fingers and the knife rolls out, bounces off the lid, and lands in her lap.

She yelps.

Quickly she fumbles with the knife, picks it up, and holds it to his throat.

“Really?” he asks.

“You stop this car.”

“Not yet.”

“Stop the car!”

“I just
gave
you that knife. And now you’re threatening me with it?”

“Stop the car!” she screams.

He slams on the brakes. Tires squeal. Smoke from burning rubber rises up on both sides of the car. Her own head smacks against the dashboard, and she almost loses the blade.

Before she knows what’s happening, he’s snapping his fingers again and her car door flings open from invisible hands.

He waves at her. “Bubbye, now. Nice to see you. Keep the thread intact.”

Then he pushes her out and accelerates away.

A C
ADILLAC SITS
on the side of the road. A few bumblebees buzz between white wildflowers as the wind shakes the corn. The Devil peers into the back seat of the car. There lies the boy—his great-grandson.

“Barney?” he says to Frank. “
Ugh
. That’s his name. Barney?”

“Mm,” Frank says. “Short for… I dunno. Barnabas or something. Wasn’t easy sneaking that kid here, by the way. Thank God for your guy with the plane—”

Lucifer wheels on him. “Did you just say,
Thank God
?”

“I—wait—”

“I’m sure you didn’t. Because the ‘guy with the plane’ was
my guy
. He was a
Devil worshipper
. He’s in my pocket. God had nothing to do with this. Nothing.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—it’s just a saying. Everybody says it.”

Lucifer’s scowl turned back to a smile. “Well, soon they’ll be saying
Thank Satan
when anything good happens. Or anything bad. Or anything
at all
, because I’ll be the one turning the clockwork gears that make the whole universe go.” Again he peers back in through the window. “Barney. What a horrible name. It just... falls off the tongue. Like a bridge jumper plummeting to his death. Remind me to think up a new name for our young Prince, here. Something
infernal
. You know? In the tongue of my corrupt angels.”