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Glass shattered in the stairwell. Tommy wandered up from the
playroom with a belly full of Scotch made in another, distant century.
Eyes cold but bleary, he scowled at the sight of Harrison dressed
and laying on the couch. The judge whimpered, but Henri gave him a gentle smile.
“Get back downstairs, fruit,” Tommy said, and belched. He
raised a fist to his mouth and stopped, staring at it. Scowling now, he looked
at the floor, then behind him.
“I said to get back down to the playroom.”
Harrison struggled against a splayed hand planted on his chest.
Still smiling, Henri said, “The master gotta go to work, sir. He
dasn’t lose this here job else the Owl ain’t gonna get no more kids to play
with.”
Face dark with rage, Tommy drooped at the mention of the Owl, his
hands dangling and the scars turning a stark white.
“All right. Get him to Philly till morning.”
Turning, Tommy stumbled. A spark of blue appeared behind him, and
his hood jerked back to reveal facial scars to the reflection in the glass doors
of a bookcase.
He stilled. A wail of hate rising from his mouth, he jerked the
hood over his head and fled down the stairs.
Henri scowled at the tiny spirit that pulled the hood down. She
giggled, winked, and zipped down the stairs.
“Durn spooky kids You got, God,” Henri said. “Mean, too.”
In his ear, a small, still voice whispered, And I love you, too, son.
Face burning but a happiness swelling in his heart, Henri dragged
Harrison out to the limousine and threw him in the back. Holding his nose he
winced at the reek of dog urine. Crawling in the front, Henri smiled, and the
divider slid down a fraction. Just to be safe from the smell, he turned off the
heater for the rear seat.
“Gonna behave tonight, ain’t you, sir? Yes, sir. Be having an honest
night tonight.”
Henri started the limousine and held up a remote that fit quite
nicely into a pen, and Harrison began to whisper for mercy. From the house came
the sound of Alma singing, and Henri beamed a smile.
Carl rammed a foot in the Knot, and the shon:gili fell. He clawed away from the electric bolt, and a second
hunter screamed.
Carl crouched with his muscles bunched. The shon:gili aped him. They had three, maybe four seconds. Then the
Zapper would be rearmed. Taking a deep breath, Carl felt the animal’s chest
fill, and both of them choked. They coughed, and bloody water poured from the
animal’s lungs.
It breathed again. The lungs popped with a burning flash. The
sacks filled with air, and the stench of burning meat.
Carl raised both fists. In them, both parts of the demon screamed
in raw pain. Carl leaped into the nerve center of the spine and became the shon:gili.
The hunter fell under him. Carl’s jaws closed around the man’s
head and crushed it. Carl gagged on the taste, and a small alarm filled him. Mad
cow, kuru, and a hundred other diseases were common these days. Need to heal
roared through the body and the mind. The shon:gili
swallowed. Raw splinters of skull raked down the shuddering throat.
Screams of pain and new memories filled the shon:gili’s mind. The spirit of the hunter wailed. Grey-black
tormenters crept from the broken earth to hack through the body and ripped the
now shrieking spirit from Carl/shon:gili’s
jaws.
But for a slight shudder that raised the thick fur of the hackles,
the shon:gili ignored them. Carl,
though, cursed through his hate and terror of the tormenters
Men were shouting, racing at them, heavy plastic boots pounding
the road and stumbling over rubble.
The shon:gili gave them
a cold look. He grabbed the corpse and tore away to find a place to feed and to
heal.
Carl’s laughter boomed through the ruined city, and the demon was reduced
to whimpers.
Rolling with the jolts and bounce of the Harvest van, Anna sat
between the shotgun and driver with her eyes closed.
The driver was adding his whispers. A moment later the butchers
were also singing softly. The trapdoor rasped open, and a Harvester scowled at
them. Raising a small, squat transistor radio in one hand, he listened for a
moment. The translator made a soft beep, and an alarm symbol showed. His eyes
widened.
“Hey, that’s illegal.”
Someone in the cab said, “What?”
The man turned away. “Stop the truck. They’re sing something
illegal.”
The truck hurried on. “So?”
"They ain’t praising to the ascended master.”
Almost in a weary sigh, the van’s driver said, “All hail.”
The van slowed and stopped in a clash of worn gears and squealing brakes.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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