Book of Revels: The Holy Ban-Hammer

Nebulous shadows of guests surged past in this private nether-space. Donovan rushed in fourth dimensional dissonance as multiple shadows of Finnegan's ghostly acquaintance made dozens of drinks simultaneously for patrons, who never saw this backstage. Finnegan's Bluff was innumerable pubs and clubs across the planet formed from lost bric-a-brac and liminal backrooms. The significance of forgotten moments tasted by the inebriated.

The lack of Tuija's presence haunted Caleb's shoulders, his wife should have been there grabbing liquor from behind Donovan's back. Making a face and pouring them a couple glasses to sip while they nudged each others shoulders and people watched. Alone in their diarchy without the spike of loneliness Caleb felt stabbing inward as his vows. Doffing his peacoat on the empty bar, Caleb rubbed his face and sighed.

What did he say? How could he face the Fae Lord, both redeemer and reticent curse-weaver of time past. Did people go back to the places where their loved ones frequented without the weight of their absence crushing every rib? 

"Did you find what you wanted?" Finnegan's grin descended to a smirk for appearances sake. He sniffed and plunked down on a padded stool, which built itself from ephemera abandoned by folk long passed.

"No. Maybe. I thought I was looking for the way out, to fulfill Tuija's wishes and I don't think this is news to you, but Bragi'd set the whole thing up. All of it. To rescue some lost uncle. Didn't make closure." 

"Not Magni." Finnegan's fingernails clawed at the edge of the bar, old lacquer digging between his nail and his skin.

"Yeah. He..." Caleb's eyes drifted to the spot Lilith's shoes stopped immoveable. The girl huddled in her school sweater, sleeves pulled over her fingers. She licked her lips and peeked around. Fidgeted at every distorted noise and winced at the innumerable shadows which flowed round.

"Later." Caleb swung off the stool and stood in front of Lilith. Frigid eyes scrutinized the fragile ingenue. She balked at him, empty eyes as lifeless as a stunned fish in a fishmonger's tank. Gripped of a body-shaking fear, a child older than she ought to be. The girl was as foreign to Caleb as the Academy. An unsettled collective of two beings embroiled in a destructive similitude. His phone. He could call Livia. Ask for the door to the others, he had enough to deal with, he didn't need another vulnerable to watch fade.

"Come sit down. You know Finnegan, right?" Caleb swung his arm around her trembling shoulders and guided her to the bar stool. A halting chin quivered. Girlish body shrunk into her sweater. Black painted lips tugged in a tight line. Paraded in front of Finnegan, Lilith's eyes stung with red welts underneath the smudged purple eyeliner.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your Princess... I didn't... Please don't hurt me or curse me or..." Lilith sniffled, her lip wobbled as she remained petrified in place. Caleb startled. Finnegan sucked in a deep breath and cracked a solemn smile.

"Her highness is stronger than you'd expect. You've nothing to fear from us, little one. Her Majesty's glad you're alright." 

"Then why are you here?" Lilith glowered up at Caleb's gobsmacked face. In the last 72 hours, the grieving widower slept on a roadside in Yataba next to Bragi, the Norse god of Storytelling, who conned him into thinking an old tattoo of his father's was the Mark of Cain. The one way out his wife was desperate to grasp. All to rescue an uncle with a death wish. Delilah shoved him into picking up her spawn, while Delilah hid in West Africa. Tuija's death and the loss of the Book to the open sore which was Stana hung across him like a cloak.

Now Delilah's daughter, clearly no nine year old, sniffled about to blubber unconsolable in Finnegan's pub. Apologies peppered out of her over-painted gob. Something happened to her and Astraea, the fae princess and self-proclaimed ‘monarch of sparklies’.

"Uhh..."

"You're the one they send when people've done something wrong! You're the dude!" Lilith started to flail. She hopped up on her tip toes as her voice ascended to pitches which would make dogs whinny and cry. 

"The Judge! The holy Ban-Hammer! You're the one they send when you're banished to unholy oblivion, or given one scrappy chance to turn your life around! You're reform school on Meth! Why did Mom send you!? Why didn't she come for me!?"

Caleb's mouth fell agape. Stunned eyes stared at the fitful pubescent terror of a frantic teenaged girl. Overwhelm didn't begin to define the crawl of his spine, the gasping desire to call for Tuija or heck, where was Seraya? Surely Seraya knew how to handle a screaming kid.

"Aaaannnndd I'm out." Caleb stormed off, fumbled for the 'call' button on his phone.

"Delilah! Answer your phone!" He bellowed into the slim black rectangle. Delilah's voice mail message peppered in a chipper 'telephone voice' for the self-proclaimed Contessa. Wrist cuff pulled away from his watch, Caleb spied the time.

"I know you're awake. It's goddamned two in the afternoon where you are. You are going to listen to this message, and you will call me. I got your daughter. God damn, Delilah! You told me she was ten! Nine and three quarters, tops! Here I am at Finn's, yes, Finn's deal, with a terrified teenager who thinks I'm there to send her three steps into Hell! What the fuck happened!?

Her school said she instigated a police incident, which is blacked out to high heavens. She punched a teacher, and you think taking her on one of my 'little adventures' is going to straighten her out!? Are you legitimately brain-dead? Delilah, I'm not the one that should be dealing with this. This child is hurt! You're her mother. Get the hell out of Africa and on a plane to Vancouver and take care of your kid! Give her a hug. Do something before she worries herself to an apoplectic grave! I'm not doing this... I'm not. Hire a babysitter. I'm not walking back to the child and saying her mother wouldn't leave Africa for an insubordinate little freak. I..." Caleb choked on a garbled mouth, fingers tore into his grey hair as he stuttered a deep breath. "... Delilah... a few... fuck. Lilah I can't do this. You're asking too much, I just lost my wife. Tuija died and it's not even been a month, and now? This? Please don't do this."

And he knew, as he talked into a slim metal box that Delilah heard every word. He felt the slim connection, that piece of spirit they still shared, as dangerous as Tuija and others warned. Caleb choked back a stutter, the blank-faced emptiness of Delilah's emotional unavailability as cold as the coffin Tuija's body would never inhabit, trapped in the Fae's soil. Grit teeth reverberated with a groan. "Call me. Now."

Caleb disconnected and stood in the alcove beside their bags. His thumb depressed the redial. The phone rang to voicemail. One of the mismatched chairs met kinetically with Caleb's boot. The wood burst to splinters. A shadow flung its' arms in the air, and flopped to the ground. Why the child's predicament caused him such rage shredded past his skin to the bone. Demonic fingers of prescient thought stole his morning calm, her age. Her terror at seeing yet again, the one man who in the Mystic World was the worst sight of all. He stroked his chin and swung around to the sight of a slim teenager, who clutched her sweater’s cuffs over her fists.

Shoulders pulled so high they touched her ears. 

"She's not coming, is she?" Lilith's voice lilted quiet and strained. The accent of a girl, raised in too many places to narrow her natural cadence to one geographical zone. Worse than the strain was the sense that Delilah's absence was ubiquitous. Another in a line of memories in absentia. Caleb's phone beeped. A text message appeared on the cracked screen. 

'I transferred $5,000 to your account. You'll receive another $1,000 tomorrow, and every week until I decide otherwise. Your dead woman isn't my problem. Lilith is. You're the mystical fix-it man. Fix her.'

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An excerpt from my upcoming novel Book of Revels.