Magie Noire
By Rurouni Star
Chapter Fifteen
I shot the toad thing in the face. The results were underwhelming.
My bullet ricocheted, and I found myself ducking for cover inside the house. Monica stared at it with wide, terrified eyes, unable to move. I grabbed her bodily, and hauled her out of the way, just as the thing that Victor had summoned opened its giant jaws wide and vomited in our direction.
Liquid splashed against the door, hissing and spitting where it ate away at the wood.
"Of course!" I gasped out. "Bullets don't work on anything important, silly me. Should've brought a goddamn sword!"
Monica was crying, which should not have surprised me. She'd lost the ability to stand on her own, and become dead weight. Pity and resentment mixed inside me at that. I shoved it down and dragged her to her feet. "Move!" I yelled. "Freak out later!"
She found some kind of third wind at my shouting in her ear. I dragged her toward the back of the house, trying to stay behind cover. Only a few seconds later, I realized that the monster should have been on us already… but it wasn't.
I risked a look at the door, worried that it had turned on the van. But instead, I saw the thing leaning against the thin air of the doorway. The air warped around it, wavering, as though it was trying to push through jello.
I didn't know what was going on — all I did know was that it had bought us a bit of time. I dragged Monica for the sliding door at the back of the living room that looked out onto the pool in the back yard.
"Go out the back and head around to the van," I told her. "I'm going to distract it to give you time."
Monica nodded speechlessly. She might have been resigned to some terrible fate earlier, but it was a lot easier to give up when terrible fate wasn't physically present and spitting acid at you.
I pulled open the sliding door and shoved her through. As she stumbled for the back gate, I surveyed my options bleakly. There were a few knives in the kitchen, but whatever I'd joked about swords, I didn't figure I could dole out more pressure per inch with a knife and my muscles than I could with a bullet and some gunpowder. I remembered the bucket of chemicals Monica had been using to stress clean, and I ducked for the kitchen to rummage through cabinets.
I started pulling out bottles blindly. The pressure in the house dropped; my ears popped abruptly, and I assumed the thing had gotten through whatever was holding it back.
The shadows next to me shifted. "Here, Kalshazzak," the shadow man hissed. "Come and get your dinner."
I grabbed a big bottle of bleach and scrambled back out of the kitchen, just as another gout of acid splashed across the linoleum floor where I'd been. It tore so deeply into it that I saw the concrete beneath.
Kalshazzak, whatever it was, had rounded the corner. Now that I wasn't ducking out of its way, I realized it was just about my height, in spite of its massive frog-like jaws. It almost looked human, if I squinted enough. There was a slick, mucous-like membrane on its dark skin, though, and the acid that dripped from its mouth was a bright electric yellow.
I never was the best at high school chemistry. But once, when I was a beat cop, I helped clear an entire family out of their little matchbox apartment. Everyone was coughing, gasping, running red at the eyes — their mom had used the wrong cleaning products together without thinking. That was the day I found out you don't mix bleach with ammonia… or any acid, really.
I rushed the toad-like thing before it could choke up more acid from its stomach. I tore off the bottle's cap and shoved the whole thing between the monster's gaping jaws.
Kalshazzak might have been bulletproof… but it did not like the taste of bleach.
The monster reared back with a tortured scream as the bleach interacted with the acid in its mouth. It clutched at its eyes with clawed hands, tearing at the skin there as all kinds of obscure chemical reactions went off in its mouth and sinuses, prompting invisible burning fumes.
I didn't stop to gloat. I turned to run for the back door, while Victor's shadow screamed profanities in my wake.
Kalshazzak lashed out blindly; its talons caught my arm, and I choked in agony. The edge of its claw had sliced through my skin like butter. I lashed out, slamming down on its elbow joint to try and get loose, but I realized too late that its anatomy wasn't quite human; the joint bent backward with ease, instead of breaking.
The stink of its chemical breath made me woozy close up. I knew I needed to make another run for it, but I was gagging too hard. Kalshazzak looked down at me with hateful, stinging eyes, still spitting out bleach, and I suspected I was about to stop having to worry about anything at all, ever again.
As it turns out, I was wrong.
I heard Father Forthill's aged voice shouting in Latin. Kalshazzak staggered again, loosening its grip on me. I stumbled back, bleeding, shaking, and nauseous, as Father Forthill brandished his rosary toward the monster.
"Back, demon!" the Father commanded, in a voice more assured than I had ever heard from him before. "You are not welcome on this plane!"
I wasn't sure whether I was stunned because I was sick or because Forthill's approach was actually working.
Kalshazzak continued flinching back from the priest, hissing and gurgling. I backpedaled quickly in turn, nearly slipping on a patch of my own blood.
Forthill gestured urgently toward the back door. I looked between him and the monster. Kalshazzak was shying away from the Father's impromptu exorcism, but it didn't seem hurt by it. If I left the Father alone with it, I suspected he wouldn't survive the encounter.
I swallowed down my dizziness and pain. A mad thought floated to the top of my mind, born of the sorts of bizarre questions a young Karrin Murphy had once asked in Sunday School.
"Father!" I yelled. "You can bless any liquid, right?"
Forthill continued speaking urgently in Latin… but I thought I saw him nod his head incrementally.
"Great!" I told him. "Push it toward the back door!"
I backed up to yank open the door to the yard. The pool was sparkling clean and smelled of fresh chlorine, thanks to Monica's cleaning spree a few days ago.
I looked around for something to use… but instead, my eyes found Jenny Sells, standing at the back door with a large shovel in her hands. I barely ducked the swing she took at my head, yelling in surprise.
The kid stumbled back, blinking. "Oh, oh!" she managed. "It's you, I'm sorry!"
"What are you doing here?" I demanded. "Oh my god, get in the fucking van!"
Should I have been swearing? I don't know. It struck me as a swearing sort of situation. Look, I said I'm no good with kids.
Jenny looked inside. As she saw the demon, she went pale with fear. But I saw her square her shoulders. "He told it to kill Mom!" she said. "I'm not gonna let it!" She reached out to pick up the shovel again, clearly intent on a militant last stand. I managed a dim, distant sense of admiration for that. There's not that many adults in this world willing to face down a monster like that. The kid had guts. Or maybe a deathwish.
Come to think of it, I probably wasn't the best person to judge.
"Drop the shovel!" I told her. "Grab the hose instead!"
I reached for the garden hose with fingers still slippery from blood, trying to pull out some slack. Jenny quickly got the idea — she grabbed another side, backpedaling and dragging it out into a line in front of the door.
"When it comes out," I told her, "you help me tangle it up! Just circle around with me, you know the drill!"
Kalshazzak stumbled out the door toward us. It was done with whimpering; though there were still horrid chemical burns all over its face and jaws, it was now growling with a low fury again, as the Father forced it out the door. I yanked the garden hose tight with my good arm, tangling it up with the thing's legs.
Jenny took the cue. I wasn't sure she'd really have the courage when it came down to it — but the kid ran right past Kalshazzak, darting like a little mouse, coiling the other end of the garden hose around its waist as it flailed. I took the opposite direction, pinning its arms against its sides. It was the most childish, ham-handed way to trap a monster, but god damn if it wasn't working.
As it continued stumbling backward, I threw myself forward, tucked my shoulder underneath its back… and flipped it into the pool.
"Get to praying!" I gasped at the Father. "Now!"
The toad-thing thrashed in the pool, less happy there than I would have imagined. It was still tangled in the garden hose, but I knew it would find its way loose in no time. I grabbed the shovel and slammed it into the thing's face, trying to keep it in the water. Behind me, I heard the Father's frantic prayers. I figured he was setting a world record for the fastest Catholic ritual ever.
"—si quid est quod aut incolumitati habitantium invidet aut quieti, aspersione hujus aquæ effugiat," he gasped out, gesturing toward the little suburban swimming pool.
As I took another swing with the shovel, Kalshazzak chomped down on the end of it, tearing through the metal end like so much paper. I threw the useless wooden haft at the creature; it bounced off its head.
"—ut salubritas, per invocationem sancti tui nominis expetita—" I honestly wasn't sure whether Forthill had even taken a breath.
Jenny had taken to grabbing anything she could get her hands on. A tin watering can thudded into the monster. A camp chair. A pot of petunias. Nothing was really slowing it down, though — I saw it sink down into the water and set its clawed feet down on the bottom of the pool, gathering itself up to jump. I whimpered as I realized I was going to have to do something very stupid, very shortly.
"Ab omnibus sit impugnationibus defensa—"
The monster lurched up out of the water, just like the leaping toad it resembled. I jumped for its legs, wrapping my arms around them, trying to haul it down with my body weight. The thing overbalanced in mid-air. We both went tumbling into the water.
Chlorine stung madly at the open wound on my arm. The monster caught me across the chest. At first, I thought I that was it — with claws that sharp, it had to have found something vital. But it must have been an awkward, backhanded hit, because all I got was the breath knocked out of my ribs, and a choking mouth full of water.
"Per Dominum, amen!"
The resulting scream was loud enough, I swear it must have echoed for miles.
I heard it clearly in my ears, even as I struggled and sucked in water. Nearby, Kalshazzak thrashed and screamed and burned, as though it had been dunked into a vat of its own acid.
Someone else jumped into the pool. A small hand closed on my arm, tugging me back with frantic swim kicks. A second later, Forthill's weaker, less steady hands joined in, hauling me out of the pool.
Jenny Sells pushed me onto my side with a great effort, and began to pound on my back.
Water came back up. I coughed and choked for air. The runt was not kidding around — I knew I was going to have bruises up my back when this was over with.
"Jenny! Oh my god, Jenny, what were you thinking—"
I heard Monica's voice above us, choked and sobbing. I shivered and groaned. Some of the adrenaline was wearing off, and my body was making its various displeasures very well-known. I mentally apologized to Waldo for messing up his promise to keep me in bed.
"I'll kill you!" Victor's voice hissed. I couldn't tell who he was talking to — whether he was, in fact, talking to anyone in particular, or just raging in general. "How dare you, how dare you—"
"I hate you!" Jenny yelled at him. "Go away and leave us alone! Go away and die!"
I tried to force myself up to sitting. I was battered, bruised, and bleeding, but by god, I wasn't going to leave the kid to face her father's shadow alone.
Father Forthill stepped before me, strangely calm.
"You have projected your spirit and left your earthly body unprotected," he told Victor. "The demon that you summoned is no doubt aware of that. Now that it has been banished, it will tell its brethren where to find your empty shell." He lifted up the rosary once again. "Return, foolish sorcerer. Before we all regret your choices. In nomine Dei."
The Father flung a handful of blessed, over-chlorinated swimming pool water at the shadow before us — and it dissipated into greasy black smoke.
I flopped back onto my back, exhausted.
"You've been in a scrape or two, huh?" I said.
Father Forthill was polite enough to look embarrassed. "Well," he said. "Maybe more than two."