Saturday Snippet: Demons and dishes

 

Friend, author and blogger Jim Curtis has just published a new collection of short stories, "Twisted Tropes".

For those who aren't familiar with the subject, a "trope" is found in literature, cinema and various book genres such as fantasy or romance.  Basically, it's a common occurrence or theme that follows an expected path or functions in an expected way.  For example, we all know what a "Mexican Standoff" means in the context of an action movie, and in a romance novel, the "Happily Ever After" trope still reigns (almost) supreme.  Therefore, a "twisted trope" is a trope that doesn't end up in the usual way, or crosses genres, or throws all convention out of the window and does its own thing.  It takes a typical trope and stands it on its head, after shaking it vigorously to get the cobwebs out.

Jim had a lot of fun gathering authors with a suitably offbeat sense of humor to contribute their versions of "twisted tropes" for his collection.  One of them is my wife, Dorothy.  I'm here to testify at first hand that she can, indeed, twist a trope (among other things) until it screams for mercy!

To introduce Jim's new collection, here's the beginning of her story in his anthology, "Demons and Dishes".

Some things, you should never say their name after dark. I mean, they're always listening, but after dark they're liable to show up. Some things native to other planes live on pain and blood and fear, and once you invite them into our world, you'd better not have any flaws to your salt circle and summoning spell. Because they like it here, and killing the summoner makes it harder to catch them and banish them.

Sometimes, they don't even bother to take out the intended sacrifice before taking out the summoner. 

Or afterward, for that matter, though I was never certain he wasn't just toying with me.

So there I was, standing in my kitchen with wet, soapy hands and trying to keep pressure on the wound. It was one of those cuts so deep it hadn't even started to hurt yet, just gushed blood like a faucet. I was trying to figure out how to dial the phone without bleeding all over it at the same time, and maybe I said something intemperate about how, after surviving a certain demon, it'd be a stupid waste to bleed out from a broken glass...

And I could smell the brimstone, and feel the heat as claws wrapped a dishtowel around my hand.

I said something impolite. He hissed something back even less so, and I was fairly certain I understood the meaning for all I didn't speak that tongue. What I didn't understand was when he picked me up to carry me to the bathroom and the first aid kit there. Not that I was in a position to argue.

Two stitches and a large wodge of gauze taped around my fingers later, I was plunked firmly in the kitchen chair and watching inhuman anatomy ripple under scaled skin in my kitchen lights as he scowled at the remains of the mac n' cheese from scratch experiment.

Some demons have voices so sweet that you'd mistake them for angels, or like lost children; this is why you never pay attention to someone calling you off a marked safe path in the deep woods, or at night. The one, he sounded like he inspired death metal bands, with a deep bass growl. Well, his tone did. The content sounded more like an irritated nana. "You live in this light-blasted realm with access to the fruits of field and tree, as well as meat aplenty, and you do what to the ingredients? This is worse than my own mother's worst alchemical excess!"

I decided I wasn't going to tell him not to wash my cast iron. It might be blasphemy, but given the layer of charcoal baked on, I had been contemplating a power sander to fix it.

Besides, a demon was doing my dishes for me. 

I woke up to coffee being plunked on the kitchen table next to my head, and clawed fingers held the mug steady until I stopped yelping from whacking the injured hand against it, and figured out the hard way that I'd have to pick it up with my left hand in order to drink the black blood of the earth. 

It was really good coffee, better than I'd ever made. I drank, trying to clear the cobwebs of fatigue from my head, and realized too late that this probably fell under the extremely strict prohibitions on taking gifts from demons, or something similarly dire. Since running screaming wasn't an option, I decided on being polite. Besides, the kitchen was sparkling clean, better than I'd ever managed. "Wow. This is really good coffee. Thank you. Where'd you get it?"

He lounged in my other chair, drinking from another of my mismatched mugs. "If you'd properly clean your coffee machine, and pay attention to your grind, you'd enjoy this every day. Any fault to your coffee is a fault in how you treat it." Despite the scolding words, he was pleased, and the mug failed to hide his grin, and the teasing glint to his glowing red eyes.

I blinked at him, and down at the coffee. "What would I have to lose to learn how to make this?"

"Nothing."  He drank his coffee, and his eyes were still laughing at me. 

"Even I know better than that. Demons always bargain, right? There's always a cost." I tried to rub the bridge of my nose with the back of my bandaged hand, though it wasn't near as effective.

"There is, but you already paid it. You're mine, by the sorcerer's bargain." He reached over, and topped up my coffee.

I frowned up at him, face scrunched up in confusion. "Then why haven't you killed me already?"

"Because I don't want to, and..." His voice dropped to an intent hiss, the glow from his eyes flaring bright like a fire finding a pocket of sap, "...he can't compel me to."

I should have been scared at having an angry demon across the kitchen table, but I felt much the same about the greasy bastard. I know I was supposed to have nightmares about the very thorough way the demon killed him, but honestly, the most I could muster was feeling bad that I didn't feel bad about it. "He can't force his way on either of us, or anyone else ever again. Thank you." 

He grinned, a flash of fangs that was more conspiratorial than scary. "You're welcome. That does leave me with a human pet who doesn't seem to know how to take care of herself, but I don't mind."

"Excuse me? I'm doing just fine at holding down a job and living on my own!" I frowned at him, and he tipped his head back and laughed. 

"Try that one someone who hasn't seen your housekeeping, kitten." His grin was bright as he snapped his fingers, and pushed a piece of paper that hadn't been there before across the scarred and gouged formica at me. "If you're doing just fine, then why are you advertising for a flatmate?"

I could feel my face heat, and my shoulders hunch defensively. "Because I want to save up for a car, and it'll be easier if I split rent? It's not that I can't live on my own, but that if I sacrifice my privacy, I can get more freedom..."

An expression crossed his face and was gone before I could identify it. He stood, and crossed the kitchen in two steps to open the fridge door and stare into its depths. "You've sacrificed quite enough, kitten. Your terms are acceptable."

"What?"

"We shall share this flat, so you can hoard your strength and resources to strike for freedom, when the moment is most opportune." He shut the fridge without taking anything, and turned to favor me with a smile that was complex and smoldering. 

My head was throbbing gently in time with my wounded hand as I tried to make sense of that. "You're moving in with me? Here? Why?"

"To see a world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower." He smiled, and ruffled my hair, then walked out of the kitchen and was gone. If the place weren't sparklingly clean and the best coffee I'd ever had in cooling in my mug, I'd have thought I imagined it.

But no, the paper was still there on the table, with a signature burnt into it. The edges of the letters gleamed with little flickers of light, like sparks from a bonfire. 

And, as the clock reminded me, I had better get to sleep if I was going to make it to work in eight hours. Some mysteries would keep. I took my coffee, and headed to bed.

* * * * *

Work was not hell; it was merely frustrating, annoying, filled with people you'd have to pay me to interact with, rushed, and yet somehow still boring. In other words, a standard day in retail. My coworkers were all excited about rumors of another demon unleashed upon the city from a botched summoning, but having dealt with one last night, I couldn't get that excited about a second. It might even be my demon, for odd varieties of that possessive noun, out and about. It was a better work day than most; with my hand all bandaged up, I didn't even have to unload the truck or lift anything heavy. Instead, I got assigned facing product and on counter duty. 

The real frustration of the day was the ride home on the bus with Blue. That's not his real name, but it's what the guys all call him, ever since he got a tattoo that he told everyone was a falcon. According to Jay, it looked like he was trying to do some edgy hiding occult symbols under a badly drawn bird. According to me, he was a total jerkface who was needed to keep his smarmy self anywhere but my personal space. Right now, he was leaning over my seat, trying to look cool and managing dorky. "Hey, baby, heard you're looking for a roommate." 

I contemplated punching him in the junk, and decided I really didn't want to touch it even with a couple layers of cloth in-between. "Eww. No."

"Aw, c'mon, baby, don't be like that." He smiled at me, and I pulled the cord for my stop. It was a couple blocks short of my place, but I never wanted to let Blue know where I actually lived. 

The day took an abrupt downturn when he followed me off the bus, easily keeping up with me as I hurried along the sidewalk. "Don't you have someone else to bother?"

"Nope, I got all night for you." He grinned, and the hairs on the back of my neck went up. "Why don't we go up to your place, and you can show me around?"

"Get lost." I stretched my stride. He wasn't seeming nearly as dorky and harmless now, especially with no one else nearby. 

"I'll show you my tattoo." As I was crossing an alley, he grabbed my arms, and swung me around to slam up against the brick. I screamed, and kicked out at him, but he was a lot faster and stronger than me. His smile gleamed in the dim light. "Someone already marked you for a sacrifice, so I don't even have to do the work. We're going to have some fun; I've been debating all day whom I'm going to summon."

I spoke the only demonic name I knew, much as it hurt my throat. "He'll send you to hell."

"Oh, no, bitch. You're the one going to hell, as his reward for doing my bidding." Blue started giggling. The sound abruptly stopped at the smell of brimstone. "What the... no!"

The light from the street was gone, and we were smothered in a choking darkness. As two eyes flared bright fires, a deep, angry voice rumbled like thunder, shaking the wall behind me and the stones under my feet. "Allow me to show you the way."

Blue's hands were abruptly yanked off me. I tensed to run, only to have a clawed hand outlined in hellfire point at me. "Sit. Stay." 

Symbols spun from his hand in a ring around me, and I collapsed to my hands and knees, knowing better than to try to breach them. The world blinked, and I was back in the alley, the echoes of Blue's scream fading. I don't know how long I knelt there, but eventually, the symbols faded out, and I looked up to see a very smoothly polished looking man standing there. If you didn't see his eyes, he might even pass as a human. He looked at me, and shook his head. "You look terrible."

"Not my best day." I admitted. 

"No. Next time, kitten, get back on the bus immediately if someone follows you off." He sighed. "I can teach you to use your fangs and claws, but you're too innocent to even know when to use them."

I accepted the hand held out to help me to my feet. "I don't have fangs or claws?" 

"You have a perfectly acceptable pocketknife that can cut a brachial or carotid artery, if you had the sense to palm it open and slice him before he can pin your arms." He tapped my front pocket, and I stared at him in amazement. "We'll work on that later."

"We will?" My brain was picturing Blue bound and gagged like some oversize doll, and the demon drawing little diagrams...

"Right now, you are in desperate need of proper grooming. People will think I'm not taking care of you." I was steered, much more gently, down the alley and out onto the next street over... he was walking me to a hair salon, the kind that cost my entire paycheck for a haircut, and probably took reservations three weeks in advance. 

"Um... I can't afford this." I could, but I didn't want to.

"You asked me for help; you don't get to dictate what help I give you." He smiled at me, opened the door like a gentleman, and pushed me through.

* * * * *

By the time we got back home, I had a haircut that was anything but wash and wear, a whole raft of new outfits and the dire threat that my current closet was going to get tossed, a cursed knife and a pocket gun. When we came in the door, I got packed straight off to my room with instructions to come out in the pajama set with the cuffs and collars in dyed purple rabbit fur.

They were pretty, fuzzy, soft, and comfy, and matched the bow he'd directed a stylist to put in my hair. On the mannequin, they'd looked sexy, but on me, it looked... cute. Like I was twelve and playing dress-up. I wondered if he'd be disappointed, or if that was what he'd intended. I had no idea what he was up to, and wasn't sure I wanted to find out. I crept out on bare feet, and found him in the kitchen, measuring white sugar into a bowl. "What are you making?"

"We are making cookies. You do know how to bake cookies, right? It's one of the requirements of the dark side."

He looked so serious that I knew I was either failing something, or being made fun of.

"Um, I usually buy the dough, and bake it. But I can follow the directions on the back on the chocolate chip package." I took a seat, tipping my head to the side in confusion as he carefully scraped a knife across the top of the measuring cup of brown sugar.

"It's called a level measure, kitten. Baking requires precision, because once you set it the reactions in motion in the oven, you can't take it back or alter it. Rather like spellcasting, that way." He smiled.

"Oh. I really don't know anything about spellcasting."

"Or baking, yes. You need to learn to cook from scratch. It takes more time, but saves a lot of money. It's also healthier for you." He waggled the knife at me. "Just because no one taught you how to grow up before now is no excuse for failing to learn."

"Use level measures when baking." I nodded carefully. "And get back on the bus if someone I don't trust follows me off."

"Good." He put the bowl in front of me, and I saw it already had two sticks of butter looking gooey and soft inside, under the sugar. "This is a beater. Use it on this setting to mix this until it's a smooth."

"Right." I had done this before, a long time ago, with grandma. "I beat everything together, stir in the chocolate chips, and then after we put them on the sheet, I get to lick the beater?"

"One. I get the other." He replied, and for a while, peace settled on the kitchen. At least, until we were putting the dough on the trays spoonful by spoonful, and he asked, "So, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

"I am a grown-up now!" I frowned at the spoon, trying to get the dough to come off in a smooth ball like he did, instead of a messy clump.

"Hardly. You haven't even got your first century on you." He tapped me on my nose, and grinned when I wrinkled it up at him. "Do you want to be wearing a shirt that lets any passerby know your name and use it against you, for the rest of your life?"

"No." I admitted.

"Then give it some thought. It's one thing to claw your way out of the pit, screaming defiance at the heavens. It's another to learn how to stay out of the pit, and that takes a lot of practice, especially when your life keeps getting interrupted by random idiots who can't speak or spell correctly trying to summon someone else on a completely different and abyssal plane."

I blinked at him. "Um. Am I not saying your name right?"

He smiled. "Close counts in horseshoes and hand grenades... but not summonings. You're saying my name. Don't ever slur the consonants."

There you have it.  A somewhat unusual, domesticated demon!  (Have I mentioned that I enjoy my wife's sense of humor?)

You'll find the rest of the story, plus seven more, in Jim's new anthology.  Go read!

Peter