“—and then they’ll remove your heart as well,” Frost said. “Oh! And you know how they’ll take out your brain?”
“Son,” an old lady said without looking up from her knitting. “I don’t think we need to know this.”
“They take a sharp, a red hot poker, jam it up your nose,” he mimed exaggerated motions using a pen. “Scramble it around, and then rip it all out through your nose.”
“Ouch.” Doctor Lawrence covered his nose. “That’s gotta hurt.”
“It’s called mummification. You’ll be dead when they do it,” Frost explained. He vanished into the stockroom.
“For the record, Mrs. Frost,” Lawrence looked at the old lady. “If we never go home to Earth again, don’t put me down for mummification.”
“I’ve told you, Lawrence. Call me Gran’ma or Gran’ma Frost. Use’ to be everyone called me Mae. Or Miz Mae. Now everyone calls me Ol’ Mae. I’m one of the first ol’ women to move to this new worl’. Ya’ll young’ins are gonna call me Gran’ma or Gran’ma Frost. Lord knows I’m ol’ enough.”
“Okay… Grandma.”
“Anyway, how’s your stitches comin’ along?” She stopped knitting to squint through her bifocals across the smooth wooden table. It was made from actual wood, as were the chairs and bookshelves. Lawrence could not have justified the expense if he was running the store, but Frost insisted authentic wood furniture gave a shop character. “What’re you makin’?”
“I am making a hat.” Lawrence held up the two bamboo needles joined by a plastic cable. The hat was black with a white stripe around the bottom. He doubled up on some of the stitches, making the bottom snug. The top of the hat was likewise made of tiny stitches better suited to socks, which in his opinion made for a better fit.
“Hrmph. Well, it looks al’right. Keep knittin’.”
Lawrence’s phone buzzed. He checked it. It was Dad. Where are you? Lawrence typed back I’m at Gutenberg.
Demons attacked. Wards down. Winter has come. Cherries are blooming. Say goodbye.
WTF? Really? Lawrence felt as if the rug had been pulled from under him.
Don’t swear at me. Cherries blooming.
OMW. Lawrence’s mind raced. He paused knitting to look around the shop. He had come to think of the place as his second home. Frost, the misanthropic weirdo, who sold banned books and smuggled alien contraband out of his basement, was a dear friend. Old Granny Mae, Frost’s maternal grandma, was a constant fixture. She sold arts and crafts supplies, specialized in cloth and scrapbooking.
Lawrence had learned everything he knew about knitting from her. She was the reason for much of the store’s foot traffic. Everyone in the colony liked sweet old ladies. Lawrence was no different. He would miss her.
A rockman shoved open the stockroom door. He wove through the crammed shelves of books, unusually dexterous for his size. He dropped a box of shipments on the counter. He looked around once to make sure no one stood outside the windows watching, then he changed.
A man-sized mantis with scythe arms stood in its place. The mantis hooked a claw into the tape covering the box. It sliced open the packaging. It glanced out the window to make sure the coast was clear. Then the alien bug transformed.
In its place stood a slim alien about the size of an eight-year-old. It had skin the color of used motor oil, a featureless body, and a head that lacked any identifying features. He reminded Lawrence of a naked manikin at a department store. Lawrence blinked, and in the manikin’s place stood a thirty-something with glasses, a graphic t-shirt, and blue jeans. Frost opened the box with a knife.
“Hey, Doc. Your package came in.” He lifted a bundle of bubble wrap. “You want to pay for it now or later?”
“I’ll pay now.” Lawrence put a safety pin on his project. He slipped the whole thing and the ball of yarn into his backpack. “Um. My Dad texted me. I must go.”
“Okay. Will we see you tomorrow?”
Frost looked out the windows again before transforming into a rockman to move the heavy box. He transitioned back to his human form at once. He undid the packaging with his fingers, careful not to damage the book.
“Probably not. Uh. My dad said the password.”
“The password, huh? That means you’ll be leaving us, then?”
“Uh huh. Off to magic school.”
“Dark Arts magic,” Frost sighed with clear envy. “What I would give to go do something like that. If you don’t want to go, nobody’s forcing you.”
“I know,” Lawrence lowered his chin, annoyed. “I owe it to myself, don’t I?”
He looked down at the book. The plastic was gone, but paper still covered it. Frost’s hand rested on top.
“Naw, man. You don’t owe it to yourself, you owe it to me. I’m your friend.”
Surprised, Lawrence raised his eyes but kept his chin lowered. Frost bent his knees and lifted his chin. He forced Lawrence to look down on him.
“I hate people and I own a bookstore. I survive on people being willing to buy books they don’t need, arts and crafts they don’t use, and overpriced coffee. I’d give anything for a chance to go off to some other world and have an adventure.”
“You’re living in a fantasy world right now,” Lawrence pointed out. “So that’s half your dream right there.”
“Maybe, but Grandma and I were born here. We adopted Earth’s humans because they let us crash here after the last nation kicked us out. ‘Gangers aren’t well-liked.”
“I know.” Watching Frost change shape disturbed him. The dopplegangers kept their identities a secret because of racism, but there was some justification to it, in Lawrence’s opinion. “You can take any species shape you’ve seen, right?”
“Yup. Even ones in books, assuming they’re real. Some shapeshifters are like werewolves. Some are like that comic book kid Beast Boy. Some are like octopi where they can look like a fish but they don’t get the fish’s powers; they have the appearance but they can’t breath underwater. And then there’s my species.”
Frost smiled. He glanced at the windows to make sure no was watching. Then he changed into several different species, staying in each one just long enough for Lawrence to register. Mantis, molten-rockman, winged humanoid, acid-spitting drake, mermaid, and back to human. Lawrence’s breath caught as a perfect replica of himself smiled back at him. Frost even had glasses.
“We can assume any form we choose, we gain the abilities of that form, but only one at a time.”
“Now I know why the last nation kicked you out.”
“Yeah—and when they did, they lost the best, brightest, and highest level of their civilization. Doctors, poets, physicists, engineers, warriors.” Frost switched back to his preferred human form.
“Why aren’t you ruling the world?” Lawrence asked, completely creeped out.
“Long story short? We used to. Then people killed us all. We’re a remnant now. Unimportant. Just refugees looking to survive. Kind of like your people if I’m not mistaken.”
“Anyway,” Frost continued. “You remember what we talked about, right? Are you ready to make the deal?”
“I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“You always have a choice, kid. Even slaves have a choice.” Frost drummed his finger on the paper wrapping. “They can choose to die.”
“Fine. I accept.”
“Good man.” Frost pushed the package across the table. He deposited a tabletop roleplaying game dice bag on top. Lawrence put the bag in his pocket. It had no dice, and therefore felt light, but Lawrence knew better. “Your tab is waived.”
Lawrence undid the paper. The cover was full-grain leather. It had a matching ribbon the same color. His name was embossed in gold in the lower-right corner. The overall look reminded him of a Bible, which was the purpose. Holy books were given more respect by strangers than personal journals. Opening the book, rows of lined notebook paper waited, all empty.
“Not many mages spend the money on a personal spellbook at your age. What are you going to put in it?”
“My notes for spellcasting and stuff.” Lawrence stroked the cover. He closed the book and carefully slipped it into his dice bag. The dice bag went into his pocket, opposite his phone. “Are you sure Cosmic Creepers will be safe in it?”
“Yup. It’s a discount bag, but the enchantment works. It has enough life support for twenty-four hours.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s not free. We had a deal, remember? You use your mom’s faustian-magic-ritual-thingie to send me emails. You keep me appraised of your adventures. I write a book about them. And we both get rich on the profits. I’m a level 10 [Writer]. I can’t wait to hit twenty-five and become and Rank Up to [Author].”
“I remember.” Lawrence grabbed his backpack. He checked to ensure he wasn’t forgetting anything and made his goodbyes.
“What class do you think you’ll get?” Frost asked. “[Mage]?”
“I’m already a [Mage],” Lawrence lied. “I’ll probably get [Faustian]. Yanno, ‘cause it’s, in hell.”
“Right.” Frost looked at him. On the outside, he looked human, but below the skin stood an alien. An infiltrator wearing the face of a man. A liar pretending to be something he wasn’t. “Lawrence, what level is your mage job?”
Lawrence looked down. He stroked the leather. Something cold and heavy sat in his gut. He knew he couldn’t speak. To admit the truth would spell certain doom. Despite everything he knew about Frost, despite everything the man knew about him, some things had to remain secret.
“You don’t have the mage job do you?”
Lawrence said nothing.
“You don’t have any Job, do you?” He took Lawrence’s silence for what it was. His tone wasn’t harsh, but gentle. Quiet. “Why haven’t you told your parents?”
“I want one,” Lawrence felt his voice break. He couldn’t stop looking at the counter. A small part of him was aware Grandma’s needles had stopped clacking. “More than anything. I don’t know why I don’t. My father expects me to lead, but I can’t. I don’t know how. I’m afraid I’ll go off to this dark magic school, and everyone will know I’m a fraud.”
“I would like to comfort you,” Frost said quietly. His hand hovered in the air over Lawrence’s shoulder. “Is it okay if I put my hand… up here?”
Lawrence grabbed his hand. Not to stop him—Frost squeezed his shoulder. Lawrence clung to him like a drowning man to a life preserver.
“Do you mind if I pray for you?”
Lawrence sniffed. “Mm-hmm.”
He wanted to ask how an alien could be religious. Heck, he wanted to know what kind of religion an alien would practice. Did alien gods exist in this world? If they did, would they hear some words muttered in supplication? Or did they stay ensconced in their palaces drinking wine and burning incense?
“It’ll be okay, Lawrence,” Frost whispered, gentle. “You’ll have your pet, and your uncle. He’ll protect you. He might let you fall on your face a couple of times, but he won’t let you come to harm. You’ll be fine.”
“What do the gods say about unlocking classes?” Lawrence took off his glasses to scrub his eyes.
“You mean Jobs? It happens for everyone sooner or later. I first leveled at fourteen. I know a guy who was sixteen. I also know someone who refused to take any Jobs. It was hard, and it took a lot of effort, but they did it.”
“Why?”
“Some people don’t like being put in a box.” Frost shrugged. “I get it on a meta sense. They don’t want to be constrained in some way. And there’re usually costs associated with it. But the Program doesn’t work that way. In this world, it’s pretty frickin’ hard not to level. And there aren’t any real benefits to not doing it. It’s like getting an education. Better to have it than not. Make sense?”
“Clear as coffee.” Lawrence patted his pockets.
“Speaking of. You’ve never had coffee, have you? Want one?” Frost left the corner without waiting. He zipped over to the coffee bar and poured Lawrence a cup from a pot. “I know a lot of you humans like fancy coffee. Ever shop at Starbucks?”
“No.”
“A venti iced caramel macchiato with almond milk and an extra shot of espresso,” Frost recited. He set the paper cup on the table without a lid so it would cool. “Have the caramel drizzle divided equally in the bottom and on top of the foam, with light ice. Add three pumps of mocha syrup, two pumps of toffee nut syrup, and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. Serve it in a grande cup with a separate cup of ice on the side and a packet of Sweet’N Low.”
“That’s what you’re making me?” Lawrence raised one eyebrow. “Sounds… complicated.”
“No, that’s a meme I saw on Reddit. Somebody asked ChatGPT the most complicated Starbucks order and it shat out that. I personally don’t go for that crap. I’m not a hipster artist living in the city on mommy and daddy’s money getting a liberal arts degree in Diversity Studies. I’m not looking to join a social justice club and get a job helping to make the world a better place.” Frost put a lid on the cup and slipped it into a cardboard ring. “I’m a working man. I take my coffee black, as it was meant to be.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“You should put that on X.”
“You mean Twitter?” Frost put the coffee on the counter. He slid it over. “I’m not on social media. I have email for obvious reasons, but no social media. We don’t have Internet in this world. I only got my email after I opened a business in this city and they said I needed one so they could send me paperwork to sign.”
“Mmm.” Lawrence took a sip. It was bitter, thick, and gross. He made a face.
“Good coffee?” Frost grinned.
“Oh—uh—yes sir,” Lawrence stammered. He lowered his lips to the cup to spit, but the alien’s eyes bored into him. With difficulty, Lawrence swallowed.
“Black coffee is acquired taste. You’ll get used to it. Your dad wants you to lead soldiers, doesn’t he? This is what they drink. Black coffee. Not frappes with whipped cream, chocolate syrup, a sprinkling of cinnamon, iced, blended, upside-down, and whatever the heck almond milk is. Real milk comes from a cow. Real coffee is drunk black. You want to be a leader? You be like successful leaders. Drink black coffee.”
Lawrence laughed. Frost spoke with perfect seriousness. He put a hand on Lawrence’s shoulder. He leaned over, which enabled him to look Lawrence in the eye.
“I’m serious, Doc,” he said with a straight face. He held it for a second, and then he sputtered with laughter. “Seriously though, it’s an addiction. Coffee doesn’t give you energy. What it does is keep you awake after your energy wears off. You want to stay awake? Never start drinking coffee. Tea? Maybe. I never liked tea. I served it for cultural reasons. Tea is like writing. It’s one of those things all cultures across all of time and space develop.
“I’ll say this: your people coming to this world was one of the greatest gifts in the past ten thousand years. Why? Because you introduced the world to coffee. Thank you. Now go introduce it to Hell.”
“Okay.” Lawrence hauled his backpack up.
“I’m serious, Doctor. I want to open a coffee shop in Hell selling lattes to demons.”
“And handknit scarves,” Grandma called. “Made with real alpaca hair ethically sourced from traditional farms.”
“And handknit scarves,” Frost repeated. “Now go. Hurry up before you lose your nerve. Go.”
Lawrence walked to the door with his backpack’s strap digging into his shoulder. He left Gutenberg with a straighter spine than he entered. He still did not have access to the Program, but until then he would put in the hard work necessary to fake it until he succeeded.
He went home. He didn’t bother taking any detours. Destiny awaited. The city was in an uproar. Police stood on every corner. The colony’s senior citizens, mostly Earth’s wealthy and powerful—not the best and brightest, they weren’t rich enough—stood around taking pictures. Lawrence was forced to step aside for billionaires who literally looked down their noses at him. He found his parents’ house on the city’s perimeter.
Lawrence passed under the gatehouse. The inner city contained all the apartment buildings and businesses, all made of stone, three stories. The architecture had elements of a hundred styles, notable because the city had lain abandoned for a thousand years. Its former occupants were a horde of zombies led by a lich. The most powerful adventuring teams on the continent had failed to kill the lich. But an army of marines with guns cleared the whole city in an hour. The lich was dead for good in another hour, courtesy of his phylactery being located and smashed.
Lawrence left the inner city and entered the outer city. A great wall separated the two, but that was okay because it wasn’t like poor people lived out here. Poor people lived outside the outer wall. This land inside the wall? Farmers owned it. Druids and witches lived here. Their spells and enchantments allowed crops to be harvested several times a season. It was all Lawrence’s mom’s idea. First with her and dad’s plot of corn. Then with others when their success couldn’t be denied.
Lawrence found the corn section. Finding his parents’ plot was easy. Dad’s corn rose twice as tall as everyone else’s, and it tasted better. He found the front lawn strewn with police vehicles and the bodies of monsters. Military police ushered him inside.
“Where have you been?” Scott hissed. He dismissed the attending thugs and came around the table. Behind him, a human in a long dark coat sat at the kitchen table with a cup of untouched and room temperature tea nearby. Mom sat on the other side, sipping a cup of iced tea. Scott jabbed a finger at Lawrence’s face. “Demons attacked our home and Uncle Winter is here. You cannot take risks.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Lawrence dropped his chin.
“You have responsibilities.”
“It won’t happen again sir.”
“Go clean up your room. You’re leaving for Maelstrom tonight.”
Lawrence scrammed. He had so many questions. Tonight? That couldn’t be right. He opened the door to his room, walked in, and shut it behind him. He crossed to the window. He kicked aside several pairs of dirty laundry in the process. He pushed the window up. A gray, camel-like face pushed between two man-eating shrubs. Both shrubs were busy drinking blood and dragging body parts into the earth.
Cosmic Creepers the llama trotted over to the window. He tolerated some affection from Lawrence before leaning away. Lawrence found some lettuce and fed it to him.
“Your room smells nice,” the llama said to him between bites.
“I think it smells funny.” Lawrence picked up a pair of what he thought were dirty drawers. He gave them a good sniff and picked up a strong scent of lavender and soap.
“The word you’re looking for is ‘clean,’” the llama said. “Your uncle was here. He cast some cleaning spells over the place. It needed it,” he added, wrinkling his nose in the direction of Lawrence’s closet.
“Oh. I didn’t notice.” Lawrence dropped his backpack on the bed. He picked up all his clothes. He tried to wrestle his scattered belongings into some sense of order. He had papers everywhere. A lot of them were important things like bank statements. And there were the books. So many books.
“Your parents don’t make you wear the booties.” Cosmic Creepers sat next to the window. “They make everyone wear them. Even the two-headed bird. But not you.”
“My carpet is so old and worn, I couldn’t possibly damage it any more than it is.” Lawrence pulled out the dice bag. He looked around the room for things to take. He tried to be economical. He had known this day was coming for a long time. Mom and Dad already had his bag packed. They wanted him to organize a bit before leaving.
“Do they have D&D at this Really Cool Place?”
“If they don’t, they should.” Lawrence pulled the plastic tubs from under his bed. No. No. No. He shoved them back. He skimmed the bookcase. Yes, no, yes. These would work. He put one back.
“Then why do you have a dice bag?”
“It’s not really a dice bag.” Lawrence found a box from inside his closet. He opened it up and tore through the pile of books. All children’s books from grade school. The Door In The Lake. Skeleton Man. Animorphs. Inkheart. The Spy Survival Guide. Dragons In Our Midst. Dragon’s Blood. The Last Dragon Chronicles. Magic Treehouse. All good books but not what he needed.
He restacked everything and shoved it back. He pulled another box out. Middle school books. Temeraire. Percy Jackson. Inheritance Cycle. Kane Chronicles. 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. Treasure Island. More good books, but all fiction. He pushed the box back into its corner.
Wait. Here they were. His needlework books. Yes, those were required. He had the materials already, but there was no way he could remember all their content. The Principles of Knitting was a textbook by itself. He still hadn’t mastered cable stitches.
He put on the bed all the things he needed. He put a huge number of other things on it, but by now most of his room was… not clean. Picked-up. He could see the carpet again.
“Lawrence?” Dad knocked on his door. “Almost done? We need to talk.”
“Be out in a minute.” Lawrence began shoving things into the dice bag. He had a goal of packing carefully, stacking each item like bricks in a house. With his secret threatening to be found out, he dispensed with such wisdom.
“It’s a bag of holding,” Cosmic Creepers mused. He put his head on the windowsill, which could not be comfortable. “I see. So this is your solution.”
“Lawrence? Are you talking to yourself?” Scott turned the knob. He pushed open the door without warning.
“Dad,” Lawrence half-shouted. “Don’t you ever knock?!”
“Well, we need to talk,” Scott said in an even tone. Without apologizing, Lawrence noted.
“You need to ask permission before coming in,” Lawrence admonished. He paused in the middle of stuffing a pile of underwear into the dice bag. “You can’t just barge right in. I’m not ten years old anymore.”
“Mmm.” Scott lifted his chin once. He took in the scene. “Your mom and I packed your bag for you. You’re only allowed to bring a carry-on, remember.”
“I know,” Lawrence growled. Like a deer caught in headlights, he hadn’t moved. “This is a discount bag of holding. It’ll hold Cosmic Creepers and all his food bags. It has enough air inside for twenty-four hours, but if I take one thing out of it, everything comes out. I can’t reuse it.”
“Where did you get that?”
“A friend.”
“Hmph.” Scott’s gaze pierced him. “That guy who owns the Gutenberg’s?”
“It’s not ‘the Gutenberg’s,’ it’s just Gutenberg. And no, it was somebody else,” he lied.
“I sense you are not being honest with me. Who?”
“No one.” Lawrence looked down. “I bought it from a smuggler.”
“I sense the truth of what you say,” Scott said after a pause. He closed the door behind him. He looked around for a place to sit—the bed was full, the chair had a pile of clothes. Finding none, he sniffed. “We don’t have much time. I’m going to get right to it. I need you to listen.”
Lawrence stopped.
“When a cow goes into heat, the farmer pays someone to bring a bull out and impregnate it. Cows don’t produce milk, you see, unless they’re actively pregnant or nursing.”
Scott was a farmer not a rancher. Information about cows was new to Lawrence.
“The bull—” a knock on the door interrupted him. Opening it, Scott took a bottle of beer from a marine. He opened it with his fist and handed back the bottlecap. Closing the door, the marine went back to the hallway to stand guard. Scott took a long drink before continuing.
“The bull donates material, but it doesn’t stick around to raise the calf. Once the deed is done, the bull goes away, leaving the cow to carry, birth, and raise a calf all by herself. It’s the farmer’s job to pull the calf out when the cow goes into labor. If the calf is a female, it’s the farmer’s job to help raise it. If the calf is a male, it goes for slaughter. No rancher needs a young bull.”
He took a long drink.
“I am the farmer, and your real father is the bull. You’re a half-half-demon. I met your mother when she was pregnant with you. I took in another man’s child and I raised you in my house alongside my other children as if you were one of my own.” His tone became hard, flinty. “I get to call you my son because I have earned the right with blood, sweat, and tears after raising you your entire life. Your real father left you a legacy of evil and now he’s using Uncle Winter to lay claim to you.”
Lawrence said nothing. His emotions were a whirl his brain couldn’t process.
“Your mother is a half-demon. She ascended to full demonhood when she grew powerful enough. Then a monster raped her. She took a demon skill, Mortal Shape, to flee Hell and stay on human-controlled worlds. I found her afterward, and we fell in love.
“After all this time, I recognize it wasn’t really love but a spell she cast. Call it glamor, call it an illusion, call it whatever you want. But the point is I recognized the enchantment, disregarded it, and have grown to love your mother over time. The monster just donated material. He didn’t raise you. Uncle Winter wants to take you to an academy of evil where you can learn about your powers. But he also needs you to become his heir. That’s why he’s here now. He needs an heir so he can move up the hierarchy in demon politics.”
Scott drank half of his beer. “I’m here to tell you I love you, and there will always be a place for you here. I want you to go to this prestigious college, learn all you can about magic, then come back here and impart your wisdom to the next generation of humans. We need Earthling wizards. The aliens won’t share their knowledge of magic, but they keep trying to steal our technology. It’s good that we have marines. But sooner or later the enemy will get our guns. We need to be able to fight back.”
“You want me to teach? I hate teaching.”
“I want you to learn. We need mages. Technology has carried us far. The enemy might not have nukes, but they can still destroy cities with spells. I’ve seen it. There are wizards out there who can nuke entire cities with one spell. On Earth we had ground, air, space, and cyberspace power. Here, we must cultivate magical power. The aliens won’t give it to us; we must take it.
“I am sorry you had to find out this way,” Scott added when Lawrence did not speak. “Your mother and I didn’t want you to run into danger. We wanted you to have as normal a childhood as you could. But now you know the truth.”
“What if I can’t do what you need me to do?” Lawrence asked, the desperation and fear clear in his voice. “What if I’m not a [Mage]?”
“If you’re not a [Mage]… no matter what happens, you will always succeed at the one thing I ever needed you to be: my son. You will always be my son. But my hope is that your path leads you to follow mine.”
Lawrence felt a great weight settle on his shoulders. He closed his eyes. He felt a wet tongue lick the side of his face. Scott made a disgusted sound, but Lawrence did not mind. He scratched the back of the llama’s neck. Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath, and nodded.
“All right. Let’s get started.”
The marine outside knocked on the door. Lawrence’s dad opened it. The marine saluted.
“Sir. Monsters are inbound.”
“Thank you, private. Be out in a minute. Return to your post.”
The marine saluted. He marched away. His boots made crinkly-plastic sounds on the wood floor.
“Lawrence, fill your bag of holding. Meet us in the kitchen when you are finished. You have five minutes,” he added. He left without another word.
Lawrence shut his door. He looked at Cosmic Creepers. The llama lifted his head.
“Better get packed,” Cosmic Creepers said.
Lawrence looked around his room. In the end, he took everything. Not his knickknacks and collections, but his clothes, his technology, some nonfiction survival guides, his knitting materials. His backpack. Anything he thought he could trade or find useful. All of it went into the dice bag of holding. He grabbed his favorite jacket and a winter coat. And a hat. Must have a hat. And an umbrella. Always good to have something for a rainy day.
“Doctor,” Scott shouted from the kitchen. “Monsters are coming. Your time is up.”
“I swear it was less than five minutes,” Lawrence muttered. He brought the bag over to Cosmic.
“Who cares?” The llama eyed the bag. “Are you quite certain this will work?”
“Yes.” Lawrence hooked his fingers in. He pulled the bags sides apart until it yawned like the mouth of Santa’s sack. “Please get inside.”
Cosmic stood. He ducked his head. Two big brown eyes looked into Lawrence’s. Cosmic hesitated.
“I trust you, Doc.”
“I know,” Lawrence replied, the weight of that trust etched into his brow. Unwilling, but for once obedient, Cosmic Creepers stuck his head into the bag, and disappeared. From Lawrence’s perspective, it appeared as if the llama got sucked up by a vacuum cleaner. He looked down into the hole, but saw darkness. He was tempted to stick his hand in to reassure himself Cosmic was right there. But he knew if he did so, the bag’s magic would come undone.
Lawrence took one last look around his room. He emptied his pen jar of every pen he’d ever owned. Finally, he slipped his spell book into the bag. He couldn’t hold it off any longer. He closed his window. He turned off all the lights and unplugged all the cords. He closed his door. He walked back to the kitchen.
A two-headed eagle the size of an ostrich stood in a chalk circle on the floor. Fidgeting marines lined the walls. Scott sat at the table. Diana sipped her tea.
“Uncle Winter?” Lawrence stared up at the majestic bird in awe. Its body was an eagle, sable feathers covered with shimmering, overlapping pieces of ice. The ice even covered the eagle’s scaly legs and talons. Where its head should have been were two sinuous necks covered in rich blue feathers and thicker ice. An eagle’s head with a wicked, curving, sickle-like beak sat at the end of each neck.
“I am he,” the two-headed bird said. Both heads regarded him for a long moment. Winter had four eyes, all were the pale gray of a winter wind. An aura surrounded him. It manifested as a cloud of cold air and constant snowflakes. He wore a single piece of jewelry: an enormous sapphire breastplate surrounded by smaller diamonds. Both the sapphire and the diamonds sparkled with inner light, as if lit from within by miniature suns. A layer of ice coated the whole thing, glass-clear, and blue-tinged.
“Doc.” Diana came around the island. She skirted the edge of the chalk diagram. She hugged him in front of everyone. She whispered, “Son. Clever boy. Be brave. Be safe. Trust no one. Take no risk. I love you.”
Lawrence felt awkward to receive affection. Even more awkward to do it in front of Winter and his dad, not to mention the marines, who would gossip behind everyone’s backs.
“Thanks mom.” Lawrence hugged her back. She took a step back. Lawrence turned to his dad. “Dad?”
“Doctor.” Scott thought for a moment. He shook Lawrence’s hand. “We’ve already talked. Good luck.”
“Thanks, dad.” Lawrence took a deep breath. He took his place in the summoning circle. Lawrence shoved the dice bag into his pocket. His mom handed him the carry-on. He hugged it around his chest.
Diana prowled the perimeter of the circle. She spoke forward and backward in Latin while swinging a censer. Incense billowed. The room faded. A monster appeared in the window. It was a type of ape, emaciated to a near-skeleton, ribs showing, with long claws and oversized teeth. It had three burning red eyes in its skull.
Scott shouted. Marines fired. The creature ignored them all. Bullets ripped through its flesh. It stomped over to Lawrence. It crossed the summoning circle. Its mouth unhinged. Putrid breath washed over Lawrence. It reached for him. Lawrence’s eyes widened. He stood rooted to the spot in terror. His heart hammered.
The monster fell back as a spear of ice sprouted from its mouth. A frozen wing encircled Lawrence. Feather-shaped shards of ice riddled the monster. Scott screamed. Gunsmoke and thunder filled the space. More ice impaled the monster, yet it did not seem to notice.
The monster’s eyes flared. Lawrence felt primal fear. He recognized the creature was going to eat him. The monstrous mouth opened wider than should have been possible. The monster batted aside Winter’s wing. The other wing came in, like a sword. Winter cut the creature to its spine. It did not seem to notice.
The room began fading. Different colors began superimposing themselves. Diana’s spell worked, but too slow. Unsatisfied with her husband and brother’s attempts, she brandished her hands. She yelled something in a language did not know.
A tree ripped free of the ground outside. It thrust a pointy limb into the kitchen. It wrapped the monster around its torso and lifted. The monster fought. The tree dragged it outside along with the table and part of the wall. Lawrence heard a crunching sound. Black blood ran over the grass.
The air began smelling of sulfur. A cloud of fire appeared on the ceiling. The walls began vanishing. Lawrence’s parents became incorporeal. Lawrence felt frozen feathers on his wrist.
“Remember to breathe,” Winter advised.
Lawrence inhaled. His parents were the last to go. Diana kept chanting. Scott stopped worrying about the world and shared one final look with his son. Lawrence hoped it wouldn’t be their last. Scott was his father. His real father. Diana was his mom. Lawrence burned their faces into his memory.
They were ghosts now. Milky, translucent. Diana completed her chanting and stood next to Scott. Her composure broke. Her face drooped. Scott took her hand. He nodded once. Lawrence returned the gesture, and then they disappeared.