Den of Dark Angels E-Book

Kenna McKinnon

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Demons roar from the mouths of lions and the devil lives on an alien planet in this collection of three adult fantasy/paranormal novellas set on Earth, Hell, and Heaven, and in the nether somewhere in between.

Passion for Poe spins from Calgary to Denmark in a crescendo of dysfunction. Demons slop from the trunk of a car bought by Astria Brin, and lions gaze from a bridge in the center of Calgary and follow them home, as mysterious dreams, murder and horror intertwine.

Dark Angel introduces Drake Bent, a half-demon man who roars about the universe on a chromed Harley-Davidson motorcycle with his terrier dog Killer in the sidecar. Drake's girlfriend connects to him in life and death, with the Devil's curse on them both. After Drake's parents die in a tragic car accident, he embarks on a furious mission of redemption.

In Father of Lies, we travel between 3000 years into the future, the 20th century and 3000 years B.C. in ancient Greece. As beings from Alpha Centauri await Earth's demise and Sol's nova to replenish their spirits, they watch Earth and one family in particular.

Leseprobe

Den of Dark Angels

Kenna McKinnon

Copyright (C) 2016 Kenna McKinnon

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Novella 1 - A Passion for Poe

Chapter One

Astria Brin's greatest fear was abandonment, yet she arranged it herself.

Her favorite uncle, a fireman, had taught her never to show fear, as he had not, although the flames she set burned him black and shriveled. Even the death of her beloved maternal grandmother in the same fire, and her nanny (dear Nanny!) didn't deter the younger Astria from braving the whispered gossip at school and in the papers, and smiling in the face of loss. Close by the mansion whose white face was grey with soot, her wealthy parents buried the victims in haste and money exchanged hands in an effort to veil the horrendous day. They knew who could have set the fire, but like many a parent of a criminal, hid the crime and pretended all was well.

Astria, ten years later, remained haunted, and when the rigid lions from the Centre Street Bridge followed her home and slavered greedily in the dark corners of her closet, she thought they must be remnants of revenge from the crooked charred bones of the past. Patrick helped her to rationalize those grave monsters, and she thought he was well deserved as a lover and confidante in their mutual complicity to commit forgetfulness. She was stuck in the possibility of major guilt and a future crawling with regret, and he – he was a nihilistic presence.

So Astria sat up now and faced the danger. Next to her in the bed made of wooden slats, the smooth white sheets over his chest, her partner Patrick Ferguson snored softly; the blond tendrils of his beard rose and fell with each breath. Astria knew that Patrick would be as little physical help to her in the bowels of night as he was during the day, though his body under the sores was lean and strong, and his sexual prowess admirable. She shuddered and glanced at the glowing numerals 3:42 on her bedside clock, the polished floor gleaming blue beneath it. The young woman braced herself on both hands. A muffled roar snaked from across the room. The blue light illuminated her face – slim, tense, watchful. Their closet door creaked open, revealing broad yellow orbs which glowed and blinked out. Astria's bare feet struck the tiled floor and she closed the door.

“You know,” Patrick said the next morning on their walk to the C-train, “some hallucinogens might put lions in anyone's closet. It could explain the nightmares.”

“They're not nightmares and I don't take hallucinogens. I see their eyes. I hear them roar. It's like Stephen King designed our bedroom closets,” Astria said.

A match flared in his cupped hands. Patrick inhaled, cloying sweet smoke. “I never noticed them.”

They passed beneath the concrete lions guarding Centre Street Bridge. They would tread below the lions again coming back. Astria pulled on her bulky anorak and shivered. “People don't look up. Even when they're walking. The lions have been here since before Moses came down from the mountain. Nobody sees them, and they follow us home.”

Patrick took Astria's hand and swung it, running his free hand over his long blond hair and dirty beard. “You've been reading too much Edgar Allan Poe, Ass-girl. Poe took opium or something. You my woman, girl. You don't take no drugs, hear me? I'm the only pothead here and even so, we can't afford weed half the time – we're poor students, and if you're going to be a lawyer someday like your daddy, you sure don't want to get busted.”

The sidewalk curved upward toward the C-train station. A fine fog covered the pillars of the bridge, silvering the granite and reflecting the sheets of pink and grey in the east, and a sun which struggled to rise.

“I love Edgar Poe,” Astria said. “Heck, my nanny taught me to read and I bet my first word was 'nevermore'.”

“Only rich kids have nannies. Great, we're over the bridge.”

Mist dripped from Patrick's long nose, past his wide expressive mouth to his beard. Astria strode along beside him.

“I never asked to be born rich,” she said.

Patrick grinned. “I never asked to be born.”

“We sure don't live rich.” Astria shrugged. He pulled at his beard and made a face, the money a barrier yet a bond between them.

“Thanks to your parents who hate me. They think I'm a bum living on their money, some kind of boozing professional student who'll never finish anything – and they're right.” He laughed.

“You can prove them wrong,” she said.

The river hissed. They caught the C-train to the campus where they were students. Whistling, Patrick departed for his economics class.

As well as enjoying evening classes in photography, her true avocation, Astria's pre-law studies were not difficult for her, and she spent her spares researching old cases in the library in preparation for next year. Her friend Ingrid studied in the cubicle next to her, untidy texts strewn on the floor and beneath her chair, laptop open, fingers flying over the keys in search of German historical research. Ingrid was a sturdy Valkyrie, afraid of nothing, and would face down the hounds of hell by herself if needed. She was a good friend to have, Astria thought, and the blonde Viking's dog, as well. Nothing like Patrick and their dachshund Goliath, no one at home to protect Astria, although, of course. She. Was. Not. Afraid.

Past the balustrades encircling the library to the dripping quad and the bulwarked city to the river, the stone lions crouched on the plinths of the bridge, hidden behind a curtain of rain and sleet and… waited.

Chapter Two

Ingrid rose early one morning and pulled on warm clothes to walk Fergie, her golden retriever, along the little park near her house. They paused at the bottom of a hill while the dog peed on a white shrouded shrub, then they continued to the banks of the Elbow River while Fergie rooted with its nose through the frozen vegetation at the side of the path. Ingrid gazed at the grey mist that swirled close to the bosom of the river. Unusual, the fog seemed alive. It crept closer. She remained rooted to the frozen earth while the dog snuffled in the ground and seemed oblivious to the mist.

There was something behind the swirling fantastic grey pattern, though it was almost opaque. It seemed stopped by the snowbound banks and then pushed upward, closer to Ingrid and the dog. She stood, motionless.

A voice boomed from the fog. “Ay, mate. Ahoy, you little wench.” Then a long hollow bellow of mirth.

Nobody talked like that anymore. “Who are you?” Ingrid called. The fog swirled closer, up the edges of the river, over the frozen white shrubbery, pressing the blood from Ingrid's extremities, from her vital organs, icy tentacles touching her brain, stomach a block of frozen stone.

“It's Valdemar of Harlaem come back to find my Madeline.”

Ingrid recognized the familiar names from literature. “Madeline of the House of Usher?”

“Ay, mate, one and the same. Come back to find her there in the House of Usher.”

“It's fallen.”

Ingrid was wrapped now in the ice crystals of the dense fog, shivering, unable to find her dog, unable to see her frozen fingertips in front of her staring eyeballs. The fog enveloped everything that stretched from there to the riverbank, and she couldn't fathom her way through it. She remembered that Valdemar of Harlaem had decomposed months after his death. She was talking to a dead man from one of Edgar Allen Poe's macabre stories.

“What of Roderick?” Ingrid asked. She was part of the Poe Society at the campus, with Astria, Patrick and a couple other close friends, and they all knew the stories well, including this one – the man Valdemar of Harlaem who had remained dead but hypnotized so he was unable to free his spirit until released, many months later. A dreadful story and Ingrid shivered as though the morning were colder now, and damper.

The voice was hollow and close now. “All dead, dead, dead and decomposed like the mesmerizer did to me, only kept me alive in a trance for those months after I had died, I was dead as road kill. Kept alive in a terrible hypnotic trance although my heart and brain had stopped months before. Decomposed immediately, like road kill, madam.”

“How – how do you know about road kill?” Ingrid shivered and wished herself anywhere but here; yes, home in her warm bed, where she may wake at any moment from this horrible dream.

“This is the twenty-first century, Madam, it be centuries and many thousands of miles from my grave.”

“Are you Poe?” Ingrid grew braver, remembering her Viking ancestry and the strong sense of curiosity she carried with her almost everywhere. The fog swirled and thickened. A long low wail arose from the river's entrails.

“N-n-no, you wretch, but Poe created us and left us here in the madhouse of the river's memory.”

Ingrid looked around for help but none appeared except a glimpse of her dog behind the hoary bushes. “Why here, in Calgary?”

“He became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” There were shapes in the icy fog, moving closer and a man appeared, of dreadful visage, leered into Ingrid's face and then he spat into the frozen air. The globules turned to ice crystals and dropped to the path below.

“You're not real,” Ingrid said. She called to her dog and Fergie answered from a place not far away, galloped to Ingrid's side through the curdled air and whimpered as Ingrid huddled for warmth in her parka and scarf. Ingrid held tight to the dog's collar.

“Let's go, Fergie,” she said, and the dog responded by barking at the apparition, lunging at the end of the leash, and tearing it from Ingrid's hand.

“G-g-good dog,” the horrible man blithered and changed shape on the path in front of them.

“The name the author gave me is Pluto,” he said. “I have nine lives. I'll butcher you.” He lunged at the dog.

“No!” Ingrid was released from her spell of ennui, unusual for her, the strong sturdy guardian of control. “Don't you touch her, you – you – wraith. You can't hurt us. You're just a book. You're a story. And this fog, it's just a dream and you're less than a dream.”

The retriever howled and gnawed at the ghost's femur, shook its sleek yellow head and threw Valdemar of Harlaem to the ground. The dog cut to the quick of Poe's heart; the ghost was an entity in the thick fog and thus could be taken. To Ingrid's imagination, the ghost controlled the present hour which wriggled by like blood dripping, and her own blood ran thicker and colder at the haunt's voice. She would have fled if the dog, with its basic animal nature, had not recognized the truth and snatched at the decomposing bones from the river's cloud.

'Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary…' In the fog, Valdemar writhed like worms. The dog tore at the haunt's entrails, snarling while foam dribbled from her jaws and blood, black as Dutch licorice, smeared the ground.

“Come on, Fergie. Enough.”

Ingrid took courage at the thought that this was only a dream. She wanted to run but a coldness in her bones froze her feet to the soil. The massive bank of fog began to back up to the river's edge, became translucent, then swirled as though it went down a drain to the middle of the Elbow River and disappeared, taking the ghost with it. There were other shapes in the grey, thick powder of shapes left behind, but they, too, swirled down the drain to the bottom of the river, which erupted into ice and fire for a brief time, then smoothed over. The surface was white again and the morning deathly quiet.

Ingrid would have thought it indeed a dream but for the black, putrid blood around Fergie's mouth and the fire-scorched vegetation at the side of the path. Later, at their weekly meeting of the Poe Society, Astria agreed this could have been real, and Poe's creatures really existed in this present life, as did the other Edgar, somewhere like the lions on the bridge, waiting to murder them all.

Chapter Three

“Poe's protagonist was guilty,” Astria's friends insisted. The five of them: Shannon and her boyfriend Ross, Ingrid, Astria, and Patrick, talked and drank beer and tea in the Electric Toby Lounge in downtown Calgary. It was the weekly meeting of their Poe Society. They talked about 'The Imp of the Perverse', a short tale of a man who felt forced by a devilish sprite to confess to murder.

“Too bad he got caught,” Astria said. Shannon's curls shimmered like carrots pulled fresh from the paper bag, and she held Ross's hand. He slipped his fingers along her thigh and patted a handy buttock.

“I think so, too,” Shannon said. She squirmed in her seat. “Ingrid, what do you think? You have the most sense of all of us. What would you have done? Would you have admitted to something nobody else knew about, just because of a guilty conscience?”

“Just because?” Ingrid said. “I think guilt is a great motivator.”

“Would you have told, if it meant death? Or live with a guilty conscience?”

“I don't know.” Ingrid drew doodles on her paper napkin with a wet finger. Her beer left a puddle of moisture on the Formica top of the table. Ross drank his beer to the bottom of the glass and burped. Shannon let go of his hand. Astria opened her laptop and googled The Imp of the Perverse to help them with comments.

“Where will Poe's protagonist be tomorrow? With the Imp?” she asked.

“In Hell.” Patrick ordered another Red Stock and lined them up. The server, a fellow student, grinned and wiped the table.

“Say it isn't so,” the server said. “I like the guy.”

“It isn't so,” Patrick said.

“Where was Edgar's hero the next day?” Ross asked again.

“Heaven or Hell,” Patrick answered. “It's all the same. One's a loft; one's a basement. I don't believe in either one.”

Ingrid spoke again and the subject changed. Astria's tea steamed even in the warmth of the room. The four mugs of beer frothed with cold white bitterness. The students huddled in their booth while Astria picked at a hole in the leather seat. Patrick threw his arm around her and winked at Ross. He stroked his beard. “Ingrid's seeing things, too,” he said. “Maybe the lions are trying to tell you something, Astria. Like you're both crazy.”

Astria dunked another biscuit in her tea. “You might be right about me but not about Ingrid the brave,” she said. “What could those lions tell me, anyhow? Couple of rock heads. My father was right. They belong on the bridge and in history. A bit like my father, actually…” Her voice trailed off. “You know it's the middle of October by the way they turn the heat up in here.” She pulled her anorak over her head, revealing a tie dyed sweatshirt. Patrick frowned.

“You can read the tea leaves like your dead granny did, or a deck of cards, you little…witch,” Patrick said. “Or you can practice talking to the dead like Edgar Cayce. But don't insist your visions are real, Ass-head.”

“If a famous American psychic talked to the dead, why can't I?”

“ 'The knowledge of life is the knowledge of death',” Shannon interrupted. “Classic Cayce. I believe Ingrid's vision was real and I believe we can talk to the dead.”

Astria's laptop screen glowed blue.

“Shut that damn thing off,” Patrick said. “Maybe the devil's in it. Or a lion.” He gulped another Red Stock and wiped his beard. “Let's go, pumpkin. It's getting late.”

The server smiled and gave a high five to Astria as they left. Ross winked at Patrick and the three women waved.

Patrick's yellow-grey eyes matched the rain. He wasn't going to get into wheels with a bunch of drunks and a bad driver. He scratched his face on the way home. There was a faint red rash on his face which appeared only when he was stressed.

Chapter Four

Astria's dachshund, Goliath, met them at the door. Patrick glared at the little dog, who yelped and hid behind its mistress, a puddle of urine trailing behind. Patrick swore. He kicked at Goliath but missed. Astria knew the trigger spots from her karate and judo lessons, and bashed her boyfriend in the muscle at the side of his thigh. Patrick went down, swearing, and his thin biceps bulged under the black tee-shirt as he spread his hands to break his fall. A bottle of Red Stock beer crashed to the floor from the box on the hall table.

“Damn,” Patrick cried.“My beer!”

“Damn,” Astria repeated. “I missed. I tried for your groin.”

“You wicked… witch.” He laughed.

A tawny puddle of beer that matched the urine slithered over the white tiles. It had been another interesting evening with Patrick. Why couldn't he leave her puppy alone? Goliath was harmless, a little bundle of love that waggled its butt when the door opened, but Goliath hid when Patrick swaggered into the room.

Astria tried to make excuses for Patrick's behavior and failed. He was just plain mean. He'd been the same with Ingrid's Fergie, the loyal big dog that growled when it met Patrick, for what both the women felt was good reason. No one knew what Patrick had done to Fergie, but the beautiful retriever didn't like him.

“You had a good time at the Poe club tonight? You gonna help me up?” Patrick lay in the puddle of beer and flailed his arms.

“You're happy after an episode of violence, aren't you, creep?” But she put out a hand and hauled him to his feet, bracing herself against the table as the box of beer began to totter again. Patrick grabbed a bottle of Red Stock and tore the cap off with his teeth. He threw his head back and opened his throat, swallowing it in a few gulps.

“You're going to get sick,” she said.

“You proud of yourself, Brin? You took me down smart.” He grinned. “Forgive me, Ass-girl?” Patrick turned his profile to her. His smile was engaging. He reached out to Goliath, who cowered under the kitchen table. “I didn't mean it. You know how I feel about Goliath.”

“Yes. You hate him,” she said.

“He hates me, Astria. I don't know why.”

“Figure it out, Einstein.”

She began to clean up the urine and beer with a wet Swiffer and a bottle of bleach.

“You missed a spot,” Patrick said. She tightened her lips and bent over the mop. Goliath crunched on an Old Mother Hubbard treat it found in its bowl, keeping an eye on Patrick.

Astria was satisfied she had handled herself well that night at the Toby Jug Lounge, not so after coming home— but that ribbing earlier about being rich? Only rich kids have nannies. You little…witch. Yes, she had been brought up with nannies, international law firms and trips to Europe. Somehow, Astria had allowed herself since to slide down to the level of the water under the Centre Street Bridge, but she was buoyed by the memory of her fireman uncle and the nanny from Budapest, who had taught her never to show fear. The nanny knew pain and death, finally, in the end, but she remained fearless, and Astria smiled at the reminder.

Astria began to hum and planned the many ways to leave her lover.

Chapter Five

“Fiat Spider sports car. Low mileage. Leather seats, AM/FM stereo, aluminum wheels. Nine thousand,” the stranger's voice on the speaker phone rumbled.

“Dollars?” Patrick scratched his arm beneath the sleeve of his shirt. His psoriasis was acting up again. Dust motes swam in the yellow sunlight of late afternoon as he and Astria sprawled on the couch in their rented basement, the springs digging into their buttocks as usual.

“No, tomato juice,” Astria said to her partner. The voice on their landline chuckled.

“Bought it for my kid in '84 when he graduated from college. He drove it in the summer. It's been sitting in my garage since 2006.”

“Will it start?” Patrick asked.

“I start it up every spring and drive it a few blocks. Check it out, it's in perfect condition. You'll love it. My kid drives a minivan now.”

“What color is it?”

“Black with beige interior.” The speaker phone crackled.

Leather interior and aluminum wheels. Yee haw. The address was in Mount Royal on Richmond Hill and accessible by bus. Patrick remained on the couch by the shelves of books and the empty pizza cartons from the weekend. Astria flicked a mop over the floor. She opened a drawer and removed her checkbook, still thinking it over. They needed a car but the money her parents had sent was for tuition and books next semester. Her parents would not be pleased with their purchase. Her father, particularly, would not be impressed.

“Will you hurry up?” Patrick threw a ball of paper across the room, missed the wastebasket, and grinned when Astria frowned. “He might change his mind. That's a darn good price.”

“He won't change his mind, Patrick. He's lucky we're interested. That car's been sitting there for six years and he hasn't sold it yet. We've got cash and cash speaks.”

“Loud.” Ping! Another ball of paper bounced off the metal basket. “If you've got the money, honey, I've got the time.”

“Let's give it a test run, anyhow, Pat. That can't hurt.”

They went for a test run; a perfectly humming engine and spotless chassis, the cutest car with lots of trunk space for her camera equipment. Astria bought the car. Patrick drove them home with borrowed plates. An hour later they flaunted their own license plates, the front plate (unnecessary in Alberta) boasted the logo of the Mount Royal University, the vanity plate on the back proclaimed CAMEL.

“This car,” Patrick said, “Is the modern equivalent of the camel.”

“Desert car or camel, it doesn't make any difference to me,” Astria said. “You bought the plates, Pat. Your choice. But the car's for both of us, and remember who had the cash.”

“How could I forget?”

CAMEL it would remain. They would take looks askance from cowboys and oilmen because of that plate, but Patrick was adamant. He was the Sheikh of Araby, and Astria…? She swung her hips. “What a great car. I don't mind walking or bussing it. But what a great car, Pat. It can be our beast of burden when I start my photography classes next summer. I have too much equipment to carry by myself.”

“I'll help. I'm just glad you've changed majors. Law sucks.”

“Honey, you're a terrific help and strong like Ironman. But you're no camel.”

“Let's take it up north to show it off to your parents. It's about time we did something that showed I'm good enough for you. They think I'm a low-life SOB sponging off your money.” He pushed past the old chrome table doing double duty as a desk in their kitchen. His scuffed Brooks shoes left marks on the faded blue carpet. He sank onto the old couch in the next room. The corners of Astria's eyes crinkled. Her eyes under the blue tortoise frames were the color of violets at dawn and her hair curled tightly around ears as delicate as shells. She reached out to stroke his hair.

He scratched his face. “Ever since I saw you standing in the line of freshmen students three years ago, so aloof, so intelligent looking, so detached, I knew you were too good for me,” he said.

“You remember that?”

Patrick smiled. “I remember what you wore; black jeans and some sort of tie dyed top and sweater like you're wearing now. You were alone in the crowd.”

“Just me and my books.”

“You had that air about you, you know? Too good for this world.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke in her face. “Too good for me.”

“Too good for you? You're right.”

Patrick crossed his ankles. His legs felt heavy. Time slowed down to a grey haze that snaked away from him and he grinned, pulling on a scab on his arm. Astria noticed his hands were shaking.

“Let me count the ways.” She sat beside him. “First. My parents are not the epitome of good breeding.”

Patrick raised his eyes and puffed. Ash trembled at the tip of the cigarette. He caught it in a cupped hand.

“Why not?”

“First, dad drinks too much,” she said.

“And…?”

“Second, mother is a crack head. Her good breeding is all up her nose.”

“I don't hold that against them,” he said. “Pot calling the fry pan black.”

“You think you're the only pothead here? Take a look around you, Pat. My mother's got holes in her nose. My father's got holes in his stomach. They didn't raise me. My nannies and my gram raised me. Our money…they control everything. I have no money or anything of my own. An account in the City Bank for my tuition and equipment, enough in my checking account for rent and food. Maybe some left over at the end of the week for a movie and the Poe dates.”

“And a new car?”

“You better believe it. Straight from the account for books and tuition.” Grinning, she lit one of his cigarettes and inhaled deep into her throat. A column of smoke twirled from her mouth. She coughed and gave it back. “Next and lastly, I inherit that empire of theirs when they pass on.”

“I knew there was a catch. You know you're too good for me. You're rich, all right, or will be. But right now, you're poor as I am, thanks to the cheap SOBs.”

She coughed again. “There could be a fire. Something that kills people.”

“What are you saying?”

“To warm you up.” Astria stroked her hand along the side of his face. She removed her cardigan and flung it over both of them. “I was just kidding. Nothing serious will happen to them, not as long as we're together. We're like a lucky charm. I was just thinking of something that happened once. A fire killed my uncle, you know. There was no lucky charm for uncle Almos. I was there at the time,” she finished dreamily. “My Hungarian nanny was there, too. The fire was in our house. I was lucky to escape.”

“What?” He groped her breasts and she pulled down the zipper on his jeans, suddenly too tight.

“Yes,” she said, breathing heavily. She placed her glasses on the back of the couch. “The curtains caught fire. A candle did it. The papers blamed me. But it was an accident.”

Their moans were muffled by the moving warm woolen sweater she had thrown over their backs. He pulled away for a moment. His lips brushed hers. “I'll follow you,” he said. “Just like the lions. To the death.”

“Oh, gosh. You don't think they will, after all?” She shivered. “Follow me, that is?”

“No.” Patrick thrust again and again into her firm young body.

Outside on the silver path, there were footprints that puddled to a door and a small dirty window looking into a world inside. Patrick and Astria humped like a beast with two backs, and great glowing eyes watched from a corner of the dark room.

Chapter Six

Patrick drove the topless Spider with Astria biting her nails beside him. He detoured up the old highway from Calgary to Edmonton, then over to Claresholm and Highway Queen E-2 again, drove from Red Deer north and ended up in Sherwood Park, east of Edmonton.

“My gosh,” Astria said. “How'd we get here? You must be crazy, this is east of where we want to be. We took all the back roads. What are you thinking?” Their black Fiat was speckled with dirt, the leather interior dusty, dried peanuts and empty pop cans littered the passenger floor.

She looked back at the trunk and saw great gobbets of marsh plants and odd-looking reptiles, dead and alive, driftwood from dead forests they'd passed, and the trunk was wet with slime.

“Holy crap, what happened?” Astria clutched her lover's arm. Patrick's mouth curved sideways and up, and he whirled the Fiat past a barricade to burst through the bubble of autumn afternoon ennui, a few miles west of Sherwood Park on the way back to the city of Edmonton. Pursued as they were by demons of Patrick's own making, their car skidded to a stop on the outskirts of the prestigious Bear's Bend area. Patrick leapt over the side of the car and with a flourish opened the passenger door for Astria.

She spoke into the speaker recessed into the glass-walled high-rise development where her parents lived until November of each year. The wrought iron gate inside slid open and a chromed elevator took them all the way up to the penthouse. A huge man with greying temples opened the door for them.

“Daddy,” Astria mumbled, brushing past him. “Good to see you. Where's mom?” The atrium where they stood jutted into three corners of the glass building and looked onto thirty stories below. Fig trees and an endangered haleakala silversword sucked in the sunlight at the south entrance.

“Did you see what we drove up in?” Patrick asked. “It's right down there in the lot.”

“Yeah, see what we bought, Dad,” Astria said. She bit her nails.

“Oh, great, see what you bought with your tuition money – why didn't you bring it into the parkade, you little twits, and not leave it out there with the top down for any fool to vandalize, even though it is a piece of shit. Astria, won't you kids ever learn? What is it this time?”

“A Fiat Spider,” Patrick said. Astria and he glanced at one another and their eyes dropped. Her father leaned next to the silversword to look way, way down; crossed his arms and grinned.

“Yeah, I had one of those lawn mower engines back in my younger days,” he said.

“Come see the car close up.” Patrick led him to the elevators. They descended thirty flights to the exterior parking lot.

Her father admired the shine of the paint beneath the dust, the leather upholstery, the… “What's this?” He opened the trunk and the devils fell out.

“Surreal landscape, my gosh. Where were you? What in hell are those?”

Slopped and untidy, dirty and half wretched creatures that were uglier than the gargoyles on their alma mater building, the monsters slithered from the gaping wound of the open trunk and disappeared beneath the car, leaving a slimy trail of mud and compost. Astria noticed then that her mother had trailed after them in Walter Steiger curved heels, a glass of Scotch in one hand and a cigarette in another. Her mother's immaculately coiffed hair was reminiscent of the nineteen fifties, she wore a dusting of sparkling powder on her cheeks and nose, and her eyes dripped blue shadow. She coughed to get their attention.

“What time did you leave Calgary and how did you get here this fast? You called us only an hour ago from home.” Astria's father fingered his Delta Theta Phi ring. “Is this a prank, Patrick?”

“What time is it?” Astria shook her watch. “Something's wrong with the battery. Says it's four o'clock.”

“So?”

“We left at four. You never know what time it is, Dad.” That's his way, Astria thought. Too much Scotch.

“No, we didn't leave at four,” Patrick said. “I'm sure I know what time it was.”

“There must be something wrong with my watch.”

“We didn't leave at four,” Patrick said. “We left your dog with Ingrid and it was noon.”

“How many hours does it take to get here?” Astria asked then answered herself. “About four. Or maybe three on a good day.”

“Or three, then.” Patrick picked his teeth. “So don't worry about it, hun. We took a few shortcuts.”

“Where?” her mother's hand shook. “The car looks like holy shit.”

“It does,” her father agreed. “I don't understand what you're saying about the time, dear. Come on up, both of you, and have a drink with Mother and I before dinner. We'll sort out this mess later.”

“No,” Astria insisted. “We left at four and got here instantly. I know my watch is still ticking, see?” She held up a slim arm with the Rolex, a gift from her parents last year, gleaming amongst fine blonde hairs on her left wrist.

“Don't worry yer purty little head about it,” Patrick said and patted her shoulder. “Let's go upstairs and have something to eat. I'm famished. I don't know about you, but a long drive like that makes me hungry.”

“Sure it does,” her father said, twirling the ring on his beefy middle finger. “Come along, Bernice.” Her mother responded by tripping over her heels and catching herself on George's arm. They agreed the Fiat would be safer in the underground parking lot and the valet took the keys from Patrick, tipping her hat to Astria's father and the large gratuity she received.

Patrick opened the side-by-side fridge in the gleaming kitchen. “Mmmm, liver pate.”

Astria screwed up her face and placed her chin on her fist. Her mother patted her shoulder. “Pat, there's something awful wrong with this trip.”

“So that works out. It's four o'clock.”

“We nipped over and picked up the license plates and registration, we had a drink with Ingrid, we had to get back to the apartment because we forgot Goliath's food. What time was it when we left?” Astria put her hand on her mother's for an instant before Bernice withdrew it.

“I don't know,” Patrick said. “Mmmm.”

“My watch said three-thirty before we even left. How did we get here?”

“On back roads and the Queen E-2 Highway. Drives like a dream.”

Astria's father poured four glasses of Scotch. “What's that attached to your trunk, kids?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out,” Astria said. “It's a mess. I don't know how we got here like that. I'm not sure I was even conscious. The whole ride was like a nightmare.”

“You've always been a dreamer, dear,” her mother said. “I'm sure there's a logical explanation.” She drummed her crimson fingernails on the skin of her laptop on the table and took another drink. “Thank you, darling.”

“I hate Scotch, Dad. Tastes like cough syrup. You know that. I've always hated Scotch.” Astria made a face.

“Brandy?”

“Iced tea, please.”

Ice cubes tumbled like mini glaciers from the side of the LG fridge. Patrick licked his lips, liver pate caked on his left cheek. He put a finger in his mouth.

“Thanks, Dad,” Astria said. “You know I don't drink hard liquor this time of day.”

Patrick drank his Scotch.“Oh, the trunk? Why don't we forget about it? I don't know what happened any more than you do, and I don't think it has anything to do with lions, either.” He snorted and laughed.

“The trunk. Yeah. Animals. I don't know how they got there.” Her father strode to the window and gazed at the parking lot below. Something moved in the vicinity of the Fiat's former position. Something quick and rubbery.

Patrick licked his lips. “We went through some rough country.”

“Be careful how you drive, son,” her father said. “In 1971 I drove a Dodge Demon. A neon-green lean machine, 318 motor, smashed it on the Yellowhead one morning driving to work. Still think about that car, my first, paid four grand for it. Now you got this Fiat Spider, Astria. Same thing, lean mean machine. You'll tell your kids about it someday.”

Eek. Could he be condoning her relationship with Patrick? Eeeeek, what kids? They both hated kids, Patrick hated Goliath and Goliath was only her dog, what kind of father would he possibly be?

“But as a businessman,” her father continued, “I can advise you, Patrick…”

“It's not a good investment, George,” her mother said. “She spent the tuition money we sent her last spring.”

“You know, we brought this new toy up here just to show you, George and Bernice,” Patrick said. “If you don't like it…”

“Yes, sure, Patrick. I like it. But there are some things in the trunk. And Astria's tuition…” Her father ran a moist hand over his forehead and frowned. Bernice tapped her fingernails on the skin of her purple laptop. She frowned, too.

Patrick grinned. “Astria's gonna drop out of school. She won't need the tuition. She's going to work as a photographer. You know she's signed up for some photography courses next summer and has been dabbling in it forever. Well, at least as long as I've known her. It's not a bad living and Astria is a class girl, an artsy type, George. Yeah, she's not suited to law, we've agreed.”

“What? She is not quitting school.” George Brin slammed his drink on the table. “That's preposterous. The girl's got to get an education, make a living like her mother and I did from our bootstraps. No more coddling if you spend the tuition money, Astria.”

Astria wandered over to the glass-walled balcony, looked thirty stories down, and shuddered. Even from this height, she thought she saw forms sliding from the oil slick where the Fiat had stopped, she remembered the tentacles under the hood, and the trunk had moved. She was sure. There were horrible obscene creatures below; she had been right. Astria clenched her fists.

“Let's go,” Patrick said. “We can't stay for dinner, Bernice. Sorry.”

“You just got here.” Bernice didn't move but her eyes moistened and the blue shadow shimmered, her face twitched and the powder glowed. She left the glass of Scotch on the gleaming surface of the teak and silver table, and tottered across the room to her daughter.

“Your father and I are going to Europe in a few days,” she said. “Please stay and let's have a few drinks before you go. We'll order in from Luigi's. We may not see you again until Christmastime. And we have things to discuss, dear. Things like leaving school – you're not serious? You'd leave your law studies for this…this…” Her mouth moved helplessly. Her eyes swiveled to Patrick, who was leaning into the open fridge and spooning pate de foie gras into his mouth.

Her father slipped a folded wad of cash into Astria's hand as they departed.

“Thanks, Dad.”

The elevator swept them down to the splendid lobby and the glass doors opened onto the uniformed figure of the valet and the now sparkling clean Fiat. Her father had done them well, Astria thought and her mouth twisted to one side as she gave the valet another banknote.

“How much was it?” Patrick asked. “What did George slip you before we left?”

“The money? That's none of your business.”

“Ermmm…”

“Let me drive.”

Something slopped from the back of the car.

“Darn,” Pat said. “We'll have to empty the trunk.”

They looked, but nothing was there. “There's an oil slick where we parked,” Astria said. “If that's what it is.”

“What we got for the money,” Patrick said. “Engine problems, maybe.”

Astria started the car. “It's an old car,” she said. “Vintage, actually. Was that an oil slick or something else, I wonder? Looked bloody to me, in the light.”

They got home four hours later.

Patrick leaned back in a chromed chair and stared at Goliath, who wagged its tail, whined, and ducked beneath the kitchen table.

“Nice dog,” Patrick said. He picked his teeth and scratched his face. “Your parents weren't impressed when I said you were dropping out of school.”

“I didn't know it myself,” Astria said.

“It's the only logical thing to do. Get me a beer.”

“Logical? Any other time I'd shove both my index fingers up your nostrils and push, Patrick. But this time I think you're right.” She counted the money her father had given her. “There's enough here to get me to Denmark.”

“What the hell you gonna do in Denmark?”

“I'm going to go to school, A-hole,” Astria said, got up and pushed a Red Stock beer across the table to the bearded young man on the other side. The dachshund rubbed against her ankles and whined.

“School?”

“I've been thinking about it,” she said. “On the ride home. I'm not happy with law anyhow, you knew that. There's a school in Denmark that will give me a Master's in photojournalism with the credits I've got from Mount Royal.”

“You never talked it over with your daddy, I bet. We never had time. Don't you think he would want you to tromp in his footsteps so to speak? Law school? Wasn't that their idea in the first place? We'd have to talk them into approving of photojournalism. They gave in too easy. I'm suspicious. Don't think I'd let you just fly away to Denmark, either.”

“Why not? We're not exactly a happy couple.”

“I want to move to a better apartment. We just bought a new car. You can't make big decisions like going to Denmark at a time like this, Astria.”

“Not without consulting you, you little deadbeat of student loans?”

“What about Goliath here?” Patrick asked.

“I'll take him with me,” she said.

“Impossible.”

Astria said, “Think it over, Rover. You gave me that good idea today up north with Mom and Dad. I'd take the car with me, too.”

“You snatch,” he said, tipped the beer into his mouth and swallowed it in four gulps, opening his creepy gullet, she thought. She slammed The Gold-Bug onto the kitchen table/desk, which lurched and almost toppled.

The lions rumbled in their closet that night and their eyes shone like great lamps swung by a drunken trainman. Astria turned on the bedside light, read her copy of Poe and ate fruit jellies until after midnight. Then she got up, snapped shut the book and closed the closet door. Patrick snored next to her, arm over his eyes.

“I want to experience life, maybe in Europe, in Denmark, maybe; a condo all my own,” Astria whispered to the lions. Something purred behind the door. “Did you know the car must have looked like an insect in the parking lot today, from the penthouse? That's how high my parents live in the most expensive condo in the city. That's how rich they are. We look like ants. We are ants. Of no importance, and our precious CAMEL is a dung heap.”

There was no answer. Of course. Patrick was asleep and the lions were imaginary. Really they were. She sighed and lay back on the soft pillows. The bedside radio glowed in the dark, telling her the correct time. Maybe she was a dreamer. She must learn to block these fantastic thoughts. They weren't healthy. She glanced at her sleeping partner. He looked a bit like Brad Pitt with a beard, she thought. Astria's father had looked like Brad Pitt when he was younger. She could tell from old photographs. Her father had been handsome before he gained all that weight and turned grey, and her mother had been beautiful. Heck, they still were attractive people.

She wondered if her parents had ever been obscenely and recklessly in love, had dreams bigger than they had achieved at last, when she knew them as adults, had ever wanted a child like Astria turned out to be, or perhaps brothers and sisters for her, had ever somehow lived drug-free and innocent?

Probably not. She turned over in bed as the closet door creaked open and baleful eyes glowed in the dark.

Damn lions watching her again, listening to her thoughts, waiting… waiting for her to leave Patrick.