Lamia

 The house would have appeared abandoned if not for the meticulously maintained lawn and rose bushes. It looked polluted and sunken into the ground. A mess of shabby roof tiles and flaked paint was lined with soggy rain gutters. Hank stared at the door, suddenly unsure of himself. He hadn't spoken to Deanna Montgomery since it had been revealed that her daughter was the Descended Lamia. A child killer. And worse. A horrible fucking monster. He rapped twice, staring at his shoes. When the door groaned open and distrusting gray eyes peered out, he did the most natural thing he could think of. Hank held out a cigarette.

"Gotta minute?"

Deanna smiled through a grimace. She opened the screen door and stepped out. Hank took a tentative look at her. She had lost weight since he'd seen her last. Her dark, sunken eyes sat back in her skull. Hank caught a smell, not exactly body odor but something that caused him to glance inside. She followed his gaze, squinting. 

"Not a good time," she said. "I don't know what to say."

"Nor do I. I'm sorry for not coming by sooner if it makes any difference."

"There was nothing to say."

"Yes, there was."

"What? Sorry but not only is your daughter never coming home but she's a killer of little babies?"

Hank recoiled. The remark had meant to be sarcastic but was punched with horrible sadness. He felt a tightness in his jaw. Deanna bent to a small love seat and plucked a lighter off the cushion. She lit her cigarette then held out the match so Hank could light his own. Their eyes met as he puffed the cherry to life

"Has she come home?"

"No."

"Are you lying?"

"Why would she come home? She knows the police are looking for her. She knows what she did."

"She has to sleep somewhere. Stephanie hasn't reached out at all?"

"Maybe you should check the sewers. Wasn't that where you found her anyway?"

"Where did she go after that night?"

"What night?"

"The night we brought her home!" He all but screamed. 

Deanna fumbled a drag from her cigarette. Her hands were greasy and trembled. 

"She talked with the police for a few minutes then said she'd go get a check-up at the hospital the following morning! She was tired and wet and filthy! They took her at her word. After all, she wasn't accused of anything! She was a missing teenager! How were we supposed to know?"

"Hecate knew."

"That lying bitch. It's all her fault. Is that how you found out?"

"About Lamia?"

"Yes."

Hank nodded. There was a loud pop inside like popcorn being cooked on a stove. Hank glanced around Deanna's shoulder.

"I'm cooking," she mumbled.

"Hecate gleaned the truth of Stephanie the same time we did. In fact, I'm betting she put it together before. I saw her face down there. She was terrified of Stephanie."

"That's horseshit! How could she have not known?"

"I don't think she had a clue as to what Stephanie was doing with the children."

"They were in on it together, Hank! They planned her disappearance!"

"You're right. The abduction was fabricated. I still don't know why and Hecate hasn't said. I think they were hiding from somebody. But the other stuff, no, she was appalled in the sewers. She was genuinely scared."

"Are you saying the Descendant bitch feels betrayed? I'm her mother! How do you think it sits with me?" 

A shuffling sound behind her caused her to move in front of the screen door. Hank frowned. 

"Do you have company?" 

A light inside, just past the hallway flickered twice. Hank got the sudden urge to urinate. A deep, unsettling pit settled in his bowels. 

"Deanna?" 

"No, it's nothing. Probably the cat."

She wouldn't meet his eyes. Her hands shook now with each drag. Hank stepped around her and opened the screen door. When he got inside, the stench was more pronounced. It was like rotten meat. Hank took the steps two at a time until he reached the second floor. The wood creaked under his weight. He noticed the windows had all the blinds shut. Trace amounts of light peeked out from underneath. Another creak came from his left and he squinted towards the bathroom. The light was off. the door partially closed. He stepped in and checked behind the shower curtain. Nothing. There was a rustling from a bedroom in front of him and he swore there was a low, guttural growl from inside.

"Did you get a dog?"

Deanna didn't answer. He looked down the stairs and she stood transfixed, staring at him with mouth ajar. She looked like she was in the middle of shrieking yet no sound came from her. 

Oh my god, she's here.

Hank swung the laundry room door wide while reaching into his waistband for his weapon. The cold steel was a comfort but barely. He turned towards a second bedroom at his right, peering in and checking underneath the bed. Deanna was cursing and shouted something but Hank barely heard her.

"Lamia!" 

A loud bang caused him to lunge forward. Then an eerie silence save for the dripping of a bathroom faucet caused the hair on his arms to stand up. He turned his head for only a second just as a blur rushed forward from the back of the hall. Hank hadn't time to so much as scream before Lamia threw her body into him. He was weightless for a frightful few seconds. When his back struck the stairs and he bounced like a ragdoll upside down, he thought he would die. Hank was sure the next sickening crack would be his neck. A piercing pain lanced up his hip and shoulderblade. He came down hard on his elbow, his head banging the bottom step. His vision blurred but he heard Deanna gasp and the knock knocking of  Lamia's feet as she bounded down the stairs. The screen door slammed open. 

Hank lifted his head, got to his knees. There was jabbing pain in his back and hips. Deanna screamed something else as he stumbled up and all but fell outside. He looked up the driveway to see Lamia pointing his Glock at him. Her eyes were glassy and faraway. She had cut her hair short almost boyish. Her face looked the same except thinner. 

"Stephie!" Deanna screamed.

Lamia spared her a glance. Then she pulled the trigger. Hank flinched but there was no bang. There were no parts of him being blown off into bits and blood. He got to his feet. It's the safety! She doesn't know about the safety! He bounded up the drive, praying that Lamia didn't disengage the safety latch before he could reach her. When he got within ten paces, Lamia dropped the weapon and raced up the sidewalk. Hank stumbled to his sedan, threw the keys into the ignition, and jolted forward. It was too late. Lamia had cut across the street, ran to the back of a neighbor's house, and jumped the fence. Hank sped to the intersection, made a sharp right then slowed on the next block. There was no sign of her. He rolled the car to a stop and leaned forward against the steering wheel. The throbbing in his lower back was relentless and he grimaced as he pulled the emergency brake and got out. As he dialed the police, he bent and vomited into the gutter.

Introducing Arcadia's End

 

Hank entered the dusty bedroom to find a scene of chaos. Straight ahead of him, a woman lay choking, her laborious breathing raspy. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, heard the crackling of each gasp. The air around her quickened, warning of the suffocation that was imminent.

What in the fresh hell is this, He thought. 

"How long has she been sick?"

It was obvious the woman was seriously ill. A cancer patient or maybe tuberculosis. 

"Watch her very closely," Rodrigo said next to him. He had approached Hank at his office two days ago, begging for help from the private investigator 'who used to be a cop'. Of Hispanic descent, the young man was barely out of his teens yet hard labor had already lined his face and calloused his hands. Or maybe it was the stress. Hank knew about the stress. The past year had been nothing but one trouble after another. 

"Watch," Rodrigo whispered.

"Why?"

"It's being cut as we speak!" Rodrigo nearly screamed.

Hank studied her more closely. The dark bags under her sunken sockets gave the impression of being beaten. An observation that wasn't without credibility, he knew. He had noticed the bruising on her arms as soon as he entered. Rodrigo looked away quickly, a wry expression on his face. Suddenly, a  stream of chunky vomit exploded out of the woman. She moaned, half slumped out of the bed. She said something in what sounded like Spanish but Hank knew wasn't. It was an ancient dialect. It was Mayan. 

"You said a crime was being commited. Best I can tell, you're kicking her ass. Maybe I should run you in."

"It's not me!" Rodrigo cried. "The crime is happening right now, as we speak! Can't you see?" 

Hank turned on him. "What the hell are you talking about?" 

"Her hour is being cut," Rodrigo said slowly, as if to a child. "Once your hour is cut, there is nothing that can be done. I've seen it before. They just die."

"What does that mean?"

"She will be dead in a few weeks."

Hank shook his head. He felt a physical chill pass through him. He knew what Rodrigo was getting at. Descendant. A fallen deity was causing this woman to whither away.

"How do they do it?" He asked.

"I don't know and I don't want to know! I stay away from the Brujo."

"The Brujo."

"Yes."

"Can't you call a doctor?"

"For what? There is nothing a doctor can do. I stay away.  I don't want my hour cut too!"

"Well, what do you want me to do?" Hank asked, seething. "What did you hire me for?"

"Find him and stop him before it's too late! You know Descended, at least that's the rumor. You can help her! You must!"

Hank swept his gaze around the room, noting the static electricity in the air, the hair on his arms stood on end. He walked to the edge of the bed and put a hand on her forehead. She was burning up. 

"What's her name?"

"Olivetta."

He bent to her ear. "Olivetta, did a Descendant do this to you?"

Perspiration rolled off of her face as she nodded once and closed her eyes. She mumbled something under her breath. A chant or prayer, Hank couldn't tell. He felt dizzy as if her illness was catching. It had been this curious fact that had finally caused him to acquiesce and take Rodrigo's case. 

"Olivetta, which Descendant? What deity did this to you?"

"The Brujo," She whispered. "Ch'ul tot! Ch'ul ch'en! Ch'ul vita chopol tamjmec ali jcruntatique!"

Rodrigo screamed and covered his ears. His mouth uttering the words as they poured out of her. Hank looked from one to the other, incredulity in his features. He walked to the other side of the bed. As he did, her eyes never left him. He creaked open a window and threw back cream-colored shades.

"What did she say?" 

Rodrigo's distress spilled out in a loud, coughing sob. He whirled onto Hank and pulled him back by the shoulder. "It's not just a Brujo," He screamed. " He is here! It's J'ac'chamel!"

"Who?"

"J'ac'chamel is cutting her hour!"

"Who is that?"

"He is the giver of the process of death," Rodrigo said with sad finality. 

"And?"

"Nothing can be done. She will be gone soon."

"I'll check it out, Rodrigo. But you have to be straight with me. Is J'ac'chamel Descended?"

Rodrigo's manic eyes were glassy. He raised both hands as if to ward off an invisible attacker. He wiped his nose on his left sleeve then stared down at Olivetta who had succumbed to sleep.  

"J'ac'chamel has Descended. He lives and the Maya are without hope. The giver has come."

"Is it like magic?" Hank asked his mind suddenly on Hecate.

Rodrigo choked back a sob and wept into his hands. Hank turned and stared outside the tiny shack. His face betrayed none of the fear that he suddenly felt.