Beaten Path Read online

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  Beaten Path

  Martin Shannon

  Copyright © 2020 by Martin Shannon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents, are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, actual events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  I. Good Intentions

  1. Steel-toe Slumber

  2. Boiled or Roasted

  3. Soul-Splitting Good

  4. Mr. Ed

  5. Midnight Riders

  6. Trailer Toss

  7. Collar Popping Evil

  8. Prussian Pause

  9. Black Hearts and Red Blood

  II. The Road To Hell

  10. Wing-halla Awaits

  11. Home Wrecker

  12. Trolls in the Mist

  13. Modern Magick

  14. Email Meltdown

  15. Fire and Flowers

  16. Sins of the Father

  17. Dino Dive

  18. Stand in Me

  19. Mail Time

  20. Flapjacks and Family

  21. Breakfast Beatdown

  22. Made up Matrimony

  23. Long Distance

  24. Identity Unknown

  25. The Muscles that Tussles

  26. Sturkey

  27. Fowl Play

  28. Tickets to the Gun Show

  29. Friskies

  30. Margaritaville

  31. Choices Made

  32. Screw Driven

  33. Belief

  34. Mud Blood

  35. After Life

  36. Sight is for the Birds

  37. Not Lost

  III. Won't Back Down

  38. Of Books, Bowls, and Buttons

  39. Seat of my Pants

  40. Enlisted Men

  41. Get Down

  42. Scaly Balance

  43. Small Holes and Big Problems

  44. Everything Burns

  45. In Your Eyes

  46. Complete

  47. South Georgia

  Martin Shannon’s Weird Florida

  Bloody Deed

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  On Newsletters, Writing, and Reviews

  To my sister, whose tenacity is the stuff of legend.

  Part I

  Good Intentions

  1

  Steel-toe Slumber

  Water dripped from the dive bar’s leaky faucet. It left a dark orange rust stain on the previously white sink before disappearing into the void of an open drain. I gripped that dingy porcelain and stared into a streak-filled mirror.

  The locked bathroom door banged again. “Hurry up!”

  “Screw you!” I shouted back, pounding my hand against the sink. “I’ll be out when I’m out.”

  Whatever choice words the man on the other side of the door had for me, I wasn’t paying attention to them; in fact, I wasn’t paying attention to much of anything at that moment.

  Even with a dead Imp laying on the dirty tile behind me like a lump of week-old Christmas pudding, my mind couldn’t stop replaying the last conversation with my own Minor Demon.

  They took her. No, it’s not possible. Is it?

  I had an iron-clad contract with the House, or that’s what I’d been promised. In exchange for ten lifetimes of service, I had its assurances my daughter would be returned to me.

  I’d seen it all with my own two eyes. She was Cathy, my Cathy. Wasn’t she?

  Stewart the Annoying couldn’t lie to me, especially now that he’d been properly named in a fit of frustration and bound to servitude. He was as tied to me as stink on a dead rabbit, and he said they took her.

  Who took her? Why do you care? You let her go. You condemned your own daughter to the fires of everlasting damnation.

  I closed my eyes and was instantly greeted by the same nightmare that was my every night—the swirling Hellgate from all those months ago, my daughter clinging to the fiery edge, her screams echoing in my ears.

  You weren’t alone… The Defiler…

  In my mind’s eye, the many-tentacled Asaroth was there too. His corrupting arms reached for Cathy, and then beyond her, into our world. The inky monster was a primordial force of unchecked destruction and untold evil. On that night he’d been like a kid at Christmas, tentacles a flutter and ready to shuck our skin like discarded gift-wrap.

  Not on my watch.

  It was the impossible dilemma: stop the monster, or save the daughter.

  I let her go. No, I commanded Stewart to protect her.

  My eyes drifted to the dead Imp slowly decaying on the floor behind me.

  Not exactly sending in the marines…

  Stewart the Annoying, like the Imp whose body rotted on the floor, wasn’t physically imposing. He was no Gillyfinkus Demon, or monstrous Thrull—frankly I’d seen raccoons around the trash cans more imposing than my Minor Demon. What could Stewart’s rubbery little bat-winged body have done to keep her safe in the horrifying depths of the netherworld?

  I turned the faucet on and let the water splash into the sink in broken bursts.

  He was an Imp, which should have been exactly what she’d needed. They were the Jeopardy masters of the supernatural world. Monsters like Stewart knew the places, the players, and all their games. Those little rubbery bastards moved like rats in the underworld, always knowing exactly how to slip in and out unseen. He’d have found a way to hide her—I was sure of it.

  But would she have let him?

  I splashed the near-scalding water on my face, wiping at the dirt that had built up between unshaven bristles.

  Cathy was as headstrong as her mother. Would she have fought him? Would she have tried to escape herself?

  I shuddered. With Ariadne’s Thread cut like a parade ribbon, Cathy would have been a lost balloon, drifting on the whims of the evil that prowled the shadows.

  Please, for the love of God, please don’t be like your mother just this once.

  But Cathy was safe at home, I’d seen it myself. Those last two weeks after she’d been restored to us had been nigh Magickal in their own right. We’d done so many things together as a family: theme parks, restaurants, movies, the beach. But it wasn’t one of those moments that stuck out, it was something simple.

  ‘What ice cream do you want, Dad?’

  ‘You know what I like.’

  ‘Don’t make me guess.’

  The memory of Cathy’s words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. I had to catch my breath as the now scalding water sent a cloud of steam up to cover the mirror.

  Don’t make me guess.

&n
bsp; She didn’t know—why didn’t she know?

  Don’t make me guess.

  How had I missed that?

  There was only one answer, and Stewart had told me just as much only moments ago—she wasn’t Cathy.

  ‘Not your daughter.’

  How did you let this happen? What evil is living in Cathy’s skin? What is making its bed in the house your wife and son sleep in?

  I turned off the water and wiped a hand across the dirty glass.

  “It’s time to get some answers.”

  My voice echoed in the empty bathroom and mixed with the live music worming its way through the thin walls.

  “I can’t leave your corpse here for someone to find. That’s all I need, another urban legend springing up in the Strange Shine State.”

  The dive bar I’d tracked this Minor Demon to wasn’t far outside Dade City, a tiny town in the center of the state and home to more than a few reclusive Bridge Trolls. Most of the time it was wise to steer clear of Bridge Trolls—I’d made that my mantra for many years—but the hunt had brought me here.

  Sal’s Bar.

  You could practically smell the Bridge Troll in the air at Sal’s. This made perfect sense given how close their territory was to the seedy watering hole. Still, I’d done my best to keep some distance between myself and those wrecking-ball-sized week-ruiners and had slipped into Sal’s under the cover of darkness.

  Window maybe?

  I sized up the dead Imp versus the tight confines of the side window.

  Working for the House had been a challenge to say the least. It took more than a little creativity to find a way to merge its directives with the other driving goal in my life—finding Tristan. It’d been tricky at first, but after a few weeks I’d gotten the hang of it.

  I’m going on a Tristan hunt… I’m not afraid, but that bastard should be.

  Tristan, Cathy’s last boyfriend, the kid that had broken her heart, had snapped her Thread, and stolen the single most powerful book in my meager library. That teenager was a grade-A jerk as far as I was concerned, but he was also something else: damn tough to find.

  I looped my fingers around the edge of the side windowsill and pulled my less-than-athletic body up far enough to see outside. It was dark, which limited my view, but the cross-breeze told me two things.

  First, that side window was right over top a dumpster.

  I’ll take it.

  And second, there was a little Bridge Troll scent in the air.

  That’s fine. I’m not hanging around.

  I scooped up the gelatinous Imp carcass and maneuvered it under the window. Black and sticky Demon blood oozed down my hands and over my shirt.

  Great.

  One final heave got it up to the ledge and then over.

  Splat!

  The dead Imp’s body landed in the dumpster with a sickening wet thump and effectively re-affirmed my desire to leave through the main door.

  Honestly, I was somewhat surprised I’d heard the impact over the crowd of people drinking their troubles away at Sal’s tonight. The converted bungalow served as a favorite watering hole for a unique cross-section of Florida.

  Ladies night…

  The band kicked it up a notch, and I wiped what I could of the Demon blood off on the last unused patches of paper towel scattered around the tiny bathroom.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Someone banged against the door three times in rapid-fire succession. They weren’t the petite raps of a gentleman keen to use the facilities, these impacts made the door rattle on its hinges.

  “Yeah, listen. I said I’d be out when I was out and I’m wrapping up, so you just need to—”

  I didn’t get to finish my retort before the door to Sal’s men’s room blast inward right off its hinges. Two barrel-chested men that could have given Popeye a run for his money, and a young skinny kid not far into his twenties, poured into the tight confines of the tiny bathroom.

  I raised my hands. “Right, so I’m all done. It’s all yours—”

  The fists came before I was ready for them. The first rammed into my gut with the force of a jackhammer, while the next caught the side of my skull.

  Someone works with their hands…

  For the second time that night I got to experience the unique displeasure of having all the air ejected from my lungs. Falling forward, I realized just how hard it was to use Magick without air.

  Laying on the dingy tile, I didn’t get much time to contemplate that challenge before a steel-toed boot ushered me into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  2

  Boiled or Roasted

  I opened my eyes to the fuzzy outline of black boots and a face full of wet concrete.

  We aren’t in the bathroom.

  My hands were tied, which made it difficult to do much more than mentally dog paddle my way back toward consciousness.

  “Mrrrmph…” My word production wasn’t quite up to par yet, but it was enough to get the attention of at least one of the boot owners.

  “He’s waking up.”

  Nothing gets past this guy.

  I twisted my head and took a deep breath.

  Peanuts?

  “So, what do we do next?”

  That question came from the gentleman whose fists had gotten the jump on me earlier. An oversized, meaty hand squeezed at the modest fat that had built up around the back of my waistline. There was a little more now than there’d been a year ago, but life on the road will do that to a guy. “Hmm, are you guys sure he’s the Demon?”

  What?! No, let me answer that for you, he’s not.

  “I’m nert,” I said, my mouth still struggling to form words, the concrete making it far more difficult than it should have been.

  “Listen, he’s trying to say something.” Strong hands grabbed my jacket and pulled me up.

  “Don’t turn him over, Donnie—”

  “Huh?” Clearly confused, Donnie dropped me back on the hard floor.

  Whump!

  “Mr. Ed said you can’t talk to Demons. They’re bad hombres, and if you listen to what they say they’ll pervert your thinking.”

  I blinked my eyes a few times and twisted my head, hoping they hadn’t broken my nose.

  One, I’m not a Demon, two there are not enough brain cells between the three of you to qualify as thinking.

  “I’m nrrt a Dermmon,” I cried, my mouth finally forming partial words, even though hitting the floor a second time made that all the more difficult.

  “I think he’s saying he’s not a Demon…”

  “What would you expect a Demon to say? Good Lord, Donnie, there are days I can’t believe we’re even related.”

  I can.

  Donnie didn’t appear convinced. “But didn’t Mr. Ed say he would be all purple and rubbery?”

  The Imp? They’re after the Imp I killed for the House… These three knuckleheads couldn’t catch an Imp if they’d filled their underpants with warm bourbon.

  “He did…”

  It was the third voice’s opportunity to respond, and for a moment I had hope that this unseen individual would realize I was not an Imp.

  “Yeah, listen, I think Donnie’s right. I don’t think this is the demon—”

  Oh thank goodness. Now, if you’ll just untie me, we can—

  Donnie’s mouth-breathing voice trampled my hopes. “Then he’s in league with the Demon. Mr. Ed left the Viewmaster. We should try those.”

  Viewmaster? What have these swamp people found?

  “No guys,” the younger voice of reason said, a hint of concern coloring his words. “We can’t use those on him. We don’t know what he is, and we don’t know what they’ll do to him.”

  Listen to this one, he’s got some smarts.

  “But what if he and the Demon are buddies, you thought of that?” Donnie asked, his voice clearly finding this entire conversation difficult to follow.

  Let him up so you can talk to him would be a great plan.

  “No�
��”

  “What about you, Maurice? Any ideas?”

  “We banish it, that’s what we do.”

  Like hell you do. I’ve got a daughter to save and a House to confront. I don’t have time for this.

  I struggled against the zip tie holding my wrists tight behind my back.

  “He’s moving again—” Maurice said, his feet shuffling on the dusty concrete.

  “Hit him with the Holy Water.”

  I’m a Magician guys, I’m not a Demon. Holy Water isn’t going to do anything.

  Lukewarm water splashed on my face and arms. It stung like bleach and I squirmed against the ground trying to wipe it away.

  Holy crap that hurts! What the… The deal with 69 Mallory Lane. Am I tainted?

  “He’s squirming, Maurice.”

  “Yep.”

  I imagined those two knuckle-draggers sharing a knowing nod while staring down at me with arms crossed.

  Clang.

  Maurice set down what sounded like an empty bucket. “Uh, huh. Well, I've texted Mr. Ed, so he should be here shortly. He’ll know what to do.”

  I wasn’t about to lie around on holy concrete any longer than I had to, nor was I going to wait for Mr. Ed—even if a small part of me was keen to see if he was actually a talking horse. I was getting out of here, now.