Games Creatures Play

  “If they’re willing. Some are too afraid.”

  Ellie tried to aim, but she wavered. Two darts hit the outer ring, piercing the gold 10 embossed on the cork panels. One didn’t even hit the board, embedding itself in the grimy plaster to the left of the hook.

  “What a shame,” the devil said. He rolled his dice in his hand, the knucklebone rattle seeming far too loud in the high-ceilinged ballroom. “Only thing left to do now is roll the dice, Eleanor. Feeling lucky?”

  Ellie breathed in, out and shook her head. “I’m not playing that game.”

  The devil’s face twisted, and he looked less like a man for the first time, more like the elongated, distorted, shadow-coated face she’d memorized in a hundred nightmares over the years. “You’re not in a position to give me any lip.”

  “You said it was my choice,” Ellie reminded him. “I choose the game you played with my father.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

  The devil went to the bar and got three cups. “What shall we hide under these, my dear?”

  Ellie gestured at the devil’s ruby tie pin. “Take it off.” She tried to go out of herself, rely totally on her fingers and her talents, as she had at her father’s funeral. She showed the demon the ruby pin and slipped it under the cup. She could remember watching her father’s hands when she was very small. Back when he didn’t drink as much and would laugh with her. She’d stand at the back of the crowd on a corner and watch him run the game, thin fingers with the dirty nails shifting red plastic cups faster than she could follow.

  At home, he’d push Sean’s homework aside on the dining table even though Sean whined when he did. He’d show Ellie, patiently, over and over, until she could move almost as fast as he could. He taught her how to tuck the Ping-Pong ball, or wine cork, or whatever she used up her sleeve, how to use magic to move it from sleeve to sleeve or cup to cup, and how to pop it back out and under the plastic rim again just before she tipped the cups over. He taught her that she could make it appear wherever she wanted, that luck had nothing to do with it. Not where people like them were concerned.

  Ellie shut out the sharp-edged memories of her father’s booze-tinged breath and the insults he screamed at all of them, the hard knuckles landing on her skull and the other nights, even worse than when he was home, when he wasn’t.

  Ellie thought instead of Christmas before Mom walked out, when her father would sing—very badly—“White Christmas,” how he’d tell her stories using her handful of stuffed animals to act them out, and how he’d taught both her and Sean to pitch a baseball in their tiny backyard and, when Ellie came home crying with a split lip, how to throw a punch.

  “You may not be the biggest, or the toughest,” he told her. “But let it be known you don’t take shit from nobody and I guarantee people’ll leave you alone.”

  Ellie let her hands move almost of their own accord, relying on muscle memory. The cups rattled and she stopped, looking up at the devil. “Which one?”

  He tapped the middle one. Ellie revealed the empty space under the cup, and he hissed between his teeth.

  She showed him the ruby again, slipped it under a cup. When she slipped it up her sleeve that time it cut her skin, but Ellie kept her face still, only her hands moving. The record cut off and static hissed through the speakers above her head.

  The devil picked again, and Ellie’s stomach sank. He’d picked right. She showed him the ruby and the dull blood-colored gleam reflected in his black eyes.

  “That’s more like it,” he purred. “I hope your brothers will pay for a nice funeral with some of that money. Like your dad’s—that was a nice little Irish wake if I do say so.”

  “Are you interested in talking, or are you interested in playing?” Ellie snapped. The devil spread his hands.

  “By all means. Let’s play.”

  She felt blood dribble down inside her sleeve, but Ellie moved faster than she’d ever moved the cups before. She shifted the ruby with magic from her left sleeve to her right, but she was so in tune she didn’t even need talent, not really. Her fingers flew, the cups rattled, and when she slipped the ruby back under the cup of her choosing, her drop was smoother than it had ever been. When the cups came to a stop, the devil studied them carefully.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, extending one pale finger, “that you’re going to be seeing your father again very soon.”

  Ellie flicked the cup over. It landed on its side with a rattle, and she watched two spots of color rise in the devil’s face.

  The cup was empty.

  “I guess I’ve got a few more years before I see the old man,” Ellie said. “I’ll take the money now.”

  She’d never seen such pure hatred on a creature’s face before that moment. Not on Blackie Farrell, not on anyone. The devil picked up his black case, then stalked back to her.

  “Do you know how many people have beaten me?”

  “Don’t know,” Ellie said. “Don’t care.”

  The devil sighed and then stuck out his hand. “The money will be returned to the disreputable Mr. Farrell, but I doubt your idiot brother will be spared.”

  Ellie took the thing’s hand, surprised to find it was dry but not cool and felt startlingly human. “Probably not, but I don’t need you for that. I can protect my own. You taught me to do that, when you took my father because he couldn’t.”

  The devil started to shake her hand, then turned her arm and examined the underside. Ellie saw the dark line of blood against her shirtsleeve, and her stomach dropped.

  “You cheated,” the devil growled. “You cheated me. Me. You think this will end well for you?”

  “You said we’d play.” Ellie refused to pull away. Refused to drop his gaze. He’d made a bargain and he was bound by it. That was how demons worked, what kept them from running amok on the human race. “You said we’d play a game, but you never said we wouldn’t try to cheat each other.” She lifted one shoulder. “I guess I’m just better at it than you.”

  The devil bared his teeth, but then he dropped her hand and took a step back toward the pool of shadows at the edge of the dance floor. “This isn’t the end for us, Ellie. Not even close to it. I’ll see you dead for what you’ve done.”

  Ellie picked up her bag from the floor and made to leave through the kitchen. “And I’ll be more than happy to pay you back for what you did to my father.”

  The devil didn’t say anything else. The lights flickered, and when Ellie looked at the shadow again he was gone.

  She left the Blue Tone and leaned against her car, feeling the cold, cutting wind of the Boston winter on her face. It smelled like greasy smoke and car exhaust, but it was the sweetest air Ellie had ever breathed.

  Maybe this time, she thought, things would be different. Finn would get clean, and they’d move out to the suburbs like Sean, away from the old streets and the old neighborhood and men like Blackie Farrell. Beyond his easy reach, where he couldn’t make an example of her brother. Probably not, Ellie thought, but maybe. They at least had the chance to find out. And if someone like Blackie came around again, she was going to fight. She might not be part of Blackie’s family anymore, but she was still one of the Folk. She could take care of herself, her family, and she didn’t need Blackie or the devil or her father anymore. She could be on her own. She’d be fine.

  Ellie turned the devil’s ruby tie pin between her fingers so that it caught the winter sun, and smiled.

  ON THE PLAYING FIELDS OF BLOOD

  BRENDAN DUBOIS

  Brendan DuBois of Exeter, New Hampshire, is the award-winning author of nearly 130 short stories and sixteen novels including his latest, Deadly Cove, part of the Lewis Cole mystery series. His short fiction has appeared in Playboy, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and numerous anthologies including The Best Ame
rican Mystery Stories of the Century, published in 2000 by Houghton Mifflin, as well as The Best American Noir of the Century, published in 2010. His stories have twice won him the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America and have also earned him three Edgar® Award nominations from the Mystery Writers of America. He is also a onetime Jeopardy! game show champion. Visit his website at BrendanDuBois.com.

  The head selectman for the town of New Salem, New Hampshire, slowly climbed down the unnamed and narrow trail that was cut through a mountain ridge in a remote area of the northern White Mountains, making his way to an apparent crime scene. It had been a long day. The hike had started in a dirt lot off an old logging road that was unmarked on most maps, and now he was about ten minutes away from getting to where he had to be. Some minutes ago he had passed an old stone wall that had been torn down more than two hundred years ago to help save the town, so he knew he was close.

  His name was Grant Spencer, and he had been the head selectman for his small and isolated town for nearly twenty years. He had grown up and lived in these mountains, but now, approaching sixty, his knees and ankles were starting to ache as he descended the steep trail, a trail he hated to be on.

  The trail widened and a familiar waterfall appeared, which ended in a wide pool that led off to another stream. A few more score yards down the narrow trail and he emerged to an astounding sight: a wide, grassy field, smack-dab in the middle of these high peaks. Before him were two men, wearing police uniforms for the town of New Salem: Police Chief Hollis Speare and Deputy Ezra Spencer. Ezra was also a cousin of Grant’s, and Hollis was Grant’s brother-in-law. They were the entire police force for New Salem.

  “Hello, guys,” Grant said, as he got closer, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “What’s going on?”

  Hollis crooked a finger, and Grant followed him to a gully near the stream, where an oak tree’s roots were exposed. “A lost hiker found this yesterday. His cell phone had no coverage, of course, so we had to wait a bit before getting here after he found his way out and to the police station.”

  Grant looked down at where the dirt had been washed away, probably by a sudden rainstorm or squall. There were bones there, tumbled up in a pile. His chest felt tight and cold. How many times before, he thought, how many times. “This hiker. Where’s he from?”

  “Some place in Quebec. Had to go back home. Didn’t speak English that well.”

  “Glad to hear that.” Grant wiped at the back of his neck again and looked over at the waterfall. “Did . . . did the hiker say he saw any mist or fog when he was here?”

  Hollis said, “Yeah, he did. The guy said he was scared when he saw the bones. Started running back up the trail. Turned back and then he said he couldn’t see anything. Just this funny mist that rose up.”

  “Sweet Jesus, what a lucky guy,” Grant said.

  “You know it, Grant.”

  His knees ached even more. “Oh, crap, let’s go check it out.”

  And as so many times before, Grant walked back out to the wide field.

  • • •

  Out on the wide sacred field, Long Neck trotted along with the other braves of the Abenaki, getting ready to start a daylong competition with his brothers. He had on a breechcloth, leggings, and moccasins; raven feathers and beads were in his black hair; and a long flint knife hung from a belt at his side. It was a warm day, the field was as it always was, and he carried the long maple stick with the curve at the end, the curve covered with deer sinew, to make a slight basket for the game. It had taken many days to curve the end of the stick by heating it over the smoke of a fire, but now it was in a perfect shape to play the game of the little war. He looked at his fellow braves and brothers, so very few in number, but he knew they would play the game well and for the honor of the Great Spirits, especially if the outsiders came.

  He paused as the tribe’s shaman approached, feathers and beads in his hair, his bare chest painted with symbols, wearing an old deer robe, knife and little skin bags hanging from his side. Long Neck held out his arms, so the shaman could scratch them with the special markings, and with a burning punk of sage, Long Neck was blessed for the game that was about to begin. The old shaman slowly worked down the line, blessing the other five braves. He took a deep breath and looked up at the holy mountains where the Great Spirits resided. The game of the little war was one he had played so many, many times before, but each one was special.

  Especially if the outsiders came.

  Long Neck’s strong band split into two, three on either side of the field. The posts of winning were made of tree limbs, stuck into the ground, at the far ends of the field. The holy man came out to the center of the field, still praying, still chanting. In one hand was the burning sage, and in the other was the round ball, made of deer hide stitched together, with deer fur inside.

  The holy man held both objects up to the sun, and then tossed the ball up into the air, and then backed away.

  With a loud whoop and holler, Long Neck raced to the center of the field, the stick high in the air, oh so ready to play the game.

  • • •

  Heather Moore was about to lose it, but since her three hiking companions from college were far ahead, she knew it wouldn’t be worth it to start raising a fuss back here by herself. They had been in the White Mountains now for three days, and they were lost. Oh, she wasn’t concerned about freezing to death or being eaten by bears or anything like that, but for Christ’s sake, she wished the three bozos ahead of her had just listened to her, back when they broke camp after breakfast. They were supposed to take the Rock Bridle Trail down to Route 16, where they could hitch a ride back to where they had parked the old Chevy Malibu belonging to her boyfriend, Tony Lewis. But Tony’s best friend, Cal Zeller, was a history major at college and loved exploring abandoned towns and old roads, and he said that an old Appalachian Mountain Club guidebook from 1912 listed a great set of waterfalls off an old logging road in the northeast part of New Salem.

  So Cal had persuaded Tony and their third bud, Steve Dolan, to explore this overgrown trail off that old logging road, and they had been descending for a while—once passing the remnants of what looked to be a tall stone wall—and she was tired, her feet hurt, and all she thought about was a Burger King Whopper and a long, long shower when she got back to her apartment.

  “Hey!” she called out to the three figures descending below her. “Wait up, will you!”

  But the three buds ahead of her—roommates in an apartment building just down the street from her in their college town—kept on moving down the narrow trail, walking sticks in hand, their knapsacks—red, blue, and orange—tight against their backs.

  Typical guys.

  Think they know everything.

  She was going to yell at them again when she paused to catch her breath, and heard something.

  Rushing water.

  • • •

  Long Neck moved along the field, hollering again, feeling the strength and joy and the righteousness of being out on the sacred field, playing the little war game, doing it all for the tribe and the glory of the Great Spirits. So far no one had scored, for they were few in number and about equal in skills, meaning the ball was passed back and forth, back and forth, with no team taking the lead.

  But there had been a time before the sickness, when hundreds would play on this wide field, playing for day after day, with fires at night and feasts and songs and poems of days past. Tribes and clans would walk for days to come here, to compete, to feast, and to strengthen bonds of friendship and alliance.

  Then the sickness had come, from the south, where it was said that outsiders had arrived. A coughing sickness that had swept through the tribes and clans, leaving empty lodges, cold firepits, and the occasional cry of a lonely child, abandoned by his or her dead father or mother.

  Long Neck pushed that thought, those old memories, away. It was now time o
nly for the game, and always the game. Up ahead, his cousin Cat Smile had gotten the ball and was racing toward the far scoring trees, crying in delight, and Long Neck raced very fast to catch him.

  • • •

  Heather stopped when she reached the waterfall. It was gorgeous. The water seemed to cascade for more than a hundred feet before falling into a nearly perfectly round pool. There were smooth, moss-covered rocks around the shore, and a burbling stream boiled its way out of the pool, descending as a stream down to a place where the trees seemed to thin out.

  “Heather, isn’t this cool? Huh?”

  Tony climbed up to her, breathing hard, tanned face wide in a smile. His brown beard was trimmed well and his blue eyes were his best feature, bright and lively, and his knapsack hung well on his muscular shoulders. He had on a UConn T-shirt and khaki shorts, and he said, “Heather, I know this is taking time, but wait until you see what Cal found. It’s amazing!”

  She so wanted to turn around and go back up the trail, to the promised land of cheeseburgers and hot showers, but her boy was so full of excitement and happiness, how could she say no?

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s see what Cal found . . . and then we’ll leave, okay?”

  Tony gave her a sweaty kiss and grabbed her hand. “Absolutely. You can rely on me.”

  Heather shifted her knapsack and followed her boyfriend down the trail, listening to the water, and when she reached an area where the narrow trail flattened out, she looked back up at the waterfall and pool.

  Odd.

  It looked like some sort of mist was forming.

  • • •

  Long Neck was racing now to his own scoring limbs, when he slowed, seeing the far side of the field, where the trees and land rose up to the holy mountains. A heavy rush of breath and another tribe member came to a stop, breathing hard. It was Deer Run. He bumped his hip into Long Neck and said, “Up there. Take a look.”

  There.

  A mist was rising.