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Gardening was pretty much the same as the last time, sifting around the grounds and clearing out whatever was left of the weeding and raking that needed to be done. I let Box loose to help out with collecting the debris we extracted from the plants, and to help ward off the slithering tendrils that were too brave and too curious about sniffing at our heels.
“Where’s Belphegor?” I wondered out loud, my forehead furrowed as I glanced around the gardens and peered into the mansion. “No sign of him anywhere.”
Florian shrugged. “Doubt that it matters. As long as we get our work done, we can put all this behind us, live our lives.”
I nodded in agreement. It also meant that we’d never have to deal with Belphegor’s eccentric employees ever again. At least this time I was a lot better about ignoring the hags as they pressed up against the inside of the glass redhouse, waggling fingers at us and waving various bizarre bulbs and fruits and bubbling phials, as if they could be in any way enticing or appetizing.
Yet that same bizarre aggression from before kept threatening to intrude on my senses, to make its presence felt. I’ll admit, I did my level best to suppress it that day, biting my tongue and keeping mostly to myself as we worked. Shoving in some earphones and letting a playlist of instrumental jazz do its thing helped, too, but that odd compulsion remained, this irresistible urge to find a source of fire, set the gardens ablaze, tell Belphegor to shove it.
And, just as before, the desire was centered around the toolshed, emanating, I was sure of it, directly from the rusty hoe in particular. What the hell was that thing supposed to be? Whatever it was, Box seemed to notice something amiss himself, tugging on my pants leg with his teeth each time I glanced over at the shed. Bending down to pet him distracted me long enough the first couple of times, but like a moth to a flame my attention kept being drawn inexorably away.
Florian and I ate lunch in relative silence, again on one of those convenient picnic blankets that Priscilla had packed for us. Whatever she’d cooked for lunch must have been good because I remembered finishing it all, but hardly recalled what anything actually tasted like. I kept staring at the shed the entire time I ate, my fixation hardly wavering.
Box was content to take whatever leftovers I offered him, apparently still full from all the weeds and twigs we’d fed him over the afternoon. He’d kept up bumping against my knee to try and wrench me away from the shed and the hoe. But by then I was too overcome by want, this inexplicable and totally irrational desire to go exploring in the shed, to run my fingers across red, rough metal, to smell its blood-like rust for myself.
“And how goes the labor? Eating on the job, are we?”
Finally, something to shock me out of my extended stupor. I blinked up at the person standing before us, recognizing the hooded figure as Belphegor, in the flesh. I frowned at him, all thoughts of sheds and rust forgotten as annoyance took over.
“Where have you been? We’ve been working all day. You sure took your time to show up. And it’s called lunch. I know you demons don’t go by the same biological needs, but we’re still part human. We need those calories to survive.”
Belphegor recoiled, stepping away from me as he stuck his hands in his hoodie’s pockets, his shoulders sloping. “Okay, sheesh. I was just teasing. I wasn’t expecting to get such a violent response. What’s with you today? You look tense, nephilim. Uneasy.”
It wasn’t in the Prince of Sloth’s nature to be empathetic, and I knew I was right when I caught the traces of mirth in his eyes, the sliver of a smile he wasn’t even bothering to hide from us. He knew something. He had to know. Belphegor had planted something in the shed, something to manipulate me, and now that I was at my weakest, he was going to pounce.
“It’s nothing,” I said, keeping my fingers loose, my mind ready to conjure the Vestments. “Some bad indigestion, probably.”
He could tell I was lying, anyway. Sweat clung to my temples and my nape, not from the heat of the hell’s strange red sun, but from the strain of resisting the siren call of the thing I still couldn’t understand. I was still sitting on the blanket, same as Florian was, but from where I sat, I could imagine myself rising smoothly into position and running a sword through Belphegor’s neck if the situation called for it. Sure, that probably wouldn’t kill him – certainly not in his own domicile – but I could hope that it would slow him down at least a little.
“All this small talk is nice, Belphegor, but let’s be serious for a moment.” Florian wiped his hands off on a napkin – Priscilla was thorough when she made packed lunches, let it be known – then stood to attention, dwarfing Belphegor in his teenage boy body by over a foot. “Tell me that this is over. We’re practically done doing maintenance work on your garden and you won’t need us anymore. We’ve spruced everything up. You could get any of your minions to comb the grounds to find something we haven’t covered and it wouldn’t make a difference. Surely you won’t have to call on us from now on.”
Belphegor grinned and tilted his head. “Come on now, Florian. You know that I wanted you and Mason here for good reason. I needed your specific talents to help tend the grounds.”
“How? That doesn’t make sense. You haven’t asked either of us to use our magic at all. We’re just glorified gardeners here.” Florian looked over his shoulder at me. “Right, Mace?”
He shouldn’t have turned his head.
20
“Florian, no! Watch out!”
Too late. Belphegor held out his hand, fingers spread and grown to the length of knives, and when Florian turned back, five nails like spiked talons dug into his forehead. He screamed, his eyes rolling back into his head as he fell to his knees.
“No.” My stomach wrenched as the word forced its way out of my body, as I bellowed in anger. “No!”
I sprang to my feet, a sword summoned into my hand, and I brought it up against Belphegor’s chest. It should have skewered him, straight through the heart. Instead he disappeared in a cloud of crimson flames, taking Florian with him.
My fingers gripped harder around the hilt of my sword as I whirled in a circle, searching the Crimson Gardens for the demon. Box made laps around my feet, yelping and snapping at the air with huge teeth before stopping and making what sounded like barking noises towards the redhouse. Belphegor had teleported there, just outside the entrance. Florian was still on his knees, bleeding from five holes in his forehead. My insides churned and roiled as Belphegor drew a bandanna somewhere from his jacket, wiping his bloodied fingers off on it.
“I thought you wanted me,” I said. “Leave Florian alone. Use me however you want. Wasn’t that the plan all along?”
Belphegor stopped messing with the bandanna, then laughed as he let it fall to the ground, soiled with Florian’s blood and, I hated to imagine the possibility, bits of his brain.
“I commend you for your confidence and your overwhelming sense of self-importance, Mason Albrecht, but this was never about you. I made it clear from the very beginning that your task was to make Florian the best version of himself, to help him awaken fully from his hibernation. And now he is ready to be plucked from the vine, full of the sweetness and life of a long summer.”
Belphegor gestured and the three hags streamed from out of the redhouse, their robes and locks of stark white hair swirling behind them. One carried a phial, another a pair of tongs. The last balanced a tray with both hands.
“What’s happening?” Box barked louder. I stepped forward, aching to close the gap between us, to save Florian. “What are they going to do to him?”
