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“I’ll call you when I get more information. Until then, be careful, Len.”
Chastity spoke, “Be careful,” like those were the two most essential words in the world. Then she closed the door and was gone.
I stared at the damn door, and a tear gathered in the corner of my left eye. I didn't think she would leave me alone, but I understood. I am now a damned supernatural nuclear weapon for reasons I don't grasp.
I walked back to the dining room table and sipped the beer, but it tasted sour in my mouth, so I took it and Chastity's to the kitchen and poured them down the sink. Restless, I started pacing the house. Itching for activity, I pulled open drawers. Almost all the dressers were empty. The house truly was not lived in. I was alone in the place Chastity claimed was cursed, and I was frustrated with the course of my life.
Being a seeker of arcane objects wasn't a flashy life. It demanded hours clambering through muck and swamp, or dry, musty attics, or, as I recently experienced, thieving from the rich. I've faced guard dogs, spiders, snakes, bats, a bobcat once, and my old shifter pack. If that life wasn't a recipe for disaster, I didn't know what was.
But it was my life, and aside from the usual survival struggles, I liked it. I wasn't ever going to be rich, nor did I want to be. I wanted a place to belong. That wasn't too much to ask, was it?
I finally wandered into the last and smallest bedroom in the little house. Unlike the cloying florals in other parts of the house, the faded tan wallpaper had a cowboy motif—ten-gallon hats and horses galloping across the walls. Like a thief looking to score, I continued ransacking, yanking one particularly recalcitrant dresser hard. Finally, yielding through age and my newfound nuclear supernatural strength, the lock broke.
The drawer flew out, and I fell into the single bed. It spilled onto the floor, and a stash of papers spilled.
I bent to retrieve them and found one picture after another drawn in a child's hand. There were dozens, as if all the kid did was draw. And they were obviously from different years. The beginning ones were simple stick figures, primarily a single figure standing alone. Later ones showed the boy standing with an adult, an elderly woman. “Aunt Lizzy and me,” said one. A few sported names at the top. Dago T.
Holy shit. What did I find? Were these Dagon’s childhood renderings?
Did demons have childhoods?
At the button of the stack, the pictures grew darker, with vivid images of monsters and fire. What did this mean?
One picture shook me. A cemetery with a coffin and a headstone rendered in black and browns spread out on the page. “Aunt Liz” was etched on the tombstone.
I put my hand to my mouth as I tried to parse what I found.
But one thing was clear. Little boy Dago lost his only caretaker.
What happened to him then?
And was Dago T. one Dagon Thorn? Or was it a coincidence?
That would have to be one fat coincidence.
I'm trying to wrap my head around this when I'm shocked by my phone's buzzing. I drew it from my pocket to find the screen only showed a zero at the top. A blocked call.
What now?
15
“Hello?”
“It’s Thorn. What do you prefer in evening wear?”
I laughed, “What do you mean? And why do I need evening wear? As you can see, I have premonition powers.”
“That would be something. It’s the worst talent, though. Drives people mad.”
“Oh.” I sat on the bed with little Dago’s drawings spread at my feet, and all levity evaporated as I stared at images of ill-formed monsters.
“I’ve never bought evening wear, though. It never came up in pack life.”
“Any preference on designers?”
I shrugged. I have no clue about designer names. Then I realized Thorn couldn’t see my shoulder gesture.
Did I want to reveal that I was culturally illiterate?
