‘It isn’t a game,’ Emma shouts. ‘If you don’t pass the test, the Devil will get you.’ She wraps her arms round the gnarled trunk. ‘Now watch me.’ She closes her eyes and squeezes. ‘Are you watching?’

  Anthony hums and says nothing.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Please Mister Devil, let me play in your garden.’ She shuffles round the tree, never letting go, taking one small step after another. ‘Please Mister Devil, let me play in your garden.’ His hump presses into her tummy, and his tail strokes her ankle. ‘Please Mister Devil, let me play in your garden.’ His sharp fingers snatch at her soft hair. She opens her eyes and the Devil’s eye stares into hers, all wet and slimy.

  ‘I’ve done it,’ She lets go of the trunk. ‘I’ve passed the test. The Devil won’t get me today.’ A soft breeze rattles the thin twigs.

  ‘Thank you Mister Devil,’ and she bows to him. ‘Now it’s your turn Anthony.’ The shiny green leaves tremble in the rising wind.

  ‘Anthony?’

  She turns round. The long grass is flat and broken where he was lying; there is no sign of him, or of her new pink bike.

  ‘Anthony!’

  She runs up the garden, her heart pumping. ‘Anthony!’ The Devil’s got him and sliced him. She feels sick. She runs past the rose bushes onto the lawn. ‘Anthony!’ She wishes she had stayed indoors.

  Then she sees him, at the back door, and Mum has her arms wrapped around his shoulders. The bike is on the paving stones where he has dropped it. She stops running; then mum looks up and sees her.

  ‘Come here,’ her face is red. ‘Come here this minute!’

  Emma walks slowly, thinking what to say. Mum is very angry and Anthony cries into her shoulder.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ Mum yells at her.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’ve been playing that silly, silly game, haven’t you?’

  ‘No,’ she lies.

  ‘You’re a very naughty girl.’

  She wants to tell Mum that Anthony rode her bicycle without permission; that he is the naughty one, but she will be sent to her room if she makes a fuss, and so she looks away as if she doesn’t care. Anthony is stupid; she’s never liked him. The Devil will get him and it’s his own silly fault.

  ‘Come inside,’ scolds Mum. ‘Wait ‘till I tell your father.’ She helps Anthony up the steps into the kitchen.

  Emma picks up her bike and leans it against the wall. She takes her time. Everything is always her fault because nobody listens. She wishes the Devil would appear, just to show them that he really does live in the garden.

  How will he grab Anthony? Inside the house, or will he wait till Sunday-School? The shadows lengthen across the lawn; he is coming.

  Then Mum’s angry face appears in the doorway. ‘I told you to come inside.’

  Anthony is standing by the sink and Mum wipes his face dry with a paper tissue. ‘What do you think Anthony’s Mummy is going to say?’

  Emma watches from the door, pretending to look bored. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘She will say Anthony can’t come and play here again; that’s what she’ll say.’

  Emma shrugs. Of course Anthony can’t come and play here, because the Devil will get him. She twists her hair in her fingers and puts on her ‘I’m about to cry’ face. Mum strokes Anthony’s back and he snivels like a baby.

  Emma gives a big sigh, ‘It was only a game.’

  Mum takes two strides across the kitchen and leans down so that her face is level with hers. She speaks in a low husky voice, almost a whisper. ‘What have I told you about using the Devil word?’

  ‘I didn’t -.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me. How dare you frighten Anthony like that! Go into the living room and stay there.’

  ‘But I -.’

  ‘NOW!’

  Emma stomps out of the kitchen into the hall.

  ‘Just you WAIT ‘till I tell your father,’ Mum growls after her.

  Just you wait ‘till you see the Devil, Emma shouts back in her mind. Then she sees him; a dark writhing shadow that fills the living room wall next to the window. The Devil is in the house and she runs towards him, but he melts away as another bigger shadow takes his place.

  Dad is standing by the window, looking outside. ‘What’s all this fuss about Emma?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she lies. ‘Anthony fell off my bike.’

  ‘What have we told you about playing in the garden by yourself?’

  She stands next to Dad and looks out of the window. The back of the brown lorry is tipping up, higher and higher, spilling a mountain of black stuff onto the front garden.

  ‘Why is it doing that?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s tar,’ Dad explains, ‘For our new drive.’

  The black tar pours off the lorry like heavy water, and as it slithers and slides, strange shapes emerge and disappear. One shape forms and holds. It is the Devil, sitting on his haunches, waiting for Anthony. He grins at her, and she winks back.

  A blue car draws up on the opposite side of the road.

  Dad waves, ‘It’s Anthony’s Mum,’ and he runs into the hall.

  Anthony’s Mum can’t drive up to the front door because the lorry is in the way, and there isn’t a pavement on their side of the road where she can park. Dad runs across the grass, past the Devil, who flicks his forked tongue at him like a darting snake, and growls.

  Emma calls over her shoulder, ‘Anthony! Your mummy’s here.’ The Devil growls louder, as Anthony runs through the hall and out of the door.

  Mum chases after him. ‘Anthony! Come back! Don’t run off.’

  ‘Anthony!’ Dad makes a grab for him, but misses. The Devil dissolves into the tar and his growl deepens to a roar. He is going to pounce.

  Anthony squeezes past the lorry and runs into the road; he has seen his Mum climbing out of the car. She waves at him to wait, but Anthony is silly and won’t do as he’s told. And the Devil gets him.

  The shiny green motorbike hits Anthony with a loud smack. He flies high into the air, and turns over and over like the rag doll Emma throws down the stairs sometimes when she’s bored.

  He hits the road and lies in a crumpled heap. His face is white and blood drips from his nose. The rag doll doesn’t turn white when she hits the floor, and she doesn’t bleed; she just smiles.

  Mum covers her mouth. Anthony’s Mum screams and Dad turns away, his face stretched in terror.

  ‘You didn’t pass the test Anthony,’ Emma whispers. The Devil roars, but his ferocity diminishes as the motorbike races off into the distance.

  Dad looks up and sees her watching. He waves her away from the window, but she goes on looking. He jabs his hand to make her step back, and when she doesn’t move, he runs into the house.

  Emma clasps her hands in prayer, the way she has been taught in Sunday-School. ‘Thank you Devil, for showing everyone that you are real.’

  She wonders if Anthony is seeing God now, what does he look like? She wants to know, though she can’t find him anywhere.

  Dad grabs hold of her shoulders and pulls her round. ‘I told you to come...’ His angry frown recoils into a look of horror. ‘Why... why are you smiling?’

  Emma wishes he didn’t look so frightened, and she takes hold of his hand with both of hers. ‘The Devil got him Daddy, because he didn’t pass the test.’

  This story has been previously published in Twisted: Four Paranormal Stories.

  MEAN DICK SKYLER

  by John Blackport

  Even with his eyes closed, Dick knew he wasn’t alone.

  He’d passed out drunk on the docks.

  Waves lapped under the wood he was stretched out on. Filthy sailcloth chafed the bloody scrapes on his forearms.

  The tingling wasn’t out of him yet, having only progressed from his shoulders down to his elbows. The familiar pain in his empty eyesocket hammered away, like a tiny coal-miner trapped inside.

  Dick rolled over to face the sky, too leery of sunlight to open his eyes. He flinched when his outstretched left wrist brushed someone’s boot.

  “Are you Mean Dick Skyler?” came the genteel question.

  Dick grinned, eyes still shut. “The same.”

  Dick didn’t move. Neither did the boot’s owner. Dick’s eyelids rose, revealing a haze the sun was taking its time about burning off. The docks weren’t busy.

  Dick rose with a lethargy calculated to try his visitor’s patience. “I’m not going to ask who you are. Stop waiting for me to talk. State your business.”

  “Weren’t you once an initiate of the Unmaker, Mr. Skyler? Long ago, on your first Gift?”

  “That’s right. First of the five lives. But you wouldn’t ask me that if you didn’t already know the answer.” He rasped out a cough, heavy with bile. “Or at least, thought ya did.”

  Dick’s indignation rose at the dapper appearance of the man who’d awakened him. The offender wore a cape over a green silk doublet and purple stockings. He had high cheekbones and a broad forehead. His amulet looked like gold. “You’re dangerously close to invading my privacy. Tell me what you want, quick. Or I toss you in the drink with your dancing shoes.”

  “I’ve an offer for you.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “My sources tell me you marched in the demonic horde of Glabzu the Damned. Three hundred desperate thugs, twisting their minds and souls in devotion to the Unmaker.”

  “You’re wasting my time!” Dick yanked a dirk from his raggedy coat. He feinted a stab for the stranger’s ample gut, then went to grab the right elbow and yank him around. He planned to kick out the stranger’s knee, press blade to the stranger’s throat, and demand the stranger’s amulet.

  That plan didn’t work out. Dick unaccountably moved three feet to the right, and made an about-face. He grimaced in confusion, under a sunrise struggling to come to life. “You ain’t mortal, that’s for sure! Wait, you’ve got an offer, and you know all about the Unmaker? You’re a sodden devil!”

  “I’m only an agent, sir. The party I represent ---”

  “Save it. I’ve heard the stories. Barterin’ in souls for the Unmaker. Can’t hurt, nor be hurt. Can’t disguise your appearance, nor tell a lie. Always makin’ deals. You’ll be wantin’ my soul, then. So when next I die, I’ll lose not one life, but two. Well I got news for you: two lives is all I got left to me.”

  “I understand you’re running low, Mr. Skyler. And yes, when next you die, your fourth Gift will go to wherever the gods determine it should go, while your fifth and final Gift shall be reserved to belong to my master.”

  “You’re asking a lot of me, devil. I warrant you’ve a task for me as well?”

  The devil’s manicured hand wheeled up and out from its dove-white sleeve. “As you suspect, I negotiate many contracts. I’ve seen it all, Mr. Skyler. I sometimes seek out people to aid me in fulfilling contracts I’ve made with other people. A common scenario is revenge, desired by someone whose moral reputation is too sterling to be regarded as trustworthy by mortal criminals. A certain person... a good person...wishes a certain Grumachian murdered, to avenge the murder of a loved one harmed by that same Grumachian.”

  “That’s touching. Don’t care though.”

  “You will when I reveal the target, Mr. Skyler. It’s Vassos Milagro... the same Grumachian who took your eye.”

  “You’ve got my attention, devil. But riddle me this: I’m a run-of-the-mill evildoer. Hardly much of a catch for the Unmaker’s soul bin. Aren’t you types all about corrupting the virtuous and innocent? Isn’t that your nom de plume?”

  The devil’s eyes clicked shut. A miniscule, indignant puff pushed out his lips. “That’s the wrong expression. A nom de plume is . . . never mind. I grant you, that is normally the way of devils. But there are many factions of the Unmaker: fissures, if you will, of that darkest of the dark faiths. When you marched with demons, you joined the fissure of chaos and destruction. The demonic fissure opposes the more orderly perversion of us devils. And so, your soul is more of a, shall we say a feather in my cap, in terms of advancing up the hierarchy of my own faction.”

  “The pansy-ass, merchant, lawyer faction that talks everybody to death?”

  “The infernal faction. Demons wish to destroy all worlds and creatures, in effect restoring the time before creation. . . but we devils think of the future. Like all deities, the Unmaker requires the faith and participation of mortals, but how many mortals truly want to destroy the world? Most humans that other humans define as “evil” have simpler goals: to dominate their fellow humans, to accumulate leisure and riches and pleasure. And so we prosper.”

  “Most humans worship the sodden Maker, is how I remember it. Don’t His Upright Holiness frown on this sort of thing?”

  “Correct. So there is only one thing, truly worth destroying: the faith that humans place in so-called goodness.”

  Dick scratched his chin. “You mentioned a deal.”

  Reaching into an inside pocket, the devil produced a contract with intricate calligraphy.

  Dick scowled and made an impatient wave. “I can’t read.”

  “You can read this, Mr. Skyler, I assure you.”

  “Hmmm . . . so I can.” Dick’s eyebrows flew up; it wasn’t every day that he found anything to be easier than he expected. “Suppose I kill Vassos. You’re certain sure we’re talking about the same fellow? Guaranteed, the bastard what fucked my eye?”

  “We’re certain of the man’s identity. Yes sir.”

  “’Cause he murdered some good person’s relative?”

  “Something like that. Vassos is in hiding for the moment, beyond the reach of the authorities.”

  “And this . . . good person, you’re speaking of, wants revenge, and maybe doesn’t care about forgiveness and the Maker’s Plan.”

  “Now that you’ve mentioned the Maker’s Plan, Mr. Skyler, I’d like to verify how your previous deaths occurred. You never died before joining Glabzu’s army, did you?”

  “Nope.”

  “And your first death happened during the invasion of Tilverton, a town levelled by that demon?”

  “Right. Joining the horde was an easy choice, once I saw all the mystical goodies being passed out. Some men grew extra arms; others started breathing fire.”

  “And what was your demonic boon, Mr. Skyler?”

  “Didn’t have one really. I just got mean.”

  “Isn’t meanness a requirement for following demons into battle?”

  Dick pointed to his left temple. “I got a headache that never stopped humming. There were colors I couldn’t see, but I knew they were there, laughing at me. Whenever I killed someone? The pain got less. Like you said, first time I ever died was when militia defending Tilverton stuck me full of arrows. So I missed all the fun when the town fell.”

  “And your second death?”

  “Same thing. Only this time, I was killed by the horde. My meanness, it’d got worse. I couldn’t control it so well, so sometimes I’d kill one of the demonic creatures in the horde, or at least a human minion of the demon. This made me unpopular. Some of the warriors surrounded me and beat me to death.”

  “You’d become something of a celebrity by this time, hadn’t you Mr. Skyler?”

  “Glabzu and his priests kept saying I held the essence of the Unmaker, cause I wanted to kill so much. They liked me. But once I became a liability, they got sick of me right enough. Sure didn’t stand up for me when their thugs turned on me.”

  “And your third death?”

  “Morning after, the fall of another town. I’d raised my third Gift back in a town’s temple, cleansed of the Unmaker and all that. Ditched my initiation to the Unmaker, and lost the humming in my head.”

  “So you no longer felt this compulsion to kill?”

  “Nah, but it still beat workin’. I joined the army. We took a town, Mousejacket, in a rebellion. The fight was fierce, so we fixed ’em proper when the walls fell. Hell of a night that was; took a lot of blood showers under the pikes! But we were attacked again, at dawn. By then we were drunk. Enemy army was pretty angry to arrive late, and about the families we burned and cut up. They just up and chopped my head off.”

  “Thank you for clarifying, Mr. Skyler. That would leave you with exactly two Gifts remaining. I trust you’ve had time to read the contract?”

  “Aye. I’m ready to spike the rat who carved my eye out when he ran off with my daughter.”

  “Your daughter, Katrina. That’s right. She is twenty-eight years old now, and in the camp of Vassos Milagro.”

  Dick’s face froze. Then he gave a satisfied smirk. “Let’s talk about my reward.”

  “Besides the chance for revenge against an enemy?”

  “Yeah. My leg’s a little messed up, too. Can you fix that?”

  “I could. That’s expensive, though.”

  “Fine. Just gimme the korba for a ritual of Regrowth, and promise the ritual will work on me without a hitch. That way no one will get suspicious that I’m suddenly nimble again. The law would string me up for making deals with a devil, you know.”

  “Of course. I was about to perform my due diligence by warning you.”

  “I go into this with two good eyes too. How about that. I want to see as sharp as I did at twenty-five. And snooker the ladies like I did then, too.”

  “I promise that as well.” The devil scratched more words on the paper, which Dick was happy to see were instantly legible.

  “And I want to be able to read too. And read everything, not just your devil’s scrawlings.”

  The devil cracked a smile. “Why not.”

  “You know something else I always wanted?” Dick’s head snapped up like a boy told to choose from a line of presents. “To be a Raingun. You know, one of those high-and-mighty cavalry pissants, castin’ spells off their magic horses.”

  “That’s not a simple thing.” The devil’s brow knit, his head sagging as though by the sudden drag of a chain. “Rainguns are a special elite military unit...only deployed by Foverre, your rival to the south. They are completely unknown to the military here in Liebgaard. Rainguns undergo a secret ritual from a cabal of military wizards.”