Dark Calling (The Demonata 9)

The tunnel opens out onto a plateau. I race away from the chamber, planning to put plenty of space between myself and the ball of light. But the air here is foul and my body revolts. As a stitch hits me hard, I collapse, gasping for air, lungs straining, head aching.

After a minute of painful gasping, the stitch eases and I stand. Instead of running again, I turn slowly and study my surroundings. I’m on a ruined world. The sky is a dark purple color, full of poisonous-looking clouds. Forks of lightning split the air every few seconds although I can hear no thunder. When the lightning hits the ground, the dark earth flashes and explodes in short-lived funnels of dirt, mud, and pebbles.

Huge, bone-like pillars jut out of the scorched, pockmarked earth. At first I think they’re the remains of giant demons. I’ve seen plenty of sky demons in my time, massive monsters, some the size of a world. But the longer I look, the more convinced I become that these aren’t bones, but rather the remains of buildings.

Wandering slowly to the nearest pile of pillars, breathing shallowly, I find that they’re made of some sort of metal. That confuses me. Demons aren’t builders. Some create houses or palaces, even towns and cities, modeled after those on Earth. But they use bones, flesh, cobwebs, plants, and other organic substances to fashion their facsimiles. I’ve never known a demon to utilize metal or concrete.

The voice told me we were still in the human universe. I thought we slipped out of it when we crossed through the window, but it looks like we didn’t. I don’t know where I am, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a demon world.

As I move through the ash-ridden remains of what was once maybe a skyscraper, something moves in the filth nearby. Jumping backwards, I try to absorb magic from the air, but there’s virtually nothing to tap into. Like Earth, this is a zone of little or no magical energy.

The thing wriggles clear of the hard mud and debris it was nestling beneath. It looks like a giant slug, but with six small eyes, a jagged gash for a mouth, and other human-looking bits and pieces—a few fingers, a toe, a strip of flesh that might be an ear. The eyes stare at me for a moment, then the mouth opens and it thrusts itself at my face, making a gruesome, high-pitched noise.

The slug creature strikes my chest and I fall. It’s on me in a flash, slithering to my face, leaving a slimy trail. Thin fingers scratch at my chin, then a grey, cold slit clamps over my mouth and nostrils. I feel it tighten on my lips and nose, and the slug squeals with excitement as I struggle for air.

I punch the slug but my fists make little impact, merely sink into the gooey, sticky layers of its body. Disgusting slime oozes from the slit, filling my mouth. I collapse, my lungs straining, still pushing and punching the slug, but feebly now. My strength is fading. Soon I’ll be slug fodder and the beast will be able to feast on my flesh at its leisure.

As the world starts to darken around me, the slug is abruptly ripped away. I catch a glimpse of it flying through the air, squealing frantically. It lands hard, rolls a few times, then straightens and propels itself at me again.

Somebody steps in front of me and meets the charge of the slug. It looks like a boy, but with pale green skin. He’s small but strong—he catches the slug and slams it down in a neatly executed wrestling move. While the slug writhes beneath him, the boy grabs one of the creature’s fingers and bites it off with… a small mouth set in the palm of his hand!

The slug stunned me when it attacked, but when I realize who the boy is I’m shocked to the core. I stare with mounting horror and bewilderment as the slug shrieks, then quickly slips away when the boy releases it. He makes sure it isn’t going to attack again, then turns to face me.

He has the body of a young child—maybe three years old—but a head that’s bigger than an adult’s. Mouths in both palms, full of small, sharp teeth. No eyes—instead, balls of fire burn deeply in his empty sockets. And no hair—in its place, small slugs, much like the one he just saved me from, slide slowly around his skull.

“Artery!” I moan. I have no idea how Lord Loss’s familiar came to be here—he was killed a year ago—but I’m certain he only saved me from the slug in order to kill me himself.

The hell child cocks his head and frowns. “No,” he growls, and it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him speak. His green flesh ripples and the color fades. His head shrinks and the slugs burrow into his scalp, then turn into hair. The fire in his empty sockets dies away

and eyes sprout to fill them. His large mouth tightens a couple of notches and his sharp teeth soften into a more human-like shape. The mouths in his palms disappear, flesh closing over them.

“No,” he says again, and this time his voice is softer. “Not Artery.” He glances at his skin—pale, like Mom’s—and smiles. Almost no trace of the monster remains. I’m gazing at what looks like an ordinary boy. And he’s every bit as familiar as the green-skinned demon.

“I’m Art,” he says, then steps forward and stick out a small, delicate hand.

THE MAN FROM ATLANTIS

YOU can’t be real,” I gasp, backing away from the figure. “You’re not my brother. You never really existed. I made you up.”

“Yes,” the boy nods. “You transformed Artery into this shape and kept him safe, even though he should have perished on your world, by subconsciously utilizing the power of the Kah-Gash. We were surprised it cooperated with you. But the Kah-Gash never ceases to surprise us.”

“You’re not Art!” I shout. “Art didn’t speak like this. He never spoke at all.”

“True,” the boy says. “Artery could communicate with his own kind, but only telepathically. Art would never have been able to speak, even if he’d grown up.

“I’m not the demon you stole or the child you turned it into,” the boy continues. “I am the ball of light from the ship. Sensing the difficulty you had accepting my natural form, I adopted the body of someone you would feel more comfortable with. If you prefer, I can switch to the shape of your mother or father, but I think you will find me easier to deal with this way.”

My head’s spinning. “Are you a shape-shifter?” I ask, getting to my feet and walking around the boy, checking him from every angle.

“No,” he says. “I have no physical body. I assembled this from a corpse, remolding its flesh and bones. It was a creature like the one that attacked you. They are pitiful beasts. Hard to believe they are descended from beings once as industrious as yourself.”

“What do you mean?” I frown.

“It’s a descendant of the Atlanteans,” Art says. “They were bipeds, like you, and their society was similar to yours. Indeed, your distant ancestors were strongly influenced by the beings of Atlantis.”

“Atlantis?” I croak. “What are you talking about? Atlantis was a mythical city.”

“No,” Art corrects me. “It was a world of immense, amazing cities, the closest inhabitable planet to Earth. The Atlanteans explored this world to its fullest, then the lifeless planets nearby, finally extending to their neighboring galaxies. They visited your world. Your ancestors worshipped them, built monuments like theirs, dressed in their honor, wrote things down as they did.”