Losing Charity

Losing Charity - 17

"Let me lay it out for you, sister."

The imp paces back and forth with its stubby hands clasped behind its back. He is careful not to approach me, which I appreciate. Even though I'm coming around to the idea this he's a figment of my PTSD-addled brain, I still don't want Mr. Figment getting any closer.

"I'll give you the full dose, because we haven't got all night here. Though it may be a lot for you to absorb in your delicate state of mind."

Blunt, yet thoughtful. Exactly how I would imagine my imaginary imp friend telling me whatever crazy thing I'm about to imagine him saying. I nod mutely.

"The imp, to answer your question in the dictionary sense, is a variety of demon. A little devil. Little as in size small. Little as in low on the org chart Downstairs. We're the staff assistants of the netherworld. Not at the absolute bottom of the heap. We're not interns. But far from the corner office. So to speak. That is your standard garden variety imp."

"But why—"

"Uh-uh!" The little devil raises a hand to cut me off. "Hold your questions, all right?"

"Uh ... okay?"

My imagination is being a little rude, but under the circumstances, I can let it go.

"Let me tell you what happened here tonight. You think you know, but you don't. You think you're on a hot date with some rich swell. You're having a good time. He's witty, charming, seems really into you. He takes you back to his place. You think Charity's gonna get lucky. Am I right? I'm right. Then, bam! Out of the blue, things get weird and he's trying to kill you. It makes no sense."

"No. It doesn't."

"That's because you don't know what I know. And what I know is that you were not on a date. You were under a spell. His spell." The imp jerks his thumb at Peter. "He clouded your mind. He took your natural capacities for self-delusion — you know, like the idea that some boy billionaire is going fall head over heels for a catering chickie he picked up at a reception — and he amped that stuff up to eleven. Maybe twelve. You're going full Cinderella and he's reeling in the line."

The imp curls one finger into his mouth like a hook and makes a popping sound. I shift uncomfortably, but say nothing. What's to say? I feel in my gut he's right. However much Peter was fooling me, I fooled myself more.

"You weren't brought here to be his true love. Or even his conquest for the night. You were brought here, to this room, for one reason only — to be a human sacrifice."

"What?" My jaw drops.

"Shocking, I know! In this day and age! Who would think it? But what we've got here, this spooky little room with the inlaid pentagram and fancy ventilation, is a first rate conjuring chamber for calling up demons. Yeah, demons!"

"How can that—"

"Please! Hold your questions. You call up a demon, you want some favors, there's a price. The bigger the favor, the bigger the price. And the biggest price, the coin of the realm, that's blood and souls. Blood and souls, sister. In this case, your blood, your soul."

I don't know quite what to say. I mean, I don't believe in demons — even though I'm talking to one — or vampires or any of that supernatural stuff.

Ghosts, maybe. I'm not sure.

But I can believe that Peter believed in demons.

That he believed he could sacrifice me and summon one. Now that this imaginary demon that I am imagining is explaining it to me, I can see that yes, it all makes a sick sort of sense.

The strange things Peter said. That secret little smile.

That weird language he spoke.

Talking to the freaking moon. Who does that?

All his creepy art. This horror cave. The robe. The candles. The chanting. The knife. I see it now. Peter brought me here to be his victim in some wacked out black magic ceremony.

"He drugged me," I realize out loud.

The imp nods. "Give the girl a blue ribbon! You got it. Slipped the mickey in your wine at Barbat while you were in the bathroom. Slipped you another dose with the lime and sparkly here. You're lucky you woke up when you did because he was going to cut your heart out. Literally, I mean. You see, boyfriend there, he's a warlock."

"Warlock"

"Warlock. Or sorcerer, if you prefer." The imp jabs its cigar at me for emphasis. "A practitioner of black magic."

I frown at this. It sounds like he's saying what Peter was doing was real. Like he was going to dial up a real demon. Instead of an imaginary one. Like the one I'm listening to now. That exists only in my head.

I hope I get to the point soon.

"From a very old family of sorcerers that goes back to the Middle Ages," says the imp. "Ah, those were good times!"

"The Middle Ages?"

"Demons got respect then, even the runts like me. These days — phooey! Most folks don't even believe we exist. You can imagine what that does for my self-esteem."

"Uh ... sure."

"But as I was saying, boyfriend —"

"Not my boyfriend," I snarl. I jab my finger for emphasis. "Wasn't. Isn't. Will never be. Stop saying that."

"Got it, got it," says the imp. "He isn't anybody's boyfriend now, that's for sure." He shrugs. "At least not in this world."

"What does that mean?"

His grin is more of a leer. "I expect your not-boyfriend is taking a ride on the Welcome Wagon about now."

"What does that mean?"

"You don't want to know."

"Okay. But that's not a real thing, warlocks."

The imp appears startled. "Sure they are."

I shake my head defiantly. "It's not a real thing. There aren't any warlocks. Or sorcerers. Not real ones. Just people who think they are."

The imp sighs. "I suppose there are no demons either."

"No," I say. "No, they're not real either."

"And here I thought we were making progress. You think I'm all in your head, right?"

I nod. He's on to me. I'm on to me. Whatever.

The imp looks me straight in the eye. "How wrong you are, sister. How wrong you are."

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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.

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