Pockets of Darkness (12 page)

Recognition danced on the demon’s hideous face.

“Babylonian,” Bridget pronounced. “I think you’re speaking Babylonian. Dear God you
are
old. And now I have your language. Babylonian. How much deader of a language could you have spoken? Ugh. And how the hell could a demon from Babylonian times end up in present-day New York? Have you been on a murdering spree for centuries?”

A little more than a year ago Bridget had ventured to an apartment at 740 Park Avenue. Through a trusted contact she’d heard one of the tenants had purchased an intact Babylonian vase from an auction house. The vase was now in a place of honor in Bridget’s study, and she carefully removed it now and brought it to the rug.

“Fuck the Euphrates.” Bridget had delved into this vase several times before, and so was familiar with it. She might find just enough inner spark for it, and reading the vase couldn’t possibly make her headache any worse. “What do you want?” she asked the demon again. “What the bloody blue hell do you want?”

The vase was glazed, hardened clay, and that it was intact made it exceedingly valuable. On one of her forays into it she’d looked outward from the piece, seeing a lithe girl carrying it across a stretch of plain. Pushing her senses, she’d learned that the girl walked across the fertile alluvial ground between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, the heartland of Mât Akkadî, the Babylonian Empire. The vase had been fashioned eight hundred years before Christ, and the girl was carrying it to collect silt from a certain spot along the bank that her mother favored as fertilizer for a trough herb garden.

Bridget’s other mental journeys with this vase had taken her through a considerable patch of barley, chickpea, and sesame. And one foray placed the vase in a marketplace, when the girl had become an old woman and had traded it for a sack of dates and fresh fruit. Bridget searched for that particular memory from the vase now, as in the marketplace there were many people chattering, and she could “browse” the various stalls until she could find words to match the demon’s. It would be a far simpler delve than the buckle.

Bridget sensed that she hovered on the edge of collapse, but her fingernails dug into her palm, the competing pain helping her focus.

“Give me just a little,” she begged the vase. “A hint to mollify the beast.” She needed something to start a conversation with the demon, something that she could use to guarantee Otter’s safety. Something more than the name of a damnable river. Her mind settled comfortably into the glazed clay, her senses spiraled out, and she took in the chatter of passersby in the marketplace. Again there were similarities to the words, but not a direct match. Bridget tried out one word after the next, repeating aloud what the Babylonian shoppers said and looking up to see if the demon recognized something.

“Euphrates,” it said. “Tigris. Life. Slaves.”

“Enlil.” Bridget heard that one word again, though she couldn’t see who spoke it, a shopper behind someone else; a disembodied voice. “Enlil,” Bridget repeated. Then louder: “Enlil.” None of the other words matched anything the demon had uttered. Nothing else!

“Enlil,” the demon returned, hawking out a gob of acidic spittle, like the word was a piece of rancid meat.

She browsed the marketplace for several minutes until she felt too lightheaded and the connection with the vase broke. Bridget knew she was too physically and emotionally exhausted to stay linked. “So maybe not Babylonian after all.”

“Euphrates.”

“Not exactly Babylonian. But something close. Something that has to be close to Babylonian, or that at least shares a few of its words. So what language, then? And you know ‘Enlil.’” Maybe that was name of the woman who’d forged the buckle. “But if you don’t speak Babylonian, then what the hell language is it? What? What could—”

Something
earlier
maybe?

What might be earlier
and
include references to the Euphrates and Tigris?

This time it was a struggle getting up off the oushak, the muscles in her legs feeble as wet noodles. Bridget stumbled to her desk and leaned on it for support, reached in the top drawer, and pulled out an iPad.

E-U-P-H-R-A-T-E-S.

The first thing to come up was the Wikipedia entry.

Tigris & Euphrates
, a board game.

“No. Try something else.”

E-N-I-L, she typed into the search bar. She tapped “enter” and watched the various headers scroll on the small screen.

Enil: an entertainment company based in India.

Enil: an American corporation focused on student reading assessment and teaching.

Enil: European Network Information Literacy

Enil: Dr. Enil Jimenez Blish, a California optometrist.

“Shit.” Bridget typed again. “Missed a letter.”

E-N-L-I-L
.

This time something entirely different came up.

Enlil: Solar Wind MHD model of the heliosphere.

Enlil: Enlil-bāni, tenth king of the First Dynasty of Isin who reigned twenty-four years, known for the apocryphal manner of his ascendancy to the throne, 1798–1775 BC. Interesting, but probably not it.

Enlil: Sumerian god. More interesting.

“Sumerian.”

Bridget selected the Wikipedia entry for the Sumerian god and sagged into the desk chair. She never relied on the research of others, but this Internet search was worth a try. Could the demon and the buckle stretch back that far? To Sumerian times? It was the right region of the world.

She scanned the document. Enlil was called the Lord of the Storm and primary deity in the Sumerian pantheon. The name was found in later writings, too: Hittite, Canaanite, Akkadian, and other Mesopotamian cultures. Ellil, a variation. The god of wind, birthed in the exhaled breath of An and Ki—gods of the heavens and earth—after they’d coupled. When Enlil was young, he was banished from the gods’ home for raping the deity called Ninlil. Apparently licentious, Enlil was said to have fathered at least four children in the underworld and was eventually allowed to return to the gods’ home. Later, Enlil schooled his god-offspring in how to capture and slay demons.

Demons.

“Interesting,” Bridget said. “Demon-slaying. So I expect Enlil is a dirty word to you, eh, demon?”

“Enlil,” The demon growled. “Sumer.”

“Great. So if I’ve guessed right and you’re Sumerian, now I have to find something Sumerian so we can share more than a handful of words. Something easier than that damn buckle.”

“Sumer,” the demon pronounced louder. Its fifth eye opened and gleamed malevolently, the multiple eyes adding to Bridget’s dizziness. “Sumer.”

Shivers shot through Bridget’s spent frame.

“Feckin’ Sumerian it is,” she said.

***

Eighteen

Bridget tossed her shirt away, and changed into a clean sweater, padding through the brownstone quiet like a cat.

She checked just to be certain, but she had nothing Sumerian in her display cases. All the while the creature followed, chattering, drooling, and belching clouds of noxiousness. Bridget feared she would drop from fatigue and the stench, and though it might do her some good to actually give in and sleep for a few hours, she worried what the demon would do during that time. The buckle had found its way into her pocket; she’d not put it there. At least it was easier to deal with than the damnable briefcase.

She glanced at her watch: 4:11 a.m.

She listened, no one was moving around yet. Michael got up early, but not quite this early. Otter should sleep as long as he could; sleep would keep the grief at bay. Jimmy? She could call Jimmy, but to what purpose? She didn’t have time for another sparring session.

Bridget left for her antique shop. She recalled having a couple of Sumerian pieces there, not on display, of course, waiting “under the counter” for the right buyer. It was just a matter of searching her inventory to find something and then sinking her mind inside a piece so she could finally communicate with the demon … beyond the handful of words she already had. Bridget remembered delving into at least one of the pieces when she’d acquired them several months past, and not finding the memories entertaining enough for a return visit. But there had been a man talking, if her memory served. That wasn’t much to go on, but it was something, an avenue to hopefully find more words in common. And trying to reconnect with that piece would not be as physically exerting as the buckle had proved.

A woman bundled in a faux-fur coat walked her dog, letting it piss on a lamppost and leave a steaming gift near a neighbor’s stoop. She didn’t pick it up, just kept going. The sheen of Fort Greene, Bridget mused, wasn’t so terribly bright this morning. She’d walk to her shop; it wasn’t far, and she didn’t fear any criminal element that might be skulking about.

Yea, though I walk through the valley, I will fear no evil,
she mused,
for I am the biggest, baddest bitch in the valley.
And an even worse son of a bitch trailed her, oozing rivulets of reeking goo.

Always there was noise in the city, but it was not as noticeable this time of day. A siren, muted, a car door slamming and an engine starting—a neighbor heading to work. Winter added to the quiet. A lot of people stayed inside when the temperature dropped. Bridget shivered, remembering just how very cold she’d gotten last night going to Adiella’s pit. Now the chill—and the walk—were helping to rouse her. There was a small coffee shop a few doors down from her antique store. It would be open, and she fancied an extra-large drip-grind; today she’d get the dark-roasted blend that was overly strong and with enough caffeine in it to startle an elephant. Maybe she’d order two to be safe.

Bridget thrust her hands in her pockets. This time she’d stuck a cell phone in one. Michael would be up in an hour or so, and Bridget would call to have him check on Otter and fix the boy whatever he’d like for breakfast. Jimmy could keep Otter entertained for a while; no need for school today. And then when Bridget got back she and Otter would face the unfortunate tasks of planning Tavio’s funeral and picking a time when Adiella could visit her grandson.

Crap. And they’d have to deal with Tavio’s estate, too. Michael had left her a note that an attorney had called. Apparently Tavio had left almost everything, including the restaurant, to Otter. Adiella figured into some of it, Bridget suspected, or maybe some charity her ex- had favored. The attorney could be put off for a while. Nothing for Bridget in the will, but then she didn’t need any of Tavio’s wealth; she had more than enough of her own.

Bridget turned down a side street. The snow from yesterday had been pushed against a curb, heavy enough that the wind hadn’t taken it away. It spilled over the sidewalk in places, and she walked around it and stepped over the cracks in the concrete … something she’d done ever since childhood, the poem about her mother’s back playing in her head. A thought struck her as she reached the next intersection. She whirled, looking at the snow. In the faint glow from the streetlights that were still on she saw prints in a low drift, webbed misshapen tracks. The demon left tracks … at least that Bridget could see. Could others see them?

Three more blocks to go. She stepped into the intersection. Paying no attention to the traffic lights and distracted by the notion of the demon leaving a visible trail, Bridget didn’t see the bakery delivery van bearing down on her. The van had been going a little too fast, and it struck Bridget dead-center. The impact sent her up and over the hood, against the windshield and breaking it, then across the driver’s side and into the center lane of the street.

Bridget’s head hit the pavement hard.

Everything was a blur. The van screamed to a halt, the driver pried himself out from behind an airbag and ran to Bridget, thumbing an earpiece phone and shouting at the 9-1-1 operator. A car had been coming from the other lane, and it stopped, too, a man in a long, wool overcoat getting out and waving a cell phone, taking pictures with it, and then also calling 9-1-1.

“Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.” This from the van driver. He circled Bridget and flapped his arms against his sides like he was an overly plump bird trying unsuccessfully to take flight. “Oh Dear Mary Mother of God.” The man interrupted his flapping long enough to cross himself and bend over Bridget. To the man in the wool overcoat, he shouted: “It wasn’t my fault. She stepped right in front of me. Oh Sweet Jesus.”

Bridget blinked and things came better into focus. The van driver had a face the shape of a jug, with a three-day growth of beard and a plaid coat that didn’t meet in the middle.

The frazzled man touched his ear. “That’s right, operator. I’m at the corner of—”

“No. I’m fine.” Bridget pushed herself off the pavement and shook her head She untangled her curls with her fingers. The cell phone in her pocket starting buzzing, but she ignored it.

Bridget wished she would have worn gloves, her fingers were cold. She was a little dizzy, but that was clearing up too. And she ached from where she’d impacted with the van, but all things considered, the pain was bearable. Nothing broken. “I’m fine, really. Nothing’s broken.”

That revelation hit Bridget like the so-called ton of bricks. She
really
was fine for the most part. Not a busted rib or tooth, though she felt tender places. She could have been killed, at the very least seriously injured. Her face was cut from where it had met the van’s windshield, but not as badly as it should have been. So she was damaged … but only a little.

Otter’s birthday dinner fight had caused her more pain.

“I don’t want an ambulance.” Bridget brushed at her slacks, and then straightened her coat. She shook the disbelieving van driver’s hand, and jogged away, around the man still taking pictures with his cell phone. She took the very next side street, a little detour, to avoid an ambulance or a police car that might respond to the 9-1-1s. Bridget didn’t want any paramedic trying to check her out and delaying her from reaching the antique store. And she’d had enough of police for a while.

She was fine.

Sore, but she could live with it.

Bridget swallowed hard. She was fine like the briefcase had been fine when she tried to burn it in a furnace.

Laid it on a subway track and watched a train trundle over it.

Tossed it into the river and saw it sink.

Dropped it into a sewer and let it float away in the muck.

“Christ on a tricycle.” The revelation hit: the buckle protected what it was “affixed” to, apparently, and so now that it was “affixed” to her, Bridget had walked away relatively unscathed. A blessing in that respect, she thought. But it was a blessing she’d rather do without if it meant losing the demon.

The demon followed her around the corner and into the coffee shop, babbling and oozing and malevolently eying the woman behind the counter who took Bridget’s double extra-large coffee order. It followed Bridget back out and to O’Shea’s Antiques & Appraisals. Bridget held the two big coffees against her chest with her left arm and with the right hand started keying in the security code for the front door. The cell phone in her pocket buzzed again.

“Hey lady, bet you’ve got a lot of money in a shop like that,” came a voice from behind her.

The sheen of Fort Greene, Bridget mused once more. “The day keeps getting better.”

She spun, intending to get a look at the robber before deciding how to deal with him. But the man was quick and had been making a move, thrusting forward with a knife, the blade slicing right through Bridget’s coat and into her stomach. The man was Bridget’s height, thicker, younger, with long sideburns and a New York Yankees stocking cap. She immediately registered that he fit the description of the man who’d four times held up people outside the Capital One Bank on Fulton earlier this month. In those cases he’d only brandished a knife. In this case he’d used it.

Bridget dropped the coffees, the hot liquid splashing up from the sidewalk on her legs. “Son of a bitch!” Bridget shouted. “This, I don’t need.” The knife still in her, and causing a considerable amount of pain, she jerked a knee up, catching the robber in the groin. As the surprised man doubled forward, Bridget brought both hands in to chop at his exposed neck, the most vulnerable part given that he was otherwise thoroughly bundled up for the weather.

The breath whooshed out of him and Bridget pressed the attack with an uppercut to the jaw. The man took it, and he raised his hands to ward off Bridget’s next blow, stepping back to get away, catching his foot on a raised piece of sidewalk and teetering off balance. Bridget kicked him again, this time landing a solid blow to the man’s thigh. A second whip-kick and he fell back, half on the sidewalk, halfway into the street, lying at an ugly angle over the curb. Bridget kicked him one more time for good measure.

“Get the hell out of—” That would be the easiest route, let the guy go. Bridget pulled the knife out of her gut, seeing blood on it. She’d felt it go in her … it had hurt like the devil,
still hurt
. The knife, the van … they’d hurt, but not been as bad as she’d expected. Well, honestly, she’d expected to be dead. Already, the pain from the blade was dropping to a dull, persistent ache. She knew the wound was starting to heal.

“Pissmires and spiders.” She
should
let the guy go. That would be the easiest course. Then there’d be no dealing with police, no report to fill out, and above all of that no questions. All she wanted to do was swallow a couple of aspirins, find the Sumerian pieces inside her shop, and somehow manage a way to talk to the demon.

Her free hand found the cell phone in her pocket and she punched in 9-1-1. Fortunately the phone still worked, despite everything she’d been through. She brought it up to her face. “The Fulton Street Yankee fan—” That’s what the local
NY Times
blog had labeled him. “I’ve caught the scuttering asshole. Can you send someone to pick him up? And make it quick.”

Bridget waited, sitting on the curb next to the woozy robber; hand pressed to her stomach where the knife had went in. Glaring, she ignored the passing cars that slowed out of curiosity, and all the while getting angrier for “doing the right thing.” If the thug hadn’t been pestering people on Fulton, she would have let him go. But Bridget actually liked some of her neighbors, and she didn’t want any more criminal element creeping into Fort Greene, especially if Otter was going to be living here too. And she certainly didn’t want anyone else in the neighborhood getting stabbed by the damn thug. She’d cleaned off the knife on a napkin from the coffee shop and when the first officer approached, she passed it to him.

“My jacket saved me,” she lied to the four officers who showed up. “Knife got caught in it, stopped it. Then … I dunno … I was having a bad day. I just lit into him, beat the shit out of him. Went all-out Bernie Goetz I guess.” At least the latter part was true. “You better not charge me for that. It was self-defense, really.”

“We’ll need you to come down to the precinct.”

“Of course you will,” Bridget said. She hoped the robber wouldn’t find a way to sue her for the beating.

“It won’t take long.”

“Of course it won’t.” But this time Bridget knew it was the cops who lied.

There was just enough room in the backseat for Bridget and the demon, both of them reeking. The cops cracked the windows open and the winter whistled inside.

***