String (V.S. 5)

“I wish they printed this in paperback,” Granny commented sourly. “it would be not only more legible, but sturdier and lighter. Cristafia Draccona Garancolli is a great authority and brilliant writer, but whoever copied this has handwriting that leaves something to be desired.” 1

The book she was holding was a thousand year-old copy of C. D. Garancolli’s The Darkest Places, (in Latin) the reliable source on portals and gateways that nobody should be messing with, but do anyway, because she (C. D. Garancolli) wrote the book that told them how to do it. It was the book we—-who shouldn’t have but did, because she wrote the book that told us how to do it—-used to make the portal that generally led to most of our problems. 2

“I can’t even find the right page,” she grumbled. 3

I didn’t know what she was looking for, and probably didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help pointing out the obvious.4

“Why don’t you look in the index? Or the table of contents?” Or did books that old even have indexes? Something to cogitate on late at night.5

“I tried that, but it’s all abbreviated and badly organized. Impossible to navigate.” I, easily distracted, went to look over her shoulder. She was on a page labeled Domini. She shut the book gently.6

“I don’t think we’re going to find it.” The moon’s most likely not aligned correctly, I thought.7

“I wonder,” said Deucallion Shlonski, looking up, “what percentage of what kind of blood is in this?” A gruesome question. Granny seemed to consider it entirely normal, however. 8

“Oh, if I remember correctly—it was a while ago—swine, in a 1-5 ratio with paint. Not too much.” Ew. I, having been busy copying the incantations while Granny painted the thing, had not known what had gone into it. And now I’m to learn that there is a demonic star painted in pig’s blood in our hall? I had thought it odd that we were doing it with paint, I suppose. It did make more sense this way. Blood is very traditional.9

He made a low unsatisfied noise, then rose and tried ineffectively to roll up the sleeves on the enormous coat. They slid down over his hands again, and I noticed that there were not just one—as I had previously thought--but three blood-stained tufts of formerly blond hair sticking out at odd angles from his head. And one stuck to his left cheekbone.10

“I don’t,” he said, “actually know anything at all about this sort of thing. It runs in the family, but I think it got pretty tired by the time it got to me.” Granny shrugged, and I narrowed my eyes. Ran in the family? What ran in the family? Blood? Well, obviously, but pig blood? No. Pentacle-making? Demonic black magic? Unlikely. 11

“What runs in the family?” I asked. He didn’t respond, but merely looked at me like I was black spot on his favorite rosebush. Granny looked surprised, but then recalled,12

“Oh, you weren’t here during that discussion, were you dear? Demon.” All had not yet become clear.13

“Demon? What? Runs in the…oh.” Ok, so not pig’s blood, demon’s blood. That kind of explained a few things. Like his general weirdness. And why Granny thought he might know something about portals to demon hell dimensions. Just dandy. I must have looked disturbed, because he immediately reassured me.14

“Not that much. Many people do, you know. It’s not that uncommon.” How reassuring. Not just one person I knew, but who knows how many other people were part demon. It’s a wonder I’m not paranoid. More paranoid, I mean, than I already am. Because I think I am paranoid, somewhat. Mildly, but undoubtedly paranoid. It comes with the whole black magic, blood painted, evil summoning spell in the front hall that won’t go away. You know. That. Yeah…(What was that?? I heard something! Is that a shadow over there?!?) 15

Ah well, diversity is what makes the world go ‘round until some mentally unstable individual (human or otherwise) burns it up with eternal fire and/or puts every sentient being present into a state of never ending torment.16

I shrugged genially, pulled off my muddy sneakers and kicked them next to the door. 17

“That’s cool. I wish I were part demon.” Then I would fit in with the rest of the world and not feel so left out. 18

“Pick up your shoes, dear, and put them away properly. I’ll start dinner. I’ve been out all day, and the beans have to cook a long time.” 19

So Granny hobbled off to the kitchen, and I went to get my shoes. Our slightly demonic house guest was standing there fighting with his sleeves, which refused to stay rolled up to the point that he could use his fingers. 20

“Ye gods,” he muttered, “Was the man a giant?” I saw that a good part of his trouble was that because the shoulders ended halfway down his upper arm, the sleeves fell a good five inches past where they would on a broader-shouldered man. 21

“No, not super large. You,” I concluded, “are just short.” He cautiously stopped holding up one side, where it was settled around his elbow. As he brought his hand away, it stuck for a few seconds, but then slowly slipped down again. He eyed it, and protested,22

“Not that short.” 23

“And emaciated,” I continued. “A veritable shrimp, as it were.” He gave that quick exhale of air that is certain people’s version of the snort or bray of laughter. My sister had always brayed, and I had friends that snorted. I was—-and still am—-an exhaler myself. Granny, needless to say, merely smiles in an amused fashion. The uncontrolled reaction is an unknown to her. 24

“You’re talking.” My shoes barely fit in their little cubbyhole by the stairs. I’d never tried putting them there before; usually they were outside. I gave up and turned to see him contemplating his fingertips.25

“I’m not that much shorter than you. Only an inch or two. And I am, after all, female, and therefore naturally smaller in stature.” I sounded like Granny.26

“In many species of raptor, the female is larger than the male,” he remarked sadly. “Do you have string?” 27

“Somewhere, yeah.” Why did he want string? “I’ll get some if you’ll throw these outside.” He didn’t say anything, but offered his hand, and caught one of the shoes I tossed to him. The other he missed, and bent down to receive, then shook his head as if to clear it upon standing erect. I was squeezing my sweater into the cubbyhole when he opened the door to set the muddy things on the step. 28

I was straightening with triumph at my success in doing so when I heard him say awkwardly,29

“Oh, hello. You wish to speak to, uh…” he trailed off as 30

I turned. Jasper Key and a very large Doberman were there, looking confused. The Creep, that is. The dog was busy growling angrily and snarling and straining to get at our demon friend. It didn’t seem to like him much.