Chapter 13: The Hungering Night

Akewillow Chapter 13 The Hungering Knight

How do you prepare for the Inquisition? Hell, how do you send an invitation to the Inquisition? Because that's not a phone call I ever pictured myself making. But it's one that went... better than I could have expected. That's not to say it went well. Not by any normal definition. When Orléans answered, he had all the pomp and efficiency I expected someone who wears a three-piece suit, along with brand-appropriate cufflinks every day, to have. Deacon Orléans speaking.

That's how he answered the phone. In a perfect world, he would have followed up my confused request for help with something like, a demon that steals guts? Well, of course we can help. The Inquisition has just the answer to deal with such a thing. And for helping us in this matter, we'll get off your back forever and never bother you again. It's the least we can do. We don't live in a perfect world, and Orléans made no such promises. Instead, he cut me off and said, We're on our way.

Which I guess answers my question about how to invite the Inquisition. As for how to prepare for them, since I'm asking for their help, I suppose it should be with some sort of peace offering. And I only know of one way to communicate such things. Snacks. I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider using some more of Doris's magic while baking the cookies. Apart from coffee and tea.

A cookie is the only thing that Orléans and Alessandria ever ordered at the Aquilo Cafe. So that's what I made them. Chocolate chip, because it's a classic. Some more butter pecan sandies, since they had been rather popular during the day. and some macadamia nut for variety. It would have been such a small thing to come up with a sigil to include in the recipe, something that I could infuse with my desperate need for help.

maybe add a touch of my sadness for Clara and the others. It could have been useful, just the extra leverage needed to get the Inquisition on my side, but it could also have very well exploded in my face. Aside from thumbing my nose at Orlean and Alessandria, literally using the same magic they warned me against on them, I recognized something while making Julia's orange poppy seed honey cake.

It's no coincidence that Doris's notes on crafting sigils are written in her recipe book. Julia's love, grief, and loss are like ingredients. The order and ratio in which to put them together are like a recipe. A little too much of this, and too little of that, and the cake would have been another failure. Will isn't enough. Will is the oven in which all of these ingredients bake.

What would happen if I put too much of my fear or despair into those cookies? Even if my little bit of witchcraft slipped under the nose of the Inquisition? What happens then? No. The best course of action is to use that other piece of magic, the one I dislike so much for the effort it demands and just how terribly mundane it is. Freaking civility.

Which circles right back to the cookies, coffee, and tea, all laid out on the biggest table of the dining room, waiting for my guests in the middle of the night. My right hand shakes as I put down the cream and sugar, while my left hand clutches tightly around the handle of Doris's spoon. I'm also still wearing her apron, surrounding myself with every vestige of my great-grandaunt as I can get.

Perhaps if I disguise myself enough, some of the goodwill she earned from Orléans and Alessandria will bleed off. Maybe if I have enough of these relics on my person, Doris herself will watch over me.

The doors chime, and I catch myself hoping that it's anyone but the Inquisition. Helen Edna, notary public, would be an unlikely but welcome sight. It's always good to see Olivia, but right this minute, her presence would be a godsend. Even Detective Wilson would be a ray of sunshine in these dark times. Good evening, Miss Dufour, Orléans sings in his ever-calm voice. Is this all for us? You really shouldn't have.

It's the least I can do to thank you for coming in so late, and hopefully helping me out. Both are dressed as they usually are, blue suits with white shirts and polished gold cufflinks. They each have their leather briefcases. It's a strange trick of proportions that Orleans appears huge while Alessandria's might as well be an evening purse. Orléans takes a seat at the table and pulls a cup of coffee to himself. Alessandria is more hesitant. She stands behind a chair, glaring at me.

Her animosity towards me, which has been evident since the first time we met, seems to have taken a new, brighter incandescence. That woman decided I was a witch the moment she laid eyes on me. and she takes her job of eliminating witches very seriously. Well, I can't promise any help, Orléans starts while stirring cream and sugar into his coffee.

I think it only fair to warn you that we- The Inquisition does not ally itself with sinners, Alessandria finishes, ever so helpful. Perhaps a blunt way to put it, but not inaccurate. Orléon picks back up, sipping from his cup. I want to immediately argue, to stomp my foot on the ground and scream one more time that I'm not a witch.

I might have used some of Doris's magic, as hard as that is to accept, but if anyone's a witch, it was her. And as far as I know, the Inquisition left her alone. How hard is it to extend me the same courtesy? Apparently impossible, judging by Alessandria's set jaw and… did I just hear her growl? Instead of a loud claim to innocence, however, I pull out a chair for myself and sit down, opposite Orléans.

He may not be offering an open hand of cooperation, but at least he's sitting at my table, drinking my drink, and, I'm sure in time, eating my food. If I'm negotiating with anyone right now, it's him. So I smile and nod my understanding, take a cup of coffee of my own, and pick out a chocolate chip cookie to nibble on. Isn't a homicidal demon a higher priority for the Inquisition than, well, whatever I am?

I expect Alessandria to hiss the word witch through her teeth, doubling down on her accusation. Instead, she looks back and forth between her partner and I. Or, to be more specific, between my chocolate chip cookie and the butter pecan sandy he's just picked out. Orléans' nod of satisfaction after his first bite is the final blow to her failing stoicism, and she begrudgingly pulls out a chair and sits down.

Every one of her movements is brusque, as if she's hoping something will break at her touch, but the furniture here is sturdy, and once sitting, her resolve seems to soften. There's even a look of what one might mistake for joy when she notices I brewed her some green tea instead of the coffee her partner and I are enjoying. Score one for civility.

What you may think of as a demon could be any number of other things, Orléans explains, taking small bites as he does so. The possessed or damned can often take forms that would seem demonic to the inexperienced. It could also be a manifestation of your own dabbling in the dark arts. A homunculus or tulpa of sorts? Assuming we take your word that there is something supernatural behind those killings, there would already be some amount of work involved in identifying the true nature of this evil.

What would it take for me to convince you? Through a mouthful of chocolate chip, Alessandria obliges with her own explanation. We'd have to start with a full description of the demon, which we would then submit to the Vatican IV revision. Unfortunately, Orléon is a Class 3 certified demonologist, so he's well-equipped to identify a demon himself, saving us that step.

Orléans beams with pride, as if I should know what a Class III demonologist is and be impressed by it. If it's a possession, though, she continues, neither of us is licensed for exorcism. All of that is moot as long as you're under suspicion of witchcraft, though. It always comes back to that for these two, but for Alessandria in particular. Miriam the Witch.

I can't tell if she simply has a nostalgic longing for a simpler age, one where an eager inquisitor could simply roll up to the town weirdo, tie her up, and turn her into a bonfire, or if she's got some kind of personal grudge against me. The demon is real. I struggle to contain my outrage. And it's killed five girls so far. All I've done is bake a cake. You can't tell me that my so-called crimes outweigh actual, factual murder.

That's insane. Or, Alessandria counters, the veins in her neck bulging slightly, this is all misdirection on your part to avoid taking responsibility for your actions. My actions? I've helped a grieving widow find peace, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Julia Remington wanted to see her husband again. That's an act of love. You'd have to be completely heartless to stand against that. Alessandria slams the rest of her cookie down on the table, pulverizing it in the process.

Cups rattle and spoons shake with the violence of her actions, and for the first time, I fear for the furniture. You only think that's Gary Remington you summoned forth. It could be any number of evil spirits. But people like you don't care. You'd do it again in a heartbeat you so proudly claim, and that's the problem.

You're so drunk on power that you don't think about what it is you're doing. With every inch you put your soul in more peril and you think us the villains for trying to save you from yourself. Civility be damned. I tried. Whatever grudge this woman bears against me, I don't have to endure it. I can only have the olive branch I extend be snapped like a twig so many times before hitting her over the head with it becomes my only option.

How much of a hypocrite do you have to be, I ask, standing from my chair like I'm about to flip the whole table over. I'm telling you there's a monster out there, whatever you want to call it, killing women, and you say you worry about my soul? I bet if I were Doris, you wouldn't be giving me so much crap. Alessandria's jaw tightened so hard, I think she might crack a molar in the process. I don't think I've ever seen so much bottled-up wrath in one person.

She's the outrage of an entire cheated crowd crammed into one woman. You wear Doris's apron and you hold on to her utensils. You even bake her food and sell it in her cafe. But you are no Doris Dufour. The words come... as an unexpected blow. So many have told me that I fit right into the hole left behind by my great-grand-aunt. I've received nothing but compliments about wearing her apron.

It seems so far that everyone in Aquilo has been waiting for me to take Doris's place. I didn't notice until hearing otherwise, but there was a comfort in being told that there was a place for me in the world.

Even one I didn't want to take. To have that suddenly taken from me. I'm not sure how I would have responded, but before I could decide, Orléans cut in. Ahem. He clears his throat to get our attention. I don't want this to escalate any further than it has to. Miss Dufour might have a point. While I resent the name-calling, it would be hypocritical of us to put our suspicions before the lives of any more victims. But Orléans...

Alessandria protests her tone that of a child whose parent won't take her side. I expect Orléans to admonish her some more, but instead he reaches out a hand to put over hers. It's a comforting gesture, and Alessandria does seem to soften at her partner's touch. It's not a romantic thing. It's empathy, pure and simple.

an understanding so opaque between them that I can't see through it and decipher the details. I know a less, he says with more than his usual softness. Then he turns to me. Miss Dufour? I think we can give you the benefit of the doubt. When and where do you say the demon usually appears? Here, I say, sitting back down, behind the Aquilo in the alley. I've seen it on several nights around midnight.

Maybe just after. Well, Orléans pats his leather briefcase. We don't have the proper things to deal with the demon in here, but we'll bring the appropriate tools tomorrow night, if that works for you. I nod my assent, wondering what good a bunch of paperwork is going to do against a demon, yet glad I won't be facing it alone, for once. This time, I don't bake any cookies.

Which, if I have to be honest with myself, doesn't feel right. Not specifically the baking of cookies, but rather the lack of hospitality. Usually, the way you hear it, hospitality is something that's passed down from mother to daughter. Whenever we had company, people would say, Mom would always make a plate of fresh-baked cookies. Or biscuits or tea cakes. In my house, we didn't have that tradition.

Mom was a good enough cook, but not one passionate enough to chain herself to the stove whenever she had friends over. The second I moved into my own apartment though, I couldn't wait to have guests. For Trevor, it was about sharing a beer on the couch with his buddy, even though we were technically underaged. For me, it was about finally making a whole meal just for the guest. It didn't even matter who they were.

We wanted to play adult, and for me, that meant hospitality. The behavior stuck. I can't tell you the names of the people we had over, but I could recite the menu for the evening. It wasn't even anything special. Some roast beef with mashed potatoes and chopped veggies, onion canapes for appetizers, and black forest cake for dessert. Having people over...

even detestable people, has always meant putting something out. The day after meeting with Orléans and Alessandria, on the two-week anniversary of my coming to Aquilo, I made the conscious decision not to prepare anything. It was out of spite, at first, but as time stretched into the night and the hour of their visit drew near, I started to regret it. I had leftovers from the day, of course, but somehow I still felt a responsibility towards the people who would...

hopefully, rid me and Aquilo of the demon behind my café. It's almost one in the morning when shadows pass in front of the café and the door chimes announce their arrival. My eyes close and I take a deep breath, stealing myself before confronting them again. Or is it the demon we're planning to face who I'm more afraid of? Miss Dufour?

Orléans announces, with the enthusiasm of a kid having his first piece of cotton candy. Orléans, I answer, appraising my saviors for the evening. I can't say exactly what it was I expected of them. Skin-tight black bodysuits like two covert operatives about to undertake a daring assassination. Full military gear including fatigues and night vision goggles.

Or perhaps they're going to show up in priest robes with long rosaries that ended in enormous wooden crosses. Orléon had introduced himself as deacon on the phone, after all. But no. Both of them are wearing their traditional blue suits and white shirts. The only discernible difference from every single other instance I've met with the Inquisition is that they no longer have their little leather briefcases.

Instead, they both have huge leather briefcases. Light brown with brass metal buckles, they may very well be from the same manufacturer. How much paperwork does it take to slay a demon? Uh, hi. I say, struggling to decide on how to welcome them. The demon usually shows up near the dumpster in the back. As if I'm trying to show animal control where I last saw the rat I expect them to remove, I stroll to the back door, which I crack open.

I'm not sure if it's because I'm no longer alone, or if it's because I trust the Inquisition. If not their motives, but at least their capabilities. But I don't hesitate to look outside to the back porch. The light floods the short stairs that lead to the pavement where the two green dumpsters are located. I don't see any raccoons. In fact, they've been a little quiet the last couple of days, and I catch myself feeling some hints of worry for their welfare.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust but I eventually turn them towards the tree line. It was about this time two weeks ago, when Olivia and I had met for the first time, that the creature first made its presence felt. It had scratched at the windows and almost ripped the door off its hinges. Almost every encounter I've had with the demon started with seeing it shamble amongst the trees. Tonight is no different.

Like a drunkard looking for his way home, the demon shuffles at the edge of the forest, outlined by the filtered light of Aquilo south of the border. It's coming, I whisper. afraid that if I speak aloud the demon will come that much quicker. Marvelous! Orléon exclaims. Even Alessandria smiles at the prospect of dealing with a demon.

A rare facial configuration for her, indeed. The nervous energy between the two of them is almost enough to infect me. We're demon hunting. How many times have you done this before? I ask. The two inquisitors take a seat at one of the small tables in the back. They settle in the deepest corner of the U.S. side of the café, their huge briefcases at their side.

I retreat to the relative safety of the front, close enough to the door that I'm standing underneath the chimes. Killing a demon? Orléans returns the question. This will be my first time encountering one of the foul creatures in the flesh. The temperature in the aquilo drops by several degrees as the blood flees my veins. A thin sheet of sweat manifests on my skin, quickly coalescing to a drop that slides down my spine.

My feeling of safety was as short-lived as an ice cream in the summer sun. You've never done this? Don't worry, Alessandria chuckles. There's nothing we can't handle. She pats her stupid, oversized briefcase like it should be enough to reassure me. But they haven't seen what I've seen. They think they can bury this thing in bureaucracy, but they can't.

The creature's going to come through the back door that I left open. It's going to tear through Orleon and his partner while they wave forms in its face. It's going to steal their guts, and if that's not enough to satisfy it, it'll come after me.

My brain is in overdrive, composing every possible scenario of escape, ready for me to make a run for it. The front window of the Aquilo shatters. Large sheets of broken glass fall from their frame, disintegrating as they hit the tables and floor. The vinyl decal of the Aquilo logo makes a valiant effort to hold as many pieces together, but it eventually tears and flutters and tatters to the ground. A million shards fly through the air, nearly obscuring the object breaking through.

Even if I couldn't see it with my own eyes lit by the street lamps and the Aquilo's halogen bulbs, the smell of rotting meat would have identified the intruder with equal efficiency. The demon. It didn't come from the back. It circled around through the empty streets, tossing itself through the front window to get in. With its signature hybrid of agility and clumsiness, the monster lands on one of the front tables, tearing long gashes into the wood surface with its claws.

The gaping, hungry hole of its mouth stretches open as if it were trying to swallow the whole room. It looks like it wants to wail and scream, but only a low moan escapes the stinking maw.

Empty eyes scan the Aquilo Cafe, ignoring the Inquisitors, ignoring the coffee machine and coffee grinder, only to stop on the closest, most vulnerable target in range. Me. In a motion reminiscent of a frog hopping from lily pad to lily pad, the demon bounces from table to table, moving first away from me but then circling right back to where I stand, paralyzed.

It's only at the very last moment, as the monster pounces at me, arms extended so as to spear me with its claws, that I leap out of the way. The demon crashes with a wet clatter of rotting limbs into the wall, taking down the door chimes in the process. As I scramble off the floor, sneakers slipping on the clean tiles, I notice that the demon no longer carries Clara's organs.

There's no time to wonder where they went or why they're gone. The only thing on my mind is that the demon now needs a replacement, and I can feel my own bowels move with fear. Inhuman twisting and turning allow the demon to get back on its haunches in record time, and it pounces towards me. A slip and fall take me to the ground, but I manage, through some sort of divine intervention, to topple a table in the demon's path.

Do something! I yell, begging for the Inquisition to spring into action. But what are they supposed to do? This can't be what they expected. They were probably told in their Class 3 demonology training that they could reason with demons. I'd like to see them try to have that beast sign a confession or a warning. Now may not be the best time for such fantasies, though.

Come this way, Orléans says, with some amount of urgency, but none of the terrified panic my own fear demands he share. I obey, but not because I have much of a choice. Any other direction would bring me closer to the demon and its black, razor-sharp claws.

My feet kick at the floor while my hands pull at tables and chairs, forcing my body over the red and blue line that bisect the dining room and towards the back of the Aquilo Cafe. The demon follows. and crosses the colored lines. Here we go, Orléans says, standing with a fluidity I didn't think his body capable of.

Alessandria, like the biggest gazelle you've ever seen, gets to her own feet while swinging her briefcase to the table, all in one graceful movement. Brass clips snap open and leather flaps are flipped. Alessandria reaches into her leather briefcase, but instead of copious amounts of paperwork, she pulls out the two biggest handguns I've ever seen. Orléans leans to his own briefcase on the floor, and when he stands, he's holding a massive machine gun, short but heavy and brutal-looking.

Keep in mind, I'm just some Canadian girl from Montreal. I can tell you the difference between a standard saucepan and a Windsor, but I don't know the first thing about guns. The only firearms I've seen were holstered on the belts of cops or in movies. I haven't even been to a shooting range or hunting. So let me tell you, when the Inquisition opens fire on the demon, it scares me almost as much as having the monster on my heels.

Flashes of light accompany the cacophony of gunfire. Orléans' weapon is a rapid-fire drumbeat of violence, tearing through the furniture and walls like a hungry worm. The muzzle flashes like a stroboscope, spitting bullets like rain. Alessandria fires her handguns with calm efficiency, alternating between right and left, each pull of the trigger causing a clamor like a cannon firing. The blasts explode everything they hit, tossing splinters of wood and shards of glass.

through the air. When one of her guns is empty, she hands it to Orléans, who replaces the clip with a fresh one from her bag. Meanwhile, she borrows his machine gun and continues the savage destruction of the Aquilo. All the while, the demon bounces from table to chair, then back to the floor or clinging on to the ceiling. Whenever there's a pause in the violence, it stops to give the Inquisitors a low snarl.

If it tries to lunge at the small table where Orléans and Alessandria make their stand, bullets punch it back and away, but do no discernible damage otherwise. This back and forth of destruction seems to last for hours, with each minute taking another bite out of Doris's cafe. Framed pictures shatter and fall to the floor. Drywall fills the air in clouds of dust.

A pang of sympathy hits me as my old nemesis, the coffee machine, takes a direct hit from one of Alessandria's guns. As relentless as the Inquisition is, the demon seems equally unstoppable. Except... It will never run out of bullets. While I'm sure Orléans and Alessandria have complete faith in their god, I doubt he's supplying them with infinite ammo. This can't last forever. And when it ends...

I don't think it will be in our favor. As was inevitable, the food display gets hit. It's a salvo from Orléans' machine gun that punches a series of holes through the glass, sending cracks spidering at the top of the case. Of all the carnage, this shouldn't register any more than the other hundred things that are destroyed by the demon in the Inquisition. And to me it doesn't. Not really. And the Inquisition certainly doesn't care.

But the demon does. Orléon and Alessandria, both giddy at the violence they get to inflict, seem to vanish from the creature's perception. I, the original prey, mean nothing to it. For all its intent on killing the three of us, all the fight vanishes from the creature when the display gets damaged. Bullets tear through the demon's skin, embedding themselves into its rotting, dead flesh.

But the demon doesn't care. It barely flinches at wounds that would have taken someone the size of Gulliver down. None of it matters. Shuffling slowly through the ruined furniture and a hail of gunfire, the demon walks back to the display. It looks down at the cracked glass and paws impotently at the surface. At first, it looks almost disappointed.

But that turns to impatience as the hits to the glass increase in strength and intensity. Finally, consumed by rage, the demon strikes at the display, shattering it once and for all. But there's still no prize for the demon to take. Black claws rip at one barren spot, hoping against hope that it can find a stray crumb or hidden pastry, but that part of the display is as empty as the demon's abdomen. Probably more lead than flesh at this point, the creature screams.

Not in pain, but in frustration. I've seen this play out before, and to my relief, everything else follows the same script. Whatever the demon was looking for isn't here. And unable to get to either me or the Inquisition, the monster decides to give up. It first leaps to the back door, but something stops it at the threshold.

It only hesitates for a second, enduring occasional hits from the Inquisitor's gun all the while, but before long the demon leaps and sprints for the hole it made in the front window. There's a moment of hesitation where the demon turns to give one last look with its empty eyes towards the broken display. Then, as suddenly as it crashed in, the demon is gone.

Gunfire ceases, and the last few pieces of glass fall to the floor before the Aquilo is engulfed in silence. Sitting on the ground still shielded by a fallen table I pull my knees to my chest and do the only thing left for me to do. I sob. Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot, narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to hear more, please rate and review us on Apple Podcasts or your preferred podcast platform.

You have no idea how much it helps. Questions? Comments? Email us at akewillow at gmail dot com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.