S2 Chapter 11: Salt for the Wound

AQUILO Season 2 Chapter 11 Salt for the wound. I knew it! Fine. I didn't know all of it. I sure as hell didn't expect the wings, the purple skin. red veins, and sheer power that emanates from her. But I've been pointing the finger at Agnes as the source of Aquila's lethargy for days now. Oh, and I didn't expect the vampire thing.

That's another angle that's right out of left field. Self-satisfaction is all well and good, but it's not going to be of much use to me if I get eviscerated or drained of blood. Or both. I don't see why each would be an anathema to the other. I thought I had more time, but the hunger demon clearly didn't find its last meal satisfying enough. Now, it's doing as it does when the magic of my cakes runs out.

It wanders through the alleys of Akewillow, looking for its next meal. For months, I was the one to provide, but now I find myself empty-handed, caught between the devil and... well... another devil at least the raccoons are on my side the dawn biggest of the vermin is hissing and growling baring his fangs at agnes Crimson and the other beat-up mean one are crawling from behind the dumpster, and they look like they're ready for a fight. I'm not going to go so far and assume they're defending me.

They're clearly protecting their territory. But it's nice to know that when I die, in a minute or so, someone will have fought beside me.

Agnes casts a dismissive glance towards my ring-tailed allies, projecting scorn from her golden eyes. Tight muscles flex underneath the skin of her legs as she pushes herself upright. Everything about her radiates power and lust in equal yet competing quantities. Her wings, leathery and torn, fold and unfold, stretching to cast shadows on the wall. Her hands are like talons, fingers curved and tipped with razor-sharp claws.

She's an enthralling sight to behold. I feel like I'm staring down a tsunami, terrified but too awestruck to move. Even the gurgling sound of the more immediate threat behind me does nothing to shake my attention. I can imagine it, though. The gaping, endless maw of its mouth open to show the blunt teeth and releasing the terrible odor of rotting meat from its missing entrails. Short, sharp claws dig into my leg, snapping me from my reverie.

I look down to see Brioche, my favorite raccoon, scratching at my calf, hissing at the beast behind me. It's enough that I regain my grasp on reality. Claws to the back, claws to the front, and claws in the skin of my leg. Well, I too have claws. I reach into my apron pocket again, pulling out the fillet knife I brought out with me.

It's not much. Certainly no match for the supernatural speed and strength of the monster behind me. And who knows what powers Agnes can leverage in this form. But if I'm going down... someone's paying a toll in flesh and blood for my departure. It's the weirdest standoff in history, of that I have no doubt. As it turns out, however, watching a standoff isn't all that different from waiting for water to boil.

Time slows and stops, refusing to move forward, establishing a standoff of its own and waiting for someone to make the first move.

In this case, after what feels like hours of raccoons growling and demons flexing, it's Agnes that breaks the standstill. Whoosh. Her wings, having reached the apex of their height, do not fold back slowly. Instead, they strike down, pushing air, dust and the rancid smell of the summer-cooked dumpsters all around them. With barely a twitch of her legs, Agnes is tossed bullet-fast right at me. I wish I could say that my reflex was to stab at the incoming monster.

But the best I can muster is to shield my face with arms and knife, closing my eyes in fear. Now we know what a vampire versus witch battle would look like, I suppose. And for a split second. I think that this is it. This is how I end. My time in Aquilo but a ten-month-long preparation for my inevitable demise.

This city, this tiny village at the very bottom of Quebec, was too much for little Miriam Dufour. There's a violent, bone-cracking crash accompanied by the wet moaning of the hunger demon. but I'm not a part of it. Maybe I was still thinking too highly of myself when I assumed that it was me whom Agnes had targeted in her attack. Why would she worry about little old Miriam?

I'm no threat to her. She can obviously snap me like a twig and split me open like a wet bag of flour. The real danger to a creature of the night is a creature from hell. Much like the hunger demon saved me from the hellhound, Agnes's more pressing concerns might just be my opportunity for survival. Quick as a whip, I bend down and pick up Brioche, then sprint for the back door of the Aquilo.

I can feel the pieces of Doris's spoon under my foot, almost tripping me as they roll under my soles. Any sane woman would have gone through the door of the Aquilo, barreled through the dining room and burst out of the front door, then kept running and running. But would a sane woman have picked up a raccoon? Also, it's one thing to be sane and put self-preservation first, but quite another to miss out on a sight that's right out of a fever dream.

Agnes the vampire has pushed the hunger demon to the ground. She circles it as the monster picks itself up from the asphalt. Her moves are graceful. She's not just a monster and a killer. She's a ballet dancer and a flower caught in a gentle wind. Every step she takes is light but predatory. She reminds me of a spider crawling around its web. deciding how best to approach a fly caught in the strands. The hunger demon has a large gash across its upper chest.

Thick, black blood oozes from the wound, but the flesh is already stitching itself back up, and by the time the beast is once more firmly on its two feet, the cut is but an afterthought. When I first stepped foot in Aquilo, It was after living almost two years in Montreal, the busiest town in Quebec. It's a bustling metropolis that bubbles over with diversity, variety, and culture.

Arriving in this small village of a town I'd never heard of before, my impression was of how sleepy it seemed. Tonight... I'm a hair away from witnessing a duel between monsters pulled straight from legends, nightmares, and old creepypasta. I sure as hell wouldn't have seen that at the jazz festival or fringe fest.

The two circle each other, and I can almost see lightning crackle between them if I squint, though that might just be my imagination. I remember Dad once taking Eric and me to a monster truck rally. I think it was in Napierville. It's hard to remember because I was at that age when kids of my generation still think monster truck rallies are cool. I remember the impact each truck made when it hit the ground or landed on top of a pile of cars.

The sound of the engines roaring like dragons held back by chains. It was a spectacle that my little mind savored, despite the terrible hot dogs and pretzels served there. What really stuck with me was the power of each hit, feeling the vibrations in my chest, deafening even the cheering of the crowd. As I look at Agnes and the hunger demon flex their limbs, sizing one another up, I can feel that vibration in my ribs and through my lungs again.

It's there, waiting to be felt in full force once more, projected by this tiny-winged vampire and her corpse-like opponent. Brioche's claws dig deep into my arms, holding fast but also urging me to leave, to step through that door and escape to the relative safety of my café. Something terrible is a breath away from happening, and it would be wise to be elsewhere when it does. But would you walk away from watching the strangest fight in history?

Could I be blamed for wanting to be a witness to my- What are you waiting for? Go! Agnes's voice is more than sound. There's a silent music to it.

A melody that grabs at all my nerves. Some of them, I'm ashamed to admit, more than others. Suffice it to say, her words do not accomplish what they set out to do. And instead of making me see reason and flee, They melt my knees and break my heart, filling the cracks with a longing so deep and physical that I want to put myself between her and the hunger demon.

The decaying, starving beast seizes on Agnes's moment of distraction to strike. Its claws, black and glistening like the skin of wet slugs, cut a shallow line into her skin. Blood, red like rose petals, forms a line and then drips down in streaks from Agnes's belly. It smells like lilacs in the spring mixed with the strong scent of alcohol and sweat. It's the smell of a cheap whorehouse. I wait just another moment, taking it all in. The sight.

The smell, the very sound of her breathing as she lunges at her opponent, clawing out chunks of putrid flesh, all of it is intoxicating enough that I cannot keep my head straight. Then, a bite. Brioche is unimpressed by the strange and alluring creature that Agnes has become, and has decided to remind me that the time has come for us to escape.

The lock on the back door of the Aquilo turns in my hand, securing the exit with a loud click. With this noise, the spell is broken. I can still smell her scent, but without her sight... I recognize the enchanted nature of Agnes's charm. The pheromones, or whatever, lose their grip on my heart and, I hate to admit, my libido. I never thought of myself as someone who might fall for another woman. But what I saw in the alley, what's right now facing off against a monster, is no simple girl.

She's not even human anymore, assuming she ever was. The noises from the alley reverberate and shake the windows.

Whatever is going on out there it's a masterpiece of violence that I should be glad to miss. Instead it's a challenge of will to focus on my own safety. To that effect I start making my way to the front door. The plan is to get as much distance between myself and the Aquilo Cafe. Maybe I can find Gulliver's truck. I'm sure he told me where he parks it when he sleeps in town once. Or maybe I can seek refuge at the police station.

though I have a hard time coming up with a reasonable explanation for my presence once I get there. And would they allow me to bring a raccoon? The chimes sing to me as I push the door open, but before I can make my final escape... I'm held back. The music of the bells isn't a goodbye song. It's more complex. Perhaps I'm losing my mind.

But even though the thin metal tubes that bounce off each other to make the same melody each time a customer walks in and out of the cafe haven't changed their tune, what they say sounds different. Sorry, Brioche. We're staying. I put the raccoon down and lock the front door. Memories of the hunger demon crashing through the front window of the cafe flood my mind. There's not much that could stop it.

Or Agnes from getting into the Aquilo should they put their mind to it. It's happened before, and it could happen again. Then again, what is there outside that would protect me? Nothing. Regardless of where I go, or who I turn to, there's no protection against the forces battling it out in my alley. Except, the Aquilo is the home of the Dufour witches.

Six women came before me, and each must have been powerful in her own right. One of them made immortal raccoons, for crying out loud. This cafe was their stronghold, and for lack of a better option, it's going to be mine. Good idea, I call out to Brioche as she scampers to the kitchen. With the sound of the hunger demon's moans and the occasional crash of dumpsters as our backdrop, the little raccoon and I busy ourselves. All right.

I busy myself. Box after box of table salt is spilled on the floor and piled into the edges of the dining room. It's a quick and simple job, turning the Aquilo into an enormous protection circle. but any gap in the line of salt would make the whole endeavor ineffective. Considering it's my life that's at stake, I put in the extra attention. By the time I'm done with wasting damn near all of my table salt, the noises from outside have subsided and vanished. The last line of salt I pour.

completing the irregular circle and sealing the aquila with brioche and eye inside. There's nothing outside but the sound of a light summer rain pounding the front window. I sit at one of the tables in the middle of the dining room. and watch the drops trail down on the symbol of the Aquilo tree etched into the glass. The water picks up the light of the street lamps, breaking it up in shadows that crawl over the tables and chairs. My mind is clear.

perhaps for the first time in a week. Adrenaline has banished most of my weariness, and I can follow my thoughts unhindered. Agnes's scent is gone, and even the memory of her otherworldly appearance fades. It's enough to make me wonder if I've done all this for nothing. I nudge the empty box on the table beside me. I mentally calculate the price of all the salt I just wasted, only to broom it up when I do the floors in the morning.

It's not really that much. Salt is dirt cheap, which is appropriate, considering. Brioche? The little raccoon has been nowhere to be seen ever since I gave her a box of salt, hoping she'd lend a hand. Or paw. It's not as ridiculous as it sounds. She can pick locks with her claws, and I learn the salt circle trick from her family, after all. I push myself out of my chair. noticing from the ache in my joints that I've been sitting here for much longer than I thought. Brioche? I call again.

It's almost comforting that I can worry about a raccoon getting into the pastries instead of creatures of the night going at each other's throats. There's safety in how mundane a concern it is, much better than imagining what I'll find when I next step outside.

should I ever find the courage to do so. Stay out of the cookies. If you want something, you can just ask. I'm only a few steps into walking to the kitchen, ready to scold my favorite vermin when something hits the window. Every single muscle in my body tenses, and my senses switch back to full alert. Maybe it's just a particularly big raindrop, or the wind blew a branch off a tree, or...

Whatever normal explanation I know doesn't fit. I can't find the courage to look out the window, but the shadows cast on the furniture and floors of my dining room are unforgiving in their honesty. Cut from the orange glow pouring in from the street, the dark figure of an immense bat falls onto the tables and chairs, wavering along with the stream of rain dripping from the window. Agnes.

I turn, a lump in my throat as I wonder, for the first time, if salt circles are only a demon thing, or if they work on vampires, too. Silhouetted against the light. Agnes the Vampire stands under the symbol of the Aquilo, making the tree look like it's weeping over her. Even as shadows, her enthralling aura manages to find its way into my mind.

Her face is impossible to read, but her hand is laid flat, palm out on the window. Her shoulders are hunched and her spare arm is wrapped around her belly. There's a rip in the membrane of her left wing, and her knees visibly shake under her weight. The heaving of her chest speaks of agonizing difficulty breathing. My hunger demon problem.

might have solved Aquilo's vampire problem. Unbidden, my feet take me to the window. I stand opposite Agnes. She's taller in this form, almost of a height with me. But with her head hanging like that, she still looks small. The magnificence has been stripped from her, beaten from her body and torn out of her flesh. With effort, she raises her head.

Her skull must feel like it's made of lead for all the energy it takes for her to meet my eyes. Let me in, she mouths. Fangs protrude from her crimson lips. I shake my head, and the fingers on the hand at the window curl in either frustration or pain. Compelled, I put my own hand on the glass, opposite hers. My eyes can't help but wander over her body, drinking in every strange detail of her perfect, if alien, anatomy. She's the very definition of more human than human.

Everything about her is just enough. Just enough muscle definition and just enough fat to give her just enough curves. Just enough legs on a body with just enough chest. Please, her lips beg. Slowly, as if revealing a precious secret, Agnes pulls away the arm covering her chest. There's not enough skin. and too much blood. I can see intestines that look human and vulnerable.

Of course, that she still stands despite such a wound is testament that she is anything but mortal, yet there's no doubt to the fragility Agnes is showing right now. She's dying. A gust of wind pushes more raindrops onto the glass, setting Agnes' wings to wave like tattered sails. She leans her forehead on the window, and for the first time... I notice two small horns protruding through her hair. Again, I mimic her movements, leaning my own head on the cool glass.

The vibration of a hundred raindrops massages my skull and I close my eyes, savoring the sensation. The fear that I'm being manipulated by the alluring creature outside isn't lost on me, but it registers as an academic observation, not the primal instinct it should be. That, in and of itself, should be enough warning that I'm not myself.

but I ignore the obvious in favor of sampling this unique sensation. Help. I can hear her talk through the window, using the glass as a conduit between us. I've won. Even if the hunger demon is still alive, it must be sufficiently wounded to give me a reprieve. I'm proven right in my suspicion of Agnes, and at the same time, she's defeated. By morning, she'll have succumbed to her wounds.

If not, she's certainly no threat to the community any longer. All I have to do now is walk away. Maybe get a pastry and a cup of coffee and wait. Instead... I stay. My head pressed on the window, still listening to the irregular drumming of the rain, separated from a deadly threat by a thin layer of glass and a line of salt. I take and hold a breath, hesitating, fighting this stupid decision I'm about to make, then speak. How? Am I really going to do this?

My perceptions are losing their focus along with my convictions. The walk from the front of the café to the door can't be more than ten steps, yet it takes just as many minutes to cross the short distance. The fingers on my right hand never lose contact with the glass, tracing the space between where I first touched the window and the door handle. Like a shadow, Agnes follows my lead with her left hand.

mimicking me step by step. I'm keenly aware that what I'm doing isn't natural for me. Something is compelling me to turn the lock on the door and to pull it open. The cool wind and wet drops that fall on my face might as well be falling on someone else. I'm a spectator of my own actions, my foot kicking the salt on the threshold and walking me back a few steps.

Agnes must be doing this, manipulating me with whatever dark magics are at her disposal. Hypnosis or a charm, the same thing she did to elicit large tips for my clients despite being rude and unpleasant to them. She steps in, each stride trembling and hesitant. I wish I had Doris's spoon with me. Agnes is weak, and if the stories are true, I could have stabbed her through the heart and been done with it.

Is it dead? I ask, my voice steady, held together by the same external force guiding my actions. Agnes pauses and cocks her head. Her golden eyes blink, looking for an answer, but she pieces together my meaning after a second. No, I got it good, but it's stronger than I am. Much stronger. God, that voice. Why does it turn my knees to butter? The fangs stick out between Agnes's lips as she smiles, noticing my discomfort.

It's a short-lived expression of amusement, immediately replaced by one of agony. The monster feels pain, and that comes as both a relief and great sorrow. Her own knees start to shake, but... Unlike mine, who are falling victim to some supernatural attraction, hers are failing from exhaustion. Her anatomy, though inhuman, can only keep her going so long with that kind of wound. How do I help?

She leans on the wall, her back sliding over the corkboard where local artists and businesses pin their cards and flyers. A streak of thick blood follows her on the way down until she's sitting, huddled on the floor. Her wings are gone, and I can't remember when they disappeared. Her skin is pale and white, and the red veins that crept all over her body have turned a weak purple, like that of a weak old bruise.

Less menacing, she's easy to step around, allowing me the great relief of putting the salt circle back together. An old cliché comes to mind as I push grains up against the threshold with the palm of my hand. Did I trap the demon outside, or did I trap myself inside with the demon? When I turn back to Agnes, hoping for an answer, she looks as human as the first day I met her. Except...

Instead of the bristly creature, ready to lash out at the simplest provocation, she's a fragile, broken bird. She reminds me of a crow that's been hit by a car. How do I help you? I repeat, kneeling next to her, trying to better see her wounds in the shadows. With no small effort and a grunt of pain, she lifts her head to look at me.

Her trembling left hand reaches out to rest on my shoulder, where my neck meets the rest of my body. Her skin is cold, and her fingers shake in rhythm with the falling rain. But she's not weak. Her grip is strong, inhumanly so, and her pull is forceful and irresistible. Before I can react, or maybe because I don't want to.

Her lips are pressed on mine. What happened? There's fresh wind coming in through the window and bright sun that would blind me where my eyes open. I've lived here, sleeping in Doris's bed for almost a year, more than long enough to become intimately familiar with the give of the mattress, the smell of the room, and the feel of the sheets and comforter.

I know just from the sounds of the apartment and the street below where I am and that I'm late for work. That last thought jolts me awake. I have to get up, run downstairs, and open the cafe. My customers will be waiting for me. They need their coffee. They need their breakfast. It's a wonder I'm not hearing them grumble and complain through the window already. But before I can even pull myself up, I remember.

There's probably no customers. If there were, they already gave up and went somewhere else. Aquila was falling asleep with every passing day, prey to a lethargy that spreads like a virus amongst the citizens. And the cause? The cause was in the cafe last night. She was wounded, fatally, and I offered to help. My eyelids fly open, exposing my retina to the harsh morning sun, but there's no time for discomfort or even pain. Like a cat touching a paw to a puddle of water, I leap out of bed.

ready and afraid of what I might find lying under the covers with me. Nothing. No one. There are stains of red blood on the beige sheets, marring the flower bud pattern of the comforter. It's fresh, a few hours old at most. I doubt it's mine. I don't have any wounds that would bleed that much, but also Agnes's open belly would have left much more copious amounts. There's a pattern to it.

shapes like handprints on the pillows and streaks that go no lower than elbow level. In fear and frustration, I grab at the sheet, intent on tearing them off the mattress, tossing them in the washer, and erasing any trace of whatever happened here. But the blood is on my hands. Not the old metaphor of a guilty conscience. There's no beating heart under the floorboards of Doris's apartment. None that I know of. The blood on the bed isn't mine.

But I brought it here. I remember allowing Agnes into the Aquilo. I remember her ghastly wound. I remember her kissing me. Like prey, I prick my ears, trying to pick up the sound of a predator hiding. I listen for footsteps, snoring, the shuffling of clothes or the closing of a cupboard, anything to indicate that I'm not alone in the apartment.

Only the rare car driving down Rue Principelle breaks the silence. Thoughts stumble over each other, crowding my brain like I'm trying to cook an 11-course meal all at once. There's too much to keep track of. Too many ideas and scenarios play themselves out. It's a cacophony, and I can't stem the flow of it. Sheets and comforter get thrown in the washing machine, and I pour too much detergent in before starting it.

Every room I walk into, going from the bedroom to the kitchen and to the laundry room, I expect to see Agnes licking blood off her lips. Each time, there's nothing, and I finish my journey where I should have started it. in the bathroom, in front of the mirror. Is it my imagination, or do I look pale? I pull off the t-shirt I wore to bed and stand naked in front of my own image.

My bloody hand pulls at my hair, moving it aside like curtains to reveal the empty scene of my neck. I squint and look, but I can't find anything that might pass for puncture marks. I run my fingers over the skin.

feeling for bumps or scar tissue, and find nothing. As suspected, there's no one waiting for me in front of the cafe. It's a disheartening sight. One that would set any business owner on the path of despair. But I welcome it. Right this minute, I couldn't tell if the Aquilo would be in trouble after a whole week of declining patronage. I'd have to ask Helen Edna for that information.

but just the thought of her makes my stomach turn. The words, notary public, brings up images of Peter smiling at me through the window. The chimes sound softer than usual. Might be because of the timid way I open the door, or maybe the Aquilo is going easy on me. I expect there to be blood, a pool on the floor and streaks of it on the wall, but it's all gone.

Even the salt I'd so carefully used to trace the outlines of the café has vanished. Rain would have swept all signs of Agnes standing outside the café, wings caught in gusts of wind, holding her innards from falling out of her belly. There's no sign of her coming in and collapsing on the floor. It's tempting to pretend that it was all a dream, a memory with as much substance as cotton candy in a puddle.

But I smell lilacs, honey, and wine. The corkboard is naked, stripped of cards and flyers, and if I look very close, stained with specks of maroon wedged into the cracks. Brioche? If all that I remember from last night is true, then I left my little raccoon friend in the Aequilo. I'm sure she's fine. There's plenty of food for her here, and she knows how to get it. But I want to make sure she's okay.

I want to reassure her that I'm fine. I want her to reassure me that I'm fine. It doesn't take long for me to figure out that my little furry friend didn't wait for my return to get out. I find the back door ajar. The same as I've found it countless times when Brioche or any of the other raccoons make their way into the kitchen to steal treats or salt. As I walk towards the door to close it, I wonder if the Don and the others learn to pick locks on their own, or if someone taught them.

When I touch the handle of the back door, however, I'm reminded of what happened yesterday, beyond the meager safety it provides. I catch my breath at the thought, glad for the abundant sunlight falling through the front window. Still, curiosity must have its toll and I wonder what the battlefield looks like. I even spare a moment of worry for the raccoons who stayed behind in their dumpster while the violence played out. I look outside.

At my feet, on the porch stairs and wearing a pair of my jeans and one of my t-shirts, the one with the yellow and blue stripes, sits Agnes. She looks up, more human than ever. now that she isn't dressed like or in the form of a vampire. Through a smile that seems to come at great effort, showing teeth no sharper than mine, she mouths the words, Thank you.

Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot and narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoy the show, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts. You have no idea how much it helps. Want to support the show? Buy us a coffee. Visit ko-fi.com slash Akewillow to donate a cup. Questions? Comments? Email us at akewillow at gmail.com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.