S2 Chapter 2: All the Demons of Achewillow

AQUILO Season 2 Chapter 2 All the Demons of Aquilo. This is high treason, or at the very least, low betrayal. Nine months in Aquilo, and no one thought to tell me there's a hell gate that opens on the spring equinox each year. And, apparently, the mayors do a coin toss to see who has to close it. And this has been going on since time immemorial. Or the 70s, depending on who you ask. I suppose I've only got myself to blame. Come to think of it, I don't ask as many questions as I should.

Eric says it's because of my ego, and maybe he's right. Either way, I could stand to be more inquisitive. There's a permanent cloud that's been hovering over town since the day I got here, earlier even. Long enough for a cult to form around it. And I still haven't bothered to inquire what that's about. Hell.

I don't even know what the deal is with you guys. Brioche, the little raccoon I've somewhat befriended, looks up from the pastry I tossed her near the dumpster where she and her family live. Her beady black eyes catch the morning sun in a strange way. casting a deep cobalt-blue reflection. Like Akewillow, it seems that no amount of time near the raccoons has been enough to pull back the veil and reveal all their secrets.

Brioche cocks her head, and I can't tell if it's out of understanding, curiosity, or annoyance. Right now, she could be like any other critter, hanging around just because there was a croissant in it for her. But once in a while, she'll pick a lock or scratch at the back door to remind me to feed the hunger demon that dwells in the woods out back.

She and her family are more than normal raccoons, but I still don't know why or how. For all I can tell, they might just be another breed of demon. Wouldn't that be something?

Not sure if it would stop me from regularly coming out here and confessing my woes to her. At a croissant or brioche per consultation, she's the cheapest therapist in town. Honey? Olivia calls from the door. Are you going to be okay, or do you need me to take care of the cafe for a little while? Maybe you could go and take a nap? A shrug is the most I manage to come up with as an answer. A nap sounds great.

but I never rest well when someone else is behind the counter of the Aquilo. Even when it's Olivia who borrows the apron, there's something fundamentally wrong with my café being helmed by anyone but a Dufour. She knows how to greet the customers, probably better than I can, and she has the acumen to run a tight ship. But I'm the captain, and I should be the one steering it, going down with it should it come to that. That's your ego.

A voice that's a mix of my father and brother whispers at the back of my mind. Of course it is. I don't want the Aquilo to do better without me than it would otherwise. Brioche grabs the last few bites of her croissant and runs off as Olivia walks down from the back porch and over to the dumpster. With a heavy sigh of resignation and disgust, she lowers herself to sit next to me.

You couldn't choose a cleaner, more comfortable place to mope? Olivia nudges me with her elbow. I'm not moping, I mumble. I'm just tired and afraid. Mm-hmm. The one thing I love most about Olivia is that she doesn't try to fix something no one asked to fix. She's not happy about it, but she also doesn't hesitate to sit on the ground next to a couple of huge garbage dumpsters and listen to a city girl complain about how hard it is to manage her inherited coffee shop. Then again.

I'm not just managing a quaint little cafe, am I? See that? I nod towards the patch of woods in the distance behind the Aquilo. In a couple of days, a genuine hunger demon is going to shamble out of there. It's either going to eat a magical cake and be fed for another week, or it'll cut me open like a fish, pull out my innards and stuff them in its own belly, and try to feed itself with brand new set of merium intestines. I can't stop it.

I can't kill it. And even the so-called experts don't know what to do about it apart from blasting my coffee shop to smithereens. I've been doing this for months now, just as Doris did before me. But now I'm told the mayor of Aquilo, one of my regular customers, kills demons as part of some annual ritual? Against my will, the frustration bubbles up through my words. I don't want to be that person.

I want to believe my friends had a good reason not to tell me that the politicians, of all people, had a solution to the demon to whom my destiny's been chained. Why didn't you guys tell me? Olivia looks at me from the corner of her eye and puts one of her strong, stubby hands on my knee. She squeezes in a motherly way that I can't even bring myself to resent. Girl, she says softly but uncompromising.

If I thought for a moment that Marie Bell Byrne could come over here and take care of that demon for you, I'd have beaten down the door to City Hall and dragged her out myself. Truth is, I don't know what Mayor Byrne does to seal that hell gate. Damn, we only call it a hell gate because we don't know what else it could be. Maybe Orléon and Alessandria know, but they're not telling. You're a good apple, Miriam.

Give it a few years, and you'll have the ghost of your old great-grandaunt blushing with pride in you. Right now, though? Right now, I can barely wrap my brain around a family of sentient raccoons living in my dumpster. Olivia slaps my thigh with her hand as she laughs. It starts as a low chuckle but soon it's a full-blown guffaw that rivals Gulliver's exuberant laughter.

It's so infectious that even though I'm not sure what we're laughing at, I still smile and giggle along with her. Honey, you talk about smart vermin like it ain't even a thing. There's more Aquilo in you than you give yourself credit for. She laughs again. I can hear satisfaction and maybe a little pride marbled into the amusement. When she finally calms down, it's to let out a soothing sigh, catching her breath. I expect her to start talking again.

But instead she leans her head back on the dumpster. I like to think that the thump of her skull on the walls of the raccoon's palace is a bother to those vermin. Except brioche, of course. And that makes me smile. What if it's not enough, though? I ask, the worry temporarily pushed back, returning in full force. What if I start to slip? What if one day I bake a batch that doesn't work? What if I get killed doing this?

Fear for my own life is what I meant to express, but it comes out as fear that death would stand in the way of my duties. That the worst part of being cut to ribbons by a hunger demon would be that I could no longer protect Aquilo. I like the sound of that much better. I can't imagine that would happen, Olivia says. Last fall, you came here worried that you couldn't fill Doris's shoes. But you did one better. You threw her shoes out.

Her entire closet. And you've replaced it with your own things. Ever stop to think that if you didn't doubt yourself at every step, or got enough sleep, maybe you wouldn't be scared of doing something you've been doing for months now anyways?

Olivia makes it sound so simple, like all I needed was a little pep talk. How can I be accused of having too much ego one night just to be blamed for lacking confidence a few hours later? Or maybe it's a case of where I put my ego. I should have more confidence in the magic I infuse into my baking, but learn to let go of my fears of being outshined. That's it.

If I can let someone else shoulder part of the burden of standing behind the counter a few hours a day, I can get the much-needed rest necessary to focus on being the witch my great-grandaunt hoped would take her place. You're right. I put my own hand on Olivia's knee, returning the gesture. You're absolutely right. I am moping, and I'm being a stubborn little city girl. Later today, I'm going to see Helen Edna about ways to better manage my time at the cafe.

I'm going to bake a fresh batch of pistachio petit four and I'm going to get a solid six, no, seven hours of sleep every night. Olivia? Mm-hmm. She sounds so satisfied in my newfound confidence and resolution. She's almost smug about it. How would you like a part-time job? I would hate it, she says, taking me by surprise.

I'd assumed she would be glad to do it, that this was kind of what she was getting at. I know Olivia has the time these days. Henry takes care of the orchard until the harvest. There's not that much for her to do. But, she continues. I'll be happy to help out for a few weeks until you find someone more permanent. I lean in and hug her, relieved that she did not disappoint.

I'd have been crushed to have worked up to recognizing I needed the help, only to find my only viable candidate unwilling to step up to the plate. Thank you. I swear I'll make it up to you. Mm-hmm. Dear. You do enough by keeping that demon from killing anyone else. Now, do you mind if we go back in? I've had quite enough sitting in the garbage for today, thank you very much. Pinch me.

I extend my right arm in front of Olivia. She looks at my skin covered with red marks from half a dozen other similar requests from earlier that day. Slowly, annoyance in her eyes and voice, she looks up at my smiling face. Again, honey? Again, I beam. With a deep sigh, Olivia puts her coffee mug down, reaches out, and obliges. Ouch! That hurt! Just doing as ordered.

She smiles and goes back to her mug, satisfied with the damage. I rub the spot where she squeezed my skin between her fingers. Olivia has strong hands, and I can see she'd been holding back while humoring me so far.

This is gonna bruise. Just doing my part to reassure you that you ain't dreaming. It's been a whole month since the last time anything weird has happened in Aquilo. No one else seems to notice the difference, or if they do, they don't seem to care. But me? I'm ready to put up decorations and bake a cake to celebrate the occasion. I just got used to strange stuff being a daily occurrence here.

Isn't it kind of relaxing to just have a few boring, uneventful weeks? Mm-hmm. Olivia buries herself back into her mug, sipping and enjoying her coffee instead of putting up with my nonsense. I scan the landscape of my bustling cafe. The crowd is just how I like it, numerous but manageable. The early summer weather has everyone spending time outside, building up a thirst and an appetite.

Gourmet iced tea and homemade ice cream are in high demand, and I'm making a killing with the fresh salads that allow me to experiment with various ingredients and dressings. I have one with spicy breaded Thai chicken that's in particularly high demand.

What about you? I ask, taking a few steps to stand in front of Gulliver. He's also sitting at the counter, right next to the coffee grinder where he likes to hang out. The salads aren't a big success with the man, but the weather hasn't slowed his appetite for coffee and pastries. The more variety, the better. What about me? You must be happy with how normal things are. He shrugs, pushing his mug forward to signal he's ready for a refill.

Of all my patrons, Gulliver is the only one for whom I take out the sugar and cream. What he takes in his coffee is as ever-changing as the weather and as unpredictable as the sea. I've given up on even trying to keep up with it. Aquilo is Aquilo, he explains while I pour him a fresh mug. Spend enough time in and out of this town and the weird stuff just washes over you. After a while, strange, normal, it all blends together, you know.

The door chimes and I turn towards the newcomers. Fresh customers are always welcome at the Akeolo Cafe, and I've done a good job training myself to greet them with a smile. Pot of coffee in one hand, clean white apron around my neck. I glow with wholesome joy. It's not every day that my disposition is this sunny and my attitude as sweet as pecan pie, but things have been going so well, it seems only fair to let my good mood shine through.

But scientists and spiritualists will agree on one point. Nature is balance, and fate saw fit to balance the scales. As I look towards the swinging door of the Aquilo, chimes still dangling above the frame, I'm met with my mirror opposite. Dressed in black, almost from head to toe, she walks into the cafe like a soldier tiptoeing into enemy territory.

Her eyes, pale gray and lined with dark eyeliner, dart around the dining room like she's looking for traps. While her steps take her in a direct line towards the register, her gaze never settles on anything for more than a second. The fingers of her right hand are clenched tight over the strap of a messenger bag that runs across her chest. Her shirt, horizontally striped black and white, looks too warm for the weather, and the sweat on her brow below her jet-black hair supports my opinion.

Her look seems lifted right out of a Tim Burton film and feels out of place in a town like Aquilo. I, however, come from Montreal, and I'm not so easily impressed. Besides... I know who the real witch in this establishment is. My smile broadens and I'm about to ask the newcomer what I can offer her when the entire cafe suddenly seems to gasp in unison.

The girl is like a shadow over a cracked sidewalk, and from behind her walks in the sunlight that gives her form. Let me be real for a moment. When I fell in love with Trevor, my last boyfriend, It had a lot to do with his looks. In time, his personality showed itself to be lacking, but he was a beautiful boy. Trev had that rugged, built-in, rebellious demeanor that just made my knees buckle.

You could tell just from looking at him that he'd age into one handsome bastard. The man walking into my coffee shop behind the girl in black is kind of like that. Except, instead of Trevor's self-assured smirk and confident swagger, he's got the attitude of a guy who doesn't even realize he's got looks that just made an entire coffee shop's worth of customers stop what they were doing.

And what they were doing was eating my cooking, so that says something. He has that sort of sheepish smile, like he's apologizing just for being there. He wears black jeans and a white button-up shirt. Nervously, he runs his fingers through his thick black hair after noticing people staring. I can almost hear him say shucks as he does so. I hope they're siblings. I catch myself thinking about these two new arrivals.

Keep it in your pants, Dufour. You've been down this road before, girl, and it ended with Trevor and Cindy. This is not a destination you want to revisit anytime soon. Can I get some service, please? The girl demands. Already she rubs me the wrong way, but I'm comfortable admitting that I'm letting prejudice get the better of me. I'm so sorry, I say, refreshing my smile. I got distracted.

My new client makes her way to the display under the counter, almost crawling over the window while eyeing my baked goods. She's hunched, touching the glass with an almost sensual caress. I'll give her points for appreciating fine pastries in a way I can relate to. Yeah, she mutters. He has that effect on people. Brother, I ask, eager. Smooth, Miriam.

She seems to give the question consideration, as if she's never been asked before, but also with her attention split between me and my baking. Yes, my brother. Can I get two of those, one of these cheese croissants and a brownie? Also, give me a large latte with as much chocolate as you can add. Oh, and one of the chocolate cookies. Maybe I don't hate her that much after all. Though it's a toss-up if it's because of the large order or because the cute boy is a sibling.

I suppose it could be both. Please, she adds with desperate effort. My smile widens and I put all of her snacks and desserts into a box. For a brief moment, I consider adding a freebie. A gesture of goodwill towards new clients. It's good customer service, and in the last month since Olivia's pep talk, I've been feeling generous.

Got enough sugar and carbs there, Agnes? the boy interrupts, his voice like a silk ribbon brushing against my ears. I'm starving, she answers, watching me place the last two cookies with wet lips parted in anticipation. I have a feeling that packaging this food is an exercise in futility. Fine, but don't come crying to me when you feel bloated later. I am hungry, Peter!

Anger and desperation animate her small frame as she stands up. A stride later and she's in front of her brother, fists at her side and ready to start a scene. The brother, unintimidated, raises both hands, palms out, smile widening. My own smile doesn't waver. I know this kind of sibling dynamic. Eric and I used to be at each other's throats over the dumbest things. This is, I tell myself, the same thing.

Though this Agnes girl looks like she's being a little intense over a few cakes, cookies, and croissants. Not to sound jealous, but I wouldn't know where she'd put all that food in her anyways. Tiny little thing that she is. You'd be fine, her brother says, growing quiet, if you ate what you were supposed to.

It's like touching a live wire. The raw tension between the two is almost manifesting as a visible arc of electricity. Peter's presence drew everyone in and now we're all participants in this little family drama. It's nothing more than a brother teasing his sister, yet it has all the weight of an epic showdown. You're a monster, Agnes finally adds, turning away from her brother. You know what? I'll just wait outside.

It was nice meeting you all. Peter gives a quick wave to no one in particular and turns around. As he steps out into the summer sun, I can feel a measure of the beauty in the cafe and the joy in the crowd being sucked out in his wake. The empty silence left behind as I make Agnes her latte makes it hard to breathe. That she doesn't even bother to thank me before leaving just adds to the resentment.

We all watch as, the moment she steps out of the Aquilo, she tears into Peter. People in the street stop and stare at their verbal altercation, following with disbelieving eyes as they walk away down Rue Principale. What the hell was that? I hear myself mumble. The rest of the day trickles by at a lazy pace. The fallout of Agnes and Peter's fight reverberates with every minute that drops away. Their presence fades, but never vanishes completely.

The obvious question would be to ask if anyone knows them, but it seems obvious by the crowd's reaction that they don't. New people are a rarity in Aquilo. They stick out like mold on a piece of bread. Though in this case... They're not completely unwelcome. These two seem like such an unlikely pair for this town, which makes me sympathize with them in a way. Even Abrasive Agnes. They're me from ten months ago. Big city kids who...

for whatever reason, wound up in the strangest, most unlikely town in Quebec. Or Vermont. Whatever. The important question is, what are they doing here? What is Peter doing here? Miriam. Olivia's voice cuts through my reverie, pulling me back to the reality of the cafe. The constant chatting, chewing, flipping of pages, and clicking of fingers on laptop keys form the background noise of the Aquilo.

It's the rush of its blood through its veins. But for a moment, it had vanished, drowned out by my own musings. Daydreaming is a new look for you, girl. Is it about that boy? Peter? I ask a little too quickly. Mm-hmm. I brush the tease away and focus on the time instead.

The lowering of the sun and the orange glow of a late dying afternoon remind me that the Aquilo is not my only duty here. He's fine, but not exactly my type, I explain while untying the apron from my waist. I hate taking the thing off, and I hate handing it over to Olivia even more. In the last four weeks, she's shown herself to be a more than adequate replacement.

It's still difficult to think of her as an employee, and I dread when I'm going to have to fill out the paperwork and tax forms relating to that. A year ago, I was the one working for a coffee shop. Now I'm the boss, and it's about as comfortable as swimming in boiling candy melt. Watching Olivia pass the strap of the apron around her neck feels like sacrilege.

I know she and Doris were friends, but this is my café and my inheritance. All the perks and responsibilities that come with it are mine to enjoy and shoulder. But in the interest of getting adequate rest... This has been the arrangement. The torch passed. I reluctantly leave the keys to the register with Olivia. Thankfully, I'm still the one who does the cooking around here, so I don't have to relinquish Doris's spoon.

There's no particular magic to the utensil, but the Dufour women who came before me took their spoons seriously, and it wouldn't be right to break with tradition that way. Speaking of magic, time for me to perform my own witchy duties. There's a tray of pecan sandies and fresh sandwiches in the fridge for the evening crowd. If Julia drops by, her honey cake is on the third shelf. She's already paid for it. I'll be back for closing, and if I'm not, assume I'm dead.

I smile my own mischievous smile. This sort of dark mirth isn't unusual. Olivia often has her own streak of gallows humor. And with people like Gulliver and Detective Wilson in our immediate circle, death is never too far from the punchline. About that, she says, unusually serious. Try to be careful out there. Maybe...

Take someone with you? There's no one to take along, I explain while taking the pistachio marzipan petit four from the display under the counter. Gulliver's gone, and we both know what happened the last time Orléans and Alessandria got involved. Then let me call Henry. Someone should have your back. She reaches for the phone, but I put my hand on hers before she can even lift the receiver. What's Henry going to do, Olivia? By the time he gets here, I'll be cutting it too close.

Besides, I've been doing this for ten months. I've got this. Aren't you the one who told me to be more confident? A man in a tan business suit walks up to the counter. He's one of the people from the bank, often dropping by in the morning or at lunch. It's not unheard of for them to stop in after work for a cup of coffee on the way home. I think this one is called Marcel. He's in his 20s, but dresses like an old man. I'm never sure if I find it charming or annoying.

You have a customer, I tell Olivia, closing the box with a petit four inside. Are you? More confident, I mean, Olivia asks, ignoring my last sentence, drilling into me with her dark eyes. The pause I allow to slip in before I reply should be answer enough, and I know that whatever lie I tell her now is going to be pointless, but I dive in anyways.

More than ever, but if you're worried, I'll grab a box of salt from the pantry. I watch Marcel, or is it Martin, getting increasingly impatient waiting at the register. It's not just that. Olivia explains in a half whisper. Mayor Byrne closed the hell gate, but someone tells me that maybe something slipped out. Something got past her. The hunger demon has been my responsibility since I figured out how to deal with it.

It's taken months for me to stop having nightmares about the monster. The sight of it is still enough to steal my breath, the only silver lining being how I can't smell its putrefying aroma. Every time I feed the creature. I fear that the spell woven into my petit four will fail. If that happens, the demon will find a different way to feel full, and my life will be forfeit. Now...

Olivia's telling me there might be a second monster wandering the forests and fields around Aquilo. How likely is that? Wouldn't someone have seen a demon running around for a month? When I first arrived in Aquilo, Olivia took me in because I was afraid of sleeping at Doris' apartment alone. Since day one, I've known her to care about my well-being, to see her wringing her hands, struggling to come up with the right answer.

walking the tightrope between knowing I'm safe and allowing me to perform my duties. I'm not saying there is anything out there, but just in case, it pays to be a little more careful, no? I make a show of getting a box of salt from the kitchen. When I walk back to the counter I can witness the apathetic handful of customers that are hanging out.

Marcel remains at the register, dancing from one foot to the next, brandishing his credit card as both a promise and a threat. See? I wave the salt in front of me and pick up my petit four. Careful. Then I walk out the back door with my head held high, a picture of confidence and bravery. I am empty of confidence and running low on bravery.

The hunger demon used to venture close enough to the café that it would run its claws on the windows and sniff around the dumpsters. I carry salt with me because of a trick I learned from the raccoons, to draw a circle with it as protection against the creature. Where the vermin learned that, I can only speculate. Now, I have to go to the edge of the woods to make my terrible delivery. This isn't the forest proper. If you were to think of it as a landmass, it would be a peninsula.

A tendril of trees, massed up and packed tight, extending from the surrounding forests and deep into the heart of Aquilo. At the height of twilight, it's easily one of the scariest places I've ever been. My scars itch at the memory of the first time I managed to successfully feed the demon. I've done this 36 times, and never has it become any easier on my nerves.

always demanding a level of courage I still don't think I have. Aquilo has become little more than the shadows of a few buildings, and only a few pinpricks of light managed to filter all the way out here. I suppose I could have been in the Petit Four here, at the foot of the first tree, leaving it to be found in this grey hell. It's an idea that's come up 36 times, but I always tell myself that I have to see this through.

Here we go, Miriam, I whisper, setting the cake down before taking a few steps away. The safe thing to do would be to draw a circle around myself, but experience has shown me that the demon is hesitant when it senses the barrier, and will take longer to manifest, and I don't want to spend a single second more than I have to doing this.

Instead, I stand in the growing darkness, all but blind, and waiting for an infernal monster motivated by an unknowable hunger to show itself, and, if all goes well... Eat a magic cake to be sated for another week. You've got this, Miriam. It takes a few minutes, but a fresh silence pulls itself over the forest.

What I thought was a quiet edge of the woods is now stripped of every chirp, every rustling. Even the very breath of the animals seems to vanish. If it weren't for my own heart racing, I'd think I've gone deaf. It's coming. And I don't got this at all. The heels of my feet raise, premature desire to run coursing through my legs.

Without a conscious effort, I would already be racing back towards the Aquilo, but I have to see this through. Branches crack and the underbrush rustles. That's coming from my left, little to the front. Long with hearing, but before sight, I detect its smell. It's the aroma of scorched hair and melted fat. It's what I imagine burnt hooves might smell like, and it makes even the air feel scorched.

And it's completely the wrong stench. Instead of a low moan of ravenous suffering, I hear the dry growl and snapping of toothy jaws. Wild ferns and shrubs part, and I'm met with two beady eyes, about at knee height. They burn like the leftover embers of a dying fire, but fueled by a hatred that burns deep enough to melt the sugar atop a creme brulee.

This is not the hunger demon. Whatever this is, it steps over and ignores my petit four. There is no hunger, no desire in the beast's movement. If there is a way to feed this monster... I can tell that it's only through violence. Scant moonlight gives me a sense of it. It reminds me of a large pit bull, but with none of the charm. Instead, it seems stripped of skin.

revealing a mass of tight muscles and sinew. Its shoulders are too broad and its face too long. It has a jaw filled with too many irregular teeth, nothing but fangs and tusks. Its paws end in sharp black claws, the only resemblance to the hunger demon I can find. There are opposable thumbs at the end of those paws, but they aren't meant to handle tools. They're meant to tear at flesh and strangle victims.

My fingers, nimble and agile while handling a whisk or spoon, fumble around the opening of the salt box, incapable of getting the damn thing open. My scar burns and my eyes water all while the beast crouches on its hind legs, ready to pounce. There's a tear as I manage to open the box. Just in time to see the monster leap. Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot and narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost.

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