Willing Victim

When Chelsea asked if you wanted to go out tonight you hadn’t realized you’d spend the first hour hopping from house to house while she got progressively more inebriated. You’re pretty sure no human should survive the combination of drugs and alcohol he’s ingested, yet here she is, still standing.

Smoking. Sniffing. Snorting. Drinking.

Driving you and her increasingly larger group of coked out friends to more and more apartments. They’re so wasted you privately question their ability to perform even preschool level protection spells.

The roof of her sedan is corroded with rust; Something sticky and unidentifiable stains the backseat. The radio barely works, which doesn’t bother Chelsea as much as it bothers you.

“How will we know if there’s an invasion?” you wanted to know when she’d picked you up from your apartment.

“You can hear the sirens from everywhere in the city,” Chelsea assured you. “Nobody needs the radio unless you’re going out into the middle of nowhere.”

She has a point; you’re going into the heart of downtown tonight. Or you thought that was the plan.

Chelsea and her friends don’t seem to be in a hurry to reach your destination. They’re too busy getting sloshed, leaving you the only sober person in the group. You’re also the only person here who doesn’t have a driver’s license, rendering your sobriety utterly useless.

You flick that thought away. Ordinarily, your inability to drive doesn’t hinder you much. Yes, you have to walk to work, but the road between your house and the stripmall where you work is well guarded. Besides, you’ve rehearsed all the necessary protection charms. Just in case.

“Yo, Mal, sure you don’t want a joint?” Chelsea waves something fat and foul smelling in your direction.

You shake your head. “Mmm. No, thanks.”

“C’mon, man, you don’t gotta pretend. We all know you toke.”

You don’t have any idea what Chelsea has accused you of doing, so all you manage in reply is, “Ummm.”

She thrusts the joint in your face, and you lean away.

“I’m good,” you say. Whisper, really.

Someone–was his name Peter? You lost track of all the introductions– thrusts a bottle of vodka into your face. “Want some?”

You shake your head for what feels like the millionth time.

Peter shrugs and offers the bottle to someone else. Another stranger, in a room full of strangers. You and Chelsea are only work friends; you’d hoped to get to know her better tonight.

The walls are devoid of decor: no photographs, no shelves, not even a basic evil eye anywhere. The only clock is the neon digital display on the oven. It blinks a neon 9:30.

You scan the room for Chelsea. She’s leaning against the wall, smoking a joint and laughing at something her conversation partner (was his name Ray? Or was it Craig?) says. You wind your way through the crowd, holding your breath against the noxious smell of weed, until you arrive at her side. “Did I get the time wrong? I thought doors opened at nine.”

Chelsea waves her joint in your face. “These things never start on time, don’t worry about it.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay,” you say, trying to look more relaxed than you feel. You periodically glance at the clock on the oven, watching the minutes tick by.

You have some regrets.

Most of all, you regret that you’re stuck with Chelsea until she takes you home again, because each time you get back in the car you’re convinced you’re going to die. Or maybe get arrested.

You can’t decide which is more likely (or which would be worse).

When you squeeze into her car again you can’t even buckle up. You fold in on yourself but there’s no escaping the press of people on either side of you. The car zips between other vehicles at definitely illegal speeds. An empty vodka bottle rolls from one side of the car to the other.

Eventually–blessedly–Chelsea pulls the car into a gravel parking lot and comes to a halt. Miraculously, she doesn’t hit anything. But before you can open the door your companions are passing around yet another joint. Noxious fumes fill the car, choking you.

You glance at the clock on the dashboard. 10pm. Any other night and you’d be in bed by now. You wish you were in bed now. Your pillow would make a better companion than your coworker, who doesn’t even seem to notice your presence.

After an interminable length of time, Chelsea and her friends stumble out of the car. You trail after them, feeling light-headed and slightly sick. The cool night air revives you physically but it can’t revive your enthusiasm for the concert.

You follow them across the parking lot, unable to appreciate the non sequiturs that elicit peals of laughter from the rest of the group.

The lady working security must be used to this behavior; her expression is impassive as she scans the tickets and stamps the back of your hand with invisible ink.

“Enjoy the last night,” she says.

“The last night of what?” you ask.

“The last night Lunarcy is playing in Knoxville. Duh,” Chelsea says, leading the way into the yawning darkness ahead. You insert silicone earplugs as you follow her.

Peter turns to you. His eyes glow yellow in the dark. “Don’t narc on us if a cop questions you.”

Cops are not going to need to question you to know exactly how stoned your party is. Everyone reeks of marijuana. If they do question you, you know you’re more likely to freeze than to convincingly lie.

“Are cops something we need to worry about?” you ask as your party merges into the club. Your question is drowned out by the throbbing bass of the headlining act.

If any cops are present, they’ve blended into the exotic club clientele. Several girls wear what appear to be unraveling balls of yarn for pigtails, and there’s more fishnet than you’ve ever seen in your life. Although the club lights are dim, a number of people wield glow sticks. They whirl them through the air in nauseating displays of neon.

You avert your gaze and follow Chelsea’s feet as she makes a path through the back of the club toward the bar.

“You know what I really want?” Chelsea asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer before she sighs with longing, answering her own question. “Ecstasy.”

Her friends whoop and cheer, and their conversation drifts into reminiscences about the last rave they attended and what an incredible experience it was to be completely fucked up on illegal drugs.

You can only occasionally make out snippets amidst the hum of the crowd and the roar of the band. Navigating with your head down isn’t easy, and you fall behind, and eventually come to a standstill. Chelsea and her friends have vanished into the crowd. You don’t much care to find them again.

You make your way to the very back of the club, where you stand against the wall, occasionally looking out at the frantically dancing masses. Yearning captures you for a moment, and you almost run out onto the dance floor, but fear roots you to the wall. You drum your fingers against your sides in time with the music.

The band transitions into a new song, and the crowd screams the lyrics. You don’t notice, at first, the way the lyrics form a rhythmic chant until you look up. Runes pulse beneath the skin of the dancers, lighting up the club with a brightness that forces you to squeeze your eyes shut. The invisible stamp on your hand stings. You clamp your other hand across it, pressing down to dull the pain.

The noise grows louder, the cries of the people around you are a tidal wave, the drums beat into your body. You crouch against the wall, shielding your ears now, the pain in your hand nothing against the onslaught of sound.

The haunting buzz of sirens screams over the sounds in the club. You’re frozen to the ground, all those protection charms useless.

Nothing nothing nothing nothing.

The sound dies away to nothing.

When you open your eyes, the ceiling is caved in. Rubble everywhere. You’re covered in dust and debris. There are fewer bodies than you expected.

In fact, as far as you can make out, there’s only one other person present, living or dead, and he’s standing right in front of you. He almost appears human, but there’s something not quite right about him. He’s too tall, too elongated, light pouring from beneath his skin, eyes inky black. When he opens his mouth there are rows of teeth upon rows of teeth.

As you watch, he seems to melt until he resembles an ordinary, unremarkable human man.

“That’s better,” he says, regarding you with eyes the same deep brown as your own.

You stumble backwards, trying to ward him off. It’s a basic protection spell, but you’re so terrified you fumble the fingering.

He steps toward you, shaking his head. “You ought to do it like this,” he says, demonstrating the gesture for you. His voice is almost kind, like a teacher instructing a struggling student. You try again. He remains standing in front of you, unperturbed by your warding.

Your eyes dart around the wreckage of the club. “Where is everyone? What did you do to them?”

The stranger smiles. He still has his sharp teeth. “Why, I took them, of course,” he says pleasantly. “After how meticulously they performed the rites it would have been quite rude of me not to answer the summons.”

You scramble backwards, your breath quickening. You only have a vague idea what it means when one of his kind takes someone, and you have no desire to experience it for yourself. “I didn’t summon you.” The excuse sounds feeble even as you say it.

“You bear the mark.” He reaches for your hand. You notice for the first time that there’s a rune there, where you’d been stamped. It’s faded into your skin. Dull, not the bright glow of the revelers.

You don’t resist as he lifts your hand to eye level. Fear pounds through your veins. After a moment, he lets go, and you cradle your wrist to your chest.

“But you wouldn’t be here if you’d participated in the rites,” he admits. He tilts his head, regarding you with slitted eyes.

“Are you going to eat me?” you squeak, unable to look away from those razor-edged teeth.

He throws back his head and laughs. “Eat you? And why would I want to do that?”

You know better than to answer. Instead you ask another question of your own. “Then what do you want with me?”

As you stare up at him, his form continues to flicker like he’s not quite dialed to the right channel.

He glances at the destruction surrounding you. “You bear the mark,” he repeats, as if that clarifies anything. “You’re no longer safe.”

A shiver of dread runs down your spine. “It…it’s never been safe,” you protest. Not since his kind showed up, invaders pouring forth from some hellish otherworld with their demands of sacrifices.

“It has been safe enough. Most mortals survive, do they not? We do not claim you all. But now you bear the mark of an offering,” he explains patiently. “It is true that you did not complete the rites, but not all of my brethren are as restrained as I. They will claim even the most apathetic, careless followers. I demand meticulous adherence to the rites before I stake my claim.” He smiles down at you indulgently. “But you’re marked as my follower. I can’t have any others taking you before you’ve devoted yourself fully to me. So I’ll protect you until the day comes when you finish the rites willingly.”

You straighten your posture, bristling with indignation. All evening you’ve been at the mercy of everyone else’s whims, unable to voice your concerns and knowing nobody would care even if you did. To have a demon casually invite himself into your life is the last straw.

“Thanks for your…concern,” you say, surprised by the steadiness in your voice. “But I’m not interested in your protection. I can take care of myself.”

His eyes narrow as he regards you with an expression you can’t quite read–is he intrigued by your defiance? Angry?

After a tense silence he says, “Very well, mortal. But the mark you bear is not easily ignored. We will meet again.”

Like a cloud of smoke being blown apart by the wind, the creature dissipates, leaving you standing amidst the wreckage of the club.

You wait until your breathing has calmed before you pick your way to the exit. The surrounding buildings stand erect, untroubled by the rapture that took place in this one small venue. You pause to form a protection ward with your fingers and a shimmering barrier envelopes you.

You glare at the stars twinkling overhead. “I’ll protect myself,” you say defiantly. “D’you hear that? Nobody is going to claim me without my consent.”

As you leave the ruined club behind you’re filled with a newfound resolve. Forces both mortal and demonic will continue to try and control you no matter what you say, and you know that. No words of defiance can prevent that.

They’ll try and control you, just like they always have. But you’ll no longer passively comply with their demands; those days are behind you.

They can try all they want.

You’re no longer a willing victim.