Another match failed, and Don’s cigarette remained stubbornly unlit.

He cursed, insinuating that the match had had improper carnal knowledge of a family member. Then he threw a hard look at the nearly-empty matchbook, trying to intimidate it into cooperating with him. He promised the matchbook that this really was his last cigarette forever, honestly, and wasn’t a man’s last cigarette more than enough reason to give him a light?

And it was going to be his last, too, unlike like all those other times he’d said it would be his last. He had sworn to Karen he would quit when the baby arrived, and he’d already successfully cut himself down to only two or three smokes a week.

But. But, but, but. He had said “when the baby arrives”, and not a split second before. The last time Don had checked, Karen was still in labour. Closing in on Hour Eleven, by his count.

Jesus. Eleven hours in one of the worst storms that had come up the Gulf of St. Lawrence in almost two decades. Don had heard of natural births before, but this was fucking ridiculous.

They’d all told him it had to be this way, Karen included. Something about ley lines and chaotic energies and ancient traditions. Something about how the birth would be accompanied by a massive unbalancing in the mystic equilibrium, which would drastically increase the electric potential in the local atmosphere and which could wreak havoc on the complex instruments in, say, a maternity ward.

Riiiiight. So, Don’s daughter was behind all the rain, wind, and lightning. It was her fault that Karen had to give birth in a moldy log cabin with no electricity or indoor plumbing, on a craggy little island almost 50 miles from Vancouver.

In Don’s opinion, the whole thing had a pretty pungent odour of bullshit.

He finally got his cigarette lit and took a walk around the rocky beach. A log cabin about a hundred yards from shore was the only semblance of civilization on the heavily forested half-mile of rock. A real ‘strip-of-piss’, as Don’s father-in-law would have called it.

Don sucked down a deep lungful of smoke as he watched a bolt of lightning land on the next island over. There was nothing to worry about, he told himself. Really, there wasn’t. Don was six feet and 200 pounds of ex-rugby player, with a square build and a twice-busted nose. He knew how to take care of himself in a fight, and make no mistake. If there was any funny business tonight, he would handle it.

Yessiree, friends and neighbours. Don Henderson would settle any score that came his way. That was why he was out here, with the freezing rain and crashing waves to keep him company, instead of in the thatch-roofed cabin with his nearest and dearest.

Not to mention the retinue of freaks, grumbled Don’s inner monologue. Then, Holy shit, there’s a Word of the Day for you.

“Lovely night for it, eh?”

Don turned and watched as a man came walking toward him from the cabin.

Enter Freak Number One, said the Inner Monologue.

The man shouted at Don over the howl of the wind, which made the long brown Inverness coat he was wearing flap around violently. “I said, ‘lovely night for it, eh?’” he repeated with a smirk.

Don didn’t answer as the man in the Inverness coat drew close to him. He was shorter than Don was, and much thinner, but there was something incredibly commanding in his face. He looked young, with large ears and a straight, square jaw, but his bright, green eyes were very old. There was something sad and weary in them, hiding behind a mask of manic exuberance.

One of the green eyes winked, and the man in the Inverness coat whispered, “Oh, to be in Canada now that autumn’s here.” He spoke with a soft Estuary English accent, and there was a cheeky, joking note in his voice.

Don wasn’t in much of a joking mood, and he looked straight past the Englishman to the log cabin. “How is everything in there? I mean… is she here yet?”

The Englishman shook his head. “Not quite yet, but I’d say she’s very near, going by the state of things.” He glanced at the sky as he said this, as if the ‘things’ in question would suddenly blow down from one of the dark clouds above.

Don turned back toward the water, and the Englishman closed his eyes like he was meditating. They stayed this way for nearly five minutes, until the Englishman gripped Don’s shoulder hard and whispered, “She’s here.”

The wind died down to a light breeze then, and Don could hear a new sound coming from the cabin: an infant crying, giving its lungs a first workout.

Don threw his cigarette into the waves and charged toward the cabin, excited and terrified in equal measures. He could hear the calm, measured footsteps of the Englishman jogging after him.

Inside the cabin, Karen Henderson was lying on a creaky twin bed in one corner, trying to soothe what looked like a very noisy pile of old dishrags. She was a small woman, with a round face, upturned nose, and big brown eyes, like a child’s doll come to life. Not at all, then, like the two women that flanked the bed, who could both have passed for angry villagers in a Universal monster movie.

The woman on the right was a tall, muscular Haitian with a lot of dark, curly hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Natalie Arnaud was dressed in a bulky, dirty trench coat which was opened to reveal an equally dirty tank top underneath, as well as khaki pants and heavy steel-toed boots.

The woman on the left looked like an older, more wrinkled version of Karen. Stout of frame, straight of back, and broad of shoulder, Meg McAllister—‘Grandma Meg’—had a glass of single malt Scotch clutched in her left hand. It was not her first one of the night.

Don stood with his back to the door for a moment, staring at the squirming, noisy bundle in Karen’s hands, until the Englishman gave him a nudge. “I think some introductions are in order, Donald.”

Karen looked up and nodded, beckoning Don over to her. As he approached the bed, she glanced at the Englishman and said, “You too, Simon.”

Simon and Don huddled around the bed and looked down at the bundle in Karen’s arms, which was finally starting to settle down. The child had her head rested against Karen’s shoulder, and Karen gave her a gentle pat on the back as she said, “Don… say hi to your daughter.”

Grandma Meg put down her Scotch and picked up the child as gently as if she were made of glass, and placed her in Don’s arms.

Don’s whole body froze as the baby’s weight settled against him, and he imagined that the slightest muscle tremor would offend her. Only his mouth and eyes moved as he blinked and whispered, “She’s gorgeous…”

This was, of course, a clever lie. She was a newborn baby, and all newborn babies look like flesh-shaped balloons filled with prune juice and raspberry jam, but as far as Don was willing to admit, the child was perfect.

“So, what do we call her?” Simon asked. “Only I feel like ‘Small Human-in-Progress’ is a tad wordy.”

Karen smiled and shook her head a little. “We call her ‘Abigail’.”

Grandma Meg nodded and took a sip of her scotch. “Aye,” she said, in a broad Yorkshire accent, “Abigail Margaret ’enderson.” She announced the name like it had been carved into a stone tablet on Mount Sinai, dropped aitch and all. Then she smirked and added, a little smugly, “My suggestion, of course.”

Don nodded and gently bounced the child up and down in his arms. “Abigail. Abby, for short.” He leaned in close to his daughter and whispered, “Do you like that? Do you like ‘Abby’?”

Abby made a gurgling noise of assent and reached for Don’s nose with a fat, sausage-like arm.

At that point, there was only Abby. She was the absolute centre of attention, and everyone in the cabin forgot that there was a world beyond them. It was like their little strip-of-piss island was the only landmass on Earth, and they the only six inhabitants of the planet.

So it came as a huge shock when somebody knocked on the door.

Knock-knock-knock. Nobody in the cabin moved a muscle. They had told nobody the child was due. They hadn’t said anything about where she was being born. They didn’t even think anybody realized this cabin existed.

Knock-knock-knock. Natalie pushed aside her trench coat to reveal a long, shining machete strapped to her leg. Her hand hovered over the hilt, twitching with anticipation for a fight.

Knock-knock-knock. Grandma Meg reached for the Webley revolver she’d holstered at her hip, and thumbed the hammer nervously.   

“He’s here,” Simon whispered.

The door crashed against the wall as a rush of freezing wind howled through the cabin. Don held Abby close to his chest and turned his back to the open door, while Natalie and Grandma Meg trained their weapons on the one who had been knocking.

The newcomer was not quite a man, nor was it quite a monster. It was human in shape, but it was cloaked in a set of white floor-length robes, with gold at the sleeves and collar, and a purple hood that was drawn up to hide its eyes.

The thing in the robes glided into the cabin, hands folded in front of it, heedless of the venomous looks it received from the Henderson party. Behind it, the door slammed shut and locked itself.

“The weather is… pleasant, is it not?” the robed figure whispered, with a voice like a tree branch scraping against the frost on a window. The way the corners of its mouth twitched upward suggested that it was attempting irony.

Natalie stepped forward and touched the point of her blade to the creature’s throat, gritting her teeth furiously. “What the hell do you want, you son of a bitch?”

The robed figure raised its hands submissively, to show it was no threat. “Such language,” it wheezed, “and in the presence of a child…”

Natalie leaned in and pressed the blade harder. The robed figure winced as two centimetres of sharp metal bit into its neck, and a bead of wet redness tracked down into the collar of its robes.

“I’m warning you, Deacon,” Natalie seethed.

The Deacon flicked one of his raised hands and the machete sank to the floor like a lead weight, taking Natalie with it. Another flick, and it jumped out of her hand with nearly enough force to break her fingers. Another flick, and it flew through the air toward Grandma Meg. Then the Deacon closed his hand into a fist and the machete screeched to a halt, the point mere inches from Grandma Meg’s heart.

“Do not test me, woman,” the Deacon hissed at Natalie. “I do not come here to quarrel…” His head made the slightest turn toward Grandma Meg. “With any of you. But, if I am met in the spirit of war, I will take steps to… defend myself!” He opened his fist, and the machete jumped forward another inch. Grandma Meg retreated back against the wall.

Simon stomped forward and yelled, “All right! Everyone just… let’s take a deep breath. This is not a fight we wish to have.” Then, pointedly, to Natalie, “Any of us.”

With a curt nod to Simon, Natalie backed away from the Deacon, and raised her hands. Behind her, Grandma Meg dropped her gun and kicked it across the floor. The Deacon flicked his hand again, and the machete veered right, sinking into the far wall.

“Cooler heads prevail…” the Deacon whispered, glancing at Simon. “And the wisdom of the ages shines bright.” He turned and glided toward Don, extending a hand. Abby whined and kicked nervously as the Deacon’s long, slender fingers brushed against her swaddling clothes. “Please. I wish to consider my… investment.”

Don shook his head. He didn’t realize it, but every muscle in his body was vibrating with fear and fury. “She’s a baby…” he whispered. “She’s just a baby…”

The Deacon’s thin lips stretched back to reveal a set of hungry, shining white teeth. It was the smile of a predator, seconds before it devours its prey. “Soon,” he vowed, “she will be much, MUCH more.”

Before Don could respond, the Deacon lashed out like a cobra and tore Abby from her father’s arms. His lizard-like lips were still smiling as he rearranged her swaddling clothes.

Don looked back at Karen, who was struggling to rise from the bed, but 11 hours of labour had left her exhausted, and she quickly fell back into the pillows.

The Deacon bowed his head over Abby and opened his mouth. Don and Karen both gagged in revulsion as the Deacon pressed his tongue to Abby’s pink flesh, right over her heart, then tracked it up Abby’s chest, her throat, all the way up to the top of her head. Abby began to wail and sob and Don’s hand curled into a tight fist. He wanted to strangle the… creature in front of him but he knew realistically he couldn’t. If the Deacon were truly provoked, he could kill Don as easily as blinking his hidden eyes.

When the Deacon had accomplished his foul purpose, he licked his lips and hissed, “I can taste it on her already. I can feel the energy crackling and burning within her. She will have great power before long…”

The Deacon passed Abby back to her father, and Don immediately held her against his shoulder, trying to calm her down.

“You see?” the Deacon hissed, gesturing with his hands. “I have no ill intentions toward you, Hendersons.” He bowed low in an exaggerated gesture of mock-respect. “I will, of course, honour our arrangement, so long as you do me the same courtesy.” He straightened up again and pointed a thin, bony finger toward the wall behind Karen. “Use your time wisely, for it is short.”

Scritch-scratch-scritch. Don, Simon, and the others turned to look at the wall. Wood chips fell onto Karen’s bedspread and a deep cut formed in one of the logs behind her. It was like an invisible blade digging into the wall, carving a number above her head. The magic number. The Henderson family’s own Sword of Damocles, represented by the number of calendars they would burn through before the end of the peace.

25.

“Render unto Caesar…” the Deacon rasped, “that which is Caesar’s… and render unto God…” He pointed at Abby and loosed a short, devious laugh. “The things that are… God’s…”

Nobody was paying him any attention anymore. They were too fixated on the rune above Karen’s head, which glowed bright red like an ember from a fire. In the howling storm outside, a bolt of lightning struck the shore opposite the tiny strip-of-piss island. It threw a flash of light into the cabin which illuminated the number still further.

The rumbling thunderclap that followed a few seconds later made Abby cry again, and snapped everyone out of whatever trance they had been in. Don looked back to where the Deacon had been standing, but there was nobody there. The uncanny figure was gone, and the door of the cabin was still locked tight. The only sign that he had ever been there at all was the mark carved into the wall.

25.