“I gotta’ get this haunted house up and running before Halloween, and Colt’s saddled me with a bloody skeleton crew!”
Deadboy Daemian Gravesend sat atop a headstone (fake), clipboard in hand (real), and stared down at his bumbling minions. “WELL?”
The living bones, tasked with assisting the Self-Proclaimed ‘Prince of Darkness’, turned to each other with empty sockets and shrugged their scapulas. “Whered’ya want us to put the box of inflatables, boss?”
And why the hell did they end up sounding like they’re from Staten Island? Annoyed, Deadboy willed the shadowy arm under his command to finish string up the fake spiderweb across the banisters. “Take them over to the moat and blow them up there.”
“But boss, we ain’t got no lungs!”
“YOU AIN’T GOT NO BRAINS EITHER!”
“Well…no.” Scully, the spokesman of the bunch, rapped his knucklebones against his hollow skull to illustrate the point.
Daemian buried his hand in his palms and sighed a heavy, stressed-out sigh. “Never mind, I’ll get Brax to do it.” Bloody Colt, making me source ‘ethical’ instead of digging up the graveyard! This is the last time I buy from the ‘donated-to-science’ section of the mortuary. These bones are bog standard!
It was a tall order, turning this dusty and unused ‘shed’ into an attraction meant to be the centerpiece of the Global Spellbreaking Alliance’s Halloween festival. In addition to being top-billed on the actual Spellbreaking match portion of the event, Deadboy had finally managed to convince Colt to trust him by flexing his magical muscles and conjuring up a horror house straight from Hell.
Deadboy had a lot to live up to, of course–not just his reputation as the Punk from Hell, but also atoning for his ill-gotten deeds. In other words, Deadboy felt like a tiger declawed and then asked to take down a herd of…whatever it was tigers hunted.
Speaking of which, Deadboy’s own Tiger–Joseph–was frustratingly absent. The former GSA champ was overseas assisting ARADIA in an investigation into King Anubis’ whereabouts, leaving Deadboy without a shoulder to lean on, and without someone to impress with his spooky mischief. The few Spellbreakers who would put up with Deadboy, mostly the babyface bunch (yuck!) had cautiously volunteered their time as the ‘monster squad’ intended to jump-scare, chase, and frighten the hapless patrons.
Those goodie-two shoes couldn’t scare a bloody fainting goat, Daemian lamented, which meant the true frights would have to come about by his hand. And by his tag-team partner and demonic buddy Brax’s claw.
“Oy, Braxy, how’s the pit of snakes coming along!”
Deadboy’s ears perked up to a series of growls and squelching sounds from the adjoining room in ‘Deadboy’s House of Horrors’. The massive, canid demon–truly, the only remotely ‘scary’ thing about this haunted house–emerged in the doorframe, peeling off a slithering serpent off his neck and tossing it over his shoulder.
“These props necessitate...considerable wrangling,” the demon (who was about to do some heavy lifting in the ‘scare’ department) growled. Unfortunately, though Brax was intimidating to look at, and a murder-machine in the ring, he was as gentle as a lamb outside a fight–preferring to do yoga than terrorize humans.
Deadboy hopped off his perch and gave the temperamental fog machine a little kick to boot it back up. It sputtered, sparked, and coughed out a small plume of smoke before it failed.
“Startin’ to think I bit off more than I could chew,” Deadboy sniffed. He scratched the back of his neck, took a look around the room of half-hung decorations, and tried very hard not to start body slamming the skeleton workmen doddering around him. “But how else do I prove I’ve turned over a new leaf to these drongos–I mean, my friends and coworkers who I…” Deadboy clenched his jaw and grit his teeth.
Brax was patient. “Come now, mortal kin, we practiced this. Say the line…”
“W-who…I LOVE and RESPECT ever so much.” It took everything in Daemian’s infernal power to prevent from gagging. “Besides, I need to prove that I am capable of event planning as much as I am capable of trying to usurp the GSA with my dark magiks. It’s not jist my reputation on the line, mate, but the spirit of great celebration of All Hallows Eve too!”
“But Halloween is not, as they say, ‘big’ in Australia.”
“AND IT’S A GODDESSDAMN SHAME IS WHAT IT IS!” Deadboy screamed. “Much as I hate to admit it, the yanks do this shit better. But I’ll show them! I’m going to scare the bloody skins off these boys!” Still, Colt’s dark look and unspoken threats of piledriver punishment if he stepped out of line, haunted Deadboy far better than any specter. “Safely and ethically, of course. I guess.”
No sooner had Deadboy said this, than the enchanted suit of armor propped against the wall, swung its axe and decapitated one of the working skeletons, who picked up his skull and carried it away as if nothing had happened.
Daemian gave his demon friend a sheepish grin. “We’re…still working on the safety part.”
“And how are our…performers? These humans who wear the synthetic flesh of the creatures of the night…a twisted mockery of the eldritch things that lurk in the shadows.” Brax narrowed his red eyes. “Purchased…from a department store.”
“Well, one of the fake spiders made Kengo faint. Cian got spooked by one of the evil clown dolls and punched it so hard that it exploded. And Iggy thinks this whole thing is dumb–and has to rehearse for their concert anyway—so that leaves…” Deadboy sighed. “Our…werewolf.”
At this, the door suddenly burst open, knocking Scully’s freshly re-attached skull into the arms of an animatronic Frankenstein. In the doorway stood a rather hairy version of the GSA’s favorite, overly amorous and hot-blooded luchador, El Amante Intoxico.
Looking like a cross between a werewolf and a male stripper, the long-haired hunk with the distractingly large pectoral muscles, flicked his overalls straps (clinging for dear life) and did a little shuffle. “DID SOMEONE ORDER A SEXY WEREWOLF?”
On queue, Brax pressed the button on the prop boombox, which blared a score of heroic trumpets.
“I told you not to set it to mariachi,” Deadboy groaned. He skulked over to his himbo co-worker, currently flexing for the delight of the curious skeletons.
“He’s so buff!” A recovered Scully said.
“You just need to put more MEAT on your BONES!” El Amante said.
If anybody in the room was the least amused, it was Daemian, who eyed Victor up and down. The werewolf luchador mask looked more puppy dog than vicious beast. The tail was too cute. The fuzzy briefs too…well endowed. “Welp, guess that covers our furry quota for the episode. Victor, mate, you’re supposed to be scary, not sexy! You look like someone put a Spirit Halloween in a bloody Chippendales!”
“Was that not the assignment? Victor said, entirely sincere. “But I just can’t help it…if I get a little bit, animal. Grrrowl.”
Daemian was too tired to argue. He pressed his fingers against his temples, while his shadow slithered along meekly behind, trailing him like a kite. “Brax, if the acid pool is up and running I’m just gonna go throw myself into it now.”
Brax turned to Victor and gave his human friend an acknowledging head nod. “Fear not, flamboyant one, it is actually made of green gelatine and pop rocks.”
Victor plopped Scully’s skull back onto his head (albeit backwards). A natural empath–who quite literally commanded the glyph of emotions–El Amante approached Daemian with caution and care. “My sexy, slithery, Scorpio brother, you look uncharacteristically glum!” Victor reached out and flicked Daemian’s new haircut, a mullet with purple highlights. “And I must say, the new do looks very good on you.”
Daemian blushed and flicked his friend’s hand away. “I’m an Aussie–of course mullets look good on me. And yes, I am not in the best mood.” What else is new?
“Is this not your big day!” Victor asked. “Also, a little kitten told me that Halloween is your birthday!”
Joseph! Daemian winced. He scowled at El Amante, the spellbreaker who had single-handedly taken down Deadboy during his briefly lived reign of terror, turning his necromancy against him with–what else–the power of love. By rights, Daemian should have cursed Victor’s name thrice-over…but not even the Heel from Hell could hold a grudge against the most lovable beefcake in San Antonio.
So, choosing ‘peace’ Daemian threw El Amante a bone (specifically, Scully’s). “You…knew that?” he said. “Right humerus.”
El Amante popped Scully’s arm bone back into the proper socket. “Oh, I never forget a birthday.”
“Ooh, that’s a weird feeling inside me chest.”
“I think it is called, feeling the love, mi amor.”
Deadboy reared his head back and let out a loud, room-shaking burp. “Nope, just something I ate, I guess. Look, Vicko...I…may be a little stressed because I just really want to show the GSA that not only am I perfectly capable of pulling off something that brings people….j-j-” He stuttered. To form such abhorrent words on his tongue was like licking a block of poison.
Victor encouraged him. “Go on, we practiced this!”
“Jjjjoooooy,” Daemian said, grimacing. “Blegh! But I also want to show my mates that I….C…c…crrrr”
“Yes, yes, push through!”
“Care.” Oh I think I’m gonna spew! “Which means I now CARE about them CARING about how bloody good of a job I do.”
“Oh, I see you are a perfectionist. Well, I always say, if you put your heart into something, it cannot fail! The other Spellbreakers will see this”
“I dunno, sexy mate, we may not even make-deadline.” Deadboy did his best to reanimate the dud smoke machine, but it just spurt out a jet of flame instead. :”And dead is literally part of my first name!”
“I thought it was Lachlan?”
“Oy, Skully.” Daemian reached over and twisted his bone-headed assistant’s skull on the proper way. “Look alive!”
“Er, kinda difficult, boss, but I’ll try!”
“Where are we at with the Chamber of Shrieking Hellions?”
The skeleton scratched his head. “Well, we tried following the recipe like you said, boss, but–”
“My collection of potions, poultices, and squirming sundries is alphabetized, mate!” Deadboy threw his hands up in the air dramatically. “It’s literally the only organized thing about me. Don’t tell me you couldn’t pull off a simple task like that!”
One of the other grunts, Tibia, spoke up. “But boss, you’re out of incubus blood.”
Daemian believed him, mostly because he’d forgotten to order more incubus blood a few months back. “Ugh, bloody supply chain issues. Well, I guess we can scrap the Hellion room.” This was enough to turn Daemian eye’s pure black, and the Prince of Darkness began pacing the room with a sinister fury. The walls started to bleed.
“Er…Daemian,” El Amante carefully offered. He nudged Brax. “Hey, are the walls supposed to be doing that?”
Brax scooped up a trickle of blood with his claw and examined it. “Grr…at this point…unclear.” He put the substance in his mouth. “Mmm. Jam. You have conjured strawberry preserves, my mortal kin…you only do that when you are stressed. Perhaps it would be wise to heed the words of the one with the hypnotic pelvic thrusts and cut down on some of your ideas.”
“Sure,” Daemian said. “I could do that. I COULD ALSO PLUNGE A DAGGER INTO MY JUGULAR WHILE I’M AT IT.”
The dark mage with the mullet was so involved in his own misery that he failed to hear Victor muttering under his breath. “Incubus blood, huh. Well…this could be the moment of truth. Uh…Deadboy?”
“THIS IS A DOG’S BREAKFAST!” Daemian screamed. “I try to do something nice for once and I can’t even get my hands on some shitc*** Incubus blood!”
“How much blood do you need exactly?” Victor asked.
“Not that it matters, but just three drops.” He looked over at his muscular friend. “Why you asking?”
“Oh…three drops? Is that all?”
Daemain squinted at the muscle-bound werewolf. “Mate, you doin’ some brujeria I don’t know about?”
This time, it was Victor’s turn to let out a long, sad sigh. “Can you keep a secret, my pasty prince?”
The dark mage crossed his arms, not sure if he should be distracting himself with one of his coworker’s dramas. “Secret is my middle name,” he said. “Actually, it’s Forrest.”
Victor pointed to his arm. “You…may be able to use my blood.”
Brax suddenly looked over. He was quicker on the uptake than his tag partner. “How…did I not realize before…?”
Daemain was still in the dark. And he usually liked the dark. “Spit it out, mate! What’s your blood gonna…” It hit him.“”Ohhhh. You? But you look…so…human?”\
“Do not stereotype us,” Brax said. “Though, it is certain that you do not possess the horns that typically hallmark one of the Clan Luxerian. Our tribes have shared territory since the War of the Thousand Abominations. I know my Succubi and Incubi cousins when I see them.”
Suddenly, setting up the haunted house was far away from Daemian’s priorities. He was now invested in this unusual revelation. He almost didn’t believe it. Soul-bounded with Brax as he was, Daemian was still flesh and blood–so for there to be another demoniac among him all this time, and escape his magical detection…
“Half,” Daemian said aloud, suddenly understanding. “A cambian? Shit, Vicko, that would make you rare indeed. How is that possible though?”
Now, Victor was all about putting on a show and being the center of attention, but this sudden, spooky scrutiny was starting to make him shy. “It’s…just a bad rumor about my biological father.”
“I thought your pops was a luchador like you? And a bad guy. He sounds cool.”
“That was the man I was told was my father.” Victor took a deep breath. “Very few know this story. Iggy, of course, and Rosa. So does Colt.”
Daemian pointed to himself like he was being made the butt of the joke. “And you want to tell me?
“Because you are the most honest spellbreaker in the GSA.”
Now Daemian DEFINITELY felt like he was being messed with–tactless? Yes. Honest? Still, he had learned not to be overly suspicious. If there was one idiot who truly had no evil in his body (boring as that may be) it was Victor. And though it felt icky and awkward to allow him to open up, Deadboy decided to give his coworker his dignity.
If only to get some of his blood out of it, of course.
“I feel a long story coming on,” Daemian said, pulling up a stool. “Bones, you’re free to on smoko. Take five.”
Instead, Scully sat down on a crate in the corner of the room and pulled out a Spanish guitar, strumming along to set the mood–which was enhanced by the glow of the candelabrum in the room.
Victor stood with his hand placed against the dusty, prop hearth. “Those closest to me know this guileless persona belies a tragic upbringing fitting of a romantic hero such as myself. My grandfather, Ángel Amatista, was the tag partner and dear friend of our friend Calavera Escarlata. Both men passed down the art of spellbreaking to their students and sons, as well as their masks. The father I was raised to know was supposed to inherit Ángel’s legacy–instead, he turned rudo, becoming Saber Demonico, the right hand man of Colt 'The Bolt’s' sworn nemesis, Serpent.”
Daemian shivered. “Oooh, the exposition! Got me tingly.”
“After Colt humbled him in defeat, Demonico fell in love with a beautiful curandera named Marisol, my mother. Serpent claims he had no hand in my father’s death–that he respected him far too much–-and I believe him. It was Camazotz that hunted him down and took his life.”
Daemian listened intently. “Oh man, talk about skeletons in the closet.”
“Hey!” Scully snapped, ceasing his music. “I’ve been out since ‘72, asshole!”
Victor continued. “It was not long after his tragic loss that a handsome drifter came into town on an unusually clear evening. My mother fell madly in love with him, though he warned her that he could not stay, and that his presence would only bring her misfortune. Whatever happened between them, this stranger moved on. My mother gave birth to me, nine months later. The people of my town were a superstitious lot, however, and the rumors haunted myself and my mother.”
“Rumors?” Daemian asked.
“That my father was not human,” Victor said. “And I was the spawn of the devil!”
Daemian’s jaw dropped. “This is like a telenovela!”
“Not the devil, masked one,” Brax added–the lone voice of reason in the room. “Yet, perhaps, a devil. The glyph of Sensia is the predominant glyph of the Luxerians.”
Victor blinked. “Luxury what?”
“The tribe of the Succubi and Incubi,” Brax explained.
Daemian wiggled his eyebrows for effect. “Sex demons.”
Thus, Victor concluded his tale. “And so I have always believed myself to be, as the old texts call, a cambium–a product of a human mother and an incubus father. Only my beloved Iggy knows this. But this is the time of the year when the veils between all worlds are thinnest, and so I sometimes ponder the truth of my lineage…” Victor looked distantly into the candelabra’s flame. “I am a strong believer in destiny. Would this spell tell me what I know, I wonder?”
Scully concluded his guitar playing. The other skeletons–and Brax–clapped.
It took Daemian out of Victor’s ghost story. “You play guitar?”
Scully shrugged. “I do birthdays, quinceaneras, bar mitzvahs…”
Daemian stood and motioned for Brax and El Amante to follow him into the adjacent room. “Alright, Vic. You want your truth. I want your blood.” He paused. “Respectfully, of course.” He gestured to the cauldron in the center of the pentagram burnt into the floorboards. “Take a spot over there.”
Victor looked at the spooky sigil with trepidation. “You know, as a Mexican, I can’t say I’m comfortable with this devil stuff.”
“Well, lucky for you it’s as Brax said–not the devil, just…a devil,” Daemian blinked, and opened up his coffee-stained grimoire to the appropriate page. “Okay, let’s see here…parsley–no, wait, that’s the vegan version of the recipe. Ah, got it. Wormwood. Blood cap. Wolfsbane. A pinch of nutmeg. And…three drops of Incubus blood. Maybe we’ll use six though, considering the human to demon ratio of the specimen…”
“SPECIMEN?” Victor nervously exclaimed. Then, he thought about it, and flexed enthusiastically at the suggestion. “I guess I am a rather fetching specimen, huh?”
Daemian was, however, more focused on getting the spell right than foisting adoration upon a luchador who wore entirely too much cologne (the exact opposite problem as Daemian’s). “Well, if you’re only half Incubus, I’ll need to up the blood ratio.” Deadboy approached him with a ceremonial dagger, the hilt of which was a skull screaming in torment. “You can do it yourself if you want. As long as you don’t mind a tiny bit of spilled blood.”
“Fear not, I am on PrEP!” Victor did what he needed to do, delicately and safely, and then handed the dagger back to his mate. “Now that things have settled down here at the GSA, I am prepared to face the truth, no matter how dark that truth may be.” He held his finger over the cauldron and released a few drops of crimson ichor.
Almost as soon as the droplets of Victor’s essence hit the noxious, green goop, a plume of luminous and eerie light burst forth from the cauldron, covering the ceiling and running down the walls. The shadows in the room elongated from the otherworldly light, so strong that even Daemian had to cover his eyes from the ghastly glow.
Brax stepped back, growling at the light coming through the floorboards. “Something is amiss…”
He was absolutely right, of course, but Deadboy didn’t want to admit it. He turned to Victor, who was entranced by the ethereal aura radiating from the center of the pentagram. “Don’t ask if that’s supposed to happen,” Daemian shouted over the rush and roar of hellish wind.
Victor blinked. “Is that supposed to happen?”
“NO!”
The far wall of the room became a transparent frame of spooky light–a portal to another realm. Daemian suspected he knew exactly which realm. Three inhuman silhouettes rose up from the curtain between worlds, and ventured for the pierce the veil.
The tall, inhuman figure was pale white–with two black eyes like marbles set in an egg-like, bald head. This grinning specter, with black lips and a wide- ruffled collar, wore a robe seemingly crafted of tight latex. The fiend’s accomplices on their left or right were somehow even larger than the wraith. One was an enormous, gray-skinned demon–not unlike Brax–wearing an executioner's hood, and wreathed in chains. The other was a tall muscular demon of feminine build, with jet-black hair and pearlescent horns. She wore not much else but a leather bikini. Upon seeing Victor, she licked her lips, revealing her fangs.
The luchador in the werewolf gimmick was oddly nonplussed by the arrival of these demonic emissaries. He nudged Daemian with cheerful enthusiasm. “Hey, it’s just like when we went to Folsom with Spike!”
The central figure, the leader, spoke in a guttural androgynous monotone. “We have been summoned,” they said. “We came.”
Brax narrowed his eyes at his demon kindred, but wisely said nothing. Not even Daemian could have scoured what he was thinking–most likely it was akin to a thoroughly problematic, surprise family reunion.
These weren’t the worst of the lot who could have showed up, Daemian knew, but he needed to maintain the illusion of an upper-hand. He was powerful. He was bad. But he was still mortal. “Ugh, not these c*** again,” the black mage cursed, rolling his eyes. He addressed the central spokesperson. “Look, there’s been a mistake…Dildo Face, or whichever one you are.”
“I am the Hierophant of the Abyssal Mysteries,” the ghoul intoned.
“Do you have…a shorter version of that name? Anyway, you got the wrong dimension. I was just trying to set up a Halloween event, not pull a bloody Clive Barker!”
The demonic guests did not seem to care. “Oh, sweet, lost child, there are no accidents when it comes to fate.” The Hierophant bowed their head. “You have eluded our grasp for far, dar too long.”
That was enough. Daemian willed his shadow off the floorboard. It peeled itself in two dimensions, and warped into the third, becoming a whip of thorns. Daemian grabbed taught and stepped in front of his buddies. “Stand back.”
The Hierophant and their guards didn’t so much as flinch.
“Is this about when I met Brax?” Daemian shouted. “Look, mate, that’s ancient history.”
The Hierophant held up a finger. Behind them, a violently quick series of chains shot through the portal, entwining themselves around Deadboy’s wrists and legs and pulling him painfully to the ground.
“K-kinky,” Deadboy grunted, unable to move. He was in pain. Not the good kind.
Victor stepped forward, throwing a hand out to let Brax know that he would not need to challenge his kin. The Luchador sensed the pain and uncertainty coming from the well-tempered demon, and knew it would cloud his fight aptitude if he tried to defend his tag partner. “The first rule of S&M is consent,” Victor said, defensively. “I will not have you violate that!”
The female demon, who had thus far looked upon the Earthlings with an admixture of disgust and intrigue, suddenly gasped. “You…”
The creepy Hierophant’s grin grew creepily wider. “We did not come for you, Necromancer. We came for this one.”
More than any hellish intrusion, and more than the revelation of demonic paternity, it was what happened next that shocked Deadboy the most. The Hierophant, and his guardians, took to their knees, prostrating themselves.
Bowing before Victor.
So paralyzed was Daemian by this strange turn of events (as well as the quite literally paralyzing chains) that he couldn’t so much as utter a swear or oath as a throng of even more chains burst through the aether, wrapping themselves around both Brax and Victor, reeling them in like fish into an ocean of the unknown.
“Safe word!” Victor screamed as he was dragged into the light. “SAAAFE WORRRRRD!”
The Hierophant turned their back on Daemian, as did his bodyguards. The fiends vanished into the light.
“You fucks,” Daemian hissed. His eyes blacked over, and a purple aura of pure malevolence–fueled by a desire to protect something dear–washed over his pale skin. The tendrils of darkness wrapped around the conjured chains, loosening them, and then corroding them, freeing the black mage from their bounds.
Daemian stood, even as the green portal began to recede and fade. There was no time to consider options. Daemian grabbed his grimoire. He ran, Doc Martins clacking against the floorboards–a brave charge forward into Gehenna.
“Welp,” he sighed, visions of Halloween flowing through his head, “Guess I’m going to Hell.”
