THE TWELFTH MONSTER OF CHAOS
A short story by J. Leigh Bailey
The Twelfth Monster of Chaos
By J. Leigh Bailey
“Wisconsin? This is the last place I’d ever expect to find you. That is, I’m sure, exactly the point.”
Omar straightened from the case of beer bottles he’d been stocking in the coolers behind the bar. The smooth, urbane voice made his adrenaline spike and muscles tense. He watched in the fly-spotted mirror as the man leaned against the bar. The impeccable lines of the obviously tailored, undoubtedly designer suit were out of place among the old men in denim and flannel.
“Really, Omar, the Edgerton VFW? I didn’t believe it at first, but when I thought about it I realized that it was the perfect place for you to fade away into obscurity.”
Omar grabbed a towel and turned to face his guest. He made a show of wiping down the scarred wooden surface of the bar. “Hello, Duke. I haven’t seen you in a while. And since that’s the way I like it, feel free to see yourself out.”
Duke laid his palm over Omar’s hand, halting the absentminded motions of the towel. The neon light from a Coors sign glinted off the heavy gold ring on Duke’s finger. A thumbnail- sized chunk of lapis lazuli was mounted on it, a deceptively simple design etched into the bright blue stone. The Sumerian symbol of the ancient kings. Despite being several millennia old, the ring looked like Duke plucked it out of a Tiffany’s case only yesterday. “Chaos reigns and her resurrection is imminent.”
Slipping his hand free, Omar met the other man’s eyes—eyes the same color as the ring’s stone. “Listen, Duke, you can take your prophetic warning, or ominous predictions, or whatever you call them, and tell someone who cares. I just want to be left alone. We agreed a long time ago that if I stayed quiet and kept my nose clean, you’d let me be. And if you left me alone, I vowed to pretend you didn’t exist. The system has been working wonders. Why do you want to come in and mess that up now?”
“Chaos—”
“Yes, yes, so you said. Not my problem.” Omar tossed the towel into the sink and started straightening a stack of cocktail napkins. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m very busy right now and need you to leave.”
Duke’s gaze swept the nearly empty room. The only occupants were two elderly men facing each other over a chessboard; their glasses of weak American beer were only halfway finished and would likely remain that way for hours. “Yes, I see. How do you manage to handle the pressure?” Duke’s voice was as dry as desert sand.
Omar fisted his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Duke always managed to exacerbate his more primal urges. He really wanted to grab a bottle of liquor and hurl it across the room. The shattering of glass and the sharp tang of alcohol on the air, not to mention the shock of the patrons—even if there were only two—was tempting. He’d spent a great deal of his life learning to temper his impulses. Just because he developed the control necessary didn’t mean that the need had disappeared. That would require a change to his very nature. And such a change wasn’t possible.
As if he knew the thoughts going through Omar’s head, Duke flashed a smug smile. “It’s difficult, isn’t it, denying yourself that which makes you whole, that which makes you powerful? I have a job that I need you to do. It may even allow you to unleash your true self.”
Suddenly, the acrid scent of ozone burned Omar’s nostrils and his hair floated in a halo around his head, lifted by static electricity. Tingling electricity burned under his skin. His inner beast, the demon that was his true self, roused at the thought. It had been too long since he’d been able to let that side of his nature loose.
“Yes,” said Duke, “what wouldn’t you do to finally let go and exist as you are? To free yourself from this fragile façade you have adopted.” His voice lowered, taking on a hypnotic quality that Omar knew had the potential to draw him into Duke’s will. “Look. Your eyes are glowing, bolts of lightning flashing. It’s there, deep within you, the power you used to wield. I am offering you the chance to let the real you out. Imagine it, to walk on this earth without the weak mortal disguise, once again—”
Omar shook off the soporific effects of the other’s voice. His hand struck out to circle Duke’s throat, squeezing as he lifted the other man until Duke’s feet dangled inches from the ground. “You’re going to want to knock that shit off. Our truce can end here and now. I don’t have anything to lose by giving in and doing what I was created to do. Don’t think I’d regret destroying you. In fact, I might even enjoy it. Even knowing it would likely mean my own death, it’d be worth it.”
Duke didn’t struggle in Omar’s grip. It infuriated Omar that the other man just smiled at him. Duke was one of the few—quite possibly the only—individuals with enough power to end Omar. It would feel so good to keep squeezing, to feel the esophagus collapse and the neck snap, to watch life slowly drain from the other man’s body. It was what he was made for. Of course, Omar thought, even if he gave in to the temptation, it would do no good. Omar did not have enough power to actually destroy Duke.
No one could kill a god, not even a fully manifested storm demon.
Through sheer force of will, Omar reined in his control and caged the raging storm within. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed Duke into one of the rickety barstools. “Just go, Duke. Nothing you can say could convince me to get involved in your situation.” He grabbed the corrugated box that he’d emptied of amber bottles of beer and started for the VFW’s backroom.
“Please, Omar. I need your help.”
Shit, thought Omar. Once again, he proves me wrong. Never before had Duke actually asked for help. Omar had known him since the very creation of Earth and he’d always been cocksure, arrogant. To ask for help meant admitting weakness, something Duke would never do. Not unless there was no other choice. Omar pounded his fist into the muscles of his thigh and closed his eyes. “Fuck!” Omar didn’t want to get involved with one of Duke’s plots—not again. He paced away, angry strides eating up the distance. The space behind the bar wasn’t nearly large enough. He growled and punched his fist through the old plaster wall. “Fine. You can tell me what the hell is going on and how you expect me to help. No promises, you bastard, but I’ll listen.”
He heaved the empty cardboard against the wall, dissatisfied with the muted crunch. Tense muscles tingled, pressure built in his chest. Now more than ever he wanted to vent, to spew, to destroy something. He’d managed to stay out of the affairs of the Sumerian pantheon for millennia, and now Duke wanted to drag him back into a fight that was never his to begin with.
“Take care of our audience.” He pointing at the pair of elderly war veterans still engrossed in their game. He stalked to the shelves holding the dozens of thick glass bottles and reached to the very back of the top shelf. He pulled out a dusty bottle of Chivas. Grabbing two squat highball glasses along the way, he kicked through the swinging gate that separated him from the barroom. He slammed the bottle and the glasses on a table in the corner. He poured three fingers of the expensive liquid and downed it like water while Duke dealt with the customers.
A flash of Duke’s lapis lazuli eyes and a wave of his hand was all it took. The two men immediately stood up, tossed a couple bills onto the chessboard and walked out. The lock on the door clicked, the sign in the window flipped to display “closed” and the blinds shut out the dying sunlight. Omar’s skin crawled as Duke’s magic spread through the room. Not even the fine Scotch could cover the bitter taste of it on his tongue. The need to hunt, to destroy his enemy, rose in him. The tips of his fingers itched, ready to sprout claws and energy coursed along his spine. Fighting the urge to manifest into his true form, Omar dumped more Chivas into the glass a
nd swigged it down.
“Why not just chug it from the bottle?”
Omar glared at the other man as Duke settled into the chair across from him. Duke lifted the bottle and poured himself a drink. He leaned back in his seat and sniffed the liquor, a perfect picture of sophistication. Taking a sip, Duke savored the flavor. “Ah, lovely. A drink fit for a king.”
A snarl escaped before Omar could bite it back. “If you expect me to help, tell me what you want. Reminders of your overinflated sense of entitlement, your highness, will not convince me to agree. You already have a horde of minions and sycophants willing to obey your every whim. What do you need from me?”
“Fine.” Duke pushed his drink aside and leaned forward on the tabletop, his face grim. “She’s rising. The signs are all there. The land where she was slain whispers of her activities. Lesser monsters have already started to gather. My sources confirm that they’ve already begun the rituals and spells that are needed to bring her back.”
Omar stopped the flow of words with a raised palm. “She? After all this time you honestly believe that Tiamat, the defeated Ummu-Hubur, creator of all things, is rising?”
“Yes. I intend to stop it. I leave tonight for