Idle Hands: Finale

At the same time, she knew in her heart that an attack on her lover was only a heartbeat away. She sensed Kincaid's cancerous presence like a spider on her skin, making her flesh crawl with loathing. Once, when she was a child, a large rat had died in the walls of her apartment building, filling her family's apartment with a choking stench. At times, it seemed that a matching reek wafted up from the lower level, stinking of death and rottenness.

The final scene was unfolding. Overcome by jealousy, Othello strangled his wife, Desdemona. Caught up in the action, she leaned forward in her seat as Emilia revealed Iago's treachery and was slain in turn by her panicking husband. Iago, caught as he attempted to flee, spoke his last lines, brazenly declaring that he would rather be tortured than reveal the reasons for his plots. Othello committed suicide, joining his wife and her maid on a bed piled high with death. The rest of the witnesses looked on sorrowfully.

Lodovico (to Iago): "O Spartan dog,

More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea!

Look on the tragic loading of this bed;

This is thy work: the objects poison sight;

Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house,

and seize upon the fortunes of the Moor,

For they succeed upon you. To you, my lord governor,

Remains the censure of this hellish villain;

The time, the place, the torture: O enforce it!

Myself will straight aboard: and to the state

This heavy act with heavy heart relate."

"No," said a terrible voice, full of maggots and slithering, crawling things, found under rocks in dark caves. "He belongs to me."

A dark-haired man, apparently a few years younger than Josh, entered the stage from the right. The crowd, which had begun to stir in anticipation of the ending of the play, sank back into their seats with murmurs of confusion.

"Who the hell are you?" The young man playing Lodovico didn't sound angry. Instead, his voice was full of honest confusion.

Kincaid casually backhanded him across the face, sending him sprawling. "Keep your mouth shut, fool, and I might let you live," the demon-spawn declared cheerfully.

"The boy there knows me. The day, long-delayed, is now upon us. Pray to your gods, if indeed you have them, Iago. Your life is forfeit."

With astonishing aplomb, Alex drew his dagger. Maria did not miss Kincaid's wince of discomfort as it came into view. Casually, her lover began to clean his nails with the point. "You mean nothing to me. Begone, or lose your own life in turn." Maria caught her breath in a half-hysterical giggle as Alex somehow managed to keep the tone and cadence of a Shakespearean play, even though she could see how his face paled in fear.

From his waist Kincaid drew a long dagger of his own, covered in barbs and spikes, an instrument not of death, but of pain and torture. "Your mother knows why I am here. Why not call out to her and learn the reason for your death?"

Shockingly, Alex laughed. "Althea, do you mean? I've known about her for days. Why do you think I'm here, you miserable slug? We knew you couldn't resist the bait. I came here so she could kill you." He raised his voice. "Althea? There's someone here who would like to meet you."

"You're lying," Kincaid snarled, all effort at self-control gone. Maria blinked. The demon-spawn seemed to be...expanding. As she watched, the seams of his suit began to burst. Mottled, gray-green flesh emerged, covered with livid yellow spots. A pair of bat-wings erupted from his back. His head flattened, the mouth growing into a pointed muzzle, full of rending teeth. Horns grew like evil, demented flowers, sprouting from his forehead, curling around to end in wicked points along the line of his jaw. Claws protruded from the ends of his fingers. As his shoes ripped away, a matching pair gouged the wood of the stage under his feet.

"He's not," came a musical voice, and Maria closed her eyes in gratitude and relief.

"Holy shit," Jeremy swore softly

Maria's eyes popped open, and she stared at the stage in astonishment. The woman slowly walking into view was Althea. But she was also...more.

She had wings of her own. They arched over her back, three feet and more higher than her own head, so beautiful they made her want to weep. Angelic feathers, each one a masterwork of beauty, reached out farther than her extended arms could stretch. White horns, delicate as crystal, curved up from her forehead. Her tail swayed back and forth in time with her steps.

And she glowed. A pure golden light poured out of her, as if the sun was shining through thin clouds at sunrise.

Belted at the side of her calf-length dress was her sword. As the crowd watched in confusion, she drew it. Traceries of reddish-bronze lightning swept up and down its length.

"You..." Kincaid choked on the words. The tatters of his suit draped his body in ragged remnants. "You can't be here. You're supposed to be in her head!!" He cast a vicious, malevolent glare up at the balcony, where Rachel was watching, her face carved of stone.

"I got out. It wasn't hard." Her eyes gleamed with mischief. "All it took was the power of love. But you wouldn't know about that, would you? You have no idea how great a force love is, when all you know is hatred and destruction.

"You are a monstrosity, Kincaid. But your existence is not your fault. Submit and surrender to my justice, and I will make your passing an easy one."

Kincaid laughed through a mouth like broken glass. Several members of the audience shrieked as the hideous noise smote their ears. From a sheath which had been hidden on his back he drew a sword of his own. Light seemed to fall into it, and Maria turned her eyes away in painful reflex. "I'll see you in Hell first, bitch!"

"Perhaps." The succubus' voice was faintly regretful.

"Then let it begin." As she spoke, her wings caught fire, burning with a pure golden light that illuminated the stage.

*****

For the rest of his life, Jeremy never forgot that duel. He had seen many swordfights in the movies, from Star Wars to The Princess Bride to Lúthien's Tale. Most were forgettable. Some acceptable. A few were even good.

Nothing prepared him for the sight of Althea in battle. She flowed effortlessly from one position to the next, her sword striking golden and black sparks from Kincaid's dark blade. She kept her body between Alex and her enemy as easily as another person might draw breath. Every attack the demon-spawn made was foiled with contemptuous ease, every stroke shrugged away with a twist of her hips or a flick of her wrists.

Kincaid lunged forward, his sword whistling high while he jabbed at her unprotected belly with his dagger. Quicker than thought, she took a half-step backward, keeping the dagger out of reach, and parried the sword viciously, making it ring like an out-of-tune bell. As Kincaid staggered back, she pressed her advantage, her sword whirling in a series of curving cuts.

And she was drawing blood. A myriad of small slices scored Kincaid's grotesque body, and dark ichor dripped from his body to stain the stage. Even as they watched, she landed another blow, her sword blurring upward, opening a wound that ran from his left hip to his right breast.

But she was not immune from damage herself. As their swords clashed, sparks flashing, a thin shard broke off of Kincaid's sword and slashed across her cheekbone. Althea lost the rhythm of her defense, and two more bloody cuts appeared as Kincaid pressed his advantage; a small gouge on her left arm and a deep slice on the muscle of her right thigh. Jeremy heard Rachel hiss in painful dismay as red blood dripped down Althea's face and leg, marring her golden skin. Clutching the railing at the front of the balcony, she stood up, Joshua and Sarah beside her. As their view was blocked, he, Maria, and Yasna stood up in turn. Soon, the entire balcony, then the entire theater, was on its feet, waiting as breathlessly as a baseball crowd in extra innings at a playoff game.

"Spawn of the Fallen," Kincaid hissed as their swords locked together. "Unholy offspring of a cursed union. Disgusting creature, spreading your legs for any human who wants you. How can you live with what you are?"

"I am as the Almighty made me," she replied serenely. The muscles of her arms bunched, keeping the jagged blade away from her vulnerable throat. With a shrug of her shoulders, she broke away, sending Kincaid staggering back.

When the end came, it was quick. On a lunge, Kincaid overextended himself, going the slightest bit off balance. Althea's sword flashed downward, cutting his sword-hand off at the wrist. As he lurched forward, shrieking in agony, she spun, her blade cutting the tendons at the back of his thigh, hamstringing him. He crashed to the ground, and she severed his spine, her sword punching down between his vertebrae in a two-handed grip as the crowd gasped.

Althea moved around so she could kneel down and look him in the eye, avoiding his thrashing claws, which still strove to harm her, although his legs were utterly still. "Any last words before I send you back to the Pit?" Rather than being mocking, she sounded utterly serious. Perhaps even the slightest bit pitying.

"It's where I wanted to go anyway." He spat black blood onto her shoes. "Alive or dead makes no difference to me. Do it, and get me out of this blighted world."

She nodded. Her sword flashed, and Kincaid's head rolled away from his body.

"Stay away!" she called sharply, as a few of the actors moved hesitantly forward. With a stuttering hiss, green and black flames suddenly leaped up and consumed the corpse, burning blindingly bright. In a few minutes, nothing was left of the body but a small heap of oily ash.

There was a long moment of silence, as if the audience was holding its breath. Then, with a mighty roar, they voiced their approval, cheering and clapping. Smiling sardonically, Althea waved the actors forward to take their bows. Alex made his with aplomb. The other actors and actresses looked stunned, like a group of people who had been told they had won a lottery but couldn't remember buying a ticket. But eventually they regained their mental balance, and grinned as the plaudits of the crowd rolled over them.

As the family cheered, Yasna was the only one who noticed that Althea had disappeared without a trace.

*****

A few minutes later, Sarah burst into the dressing room with a gleeful whoop. "Alex! Congratulations! You were fucking brilliant!"

"Thanks, Sis," he said, prying her off of him, but not before she had given his cock a clandestine squeeze. "Where's everyone else?"

"Mom and Daddy are outside, waiting. Maria wanted to come in, but thought she would break down crying if she saw you. That thing with the demon?" she asked. "What the hell was that? I don't remember that being part of the play!"

"Oh, just a bit of a last-minute surprise by our lighting and effects department, I guess," he said with a shrug, playing along. "I can't wait to hear what Professor Olsen has to say when he gets back in here. He's out in the parking lot, having a bit of a breakdown, apparently." All around him, other members of the cast broke off their conversations and stared at him. "What?" he asked. "Do any of you have a better explanation?

"Nice effects, though. I'll say that."

*****

From the Glen Ellyn Gazette. Saturday, June 5

Ridiculous, Tack-On Ending Mars Play at C.O.D.

By Allen Hummel

Critics of Shakespearean theater are used to changes being done to his work. After all, the Bard of Avon lived more than four centuries ago, and his plays are not as accessible to the modern mind as they once were.

However, no excuses can be made for what the theater department at the College of DuPage did last night in the final act of Shakespeare's Othello.

Up until that moment, the production had been an unusually fine one for a community college. Dartanon Burfict did a creditable job in the title role, and Marjorie Klein was a more than competent Desdemona.

However, it was Alex Sunderman who shone. As Iago, this young man, in his first major role as an actor, brought a commanding presence to the role and an innate ability which this reviewer has not seen since a young John Cusack haunted the stages of Chicago nearly thirty years ago. It is not too much to say that if Sunderman applies himself, he might do as well or better than any local actor has in decades.

However, all of that was wasted at the end of Act V. When the denouement had completed and Iago was about to be led away in chains, there was an execrable postscript which had this reviewer screaming in outrage. A demon entered the fray, ready to claim Iago's soul. In a scene not to be believed, this demon was challenged by a holy angel, and they engaged in a swordfight. While the stagecraft and fighting ability was impressive, and the effects frankly superior, no one has been able to adequately explain to me the reason why an angel would have the slightest desire to try to save the soul of Iago, who is, let us be clear, a liar, slanderer, and murderer.

I give this production three stars out of five.

Note: Othello will be playing at the College of DuPage until June 25.

*****

The house was quiet when they returned. Alex's car had been mysteriously absent when they trooped out of the theater, so they had crowded seven people into the two remaining vehicles, stopping only to grab some food on the way home.

Alex flipped on the lights in the living room and jumped in surprise. Althea was sitting on the couch. Dried blood streaked her cheek and leg and spotted her dress. Her sword was laid across her lap, one hand clutching the hilt. In the other was a bottle of whiskey. As he watched, she raised it to her lips and drank deeply.

"Come on in," she said, her words painfully precise, despite the alcohol. "Make yourselves at home."

Warily he approached, worried by this strange new mood. Behind him, Sarah bounced into the room. "Hi, Althea! That was great!" She mimed swinging a sword. "The way you chopped his head off at the end was wild. We got chicken from Popeye's on the way home. Mom's getting some plates from the kitchen, and we can have ourselves a nice little meal in here."

"Screw plates," Althea said. She lurched to her feet and tore open a box. Taking two pieces of chicken, she sat back on the couch and started to eat, heedless of the crumbs of batter that escaped her mouth and tumbled down to be lost in the cushions.

Or maybe not. Catching Maria's wince, she scowled. "What's the matter, cleaning girl? Afraid that something might get messy? Don't worry. In a thousand years nobody will be able to tell the difference. This house will be gone, and no one will even remember you lived here. No one will remember any of you." She took another slug of whiskey, her throat bobbing as she swallowed.

"Are you all right, Althea?" Rachel's voice, coming from the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, was polite, but there was an underlying hint of concern.

"Just fine, my handmaiden." Now there was no mistaking the vicious undertone of angry mockery. "Why not? I've just killed my one hundred and sixty-second demon-spawn. I expect to hit two hundred in another thousand years or so, if I'm not killed first." She swallowed a mouthful of chicken and tossed the bone onto the coffee table.

"And when that happens, I will be the only person who remembers you, Rachel. Your court cases will be forgotten, reduced to footnotes in the bowels of American legal history. Joshua's art will be lost or destroyed.

"Alex's films will be no more important than the scribblings of eleventh-century monks in some abbey in Italy. The great chef Sarah Sunderman's meals will be as pointless as the banquets the Chinese emperors used to hold. Maria Ochoa's mere existence will be debatable. And no one will care whether Jeremy Edwards lived or died.

"Except me. I will still be here after you all are gone." She staggered to her feet. "So pardon me if for once in my life I want to be alone."

"Althea," Yasna shouldered her way through the stunned crowd. "You're hurt. You need me to take a look at you."

"I heal fast, and I heal clean," she bit out. "If I didn't my body would just be a mass of scars. But we can't have that, can we? Oh, no. The succubus has to be beautiful," she grated. "So every single hurt I take disappears. In a few days, a week, tops, you won't even be able to tell I was in a swordfight I came within a whisper of losing. So leave me be."

Rachel's face was anguished. "Althea. Beloved-"

"Didn't you hear me? Or are you pathetic mortals going deaf, as well as being blind and stupid? I want to be alone," she snarled, sweeping them all with a burning glance. Still holding the bottle by the neck, she threw her sword into a corner, where it bounced with a muted clang. "'Love,'" she bit out, the word low and hating. "What use is it when maggots have eaten the corpses of every person I have ever cared for? Or ever will?"

In the shocked silence, she walked away. In a few seconds they could hear her uneven steps as she climbed up the back staircase.

When she reached her bedroom, she slammed the door hard enough to splinter the frame.

*****

It was always bad after she won.

This was one of the worst times.

When she lost, when she failed, there was still the drive of the hunt to keep her busy. When a demon-spawn, through guile or skill or sheer bad fortune, managed to elude her, she had a reason to go on. It was only after killing one that the depression set in. Another execution to weigh on her soul, if she had one. The church had been remarkably reticent about whether succubi and incubi had souls and would be allowed into heaven.

She couldn't imagine why.

It was well after midnight. The house was silent around her. She stood at the window, staring out into the darkness. In the trash can in the corner, the empty whiskey bottle lay, a final few drops spilling out into the bottom. As the night passed, she had listened as the family slowly recovered from her burst of temper and drifted off to their own beds. Sitting in a chair, pouring cheap whiskey down her throat, she had waited for some well-meaning idiot to come in and try to make her feel better.

Thankfully, no one had. Rachel had paused outside her doorway, but had instead gone to the bedroom she shared with her husband. Now Althea closed her eyes and leaned her aching head against the cool glass, hot tears flowing down her cheeks.

Blessed Almighty, mother of us all, what's the point anymore? I can kill creatures like Kincaid until my hands are coated with their blood, and there will always be more. Is there nothing else for me and my sisters and the rest of my kin? Will we kill until we die or the world ends?

And what happens when we are all gone? When by bad luck or evil chance or sheer despair, the last of us departs this good green Earth? Will you allow the Forsaken to breed more children, until the world is full of them, and mankind itself plunged into slavery, torture, and death?

There was no answer. But then, she thought, there never was.

I should go.

The thought was so clear in her mind, so compelling, that she was putting together what she needed before she had even had time to truly think about her choice. She let the bloodstained dress fall to the floor and pulled on a pair of snug jeans and a black t-shirt. Her purse was slung over her shoulder, her wallet shoved inside, her laptop in its carrying case was held under one arm.

They can keep the clothes and everything else, she thought as she crept down the front stairs. Alex's car is out front. I'll be gone before they know it. Send them a text so they know where to find it. I don't want that on my conscience. Change the cell phone number, drop off the grid for a few years, and they'll never be able to find me. I'll move away. Denver, Dallas, Des Moines. Someplace that starts with "D." It's time to move on anyway. Chicago isn't so great. The winters are terrible, the roads are a mess, and the Bears never win shit.