neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Maybe nothing would have happened if Talea hadn’t found the demon in the breadbox.

She’d baked six loaves of fresh humberpine the previous day and had left them in the metal-lined wooden container to cool. It sat on the tiled kitchen counter just to the left of me big oval window cut in the south side of the tree, overlooking the riverbank and the willows that clung there like tipsy spectators at a fishing tournament.

Half a dozen was a lot to make all at once, but thanks to a petite, highly domesticated preserving spell thoughtfully provided by Clothahump, the bread would stay not only fresh but hot for as long as was necessary. It was also more energy-efficient than refrigeration.

When she opened the breadbox to remove some for supper she was startled to see, seated against the nearest loaf, a perfectly formed six-inch-high homunculus. Two curved horns protruded from the sides of his skull, a single smaller one from his forehead. Gossamer rose-hued wings lay folded against his back. He wore long maroon denim pants with matching suspenders, and his clawed feet protruded beyond the ends of thick rubber sandals.

He also owned a hearty appetite. Half the loaf he was seated against had been devoured. She’d caught him red-handed (of course, with demons this was not an especially difficult task).

Startled, he jerked around sharply when she raised the lid of the box, a double-handful of steaming fresh bread clutched in one tiny fist.

“Azmac!” the creature shouted, waving its free hand at her. “Poreon faytul Begone, or I shall make of your life Purgatory resplendent!”

“Get out of my breadbox!” Talea was not in the least intimidated by the baroque threat. Fumbling in a nearby drawer, her fingers wrapped around the handle of a small iron skillet and thrust it toward the loaf.

Dropping its aromatic prize, the demon scrambled toward the back of the box. “Emarion! Sacarath sanctus!”

“Never mind that.” Reversing the skillet, Talea used the handle to dig at the back of the box. “Get out of my bread!”

Though not very big, Talea was deceptively strong, and the demon, sated on humberpine, was decidedly overfed. There was a loud poing as he lost his grip on the rear of the box and went flying, arms and legs akimbo, across the kitchen. He soared neatly over the central butcher block to smack with a slightly wet splat against the rhomboidal window on the far side of the room. There he seemed to hang for an instant, suspended, before sliding down the glass into the dish basin.

Hefting the skillet by its handle, Talea rushed to the sink and peered down among the duty plates and cups. “What were you doing in my breadbox? Does somebody have it in for me, is that it? I’ll bet it’s that stuck-up possum Mrs. Genfine up the river. She always stays upside down when we visit.” She watched while the dazed demon struggled unsuccessfully to stand. “You’re not much of a curse.”

Something buzzed loudly past her head and she twisted sideways, the demon in the dishwater momentarily forgotten. This new specter was smaller than the homunculus, with four bright emerald-green wings and a long snaky tail trailing behind it. A face once removed from toad roadkill sneered back at her. From its four hands hung the crystal saltcellar that had been a wedding gift from her mother.

She snatched for it but it darted just out of reach, taunting her with a high-pitched buzz-accompanied version of some cabalistic mantra that sounded very much like “My Darling Clementine.”

“Now what?” Taking aim with the edge, she swung the skillet. The toadbuzz dodged once, a second time, and then there was a loud bang as the skillet connected. The song faded as the apparition fell on the stove, bounced once, and tumbled off to land on the floor. Unharmed, the saltcellar rolled clear. Ignoring the dazed buzzing of the would-be thief, she knelt to recover it.

“What the hell is going on here?” she mumbled to herself as she put the skillet aside and pulled the big broom from storage. Now, where was the dustpan?

As she bent over to search for it, something smacked her in the rear. Clutching the broom in front of her, she whirled.

It couldn’t be called a demon, though it wore a demonic grin. Considerably larger than the pair of intruders she’d already coped with, it squatted before her on thickly muscled, kangaroo-like legs, its flat fish face regarding her blandly. Lavender scales covered the naked body except for the pair of turquoise tentacles that made swimming motions against the air. Sprouting from the top of the head was a bright, rotating blue searchlight.

She hefted the broom and inspected the newcomer. “What are you supposed to be?”

“Beeble,” it burped. It made another rude body noise and took a tentative hop toward her.

“Keep away from me.” She made a threatening gesture with the broom as she started edging sideways, away from the broom closet. “I’m warning you.”

The bread demon had recovered and was now busily poking through the kitchen cabinets, looking for something else to eat, its red belly hanging pendulously over its belt line.

“What’s going on here?” she muttered. “Jon-Tom!” There was no response. Her husband wasn’t due home from work for a while yet. She was isolated in her kitchen. “Somebody! Anybody?”

She dodged as the hop-searchlight took another bound in her direction, extending toward her face a vile and obscene tongue.

“I warned you.” She swung the broom and smacked the tongue sideways. The protruding organ whizzed several times around the hopper’s head before the tip smacked its owner square in the right eye.

“Ow. Ow, ow, ow!” It hop-retreated, trying to recoil the rebellious organ.

The breadbox demon was in an upper cabinet, scattering her victuals. Broom held high, she charged, shoving the hopper aside. “Damn your demonic ass, get out of my provisions!”

When she reached the cabinet the demon was nowhere to be seen, having sought the depths within. But half a dozen brand-new apparitions flew straight out at her, squealing and screeching. As they circled and darted she swung the broom in frenzied self-defense, fighting to keep them out of her hair.

“Get away from me, get away!” They were a rainbow of colors and a plethora of shapes, none very pleasing to look upon save for one with iridescent compound eyes. It had the body of an undersize, anorexic macaque attached to the wings of a falcon. They came at her from all directions, forcing her to retreat. “Get away, I’m warning you!” she yelled as she flailed with the broom. They were pouring out of the woodwork now: emerging from cabinets and drawers, from cracks in the tree floor, from behind bowls, from beneath the sink, and from the doorway that led to the den. Drooling, grinning, gurgling, belching and farting, laughing and hissing as they crawled, slithered, hopped, and flew toward her. They stank and they gibbered, they uttered incomprehensibilities and obscenities, they messed impertinently with her clean dishes, and pawed through her carefully stacked foodstuff’s.

Dozens of the creatures filled the kitchen, and more were arriving every minute. There was a translucent winged thing that looked like nothing so much as a vampire butterfly, horrific in aspect save for its decidedly befuddled expression. It kept beating against the skylight as if trying to escape.

Something was tugging at the sandal on her left foot. Looking down, she saw a small bright yellow and pink polka-dotted snake with seven heads.

“Excuse me.” The septicephalic slitherer spoke plaintively, its accent unidentifiable. “I seem to have wandered into the wrong mythology. Can you . . . ?”