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this state?”

  “Since your death, the death of my master, I mean, at the hands of Cheese, atop the gallows.”

  A sigh escaped the ghost’s mouth. It shook its head, as if frustrated. I had seen a similar expression of impatience come over my master before. The deceit was astounding in its verisimilitude.

  “Look, Laurence. You’re not doing too well. Perhaps you should take some time off at the salle . . .”

  “No! I see you now! Get thee behind me! You want to discourage my training, my efforts to avenge my Maestro’s death. Do not try to deceive me further, demon-spawn!” I drew my sword, though I knew not what steel could possibly do against the unsubstantial being.

  Still, it held its hands up toward me, probably in remembrance of that first war in heaven when Michael the archangel cast him out of the holy presence. It backed away. “Ah, Laurence, you’ve had too much to drink. You’re confusing events.” He, it, looked warily at my waving blade. “I’ll just be going now. Perhaps you would like to come to the salle after you’ve sobered up a bit?”

  I growled and poked the sword tip in his direction, careful not to land a thrust, lest the ghost discover that my material blade was ineffective against spirit.

  It disappeared into shadow, but I knew, now, my purpose. I would find Silver and Cheese and exact revenge on them both. After my vendetta, my master would rest in peace, far from the demon that so poorly impersonated the great Rocco Bonetti.

  My opportunity came sooner than I could have imagined. Down the street from my infernal encounter was a dark and loathsome establishment, a pub called, appropriately, The Sullen Devil. If a building were a toad, this would be it. Squatting on a derelict corner, the front door occasionally opened like a maw, the din from within croaking forth to echo off the city’s walls. From the toad’s depths a fly or two buzzed forth, reeling from its digestive confinement in the miasmic slurry of the pub’s belly. I watched the regurgitating amphibian with astonishment as Silver and Cheese were vomited out onto the street.

  Cheese was wary, snapping his head from side to side to avert surprise. Still, he was drunk, and sometimes turned his face up to the sky, laughing out loud, as if his own fear were a cosmic joke. Almost immediately, though, he would stop himself, cover his mouth with both hands, then glance about again with squinting eyes, looking suspiciously down alleyways and through windows.

  Silver, not being wanted for murder, though I clearly understood that he was an accomplice to the act, was more nonchalant. He was so inebriated, in fact, that he could hardly stand upright. He flailed about, as clumsy as the basket-hilt broadsword at his side.

  Now normally I would have stood back, observed the pair, and challenged them to a formal duel with witnesses. But there were factors that mitigated against this course of action. First, my blood was boiling. Though I could not, realistically, bring physical harm to the devil that had disguised itself as my master, I could exact vengeance on the pair of curs that had ambushed Rocco. Second, they were both right there. This opportunity might not present itself again. Third, I would be doing the city a favor by ridding it of a wanted murderer and his accomplice.

  I emerged from the shadows of the alleyway, drawing Saint Michael from his scabbard. The blade sung its slithering approval. Silver and Cheese turned about to face me as I called out:

  “Ye infernal fiends of the pit! My master shall be avenged. Saint Michael shall drink blood this day . . .” and sundry other threats that I have since forgotten, their cleverness and sting belonging only to that moment. My mind is already being purified for my translation into heaven. I forget much of those events, which seem like a lifetime ago, as I write.

 

  I do recall – I hope I shall never forget – the look on the men’s faces. Cheese, sniveling Cheese, seemed to shrink into himself, his eyes and mouth puckering in as if we were trying to hold himself together, to keep his senses from tearing asunder. Silver simply looked confused.

  “Draw your weapons, dogs! Saint Michael shall thrust past your . . . your . . . whatever it is you call your wretched blades.” It was the best I could do at the moment.

  Silver vomited forth something – literally vomited – a stream of ale, bits of bangers and mash, and a word that sounded like “Baalzebuth”. I was right! Baalzebuth it was, then. How appropriate for the fat sting of a sword he held, his knuckles hidden behind the basket hilt that bulged like bulbous fly-eyes. Saint Michael versus Baalzebuth. A reenactment of the War in Heaven.

  Cheese never named his sword, he merely drew and charged.

  They both fought well for being so besotted. Still, I let them think they had the advantage of me, strategically retreating to the square where my master had been killed. His blood cried up from the ground against his murderers.

  Cheese fought in a demonic rage, swinging so hard that his blade notched on the cobblestones when I dodged his blows. Silver had more control, but less strength, which I thought odd, given their size differences. Still, Baalzebuth is a lazy, indolent fiend, so it was only natural that his namesake should be cumbersome and ungainly.

  I only thrust to draw them further into the square, my tempo increasing as I backed up to the scaffold. They fell into my pattern – two steps back, parry, feint, three steps, thrust. Then, as I was almost out of room – two steps back, parry, feint, one step, thrust – I buried Saint Michael three fingers deep in Cheese’s face. He dropped flat to the cobblestones with a sickening crunch. Silver stood, perplexed, watching his companion fall, but only for a moment. I withdrew, cavare, then skewered the accomplice from shoulder to hip with a downward thrust from primo, mingling his heart with his bowels.

  After cleaning Saint Michael on the dead men’s garments, I ascended the scaffolding, assuming the blasphemous pose of my introduction.

  Silver and Cheese are condemned to hell, and it seems that they have already found favor there, commanding the false Rocco to show its phantasmagoric form over their fallen bodies. It calls up to me:

  “Laurence, come down here or you’ll get yourself killed.”

  I have once again donned my lead-lined shoes, the instruments that taught me nimbleness of feet.

  A host of spear-wielding demons has appeared behind false Rocco. They wear the uniform of the city guard as a mockery of civil authority.

  “Come down, Laurence. Give yourself up. You are not well. Come down carefully, before you fall to your death.”

  I stand to pen my last words before becoming as the gods.

  “Laurence!”

  I will now walk atop the clouds. I will follow Saint Michael’s thrusting point to the stars, taking my proper place as Defender of the Heavens.

  “Laurence! No!”

  I will not be deceived.

  ###

  About the Author:

  Forrest Aguirre’s fiction has been published in over fifty magazines and anthologies. His work has received honorable mentions in several Year’s Best anthologies and he was a finalist for the StorySouth Million Writers Award. Forrest is also a World Fantasy Award recipient and Philip K. Dick Award finalist for his editing of the Leviathan 3 anthology with co-editor Jeff VanderMeer. Forrest lives in Madison, Wisconsin with his wife, children, and ferret.

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  Connect with me online!

  Google+: Forrest Aguirre

  Blog: forrestaguirre.blogspot.com

  Twitter: @ForrestAguirre

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