 
Infinite Meat

Written by Jeremy Neeley

Published by Jeremy Neeley at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Jeremy Neeley

License Notice

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and is not to be resold or given to another party in any form. If another party wishes to use this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Daughter

Lost

Companion

Offer

Exchange

Gallery

Butcher's Shop

Devil

Heifer's Tongue

Torments

Last Cut

Arrival

Reconciliation

Shadow

Continuing Curse

Unexpected Proposal

Underlying

Another Proposition

Home

New Breed

Final Assault

What Remains

About the Author

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Chapter 1: Daughter

Blood...everywhere. The cold stone floor was awash in it, cracked plaster walls marked by streaks and splatter. What was once a brilliant, glossy vermillion had begun to dry. It was turning brown and dull, caking the room in a film of muck.

One small, quivering puddle of freshness remained, fed by the dying drops of a newly cut slab of flesh. The architect of the massacre clutched the chunk tightly in his hand. The pressure of his grip drew forth a final crimson tear. The task was done. It was the end, at least for the foreseeable future. Butcher Brady Blockcut had slain the last of his stock.

It was the last of any stock for that matter. Disease had made sure of it. Brady was the lone butcher in the remote town of Nugins Knob. He had held that position for many prosperous years, slicing meat and preparing cuts for the town's grateful population. But, approximately one year ago, a savage epidemic fell upon the area livestock. It ravaged the inventory and spared no particular species, save man. Heifers, which had been healthy the day prior, were suddenly found motionless in the fields. They had turned lifeless and stiff. Chickens and hogs soon met the same fate. Not knowing what else to do, the owners sold their animals to the only person who could make use of them, the butcher.

Ol' Blockcut did his best to keep up with the work. He chopped and sliced day and night in an attempt to save the meat. Brady kept a good pace and was able to preserve much of it before it spoiled, but the take could not keep up with demand. As fast as his cleaver dropped, the cuts were sold to the hungry citizenry. The pattern continued for quite some time. An animal would die from phantom illness; Brady would happily butcher the beast and then sell the meat for some nice coin. The only problem was that as the poor creatures died, so did the source of continued offspring.

Nugins Knob was an isolated village, nestled in a harsh, mountainous location. Almost every single Knobber had been born there, grew up there, and would eventually die there. Normally it was of no issue. The town was fairly large and self-sufficient, but when the meat shortage turned into an epidemic, the pristine seclusion of the Knobber life became a curse.

Surrounded by jagged peaks and treacherous terrain, both hunting and importation proved problematic. Many a young man lost his life while attempting to track a scarce cliff billy, and more than one trade party had gone missing and presumed dead.

So, with the last leg of lamb in all of the land dangling from his clenched fist, Brady Blockcut buried his bloody hatchet deep in a wooden slab, unsure of when, if ever, he would pry it free once more.

A knock on the cellar door brought Brady to attention.

"Come in," he bellowed through a thick stack of whiskers matted beneath his plump nose.

The door creaked open, and a young woman appeared.

"Father, the oven's burning strong," the woman stated in a soft, submissive tone.

Brady looked toward his daughter and his depression doubled. Betty Blockcut was a kind and gentle young woman, having just entered an age of maturity a few summers prior. With straight brown hair, a pale complexion, and hazel eyes that drew down in the corners, she was plain in almost every way. By no means would she be considered a troll, but no one would willingly offer her a compliment of physical praise. The fact that her daily wardrobe of choice consisted of uninspired, simple gray gowns thrown frumpily over her thin, stick-like frame, didn't help matters either.

Gazing upon his dull daughter, Brady bemoaned his dead wife. When he had first met his spouse, Blockcut was immediately taken. Their love was fast and strong, and it was not long until they married and she gave birth to Betty. But with the passing of time, the butcher watched as his beautiful bride turned old and homely. What he once looked upon as a visage of inspiration had grown worn and common in his eyes. A nasty spell of piper's cough took her when Betty was five-years-old, but by then, Brady was husband in title alone. It was with contempt that he now looked upon his daughter. He could see in her face and frame the lingering traits of his humdrum wife.

Normally, Brady's issue with his daughter's appearance would be a passing point of annoyance, but now, it was at the forefront every time he cast his eyes upon her. The meat man knew their wealth was all but gone, and the source of future prosperity, the blood of livestock, was now dry and cracking like a mud in the hot summer sun.

He had hoped his daughter might be able to rectify their situation. Months earlier, he had charged her with finding a male suitor. She was just old enough to do so, and still be considered proper. If Betty could woo a wealthy man, they would be able to hitch their coach to an endless source of coin. But, despite her best efforts, she repeatedly came up wanting. There wasn't a man in town that would grant her more than a courteous half smile followed by a dismissing wave of his hand.

Brady handed his daughter the leg of lamb and then took a seat at the kitchen table. He had made a promise that their last slice of edible stock would be shared between them for a final meat meal, and tonight was the night. Betty skewered the chop and began roasting it over the hot coals.

"Betty," the elder Blockcut began as he took a swig of ale from a cup set before him, "how did it go today?"

Betty did not answer right away. She was honest through and through, but knew what an honest answer would earn her. Her father had set up a date for her that afternoon with the son of a rich textile merchant. The merchant owed him a favor after Brady gave the fellow a side of beef, on credit, a few years back. At least that's what Brady thought. The reality was Brady had cashed in on that favor ten times over since then, but was so fickle and bull-headed, the genial textile merchant would give in to his request for payback every time he brought it up, just to avoid a quarrel.

Daughter Blockcut poked at the embers, stocking the fire. She was wary of telling her father the truth, the truth that she never arrived for the scheduled appointment. The past few months had been a series of failed attempts at courtship. She had been repeatedly turned down, scoffed at, and made fun of by numerous men of the village, only to return home in sadness and be further lumped upon by the nasty and disappointed words of her own father. The cycle of mental abuse had become more than she could handle, so, in respect to this most recent rendezvous, she simply could not bring herself to follow through.

"Well?" Brady prodded, growing a bit perturbed at his daughter's silence.

Betty turned the roasting lamb's leg, took a deep gulp and a tense breath, and then came clean.

"Father, I did not go," she stated with embarrassment.

What came next was a reply unlike any she had received before. Usually, her father would assault her with a barrage of angry words delivered in a rain of rage and spit. This time he offered up a more reserved, yet piercingly more painful, reply.

"Eh, wouldn't have mattered anyway, I suppose. Betty, it is no secret you are as plain as they come, a veritable weed of a woman, as common as a grain of sand in the Sahara."

Her parent's words tore deep, for they were delivered with such ease and belief that they must have been heartfelt. His subdued lines made her long for the vitriol.

"I'm sorry, father," was her only reply.

"I tell you what though, Betty, I've cared for you for many years now. I've fed you, given you clothes to wear, a house to live in." Brady continued, his words growing hotter. "I've made countless sacrifices in your name, and now, in our hour of need, after all I've done, you can't get your pathetic hide out on the lane and land a single man with so much as a penny to his name!" The butcher's ire had risen to the point of shouting, a level Betty had, unfortunately, grown more accustomed to.

"I'm so sorry, father," the young woman professed, tears welling in her eyes as she handed him a plate of hot meat.

Brady stabbed at the flesh and tore a band of tendon loose. He then shoved the morsel in his mouth and gnashed at it with crooked teeth. Every action was swathed in frustration.

Betty had taken a seat next to him, but was desperately trying to avoid stirring the pot. She shrunk back and cut a small bit of lamb from her own plate, quietly and with reserve. It mattered not, for Brady was now worked up.

"Damn it, Betty! You are simply a waste. Back when we had business, you could at least be counted on to mind the storefront. But now, with nothing to sell and no customers to speak of, you are a useless as a parasol underwater!"

Brady, quite often, forgot about the fact that Betty pretty much took care of him. She cooked, cleaned, did all the housework and upkeep, shopped, tended to an endless list of errands, and basically kept Brady's life unencumbered. This mattered little to Brady at that moment, or ever.

"I just wish there was something, anything, you could do that would help us out. Even your mother had the forethought to learn a trade. I mean she was one of the worst seamstresses to ever wield a needle, but at least she brought in a coin on occasion. Luckily, we never had to rely on her."

A tear slid down Betty's cheek. She had built up a fairly strong defense against her disparaging dad, seldom breaking down in front of him. But, when he spoke ill of her mother—and he often did—it was exceedingly more difficult to digest.

What made his comment even more cutting was the fact that Betty had wanted to learn a trade. She was a gifted child, a worthwhile seamstress in her own right with an inherent skill few possessed. At one point, she was even offered a chance to apprentice with the most renowned tailor in Nugins Knob. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, but her father made short work of that. When the proposition was made, Brady quashed it without hesitation. He reasoned it would take away from her ability to work at the store, and that just couldn't take place. As a result, Betty kept to her duties and let go of her dream to become a master needler. Now these many years later, Brady was criticizing her for a reality that he, himself, had crafted.

Betty took another bite of lamb, hoping the act of eating would distract her from the tongue-lashing. It did not. Brady's rage continued.

"Tomorrow, you will meet with the merchant's son, you will be there on the mark, and you will look as lovely as your mediocre countenance can afford!" the angry fellow bellowed. He then stood, his dinner in his hand, walked over to Betty, and snatched the remaining portion of meat from her plate.

"I'm heading over to the merchant's house right now," Brady stated with agitation. "Maybe a bit of veal will bribe him into giving you a second chance. For your sake, I hope it works. While I'm gone, make busy scrubbing down the slaughter room and then wash and press that low-cut, red blouse I bought you. Maybe your chest can convince the lad, even if your mush can't!"

The butcher stormed out of the house in a fury, slamming the thick wooden door behind him. Betty's head dropped into her hands and she began to cry uncontrollably. It was a fine line she walked. Her upbringing was proper and well taught, for she was constantly compelled to respect her father, even in the face of such vile insults. She believed, despite all that he had said and done, that deep down in his soul, he loved her. He had to. She was his daughter. His anger was simply born out of frustration and worry. Their lives had deteriorated to such an extent, it would be hard for anyone to deal with, and lashing out at her was his only option, for no one else was around.

Betty's mind had begun to reason this way often, as the personal attacks perpetrated upon her by her father became increasingly more frequent and pointed. She would convince herself that it was all simply misguided. But with each passing day, her conviction, as such, became more and more fragile.

Swallowing a final bit of bread, the only morsel of food left for her, Betty rose from the table and headed to the cupboard. There she obtained the red-stained cloth and filthy bucket used for washing down the slaughter room grime. Scouring the cellar was necessary to ward off disease, but it definitely was not a chore to look forward to.

With scraped knees and sore back, Brady's lone daughter set to task, and it was there, crouched upon the muck and blood, that she, too, wished she could land a husband, if only to deliver her from the pain and monotony of her oppressed existence. She cursed her own inadequacies, and, as she worked, self-pity became her lone companion.

After hours of toil, Betty rose to her feet. She arched her back and rolled her shoulders trying to wring out the wear and tear of arduous work. The sound of a latch turn and the whine of rusting hinges being drawn open alerted her to her father's return.

"Betty," his voice echoed from the kitchen above.

"Betty!" he shouted again, this time coated in annoyance.

Grabbing her bucket and rags, Betty hurried up the cellar stairs. Her father was waiting, sitting at the kitchen table, throwing back a mug.

"Despite your previous failing," he began with repugnance, "I've secured another arrangement with the textile merchant. His son, Peter Thornstitch, will meet you tomorrow at the Nugins' Square Fountain, promptly at six in the eve. He will be wearing a tall top hat encircled by a blue ribbon. You are to be carrying a basket of yellow daisies and sporting your red blouse. Any questions?"

"No, father," came Betty's quick reply.

The order had been given without call for debate. Brady had decreed, and Betty was to follow—it was as simple as that.

Father Blockcut took another drink, and then wiped his mouth clean on his shirtsleeve. "Now listen, lass. This may be the last available suitor in the entire Knob. Just as before, it matters not what you think of him, only what he thinks of you. I don't care if he has the snout of a boar, the eyes of a weasel, and the gait of a goat—he has money. That's what we're after. And, let's be honest, you are no rose. So, do what needs to be done, for if you falter once more..."

Brady slammed his mug against the tabletop, emphasizing his seriousness. He left his words trailing, encouraging his daughter to formulate, for herself, the harshest result of failure. He then turned his back on Betty and retired to his quarters.

Betty was left to dab up the spilled ale while contemplating the path before her. She realized that her father's meager patience was at an end, and if she could not woo Peter Thornstitch, he would not hesitate to sell her to any drunken street dreg lusting for ill-gotten entertainment. It was a bleak proposition, followed by an even nastier one. With little else to consider, Betty headed to her room to prepare her clothes for the next day's rendezvous, and then turn in for what was sure to be a restless slumber.

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Chapter 2: Lost

The morning brought with it a diminishing drizzle. It had rained hard throughout the night. Betty was fully aware of the fact, having been unable to sleep for much of it. The pressure of the day's pending event had kept her awake. Not even the rhythmic sound of droplets could lull her into unconsciousness. As she watched the rain turn to a fine mist beneath the warming rays of the sun, the loud sound of clanging pots revealed her father was already busy in the kitchen.

"Good morning, father," Betty uttered, greeting him with respect, as she always did.

"'Morning," he curtly replied, not even turning to acknowledge her with a glance.

Brady was busy rummaging through empty cupboards, desperately searching for anything that could suffice as breakfast. His scavenging yielded a single carrot and two slices of hard bread. With little consideration for his offspring, Blockcut nibbled down the vegetable and devoured both crusts.

Dusting the crumbs from his shirt, he turned toward Betty. "Sorry. Did you want some?" The comment was swathed in feigned sincerity. Betty paid the selfish deed no attention. She simply acquired a mug and began warming water for the tea.

"I have a man to meet out at the Krag," Brady stated. "Supposedly he has a dead goat to sell. I highly doubt it—probably a stuffed burlap sack wrapped in pelt. It's at least worth a look, though. So, I'm letting you know I'll be gone all day."

Blockcut then grabbed hold of Betty's arm and pulled her in close. Tightening his grip, his eyes narrowed as he glared at his daughter with cold, unwavering pupils.

"While I would be wise to escort you to your appointment," he continued with all sternness, "I must take a chance on the lead. It could draw coin if true. That means I am counting on you to do your duty. This is it, Betty, the last chance we have."

The butcher released his hold, and Betty instantly drew back in relief. His grip was crushing and left a stinging pain coursing through her thin bicep. She watched as her father retrieved his long coat and derby. Affixing the articles, he opened the door and stepped out into the moist morning air, but not before firing back one last stare of intimidation.

The wooden portal creaked shut and Betty immediately retreated to her room. She had done as she was told, and laid out the red blouse her father had instructed her to wear. In addition, she procured a simple, white skirt from her closet—a modest number, but very much a compliment to her top. For the rest of the morning, Betty made busy preparing for that evening's date. She washed, primped and pulled, styled, hemmed and ironed. Not a single facet of her appearance was left unattended. She could feel the weight of expectation on her back, and, as a result, gave even the smallest detail thorough consideration. By mid-afternoon, she looked as dazzling as heredity would allow.

The Nugins' Square Fountain was a bit of a ways away, but Betty also needed to obtain a clutch of yellow daisies to mark her identity. With their money all but gone, she knew buying them was out of the question. That meant she'd have to find a wild patch in the countryside, and the closest patch she knew of was in the opposite direction. It would take some time to venture there and then back to the fountain, so Betty knew she had to get a move on. She gave herself a final looking-over in the mirror, sipped down a few drops of tea, and, after obtaining a suitable wicker basket from the pantry, laced her walking heels and swiftly headed out the door.

Stepping out onto the loose gravel roadway in front of the butcher shop, Betty began her journey toward the low rolling hills of Nugins Knob's rural edge. While her footwear made for splendid show, they weren't exactly the best trudging boots. One particularly orb-like pebble caught her in just a fashion that it sent Betty stumbling. Only by clutching a fortuitously positioned signpost, was she able to maintain her balance and avoid tumbling into a receding rain puddle. Soiling her dress would be disastrous.

If Peter was like any of several other men she had encountered, the slightest sign of slovenliness could turn him off. As a result of the near fall, Betty slowed her pace and continued on with heightened caution.

By the time the young lass finally made it to the daisy patch, the golden hue of the sun had lowered, touching the yellow petal-tops and pulling them seamlessly into the horizon. Betty's wariness of staying pristine had delivered her to the spot smudge-less, but it had taken much longer than she anticipated. She'd have to gather her bouquet quickly.

Crouching down and grabbing hold of a lovely specimen, Betty pulled hard.

"Help!"

The piercing cry of distress echoed throughout the valley. Betty drew back in shock and horror, staring wide-eyed at the torn stem in her grasp. There's no way the flower had belted out the call. It just couldn't be. Knocking aside the dubious phenomenon, the butcher's child took hold of another flower and snapped it loose as well.

"Help!"

Betty's heart stopped. The flowers were calling out, seeking a savior who may rescue them from her damaging deed! It was fairytale turned reality.

"Help!"

The third plea came suddenly, and without a flower pull this time. That's when Betty realized the true nature of the situation. She rose to the sound and gazed across the countryside. A few yards away, nestled in a low patch of blooms, was a tiny little girl, a child not far past eight years old.

"Please! Someone, please help me!" the child called out.

She sat crunched up in a ball, holding her knees to her chest, and rocking back-and-forth with great anxiety.

Betty immediately made her way over to the little one. There she found a tiny girl wearing a tattered green dress, its pattern dirt-covered and spotted. She was shoeless and shivering with blonde hair, knotted and unkempt, partially concealing large, shimmering blue eyes. The child was a hidden pixy among the daisy grove.

"Hello," Betty stated softly, hoping not to frighten the child.

The girl's posture tightened at the greeting. She frantically glanced left and right, seeking out the source. Betty was perplexed. She was only feet away from the tike, and the child looked right past her as if she wasn't even there. After taking a few steps closer, now clearly in the girl's direct line of sight, Betty understood why. The child was blind.

"Dear, my name's Betty," Miss Blockcut stated, kneeling down before her.

"I'm lost," was the young girl's sorrowful reply.

Dried trails of moisture were evident on her cheeks. She had obviously been out in the wilderness for quite a while, having cried out all her tears.

"Lost? Well, perhaps I can lend a hand," offered Betty with kindness as she lightly took hold of the girl's quivering palm.

The kind-hearted woman helped the child to her feet.

"What is your name?"

"Gertie, ma'am."

"Well Gertie, let's try to figure out how you got here. Do you recall anything particular?"

The tiny tot scratched her head, lowering her broken gaze in contemplation.

"Wet feet. I remember crossing a creek," the girl revealed.

"Good, that will help."

Betty strained her neck, turning her ear to the sky. With a little bit of concentration, she could make out the faint ripple of a babbling brook just off in the distance.

"I think I hear the creek, Gertie," stated the hopeful Blockcut.

"Me, too," replied the suddenly optimistic child.

"Well, let's get moving then."

Hand-in-hand the pair traversed a wide span of wild grass and flat stone. At the end of the field they met the forest's edge, and were soon surrounded by old trees and a harvest of ferns.

"Where were you headed?" Betty asked the child, hoping to pass the time with conversation.

"I heard the most wonderful birdsong. One I have never heard before," replied the little girl. "I followed it for a while, and before I knew it, I had lost my way."

"I can see how that might happen, Gertie, especially when you cannot see where you are going."

"It does happen from time to time. Mum told me how far I can venture, but sometimes I just get all mixed up," Gertie responded with a bit of embarrassment.

"It's got to be tough," Betty replied with compassion.

"I know it is for my Mum. She has to leave me every day to travel into town and work at the grain mill. She says she prays every minute she's away that nothing will happen to me. That's why she'll be so mad if she finds out I got lost again. Last time, she even swore she'd even make a deal with the Devil if it meant my peepers would work."

Betty laughed, "Sounds like your mother has her hands full."

Gertie smiled.

As they walked, the sound of rumbling water grew louder. From behind the split trunk of a rather twisted tree, Betty spotted it—a shallow creek slithering through the woods.

"I think we've found it, Gertie!" Betty shouted with excitement.

They quickened their pace as Betty guided the child toward the water's edge. Upon the opposite bank were two small, brown shoes, with laces all in tangles.

"Gertie, this must be the spot. I see your shoes on the other side."

"Hooray!" shouted the excited child as she jumped joyfully in the air. But her act was unknowingly irksome, for when she landed upon the soft mud of the creek side, a spray of wet sludge came shooting out from beneath her tiny toes. The dirt went straight toward Betty, and was immediately captured in brown clumps upon her white skirt. Betty gasped in horror.

"What? What has happened?" Gertie could sense something was amiss.

Betty knew it was an accident, but the damage had been done. She quickly walked into the shallow stream and began tossing water upon the stains in a frantic attempt to erase them. Gertie could hear the splashing, and she, too, entered the waterway.

"Betty, what's the matter?" Gertie asked with concern.

"Oh, nothing," the distraught could-be-wife, replied. The water washing had only served to expand the discoloration upon her clothes. A thorough scrubbing with soap was the only hope, and there was neither time, nor resource, for that. Betty took Gertie by the hand, and they waded through the cold, ankle-deep flow, arriving at the opposite side with little, additional incident.

Betty bent over and snatched up Gertie's discarded shoes.

"Here, Gertie, let's put your shoes back on."

The young woman sat the wire-thin child upon a fallen trunk and wiggled the soles back on her feet.

"I took them off to play in the creek," Gertie explained. "Mum would have my hide if I had gotten them wet."

Looking at the filthy little bugger, covered from head-to-toe in grass stains, grime, and goo, Betty chuckled at the child's selective obedience.

"Okay, Gertie, it's obvious you came this way, but what next? Do you recall anything else?" Betty queried.

"Hmmm." The girl thought for a moment, trying to recollect what other sensory input had impressed upon her. "Christmas trees! I remember the smell of Christmas trees!"

Betty ascended the slightly sloping brook bank and glared out across a nearby clearing. Several yards away, the forest became dense once more, but peeking out from atop a mass of deciduous trees were the triangular peaks of evergreens.

"I think I spot a patch of pines just up ahead," stated Betty. "Let's head in that direction."

Guiding her charge carefully, the kind escort walked the little girl across the terrain, brushing aside tall weeds and clearing a path for easier navigation. A short time later, they found themselves accosted by the scent of pine.

"Okay, we're at the fir trees, Gertie. Any idea of how you came to this spot?" Betty asked, taking a seat upon a large stone jutting out of a pillow of thick moss.

Gertie reached across her body and slid her fingers through a ragged hole in her sleeve. "Right before the Christmas trees, I caught my arm on a nasty bush. I heard and felt the tear as I yanked away."

Gertie wore a bright orange blouse beneath her green dress, and Betty immediately began scanning the perimeter for the slightest hint of the hue. She stood and walked a few paces left and right, gazing across the foreground and then into the background, searching for an orange swatch of fabric. Much to her delight, she spotted the color—a small torn flag of fabric dangling from a thorn-covered twig.

"This way!" she exclaimed.

Betty and Gertie weaved through the pines and soon found themselves at the briars. Miss Blockcut twisted the orange cloth free and held it up to the child's shirt for verification. The match was without question.

"This is where you tore your blouse, Gertie."

"Then we're almost at my house! The thorny row lines the far edge of our property. Once we get through the hedge line, we'll be in another clearing, and my home will be smack dab in the middle."

Betty eyed the thickly woven wall of thorns in front of them. Only a small deer path looked to provide a way through. Gertie's tiny build would have had little trouble passing between the hook-like branches, but Betty knew her passage would prove much more difficult. The bushes extended for a great distance in either direction, with no better option for travel evident. Plus, the sun was very low now. Betty had jeopardized her chances of being on time for her date with Peter by helping Gertie, but she still held out hope she could make it. That most definitely would not be the case if she had to circumnavigate the thorn row. So, with a sigh of inevitability, she led Gertie down the only path before them.

Within a few strides, the young Blockcut felt the pull of cloth against her skin followed by the disheartening sound of tearing thread. A branch had caught her shoulder and ripped a hole in her blouse. Betty cried silently to herself. Not only had her skirt been tarnished, but now her blouse too. Another few feet were met by another gash, cut across her forearm. Five steps later, a third tatter appeared. By the time Betty and Gertie emerged from the foliage, the young lass' blouse and skirt had been critically ripped in several locations. Her caution while traveling to the daisy patch had been rendered tragically moot.

"I smell them!" Gertie shouted with joy.

"Smell what?" Betty asked.

"The lavender bushes. The one's by the front stoop of my house!"

Sure enough, in the clearing ahead sat a cottage. It was a quaint, little stone home with a small, adjacent vegetable garden and many spots of ornamental flowers accenting the property.

Gertie broke free of Betty's grip and raced for the front door. As Betty followed, she could see the form of a woman walking toward the house, traveling down a nearby dirt road. The woman spotted Betty as well, and upon doing so, quickened her pace.

"Hey!" the lady shouted as Betty reached the cottage entrance.

Betty held fast.

The woman was obviously worried, and Betty did not want to add to her tension by ignoring her.

"Yes, ma'am," Betty responded.

"What's your business here?" she questioned.

Betty figured this was Gertie's mother, returning from work. The assumption became certitude as Gertie came running from the cottage and into the woman's waiting arms.

"Mum!" a gleeful Gertie shouted. "I'm so glad you're home."

The mother squeezed her daughter, smiling ear-to-ear.

"Mum, this is Betty," the joyous child explained. "She...um...well..."

Gertie struggled to reveal the true circumstances of their meeting for fear her mother would scold her for getting lost again, but she, being a mother, knew the truth without actual need for confession.

"Gertie," her mother began, "did you wander off again?"

"But Mum, this bird was singing the most beautiful tune. I just had to hear the whole song, and before I knew it..."

"Gertie, how many times do I have to tell you!? You could get seriously hurt out in the forest."

"I'm sorry, Mum."

"You know the deal. You broke the rule, so no pudding tonight."

"Yes, Mum," a dejected Gertie uttered with acceptance.

"Now get inside and clean up," her mother ordered.

Gertie rushed back inside. Her mother reached out a hand of thanks to Betty, introducing herself as Evelyn Vitualamen.

"Thank you so much," Evelyn graciously stated. "If you hadn't come across her, she might have been lost all night. It's just so tough. I try to keep her safe, but I have to work. I have to earn coin to support us, what with her father gone. I'd give anything if she could just see, if even with a sliver of clarity."

"No need to explain, ma'am," Betty replied.

"Please, please, come in and have a cup of broth."

While the offer was tempting, Betty knew she had precious little time remaining. There was still a chance she could make it to the fountain at the count, and while her appearance was far from fair, she knew punishment for missing her appointment would be far worse than missed pudding.

Taking to the dirt road, Betty bid the woman adieu asking but one favor, to tell Gertie she had enjoyed their adventure. Evelyn agreed and Betty departed company with a wave and a smile.

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Chapter 3: Companion

The sun was very low now. It had to be pushing 5 o'clock and Betty was not exactly sure how far from Nugins Knob she had truly traveled. Her sense of direction was sound, and she knew her impromptu detour had definitely increased the distance, but exact miles were unknown, so she hurried her pace by running in short bursts between periods of rest.

The act was difficult. Her high boot heels and the uneven traveling surface caused her ankles to ache and her legs grow weary. At a crossroads in the woods, she paused to sit upon a stump and massage her swollen feet. The shoes she was wearing had become a liability. They were only hampering her speed and worsening her fatigue, so with a cringe of regret, she snapped the heels off the pair. The result was more manageable, if not exceedingly less fashionable.

After giving her toes a final rub, Betty placed the leveled soles back upon her stompers and rose to continue her journey. Suddenly, she heard a loud gunshot and a deep wail of agony emanating from further on down the road.

The incident gave her pause. She could not be certain of the circumstances surrounding such a commotion but knew very well what awaited her at home if she failed to make it to her appointment on time. Fear of the latter outweighed worry of the former, and so she cautiously proceeded down the dirt lane toward the sound.

After a few more yards, she came upon a small clearing in a patch of maples just beyond the road's edge. At the center of the clearing was a rundown, rustic cabin, outside of which Betty could see the hunched form of a man kneeling next to an open fire pit. He was whimpering softly to himself.

The sight was quite sorrowful, and by the looks of his surroundings, it appeared as though the man was alone. Concern gripped Betty's heart. She was certain she had heard a gunshot, and with the man slouched over as he was, Miss Blockcut worried he may be injured. She pushed her way through some overgrowth and headed toward the scene.

The sound of Betty's feet trampling fallen twigs alerted the man to her presence. He shot up in surprise, turning to see the lass only feet from him.

"Oh, my!" he bellowed with surprise upon laying eyes on Betty. "I didn't realize..."

The man was thin and bearded, with two glistening eyes poking through a thick cover of gray whiskers. His nose and cheeks were pink, more evidence that his emotions had been running high. He wore a loose, tattered overcoat and wide, fraying suspenders, which held his over-sized, wrinkled pants high upon his hips. He had all the trappings of a malnourished mountain man.

"I'm sorry," Betty began with a soothing tone, "I was passing by and heard the noise. I worried something quite dreadful had happened. Are you injured?"

Before the man could answer, Betty noticed his withered hands, dangling lifelessly at his sides. They were painted red, and dripping blood. She also noticed a fresh stain of the stuff upon the man's coat.

"No, I'm fine," the fellow replied with some hesitation.

"But the blood?" Betty questioned, pointing toward his hands and coat.

The man's head fell low as he slowly moved aside. Behind him on the ground, in the spot where he had been kneeling, was a slain animal—a dog.

"I had to do it," the man stated. "I was just so hungry."

His words were soaked in pain. The man moved toward the pup and scooped the canine up in his arms. Whimpering once more, he began to sway, as if coddling a newborn.

"He was my best friend...my only friend," the distraught woodsmen bemoaned. "He got me out of more than one tough spot in my life, but I convinced myself I had to do it. There was just nothing left to eat, and I'm so, so hungry."

Betty noticed a flintlock lying in the dirt a few feet away, its barrel still smoking. She realized what had happened. The poor man shot his own dog for food, and was now tormented by the deed.

"There's no way I can do it now," the man muttered. "There's no way. I'll just as soon starve, willing and alone."

Still clutching his deceased friend in one arm, the man walked over to his cabin and snatched up a shovel. He then carefully laid the animal down on a mossy, forest patch, and began digging.

"He's getting a proper burial. Damn me! Damn me and my weak constitution!" he shouted toward the heavens.

Betty watched as the poor man tossed shovelfuls of dirt aside amid mutterings of anger and sadness. She looked upon the dog's lifeless, bloody corpse. The telling mark was a single musket hole centered between a mismatched pair of black and brown ears. It was a horrible scene of heartache.

Having dug a deep hole, the frazzled gent scooped up his departed companion and lovingly placed him in the burial plot, tears soaking his bushy beard the entire time.

"I would do anything to have him back, to undo the dastardly decision I so hastily made. I'd endure the most searing pain, accept the harshest punishment, whatever it took, just to have him sitting at my feet once more."

Miss Blockcut had quietly made her way over to the man. She placed a caring hand upon his shoulder as the mourner re-filled the earthen void. He patted down the last bit of dirt, sealing his pet in eternal slumber. The fellow realized there was nothing he could do. What was done, was done. Only agonizing remorse remained.

The forest had grown silent, as if nature itself was paying her respects, and Betty and the man stood still in reflection.

"I'm sorry," Betty whispered.

The man did not reply. His eyes were fixated on the grave.

"If you'd like, you can come with me to town," Betty continued, "I don't have much to offer, but I'm sure we can rustle up a small morsel at least."

"No, I'm staying here. He never left my side, and I'm not leaving his, even now."

"But, you have nothing to eat. How long do you think you'll last!?"

"I'm not sure I want to last."

The statement was delivered as seriously as any Betty had ever heard. She realized then, that despite any alternative she could offer, the man wasn't going anywhere. He was going to pay his penance, even if it meant slowly withering away upon the burial site.

"Go," he said to Betty. "I have crafted, by my own hand, a solitary existence, and I will be bound by that choice. Go."

The man brushed Betty's hand from his shoulder, before falling to his knees upon the forest floor. Betty did not know what to do. He was clearly suffering from the great trauma, but Betty knew she couldn't force him to come along. So, reluctantly, she withdrew, weaving her way back through the overgrowth and arriving once more on the road to Downtown Nugins Knob. She glanced a final time through the tree line and could see the man still kneeling and sobbing. With a promise to herself that she would return soon to check on him, Betty turned her gaze to the dirt path ahead and continued on her way.

It was very late now, and the sun was but a single, orange line of vibrancy beneath a darkening sky. Betty could see the edge of town just ahead, and she recognized the homes and storefronts before her. The familiar location brought hope to her heart. All the twists and turns had altered her course, but fate had graciously returned her to a point much closer to the Nugins' Square Fountain than she had predicted. Summoning up the last bit of energy she had, Betty broke into a sprint, carving her way through the winding alleys and brick-covered lanes of the city.

The gaslights had sprung to life and Betty could sense time was vanishing. Street vendors were packing up their carts and wheeling home their inventory, the traffic of self-propelled wagons congested the avenues and forced Betty to dodge this way and that.

At a blind corner, Betty found an elderly broom seller suddenly in her path. In an effort to avoid crashing into the woman, she turned awkwardly and stumbled over a discarded bucket that had been lying on the ground. The act sent her head-over-heels into a barrel full of rotting dung mushrooms, the lot having not been sold and, as such, simply left to spoil in the evening air.

Prying herself free from the wooden parcel, Betty reeled back in disgust. The stench was putrid, a decaying perfume of the vilest sort. She quickly peeled away loose mushroom bits from her blouse, and did her best to shake out the smell, but as she took to running once more, the remnants of the odor traveled with her.

After a few more yards, Betty could make out the undeniable sound of trickling water. The fountain wasn't far off. Another turn left, a third turn right, and after one more dash, she arrived at the square with labored breath and a pounding heart.

Immediately she scanned the area, hoping to locate a young man whose image matched the description given by her father. An ambling crowd shuffled about. Betty rose to her tiptoes and peered across the crown toppers. She saw a few tangled frocks and a half dozen derbs, a bonnet large enough to set sail, and a luxurious weave of white curls. Then she spotted it, a proper top hat.

Like a musket ball, Betty cut through the mass and toward her target. After inching between a rotund mead swiller and a haggard lass far past courting, she appeared before the top-hatted gent.

"Hello, fine Sir," Betty greeted while extending her hand.

The gentleman turned toward her. The smile that he first offered quickly turned downward as the fellow's nostrils flared and his features recoiled.

"What is that awful smell?" he replied with annoyed curiosity.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I was running around the corner, just over there, when...."

The man drew a shiny coin from his pocket and tossed it at Betty's feet. "Take that and be off you homeless slob. Beggars like you are better off sauced in an alleyway than walking about the public square."

Betty was appalled, but before she uttered a retort, she noticed the man she was speaking to lacked a certain defining characteristic. His top hat sported a black swatch of velvet, not the blue one she was looking for.

Wasting no more time on the haughty bloke, she snatched up the coin and pocketed it. Her family's financial predicament did not provide for the luxury of pride. Betty hurried from the well-to-do's presence and again scoured the crowd looking for her potential paramour. She felt tasked to find her suitor, as opposed to the reverse, being as she was without her own beacon of recognition. Betty had left behind the basket of yellow flowers while helping Gertie in the forest.

Now atop the short, stone wall of the fountain basin, she swiveled her head all about. As the crowd continued to thin, her heart's warmth grew colder. The man she was seeking had already left. She had missed her appointment and the heavy fear of her father's harsh punishment was now upon her. Betty knew that only one option remained. She vaulted from the wall and ran as quickly as she could down the lane, the lane leading to the textile merchant's parlor.

Under normal circumstances, it would be improper for a woman to come calling on a man at his own residence late in the evening, but to Betty, disregarding formalities was a far more palatable option than returning to her cottage an utter failure. As she ran, she searched for the words that would fog the fellow's possible perception that she was incompetent and flighty, unable to keep to the clock. She thought she would tell him plainly the circumstances as they had transpired—how she came across the crying child and the heartbroken man in the woods. Perhaps Peter Thornstitch would find her concern endearing. Then again, the tale could be received as a convoluted mush of excuses.

By the time Betty reached the parlor, she was still uncertain about what she would say, but her hand would wait no longer. Before she knew it, she was banging the bronze clapper. Soon thereafter, a stately fellow opened the door. Standing before her was an older gent adorned in a fine coat and sporting a dinner cap that held his silver hair tight to his head. The man was the textile merchant himself, Mr. Rupert Thornstitch.

Betty leapt into her plea. "I'm sorry, Sir. I know this is highly improper, but you must understand it was not my intention..."

"Peter!" the older Thornstitch bellowed toward the parlor's interior, cutting Betty short. "Peter!" he barked again, "I believe Blockcut's daughter is here to see you."

He then leaned in toward Betty, squinting his eyes and flaring his nostrils in the same manner the man in the square had. "You are Blockcut's daughter, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sir, I am," Betty replied sheepishly as she attempted to press out the wrinkles in her tattered dress and preserve some semblance of dignity. It was a futile effort.

A second voice rose behind Mr. Thornstitch. "Yes, Father, you called."

Stepping into view came Peter Thornstitch. He was still dressed in a proper courting suit with the blue-emblazoned top hat wedged under his arm. Peter was a tall gentleman, if not a bit on the gangly side. His facial features were of generally average proportions, but each facet bore a slightly askew element. His eyes slouched down in the corners, as did the ends of his mouth. His eyebrows were bushy masses of whiskers, the left being a bit more untamed than the right, and his nose was just a fraction more bulbous than would otherwise be unnoticeable. Betty was one who could care less, but the sum of his parts provided her a possible explanation as to why he was the last available man in Nugins Knob.

"Peter, I am so sorry I was not on time," Betty offered with sincerity.

Peter said nothing in reply. He simply stared in disbelief at Betty's disheveled appearance. Her torn garments, stained and filth crusted, her knotted hair and flushed cheeks, they all held him transfixed. It was also clear by his expression that the unfortunate aroma of rotting mushroom permeating Betty's being had assaulted his olfactory glands. His gaze rose from her untied bootlaces, up past her muddied mid-section, and eventually settled on her smudged, forlorn face. Only then was the spell broken.

"Ah, hello...Betty? It is Betty, right?" Peter stated with apprehension.

"Yes, I'm Betty. Again, I'm very sorry I was not on time, but you have to believe me, my tardiness was not malicious. I came upon a girl in the woods..."

Mr. Thornstitch had not moved from Peter's side. Betty watched as he tugged his son's coattail signaling a need for counsel.

"Excuse me, please," said the young man.

Betty watched as Peter's father escorted him deeper into the parlor. The old man leaned into his son's ear and whispered something. Both turned and looked at Betty, utter disgust in their eyes. The son mouthed something back to his dad, but from her fixed position at the parlor's stoop, Betty could not decipher the comment. Another secret exchange was followed by a second glower of disapproval hurled in Betty's direction, which then led to Peter turning from the scene and retreating to their upstairs apartment. Mr. Thornstitch walked back toward the door.

"I'm sorry dear, but Peter has no interest." Thornstitch's words were delivered as coldly and uncaring as any she had heard from her own father. "Good night to you."

With that, the textile merchant slammed the oak panel in her face. Betty was left speechless on the stoop. She heard the click and clack of Mr. Thornstitch drawing the bolt. Moments later, the parlor went dark. That was it. The rendezvous had ended in the most humiliating way Betty could have imagined.

That charcoal fear, the dark and sooty type which left its mark with every foul word and vicious glance, was fermenting within her. Her father would undoubtedly rage. It was as inevitable as death. She had weathered the storm on countless occasions in the past, but this time the gathering clouds were heavier, denser, more menacing in their appearance. As Betty turned and walked away from the parlor, she desperately tried to suppress the dread.

===============

Chapter 4: Offer

It would take some time to get back to the butcher's shop, far less had a coach delivered her courtesy of her new love. Betty was not in a hurry. In fact, she contemplated never returning, but that thought was fleeting. She had no place to go and the only other alternative would be to face certain end in the treacherous wilds of Nugins Knob. Perhaps she would simply stall her arrival back home, arriving there after her father had already gone to sleep. At least then she could put off the savage verbal assault until morning.

"Excuse me, Dear." A wavering, women's voice broke through Betty's introspection. "Care for a beet cake?"

Standing at the street corner was an old woman draped in humble threads. She carried a large wicker basket. Betty could make out the faint smell of pastries.

"I've got a few left, dear. They've grown cold as the day passed on, but I find cold cakes can taste just as fine as those fresh out of the coals. Some even prefer them that way."

The old woman moved closer to young Blockcut. In the growing light of a nearby post, Betty could make out the kind, aged, features of the mum. She wore a sincere smile but carried a sense of sadness in her expression.

"It's late, Ma'am," Betty replied. "All of the other street vendors have gone and people are now scarce upon the cobblestone."

"Every cake sold is a cake worth selling," the woman responded.

"But it may now be best to head home, as I am doing. Falling light can bring forth ruffians and foxes. The shadowed streets are no place for two women such as ourselves."

"No, no, my dear, I must sell every cake I can!" The woman shoved the crisp biscuit toward Betty, pleading for her to buy.

"Please, dear. You won't be sorry. The flakes are just right. Only a penny."

The urgency in her voice was very odd. Betty had been the target of panhandlers many times before. Heck, half the town could be seen hawking wares in the square from time-to-time, but this elderly lady was somehow different. Betty pressed.

"Ma'am, why are you so willing to peddle your stock at your advanced age and especially at this time of the evening? Haven't you a husband waiting?"

A glistening of light caught the edge of the women's eyes. It was reflected in a rising tide of tears.

"Oh, how I wish that were so, but alas, he was stolen away by the fateful hand of murderous envy. My poor Charles, he was a good man not deserving his end."

Betty had walked the streets of Nugins Knob enough time to know when a conniving salesman was feeding her a line and when she was hearing the truth. This woman was speaking from the heart. Betty placed a hand on her back and began to walk with her.

"Where is your home ma'am? I'll walk you there," Betty offered.

"Yes, perhaps that is best. I've been out since dawn," the woman replied between sobs.

Miss Blockcut reached over and grabbed hold of the cake basket hoping to relieve the woman the burden of hauling. She was surprised to feel the weight. Apparently, the old woman sold very little that day.

"This is just the wickedness of life, isn't it? To go from gracious wife of the town's best cobbler to widowed street merchant selling cold cakes. I swear, once I have the coin, justice will be done." The woman's voice had turned vengeful and stern.

"What happened?" Betty asked.

The lady grabbed hold of Betty's hand. Her grip was strong and hard as she recounted the tale.

"My husband Charles had me bested by a few years, and you can see how age sits on me now, so it was no secret that his days as a cobbler were drawing to a close. But it was not fast enough for Victor Lednail. A second-rate boot binder, Victor couldn't hold a sole to leather if his life depended on it. But for some twisted reason, he was insistent upon being the only cobbler in town. He could not accomplish this by skill, so he resorted to trickery, attempting to steal customers through blasphemy and deception. But my husband's talents always prevailed."

The woman paused for a moment, trying to pace her story and keep her emotions from overtaking her.

"Confronted by that fact," she continued, "Victor employed a few rotten apples to try to intimidate my husband, but Charles was a man of principal, a great man indeed. He did not bow to threats and only worked harder and with more diligence. Finally, Victor went to the ends. He poisoned my Charles. He coaxed forth his final breath from a cup of sweet tea."

Betty was shocked to hear the tale, and was wiping away drops from her own cheek.

"That demon! And what of him now? Does he rot in the cell?" she asked.

"No, he does not, and that is why I sell cakes. I know Victor is responsible. I know he was the one, but I cannot yet prove it. If I can just manage enough coin, I can hire a keen investigator, a man capable of proving my claim and delivering that vile criminal the justice he deserves."

Betty was heartbroken. To have lost someone so dear to an act so evil, and to not even be granted the modest reprieve of just retribution. That would torment a person to no end.

The woman halted their walk. They had arrived at her flat.

"Thank you for the escort, dear. You are a fine young woman."

"I wish I could help you, ma'am. You have suffered a terrible circumstance." Betty reached into her skirt pocket and felt the coin she had been tossed by the haughty man in the square. Without hesitation she offered it to the old woman.

"Here," she shouted with excitement, "I forgot I had this. Please, it is yours."

Betty placed the treasure into the woman's open hand and closed her withered fingers around it with a loving embrace.

"Thank you, dear. Thank you," the woman wept. "I'd do anything to set things right, anything. Your coin will go to a good cause, you can be sure."

The woman handed Betty three cold beet cakes. Betty graciously accepted. She was hungry, and bringing home a bit of sustenance just might temper her father's ensuing anger, if even by a small measure.

The two ladies of the Knob bid each other goodnight, after which Betty put her boots to the stone and continued on her way home. She moved briskly, hoping to avoid trouble, but couldn't help but pause and laugh at her perspective.

Trouble was unavoidable. Making it safely home without being accosted by strangers seemed almost pointless for she was sure to be accosted in her own domicile by her father. The logic felt tight, and so Betty slowed her pace. Again she reminded herself that arriving back at the shop after her father had gone to bed might be the best-case scenario. Actually, if she were truly assaulted on her way home, perhaps the episode would garner some sympathy. There was born a second reason to drag her feet.

All these ideas swirled wildly in her head. Rarely does one actually pray for misfortune, but at that moment, walking alone on the dark hamlet road, Betty's mind searched for every conceivable avenue of escape from a sure-fire scolding. By the time she reached the butcher's shop door, she had gathered very little comfort.

The wooden portal inched slowly open as Betty carefully tiptoed inside. It was quiet and still. The moonlight cascading through a bare display window at the front of the shop provided the only interior illumination. From all appearances, it seemed as though her father had, indeed, gone to bed for the night. Betty sighed a shallow breath of relief, and then tripped over a misplaced pot that was lying on the kitchen floor. The tin cookware spun across the tile and slammed into a cupboard, echoing a very loud clang throughout the house. This was followed by a series of clinks and clanks as the force of impact dislodged several more pots and pans from their cupboard shelves. They careened to the ground in a cacophony of rough crashes.

"Who's there?!" a gruff and excited voiced boomed from the nearby stairwell. Within seconds, Brady Blockcut came rushing into the room, a candle in one hand and a magnificently large cleaver in the other.

"It's me, Father! It's Betty!" his daughter called out.

"Betty? It is late. I was beginning to think you finally made good with a lad."

Brady moved about the kitchen, lighting candles as he walked, and casting the whole room in a flickering glow. Now bathed in light, Betty's shabby appearance was obvious—her miserable dress, dirt-covered complexion, and questionable odor. Brady was caught off-guard by the sight, standing motionless and staring in utter disbelief at his daughter.

Betty's bones grew cold as Brady's brow grew narrow. The storm had arrived.

"What in all of Hades happened to you?!" Brady shouted.

"I was going to gather flowers in the..." Betty began to explain. She knew the true tale would do nothing to calm her father's rising current. She changed course.

"I have beet cakes," she offered in hopes it would disarm him.

"Beet cakes?!" Brady snatched them out of Betty's hand and stuffed them into his fat mouth. "Who gives a damn about beet cakes?" he chortled, spitting bits of crust into his daughter's dower face. "Tell me about the Thornstitch boy? Did you make good?"

Betty did not know what to say. She averted her gaze in contemplation and, with that subtle act, told her father everything he needed to know.

"Damn you, Betty! That was our last chance!" Anger filled Brady to the brim. It boiled over as he began to pace. It shot straight and steaming from his pupils, striking Betty directly and stinging her flesh. It poured like a torrent from his mustached yap, drowning his daughter in a wash of curses.

"You are a worthless, ugly, detestable woman, Betty. You couldn't woo a legless, blind man looking for a wagon pusher. I swear, if I could do it all over again, I would have strode right past your dim-witted mother in the hope that that simple act would have kept a wretch like you from ever burdening this Earth with your incompetence."

Betty took every blow. The words fell hard and heavy. Each line piled upon her back like a cut timber and she struggled to keep straight.

"Betty, I will find use for you yet! By God's name, I will find use for you. Whether you must deal in the dark, selling the only ware you have left, I swear I will find use for you! Now get to your room. I have thinking to do."

Betty scurried like a mouse past her father, ducking slightly so as to avoid a possible physical assault. He had never hit her before, but in Brady's heightened state of rage, she wanted to be prepared for the very real possibility. Then, a step past letting her guard down, the calloused hand of her hate-filled father struck. It hit solid upon her back and knocked her to the ground.

"You disgust me," he uttered in the most cutting of tones.

Betty brought herself to a crouch, and no farther. She feared rising to her feet would be construed as defiance, so in her animalistic stance, she scampered up the steps to her room without looking back.

Still fuming, Brady chucked his cleaver across the room, burying its edge in the wooden door leading to the basement. It was a displaced act of aggression, and a powerful one at that, for the blade wedged itself an inch deep into the surface.

"Arrrghhhhhh!!!!!" he cried aloud. "That pitiful speck...my detestable daughter...this godforsaken hamlet...the pox upon the livestock! It has all transpired against me. I am a man due fortune, even the slightest, aren't I? Couldn't just one grace fall upon my doorstep? Couldn't just a single calf wander into my yard?"

Brady fell upon a stool, his head in his hands. He swayed and rocked, trying to comfort himself as a mother does a child. But comfort would not come. His anguish only grew as he considered his circumstance.

"Is there not a single bit of game left, a portion of meat worth consumption and coin? I would give anything for even the smallest morsel. I would sell my very soul if it were to bring a beast to slaughter."

Butcher Blockcut was overcome by a fearful sensation, like millions of white-hot needles being pressed into his flesh. It was a piercing heat, one so intense it felt as if his veins were rising to the surface of his skin, stretching and straining against the epidermis in a desperate attempt to break free from his body. The violent agony lasted only a few seconds, and left in its wake was the sour smell of sulphur. The odor was engrossing and inescapable. Brady could feel atoms of the stuff fall upon him like burning drops of acid, and this second wave of unexplained experience was even more painful than the first. But again, it lasted only a second.

Suddenly, the candle flames raised many times their normal height. The orange spirits danced in unison as if possessed by the tune of an unseen piper. They twirled and twisted. A flame closest to Brady lashed out like the tongue of a serpent and singed his knuckles. The terrified man trembled in fear.

"Hellooooo, Brady," a deep and ghastly voice echoed from the shadows.

Blockcut shrunk into himself. He cowered upon his wobbling stool, shaking in a fit of dread. His eyes darted back and forth, like minnows evading a predator. The source of the words lied just beyond the glowing flames of light. It hung in the black periphery, an unseen ghost.

"I believe I can help you," the man said slyly, this time his voice emanating from another position within the room.

Brady pivoted upon his perch, desperately trying to locate the phantom.

"Who's there? Who hides in the dark? Show yourself!" Brady shouted, his words wavering and unsure.

"Very well."

And with that, the candles' lights were extinguished, every one of them simultaneously. Brady was lost in the desolation of night. Even the moonbeams, that had once shown so bright, seemed to have been consumed by the deepest of black. Brady clung to the edge of his stool in utter horror of what may transpire next.

Then, out of nowhere, came a spark of light, a single wick of illumination mere inches from Brady's nose. A small candle was held firm in the grasp of several abnormally long fingers, appearing, in many ways, like a severed hand floating in the bleak morass. Slowly a cloaked visage inched into view. It seemed to form out of the very darkness surrounding it. The morphing appearance grew more evident as it passed into the ebbing ring of glow. Another hand drew back the hood. Brady soon found himself staring eye-to-eye with a very unusual looking man.

A large, alligator grin stretched from bony cheekbone to bony cheekbone, each having a faint, irregular pattern of blue veins just below the taut skin surface. Thin red lips held back a row of gleaming white teeth whose count and sharpness seemed exceedingly greater than average. Above that line of pointed chomps hung a sharp nose sided by sharp nostrils that flared rhythmically with each drawn breath.

Then there were his eyes. The orbs were large in proportion to the man's face, each dotted by a deep, black pupil. The hint of color provided by the iris was either of the same hue or entirely absent. But what struck Brady as most odd, and what held him in captivated examination, was the fact that they did not jitter, did not glitter or gleam. They were dead eyes, stark and unflinching. It was like staring into the endless oblivion, all at once fascinating and frightful. Brady was transfixed.

"Butcher Brady Blockcut," the man continued, "I heard you are in need of meat."

Brady swallowed hard, unsure of what was taking place. He pulled forth a response from his quivering mass. "Yes, it'd go a long way to putting me back on my feet."

"Well, Sir, what if I were to offer you a supply of bovine stock. Meat of a quality unlike any other?"

The thought of treasure derived from such good fortune began to loosen Brady's disposition. "I suppose I'd entertain the proposition," he replied with interest and a bit of doubt.

The man's lengthy grin pulled even wider and his eyes grew in intensity. Then, he blew out the candle.

Once again, Blockcut was consumed by night and, yet another, sudden burst of horror. But just as before, it was short lived. Within seconds, the entire kitchen was awash in renewed candle rays. As if being controlled by a single, master conductor, all of the wicks burned brightly in unison. The man was now sitting across the kitchen table from Brady, his steadfast eyes still locked on the butcher. Brady could feel another presence in the room as well, and his hunch soon proved true when, from behind the seated gent, appeared a rather small and grotesque individual.

He was no bigger than a child, and was mostly concealed by a cloak very similar in style to the mysterious stranger. But from beneath the draped hood, Brady could make out the features of a wrinkled, disfigured face. He, too, wore a grin, but his eyes were very narrow and pointed, like thin slits cut into a cracked loaf of stale, molding bread. And molding was an accurate assessment, for his entire face was pock-marked by patches of pale green. Brady grew even more anxious, fearing the complexion of the dwarf was an indication of some rare disease.

The larger man could sense Blockcut's growing tension. "Worry not Brady, my associate is merely a former carnival freak, a poor individual taken advantage of because of his obvious physical abnormalities. I happened upon him one day and pitied his predicament. A keen wager won me his services, and now Rosicco helps me in legal matters."

"That is well and good, Sir, but now do you mind explaining who you are?" Brady asked as he gathered a bit more nerve.

"Oh, you may know me by any number of agnomens," the man replied matter-of-factly, "Mephistopheles, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the Devil."

Brady lurched off his stool, sending it tumbling to the ground. He spun left, then right, unsure of where to run, where to hide, or if any act of evasion even mattered.

"Sit down, Brady," the Devil stated coolly. "I mean you no harm. I wouldn't dare jeopardize what could be a very beneficial relationship for both of us."

Brady did not know what to believe, but the thought did occur to him that had the Lord of Demons wanted to kill him, he had ample opportunity to do it while Brady was blinded by shadow. So, the butcher righted his fallen stool, dragged it up to the table's edge, and sat back down.

The Devil smiled yet again.

"So," he continued, "let's make the offer clear. It is a rather nice affair afforded those who have piqued our interest." The Devil motioned toward Rosicco who then drew forth a scroll of parchment from beneath his robe. The diminutive goblin placed the scroll upon the table and unrolled it for Brady to see.

The document was inscribed with a long and winding paragraph of text, as well as several archaic markings and symbols. Brady leaned in to view the parchment more closely and what he found was an undulating mass of words that seemed to writhe and wiggle upon the very fibers of the sheet. It was as if the letters were alive, hundreds of tiny insects scurrying about the plain and making it almost impossible to accurately focus on more than one passage at a time.

"Never mind the fine print," the Devil insisted, "let's just make this as easy as possible."

He ran his long, skeletal fingers across the sheet and the animation ceased. The passages became far less cluttered.

"Here it is, Brady, in simple terms. I will provide you a mighty heifer. It will be large, strong, and fat, comprised of the finest flesh ever tasted by the human tongue."

A look of amazement came over Brady's face. He realized a source of quality beef could fetch him quite the penny in Nugins Knob.

Brady's lips produced a small grin, his eyes tapered, and he began to stroke his chin whiskers. "Now, what is the exchange?" he questioned in full haggling mode.

"Your soul."

Brady was not a religious man. He cared nothing for those things he could not grasp in his own hand, for if it could not be held and weighed against another commodity, it was of no real value to him. Still, his soul must be of some worth to the Devil. Why else would this conjurer of nightmares sit before him now? He knew he had leverage.

Leaning back on his seat, Brady folded his arms and gazed away as if unimpressed. "My soul...for a single cow? You must be joking. A single cow would last all but a day in this meat-starved shire. Hardly seems worth it."

Brady glanced down his nose, desperately trying to see the impact of his words but praying his refusal would not bring forth wrath.

The Devil stared back at Brady. His brow turned downward and his eyes sharpened, but his smile remained, always knowing and clever. He, too, took a moment to lean back from the table.

"I see Brady, you think you deserve more." The Devil again ran his hand over the contract and the words bent to his will. A second offer appeared. "Okay Sir, ten heifers, each as plump as the first. You'll have a pasture full of the finest inventory, which should last for weeks, to be certain. Now, tell me that is not worth the price."

The offer was excellent. Brady knew he could make a large fortune with that many cows. It would set his finances straight for quite some time. Still, the greedy butcher could not help but wonder if there was more worth to his spiritual cache. Should he press further and possibly suffer the vile vexation of the demon, or take what he could and let it be at that? Brady leaned back toward the table; his head hung low in silent debate.

"No, that will not do," the bold butcher stated with conviction.

The Devil's expression grew sour throughout. With frustration, he grabbed hold of his companion, Rosicco's, robe and violently shook the goblin in a brutal display of aggression. The poor creature simply took the abuse.

"Alright! Enough!" the Lord of Darkness shouted, letting go of the ruffled Rosicco in the process. With agitation, he once again passed his dead hand over the pact and, once again, the terms changed right before Brady's eyes.

"This is it Butcher of the Knob. This is my final offer. For the measly price of your small, dirty, tarnished and rather unpleasant soul, I will give to you a cow unlike any you have ever seen. It will be the grandest of specimens with fare of a quality almost inconceivable to human taste. What's more, this heifer will provide endless stock. If you lop off a loin, another of equal quality will instantly grow in its place. Harvest a hind shank and the beast will be back on four legs in the blink of an eye. The cow will never run dry. It will never die. Brady, this beast will be a source of infinite meat!"

The Devil's nostrils flared widely and his skin took on an aura of crimson as he concluded his final offer. He was exasperated by Brady's hesitation.

Brady was enchanted by the thought of it. A magical bovine able to provide an endless source of cuts, it was a goldmine clothed in hide and a sure-fire, perfect deal. All it would cost is his meaningless soul. Brady was set to finish the ordeal, to sign on the line and reap his reward, but then another thought crept into his twisted mind. If his soul could fetch a prize such as this, it must certainly be far more valuable than he could ever imagine. So, he stalled the closing.

"Oh, that is most definitely a bargain worth considering," Blockcut stated earnestly. "But, I must say, something of this gravity should not be decided by a weary mind. It is very late, and I fear my lack of sleep may impair my judgment. Perhaps it is best if you just leave this formal agreement with me so that I can review it by the light of the day. Should I find it to be in good order, and I'm most confident I will, I'll sign with no more deliberation and we can shake amicably on the done deal."

Brady knew the stall tactic may bear a savage result, and he was correct. The Devil once again snatched hold of his henchman Rosicco and tossed his tiny frame about the kitchen in a whirlwind of rage. The poor cretin was struck and shoved, slapped and battered, all the while absorbing the assault without a single cry of pain.

"Brady" the Devil shouted, "you try my patience!" Rosicco was sent hurtling to the floor in one last, powerful display of force. "I will give you until midnight, tomorrow. If the document is not signed and placed on this kitchen table by then, consider it to be null and void. Trust me when I say this Brady Blockcut, that would be the biggest mistake you could ever make."

And with that, the candles' lights were snuffed out all at once. In the pitch black, Brady was once again fully overcome by the stinging sensation he had experienced earlier. The think smell of sulphur had returned as well. He quickly fumbled around in the dark for a stray wick and found one toppled over on the wooden table. With haste, he lit the wax. No one was there. The Devil and his fiend had gone. All that remained was the contract.

Blockcut reached across the wooden buffet and carefully lifted the parchment. It seemed orderly and legal, but much of the text was written in an old Latin tongue Brady could not decipher. It didn't matter much to him, though. He knew the deal would be good. In fact, Brady knew it would be a far better deal than even Lucifer himself could have crafted. He rolled up the scroll, placed it in his nightgown pocket, and headed off to bed.

===============

Chapter 5: Exchange

The next morning, Betty woke to the sound of clanging pots and pans. Obviously, her father had risen before her. It was an unusual occurrence, since on most days it would be Betty who would be up at the crack of dawn making preparations for the day. She worried that her oversleeping would simply be another source of callous insult, so she quickly made her way to the water basin to clean up from the night before. She washed and scrubbed, diluting her heavy dung mushroom aroma to a subtle fragrance. Then, she donned a clean blouse and skirt, combed the knots out of her tangled hair, and quietly made her way downstairs.

She found her father in a very surprising state. He was toiling away over a pot of steaming broth. It smelled of onion and spice. Her mouth watered.

"Betty," her father greeted with a jovial tone, "I hope you slept well."

Betty was speechless. Was this the same man who had wrung her out to dry only hours ago?

"Here, I've made some wild onion soup. I was up early and thought I'd take a stab at foraging in the nearby wood. As luck would have it, I found a patch that had not been picked over." Brady slid a bowl of the steaming elixir toward Betty. Betty, in turn, pulled up a stool and sat down, increasingly bewildered by her father's drastic change in disposition.

"That wasn't the only reason I was out," Brady continued. "I felt so terrible about the way things had transpired last night. I know I've just been an unbearable goat of a man. It's just that I never wanted things to get this bad. I mean, I'm your father. I should be able to provide. When I look around at our bare cupboards, and then to see you in tattered threads last night, I just snapped. But, that is all in the past."

Brady pulled a stool up alongside his daughter. He then drew forth the parchment scroll he had acquired the night before.

"You see, a thought occurred to me last night. It was a God-sent epiphany, actually. I was thinking about your mother, as I often do in troubled times. I prayed to her to help me see a way out of our bleak scenario. For so long, I've been muddled in our day-to-day struggles—consumed by the meat, or lack thereof. All this time, I had forgotten about something bequeathed to your mother many, many years ago. In fact, it was inherited by her before we were even married."

Betty was curious. She knew her mother had come from a moderately wealthy family, but she could not reason how her father had not gutted all of these old riches.

"Your mother had been given a small patch of land just south of the Knob town line. It was a gift passed down from her great aunt, a rock-ridden stretch. We never had any use for it. So little, in fact, that it absolutely escaped my mind that it even existed. I went by Lautner Tort's office first thing this morn' to inquire about the status, and as I imagined, it was still on record. Furthermore, the lawyer mentioned that another man had recently inquired about the lot, hoping to acquire it for a stone quarry. He would pay a sum."

Betty was excited to hear the news. They had gone a long time without so much as a crumb of good luck. It was about time they had a whole slice.

"So, Father, what is the price?" Betty inquired.

"It is a good number, enough to push us along for a few more months. I think we jump on the deal before the fellow reconsiders. There's only one problem."

Sadness fell over Brady's gentle daughter. Nothing could come easy for them.

"What? What is the issue?" she asked.

"It seems at some point your mother had made arrangements for you to be the sole benefactor of the land. Perhaps it was in one of her weaker moments of anger, or maybe she had hoped this would be part of your dowry. Unfortunately, that will never come to pass. In any event, you must sign the transfer."

Betty's eyes glowed. She had worried the issue was far greater. "Oh, that is hardly a problem, Father. Hand me the pen."

Brady drew a freshly inked quill from a nearby pot. He handed it to Betty and then unrolled the scroll just enough to reveal the signature line.

"Here, this is the spot. Just sign clearly and with true intent."

Without hesitation, Betty scrawled her name where her father had indicated, and with equal haste, Brady rolled the scroll back up and slid it into his coat pocket.

"Well then, that's it!" Blockcut reached over and embraced his daughter. Betty could not believe it. She didn't know what to do. As the hug lingered, Betty returned the gesture. It was a good feeling, a warm feeling. She could not recall the last time she had felt this bond.

Peeling back, Brady stood and retrieved his derby from a hook on the wall.

"I'm going to rush back to Tort's and make this arrangement final. In the meantime, he has agreed to extend us a line of credit on the exchange to be had. So, in honor of this wonderful development, head down to the square and grab yourself a new red blouse."

"No, Father, I couldn't. Every penny counts," Betty insisted.

"Betty, it is because of you that our lives will change. It is because of you the coin will fill our pockets once more. The least I can do is offer a blouse." The words of her father were delivered with an optimism Betty had never sensed in him before.

After exchanging smiles of shared gratitude, Brady headed out the door while Betty finished her soup and tidied up the kitchen. She then dressed for the day, laced her boots, and set out for town in search of a new garment. It was a beautiful day, bright blue and sunny with a crisp spring breeze that energized Betty's step. It was so nice, in fact, that she decided to take the long way to town, strolling through the rolling hills and wooded glens of the countryside.

Birds chirped all around her. The melody of calls made for a merrily orchestrated symphony of tweets. Betty found herself wondering what the creatures were saying to one another and if birds of different species could discern another's dialect. Was there a common language of bird, or several unique tongues? As she stared up at the trees, she noticed a chick-a-dee and a robin in what appeared to be a shared conversation.

Betty convinced herself that theory of a single dialect must be true. When both birds suddenly ceased, then in union cried out in startled warning, Betty knew it was fact. Several others joined the cries, and soon a whole grove of previously treed birds had taken furious flight.

Betty thought it was her presence that had spooked them, but the true source became evident seconds later. A ravenous dog came rushing over the hill right in front of the unsuspecting lass. It was snarling and spitting, and when the beast spotted Betty, it abruptly halted, digging its paws into the dirt.

Betty froze. She was unsure of what to do. She worried that even the slightest move may incite the rabid hound. The dog began to pace and circle, keeping its gaze locked on its potential prey, and Betty was certain it regarded her as prey. The beast was too famished and malnourished to think of her otherwise.

As it moved methodically about, looking for a vulnerable opportunity to strike, Betty got the feeling she had seen this animal before. Upon its head, between one black ear and one brown ear, was the scar of a healed over wound. This animal was undoubtedly that of the distraught woodsmen she had met yesterday, the breed was exact.

Betty was flabbergasted by the thought, so much so that the mental distraction caused her to alter her footing and slide on a loose batch of stones. Seeing the misstep, the raging dog seized the moment.

With a howl of hunger, and fangs drooling wet, the dog pounced. Betty was just regaining her balance when the beast fell upon her with snapping jaws and clawing paws.

Betty was quick enough to extend her arms and grab hold of the dog's throat, thus keeping its gnashing teeth from sinking into her flesh, but the struggle was mighty and the creature was determined. It lunged, twisted and arched, and Betty desperately fought off every advance, never relinquishing her grip. But, the young woman was quickly tiring and the hound showed no sign of relenting.

Suddenly, the beast yelped in agony. It limped back and withdrew its attack, turning its attention to a spot a few yards away. Betty glanced over into the brush as well, thankful for whatever source had offered her respite. There, beneath the shadowing green of leaves was a little girl, a palm full of rocks in her hand. The child had a second stone at the ready. With a whip of her arm, it shot forth like an arrow. The projectile struck hard and piercing, right between the dog's eyes. The animal yelped again, tucked its tail between its legs, and fearfully fled.

"Are you alright?" the girl's voice called out to Betty.

Betty took a tally of her scraps and scuffs and noted nothing serious. "I am fine, now, thanks to you!"

As the little girl walked closer, Betty was awestruck.

"Gertie?" she asked in astonishment.

"Yep. Nice to see you again, Betty."

See? This couldn't be the same blind girl Betty had helped guide home. There was no way.

"Gertie?" Betty asked again.

Gertie looked Betty straight in the face and smiled with recognition. "I knew it was you, Betty. I knew that was your voice."

"You can see?"

"Yes, clear as day. I have no idea how it happened, all I know is that by God's grace, I woke up this morning and my peepers worked just fine."

Betty moved over to a nearby boulder and sat down. These recent events had thrown her senses into disarray. Nothing was making sense.

"I am so happy for you," Betty said, "and your mother must be overjoyed."

"I think she will be, once I meet up with her. She left for work before I got up, so I'm heading out to the mill to tell her. I can't wait to see the look on her face!" Gertie was grinning like a poor man who had found a stray coin. "If I hurry, I can catch her at a break."

The girl gave Betty a quick hug. "Betty, you have to stop by the cottage tomorrow for lunch. Now that I can see, I'll have no problem whipping up some fresh broth for both of us."

She then stepped over a fallen trunk, carefully traversed a gravel-covered incline, and skipped off down an adjacent path, doing so with the uncanny ease of someone who had been able to see for years.

Betty was left to sort out her thoughts. In a matter of minutes, what she was certain was the resurrected corpse of a dead dog had tried to eat her alive, only to be run off by the sharpshooting expertise a previously blind child. This episode came on the heels of her father's fortuitous discovery of a forgotten source of family revenue. It was barely mid-morning, and already this was one of the strangest day's Betty could ever recall.

The sight of the dog reminded Betty of the lone woodsman she had met the day before. She was concerned about his wellbeing and curious about the apparently rabid condition of his pet. But when she arrived at his cabin, he was nowhere to be found. Betty did discover an open grave where he had mistakenly buried his pooch. The creature must have been stunned, not killed, and upon regaining its faculties, dug itself free of the soil. Perhaps the woodsman was out searching for it at that very instant. In any event, there was nothing more to find at the hermit's dwelling, and so Betty left.

Luckily, the remaining hours passed with far less oddity. Miss Blockcut continued her journey to town, visited her favorite garment house, and acquired a lovely new blouse. A fine afternoon continued thereafter.

By dinnertime, Betty was back home preparing another pot of wild onion soup. She did so happily, knowing it may be the last batch she'd have to stew. Once her inheritance money was cleared, she and her father could afford better fare. Of course, the delicacy of meat was off the table, but beet cakes, carrots, and potatoes would be back on the menu. The tasty recollections even made the wild onion soup taste better, and Betty slurped up a good ladleful.

The evening hours were setting in, and Brady Blockcut still hadn't returned. Betty figured her father might have traveled out to the property for one more inspection prior to finalizing the legalities. By her estimates, it would be a trip that could take quite some time, so she potted up the helping of soup she had prepared for him, set it upon some dying embers to keep warm, and took leave to her room to prepare for sleep.

Betty lie in bed, reading one of her favorite books, The Castletowne Tales, a collection of absurd short stories centered on the exploits of a gambler with a penchant for making the most ridiculous bets. She watched as flickering candlelight danced on the written page and felt the cool night breeze pass through her bedroom window. Her eyelids grew heavy, and soon, she was out.

Crack! The thundering boom snapped Betty back to consciousness. Rrruuuummbbble! A second cloudburst wrung out from the heavens. Outside Betty's window, a storm was brewing. She could hear the intermittent pitter-patter of large raindrops falling soundly upon the ceramic shingle rooftops. She was not certain how long she had been asleep, but the candle in her room was still burning, and by its soft orange glow, she rose and headed toward the window to latch it tight.

The sky looked savage. Pale gray clouds moved swiftly across a black sky. The moonlight was just enough to make out their ominous presence. As Betty reached out to draw the shutters, she noticed below a shadowy figure entering the butcher shop's front door. She then heard the knob turn and the bolt draw. Believing her father had returned, the young woman grabbed the candle and headed downstairs to greet him, eager to learn how the real estate transaction had transpired.

As Betty made her way down the staircase, she could hear the low mumblings of a man's voice, followed by that of another. Drawing closer, it was clear to her that one was her father. She halted and listened.

"So, it is signed?" the unknown voice asked.

"Yes, Sir. Straight and clean, just as intended," replied her father.

"Very well then, the deal is done. May you get all that you deserve."

Suddenly, the shop was filled by the most ghastly of moans, like a thousand suffering souls baying for relief. Betty peered around the corner and was instantly struck by an intense terror.

Her father stood obediently before a tall, cloaked figure. The being's stature billowed and grew as the sound of wailing intensified. Behind him, the candle flames roared fiercely as the air grew hot and thick. The stink of sulphur permeated the room, and she could feel the flesh on her arms tighten and pull.

The document she had signed, which had been laid on the kitchen table, levitated into the air, as if controlled by an unseen force. It was a creepy display. Then, the cloaked figure reached out with a single bony hand and snatched the parchment. With that, Betty could feel her innards shuddering, her body growing weak.

"Brady!" the Devil called out. "What have you done?!"

Brady said nothing. He only returned a smirk, delivered in a most wicked fashion.

Lucifer was enraged. "Brady, this was not the deal!"

Betty was overcome by a sudden sensation of illness. She stumbled and lost her balance, rolling down the remaining stairs and tumbling into the kitchen. Her vision was failing. She could barely make out the form of her father. It appeared as though the black cloak of the stranger was engulfing the whole room in a veil of smoke.

"Father...," she called out weakly.

Brady turned toward his daughter, his smile still sewn tight. He could see her form fading, becoming ghostly and transparent. Betty reached for him, struggling against the increasing drain. Brady did nothing. He stood as cold and emotionless as a concrete cast. Then, in one final, consuming thrust of energy, the entire room went dark.

"Moooooo!"

The low bellow roused Brady to consciousness.

"Moooooo!"

The butcher heard it more clearly this time. The Devil's grand departure had squelched all illumination and knocked him forcibly to the floor in the process. He must have fainted, but it was now clear he was still in the butcher shop kitchen, alone, and none-the-worse for wear.

"Moooooo!" Another moan drooled out.

Brady could hear the call coming from the meat cellar. He quickly fumbled in the dark for a wick and hastily lit it with a matchstick he had in his pocket.

Descending the stairwell, Brady moved with nervous excitement. Despite his underhanded manipulation of Lucifer's contract, the trademark call of a heifer was indeed clear to his ear. Upon closer examination, it appeared as though the Devil did make good, for standing before the butcher, chained and bolted to a meat cellar stall, was the largest, fattest, most splendid bovine Brady had ever laid eyes on.

By the light of the candle, he examined his prize. Running his hand over its chocolate brown hide, he found the beast to be exceptionally sturdy and plump, a royally perfect specimen. He could feel the powerful heartbeat of the cow pumping its lifeblood to every delectable tissue, sinew, muscle. For its part, the creature simply glanced back at the meat man, paying little mind to his presence.

Brady could sense his own heart racing now. He was eager to test his magical moo'er, and eager more to hang fresh cuts in his shop windows. Once the meat-starved people of Nugins Knob saw stock, he could name his price. He'd have more money in his apron by noon the next day than he had all of the past year. Wasting no more time, he rushed back upstairs to retrieve an oil lamp and his most trusted assortment of hatchets and knives.

Blockcut sat at his grinding wheel, carefully drawing a fine edge on his beloved cleaver. The cellar was fully lit now, and Brady had stoked a small fire in a nearby hearth. The cow stood in utter apathy, mindlessly chewing cud as the butcher's blade sparked and glistened against the stone.

"Ahhh," Brady said aloud while drawing his cleaver up to the light, "that's a fine edge, a fine, fine edge."

He approached the cow cautiously. Usually, he would have to bleed the beast, wait for it to draw empty, and then take his stock from the fresh kill, but this was no ordinary animal, and he wondered if there was not a simpler way to do it. The Devil did say that he could make a cut and it would instantly be replenished, so, Brady moved toward the bovine's backside and eyed up a portion of round.

Without further consideration, he delivered a cold, steel chop to the heifer's hindquarters.

"Murrrooooo!" the animal cried out.

Just as Brady's blade completed the severing, a thick, juicy slab of bloody meat fell into his waiting hand. Upon initial inspection, it appeared to be of marvelous quality, but that was only half the joy, for when Blockcut looked back toward the spot of his incision, he was not met with a gaping, oozing wound, but the untainted, untarnished hide of the heifer. It was as if he never cut into the creature in the first place.

Brady was overjoyed. He shouted out in celebration, clutching the fresh meat in his hand and spraying droplets of blood about the cellar as he danced a merry jig. Satan had kept true to his word, even if he, himself, hadn't. Now, he possessed an infinite source of meat, and it came at the paltry cost of one, worthless daughter. To Brady, there was no better deal in the world.

===============

Chapter 6: Gallery

It felt like warm water rushing into an empty pale—the act of filling up, gaining weight and mass—and as it continued, Betty's senses began to return. She could feel the rough texture of igneous rock beneath her. It was bumpy and porous. It was also very hot. Not so much that it burnt her skin, but only a fraction off that mark.

She smelt the sulphur again, the same scent she noticed in the kitchen. It was even more powerful though, more pungent and thicker. She swore she could taste the spoiled air in her mouth, like rotten eggs mixed with burnt flesh. It was disgusting.

Sound, which had first returned as unsettled whimpers, was becoming more audible, and clear. It was an unfortunate development, for all around her was the eerie aria of agonizing wails and mournful sobs. In startling bursts, sharp screams of repent would sporadically cut through the mass of moans.

Finally, her vision came true, and the terror of her surroundings came full with it. Betty was lying, sprawled out, on a bare, rock floor within an oddly decorated room. The ceiling was tiled with hundreds of white bleached cameos. Focusing on their tiny faces, she noticed that each one was a unique, fully animated, living head confined within an oval ring of iron. Their pale visages gazed back at her with pleading eyes and when they noticed her attention, they began to call out to her, crying in a twisted language she could not comprehend.

Betty scurried into a crouched position, thoroughly startled by the scene. She looked away and saw that three of the room's walls were covered in wallpaper of a rather regal, floral pattern. It was the type of refinement you might find in the home of a banker or politician, but the surfaces were far from pristine. A random pattern of burns, dried blood, and claw marks tarnished their surface. Odder still were dozens of framed oil paintings hung upside-down from rusty wire all about the room.

Even from the inverted angle, Betty could decipher most of them, and most appeared rather commonplace in their content, save one, slightly peculiar element in each scene. There was a large depiction of a bowl of fruit with a disgusting fly atop the pile, and another of an inked quill lying next to a vase of black, thorny roses.

As Betty's gaze passed over the weird gallery, she was suddenly struck by the strangest of discoveries. Turning from wall to wall, she came to the fourth, or rather the lack thereof. The wall of the room that was previously to her back was gone, sheared off completely, as if torn clear by a raging tornado.

Betty moved toward the opening and gazed into a cavernous recess large enough to encompass an entire city. Smaller nooks and crevices within the immense cave housed burning fires, which illuminated the entire landscape. The room she was in sat on the precipice of a cliff, and below was a vast pool of oily liquid. Thick like tar yet as reflective as water, the swamp rippled like a midnight sea. She followed its surface until it met a far off shore of red-stained rocks, on which an unsettling scene was playing out.

An enormous creature had lumbered to the ooze's edge. Standing several stories high and sharing characteristics of both man and frog, it was a perverted thing. Two thin legs carried a bare, rounded torso. Extending from this stalk were long, insect-like arms that ended in disfigured, clawed hands.

Distinct amphibian traits appeared at the neck. There, a bloated bulb of flesh jutted out like a pouch. The sack was extended and bloated, like a toad preparing to croak. Just above that was a wide, gaping mouth topped by two pinhole nostrils and a pair of bulging, unblinking eyes. The whole mess was then wrapped in warts and scars, making for a gigantic abomination.

The freakish terror began to spit and convulse, and Betty watched as its mouth slowly opened. A steady stream of saliva drooled out. The creature then reached into its own orifice and dug deep inside itself, the whole while jerking and shaking. A moment later, it drew forth a naked man who had apparently been stored in its neck pouch. The terrified fellow was fully conscious and screaming.

The creature held him at arm's length away and twisted him about in examination. It then looked up at Betty and smiled, while the man wriggled and strained in a desperate attempt to break free. The look sent a chill down Betty's spine, even in the heat of her surroundings, and she shrunk back in fear of what was to come next. Then, the beast did the most horrific of things.

With a violent whip, the toad demon bashed the man into the solid, rock ground. Even above the piercing scream of agony, Betty could hear the man's bones break. The creature then pinned its writhing catch to the floor with one of its boney feet and picked up a nearby shard of shale. It cast Betty a second, antagonizing look before taking the edge to the fellow's skin, scrapping the poor soul's body bare in a terrorizing flurry of blood and flesh. The whole while, the man shouted out in pain and remorse.

After thoroughly flaying the victim, the toad demon snatched him up by his near-lifeless neck and tossed him like a ragdoll into the black lake. There his torment did not cease, for the muck bubbled and boiled, searing the exposed muscle and effectively dissolving the man in a most slow and painful manner.

Again the toad demon started to spit and convulse, and again it drew forth another body from its innards.

Betty knew the process would be repeated, and she recoiled in utter shock. What was that creature? Where was she? And, most importantly, how could she get out of here, posthaste?

While the absence of the fourth wall provided an obvious exit, the room's position on the edge of a cliff made escape almost impossible. Every adjacent exterior surface was a sheet of smooth, slippery stone. There was not even the slightest indentation for use as a foothold or handhold, and after seeing the effects of the black lake on human matter, Betty knew falling in would not end well.

Turning back toward the room's interior, she desperately searched the other three walls for any indication of a hidden doorway. She ran her fingers across the surface and picked at a tear in the paper in the vain hope a seam would be exposed, but none existed. After that, she began to move aside the oil paintings, many of which were large enough to conceal a passable portal.

As she did, one of the portraits fell off the wall. Betty knelt down and picked it up, and, without thinking, hung it back on the wall, right side up. The instant Betty's hand set it in place, the cameos on the ceiling, which had gone quiet, began to moan once more.

Betty glared up at them with annoyance, but soon discovered the cause of their crying. The painting she had righted was that of the fruit bowl and fly, and upon a second glance, Betty could see that the fruit in the scene had begun to rot at an alarming rate. She stared at the morphing scene with astonishment. The rotting fruit broke free from its two-dimensional confines and spilled forth from the frame, landing upon the rock floor. There it continued to rot, adding yet another foul smell to the soup of vile odor surrounding her.

Betty then heard the faint sound of buzzing. It was growing louder and louder. The cameos drew silent. Many of them closed their eyes. Then, in a whoosh of air, the hairy fly from the artwork sped out of the scene and into the room with Betty. Like so many elements in this foreign environment, it too mutated, instantly growing several times larger than a normal insect of its kind. The creature went from the size of a bean to that of a small dog right before Betty's eyes. It immediately seized upon the rotting mass of produce and began to suck it up through a long, tube-like mouthpiece.

Within seconds, it had consumed the putrid pile of mush and was frantically hopping about on its six springy legs. It then spun toward Betty. She could see herself reflected a dozen times over in its compound eyes, and she knew the creature had ill intent. With a mighty thrust of its wings, it shot towards her.

Betty reacted, yanking a large painting from the gallery and swatting the beast forcibly with the canvas. The fly slammed off a nearby wall, immediately righted itself, and then retreated. Betty kept her eye on the parasite as it flew out the room and into the greater cavern beyond. It twirled and buzzed, in a very random path, before making the unfortunate decision to pass by the toad demon that was still hard at work skinning its victims.

Without a moment of forethought, the amphibian freak halted its diabolical chore and whipped out a disgustingly long and sticky tongue, catching the fly in mid-air and drawing it into it's wide, waiting mouth.

As Betty moved back toward the wall to replace her makeshift flyswatter, she noticed the painting was that of a wreath of blood-covered thorns hanging upon a weathered oak door. If her experience with the fruit and fly had taught her anything, it was that these images were possessed by a magic she did not fully understand. The part she did understand, though, was that placing the picture back on the wall right side up was some type of catalyst. With little other option evident, Betty took a deep breath and did the same with the painting of the door.

As her fingers left the canvas, it began to glow and alter. The frame expanded and grew, and soon the door in the painting was embedded in the wall of the room, just as Betty had hoped. She cautiously grabbed hold of the gold knob and pulled. Nothing. She pulled and yanked harder. Still nothing. In utter vexation, she pulled and yanked, pounded and screamed, angrily trying to force her way through. All she managed to do was dislodge the twisted wreath of thorns, sending it falling to the floor.

Betty collapsed to her knees in irritation. Gathering her thoughts, she knew there must be a way to open the door. All she had to do was figure it out. She grabbed hold of the crimson-stained wreath, hoping to replace it and set the entire scene back to order. In doing so, she pricked her palm on one of its barbs. The puncture was painful and deep, deep enough to draw blood, but she paid it no mind. A small cut was the least of her worries.

Now with increased caution, she gently handled the circle of thorns and carefully placed it back into position on the door hook. She stepped back and looked again at the obstruction before her. Everything seemed to be as it was, except for one small difference.

A single gleaming drop of fresh blood, her blood, was dangling from one of the thorns amongst several others covered in dried plasma. She looked at her palm. The cut there was marked by a lone spot of sanguine fluid. Betty reached for the knob once again and slowly turned the latch, smearing the golden surface in red. This time, it creaked and gave way, opening up into a long, dimly lit hallway.

===============

Chapter 7: Butcher's Shop

Brady had worked all through the night, and by dawn, he was as filth covered as he had ever been, but he had a magnificent stock of meat to show for his effort. In his window hung a half dozen of the most marvelous racks of ribs. His countertops held several stacks of the juiciest sirloin he had ever harvested, and the butcher had a whole barrelful of the finest ground. He opened his shop door wide to let in the crisp morning air and invite, what he was certain would be, an endless stream of customers.

It didn't take long for the first passerby to notice the inventory. Roland Slopper was his name, and when he saw the racks of ribs in Brady's window, he ran to the pane and plastered his wide nose up against it in amazement.

"Brady," the fat fellow called out upon rushing into the store, "what is this?"

Roland was spinning about like a top. Everywhere he looked he saw fresh, succulent meat just begging to be eaten.

"Good morning, Roland. How can I help you?" Brady asked slyly.

"How did you get all this meat?" the bewildered man asked.

Brady ignored the questioned. "Roland, what cut will fill your belly today?" he asked, prodding a sale along.

Mr. Slopper looked over the selection, his lips moistened by saliva. "I'll take five pounds of ground, three chucks, a full rack, a half dozen..."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Sir," Brady laughed. "That's quite the order and, as such, will garner quite the coin."

"I'll pay whatever the cost," came Roland's reply. "I haven't tasted quality meat in ages, and I'm not about to go wanting a minute longer."

That's what Brady was hoping to hear. Being the only source of product afforded him quite a position of power, and he would use that to line his pockets.

After Brady packaged and laced Roland's hefty purchase, the eager eater gratefully turned over a mighty pile of coins. Brady counted and recounted the valuable metal markers with an obsessive eye and a greed-filled heart.

"Looks like we are in good standing, Mr. Slopper," Brady stated.

Slopper had disappeared behind a mountain of paper-wrapped meat. "Thank you, Sir," came the voice of the now hidden man, "but I believe I need one more thing. Could I trouble you for a cart? I wasn't thinking when I placed my order. There is no way I can haul all of this back to my tavern alone."

Brady, ever the businessman, offered Roland a handcart that he kept on the front stoop, but its use would not be free. A renter's fee was imposed, and Roland accepted without debate. He was too excited about his acquisition to quibble over a few more shillings.

Watching the gluttonous Slopper wheel away, Brady knew it was only a matter of time before word spread, and sure enough, the rest of the afternoon was spent filling orders and shelling out stacks and stacks of fresh, red meat. At one point, a line of anxious patrons extended from his shop door, around the corner, and all the way to the edge of the forest. It had to be eighty yards in length, easily.

Brady took great joy in scaling his prices. Slopper had left his shop with a cut of loin set at a marginally high price, but as the inventory fell throughout the day, the price for the remains increased dramatically. By the last customer of the evening, he was selling a single chuck for the same price he had sold an entire rack earlier in the day. And, even more amazing, the haggard women who bought it was pleased to pay the cost.

Brady always knew the people of Nugins Knob loved their meat, but he never fathomed how ravenous their appetites had become. Sitting at his counter behind towers of glimmering gold, Brady exhaled a deep breath of both exhaustion and satisfaction.

Not a slice of flesh remained. Every last piece had been snatched away by starving hands, leaving in its place mounds of treasure. Blockcut's grin widened even further upon realizing the entire ordeal could be repeated again the next day. While his shelves were bare at that time, it was little effort to restock them. His magical heifer made sure of that.

So, after dumping his wealth into a hidden chest and locking the vault tight, Brady reached for his cleaver once more. He wiped the steel clean and headed into the meat cellar to cull more carvings.

The butcher stoked the coals of the fire, reigniting the blaze, and lit a few oil lamps hung about the cold, damp room. Soon, the entire area was awash in radiance. After positioning himself behind the grinding stone, Brady pedaled the wheel and sharpened his blade.

Across the room, still chained to the wall, was the prized bovine. It shuffled its feet and the motion caused Brady to glance up from his stone. The beast was staring at him with large, unblinking eyes. It was an odd gaze, one that made Blockcut a bit uncomfortable. It felt as if the creature was watching him with some understanding of the deed to come. Brady knew this was foolish. Cattle are, by and large, stupid animals. They know very little beyond eating and defecating. These thoughts assured Brady that he was only suffering from fatigue.

With blade in hand, he approached the cow's rump. The previous night had taught him that working back to front in a very systematic fashion yielded the easiest labor. He also learned that certain cuts were more difficult than others. When he first chopped clean a shank, the beast buckled and fell in a heap to the floor. And, while the leg returned seconds later, it took some time for the heifer to right itself and be ready for the next incision. So, on this night, Brady was ready with a stool.

When it came time to cleave a limb, he would position the stool just right so that the mass of the unbalanced beast would not crash to the floor, but instead, rest upon the seat until its leg materialized once more. This would buy Brady valuable cutting time he had wasted on the first go around.

As he worked, Blockcut began to stack the chunks high. Each morsel taken was replenished by the power of dark magic. The only apparent side effect was the bleating of the animal.

The cow had mooed every now and then on the first night, but during this second round, it bellowed at every single slice. Brady could care less. He was getting what he needed and the intensifying utterance of a piece of livestock would hardly slow his work. Ignoring the sound, he cut for several more hours, finally coming to a final slice of chuck just behind its head.

Brady drove the blade deep into its shoulder.

"Moooo," the creature cried. "Mooooooo!"

He drew the buried edge across the length, working it up and down as he sawed through tendon and tissue.

"Moooooooo!" the bovine called again.

Hitting a tough spot, the butcher adjusted his grip and barred down on the knife, using even greater force to free the meat.

"Moooo...noooooo!"

Brady paused. He thought he heard something different in the cry. He shrugged it off and continued to work the knife.

"Noooo! Nooooo!" the cow shouted.

With a final thrust, the butcher cut loose the chuck. Holding it in his hand, he looked into the cow's face. There was no way he heard what he thought he heard. He reasoned the late hour had set in and his mind was playing tricks on him. After all, he had been up for almost two days straight now. Perhaps it was best he called it a night. He had plenty of meat to sell the next day, and still hours of darkness before he needed to open the store. So, after properly storing the last square of muscle, he extinguished the fire, squelched the lamps, and retired to his room.

===============

Chapter 8: Devil

Betty entered the hallway. It was decorated in much the same way the room she was leaving had been. Covering the upper two-thirds of the space was, just as before, wallpaper of fine design, and, just as before, signs of violence and destruction marked it. Below that was an ornate oak chair rail and planks of deep, brown wood that ended in an equally ornate footer. On the floor below was a roll of oriental carpet. It, too, was refined and appeared to be luxurious in its original state. That was no longer the case. Now, it was tarnished with several stains of unknown origin.

Along the stretch was a series of evenly spaced doorways, ten to a side. Outside of each was a single, mounted candle. Their burning wicks dripped wax down the walls like thick tears of milk. At the far end of the hallway was an ascending stairwell.

From her view of the vast cavern beyond the first room, Betty knew she had to be underground, so heading upward seemed like a good bet for escape. It was also apparent that anything was possible in this weird world, so she walked toward the with vigilance.

At about the midway point, Betty caught sight of something in the distance. Walking stoically down the steps, and heading in her direction, was a figure cloaked in a black robe and a hood that concealed its face. It moved slowly with its head hung low, and as it stepped into the hall, Betty grew nervous.

The figure was very tall, nearly seven feet in height, and, while sagging folds of dark silk concealed much of its frame, Betty sensed a frailty in its stride. As the acolyte approached the first door to its right, it paused and drew back its cowl. In the shallow light of a nearby candle, a surprising sight struck Betty.

The being's face was that of an infant. It had the girth of a grown adult, but all the features of a baby—large innocent eyes, full pouty cheeks, and a button nose with just the slightest tinge of rose. The man-child raised its cuff and reached out toward the candle mounted outside of the nearest door.

With pudgy, sausage-like fingers, it smothered the flame, leaving behind a wisp of trailing smoke. The act caused the child demon to giggle with delight. Soon after, an ungodly wail echoed forth from behind the door. It was a horrific tone, and Betty instinctively covered her ears to shield herself from the unnerving sound.

The infant acolyte then sauntered over to the door on the opposite wall. Again, it reached out its hand and extinguished the burning candle there, and again, a terrorizing cry cascaded down the hall. Betty fell to a knee, closing her eyes and clutching her ears as tightly as she could in a desperate attempt to hide from the piercing sound. The figure moved forward and continued its task, smiting the flames of the next two doorways. Each time a candle was put out, an increasingly louder and more unsettling howl came from the room beyond.

For Betty, it was an agonizing ordeal. The screams were unlike any she had heard before, and she was only left to guess what hidden horror was their catalyst. She struggled with all her might to block out the chilling cries, but suddenly they stopped.

Slowly opening her clenched eyelids, the young woman noticed the figure had halted. It was midway down the hall, standing still and unflinching, staring directly at her. Betty began to quiver as the creature's pudgy face smiled, revealing rows and rows of razor sharp teeth.

The mutant raised its arms high and its black robe became a flowing drape of darkness. The ghoul suddenly grew agile and swift as it ferociously charged Betty. She turned to escape, but the door behind her was no more. It had vanished, leaving a blank span in its place. There was nothing left to do, nowhere to run. Betty cowered as the racing demon fell upon her, shrouding her in its black embrace.

"Betty Blockcut," a raspy voice called out. "How twisted your progenitor."

The darkness that had consumed the lass had given way to the bright glow of several roaring pyres. Betty surveyed her new surroundings. She was sitting in a polished marble chair at the center of a large gathering hall. The interior had the appearance of a cathedral, with a circle of Roman pillars holding up the enormous rotunda. Beyond the pillars burned multiple fires, and upon the domed ceiling were painted depictions of all manner of ghastly acts. There were scenes of torture and death, evil deeds and the exaltation of sin.

Betty's gaze soon came to rest upon the source of the voice. Sitting several feet away, upon a gruesome throne of bone and sewn flesh, was a contorted fiend of the evilest kind. Partly man in build, the gray-skinned being was dressed in blood-red robes marked with golden runes. His mouth wore an ever-present smirk of devious intent below eyes as still and dead as a corpse. Held in place by two large, spiraling horns of bone, an obsidian crown gleamed with the reflected light of flames, and jutting out from behind his mass was a folded set of sharp, chiropteran wings.

Betty knew, at that moment, who he was, and where she was.

"Ah, I can tell by your expression, my introduction is not necessary," the Devil stated. "But alas, I find pleasure in hearing my own name. Betty Blockcut, I am Lucifer. Welcome to my home."

The Devil stood up upon his goat-hoofed legs, extended his fearsome bat wings, and raised his arms out in a boastful display of pride.

"Why am I here?" Betty immediately questioned.

"That, my dear, is truly one of the saddest tales in all of my domain. And that's saying a lot, young Blockcut."

The Devil stepped down from his position of prominence and walked toward the woman. Each heavy hoof step sent a click-clack echoing throughout the hall.

"Your father, oh that fine creature, decided that you would pay the price for his greed. He thought he could exchange you for a magical heifer capable of supplying him an endless source of meat. His swindling ways convinced you to mark our contract."

Betty instantly recalled the land deed, or what she thought was a land deed. Her memory also served up a vision of the cloaked stranger who appeared in their kitchen.

"It was you who visited him!" Betty exclaimed.

"Yes. I often appear in the mortal world under more acceptable guise. You are one of the few who have the privilege of seeing me in all my beastly glory, and might actually live to tell the tale."

The Devil was now mere inches from Betty. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek; smell the vile scent of decay with every word he spoke.

"Live?" Betty asked. "You mean I'm not dead?"

The Devil giggled.

"Your father took full advantage of your naivety in hopes your soul would serve in place of his, but that, unfortunately, is not the case. While I could be rightly accused of bending rules, I rarely flat-out break them. There are certain legalities that must be adhered to. An underhanded swap, although masterfully conducted by your beautiful father, cannot stand. I had a team of lawyers, who are in no short supply down here, labor over the particulars, and it appears that you are to be held in limbo, of sorts, until the rightful judgment is settled."

Betty didn't know what to say. She knew her father was not the kindest person, but to think he would be so maliciously premeditated in his plans—willfully condemning her to an eternity in hell for his own greedy musings—that was a level of hatred she could not comprehend.

She began to cry.

"Oh, Betty, you poor thing," the Devil said with feigned sincerity. "You truly are a weak soul. It's hard to believe you are the offspring of your father. That man is of the finest quality. Damn him and his marvelous, Machiavellian mind!"

The Devil delivered the last line with an equal dose of rage and admiration. He was circling Betty now, playfully pirouetting around her marble chair as if engaged in a child's game.

She continued to weep.

"You may think differently, especially in light of the means you were delivered here, but your father is a prize. His soul is as rotten as any I have come across. It is cruel, selfish, despicable—a vast pit of filth. It is a deep, wonderful pool of evil, even more so now after this latest, most damning sin. If I could but claim it, my power would grow beyond its current confines. With evil like that added to my arsenal, I could breach the gates of Peter and rattle the very foundation of Heaven. Sin is a power unlike any other, Betty. But you already know that. You can feel its potency in your salty tears. It now surrounds you, evident in every fiber of my carnival of nightmares."

Betty fell silent. The shock of her situation had stolen her tongue. But as her mind began to settle, she looked toward the hope that remained. The Devil did say she was only momentarily trapped in this place. How long that would be was uncertain, but the knowledge that she would return to the mortal realm lessened the impact of her current imprisonment, if even by a fraction. The Devil realized this as well.

He placed his coarse hand upon Betty's and pulled her to her feet.

"Now, being as you are my guest for the time being, I shall be a proper host. What say you to a tour of the underworld? It will be a fine way to pass the time until things have been set right. If nothing else, you will be privy to many excellent examples of man's truly loathsome nature."

The Devil's offer was less a request and more an order. Betty was under his watch now, and, as such, beholden to his whims. It served just as well though, for there is no safer place in hell than walking in the wake of the Devil.

===============

Chapter 9: Heifer's Tongue

The rising sun crept through a slit in the shutter and struck the sleeping butcher square in the face, jarring him to consciousness. It was morning, and Brady lazily rolled off his lumpy mattress and stretched out his tight muscles. He was not sure how long he slept, but he knew it was a restless bout and that he was still tired.

Brady heard a knock at the shop door downstairs, followed immediately by a more rapid beat, and then several heavy-handed pounds. With quickness, he pulled up his trousers, buttoned his shirt, and stepped into his boots.

By the time he reached the storefront, the pounding was incessant, and the cause was clear. Outside, lined up for even a farther stretch than the day before, was a massive gathering of townspeople. Brady opened the shop door, and the crowd began to pour in like water through a breached dam.

"I need two racks!" a gentleman exclaimed.

"Six pounds of ground for me, Brady!" shouted another voice.

The patrons were an insatiable horde. They grabbed up whatever meat they could and, in exchange, left behind loads of gold. The mob was tearing through Blockcut's stock at an alarming rate. By mid-day, his counters were almost bare and true savagery began to set in.

"That's my loin!" an old woman declared.

"Too bad ya' old bat!" came the gruff and uncaring response of a mustached man.

The adversaries were battling over a thick slice of flesh. Each had their hand on it, and were straining back-and-forth in a tug-of-war to claim the beef. Surprisingly, the elderly woman was holding her own, that is until the man used his free hand to procure a nearby wooden mallet and strike the woman fiercely upon the back. The lady fell to the ground, writhing in pain, while the victor lifted his prize high in triumph.

Brady was momentarily taken aback by the spectacle, as were several other bystanders, but the mustached fellow could care less. When he deposited twice the price of the cut into Brady's treasure trove, Brady's could care less as well. The mean fellow happily strutted away to enjoy his soon-to-be meal, and the woman, who had regained her footing, simply sulked off, rubbing her hunched back while sporting a mug of utter dejection.

The spectacle was but a passing scene in Blockcut's mind. With ease, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand, that of building his riches.

And build he did. He was making so much money that he needed a second vault to keep it all. In two-days time he had acquired more coin than in the entirety of his life. It was a fruitful day and Brady had never been happier.

A young man approached the butcher's counter. After deftly maneuvering through the crowd, he was the lucky chap who laid claim to the last steak in the shop. Upon realizing the boy would not be persuaded to relinquish his catch, the rest of the patrons filed out in disappointment.

"One steak, please," the boy requested.

"Sure son. That'll be one hundred pieces," Brady replied, taking the meat from the lad and setting it upon paper.

The boy rummaged through his satchel. Brady watched closely as the fellow fumbled around for loose coins before drawing forth a handful of metal. He dropped the money on the countertop. Blockcut immediately commenced counting.

"One...six...eleven...," Brady said aloud, building toward the total.

The boy looked on nervously. Beads of perspiration had begun to form on his brow, and he started to wring his hands anxiously.

Brady continued.

"Seventy-six...seventy-seven...eighty two..."

The butcher stopped.

"Eighty-eight. Son, you are twelve short," he stated coldly.

"But Sir, that is all I have. Please, my father is ill, my mother is gone. My sisters and I are so hungry."

Brady was not moved. "If your tale of woe was worth even a penny in its telling, I would gladly add it to your total, but, unfortunately for you, that is not the case. No coin, no sale."

Brady pushed the pile of change back toward the grieving lad and began to unwrap the steak so that he could display it again.

The boy was heartbroken. He was not a haggler. Not that it would do much good with Brady. So, after pocketing his money, he headed for the shop door.

"Nooooooooo," a muffled cry bled from the floorboards beneath.

"Did you say something, Sir?" the boy asked, turning back toward Brady.

"No, I did not," Blockcut replied harshly.

"Noooooooo," the faint call sounded a second time.

"There, I heard it again," the lad proclaimed with confidence.

Brady 's ears perked.

"Nooooooooo."

"There!" the child exclaimed. "There it is again!"

Brady's face grew flush. He realized where the sound was coming from, and what was making it. The last thing he needed was a curious chap discovering the source of his perpetual supply.

"Uh, I don't hear a thing," Brady said in an attempt to cast the boy's perception into doubt. "Perhaps hunger has warped your mind. I've seen it happen more than once."

Hoping to distract the young man further, Brady offered a concession. "You know what, you may be worse off than I thought. Here, have the steak. Eighty-eight will do."

The boy ran back to the counter and happily dumped his bag of coins upon the wooden surface. Brady handed him the beef.

"Now don't go spreading rumors about my kind heart," Brady insisted.

"Thank you, Sir! Thank you!"

The boy shot out of the shop with a gleeful stride, skipping and twirling, the steak clutched to his chest.

Brady shoveled the last bit of wealth into the vault, locked the chest tight, and hurried downstairs to the meat cellar.

"Noooooo!" shouted the heifer upon seeing the butcher. "Noooooo!" It cried again as Brady stepped toward it.

"You ignorant beast," Blockcut began, "I don't know how you've learnt this little trick, but I will not tolerate your tomfoolery."

Brady snatched up a nearby length of cord and wrapped it around the cow's mouth and snout. The creature struggled against the bindings. The butcher fought through the resistance and cinched the rope tight, knotting it twice over. He then reached for his cleaver.

"I don't care if your tongue has mastered a new sound! You are meat, nothing more, and it is once again time to stock the ice box!"

Brady drove his cleaver deep into the cow's side. The creature winced and uttered a low, suppressed bay of misery through its clenched jaws. Blockcut finished the cut, loping off a thick slab of flesh, and, just as before, the animal's missing muscle reappeared within seconds. Brady took another chunk, and the heifer shuddered beneath the blade.

Unlike the previous two episodes, the creature showed visible signs of pain and distress with every chop. Brady ignored the manifestations, laying into the beast with increased irritation.

Cling. Cling.

Brady held his arm mid-swing. The sudden sound of his brass door chime halted his actions. Brady could hear footsteps on the floorboards above him. He had forgotten to lock the shop's door. He wiped his blood-covered hands on his apron and ran up the cellar stairs to see who had entered.

"Good afternoon, Brady," greeted Roland Slopper.

"I'm sorry, Roland. The shop's closed," Brady responded as he untied his smock. "I'm fresh out of cuts anyway."

"My own apologies, Brady. I didn't realize you had ended the day. Your door was still unlocked."

"I guess I forgot the bolt."

Roland meandered about the space. It was obvious he had not come for more meat, and Brady looked on suspiciously.

"So, why are you here, Roland?" the butcher questioned.

"Well, I'm not entirely certain it is worth mentioning, but I just thought... I guess, it shouldn't go without note," Mr. Slopper began with ambiguity, dancing around the exact nature of his visit.

"What is it, Roland?" Brady demanded.

"The meat you sold me yesterday..."

"Yes."

"Well, much of the lot was of superb quality, unlike anything I've ever tasted. We ate it fresh and well seasoned that very day."

"Good."

"But," Roland continued on, "today we had another helping, and I must say it tasted a bit odd."

"Odd?" the butcher reiterated, unsure of where Roland was heading.

"Well, yes, odd. I mean the day prior, it tasted as any exceptional, red meat should. No complaints. But this morning, some of the same lot took on the flavor of poultry."

"Poultry?" Brady stated with a laugh of doubt.

"Um, yes, chicken. But that was this morning. Later this afternoon, the same beef tasted even more unusual." It was clear Roland was uneasy discussing the incident. He knew that what he was saying sounded quite unbelievable, and what he was about to say would only make him appear more off-kilter.

"The last fork of steak I had, tasted...burnt."

Brady laughed, "Well, was it, Slopper?"

"No, I can attest to the fact that is was prepared in the most delicate manner. In fact, I enjoy my meat cooked just past raw, and even at that minimal broiling, the morsel tasted like ash."

"That is ridiculous!" Brady shouted with skepticism.

"No, I tell you this is the case," Roland insisted. "I cannot explain it further, only that my tongue does not lie, here now, nor in the tasting."

Brady waved off the claim. "Roland, I think your feasting included one too many pints, and now your judgment is suspect at best."

Roland Slopper straightened his slouching stance. "Brady, I tell you the truth, and as such, have come to request a refund for the cuts still uneaten."

"Refund?!" Brady was appalled at the thought. "There is no way. You paid. I provided. Deal done."

"I paid for beef, not charcoal."

"Did you leave it out in the sun, unsalted, Roland? Or perhaps it was doused with something of pungent fragrance, enough to alter its flavor in the way you describe."

"No, nothing of the sort. It was placed in the cold cellar, as all perishables are. Brady, the problem is not with the storage, but with the product I paid rather handsomely for. It is your duty to right the deal."

"I do not accept your claims, Slopper!"

Brady had taken a defiant stance. There was no way meat could turn so fast. In all his years as a butcher, he had never encountered such an issue, but as Roland lingered further, it was clear he was not backing down.

"Look, Roland," Brady stated, softening his tone in order to appear accommodating, "I can not verify your assertion without tasting the supply firsthand. Go back home, retrieve a portion, and...."

"Noooooooooo!"

The loud, mournful cry of Blockcut's bovine cut into the conversation. It was a clear, and unmistakable moan from the meat cellar below. Brady's eye's darted to the basement steps. Roland looked at him in shock.

"What was that awful shriek?" he asked.

"Shriek? I'm not sure what..."

"Nooooooo! Pleeaasssssee! Noooooooo!" the heifer hollered, adding a clear addition to its vocabulary.

"Who's down there, Blockcut?!" Mr. Slopper shouted as he headed toward the staircase.

Brady moved to obstruct his path, but upon seeing the attempt, Roland quickened his pace and beat the butcher to the cellar steps. He then raced down into the basement with Brady following on his heels.

"Noooooooo!" the heifer shouted again, this time staring into the wide eyes of Roland Slopper.

Roland stood in stunned silence. Not only was he surprised to discover the existence of a cow in the otherwise livestock-less town; he was doubly confounded to hear it speaking human words.

"Brady," the perplexed patron shouted, "what manner of wicked magic is..."

His words suddenly fell dead, as did Roland. The chubby little man hit the floor with a thud; a meat cleaver buried several inches deep in his skull. Brady stood emotionless over top of him. There was no way he was going to let word get out about his special supply, even if that meant resorting to cold-blooded murder.

With calmed purpose, Brady dragged the lifeless body of Roland over to a large cutting table. Straining against the heft, he managed the man onto his shoulder and then plopped him down on the wooden surface. After a bit of wiggling, Blockcut dislodged his cleaver from Roland's cranium.

Brady could sense someone watching him, and when he looked back over his shoulder, he noticed the cow had locked its gaze upon the murderous man. It observed him in terrified silence, a look of dread in its eyes.

"You should be thankful," Brady said to the bovine. "Now I'll have to take less meat from you."

With that, the insane carver lopped off one of Roland's thick legs and began dressing it for sale.

===============

Chapter 10: Torments

Betty gazed out across a massive field of furrowed pale ground. An orchard of the most unusual trees sprouted across the stretch.

As Lucifer led her from the hard marble piazza of the Demon's cathedral onto the exotic terrain, she could feel its spongy consistency beneath her feet. The strange earth had the look of a million interwoven fibers, and there was a sense of pulsating energy coursing beneath the surface.

"Betty, this magnificent pasture is my birthing field," the Devil began. "It is where many of my terrors are born."

The Devil pointed toward one of the alien trees nearby. The trunk was a thick braid of intestines, branching off into smaller, tube limbs that were covered in gooey pustules or varying size. Lucifer directed Betty's attention toward a particularly large growth. Encased in the moist sack of membrane was the faint shadow of a creature growing within.

"It is quite amazing what the human body is capable of, isn't it?" The Devil stated. "This entire valley is one undulating mass of harvested sinew and nerves culled from sinners. The organic network underneath your feet delivers sustenance to my brilliantly crafted trees, which in turn bear the most insidious fruit."

Satan clutched the cocoon in his palm. "This particular variety is one of my Innocents. These angel-faced fiends are top-notch tormentors. In fact, I think it was an Innocent who found you and delivered you to my quarters. The neophytes take such pleasure in simple things. I smile every time one of them squeals with joy at the sound of suffering."

Betty cringed at the thought of it all. She was currently standing upon mounds of human matter used to propagate all manner of nefarious abominations.

The Devil grew happier at her unease.

"I've found that the raw materials of your mortal vessel can transport all kinds of valuable things: greed, fear, anger. We extract these nutrients of evil and send them streaming through this pipeline of human veins. The tainted milk feeds the nightmares that, upon their birth, draw from the tormented souls more of the very thing they breed upon. It is quite an ingenious self-sustaining system, don't you think?"

Lucifer took great pride in explaining the whole process to a terrified Betty.

"That is simply repulsive," Betty replied.

"Isn't it," the Devil cheerfully agreed. "Now, let us venture on. Just beyond the orchard is one of my inns, a home for lost souls. It's where the juice is generated."

Traveling a few more yards through the flesh forest, the pair came upon a large, dilapidated mansion. It had the look of an old plantation home with a large, wooden porch and tall, faux marble columns holding up a roof of peeling shingles. Every window was boarded, and pieces of wooden siding had fallen off and rotted beneath the weight of black mold.

Where the fibrous ground met the home's foundation, filaments of the fungus dug into the block and burrowed into the interior like probing tentacles. Other shoots scaled the exterior like ivy and clung to the frame.

The Devil waved his hand, and the front door creaked open. From within the shadowy core, an endless cacophony of moans flowed out. Grabbing Betty by her reluctant hand, the Devil urged her forward, and soon, the two disappeared into the house's confines.

Inside, Betty found the home decorated in much the same way as the place she had first awoken at in Hades. It had the same refined, yet blemished, trappings of the other location, making for a very bizarre juxtaposition of elegance and ugliness.

Turning a corner just past the foyer, they came upon a long hallway lined with several doors, each marked by a mounted candle. There was no doubt it was similar to the hall where Betty had encountered the Innocent.

"Betty, these rooms contain custom-crafted hells, self-contained cells of despair and misery designed to leverage a soul's worst fears and most lasting sins. Behind these doors, you'll find a vast array of human refuse, each one subject to an eternal torture all their own.

"There are the gluttonous, forced to feed upon the bubbling fat of pigs until they become so painfully bloated their skin begins to tear and seep. There are thieves who sleep shallow, constantly waking to limbs hacked off and bare, bloody stumps in their place. All are levied as they lived. It is the morbid method of damnation."

The Devil approached one of the doors and reached toward the candle.

"When the light is extinguished, the soul is cast into desolation, the place where their torment unfolds once more. We find that a variable schedule of unpredictable nightmares draws forth the most potent sorrow. That is why my Innocents take such delight in extinguishing the flames, relighting them, and snuffing them out again. Each time, the torture behind the portal springs anew."

With that, the Devil doused the candle's light, opened the door, and guided Betty through.

The young woman could not believe her eyes. All around her was a vast, pristine forest. It looked just like the countryside that surrounded her hometown. Tall deciduous trees covered in waxy green leaves stretched up into a crisp blue sky. The air was cold and biting, but otherwise, it was quite actually a beautiful location.

"What type of hell is this?" she asked. "It hardly strikes me as vexing."

"Ah," replied the Devil, "but this is not your hell. It is his."

The Devil pointed toward the trees. Many yards away, a naked fellow was wandering aimlessly through the woodland. He was a wisp of a man, nothing more than thin skin stretched over a weary skeleton. But even in his pitiful shape, Betty recognized him.

"I know that man," she stated. "He lived in the forest not far from my home. Hey!" Betty called out to him. "Hey! Over here!"

"He cannot hear you Miss Blockcut. He cannot see you either," the Devil revealed, "unless I so choose. It matters not, anyway. This troll made a deal with me. His soul for that of a worthless mutt."

"Yes, I remember his circumstance. He killed his dog for food but was too distraught to eat him."

The Devil laughed. "How foolish, don't you think? His own weakness, his selfish want for sustenance was enough to convince him to turn on his one, true, loyal friend. It is quite pathetic. When I offered him his dog back in exchange for his eternal essence, the pudding-brained simpleton agreed wholeheartedly. His regret was sweet liquor.

"His dog returned that very night. Unfortunately, it was quite rabid and vengeful, and tore the hermit asunder upon sight. He should've just eaten the beast in the first place."

A chilling howl suddenly cut through the air. The frightening call was followed by another, and another. Betty watched as the man began to run and scramble, a look of sheer terror upon his face.

"This is my favorite part," the Devil stated with glee.

From their perch upon a nearby hill, Betty and the Devil observed a most vicious scene. The woodsman sprinted through a grove of pines as fast as his starved frame could carry him. Nipping at his heels was a pack of wild canines, domesticated in breed, but entirely wolf-like in their behavior. Heaping masses of muscle and fur, they snarled and barked as their noses kept keen to the man's scent. When the poor fellow made a calamitous turn down a narrow trench line, his fate was sealed. The hounds funneled in and trapped him in the dead-end ravine.

What transpired next was quite odd. Instead of posturing for a fight or attempting to claw his way up the rock walls that surrounded him, the man simply stood still. He extended his arms out to his sides and then slowly closed his eyes. The pack pounced, tearing into his flesh and devouring him alive amid a tumult of blood and agony.

Struck by the absolute brutality of the act, Betty averted her gaze. It was hard to watch the violence; even more disturbing to think the man somehow welcomed the pain.

The Devil was pleased. He turned toward Betty to explain the demonic wonder of his world.

"As savage as it is, the real beauty lies in its reenactment. This pitifully weak human will endure every gouging fang and tearing claw. He will feel his muscle torn free from bone and the stinging bite of icy air on his exposed nerve endings. He will experience it all at a deep, cellular level, and then, just when the last pulse of pain leaves his dying brain, he will be whole again, wandering the wood as aimlessly as he had mere seconds before. He will walk alone, save the ever-present fear of another sudden violent assault needling his senses.

"And why does this man suffer this torment?" The Devil continued, "What brought him to be prey everlasting? It was the sin of betrayal, that evil seed of self-interest beyond all else. And for this, he will be forever starved, forever hunted, forever consumed."

The dogs began to scatter, having apparently reached their fill. A mess of human carnage was left in their wake. It was a quivering pile of skin and blood that was hardly reminiscent of the man that once was. A second later, the pile dissolved into nothingness, and the man, surprisingly whole and unharmed, reappeared amongst a patch of nearby timbers.

He walked cautiously, craning his neck at every sound. Suddenly, the howls cried out again and the hunt was born anew.

"Oh, a quick turnabout this time," the Devil remarked with glee. "An Innocent must be playing with the wick. Fun indeed! The uncertainty of the peril's timing is often as torturous as the punishment."

Betty could see the pack of dogs gathering in the distance. They moved as one toward the man, and on this occasion, he did not even attempt to flee. As the band closed in, the fellow stood motionless, anchored to the ground. Just as before, he extended his arms to his sides, closed his eyes, and was, all at once, swarmed by the gnashing horde.

Betty wasn't sure what to make of it. The man was writhing and twisting as the beasts pulled him apart, but he did not cry, he did not shout. In some strange way, it appeared as though he had accepted his fate, coming to the realization that this was to be his existence and that further struggle would never change the outcome.

The Devil paid no mind to the man's odd behavior. He was entirely engrossed by the hellhounds. He marveled at their single-mindedness and unquenchable thirst for blood. He was proud of these pets and the heartless way they accomplished their dastardly deed.

"This man would have been wise to banish his baser instincts," Satan stated with disdain. "Had he not made his choices out of selfish want, he might be more than the chew toy he is now."

Betty sensed there was another force that motivated the man, a reason he willingly accepted the torments. Having been there shortly after the woodsman had taken his canine friend's life, Miss Blockcut offered forth an alternate view of the man's predicament.

"You claim it was his act of betrayal that delivered this man to your most damned domain," Betty said. "I disagree. See how he does not run, he does not cry. See how he accepts the violence. This is not a man of weak constitution. This is one empowered by love, the love he had for his lone companion and the solace he takes in having given up his life in return."

"Love?!" the Devil responded in a most agitated way, almost as if choking on the concept. "That is utterly ridiculous."

Satan cast aside the idea without any further contemplation. He then snatched Betty by the shoulder. "I suppose you've seen enough of this play. Shall we catch a different show?"

With those words, a doorway materialized out of thin air. The Devil turned the tarnished bronze knob and guided Betty back into the hallway.

Satan led her to another door. There, he extinguished the candle burning adjacent the portal, and then gently ushered Miss Blockcut inside the second room.

They emerged into a rather normal-looking flat. It was a single-room with a small cast iron stove along a near wall, a simple bed against the far wall, and other, modest-looking pieces of furniture scattered across the dull wooden floor. Rays of pale sunlight passed through the room's only exterior window, illuminating the elderly frame of the home's lone inhabitant. An old woman sat upon the deep windowsill wringing her wrinkled hands nervously.

Betty recognized the madam. She was the same woman who had sold her beet cakes back in Nugins Knob, the same woman who had told Betty about the tragic loss of her husband.

"Now, this sad woman," the Devil began with a slight giggle, "she should have just let things be. At her age, it couldn't have been long before she would have met a peaceful death and happily joined her departed in heaven.

"Instead, she let the sin of vengeance consume her heart. She was willing to pay anything to find her husband's killer, even if it meant her soul. Who was I to advise otherwise? She traded her spirit for the wealth needed to hire a spectacular detective, a man who could identify the murdered with little doubt. His certainty was without question, and by the time the hag realized why he was so confident in his claims, it was too late.

"The woman had been correct," the Devil explained further. "Her husband's rival did indeed poison him, and the detective testified as much, just as he plunged a dagger deep into her side. Unbeknownst to the mum, she had hired the killer's cousin, and he had no intention of fraying the family ties."

"Observe," the Devil instructed as he motioned toward the window.

Betty slowly approached the old lady and joined her in gazing out the pane. Despite their close proximity, the woman did not sense Betty's presence in the slightest. It was as it had been in the woodsman's hell.

Looking through the glass, Miss Blockcut viewed a familiar scene. From this third-story vantage point, the streets of Nugins Knob stretched out below them, lined on either side by rows of buildings Betty had passed hundreds of times before. On the lane walked a gentleman of stature. He was an older fellow whose dress and gate called forth a noble dignity.

The woman placed one hand on the windowpane and the other over her heart. From the look of longing in her eyes and the mist that gathered in her lashes, Betty was certain the man walking the street below was her husband.

The old woman's eyes remained fixated on the man, and Betty watched as the fellow made his way toward the front door of the building where they were presently. Suddenly emerging from the dark shadows of a side alley, a group of three gruff men snuck up behind him.

At that moment, the old woman lowered her gaze and turned away from the window. She was clearly unsettled as she sat upon her untidy bed.

Betty turned back toward the scene unfolding outside.

The three men had surrounded the older gent. They were shouting at him and harassing him. From behind his back, one of the hooligans drew forth a cane and promptly struck the gentleman across the head. The poor man fell to the ground, clutching a seeping wound and struggling to keep his bearings. The trio did not relent. In fact, they accelerated the battery.

As they kicked and punched their victim, the old man shouted out in pain. The cries echoed above the narrow streets and were clear as day within the flat. The old woman covered her ears and began to weep.

Betty watched as the brutal beating continued, and cringed as the gentleman's condition worsened with every driving boot heel and crushing knuckle strike.

Across the street, a crowd began to gather, among them a stout constable armed with a baton and revolver. But much to Betty's astonishment, not a single individual stepped in to halt the attack. Quite to the contrary, they seemed perversely amused by the spectacle. It was a disgusting display of disregard.

After an excessive spell, the bullies let up. Lying beneath them was the fractured frame of their victim. The poor man was motionless, near lifeless, save the shallow undulation of still breathing lungs beneath his ravaged chest. As two of the assailants mocked the helpless gent, the third drew a long knife from beneath his waistcoat. He knelt down, clutched his vanquished prey by the back of his neck, and slowly drew the cold blade across his throat. The act was done with such indifference, it froze Betty's heart.

After dropping the old man's lifeless corpse to the cobblestone, the three murderers headed to the flat's street-level door. They shoved it open and entered, and Betty immediately heard the sound of their heavy footsteps on the stairwell leading up to her location.

The ominous march grew increasingly louder. Betty shot up from her seat and rushed over to the old woman.

"You have to hide!" she shouted as she gripped the widow by her shoulders and shook her.

The woman paid no attention. She simply sat on the edge of her bed, staring off into the distance with a look of disconnect.

The Devil chuckled. "Betty, I already told you they cannot see you, cannot sense we are even here, unless I so deem it."

"Well, deem it, damn it!" Betty implored.

"This hag made her choice. She must now shoulder the eternal burden."

With that, the door to the flat burst open. The three ferocious criminals rushed the old woman. Betty stumbled backward as two of the men grabbed the elder by the arms and pinned her to her mattress. The ringleader brandished his blade once more, waving the knife cruelly in front of the old lady's face. She refused to look in their direction. She refused to struggle. Even as the demonic tormentor thrust the blade into her chest, she did not stir.

Betty jumped to the woman's defense. She struck out at the men and tried to pull them away. They did not budge, did not even flinch.

"Miss Blockcut, me dear," the Devil clarified once more, "there is nothing you can do."

Deep in her soul, Betty knew it was frivolous, but she had to try. She punched and kicked, pulled and shoved, before eventually falling to the floor in utter exhaustion. Despite her every effort, the gore continued. Betty was powerless.

The knife-wielder cut a deep gash into the woman's sternum, sawing through the bone with tremendous force. The mum did not respond. Her eyes appeared glazed over and empty, like a porcelain doll. The thug then dug the blade in even deeper. He carved into the cavity and then thrust his fist into the wound. With a sickening sound of suction, he pulled forth an oozing glob of organ, the woman's heart, to be exact.

The three fellows shared a hearty laugh of pleasure as they rose from the woman's bedside. They merrily congratulated one another before exiting back out they way they came, heart in hand. The evil deed had been done, and the Devil was pleased.

Clutching the blood-drenched sheets in despair, Betty pulled herself to the woman's bedside. The murder was so gruesome and cruel, it felt as though her own heart had been torn out as well. She cried and wailed, unable to control her emotions, then, through a veil of tears, a very unusual sight came into focus.

The woman lay upon the bed, her chest a seeping cavern of plasma, but shockingly still marked by the subtle ebb and flow of drawn breath. Quite to Betty's amazement, the woman sat up. She was alive and animated despite her missing heart. The old lass retrieved a needle and thread from her nightstand and commenced sewing her wound closed. She performed the task as if a mundane chore.

Betty couldn't believe her eyes, and looked toward the Devil for an explanation.

"She is forced to watch her husband's death every day, watch it helplessly from this isolated perch above the street. It doesn't always occur in the same brutal fashion you witnessed, but it does culminate in the same wonderful result in every instance. Each time her heart is broken all over again, and why not make the emotional pain a physical manifestation?"

"So, you have demons tear her heart out!?" Betty screamed in anger.

"Yes. But it grows back," the Devil replied in defense.

"Only to be subject to the putrid act in perpetuity. That is the most horrible thing I have ever heard of."

"I wasn't the one who let greed for gold, in the fruitless pursuit of revenge, consume my every thought. Heck, with a heart as poisoned as hers, she should be thankful I have it plucked from her withered hide so often."

"Greed and revenge?!" Betty yelled. "You think that's why she made the deal with you? You think that's why she deserves to play this morbid part. Love! Love propelled her. Love pushed her through. Love made the choice for her!"

Once again, the Devil grew exceedingly agitated by Betty's assertion.

"Sin, Miss Blockcut, sin brings them to me. Not love. Love is a mere derangement, a human handicap."

"You are wrong!" Betty shouted in defiance.

"That is enough!" the Devil roared back.

With a wave of his hand, Satan conjured up another doorway, grabbed Betty by the arm and pulled her through. Standing in the inn's hallway once again, he stared at Betty. She was not looking back. She looked off into the distance, preoccupied with what she had witnessed and the anger it had sewn in her belly.

The Devil was perplexed. In his eyes, every soul in his realm was deserving of its place. Each had rightfully contributed to their own torments through sin created by their own hand. The punishment always fit the crime. It was the everlasting balance of free will. After all, sin is the most powerful force in the mortal world, and embracing it has consequences.

But, somehow Betty viewed things differently. She saw something else in the suffering, something he did not. The Devil dismissed the idea. He was Satan, the Fallen Angel, and there was no way a mortal's flawed beliefs could be accurate. He was sure of it, and confident that one more example would undoubtedly make his case.

"Miss Blockcut, if you wouldn't mind humoring me for a bit longer. I have yet another instance worth your witness," The Devil stated. "This one will surely prove that mankind's actions are intrinsically born of self-interest and fueled by an unparalleled capacity to sin. Sin, not love, is the power that compels them."

The Devil took Betty by the hand. She was taken aback. His grip was much softer than before, less forceful. It was almost gentle. She looked at him. His face turned docile, in an almost reassuring manner. It was an odd change in disposition.

Passing through the third door, the pair came upon an intensely dark interior. Betty could not judge the size of the room. Blackness clouded everything, like being surrounded by impenetrable night. Without sight, Betty was forced to concentrate on sound alone, and as she did, she could hear the faint whimpering of a woman. The forlorn sobs could not have been more heartbroken.

"Who is out there?" Betty asked the Devil.

The Devil snapped his fingers, and a sudden, single ray of light beamed down upon a lonely woman standing in the center of the room. Betty knew the woman. It was Gertie's mother. Her arms were outstretched and reaching. There was a look of frantic loss on her face as she stumbled about aimlessly. It was clear to Betty that Evelyn was searching for something, but could not see.

"This worthless speck decided her blind daughter was too much of a burden," explained Satan. "She offered her soul in exchange for her child's renewed sight. Oh, how she looked upon her offspring as such a cross to bear, a detriment to her own lifestyle. This part-time mother couldn't care less for her daughter. It was all about releasing herself from the binds of worry and frustration."

"Mum," a child called out from the void. "Mum, I'm scared." The unseen girl pleaded.

Betty recognized it as Gertie's voice, and as the distressed begging continued, Evelyn began to search with greater intensity and weep with growing sadness.

The Devil leaned into Betty, calmly whispering into her ear, "Her deeds have granted her a sightless life locked away in this endless, stygian world. She will never see again, never lay eyes upon another person or thing. But, she will be confronted by the ever-present lure of familiarity prodding her from the bleak beyond to explore further in the hope that she can once again embrace what she had so wrongly forsaken."

"This is pure despondency, an undeserving world of gloom," Betty stated with empathy.

"Again, one crafted by her own doing. They create the sin that creates their suffering. It is the promise of this most mighty of forces that feeds my strength, populates my realm. I do not thrust sin upon them. I merely present it as an option, and they gratefully devour the sweet treat. It is an easy decision, a perfect way to quickly empower an otherwise weak and ineffectual being."

Betty watched as Gertie's mother continued her vain search.

"I will find you, my little plum," Evelyn shouted into the darkness beyond. "Do not cry. Mum is here. Mum is close."

"Pleaaasseee, Mum. Please, I'm lost," came the hollow reply.

Evelyn fought through her sorrow. She stretched her arms out as far as they could go, willing them to cut through the stifling black. She ran, altered course, and then shifted again, each time trying to pinpoint the location of her helpless child.

"See Betty, I do not rely on physical violence alone," the Devil stated with false compassion. "Not all torture tears at the flesh. This wicked one suffers only an insatiable longing. It is the price she must pay. Justice done."

"No," Betty countered, "your logic is flawed once again."

The Devil glared at Miss Blockcut, his eyes sharp and angry.

"She did not accept your terms for her own benefit. She willingly sacrificed herself for her child. And even now, she searches without regard for her circumstance, battling back the sense of futility that steadily grows within her mind. She will not relent. She will not stop. She will continue with the sole hope that her hand will once more touch the tiny fingers of her most cherished. A greater love does not exist. It brought her to this place and continues to give her strength—strength more potent than all the forces you claim superior."

The Devil's face grew flush with rage, yet he hesitated to respond. He glared at Betty, and then back at the tormented woman.

"Satan," Betty continued, "there is no doubt that many of your damned are deserving. I know I've met my fair share of rotten hearts, but the ones I have seen, the three you so proudly claim as prime exhibits of human inferiority, they are, in fact, quite the opposite. Each harnessed the immeasurable fortitude of the most tremendous of human powers, the immeasurable excellence of true, lasting love."

Betty was gazing intently upon the struggles of Evelyn, and a soft tear formed in the corner of her eye. The Devil watched with a foreign fascination as the droplet overflowed its bank, slowly winding down her cheek and outlining her tender features in a tiny river of sympathy.

Love? It was a dissident idea. The Devil had heard mention of the evanescent notion before, but refused to put stock in its import. Greed, murder, thievery, these were the breeders of all-powerful sin.

Love could not compare, and yet, standing there beside Betty, ruminating upon her words and the emotional bond she had stuck with each of the souls she had seen, the Devil's mind began to fracture. It was as if a warm ray of light had bored a tiny hole in the thick wall of stone buried beneath his scaly gray skin. The sensation was a bit unnerving.

Just then, the voice of Rosicco, the Devil's goblin emissary, echoed throughout the room. "Master," the submissive creature addressed, "a solution to Miss Blockcut's dilemma has presented itself."

"Very good," Satan replied. "We shall return to the great hall immediately."

The Devil took hold of Betty's hand with more concern than at any time prior.

"Come Betty. Let's get you home."

===============

Chapter 11: Last Cut

Brady made sure to stock his shelves with meat before turning in for the night. Come dawn, all he would need to do is head downstairs and open the doors, ushering in another flood of gold and silver. When he was awakened that morning by the sound of a mob of customers outside his window, he knew, without a doubt, that his growing fortune would be fed as voraciously as the meat-starved public.

After donning his apron and lacing his boots, Brady stepped into his storefront. Sure enough, there was an unruly gathering of Knobians outside his windows. They were so unruly, in fact, that several constables were also present. They formed a wall of authority in front of the butcher's shop, striking out with batons and harsh words in a desperate attempt to keep order.

Brady could sense a different mood in the crowd. There were still plenty imploring the meat man to open his doors so they could claim their share, but there was also a contingent less so supportive. They called out for restitution, complaining of product prematurely spoiling.

As the townspeople continued to shout and shove, the chief constable made his way to the shop door and signaled for Brady to let him in. Brady complied.

"Good morning, Captain Cuffburn," Brady greeted with a tinge of unease.

"'Morning, Brady," the man replied.

Two other constables had entered with Cuffburn, and they promptly closed the door behind them before making their way further into the store.

Brady stepped behind his counter. "What can I help you lads with? As you can see, we have the finest selection of cuts in the entire Knob. Sturdy men like you might do well to feast upon a thick steak or two."

Cuffburn positioned himself across the counter from Brady as his two deputies meandered about the shop. They randomly examined slices of meat, eyeing them intently and giving them a good sniff.

"Brady, there are actually a couple of issues where your insight would be greatly appreciated," Captain Cuffburn stated. "The first involves the whereabouts of Roland Slopper. He has gone missing, and his family testifies that the last place they knew he was headed was your butcher shop. That was yesterday evening. Have you seen Roland? Did he ever show up at your shop?"

Brady could feel his skin tense and a queasiness lurch into his stomach.

"No, he did not come by last night," Brady replied while deliberately looking past Cuffburn and focusing on the actions of his deputies. "I was not aware he had any intent to do so."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I was here all night. Roland is a good friend of mine. I would have recalled if he had stopped by."

"Noted, Brady. I guess we better scour the alleyways. Sadly, a mugging gone worse is not unheard of in this day and age."

As Brady nervously watched the deputies fondle his stock, he became increasingly concerned. One of the men had laid hands upon a cut of shank unlike many of the others. It was human and not heifer, one of the thicker portions of Roland's ample frame.

Brady stepped out from behind the counter and shouted toward the deputy. "If you like that piece, it's yours at half cost, a public servant's discount!"

The deputy did not even acknowledge the offer. He simply set the cut aside and moved on to another for inspection.

"The other issue, Brady," the captain continued, "is that we've been receiving a growing influx of complaints concerning your product. Many are claiming it is prematurely spoiling."

"That's preposterous!" Brady yelled in disbelief. "The pot stirrers must be storing the slices improperly. Even the finest meat will turn if left in the hot, afternoon sun."

"That may be so, but I can assure you it is not the case with the majority of those who make the claim. We figured that an inspection was in order, you know, for the sake of public health."

Brady knew that further defiance would only end up jeopardizing his secret arrangement. He complied, fully confident that everything on his shelves would pass muster. He had no idea what might be causing the reported distasteful change in his supply, but he was sure that the chunks he cut and sold left his store in the finest state.

As the deputies continued to examine the stock, Captain Cuffburn joined them. The three lawmen flipped flanks, poked porterhouses, and sniffed sirloins. Each piece seemed to be in good standing.

As they continued their work, the Captain added another topic to the docket.

"Brady, did you give Betty the day off? Isn't she usually working the coin box?"

Despite the days-long separation, Brady had all but forgotten his banished daughter. As soon as he realized he could leverage her for his own benefit, he wrote her off, tucked her away in a dark, dusty corner of his mind.

"Ah, yes," Brady said haltingly. "Actually, she'll be absent for quite some time. She went to visit a friend in the country."

"Oh, that's nice. I bet you wish you had her help, what with your sudden abundance of inventory."

The irony of the thought caused Brady to let out a single, slightly inappropriate laugh.

"And speaking of inventory," Cuffburn added, "we'll need to take a look at the livestock if you don't mind."

Brady did mind, he minded that more than anything.

"Well, I...I mean, I'll have to...," Brady stammered as he struggled to formulate a believable reason why that could not take place.

"Is something wrong?" Cuffburn asked, moving uncomfortably close to the befuddled butcher.

"Nooooooooooooo," came a drawn out response.

But the reply was not Brady's. The beastly utterance came from the cold cellar. Brady's face fell stark white.

"What was that?" Cuffburn questioned with a raised eyebrow.

The captain moved toward the basement stairwell. Brady stepped to head him off but was too late. As Cuffburn descended into the cellar, Brady hastily followed, as did the deputies.

Upon reaching the bottom, Cuffburn stared blankly at the hefty cow chained to the wall. He then turned to Brady.

"Is this what is left of your stock? A single cow?"

Brady glared at the beast. The rope muzzle had been chewed through and now laid in tatters upon the stone floor. As long as the creature did not utter a string of recognizable words, Brady's secret may survive the ordeal.

"Yes, this lone, miserable animal is all that is left," Brady answered as straightly as he could.

Cuffburn moved toward the heifer, running his hand over its hide. He motioned for his deputies to join him in examining the beast for any sign of disease or deformity.

Brady stepped back against the far wall. As the constables continued their review, Brady kept his eyes locked on the creature. He knew that at any moment, the bovine could blurt out a word or two that would force him to explain further. For its part, the cow stared right back with its large, unflinching eyes. It was almost as if the creature was taunting Brady.

Blockcut quickly ran through the options in his head. If the beast revealed its talent, he could come clean, explain it all, and be instantly hauled away to the insane asylum. He could make a break for it, run up the stairs and out the door and never look back. Then again, he would have to leave behind mounds of gold, and that thought was just as distasteful as the first.

Brady's hand fell upon the polished wood handle of his favorite cleaver. He could cut to the chase, take control of his own destiny, and murder all three men right then and there while they were preoccupied. There was no doubt in his mind that he could down all three before they even realized what was happening. He could chop them up into little bits and sell them at a profit, just like Roland.

Brady's knuckles cracked as he wrapped his thick fingers around his weapon. The fact that dozens of people were still awaiting the return of the three constables outside of his shop had little bearing on Brady's state of mind. His troubles consumed him. After he dealt with these intruders, he'd figure out a way to explain their absence. He was positive he could craft a solid tale, and so he crept, inching closer and closer to the constables.

All three had their backs turned to Brady as they diligently eyed every inch of the heifer. Brady quietly and cautiously closed the distance, careful not to let his actions draw their attention, all the while moving with vile intent.

Now within arm's reach of one of the deputies, he slid the blade free from his belt. He knew the first blow had to be a death strike. A clean shot to the cranium would ensure that. Just as Brady reared back to generate the force needed, Cuffburn, who had been examining the cow's head and mouth, turned.

"Brady, what is this here?" the captain questioned.

Brady quickly dropped his arm, hid the cleaver, and moved gingerly toward Cuffburn as if nothing unusual was about to transpire.

"What do you mean?" Brady replied.

Cuffburn peered into the open the jaws of the animal and was examining its teeth and mouth. Something out of the ordinary had caught his attention. He reached his hand into the cavity, and drew forth the object of his uncertainty. It was a saliva-covered, but still easily identifiable, digit of a grown man's hand—a ring finger to be precise.

Cuffburn held the remains up to the light. Encircling the knuckle was a band of gold. "R.S." was inscribed in clear letters upon its shiny surface. The accompanying deputies gasped at the find.

Brady did not know what to say. In his haste to hide Roland's murder, he must have let a stray finger roll off the cutting table and onto the cellar floor. The devious cow had apparently slurped it up as future evidence of the treacherous act.

Brady was overcome with rage. He swiftly drew forth his cleaver and buried the blade deep into the side of the cow's neck. The beast bleated as blood sprayed forth from the wound. One of the deputies stepped in, grabbing Brady by the shoulder. Brady, in the throws of insanity, turned and lashed out at the officer, cutting him across the midsection and dropping him in a heap. At that, Cuffburn and the other deputy leapt into the fray, but Brady was stout and defiant.

The three wrestled as each tried to lay claim to the blade. Cuffburn was caught by the razor edge, opening a nice gash upon his cheek and forcing him to release his hold on the butcher as he staggered and collapsed to the ground in pain. The second deputy lost his footing when he slipped on a puddle of heifer blood. The opportunistic meat man swung his weapon and caught the stumbling man right in the back.

Blockcut, now in a fighting position of authority, stood over the three wounded lawmen, waving his cleaver manically. With fire in his eyes and pure rage in his heart, Brady prepared to administer the mortal wounds that would deliver them all to their Maker.

Just as he stepped forward with hatchet high, the bewitched bovine reared up on its front legs and shot out a violent back kick that caught Brady square in the side of the head. The sudden blow was quick and crushing, and it sent the demonic butcher sailing across the cellar. With a lifeless thud, his body landed on the stone floor. Head battered and skull shattered, Brady Blockcut was dead.

===============

Chapter 12: Arrival

The Devil sat uncomfortably upon his throne of flesh. As hard as he tried, he could not shake the words of Betty Blockcut from his head. To think that there was a force with more potential than those negative powers he fed on, those powers he had spent an eternity mining and harvesting, posed quite a challenge to his sensibilities. But here he was, contemplating that very thing, and what's more, he could not keep his eyes off of Betty.

The frail lass, with her pale white skin and soft brown hair, sat on a marble chair several feet away from him. She was all at once timid and determined. A being confident in her belief that love had no equal, a belief intensely rooted despite her own hardships.

Her father had viewed her as a bane, and there was not a single man in all of Nugins Knob who considered her more than the awkward daughter of a meat slinger. But as the Devil awaited the word of his goblin informant, he knew Betty was infinitely more. She was a foil to his thoughts, a beautiful contrast to the world of sorrows surrounding him. She intrigued him like no other, and he could not help but feel an inexplicable fondness for her.

"Master, the correction has come to pass," Rosicco announced while escorting a veiled form into the great and foreboding cathedral.

"Ah, very good," replied the Lord of Darkness. "Betty, it appears as though all has been set right. You will now be sent back to your world, none the worse for wear."

Satan approached the veiled figure and with a quick snap drew back the being's hood, revealing Betty's father, Brady.

Betty's eyes grew wide and still. She couldn't believe who she was looking at.

"Father!" she cried out.

Brady cast her a nasty glare.

"Betty, I cannot escape your meddling, bumbling, incompetence!" Brady screamed out with venom. "Even exiled to hell, your enduring worthlessness lingers, and now I must pay. This is your fault! Damn you!"

Daughter Blockcut felt those all-too-familiar feelings of inadequacy, guilt, and pain raining down upon her once more. She could sense them filling her with sadness and drowning her spirit. But, she refused to be overtaken.

"I forgive you, Father."

The Devil was shocked. Rarely had he found himself at a loss for words. Brady was in no way deserving, and to hear Betty wash all that away with four simple words, it was beyond belief.

Betty then turned toward Satan. "Forgiveness. Another expression of love."

The Devil smiled. It was a genuine smile, one not bred from perverted pleasure, and an expression he had so long forgotten he was capable of.

"Goodbye, Betty," the Devil said.

With that, Betty became increasingly transparent and ghost-like before vanishing completely in a flash of bright, white light.

"And what shall we do with Mr. Blockcut?" asked Rosicco.

"Find him a nice room at the inn," the Devil ordered. "One without a view."

As Rosicco escorted Brady from Lucifer's presence, the Devil took a seat. His mind was troubled, distracted. He dwelt on the odd fondness he felt for Betty and knew it was something more, something greater. He had spent relatively little time with the woman, and yet she had profoundly affected him in ways he was struggling to grasp. He knew there was only one infallible source for answers, and luckily for the Devil, he had an intimate knowledge of just where to find Him.

===============

Chapter 13: Reconciliation

It had been eons since he last set foot before the gates of heaven, but the Devil's mind still remembered the exact day he was cast down to serve as the Demon King, the Eternal Tormentor of mankind. He recalled having wronged God and how, as an angel on high, he was stripped of the blessed gifts and sent to writhe in the abyss, forever seeking a means to fill his hollowed heart.

He had found the sins of man provided him a replacement of sorts. There was no doubt power there, but it was an insatiable existence. As much evil as he consumed, it was not the same. It was not the filling, eternally invigorating sense he had left behind in the Kingdom of God. But, he gleaned a fleeting taste of that long-forgotten essence while with Betty, and he wanted more.

"Lord," the Devil uttered softly through the ornately decorated gates, "it is I, your lost son, Lucifer."

"Lucifer, I've been expecting you," returned an angelic voice echoing from the magnificent beyond.

"I came to seek your counsel," the Devil beseeched.

"I know why you came, Lucifer. After the millennia of prodigal existence, you have finally begun to realize the error of your ways. You have found that which you lost and have been longing for ever since. It grows within you at this very moment. So pure and powerful, it even propelled you to come here, to a place you have so long cursed."

"Yes, I do feel different, somehow."

"What you feel is love, Lucifer."

"How can that be?"

"You may have been stripped of that sense when you were banished to the netherworld, but the capacity always remained. Betty Blockcut simply rekindled the source. She made you realize what you had forgotten as one of my cherubs—love, My love, eternal love, is the life's blood of a truly profound existence."

The Devil pondered God's words. As unfathomable as it seemed, it was undeniable. He loved Betty Blockcut.

"But what am I to do? I have been designated your evil antithesis. I can hardly perform those duties now. What good is a demon who is constantly preoccupied with attaining the affections of a mortal woman he can never have?"

"Oh Lucifer, you make me chuckle," God replied with child-like amusement. "The second you came to this realization, you lost your job. You are no longer my assessor of human reason. You have been freed of the labor."

"But, is it not needed? How else will you gauge the heart of man?"

"As your epiphany grew, a more than suitable replacement came to light. His mind is so corrupt, his soul so soiled, he may never get his fill of sin. This being will serve in your stead."

It only took the Devil a second to realize whom God was referring to.

"Brady Blockcut," Lucifer stated with confidence.

"Yes."

"And now, what am I to do. I have no place in the Hades."

"And, you have not yet won back a seat at my table," said God. "But, there is still hope. You wish to see Betty again, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," the Devil replied without hesitation.

"The love you feel is still in its infancy. It needs to be nurtured and cared for. Lucifer, I will send you back to the mortal world. You will become a man, and there on that plane, you shall prove just how well you've learned your lesson. Strengthen your resolve, share your newfound virtue with others, and win the hand of Betty Blockcut. If you can do this, you will be happily welcomed back into My Kingdom."

The Devil was unsure of himself. The task seemed daunting. He had never lived as a man before, and he surely lacked confidence in his ability to wield the emotions needed to woo Betty, but just the thought of her was enough for him to shove aside his fears. If undertaking the life of a man meant he had a chance of being with Betty once more, he would accept wholeheartedly.

"I am your servant," Lucifer said to God.

And with that, the Devil was no more. He was born anew a man in the land of men on a quest to win the heart of his dearest.

===============

Chapter 14: Shadow

Betty woke to the familiar scent of pine. The sun shined bright through the tree limbs as a melody of birdcalls melded with a delicate morning breeze. She found herself in the middle of the wilderness, but as she rose and took survey of her surroundings, Betty realized she was not far from home. The patch of firs was a place she had often visited. It was a quiet glen, a great place to escape the verbal abuse of her father.

The recollection brought the realization that, while memories of such harsh times would forever linger, the dread of added episodes was no more. Her father's fate had been sealed, and his bearing on her was at an end. Betty dusted off her wrinkled skirt and headed down a thin, dirt trail, the trail that would lead her home.

As she approached the outskirts of town, she noticed a large gathering of people surrounding a fenced-in pasture. They were merrily conversing while pointing and gawking at a lone cow casually gnawing on the tall grass around its hooves.

"What's happening?" Betty asked a small boy near the rear of the crowd.

"That's the cow that saved Cuffburn!" he exclaimed with joy.

The child's mother took note of the boy's words and whom he was talking to.

"Betty...Betty Blockcut? It is you!" The woman placed her hand on Betty's. "I'm so sorry about your father. You must be an absolute mess."

Betty bore witness to the culmination of her father's actions, but was unsure of the chain of events that had led to his death. She implored the woman to tell the tale, needing to be educated due to her absence.

As the woman explained the whole ordeal— the sudden abundance of meat, Roland's murder, and Brady's savage assault on the deputies—Betty thought about the Devil and his manipulative ways. She also thought about her father, and how the need for manipulation was, most assuredly, very little.

After the cow had saved the constables, the whole town decided to spare the beast and give it a place of honor, caring for it daily and allowing it to lead a life of leisure. The fact that the heifer could talk had not come to light. Once the creature was given the position of reverence, it had little need to complain, and so hadn't uttered another word.

Eyeing the beast carefully, Betty looked for hints to its worth. She pondered how the rather ordinary animal could rival her own value in the eyes of her deceased father. The idea that he would willingly trade her soul for a stock of meat was undoubted proof of his wicked heart. The depressing introspection ceased when Betty noticed a familiar face squeezing through the fence rails a few feet away.

"Gertie!" Betty yelled as she approached the little girl.

"Betty," came a joyful reply.

The pair hugged, exchanging a friendly embrace. After drawing back, Betty could sense sadness in the little girl's face. While it was hard to witness, it was not the least bit surprising. After all, she knew where Gertie's mum had gone.

Gertie explained that after Betty and she had last met, on that glorious day when her sight returned, she arrived at the mill where her mother worked, eager to share the life-changing news. Instead, she was confronted with another event of greater impact. A man told her that there had been an accident. A silo latch had given way and Gertie's mother had been buried beneath tons of grain. By the time her coworkers dug Evelyn out, it was too late. She had suffocated to death, choked into the great abyss by an act of God.

Betty knew God's hand had little to do with it, but refused to offer insight as to the exact fate of Gertie's mother. It would only serve to upset the child further.

Without hesitation, Betty offered herself as a replacement of sorts. She knew she could not be Gertie's mother, but thought it best if the young girl came to live with her back at the butcher shop. Having few options as promising, and a genuine fondness for Betty, Gertie happily accepted.

The pair rejoined the spectacle before them as the people of Nugins Knob threw the cow treats and patted its hide as it lumbered by. Everyone was fully engrossed by the celebration—everyone except one man.

Standing among a group across the field, his attention was solely focused on Betty. He watched as she talked to the people around her, sharing smiles and accepting tempered condolences. He marveled at her joy for others, her deep desire to connect with those around her. He watched her arms drape gracefully upon the fence rail as the wind caught her hair, blowing it playfully across her thin lashes. He absorbed every instant, and in doing so, could feel the spark of love inside him radiate with ever-increasing brightness.

The sensation was superb, yet incomplete. As much as he wanted to run to Betty, he worried he did not possess the understanding, or the confidence, needed to convey his feelings in proper terms. So, he remained anchored across the pasture, hypnotized by her presence.

A sudden shout broke him free of his trance.

"Stop! Stop that thief!" came the cry of an old woman.

She was pointing toward a nefarious fellow in tattered clothes, clutching a change purse in his hand and furiously running in his direction.

The man's normal instinct would be to do nothing, to let the apparent crime unfold so as to cultivate the sin. That very notion did impress upon his mind, but on this occasion, the good feeling growing inside him compelled him to act in a different manner. With a stiff leg, he tripped the bandit, sending him tumbling to the dirt in a nasty spill.

Momentarily bewildered, the thief could do very little to keep the man from grabbing hold of him tightly and securing him where he laid. The commotion drew the attention of a nearby constable, and he was soon to join the scene.

The constable thanked the man for his intervention as he slapped wrist irons on the pickpocket and carted him away. The man, in turn, handed the stolen purse back to the woman to whom it belonged. She was exceedingly grateful, even offering him a couple of coins as a reward.

The man refused. He realized the good deed bolstered his benevolence, and that was the only reward necessary. It was a tangible cause and effect, and the man knew what he needed to do. He would commit himself to commendable actions such as these in hopes that they would continue to strengthen his heart, empower his soul, and feed the love he so desperately dreamed he could one day share with Betty.

The crowd was beginning to disperse, and as they did, the man watched Miss Blockcut retreat into the landscape. He was unsure of his exact bearings, but wherever Betty was going, he was positive he wanted to be close by, so he followed her, remaining at a distance so as not to appear menacing.

When Betty finally made it to her home, the man kept to the street. He wasn't sure how long it would take him to harness the courage needed to approach her, and so he looked for a place to stay nearby. It just so happened that the woman whom he had helped in the pasture owned a bakery a few buildings away and was renting out a spare flat on the upper level. When the man inquired, the woman was more than happy to grant him lodging free of charge.

The flat couldn't have been situated any better. It offered a small balcony from which he could clearly see the butcher shop. He took full advantage of the view, sitting on the porch in constant longing for but a second's sight of Betty. Occasionally, the man would be granted a glimpse of the lass when she would lean from her bedroom window to gaze upon the setting sun, or when she'd break loose the shutters to usher in a cool morning breeze. Each instance was captured by his lovelorn eye and framed as a grand portrait within the gallery of his mind.

He bore witness to Betty's pursuits as she turned the butcher's shop into a top-notch clothes parlor, finally embracing her dream to become a renowned seamstress. While Brady's ill-gotten gold had been dutifully returned to his unhappy customers, Betty financed her shop by selling off her father's many cleavers, grinders, and knives. She used the coin to buy fabrics and thread, and with the help of her new apprentice, Gertie, the pair stitched the most fabulous gowns in all of Nugins Knob.

When Betty would leave the store to run errands, the man would cautiously follow. He always remained at a respectful span, though he couldn't help but want to be near her. These travels also gave him generous opportunity to enrich his love and fortify its vigor.

He helped an old gent push his cart to market and held a basketful of wet linens for a mum struggling to hang them out to dry. He guided a child back to his mother among a thick crowd, and tossed a stray cat a fresh fish he had caught in the Knobs' creek.

The feats of simple kindness—small measures of love for fellow man—were set against equal opportunities for selfishness and harm. Hungry as he was at times, the man refrained from snatching loaves of bread from an unattended windowsill. Despite his need for coin, he quickly remedied an unequal transaction, making the sums right as opposed to benefiting from the mistake. The chance to be virtuous was placed before him as often as the dark option to fall back into his old, sin-harnessing ways. Despite the tainted allure of easy benefit, he refused to falter. He knew Betty would not approve.

It was tough at times, perhaps no more so than one night while he sat upon an empty fruit crate in Nugins Square watching Betty help a friend pack up her wares from that day's market. As he lingered, immersed in the scene, he could feel the breath of another upon his neck. It was hot and spiked with the scent of burnt salt.

The man turned to meet the source and found a cloaked individual sitting unusually close and facing in his direction. The stranger was dressed in attire of the day, but wore his hood low, concealing much of his face. The few markers that were evident consisted of a plump red nose, below which hung a thick mat of whiskers and a fat, foul smile. The man also noticed that the stranger had a large, threatening cleaver tucked into his belt.

"I've seen you watching her," the stranger's raspy voice whispered.

The man did not reply. He turned away, wishing the intruder would go.

"I know the lust you hold in your heart," the stranger continued. "I can make her yours...for but a paltry price."

The man turned back upon hearing the offer. If there existed a means to overcome his weakness and obtain Betty's affections with great haste, he felt it should be considered.

"What type of deal are you..." The man suddenly held his tongue. He stared long and hard at the stranger, unable to see his eyes, but sensing a deep, unnerving connection. Conversing with the stranger had caused him increased unease and a feeling that what was about to transpire would yield only pain. He altered course.

"No thank you, Sir. My own means will suffice," the man stated as confidently as he could. He then stood, and walked away, following Betty back toward the seamstress salon.

As he walked down the lane, the odd encounter hung in his thoughts. If his ultimate goal was to gain the love of Betty Blockcut, any means that would expedite that should not be pushed aside so easily, especially given his current emotional inadequacies in addressing the situation himself.

He turned again toward where the stranger had been sitting, but the fellow was nowhere to be seen. It was as if the night, itself, had risen up and consumed him.

The inner dialogue continued as he followed Betty home. Point and counterpoint battled in his conflicted psyche. An old and well-worn trail, cut harshly through dying brambles, taunted him to return to what he knew—a way of thinking that had served him well in the past. But a new and vibrant light illuminated a budding path, luring him to travel where he had yet to venture.

For several days now he had done little more than shadow Betty. While he savored the shallow opportunity to be near her, the stalled nature of his existence was becoming a drain. Perhaps it was time he introduced himself, at the very least. Maybe the interaction would give him keener insight as to the direction he should head. He quieted the debate in his mind, settling on taking this small, incremental step as a means of gauging his resolve and Betty's willingness.

Up ahead, Betty had reached her shop and gone inside. It was late, and the man knew that calling on her now, for no real reason, would cast him as odd, so he searched his mind for something he could justify. As he set foot on the stoop, his mind was in a whirl and his heart was pounding. He could feel a tingling upon his skin and a stirring in his stomach. He was certain he was being overcome by a rapid sickness. The sensations were just so sudden and inexplicable, and as he pondered their source, he didn't realize he was at the same moment knocking on the shop door.

Dread poured over him. What was he doing? What was he going to say? He hadn't yet thought of a reason for his evening appearance? Why couldn't he control his own body? It was shaking and weak, yet part of it was determined to advance the plan without his full consent.

It was too late. The knob turned, the door opened, and suddenly, Betty stood there before him.

"Good evening, Sir," Betty greeted with a smile. "What can I help you with at this waning hour?"

The man said nothing. He simply stood there, petrified. His mind had emptied.

Betty, being the kind-hearted person she was, did not let the awkwardness stew much longer. She kept her welcoming expression while taking account of this thinly built stranger—a man with a pale complexion, large, deep eyes, and long, raven hair pulled back into a tail and fasten with a length of leather.

"Um, are you here about a garment?" she asked, trying to awaken the man's wits and remind him of his reason for being there.

"Yes." It was all he could muster.

"Well, Sir, my shop is now closed, but if you come by first thing in the morning I can help you with whatever you need."

The man nodded his acceptance of the offer, but did not move.

Betty was unsure of what to make of him. Despite his strange behavior, she did not feel threatened. Instead, she was slightly amused by his apparent conversational ineptitude.

"Betty!" A call rang out from within the store.

It was Gertie, crying out to Betty with urgency.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I have to go," Betty stated apologetically while closing the door.

"Lucas Swift," the man stated with abruptness, halting Betty's actions.

"Excuse me?" she said, turning back toward him.

"Lucas Swift. My name is Lucas Swift."

"Well, Mr. Swift, I'll see you tomorrow."

Betty sealed the door shut and drew the latch.

Lucas stepped back from the stoop. He could hear Betty walking up the interior steps and entering the candle-lit room just above him. The shutters were open, and he listened from the street as Betty spoke to Gertie.

"I dreamt about her again," Gertie whimpered between sobs.

"I know it's tough, Gertie," Betty replied caressing the child while holding her in her loving arms.

"I think I see her face. I can't be sure. But I know it's her. It feels like her and speaks like her...I miss her."

Gertie broke down even further, falling into deep, uncontrollable tears.

Betty, too, felt sorrow wet her own cheek.

It was difficult for Gertie. Despite having Betty to watch over her, she would often fall into these spells of emptiness and loss. It was particularly common at night.

The situation was not easy for Betty either. Beyond the pain of seeing the child consumed by utter sadness, she bore the weight of in-depth knowledge. She knew where Gertie's mother was and the trials she continually endured. She knew why she was there, and the oftentimes stark reality of sacrifice. But, she could not shake a lingering sense of injustice. How could Gertie's mother, the hermit, and the cobbler's widow be left to the torments of hell when they accepted such a fate with the most elevated of intentions? Shouldn't they have been exalted as opposed to condemned?

Since she had returned from Hades, the tragedy stuck in Betty's heart and would not budge, but she had little recourse. She was a mortal, living in the world of men, and as such had no control over such things. Still, it plagued her, especially when Gertie was so troubled.

===============

Chapter 15: Continuing Curse

The morning sun rose with strength. Betty peered through the bright rays and began to flex her dangling hand. Gertie had fallen asleep at her side and the child's weight had caused her arm to go numb. As she worked out the pins and needles, Gertie stirred.

"Good morning, Betty," the girl said with a sleepy grin.

"'Mornin' to you, my needler pixie."

The pair rolled from the mattress. As Betty immediately set about making the bed, Gertie gave a mighty stretch before snatching a dress from the door hook and changing into her day clothes.

Soon, the morning chores were done and the duo was ready for another business day. They had two custom-ordered garments to finish up and a half-dozen clients scheduled in for measurements, fittings, and the like. Gertie set her sights on adding the final touches to a blue toilette de voyage. Its owner was hoping to wear it this upcoming weekend. Betty planned on adding a few final stitches to a rather ornate ball gown, but before doing so needed to open the shop door, signaling the salon was in operation.

As she drew back the wooden portal, Betty shuffled back in shock. Lucas Swift was standing there, almost in the exact position as when she had last left him.

"Mr. Swift," Betty said with surprise, yet maintaining her warmth, "you startled me."

Lucas had actually returned home the night before. He had spent the evening hours ruminating over his lackluster first impression while tossing and turning in his bed. He couldn't believe that the man he currently was and the silver-tongued Lord of Devious Persuasion where, at one point, the same being.

He used to be an unmatched linguist, capable of twisting any situation to his benefit and comfortably navigating even the most daunting of verbal exchanges. But now, as a man set apart from the abilities of the Dark One, he cursed himself for being an utter fool in the presence of Betty. He promised himself that it would not happen again, and so rose at the crack of dawn to prepare for the early-morning encounter.

"Good morning, Ms. Blockcut," Lucas said. He held steady his delivery even though the nervous spasms of the night before had again besieged his body.

"Come in, Mr. Swift." Betty stepped aside, cleared a path of entry, and graciously welcomed her potential customer into the parlor.

Lucas had decided that he would order a fine suit from Betty. He was in need of a wardrobe and the entire process of initial discussion, measuring, fittings, approvals, and final delivery would ensure several more encounters with his paramour.

Lucas perused the textiles. He lifted a roll of tightly woven black cotton and was immediately met by the curious eyes of Gertie. Hidden behind stacks of fabric, Gertie had been concealed from sight as she worked diligently on her stitching. Now that she laid eyes on the new customer, her penchant for inquisition kicked in.

"Mr. Swift, I haven't heard your name around town. Where you from?" Gertie questioned. She was often direct, but her youthfulness tended to temper the perception of rudeness.

Lucas had played out numerous scenarios in his mind of how a conversation may transpire that morning. He tried his best to pre-plan every possible topic and ran several relevant answers through his brain in an attempt to find fault with any before uttering them aloud.

"The Torick Cliffs," Lucas replied.

The Torick Cliffs was one of a few small villages lying on the outskirts of Nugins Knob. The people there kept mostly to themselves, traveling to Nugins Knob only for essentials they could not readily produce themselves.

"So, what brings you to Nugins," Gertie prodded.

Lucas looked at Betty. She smiled at him, silently apologizing for Gertie's forthrightness.

"Well, Miss, I came for a suit," Lucas replied with the intent of changing the conversation to the topic at hand.

"You've come to the right place," Betty stated.

"Yeah, there's none better than Betty," Gertie seconded.

"Well, I was thinking maybe something black, a little on the heavy side so that I can wear it into the season a good bit," Lucas explained.

"What's the intent?" Betty asked. "Formal? Sporting?"

"I would say more sporting. Maybe a traveler's variety."

"We can handle that, no problem."

Betty drew measuring tape from beneath her apron, and then signaled to Lucas to approach a nearby box and stand upon it.

"Please, if you would, Mr. Swift," she directed.

"Call me Lucas," he replied as he stepped on to the crate and extended his arms out from his sides.

Betty pulled a length of tape between her hands and stretched it across his horizontal expanse. As she did, she stepped in close to Lucas, near enough that he could smell the subtle hint of perfume. He closed his eyes, hoping to hide any expression of pleasure upon his face.

Betty moved behind him, wrapping the tape around his chest in the process.

"Betty," Gertie interjected, "what's going on?"

Lucas stiffened, fearful that he had inadvertently revealed his pleasure at being so close to Betty.

Betty turned toward her young friend, who she now found sitting in the storefront window. She was gazing out with concern.

"What is it, Gertie?"

Outside of the store, a vast throng of citizens was parading down the lane. Betty immediately set her tape measure down and headed out into the street in order to gather information.

"What's happening?" she called out to a woman who was walking past.

"The cow's been stolen," the mum replied. "It was snatched right from the pen. Mayor's calling a town meeting."

Gertie and Lucas had joined Betty at this point, and all three stood in silent shock upon hearing the news.

While the cow, in and of itself, was only an animal, it had become so much more to the people of Nugins Knob. It was a hero, a symbol of greatness to be revered. The fact that it had gone missing was a big deal and an impromptu community meeting was, indeed, in order. The trio quickly joined the march to Town Hall.

When they arrived at the public gathering, the assembly was packed. It appeared as though every bit of the population had converged on the hall. Betty grabbed Gertie by the hand and made her way through the crowd, eventually finding a spot just behind the foremost banister that separated the townsfolk from the legislature. Lucas tried to move along with them, but got hung up by the closing mass of bodies. He was forced to look on from a little further back.

A rapid succession of gavel strikes, delivered by a white bearded fellow sitting in a stately oak chair at the hall's center, quieted the prattling crowd. The aged fellow was Mayor Knotting Turntell. He was flanked on his left by Madame Lisbeth Cornet and on the right by Mr. Theodore White. Both held office in the town. Captain Cuffburn and his squad of deputies stood at attention just a few paces away from the group.

"People of the Knob," Turntell said aloud in an authoritarian, yet respectful, tone, "our cow has been stolen."

An audible gasp fell over the crowd. While many of them had learned the reason for this gathering ahead of time, it was still startling to hear the proclamation aloud. Turntell's words made rumor a reality.

"Early this morning, our appointed caregiver, Joshua Wort, arrived at the pasture to deliver the bovine's customary breakfast. What he found was an empty enclosure. He immediately reported his discovery to the authorities. Captain Cuffburn and his men wasted little time. They canvased the scene and discovered a series of hoof prints, adjacent a path of boot prints, leading from the gate to the closest wood line. The path turned dry, but they have little doubt that the evidence points toward thievery."

A commotion erupted among the crowd. Townspeople quickly set to task exchanging theories and making accusations. The mayor quickly restored order with the echoing strikes of his mallet.

"I have conferred with Captain Cuffburn, and this elected council, and we have identified a few persons of interest among our citizenry. As you may first guess, Joshua Wort was given a thorough review. The young man spoke earnestly, and we believe he is at no fault."

The collective focus of the attendees fell upon Joshua, who was standing among them, a few feet from the front. He flashed a grateful smile of relief.

"Now, while we have exonerated Joshua," the mayor continued, "there are many questions yet to be answered, and more among us to be held to the light."

The mayor pointed out into the crowd, his long, wrinkled finger directing the deputies to a foreign face within the assembly, the face of Lucas Swift.

"You, Sir, what is your name?" Turntell demanded.

Lucas was stunned. He fumbled to answer, bewildered by the sudden turn of events and frightened by the possible outcome of continued, piercing questioning. His mind became crowded with uncertainty, and his words left him again. The visible signs of worry and discomfort engulfing his frame did little to quell suspicion.

Turntell seized on Lucas' failure. "Sir, your silence when asked the simplest of queries is unnerving. Perhaps, in more confined quarters you'll find the comfort to dialogue."

Before he knew it, one of Cuffburn's deputies had snatched Lucas by the arm and was escorting him out of the auditorium. Lucas did not struggle. He looked to find Betty's face, and did, just in time to receive a chilling glance of distrust.

After the commotion died down, Turntell revealed a second suspect.

"While we know she has suffered much in recent days, it cannot be denied that this woman has possible motive. Our gallant heifer was both the property and executioner of her own father. It would make sense that she would seek revenge."

Dread filled Betty's mind. She clutched Gertie's hand with increased anxiety as the child looked up at her with grave concern.

"Ms. Blockcut, please follow the deputy," Turntell ordered.

An officer was now at her side, gripping her by the wrist. Betty knew she had no part in the crime, and was hesitant to release her hold on Gertie. Another deputy stepped in to pry the child free.

"No!" exclaimed the little girl before bursting into wails of grief.

Betty could only look back in desperation as the lawman led her from the building.

The deputy escorting Betty was dutiful, but not overly aggressive. He did not drag her along like a drunken hoodlum, but simply led his mark to the stockade. Betty followed in a daze. She had no idea what had happened to the cow and was more than a little nervous about the accusations heaped upon her. She realized the gravity of the situation, but just couldn't wrap her mind around it.

Soon, the menacing iron gate of the Knob penitentiary stood before Betty, intimidating her with its cold finality. With the sharp clanging of bolts and locks, Betty was ushered inside. The deputy quickly moved her down a drab and dank interior hall. The dimly lit passage was constructed of cut-stone and had all the comfort of a funeral vault. A right turn yielded an expanse of cells on either side. Rows upon rows of metal bars held ruffians at bay as Betty walked by with haste. She tried her best to avoid eye contact with the jail's tenants.

"Hey Mum, how's about a smack?" one of the dregs shouted toward the young woman.

"Shut your yap, you pig!" the deputy yelled back as he struck the cell bars with his baton.

Betty and the deputy reached a door on the opposite end of the hall. The deputy produced a ring of keys from his pocket and fumbled for a moment as he looked to find the one that would open the portal in front of them.

As the cast bones jingled in the officer's hands, Betty couldn't help but sneak a more in-depth peek at her surroundings. In doing so, she turned and gazed into a cell nearest her. There, sitting upon a slab of wood, was Lucas Swift. He held his head low, gazing aimlessly at his feet.

Betty took a long look at the man. She had just met him, and wondered if he was, indeed, the criminal behind this whole mess. Sensing the ogling, Lucas looked back. The pair's eyes met, and in that instant, Betty felt a deep sense of familiarity. She could not be certain of the circumstance, but she had a strong inkling that they had met somewhere before.

"Right this way, Miss," the deputy stated upon opening the door in front of them and using a sturdy hand to guide Betty inside.

"Have a seat, please."

The deputy directed Betty to a single wooden chair set at the center of the room. The chair was positioned directly over a circular drainage grate and Betty could not help but draw a comparison between her surroundings and the meat cellar's chopping block in her father's old butcher shop.

As she lowered herself uncomfortably onto the spot, the deputy took up station at the door. Betty looked nervously toward the fellow. He eked out a tiny grin, hoping to assure her without betraying his post.

Along the right side of the room were two slit windows secured by iron bars. The panes were tucked tight to the ceiling and fell only a few inches down the wall. Their odd arrangement meant the room Betty was in was mostly underground. At the far side was a second iron door. It was solid except for a narrow slot covered by a sliding metal cover—a viewing hatch that was currently secured shut.

Betty wiggled in her seat a bit more. With each passing second, the uncertainty of the situation weighed heavier upon her back. She needed something, some information, some words of dialogue to occupy her spiraling mind.

"How long will I be here?" she asked the deputy as respectfully as possible.

The deputy fixed his eyes of Betty and did not immediately answer. Honestly, he was not sure.

Increased angst, like a suffocating noose, tightened around Betty's neck. She could feel it choking the hope from her body, stealing away carefree breaths and replacing them with the rapid gasps of panic.

Suddenly, the second door clanged, a latch creaked, and the door was pushed open. In walked Captain Cuffburn.

"Ms. Blockcut," Cuffburn began with the confidence of a trained investigator, "where is your cow?"

"I have no idea, Captain," Betty replied earnestly. "Wait, my cow?"

She had just then realized how Cuffburn's question had been framed.

"Yes, your cow."

Cuffburn circumnavigated the room. Betty was always told it was polite to look a person in the eyes when in conversation, but the Captain's rounding path made it difficult. The way he was holding his body as he moved about was reminiscent of a man out for a Sunday stroll. He walked with a swagger, head held low, and arms at his back, yet his somewhat relaxed demeanor was juxtaposed by the path he took. The revolving motion around Betty was that of a shark, circling its prey.

"Ms. Blockcut," Cuffburn continued, "as I'm sure you know, the cow was seized from your murderous father's estate. As it was once counted among his riches, it would be just that you would lay claim to it through inheritance. That is why you felt it was well within your rights to take it back. Does this sound at all likely, Ms. Blockcut?"

Cuffburn delivered his theory as if it were fact; prodding Betty to admit to the certitude in hopes her swift acceptance would end the ordeal. But, Betty could not, for it was not the case.

"No, Sir, I harbor no claim over the beast, and if I did, I would certainly follow proper channels," Betty stated. "I am not a thief," she said defiantly.

While Betty would not give Cuffburn's assertion credence, the Captain proceeded as if she had.

"So, where did you stow away the bovine, Betty?"

Betty could not believe her ears.

"Captain, I just told you I did not take the cow."

"But, if you did, might we find it returned to the meat cellar in your father's home?"

"It is not there."

"You'd have no issue if my deputies stopped by to verify that claim?"

"Why would I? Captain, I am sorry that the heifer was stolen. I know what it means to this town, and to you personally. If I had any information that would help locate the missing creature, I would offer it, but I do not." Betty delivered the last line with agitated finality.

The Captain was a keen observer. At every question, and during every response, he watched Betty, listened to her underlying tone, noted every verbal and non-verbal cue he could gather in hopes he would draw forth a more revealing insight. He read nothing deeper, and so acquiesced.

"Very well, you can go. But Betty, we may have an officer stop by just to take a look around your parlor. In matters such as these, we must be thorough."

Betty wasted little time rising to her feet. She did not feel the need to respond to Cuffburn's forewarning of an additional search. Frankly, she did not care, confident that it would be a harmless pursuit that would turn up nothing.

"Please escort Ms. Blockcut out," the Captain ordered his deputy. "And, bring in that long-haired fellow."

Betty knew Cuffburn was referring to Lucas Swift, and as she left the room and passed by his cell again, she gave him another quick once over. At first impression, the night before, Lucas did seem a bit odd, but upon meeting him again, Betty found the fellow to be as normal as anyone else. Granted, she actually knew very little about her newest acquaintance but to this point, not a thing painted him a clear dreg. Still, mystery remained, and for that fact alone, Betty reserved judgment.

Lucas looked back at Betty with intense relief. If she was exiting the stockade, her virtue must have broken through Cuffburn's initial doubts. Lucas knew Betty had nothing to do with the cow's disappearance, but he also realized convincing the authorities of his innocence would be more problematic.

While he had prepared a tale concerning his arrival in Nugins Knob for use in casual banter with Betty, he never fathomed it would have to stand up to an interrogation from the town's professional purveyors of law and order. It was a daunting proposition, and one he had little time to ruminate, for as fast as the deputy had shepherded Betty off the premises, he was back to usher Lucas into the interview room.

Captain Cuffburn sarcastically welcomed Mr. Swift to his house, all the while staring a hole right through the young man. The deputy then sat the accused down upon the liars' chair. Lucas looked at the intense faces of the officers, their glares burning his flesh with searing intimidation. He swallowed hard.

"So, Mr. Swift," Cuffburn began, jumping right into the matter, "you made mention to my deputy that you came all the way from the Torick Cliffs for a suit? Seems like quite a far trip for something like that. You Tors usually don't run errands of that sort. We saw plenty of your kin around when word spread about Brady's meat, and every now and then I see a cliff-dweller picking up some grain or a clutch of nails. In nearly every case, it's a practical purchase."

Lucas listened intently as the captain wove his web of insinuation.

Cuffburn leaned into his seated suspect, halting mere inches from his face. "But, obtaining a suit from a high-end salon, that's a rare chore indeed. What was the purpose, pray tell?"

Lucas had an intimate knowledge of lying. He knew its nature on a fundamental level, relying on it often as the harbinger of greater sin. When he first devised a course of action for approaching Betty, he realized he would need to dip his toes in it. After all, what type of impression would it make if he were to state bluntly upon first addressing Betty at the salon, "Hello. I used to be the Devil, but now I'm a man, and I'm in love with you."

For that reason, he thought it best to establish a mortal-world context for his life—just a hint of falsified fact that would allow him to operate on a human level. He planned on keeping it simple and doing his best to turn Betty away from any concerns for his history. But here, now, in the stockade, his past would be scrutinized to a degree he was not prepared. Already, his choice of a Torick Cliffs origin had caused some dispute.

While he thought about his answer, the hesitation only weakened the appeal that what he would utter could be considered convincing testimony. The whole ordeal was fast becoming a nightmare.

===============

Chapter 16: Unexpected Proposal

"Gertie!" Betty shouted as she entered the parlor.

A quick shuffling of feet on the floorboards overhead, followed by the rapid stamping of heels on the steps, brought Gertie running into the room. With arms wide, she rushed toward Betty, who happily welcomed the embrace.

"I was so worried," Gertie cried into Betty's shoulder.

"It's okay now. I am home," Betty replied lovingly.

"After what happened to my mamma', if you were taken away too..." Gertie burst into sobs. Fear of losing another whom she had grown so close to was too much for her fragile psyche.

Betty pulled her in even tighter, clutching the child to her chest and willing the pain from her tiny frame. She then scooped up her adopted daughter and carried her upstairs.

Betty had moved her father's bed into her room so that Gertie and she could sleep in the same space. Gertie's understandable difficulty in dealing with her mother's death made it hard for the child to be alone, even for but a few hours at night. Sharing quarters lessened the girl's fears.

Betty laid the child in her bed, and then sat down on the edge of her own.

"What did they say?" Gertie asked. She had gathered herself to the point that child-like curiosity had crept back into her mind.

"They thought I stole the cow because it used to belong to my father."

"That's absolute balderdash!" a supportive Gertie shouted.

"Yes, but they are still not completely convinced. The Captain said someone would be stopping by to follow-up."

"Follow-up? There's nothing to follow."

"I know, Gertie, but the law has to do its job."

Betty wanted to appear above the matter. She knew Gertie was an impressionable little girl, and it was her duty, as caregiver, to mind her personal opinions. The law should be respected, and Betty did not want Gertie to think otherwise.

"I bet that Lucas Swift had something to do with it," Gertie accused.

Betty again contemplated the possibility. He was a stranger whose appearance did coincide with the heifer's vanishing.

A loud rapping sound suddenly echoed throughout the abode. Gertie shot up in her bed and Betty rose with a concerned look on her face.

"Come with me," Betty instructed her ward.

When the pair arrived downstairs they found a deputy waiting outside. It was the same one who had escorted Betty to the jail. She quickly opened the door.

"My apologies, Ms. Blockcut. I'm here to search the premises," the deputy stated while entering the establishment.

Betty stepped aside and directed Gertie to do the same.

"By all means, officer," Betty replied. "I'm certain you'll find not a thing out of place."

The deputy wandered around, half-heartedly examining stacks of textiles and careless watermarks stained into the floorboards. Betty found his investigation somewhat odd. He went about his duty like a listless boy tasked with an unwelcomed chore. It was as if he had already decided the search was unnecessary.

"Ms. Blockcut, would you mind showing me the meat cellar?" the deputy asked.

"Right this way," she replied, motioning him toward the basement stairs.

The cellar was almost empty, save a few crates of trinkets Betty did not, or could not, pawn after her father had died. The deputy waltzed about the space, kneeling down to pick at the dirt before focusing his attention on the boxes. He rummaged through the lot with the same carelessness he had exhibited in the showroom.

"I think I've seen enough," the man stated.

A sense of relief passed over Betty Blockcut. She knew there was nothing to be found, but still, the whole process had put her on edge. Betty walked the constable back upstairs.

"Well, I hope you can formally, and finally, eliminate me from your list of suspects," Betty said, hoping her declaration would make it true.

The deputy removed his derby and ran his hand through his matted hair.

"I think that is a safe assumption, Ms. Blockcut. I again apologize for the inconvenience, but Captain Cuffburn and Mayor Turntell wanted all possibilities earnestly examined."

The deputy stepped toward Betty, closing his distance while offering up greater insight.

"Just between the two of us, I think the cliff-dweller, Lucas Swift, is the man we're after. His interview generated more questions than answers. One of our men will be heading to the Torick Cliffs to verify some of his dubious claims. Depending on what he finds, we should have a good case."

The deputy's words struck Betty as fair. In her mind, she realized the hypothesis was logical. Nugins Knob, being the isolated town it was, wasn't known for many outside visitors. Yes, occasionally, someone from a small neighboring settlement like the Torick Cliffs would make a trip in, but for one to do so at the same time the shire's prize bovine went missing would be cause for concern, especially if that visitor could not solidify his claims without pause.

As Betty stood silently in contemplation, the deputy looked about, searching for Gertie. She was nowhere to be found. The sounds of play heard upstairs assured the constable that she was occupied and unaware. He moved in even closer to the butcher's daughter.

"Betty," the deputy whispered in hushed tones, "would you mind if I saw you more often."

Betty's eyes widened and her mouth fell agape. For so long she had yearned for this opportunity, this moment when she no longer chased cupid's arrow, but became the target. Unfortunately, the ecstasy was short-lived, giving way to the reality of the offer.

The deputy was a well-known man, respected for his devotion to job and wife, a wife that still lived and still called him husband. Betty was appalled by the insinuation and the idea that she would be a party to such an affair.

"Kline Sullivan," Betty shot back, addressing the officer directly, informally, as the man she knew and no longer as a representative of the law, "are you asking what I think you're asking?"

Kline did not respond. He hung there for a minute, surprised at the heated response Betty returned. He knew of Betty's past romantic troubles and was shocked that she would reject his advances, regardless of the circumstances. Perhaps she misunderstood.

"Betty, I think you are a wonderful woman, one worthy of such attention," Kline explained.

"And do you still feel the same of Olivia, your wife," Betty shot back.

Kline took a step back and looked away, searching his mind for an acceptable answer. "I...I...," he stammered. He then paused, hung silent, and collected his thoughts.

"Olivia's been sick, sick for so long. Hell, I can't recall the last time she stood up under her own power let alone..."

Betty read the situation clearly. She could sense the utter frustration in Kline's voice. It did nothing to weaken her stance. She kept her eyes tight and mouth drawn down in disapproval of the whole conversation.

Constable Kline realized he had made a miscalculation.

"My apologies Ms. Blockcut," he stated as he popped his derby back on his head. "I'll let the Captain know there was nothing to find and you should be considered clear as a mountain spring."

Betty did not reply, and Kline said not a single word more. He turned and exited the parlor, leaving a distraught seamstress in his wake.

The offer had struck Betty as an absolute affront to her sense of morals. It was instinctual for her to react as she had. She knew to take part in such an unwholesome affair would be damning. Yet, in some deep recess of her mind, she took pleasure in its offering. It was a shot of a particular type of worthiness she had never received. Still, wrong was wrong, and the nature of Kline Sullivan's proposal was undeniable.

===============

Chapter 17: Underlying

"You'd have thought she'd jump at the chance right then and there."

The words echoed down the stone-lined hall of the stockade. They weren't delivered as an intended announcement, but were clearly audible for those with an inclining to listen.

Sitting in a damp and dreary cell, with nothing else to occupy his time, Lucas Swift found the inadvertent auditory interruption a welcomed chance for distraction. He slid down the length of his wooden bed and tilted his ear toward the source.

"Yeah, she was appalled. Can you believe that?" a gruff voice stated.

"A girl like that. She should have dropped her apron that second," replied another. "It's not like she's got prospects. With her father's tarnished name and the possibility of a nasty tangle, you'd think she'd be smart enough to take advantage."

"That's what I reasoned. Well, I guess the dull looks mirror the mind."

Lucas could hear the pair chuckle like a couple of schoolboys razing a dolt.

"So, what are you going to do now?" one fellow asked the other.

"Part of me wants to give her another honest crack, but if you saw the way she looked at me, you'd doubt it would do any good. It might be time I lay it down proper."

The dark nature of the man's delivery was without question, and Lucas knew that something nefarious was in the works.

"You still have everything under control on your end, Smitty?" he asked.

"Yeah, no worries. Gagged and chained, locked tight in the hole."

"Capital. Just keep it sucking breath, understand?"

"Sure. I'll make good on my end as long as you make good on yours."

"A solid 50 pieces, as I promised."

Next came boot heels. They clapped sharply off the hard stone floor, increasing in intensity as they approached Lucas' position.

Lucas inched back into the shadowed recess of his confinement and lay on his bed. Two constables, the men who had been talking, passed by the iron bars of his cell. One was the officer who had escorted him to the stockades. The other was the man who had brought Betty in for questioning.

A sense of dread began to fall over him. Had they been talking about Betty? Was she in danger? Panic consumed his heart. The ambiguity of the situation only intensified his fears. Piling on top was the fact that even if it were Betty, there was very little he could do being held captive. And so, the worry began to fester, making an already uncomfortable stay in jail, a truly agonizing ordeal.

Later that night, Lucas found himself drawn out of a restless sleep by the faint sound of bleating. At first, he believed it to be the aching moans of tortured souls; a lingering memory of a life once lived. But, as he opened his eyes and shook off the drug of sleep he realized the noise was coming from an open drain in the floor of his cell.

"Moooooooo." The long, drawn out call came again.

Lucas rose from his bed and crouched over the drain to verify its nature. From his position, he could clearly hear another bovine bellow.

"Moooooooo," came the sorrowful cry.

"Listen up you slab of beef," a man's voice echoed up the rusting pipe. "I don't know how you managed it, but you best shut your mush before I draw the blade."

"Nooooooooo!" replied the terrified animal.

"Wha...?" the man stammered with both shock and disbelief. "Did you just say..."

It grew silent for a brief while. The man then continued on with annoyance.

"Doesn't matter what grunt comes from your snout, it needs stuffed."

The cow gurgled and groaned a few more times before ceasing. From the sounds of it, Lucas imagined the man was placing a gag in, or over, the creature's mouth.

"Now stand in silence, lest I be forced to do worse."

It was no longer a secret to Lucas. The talking heifer of Brady Blockcut's past pact was being held hostage in the deep, dark confines of the town's penitentiary. But why the ruse?

There were only three reasons Lucas could fathom. Someone might have heard of the purported secret of its flesh and was looking to benefit from the dark magic. Lucas knew the nature of the charm and that this was a foolish pursuit.

Another thought was the thief was hoping to cast Lucas himself in a poor light, make him out to be a hoodlum and a criminal. That seemed more like a fortunate coincidence, on their part, than a prime motivation. Lucas, being a complete stranger to these parts, hadn't really had the time, nor the opportunity, to make enemies who would be compelled to take such measures.

The last thought was the most unnerving. The only other person to have suffered thus far from the beast's disappearance was Betty, and the possibility of that being the ultimate goal, coming on the heels of the foreboding conversation Lucas heard earlier in the day, made his gut twist.

The creaking whine of rusted hinges shot up from the pipe and Lucas refocused his attention. From above he could hear the footsteps of someone entering the room below.

"Aye, Kline, everything's in order," stated the man Lucas had heard seconds ago.

"Good deal, Smitty," came the second man's reply.

Lucas knew at that moment, that these were the same pair he had overheard earlier in the day.

"I thought all afternoon about my next move," Kline stated, "and I think I need to paint Ms. Blockcut a clearer picture."

The reverberating words spewing forth from the rusted drain confirmed Lucas' concern for Betty was justified.

"Smitty, hand me your blade," continued Kline. "I shall present her a steak, to illustrate the stakes."

Smitty chortled at the wordplay.

"Now hold the beast steady."

What followed were the sounds of struggle accompanied by the muffled bleating of a beast in pain. Lucas could visualize what was taking place. A patch of the poor creature was being carved and cleaved. He knew Kline would take only as much as was needed to make his case to Betty, but unlike before, what was taken would not grow back. The magic was subject only to a blade wielded by Brady Blockcut. Any other would result in simple dissection, an oozing wound left to be treated.

"Smitty, grab those damn rags and wrap up the wound. We don't want the blasted animal to die," ordered a forceful Kline. "And make sure you wipe up the blood."

"I'm quick to task," Kline's co-conspirator affirmed.

"Tomorrow I'll drop by Betty's shop bright and early and lay out the proposition again. If she fails to submit, I'll offer the evidence...evidence that should accurately convey the gravity of the situation to even the most dim-witted seamstress."

Smitty chuckled with approval, the same unpleasant snort of subordination he had offered many times before.

Lucas listened closely for more information, but all he heard were footsteps fading into nothingness.

There was no doubt now. Betty was the target of Deputy Kline's wicked scheme, and she was in danger. Lucas stood and grasped the iron bars of his cell door. His knuckles cracked and strained as he tightened his grip. In his current predicament, he would prove no more than a hapless witness to vile plotting. The reality was infuriating.

===============

Chapter 18: Another Proposition

A knock at the door brought Betty downstairs. The parlor wasn't open for business yet, but she had been awake for a while and was dressed for the day. As she approached the entrance, she could see the iconic cap of a lawman through the front door's half round window. She slid the latch and turned the handle, immediately laying eyes upon Kline Sullivan.

"Good morning, Betty," greeted Kline, who promptly and politely removed his cap.

"Good morning to you, Officer Sullivan." Betty's formal tone indicated she had not forgotten about the previous day's episode.

Kline moved to step inside and Betty, a bit taken aback by his assumed welcome, shuffled over.

"I apologize for the early morning visit, Betty, but when I got back to the barracks yesterday, Chief Cuffburn questioned the thoroughness of the search I conducted in your parlor. This is a very important case, as you most surely understand, and the Chief thinks best that we examine, and re-examine every possible avenue of discovery in our search for truth."

Kline began to look around with a bit more diligence than he had the last time, getting down on his hands and knees and gazing with greater intensity at every object in his line of sight.

"Officer Sullivan," Betty began calmly, "while I respect the search for truth, it is highly unlikely you will find anything more than you did yesterday. As I have stated, I am innocent of the crime."

"Yes, yes, your declaration has been noted," replied Kline dismissively. "As a result, you will hold no reservation toward my request to inspect the cellar one more time."

"Of course, by all means, search again," Betty stated with strained politeness.

She led Kline to the stairwell and watched as he disappeared into the dark recess. Lamplight soon followed, and from her position at the top of the stairs, she could see his shadow moving about below.

"Miss Blockcut," Kline shouted, "would you be so kind as to come down here?"

Betty considered the request nothing more than a continuation of Kline's obvious intrusion into her day, but she reluctantly complied. Walking down the steps she noticed Officer Sullivan standing at the far end of the room. He wore a tight-lipped grin and held his hands behind his back. The yellow glow of the lamplights cast him a pale, sickly shade that, coupled with his posture and expression, made for an overall unsettling appearance. Betty held her advance and kept at a distance.

"Miss Blockcut," started the conniving deputy, "I have come across a strange discovery hidden in the deepest, darkest corner of your meat locker."

Betty's brow pulled into wrinkles as she struggled to imagine what Kline could be referring to.

From behind his back, he slowly drew forth a slab of slimy, quivering flesh.

"It appears this meat is of bovine origin Miss Blockcut, and by the look of the hide, appears to match that of our missing heifer."

Kline's smile broadened in a most unnerving way as Betty's mouth fell open in disbelief.

"I have no idea how...," she began to say before losing her words.

"Oh, I'm sure it is just a matter of coincidence," Kline replied mockingly.

From the way he was acting, and his less-than-honorable proposition the day before, Betty quickly pieced together what was transpiring.

Kline could see her mind working and realized that there was no need to be coy.

"It is simple, as you can now clearly see," explained Kline.

He slowly, menacingly, walked toward her.

"I wish to reassert my kind and well-intended proposal."

"Kind and well-intended?" Betty responded with astonishment. "You mean to blackmail me!"

"Blackmail? Let us just call it persuade."

"Kline Sullivan, you have quite the gall! As I have stated before, I will take no part in your adultery. I respect Olivia. I respect the institution. I respect myself way too much."

Kline, now within arms reach of Betty, could feel the rage building inside him. Betty's defiance was becoming quite vexing.

"Respect?!" Kline yelled slamming the rotting meat into his badge-crested chest. "I suggest you respect my authority! I am the law around here and I hold your fate in my hands Betty Blockcut! The motive exists, and now the evidence, to lock you up in foul-smelling solitude for many, many years."

"You are a liar and a schemer, Sullivan! You know I have no hand in the crime, and as far as your evidence, it does more to incriminate you than me."

Betty was visibly shaking at this point. Both fear and anger were plucking her nerves at a frantic rate. Kline was incensed. His devilish smirk had twisted into a savage scowl. He was doing everything in his power to control his urge to assault Betty. Suddenly, a girl's voice echoed from above.

"Betty," Gertie called out. "Mrs. Savoy is here for her measurement."

A customer had arrived for the first scheduled appointment of the day, and Betty raced up the cellar steps in relief, trying her best to compose herself.

"Mrs. Savoy, it is nice to see you this morning." Betty greeted the older woman warmly.

Despite Betty's best attempt to mask her inner turmoil, Gertie could sense unease in her caregiver's voice. When Officer Sullivan emerged from the cellar seconds later, Gertie knew something serious had occurred.

Betty continued attending to her customer as Kline Sullivan walked toward the exit, all the time staring daggers at the seamstress. Gertie looked on with concern. The tension was evident to the child, and when the officer shot her a vile glare, she knew he was a man not to be trusted.

With a forceful slam, the departing deputy shut the door behind him, the loud sound of which caused Gertie to wince. She looked at Betty, who was doing all she could to stay focused on her patron. Whatever happened, it had rattled Betty, and Gertie was now very worried.

===============

Chapter 19: Home

Lucas had spent the day in a futile attempt to stay preoccupied. The walls of his cell were closing in on him and dark thoughts of Betty's fate were a constant torment. Sleep claimed him from time to time, but it was not sustained and served only to increase his weariness. As the day's light began to dim, Lucas sat on the edge of his bed, head held in his hands. That's when he heard the faint voices once more.

He hopped off his seat and positioned his ear over the floor drain. From the bowels of the penitentiary, the crooked officers conversed.

"She still wouldn't budge?" asked an astonished Smitty.

"No, she lashed back in most fiery fashion. Then her filthy little orphan interrupted," Kline explained. "What's more, my time is all but worn."

Officer Kline rubbed his forehead and massaged his temples in frustration.

"Kline, what is it?" Smitty asked, noting his colleagues increased stress.

"This afternoon, I was visited by my hooded broker again. He reminded me that at the stroke of midnight, the offer would be null and void. But, he set out an alternative solution, one that is wholly more serious than the previous."

"What? What did he say, Kline?"

"If I could not convince her by words, he endorses force." Kline took a deep breath and swallowed hard. "Or, I could opt to simply put an end to the situation with the gravest finality."

Kline's hand rested upon the polished wood handle of his revolver. Smitty needed no further explanation.

In his prison above, Lucas could not witness the visual cue, but the officer's words stood clear enough. All the horrible pictures Lucas had spent the day painting in his mind were immediately supplanted by the most terrifying of visions.

"Kline, you can't let this go on?" Smitty pleaded. "It must be dropped."

"You know what you're asking me to do, Smitty?" retorted a distressed deputy.

"I know, but there must be another way."

"If there was another, don't you think I would have exercised the option? Look, you're in as far as I am now. You hold the reigns of the heifer at this very moment, making you just as guilty. Let us see this through to the end, finish the deed and be done."

Kline's words were followed by silence. Unseen by Lucas, Smitty motioned his wary acceptance.

"We will go back tonight and make every effort to end this as harmlessly as possible," Kline continued. "But, should things go to the extent, you will need to play a role in tidying up the matter. Of course, you will be paid handsomely. Every bit of my fortune I will transfer to you, and, of course, the bovine is yours to do with what you will."

It was silent again. Lucas was not sure if the conversation had ceased or if they had dropped their tone to an inaudible level. But, after hearing a steel door being pulled shut, he knew they had left the room.

As Kline Sullivan had stated, the time for action was drawing to a dark and deadly close. The tormenting bouts of panic and worry that had plagued Lucas since his imprisonment had fully consumed him, but he could no longer be subject to such distractions. It was clear that if he did not act, Betty would meet a most disturbing end.

Lucas now lived as a man, but he hadn't forgotten all of his past. He was still in possession of ancient, otherworldly knowledge, and if fortune would be in his favor, he knew there was, perhaps, one way to escape his confinement. It would not succeed without undertaking untold risk, but given what was at stake, he could not hesitate.

All of the commotion and chatter in his mind fell silent. His eyes set upon the piss bucket in his cell. It was tall enough to stand him at a proper height—a height to let him dangle. His gaze turned upward to an exposed iron beam cracking through the ceiling. It appeared a sturdy anchor point—sturdy enough to hold his weight. His hands moved across his stout leather belt and his fingertips set to work unlatching the buckle. It was of proper length and tensile strength— as fine a hangman's noose as he'd ever seen.

Having reigned over one half of the afterlife for millenniums, Lucas knew the rules of eternal existence were rife with complexities. Suicide was one such area of uncertainty. When it came to those who took their own life, their souls were immediately transplanted in hell where they would spend, what could be, a finite amount of time paying penance. Tortured and tormented for a period, their final judgment would eventually come and many would then be welcomed into heaven.

Because these souls were often transient, a suicide delivered to hell was an unexpected, unplanned occurrence. Much in the same manner Betty found herself initially lost in the afterlife, a person who had committed suicide would arrive in the same predicament.

Among other things, this odd situation was a prime catalyst in Lucas' original creation of the Innocents. The baby-faced demons were crafted with a love of childish antics, hide-and-seek being near the top of the list. As a result, they were often tasked with searching for these misplaced souls and placing them in their proper confinements for the prescribed torture. But until an Innocent found them, the soul would be free to navigate Hades, although the exploration would be fraught with immense peril.

Lucas knew all of this, and so when he woke from his mortal act of self-imposed execution and found himself lying prone on a rocky precipice surrounded by the scorching heat and endless wails of The Eternal Pit, he wasted little time rising to his feet and shaking off the effects of his ethereal commute. It would be only a matter of time before an Innocent would pass his way, and he could not afford to be caught.

His plan was simple in terms, if not nearly impossible in execution. A free soul was just that, free. Not until it was properly processed and confined in hell, or welcomed warmly through the gates of heaven, was it bound to either. That also meant it was free to travel back, back to the land of mortal men, if only it could find the way.

As one could imagine, finding the way was not an easy proposition for most. But, Lucas was unlike most. He not only knew of the possibility, he knew where the portal lie, having been tasked with hiding it for eons. The greater issue though was that to access the portal he would have to travel to the very heart of hell, the most dangerous part of the realm, the wicked abode of Lucifer himself.

Hell was a nightmarish landscape spewing forth searing toxins and flowing rivers of poisoned blood. Having worn the cruel crown previously, Lucas knew every pitfall, every twisted path. He also knew a single misstep could send him careening into a never-ending abyss. A clumsy act could set off an alarm, altering the Innocents to his location. He needed to be focused, and fast, for time was ticking and if he failed, Betty would most likely meet a violent end.

Traversing the rocky descent was not easy. From his position at the peak of a red stone mountain, he could hardly see the land below. A layer of black smog hung like a ring of polluted clouds around the crag. His only option was to descend into the unknown, but the footing was loose and the shale shards sharp and piercing. Lucas slipped several times. Each instance was greeted by stinging cuts and lacerations.

Eventually, he reached the circle of smog and was soon consumed by it. The soup surrounded him, threatening to choke him into submission. The hot, sooty air was heavy and filled with grit. Each breath drawn burned his lungs, and his steps began to weaken. The threat of a slow asphyxiation was true, and Lucas knew he had to emerge from the fog as soon as possible.

He steeled his resolve, clenched his teeth, and despite not being able to see more than a few feet in front of him, Lucas dropped to his side and began to slide at a great speed down the mountain. In any other instance, he would have thought better of it, but given his near-hopeless circumstance, he could not give logic much credence.

At first, he maintained a modest level of control. While the rock cut through his clothes and body, he was able to lean and navigate, avoiding many of the more damaging collisions. But, as his speed increased, his command decreased. A boulder caught him squarely in the side, causing him to wince in agony. Another caught him in the arm, slicing open a gash of serious consequence.

Gravity and gravel were his misery as both worked in evil harmony to tenderize his flesh, but soon, he emerged from the dark clouds and realized that was only the beginning. The once rough ground had given way to a slick surface of polished stone. There was not a single handhold in sight. Lucas scrapped at the terrain, desperately trying to slow himself, but it was futile. He knew it in his heart and his head. This mountain was one of his own design, and what awaited him at the bottom would only serve to amplify his suffering.

Just as he reached the apex of his velocity, the slide cut out and the cliff fell short, sending him shooting into the air. Lucas prepared for impact.

It came with a violent splash, plunging him several feet deep into a placid lake of water. He immediately began to swim, hoping to reach the top before his oxygen ran out, and as Lucas crested the surface, he let out a cry of sheer torment.

The lake looked harmless enough, but hidden within its depths was a nasty secret. The water was filled with a devilishly high concentration of sodium chloride, which saturated Lucas' wound-covered body and hit the exposed nerve endings like a series of searing lightning strikes.

The pain was intense, threatening to paralyze his muscles, but he had to block it out and swim toward the nearest shoreline. Every stroke forced a fresh current of salt into his cuts and created a near continuous wave of spasm. Lucas did not halt, he did not relent, and eventually, he reached the edge of the water and dragged himself onto the muddy shore. Lying in the muck, he could see the expanse set out before him.

Off in the distance was a thick wood of dead trees. Beyond that was a grotesque vineyard of crops—his previously prized pasture of demonic fruit—and just at the extent of his vision, he could make out the spiraling towers of his old home, Mephisto's Keep.

Seeing his destination, a sigh of relief slipped from his lips, but it was short lived. While it could be rightfully understood when delivered, the cry of pain he had unleashed upon first surfacing from the water would have echoed for quite a distance, far enough, he was certain, to have alerted an Innocent. He quickly pulled his bare, bleeding feet beneath him and ran off into the bleak forest.

As one could imagine, the Innocents were not the only dangerous creatures in the Land of Inferno. Lucas knew that all manner of mutant and phantasm could lurk in the gray, skeletal wood. He had spent many long, entertaining hours dreaming up the vilest creations his demented mind could think of, and upon the mere thought, the beings would be born into his haunted world, set to feast upon the fear and flesh of his claimed souls.

Lucas wound his way through the thicket, brushing aside thorny briars and ducking gnarled branches. He could feel the heat of underground lava flows, and was careful to avoid the scalding geysers that popped up from time to time like termite mounds.

A low rumbling alerted him to the imminent rise of another spout just below his right foot. It was a swift cue, and Lucas shuffled his position quickly to avoid having his appendage boiled by the gushing hot water and steam. But as fortunate as he was to avoid the initial danger, his sudden movement caused him to stumbled and trip over a downed log.

He sprawled and fell, draping himself over another prone tree and knocking the wind out of his lungs in the process. The stumble was awkward, but otherwise fairly harmless, that is until he gazed down the length of the wood and noticed a wide hole rotted into the bark.

From within the dark recess, two segmented antennae appeared, peering out of the burrow like double periscopes. They began to probe and feel the surface, and when satisfied with the stimuli, anchored into the bark and lifted forth the mass of its accompanying body.

The creature was beetle-like in form, although much larger than most—nearly the size of a man's fist. Beneath the antennae were two, large, razor-sharp mandibles and set behind them, shadowed by the overhang of the insect's hooded exoskeleton, were a clutch of several black, pulsating eyes. Beyond its fiendish facial features was a continuation of hard outer shell marked by an area of white and black spots that formed the abstracted face of a mime.

Lucas realized what he was gazing at, and when the creature suddenly zeroed in on his presence, causing its shelled exterior to split open and unleash a dozen whipping tendrils, he was certain he was face-to-face with a marionette scarab.

Marionette scarabs were one of Satan Lucas' more diabolical creations. The beetles would be used to force its victims to perform actions they might otherwise resist. By affixing themselves to a person's body and piercing into the tendon mass below the skin, the marionette scarab could gain control of that appendage or muscle group, but leave the person's perception of events and actions unaltered.

Lucas would use the beasties to force a soul to thrust their hand into a thresher, jump from a ledge into a vat of acid, or murder their own kin over and over again. The victim would be completely aware of their actions and resulting consequences, but powerless to stop themselves.

This particular marionette scarab then popped completely out of the hole, and like a cork pulled from a bottle, a spewing mass of dozens more flowed out. Lucas's collision with the log had disturbed a nest of the nasties and they were now intent on attacking their perceived antagonist. The horde skittered toward him at a great speed, and Lucas launched into a full run.

Sprinting through the dense forest, he prayed that his steps be true. If he fell, the buzzing pack would be upon him, converting him instantly, and quite painfully, into an organic puppet subject to unspeakable horrors. As if that was not a vile enough thought, the threat of running headlong into a burning geyser still remained.

Lucas cut and leapt, ducked and bounded, hoping that his speed could outpace the creatures' endurance. But the sound of skittering was growing, not fading, and he realized if he did not find another means of escape soon, he would be overtaken.

That's when he spotted an old, dilapidated plantation house a few meters away. The structure could provide him shelter, and that thought spurred him on. He reached the rear porch and then vaulted through the entrance. No sooner had he turned and slammed the door closed behind him, than hundreds of burrowing tendrils emerged from beneath the jam. They snapped out, trying their hardest to snag a foot or even a toe, but Lucas kept at a safe distance and secured the bolt.

Inside, the house was filled with dusty antiques and stained Persian rugs. Torn and spatter-covered, floral wallpaper peeled from the aging walls. It was a once well to do home now held in perpetual decline, a rotting relic of a quest for material wealth. Lucas immediately began searching for another way out. Having entered through the back of the building, he made his way toward the front side, but his steps were suddenly stuck fast.

In front of him hung a large and ornate mirror, and in that mirror he could see the reflection of an Innocent. While the demon's back was to Lucas, the make of its robe was undeniable. The ghoul stood in front of a window, apparently occupied by what it saw outside.

Just as the most potent of human emotions, love, had made inroads into his mortal mind, Lucas was now accosted by another, primal instinct—uncompromising fear. If he did not do something fast, the Innocent would find him and his quest would end in an eternity of affliction.

When the demon suddenly turned away from its post, Lucas fell behind a couch and then propelled himself into an adjacent hallway. He could hear the ghostly breeze of the being as it hovered across the floorboards and toward his hiding spot. At the end of the hall was a single door, and Lucas decided it was his only option. He shimmied down the span as quietly as he could and then, every so softly, opened the door and descended into the darkness on the other side.

The door stood at the top of a stone stairwell, which, as Lucas soon discovered, led to the home's basement. He crept down into the cellar and was confronted by another hallway, although this time it was lined with several doors, each marked by an exterior wall sconce. Each sconce held a single candle, most of which still burned brightly.

Lucas recognized this as one of his homes for lost souls. There was great potential that beyond each one of these doors dwelt a soul imprisoned by its own, handcrafted hell. There was also the possibility that one of these doors could reveal an entry point into one of the hundreds of underground tunnels Lucas' minions had dug into the underbelly of Hades. The tunnels where a vast network of passages that demons would use to quickly move from location to location around the realm. It reasoned that with this house being what it was, a tunnel would intersect with it.

Lucas approached the first door and pulled it open. The interior was completely empty, save a dimly lit painting on the far wall. It was a landscape depicting a wilderness scene with the faint silhouette of a canine pack amongst the ground fog.

Lucas chuckled. He immediately realized what he was looking at. The image was a marker, a memory bank of a private hell once constructed but not currently in use. The painting was a way to store the diabolical design of that particular prison should it need to be deployed in the future. Its existence also meant that the occupant of this room had been saved.

Loopholes were common in all matters of eternity, and a prime reason the Devil Lucas kept a band of legal-minded goblins like Rosicco among his advisors. Betty's appearance in hell, the processing of suicides, Lucas' rebirth in the mortal world, and his current entanglement, were clear evidence of that fact. This painting was another such case.

A deal with the Devil is never one to be accepted blindly because there would always be a price to pay. But oftentimes, Satan's tendency to alter rules would be countered by a Higher Power, and that was the case when the deal was struck with the most altruistic of intentions. A bad soul who made a selfish deal would unquestionably be subject to all of hell's fury for the rest of its days. But a good soul, one who made a deal for the purest of reasons, was not necessarily destined to burn in the pit forever.

But this did not keep Lucifer from forging such contracts, for if the deal was made, he did have, by rights, a period of possession allowing him to harvest the fear and pain of the tortured soul for as long as he could retain it. Again, as is his nature, the greedy Devil would always try to extend that period of time. By stowing the souls away in small, far off corners of his kingdom, he hoped to make it difficult for the angels of heaven to find these misplaced spirits. But eventually they would, and deliver the suffering soul into the kingdom of heaven where it truly belonged.

At that moment, Lucas was looking at the previous cell of one of the final souls he had claimed, that of the woodsman that killed his own dog. With nothing more to discover, he turned to the next door and opened it to find a similar situation. This time the painting hanging on the wall was that of a worn boot and cobbler's tools. The widow of the murdered shoemaker had been found and delivered to everlasting Eden.

He was certain that the next room would have on display a fine oil work as well, maybe a quaint farm cottage, or perhaps a clutch of lavender. But, as he approached the doorknob, he noticed the candle above had been freshly pinched. The wick wafted a thin wisp of smoke.

Gripping the tarnished handle firmly, he yanked the door open and, much to his horror, discovered a room consumed by complete darkness. From the abyss, he could hear the faint, crying calls of Gertie's mother, the poor woman still calling out blindly for her little girl's hand.

Lucas cursed himself for capturing the woman in the first place, and for hiding her so well thereafter. He thought back to those times he stood outside of Betty's window, listening for great spans of time as Gertie would wail aloud for her lost mother, and how Betty would do her very best to lessen the child's pain.

His heart told him what he had to do, despite the act compounding his chances of failure. In that sorrowful moment lingered an opportunity for hope, and so he stepped into the black, reached out his hand, and pulled Evelyn into the light.

The woman's pupils were wide and straining. She recoiled from his grip and covered her face in fear as she struggled to see.

"Mother'," Lucas said in a comforting voice, "do you want to see your daughter?"

Evelyn uncovered her eyes and looked with disbelief at the man standing before her. With tears streaming down her cheeks she nodded.

"Follow me, stay close, and if it is God's will, we shall once more see our loves."

Guiding Gertie's mother behind him, he reached for the fourth door, pulled it open, and was struck by an updraft of sulfur infused air. It was the type of stale atmosphere prevalent in the underground caverns, but it couldn't have smelt sweeter to Lucas. It meant they had a way out, and onward to Mephisto's Keep.

The underground caverns were a series of torched lit tunnels that spun like a web beneath the cracked land above. In the undulating flame light, shadows cast some areas into darkness while bathing others in clear brilliance. The dichotomy allowed Lucas to navigate the labyrinth by sight, while at the same time providing sanctuaries of black to hide in while roving bands of creatures came and went. Using the environment to their advantage, Lucas and Evelyn proceeded through the maze in a series of fits and starts.

Lucas knew in what general direction the castle stood, so as long as he could keep his bearings set, he reasoned that one of the passageways should lead them to it. When the pair came to a fork, Lucas would pause only long enough to sense the subtle temperature difference between the two options. There was no hotter point in Hell than at its very center, where the home of Satan stood, so whichever path offered the greater degree would more likely be linked to the core.

Using this as a guide, Lucas was able to quickly discern the way. When the baked, orange clay that surrounded them gave way to hard, shining halls of obsidian, he knew they had reached the foundation of the keep. The entire castle had been built on a deposit of the black, shimmering stone.

The shaft ahead ended in an incline, and at the top of that stood a demonically decorated marker. Crafted from bones and skulls embedded into an archway of calcified remains, it was an entranceway into the keep's lower level.

Lucas was cautious in his approach. A sentry would surely guard an entrance such as this. He rose from the tunnel and peered into the adjoining room. Sure enough, standing stoically across the space was a large stone sculpture. It had the bodily form of a large, muscular man, but from the base of its broad shoulders arose two goat heads. Each one was frozen in a disgusting expression of displeasure and rage.

To the uneducated, the sculpture may appear as just that, a piece of bleak art to be admired by the zealots of evil. But to Lucas, the piece's commissioner, the work was much more fiendish. When a being not born of hell passed in front of the statue, the goat ghoul would come to life and eviscerate its target with clawing fingernails, gnashing teeth, and goring horns.

The unnerving statue stood in front of the only other exit out of the room, and Lucas and Evelyn would have no choice but to pass in front if it. But, Lucas had a plan. He leaned into his companion and whispered the details into her ear. She seemed nervous, but willing, and Lucas reassured her with a calming hand placed on her shoulder.

They both emerged fully from the underground tunnels, and then split their paths. Lucas moved to the far right of the room and Gertie's mother the left. At Lucas' signal, the pair shot into a sprint toward the statue.

As they reached a few meters out, the beast sprung to life. Lucas and Evelyn did not stop. They continued to run full speed at both the right and the left of the creature. Lucas used the nature of the dual goat heads to his advantage. He knew they were as stubborn as the animal from which they took their form, and when the horned pair concentrated on the two separate targets coming at them, they pulled against one another with tremendous force.

By the time Lucas and his ally had reached the sides of the demon, it was pulling so strongly against itself, it was beginning to splinter down the middle. One head sought to tear into Lucas as the other lashed out at Evelyn, both equally intent on snatching up the target of its own, individual bloodlust.

But, Lucas' strategy was sound, and neither head would accomplish its goal as the divergent tracks of its prey, and its own unrelenting desire, forced the beast to crack in two right down the middle, crumbling to the ground in a pile of rubble.

Upon reaching the stairwell behind the now decimated statue, Lucas couldn't help but smile. Gertie's mother was also pleased with their work, but the victory was short-lived. The greater—the greatest—challenge awaited them in the throne room above. There they would find the portal home, and surely the Wicked King himself, Lucifer.

===============

Chapter 20: New Breed

The doors to the throne room were left wide open, almost as if the unholy host was expecting company. The end to their journey lied with its confines, so, with no other option, Lucas and Evelyn stepped into the cathedral.

Upon his throne, Satan laughed a deep, demented cackle, playfully balancing the tip of a cleaver in the palm of his crimson hand.

"Ah, Lucas Swift, how wonderful it is to have you here," the Devil chortled.

"Brady Blockcut, I did not think I would see you again," Lucas replied with a confidence he had not felt since last being in the familiar spot.

"Brady? Of all the names I can now be called, that is no longer one of them," the Devil corrected, waggling his fat finger in disciplining fashion. "I am much more now than the butcher you perverted."

Lucas was astounded by the assertion.

"I did little to pervert an already black heart, Blockcut."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," the Devil replied with a smirk. "All that is certain is that I am the new landlord of damnation, and it would be my pleasure to welcome you as a perpetual tenant."

Lucas reached over and grabbed tight of Gertie's mother.

"I'm sorry Brady, but we will not be staying long."

The Devil chuckled again, this time in even a more chilling manner than the last.

"While I have not been here long," he explained, "I have begun to make this place my home, and the first order of business in the butcher's hell was to remove all hope of deliverance."

In Lucas' time, a massive fireplace stood directly behind the throne. No fire in Hades burnt fiercer or more ominously, but it was there, hidden in those flames that the human soul could find the pathway home.

The Devil rose from his seat, danced a two-step of lunacy, and then kicked his throne over. A great, ear-splitting crash echoed throughout the chamber. But even more unnerving than the sound of the heavy throne striking the marble floor, was the tragic sight revealed behind it. The fireplace that had always roared bright and glowing was little more than a smoldering pile of ash.

"Ah, the pure honeysuckle of human disappointment," the Devil giggled. "It is so sweet. It's damn near teeth-rotting."

Lucas' heart sank. Brady had managed to move the portal, but to where? The infinite possibilities were staggering. Evelyn could see the confusion and worry in Lucas' eyes. She gripped his hand tighter.

"This is not the only surprise I have cooked up," the Devil continued. "I have to say, you were quite the creative craftsman, Lucas. The sheer insanity of the freaks you have bred is truly commendable."

Satan clapped his swollen hands and, at that, a gang of goblins entered from a side chamber. Each one tugged and struggled against a thick chain of iron leashed to the collar of a gigantic monstrosity.

The creature was a massive mutant cow, nearly twenty feet high and oozing a putrid green bile from his grinding teeth. The bovine was crowned with several blood-soaked horns, all pulled to a piercing point. Its hide was nothing more than a thin, transparent membrane, holding back pulsating clutches of muscle coated in plasma. It had an extra set of appendages, set at the upper torso, but these appendages did not end in hooves. Instead, they sprouted talon-like hands, one clutching a gigantic cleaver and the other an enormous, rusting, three-pronged fork.

"You may have granted me a cursed heifer," the Devil explained, "but that silly animal is but a speck compared to my repugnant pet. Isn't it marvelous?"

The Devil was indeed expecting praise for his original work of maniacal genius, but Lucas offered nothing. While he was overcome by a deep sense of dread, he did not want to give Brady the satisfaction. Instead, he simply looked on in an attempt to dissect the behaviors and structure of the beast, hoping to identify a weakness.

Behind its large, fiery eyes, Lucas could sense a keen awareness. His hunch was proven in the next instance when another pair of goblins brought a screaming, naked man into the room.

"Should you doubt the utter, apocalyptic superiority of my misery calf, I wish to provide you a demonstration," the Devil stated.

He signaled the goblins, which immediately shoved the poor soul into the sight of the creature. With otherworldly reflexes, the demon cow skewered the man with its fork, pinning it to the ground. It hacked off his legs with one thundering drop of its cleaver, and then deposited the meaty upper portion of the screaming man into its mouth. After gulping hard, it went back for the still-twitching legs, forking them into its slobbering, chewing orifice.

"You see," explained the Devil, "that petty soul's torment has just begun. Much like bovine of the mortal world, this one possesses not a single, but a four-part digestive stomach. Each one houses a torture of it own delight, and the pathetic man I just condemned shall not be granted the peace of true death, but instead be subject to the grinding, boiling, searing, and crushing machinations of my pet's organs for an eternity to come."

The Devil clapped his hands in pure self-indulgent jubilance. His monster was everything he had hoped it would be.

Turning slowly toward Lucas, Satan's eyes grew narrow as his grin grew wide. From beneath his soot-stained goatee, his yellow teeth parted and a serpentine tongue slithered out, wetting his cracked lips.

"And now, you shall be but one more morsel for Hell's ravenous heifer!"

At those words, the goblins released their hold on the iron chains that bound the behemoth, causing the creature to bellow out a bloodcurdling wail. It stomped the marble floor with thunderous violence, sending cracks and crevices shooting out across the room from beneath its mighty hooves.

Lucas kept his focus on the animal as it swayed its head from side to side, staring back at him with two two burning orbs of rage. He knew the assault was imminent.

With a billow of steam sent shooting out of its flaring nostrils, the beast charged.

Lucas shoved Evelyn to one side as the cow stampeded between them, nearly goring the pair with a single assault. It then reeled back and pivoted on its hind legs in a surprisingly coordinated manner, given its size and form. With two meaty treats to choose from, the monster looked back and forth between them, before setting its sights on Gertie's mother.

Evelyn realized she was now the focus of the creature's fury. She scrambled to her feet and began running in the opposite direction. Lucas, quick to her defense, grabbed hold of a section of long, red tapestry that hung on the wall. Tearing it from its bindings, he yelled at the cow, waving the rose fabric frantically in hopes it would taunt the mutant animal into changing its mind.

The strategy worked. Provoked by the aggravating antics of Lucas, the bovine altered course and headed full steam in his direction. Acting the part of matador, Lucas looked into the creature's eyes again in hopes of gaining a subtle clue as to its exact plan of attack. But, he gathered much more than that.

Behind those red, burning eyes, danced a familiar flame he thought had been extinguished. The Devil, Brady, had moved the fiery portal home from within the hearth and inserted into the skull of his most wicked creation. It was a truly twisted tactic, almost admirable if not so cruel. If one wished to enrage a beast to the point of pure, blind ferocity, there was no better torment than to consume its mind with an insatiable, ever-roaring blaze.

Armed with this sudden discovery, Lucas strove for an end.

The bovine lashed out with decapitating intent, swinging his cleaver wildly. Lucas ducked and rolled, using the evasive tactic to buy him an extra second. He quickly folded and knotted the length of tapestry he still held in his hands.

As the beast turned to address his new position, Lucas threw the lasso into the air and found his mark. The loop was entangled in the nest of horns jutting from the creature's dome.

Lucas pulled the lead tight, cinching in the binding, he then ran down a side aisle of the massive cathedral, weaving in and out of the towering support pillars of the temple. Wrapping the last of the tapestry around a final column, Lucas leaned back and used his weight to pull the length taut, taunting the demon heifer forward.

The Devil and his goblin horde laughed and cheered at what they viewed as a futile attempt to slow the beast. Their mocking jeers soon turned to nervous chatter as they witnessed the ensuing actions of Brady's abomination. Now at the peak of its fury, it charged fiercely toward Lucas, and in the process shattered the first marble support directly in its path.

As the ransacking behemoth closed in, pillar after pillar exploded into chunks of rubble. The beast tore through the obstructions as if they were thin reeds, and with each crushing blow, a section of cathedral ceiling high above began to weaken and give way.

The cow was mere feet from his target now, with but one pillar separating the two. Lucas stood his ground, resolved to the fact that his plan would succeed, or he would be driven clean through by the demon's horns. He closed his eyes, and held his breath, and what followed was a cacophony of crashing stone and the shrill shrieks of anger.

As the chaos calmed, Lucas opened his eyes. Peering through the dust that engulfed the entire basilica, he could make out a single white-hot light shooting into the air, crackling and spitting like an unruly flame. The fog of disintegrated masonry settled, and the radiant source was clear. The cow had been felled, its cranium crushed by a heavy rain of boulders. The fire portal had been revealed, burning forth from a giant gash in the beast's head.

"You murderous scoundrel!" the Devil shouted at Lucas.

Lucas wasted little time. He ran to Evelyn and helped her to her feet, dragging her along with him as fast as he could.

"Where do you think you are going!" the Devil continued to yell. "Lucas Swift, you have not seen the last of this realm. I promise you that!"

At the edge of the battered corpse of the dead heifer, Lucas embraced his companion. He looked back at Brady one last time, shot him a grin of satisfying victory, and then the pair leapt into the flames.

Air rushed into his lungs, jarring him to consciousness. It was like a sudden surge of electricity jolting his previously lifeless body and nearly shaking him off the cold wooden table he laid upon.

Lucas sat straight up as his muscles continued to spasm. Fighting off a spat of shivering, he took note of his whereabouts. He was surrounded by several other tables, many of which held the stiff corpses of the deceased, their bodies covered in veils of linen. It was clear Lucas was in the Nugins Knob morgue, just as he had intended.

Before falling from his hanging perch, Lucas reasoned that it would not be long before a constable came across the suicide scene and remove his body from the cell. It appeared as though he was correct, and now liberated from his prison, he was reborn a free man. With Betty still foremost in his mind, he rolled off the autopsy slab. His legs buckled beneath him. Death was not an easy condition to overcome, but Lucas would not be stopped. He pulled himself to his feet, and struggling against the fatigue, shambled out of the room.

It was late into the evening, and no one was around to delay his progress. With every step, he regained strength. With every step, he focused his senses. With ever step he grew closer to Betty. He just prayed he would reach her in time.

===============

Chapter 21: Final Assault

Night had covered Nugins Knob in its cool, royal blue hue, but in Kline Sullivan's mind a boiling red fever was raging, threatening to consume his very humanity. Flanked by Smitty, the pair stood ominously outside of Betty's Blockcut's parlor. Smitty made quick work of the front door lock, prying the entrance ajar with a crowbar.

The duo then skulked into the dark interior. Smitty wedged the door shut with the crowbar and signaled to Kline that the work was secure. They then crept, ever so quietly, across the parlor floor and toward the steps leading to the second story.

Betty and Gertie were sound asleep. Even though she had her own, adjacent bed, Gertie would often tiptoe into Betty's in the middle of the night, eager to share in the warmth or console herself after a particularly frightening nightmare.

This is where Kline and Smitty found them, Betty with her arm draped over the child who had wedged herself into the crook of her bent body. The moonlight, cascading through the room's single window, illuminated the scene and allowed the trespassers to accurately plan their attack. Kline and Smitty exchanged a silent cue, and then Smitty pounced.

He scooped Gertie up in his arms, using her blanket as a means of constricting her. The girl's eyes shot wide open, and her mouth followed, but Smitty was quick to place his palm forcibly over her yap, preventing even the slightest sound from getting out.

Terrified, Gertie began to writhe and fight, but Smitty pulled the blanket tighter and used his considerable strength advantage to keep her under his control. He then ushered her from the room.

Kline waited for the sound of Smitty's footsteps to dissipate. He then inched onto the edge of the bed, drawing himself closer to a still sleeping Betty. He leaned in. He listened to the slow rhythms of her inhaling and exhaling. He sniffed the faint, flowery smell of her perfumed hair. He watched as an errant beam of stardust glistened across her moist lips.

Now lying side by side, the flittering of Betty's eyelashes mesmerized Kline. He wondered what she was dreaming of, and if the pure pleasure of the fantasy could match the utter horror of the reality now within an inch of her being.

Kline lifted himself above her, careful to not yet make any physical contact and wake her. He had never actually envisioned the exact moment, and so hesitated. It was then that Betty's eyes opened and she found herself face-to-face with her assailant.

She screamed and kicked out. The suddenness of the action caught Kline completely by surprise and he was sent crashing onto the floor. Betty vaulted from her bed and looked to escape, but she too hesitated when she could not find Gertie. Kline snatched back control, entangling Betty's legs in his arms, and tackling her to the ground.

"Kline! Kline!" Betty cried out.

"Listen to me, Betty Blockcut," Kline growled back, "hold your tongue if want that little brat returned to you unharmed!"

As Kline wrestled her into submission, Betty's voice lowered, but her terror rose.

"Why are you doing this?" she pleaded. "You are an officer of the law. Why?"

Betty began to weep uncontrollably.

Kline's eyes glazed over. He tore Betty's nightgown at the neckline, exposing her pale, bare flesh. Through her tears, Betty pleaded again for mercy, but Kline was no longer present. It was as if the man had gone, replaced by a rabid demon bent on evil.

Kline was intent, but Betty was not going to make it an easy task. Her heart was bold, and she would not let the assault continue unchallenged. Kline had her arms pinned by his, but when he released one of his hands to attend to his belt buckle, Betty rolled and bucked, allowing her to squirm free and scurry across the room, separating herself from her attacker.

"Dammit, Betty!" Kline shouted. He then reached behind his back and retrieved a large, sharp knife.

Kline, standing between Betty and the door, waved the blade threateningly in the moonlight. Its steel edge caught the rays, reflecting a chilling glint. Betty backed up onto her bed, wedging herself into the farthest corner of the room.

"Kline, you must stop!" she pleaded.

"No," he replied. "This has to be done. Either give into me now, or both you and your orphan runt will meet a grisly end!"

The madman moved closer and closer and Betty drew her blankets up around her in a vain attempt to shield herself from the coming tragedy.

"Kline, what about Olivia? Think of Olivia?"

The words seemed to pierce to his heart, causing him momentary pause. The respite was short-lived, however. Kline shook aside his reflection and continued to stalk toward his intended victim.

"I am thinking of Olivia. I am always thinking of Olivia," he replied.

Lucas stood outside the darkened parlor. He could make out a shadowy figure moving about on the ground floor. From the window above came a sudden, piercing scream.

Lucas rushed the parlor door. The magnitude of the impact sent the wooden obstacle off its hinges and the makeshift, crowbar latch skidding across the floorboards.

Smitty was caught totally off-guard. His hands were occupied with restraining Gertie, and as a result, he was defenseless against Lucas' ferocious fists. A single, crushing shot caught the criminal in the side of the head, rendering him instantly unconscious.

Gertie burst from her attacker's grip and slid behind a counter. While grateful, she was not entirely sure of the nature of this newest intruder and so hid in fright. But Lucas did not linger. Just as swiftly as he had laid low Smitty, he ascended the staircase to Betty's bedroom.

There, he found Kline Sullivan, gripping Betty by the throat, pinning her against the far wall. Lucas rushed the demented deputy and drove his shoulder into Kline's back with all his might.

The blow propelled Kline to the floor, but did not steal his vigor. The deputy rolled and wrestled, grappling with Lucas in an attempt to gain an advantage. As they jostled for position, Lucas kept a keen focus on the dagger still in Kline's hand. He held the weapon at bay as Kline made every effort to free himself from Lucas' grip.

The struggle brought them back to their feet and, with that change, Kline was able to turn the blade downward and deliver a slicing cut to Lucas' forearm. Only after the blood began to flow, did Lucas feel the excruciating pain. But, he refused to let go.

With a surge of force, the devil-turned-man infused the fight with an unexpected momentum that sent the pair winding toward the room's only window. Glass shattered. Betty screamed. The two combatants were sent sailing from the room, traveling through the midnight air, before striking the cobblestone with bone-breaking impact.

Betty rushed to the window. On the street below, Kline and Lucas laid motionless. Kline's tattered shirt had turned crimson. The blade of his knife was buried to the hilt in his own chest. Lucas was contorted in an awful manner. A pool of blood puddled beneath his head.

===============

Chapter 22: What Remains

As he hung in a realm of infinite darkness, Lucas realized the reaper was forever his companion. When we walked as the Demon Lord, death was his right hand. As a mortal man, it became his dark chauffer. And so death, acting as the latter, delivered him to the afterlife once again.

This time, however, Lucas came to being in a field of golden grain. A soft, yellow light bathed everything in a warm glow and infused the surroundings with a calming purity. A playful breeze carried clouds slowly across an azure sky, and gazing upward, Lucas was immediately struck by a sense of peace and tranquility. He was undoubtedly in Heaven.

"Lucas, my son," came a strong, yet assuring, voice, "welcome home."

It was the benevolent voice of God.

"The trials you undertook to rescue both the lost soul in Hell and the life of Betty Blockcut are a true testament to your changed ways. Through your sacrifice, you have strengthened your heart and rejuvenated your soul. Now you can find everlasting bliss in My Kingdom."

In the recesses of Lucas' mind, gratitude and regret strained against one another. For the departed, being welcomed into Heaven was the highest honor. It meant an eternity of carefree happiness, embraced by the boundless love of the Creator. But for Lucas, it meant being separated from Betty.

"Lucas," God continued, "I sense your longing, and for that I am sorry. But know your tale has not ended. Endure, my son, and when the time is right, you will be with her again. For now, gaze into the clouds. Let them craft the images you hold in your heart. There you will find her. There you can watch over her from on high."

Lucas laid back in the field and stared up into the blue above. As he concentrated, the celestial span transformed. Pristine white clouds changed their forms, and before long, Lucas could make out the familiar places and faces of Nugins Knob.

Within the flowing canvas, a scene came into clear focus. Lucas felt the yearning inside him give life to a smile. He watched, and waited, looking on from nirvana.

In a bright green pasture, a small girl sat on a blanket enjoying a thick slice of melon. She was in high spirits, giggling with delight. Next to her was a woman whose disposition was just as cheerful. They were happily chatting, pausing momentarily to exchange a spontaneous hug. It was Gertie and her mother, Evelyn.

Earlier that morning, Gertie's mother appeared at the parlor door in search of her daughter. After the initial shock or her reappearance dissipated, Evelyn laid forth the epic tale of her escape from Hell's prison.

She told Betty everything, how Lucas had rescued her from eternal damnation and how he was driven through the vast torments of Hell by a singular desire to protect Betty from harm.

Evelyn asked Betty why Lucas believed her to be in such great danger, and Betty told the tale of Kline Sullivan, adding in detail that had come to light upon the testimony of his now imprisoned co-conspirator, Smitty.

Smitty said that in the days prior, a mysterious, hooded stranger had visited Kline. He told him he knew of his wife Olivia's terminal illness. He knew many more things, things Kline could attest to as some of his deepest, most private thoughts. The stranger also had knowledge of the exact instant the illness would claim Olivia. But, he offered hope.

While playfully spinning the tip of a shiny cleaver in his fat, red palm, the stranger proposed a solution. He could heal Olivia of her illness and rid her of the torments that she suffered from, if only Kline would sleep with Betty.

The mysterious soothsayer then laid out a plan of blackmail involving the town's revered heifer. Kline was to use this as leverage against Betty should she resist his affection.

Kline would do anything for Olivia, anything, and so he agreed. But, when Betty proved unwilling and defiant, the stranger visited him again. This time he proposed murder. Kline pressed him to explain his obsession with Betty, and the schemer told him that it was of utmost importance that she be robbed of true love, scarred by its darkest twist, or be met with the ultimate, loveless end.

Kline's wife, Olivia, was a coughing and wheezing invalid in the adjacent room. She knew not of the stranger, nor his proposals, but Kline loved her to such an extent that he would do anything to relieve her suffering, anything. He agreed to the stranger's terms, yet again, and set out to make good on the deed with the goal of rescuing his wife from imminent death.

The diabolical manipulation was immensely sorrowful, even more so given the fact that it claimed the life of Lucas Swift, a man whose origins and intentions Betty came to know only after his truly heroic passing.

As Gertie and her mother continued their picnic, Betty stood just a few feet away, leaning on a white fence rail and gazing into the distance. She was deep in reflection, contemplating all that had transpired.

With Evelyn's account of Lucas, Betty realized why he had struck her as oddly familiar. She marveled at his metamorphosis and was humbled by his deeds. Lucas had turned away from the insatiable, evil allure of harvesting sin and instead embraced a path of light and love, all for her.

As awful and deplorable as Betty's father had treated her, Lucas stood in stark contrast. He wanted, more than anything, to bring joy into her life. And so, it was through that prism that Betty looked longingly out across the horizon, hoping that Lucas was somehow, somewhere gazing back.

He was.

Gertie and her mother called out to Betty, who turned from her daydreaming and joined them both at the picnic feast. Betty couldn't help but embrace their contagious happiness and push the sadness from her own heart.

The three sat and talked, laughed and frolicked. It was a wonderful celebration of thanksgiving, and it was not long before all the conversation had been uttered and all the delicacies eaten.

As the three cleaned up their setting and prepared to head home, Gertie grabbed a handful of rinds, headed over to the fence rail, and tossed them into the enclosure. They were immediately gobbled up by the town's prized heifer, who uttered not a single word of discontent.

===============

### About the Author

_Infinite Meat_ is the second novel written by Jeremy Neeley. Following the previously released _The Royal Perfects_ , Mr. Neeley was spurred on to release _Infinite Meat_ by the support of his family, friends, and the numerous positive reviews of _The Royal Perfects_ from the Internet community. He is indebted to these individuals, feeding off their support, and wishes to thank everyone who took the time to read his work and provide feedback.

Mr. Neeley currently lives in Pleasant Hills, Pa., with his wife and three children.

Please connect with the author on Facebook at:

http://www.theroyalperfects.com

===============

For my blessings,

Amanda, Libby, Abby and Timmy

