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By Root 797 0

my mesquite tree. The saguaro cactus using its many arms to mold stone as if it were clay and making loud bug-crunching noises was admittedly worth comment.

My neighbor raised a shaking index finger to point at the saguaro. “That moving cactus … and the big bug … and you, you spooky bastard. What are you?”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and grinned winningly at him. “Why, I’m the Antichrist, of course.”

Mr. Semerdjian responded by fainting, which seriously surprised me. I’d expected a vulgar expression of disbelief, like a middle finger or a clutching of the crotch, because the man had seen a giant demon and casually offered to blow it up like a tough guy. Why would saying the name of the boogeyman from Christianity make him lose his mind? He was a Muslim, for the free love o’ Flidais!

Actually, his collapse was a blessing. When he woke up, everything would be swell and I’d deny that any of it ever happened. If he tried to get anyone else to believe him, well, they wouldn’t. The cut on my shoulder was already healing over.

The elemental finished its work and left the stone keg full of distilled demon on my empty driveway, where I could easily camouflage it and the ghouls could load it into their refrigerated truck. Sonora said its farewells and then sank back into my lawn from whence it came, cleaning up as it disappeared, leaving no sign that anything supernatural had occurred. My lawn even looked like it had been freshly fertilized.

Oberon asked from the backyard.

Yeah, come on out. I have a couple calls to make. First I called 911 for Mr. Semerdjian, establishing an official record of my concern for his welfare. If he woke up calling me the Antichrist, he’d get a strong dose of sedatives and maybe one of those snug little straitjackets to play around in. Next I called my daytime lawyer, Hal Hauk, to get the number for the ghouls. I didn’t think Leif would want to talk to me right now, and besides, he was probably having an ASU student for breakfast.

After I rang the ghouls, the ambulance arrived for Mr. Semerdjian, and I waited for them to take him away before making my last call, to Malina Sokolowski.

“Hello, Malina,” I said with relish when she answered the phone. “I’m still around. Your little spell didn’t work.”

“You were attacked too? Those bitches!” she spat. “Damn them!” She was clearly upset; she’d never used anything but the politest, formal language with me. “It makes me wonder who else got hit tonight and who else is dead now.”

That wasn’t the response I expected at all. “Wait. What bitches? Who’s dead? Malina, who’s dead?”

“You’d better get over here,” she said, and hung up on me.

Chapter 4

Oberon asked hopefully.

“Yeah, but not the kind you’re thinking about, unfortunately,” I said aloud. “Are you willing to try going for that run again, buddy? We need to pay Malina Sokolowski a visit.”

“Well, I don’t know many witches who do like dogs, so she’s hardly exceptional in that regard. Witches tend to be cat people.”

“Of course,” I laughed. “And thank you for reminding me. Just let me go inside and get my sword. I want to be prepared this time. Stand sentinel out here?”

I ducked inside to get Fragarach, the old Irish sword that cut through armor as though it were crepe paper, and slung the scabbard across my back so that the hilt protruded above my right shoulder. As I stopped at the fridge to take a couple chugs of Naked berry juice, Oberon called to me from the porch.

I shoved the juice back in the fridge and hurried for the front door. Does he smell like a demon? I asked.

I hauled open the door and beheld a slim Native American man in the street. Straight black hair spilled past his shoulders from underneath a cowboy hat, and he was dressed in a white sleeveless undershirt, blue