Cocktails at Seven, Apocalypse at Eight: The Derby Cavendish Stories Read online

  “Christmas trees!” I crowed. “Christmas trees!”

  I had a plan, but I’d still need help. Fortunately, Bethany had given me the means to save myself. I jumped back to my feet and raced on, searching for the last thing I needed to make my plan come together. I found it in a little clearing among the paths of the maze and not a moment too soon. The minotaur’s thundering footfalls were close. I could hear the huffing of his breath. I whipped off my jacket—soaked in sweat in spite of the plummeting temperature—held it out like a matador’s cape, and spun around to face my pursuer just as he appeared.

  I very nearly surrendered right there. As with most otherworldly creatures, a natural glamour concealed the minotaur’s true form. In this case, a stunningly gorgeous glamour with massive, meaty muscles and a neck thicker than my leg. He looked like a bodybuilder—in fact, he probably was a bodybuilder, snatched away by Bethany’s spell in the middle of a workout if the rag of a tank top and the sweat shorts he wore were anything to go by. Of course, I know enough to see past the glamour of the otherworldly. Even so, with heavy horns, coarse black chest hair, and strong, only slightly bovine features, he was one hell of a good-looking man-bull. And me without my cowboy hat or chaps!

  But his eyes, when he fixed them on me, had the tell-tale red glow of compulsion. I stood my ground, jacket raised tauntingly. The minotaur let out a final bellow, lowered those impressive horns, and charged.

  At the last moment, I whipped my jacket away and threw myself aside. The minotaur, unable to stop himself, crashed head first into the obstacle I had been hiding: another of the tree farm’s very solid advertising signs. wood christmas trees: nothing else smells like wood.

  As the minotaur staggered back, momentarily stunned, I jumped in and slapped my hand on his head. “From chains and bonds of all kinds, I release you!” I declared. “Your body and mind be free!”

  The minotaur groaned and snorted, then looked at me with clear, if confused, eyes. I quickly took charge and described our situation, pointing out that if we didn’t work together, we’d both be frozen solid by morning. The minotaur nodded—slowly. I smiled to put him at ease and introduced myself. “I’m Derby,” I said.

  “They call me Horse.”

  It was an odd nickname for a half-bull, but I wasn’t going to argue. “Horse, I need you to pull down as many Christmas tree branches as you can. We’re going to make ourselves a little den and huddle together for the night.” His eyebrows rose. “For warmth,” I clarified. “Sharing body heat.”

  His eyes stayed on mine. I became aware that my sweaty clothes were becoming stiff—with ice—while frost had crept across both Horse’s hairy skin and his skimpy workout gear.

  “We should probably,” I added, “take these wet clothes off, too.”

  Horse gave me a slow smile, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts, and pushed them down. Suddenly I understood his nickname. I swallowed and pulled out my flask. “Whisky?” I asked.

  ※

  By the time Bethany showed up the next morning, I had a lovely little fire going and moisture was steaming off my clothes. The sun had, of course, risen after the solstice. Fire had returned to the world, and the trees of the farm had shifted back to their proper orderly rows. Bethany didn’t look at all happy to see me alive, warm, and maybe even with a certain, satisfied glow. Her face screwed up until it looked like she was going to swallow herself. “How are you still alive?”

  “Christmas trees,” I said. I patted the remains of the cozy nest that Horse and I had made for ourselves. “Evergreens, to be precise: a symbol of life in the middle of winter and a powerful counter to the magic of the solstice. You screwed up, Bethany.”

  “Fuck you, Derby,” said Bethany. Her eyes narrowed. “Where’s my minotaur?”

  Right on cue, Horse exploded from under the snow and tree branches with a roar and grabbed for her. Bethany shrieked and vanished like inhibitions after tequila. Horse looked disappointed but I rubbed his broad, snow-dusted shoulders.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “She’ll be back. She always comes back.”

  “Derby! Derby!” Matthew’s voice cut through the morning. I returned his call and he came running out of the woods. “Derby, what happened? Where were you? I tried coming back last night, but it was so cold and dark—”

  He stopped short as he saw Horse and his brow furrowed in confusion. “Don’t worry, Matthew,” I told him. “Bethany’s gone and we’re all fine.”

  “But it was such a long night.”

  “Oh, Matthew,” I said with a smile and a sideways look at Horse. “The longest.”

  I first encountered the otherworldly at an early age. I was seven and it was the night before St. Patrick’s Day. I was wide awake, worrying about what I’d wear—green is not my colour—when I heard my closet door open. I’ve never been afraid of anything in my closet, so naturally I sat up in bed to see what it was. The moonlight was streaming through my bedroom window, and I found myself face to face with a strange spidery thing that was all long legs and glowing eyes.

  I won’t lie: I came close to peeing myself.

  But I held it together, stared down that monster, and demanded “So what do you want?”

  The spider thing shuddered and folded in on itself as if in confusion at finding me awake, then answered with a rattling, drawn-out voice, “I’m here for your niiightmaaares.”

  “You want a nightmare?” I said. “What do I wear to school tomorrow?”

  It squinted at me with its multitude of eyes. “Blaaack—with one green accessory.”

  I was surprised I hadn’t thought of that myself, but then it was advanced fashion for a seven-year-old. “Thank you,” I said.

  “Dooon’t mention it,” said the spider. “Must be going. Many less-confident children to terrify.” It squeezed into the closet again but looked back at me before it closed the door. “You’re an unusual chiiild, Derby Cavendish.”

  “Flatterer!” I called after it, but the spider was gone. I slept well, and the next day my shamrock goth look was the hit of the playground. The spider’s visit had roused my curiosity however, and I began what would become my ongoing research into the supernatural and otherworldly. I already had a gut feeling that the next time I encountered such a being, I would need to be ready. And I was right; when a hellhound came howling at a group of trick-or-treaters the following Halloween, I stood my ground and tossed it candy from my little pumpkin bucket. The devil dog gobbled it down and whined for more. So I fed it and fed it until my bucket was empty and that greedy hellhound was full of treats. Sugary, sugary treats. Have you ever dropped a marshmallow into a campfire and watched it puff up into a searing, sticky mess? The stain that hellhound left on the sidewalk warned the otherworldly off of our neighbourhood for years afterward.

  I learned three things very quickly. First, that the creatures and forces of the otherworldly, both kindly and malevolent, were for some reason drawn to me. Second, that these visitations took place most frequently, though not exclusively, on dates of mystical and mythical power: Halloween and Hanukkah, solstices, equinoxes, Elvis Presley’s birthday, and so on.

  And third, that I would need to study the otherworldly for my own protection—and the protection of those around me. I was, as that spider had seen, unusual. Anyone can see the otherworldly, but most people’s minds simply refuse to acknowledge the existence of anything unnatural even when it’s right in front of them. The other trick-or-treaters, the ones who ran, remembered the hellhound only as a loose dog. The adults who went looking for it later saw the ashes only as the remnants of a bag of candy set on fire. Of course, you can imagine who got blamed for that! It takes someone unusual, someone open to the strange, to see what’s really happening. I knew that I could—nay, had to—make a difference. I resolved to stand up to the otherworldly in any situation, no matter how dangerous, unpleasant, or unexpected. In fact, ove
r the years I’ve become rather accustomed to the unexpected.

  Of course, I don’t think anyone ever really expects the end of the world.

  1. New Year’s Eve

  The street outside the Lumber Yard, the city’s most popular gay bar, was packed tight. Tighter than a go-go boy’s thong. Tighter than the closet at a political convention. Tighter than a virgin ass on double penetration night at the bathhouse. Tighter than—well, you get the picture. New Year’s Eve is a big deal in the gay village. Pride may be more heavily attended, Halloween may be stranger, and the Spring Garden Street Show more inexplicably anticipated, but New Year’s is an excuse to party in the middle of winter. And this year the celebration was even bigger because the Lumber Yard was taking the party outside. They’d obtained an outdoor liquor licence and set up a massive street party, complete with temporary bars, patio heaters, and a long stage built out from their famous panoramic windows. Simply everyone had come down to the village for the show.

  And it was all because of my good friend, rising drag star Aaron Silverman—better known as Miss Mitzy Knish, the original Hebrew Hot Pocket. From drag night appearances at bars like the Lumber Yard and Squeal, to such acclaimed solo shows as “Sausage Party” and “Titanic II: Just the Tip (of the Iceberg),” to spectacular main stage performances at Pride festivals around the country, Mitzy was on top of the world and riding it hard. Now she was poised to shoot into her next big project: an actual television series! Tentatively titled either Mitzy’s Big Year or The Drag Queen’s Guide to the Holidays—or, as the lower brow of our friends have suggested, Have Tuck, Will Travel—the show would see Mitzy in a fabulous year-long tour exploring various holidays around the country.

  How better to kick off production than on New Year’s Eve in Mitzy’s hometown, surrounded by her biggest fans? Somewhere out in the seething mass of people in front of the Lumber Yard, Mitzy and her camera crew circulated, pumping up the crowd, pimping out the show, and giving away noisemakers and vodka shots with reckless abandon. After all, a noisy and well-lubricated crowd is a happy crowd.

  Personally, I was sticking by one of the bars while Mitzy did her thing. It was somewhere between eleven and eleven-thirty, and I’d been on the go since noon. Aaron had called in a panic, begging me to come out with him for moral support. I knew he didn’t need it—whether in sneakers or stilettos, Aaron is a consummate performer—but I’d agreed because he’s my friend. I’d spent the afternoon watching as the camera crew shot B-roll of Aaron doing sound checks on the still-under-construction stage and picking out his costumes (never mind that they’d all been carefully selected weeks ago). I’d spent the early evening lingering in the background while the crew, by now as thoroughly enamoured as any fan, filmed Aaron’s transformation into Mitzy. I’d spent the mid- to late-evening following along in Mitzy’s wake as she dropped in on various New Year’s parties around the city, from a sedate dinner party of seniors, to a chaotic play-date party for children and their exhausted parents, to a raucous university house party that the police shut down just as we pulled away.

  Now, as midnight and Mitzy’s big number approached, it was time to catch my breath. I drained the last of my drink and gestured to the bartender. “Another, please.”

  “What will it be?”

  The bartender who stood across from me wasn’t the same bartender as before—and I can’t say I was entirely disappointed. He was a handsome man with a long, sharp nose and thick, curly black hair and beard. “Vodka and tonic,” I said. I watched him while he made the drink. There was something slightly odd about him, something that I couldn’t immediately place. I cleared my mind and focused my gaze, looking at him with the second sight.

  The glamour of the otherworldly fell away. Tall, furry ears like a donkey’s poked up through my bartender’s curly hair. When he turned, I saw that his pants had been split at the back to accommodate a long, drooping tail. My bartender winked and swished his tail playfully as he set my drink in front of me. “Admiring my ass, Derby?” he asked.

  I blinked in surprise, and the long ears and tail vanished. My instincts, however, remained atingle. Not all otherworldly beings are malicious and I try to treat them all fairly, but it was a mistake to trust any of them on first sight. “You know me?”

  “Word gets around. You’re something of a legend.”

  “I have my moments,” I said modestly.

  The bartender offered me his hand. “Tarik.”

  “You’re a satyr.”

  “I know—a satyr working as a bartender. Shocker.” Tarik smiled. “It was a natural fit. Well, that or porn.”

  In ancient Greece and Anatolia, satyrs were the companions of Dionysus, god of wine and fertility. If you’re picturing horny, hairy-legged goat men, stop it. Those are fauns and they’re Roman; satyrs come from further east and are considerably classier. Dionysus and most of the other old gods have fallen on hard times in the modern world, but satyrs might have been custom made for it. They’re legendary for their ability to mix a drink and notorious for their unflagging libido—in addition to having the ears and tails of asses, satyrs are ithyphallic. Contrary to what you may think, that doesn’t mean “fish-dicked.” It’s the polite way of saying satyrs get more wood than a horny lumberjack.

  I was strongly tempted to check for myself, but I kept my eyes on his handsome, handsome face. “I haven’t seen you at the Lumber Yard before,” I said.

  “I just got hired. I haven’t been in town long.” Tarik glanced down the length of the bar, then produced two shot glasses and filled them with tequila. “Join me? On the house.”

  I hesitated. One of the first rules in dealing with any type of otherworldly is never accept food or drink. On the other hand, we were at a public bar, the tequila came from a common bottle, and Tarik’s eyes had a certain sparkle to them that was making more than my instincts tingle. It was New Year’s Eve, after all—why not see where this went? I picked up a shot glass and clinked it against Tarik’s. “To the new year.”

  He met and held my gaze. “To you, Derby,” he said and my tingle turned into a slow burn. Our eyes stayed locked as we tossed back the shots. Tarik leaned across the bar—

  “Derby! Derby!”

  Mitzy came crashing through the crowd, completely destroying what would potentially have been one of the hottest kisses of my life. Tarik smiled again and drew back. I suppressed a groan and turned to Mitzy. She looked as fabulous as ever, but her eyes were wide with panic. My frustration fell away instantly. “What’s wrong?”

  Mitzy was holding something close to her body. She opened her arms just enough to show me a small monkey huddled up against her ample, if artificial, bosom. “This!”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Where did you get the monkey, Mitz?” I looked behind her. “Did you ditch your camera man?”

  “This is my camera man!” She held out the trembling monkey. “One minute I’m mugging, the next I’m playing Jane with Cheetah trying to climb into my tits.”

  “No one saw anything?”

  “Of course not!” She noticed Tarik staring at us and stiffened. “I mean, that is . . .”

  All good drag queens are more than they seem. In Mitzy’s case, she’s more and then some. “It’s okay,” I said. “He’s otherworldly, too. Tarik, Mitzy Knish; Mitzy, Tarik.”

  “Drink?” asked Tarik.

  “God, yes.” Mitzy handed the monkey off to me and grabbed the shot Tarik poured for her, throwing it down like she was bailing a sinking boat. Meanwhile, I held the monkey out at arm’s length and studied it closely. The animal was shaking and its eyes were darting everywhere, signs that there was a terrified human mind inside the simian skull. “It’s a transformation,” I said. “A real monkey would probably be screaming and fighting to run.”

  “But why, Derby?” demanded Mitzy. “Why would someone do this? Who would do this?”

  I focused my second sight on the m
onkey, looking past the veil of the glamour. As I expected, I could see a human form, twisted and compressed, behind the monkey shape. The fine coat of shimmering powder as green as poison that clung to the creature’s fur was not something I’d expected, however. “Fairy dust,” I said. “This is fairy magic.”

  Mitzy’s mouth tightened into a plump little pucker. “Hermione Frisson,” she growled—rather literally and with enough force to make Tarik step back a pace.

  “Easy!” I said quickly. Mitzy’s secret is that she’s very likely the world’s only Jewish drag queen werewolf, the result of a quick nip at summer camp when Aaron was just a boy still playing with his mother’s heels. Fortunately, Mitzy is in full control of the wolf most of the time. There are a few things, however, that can still bring out the beast in her, and it looked like we were facing one of them.

  But Mitzy took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m fine.” She peeled back her lips. “Teeth?”

  “No fangs, just a little lipstick.”

  As she cursed and scrubbed away the cherry-red stain, Tarik leaned closer again. “This Hermione Frisson is a fairy?”

  I could understand his confusion. Fairies are among the rarest and most reclusive of the otherworldly. “No,” I told him, “Hermione is human, but somehow she’s learned fairy magic. Unfortunately, she’s taken a sharp dislike to Mitzy. A couple of years ago, she was the hottest burlesque star in the city—until she tried using a fairy circle to sabotage a show Mitzy was in.”

  “And you can bet she blames me for it,” said Mitzy. “Now she’s trying to wreck my show in revenge!” She squeezed her hands into fists. Her knuckles cracked.

  “Nails!” I reminded her. She flinched and spread her fingers to inspect them.

  “Still good. What are we going to do, Derby? I need my camera man back!”

  “Don’t worry.” I looked to Tarik. “Do you have any salt to go with that tequila?”