At three a.m., Casey was in the middle of tightening the air conditioning unit in the Caravan when he heard a girl call his name, his Indian name.
He let his arms dangle over the hood, into the engine. The wrench dropped from his grasp, clattering to the concrete floor. His head was bent, and all he could think of was “No.”
“I am Lada. I am the goddess of harmony, joy, youth, love and beauty.”
Casey slowly pulled himself out from under the hood and looked at the girl. She looked about 13 or 14, was blond-haired like him, but darker skin. Her eyes were a bit more almond shaped and swirling with the eyes of a god. She wore a nightgown that came to about her mid-thigh and was barefoot.
She stated her name and what she was and stood before him, looking up at him. He looked at her, crouching to her level. He stared into her eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m not doing this anymore.”
The girl stuttered, “What?”
He stood up straight. “I’m not destroying my line anymore.”
The girl said, “The Angel will be angry.”
“Fuck the Angel. If he wants to clean up old gods let him do it himself.” He went over to the counter and took the wooden dirk that had been in the secret pocket of his coat. He took it in both hands and snapped it cleanly in half.
A wind rushed up from that snap, a wind with spurs that tore at his face and eyes. He threw the dirk away from him, and the wind encompassed the girl. A screaming, howling gray tornado tore around her, lifting her nightgown clear away from her, shredding it and her body. The souls of the gods struggled to gain purchase on anything, and when they couldn’t, they twirled in that shredding maelstrom.
Casey had watched the girl get shredded. She collapsed in a heap of torn flesh and rags, blood pooling around her. The souls of the gods screamed through the garage, tipping things over and throwing things across the room. Then they saw the open garage door and flew out through it, leaving behind a scourging wind that left scratches on the cars, and set off two alarms in the parking lot.
He walked toward the mess on the floor. He tasted his own blood from his shredded face, the wounds closing as he walked. The girl wouldn’t heal like he did, he was aware of this. He didn’t know if the souls of the gods took her soul with her, or if her soul was released to the winds. He only knew he needed to be rid of the body.
He sang the Algonkin songs of mourning as he cleaned her up. She had something clenched in her hand and it had fallen out when the spirits tore her to pieces. He fished in the pool of blood and came up with it, the paper soaked through. He opened it, but couldn’t read the names. It was just as well.
Casey gathered up the pieces. He knew a dumpster he could put the remains in.
The Angel will indeed be angry, and he wouldn’t need to know about it. So long as he doesn’t sleep.
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