Slay Bells
I rolled into Tompkins Corners just shy of midnight, feeling like I was trespassing as my headlights cut through the small-town quiet. It was the kind of quiet I didn’t want to disturb—except I had no choice.
A corvathos demon had carved its way through Binghamton two nights ago, then Candor last night.
Five people dead already. I’d been chasing it for the past thirty-six hours.
My eyelids felt like sandpaper, but I couldn’t sleep until I’d killed the thing and made sure no one else got their heart ripped out this week.
I wasn’t sure it was in Tompkins Corners, but it was a good guess.
One I could confirm if I could get some more information—though that was easier said than done at this time of night on a Tuesday.
I couldn’t exactly stroll into the sheriff’s office and ask if they’d gotten any reports about a seven-foot-tall creature with knives for ribs.
Not that I would do that even if it were daylight.
People in towns like this—and most of the world—deserved to believe the scariest things out there were high gas prices and a bad flu season.
There was a veil between their normal lives and the demons that hunted by night, and it was my job to keep it closed.
Luckily, there was a dive bar on the edge of town with a flickering OPEN sign.
The roof bowed, and the door sagged on its hinges like it was as tired as I was.
Tacky strings of Christmas lights drooped inside the windows, giving off a faint red-green glow.
A light-up Santa leaned drunkenly against the scratched up siding.
There was only one other car in the lot—a battered Honda Civic that had seen too many upstate New York winters. I eased my ‘79 Buick Skylark into the lot, gravel crunching under the tires, and killed the engine.
For a moment, I just sat there, listening to the tick of the cooling metal and the low whine of the wind. Mid-December air cut sharp and cold through the crack of the window, and tiny white flakes fluttered onto my windshield, disappearing as soon as they kissed the glass.
I got out and slammed the car door shut, the sound carrying through the night like a gunshot. Too damn loud. I pulled my jacket tighter around me. My breath puffed white in the air, then curled away like cigarette smoke.
The bar had seen better decades. Paint peeled on the siding, one shutter hung crooked, and the OPEN sign guttered like a candle.
Still, it was open, which was what I needed.
If the corvathos demon had come through Tompkins Corners, odds were good somebody had noticed something, and there was no place like a bar for town gossip.
I hunched my shoulders against the cold and headed for the building.
The door gave a grudging squeal as I pushed it open.
The inside smelled like every small-town bar I’d ever been in: stale beer, fryer grease, and eau du despair.
A faint metallic smell ran underneath it, like the grill was on the fritz.
Brenda Lee’s Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree warbled from a radio behind the bar as I took stock of the place.
Rows of bottles lined the wall, and taps served the usual suspects.
Strands of dollar-store tinsel hung from the shelves, half of them sagging where the tape had lost its stickiness.
A chalkboard propped behind the bar advertised tonight’s holiday special: Santa Sangria.
Red wine, cinnamon schnapps, and cranberry juice.
It gave me a hangover just looking at it.
The place was nearly empty, which was fine by me.
A middle-aged guy slouched at a table to my left, nodding in slow time with the music.
He was shredding a pile of paper napkins for no discernible reason.
Judging from his glassy eyes and the fact he was missing half the beats, he was probably drunk enough to have forgotten his own name, but he was still in better shape than the other patron—an old man who lay facedown on his table in the corner, snoring into a growing puddle of drool.
I glanced toward the parking lot, thinking about that sad Civic. I sure as hell hoped neither of them was driving it home tonight. Not that I thought either could actually find the car.
And then my eyes landed on the bartender.
He was maybe a couple of years younger than me, with the kind of lean muscle you get from real work—hauling kegs, scrubbing counters, and breaking up bar fights when you can’t afford a bouncer.
His blond hair was messy in a way that looked accidental, though I bet he checked the mirror more than he’d admit.
His blue-green eyes caught mine across the room, quick and assessing.
He wore a Ramones T-shirt that had paint stains down the front and tight jeans that clung to his ass as he shifted to put a glass away.
His eyes had widened in surprise when I’d stepped in. I doubted the bar was frequented by anyone who had the means to go somewhere nicer, much by less out-of-towners. He looked… not afraid, exactly. Wary, but still curious. Like he wasn’t sure if I was trouble, but he wouldn’t mind finding out.
I slid onto a barstool and gave him my warmest smile. It felt rusty on my face. I slipped out of my jacket, laying it on the stool next to me, and made my voice open and harmless. “Evening. It’s cold out there. Thought I’d stop in and warm up before I turned into an icicle in my car.”
The bartender cocked his head. Up close, the teal of his eyes was brighter, a Caribbean color that made me think of summer. He gave an obligatory smile at my attempted joke.
“Welcome to Tompkins Corners.” He pulled a fresh pint glass out from under the bar. “The kitchen’s closed, but I can pour you one of America’s finest craft beverages.”
He gestured at the row of taps: Bud, Bud Light, Coors, Coors Light, Miller Genuine Draft, and Miller Lite.
“Club soda,” I said. “With lime, if you’re feeling generous.”
That earned me the ghost of a grin. “Big spender.” He filled my glass, stuck a tired-looking lime wedge onto the rim, and slid it across. “I’m Dylan, by the way.”
“Noah.” I raised the glass in a little half-toast and took a sip. The carbonation bit my tongue.
Dylan’s gaze stayed on me longer than most people’s did. Strangers usually cataloged the set of my shoulders and the glower in my eyes and decided they were very interested in something else. But Dylan didn’t. He watched. Not spooked. And not stupid either. Just… paying attention.
“Slow night?” I asked.
“Tuesday night in December—what do you expect?” He snorted, his eyes flicking toward the middle-aged guy mutilating his napkins. “That’s Marty. He’s one of our regulars. And that elegant gentleman in the corner is Walt. He really knows how to party.”
“Clearly.”
“If you’re looking for ambience, I’m afraid we’re fresh out.”
“Eh, ambience is overrated.” I let the club soda sit on my tongue for a second, then added, “You from around here, Dylan?”
“Born and raised in Elmira, but I commute here for the glamor.” He leaned in, forearms on the bar. “You’re not from around here, though.”
“You’re observant.”
“I do my best.” He buffed his fingernails on one shoulder, then grinned. “So what brings you to town? Business? Pleasure? Lose a bet?”
“Bit of all three.” I kept my smile easy, not wanting to test the rapport we’d created quite yet.
I’d gotten lucky. Not only did Dylan like to talk, he looked like he might like guys like me—and guys in general. Nothing he’d said, exactly. But the way he’d leaned in had been… suggestive.
He gave me another once-over, and I sensed he was clocking more about me than I wanted, from the dark circles under my eyes to the tension in my jaw, and even the just-a-bit-too-fast rhythm of my heartbeat. Like I said—observant.
Then he smiled, sly and satisfied with what he’d seen. “You look like trouble.”
“Common mistake. I just look like I forgot how to sleep. Road’ll do that to you.”
He laughed, quick and appreciative. “Fair point. But in that case, I think you really should let me pour you something stronger.”
“So I run myself off the road in half an hour?”
“So you can warm up.” His eyes sparkled. “And who says you’ll be ready to leave in half an hour? I promise you, my company is scintillating.”
I laughed. He was forward, but it was refreshing.
“I try not to drink on school nights.”
“Somehow, I’m betting you graduated a while ago.”
“Old habits,” I offered.
He tsked. “And here I was, ready to show you all the beauties Tompkins Corners had to offer. What a shame.”
It would’ve been easy to lean into it. Let the banter roll, follow along as he steered. He was playful and a little pushy, and I bet he had a good track record of talking guys into one more song, one more round, and one more night.
If only I’d had that kind of time.
I set my glass down gently. “Weird question, but has anything strange happened in town today?”
“What kind of strange?”
“Any kind.” I shrugged. “Odd smells? People not turning up when they’re supposed to? Feeling like someone’s watching you?”
“Watching me specifically, or…”
“Or anyone. People getting bad feelings and leaving places in a hurry, maybe?”
He blinked. “Marty did ask for the Santa Sangria earlier tonight. Usually he’s a straight Bud Light guy. Does that count?”
“I wish.” I kept my voice even. “I’m not trying to freak you out or anything. But I meant something more serious.”
Dylan cocked his head, recalibrating. Then his eyebrows shot up. “There was the thing with the dogs.”
“The dogs?”
“Yeah. A couple of strays turned up dead outside of town, their chests caved in and eaten. Alanna Tuttle found them when she was out on her afternoon walk. She said the sheriff thinks it was coyotes.” He shook his head.
“I feel bad for the dogs. First, your people don’t love you enough to bring you home, and then you die like that? It’s not fair.”