Back to Astaroth’s Wager, Part XII.
It was just past two in the morning on December 25, 1936, when Caius returned to his master. Astaroth was sitting before a roaring fire in the drawing room of a mansion in Beverly Hills. Caius inhabited the body of a rat and leapt onto her shoulder. “I have returned, madam.”
“Caius! I’ll bet you’ve succeeded!” Astaroth squealed. “And on Christmas! That’s a fine touch. The primate investigators will probably think it’s an accident. Here—let me call Svipul here. She’s been possessing the body of a primate. You can take over for her for the meantime.”
“You look different, madam. Have you been possessing the body of a primate as well?”
“Never in an angelic age, no. I’ve become so accustomed to looking like this horrible little man that I completely forgot that I’m among friends,” Astaroth said. Over the previous five months, she had been pretending that she was Mr. Philip T. Meese—an older gentleman of average height with gray hair combed in such a fashion so as to cover his baldness, blue eyes, a bulbous nose, three chins and a considerable paunch. She marched over to the nearest mirror and without any visible transformation, blonde bombshell Astaroth was the reflection that the mirror reported back to her. “That’s better. I’m wondering when women will have any sort of power and independence again in this world. I hope it’s soon. I hate having to look like bald, fat men to be taken seriously by primates. The late Mr. Meese was the least repulsive motion picture studio executive for me to destroy so that I could steal his identity and station.”
Svipul had had to adjust, too. As soon as she saw Caius as the rat, she departed the body of the gray-haired, garishly-dressed Mrs. Ada Meese, and her body crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Svipul immediately took her usual form—a far more severe-looking but less attractive blonde than Astaroth—and said, “Oh fantastic—Caius, take over for me. I’m sick of that woman. Humans are just so bruisable. I can’t stand it anymore. I don’t know how you are able to cope with them.”
The rat ran out of the room and towards the kitchen when Caius departed its body, and within a fraction of a moment, Mrs. Meese was upright. “She smells better than most humans. Thank you, madam.”
“Tell me—are all the Warrens dead, except Florence?” Astaroth said.
“It is so, madam.”
“And how did it go?”
“I started with the children, as was your suggestion, madam, and I inhabited the body of a stray cat. I taught the elder child how to write my name using various dead languages, and I taught him some very small spells to hurt his younger sister and parents. As his punishments got worse, his anger grew, and when he discovered that Santa Claus only left him a lump of coal for Christmas, I convinced him to start a fire to destroy his family. I made sure he was trapped in the bedroom and possessed Florence only long enough to escape with very serious burns. She’s in the hospital now. The police should be by to inform Thomas Carver of what happened to his sister later today. I heard the officers in Kansas City discuss contacting the local police here in Los Angeles to make the notification. Their expectation is that her brother will take Florence in and look after her,” Caius explained.
“And her mental state?”
“Florence knows her son started the fire. She’d been trying to stop him from burning down the house all week long. Given the strain from such a personal tragedy, his magically-enforced systematic torture of them all and their many financial woes, she’s quite mad, madam,” Caius stated.
“Impressive,” Svipul remarked.
“Thank you, Chancellor Svipul.”
“If I’m perfectly honest, I have to admit that I’m envious of all the fun you had. Now that the hook is baited, we wait. And I’ll have you know that there’s a new title in this for you, too, Caius. There’s no reason for you to remain a mere Devil any longer,” Astaroth said.
“Might I inquire after your mark, madam?” he asked.
Astaroth explained, “Oh, the newlywed Carvers are ever so deeply boring: so in love, can’t believe their luck, expecting a child in May, blahblahBLAHBLAH. But not for long! Merry Christmas, Thomas Carver. I hope he truly enjoys it, as it’ll be his last.”
Dominus tecum.