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Nanny Ashtoreth had been on the job for a few weeks now. So far, the care and influence of the Antichrist was going well. Feed the boy. Get him dressed. Take him for walks. And remind him of his latent, soon-to-be-discovered power, the possibilities that would lie within his reach, and the millions that would be crushed beneath his iron will with much weeping and gnashing of teeth. Simple. Easy, one might say.
Until he had to go and have a bloody nightmare.
“Go back to sleep now, my little beast,” Nanny crooned in a panic, bouncing Warlock up and down in her arms in what she hoped would be a soothing movement. “It wasn’t real, all right? Not real at all!”
“But there was monsters, Nanny!” wailed the child. “They was chasing me!”
“Well did you turn around and bend them to your will with Amon’s Fiery Command of Enslavement?”
Warlock only cried even harder.
“Right,” gulped Nanny, “bit early for that, I suppose. C’mon, love. Back to bed, please.”
“Noooooo!” cried Warlock, in a gurgly high-pitched voice. “Nanny don’t let the monsters get me!”
“There aren’t any monsters here, Warlock. They’re not real.”
“What if they’re waiting for me when I sleep?” Warlock lamented. “They’ve g-got blinky eyes and h-horns and bad breath...”
“That sounds lovely!” Nanny said brightly. “I’m sure they all just want to be your friends.”
Warlock bawled at this, as if she had betrayed him by even suggesting that. “Don’t wanna be their friend!”
He was practically inconsolable.
Nanny sighed.
Time to recruit backup.
Upon entering employment with the Dowling Family, Brother Francis was given a small dwelling on the edge of the grounds. He quite liked it, because it was a quaint, rather very human thing, and when needed it opened up via wardrobe-door to his real home in London— but of course, Mr. and Mrs. Dowling didn’t need to know about that little alteration. Brother Francis did not sleep, and Nanny Ashtoreth knew this, so when she knocked on his door at (she checked her watch) 11:23 PM that evening he answered it at once.
“Miss Ashtoreth!” he exclaimed. “And young master Warlock? Whatever is the matter?”
“He won’t stop crying,” said Nanny through her gritted teeth, and for a moment she sounded a lot less like a governess and more like an aggravated middle-aged man.
Francis tutted, “What happened?”
“I got chased by monsters! They were so fast,” sobbed Warlock.
Francis shot Nanny a puzzled, questioning look, and she explained, “He had a particularly bad nightmare. I don’t know what to do,” she added, bouncing him up and down, “I was hoping you could help. Angel, please.”
“Of course,” said Francis graciously. “Come in, then.”
The boy was handed over to the gardener with no small amount of relief from Miss Ashtoreth, who instantly slumped against a wall. Francis deposited the crying boy onto the kitchenette countertop. “Now, my dear, I know just the thing. Something warm for the belly, and something sweet for the soul. Perhaps with a marshmallow in it, if you promise to be good.”
“Bad, you mean,” hissed Nanny under her breath.
“Hot cocoa?” said Warlock, through subsiding tears.
“Yes! Clever lad.”
“Oh, no, not hot cocoa,” groaned Nanny, “the sugar will keep him up and he’ll never—“
“Wait and see,” said Francis, winking.
Warlock would never, even as he grew older, be able to figure out how the the buck-toothed, bumbling gardener was able to put a pot of milk on the stove so quickly, or how it got to simmering within a matter of seconds, nor indeed the brand of rich chocolate he melted in it and topped with a soft white marshmallow. He was certainly all calmed down by the time he had the mug in his tiny hands. Somehow it was cool enough to drink straightaway.
“I see how it is, feed the child obscene amounts of sugar and he won’t go back to sleep, and if he won’t go back to sleep then he won’t have nightmares,” said Nanny disdainfully. “Your methods are irresponsible, Francis.”
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Brother Francis said lightly, wiping Warlock’s tears with a smile. “This always helps me calm down. You know, monsters hate the smell of sweet things.”
“They do?” said Warlock, eyes round.
“Certainly. It drives them away, tail between their legs.” Francis made a fluttering movement with his fingers. “Guaranteed a whiff of it will keep them far away from you.”
“You think they won’t get me now?”
“I’m sure of it. That’s special anti-monster hot cocoa. Works once and for all time.” He ruffled the boy’s hair, and Warlock giggled.
Nanny unfolded her arms. Well, that looked kind of sweet.
It took some gentle rocking on a wicker rocking chair that had somehow appeared in the tiny hut, and an utterly tooth-rotting, fanciful, made-up-on-the-spot-Francis-was-definitely-freestyling tale about Harry the Rabbit and his naughty duckling friends to lull Warlock into a deep sleep, but Nanny was grateful when his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing evened out peacefully.
“Thank you,” she mouthed over his shoulder, still rocking in the chair.
Francis beamed. “My pleasure.”
“What on Earth was in that cocoa?”
“A little miracle, I suppose you could say. And it was the marshmallow, actually.”
“Hm.” She frowned. “Listen, I’m sorry to ruin your evening like this. The kid wouldn’t stop crying and I- I didn’t know what else to do, and ‘m pretty sure at this point I’d probably make the nightmares worse if I...intervened.”
“Oh, my dear, what makes you say that?”
She grimaced. “Demons. We cause nightmares, we don’t shoo them away.”
“This is the Antichrist, he’s bound to carry some diabolical residue around.”
“Still,” mumbled Nanny. “Supposed to take care of him, aren’t I?”
Francis smiled at her. He had, she noticed, done away with the buck teeth, and the sideburns, and now looked a little more like the familiar angel she’d known for years. “And you do. Very well, I might add. Tonight was a little unprecedented, that’s all, especially with the parents away on business.”
“I’ll say. He’s usually so good with the blood-and-guts stuff. Loves it when I sing to him about the brimstone-fuelled forces of Hell rising from the depths to overcome all living things in darkness.” She raised a teasing eyebrow at Francis, who sniffed disdainfully, and became somber. “But the nightmares weren’t me. Promise.”
“It may help to sing less about such gruesome portents.”
“Just preparing him for what’s to come. We’ll win, after all.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” said Francis. “I fear you not, for I have the power of God and hot cocoa on my side!”
Nanny chuckled, but quietly, so as not to wake the child in her arms. “Think it’s too late to swap? I’ll yell at every tree in this garden if you say you’ll do bath time.”
Francis grinned, “I’m afraid it is too late. Besides, I couldn’t handle those heels half as well as you do.”
“True,” said Nanny, and then, softly, “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here.”
They looked at each other for a brief moment.
“Any time,” was all Francis said. “Any time at all.”
He opened the door for her and, arms full of a snoozing five-year-old, Nanny Ashtoreth walked out into the cool night air, crickets chirping in the bushes.
“Goodnight, Angel,” was all she said.
The boy did not wake again, nor did he have a nightmare for a long time afterward. Well, that was another thing Nanny owed to Brother Francis. She supposed she’d make up for it next time. Keep the hydrangeas from dying on him, perhaps. Take him to tea at the British Museum cafe. Anything he wanted, really. From Warlock’s room Nanny tucked him in and looked out the window at the dim glow coming from within Brother Francis’ quarters.
They were on opposite sides, but secretly, Nanny Ashtoreth was glad that both she and Warlock had an angel looking out for them.