“Good day to you, Mr. Nias.”
As I turned to the door, he delivered one more parting shot. “If you ever decide to retire from the Bureau, we could use a man like you, Kal. We can offer you a compensation package like no other.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Please do.”
Puffing my cigar, I left.
Chapter Eighteen
Kal
I’m Sexy and I Know It
“Mr. Nias was very forthcoming.”
I nodded at Ghost’s observation, but said nothing. Instead I placed the thumb drive on the flat of the DRAFTlite amulet and tapped the DOWNLOAD icon on the HUD. Less than a second later, Ghost had the file.
“There is indeed a freight elevator,” he droned. “The plan was never filed with the city. Mr. Quint, it seems, engaged in a certain level of naughtiness.”
“Gee, a rich guy ignoring the rules,” I said drily. “What a concept. I’m flabbergasted … truly. Where is this elevator?”
Before I finished talking, the HUD lit up with a schematic—a diagram of the first floor and a blinking red dot indicating my destination. Another dot, this time blue, appeared with the words YOU ARE HERE blinking alongside. Just before I touched the CLOSE icon, I caught sight of some writing on the lower left-hand corner. It read ‘Blueprints for Dummies.’
I fingered the amulet that contained all of Ghost and the vast knowledge he had collected throughout the years. “How would you like it if I turned you into an ashtray?”
No reply. I wasn’t serious, anyway.
Half the Cuban clamped between my teeth, I headed toward the elevator. A few minutes later I found it, artfully disguised as a maintenance closet at the end of a hall. It was locked, but picks are standard issue, and classes on how to pick every lock from 1865 on up are mandatory for all BSI Agents. The company that built this lock had mad skills, but mine were madder, and it yielded like a disgraced televangelist.
The inside rocked me back on my heels. I’d seen some weird stuff in my time, but this rated at #3 right under the mission where I encountered the Talking Chicken of Tulsa. (Please don’t ask. I still get night-sweats.)
Think black paint—a whole heaping lot of it, glossy and slick—add black shag carpeting, then mix in a pair of black leather La-Z-Boy recliners and a black mini-bar. Get the picture?
But I’m not done.
“What in the name of the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch is going on here?” I muttered, feeling my eyes open wider and wider.
For once, Ghost was stumped and kept his electric trap firmly shut. Not that I could blame him one iota. The place looked like a cross between an S&M parlor and Aleister Crowley’s wet dream all stuffed in an elevator the size of my pre-teen bedroom. The walls, the black shag, the mini-bar, and even the leather recliners were covered with fine silver markings, cabbalistic symbols looping and whorling, gleaming with argent potency. Each symbol seemed to shine, giving off a hazy, off-white light that was both comforting and repellant.
I recognized pentagrams and a Star of David or two mixed in with Hebrew, Chinese, and Arabic letters. My fingers hovered over a series of symbols that took up most of the left-hand wall.
“If I’m not mistaken, these are Enochian.”
Ghost replied, “That is correct.”
Back in the late 16th century, mystics John Dee and Edward Kelly revealed a language they said was given to them by angels. A divine language used in pure magic, the first language, the one used in the Garden, also called Celestial Speech.
I took a closer look and something about this wall struck me as strange. Not pausing lest I reconsider, I drew my Bowie and ran the blade against the black paint. Slivers of black peeled away exposing … silver.
“Jeez, Ghost, this wall is silver … pure silver.” What I thought had been paint turned out to be metal, a few thousand dollars’ worth. The silver was cool to the touch and the exposed portion seemed to glow brighter than the symbols.
“What the hell is going on here? Who did this?”
“Well, I hesitate to guess,” Ghost said. “But considering that this is the Quint Building and Tobias Quint did not submit the plans for the elevator to the city, then it follows that Tobias Quint is responsible.”
Tobias Quint, eccentric gazillionaire whose buildings sprouted up from the skin of the world like carbuncles—just the type of creep to come up with this idea. “Well, whatever, but this wall is silver and it’s definitely glowing, so it has to be magic. Magic isn’t quite in my wheelhouse, Ghost, but it’s in yours. Can you make out what these symbols mean … what they say?”
“It seems to be a summoning, albeit a poorly worded one.”
That didn’t sound good. I took a drag of ashy air. Realizing the cigar was out, I concentrated and lit the Cuban with the Zippo spell. Redolent smoke began to fill the elevator as I stared all around. Although registering as a Magician hadn’t quite been made into law due to issues of civil liberty, the Bureau kept a weather eye out for new talent. Magicians didn’t have to work for the government, but most did, either in think tanks or for the Bureau itself. The government wasn’t above offering a ludicrous salary in order to corner the market on Magicians. However, those who worked for corporations had almost as much money as the U.S., and this sure looked to be the work of a half-baked individual with a smattering of talent. It wouldn’t be long now before the market in magic would grow in proportion to the demand, and there were always those willing to take advantage. Greed is a powerful motivator.
Awesome.
“Summoning what?” I asked.
“It reads ‘For to be having the pleasure of man immortal’ … something something something … ‘with the power of fertile loins’ … something … ‘unending servitude to the whims of the caller, the builder of cities.’ ”
“ ‘Something something something’?”
“Whoever wrote this had a poor understanding of Enochian and so it was quite difficult to translate,” sniffed Ghost. “Much of this is rubbish—cabbalistic symbols that mean nothing—but when viewed as a whole, the writings form a pattern.”
Pattern?
“I suggest taking a few steps back, Kal. Out of the elevator.”
Why not? I stepped back, puffing contentedly, and waited.
And waited some more. Puff puff. “What am I looking at, Ghost?”
“Wait for it.”
Sigh. I hated it when I had to figure things out on my own. Too much like work. Still, I complied and stared at the open elevator car with its black paint and walls of silver, the runes and symbols and writings running every which way like a satanic set created by hysterical hamsters.
Pattern? No pattern, none that I could see, but I trusted Ghost, a being who couldn’t think slow on his worst days (and this might have been one of them). He and I had traveled through time, been in deep doo-doo on more occasions than I can count, and of all the Supernaturals in the world, he was the one I could call a friend. (I don’t count the Brownies who were washing my boy’s dirty diapers. Trust me, I’m glad to buy them enough milk to avoid that job, and eco-friendly disposable diapers and diaper services are far more expensive.)
Grayish smoke swirled in front of my eyes and I blinked rapidly and waved it away, hoping to ease the sting. When I aimed my eyes back at the elevator car, I caught a glimpse of something, a half-seen image that disappeared the second I focused my gaze. It reminded me of one of those pictures made of colored dots that, when you stare at it long enough, reveals numbers or letters or a picture of a sailboat. I’d seen those things dozens of times and I knew the trick to bringing the image forth: relax your eyes, let them focus on nothing at all, and what is hidden comes forth.
And there it was.
A pattern, all right. A spell Shape. When viewed at the right angle, with the eyes relaxed just so, the lines of letters took on an almost holographic aspect, becoming a three-dimensional representation of a spell. The sigils and runes seemed to leap at me, parts of looping lines
and angles that didn’t conform to conventional reality. Silver bars of light intersected every surface—from the chairs and fridge to the silver thread on the carpeting—and they were beautiful. I’d only recently popped my magical cherry thanks to the departure of my sister’s soul from mine, but I’d been around spell Shapes for over a decade. I’d seen my fair share, from the ugly to the sublime, but where many of those looked to be the equivalent of a Jackson Pollock painting, this one was a Pissarro, a Van Gogh, and a Monet all wrapped up into one.
“My God,” I whispered, “it’s beautiful.” Yet the total Shape of it eluded me. The spell was far too complex and I wasn’t a strong enough Magician. I had no doubt that Jeanie or Alex could grasp it, understand the subtleties and nuances of the spell, but for Mama Hakala’s blond-haired boy, comprehension remained out of reach.
Then I blinked and it was gone. “Ghost, did you see that?”
“Yes, I did, and although I am not a Magician, I must say that it was one of the most intricate Shapes I have ever seen.”
I tried to relax my eyes, but they couldn’t recall the shape, and I felt like I’d lost something precious. “I wonder what it does.”
“Hey, mister, can you help me?”
Okay, I didn’t quite scream like a little girl, but I managed a draw my Bowie knife with credible speed and whirl toward the threat.
A small girl. Well, nix that. More like a sixteen-year-old waif type with long, curly hair the color of walnuts and big eyes like one of those anime characters. Blue jeans stuck like flypaper on coltish legs over Converse clad feet. She wrung her hands, fingers twining in the cotton of her black Jay Z T-shirt.
“Who are you?” I barked.
She flinched, and I immediately felt like a world-class heel. “I’m Austin,” she said meekly, obviously afraid. Okay, now I’d been upgraded to galaxy-class heel.
I toned down the hostile. “What are you doing here, Austin?”
“Been here for a couple of days now.” Her eyes were fixed on the Bowie and I reluctantly sheathed the knife. I’ve never stuck a blade into a woman before—blown one’s head off, but she was all bad and had it coming.
Keeping my voice low and soft, as if talking to a skittish Collie, I said, “Austin, why didn’t you evacuate like all the others in the building?”
Tears formed in those huge eyes, and my heart did a little stutter-step. “I fell asleep in my mom’s office on the third floor.” More wringing of her small, dainty hands. There was something uniquely fragile and brittle about the girl and I stifled the desire to give her big hug. “When I woke, I heard gunshots and a terrible screaming and I ran and ran and hid because I knew bad things were happening.”
Bad things, all right. “You best get along. You know where Dervish Industries is located?”
She nodded.
“Good.” I took a couple of slow steps so as not to spook her. “You find it and take refuge inside. There’s a man named Mr. Nias there; you tell him Kal sent you.”
Eyes the color of … honestly, I couldn’t tell what color they were except that they were deep and haunting and they flew open, wide with wonder. “You’re Kal Hakala, the guy from the BSI, right?”
I nodded. “Yes, hon, that’s right. Now you get right along and I’ll collect you when I’m done here.”
All fear gone, she darted forward and took my hands in hers. They were warm and soft and felt like silk. “That is so cool. I get to meet Kal Hakala himself! You know, you’re better looking than that guy who played you in the movie.”
Damn, but she was a looker. Pert nose and luscious lips ready to be kissed and bitten and I felt something stirring deep inside, a primal desire that brought heat to the back of my eyeballs. “Uh, miss, ah …?”
A small finger touched my lips and the sensation was electric, sending a thrill down to parts best left unmentioned here. “Shhhh, no names. Let’s make this fun, like strangers meeting at a bar. It lends … spice to the situation.”
Gone was the teeny-bop bubblegum high-school girl with the waifish looks. What stood in her place was sex incarnate, lust on a stick, a hormone-inducing harlot with puffy, sex-ready lips and eyes large enough to drown in. Her scent, reminiscent of spice and nutmeg, brought fire to the groin and drove rational thought from the brain. The only thing that mattered was her, the only thing in the universe for me was the desire to taste her, to lick the sweat from her neck and pull her close, so close that our flesh would meld as one and then we would ….
“Kal?”
The drone interrupted my fantasy, but the girl’s lips were right there and it would be so easy to kiss them.
“Kal?”
Arrrgh! “What is it, Ghost?” The fog still shrouded my brain, but his voice cut through like a knife.
“This is not like you.”
No, this was exactly like me, glands and all, and I told him so.
“What about Jeanie?”
What about her?
“Who are you talking to, lover?” purred the girl. Girl, hell. She was a flat-out, full-figured, ready-to-go woman. Nothing delicate about his flower. She was primed for the pump and ready for the Finnish Love Machine. She snuggled close, fitting along the contours of my body, and the funny thing was that she was a bit taller than I remembered, the top of her head coming to my cheek, her breath hot on my skin. I pulled her close and a spot of heat started up on my chest, right next to my flesh. Her hands traced circles on my back, and I could feel her fingertips through my armor. The hot spot on my chest grew in intensity as I moved my lips toward hers until, right before I was about to taste those ruby wonders, the heat suddenly flashed into a searing pain that caused me to stumble back.
The girl advanced, hands held out to cup my face. “What’s wrong, dear? Here, let me kiss your boo-boo.”
Oh, I wanted my boo-boo kissed something bad, but my chest was on fire and I reached under my armor to find out what was causing it. My gloved fingers closed on something hard and I pulled.
It popped out, a shinny bauble on a gold chain, and the girl shrieked in horror. “What is that?”
And I knew. I knew. I knew what she was, what she had done to me and what she nearly did and my flesh began to crawl. The realization worked like a cold shower and my libido took a nosedive. “One thing about being famous: you meet famous people.” It hung from between my fingers, the most beautiful thing I’d seen in ages—a little gold cross. A ruby chip gleamed where the crossbars met. “For example … the pope. You know him, don’t you?” I spoke faster and faster as fear rushed through my veins. So close. “The High Pontiff, the Vicar of Christ, the guy with the pointy hat. That guy. Turns out he was impressed with my exploits and came to America just to visit little ol’ me.” Despite Mom being a devout Lutheran, she was impressed with the man’s humility and innate grace. They spent half an afternoon drinking tea and eating scones. It was all very Downton Abbey. That is, if Downton Abbey included a roomful of Swiss Guards looking like blond Schwarzenegger clones. “One of his gifts was this … blessed it with his own two hands.” I stared at the cross, so plain, so perfect. “Best. Christmas. Gift. Ever.”
“Keep it away,” she hissed, face not so pretty now.
I held it out. “Now why would I want to do that?”
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Never take the time to gloat, never revel in that ‘I just escaped certain death’ feeling because it allows the baddie to come up with a new fiendish plan.
Or you relax your guard.
One minute the girl—somehow I doubted her name was Austin; call it a hunch—cowered ten feet away, the next, as if not bothering to travel through the space between us, she was there, right in my face.
A small fist hit me square in the chest plate and the NewTanium crumpled, sending me flying back and bouncing down the hall like a stone skipping atop a still pond. The first bounce hurt; the second was just insulting. Fortunately a wall stopped me. Unfortunately I slammed into it hard enough to crack sheetrock.
“Uhhhhaa
ahhh,” I moaned as bits of powdered drywall floated down around me.
Suddenly I was airborne, held there by the girl, who stared at me with eyes turned opalescent. Those eyes were fixed on the glowing cross, the chain tangled around my fingers. “It makes me uncomfortable, but I can abide.”
Gone was any sense of feminine grace. Instead, what stood there had skin blacker than the most heinous sin, lips red as blood, and silver teeth like slickly shining knives. The gray tongue inside her head was forked; it curled lazily about those red lips like a grub worm.
As for me, I could barely move my right arm, the one holding onto the cross, but that wasn’t important. The important thing was I could move my left.
The demon shook me violently. I felt like a rat in a terrier’s jaws. “You are such a weak little thing.”
Every shake sent nails of pain through the base of my neck, but I held on until she stopped. “Tell me something, succubus,” I slurred, “are you knife-proof?”
Shhkk.
The Bowie sank nine inches into her gut. Forcing it in that far felt like stabbing a slab of quickly setting cement. Her reaction was about what you’d expect. With a curse that blistered my ears, the succubus again threw me across the hall, but this time I managed not to hit any walls. It was all net. By the time I rolled to a stop, the demon was halfway to me, taking her own sweet time.
“You think mere mortal steel can hurt me?” she growled, every stride sultry. She was still sexy, despite her demonic form and color. “I have outlasted empires, little man. I shall certainly outlast you.” The Bowie stuck out of her belly and bobbed with every step. She gave it no mind; heck, it didn’t even look like it hurt.
I spat blood. “Mortal steel, huh?” My teeth had cut the inside of my bottom lip and it bled freely, the swelling slurring my words. “How about steel that’s been blessed by the pope?” I looked down at the knife in her gut, one of the other gifts from the man with the pointy hat.
That stopped her cold. She stared at the protruding knife, opal eyes widening in alarm. With a flick she tried to pull it out, but it wouldn’t budge. Snarling, she used both hands. No dice; the Bowie remained stubbornly in place.
The Spirit in St. Louis Page 18