A Name in the Dark

by G S Fortis

  “You’re selling them for profit!” I shout.

  Fiona shrugs. “These items are not common, everyday items. You will not find them in a shopping mall or online—well, maybe on the dark web. No matter,” she adds, trying to stay on course. “We sell, trade, and barter when we need to. I myself buy from others all the time. It’s what we’ve always done.”

  Paige shakes her head. “We? Who’s we?”

  “And”—I bury my head in my hands—“you sold one to her, didn’t you? Melchora?”

  “The coral snake,” she admits.

  “When?”

  “Oh, three weeks ago.”

  And there it is. “Right before Elizabeth was kidnapped,” I say.

  It’s no coincidence that Fiona knew so much about Santa Muerte and the lechuza. That’s why she warned me to stay away. She had met the lechuza.

  On instinct, Paige approaches Fiona to confront her. Then she stops when she realizes the snake is still coiled on the table. “Wait a second. Are you saying this snake that Darcy… vomited…was used to possess Elizabeth with this demon?”

  “Oh, it’s not a demon,” Fiona corrects. “She’s a powerful spirit, yes, but not a demon.”

  “But,” Paige counters, “Elizabeth is possessed. Like Darcy.”

  “Possession is not exclusive to demons, my dear.”

  I’m not concerned with the semantics but with the notion that this whole thing—Elizabeth’s kidnapping, her subsequent possession, Leona’s death—was put into motion by me.

  As if reading my thoughts, Fiona comes close and rests a hand on my shoulder. “Aye, my dear. It’s not your fault.”

  “More like yours,” Paige says.

  I wave my hand at Paige. I love that she defends me, but now’s not the time. Fortunately, Fiona doesn’t take it personally and ignores Paige’s comment.

  “Frankly, I’m surprised Melchora is able to wield such magic,” Fiona says. “I didn’t think she was that powerful a witch.”

  “Another thing you were wrong about,” Paige mutters.

  “Paige!” I say. “That’s enough.”

  She crosses her arms.

  “Oh dear,” Fiona says, turning away. She collects the snake off the glass table and returns to her wall of drawers. When she extends her hand to the empty drawer, the serpent obediently slithers back into its container. She slowly closes the drawer.

  Paige and I exchange a look, trying to read each other’s thoughts.

  Fiona finally turns to face us. “What do you intend to do?”

  “I’m going to find this thing,” I say, “and I’m going to make it reveal the name.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  I’m a bit taken aback by this comment. In light of recent events and the revelation that she’s profiting from me, it’s becoming clear that my possession is a benefit to Fiona.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m sure.”

  “Because,” Fiona continues, “someday, perhaps sooner than you think, you might be able to harness even more power than you think you have. Imagine what you might be able to do with it.”

  “She can’t control—” Paige starts.

  I point my finger at Paige—a final warning. I hate having to be the big sister right now, but I need to hear what Fiona has to say, and I can’t have Paige pissing her off. It doesn’t matter whether or not Fiona is giving me good advice—she’s giving me information.

  My attention returns to Fiona. “Go on.”

  Fiona focuses her attention on Paige and calmly continues. “All I’m saying is that perhaps Darcy has not considered what a blessing this might be for her.”

  “How…” Paige chokes on her words. Then she resumes. “How could this possibly be a blessing?”

  Fiona approaches me. With a finger, she pulls down the collar of my sweater to reveal my healed wound. Even Paige is surprised by its improved condition.

  “This is how,” Fiona says.

  She pinches her thumb and index finger together in midair and pulls. Slowly, the suture begins to unravel itself until the last of the threads is pulled out. It hovers for a moment in the air. She snaps her fingers, and a flash of fire consumes the string. A wisp of smoke is all that remains.

  Her lips widen, and she puts on a smile. I’ve seen this smile before—it’s the expression she shows on TV every day—a warm, loving mask meant to endear and captivate an audience. “As with any good talent, all you have to do is learn to control the power.”

  I don’t look at Paige. Even out of the corner of my eye, I can tell what kind of judgmental stare she’s casting in my direction.

  But I have one question for Fiona. “How?”

  * * *

  Don’t ask me how I convinced Paige to leave Fiona and me alone for fifteen minutes. I have no idea how, but I’m fairly certain it wasn’t particularly diplomatic. Fiona stands at the far end of her glass table while I stand at the other end.

  “Magic is all about control, Darcy,” Fiona says. “But you cannot control the elements until you can control yourself. The same goes with your demon. This entity inside you has great power. You have that power, too. I know you can feel it. What you’re needing to believe is that you can control it whenever you want.”

  I make the mistake of rolling my eyes. “Fiona. I hardly think—”

  “Eiteogach!”

  Before I can even finish the thought, a steel ball from the decorative bowl is hurled toward my face. It slams against my cheek and bounces into the wall behind me.

  “What the shit, Fiona?” I yell, rubbing my now-bruised cheek.

  “Now you try.”

  My face scrunches up, and I feign trying to Force push a ball at her. It doesn’t work. “See? I can’t do it.”

  “Eiteogach!”

  Another ball launches from the bowl. This time I’m ready, and I duck—or more accurately, fall to the floor. Staying under the table, I yell at her through the glass that separates us. “Knock it off! Seriously, someone could lose an eye!”

  Fiona stands and backs away from the table. Then that stupid witch does it again. “Eiteogach!”

  This time, the ball rises from the bowl then slams down through the glass table. Shards rain down around me, and the metal orb slams into my chest. My body flies backward and slams against the wall. She’s actually trying to hurt me.

  Fiona walks toward me. “You know you can stop this. All you have to do is take control.”

  I’m getting angry. My blood warms, and the electrocardiogram on my watch starts to beep. “He’s coming out!” I warn her.

  “No!” she shouts. “Harness the demon’s power!”

  Harness the demon’s power. Those are the same words Father Ramon used to describe what I had done. He believed I was permitting the demon to take control. Fiona believes I can wield its power.

  Neither of them have any idea what I’m dealing with. They don’t understand the pain like I do. They don’t live with it every day. They don’t know what it’s like to have an evil, destructive force inside that threatens to destroy you and everyone you love. They don’t get it. The more I think about that, the angrier I get.

  Fiona raises her arms. “Foluaineach.” The bits of glass rise slowly from the floor in front of me. My heart beats faster as I watch them point their jagged edges at me. My hand shakes. Then a breeze wafts through the air, and my hair flutters across my face. He’s coming.

  Fiona yells, “Eiteogach!”

  “No!” I cry. A hurricane wind explodes from my chest, pushing the broken glass away and toward Fiona.

  With catlike reflexes, Fiona slams her forearms together. “Armas!” she yells.

  The shards bounce away as if deflected by some invisible shield. The air continues blowing around the room. The shattered glass on the floor skittles in a circle. The sound grows louder.

  Fiona’s lips curl in a wicked grin. “You did it!” she cries above the noise. “You’re doin
g it!”

  I can sense Dudley emerging. I shut my eyes. I don’t want to see what happens.

  “Nooo!” I roar above the howling wind that swirls around me.

  In the blackness, Fiona calls out, “Bhí an saol ina chalm.”

  A soft, cool breeze breaks through the vortex. For a moment, it’s as if I’m at the beach. The fragrance of water and salt fills the air, and I can almost hear the waves lapping on sand. The warmth inside me subsides. My breaths are calm. The wind dies down and dissipates.

  Fiona’s dulcet voice breaks through. “Bhí an saol ina chalm.”

  My eyes are still closed, but I sense a calm in the room. Dudley’s not coming. Somehow, by some magical means, she’s tranquilized him. I open my eyes.

  I’m still on the floor, with my back against the wall. The glass table is now intact as if nothing ever happened. Fiona stands at the far end, smiling at me through its transparent surface. Even the steel balls are back in their bowl, perfectly situated in the center.

  I feel my face where the steel ball hit me. It’s not tender. It’s as if this never happened. Did this happen?

  “There now, dear,” Fiona says. “Was that so hard?”

  * * *

  Fiona opens the door to Paige, who’s standing there, freshly showered and dressed. “What happened?” Paige demands.

  Fiona turns to me. “She controlled it.”

  “Hardly,” I say, still rubbing my cheek despite it not being sore.

  Fiona steps past Paige, and we follow her. “You protected yourself. You conjured the wind. You moved the broken glass.”

  “But I was only able to stop him from taking over because you were there.”

  “This time,” she argues. “Just to show you that you can do it. All you must do is open yourself a wee bit. Find that boundary that gives you both the power and control.”

  Fiona leads us to another room. It’s a small study with bookshelves and an ebony wood desk. A floor-to-ceiling safe sits in one corner.

  “Now, something for Paige.” Fiona spins the safe handle and yanks open the door to reveal a trove of pistols, rifles, and shotguns.

  My jaw drops. “Why in the world do you need guns?”

  “I don’t need them. But even I enjoy the power of a good high-caliber firearm. Now…” She turns to Paige. “Let’s see, dear. What should we give you? Ah!” She pulls out a small handgun. “One of my favorites, the Glock 36.” With expert dexterity, she pops out the magazine and displays the gun to Paige. “Forty-five caliber. Standard magazine load of six. Easy rack.” She pulls back on the slide and inspects the chamber. “Empty.” She pops the magazine back in. “Slim, so you can tuck it your jeans with no one the wiser,” she says, handing the gun and a shoulder holster to Paige.

  “Thanks!” Paige says, inspecting her new gift.

  Fiona turns to me. “Would you like protection?”

  “No. I have Paige.”

  She closes the safe and turns to inspect us. “Well!” she says, clapping her hands and turning to Paige. “Now that you are once again properly armed and you”—she looks at me—“have… Paige, I’m thinking it’s time for a field trip.”

  “Where?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Oh,” she says with a smile, “you’ll be liking this place.”

  Chapter 26

  ____◊____

  FIONA’S LAND ROVER SCREECHES to a valet stand near the corner of Hollywood and Vine. Paige and I quickly step out of the vehicle, thankful to have arrived safely. This is an area where old Hollywood meets new Hollywood. Brand-new twenty-first-century buildings mingle others nearly one hundred years old, many of which are in various states of disrepair. Their facades are a neoclassical style, built of old redbrick with intricately carved entablatures etched into the masonry. I often wonder who is occupying the upper floors, where many windows are frosted with dirt or blocked with stacks of old paper piled against the glass.

  A cool morning breeze whips through the street. I flip up the collar of the double-breasted jacket Fiona loaned me. The golden-brown Harris Tweed isn’t my normal fashion choice, but she insisted I “dress for the occasion” and not like some “dosser in mourning.”

  Fiona accepts a ticket from a valet and joins us on the sidewalk. We follow her to a front door of one of the older buildings, a gothic structure ten stories tall. She punches a code into the security box, and a loud buzz-and-click sound informs us the door is now open.

  Fiona turns to Paige. “I’m sorry, dear. This is as far as you go.”

  Paige looks at me. We discussed this on the car ride over. The place was “not for the uninitiated,” Fiona said—which to me meant not for Muggles. Despite Paige’s initial protestations, she ultimately understood that this was a world where she was not permitted.

  “Text me when you’re done. I’ll be at the coffee shop next door.” Paige gestures to her laptop bag, letting me know she’ll be able to keep herself busy for a while. Then she disappears around the corner, and I follow Fiona inside.

  “You’re right,” Fiona says. “She’s protective of you.”

  “She would take a bullet for me.”

  Fiona glances at my shoulder. “Maybe to return the favor.”

  We enter a lobby to find one uniformed guard standing by two old elevators and another sitting at a reception station. Fiona approaches the reception guard.

  He smiles as she arrives at his desk. “Good afternoon, Ms. Flanagan. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Thank you, Charles.” Fiona scribbles information in a logbook.

  Charles smiles at me. “Good morning, miss. I hope you’re having an excellent day.”

  I nod a thank-you.

  Charles turns back to Fiona. “New member?”

  “Not yet. She’s a guest.”

  Charles continues to smile. “He won’t allow guests.” This is stated as a fact, not a challenge or confrontation. His tone is cheery, like a kind stranger commenting on a sunny day.

  Fiona finishes her entry in the logbook. “He’ll allow this one.” She leads me to the elevators. The other guard nods to us. Fiona pulls out a black plastic card and waves it at a sensor panel at the elevator. A light flashes green, and the elevator door opens.

  We step inside. The elevator door closes. We stand there, not moving.

  “What floor?” I ask.

  “Just wait.”

  Moments later, the intercom system crackles to life. “No guests, Ms. Flanagan,” says a disembodied voice with an English accent.

  “I’m aware of the rules. He’ll make an exception,” Fiona answers.

  “He never makes exceptions,” says the voice.

  “Just tell him this—tell him I bring two guests.”

  There’s a pause before the speaker crackles again. “I only see one other with you.”

  “Tell him.”

  Silence follows. After a couple of minutes, the elevator jostles with no forewarning. We rise, and I watch the light panel and read the floors as they go by. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…

  Then the panel goes black, but we keep moving. Finally, the doors open. Fiona steps out, and I follow her into a large two-level penthouse. Every wall is covered in dark oak panels framed by ornate molding. While some panels display framed photos and paintings, many others are carved with symbols, sigils, and veves.

  My eyes rise to the mezzanine level, where two rows of tables overlook the space. There are people seated and chatting noisily, most of them either drinking some cocktail or smoking. Directly above is an enormous skylight that stretches the length of the floor.

  Fiona leads us to a reception stand, where a tall, thin man towers over us. He wears a pinstriped suit. That outfit, coupled with his bald head, makes him look like Jack Skellington.

  “Did he make an exception?” Fiona asks with a wry smile.

  “This way, please,” Jack says. I recognize the voice I heard on the elevator.

  We follow Jack up the
stairs that lead to the mezzanine. As we climb, I notice more and more faces turning in our direction. And when I say our direction, I mean my direction. By the time we’re at the top of the stairs the entire place is completely quiet, and all eyes are on me.

  By all accounts, everyone looks normal—well, normal for Los Angeles. There are people of all ages, from teens to the elderly, and all ethnicities. Some are dressed in suits, some in eclectic casual garb. One woman is even dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie. Still, there’s something off about all of them. As we hurry through, I don’t have the time to observe them and put my finger on it.

  Jack leads us past a large island bar where I spy a selection of top-shelf-only spirits. We move down a hallway, past various clubrooms and antechambers. Still, there are carvings of symbols on the walls—symbols I recognize from years of researching religions, magic, and the occult. We pass one after another. There are some with Christian origins. Egyptian. Celtic. Hindu…

  We walk through the main dining area. Three living trees burst from the floor, their gnarled trunks twisting over the tables while their large limbs sprout a canopy of leaves. Black-and-white photos of members are hung on the walls, memorializing past events at the venue.

  And every time we approach a new group of patrons, they stop and stare. No one speaks, not even in hushed tones, as I pass. It’s as if they collectively understand the same secret. Whatever that secret is, it seems to be about me.

  We finally arrive at an oak door at the end of a long hall. Jack Skellington knocks. “They’re here.”

  The large wooden door creaks open. Jack nods to us and retreats down the hall.

  Fiona waltzes inside, and I follow. I’m not sure what to make of this room. My first impression is that it’s an office. It has a standard desk, some chairs, and shelves. But there are various vials and strange items lined up along those shelves. An old apothecary cabinet lines one wall while wood filing cabinets line another.

  The old wood desk in the center is cluttered with stacks of books, papers, and gold bars. Stacks and stacks of gold bars. Behind the clutter sits a man I presume is of Middle Eastern descent. He’s dressed in a finely tailored tan linen suit, a white button-down shirt, and no tie. His thick salt-and-pepper hair is perfectly cut and blends into a well-groomed beard that does nothing to hide his strong jaw.