by G S Fortis
As Fiona steps in, he rises quickly from behind his desk. “Fiona,” he says in a deep voice with a thick accent that confirms his Middle Eastern heritage. “It is so good to see you again.” They exchange a hug and a two-cheek kiss.
His eyes turn to me. “This must be her.” He extends a hand to me. “My name is Ammon.”
I reach out to take his hand. “Hi. I’m Dar—ow!” I pull my hand away and recoil. I look down at my palm and can see it’s red where my skin touched his.
Ammon peers into my yellow eyes. “Fiona was right. You’ve bested a demon.”
My stomach growls as Dudley responds, like a dog suspicious of a stranger. “I hardly think I’ve bested him. I’m stuck with him, is more accurate.” I continue to clutch my hand. It feels like I just grabbed a hot iron. The skin on my palm starts to bubble with blisters.
“I apologize for the little test,” Ammon says. “I had to make sure the story Fiona told me was true.”
“Ammon, I’m offended,” Fiona says with a bit of melodrama. “Would I lie?”
The pain worsens, and I start to get a little pissed. Here I am with third-degree burns, and these two are making chitchat.
Ammon pulls a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and uses it to lift an amber stone from the desk. It’s roughly the size of an egg, and it’s translucent, which makes it seem to radiate light. He extends the stone to me. “Hold this with your hand.”
I don’t move.
“It will help. I promise.”
I look at Fiona, but she offers no guidance. Gingerly, I reach out with my good hand and tap the stone gently. It feels cool to the touch. I take it with my hurt hand. As soon as my fingers wrap around the stone, the pain begins to subside.
“Thanks.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t mean it to sound sarcastic,” I say. “It’s just the way I talk. You’ll get used to it.”
“You won’t,” Fiona adds.
Ammon gestures for us to sit then returns to his chair behind the desk. “I can presume you wish to nominate young Darcy for membership to the Mancery? While I must admit she is an impressive individual, I’m not certain she qualifies. And if she did, you know this isn’t how it’s done.”
“I’m not here to discuss her membership—at least not today.”
The Mancery? Membership? What is this place?
“Then why are you here? More to the point,” he says, looking at me, “why is she here?”
“Because another member is trying to kill her,” Fiona answers.
I feel like a kid watching Mommy and Daddy talk about me and my future as if I’m not in the room. I mostly have no idea what they are talking about. However, when Fiona mentions “another member,” I realize she’s talking about Melchora.
Ammon shrugs. “I don’t think I need to describe to you the width and breadth of members we have in our association.” He turns to me. “No offense, young lady, but you’re hardly the only person threatened by one of our members.”
“That’s comforting,” I mutter.
Fiona shoots me a look, reminding me not to be myself. “Darcy, why don’t you tell Ammon what happened last night?”
I look at Ammon. He stares at me impassively, perhaps thinking there is nothing I can tell him that would affect him in any way. Judging by his office and the magical rock in my hand, he’s clearly a powerful individual—but I don’t think he’s a witch. He’s something else. And someone this powerful has probably seen, well, some crazy shit.
But for some reason, Fiona thinks what I have to say may compel him to help us. Despite some initial stuttering, I talk. I tell Ammon about the events that transpired at the library. Santa Muerte. My getting shot. Leona’s ghost. Elizabeth’s possession. The police.
When I mention the police, Fiona interrupts. “Melchora has summoned the spirit of Santa Muerte and used it to possess the child. But she’s being careless and is attracting a lot of attention. Attention we don’t want.”
Ammon laughs. “Truly, Fiona? You’re now concerned about bringing attention to us?”
Clearly, this is a shot at Fiona’s fame. I once asked her why she pursued such a high-profile career. I wanted to know why someone so concerned with keeping her powers a secret would choose a path in the public eye. Her answer was the same one she offers Ammon tonight.
“Go away with ya if you think I’m going to spend another four hundred years hiding from the rest of the world. I’ve a right to make a living, just like anyone else. And nothing I do threatens you or anyone else at the Mancery. But Melchora…”
She lets the name settle on Ammon. As he considers the weight of this, I pick up where Fiona left off. “I don’t think Melchora’s done,” I say. Ammon looks up at me. “There is some plan in motion, and it has to do with Carmen Viramontes’s empire.”
“Who is Carmen Viramontes, and what is her empire?” he asks.
“She’s the leader of a drug cartel. It was her daughter who was kidnapped and possessed by the spirit of Santa Muerte. Whatever Melchora is trying to do, this is just the beginning.”
“Drugs are a dirty business,” Ammon mutters.
“A business with which we do not want to associate,” Fiona says. “Now that the police are sniffing about, they’re going to follow her tracks right back to us. You and I have fought hard to make sure the Mancery has maintained its secrecy.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “I will look into Melchora. She has not visited our establishment for a while. If what you’re suggesting is true, her membership is the least of her concerns.” He turns to me. “That doesn’t explain why you’re both here today.”
Fiona leans forward. Not sure what to do, I lean in too. “I want the dowsing pendulum,” she says.
I look at Ammon. He leans back, perturbed. He must know what she’s talking about. I certainly don’t.
“So you can find her?”
“So Darcy can.”
“I’ve told you many times, Fiona. It’s not for sale.”
“Would you consider a temporary exchange? A loan, if you will.”
Ammon shakes his head dismissively. “An exchange? What could I possibly wish to exchange for lending out the pendulum?”
“The blood of a demon?”
My heart skips a beat the moment those words come out of her mouth. I slowly turn to face her with a look that could kill. “Seriously?” First, the animals I’ve vomited up and now this? “I’m not your personal goddamn vending machine, Fiona!”
I consider her a friend and an ally, but every now and then, I’m reminded of how very Hollywood she can be. One minute, she’s my best friend and ally, then suddenly, she’s making promises on my behalf and expecting me to provide her whatever she wants.
“We need the pendulum,” she shoots back. “You need the pendulum.”
“Why? Can’t we find Melchora on our own?”
“That’s not the question. The question is, can we find her before she strikes again?”
Damn it, that’s a good point. There’s no telling when Santa Muerte may strike again—and when she does strike, whose life might be lost.
I turn to Ammon. “This pendulum… what is it?”
Ammon smiles. Clearly, Fiona’s proposition has whetted his appetite. He rises from his desk and steps through a door into an adjacent room. Moments later, he returns with a small wooden box. It’s unstained, with a pale color and glassy grain that appears petrified. A tree is carved on the lid, its branches and roots wrapping into a perfect and circle around the tree.
He opens the box and lifts a silver chain. From it dangles a large clear crystal.
I shrug. “Neat. What does it do?”
“Finna Fiona,” Ammon says.
Slowly, the pendulum begins to swing. At first, it’s a normal rocking, back and forth. Then it stops. It levitates at a ninety-degree angle, pointing at Fiona.
“I crafted this from a piece of Iceland S
par I recovered from a shipwreck off the coast of Norway,” Ammon says. “I suspect it belonged to a shaman who guided boats at sea. Speak the words, and it will guide you where you want to go.”
I admire the pendulum. It’s transparent, like glass. As light hits it, it doesn’t refract the light like normal crystal. I have never seen anything like it. It’s beautiful.
My attention shifts to Ammon, who watches me carefully. I can see him stifling the faint hint of a smile.
Leaning back in my chair, I shrug. “Why do you want my blood?”
“Stöðva,” Ammon says. The crystal drops, its weight returning to normal. He returns the jewel and chain to the box and closes the lid. “That is none of your concern. Do we have a deal, or not?”
“Aye,” Fiona says.
“No,” I say.
Ammon turns to Fiona. “She can be quite rude.”
I shake my head, not willing to let them shame me into compliance. “Look, Ammon, it is my concern. The last time I opted into this whole donation program, this one”—I jab a thumb at Fiona—“eBayed it to a witch, who later tried to have me killed. So pardon me for being a little gun-shy this time around.”
Fiona rests a hand on my arm to calm me. “Darcy, please…”
I pull my arm away. “Look, if you harvest me for more parts, you need to make a deal with me. Not Fiona. Me. I’m willing to discuss this exchange. But I need to know this blood isn’t going to come back and bite me in the ass.” My heart races. I take a deep breath, trying to relax before the alarm on my watch goes off.
Ammon doesn’t bother looking at Fiona. His eyes stay focused on me. “I spent my entire life studying magic—a lifetime that dwarfs yours by comparison. In that time, I have focused my attention on components and ingredients. Some are common. Some are not. And I have the unique training and ability to imbue the properties of these items, permanently, into other objects. Like that stone you are holding.”
I had all but forgotten the stone. I look down and open my fist. The stone rests lightly in the palm of my hand. No pain, no blisters—as if nothing ever happened. Actually, better—my skin isn’t even dry anymore.
I look up at Ammon. He’s holding his handkerchief again and opening it to me. Gently, I lay the stone in the fabric, careful not to make contact with him. He wraps the fabric around the stone and places it back on his desk.
“A demon’s blood is not something easily procured. I have never had the chance to work with it. I don’t know anyone who has. I can’t say for sure what use it will be. We are talking about the life force of an eternal and powerful entity—a thing that can cross the very planes of existence. I need to study it. To learn from it. Then if I can harness its power and use it in some… object… I cannot promise that someone somewhere down the line won’t use it against you.”
With my luck, I’m sure someone someday will.
“Then I think you’ll need to up the ante if you want this sweet A positive,” I say, tapping my forearm.
With a deep, resigned sigh, like so many other people make when dealing with me, Ammon asks, “What would you like?”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “This Santa Muerte spirit knows my name. Its name.”
Ammon’s eyes widen. “Indeed?”
“Indeed. I need to know how I can control Santa Muerte and force her to reveal the name. Do you have any magical thingamajigs that can do that?”
Fiona finally chimes in. “Are you sure you want—”
“I’m sure,” I interrupt. There she goes again, trying to get her way.
Her shoulders sag. “Very well, dear.”
Ammon considers my request. He quietly rises and disappears through the back door. Moments later, he returns with another box. This one is made of wood blacked with resin. Gold hieroglyphs—character texts and images— cover each side and the top. He turns the box to me and opens the lid, revealing the contents.
Inside is a folded piece of ivory cloth. Ammon gestures for me to take it. I hesitantly reach into the box and lift the fabric. Despite its gossamer texture, it’s curiously heavy. I unfurl it to reveal a long and delicate veil made of a silky mesh. The material is so fine it’s translucent.
“Whosoever dons this veil is compelled to tell the truth,” Ammon says. “Place this on the head of the spirit, and you can ask for the name.”
Great. So I just need to get close enough to Santa Muerte to drape this over her head. Then I interrogate her for Dudley’s name. I return the veil to its box, and he closes the lid. He places this box next to the one containing the pendulum. There sit the two keys to solving my case and my life. One key will help me find Elizabeth. One key will help me learn my demon’s name.
“Do we have a deal?” Ammon asks.
Truth be told, I’m a bit naive when it comes to the details of donating blood on the black market. “Do you need a drop right now? Do I go to the local Red Cross and have them draw ten milliliters?”
Ammon and Fiona exchange a brief chuckle.
“Dear,” Fiona finally says. “He doesn’t want your blood.”
I wrinkle my brow. “He just said he wanted…”
Oh no.
It occurs to me what is so funny—and not so funny. They don’t mean to draw my blood while I’m me. They want to draw it from me while I’m Dudley.
The words struggle to come out: “Well… what do… how… are we going to do that? When are we going to do that?”
Ammon smiles and raises his hands. “Why not now? Why not here?”
My stomach sinks. This is not like the exercise Fiona and I did in her house. This isn’t finding that fine line. What we’re talking about is unleashing the deadly and dark force inside me. This will be a full demonic episode.
After sitting in silence for too long, Ammon finally asks again, “Do we have a deal?”
Paige is going to kill me.
Chapter 27
____◊____
AMMON AND FIONA LEAD me through the club. Once again, all eyes are on me as we navigate our way through the place. Ammon leads us down a long hallway to a locked door. He presses a smart card against a reader then enters a six-digit pin into the keypad. The light turns from red to green.
“High-tech?” I ask.
Ammon smiles as he opens the door. “Everyone here knows magic. One of our members is nearly one thousand years old, knows the secrets of life and death, and once resurrected a woman who had been dead for a month. He still doesn’t understand email. Sometimes, technology is better.”
We pass through the door and down another hall. We arrive at a large circular room. Huge blocks of limestone form the rounded walls, with each block etched in more symbols. At one end is an old wooden cabinet, and in the middle is a stone altar roughly the size of a cot.
Fiona closes the door behind us after we enter. It scrapes shut with a thunderous boom, shutting us inside. I give her a questioning look, but she merely returns a smile.
Drawn on the floor is a perfect circle about thirty feet in diameter. There are no symbols inside it—just a blank canvas. Ammon opens the cabinet and collects four candles. He lays them at four opposite points of the circle.
Fiona takes my hand and leads me to the altar. As I near, I notice it’s completely covered in the carvings of various runes and symbols. There are so many, overlapping each other, that they look like graffiti. I surmise that the reason it has so many symbols is because a lot of ceremonies have been conducted on it over the years. I also notice there are manacles connected to the stone. They look comfy.
“We can always back out if you want.” She guides me onto the altar.
“Shut up, Fiona. Let’s get this over with.”
I’m sure she’s trying to be reassuring, but after the way she’s been acting lately, I suspect she has some ulterior motive I haven’t figured out yet. I know enough not to trust Fiona or Ammon, but I’m also realizing that I can be as valuable to them as they can be to me. I may provide t
hem some long-term benefits, so I don’t think they intend to do me harm… today.
Fiona gestures at the tweed coat I’m wearing. “You’ll be needing to remove this.” I take off the garment and hand it to her. Dressed only in my T-shirt and jeans, I’m suddenly freezing. At least, for now. “Shoes, too, dear,” Fiona says. “It’s all part of the… process.”
Ritual, she almost said. As in ritual evocation or ritual sacrifice. Begrudgingly, I remove my boots. She gestures to my socks, and I peel them off and stuff them in the boots. I’m suddenly conscious of fuzz between my toes.
I lie down on the cold stone, and Fiona shackles me to the altar. It is just as uncomfortable as I imagined. She jerks down on the chains to remove the slack from my arms and legs then uses a metal lock to keep them in place. When I pull on the chains, there is no give.
Ammon walks into my line of vision, and I see he has lit the four candles. He walks inside the circle, waving a burning censer that dangles from a gold chain. The perfume fills the air, a combination of floral and sage that is quite calming. As the smoke settles on the floor, it solidifies into a drawing—a five-pointed star, along with a variety of hieroglyphs.
Fiona stands beside me and ties a leather strap around my arm then cleans a spot on my forearm with alcohol. A butterfly needle with a long tube connected to the end appears in her hand. She glances at me. I nod.
She plunges the needle into my vein. I watch as blood drips out of my arm, through the hose, and into a golden chalice on the floor. It’s a lot more blood than I was expecting. She finishes the job by taping the needle into place.
Ammon appears above my head, holding a small wooden stick wrapped in leather.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“So you don’t bite your tongue off.”
Well, that’s a considerate touch for someone who’s about to lure a demon out of my body. This is the second time this week I’ve been shackled to a table. I’m beginning to suspect I may be partially to blame for this coincidence.