A Name in the Dark

by G S Fortis

  Ammon looks down at me. “Are you ready?”

  “Are you?” I ask.

  “I assure you, I’m well prepared.”

  “Then sure. Why the hell not?”

  He places the leather bit inside my mouth then steps backward until he is outside the circle. He steadies himself then begins to chant.

  “O Daemon, audi me

  “Prodi et detege se.”

  With a jolt, pain suddenly courses through my body. I close my eyes as I writhe and pull at the chains, which keep me steady.

  “Imprecor Aerem

  “Imprecor Aquam

  “Imprecor Terram

  “Imprecor Ignem.”

  A fiery burn permeates my entire body. I scream through the bit as the pain continues to explode from deep inside.

  “O Daemon, audi me

  “Te complectimur in cameram.”

  Ammon’s voice projects throughout the chamber as he switches languages. “I, Ammon of Egypt, do invite you, oh magnificent and formidable one, to our humble chamber!”

  I open my eyes. I can see the flames of the four candles explode upward into the room like fireworks. In my mind, I can hear Father Ramon’s voice. The pain is exhausting. I can’t focus. Something is crawling out from within my stomach. It claws at my throat. Trying to get out.

  Again, I can hear Father Ramon telling me to stay in control. I can’t. It hurts too much. My jam slams shut, and the wooden bit bursts between my teeth.

  * * *

  Slowly my senses start coming back to me. My eyes remain shut as my consciousness returns, and I try to make sense of where I am. I’m cold. The floor is hard. I’m on my side. Something shuffles close to my head. It makes a click, click, click sound.

  I open my eyes. My shirt is gone, and I’m only wearing my bra and jeans. The rough, cold floor sticks to my skin. I’m curled in a fetal position inside the edge of the circle. I can see its painted border right at my face.

  Click, click, click, click, click…

  When I roll over, I’m met by a horrifying sight. A sea of insects crawl over each other right in front my face. Thousands of centipedes, spiders, beetles, and other nasty bugs form a thick blanket two inches deep.

  I scramble away and to my feet, swatting at anything that might be on me. The insects quickly fill the void left by my absence in the ring but do not cross its border. A perfect circle of bugs forms in the center of the room. They continue to crawl over each other, unable to penetrate the magical barrier and escape the ring. Their spindly legs and bony pincers continue to click, click, click.

  It occurs to me where all these bugs came from. I spit, just in case I have any lingering bugs in my mouth. My body shivers, and I swipe at my bare skin and my hair to shed any stowaways. Chains clank with every movement I make.

  I look down. Manacles are still attached to my wrists and ankles, their broken chains dangling. Something pierces my biceps. There, in my flesh, is a small piece of metal. I pinch it and draw out the long remnant of the hypodermic needle. I flick it to the floor.

  At the center of the mass of insects lie the broken remains of the stone altar. What’s left of my torn and tattered shirt is draped across one corner. Glancing around the room, I can see a fragment of stone imbedded in the wall, with a broken chain hanging from its surface.

  Near the cabinet, I spy my jacket and boots. Careful not to step inside the circle, I grab my clothes then hurry to the door at the other side of the room. It’s locked.

  I bang on the door and pull on my coat. “Hey! Let me out of here!” My throat is sore, and I fear to consider why that might be.

  “Dear, is that really you?”

  “Cut the shit, Fiona, and let me out.”

  “That’s her,” she says to someone on the other side. Moments later, I hear a click, and the door opens.

  Not waiting for the door to open all the way, I push through and into the hallway. I shield myself when I see both Fiona and Ammon standing down the hall, each posed in a defensive magic stance. Fiona’s hands are extended, generating a shimmering energy. Ammon points a golden and bejeweled staff right at me.

  “Don’t magic me!” I shout, not sure if that’s the right term. “It’s me! It’s Darcy!”

  I peer past my outstretched hands. Fiona lowers her hands, and the energy dissipates. Hesitantly, Ammon points his staff at the ground.

  Jack Skellington moves past them toward me, holding a tray with a single glass of water. Not waiting for permission, I grab the glass and take a drink. The water is amazingly refreshing, and I suspect it has some magical qualities. Within seconds, my throat is no longer raw.

  Ammon hurries past me and shuts the door to the chamber. His shirt is missing a sleeve, and his pant leg has rips going down the side. Fiona’s usually perfectly styled hair is a mess. Then there’s the fact that both of them are splattered with blood. My blood. Or Dudley’s blood.

  “I trust that went well,” I mutter.

  “Percival,” Ammon says. I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean until Jack Skellington appears beside me with the two wooden boxes. He shoves them into my chest even though I’m still holding my boots.

  “Maftūh,” Ammon says. The manacles open on their own. The one on my right wrist falls and crashes down on my pinky toe.

  “Ow!” I shout and grab my foot with a free hand.

  Ammon turns to Fiona. “Get her out of here.” He marches down the hall and disappears around a corner.

  Percival turns to Fiona. “Follow me.”

  Fiona grabs me by the arm and begins to drag me down the hall behind Percival but immediately pulls her hand away. It’s the first time the normally touchy-feely Fiona has ever recoiled from our contact. She looks at my eyes as if she’s never noticed them before.

  “It’s me,” I assure her, still rubbing my toe.

  “We’d best be off right away.”

  “Hold on. I don’t have my boots on.”

  “Put them on in the lift.” She grabs me again and hauls me through the club, this time not letting go. The members are lined up and watch from a safe distance as we walk past. They are on guard, so I suspect whatever ruckus I made in that room penetrated the walls.

  Percival waits at the elevator, holding the door open for us. I limp inside then realize I’m alone. When I turn, I catch a glimpse of Fiona hesitating. Whatever she saw in that chamber has given her second thoughts about climbing into an enclosed box with me. She steels herself and steps inside the elevator.

  The doors close, and we’re descending. I plop down on the floor with my boxes and pull my socks and boots on. I stay seated on the elevator floor, my legs sprawled out before me.

  “Did he get what he wanted?” I ask.

  Fiona doesn’t respond. She begins fumbling in her purse as if I’m not there.

  I push for a response. “What happened in there?”

  She pulls out a plastic zipper bag with two peanut butter cookies. “Here,” she says, extending it to me without looking.

  Just like a trip to the Red Cross. I snatch the bag and tear into the cookies.

  As the elevator settles, Fiona finally says, “You need to get that cursed thing out of you.”

  Chapter 28

  ____◊____

  THE COFFEE SHOP WHERE we meet Paige is quite nice. Fortunately, they have full leather club chairs—perfect for collapsing into a ball after an afternoon of failed demonology.

  Paige’s eyes bounce up and down as she looks at me. “What happened to you? Where’s your shirt?”

  I pull the warm tweed jacket closed and munch on my peanut butter cookies while Paige harasses me about what happened upstairs. The cookies are pretty good, so I take a few moments to enjoy them despite Paige’s verbal assault that drones on and on.

  Fiona orders coffee at the counter. Just before she entered the café, she donned big dark sunglasses to hide her identity. Her incognito mode doesn’t work, so she has to si
gn autographs and pose for two selfies with fans while she waits for her order.

  Paige refuses to relent, so I’m compelled to tell her what happened upstairs. She goes ballistic.

  “Calm down. It was my decision,” I tell her.

  “Calm down?” she says, even more furious now.

  Fiona returns and hands me a cup of coffee. Paige directs her anger on her. “You selfish old hag! I knew we shouldn’t have trusted yo-fth—”

  Without saying a word, Fiona calmly zips her purse closed. Paige’s lips tighten. She struggles to open her mouth but can’t.

  “Let’s not make a scene,” Fiona warns her, glancing around. “I cannot afford to have this tirade appear on social media. I still have a reputation to uphold. Please calm yourself.”

  Fiona daintily lifts her coffee and takes a sip. She turns to me. “Drink up, dear. I promise it’ll set you right.”

  I have no doubt of that. Paige sits here, arms crossed, and listens silently as Fiona and I reveal why I did what I did and what is in the two boxes.

  When my coffee is finished, I do feel much better. After two peanut butter cookies and a cup of joe, it’s like my hit points are back to full. Fiona unzips her purse, and Paige’s jaw drops open. She rubs her mouth to get the feeling back, glaring at Fiona.

  “I’m sorry, but you were grousing like a fool, and it was neither the time nor place.”

  “Don’t ever use your witchcraft on me again,” Paige says.

  Fiona reaches for her purse again. When I grab her hand, she flinches. I try to make eye contact with her, but she refuses to look me directly in my yellow eyes. I must have done a number on her.

  “Knock it off, both of you,” I say, trying to move past the awkward moment. “Paige, we did what we had to do, and I need you to get on board. Fiona, no more hexing Paige. Got it?”

  I’m chastising them and putting my foot down. A new dynamic has settled on the three of us, and I’m the grownup. It’s weird, and I don’t like it.

  “Fine,” Paige says. “What’s our next move?”

  “Well,” Fiona says, standing up, “I’m quite sorry, but I’ll be leaving you for the rest of the afternoon. I have meetings at my office.”

  “You’re not coming with us?” I ask, concerned.

  Her eyes still refuse to meet mine. “You can use the Rover,” she says, tossing me the keys. “I’ll be at the lot. Come to us when you’re done.”

  “What if we need your help? I don’t even know how to use these things,” I protest, indicating the two boxes from Ammon.

  Fiona pulls out a pad and pen and proceeds to jot something down. “It’s quite easy. The command word for the pendulum is Finna to find someone. For instance, Finna Paige.”

  The box lurches and shifts toward Paige. I have to hold it before it slides off my lap. Paige flinches, still gun-shy from Fiona’s prior spell.

  “Stöðva to stop,” Fiona says.

  The box settles down. She tears off the piece of paper and hands it to me. When I reach out to take it from her, she lightly tosses it in my direction to keep her distance from me. As if suddenly aware of how she’s acting, Fiona composes herself and straightens her outfit.

  “Good luck.” She disappears out through the door.

  “What was that all about?” Paige asks.

  Whatever I—or Dudley—did scared the living shit out of Fiona, and she’s a witch. The last thing I need is to scare Paige. She’s the only person left standing by my side.

  “I think I embarrassed her upstairs in front of her friends,” I say.

  * * *

  Paige drives Fiona’s Land Rover east on Hollywood Boulevard. I ride shotgun, the pendulum dangling from its chain in my hand. It sways with the momentum of the moving car. Sunlight refracts clearly off its surface, bouncing clear beams inside the car.

  Looking at Fiona’s note, I read the words out loud. “Finna Elizabeth.”

  The crystal continues to swing but does not point anywhere.

  “Did you break it?” Paige asks.

  “I didn’t break it.”

  “Then why didn’t it work?”

  I consider and try again. “Finna Santa Muerte.”

  The pendulum begins to rock more. Without any provocation from me, it spins on its chain. This is not something it did in Ammon’s office, so I’m concerned that maybe I did break it. Suddenly, it swings up and hovers at a perfect right angle, pointing east.

  “Well, I guess we’re going east,” I say.

  We head into Los Feliz, where the street takes us south. Still going east, we head up into the hills. We zigzag our way past the residential houses and hit a dead end when we come upon the Silver Lake Reservoir.

  This isn’t going to be easy.

  We decide to take a gamble and head back and north toward the other side. After two hours of dead ends and circling around, we finally find ourselves in Montecito Heights. It’s a residential neighborhood where the architecture ranges from modern and craftsman to the outdated Victorian. We go through some parts that are clearly upscale but, two blocks later, find ourselves in a poorer area. Paige and I make our way up the meandering roads until we reach a turnoff. The next road is unpaved and poorly kept, and the car’s wheels vibrate. We are forced to park the Land Rover when we arrive at a chain-link gate that blocks our path.

  Fifty yards beyond is a seemingly abandoned collection of houses that surround a cul-de-sac. The pendulum continues to point past the barrier. I gather the veil and ready myself.

  “Do you know how to use that?” Paige asks, staring at the piece of delicate fabric in my hand.

  I wonder how I can test to see if it works. I look at Paige.

  “What?” she asks, then her eyes widen. “Oh, come on. I’ve already had one spell cast on me today!”

  “Paige, please. You know I never ask you for anything.”

  Her eyes widen. “You ask me for shit all the time!”

  “I need to know if this can help me!”

  I must look pretty desperate. Paige looks into my face. She knows the situation we’re walking into and that the veil could literally save my soul.

  She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I can’t believe the crap I let you put me through. How does it work?”

  I try not to smile. “Ammon said that whoever wears this veil is compelled to tell the truth.” I raise the delicate cloth toward the top of her head. “I guess we just put this on your—”

  Before I can even finish sentence, the veil flies from my hand. It wraps itself around her head and pulls itself taut around her face. Immediately, her mouth opens, and she struggles to breathe. The veil tightens, stretching over her face like rubber.

  Instinctively, I reach out to pull it away. Then I stop. “My red-and-white cashmere sweater…”

  Paige’s eyes widen under the gauze. She shakes her head vigorously as she tries to inhale.

  “You said the dry cleaner lost it. Was that true?”

  Paige closes her eyes, but it doesn’t take long before she’s finally able to inhale. When she breathes, the words pour out. “I never took it to the dry cleaner’s. I donated it to a thrift store.” The veil loosens then collapses around her neck. She yanks the fabric away and flings it at me.

  “I loved that sweater!” I yell.

  “It was the single most hideous thing you ever owned! Who wears Christmas colors in the middle of September?” She opens the car door, stumbles outside, and slams it behind her. I open my door and follow her to the driver’s side. She stands there, hands on her hips, catching her breath. “Not cool.”

  “I’m sorry, but I had to know it worked.” I give her a moment. “Was it really that ugly?”

  “You looked like Waldo.”

  It’s hard to be angry with Paige when she’s always looking out for me—or putting herself at risk by letting me test unknown magical artifacts on her. “Thank you,” I say.

  She nods. “So, are we goin
g to find this death saint now or what?”

  I approach a concrete marker with a bronze plaque that stands beside the road. It reads:

  Sterling Terrace has been designated as a Historic Neighborhood and includes twenty Victorian homes constructed between the years 1885 and 1888.

  City of Los Angeles, Cultural Heritage Commission

  We climb over the fence and find ourselves walking down the middle of the street of an abandoned neighborhood. The Victorian houses are forgotten and dilapidated. Overgrown grass, broken windows, and graffiti mar all the homes we pass. I notice pieces of paper on every door.

  I detour from my path and approach one of the homes. The once-red tag has faded over time. “Unsafe,” I read. “Do not enter or occupy.”

  Paige looks around. “Every house has this.”

  “They’re all earthquake damaged.”

  “No one’s lived here for years.”

  We keep walking, following the crystal’s navigation. At the top, the street loops around a center island on which sits a decrepit and stained gazebo. The circular structure stands on four posts wrapped in garlands of dead flowers. In the center of the gazebo is an elevated stone structure painted over with spray paint. I circle around the island. As I move, the crystal continues to point right at the center.

  “The gazebo?” Paige asks.

  I nod. “Stöðva,” I command. The pendulum droops back down. I wrap the silver chain around my neck so the crystal dangles at my chest, then I retrieve the veil and clutch the fabric. Just in case.

  Thousands of dead petals litter the dead grass on the island. Most have turned brown, but some still bear their vibrant colors. Ashes, feathers, and remnants of char can be traced on the dirt and the flowers. Covering most of them is a thin string of wax that seems to have glued them in place. There’s a pattern to the detritus. The various leaves, flowers, and feathers form concentric circles expanding from the gazebo.

  I peel a feather off the ground and inspect the burnt ends. “We’ve seen this before.”

  “Santa Muerte,” Paige says.

  I nod. We step onto the island and approach the gazebo. More wax drippings coat the ground. There are even piles of it in some places.