The knife touched the flesh of her wrist and blood welled up bright red in the candlelight.
The Book People could feel the magic break: a gust of energy cutting through the room. The candles blew out, and the library fell dark.
The four of them and Percival stood in the parking lot thirty seconds later. They had heard Harold’s labored breathing and quiet sobs behind them as they left. Lorraine didn’t have it in her to look at his face just now. She was pretty sure if she looked him in the eye she might sic Percy on him after all.
“Might I speak, Annie?” Percy seemed sincere in his reticence as he addressed the crone. Frail and porcelain white with those eyes like moss in the rain and hair like the setting sun, it was easy to hear his age when he spoke but hard to remember when looking at him, with arms crossed over his chest, his back hunched, his posture uncertain.
“There’s nothing to say.” Auntie Ann said.
Percy licked his lips – his fangs were gone now – and spoke as though he’d had to spend a long time gathering up the bits and pieces of the question. “Will you forgive me for what I did to you all those years ago, then?”
Auntie Ann looked at him, met his eyes and then looked all over his face, at his long black coat, at the boy she had known when she was just a girl. “I thought you weren’t here to ask me that.”
“I changed my mind.”
“No, Percy.” Auntie Ann’s voice was soft.
“But you just forgave him,” the boy sputtered, one thumb stuck backwards at the library.
“No,” Auntie Ann corrected him. “I wished peace upon my father. That isn’t the same thing. I forgave him long ago.”
Percy blinked his glowing green eyes without comprehending. “Please, Annie. Please. I need to be forgiven so I can let this world go. I’m trying to up stakes and travel, the way I was supposed to do a long time ago.” Beads of red sprang up in the corners of the old child’s eyes. He raised a hand, fluttering, as though to reach for Auntie Ann’s face, but he didn’t have the courage to do it or maybe he had the wisdom to stop. “Please. Look at the harm I can cause. I don’t want to live like this.”
Auntie Ann’s voice was steady. “No, Percy,” she whispered. “There’s no point to forgiving you now. I’m sorry.”
Percy looked around at the others – at Warren, who scribed without ceasing; at Maria, whose cheeks were wet; and at Lorraine, who watched him and Auntie Ann with the protective eyes of the mother – and then back at Auntie Ann. “I know I did you wrong. I’m sorry. Tell me what to do to make it up to you and I’ll do it ten times over. Set me any task. I’ll do it and I’ll sing the whole time, just like I used to sing for you.”
Auntie Ann smiled and put her withered, spotted hand against his jaw again, as she had inside. For just a moment, Lorraine could see the girl instead of the old woman. “Percy,” she said, barely able to speak. “Haven’t you listened? My forgiveness wouldn’t change you.” She drew a long breath. “Everyone hurts people. It’s a part of being alive. Accept responsibility; don’t accept it; either way it won’t erase the pain they felt. The only way we make it up to the world is to gain a little wisdom: to keep from doing it again.” She shook her head at him. This was more words in a row than Lorraine had heard Auntie Ann say in some time. “I can’t forgive you now because I forgave you years ago: not when the wounds were still fresh, but later, when I got old enough to know I needed to if I was going to heal.” Auntie Ann’s other hand reached out to touch Percy as well, her palm against the center of his chest. “I won’t give you permission to die, Percy. Instead I require you to live. That’s my price for bringing you here: live to do better than you’ve done and learn to hurt people less. That’s the hard magic, but it’s the only kind that works forever.”
Blood ran in thick streams down Percy’s cheeks and the two of them leaned together – the wise crone with the girl inside and the petulant boy hiding an old man – and kissed.
***
THE RISING SON
Part of The Metatron Mysteries
by James Glass
Crowley was a prick. Virgil Calahan, Jr. came to the conclusion as he watched the man move through the crowd, how everyone smiled and laughed at the poorly told jokes only because no one wanted to seem stupid to a foreigner. Moreover, he seethed at the way Cherry clung to the man’s arm in spite of the insipid, resinous cloud of scented oils permeating the air around him.
He knew he had no claim to the gorgeous redhead, they adhered to the tenets of polyamory, but to see her showering another man with affection – Crowley of all the people! It was too much. He slammed his drink glass on the bar top harder than was necessary and pretended it was Crowley’s face.
The bartender’s smile was tight as he silently refilled the empty glass and disappeared into the shadows once more. Calahan clutched the drink to his chest, his eyes narrowed to slits as he continued to watch the man he now thought of as his own personal arch-nemesis.
“Chin up, old boy, she will be back.”
Calahan turned to see his father, one Virgil Calahan Senior, lounging against the bar. The old man also watched Cherry, the lustful expression not one his son had seen on his father’s usually bland but cheerful visage.
“But once a man has spent a night with the likes of her, one cannot return to any semblance of normal.” At his son’s sharp intake of breath he added, “Oh come now, old man, you can’t mean to tell me you had no idea we’ve all had a taste of Cherry?”
“When?!”
“The night after your birthday. She was very… accommodating.”
Calahan the son glared into his whiskey and said nothing, but he could feel his cheeks becoming red with fury. If it had been anyone but his father who spoke those words, the man would be nursing a black eye and possibly a broken jaw at that very moment. He cleared his throat and downed the rest of the amber liquid, then slammed the glass again on the bar top, this time hard enough to send a shard of glass flying into the space between himself and the gathering of revelers.
His father placed a hand over his. “Son, it was nothing personal, merely a good time.”
At Calahan’s continued silence, the older man studied his son’s face. Sudden realization dawned in his piercing blue eyes.
“Good heavens, boy, you can’t have fallen in love with her!”
Calahan pulled away from his father’s touch. “Well what if I had? What good does it do me now, knowing she’s been with everyone I know?”
“Cal,” his father’s voice was gentle, “She is a whore.”
Calahan rolled his eyes, his voice choked by sarcasm. “No kidding?”
“What I mean to say is she is a prostitute. We bought her for you for your birthday.” His father’s expression was filled with pity, and he patted Calahan’s arm, frowning. “I’m sorry, son. We thought you knew.”
With that, the old man wandered off into the crowd and Calahan stared after his father, disgust mingling with hate and whiskey in his churning gut. As Crowley’s accent carried over the crowd he gritted his teeth and stormed out onto the balcony of the lushly appointed hotel. He caught Cherry’s eye as he passed by her, and a small frown curled the corners of her perfectly drawn red lips.
The combination of being away from the party-goers and the chill of the night air cleared his anger only slightly, and he glared over the railing of the balcony into the glittering few electric lights mingling with gaslight below. He heard the latch of the French doors click behind him and he sighed, expecting Cherry to approach him with excuses. Instead his brother touched his shoulder.
The angry words meant for Cherry died on Calahan’s lips at the sight of his sibling. The younger man seemed upset by something, and the signs of laudanum addiction colored his pale features. This was a new addition to a chaotic repertoire of drug use.
“Billy?” Calahan said in way of greeting.
“Cal.” His brother stared over the railing with fever eyes and pulled at his clothes as if they didn’t fit quite right.
“Are you feeling,” Calahan paused, unable to say the word he had intended ‘anything’, instead substituting, “unwell?”
“You can say that, I suppose.” He spun to face Calahan and his elder brother stepped back as if physically assaulted by the mania creeping into his voice.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink,” Calahan said, voice quiet so as not to upset the delicate balance of his brother’s mood. On a typical day the young man’s behavior was erratic, partly due to his mental state and partly as a result of his self-medication.
Billy laughed and shook his head. “The problem is, Cal, I have not yet had enough to drink!” He stared at the lights below for a moment, his voice dreamy when he at last asked, “Have you spoken with Crowley yet?”
“No.”
“You should! For all the nonsense and ritual our little group performs, it’s empty. Crowley explained it to me, and I realize now how much more we could be doing if only we set our energies upon it! He’s quite brilliant. Handsome, even… for a man.”
Calahan cringed at the longing in the young man’s eyes and voice. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
The blush and subsequent fear that spread over his younger brother’s face was all the answer he needed. He sighed and placed a hand on Billy’s arm.
“I will not judge you harshly, please understand that. None of us can control who we love.”
The younger man looked up into his face and his wide eyes were filled with the beginnings of tears. “I had no idea before I met him.”
Calahan shook his head and waved the sentiment away before his brother went into further detail about how he had discovered he enjoyed the company of men. “Enough. What you do is your business, not mine nor anyone else’s. I swear to you I will speak of this to no one, not even to Father, but you must promise not to become too attached to Mr. Crowley. Understood?”
Billy gave a short nod and wiped at his eyes. “Yes.” He looked up into his brother’s neutral expression, searching for a moment before asking, “You hate him, don’t you?”
“I think I do,” said Calahan as he rolled a cigarette and lit it. He took a long drag, glaring through the windows at the party, feeling a surge of murder fill him as he watched Cherry and Crowley kiss.
Billy dropped to the stone floor of the balcony with a sigh and leaned against the railing. “Do you happen to have enough tobacco for two?”
Calahan laughed and handed the glowing cigarette to his brother. As he rolled another Billy watched the smoke swirling into the air. He seemed lost in thought, his expression pained when his eyes at last found Crowley and Cherry.
“If I proposed a ritual, would you support me?” the young man asked after an extended silence.
Calahan exhaled a cloud of smoke and considered the question. Finally he shrugged. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’ve been looking through the books and discussed it with – with him—and I think we could do something to really shake things up.”
“Such as?”
“I think we could summon a demon if we put our minds to it.”
Calahan snorted. “A demon? Why the hell would we want to summon a demon?”
“Why not? Imagine being able to say we did something not even Crowley has been able to do yet!”
“When can you be ready to do it?” he asked.
His brother smiled at him. “Tomorrow night.”
Calahan considered his brother’s proposition as he stumbled homeward. The strange conversation ran through his head over and over, along with the revelation of his brother’s attraction to Crowley and what it might mean if their father found out. Above all, however, was the idea of potentially doing something the great Crowley had not accomplished standing in stark contrast to everything else. It was the last thought he had as he lost consciousness two feet short of his bed. His sleep was dreamless and the hangover was fierce in the morning, but he woke with a new determination to destroy a man he hated more with every passing minute.
The following night, at the next meeting of their ‘group’ as Virgil Calahan, Sr. referred to the gathering of men, Billy approached the center of the room. He nodded to Calahan, and he noticed his brother clutched an ancient book to his chest. He looked more chaotic than he had the night before and he wondered if he had even gone to sleep. Billy stood as if dumbstruck for a moment, his tongue darting over his dry, cracked lips as he reached under his jacket sleeves to scratch the scabs dotting the revealed skin at the wrists.
“Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?” Billy asked, his voice coming out in a choked tone interspersed with squeaks.
One of the nearer Elders turned toward him, a frown deepening the lines in his face. “What is this? State your business, Billy Calahan.”
“I- I would like us to perform a ceremony.”
“Continue,” the Elder said, raising an eyebrow, “What kind of ceremony?”
The pockets of conversation faded to amused silence as the rest of the men turned to face Billy. Once the youngest member of the group had their undivided attention, he cleared his throat.
“I propose, brothers, a ceremony of summoning.” His voice shook, possibly as a result of nerves or from withdrawal, and the men around him cast skeptical glances to one another. Billy cried out to be heard over the undercurrent of murmurs as it sprang up, “We profess to be an occult order, but I have yet to witness any real display of our power in that realm!”
The murmurs turned to outraged curses and Billy took a step backward, doubt evident on his face. It was too late to turn back, he had put forth the challenge.
Sensing his brother’s dismay, Calahan shouted to be heard over the uproar of insulted outcry. “Brothers, Billy makes a valid point!”
At his words the men fell into a stunned silence. From the far corner of the room Calahan caught his father’s eye, and the old man raised a glass, giving a nod for him to continue, though Calahan was sure his father would not approve of his next words.
“Our rituals are nothing more than pomp and circumstance,” he went on, “We have done nothing to distinguish ourselves from a run-of-the-mill charlatan.”
The sound of breaking glass was heard as Virgil Calahan, Sr. dropped his drink and stepped forward, his face white with fury as he approached. He gripped his eldest son’s arm and pulled him aside.
“Excuse us a moment, gentlemen,” he said over his shoulder. He turned his glare toward his youngest son as they moved past and hissed, “You stay here.”
Billy was left to face the other members of the club alone. He watched the two men leave, his face pale and afraid.
When the heavy doors had closed behind them, Virgil Calahan, Sr. whirled on his eldest child and growled, “What in hell did you think you were doing in there, Cal? Calling the entire Order a bunch of charlatans?”
“Father – “
“Shut your mouth, boy. You will speak when I ask you a question. Understood?”
Calahan nodded, his face flushed with embarrassment. His father took a deep breath and steadied himself.
“I take it Billy spoke with Crowley, hence a sudden interest in ‘ceremony’?”
Again, Calahan nodded.
“And you’re jealous of Crowley’s appeal to a certain redhead, I assume?”
Another, more half-hearted nod was given in response.
His father regarded him for some moments as a small smile played over his mouth. Finally he clapped Calahan on the back and chuckled.
“We are a bit of a bore, aren’t we?”
Calahan shifted uncomfortably in response. The sudden change in his father’s mood unnerved him.
“We’ve run the world for so long I fear we’ve lost our focus. Perhaps it is time for us to get the old blue blood flowing again. Something tells me you aren’t interested in world domination, however.” He looked into his son’s face and shook his head. “You really are in love with that little tart, aren’t you, you fool?” His father’s chuckle turned to a
guffaw. At last he controlled his mirth and went on, “Before we go any further with this business of ‘rituals’, A warning. Never follow an addict into the jaws of death. They will sacrifice you in their stead. Do you understand me?”
Calahan gave a cautious nod.
“My main goal in supporting this nonsense is to get Billy back under control, am I clear?” He didn’t wait for a response before continuing. “The others in the group are already concerned. What if we were to go through the motions to appease him, do you think he would drop the idea of an actual, real ritual?”
Calahan considered it. “What’s the difference? Surely you can’t believe in Crowley?”
His father shook his head. “No, of course not.”
“And do you believe in anything we profess?”
Again, his father shook his head.
“Then I can’t see any harm in doing exactly what Billy asks. We would perform his ritual, and in the end nothing would happen, anyway.”
“And what if something were to happen as a result?” his father asked, voice grave.
“Is there a negative aspect to succeeding?”
The old man considered then nodded, getting the point. It was a winning scenario all around. If they didn’t succeed, Billy would be appeased and let go of the idea, and if they did succeed in summoning a demon they would be world famous and all-powerful.
When they re-entered the room together the silence was palpable. Billy stared with open relief as they approached, his forehead damp with beads of sweat. No one had moved, and no one had spoken since the Virgils Calahan had exited. Virgil Senior stepped to the center of the room now, motioning for his sons to move into the rest of the audience.
“My son Billy has been speaking with Crowley,” the old man began with a note of apology in his voice, “and it has filled his head with ideas.” The group began to murmur, falling silent at his raised hand. “However, after speaking with Cal, he has convinced me there may be some merit to Billy’s suggestion. Why not perform a real ceremony and conjure a demon?” Here the old man paused to smile, and it was predatory in nature. “Why not do something to shut that pompous ass Crowley up once and for all and secure our hold over the world with no opposition?”
Wrapped in Black: Thirteen Tales of Witches and the Occult Page 9