by K. Z. Snow
An essential part of both our lives. True, but still discomfiting.
Jackson briefly rubbed Adin’s thigh. “All right, let’s see what tomorrow brings.”
“Now that’s the spirit. When we get up, should we shower first or breakfast first?”
“Shower,” Jackson said without hesitation “I like feeling your skin when it’s wet. And your mouth.” Impulsively, he dove beneath the covers and drew Adin’s cock between his lips. “And this, especially.”
“Especially when it’s big and hard.”
“Like a rock,” Jackson mumbled.
* * * *
While Adin stayed at the flat to work—all he needed was his computer—Jackson went to his woodshop. He made some business calls. Then, with the help of ragtag group of local movers, he delivered and installed the bookshelves he’d crafted for the well-to-do Hendricksons. The mister wasn’t home. The missus, thrilled, couldn’t stop gushing about her new furnishings. She also wouldn’t stop flirting with the furnishings’ builder. The more she made her attraction known, the more Jackson wanted to be gone.
It wasn’t just her not-so-veiled propositions that made him restless. On the way there, he’d seen more phantasms darting over city streets, lolling in gardens and shrubbery, peering out from the crowns of trees. They made him think of the Prism, which was now never far from his mind. Apprehension accompanied the thoughts. And apprehension, like the pull Adin exerted on him, was not a feeling he was used to.
Jackson realized his ceremonial-magic room was nearby. He felt a need to go there.
The room took up three-quarters of a suburban couple’s basement. It also served as their covenstead. Jackson had met them about five or six years earlier, when the house was still under construction. Through some adroit persuasion, he’d convinced them to allow the construction of this special space. He’d done much of the work on it himself.
Pity he rarely used the space anymore. As his power grew, the precise rituals of High Magic conducted in a specially appointed room became more irrelevant to his effectiveness as an Adept. But he did have a special fondness for the place, and it still proved useful in many ways.
So he drove there. The basement had its own entrance, and he had his own key. Lyle and Lola Peck, the home’s owners, would be at work. Even if they weren’t, they knew better than to bother him.
Today he would gird himself against whatever awaited him in Nezrabi’s Prism. Considering Adin was determined to stay with him, he would also throw some protection his lover’s way. He had to.
Dewdrop Drive was blanketed by the peculiar lifelessness that seemed to mark so many suburban streets on weekdays. Kids were in school. Parents were in offices. No mythical creatures floated around these bland lanes and cul-de-sacs. The suburbs didn’t have the history or ethnic character of the city.
Jackson parked on the Pecks’ perfectly paved driveway. Neighboring driveways were empty of vehicles. The gentle spill of May sunlight glistened off manicured lawns. Birdsong occasionally broke the silence. The air was untainted by any odors save that of moist green grass.
Walking to the blue side-door that led to the basement, Jackson unlocked it and stepped onto the landing, pausing there just long enough to turn on a rheostat. Soft light blossomed in the subterranean room. It seemed to be welcoming him. At that moment, he realized Beltane was fast approaching. The Coven of Middle Skye, which he’d been instrumental in founding, would certainly expect his participation in the sabbat.
The name suddenly struck him—Middle Skye. Those beings that were infiltrating the city seemed to hail from such a place. Not of the earth, not of the heavens.
Jackson descended.
Gaze fixed, eyes unblinking, he stood stock-still in a corner of his special room and stared at the circle he'd defined with handcrafted strips of silver. It was his other, and otherworldly, work space. Pearlescent waves had already begun to ripple through the air, radiating out from the circle's center and breaking their concentric flow only to surround the stone altar. The waves didn't engulf him—he was, in a sense, their master—but the power they contained seemed to strain toward him. He felt his hair lightly being stirred, felt an ongoing tingle of energy sparking across his pores and burrowing into his solar plexus.
The wizard had returned to his temple.
Soon, an intricate hum began to fill the room. It was the musica universalis joining the musica humana of his own mind and body. “Music of the spheres” didn't adequately describe the sound, which was not normally audible. But the phrase would do. He'd once heard an orchestral or choral passage similar to it in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. Although the replication was rough, it had nevertheless caught his attention.
He took off his boots then stripped away his clothing and draped it over a chair against one of the walls. His body, more sensitive by the second to the room's crackling atmosphere, seemed to become part of that atmosphere. Fastidious preparation was no longer necessary for his work. Over the years, as he became more masterful, traditional formulas and accessories became more of a hindrance than a help. Knowledge, mental discipline and will were now his only essentials.
Still, rites could be comforting enhancements of his strength. He stepped inside the circle. Now it had to be closed. Precautions were always wise. Going to his altar, the wizard withdrew only two things—a silver strip that fit into the circle's empty arc, and a joss stick of sandalwood incense. He’d decided to do a modified Rose Cross rite. Pentagram rituals, considerably more potent, invited too much astral attention and interference. He had enough of that already and didn't need more entities muddying his focus and dissipating his energy.
He slipped the missing piece into place to complete the circle then passed his hand over it. Starting and ending at this point, a rushing stream of silver light shot through the boundary. The wizard stepped to the center of his private world. He touched the tip of his forefinger to the incense stick; flaring, it began to burn.
With the smoldering tip of the joss stick, the wizard inscribed a cross in the air before him. He then drew a ring around the intersection of its lines. Pointing the stick at the center of both cross and ring, he spoke four syllables. The humming around him immediately ceased. The figure he’d drawn now pulsed with a golden glow.
If he were performing this rite the traditional way, the wizard would have repeated his incense inscription at specific points within the Magic Circle. But he rarely followed tradition anymore. Instead, he touched the burning joss stick to his breastbone then traced the lines of the trident inked into his chest. The smoldering tip didn’t burn his skin. He held his arms out to the side, mimicking the horizontal plane of the cross, and pronounced four more syllables.
The joss stick vanished. The scintillating cross merged with his body. He visualized Adin Swift standing behind him, mirroring his position, their bodies pressed together. Closing his eyes and tilting back his head, the wizard exhaled. He was ridding himself of weakness. The weakness of doubt, of fear, of poor judgment and foolish willfulness. He inhaled, drawing in strength and wisdom. Gradually, Adin’s body slipped into his body. The power of the Rose Cross shimmered through them, trickling into cells and psyches.
It was then he heard the voice, although no sound entered his ears. And when he responded to it, no sound left his mouth.
“Do not fear the Prism. Respect it. Learn within the labyrinth. When, at your passing, you become a Master, you will be well prepared.”
The silent voice seemed vaguely familiar. But Jackson was more struck by the content than the tone of the statement.
“What do you mean? That I am to become a Master?”
“Yes. That status was secured in this very place. You not only constructed a room and a coven, you reconstructed yourself and others for the greater good of all. Your achievements were significant, and they were rewarded.”
“I don’t remember being so rewarded.”
“You were not meant to remember. And you will forget once again. It must
be that way. The human ego can be an insidious force. To function at your fullest potential, you cannot be aware of your elevated status. Beware vainglory, human. Carnality is but a harmless, burbling infant compared with the bellowing monster called pride. That is something you must remember, a truth you must carry with you when you make your descent.”
The light flowing through the wizard seemed to stab at the core of his being. “Why must I be the one to enter the Prism?”
“Because a Master cannot rest easy, can never rest easy. His or her work is never finished. There are always souls to be taught and battles to be fought. And, in the process, suffering will always counterweigh joy, for it is this balance that makes you part and parcel of all of creation. Your soul and your battles will always be part of this process. No matter how spiritually refined, a Master must be bound to the dross of the cosmos and not just its glory, and can never stop gaining insight.”
It could be Esme who’d been speaking to him. The voice had echoed her words. But he didn’t think it was she. His wondering fell away as his mind retreated into blankness.
The wizard could feel the light within him begin to fade. His work here was over. Adin’s image, too, was no longer needed and so was relinquished. The wizard sank to his knees and sat back on his haunches.
Hands crossed over his chest, he lowered his head. It was a silent gesture of gratitude. Naked and humble before the forces that both served and controlled him, the wizard became Jackson Spey again. His empty mind refilled. But only one thought filled it.
He was eager to get home. He missed Adin.
Chapter Ten
“Watching the world go by?” As Jackson sauntered toward the house, he tossed his keys in the air, executed a nifty, overhand catch, and theatrically swung his arm behind his back. Show-off, he thought, chiding himself. Why don’t you just launch into a tumbling routine? He was acutely aware of his houseguest’s smiling eyes.
“Did you see anything unusual while you were out and about?” Adin, who’d apparently found a couple of lawn chairs in the garage, sat placidly, ankle resting on knee, just outside the front door. He reached out and gave Jackson’s fingers a quick, affectionate squeeze.
“Yep, I did.” Jackson self-consciously returned the pressure and took a seat in the empty chair.
He wanted to lean over and give Adin a long, slippery kiss. Just hold the man’s head and plant one and let their lips and tongues slide around. Since the house wasn’t far from the sidewalk, he refrained. The impulse continued to needle him, even though they’d had sex that morning. Why couldn’t he seem to get enough?
“Well,” Adin said, “I’ve been hearing unusual things.”
Before he could explain, a metallic clangor came from inside the flat. It sounded like a chef was throwing a tantrum in the kitchen. A distressed voice let out a mournful, blood-curdling moan. As Jackson bolted up from the lawn chair, Adin grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “Nothing’s being trashed. Your domowoj isn’t real pleased by my presence, that’s all. So he’s banging the cookware.”
“I don’t give a shit what his problem is. I just want him to leave us the hell alone.”
A new crash echoed inside the apartment.
“I don’t think he’s happy with my language, either,” Jackson said. “They’re sanctimonious little pricks.”
This time, something thudded against the door.
Adin kept hold of Jackson’s wrist. “It wouldn’t be a good idea to banish your domowoj. He belongs here. He’s only doing his job.”
Indecision made Jackson pause for a moment. He wasn’t sure he could communicate with the creature; he didn’t know its native language. He was sure Adin couldn’t do the communicating; the well-meaning pest obviously feared and despised vampires—even former vampires.
Slipping out of Adin’s grasp, he turned to the door. “I’ll try something else, then.”
Entering the cool, dim flat, Jackson immediately spotted his domestic guardian diving beneath the stove. He didn’t bother wondering how the thing fit under there. It just slipped out of sight. Walking to the range, he gripped the top edge of each side.
In Latin he said, “This is my home. You are welcome here. My guest is also welcome here. You and I have nothing to fear from him. Therefore, you must dwell here peaceably, in silence. Leave me and my guest be.”
The domowoj must have understood him. Perhaps because Latin was the universal language of magic, perhaps because this guardian could understand any language in which the homeowner spoke. The stove shuddered beneath Jackson’s hands. A disgruntled mumbling came from behind it.
Jackson sent tendrils of white light from his fingertips. The light spread over and seeped beneath the stove like irradiated frosting. The light soaked into the stove. When no trace of it remained, the domowoj was still.
“Thank you,” Jackson murmured. “Now stay that way.”
He turned to the fridge and grabbed a beer, then rejoined Adin outside.
“Got it under control?” Adin asked, twisting around to look up at him.
“I think so.”
Continuing to stand, Jackson let himself enjoy the view. He loved looking at Adin from different angles. It was like rotating a well-cut gemstone to admire its facets. Some things, and people, just seemed to redefine the concept of perfection. If only the man were dumber than a stump…
“Are you going back in or staying out?” Adin asked.
Taking a deep breath, Jackson surveyed the street. Spring had come to the city. He sat down. “It is nice to be outside.” He looked at his companion. “I suppose you miss your woodland chalet.”
Adin’s eyes took in the other side of street. “Not particularly. I like it here. I’ve always liked the older parts of cities, no matter how shabby they are.”
Jackson followed the line of his gaze. Shabby indeed. Each scrubby yard was the same size of small. The rows of old duplexes, graying in the sun, made him think of plain, poor girls lined up at a Sunday picnic. They weren’t expecting anything. It was obvious the rich and pretty would never approach them. So they simply stood, stoic and somehow noble in their resignation, knowing their patience would be rewarded by nothing more than the ordinary passing of days and seasons, sometimes cruel but rarely kind.
For the most part, Jackson loved his humble neighborhood. What pained him most were the rise in crime over the past two decades and the decline of resident owners, although their numbers were very gradually beginning to increase. The area used to be filled to brimming with immigrant families—poor, often large, usually Catholic. It was still full of immigrant families—poor, sometimes large, usually Catholic. The only difference was their place of origin. The old guard had Polish roots; the new, Mexican.
With the change came increased isolation. Households were now islands. And with the change came different sights, sounds, smells. Words were still yelled in anger or enthusiasm but were formed from different phonemes. Graffiti pirouetted down alleys. Gunshots occasionally punched through the night. But, for all the alteration in its details, this was still a neighborhood.
“A man strolled by earlier,” Adin said, “singing a Spanish ballad. It was really lovely. I guess I smiled at him. He smiled back.”
“I know who you mean. Don’t know his name, but I see him a few times a week. The street becomes a moonlit beach when he goes by.”
Adin nodded. He seemed reflective.
The balladeer was young and goodlooking, as Jackson recalled. He briefly wondered if Adin might have been flirting. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he wanted to slap himself for his pettiness. This streak of jealousy embarrassed and disturbed him.
“What happened to your tenants, by the way?” Adin asked.
“They moved out a month ago.”
“I thought it seemed quiet upstairs. Are you trying to rent the unit again?”
“I will eventually, I suppose. There’s too much else is going on right now, though.”
&nbs
p; Just as a blot of gray cloud interrupted the spill of sunshine, an imposing figure appeared at the end of the block, drifting down the middle of the street. He was unconventionally handsome and very tall. Jackson didn’t make much of it at first. People often moved about in the roadway when traffic was sparse.
The man paused and lifted his arms high over his head. Long fingers speared the air like the panels of an ivory fan. An appliance delivery truck approached from behind.
Leaning forward in his chair, Jackson stared. Without braking or honking, the truck hit the man and sent him into a high, oddly graceful somersault. Jackson sprang to his feet but didn’t move. The figure moved higher and higher into the limpid sky until he disappeared into the solitary cloud. The cloud abruptly dissipated, shredding into tatters of vapor.
“What’s wrong?” Adin asked.
The man who apparently wasn’t a man tumbled back to earth, just as gracefully, somewhere beyond Jackson’s line of vision.
It didn’t end there. The blade of one baffling reality kept slicing into the body of another.
Three girls came down the sidewalk. The one in the middle was crying and quaking and pouring out words in a high, thin voice. Her friends alternately comforted her and made light of her agitation. Or seemed to. They all spoke rapidly, and Jackson’s understanding of Spanish was minimal. He knew only the traditional languages of magic—Latin, which he used most often; some Hebrew and a smattering of Arabic, German, Italian, French.
A tug at his waistband made him jerk and pivot.
“Relax, it’s only me,” Adin said. “Why don’t you sit down? That girl is freaked enough without having some stranger gawking at her.”
“What’s she saying?” Still glancing at the group, Jackson lowered himself into the chair.
“I thought you knew Spanish,” Adin said, looking at him.
“Not at that speed.”
The girls hurried past Jackson’s building. The two who had their wits about them gave the men surreptitious glances. One was accompanied by a shy smile. Several steps farther on, the other composed girl peered over her shoulder. Murmured words were exchanged.