Deep breath, deep breath. "I draw this circle as a shield and to contain my will, and energy," I whispered.
Fortuna, Lady Luck. Not many knew enough to honor her anymore, but after reading
Spells for Love and Success For Complete Morons, I did; luck was what I was running out of. Once more, I scanned the spell and centered myself. Deep breath in, deep breath out, rocking back and forth and side to side until my body rested in its personal center. Spirit of air: with my heavy exhale, I welcomed it. Spirit of fire: I vigorously rubbed frankincense and olive oil together in my hands thinking only about the color green, my body filled with green, and all the green good luck that would soon surround me, and then slathered the green candle in the blessing oil; I lit it and welcomed fire's warm energy. Spirits of water, Spirit of earth: check, and check. I made simple carvings on the green candle, and did my best to invest my energy into it. Carry this message on the wind.
"Hey buddy, you been in there for like fifteen minutes. I need to use the bathroom."
Not that message.
The candle went out: a bad sign, from what I read.
With my foot, I rubbed the heavily outlined circle into almost nothing, giving thanks to the elements and to Lady Luck for hearing me. Then I flushed the toilet and walked out hunched over, muttering to myself. No wonder Robbie thought I was nuts.
One foot out the grocery store's front door, I stared at the Studebaker on the other side of the parking lot. Faded in places, that Bondo color in others-talk about a sore thumb. I had to ditch it, somehow.
"Hello," a woman's thickly accented voice greeted me. Her skin was how I used to like my coffee: too much cream, too much sugar. "You need my help."
"Um…hello, Miss…?"
"You shouldn't be out like this," she said, voice clipped and keys dangling in her hand as she shepherded me toward a red Ford Taurus.
Whatever you say.
Her long raven-black hair smelled of poinsettias. She wore a pastel dress that kissed her legs as she moved. Breasts perky and with big nipples cutting through her lavender dress, I made an effort not to picture her smooth skin beneath mine.
A police car prowled by, slow.
"Elena," she said and licked her lips to an erotically wet sheen. "That's what you were going to ask, right?"
"Sort of…"
Frantic, she flipped a silk scarf around her neck, and pushed comically large sunglasses onto her moon-face.
Elena's scarf whipped in the too-cold wind, which made her look like a 1950s secret agent. Alluring, yet mysterious and dangerous.
"Were you followed?" she asked, adjusting the driver's side mirror.
"By whom?" I asked, confused. Not that I have a problem with being a dork in distress, but I like to know who is saving me and from what. Details. It's all about the details.
"Anyone," she replied.
"How should I know? I don't think so."
"
Dios," she said, her hands in a momentary prayer posture. Elena began to fidget with her sunglasses. I wondered what kind of look she was going for: crazy, insane, or bug-fucking nuts?
Hands folded in my lap, the picture-perfect polite kidnapping victim, I cleared my throat and asked, "Sooo, Elena, where are we going?"
"I don't know yet," she said, looking over her shoulder as if whoever might be tailing us sat in the back seat. "Look, I'm not crazy. I saw you in Boundaries, what you bought. I took a chance that you were one of us."
"One of us, who?"
"The people who do the Devil's work. The people without souls."
Geez, I knew there was a support group for just about everything, but this one…it took the cake and mashed it in the bride's face.
Fluorescent lights buzzed on each landing of Elena's third-floor apartment, and I considered shielding my eyes against the glaring faux-sunshine. We rushed into her home-darkness all around us--and she clattered a janitor's key ring on her dining room table. Swinging her hips, she strutted around lighting candles. "Hope you don't mind the ambiance," she said over her shoulder.
"As long as I can have a glass of water."
"Of course." She pulled two tumbler glasses from her cupboard, candlelight flickering rainbows across their diamond-cuts. Ice clinked. Opening the refrigerator, she bent to retrieve a water pitcher, and shadows criss-crossed her legs. Her dress had bunched and puckered up past her legs. Skin butter-soft, silky. I found myself staring, and then trying not to stare.
Finally, she turned and smiled, and then filled the glasses.
Deep breath in, deep breath out, deep breath in…. I gingerly sipped the ice water when it was offered, thinking it might do more good down my pants. Trying to remind myself that the Mystery Woman who picked me up in a parking lot might not be playing with a full tarot deck.
Anyway, I attempted small talk. "Nice place," I said.
She shrugged. Thinking the weather and sports would garner an equally enthusiastic response, I said, "So what are we doing here?"
"Waiting on full dark. It's a new moon," she said, as if that explained everything.
Fearing another vague reply to further investigation, I walked towards her balcony window. Such a clear night, one we don't often get in the city.
Her gauzy curtains fluttered upwards, as if in a sigh, and brushed my legs. If this was magic, I could get used to it. I gulped down my water, and stared at the spider-thin oak tree branches slung low across the balcony's window, outlined in orange against the dark clear night. Quickly, I discovered the source of the strange coloration: motion lights sat high above the balcony, which flickered off. The branches pointed their arthritic joints at me, accusing. And I knew the implication. I was paying my karmic debt in blood and gold, for the bad things I've done and the worse things I'm about to do.
My eyes traced movement-deep-shadowed swing sets swayed in the night's cool air, rusty chains softly squeaking. Spirits of restless children, maybe.
Elena stomped by and whipped the drapes closed. "Fool!" she said. "Don't let them see you, or the world will end tonight."
Well,
that seemed melodramatic, but then again, she had the advantage: she knew what in blazes was going on. Either that, or she was playing me for a rube. I considered her sanity, or lack thereof, but in a town like this, it's hard to tell who's crazy anymore.
"I'm done with being coy. Some lunatic wants my brother's
hair, the cops are chasing me for a suicide risk, and someone is magically burning things into my body. Who the Hell are you and what the fuck are we doing here twiddling our thumbs?"
Elena took an exasperated breath, started to speak but corrected herself. "We should get started," she finally said. I began edging towards the front door, until it swung open.
Others filed in, men and women cloaked in black and gray. Cowls drooped so far over their heads that gender was almost nonexistent. A man's cologne, a sweet perfume, someone shifting to fix her hair. I counted thirteen in all, including Elena and myself. Single-file, they moved serpent-like towards the living room and finally settled into a circle. I remained standing, uneasy.
Elena gestured for me to come sit next to her on the thin-carpeted living room floor.
I nodded but kept where I was, considering. This
thing had attacked me, not just me, but also my brother, and my contact. And I'm going to sit around in a cold apartment with strangers trusting we won't sit on our hands singing Kumbaya? Putting my life into the hands of some secret organization that never bothered to teach me the secret handshake? Not a chance. But what is a good excuse to get out of a…secret who-knows-what?
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and flipped it open, pretending someone had called. "Sorry, but I have to skip the séance, guys and gals. Work, you know? I got rent to pay."
Her rich, poinsettia scent tapped my shoulder and surrounded me. I tried to move faster, but something had cemented me in place. "I'm sorry it has to be this way," she said, voice husky. Her breath on my neck. And I don
't know what happened next; it's a blank.
Heavy smoke filled my lungs and I fought not to gag, half-choking. I forced myself to calm down. Then I opened my eyes to a room blanketed in incense. The same room I was in before, only this time twelve people sat cross-legged and chanting. Baritone and soprano voices wove thin around me, like a cross between throat-singing and gospel; as I focused, the voices grew louder, clearer.
Breath so heavy that I heard its steady cadence, Elena sat cross-legged, too, and with an altar at her back. Then she turned and picked something up. She held it high over her head.
Elena had a knife. A
big knife. Make that a machete. No, a sword.
I sniffed the air again. The smell dawned on me: copal incense. Double-shit. I remembered its bitter scent from Darius's basement. The "Master" had said, "You never want to smell copal, man. It means trouble. Necromancers use it almost exclusively."
Magicians who deal with the dead.
Steadily, eyes half-closed, Elena walked around the group with her sword pointy-side down and traced a circle. She spoke, but my head still pounded from the blow to my skull and I couldn't concentrate enough to make out the words. I reached to rub the back of my neck but couldn't. Someone had thoroughly bound my hands to my legs.
I struggled to get free, but then wondered what I could do with twelve other people so nearby. Still, I flopped like a fish out of water, wriggling against the bonds and contorting my body in strange maneuvers that left me breathless and grunting. Nobody tried to stop me. I just…stopped, defeated, and told myself I was catching my breath.
I'm not sure when I fainted, before the blood or after.
My eyes flicked open and closed, not quite regaining consciousness but half-aware that my body slumped in the back seat of a car with bench seats. Those weird-feeling synthetic ones, maybe imitation vinyl.
Someone pulled me from the car and semi-conscious, I hung limp as my legs individually thunked against the foot well and then the running boards. When had they released my bindings?
The sudden, clipped air had an outdoorsy feel. Everyone else had dressed for the weather, long heavy cloaks sweeping the well-trimmed grass. But I wore a t-shirt and jeans. Not that I was thinking much about fashion when I first noticed the great mausoleum a little off to my right, and headstones all around it. A graveyard. I should have kept my eyes closed.
I rubbed my wrists, sticky and red from duct tape, and jumped up, ready for a fight before common sense returned. Twelve to one, not good odds. Hysterical laughter came over me. I bent, slapping my knees, wiping tears from my eyes.
They strolled, heads down, reminding me of a funeral procession as they wound into a circle. Cloaks waved in the breeze. In unison, they looked to me and then to each other with shrugged shoulders, a gesture not unlike screwing an index finger around their ears.
What a nutjob, I heard their silent thought. Yeah, I was the lunatic.
Then I wondered: had three days passed? I lifted my shirt and looked down at the sigils--still there and without the faintest ripple of pain.
Even in the dark cemetery, I could see an inky-black line of blood streaking down my heavily bandaged shoulder. Someone had stabbed me and the small wound began to sting.
The breeze stirred up a flurry of leaves, which skittered in the circumference around us. Somehow, we stood, bunched together in a circle like redwoods in the middle of a terrible cyclone. A dark gray vortex closed in at our backs, filling the boundary, whipping cowls, long hair and braids, revealing ordinary faces; it kicked up dirt on the circle's outer edges. Standing near me, Elena thrust her arms into the air and leaned back, eyes closed at first. Her voice lost its sex-kitten purr as she cried in an unfamiliar language-maybe a long-lost Native American tongue. Then, I noticed the headstone before us: small, bronze, and set into the ground, it was a child's grave, a thirteen-year-old's, named Rafael Rodriguez. The circle's clockwise swirling had stilled.
Elena opened her eyes, but only the whites showed, and she quirked a smile that made me uneasy. She yanked me back several feet, and the soil beneath me began to quiver. A small skeletal hand burst from the grave, and the rest of the child's body slowly straightened as it emerged. The corpse shook the dirt from his body and looked to Elena. She gestured towards me. The child pointed a bony, maggot-ridden finger at me and said, "He
knows. "
Time's up. Pain seared my sigils and I flopped down, defeated, eyes closed. I sat on the cool cemetery grass, arms draped over my knees. When I looked up, everyone had gone.
The metallic glint of fenders and spit-shined cars passed under distant streetlights.
Boneyards around here looked carbon-copy similar, except for the names of the dead. The stabbing pain eventually subsided and faded into a slow burn, which began at my chest and ended at my toes, and started to feel almost pleasant in the cold. I began to walk, convinced my death was imminent.
Paranoia replaced pain. Where was Rafael? My eyes darted back and forth. You can't put the lid back on Pandora's box. From what I understood, if something like that was loosed, once it had fulfilled its obligations to the summoner, it could do anything. Stiff-legged zombie images in my head, I wondered: what
would my brains taste like? Three-day old bologna sandwiches, heavy on the mayo.
Subtle movement caught my eye as a shadow blanketed a small bronze marker. I pretended not to notice and then whirled around. Nothing. Was the kid sucking lollipops in some cloaked guy's car? Or had he remained, blending with the mulch and brittle soil, waiting for the right moment to spring? Something rustled behind me.
Just a squirrel.
Rafael Rodriguez, a child. His black predatory eyes and ashen skin color reminded me of the description the convenience store owner gave. But this Rafael kid had died a month before my Mystery Weirdo started giving orders, unless he was the original cause. My head started to ache, from sleep-deprivation, hunger and thirst; and getting my eggs scrambled by a leggy babe didn't exactly help matters. I wanted a nap.
Finally, after some listless wandering, I knew where I was. Only one cemetery in the county sat right next to a police station. Fucking great.
I pumped my arms as I bolted east, across the street and past the fire station's back parking lot and not stopping until I saw the Towne Plaza.
This wasn't Capital City but the outskirts, where people were still dumb enough to trust each other. Nondescript cars always idled in the large parking lot this close to winter. Almost everything was closed-the thrift shop, a small town library, sub shop, and the dollar store all had their lights out-except the bar. Karaoke music screeched just beyond the doors, which were propped open. Red and purple smoke billowed out. The front windows were tinted dark gray, maybe so the drunks wouldn't puke until they saw the bright sunshine
outside. Perfect.
I shoved my hands deep in my pockets, and walked over to the blue Ford Ranger. Trying not to look suspicious, I got inside and drove away.
I circled the block and parked the Ranger in the street, about half a mile from
The Gazette's main office. Not that a stolen truck would be top priority in a town so full of blood, but why make crime fighting a cakewalk? I fished sixty bucks out of my wallet and stuck it in the glove box, and then used my shirttail to wipe my fingerprints from the steering wheel and door handle.
Traffic lights shone bright on empty streets, the downtown road slick with recent rain. Bums didn't panhandle for change; hookers didn't thrust out a hip for, well, change. Whatever had happened, it hit the city hardest. I tried not to cry and clutch at my chest as I stumbled down the sidewalk towards my work place. The elevator worked, anyway. I rocked on my heels as I waited, and when my LED red number
5 came up, I scrambled through a frosted door with The Gazette etched in black.
Head down, I rushed to my desk, logged in to
The Gazette's computer system and found the July 10th obituary: Rafael Rodriguez, 13, died this morning. He is survived by his moth
er, Darlene Des Pardeux.
Not much information to go on, but at least the obit listed his mother.
I found her number in the phone book and called. After a brief introduction, I said, "Ms. Des Pardeux, your son's death-I'm so sorry to even bring this up-but when I hear about a child's death…I don't know. It
bothers me. Can we meet somewhere and talk about your son?"
"Oh, I read your column. You are truly gifted, Mr. Landers, and the only one I would trust to write about my sweet-faced boy. Come over," she choked. "I don't live far."
Typical mourning mom. Bags under her eyes from crying, hair disheveled and make-up smeared, she stared over my shoulder and somewhere twenty miles off. "Meningitis, they think. Poor Eliot. He's really taking it hard, losing his best friend like that."
"Eliot?"
"He's just a kid himself," she said and then looked into my eyes. "Eliot was pretty shook up when I called the family farm and told Jon what happened. They played together every day. His father works for your newspaper, I believe."
My heart sped up and I muttered, "Crowley."
"Poor kid. You know how it is when you're just a child. Eliot doesn't even understand death yet."
I stayed and listened. Not rushing off. Loss is the biggest four-letter word I know. She sat looking for her child in photographs and memories, listening as a stranger asked her questions about her dearest one, gone to her forever. I squeezed her tight before I left.
With determined strides, I jogged along the sidewalk. For a moment, I considered slapping my forehead. How had I missed it?
Jonathon snapped my picture the night before all this happened. His son just-so-happened to have a best friend whom I saw raised from the dead. And it had something to do with that fucking camera-I remembered how Jon went nuts looking for it the night I came over for dinner. Looking in the barn.
Such a quiet guy, never bothered anyone…Jon was a stereotypical killer, almost laughable how it looked me right in the face. Time to pay the Crowleys a visit.
Playing with Fire (Anthology of Horror) Page 16