The knife grazed my shoulder and plunged into the seat.
I grabbed the handle and wrestled it away from Mason. Mason squirmed back against his car door and brought up both his legs, kicking at me, knocking me almost senseless. I managed to insert my forearm against his neck, pinning him to the door. I held the knife to his chest with my other hand, tip grazing the skin.
“Do you have any idea how stupid it was for you to come here?” I asked him.
“Then why did you bring me?” he asked.
“Ha! Why did you follow?”
His breath warmed my face, and if I had pushed upon the blade, it would have slid through his breastplate like a hot knife through butter, stilling his heart, stopping his breath.
I held my bloody hand up to his face. My fingers wiggled like worms, anxious to burrow into Mason’s eyes and pluck them out of his head. “This wound will heal by the time you get back to your hotel.” I grasped his face in my palm, smearing my blood over his nose and cheeks. “If I squeeze, I will break every bone in your fucking face.”
He groaned, his fist clenching the blade, bleeding.
I was weakening. While I still had the advantage, I released his face and climbed off of him, still grasping the knife. “You were poisoned by the pods,” I said. “Leave the country and never come back. Give me your pants and the book; you can’t take anything belonging to her away from the house. She’ll use them to call you back. It’s the only way to save yourself.”
We sat across from each other, winded, leery of the other’s next move. Granger was nowhere to be seen, but I knew the invisible demon was watching.
“Kill him, now!” I heard Granger say in my ear.
I didn’t want to kill him. I did. But I didn’t.
“Give me the book. It’s mine.”
“No, it’s mine!”
I opened my wounded hand, to show him it was healing. I offered Mason his knife.
“You want a memento of your little visit?” I asked. “If you don’t give me the book, you’ll wind up with a nasty, old fucker like Granger, courtesy of the author herself.” If he had read enough of the book, he’d soon have one or two or three dozen, no matter what. But I wasn’t going to tell him. Or had I already?
“Here,” Mason said, handing over the book, exchanging it for his knife.
I opened the car door to show him I was ready to let him leave. “Now, give me your pants,” I said, one foot out the door.
Mason brought up his knees and kicked me in the shoulders with both feet, knocking me out of the car. I heard the engine gun, and he sped past me with the passenger door wide open.
When his car turned the drive’s corner and I no longer saw the smoke from his engine, I held the book against my chest, and began to weep. I sobbed out my anger at having brought Mason here in the first place, my frustration over not killing him when I had the chance.
Fighting with her was a waste of time.
I resolved right then to continue drinking my muti on a regular basis and upkeep my strength. I would need it. No more restaurants; I would leave the house only when necessary and spend time with my daughter, learn from her.
“Samiel?” I cried out, invoking Satan, the demon she claimed was waiting to inhabit me, to become me. She had said she saw him in me, me in him. “If you want me, then I’m yours!” I waited. And waited. Nothing earth-shattering happened. Where was the great beast from hell? Didn’t he want me anymore? “You hear me? I give in.”
My throat cleared, no longer dry. I rolled my shoulders, and they felt lighter. Contention replaced frustration. I hiccupped and wiped away the final tear on my cheek, knowing if Mason and I were to see each other again, things would not end well for him.
24—Mason, the Reporter
As soon as I arrived at my hotel, I headed for the staircase—screw the elevator, it took too damn long—and raced up four floors to my room. I unlocked the door and kicked it open. Coughing, I pushed aside my encounter with a rubber-putty demon named Mr. Granger. Jeffrey might have taken my book, but I had a pocketful of seeds. It was not lost on me what had happened to Jeffrey’s hand, how it healed. It had to be the seeds.
I whipped off my pants and laid them across a plastic laundry bag under my window to dry. Dirt glimmered on my pants, the seeds spilled out of my pockets. I unwrapped a clear plastic cup next to the coffee pot and filled it with water. I dropped in a few seeds mixed with dirt. I pulled out my knife, and dipped the tip in the water to see if it would turn gold.
The blade’s tip turned yellow. Hot damn. I put the knife away with a grin, and envisioned living in one of those huge mansions I’d seen in Mexico, complete with a staff and luscious women hanging from my arms like grapes.
Maybe I’d sell the seeds online. I'd package them in little baggies, like drugs.
McPhee had agreed to buy the book for chump change. How much would McPhee be willing to pay for an extra gram of seeds? Jeffrey had the book. I’d get it back myself, or maybe I’d delegate the job. McPhee had the money, and probably the means, to wrestle it from Jeffrey.
I held the cup while searching for a small piece of metal to submerge. I coughed. The cough was nothing like I had in the barn, but the tickle was there.
The cup, I realized, had warmed in my hand.
Drink the water.
I took a sip. My tongue warmed. A tingling sensation hit my taste buds. I sipped again. The flavor lingered. My tongue swept through my mouth in an attempt to peg the aftertaste. There was nothing to compare it to, except meat. I licked my lips, unable to decide what type of meat, yet satisfied enough not to care.
Taking a deep breath, I leaned against the sink and turned on the hot water to wash. I looked like shit, like a madman. Jeffrey’s damn blood was on my face. Sweaty hair stuck out in tufts, blood-red splotches covered my cheeks and nose, my pupils were enlarged, and my irises … still green. I hoped the eye-color change wasn’t permanent.
Unsure of what to do next, I thought I’d start journaling about the day, my visit to the house. Holy shit, the things I’d seen. I now believed anything could happen. If I didn’t write down the details, they would soon slip away, forgotten, figments of my imagination. Paper was on the desk, waiting for me. I already had a contact in South Africa willing to print my articles in Die Burger and online. The backlash worried me, but I thought the readership and the interest would be worth any angry responses. When a writer pisses people off, he knows he has a worthy story.
25
I woke with a shout. I turned to the clock by my bed. Two o’clock. In the morning? No, bright light hid behind the drawn curtains.
Yesterday’s events hit me, and I shook violently, as if struck by reality. Had to have been a nightmare.
My hands were dirty, and the nails were jagged and torn. My shirt was ripped. My pants laid on the floor under the window, pockets inside-out, crusted over with hundreds of little black seeds. I didn’t want to believe what had happened, or how—the meeting with McPhee, Jeffrey, Mr. Granger. The book. Where the hell is my book?
I hopped out of bed, panicked. Told myself to calm down. I marched into the bathroom for a drink of water. The mirror over the sink reflected a tired, green-eyed man. Black seeds filled the sink. Then I remembered.
Jeffrey stole my book. I was going to tell McPhee, have him go after Jeffrey. Jeffrey had given me the name of the hotel where McPhee was staying.
Turned out McPhee was only a block away.
26
We met in the lobby. “Keeping it public,” I said when I called.
William McPhee stood in a secluded niche beyond the concierge desk. He was suited in pin-striped navy with a red tie. His polished shoes reflected the lobby’s harsh lighting. He and I shook hands, polite, in lieu of our recent parting. McPhee held a slim briefcase in his hand. He checked his watch and said, “I don’t have time for pleasantries, I’m afraid. Can we get down to business? I’m prepared to offer you this much for the book, which I see you do not have with you.”
McPhee slipped me a piece of paper. One million dollars, the paper said. “My final offer.” He raised the briefcase. “It’s all in here.”
I held McPhee’s stare several seconds longer than necessary, before giving him back the paper. “I don’t have the book,” I said. “I have what you really want, and it’s worth more.” I pulled a plastic bag out of my pocket.
“What is that?” McPhee asked, not bothering to disguise the annoyance he clearly felt.
“Four seeds,” I said. “And I have more. I used them on this.” I withdrew my knife.
McPhee stepped back, eyes wide, and looked around the room to see if anyone was watching.
“Relax,” I said. “Look at the tip. I dipped it in the seed-water.”
McPhee stepped closer. “May I?” he asked, reaching for the knife. McPhee squeezed the blade and tried to bend it. “Fool’s gold,” he said with a sigh. “Real gold is soft, pliable. Without the book, you can’t complete the process.” He handed my knife back. “No book, no deal.”
I felt my defenses rise and my face turn red. I buried the knife in my pocket. “I don’t have it,” I said.
“Obviously.”
McPhee dropped his shoulders, checked his watch.
“Take the seeds,” I said, giving McPhee the bag. “They’re a gift. Put them in water and drink it.”
“I had seeds. Where is the book?” McPhee asked, holding out the bag as if it contained mere dog shit.
“I drank the seed-water,” I said. “It made me strong, fast. I’ve seen it heal. There’s more to these than you know. I haven’t even discovered their potential yet. Try drinking them after they've soaked in water.”
I removed my knife, sliced my palm, and held out my hand for McPhee to watch heal. After the blood stopped flowing, and the wound closed, and the scar disappeared, he brought the bag of seeds close to his chest.
“Call me. I’ll tell who has the book,” I said with confidence. “If you can get it back, I can get more seeds.”
27
A few weeks passed, and I still had yet to hear from McPhee, but the house called to me every day. A monotonous voice whispered in my ear, describing the insides of her home in exact detail, lulling me into a trance. The book was there with Jeffrey.
I visited at dusk on my first visit back, parking no more than five feet from the gate. I got out of the car and lingered outside the substantial iron bars.
Unaware of how long I stayed, I left when the night thickened, before it got too dark for me to find my way back to my car.
28
I sat down at my laptop like I did every morning. There was plenty of information on Lamia, most of it random, some of it conflicting. The deep web contained porn sites and freaky Satan shit, and after about an hour of research, I pushed it aside.
Greece currently has an ancient city reputedly named after her. In Greek mythology, Lamia was Zeus’s mistress. When his wife Hera found out, she cursed Lamia into a half snake, half woman.
According to Keats’s poem, Lamia saw a Corinthian youth named Lycius, and she fell in love with him. Motivated by lust, she made a deal with the god Hermes, who transformed her back into a woman.
Lamia traveled to Corinth and positioned herself along the side of the road where she knew Lycius would pass. When he did, she lured him with her speech and beauty. They traveled swiftly and unseen, by magic, into her invisible mansion.
Lycius decided they should marry, but Lamia opposed the idea. She was a secret, and wanted to remain a secret. She knew if she was exposed, she would die. Lycius pestered her, and in her weakened state as a humanized woman in love, Lamia reluctantly agreed to the wedding on one condition; Apollonius was not to be invited.
Apollonius, Lycius’s philosopher and former tutor, arrived at the wedding. He recognized Lamia and uttered two words: “A serpent!” Lamia vanished.
I read the first few stanzas of Keats’s poem again. The description of her was not what I expected. She didn’t sound like an ugly reptile, more like a beautiful, modern fantasy:
She was a Gordian shape of dazzling hue;
Vermillion-spotted, golden, green, and blue
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
Eyed like a peacock and all crimson barr’d;
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
Dissolv’d, or brighter shone, or interwreathed;
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries—
So rainbow sided, touch’d with miseries,
She seemed, at once, some penanced lady elf,
Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.
Preferring to use a pencil instead of a keyboard, I wrote a few notes. I would eventually transfer my notes to hard drive, after everything was out of my head and on paper.
Research on Lamia has established certain facts.
First: Her name is synonymous with Lilith, and Lilith originates in the Bible, The Dead Sea Scrolls, The Talmud, and in Kabbalah as a demon. In the ancient Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh, she is a “snake which fears no spell.”
Second: As Lamia, she has made her appearance in Michelangelo’s art and on a relief sculpture at Notre Dame in Paris. She was written about in a poem titled “Lamia” by the poet John Keats. She has been depicted in video games, books, and online as half female, half serpent.
Third: She has been extensively portrayed in mythology, where the Lamia creature is a vampire who subsists on infants, a succubus who eats the men with whom she has procreated, and a storm demon who only appears at night.
According to Jeffrey, she is a living creature who has been reincarnated as his daughter and is the anti-Christ. As his former lover, she wrote a book.
My cell phone rang.
No name showed on the display, but it had to be McPhee. He was calling late; it was 3:00 a.m. Not wanting to seem eager, I let it ring a few more times. I considered letting it go to voice mail, but I wanted to hear McPhee’s new offer more than I wanted to play it cool.
“Hello,” I said. “Hello?”
No reply. I looked again to the display. It read “George Browning,” followed by his number. I dropped my phone, stunned for a minute, before picking it up and hitting send twice, calling the number back.
I heard a click, then loud static. Through the static, George’s voice repeated my name over and over.
“George? Wha … I … I … George. George?”
I dialed the police then hung up before the call went through.
“They have his phone,” I said to myself, my voice taking on a panicked edge. They being the cartel, attempting to smoke me out by using my murdered friend’s cell phone. “But it sounded exactly like him.”
I stared at the display on my phone, remembering the police had taken George’s cell phone as evidence. Could his cell number have been recycled? Maybe, but it would not have shown up under George’s name. And the caller would not have used my name.
I dialed the number one last time and then heard the recording, “The number you have dialed is not correct. Please try your call again.”
I was overly tired. Nothing was clear in my head. Convinced there would be a reasonable explanation after a good night’s sleep, I went to bed.
29
Someone was screaming. I shot out of bed, heart pounding. Sweating. Listening. It was quiet, save for the city noise outside my hotel window. The sun shone brightly through the sheers. My throat; it was raw, sore. Had I been the one screaming? I grabbed my cell phone, remembering the late-night call, hoping I had dreamed the whole thing. My heart sank when I saw the saved call.
Laughter came from across the room. I looked up, and in the corner I saw …
There were three. Then one shifted a knee, and I saw a fifth hid behind a fourth. With every bend and scratch, another came into view. At least a few dozen were crammed into the corner, as impossible as it seemed. Some stood as tall as the ten-foot ceiling they hovered under. Others were like little trolls, snorting and jostlin
g for premium space in order to better observe me. A few had hair. A couple were missing limbs. They panted, whistling and bleating. Fangs barred and toothless grins beamed. They all had green eyes.
I don’t remember screaming, but must have, because I heard pounding on my hotel door. The hotel manager and a police officer—hands on his holster—came bursting into the room.
“Sir, what is the matter, sir?”
Wide and expectant eyes went to the corner behind the door where I pointed. Their non-response said they saw absolutely nothing except a white wall; they did not hear the creatures rumbling.
The shortest creature covered in fur fell to his haunches like a dog. “I’m Lowther,” he said. “We’re here to help you, Mason. If you tell on us, they’ll put you away. They’ll lock you up with people who are friends with your enemies, the ones who want you dead, the ones who killed your friend, George.” George. George’s voice on the phone, George’s voice coming out of a salivating, enormous jaw, with long canines snapping every time it closed.
“Go away,” I mouthed, the rest of my body rigid in fear.
“Sir?” the hotel manager asked.
My eyes shifted to the manager, who raised an eyebrow when I didn’t answer. The police officer kept his attention on the corner wall. He stepped farther into my room, scanning the ceiling, the walls. He pulled a mini flashlight from his pocket, clicked it on, and the bright spotlight moved across the room.
“Do we frighten you?” Lowther, the dog-creature with George's voice, asked. “I can make them go away.”
I nodded.
Lowther smiled and said, “They will be gone.”
In the corner, all the creatures, except Lowther, were reduced to a collection of shadows. The shadows formed a tall pillar and moved across the room toward me. The pillar inched closer. The air turned icy and held a rancid stench. A sharp, piercing whine came from the pillar; it rang through my ears and bounced around in my head. Something like restlessness and fury rose up inside me and rolled into a heavy ball at the base of my neck.
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