Summer Reign: A novel of the Demon Accords

by John Conroe

  I knocked on the door and waited, hearing music coming from inside the old stone house. Footsteps sounded on wooden floors just on the other side of the door. I felt myself being observed, logically through the door’s security peephole, but also illogically by something else.

  The door opened and a thirty-something guy with a dark beard, dark eyes, and wearing a button-down sweater with khakis stood there staring at me.

  “Hi, I’m Declan. I called Melanie a little while ago?”

  He stared at me, looking me over from head to toe, his face reflecting suspicion. A woman appeared behind him, roughly his age, with brown hair and hazel eyes. She was kind of attractive for someone who had to be like thirty-five or something. Then I realized she wasn’t much younger than Aunt Ashling. Eww.

  “Tom, is that the young man from Vermont?” she asked.

  I leaned around Tommy boy and gave her a smile and wave. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Declan.”

  She came up close and moved her suspicious man sideways a bit, giving him a look of exasperation.

  “He’s a kid, Mel,” the guy said. “This is a farce. You’re being taken advantage of.”

  “Ma’am, I’m just here to meet your ghost, or specter, or whatever you have, and remove it. Not sure how that’s taking advantage,” I said, ignoring him and engaging her directly.

  “You said you didn’t charge for your services?” she confirmed.

  “Of course he charges. He’s out for your money, Mel. Everybody is,” Tommy said. Nice sort. Not cynical at all.

  “Nope. Not here for money ma’am. I don’t need it,” I said.

  “See Mel, that’s gotta be a lie. The kid’s like still in high school. Give me the word and I’ll toss him down those steps.”

  I heard a little whirring noise up and behind me in the branches of the little tree planted in the sidewalk. Tommy likely had a drone drawing a bead on him right now.

  Melanie made up her mind, backing away to let me in. Tommy boy huffed and walked back into the apartment, shoulders up, body tense.

  I followed Melanie into her old home, admiring the wood floors, wood trim, and perfectly painted walls. “Your home is beautiful, ma’am,” I said, looking around. Tom was now seated on a sofa, arms out to each side like he was a king on his throne, staring at me coldly.

  “Thank you, Declan. And please call me Melanie. Ma’am is making feel way too old,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Of course, we must seem pretty old to you. How old are you?”

  “Not far from twenty-one, ma—ah, Melanie.”

  “And you’re already into paranormal studies?” she asked.

  “I was was born into it ma’a… Melanie.”

  “Really? Your family are mediums?”

  “Witches,” I said.

  Melanie took a sharp little breath and Tommy sat up on the couch. “Like the ones on the news? Like, you know, the one that works for… the… ah, you know?” she asked.

  “For Demidova Corp? Or did you mean for the vampires? They prefer to be called Darkkin, but what the hell; they’re vampires, right?” I asked, looking around.

  There was a formal front sitting room, then a middle dining room, and further back, through an archway, I could see a kitchen. To my left was set of stairs that led right up from the foyer to the second floor, and I could see the angled underside of another flight above that, leading to a third floor. The hanging chandeliers all looked original but were working so well, I thought they might be either replicas or refurbished. My friend Levi is into historic renovations, so I’d seen enough to know a lot of money had been spent to make the home look much as it must have a hundred years ago.

  “Great details on the decorating,” I said, trying to reduce the look of concern on her face and the flash of fear on his.

  “Ah, you didn’t mention that on the phone. You said you were a paranormal expert,” Melanie said uncertainly, frowning as if she was trying to remember something.

  I chuckled, still working the easygoing bit. “I intern for vampires, attend college with werewolves, and was born a witch. How much more expert do you need?” I said, trying to keep my tone friendly and light.

  “Do you think we’re fools? You’re too young to work for a company like Demidova,” Tommy said, standing up and frowning, his fists clenching. So much for easygoing. I let the smile fall off my face and looked pointedly at his fists. He started to advance but Melanie grabbed his arm. Her look of uncertainty had changed to recognition. He turned to her but she kept her focus on me. “Ah, Declan. Does your girlfriend happen to be a werewolf also?” she asked. Tommy looked from her to me, confusion spreading across his angry features. “A white werewolf?” she asked, her nails digging into his arm. It had to be painful.

  “Hey, owww. Mel, what are you talking about? White were… oh,” Tommy said, realization flooding his features.

  “You are the Warlock,” Melanie said, drawing a breath.

  “Is that what they call me?” I asked, stepping back and looking around, trying to spot anything ghostlike.

  “You are the mysterious guy dating Stacia Reynolds. I’ve seen photos on the Internet and the news but they always disappear shortly after being posted,” Melanie said.

  Tommy looked like he didn’t know what to do, like he was trapped in a fight or flight, a go–no-go logic chain. Great. Well done, O’Carroll. Tommy reached behind himself, hand going back, like for a weapon. My shields popped up and power flowed from the wall outlet behind my left leg, sucked into my body.

  His hand came around in slow motion and just as I was about to zap him, my brain realized it held a cell phone.

  “Can I get your picture?” he asked. I nodded.

  “It won’t last, will it?” Melanie asked, her concern changing to curiosity.

  I shook my head. “Why, because witches don’t photograph well?” she guessed.

  “No, I have very protective friends. One of them is pretty much top of the Internet food chain,” I said.

  “Why is the Warlock here in my house?” she asked, frowning at Tommy, who was snapping pics like a fashion photographer.

  “I’m interested in your ghost,” I said.

  “So you believe I really have a ghost?” she asked.

  “Yes, this house had one many years ago. I think it’s back. I want to have a word with it,” I said.

  “Why? And what will happen to me after you leave me with the ghost?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’m going to take it with me,” I said. Motion at the corner of my left eye caught my attention and I spun around, opening my Sight and putting my left hand into my messenger bag.

  A man stood in the foyer by the base of the stairs, glaring at me. He was as tall as me but built heavier, wearing dark pants with suspenders and an old-fashioned shirt. He had a handlebar mustache and slicked-back hair and his expression was extremely unfriendly.

  “What are you looking at? What’s there?” Melanie asked in a rush, both hands grabbing Tommy’s left arm. Tommy, on the other hand, looked excited, turning his camera phone toward the stairs and snapping a photo. “Look Mel, an orb!” he said, showing her the phone’s screen.

  The ghost raised a fist at me like he was about to get violent. Nope, none of that, Casper. I pulled my left hand from the bag and held up a small twig and vine working that was shaped like the stick figure of a person. I had made it on the way down the Interstates. Self-driving cars are handy things for getting work done. My prediction is for a massive increase in personal productivity when they become mainstream.

  The look of anger changed on the ghost man’s face and he flickered. Ghosts don’t heed many of our laws of physics, just a few that work with energy. Their ability to disappear or move at speeds exceeding even a vampire’s are directly tied to the fact that they don’t occupy just one dimension. The ghost should have been able to just vanish, way faster than I could comprehend. But my working had clamped onto it as soon as I took it from my bag.

  My mother’s grimoire hadn’t been very
helpful on ghosts, but my own memories of the Book of Darkest Sorrow had. My German ancestor had been extremely skilled at trapping spirits of all types. Tapping my memories of Sorrow had taken some meditation as well as Omega’s memories of the grimoire.

  The ghost tried to pull away but spirit traps actually get stronger when they fight. Like struggling in quicksand, pulling on a Chinese finger trap, or kicking and struggling with a noose around your neck. He flickered again, only this time his features twisted and pulled my way—or rather, the working’s way.

  Then abruptly he was gone, sucked into the human-shaped set of twigs in my hand. It hit like a hard-thrown baseball into a fielder’s glove. Hard enough to sting my hand.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “What’s the matter? What happened?” Melanie asked.

  “He packed a punch is all,” I said, transferring the working to my right hand so I could shake out the left.

  “He? It is a man?” she asked.

  “Yeah, big dude. Looks turn of the century or something,” I said. “He won’t bother you again, ah, Melanie.” I pulled a silk scarf from my bag, wrapped the working tightly, and put it into the good old bag o’ magic.

  “That’s it?” Tommy asked. “You wave a hand, swear, and you’re done?”

  “Pretty much. This stuff doesn’t take as much time as they always portray in the movies. Like real fights, especially those with weapons. The blood flies and it’s over in seconds.”

  His disbelief had bled back toward anger, but now he suddenly looked really, really uncertain.

  “You’ve been in fights?” Melanie asked carefully.

  “I mentioned I go to school with werewolves, right? And you said you followed the news about Stacia. You must have seen the stuff about Maine?”

  She nodded slowly and Tommy had now gone really pale. Apparently they’d seen the news footage. “I was born doing this stuff. Your ghost is trapped in this object and I’m taking him away to have a nice, peaceful chat. Then I’m sending him on his way. He won’t be back, here or anywhere on Earth,” I said.

  “You talk so casually about things I’ve—we’ve only seen on television. And you have to admit you’re very young,” she said, concerned.

  “Yeah, I get that all the time. Compared to most vampires, I’m like a minute old. Sometimes they have trouble taking me seriously,” I said.

  “What happens then?” she asked.

  “Ah, excuse me?” I asked back, confused.

  “What happens when they don’t take you seriously?” she asked.

  “Oh. Well, I only know the vampires that work for Tanya. Mostly I like to let them underestimate me until the right opportunity presents itself. Vampires are hard to surprise, so when it happens it’s hilarious.”

  She clearly didn’t quite know what to say to that. The color was coming back into Tommy’s face, at least the parts not covered by his beard. Suddenly he nodded. “That’s a good tactic for negotiating. Let them think you don’t pose any kind of threat, then whammy them with something they never saw coming.”

  “I’m guessing you work in business or finance or something,” I said.

  “I negotiate insurance claims for a couple of big companies,” he said with a hint of pride.

  “Nice. Well, thanks for letting me take your ghost. I should be on my way,” I said.

  Melanie couldn’t hide the relief that flashed across her face and Tommy nodded, holding out his hand. I shook it quickly, trying to ignore Melanie’s worried expression as I touched her boyfriend’s hand. Ewww! Witch cooties! I got the hell out.

  Chapter 34

  I started walking, my left hand touching my bag to feel the ghost trap through the material. The answers to the questions I had been asking all my life were most likely in my bag. It was hard to concentrate on walking.

  After wandering for a block or so, the well-trained Crafting side of my brain took control. To get answers from a violent spiritual entity, I needed several layers of circles. Renting a motel or hotel room was out. Management tended to object to spell circles carved, burned, or painted onto their guest room floors. Beast had a circle inside his cargo area but it was way too small.

  I turned the corner and a vast park-like space opened in front of me. Ah, Boston Common. At night. Perfect.

  A fifteen-minute walk took me around and through most of the Common. There were some people about, but not too many. I finally settled on a small but thick copse of trees not far from the spire-like monument. Pushing my way inside the cluster of trees, I found a mostly shielded spot where I could lay out two intersecting circles, like part of the Olympic symbol.

  The snow had melted but the ground was still partly frozen, partly thawed, making it messy as I scribed my circles with the blade on my multitool. I sacrificed a dollar store poncho from my bag of tricks so I could sit in one circle, setting the stick man working in the center of the other circle.

  “Father, beware,” Omega said in my ear. Turning, I found three men approaching in the dark. Their dress and body language told me what they were here for.

  “No,” I said before the largest one could speak.

  They looked at each other for a second before turning back. The big guy in the middle started to open his mouth. “I said no,” I said. “You can’t rob me, ask for money, or threaten me. I’m really busy here.”

  “Listen, you fuck,” the one on the left said, snapping open a beat-up old Buck knife.

  I flicked a finger, pulling the knife from his hand and zipping it up to float in front of him. The tip was pointed at his left eye. “I told you. I’m busy here.” Then I clenched my fist and the knife crumpled in on itself, compacting into a bundle of bent metal and splintered grip scales.

  All three were frozen, staring at the destroyed knife. I started it spinning, then added heat from the city around me. The wood handles burnt off as the remaining brass and steel began to glow. It spun faster and faster, turning bright red. When it stopped, motionless, it was a small ball of glowing metal. Which then turned dark in an instant. A small bush on the ground next to the men burst into flame, flaring up and burning out in three seconds flat. The golfball-sized orb of metal was now covered in frost.

  All three men fell backward, scrambling like kindergarten kids playing crab soccer.

  Regaining their feet, one by one, they took off at a dead run, utterly silent in their terror. The orb began to circle me as I settled back down and set up my spell.

  Witches use a lot of circles in spellcrafting, usually to contain results or to protect a user from outside forces. We even organize our covens in what we call circles. But it’s a very, very rare spell where we allow circles to intersect. Creating a space where I could safely interact with a hostile spirit was one of those spells. The ghost trap was in the first circle and I was sitting in the second. The space that was shared by both circles, the Venn diagram portion, was where I laid down the runes that made up most of the spell. A few select runes crossed the borders of both my circle and the spirit’s. The first of these was shaped like the letter F but with two bent V-shaped lines instead of straight horizontal ones. Os—or mouth—it symbolized, for me, speaking, language, and communication. The second rune looked just like a capital letter R but without any curves, just straight lines. Rad—or ride—is the rune that, in this case, would represent riding the spirit, which I will quickly explain refers to riding along with the entity on a memory journey, nothing else. My memories of Sorrow tell me that there is another type of riding that is much more sinister. More like controlling or using the ghost like a spiritual robot to do your bidding. This would be what the assassin would have done.

  Rummaging in the magic bag produced a newspaper clipping noting my mother’s murdered body being found, a small framed picture of her wearing a hooded cape, and a thin, twisted locket of her hair. I put all three into the intersection area of the two circles, then sat back and like a pilot rechecked everything twice more before takeoff.

  Releasing the trap
was as easy as saying the word open in Gaelic. “Oscailte.”

  With a cyclonic whoosh, the old spirit burst free from the ghost trap and instantly swirled around and around the first circle. The hair and the paper clipping actually fluttered in his wake as he tried to find a way out.

  He must have circled it a hundred times in the ten seconds it took him to realize he wasn’t getting out. Every time he crossed the intersection, I got an image or a word. By the time he settled down across from me, glowering, I knew his name: Daniel. I knew he had been born in Ireland and that he worked with horses. And Melanie’s house had been his at one time.

  Now, though, he was visible to my Sight, standing and glaring at me. “How did you buy the house?” I asked.