The Sword of Michael

by Marcus Wynne

  “So where did you get the flying saucer?” Dillon said.

  Otto grinned. “So, as the young ones say . . . ‘You like my ride?’”

  We laughed.

  My phone rang.

  I got up and looked at the caller ID. Jolene. I picked up the phone. Silence, then the click of the phone disconnecting.

  “What the . . . ?” I said. I hit redial and the phone went straight to voice mail, Jolene’s cool voice . . .

  I hit redial again. Same thing. Once more . . . this time, a click, and then the silence of an open line.

  “Jolene?” I said.

  Silence. A breath.

  In the background, harsh and cruel laughter. Then the click of disconnection.

  Jolene.

  “What is it?” Sabrina said. “What?”

  Otto set his mug down. Precisely. Unfolded from the chair.

  “We can take my car,” he said.

  “Flying saucer?” Dillon said.

  “No,” Otto said. “Something more in line with what we need right now.”

  Dillon and I tooled up.

  “Do you need . . .” I said to Otto.

  He shook his head, opened his greatcoat wide. Strapped under one arm was an extremely modified MP5K-SD; on the offside, three magazines.

  “I have other tools in the car,” he said.

  I looked at Sabrina. Her face was drawn and pale. A look I had never seen on her face before—fear.

  “Sabrina,” I said. “You don’t have to . . .”

  “She can’t stay here alone,” Dillon said. “And we need everyone we have.”

  “She will be safer with us,” Otto said. He reached out and took Sabrina’s hand. “Come.”

  Dillon looked as though he’d been slapped. Sabrina looked at him, at Otto. Straightened herself.

  “She came for me,” Sabrina said. “I will come with you and do what I can. The best I can.”

  “That’s more than enough,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  I’d never seen a car like Otto’s anywhere but in a movie. Or a comic book. A BMW extensively customized, blending retro look with the latest high-tech accouterments. Like a coupe but a sports car.

  It was astonishingly cool.

  Also astonishingly fast.

  Otto drove like he flew. Fast, sure, confident, huge hands steady on the wheel. In the big back seat, Sabrina and Dillon watched over our shoulders as the road disappeared beneath our wheels. I was not far from where Jolene lived, at least not normally; she was in Windom on the other side of the lakes, in a small house that had once belonged to a university professor. We took the back way into Windom, down 46th to Lyndale and then over into what used to be the Bachman Farm, a small enclave of semiisolated homes on the edge of the city.

  To Jolene’s house.

  Small yard, lovingly tended. Flowers in pots, a row of beloved rose bushes. A small blue house with big windows and a porch, with two Adirondack chairs side by side where we’d spent many a morning sipping coffee after a night of love and sleep. The house was dark save for a single lamp in the front room, obscured by a light curtain.

  My hair stood up on my neck.

  Something was very wrong.

  We stood in the street. Jolene’s house is powerfully warded, though to the everyday passerby there was nothing amiss. There were charged crystals buried along the boundary of her yard; a gleaming crystal hanging from the small oak in front that served as a “waiting room” for any spirits coming to be crossed; an altar and shrine with a statue of Mother Mary, the altar covered with wilting flowers . . .

  “She changes those each day, and each time she comes,” Tigre whispered. “Beware . . .”

  A dark sense that I had never felt here before.

  Otto paused at the edge of the yard. “I will stay here, with the car. Marius . . . ?”

  “Dillon, with me,” I said. “Sabrina, stay here with Otto.”

  Dillon looked between Sabrina and Otto, then followed me down the walk to Jolene’s door.

  First In Front was beside me, Tigre on the other, Burt hovering above, and around us the sense of gathering strength and power,

  Because each step seemed to drag, as though we were walking through Jell-O, and my vision seemed soft, blurred, as though the very fabric of the air were softened like gauze, and my heart pounded because the woman I loved was in there, I could feel her . . .

  “And there’s something else, too,” Tigre whispered; First In Front was garbed for war and Burt, for once, was silent and grim . . .

  I paused at the door. Listened. Nothing. Tried the handle.

  Unlocked.

  My heart pounded.

  Dillon whispered, “Marius? Do you want me to go first?”

  “No,” I said. I heard my voice as though from far away, the quaver in it. “I’ll go.”

  I opened the door and entered.

  The entryway and front room were dark. The light came from the hallway.

  “Jolene?” I called.

  “In back . . .” whispered Burt.

  Dillon was behind me. Tense as a wire drawn tight. He felt it.

  Down the hallway, past the lamp, the only light.

  Her bedroom to the right, healing and meditation room to the left. Bathroom straight ahead. The door to the bathroom open. Empty. Door to the healing room open. Empty. Door to the bedroom half-open.

  Slowly opening the door.

  Dark.

  Jolene was in the bed. Naked. Sheets and duvet pulled up to her waist. Her back propped against the headboard, her hands crossed, palms down, in her lap.

  “Jolene?” I said.

  Her head turned towards us. I could only make out the outline of her face.

  “I have what you love most, shaman . . .” hissed the voice that came out of her mouth.

  Not Jolene.

  CHAPTER 20

  Madness, injury, illness, poverty, hardship of every kind—all tests by the Creator to prepare a shaman for the most difficult and dangerous work of all. Despite the proliferation of classes and workshops in depossession, spirit releasement, and exorcism, there are those who choose to learn and apply the techniques, and then there are those who are Chosen and Called to this work. In the words of one great practitioner, those that are Called are “dragooned into the Service of the Light . . .”

  Willingly or not.

  Yes, we are honored by being chosen, and yes, we know that in some way and on some level we chose this Path, and yes, we are human and sometimes wonder about the toll it takes.

  But we are grateful for the opportunity to be of Service.

  That doesn’t lessen the danger. In fact, the more experienced the practitioner, the greater the challenges. The brighter your Light shines as a result of your personal work, the more you see . . . and the more you are seen. You become like a beacon, and in the way that a lone porch light on a dark street draws insects and other creatures of the night, you draw . . . things . . . to you.

  Spirits, lost souls, elementals, sprites, those of the Other Realms, the curious, the playful . . . the malevolent.

  And when you self-identify as a depossessionist, as one who can open the Portals of the Crossing, then you will draw those who want or need to cross . . . as well as those who seek to trap and ensnare those lost ones who want to return to the Light.

  Or those who have been lied to about the Light.

  I was told a story, early on in my training, about a famous shaman who went to work on behalf of his dearest friend. His friend was dying of cancer. The shaman was distracted by a demon during the ceremony. His friend was cured of cancer. But the shaman died a few days later . . . of massive cancer that had jumped from his friend into him. There are many cautionary tales in the tradition about the dangers of shamanic work for those who are called to work against the Dark, who must go into the Dark and Light the way to return for those lost souls, or to lead the dead across into the Light.

  Madness, depression, physical ailments .
. . and of course, possession.

  Can a depossessionist be possessed?

  Of course.

  Part of the initiation and apprenticeship of a depossessionist is recognizing the signs of obsession and possession by a spirit, to become familiar with the character flaws and darkness within our own spirit and soul, the parts that resonate with the Dark Forces or the Lost, the parts that draw them in—the parts that cling to those.

  Those of us who are called will be tested.

  Not all of us pass the tests.

  Nor do the tests ever really end.

  One of the greatest dangers is becoming complacent, arrogant, cocky, overconfident, mistaking ourselves with that which is great which moves through us. The run-of-the-mill depossession, if there is such a thing, is a lost human without malevolent intent, who is clinging to a live human for the semblance of life that comes through to the spirit, because they don’t know that they are dead. And so the depossessionist need only light the way and encourage them to cross, often with the help of their beloved departed who wait for them on the other side of the portal.

  With Dark Force entities, those with malevolent intent, who mean to harm and obsess and possess with deliberation, it’s much harder—but all can be crossed or transformed with the power of the Archangels and the Light of the Creator.

  Remember when I said the more you see, the more you are seen?

  Be seen as someone who lights the way for the dead and the dead will flock to you.

  Be seen as someone who will challenge the Dark Forces directly, and the Dark Forces will seek you out.

  And the greatest challenge to the depossessionist is the possession that is aimed directly at him or her, by one that is fully telepathic, not bound to the laws of time and space, who has intelligence and malevolent intent and who finds the weakness . . . and we all have weaknesses . . . and takes all the time needed to exploit it.

  What about protection? Yes, we are protected, by our spirit allies, by the angelic realm, by ceremony and technique.

  And it’s the weakness within us that allows that entry, the beachhead or foothold in our energy that a possessing being can take hold of. Sometimes it’s karma, or past-life debts; sometimes it’s crossing the wrong entities; sometimes it’s just part of what we were sent here to do.

  The possibility is always there.

  It can come about in a moment of anger, a moment of weakness, or as a result of a slow accretion of mistakes. Shamanic practice is all about power, the cultivation of that through spiritual allies and practice—and that power can disappear in an instant if misused, and the protection that comes with it can go away just as quickly.

  We all have to sleep, and that’s when we are the most vulnerable; in the deepest, darkest hours of the night, when our soul is wandering the Other Realms, and the body, the vessel of our own individual light, is open to whatever might drop in. Maintaining sovereignty against that kind of intrusion, deliberate, careless, or otherwise, is a big part of the ongoing spiritual hygiene a dedicated practitioner must develop. For we are sovereign in our bodies according to Divine Law.

  But to those who don’t abide by Divine Law, it falls to some of us who must keep the Law, enforce it, exercise it as a willing instrument in the hand of the Light, allow ourselves to be wielded like a sword of light in an angelic hand . . .

  . . . which is really what our task is.

  The Dark Forces are sly and knowing about the weakness of the human; they’ve had lifetimes to study their targets, to figure out their approach; and since the Fall, they’ve been amassing a store of knowledge about how best to corrupt and bring down even the most high amongst humans.

  I don’t count myself amongst the most high.

  But I know that the Dark Forces keep score and I’ve been on their radar for a long, long time.

  Just like a certain zombie told me not that long ago.

  So I’m on their radar. I’m seasoned, experienced, reasonably intelligent and incredibly well protected by my beloved spirit guides, allies and the Archangels who bless me with their assistance. How do you get to me?

  Get to those you love.

  It’s a truism amongst the Dark Forces, whether manifest as an evil sicario in a narco-traficante organization charting out your child’s movements, or a demi-demon charting out the past, present and future movements of the people closest to you, that the way to push your buttons is to go in from the flanks, to attack those you love.

  The greatest push to reaction, to rage and anger, the Dark Side of the Force as Anakin Skywalker discovered, is the one that justifies that anger and rage in defense of those we love.

  And to a true Warrior of the Light, there is no greater Calling than to stand in harm’s way before those we love, and we love all who stand in the Light.

  Makes target acquisition for the baddies pretty easy, yes?

  So a savvy practitioner weaves a web of light, connects his energy and his protection to the Grid of the World, and weaves protection in and around all those he loves and interacts with, creates a great glowing crystal of energy that protects and binds all of those that create the larger mandala of his life. Just as a spider knows when there’s the least little tug somewhere in the web, so a practitioner knows when there’s a little tug—or a big one—on the web of energy that surrounds his life. His guides and protecting spirits and guardian angels know, too—and their job is to inform and protect him or her.

  But sometimes, things get through.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Jolene?” I whispered. “Oh, my love . . . Jolene?”

  Her lips skinned back. Wolfish. Her canines gleamed. She leaned forward, her perfect breasts barely moving, her hands still limp in her lap.

  “Oh, my love,” it hissed, mockingly. “Oh, Jolene . . .”

  The most evil laughter.

  Dillon choked back a sound, like a swallowed sob.

  It looked at him. “Like the tits, Dillon? You know you do. Always have. Want a little taste? Here.”

  It cupped Jolene’s breasts, offered them to him.

  Rage. Sorrow. Revulsion. Disgust. Heartbreak.

  All at the same time.

  A huge wave, cresting over me . . .

  “. . . remember that Wave, Marius? So long ago, and it carried you to your doom. Remember this wave, and choose, choose differently if you will,” Tigre was there, seated on her rear haunches, alert, poised; First In Front with Burt on his shoulder, watching . . .

  “Marius?” Dillon said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Marius?” it said. “What are you going to have to do?”

  I took a deep breath, calmed and centered myself, let my anger and my rage settle down through me, down into my center, down my legs, down into the ground, into the depths of Mother Earth, connecting to the great power at the core of the world, and I called out for the help that is always there for me:

  “Father, Mother, Creator God . . .”

  “Silence!” it screamed. “Or I will make her twist in pain you cannot imagine, shaman . . .”

  “. . . Holy Spirit, Great Spirit, Goddess, I call on you . . .”

  More laughter. “Oh, she’s screaming now, Marius . . . you should see her . . .” it said.

  “. . . I call on Jesus, the Christ, Light of the Creator made Flesh, and Mother Mary, Queen of the Angels, First Among Healers, Mother of Us All, and I call upon MIIII-KAI-ELLLL . . .”

  And a ripple went through Jolene, like a ripple across a body of water made flesh, and I saw her face, her true face of her True Self, for just a moment, in horrible pain and fear, something I had never seen, and I was shaken . . .

  Boom!

  The whole house shook. Literally rattled on the foundation.

  Boom!

  Again.

  Evil laughter.

  “Will you exercise power over me, shaman?” it said. “Will you . . . force me?”

  I extended one hand. “I call upon the mighty Archangels . . .”

  The shee
ts flew off the bed.

  Jolene turned in the bed, set her feet on the floor, stood up. And something Fallen gleamed out of her eyes at me. She took her finger and inserted it into herself, slowly withdrew it, held it under her nose, put it in her mouth.

  “Yum,” it said. “No wonder you keep her for yourself, shaman. So tasty.”

  “I . . .”

  “You cannot, shaman,” it said. “She has given herself over. Willingly. She’s mine. Now and forever. All for love.”

  Naked, she began to move in a slow, jerky parody of a soft-shoe dance routine.

  “She gave it all up . . .” it sang, “. . . for love. She gave it all up . . . for love. She gave it all up, for love . . . of you, of you, of you.”

  An awkward pirouette, and then a slow obscene writhing, an undulation that began in her hips and flowed through her whole body, a filthy parody of the way she’d moved beneath me or atop me when we were wrapped in love. It grabbed one of the corner poles of the bedframe and turned her buttocks towards us, arching in simulated sex.

  “Like what you see, Dillon?” it said. “Your dick is getting hard. I can see it. Want a little taste? She always liked you, Dillon. Loved you, actually. The warrior, the fighter. So pure in your anger. Sometimes when she fucked the shaman, she thought about you.”

  It came at Dillon, reached out to cup his crotch. “Oh, look, it’s all hard. Is that for me, sweetheart?”

  “Don’t touch me!” Dillon shouted, stepping back.

  “Michael and Uriel, I call on you, beloved Archangels . . .”

  “Oh, to do what? Enclose me in the Light? She chose me for you, Marius. Gave herself to me for you. They cannot bind me.” It flounced away. “Okay, so I can’t touch you now, Dillon.” It looked back over her shoulder, wiggled her ass. “But you can touch me. If you want. You can do anything you want to me. If you want . . .”

  “Marius . . . help her. Do something . . .” Dillon whispered.