by J. R. Mabry
He smiled at her, a sad and sympathetic smile. “Ah do know. It weren’t like that fer me and Susan, not at all. Ah had to woo her fer years. But Ah know it happens. And Ah know he was gaga fer ya.”
She smiled and took comfort in that. She turned left and gunned it for the freeway on-ramp.
The drive to Alameda was short and uneventful. The tunnel was nearly empty, and in what seemed like no time they were pulling up in front of her brother’s house.
Something in her heart sank when she saw it. An eddy of grief lapped at her soul, and she shuddered and clutched her hands into fists against the emotional tide.
“You okay?” asked Dylan. She didn’t look at him but nodded, her eyes fixed to the dark house, looking lonely now, even abandoned. It’s my house, now, she thought, but it didn’t feel like hers.
“Don’t look like much is goin’ on, here,” Dylan said, opening the car door. “But let’s have a look-about, just to make sure.”
She opened her own door, and together they walked up the drive to the front door. She unlocked it, and it swung open into a house filled with shadows. She felt for the light switch and narrowed her eyes against the glare.
“Looks clear,” Dylan said. “Ah’ll just check the bedrooms,” and he pushed past her. “All clear,” he said and then strode into the living room.
There he stopped. She noticed and caught up to him. “What is it?” she asked.
“Waal, it’s not how Ah left it.” His brow furrowed. He pointed to the credence table. “See that? It’s been cleaned up. In fact…it looks like another ritual has been done here since Dicky and I checked it out.”
Kat knelt in a small circle near the far side of the circle of invocation. “Dylan, there’s hair here.”
Dylan joined her and picked up the strands. “That’s not hair, that’s fur. Looks like they came back here to do the dog ritual.”
“So, doesn’t it make sense that they would do the next ritual here, too?”
“Does to me, but magickians don’t think like normal folk. Mah guess is that this next ritual is Dane’s big night, and he’s gonna want to cater his own party.” He brushed his hands on his cassock and stood. “Ah don’t think anything is goin’ down here tonight. Ah say we hightail it to the city.”
Kat nodded, moved to resolve by the anger welling up in her. How dare they do a magickal working in her house, after all? “Let’s go get the bastards,” she said.
68
It had taken Richard nearly fifteen minutes to pack the kits, even with Susan’s help. It would have been longer had he had to confect holy water, but Susan happily indicated that Dylan had already done up a bowl while they were waiting for the infernal diners to finish their repast. It was more than enough to stock all the vials. Each kit also contained a weapon, appropriate to each friar’s ability, which, he prayed, they would never have to use again. Liturgy books and an anthology of the most popular grimoires also went with them into battle, along with ceremonial crosses. Richard checked the batteries and bulbs in the flashlights and restocked each kit with two bottles of water and three packaged oat cakes.
He took two of the kits out to the Geo while Susan followed with the third. She kissed him on the cheek. “God be with you, Dicky,” she said, meaning every word.
He squeezed her hand and climbed into the car. It roared to life, and he headed down Cedar, past All Saints’ Episcopal, toward San Pablo, Gilman, and the freeway.
Once underway, he speed dialed Brian on his cell phone.
“Brian,” came the crackly voice from his speakerphone.
“Please, God, tell me you know how this damned thing works,” he said, fingering the ring in his pocket.
“I wish I could, Dicky, but my friend in Alexandria didn’t come through,” his voice sounded tired, and Richard’s heart sank. “What’s going on?”
Briefly, Richard filled him in on the plan. Brian whistled. “My advice is, if you have a couple of minutes of down time, try it out on yourself. I wish I could think of some other way, man, but I can’t. I’ve been racking my brains, and uncovering every stone in that damned ring’s five-thousand-year history. There’s lots of stories about it, as you know, and instructions for use. One interesting tidbit is that among the Arabs it is called ‘The Eye of God,’ which is a cool name, but I’m not sure it actually tells us anything. Certainly, it doesn’t help us figure out what it actually does. You’ll just have to take the plunge and find out.”
Richard did not like the sound of that. He felt a shiver roil up his spine to the top of his head.
“Brian, don’t give up—”
“I don’t have any choice, Dicky. They’re locking up here. I can go home and do some web trolling, but that’s it.”
“Okay, okay. Thanks for trying. Call me if you find anything.” He snapped the cell phone shut and made a left turn onto the on-ramp.
69
Terry slowed as he passed the lodge’s Victorian in the Lower Haight, but he couldn’t see anything. He found a parking space around the block and quickly climbed the hill back to Haight Street. Puffing slightly and cursing how out of shape he was, he wound his scarf around his neck again, pleased with the effect of the rust fabric against the black of his habit.
He stood outside the Victorian and noted the light of a single candle in the highest window. All else seemed quiet. He tried to find a way to the back, but in true San Francisco style, the houses were so close together that even a rat would have a tough time wriggling between them. Terry knew he was lithe, but even he could not squeeze through.
There seemed to be no way in except the front door, and so, with resolve, the friar mounted the steps and rang the doorbell.
There was a pause of several minutes. Eventually, though, he heard steps on the stairs, and stood back.
The door creaked open just a crack, and Terry recognized Charybdis’s unfriendly gaze. “What do you want?” the magickian snapped.
“I’m hankering for a good demon summoning, and I heard you might have just that sort of shindig going down here tonight,” Terry said cheerily but watching him like a hawk.
“Not here,” Charybdis suddenly looked defeated, sad, even tired. “There’s nobody here but me—and Parsons. But he’s…” the magickian glanced behind him.
“Let me guess,” Terry said, his smile fading, “in a coma.”
Charybdis nodded, not meeting his eyes. “I heard Randy…died.”
“Yeah,” Terry said, softening toward him despite himself. “Day before yesterday. I’m sorry. We did everything we could.”
“Did you learn anything that might…you know, help Parsons?” Charybdis did look at him now, but there was little hope in his gaze.
Terry shook his head. “But I promise you one thing, we won’t let it happen to another of your brothers. Not if we can help it.”
The magickian nodded, taking courage from that.
“Just tell me where the ritual is being held. Is it Dane’s?”
Charybdis nodded, looking frightened.
Terry reached out and touched the man on the shoulder. “Hey, we’re going to do everything we can.”
“Wait,” Charybdis said, running back up the stairs. “I’m going to come with you.” In a moment, he had grabbed a coat and was locking the door behind him.
“What about Parsons?” Terry asked.
“He’s not going anywhere, is he?”
Terry didn’t answer but headed back down toward the car. He wasn’t quite sure about having Charybdis along. He didn’t trust him at all, but he certainly felt for him.
“I don’t see how you think you can possibly stop him,” Charybdis said. “He has every demon in Hell in thrall to him.”
“Had,” Terry said. “You didn’t hear? Dane lost the Ring.”
Charybdis stopped, his mouth open. “How, when?”
“Last night,” Terry said smugly. “As for how—let’s just say some fellas ought to know when to keep it in their pants.”
Charybd
is’s eyes lit up. Possibility positively shone from him. “The demons don’t know that, though,” he said.
“They do now,” Terry said. “Our prior just had a summit, with the noble Duke Articiphus as the guest of honor.”
“No shit,” Charybdis said.
“That’s right. The only one who can compel him now is…well, your lodge brothers. And they don’t have to.” He scowled at the magickian as they reached the car. He unlocked the driver’s side. “Never did have to, until Dane got involved.” It was an accusation, and Charybdis caught it.
“You don’t understand. We’re trying to do something good, here.” He waited as Terry ducked in and unlocked his door. Opening it, he slid in.
“Ordinarily, ‘demons’ and ‘good’ don’t fit naturally into the same sentence,” Terry noted.
“That’s because you don’t understand them,” the magickian explained.
Terry started the engine but then turned to face Charybdis. “Oh, wait. Let me get this straight. Demons—the variety that come from Hell, yes?—aren’t so much evil, they’re just misunderstood?”
“Well…yes.”
“You are more full of shit than the 9/11 report.”
“Maybe now isn’t really the time to explain,” Charybdis offered an olive branch.
“You think?” Terry spat. “Look, let’s concentrate on saving your brothers’ asses, and then you can make tea for us again and explain how we’ve got the demons all wrong.”
They rode in silence for a while as Terry made his way west through the city.
“We’re going to have to be careful getting in,” Charybdis said, finally breaking the silence after ten blocks or so. “Last I heard, he’s got Howlers in place, ever since you guys broke into his house last.”
“Are you shitting me?” Terry asked, whipping out his cell phone. “Why didn’t you say so?” He speed dialed Richard, whispering a prayer that he wasn’t too late.
70
Richard parallel parked about a block from the Dane mansion. In the dense, soupy San Francisco night its silhouette loomed, enveloping the horizon, threatening to swallow all.
I should wait for the others, he thought to himself, but the urgency of the situation compelled him. As he got out of his car, a bird shrieked, foreshadowing the grieving wails that would engulf the planet if they did not succeed. Richard felt bowed under the weight of it. His shoulders drooped, and his breathing came in heavy gasps as if, in his anxiety, he gulped at hope and, finding none, gulped all the more desperately. Why had this fallen to him? To them? Who the fuck were they?
There was no question of their worthiness. None of them were worthy of forbearance, let alone this kind of trust. Everything Bishop Tom said they had been accused of was, he realized, absolutely true. They were addicts and perverts and dabblers in dark things, completely undeserving of this kind of responsibility. Richard fought an urge to claw at his own eyes. That was what he deserved. Instead, he stared at his hands.
From some far recesses of his brain, the gem of Eastern Orthodox spirituality, the Jesus prayer, leaped into consciousness. Without being aware of choosing to, he spoke the words aloud, “Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” He said it again, and again. As he did so, the mantra crowded out the obsessive self-condemnation. He didn’t feel worthy, but he didn’t need to. He felt better.
Taking advantage of the renewed energy, he decided not to sit and continue to stew but to walk around the block, a reconnoitering. He needed to confirm that, yes, the ritual was indeed taking place here. He might even be able to tell in what room it would happen by the lights.
He shut the car door, set his cell phone to vibrate, and set out toward the Dane mansion, the Jesus prayer continuing to provide a much-needed emotional analgesic.
Richard stared at the house as he walked. From the front, he saw few lights. The porch light was on, of course, and lights above the curved drive. But none of the windows betrayed any life within.
He rounded the corner. A hip-high stone wall contained the yard, rough dark stones covered with moisture that glistened in the amber streetlight.
This side of the house sported one light outside, and a distant glow in the second-floor window.
“Have mercy on me, a sinner…” he breathed rhythmically, and in a few moments, he was rounding the corner again. This time, most of the house was obscured by a high hedge.
He stopped and got his bearings. He was walking north now, and at the far end of the yard was the entrance to the elder Dane’s room. Richard wondered if the younger Dane had bothered to replace the nurse, and if so, with what species.
It took Richard a moment to orient himself in the neighborhood, but, squinting into the fog, he caught sight of a street sign, and everything clicked. The historic Swedenborgian Church was about a block and a half northwest of him, and he smiled to think of it. An oddly beautiful structure, it was the closest thing to holding church in a hobbit hole he had ever experienced. Somehow knowing where he was on the map grounded him, and his panic receded by another small measure.
But as he turned to continue his northward perambulation, he froze as he heard a slathering all too near his ear. The temperature dropped almost instantaneously, and an icy gust stabbed at his cheek.
With renewed panic screaming in his ears, Richard turned to face the slathering. The being that confronted him was half again as tall as a man, its long black trench coat dangling above its waist. Its shoulders were rounded and bulbous, too-long arms poised and ready to snatch at him, its bunched, powerful thighs coiled and prepared for the lunge.
Oh shit! threatened to overtake the Jesus prayer, but Richard mentally clamped down on the panic and began to recite the prayer aloud. “Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” he spoke as he raised his head to look into the face of the creature that had so rudely interrupted his walk.
The face was an inky pit devoid of features but surrounded by a stiff, hoary mane that erupted from its neck.
It loomed over Richard, apparently savoring his fear and the universal rush of power that every hunter feels at the moment of overwhelming its prey.
“A Howler,” Richard said aloud, forgetting the Jesus Prayer altogether. He was paralyzed, whether by his own terror or by some occult device of the Howler demon he could not tell. So, this is it, I’m just waiting to die, he thought, as the ebony void through which the demon devoured its prey descended upon him.
Richard hit the sidewalk and rolled. Frantically, he tore at his fanny pack and felt for his metal crucifix. His fingers closed around it, and he jerked his hand out just as the Howler, with a massive stride, caught up to him and began to lower the void that should have been any earthly creature’s face.
Richard felt the icy sucking of wind as the void came closer, threatening to vacuum his soul into Sheol. Just as the Howler’s hood came within arm’s length, Richard thrust the crucifix up into the void.
It felt like plunging his hand into a glacial stream. The cold bit at his fingers, and he set his face in determination.
It didn’t last long, however. The Howler demon, caught off guard, gave an excellent demonstration of its name, sending up a screech that could have awakened the dead, and perhaps did. As if on fire, the demon thrashed around, clawing at the void of its face and spinning away from Richard.
As Richard rose to his feet, the Howler demon was leaning against the stone garden wall of the Dane mansion, whimpering and spitting in his direction.
Richard heard footsteps pounding behind him and turned to see Dylan and Kat running toward him full-tilt. He waved, and in a moment they caught up to him. “Dude, you all right?” Dylan asked, placing a concerned hand on his shoulder.
Kat was staring at the demon, who seemed to be staring back at her. “What the hell is that?” she asked. Richard could almost see her goose bumps through her jacket.
“That is a Howler demon,” Richard said.
“We heard ’im howl all right,” Dylan nodded.
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“Is he dangerous?” she asked, still staring at it.
“Does it look dangerous?” Richard laughed. “Shit, yeah, they’re dangerous. They’re stupid, though. Low-level thugs. You’ve got to defend yourself from them, but they’re not, generally speaking, the ones you’ve got to watch out for.”
Dylan looked around, “Yeah, but the problem is the howl generally brings more demons. We’re gonna need artillery. Ya got the kits?”
Richard nodded and led the way to the car. Kat followed, still looking over her shoulder at the wounded Howler.
Richard opened the trunk and began to unload. He gave two bags to Dylan and lifted the last one out himself.
“Aren’t you scared?” Kat asked no one in particular.
“Shit yeah, we’re scared,” Dylan answered. “You think we’re crazy?”
“Just because it’s scary doesn’t mean it doesn’t need to be done,” Richard said. “And that’s the definition of courage—being scared and doing it anyway.”
She nodded, looking around for more Howlers.
“I take it Webber’s place was a bust?” Richard asked.
“Yeah,” Dylan answered. “Empty. But at least now we know where the dog ritual was performed. So, we came straight here. Any sign of Terry?”
As if on cue, the little engine of Mikael’s Tercel spluttered into earshot, its one working headlight spearing the sooty fog. Richard waved him in but was surprised to note there was a passenger.
He was even more surprised once they’d parked to discover the rider was Charybdis. As Terry and his passenger walked toward them, Richard could see that the magickian was ashen and distracted. His surly demeanor seemed to have completely dissolved into nervous anxiety.
Richard preferred that side of him. It was, at least, honest, and therefore an improvement.
“Dude, you brought company,” Dylan stated the obvious.
“He was nursing a lodge brother back there that was as much of a turnip as,” Terry noticed Kat’s brows bunching, “as a turnip.”