by J. R. Mabry
“And now, friends, with this oil—”
Kat lifted Mikael’s hand off her shoulder and stepped forward. Dylan cocked his head at her. “What’s up, Kat?”
“Me, too.”
“What do ya mean?”
“I mean, baptize me, too.”
Mikael and Susan exchanged quizzical but amused glances. Terry hugged Brian closer to him, and they both beamed at her. Kat cleared her throat, “Look, whatever you guys have, I want it. That guy there,” she pointed at the icon, “is nothing like any Jesus I ever heard about before, but dammit, he talks to me, and it’s time for me to answer. So, hell yes, I renounce Satan and Magickians and Republicans, and if Christians are what you guys call yourselves, then goddammit, I want to be one, too.”
Dylan turned to Jamie. “Excuse her French, little one. What do you think? Can she be part of your party?”
The little girl looked at the black-haired young woman uncertainly. “I guess so,” she said eventually.
“Should we let her be part of Jesus?” he asked her. Jamie nodded her head again in big, rapid movements. Dylan set her down and motioned for Kat to come closer. Kat leaned over the bowl, her long black hair flowing into the water. Dylan dipped his hands in three times, and each time poured water over the top of her head. “Kat, Ah baptize you in the name of the Holy One: Creator, Liberator, and Comforter.”
“Amen!” shouted Terry. He then handed a golden oil stock to Dylan.
Dylan dabbed his thumb in the oil and made the sign of the cross on Kat’s wet forehead. “And Ah seal you as Christ’s own forever.” He then knelt and did the same to Jamie.
Rising, he wiped his hands on an old, stained corporal. “Peace be with you!” he called out.
“And also with you!” his housemates responded as one.
“As we close this celebration, let us greet one another with a sign of peace.” He then gave Jamie a big hug then turned and embraced Kat as well.
It was hugs all around then. Kat was leaking tears, but her smile was broad, and Dylan felt so happy he almost forgot about Richard. Almost.
76
The sky was threatening more rain as Dylan and Terry headed out down Cedar Street toward the Gallic Hotel. They walked largely in silence, not knowing what to expect when they saw Richard. Dylan shifted the mirror from one arm to the other, careful so as not to remove its covering.
Richard was waiting for them in the hotel’s café. He was reading a Charles Williams novel, a steaming cappuccino on the table in front of him.
Dylan waved at him, and he rose to greet them. He gave each of them a long hug. Dylan felt the sadness and the love pouring out of his friend during that embrace, and he returned it wholeheartedly.
They sat, and Richard pointed his finger at Terry. “I don’t need any judgment from you.”
Terry opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. He looked hurt. Richard looked down. “Look, I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right. I’m always my own worst critic. But you, Terry, are a close second.”
Terry looked at Dylan for help. Dylan shifted and avoided Terry’s eyes. “Ya can be a little rough, dude.”
“I care!” Terry protested. “So, sue me for caring! At least I’m not as bad as Brian.”
“No, but there’s a difference between you and Brian,” Richard said, the beginning of a smile curling his lip. “Brian will badger me into wearing a coat. You’ll make feel guilty for not putting it on in the first place.”
Terry narrowed his eyes and looked at Richard funny. Dylan noticed. “What’s up, Ter?”
Terry’s eyes grew wide. “Richard, do I need to get up and walk away from you for my own safety?”
Dylan was confused. “Dude, what are you talking about?”
Richard held up his hand. “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to catch on, Terry.”
Dylan was watching Terry closely, and he knew what he was doing—reading Richard’s energy. Suddenly, Terry stood up and started backing away, eyes wide. He pointed at Richard. “You’re not alone in there, Richard.”
“No, I’m not. Now sit down before you scare the other patrons. Nobody ‘in here’ is going to hurt you.”
“Would someone tell me what’s going on, please?” Dylan asked. “’Cause Ah’m jus’ way too tired fer twenty questions.”
Terry sat down warily. He looked at Dylan. “Richard has a demon inside him,” he said.
Dylan exhaled deeply and slowly. “Waal, that makes sense. That’s why you can’t come home. The house is warded. So, what sort of varmint is it?”
Richard’s eyes flashed red, and when he spoke it was another voice that issued forth. “The sort of ‘varmint’ that feasts upon the souls of errant priests. So, watch yourself.”
Dylan scrunched up his face. “It’s Duunel, isn’t it?”
In a moment, the red glow had passed, and Richard’s voice reasserted itself as he nodded. “We’ve got…joint custody of the body. It’s a little crowded in here, but it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. It’s inconvenient, and I would never in a million years have thought of some of the shit he comes up with—twisted and brilliant, but trust me, more you do not want to know—but it’s okay.” He looked profoundly sad, and Dylan’s heart went out to him. “I’m just so tired, and I really, really wish I could come home.”
Dylan put his hand on his friend’s arm and squeezed. “Yer not the only one on the outs,” he said consolingly. “Remember Bishop Tom? He’s probably flying home right about now, feelin’ pretty low, Ah’ll wager.”
Richard jerked suddenly as if remembering something. Dylan watched as he fished in his pocket. With a dramatic slam he placed Solomon’s Ring before them.
“What do you want me to do with that?” Dylan asked him, picking it up with not a little trepidation.
“Send it to Bishop Tom.” Richard smiled broadly, chuckling audibly. “He needs an episcopal ring, after all. If this one doesn’t afford him respect, nothing will. Besides, if he activates it accidentally, it’ll do him good. He could probably stand to be reminded what a good guy he is about now.”
Dylan nodded, pleased with the plan. He put the ring in his pocket. Then he looked pensively at Richard. “Y’know dude, thar’s somethin’ Ah’ve been wonderin’ about.”
“What’s that?”
“What old man Dane ever did that so twisted his son’s soul. Do you think you could ask…you know, Duunel?”
Richard smiled sadly. “I already did. You know how most Satanic Ritual abuse is just urban myth?”
“Yeah, false memories and such,” Dylan responded.
“Well, in this instance, it was real. It seems old man Dane was consorting with demons for years. Alan Dane watched him kidnap and ritually sacrifice children for at least a decade.”
“So not all of them kids Mikael and I led away were the younger Dane’s victims?” Dylan said, understanding dawning in his eyes.
“Right.”
“Thet makes sense, ’cause there were an awful lot of ’em, and some of them looked like they was straight out o’ the Brady Bunch.”
Terry was nodding. “The younger Dane must have suffered terrible PTSD. No wonder he wanted to rescue them—to help them make their exit painlessly before his dad could do it ritually.”
“Yes,” Richard agreed. “And in his mind, since his own father was capable of such atrocities, weren’t all parents? Didn’t all children need to be rescued? He really did see himself as a savior, twisted as that seems to us.”
“An’ what about that whole overthrowing Heaven thing? Obviously, that campaign didn’t get off the ground,” Dylan said hopefully.
“I think Dane’s patronage sort of derailed the lodge’s plans, which I guess is a good thing unless you consider what would have happened if he had succeeded.” Richard stared at what remained of his cappuccino. “But don’t sell them short. The lodge is down but not out. I’ll wager this isn’t the last we’ll hear of them, or their nutso coup. In fact, when I
’ve had a chance to rest up a little, I’ve been thinking of giving Larch a call and suggesting a game of chess over sushi. Nobody minds being grilled quite so much when sushi is involved.”
“Thet’s always been mah experience,” Dylan agreed.
They sat in silence together for a few minutes, mulling the whole affair over. Then, tentatively, Dylan reached over and put his hand on Richard’s arm. “So, dude, do you still hate yerself?”
Richard smiled a large, sincere smile. “I don’t hate Duunel, I don’t even hate Dane. I don’t hate Mussolini or Stalin or Hitler. I don’t hate spiders or cockroaches or meter maids. How could I possibly hate myself?”
Dylan leaned forward and mussed at Richard’s hair. “That’s the kind of shit Ah like to hear from you, you sorry fuck.” Richard caught his hand and drew him into an awkward, across-the-table embrace.
Terry’s eyes were wet when Richard looked at him again. “Dicky, we brought something for you. We brought the mirror.”
Richard checked to see that the mirror was intact and set it aside.
“When are you due to meet Articiphus?” Dylan asked.
“Sundown. Soon.”
“You’ll also want to give him this,” Terry said, pulling a manila envelope out of his habit.
“What’s that?” Richard asked.
Terry smiled. “There are several things in there. Among them is a note for our friend the angel, written by moi in Enochian.” Terry’s smile broadened. “Let’s just say they’re instructions.”
77
“Greetings, fags!” Astrid said when Brian opened the door. The last light of day shot through an opening in the storm clouds, bathing the afternoon in an odd orange-pinkish glow.
“Ah’m not a fag,” protested Dylan, who was stripping the altar in preparation of the evening’s scrying.
“Get in here, you old tranny,” Brian said, giving her a hug.
“You and your ass-buddy coming to my housewarming on Sunday?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, taking her coat. “I’ll be bringing petits fours.”
“God! Can you get any more gay than that? A sack of cookies would do the job.”
She gave Dylan a kiss and began to unpack her scrying materials from the old bowling bag.
“Where’s Dicky?” she asked.
Dylan wasn’t sure how much he should say. He just stared at her for a moment. She cocked an eyebrow at him. Finally, he said, “He’s delivering the package. The one we’re scrying on.”
She nodded. Dylan knew she was kind and sensitive, regardless of her gruff persona. He knew that she knew that there was more to it.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “So, I hope you guys aren’t planning to make anything else disappear.”
“We didn’t make the avocados disappear,” protested Terry, coming into the room from the kitchen. “Or the dogs. We’ve been trying to stop it.” He put his arm around Brian and gave him a wet kiss full on the lips. “We did stop it.”
Just then, a pounding erupted from the ceiling. The thud came again and again, accompanied by piercing female shrieking. A small cloud of plaster dust wafted through the air of the chapel. “Either you’ve got an exorcism going on upstairs”—Astrid said, wiping the altar clean of plaster dust and carefully placing the scrying stone—“or some lucky wench is getting some.”
“Mikael and Kat are…making up for lost time,” Dylan explained.
“Did I hear the door?” Susan came out of the kitchen, rubbing lotion into her hands. “Oh, hello, Astrid. I’m so glad you could come on such short notice.”
“After what I saw last time? I wouldn’t miss it.” She pulled the light black blanket out of the bowling bag and draped it over her shoulders.
The others were seated in choir and waited as Astrid closed her eyes, relaxed her muscles, and meditated. After a few moments, she pulled the blanket over her head and began her gaze.
Dylan leaned into Susan and took her hand. She squeezed reassuringly. He looked up and saw Terry and Brian almost mirroring them in the opposite choir, hand in hand, looking anxious.
Brian broke the silence. “I think we’re hoping for too much, here.”
“Could be,” Dylan agreed, “but mah plan is to have faith until it’s horrendously and irreparably shattered.”
“Okay, gang, I’m getting something,” said Astrid, her hips wagging behind her.
“Whatcha see?” asked Terry. “And I don’t want to hear anything about Brian’s anus.”
Brian’s eyebrows shot up, and he wiggled in his seat, smiling. The late afternoon light poured in through the chapel windows, signaling a break in the rain.
Astrid wagged some more. “Okay, I don’t really understand it, but here’s what I see. There’s an angel. I think he’s the same one we were following last time. He’s unconscious, in the gutter. Okay, guys, Swedenborg never mentioned a homeless population in Heaven, but that’s exactly what this guy looks like.”
Kat and Mikael appeared in the doorway to the living room, their hair arrayed at shocking angles. “Well, someone’s radiating,” Susan said. It was true, Dylan saw. Kat was flushed, and even Mikael looked like he had actual red, human blood in his veins for a change.
“Hi, Astrid,” Mikael called, a little too loud.
“I’m under a blanket, not down a mine shaft,” Astrid reminded him. “And I think I’m also looking at the angel Kat’s brother is in. Hi, Kat.”
The beatific satisfaction on Kat’s face melted into concern. She sat in the choir next to Terry and held on to Mikael’s hand as he stood beside her.
“He’s passed out cold,” Astrid said. “He’s alone, too. No, wait, someone is coming toward him. Another angel, carrying a package. It’s heavy as hell, too. The guy can barely move it.”
“What does the package look like?” asked Terry.
“It’s big, like a covered painting,” Astrid said. “The new guy is kneeling by coma guy—”
“Hey, a little respect,” Kat said indignantly.
“Sorry. Angel B is kneeling by Angel A. I’m trying to make out the markings on his clothes. Terry, does elosyin mean anything to you?”
“Mah money’s on ‘mailman,’” Dylan guessed.
“No, it means ‘physic.’ He’s a doctor.”
“Who knew they had doctors in Heaven?” Dylan asked no one in particular.
“Of course they have doctors in Heaven,” Astrid snapped from under her blanket. “What would the earthly doctors do when they got there if there was no work for them? And what would happen when angels got sick?”
“Ah guess I didn’t count on angels gettin’ sick is all,” Dylan admitted.
“Okay, turning our attention from third-grade Heaven to the real thing,” Astrid continued, “Angel B has uncovered the package. It’s…a mirror.”
“That’s it, all right,” Terry looked at Kat and nodded. She held his eye and nodded back.
“It’s glowing. I mean it’s really shining. A bright purple light is coming from it—no, the light is moving, floating free of the mirror! It’s blinding, people for blocks around are shielding their eyes. I can’t see what’s happening. Oh, now it’s diminishing. I think the light was absorbed by Angel A. He’s stirring, at least.”
“He’s dead now, isn’t he?” Kat asked.
“No, he’s waking up. Aren’t you paying attention?” Astrid said, but Dylan couldn’t tell if she was really irritated or mocking.
“No, not the angel. I mean my brother. Isn’t he being…shoved out of the angel’s body? Isn’t he simply…dissipating, now?”
“I don’t know, Darling,” Astrid’s voice was softer, now. “I just know Angel A is awake.”
Kat blinked back tears and clutched harder at Mikael’s hand.
“He seems to be okay. A little disoriented. He’s shaking his head, holding his head, shaking his head again. He’s trying to stand. Angel B is giving him a hand up…”
“Way to go, Angel B,” said Brian.
&nbs
p; “Angel A is standing. He’s leaning against a building. Now he’s standing free. He’s looking at the sky. He’s trying out his hands. They work.”
“He did have trouble with the hands,” Terry remembered. “Must be nice to have his own back.”
“Okay, Doctor Guy is checking him out. He’s feeling at his head. He seems to be meditating…”
Terry turned to Brian and fixed his fingers to either side of his head. “My mind…to your mind…” he said, with mock-pained dramatic pauses between every syllable.
“There’s more important things in the world than Kirk-Spock slash fic, faggots,” Astrid commented.
“Not much,” Terry protested.
“There is food,” Brian suggested.
“And sex,” admitted Terry, “but even that’s better when I can be Kirk.”
“Oh sure, that would fly,” Astrid interjected, “if Kirk were a nelly midget.”
“Who says Kirk can’t be a little nelly?” Terry pouted.
“Can we focus, please?” asked Susan, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms.
“Okay, Doctor Angel is giving Homeless Angel an envelope.”
Terry sucked in a deep breath and rocked back and forth. “Good, good!”
Astrid’s tail wagged to the left. “He’s opening it. He’s reading something…”
“A letter,” Kat said. “Terry wrote it.”
“There’s something else in the envelope, too,” Astrid went on. “Magazine clippings? Could that be right? What, you didn’t want to send him into the next world without reading material?”
“They’re pictures,” Kat said. “Of things that don’t exist anymore.”
“Homeless Angel Guy is turning toward the city center…”
“Can we give him a new name?” asked Susan. “‘Homeless Angel’ sounds disrespectful.”
“It sounds like a pulp novel,” Dylan suggested.
“Or a Lifetime movie,” Terry added.
“He’s nodding at the doctor, turning the corner. He’s heading straight for the Azaziazel—”