“Translation from what?”
“Ancient Assyrian.”
“I mean from what text?” Libby asked.
Ashley shook her head. “You wouldn’t recognize the name, honey. The last copy was destroyed when Julius Caesar burned the Great Library at Alexandria.”
“If you say so.” Libby rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’ve seen pictures of the kind of sling that David supposedly used. A small pouch with two long leather thongs attached to it, right?”
“That’s the one. You whirl it over your head to build up momentum, then let go of one of the thongs while making a throwing motion toward your enemy. The Apache Indians were still using something very similar as late as the nineteenth century. In the right hands, one of those things can be quite lethal.”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t have the right hands, at the moment,” Libby said. “And developing a set would probably take more time than I’ve got, right now.”
“Three to six months of practice ought to do it,” Ashley said with a smile.
“Exactly what I just said – more time than I’ve got. Whatever these jihadists have in mind – assuming they even exist – my guess is they probably won’t wait three to six months to get around to it.”
“Speaking of thongs,” Ashley said, picking up her underwear and pulling it on, “do you think I look good in this one?”
“You’d probably look good in a burlap sack,” Libby said. “But, yeah, you look fantastic.”
“Flattery – I love it.” Ashley reached for her white silk blouse. “You know, honey, I don’t think you’d need to use a sling to take down this afreet. David used one, because that was what was available in his low-tech era. But you’ve got quite a few other options. Hell, for that matter, why not just use magic to fling a peach pit at the thing? Or a hundred peach pits?”
“Not allowed,” Libby said. “We can’t use white magic to hurt people, remember?”
“Um, I’m not sure that afreets qualify as people, sweetie.”
“If it’s humanoid and has achieved reflectivity,” Libby said, “then I’m pretty sure the rule still applies.”
Ashley was pulling on her tight black pants as she said, “You whities put so many limits on yourselves, I’m surprised there are any of you left.” She buttoned up, looking at Libby. “Pleased, in this case, but still surprised.”
“It is what it is,” Libby said. “You said something about other ways of firing off a fruit pit?”
“What does it matter, if you can’t use any of them?”
“Who says I can’t? I can use a fucking Uzi if I want to, Ashley. The moral consequences of that are between me and the Goddess. But as long as magic’s not involved, the Sisterhood doesn’t care.”
“Oh, well, then. Let’s see ...” Ashley slipped on her tan Manolo Blahniks. “There are slingshots that are used for hunting. I assume those have enough velocity to ruin any afreet’s day. You point them like a gun, and squeeze a trigger – this is not your father’s slingshot, honey.”
“Sounds promising,” Libby said.
“Then there are those paintball guns.”
“What? Paintball?”
“It’s a game played by alleged adults who think war is actually fun. After two hours in a real war, most of them would be crying for their mothers. They run around specially built courses in camo fatigues, shooting at each other with these gas-propelled guns that fire little balls filled with paint, to prove when somebody’s been shot. There’s quite an industry that’s grown up around it, I understand.”
“That’s worth looking into, then,” Libby said. “Thank you.”
Ashley headed toward the door of the bedroom. “Don’t get up, honey – I know the way out.” She stopped suddenly and looked at Libby. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You’re just the second person to say that to me today, that’s all.”
Ashley tilted her head a little. “You and Quincey have a lover’s spat?”
“We aren’t lovers, Ashley – you know that. If we were, you wouldn’t be here.”
“In that case, I’m glad that you’re not. Where is Quincey tonight, anyway?”
“Trying to track down a guy we know, who might have a line on this afreet. I’ll find out tomorrow whether he succeeded.”
“So, you two might be on the road again, soon – busting ghosts and saving the world from the forces of evil.”
“Could be,” Libby said.
“Well, call me when you get back – or not, if you want to go back to being a good girl.”
“I’ll have to give that some thought.”
“You do that.”
“Goodnight, Ashley.”
“Goodbye, Libby.”
Fifteen
EVER PUNCTUAL, QUINCEY Morris arrived at Strangefellows Bar and Grille at midnight precisely. He’d been mildly amused at Barry Love’s choice of meeting time. Of course, there was the widespread notion of midnight as the “witching hour,” when magic practitioners supposedly held their revels, although Barry Love probably knew better. Morris’s experience was that, when it came time to party down, most witches (of the “black” variety or otherwise) were more interested in the phase of the moon than a particular hour, as long as darkness had fallen – dancing naked in broad daylight can get you into trouble.
According to legend, witches and wizards had chosen midnight to gather because it was the hour when the dark powers (whatever they were supposed to be) were at their strongest – that myth went back to Shakespeare, if not earlier. Trouble was, the existence of time zones meant that it was always midnight somewhere. Morris had sometimes wondered if the dark powers kept moving west every hour, in order to keep their evil at maximum potency.
There was also the notion popular in some circles that 3:00 a.m. was the “devil’s hour,” being the exact opposite side of the clock from 3:00 p.m., the supposed time of Christ’s death. The problem with declaring three in the morning as the moment when demons came out to play (apart from the time zone issue again) was that nobody on Golgotha that fateful day was wearing a watch. The hour had been arbitrarily selected by the Catholic Church centuries later, as had the date of Christmas. Curious about the “devil’s hour,” Morris had dome some research, only to find that the designation had been invented out of whole cloth by a Hollywood scriptwriter, for some dumb movie about an exorcism gone wrong. Thus do legends begin, sometimes.
In Morris’s not inconsiderable experience, every hour was potentially the devil’s hour. Anyone who felt protected from the powers of Hell at some particular time of day was deluding himself.
In contrast to the dark cavern that Morris had been expecting, Strangefellows was well-lit and noisy, with most of the booths and tables occupied. Going by the haze of smoke that hovered over the big room, this was one of the many bars in the city ignoring the no-smoking ordinance. Morris scanned the room; the place seemed to be some kind of supernatural watering hole – neutral ground where different creatures could drink without fear of being eaten, sometimes literally – not unlike the establishment of the same name in the dark side of London.
He could discern the auras of four different witches scattered around the room – three white, and one black. A couple of guys sitting at the bar looked like ghouls, and Morris could not help but wonder what their preferred bar snack might be. Several diminutive figures sat around a circular table at the far side of the room, but Morris couldn’t tell if they were dwarves or trolls. You have to get close to tell the difference, and Morris had no interest in doing so.
Then he saw Barry Love, sitting in a corner booth and talking to a man in a black leather jacket. Not wanting to interrupt, Morris was about to look for a seat at the bar (away from the ghouls, whose bad breath is infamous) when Love looked up and waved him over.
As he drew closer, Morris saw that Love’s friend had droopy eyes that made him look like a basset hound. He had heavy eyebrows and thick brown hair to match, a fair amount of which was also sprouting
from his ears. Morris stood near the edge of the booth, unsure what side Barry Love wanted him to sit on. Love looked at his drinking companion and said, “Larry, this is Quincey Morris, the guy I was telling you about.” He looked up at Morris. “Quincey, meet Larry Talbot.”
Talbot eased out of the booth and stood up to shake Morris’s hand. He was bigger than he’d looked sitting down, and Morris noticed that the palm of Talbot’s big hand was covered with a tuft of coarse hair.
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Morris,” Talbot said. “Barry’s told me a lot about you, although I’m pretty sure I heard your name a few times before tonight.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Morris told him. “Just the good stuff. And call me Quincey, okay?”
“Sure, Quincey, thanks.” Talbot turned to Love. “I gotta get going – I’ll catch up with you later in the week, okay?”
Love said, “Sure – take care.” Talbot gave Morris a friendly nod, and lumbered off.
At a gesture from Barry Love, Morris sat in the place opposite him that the big man had vacated. Morris looked at Talbot’s departing back and said to Love, “Werewolf, isn’t he?”
Love gave him a crooked smile. “Guess you noticed the hairy palm. My Aunt Rita would have said that means he jerks off a lot – but then she also used to tell me that a girl could get pregnant from French kissing. Yeah, you’re right – he’s a lycanthrope.”
A waitress came to the table, and Morris ordered bourbon and water, which appeared before him with commendable dispatch.
“I had a bad experience with a werewolf near Boston, not long ago,” Morris said. “I’m pretty sure he’d been hired to kill me – and Libby.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that some lycos’ve been hiring out as hit men – or hit wolves, I guess. But that’s not their normal behavior – don’t judge the whole pack by the actions of a few rogues.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Morris said. “So, did your furry friend have any info about my little problem?”
“No, he didn’t know anything about either afreets or the Seal of Solomon. But I guy I talked to earlier tonight did have one interesting fact – or he said it was a fact, anyway – about afreets.”
“I’m all ears.”
“He said he had it on good authority that they like lion hearts.”
Morris closed his eyes for a second. “Wait – you mean they were brave, like Richard the Lionheart? That’s not real helpful, podner.”
“No, pay attention,” Love said. “I didn’t tell you they’re like lionhearts. What I said was they like lion hearts. As food, man.”
“Afreets eat the hearts of lions? Shit, no wonder lions are almost extinct.”
“What my guy told me was that they don’t need food, since they’re spiritual beings, so my guess is they leave the lions alone, most of the time. But if they’re going to eat, seems like lion hearts are their snack of choice.”
“Not exactly something you can pick up at your local Stop & Shop, is it?” Morris said. “So afreets don’t have to eat lion hearts – they just like to. Weird.”
Love shrugged. “Humans don’t need chocolate – despite what a lady of my acquaintance tells me. But lots of us eat it, anyway.”
“Sure, but supernaturals are different from us. They’re more... primal.”
“I know what you mean,” Love said, “and I tend to agree. But there are exceptions. I once ran into a vampire called Jerry –”
“That sounds like the start of a limerick,” Morris said. “There once was a vampire named Jerry, whose meals were frequently scary.” That drew a laugh from Barry Love.
“Jerry...” Morris said, shaking his head. “What is the supernatural world coming to?”
“They aren’t all named ‘Vlad’ or ‘Anton,’ Quincey. You know that, same as I do. Anyway my point was, Jerry was a vamp, with the typical vamp liquid dietary needs. But he also liked apples, as a snack. Go figure.”
“You learn something new every day,” Morris said. “You said this Jerry liked apples. Past tense?”
“Yeah, I heard he went out to California, and got himself killed by some high school kid. Jerry always was a –” Love stopped speaking and looked at the entrance. “Somebody just came in who might be worth talking to,” he said. He waited a couple of seconds, then waved his arm in the direction of the door. “Here he comes. Scoot over, will you?”
Morris moved over far enough to leave room for somebody to sit next to him. The man who approached the table stood about 5’5”, with a head that looked too large for his body and thin black hair that was plastered over his skull with too much dressing. He looked out at the world with brown eyes so hooded as to be only half-visible.
“Hi, Kaspar,” Barry Love said. “How’re you doing tonight?”
“I find that I am very well, thank you.” His voice was soft and velvety, like a cat’s purr. The shaded eyes glanced toward Morris, and the little man continued, “I do not believe, however, that I have the acquaintance of your friend here.”
“Kaspar, meet Quincey,” Love said. “Quincey, this is my old buddy Kaspar. With a ‘K.’” No last names this time, Morris noticed.
Kaspar turned toward him and sketched a slight bow. “A great pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.” Wondering where the little man had picked up his archaic speech, Morris extended a hand. “Likewise, I’m sure.”
Kaspar’s arms remained at his sides. “I assure you that I mean you no offense, Mister... Quincey, but I never shake hands. The very idea is abhorrent to me.”
Morris withdrew his hand and settled for a friendly nod. “No problem,” he said. He’d met a few germaphobes before – assuming that was Kaspar’s quirk, and not something weirder. It was probably just as well – shake with a guy like Kaspar, and your first instinct would be to wipe your hand on your pants leg.
“Why don’t you join us for a few minutes?” Love said. After a moment’s hesitation, Kaspar replied, “It would be my pleasure.” He slid in next to Morris, who unconsciously moved as far to the right as he could, until his leg was touching the wall.
“What’re you drinking?” Love asked.
“I believe I will have an absinthe.”
Well, that figured. Absinthe has only been legal for sale in the U.S. since 2007, although the supposed hallucinogenic properties that once had it banned worldwide were largely mythical. The real reason it had been outlawed here was that the drink had been a favorite product of amateur distillers in the South, who often left in impurities that could kill you. Nowadays, consuming absinthe properly is a fussy, pretentious process; it fitted a guy like Kaspar like a custom-made suit.
Once the drink order was placed, Barry Love said to Kaspar, “I wanted a few minutes of your time. I was wondering whether you knew anything about afreets.”
Kaspar frowned, which seemed to involve most of the muscles of his face. “The fire djinn, you mean?” He shook his big head slowly. “Apart from what one may read in the Thousand and One Nights, I regret to say that I know nothing.”
“So,” Morris said, “I reckon that would mean you haven’t heard of anybody smuggling one into the country.”
Kaspar looked at him. “Alas, no. Although it should be acknowledged that such smuggling would be laughably easy. If one had an afreet confined inside a vessel, a jar or lamp or some such, one could without risk hand it over to a customs inspector for perusal. Unless the official knew the proper incantation, and had the courage – or the stupidity – to use it, the vessel would appear quite empty.”
Then the absinthe arrived, and Kaspar had to go through the whole ritual – the slotted spoon, the sugar cube, the ice water – all to make the emerald-green drink palatable.
Neither Morris nor Love interrupted this procedure, but once Kaspar had finished, and taken his first sip, Love said, “How about the Seal of Solomon? Heard anything about that?”
Kaspar moved his thin shoulders in an elaborate shrug. “If one refers to legend, the Great Seal was said to be
of immense power over the spirit world, having been given to the King by the Creator Himself. It supposedly gave Solomon dominion over demons and djinn alike.”
After another swallow of the green liquor, Kaspar went on, “However, if one wishes to speak in contemporary terms, much is speculated, but little known for certain. It is widely believed that the Great Seal was broken into pieces millennia ago, the fragments scattered to the four winds.”
“What about something a little more recent?” Love said.
“Today?” Kaspar gave the most elegant snort that Morris had ever heard. “As one might imagine, there have been many ‘sightings’ throughout the Middle East, most proven bogus. A true fragment was said to be held by a Chicago museum – until recently, that is. There have also been persistent rumors that the Knights Templar possess one, but –”
“Wait a second,” Morris said. “The Knights Templar?”
The big head turned toward Morris again, its facial expression looking mildly offended. “That is what I said, yes.”
“The order of warrior-priests, started in the Middle Ages.”
“Yes, the very same.” Kaspar’s voice had taken on a supercilious tone.
“The ones that were destroyed by...” Morris tried to remember.
“Philip IV of France,” Love said, looking as perturbed as Morris felt. “Early thirteen hundreds, I think.”
“Right, that’s him,” Morris said. “He owed the Knights a pile of money, right? Rather than pay off, he had them framed for heresy and burned at the stake – damn near all of them. Wiped out the whole Order.”
The little man’s smile was so smug, Morris felt the urge to wipe it off – with his fist. “Perhaps one should say ‘supposedly wiped out,’” Kaspar said.
Morris and Love looked at each other. “So, what’re you saying, dude?” Love asked skeptically. “That the Templars are still around, and they’ve got a piece of Solomon’s Seal?”
Midnight At The Oasis Page 7