by R. M. Ridley
Putting a hex on your front screen ranked not only as overly paranoid, it was bad practice.
Delivery people often left packages between the screen and inner door and it would be troublesome for a defense spell to activate whenever they did.
It would be a little conspicuous if every time someone running for the city school board swung open his door to knock, smile, and blather, and then turned into charred meat. Or if a girl scout came toting her boxes of overly priced crack-in-cookie-form and got cursed and turned into a toad, it would garner a bit of attention—even in this city.
Jonathan opened the screen and, as he suspected, nothing happened.
He set the little tab on the pressure arm so it would remain open without having to touch it, and began to study the inner door.
It could have been made from one of a handful of trees with strong natural magical properties. Oak, ash, or even hawthorn—the trio said to be sacred to the good people, the Fay—were first to come to mind.
Again, symbols could be placed to blend into the darker grain of the wood. A clever person could set them on the edge of the door, thus protecting it from being forced physically or tampered with magically.
Jonathan wasn’t sure if he had the time to examine this as carefully as he might like; he had to meet with Wendell shortly.
He still needed to actually speak with this Orville Kingston person. Who knew how that would go? Jonathan decided to speed things up a little.
If the door had protection by sigils or enchantments, then he’d just have to set it off with as little chance of backlash to himself. He ran through a couple of possible spells which could work for what he had in mind and finally settled on a concussion spell.
He planned on creating a sonic boom, in essence. It would be a tiny one, but it wouldn’t just be sound waves rippling out. Riding on the sound waves would be energy of a different nature.
Tiny pieces of the energy used to create the spell would be carried along with the wave. A good spell for knocking out a window or cracking a crystal, he had even used it to break protective circles in the past.
Jonathan raised his hand and bent his middle and ring finger over his palm. He began to recite a musical passage while rubbing his fingers against each other.
Something about this spell always gave Jonathan more than the usual payoff of endorphins, the White Dragon leaping and spiraling wildly under him as he summoned it.
Swirling out from between his fingers, a pearlescent, soft blue-green film began to pool in the palm of his hand and, as it grew, became spherical.
Slowly, Jonathan raised his fingers and held what looked like nothing more than a large soap bubble.
He stopped speaking and stepped back. He stood with his back against the wood pillar supporting the front corner of the porch.
Jonathan tossed the translucent orb at the wood door.
Still a foot from contacting the wood, he spoke the word which triggered it to pop.
Unfortunately, at the same moment, the door swung open . . .
And a man suddenly appeared.
He managed to say, “What—” before the blast wave used him as a material representation of physics.
He disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared.
The spell had lifted him off his feet and tossed him backwards into his own house like a dirty sock. Jonathan warred between the urge to rush forward and apologize or to jump off the porch and run for cover.
The words “Oh, my,” wheezed from within the house convinced him walk over to the doorway.
Inside, lying on a carpet runner on the hardwood floor was Orville Kingston.
Grey hair, now a rat’s nest, and a twitching moustache. A red-checkered cardigan and brown corduroys. The front of the man’s white shirt had been untucked. One shoe appeared to be completely missing.
Orville had just got his elbows under him as Jonathan looked in.
“I was going to ask just what you were doing hanging about my front porch,” Orville said, looking up at Jonathan. “But I think I’ll change my question, if it’s all the same to you.”
The man looked a little angry, sufficiently disorientated, and quite harmless.
Jonathan wondered how anyone could suspect the man of stealing money from his job. Thinking that very question made Jonathan decide he wouldn’t let appearances deceive him. How something manifested was something he should know better than to place any trust in, in the first place. He cursed himself for letting this case mess him up.
Jonathan strode through the door and, extending his hand, began to incant in Sumerian. He moved his fingers so slowly it appeared as though they didn’t move at all.
Immediately, a deliciously rich power rolled into him and the White Dragon lifted him higher.
His fingers may not have been moving fast, but that didn’t stop a thick, dark red substance from oozing out of the flesh of his two fingers, as if his blood were turning to tar. The spell was a strong one, and he could feel the draw on his bones immediately.
The taste of iron filled his mouth. He knew, in part, the taste came from the energy of the spell itself, but only part. He had ruptured something; it might even be the spell corroding his flesh. It wasn’t a pleasant one.
Jonathan continued to speak the words of the plague summoning. Carefully keeping his eyes on Orville, he eased forward. He kept going, step by step, until he got close enough for the substance gathering on his digits to drop in a slow trailing tendril, like blood molasses.
The substance seemed to hypnotize Orville and he stared with wide eyes. Still on the floor, propped on his elbows with his legs awry, Orville watched—even as the first drip oozed off Jonathan’s hand.
As the drop fell, Orville followed it, as fascinated as he was disgusted.
What he wasn’t? Scared.
At the last moment, Jonathan shoved Orville’s corduroy covered hips out of the way.
That first drop fell to the floor and appeared to sink right through, leaving behind only the slightest discoloration.
“What the—? Who are you?”
“No one,” Jonathan quickly scooped his own hand around to stop the second drop from falling. He marched from the house, leaving the doors wide open, and the owner on the floor of his front hall. As he strode down the walk, he spoke the words to stop the spell.
He wiped the stuff on his hand against the curb, grunting against the pain of his bruised stomach muscles. Once more, he’d almost managed to forget about the pain.
The plague he’d conjured sunk into the concrete. It retained the palest of stains, while the grass bordering it immediately turned red brown and crumbled.
Jonathan took a tissue from his glove box, wiped off the rest of the substance he’d summoned, and tossed it into the gutter. It would be inert within seconds.
Panting, he tried starting the Lincoln while his heart raced double time.
As Jonathan tried to deal with having almost set a horrid plague on an innocent man, both the White Dragon and the Dragon Black circled his soul. Each wanting to claim him for their own, leaving a midnight white, ice hot need ripping through his nerves.
When the engine turned over, he pulled away from the curb hard and fast.
In the rearview mirror, Jonathan caught sight of Orville trying to get his screen door to close, but the concussion spell had warped the aluminum.
By the time Jonathan arrived at his office, he had mostly calmed down.
The ride over had been fast and filled with cursing, however. He had also emptied his flask in the first five minutes of the drive, burning away the need with a poor substitute.
The power he’d called through him had been intense. The backlash from it just the same. The Dragon Black tore through his mind and soul. His body felt as though the limbs of some immense creature coiled around him. A beast, from the depths of the ocean, to whom sunlight and air were a deadly myth, dragged him down to its world.
Jonathan had really hoped Orville would pan out as the figure
behind the fear.
It wouldn’t explain how Orville performed spells that left no trace, or called multiple psychopomps, but he wanted to be able to lay his hands on the culprit.
Jonathan wanted to stop being baffled, helpless, and already at a dead end before he had even started.
Stepping onto the third floor of his building, he slowed and cautiously approached his office.
The tight pain of his abdomen reminded him of the consequences from the last time he allowed himself to be so wrapped up in the case that he let his wits leave him.
He didn’t think it likely he would be visited by anyone from that damn company again—at least not quite this soon anyway.
However, he had more than just one group of people pissed at him. There existed a number of individuals who would like to see Jonathan Alvey get what they would consider his comeuppance.
His body really could not afford to be battered about any more at the moment, though, so with gun drawn and senses alert, he entered his front office.
It was empty.
His personal office also failed to contain any concealed threat or waiting goons.
He tossed his gun in the top desk drawer, closed it, and opened the one that held the bourbon. He filled the nearest glass, slopping some of the precious liquid on the desk. The first glass went down in one gulp, and the second. The third, he managed to pour without spilling any.
He hadn’t gotten any answers, but having Wendell visit wouldn’t be a complete waste of time because he had one last ace up his sleeve—Tinashe.
He hated having to go to the woman almost as much as she hated seeing him walk through the door of her shop. However, if anyone could make a gris-gris that would actually protect Wendell, it was her.
He didn’t think Tinashe would hassle him too much, as Wendell actually needed her help, not him. Jonathan held out the hope that the pleasure of having him come begging just might actually make her enjoy the visit—but he doubted it.
He looked at the protective circle he’d drawn on the floor. He knew it had worked, felt the power build in it as he’d constructed each sigil and phrase. The finished seal, as a whole, still pulsed with energy and Jonathan should have felt proud of the work, but he didn’t.
His feelings fell along quite the opposite side of the coin. He felt desperate.
It seemed as if every move he took landed on his client’s toes. He fumbled each dance step and couldn’t quite seem to find his rhythm. And as far as Jonathan was concerned, on this case, he couldn’t even hear the music.
He downed his glass and tried to stop stressing about his failure. Instead, he knew he had to continue to search for a means by which he could actually accomplish something.
He had already accepted the likelihood that he would need to use the contingency plan in place, as he hadn’t gained any new information today—the last day to play around. Tomorrow was the predicted day, and Jonathan wasn’t going to allow the prediction to come to fruition.
The circle in his office would keep at bay anything wishing Wendell harm and he had his nine-millimeter Beretta with its lethal lead for any mortal hoping to storm the building.
Thinking of firearms, Jonathan pulled his .45 ‘Judge’ out of the drawer. It held a different sort of ammunition. He took the time to load it before holstering it at the small of his back. Then he loaded two speed rings and, setting one in the drawer, pocketed the other.
The bullets he had just loaded were unique and made by his own hand.
The slug in it, made from rowan wood, acted like a hollow point bullet. On impact it sent splinters in a wide swath through the recipient of the projectile. Those splinters would aggravate creatures of a paranormal nature.
Rowan wood was sacred and highly charged, magically. When used as a vessel, wand, or as an ingredient in a ritual, it had a strong effect. Imbedded inside a paranormal creature’s wound, its effect became quite different and more treacherous.
Many creatures could shrug off a normal bullet or heal the damage from it at an annoyingly accelerated rate. When rowan got added to the equation, however, it could arrest that superior healing ability and disrupt the creature’s ability to draw on its own energy. In some cases, it would continue to cause damage, like a person snorting cocaine while having a coronary.
With both guns strapped to his person, each loaded with a different ammunition, Jonathan set about preparing himself for what had begun to feel was his only option to help Wendell now.
Protect him.
He fortified the salt around the windows and set some aside for the door once they had re-entered for the twenty-four hours slated for Wendell’s death.
He topped up his flask of holy water. He took grave dirt, sulfur, and bone meal from the closet. These made the three base ingredients for any conjuring seriously meant to screw over another individual.
He hoped none of it would be necessary, but he didn’t plan on making it easy on anyone, or anything, that tried to get to his client.
When Wendell walked through his door, Jonathan felt secure in his ability to close up, seal off, and defend his space.
Wendell greeted Jonathan absently, busy fiddling with his watch. “You all right, Wendell?”
“Hmm?” His client looked up. “Oh, sorry. My watch seems to have stopped, see? I didn’t think the battery was that old, but I guess it must be.”
“I see.”
Jonathan wondered how such a thing could captivate Wendell’s attention on this particular day. He knew the man to be a bit peculiar. Nice enough, but most certainly of a sort.
“Like I said yesterday, I want to bring you to see someone. She’s the best, or perhaps the best I’m willing to work with. She’s a Haitian who practices the vodun ways. I am going to ask her to make a gris-gris for you.” Jonathan saw Wendell look at him askance and added, “It’s sort of like an aboriginal Indian’s medicine pouch. It’s for protection—among other things.”
“If you think it will help, Mr. Alvey, then I’m certainly not going to nay-say you.”
“Okay, good. We’ll just take my car. There’s no need to caravan and I’ll feel safer if I know where you are at all times for the next forty-eight hours or so.”
Wendell nodded his consent and Jonathan grabbed his coat.
He had reached the outer office door when, with a snap of his fingers, he spun on his heel and darted back into his office.
He opened the drawer of the filing cabinet he used to store his extra bottles of Bourbon and, seeing the empty space the last bottle had occupied, made himself a mental note to pick up more since they faced a long and boring wait while stuck in the office.
From the very back of the drawer, Jonathan extracted a nice wooden box with a glass lid. Inside were nestled five cigars.
They were Cuban and, though not the best money could buy, were still quality tobacco. He got them from a mob guy he knew who smuggled them across the Canadian border.
Jonathan took one of the cigars from the mini humidor, tucked it in the inside breast pocket of his coat, and replaced the humidor in the filing cabinet.
“Let’s go do this, then.” He led Wendell down the stairs and out to where he’d parked the Lincoln.
“Answer any questions she asks of you, and try not to get upset by anything she may say to me,” Jonathan told his client once the car had started.
“This woman really doesn’t like you?”
“That would be one way of saying it,” he mumbled, pulling into the flow of traffic.
He hadn’t seen Tinashe in a few months—an arrangement they both preferred. Sometimes, though, Jonathan found himself with no choice but to visit her shop.
He had hoped it wouldn’t be too busy when they arrived. Tinashe delighted in being more caustic with him when her regulars were present.
Pulling into a space on the opposite side of the road from her store, Jonathan noted with regret that his hopes had been ignored once again. A number of people milled about inside the shop.
; “The gods just won’t give me a break on this one, will they?” With a sigh, Jonathan opened his door and said, “All right, let’s hope this goes better than last time.”
Wendell got out and looked about while Jonathan took out a small container of Vaseline and smeared some on the hood of his car in a particular pattern. The silver dust embedded in the petroleum jelly gleamed dully under the cloudy sky.
“Looks like snow,” Wendell said, apropos of nothing.
“Figures,” Jonathan mumbled and led the way to Tinashe’s store.
Once he’d crossed the street, Jonathan saw there were four customers in the store: two women together, one large man, and a tourist.
He thought of the individuals who entered places like Tinashe’s only to give themselves a thrill, a look at the displays with no intention of buying or seeking aid, as tourists.
For them, it was not a way of life, or religious belief, but a guilty delight. An exotic story to share over a glass of wine with friends. Jonathan thought them worse than kids poking a dead animal in the eye with a stick.
For those who believed in the Vodun way as a religious conviction, this shop represented more than a place to purchase ingredients for ceremonies and religious rites. Tinashe’s served as a place to seek guidance and spiritual aid.
For practitioners of the arts, like Jonathan, it was one of the few places where essential ingredients could be found and purchased, information obtained, and rumors heard. Except, for he and Tinashe, it didn’t always work out that way.
Allowing Wendell to enter first, he all too happily let the door close behind him, severing the leech of winter from his back.
Jonathan turned to his right and to the geezer seated there. He slid the cigar from his inner pocket and presented it to the gentleman who was a fixture of the store.
He had theories regarding the patrician of the door. They ranged in belief from him being Tinashe’s mentor to the possibility he was her grandfather. Sometimes, he thought the man nothing more than that, simply an old man who liked to spend his retirement sitting inside the door of the shop.
One thing that was not speculation, regardless of which of his theories might be right, the more favorably inclined the old fellow seemed towards Jonathan, the less grief Tinashe gave him during his visit.