“You know that for a fact?”
“Enough to stay and watch.” She takes off her bag and drops it in the corner. “I know what you’re thinking: you’ve got this picture in your head of being found dead an’ there’ll be all these people—Caxton, Ferdia, your boss—saying what a tragedy, the way your Gift just disappeared, and what a great sorcerer you were—how brave an’ all that crap.”
I’m desperately trying to look like she hasn’t seen right through me.
“If you go into this, you know, thinking like that . . . well, that’s what’ll happen an’ I’m not letting you get away with it.” She drags off her red duffle coat and tosses it after the bag. “If you go down, I’m going down with you.” She pokes her finger hard into my chest. “So you better get it right, yeah?”
“It’s illegal. I haven’t got authorization from the Society.”
“You didn’t have to get it before.”
“This is different. I’m going to summon a demon.”
Marvo’s staring at me. “Won’t you go to hell?”
“Not if I’m careful.”
She hesitates, just for a moment. “Better get on with it then.”
“Right, there’s four censers in the second cupboard along the alcove outside. You’ll find silk gloves in the drawer under the bench.”
Hell, I need all the help I can get.
One good thing about Marvo: she’s quick to catch on. I show her where to hang the censers and get her to fill them with laurel charcoal and start it burning, while I unpack all the cutlery from my case. We set up four candles and light them. I pull a linen surcoat out of one of the cupboards and tell her to put it on.
I’m rushing because the dieners come in at seven and even though they’re half blind they may just notice that the body and head have disappeared from the ice room. But at last I’ve got everything set up. I close the doors. I jab a finger toward Mr. Memory, still standing in his corner, looking mildly interested.
“Don’t move.”
Right. Starting from the center and working out, I’ve got a circle just large enough for me to stand in and wave my arms about without knocking over a small copper brazier and the cage containing the rat. Another concentric circle outside that, making a ring with symbols scrawled around it.
That’s all inside a square with its sides parallel to the walls of the room. Then another larger square, rotated through 45 degrees so that its corners point north, south, east, and west. Inside each of its angles there’s a small pentagram: a five-pointed star drawn with five single strokes. Plus a small cross extending from each corner. Pay attention at the back . . .
Farther out, I’ve got four circles, each containing a hexagram—a six-pointed star constructed from two interlocking equilateral triangles. Marvo, in her linen coat, is standing in the western star with a brazier at her feet. She’s clutching a silver shaker and a glass bottle and looks justifiably scared.
Not half as scared as I am. But then I know what’s coming.
Surrounding all this I’ve drawn an outer ring: two more concentric circles, a couple of yards apart. Between these I’ve drawn the outline of a snake. Starting from the head, at the north, it spirals inward through two and a half loops so that the tail ends at the south. Along the entire length of its body I’ve drawn almost a hundred symbols.
This ring isn’t closed. There’s a gap of about ten inches in the outer circle, to the north, beside the snake’s head. And there’s a similar gap at the southernmost point of the inner circle, by the snake’s tail.
Another yard outside the outer ring, at the north-east, south-east, south-west, and north-west, four pentagrams, each with a blue candle burning at its center.
And finally—no, really! To the east, there’s a large equilateral triangle. Along its sides I’ve written TETRAGRAMMATON, PRIMEUMATON, and ANAPHAXETON. Inside the angles, the word MI CHA EL, split into three. The triangle encloses three circles. One contains the body and another the head, both lying on silk cloths on the floor.
The third circle is empty. So far.
I’m wearing a white linen robe with symbols embroidered over my heart in red silk, white silk slippers, and a paper crown with “EL” written on it. I’ve got a lion-skin belt tied tight around my waist, with a wand and a sword stuck through it. I’m clutching a handful of white ash and a black-handled knife.
A silver disk hangs from my neck by a silver chain.
Moving dead carefully—I can’t afford to drop anything—I enter the outermost circle through the gap at the north, by the snake’s head. I turn to let a trickle of ashes fall through my fingers, sealing the boundary behind me.
Then I move sideways along the body of the snake, running the tip of the knife along the circumference of the outer circle. I lift and place my feet carefully, so as not to smudge any of the symbols. I recite the prayers as I go . . .
When I reach the snake’s tail, I step back through the gap in the inner circle and seal it with more ashes.
One final look around—and yeah, I’ve remembered to take off my ring. I step into the central circle. Blue flames flicker in the brazier. The rat peers up at me from its cage.
I turn to Marvo. I want to tell her how grateful I am. If it wasn’t for her I’d have charged into this and got myself blown up, just to prove a point.
“Whatever happens,” I say, “don’t step off the star.”
Chapter Fifteen
Naturally Blond
I pull my ceremonial sword out of my belt. White bone handle. Steel blade, razor sharp, polished like a mirror and etched with divine names.
The sword has only one application. A summoning creates an affinity. So when you dismiss a demon at the end of the ceremony, you use the sword to sever the link and prevent the Presence from coming back to bother you. Every year or so a sorcerer—not the same one, obviously—simply disappears after failing to sever the affinity with a demon.
The sword goes across the toes of my slippers. With shaking hands I pull a paper sachet from my pocket and sprinkle my prepared incense into the brazier. The heavy smell fills the room and I begin the conjuration.
“O Lord God Almighty, full of compassion, aid us in this work which we are about to perform.”
I raise one hand and hear a sizzle as Marvo, behind me, sprinkles spices and brandy into her brazier.
“I conjure thee, O Spirit Cimerez, by the living and true God. I invoke thee by all the names of God: Adonai, El, Elohim, Elohi, Ehyeh, Asher, Zabaoth, Elion, Iah, Tetragrammaton . . .”
This goes on for quite a while. I become aware of a faint tapping noise. I glance around and see that Marvo’s left heel is rapping on the floor. I give her my fiercest frown.
“Sorry.” She tosses more spices into the brazier.
I put a warning finger to my lips and get back to work. “I exorcise thee and do powerfully command thee, that thou dost forthwith appear before me in a fair human shape, without noise, deformity, or any companion. Come hither, come hither, come hither.”
My voice no longer echoes off the walls and floor; the room has gone dead.
“Come forthwith, and without delay, from any part of the world wherever thou mayest be, and make rational answers unto all the things that I shall demand of thee. Come thou peaceably, visibly, affably, and without delay, manifesting that which I shall desire. Thou art conjured by the name of the living and true God . . .”
The rat has stopped moving and sits at the center of its cage, its front paws to its mouth, glancing nervously around.
More names. The candles are still burning steadily, but the air inside the room seems to have thickened, blotting out their light.
I raise my hand. Hearing nothing—not even tapping—I glance over my shoulder. Through the gloom, Marvo is just visible enough for me to see that she has gone deathly white and is staring back at me, mouth open.
I wave frantically. She jerks into life and tips brandy into the brazier. A blue flame leaps up but casts no light.
&n
bsp; I turn back to the east, facing the triangle where the head and body lie. I take the silver disk between two fingers and put it to my lips, then hold it up.
“Behold the pentacle of Solomon which I have brought into thy presence. I compel thee by order of the great God, Adonai, Tetragrammaton, Jehovah. Come at once, without wile or falsehood, in the name of our Savior Jesus Christ!”
We’re making progress. There is the sound of falling rain. A vibration through the floor. The rumble of thunder in the distance.
“Why tarriest thou? Obey in the name of the Lord—”
I thrust the tip of my wand into the brazier. As flames flicker into life, there is the sound of a crashing wave.
“Don’t move!” I call to Marvo, and push the wand in deeper.
A blinding flash of lightning. A deafening detonation.
Silence. I withdraw the wand and blow out the flames.
A sudden foul stench, like an entire chapelful of termites farting in unison. As if a door has opened, a figure appears in the empty circle in the eastern triangle.
He looks about my age, maybe a couple of inches taller, with shoulder-length blond hair and piercing blue eyes. His skin is golden, and glitters. He’s wearing smart blue trousers and leather shoes whiter than the souls of the blessed. The silver vest that strains across the muscles of his chest and upper arms has a message stitched in gold thread: “Naturally blond—please speak slowly.”
Also, he has golden wings, about ten feet across. I’m not quite sure how that works with the vest at the back. But then it doesn’t have to.
He says, “Hey, Frank. How are you doing?”
I hear a sharp intake of breath from Marvo. He sounds exactly like me. You get used to it.
“I was talking to your old man. He’s fine, you know? Bored as hell though.” He smirks. “Says he misses you.”
This is standard stuff, just trying to wind me up, so I ignore it. I indicate the body in the circle beside him. “Lord Cimerez—”
“Why so formal, Frank? We’re old pals, aren’t we?”
I’m formal because I’m playing with fire. “Lord Cimerez, I charge thee in the name of—”
Well, to cut a long story short, and to preserve at least some of the secrets of the Society, I charge him in a lot of names—I need all the muscle I can muster. Eventually, before we all nod off, I come to the point.
“By the pentacle of Solomon have I summoned thee. Reveal unto me that which I seek.”
He stares at me for a moment, then turns to the body. He puts his hands on his knees and leans across for a closer examination. OK, so he’s having a laugh. He scratches his head, breaks wind, and turns to give me this puzzled look.
“If I’ve got the right end of the stick here, Frank, what you’re after is this guy’s head. Am I right?”
“Thou divinest correctly.”
Why the archaic lingo? Partly custom: the English branch of the Society codified the incantations in this sort of mock-medieval language and it tends to infect everything sorcerers say in the circle. But it’s also a sort of defense: a way of saying, “Listen, chum, we’re not friends,” and keeping it all . . . well, like Cimerez said, formal. This thing comes on like it’s my best mate. What it wants, if the books are to be believed, is my living soul.
He looks around at the head and sighs. “Well, that’s not it, for a start.”
I catch Marvo’s eye and leer triumphantly. She just pulls this “Huh?” sort of face and I realize: where does that leave us? Cimerez is standing there grinning all over and I’m still trying to figure out what he could mean and what my next question should be when he turns to Marvo:
“Hey, sweetheart, saw your little brother. Y’know”—he jabs his thumb toward the floor—“down there.”
The brandy bottle shatters on the floor.
“Kinda depressed, but that’s kids for you.”
I’ve got to stop this right now. I thrust my wand right into the heart of the brazier. The entire room crashes and shakes like a car on a fairground ride. The wand bursts into flame and Cimerez’s hair is transformed into a nest of writhing, hissing yellow snakes.
“Marvo!”
She isn’t listening. One pace backward has already taken her to the edge of the star. Another will take her out of its protection. Cimerez gazes greedily, fire burning in his eyes.
“Marvo!”
She still doesn’t hear me. Flames flicker across the floor toward her . . .
Last shot: “Hocus-pocus!”
She spins around and makes a grab for her back pocket. She pulls out the tarot card and stares at me. Cimerez snarls with frustrated rage as I gesture her back into the safety of the star.
My wand still protrudes from the glowing charcoal, but it’s burning fiercely and my power only lasts as long as it survives. I’ve got quite a few names to get through.
“Aglon, Tetragrammaton . . .”
I’m screaming over what sounds like the entire building falling in on us. Cimerez is doubled over, clutching his stomach, the snakes writhing and spitting around his head. The wand is burning right along its length. I stoop to fumble for the sword across my toes.
“Adonai, Eloim, Ariel, Jehovah! I charge thee to return whence thou camest, without noise or disturbance—”
Who am I kidding?
“Begone in the names of Adonai and Eloim. Begone in the names of Ariel and Jehovah—”
I wrench the cage open and grab the rat. I toss it across . . .
Cimerez opens his mouth wide and swallows it whole.
Marvo screams. The wand collapses in a shower of glowing ashes. I raise the sword.
Cimerez belches. “Fact is, Frank—”
I sweep the sword down. “Begone!”
Whatever he’s saying, I don’t hear it, because as the tip of the sword touches the floor there’s a final, deafening crash like a huge door slamming shut.
And he’s gone, in a final, sickening blast of sulphur. The candles flare up, illuminating the room.
I let the sword fall to the floor. My hands are trembling so badly that I can barely get the cover over the brazier. Rubber-kneed, I shamble across to cut the outer circle with my knife. I turn to Marvo. “It’s safe now.”
She’s on her hands and knees, being sick. She croaks, “Who was that?”
“Cimerez. He’s a night demon with the rank of marquis, ruling twenty legions of spirits. He teaches grammar, logic, and rhetoric, and he reveals things lost and hidden.”
She clambers unsteadily to her feet. “So what did he reveal?”
“What I already knew: that there’s no contiguity between the body and the head. They don’t match.”
“He said it had no head.”
“Huh?”
“Just as he was disappearing. He said, ‘Fact is, Frank, this guy has no head.’”
I stand there, watching the smoke clear from the room. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“So what went wrong?”
Did anything go wrong? The summoning was correct.
“Cimerez is a pain in the arse,” I say. “But he gives good answers.”
“But you can’t have a body without a head. It’s—”
“A logical impossibility. Yes.”
Chapter Sixteen
Smart Aleck
What I need is somewhere quiet to sit down and get my head around all this. But first I’ve got to hide the incriminating evidence. Marvo is just about strong enough to push the trolley. I carry the head. Riding up in the lift, she’s as white as the silk sheet covering the body.
“Was that really a demon?”
“What d’you think it was?”
“I thought black magic was illegal.”
“Black magic, white magic . . .” I haul my shirt up and point to the mark on my chest. “There’s just licensed and unlicensed. Suppose I’m . . . I dunno, commissioned to find a piece of lost jewelry. The client’s so excited to get it back, he has a heart attack and pegs out. Does that make the magic bl
ack?”
“But if you call up a demon . . .”
“There’s three kinds of entity I deal with: elementals, angels, and demons. You can try to fit them into some sort of cosmic scheme . . . Like elementals are natural forces that sorcerers can tap into—they have purpose but no consciousness. Angels are conscious, beneficent beings. Demons are fallen angels—”
“From hell?”
“I don’t believe in hell. I don’t know what happens to us, but your brother isn’t there.”
We step out of the lift. All quiet, thank God. The last thing I need is the dieners reporting that I’ve been playing fast and loose with the Dear Departed again. We move the remains through to the ice room.
“I think angels feel sorry for us,” I say. “But demons want to do damage. They pick up on stuff—pull it out of your mind. They want to hurt you.”
“Why?”
“Maybe they feed off your pain. It’s not good or evil; it’s just in their natures.”
“So he was lying.”
“About Sean, yeah.”
“And the head?”
“The ritual compels him to respect my intention. He has to give a truthful answer to the specific question.”
“Says who?”
Good question. “All the books. If he was lying about that, the entire edifice of ceremonial magic collapses.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” She parks the trolley. After a moment’s hesitation, she lifts the sheet. “You didn’t ask a specific question, though.”
“You don’t. You formulate it in your head. It’s safer that way. The demon can’t trip you up.”
But he did. Cimerez is a nasty piece of work, but all the grimoires say he gives good answers. The whole point about demons is that despite the fancy dress and antisocial behavior, they’re boringly predictable, eternally unchanging . . .
Human beings change. We grow up and get old. The Gift matures and dies. I have this sudden sense of panic, a boulder on my chest.
I turn to Marvo. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you? Like I said, it could get me in a lot of trouble.”
“Whatever. I’m going home.”
A Dangerous Magic Page 15