They’re all staring at me: mother, daughter, and demon.
“She’s been invoking Presences all over the shop and unless you really know what you’re doing, that does your head in. The malice gets inside you, makes you paranoid . . .”
Yeah, I have to try. I hold up the knife.
“I’m going to leave you this, to seal the circle behind me.”
Marvo looks at it doubtfully.
“You just run it all the way around and keep repeating, ‘In the name of the most high.’ Can you remember that?”
“In the name of the most high.”
“You’ll have to be quick, but don’t gabble. Ready?”
Of course they aren’t. And when I turn around Alastor is barely a yard away, looking down at me expectantly. Maybe this isn’t such a great idea.
Back to Mrs. M. “I need you to think about Sean.” Marvo frowns, but I glare at her. “Did you really love him?”
“How can you ask that?”
“Do you miss him?”
And her eyes fill with tears. I hold Kazia’s silver pentacle up to her cheek. When I take it away, the candlelight glistens in a tiny bead of moisture that trickles down the surface and spiders out along the drawn symbols, turning them to gold.
Gripping its tip between finger and thumb, I hold the pentacle up, toward Alastor. He blinks. I cut across the inner circle. He inspects his arsenal thoughtfully, sticks the ax back in his belt, and swings the scourge so that the chains whistle through the air.
I cut the outer circle, then hand the knife to Marvo and step out.
What are demons exactly?
The Church says that some of the angels rebelled against God, who cast them out of heaven into the pit. That places the Society in a difficult position: if demons are rebel angels, what are we playing at, calling them in to detect contiguities and make women take their clothes off? How can sorcerers claim to be doing God’s work when we’re invoking creatures from hell?
The Society’s official line is that we compel demons to act against their will, through the power of divine words (all that “Adonai, Jehovah, Tetragrammaton” stuff). We keep ourselves pure and holy and—allegedly—save ourselves from damnation.
If you can swallow that, conjuring a demon becomes an exercise in religious observance. The hard-liners devote themselves to chastity, fasting, and prayer. Not my style. Fact is, I don’t know what demons are. I just know that certain actions have certain effects.
Well, I hope they do, and I’m betting my life on it. I raise the pentacle toward Alastor.
“Behold that which forbids rebellion to my will and doth ordain thee to return unto thy abode.”
He doth not return unto his abode, but at least he steps back. Behind me, I can hear the point of the knife scraping along the floor and Marvo’s voice:
“In the name of the most high . . .”
I’m not shaking anymore. I’m shuddering. My hand is sweating so much, I’m in danger of dropping the pentacle; and I don’t trust myself enough to adjust my grip or change hands. I shuffle sideways toward the door. As Alastor follows I can see Marvo and her mum behind him, staring after me. I gesture at Marvo to keep chanting.
“You’ll be all right,” I call as I squeeze backward along the hall, holding the pentacle up like a very small shield. “Just keep calm.” I fumble for the front-door handle. “And don’t leave the circle till I come back.”
The last thing I hear as I step outside is, “An’ if you don’t come back?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Fancy Dress
Out on the main street it’s ten o’clock and the pubs are just tipping out. What better cover for a teenage boy wearing a paper hat and a woman’s blouse, with silk stockings over his shoes, and a seven-foot naked demon armed to the razor-sharp teeth?
“We’re going to a fancy dress party,” I announce as a cab pulls up.
There’s a nasty moment when I get in and I’m afraid Alastor may decide to snack off the driver. I’ve still got Wallace’s episcopal ring in my pocket. I toss it to Alastor. His eyes light up, his jaws open like the gates of hell, and he bites down on it with a crunch that makes my teeth ache. He falls inside after me and collapses onto the seat opposite, his eyes rolling back in their sockets. The cab moves off.
What do you say to the demon who’s been conjured up to pull you apart and drag you off to hell?
“Can I ask you something?”
No reply. He’s just slumped there, dribbling. In a way it was true, what I said to the driver. Demons, they’re like guests at a themed fancy-dress party. They come as pirates, knights in armor, pantomime horses, whatever . . . And always insanely over the top.
If you conjure up a Presence to find lost treasure you’ll get some bloody great hound with walrus tusks, phosphorescent slaver, and a Welsh accent. Or a thirty-inch jack on a tricycle. Somebody down there’s definitely got a sense of humor.
But if you want somebody—me, say—rubbed out, you get a thug like Alastor. The effect of the ring is wearing off and I’m holding the pentacle up in front of me where he can’t miss it. He just sits there blinking, shaking his chains . . . and farting.
Demons fart a lot.
“You don’t mind . . . ?” I manage to open the window.
He gives no sign of caring, either way. He’s got too much drooling to do.
“So tell me, is it true? All that stuff we did in theology when I was at seminary?” I’m rattling, obviously. “Like, was there really a rebellion in heaven and you were all kicked out?”
No comment.
“I guess it’s not much fun, hell.”
What they taught us was that demons dream of returning to heaven. Some of them think they can fight their way back in; the rest think if they wait long enough and don’t make too much of a nuisance of themselves, God will relent and let them slip in quietly through the tradesman’s entrance.
“So if there’s anything else I can do to cheer you up . . .”
Peering through the window I see that we’re crossing Iffley Bridge. And when I turn back Alastor’s done a costume change.
Into my dad.
I don’t understand how this works, but I’m standing in the kitchen back when I was a kid, watching my dad check through the envelope of money. I stretch out my hand.
“Dad, it’s my money.”
“Yeah, right.” He holds a couple of notes up, just beyond my grasp. He’s laughing, “Come on, it’s yours if you can reach it!”
I know this is a trap and the worst thing I can do is actually get hold of them, but I’m jumping up and down, trying to grab the notes. My dad’s sneering:
“Skinny little freak!”
The cab stops with a jolt.
There’s just me and the pentacle, and Alastor with his medieval arsenal.
“I don’t see no party,” says the driver as I climb out backward.
I pull out a banknote. “Hope we haven’t got the wrong night.” I turn to Alastor. “Have you got a couple of quid for the tip?”
Along the riverside, the new security elemental on the palace gate just shrivels up at Alastor’s approach. The palace is silent. In the library, the door leading down to the cellar is visible—to me, at least, since I know it’s there now—and open. It shivers as Alastor approaches. I don’t know if surprise will get me anywhere, but I go down backward as silently as I can, one hand against the wall, the other holding up the pentacle. Alastor follows, watching me steadily like a diner in a restaurant eying the dessert trolley.
At the bottom I risk looking around. There is light in the room, thick and dark like honey. Between two columns I can see someone sitting on the floor, head on knees. And I know this is stupid, but there’s this split second where my heart leaps and I think maybe it isn’t Kazia . . .
But of course it is. She’s wearing a paper crown and a silk robe, both splattered with far more symbols than she actually needs. She’s hugging her sword and has her wand tucked into her belt. Her other i
mplements are arranged neatly on a small, silk-draped stool beside a bucket, covered with a cloth. She is at the exact center of a sloppily chalked Grand Circle. Her eyes are closed but I know she isn’t asleep. She’s just concentrating on holding together an unresolved event.
I step out into the colonnade. Four candles, two-thirds burned down. Two braziers, from which thin wisps of smoke still spiral up to merge into the cloud that fills the dome.
There are two smaller circles to the east and west, each with a human occupant and a covered bucket.
Akinbiyi is standing at the center of the western circle, his head bowed dejectedly. He is wearing a white linen coat closed with a black silk scarf.
I can tell that the figure in the eastern circle is a man but can’t make out who he is. He’s wearing white robes, with the cowl completely concealing his face.
Behind me, Alastor farts.
Akinbiyi jumps. Kazia looks up. Her face is blank. She takes a firm grasp of her sword and climbs to her feet.
The cowled figure in the eastern circle hasn’t moved. Who is it? Not Ferdia: he stands different. This guy is hunched over like he’s trying to keep his face hidden.
I’ve entered the chamber at its northern point, and I’m standing over a chalked triangle containing a single item: a chalice filled with a dark liquid. Blood—presumably Kazia’s. The demon’s reward if he’s still thirsty after failing to deal with me.
“How did you get out?” Akinbiyi asks.
I hold up the pentacle.
He snaps at Kazia. “You should have foreseen this!”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“You’re supposed to consider every possibility!”
The third figure straightens up and pushes back his cowl. My heart goes cold: the hand he uses is missing the little finger.
The Boss says, “Why couldn’t you just do the pilgrimage, Frank? Why couldn’t you do what you were told?”
Chapter Thirty
Blood
It takes me a while to work out how I feel.
Am I surprised? Not really. Now that it’s there, right in front of me, it’s like it was obvious, almost from the start when Matthew first started asking questions about the investigation. All I needed was for someone to turn the final light on.
Am I angry? I should be—I probably will be. But right now I can’t manage it.
So what am I?
Sunk.
My heart is racing. I feel like I’m going to throw up. The arm holding up the pentacle weighs a ton. Everyone’s watching me, waiting for me to give up now.
I feel more tired than I’ve ever felt in my life. Matthew is the one person I always thought I could count on. Without him . . . I dunno, it all falls apart. And you know the worst bit? I feel like it’s me that’s let him down. If I’d only listened to people and not been such an arsehole, it wouldn’t all have had to end like this.
I can leave now. Get back to my studio, grab a few things, make a run for it. I mean, what’s left to stay for? I’m about to take a first step backward . . .
When Matthew says, “What symbols did you use?” He runs his fingers down his beard, and it’s like he’s cast a spell on me. I can’t move. All I can do is stare at him.
“May I see?” My Master’s voice.
He holds out his hand. My legs move of their own accord. I step toward him.
“Come on, Frank. Don’t be shy.”
I feel the lights going out in my brain, one by one. Soon it’ll be dark and I can relax and go to sleep and somebody else will take care of everything . . .
His smile is warm and encouraging. All those years at Saint Cyprian’s, he was the one person who kept his faith in me.
“What I told you,” he says. “About you being the best student I ever had. I wasn’t lying.”
I feel helpless. Alastor’s breath is warm and comforting on the back of my neck as I hold the pentacle out to Matthew.
“My eyes aren’t what they used to be . . .”
It’s been lies all along; but it’s this particular lie that saves me. A tiny thought—that Matthew has undergone the Society’s procedure and that his eyesight must, therefore, be every bit as good as it was when he was young—worms its way into my addled brain.
The lights start to come on again. I jump aside and shove the pentacle in Alastor’s face.
Matthew has tensed for a leap; but, seeing that the moment has passed, he relaxes.
“All right, Frank; you hang on to it.” He smiles again. “I remember teaching you that, up in the old Kelley Room.”
I remember, too. For every novice sorcerer there’s that terrifying first moment when you step out of the circle, clutching a pentacle, and feel the foul breath of a demon on your face. One kid in my year crapped himself. Another fainted and the Boss had to jump out and rescue him. Only about a quarter of novices make it through. Most of the others are kicked out or run out screaming. Every year or so, one is carried out in a box. What’s left of him.
“Anyway, you were obviously paying attention.”
“It’s just a pity I’m such an arsehole.”
“We can all change.” His optimism amazes me.
“You should’ve let Gresh burn me.”
He gazes at me for what seems like ages. “But you didn’t deserve it. And as I told you, I’m your Master and I’m supposed to stop people burning you.” He smiles sadly. “I wonder, is it too late to come to some sort of accommodation? I’m not sure that you’re at any great advantage here.”
He’s got a point. This has turned into another of my marathon shifts. My world is flickering in and out, and it’s not just the candles. I don’t even have to drop the pentacle. It’s my will that allows silver, salt water, and eyebrow pencil to keep Alastor at bay. If my concentration lapses . . .
Akinbiyi pipes up, right on cue: “Now what?”
The Boss doesn’t even bother to look around. “Well, it’s rather up to Frank. How long he decides to drag it out.”
“I need to go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“To the lavatory.”
“Use the receptacle provided. I told you it would be a long night.”
Akinbiyi turns away and kneels over the bucket. The sound of trickling liquid echoes around the space.
And I get it at last. Marvo was right: I’m kidding myself. I have this Sir Galahad idea that I can rescue Kazia. Nobody else shares this fantasy, least of all her. She’s standing there, still staring blankly past me. Run off to Lithuania together? Yeah, right. She wants me dead every bit as much as Matthew does.
It’s a strange, cold feeling. I mean, if you asked me to name the two people who really matter most to me . . . It’d be funny if it wasn’t so stupid. So humiliating.
But I haven’t got time to stand around feeling sorry for myself. Gotta concentrate on staying alive. Then I can go home and poke holes in myself and see if it makes me feel better.
I look around the room. The burning candles and braziers. The chalked circles. Everybody in their party costumes. The pentacle in my hand. It occurs to me that I’m tucked up safely in bed in my studio and this is all a dream. It’s a familiar feeling; but it’s never been a dream so far . . .
The life and soul of the party is Alastor. He feels comfortable with being psychopathically, all-consumingly, cosmically demonic. It’s what he’s for—what he does best. He’ll happily pull me to pieces. He’ll happily pull Kazia to pieces. And Matthew and Akinbiyi better not get in his way either.
Matthew acts like he’s running the show, but it’s Kazia who did all the dirty work. She summoned Alastor and sent him on his mission.
Any power that gets called up must be put back down again. In the unlikely event that I survive until dawn, all his malice will be turned back, against her. She has instruments and methods to deal with that danger. The chalice contains blood. Her blood. If he can’t eat me, she’ll appease him with a piece of herself.
But finally, whether he’s nabbed me or no
t, she still has to perform a further ritual to put him safely back in his box.
That sword she’s clutching, it’s to sever the affinity. It symbolically cuts the link between her and the power she invoked, preventing Alastor from returning in the future to consume her.
It’s all played out through the symbols. So if you’re losing and you want to stop the game dead . . .
You smash the pieces. First, a little misdirection. I turn to Akinbiyi. “It was you that cut Wallace’s head off, right? You knew what he got up to down here. You found him dead and Groce looking guilty and you figured you could prevent a scandal—make it look like a political assassination and pin it on the ASB. You remembered the anniversary of Saint Oswald’s death was coming up. You and Groce carried Wallace up to the library and put the book in his hands. Then you took the head into the cathedral and stuck it in the reliquary . . .”
“Something like that,” Akinbiyi mumbles.
“You must’ve resented him like hell.”
He just stares at me.
“I mean, chopping his head off—I’d call that overdoing it. Say what you like, it must’ve been personal . . .”
“Your point being?” says Matthew.
“Just satisfying my curiosity. Anyway, while you’re there, you grab a candlestick and use it to smash the library window so it’ll look like a break-in.”
I’m shuffling backward around the outside of the circle, pretending to examine the symbols. Alastor is shadowing me, dragging his chains along the floor. I’d be lying if I said I was getting used to him.
Anyway, back to Akinbiyi.
“After the jacks have gone, you go to Matthew—Kazia lives in the palace coz the Society’s a religious order so she can’t stay at Saint Cyprian’s. She does stunts for Wallace, but really she’s working for Matthew, right?”
Nobody says I’m wrong.
“Anyway, you go to him and you say proudly, look what I done! And he freaks . . .”
“Like you,” says Matthew, “I thought it was all . . . somewhat over-theatrical.” He shrugs. “You make the best of a bad job.”
A Dangerous Magic Page 26