Black Magic Woman

by Justin Gustainis

"I thought demons were immortal and couldn't be killed."

  "Killed might be the wrong word, but they can at least be sent back where they came from. Especially if you destroy the physical body they're manifesting in. Listen, we have to—"

  From the other side of the door came the boom of a gunshot, then another.

  "Shit!" Morris said. "They're after Love, too. We'll have to play this by ear. Keep one thing in mind," he told Libby. "Demons aren't smart, most of them, and they don't adapt quickly. Keep them off balance, and you've got a chance."

  He took Libby's hand and squeezed it tightly. "Once we go through that door, we're like an egg on a hot griddle. If we stay put for more than a second or two, we fry. Maybe literally. Okay?"

  Libby Chastain's mouth was set in a thin line of concentration. She nodded once.

  "All right," Morris said. "Let's go." He took a deep breath, then yanked open the door to the fifth floor.

  What greeted them could have been a scene right out of Dante, if only the great poet had written The Inferno while tripping on LSD.

  The door to Barry Love's office was open, and something that looked like a puke-colored Teletubby with fangs lay in the hallway, dead in a pool of its own slime. Its guts were being eaten by another demon that resembled a naked human dwarf, except it had the head of a goat, and a living snake in place of a penis. Two other monstrosities were peering cautiously into Love's office from either side of the doorway. One looked something like the Creature from the Black Lagoon except that it had the breasts of a voluptuous woman. The other was dressed like a Nazi storm trooper, except that under the peaked cap was the head of a boar, complete with sharp-looking tusks.

  The two demons at Love's door ducked back suddenly, and an instant later came a shot that blew a piece of the doorframe into splinters. Morris wondered how many rounds Barry Love had left, and whether his bullets were silver.

  Then the dwarf-thing noticed them standing near the hallway door. It pulled its head from its cohort's intestines and bellowed something in a language that neither Morris nor Chastain recognized. Then it bared its fangs and charged.

  Libby Chastain stepped forward as the demon ran at them. "Mine!" she said to Morris. "Go on!"

  As the dwarf-thing closed in on Libby it growled, in English, "Gonna eat your cunt first, bitch!"

  Libby smiled tightly and said, "Eat this!" She raised her right hand, palm up, to reveal some violet-colored fine powder. Extending her hand, she blew hard on her palm, spraying the powder all over the approaching demon. She then said a quick phrase in Latin and the dwarf-thing instantly froze in place, an expression of astonishment on its goatish countenance. Libby then made a complex sign in the air with two fingers of her right hand and cried out, "Ignis!"

  The demon immediately burst into flame, screaming horribly.

  White magic can't be used to harm people, but it works just fine on Hellspawn.

  Burning demon flesh gives off an odor so putrid and vile that it can induce vomiting in humans who aren't used to it. Libby, who had little experience with demons, was caught unprepared by a wave of nausea that hit her like a punch to the solar plexus. She was, for a few seconds, defenseless.

  While Libby was dealing with the dwarf-demon, Morris went for the two creatures that had positioned themselves outside Barry Love's office door. He had already poured the remaining sea salt crystals into his left hand and dropped the bottle. With his right he pulled out a switchblade knife that was illegal in twenty-eight states. Thumbing the button on the handle produced a six-inch blade that glittered brightly even in the corridor's uncertain light. The sharp steel was silver-plated, and the weapon had been blessed years ago by the Archbishop of Albuquerque, after Morris had rendered the archdiocese a singular and very discreet service.

  Keep moving, don't stop, Morris was thinking. We stop we fry. We fry, we die.

  The two demons were waiting for him, so Morris decided on misdirection. He made a sudden head fake toward Barry Love's office door. When the creatures started moving that way, Morris suddenly threw the sea salt into the face of the pig-faced storm trooper and was rewarded with an outraged bellow. He slashed at the lagoon creature with his blade, but the green monstrosity was quicker than it looked. Webbed fingers locked around Morris's knife hand, and the demon's fangs went for his throat. Morris blocked the horrid face with a forearm, and the two of them staggered into Barry Love's office and fell hard onto the cheap carpet.

  Despite his effort to twist as they went down, Morris ended up on the bottom. He kept trying to use the knife on the creature while protecting himself, but demons are strong. The scaly, amphibian face was pushing inexorably against Morris's forearm, the sharp teeth drawing closer to his throat, when Barry * Love placed the barrel of a Colt .38 revolver against the thing's head and blew the contents of its skull all over the nearest wall.

  Love helped Morris to his feet. "Sorry that took me so long," he said. "I was watching the door to see if any more of them were going to try a rush while we were distracted. Where's your girlfriend?"

  "She's not my—" Morris began, but then there was a cry from the corridor outside. It was quickly stifled, but he knew that voice. "Libby!"

  Morris rushed into the hallway, Barry Love close behind him. The sight that greeted them caused each man to come to a sudden stop and then to become very still.

  The storm trooper demon with the boar's head clutched Libby Chastain from behind and was using her for a shield. One hairy hand was clasped tightly over Libby's mouth. The other held a Nazi ceremonial dagger, its needle point just touching Libby's throat. If a boar's face can be said to grin, then this one was doing so.

  "So the game has changed," the demon said. Its voice was raspy and nasal, reminding Morris of the late Peter Lorre. "But now I hold the best cards, including, it would seem, the Queen." It dug the dagger's point in a little, causing a drop of blood to make its way down the column of Libby's throat. "You will drop your weapons! At once!"

  "You've been watching too much TV," Barry Love said conversationally, as he took a slow step to his left. "Or do they have TV in Hell?"

  "Yes, but only The Jerry Springer Show," the demon told him. "Now cast away your weapons, or watch me gut her!"

  Morris thought he knew what Love was doing. He moved a little to the right as he asked, "What happens if we do as you ask? Will you let her go?"

  "All you need know is what happens if you do NOT do as I say!" the demon bellowed. "And stand still, both of you!"

  "Libby," Morris said, locking eyes with her, "Don't worry, we'll get you out of this." He paused a beat before continuing, "And whatever you do, don't faint.'"

  He thought he saw understanding in Libby's eyes, and knew he was right a moment later when she suddenly sagged at the knees, making herself dead weight.

  Demons are strong, but not smart. The boar storm trooper was not prepared for the sudden shift in Libby's weight, and she was slipping toward the floor before the creature could adjust its grip to prop her up.

  Suddenly, the demon's great ugly head was unprotected.

  Barry Love fired at once. The .38 bullet chipped the top off one of the boar tusks and continued on into the porcine face.

  The demon staggered back, releasing Libby in the process. A moment later, its throat was pierced by the silver-coated switchblade, which Morris had thrown with all the skill and strength that long practice could give him.

  The demon went down stiffly, like a felled tree, and was still.

  "Hades über alles?" Morris said softly as he looked at the prostrate form in its brown uniform and swastika armband. Then he shook his head. "Not this time, podner."

  * * * *

  Bourbon was not Libby Chastain's favorite drink, but she didn't complain when Barry Love handed her an almost-clean glass containing three fingers worth of Jack Daniel's.

  Love gave another glass to Quincey Morris and picked up a third one for himself. Sitting wearily on the edge of the desk, he raised his glass in a silent toast
to the other two.

  After taking a long swallow, Libby said, "You're probably going to need some help disposing of those—things before morning."

  Love shook his head. "They usually discorporate very quickly, once destroyed. Look there." He gestured with his chin to the spot on the carpet where he had shot the lagoon creature. All that remained was a large, amorphous stain on the fabric. "You'll find something similar when you get out into the hall, I expect," he said. "It's about the only decent thing that demons ever do, and that one's kind of involuntary."

  "We're sorry to have brought this shit down on you, Barry," Morris said.

  Love looked at him with a puzzled frown. "Say what?"

  "We told you earlier today how this black witch we're lookin' for has tried to kill us several times already. Fire, zombies, and now demons. People who do black magic tend not to be fussy about collateral damage, as you almost got to find out. Good thing you're fast with that pistol of yours."

  "I've been putting out cloaking spells in an effort to hide us from her," Libby said. "And, in any case, we'd hoped to be in and out of your life before she could zero in on us. But it didn't work out that way. So, as Quincey says, we're sorry."

  Love shook his head slowly. "I appreciate the apology, but I'm afraid it's kind of misplaced."

  It was Morris's turn to be confused. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, I'm not the innocent bystander here. You guys are. Those demons were after me, not you."

  "What makes you so sure?" Libby asked.

  "I've been involved in an ongoing conflict with the Nether World for quite some time now. Started out with a case I had in Brooklyn about six years ago. Looked straightforward enough at first, just another adultery thing, but it all went to Hell. Literally. That was my introduction to the weird shit, and I still dream about it."

  "And demons have been coming after you ever since?" Libby seemed appalled at the prospect.

  "Not constantly, but sometimes, yeah." Love produced a grim smile. "Other times, I've been the one coming after them."

  Morris frowned. "I don't know, Barry. It just seems like such a huge coincidence, after what Libby and I have had aimed at us recently. When was your last demonic encounter, before today?"

  "Um, let me think—yeah, it was just before Christmas, which tends to be a busy time for the Infernal forces, though you might not think so."

  "No, I believe you," Morris said. "It makes a certain amount of perverse sense."

  "Well, I don't suppose we'll ever really know for sure who those monstrosities were after," Libby said. "But I do know that Quincey and I, not to mention the LaRue family, are going to be a lot safer once we find this black witch and do something about her. Were you able to…?"

  Barry Love smacked the desk lightly with his palm. "Shit! In all this craziness I completely forgot." He started searching through the collection of papers, files, and clippings that was strewn over his desk. "I talked to several people familiar with the black magic scene. Most of them didn't know anything about the witch you asked me about, or so they claimed. But two others each gave me a name—and it was the same name."

  A moment later, he said, "Yeah, here it is," and pulled a smudged four-by-six index card out of the desktop mess. He handed it to Libby, who was closest.

  Libby looked at the card for much longer than it could possibly have taken her to read what was written there.

  Finally, she passed it to Morris, who saw that the card contained only four words:

  Christine Abernathy

  Salem, Massachusetts

  Chapter 23

  "She will kill once more," Van Dreenan said. "And when she does, we must be ready."

  "How do you know she's only gonna do it one more time?" Fenton asked. "I mean, I agree she'll do it again. She's getting something out of it, something that matters to her. But why would she stop after just one more?"

  "The next death will be her fifth. The fifth in this cycle, at any rate." Van Dreenan's eyes took on a faraway look, not unlike the "thousand yard stare" you find in soldiers who have seen a lot of combat and are approaching their breaking point.

  Fenton was staring at him. "You all right, man?"

  Van Dreenan blinked several times. "Yes, I'm sorry. I was thinking of something else."

  "You know, I've noticed it before. You get kinda weird every once in a while, and it seems to happen whenever we're talking about muti murder, and no other time."

  Van Dreenan shrugged, but said nothing.

  When he spoke again, Fenton's voice was gentle. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

  Van Dreenan looked at him hard for several seconds before dropping his gaze. "It may be that there is," he said slowly. "And, under other circumstances, I would tell you. I have come to respect you, Fenton, in the time we have worked together. Indeed, I find that I rather like you."

  "I guess you could say that it's mutual. In both aspects."

  There followed the embarrassed silence that usually occurs whenever two men in this culture talk about such matters. Van Dreenan broke it by saying, "I thank you for that. And I do not wish to—what is the expression?—hold out on you. But you are a professional and a man of integrity. If you were working on a case with someone who had an emotional involvement, a personal stake in the outcome, you would feel obliged to report it to your superiors, ja?"

  "I guess I would, yeah."

  "And the reaction of your superiors would be what?"

  "Most likely, they'd remove the emotionally involved person from the investigation. On the grounds that emotional involvement clouds judgment, and clouded judgment impairs the investigation."

  "Precisely. Now, tell me something. Would you say that I have been an impediment to the investigation thus far?"

  "Hell, no. We wouldn't be nearly as close as we are now if it weren't for you."

  "That is kind of you to say. So any hypothetical emotional involvement I might have has not adversely affected the investigation, is that a fair assessment?"

  "Sure."

  "Then I would prefer not to speak with you about certain matters. Not now, in any case. It would be better if you are able to say later, under oath if necessary, that you had no direct knowledge of any personal feelings of mine that might relate to the subject of this investigation."

  "I see."

  "I must not be removed from this case, Fenton. I must not. And not only for my own sake, but for yours, as well."

  Fenton ran a hand over his face. "All right, now you've really lost me."

  "I know, and I regret that. I hope all will become clear to you in time. But for now—" Van Dreenan leaned forward in his chair, "I ask you to trust me. No, I need you to trust me. For a short while, only."

  In the space of the next few seconds, Fenton's agile mind considered a variety of factors. But it returned, over and over, to his memories of the crime scene photos. The blood soaked earth. The ravages of insects and wildlife. The pathetic, pale, savaged bodies.

  He kept thinking about dead children.

  Fenton had children of his own, three of them. Girls, eight and three, and a boy, six.

  All were within the age range of Cecelia Mbwato's victims.

  He met the South African's eyes with his own. "All right, Van Dreenan. All right. I'll go along. Don't you make me regret it."

  "It is my sincere wish," Van Dreenan said, "that neither of us will come to regret it."

  * * * *

  The phone ringing next to his ear brought Snake Perkins out of a restless sleep. He glanced at his watch, and saw he had been in bed just over four hours.

  Jesus, why couldn't the bitch leave him alone?

  "Yeah?"

  "Did you take care of the car?"

  "Yeah, sure. Found just what I needed and made the switch. Look why don't we—"

  "We must leave here and find another place. Closer to where we have to go later."

  "You mean Sa—"

  "Hush! Not over the telephone!"

&nbs
p; "Oh, for God's sake, lady. You're fuckin' paranoid."

  "We have to leave here," she said again. "Keep in your mind that we are nearly done with this. It will soon be finished. Then you can sleep as much as you want."

  Snake sat up in the lumpy bed. "Yeah, all right, okay. Give me half an hour."

  "Take less than that. We have much to do."

  * * * *

  "So, why are you saying she just wants one more?" Fenton asked. "Because she killed five the other time, in South Africa?"

  "No, that's not it," Van Dreenan told him. "Rather, I believe she will kill five here for the same reason she chose five victims the last time."

  "Which is…"

  "The number five is very significant in black magic rituals, Fenton. No one is sure why, although the pentagram is, of course, a five-pointed star, and it has a long association with the dark path. Perhaps that has some bearing."

  "Yeah, I've seen plenty of pentagrams, although most of the 'occult crime' reported in this country is nothing but bullshit."

  "Role-playing young people, combined with panic and rumors? Ja, we have the same problem back home. It is one of the reasons behind those witch murders I told you about earlier."

  "Murders of witches, you mean. Or rather, people accused of being witches."

  "That is correct. A great tragedy, since the vast majority of them are guilty of nothing more than saying the wrong thing in anger, or having a sinister-looking face, or making enemies of the wrong kind of person."

  "People deliberately use accusations of witchcraft, knowing they're false, just to pay off scores?"

  "Ja, exactly," Van Dreenan sad. "The same thing that happened in Europe during the Middle Ages, and in your Salem, Massachusetts some years later. Most of those poor souls were certainly innocent."

  "You keep saying stuff like 'the majority' and 'most people.' What does that make the rest of them?"

  Van Dreenan seemed to hesitate before he finally spoke. "Real witches, of course."

  Fenton sat scratching his cheek for a few seconds. "You know, we had this conversation before, when you first got here."

  "Ja, I recall as much."