"Yeah, your timing always did suck, Libby."
They both laughed, then he went on, "Your magic still works pretty well, though."
"The mirror spell, you mean? Yes, I'm quite pleased with that one. I'd planned to tell you about it on our way to Massachusetts, but… circumstances intervened."
"I thought you said that white magic couldn't be used to hurt someone. Christine Abernathy, wherever she is right about now, would probably take exception to that."
"I told you that white magic could not be used to initiate harm," Libby said patiently. "But it does allow you to protect yourself, as you've seen several times already."
Morris nodded. "That's for sure."
"Well, a mirror spell is one form of self-protection. It deflects the evil intent of the black magic and turns it back upon the user. Sort of like judo, where you take the force of your opponent's attack and use it to throw him on his ass."
"So Christine suddenly found herself hosting all those reptiles she had sent to visit me."
"Exactly. She probably could have saved herself if she'd been prepared for the possibility, but she was an arrogant bitch—I could tell that by the kinds of spells she used against us."
"Having met the lady, I think I can confirm your opinion."
"Arrogant, but powerful, no doubt about that. In fact, her magic was so potent, I was able to divert some of the energy as it was transformed by the mirror spell, and use it to heal myself—the results of which you see before you."
"And damn glad to see them, too."
"I was able to manage that little trick because my injuries had been caused by Abernathy's magic in the first place, indirectly. That allowed me to transmute the energy waves along lines of— ah, don't get me started with the mechanics of it. It's boring, to anyone but another adept."
"I bet your doctors aren't bored by it," Morris said.
Libby matched his smile with her own. "Oh my God, you should have seen them! They couldn't decide whether to contact the Journal of the American Medical Association or the Vatican. I didn't like causing all that confusion and distress. But if I tried to tell them the truth, I'm pretty sure I'd have found myself transferred posthaste up to the fifth floor."
"Which is—?"
"The psychiatric ward, of course. So, I played dumb. Said I had no idea what had just happened, but since I seemed to be fine now, there was no reason to stick around."
"No wonder they want more tests. You would have made one hell of a journal article, Libby. Or a whole series of them."
"I know. It's very perplexing for the staff, and I feel kind of bad about that. But on the plus side, I think I may have been responsible for at least three religious conversions."
"Well, before they start canonization proceedings, what do you say we get out of here? We'll get your luggage and stuff back to your place, then how about you let me buy you dinner at the best restaurant in town—whatever it is this week."
"You've got yourself a deal, cowboy." She stood up and stretched. "It'll be good to sleep in my own bed again."
Morris nodded. "At least for tonight."
She looked at him quizzically.
"Did you forget?" Morris asked. "We have one more stop to make before this is done."
It took Libby only a second to grasp his meaning. "That's right," she said. "So we do."
* * * *
In a mansion that was slightly smaller than Alabama, Walter Grobius sat in his favorite armchair, clutching printed copies of two e-mails that had arrived three hours apart. One provided the sad details about the passing from this life of one Christine Abernathy; the other gave the names of two recently deceased individuals whose remains had been pulled from a burned-out car in Massachusetts and recently been identified from DNA analysis.
Walter Grobius was not given to extreme displays of emotion. He had built his immense fortune on cold calculation and iron nerve, and did not waste his time expressing disappointment through vulgar physical displays.
He had, it was true, briefly considered sending one of the servants to buy a dog, so that Grobius could kick it to death. But he had abandoned the idea as unseemly and undignified. That was what counted.
He had always responded to setbacks with greater determination to succeed, and this time would be no exception. He viewed the end of the world as he would any other business project; the scale was simply bigger, that was all.
He picked up the telephone next to his chair. As soon as the voice in his ear said "Sir?" Grobius said, "Tell Pardee I want him."
He hung up without waiting for the "Yes, sir" that would be immediately forthcoming.
Adjustments needed to be made, that was all. The project would succeed. The Great Cleansing would take place.
A few moments later, Walter Grobius picked up the telephone again.
He had changed his mind about the dog.
Epilogue
Madison, Wisconsin
The Present Day
As Morris pulled up in front of the house, Libby Chastain looked at her watch. "After nine," she said. "I hope the LaRues don't mind us coming over so late."
"Walter said on the phone that they'd prefer it this way. The kids will be in bed, so they won't eavesdrop on our conversation. No point in getting them frightened again, now that they're starting to get back to something like a normal life."
Marcia LaRue answered the door, looking about ten years younger than she had the last time Morris had seen her.
In the living room, Walter LaRue was already standing to greet them, his wide smile a duplicate of his wife's.
"Good to see you again, both of you," he said, shaking hands.
"Yes it is," Marcia said, coming over to stand beside him. After a long moment, she asked, "Is it really over?"
"Yes it is," Libby told her. "Once and for all."
After they were all seated, Morris said, "After all you've been through, Libby and I thought we owed you a full report of what we've been doing since we saw you last."
"More than anything else," Libby said, "we wanted you to understand that this ordeal you've been through really is finished. We thought you should know exactly what that means."
"Well, we're eager to hear about it, that's for sure," Walter LaRue said, and his wife nodded.
"Well, here's the way it went," Morris said. "After we left you last time, Libby and I headed off to Boston…"
Twenty-three minutes later, Libby Chastain concluded with, "And I was able to use some of the residual energy from her spell to heal my injuries from the car crash. And so, here we are."
The LaRues sat silently for several moments. Finally, Walter LaRue said, "You've been through quite a lot, on our behalf."
"All part of the service," Morris said, with a smile.
"No, I think I'd call it above and beyond the call of duty," LaRue replied. He reached into his shirt pocket for a piece of paper, unfolded it, and placed it on the coffee table in front of Morris and Chastain. It was a check for twenty thousand dollars.
Morris looked at it, then raised his head, frowning. "That's not why Libby and I came here. I told you before that we had been paid in full."
"I know," LaRue said. "And I accept that. But, from what you've described to us, you two have racked up incredible expenses. Your plane fare alone must have amounted to at least a third of this."
"This really isn't—" Libby began.
"We both agree that we want you to take this," Marcia LaRue said. "There's no amount of money that can pay for what you've done for us, and for the kids, but it's a gesture of appreciation. Let us make it—please."
Morris and Libby looked at each other for a long moment. Then Morris picked up the check and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. "Well… for expenses, then. And thank you."
Marcia LaRue said she had brewed a pot of decaf coffee, and asked if anybody wanted some. She also mentioned a cheesecake that was sitting in her refrigerator. Morris and Libby agreed to some of each.
"Libby, can you give
me a hand with the coffee cups and plates, please?" Marcia LaRue asked.
"Sure." Libby rose and followed her into the kitchen.
A couple of minutes later, Libby was slicing wedges of cheesecake when Marcia said to her, "I'm really glad you and Quincey agreed to take the money."
Libby shrugged amicably. "It was kind of you -and Walter to offer. I'm sure we'll find a use for it."
"Thing is, there was kind of an ulterior motive involved. On my part, anyway."
Libby looked up, eyebrows raised. "Oh?"
Marcia nodded. "You're accepting the money makes it a little easier for me—emotionally, I mean—to ask you for kind of a special favor."
Libby put the knife down carefully. "What did you have in mind, exactly?"
"Well, do you think sometime, when you're not too busy chasing after demons and zombies with Quincey and all, maybe…"
"What, Marcia?" Libby's voice was gentle.
"Maybe you could, you know, teach me the basics of how to do white magic?"
Libby picked up the knife again and returned to slicing the cheesecake. "Sister mine," she said, "it would be my pleasure."
About The Author
Justin Gustainis is a college professor living in upstate New York. He is the author of the novel The Hades Project (2003), as well as a number of short stories.
In his misspent youth, Mr. Gustainis was, at various times, a busboy, soldier, speechwriter and professional bodyguard. To balance his karma, he and his wife collect teddy bears.
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