by J. R. Mabry
She wouldn’t have thought that magickians were shameful before she joined the order. She hadn’t seen them as being very different from witches. Since then, however, she had come face to face with the dark forces that magickians summon and presume to control—often to their own destruction. The magnitude of their stupidity simply baffled her. What they were doing seemed like kids playing with roadside bomb materials—they have no idea what they’re doing, but they’re playing nonetheless with powers of almost limitless destruction. She shuddered at the thought of it.
She felt responsible for Randy. She felt that it was somehow her duty to make his wrong right; to make up for his bad karma with good karma of her own—even though she knew that karma was not really a Christian thing. Just then, the connection that had been hovering just out of consciousness popped into view. She sat up straight as a rod.
Her connection to Randy was like Preston’s connection to Prester John. She cocked her head and considered the two relationships. Prester John hadn’t finished his job of destroying the Moors. He inspired Preston, but he had also failed. Just as it was her job to make good on Randy’s failure, she saw that Bishop Preston felt compelled to make good on his relative’s. For a moment, she felt a fleeting sense of kinship with the bishop. She understood him in a way that, mere moments before, had been mysterious to her.
A thought occurred to her, and she beat it back, but it was too late. As much as she wanted to unthink it, she couldn’t. And now that it had been thought, she knew that she would do it. She knew she would worry about it, and agonize about it, and try to talk herself out of it, but in her gut she knew that, after all of that internal wrestling, she would do it.
And so, she dispensed with the agonizing and went straight to the doing of it. She looked the patchwork Jesus square in the eyes and repeated the words she had heard from Susan, “If you’re going to sin, sin boldly.” Quickly, she made her preparations. She took the kettle off the stove. She went to pee. She ate a couple of cubes of cheese. Then she locked the front door and returned to the chapel.
Settling down on a zafu, she relaxed, closed her eyes, and visualized the Void opening up before her. The cat’s eye opening materialized quickly, shimmering brightly. With an agility and efficiency that surprised her, she stepped inside and onto the hot, dry desert plain.
As before, she noted the bundles of what looked like tumbleweeds, but which she now knew to be spirits, bound for unthinkable stretches of time. Were they conscious in their suspended animations? She certainly hoped not. She could think of few things more cruel.
After about fifteen minutes of walking, she felt a presence behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw the arched, furry figure of a Sandalphon looming up behind her. Was this one of the same creatures they had encountered last time? It was impossible to tell. She suddenly flashed on what they reminded her of. “Aunt Beast,” she said out loud, bowing to the approaching Sandalphon. “You remind me of Aunt Beast, from A Wrinkle in Time.” The Sandalphon slowed as it drew near, weight shifting on its large, lumbering legs. It didn’t seem to mind the comparison to the fictional creature. “I shall call you Aunt Beast,” she said. The Sandalphon said nothing.
Kat felt a momentary flash of shame. She hadn’t run this idea by any of the others. In fact, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was hoping to accomplish. The Sandalphon had every right to stop her, yet it was not barring her way. It was just there, hovering, perhaps guarding.
So, she turned and resumed her march. “C’mon, Aunt Beast,” she said over her shoulder. “We have miles to go.”
After nearly an hour of walking, she saw Aunt Beast recede. She turned to see the great protective creature standing still. It bowed slightly to her, then turned and walked away. Kat was sad to see her go. But she knew what it meant. She had arrived.
Turning again, she marched on, and watched with awe as the Abyss came into view. She called for Abaddon and fought down the nervous butterflies in her stomach as the great hand lowered until it was level with the ground she stood on. She stepped off the cliff and into the soft safety of the floating palm.
“Abaddon,” she spoke loudly, boldly, despite the quiver in her voice. “Take me to Prester John.”
70
LARCH TRUDGED BACK to the Lower Haight under a considerable cloud. A homeless man approached him with hand outstretched but drew back reflexively after catching sight of his caustic glower. Larch dug his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, balled into little fists of frustration.
The city was noisy, alive, and foggy—so typically San Francisco. Larch passed boho kids, mothers pushing Humvee-style strollers, business people on their cell phones, and the occasional stray dog. He navigated them, but he didn’t see them. He was lost in a confusing mixture of self-pity, panic, and uncertainty.
Getting his ersatz army away from the house had been a close call. He didn’t really have that much respect for the gray matter of the men in blue, but it wouldn’t take a genius to link a loitering horde in the East Bay to a loitering horde in the City. It had been a fire. He had put it out. The real question on his mind, though, was what to do with them?
Pim had suggested that he “protect the savior of the world”—of course he had no idea who that might be. He could ask her, but he knew better than to expect a straight answer from a spirit. He’d only get a couple of paragraphs of nonsense that would take days to decipher, if he ever did.
He sighed. Why couldn’t the spirits just talk like normal people? They weren’t normal people, of course. He suspected Pim was a demon, in fact, but he wasn’t at all sure. If she were, she was the sexiest damned demon he had ever laid eyes on—all leg and bangs and turned-up nose, and blessedly free of tentacles or spines or beaks or other normally demonic ornamentation.
For all of her inscrutability, however, Larch still felt tremendously privileged. Out of the hundreds of greasy-haired, bodily odiferous, socially inept magickians in the world, she had chosen him. And she had placed him at the head of the largest army of the damned he had ever heard of—and growing larger by the minute. So yes, he felt special. He just didn’t know what to do with the gift.
He had felt so elated to have liberated the Urim and Thummim from the glass-enclosed uselessness that was the fate of any artifact in a museum. At least in the hands of working magickians the stones would be active and useful. He recalled the indignity the stones had suffered just last night at the hands of his lodge mates, but he pushed the thought away. That was a result of his lack of diligence. It would not happen again. Thrusting his hand deeper into his coat pocket he felt at the velvet bag where they rested safely. The fact was, the stones would be “happier” if they were being used. He contemplated the relative happiness of inanimate objects for a moment.
As he did so, he almost ran into a police car. The lights were flashing, and as Larch looked up from the ground, where his eyes had been so firmly fastened, he saw that there were, in fact, several police cars. About twelve of them, in fact. And a SWAT van as well. All of them gathered around the decrepit Victorian that the lodge called its home.
Panic rising in his throat like bile, Larch began to back away. Look natural, look natural! he commanded himself, hands still in pockets. He chose another direction at random and began heading west toward Oak and Fell streets. His heart was pumping in his chest, so loudly that he was sure the cops could hear it.
He heard bullhorns commanding his lodge mates to surrender peacefully, to come out with their hands up. His hair stood on end as he heard the sound of a tear gas gun shatter the windows on the upper floors.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, he said to himself until he was able to put a full block of buildings between himself and the lodge. Once he had, he willed himself to relax. He nearly jumped out of his skin, however, when his cell phone buzzed to alert him to a new email.
Larch did not give out his email address liberally, and he scowled as he studied the address. He did not recognize it. Was this a trap? It had t
o be. But he couldn’t help himself, either. He was curious. It might be important information about what was happening at the lodge. It might be a warning from one of his lodge mates who had recently changed his email address but neglected to inform him of it.
In other circumstances, he might have been able to think it through carefully. But he was off his guard, and he knew it. He punched at the new message and read it as an icy sensation crept down his back. It read,
TO: Stanis Larch
From: Randall Webber
Subject: Have I got a surprise for you…
Larch, I’m alive and living in a mirror (don’t ask). My sister has been brainwashed by a bunch of fanatics calling themselves the Berkeley Blackfriars.
But here’s the crazy thing: They have located the Spear of Destiny. In my opinion, something this important should not be in the hands of religious freaks—and believe me, they are freaks. This is no hoax. This is the real Spear. And I can tell you exactly where it is…
71
GABE TOOK off his big straw hat, the one with the very wide brim. He looked up at the hot noon sun and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his forearm. He surveyed his work. Sarah would be pleased. A couple of hours ago she had sent him out to repair one of the fences, and now he was nearly done.
It was a neat job—he could see that. Even Daddy will be happy, he thought. Replacing his big hat, he thought back to his exciting encounter with the new reverend. On the one hand, he felt a little ashamed that he had spurted out before he’d really gotten close to the reverend. He wanted more, but afterward he didn’t seem to have more in him.
Yet he was not overwhelmed by the shame. It was more embarrassing than anything else. It had also been exciting. As he clipped wire, he remembered the pale white roundness of Richard’s bottom, the way that the wisps of black hair peeked out from where his cheeks fit together. When he remembered the sight of Richard’s dangling scrotum, he felt dizzy. He had to stop and catch his breath.
He heard a bark. He looked up but didn’t see anything. He bent back down and, drawing a hammer from his tool belt, fastened a pin to keep the wire fence in place. At the sound of another bark, he held his breath, and his head snapped up.
“A dog…” he breathed. He loved dogs. There was almost nothing as much fun as dogs. He ambled out to the drive and in a few moments he saw a large, reddish-yellow dog trot up the road, pausing every few yards to sniff. When he saw Gabe, his tail wagged, and he rushed up eagerly.
The dog’s nose worked furiously as he snorted at Gabe’s clothing, his shoes, his hands. Gabe’s heart leaped with excitement, even joy. “Hey, feller, what’s your name?” Gabe asked. “I am Gabe.” He stroked the fur on the dog’s back, and took hold of his collar. He squinted at the collar, but it didn’t make any difference. There was a tag there, but Gabe couldn’t read. He would ask Sarah when they got back to the house—maybe it would tell them the dog’s name.
Gabe reached into a little leather bag of materials and pulled out a thin spool of wire. He fashioned a makeshift leash from it and quickly finished fastening the last few feet of wire to the fence post. Then he gathered his tools and led the big reddish yellow dog back to the house.
As they were walking, Sarah passed them in her car, coming home from the store. She parked in her usual spot near the barn and clutching at one large grocery bag, walked briskly up to the house.
Gabe and the new dog were waiting for her on the porch. “I found me a dog, Sarah.”
“I see that. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. He has a tag, though.”
“Okay, let’s get inside, and I’ll take a look. Hold this.” She dumped the grocery bag in Gabe’s free arm and unlocked the door. She swung it open, and Gabe and the dog followed her inside. The dog followed her movements as she hung her key ring on a hook beside the door.
“Put that in the kitchen, Gabe.”
When he came back into the living room, Sarah was on one knee, studying the tags. “He’s from Berkeley,” she said. “He’s a long way from home. His name is…Tobias. That’s a strange name.”
“Hey, Mama, Daddy,” Gabe said to his parents, who leaned in toward each other on the couch, “I gots me a new dog.”
They received the news stoically, but Sarah stood up and faced Gabe with her hands on her hips. “Is he going to last any longer than the last one?”
Gabe looked from side to side but said nothing.
“Just be sure to put down a tarp. Momma will bean you if you get blood on her Persian carpet again.” Sarah yawned and put the back of her hand up to her mouth. “That sun was gettin’ to me. I need to go lie down a bit.”
“Okay, Sarah,” Gabe said. “I’m gonna go get my toys.” She nodded and headed toward the hallway to her bedroom. Gabe heard her bedroom door shut. “Now you stay right there, and don’t you dare eat none of Mama or Daddy,” Gabe scolded. The dog’s ears lowered. “I’m gonna be right back. I’m gonna bring some toys, and we’re gonna have us some fun.”
He lumbered toward the hallway to his own room, wondering where he had left the tarp.
AS SOON AS Gabe was out of sight, Tobias whirled about and faced the ring of keys. The angel knew it was too high for the dog to grasp cleanly, but he instructed Tobias to try. The dog leaped at the ring, snapping at it with his teeth. The keys rattled but did not fall free. Tobias leaped again—this time his lips pushed the key ring up and off the hook, but his upper lip got caught on the hook on the way down. The weight of the dog tore the hook through the flesh of his lip, and the angel stifled the dog’s scream of pain.
Blood was gushing everywhere, but the angel asserted control with an iron hand. He instructed Tobias to pick up the keys in the very mouth that was raging pain. The dog whimpered but complied. Then rearing up on his hind legs, the angel used the dog’s inefficient paws to turn the door handle. Having opened the door a crack, Tobias forced his nose into it and burst from the house into the yard like a bullet.
He paused to sniff at the air, then at the ground. Despite the pain in his lip, Tobias’s tail began to wag furiously as he picked up the scent. He followed it in a beeline to the barn.
“YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE,” Richard said bitterly to Duunel now that the demon had deigned to reappear.
I’ve been called worse, Duunel said coolly.
Richard fought down the bright red rage that filled his brain and reminded himself that he was talking about a demon, here. Of course Duunel was an asshole. In demon terms, that was tantamount to saying that he was a stand-up guy.
“I hate your fucking guts,” Richard said, arms crossed.
Someone is pouting.
“I would never have abandoned you like that,” Richard spat bitterly.
That’s because you are an idiot with no talent for self-preservation, Duunel replied. You don’t make it several thousand years like I have by cultivating sensitivity or loyalty or any of your other kumbaya virtues.
“You’re an asshole,” Richard repeated. “And why are you even back? These seem like your kind of people. Why aren’t you rushing out of me and into one of them? This little shop of horrors must seem like Disneyland to a demon.”
Are you nuts? Duunel responded, finally taking the bait. First of all, this is macabre, but it’s small potatoes. You can only do so much harm to the Enemy on a little farm like this. It’s self-indulgent. I’m a team player.
“Could have fooled me,” Richard said darkly.
Furthermore, who would I inhabit? Junior? He makes Lenny look like an intellectual giant. I’d tell him about the rabbits, but he’d need me to explain what rabbits even fucking are. And aside from my purely misanthropic mission, I’m in this for the quim. Do you think he ever gets any? He can’t even manage to get his cock into your repulsive ass when it’s handed to him on a platter. If disembodied voices could shudder, Duunel’s did. And what about the fucking black widow over there? Nothing doing. She likes cock even more than you do, and as you know, I do not swing t
hat way.
Richard picked at the crust surrounding his ankle. Its puffiness scared him. “I am not just going to sit here and wait to get my ass reamed out by fucking Igor.”
I’m not stopping you, Duunel said testily. Come up with a plan, and I’ll support it.
“Right. ’Cause you’re a team player,” Richard said.
Damn straight, said the demon in his head.
Just then, Richard heard a scratching at the barn door. A dog’s whine pierced the quiet of the dim barn. “Oh great. Dogs now,” he said, panic rising in him again. He began to cast around for anything he might use as a weapon. But there was nothing except for the metal shackle firmly attached to his own ankle. He imagined a ridiculous scenario where he stuck the iron band into the snapping jaws of an attacking dog with perfect aim. It broke the dog’s teeth, and the dog retreated in pain.
“Like that would ever happen,” Richard said, picturing the much more likely scenario of a large, slobbering Rottweiler trotting off with an assortment of Richard’s torn-off limbs stuffed into its bulging cheeks like a chipmunk.
The dog had apparently given up on the door because the scratching stopped as quickly as it had begun. But Richard’s head jerked to the right as he heard a mad scuffling at the side of the building. He squinted and saw a large dog squirming its way under a sizable gap between one of the boards and the dirt floor.
“Oh Jesus,” he said. It was a prayer.
A moment later, the dog was free, and it sprang like a tiger toward Richard. It was bleeding profusely, and its eyes were wild. As it came nearer, Richard could see the strawberry blond of the dog’s fur, and caught an all too familiar scent of—