Dark Arts

by Randolph Lalonde

  “Got caught

  digging for idols

  when I should

  be reaching for the sky.”

  - Road Craft Song, Reach

  BOOKS BY RANDOLPH LALONDE

  Brightwill

  Dark Arts

  Spinward Fringe Broadcast 0: Origins

  Spinward Fringe Broadcast 1 and 2: Resurrection and Awakening

  Spinward Fringe Broadcast 3: Triton

  Spinward Fringe Broadcast 4: Frontline

  Spinward Fringe Broadcast 5: Fracture

  Spinward Fringe Broadcast 6: Fragments

  The Expendable Few: A Spinward Fringe Novel

  Spinward Fringe Broadcast 7: Framework

  Spinward Fringe Broadcast 8: Renegades

  Spinward Fringe Broadcast 9: Warpath

  Spinward Fringe Broadcast 10: Freeground

  For more information please visit:

  RandolphLalonde.com

  DARK ARTS

  Randolph Lalonde

  Copyright © 2015 by Randolph Lalonde

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, Randolph Lalonde.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Image Licensed from iStockPhoto, art by Kirill Semenov - skirill.deviantart.com

  Print ISBN: 978-1-988175-00-3

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-988175-01-0

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  July, 1976

  Montreal

  “You have come for the Libro de Puertas,” said the monk ponderously. The drooping sleeve of his threadbare robes hid all but the corner of the small leather bound book.

  Maxwell stood in the doorway of St. Peter’s Chapel. It was less than a tenth the size of the last St Peter’s church Maxwell saw months ago. He pulled a nearly empty package of Marlboros from his jacket pocket and popped one out into his hand.

  “No smoking in this house, son,” the monk warned, standing slowly.

  “No bother on me. American fags are shite anyhow,” Maxwell griped.

  “Not bothering to tame that Cockney, either. Your father would be embarrassed.”

  “Da died trying to be something he wasn’t. Didn’t even get the book he spent most of his life looking for. That one there, the one you murdered for.” Maxwell pressed the smokes into his leather jacket pocket. “Like you, on the verge of excommunication while Clergy and law alike go looking into a few torture victims in Seattle.”

  “I was in the vicinity, not the perpetrator,” the monk replied.

  “Heard the girl’s father caught up to you. Is that what you’re hiding under that hood? A few new scars?” He hoped to rattle the middle aged former monk, to get some kind of feel for who he’d become since he started wandering across the continent. The word was that he’d gone severe; following the ways of the inquisitors.

  Drawing demons to him as much as seeking them out so he could pry secrets from the lips of their possessed victims. Didn’t believe any of it was possible, Panos was just a sick asshole the Catholics tossed aside who liked to torture people. “I hear he tried to take your nose. Can’t believe he didn’t just kill you.”

  Panos the Monk didn’t show any sign of irritation, he didn’t flinch. “Are you any better? Riding around America with your band, collecting religious baubles to keep them on the road?”

  Maxwell looked around the chapel, taking note of the fairly average stained glass windows, worn pews and humble Christ carving at the front. The savior seemed to stare at the altar, his expression locked between pity and a cringe. Whoever carved it did the church a disservice, the work was good, but the expression was all wrong. “It’s enough to keep me and my boys on the road,” he said. He needed to buy enough time to figure out the situation. Why had Panos spent so much time in Montreal with the authorities after him, and was it coincidence that Maxwell spotted him going into the church nearest to the bar they would be playing in?

  “Who is paying for this relic, Maxwell?”

  “Angelo’s the broker,” Maxwell said quietly. “Told me that you stole that, and it wouldn’t be good for you if you were found with it. Don’t know how, but he knew you’d be here. Said it was most likely I’d find your corpse.”

  “Nearly,” the monk answered. He tugged one side of his hood, making certain it hid his face. Max could see the merest hint of bandages crisscrossing Panos’ face.

  “Best hand it over. You may be standing in His house, but I’ll guess He’s on my side.” Doubt weighed on Maxwell with regards to the wishes of the Almighty. He believed in his Zippo and tin of lighter fluid much more.

  “I can’t give it to you,” Panos said. “Not unless you have something to offer, something worth trading. Something that will empower me even more.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ve seen the Eternity Ankh, where is it?”

  “When I was barely past my da’s knee,” Maxwell scoffed. “He sold it for weight, it was pure gold. You think you need something like that to keep you breathing?” He couldn’t stand most of the people he met while he did his job. Superstition and zealous ideals infected most of the collectors. “Buying in to the folk tales in that book is not healthy.”

  “This book you’re after is keeping me alive, boy.”

  “World doesn’t work that way,” Max said.

  “You think you know that much about the world? At the ripe old age of what, twenty?”

  “Life lived, world seen, and I’ve never seen what you’re telling me,” Maxwell said. “If you’re really walking’ around at room temperature, maybe you could prove it. I’m sure hanging boy over there won’t mind if you borrow one of his nails, show me your blood doesn’t run.”

  “Crass,” Panos said. “I’ve no mind to prove miracles to thugs.”

  “I’ve got five hundred dollars here, it’s yours if you come back to reality, and give me that book,” Maxwell said. He watched the other man, who only spared him a glimpse at the mention of so much cash. “That much green could keep you liquored for a while. Miracle enough for a drunk, monk or no.”

  “I haven’t had a drink since I found the Libro de Puertas. It’s about the covenant. Angelo shouldn’t have it. His customers don’t deserve it, and it shouldn’t go anywhere near Sudbury.”

  “Angelo isn’t the most trustworthy type, but he’s a good collector. He knows what he’s buying,” Maxwell pulled the wad of twenties from his back pocket and held it up so it couldn’t be missed. “Pays honest, too.”

  “He should have come himself,” Panos said.

  “Can’t get him out of his store these days.” Maxwell couldn’t help it any longer, he had to ask. “What’s under the hood, Panos? Give us a peek, mate.”

  “The covenant is delicate. Someone like Angelo’s customers can’t be allowed to know the details as they are translated here, you understand?”

  “Five hundred dollars,” Maxwell enunciated loudly, wiggling the thick green wad between them. “Enough for you to drink yourself to sleep for days. It’s a good
time for you to find a hiding place, this’ll get that done.”

  “You don’t understand,” Panos said earnestly. “I have been saved. This book comes with a purpose; it needs to be protected until a new covenant is needed. It must be carried by someone who knows.”

  Maxwell pressed the cash into his inside jacket pocket. It would make a hell of a bonus if he could get the book without paying for it. His hand went to his right outer pocket then, and wrapped around the tin of lighter fluid.

  “You’re not getting the book,” Panos said, starting for the side door.

  In three long strides Maxwell closed the distance between them and gripped Panos’ brown robes beneath the back of his hood. In a glimpse he could see someone had torn out tufts of his hair, leaving scabby patches of scalp. In Maxwell’s other hand he held the lighter fluid tin high. It was pocket sized, but there was enough to set the man’s clothes on fire.

  “Let me go!” Panos shouted. He wheeled around clawing.

  Maxwell withdrew just quick enough to get away with the slightest scratch on his cheek, spraying the monk in the eyes with lighter fluid. He continued to spray even as the man retreated, almost emptying the can.

  Panos screamed, recoiled, and fell backwards over a pew. The book fell out of his sleeve.

  “Should have taken the cash,” Maxwell said as he picked the book up and secured it inside his jacket. “Mad geezer.”

  His boots echoed as he crossed the chapel to the front door. Maxwell hoped Panos would stay down, but listened to the rustling behind him as the man struggled to his feet. Cringing and whining sounds echoed behind him, the most noticeable thing in the church until he heard the faintest click.

  Maxwell had heard that sound before, and in an instant he hurled himself between old pews. The small church became an echo chamber for Panos’ furious .45 as two shots rang out. “Give the book back!” Panos cried. “I’ll keep shooting! You can’t hide!”

  Without a second thought, Maxwell tossed the book over the nearest pew in Panos’ direction.

  “And the money!” cried the monk.

  “Wanker,” Maxwell muttered. His ears were ringing. He produced the wad of cash and held it up so Panos could see it. “Do you want me to throw it?” he asked.

  Panos didn’t answer. Instead he crossed the distance to the book. Maxwell watched the man’s shaky hand pick it up from where he lay on the floor. The monk quickly shuffled over to Maxwell’s row and pointed the gun at him.

  “No worries,” Maxwell reassured, holding the money up as high as he could. “Just take this and we’ll go our separate ways. Just like before, I’ll leave you no worse than I found you.” He had an opportunity to look the monk in the face, and saw that the bandages over Panos’ nose were soaked equally with lighter fluid and blood. That’s why the Monk was in so much pain; whatever terrible wound had been bound up probably felt like it was on fire.

  Panos snatched the cash and started to run.

  “Ey, mad Monk!” Maxwell called as he pulled his Zippo from his jeans pocket, lit it, got to his knees and tossed the little torch.

  The monk began to turn back towards him, aiming the gun.

  The Zippo couldn’t have landed in a better place if Maxwell had an eternity to try. In a split second Panos’ expression turned from rage to panic as the flaming lighter landed in a fold of his fuel soaked hood.

  Maxwell ducked as the gun went off. Panos went up in a blue and yellow plume. One, two, three shots sounded. Even though his ears rang like tinny bells, he could hear the monk’s shrieks as he fell forward rolling, trying to put the flames out.

  Maxwell picked up the book and kicked the smoldering man over. One more shot rang out as Panos rolled onto his back. He wondered at his luck, an instant later when he realized the shot missed. Maxwell kicked the gun out of the monk’s hand and was tempted to keep kicking, but bent down and snatched the wad of cash instead. Panos was more interested in wailing, his hands over his face, than stopping him.

  “I’ve been using that lighter fluid gag for a couple years now, you’re the first I’ve actually set on fire,” Maxwell said. “I have to admit, you didn’t go up as bad as I thought you would, and you put it out quick. Might be time to find a better way to scare the wits out of your sort.”

  He was just over twenty miles away, riding his Harley Davidson Sportster in the cool night air when he realized his neck was soaking wet. He reached up and felt a bloody trail leading to his ear. Maxwell winced in pain, nearly losing control of his bike entirely as he touched an open wound where his earlobe had been. “Shoulda dragged his arse out of that church and made sure he burned,” he said through gritted teeth as he accelerated down the street, the roar or his Harley Davidson filling his ears.

  The pain had lessened to a throb by the time he downshifted and turned down the side street behind the Wild Side, an old pub repurposed as a rock bar. Bernie was behind the wheel of their converted school bus, smoking and listening to Mississippi Queen. The early 60’s bus had been repainted black on the outside, and the interior cab lights were upgraded with brighter, bare bulbs. Bernie’s cousin, Scott was hanging out inside, leaning against the dash. They both got out of the van, Bernie flicking his cigarette down the alley, and met Max as his motorcycle came to a stop. “We’re ready for our set, getting ripped off by the owner though. They’re only paying us a hundred because the other band just dropped an album,” Scott said, running his hand over his recently shaved head. “I remember when that was us.”

  “Anyone I know?” Maxwell asked as he leaned his Harley Davidson Sportster onto its kickstand and pulled the antique book he’d just taken from his jacket.

  “No,” Bernie said, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Some band called the Racer Kings. Good rhythm section, God awful singer and a guitarist who thinks he’s Clapton.”

  “Everyone wants to be Clapton,” Max sighed.

  “Guess you’ll have to show him,” Bernie replied. The tall, lanky man was by far Max’s favorite Canadian, the only one he told all the details of his hunting excursions to, and the only one he trusted to back him up. His cousin Scott was a close second, but he was easier to unnerve. Max snatched the freshly lit cigarette from Bernie and popped the filter into his mouth. “I’ll be having that,” he said.

  Bernie started lighting another. “Did you get it?”

  “I did,” Maxwell said. “Had to fight for it, but we stay on the road.” He carefully opened the book and almost failed to catch a small object that fell out. “Nearly lost my head for it, but Angelo’s five hundred is all ours.”

  “Five hundred?” Bernie said. “I thought you were kidding before, five hundred doll-“ he stopped, noticing the mess on the side of Max’s head, even in the dim light of the alley. “Is that blood?”

  “I said I nearly lost my head for it,” Max replied.

  “What happened? Is it bad?” Scott asked.

  Bernie reached out to touch Maxwell’s ear. “Holy shit, what did this?”

  “Oi!” Maxwell said, recoiling, the sliver that fell out of the antique book clenched in his free hand. “I’m good to play, just need to get some whiskey on it so it doesn’t infect. Get some in me first though.” The wound burned and stung at the same time. He tried to ignore it, holding up the hard sliver that had fallen out of the middle of the book so he could inspect it in the scant illumination of the streetlight. “Petrified wood?” he muttered to himself.

  “Let’s hurry up and get this taken care of, Zack’ll start puking if he sees this,” Bernie said.

  “I might start,” Scott said. “Is it the whole ear? Did you get stabbed? What happened?”

  “Bugger started shooting,” Maxwell said, chuckling at Scott’s boggling. “Monk with a gun, figures he ends up over-piercing my ear.”

  “Are you sure the bullet didn’t go in? I heard a story about this guy, didn’t even know he got shot until the X-Rays.”

  “If he didn’t know he got shot, why was he getting X-Rays?” Maxwell asked. “Didn’t
go in, don’t worry your little head,” he said, patting him eight times on the top of his scalp so the slaps rang out in quick succession.

  “C’mon, I’ve got the first aid kit in the back of the bus,” Bernie said. “What is that?”

  “Bonus,” Maxwell said, pushing the sliver into the inside pocket of his leather bomber jacket, “maybe part of the book, don’t know.”

  I

  The bus and the band were well behind in North Bay, the boys decided to sleep in after a raucous night at the Nipissing Inn. They played until one in the morning, then invited a few old timers – Gib Frost, Vernor Newman, and Maria Townsend – on stage for a jam that pushed the noise until three, an hour too late for the local police.

  The party started after the police left and the doors locked. It was an old hotel, recently upstaged by a newer establishment so the rooms were empty. Max did as he often did, kept his guitar in hand so he reached for the constantly refilling pint glass less, and passed on ladies who wouldn’t mind taking the place of his instrument on his lap. He had a big payday coming, the kind even his father would envy if he were still alive.

  The music of the night before still rang in his ears as the wind blew through his long hair and the sunlight painted the road in hues of gold. The two lane concrete connection between North Bay and Sudbury was anything but pristine. He had to pay close attention for large cracks, potholes and animals ahead. He knew he was getting close to Sudbury when he started seeing dead trees instead of the thick green wood.

  The country in Canada was staggeringly beautiful to Maxwell, except for certain parts, like Sudbury. As the road rolled under the wheels of his Harley Davidson motorcycle, vistas of green woodland gave way to bare black and grey stone. This was the part of the trip he tended to forget. A century of mining and smelting made Sudbury and the area around it look like the crater it was.