Strange Magic

by Justin Gustainis

  “So, why were they involved?”

  “Oh, Clayborn’s proposal had received substantial government funding, so they were able to claim jurisdiction—at least for a while. They assigned an investigator who was fairly resourceful, as it turned out. A former Navy SEAL named Pacilio, Padillo—something like that.”

  “If there was an investigation, then there must have been a report of some kind,” Westin said.

  “Naturally. Reports are the lifeblood of bureaucracy, after all—without them, government agencies would curl up and die.”

  Westin waited for more—but there was no more. After about ten seconds of silence, he spread his hands and said, “So?”

  “So what, Doctor?” If Burnett had bitten off half a stick of butter before beginning the conversation, it could later have been extracted from his mouth completely intact.

  “So, may I please have a copy of the report? The sooner I see it, the better—for everyone concerned.”

  Burnett had read the document summarizing what was referred to ‘the Fairfax incident’—so called because Clayborn’s lab had been located in Fairfax, Virginia—so many times, he practically had it memorized. He could have, without hesitation, recited the names all nine members of the research team, whose mutilated bodies were found, along with Clayborn’s, in and around the laboratory. He could, if asked, have summarized the autopsy report on each of the eight men and two women who had died that night. Such an account—which Burnett had never been called upon to give—would have necessitated frequent use of words like ‘tortured,’ ‘raped,’ ‘burned,’ ‘eviscerated,’ ‘flayed,’ ‘fractured,’ ‘blinded,’ and ‘beheaded,’ along with a host of other verbs that are commonly used to describe the atrocities that may be inflicted on the human body. He also knew what happened in the weeks afterward, and what the total body count of the case had been.

  His first viewing of the report, almost six months ago, had produced images in Burnett’s mind that given him nightmares for five nights running—an admission of softness that he would never have revealed to anyone. Subsequent readings had blunted the impact—the human psyche is infinitely flexible, and can adapt to almost any circumstances, given time. “Resilience,” the head shrinkers call it.

  Nothing like that could possibly happen this time, though. Clayborn and his people had been utterly unprepared for what had crossed over when they had opened the portal for a few seconds. They had failed to take even elementary precautions, because they had not conceived that such safeguards could possibly be necessary. Burnett now knew exactly what could happen—and he had planned accordingly. The Fairfax disaster would not be repeated. It must not be repeated—the future of his country was at stake.

  Now Burnett looked across the table at Westin and said, “Access to that report is restricted, Doctor.”

  Westin gave him raised eyebrows. “I have a Top Secret clearance, Mister Burnett—you saw to that yourself. If there’s a higher security classification, I haven’t heard of it.”

  “Yes, but even someone with the highest-level clearance doesn’t necessarily get to see all material that is so classified.” He tried for a self-deprecating grin, which did not come easy for him. “Hell, there are even some files that I don’t have access to.”

  This was a lie. If there was a highly classified document owned by an agency of the US government that Ted Burnett hadn’t seen, it was only because he’d had no interest in looking at it. There were those photos of J. Edgar Hoover in drag, for instance, which were said to be stashed somewhere in the Justice Department. Burnett had never been moved to seek them out, or even verify their existence. Scandalous material in itself didn’t interest him—especially if the subject were long dead and hence beyond blackmail.

  Burnett slapped Westin’s worktable lightly with both hands and stood up. “But I tell you what, Doctor,” he said in an attempt at bonhomie that worked almost as well as the self-deprecating humor, “you deserve to see a copy of that report, and I’m going to see that you get one. It may take a little while, federal bureaucracy being what it is. The document has never been digitized, far as I know, so once I get authorization I’ll send a couple of competent people to go through the files. You’ll get the report just as soon as it’s humanly possible to provide one.”

  Burnett took a couple of steps toward the heavy metal door, then turned back. “In the meantime, I’ll expect you to proceed as planned. As you’ll see, there’s nothing in the Fairfax document that should cause any delay, or undue concern. Good morning.”

  Then he walked out of Room 519, the cleanest of clean rooms, leaving Hans Westin with his mouth half open to ask one of the several questions that Burnett’s visit had raised in his mind. He had no way of knowing that those questions would never be answered.

  On the stairs back down to his office, Burnett was thinking, You’ll get a copy of the report, Doctor. Absolutely.

  “A couple of days after Hell freezes over,” he muttered aloud, then realized he was smiling—the first genuine expression of emotion to appear on his face in several days. Something about that phrase just struck him as being so... right.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE EVER-PRESENT DESERT breeze gusted a little, causing the campfire to flare up briefly. If Morris had entertained any doubts that he was speaking to one of the undead, the way the firelight reflected redly off the man’s eyes would have put them to rest.

  “‘Save the world,’” he repeated. “I’ll say this for you, Señor Muñoz, you know how to get a man’s attention.”

  “Forgive the melodrama, Señor, but I speak the truth—and, I fear, without exaggeration.”

  Morris tried to take a step, and winced. “Mind if we continue this sitting down? I’m pretty sure I pulled a muscle earlier, and staying on my feet is getting to be pretty uncomfortable.”

  “Of course.” Muñoz made a polite gesture in the direction of the fire, which was starting to burn low. “Lacking more luxurious accommodations, perhaps we might adjourn to the place where you and the Sheriff were sitting earlier.”

  Morris limped his way over to the log and gingerly lowered himself down. Instead of joining him, Muñoz said, “Do you wish me to add more wood to your fire? Although I am not affected by such things, I know the cool air may be uncomfortable for you.”

  “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

  A few minutes later, the vampire and the vampire hunter were seated side-by-side, staring into the rekindled campfire.

  Without shifting his gaze from the fire, Morris said, “You mentioned something about hiring Libby and me to save the world. Is this your idea, or did someone send you?”

  “I represent a group, you may wish to call it a consortium, of like-minded individuals. We are in accord concerning the nature of the threat we face. After some discussion, it was decided that you and Señorita Chastain were best suited to deal with it.”

  “Why us? I mean, I can’t speak for Libby—but you were right when you said my contact with vampires up to now has been... antagonistic.”

  “Indeed, Señor. That antagonism was mentioned, by several of those present. But we decided that it should be overlooked, for the time being. The past is one thing, the future another. We are willing to put aside the former in other to secure the latter.”

  “You want me to secure the future... for vampires?”

  “No, Señor. We wish you to secure the future of all humanity. I did not use the phrase ‘save the world’ in jest.”

  “Then maybe you’d better stop talking in vague generalities and tell me just what you expect us to do.”

  “Before explaining your role in addressing this problem, I should perhaps explain the nature of the problem itself.”

  “Then, please—do so. And if you can do it in less than half an hour, all the better.”

  Morris was not usually given to sarcasm, especially with potential clients. But it had been a stressful evening, what with almost getting eaten by ghouls and all. And every time he shifte
d position, however slightly, his pulled groin muscle punished him with a good, hard contraction. It wasn’t any higher than ‘five’ on the pain scale, but enough to make him irritable and impair his judgment.

  Morris didn’t turn his head, but his excellent peripheral vision caught the look that Muñoz gave him. Morris was suddenly very aware that he was sitting three feet away from someone who could tear his throat out in, literally, the blink of an eye.

  “Very well, Señor Morris,” Muñoz said stiffly. “I shall strive to be more... I think your word is ‘succinct.’”

  “Listen, I didn’t mean...”

  “Some associates and I have reason—good reason—to believe that there is a faction within the government of the United States that is engaged in a plan to summon forth certain residents of Hell, gain control over them, and then use them to destroy the country’s enemies—especially the so-called ‘Caliphate.’”

  Morris covered his eyes with one hand for a couple of seconds. Then he lowered the hand and said “Wait—you’re telling me that…”

  “That members of the US intelligence community have developed a plan to weaponize demons. There, Señor Morris—is that succinct enough for you?

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE WOMAN CALLING herself Ashley, who was better known in some circles as Ashur Badaktu, Demon of the Third Rank, finished looking at the digital photos and handed Libby’s phone back to her. She turned to the man sitting on the couch next to her and said, “That was some good shooting, darling. You haven’t lost your touch.”

  “Thanks,” Peters said. “Spending a couple of hours at the range every week helps.”

  “I’m sure it does,” she said. “But I was referring more to your willingness to kill in cold blood and without hesitation. You don’t get that at any pistol range, and it’s one of the things I love about you.”

  She reached over and patted the knee of Libby Chastain, who was seated in an armchair a few feet away. “And yet Libby here is incapable of cold-blooded murder, or of any other kind, and yet I love her, too. Go figure.”

  “I’m not trying to start something,” Peters said, “but I’m pretty sure the official Vatican line on demons is that you’re incapable of love.”

  Ashley snorted through her perfectly-shaped nose. “The official Vatican line also used to be that the sun revolves around the earth. They damned near burned Galileo for heresy when he proved otherwise, so fuck the Vatican. Anyway,” she said, “I certainly feel something for the two of you. Maybe it’s just another manifestation of lust.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Peters said.

  “Indeed, no,” Libby said, just to be saying something.

  “I’m glad you agree, Libby, dear,” Ashley said, and there was a subtle quality in her voice now that gave Peters an immediate erection, even though he and Ashley had been lovers ever since his return from Hell two years earlier.

  The effect was not lost on Libby Chastain, either. Ashley’s brief touch on her knee had made Libby moist about her stocking-tops, and now she felt her nipples coming erect in response to whatever Ashley was doing with her voice. She and Ashley were sometime lovers, and the ‘sometime’ aspect derived from Libby’s conflicted feelings about the relationship. It wasn’t the lesbian aspect that was problematic—Libby had come to terms with her own bisexuality long ago. But the idea of a white witch having sex—fantastic sex though it was—with a former denizen of Hell seemed at times so fundamentally wrong. And yet she kept coming back—although there were limits to where she was willing to go with Ashley.

  “I really wish you’d consider doing a threeway with me and Peters sometime, sweetie. He really is quite a good fuck, for a human male, that is.”

  “I keep telling you I’m not ready for that,” Libby said. “And I may never be.”

  Ashley looked in Libby’s eyes and said, that same subtly sexy quality in her voice, “I could make you want to, you know. Right now, even.”

  Libby swallowed a couple of times before speaking. “I’m sure you could,” she said, a little unsteadily. “But if you did that, I’d never come near you again, afterwards. And I’m pretty sure there’s a spell I could whip up that would make me immune in the future to whatever you’re doing right now—and I will, if I have to. I may be your lover, Ashley, but I’m not your sex toy.”

  Ashley raised one eyebrow, but didn’t look away. Libby was thoroughly wet right now, and she was aware that Ashley knew it. She called upon all her hard-won mental discipline to banish from her mind the vivid image of the three of them, naked, in Ashley’s king-size bed—Libby with her face buried in Ashley’s shaved crotch while Peters took her from behind...

  Peters leaned over and used an index finger to poke Ashley’s shoulder a couple of times. “Come on, sex queen,” he said. “Give her a break. Besides, we need to talk about what those dead guys were up to, remember? It could be important.”

  Ashley turned her head and looked hard at Peters. But after a moment she shrugged and said, “All right, be a party pooper. See if I care.”

  As soon as Ashley had broken eye contact, Libby felt her racing heartbeat begin to slow, and her tumescent nipples returned to their normal state. The porn film that had been playing in her mind faded to black, allowing her to concentrate on other matters. “We’ve told you what we found when we walked into that apartment, and you’ve seen the photos of the aftermath,” she said to Ashley. “Were these people doing what I think they were doing?”

  Ashley looked at her again, but this time Libby’s libido was unaffected by the gaze. “Depends on what you think they were doing,” she said matter-of-factly. “If you figure they were in the process of ineptly trying to summon a demon—I’d say, yeah, you got it right.”

  “Why ‘ineptly’?” Peters asked.

  “Shit, I don’t even know where to start.” Ashley picked up Libby’s phone again and swiped with her finger until she found the photo she wanted. “They got the pentagram wrong, for one thing. The apex is pointing upward—to summon a demon, it’s got to be pointed downward, as if reaching down to Hell. Point it upward, you’re invoking Heaven. And as far as I know, it’s impossible to summon an angel—apart from the fallen kind, that is.”

  “Now that I think about it, none of our Wiccan spell books contain anything about conjuring up an angel,” Libby said. “It’s never even mentioned. I wonder why that is?”

  Ashley gave her the kind of look that any village idiot would recognize at once. “If you lived in heaven, would you want to leave?”

  “You said that they made other mistakes,” Peters nodded toward the phone. “Like what?”

  Ashley squinted at the photo, swiped with her finger, then swiped again. “Well, the wards they’ve got at the points of this half-ass pentagram are positively lame. I doubt they would hold back a pissed-off Lhasa Apso, let alone a fire-breathing denizen of Hades.”

  “They don’t really breathe fire,” Peters said. “As we both have reason to know.”

  “Just an expression,” Ashley said.

  “And a good thing, too,” Libby said. “Any other ways they fucked up?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Let me get another look at…” She swiped the screen of Libby’s phone a few more times. “This grimoire they were using... right, here it is. By the way, strong work getting the title page, Libby. It’s often more informative than the cover.”

  Libby nodded, pleased that things between her and Ashley seemed to be on an even keel again.

  “Looks like they were working from a copy of the Le Grand Grimoire. I wonder how they got their hands on that piece of shit.”

  “Why’s it a piece of shit?” Libby asked.

  “Because the author—some idiot Frenchman whose name I can’t remember—claimed the basis for the book’s power was a pact he’d made with Lucifuge Rofocale.”

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Peters said with a grin. “Seriously?”

  “That’s what the guy wrote,” Ashley
said. “As if!”

  Libby looked from Ashley to Peters and back again. “This sounds like an inside joke that I’m not getting,” she said. “I admit that demonology isn’t my strong suit, but...”

  “Lucifuge Rofocale is Satan’s First Minister,” Peters said. “In a place full of really, really bad dudes, he is the baddest.”

  “Second baddest,” Ashley said.

  “After the Boss himself, yeah.” Peters nodded. “Anyway, he’d no more make a pact with a human—any human—than you or I would make a deal with an earthworm. It’s ridiculous.”

  “And if he did enter into such a pact,” Ashley said, “just for giggles, say—the first thing he’d do when summoned would be to devour the guy who called him, wards or no wards.”

  “Not even if the wards were done properly,” Libby said, “by someone who knew what he was about?”

  Ashley shook her head. “Wouldn’t matter. Nothing any human sorcerer could construct would hold back someone like Lucifuge Rofocale. Which proves that this so-called grimoire is a piece of shit, quod erat demonstrandum.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty,” Peters said.

  Ashley gave him a tender smile and said, “Well, then, darling, Paresque nobis novem continuas fututiones.”

  “What’s that mean?” he asked her.

  The smile still in place, she winked and said, “I’ll tell you later.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “‘SUCCINCT’ DOESN’T BEGIN to describe it,” Quincey Morris said. “If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have bet serious money that I’d never hear the words ‘weaponize’ and ‘demons’ used in the same sentence. Except maybe in some horror movie.”

  “Accept my assurance, Señor Morris, that this is not a movie I refer to. And even if it were, such a film would not be fiction, but a documentary—a uniquely disturbing one, to be sure.”