Strange Magic

by Justin Gustainis

  “It’s insane. The whole idea is insane.”

  “Si, insane,” Muñoz said. “But real, nonetheless. As real as... as the drops of blood that currently mar the surface of your boots.”

  Morris hadn’t even noticed—but, sure enough, there they were. The blood droplets looked brown in the firelight.

  Glancing at Muñoz he said, “Listen, if that stuff is, uh, bothering you, I can take a minute and clean—”

  “That will not be necessary, Señor. The blood of those creatures does not stimulate my appetite—quite the contrary, in fact. But I thank you for your consideration.”

  The two of them stared silently into the flames for a few seconds. “Demons as military weapons,” Morris said softly. “Talk about getting a fucking tiger by the tail.” To Muñoz he said, “You know I have to ask you what the source of your information is.”

  “Of course. I would be surprised if you did not.”

  A twig lay at Muñoz’s feet. He picked it up and studied it, or appeared to. He might have found that bit of wood to be the most fascinating thing in the world. “One of our number, a woman, lives near Washington, DC. She works as a prostitute, what one might call a high-class call girl.”

  “Lot of those around the capitol district, I expect,” Morris said. “The best ones provide what’s called the Total Girlfriend Experience, for a hefty price.”

  “Ah, you are a man of the world, Señor Morris. You have personal knowledge of such matters?”

  “No, but I read a lot. Go on.”

  “As you imply, this woman make a great deal of money from her clients. Most of them pay her with cash or a credit card, but a few, a very select few, have been permitted to know her true nature. These men purchase her services with their blood.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Morris said.

  “It might be, in less experienced hands. But she has been doing this for some time, and is careful to take no more than one pint at a time—two at the most.”

  “No, I mean it’s dangerous for her. People talk, Muñoz, even those who have been pledged to secrecy—and this isn’t exactly a matter of national security, is it? Sooner or later one of her blood donors, after one drink too many, is going to tell somebody he’s been fucking a vampire. The guy he tells won’t believe it, probably. But some day that guy will say something around another guy—and that one might just have some sharp wooden stakes in his basement.”

  “Someone like you.” Muñoz’s voice was neutral. They might have been discussing the best place to find good seafood in Georgetown.

  “That’s right—someone like me.” Morris spoke with no more affect than the other man had.

  “I think she can take care of herself—after all, she has been doing so for over 300 years. And we should both be grateful to her, Señor Morris. For it was she who obtained the first glimpse our community had into this demented scheme, if only by chance.”

  “So what you all know about this... program isn’t restricted to what this woman has to say.”

  “Not at all. She uncovered the first link in a chain which ends with the two of us sitting here this evening.”

  “And the first link came from what—pillow talk? Some sex-drunk GS-12 bragging about his super-secret inside knowledge of Project Hellfire?”

  “Bragging—no. Talking in his sleep—yes. It intrigued my... associate sufficiently for her to awaken the man and place him under vampiric influence long enough to find out what else he knew about the subject, and then to erase his memory that he had spoken at all.”

  Morris shifted on the log, trying to find a position that would make his pulled groin muscle stop throbbing—and failing utterly. Stifling the groan that he really wanted to give vent to, he said, “And what did this seductress find out?”

  “Apparently the man—whose rank was GS-14, I believe, had received an email he was never supposed to see. He had a ‘Top Secret’ security clearance, but the document attached to the email was marked ‘Restricted—Project Staff Only,’ or some such designation. Naturally, he read it with great interest.”

  “Naturally.”

  “One of the things he learned was that this super-secret undertaking was known at one time as ‘Project Erebus.’ Does that name resonate with you, Señor Morris?”

  “Erebus.” Morris rubbed both hands across his face and tried to flog his tired mind into a higher level of functioning. It had been, with one thing and another, a very long day.

  “It’s ancient Greek for something like ‘shadow’ or ‘darkness,’” Morris said. “In Greek mythology, Erebus referred to—what was it?—either some god or to a specific place in the underworld, depending on context. I think some of the Roman writers used it as a synonym for ‘Hades.’”

  “Which is, of course, Hell,” Muñoz said. “Very good, Señor Morris—your education at Princeton was clearly not wasted.”

  “Yeah, and I’m devastating at Trivial Pursuit, too. What else did this super-secret memo have to say?”

  “It claimed that the project’s fruition would produce what I believe was referred to as ‘the ultimate answer to Islamic fundamentalist extremism,’ or whatever descriptive phrase the government is using these days. And, although it was not mentioned by name, the man who read the document said there was a clear implication that the Central Intelligence Agency was involved.”

  “Of course,” Morris didn’t bother to hide his scorn. “They’re like horse shit—all over town.”

  “Señor?”

  “Just an expression my gram used to come out with. Libby and I had a run-in with the CIA not long ago—or with some rogue element of it. They were involved in a feud with the—” Morris realized he was on the verge of saying more than he should. The fewer people who knew about his and Libby’s recent adventures with the CIA, the Knights Templar, and a group of jinn-conjuring Arab terrorists, the better. “That doesn’t matter,” he told Muñoz. “But if there’s any devilment, literal or not, going on, I wouldn’t be at all surprised that Langley is ass-deep in it.”

  “Si. That organization has been mixed up in some extremely nasty matters in the past—and appears to be so involved again.”

  “But that’s not all you have to go on is it—one document that some guy wasn’t supposed to see, and might have misunderstood?”

  “Not at all, Señor. As I said, it was the first link in a chain. Or perhaps a better metaphor would be a jigsaw puzzle. The document I spoke of was the first piece—indeed, without it, we would not have known that a puzzle even existed. Since then, other pieces have been found, and added. It is not yet finished, this puzzle—but even incomplete, what it depicts is worrisome in the extreme.”

  “You believe that the CIA is planning to summon demons, control them, and send them against ISIL, ISIS, or whatever the hell that bunch of fanatics is calling itself these days.”

  “The current designation, I believe, is the Caliphate. Yes, that is exactly what we believe. Indeed, ‘believe’ is too mild a term—we know.”

  Morris stared silently into the fire for a little while. “There’s a short story I came across in some science fiction anthology years and years ago. Can’t recall the title, or even who wrote it. It was nobody’s idea of great literature, or even great science fiction—but I guess it’s stayed with me all this time. I didn’t even realize that I remembered it, until now.”

  “Pray enlighten me, Señor.”

  “There’s this scientist, who’s been working on some kind of super-duper mega-weapon—the specifics aren’t provided. He lives alone, except for his son, who he’s taking care of. I guess the kid is supposed to be around twelve, and he’s also what we used to call mentally retarded.”

  “I believe the polite term today is ‘developmentally disabled.’”

  “Whatever. It’s clear that the boy has the mind of a four-year-old. One night, dad and the kid are at home, and there’s a knock at the door. It’s a stranger, a pleasant enough guy, who asks if he can talk to the scientist about his work on
the mega-weapon. The visitor wants him to stop, for the sake of humanity, and all that. The scientist is having none of it. He says something like, ‘Once we build it, the weapon will have twenty-three layers of safeguards, and it’s none of your business, anyway.’ He’s about to kick the guy out, when the phone rings. This is back when everybody still had land lines.”

  “So he had to leave the room to answer it,” Muñoz said. “I believe I can discern the direction this account is taking.”

  “You probably discern correctly. So dad takes the phone call, but he’s back in a couple of minutes. He tells the visitor he won’t discuss his work, and he wants the guy to leave. The guy says, ‘Very well. Oh, I met your son while you were gone. A lovely child. I left him with a small gift—I hope you don’t mind.’ Dad says, ‘Yeah, whatever,’ and shows the guy the door. Then he goes in the next room where his son is playing. He gets one look at the ‘gift’ and stops dead. Then very softly so as not to frighten the kid, he says, ‘Can I look at your new toy? Just give it to daddy, that’s right.’ The kid hands it over. It’s a .38 Special revolver—fully loaded.”

  “Yes, it would have to be, would it not?”

  “And dad is just... flabbergasted. The last line of the story has him thinking, What kind of man would put a loaded gun in the hands of an idiot? Dad’s not real PC himself, you see.”

  “Pardon, señor? What is ‘PC’?”

  “Politically correct. Thinking of his kid as an idiot, instead of ‘developmentally disabled’—although I’m pretty sure nobody was using the fancy term back then. Anyway, the reader is invited to draw his own conclusions, and it doesn’t take Einstein to figure out what they’re supposed to be.”

  “Indeed, Señor Morris. Although I perceive some unintentional irony in your invoking of Einstein’s name, considering his support of the so-called Manhattan Project.”

  “You’re right—I hadn’t thought about that. But you get my point—and the point of the story.”

  “Of course, Señor—and a most apt analogy it is, too, considering the insanity now being contemplated in Washington.”

  “What do you care?”

  “Señor?”

  “What does it matter to you, and whoever sent you, whether some fools in Washington call up a mess of demons and try to use them against ISIS? Doesn’t sound like vampire business, to me.”

  “It is what you call ‘vampire business’ for two important reasons. One is the power and unpredictability of demons.”

  “Are demons stronger than vampires?”

  “The answer to that, like many questions, depends on how one defines one’s terms, Señor. It is fair to say that those among the undead whom I have consulted are not eager to live in a world where they must contend with the powers of Hell.”

  “Probably wise of you.” Morris said. “What’s the other reason?”

  Muñoz gave an an elegant shrug. “I would have thought that to be obvious.”

  “Let’s pretend it’s not.”

  “It is known that someone with proper training and the right... reference materials may be able to call forth one of the Fallen. You have seen this yourself, yes?”

  “Seen it? I still dream about it.”

  “Then you understand the distinction between summoning a demon and controlling it, once it has reached the Earthly Plane.”

  “Demons can’t be controlled—not reliably. And the more powerful they are, the less likely that any controls will work.”

  “You are, as the expression goes, preaching to the choir, Señor Morris. Indeed, that is at the heart of the decision that was made to secure your services.”

  Morris reached down, wincing, and picked up some pebbles from the ground near his feet. He began tossing them, one after another, into the dying campfire. Once the last pebble had been consigned to the flames he said, “Why me? Why hire me—and Libby for a job like this?”

  “Why? It is obvious, surely. Are you not Quincey Morris, the great occult investigator?” Muñoz keep most of the irony he must have been feeling out of his voice—but not quite all of it.

  “Cut the crap, Muñoz. I’m an occult investigator, yes—not a demonologist. In terms of the occult, I’m a general practitioner, rather than a specialist.”

  “And yet you have experience with the demonic, Señor. This much is well known.”

  Morris glanced at him. “‘Well known?’”

  Again Muñoz gave an elegant shrug. “Known in certain circles, is what I meant to say.”

  “If you know that I’ve had contact with demons, then you should also know that it didn’t always work out real well.”

  Morris slipped off his jacket, then used two fingers to pull his shirt and undershirt away from the left side of his neck. “See that?”

  Muñoz studied the patch of fibrous skin that Morris had just revealed. “That must have been most painful to receive, Señor Morris. A burn scar, yes?”

  “That’s exactly what it is—the result of half-a-second’s contact with a very special kind of fire—Hellfire.”

  “It sounds like a most interesting story must underlie that injury. Perhaps you might relate it to me, on some other occasion. But the presence of that scar proves my point, rather than refuting it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You have been close enough to a demonic force to acquire that burn. And yet here you are—alive, apparently sane, and physically unimpaired. A number of individuals who have had similar contact cannot, alas, say the same.”

  “You can look at it that way, if you want to.”

  “But there is another reason why we wish to employ you, Señor Morris, and it transcends even your considerable experience with the supernatural world.”

  “And that would be?”

  “My sources tell me that you have the ear of President Leffingwell.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “This is hardly a situation appropriate for humor, Señor Morris, as I am sure you will agree. I am entirely serious.”

  “Well, if your ‘sources’ led you to believe that I’m tight with the President, then you need to get some new sources, pronto. I don’t ‘have the ear’ of Leffingwell or anybody else who matters in Washington. I’ve never even met the guy.”

  “I may have used an incorrect phrase to describe your relationship. Even after several centuries of practice, my English is sometimes imprecise. You may not have the President’s ear, but he is aware of you, beyond doubt—aware, and, perhaps, even indebted.”

  Morris made a scornful noise. “I don’t think ‘indebted’ is a word that means a lot to politicians. In my experience, gratitude has a very short half-life, and in Washington I doubt it lives long enough to draw more than a couple of breaths.”

  “And yet you were released from prison by a Presidential pardon, after only a few months’ incarceration. And did Mr. Leffingwell not write a personal letter, commending your service to your country and expressing regret that such service could never be made publicly known?”

  “How the hell do you know about that?”

  “As I said, Señor, I have my sources—some of them in the nation’s capital.”

  “That’s not really surprising, I guess. From what I hear about the culture in Washington, a few vampires wouldn’t even be noticed. They’d probably be great lobbyists, if they aren’t already. But, okay, let’s say the President knows who I am. Maybe I’m even on the White House Christmas card list. What’s it matter to you?”

  “We believe it likely that President Leffingwell is unaware of the insanity that is being contemplated by certain members of the intelligence community in the name of national security. Were he informed of the danger, by someone whose opinion on such matters he respected, he might well be moved to put a stop to it.”

  “That might not be as easy as you think,” Morris said. “The US intelligence community, as you call it, has always been pretty sizable—since World War Two, anyway. But after 9/11, it grew like a... flood-swollen river,
developing branches and tributaries all over the place. You may have heard that the way the government deals with most problems is to bury them in money.”

  Muñoz nodded. “Si, I was aware of this tendency. So much waste.”

  “The apparatus has grown so damn huge, that in some cases, not only does the left hand not know what the right hand is doing—the left hand might not even be aware that the right hand exists.”

  “You seem very well informed about such matters, Señor.”

  “Like I told you before—I read a lot.”

  “Even if what you say is true—and it may well be—the President is still the individual with the best chance to kill this snake with a single, sharp blow.”

  The metaphor made Morris shudder. He had a thing about snakes. “And what if it doesn’t work?”

  Muñoz produced a toothy smile that contained no amusement whatever. “Then, Señor Morris, I will rely upon you to find another solution. There is, after all, more than one way to skin a snake.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “I KNOW WHAT you mean about the delusions that some people have about the power to control demons,” Libby said. “Quincey and I encountered a prime example a few years ago, in Idaho—or maybe it was Iowa, I’m always getting those confused. A dying zillionaire named Walter Grobius had hired some black magic types to call forth Satan himself, in the hopes of being granted eternal life.”

  “Well, there’s hubris for you,” Ashley said. “How did that work out for him? Not well, I trust.”

  “Not well at all,” Libby said. “Instead of eternal life, he got an agonizingly painful death—followed, I assume, by agony of a rather more permanent sort. The eternal kind.”

  “‘What fools these mortals be’,” Ashley quoted. “And I assume those guys you and Peters encountered over in the Village were of the same stripe. I bet they didn’t even check whether the girl they were going to sacrifice was a virgin. Was she, do you know?”

  “I can’t say the subject came up,” Libby said. “Why, does it matter?”