The man straightened up as Libby and Ashley entered, and the manic grin seemed to widen further. In a voice from a nightmare he said, “Ah, good—fresh meat. And cunt meat, at that!”
He was reaching under his jacket, probably for the gun with which he had already disabled the three men, when Ashley stepped forward, pointing the first two fingers of her left hand at him as if she held a pistol of her own.
“Hold!” she said, and her voice didn’t sound like Ashley’s, at all. “I am Ashur Badaktu, demon of the third rank, and I command you to HOLD!”
Ashley had explained the problem, for the second time, to her human compatriots as they all sat waiting in the SUV.
It all comes down to what rank he is. I’m of the Third Rank. If our newest arrival is Fourth Rank or lower, I can control him. If he’s Third Rank like me, we’ll end up in something like a Mexican standoff, which should still give Libby time to work her magic and send him back.
It was Peters who gave voice to the question that all of them had in their minds. “What if he’s a higher rank than you?”
That’s pretty damned unlikely, if you’ll pardon the pun.
Peters was persistent. “Yeah, but what if the unlikely happens?
Then we’re all fucked—really, seriously fucked.
But when Ashley issued her command to “Hold!” the demon who had taken possession of Ted Burnett stood frozen in place.
Libby Chastain’s gut was just starting to relax a little when the newly arrived demon started to laugh—laughter that no human throat could ever produce, a sound that no human ear should ever have to hear.
Then the laughter subsided and the demon spoke, in a language that Libby not only didn’t speak, she had never heard uttered before.
But Ashley, apparently had. She dropped at once to one knee and stared at the floor, not even daring to raise her eyes to the creature that had just so sternly addressed her.
Libby felt as if all the blood in her system had suddenly been replaced by liquid nitrogen. She looked at Ashley, then turned her gaze back to the creature that had just humbled a demon of the third rank.
Sweet Goddess above, save us. We knew this could go badly, but none of us ever planned on something like this—whatever this is.
“Ashley!” Libby had not made a conscious decision to whisper, but that is exactly what she was doing. “What—who…?”
“Lucifuge Rofocale,” Ashley said softly, without raising her eyes from the floor. She said nothing else – but then, nothing else really needed to be said.
Lucifuge Rofocale. Satan’s Prime Minister and Chief General in the rebellion against Heaven. According to Ashley, as well as several medieval theologians and mystics, the second most powerful being in Hell—and certainly more than a match for a mere demon of the Third Rank. Libby could hear Peter’s voice saying in her mind, “In a place full of really, really bad dudes, he is the baddest.”
The creature that currently occupied Ted Burnett’s body nodded with satisfaction at Ashley’s subordination. Then it turned its gaze to Libby—and smiled. That smile said, more clearly than words in any language, “So what are you going to do now, bitch?”
Something deep inside Libby Chastain bared its teeth.
Quincey Morris, she knew, was waiting outside. Libby called to him, urgently—she just did not bother to use her voice.
Seconds later, the street door was thrown open and Morris rushed in. He took in the scene at a glance, his eyes widening. Then he looked at Libby and said, in a voice that was almost calm, “Orders?”
“We’ve caught a bigger fish than we expected,” Libby said tightly. “I need you to recite the ritual with me.”
All Morris said was, “Right.”He took a few steps to put himself next to Libby and from an inside pocket removed the folded sheet of paper on which Libby had written down for him the incantation that was central to the exorcism spell used by white witchcraft.
“Ritual?” Lucifuge Rofocale said scornfully. “You pathetic spawn of Eve’s cunt, you hope to control me?”
“Silence, fallen one!” Libby waved her wand and spoke a word of power that would activate one of several spells she had prepared for the occasion, just in case. This was a freezing spell that would make any human immobile until the enchantment was lifted.
Lucifuge Rofocale was not, of course, human. But he was inhabiting a human’s body.
Once he realized that Burnett’s body was temporarily useless to him, the demon would almost certainly seek another, more complaint host among those present. Libby was prepared for that, too—she hoped.
She turned to Morris, waved the wand again, and cast the protection spell that she had ready to go. It was designed to guard the human recipient from evil spirits, and they were in the same room with one of the most evil spirits of all.
Libby had already invoked the protection spell on herself before entering, and the three scientists were all suffering from mortal wounds and should be effectively immobile. So all that remained was to cast it on Ashley.
Ashley wasn’t human, either—but like Lucifuge Rofocale, she had been given a human form to use in her time on Earth. For Libby, this was unexplored territory. The spell might guard Ashley against the demon lord’s influence—or it might not.
Libby had also taken great care in preparing a spell to send the demon back where it came from. The Catholic Church has a rite of exorcism that is frequently successful, if time-consuming. But it is not the only way to expel a demon, and Libby, being a witch, had access to some powers denied to a conventional priest of the Church. And, unlike Ashley, she bore no allegiance to the demon that now stood snarling twenty feet away from her.
She performed the ritual speaking ancient Aramaic, a language of great power that was once the native tongue of one Joshua Bar-Joseph, known to many as Jesus of Nazareth. Morris was not conversant with the language, so Libby had written out his version phonetically, and asked him to practice with it before departing for Fairfax. Morris had said he would, and Libby hoped he’d been as good as his word. The margin for error in this situation was so thin as to be well-nigh invisible.
The body of Ted Burnett, along with its demon host, appeared frozen in place. So far, so good.
Libby pointed her wand directly at the demon-possessed CIA man, and began to recite the ritual. Morris followed along with her, stumbling a little in places but mostly doing a creditable job. “Avvon d-bish-maiya,” they chanted. “Nith-quaddash shim mukh. Tih-the mal-chootukh. Nih-weh ei-chana d’Bish-maiya: ap b’as-ah.” Ninety-nine percent of Libby’s attention was on the spell. She was using the tiny remainder to keep an eye on the kneeling, submissive form of Ashley in the periphery of her vision.
Now Libby could feel the demon trying to get inside her head, like a rat gnawing on the wooden door of a grainery. But the magical protection held, and eventually the attempt at invasion stopped.
Next to her, Morris suddenly grunted, as if he’d just received a punch to the diaphragm—although, to his credit, he continued with the chant, even though strain was now evident in his voice. Without taking her gaze from the Lucifuge Rofocale and his human puppet, Libby reached out her free hand to grasp Morris’s forearm. She did not know if that would help him resist the demon’s invasion, but it was all she could do for now.
It must have been enough. After a time, Libby felt some of the tension go out of Morris’s body, and his breathing returned to something like normal.
Lucifuge Rofocale had failed to grab hold of either Libby or Morris. That left him with only one option.
Less than thirty seconds later, Libby saw movement at the edge of her vision. Turning her head a couple of inches, she saw Ashley’s head come up and look at Lucifuge Rofocale in its human form. After what seemed an eternity but was in fact a minute later, Ashley got slowly to her feet.
“O’shwooq lank ho-bein: ei-chana d’ap kh’nan shwiq-gan l’khaya-ween.” Even as Libby continued the sacred chant, part of her mind was reacting to what was going
on. And the reaction was not a happy one.
If he’s got control of Ashley, it’s game over. Quincey and I don’t have much longer to live, and a whole bunch of people who are outside this room are going to die horribly not long afterwards. Fuck!
If there was a way out of this, Libby could not spare the concentration to find it. She must continue the chant—would continue, as long as there was breath left in her body, a span of time that might now be measurable in seconds, and not very many of them, either.
Ashley—or, perhaps, something that had once been Ashley—walked over to where Libby and Morris were standing. She walked slowly, as if Lucifuge Rofocale enjoyed prolonging Libby’s sense of impending doom.
Ashley, or whoever it was now, had almost reached Morris, who was closer. Libby braced herself mentally for the end of everything, while still chanting, in the hope that the spell would take effect before it was completed—something that had never been known to happen.
Morris had stayed with the chant, too, although he must have seen Ashley’s approach and known what it meant. Ashley was standing next to him now, but Morris continued the ritual without hesitation. Libby had never loved him more than at that moment, which might well be among his last.
Ashley reached her right hand around Morris to grasp his right shoulder—and leaned in to find the place on the sheet of paper where he was reading.
A moment later Ashley—and that’s who it was, Libby was certain now—had joined them in the chant designed to send Lucifuge Rofocale back to Hell.
Which, three and a half minutes later, is exactly what happened.
Chapter Forty-Nine
TED BURNETT, NEWLY returned to a normal state of mind, blinked rapidly and looked around the room. His gaze took in the three scientists lying on the floor in pools of their own blood. One, Hans Westin, had mercifully bled out and expired. The other two looked as if they might have gone into shock.
Burnett finished his survey of the room, and turned to the two women. You!”He pointed an angry index finger at Libby. “I know you—I’ve seen your picture. You’re Chastain, the witch!”
The exorcism ritual had left Libby exhausted, but she managed a tired smile. “That I am—none other.”
He looked at Ashley. “And you—who the fuck are you?”
“Nobody you want to know,” she said evenly, and then with more snap in her voice, “And nobody you want to talk to in that tone, asshole.”
Burnett stared at her for a moment longer before turning his rage back on Libby. “You! Witch! You fucked up my project, didn’t you!You fucked me, you bitch!”
Libby was too tired to get angry. “I’m the one who just freed you from demonic possession, that’s who I am,” she said, as if she just wanted the conversation to be over.
With an inarticulate cry of rage, Burnett reached under his jacket and produced a Sig Sauer automatic—the same weapon the demon had made him use on his associates—which he pointed at Libby.
Libby had magical defenses against that sort of thing, but she was caught flatfooted. She could only stare as Burnett raised the gun and thumbed back the hammer. “You fucking bitch!” he screamed.
Ashley, however, was not noticeably drained by taking part in the exorcism spell, and she was not about to let this moron kill Libby. She had a variety of responses at her disposal, some almost merciful. But Ashley was in a bad mood.
That’s why she used fire.
She said a word in a language no human would understand, and made a quick throwing motion toward Burnett. Although her hand was empty, a ball of fire the size of a basketball suddenly appeared in the air, moving very fast.
The fire caught Burnett right in the chest, and began to spread rapidly. He dropped the pistol and fell to the floor, shrieking in agony.
A moment later Mal Peters hurried in, carrying a mid-size suitcase. He had just finished dragging the unconscious CIA guards around to the rear of the building, out of sight. Although there were no private homes in this block, somebody living farther away might had heard the explosion as the power pole was knocked down. There was the chance that a police car would cruise the area for a while, looking for damage or casualties. Finding none, they would eventually report the call as a false alarm and go on to other tasks.
Now, seeing the burning form on the floor that was the source of the screaming, Peters put his suitcase down and walked rapidly toward him, pulling the newly-replaced Kimber automatic from behind his back. Without looking toward her, he said, “Ashley, you promised you were going to stop doing shit like this.” Then he shot Burnett twice in the head.
“You’re always such a spoil-sport,” Ashley said, but not like she meant it.
Peters walked over to the closest of the gut-shot scientist, who was lying in a slowly-expanding pool of his own blood. Peters looked at him for a few seconds, and then fired a round into the man’s head. Then he went to the other surviving scientist and did the same thing.
Noticing Libby’s expression he said, reasonably, “What else were we gonna do? Call 911 and wait for the cops? From the looks of those two guys, they probably wouldn’t have lasted long enough to reach the hospital, anyway.”
Looking at the Kimber in his hand, he muttered, “I can never hang on to one of these, anymore.”He wiped the pistol down until he was sure it was clean of his prints, then carefully wrapped Burnett’s dead hand around the grip. Picking up the CIA man’s Sig Sauer, he said, “Nice gun,” lowered the hammer, and placed it in his belt at the small of his back.
Peters then went over to where he’d left the suitcase.
“Okay, I’ve got enough Semtex here to level this place and everything inside it,” he said. “Probably without much damage to the adjoining buildings, too. I just have to find the right spots to place it.”
He turned to Morris. “Help me out here, Quincey?”
“Sure. I might as well make some contribution to the proceedings.”Morris smiled when he said it, though.
Libby looked at him. “I’d say you’ve done pretty damn good already, cowboy.”
“Once Quincey and I are all done,” Peters said, “I’ll set the timers for ten minutes—plenty long enough for all of us to get clear of the area before the fireworks start. We’ll meet you ladies at the car in a little while, okay?”
Ashley took Libby’s arm. “Come on, girlfriend—we’ll let the boys play with their toys for a while.”
“I’m not—” Libby stopped without finishing what she was going to say.
“Pardon?” Ashley said.
“Nothing. Never mind. Let’s go wait in the car.”
“Works for me. Did I ever tell you about the time I met Mark Twain in Hell? He used to say the conversation was first-rate.”
Once they were in the back seat of the SUV, however, Ashley didn’t tell the Mark Twain story, assuming there really was one. The two women, the witch and the demon, sat quietly. After a while, Ashley took Libby’s hand.
“Lucifuge Rofocale’s back in Hell by now,” she said. “Strong work with the magic there, by the way.”
“You helped,” Libby said, “much to my pleasant surprise.”
“To paraphrase Martin Luther, I could do no other.”
“Don’t tell me you knew him in Hell.”
“No, never met him. I’m not sure he was even there. He might have made it Upstairs, despite everything the Vatican says.”
“To the relief of Protestants everywhere, no doubt,” Libby said.
“My point is,” Ashley said, “Luther might not be in Hell, but Lucifuge Rofocale most certainly is. And that represents what the guys on your side of the fence might call a ‘mixed blessing.’”
Libby turned and look at her. “Why’s that?”
“He’s back there, and now he knows I’m here. My… transfer to this plane was exactly publicized at the time they did it.”
“Oh,” Libby said quietly. “I see.”
“As the number two guy in Hell, he’s probably got the juice to get me
recalled,” Ashley said. “And I can only imagine what he’ll have in store for me once I get back.”
“Oh, my Goddess… Ashley—”
“On the other hand,” she said, as if Libby hadn’t spoken, “there’s a civil war going on down there—or there was, the last I heard. The power structure may be all fucked up. Or it could mean that Lucifuge Rofocale will have more things to think about than petty schemes for revenge—for a while, anyway.”
“So, you’re telling me…”
“That I could be recalled at any point. Five minutes or five hundred years doesn’t make much difference in Hell. There’s no way to know how much time I’ve got, before somebody with enough authority decides to bring me back.”
Libby slid over across the bench seat toward Ashley until their bodies were touching. She put an arm around Ashley’s shoulders and leaned forward.
“Then I suppose,” Libby said softly, “we really ought to make the most of the time we have left.”
About the Author
JUSTIN GUSTAINIS IS a college professor living in upstate New York. In earlier incarnations, he was an Army officer, garment worker, speechwriter, and professional bodyguard. In addition to many short stories, he is author of the Haunted Scranton series (consisting of Hard Spell and Evil Dark) and the Morris & Chastain Investigations series (consisting of Black Magic Woman, Evil Ways, and Sympathy for the Devil), as well as a standalone novel, The Hades Project.
Supernatural investigator Quincey Morris and his partner, white witch Libby Chastain, are called in to help free a desperate family from a deadly curse that appears to date back to the Salem Witch Trials. To release the family from danger they must find the root of the curse, a black witch with a terrible grudge that holds the family in her power.
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