by J. R. Mabry
For a few moments, no one said anything, and as if a chill wind had blown through the room, the mood turned sad. Finally, Kat said, “So what about Richard?”
“It was a brave thing Dicky done, and no mistake.” Dylan wiped his mouth with a calico napkin. “Ah wouldn’a dunnit.”
“It’s not okay, not having him home,” Susan said. “He’s like a little lost puppy most of the time, and I feel like if he’s not surrounded by people who care about him and…well, quite frankly, keep an eye on him, he’ll get hurt.”
“He’s already plenty hurt, Honey,” Dylan said, not disagreeing with her.
“So, what are you going to do?” Kat asked Dylan pointedly.
Dylan looked behind himself, to be sure she was talking to him. “Uh…whaddaya mean, what am Ah gonna do?” He gestured at his ample belly. “Ah think Ah’m gonna eat me some pie.” He looked at Brian with a fleeting look of panic. “There is pie, ain’t there?”
“You’ll have to settle for cobbler,” Brian said.
“Peach cobbler?” Dylan asked hopefully.
“Quince.”
Dylan’s face bunched up in a skeptical knot. “Waal, the proof is in the…cobbler, Ah suppose. Bring it on, dude.”
Brian cleared some dishes from the table first, glad to have something to do. They all felt helpless about Richard. And they all missed him. Brian knew Dylan, as Richard’s best friend, missed him most of all.
“Frankly,” Dylan began, “Ah’m amazed we haven’t heard from him yet. Ah saw them roommates o’ his. Ain’t no way they’re letting him sleep there tonight—or any night, for that matter.”
Just then, Dylan felt his pocket vibrate. “Speak o’ the devil,” he said and fished around for his cell phone. “It’s Dicky, all right,” he said, looking at the screen. “He’s at the Gallic Hotel tonight. Gonna start lookin’ for a new place tomorrow.”
Kat’s face looked pained, and she reached over and squeezed Mikael’s hand. He gave her a reassuring look. “It’s going to be okay, Baby,” he told her. “It always is. We’re really a very blessed community.”
“Blessed but sorely tried,” Dylan said, typing furiously but awkwardly with his enormous thumbs.
“Can’t we just un-ward the house tempor—” Kat cut off midsentence as everyone in the room glared at her. “Okay, okay, it was just an idea.”
“Wait,” Brian said, leaning back against the counter. “What if Terry and I moved into the main house and we unwarded the cottage?”
All eyes turned to Dylan. “What are you all lookin’ at me fer?” He recoiled as he spoke.
“Because you are now our fearless leader, and this requires bold leadership!” Mikael announced.
“Ah am never fearless,” Dylan complained, “and Ah ain’t no leader, neither.”
“Nonsense; you have been for months, now,” said Susan. “You’re just lucky things have been relatively quiet.”
“Can we take a vote on this?” Dylan asked.
“Dylan, you are sub-prior,” Brian said resolutely. “The order already did vote on it, when they elected you.”
“Yeah, but Ah never expected to ever have to actually…” He looked at the table.
Susan reached over and squeezed his hand. “You aren’t leading alone, Baby,” she said softly. “The only people here are those that love you.”
Dylan sighed but perked up when Brian set a steaming cobbler under his nose.
“Quince, you say?” Dylan said, sniffing.
The sound of the door closing in the distance brought everyone’s heads up. Terry appeared at the door. “Smells like quince,” he said, sniffing at the air.
“How the hell do you know what quince smells like?” asked Mikael.
“I was Quince Queen of Fresno County in 1995,” Terry said defiantly. He placed his hands on his hips and turned up his nose. “I know my quince.”
Kat looked over at Brian standing just out of Terry’s sight, shaking his head, mouthing the words, “No, he was not.”
“So, what did the pastor want, Terry?” Susan asked.
“An emergency,” Terry said, taking his seat at the table and basking in the quincian odor. “Very sad, really. His mother-in-law took a nasty fall, and they’re jetting to the UK on a red-eye tonight so they can go care for her.”
“Oh, that is sad,” said Susan with real compassion in her voice.
“So, he needs me to fill in for a few weeks,” Terry said. “Services are covered—they just need help with visitation.”
“A paid gig, I hope?” Susan probed.
“Thanks be to God,” Terry said, nodding.
“Thanks be to God,” they all said, more or less in unison.
“Hey, has anyone noticed Tobias acting strangely?” Brian asked. But before anyone could say anything, a phone rang in the office. Dylan sat bolt upright. “Thet’s not good,” he said.
“You mean, so much for nookie night?” laughed Kat.
“Saddle up, boys and girls,” Dylan said, wiping quince from his beard. “We gots us a demon.”
“I’ll get the mice,” said Terry.
8
Tony Morrello was almost asleep when the phone rang. He fumbled at the handset and pushed the button that corresponded to the calling room. “Front desk,” he said groggily.
“You gotta—” a scared female voice began. “There’s someone—” A hand muffled the receiver for a second, and he could vaguely hear two people arguing. A man’s voice took over.
“This is Aaron Falk in 115.”
“I know that. What do you want?”
“The people in the room next to us are—well, there’s shrieking. And moaning.”
“Yeah, this is a hotel. People tend to do that when they’re fucking. Wait—your neighbors were complaining about you last night, weren’t they? Yeah, 115. Well, revenge is sweet. I hope they keep you awake all night.” He hung up and smacked his lips. A Coke. That’s what he needed. A little carbonation to cut through the sticky mass of saliva that had accumulated while he had dozed, and a little caffeine to cut through the brain haze. He went to the mini-fridge and opened the door. The phone rang again.
“Front desk.”
“No, man, not moaning like lovemaking moaning. I mean screaming bloody murder like someone is seriously getting hurt over there!”
Tony found a Mountain Dew and frowned. It would do, but it wasn’t really what he wanted. He cracked the seal with the pull tab and took a long pull at it. It was surprisingly yummy. Yes, this would do just fine. He decided to play with Mr. Falk, just a little bit.
“Okay, on a scale of one to ten, how loud is the…noise?”
“It’s an 11! Listen, it’s happening again!”
Tony stood up straight. He heard it, all right, coming through the telephone as loud as Falk’s voice. Louder. “I’ll be right up,” he said, and grabbing his baseball bat, he headed for the door. “Goddamn fucking college kids,” he mumbled. “Goddamn spring break.”
His mumbling turned to outright curses when he rounded the corner that brought him within sight of 115 and its surrounding units. All of the furniture from 113 had been moved out to the parking lot near the door. The television sat in its entertainment cabinet at the head of one of the parking spaces as if it had just driven up and parked there. Not far away, Tony saw the dresser, two chairs, a little desk, the nightstands, and the shoddy metal clotheshorse.
Whoever had done it had been careful not to take up more than one parking space, which was very considerate since parking was always in short supply at Berkeley’s Flamingo Motel. On the other hand, the furniture was also out in the open where anyone could just wander up from University Avenue and carry it off. Tony was so shocked by the sheer implausibility of it he almost forgot to be mad. The anger returned, though, as he pounded at the door.
The door opened a crack, revealing a room ablaze—every light in the place was on, including a couple not native to the room. An eye peered out at him and glanced around him, this way and t
hat. “What the hell is going on here?” he yelled at the sliver of light coming from the door.
The door opened a little wider, and Tony found himself face to face with a stocky, balding man dressed like a priest, a purple stole dangling from his shoulders. “Hey, dude. How you doing?” the man said and passed a pudgy hand over his forehead, clearing away a large amount of accumulated sweat. He held the sweat-soaked hand out for shaking. “Ah’m Father Dylan. Nice to meet ya.”
Tony ignored it. “What the hell is going on here?” he yelled again.
“Uh…” Dylan looked behind him and then turned back to the doorway. “Waal, to be honest, it’s an exorcism. Ever seen one? It ain’t pretty.” The man’s broad, sweaty face smiled at him.
Just then, a howl emerged from the room that sounded like a thousand children screaming in unison. “Yah know,” the priest said, “this really ain’t a good time.”
Just past Dylan, Tony could see a naked man tied to the bedposts with ropes of stout hemp. As he watched, the foot of the bed swung up and struck the wall and then fell to the ground. Then it swung up again and fell again, in rapid succession as if it were a Murphy bed that was possessed. The sheetrock near the top of the wall was thrashed, and little puffs of plaster dust showered through the air.
Another figure—also a priest?—short guy, Asian-looking, stood back a couple of feet, book in hand, patiently waiting for the bed’s acrobatics to cease.
“Can ya come back later?” the priest at the door asked again in what was clearly a Southern drawl. “We’re kinda busy right now, you know, what with the demon and stuff.” Then an idea seemed to strike him. “Unless you want to help. You look strong. Are you shriven?”
“What?” Tony simply could not take his eyes off the man on the bed.
“Are ya Catholic? You look kinda Eye-talian.”
Absently, Tony nodded.
“You been to confession lately?”
“Huh—oh no.”
“Oh,” the priest looked momentarily disappointed. “You should probably go back to work, then, dude.”
Tony just stared at the stout man, completely unsure what he should do.
The priest passed a hand over Tony’s eyes and said dramatically, “These are not the droids you’re looking for. You want to go back to the front desk and have a refreshing beverage.” Then he slammed the door in Tony’s face.
9
Bishop Tom Müeller cursed as he strode to his motorcycle. He had had a long, difficult day at work and had dutifully procured all the items his wife had requested on the grocery list she had texted him earlier that afternoon. All except one—tampons.
“Goddammit,” he said out loud, kicking at the shrubs that lined the walk to the one-bedroom apartment they shared with twelve of their closest feline companions. His wife did not drive, and so was totally dependent upon him for the running of what seemed like innumerable errands.
Tom felt tired, hungry, angry, and depressed. The feelings were all so strong and so thickly intertwined that he could not easily sort them out. He just felt—intensely, and bad. He jammed the helmet onto his head so hard it hurt, and he took momentary pleasure in the way the pain cut through the tangled mass of emotions.
Finally, for a fleeting second, here was a feeling he could identify, one that would end. Sure enough, as soon as he raised the kickstand, it was gone. He punched his leg, once, twice, and reveled in it. He knew that a bruise would most likely result, but he didn’t care. He waited until the pain subsided and the thick and confusing mass of emotion rushed back to fill its space. Then he gunned the engine and swung out onto the wet, dark Seattle street.
“Goddamned tampons!” he shouted at the gnats hitting the shield of his helmet. Why hadn’t he run away from the seminary with Stephen when he had a chance, all those years ago? Stephen wouldn’t be sending me out into a Washington storm for fucking tampons, he thought, racing around the cloverleaf of the freeway onramp. Stephen would wrestle him to the ground before a roaring fire, would lick at his face like a dog until they were both randy and hard. Stephen would peel off his T-shirt and lick his armpits, grabbing the hair in his teeth and growling like the beautiful animal we was.
Bishop Tom was so lost in this fantasy that he didn’t see the crappy Ford Pinto with the missing headlight. The impact seemed quiet, almost distant, not at all like he had ever imagined it would be. His body flew up, and he tumbled in free space, end over end. Halfway through this aerial ballet, he stopped screaming, “Oh shit!” and started saying the rosary. Three lines into it, he hit the pavement. A split second later, a Prius took him out.
10
“Good one, Ben Kenobi,” said Terry, marking his place in his Roman Ritual with a ribbon. “Is he gone?”
Dylan stood on tiptoe to fit his eye to the peephole. “Nah, he’s just standing th…No, there he goes. He looks really disoriented…Okay, now he’s gone.” Dylan turned back to the room. “Think he’ll call the cops?”
“Nah,” Terry said. “Old Scratch, here, performed on cue pretty well.”
Dylan set his hands on his hips and surveyed the mess. “Ah hate these distractions, dude.”
“Tell me about it. I think I just had the Voice emerging.”
“Ah heard it. How much ground did we lose?”
The man on the bed blinked and tried to sit up. “Is it over?”
“Oh shit, Doug’s back,” said Terry, his hands on his hips. “Square one.”
“It’s not over?” The naked man asked again, with not a little bit of despair cracking his voice.
“Sorry, man,” said Dylan, flopping onto the floor. “It’s not like we’re not glad to see you or anything, but we had a bit of a setback just now.”
“Sweetie,” cooed Terry, sitting on the edge of the bed, “how conscious are you when the demon is…well, pulling your strings?”
“Not,” he said. “It’s like I’m asleep.”
Terry nodded and looked up at Dylan. This kind of thing varied quite a bit from case to case. He was hoping that the man would have “heard” the demon’s name—as that would have sped the ritual along immeasurably.
“That demon isn’t going to give up his name, dude,” said Dylan, knowing exactly what Terry was thinking. “He’s smarter than some we’ve seen.”
Terry nodded. They had expelled some pretty dumb demons, but this wasn’t one of them. The infernal hosts, in their experience, varied as much in intellectual prowess as humans did. And though none of them were big on self-improvement, many of them had formidable street smarts, as one would expect from beings who had several million years of experience behind them. Sometimes they lucked out and got a being with the IQ of a slab of cheese, but not today. Today, they were fighting someone as smart as they were. Maybe smarter.
“Okay, let’s try something different,” Terry decided, rising from the bedside and heading for his kit bag. “Let’s do the sigils while the invader is dormant.”
“You got it,” Dylan said and grabbed a grease pencil and a well-worn copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon from his kit bag. He opened the grimoire to the appropriate page and began to copy one of its sigils onto Doug’s chest.
“What are you doing?” Doug asked.
“Relax, man, this isn’t going to hurt. Terry, dude, you explain. Ah’m busy.”
Terry stopped studying his Ritual and turned his attention to Doug. Real compassion shrouded his features as he spoke. “It’s hard to command a demon if you don’t know its name.”
“I thought you said his name was Scratch.”
Terry laughed. “That’s just a traditional nickname—like calling Germans Jerry. They’re all Old Scratch until we know better. We need to know his real name. But this is a pretty smart demon, so he’s not going to just hand us power over him like that. The next best thing is to figure out who he works for. If we can figure out his boss’s name, then we’ve got a leg up. Understand?”
Doug nodded.
“Demons are arranged into—well, they’re lik
e military companies, same as angels. We call them hosts. Every host has a big, extra-nasty demon commanding it. If we can figure out what host this demon inside you belongs to, then we can bind his boss, his commander. That’ll weaken his hold on you, and we should be able to drive the demon into the mice.”
“Mice?”
“Doug, meet Castor and Pollux.” Terry held up a Chinese food box from which squeaking was barely audible.
Dylan scowled. “You named the mice?”
Terry smiled, looking distinctly elfin in the harsh light. “Just now. They’ve been Castor and Pollux for about three seconds.”
“Just don’t become attached to them, dude,” Dylan warned. To Doug he said, “If everything goes right, they’ll be demon food soon.”
“Those poor mice.” said Doug.
Dylan smiled as he wiped grease away with a handkerchief and began to draw another sigil. “At least we know we’re really talking to Doug here.” He winked at the naked man. “Demons ain’t big on compassion.”
“Better the mice than you,” Terry added, nodding.
“Ah heard that,” Dylan agreed. One by one, he copied each of the sigils, waited a couple of seconds, and then wiped Doug’s chest clean and began on the next one. “Good thing you’re not hairy—this would be a lot harder if you were.”
“How many of these…sigils…are there?” Doug asked.
“Waal, fifteen hundred years before Christ, when Solomon wrote his Key, he knew of seventy-two of the buggers—the demon generals, I mean,” Dylan said.
“We don’t know what the job turnover rate is, so no one has an up-to-date or complete set of sigils,” Terry added, “although the occult blogosphere is full of speculation.”
“I saw a Satanist selling a ‘complete set’ on eBay, dude,” Dylan said.
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”