by J. R. Mabry
“I would think you’d be enjoying this,” Maaluchre said.
“Huh. Well, you’d think so, I suppose…” Duunel didn’t really know what to say. Did he like to see Richard suffer? Of course. Couldn’t he, Duunel, just walk away anytime? No, actually. He would need a host, and neither of the options was very appealing. The cock-hungry nymphet was out. He shuddered at the notion of inhabiting her brain. And the giant moron was unthinkable. There was evil, and then there was batshit crazy. The moron was the latter. In such a brain, Duunel would be the prisoner, not the boss.
At least Richard was…sharable. He was intelligent, and he was funny. Duunel hadn’t thought of liking a human in a very long time. He didn’t dwell on it now, either. Instead, he spoke plainly to his master. “You need to get us out of here.”
“Oh yes, our Father’s greatest mobilization is underway, and I’m to reassign troops in order to lessen your discomfort?” The eye grew redder, brighter, angrier. “Oh, and in helping you I’d also be helping the leader of our enemies—who, I am pleased to inform you, are a pack of bumbling incompetents without him.” The great dragon breathed fire, and Duunel, who knew his master well, understood this to be an indication of his contempt. “No, I think I’ll keep him right where he is. The enemy’s hand is upon him, so since we can’t kill him—”
“These people might.”
“Well, we can hope. Nevertheless, as far as what we are permitted to do, the best we can hope for is to detain him as long as possible. Grand things are underway, Duunel. I am trusting you to do your part. Don’t kill him. Don’t rescue him. Don’t comfort him. Don’t encourage him. Just keep him…otherwise occupied.”
MONDAY
63
Larch awoke to blinding morning light seemingly concentrating in one hot point of pain directly behind his eyeballs. He grimaced and pulled the pillow over his eyes, willing the pain to go away. It didn’t.
He threw the covers back and staggered to the bathroom down the hall, nearly tripping over Frater Turpelo just exiting after a shower. Larch grumbled a halfhearted “good morning” and shut the bathroom door. To his surprise, the steam from Turpelo’s shower felt good, and he realized that at least some of his headache must be from tension. He tried to shake the stress from his limbs but quickly brought it under control when his movements caused his efforts at urination to venture out of bounds. Interior ablutions complete, he splashed water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were blood red. “Not good,” he mumbled.
He showered without pleasure and threw on yesterday’s clothes without thinking. He knew why he was tired—he had spent half the night researching the Hebrew letters on the Urim and Thummim. Like seriously compulsive researchers everywhere, he had not been able to quit until he had a working model down and ready for trial.
He grabbed his notes from his desk and ventured into the common room, where, he was pleased to see, Frater Khams had a pot of his typically thick-brewed coffee steaming on the table. He gratefully poured himself a mug and sucked at it like the salvation it was.
“Breakfast, Frater?” Khams asked, spinning out of the kitchen cheerily with a tray of blintzes between oven-mittened hands.
“Cream cheese?” asked Larch.
“Chèvre, with dark chocolate,” Khams answered, placing the tray on the table and rushing back to the kitchen.
“And a side of Advil, please,” Larch said staring at the blintzes. He started to drool but wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
Khams reappeared a moment later and placed a tea saucer in front of Larch. Arranged on it were three Advil, a dollop of yogurt adorned with what appeared to be raspberry compote offset by a sprig of parsley. “Presentation is everything,” Khams sang on his way back into the kitchen.
“You are exactly three and a half times too cheery this morning,” Larch said, only half complaining.
The aroma of the coffee began to cut through the hazy fog of his perception. Better still, the point of pain behind his eyes was beginning to dissolve. Larch stretched his shoulders first one way, then the other, and carried his coffee into the common room. Walking over to a card table that must have been set up some time after he had retired, his mouth dropped open in disbelief. He nearly dropped his coffee cup.
There, on the card table, was a Parcheesi board, abandoned in mid-play. Instead of dice, the Urim and Thummim sat atop the game board.
Larch threw the coffee cup against the wall and roared with indignation. The cup shattered, and the coffee splattered the wall in a pleasing pattern. The fraters, panicked, scurried to the common room. Larch, headache forgotten now, possessed of a clarity born only of rage, turned on them. His eyes, still red, were now incandescent with ire. “What the Christ-napping fuck?” He pointed at the game board.
“What?” asked Purderabo. “We were playing Parcheesi. You like Parcheesi. It’s been a while since we’ve had game night—”
“Have you No. Sense. Of. Propriety???” He barked at them. “What magnitude of idiocy compelled you to employ two of the most powerful relics in the Western world to play a fucking board game?” He grabbed a hat from a hook on the wall and began beating Purderabo’s head with it. “What fucking lunacy possessed you? Did it occur to you that one of them might fall to the floor and be damaged?”
“Well, actually, I did drop one of them. Twice,” Turpelo confessed. “Guess I don’t know my own strength.”
“Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat,” Khams interjected in his best Bullwinkle voice. “Nothin’ up muh sleeve.”
“But it didn’t get hurt,” Turpelo assured him. “Maybe a little scratch, just there…” He pointed at the underside of the Urim.
Larch snatched the sacred stones up from the table and replaced them in their velvet bag. “You are Never. To touch them. Again,” he said and stormed past them, down the hallway, and into the temple where he did his private workings. He slammed the door and stood panting in the dim light peeking through the blackout curtains. He fought to master his rage before the headache returned. Too late, he realized.
“I’m surrounded by lunatics and fools,” he said out loud. He needed guidance. Without pausing to think, he pulled the black velvet cloth from the Enochian table and fixed his gaze in the seer stone. The expected wisps appeared within just a few minutes of gazing, followed by the gauzy apparel of Pim waving in and out of view teasingly. Eventually, she danced into the center of the stone where he could see her. Petite and pixyish, her short-cropped hair and wide smile captivated him, as it always did.
He wasted no time on small talk. “We liberated the Urim and Thummim,” he said, interjecting a note of pride into his voice.
“Nice work, big boy,” she said, wiggling.
“Now that we have them, what should we ask them? What will do the most good?” he asked sincerely, almost desperately.
“Oh, poo on those baubles,” Pim said, pouting. “The important thing is that you know that that army of yours will follow you. Consider your little bit of petty theft a test. Now that you know that you have real power, it’s time to put your leadership to a more important use.”
“Doing what?” Larch was genuinely surprised.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Pim tapped her finger on her chin. “How about…protecting the savior of the world?” She looked directly into his eyes and wiggled again.
It made him crazy, but he forced himself to focus. “The savior savior,” he asked, “Or the savior savior savior?”
“Uh…the last one,” she nodded in mock-seriousness. “And his prophet.”
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you when the time is right. Until then, you need to be a good general and care for your army.” She pointed her finger at him and seemed truly serious for the first time. “Hell has been emptied. According to the law of demonic diffusion, they’re pretty evenly scattered over the globe. But don’t worry. They’re stepping into…predisposed people and coming here. Even now, they’re gathering i
n greater and greater numbers.”
“Where? Where are they gathering?”
“Outside your house, silly,” she giggled.
“Oh my God!” Larch grabbed at his remaining hair. Not pausing to properly end the session with Pim, he rushed to the window. Sure enough, about fifty people were outside, loitering on Haight Street.
Fortunately, lots of people loitered on Haight Street, and the newcomers had not been noticed. But if they began to gather in the numbers that had been visited upon the Blackfriars’ place…He shuddered to think of it. The police were on the lookout for such a mob now. It wouldn’t take long to clue into the fact that the new group of loiterers might be connected to the East Bay group. They would, in fact, lead the police directly to Larch’s door.
He threw on a sweater with a hood and grabbed some sunglasses. He needed them for anonymity, certainly, but they wouldn’t hurt as far as his headache was concerned, either. He nearly knocked Turpelo over on his way to the stairs.
“Frater, where are you—”
Larch didn’t answer but pounded down the stairs and out onto the street. Marching into the thick of the loitering horde, he shouted, “Follow me!” He began walking toward the Upper Haight. He was relieved to see that the horde was indeed following him.
Tonight, no one would have to explain the new homeless people in Golden Gate Park. No one would notice.
64
When Richard awoke, it was to a blinding pain in his forehead. Good morning, sunshine, Duunel said to him. Richard felt a rush of adrenaline as he remembered what had happened to him.
“You may never, ever call me that,” Richard said. “Where are we?” He opened one eye just a slit, and saw that he appeared to be in a barn. It stank, for one thing, and slivers of light shone through the rough boards that made up the walls. “So, that was brilliant,” Richard said. “You have demonic superpowers, and all you can do is bash me in the head?”
It’s not like I had time to think about it, Duunel answered. And yes, I can throw all kinds of objects through the air, not just religious snits.
“Then why didn’t you throw that guy who was built like Frankenstein’s monster, what was his name? Gabe? Why didn’t you throw fucking Gabe out of the way so we could get the fuck out of here?”
I just reacted. I’m practiced at throwing you around. It’s my chief joy in life, these days.
“Oh gee, thanks.”
It’s not like you’re providing me with a steady supply of sex kittens or anything.
“Sex kittens only exist in the fevered imaginations of Hugh Hefner and fourteen-year-old boys.”
You’ve been a serious killjoy since the day I met you, Duunel pouted.
Richard tried to sit up, but the clanking of metal caught his attention. He looked down and saw a metal fetter around his leg. “Oh, sweet Christ,” he swore.
That’s not the worst of it, Duunel said. Turn around. Slowly.
Richard did. He froze.
The barn seemed to be arranged in a macabre tableau. At the far side a small wedding chapel had been arranged. An arch was set up on a riser, its whitewashed wood now fading into gray. It was covered in flowers, now long dead and dried, mere husks of their former glory. Propped up directly in the center of the arch was the body of a man, his face ancient, his skin taut and beginning to flake away. His mouth was open in the perpetual scream of death, and his eyes had been dust for years. Gold spectacles had been wired in place over his sockets.
Squinting in the dim light, Richard saw that the corpse was not standing up, really. A bucket of what looked like dried cement—or perhaps gravel, it was hard to tell from his distance—was on the floor directly between his legs, and a two-inch thick dowel—which might have been the handle of a shovel—disappeared into his torso. Richard winced as he realized where the handle had been stuck. No wonder the man looked like he was still screaming.
Richard was struck by the corpse’s clothes. It was wearing a western hat, a black suit, and a bolo tie. Wired into its dusty hands was a black Bible. Richard realized that he had been a preacher of some kind, or at least was supposed to play the role of one in the tableau.
Just to the right of the archway was a dusty, stained mattress. Dried flower petals lay strewn across it. Richard glanced to the left. His breath caught in his throat as he saw that the tableau continued. Seated on two long benches—though Richard realized they were functioning as pews—were seven other corpses. They seemed to be arranged in the chronological order of their deaths. The one on the far right looked as old as the corpse of the reverend beneath the arch. The skin of the one next to him was not quite as dusty. Richard could see that the seventh corpse, the one nearest to him, was reasonably fresh. Maybe a couple of months old? He still had his eyes, for one thing, although they looked like deflated sacks of jelly sitting in his sockets.
The cause of their deaths was not hard to divine. Each of their heads was horribly misshapen as if struck by an object so massive and with such force that the skull had simply caved in upon itself.
Each of the seated corpses had been wired into place—they were not going anywhere, anytime soon. They were also wearing suits, Richard noted. Dried flowers hung off the buttonholes of a couple of them, and the last had a dried bouquet of flowers wired into his hand.
“It’s a wedding chapel,” Richard said in a horrified whisper. “That’s the preacher.” He pointed at the corpse under the arch. “And those are…the congregation? The groomsmen?…” he trailed off, uncertain.
The grooms? Duunel suggested.
A chill ran through Richard as he realized Duunel was right. A succession of grooms. Each of them felled by a massive blow to the head.
Richard began to panic. His breath came fast, and he felt faint. Whoa, cowboy, Duunel said. We have to stay conscious if we want to get out of this…together. You need to calm down. Get a grip on yourself. We both need to think.
Richard nodded and forced his breath to come more slowly. In a few moments, he felt the tightness in his shoulders relax, and his dizziness passed.
Phone? Duunel asked.
Richard felt through his cassock at his pockets. No wallet. No keys. No phone. His heart sank.
Just then, the door to the barn swung open, and Richard threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring sunlight. Once his eyes started to adjust, he saw Sarah enter, followed by Gabe.
As repulsed as he was, he could not help noticing that Sarah was stunningly beautiful. She was adorned as a bride, in a white wedding dress, her hair piled on her head, wreathed in flowers. She held a bright bouquet in her hand.
Behind her, Gabe was in an ill-fitting but smart tuxedo, his greasy hair looking odd and out of place. He tugged at his cummerbund with one hand, and with the other tossed a black suit to Richard. “Put this on,” he commanded.
“What for?” Richard asked.
“For your wedding day, silly,” Gabe said, grinning a reprimand as if Richard should know better.
Not knowing what to do, Richard held up the suit. He quickly realized that he couldn’t put on the trousers if his leg was chained. The inability to solve this simplest of problems paralyzed him.
Tell them you can’t put on the pants unless they unlock you, Duunel commanded.
“I can’t put on the pants with this on,” Richard said dutifully, pointing to the shackle.
Sarah walked in a semicircle around him, smiling at him sadly. Richard imagined that this is how a cat must look before pouncing on her prey. “Sarah, what’s this all about? What are we doing, here?” If he were going to fight this thing, he needed to understand it.
“We’re getting married,” she said. “After all, you were more than willing to fuck me last night. I mean, you would’ve. Right?”
Richard moved his head from side to side. If. If there had not been corpses on the couch. Sure. If her monster of a brother hadn’t threatened him. Okay. If his Spidey-sense wasn’t tingling so hard that he was almost going into convulsions. Yeah. If
a demon hadn’t almost crushed his skull against the ceiling. Granted. He probably would have fucked her.
“Well, where I come from, there ain’t no free lunch.” Richard struggled to make sense of this Zig Ziglar-esque bit of wisdom. “You want it; you got to pay for it,” she clarified. “I ain’t gonna just give it away. The way I see it, if you were willing to take it, you done committed yourself to me.” She smiled, but there was no mirth in it. “So, we’re gonna make it legal and shit.”
She glanced over at the corpse beneath the archway. “I see you’ve met Reverend Sykes.”
Richard nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Reverend,” he said in all seriousness. But in his mind he clicked through what was likely to happen next. They would stand him up before the preacher, go through the motions of a farcical ceremony. Sarah would lead him to the mattress to finally consummate the union, then Gabe would cave his skull in, and wire him up next to the other grooms on the benches. Hen-er-y the Eighth I am, he thought. He gave himself twenty minutes, tops.
He didn’t think. He just spoke. “Sarah, this isn’t going to work. I think God brought us together not so I could be another one of your husbands, but in order to provide you with a real, live clergyperson.”
“You think Pastor Sykes isn’t a real pastor?”
“I think…” His brain worked furiously. “I think Raguel is a name that’s only found in the Catholic Bible—in one of the deutero-canonical books. That means that your mama and daddy are Catholics, not Protestants. I’m sure Pastor Sykes is a fine pastor, but he’s not Catholic. Maybe God is not blessing your…unions…because you’re not being true to the Faith. Maybe if a Catholic priest were blessing your weddings, you’d have a baby by now.”
Way to go, Ace, Duunel said. That should buy us some time.