'Reconcile faith and politics on your own time. Impress me.'
He's smiling again and it's annoying me. I'm tense.
'We read missionary notes.' He reaches into a satchel and hands me out a print out of hand-writing. Scan the first page. A journal from the late 1800s.
'This missionary, her husband discovers a creature like what you say. He cannot stop killing so he goes to see Witch Doctor and they drive it out. The woman that who writes this, she is very brave. We read through notes, old friends and me. My old friend has memory, crazy memory, he read this journal forty year ago but remembers still. Do not be mad but I need to tell him things. Because he recalls name of the Jaguar Man they need to fight.'
'Yeah?'
'The Jaguar Man, he is like the big cat cults. He wears mask like you say. He tells everyone that he is all empty inside.'
'Hollow.'
Reach into my pocket. Take out what he wants. First print of the Search and Destroy 45. First print of The Saints Stranded. His eyes light up. 'How do you find these things, Lark? I will never understand why you don't open up shop!'
I'm out the door with the sheaf of paper. Closest I've been to a cure for Jon in months.
Four
i
Sit down on the steps leading down to the underpass tunnel. Reading fast under flickering lights. This might be the real thing. Breathing fast. This could be it.
Ignore the slumped out junkie playing games with his blood and his syringe, too out of it to give a fuck who sees.
I know how he feels.
'There you are.'
Fear bolts shoot through me. I slowly look up from the papers. In the open where the bad guys can find me. Too excited to take care.
She's grinning at me.
Katanya.
My replacement in the Library. The new gun in town.
I trained up the new generation. Straw, Rosengarten, Connor, some others. Bootboys all. But not her. Skinny as a knife, in tight black jeans and a singlet in the summer night. Hair all spikes. She's taken out the face piercings but the punk traces remain. She's not quite in a suit yet but the changes have started. Elliot doesn't like that alt style.
'I've been after you for a week.'
'How did you find me?' Because if she did, so can others.
'I just evoked for luck in finding you. I'm not looking to cause you problems and I came totally unarmed. No fetishes or talismans. Hell.' Points to her shoulder. Tattoo under a bandage. 'I even let these pals have the night off. Figured you'd keep your wards and distractions in a narrow band. Just motherfuckers come to stitch you up.'
She's got her protectors bound in her skin.
'This isn't a great time.'
'Yeah, I know. I just saw two Feverites three blocks back.'
Feverfuge. Disease cult me and Jon shut down four years back. Burned down their poxy altar. Got that little kid with leukaemia back to her parents. And the medical waste. Nasty.
'Let's move.'
I shove the papers into my leather doctor's bag and we walk down the tunnel. I can't walk fast before the hip pain kicks in. She sees me gripping it.
'They won't find us. I'm hidden. Relax.'
She's good. Katanya is good. The best of her generation, but if she found me, that could compromise my own spells. Straw that breaks the camel's, you know? No point in waiting around. I drop into Gnosis, she notices, shuts up.
Graffiti in the tunnel seems to twist. Wick, her vast intelligence beneath all text in The City. Too wide out, high-altitude. She's not going to notice. Don't know if she'd care. My own protective spells look like powerful semiotics, floating around me. Fine. But they quaver. Someone's looking.
I take the first page of the journal and rip it. Rip it again. Take my lighter and torch it. Sacrifice to Crom Cruach, the underground God. Train God. Earthdog.
We go up and onto the tracks. The sacrifice works and an express comes right in. Katanya is talking to me but I'm in Gnosis and don't care. Step into the train. Turn. She doesn't bother to hide irritation. Steps on.
'Fuck man, you've gotten paranoid.'
I say nothing. Just look carefully over everyone on the train. Cleaning crews on their way to shift. Student kids on their way out. A businessman, drunk, falling asleep and sure to be robbed. No one obvious. I let the mind state drop.
'What do you want?
I sit, she falls in. This is the closest I've been to a person in months.
She used to be hard. Bitter. But something's changed in her. She's more confident. The angry punk girl shell has eased up. Stronger things have replaced it. Bad sign for me. She never liked me but she was a bit afraid. I think that fear, my edge is gone.
I'm just a dog howling at the back door.
She shrugs. 'Who says I want anything?'
'What do you want?'
'Can't we just talk?'
'What do you want?'
'You never were a people person Lark but... '
I look at her. 'What do you want?'
'Two things. You want the bad news or good news first?'
Say nothing.
'Bad news. Elliot wants you to come in. Before the weekend.'
It's Monday. He's getting married Saturday. Scarlet.
'He says it's important and that you'd be cutting off your nose to spite your face if you ignored him.'
Keep looking. She looks away.
'You're a stubborn son-of-a-bitch. You'd do it too. I told him that. You like displeasing people more than you ever liked being smart.'
We breathe. The conductor screams something mad down the broken speakers at us.
'There's good news.'
She'll get to it.
'Rosengarten's in hospital. Some elemental thing got loose into a house's wiring. He took a pretty bad electric shock. He was being stupid. Overconfident. Plus he pissed himself. The brass are disappointed with our crew but Rosengarten in particular. You know what your ex said?'
Is she baiting me with this?
'He's not as competent as we could have hoped.'
Let it go by me with no reaction. She's expecting some reaction. Don't know why but I'm not the man to give it to her.
'I really think she thought you'd ask to rejoin the Library. Come in out of the cold.'
Time to shut this down. I don't need to be told the old gang miss me. The old gang put me out for dog-howling in the first place.
I get up. She follows.
'Look, there's...' She's all over. Hesitates.
Train is pulling in.
'I'm getting off. What do you want?'
'I need your help with something.'
I get off. Wave a hand. The doors shut behind me. Katanya, under a tiny eyebite geas, hesitates. Doors shut before she realises. She stares at me through the glass.
Expect some gesture. Some rudeness. She looks at me a minute and sure there's anger there but I watch her bite it down. She has changed. Little finger to mouth, thumb to ear. Call me. Stupid slapper I don't even have your number.
Fuck it. She works for the enemy now and she wants my advice?
Never was a good teacher.
ii
Back at Lazlo's hotel room. I might need someone to talk over the Missionaries' report with.
He's sitting in a corner, drinking Campari straight from a highball glass. He's caught a cockroach under a glass and he's telling it the same joke, over and over.
'When I die, I hope I go sleeping peacefully like my uncle. Not screaming like the passengers on his bus.'
'When I go, I'm hoping I go quietly in my sleep. Not all on fire like the passengers on his train.'
Variations. Over and over. He doesn't even notice me.
Damn thing is, I'm sure the roach is trying to applaud him. I cough.
He notices me.
'There's a message.'
Exactly one person knows I'm here. The client.
She's left a number. Call.
Answer on the first ring. 'Mr. Lark, I need to see you right a
way.'
Get the number of the hotel. Leave the Missionaries' diary for safe-keep. Lazlo doesn't even look up. Restock that doctor's bag. My kit. My magical panoply. My hoodoo stuff.
I grab a cab. Keep the receipt. Damnit. I want to read that goddamn missionaries' diary.
Go up. Knock on the door. A giant answers. Bodyman. Jesus. Forgot she really is famous. I walk in.
The smell. Rotten eggs. Brimstone really does smell like that, so it happens. Get some and see.
Satanic symbols, burned over the walls. Tridents. Symbol I recognise, case of a convent full of nuns getting possessed in a place called Loudon. Stylised goat leg, hoof holding a trident. Devil's autograph. Upside down crosses. Teenage bullshit. See this stuff more likely on a pencil case or protractor-carved into a desk.
Ava, the client, is packing, ready to go.
'Lark. Thank you for coming. I'm so sorry about all th-'
Hold out a hand.
'Tell it.'
'About an hour or two ago, I got back here. The room was like this. I knew he'd been here. I'd been doing press all day.'
'Do you know anyone in town?'
'Of course.'
'Borrow a house. Private residence. The Devil can't get in those.'
'I know. I was going to. I just... I don't know. I just- '
'Do it now. Tonight. Turn up.'
'I'm not... they're all work friends. I wouldn't be right.'
I shrug. Finding a house, that's what she has to do. Not make excuses to me.
'Find a Church then.'
No one has reacted to her needs with anything but servility for a long time now. Her eyes go angry then she stops. Breaths. Doing great with the ladies tonight.
'There's more.'
I wait.
'I have a speciality security advisor when I'm in this part of the country. I sent him down to reception to see if anyone had seen anything. And...'
The enormous man, in a simple single-breasted steps in close.
'What's your story, big man?'
'I'm her security.'
'Secure her then. Get her out of here. Now. A friend. And if you see the man-'
'Sower. Ma'am tells me to be aware for a man called Sower.' He's got a voice like bodies dropping.
'If you see Sower, or anything else, symbols like this, you call me.'
'We called you all night. Had to leave a message with the funny man.'
Ah hell. One day I'll listen to voice mail.
She finishes with her suitcase, a leather thing worth more than what I made last year. She hands me something. A phone. 'This is prepaid for a thousand dollars. You're working for me and I expect you contactable.'
There's one number programmed in. Her.
Her voice is sharp with anger. Fear. Normally a client played that kind of a move, I'd throw the fucking thing in the bin in front of them. But she's scared and this isn't the time to play no one owns me games. I nod.
'Get out of here. A friend's. I'm going to get serious about this right now.'
'Be available to me Mr. Lark.' She puts the command into it but she's not trying. It's just reflex so I bite down on my scorpion urge to sting.
They leave.
Alright then.
Let's summon the Devil.
iii
Every magician's story is a Faust story.
You know about Faust, right? It all starts, like many stories do, with a Saint. called Theophilius. You've probably seen the painting of the devil with a face for an arse. That's him. Pretty standard story of dealing with satanic powers and a last minute redemption. But that's story doesn't have enough bite to it for people back them. Theophilius is forgotten and the new hotness is a story about Faust. Same story, cooler hero. Though who Faust is really based on is a matter for the historians to haggle over. But they're looking for facts and I'm a magician.
All I care about is what's true.
This story is big in the sixteen hundreds. Told and told again until printing takes off and books lock it down into a more permanent shape. If you're looking, find the one with the Harry Clarke illustrations.
Faust is an ideal story, a perfect one, that's why it lasts. A warning to magicians and civilians alike. But also, a boast.
Faust is smart. A scholar. He's not an aristocrat, which I like. But he's just a man. There's limits to how smart he can be, what he knows. He rails against them. He goes fucking wild at the notion he'll die questions unanswered.
There has to be a way to know everything. Perhaps there is.
He summons up the Devil, called Mephistopheles here, 'the one who doesn't love the light'. The Devil serves Faust, twenty years or so. Angels and friends warn Faust to repent but he doesn't. Twenty years go by and Faust, suddenly without having to work for anything, sort of gets in a groove. He stops trying, gets bored at having every answer provided. Forgets to watch the time. Then, time's up. Satan gots to get paid, son. Off to Hell goes Faust, the end.
What's the warning? What's the moral?
Depends.
Most people say it's pretty simple. Don't do deals with the Devil.
To me, it says 'if you let someone else do your thinking, you'll do nothing.'
To me, it says, 'if you're a magician and you have to deal with the Devil, be smarter.'
There's a hundred versions of that story. Told over and over. You're probably arguing with me already over which version I used, if you know it.
Alls you really needs know is - this is a primal story of magicians. A pure warning. That when you deal with powers, with principalities, they'll fucking have you.
I've read Faust. I know.
So I'm not making Devil-deals.
Look over the marks scorched into the walls. Heavy metal album covers. Goat of Mendes. Downward facing pentagram. Cock and balls looking Satanic Cross. Swastikas. If you know about the Swastika, you'll know that using it for Devil business is just stupid. Check it out. A 666 for luck.
This isn't real. This is Satan drag. This is amateur hour.
Real magicians look down on Satanism. Either you buy into Judeo-Christian mythology, in which case you're on the losing team, so... why?
Or you're trying to détourn a good vs evil story and rewrite it. And everyone knows, there's no good or evil. Just you and the people in your way. Satanists are like a gang, but not a real one. Like one that dances around and hisses 'wildcats!' before they burst into song and aggressive finger clicking.
But this was high magic. Effecting the real world. Not just happening in people's heads. It's the hardest kind of magic to do.
Magic is knowledge. There's no such thing as a gifted amateur with a lot of heft. You only get the juice from being informed. And no one informed is worshipping the Devil long term. Satan's a gateway into serious study.
So someone is taking the piss.
She doesn't have a Devil stalker. She has someone on the Satan tip for fun.
Some chancer magician. Some bully. I used to shut these fuckers down for money.
Jon. Scarlet.
Take off jacket, shoes and socks. Open the bag. Candles. Scalpel to draw a little blood, get a little focus. Make a magic circle with towels from her bathroom. Doesn't need to be anything other than a symbol of boundaries. Might as well work the vibe. Latin chanting. Satanus Exorior! Diabolus Cedo! No grammar needed. Just the feel.
I'd play some Slayer if I could find some.
I'm not joking. Set the mood. Play the part.
In Gnosis, I'm not sure what I expect. Curiosity switches to nil. There's no expectations. No desires or lusts for results. Just a watchman's sensibility. You open the gates to knowledge, not to judgements.
Faust's story is a warning. They'll have you.
Start the summoning.
Something huge and out of sight slides past the shark cage. Something's bitten the bait right off the traps. There's a barometric crash. There's a wall-eyed stroke of fear. The sound of blood in my ears goes sinister and give-away-position loud. Limbic worry. Even
through the Gnosis dispassion I can feel the dull pain of teeth-grind.
Fuck.
Panic tries to claw the Gnosis from me but I'm ready for this. Keep the dispassion or I'm gone.
Something old and cruel is here and watching me and it thinks I'm funny.
I have drills and techniques. I have spells I've known for a long while. I'm not new to this. I have a will and I have the magician's arrogance to think that I can get out of this. Even this.
I imagine spears of light and scourges of fire. I imagine doors in old military bases slamming shuts. Records ripped out from the needles, scratching. Ejection seats. I say old poems. They flee from me that sometimes did me seek. Devices ripped from computers unwisely. Phone calls to nowhere. Dead letters. Anything. Disconnect images. I shut the summoning down. A television, turning to black, look fast enough to see the square collapse in.
Shut the link. I end the spell.
It cannot touch me.
I am a magician and I task spirits, I do not serve. The Entity, vast, immaculate, amused, takes too long to fade away. I can feel it deciding what to do about me when my banishing takes effect. A visual rush lets me know it works. The room rushes away like a focus-trick special effect. All the corridors seem too long. Shadows fall too heavy and stretched.
Banishment.
Force myself to smile. Magic lives in the universe and the universe responds to mood and symbols of it. A smiling man is not a man beset by demons.
Then I wait. Lingering in the cold state of magical consciousness. It's gone. The phone line is dead.
I leave that hotel, trying hard not to break out into a run.
What was that thing? Nothing that powerful plays kid semiotics.
Feel the panic kick in on the street. Light up but it tastes terrible. I have to quit. They don't help anymore. They're terrible. Pizzalgo's right.
Think of that shark in those waters. Sour pre-vomit spit in my mouth. I slag it out and the hotel doorman gives me a look. Walk on. Shakes hit me before I go a block. Sit in gutter, head in hands. A woman walks by and shoots me judgement with her eyes. Hail a cab.
Devil City Page 3