I smoke and I drink but I don't gamble and I cut out the drugs a long time ago. Everyone has their poison. Trick is learning to minimise the risks, feed your addictions careful. Feed one beast to keep a worse one sleeping. Find the smoothest road to the hell we all deserve. Faust was hooked on information - so am I. Weakness motherfucking identified.
'If we do this and I start cutting deals, finish things up, alright? Shut down that conversation.'
'It wasn't hard to convince you.'
She's right. It wasn't. Somewhere in the last ten seconds, I agreed to her plan.
'When you're right, you're right. You were right.'
'I'm pretty smart.'
'Reckon so.'
'Where do we do it?'
There's only one answer to that.
'My old place. We'll have to risk it. It's probably watched. You'll be on double duty. Any maggot tries to move on me, you move on them. But I'll need you during the operation, too. You're a sensible woman. You can stand a go round with the Devil.'
She grins. 'My grandmother told me a heap of times the Devil was watching when I messed with boys or stole or smoked or whatever. I never believed her. Now I can find out if that was real and if it was, I can call him an old perve.'
Fair enough.
Takes me a minute to get ready. I leave the missionaries' notes at Lazlo's again. They're too tempting to go over. Need to keep focus. Deny myself some pleasure.
Packed, everything in the doctor's bag, we get ready to go find a cab when my phone rings. And I know that motherfucker is switched off.
Take it out, scanning all the while for magic and sure enough, it's there and I don't like it. Because I know the spell. I invented it. Talking spell for emergencies, using the quickest method there is to contact the target. They're reading a book, the spell twists the text to deliver it. Sleeping, they dream it.
Bettina sees the look on my face.
'What the fuck, man?'
Answer. 'Elliot.'
Six
i
Interruptions are getting on my nerves. Just clear the way for me to do my work. Barely hide the irritation.
Here we are in the private offices of the Libraries' proctor. It's seven in the morning and this prick is in a suit, tie loosened. Probably describes that as rakish. Shaved. He's drinking espresso and his face is neutral. I genuinely have no idea if he hates me, pities me or what. Just know he looks trim, fit, handsome and wealthy. He looks like he knows a lot about wine.
Scarlet is marrying him in six days.
They say hating people gives them power over you. They say resentment's like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. They say a lot about hate. Those people who never hated.
He took my woman (no he didn't, says a cooler part of me, part that's right more than not. She left.) He cursed me to never leave the City, case I was useful. He changed the scholarly organisation I spent a decade faithfully serving, believing in, into less a balancing force against extremism and more into a gang of cops.
Now he sends for me like I worked for him. Walked away from the Library because of shit like this.
With him are two men. Four foot of batrachian malice, that one looks over Bettina like you'd examine meat in a window. He's dressed sloppy, shirt stained. Suit he bursts out of threadbare. Cheap lion's head ring on his finger.
Elliot speaks. 'This is Mr. Foulstone. He's from the London branch of the Library and he'll be serving as my assistant.'
One look into those yellowing eyes and I figure Mr. Foulstone is no one's assistance. He's a bulldog.
The other spook adjusts his wire-framed specs and looks at me with about as much expression as a sheet of white paper. He's six nine and has to weight about 60kg. Pinstripes. Hair carefully combed, not slicked, back.
'This is Mr. Blossom. He's the chief legal advisor to the Library.'
I sneer. A lawyer. You're supposed to be a cult whose express purpose is the retrieval, security and practice of the magical legacy of the human race. Prick.
Bettina eases her head down to her should and back up, slowly. It reminds me to behave. Still, let this motherfucker come to me. I wait.
'Would you like a cigarette? I don't normally allow it in the building, of course. But I know you're a heavy smoker.' He says that last too carefully.
'No.'
Foulstone stirs at that. Bettina stares at him. He never meets her eyes.
'Lark, obviously, this is an uncomfortable position for us to be in professionally and, of course, personally. Perhaps you think I'm the bad guy in this story. I think we should discuss that. Clear the decks as it were, before business.'
Are you fucking jiving me?
Consider staying silent. Let's just get on with this.
'Let's just get on with this.'
Elliot glances up at Mr. Blossom.
'Would you like a coffee? Or a tea? I'm afraid I don't keep any liquor around the office.' He glances at his watch. He think he's being subtle?
'I would.' says Bettina.
'Tea or coffee, Miss - ' Elliot looks at her, smiling politely. I've not introduced her. Time to remind him who he's playing with.
'Ms Esposito is my famulous.' That's not her real last name. Not even her fake one.
'Miss Esposito, would you -'
'Ms.' She emphasises.
'Ms. Esposito, would you like -'
'Tea please. Honey.' Good girl.
Mr. Blossom leans over like someone puts away a folding knife. Presses a button on a phone.
'Tea. Honey.' North American. High tone. Money and breeding.
Silence then. A young woman in a suit comes in. They have fucking P.As now.
'Could we move on to business?'
Figure now would be a good time to ask for an ashtray but Elliot doesn't really deserve more of the petty. Trying to get a handle on what he does deserve.
Nod.
'Lark a few days ago, we received a communiqué from Vatican City. Certain documents we've had earmarked were accessed and sent here.'
The missionaries' journal.
Why were they keeping an eye on information about the Hollow? Takes a bit to remain calm. Say nothing even though I have questions and they're choking me. But these men won't answer. They'll lie.
'We lost track of them by the time they arrived in the city. A simple error. I'll be honest with you, if they hadn't, you and I would never have to meet like this.'
Silence. They'll tell me what's up. Men like Elliot fill up quiet with words and they're often not the smart ones to say. Liars hate the quiet. Just be patient.
'These documents concerned the entity we've marked as Active File #a0004.'
Fucking hell. This is civil servant language. How is this a magical lodge anymore?
'That entity is the Hollow which is intimately involved with the former Librarian Jon Smith.'
Not his real name either.
'This man was your former partner and a childhood friend. We know you've tried to help him and, indeed, you resigned your post here when we declared that a Grey Case.'
Grey Case. Just Library speak. Don't get involved.
I still say nothing. Elliot himself made that call. Scarlet agreed.
He said the Hollow was too dangerous to go after and it might have blowback.
Scarlet said I might get myself killed.
It ended us. It was the final nail in the coffin of our time together. Why is he bringing this up?
Just keep my temper, making them do all the work. Getting a rise out of me, seeing me sweat, that's what they like. Elliot flicks a glance up to Mr. Blossom. Something's getting to him, though. Bettina turns to look at me. Breaking character, I look at her. She puts a finger to her lips like to hush me. I realise I'm hunched with tension and I'm giving Elliot the look I used to give people I enjoyed punishing.
Breathe, very slowly. Techniques. Calm.
'I won't belabour this. Do you have those documents?'
Lying to magicians is a bad
idea. Truth conjures are the easiest thing in the world to cast. And a magician has to be the kind of bastard who learns to be cagey in their dealings. Spirits and gods lie all the time.
'No idea what you are talking about.'
Foulstone snorts. Look him in his sunk in eyes. He's fat enough that the deposits under his brows make him look like a man sleeping.
Mr. Blossom speaks again.
'Mr. Lark, it would be taken by this office as a sign of bad faith in further dealings if you were to deceive or omit information. We require the retrieval and sequestration of those documents poste-haste.'
Let my head turn slowly to meet his gaze.
'Only types I ever hear talk like that are lawyers. Gonna threaten, take up less breath.'
Elliot takes over. 'Mr. Blossom is indeed a legal professional and he's also a ranking member of this organisation.' Magician lawyers. This place has fallen to hell.
Scarlet's fiancé takes a breath. He mars his lawyer's icy performance, showing human emotions.
'We're serious Lark. Jon's still Case Grey. You're not going near him. You're not to contact him for any reason. If you... if you come across the documents, personally or professionally, you'll hand them over to us. Immediately. Don't read them. 'Don't do anything with them. Just bring them here.'
He's playing. Has to be. I'm still me.
'If I don't?'
'We'll start an Action against you. You'll be prevented working any cases and that will be the least of our sanctions.'
Mr. Blossom doesn't care about keeping the irritation out of his voice anymore. More like he figures letting it show will get him more mileage.
Drum my fingers on the chair's arm.
'How do I recognise the documents?'
'Anything to do with the a0004 entity for now should be handed over.'
Enough of this. Everyone knows I'd read them if I find them. This is just to put the frighteners on. They're just warning me to keep away from Jon.
'Are we done?'
'Well, there's some -' Elliot trails.
Get up. Bettina does too.
Turn and go. She looks over her shoulder.
'Thanks for the tea.'
ii
Back in the day, we had three or four seers on the job, working a shift or two a week, one night, one day. They'd read the cards, tea leaves, dreams, entrails, smoke signals, whatever, on the scout for if someone was trying any hardcore invocations. Summonings. Feed ‘em fistfuls of dexies to keep them sharp. Then we'd go do the legwork, something came up.
Still use ‘em today. You best believe they'll be on my case.
My house is way too well warded for the new school Librarians to get through. Should know, I wrote the protocols the seers follow. And while I get the feeling that Foulstone might be my real replacement, not Katanya, even assuming he's good enough, there's no way he's had time to work around the complex of spells wound about my house...
...unless Scarlet told them what they were.
Paranoia, man. Just means thinking ahead.
Fuck it let them come. Those seers and their amphetamine divinations aren't seeing nothing in my house.
The Ultrascorpions stir.
Bettina takes one of the beers from my fridge, frowning at the dust on the door.
'Is that them?'
She's not a magician but the Dead have senses. Civilian couldn't see or hear my guards.
'Yeah. They're sluggish. I've not been around much to maintain them.'
Besides, Jon killed one.
The Ultrascorpions are my eregores. Spirits I invited into my service. In return, I sacrifice to them. Getting behind on my devoirs to ‘em. They're ultradimensional thought-forms, not pets. We have a deal.
In my office is a small shrine to them I made out of a Taiwanese plastic toy scorpion and some joss sticks. Light ‘em, leave beer. It's not much but they'll know I'm not... forsaking them, worse, ignoring the pact we have now.
Can't starve a guard dog and expect it to have your back when the burglar comes through the window.
I look around the office. Tiny window that lets in a stream of light. Newspapered over. My desk, cluttered with my tools, my old notes, the old computer that sounds like it's gonna die every time I turn it on. Wrote that first monograph here. Still in the Library. Still consulted today.
Used to be so proud of that.
'Upstairs.' Bettina pulls on the cord and the ceiling folds out like a mouth. Steps fall out like a stab.
Had this place for ten years. Scarlet was here for most of it.
Wait. Stop.
Clear the head.
I don't want to think about her this much. But Elliot has put her there. We broke up a while ago. This has to stop.
Maybe I should go and see someone professional, knows a thing or two about unwanted thoughts.
Focus.
Upstairs, the attic. The Sanctum. The caim. Changed it around before I left to go hide out with Lazlo. It's cramped and hot and dusty but the important features are still there. Two triple -circles carved into the wood - one to invoke into, other as protection. Moved a bunch of books up here. Pull the sheets away and for the first time in days, I smile at seeing them. Good to get back your finest friends and allies.
Moved a stereo up here for some mood music but the batteries have gone flat. Thumb through them. Reprints of Infermachalia and other classics. Grand Grimoire. The Insignificant Key. Amulets and Superstations. Howling, by Johannes. I take a few. Look for the good bits. Send Bettina out for some equipment. Spend a few hours taking notes and smoking through half a pack.
By the time I'm ready to do, it's about midday.
'You really want to talk to the Devil? I wasn't full on serious before.'
'There's no such thing as the Devil. I think I got rooked before, in the hotel room. Think we have a magician stalking a pretty, famous woman. Or at most, a powerful spirit thinks it's a man.'
She shrugs. This isn't her line of work.
'I've got to get some sleep. Can you watch over me?'
She looks at me a moment.
'Yeah,' she says softly.
Look over to her but she's walked through to the kitchen. She switches on the old TV.
Sleep's a while coming.
I dream about Jon. Just like I always do. About the absolute slavery he's in. Dream about Ava, the client. It's a photo of her. Old. Sepia. It's burning.
I come up as the sun is going down.
Bettina is waiting for me. 'Some fool tried to break in.'
'Who?'
'Dunno. Just waited to see if they could. Planned to let ‘em through the front door, smash ‘em as they came in.'
'Alright.'
'Not curious about who it was?'
'Could be anyone. Let's get on with it.'
Slip into an old black bathrobe I modified to look badass magical. Slippers. Track pants. Comfortable but aesthetical.
Bettina hands me the shopping. A small lamp. Red cellophane we tape over it. Ever tried to find red lights in a bad neighbourhood? A cheap violin from a pawn shop. Red pens we cut up to get to the ink.
Satanic props. Set the mood. Theatre just for me.
I set up the work area, working from my notes. Finding the classical works an inspiration. This is Lesser Key of Solomon territory. Latin. Enochian keys. This is black magic from the heart of Western culture. This is the kind of magic everyone knows in their bones makes deals with the Devil happen. 1500 years of tradition have driven this semiotic deep into our skull. Hammer House of Horror vibe.
The way I work, it doesn't have to be perfect. It doesn't have to be traditional. If I was up in someone else's system, that would be bad for me. I need to keep it freestyle but at the same time, I'm looking to summon up something very classical indeed.
Clear away dust with my hand and in the fresh space draw another circle for Bettina, right next to the one I'll be in. Red ink to give it that Luciferean feel.
'If I start to make deals, distract me. Knock me ou
t if you have to. Means he's gotten the best of me. But don't leave the circle to do it. In fact, don't leave it until I tell you to. For serious.'
She nods.
'Also, and this is important. Don't speak to it. Just don't. '
'Alright.'
We each have one last smoke. Stub them cold and put the butts in a pocket. I keep this room clean. This place is important.
'Here we go.'
I summon Satan.
iii
In nomine dei nostri Satanas Luciferi Excelis.
It's easy. This is what I thought magic was when I was a boy, hiding books from my insane mother and my too-scared father. When I was in the home, hiding more books from the kids who torched them just to take something away from me, this what I hoped my life would be. This is what my head was full of when the social workers and then teachers told me I could do better and I was obviously a bright child but why didn't I just try?
Black Mass. A dead language, sinister with its ancient, hieratic implications. Red lights and classical music giving the whole thing a filmic intensity.
Here's a curious fact about Latin. V is pronounced W. C's often get to become Ch sounds. Ignore that as it takes away from the power and coolness of a slew of cool phrases and words.
There's a key to make you a good magician. Unless you're trying to recreate a religion or you're whole trip is tradition, the mood and the style is a stronger bet than strict accuracy.
No Devil is likely to sweat the grammar.
Normally, this kind of thing is a rich man's game. The old texts talk about things like rings made of iron blessed during a particular month or the presence of flowers or herbs I never heard of or amulets prepared over months in copper or bronze, with mathematically rigorous formulas on them.
Don't have that.
Just have kind of reckless arrogance you need to summon this kind of ...entity. I have an adult life's experience, years of studying any demon thing you care to mention. This is my Work and I am a dedicated man. I ain't new to this. Not as risky as I'm making it sound.
The red paint begins to glow. Bettina sees it. Gesture at her to keep still, open my notebook and begin the next section. Wave the magic dagger in ritual patterns. Carving open the world.
Devil City Page 5