Devil City

by Gestalt Publishing

  Didn't even know Elliot could figure out how to work the heavy voodoo. Look who's been practicing. Thought fills me with fury, this smooth midtown type, pretending to my arts.

  And that's what fucking pity gets you.

  I punch Elliot in his fucking face.

  Enough to break contact. Grab the charm. Pick it up. Did Scarlet give this to him?

  Hand in my pocket so he doesn't see how much my fist hurts. Jon and Bettina both told me not to hit a guy in his cheek. Hard to soft, always. But those lessons never stick.

  'Stand down or she'll break his arm.'

  The new blood's play is simple. Outnumbered, they should take us. It's a dislocated shoulder, broken arm at worse their boss will cop. But they're not trained. They're fucking kids. That one has a wispy moustache. Who’s really calling the shots at the Library these days? Questions for a time my soul isn't on the spit. They back off. Should be throwing curses at me like it was the Battle of the Somme but they're afraid to risk. Afraid of pain.

  Elliot is cursing under his breath at me.

  'You,' Turn my attention back to this business fuck. 'Right. Time we talked.'

  Nod to Bettina who shifts the lock, forces him to his knees. Slowly releases the hold.

  'Get the fuck up.'

  He rises, holding back tears. Jesus. Tears.

  'Listen. Listen to me. Elliot.' Every time I open my mouth every rage I ever felt, every fury wants to leap past my teeth. Have to bite it back. This isn't the time but by God it's hard. Light up a cigarette, gives me time to focus on not asking Bettina to stomp his skull against the curb.

  'Listen? What went down today? That. That wasn't me up in your business. Not your personal life. I know it had to seem like it but it wasn't. Something is going down right now. I'm. I'm in something. Nothing to do with the Library. Nothing to do with her.'

  Drag again.

  'You want to be done with me? You let me go, you hear? Only thing I had to stay for, my own business, I took care of that tonight. You got married today.'

  Then I come at it. One of the reasons I'm so angry. Fury doesn't go but I can put it somewhere now. Somewhere it's not shaking the rivets out of me.

  'You won you stupid motherfucker. Only things I ever valued. Library. Gone. Jon the Hollow. Taken care of. Scarlet. Married. You got two of those things, alright? Now, I'm done. You can't kill me. Your organisation, it needs time for whatever it's doing. You bring these youngbloods at me, you know you're in trouble, so why aggravate the situation with me. I don't - listen. Stop crying, man.'

  Deep breath now. Words come into my head, never even knew I wanted to say ‘em. Never even knew what I wanted. Here's the last chance we've got to walk away from each other, me and him.

  'I don't care what the agenda is. I want out of all this. Leave me out of it. Library business, I'm over it. I survive tonight, I'll go. Do you understand? Do you actually understand me? But you have to cut the geas and Let. Me. Go.'

  Elliot nods. Wipes his nose on his good sleeve.

  'Because, I swear to God, you don't, I'll come after you all.'

  Realise that's the honest truth. The Library I've loved and believed in is gone. Just a place that used to be there. Just a person who changed. No reason to mess with me anymore after I find Jon. And I will. Time to leave all this.

  Bettina looks around. Sudden head thrust directed at the new crew. They all flinch and she laughs at them. Letting them know she's about as concerned with them as she would be children.

  Not a tough guy. I'm not. But that doesn't mean I have to take it forever either.

  Bettina stares at me. Mouths going? Shake my head. Not now, baby.

  Scarlet is married. Jon is free. Been wondering, when does heartbreak run its course? Day she says I do.

  That story is over.

  iv

  She's a harridan.

  The Mother. Holofernes. She's a harridan. That's the only word I can think of. Old fashioned words. Termagant. Harridan. Shrew. Hag Ugly in all the ways old women can be ugly, all at once.

  Hairs on the lips, hairs on moles, lines like cuts in an always pursed mouth. Eyes beady. Eyes sick. Eyes always staring. Bent spine. Smell of cooking from some vile, worn out country. Naptha. She's rail thin, bones and spite and the look of endless dust around her. She's fat, her fingers almost like an infant's, overstuffed with meat.

  All at once.

  But at the core, she's all the anger every old woman ever felt for being hated because of that stuff. For being dismissed because she's old and ugly and of no use.

  It's a towering anger. It radiates from her, rattles in my skull like a wasp. Puts a burn and a haze on the air.

  Anger. A million years of it.

  'What the hell are you supposed to be then?' Snaps that off at me and I don't trust myself to speak.

  'Mother,' but Ava's heart isn't in to sticking up to this woman. There's psychology as thick as old blood between them. Femme fatale and manipulator and Queen of Hell presumptive, old lady don't respect any of that. Holofernes strips her down to the core.

  'And this!' Holofernes points at Bettina. 'You look like a man! God above, woman, you're out in public. My daughter has enough cosmetics to drown a goat. Go into the bathroom and fix yourself up. You're got the hips and shoulders of a cow-herd but you can probably find a dress so you stop looking like a boxer.'

  Bettina, she worked hard to get big. Countless hours at gyms, training, cross-training. Proud of the muscle-mass and the circumference of her bicep. Anyone else says that stuff to her, anyone else gets laughed at, then unconscious.

  This old woman has a way of turning that pride against you. Cutting it away to find the weakness at the heart of every strength.

  Bad Mother. Cruel Mother.

  Bettina glances over at me and I can't bring myself to smile. In my head, I'm carefully arranging memories to block out those of my own mother - because I'm remembering the time I woke up with her pushing sewing pins into my chest. Trying to let evil spirits out.

  'Holy Jesus, is this who you choose to associate with, Ava? A vagabond who looks like he needs a wash and a great cow of a woman? No wonder you needed me. There'll be some changes here, girl, no mistake.'

  Holofernes is an old woman on a cane and long black dress. A towering, aristocratic diva. A suburbanite in pearls and high-waisted pants, whose profound banality chokes. She's an old bat who won't die, alive in a nursing home and mad and filthy.

  Have to stop this. Hit the Gnosis. The heat haze clears from the air. Insulated from her but not immune. The anger is still there, just not shooting boiling information into the world at me anymore.

  'Excuse me.'

  Holofernes turns to look at me. She's still a collision of identities but in magical consciousness, that makes sense. Not a person, a story. Every wicked mother, she exists in the place inside you that turns word into fixless image, where the imagination scabs over reality.

  'Excuse me. Mrs, er-'

  Keep it respectful. She's a power.

  'You can call me Mrs. Holofernes.'

  'Mrs. Holofernes. Please. Ava and I require your help. We need to reunite Ava with her husband.'

  'That fink. That ratfink. Running out on my daughter, shaming my family. She's better off without him. I only let him out when he agreed to brideprice. I just wanted better for my daughter.'

  Seems to have forgotten the part she played in that. Best not to remind her right now.

  'May be true. I've met the man and I can't say that we're close. But Mrs. Holofernes. I'm an employee of Ava's and part of my duties are protecting the reputation of your good name.'

  Except, you know, I had one duty and she lied to me. But the smoother rap seems to be working so I keep at it.

  'Ava is an important dignitary in the supernal world and this estrangement from her husband is a matter that concerns me. A young woman, alone, without a husband, ruling hell? I feel it presents a bad face to the world and may poorly reflect on your family.'

  My m
uscle is rolling her eyes at me. Look over at her and meet her gaze for a second. I know what I'm saying.

  'Oh, bother that,' says Holofernes. 'She wants to be Queen and needs old Scratches' authority or all the little imps won't dance to her tune. Look at her. Thinking she's better than she is all her life but look at her now. Where's all that fame and attention when you need it, eh girl?'

  Ava nods. Can't say I've much warmth for her but it's hard to see a grown woman lacerated like this.

  'Mrs. Holofernes,' getting her attention back on me. 'We require your assistance for this task. His Satanic Majesty is unwilling to be near Ava. He finds her presence and agendas... trying.'

  Snorts at that.

  'We know from stories about you -'

  'Stories. Stories are nosy things. Stories are what children need.'

  '- that you helped defeat the Devil once. We're asking you to do it again.'

  'To restore the reputation of my family.'

  Trap. She's gone too calm.

  'Amongst other things. It would be a lie to say there wasn't something in it for Ava.'

  'So what's in it for you, chancer?'

  Reach into my jacket, take a pack. Light up. Blood in the grooves of my knuckles from Foulstone, swollen from Elliot.

  'Freedom. From Ava and Lucifer, if I'm lucky.'

  Holofernes sniffs.

  Crazy Legs came at me. Buscema forced me into the Night. Elliot pulling his bullshit play. Because I got stripped of my rep. People forgot to respect me. Taught ‘em all. Reason why Ava moved me into the path of this whole fucking caper was because she had no respect for me. Devil, he's defined by his lack of respect for guys like me. Cat and mouse tip.

  Let Ava get away with treating me like that - same thing. Bigger scale.

  No more of that.

  Maybe have a way out of this City. Maybe not. Either way - Not letting Ava cut a slice off me, not without response. Remember that.

  'Freedom, eh? You're a very foolish boy.'

  Hate being called boy.

  'What's in it for me?'

  Only question worth asking and she asks it.

  Sitting on Ava's couch. Ava, hands in lap. 'Sit up girl' mutters her mother and she does. Jesus. She did a number on you.

  'You'll be the Queen Mother of Hell.'

  'The losing side.'

  'Well. Here's the thing lady. You think you're in with the other team?'

  She mutters something. Then.

  'Well, that's all very well and good.'

  'It's better than nothing.' Now's the time to take a risk. Look at her straight on.

  Must be terrible to be a story. To be trapped by narratives you cannot influence.

  'And Mrs. Holofernes? It will take a while. The old stories are strong and yours is old. But you don't have to be... this. In time, the stories about you will change. Your story won't be about a mean old mother, they'll be about a secret power in hell. A dowager. Cool apocrypha. You'll be the new Lilith. You'll be different. Out of the trap.'

  Mrs. Holofernes looks up with her dark, cruel eyes. She nods, once.

  Yeah. Figured as much.

  'There's another thing. Brideprice. You're owed. He never paid for Ava. Way I see it, that gets you interest.'

  'Go on...' She's looking for the trap.

  'You're in that little village still, right? Forever trapped in a tiny house, somewhere out there, wherever stories live.'

  'I keep a clean house.'

  'Keep a clean palace. Tell the Devil you want to relocate to hell.'

  Glance over at Ava who is looking at me with wide eyes. This is the price you pay, lady. Time for you to understand you can't just come at me like I was nothing. Life in hell with your mum forever.

  Mrs. Holofernes likes this. She kisses Ava on the cheek. 'You'll be glad your mother is there to keep an eye on you, darling!'

  Dagger stare. Look over at Ava and let the tiniest lizard-thing of a bend halve my lips.

  'We do it like last time. Trick with the lock.'

  Explain the plan.

  v

  Saints confront the Devil, not men like me.

  St. Anthony, the most famous devil-confronter. St Dunstan, the most famous maybe, with his tongs on Satan's nose. Locked the old fiend up in a box for good measure. John Vianney under Satanic siege in his Cure, making a kind of pet of the Tempter. Mary Mother of God, crushing his head. Her husband Joseph the Terror of Demons, Patron Saint of the Good Death, who radiates such purity the forces of darkness cannot avail him. Benedict, keeping away from the miniskirts and high-heel temptations of Satanus and his diabolical work-stoppage antics. Gemma Galgani and her nighttimes battles with the dark lord who pulled faces. Anthony, the mad old desert hermit, scourged by thorns and left for dead by the Devil. A shape shifting Satan for Padre Pio, bringing loads of forms. Sexy schoolgirls, a fierce black hound, a kindly priest.

  The crazed old wizards, trapped in a world of sleep paralysis and genuine holy revelation.

  They fought off Lucifer with their own spells. The sacred names of God and his avatars. Not my way. I don't think like that. Don't much care about religion. Too many saviours to pick just one.

  No help from the saints for my kind.

  What about legends, then? Stories. Don't much care for fiction, myself but the fairytales are snatches of Saint songs, shorn of religious meaning, freed up for usage. Hints of backwoods pow wow folk magic. Morality tales advising tactics on how to survive a brush with the hieratic world.

  That book I bought with Holofernes' tale had more than one story in it. Gypsy who messes with the Devil's head. Tricks him out of some money. Pulls some tricks on him till the Devil let's him go.

  No. Not that one. Skim more stories from the book. Ah, here's one.

  This is a plan, getting itself together. This is how it works for me. But Wicked Jack is the best still.

  'Bettina.'

  'Yeah.'

  'Time?'

  '10:45, boss.'

  She hands me a fresh pack of smokes. Been out. Mrs. Holofernes has been at me non-stop, emptying my ashtray and telling me to stop and that it smells bad.

  Got till midnight. Never said that to the Devil but who needs that spoken out loud? Of course he'll come at midnight. Low level anxiety setting in. Heart slowly ramping up the speed.

  One last plan. Remember that story, Wicked Jack? Devil up the tree, all that?

  That's the plan. Stakes are high. Dunno what a soul is. Is it just the thing that separates you from being meat, fit for the butcher's tray? Even something that survives away from you? A bit of something immortal, existing and observing subjectively? Hell, a soul, some permanent you, Buddhists put that in the scope for all the world's problems and it's hard not to disagree. Have a hard time buying there's a place the good get rewards, bad get worked over. You ever seen proof the scales balance out, anywhere? Besides, you'd grow to enjoy hell soon enough.

  Professional interest only, though. Put two magicians in a room, they'll fight over three soul definitions. But you ever seen a dead body, you know something went out and surely feels like it's more than just chemistry or electricity.

  Only one fact about the soul counts right now- Devil wants mine, that's bad for me, definitions be damned.

  Trap. Traps to make.

  Mrs. Holofernes knew the Devil could run through a keyhole so she trapped him in a bottle. That brand of logic, that's good for kid's stories. I'm building a magical operation. Biggest of my career. Bettina went out for more than just smokes.

  Flip over Ava's thick Turkmen rugs. Get to drawing on them with the markers I take from Bettina's kit. My doctor's bag filled with my gear got lost somewhere.

  Town hall belltower rings out 11.

  'Young man what is this? What is this vandalism?!' Ava's mother with a tone could shatter glass. Bone.

  Ignore her. She keeps going. Not listening to the words, listening to the tone. Frustration. Frustration that could shatter her teeth from the inside her mouth, sending them out li
ke bullets. Finish the first part of my spell, look up at her.

  'Mrs. Holofernes. I do - look, you want to get what's yours, you give me a free hand here. There's a pay-off for you that's sweet as anyone could ever ask for. You will get yours. But slowing me down right now, that'll mess the whole thing. So - '

  Push it all aside. Play her nice now, hope it'll keep her still for a bit.

  'So please, let me finish my work.'

  Bettina steps up to her. Hands her a glass of the rum turns out she's fond of.

  'Please, ma'am. This man knows his work. Let's play some cards while we wait.'

  She's got a knack with the harridan. Handled that kind before, I'd put money down. They get to playing some game. Gambling with matchsticks. Can see the old woman cheating from here.

  Here's what I'm doing.

  Need the Devil trapped. No. Just need him to stay still, for just awhile. Wicked Jack. He's the key. I'm not a religious man but Wicked Jack is the saint tonight.

  Series of cruciform symbols. Anhk, of course, called the Crux Anasta. The Chi Ro, the P with an X through it. An early Christian symbol. Scribble over it. Trying to avoid Christian symbolism here while using cruciform images. Crucified serpent - that's a good one. Alchemical symbol, meaning to keep the volatile still. Centre stage for you, pal.

  Solar wheel, which has associations for any culture had a passing acquaintance with, reliance on, the sun. Do my best example of an Assyrian one, winged. Babylonian sun-moon conjunction symbols. Swastika, non-Nazi version. Probably know all about that twisted kidnap. Call it Crux Gammata. Fylfot and Gammadion - Herald symbols of pre-Roman Britain. Wheels of time, wheels of fate. Kolovrat too for good measure, strange Slavic pinwheel with the usual cruciform associations.

  All in the form of a Cruciform Manuscript, those cross shaped comic book panels the old British monks used to write scripture in. Cross Moline, for strength. One time, I saw what looked like Maltese crosses made of cocks on some Pre-Incan pots. Forgot all about them till now but in they go.

  Marama, male moon God, not so many of those, had a black sun expanding cross sigil. He was Night time, rascal business God, so we include him, asking for his blessing. Tau. Cross of Tane too. Alchemical elementals, crosses in circles, Yei spirit invocations of the Native Americans. Quetzalcoatl cruciform, winged serpent, meeting at the crossroads. Two-barred dagger cross, which just looks cool. Anchors. Old sailor magic.