"So," I said. "Can you do it?"
"A better question is will I do it?" She leaned back in her chair, a huge leather thing that made her look like a kid playing on the good furniture. "Explain to me, slowly and carefully, why you want me to do this, and what you're hoping to accomplish by it."
So I laid it out for her. I started by describing what had been done to George Kulick, in as much detail as I could without sounding like some kind of freak sadist who was getting off on it. To her credit, Rachelby,ooking a little queasy when I was done.
She swallowed a couple of times, then said, "And you've exhausted all of the usual means of getting information about this... atrocity."
"Every damn one," I told her. "Witnesses: none. Forensics: none. Associates: none. Friends and family: none. Enemies: none."
"Well, one, anyway," she said grimly.
"Depends on how you define your terms," I said. "Whoever tortured Kulick wanted the location and combination of that safe. Once he got that, I expect he put Kulick out of his misery pretty quick. I don't think it was personal."
"I doubt that it made much difference to Mr Kulick," she said, and made a disgusted face.
"What do you say we ask him and find out?"
She sighed, then there was silence in the room for a while. I'd made my pitch. The rest was up to her. Nobody could order her to perform a necromancy – it was her call.
Rachel was studying her right thumbnail as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Without looking up she asked, "Where was he buried?"
"In one of the city-owned plots at the public graveyard."
"Well, that's something," she said. "No hassles with the Church to worry about. And it's not hallowed ground. When did interment take place?"
"Day before yesterday. But he died a week ago. They kept him on ice at the morgue for a while, in case somebody claimed the body. When nobody did, they planted him."
"And in life he was a wizard, you say."
"Yeah," I said. "He had the mark on him – and about a gazillion books on magic in his library. Why – does it matter?"
"Indeed, it does. It means his spirit will be harder to control, once it's raised. I'll have to take extra precautions."
"So you will do it." I didn't bother keeping the relief out of my voice.
"Against my better judgment, yes, I will," Rachel said, sounding tired. "And I suppose you need this done immediately, if not sooner?"
I shrugged. "Afraid so. The longer we wait, the greater the perp's chances of getting away with it. And a guy who'd do Kulick like that, you gotta figure he won't be squeamish about torturing somebody else to get what he wants."
She gave me a look that said she knew I was trying to manipulate her emotionally, and she didn't like it.
But she didn't tell me that I was wrong.
"As you're aware, Stan, I'm a practitioner of white magic. But what you're asking for here is gray magic."
I knew that one. "Black magic, performed for the purpose of good."
"Exactly right. Normally, necromancy is one of the blackest of the black arts." She sighed deeply. "I'll need to get permission before I can proceed."
I tapped the court order that lay on her desk. "We've already got this. What more do you need?"
The thin smile she gave me didn't look much like the one I'd received walking in. "The kind of permission I need comes from a court you've never heard of, Stan. But it is one that I dare not disobey. I'll let you know, one way or the other, as soon as I find out."
I stood up and slid the court order back in my pocket. "When do you plan to put in the request, or whatever it is you have to do?"
"A few seconds after I see that door close behind you. So, get."
I got.
The next day, I was getting ready for work when "Tubular Bells," the theme from The Exorcist, started playing in my shirt pocket. I touched an icon and brought the phone to my ear. "Markowski."
Rachel Proctor's voice said, "Tomorrow night, at midnight. I'll need a day to prepare. Pick me up at my house about 9:00." She paused a moment. "You're going to be there, you know."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I said. I might even have been telling the truth.
• • • •
The next night, I brought the car to a stop in front of Rachel's house at 8:59. A few moments later, she was tapping at the passenger-side window.
"Pop your trunk."
I pulled the lever. She disappeared from view, and then I felt the springs shift a little as something heavy was placed in the trunk. The lid slammed shut, and then Rachel was slipping into the passenger seat next to me.
She looked terrible.
Even in the light from the street lamps, I could see circles under her eyes that she hadn't bothered to hide with makeup. The skin of her face seemed looser, somehow, like someone recovering from a bad accident.
"What're you staring at?" she snapped. I was stammering an apology when she laid a gentle hand on my arm. "Sorry, Stan. I know I look a fright – almost like one of the stereotypes of my profession."
"Are you sick? Maybe we can–"
"No, I'm not sick, in the usual sense of the term. I haven't slept, that's part of it. I last ate something... this morning, I think, but I forget what it was. I've been working pretty much nonstop since you left me yesterday. Necromancy takes a lot of preparation, and we're not exactly blessed with time, are we? A lot of the work involves setting up protections for the necromancer." She paused, then added, "That would be me."
"Protections against the corpse? I thought–"
"We won't be raising his corpse, Stan. You've been seeing too many movies. What we're going to resurrect, if this works, is his spirit – and that is infinitely more dangerous."
"How come?"
"Protecting myself from a physical body is a piece of cake, comparatively – there are a hundred spells that could do it. But guarding against a pure spirit is harder, because of all the different ways it can manifest. And the fact that he was a wizard makes it even trickier."
"Why should it? Dead is dead, no? Except when it's undead."
"I wish it were that simple. A dead man is a dead man, Stanley. But a dead wizard is... well, a dead wizard."
Rachel turned to face forward. "Come on, let's get this circus on the road, before I come to my senses."
After a while, the silence in the car started to get uncomfortable. For me, anyway. "Proctor," I said. "That name has... associations for me. Something to do with the Salem witch trials, maybe?"
"Very astute. I'm a descendant of John Proctor, who was hanged as a witch after being denounced by his housekeeper."
"Your family history of witchcraft goes back a long ways, then." I said.
"That it does – on both sides. My mother, whose maiden name was Brown, was a direct descendant of the Mathers – Increase, and his son, Cotton."
"Mathers – like in Leave it to Beaver?"
From the corner of my eye, I saw a glimmer of a smile.
"I've always thought that ought to be the title of a porn flick. Or maybe it was, and I missed it."
"I didn't know witches liked porn."
"Don't generalize from one example, Stan. And d beplay dumb, either. You know who the Mathers were."
"The guys behind the witch trials."
"That's an oversimplification, but – yeah."
"Sounds like an interesting family."
"It was that, all right. Proctors on one side, Mathers on the other – and me in the middle."
"You mean they used to–"
"Let's not talk any more, Stan. It's distracting me."
"Distracting? From what?"
"Praying."
Grave 24-C looked like all the other plots in this corner of the city cemetery, apart from the freshly turned earth on top. There'd be no headstone, of course. Anybody willing to spring for a marker to put on George Kulick's grave would probably have paid for a proper funeral in the bargain, and he'd likely have buried the gu
y in a better class of graveyard, too.
I helped Rachel Proctor set up for the ritual of necromancy, which was supposed to reach its climax at midnight. My help had mostly consisted of performing vital tasks such as "hold this" or "bring that."
As she laid out her materials, Rachel said, "I'm going to follow the Sepulchre Path of necromancy. It's the easiest, but it should allow us to get the information you need. If I do it right, it will temporarily grant me the power of Insight, which is the ability to see what the deceased saw in the last moments of his life."
"Could be pretty ugly, considering how he died," I said. "Can't you just call up his ghost and ask him who the killer was? I've heard of that being done."
"Yes, it can be done." She carefully opened a packet containing a dark blue powder and poured some into a bowl. "But probably not by me. That would require the Ash Path, which is far more difficult. You'd need a real adept to have a chance of pulling that one off. And when it comes to this stuff, an adept I ain't."
A little later I asked, "How many, uh, necromantic rituals have you been involved in, so far?"
Without looking up from what she was doing, she said, "Including tonight?"
"Sure."
"One."
"Oh."
She had made three concentric circles on the ground near Kulick's grave. The outer ring, I could see, was made of salt. The two inner circles were laid down using powders that I didn't recognize. The one making up the middle circle was red. The innermost circle was in white. "This is where you'll stand when it starts," Rachel had said. "Whatever happens, do not leave the inner circle until I have given the spirit leave to depart and I explicitly tell you it's safe. Always assuming I'm able to summon his spirit in the first place."
"What's so special about the inner circle?" I asked.
"The white circle is the strongest, kind of like the innermost ring of a rampart," she said. "It is your place of refuge, and mine, too, if things get hairy. Kind of like a shark cage when Jaws is in town."
I didn't remind her how relying on the shark cage had worked out in the movie, let alone the book.
"Why don't you just stay in the white circle the whole time, if it's safest?"
"Because I need access to the altar, which cannot itself be within the circle. Did you bring a personal object of Kulick's, as I asked you – something he had a lot of physical contact with?"
I produced a silver Montblanc pen. "Here. This was found on his desk blotter. Looks like he used it quite a bit."
"Good. Then we can begin."
Just outside thng, I coer ring, Rachel had set up the small portable altar we'd brought with us. On it burned three candles – red, white, and black. They sat at the points of a triangle drawn on the altar; the lines were red at the sides, but black across the bottom. She had also placed there several other objects, including bowls, small bottles, and a variety of instruments – some of which I recognized, others whose function I could only guess.
I was glad it wasn't windy, otherwise those candle flames wouldn't have lasted long. Then it occurred to me to wonder whether Rachel had anything to do with that.
Using a long handmade match that she sparked into life with a thumbnail, she lit two sticks of incense, placing each one in a container at opposite ends of the altar. It didn't take long for the smoke to make my eyes water.
"What the hell is that?" I asked.
"One is wormwood, the other is horehound," she said. "And I'd be careful about using the 'h' word right now – you never know what it might summon by accident. In fact, it would be better if you didn't talk at all, Stan."
I've been told to "shut up" before, but never so politely.
Facing the altar, Rachel stood with her hands spread wide. Then she began what I later learned is known as a "Quarter Call":
Spirits of Air,
We call to you.
The Breath of life
the Knowledge of life,
the Wind of life,
it blows from thee to me,
be with us now.
Then she turned forty-five degrees to her left, and continued:
Spirits of Fire,
We call to you.
The Heat of life,
the Will of life,
the Fire of life,
it burns from thee to me,
be with us now.
She made another quarter turn. She was facing me now, but I don't think she even saw me.
Spirits of Fire,
We call to you.
The Heat of life,
the Will of life,
the Fire of life,
it burns from thee to me,
be with us now.
Another turn, and she chanted:
Spirits of Earth,
We call to you.
The Flesh of life,
the Strength of life,
the Earth of life,
it moves from thee to us,
be with us now.
Then she faced the altar again.
I call upon Hecate,
goddess of the crossroads.
Bless my work, and my endeavors.
Protect and keep me safe from harm.
From every place that harm is wrought.
From every evil that walks.
Protect me, wise one, guard me now.
O great Hecate, I beseech thee:
Watch over me this night
that I might do this work
both faithfully and well.
In thanks for your protection
I make this offering now.
There was a small wooden box on the altar. Rachel raised the lid and quickly reached in. Her hand came out holding something that moved in her grasp.
I looked closer. She was holding a brown-andwhite mouse, its tail twitching like a hooked worm. I wondered whether she'd trapped it herself or bought it at a local pet store. Either way, things weren't looking too good for Mr Mouse right about now.
Black magic requires a sacrifice – a blood sacrifice. It has its roots in the ancient religions, and their gods always required blood. In the case of some, like the Aztecs, the blood had to be human.
I guessed the mouse was the smallest offering that Rachel thought would allow the ritual to work. Or maybe it was the biggest thing she could bring herself to kill.
She closed the box again, and held the mouse down on its lid with her lift hand. With her right, she picked up a knife with an ornately carved handle.
"Spiritus!" she said loudly, held the knife up to shoulder height, then lowered it. She did this twice more. Then, with the mouse still pinned against the top of the wooden box, she cut off its head with one quick, economical movement. I expect the little guy was dead before he even knew he was dying.
I noticed that a breeze had sprung up, but the candle flames didn't flicker. The smoke from the incense rose straight up, as if the air was perfectly still. Maybe over there, it was.
Rachel seemed to hesitate before beginning the next part of the ritual, but when she spoke, her voice was clear and strong.
Colpriziana,
offina alta nestra
fuaro menut,
I name George Harmon
the dead which I seek.
Spirit of George Harmon
you may now approach this gate
and answer truly to my calling.
Berald, Beroald, Balbin,
Gab, Gabor, Agaba!
Arise, I charge and call thee!
She repeated this twice more, a little louder each time. The smoke from the incense sticks had thickened and come together into one mass that grew as I watched. According to the laws of physics, what I was seeing was impossible. But I had a feeling that the laws of physics didn't count for much right now.
Using a sharp stick of polished wood that I knew was her wand, Rachel made a big X in the air above the altar. A few moments later, she repeated the movement. Then a third time.
I don't know how long it was – a minute, maybe two – b
efore I noticed that an outline was appearing in the gathered smoke. An outline in the form of a man.
Rachel must have seen it about the same time I did, because she started chanting, over and over: "Allay fortission fortissio allynsen roa!"
I don't know how many times she repeated that phrase before she decided it was enough. But when she stopped, the quiet was almost oppressive. It wasn't just the absence of sound. The silence was like a force, pressing against my eardrums. The outline of the man in the smoke was clear and distinct, like a silhouette you'd see through the blinds of a lighted room at night.
Then Rachel spoke, her voice only a little louder than normal. "I bid you welcome, spirit of George Kulick. I charge and bind thee now, to answer what I ask of thee, to harm none present, and to depart when thou hast been dismissed. I do this in the terrible names of Baal, of Beelzebub, and of Asmodeus."
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