I grab the lid, close the tin and put it up on a shelf.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Falling Off a Log
PRESTON IS PERCHED on the back of the chair, a foot away, watching me. I’m not sure, but in the candlelight I think I detect a hint of transparency.
‘What’s wrong, boss?’
Why do I get so attached to elementals? I want to cry; so it’s actually a relief when Marvo grumbles, ‘So what are we summoning?’
‘A minor demon.’
‘From hell?’ Andrew’s voice is shaking.
‘Do you see anything hidden up my sleeves? Of course, from hell.’
‘I didn’t think you believed in it,’ says Marvo.
‘If you’d been paying attention, you’d have heard me say I won’t believe in hell. But what do I know?’
‘It’s there all right,’ says Andrew. ‘And we’re all going.’
‘Says who?’ says Marvo.
‘Says the Bible. We’re all sinners.’
‘Even you?’
‘Especially me.’ He blushes a deep, dark red.
‘You don’t have to stay,’ I point out. He just stands there, staring unhappily down at his feet. ‘Well?’ I ask.
‘I’ll stay,’ Andrew mumbles. ‘I want to see what we’re all in for.’
‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ I pull off my ring and drop it on the bench. ‘Like I said, just a minor demon.’
‘What’s the difference, anyway?’ says Marvo. ‘You know, major, minor . . .’
‘Think of it like the army – you know, hierarchical. Actually, think of it like the Church. There’s Satan at the top—’
‘Like the pope?’
‘That’s blasphemy,’ Andrew whispers.
‘Yeah, but if we’re all heading for hell like you say,’ Marvo points out, ‘who cares?’
Andrew crosses himself.
‘So there’s Satan at the top,’ I say. ‘Then half a dozen serious headbangers like Beelzebub, Belial, Mammon, Mulciber and Moloch.’
‘That’s only five,’ says Marvo.
‘Then a whole crowd of nutters you wouldn’t want to bump into down a dark alley, like my old pal Alastor.’
‘So is this gonna take all night?’
‘Look, I could get in a lot of trouble.’
‘Why’re you doin’ it, then? Nobody’s twisting your arm.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I just wanted you to ask about a bit.’ Marvo waves her arm around the studio. ‘Never said nothin’ about this crap.’
‘This crap’ is the usual fancy dress and razor-sharp cutlery. The inner circle has a copper brazier on a tripod, a small table and a nervous-looking rat in a cage. There’s another concentric circle outside with crossed keys chalked at the north, south, east and west, to focus my intention. Outside that, a couple of squares; pentagrams and crosses all over the place; red candles; an outer circle to hold the whole mess; and, beyond that, two equilateral triangles with empty circles inside. Even for a minor demon, you’ve got to put in the work.
‘You don’t half look a prat,’ Marvo giggles.
Luckily, I can’t see myself: apart from my scryer, which is buried at the back of my cabinet, I’m the proud owner of just one mirror, for shaving my head; and since mirrors interfere with magic I’ve got that safely wrapped in silk, under the mattress.
‘I can stop now, if you want.’
There’s the four of them: Marvo, Andrew, Preston and the dog. I can handle the herb-throwing myself so I’ve stuck them all in a single circle, out of harm’s way.
‘Nah,’ says Marvo. ‘You might as well get on with it.’
Andrew’s been looking nervous from the word go. ‘Are we safe in here?’
‘Perfectly safe. What I was trying to explain to you, the demon I’m going to summon, he’s just a pimple on Satan’s bum – couldn’t hurt a fly—’
‘Why can’t you just get an elemental?’ That’s Marvo.
‘Coz an elemental can’t exercise compulsion.’
‘Even on another elemental?’
‘Especially on another elemental. Look, I don’t have time for this.’
‘So if he couldn’t hurt a fly, how can he compel—?’
‘Trust me. He can.’
I look around the studio. This ritual, it’s like falling off a log. But there are a lot of dead sorcerers who thought they were just falling off a log. I’ve got the herbs and spices in half a dozen dishes on the table beside me. I’ve got the cutlery: two knives, a silver scalpel, a sword. I’ve got a silver pentacle hanging on a chain around my neck and a long silver pin stuck through the lapel of my coat.
Most important: I’ve got Sean’s photograph of the Ghost driver with his crossed keys badge.
And Marvo’s clutching the framed picture of her brother from her bedroom: I sent her all the way home to fetch it.
‘No more interruptions.’ I pull a wand out of my belt. ‘O Lord God Almighty, full of compassion, aid us in this work which we are about to perform—’
I told Marvo and Andrew they were perfectly safe. But I would, wouldn’t I?
The trouble with summoning even the most pathetic of minor demons is that you’re opening a gate and you’ve got to be dead careful about what comes through it. The sorcerer’s intention envisages an opening that’s the right shape and size and in exactly the right place.
I mean, I don’t believe in hell, right? Not literally, anyway. But just suppose all those paintings in churches are even partly accurate. You’ve got this deep, dark pit that’s all spouting volcanoes and bolts of lightning and lakes of fire. You stuff it full of all these mad demons with claws and talons and razor-sharp teeth, bristling with weapons and as pissed off . . . well, as pissed off as hell.
Then I come along and knock a hole in the wall.
Casting a spell is as much about excluding possibilities as it is about making things happen. I want a minor demon, just some little chap who’s powerful enough to do what I want, but not so powerful that I have to jump through hoops.
What I particularly don’t want is his mean big brother.
It’s mainly about my intention: I’m concentrating hard on what I want. But there’s also the herbs and spices, which I’m throwing around the place—
‘I conjure thee by the living and true God. I invoke thee by all the names of God: Adonai, El, Elohim, Elohi, Ehyeh, Asher, Zabaoth, Elion, Iah, Tetragrammaton.’
You can’t have too many names of God. They establish who’s in charge around here.
That’s me, by the way. In case you hadn’t noticed.
We’ve come to the magic moment. There’s a thick cloud of smoke hanging over me. I can feel a tingle of anticipation through my slippers. I risk a quick glance round at the audience.
Marvo’s watching intently. Preston’s managed to turn himself upside down so he can get his feet over his eyes. Andrew has pulled a wooden crucifix out from under his robe and is muttering furiously to himself.
‘Will you put that bloody thing away!’ I hiss.
He stares at me, utterly outraged.
‘And don’t give me that “Brother” shit. If you don’t want to wind up as a pile of ashes—’
The crucifix disappears beneath Andrew’s habit. I raise the wand over my head and take a deep breath.
‘I exorcise thee and do powerfully command thee, that thou dost forthwith appear before me in a fair human shape, without noise, deformity or any companion. Come forthwith, from any part of the world wherever thou mayest be. Come thou peaceably, visibly, affably and without delay, manifesting that which I shall desire. Thou art conjured by the name of the living and true God . . .’
I’m getting the usual effects. The sound of the room has gone dead, like someone’s hung thick blankets over everything. The candles burn steadily, but cast no light. Marvo, Andrew and Preston are just dim shapes.
I put the silver disc to my lips, then hold it up.
‘Behold the pentacle of Solomon which I have brought into thy pr
esence. I compel thee by order of the great God, Adonai, Tetragrammaton, Jehovah. Come at once, without wile or falsehood, in the name of our Saviour Jesus Christ!’
And we have company in one of the triangles.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Any Excuse
ALL DEMONS SMELL. There’s usually a bit of sulphur and, as I’ve said before, they tend to fart a lot. But this little fellow comes in a blast of lily of the valley.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Marvo, wrinkling her nose. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Minor demons don’t have names.’
‘So how do you know you’ve got the one you want?’
‘I’m summoning attributes, not an individual. It’s what he can do, not who he is.’
‘He looks like a total prat.’
‘Watch who you’re calling a prat,’ the demon growls.
The trouble is, that’s exactly what he does look like. He’s small, for a start – only about two feet tall – like a lizard standing on his hind legs with a head that’s far too big for him and a tail that’s twice as long as he is but comes in useful for stopping him falling over backwards. He’s bright red, with glittering silver eyes, a thick, baggy hide like a rhinoceros, and horns like a goat.
So, a dangerous-looking prat.
I hold up the photograph of the driver. ‘Go to wherever this being dwells—’
I’d say ‘lives’, but elementals don’t exactly live.
‘—and compel him, under pain of immediate dissolution, to come to me. I compel thee in the name of Adonai the most high, in the name of Jehovah the most holy . . .’
Can a demon understand a photograph? He doesn’t have to: I understand it and he responds to my intention.
Any excuse to self-harm. I roll up my left sleeve, pick up the silver scalpel and slice into my forearm. I let the blood drip onto the photograph, then drop it into the brazier. It curls up. My blood sizzles and I feel a burning pain, all the way up my arm. The photograph turns brown and a rush of flames consumes it. For a moment the pain lances into my heart, so intensely that I think I’m going to pass out. Then it passes in a blinding flash of golden light.
The triangle is empty.
‘You OK?’ says Marvo.
‘I’ll live.’ I’m binding the incision in my arm with a silk bandage.
‘So now what?’
‘We wait.’
After half an hour, Marvo announces that she’s bored.
After another forty-five minutes she mutters, ‘What’s the problem?’
‘He has to get here.’
‘What? Can’t he just—?’
‘A demon can manifest . . . well, pretty much instantaneously. Once he’s here, he travels at a speed of exactly two hundred and forty-seven miles an hour. The Society measured it, years ago. But the speed of the return journey is entirely determined by the subject.’
‘Can’t they get a cab?’ Andrew sniggers.
‘Only on the initiative of the subject. And by definition the subject has no initiative. They walk.’
‘So if you wanted someone from America—’
‘You’d be stuffed. There is a spell to have somebody knocked out and shipped in a box, but it’s as complicated as hell and you’ve got to stay in the circle until they get delivered – and when they do, they’re usually dead.’
‘So you can’t do everything with magic.’
‘Did I say you could? Shut up now—’
Because we’ve got some action.
There’s no fanfare or anything, just another tingle through my slippers. When I look round, the demon is glowering up at me from one triangle, and the driver is standing in the other.
He doesn’t look surprised or upset or anything. That’s one of the things I like about elementals: unlike me, say, they accept whatever gets thrown at them. He just stands here with his hands behind his back and a willing smile on his face.
‘Can I go now?’ the demon growls.
‘No. Sit down and shut up.’ I pull the silver pin out of my lapel. ‘In the name of Adonai the most high. In the name of Jehovah the most holy.’ I push the pin deep into the heart of the brazier. The demon sits down with a bump and an almighty fart. His eyes droop and close.
Andrew does his graveyard chuckle. The driver blinks.
I turn to Marvo. ‘The picture.’
She holds up the photograph of Sean.
‘Do you recognise him?’ I ask the driver.
Here’s more stuff I like about elementals. They have total recall. And they can’t lie.
He nods.
‘Show me.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Kill Him!
IT’S A BIT like the kinema – except it’s like it’s really happening. I’m there: I can see, hear and feel everything as if I’m the driver . . .
Night. Through the glass of the windscreen, the Ghost’s headlights glisten on the wet surface of a narrow road. The trees slip past. My gloved hands turn the steering wheel. There’s just the faintest whisper of the tyres on the tarmac. And the sound of voices through the glass separating me from the passenger compartment.
‘You promised me that the Society would be exculpated from any accusation of heresy—’
‘And that’s what I have recommended to his Holiness.’ A thick, oily voice with an Italian accent. ‘But I cannot force him—’
‘He listens to you. I told you what I want: a papal bull reiterating the terms of the Concordat and acknowledging sorcery as a valid tribute to God and an expression of the divine will.’
‘Which will take time.’
‘You must see my problem, though. Thanks to my sorcerer, you can see perfectly. But I am still waiting . . .’
‘Patience is a virtue. Your reward will be in heaven.’
There’s a sound: a muffled sneeze.
‘What’s that?’ The Italian. ‘Stop!’
My boots crunch on loose stones as I slide out of the driver’s compartment and walk round to the back of the Ghost. I hear water dripping from the leaves of the overhanging trees; and the occasional sharper impact of a droplet on my cap. A bird calls. There’s a momentary flash of lightning. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
From the back, the Ghost is just a dark silhouette against the light spilling from its headlamps. My gloves are red in the tail lights as I touch the lid of the luggage compartment.
It opens with a faint hydraulic hiss.
The boy is staring up at me. Even in the darkness, his face is white with fear.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ he says. And sneezes again . . .
I need to be clear about what’s going on here. At the kinema you sit back and watch stuff happen on a giant scryer. Here, it’s like it’s really happening. When I reach in and grab the boy’s jumper, I can feel the texture of the knitted wool through my gloves. When I drag him out, I struggle with his weight.
So it’s kind of like I’m the driver, actually doing all this. But it’s me, Frank Sampson, standing in a magic circle in his studio in Oxford, who recognises Sean Marvell from the photograph his big sister is holding up. It’s me, Frank Sampson, who feels sorry for him as he tumbles out onto the road.
‘I didn’t hear nothing,’ he whimpers.
It’s me, Frank Sampson, who hears Marvo gasp. I wave my hand for her to shut up.
It’s me who recognises the two men getting out of the Ghost. The one with the face like a toad is Bruno Vannutelli, the papal legate to the English branch of the Society of Sorcerers.
The other one has tonsured grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His left hand is missing the little finger. I already recognised his voice: the Superior General of the Society, Matthew Le Geyt.
My Master.
It’s the driver who feels Vannutelli’s hand against his chest, pushing him aside.
Vannutelli stares at Sean. ‘I know this boy. He is the one who took the photograph.’
‘Reading without your glasses. That was careless—’
Vannutelli makes a litt
le dancing run and kicks Sean savagely in the ribs.
‘—and stupid,’ Matthew adds.
Vannutelli is standing on Sean’s hand. ‘What did you hear?’ he yells.
‘I told you,’ Sean screams. ‘Nothing!’
Vannutelli turns back to Matthew. ‘I don’t believe him.’
Matthew smiles. ‘Why would you?’
‘Kill him!’
I hear a cry. A crash. Something bangs into me and I’m thrown out of the vision and back into my studio, where Marvo’s got me by the arm and she’s screaming at me—
‘Stop them, stop them!’
I don’t have time to explain that I can’t stop events that have already occurred. We’ve got enough problems in the here and now—
Because magic circles have a dual purpose.
The geometry – the particular combination of shapes and symbols – works with the sounds of the incantations, the smells of the herbs and spices and all the rest of it in order to focus the operator’s will and make stuff happen.
If you like, circles break space, creating that gate I was talking about that allows non-physical beings to manifest in physical form.
But once you’ve got a demon bouncing around the place, you’ve got to stop him bouncing out of control and getting at your liver. So the geometry also marks out space. You summon the demon into a shape that confines him. And you work from an inner circle that he can’t get into.
You see the problem: if Marvo’s got me by the arm, she’s no longer in the protective circle where I parked her. And by busting into mine, she’s basically scrambled everything.
The space is open. The gloves are off.
As far as demons are concerned, size is a fluid concept. Our little pal . . . the only reason he manifested as little was because I expected a minor demon to be little.
Now he’s bored with being the size I’d expect a minor demon to be, and he’s growing. In all directions. And he’s changing shape. He’s sprouting tusks. Hundreds – no, thousands – of them, until he looks like a giant grey porcupine with a lizard’s head and a long, scaly tail that curls and thrashes and smashes things up.
It’s around this point that the driver shrivels up and disappears.
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