. . . and it won’t break if I make a few modifications.
After another half-hour, I’ve got a rat in a cage, I’ve purified a stack of cutlery, and I’m making smoke. I fill a silver basin. I stick my hand in my pocket and palm the banknote while I do my famous raw prawn imitation. Kit off, back to the audience, washing myself down with a sponge.
I notice that another symbol is fading from my sorcerer’s mark.
Still wet, I open the wardrobe and haul out a clean linen robe and trousers. My Gift object slips into the pocket. Maybe it’ll help me survive this.
I turn back to Kazia. ‘Now you.’
She stares nervously around the studio. The two monks look far more interested in this than they should.
‘Here.’ I pull another robe out of the wardrobe and hold it up like a curtain. She’s staring at me—
‘All right.’
I close my eyes. I hear her shoes rattle on the floor. The soft whisper of her clothes. The splash of the water . . . Of course, I can’t help looking. It’s not, you know, just a chance to see a girl with nothing on, even if it’s something I’ve never seen before.
But I’ve got to know: does she have any sort of sorcerer’s mark?
At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
And she doesn’t. Have a mark, that is. Her skin is darker than I’d expected, with several moles down her back . . .
And one on the outside of her left breast. Medieval witch-finders used to think that was Satan’s mark. I suppose, if you’re looking for Satan’s mark, that’s a good place to start.
Anyway, she’s caught me staring. I blush and close my eyes. But her body . . . it’s kind of imprinted on my brain. She’s not just darker than I’d expected, but stockier too. She looks tough. I don’t know about magic, but if it came to a stand-up fight she could beat the crap out of me, both hands tied behind her back.
I feel her slip into the robe I’m holding. I let go and stand back while she ties the red cord around her waist.
One of the monks is cheerfully tying Dinny up in a neat bundle. I turn to Vannutelli. ‘So remind me again. What’ve you got against this kid?’
As if I didn’t know . . .
Picture this. A dark wet night, just over a year ago. A Ghost halted by the side of the road.
A uniformed elemental opens the luggage compartment. A cardinal and the Superior General of the Society of Sorcerers watch him drag a terrified boy out.
‘Kill him!’
Vannutelli’s problem, of course, was that he was fifty-five and getting very, very Blurry indeed. And the only way to fix that was by sorcery.
This is a world where all these guys know each other, even if they want to rip each other’s faces off. Vannutelli originally came to Doughnut City to discuss the Concordat and the Society’s submission to the Church. But while he was here he had a quiet word with his old fellow-novice Matthew. If he could get the Procedure done on the quiet, things might go easier with the Society . . .
And that’s what Sean overheard them arguing about.
As a faithful son of the Church who wants to be the Big Man in a tiara one day, Vannutelli knows what a sin looks like when it sidles up behind him and pinches his bum. Even so, he wants Sean knocked off, and he tells Matthew to see to it.
But Matthew – and you might want to be sitting down for this – has scruples. So he goes hunting in the Closed Archive and comes up with this spell that everyone’s forgotten about. Kazia rolls up her sleeves and, amazingly, it works. Sean goes to sleep, like the princess in the fairy tale, and gets bricked up in the crypt of the derelict church in the Hole. Matthew has no problem convincing himself that since nobody’s actually dead, he hasn’t done anything wrong – and even if he has, it’s for the good of the Church and the greater glory of God.
Plus, the whole business has given him a useful hold over Vannutelli.
Everybody’s happy.
Everybody who counts, anyway.
Of course it was always a stupid plan. Like Matthew said, convincing Marvo that Sean was dead just got her obsessed with finding out who killed him. A year down the line, he gets dug out of the crypt. The spell holds: he looks dead, Marvo falls over every time she tries to see him . . .
‘What I have against the boy, Brother Tobias.’ Vannutelli smiles. ‘That is my business.’ With his accent: ‘That ees-a my-a bee’s knees . . .’
‘You’re asking me to kill him.’ I don’t like being called ‘Brother’, especially by this arsehole; but I can’t do much to stop him. ‘That is my business.’
‘I am not asking. I am telling.’
I shiver as Vannutelli’s fingers stroke the side of my face.
‘I know about sorcery,’ he says. ‘I know that your Society lies when it says that magic is a gift from God. I know it is the work of the Devil.’
‘So why did you make a deal with Matthew?’
‘Saint Thomas Aquinas said that sometimes a Christian must work with the Devil per far avanzare l’opera di Dio.’
‘To advance God’s work.’ We did Aquinas at Saint Cyprian’s and I’m not sure that’s quite what he said. But Vannutelli’s the cardinal . . .
‘You speak Italian?’
‘Enough to read spells.’ I smile. ‘A demon taught me.’
Vannutelli shivers and starts to cross himself – then stops to make a slithery movement with his fingers. ‘You try to be like a snake. Like Satan himself.’ He completes the crossing action. ‘Sorcery,’ he says. ‘I know it is evil. Tonight you must do an evil act so that your life will be better.’ He points towards Marvo, still lashed to her chair, on her side on the floor, going round in circles. ‘And so that your friend will live.’
‘I can do it,’ Kazia says.
Vannutelli shakes his head
‘I’m more powerful than him.’
I look down at the floor. It’s true, but I don’t want to admit it.
‘Perhaps,’ Vannutelli says. ‘But you failed me before.’
I suppose I could point out that it wasn’t really her fault that Archasis popped out of hell malformed, but Marvo is wailing—
‘Frank! Don’t let him—’
Hatchet Face kicks her.
Vannutelli puts his arm round my shoulder and leads me up the steps to the fireplace, away from Kazia. ‘It is late and I am tired of talking.’ He smells of incense and peppermint. ‘It is time for you to take your instruments and summon a demon to enter the mortuary and kill the boy.’
I’m still thinking about all this – and wondering whether I could actually summon a demon powerful enough to break through Ferdia’s protective circle – when Marvo yells, ‘Frank!’
‘Shut up! I know what I’m doing.’
‘But you can’t—’
‘The kid’s in a coma.’ I don’t see any point in going through all the Sean stuff with her again. ‘I don’t think he’s gonna wake up.’
Vannutelli smiles. ‘You see, Brother Tobias has a choice. He can kill this boy he doesn’t know, who will probably die anyway. Or . . .’
Lumpy has got hold of one of my spare knives. He runs his thumb along the edge and holds it up to show a thin, dark line.
‘He can watch my associate kill someone he does know. Very slow. Very painful.’
‘He means you, Marvo,’ I point out. ‘Just in case you hadn’t realised.’
‘Yeah, but what’s the big deal?’ She grunts as Hatchet Face kicks her again.
‘Will you shut up and let me get on with it?’
‘Who is he, though, the Crypt Boy?’
‘Just some kid. Don’t worry about it.’ I turn back to Vannutelli. ‘Will any demon do, or do you have a particular friend?’
Vannutelli gestures. Lumpy clouts me.
‘You are the expert. I reward results. And if you do as I ask, your friend will live and I will absolve you of the sin you have committed.’
Don’t you love the Church sometimes?
‘But who’ll absolve y
ou?’ I wonder.
‘I have no need of absolution. God sees into my heart and knows it is pure, and dedicated to His holy work.’
I spend a few moments trying to get my head round that, then I wave in Marvo’s direction. ‘She’s not really my friend.’
I’m getting to know Vannutelli’s smile. It rises slightly at one side and involves some badly stained teeth. ‘Then perhaps she does not need to live.’
I never imagined that she did. I don’t give much for Dinny’s and my chances either, if this doesn’t work. Or even if it does . . .
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Judas’s Heart
THIS IS A mess. Circles and symbols all over the shop.
I’m in the middle, natch, standing in a triangle with a brazier at each corner. That’s all inside five concentric circles, spattered with symbols.
It’s further out that it all goes to hell. It’s always good to have someone to give the responses and throw spices and brandy around when you’re working magic. But this is too much of a good thing. I’ve got six of them, for God’s sake. OK, so two of them are tied up, but all that means is that they can’t really look after themselves.
Follow the geometry.
I’ve got eight crosses projecting from the main circle, like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. Each one leads to a double circle and a cluster of symbols. And six of these circles have got somebody inside them.
Vannutelli is to the north, where I can keep an eye on him. Hatchet Face is next to him, to the north-west.
I’ve got Marvo to the south-west and Dinny to the south. And Lumpy to the south-east, trying to look hard but just looking nervous.
I’ve sat the dog down in the north-eastern circle, with some extra symbols to compensate for the fact that it’s an elemental. In my own head, I’ve expressed an intention for it to stay there. It might have been simpler to terminate it, but I’ve got used to having it around . . .
Vannutelli, Hatchet Face and Lumpy are each standing over a brazier with a knife and a silver shaker of spices, wearing a white linen robe and a paper hat with a name of God written on it in my blood. In a perfect world I’d have used ‘Jehovah’ or ‘Tetragrammaton’, for maximum effect; but the hats are small, and there’s a limit to the amount of blood I can afford to lose right now . . . So I’ve gone with ‘El’. Simple and to the point.
Marvo’s still lashed to her chair and looking very pissed off. Dinny’s just lying there. His eyes are open but he doesn’t seem to be seeing anything.
The western circle is a bit larger than the others because, as well as a robe and a hat and a brazier to play with, Kazia has her very own cutlery and wand to wave around.
She also has the packet of herbs I got off Charlie. ‘Just in case anything goes wrong,’ I told her. I didn’t say anything about the Judas’s heart.
I’m ready to go. Paper hat. Linen robe with symbols embroidered in gold thread and scrawled in my own blood—
Did I ever tell you about my laundry bills?
White linen trousers and kidskin slippers. Two wands, sachets of herbs and spices – Charlie’s mandrake came in handy – two knives and a sword.
A disaster waiting to happen.
I turn to the audience. ‘When I tap my wands together’ – I demonstrate – ‘I want spices and brandy in braziers, OK?’ I turn to Marvo. ‘You’re excused, obviously.’
Candles flicker. Smoke rises from the braziers to form a cloud that spreads down the length of the studio, obscuring the ceiling.
‘Seal your circles.’
There’s a ragged chorus: ‘In the name of the most high.’ And the scrape of metal as they run the tips of their knives around the circles.
I know what you’re thinking: if Marvo and Dinny are tied up, how can they join in the fun? Well, they can’t.
I step across and stoop to run the tip of my knife around Dinny’s circle. I see drops of liquid on the tiles. He’s weeping quietly. I get it. Dinny used to be Gifted. He graduated from Saint Cyprian’s a few years ahead of me and got a job out at the Ghost factory, conjuring up bright new ways of getting rich people from A to B. Woke up one morning and found that he wasn’t Gifted any more. Stuck both hands in one of the machines.
It must be hell for him, watching the magic he can’t do any more. I catch his eye for a moment—
‘I’m sorry, Dinny.’
His eyes close. As I turn away, I notice that he’s picking away at the rope holding him with the sharp tip of one hook . . .
Marvo’s turn. The tip of my knife scrapes around the outside of her circle. ‘In the name of he who is blessed.’
‘You’d better know what you’re doing,’ she hisses.
No shit. ‘Just stay calm. You’re in a circle and nothing can touch you.’ Except for what I said about demons in the room. ‘In the name of the most high.’ I straighten up. ‘Don’t move, that’s all.’
Ten minutes later I’ve sealed everything off. The braziers crackle and pop, and the cloud of smoke above us thickens and lowers until it hangs just above my head.
I run a finger along the wooden bars of a small cage at my feet. The dish of the day, a plump white rat, stares nervously up at me, then goes back to scuttling round the sides of its prison. What is it about white rats? Do they remind demons of the good old days with wings and harps, before everything went all hot and dark and hellish?
Back to the audience: ‘Right, everybody behave themselves!’
I catch Kazia’s eyes. She nods. I’d vaguely hoped for a smile, but there’s no sign of one. I turn my back on her and face east. Beyond the outmost circle, in the flickering gloom of the candles, I can just make out a triangular shape on the floor. It’s made out of strips of goatskin, pinned together with nails that I know came from dead children’s coffins because I sneaked into various churches over the years and stole them myself.
Yeah, pretty creepy. But that’s sorcery. And if a dead baby’s got anything useful to do, it isn’t counting nails.
I look over my shoulder, left then right. The gang stare back at me. Hatchet Face looks dead nervous, like he just wants to make a bolt for it.
So let’s encourage him. I pull the wands out of my belt. My voice echoes around the studio, a bit shaky at first—
‘Adonai, Tetragrammaton . . .’
I tap my wands together. All around me, brandy sizzles on red-hot charcoal.
All ritual magic involves some sort of Presence. Sometimes it hardly exists – it’s just a thought that you’ve given a name to. But there’s always got to be something there.
Instantiating an elemental is dead simple. The natural energies are out there and they’re happy to be shaped into something that can help with the washing-up.
Angels are the good guys. At least, that’s what they taught us at Saint Cyprian’s.
Demons will do pretty much anything you force them to do, but that’s the word: force. They don’t want to help; they’d rather stay tucked up in a comfortable bed of fire feeling sorry for themselves. Maybe occasionally leaning out to snack off one of the damned.
Again, I’m just repeating what the Society taught me.
The thing is, anyway, you’d think demons would want a break from the heat and the boredom. But you always have to drag them up, kicking and screaming, and threaten them with a divine smacking.
‘O Lord God Almighty, full of compassion, aid us in this work which we are about to perform.’
More brandy and spices. More sizzling. Thicker smoke. The studio darkens. Lightning flickers.
‘I conjure thee, O Spirit Azazel, by the living and true God—’
I’m counting on Kazia not knowing all her demonic names.
‘I invoke thee by all the names of God: Adonai, El, Elohim, Elohi . . .’
To my left, out of the corner of my eye, I can see Vannutelli. Maybe he’s aware that there’s something not quite right about invoking God to protect us while we summon up a demon to murder an unconscious boy. But he certainly doesn’t show it
. He’s just standing there with his eyes half closed and a soft smile smeared across his mug.
The usual suspects: ‘Ehyeh, Asher, Zabaoth, Elion, Iah, Tetragrammaton . . .’
It’s a long list. I’m not taking any chances so I’ve got the names scrawled on a sheet of virgin parchment and it takes me a good ten minutes to get through them all. I glance around from time to time. Vannutelli’s smile ripples lazily across his mouth like waves breaking on a sunlit beach. Lumpy is picking his nose. Fortunately, or not, he has the good sense to eat the bogies; if he flicked them out of his circle he’d be in dead trouble. Hatchet Face is running the same risk, nibbling anxiously at a fingernail. Beads of sweat run down his forehead into his eyes.
Kazia’s face is a complete blank. Dinny lies there, closed up like a clam. Marvo glares back at me. My dog is licking its bollocks.
I click my wands together. ‘Everybody—’
Another funny thing about ritual magic: you can break off the incantation to tell people what to do, or to scry your mum and ask her to put your underpants through the wash, and whatever demon you’re summoning knows to ignore it. Just saying, that’s all.
I wait for the sizzling to die away, then—
‘I exorcise thee, O Azazel, and do most powerfully command thee, by Adonai, El, Elohim . . .’ And I’m off through the list again. As I come to the end, I wave for Kazia to join in.
‘ . . . that thou dost appear before me in a fair human shape, without noise, deformity or any companion. Come hither, come hither, come hither,’ she chants along with me.
The smoke has descended to form a thick, choking fog. It smells of burning charcoal, of herbs and spices, of sulphur and rotting flesh.
Of very dirty, demonic magic.
To my left, Vannutelli is just an indistinct black shape. In front of me, beyond the outer circle, a ghostly phosphorescence seeps up from the goatskin triangle.
‘Come forthwith, and without delay . . .’
I break off and crook my elbow across my mouth, like I’m muffling a coughing fit. Kazia continues the formula: ‘ . . . from any part of the world, wherever thou mayest be . . .’
Actually, I know exactly where this Azazel bloke is. And, unlike Kazia, I know his real name. It’s another of those escape clauses the Society teaches: you don’t always want the punters to know who you’re really summoning, so most demons have an alias or two.
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