Pentacle - A Self Collection

by Tom Piccirilli

  "Coccyx. In the ruins."

  That meant nothing to me. My familiar shrugged and said, Never heard of him.

  "By what other name is Coccyx known?" I asked.

  Pidge had given up a long time ago, or else he'd simply accepted his lot, whatever it might be; his mouth barely moved when he spoke, eyes empty as mirrors. "Jasbath Coccyx," he murmured. "Neverdead."

  Jasbath is dead, Self said.

  Gus paced his cell and drove the sides of his ham hock fists against the bars. "What in the hell is that supposed to mean? We're all in this together, right, so you want to fill me in on what you guys are talking about?"

  The screams came again, shrieks of fear, not pain. I checked the moon and saw it hadn't fully risen yet. There was time, I prayed, there had to be some time left.

  Gus reached through the bars and touched my arm. "Hey, I'd appreciate an answer, you know?"

  "They're calling for their savior," I told him. The song rose and dropped, meaning nothing.

  "Doesn't exactly sound like any hymn I ever heard before."

  "You were right about these hidden-hollow towns taking on a whole world of their own. Sometimes they take on their own gods, too."

  "Neverdead," Pidge repeated. "Jasbath Coccyx."

  "Oh," Gus said. "Him. He runs shine out the Madison county hills, don't he?"

  Self snickered at that. I said, "You ready to get out of here?"

  Gus gave me a shining white smile. "You really got to ask? I been thinking of a plan. When the sheriff gets back, you just follow my lead."

  "What kind of lead?"

  "I don't rightly know," he said, "but I'm sure it'll have something to do with kicking him in the crotch."

  Twenty minutes later Sheriff Cross returned; he was short, bald, and the seams of his scowl entrenched his face. He pulled his gun but didn't really point it, opened Pidge's cage and said, "Let's go, boy, it's time." Pidge stood and lumbered forward, shambling, as if he didn't have the strength to lift his feet.

  Gus said, "Excuse me, Sheriff, but—"

  Cross wheeled and barked, "Say another word and I'll shoot you in the eye."

  I'd been thinking of Jasbath and what kind of a cult might follow him, what kind of a ghost town society might still worship him. The rituals had melted down into pure symbolism: the dead roses, the bastardized songs. I'd heard of this happening before but I'd never seen it up close. Whatever was out there would be coming soon.

  Slay him, my second self tempted me.

  The sheriff walked Pidge past my cell. I scooped up a handful of flowers and hurled them at him; he acted as if I'd thrown acid in his face. Whirling, the sheriff cried out and held his arms up to shield himself. Gus was close enough to reach out, grab the gun, and haul the sheriff's head forward into the bars, slamming his face into the metal until he was out cold with a smashed nose and torn cheeks.

  "Okay," he said. "I admit that worked even better than my plan."

  Pidge hadn't moved at all; he stared down at the floor between his feet as if his neck muscles had been cut. Gus took the keys and opened our cells. "Where's my truck? And where are those women? We've gotta get them out."

  "Where are the ruins, Pidge?" I asked.

  His tone was equally inexpressive, singular in its lack of life. I wondered if he'd been reanimated, a nomadic soul seeking refuge in a corpse, but he didn't have the smell. "At the end of the field. Near the swamp."

  "Lead the way."

  He did, moving much too slowly; I shoved him on, faster and faster. He was like a car with a dead battery being charged, coming around a little more every step he took through the dark field. Maybe he was simply drawn to the ruins like the other townsfolk, or maybe he thought he'd already taken a step towards freedom, or death. Perhaps he loved his home.

  We made our way through the mire, Gus having a tough time keeping up, his bulk holding him back considerably. He was clumsy and seemed to step on every half-hidden stump, and catch himself on each snaking vine. He fell a few times and rolled in the mud, taking deep breaths. "Goddamn," he said, "maybe Millie's right about them low-cal soy burgers."

  When we broke into a clearing, I was immediately thrown back a few feet, the power of the ruins evident to me. The crumbling rock remains of a small settlement crouched in the swampy woods: something of the Incas, yet also partially Middle European. The great blocks of stone lay corrupted and shattered and hanging. My stomach knotted. Pidge looked happy now, smiling like a kid at the circus. Self said, Let's leave.

  "Where's the altar?" I asked.

  Pidge pointed. "There. Over there. A tenth of a mile." He couldn't keep from being anxious, his foot tapping, jittering excitedly.

  "What's gotten into you?" Gus asked.

  "Coccyx," Pidge repeated. "Neverdead."

  The moon lighting half his face, Gus grunted. "I hadda ask."

  The old women were still chanting, and other voices had joined in, mostly the children by the sound. We crept over the wet land, through the thorny bushes. From a vine overhead, a snake lowered to strike at Gus and I killed it with a hex without his noticing. Pidge's eyes lit. I brought my index finger to my lips. So did Self. Pidge clapped silently, the arcane energy of the place filling his empty vessel. I didn't know how sane he was, or which side he might be on. I didn't even know what he was.

  Kill him now.

  Perhaps I should, but I wouldn't make that kind of choice without more proof as to what I was dealing with. The brush thinned a bit more and we saw the townsfolk congregated in the ruins around a small campfire. We flattened and hid ourselves. Several men stood off side from the others smoking, holding rifles with complex thatch weavings threaded over the barrels. Gus whispered in my ear. "There. The women."

  He was right; they did look like housewives from New Jersey. Saleswomen probably, driving across state, unfortunate enough to stumble upon the town. They were both middle-aged but quite attractive, bound, gagged, and chained to a stake near the fire, left out like sacrificial goats for a grizzly. Self has the bloodlust himself, and I could feel his arousal as he slinked across my body. Control yourself, I ordered.

  One of the men walking near us said, "Where's Cross? He should have been back by now."

  "Maybe he took the time to beat them others to death. He'll be here 'fore too long."

  Gus was nearly lying on top of Pidge, who was even more excited than before. "Coccyx," he whispered.

  "Neverdead," Gus finished for him. "This guy's a real one trick pony, ain't he?"

  Kill him, kill him, my familiar moaned, fangs at my neck. Take the pretty women.

  The sounds began slow and far off, like the pounding of drums in the distance behind the ruins. The ladies turned, and turned again, eyes wide, struggling against the chains, stumbling over each other. The old women threw roses at them, still singing warmly. Children pranced to and fro, running around the housewives as though they were piñatas about to spill candy. They would spill.

  I fought to keep from groaning when I felt the doorway open; the portal created had been powerful, from an incredibly deep depth, taking along many of the underlining familiars. I could hear them in my mind, shrieking and wailing in the swamp, up atop the ruins and beyond in the deathly dimension. Black motes rose up, and the singing ended. The housewives screamed behind their gags.

  I moved to Gus and whispered in his ear. "Listen, I'm going to create a diversion. You grab the ladies and head for the truck."

  "Where is my truck?"

  I growled at Self, Where? He wouldn't answer. I said, Do you want the pretty women?

  Yes, but you won't give them to me.

  Where is the truck?

  Exactly where Gus left it, he whimpered.

  Gus stared at me like I was crazy. I said, "Your truck is right where Cross made you pull in, a block from the police station."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Trust me."

  Pidge whispered and squirmed. The door to other hells opened wider, the energy backwash maki
ng my veins stand out in my temples and along my forearms. Self arched and crawled over me. The sweat erupted on my forehead.

  "You look sick," Gus said.

  "Just do what I told you. Get those women and make a bee-line through the field for your truck."

  He stared into the gloom and swamp mist, wondering if he could find his way back again. I hoped so. He scanned the men with rifles. "We ain't goin' nowhere unless these crazy folks decide to let us pass."

  "They won't be any trouble," I assured him.

  "When we making this happen?"

  "Right now."

  You could feel it in the air, the wind rising, clouds dissolving. My breathing grew more ragged. A headache crashed and clawed for purchase in my mind, the mystical rip of force washing me in spells. Self ran up and down my back. The old women snapped to attention, stopped tossing the roses and held on to them as tightly as flags; they were no longer merely nuns of some forbidden order, but mid-wives witnessing a birth. It grew frigid, and then colder, and then much colder still. Gus muttered, "Jesus." His breath was icy.

  Pidge was smiling ear to ear.

  The brush exploded.

  Most of the folk were knocked to the ground, children giggling wildly as if at a playland. Gunshots filled the area. Skinny men helped fat women to their feet, laughing, as if a barn dance had gotten a little out of hand. The housewives were rocked and flipped into the mud at the base of the stake, those heavy chains pulling taught, wrenching them by their arms. Their eyes blazed with hideous fear. They waited.

  And then it strode out of the swamp.

  The townsfolk cried in apprehension, awe, and love. Their collective gasp went up like noise from parents cuddling a newborn. The Jersey Housewives shrieked and tried to drag themselves away. Gus' jaw dropped and spittle dripped on his shirt.

  It wasn't Neverdead.

  The god Jasbath had left a long time ago, at the beginning of our age, but one of the lower demons had taken his mantle. It scuttled from the ruins, spine twisted and ridged to its short blade-like, jutting tailbone. It moved like a four-legged spider, legs rising and falling just out of sync with each other. The face was bony and scaled but pink, without ears or nose, just a set of vertical slashed unblinking eyes and a gaping maw stuffed with incisors. I didn't recognize it, but my hair stood on end and my skin crawled as its power emanated. I asked Self, Who is it? but my familiar was too afraid of what I'd learn. Tell me, you cowardly little. . . .

  It's Bevitoth, Self said.

  That was worse than I'd been hoping for. Bevitoth was a mid-tier tormentor, much higher on the scale than Self. I'd read iron-bound books describing his atrocities in intimate detail, the damned souls of the tortured continuing to write chapters even as I turned the pages.

  Gus leaned over and said, "Tell me I ain't gonna have to deal with this one in the morning, kid."

  "You won't have to deal with it."

  Pidge giggled insanely, hands clasped to his mouth. I flung a hex and missed the chains holding the housewives to the stake. The spell caught Bevitoth's attention, though. It turned in our direction, rising on its haunches and peering into the woods. I aimed another spell and it caught the stake dead center, cracking the solid wood in half with a burst of blue flame. The ladies flopped backwards to the ground. Bevitoth stalked closer to them.

  "Come on, Gus," I told him, running forward.

  Gus came along. We sprinted past the folk. I made a path for Gus' bulk, kicking out and clubbing the men with rifles nearest us. I fired more hexes haphazardly into the crowd and watched the people scatter as sparks blasted like fireworks. I made it to the housewives before Bevitoth, who was working itself over the rocks. Gus could barely breathe behind me.

  No time to unbind the ladies. They pleaded with their eyes, begging us not to kill them, desperately trying to escape us. We got them to their feet and I shoved the women off with Gus and screamed, "Go!"

  He took a few steps with the wives in tow. "What about you?"

  "Go!"

  He wheeled and the three of them ran back into the field, chains dragging.

  Oh, Self moaned, cowering under my arm, wanting the women.

  Bevitoth took its time with me; the demon was in no hurry for blood, flesh, and the carnage of raping virgins to spread its darkling half-breed children. Mid-tier had their own agendas. It rose on its hind legs and gazed down at me with its red eyes, maw working silently; I could imagine it felt as if it knew me. Vaguely, I felt the same.

  "What are you?" Bevitoth asked.

  "A student," I said.

  It sank back, spine rising and creaking on its own volition, bones beneath the skin crackling together. "Necromancer, I have had my fill of your kind since the Gallic Wars. The walls of Gallea fell regardless, but I've kept a close watch. Who is your familiar?"

  Names held too much power to give up freely. Self gulped and so did I, as we watched Bevitoth sniff and lick its lips as the fire of recognition blazed. It managed to smirk with its twisted mouth and said, "I've a debt to settle with that one."

  Of course it did. Seemed everyone and everything did, including me. I said to Self, You didn't tell me you'd had troubles with this tormentor.

  Just a small one, Self admitted. I thought he'd have forgotten by now.

  Demons, like men, never forget.

  "Why are you posing as Jasbath Neverdead?" I asked.

  "These foolish folk continued to worship. Why let all that prayer, ritual and sacrificial slaughter go to waste?"

  When you're in a losing fight, always make sure you get the first strike in, Self advised.

  Thanks.

  I called up several Tetragrammaton incantation words of power and foisted them into Bevitoth's face. The demon lurched backward, more stunned than hurt, and roared an oath in a language a thousand years dead. Bevitoth rushed forward and tried to disembowel me with one killing stroke; dual clawed appendages coming down to rip me open from the middle outwards; it nearly did so. I barely managed to dodge, and then ran into the ruins.

  Get the door open, I told Self.

  It hasn't closed yet.

  The hexes I slung back at Bevitoth bounced off his shell like pebbles. I tried to lock into the power of the ruins, drain and filter the ancient energy through Self into me, but my incantations were all wrong; maybe if I had time to experiment I could pull it off, but the demon was drawing too close. It climbed over the broken stones, arachnid-like body moving fluidly. The air chilled another twenty degrees. Cold sweat froze on my back.

  "You should not have gotten involved, Necromancer."

  "I know."

  Self squealed and Bevitoth lunged. Its claws sliced at my legs and knocked me off my feet. I rolled until I saw the portal yawning in the darkness, fiery and burning, twisting with hideous activity. I crawled frantically for it, but Bevitoth scuttled to block me, its tail ready to gut me.

  I lifted my arms to protect myself, throwing vain spells, when Pidge tackled me, shrieking, "Coccyx!" I went face-down into the mud and Pidge lifted a rock and set himself to bring a hammering blow down on the base of my skull. Bevitoth was already jabbing and stabbed Pidge through the chest. His blood spumed over me. Self frolicked and danced on my shoulder, showering in it.

  I concentrated and formed a new incantation and let loose with everything I had; Self screamed. So did I. So did Pidge, whose soul hadn't lit out though he lay lifeless on the end of Bevitoth's tail. Black flame flashed from my hands and eyes as I shoved Pidge's soul as hard as I could through the doorway. Bevitoth roared so loudly the ground split beneath him as he was dragged by Pidge's soul back through the burning portal. It flared and shifted and quivered, then folded in on itself with a rumble of thunder.

  I lay in the dirt for almost an hour, recuperating. Self force-fed me strength but it wasn't enough. It had been power from the wrong kind of place, full of blood. I gagged and vomited, and turned over to hide while he chittered. Finally, when the numbness came, I stood and walked back into the field; I wasn't
sure what I'd accomplished, if anything. I didn't understand who Pidge had been, or why he'd desired his beloved Coccyx so much. What would the folk have done with him? Scarified him along with the housewives, or was it he who was meant to mate with the beast?

  I didn't want to think about it. Self did. He jabbered on ceaselessly until we got back to the jail. No folk were in sight, but I could see Gus' truck was gone. He'd made it.

  Where to now? Self asked.

  I found my satchel in the sheriff's office and hoisted it over my shoulder. He was still out cold on the floor. Self repeated his question, Where to?

  "Let's just get the hell away from here," I said, and we drifted back onto the spectral highway.

  BURY ST. EDMONDS

  Hell sought payment.

  Hitching on the blue highways of Oregon, I'd gone five days without seeing another person. Owls cried each morning, and muttering wild dogs ran in couples at night. To believe in local legend was to assume bitter ghosts lay in wait for strangers. Last week, two guffawing gas station attendants told me the story of Mary Macguire, who disappeared into the heart of the forest after her husband left her for "puddin'," and now who haunted for "pretty boys from the east, 'specially New York."

  Storms in the Northwoods rage down, strike hard, and blow away clean, occasionally leaving dead lumbermen scattered against smashed timber. Fifteen minutes ago the skies had been clear, the air crisp in the cathedral hush of midsummer. Then that fried ozone reek came burning in off the spongy forest floor, and a family of gray foxes fled across the asphalt.

  Before I could get to cover sheet lightning shredded the sky, thunder rumbling out of the east, then in seconds from directly above. Wind tore harshly at my face, the suddenly thrashing rain finding me as I stumbled over an embankment, trying to move off the highway.

  The incline dropped a virtual ninety degrees, too steep to climb down across the mud, twisted knot of roots and rock. Torrential rain tasted foul, and I picked up my step, reslinging my satchel over my shoulder. Ankle-deep water had already pooled across the road as I ran to the top of the hill, where the cliffs dove over the next town. The wide curve of the highway grade sloped a wave of flash flood towards me.