by J. P. Sloan
I slid the light to Julian to find him on his knees, frozen halfway through pushing himself up from the floor.
A wide swath of disturbed chalk traced a path from his legs to the doorway.
My stomach lurched, and I took a quick stock of the room.
“Stay put,” I said, forcing the tremble from my voice. “Don’t break any more of the circle.”
“What do I do?”
“I said stay put.”
“But what do I do?”
I searched the room. Useless. Completely empty.
The energy in the room stopped circulating, and for a fleeting moment, I considered whether the circle was, in fact, a bust.
An enormous thump of basal energy pounded my midsection, and I nearly gagged. I caught myself from falling into the circle, myself. The energy in the room began to rise. It geysered up from the circle. The air moved, I could tell by the smoke washing up to the ceiling.
“Ease out of the circle, exactly the way you came,” I shouted as the wind began to pick up volume.
Turner shouted, “What’s happening?”
“Something horrible,” I answered.
Julian fought his way to his feet, wobbled a bit, then took a step backward.
The flame of the candle at my feet flickered out. The smoke circled me before tracing a line to the ceiling.
The penlight blinked a few times, then went dead.
As did the movement of the air.
The entire room fell into utter silence and complete darkness.
I could hear Julian’s breathing. Or was it my own?
“Dorian?” he whispered.
“Are you at the door?” I asked.
Before he could answer, another sound filled the room. Low. Deep.
Predatory.
It was like a panther growl, calling from the depths of a vicious chasm.
Julian’s breathing increased, and I heard Turner’s feet scuffling backward.
I reached underneath my jacket and unsnapped the sheath of my darquelle. As I slid it out, something brushed against my leg.
“Dorian?” Julian wheezed in a panicked pitch. “Something’s in here!”
“Try to stay calm.”
“I… I just felt it!”
I clapped the penlight against my leg, trying to coax its light back. Whatever was choking the battery relented for a split-second.
In the miniscule beam of light, I spotted something long, massively thick, and covered in scales.
The growl rumbled the room again, and as the penlight died once more, the sight of two slitted red eyes blinked at me from the center of the room seared itself into my brain.
I shouted and swung wildly at the air, but my darquelle found no purchase.
A second later, I heard a gasping. Then a gurgling.
Followed by several loud thumps.
I reached with my hand, swatting for something to stab. I found nothing but floor.
Circle be damned.
I crouched to my feet and leapt into the center of the room. My knees landed into something soft, and clothed.
A hand gripped my arm.
The gasping reached a feverish timbre, and the hand dug hard into my arm.
Another loud thump, and light spilled into the room as Turner jerked the door open. I blinked at the intensity of light, and a horrific sight met my gaze below me.
Julian lay on his back, his eyes wide, mouth gaping open. His throat seized, throbbing to catch some air.
“Julian!” I shouted, dropping my darquelle.
Turner swept out of the room, his gun in hand.
“Turner!” I shrieked. “Call an ambulance!”
Julian gripped my hand as his entire frame began to spasm, his chest lurching as he tried to breathe.
I examined his throat. No marks. Nothing. He was simply suffocating.
He released me and clawed at his chest.
My thoughts ran in several directions at once, slamming into one another as panic set in. I had to do something. But what? Julian was dying!
Lesser banishing cross? It was worth a shot, but did I have time to ground and center? No way in hell I was going to meditate now.
Warding? I focused my hands over his heart chakra, trying to envelop it with a protective shell of my own energy. However, the searing absence of life energy at his mainline sent waves of panic up my arms and into my chest.
I was running out of time. I had to solve this mechanically.
I fished on the ground for the darquelle, and knelt over him, pinning his arms to the floor.
“No, no… you just hang on.” I felt his throat for the soft spot beneath his voice box. “I’m going to open your airway.”
I ran the tip of the darquelle onto his throat, and steadied it, placing the palm of my free hand over the hilt. I’d never done this before. Shit, I could kill him myself! But his lips were turning blue. I couldn’t wait any longer. Had to act.
Before I could push the tip of my darquelle into his trachea, Julian’s eyes rolled back and he sucked in a tremendous, violent breath.
His eyes opened slowly, focused on something impossibly distant.
Then his eyes found me.
Julian’s mouth lifted into a peaceful grin. He reached up for me as a tear slid down the side of his face.
His lips moved. I crouched down to hear him.
“Don’t… trust…”
I straightened back up. “Don’t trust who?”
His eyes lifted, staring up to the ceiling.
And he released a long, slow breath.
I watched and waited, but he did not take another.
“No,” I moaned.
I checked his neck for a pulse. Nothing.
I checked his mainline.
Cold.
Vacant.
With a desperate tingle shooting through my chest, I tossed aside my darquelle and knelt by his side. I laced my fingers and pumped at his chest.
One.
Two.
Three.
I reached down to pinch his nose, covering his mouth with mine to blow into his lungs.
His chest rose.
I returned compressions, and shouted, “Turner, goddamnit!”
Turner rushed back into the room, and paused as I continued CPR.
“What’s happening?”
“Call a fucking ambulance!”
He stumbled backward until he hit the far wall, then rushed off.
I could hear him speaking from the parking lot, calling something in to someone. It was far away, but my ears had to hear it. I had to know something was being done.
Because even as I continued the CPR, the entire energy of the room dissipated into the stillness of death.
I stopped the compressions at a point, as I found myself weeping uncontrollably. All of the strength had left my arms. I rolled away from Julian, gripping my knees. He just lay there, staring up at some other place.
I sat there, my chest heaving through sobs, even as the paramedics arrived. Someone gripped me under my arms and dragged me backward from Julian’s body as the paramedics picked up where I had left off.
They brought in a spine board, then carried him out into the hallway.
And I was alone.
The chalk art on the floor had been completely wrecked by the comings and goings, but even as I cleared my eyes and the numbness of the moment set in, I recognized a familiar pattern forming in the dust as it settled.
The widdershins spiral.
Turner loomed in the doorway, his face pale.
I looked up to him, and the sight of me must have been more than he could handle. He turned away, and composed himself.
“That,” he wheezed. “That wasn’t real.”
I couldn’t speak. The cranial part of my being wanted to validate this moment for him, to ease him into the one-way door through which all of the people in the Life had passed. That moment when you could no longer disbelieve.
But my cranial self was shut deep below
several oceans of anger and grief. It stained my entire being. A cry of pain echoed through the hollow of my being, where my soul had once resided. It cried out for retribution. Vengeance.
It cried out for blood.
It was all I could feel.
Turner added, “You people are real. Aren’t you?”
I managed a nod, which brought forth a new stream of tears. I scowled as they flowed. Nothing would stop these tears.
I grabbed my darquelle and sheathed it behind the small of my back. Nothing would stop me.
Ever again.
crime scene investigation unit arrived, and Turner deflected them as much as he could, allowing me a moment to collect myself. I pushed off the floor to stand, and my fingers brushed against the envelope. I peered over to the doorway, and as one of the investigators turned her back, I curled the envelope and card into my hand, slipping it into my pocket.
I stepped directly across the ruined chalk circle, and as the investigators noticed my approach, made a path for me to take my exit.
Turner had one of his colleagues cornered, shouting at him to the point of spraying spittle. His posture was intense and aggressive. This must have been Turner’s fear response… rage.
I understood that.
He spotted me as I moved for the front door.
“Whoa,” he called out, rushing to bar the door.
I glared at him.
He muttered, “Give me a minute, and I’ll drive you to Shock Trauma.”
I simply nodded, then stepped outside into the fresh air. There was little comfort in the warming spring afternoon. The sunlight was pale. The air filled with ozone and the smell of tar from a roof nearby. The jagged parking lot, scattered with weeds at the cracks, had filled with official vehicles. It was like navigating a labyrinth, weaving my way back around until I reached the front street and Turner’s car.
I sat on the trunk, staring down the street.
Julian deserved much better than this.
But he was just another casualty of having known me. He should have been a rising star in politics. Deputy Mayor. Congressional aide. Perhaps more.
But he had a taste for the Life. It was how we met. He hired people like me to gain his edge. Perhaps in a karmic sense, that was his undoing? He used the secret knowledge without having studied it. He had, to a degree, cheated the system.
Who was I kidding? Everyone cheated the system. The fact was there were no rules to cheat. Money, connections, magic… they were all shortcuts. And we were all stupid not to use them.
Julian’s dark interest in the hermetic arts wasn’t his undoing.
Brandon Carruthers had been his undoing.
At length, Turner arrived and gestured for me to get into the car. The drive to Baltimore Shock Trauma was short and silent. Nothing needed to be said, and Turner had a lot to sort out inside his head, I was sure.
As did I.
When we arrived, Turner waved us through a pair of uniformed police and on through a pair of double doors off the side of the emergency room. A doctor stepped in front of us, her face tight with the portent of bad news.
Turner asked, “Bright?”
She shook her head. “He was unresponsive. We called him shortly upon arrival.”
“What was it?” he prodded. “What happened?”
“Sudden cardiac arrest,” she explained. “Could be several causes. Embolism, infarction. We’re gathering Mister Bright’s medical history now, and locating his family.”
Family. I had no idea if he even had family. He’d never mentioned them, if he did.
The doctor added, “I’ll want to speak with you both, regarding the incident. Any details will help.”
Details? The details we’d provide would only get us admitted for psychological evaluation. I had no intention of cooperating with anyone, and Turner’s blubbering for the doctor indicated that he was fully aware of the threat the truth posed to his career.
And so, after an hour’s delay, we were released from the interrogations of doctors and police, and I shuffled my way toward the exit.
Turner caught up with me, gripping my arm.
“Hey,” he whispered. “We need to talk about what happened, you and me.”
I looked down at his hand on my arm, then up into his face.
“You’ll want to let go of me,” I said.
He let go.
“So, yeah?” he urged. “I need to know what I saw.”
“You saw what you saw.” I turned back toward the exit, adding, “Don’t let anyone, not even yourself, try to rationalize it away.”
“But this changes everything.”
I kept walking.
Before I reached the door, I paused. A wave of sobs threatened to quake through my ribcage. This wasn’t the place to melt down. I held myself up at a nearby column to fight against the spasms in my throat. Fight the tears. Fight the dawning realization that I had so utterly, completely failed Julian Bright.
As the wave subsided, I felt a tug. Not physical. Energetic.
I swiveled on my heel, following the pull, until I spotted Wexler standing near a vending machine, tapping away at a phone. She looked up to me, her face drawn and pale. She gestured with her head for me to follow, then stepped around the machine and into a side room.
I checked on Turner, who had given up on me and had retired back behind the double-doors to join his co-workers. Free at last, I followed Wexler.
She stood alone in an examination room, lingering by a drawn curtain, still typing on her phone.
I cleared my throat, and she turned to face me.
“I’m sorry about Bright,” she said. “Truly.”
“So am I.”
She slipped her phone into her purse, which she hoisted onto her shoulder. “Bright was on our watch list. When the ambulance logged his name, we were notified.”
I snarled. “A watch list?”
“We find it useful.” She shook her head. “Again, you have my condolences.”
I took a step forward, my shoulders braced, hands clutching in and out of fists. “Your little spy talisman wasn’t enough?”
She held her ground, eyes narrowed. “I understand you’re upset. You have every reason to be.”
“Tell me something, Wexler.”
She blinked at my use of her name. If it was, in fact, her name.
I continued, “When you people threatened his career, and the livelihood of everyone he knew, was that before or after you put him on your watch list?”
Wexler’s brow curled into a scowl. She said nothing, instead turning toward the curtain, eyes moving rapidly. “Do you have any information?”
I took a breath, checking my anger. “I do. But I’ll only give it to the Ipsissimus.”
She checked the curtain, and a voice called from behind it.
“It’s all right, Deborah.”
The curtain pulled back to reveal Adrastos leaning against a bed, drawing the curtain with the end of one of his braces. His eyes blinked at me through his wire frames, his face stony.
I crossed my arms. “I’m stunned the Ipsissimus, himself, deigns to visit Baltimore on account of Julian Bright.”
His blinking paused, and he sniffled.
“Not that it is any of your concern, but understanding your love of full disclosure it bears commenting… we were here on other business.” He nodded to Wexler. “One of our own has fallen, as well.”
Wexler took a deep breath. She seemed rattled. And as I noted that she had summoned me herself to this otherwise unguarded meeting, I realized who had fallen.
“Reginald?” I asked.
She nodded once.
I snarled at Adrastos. “Feel good about yourself? Completely ruining a man’s life so you could spy on a renegade hex-maker?”
Wexler held out a hand, but Adrastos shook his head at her.
I added, leaning into him, “You are a genuine piece of shit, Joe. How’s that for full disclosure?”
He grinned.
&nbs
p; “Mister Lake, I recognize the emotion of the moment, and your justifiable sense of outrage. And with as much aplomb as I can muster at the moment, allow me to convey to you how very little I care about Mister Bright’s demise.”
“Excuse me?” I hissed.
He cocked his head. “His life is one of several dozen lost this week, all at the hands of these opponents. I tend not to make friends, a policy you should consider in your future dealings. Thus, I’m left unmoved by emotion, governed instead by reason. Circumspection. I fail to rush in against my better judgment, as you were likely to do if I hadn’t sent Deborah to gather you.”
I waved the back of my hand at the two of them.
“Fuck you all. Best of luck.”
“You won’t leave,” Adrastos stated.
I countered, “You think?”
I moved for the door.
Adrastos added, “Because it was academic, until now. The danger.”
I paused with my hand on the door latch.
He continued, “But now you understand these people. You know they’ve been watching you, too. And if I’m right, and if you’ve shed some light on their identity, then you know you don’t stand a chance against them alone.”
I released the latch.
Adrastos clinked forward a couple steps, clearing the curtain. “You need us, Mister Lake. Hate us, despise us, plan your ultimate revenge. That’s all fine and well. But for the moment, you are one of us, at least in the eyes of the enemy. So why not allow reason to prevail? Share with us what you’ve learned. Then perhaps we can settle accounts on behalf of Mister Bright?”
I dropped my chin. Nothing he said was wrong.
I muttered, “It’s not chaos magic.”
Wexler stepped to my side and whispered, “Nonsense.”
“No, I’ve seen it now.” I turned to face them both. “I was wondering how these people managed to control their jinxes. Keep them contained, focused, without accidentally giving you more power by some random turn of fate. It’s because it’s not a jinx at all. It’s Goetia.”
Adrastos looked up to the ceiling, then nodded briefly.
Wexler nudged, “How could it be simple Goetia?”
“Not so simple. I mean, it’s a completely different arena of magic, but the end result is the same. A jinx punches a hole in the fabric of Nature to create a nihil. A Goetic circle, if poorly executed, punches a hole through the Veil, allowing denizens of the Dark Choir to interact with our plane of existence. I’ll bet it’s why they took out Frater Zeno’s lodge. Zeno was uniquely qualified to stop them. He would have known that if a circle is intentionally miscast, the result is a permanent scar on this plane. And that’s what’s been torpedoing your geomantic Tree of Life.”