by E. Van Lowe
“Okay.” I yawned, stretching my arms above my head, and sat up.
“While I’m gone, you can start on that list.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, and I could tell she was bracing herself, waiting for me to launch into protest.
“Yup,” is all I said. No sense getting either of us worked up with an argument this early in the day. Besides, I already told her I wasn’t going to write the list betraying my fellow classmates.
“You plan on doing some school work today?”
I allowed myself a small smile. “I’m an AP student, Mom. You know how driven we are. No way I’m going to let myself fall behind.”
She nodded, shooting me a tiny smile. She crossed the room and planted an antiseptic kiss on my cheek. “Call me if you need anything.”
I opened my mouth to say ‘with what phone?’ But that would have been a knee-jerk reaction. We had a land line. Instead I said: “Yup.”
As soon as she was gone, I slipped into some sweats and went downstairs. I stood before the old grandfather clock in the entryway. It was a regal clock, with a cherry wood finish and a swan neck head piece at the top. I pulled open the glass door and pressed the button in the roof of the clock, releasing the secret drawer above the clock face. The drawer slid out with a soft whoosh. The Book of Calls was still in the drawer where I’d hidden it.
Breathing a soft sigh, I removed the book, turning it over in my hands. I felt a charge of energy coursing through my body as I recalled discovering the book in Armando’s library, and my life and death battle with Robin, who was guarding it.
Hard to believe this tiny leather bound book had caused so much pain in the world. But it had also ended my ordeal with the devil. This little book was the reason my mother was still alive. It is the reason I hadn’t been carted off to hell as Satan’s bride. It had saved us both from unimaginable horrors. But it had served its purpose. It was time for The Book of Calls to go bye-bye.
Chapter Sixteen
The pages of the book were crafted of dried parchment. The ancient paper was so old it felt as though it would crumble in my hands… which is exactly what I wanted to happen.
I grabbed a handful of the wafer thin pages and yanked, attempting to rip them from the spine. The pages didn’t budge, anchored as if by some form of super glue. I grasped one of the flimsy pages, and lifted the book by the page, allowing the weight of the book to weaken the page. Then I ripped the page in half—at least I tried to. But the page resisted.
That’s when I felt an energy emanating from the book, like a soft humming against the palm of my hand, my fingers vibrating ever so slightly. A harmonic, I thought. That’s what they call it in Physics when two things vibrate together, like wine glasses. I know, another piece of useless trivia. But one thing was clear, the book had a will of its own, and the harmonic was the book trying to exercise that will. It had survived for centuries. It was not going to go down so easily. Not without a fight.
So, it’s a fight you’re looking for.
I dashed into the kitchen, threw the book on the counter and began rummaging around under the sink. I found the can of charcoal lighter fuel way in the back of the cabinet. We hadn’t used our grill in two years, ever since Suze realized grilling was bad for the environment, not to mention charcoal grilled meat was loaded with carcinogens.
I snatched up the book, grabbed a box of matches and headed out the back door. Our kettle grill stood on the side of the house next to a curl of garden hose, and a pile of dusty flower pots.
I pulled the lid off the grill, and threw the book onto the grate. A spray of dust splashed into the air. I doused the book with lighter fuel. Nothing like a good fire to destroy a book from hell, I thought.
I went back into the house and grabbed some old newspaper. Back outside I pulled pages from the paper, crumpling each before tossing it on top of the grill. I only stopped when I ran out of lighter fuel, but by then there was a mountain of smelly, drenched pages on top of the book.
I moved the grill away from the house. I had a hunch this fire was going to be a big one. Don’t want to destroy my home along with The Book of Calls.
I stepped back, admiring my highly flammable handiwork and allowed myself a smile. “Bye bye,” I whispered. Then I struck a match and threw it on top of the mountain of newspaper pages.
The paper on top caught instantly. Whoosh! The flames danced across the crumpled pages, and began rising as the entire paper mountain burst into flame. Black smoke began billowing up from the grill.
WHOOSH! The flames suddenly shot up higher, rising ten feet into the air.
“Oh, my!” I cried, certain one of my neighbors would see the fire and call the fire department. It dawned on me that this was what The Book of Calls wanted. It wanted someone to come and rescue it by putting out the fire. “It’s not gonna happen! At least not before you’re gone!” I hollered at the grill.
At that moment, as if in response to my threat, the grill began to vibrate. At first it was just a tremor, something that might happen when a large truck rolled down our street, but in seconds the grill was shaking like a jack hammer, hopping across the cement floor.
It’s trying to jump off the grill, I thought.
Thinking quickly, I grabbed the domed cover and approached the grill. Flames were dancing wildly, as the grill hopped around, threatening to tumble over. I needed to get the cover on the grill to keep the book from jumping out of the fire. As I neared, the heat grew intense. The thought do not try this at home, children. I am a professional, popped into my head. Yeah, right.
Each time I got close, the flames snatched at my hands and the sleeves of my sweats. Yet after a few tries, I somehow managed to get the lid into place without setting myself on fire. Call it a miracle.
The vibrating slowed, and then stopped. The grill sat silent yet ominous. I wondered if it was over, if I had indeed destroyed The Book of Calls. I took a curious step toward the grill.
Just then the grill again began to vibrate. But this vibrating was different than before. It was accompanied by a sound that reminded me of a jet engine firing up. The sound was soft at first, but continued to grow in pitch and intensity until it saturated the air, blotting out the songs of the birds, and the rustling of the trees, filling the neighborhood with a rambunctious rumble.
“Oh, my!” It was as if our little Glendale street had become runway one at Sky Harbor International. And then, BOOM! The lid launched off the grill like a rocket, climbing higher and higher into the air trailing smoke as it rose. In seconds it was out of sight. All that remained was a spiraling cloud of evaporating smoke.
I looked at the now smoldering grill sitting at an odd angle between the edge of the cement walkway and the sand of our garden. As I approached, I eyed the grill’s grate covered in charred remains.
I changed course, moving to the side of the house where I picked up a pair of barbecue tongs. I again approached. I pushed the tongs into the char on the grill and felt for the book beneath the dying embers. Thunk! The book was still there, seemingly intact.
A sickening feeling erupted in my stomach as I retrieved the book and blew off some ash. Beneath the soot, the cover was unharmed. I opened the book only to discover the flimsy pages hadn’t been burned or scorched in any way. The book was a good as new.
“No!” An anguished cry rumbled up my throat. I collapsed onto the ground, a ball of pent-up emotion. I had allowed myself to think that my ordeal just might be over, but it wasn’t. Not even close.
I could hear fire engines in the distance. I had a lot of explaining to do. But I couldn’t think about what I would tell them when they arrived. All I could think in that moment was what do I do now?
#
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Megan. Megan Barnett.”
Aunt Jaz opened the door of her apartment and greeted me with a warm smile. I knew she was surprised to see me since I’d come without Maudrina, and I hadn’t called.
“Umm, I was in the neighborhoo
d and—”
Before I could finish the sentence she pulled the door open wide and embraced me in one of her famous hugs.
“It’s good to see you, Deary, although if I knew you were coming I would have baked a cake or some other treat.”
“It’s okay,” I said, relieved that she didn’t send me away.
“It most certainly is not okay. You cannot have guests without feeding them. That would be simply barbaric. Come,” she said ushering me into the apartment. “I have some leftover split pea soup from yesterday. It will just have to make do.”
Her home was usually filled with good smells from her cooking or baking, but not today. She led me into her retro kitchen with its kelly green Formica counter tops. I sat at the green dinette as she moved to the green fridge.
“A lot of people use ham to season their split pea, but not me. I like smoked turkey. Don’t get me wrong, I love ham. But turkey adds a smoky flavor you just don’t get with ham.” Aunt Jaz prattled on as she removed a large container from the fridge. The container was filled with thick green soup. Aunt Jaz loved green, and she loved talking about food. She began ladling soup into a pot.
“I didn’t know that,” I said. While I wanted to keep the small talk going, it was time to bring up the reason I was there. I removed the package I’d kept concealed beneath my jacket and placed it on the table.
“I know you’re wondering why don’t I just pop this into the microwave? Don’t have one. Those things rob food of its flavor,” Aunt Jaz said as she placed the pot of soup on the stove.
“Uh-huh,” I replied absently as I began unwrapping the package.
Aunt Jaz looked up. “Another gift, Deary? I haven’t used the first one you got me.”
“It’s not a gift,” I said solemnly. At home I had wrapped the book heavily in thick brown paper that changed its size and shape. I now removed the wrappings, revealing the leather bound book.
What is it, Deary? A book?” She looked over at the book lying on her dinette table. Slowly the curiosity drained from her face replaced by caution.
“Why did you bring that thing here?” Her voice turned hard. Her eyes flashed anger. This was a side of Aunt Jaz I hadn’t seen before.
“I didn’t know where else to go with it,” I squealed. In that moment the emotion I’d been clinging to deserted me. I began crying like a baby, fat tears streaming from my eyes.
So much had happened in such a short time. The assault on my emotions these last few days left me feeling like a medieval prisoner on the rack. I was being pulled in too many directions all at once.
First off, I had taken a timeout from Guy—a timeout he seemed perfectly happy with since he hadn’t called or texted. Then, there was the reason for my timeout—Guy not being honest about his relationship with a beautiful angel.
If breaking up with the boy I loved wasn’t enough, I’d been threatened with expulsion from school if I didn’t rat out my classmates. I’d been warned by those very classmates that if I ratted them out, they’d never speak to me again. Demons were after me, Satanists were after me,my mother no longer trusted me.
My tears fell freely, dripping onto The Book of Calls. All my troubles could be traced to the tiny book lying on the table before me. I hated the book.
“There, there,” said Aunt Jaz, her voice once again sweet and melodious. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just surprised is all.”
“I have to destroy it.” My voice was raspy, and grave, and lost.
“Oh?”
She came over and sat across from me. She reached out and squeezed my hand. “The soup’ll be ready in five minutes,” she said softly. Aunt Jaz believed food to be the remedy for all the world’s ills. If only that were true.
Okay,” I replied breathing deeply, straining to get my emotions under control.
“The last time you were here, you didn’t know what you wanted to do with the book. What brought about this change of attitude?” she asked.
I told her about the Ibwa showing up in my bedroom, about him trying to steal the book. I told her about Harrison being Nephilim, and how he wanted the book for his kind.
“Everybody wants the book,” I said, “everybody but me.”
“The Book of Calls was compiled over many centuries, by powerful priests and those gifted in the dark arts. I’m sorry to tell you this, but I don’t believe The Book of Calls can be destroyed by a mortal. Only a very powerful angel or demon can destroy it.”
My spirits were sinking like a rock in the ocean. “Then, you take it.” I pushed the book across the table, gazing at her with hopeful eyes.
“Me?”
“Yes! You’re wise, and strong. And they would never suspect that you had it. You keep it until we can get an angel to take it away or destroy it.”
She shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Deary. But I have to say no.” She pushed the book back in front of me. “Let’s have a piping hot bowl of soup and figure this thing out. Okay?”
“No! It’s not okay,” I said sounding like a pouty child. “Why can’t you take it?” I asked, my voice rising.
She reached across the table, again giving my hand a consoling squeeze. “Because it would be wrong. No one should push their problems off on others. It’s cowardly. You’re not a coward, are you?”
I wanted to say yes, I am! “No,” I replied softly.
“Of course you’re not. If more people shouldered their own problems instead of trying to pass the buck and push them off on others, the world would be a much better place. Do you really want me to take on your responsibility?”
I was starting to feel ashamed. “No, ma’am.”
“I didn’t think so. You’re just scared is all. It’s all right to be scared. But it’s not all right to let our fears govern us.” She stood and smiled at me, as if she was pleased I was going to do the right thing. “Ready for that bowl of soup?”
She dished out two big bowls of the soup and joined me at the table.
“Smells good,” I said as the steamy fragrance of the soup hit me in the face. Despite how on edge I was, the smell of the soup began to relax me.
“I think this is my best batch ever.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “You always say that.”
“That’s because it’s true.” The kitchen was suddenly filled with her infectious laughter.
I picked up my spoon, about to scoop up some of the soup. I stopped as a chill danced up my spine. “Look,” I said, pointing into my bowl.
“A fly?”
“Uh-uh.”
Letters were beginning to appear on the surface of my soup. It was as if someone was writing in my soup with their finger. Aunt Jaz came around the table and joined me, peering into the bowl. I sat dumbfounded as a sentence slowly materialized:
I have the angel. Surrender The Book of Calls
or he will be terminated
“How’s that happening?” I said in a horrified whisper. “Who’s doing it?”
Slowly, more letters appeared:
I am known to mankind as Beelzebub
Chapter Seventeen
Now I knew why I hadn’t heard from Guy since Friday. A powerful demon was holding him hostage.
“You don’t know that, Deary. It could be a trick,” said Aunt Jaz, attempting to put my mind at ease.
After the writing appeared in my soup, we both lost our appetites. We sat at the table in troubled silence for several minutes trying to figure out my next move.
“It could be a trick, but I don’t think so,” I finally replied. “I know Guy. I had convinced myself that he’d moved on, that he had chosen Rocky over me. But even if he had, he still wouldn’t have allowed a demon to show up in my bedroom. He would have sensed the demon’s presence and come to make sure I was okay. That’s the kind of guy Guy is—considerate.” I looked into her eyes and offered a weak smile.
Several more minutes passed before Aunt Jaz spoke again. “You know you can’t turn the book over to a demon, don’t you?” sh
e said. There was a dark caution in her tone. “Can you imagine the misery he would cause?”
I nodded. “But you saw what he said he’d do if I didn’t.”
“Guy would be so disappointed in you if you turned the book over to the demon.”
I nodded again. “I know he would. But he’d also still be alive.” My voice cracked when I said the last part.
Without another word, Aunt Jaz got up and began clearing the table.
“Let me help with that,” I said, rising. I reached to pick up my bowl and she put a hand on mine.
“So far we’ve been looking at The Book of Calls like it’s something bad. Suppose we started looking at it as if it was a good thing.”
“Okay.” I had no idea what she was getting at.
“You used The Book of Calls to defeat mighty Satan himself. I’m sure if there’s a call in that book to defeat Satan, there’s got to be one to defeat a lesser demon.”
And there it was, the thing I needed to get through the rest of the day—a ray of hope.
“I suppose. I’ve never looked.” Hope rose in my voice. Maybe all wasn’t lost. Maybe there was a chance I could save Guy and defeat Beelzebub. Excitement washed over me.
“Let’s have a look see.”
I picked up the book and began thumbing through it. Even though the book was small and the pages tissue-paper thin, there were literally thousands of spells in it.
Some of the calls were written in ancient Sanskrit and others in hieroglyphics, making them impossible to decipher. Over the centuries the book had travelled across the globe.
“There are so many.” As quickly as my hope rose, it began to sink.
Aunt Jaz heard the shift in my tone. She grasped me by the shoulders and looked deeply into my eyes. “No one said defeating a demon was going to be easy. Was it easy defeating Satan?”
“No.”
“And yet you did it. And you will do it again.”
“I will,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I believed it. “Don’t tell Maudrina I was here, okay? All she’ll do is worry.”