I stared at the danged thing until my head hurt. With no other ideas coming to me, I sat down with my computer and started searching.
OLD BOOKS
ANTIQUE BOOKS
RITUAL BOOKS
WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS PAPER SAY????
ANCIENT RITES
TRANSLATIONS OF DIAGRAMS
I racked my brain for better search words then just kept punching in words in random order until I hit on something that made me smack my head. A rare book dealer in the Highlands. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?
The website said they were open Tuesday through Saturday. I planned a visit then went outside and spent the next hour magicking mud off my car and cursing everything I could think of.
Angela Dodson: John, there is no seventeenth act in Corinthians.
John Constantine: Corinthians goes to twenty-one acts in the Bible in Hell.
Angela Dodson: They have Bibles in Hell?
John Constantine: Paints a different view of Revelations. Says the world will not end by God’s hand, but be reborn in the embrace of the damned. Though if you ask me, fire’s fire.
―From Constantine, 2005, directed by Francis Lawrence, starring Keanu Reeves
CHAPTER NINE
omas Antiquis’ books were on Bardstown Road, between a head shop and a coffee place. I stopped by the latter first to get some breakfast, locally roasted Arabica and an everything bagel with cream cheese. Then, I headed next door.
The gold lettering on the glass read:
Rev. Dr. James H. Patterson, VI, Esq.
Rare, Vintage, and Antiquarian Books
Open M-F 10-4 and by Appointment
The place looked a little like an episode of one of those shows about hoarders. I wondered how the guy ever found anything in here.
A bell on the door signaled my arrival.
“Greetings and salutations,” a voice said.
“Hello?”
A tall, stout, balding man in a ratty tweed jacket and jeans. “You’re my ten o’clock?”
“Um… no. I just stopped in. I have some questions.”
“I see.” His tone frosted over. “May I ask you to step outside with your refreshments?” He was staring pointedly at my cup and bagel. “I can’t risk contaminating my investments.”
I stood outside munching and slurping, acutely aware of Dr. Mr. Rev. Patterson glaring at me from behind a stack of books by the window, arms folded tightly.
Finally, I swallowed the last of it and dropped the garbage in a nearby can. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I saw a sign in the window that I hadn’t noticed before:
ABSOLUTELY NO FOOD OR DRINK PERMITTED ON PREMISES. NO EXCEPTIONS.
THANK YOU,
MGMT.
Whoops.
Back inside, I said, “I’m Tessa Reddick. I’m hoping you could help me with this.” I pulled out the sheet I’d found at the conservatory.
He took the paper and looked at me closely. “And you’re… a Witch?”
I nodded, tensing.
He waved a hand. “I’m not prejudiced, mind you. I just like to know. Come. Let’s sit.” He seemed to have forgiven the prior misstep with my morning repast.
We parked ourselves in ancient velveteen chairs in front of a cold fireplace flanked by more shelves of books in what was once a dining room.
Patterson stared at the page for a while then said, “I recognize this. It looks like it came from a book I sold to a local woman just a few weeks ago. An unusual request, but there you have it. Perhaps you’re looking for something similar?” His tone was hopeful.
“Do you remember her name?”
“I don’t. I confess I’m surprised I remember that much. I have a rather poor memory for names. It was probably the surgery.” He said the last part with the nonchalance that begs the listener to ask for more. I did not indulge him. I didn’t have time, and people like that get on my last nerve.
“Would you recognize her face?”
“Perhaps.”
I showed him a photo on my phone, which he mulled over before shrugging. “I think that’s her, but her hair was different.” He looked closer. “Wait, yes. Yes, that’s the woman. That fair porcelain skin and petite appearance. Laura? Cora? Something?”
“Close.” I retracted my phone. “Cara. Cara Courtland.”
“Ah! Yes. Lovely lady. I wish she could have stayed longer to chat. I am not terribly knowledgeable in the realm of the ancient religious mystics and the like.”
“This is an ancient religious text?”
He nodded. “Indeed. A part of a mystical book, either a Gnostic or Kabbalistic text, but likely a copy of a copy of a copy. Such tomes have been something of a holy grail for most literature scholars and book enthusiasts such as myself for centuries. I hadn’t had a good reason to search until now, of course.”
“How did she pay?”
“Cash.”
“How much?” This was getting tedious.
His manner turned haughty. “I’m not at liberty to say, my dear. That’s confidential.”
“I do understand. However, I can have a warrant drawn up to search the place, including your records. Wouldn’t this be simpler?”
“You’re a police officer?”
I got out my FBI credentials, and he blanched.
“Am I in some kind of trouble?” His tune changed completely. The way he pulled at his collar made me wonder what he thought I was here to talk about, but I didn’t have time to play cat and mouse.
“Not yet. I simply need answers. How much?”
His lips thinned. “Eighty.”
“Eighty what? Pesos? Lira? Guineas?”
“Thousand. Dollars. Eighty thousand dollars.”
My mouth dropped open. Literally. I couldn’t help it. That was one huge hunk of cash. As far as I knew, Cara Courtland didn’t have that kind of money just lying around. Where on Earth would it have come from? Unless she had a private donor. Maybe they’d pooled all their mattress change? “Okay, tell me more about the book.”
“Let me retrieve my laptop, and I will be able to offer more information on this particular tome. I will also lock the doors so we are not disturbed.” He swanned out of the room.
I got up and looked at the shelves, stacks, and piles. I was surrounded by what appeared to be biographies of people I’d never heard of. Addams Historie of the Lady Valencia Theodosia Juniper Cornwall, Duchess of Elarnyae. My Life as a Sea Slug: Artimour Hounden, Oceanographic Biologist. And Lesser Japanese Empresses.
Patterson returned, but froze when he saw me standing. “Did you touch anything?”
“Not with my hands. My eyes are a different story.”
He made an irritated noise and sat back down with his Macbook Pro.
“I’d been hunting for that book for more than a year. Traveled fairly widely, actually. The Mistress Courtland emailed me asking for titles on ancient Gnosticism, Kabbalism, or early Jewish mysticism, specifically the ritual of the Sefer Yetzirah or the corresponding Gnostic ritual. Forgive me, my memory is so poor after the surgery.” I didn’t bite, so he went on. “I searched, found a few interesting items, but not what she was looking for. Then I just… came across it.”
“Where?”
“Ukraine. I speak fluent Russian, so it was no struggle to tap my contact there. A bookseller like myself, with a large shop outside of Odessa.”
“Small world. Okay, tell me everything you know about the book itself.”
“The Sefer Yetzirah, as I understand it, was a ritual performed by early Jewish mystics. These ‘books of creation’ would have featured such things as being able to say, leave one’s body for a time. Or how to summon an Angel. A large faction of the rare book community has always considered such editions a myth. A novelty, at best. Something made as entertainment for nobility. I’m of the opposite camp. I’ve always thought such books were at one time available. But not something I might see in my lifetime, mind you. They are sometimes referenced in other texts, but nobod
y has ever been able to find a real one. As I mentioned, the one I sold is likely a very good replica of an older work. Otherwise, I can’t imagine it would be in a private collection.”
“You landed it from a private dealer?”
Patterson shook his head. “The bookshop owner bought it with a large lot from an estate sale perhaps ten years ago. She had just gotten around to going through the stash, which is how I got my hands on it. I was rather lucky in that respect. By rights, I suppose, there are museums that would have liked it, but―” He shrugged. “I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.” He glanced at me then back at the computer screen. “I’m looking at this and seeing many things I recognize, but also much I don’t. These symbols are the Tetragrammatron, there’s a hamsa, and a pentacle. An ourobouros.”
“So you can’t read the books, you just find them?”
His cheeks colored, as he seemed to take umbrage. “I can’t possibly read everything that comes across my desk. After the surgery, I also became a rather slow reader. I simply locate the buyer’s desires, in most cases. I have passable French and Latin and am fluent, of course, in English, Russian, with a smattering of Bulgarian.”
I smiled to put him at ease. “Which absolutely makes sense. Now, Cara Courtland asked you to find her materials on Gnostic and Jewish mysticism. What made you think you hit the bull’s-eye?”
Patterson waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure I don’t know, madam. But when I texted photographs to her, she was pleased. She took it, and she paid. That’s it.”
I was missing something, and I didn’t know what it was. Some question I wasn’t asking.
“Was she acting oddly? Doing anything strange?”
He shook his head. “Not that I recall, no.”
Cara had been there. Bought a book. And somehow, a copy of a page had found its way to the future home of the Louisville Botanical Gardens.
I frowned, working it out in my mind. “This might come out of the left field, but if someone said, ‘The Seal has been broken. The church was broken.’ What would they be talking about?”
Peterson spread his hands. “Eschatology. Revelation. Armageddon. Ragnarok. It is a widespread theory that there are signs of the End of Days.”
“Like the Four Horsemen?”
He smiled. “Yes, exactly. They are one of those signs. The idea behind the particular notion you mention is the Christian Church was a protection against the Antichrist. A seal, if you will. In the last few years, as the Church of the Earth has grown from the ashes of various Judeo-Christian religions, many have theorized this is a sign that the second coming of Jesus is nigh.”
“Uh huh. How nigh?”
“No one knows. There are other Seals, which may or may not have been broken, depending on whom you ask.” He looked as if he was about to launch into a very long monologue on the subject.
At which point, I was saved by a knock on the front door.
“Apparently, my ten o’clock is coming in.” He looked at his watch. “Forty-five minutes late. I’m sorry. I’m happy to answer any additional questions later. Here’s my card.”
I walked as slowly as I could back to the front door, wanting to soak up any little detail I could find. But nothing particularly enlightening came to mind, other than, next time, ask him about the damn surgery, m’kay?
237.110 License to carry
concealed deadly weapon
The Department of Kentucky State Police is authorized to issue and renew licenses to carry concealed firearms or other deadly weapons including magic, spellspeaking, talismans, totems, potions, enchantments, familiars, or a combination thereof, to persons qualified as provided in this section.
CHAPTER TEN
got a Diet Coke and some cold pizza from the fridge and took them to my library. After setting the radio to an old-school jazz station, I pulled out some really ancient books I hadn’t looked at in ages. My conversation with Patterson had gotten me thinking. I confess I hadn’t read every single title I owned, and there had to be a wealth of information I was missing out on for no good reason.
For the millionth time, I wished for my mother’s grimoire. Or any of the grimoires lost to the damn flames. Hestia’s or Millibeth’s would have been good, or any of the older cousins’.
I located the grimoire of a cousin four times removed. Her name was Darah, and she’d lived in various parts of Eastern Europe for decades. Considering Petersen’s Odessa haul, this was as good a starting place as any.
Darah’s spirit was faint. She hadn’t spent as much time as Auntie Sheridan working on the book. She also spoke English with such a thick accent that it was hard to understand her. But she did understand me if I used small, simple words.
“Sefer Yetzirah. Tell me.”
Darah looked surprised. She jabbered on for a moment, before I held up my hand. I pointed to my eyes, then to the book. “Show me?”
The pages whirred as she flipped through them at lightning speed. They came to rest on an elaborate drawing on two pages. It was like a crude comic-book-version of the fragment I had, but there were little annotations all over. Darah pointed at a tiny drawing of a person. I put my copied page down on the right, while Darah stood on the left near a heading that read גולם.. In fact, the closer I looked, the more words I could see in the same script.
“It’s a spell?” I asked. She nodded vigorously. Then, she walked a few steps and pointed again, this time to a little figure with long side locks and a long tunic, standing outside (you could tell by the trees and a poorly drawn cow). Squiggles were coming out of its hands in a universal sign. Ah.
“So, magic happens?” I consulted my page. Indeed, similar pictograms were there. “Go on.”
In the next part, the tiny figure was zapping a blob of what I thought might be a mound with lightning. The cow looked alarmed.
From there, the page diverged into two halves. There was a circle with two arrows―one white, one black―pointing into it. On the white side of the circle, it looked like an angel (wings, halo, sword) fighting an angry horde (Prussian hats, one with a Pope’s mitre). The other side clearly depicted a demon (horns, tail) slaughtering innocents (babies, women).
Darah looked at me, worried. She indicated the demon side and shook her head vigorously, muttering. Then she patted the angel and smiled, breathing an exaggerated sigh of relief.
This was the strangest game of charades ever.
I frowned. Darah looked expectant.
She burbled in her thick accent again, pointing and gesturing. Finally, she said something that sounded a lot like, “Goolam!”
“A goolam?” I repeated. Darah clapped. “Goolam? What the hell is a…” I smacked a palm on the table, leapt up, and shouted, “GOLEM! IT’S A SPELL TO MAKE A GOLEM!!” Dorcha snerked out of sleep on the floor, hackles up.
I didn’t know a lot about it, but I was pretty certain Golems were supposed to be defenders of the Jews. More or less the way I recalled, you make them out of dirt, do this ritual, then the thing defends you against all who wish you harm.
I grabbed my laptop and started to enter words into the search box while gesturing to Darah.
She stood on a figure on my page and stamped her foot on something I had missed before. Two little lines sprang out of its head. One line led to a face that smiled beatifically. On the other, the face was angry-looking.
I puzzled over this.
“I don’t think I get it.” I shook my head.
Darah touched her head and chest then poked the angel. She looked at me hopefully. Then, screwed her face into a mask of anger and made the same head-chest gesture before pointing to the demon.
“Your head and chest… go into the golem? Your heart?” She made the same movements again, patiently, certain I would work it out.
“What you think and feel matters? Intentions? Uh… meaning?” She nodded and clasped her hands together.
That was interesting. So, whatever your true intention was, be it good or evil, it colored the thing tha
t showed up to fight for you in a golem’s armor.
Cara Courtland was playing her own little version of God. Then, something dawned on me. If she was truly doing this spell, the golem spell, she was likely sacrificing a piece of her own soul every time. Powerful magicians or Witches learn to pay for spells in other ways that don’t hurt, but newbies? They don’t know any better, and the only currency they have to trade in is their own blood and souls. I’d heard of people paying with their firstborn children or a parent, even. It’s horrific.
I continued to page through Darah’s book. Seems she had been to Otherwhere a few times and tried to make maps of the terrain. There were drawings of forests with elvish faces peeking out and a bizarre castle that featured a cat’s open mouth as the gate.
After the Rift happened, low-level Others―those closer to Humans―were pretty much free to come and go as they chose. Humans, likewise, although that happens so infrequently and with such disastrous consequences, it’s the punchline to lots of jokes. How many Humans does it take to change a lightbulb in Otherwhere? Two. One to change the lightbulb and one to buy a new house with a new lightbulb. The joke is that the first one vanishes because Humans can’t get around Otherwhere. Or something. But it’s rather easy for Others to get around Earth because it’s so linear.
There are a fair number of Others in Earth. At some point after the Rift, most governments gave up on trying to keep them out and just folded Others into their Human immigration policies. As such, Others have to comply with the laws regarding establishing themselves in Earth. Like Qyll, they work, and they sometimes bring their families here. They, essentially like all immigrants anywhere, are seeking a better life. They file for residency status; they pay taxes. They can be a lot like regular Humans, in fact. Of course, there are some who come here to do bad things like the full-blooded Vampires who come to feed on Humans or change them into New Vamps, or Faeries out to enchant other creatures into slavery. I should talk. Witches came out of Otherwhere centuries ago and stayed in hiding until the Rift. From what I hear, very few are left on that side.
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