Blood and Magick

by James R. Tuck

  Ahriman’s beard dripped, soaked with spittle and blood. The demon’s voice was strangled. “I am the Keeper.”

  “Not your function. Give me your name.”

  The demon spat. “I am the Keeper. My name and function are one.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “There are many of us. Too many to name. Too many to count.”

  “In the Name of Christ, tell me how to stop Selene.”

  Ahriman’s mouth stretched in a deranged grin. “Silly little man with your weak little faith. You cannot stop Selene. She is indomitable. She will have her will and her way. Give up now! Lay down and die—”

  The priest cut him off with a chop of his hand. “Be quiet. In Christ’s Name, be quiet.” The demon looked away, jaw locked. Father Mulcahy leaned in. “You will tell me what I want to know, or I will call upon St. Michael the Archangel to come down from Heaven and smite you.”

  A growl rolled out of clenched teeth. “I will tell you nothing!”

  “Speak the truth in the Name of Christ or suffer torment.”

  “I am already tormented!”

  Father Mulcahy shoved the crucifix against the demon’s skull. The Keeper jerked and shook Ahriman’s body like a live wire was struck against it. Smoke curled under the priest’s hand, a loud sizzle cut through the demon’s howl. The priest wrapped a thick arm around Ahriman’s head, shoving it forward against the crucifix in his hand. White light shone brightly around his hand, so bright it outlined the bones like an X-ray.

  The demon jerked the warlock’s body, bouncing Father Mulcahy on the balls of his feet. Face red and veins swollen, the priest squeezed his arms, pressing against the demonpossessed wizard. His voice was harsh as he screamed, “Tell me how to stop Selene! I command you by the Sacrifice of Christ! Speak the truth!”

  “The window is small! She can only perform the Black Mass when the time is right!”

  Father Mulcahy staggered. The Keeper slumped against the cuffs that held him to the brass pole. Moving quickly, I put my arm around the priest. He sagged against me, head even with my shoulder. Sweat soaked his salt and pepper hair, slicking it to his skull. The crucifix and the aspergillum vibrated in his hand like he’d been struck with a palsy. I could feel his heart thudding inside his chest through my arm across his back.

  My own chest tightened. Father Mulcahy felt so small in my arms. Fragile. He looked at me. The color had washed out of his face, leaving it gray and pallored. Deep creases marked the corners of his eyes, lines cut with age. He took a breath, held it, then let it out. I wanted to send him away. To tell him he had done enough and he didn’t have to do any more.

  “Are you all right?”

  He blew breath out between clenched teeth. “I could use a fucking cigarette.”

  I wanted to make him sit down. He should be in his own room, wrapped in a blanket, reading the newest Andrew Vachss book. Safe and sound.

  That’s what I wanted. It’s not what I could have tonight. Nobody could do what the priest could do.

  “I’ll light up with you after you send this asshole back to the pit where he belongs.”

  He nodded, straightening, pulling away. Squaring his shoulders, he took a step toward the demon-possessed warlock. I swore in my heart that when this was all over, I was going to do what I had to to make sure Father Mulcahy took a step back. He’d done his service and deserved some rest.

  Something broke deep inside of me with the thought that one day he wouldn’t be here. He was too committed to the fight, and too stubborn for me to shut out altogether, but age and past injuries were slowing him down, making him vulnerable.

  I pushed it all out of my mind. Do the job. Get through the night. Deal with the rest later.

  Father Mulcahy’s voice rose up in a cadence. “I cast you out, unclean spirit. I cast you along with every satanic power of the Enemy, every spectre from hell, and all your fell companions. In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, begone.”

  The Keeper jerked Ahriman’s body in the chair, bouncing the legs off the floor, banging it against the brass pole. The wood striking metal rang out like a bell. The demon screamed out, air vibrating around his head. “No! Fuck you, priest! I have held this body too long! You will not remove me! I own Ahriman body and soul!”

  Father Mulcahy kept chanting, ignoring the demon. “Hearken, therefore, and tremble in fear, Satan, you enemy of the faith, you foe of the human race, you begetter of death, you robber of life, you corrupter of justice, you root of all evil and vice; seducer of men, betrayer of the nations, instigator of envy, font of avarice, fomentor of discord, author of pain and sorrow. Why do you stand and resist, knowing as you must that Christ the Lord brings your plans to nothing?” His hand flicked out, slinging holy water across the demon-possessed warlock in a sizzling slice.

  The demon cackled, the laugh high-pitched and sharp. It bounced in the chair like a gleeful child, cracked lips pulled apart, rolled back eyes wide and excited. “You are too late! Ha! You fools!”

  A tingle crawled across the base of my neck.

  Uh-oh.

  “Father Mulcahy . . .”

  The priest ignored me, keeping his back turned. Tension shook his shoulders. His voice rose up in a shout. “I adjure you, profligate dragon, in the name of the Spotless Lamb who has trodden down the asp and the basilisk, who overcame the lion and the dragon, to depart from this man!” He swung the crucifix down, striking it across Ahriman’s brow.

  The demon jerked under the blow but kept laughing. The cackles, like fingernails plucking a steel string, jarring along my bones. “It has been done, you stupid humans! The end is nigh for you!”

  Dread crouched in the pit of my stomach. My hand went out, hovering by the priest’s shoulder, not touching him. “Padre . . .”

  He kept speaking, calling out the exorcism.

  “Tremble and flee, as I call on the name of the Lord, before whom the denizens of hell cower. The Word made flesh commands you.” His hand swung in the sign of the Cross over Ahriman’s head, causing him to jerk and foam at the mouth.

  “The Virgin’s Son commands you.” He made the sign of the cross again. “Jesus of Nazareth commands you, and when He had cast you out, you did not even dare, except by His leave, to enter into a herd of swine. I adjure you in His name.”

  The lights in the club flickered.

  His hand swung up, down, and then left and right in the sign of the Cross. It whipped down, crucifix pointed like a sword. He roared, “Begone!”

  The last word cracked through the noise of the Keeper’s howl, cutting it sharply like cloth in shears. The silence swept through the room, filling it like the aftermath of a sonic boom. The world hung suspended for a long moment. My skin was tight, heart heavy in my chest. No one in the room moved, each of us holding our breath.

  Waiting.

  Someone knocked on the front door.

  My gun was out and in my hand, safety off, finger on the trigger. Its heavy, comforting weight filled my entire grip. The heft of the chrome barrel pulled forward just a little. The ridges on the trigger were sharp against the tip of my index finger. Familiar.

  Special Agent Heck slid off his stool, his own gun out in a two-handed grip pointed at the ground. He was looking at the door, face blank.

  Boothe moved up beside him quickly, feet rolling silently heel to toe, his gun up and pointed forward as he moved. He stopped even with Heck, both of them waiting on me.

  Across the room Larson stood in front of Kat, pistol in hand. He didn’t move away from her, just shifted from one foot to the other.

  I stepped off the end of the stage, taking the shock through my knees. Looking back, I saw Father Mulcahy stumble a step. He dropped the aspergillum to grab the chair that was still beside him. It clattered to the ground, dribbling a puddle of holy water. Ahriman slumped behind him, hanging boneless and limp. Father Mulcahy gripped the chair, tendons stringing up along his forearm, using it to steady himself. His other hand rose, waving me on.
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  Slowly, I walked to the door. Each step the dread inside me grew, building stone by stone until it threatened to tear a hole in my guts and spill me out on the floor.

  I felt detached, like I was watching someone else. Like it wasn’t my hand reaching for the lock. The cold finger down my spine felt hollow and staticky. Numb, my fingers twisted the latch, releasing the bolts that held the door shut.

  I pulled the handle.

  The vampire standing there smiled widely, fangs gleaming long and deadly in the club lights. Her voice was a throaty purr.

  “Hello, Sugah, miss me?”

  37

  My mind crashed around the sight of the vampire in front of me.

  Blair.

  I had run into her twice before. The first time she was working in a jack shack on the shit side of town. That time I’d had to let her go. The second time was at a no-tell motel on the other shit side of town. That time she had slipped away.

  Her arm rose up and draped the side of the door as she cocked one curvy hip to the left, framing herself for display. Long, spray-tanned legs stretched up to disappear into a pair of Daisy Dukes cut higher than lingerie. Her top was a camouflage shirt that looked like it should belong to toddler. It was stretched to capacity, thin cotton straining over a pair of breasts that could only be described as outrageously fake. Her face was pretty, doe-eyed and delicate, with thick lips made for sucking blood, and a head full of thick bleach-blond hair.

  “Y’all hiring, Sugah? I think I could work at a joint like this.” She drew in air she didn’t need, expanding her already expansive chest. “I shouldn’t need an audition. You’ve already seen me dance.”

  My gun whipped up, barrel pointing at her forehead. Crystal blue eyes raised to look at it, lifting her small, pointed chin. There were marks carved red and raw into her throat. Just like the vampires at the movie theater.

  The vampires that Ahriman had controlled.

  Aw, shit.

  Behind me the Keeper began to giggle.

  Aw, double shit.

  My finger pulled the trigger.

  Faster than my eyes could track, Blair ducked under my gun, the bullet zinging through thick, hair-sprayed locks. Taloned hands slammed into my chest like a baseball bat, lifting me off my feet and throwing me through the air. Time stretched around me as I hung in the air, flying backward. My gun slipped weightlessly out of my fingers, spinning lazily through the air and away from me. I watched three other bloodsuckers zip in the door behind Blair. I tilted, losing sight of them.

  Vampires need invitation to go in someone’s home.

  This was a business. Damn.

  My shoulders crashed into the floor, snapping time back in place. My feet kept flying, flipping me heels over head. I rolled into a line of tables and chairs, jarring to a stop with my face against the carpet.

  The air I sucked in smelled like a beer-soaked ashtray someone had wiped their ass with. Get the carpets steamcleaned, asshole, ran through my head as I fought off the vertigo of being slammed around.

  I had to get up. My ears opened in a whoosh, the room shockingly loud around me. Bangs and crashes. Cracks of gunfire. Animal growls. Screams.

  Shoving my palms against the floor, I pushed myself up. A table that had landed on my back rolled off, taking what felt like a yard of skin off my kidneys with it. I raised my head to utter chaos.

  Larson had thrown the tables around him and Kat onto their sides, making a hedge. They both crouched behind them, guns out. Larson had a holy object in his hand, holding it in front of him. I couldn’t see what it was through the glow coming off it. It was holding off the two vampires who were so angry they were hopping at the edge of the holy light.

  Special Agent Heck was on top of the bar, gun out and blasting at Blair. He wasn’t hitting her, just keeping her off him. He moved nimbly, staying one quickstep ahead of her.

  Father Mulcahy was using the crucifix and the aspergillum to hold off the fourth vampire. Holy light shone around him, spilling over the slumped form of Ahriman. The vampire, a football player–sized Indian, darted in, trying to dive under the edge of the light. Father Mulcahy flicked the aspergillum, cutting a line of holy water across the bloodsucker’s back.

  Boothe had shifted. His head was larger, oval, and covered in short gray fur. Bright crimson eyes the size of saucers glared under ears that had lengthened and now waved on top of that oval skull. His legs had broken, now double-jointed and crookshanked. They raised his height to over seven feet. Thick bunches of muscle padded his new form.

  He was getting his ass kicked by George.

  The Were-gorilla stood toe to toe with Boothe. The coarse black and silver fur that covered his body jutted up like bristles on a brush. He stood upright on thickly bowed legs, long arms knotted in muscle whipped through the air. Hammer-like fists pounded the Were-rabbit’s sides. George’s eyes were rolled back into his monkey skull, the whites of them shining out over a monkey face pulled into a gleeful, murderous leer.

  The Keeper’s twittering cackle rolled out of his gibbon lips.

  The demon had pulled a fast one on us.

  Tiff and Ronnie came running into the room as Boothe fell under a thunderous blow from George’s big right hand. The possessed Were-gorilla turned, thick tongue sliding around his lips, leaving a wet, dripping mask of saliva.

  The Keeper’s voice singsonged out of him as he leered at the girls. “Oh me, oh my, sweet as pumpkin pie!”

  I started slinging bullets across the room.

  38

  Four bullets thundered out of the end of my Colt .45. They zipped across the room, cutting between Blair and Special Agent Heck, zinging over Boothe’s fallen form, and smashing into George’s back. Blood spurted out like broken sprinklers as the bullets stitched him from one shoulder to the other. The impact knocked him forward. He spun with a scream, big arm banging against the bar.

  The whole bar shook, knocking Special Agent Heck off balance. He tumbled, disappearing behind it. Blair leaped over the bar after him. I fired after her, but she was moving with vamp speed and I was in motion, heading toward Tiff.

  The bullets went wide, missing Blair and shattering bottles that lined the back of the bar. The slide locked back on the Colt. My thumb brushed the magazine release, dropping the empty clip as my other hand yanked a full one from the bandolier around my waist and slapped it home. A flick of my thumb released the slide, stripping off a fresh round and putting it in the chamber.

  Tiff came up by the stage, gun out. She had hit the ground and rolled when George turned toward them. The Judge jerked in her hand. She popped off a handful of rounds. Her shells punched into his side, knocking out gouts of blood.

  The bullets were hurting him, but not dropping him. Sonnuvabitch! We were still using lead bullets for the witches. They were almost worthless against a lycanthrope, especially a lycanthrope jacked up on demon juice.

  “Switch to silver!” I dropped the clip I had just put in out of my pistol, reaching around my side for one full of silver. It slid home with a click as I jumped over Boothe’s fallen form. He was still shifted in Were-rabbit, which meant he was still alive, but he was out cold. The side of his face swelled like someone was filling a water balloon.

  Tiff gave a sharp nod, slender fingers working her cylinder release. Empty shells clattered to the floor. She pulled a speedloader off her belt.

  The vampire Father Mulcahy was holding off whipped around the end of the stage. Tiff jerked away as his hand flashed out, cuffing her across the jaw. Her reflexes made it a glancing blow; if they hadn’t, it would have broken her neck. Still, it drove her to the ground, knocking the gun out of her hand.

  The vampire careened off, snatching Ronnie up in his arms. He picked her up, lifting her into the air so that her feet dangled in front of him. His head went back, jaw knotting to distend long, wet fangs. His skull hinged, opening his mouth as wide as possible so that he could get the deepest bite radius. Neck muscles corded, he was ready to strike.
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br />   The second before he struck was the second the spiders fell on him.

  They dropped like hailstones of judgment, pelting him with translucent bodies. I couldn’t count how many there were, they were so fast. They stuck to him, swarming over undead flesh, pouring into his mouth, clogging his throat, choking off his scream. They skittered over his eyeballs, spindly little legs needlepointing through undead corneas. A gossamer net of webbing began to sheen over his skin, binding him.

  Then the venom started to take hold.

  Hundreds of tiny spider bites began to smoke, filling the air with the smell of rotten curried goat. Ronnie stumbled away as the vampire let go in a spasm of agony.

  George turned, demonic lycanthrope speed making him faster than my eye could track. My hand exploded in pain as he slapped the gun out of it. A roar tore out of me, ripping from the bottom of my guts as my left arm became a forest fire of agony. It made me trip on my own feet, stumbling to my knees in front of him. I knelt there, cradling my injured arm across my chest.

  A scream came from behind me. I could see Tiff from the corner of my eye. She was shaking her head, trying to clear it. The scream wasn’t from her.

  The Keeper stood in front of me wearing George’s body. His cackling voice was different through the Weregorilla’s vocal cords. It was lower, and it dropped some of the consonants at the ends of words, but it still had that nerve-grating quality. It still sounded like someone grinding the edges of glass shards against each other.

  “The mighty Deacon Chalk, at my feet. Well, not my feet, feet that I am using.” He ran hands the size of catcher mitts down George’s arms. “I like this body. I’ve never possessed a lycanthrope before. It’s not often that we can. This one lost his faith in God when his woman was killed. You remember Lucy, right? The girl you murdered by using her as a weapon in your sad little war. This one has never forgiven you. He holds a burning ember of wrath inside his chest for you. That’s why he has given away pieces of his soul for the addiction of alcohol.” Rolled back, fish-belly white eyes looked down at me. A line of drool ran from the corner of George’s mouth where the demon pulled it into a disturbing grin. “It’s funny, Deacon Chalk. Because of your actions I have the perfect vessel to destroy you with. This is your fault.”