by J. R. Mabry
“Sure we do,” said Chicken. She pulled a piece of chalk out of her pocket and began to draw a large square. Then she drew two smaller rectangles.
“There’s your pillows, right there,” said the volunteer, laughing. “Just sit tight. We’ll bring some by soon. I think Jason just left for a run up to Bed Bath and Beyond. We’re cleaning them out, I’m afraid!”
“Thank you so much,” Terry said. “You’ve all been so kind. I’m Terry, by the way. And this is Chicken. Well, we call her Chicken. She won’t tell us her real name.”
“Chicken!” Chicken said, pointing to herself.
“Very nice to meet you, Chicken,” the woman said, amused. “I’m Nan. Good to meet you Terry. Is it Father Terry?”
“It is, but no need to be formal.”
“We’re glad you’re here.” She rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment then turned to go.
Terry sat down cross-legged in the square Chicken had drawn, careful not to smudge the pillows. His shoulders slumped and for a moment he allowed himself to rest his head in his hands.
That didn’t last long, because Chicken squirmed her way onto his lap. “Uncle Terry, why are you sad?”
Terry’s mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. After all Chicken had been through in the last twenty-four hours, the fact that she noticed his feelings at all stunned him. That she had identified them precisely also surprised him. “Um…because my boyfriend left me. And I miss him.”
“You have a boyfriend? Not a girlfriend?”
“Yep.”
Chicken looked confused. Terry wondered at the fact that there were still places in the Bay Area where you could grow up and not encounter gay people. Then she brightened. “Why did he go away?”
Terry struggled to keep the emotion from rising in his throat. “Because I fu…because I messed up. I hurt his feelings really bad.”
“Did you mean to?”
“No. But I did.”
“You could say pardon.”
“I will.”
“You could say it now and then we could go to her house.”
Terry smiled, as much as at her confused pronouns as at her naiveté. “I wish it were that simple, little one.”
“Don’t call me ‘little.’”
“You don’t want to be called ‘little,’ but you don’t mind being called Chicken?”
She smiled up at him, kissed his chin, and then she laughed.
Terry hugged her and tried not to cry.
“Why don’t you call her?”
“Because my phone caught a bul—” he stopped himself. “My phone broke.”
“Oh. Ask him.”
She pointed at an older gentleman about six yards away, leaning back on a rolled up sleeping bag, talking on a cell phone. When he finished and put it in his pocket, Terry lifted Chicken out of his lap and said, “I’m gonna try to call him. Can you wait here?”
Chicken nodded. “Okie-dokie! I’ll draw some cookies. Because I want cookies.”
“That sounds really great!” Terry said. “Can you draw some chocolate chip with dried cranberries?”
Chicken scrunched her nose. “What’s cranberries?”
Terry smiled sadly and picked his way over to where the man with the phone was sitting.
“Hi, sir,” Terry began. “I’m afraid my phone was broken yesterday. Actually,” he looked over at Chicken, and determining that she was out of earshot, said, “it took a bullet. I’d love to call my partner and let him know I’m okay. And make sure he’s okay, too.” It hadn’t occurred to him that Brian might not be all right until he said it, and it caused him to reel a little.
The older man looked him up and down, frowning. “Are you gay?”
Terry stood up a little straighter. “We…yes. Of course.”
The man cocked his head at that. “Of course?”
“Spend five minutes with me and you won’t need to ask.”
“Hmph. You dressed up like a priest or something?”
Terry was beginning to get impatient. He wanted to say, “Are you going to let me use your phone or not?” but he kept his temper. “I am a priest. I’m Father Terry Milne of the Order of St. Raphael.”
“But you have a gay partner?”
“Yes. We’re not a celibate order.”
The man narrowed his eyes at him. “I don’t approve.”
Terry gave him a disappointed smile. “You don’t need to. I’m only asking you to show some simple human compassion. May I please use your phone for about five minutes?”
“Oh, hell. Okay. But you stay right here. And all I got is AT&T, which is shit reception in Alameda.”
“You’re not from Alameda, then?”
“Would I be camping out here if I was?”
“No…of course not. Sorry.”
The man threw Terry his phone.
“Thank you.”
The man waved him away. Terry dialed Brian’s number and waited. There was some crackling, but then he heard it ring.
“Hello?” Brian’s voice. Terry didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath, and he let it all out. “Who is this?”
“Brian, it’s Terry. Please baby…don’t hang up.” Terry heard silence, but at least Brian didn’t hang up. “I just…want to know that you are okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“The house was attacked last night, about three a.m. Dylan, Susan, Chicken and I made it to Alameda, but not before…Dylan lost his eye. He’s in the hospital.”
“Oh, God. Poor Dylan!” Brian said. The ice had been busted through. Brian might still be mad at him, but their situation was bigger than Brian’s grievance. “Um…who is Chicken?”
“Oh. Wow. I forgot you left before we found her. She’s a little girl. About four, maybe five years old. Richard and I found her in the middle of a gunfight near the Oakland Coliseum. We brought her back to the friary.”
“Huh. How is Richard? And Toby? And Marco?”
“We don’t know. They were supposed to follow us…but they never made it.”
“Oh, God. How could you abandon them?”
“What? We didn’t abandon them. We had to take two cars—Richard had an errand to run.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“It’s Richard. He makes the call.”
“You don’t have to obey it. How could you—”
“Brian, this isn’t us fighting—”
“It sure the fuck is.”
“—it’s whatever is making everyone fight.”
There was silence on Brian’s end of the call. “Brian?”
“I’m just…I’m worried about him. Them.”
“Tell me about it. I’m worried sick. Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m with Chava and Elsa. I’m fine. They’re fighting, too. I wish we were all together so we could…figure this out.”
Terry wasn’t sure what Brian was referring to, but he decided it didn’t matter and took the ambiguity as a gift. “Me too.”
“I don’t recognize this phone number.”
“No. My phone was busted in gunfire. I’m borrowing this from a very nice man at the shelter here in Alameda. Me and Chicken are making our beds…kind of.”
“That sounds wonderfully…domestic.” Was that a catch in Brian’s voice? The reception was poor, so it was hard to tell.
“Have you heard from Mikael and Kat?”
“No. Should I have?”
“I don’t know. They went to San Francisco to investigate…it’s a long story. Anyway, they might call. They might need a place to bed down.”
“There’s not a lot of room here, but they can have my room and I’ll take the couch. I’m sure Chava and Elsa wouldn’t mind.”
“Great. Anyway, I have to go, honey. You don’t need to say anything back. I just have to say…I love you.” Terry hung up before Brian could respond. He handed the phone back.
After the old man took it, Terry realized he had tears in his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. �
�Didn’t mean to be listening in. I hope your partner is okay.”
“He’s okay. Thank you.”
“If you want to call again, it’s okay with me.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Terry gave a soft smile and picked his way through the checkerboard pattern of blankets toward Chicken. “What have you made for us?”
“Tamales,” Chicken said.
“What kind?” Terry asked.
“Chocolate,” Chicken said.
“My favorite,” Terry said. He sat down and cradled Chicken as she crawled into his lap again. He lowered his face into her hair and wept.
47
Frater Turpelo rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He started salivating even before Purderabo arrived with their beer. The Cloven Hoof was about half full, but the atmosphere was bustling and lively as the lunch rush got underway. Turpelo recognized people from nearly every major occult community in San Francisco, either sitting at one of the booths or tables or at the bar.
“Babylon would like this,” Purderabo said, setting a frosty pint glass in front of him. Turpelo uttered a heartfelt “thanks” and brought the deep amber beverage to his lips. The hops almost punched him in the teeth. “Oh, that’s good. What is it?”
“The Baphomet IPA,” Turpelo said. “It’ll take your head off.”
“But not without putting a smile on it first,” Purderabo said, taking another stiff quaff. Purderabo adjusted his ample frame in the booth. “Could we scoot the table a bit, frater?”
“No problem.” They edged the table a couple of inches toward Turpelo. Once adjusted, Purderabo sighed.
“To the East Bay,” Turpelo said, holding his pint aloft.
Purderabo clinked his own pint to it gently. “To the East Bay. Long may she blaze.”
They both chuckled as they drank.
“That was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most fun I have had in a very, very long time,” Turpelo admitted.
“I have not taken part in so successful a working since…since I can’t remember when,” Purderabo was almost purring.
“I agree. I don’t remember the last time I felt so alive.”
“And exhausted. I’m not used to so much running about.”
“But it was worth it, eh?”
“Without a doubt,” Purderabo conceded.
“And to think we did it all without raising the ire of a single demonic aristocrat,” Turpelo shook his head in amazement.
“Say what you will about Babylon—and we have certainly had our differences—but the man is a genius,” Purderabo said, real admiration in his voice.
“I wouldn’t have thought of it,” Turpelo said.
“And it was the only way to do something on that scale.”
“You mean the cooperation rather than compulsion?”
“Exactly. Who would have thought?” Purderabo asked.
“It shows the power of a party invitation if nothing else,” Turpelo jested.
“We know our diversion worked,” Purderabo said, “but what about the main event?”
“No clue,” Turpelo said. “I talked to Khams this morning. Babylon has been out for about thirty hours at this point. He’s got to come up for air or he’ll slip into a coma.”
“Would that be the worst thing in the world?” Purderabo asked.
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Turpelo said. “Have you no faith in his plan?”
“Oh, I have faith that he can kick up some trouble in the higher planes. He’s good at that. But whether there will be anything habitable left in any of them…”
“Or here?”
“Or here,” Purderabo agreed.
“Babylon is a bit like a bull in a china factory.”
“Don’t ever let him hear you say that.”
“No.”
“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Purderabo played with a wet ring on the table. “Why does Babylon think that destroying the balance of creation will destroy the Tyrant? You can trash my house and crash my car, but you haven’t really hurt me.”
“Perhaps when you come right down to it, Babylon is a monist,” Turpelo reasoned. “With no distinction between the Tyrant and Creation.”
“I don’t think so. Babylon follows after Berkeley—and Crowley—in their doctrine of the monad,” Purderabo said.
“Every man and woman is a star,” Turpelo quoted.
“Just so.”
“Perhaps he thinks the Ancient of Days will simply die of a broken heart if he destroys the one thing that the old bully has spent so many millennia building up,” Turpelo offered.
“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that. The Tyrant is ruthless. He has a soft spot, sure, but he’s cunning as steel.”
Turpelo drummed his fingers. “He’s going to make a right mess of things, no matter what happens.”
“It’s a temper tantrum of extraordinary degree,” Purderabo held aloft a finger, “and it will certainly piss the Tyrant off.”
“On the other hand,” Turpelo added, cocking his head. “Babylon never takes anyone wholly into his confidence. Not even us.”
“Especially not us,” Purderabo agreed.
“Do you think bringing down the Tyrant is really his aim?”
“Who can know? He seemed sincere. You can see it blazing in his eyes. So yes, I’m convinced he is determined to bring down the Tyrant. I’m not convinced we understand the whole of his method for doing so.”
Turpelo nodded. Then he jumped as Mikael slid into the booth beside him. Kat likewise slid into the booth beside Purderabo.
“Hello, assholes,” Mikael said. “What’s for lunch?”
48
Marco drew the last line of the circle of containment and sat back with satisfaction. Richard looked on, not quite disapproving. He folded his arms. “No credence table?” The light was dim, a naked bulb hanging from a cord by the door. Ducts ran the length of the room, and there was a stack of what looked like a set of canvas pavilions in the corner, their spindly legs retracted and folded toward their centers. Richard’s nose twitched from the dust Marco was kicking up.
“You don’t actually need a credence table. You can just put the sigil on the floor.”
Richard moved his head back and forth. “Okay. It’s primitive, but I guess it’ll work.”
Marco narrowed his eyes. “You want to do this shit? Be my guest.”
Richard held his hands up. “No, no. I’ll…keep quiet.”
Cain stuck his head through the door. “I brought you some sandwiches. Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous,” Marco said, brightening up.
“What’s all this?” Cain asked.
“This is where Marco plans to summon a demonic lord.”
“You can do that?” Cain looked at Marco uncertainly.
“Anyone can. You just have to know what you’re doing.”
“And do you?”
“No one ever really knows what they’re doing when you mess with this shit,” Marco said, reaching for one of the sandwiches on the paper plate Cain was holding out.
“That’s not terribly encouraging,” Cain confessed. He looked unconvinced but playful, as if he were humoring them. “Where’s your dog?”
“He saw what we were doing and removed himself. He doesn’t approve.”
“Your…dog…knows what you’re doing and doesn’t approve?” Cain’s face screwed up like he’d just suffered a rapid-onset migraine.
“Right. My guess is that he’s upstairs looking for a kid to rub his belly.”
“Huh.” Cain put his hands on his hips and studied the chalk markings. “How does it…uh…how does it work?”
“This large circle here,” Richard pointed out, “is the circle of safety. That’s where we’re going to stand.”
“We?”
“Me and Marco. You, if you want to watch.”
Cain’s eyebrows shot up.
“That smaller circle is the circle of containment. That’s where the demon shows up. We’re going t
o draw a sigil and set it in the circle. Then we’ll compel the demon to appear.”
“How?”
“Blood.”
Cain blinked. “Do I want to know whose blood?”
“That would be the magickian’s blood, generally.”
“The things I do for my craft,” Marco said, strengthening the wall of the circle of containment with the chalk. He studied it closely to make sure there were no inadvertent cracks in the line that a demon might be able to follow out to liberty—and bedlam.
“Sandwich?” Cain held the plate out for Richard. Richard thanked him and took two.
“So when does this thing start?”
“As soon as I finish my sandwich,” Marco said, his mouth full. He put the finishing strokes on the circle and stood up.
“This requires some imagination to understand what’s happening,” Richard explained, between bites. “See, Marco is going to go into vision—”
“What’s that?”
“It means I’m going to see it in my mind’s eye,” Marco answered.
“You’re going to…imagine it?” Cain cocked his head.
“That’s right,” Richard answered. “He’s going to hold the image of the sigil in his head, and send it out.”
“Out where?”
“Into the universe, into hell, into…everywhere, I guess. It’s like sending out a radio signal. Then he’s going to draw it back—”
“What, like fishing?”
“Exactly like fishing, except without the element of chance. He’s pretty certain to come back with the demon he’s looking for—unless the demon is in consultation with a larger, more powerful nasty who can override the summons.”
“What if that happens?”
“I’ve never heard of it happening,” Richard admitted. “It’s just lore.”
“I’ll bring him back,” Marco said.
“You do this kind of thing a lot?” Cain asked.
“Never,” Marco said. “Are you fucking nuts?”
Cain’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
Richard swallowed. “Would you know what to do if you found a bomb in a crowded area?”
“Sure. I’d clear the area and call the bomb squad.”
“And if it was going to blow in less than a minute?”