by J. R. Mabry
“Where is Sam?” Kat asked.
“Sam died last year.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kat said, who was beginning to wonder if perhaps this was a healthy conversation for her right now.
“It was horrible. Alzheimer’s. Do you know what it’s like just watching someone you love fade out?”
Kat stopped, creating a bit of a pileup. The crone grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. “Oh, dear. I hit a nerve, didn’t I?”
She had. Kat did indeed know what it was like to watch someone fade out. She knew it all too well. Suddenly her feelings about the old woman shifted, softened. She felt a kind of kinship—the sisterhood of women whose brothers had faded out. “It’s okay,” she said. “My brother is on his way out, too. Not the same way, but…kind of…the same.”
The old woman put her arm around Kat and said, “His memory faded, not mine. I can hold the connection for myself…and for him.”
The light from thousands of candles reflected off the girders that held the upper span above them, flickering and making them seem warm and alive. Kat looked around her in wonder. The whole neo-pagan community wasn’t there, but it was certainly represented. Some even carried banners indicating their coven, city, or bearing witness to the pantheon they served. The mood was joyous, festive, reverent, and even a little dangerous—much like their rituals. Indeed, it felt like a ritual, Kat noted. She was elated by the camaraderie she saw, by the solidarity, by the sacredness of the event.
The leaders ahead of her had reached Treasure Island and were heading into the part of the bridge that bore through the island, enclosed on all sides. I have to get up there, Kat thought. I am the only one who has any clue what we’re really stepping into. She disentangled herself from the crone’s arm and gave her a quick hug. “I have to go…” she said, pointing ahead.
“Of course you do, you young and impulsive thing.” She gave Kat’s hand a final squeeze and waved her on. Emboldened by the old woman’s blessing, Kat turned and began to trot past the other marchers, heading for those taking point several hundred yards ahead of her.
She passed Wiccans and pagans of every stripe. She even passed a lodge of magickians, but since they weren’t Serpentines, she didn’t bother with them. “Golden Dawn, Sacramento” their banner read. She dodged several people and nearly knocked another down. “What’s your hurry?” a man called after her, but aside from a quick apology thrown over her shoulder she didn’t answer.
What is my hurry? she asked herself. She didn’t know—she only knew she had to get there quick.
About a hundred feet short of Kitty Moon and her immediate acolytes, Kat stopped jogging and speed walked to catch up with her. No one seemed to take any notice of her as she advanced to the front and fell into step alongside her hero.
“It’s demons, you know,” she said.
“What?” Kitty Moon asked her, only now noticing Kat’s presence.
“The East Bay. It’s not some kind of political uprising like you suggested at the rally. It’s far worse. It’s demonic oppression.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a Blackfriar.”
Kitty Moon stopped momentarily and considered Kat. She started walking again almost immediately before someone bumped into her.
“You’re a Blackfriar and you’re marching with us?”
“I’m Wiccan—Christo-pagan.”
Moon rolled her eyes. “Goddess help us. She sleeps with the enemy.”
“I’m not the enemy. I’m a…convert.” She’d never thought of herself as a convert before. But as she said it, she knew it was true.
“I don’t believe in demons,” Moon spat over her shoulder, not bothering to look at Kat.
“That doesn’t really matter. You don’t have to believe in cancer to die from it.”
Moon scowled. “Who invited you?”
“I’m on your list.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“What are you going to do when you get to Oakland?”
“We’re going to overwhelm them with our numbers. We’re going to force them to lay down their arms and be part of a beloved community again.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Kat started, “and commendable. But what if they have weapons and you don’t?”
“Weapons are the enemy,” Moon countered.
“Okay, yeah…aaaand your enemy has weapons.”
“We have no enemies,” she said.
Oh really? Kat thought. Didn’t you just say I was the enemy?
“We’re going to march into Oakland and embrace everyone we see,” Moon continued. “And they’ll see that their weapons are not necessary, because we’re not a threat. And when we’re not a threat, they won’t be a threat, either. This will be the beginning of the Great Disarming. It will ripple out across the globe.”
It was in that moment that Kat realized Kitty Moon was crazy. Maybe even delusional. Or perhaps just so idealistic that she had no realistic grasp of their circumstances.
Kat continued to march as she turned and looked at the unstoppable river of neo-pagans emerging from the Treasure Island tunnel. The lights on the Oakland side of the Bay Bridge were out, and Kat saw the swelling tide of witches, druids, and magickians holding their candles forth defiantly, eager to meet the darkness with the surely unstoppable power of their romantic ideals. They wanted to love the East Bay back into normalcy. Kat’s heart broke as she fully grasped the naiveté of it all, the glorious good intentions, the damning futility of the endeavor, the sure and certain slaughter that awaited them.
A moment ago, she herself had been enchanted by the vision. But something had changed. Whatever it was within her that had compelled her to lie to Mikael and had been responsible for her fooling herself had shifted. It wasn’t gone, but somehow the critical reasoning part of her brain had peeked out and reminded her that it was there, that this was madness, that they were marching straight into the jaws of real and mortal danger. And Kitty Moon—who had always been her hero—could not or would not hear her. Kat watched as she almost floated serenely toward the Oakland toll plaza.
Kat’s mind raced as she sprinted to catch up with Moon again. Then she ran past her, and Kat’s eyes widened as she saw the hordes of Oaklanders swarming toward them on the freeway overpasses. She stopped to take them in. There were hundreds of them—no, thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. Many of their clothes were ragged, and Kat could just barely make out the gleeful set of their faces. But what struck her most was their eyes—wet and wide and wild. The moonlight glinted off their weapons—hammers, guns, garden tools, tire irons, scraps of wood or metal.
She turned and watched the river of candlelight streaming down the east span of the bridge, lighting up the sleek modern bridge design with flickering gold. It looked like warmth and hope. It was also completely and utterly mad.
Kat whirled and ran to the counterpoint between the two advancing armies. Having positioned herself, she sat down and closed her eyes. She steadied her breathing, saw the opening to the Void in her imagination, and stepped through.
The Sandalphon were waiting. But whereas before they were comforting and loving, she sensed something else from them this time. Not hostility, but…she cocked her head, trying to get a sense of it. Opposition, she thought.
They surrounded her and allowed her to go no further, jostling their large, furry bodies in a semi-circle around her, preventing her any advance into the Void. “What’s wrong?” she asked them. But the Sandalphon, as always, were mute. She felt them, felt their communication. And what she felt then was, “No further.”
“I call to the Angel of the Air,” she cried. “Come quickly, I beg you. I need your help!”
The air before her rippled with energy, as lightning appeared out of nowhere and folded back on itself. Its thousand eyes saw into her and through her and comprehended her fully. She made to step toward the Angel, into it, to become it, to wield its sword, its power, just as she had before. But its voice thundere
d in her head with such force that she stumbled. “I do not wish it. He does not wish it.”
“But they’ll die,” she said aloud.
“You wish to wield my sword against those already oppressed. I will not permit it.”
“I only want to stop them,” she pleaded, but it was no good. “So what do we do? What are you going to do?”
“I will feel pity.” There was a flash of lightning, and the Angel was gone.
92
Brian balled his fists to keep his hands from shaking as he stood and followed Maggie into Moses’ office. Greenish light came from what looked like gas lamps set into the walls. The ceiling was high, and the walls were paneled with fine wood, much like Brian would have expected to see in a posh English country house. But one half of the office surprised him. A tent had been hung from the ceiling, covering half the room, looking like something straight out of a Bedouin camp. Inside were rich tapestries and low couches for reclining in a Middle Eastern fashion. Brian smiled at the sheer nostalgia of it.
Even more commanding, however, was the figure behind the desk. He hadn’t looked up at them yet but was studying an open file. He was large and burly, with a black and gray tangle of hair cascading from his head and a large, broad nose set into his face that reminded him of Dylan. In fact, there was much about the man that reminded Brian of Dylan, only…bigger.
The door shut behind them and Maggie walked up to the desk and cleared her throat. Moses continued to study the file. Maggie snatched it from him. “You’re being rude, Moshe,” she said as she closed the file and threw it down on the desk again.
“I’m not being rude. If you haven’t noticed, we’ve got a bit of a crisis going on here. Electricity is out now, too.” He gestured at the gas lamps. “I didn’t know if these would still work. Thank heaven for nineteenth century durability.”
“I thought it was just for show,” Maggie smirked. “I know how you love antiques.”
“Serah, when this is all over, if there is still a world to govern, you and I will go antiquing.”
“That’s a date. Allow me to introduce you to someone. This is Brian Epstein. He’s a Talmudic scholar.”
“Who isn’t?” Moses grumbled but gave Brian a curt nod.
“Um…gentiles?” Maggie’s eyebrows raised.
“Oh. I wasn’t counting them,” Moses said, waving her objection away.
“They are most of the world,” Maggie reminded him.
“Don’t rub it in,” Moses said. Then he seemed to soften. “Come over to my mag’ad, I’ll have Bet bring us some tea.” He pushed a button, and Brian heard Bet’s tinny voice respond. “Tea please, Bet, for two.”
“Three, Bet!” Maggie shouted.
“Yes, three, sorry.” Moses rolled his eyes. “This way.” He led them to the tent and sat down on one of the couches with a weary groan.
Maggie reclined on another, facing him, with an ease that reminded Brian that she had grown up with furniture like this—and had many hundreds of years of practice with it. He sat awkwardly on what looked like an ottoman.
“Can you believe this? We’ve had destructive magickians before, but nothing like this,” Moses sighed.
“You’ve faced your share of magickians, Moshe,” Maggie reminded him.
“Yes, sad court magickians who could make sticks wiggle and call them snakes. Crowley made it here a hundred years ago—”
“He did?” Brian sat ramrod straight.
Moses looked at him as if he were surprised to find him present. “Yes, but, he didn’t do any damage. He started a salon, but then went away when he realized that no one was interested in talking about how brilliant he was. Regardie came later, but he was a gentleman and mostly combed the libraries.”
“Wait, weren’t Crowley and Regardie already here, in some form?”
“Is this your story or mine?” Moses asked.
“I’m just trying to figure out how this works,” Brian asked.
“The Crowley here was a ceramics painter and Regardie was a plumber. Neither one had any interest in magick.”
“Oh. That’s disappointing.” Brian looked crestfallen.
“Not nearly as glamorous as being a magickian, eh? Just fifteen times more useful to the common good.” Moses turned his attention back to Maggie. “We have to stop him, Serah. This assault on Heaven cannot go forward. We can only assume that he will gain support as he ascends.”
“I’m surprised he found support here,” Maggie said.
Moses pulled at his silver beard. “People do stupid things when they’re scared. As I know very, very well.”
“Do you have a plan?” Maggie asked.
The door opened and Bet walked in with a tray of tea. Moses waited until she had served them and then retreated before he answered. “I’d hoped that the media would be back up so I could make a public address. I think the people just need to hear from me. I think if I could just talk to them, I could…ease their fears, let them know that it’s going to be okay.”
“What’s the problem?”
“He’s militarized society. He’s sabotaged the television stations, the radio stations and the internet. I have ordered them to be repaired, but I’m being actively disobeyed.”
“We all know how much you hate that!” Maggie shook her head and took a sip of tea.
“Don’t be petulant, Serah. I only ever did what had to be done.”
“You only ever did what you thought was expedient, and then blamed it on HaShem.”
Moses’ faced hardened and he looked away. Maggie had spoken the Truth, and he knew it and could not gainsay it. He set down his teacup and faced her squarely. “We need your help, Serah.”
“Well, I’d love to help you, but I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and I think it’s time for me to retire. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but you’re a hard man to pin down. Plus, I knew you wouldn’t be happy about it. And I do hate to watch you sputter.”
Moses’ mouth hung open and his eyes went wide. “Serah, I fully respect that you might want to take things easier, do something else for a while. But can we talk about that after the crisis has passed? You’re just giving notice, right? Two weeks from now, you’ll clear out your desk, or something of the sort?”
“Yes, all right. I’ll hang in while we’re sorting this out, but I won’t be working myself. I’ll be training my successor.”
“Your successor?”
“Yes. We can’t go without a Forerunner, can we?”
“It is an important job. And you’ve done it well. I can’t imagine anyone else…” Moses trailed off.
“I can,” Maggie said. “I have just the person. I’ve been watching him for a while. He’s honest, he’s a straight shooter. He’s of the tribe.”
“Who is it?” Moses asked, skeptical.
“Moshe, I’d like you to meet Brian Epstein. This time, why not act like he’s actually here?”
Brian felt the blood drain out of him and gather in a frigid pool around his heels. His hands started shaking again, and he opened his mouth to object. Nothing came out.
Moses blinked, then looked at Brian. Then he looked back at Maggie.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope. He knows the tradition. He’s comfortable working in Vision. He won’t encounter anything that will surprise him. He’s been practicing with a bunch of Christians who know the inner planes like the backs of their hands. He’ll do very nicely.”
“B-b-but he’s a…a hunchback. He’s…” he leaned in and whispered, “unclean.”
“And you’re a camel’s festering bunghole. You emit toxic clouds from your backside that would render entire villages unclean before the Lord for a week.” She banged her teacup on the metal table so hard that Brian was amazed it didn’t shatter. “Unclean my ass.”
“But-but-but—”
“Don’t you dare be so quick to dismiss him,” she said, her voice becoming hard and defiant. “He’s not a murderer, like some people I could me
ntion.”
Moses sat up and narrowed his eyes. It was a low blow.
“He’s also not a stutterer, like some in present company.”
“Really, Serah, there’s—”
“Nor is he afraid of his own skin, if that rings a fucking bell.”
Moses’ jaw tightened and he looked ready to spit nails. “I could have your—”
“What? My job?” She grinned at him wickedly, enjoying the irony. “That would be lovely.”
Moses sighed. “Fine. Just…not until after all this—”
“No. Now. I’ll show him the ropes. I’ll be there to back him up. But it’s Brian that’s going to face down this magickian, not me.”
Moses swallowed and looked at Brian again. This time, his gaze was searching, as if hoping to find some quality that would allow him some shred of confidence. The hair on Brian’s arms bristled with electricity and his head was buzzing. He felt profoundly uncomfortable under the prophet’s gaze.
“Moshe, listen to me,” Maggie said. Moses broke his gaze and looked at her. “You’ll support Brian in this. You’ll give him anything he needs to do his job well. And you’ll recommend him in every sephirah. And do you know why?”
“No, why?”
“Because I have taken note of him.”
93
Susan burst into the room with the force of a hurricane. She fired the shotgun at the ceiling and emitted a high-pitched ululation that echoed through the room until it sounded like it was coming from everywhere. She saw Betts and Milo jump nearly out of their skins. They started edging toward the sliding door, so she made a beeline for a spot between them and it. She held the shotgun at her waist, poised to fire at their chests. They backed away slowly.
Chicken ran straight into Dylan’s arms. He scooped her up and planted a kiss on her cheek as he lifted her up and swung her around. “Are you okay?” she asked him.
“Ah am now, darlin’,” he said. He turned to Susan. “Honey-pot, you got the best fuckin’ timin’ on earth.”