by Doty, J. L.
“So you’re setting up a new-world-order, and if we don’t step in line, we’re dead meat, huh?”
“Paul, please. Don’t be impertinent.”
“Impertinent! What happens next, Karpov? Boris and Joe Stalin here rough me up in some dark—”
Paul didn’t get to finish. For a big man, Boris moved rather quickly, stepped in front of Paul and picked him up by the armpits as if holding a small child. He slammed Paul against the wall once, twice. With his head spinning Paul could barely make out Boris’ words. “You vill speak to Mr. Karpov with respect, or I vill teach you respect the hard vay.”
An interesting thing about wards, stationary wards, the kind one sets to protect a home or apartment, is that they’re like batteries with no limit to their capacity. If you feed power into them time after time, and never have cause to discharge any of it, even the weakest of practitioners can eventually build up some strong and potent wards, wards capable of defending one from someone far stronger. And Paul was not the weakest of practitioners. Having developed a healthy sense of paranoia because of recent events, he had diligently fed his wards power every night when he came home, and each morning before he left.
As Boris snarled in his face, his nose only inches from Paul, his breath smelling of onions and garlic, Paul focused on one of his wards and triggered it. He’d never triggered a strong ward before, only minor wards for practice, wasn’t prepared for the loud crack that sounded like a two-by-four snapping. And Boris wasn’t prepared when it slapped him to the floor, slapped him hard.
Boris went down for the count, and the crack of the ward startled both Karpov and Joe Stalin. Paul turned quickly to the side table, slid open the drawer, grabbed the Sig and pulled the slide back, jacking a round into the chamber. He didn’t aim it at anyone, held it down at his side and marshaled the rest of his wards.
Joe Stalin stood above Karpov, who hadn’t moved from his seat. Old Joe had shoved his right hand into the front of his jacket where he clearly had a gun. The thug was probably faster than Paul, but they all knew Paul’s wards would respond instantaneously. And since Paul hadn’t actually raised the Sig and aimed it at anyone, they all accepted an uneasy and unspoken truce, though they knew Paul had the advantage.
Boris groaned and slowly rolled over painfully.
Paul nodded toward Boris and looked Karpov in the eyes. “Good old Boris there is pretty stunned, probably not thinking real clear right now. There’s no need for any further violence, but if he or Joe Stalin there—” Paul nodded to Joe, “—do something stupid, I cut loose with everything.”
Karpov held Paul’s eyes for a long moment, then said, “Alexei, help Vladimir. Make sure he doesn’t . . . do something stupid.” Joe Stalin didn’t move immediately. Karpov’s impatience boiled to the surface. “And get your stupid hand out of your coat. I am confident Mr. Conklin won’t . . . do something stupid himself.”
As Joe Stalin helped Boris to his feet, Boris emitting a series of low groans, Karpov stood and faced Paul.
“Mr. Conklin, I hope you will forgive Vladimir his . . . shall we say, enthusiasm. He is young, does not think before he acts.”
As Paul recalled, between the time Boris had slapped him against the wall, and the moment he triggered the ward, Karpov had had plenty of time to call him off. Paul decided not to mention that. “I think it best, Mr. Karpov, if you leave now.”
“Yes. I agree. It has been interesting, Paul.”
Karpov turned his back on Paul and headed to the door. Joe Stalin, his hands full helping Boris stagger, managed to back his way to the door, keeping his eyes on Paul. Karpov held the door open, let Joe pull Boris through the door, then turned back to Paul. “Boris,” he said, smiling and nodding. “And Joe Stalin.” His smile turned into a broad grin, an unpleasant grin. “That’s funny, Mr. Conklin. I like that. You are a funny man.”
He backed into the hall and closed the door softly.
~~~
“He actually assaulted you?” McGowan asked.
“Picked me up like a doll and slammed me against the wall,” Paul said. They were sitting in McGowan’s study. Paul had given him a complete run-down on the previous evening’s meeting with Karpov and his thugs.
McGowan shook his head. “That is so like Vasily: heavy-handed to the end, about as subtle as a sailor in a whorehouse.”
“What do we do about it?”
McGowan grinned, nodded, obviously pleased about something. “Actually, Vasily overplayed his hand this time. There are a few unwritten rules about the relationship between a master wizard and his apprentice, most of which are several hundred years old. For one, a wizard does not approach another wizard’s apprentice without discussing it first with the apprentice’s master. And it’s even worse that he approached you in your own home, let himself in uninvited, then assaulted you.”
McGowan’s grin broadened further. “I’ll make sure the story gets out. Even his supporters won’t like this. The pressure will keep him off your back for a while. Especially when they hear you bested him and two of his thugs. No one likes Alexei and Vladimir. Wait a minute. What did you call them? Joe Stalin and Boris? I like that, kid.”
~~~
It was late when Paul got home. He and McGowan had played with some nasty stuff, and Paul had been pressed to absorb it all. Paul thought about it carefully as he fumbled for his keys. He had already learned to summon energy from ley lines and from earth magic, and also from what McGowan had called his physical magic.
“Conklin,” someone said behind him as he fumbled for his keys.
He turned, saw Eric Reichart standing in the shadows of the street lights on the other side of the street. Paul waited as Mr. Nordic God crossed the street, decided to hold the high ground and stayed at the top of the steps. Reichart did nothing to hide his own strength as a wizard, was clearly stronger than Paul.
In Dallas Reichart had come across as arrogant and hostile, so Paul asked, “What can I do for you?”
Reichart stopped half way up the steps. “Are you aware I’m Katherine’s husband?”
Paul corrected him, “Katherine’s ex-husband.”
One corner of Reichart’s lips curled up in a snarl. Paul thought of two dogs, sniffing at one another, trying to establish dominance. “That’s just temporary. That’ll be corrected soon.”
Paul hadn’t discussed it with Katherine, but from what she’d said he didn’t think she’d even consider reconciliation. “Not according to Katherine.”
Reichart took a step forward, and did everything but growl. “Katherine is weak, doesn’t know what she wants. She needs a strong man to take care of her.”
“I think Katherine can decide that for herself.”
Reichart came up the last few steps, forcing Paul to back-step. Paul prepared to pull power, though with an experienced wizard like Reichart he doubted he’d do well in such a contest. Reichart stopped with his nose inches from Paul’s and drew power. “Stay away from her, asshole. Stay away from her or you’ll regret it.”
Paul stood ready, didn’t draw power, knew that doing so would precipitate a fight he couldn’t win. “You get one warning,” Reichart snarled. “Only one.” Then he spun on his heels, walked casually down the steps, put his hands in his pockets and sauntered down the street whistling some tune Paul didn’t recognize.
~~~
Paul got the front door of his apartment open, fumbled for the light switch in the dark, but when he flicked it on only one of the lamps lit up. The bulb in the lamp near his kitchen nook must have burned out. He headed straight for his bedroom, threw his jacket on the bed, tossed the Sig on the bed with it and pulled off the shoulder holster. The damn thing wasn’t terribly comfortable. He’d have to talk to Devoe about that. Maybe it needed adjustment or something.
He went to the kitchen nook, didn’t bother to fumble for the light switch there, opened the small refrigerator, retrieved a beer, turned, and by the light from the refrigerator realized he wasn’t alone. The silhouette of
a man sat at his small breakfast table, his head and shoulders completely hidden in shadow. Paul resolved that in the future he’d carefully check his place out before dumping the Sig.
“Good evening, Paul,” the man said calmly in a voice that seemed somewhat familiar. “I’m not here to hurt you. Just to talk, though I wouldn’t mind one of those beers.”
Paul twisted open the beer he held, carefully handed it to the man, turned only part way back to the refrigerator so he could keep an eye on the fellow, retrieved another beer.
“Sit down,” the man said. Paul cautiously took the only other seat available in the small kitchen nook. “I’m sorry if I startled you, but just walking up to your front door and knocking would never have worked.”
Now that he realized he wasn’t going to be killed or harmed outright, Paul felt a bit belligerent. “Why not?”
The shadows hiding the man’s face were too deep to be real. “Come now, Paul. You know what this is about, and you know such situations can’t be handled in mundane ways.”
Paul shrugged, acknowledging the fact. “What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“I don’t know that I know anything that can help you. I’m kind of new to all this stuff.”
“I’m aware of that,” the stranger said, and Paul was almost certain he’d heard that voice before. “But it doesn’t really matter. I’m not here for you to talk to me. I’m here to talk to you.”
“Ok . . . talk.”
The man took a sip of beer, put the bottle down on the table and Paul caught a glimpse of his hand. His skin was coal black. “You’re Dayandalous. I remember you.”
The shadows that obscured Dayandalous’ face thinned and his eyes flared red for a moment. “Yes, Paul. And you remember me because I want you to.”
Paul didn’t like the way that each time they met, within moments of parting he completely forgot the man. “The forty-fourth floor. That was a clever trick, really threw me for a loop. And in the Netherworld. And in Belinda’s apartment. And in Faerie. You just show up at the oddest of times, and afterwards I completely forget you.”
“And you’ll forget me again, once we’ve had this conversation.”
“Did you give Katherine that sword?”
“Ah, again you’re quite perceptive.”
“So why are you here now?”
“To impart a little information. A little lesson, as it were.”
Paul got the impression Dayandalous was grinning, laughing at him quietly. “First, about the fey. The royal lines of the Sidhe Courts are immortal, nearly impossible to kill.” Paul didn’t miss the word nearly. “They don’t age and die, and in Faerie they are enormously powerful, almost impossible to overcome . . . in Faerie. But they can be killed. And to do so you must separate the head from the heart. Then impale both the head and the heart on cold iron, and hold the iron fast until their struggles cease; a difficult proposition, to say the least.
“And then there is the matter of traveling between the Realms. Many of the fey do not need a boundary, or a ley line. They just need to know where they want to go, then they twist reality to make it so.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Remember what I’ve said, Paul. Also remember that if you ever must fight a Sidhe royal, do not hold back. It will be a fight to the death, and you must show no hesitation, no mercy, no compassion. For they will show no hesitation, no mercy, no compassion.”
Paul had no intention of getting into any battles with Sidhe royals. “Again, why are you telling me this?”
“In time, all will become clear, Paul.”
. . . Now why had he opened two bottles of beer. Just sitting there by himself in his kitchen, a half empty bottle in his hand, another on the table in front of him, as if someone had sat there sharing a beer with him. All this magic crap made his head spin, made him forgetful.
He finished his beer, poured the remnants of the other into the sink. The beer made him drowsy, so he rolled into bed, was practically asleep before his head hit the pillow.
~~~
Ag screamed hysterically at Sabreatha. “We had a contract. You were to kill the necromancer.”
The black fey stood before the Winter King casually and showed no fear at his rage. The soft hiss of her voice sent a shiver up Anogh’s spine. “I delivered les flèche du coeur. The contract is complete.”
“No,” Ag screamed, “you took contract to kill him with the heart arrow.”
“Nay, I took contract to deliver the heart arrow. The contract was clearly stated, and it is complete.”
Chapter 14: An Unexpected Visitor
McGowan had asked Paul to meet him at an address in a part of the Haight-Ashbury district referred to by most locals as the Upper Haight, an area filled with nineteenth century, multi-story wooden houses. While the summer of love had long since left the Haight behind, there were still a few retro clothing shops on Haight Street, the main drag, mixed among the tattoo parlors, restaurants and jewelry stores. It hadn’t really gone upscale, though to some degree it still maintained its bohemian style. But the Haight now seemed more focused on tourists, crowds of which wandered up and down Haight Street almost any day of the week.
The address led Paul to a small shop named Alternate Earth Books, nestled among residential structures in the Upper Haight. When Paul opened the front door it triggered a small bell. He stepped inside and closed it behind him, stood facing row upon row of musty old books, not sure how to proceed. A sixtyish woman approached him wearing a tie-dyed dress, too much makeup, a few too many years and a few too many pounds. She smiled at him pleasantly. “Can I help you?”
“I’m supposed to meet someone here,” Paul said. He looked about. The shop was small enough that if McGowan were already there he’d spot him easily. “But it doesn’t look like he’s here yet.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you here to meet Walter?” She winked at him knowingly, gave him a conspiratorial look as if they were collaborators in some secret scheme.
“I’m here to meet Mr. McGowan. Yes.”
She winked again, as if they shared some vast secret, then leaned close and whispered, “He’s in the back room where I keep the old books. Follow me.” She turned and spun on her heal like a schoolgirl. As Paul followed her he opened himself to his power, but couldn’t sense any capability within her.
She led him to the back of the shop and into a small room where McGowan stood flipping through the pages of a large book. He looked up from the book as they entered. “Paul, glad you could make it, kid. You’ve met Dorothy?”
McGowan introduced him to the old hippie whom he learned was also the shop’s owner, and as Paul shook her hand politely she gave him that conspiratorial look again, though at least she didn’t wink this time. “I’ve got to watch the front of the shop,” she said, beaming at McGowan, almost gushing at him like a teenager with a rock star, “so I’ll leave you two to your browsing.”
When he and McGowan were alone, Paul quietly asked, “What’s with all the winking and nudge-nudge-poke-poke?”
McGowan turned back to the book he’d been examining, whispered, “She’s a member of a coven, thinks we all share the same secrets.” McGowan winked at Paul.
Skeptically, Paul said, “I couldn’t sense any capability in her.”
McGowan chuckled and grinned. “I made a point of meeting her sister witches, just in case one of them did have any abilities. Not an ounce of power among the lot. But they like to get together and do some chants, practice some rituals, hold a séance, call some spirits, though I’ll bet the closest any of them has ever come to calling a spirit was when one of them farted after one too many tokes on the bong, and they all thought it was the smell of brimstone leaking over from the Netherworld.”
McGowan handed Paul the book. “Take a look at this.”
The book’s title, A Grimoire of Alternate Realities, flowed across the cover in large, flowery script. It appeared to have been printed in the m
id nineteenth century, seemed quite old, though Paul was not qualified to judge its authenticity. “A book of magic spells. Is this for real?”
“Useless drivel,” McGowan said, shaking his head. He reached up, pulled another book off a shelf. “Here. Look at this one.”
The instant the book touched Paul’s fingers he felt a mild tingle of power from it. McGowan saw the look on his face. “When it’s real, and it’s been used by someone who was a real practitioner, they leave an imprint on the book. It’s involuntary, like leaving your fingerprints on a glass when you drink from it. So you’ll always know a real grimoire when you touch one.”
Paul picked up the first book again. “So this one’s a fake?”
McGowan grimaced. “It depends on what you mean by fake. Dorothy knows her books, so if it was a fake she’d have attached a note to that effect, or a note to the effect that she hadn’t been able to authenticate its pedigree. So the fact that it’s here without such a note means she’s done her homework and is satisfied it’s real. My guess is some nineteenth century charlatan wrote it, some fellow running a scam as a fake wizard, or someone who, like Dorothy, was sincerely deluded. Séances and all sorts of mumbo-jumbo crap were quite popular about the time this was written. It may even have some antique value, but I don’t collect old books for the sake of old books.”
Paul flipped through a few pages of the real grimoire. “It’s in Latin.”
“Most of the older ones are. That’s why you need to study Latin. Right now I’ll make a present of this one to you, and maybe someday you’ll find something useful in it. But remember this shop, and keep your eye out for others like it. Anyone collecting old books might have something valuable you can use, especially someone like Dorothy who’s always picking up old grimoires. Most of them are crap, but you can spot the real ones.”
~~~
McGowan bought the old book for Paul then drove them both back to his Nob Hill place. Inside, he marched Paul straight to his workshop, saying, “Today, we’re going to learn a bit about the Netherworld, kid. I’ve stayed away from it because it’s really dangerous stuff, thought I’d wait until you had a chance to learn more, but recent events tell me we can’t put it off any longer. You need to understand what you’ve faced with these demons. But I want you to promise—I want your word—that you’ll stay away from demon magic and the other black arts until you’ve had more training. And even then, this stuff can easily leave a taint on your soul, so it’s not wise to delve into it regularly or deeply.”