Marge took a minute to refresh our mugs. “How’s Kris and Porter?”
“Kris is Kris—still loving life, still a ball of energy, and I’m still not positive we’re related.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You aren’t one to sit idle.”
“Yeah, and neither is Porter…”
“You didn’t call me for coffee to shoot the shit about your kids, you want to know about Claudia Wilson.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“So what do you want to know?”
Is she an evil Magician hell bent on raising an army of New Dead to drive people to her newly remodeled movie theater?
“She’s re-opening the Brighton 8 over by Cathy’s martial arts school.”
Marge rolled her eyes. “So she bought the theater? Doesn’t she know that place never makes it? How many times has that thing changed hands? Four? Five?”
“Yeah…”
The receptionist shook her head slowly. “You’d think she’d be smarter with her money…”
“How so?”
“Her husband died a few years ago. Claudia was devastated, but it turned out he’d been hiding a considerable fortune from her, which she ended up with after the funeral.”
“Why pour it into an old movie theater?”
“Who knows? Claudia’s an odd duck. Then again, she practically went into hiding after Walt died, so it’s good to see her out and about again. Still, why do you ask, Gene?”
“Nothing in particular. Like I said, I ran into her yesterday evening after Cathy’s class. They did a decent job on the remodel, and I wanted to get some contact details, in case we need a sub-contractor for anything—like you said though, she’s an odd duck.”
“She just thinks you’re out for her money. I wouldn’t pay much attention to it.”
“True,” I said, swirling the last of the coffee in my mug.
“Now,” Marge said, leaning forward in her chair. “I want to see some recent pictures of Cathy and Kris—you’ve been holding out on me.”
Like any good dad, I pulled out my phone and swiped through pictures of Porter and the kids. Marge and I shared more than a couple of laughs at how big they’d gotten in just a few short years.
“Wow. Before you know it Kris’ll be bigger than Adam.”
“He’s certainly more active—”
My apprentice!
I’d left him with an extra-dimensional hell beast for—I glanced at my phone—over four hours!
“Sorry, Marge, I’ve gotta run. I completely forgot about something I was having Adam check on—”
“No problem. I’m just glad someone keeps an eye on that kid.”
I crammed my phone back in my pocket and made a mental note to find a little more on Claudia Wilson’s dearly departed husband, but first I had to make sure Adam hadn’t made any soul-trading deals with the monster currently living in Kinder Construction’s only budget-saving 3D printer.
“Gene, wait,” Marge said, leaning forward in her chair.
“Yeah?”
The receptionist’s voice changed, it shifted an octave, twisting into something altogether different. She placed a wrinkled hand on mine. “Why didn’t you drop by on your way in today? You drove right past without stopping.”
“What are you talking about, I didn’t drive by—”
The House!
I’d kept 69 Mallory Lane out of my life for so long, yet here it was, right back like it’d never left and inhabiting the body of a dear friend.
“That’s the first I’ve seen you in a long while—almost thought you were avoiding me. You never call, you don’t write. What am I to do?”
“Get out of her,” I said, placing my hand firmly on top of Marge’s.
“I missed this—maybe we should get together more often? What do normal people do today? Whatever, I’ll stay in touch. We’ve got business, you and I…”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
“What’s not gonna happen?” Marge asked, her voice back to its cheerful self.
18
Doom
The House…
I’d been so careful to avoid it, to stay out of its view, but now all my efforts were out the window. It had found me again.
Marge wouldn’t remember anything—the House wouldn’t let her—but I knew it wouldn’t let me off so easy.
I ran through the empty lobby—most of the staff had already left for the day by the time I’d remembered our Imp problem. No light peeked out from behind the fishbowl’s blinds, which only worried me more.
What could he have done?
There were a lot of things Adam could have done, and my hyperactive brain was more than happy to play them out for me. The Imp might have found a way to communicate with him and perhaps offered him the services of a much more powerful entity in exchange for a small trifle—some part of his childhood, maybe? Or his first hoodie? Or perhaps the memory of the first girl he’d kissed, provided such a thing existed—to be honest I wasn’t sure.
Imps liked to start small, but then move the stakes quickly and ramp right up like a fancy casino. The more memories you surrender, the more of your soul you lose. Cast aside too much and you stop being the person you were and start becoming something different.
Light flashed through the seams of the darkened blinds followed by the telltale guttural laughter of a demonic entity.
“Adam!” I shouted, banging on the window. “Don’t do it, don’t give in!”
The Imp’s voice grew louder behind the glass; whatever was happening in there it couldn’t be good.
The fishbowl’s door stayed unlocked during the work day while Adam was inside, but after hours the door locked automatically. I turned the knob only to find the bolt had already engaged.
He wouldn’t have left the Imp in the office alone, would he?
I twisted the knob again and banged on the door. “Adam! Let me in.”
I received no response for my efforts.
I took a step back and brought up the words of my favorite unlocking spell, then stopped. Imps were exceptional at screwing with Magick—it was part of what made them both dangerous and useful. If that little bastard had wanted to, he could have put all manner of deadly traps on the door just waiting for me to trip them.
“Damn it, Adam! If you are in there let me in! Imps are dangerous.”
Still no response.
I grabbed my phone and hammered out a text, hoping to God the Boy Wonder was safe and sound on the other side and cursing myself for leaving a defenseless man-child with a nefarious creature from the fiery lakes of Hell.
Adam, where are you?! Are you safe? Where is the Imp?
I stared at the phone screen, half-ready to throw it across the room. Where could he be? The kid lived at home still—he had plenty of school loans and more than half his take-home cash was driven back into video games—but his mom didn’t seem to mind. She let him live in a spare room over the garage rent-free; I think she just liked knowing there was someone else nearby.
More flashing whites and reds lit up the seams between the blinds, followed by the unmistakable gravelly and malevolent laughter of an Imp.
I checked the phone again—no response.
That’s it, I’m coming in—Magickal Demon or not.
I placed a hand on the knob and summoned up my best unlocking spell.
“Mihi—”
The phone chirped in my hand, shattering my concentration.
In the office—u still here? I’ll unlock the door.
The electronic bolt slid home and I burst into the room with my hands and head ready for anything—well, anything except what I walked into.
Adam was seated at his command station wearing an oversized set of headphones. He had a large assortment of vending machine fare laid out across his desk and all four monitors wired together to display one enormous digital Hellscape. A Cheeto-laden video game controller rested in his orange-tipped fingers—which complemented the cheesy dust on his beard per
fectly.
On any other early evening none of this would seem out of the norm, but not this evening. This evening my apprentice had an Imp perched on his head.
The Minor Demon also held a controller in his tiny fingers and was going ballistic on the keys. Periodically he’d smash his pointed tail onto one of the buttons and a series of explosions would flash across the screen.
“Adam!”
My apprentice pushed his headphones back, careful to not disrupt the Imp’s game.
“Hey, Gene, what’s up?”
“What the hell are you doing?” I’d gone from happy he was safe to ready to throw the kid into oncoming traffic all in the span of about three seconds.
“What do you mean?”
What do I mean!?! You have a denizen of the lower Hells on your head—What do you think I mean!
At that very moment words failed to properly capture the frothing sea of emotions surging below my skin. “Gah!”
“Oh, you mean mister—”
“Stop,” I cried, my eyes trying to burn holes in his head, but to no avail.
“What?”
“Do not give him a name.”
“It’s just a nickname—well, more of a gamertag really. He’s like a damn monster on the first-person shooters, bro.”
“He is a monster!”
“I know, right?”
“Adam, did you name the Imp?”
“No, I know you said not to talk to him and stuff, but we both got really bored. Did you know he’d started eating the plastic filament from the printer?”
“You didn’t feed him did you?”
“No, he just ate the filament.”
“Well, he’s an Imp.”
“Yeah, but plastic filament? Still, I figured if he was gonna eat the box anyway I might as well take him out.”
My hands opened and closed involuntarily, and I was certain my face was turning beet red. “Adam…”
“Whoa, Gene—chill. All I did was fire up a few video games. He wasn’t really keen on anything until I turned on Hellfire.”
The Imp used his wings as fingers to hit a combination of buttons and launch fiery digital missiles into the pixilated denizens of video game Hell.
“Just look at him—he’s a natural!”
The Imp rattled off a string of insults at his computer-generated opponents—seemed the tiny demon had a few thousand years of pent-up aggression to get out.
“Didn’t I tell you…”
“Right, I totally did not try to negotiate with him—heck I don’t even know what he’s saying—but holy crap, man, can this guy play. I’m thinking I need to get him in a tournament. You know, I bet we could totally clean up.”
“Adam—”
“—I’d split the cash with you ninety-ten. I mean, I did teach him how to play, and technically he’s using my account which is semi-pro status and has—”
“Adam!”
The Imp completed this level, filling Adam’s monitors with an explosion of semi-realistic digital gore, then pumping his tiny fists in the air.
“Way to go—”
“Do not name the Imp!”
“Imp,” Adam said, his excitement muted.
“Honestly, what were you thinking?”
My apprentice tilted his head. “Huh?”
“You want it attached to you for life?”
Adam shrugged. “I don’t get it—it’s just a name, Gene.”
“Names have power.”
“Yeah, I don’t know—”
“How’d it feel when kids called you names in school?” I asked, emphasizing the words perhaps a little harsher than I should have.
Adam’s back stiffened. “That’s not—”
“The same? Like Hell it isn’t. Names change people, and not always for the better.”
Adam’s face softened. “Sorry.”
“You didn’t name him, right?”
“Right.”
“Good,” I said, scooping up the 3D printer box on the floor near Adam’s desk—he wasn’t kidding, the Imp did appear to have eaten the filament right off the rolls.
You name it, it’s yours… for life.
I placed the box on Adam’s desk and slid the remaining snack wrappers out of the way.
“Wow, look at the time,” I said, pointing to the clock on his screen. “Sure is getting LATE.”
“No, it’s not, it’s like six o'clock. How early do you go to—”
“It’s LATE isn’t it, Adam?” I said again, this time letting my eyes convey the severity of the message, and for the second time today my apprentice whiffed—hard.
“Gene, I routinely stay up well past—”
“Somnum…” I whispered, running my hand over the Imp’s bald head.
He yawned, and stretched, then curled into a ball on Adam’s scalp.
“Oh, shit.” Adam said, his hands reaching for the diminutive Demon.
“Don’t even think about it.” I picked up the printer case. “He’s coming with me until I can get what I need to send him back to Hell. Get your keys, you’re giving us a ride home.”
Adam nodded and started digging through his desk for his car keys.
I took one last look at the sleeping demon.
Porter’s gonna love this.
19
Law Estate
I had my second silent car ride today, but this time it was a sullen apprentice and not a self-righteous attorney. The end result was still the same though, it gave me time to think.
My most immediate problem was the Imp riding in the back seat. Sure, he was asleep now, but he wouldn’t stay that way forever. I needed to get some banishment supplies and try to hunt down the proper sigil—my last Imp banishment had been in college, which was in no way recent.
Then there was the Old Dead. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that it should be discovered right around the same time New Dead were popping up like stink on a dead rabbit. I believe in Magick, but draw the line at coincidences.
A Magician’s life is never dull.
My apprentice avoided Mallory Lane, but not because he knew it; I’d long ago enchanted his mother’s car to avoid the street. It was a side road that few people would have driven on anyway, but our present ride would miss it completely—I’d made certain of that.
I let my mind wander to John Henry’s spike, and the yard sale tomorrow. Magickal items and their yard sales were not for the faint of heart, nor were they easy to find. Adam may not have much in the way of casting power yet, but he was decent with Magickal items, and had a knack for combining his technology skills with an innate Magickal talent. He didn’t hack all those computers before I met him through sheer technical skill—he’d used a little Wild Magick. The best part was he hadn’t even known it.
Still, there was no way I was bringing him with me to the yard sale; it would be early, and it would be dangerous—the former far more important than the latter.
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
St. Matthew was one heck of a Magician, but I bet he had wanted to bop a few apprentices in the nose once in a while.
We took another turn, and I checked on the Imp box. We’d found an old hoodie in the back seat and used that to cover the case; like a songbird he’d stayed quiet in the artificial darkness of the smothered printer cage.
I’d have loved to pull over right there and send that Minor Demon back to Hell, but that was how I’d gotten in trouble in the first place. Porter had been right, opening a gate like that was a reckless—albeit impressive—move. The Hell Fleas alone would have been bad enough, had it not been for the destroyed Dad Wagon and the pink monster-in-a-box.
There’s an Imp in the back seat, but at least he didn’t name it.
Somewhere I knew the cosmos was laughing at me.
Adam pulled up to the house, but didn’t turn into the driveway; instead he rolled up against the swale.
“Careful,” I said, keeping a sharp eye on the plastic pink flamingo flock that dotted
my lawn. “Don’t hit the yard art.”
The Law Family estate was a simple remodeled bungalow with a sprawling front porch complete with slow spinning ceiling fans. Porter and I had purchased the house not long after I took the job with Kinder. The original owners had been a little difficult to exorcise, but that can happen when your house was built in the early nineteen hundreds—we’d long since cleaned up all the ectoplasm and made it our own. Its mint green exterior and wide front porch gave it a distinct ‘Old Florida’ feel, and the flock of pink yard ornaments didn’t hurt either. A few years ago, we’d swapped the old car port out for a small garage, and I couldn’t have been happier. It was great to have a place to keep the car, but it was equally important to have a space for Dad’s less-than-savory Magickal problems, such as the Imp currently sleeping in the back seat.
Soft orange light shone out the front windows, spilling out over the porch and its unused rocking chairs, and affording us the perfect silhouette of one Cathy Law, practically plastered to the glass. My daughter’s long hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and while I couldn’t see her eyes, it was easy to imagine them filled with giddy anticipation. What I didn’t have to imagine was the overgrown weeds in front of the porch. Porter had been on me to take care of them for a while, and I’d been all set to get started, but the new pump sprayer was currently in the belly of a disassembled Dad Wagon.
I’d hear about that this evening, but only if I could get a moment’s peace. Cathy wouldn’t have forgotten our conversation from earlier. I just hoped I’d get enough time to hide the Imp in the garage, since there was no way that thing was coming into the house.
“I’m going to give you a call tomorrow,” I said, unclipping my seat belt.
“Oh, wait, Gene, I almost forgot. I did a little digging on the Brighton 8.”
“And…”
“There’s a record of multiple hauntings at the theater,” Adam said, counting them off on his fingers.
“Someone die there?”
“If they did, it never made the official record—I haven’t found anything.”
“What about the hauntings?”
Dead Set Page 9