The Initiate

by James L. Cambias

  Sam waved the entirely legitimate State Police ID card Moreno had given him at the building security guard and went up to the tenth floor. He pushed through the crowd in the hallway and waved the card at the cop holding the door of the apartment.

  Inside Sam was struck by a powerful feeling of deja vu. The layout of the place and decor were entirely different, but the cops and EMTs moving about purposefully in someone’s house was just like his own home after the Anzu attack.

  He could hear a woman’s voice talking through tears, and followed it down a short corridor toward what must be the master bedroom. Halfway there he had to stop and make room as the EMTs pushed past with a black body bag strapped to a gurney.

  It was a very small bag. He looked into the room they came out of and saw stuffed animals, an American Girls doll in Colonial clothes, and some Disney princesses.

  Sam’s mouth was dry all of a sudden. He wanted to turn and get out of there. Leave the parents to tell the police the truth. Maybe call in the media. Make everyone see…

  What? A child was dead. Her parents were weeping. It proved nothing.

  He forced himself to go the rest of the way down that hall to the bedroom. A woman in robe and nightgown sat on the bed, while a female detective with a sympathetic face listened to her and made notes on a tablet.

  “…woman, bending over her. I screamed, I think, and she turned to me. She was—she looked like she was topless, and she had on a skirt that looked like snakes. I screamed again, and she disappeared.”

  “Where did she go?” the detective asked.

  “Nowhere. She just…disappeared.”

  Sam left the room as unobtrusively as he had entered, and looked into the child’s bedroom again. One EMT was left, packing up equipment.

  “Kid dead?” Sam asked, trying to sound world-weary.

  “Yeah, they’re taking her to the hospital for a formal declaration.”

  “What happened?”

  “Lung hemorrhage.” The EMT nodded her head at the pillow, which bore a big stain turning from red to brown.

  Sam felt himself relax a tiny bit. The parents wouldn’t be blamed for that—as long as he could persuade the detective that the mother wasn’t making up a story to conceal guilt.

  An officer was interviewing the father in the living room.

  “When I got there Anna was holding her, and I could see the blood. I told Anna to call 911, and I tried to do CPR. I took a course, in college. I tried, but the blood—”

  “You did all you could,” the cop said, sounding as if he’d rather be anywhere but there at that moment.

  Sam pushed his way back to the master bedroom and watched the detective until he could make out the name on her laminated ID. CALLAHAN, S., it said. He’d have to talk to her later. He pushed his way back to the hallway and took the elevator downstairs.

  Across the street from the building, Riverside Park was entirely empty, so Sam had plenty of privacy when he called Moreno. “How did you hear about this? You didn’t tell me it was a little girl!”

  “Slow down, man. You’re not making sense. Did you fix everything?”

  Sam turned to keep the snow out of his face. “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know, not yet. I got a text, from some hotel concierge who didn’t remember sending it. The important thing is fixing it. Do we have a problem here?”

  “No,” said Sam, not even trying to keep the contempt out of his voice. “We don’t have a problem. The cops will probably call it natural causes. If I can manage it I’ll make sure they don’t accuse the people whose daughter just died of murdering her. But you don’t have to worry—whoever did murder her won’t be bothered.”

  “Hey, I get it. I don’t like some of the shit our people get up to, but trust me, it would be worse if the subur knew. It would be war. The Sages would probably knock the world back to the Middle Ages, kill off ninety percent of the population. Some of them have been suggesting that for years. This is bad but the alternatives are all worse.”

  Sam took a deep breath. “I need the full name for the detective on the case. It’s a woman named Callahan, first initial S. Probably works out of the 24th Precinct.”

  “Look, if there’s no physical evidence of anything weird you can just let this go.”

  “No. These people don’t deserve to be hauled into court, or in front of a psychiatrist, not after what happened. I’m going to make sure the police leave them alone.”

  “I got her. Susan Theresa Callahan. Be careful, okay?”

  “Don’t worry.” He started to turn off his phone, then stopped. “Moreno—still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “How many innocent people have you killed just to keep the secret?”

  CALL ENDED, said his phone’s little screen.

  Sam walked back to the building and loitered purposefully until he saw the detective come out of the elevator. “Detective Callahan? Can I talk to you for a second?”

  She actually looked at him then, evaluating him. “Who’re you?”

  “Daniel Sanchez. I live in the building next door. I have to talk to you.”

  “So talk.”

  He glanced at the officers with her, letting himself look as nervous as he felt. “Privately?”

  She rolled her eyes a little, and told the two officers, “You two go on. I’ll be right out.” Then she led Sam back past the elevators, to the laundry room. “Okay, private enough?”

  Sam clutched the steel arrowhead in his coat pocket. “Yes. Eresikin Susan Theresa Callahan. Answer all the questions I ask you. Segah. Tell me if you believe what the little girl’s mother told you.”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to investigate the parents?”

  “Yes. There’s something weird about this one.”

  “Eresikin Susan Theresa Callahan iginudug Ruax. Obey my instructions. Segah. I want you to drop the investigation. Believe the girl died of natural causes. Believe her mother is having hallucinations from the shock.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do what I have told you but forget we ever had this conversation.”

  She nodded, then her eyes cleared and she frowned at Sam. “Well? Get on with it.”

  “I just want to let you know how much I appreciate how much you and the other men and women on the police force do for this city. Keep up the good work,” he said.

  She smiled politely and thanked him, then left as quickly as possible.

  Outside it was still snowing. One more thing to do. Sam wanted to know who really was responsible. Why send a monster to murder a stranger’s child? He wondered if the Apkal behind this horror was the same one who had destroyed his own life.

  He hiked to a coffeeshop and set up his laptop. First things first: figure out what manner of spirit had killed the child. A quick search for “woman+spirit+snake+skirt” led him to…cihuateteo.

  Sam sat back, staring at the screen as he felt a new surge of horror. He recognized the name. Isabella’s “dead Mexican lady.” They had even made a deal. Sam had promised not to tell anyone. Because what harm could a little girl accomplish, even with an Aztec death spirit under her control?

  He found her three hours later in Central Park, building a snowman atop the rock outcroppings at Sixty-seventh Street. The snowman was taller than Sam, and had a disturbing-looking face with no eyes but a huge toothy mouth. He could sense that the snowman was inhabited by something. Isabella had obviously been working at it a long time, judging by the state of her clothes, but she showed no sign of being tired.

  She seemed intent on her work, but when Sam approached she said “Hi, Mr. Ace!” without turning around.

  “Why did you kill her?”

  “Who?”

  “Omid Marandi. She lives—she used to live on the Upper West Side. Your cihuateteo killed her.”

  Isabella still didn’t turn around. She patted more snow into the snowman’s torso, which had two sets of short claw-tipped arms and a coiled serpent tail instead of leg
s. “She was mean.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  Isabella turned. “She was mean! At the Dinosaur Playground she said I was a liar when I said I lived at the library. And she pushed me!”

  “You killed her because she pushed you? Isabella, you can’t do things like that!”

  “Yes I can! I can do anything I want!”

  Sam took a step toward her but then stopped. He could sense presences between them.

  “You can’t kill people just because you want to. It’s wrong.”

  “You kill people.”

  He glanced around, but nobody was nearby. Not even New Yorkers would be out in the park on a day like this one.

  “They were bad people, Isabella. They hurt innocents. You’re starting to act like them.”

  Her face was defiant, but his parent’s eyes could see the shame behind it. “Maybe I should just tell Mr. Moreno about you. Then I can do what I want with nobody bugging me!”

  “I don’t think you want to attract his attention any more than you already have,” said Sam quietly.

  The two of them stared at each other through the snow. Then Isabella turned back to her snowman. “It’s not fair,” she said. “She pushed me, and nobody did anything! She didn’t even say she was sorry.”

  “You could have just scared her. Hell, you could just push her back.”

  Isabella made no direct reply, but he could hear her muttering to herself. “She was being mean, and I told her she was being mean, and she pushed me. And her stupid mother didn’t even tell her not to. I have to keep everything secret but she gets to go around pushing people. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. I don’t even have a mother and I don’t push people.”

  He almost felt sorry for her, but then she spoiled the effect by glancing back over her shoulder at him, and the lack of emotion on her face chilled him more than the wind.

  “How much of your soul have you traded away at the market?” he asked.

  She just shrugged and began working on another arm of the snow creature.

  “What are you?”

  That got no response either, so Sam turned and slogged through the snow to Fifth Avenue. There were people there.

  Chapter 19

  At midnight on March 18 of 2016, Sam was in a fancy condominium on Eleventh Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen. He wore a black hooded robe and stood in a circle with eleven other people holding red candles. The circle of black-robed people surrounded a very impressive-looking pentagram painted in red poster paint on the pricey hardwood floor, and in the center of the pentagram a handsome bearded man led them in a chant of adoration to Satan.

  This was the fourth time Sam had attended a Black Mass at this condo and he knew what was coming next. The “High Priestess” of the coven—a call girl hired for the occasion—would doff her robe and lie down in the pentagram. The “High Priest” would screw her (with lots of invocations to “Dark Powers” from him and porn-movie moaning from her). A chalice of red box wine (spiked with pineapple juice and Everclear) would circulate left to right, a giant spliff (spiked with incense and rosemary) would circulate right to left, and then the “coven” would doff their own robes and commence either screwing or masturbating, depending on individual tastes. It was all nonsense—the nasty naughtiness of a toddler playing with shit.

  The only thing about the whole “working” that wasn’t obviously bogus was the “High Priest” himself. Sam’s Inner Eye told him that the muscular man with a shaved head and properly Mephistophelean Van Dyke beard was more than just a hipster being transgressive. There really was a demon inside him, and Sam could even sense the spirit’s vast amusement at the whole tawdry con game.

  Logic had led Sam to this Satanic sex cult. Premise: Charles White needed an agent to recruit people for his body-slavery operation, renting out humans to demons in exchange for a year’s service. Second premise: This agent had to be someone White could trust or control. Conclusion: The obvious agent for White was one of his bound demons. He could control it absolutely for a year, and the spirit might even enjoy the work.

  And once you asked the question “How would a demon in human form recruit humans to undergo an occult ritual?” the answer just popped right out. A demonic cult. Why bother trying to force people to submit to a magical working when you could advertise for willing volunteers? Miss Elizabeth was right, in a way: The Apkallu had “beaten the priests” and no longer needed to hide their magic. The only thing they did need to hide was that it worked.

  All very logical, but so far the “High Priest of the Satanic Temple of Astaroth” hadn’t actually made his pitch. Just chanted nonsense and banged a hooker while a bunch of Gothy college students and middle-aged perverts watched. Sam had even done his best to linger afterward and help with cleanup, just to see if the “High Priest” was making private arrangements with the more attractive cultists. No sign of it. If he wasn’t sure the dude was actually a demon Sam would have dropped the whole thing after his first session.

  He wasn’t sure he could stand doing this much longer. The whole experience was so anti-erotic he was starting to wonder if he’d ever have another erection again. So Sam felt a surge of relief when the “High Priest” clapped his hands for attention at the end of the ritual.

  “Brothers and sisters of Astaroth! Tomorrow is Ostara, one of the hinges of the year. I’d like to invite everyone to a special working tomorrow night. This is only for the most advanced practitioners, and I can guarantee that everyone who undergoes it will ascend to new levels of awareness and power. Meet in the lobby downstairs at five o’clock Saturday evening. There will be a van to the ritual site. Dress warmly.”

  The High Priest brushed aside all questions with a cheery “You’ll find out tomorrow night,” and disappeared into the master bedroom to get cleaned up.

  As soon as Sam got home he phoned Taika Feng. “It’s happening tomorrow night,” he said.

  “Do you know where?”

  “I’m guessing we’re going to the island. I’m also guessing they won’t let me on the boat if I’m carrying magic.”

  “Saturday night’s the equinox,” she said, as if thinking aloud. “A good time for all magic, and the next full Moon is Tuesday. He can enslave their minds tonight and just keep them around for a couple of days, then sell their bodies at the Goblin Market.”

  “Right—but how can I turn this against White? Even if I spoil the ritual that just means he can’t sell some bodies this month. It’s not going to destroy him.”

  “You will have to call a demon to you once you set foot on the island.”

  “How the hell can I do that without somebody noticing?”

  “I will manage it,” she said. “Come over here at once. I will assemble my Triad.”

  Sam looked at the clock—it was nearly four a.m.—and groaned. “Can you give me two hours?”

  Taika laughed. “You can have four. It will take me a while to locate Isabella and persuade Miss Elizabeth to help.”

  He took a shower, napped for a couple of hours, and got down to the East Village just after eight. A familiar Skoda limousine was parked illegally by a fire hydrant just down the block, and Isabella sat on the steps of Taika’s house eating takeout sushi.

  “Hi!” she chirped. “Are you all ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “This is going to be so fun!”

  He followed her upstairs to Taika’s magical workroom, where a huge copper basin of what smelled like seawater stood in the center of a carefully drawn sigil of Saturn.

  “Get undressed,” said Taika as soon as she saw him.

  “I’d like to know what we’re doing first.”

  She gave him an irritated sigh. “You need to be able to call upon a mighty spirit, to bring havoc to Charles’s island tonight. But you lack the power and wisdom to bind one strong enough. We have that, in abundance. So at noon we shall call up a demon of the waters and bind it to your service. You’ll have to pay it.”

  �
��Pay? With what?”

  “A year of your life would be enough, I think. You’re still relatively healthy; you won’t notice.” She tossed him a bottle of myrrh-scented oil. “Get yourself anointed. I’m going to draw some sigils on you.”

  After his sessions at the Temple of Astaroth Sam had no trouble undressing, even with Isabella about. One thing he was pretty sure of was that nothing he could do would corrupt her more than she had already done to herself.

  Taika drew sigils of Pisces and Cancer on Sam using a brush dipped in grave dust. “Don’t worry, it’s been autoclaved,” she assured him. When she finished he dressed in a kilt of linen dyed with squid ink.

  The ritual began at nine. The time was inauspicious, as demons never liked to appear by day, so to make up for that the three Apkallu witches were using an old and complicated invocation. Miss Elizabeth, Taika, and Isabella, wrapped in sheets of the same black linen, chanted together while Sam ceremoniously burned hellebore and asphodel and scattered the ashes into the basin of seawater.

  They chanted, they danced, they drank wine and poured a libation into the basin. At the climax of the working Sam tore apart a live crab and flung the fragments into the increasingly murky seawater.

  A moment later the water began to churn, as if boiling. Then it rose, shaping itself into a tall dome with a crude human face. The eyes were twin whirlpools dark with ash particles, and the mouth was a wide gash the color of red wine.

  “Who dares name Kulullu?” said a voice like booming surf.

  Taika pointed to Sam, who stood before the demon in the basin. “Kulullu, I offer you a year of my life for your service until the sun rises next,” he said in Sumerian. He pricked his thumb with a little golden sickle and let the drop fall onto the face in the water. “I give you my blood as token of my life. Take it, and serve me.”

  He could sense the being’s power—and sense it resisting him. “Take the gift I have given, O Kulullu, and grant the favor I ask,” he said, and concentrated. He could feel Taika, Miss Elizabeth, and Isabella joined together, almost like a single will, backing him up.

  After a moment the booming voice spoke again. “I will serve you until the sun rises, and you shall die sooner by a year.”