“Hey!” shouted one of Roger’s bodyguards. The two of them sprinted up the aisle.
Sam released the sleep-spirit from his ring with a word. Roger couldn’t say anything; he was clawing at the fishing line, which was already sunk deep into the flesh of his neck. He punched at Sam, but was already weakening.
One bodyguard fell to the ground unconscious; the other hesitated, then drew a pistol. “Let him go!” he yelled, moving to the end of the pew for a good line of sight. Sam ignored him. The gunshot made the whole room ring, but of course his protective spirit made sure it missed him.
Roger was limp now. Sam let go of one handle long enough to fish the poltergeist bottle out of his pocket and toss it. The guard fired again as he did so, two rounds in rapid succession. Sam heard one of them splinter the far end of the pew.
The bottle shattered at the man’s feet, and both he and Sam watched it as…nothing happened. For an instant Sam could sense the poltergeist’s surprise and fear before it vanished. Evidently sacred ground was too much for it. He pulled out the tin whistle and blew.
The guard had put away his gun and was moving up the length of the pew now, but as he did the sound of the whistle changed from a squeak to a deep roar like a jet engine on full afterburner as the elemental emerged and battered the man with a mighty wind. Hymnals and seat cushions smashed into him and the force of the wind was intense enough to push him back.
Sam checked Roger’s pulse. Nothing. The Sage of the West was dead.
No point in staying. He fled for the side door, tugging off his cheap thrift-store overcoat and tossing it aside. Underneath it he wore a hoodie and sweatpants, so he could run away and look like any other jogger.
He got about a hundred yards down Seventy-first Street before he heard the bestial roar. Behind him a patch of darkness was coming down the sidewalk. At the center towered a completely black, vaguely humanoid figure with massive clawed hands. The darkness around it was like a moonless night, fading with distance to a mere dimming of the daylight a few yards away.
Sam ran. Whatever it was, he doubted he could face it, especially with none of his own strong spirits to protect him and no magical materials for a banishing spell. It must have been some kind of fail-safe, he thought. Roger wasn’t just shrewd, he was a vindictive bastard, too.
He needed a church, and the demon of darkness was between him and St. James’—and the place would soon be crawling with cops, anyway. He reached the corner of Park Avenue and turned north, remembering vaguely that there were more churches that way. Sam ducked and dodged through the pedestrians, most of whom were transfixed by the sight of the dark thing pursuing him. A couple of people were so absorbed in their smartphones that they didn’t notice it walk past them.
Moreno’s out of town, he thought wildly. How am I going to cover this up? First I have to survive.
It was only a few yards behind him as he got to Seventy-second and sprinted across. A truck’s brakes squealed behind him and he heard a metallic crunch mingled with the demon’s roar. Sam risked a glance behind him in time to see the thing shove a bakery truck back against a taxicab and resume its pursuit.
At Seventy-third his lungs ached and he knew he couldn’t keep up this pace much longer. To the left he glimpsed a steeple at the end of the block, and ran toward it, cutting between parked cars to cross the street. The demon simply leaped over them. It was almost upon him as he reached a side entrance. Sam flung himself against the door and tugged it open.
The thing couldn’t enter, but it could reach inside. It slashed at him with one massive claw, dripping some vile-smelling liquid which fumed on the floor like acid. Sam scrambled into the sanctuary and looked back. Though it was morning outside, the doorway seemed to open into midnight, and even the lights inside looked pale.
It was a Presbyterian church, so Sam had to find the baptismal font to scoop up a handful of water. Then he stood just out of claw range and chanted the strongest banishing spell he knew, calling upon Ninurta and the Lord of Ruin as he sprinkled the water at the demon. “I release you from your pact! The man who bound you is dead! Begone!”
The darkness outside the door brightened to ordinary daylight, and Sam slumped into a pew, exhausted.
Chapter 25
The news report was vague. Some people described a cloud of smoke and an explosion, others a costumed man. Cell phone cameras captured just a dark spot. Con Ed reported no gas- or steam-line leaks in the area. It was not known if there was any connection with the strangling of an unknown man in St. James’ Church; police were investigating.
Lucas called him that evening. “I heard! Magnificent! The Illuminated Ones are assembling shortly to choose Roger’s successor. A couple of them have already contacted me. We’ve done it!”
“I guess I have to investigate this,” said Sam. “Moreno left me in charge, and when he gets back he’ll want a report.”
“You are far too conscientious, my boy. Forget about Moreno. You will soon be the protégé of the Sage of the West.”
Sam expected to hear from Moreno within hours, but evidently his vacation beach was very secluded indeed, because morning came without any word from him. Sam went through the motions of gathering information and covering up the supernatural aspects. He made sure the police investigating Roger’s death assumed it was a random mugging. He commanded all four of Roger’s goons to get as far away from New York as possible and create new identities for themselves. He checked his messages often, but Moreno never called.
* * *
Sam spent the next couple of days hanging around his crummy apartment, waiting for a call from Moreno—or anyone, really. Nobody bothered him. Now that he himself was no longer creating chaos among the Apkallu, things had gotten very quiet.
On the third day he decided to go out. It was the Friday before Labor Day weekend, the weather was lovely, and it seemed that everyone else in New York had the same idea. Even in midmorning the Botanical Garden was full of people sunbathing, strolling, or just hanging out.
After a couple of hours Sam cut through the Fordham University campus, heading for a pretty good Dominican place over on Webster Avenue. But as he crossed Fordham Road a familiar rusty van pulled into the crosswalk, earning the driver some angry looks from pedestrians. Isabella waved to Sam from the passenger seat. “Hi! Want a ride somewhere?”
He didn’t—but he did want to talk to Isabella, so he climbed into the back, trying not to touch any of the vile-smelling shag carpet covering the floor and walls.
Isabella knelt in her seat so she could look over the back at Sam. “Where do you want to go?”
“No place, really.”
“Take us to the Lexington Candy Shop,” she ordered Todd, who nodded nervously. “I saw when you killed Mr. Roger,” she said, smiling. “That was neat. The Rabisu was the best part. You looked so scared!”
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
She just looked puzzled for a second, then shrugged. “I wanted to see what it would do to you.”
“I don’t even know how it figured out I was the one.”
“Silly,” she said. “They don’t see the same things we do. They see your spirit, not your face. Who are you going after next? Mr. Moreno?”
“No, no. I’m done, I think.” Assuming Lucas does get to be the next Sage, of course. If not…Sam put that thought aside. Lucas certainly seemed confident enough.
“Aw,” she said. “That’s no fun. I bet you will have to fight Mr. Moreno.”
“There’s been enough of that.”
“If you say so. What kind of milk shake do you want?”
* * *
The Sages met, and on the sixteenth of September, just as the full Moon was rising over the East River, Sam met Lucas at the United Nations building. His mentor now had an entourage—Stone, the lieutenant governor of New York, two swimsuit models, and half a dozen bodyguards.
“Ace, my boy!” He embraced Sam, who didn’t know how to respond. “It’s done! My official induc
tion into the Circle of the Lamp will be in a week’s time, on the night of the equinox.”
“Congratulations, sir,” he said. A junior Apkal speaking to the new Sage would sound as awkward as Sam felt. “If there’s anything I can do, I’d be honored to help you.”
“Oh, yes. We have endless preparations to make, and right now the Circle of the West is very short-handed.” Lucas’s expression grew serious. “But I’m afraid there is bad news.”
“What?” asked Sam, fighting panic.
“Your friend Mr. Moreno, our indefatigable agaus. I’m sorry to say he’s dead. It happened a couple of weeks ago—I just learned of it myself. Apparently he was riding on a bus outside Bogota when it was caught in a landslide. A boulder crushed the entire vehicle.”
Sam stared. Was this some kind of joke? But Lucas looked appropriately solemn, as did the models.
“He was a good man,” said Stone, shaking his head.
“What happened to the Mitum?” asked Sam.
“I have dispatched some people to the scene. If it is recoverable, they will find it. With him gone, I’m afraid you will have to bear all the responsibility for keeping order among the Apkallu. Can you manage on your own?”
“I guess so.” Sam felt as if a boulder had struck him as well. “I’ll be in touch.”
For the next few days Sam spent most of his time near Lucas’s base of operations at the Harvard Club on Forty-fourth Street. His days were a blur of introductions as he met various underlings of the other Sages and helped find sufficiently luxurious quarters for them. The Sage of the Mountain had fairly simple tastes, and was satisfied with just a single floor of the Trump Tower. The others took over mansions on Fifth Avenue, or compounds out on Long Island. Sam hired limousines and helicopters to move them around, and booked the most expensive restaurants.
But it all seemed deeply trivial. Lucas was making his own security arrangements—“This is not the time for learning by doing,” he told Sam—and the other Sages had swarms of guards both magical and mundane.
Three days before the induction Sam decided to play hooky. He walked aimlessly north of Fifth Avenue, trying to enjoy the nice weather. They had won, Lucas was ascending to power, so why didn’t he feel happier? He got a ridiculously large and expensive steak dinner, but wound up leaving most of it unfinished on his plate. He had a couple of Bloody Marys at the bar in the St. Regis hotel, trying to absorb some of the good cheer of the people around him, without much success.
The thought of going back up to his place in the Bronx was almost too depressing to contemplate, so Sam wound up getting a room for the night at the St. Regis, and drank a glass of complimentary Prosecco as a toast to Moreno’s memory as he soaked in the tub.
With Lucas now on the path to Sagedom, Sam finally permitted himself to think about the future. He stretched out in the bed and tried to make plans. First he’d have to figure out how to trace whoever had commanded the anzu to destroy his family. With Lucas in possession of everyone’s true name, he could simply ask.
Hang on, Sam thought. Something Isabella had said came back to him. They don’t see the same things we do, she had said. But whoever had summoned the anzu had worn a mask. How did that work, if they could see your soul or whatever?
Isabella knew a lot about the “machinery” of the spirits. Hell, she was more a spirit than a human herself nowadays. If she said a disguise wouldn’t fool a spirit being, then Sam believed it.
Had the anzu lied? Why? Sure, they were bastards, but they weren’t especially loyal. Sam and Lucas had been right there in the Otherworld, wracking it with words of power while whoever had summoned it was far away. Why lie?
Unless…
Sam hauled himself out of the cooling bathwater and toweled off, frowning.
Unless whoever summoned it wasn’t far away. What if he was right there, commanding it?
Sam struggled to remember Lucas’s exact words. Something about “speak as I have commanded.” That wasn’t the same as “tell the truth,” was it? No, it wasn’t. And spirits were all about the letter of the command.
Lucas.
Was he protecting whoever had sent the anzu? Was it one of his other allies—Stone, or Dr. Greene? But how did Lucas know about it? And above all, what was the reason?
And then Sam felt very tired. He wasn’t sad, or angry—not even with himself for being such a fool. Just an overwhelming weariness, because now he understood the reason. His family had died so that Sam would avenge them. That was why he had been spared. Lucas had arranged it all.
It was vile and heartless and it all made perfect sense. How could an ambitious Apkal move up in the organization, when Sages lived for centuries? Create a vacancy. And to do that, create an assassin. Locate someone with unsuspected magical ability, and do something horrible to motivate him.
Sam sat on the bed as the city outside the window grew quiet, going over it all in his head. It all seemed to fit. But his engineer’s soul refused to trust the theory without a test.
At three a.m. Sam couldn’t stand it any longer. He pulled out one of his deniable phones and called Lucas. When it bounced him to voicemail he redialed. He did that four times before he got an answer.
“Samuel? Is something wrong?”
“I’ve done everything you wanted. I want my reward.”
“What? Can’t we talk about this at a more civilized hour? I’m entertaining some guests at the moment.”
“I want to know who sent the anzu. Who killed my family. That was the deal, remember? When you’re the Sage you can compel the truth. I want to know.”
“Of course, of course. One of my first acts as Sage will be to order an investigation. You’ll have carte blanche.”
Sam relaxed. “Thank you,” he said. “I was worried you might forget.”
“No, no. You are at the top of my list. Don’t fret. This is an occasion for joy, Samuel. Victory is close at hand.”
“It doesn’t feel like victory, yet.”
“You ought to celebrate. Are you still holed up in that squalid little tenement in the Bronx?”
“No, I’m downtown.”
“Whereabouts? A nice place, I hope.”
“Very nice. I’m treating myself to a five-star hotel with a spa and everything. Free bottle of wine when I checked in, all that kind of thing.”
“It sounds delightful. Which hotel is it? There are some last-minute arrivals to accommodate.”
Sam looked out of the window, across Fifth Avenue. “I’m at the Peninsula Hotel,” he said.
“I’m sure it’s lovely. Now is there anything else you need to discuss? It is a rather ungodly hour.”
“No, nothing else.”
He poured himself the last of the complimentary Prosecco and took a seat in the leather armchair by the window, watching the building across the street. After about twenty minutes he spotted flashing lights in the windows of the Peninsula Hotel, and shortly afterward people began pouring out of the front door on Fifty-fifth Street, clumping on the sidewalk in pajamas or hastily donned clothing, spilling around the corner onto Fifth Avenue.
Someone must have pulled a fire alarm, or maybe phoned in a bomb threat, Sam mused. And now everyone in the hotel was out on the street. Exposed. Vulnerable. He repeated the invocation to open his Inner Eye, and looked down.
There it was: a bashmu-serpent, horned and winged, flying down Fifth Avenue at second-story level, invisible to subur eyes. It slowed and banked into a turn west on Fifty-fifth, passing low over the crowd in front of the Peninsula, before circling back. As if it was looking for someone.
The feeling of tremendous weariness returned. For a moment Sam wondered if he could get the window open and just end it all right now. Maybe he could break it with a chair? Or simply call Lucas back and tell him what room he was in?
He drained his glass and then turned and threw it as hard as he could at the wall. Yes, there it was: the anger. His familiar companion of the past three years. Sam had hidden it, fought it, supp
ressed it for so long. Channelled it into exercise and used it to suppress his conscience when he killed people. Wait, wait, he had promised. Not yet. Now he welcomed it with something like joy. Now he knew his true target. Now.
Ten minutes later he left the St. Regis through a service door into the alley separating the hotel from the bank next door. He walked confidently down the alley to Fifty-fourth Street, and turned east, away from the flashing lights of the fire engines in front of the Peninsula Hotel. At the corner of Madison Avenue his phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. It buzzed again a minute later, and again a minute after that. Finally he turned it off and dropped it down the next storm drain grating he came to.
Sam didn’t dare go back to his apartment after that. His real identity was stashed in a safe deposit box, and copies of his magical notebooks in a duffel stuffed in his gym locker. The duffel also held his copy of Moby Dick, with sentences crossed out as he had mailed them to Mr. Kim. No reason to keep doing that. The envelope would go to Sylvia—who was dead—telling her to contact Moreno—who was also dead—about Lucas, who was about to ascend to untouchable power. Sam couldn’t threaten Lucas because nobody could.
Sam had lost.
Chapter 26
He was at Penn Station, getting ready to board a train for Chicago, when his phone buzzed—his “William Hunter” phone, the only one he had left. He pulled it out and felt a cold shock like a bucket of ice water down his back. The caller ID number was familiar. It was Ash’s. But how could she know about this phone?
“Hello?” he said.
“Sam? Sam, what’s going on? There’s a man here asking questions about you. Are you in trouble?”
“Who is it? What does he look like?” The one question Sam wanted to ask was how she could remember him again at all.
The call ended before she could answer.
Sam piled into the first cab and told the driver to get him to Ash’s apartment as fast as possible. The cabbie set off at a normal pace, and after two blocks Sam was boiling with impatience. He read the man’s name off his taxi license. “Eresikin Ismail Karim Al-Amarni. Drive as fast as you can to Fourth and Avenue D. Segah.”
The Initiate Page 28