by M. D. Massey
The wizard proceeded with caution as he moved through the room, watching out for other traps and keeping a careful eye for stacked illusions. Eldritch entities who were skilled at casting glamours would often layer them, one atop the other, in an attempt to deceive those who might pierce the most obvious façade. Inexperienced mages often fell prey to such simple tricks, their pride swollen at having spotted one illusion while another they hadn’t noticed would conceal their doom.
It was fortunate that Crowley knew that trick, because several such inveiglements were scattered throughout the rooms, each designed to trigger only in the presence of an adult, and every one more deadly than the last. He found and deactivated no less than three decapitation spells, two disintegration rays, one conjuration that would summon three demons from the third level of hell, and a pair of combination fireball and lightning spells with enough energy to easily fry an ogre down to ash and bone fragments.
Obviously, Richard the shopkeep had a vested interest in keeping nosy adults out of his business. Crowley considered this, and hoped that he wouldn’t have to create a dimensional vortex to banish the symbiote that had given the slob his powers. Dimensional vortices were quite difficult to cast, and when the wizard taxed the limits of his magical reserves, there were consequences.
If that were to happen, the boy wouldn’t survive regardless of his intentions. Then, the whole sordid affair would be for naught and he’d have to find another place to purchase his comics. Or—foulness forbid—he’d have to resort to that soulless practice of shopping online. No, that simply wouldn’t do. It was best to avoid resorting to the magical equivalent of the nuclear option, if he could help it.
It wasn’t long before Crowley came to the only room in the basement that wasn’t flooded. The floor had been raised in that area, because it was where the magician performed dark magic. Rudimentary magic, but evil and forbidden nonetheless. Of course, that room contained the shopkeep’s grimoire, a surprisingly powerful artifact that the shadow wizard was certain had not been written by that fat slob of a man.
For one, the tome was too old. It had been originally written in ancient Sumerian, but the spellbook was ensorcelled so it could be read by anyone with a smidgen of magical affinity in the reader’s own language. The ensorcellment hadn’t been updated in a few centuries, however, and when Crowley looked at the grimoire it was written in Middle English.
Upon reading the page to which the book had been left open, the wizard began to chuckle. It seemed that Richard had been attempting to summon and capture another entity, most likely to enslave it and increase his power. It was the classic beginner’s mistake, one many a fledgling magician had succumbed to over the millennia. When you made a deal with the devil, the devil didn’t share. And once an enchantress or sorcerer made one too many deals with the wrong entities, their life became forfeit.
“Imbecile,” the wizard muttered.
Despite the lack of wit on the part of the grimoire’s current owner, the tome still had great worth for someone of Crowley’s talents. He was tempted to take it then and there, but the shopkeep had set safeguards and alarms on the book that would take the mage hours to defuse. If things went the way he expected they might, there would be ample time later to retrieve the spell tome.
For now, he’d focus on the boy, and then come back for the book once his task was done. That way, at least, the trip wouldn’t be a complete waste of his time. This place could also easily function as a perfectly serviceable hideaway should his mother’s henchmen discover where he’d been hiding. All the more reason to find the boy and deal with the entity and its master.
Of course, he’d be forced to find a doppelgänger or fetch to supplant the shopkeep, as that simply could not be helped at this juncture. But on the plus side, Crowley could easily assign Borovitz and Feldstein to acquire the property for him on the sly, saving him the trouble of doing it personally. Then he’d have gained another hideout, and kept his favorite comic shop in business to boot.
Best rescue that boy, then.
With one last longing look at the grimoire, the shadow mage strode off to find the child.
20
Theo tiptoed over to the teen so as not to wake him. Using the lightest touch possible, he gently pulled the collar of the youth’s shirt down to expose the wound on his chest. What the boy saw gave him chills.
Teeth marks. Just what in the actual pluckity-pluck is going on here?
Things were starting to smell very rotten in Denmark to Theo, and as his suspicions grew, he began to realize that this was all very, very wrong. Nobody had rooms and treasures and valuable collectibles like this except billionaires, and they certainly didn’t keep their stuff in basements under rundown comic book shops. The whole experience had an almost dreamlike quality to it, making him wonder if both he and Rhone hadn’t been drugged somehow.
That’s when he got scared.
“Rhone, wake up,” he said as he jostled the teen. “C’mon, man, open your eyes.”
After a few unsuccessful attempts at gently waking his nemesis, Theo grabbed the older boy by the shoulders and shook him with force. But no matter how hard he tried, the teenager would simply not wake up.
“Leave him be, child. The young man merely sleeps.”
Theo spun around, his eyes darting back and forth as they swept across the room. The voice was silky smooth and strangely accented—Russian maybe, but different. It had spoken in a calm, unhurried manner, but Theo detected an oily, sinister undercurrent beneath the mild words that made his spine tingle.
“Sh-show yourself,” the boy demanded, feeling a lot less sure of himself than even his shaky voice might indicate.
“Why, I’m right behind you,” the voice said.
The boy turned, and sure enough, there was a strange little man standing behind him. He was shorter than Theo and barrel-chested, with thin stumpy legs, too-long arms, and a round, bald skull that had just a few wisps of gray hair at the top. His face was short and wide, with high cheekbones, very little chin to speak of, and a broad mouth with thin frog lips stretched wide in a predator’s smile that showed just enough teeth to threaten.
“Who are you?” Theo asked.
“Gazsi, but you can call me Gaz. And you are?”
“I wouldn’t give him your name,” another voice said, this one soft, confident, and dangerous.
Gaz and Theo both turned to see who’d spoken, and there in the doorway stood a tall, thin, athletically-built man with dark, wavy hair, a scarred face, and a brooding expression. He wore expensive clothes, like a model on the cover of a men’s style magazine, and he leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, exuding cocky arrogance. Theo didn’t know if he liked this guy any more than he did Gaz, because frankly they both looked dangerous and evil in their own ways.
“I don’t have to listen to you,” the boy said for lack of a better response.
“That’s true,” the tall man said, “but if you lose your soul, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Pfah, he lies,” Gaz said. “I work for Richard, caring for his collection and artifacts, and ensuring that these rooms are kept in good repair.”
“You talk funny,” Theo remarked. “Like someone who isn’t used to talking to normal people.”
“That’s because he isn’t a normal person,” the tall man replied. “Or a person at all.”
“Silence, trespasser!” Gaz screamed. “Leave the child to make his own decision, or I’ll be forced to deal with you directly.”
The man’s eyebrow twitched upward, ever so slightly. “Yawn.”
“What decision?” Theo asked.
“Why, the most important decision of all, child. To have your greatest wishes granted, your grandest desires fulfilled. To be liked and respected by your peers, to be loved by your paramour, to have the world at your fingertips,” Gaz said. “Or, to remain what you are—a loser, a nobody, a has-been.”
“Oh, to be washed up at age eleven,” the tall man interj
ected as he examined his fingernails. “How will the child ever recover from the raw deal he’s been dealt, I wonder?”
Theo’s face scrunched up as he frowned in consternation. “What’s a paramour?”
“No need to worry about that, young one. Suffice it to say that, if you wanted one, you’d have it.” A long, thin tongue darted out to wet the corner of Gaz’s mouth, making him appear even more frog-like. “All you have to do is ask.”
“There ain’t no free lunch—at least, that’s what my dad always says.” Theo scratched the base of his neck, which always itched when he was nervous. “So, what do you get in return?”
“A small thing, only. Nothing you’d miss,” Gaz replied.
“Surely you’re not this stupid,” the man said. “If you are, I’ll gladly allow you to suffer the consequences of your idiocy. One less imbecile to dilute the human gene pool.”
“Begone, magician!” Gaz screeched. “I’ll not warn you again.”
The man pushed off the doorframe and stood to his full height. “Silence, imp. You’re not speaking to some mortal peasant, but a prince of Underhill.”
“A changeling prince from the looks of it,” Gaz responded, “and not one born of royal blood.”
“But a prince nonetheless—trained by the Black Sorceress herself,” the tall man replied, causing Gaz to shrink into himself a bit. “You’d be wise to desist, before I lose my patience and show you what her royal highness revealed to me in the many years I spent under her most thorough tutelage.”
The small, strange man considered his options for a moment, then made a weird little bowing motion. “As you wish, master prince.”
“As I thought. The boy is coming with me.”
“What about Rhone?” Theo asked, figuring he was better off leaving with the man, since he could always ditch him later.
“Never mind him. He made his choice, and we can’t take him with us.” The tall man pointed a finger at Gaz, fixing him with a stern look. “Warn your master of our passing, and I will kill you. Come, boy, it’s time to leave.”
The man turned and left the room without even glancing back to see if Theo followed. The boy took one last look at Rhone, then shrugged and scurried to follow as quickly as his legs would carry him.
21
Crowley looked down at the boy walking next to him. “You were smart to come with me.”
“What would have happened if I’d stayed? Would I have ended up like Rhone?”
“Perhaps you’re not as dense as you first appeared.” The wizard glanced around before fixing his gaze on his companion. “Stick close, and you might live to see tomorrow.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“No, I rarely jest.” Crowley headed for the pedestal that held the grimoire, and the boy scurried along beside him.
“My name’s Theo,” the boy said.
“I don’t need to know your name,” Crowley replied. “And you don’t need to know mine. You won’t remember anything after this is all done, anyway.”
“Why not?”
Crowley stopped in front of the book, arms crossed. “Quiet. I need to think.”
“You gonna steal that book? Why not just smash the glass and go?”
Crowley kept his eyes on the book and stand, busy finding the various alarm spells and traps that protected it. He set his mouth in a grim line as his eyes followed the various weaves. It would take some time to determine what they did and how he might defuse them.
“First off, there is no glass. What you’re seeing is an illusion.”
Theo rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I can see it right there. Look, if I rap on the glass—”
“Don’t!” Crowley reached out to stop him, but it was too late. The boy’s hand touched the grimoire, triggering a silent alarm spell. “Well, now you’ve done it.”
“Whoa, that’s weird. I swear there was a glass case around that thing just a second ago. Then I touched it and it disappeared.”
The wizard grabbed him by the shirtsleeve, slowly pulling him away from the book. “Don’t touch anything else, not unless I tell you to do so. It’s fortunate that he’s been feeding children to that lidérc, because most of the grimoire’s protection spells are attuned to adults and not children. That being said, if you had tried to abscond with the book, you’d have been fried on the spot. Regardless, he’s now been alerted to our presence. No doubt he’ll arrive shortly to investigate.”
“What do you mean, fried? And who’s been feeding kids to—what did you say again?”
“A lidérc. It’s an imp that feeds on a person, slowly stealing their soul in exchange for temporary magical power. It normally kills its master over time, but apparently Richard found a way to make a deal with it. He’s likely been feeding it children to keep it from killing him. Rather ingenious, actually. Why no one ever thought of doing such a thing before is a mystery.”
“You’re saying that Gaz dude is a la dork.”
“Lidérc. It’s Hungarian for incubus.”
“Now there’s a word I know,” Theo said. “Medium fiend. Neutral evil, shapechanger, AC 15, 12d8+12 hit points, and resistant to just about everything but magical weapons. Draining Kiss is their deadliest spell. Not to be messed with, unless you have a lot of protection from evil scrolls.”
Crowley’s brow furrowed. “I only understood about half of what you said, but yes, they are dangerous if you have no knowledge of defensive magic.”
“Oh, is that why you want the spellbook? I mean, if it’s real and stuff.”
“It’s real, whether you choose to believe or not. How did you know what it is?”
The boy shrugged. “I read it. Wasn’t that hard—I just had to stare at it for a while without puking.”
The wizard pursed his lips. “Interesting. But no, I have my own magic. Hopefully, it will be enough to deal with the imp’s master. He doesn’t seem to be very skilled, but he’s been absorbing magical energy from that creature for a very long time without giving up anything in return. It appears to have made him exceptionally strong.”
“More than you know, mage,” Richard said as he appeared in the doorway to the grimoire room. “I don’t know how you got past my traps, but it doesn’t matter. Back away from the spellbook, and I promise to make this quick.”
The cretinous shopkeep raised his hands, electricity crackling between them.
“What the heck?” Theo asked. “Was I drugged?”
Richard gave a grim smile. “Nope, kid, this is real magic you’re seeing. And it’s too damned bad, because now I’ll have to kill you too, and we happen to be in need of some fresh blood at the moment. The stronger I get, the hungrier Gaz gets, and he’s just about bled Rhone dry. With all that meat on your bones, heck—you’d have kept Gaz fed for a good long while.”
“You calling me fat?” Theo asked.
“Kid, if fat were a superpower, you’d be an Avenger.”
“If that’s the case, then you’d be Galactus,” Theo countered.
Richard’s face reddened for a moment, but he recovered his composure quickly. “Well, maybe so—because I do have the power cosmic. I’m not going to tell you again. Both of you, back away from the spellbook.”
Crowley smiled with genuine amusement. “I don’t take orders from rank amateurs, no matter how much power they’ve stolen—especially not one who dresses like you.”
“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” Richard asked.
"Not to cast aspersions on another’s sartorial decisions,” Crowley drily observed, “but you dress like a Skid Row bum with a cotton and flannel fetish—one who identifies as an incel and has resigned himself to a life of involuntary celibacy, forever.”
“Aw, snap!” Theo said. “Geez, Richard, he just burned you like a book of matches.”
“Additionally, you could stand to lose a few hundred pounds,” Crowley added with a self-satisfied nod.
“Dude,” Theo stage-whispered. “Fat-shaming. Totally uncool.”
Crowle
y’s brow furrowed. “This is unacceptable?”
“Absolutely,” Theo replied.
“Very well. I shall resolve to avoid using such insults in the future.” The wizard stared down his nose at the other man. “But he does dress like a homeless person.”
“Enough!” Richard screamed, spittle flying from his lips. The slovenly magician raised his hands once more, lightning crackling from his fingertips. “This is my house, and I hand out the insults here. I was going to take it easy on you and kill you both quick, but now I’m going to make it slow and painful.”
Crowley pulled the boy behind him, whispering over his shoulder. “When this starts, I want you to hide behind the grimoire’s pedestal. It’s protected from all sorts of magic, and he’ll likely not risk damaging his own spellbook to attack you. And once you see that he’s distracted, run!”
22
Honestly, Theo wasn’t sure if he should trust Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious. But the guy kind of reminded him of a white Denzel Washington—like Denzel from The Equalizer, not Denzel from Fences—so he figured he couldn’t be all that bad. Besides that, he’d seen enough action movies to know the difference between the bad guy and the anti-hero. So as far as Theo was concerned, he’d already chosen sides.
Although he’d been unceremoniously shoved out of the way, he peeked around the man just in time to see Richard shoot lightning bolts at them, right out of his hands. Fricking lightning bolts, just like The Emperor in Return of the Jedi! If he hadn’t been so scared, Theo would’ve definitely been geeking out, because it was probably the coolest thing he’d ever seen.
Or so he thought.
No sooner had Richard gone all Revenge of the Sith on them than the man Richard had called “mage” held his hand out and a wall of dark, shadowy mist shot out of the ground in front of him. The lightning from Richard’s hands crackled and spat sparks as it danced across the mage’s force shield—shadow shield?—then the spell dissipated in a cloud of smoke. And that’s when things got really interesting.
