by S. M. Reine
Marisa shook her head. “She’s out of control.”
“I’m used to difficult patients.”
He cut off Stephanie with a slash of his hand. “This isn’t the time. Will you help us with the ritual, Marisa?”
She shook her head. A line of white rimmed her lips.
When they returned to Ann and Morrighan, they were parting the curtains and throwing open the windows. They had already positioned censers in every doorway. The smell of white sage drifted through the air. Lucinde screamed louder.
James did a quick search of the rooms downstairs and decided to cast the circle in the kitchen, where a ring of salt would be the easiest to clean up. It was also positioned directly beneath Lucinde’s room.
He and Stephanie lit candles, laid out stones on each of the cardinal directions, and called the other witches into the kitchen without closing the circle. He handed each of them photocopies of the ritual. “You three should stay down here within the protection of the circle,” he said. “Focus on the incantation.”
“What are you going to do?” Stephanie asked.
“I’m going upstairs.”
Ann paled. “Is that a good idea?”
He didn’t think it was, but James smiled and nodded anyway. “Of course. You can begin the ritual as soon as I’m gone.”
Stephanie sealed the circle behind him. The three women began chanting together. James could have spoken it along with them without glancing at the Book of Shadows—he had written the ritual himself, and they had used it before to great success.
Of course, they had never had to cleanse anything as horrible as Lucinde before, either.
With every step he took toward the locked bedroom, James became more and more certain that the ritual would be ineffective. The idea of using traditional magic against whatever had seized the house seemed ridiculous. It was like waving a cardboard sword at a dragon.
Marisa had vanished from the hallway upstairs. A cold fist clenched in his chest.
And Lucinde suddenly fell silent.
He froze for a moment, heart pounding. He strained to hear something within her room—a hint of motion, or a whimper. But there was nothing.
Her door was unlocked. He pushed it open.
His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. The portable swamp cooler was on its side. Something dark was on the white bed sheets—something wet.
And the little girl was crouched in the center of it.
She grinned. Her teeth were stained red.
“Lucinde?” James asked. He wasn’t speaking to Augustin Ramirez’s daughter. He dropped his voice, hand tight on the doorknob. “What are you?”
“I am the cold kiss of Death,” she rasped. “And you’re next, James Faulkner.”
She leaped off the bed with a shriek, hands extended.
He jumped back and slammed the door shut. Her body thumped into the other side. The wood groaned and the entire house shuddered from the impact.
Downstairs, the witches weren’t chanting anymore.
“I told you, she’s going to die,” Marisa whispered. James spun to see her wavering in her doorway. He thought her hands looked bloody, too, but the vision cleared when he blinked. She was clean.
Lucinde was screaming again.
“What happened?” Stephanie asked when he came downstairs. All the candles had gone out, but there was no other indication anything had changed.
“Pack up. We can’t do anything,” James said grimly.
“What are you going to do?” Ann asked as Morrighan grabbed a broom and began to sweep up the salt. James didn’t know how to respond.
Elise was wrong. Lucinde was definitely possessed.
Augustin didn’t look up when they left the front door. Stephanie was dragging her feet, reluctant to leave without checking on Lucinde, but James kept a firm grip on her arm so she couldn’t go back. He had seen possessions leap between people before.
“I’m going to return with reinforcements,” James told Augustin while the other witches loaded the car. “I’m sorry.”
The lawyer stood silently, went inside, and locked the door. By the time they pulled away, all the windows and curtains were shut again.
8
The parking lot outside Elise’s office was empty when she arrived, so she didn’t have to hide the stack of unusual books she carried into her office: The Infernal Lexicon and Hume’s Almanac, both of which were large, leather-bound texts that could hardly pass as light reading.
She shut her office door with a hip bump and settled in to reread the list McIntyre had sent her. Elise recognized many of the demons without looking them up; her father had drilled her on many of them as a child. The shedu had no interest in the dead, nor did Aquiel and his kin, and she marked them off. Those too weak to command fiends were also immediately crossed out. She halved the list in minutes.
Even after her eliminations, hundreds remained. It could take days to check them all.
Considering the alternative was following James around while he tried to relive his glorious youth of saving people, she decided she would much rather have the tedium. Elise started a pot of coffee, found a notebook, and began to work.
For hours, she searched. Elise immersed herself in the lore of Hell as shadows crept across her office floor, filling and refilling her mug. She covered an entire notebook page with writing. Then another. And another. Outside, the clouds moved in, and the sun inched toward the mountains. By the time she started on her third pot of coffee, her handwriting looked more like a series of tiny, angry slashes than language.
After a while, her attention wandered. Demons were boring. Elise had recently downloaded a book on ethereal lore, so she started researching the names of the angelic attendants instead. A single angel could match a thousand demons in power, but their snobbish attitudes meant they seldom lowered themselves to visiting the earthen planes.
Ethereal mythology was much more interesting than that of their infernal counterparts. A couple big names were going to the summit. Gabriel himself would make an appearance.
She read his section in her book, then scanned up to the Metaraon—the voice of God. There was an engraving of his face, unmerciful and cold. It gave her chills.
Elise had read his chapter before. He hired architects to construct seven angelic cities on Earth. There weren’t any left—the angels abandoned them in centuries past. But there were supposed to be ruins left in some places.
In fact, they said angelic ruins were buried deep below the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Elise stared at the Metaraon’s face and drummed a pen against her desk.
The ruins should have prevented most demons from possessing anyone nearby. It wouldn’t be any minor lord stealing bodies and attacking Lucinde. Whatever it was had to be huge.
Her door opened, and Elise’s hand dropped to a hidden dagger. The visitor came in back-first, but she recognized his broad shoulders and dirty shoes.
“Knock, knock,” Anthony said. He cradled two large coffees and a brown bag to his chest, and he set them on the edge of her desk with a smile. “What are you doing?”
“Anthony,” Elise said, flipping over her notebook and sliding it on top of the Infernal Lexicon. “Hey. I’m just doing some work.”
A smile played at the corners of his lips. His hair was extra tousled, his t-shirt wrinkled, and there was an oily hand print on his jeans. “Secret work?”
“No.” She didn’t try to sound convincing, but he didn’t seem to care.
“Betty told me you were working on the weekend,” Anthony said, offering one of the coffees to her. “I thought you might need some energy...but I can see that’s not really a problem.” Dirty mugs were scattered around her office, and a new pot was percolating on her filing cabinet.
Elise took a deep sniff of the latte. “This is much better than what I’ve been having. Thanks.”
“I got you a muffin, too,” he said in a hopeful tone.
“Great,” she said, sliding her books and notes into a
desk drawer. Anthony leaned around to read the spines, but Elise shut it too fast. “What are you up to?”
“I just got off work and was on my way to meet Betty, but I thought I’d visit you first. Are you busy?”
Elise stood. Her back ached. The clock told her she had been hunched over her desk for over eight hours. Her injuries from the night before had stiffened.
She checked her cell phone, which had been on silent. Seven missed calls from James. Great.
“No, I’m not busy.” She put her phone back in her pocket. “Don’t let me get in the way of meeting Betty. I know she goes nuts if you’re late at all.”
“Let me walk you to your car.”
“I’m right outside the door.”
“Well...me too.” Anthony ducked his head, peeking at her through his bangs. “Did you have fun last night?”
It took Elise a moment to realize what he was talking about. She had almost forgotten about their date. “Oh, yeah. The band was really good.”
“I never saw you like that before.”
“Like what?”
He flashed a grin. “You know...having fun.”
“Did I embarrass myself?”
“No, of course not. It’s nice.” Elise arched an eyebrow at him, and he hurried to add, “I mean, you’re always so serious. It’s like some black cloud is following you around.”
“A black cloud,” she echoed—and then, surprisingly, she laughed. “I guess that’s a fair description.”
Elise locked the office door and headed down the hall. Anthony’s hand stuck out at his side, and she got the impression he wanted her to take it. She pretended she didn’t notice.
His Jeep was beside Elise’s car just outside the building doors. “Thanks for walking me,” she said. Elise moved to get into the driver’s seat, but Anthony stopped her, grabbing onto the door.
“Maybe you want to hang out with me tonight?” he said. A pink flush had risen on his cheeks. “I mean, if you’re done for the day, I just have to see Betty for a few minutes. We could go down for a walk by the river or something.”
Elise studied him, head tilted to the side. Was she that intimidating, or was he just a nervous person? “You can just ask me on a date, you know.”
“Oh. Okay. So, do you...?”
“Yes,” Elise said. And then, to save him from the stuttering, she added, “Nine o’clock.”
“Nine. Awesome.”
She tried to get into the car, but he didn’t let go of her door. He stepped in close, shadowing her from the sun, and she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
“Anthony, I don’t—”
He bent down and kissed her. Elise stiffened. He tasted like coffee and chewing gum—totally benign—but she felt cornered, and a voice in the back of her mind screamed for escape.
Anthony straightened. “Are you okay?”
She touched her mouth. “Yeah.” Her fingertips were tingling. Elise hadn’t been kissed in years.
It wasn’t that bad. Not really.
She leaned up to kiss him again.
His hand on her arm was heavy, and his breathing deepened as he leaned into her. She felt something stirring inside of her that she hadn’t felt in a long time, and the foreign sensation made her knees shake.
The sound of the eaves dripping on the pavement and the cars rushing down the street suddenly seemed too loud, like a hundred eyes were watching and waiting for her to drop her guard.
Elise pushed on his chest—not hard, but enough to get his attention. He blinked at her like he was coming out of a sleepy haze. “What?”
She ducked into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, leaving Anthony standing awkwardly next to it.
“I had a great time at the concert,” she said, rolling down her window as her engine grumbled to life. Anthony looked bereft. His cheeks were flushed. “I’ll see you again tonight, okay?”
She left before he could say another word.
Elise entered the studio to the sound of someone playing the piano. She set her folders on the reception desk and peeked around the corner.
James played piano in the blue light of the storm. The windows at the opposite end of the room were cracked, and a soft breeze smelling of wet sage drifted through. His brow was lowered over his eyes, and his mouth had taken on that distinct slant that said he was concentrating.
“‘Marriage d’Amour.’ Toussaint, right?” Elise said when his song trailed off, and he looked up, surprised.
“You haven’t answered my calls.”
“I’ve been busy.” Sitting on the bench beside him, she spread her fingers over the keys. Elise pressed, and the piano responded with a warm ting . She struck another key, and another, in no particular order. “How was the visit with the Ramirezes?”
“It didn’t do any good. Lucinde is getting worse.” James selected a note an octave lower than the last one she hit, and his fingers followed hers up the piano. “You were wrong—she’s definitely possessed. But you knew that, didn’t you?” He struck the deepest note on the piano, and it vibrated through her hand. “Do you have any potential culprits?”
“I narrowed the list down.” She dropped her hands, letting the last note ring through the silent air. “Do you think it’s true?”
“Yes,” James said, “I do think she’s possessed, which is why you should have—”
“Not that. Do you think there are really ethereal ruins beneath the Warrens?”
He considered the question as he tapped out the beginning to “Für Elise.” James loved to play that song for her, even more so because she found it irritatingly cute. “It’s a distinct possibility.” He pulled the cover over the keys. “We should see the Ramirezes as soon as possible. Lucinde must be exorcised.”
“Fine. Call Father Night down from Washington. He can do it.”
“I already tried to call him, and he’s busy for the next week. You’re the only person in the area who has ever performed a successful exorcism.”
“I’ve got plans with Anthony later. I can’t do it.”
James folded his arms. “And that’s more urgent than this family’s problem? What happened to your priorities?”
“We retired,” she reminded him. “We’re in hiding. Doesn’t everyone need help? There’s probably a half dozen possessed people throughout the country who need exorcisms right now, and I’m not knocking on their doors, either. I said I’m done being a hero. I meant it.”
She slid off of the end of the bench and moved to leave.
James spoke before she reached the door. “Does the phrase, ‘I am the cold kiss of Death,’ mean anything to you?”
Elise stopped and turned around slowly. “Where did you hear that?”
“Lucinde. Why? Is it familiar?”
“You remember...the last time we fought?” She didn’t have to say, the time we saved the world .
“It would be impossible to forget.”
“She said that to me while she was...” Elise trailed off. She touched the scar on her breast. James hadn’t been there when the goddess said that, nor had she told him anything about her long hours under the knife. “Are you sure that’s what Lucinde said?”
“Positive.” James frowned. “And then she told me I would be next. She knew my name.”
“Next for what?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
I am the cold kiss of Death...
“But we killed her,” she whispered.
“Since that night, I’ve wondered if that woman was demon-possessed, rather than the deity she claimed to be. Killing a human might not have killed the responsible demon at all. Maybe it has returned.”
They shared a long, silent look.
If the thing that tortured her really was back...now that might be something worth fighting about.
James opened his mouth to speak again, but Elise’s phone interrupted him by ringing.
She answered it. “Hello?” The only response was a buzz and white noise. Elise moved close
r to the windows. “Who is this?”
The call crackled. “—Ramirez, we need—help—”
“I can’t understand you,” she said, moving out into the entryway. James hung a few steps behind her. “Is this Marisa?”
“Lucinde—something’s wrong—”
Static hissed, and then the line went dead.
“Hello?” Elise said. “Hello?” She sighed and snapped her phone shut. “Great. This place must have the worst reception in the city limits.”
“Who was that?” James asked.
“It sounded like Marisa Ramirez,” Elise said. “I think something’s up with Lucinde.” She tried to call the number again, but after several rings, nobody picked up.
Elise shut her phone again.
“No answer?” James asked.
“No answer,” she confirmed. “I think we need to get over there sooner rather than later.”
James rang the bell by the Ramirez house’s front door. Rain drizzled off the drain pipe, splattering against the concrete porch behind them. A church tower rose beyond the roof of their house, the cross at its peak stretching toward the navy sky. Elise shifted uncomfortably at his side, cold and wet and extremely unhappy as minutes passed without answer.
He pressed the doorbell again, and the bells of the church tower tolled in response.
James peered at one of the windows by the door, but the curtains drawn to prevent even the faintest sliver of light from making it through. “Are you sure they’re here?”
As if on cue, Augustin Ramirez opened the door. His face was haggard and gray.
“You came back. Thank God. Get in, quick.” He locked the deadbolt as soon as they were inside, pushing the curtains aside to glance furtively at the street before closing it up again.
James’s nose wrinkled. Something stunk of feces, urine, and blood, like a dirty litter box used by a dozen sick animals. But the Ramirezes didn’t have cats. They didn’t have any animals at all. It hadn’t smelled earlier in the afternoon.
“You have to see her,” Augustin said, trying to push Elise toward the kitchen door. “You have to exorcise her. You have to—you have to do that magic stuff again.”
