You Slay Me

by Katie MacAlister

  "I just feel so helpless," I said, stopping before Ophe­lia to fret, trying to push down the rising sense of panic-laden despair. "Poor Jim is out there all by its ... himself, facing who knows what horrors. Maybe he's been picked up by vivisectionists! Maybe someone will do a Hundred and One Dalmatians on him!" I paced past Perdita as she chopped up mushrooms for dinner.

  "A hundred and one Dalmatians?" Ophelia asked her in a quiet voice.

  "Skins," Perdita answered succinctly.

  I waved my hands around, dread filling my mind at the horrible things that could be happening to Jim at that very moment. "Exactly! Jim has a lovely coat! Someone might want him for it. Or for ... for ... oh, I don't know, some­thing awful. Someone might want to use him as a stud dog, ruthlessly breeding him again and again and again. Although to be honest, he probably wouldn't object to that too much, but dammit! He's my dog! He doesn't get to have fun unless I say he does!"

  Ophelia set some apples in cinnamon to simmer, com­ing around the long marble counter that separated the din­ing area from the kitchen. She patted my hand, but it didn't make me feel any better. In fact, I felt worse, almost sick to my stomach with worry. "Aisling, if there is anything Perdy or I can do, any spell we could perform, you have but to ask."

  I swallowed back a lump of unshed tears and tried for a smile. "Thank you, Ophelia. That's very generous of you, but I'm afraid spells... well, just they would be a waste of time." I had a feeling that if Perdita's dill was such a failure as an anti-demon protection, their herb-based spells would be ineffective, as well. "I'll just have to hope that he's lying low for a while until it's safe to come home."

  She patted my arm. "You're distraught. Perhaps it would be best if you didn't conduct your demon ritual tonight. You can't focus if you're so upset. And didn't you say you needed a special book?"

  "Oh, that's all right. I'll use Perdita's. It's a bit differ­ent from the one I'm familiar with, but I'm sure it will be OK. You don't mind if I use your book, do you?" I asked, desperately trying to distract myself with trivialities.

  Perdita opened her mouth to say something, but a quick look at Ophelia left her shaking her head. "No, please use the book. I don't mind at all."

  I squashed down all the worry, and sick fear, and a horrible sense of dread, and ordered my mind to focus on what was important. 'There's no time like the present. If you both are free, I'll just go in and raise my demon, ask it a few questions, and send it back. Do either of you have a tape recorder?"

  "Better than that, we have a digital video camera," Ophelia said, running for a closet. "We'll film your demon! Oh, this is so exciting!"

  "That would be wonderful," I said in a voice that dripped unease. The two sisters followed me into the bed­room, newly cleansed and sadly Jim-less. I took the Steganographia from the shelves and thumbed through it. I was vaguely familiar with the book, having read the translation (and decoding—part of the book had been written in a numerical code) a couple of years ago. I found the demon lord's symbols and sat down to draw a circle of ash made by paper I had burned earlier.

  "I have no idea if this will work or not without the proper equipment," I warned both women. Ophelia sat on the bed behind me, filming me as I drew the circle widdershins with salt. I stopped halfway around the circle, al­most overwhelmed with despair that welled up from deep within my heart. Why was I bothering? Why was I wast­ing my time? I'd just embarrass myself in front of Ophe­lia and Perdita when I couldn't summon Bafamal. They'd know I was a fake, a liar, someone who couldn't even perform a simple delivery without messing it up. I'd failed in that, just as I failed Jim. Even Drake was dis­gusted with me.

  I fought back a sob and finished the circle, arguing with myself the whole while I traced the twelve symbols of Ashtaroth. By the time I had done the six symbols for Bafamal, I was very close to just rolling myself up into a ball and indulging in hysterical tears. Only the steady red light blinking on Ophelia's digital recorder kept me from giving in.

  I pricked my finger with a pin Perdita gave me, then closed the circle with my blood. Nothing happened. There was no sense of thickening air as there was when I had summoned Jim. There was no tingle when I passed my hand over the circle. It was just a circle. I frowned, consulting Perdita's book, trying to recall everything I had done with Jim.

  "Is something the matter?" Ophelia asked from behind me.

  "Er... no, I guess not," I said, closing the book. I had done everything the same. Maybe the difference was be­cause Ashtaroth was a different lord than Jim's former one? I shrugged, too upset and dispirited to care very much. I stood and called the quarters, aware not of the sense of something waiting to be called forth, but instead, a dread seemed to press in on me from all sides.

  "I conjure thee, Bafamal, by the power of thy lord Ashtaroth, also called the keeper of the horde, to appear before me now. without noise and terror. I summon thee, Bafamal, to answer truly all questions that I shall ask thee. I command thee, Bafamal, to my will by the virtue of my power. By my hand thy shall be bound, by my blood thy shall be bound, by my voice thy shall be bound."

  One second the circle was empty; the next a handsome blond demon stood within it, watching me with a specu­lative gaze in its smoky gray eyes.

  Bafamal had arrived.

  17

  The demon had changed clothes from the last time I'd seen it; now it was wearing scarlet pleated pants with a bright yellow shirt and azure tie. Very chic, very primary colors.

  "Ever the fashion plate, I see," I said, taking a step back.

  It smiled and made me a little bow. "You called me, oh master?"

  I staggered over to a chair. The despair swamping me increased with the presence of Bafamal, draining me physically until I felt like a well-wrung limp rag. Behind me, Ophelia and Perdita stood, but I couldn't spare them even a glance. I had a horrible feeling that if I didn't keep my attention focused on the demon, it would break free of my control. "Bafamal, I command thee to answer my questions. Were you at the mortal Aurora Deauxville's house when she was killed?"

  The demon smiled. "I had that pleasure."

  "Were you there at the behest of the person who killed her?"

  "I was."

  My shoulders slumped. "Were you the tool for the death of Aurora Deauxville?"

  Bafamal rubbed its hands, the open enjoyment on its face making my nausea increase. I clutched my stomach, fighting the urge to vomit. "Not the death, no. I strung the mortal up, though. That was fun."

  My stomach lurched. I gritted my teeth. "Were you present at the house of the mage named Albert Camus?"

  "Yes."

  "Were you there at the request of the person who killed him?"

  "None other."

  "Were you the instrument of Albert Camus's death?"

  "No. I heard you set fire to him later. Classy style you have, Guardian."

  Behind me, Ophelia gasped. I ignored the demon's at­tempt at provocation, fighting wave after wave of nausea. My voice cracked as I asked, "Who summoned you, Bafamal?"

  The demon's grin grew wider. "Drake Vireo, the green wyvern."

  My heart turned to stone, fracturing into a million pieces. I knew Drake was guilty—I had ever since I'd found Bafamal lounging around in his house—but to hear the confirmation of it destroyed a part of me I hadn't known existed. Blackness swam before me. I clutched the arms of the chair and forced myself to breathe slowly. If I passed out, I'd lose control of the demon, and who knew what horrors that would unleash. "Who killed Au­rora Deauxville?"

  "Drake Vireo."

  Pain stabbed through me. I turned my mind from it. "Who killed Albert Camus?"

  "Drake Vireo."

  Wetness streaked my cheeks. I lifted my hand to brush away the tears and found my fingers stained red. I was weeping blood. "Who ordered you to hang both Aurora and Albert?"

  "Drake Vireo," the demon answered gleefully.

  "Why?" I asked, my voice sounding like two rocks rubbed together. My mouth was so dry, I coul
d hardly swallow. "Why did Drake summon you?"

  "He needed my help to conduct the murders and es­cape undetected."

  I closed my eyes and swayed, desperately trying to hang on to consciousness. "What does Drake intend to do with the Tools of Bael?"

  Behind me, something glass crashed to the floor. I hoped it was the small bud vase that was next to Perdita rather than the video camera.

  Bafamal buffed its fingernails on its shiny yellow shirt. "He wants to rule the mortal world, of course."

  It was enough. I couldn't stand any more. With each word, another little piece of my soul was torn from me. I gritted my teeth and drew the symbols of evanescence. The demon didn't say anything, just grinned as I spoke the words that would disperse it back to its origin. With the final command, its figure blinked out as if a plug had been pulled.

  "I can't... can't..." Without looking at the sisters, I leaped to my feet and raced for the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before losing my lunch.

  When I returned, Ophelia was standing before Perdita, her hand on her sister's. "Please Perdy, please don't do it. It's wrong. You know it's wrong. You know well the penalty demanded of those who call upon the dark mas­ters."

  "I'm sorry, Feelie, but I have to. The Tools of Bael are not to be used lightly. I cannot allow Drake—"

  A movement of awareness by Ophelia stopped Perdita from finishing her sentence.

  "Aisling, are you all right?" Ophelia came forward, her hands outstretched. "You poor dear, what a horrible experience you've had. Did you know it was your mate who killed the Venediger and the other woman before the demon told you?"

  I looked past her to where Perdita stood, her face grim. "What can't you allow Drake to do?"

  Perdita started to say something, shot her sister an un­readable glance, and then shook her head. "I must leave now—I'm late. I have to open G & T. I will..." She paused at the door, looking back at us. Ophelia moved to stand close to me, a comforting hand on my arm. Perdita's eyes were hard and determined as she looked at us. "I will speak with you later about this."

  I wasn't sure which one of us her words were meant for, but before I could ask, she left the room. Ophelia's hands fluttered at her sister's back as she left. "You'll have to excuse Perdy—she has been under a great deal of strain since the Venediger was killed, and she... she was ... Well, to be honest, she and Drake Vireo were ... were ... friends before you came."

  "Friends?" I blinked a couple of times while the em­phasis she placed on the word sank into my fuzzy brain. "Oh, you mean friends. I didn't know."

  "I'm sorry. That was tactless of me to blurt it out like that. I just wanted you to understand why Perdy is so upset."

  I waved her apology away, rubbing the back of my neck as I sank onto the bed. The feeling of sickness and despair still clung to me, but it had lessened with the demon's disappearance. "It's all right. Drake might think I'm his mate, but it doesn't mean I have to accept that role. And we're not... together."

  She looked relieved.

  I scooted up until my back was against the wall. "To answer your question—yes, I knew Drake was responsi­ble for the deaths. I found Bafamal at his house. I knew there could be only one reason the demon was there. It was just a bit of a shock having it confirmed."

  Ophelia curled up next to me. I closed my eyes, the nausea still holding me in its gut-wrenching grip. "How horrible for you to be deceived by a man you are so bound to. What are you going to do now?"

  I rubbed my head. A headache was blossoming to life, making it difficult to think clearly. "I had planned to take whatever evidence the demon provided to the police, but now I'm not so sure. There was nothing it said that I could offer as proof positive, and if I tried to explain to Inspector Proust just who Bafamal was, he'd lock me away in a loony bin."

  "Perhaps if you watch the video, something will occur to you," she offered, setting the video camera next to me. "I must go and make sure Perdy is all right, but then you and I will brainstorm a solution to this problem. There must be a way we can make the police understand just who is behind the murders."

  I thanked her, lying quiet for a few minutes until I felt like I could move without my head splitting open—or vomiting again. I sat up and flipped on the video camera, wincing when the demon's voice came out just as loud as if it stood before me.

  "Who killed Aurora Deauxville?"

  "Drake Vireo."

  I watched the recording all the way through, then stopped it and thought about everything the demon had said. There was something that it mentioned that both­ered me, something that was raising a red flag, but my tired, aching brain couldn't pin it down.

  "Well, she's off," Ophelia said fifteen minutes later as she dragged the armchair over to the bed. "She's very upset, but determined to keep G & T open until the Venediger's will is read next Monday. He promised to leave it to her, you know, as a mark of his respect, and an acknowledgment of his debt to her."

  "His debt?"

  "Perdy has worked for him for almost a year. She's a very powerful Wiccan, and she has done much to teach him of the Goddess's power."

  I rubbed my forehead. The headache was increasing in its intensity. "Now I really am confused, and not too proud to admit it. I thought the Venediger was a mage."

  She nodded.

  "Isn't a mage some sort of a magician? A wizard? Wouldn't that mean he knew magic?"

  A frown creased her brow. "Do you not have any mages where you are from?"

  I made a half-shrugging motion that committed me to no particular answer.

  "I thought they were everywhere, but I guess not. A mage does indeed know magic, he's a master wizard in fact, but it's dark magic that he practices. You might have gathered that Perdy and I feel strongly that it's our duty to spread the word about me Goddess's love to those who make use of the dark powers"—I made a little grimacing moue. I had been on the receiving end of Perdita's lec­tures about the power of Wicca more than once in the last twenty-four hours—"and she felt particularly that the Venediger could be turned from his path of destruction if only he would embrace the Rede."

  "But he didn't," I said.

  "No, and it was only last week that she finally admit­ted that nothing would turn him from the dark path. That's part of the reason why she feels so bad—she had intended on resigning her position, feeling it was wrong to stay working for him when he embodied everything we hold abhorrent, but now ... now she feels she has to stay on, at least until a new Venediger appears."

  I closed my mouth from where it had been hanging open, trying to at least appear as if I had a few wits left. "The Venediger is a... uh ..."

  "It's a position within the Otherworld, yes. You don't have them? No, you wouldn't, not in the States. Every­thing there is a democracy." She smiled. "Here we stay with the old ways. The Venediger is a position of power, a person who controls the Otherworld of each country."

  "Sounds kind of like a paranormal Mafia."

  She didn't laugh as I expected her to. Instead she looked troubled. "I'm afraid that's an accurate compari­son. The Venediger—the one who died—long held France in his grip. No one challenged him, because of the power he held. Those who were foolish enough to cross him once never did so a second time. It was a virtual dic­tatorship. Our only hope of avoiding the same fate is if the next Venediger will be one of our own."

  I couldn't keep my surprise from showing at that com­ment. "A Wiccan? A Wiccan can be a Venediger?"

  She nodded. "Female Venedigers aren't common, but they aren't unknown. All that is needed to acquire the title is the ability to beat the other aspirants."

  "How many people are there who are likely to try for the job?" I asked, wondering if Perdita had wanted the Venediger gone not because of his history with Bael, but because she wanted his position ... but that was stupid. Drake killed the Venediger; Bafamal admitted as much.

  "Right now there are few people in France who have the power needed to control the Otherworld."
r />   "The wyverns are powerful," I said slowly, my mind twisting and turning as it tried to work through a convo­luted thought.

  "Yes, but they are too bound to their septs to ever be­come a Venediger."

  "Does Perdita—?" I hesitated, unwilling to put my thoughts into words. I didn't want to offend Ophelia with my question, but I had to know the truth. All of it. "Does Perdita have the power to become the next Venediger?"

  "Perdy?" Ophelia's nose scrunched as she thought about the question. "I suppose she does. She's a very powerful Wiccan. Oh!" Her eyes went round as she clutched at my hand. "You don't think she intends to do it, do you? Become the Venediger? I hadn't thought she would, but you may be on to something. It is just the sort of challenge she would enjoy. She might just do it."

  Every bell and siren that composed my mental warn­ing system went into Red Alert double overtime. Ophe­lia's innocent act rang false, completely false. The question was, why did she want me to think Perdita hadn't considered the job of Venediger?

  The answer to that was easy—she had to know I was beginning to suspect Perdita's motives. She would natu­rally be expected to cover up the acts of a dearly beloved sister.

  And with that thought, a light clicked on in my head. I saw it all, saw the whole plan, each jigsaw piece of it fit­ting smoothly into the next. All those knowing looks be­tween the two of them, Perdita's copy of the Steganographia, Perdita's lectures about people who tapped into the dark powers, Ophelia telling me that Perdita had had a relationship with Drake—it all came into focus as I sat watching Ophelia wring her hands with pretend worry. Even the vague something that bothered me in watching the video of Bafamal dropped into place—Drake had told me that dragons couldn't sum­mon demons. He might have been lying, but thinking back, I was of the mind he had been telling the truth. That meant that someone else had to have summoned Bafamal. Ophelia prattled on about how wonderful it would be with a Wiccan in charge while I wondered idly if she knew that I was familiar with the fact that a dragon couldn't summon a servant of Abaddon.