Heist

by Kezzy Sparks

  ***

  The day is sweltering, and the air conditioner is already crooning by ten. It’s sure going to be long until nightfall, and I kill the time by cleaning the house and doing some laundry and then take Sara out for dinner.

  By ten p.m., we are back, and then I let her go to Katie’s house because I must leave this place and do what I have to.

  I finish preparing and then jump into the Corolla. The traffic is great: by eleven, I am already turning off the Hamburg highway to reach our farm. The night is populated with its sparkly adornments, and there is a silver moon out, but absolutely no one is going to see me play around with magic things when I get to tackle the demon. Those apparitions anyway, even in the shadow state that Ratan is in, are invisible to most mortals, so I can’t expect neighbors to catch anything.

  When I arrive, no one is caught in the Alcatraz, but Ratan is there, still bound to the tree with that charmed binder. Anger burns into my throat as I behold him. This thing might have killed us had we not fought tenaciously and with the right weapons.

  The spirit thing has recovered from those stinging blows Zed and I subjected him to. He glows a smoky gray, but his horn is sharp and black. He could be lethal if I don’t handle him the right way, and I will be very careful to avoid that.

  I bring out my graveyard wand intending to smother him for good, but then I get a different idea. The fiend could be useful to me if I employ him the right way. I think about it, and the idea becomes even more attractive. Yes, it’s very possible. I will untie him and force him to take me to The Mage!

  That surely will be much better than trying to do a locate, since my imagination now is that The Mage has gone to hide somewhere, knowing that if she stays at her home we will arrest her there, and too soon. So Ratan could be useful on that account.

  As the demon notices me, he trundles closer as far as the binder will allow. “What do you want from me?” he half snarls in Quimglich. His shadow has grown heavier, perhaps owing to his inactivity.

  “You are to take to The Mage.”

  “No, set me free.”

  “Only on my terms,” I declare. “We go to her.”

  Before I loosen the rope from the tree, I zap him with a bolt from the stinger—to weaken him because I am not taking any chances. I then drag him to the waiting car and tie the free end of the rope this time to a tow bracket under the vehicle front. He will lead, and I follow.

  As we are about to go, I proceed to reverse the Alcatraz wall, doing it the right way this time unlike the hurried manner I did in Tonawanda. Proper removal involves walking around the perimeter with the same oaken scepter I used to lay the wall, but this time pointing it up rather than down, and while at the same time uttering a release chant.

  Done, I walk back to the car and get inside. Ratan still stands on the pavement in front of the Toyota.

  “Now go,” I shout out through the window, “but you will only follow the roads.”

  I must command him this way because demons can travel fast, scooting through bush and scrub with no problems. They can cross rivers with ease, and jump over fences and walls, so I have to restrict him to the travelled pavements for the sake of me and my Corolla.

  The demon nods, and I start the engine. A big surprise is that when we go, he turns south on Lakeview Road, a direction that takes us away from both Alden and Central Buffalo, which was where I thought The Mage hid. Despite that, I still let him lead me.

  We continue south for a while, but later come to a T-intersection, and he indicates to turn left. After that, it’s a couple more turns, and then we end up on South Creek. That road is a winding, country one I have driven on many times and know it will lead us to Route 62. On reaching that bigger road, we turn right, and now I am really worried where this fiend is taking me to, yet we don’t stop.

  Even if I zapped Ratan to sap his strength, he still goes fast. The rope is getting tight even though I’m doing forty. Sometimes, even at higher speeds, it feels like I’m being towed.

  One funny thing I notice is that the horned fiend doesn’t want to stop at streetlights! He has no respect for them whatsoever. Each time we reach one, I have to brake hard, causing the charmed rope to go tight, and that is only what makes him halt. When I yell, “STOP” through the open window, he won’t listen.

  Soon though, we hit Eden, and while I was thinking we would pass it, we reduce speed and turn off into a road named Sandrock. Afterward we negotiate a few more turns, and then are coasting down a road named Madonna.

  Ratan stops a distance from a large split-level near the end of a bend. There are lots of cars parked nearby. My sniffer, which is still primed to locate The Mage, is vibrating. Ratan hasn’t misled me. The witch is inside that house. My heart pounds hard in my chest as adrenaline fills my blood. I have reached where the real deal is.

  Whether he was trying to help me or not, I don’t know, but the fact the demon stopped perhaps forty yards away from the home he points to, is actually a blessing. If the suspect is inside that place, like all indications say, then I wouldn’t want her to see me first. In fact, I don’t want The Mage to see me at all right now and would like to properly survey the area before doing anything decisive.

  To his credit, the fiend has been so cooperative, I am persuaded to let him go. Finishing him off with my graveyard wand, like I was bent on initially, isn’t anyway going to make much of a difference—because demons are like dead people: they don’t die twice. The wand will only destroy his shadow, vaporizing it and sending him back to hell so he can no longer be on earth, but I don’t think that furthers my interests at this point. I am only here for The Mage. I want to make an arrest.

  I get out of the car and loosen the binder from both his neck and then the car’s tow bracket.

  “Now go away and don’t reunite with the witch,” I warn, waving the graveyard wand, which he knows well about. “You disobey me, and I catch you with her, you’re gone.”

  Ratan bows and then shuffles over to the adjacent sidewalk. We are on the side opposite to the house, and I don’t think he will cross the road and run to it. The last I see of him, he is heading down toward an intersection, and then he vanishes from my sight. He has done himself a great favor by obeying, and I put my killer wand back into the tote.

  It’s now time for me to do some real sleuthing, because we have to demolish this place tonight. The home is full of magic, even the most amateur witch hunter could tell. There is a supernatural shimmer above the roof, and the ground shakes a bit. The magic type isn’t the same, though, as the one I sensed when I visited Savage Rd. This one is more menacing; the witch or warlock who lives here is more powerful.

  I cross the road and reach the other side. A sound starts to beat at my eardrums, and it’s the second thing that alerts me to danger. In a moment, the evil beat has quickened to a hum. Alarm whirls up and fills my chest. I am not only immersing myself into a field of distributed magic, but also dangerous wards that, should I set off one, will be the end of me.

  Still, I can’t go back since I have resolved that I must capture my quarry tonight.

  Cautious, I tiptoe down the sidewalk toward the house. On reaching it, I don’t walk up to the driveway but rather cut across the grass to get to a window. There are blinds, but they aren’t drawn tight enough to obstruct viewing. The room I glimpse has no people, but quite a collection of statuettes and paintings of all kinds, a meditation or prayer room of sorts.

  I slide away from that one and slink toward the main door. Suddenly an unusual rising warmth tells me of further peril, and I turn aside and avoid the porch. As I go around it, I discover the wards I had been sensing are concealed right by the main door, which means staying clear of the porch was a smart move. And judging by the way the wards give off some heat even before they are activated, they must be the hellfire type. A most cruel fire-spitting variety.

  Most warily I advance toward another window and then peer again. Surprisingly, this room looks like a workshop because it has
a long counter with a sink and cabinets, but is also so clean it could be a lab. There are four people in there, two women and two men, although they don’t face me.

  The women are in dark corsets and wear black witch hats. One man has a grayish fedora that eerily looks like a warlock’s. The other man, though, looks like a guy who doesn’t do magic. He wears an expensive-looking black shirt, and long shiny gray pants. Everyone has their shoes on, but that is quite unusual inside houses in this part of the world.

  As I wonder what this motley quartet is up to, one of the witches turns her face to the window, and I see her. It’s The Mage; behold, my sniffer is almost jumping out of the tote. Our eyes seem to meet, but she can’t see me because it’s dark where I stand, and the blinds work against her. My appetite to make an arrest momentarily spikes, but I know I can’t do it. This place is well defended, and I am outnumbered. There is a lot of other people here, too, since I hear many loud voices emanating from other rooms including the backyard. I therefore stand no chance.

  Before I slink away, I imagine to spy things further. I peer past the slats once again and see an array of glass tubes neatly arranged on the counter. Not far from them, strangely, a small gas burner is going. What could those witches be trying to do?

  And then I glimpse some things even more mystifying: a human finger on the counter and then beside it, oh a dark-colored case. On recognizing it, a scream almost escapes my lips. Seriously, I have to restrain myself from smashing through the window. That case is the one I have been seeing in my dreams! The Mage picked it up from the research station and brought it here! She completely outsmarted me.

  Anger, joy, fear, and hope fill me all at the same time.

  Forget arresting Mage. I am coming back tonight for a pickup war.

  Sixty-nine

  To every upside, a downside. This oft-used phrase can’t be truer for The Mage as she sits in this mystically lit room of Anarchy’s, gazing at an array of glass tubes that are lined up on a counter. Each tube is tightly corked at the opening, with a short straw running through the cork. A red silken cloth covers the counter, and its delicate texture shimmers into the eyes of all present.

  The upside today is that even as she is in here, The Mage is being celebrated by the whole cult’s leadership and other rank and file associates. She has been bestowed with a knighthood, and the sign of that in the Fiends is a gleaming brass sword that’s been handed to her.

  Then in addition, a big revelry, dubbed a bacchanalia in witching parlance, has been called in her honor, and is already rocking. A lot of members have come for it, and the celebrators are divided into three groups: one in the basement, where sounds from speakers are causing the floorboards to tremble, the other in the living room guzzling down wines and whiskies, and the last in the backyard, where meats are sizzling on a barbecue. She is The Mage. She made it.

  On the downside is that she has been told the human parts she brought will be burned.

  “We are going to bottle magic today,” Anarchy already announced to the few elite gracing this room. “We are going to vaporize everything to harvest aphrodisiacal essences. Trust me, I know how.”

  A specially designed gas burner is already fitted onto the work counter that holds the array of tubes. Also on the same top sits a litany of other curiosities, gels, powders, and unknown liquids.

  Shock waves spread through the whole of The Mage’s psyche. Are they going to sacrifice human parts?

  The big man named The Partner splits his lips into an admiring smile, apparently in awe of Anarchy. The other witch, Pegi, huddles in her chair glaring at the goings on, and poised to participate when needed. The only other person in here whom The Mage wasn’t introduced to last night is an old cunning-looking warlock named Zenix. He, too, doesn’t seem to object to Anarchy’s intentions.

  “What a nice little thingy.” Anarchy, with much glee, picks up the finger and dangles it dangerously close to the sputtering flame, then soon withdraws it—almost like she was just teasing. She drops it back onto the countertop.

  Is she really going to do that? The Mage is appalled. How is she going to enjoy the meats grilled outside when she has seen a finger put to a fire?

  “Please drink to this powerful new beginning.” Anarchy raises her glass to The Mage, who has no option but to go along and accept the toast. The others clink their glasses against one another’s. The coven’s signature wine tastes a salty bitter, perhaps like blood would, should you ever try it.

  Seriously, The Mage is having second thoughts. She can testify that at the Scarlets, and the one other coven she was in previously, no one there practiced the burning of human parts. No one ever managed to get body parts anyway, except for her when she magically amputated that finger three years ago. Something is very wrong with this group, something...barbaric, but unfortunately it’s too late to turn back.

  “I always like to start with a prayer to Jove,” says Anarchy interrupting The Mage’s thoughts. “Let’s close our eyes.”

  The Mage must close hers, too. The coven queen utters a chant in Quimglich, and then after a short exhortation, the dedication is over.

  She doesn’t waste any more time. “A sexual spice,” she says as she dips the finger into a small chalice filled with a gooey, yellowish concoction. “This mixture burned together with an appropriate human organ will produce powerful aphrodisiacal results.”

  “Unfortunately, a finger is not the most appropriate organ,” cautions the Partner.

  “We use it as a test,” Anarchy answers. “Because we’ve got this...next.” She taps the chocolate-brown case and quirks up a triumphant lip.

  The Mage has been in the witching business for long, but this horrifies her outright. Will the victims she deprived of these parts feel the heat when the organs are put to fire? That would be so cruel; she only meant to punish them in some way, but not to this extent.

  Unaware of her inner protestations, and being quite the businessman, The Partner takes the finger that now glistens with the gooey yellow stuff and wraps it in an old, rumpled two-dollar note. “To Jove, who always makes us rich.” He passes the wrapped-up finger back to Anarchy.

  The coven princess grabs a pair of tongs, grips the digit then puts it to the flame. It starts to smolder.

  “Now collect,” she orders.

  Zenix, Pegi, and The Partner pick up several tubes from the array. They upturn them above the smoking finger, with the sucking straw facing down so the vapors and essences can drift in.

  “Not a lot is needed, just a little coating,” says Anarchy.

  A strong smell of burning concoctions mixed with that of flesh fills the room. The smolder is enough to choke the average person, but the coven members in here have been through a lot and can handle it.

  The Partner and Pegi and Zenix work surprisingly fast, bringing several tubes in one instant to get them infused. The Mage has to help at some point, even though she is unwilling. By the time the little finger has been burnt to a hard char, perhaps a hundred tubes have been filled with invisible essence.

  “Buyers will sip the magic through the straw,” says Anarchy. “We will automate the production process and get rich fast.”

  “Fine, now let’s test the aphrodisiac,” says The Partner. “How is it to be taken?”

  “You draw in a vapor from the tube, the way you do with an asthma puffer.”

  “Let me call a volunteer,” says the businessman. “I am the manager, so I can’t start by tasting this on myself.”

  “Better make sure it’s someone who has a wife present,” Anarchy mutters, her lips tearing apart in a victorious grin.

  “Serge has his wife helping in the kitchen,” intones Pegi. “I’ll go fetch him.”

  Things happen fast, and the door is opened.

  “Something smells nice in here.” Serge breezes in eagerly, and then he glimpses the little charred remains, but his eyes linger longer on the tubes.

  “Ever vaped this before?” The Partner hands one to him—
and Serge doesn’t take long to take a drag.

  “Maybe not so much at first.” Anarchy cackles. “Just a warning.”

  Perhaps that advice comes too late for the young trainee. “I feel hot.” He clutches his crotch.

  Sure, he is getting a bulge.

  “Quick go get your wife, room is on me,” says Anarchy.

  “I sure will want to watch him do it,” chimes in Pegi. “It’s a marvel not to miss.”

  The Mage can only sigh. This, pretty much, is the end of DB4R as she imagined it.

  Seventy

  I rush back to the car. I am horrified and sickened by what’s happening in that room. I saw that majestic witch bring that finger to the fire, and it’s the most devilish thing anyone could ever do.

  Hastily, I bring out my phone and feverishly dial Zed. “I found the case,” I say. “But in the most wicked of circumstances...”

  “Where?” Zed cuts in quick. “Where did you see it?”

  “I am in Eden,” I say, “on a street called Madonna. Look, there is this sect that practices organ sacrifice.”

  “Oh my.” Fear laces Zed’s voice. “What are you telling me?”

  “It’s where The Mage is. She’s the one who brought the case.”

  “Terrible, I’m coming right away.”

  “No, don’t,” I say. “We have to raise a force. House is fortified with hellfire wards, and there are lots of other witches and wizards present.”

  “Okay, let’s meet somewhere then.”

  “Fine, I am coming.”

  The hellfire wards are a huge concern, but there is a sliver of opportunity to beat them. As lethal as they are, they strangely have no effect on people who don’t practice magic of any sort. Which means we could bring in Casey, because he is only a victim but not a practitioner. Otherwise if I or Zed, being endowed people, were to try and force our way in through the front door, we would be barbecued by the flames.

  In less than thirty minutes, I have parked on Dick Road. Casey is in with Megan. The hurried nature of my approach has them worried.