The Summoning

by Robert Wingfield

  She tried to stay upright as her head span. This time, she realised, there was to be no help from the spirits. Her friend, the Captain, who saved her before, had long since retired to some other world for a life of derring-do and debauchery. She only had George. Pray he is somewhere near the crystal. She sent out a desperate mental plea. There was no reply. I trow he is still up north, enjoying time with the family, the errant prick-eared varlet. She hated him for the domestic bliss she could never personally achieve.

  The office door opened, and a tall woman with long dark hair, pulled into a pony-tail, entered. Ankerita recognised her as the CEO of the Stanhope empire. She was wearing a long red silken dress, which hugged the contours of her body, and flowed like water as she moved.

  “You look lovely, my dear.” Fantasia noticed her immediately. “Thank you for making the effort.”

  Ankerita remembered her own adage: don’t get scared, get angry. “And you,” she spat back, “but I had no choice. What do you want?”

  “I suppose you should all know why you are here...” Fantasia settled down in a swivel chair that one of the men brought for her. She crossed long legs, and the material rode up, revealing most of them. Ankerita felt a tremor from Jones, who still had hold of her arm.

  “No, please don’t sit down,” Fantasia said. “It’s much more relaxing, having me look up to you, isn’t it?”

  Ankerita put her hands behind her back as Jones went to join the rest of the men, fussing around their leader. She felt that she was in front of a firing squad, which, she gulped, she probably was. Behind her, she could feel the coldness emanating from the slab.

  “The thing with this realm... thank you...” Fantasia accepted a glass of liquid with a cherry on a stick in it, “...is that there are too many do-gooders.” She paused for a sip. “Remember, everything here is driven by the three pillars of ‘greed’, ‘folly’ or ‘lust’... and that’s the way we like it.”

  “We?” Ankerita took hold of the rondel. The feel of the carved hilt gave her some comfort, and the stone set in it seemed warm to the touch. This woman needed to talk, and the longer the speech went on, the more chance Ankerita had of finding an opportunity to attack.

  “Yes, ‘we’,” said Fantasia. “Have you ever wondered about all the illogical things that happen in the world? From the man who brought the British steelworkers out on strike and destroyed that industry, to the leaders who nearly brought world finances down, to the cowardly terrorist, who tells other people to go and blow themselves up, and even the corrupt councillor, who grants planning permission for houses that aren’t needed. They all get their little rewards, either in the satisfaction of control over their fellows, or undisclosed amounts of cash, which they can’t use, for fear of being outed. There are many, still working to those ends.”

  “And what do you get out of it?”

  Fantasia laughed. “Who do you think is controlling and orchestrating all this?”

  “You?” It was Ankerita’s turn to laugh. “You have one small company, doing whatever it is you do. How can you have influence over all those others?”

  “Surveillance,” clarified Fantasia. “Knowledge is power, as everyone knows. I have access to road cameras, web-cams, security feeds and so many other observation devices on the Internet. I know intimate secrets about influential people, what their web habits are, the sites they are looking at, and how they spend their filthy perverted lives. A quick discussion, and they are mostly happy to assist in my strategy when I need them to.”

  “To what end? What good does it do you?”

  “I do it, because I can. It amuses me. Call it a hobby, if you like. Everyone should have a hobby.” She chuckled.

  “I ask again, what do you want with me? I’ve got nothing to hide, nothing to give you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” the woman retorted, now suddenly serious. “You do have. How do you think I was able to find you, one person in a city of millions? The moment you latched on to my website, I could plant tracking cookies and use canvas fingerprinting to see everything else you were looking at. It was relatively easy to find you after that. For instance, I know that you have been looking for the Treasures of Albion. How many you have found, I don’t know, but I do know...” she made a slight gesture with her finger and Jones and Praed dashed forwards to pin Ankerita’s arms to her sides. Praed removed the rondel and displayed it to Fantasia. Ankerita’s last hopes failed.

  “I do know,” continued Fantasia, “that you have been hiding the knife. I’m guessing it’s one of those treasures, and do you know, I don’t care...”

  “But how?”

  “A hidden camera in the shower-room of course. Do you think I’d be so stupid as to let you have the opportunity to plot an escape, especially as you have been so good at it, up until now? My concern was that you were going to try to kill yourself in there, but I knew you wouldn’t.”

  “How so? I had the weapon.”

  “That’s why Mr Keech is here.” Fantasia reached out to pat him on the rear. “I knew that you would want the revenge of sticking him, before you cut yourself. That is one of the reasons he got the job with me.”

  “Oh.” Danny let out a slight gasp.

  Fantasia flicked her hand to the other men. “You can let her go. If she tries to run, bring her down, but do it gently. I still don’t want her damaged. The ritual depends on perfection.”

  Ankerita subsided slowly to the floor. She had lost all hope, all her will to survive. “But again, why me?” she asked weakly. “What have I ever done to you?”

  “I will explain,” said Fantasia, “but one of your companions, a Joanna Slingsby is also of import.”

  “She is my best friend,” said Ankerita, worry adding in to her resignation. “But you know that. What has she got to do with it? You’ve got me. Leave her alone.”

  “I have no need. She is already dealt with. She has a cancer in her system, that she cannot recover from.”

  “But why her?” Ankerita pressed, not taking in the significance of Fantasia’s statement.

  “She was destined to make a stand,” said Fantasia. “With all this new awareness, transparency and knowledge-sharing, it is becoming more difficult to infiltrate the people who control. Where originally, we could get away with it, from petty stuff like paedophiles destroying people’s lives, right up to the other end of the scale, with whole countries ready to deploy massive destruction on the say-so of one despot; all it takes these days is one person to make a stand and make a difference either way. I hope you’ll forgive me, but for want of a better analogy, ‘the Force is strong in that one’. Miss Slingsby had to be destroyed, otherwise she was going to be ‘that one’, and people would listen to her. You could have saved her.”

  “You must be mad,” said Ankerita weakly. “One person against the world? And she’s only a receptionist.”

  “It’s what she would become,” said Fantasia. “She could have done great things. There have been others in the past, but the family has always managed to silence them: Luther King, two Ghandis would you believe, Bhutto and Kennedy, although the jury is still out on that last one. Those we can’t corrupt or kill have been neutralised, and are currently being hounded and discredited for speaking out. The people in control should be listening to them. They’re not, of course, because we have blocked their ears with cash and threats. Some cannot be corrupted or stopped, your friend being one of them. Sadly, we could not see how to deal with dear Joanna without bringing down the Lads from the Law upon us, so before she was born, my father planted the triggers for cancer. Long term strategy, I know, but when one can see everything, one can plan for these operations.”

  “You can see the future?” Ankerita was beginning to wonder at the woman’s sanity.

  “You aren’t the only one with a special ball of glass you know. Don’t you realise that for every arcane device of power, there has to be one which is opposite? Only then can there be balance. Yes, t
he family has a preternatural device, which is as old as your own crystal toy... except that we know how to use it.”

  “What’s all this got to do with me?” Ankerita tried to control the tremor in her voice.

  “You have the power to cure your friend. You know that; you have always known that. Your destiny was written five-hundred years ago. My associates tried to nullify you before you died, but that meddling witch got in the way. It’s not easy, working on all this cause and effect nonsense, you know. My progenitors were perhaps not as enlightened as me, and nor did they have the tools of the modern world, to exploit events to their best advantage.”

  “You are going to kill me? That’s what you plan to do, isn’t it?” Ankerita scowled at Danny. His expression was different from the leers of the others; indecision?

  “You could have cured your friend if we let you live,” continued Fantasia. “I say ‘could have’, so don’t get your hopes up. You are an easy target. I tried to have you taken away before, but somehow you resisted, and cost me. It’s time to sort that out. I can kill you without anyone noticing that you’ve gone. You have no name or place in this modern world. You are not registered anywhere. In the unlikely event anyone does find your body, and my team here will be sure to make that most unlikely, won’t you, boys...?”

  Two men looked enthusiastic.

  “...then they won’t make an identification. They have no record of how you got here. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure that all the recordings, I have been using to track you, are suitably erased. So much easier than trying to remove someone who actually belongs here.”

  “But why the dramatics?” Ankerita indicated the table.

  “Oh, you mean the slab. I had information passed down to me by a loving father. I absorb the blood of an immortal, and I live forever... you know the sort of thing.”

  “You are talking poppycock. Have you gone mad? Everybody dies, eventually. It’s what makes life worth living. Cherish it while you can.”

  Fantasia laughed. “Everybody, except you, my dear. Have you not realised why you are still living, so long after your apparent death? No? Poor lamb. It’s your blood. The witch cast a spell far stronger than she could have realised. I am going to take that blood for myself, because I know it can do the same for me. And as for the slab and the candles, you of all people know the importance of ritual in the manner of the supernatural. Recognise this?” Fantasia held out the Book of Ghosts. Ankerita gaped. “My lads found it in your house, while your ineffectual protectors were having a lie-down. I believe you were having trouble reading it? Not so for me, and isn’t it great that I get a chance to practise one of the most complex and powerful spells on you? It was all I needed to succeed, and you kindly found it for me.”

  Ankerita stood dumbly, knocked down again and again as Fantasia continued boasting. Finally, her mind switched off and the words became a dull rumble. She called out silently to her protector.

  Nithaiah, please help me. She nearly cried out when she heard a reply.

  Nearly there, Hen. Hang on.

  George. I’ll love you forever, but there’s so little time.

  She looked at the people in front of her. In her distressed state, she saw their auras; deep red and black around all of them—no, not all. As she looked at Danny, she could see a dull pink, with occasional flecks of clear red. What was he thinking? Was he planning something?

  “Enough.” Fantasia clapped her hands. All the auras vanished, and Ankerita was staring into her beautiful face. “Enough of this. Fasten her to the slab. It is time.”

  18. Jo

  I

  n a miserable room somewhere in the Midlands, Joanna Slingsby knew nothing of the events overtaking her friend. Jo was ill, very ill. The disease inside her was incurable, but she refused medication. “You’re not having my hair,” she insisted stubbornly. “Take your potions and leeches away from me.”

  A colleague at a former job had offered Jo a smoke, one evening. Jo had taken it willingly, and enjoyed the feeling of relaxation, and this was now her main pain relief. After she was diagnosed, the people at work sympathetically let her have time off for treatment, but once she realised the full extent of the infection, she resigned, and decided to spend the time between hospital and home. She withdrew, and the few kind people who tried to visit her were gently rebuffed.

  “Leave me to die in my own way,” she said.

  They tried to encourage her with platitudes, but she could see her fate. Eventually, her only visitor was Collie, a good friend from work. He was training to be a male nurse, and his kindness was what kept Jo going... as was the cannabis he brought for her.

  The pain was growing worse. Jo’s prescribed painkillers were strong, but the disease had progressed, and it was starting to force its way through; she was relying on the drug more and more.

  Jo was feeding the cat, shaking with the effort, when Collie called. He had a key, in case she was suddenly taken ill, and had promised to look after the place, in the event that she was in hospital. That included looking after her pet. Collie liked cats.

  “How are you feeling today?” he asked, giving her a hug.

  “Not so good. The hash helps, but it’s not working as effectively as it did. Can you get me anything stronger?”

  “I could,” he said with concern, “but it is hellish addictive. Only a couple of shots and you will be hooked. You will be totally reliant on it.”

  “Yeah, so what’s it going to do, like kill me?”

  Collie looked hurt.

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me.” She squeezed his hand.

  “It’s okay.” He gave a sad smile. “I understand. It’s the pain talking. Why won’t you go and at least try to get some treatment?”

  “They will lock me away. Once I go in, it will be palliative care, and they’ll pump me so full of crap, I don’t know what day it is. I’ve always made my own way; I’m not letting them screw up my last few days of life.”

  The cat jumped up, and rubbed its head on her chin.

  “You will care for Priah, won’t you, if I get taken in?”

  “Of course I will.” Collie ruffled the cat’s fur, and it turned to smile at him. “How could I not. That animal has a personality all of its own. I’ve never seen one grin before.”

  “Except in fairy-tales,” said Jo. “Yes, he is unusual.”

  The cat cocked its head on one side.

  “Is he listening?”

  “Who knows? Now, can you get me something stronger?”

  “I have contacts. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Take my money. I’ll give you my card and details.”

  Jo tried the first shot with Collie’s help. It was incredible. The pain vanished, and was replaced by a feeling of intense wellbeing. She felt warm and safe. She began to see more to life than her rooms, and when Collie spoke to her, she was lucid and enthusiastic.

  “If you can hold the dose to that level,” he said, “you can keep going a while. Is there anything else?”

  “Tea and coffee, please,” she said, “and more milk.”

  “I’ll bring you a few ready-meals too. You can pop them in the microwave when you get hungry.”

  “Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

  “I do what I can. Will you be okay on your own?”

  “I’ll be fine. Feeling, like, so much better.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  After Collie left, Jo dashed to the toilet and was violently sick. She went to bed and fell into a deep sleep.

  The following morning, it was still dark when the girl awoke, with a headache. Somewhere in her mind was a refrain, music she could not quite get a grip on. A few words remained as the sleep dropped away: The song that angels sing... She gasped. The pain was back. After her period of respite, she felt worse than ever.

  “Angels,” she muttered, as Priah came in through the window. “This is it, Puss. The stuff was my last hope. It works, but i
s so horrible afterwards. I can’t stand it anymore.” The cat looked at her, and demanded food. “Don’t worry,” she said painfully, “I’ll give you a good meal to keep you going, but then I’ll finish off the rest of the stuff Collie brought for me. He promised to look after you.”

  The cat rubbed around her legs. Apparently, he didn’t care. Food was all he wanted.

  Jo opened a new tin and spooned the whole of the contents on a dinner plate. “That will keep you going until Collie gets here. Oh God, is that the time? I didn’t realise there was actually a 2 o’ clock in the morning.”

  Jo sat at the table, and agonisingly scrawled a note, explaining how it was best this way. At least she could go out feeling comfortable again. She told him he could have the rest of her bank balance, and anything he wanted from the flat, as long as he looked after the cat. Tears dropped on to the paper, as she asked him to let her parents know what had happened, and that this was the only way out for her. She asked them to forgive her for not coming home, but she was not up to flying halfway around the world. She wished she had done so earlier, but it was too late; the disease had taken over too quickly.

  That complete, Jo sat on the bed and fingered the syringe. The pain was almost blinding her, and she felt a craving for the drug that she could barely control. Her hands shook as the prepared the shot. What Collie had described as a week’s supply all went into the one dose. “That should be enough,” she muttered. “No, please don’t keep looking at me, Puss.”

  Priah was sitting at her feet, staring up at her. The expression on his face seemed to reflect sympathy and concern. “No, shoo, go away. I can’t do it if you’re watching.” She pushed him away, but he avoided her foot and jumped up beside her.

  The pain came in waves. “I’m sorry, my baby, but watching or not, I’m going to have to do this.” She took a deep breath and tied a cord around her arm. The syringe was ready and she stabbed it into her vein. “What?”