by J. R. Mabry
She shook her head.
Terry looked at Richard. “And we have an old man needlessly suffering…”
Richard sighed. “What the hell, all he can do is sue us.”
Terry smiled, “And no one has ever won a case on the grounds of unauthorized exorcism.”
Richard met the woman’s eyes. “We’ll do it.”
She was visibly relieved. “I’m afraid he’s got so much morphine in him he won’t be able to speak to you,” she said.
“That’s all right,” said Richard. “We don’t need to speak to him, just the thing inside him. And unless I’m mistaken, the morphine isn’t going to slow it down any.”
“No,” she said with a frightened and faraway look that was not hard to decipher. “It never does.” She looked at the old man with a mixture of compassion and fear. In a moment, she gathered up her courage and addressed them again. “My rooms are just through there.” She pointed to a door opposite the one they had come through. “I always have the monitor on, so just call if you need me.”
Richard smiled grimly at her. “Thank you. But we want you to turn the monitor off. It’s not a request; it’s a requirement. And no matter what you hear coming from this room this afternoon, I need you to promise me you’ll stay put. I don’t care if you hear what sounds like Armageddon coming from this room, for your own safety, and ours, you need to stay put.”
“Do you want me to leave?” she asked, looking skeptical.
“Mr. Dane might need medical assistance if things go wrong. But we’ll come and get you if we need you. Are you okay with that?”
She looked momentarily relieved, and then frightened—but she had obviously seen enough weirdness in tending to the old man that she was prepared to be brave. “I’m okay…with that.”
“Good. Then we’re going to get started.” This was, apparently, her cue to get lost, and after a moment of hesitation she picked up on it. After a quick check to make sure all was as well with Mr. Dane as she could make it, she retired to her apartment.
Without another word, Terry and Richard began carrying all the superfluous furniture out of the room and into the garden. Mikael followed their example. “Hey, if we want a smoke later, we can kick back out here,” Mikael said. He looked a little confused by all the moving.
Terry noticed. “We don’t want you to be hit in the back of the head by a flying samovar, let alone a sofa, do we?”
“Oh,” he mouthed silently, nodding. He went back inside for a lamp. Once everything that wasn’t nailed down or necessary for medical care was safely in the garden, they opened their kit bags and unpacked their vestments. All three donned surplices and pectoral crucifixes, and Terry and Richard put on stoles. Then the priests took their places on either side of the possessed man. Richard lit a charcoal brick for the incense and laid it in a brass thurible.
“Where do you want me?” asked Mikael.
“As far away as possible,” Richard said. “You’re here to observe. I’ll let you know if I need your help. Otherwise, just keep your eyes peeled and learn.”
Mikael swallowed hard and wiped a clump of wild black hair out of his eyes. Terry smiled at his nervousness, and in a quiet compassionate voice asked him, “Where is the one place on earth you feel most safe, Mikael?”
Mikael’s face screwed up into an almost comical mask of concentration. Then he brightened. “924 Gilman.”
“The punk club? Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Okay, imagine that you’re there, waiting for a show.”
Mikael closed his eyes and put on the concentrating face again. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes again and shook his head. “It’s not working. I’m too nervous.”
“Okay,” Terry said, “let’s try something else. Martin’s first stage of exorcism—what is it?”
“Presence.”
“You feel it?”
“The moment I walked in the room.”
“Good. What’s the second stage?”
“Pretense.”
“Bingo. What does this look like to you?” He waved toward Mr. Dane.
“It looks like a really sick man knocked out on morphine.”
“It does, doesn’t it? Don’t let it fool you, though. Inside this body is a very conscious, very dangerous being. It may try to hide for a while—to pretend it’s just a very sick man knocked out on morphine. But this actually helps us. The demon can’t pretend it’s anything else but an unconscious old guy. If we get any response at all, we’ll know it’s the demon talking, not Mr. Dane here.”
Richard spooned incense onto the smoking charcoal. Terry quickly set wards for protection and then erected a crucifix in a stand on the tray table in front of the possessed, where it would be clearly visible should he open his eyes.
Richard said a silent prayer for protection. As the smoke of incense wafted through the room, Richard took out a portable aspergill and began to sprinkle holy water over himself and Terry. He threw a few sprinkles in Mikael’s direction and then sprinkled the old man.
A violent stirring began. It started with a shudder that ran the length of the body, beginning at the feet and ending with a brief convulsion of the shoulders and head. Then the old man began to shake all over, with shivers that did not subside.
Richard rubbed his thumb across the cotton in his oil stock, wetting it with holy chrism. The moment he touched the old man’s forehead with this thumb, and before he could make the sign of the cross, the eyes snapped open, and the sagging face bunched itself up into a taut mask of rage.
“That was quick,” Terry noted.
“Well, what have we here?” it began, slithering its words like a serpent. “Two magickians”—he cast his eyes to the far side of the room and sized up Mikael quickly—“and a witch? Masquerading as priests. We’re on the same team, you know, you and I. Just what do you expect to do here?”
“We expect to send your sorry ass back to Hell, bozo,” Terry said as Richard continued the chrismation. Once the cross of oil was complete, the withered body writhed in pain, and the acrid smell of burning flesh cut through the incense.
Richard ignored the demon and opened his Ritual. He began with the standard litany and prayer of divine invocation. Then he turned and addressed the possessed. “Unclean spirit!” he shouted. “Whoever you are who possess this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, the sufferings and death, the resurrection, and the ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ; by the sending of the Holy Spirit; and by the coming of our Lord into last judgment, I command you to tell me, with some sign, your name, and the day and the hour of your damnation. Obey me in everything, although I am an unworthy servant of God. Do no damage to this possessed creature, or to my assistants, or to any of their goods.”
“Fake priest—fuck off!”
“Demon, I command you in the name of Yod-He-Vau-He, in the name of Y’Shua the Nazarene, tell me your name!”
“I am Your-Mother-Drinks-Elephant-Cum, you phony bastard!”
“Really? Elephant cum? Is that the best you can do? In the name of the Lord of Hosts—” Before Richard could continue, a wind of hurricane force upturned the tray table and upset the machinery surrounding the bed. Richard and Terry were both thrown against the sliding glass door, and Mikael hugged the wall.
The wind continued to whip at their clothes, pinning them for several minutes. Then, as suddenly as it had erupted, it stopped. Richard fell forward, and caught himself, but Terry was not so lucky, and lay sprawled on the floor. Richard looked at the door where they had hit it, and saw an enormous web of cracks radiating from his point of contact.
Richard helped Terry up and glanced at Mikael to make sure he was all right. Mikael’s eyes were wide, but he nodded—he was okay. “Mikael, call Brian, and see if he can get a handle on who we’re dealing with,” Richard barked. “Put him on speakerphone.”
Brian, Terry’s husband, was a Jewish Kabbalah expert—he was also a crack professional researcher at the Graduate T
heological Union Library. Mikael speed dialed Brian and hit the speakerphone button. “Hi, Mikael, what’s up?” Brian’s voice was tinny as it emitted from the cell phone, but cheerful.
“Hi, Sweetie,” called Terry across the room.
The demon looked around uncertainly, clearly not used to such openness and lack of shame in queer folk. Shame was, after all, the hook demons most often used to snag people. Yet Terry was so open-hearted, so devoid of guilt, that it gave the demon nothing to clutch at or use against him. When the demon turned to look at Richard, however, he broke into a small, evil grin that seemed to be saying, “Here, now, is something to work with.”
“Listen, Brian, we’ve got a beastie here who won’t give up his name!” Richard called.
“Big surprise!”
“No kidding. What do you have for us?”
“Ever since Terry left the Friary, I’ve been doing web research on Mr. Dane’s success in business over the last twenty years. I think you’ve got your work cut out for you, guys. I don’t think this is an unwilling possession. I think it’s a partnership.”
Richard was not surprised. The drive for material success was one of the chief reasons people got involved with demons—that and power. This demon no doubt granted Mr. Dane all the riches he lusted after, and in return got a welcome relief from discarnate existence. Demons love carnal pleasure, and desire it as much as humans do, but their bodies are too subtle to enjoy food, drink, or sex. Without the solid bodies of humans, they can only look but cannot touch, taste, or feel. This inability to enjoy what they so desperately crave is itself a form of damnation, and so such partnerships were not uncommon.
“Do you know who we’re dealing with?”
“Well, as you know, there are whole hosts of avarice-demons. But this guy’s MO is pretty distinctive. He doesn’t just defeat his competition; he likes to kill them—in pretty gross ways, actually—and we’ve only got a handful of beasties who operate that way. The best match is Griandre, but he’s in Moloch’s host, and Moloch is in the doghouse right now according to the demonwatch.com folks. So, my best guess is you’re dealing with either Orak of Alexandria or Duunel of Maaluchre’s host.”
Richard was watching the possessed like a hawk and saw his eyes widen at the information. So much for the famed demonic poker face, Richard thought. He didn’t know which of Brian’s suggestions were on the money, but he knew one of them was.
“I’ve got a suggestion,” Brian’s thin voice offered through the speakerphone.
“I’m listening,” Richard said, still drilling the demon with his eyes.
“If it’s Duunel, he’s got to have a physical link to Maaluchre attached to every instrument of evil. Since so much of Dane’s work is legal, I’d say take a look at his letterhead. The corporate logo might yield something interesting.”
Richard nodded and turned to Mikael. “Go ask the nurse if she’s got any written correspondence, a contract with a cover letter, anything on Dane’s letterhead.”
Mikael rushed to the door on the far side of the room and entered without knocking.
“What if it’s Orak? And why is he in San Francisco and not Alexandria?”
“He just made his name in Alexandria. There’s a good chance he was in Chicago for the better part of the twentieth century. Railroad tycoons and such. If it’s Orak, this is going to be a far sight tougher. He’s rogue.”
Richard nodded. Most demons were arranged into hosts, like military companies, and followed a fairly strict discipline. Rogue demons, though, answered to no one and were extremely unpredictable.
In a moment, Mikael returned with a piece of paper in hand. Richard stepped away from the possessed and snatched it from him. He held it out so that all three of them could see it. The vague nature of Mr. Dane’s industries was not illuminated by anything on his stationery. The corporate logo, as was typical, adorned the upper left corner; a simple geometrical design built around the letter D—for Dane, no doubt.
“I think we struck out, here,” Terry said. “I can’t see anything in that design that looks even remotely sigilic.”
Brian’s voice crackled a bit but was still decipherable. “I have an idea. Is there a watermark?”
Richard turned around to hold the paper between himself and the brightest light in the room, and promptly swore. “Fuck me…”
Both Terry and Mikael jostled around to get a glimpse of what Richard was looking at. There, plain as day, was the ghostly image of what was unmistakably a sigil.
The demon, more agitated than ever, began to shake.
“Brian, we’ve got a five-pointed trident, here. The outside tines are intersected by circles—”
“That’s Maaluchre’s sigil, no doubt about it!” Brian’s voice exclaimed tinnily. “You’re dealing with Duunel, or I’ll eat my kippa.”
Richard lowered the paper and gave the demon his best shit-eating grin. “Got you, motherfucker. Anything else we need to know, Brian?”
“Not really…standard sixth-station demon. Nasty, but not particularly powerful politically. But he’s no dummy, and he’s no slouch, either. He’s well connected and keeps up a wide intelligence circle. According to the demonwatch folks, he’s originally a desert dweller, putting in a couple of centuries on the Sinai Peninsula, and some time in Saudi Arabia. So, invocations against jinn would probably be effective if you were Muslim. But no need to deviate from the standard Catholic formulas, guys, since you know them better. Oh yeah, one more thing about the desert stuff—he hates water.”
“Yeah, we figured that one out,” Richard said. “Good work, Bri. Two cookies for you at dessert tonight, laddie.”
“Gee, thanks, Dad.”
“Keep a plate hot for me, babe,” called Terry.
“That’s not all I’m keeping hot for you, Honey Pie. It’s shabbas!”
“Okay, okay, down, boys,” Richard said. “It’s almost sundown, Brian. Time for you to knock off and light some candles.”
“I’m boruch-an, I’m ato-an, I’m Adonai-an. Good luck, guys.” There was a click, and he was gone.
Richard opened his Roman Ritual to the beginning and approached the possessed again. The old man’s body was racked with convulsions as the demon fought against the limitations of its wizened form.
“Hello, Duunel. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You either come out now, quietly, and without hurting anybody, or we kick your sorry Satanic ass. Now what’s it gonna be?”
4
When Kat Webber arrived at her brother’s apartment, she was surprised to find the door locked. She knocked and waited, growing more concerned as the minutes passed and still he did not appear. She looked around—his car was there, and it was the middle of the afternoon. And this was, after all, Alameda, the island-where-time-stands-still, the only crime-free zone in the Bay Area. The screen door should be open to the world. She peered in the front window but was frustrated by drawn curtains, which also disturbed her. She thought perhaps he had nicked down to the Lands’ End market for half-and-half or a midday cookie. So, she sat on the curb of the lazy, tree-lined street and smiled at the people strolling with their dogs and baby carriages. But as time passed and he did not appear, her smile faded, and she became openly worried.
Eventually, she passed the point where propriety had any hold on her, and she fished in the bushes for the fake rock with the key in it. The lock yielded easily, and she pushed the door in tentatively. “Randy?”
She entered the foyer and frowned at the stack of gaming magazines that were her brother’s equivalent of professional journals. Most days, he was holed up here with a mug of coffee the size of his head, pecking away at his keyboard, programming video games for the Cycore Media Group.
Everything was as it should be. Still, her antennae were up for some reason. Then, when she stepped into the living room, she saw it. Him. Her brother’s body lying on the floor—surrounded by a roomful of odd accoutrements. She couldn’t process everything she was seeing, and so she zeroe
d in on the most important thing—him. She rushed to where he lay, hysterically calling his name.
She almost cried out with relief to discover he was warm. She put her ear to his mouth. He was breathing. She felt his neck; he had a pulse. He was unconscious, though, lying in a pool of water that she realized a moment later was saliva.
Tears streamed from her eyes, and she choked back scared, relieved sobs. She fumbled at her cell phone and called 911. She struggled to stay calm enough to give the operator the proper information, and then ended the call to wait with her brother until the ambulance arrived.
As she held his head in her lap, the rest of the scene came into focus. They were sitting in the middle of a circle intersected by a larger star stained—or perhaps burned—into the hardwood floor. The oriental rug that normally covered the floor was rolled up against one wall. Candles had burned down—and out—all over the room. One, a large pillar candle, was still burning as if it had hung around to bear damning testimony to what had occurred there.
Just outside the circle, a triangle was likewise burned into the floor, and on a table within it, a small triangle of white paper. Kat picked it up and noted the strange symbol written upon it in a blackish-red substance. With horror, she recognized that it was probably written in blood. Perhaps Randy’s.
Kat was a Wiccan—a witch, a worshipper of the Goddess—so she was not unfamiliar with the paraphernalia of the occult. The magick she practiced was white magick, nature magick, concerned with the perpetuation of natural rhythms and the mystical attunement of oneself with the cosmos. She was magickally literate enough to know the difference between the kind of religion she practiced and the black magick of Goetic magickians. And there was no doubt what sort of magick her brother had been doing. She stuffed the paper into the pocket of her jeans and knelt beside him, pulling him into her lap. “Holy cow, Randy, what the hell have you been up to?” she whispered, kissing the top of his head.
She realized she was cradling his body like an unholy pieta, surrounded by the instruments of demons, feeling like the bull’s eye of a target that the demonic host could not miss. She brushed her brother’s stringy hair out of his long, equine face. Indeed, they had not missed. She said a brief prayer to the Goddess and rocked him until she heard the sirens approach and the thundering boots of paramedics on the steps.
