by J. R. Mabry
The others hung their heads at this. They had almost gotten arrested last night trying to retrieve him, and they had failed.
“We have to fix that, somehow,” said Parsons, “but how can we ever try if we don’t have access to him?”
“We have a good idea where he is—with the Berkeley Blackfriars,” said Larch, “and I’m certain he’s as safe with them as with us. I’m also reasonably sure they’ll work with us to bring him back once we’ve figured out a strategy to do so.”
“Any ideas?” asked Charybdis.
“The magickal operation was carefully planned,” Turpelo insisted. “Frater Benedict would not have forgotten a reversal command.”
“Let’s assume for the moment that he did not forget it,” Larch said, taking a methodical approach to the problem.
“Champagne?” asked Parsons.
“I’ll pass just now,” Larch waved his hand. “What could have gone wrong?”
“Could be a time thing,” Charybdis suggested. “It could be that the reversal is coming, but Randy was not specific about the timing of it.”
“Magickal names only, if you please!” bellowed Turpelo.
“Sorry.”
“Yes,” Larch spoke deliberately, thinking it through. “That is certainly possible. Very sloppy magick on Benedict’s part, and it would be just like a demon to fuck with us that way. It’s not as if they like to be bound to our will.”
Turpelo sniffed at a bagel chip. “I have never known a demon not to make things as difficult for a magickian as possible. That is why we must be precise and comprehensive in our instructions.”
“All right,” said Larch. “What about the other possibility? What if Benedict did everything right? What could have gone wrong?”
“The demon cannot simply disobey,” Turpelo opined. “They are bound to obedience.”
“So, it may be that Articiphus was not unwilling to effect the reversal of souls, but unable.”
“It is conceivable,” agreed Turpelo, holding out a glass for some champagne. Charybdis filled it.
“What could have interrupted the operation?” Larch wondered aloud.
“It could be the order was countermanded from higher up the demonic lowerarchy.”
“Possible,” Larch agreed, “but unlikely.”
“It could be that the angel is resisting the operation,” Parsons suggested. “Who knows how powerful that angel is?”
“Well, we’ve got to figure that one out, and that right quick,” Larch rose and strode to the window, his hands behind his back. “Not just for Benedict’s sake but for ours. As of last night, gentlemen, we have a patron, who was very impressed indeed with our little experiment. A very well-paying patron, I must say, who wants to help us further our work.”
The brothers looked up with excitement. “Who?” they all seemed to ask at once.
Larch stood and finally snatched up a glass of champagne. Holding it aloft toward the kitchen, he announced dramatically, “Gentlemen, I now present to you our illustrious patron—and one of the wealthiest and most powerful men on the planet—Alan Dane.”
A collective gasp rose up as Dane pushed past the swinging door of the kitchen and presented himself with a flourish. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I trust you are all well?”
Dane’s dashing good looks lent him an air of power and prestige that he used to his full advantage. He took a stool from against the wall and forced his way into their circle, causing Parsons to move his chair back in order to create room.
“Gentlemen, your leader and I have struck a bargain,” he said and smiled beatifically at the group. “I have made a gift of $100,000 to your lodge”—he paused to let that sink in for a moment and then continued, “and in return I only ask that you pursue your…experiments with all haste. The avocados were a stroke of genius, but as Mr. Larch—”
“You mean Frat—” Parsons began but stopped when Larch shot him a withering look.
“As Mr. Larch here agrees, next time we must try something a bit larger.” He basked visibly in the glow of their appreciation.
Larch could almost see the increased production of saliva in his brothers’ mouths. He allowed himself to enjoy their moment of recognition—it had been so long in coming, after all.
Dane broke the spell of mutual admiration like the dropping of a bomb. “I’d like to begin the next experiment immediately.”
Larch opened his mouth to respond, but Charybdis beat him to it. “But we can’t yet!” he protested. “We don’t know what went wrong yet.”
Dane raised an eyebrow, the very picture of testy patience.
“Mr. Dane, surely you can see our dilemma,” Turpelo was calm reason personified. “Ill has befallen one of our number. We daren’t try the operation again until we have discovered where we have erred.”
“Magick is an art more than a science,” Larch attempted to smooth over what seemed to be a minor snag. “We are dealing with creatures of vast power, beings who are easily misunderstood, even by those who are as experienced as we are.”
“Allow me to remind you gentlemen that as of this morning when $100,000 was credited to your account, we have a partnership of sorts,” Dane said, his smile unwaning. “As far as I am concerned a little…collateral damage is to be expected.”
The magickians looked at one another nervously, not sure how to answer him. Larch coughed into his hand and stood, leaning on his chair. “Mr. Dane, we fully expect to hold up our end of our arrangement; we are only saying that we need to figure out what went wrong before we can proceed. We want to succeed, for the sake of all of us.”
Dane’s smile soured into a sinister sneer. “Sit down, Mr. Larch, and listen to me carefully.” Larch obeyed, clearly annoyed about being ordered about. “I don’t care, Mr. Larch, if each and every one of you ends up in a coma by the time we are done. I have paid you for a service, and I have a right to expect prompt delivery of it.”
“Mr. Dane, we’re just asking for a little more time to troubleshoot the operation.”
“And I don’t want to wait.” Dane stated simply, almost petulantly.
“Please, Mr. Dane, you must understand the forces we’re working with here,” Larch said as forcefully as he could muster.
“Oh, I understand them more than you assume.” Dane rose and began to circle the magickians. “You see, I have lived with a demon for nearly fifteen years.”
The magickians’ eyes grew wide. “My father was possessed, by his own invitation. The demon granted him almost unlimited power to obtain his fortune, and in return…”
“In return, the demon got to enjoy carnality,” Larch guessed.
“Precisely so,” Larch agreed. “Until my father grew too old to provide much enjoyment.”
“But surely, Mr. Dane, you are not possessed. We are all of us here experienced enough to know that when we see it,” Turpelo reasoned. “What prevented the demon from continuing his incarnation through your willing or unwilling vehicle?”
“You’re saying that the demon is still inhabiting your father?” Charybdis was equally perplexed. “Why would he do that?”
In answer, Dane drew a small object from the pocket of his vest. He held it up for them all to see: a large, ornate golden ring with an enormous red stone in an ancient setting. “Because, gentlemen,” Larch said, the smile returning to his face, “the demon, like you, has no choice.”
42
The mist had grown soupy by the time the friars arrived at the Dane mansion. After parking, they stood on the sidewalk outside, and Richard marveled at the enormity of the house, and of their task.
“Well, compadres, how d’ya wanna do this?” Dylan asked. “You two’ve been here, so yer one up on me.”
“Well, I don’t think we should just break in,” Richard said, drawing his habit closer to him against the chill of the fog. “Terry, you remember the garden outside the elder Dane’s room?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Take Dylan, and wait for me there. If
all goes well, I should open the door for you from the inside in about five minutes—ten at the most.”
Dylan put a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “You sure you wanna do this part of it alone—I mean, right now, with all that’s been going on?”
Richard put his hand over Dylan’s and squeezed. “I’m okay.”
Dylan did not look completely convinced, but he nodded and he and Terry set off around the house to look for a garden entrance.
Richard closed his eyes and breathed deep. Images of everything at stake for him flashed through his mind in an instant: the howling angel, duplicitous lodge members, Kat, and most of all, Mikael. His resolve quickened, and he marched to the front door and rang the bell.
It was several minutes before an answer came. The door swung inward, and a middle-aged woman in green scrubs looked down at him. A nurse, obviously, but not Nurse Stahl.
This woman was short with a pageboy cut and a no-nonsense air about her. She did not smile.
Richard did. “Good evening. I’m Fr. Richard Kinney—”
“We don’t give handouts.”
“I’m not here—”
“And we already give to nonprofits. Good day.” She went to close the door, but Richard put his foot in it, deciding to take another tack.
“Excuse me, ma’am, who do you think you are?” Richard said, with feigned outrage. “I am the elder Mr. Dane’s priest, and I have come to hear his confession and bring him communion. And you are?”
The woman was taken aback and looked Richard over from head to toe more carefully, clearly flustered. Richard fixed his stare straight into her eyes, and then he smiled again. “Ah, but I see that you’re new here.” He pumped up the charm. “Of course, you would not have seen me before. Ms. Stahl, the last nurse here, knew me well. She even brought me tea—no need to bother yourself about that, dear. But if you don’t mind, I have other pastoral visits to make tonight…”
Richard did not wait to be invited in, but charged forward, trusting that, like the Red Sea, the way would be opened before him. It was.
Richard was pretty sure he could remember the way—his display of confidence would, after all, lend credence to his subterfuge—and made directly for the elder Dane’s sickroom.
Looking increasingly uncertain, the nurse followed behind. Richard glanced back at her and made small talk. “When did you begin? What happened to Nurse Stahl? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
The woman looked worried, and stammered a reply as she scurried to keep up through the long, ornate hallways. “I don’t know what happened to Ms. Stahl. I started yesterday. My name is Alice Stout.”
“A beautiful house, isn’t it, Alice? So nice to meet you.” And then he was there. Richard waved his arm, in an after you motion to Nurse Alice, and stood back.
A little uncertain still, Nurse Alice opened the French doors and waited for Richard to walk through before shutting them again.
The room was just as Richard remembered it from two days before. Old man Dane lay quietly, an IV drip affixed to his arm and a gob of spit hanging from his chin. Richard smiled beatifically at the nurse. “Thank you so much, Alice. I’ll call if I need you.”
“Oh, I don’t think I should leave him alone with you—”
“Oh, but you must. A confession is a private matter, my dear.” Richard was all slimy pomposity at this point, and part of him, he realized, was enjoying it.
“But I don’t think he’s conscious.”
Richard glided over to the hospital bed and touched the old man on the chest. Dane’s eyes snapped open, fiery red and moist with mucus. Not Dane’s eyes, Richard knew, but Duunel’s. “Things can be a little odd around here,” Richard said in a conspiratorial tone. “Perhaps you’ve noticed?”
Her eyes darkened and narrowed, a look that told Richard much. He smiled solicitously. “You’ll adjust to it, I’m sure. Now, please, if you will…” He waved toward the servant’s quarters.
Warily, Nurse Alice walked to her room and shut the door behind her. Richard lost no time making for the double French doors leading to the garden and undid the latch. He held his finger to his lips as Dylan and Terry tiptoed in.
“We have to make it quick. That nurse knows more than she’s letting on.” Richard motioned toward the doors to the hall. “Remember, anything that will give us a clue as to what Dane’s up to.”
Terry nodded curtly and set off with Dylan in tow. As soon as the door was shut again, Richard walked to the bedside.
“So, Duunel, how’s tricks?” he asked.
“Have you come to torment me again, Christian?”
“Not at all. I thought maybe we’d chat.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Well then, we can sit here and stare at each other.”
And that’s what they did, for several minutes.
“Here’s what I don’t get,” Richard said finally. “Why are you holding so tenaciously to this body, Duunel? It can’t be any fun anymore. You’ve got to be feeling just as much pain as old man Dane. Why stay in him? Why not inhabit the young Mr. Dane? Or someone else of wealth or power or rampant hedonism? Why stay here?”
“You are more ignorant than I thought,” Duunel hissed. “I do not stay here of my own will, you idiot.”
“Then whose will compels you?” Richard had been just passing time with Duunel while Dylan and Terry did their thing, but now he was intrigued.
“The younger Dane’s,” the demon’s voice was raw with rage.
“But I don’t understand. Is the younger Dane a magickian? He doesn’t look the type. Too GQ for the hairball magick set.”
“He is no magickian. Magickians I can…deal with.”
Richard was becoming more curious with every second. “So how can he possibly compel you?”
“Did you really not notice…the ring?”
Richard thought back to when he had seen Dane burst into this very room just two days ago. His hands were wet, his eyes wild with rage, his shirt cuffs open and flailing, and on his hand…a huge, ostentatious red stone. Yes, he had noticed it, but he’d simply taken it for a token of the rich man’s vanity.
But what sort of ring could compel demons, especially if the bearer was not a magickian? And then it dawned on him—the greatest treasure of the ancient Middle East.
“That ring…is the Ring of Solomon?” whispered Richard.
“The same,” Duunel hissed.
Richard caught the side of the bed to steady himself. To have been so close to an artifact of such magnitude was almost too much for him. His mind staggered at the thought of how much power its bearer could wield and the danger to the world should that bearer be the wrong sort of man—which it always, invariably, was. Only one sort of man sought out Solomon’s Ring—those drunk with power and intent on no good.
Richard got a grip on himself and turned back to the demon. “To what end does he hold you here? Why? What possible good is it doing him?”
“Hatred. Revenge,” came the otherworldly voice from the wizened lips. “So much does he hate the old man, that he compels me to inhabit him so that he will continue to draw breath. So that he will—”
“Continue to suffer,” Richard finished.
“Yessss…”
“Evil fucking bastard.”
“No shit, Priest.”
“Duunel, listen, we think Dane—the younger Dane—might have something to do with the disappearance of one of our friars. Do you remember Mikael?”
“Goth boy. Newbie. Three nipples.”
Richard arched an eyebrow. How in hell did Duunel know about that? “Er…yeah, that’s him. He’s gone missing, and we’re sure he’s undergoing demonic oppression from one of your colleagues. Can you tell me where Mikael is?”
“Do I look like I get out much?” Duunel narrowed one eye at him menacingly.
“Just asking.” Richard puckered his lips and thought.
“Besides, why should I tell you anything?”
Richa
rd thought about that, too. Finally, he spoke solemnly. “Because we can help you. We’re no friends of the younger Mr. Dane. If we can find a way to stop him, whatever it is he’s up to, we will. And when we do, we’ll liberate you from your prison. You have my word.”
“And is your word good, Priest?”
“Better than most.”
The demon stared at him in silence, clearly weighing the options. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t know where your friar is, but I do know that there is a set of catacombs beneath this house. The younger Mr. Dane goes there often. That is all I know.”
Richard felt a stab of hope. “And how do we reach these catacombs?” he said, whipping out his cell phone and speed dialing Terry.
43
“Stay here,” Richard said to Duunel. The demon scowled at him as he ran from the room.
In the hall, he turned left and, following Duunel’s instructions, made for the hidden entrance to the catacombs. Cursing himself for being so out of shape, Richard was panting heavily by the time he spotted Dylan and Terry. They had pried the door open and, Richard noted, done a great deal of damage to the wall in the process. So much for a subtle operation, he thought but then dismissed it. If Mikael were here, if there were any way to retrieve him, he would rip this mansion down with his bare and bloody hands.
Panting heavily, he nodded at his companions, and Dylan went in, holding his lighter aloft. That’s why you need a pothead in your pack, Richard thought, and followed Terry down the narrow, winding stone steps into the dark.
It seemed a long way down, and Richard fought hard against the claustrophobia rising up in him. It triggered the emotions he had been fighting over the past several days—the frustration of being in a situation he couldn’t find a way out of, his overwhelming feeling of shame, his suspicion that he simply wasn’t adequate to the task. The cold and the dark seemed to amplify his feelings with every step, and he began to sweat. He fought the panic and willed his mind to fix on Mikael rather than his own fucked-up self.
It helped, and before long the panic subsided, just as the narrow staircase emptied out into a long hallway cut into stone. It, too, was narrow, but there was more room to move about.
