by John Levitt
A second later I had myself back under control. I couldn’t go around blasting lowlifes just because I’d had a bad day, whether they deserved it or not. There were better ways to deal with them.
“Lou,” I said. “Want to have some fun?” He wagged his tail and uttered a short bark. As the three approached, the one on the left reached under his jacket. Lou looked back at me and I nodded. He charged toward the three, doing his usual snarling and barking, stopping about five feet away. They all took one automatic step backward, and then started laughing.
“Eh, perrito,” said one, amusedly. “What you gonna do, dog?”
I crossed my arms and started chanting, repeating nonsense syllables under my breath. With illusions it’s the rhythms that count, not the actual words you speak. Slowly, Louie seemed to grow larger. First, up to the size of a beagle, then a Border collie, then a German shepherd, until finally he was the size of a full-grown Irish wolf-hound. I twisted my fingers and foaming saliva started dripping off his now imposing canines. For a moment I thought I’d gone too far. They weren’t running; they were standing paralyzed with fear. I hoped they weren’t going to stroke out. I uncrossed my arms and Louie shrunk down to his normal size, like a balloon rapidly deflating.
“Gentlemen,” I said, nodding to them as we walked by. They didn’t make a sound. I continued down Valencia without a backward glance, feeling a lot more cheerful. What I had done to them was not the kind of thing they were likely to tell anyone about; and even if they did, they would be greeted with shouts of derisive laughter.
Ten minutes later, I was standing next to my van. I momentarily panicked when I couldn’t locate my car keys. If I had left them at home I think it would have pushed me over the edge. I finally fished them out of the bottom of a pocket, opened the passenger door to let Louie jump in, grabbed the now pathetic doll from the floor, threw it in the gutter, and drove home uneventfully for once.
Safe at home, I collapsed onto the bed. I needed sleep. Tomorrow I would be seeing Eli and Victor, and I had a feeling it might take a lot longer than the promised half an hour.
Three
By the time I woke up it was past noon, and the rain still was coming down. Gray light leaked through the front window and it was chilly in the house, if not downright cold. California, for some reason, has never embraced the concept of central heating. I sat up and swung my feet onto the floor. Louie unburrowed his head from out of the covers where he usually slept. He may be an exceptional creature but he still gets cold and miserable whenever the temperature drops below fifty.
I fed him some breakfast, not bacon this time, and drank my usual multiple cups of coffee. We headed out along the Great Highway toward Victor’s house. Now when I say house, it hardly conveys the true nature of the place. Victor lives in a huge Victorian near Taraval with a stunning view of the ocean from the upper stories. There are three of them—stories, that is—with balconies on the two upper levels and twin squared-off gables on top which give the whole thing the appearance of a fort, which in many ways it is. I wondered at first how Victor had found such a place, since it was the only house in the area that even remotely resembled a Victorian. Eli told me in confidence that Victor had actually built it less than ten years ago, razing the original home and using plans modified from a house he had once owned in London. It must be nice to have money.
I pulled into his driveway and parked next to his silver BMW M5. That car is one of the few things Victor is passionate about, besides battling evildoers. It’s not flashy; Victor would never own anything ostentatious or vulgar. If you don’t know any better it appears to be a relatively sedate sedan. But in truth, it can do one-seventy, outperform about anything but a Ferrari, and costs double what I make in a year.
The contrast between my old van and his high-performance car always amuses me, just as it always irks him. He thinks my battered van is nothing but an affectation, refusing to believe it’s simply the only vehicle I can afford that will handle all the jobs I need it to do. His other car was the brand-new Lincoln Navigator parked at the far end of the driveway. No old and battered vans for Victor.
I looked critically at the house, hoping to spot some flaw, but it was still pristine. Victor had painted it a creamy pale yellow with white trim and he keeps it immaculate, or at least he hires people who do that. He certainly has enough money, obtained from God knows where. That’s another thing about him that annoys me. Not that he has money, more power to him, but that he’s so dismissive and contemptuous of those who don’t and are trying to remedy the situation. “Money is nothing but a tool,” he’s fond of saying. “It’s just not that important.” Sure, when you’ve got it.
Lou jumped out onto the driveway and we went in through the big front door. It was never locked; it didn’t need to be. Not only was this Victor’s home, it was also the central location for his little band of warriors. As a result, a lot of care has gone into its protection.
As I’ve said, I’m good with spells. But the protection around this house was on an entirely different level. My spells are like my jazz playing: I take what’s around me and improvise on the spot. Like jazz, it takes a lot of dedication and work to reach the level where you can just let it flow naturally. It’s a very useful skill. It’s hard to catch me off guard—although considering events of the last couple of days you’d never know it—since I don’t have to rely on preset spells or protections to defend myself.
But the warding around this house was far more advanced than anything I could manage. If what I do is something like jazz, then this warding would be closer to a classical composition, a symphony or concerto. It was layered and textured, balanced and complex. When you’re working to create a safe haven, using static spells, you can take infinite pains—if you have the time and inclination. A lot of very skilled people had worked on that house. The warding could be broken, of course, most anything can, but it would take more than a few uninterrupted days for even the strongest practitioner. And that would be about as likely as someone getting a few undisturbed days to drill unnoticed through the back wall of the White House.
The house looks normal on a mundane level, but to psychic eyes the warding around Victor’s house is easily perceptible. The best analogy I can think of is that of sight, but there is also something of touch there, as well as a few other things that don’t translate at all.
Lines of force are woven around the perimeter, a lattice-like grid in grays and blacks, powerful and forbidding, crackling with power. Filling in the spaces of the grid is a diffuse swirl of something that I don’t understand at all, glowing with a color that doesn’t exist. It isn’t anything you’d want to fool with, any more than you’d climb up a transmission tower to play with the high-tension wires in the power grid.
Certainly there are more secure places, but not that many and not in this country. The most famous is in Italy, a modest villa which was warded by Giuseppe Moldini back in the seventeenth century. Moldini is to enchantment as Bach is to music. His warding of this villa is a composition of such beauty and complexity that it transcends practicality and becomes high art. In the three hundred plus years since he lived, no one has figured out how to dismantle it and I doubt if anyone ever will. These days that degree of talent and skill just doesn’t exist.
Still, the protection around Victor’s beach shack serves its purpose well enough. I walked down the hallway and up the stairs to the second floor where Victor had his study. Or library. Or den. With Victor, it could never be just a room. I knocked on the closed door to be polite, since he was well aware I was standing right outside. His familiar bass voice rumbled, “Come.”
Victor was comfortably ensconced behind his desk, a blond maple antique with carved scrollwork legs which provided the only light touch in the room. He looked good. Well, he always looked good; it was one of the things that was important to him.
Sherwood hadn’t yet put in an appearance, but standing by one of the tall windows was someone I was very glad to see. Eli. He
turned away from the window and approached me, face beaming. He ignored my outstretched hand and enveloped me in a bear hug, almost lifting me off the ground. It wasn’t hard for him to do since at six feet four and close on two-sixty there aren’t many people he doesn’t dwarf. Eli had been an offensive lineman in college. He hated football; it was just his ticket to an education. Now he was a full history professor at USF and, being a proud African-American, naturally had specialized in European history, specifically the late Middle Ages. He wore absurdly tiny wire-rim glasses, his hair was beginning to recede and his slightly scraggly beard was beginning to gray, but he was still an imposing figure.
“How you been, boy?” he asked, thumping me on the back. “I hear you’ve been getting yourself in some trouble.”
“Not my fault,” I said.
He smiled. “With you, it never is, is it?”
“How’s the project coming?” I asked, half-teasing.
Eli was always working on his pet project, but he never would tell me what it was. I pretended it was going to make us all rich, when in reality it was more likely to be academically brilliant and totally impractical.
Louie ran up and put his paws on Eli’s knee. He studiously ignored Victor seated at the desk, but Eli was one of his all-time favorite people. Of course, Victor doesn’t care much for Louie either, so it’s not like it bothered him. He got up from behind the desk and offered a perfunctory hand.
“Mason. Would you care for some coffee?” he asked.
Always the perfect host. Victor would have made a great villain in a James Bond movie. He did have his own espresso machine, however.
“Cappuccino?” I asked hopefully.
“Don’t be a nuisance. Coffee.”
“Black,” I said resignedly.
“Eli?”
“Black will be fine.”
As Victor fussed with the coffee, I took a moment to look around. It had been awhile since I’d been in this room, but it was exactly the same as I remembered. Victor isn’t much for change. Once he gets something the way he likes it, that’s the end of it. He’s either totally comfortable with himself or extremely rigid, depending on how you view such things. The room isn’t one I would care to live in myself but it does have a certain something.
It’s been decorated by someone with impeccable taste perhaps too fond of PBS English period dramas and Sherlock Holmes movies. Massive overstuffed chairs are scattered throughout at seeming random. Oil paintings in heavy frames hang on dark mahogany walls, and an ornate sideboard dominates. All that’s needed to make it perfect would be Victor with a briar pipe. Unfortunately, like me, he had given up tobacco some years back.
The only jarring note in the room is a large free-standing safe which is set against one wall. I often had wondered why Victor needed it, considering all the other protections in the house, but I wasn’t about to ask him. Not that he would have told me.
Two things save the room: tall, broad windows that let in massive amounts of light, and against the far wall, a huge working fireplace. Ocean fog drifted past the windows, making the warmth and cheer of the blazing fire irresistible. Louie trotted over toward the fire intending to curl up on the hearth, but the favored spot was already occupied by a large, fawn-colored Persian cat. Sort of. I wasn’t the only one with a helper. Victor had Maggie.
Usually Ifrits get along very well, seeing as there aren’t that many of them, but Lou didn’t care much for Maggie and never had. He knew better than to growl at her; after all, we were in her home. He stalked stiffly to the end of the hearth, as far away from her as he could get and still have the benefit of the fire. The feeling was mutual. Maggie turned her head and hissed at him.
“Children, children,” said Victor reprovingly, putting down the coffee and walking over to make sure they both behaved. He bent down to pick up Maggie, ignoring Lou. Appropriate, though petty.
“Sherwood spoke of an attack,” he said, turning his head to look at me over his shoulder. As usual, getting right down to business. “Details, please.” He acted as if I had never left, like I was working for him, a magical junior G-man reporting back. I caught Eli with the hint of a smile on his face.
I related the story of the thing in the alley, leaving out a few details that didn’t show me in the best light. Eli was concerned, listening carefully, pulling thoughtfully on his scraggly beard and peering at me through those absurd little glasses he affects. Even Victor listened without interruption, less impatient than usual. Then I moved on to the singularity and the world empty of people. This totally fascinated Eli, especially the part about the mechanism of my return. I jokingly mentioned the unexpected addition to my wardrobe.
“Have you still got the clothes?” he demanded.
“Sure. I’m still wearing the Levi’s.”
Victor did his quizzical eyebrow trick at the idea of wearing the same pair of pants two days in a row. He can be such a charmer.
“Good God,” said Eli. “How dumb can you be? Have you learned nothing from me after all these years?”
“Well…”
“Think, Mason. Think! You’re walking around here with an object from another dimension clinging to your butt. Why not just put some talisman you found there in your pocket and carry a sign reading, ‘Please, please, take me back.’”
“Well…”
“No, not ‘well.’ Not well at all. Those Levi’s are still connected to where they came from. A small boy could push you back there without looking up from his video game.”
“Children don’t exhibit talent until puberty,” put in Victor. My God, maybe he had acquired a sense of humor after all. More likely he was just trying to set the record straight.
Eli’s concern was making me nervous. If he was worried about the Levi’s, what would he say when I pulled out the jewel I’d brought back? Talisman in my pocket was uncannily close to the truth. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what he was talking about. Although Eli possesses only a moderate talent at best, he makes up for it with vast intellect. A major authority on the principles and history of the Art, he devised a good many of the spells that ward this very house, although he had to get someone else to implement them. Eli was a composer, not a player, but as a composer he’s a genius.
“I’ll get rid of them as soon as I get home,” I promised, putting off mentioning the jewel.
“You will not. Take them off. Now.”
“Not in my house,” muttered Victor, shuddering. Okay. It was official. He did possess a rudimentary droll sensibility.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured Eli, “I’ll take care of it. I’ll burn them when I get home, promise. The sweatshirt, too.” Eli started to get into it again, but I was saved by an unexpected distraction. The door to one of the back rooms opened, and a young man came out, stopped when he saw us, and grinned nervously. Aha. Victor had a new boyfriend.
“Sorry, Victor,” he said, apologetically. “I was just going out. I didn’t realize we had company.”
He wasn’t the usual Victor type, which is mostly generic surfer dude. Victor averages about one a month, and I don’t think any of them have a clue as to who he really is or what he really does. This guy had dark unruly hair and a glimmer of intelligence in his eyes.
I carefully kept my face expressionless. I was afraid if I so much as cracked a smile, Victor would turn him into a toad on the spot. This guy had unwittingly crossed the unspoken Victor line. It wasn’t that Victor gave a rat’s ass what we thought, although he was a very private person. But the young man had said he didn’t realize “we” had company. Victor has never been a “we” in his life, and I doubted he was about to start now. I waited for the explosion but he fooled me.
“It’s still raining,” he said mildly. “Take a coat.”
The guy gave Eli and me an all-purpose wave of acknowledgment and slipped out the front door. Victor stared at me, daring me to make some sarcastic comment, but I maintained my innocent demeanor. After he’d stared me down for an appropriate length of
time, he put Maggie back down on the hearth and disappeared into the back of the house.
“Wait here,” he ordered. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Eli joined me as I crossed over to the front window and looked out. Down below, the young guy was standing in the rain, hatless, dark hair plastered down over his ears.
“How long has this one been flavor of the week?” I asked.
“Danny? A couple of months. But this is different.” He lowered his voice, speaking with an uncharacteristic glee. “Victor’s in love.”
He stretched out the word love in a way that would have been mocking if it were anyone but Eli saying it.
“Victor?” I scoffed. “Give me a break.”
Eli nudged me to shut up as Victor came back into the room and stood by the window with us. He gazed out to see what we were looking at just as Danny glanced up and caught our eye. I snuck a quick peek at Victor. He had a half smile and a faraway expression that told the whole story. I shifted my gaze down to the figure standing in the rain, and just for a moment, I could see him through Victor’s eyes. Metaphorically, of course, not the way I can with Lou.
As Victor appeared in the window, Danny’s whole face lit up. Hunched over against the wind, he wrapped his arms one around the other and stared up at us. His dark hair was matted down by the rain, his thin face turned up toward us with an expression of hunger and longing that had little to do with sex.
I have to admit I’ve never truly understood how a man can be in love with another man. Attracted, sure, why not, but with the kind of emotion that brings either wild joy or abject despair? I don’t get it. Sure, I do intellectually, but not really, not in the heart, not where it counts. For that matter, I barely get how women can fall in love with men. We’re not that great. Maybe Victor’s not the only one lacking the empathy gene.
