Dog Days

by John Levitt

  “I hope we aren’t making a huge mistake,” I said to Eli. “No matter what his abilities, from everything I’ve heard, this guy can be seriously unpleasant.”

  “Yes, I know,” he muttered, easing himself out of the van.

  Inside, the house was more satisfying. A short hallway led to a living room that held nothing unusual, except for a few unpleasant looking chairs and a tall glass cabinet which housed an immense collection of dolls. The cabinet contained everything from modern-style Barbies to homemade rag dolls a century old. The dolls, which might have seemed charming in some other place, took on decidedly disturbing overtones considering the inclinations of the owner of the house. On the back wall hung a framed movie poster from the forties, proclaiming in German: “Spioncentral” starring Conrad Veidt and Vivien Leigh. Conrad stared out at me through steel rimmed glasses under a military cap while Vivien regarded him with either love or horror.

  At the rear of the front room a narrow staircase led up to the second floor, and that’s where it started looking theatrical. Now, this is more like it, I thought. A series of tiny rooms interconnected by randomly placed doorways filled the upper story, creating a rabbit-warren maze. We passed through several of them, each having a different color scheme, or rather a different hue, since they all were done in shades of gray, brown, and black. Occasionally a deep red leather chair or couch broke the monotony.

  Harry led us into a back room, which was larger than the others, and motioned for us to sit. I lowered myself gingerly into one of the red leather chairs with the gut feeling it was not an entirely benign resting place. More like a scarlet mouth just waiting for me to sink back so it could snap shut like a Venus flytrap and suck me dry. Then my withered husk would remain upright as a quaint conversation piece. I’m not usually so fanciful, but Lou must have felt something similar since he refused to come near it.

  Harry walked to the back of the room and opened a tall cabinet made of dark wood, carved throughout with vines and flowers. From it he removed a brazier much like the one Campbell had used and set it on a long table, which had been pushed against the side wall. Next came an assortment of dried herbs and a large crystal that looked like rose quartz, except that it was a smoky green. Again, very familiar. I had been expecting something more flamboyant, but I guess all rituals of evocation are similar at heart, differing only in intent and purpose. Finally he took out an object wrapped in cloth and placed it next to the crystal. He uncovered it slowly as if revealing a rare treasure. Inside was a long double-bladed knife with a black handle, another analogue to a “white magic” tool. But where the athame, as the Wiccans call it, is used for symbolic or cleansing purposes, I had a suspicion that this blade’s purpose was not so innocent.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that’s just a prop?” I asked. Harry favored me with a humorless smile.

  “You can hardly call up a proper demon without blood, can you now?” he said. “In fact, to do it correctly, what’s really needed is a blood sacrifice.” His eyes flicked around the room. “Any volunteers?”

  I was reasonably sure he was joking, but I didn’t like the way his gaze kept coming back to rest on Lou. Maybe he had been closer to Christoph than he was willing to admit. Lou didn’t care for it, either. He overcame his aversion to the chair I was in, trotted over, and pressed himself against my leg. I could feel the vibration of a subvocalized growl. Maggie had draped herself around Victor’s neck, looking imperturbable as usual. It wasn’t at all unusual for Harry not to have an Ifrit, most practitioners don’t, but the way he kept looking at Lou made me wonder if perhaps there might be another, less charitable explanation.

  Harry set up the brazier on a stubby tripod and put what looked like a propane torch underneath and lit it with a kitchen match that he took from his jacket pocket. No little cans of Sterno for this boy. As it was heating, he took a piece of chalk from the other pocket and drew a five-pointed star on the floor. It was a rather sloppy star, with spidery lines and uneven points, but that didn’t seem to bother him. Next came a large can labeled, “Blue Crab Bay Sea Salt.” He poured out a generous portion, creating a circle around the star. So far this was basic “Magic for Dummies” stuff, available at any New Age bookstore or Web site. I was not impressed. Maybe he had something a bit heavier up his sleeve.

  A moment later, my hopes were unpleasantly realized when he picked up the knife, held his arm over the cauldron, and sliced a long shallow gash along the inside of his arm. Blood immediately started dripping into the pot, hissing as it hit the heated surface. An unpleasant, cloying, coppery odor started to fill the room. Harry looked at me and gestured me forward with the tip of the knife.

  “You must be joking,” I said.

  “The more blood, the stronger the incantation.”

  “Try your other arm,” I suggested.

  He offered another one of his smiles.

  “To bind this particular entity I’ve got to take blood from each person here. In fact, anyone who hasn’t mixed their blood for the incantation could find themselves in deep shit. You can’t ever be sure of controlling a demon this powerful and raising it without blood protection is just flat-out crazy.”

  Better and better. We were entering fruitcake city. Victor apparently had no such qualms. He stepped forward and offered his arm, turning his head to regard me over his shoulder.

  “If we aren’t willing to accept the premise, Mason, then there’s not much point in doing it at all,” he said.

  “Accepting the premise is one thing. Donating my precious blood is another thing entirely. I’m willing to believe that Harry here has found a way to access vast reserves of untapped power, but I don’t believe my blood really needs to be part of it.”

  “You can believe any fucking thing you want,” said Harry, “but I can’t raise a demon without blood.”

  He had been holding onto Victor’s proffered arm while we were discussing the issue, and suddenly made a quick slash down the forearm, holding the arm over the bowl so that the blood ran down into the bowl and mingled with his own. Victor, being Victor, didn’t flinch and managed to look totally disinterested in the process. He stepped back, regarding his arm thoughtfully, and Eli stepped up next. “In for a penny…” he said, and held out his good arm for the same procedure. A quick incision, more blood dripping, and then it was my turn. They all looked expectantly at me. I hesitated, then figured what the hell. Far be it from me to spoil the party.

  For reasons I don’t fully understand, self-healing is incredibly difficult, even for something as simple as a shallow cut. Still, Victor could patch me up later, and even with my limited healing abilities I should be able to return the favor. I didn’t think Campbell would be too willing to help, even if she was around. Harry took my arm and cut quickly along the length. I got the impression he sliced just a wee bit deeper than was strictly necessary, but that might have been paranoia talking. It hurt like hell, and after a goodly amount of blood had dripped into the stew I backed off, my arm still bleeding.

  “Don’t forget Maggie,” I said sarcastically, pointing toward Victor. Maggie hissed and showed her fangs.

  “Don’t need to. The Ifrits won’t be affected anyway.” At least he had sufficient judgment not to try to take blood from an uncooperative feline.

  I watched, still trying to staunch the bleeding, as he gathered up a handful of herbs and threw them into the mix. They were more like noxious weeds than herbs, and dark smoke instantly puffed up, filling the room with a dank and bitter distillation.

  “Now the eye,” Harry said, holding out his hand. Eli silently handed it over. Harry placed it carefully, almost reverently, into the iron bowl. Next he went to each of us in turn, putting his hands on our shoulders, staring deep into our eyes. His way of gathering magical energies, I guess. I was hoping to see his eyes start to glow, full of power, but they steadfastly remained a light brown. That confirmed for me that he was at least full of something.

  He returned to the table, picke
d up the green crystal, and started a solemn chant. Now, I’ve got nothing against chanting; I’ve used it myself more than a few times. But as I’ve said, for me chanting is about rhythms and patterns, basically a focusing device to channel energy. Harry seemed to be going about it differently, invoking names right out of H. P. Lovecraft. Not only that, he was clearly going to great lengths to pronounce everything just right, as if any of us would have known the difference. We all poured energy into him, using him as a conduit and increasing his power. Hopefully, it would prove enough.

  The smoke was becoming chokingly thick. I’d decided I’d had about enough, demon or no demon, when I felt a cold chill enter the room. It’s true that in San Francisco there’s always a cold chill entering rooms, but this had a psychic component, definitely more of the spirit than the flesh. I began to feel jumpy, nervous, and ill at ease, and the feeling grew stronger as the smoke grew thicker. I glanced over at Eli, who was looking not so comfortable himself. Victor affected his usual nonchalant unconcern.

  Harry kept chanting, eyes now closed and face upturned in religious ecstasy. The smoke started swirling around the brazier in a counterclockwise direction, solidifying as it revolved. A figure began to resolve out of the murk, coming clearer with every passing second. It grew in bulk, insubstantial, yet projecting an aura of mass and strength, power and force. It shifted and roiled, flickering through a series of changes as fast as the eye could follow. A horned demon. A bear with a grotesquely deformed head. A giant slug with teeth. Other things I had absolutely no frame of reference for. I had seen things like this before, but this particular apparition presented such an aspect of malevolence and cruelty that it literally took my breath away. Or maybe it was the fact that by now the entire room was filled with thick choking fumes.

  There was finally silence as Harry stopped his chanting. The smoke demon, or whatever it was, stopped spinning and regarded us playfully. It looked like it was composed of old melted tires, strong and rubbery, and drippy around the edges. It had no defined head, no features, no eyes, yet still projected a distinct personality, and that personality was not pleasant. I felt my mouth growing dry with an undefined fear. Something about its very presence made me want to stay very still and quiet. I fervently prayed that this thing really was under Harry’s control.

  “My God!” Eli whispered. “What is it?”

  Harry said something under his breath. I couldn’t quite catch it, but it sounded uncomfortably like “Uh-oh.” He looked at us and smiled, but it wasn’t the easy Harry Keller grin that he’d been flashing earlier. It was a nervous, tentative smile, hardly the expression you hope to see on the face of a lion tamer, especially when you’re right in the cage along with the big cats.

  “I…I’m not exactly sure,” he stammered. “It’s not what I was expecting.”

  I wanted to snarl out to Eli something like “I told you so,” but my throat had closed up. Not from fear, mind you, just from the smoke in the room.

  The demon started swirling around the circle, sending wispy tendrils of smoke into every corner, probing every crevice, searching for a weakness. It finally coalesced on the near side of the circle and started exerting pressure. The curtain of air that defined where the circle lay wavered and shimmered like a desert mirage, then started to bulge out like a swollen blister about to pop. I hadn’t been enthusiastic about any of this in the first place, and now I got the feeling we were about to be very sorry indeed.

  Harry’s supposed expertise hadn’t impressed me from the start, but now I was earnestly hoping to be proved wrong. I wasn’t. Instead of binding the demon with arcane gestures or words of power or whatever it is that dark practitioners do, he started sidling away from the circle, moving toward the door. Before I realized what was happening, Harry was behind me. Now I was situated between him and the malignant spirit in the circle, acting as a convenient human shield. A flicker of remembrance ran through my mind, me standing in front of the Hall of Justice with the guy known as Spaceman, iron crosses hanging off his nose ring, as he intoned his prophetic warning: “The black man is not your friend!” Well, no shit.

  The black man. The African-American? The black magician? Man dressed in black? Hey, why not all three! The great thing about warning prophecies is that they are always opaque, always inscrutable, right up until the moment when it’s too late. Then it becomes all too clear.

  The blister on the side of the circle swelled to the size of a watermelon, and then, as it broke, so did Harry’s nerve. He bolted for the door and was out of the room before anyone could react, leaving us alone with the thing. There was a loud rushing sound like air escaping a giant balloon and the demon squeezed through the break in the circle, circling around like water swirling through a funnel. A foul smell comprised of burning rubber, rotting meat, and even more unpleasant odors permeated the room. It became almost impossible to see through the darkness. I felt I should do something, but was paralyzed, filled with incoherent terror and despair. My last rational thought was, “Well this is not good at all.”

  Sixteen

  I still don’t remember many details. In that way it was like a dream, though not like any dream you’d ever want to experience.

  Three types of dreams bubble out of our subconscious. The first is the garden-variety dream, the movie which unfolds behind closed eyes. With a familiar narrative thread much like our waking life, it can be joyful, grim as death, or as boring and mundane as a bus ride.

  The second type is more disjointed. You may find yourself in two places simultaneously, or even be two people at once, both actor and observer in a baffling dream scenario.

  The third is the bad one, and that’s the one I was in. The ego, the very sense of self, had vanished. In dark and formless chaos, synesthesia reigned. Touch became sound; sound, emotion. Emotion metamorphosed into a tactile and plastic rhythm, physically pulling and stretching at the fabric of reality. It was difficult to see, difficult to even imagine what vision might be. Raw emotions permeate this universe, unfiltered by any structure that could give them context. A condition so alien to waking consciousness, a state so primitive and chaotic, that it defies even metaphor.

  When I emerged from this dream state it took a few moments to remember not only where I was, but who and what as well. All that remained was that overpowering emotion.

  When I finally could see, the first thing I noticed was Eli’s flickering image, nearly invisible, black skin merging into smoky haze. He bulked large out of the smoke, swirling in and out of focus. The instant I saw him, long suppressed resentment flared. Eli. The very person who had got me into all this in the first place. The one whose smugly spouted theories were going to get me killed. Who the fuck did he think he was, anyway? Always criticizing. Always superior, always putting on airs, like his shit didn’t stink. Well, I finally could see that clearly, and now he was going to learn a painful lesson. I’d put up with his bullshit for way too long.

  I started gathering energy for a killing strike. God knows there was enough to work with. Before I could properly focus, though, I found myself gasping for air. The black fumes, still chokingly thick, settled in my throat. Hot tendrils of smoke curled their way into my lungs. Within seconds I was coughing uncontrollably. A heavy weight pressed down on my chest and the dark smoke took on a reddish tinge as oxygen stopped flowing to my brain. I thought the smoke was overcoming me, but it wasn’t just the smoke.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of motion and turned my head just in time to catch sight of Victor. I had been so fixated on Eli that I hadn’t remembered Victor was here as well. Not very smart. He was rhythmically squeezing his hands together, as if he were pumping air into something. Or out of something. Like my lungs. I had forgotten what a dangerous little asshole he could be. My arms grew weak and my vision narrowed until his face filled the entire field. He was staring at me with a mixture of hatred, disgust, and contempt, a judgment I returned in spades. Unable to fight back, I sank weakly to my knees.

&n
bsp; But as I had forgotten Victor, so had he forgotten Eli. Eli bounded across the room, grabbed him by the throat with one arm, lifted him off his feet, and plastered him against the wall.

  “Goddamned little prick,” he snarled.

  The pressure on my chest eased as Victor’s attention was understandably deflected. I was able to breathe again. It gave me a second chance, and this time I had them both in my sights. Eli and Victor were now locked so closely together that I could easily get them both at once. I examined the swirling patterns of the smoke. I pulled the killing sharpness from the knife that was still lying on the table. I keenly felt the currents of hatred coursing like electricity around the room. I took a deep breath, savoring the choking cloud and the foul odor, so perfect for my needs.

  I gathered all those things together and fashioned death. Then, right before I unleashed it, I paused. A shift was occurring in the makeup of the murky fog, slight, but still enough to throw me off. The smoke was less dense and the odor subtly different. Under the putrid stench that filled the room was another stink, different, cloying yet also sharply astringent. It was unpleasant and somehow familiar. Pungent. Reeking. Oddly commonplace.

  Along with this odor there came a hissing, popping sound, as if cold water had been poured into a hot frying pan. The new odor grew ever more pronounced. It so distracted me that I was unable to complete my attack spell. What was that smell? It was…it was…I almost had it. It was…it was cat piss!

  This revelation was immediately confirmed by the sound of Maggie squalling loudly with pain and outrage. The noise knifed through my consciousness and brought me up short. Maggie! And Lou. Where was Lou? I shook my head, trying to clear away the cobwebs, which never works.

  Lou’s sharp bark cut through the remaining haze, which was rapidly clearing. The dullness which had been clouding my mind was lifting as well. Panic overtook me and I turned back to where Victor and Eli had been struggling, praying that one or both weren’t seriously hurt, or worse, dead. Eli had set Victor back on the floor and was in the process of apologizing profusely. Victor, rubbing his throat gingerly, was waving him away. Harry Keller was nowhere to be seen. Eli looked over toward me.