You Only Spell Twic

by Paige Howland

  “What?” I squeaked. Hanging onto the book meant I was a target. I was looking forward to passing it off to someone else. To making it their problem. Except she was right, and I knew it. How could I hand it off to someone else, not knowing who they were really working for? The only way I trusted that the book would make it safely into the CIA’s hands was if I delivered it there myself. And showed them that I was operative material.

  “I don’t have any money,” I said.

  “I know. While we’ve been talking I’ve been booking you a flight out of there, but I don’t want you to use any of the aliases I’ve made for you. They’re all in the CIA’s system, and they might be compromised. I know a guy not far from you, though. I’ll reach out to him, have him draw you up some new IDs with an alias not even I know, and I’ll let you know how to pick it up.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “Lie low. It should only be a day or two.”

  “A day or two?!”

  A day or two of being alone in a foreign city with no money, protecting a magic book from any number of bad guys who wanted to steal it. Sure. No problem.

  “What about Ryerson?” I asked. I wondered about Alec, too, but it seemed best not to ask the CIA if it knew where the guy who topped its most wanted list was.

  She hesitated, and my blood ran cold.

  “We haven’t heard from him yet.”

  I pulled in a deep breath, held it. Trying not to freak out. And failing hard.

  “Ainsley? It’s going to be okay. We’ll find him. Ryerson’s a tough agent. If he’s alive, we’ll find him.”

  If he’s alive.

  My freak-out shifted to a full-blown panic attack.

  We hung up with promises to call if I were in trouble and for her to call me with where I could pick up the new documents. Until then, I had a day or two to kill in a foreign country, protecting a book. And the only thing I wanted to do was find Ryerson.

  I pulled into a parking lot next to a quiet park and shut off the car. I needed to think. If Dahlia and the CIA and their infinite resources couldn’t find Ryerson, how was I supposed to? Then again, Ryerson and Alec wouldn’t let crappy odds stop them, so why should I? I was a witch and a spy—sort of—and it was time I started acting like it. But where did I even begin looking? They could be anywhere. If only there was a way to let him know where I was. To get him to come to me.

  A thought started forming.

  Hey, voice?

  Hmm?

  You know a lot of spells, right?

  Of course I know many spells, it said indignantly. I am a ridiculously powerful witch. When I was alive, the breadth of my knowledge and power made lesser witches quake with fear at my name.

  Great. Do you know how to summon a demon?

  26

  You want to summon a demon, the voice said flatly.

  “Yep.” I grabbed the book and Agent Smith’s backpack and climbed out of the car. Across the park, a copse of trees angled toward a thick patch of woods. I headed towards it. The sky was dark and swollen with thick, ominous gray clouds, leaving the park empty except me and a man sleeping on a bench, his clothes layered on top of him for protection from the gathering storm.

  The first fat raindrops fell to the earth. I slowed as I passed the bench, whispered a few words under my breath, and flicked a rune at the man huddled there.

  Warming rune? the voice guessed.

  Umbrella rune. It would keep him dry, but he probably wouldn’t notice the rain beading up and rolling right off the top layer of clothes until I was out of sight. It cost me a little magic but not enough to affect the demon summoning I was about to do. Besides, I owed him. I had a sneaking suspicion the storm was the same one we’d conjured in Mauritania, working its way across the northern coast.

  I’ve never heard of an umbrella rune, the voice said.

  I made it up.

  Did you? the voice murmured. How interesting.

  Why is that interesting?

  But the voice offered no explanation, and I didn’t push it, since I’d reached the trees. The rain was coming down harder now, but I hardly felt a drop as I walked under the thick canopy of leaves. One of the trees—more of a bush, really—was studded with low-hanging branches brimming with red berries. I broke off a spindly branch as I passed by.

  What’s that for? said the voice.

  Improvising, I said and stooped to collect a curved piece of bark off the ground.

  The demon-summoning spell doesn’t call for berries or tree bark, the voice said suspiciously.

  That was probably true. I wouldn’t know. I had never summoned a demon before. But I had watched Eugenia Halfpenny try to summon spirits, and a summoning is a summoning, right? And Eugenia always carried with her three things, just in case she needed to summon a spirit on short notice. Not that she’d ever been faced with a spirit-summoning emergency, mind you, but one never knew when one would be called upon to talk to the dead, and it was better to be prepared than to be caught with your witchy britches down, as she’d once explained to me when I asked her why there were a chalice and four candles tied to her belt.

  Eugenia always did have a flair for the dramatic.

  Anyway, according to Eugenia, one needed only three things for a proper summoning: something to write with, something to set fire to, and something to catch the blood.

  Not far into the woods the trees gave way to a small clearing, protected from the rain by a thick canopy of overarching boughs bursting with small white flowers whose petals littered the clearing floor in soft white confetti. Some intrepid parks employee had noticed the beauty out here, and a metal archway graced one end of the clearing, draped with curling ivy and vines, the perfect spot to snap a few wedding photos.

  Or summon a demon.

  About that, the voice said. Explain to me again why we’re summoning a demon? Is life too boring for you? Thought perhaps being devoured by an unholy monster would be a nice change of pace? Because I have news for you: death is not all it’s cracked up to be.

  I set the book down, marked a rough circle on the ground with twigs, and swept the flower petals out of it. Because summoning a demon on a bed of flower petals felt weird. This is the only way I can think of to find Ryerson, I answered. It was a long shot, but I had to do something.

  Why do you have to do something? the voice asked, sounding genuinely curious.

  Why? Because I’d abandoned him in the middle of a firefight, and the guilt was eating me alive. Because he might be in trouble. Because I had to know that he was okay.

  I thought it was because you needed him to help you protect the book until you can get it back to the United States.

  That too.

  You could let the CIA use their vast resources to find him, the voice pointed out, and avoid being devoured.

  I did. I gave them nearly a whole day, and they still haven’t found him. Now it’s my turn. And why do you keep saying ‘devoured’?

  Because some demons have a taste for human flesh. But don’t worry. Most demons would rather have your soul than eat your flesh.

  I paused mid-swipe of my dirt-covered hands against my borrowed sweatpants. Wait, giving up my soul isn’t part of the summoning, right?

  No, but most demons demand a sacrifice in exchange for their help. The soul is the most common, because it is the most precious thing you have to give, and demons know that.

  Hmm. I wanted to find Ryerson but not at the price of my soul. Then again, I doubted the hound I’d spent this morning teaching to roll over would demand my soul. And if he did, I could just refuse to give it. At least …

  I can refuse the price, right?

  Most demons leave it to your discretion. Hell is big on free will. Until they have you, of course.

  Most didn’t sound promising. Then again, I wasn’t summoning some rando demon. This was Oreo. The hellhound who let me rub his belly.

  Changed your mind? the voice asked.

  No. I wouldn’t give up my soul, but othe
rwise, spies do what needs to be done. It’s our thing.

  It’s your soul, the voice said. So how exactly is summoning a demon going to help you find Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody?

  His dog is a hellhound, which is technically a demon. We’re summoning that.

  Hopefully it could tell Ryerson where to find me or show me where to find him. That is, if he even knew where Ryerson was. For a hound of hell, he was kind of flaky.

  This is a bad idea, the voice said.

  Noted.

  You’ll need the demon’s name.

  No problem. I remembered the name Alec had called it at the motel. Now tell me what to do.

  The voice sighed. Fine. It’s your afterlife. Here’s what you’ll need to do …

  It turns out that summoning a demon is surprisingly easy. Too easy, actually. It doesn’t even require much magic. In fact, a savvy mortal with even the smallest amount of magical push, say, siphoned from a particularly potent charm, could do it.

  Many mortals have tried. Where they usually mess it up is in the actual “wanting” to summon a demon. For all their bravado or desperation, most prefer to keep their souls.

  Swell, I said as I brushed the last of the little white flower petals from the circle I’d fashioned out of sticks, twigs, and leaves. And quit listening in on my thoughts.

  I can’t stop listening. I live in your head, remember?

  Fine, I gritted out. Then stop commenting on them.

  The voice gave a mental shrug, and I sort of hated that I knew that.

  I finished the circle by adding four miniature campfires made out of more twigs and the driest, deadest leaves I could find—one for each of the south, north, east, and west points of the circle. I didn’t have matches to light them, but that had never been a problem. I lit the fires with a simple rune and then drew the hellhound’s name on the ground inside the circle with the crushed berries.

  Is Balphagor spelled with an a or an e? I asked.

  I’m certain I haven’t the faintest idea.

  Oh sure. Now she stops having opinions.

  I sounded it out and went with a. Chalk or salt was best for drawing a circle because it binds things inside the area more forcefully but also for the practical reason that it’s easier to spot any gaps. Even a small gap will break a circle and render it useless. Which means if you’re lucky, the spell won’t work, and if you’re not, then you’ve summoned something that won’t be bound inside the circle. I wasn’t particularly worried that Oreo would try to eat me, but I triple-checked the circle, just in case.

  Good. Now feed the circle your blood, the voice instructed.

  I winced. This was going to hurt, but I was all out of ways to procrastinate. So I retrieved the knife I’d stuffed in Agent Smith’s bag—along with his credit card, phone, and taser, just in case. I held my forearm over the curved bark, pursed my lips, and slid the blade along my skin. The pain was instant and sharp and stung like a witch’s britches, but I gritted my teeth and opened and closed my fist a few times to keep the blood flowing freely.

  Good. Are you ready for the incantation?

  I nodded.

  Then repeat after me:

  Exaudi vocantur angeli inferni,

  Et vocavi te in planum mortale,

  Et ligabunt te in terram hanc,

  Ad tempus et dimitere te demonem inferni.

  I repeated the words exactly and then held my breath, waiting.

  Absolutely nothing happened.

  “Where is he?”

  Patience, girl. Honestly, how long would it take you to travel from the depths of hell to the mortal plane? What is it about young people today and their need for instant gratification?

  I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue since the tiny fires around the circle chose that moment to leap into columns of flame as thick as tree trunks and nearly as tall. The blast of heat sent me stumbling back, and I tripped over a root and landed on my rump on the hard ground. It was impossible to see anything past the smoke filling the circle, and for a brief moment, I worried that the force of the flames had blown the leaves and sticks away or even gobbled them up in the fire, thereby opening the circle. But as quickly as the flames had flared up, they died. The smoke took longer to clear. Eventually it drifted away to reveal the circle was still intact, but there was no hellhound inside it.

  Instead, there stood a man. A tall, somewhat stooped, annoyed-looking man wearing a fuzzy black bathrobe, whose glowy red eyes were fixed on me.

  Oh, crap in a cauldron.

  I’d summoned the wrong demon.

  27

  That is the most unusual-looking hellhound I’ve ever seen, the voice said drily.

  Broken broomsticks and spilled cauldrons, this was not good.

  Without moving his head, the demon’s glowing eyes rolled first toward one tiny mountain of ash topping the shoulders of his fuzzy bathrobe like little snow peaks and then the other. Whether they were a result of the summoning fires or of hell fire, I didn’t know, and somehow it felt rude to ask.

  He frowned at the piles and wrinkled his nose, holding back a sneeze, but he didn’t lift a finger to brush them away. The sneeze subsided, and his creepy eyes rolled back to meet mine. “And you are?”

  Besides Oreo I’d never met a demon before, and his lazy southern drawl caught me off guard. As did the rotting teeth and foul smell that wafted from his robes.

  “Confused,” I admitted.

  The demon waited.

  “I thought I was summoning a friend. A hellhound,” I added helpfully.

  The demon’s eyes rolled to the ground near his feet. “Well, there’s your problem. You spelled his name wrong. Belphagor the hellhound is spelled with an e. I’m Balphagor with an a.”

  Um, oops. “Well, I’m very sorry to have summoned you. And in the middle of your shower too.”

  The demon’s frown deepened. “Demons don’t shower.”

  I eyed the bathrobe, quilted with a monochrome pattern of … were those SpongeBob SquarePants imprints? “Oh, I just thought—”

  “This is what I always wear. It’s comfy.”

  Erm, okay. “Well, if you’ll just tell me how to release you back to hell, I’ll get back to summoning my friend.”

  The demon shook his head, and my heart sunk. “I’m afraid that’s not how it works. Once you summon me, a deal must be struck. What were you planning to offer the hellhound?”

  “I don’t know. Cookies?”

  The demon nodded gravely. “A worthy trade for a hellhound. My tastes, however, are more soph … sophistic …”

  His nose scrunched up, and his mouth twisted, and then the demon released a bone-rattling sneeze that shook the leaves above us, drizzling down the rainwater they’d caught. Two of the fires sizzled but didn’t go out.

  Careful, the voice warned. If those fires go out or the circle breaks, the demon is no longer bound.

  What happens then? In theory I knew the demon would be free, but I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant for me, or for the world.

  You don’t want to know.

  I very much did want to know, but the demon had recovered and was muttering to himself.

  “Stupid ash. Plays heaven on my allergies.”

  “Why don’t you wipe it off your shoulders, then?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you learn to spell properly?” he snapped back. “And why is it that no one who summons me thinks to have a chair or maybe a nice loveseat—one of the reclining ones, obviously, with one of those nifty built-in tray tables, and maybe a massage function—for me to sit in?”

  I blinked at him. “Sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “No, you didn’t. You summoning types never do. Honestly, if you’re going to summon a future Prince of Hell, don’t just expect him to stand around while we strike a deal. It’s tiresome.”

  “A Prince of Hell?” I squeaked.

  “Future Prince of Hell,” he corrected. “Probably. Maybe.” He sighed. “It would all be much simpler if campaigning and poli
ticking and coups weren’t so much wo … wor …”

  He sneezed again, and I tensed. Luckily there wasn’t much rainwater left in the overhead boughs, and my shoulders relaxed.

  “Oh, for hell’s sake,” he muttered and with a dramatic sigh, brushed the ash from his shoulders.

  Why he didn’t do that five minutes ago was beyond me.

  He didn’t do it earlier because he’s a sloth demon, the voice said matter-of-factly.

  A what demon?

  Sloth. They’re absurdly lazy. Always taking the path of least resistance. For example, a sloth demon won’t make the effort to brush the ash off his shoulders until the alternative—sneezing—becomes more burdensome. I imagine the only reason he’s considering a play for Prince is because the current Sloth Prince has become burdensome, and a coup is less work than putting up with the current regime. Which is saying something.

  Demon politics were all very fascinating, but we had more pressing things to worry about. I eyed one of the fires, which was more smoke than flame at this point. What happens if the circle breaks?

  He’ll kill you.

  I kind of figured.

  It’ll be ugly too, the voice added helpfully. Demons have a reputation for being messy about their murders. They don’t just stab you or rip out your heart. They suck your intestines out through your bellybutton or spit their acidic saliva in your eyes and then idly strum your arteries while they wait for the poison to slowly dissolve all the bones in your body or—

  I grimaced. Got it, thanks. So what does a sloth demon want?

  To be left alone to wallow in his laziness, I imagine.

  I rubbed my forehead, hoping to will away the headache forming there, and rephrased. I already offered to leave him alone. He said we have to strike a deal. What can I offer him?

  Some deodorant? A toothbrush, maybe? How should I know? I may have dabbled in dark magic when I was alive, but I was never stupid enough to summon a demon.

  I started to point out that this would be more believable if she didn’t have the demon-summoning ritual memorized, but the argument died as I watched a goldfinch swoop down from the treetops and land on the ground, just outside the circle. I frowned at it. The bird snatched up a stray twig in its beak. Then it chirped and hopped closer to the circle. Then closer still.