The Power: Berkeley Blackfriars Book Two

by J. R. Mabry

  Some pussy would be nice, Duunel said dreamily. I like the look of that girl on the sign.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Richard said. “Remember that I am all you have to work with. I have never been accused of being a chick magnet.”

  It’s all attitude, Duunel said. It has very little to do with looks.

  “Fine, but getting laid is not my priority here,” Richard said firmly.

  You are not the center of the universe, Duunel said, sounding uncomfortably like Richard’s mother.

  “I am the center of my consciousness,” Richard said.

  I’ll bet you never learned to share your toys as a child, Duunel accused.

  Richard reminded himself that Duunel’s goal was to make him crazy, and so he cut bait rather than taking it. Besides, they were almost at the diner. The lights were bright, and the activity surrounding the gas station, the fast food joints, and the little restaurant cheered him.

  Richard opened the door and looked around. He spied an ATM machine and made a beeline for it. He took out more than he normally would, given the uncertainty of his situation. He might need a motel or a bus ticket or some such thing, after all.

  Fortified with cash, Richard made his way to the diner’s counter and sat on one of the stools. An old television had been placed atop a refrigerated display. On it, a panel of talking heads moved their mouths, but no sounds emerged. The closed captioning was on, though, and Richard quickly realized that the topic under discussion was Dearborn.

  He had a bit of a jolt when Bishop Preston’s face filled the screen. He squinted to catch the closed captioning as it flashed by, a little too fast for him to get a good sense of it. He cursed himself for being such a slow reader.

  A few minutes later, a waitress hovered near him and waved a hand between his eyes and the television. “What’ll ya have, sunshine?”

  She called us ‘sunshine’, Duunel almost shouted in triumph. Pussy is in the bag.

  Richard blinked and tried to focus on the young woman. She looked nothing like the 1950s pinup model, of course, and he wondered why he had expected her to. Instead, she was petite with red hair and a smear of freckle on her upturned nose. She was cute.

  She was also twenty years his junior. He assumed a polite, detached air. “Sorry,” he said, pointing to the television. “Hell of a thing, Dearborn.”

  “You mean all them Islams?” She scrunched her nose. “’Bout time.” She had a vaguely Southern accent and somehow appeared to be chewing gum without having any gum in her mouth, so far as Richard could tell. What a curious effect, he thought.

  Red pussy, Duunel prodded. Best kind.

  Richard sighed, shook his head, and picked up the menu. “Well, coffee, obviously, please. Two eggs and some of that beer sausage. Sunny side up, if you don’t mind.”

  “Comin’ right up,” the young woman said, writing on her pad. She paused and looked at Richard sideways. “So, you some kind of priest?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Some kind.”

  “What you doing out here?” she asked.

  Richard didn’t know what to say. Should he tell her about the stolen car? About his quest for a bishop? He opted for a short but simple truth. “I’ve lost my dog.”

  Her face scrunched up in a look of forced compassion. “Oh, that’s too bad. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Richard said. “He’s a smart dog. If I don’t find him, he’ll find me.”

  It was a strange thing to say, but Richard realized that at least a part of him believed it. It was a comforting realization. Richard watched the bejoweled visage of Bishop Preston on the screen and caught as much of the scrawl as he could.

  She’s looking at us, Duunel said. Out of the corner of his eye, Richard could see that it was true. He refocused on the screen. He thought back to Preston’s association with Prester John. His mind ran over what he remembered about the legendary Mongolian king. He was known as the Moor Hammer. It was a curious name, and it occurred to him that Prester John was not the only saint to whom that dubious moniker had been attached. Who was it? Who else had been called that? He scowled as he thought.

  She’s staring at us! Duunel announced with glee. Suddenly, it occurred to Richard that Duunel was not just horny but intentionally distracting him from—

  Saint James. The Moor Hammer. Santiago. Richard sat bolt upright. He didn’t know what it meant, but it had to mean something. He fished out his phone and texted to Brian: “Saint James and Prester John—both Moor Hammers.”

  The waitress waltzed over to Richard, her hips swaying in what might have been a mild exaggeration. She placed a steaming plate of eggs under his nose, and he almost swooned from the aroma. Duunel directed his eyes to her name tag: Sarah. Duunel tried to direct his eyes to her breasts, but Richard exerted discipline and met her eyes instead. He smiled and nodded his thanks.

  The eggs were eggs, nothing remarkable. But the beer sausage was the best thing Richard had tasted in some time. He was tempted to order another round on the side but restrained himself despite Duunel’s pleadings. “You’re worse than a three-year-old in a toy store,” Richard said under his breath.

  I’m still hungry, Duunel said.

  Richard ignored him. Sarah refilled his coffee and placed a check beside his cup. Richard picked it up and reached for his wallet. When he turned the check over, he found a Post-it note attached. It said, “Off in twenty. Meet me in the parking lot?”

  Richard looked up. Sarah flashed a smile at him and winked. She turned her back and with a sway of her hips walked into the back room. Score! shouted Duunel in his head.

  “I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” Richard said.

  Why not? You’ll save money on a hotel, Duunel said.

  “That’s true. Okay, on one condition,” Richard said quietly.

  You’re about to get your dick wet for free, and you’re placing conditions on me? Duunel said, his mock indignation rising to full Shakespearean heights. What is wrong with this picture?

  “Promise me you will not bash my head on the ceiling while I sleep,” Richard said.

  You are a hard man, Duunel said.

  “Agree—or we walk out that door right now,” Richard said.

  You wouldn’t dare, Duunel said.

  “She’s not really my type,” Richard said.

  You mean she doesn’t dress like a lumberjack?

  “Something like that.”

  She doesn’t have a buzz-cut?

  “Long hair is not my thing, yes.”

  No mustache?

  “Now, wait a minute,” Richard said, exasperated. “Are we still talking about women?”

  I’m talking about women, Duunel answered.

  “Oh. Well then, yes,” Richard admitted.

  You know, it just occurred to me that, being primarily attracted to lesbians, it must be very lonely for you, Duunel said, sounding uncharacteristically sympathetic. No wonder you just normally default to faggots. Not so complicated. The rejection ratio—

  “Can we just change the subject?” Richard said, heading for the door.

  We are getting laid, right?

  “Yes, you horndog. We’re just going to wait in the parking lot,” Richard said.

  Tell me you can get it up if she doesn’t look like Rosie O’Donnell, Duunel insisted.

  “I swear to God, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to cast you into a truck driver and throttle you.”

  Promises, promises, Duunel sighed. Why are we waiting out here in the cold? We could go back into the gift shop and look at the rack of Penthouse and Hustlers.

  “Do you ever fucking stop?” Richard asked.

  58

  WHEN LARCH EXITED the BART station, safely on the San Francisco side of the bay, with all of his fraters accounted for, he felt his muscles relax. It felt as if water was pouring out of his coat sleeves, or as if his arm was unspooling. He kept waiting for some policeman or federal agent to shoot at them—or, worse yet, to quietly clutch at his sleeve and whi
sper, “You’ll be coming with us, now.”

  Instead, the Civic Center BART station was abuzz with tourists and locals, crisscrossing in chaotic patterns and jabbering in a wild profusion of languages. It was a safe chaos. The East Bay always made him nervous—he wasn’t sure why. Too quiet? Too complacent? Maybe. It was hard to put a finger on it, but nearly everyone in San Francisco felt the same. It was easy to get someone from Berkeley to cross the bridge or take BART into the city. But to get a city person over to Berkeley? Like pulling fucking teeth, Larch reflected. He didn’t understand why, but only that it was so.

  He pulled his coat more tightly about him against the chill of the night as it was twenty degrees colder on this side of the bay. He dropped back, allowing the momentum of the crowd to overtake him, and with instincts proper to a sheepdog, began to nudge his fraters in the right direction by the sheer force of his approaching mass and scowling visage. Once he had successfully shepherded them up Market Street, he led them onto Haight and began making a beeline for their crumbling Victorian.

  Once they were inside and safely upstairs, Frater Khams hurried to the kitchen to prepare drinks and snacks. Frater Eleazar asked, “Can we talk now?”

  “Yes, we can talk now,” Larch said, hanging his coat on a hook. “Thank you all for maintaining radio silence as we crossed the bay. All very well done, especially after such an exciting evening!” He felt ebullient. He raised his voice so that Khams could hear him in the kitchen. “Champagne, please, Frater!”

  A few seconds later, Khams emerged with a platter of Triscuits, Spam cubes, and cheese. “Did you say champagne?” he said in Larch’s direction as he set the platter on the common table.

  “I did! Champagne all around! This is a cause for celebration!”

  “We don’t have champagne,” he said. “But…I’ll whip something up.” He disappeared into the kitchen again.

  The magickians, having scattered to shed clothes and tend to basic sanitary needs, began to settle into their regular places, their voices festive and jangly.

  “Larch, that was extraordinary.” Purderabo pounded the table with his puffy hands.

  “Hear, hear!” Turpelo agreed. “I thought that that Pim of yours was leading you down a rabbit hole, but by the gods she came through!”

  “An army, indeed!” Purderabo pounded at the table some more.

  Khams emerged from the kitchen with a tray of drinks—a pitcher containing a bright red liquid and several Dixie cups.

  “Our festive drink?” asked Eleazar hopefully.

  “Yes,” Khams said and began pouring. He passed a cup to Turpelo. He passed it to Purderabo, who sniffed at it curiously. “I’m guessing sangria?” he queried. He raised the cup to his lips.

  “Cherry Kool-Aid and Everclear,” Khams said.

  Purderabo spewed the red liquid all over the table. Khams put his pitcher down and scowled at the frater, hands on his hips. “I dare you to scour that kitchen and come up with better, asshole!” Khams raised his voice.

  “This sounds like a budgetary issue,” Eleazar suggested appeasingly.

  “If someone wants to buy us some fucking champagne, I’ll fucking serve it. Until then, shut the fuck up.” He stormed back into the kitchen.

  “Khams is on the rag,” Turpelo sang. Purderabo sniggered and began to mop up the spewed liquid with a handkerchief.

  Larch tried the “festive drink” and puckered his face up as the bite hit him. He decided it was terrible in a variety of identifiable ways but drinkable. He took a guzzle and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “So, Larch, let us see this prize that we risked our necks for tonight,” Turpelo called, raising his cup in a toasting gesture. He did not, however, drink from it.

  “Yes, and for which so many poor, possessed souls have given their lives,” Purderabo added cheerily.

  “Or at least their liberty!” Turpelo responded. “I think we passed two police vans by the time we hit the BART station.”

  “Oh!” Eleazar proudly raised his hand. “I saw three.”

  Larch drew a velvet bag from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket. Setting the bag down on the table, he trotted over to a bookshelf and pulled from it a small, tarnished silver platter. He carried this back to the table, and picking up the velvet bag once again, he carefully poured its contents into the tray.

  There, on the tray, were two small stones, each about the size of a walnut. Silence fell over the room. Khams emerged from the kitchen, and, his offended pride apparently set aside for the moment, he leaned over the tray, nearly touching heads with his fraters as they all stared.

  “Fraters, behold: the Urim and Thummim,” Larch breathed. “These were the stones that were originally set into the breastplate of Aaron, the brother of Moses, and the first Jewish kohen. It was through these stones that the ancient Israelites determined the will of God.”

  “How did they do that?” Khams asked. “They just look like rocks.”

  “Look closer,” Larch said. While the fraters were leaning in, Larch crossed the room again to a desk and returned with a magnifying glass and a flashlight. He handed the glass to Khams and shone the light on the ancient stones. “What do you see now?”

  Khams peered through the glass and whistled. “I see letters.”

  “Right, Hebrew letters—but of the ancient Sinaitic style, not the modern. On how many sides do they appear?” Larch asked.

  Khams picked up the velvet bag and used it as a glove in order to pick up the Urim and Thummim. He counted. “One of them has six sides, like a normal die. But the other one has…seven sides.” He looked up at Larch. “Wait, is that even possible?” He counted again. Larch counted with him. Yes, there were seven sides.

  “How did they use them?” Eleazar asked.

  “They rolled them, you idiot,” Turpelo said, unable to take his eyes off their haul. “It was what the ancient Jews did instead of reading tarot cards or casting I Ching coins or eviscerating animals to read their entrails.”

  “So, what do the letters mean?” Khams asked.

  “Well, my guess is that each letter stands for a Hebrew word that gives some sort of direction. Like this letter kaph, which probably means ‘yes’—since kaph is the first letter of the word ken, the Hebrew word for ‘yes,’” answered Larch. “And this letter, lamed, probably stands for ‘no.’”

  “Those letters are on both stones,” Purderabo noted. “So, what do the others mean, and why does one stone have six sides and one seven?”

  “That’s going to require some research,” Larch said. “My best guess right now is that the seven-sided stone—the divine stone—represents God’s perfect will, and the six-sided stone—the human stone—represents God’s permissive will.”

  “What does that mean?” Turpelo asked, looking skeptical.

  “Well, think back to the time of the judges,” Larch explained. “God’s perfect will was that the Israelites should not have a king. But he permitted them to have one even though it did not please him. If the Jews had asked their God, ‘Please, sir, may we have a king?’—”

  Purderabo sniggered some more.

  “—and then rolled the dice, my guess is that the divine stone would have said no, while the human stone would have said yes.”

  “Extraordinary,” Turpelo said breathlessly.

  “This is a fascinating bit of archeology, Larch,” Purderabo said. “But of what use is this to us?”

  Larch narrowed his eyes. “Are you really so dim?”

  Purderabo narrowed his eyes right back. “Assume, for the moment, that I am.”

  Larch dropped his gaze and sighed. “My brothers,” he said, “in a magickal circle, surrounded by the exiled and rightful citizens of Heaven, you and I all made a pact.”

  His fraters nodded. He went on. “We promised that we would use all of our skill, all of our art, to depose the tyrant on the throne of Heaven and to restore the exiled to their former glory.”

  “We did,” Turpelo nodded. “What
of it?”

  “If you want to beat your enemy, you must know what your enemy wants,” Larch said. He pointed to the stones. “Through these stones, the Israelites discerned the tyrant’s will. We can use them for precisely the same purpose. Only we”—he leaned in and one by one looked them each in the eye—“will use that knowledge against him.”

  59

  WHEN DYLAN once more emerged into consciousness, he found himself staring up into the enormous muzzle of Jaguar.

  “Uh…hi there, Jaggy. Where are we?” he asked hesitantly. Rolling his eyes around, he saw that they were back in the underworld. In Jaguar’s cave, it looked like. Dylan smiled at Jaguar. Then he frowned. “Uh, dude, you ate my head.”

  Jaguar said nothing. Dylan felt the hot breath of the great cat on his face, felt spittle from Jaguar’s open mouth drip down onto his beard. “Where’s the little dog?” Dylan asked.

  “Ask your wife,” Jaguar said. Then, without missing a beat, Jaguar brandished a long claw, lowered it to Dylan’s chest, and cut into him. He cut a long swath from Dylan’s throat all the way to his groin. With his great paws, he pushed aside the flaps of skin and dug into the abdominal cavity.

  As Jaguar was cutting, Dylan’s locus of consciousness rose. He now seemed to be floating just above his body, which appeared to be sleeping or dead. Dylan expected to feel a great deal of pain, but he only felt a vague, dull discomfort as if the pain was great, but far away.

  Horrified but oddly detached, Dylan watched as Jaguar scooped out his entrails and placed them in neat piles next to his body. The Dylan-body twitched and grimaced as the great cat worked. Dylan was relieved to see it since he figured it meant that he was still—somehow—alive.

  Once the scooping was done, Jaguar turned his attention to sorting. He gathered up entrails of one color and bound them with a colored string. Then he carefully placed them back in the Dylan-body’s abdominal cavity. Next, he did the same with another pile of entrails, and then another. Each went neatly back inside the Dylan-body.

  Dylan couldn’t look away. He noted that there was a hollow place inside his body, about the size of a man’s fist. Jaguar turned and faced the back of the cave, where the waterfall was. “Bring forth the gift!” he called.