The Power: Berkeley Blackfriars Book Two

by J. R. Mabry

  “Well, ain’t we a sight?” Dylan pronounced as Mikael and Kat took their places.

  “Just bless the food so we can eat,” Terry said wearily.

  “Fine. Let us pray,” Dylan put his hands up in the orans position and prayed with his eyes looking toward Heaven. “We bless you, O God, our redeemer and deliverer, ’cause you don’t abandon your friends—”

  “Much,” Terry added.

  Dylan ignored him. “Ya been faithful ta us, and ya saved us and you’re lovin’ on us all the damned time. Thank you fer stickin’ by us yesterday. Do yer healin’ thing on Mikael’s head if’n you don’t mind. Bless, and save Dicky and Toby, too, wherever they are. Bless this food, too, if yer willin’ ’cause we need healin’ and restoration. Ah’m asking this ’cause Ah’m a teeeeeny little bit o’ yer son, and you know you gotta listen ta him. Amen.”

  “Amen,” they all said, and the lazy Susan started spinning.

  “Did you really need to twist God’s arm like that at the end?” Mikael asked.

  “Sometimes ya gotta get the old man’s attention,” Dylan said.

  “That is so offensive, I don’t even know where to begin.” Susan shook her head.

  “More coffee?” Brian asked her. She nodded and held out her cup to him.

  “Fine, next time, you pray,” Dylan said a bit sulkily.

  “Well, aside from recoiling from the image of God as an actual old man, I’m just suggesting that the whole ‘you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar’ thing might be true of God as well,” Susan said, putting her cup back on the table.

  Terry ate slowly, deliberately. Strangely, waffles had never tasted so good. For several minutes, all were silent, intent on their food. Brian leaned back on the stove and crossed his arms, a satisfied look on his face. Terry winked at him. Brian winked back.

  A bark punctuated the early morning air. Dylan froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Toby?” he asked. He looked like he didn’t dare believe it. But then someone was scratching at the screen door, fumbling at the catch, and before any of them could get up, the big yellow dog burst through the back door and bounded straight for Dylan.

  Dylan turned and extended his arms to him, and when Tobias leaped up, the two of them fell in a heap on the kitchen floor. Dylan hugged Toby around the neck, and the dog slurped at his face with his enormous tongue and they rolled about in the bliss of reunion.

  Susan knelt beside them and buried her face in Toby’s fur. “Welcome home, old friend,” she said. “I’m so relieved you’re well.”

  Toby leaped up and made the rounds, then, sniffing at everyone and receiving their warm salutations. Dylan sat up in place on the floor. “Uh, if Toby’s back…”

  “Richard,” Brian said, and turned to look out the kitchen window. “Dicky!”

  They all leaped to their feet and stared out the window. Sure enough, Terry saw Richard standing just on the other side of the ward line across the street, looking at the house, his home—a place he had not been able to set foot in for months.

  “We have to go to him,” Susan said. “Let’s get shoes on.”

  “No, wait,” Brian said. “Just watch.”

  Indeed, Richard had started walking. He took a step toward them, then another. Then he crossed the ward line.

  “Oh my,” Susan said. Terry looked over and saw tears welling in her eyes. His own were a little moist as Richard got closer to the house. He stopped within a few yards of the kitchen window, flashed them a huge, goofy grin, and waved. Kat sprang for the front door, throwing it open. Terry and the rest of them were not far behind her.

  In a few moments, Richard stepped over the threshold and caught Kat up in a hug. “Welcome home, Dicky,” she said and kissed his cheek.

  “Thank you,” he said. His voice was thick, and Terry saw tears streaming down his cheeks. Tobias barked and ran in between them excitedly as they all took their turns embracing him, slapping him on the back, teasing him for God knows what. The words weren’t important. Their friend, who was dead, was alive again. He was lost, and now was found.

  “I’m betting some coffee would sound good about now,” Brian said.

  “Actually, I’ve had more than enough—I’ve been driving most of the night,” Richard said.

  “Where’s the car?” Brian pointed out the window.

  “Uh…long story,” Richard said.

  “We’ve got nothing else on the calendar today,” Brian said. “Waffles?”

  “I could eat the entire International House of Pancakes franchise,” Richard said, shaking his head.

  “C’mon, then,” Brian said and led the way into the kitchen.

  IT WAS NEARLY noon when they had finished telling their stories to one another. Brian kept the coffee flowing and had begun to lay out sandwich makings before Richard had finished.

  “So, Duunel actually saved thet guy’s life,” Dylan said, shaking his head. “Ah’m surprised he agreed.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I think he was getting as tired of the cohabitation as I was. Our ideas of fun diverged at several definite places.”

  “Ah can imagine,” Dylan said. “Brian, could Ah bother you for another pot o’ tea?”

  Richard scowled. “Tea? I thought Mikael was the one that got bonked on the head.”

  “Uh…thet’s another story,” Dylan said. “Ah’ll tell ya later. Let’s jus’ say it’s now mah drug o’ choice—not that Ah had any choice in the matter, really.”

  “Okay, I look forward to that one,” Richard said, raising one eyebrow.

  The doorbell rang. Tobias barked and raced out of the kitchen toward the door. “I’ll get it,” Susan said, throwing one leg over the bench and standing up.

  For a few moments, silence reigned in the kitchen. It seemed to Terry to be a blessed time, filled with gratitude and relief, warmth and family and plenty. A sharp cackle filled the air coming from the foyer—a glad sound, and Terry saw Richard’s mouth turn up in a wide smile.

  “Maggie!” he shouted as Mother Maggie waddled through the door, her crooked and gnarled fingers extended toward them all in greeting. Richard caught her up in a bear hug, rocking her back and forth as she slapped at his arm.

  “Stop that, you’ll crush me!” she complained. “The Lord delivered me from Leviathan, but from Richard there is no reprieve!”

  Dylan laughed and gave her a hug of his own.

  “Brilliant, boys and girls!” she declared. “I’ve been watching the whole thing on YouTube all morning.”

  “It’s on YouTube?” Terry asked.

  “Everything’s on YouTube,” Mikael confirmed.

  “I couldn’t be more pleased—we couldn’t be more pleased,” she said. “I mean, the throat-cutting was a nasty bit of business, and I don’t know how you managed the whole Prester John masquerade thingy, but it was expertly done, and the Episcopal Diocese of California is forever in your debt.”

  “How much in our debt exactly?” Susan asked, pursing her lips sideways.

  Maggie fished in her handbag and pulled out a rumpled bit of paper. “I faxed this check request to the diocesan comptroller this morning,” she said. “Don’t worry; no one is going to balk.”

  Susan’s eyes grew wide, and she passed the paper to Dylan, who coughed when he saw it. Brian took it from him and looked at Terry slyly. “Anyone know a place without magick?”

  “There’s something that keeps buggin’ me,” Richard said. “If no one could oppose Bishop Preston when he had the Spear, how was it that someone could kill him?”

  “The Spear requires intention, so Preston could stop anything he knew was happening,” Terry said. The fog had begun to lift about an hour ago, and he was almost feeling human by this time—although still far from his normally perky self.

  “Ah…” Richard said, nodding. “So, he couldn’t bring the Spear to bear upon something if he didn’t know it was coming.”

  “Exactly,” Terry said.

  “If only we’d known thet,”
Dylan said with remorse.

  “Well, we knew intention had something to do with it,” Brian reasoned, “but we didn’t know its limits, that’s true.”

  “Even if we had, would we have done anything about it?” Richard asked. “If we knew we could kill Bishop Preston by surprising him, would we have done that?”

  “We discussed that beforehand,” Brian said, “but we didn’t really come to consensus.”

  “T’save so many lives, Ah think it would be the right thing to do,” Dylan nodded.

  “Really?” Terry asked, incredulous. “Would you, Dylan Melanchthon, have killed Bishop Preston given the chance?”

  “Dietrich Bonhoeffer would have,” Susan said.

  “I knew Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and you, sir, are no Dietrich Bonhoeffer,” Mikael said, feigning a Boston accent.

  “Thanks a lot,” Dylan scowled. “Truth is…Ah…Ah don’t know if Ah would or not.”

  “Thank God you didn’t have to find out,” Susan said, squeezing his arm.

  “Do you think that Prester John knew that the bishop could be taken by surprise like that?” Richard asked.

  “Wait a minute,” Maggie said, sitting down on the bench beside Dylan. “Are you telling me that that wasn’t an actor? That that really was—”

  “Prester John,” Terry nodded. “The very one. In the flesh. No deodorant.” He wrinkled his nose. “Very stinky. Terrible table manners.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, bringing her hands to her mouth. “The Guardian of the Graal.”

  “Yeah—he’s kind of sensitive about that, I’ve found,” Kat said. “I wouldn’t mention it to him if I were you.”

  “I didn’t expect him to be Chinese,” she said. “I thought that was just an odd casting choice.”

  “He’s not Chinese; he’s Mongolian,” Brian said. “His people are Nestorian Christians.”

  “Oh yes, they evangelized China in the seventh century,” she said, raising one gnarled finger, remembering. “Amazing. Oh! I almost forgot. I have a surprise for you all.” She leaped off the bench and waddled back to the foyer, returning in a moment with a large package wrapped in a bright hunter’s-orange blanket.

  “I volunteered to be part of the cleanup crew at Dio House after the bishop was attacked. I was able to sneak this out without raising any eyebrows. A little bird told me you might be wanting this back.”

  Richard peeled away the blanket, revealing the mirror that had been hanging in the bishop’s office.

  “Randy!” Kat shouted, almost launching herself across the table to get a closer look at the mirror.

  Terry squinted. Sure enough, there he was, looking sheepish over by the reflection of the stove. “We’re gonna fucking talk,” Terry said to him. Randy’s shoulders fell even farther, looking exactly like the kid waiting outside the principal’s office.

  “Damn straight,” Dylan agreed. Mikael’s bandaged head nodded his assent.

  “So now we have to elect ourselves another bishop,” Maggie said.

  “Oh, uh…speaking of that, there’s one thing I neglected to tell you all,” Richard said. “We have a bishop—if you want him. There’s just one thing: if you elect him, I’ll have to step down as prior.”

  Terry looked at Richard quizzically. “Stop being cryptic,” he said. “You’d have to step down because…”

  “Because according to our rule, a bishop cannot occupy the office of prior,” Richard said.

  Dylan shook his head. “Ah still don’t get it.”

  Brian’s eyebrows shot up. “Richard, are you saying you’ve been consecrated a bishop?”

  “I have. But of course, I’m not your bishop—unless you want me in that role and elect me.”

  “That bishop guy did it?” Kat asked.

  “Yes,” Richard said.

  “When?”

  “Uh…sometime between the fellatio and the analinguis.” Richard gave an exaggerated cringe.

  “Okay, TMI,” Mikael declared, setting down his coffee cup with a bang.

  “Why are straight people so fucking squeamish?” Terry asked Brian. “It’s like they run screaming if they see a little poop.” Terry slapped the table and lowered his finger at his order mates. “Lighten up, breeders, it’s just poop!”

  For a moment, no one said anything. Then Kat snorted. She slapped Mikael’s arm. “He called us ‘breeders.’ Ha!”

  “Was this a real consecration?” Dylan asked, “Because it’s kind of important what with the demons and all.”

  “Well, I’d say the setting was unusual, and it was part of a larger ‘prayer service’ that lasted…most of the evening,” he coughed, “but everything was done word for word from the Roman Rite. It was as valid as any other Independent Catholic extraordinary consecration. And Bishop is a duly consecrated bishop, from Spruit’s lineage.”

  “That’s as solid as it gets in our movement,” Terry nodded. “I say we vote.”

  Dylan nodded. “Uh…Richard, would you mind leavin’ the room?”

  Richard nodded, “Of course.” He rose and trotted off in the direction of the chapel.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Dylan said, “All right, by show of hands, all in favah of acceptin’ Richard as our bishop?”

  “Wait, don’t you technically mean ‘abbot’ since we’re an order and he’s a member?” Terry asked.

  “All right, fine. All in favah of acceptin’ Richard as our abbot and bishop, just to cover our bases?”

  All the order members raised their hands. “Thet’s unanimous then. Okay, Richard, c’mon back. Welcome to yer new see, yer grace.”

  Richard appeared at the doorway. He was blushing. “Okay, but who’s going to be prior, now?”

  “I don’t think there’s any question about that,” Terry said, smiling at Dylan.

  “What?” asked Dylan, looking around.

  EPILOGUE 2

  SAN FRANCISCO

  LARCH FORMULATED A QUESTION in his mind, then he spoke it into the room. “Lord God Sabaoth,” he said through gritted teeth. He hated praying to this deity—this deity that he considered the Enemy. But now and then a magickian had to do distasteful things. It was just the way it was. “Reveal to me thy will. Should I abandon magick? Should I just go and get a job? Should I hook up with a different lodge?” He scowled, realizing that he was asking too many questions, and probably the wrong kind, as well. Best to ask one at a time, and to keep them simple—yes and no questions, maybe. He tried again. “Lord God Saboath, should I abandon magick?”

  He rolled the Urim and Thummim and waited breathlessly until they came to rest. The six-sided Urim revealed the letter reish, while the seven-sided Thummim revealed the letter tav. His brow furrowed as he thought about this. As near as he could figure, reish stood for “ra,” to do evil. And tav, to the best of his interpretive skills, stood for “torah,” instruction or Law.

  So, regarding magick, he reasoned, if Saboath’s permissive will declares it evil, but his perfect will declares it Law…He was stumped. He simply did not understand how the higher good insisted that he practice magick while the lesser good implied that he should run the other way as fast as he could.

  He grabbed the notepad with his hotel’s insignia on it and jotted down the result of the roll. Then he rolled the sacred dice again. This time, the Urim registered lamed, meaning “no.” The Thummim came to rest on samekh, which probably stood for siyum, “completion.” Larch drummed his fingers. The reading seemed to be saying precisely the same thing—the Enemy’s permissive will said no to magick, while the Enemy’s highest will declared it “perfect.”

  Larch sighed. He went to the window and looked out upon the cloudy San Francisco summer. How many bicycles could he count? He smiled, remembering the game he and his mother used to play. He did not count the bicycles now. The memory triggered in him a sadness that seemed so strong it was almost crippling. How much had he lost? His family, his closest friends, any chance for a real career with some kind of financial security? And what had it go
tten him? Had he acquired the secrets of the universe?

  A month ago, he would have said yes, but now…he wasn’t so sure. Was he simply a dupe of greater powers? Had he been manipulated by—By whom? Surely, even if Pim were a demon (and he strongly suspected she was), didn’t that mean that they were on the same side? Didn’t they stand together against the Tyrant?

  He thought of the many years he’d spent trying to lead his lodge mates. Did he truly respect any of them? Maybe Purderabo. Did he like Purderabo? His heart fell as he realized that he didn’t. He might have led them, but he didn’t like them. He certainly didn’t love them. Did he feel loved by them? The question, he realized, was absurd. His true motivation, he knew, was to master them.

  That really is the key, he thought, and he felt a swelling of pride in his chest. It’s about mastery. To master others, to master oneself, to master the secrets of the universe. To master and to be master. That was his calling, he knew—his goal, his purpose, his pearl of great price.

  And that was why he hated the Tyrant so. He remembered squirming in the pew in church every Sunday, hearing about the Tyrant’s demands. His mastery over all the earth, over all the nations, over Larch’s own tender soul. And he had the nerve to call it love.

  “No,” Larch said. He had said it then, and he said it now. No man, no god, would be his master. He would be his own master, and the master of others. It was, he knew deep in his bones, his destiny.

  Which is why Pim’s fickleness disturbed him so. Whose side is she on, anyway? he wondered. They should be united against the Enemy, the Tyrant, that monster god Sabaoth. They should be fighting shoulder to shoulder to bring down the shadow hegemony that held the world in its unthinking, yes-man thrall.

  He should ask her. Why not? he wondered. He’d been afraid she’d rip him a new one for failing, for not stopping the Blackfriars, for not protecting the savior or his prophet. But maybe she should be the one on the defensive. Maybe he should hold her accountable. It might be, he reasoned, that this is where true mastery can still be shown. I will not quail before her. I will be the master. She will quail before me.