Strange Magic

by Justin Gustainis

  “Sounds like fun,” Libby said, “but we’ll have to do it another time. Actually, I wanted to talk to Peters. I know he’s got his own phone, but I never asked him for the number, and it’s unlisted.”

  “If you’re looking to fuck Peters, Libby, the least you could do is invite me along. I’ve told you before, I don’t know how many times, that we’d make a great threeway.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, but right now I want to discuss business with him.”

  Malachi Peters had once been a top-tier assassin for the CIA, until he was killed while on a mission during the latter years of the Cold War. For his sins, he was consigned to Hell—until someone decided his talents were needed again back on the Earthly plain.

  A renegade group of demons had arranged for one of their number to cross over and possess Senator Howard Stark, a leading candidate for the US Presidency. Once in office, the demon could make its host pull the nuclear trigger, setting in motion a chain of events that would wipe out humanity once and for all. This is a prospect that demons tend to regard with glee. But another faction in Hell had feared that such an act could bring on Armageddon—a final battle between Light and Darkness, which the forces of Darkness might very well lose.

  So Peters had been sent back to this world with the mission of assassinating Senator Stark before the man could be elected President. The forces backing Peters had also given flesh to Ashur Badaktu, a female demon whose mission was to accompany Peters, assist him as needed, and keep him from being distracted by his famously overactive libido. The demon had accordingly taken the form of an extremely beautiful woman who called herself Ashley. She’d provided sage advice and wise counsel, and some supernatural assistance, as needed. She had also helped Peters stay focused by fucking his brains out on a regular basis.

  The mission had not gone exactly as anticipated, especially after the pair had encountered Quincey Morris and Libby Chastain, who had their own plan to derail the Stark candidacy. Howard Stark was still alive, although he had not been elected President of the United States, and never would be.

  Once the matter was resolved, Ashley and Peters had expected to be recalled to the torments of Hell, but then they had learned that a civil war had broken out between the two factions who had either supported or opposed the Stark operation. In the ensuing chaos, the female demon and the former assassin who’d been sent to Earth had apparently been forgotten by the Powers That Be Down Below—a situation that could continue for a thousand years, or come to an end tomorrow.

  Liking each other well enough, the two had decided to continue their partnership, taking on occasional work as supernatural investigators while enjoying the pleasures of their newfound flesh—both with each other and a number of other partners. Ashley’s sexual appetite extended to both human sexes—as Libby Chastain had found out, both to her delight and dismay. Over her relationship with Ashley, Libby was what might best be called conflicted.

  Ashley put down the phone and called, “Peters—it’s for you!”

  After hearing the reply, “I’ll be right there!” Ashley picked up the phone again and told Libby, “He’ll just be a second. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a remote locating job, and I need somebody to plot the arcs on a map as I go.”

  “You could’ve asked me, you know. I can plot with the best of them.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” Libby said. “You’re too... distracting.”

  “Why thank you, sweetheart. That’s one of the nicest things any human has ever said to me.”

  “Besides, having you around makes it harder for me to do my work.”

  “You mean, because I’m evil.”

  “Let’s just say your demonic nature interferes with my ability to use white magic effectively.”

  “Pity, that. But here’s Peters—I’m sure he’ll help you out.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “I hope to see you soon, Libby.”

  There was something in the way Ashley said her name that was reminiscent of the way vampire Bill Compton used to say Sookie, back before True Blood jumped the shark. It made Libby moist between the thighs—which, she knew, was exactly what Ashley had intended.

  Goddamn demon, Libby thought.

  Chapter Five

  QUINCEY MORRIS LED Dan Sturbridge out through the rear entrance of the Sheriff Department’s headquarters and over to where he’d parked the midnight-blue Mustang. He’d left it at the far end of the parking lot, away from other cars and the possibly prying eyes of their owners. He unlocked the trunk, raised the lid, and gestured for Sturbridge to come closer. “This is what I brought from Austin,” he said. “I figure it ought do the trick.”

  Sturbridge stared into the trunk for a few seconds. “Yeah, I can see why you didn’t want to try taking this stuff with you on an airplane,” he said.

  Morris reached in and brought out a long, heavy sword. He removed the leather scabbard to reveal a slightly curved blade about three feet long. The leather-wrapped handle was protected by a brass guard.

  Sturbridge stared at the formidable-looking weapon. “This what I think it is?”

  “It is if you’re thinking of a US Cavalry saber,” Morris said. “I bought two of them a few years ago. Not originals, of course—you can get those from collectors, sometimes, but they’re pretty damn pricey. But thank the Good Lord for Civil War reenactors.”

  “Those guys who dress up in Union or Confederate uniforms and play war on weekends? I’ve got a cousin who’s into that stuff. I never understood the attraction, myself. I figure God gave us refrigerators and microwave ovens for a reason.”

  “Turning the clock back on technology never appealed to me, either,” Morris said. “But the thing I like about those fellas is that they insist on absolute authenticity for the stuff they use—or as close to it as is possible.”

  Sturbridge nodded. “Yeah, my cousin Barry’s like that, too. As if it matters to anybody but him.”

  “Consequently,” Morris said, “this here is a very accurate copy of the saber used by Union forces in the Civil War—or what my great-grandmother insisted on calling ‘the war of Northern aggression.’ In fact, the quality of the metal is quite a bit better than what they had to work with in the Nineteenth Century. These two that I bought cost about two hundred bucks each, but they were still a lot less expensive than a couple of originals—which might well be fakes, anyway.” He shrugged. “It’s good steel, and that’s what counts. I don’t give a damn about authenticity. I just want the damn things to be sharp.”

  “And you need these why, exactly?”

  “Because one of the sure ways to kill a ghoul is by decapitation. And if you’re dealing with them in the wild, so to speak, a saber is the most practical weapon to use. The ones they sell to reenactors, they mostly have pretty dull blades, to avoid accidental carnage during battle scenes. But since carnage is exactly what I have in mind, I spent about an hour apiece sharpening these things. Check the edge on this one—but be careful you don’t cut yourself.”

  Sturbridge gingerly ran his finger along the flat side of the blade, close to the edge but not quite touching. “Christ, you could probably shave with this thing.”

  “Possible, but not recommended,” Morris said. “Just one blow from a saber might not take a ghoul’s head right off, but it’ll put him down long enough for you to finish the job.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sturbridge sounded less than enthusiastic. He returned the saber to Morris, who carefully put it back in the trunk. Then he brought out something that looked like it might be the product of an illicit union between a camcorder and strobe light. “Check this out,” he said, handing it to Sturbridge.

  The device, which seemed to be made mostly of plastic and glass, fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. Four identical lenses protruded from its front.

  “What’s this?” he said. “Some kind of video camera? You figure to make movie stars out of these fuckers?”

  “Could be kind of interesting, now that you
mention it, but it’s not what I had in mind,” Morris said. “What you’ve got there is a Nitecore TM 26. Just about the most powerful portable flashlight in existence. That little thing will put out 3,800 lumens with just a flick of your finger.”

  “I don’t know what a lumen is, but I assume you’re saying that it’s pretty fucking bright.”

  “‘Pretty fucking bright’ is exactly what this thing is, Dan. By way of comparison, the most up-to-date model police flashlight produces somewhere around 1,000 lumens, max.”

  “Well, at least you’ll be able to see the damn things—that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah, but it’s good for more than that,” Morris said. “Ghouls hate bright light. That’s why they never hunt during the day.”

  “You figuring to chase ’em away? I thought the whole point was to kill the fuckers.”

  “It is—and, no, I’m not planning to drive them off. The unexpected super-bright light shined right in their faces ought to confuse them—maybe even freeze them in place for a few seconds. That should be enough for us to take appropriate action—either with the saber …” Morris bent over the trunk again. “… or with this.”

  While fussing with whatever was in his trunk, Morris said over his shoulder, “Wish I could have brought two of these, as well, so we could each have one. But the 1,400 dollar price tag on these babies makes that impractical.”

  When he straightened up, Morris was holding what looked a lot like a scuba tank. There was an elaborate valve attached to one side, and from that ran a hose that looked to be about ten feet long, ending in a nozzle that looked like it belonged on a fire hose. Morris wrestled with the thing for a few moments until he had his arms through the shoulder straps, securing the tank in position on his back while he gripped the nozzle in one hand.

  Sturbridge gaped at him. “Quincey, what the fuck…?”

  “Dan, let me introduce you to my friend, the GoPro flamethrower. GoPro, meet my friend Dan.”

  “What the hell is that, military surplus?”

  “No, the military models are bigger, and pretty hard to get these days. The US military stopped using them in 1978. This one was made by a bunch of good ol’ boys at the GoPro Corporation in Arkansas, although I don’t know who their customer base is—besides me, I mean.”

  Sturbridge stared at Morris for several seconds, then slowly shook his head. “And you brought that fucking thing over a state line, didn’t you?”

  “Sure did—and it was perfectly legal, too.”

  “Get the fuck oughta here.”

  “It’s true, Dan. Although the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms has got restrictions on machine guns, assault rifles, silencers, sawed-off shotguns, and I don’t know what all, they don’t regulate flamethrowers.”

  “Well, damn, don’t that beat all?”

  “Yeah, I know. Maybe it was an oversight when they wrote the law, or maybe nobody in Washington thought a civilian would have any use for a flamethrower. Of course, most people don’t know about ghouls, do they? The kind they have in Congress don’t count.”

  Sturbridge ran a hand slowly through his thick mop of brown hair. “What’s it use for fuel, napalm? I read someplace that’s what our guys used in Vietnam.”

  “Uh-uh. Napalm’s easy enough to make—all you need is gasoline and soap flakes—but the boys at GoPro tell me this little darling works best with a mixture of diesel fuel and gasoline, in a proportion of nine to one. I know they’re right—I’ve had occasion to use thing a couple of times before this, and the diesel and gas mix worked just fine.”

  “Do I want to know what those occasions were?”

  “No,” Morris said, “you probably don’t.”

  Sturbridge took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So, you’re either gonna burn the ghouls to a crisp, or whack their heads off.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “What about a good old-fashioned shotgun, loaded with double-ought buckshot?”

  Morris shrugged. “Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn’t. The literature on this particular subject is sketchy, unreliable, and sometimes contradictory. Be a shame to rely on a shotgun and then find out, in the last second of your life, that it’s ineffective against ghouls.”

  “I kinda see your point.”

  Morris slipped the fuel tank’s straps off his shoulders and carefully returned the flamethrower to the trunk.

  “You haven’t said anything about crosses and other religious stuff. That works pretty well against vampires, as I remember.”

  “Not all supernatural creatures are vulnerable to the same things, Dan. Now, I’ve never heard or read anything that says religious symbols have any effect against ghouls—but if you want to wear some, I’m sure it won’t do any harm.”

  Sturbridge was staring at his shoe tops. He might have found them the most fascinating things in the world. Without looking up he said, ”Yeah, um, about that.”

  “About what?”

  “Me.”

  Chapter Six

  “OKAY, MARK IT,” Libby Chastain said.

  Mal Peters leaned over Libby’s kitchen table and used the pencil and ruler to draw another line on the map of New York City, following the arc that the pendulum had been traveling. It was the fifth line that he’d drawn, and all of the lines intersected at the same point: Manhattan Island.

  The pendulum consisted of a length of fine silver chain from which swung a diamond-shaped emerald, onto which Libby had carved a number of mystical symbols. Before beginning the process, Libby had spent half an hour renewing the spell that allowed the pendulum to function, in the right hands, as a psycho-location device.

  “At least she’s alive,” Libby said as she straightened up. “I confess I had my doubts. When somebody disappears the way Kayla Holloway did, you tend not to expect a good outcome. Or at least I don’t.”

  “Considering all the things that can happen to an abducted girl in this city,” Peters said, “talking about a ‘good outcome’ might be kind of premature, Libby.”

  “Point taken.” Libby began rolling up the map. “Well, she’s alive, or I wouldn’t have gotten any psychic ‘hits’ during the ritual. Alive, and apparently somewhere in Manhattan.”

  “That really narrows it down, all right,” Peters said.

  “Sarcasm is uncalled for.” Libby’s tone showed that she hadn’t taken offense. She and Peters had been through a lot together—and once you’ve helped to save the world a couple of times, petty affronts seem to lose their significance. “And narrowing it down is what the rest of this procedure is designed to do. Excuse me a moment.”

  Libby took the map with her, and returned a few minutes later bearing what looked like several more.

  “Not all my distant location work is local,” she said, “but a lot of it is. I’ve accumulated several maps of the city and its surroundings, some of them quite detailed. If I have to, I can use Google Maps and a computer screen, but the spell seems to work better with ink on paper—probably because that’s what it was originally designed for.”

  Libby sorted through the maps she’d brought in, and selected one. “So we start with Manhattan, and narrow it down from there.”

  She unrolled the map on the table, weighing down the corners with nearby kitchen items. Hearing a soft snort of laughter from Peters, she looked at him. “What?”

  “I never really thought of a butter dish as having a role in magic before. I’ll have to mention it to Ashley.”

  “The kind of magic she works probably has no need for a butter dish,” Libby said. “A cup full of baby’s blood might be closer to the mark.”

  She picked up the pendulum again, murmuring a few words of Latin to keep the spell strong. “Ready?”

  “Start swinging, kiddo.”

  Chapter Seven

  MORRIS CLOSED THE trunk lid then turned and leaned against it, hands in his pockets. He would have been more comfortable with his arms folded across his chest, but he didn’t want to give Dan Sturbridge an
impression of disapproval. He thought he knew what was going on, and it would require careful handling.

  “What about you, Dan?”

  “It’s just that... look, Quincey, I’ve been in law enforcement a long time. I’ve had to deal with a lot of dangerous people. I’m not yellow.”

  “I never thought you were,” Morris said evenly.

  Sturbridge went on as if Morris hadn’t spoken. “I’ve chased suspects down dark alleys, not knowing whether they were armed or not—and sometimes, they were. I’ve served warrants in neighborhoods where most cops wouldn’t go without a SWAT team in their back pocket. I’ve risked my life plenty of times, over the years. But this...” He made a gesture that seemed to Morris to combine frustration with despair.

  “You did okay when we had to deal with those vampires that time three years ago,” Morris said. “In fact, I’d have said you did fine.”

  “That’s ’cause I didn’t really believe it was vampires we was after. I figured it was just a few nuts who had taken the Goth thing one step too far and were acting like vampires. And by the time I found out just how wrong I was...”

  “You had no choice but to fight. It was fight or die. Or worse.”

  “Exactly. That’s exactly the way it was. And afterward... afterward I had nightmares about it for months. For months. I took to sleeping with a cross around my neck, and another one over the bed—and I’m not even Catholic.”

  Morris nodded. He was no stranger to horrific nightmares himself.

  “So why’d you call me in this time, Dan?” he asked.

  “I figured you’d handle it yourself, without dragging me along. Anyway, don’t you have a partner now? Some kind of witch? That’s what I heard, anyway.”

  “You’re right,” Morris said. “I do have a partner these days. Her name’s Libby Chastain, and she is a witch—the kind who practices white magic, which is still pretty damn powerful.”