nancy werlock's diary s01 - episodes 1-7

by Julie Ann Dawson

  “Houston, you’re a psion. A Psychic.”

  “But how? You said last night that wasn’t possible.”

  “I said it wasn’t possible for you to inherit your mother’s abilities. But I did some research into your family. Your accident occurred near the anniversary of your mother’s death. I think you had a near-death experience that tore the Veil and allowed your mother to Imprint on you.”

  Houston closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair until his face looked to the ceiling. “I died on the operating table. That’s what the doctor’s said. I was dead for about three minutes but they were able to revive me.”

  “I’m guessing your mother has lingered around to protect you, and when the Veil tore she took the opportunity to Imprint on you to pass on some of her power.”

  “Like a Guardian Angel?” He looks back at me with those beautiful, tear-filled eyes.

  “Kind of like that,” I say. Ye gods I want to rip your clothes off, I’m thinking.

  “What did you say about my clothes?” He looks confused.

  “Right. Psion. No off switch.” I utter the Iron Wall incantation to shut him out of my surface thoughts. Thank the gods his ability is so clouded. “Anyway, imprinting has been known to happen during near death experiences. It usually occurs from a demon or spirit that wants the recipient to achieve some goal, however. Sometimes poltergeists or specters will imprint on a person to avenge some wrong that happened to the spirit. Or a demon might imprint on a person to manipulate the person into helping it enter the material plane later. It’s very rare for a relative to imprint on a family member, but it is theoretically possible. And considering how powerful your mother was, it doesn’t really surprise me.”

  Houston looks at me with his head tilted to the side, as if studying me. “You don’t glow anymore. How did you do that?”

  “It’s an incantation. I figured my aura was distracting you so I walled it off.”

  “Can you teach me how to wall people off so I don’t see their auras?”

  He’d make a great apprentice. I look around the room instinctively, though I don’t actually expect to see anyone. It’s a vaguely female voice, muffled by the Veil so it is only barely audible. I smile and shake my head. “You are just loving this, aren’t you?” I whisper.

  “Who are you talking to?” asks Houston.

  “My mother,” I reply. “So, how would you like to be my apprentice?”

  “Apprentice? Like a sorcerer’s apprentice?”

  “Like a demonologist’s apprentice. I can teach you the various incantations to control your powers. And you can help me around the store.”

  “I don’t know. I guess I need to learn this stuff, but I need to find a job before Uncle Harold fires me.”

  “An apprenticeship is a job,” I say. “It’s a full-time position with health benefits and all of that. Though it is an HMO and due to the unique nature of some metaphysical ailments you need to use healers in network. But they’re all specialists in the Restoration school.”

  “This is all weird. OK. I guess I’m in. So, what do I call you? Master? Mistress? Archmage?”

  “How about just Nancy.” I go over to the file cabinet and pull out the apprenticeship agreement and related employment forms. “Just fill all of these out and I can get you set up on WitchNet.”

  “So, do I sign these in blood or something?”

  “Oh, sorry.” I hand him a pen.

  Houston starts to fill out the paperwork, but then pauses. “Hey, I don’t know when I’ll be able to start. I still have to find a place to stay.”

  “Where are you staying now?”

  “I just got a room at a motel right now. But I can’t stay there permanently.”

  You have a spare room in the house.

  “Enough, Mom!” Houston raises an eyebrow. “I have a spare room you can stay in until you find your own place.”

  “You sure that’s alright?” The side of his mouth curls up into a smile. I don’t even think he realizes he’s smiling.

  “It will be fine,” I lie.

  From across the Veil, I hear a muffled laugh.

  The Inquest

  May 9th

  Houston is turning into a problem. Or should I say his tendency to not wear shirts while working around the house is turning into a problem?

  My friend Janice is sitting at the kitchen table and watching Houston repair one of the cabinet doors that came loose. While his back is to her, she bites her bottom lip and gives me the You Go Girl look.

  “Behave,” I mouth at her. She rolls her eyes and pretends to lean over to pinch his ass. I slap my palm on the table. Janice jumps. Houston turns around.

  “What, is it not even?” he says.

  “No, its fine,” I say. “Mosquito.” I pretend to wipe the table with a napkin. My ruse doesn’t work. He glances over at Janice and turns bright red before turning back toward the cabinet. I signal for Janice to follow me out of the kitchen.

  “Where did you find him and how do I get one?” she says as she grabs my arm.

  “Will you stop acting like you’ve never seen a man before? You’re embarrassing me.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of men, just not many with arms like that who weren’t movie stars or male strippers,” she says. “So where did you get the boy toy?”

  “He’s not a boy toy. He’s my app…assistant at the shop.”

  Janice and I met in college. We shared a lot of courses during our freshman year. More to the point, we fought over the same guy, who happened to be the quarterback for the football team. I know. Pathetic. All talk of feminist empowerment goes out the window at the sight of a tight ass in a football uniform. After he dumped both of us for a sorority girl, we bonded. We’ve been best friends ever since. But she doesn’t know about my magical talents. If she did, she would be hounding me constantly for love potions.

  “Your assistant who is living with you?”

  “He got kicked out of his aunt’s house. The poor guy is homeless.”

  “Yeah, Nancy. You and I both pass plenty of homeless people driving into Philly. I don’t recall you ever bringing one home with you.”

  “This was a unique situation.”

  “Sure.”

  “Look, my mother knew his mother, OK? I had to take him in.”

  Actually, I don’t know if Mom ever met Grande Madame Vivika. I know Mom knew of her, because I’ve read through all of Mom’s journals that I could find (there are a few gaps in the timeline, so either she didn’t keep a journal at the time or I haven’t found them yet). And as a Rank Two Demonologist, Mom had attended some of the Great Sabbats held by the Nine over the years. So there is a high probability she and Grande Madame Vivika met at one of them. So it wasn’t a complete lie. Just a slight bending of reality.

  And, as a demonologist, bending reality sort of is part of the job description.

  Houston comes out of the kitchen and wipes his forearm across his forehead. “Well, that’s done. I noticed the back step is cracked. I’m gonna head over to Home Depot and get some patch to fix it.”

  “How much do you need?” I ask while reaching for my purse.

  “Don’t worry about it, boss,” he says. “You haven’t asked for a dime since I’ve been here. It’s the least I can do for helping me out.” He grabs his t-shirt off the banister and puts it on. “Be back in a bit.”

  “I want a Houston!” whines Janice after he leaves. “Does he have a brother?”

  I point a finger at her. “You are going to behave yourself around him.”

  “Somebody’s jealous.”

  “Oh by the gods, woman! He’s about ten years too young for me.”

  “Good, get ‘em young so you can train them the way you want them.”

  I chase Janice out of the house after agreeing to meet for lunch next Saturday.

  It’s been a little over a week since Houston moved in. Most of that time has been spent trying to determine the full scope of his newfound abilities and, more i
mportantly, how to turn them off. Houston’s ability to see auras kicked in almost as soon as he came out of the coma, followed by rudimentary mind reading of surface thoughts. Now mundanes might think the ability to read the surface thoughts of others, particularly the opposite sex, would be an incredibility cool power. And, well, it is…if you can control it. Unfortunately for Houston, because he manifested powers so late in life, he is struggling with being able to turn them off. Sure, its all well and good reading people’s minds when you are out on a date and you want to know if your love interest finds you attractive. But it can get pretty gross having to sit on the bus next to a guy thinking about how bad his hemorrhoids hurt or the hypochondriac who is running the list of potential diseases he might catch from the bus restroom through his head.

  Madame Vivika was arguably the most powerful psion of the modern age (other than members of the Nine, of course). While her son was in a coma last year after a motorcycle accident, she decided to reach across the Veil and imprint on him. I’m still not clear on her reasons. My initial guess was that imprinting allowed her to somehow save his life, but I’ve asked around folks I know in the Restoration school and they all say that wouldn’t have been possible. No matter how powerful of a psion she was in life, she was still mortal. Restoring life from the other side of the Veil was the domain of demons and godlings.

  I check my messages. The Pattersons have canceled their counseling appointment. Mrs. Patterson is saying something about a headache, but her timid voice is drowned out by the bellows of her husband in the background. I’m not sure if the static is from their phone or a bad connection between my phone and the remote message service, but I can only make out every other word or so.

  “I’m…going…let…bitch...with…head.”

  The Pattersons are one of my more problematic cases. Mrs. Patterson has pressed, and then dropped, charges against her husband for domestic violence a half dozen times. On the last occasion, Mr. Patterson threw a punch at the female police officer that showed up at the door. He missed. She knocked him on his ass. And the judge required that they enter counseling if he wanted to avoid jail time. So it wasn’t the first time he had called me a bitch.

  I listen to the message a second time, more to see if there might be something else going on that would require me contacting the authorities. If they are just arguing, I’ll just note that in my report to the court regarding the missed meeting. If it sounds like he is going to be violent, I’ll call the police and get them over there.

  Upon listening to the message again, I realize he didn’t call me a bitch. He called me a witch. I also pick up the tail end of a comment about spells just before Mrs. Patterson hangs up.

  I haven’t exactly broadcasted to all of my clients that I was taking up the Craft again. They knew I had taken on a lighter workload to deal with my mother’s death and resolve her estate. If they read the obituary, they knew the shop was a New Age shop. But even then, it would be a bit of a leap for someone to discern I was a practitioner of the Craft from an obituary. And besides, there are dozens of shops in the Delaware Valley that sell the sort of stuff Three Wishes sells (rephrase that—there are dozens of shops that sell cheap imitations of the real thing, but the casual observer wouldn’t know the difference.) The point being, that wouldn’t be enough for the average person to make the leap from bitch to witch. And I can’t imagine Mr. Peterson going out of his way to learn the details of my mother’s professional life.

  With the Pattersons off my schedule, I now have a couple of hours of unexpected free time.

  Have you ever gotten angry about free time? When you have your day all scheduled out and then suddenly…BAM!...two free hours show up in the middle of the day? But you can’t really do anything productive with it, because you weren’t ready for it. It’s not enough time to go to the movies. And you can’t have lunch with friends or family because they are all busy. Can’t even really get any good shopping in, because by the time you decide which stores you want to go to, drive there, and find a parking spot, you are already watching the clock because of the next appointment coming up.

  I call Isabel, my receptionist. Well, not my receptionist. My office is in a building with a central reception area. It was actually one of the selling features for me. That, and a free parking spot in the attached garage. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a parking spot in Philly? Sure, the office space costs twice as much as I would have paid elsewhere. But I don’t have to worry about parking or hiring my own receptionist. Isabel takes care of everyone in the complex.

  “Good morning! Beach Professional Building. How may I direct your call?”

  “Hey, Isabel. It’s Dr. Werlock.”

  “Good morning, Doctor. Your 1 o’clock cancelled.”

  “I know. They left me a message on my private line. Could you call the Kennedys and see if they wanted to come in early?

  “You’re 3 o’clock? Hold on,” I suddenly find myself listening to a poorly performed cover rendition of Kenny G’s Songbird as Isabel puts me on hold.

  Do companies actually save any money paying bad performers to cover songs for use as hold music? Wouldn’t you still have to pay whatever licensing fees are associated with the song anyway?

  “Mr. Kennedy left a message that they would not be attending today,” says Isabel as she comes back to the phone.

  “Did they say when they wanted to reschedule?”

  “He said to send them a final bill for whatever they owe you?”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “No.”

  I don’t push the issue. It wouldn’t really be right to put her on the spot like that. She has her hands full already keeping track of the schedules for seven different offices. No need to push her into client drama.

  With the rest of my day officially cancelled, I decide to head over to the shop and get the inventory review finished.

  Once I get to the shop, I log on to WitchNet. Good news! Houston’s credentials have been validated for site access. Awesome. Once I get the review finished, maybe I’ll be able to pass off the ordering to him. Bad news. There are twenty emails from gossips wanting to dish dirt on Houston. Or rather, dish dirt on Houston’s mother. Have I talked to her? Has he talked to her? Does she manifest? Is there evidence of ascension? Ascension? Really? Next thing you know someone is going to post a news article claiming they saw her having dinner with Elvis.

  I delete all of the queries. It’s a no-win. If I tell them I refuse to discuss my apprentice, they will get mad. If I tell them the truth, they won’t believe I am telling them everything. It’s like the cobra from that children’s story with the mongoose. “If you move, I’ll strike. If you don’t move, I’ll strike the boy” or something like that. No matter what you do, you’re screwed.

  Right in the middle of reconciling the essential oils inventory, my monitor goes black. Then a dazzling blue circle forms in the center of the screen. I hear a tapping coming from the monitor. It takes me a moment to realize the effect is metaphysical, not technological.

  I start ripping through my desk drawers looking for Mom’s computer manual. My knowledge of technomancy would fit in a thimble. I know just enough to update the Mordov’s Antivirus software. I cannot have a gremlin. I just updated last week and ran a scan. There were a couple of cyber mites but that was it. I really need to back up my files on the cloud.

  The tapping changes to a knocking sound, followed by the sound of a doorbell.

  “Who is it?” I say, still rummaging for the manual. The mystic sigil of the Nine appears on the monitor.

  “Protocol 432-124-5435-7645-3332. Material plane scan successful. Single subject found. Protocol 432-124-5935-7675-3332. Astral plane scan successful. No subjects found. Protocol 432-124-5435-7645-3835. Voice authentication successful. Subject: Nancy Werlock, Rank Three Demonologist. Identity confirmed. Good afternoon, Madame Warlock.”

  Oh by the gods, no. “Good Afternoon, Esteemed.”

  “Please hold while we
connect your call.”

  The Esteemed are the mystical servants of The Nine. Nobody is actually sure what they are. They aren’t homunculi, so far as anyone can tell. Their powers are far beyond those of normal familiars. They definitely aren’t fae in origin. There is one theory that they are related somehow to the djinn, perhaps a sub-race that fell into servitude eons ago. But regardless, I’m not happy about one contacting me.

  The screen turns white, followed by pale blue with silver spider web patterns.

  “Good afternoon, Madame Warlock. This is Rank One Technomancer Gloren, Advocate of the Ninth of the Nine. You are alarmed. I apologize. There is no need for concern.”

  Nope. No need for concern at all. Just a friendly conversation with a representative of The Nine, who NEVER have direct contact with anyone below a Rank Two unless it is something really, really, bad.

  “Lord Advocate, what can I do for you?” I fail miserably at sounding nonplussed.

  “It has come to our attention that the son of Rank One Psionist Grande Madame Vivika Marchan has manifested at a late age, and he is to be your apprentice henceforth in the study of demonology?”

  “Yes, Lord Advocate. The circumstances of which were formally filed with his apprenticeship papers.”

  “It is your belief that Grande Madame Vivika Marchan imprinted upon your apprentice from across the Veil, imbuing him with his powers?”

  “He is the wrong gender and too old to be manifesting hereditary powers from his mother. His father was a mundane and there is no history of hereditary power on the paternal side. His powers manifested immediately after communication with her while in a comatose state.”

  “Have you completed Protocol 633-821-9435-6645-3532?”

  “…um…ah…”

  “Ah, nevermind. You included the results in Section 14. I see it now. No evidence of djinn or fae blood. You ran Protocol 932-144-5439-7615-8832? What am I thinking? Of course you would have tested for demonic blood. You are a Rank Three Demonologist.”