Summoning the Night

by Jenn Bennett

  “How?”

  “Don’t know. But if it means we’ve got to ask for help, then we ask.”

  “If I still had my guardian spirit, I’d just summon it and find out,” I lamented, scraping my shoe across the asphalt to rub out my chalk marks.

  “What about your caliph?” He carefully rolled the top of the vellum back in place and inserted it in the tube. “Could you call him and ask to borrow his guardian?”

  “Maybe, but he’s been having some issues with it since San Diego. When he sent me the check, he mentioned in a letter that he thought the spirit might be going senile. It might not be reliable.”

  Lon scratched his eyebrow and pursed his lips. “All this talk about bargains . . . what if we summon something ourselves and bargain for a translation?”

  Summon a demon and barter for information? Great. That’s the last thing I wanted to do.

  Then a thought struck me. We might not have to barter at all. A demon owed me a favor. I’d saved his ass from the Hellfire caves. His ass, and other serviceable parts of his Æthyric body.

  “Ha!” I cried out.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Butler,” I said, suddenly energized, “how would you feel about summoning an incubus with me tonight?”

  Lon watched me prepare the summoning circle. My aching leg was bandaged, and I’d changed into clean clothes, but it was nearly dark outside and getting colder every minute. I wanted to get this done pronto so we could head back to his warm house and watch monster movies with Jupe. It was also taco night. Lon’s grilled carne asada would make everything better.

  “If you really want to be impregnated by demon seed, I’d be happy to comply,” he joked. “There’s no need to call up an incubus for that.”

  I glanced up from a photocopy of the incubus seal. “Lord knows you’re good at impregnating, but I’m gonna have to pass, thanks.”

  I’d already finished drawing a double-strong Æthyric-level binding triangle onto the floor of an old open-air workshop in the woods of Lon’s property, a half-mile away from his house—a half-mile away from Jupe. It was really just a glorified carport on a concrete pad, with one full wall of metal siding that sheltered our work from the dirt road, and two half-walls. It housed a tractor that he used for clearing land and some miscellaneous tools locked up inside metal cabinets. Not fancy, but it had the electricity I needed for kindling from a row of fluorescent lights above us.

  The circle was finished. Lon let me borrow a full-sized caduceus. Good thing, because the miniature one I’d been carrying around all day in my pocket would have likely blown to smithereens with the amount of Heka I needed to kindle for securing this thing. I brushed off my hands and double-checked that everything was correct: the binding triangle, the summoning circle, and the incubus seal. All good. Time to start charging the triangle.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  Lon inclined his head and gestured for me to begin.

  I took a deep breath and reached out for electrical current. It was nice and strong here, readily available. I pulled it inside and kindled Heka for several seconds. A firm push, and it rushed from me and ran through the caduceus. White light seared the chalked markings, solid and steady, no cracks or static. I didn’t have time to fully appreciate it. The post-magick sickness came on the heels of the release, dropping my stomach to my feet. I closed my eyes for several seconds and counted breaths until it abated. Not too bad, but it would get worse after the next round.

  “You could just do it with your ability. It’s dark now. Moon’s out.”

  “I’ve had about all the strange magick I can handle today.” This way might take longer, but at least there wouldn’t be any surprises.

  The binding triangle had been charged. Next up was the circle. This time I had to focus harder to kindle more Heka. Summoning requires a big, big charge. When I pulled from the current, all the lights buzzed and flickered. Too big a pull and I’d short everything out; not big enough and I’d have to start all over again. I strained, carefully seeking the breaking point in the electricity. A sharp pop cracked the air on the other side of the shed when one of the fluorescent bulbs gave way and sent tiny shards of glass tinkling onto the floor.

  Raw energy coursed through me, standing the hairs on my arms on end. Making my skin itch beneath the surface. Firing up every nerve in my body. My cells were rubber balls, bouncing off each other, erratic and frenzied . . . just a little further.

  Lon murmured anxiously from the side. I ignored him.

  The caduceus tip was poised at the chalked border of the summoning circle. Kindled Heka swirled inside me, begging for a release—I hadn’t pulled this much current in a long time, and I couldn’t hold it any longer. With a groan, I pushed it out in a smooth, heavy stream. Sweet, holy relief. The circle fired up so bright and strong, it hurt my eyes. I tried to laugh in victory, but it came out like a warped yelp.

  If I’d been a surfer on a board, nausea would be the thirty-foot wave that broke too soon and knocked me down. The fall was surreal. Slow motion. I crumpled to the side, away from the circle. My shoulder hit the concrete. Pain ripped through me, but I didn’t care. I was too busy trying to roll over before the vomit came . . . and it did. I retched violently. Mostly water and the crackers I’d eaten when we returned from the putt-putt center. I’d planned for it, so my skunk-striped hair was twisted up into a loose knot on the crown of my head: I’m a pro.

  Lon’s hands pulled me up, setting off a flare of pain in my injured shoulder. A cry broke from my lips. He jerked back, apologizing, then shifted his grip to my waist.

  “Water and towel,” I croaked, coughing from the stomach acid burning my throat. White terry cloth appeared in front of my face. I wiped my mouth, then swished bottled water and spat it out as Lon silently unrolled yards of paper towels. “I’ve got it,” I complained. “I can clean up after myself.” I briefly wondered how Frater Merrin managed to go through this every week at the Silent Temple. Maybe the nausea wasn’t as bad when you were used to pulling that much Heka all the time. Or maybe he was just stronger than me, Moonchild or not.

  Lon dropped the paper towels in a pile over the vomit. “Leave it. Go finish.” His hand emerged from his pocket with a pack of gum. He offered me a piece with a whisper of a smile on his lips. I snatched it out of his fingers. “I’ll brush my teeth before kissing you, don’t worry.”

  “Small favors.”

  The circle was perfect. The binding was perfect. The seal inside the binding was perfect. All I had to do was call the incubus. There are several ways to do this, several calls in multiple languages. Some work better than others, depending on exactly what you’re attempting to summon. But I always try their name first, without all the extra bells and whistles. For something as simple as an incubus, it should work.

  “Voxhele of Amon!” I called out, pushing my will through the summoning circle as I paced around it. My legs were rubbery, still fighting the last waves of Heka-sickness. I anxiously smacked Lon’s gum. Fiery cinnamon. It tasted like him; he loved cinnamon, hated mint.

  A soft light pulsed in the middle of the binding triangle. It grew, filling out with the form of the incubus. Sallow-skinned and black-headed, the demon was the height of an average human, his body lean and wiry. His pleasant face featured heather eyes weighted with thick gray lashes. A matching patch of pale purple skin tipped his sternum. Rows of tight, gray scales trailed over his shoulders. Overall, fairly appealing, if a little feminine for my tastes.

  He was sitting cross-legged inside the binding triangle, yawning and naked, like the first time I’d seen him. Not surprising—he was a sex demon. His head rotated in all directions when he realized he wasn’t in Kansas any longer.

  “Voxhele of Amon,” I said in a mustered cheerful greeting, still fighting waves of nausea. “Remember me?”

  A smile spread over his face. “Mother of Ahriman, a pleasant surprise. These aren’t the Hellfire caves—how wonderful! Where are we, exactly?”

  “
Not far from the caves, geographically speaking.”

  He made a noise of disapproval and scratched the scales on his shoulder. “I owe you a favor, don’t I?”

  “Yes—”

  “Oh, wait. I remember you, too,” he said, speaking to Lon while looking him up and down with a lewd grin. “If this favor involves all three of us, I’m fine with that.” He leaned back on the palms of his hands, displaying his wares. I wasn’t sure if he was pierced in several places, or was naturally bumpy. I tried not to stare.

  Lon mumbled something derogatory under his breath as he picked up the engraved silver tube and a stack of photos, enlargements of the cannery mandalas.

  “I need information, not sexual favors,” I said to the demon.

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Depending on what it is . . .”

  I held up a hand. “I’m obligated to inform you that you are bound by me now, and must answer honestly.”

  “Yes, yes.” He waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Ask your question, and I’ll weigh it to decide if it’s an even trade for the favor I owe you.”

  From outside the circle, we showed him the silver tube and pointed out the engraving. His eyes widened. A few seconds passed as he glanced between us, then said, very carefully, “And wherever did you find that?”

  “Can you translate it and give us the meaning?” I asked.

  His eyes darkened as he considered, then he sighed heavily. “It’s the name of a demon from my plane.”

  “What’s his name?” Lon asked.

  “It would translate loosely as ‘Grand Duke Chora, Commander of Two Legions.’”

  Never heard of him. “Two legions? Don’t most of the dukes command like fifty legions or something?”

  “I don’t follow politics,” Voxhele said as he inspected his fingernails.

  Lon’s face remained stoic. I couldn’t tell if he recognized the name or not. I certainly didn’t. There are, it is said, hundreds upon thousands of Æthyric demons, and only a smattering of those were cataloged in goetic texts and grimoires over the last century; when they were, many were listed with conflicting summoning names and half of them were dead.

  “Do you know anything about this Grand Duke Chora?” I asked.

  “I serviced a Duke Corelia last week,” Voxhele said with a sly smile. “He was more than a mouthful, and let me just say—”

  “Voxhele, please.”

  He sighed, great and long-suffering. “Chora commands a notorious battalion of Dragoons.”

  I glanced at Lon and wrinkled my nose. “Dragoons?”

  “Mounted infantry,” he clarified.

  “They ride horses?”

  A dark, slow smile lifted Voxhele’s face. “Not exactly horses, no, but they are beasts of a kind. . . .”

  “Anything else?”

  “He’s missing.”

  “From where?”

  “From his command. Some say he’s dead, but there are rumors that he’s on assignment.”

  “What kind of assignment?”

  “No one knows.”

  Huh. Looks like we just identified Merrin’s demon. I elbowed Lon, requesting the mandala printouts. “What about the writing around these? Are they names too?”

  Voxhele stood up, leaning close to the border of the binding, and studied each printout. “Yes, they’re names.”

  “Who?”

  “Not who. What. They’re names of stars. At least I think so. This isn’t a subject I’ve studied, Mother.”

  Stars. Interesting. We asked him which stars, but the answers he rattled off were foreign. He admitted that he didn’t know their translation in English or in Latin. He also wasn’t familiar with the old language used on the scroll inside the silver tube. Maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to summon an incubus for assistance. I should’ve known that damn favor was worthless.

  “What class of magick is this?” Lon insisted, referring to the mandalas.

  “I’m afraid that goes beyond my simple knowledge. Only higher-level demons have been trained to wield magical talent. I’m not very savvy about such things, being the lowly prostitute that I am.” He licked the corner of his mouth with a forked tongue while ogling Lon, who popped his jaw to the side in annoyance.

  “What’s this mean here?” I asked, pointing to an Æthyric word that was repeated on each of the mandalas.

  “That means ‘door.’”

  “Door,” I repeated, looking at Lon. Finally, something useful.

  He stared at the photos thoughtfully. “Stars that open doors.”

  Oh, I really didn’t like the sound of that.

  GRAND DUKE CHORA

  A clever and sly thinker, this Grand Duke uncovereth Hidden Paths and knoweth High Magics to Trap and Snare Enemies. He will maketh pacts with the Summoner to share his Wisdom, but will require Severe and High payments in trade. The Secret Science of War is etched upon his skin. He governeth two great Legions of the West with one thousand winged Dragoons. He appeareth from above as a Goodly Knight with a Cloak of Red Velvet.

  —Ceremoniall Magics, John Gundye, 1498

  The entry in Lon’s goetic demon encyclopedia included a small etching of the demon, drawn as a handsome soldier riding a devilish-looking flying beast, something between an evil Pegasus and a dragon. And if the medieval magician who cataloged this entry was even partially correct—He will maketh pacts with the Summoner to share his Wisdom, but will require Severe and High payments in trade—then it would stand to reason that Merrin made a pact with Chora to learn Æthryic magick. The pink magick in the cannery and at the putt-putt course would definitely qualify as magick to “trap and snare enemies.”

  But what about the Æthyric spell in the tube? And the mandalas in the cannery—stars that opened doors? What doors, and who wanted them open—Merrin or Chora?

  It won’t end. If he’s not successful this time, he’ll just keep trying. Thirty years are nothing to him.

  Chora definitely wanted something out of the bargain that he hadn’t gotten yet, and if a new batch of children was being taken, then it stood to reason that he was the one who wanted these doors opened—not Merrin.

  Merrin wasn’t the only magician who could summon Æthyric demons. Chora’s seal was listed in the goetic entry, so I figured I’d go straight to the source. But when I attempted to summon the demon later that night after dinner, he didn’t appear.

  There was a very short list of reasons why he wouldn’t come when I summoned. So, assuming everything was executed correctly on my end—which it was—that meant the incubus was right when he said that Duke Chora was either dead, or here on earth.

  We knew he wasn’t dead, because Merrin suggested that he’d keep coming back until he was successful. But if he was alive on earth, he hadn’t been just walking around, enjoying dips in the ocean, and sipping fruity drinks for thirty years. Æthyric beings can’t survive on earth for long periods, certainly not for thirty years. If he was on this plane for a substantial stay, he had to be riding someone—and by that I mean old-school demonic possession, as depicted in the movie that inspired Frater Merrin’s name . . . minus the green vomit.

  Merrin showed no signs of possession when we found him at the Silent Temple. But if Chora was riding someone else, Merrin might know about it.

  No getting around it: we had to track Merrin down again.

  Once more I considered sending out a servitor, but it was just too dangerous. I toyed with the idea of reinforcing the Servitor Launch spell with wards, but magical experimentation could take days—or weeks. Plus, even with added protections embedded into a servitor, I still wasn’t confident that someone like Merrin with more knowledge and skill than me couldn’t reverse the spell, like Riley Cooper when she used my servitor to kidnap Jupe. I wasn’t stupid enough to risk luring a child snatcher to a child.

  There had to be another way to track Merrin down without using Jupe as bait, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of one. My mind just kept churning up spells that weren’t v
iable, dead ends. It wasn’t just frustrating, it was utterly dispiriting.

  A small, selfish part of me wanted to just admit defeat. Hole up with Jupe in Lon’s house and surround ourselves with extra warding magick and weapons. Ride things out until Halloween was over. I mean, I didn’t know any of these families—why should I have to be the one to save more kids from being taken? Everyone knew the danger by now; Earthbound parents would be fools to allow their kids to be unsupervised after dark at this point.

  I was contemplating this ugly thought as I emerged from the Tambuku kitchen the night after the incubus summoning. My leg still ached from the magical earthquake at the putt-putt course. Maybe being forced to stand on it through my shift was making me grumpier than normal. A normal person would take something for the pain, but I was trying to hold out. When I ducked behind the bar, a familiar face greeted me, but it wasn’t Bob’s.

  Ambrose Dare sat on a barstool in an expensive suit, bald head gleaming under the hanging strands of white lights that filtered through his green halo.

  “Hello, Ms. Bell. Forgive me for barging in here without a warning.” Funny, because he didn’t really sound all that sorry. “I needed to discuss a couple of things with you, and I was in the area.”

  I glanced nervously around Tambuku. The backup bartender was serving a customer at the other end of the bar. A few booths were occupied, but we were slow tonight. No one seemed to notice that one of the most powerful Earthbounds in the area was sitting at the bar. I busied myself with shelving newly washed tiki mugs.

  He tapped his fingers on the bar top. A few liver spots freckled over the bones in his hand. “A fourth child went missing tonight.”

  A mug nearly slipped out of my hand.

  “She was taken two hours ago. It’s not just Hellfire children that are being abducted, Ms. Bell. It’s descendants of members who’ve undergone the transmutation spell.”

  “Oh . . . God.”

  “I might’ve been wrong at the beginning when I thought that Bishop was doing this, but I wasn’t wrong about the motivation of revenge. Frater Karras—or Merrin, as he’s calling himself now—was the magician who performed the transmutation spells on club members thirty years ago. I don’t care what you and Lon found connecting Merrin with an Æthyric demon. Bargain or no bargain, that man is now going after the descendants of those members. This means my grandson and little Jupiter are now prime targets.”