by J. R. Mabry
Terry whistled. “That’s a lot of money for crap.”
“That’s how Ah like my grapes, too, Ter—good and sour. You’re probably right, though. Satanists are not generally renowned for their veracity.”
“So anyway,” Terry continued, “no doubt some of the sigils no longer work because some demon generals have been breakfast cereal for Beelzebub—and some of them we don’t know because some demons have been promoted since the Key was written. But we do know that a lot of them do work. If we’re lucky—”
“Bingo!” Dylan said and jumped off the bed to stand next to his friend. The sigil on Doug’s chest flared and glowed, filling the room with an eerie light that seemed to put all the blazing lamps to shame.
“Parrillon,” Dylan said. “He’s in Parrillon’s host.”
“No wonder he’s smart,” Terry said, skimming a passage from the Key. “Parrillon is one of the demon generals that can grant intellectual prowess—especially in the arts and sciences—and those that serve under him are no slouches, either.” Terry put down the Key and picked up his well-worn copy of the Priest’s Ritual. He straightened his stole and asked, “Do I need a new stole? This one is getting ratty, don’t you think?”
“Just a sec, ’afore we get started again,” Dylan said and lit a joint. He puffed until it was going good and held it to Doug’s lips. “Here, dude, this will help ease the shock when the demon comes out. Trust me.”
The man gave Dylan a dubious look but took a drag nevertheless. He coughed and grimaced against the acrid taste of the pot. “Take one more, man, but that’s it. It’s strong shit.” The man did as he was told and visibly relaxed as the THC hit his brain.
Dylan took another drag and held it out to Terry. The shorter man shook his head in refusal, as he nearly always did, and Dylan flipped the joint into the sink. “Let’s do this thing,” he said resolutely.
Terry wiped the sigil off Doug’s chest and placed a crucifix there. He held a larger one in his hand in front of him as he faced the possessed man. He crossed himself and took up his Ritual. “Holy Lord! All powerful! Father! Eternal God! Father of our Lord Jesus Christ!” He read with a voice of forceful entreaty. “You who destined that recalcitrant and apostate tyrant to the fires of Hell; you who sent your only son into this world in order that he might crush this roaring lion: Look speedily, and snatch from damnation and from this devil this man who was created in your image and likeness. Throw your terror, Lord, over the Beast who is destroying what belongs to you. Give faith to your servants against this most evil Serpent, to fight most bravely. So that the Serpent not hold in contempt those who hope in you! Let your powerful strength force the Serpent to let go of your servant so that it no longer possesses him whom you designed to make in your image and to redeem by your son…”
The demon was not long in surfacing again. Before Terry had finished the first prayer, the damned spirit was thrashing with superhuman strength against the ropes that held it.
“Second base, dude, in under ten seconds,” Dylan noted. “Ah think that’s a record.” He was referring to the six stages of exorcism, which the friars typically referred to using baseball metaphors, partly because it was easy for them to do so and partly because it was confusing to the demons.
“Wouldn’t have been so fast if we hadn’t already gone over this ground earlier,” Terry reasoned.
“Prolly true.”
The lights started winking off and on, and the bed began to rattle and shake. Doug’s body thrashed and pulled against its bonds and made the sound of an angry and caged animal.
“Unclean Spirit!” Terry intoned in his high, sweet tenor. “Whoever you are, and all your companions who possess this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, the sufferings and death, the resurrection, and the ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ: By the sending of the Holy Spirit and by the coming of our Lord into last judgment, I command you to obey me in everything, although I am an unworthy servant of God. Do no damage to this possessed creature or to my assistant or to any of their goods.”
“Damn straight, asshole, you are unworthy!” The demon fully surfaced into consciousness and spat at him. “You’re a fake! You’re not even a real priest! And you’re”—the demon looked Terry over carefully, and cocked Doug’s head—“you’re gay!”
Utterly unperplexed, Terry and Dylan began to sing, cheerfully and in unison,
“Not a priest, not a priest,
but Rome is quite explicit.
All of us Old Cath-o-lics are
valid but illicit!”
Terry struck a pose with one hand on his hip. “And prettier than you ever thought of being.”
“You,” the demon screamed at Terry, “you have no right to judge me, or to cast me out! You are a sinner!”
“You’ll get no argument from us on that,” Dylan said confidently. “Ah’m a sinner and no mistake. But lucky for me, and unlucky for you, Ah don’t cast you out by mah own authority, or mah own power. It’s the power of Jesus you gonna have to worry about.”
The demon looked confused. It had hoped to unsettle the priests, to shake their resolve, to overwhelm them with uncertainty. Yet despite its efforts, the exorcists seemed not only unperplexed, but they seemed to be…enjoying themselves. “I know you, Priest!” It tried again, upping the ante. “You suck the cocks of little boys!”
For the first time, Terry looked taken aback. “He was eighteen, I swear it,” he said with a look of mock affront. Then he placed one index finger against his cheek and winked. “At least he said he was eighteen!”
Realizing that he was being mocked, the demon roared and bucked his hips against the bed, trying to gain some leverage against his restraints. With a loud “pop,” every light bulb in the motel shattered. As the room sank into darkness, the Voice emerged. “WE WILL EAT YOUR SOULS IN HELL, FAKE PRIESTS. WE WILL SEE YOU THERE, AND WE WILL DEVOUR YOU.”
“Third base,” Dylan’s voice emerged from the darkness. Then he clicked at his lighter, and as their eyes adjusted to the little flame, he began to sing a song from his childhood. “This little light o’ mine, Ah’m gonna let it shine…”
Dylan kept singing as he lit a candle. Terry approached the possessed man and touched his forehead with his stole as he intoned, “I exorcise you, most unclean Spirit! Invading enemy! In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ: Be uprooted and expelled from this creature of God. He who commands you is he who ordered you to be thrown down from Heaven into the depths of Hell. He who commands you is he who dominated the sea, the wind, and the storms. Hear, therefore, and fear, Satan!”
The sound of frying and the smell of burning flesh filled the air as a burn mark appeared where the stole touched the man’s head. The Voice howled its rage. As if it were hurling nothing more than a rag doll, Dylan was thrown off his feet, into the air, and was slammed backward into the wall. There he remained, pinned by an unseen force.
“Ah really hate this part!” he yelled above the howl of the Voice. “Next time, dude, can you throw Terry? Ah’ve got a bad back.” The howl renewed its intensity, sounding like a cross between a thousand human screams and the wail of tortured animals.
Dylan pried himself free of the wall. Terry screwed his face up in a grimace of pain as the demon battered at his brain for entry. He felt Dylan place his hands on him—one on his shoulder, the other on his head—and he knew that his friend was praying for him with all his might.
Terry fought to clear his mind of all the images that the demon imposed upon him—rape and murder, decapitation, his own damnation, and other horrors too foul to dwell upon. Instead, the priest looked up, opened his spirit wide to Heaven, and spoke the words provided to him from an unseen and holy source, “I bind your power, Parrillon, most evil captain of demons, in the name of the Lamb most immaculate who walked unharmed among dangers, who was immune to all evil spirits. I bind you and banish you and all your minions from this room. I command you to bid your servant of corruption to depart from this person. Depart from
the church of God. Fear, and take flight at the name of our Lord whom the powers of Hell fear, to whom the powers and virtues and dominions of Heaven are subject, whom the cherubim and seraphim praise with unceasing voices, saying: ‘Holy! Holy! Holy! Lord God of Hosts!’”
Terry’s shoulders deflated, and he waited. At the invocation of the demon’s general, there should have been a final howl of rage, a rattle of bones, and the flight of the demonic presence. Instead, in the light of the flickering candle, Dylan saw only the unholy grin of pure, unbounded Evil. It was a malevolent smile, void of real cheer, but full of both contempt and victory. And then, with a Voice that shook their very souls, the demon began a chillingly childish song of its own.
“I know something you don’t know…”
“That should have done the job, dude,” Dylan said, a worried tone in his voice. “What just happened? Did ya feel that?”
Terry nodded. He felt as if someone had just pulled the plug on all the warmth in his body. He shuddered as the singsong Voice of the demon played with his head.
“Someone you love is dead tonight.” The demon used Doug’s face to screw into the most pained and fiercely perverse smile Terry had ever beheld. It was a smile of victory.
11
Bishop Preston swirled his scotch and looked out over the magic carpet of lights that was San Francisco by night. From his easy chair high in a Hyatt penthouse, the scene was alluring, mesmerizing.
Governor Ivory stepped up to stand beside him. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Preston nodded reluctantly. “Deceptively so,” he said, taking a slug of the whisky. “Hiding behind that façade of beauty is blatant corruption. Make no mistake about it, this is the most sin-sick city in the world. Don’t let the pretty covering fool you.”
The governor harrumphed and rocked back and forth on his loafers. “That’s why you and I get along so well, John. We both see right through the bullshit.”
“Damn straight,” the bishop agreed. “And we’re not afraid to say so.” He downed the rest of his drink and headed for the wet bar to pour another. “I’m glad this worked out—I’d been hoping to talk to you soon.”
Ivory was in town in preparation for the Republican National Convention, starting in just a few days. The organizing committee, which he chaired, had chosen San Francisco in order to highlight its new “gay-friendly” positions, much to Ivory’s own disgust and against his stern protests.
“So, let’s get to the straight talk, then, shall we?” Preston said. He pulled the stopper out of a crystal decanter. The whisky glowed like gold in the light from the fireplace.
“Okay, but you first. You never told me you were going to be in the running for bishop of California.”
Preston smiled, handing a fresh glass to Ivory. “Didn’t know it myself. I was planning to stay only so long as necessary, until Cindy was better, or…not better.” He swirled the whisky in his glass again and made his way around to the easy chair. He sat down with an audible sigh. “Not getting younger, that’s for sure.”
“So, what made you think, ‘Hey, I think I might want to do this job’?” Ivory asked.
“David, this is a diocese on its way down the drain. It’s run primarily by feminists and faggots. It needs a strong, uncompromising hand to save it. And I think God has called me to be that hand.”
“If the diocese is being run by perverts, John, how in hell do you expect to get elected? It simply isn’t going to happen.”
“Well, we’ll know tomorrow night, won’t we?” Bishop Preston said with a twinkle in his eye. “I will emerge from the diocesan convention the bishop-elect.” He held out his glass as if to make a toast. “You just watch.” He took a slug.
Ivory lit a cigar and twirled it, standing near the window and considering his friend. “How can you possibly be so confident?” he asked.
“Let’s just say I have found the means. God gave me the means, and not to use the means would be…well, it would be ungrateful.” He grinned a large, victorious grin. “How about you, David? You haven’t announced yet. When?”
The governor swayed back and forth, holding the cigar in his teeth. He took it from his mouth and curled his lip. “We are still considering,” he said.
“Bullshit,” the bishop laughed. “You’ll run. The Republican Party can’t survive the next election without you. You know it’s true.”
“I know it, and you know it,” Ivory said, punctuating the air with his cigar. “But if they don’t know it, it isn’t going to do us a damned bit of good.”
“The only one out there that can beat you right now is Ridgeway, and he’s a train wreck on foreign policy.”
Ivory nodded but stared into the fire.
“The way the Middle East is heating up right now, Ridgeway’s conciliatory tone would be disastrous, and you know it.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, John,” Ivory said. “What if I lose?”
“You can’t lose,” said the bishop.
Ivory frowned. “What do you mean, I can’t lose? You saw how Obama trounced Romney.”
“I am aware of that tragic result. You cannot lose, my friend, because I am supporting you.”
“Okay, John, I think my kids call this a reality check. There was a time when the Episcopal Church held a lot of sway in this country. But that time has passed.” He sat down in the chair adjacent to Preston’s. “I’m grateful for your endorsement, John, but in the grand scheme of things, it isn’t going to make a lot of difference to the outcome.”
“But there’s where you’re wrong,” said Preston, not seeming the slightest bit offended. Excitement danced in his bleary black eyes. “I tell you what, let’s look at the diocesan election tomorrow as a test case, shall we? You’re right: There’s no way in hell the feminists and faggots are going to elect me their bishop. So, tomorrow at this time, when they have…” he patted his friend’s hand. “You get ready to throw in your hat.”
“There’s no way I’ll get the nomination this late in the game, John.”
“Ah, but there’s where you’re wrong. You forget—I believe in miracles.”
12
The teakettle began its homey, shrill song, and Brian got up to remove it from the stove. He filled two cups, plopped in tea bags, and carried both to the table where Susan sat with her hands folded. Brian noted the red patches on her knuckles where she had been picking at her skin. “Okay, Honey, spill it. What’s with you?”
Susan looked surprised.
“Don’t give me that,” Brian said. “You were awfully short with Dylan earlier. It’s not like you. What’s going on?”
Susan pulled her teacup closer to her and flicked at the tea bag’s paper tag. It spun, slowed, and began to spin the other way. “I’m worried about him. And pissed at him. He seems to have no self-control right now.” She looked up at Brian, and he saw real worry in her eyes. They were a little wet, and a long crease stretched across her forehead. “He lights up before he even gets out of bed, and he’s hardly without a joint in his hand. The only time he abstains is on Sunday before he says mass—and only because Bishop Tom told him he has to.”
Brian nodded. “He’s always been a pothead.”
“But not like this.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I think it’s Richard.” They both nodded at the truth of it. Susan continued, “Richard’s a born leader. Despite his quirks and faults, any of us would follow him into Hell and back if he asked us. But Dylan’s a follower. I think he’s lost without Dicky to give him direction.”
“That’s not good for the rest of us if Dylan’s supposed to be in charge.”
“Don’t I know it?” she said.
A powerful thudding came from the ceiling above them. Brian looked up. “Should we turn a hose on them?”
Susan smiled despite herself. “C’mon, Brian, it’s nookie night! Just ’cause you and I aren’t getting any doesn’t mean they shouldn’t. I’m glad someone’s fucking like bunnies aro
und here. It gives me hope.”
“The relationship is young yet,” Brian said. “You wait, six months from now, Mikael and Kat will be down here having tea with us.”
“I certainly hope not.” Susan pushed out her lower lip. “Not that I wouldn’t want to share tea with them. Just that…”
“I know. We all want love to be eternal.”
For several minutes, neither of them spoke. “Life is sad,” Susan said at last.
The doorbell rang. Tobias roused himself from the couch in the living room and barked. “Who the fuck could that be?” Brian asked, swinging his leg over the broad bench.
Susan looked at the clock. “It’s nearly eleven.”
Brian trotted out of the kitchen toward the foyer. He pushed Tobias out of the way and looked through the peephole. A distorted, elongated face stared back at him. He debated whether to open the door. “Who is it?” he called, loud enough to be heard on the other side. Tobias barked again.
“My name is Charlie…although you’d probably know me as Charybdis. I’m a member of the Lodge of the Hawk and Serpent. I’m a friend of Richard’s. Can I come in?”
Brian hesitated for a moment and then opened the door and stood aside, grabbing at Tobias’s collar while Charlie stepped inside. He was about the same height as Brian, with wispy brown hair and an angular face. In Brian’s experience, magickians were either emaciated or obese, with few representatives in between. And they all smelled like they hadn’t bathed in a week. Charlie was no exception.
“Susan and I were just having a cup of tea. Would you like one?” Brian asked, taking the magickian’s coat. Tobias’s tail wagged fiercely, and he stuck his nose directly into the young man’s crotch, relishing the pungent new smells.
“Sure,” Charlie said, pushing the dog’s nose away.
“Sorry about that,” Brian said. “Magickians are cat people.”
“Um…that’s pretty much true,” Charlie agreed as he followed Brian into the bright kitchen. He paused and gave a stiff little bow in Susan’s direction. “I’m Charlie…my magickal name is Charybdis.”
