by J. R. Mabry
“Susan,” she said, offering her hand. “I’ve heard all about you. Actually, the boys speak quite well of you.”
Charlie smiled a pained smile. “I hope that’s true. Is Richard here?”
Brian looked at Susan, and their eyes met. It was a sad exchange. “No, Charlie, I’m afraid not,” Susan said.
“He had to find new accommodations,” Brian added. “For reasons that are…well, complicated, he can’t stay here right now.”
“How about Dylan?” Charlie asked hopefully.
“Out fighting demons,” Brian said, placing another steaming cup on the table. He pushed it toward Charlie. “So is Terry.”
“And Mikael and Kat are…indisposed,” Susan added. As if on cue, a headboard banged in the distance.
“Oh,” Charlie said, a bit sheepishly, and blushing visibly. “We don’t have that problem at the lodge.”
“You mean no one gets laid?” Brian asked.
“Eh…right,” Charlie nodded, blowing on his tea.
“What brings you out tonight?” Susan asked him. Brian noted that, far from being annoyed at the interruption, she seemed genuinely interested.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, since”—Charlie put the cup back down—“you know, since the whole Dane thing.” He was referring to the events of several months ago, when a local sociopathic tycoon had employed the Lodge of the Hawk and Serpent to carry out his plans to wipe all the children from the face of the Earth.
“Well, I should hope so,” Brian said. “Talk about hitting for the wrong team.”
“Brian,” Susan warned, “please. No need to kick a man while he’s down.”
Charlie shot her a thankful glance. “Yes, well, that’s a good description of how I’ve been since then. I keep thinking of what my mother would have said if she were alive and knew…well, knew what I’d done. Or helped to do. I’m quite ashamed, really.” The young man looked ready to cry. Susan put her hand on his arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“I don’t want to get myself into that situation again,” he said. “Larch is…” He trailed off. “Oh, he’s not a bad guy. But he’s driven. And he’s persuasive. And I’m just not…well, I can’t stand up to him. And I’m afraid…”
“There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” Susan said.
“‘Fear is the beginning of wisdom,’” Brian quoted. Susan scowled at him. “Okay, ‘Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom’—thank you, Miss Literal.”
“Brian’s right, though,” she said, smiling at her friend. She turned her eyes back to Charlie. “You should trust that fear. It’s telling you the truth.”
Charlie nodded. “I know it. That’s why I’m here.”
“Say more,” Susan said, sipping at her own tea.
“Well, I don’t think I’m strong enough to resist Larch by myself. He is the leader of the lodge, and…well, I’m not.” He blew over the tea but set it down again without tasting it. “I think my only choice is to leave. But if I do that, where do I go? The lodge has been my life since I was sixteen. I’m afraid I’d get sick or homesick or lonely or mugged or whatever and end up right back there. I need help.”
Brian leaned back. “Oh my God,” he breathed. “You want to join the Order of Saint Raphael.”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “Yes, I do. If you’ll have me.”
13
“Holy shit, Ter, what is this fuck talkin’ about?” Dylan asked in a near-whisper.
Terry crammed his stole onto the possessed man’s forehead again. It emitted no hiss, and no burn resulted. “Fuck,” Terry said. He felt confused, out of control.
“Okay, Ah think we need a time out.” Dylan grabbed his friend by the sleeve of his surplice and steered him toward the door. He shot the possessed a glance over his shoulder and spoke to him as if he were a dog. “Stay! We’ll be right back.”
When they emerged from the motel room, it was as if they were entering another world—one where hope and beauty and traffic noise had a place. Sanity and order had a foothold here, in spite of the wino passed out on the sidewalk. Dylan steered Terry into one of the chairs in the parking space and then sank himself into the other. “Dude, you okay?”
“Who do we know that could sap our power like that?” Terry asked, still glassy-eyed. “He or she would have to be—what? Indisposed? Distracted?”
“Dead?” Dylan said the word Terry was avoiding.
Terry held his hands up to his face and flexed them, studying his palms. They had, only moments ago, been filled with energy. Now they felt tired, even arthritic. He felt old beyond his forty years. Something was gone. Something he knew the demon had no power to take away.
“It has to be Bishop Tom,” Terry said sadly. “You know it. There isn’t a single other person I can think of that could—throw the switch like that.”
Dylan looked at his feet and nodded. “Yup,” he admitted.
“Call Bishop Tom,” Terry said. “Call him now.”
Dylan whipped out his cell phone and speed dialed the Bishop’s home. He hit the speakerphone button with his thumb. Gretchen answered with a musical “Hellooo…” and Terry could hear the mewing of cats near the phone.
“Gretch, hi, it’s Dylan. Is Tom there?”
Dylan and Terry locked eyes as they waited. Terry willed himself to hope. For the sake of their friend, he had to hope.
“You just missed him, Honey. He is so fucking forgetful sometimes. You know, I texted him a whole list of things to pick up from the grocery, and he got everything but tampons! Can you believe it? What am I supposed to do, shove paper towels up my twat? I swear, the man would forget his dick if it wasn’t attached. How are you, Sweetie?”
Terry spoke up. “Gretch, Terry here. We’re not doing so good. I want you to listen to me. I want you to call 911 and report…” What? What could have happened? A mugging? A heart attack? “Gretchen, we think something might have happened to Tom. I know this sounds crazy, but you need to call a cab, or get a neighbor to drive you, and go wherever Tom was going. Bring a cell phone if you have one. We’re afraid you might need to call an ambulance.” He stopped and listened for a minute. Terry could hear Gretchen getting hysterical, but he couldn’t make out her words.
“Gretchen?” Dylan said, trying to sooth her. “Gretchen, you’ve got to focus. We don’t know if anythin’ has happened. Don’t panic. There’s just somethin’ we can’t explain any other way, so we have to check it out. It’s probably nothing. So…focus, Honey Pie. Do you have a cell phone? Your neighbor does? Good. Okay, well, can your neighbor go?” Dylan asked. A moment later, Gretchen was talking again. “Uh, okay, Gretch,” Dylan said, “but call us if…if anything happened…We don’t know, we just think it’s something. Call us, please.” He closed the phone. “Whatever happened, it just happened.”
“He probably is dead, Dyl.” Terry cradled his head in his hands and fought against the knowledge that was dawning on him. It won.
“If Tom is dead, Ter, then we’re through here.”
“If Tom is dead, we’re out of business until we get another bishop.” It sounded callous to say it like that, as if Tom could be so quickly replaced. He couldn’t, of course.
“Okay, Terry, let’s pull ourselves together. We’ll have time to grieve for Tom tomorrow. Tonight, though, we got a naked man tied to a bed in a motel room, throwing feces like a bonobo and tossin’ us around like kitchen rags.” He squirted some holy water into the air and then tossed the plastic squirt gun onto the pavement. “So, what are we going to do about it?”
“I guess we untie him,” Terry said in a daze.
“Are you nuts? That Doug guy is, like, really counting on us, not to mention his family, who have already made a very generous donation…”
“So, we return the money, we say we’re very sorry, and we refer them out.”
“Refer them out? To who? The Episcopalians? They’ll send him to a Jungian analyst! The Romans? The Romans will send him back to us!”
“We could refer them to the Armenian Orthodox. Father Asmon has done a couple.”
“Yeah, and almost got half a city block destroyed before we intervened. Ah don’t think so, dude.”
They sat there in stunned silence for what seemed like an eternity, feeling paralyzed. Just then Dylan’s cell phone rang. Before he hit the Talk button, Dylan saw that it was from Susan. “Hi, Honey,” he said, his voice betraying his despair.
“Oh, Honey, you sound wiped. Are you two still at it? Must be some demon.” She sounded cheery, with a mild note of concern.
“Susan, Baby Doll, who all is home?”
“Baby, you okay? Uh…everyone’s home except you guys—and we have a visitor. I’ll tell you more, later, but it’s not important now. What’s wrong?”
“Call the others, and put us on speakerphone, will ya?”
Dylan heard shuffling as she walked to the back door and called out. “Brian! Kat! Mikael! Emergency call! Come quick!”
Terry heard a voice he recognized but couldn’t place in the distance. “Should I duck out?”
“Who is that?” Terry whispered to Dylan. Dylan shrugged. “Sounds familiar.” Dylan shrugged.
Terry heard the clack of toenails on the linoleum and knew that the excitement had summoned Tobias from his canine slumbers.
“What’s up?” asked Brian’s voice, coming from the tinny speaker.
“Can you merge Richard in on this?” Terry asked.
Dylan nodded. His fingers flew as he speed dialed Richard’s number. In a moment, they heard his bleary voice.
“Fuck,” Richard said.
“Richard, is that you?” Terry asked.
“I have a splitting headache,” said Richard’s voice. Dylan punched a final button, and they heard Tobias shake his coat.
“Uh…” Dylan started but couldn’t continue.
“It’s stopped working,” Terry said.
“What’s stopped working?” Susan asked. They heard Richard moan.
“The mojo,” Terry said. “We can’t cast him out.”
“‘This kind only comes out by fasting and prayer…’” Richard mumbled.
“No, it’s not the method. We’re not doing anything out of the ordinary…for us. It’s like someone turned off the power. Like they yanked the extension cord right out of the wall. Nothing is working,” Terry clarified.
“Plus, the demon said someone was dead,” Dylan added.
“What?” asked Susan’s voice. “Who’s dead?”
“There’s only one person’s death I can think of that would have this effect.” Terry paused to give the notion time to sink in.
“Holy shit,” came Richard’s voice, clear for the first time. “Bishop Tom?”
“That’s what we’re afraid of,” Terry admitted.
Just then, Dylan’s phone buzzed. “Uh…it’s Gretchen,” he said.
“Can you patch her in?” asked Terry.
“Uh-uh,” Dylan said. “Ah think Ah can only merge two calls.”
“Put us on hold,” Richard said.
Dylan did.
“Gretchen?” he asked.
A wail rose up from the phone’s tiny speaker. She was keening in grief.
14
As soon as Richard was passed out drunk, Duunel slipped in between and summoned his master. Within a few moments, the mists cleared, and the demon prince Maaluchre glowered down upon him with the red eye of doom, his talons scratching with impatience.
“My master,” Duunel said, falling on his face.
“Rise and report,” the prince boomed.
“It appears that something has gone right, O Prince,” Duunel said. “My host’s conspirators were singularly unsuccessful last night.”
“That is good news. Yes, I just got the report from Mugwort in Seattle. Seems a little black cat was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Terrible tragedy.”
Duunel looked away so as not to see the skin pull back from his master’s beak in a grotesque approximation of a smile. Some things, Duunel thought, are too terrible for even demons to behold.
“Your plan was creative and efficient. Our Father will be pleased.”
Duunel shook to his core. “You’ll be reporting this to the Father himself?”
“It is not inappropriate for you to know this, as our plans are unfolding rapidly. We have a major event planned in the next few days in the City of the Cursed Saint. The fact that you have rendered our only opposition in this area helpless will not go unnoticed, or unrewarded.”
“I am honored, my prince. And I am proud to have helped—even in my ignorance.”
“Don’t overdo it, snail.” The red eye loomed and flared. “You know as well as I that all modesty is false, and you are a fool to think that I am easily played.”
“Sorry, Master.” Duunel tried to appear sufficiently cowed. “May I ask, my lord, what our Father has planned during this window of opportunity? After all, the friars are only out of commission temporarily.”
“Well, let’s just say our influence is about to spread exponentially,” said the demon prince, stretching his beak again with his terrible attempt at a smile. “By this time tomorrow, every demon in Hell will be turned out onto the streets, looking for hosts.”
“This calls for party hats,” Duunel grinned.
SATURDAY
15
With an aching head and a stomach churning with nausea, Richard trudged up the hill on Cedar Street toward All Saints’ Episcopal Church. Along the way, a motorcycle sped by. As he watched it pass, memories of Bishop Tom flooded through him.
Do you need a moment? Duunel asked.
“Fuck you,” Richard said, starting up the hill again.
I’ve heard you’ll boink anything that moves, Duunel teased.
Richard ignored him, and feeling a splash of moisture on his nose, he stopped and relished the cool wind on his face. He loved this time of morning—when the sun had just come up and the air was still charged with chill—although he rarely managed to see it these days. He pondered this when a voice in his head said, It’s the alcohol. You sleep until noon most days. That’s because you suck.
Richard sighed. “Can you please just go back to sleep?”
What? And miss your Rocky Mountain High? And who says I was sleeping?
“Fuck off. What did you think of the duck last night?” Richard was hoping to deflect his attention toward—well, anything that wasn’t designed to wear down his self-esteem.
Nice try. You’re an asshole, the demon responded. Then, a moment later, I thought it was greasy.
“What do you want? It’s duck!”
The sauce was nice. And the wine. You should have had another bottle.
“Uh-huh,” Richard said. He reached for the handle of the door leading off the parking lot and swung it open. The halls were dark, but he knew the way well. In moments, he was sitting outside Mother Maggie’s office.
I don’t like this place, Duunel said. It gives me the fucking creeps.
“Of course it does,” Richard agreed. “It’s a church. Good things happen here. You wouldn’t like it.”
Mother Maggie waddled into view, closing the door of the restroom behind her. Her squat, round frame was twisted by arthritis, but her spirit was unbowed. “Good morning, Dicky,” she said, bending down slightly to where he sat and placing a kiss on his cheek. And then, slightly louder, “And good morning to you, too, Duunel, you cheeky little prick.”
“You don’t need to shout, Mags,” Richard said. “If I can hear you, he can hear you.”
“Quite right,” she said, nodding vigorously. “Come in, both of you. Take a bonbon—everyone needs a wake-up chocolate, I say. And you should take two, of course.”
“I’ll pass,” Richard said. “I’m afraid I’ll hurl.”
“Yes, but he wants one,” she sang, “don’t you, Duunel?”
I don’t trust her, Duunel said in his head. I don’t trust her for a second.
“I’d trust that impulse if I were
you,” Richard said.
Maggie ignored him.
“I was talking to Duunel,” Richard explained.
“So I supposed,” Maggie said, planting herself in her regular chair. Her dog, JoJo, raised her head to see what the fuss was, noticed it was only Richard, and put her head down again. In mere moments, she was snoring. “Let’s take a moment to come into the presence of the Holy, shall we?” Maggie said as she lit a candle on the small table beside her.
Let’s get out of here, pronto. Shall we? Duunel said forcefully.
Richard ignored him and relaxed his body. “Veni Sancte Spiritus,” he prayed, “Come, Holy Spirit…”
Not going there with you, Duunel said. I know I said I wouldn’t allow cocksucking activities, but given the choice…
“Veni Sancte Spiritus…” Richard began to sing. Mother Maggie joined him. Together, their voices blended in the early morning air, until an unseen Presence surrounded them and held them.
Okay, that’s it. Shit, I’m outta here. See you in—how long does this spiritual direction silliness actually last?
“See you in an hour, Duunel,” Richard smiled at Maggie. She winked at him.
With Duunel either absent or dormant—Richard couldn’t tell which—he was able to sink deeper into prayer. After about five minutes of rich, delicious silence, he opened his eyes and saw Maggie smile. It looked like a forced, pained smile, but he put it aside for the moment.
“Tom’s dead,” he said simply.
Her face fell. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “You don’t mean it?”
He nodded gravely. “Last night. Motorcycle accident. Killed instantly. That’s what Gretchen said, anyway.”
“Oh my God,” she repeated. “Oh, Dicky, I’m so, so sorry.”
“I know you met him once—”
“At dinner at the friary. He’s…He was a lovely man.”
“Yes, yes, he was,” Richard agreed. He felt tears begin to burn at his eyes, but he forced them down.
