Evil Ways

by Justin Gustainis

  "Why do you say that?"

  "That thing in the middle of it all. Quincey, it's an altar. The most elaborate, complex black altar I have ever seen. And for those of the Left-Hand Path, altars are places of sacrifice."

  "Sure, Ellie, but Catholics do the same thing. Episcopalians too, I guess."

  "True, but those sacrifices are purely symbolic. In black magic, the sacrifices are very real, and invariably bloody. Usually, it's some kind of animal. But not always. The sacrifice is designed to please the Infernal Powers. The bigger and more important the sacrifice, the greater the favor to be gained from the other side, and hence the more power present in the conjuration. And having multiple rituals going on at once would further increase that power."

  "All right, Ellie. Given what you're looking at, give me your best guess as to what these people intend."

  Silence.

  "Ellie?"

  Still silence.

  "Ellie? Are you there?"

  "Quincey I can only come to one reasonable conclusion, and it hurts my head just to have the thought in there. It's just... inconceivable--except the evidence is right in front of me that someone has actually conceived it, and intends to carry it out. Or try to."

  "I need to hear you say it, Ellie. Carry what out?"

  "A conjuration that will, Goddess save us, bring Satan himself to Earth."

  Chapter 23

  Walpurgis Eve

  It is not known for certain either when or why Walpurgis Night became the night of the Witches' Sabbath. Its name derives from Saint Walpurga, whose feast day occurs on May 1. There is nothing sinister about the reputation of this good and pious woman, who in her lifetime was known for speaking out against witchcraft and sorcery. Some say the date was first chosen because it is the mirror of Halloween, being exactly six months away from that other night held sacred by followers of the Left-Hand Path.

  Reports that the night of April 30 was being used for revels in worship of the Evil One began to surface in the Middle Ages, although some scholars claim this dark observance goes back to the Roman Empire. The first Walpurgis Night revels probably took place on The Brocken, the name given to the highest peak of the Germany's Hartz Mountains, although they have also been known to occur in other places throughout Western and Central Europe and, more recently, North America.

  These days, The Brocken is a tourist attraction on Walpurgis Night. But there is another peak in the Hartz Mountains from which strange lights and even stranger noises emanate on the night of April 30. The good Germans who live near there stay indoors on Walpurgis Night, and there are no tourists at all--not after what happened to the first group who tried to crash the party, some thirty years ago.

  Their charred remains were eventually identified, through dental records.

  Every year, the daylight hours preceding Walpurgis Night are occasions for frenetic activity in certain circles, although this is rarely noticed by the public. This year, the forces aligned with the Light--as well as their counterparts, the Children of Darkness--were even busier than usual.

  Coeur d'Alene Idaho

  9:14am

  Pardee walked the grounds of the Grobius estate, telling himself that it never hurt to give the preparations a final check. The truth was, he needed to move about in order to channel some of the nervous energy that had been growing in him ever since arising, which stemmed from the knowledge that today was the day--or, more precisely, that tonight would be the night.

  A few hundred yards away, Walter Grobius lay in his immense bed, waiting for the pain medication to start working before he got up. Although this usually made him grumpy, Grobius consoled himself with the knowledge that this was the last morning for a very long time that he would have to worry about pain. Starting tomorrow, everything was going to be different.

  Outside, Pardee looked up at the sky, imagining it filled with the brooms and other conveyances by which his guests would arrive after dark, although some were planning to employ more mundane means of transport.

  Beginning tomorrow, everything was going to be different.

  In the air, over western Iowa

  10:03am

  Quincey Morris had a window seat on United Flight 448, but he wasn't staring at the cloud formations as the plane made its way toward the connection that would bring him to Idaho. In his lap, he held an aerial photograph, the in-flight magazine tucked underneath for stability. The photo showed a view of a large patch of land with some buildings on it, and a number of holes dug throughout the property at regular intervals. Morris had a pencil in his hand that he used to make occasional marks on the photo, but he was not doodling.

  He was working out a battle plan.

  Six rows behind Morris sat a tall, slim woman dressed all in black. She was attractive by most standards, barring the long scar on one side of her face, which she had made no attempt whatsoever to cover with makeup. The woman, like Morris, had a window seat, and she was taking in the view, although the set of her face suggested that it did not please her. The seat next to her was empty, and the man sitting on the aisle had tried to make pleasant conversation precisely once. The look the woman in black gave him had guaranteed that he would not try again.

  In the air, over North Dakota

  10:35am

  Eleanor Robb, who had a lucrative consulting business, sat in First Class and frowned over the legal pad she held in her lap. Eighteen of the Sisterhood were able and willing to rush to Idaho on extraordinarily short notice. Ellie had no way to know whether that would be enough to stop the madness that loomed on the horizon like a Class Five tornado. She prayed silently to the Goddess that it would be.

  When the beverage service came around, she declined the flight attendant's offer of champagne and instead asked for black coffee. Ellie needed to work, even though she had been up all night, and the prospects for sleep tonight were uncertain, at best. Of course, if she and her allies failed in their task, they would have all eternity to rest in--along with, quite possibly, most of mankind.

  Billings Logan International Airport,

  Billings, Montana

  11:58am

  Their connecting flight to Spokane scheduled to leave in twenty-five minutes, FBI Special Agents Fenton and O'Donnell sat in the departure lounge near their gate, neither one looking very happy.

  "At the risk of starting another argument," Colleen said, "what's the matter, Dale? You've hardly said ten words since we left Boston."

  Fenton had been staring at his shoes for the last ten minutes. Without looking up, he said, "You happen to notice how I paid for those airline tickets of ours?"

  "No, I can't say I was paying attention. I assumed you used the credit card the Bureau gave you for business travel."

  "You assume wrong," Fenton said tonelessly. "I used my own Amex card."

  "Why? I mean, you can get reimbursed, after filling out a small mountain of paperwork, but why go to the trouble?'

  "I won't be asking for reimbursement, because I don't want any official documentation connecting us with this little trip."

  "But we had to show picture ID before they'd issue the tickets," she said. "That's standard procedure, to stop people from avoiding the No-Fly List by traveling under an alias."

  "Yeah, I know," Fenton said. "Nothing we can do about that. But nobody should have any reason to check the passenger manifest for our names, as long as we don't let them know that we were within five hundred miles of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Far as the Bureau's concerned, you and I are still in Massachusetts, following up some leads we got from that scumbag in Walpole."

  "Well, they won't hear any different from me."

  "Do you know why I did that, Colleen?"

  "Yeah, probably, but I guess you're going to want to tell me, anyway."

  "I did it because I'm pretty damn sure that something bad is going to happen, once we get to Idaho. It's gonna be bad, and it's probably gonna be illegal, and we're gonna be involved in it up to our necks."

  Colleen gave her own f
ootwear a certain amount of study before saying, "Yeah, I expect you're right. On all three counts."

  "Can't act officially. If we tried to get a warrant to search Grobius's property based on the evidence we've got, the judge would not only turn us down, he'd have us committed. And as for an arrest warrant..." Fenton just shook his head.

  Colleen nodded solemnly. "Yep. Right again. And yet, here we are. More to the point, here you are. How come?"

  Fenton gave his shoes another thirty seconds or so of analysis before saying, "You know that line from Shakespeare, Hamlet I think, that goes, 'There are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio'?"

  "Yeah, I believe I've come across it," she said.

  "It's kinda like that for me, I guess. Starting with that hairy business last year that Van Dreenan and I got sucked into, I've seen too much shit that can't just be explained away as hallucinations, or hysteria, or fucking swamp gas."

  "It says a lot for the openness of your mind, Dale. Most agents of the Bureau..." She let the sentence trail off.

  "Yeah, well, most of 'em don't have a witch for a partner. Even of the 'white' variety."

  "That's most likely true."

  "By the way, someday you and me are gonna have a conversation about the racial prejudice inherent in the terms 'white magic' and 'black magic.'"

  "It's got nothing to do with race, it's from... Oh. You're messing with me, aren't you?"

  "Gotta do something," he said. "And that's better than screaming, which is what I really feel like doing. See, Colleen, it's not that I believe that Grobius and Pardee are actually gonna call up Satan tonight out there in Coeur d'Alene. And if they do manage to pull that trick off, I don't believe that they won't be able to control him, he'll get loose, and as the saying goes, lay waste to the world. I don't believe that, okay?'

  "Okay. Then why are you--"

  "I'm here because I don't fucking disbelieve it. And if that shit's a possibility, I mean if it's even a one percent chance... then I gotta go do what I can to stop it."

  She reached over and squeezed his shoulder for a moment. "You and me, Dale. You and me."

  On the ground, north, south, east,and west of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

  12:03pm

  All around America, practitioners of magic (both the white and black varieties) were either in transit or preparing for departure. Most were in airplanes, others rode in cars, a few would travel by train at least part of the way, and certain others planned to use less conventional means of transportation, once the sky was dark enough to hide their passage. From time to time they offered prayers, to whatever deity they worshipped, that their work tonight would be successful. None of them knew for sure whether those prayers would be answered.

  Spokane, Washington

  2:01pm

  Quincey Morris walked into Meeting Room B at the Holiday Inn, which had been reserved for the occasion by something calling itself QM Reclamations, Inc. The witches were already waiting for him.

  Morris scanned the nineteen faces, to see if he knew anyone present, but they were all strangers to him. Their ages, at a rough guess, went from late twenties to mid-fifties, and their attire ranged from blue jeans to business suits. He had known better than to expect anything unusual in their appearance. Witches, whether white or black, look like anybody else. It is only their deeds that are, sometimes, extraordinary.

  One of the women stood as Morris came in, and went over to him. She was one of the older witches present, which in her case Morris guessed to be a vibrant-looking fifty-five. Her sharp green eyes studied him as she approached.

  Morris extended a hand. "Eleanor Robb, I presume?"

  "You presume correctly, Mister Morris. Normally I would go around the room and introduce my Sisters, but I gather that time is important. However, if you prefer introductions..."

  "No, that's fine, you're quite right." Morris raised his voice a little, so that all could hear him. "Howdy, ladies, and welcome. I hope to meet each of you and offer my thanks individually, once this is over. In the meantime, I hope you won't think it rude of me to forgo introductions."

  Morris walked quickly to the front of the room, and invited Ellie Robb to join him.

  "I assume Ms. Robb explained to you what's going on, or you wouldn't have put your busy lives on hold to rush out here," he said. "We haven't got a lot of time, but if any of you have questions, I'll try to answer 'em."

  One of the witches, a thin woman of around thirty, asked, "If all the action is going to be in Idaho, what are we doing in Washington?"

  "You probably would have flown into Spokane, anyway," Morris told her. "It's the only big airport in the area. So what we've got right here is what the military calls a 'staging area'--a place to get organized before moving into... the area of interest." Morris had been about to say "battle," but he didn't want to sound like some macho nitwit who thought he was George Patton. Besides, he didn't want to scare any of them who might already be developing cold feet. "We don't want to show up in Coeur d'Alene until it's almost time to begin the work that you've come here to do. It's a small place, and the presence of twenty or so strangers would be noticed, and probably reported to Grobius, or one of his..." Morris searched for the right word.

  "Henchmen?" another woman said, and there was nervous laughter around the room.

  "That's not quite the term I was going to use," Morris said. "I didn't want you folks to think we'd all wandered into the middle of a Batman movie."

  Louder laughter this time. Morris was glad to hear that. It would help to reduce the extraordinary tension they must all be feeling. Who wouldn't? You get a phone call from somebody who says, "We'd like you to drop whatever you're doing and come out to Idaho immediately, to help prevent the end of the world." No pressure, or anything. No, siree.

  Once the laughter died away, he said, "Anyway, if we used Coeur d'Alene, or anyplace nearby, as our base, Grobius would probably hear about it, and we don't want him knowing we're in town, until it's too late. Besides, I understand that this many of you all in one place might be sensed by some of those on the other side."

  There were some nods. Morris turned to Ellie Robb, "I assume you've been putting out a cloaking spell to shield this room from the bad guys' radar?"

  Ellie gave him a crooked smile. "That's not exactly how it works, but, yes, the room is well shielded. None of those from the Left-Hand Path should become aware of our presence."

  Another woman, a pert-looking twenty-something, raised her hand. "So, when do we leave here?"

  Morris looked to Ellie again. "You said their revels should start at nine, right?"

  "That's right," she said. "It's traditional. Three hours to do... what they do, and it all stops at midnight."

  "This year, the party's going to break up early," Morris said.

  Someone from the back asked, "How are we gonna get there, anyway?"

  "I rented three Ford Econoline vans. We leave at eight sharp, so please be ready, with all the gear you think you'll need."

  A Latino woman grinned at him. "Gear? How do you know we call it that?"

  "One of your Sisters is a good friend of mine." There was something in his voice that told some of the more discerning Sisters just how worried for Libby Chastain he was.

  "Three vans, Quincey?" Ellie Robb asked. "Not my business, but I'm pretty sure we could all fit in two, if they're the big ones."

  "I'm sure you could," Morris told her. "But with three, if one of them has mechanical trouble or a flat tire on the way, we can just stop the caravan and transfer its passengers to the other two vans. We won't lose much time, that way."

  Ellie pursed her lips, then nodded slowly. "Not bad. Not bad, at all. I begin to see why Libby speaks so highly of you."

  "Thanks," Morris said. "And if everything goes just right tonight, maybe she'll have the chance to do it again."

  Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

  2:40pm

  Libby Chastain, shackled hand and foot to the met
al bed frame, used meditation techniques to quell the incipient panic within her. She had relied on the same disciplines to slow her metabolic rate, and was thus able to avoid the discomfort, not to mention the odor, of voiding her bladder or bowels. Periodically, she tensed and released her major muscle groups, one after another, to keep her body from growing stiff in its confinement.

  She had not been greatly worried about Pardee's threat to have her raped, whether by humans or demons. The only one Pardee wanted hurting Libby Chastain was Pardee himself. And he intended to hurt her very badly, indeed.

  If she had been wrong about the rape, Libby could have used some other techniques the Sisterhood had taught her, to lose consciousness at will, and thus avoid at least the immediate horrors of sexual assault. But rape would have caused her another problem that could not be overcome through meditation and self-hypnosis, so Libby was doubly glad that her estimate of Pardee's character had proved accurate.

  The shackles securing her had been made far too strong, first by the manufacturer and then by Pardee's magic, for Libby to have any realistic hope of freeing herself. Her only chance, slim though it was, would come when she was on the altar of sacrifice, in the seconds between when Pardee removed her clothing (to humiliate her and make her disembowelment easier) and pulled off her gag (to hear her pleas for mercy, followed by her screams when mercy was not forthcoming) before plunging his blade into her body. Libby made herself visualize the scene, Pardee's likely behavior, and her own desperate actions, which could be varied depending on the specifics of the situation.

  When the time came, Libby would have to be very quick. But if she managed somehow to be just quick enough...