by Ray Garton
When it stopped, Redferne bent and looked at it closely.
“There is no seam,” he said. “No sign of a tear whatsoe’er.”
Malachi climbed into the attic and said, “Find something?”
“A page,” Redferne said.
“Ah. Yep. Saw him up here. He was . . . reading. Lotsa pages was floating around him.”
Redferne attacked the broken trunk suddenly, startling Kassandra. She was still recovering from the shock of watching a torn and bleeding page repair itself.
Breaking the trunk open even more, Redferne muttered, “Dear God, a false bottom. It was here.”
“What, Redferne?” Kassandra asked. “What the fuck’s goin’ on here?”
Redferne stood, clearly shaken. “He’s come for it. Blessings of heaven, ’tis the Grand Grimoire he’s after.”
“The Grand Grimwhat?”
“A spellbook. All witches keep grimoires. But one is indestructible. One is the Bible of black magic. The Grand Grimoire. Always, witches have lusted for it. And now here we find one page. One . . . lone . . . page . . .”
“So what’s it doing here?”
“ ’Twas last held by a Boston church—the West End Church. I urged them to third the book, thus thirding the chance of a witch thieving it. But the pages were to be kept on hallowed ground, not scattered about the landside.” He turned to Malachi. “He’s been reading it?”
“Yep.”
“Then his powers are strengthened.”
“Wait,” Kassandra said, “I don’t get it. If this thing is so bitchin’ to witches, why would the warlock leave a page here?”
Redferne considered her question, looking up at the window.
“He would not,” he said quietly, then, “Out. Both of you. Now.” He gently shoved Kassandra to the trap door and steadied her as she climbed down.
“Redferne, what’s—does that mean he’s—is he—” Her climb down was so frantic and precarious that she couldn’t form a sentence.
Redferne pointed down at her and said, “Replace the pennies in your lips.”
As soon as Malachi was on his way down, Redferne slammed the door shut.
Malachi knelt on the floor, lifted his arms high, looked upward, and said, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .”
Fighting the stiffness in her fingers, Kassandra put the pennies between her lips again and stared, terrified, at the door.
Waiting . . .
The door slammed shut with a boom and, in a moment of anxious silence, Redferne spun in every direction, dagger ready, each shadow an enemy.
“Of all the curiosities here I’ve seen,” said a deep voice from above, “none has surprised me more than thee.”
Redferne looked up and saw the warlock in the rafters. He grinned in the darkness above.
“You pursue me with such persistence, Redferne.” He looked at the high open window. “But you’ve apparently forgotten witches fly.” He moved off one of the rafters and lightly began to descend, nearing the open window.
Redferne grabbed his whip and swept it upward through the air. The end of the whip caught one of the shutter latches and dragged it closed, leaving only a narrow opening.
“I forget nothing,” Redferne growled.
The warlock continued to descend slowly. As his feet touched the floor, he said, “Who appointed you executioner, Redferne? Hm? Who?”
The two men stared piercingly at one another for a moment, then Redferne lunged, pinning the warlock against the wall.
“ ’Twas you yourself,” he said, driving his dagger into the warlock’s side, “when one life too many did you steal.”
He moved back, taking his dagger with him, expecting to see pain in the warlock’s eyes, and blood on his clothes.
Instead, the warlock was grinning. He pulled his coat open to reveal two thirds of the Grand Grimoire strapped to his side, wrapped in a punctured cloth. The dagger had pierced the pages and they were bleeding, but already the lacerations were beginning to heal.
The warlock said, “It seems even two thirds can work marvels.” He stretched out a hand and the loose page on the floor fluttered through the air to him; he wrapped it up with the others, which were now completely healed. “There have been many changes of late, Redferne,” he said, lifting his hand again, aiming it at Redferne, “and, in truth, I rather fancy them.”
A bolt of gray viscous substance shot from the warlock’s hand and caught Redferne in the chest, slamming him backward into the nailed-shut door.
Redferne’s behind hit the floor, but he was up immediately, breathless and gasping and—
—the warlock moved forward, lifting his other hand and sending another bolt of gray slime—
—knocking Redferne against the door again, harder this time, and—
—Redferne heard the nails in the door release tiny screams as they were loosened from their holes and—
—he tried to get up again, but—
—the warlock hit him a third time, but with both hands and—
—Redferne was thrown against the door, but this time—
—it gave behind him and he left the attic and tumbled downward through the air outside . . .
18
Malachi’s Eyes Revisited
“Outside!” Kassandra shouted when she heard the crash, spitting the pennies from her mouth. She ran from the house as quickly as she could, heading for the front yard, where—
—Redferne lay groaning on the lawn in a scattering of broken tree branches.
She knelt at his side and whispered, “Redferne, you all right?”
His eyes widened in horror as he looked up and—
—the warlock appeared in the attic doorway, smiling. Kassandra was careful not to look in his eyes. He raised an arm and pointed at the weathervane on top of the house. It was nearly four feet long, of Early American design with delicately curled letters representing North and South which spun with the wind around a metal shaft. At the top, the vane came to a deadly sharp point. With a flick of the warlock’s wrist, the weathervane tore from the roof and cut through the air at a downward angle like a missile headed straight for—
—Redferne, who quickly rolled into Kassandra, pushing her on her ass with a grunt.
The vane plunged deep into the ground where Redferne had lain.
Redferne’s whip lay on the grass a few feet away and he crawled around Kassandra, snatched it up, and was on his feet in an instant. He bounded onto an outdoor table set up on the lawn and swung the whip to its full length.
The end wrapped snake-like around the warlock’s ankle, sizzling loudly as the salted leather scalded him, even through his pantleg.
The warlock cried out in pain and surprise, turning to go back in the attic, but—
—Redferne jerked the whip hard and—
—the warlock’s foot was pulled from under him and he began sliding down the slanted rooftop, kicking and unsuccessfully clawing for a hold until he fell from the house—
—and began to fly.
Kassandra stared in open-mouthed shock, not breathing for a long moment. Her senses had been assaulted by one impossible shock after another in the last couple days and, that morning, she’d thought she would be unable to take anymore. But now she watched the warlock flying at the end of Redferne’s whip like a kite on a string, and she felt queasy and light-headed.
Redferne held the whip tight in both hands, wrapping it around one wrist, his heels plowing trails in the lawn as the warlock dragged him across the yard and toward the front fence. Swinging on the whip like Tarzan on a vine, Redferne sailed over the fence and shouted back, “Kassandra! The vane!”
“What?”
“The weathervane!” His voice was growing faint with distance as the warlock pulled him across the driveway and toward the corral. “Take the vane from the ground,” he shouted, nearing the metal corral fence, his eyes looking over his shoulder, “and bring it hith—”
“Redferne, watch out for the—
”
He slammed into the fence and was knocked upward, still clutching the whip.
Kassandra got to her feet and hobbled toward the weathervane sticking from the ground as Malachi fetched his clawed hammer and held it defensively. Puffing for breath, Kassandra wrestled with the vane until it came loose, then she turned and saw—
—the warlock heading for the barn with Redferne in tow.
Redferne’s feet had left the ground and he was airborne as—
—the warlock flew into the square opening high in the front of the barn and—
—Redferne crashed into the barn wall, falling from the whip to the ground.
The whip disappeared into the barn as the warlock flew all the way through and out the back, rising high above the barn roof. Tendrils of dirty smoke were rising from his left ankle, where the whip was still firmly wrapped. He let out a bone chilling cry of agony.
Her entire body aching, Kassandra rushed to Redferne’s side and panted, “Why’d you let him get away?”
Redferne got to his feet growling and yanked the weathervane from her hand, stepping away from her and looking up.
Wrong thing to say, she thought.
The warlock sailed over the barn, then over them, dangling the whip.
Redferne broke into a run, grabbed the whip, and gave it a hard jerk.
The warlock bobbed in the air, startled, and Redferne threw the weathervane like a javelin, sending it—
—into the warlock’s back, directly between his shoulder blades. He stopped in the air, cursing, then fell into a downward spiral.
Before running to where the warlock would fall, Redferne tossed Kassandra a chastising glance and muttered derisively, “Let him get away . . .”
The moment the warlock hit ground, Redferne jammed a knee in his back and pulled the weathervane out of him, tossing it aside.
Kassandra and Malachi joined him; the old Mennonite was pale with fear, but gave a hand in holding the warlock down.
Redferne removed the thumblocks from his coat pocket, but the warlock’s struggles forced him to drop them and use both hands to keep him on the ground.
“May maggots fill your scrotum in Hell, Redferne,” the warlock spat.
“Sticks and stones, asshole, sticks and stones,” Kassandra panted, searching his pockets. “Where’s my fuckin’ bracelet?”
She plunged her hand into the warlock’s right coat pocket and removed something wrapped in a soggy handkerchief, unfolded it and—
—dropped it to the ground, suddenly retching.
There were two bulbous eyes wrapped in the handkerchief. They had been crushed and were leaking slimy yellow fluids streaked with blood.
And, as if trying to align themselves properly, the eyes were squirming in their fluids, making a moist smacking sound. After a moment of flopping together on the handkerchief, the gold colored eyes became still and glassy.
As Kassandra knelt down to search further—but more carefully, now—the warlock turned his face toward her and rasped, “ ’Tis your bracelet you seek, slut?”
She started to face him and bark a retort, but stopped, remembering Redferne’s warning about his eyes . . .
As if he knew he’d get nowhere with her, the warlock turned his eyes to Malachi and—
—the frightened old man made the mistake of returning the look.
“Nay, nay,” Redferne cried, “look not into his—”
—but it was too late.
Shooting from the outer corner of Malachi’s right eye, a spray of blood reddened the air before his face, then—
—a trickle of blood ran from the inner corner of his left eye and—
—he dropped the hammer and covered his face with his hands, screaming and smearing blood over his cheeks as he collapsed to the ground.
“Merciful heaven!” Redferne shouted, rushing to Malachi’s side—
—leaving Kassandra to hold the warlock down alone.
She stuttered, “Huh-hey . . . g-guys?”
The warlock shed her like a blanket and scrambled away laughing, and in that instant, Kassandra spotted—
—her charm bracelet glinting on his right wrist.
He dragged the whip with him a few yards, then stopped and kicked it away.
Kassandra screamed, “He’s getting away!”
“Keys!” Redferne ordered. His hand was clamped over Malachi’s eyes, damming the flow of blood. “Find me brass keys! With them I can remove the hex!”
“But him! The warlock! He’s getting away!”
The warlock was already starting up a hill beyond the barn, stumbling more than flying, hobbled by his wounds.
Redferne watched him go as he held Malachi; he was torn. “He’ll die should I leave.”
Muttering, “Christ, I’m too old for this,” Kassandra started after him herself.
“The hammer!” Redferne called.
She turned back. “What?”
Redferne handed her the hammer, then reached into his pocket for some of the nails he’d gotten from Malachi to nail the attic door shut, and gave her those, too. “Where you find his tracks, nail the earth deeply!”
“A nail? C’mon, a shitty little nail’s not gonna—”
“Take the blessed hammer and do it! He can be crippled.”
With no time to argue, Kassandra clutched the hammer and nails in her hands and headed after the warlock . . .
19
Tracks
Hammer in hand, Kassandra reached the crest of the small hill well after the warlock had disappeared on the other side.
In the little valley below the hill, Kassandra saw a small railroad station. Strings of idle boxcars waited to be taken to their destinations. A few outbuildings were bunched together at the bottom of the hill. Railroad tracks stretched into the distance.
As she trotted down the hill, a train chugged in the distance, coming closer.
At the buildings, Kassandra peered through the dirty windows, careful to stay out of sight. She saw no one, but heard voices somewhere inside, laughing and talking.
Staying in the shadows, she walked along a string of weather-beaten boxcars and scanned the damp ground for tracks.
There were plenty of footprints all around her, but they were all big and waffled.
The train arrived, stopping somewhere in the jungle of boxcars. A man’s voice called out in the distance and another replied.
Good, Kassandra thought, maybe they’ll be too busy loading cars, or whatever they do, to notice me.
Kassandra stopped, staring at the ground.
One print stood out among the others. It was a bare footprint.
Kassandra remembered Redferne’s whip scalding the warlock’s left ankle.
The print had been made by a left foot.
Deciding to give it a shot, Kassandra got down on one knee and poised a nail over the footprint. One swing of the hammer buried the nail deep and from somewhere ahead . . .
. . . the warlock screamed, slamming his head against the wall of the boxcar. He held his left foot in both hands and rocked back and forth in the corner of the boxcar as his scream became a throaty gurgle.
Redferne had found him, he was certain. The pain in his foot was too great for any other explanation to suffice.
He was already crippled by the burns he’d sustained from Redferne’s whip and the deep gash in his back where the weathervane had impaled him. That was why he’d crawled into the boxcar, to take a moment to adjust to his wounds. He was covered with dirt from the falls he’d taken and his body ached for rest.
But now he’d been found.
He would have to move on.
The warlock tried to stand, but immediately fell back down screaming again . . .
. . . when Kassandra hammered a nail into another footprint.
She heard the scream and laughed, “Fuckin’ A plus.”
She moved ahead, drove another nail and . . .
. . . the warlock threw himself against the boxcar wall in a fren
zy of pain and anger, pounding great dents into the walls with his fists and tearing floorboards loose with his bare hands, spitting obscenities in a shrill screaming voice as . . .
Kassandra pounded another nail, smiling, enjoying herself more and more.
Walking along beside the boxcars in a sort of squat from footprint to footprint, Kassandra pounded another nail and heard—
—nothing.
There was no scream.
She pounded again.
Still nothing.
She moved to the next track and tried again, then listened.
The warlock did not scream . . .
. . . because he was lying on his back, knees curled up to his chest, pressing the soles of his feet hard against a floorboard he held across them with both hands, muttering incantations in the language of the Grand Grimoire.
There was no pain.
The magic worked.
The warlock silently praised the power of Satan as . . .
. . . Kassandra stood, puzzled by her new failure, and walked on, looking at the footprints.
One of them looked different than the others; it was smeared into the damp earth. Beside it was another impression, this one also smeared, but longer and deeper. At the end of it was a small round crater, not very deep but about the size of a man’s head.
The warlock had fallen.
“Gotcha, motherfucker,” Kassandra whispered. She squatted down and pounded a nail into the headprint and heard him howl in agony.
She was closer to him now because she could hear him . . .
. . . throwing himself against the boxcar walls, clutching his head, his foot now forgotten. He finally curled up in a ball in the corner, his body shuddering as the pain slowly subsided.
Before it was completely gone . . .
. . . Kassandra pounded again, but instead of hearing his scream, she heard a great metallic lurch as the boxcars beside her slowly began to move . . .
. . . jerking the floor beneath the warlock’s feet and sending him headfirst toward the boxcar’s open door. Blinded by pain, he threw himself to the right, slamming into the wall then falling and rolling to the door where—
—he stopped, unconscious.
