by Ray Garton
Between thumb and forefinger, he held one of the black rusted nails from Redferne’s casket. He touched the tip of the nail to the sole of her squirming bare foot.
“Virtuous idea, this,” he said.
Then he pushed the nail all the way down with his thumb.
Kassandra’s scream was the most gruesome Redferne had ever heard and he pressed himself to the cold granite monument, aching for her.
“Redferne!” the warlock called.
He turned and saw him placing the tip of another nail to Kassandra’s foot as she screamed, “You fucker, you fucker, you—”
“Stop!” Redferne shouted, heading for the wall. He stopped at the jagged opening, facing his enemy.
The warlock said, “What you hold for what I hold. A straight swap of goods.”
Kassandra writhed in his hold, trying to speak, but choked by pain.
“Your offer seems light, Warlock. All will die should I give these pages up.”
“What, the Uncreation? Redferne, you disappoint me. Only the daft believe such things. Now. The pages. Give them up.”
“Don’t you dare!” Kassandra cried. “Don’t you fuckin’—”
The warlock pressed his foot down on her head, crushing her face into the damp earth, shutting her up.
“Believe this, Redferne. Her death shall make all others seem like pink-tea parties. And you—” He pointed an accusing finger at Redferne. “—you who stand there cow-like on hallowed earth—you shall hear every whimper, every cry, every glorious gush of fluids I might possibly wring from her dying body.” He turned Kassandra over, grasped her neck, and held her in the air like a rag doll. “See her, Redferne! Her eyes . . . lips . . . her breasts . . . not unlike those of someone you once knew. Someone we both . . . knew.”
Redferne looked at Kassandra. There was a certain resemblance. It was more emotional than physical; he saw in her face the same horror he’d seen in Marian’s during her last moments of life.
“What say you, Redferne? Does she live? Or does she join sweet Marian in the Hereafter?”
Redferne gave the warlock a deadly stare, then placed the stack of pages on the wall’s broken edge.
“Take them,” he said, his voice weakened by defeat.
The warlock looked from the pages to Redferne and back again, as if searching for a trick. Finding none, he tossed Kassandra aside roughly.
She hit the ground and rolled.
As the warlock smiled defiantly at the pages, Redferne’s gut burned with anger and hatred and, voice unsteady, he said, “But take them by hand.”
“What? How do you mean?” He was amused, but curious.
“No spells, no flying, no magic. Take them if you’re able.”
“Ah, now who makes the hollow offer, Redferne? You’ve given up nothing.”
Keeping his eyes on the warlock, Redferne took the dagger from his boot and threw it away.
“Now, Warlock. Take the pages if you’re able.”
The warlock clenched his fists at his sides and the semen-like fluid began to dribble between his fingers again, slapping noisily to the ground.
“So. You fear me,” Redferne said.
“ ’Tis I who others fear.”
“Not you. The magic.”
The warlock opened his fists and the flow stopped. He stepped to the very edge of the graveyard’s hallowed ground, his eyes boring into Redferne’s.
“Having waited so long for this . . .” He nodded, reaching for the pages. “. . . aye, ’twill be wonderful to linger on—”
With lightning suddenness, Redferne slammed four quick punches into the warlock’s face, catching him off guard. The warlock stumbled backward, arms flailing, blood splattered beneath his nose. He howled angrily, covering his face with both hands as—
—Redferne leaped over the broken wall and continued his assault.
It was a clumsy fight; the warlock, unaccustomed to combat, kicked and clawed frantically while Redferne kept his back to the pages, protecting them. Unexpectedly, the warlock landed a blow to Redferne’s jaw, sending him reeling backward and over the wall.
On his knees in an instant, Redferne scooped up a handful of consecrated earth and spun around, flinging it into the warlock’s face.
The warlock cried out, clawing at his eyes to clear them as—
—Redferne swung one fist up hard, burying it between the warlock’s legs and—
—he screamed and fell, leaning forward to retch sickeningly as—
—Redferne closed a fist over the warlock’s hair and dragged him over the wall, dropping him face up and straddling him, fighting to hold him down.
The instant the warlock touched the ground, he began writhing like a beetle on its back, screaming miserably as the hallowed earth began to burn him.
Redferne slapped a hand onto the warlock’s face and turned his head, pushing his left cheek into the ground.
Curls of smoke rose with a hiss as the warlock’s face was scorched and he fought even harder, eyes wide and desperate.
“Fear, Warlock?” Redferne growled. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me—”
The warlock clamped a hand over Redferne’s face and a gush of thick tasteless fluid filled his mouth and nostrils, tumbling him backward, blinding him, choking him, clogging his throat like a gout of snot.
Through the blurring veil that covered his eyes, Redferne saw the warlock stagger to his feet.
Moving toward Redferne, the left side of his face charred to a bubbling blackness, the warlock said, “Our rules have changed . . .”
Several yards away, Kassandra was trying to get up, still dizzy from her fall. Unspeakable pain shot up her leg from the nail in her foot.
Below her, the bay made a sound like the smacking of hungry lips.
Through the high keening scream of her pain, she could hear the two men struggling atop the small knoll above. She crawled up the incline until she could see them in the moonlight. They were on the other side of the break in the wall, Redferne on the ground, coughing and vomiting violently, the warlock reaching for the pages stacked on the broken edge. Something glittered on his finger.
The moonlight was gently reflected on something small and round.
Kassandra got to her knees and felt something dangling from her waist, looked down and saw Redferne’s whip coming untied. Babbling to herself, trying to talk away the pain, she pulled the whip off and stood, keeping her weight off her injured foot. Hobbling, crying out with each lurching step, she neared the wall and readied the whip as—
—the warlock’s fingers curled around the stacked pages, the black burned patch of flesh on his face glistening in the night, and—
—Kassandra swung the whip to its full length and its end wrapped around the warlock’s neck, slapping his throat and sizzling viciously. She jerked it taut, strangling the warlock’s scream, but before she could let go of the whip—
—the warlock grabbed on with both hands and pulled hard.
Kassandra tumbled forward, rolled over the ground, and collided with the wall.
After freeing himself from the whip, the warlock bent down and swept her up in his arms. The world tilted around her as he lifted her high over his head and, with an infuriated roar, threw her into the air.
Kassandra felt suspended in space while everything raced by her for long silent seconds and, in that dead and solitary space of time, she wondered, quite startlingly, if she’d left her insulin kit behind somewhere because she’d been so caught up in the chase, in the need to retrieve her bracelet. She wondered and worried for what seemed a very long time, then—
—she slammed to the ground and rolled once and splashed into the blood-freezing bay.
The warlock tore the first two thirds of the Grand Grimoire from his side where he’d tied it and placed it on top of the other stack.
Redferne was still retching and coughing on the ground and would be for a while, the warlock assumed; the ectoplasm was too thick to spit out with much ease.
&n
bsp; Standing over the pages, the warlock watched . . .
. . . waited . . .
The pages shot into the air explosively and with a sound like the wings of a thousand bats, they began to reshuffle, preparing to reveal to the warlock the Lost Name of God.
They slammed to the ground all at once, all six hundred and sixty-six of them.
The earth itself trembled fearfully beneath the warlock’s feet.
A bone dry wind began to blow, neither hot nor cold, but strong, bending the tree branches to their limits.
The warlock smiled as he bent to pick up the pages and claim his reward.
Soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably, Kassandra crawled up the grassy knoll until she could see her shoulder bag on the ground beside Redferne’s defiled casket. Then she stood and tried placing her weight on the side of her left foot, groaning each time, hurrying toward the bag.
At the wall, she could see the warlock lifting the pages from the ground as a strong wind suddenly whipped across the graveyard, sending up sworls of dead leaves. His back was to her, but when he spoke, the wind carried his voice like a bad smell. . .
“I am He, of empty cribs and stillborn foal!” the warlock shouted, eyes glaring at the pages in his hands. “I am He, whose coming the stars hath foretold!”
On the top page, a single letter began to char through the strange veined parchment, sending a tentacle of smoke upward; it smelled of burning flesh. As he continued, another letter began to appear.
And another . . .
Kassandra tore the bag open, plunged her hand inside and removed the insulin kit. Her sigh of relief sounded more like a groan as she started back down to the bay.
Behind her, the warlock’s voice rang on the growing wind . . .
. . . “I am He, with heart forged by blackest coal!”
A fourth letter rose to the top page. They were in no order and made no sense, but the warlock went on with confidence.
“I am He, who maketh whole the glorious goal of Satan’s unborn soul!”
By the time he was finished, two more letters had appeared.
The earth shivered with a low rumble.
“Now,” the warlock said, “reveal unto me the name of God . . .”
On hands and knees, Redferne spat out the last of the vile substance that had filled his mouth and nostrils; a thick, creamy residue still lined his mouth, but he could breathe.
And he could hear.
He knew, from the very tone of the warlock’s voice, that there were only seconds left before the warlock spoke the name aloud and, although he felt helpless, he called upon his faith in God and dove toward the warlock, who—
—waved a hand in the air and sent Redferne flying backward, legs kicking and arms flapping like dead useless wings. He landed with a sickening crunch in his casket, crushing his own rotted corpse, and the smell of decay rose around him.
He tried to scramble out of the casket but knew it was too late when he saw the warlock’s triumphant grin as . . .
. . . the seventh and final letter sizzled onto the page, then the entire page began to blacken and smoke. It was a thick smoke, almost liquid, and it danced in the wind before clearing away.
When the smoke was gone, the warlock realized the jumbled letters had shifted position and now formed a word.
A name.
God’s name.
A deafening rumble shook the earth; headstones cracked and pieces of the stone wall thunked to the ground.
“I know You!” The warlock bellowed, stabbing a finger at the heavens.
Deadly black clouds gathered above, hiding the moon and stars behind a roiling blanket of thunder.
“I know Your name, and I know the word that shall undo all that You have wrought!” With an orgasmic tremor in his voice that shuddered through his entire body, the warlock screamed, “Yea, I knooowww Theeee!”
Through the din of the growing storm, he heard Redferne’s voice, pathetic and thin, calling from the casket, “Nay! Nay, nay, say it not!”
Grinning, eyes aflame with victory, the warlock drew in a breath and reared back his head to call out the name of God . . .
26
A Shot in the Dark
The pain blurred Kassandra’s vision and finally drove her to her knees—
—at the warlock’s feet.
She looked up as he lifted his eyes to the sky and filled his lungs to shout the name.
Kassandra tried to draw on some untapped reservoir of strength, telling herself she was not only able to stand, she had to stand because clutched in each hand were two of her syringes and she would only have one chance to use them. She had to make it work.
But she couldn’t stand.
The pain was too great and she was weakened by her fear and exhaustion.
One final attempt to rise to her feet tumbled her forward and slammed her face into the warlock’s crotch.
She felt it under his pants . . .
. . . and she was horrified.
The warlock’s head snapped downward and she could feel his searing gaze.
He chuckled and said, “One more, perchance? Before the Uncreation?”
Kassandra looked up in time to see his hand reaching toward her and she saw the ring, Chas’s ring, still darkened by her friend’s blood, and she brought all four syringes up hard, plunging them between the warlock’s legs.
The needles vanished into the long mound of flesh beneath his trousers.
She pushed the plungers all the way in, injecting the contents into his genitals.
The warlock screamed.
The ground beneath Kassandra lurched like a drunkard, as if the earth itself were recoiling from the warlock’s pain.
He staggered backward, hugging the Grand Grimoire. The syringes dangled from his crotch, firmly imbedded in his enormous organ. He managed to keep from falling and quickly plucked the syringes out with one hand, inspecting them closely.
As lightning clawed the blackboard sky, the warlock tossed the syringes aside and grinned down at Kassandra with blistering contempt. When he opened his mouth to laugh, all that came out was a thick, strangled gurgle.
Kassandra saw it first, the smoke, and crawled backward away from him.
The glimmer of cancerous glee left the warlock’s eyes as he looked down at himself. He saw it, too.
Dirty smoke was curling up from the place where the needles had been and the crotch of the trousers was burning open. Black swollen flesh bulged from the growing hole. The warlock clutched himself between the legs with one hand, bending forward protectively. He tried to speak, but was able to force out only one word in a voice of wet sandpaper. “Wh-what—” He seemed shocked by his own voice; his eyes widened in dismay and disbelief and he dropped the Grand Grimoire as he lifted both hands to his throat.
The wind quickly began to calm.
The thunder was silenced.
Clacking his teeth together angrily, the warlock held his hands out before him; thick smoke rose from his palms and the veins in his wrists ballooned. One of them split open and sprayed blood over his face. His lips began to swell and turn a light shade of purple.
He looked at Kassandra and opened his mouth; his blackening tongue lolled over his lower lip uselessly. There was no more malice in his eyes, only desperate, silent questions.
Moving farther backward, Kassandra spat, “Salt water, asshole!”
Strong hands took hold of Kassandra’s arms and dragged her away. When they were at a safe distance, Redferne hunkered down beside her and put an arm around her shoulder.
The warlock tried to scream as smoke wafted off his charring skin. His tongue looked like a large chunk of overcooked meat in his mouth. He rose from the ground slowly, fighting the changes taking place in his body. His furious and indignant face began to fall apart beneath the smoke; an ear dropped off and his nose blended flatly with the rest of his black face.
A flame belched from his chest, igniting his clothes and spreading until he was a writh
ing mass of fire hovering six feet from the ground.
Then he dropped.
He lay still, the flames crackling over his curled up body.
As if sucked into a vacuum, the last of the flames disappeared suddenly.
Redferne helped Kassandra up and, together, they made their silent way to the quickly decomposing corpse. Redferne stopped to retrieve his dagger and, a few steps later, they stood over what remained of the warlock.
Crispy skin was peeling away from blackened muscle tissue, which was peeling away from crumbling bones.
Kassandra grimaced and started to turn away when—
—the charred skull snapped around to face them. The empty smoking eyesockets glowed with a soft golden light and something quickly began to form in each hole.
Eyes.
Sinister golden cat-like eyes.
The skinless jaw moved puppet-like; teeth fell out and chittered together and the remainder of his tongue—a stiff black sliver of meat—flopped up and down.
The voice that spoke was not the warlock’s.
It belonged to nothing human.
“One day . . . I shall reclaim . . . that which is miiiine . . .”
Redferne stepped forward and crushed the skull beneath his heel and the entire body crumbled to a lumpy pile of black powder.
An icy breeze swept some of the dust over the ground.
Kassandra turned to Redferne and leaned against him, crying. Redferne supported her weight as he led her to the broken wall and seated her on a flat edge. He knelt before her, took her in his arms, and Kassandra sobbed against his shoulder until she could cry no more.
Gulping breaths and sniffling, Kassandra muttered, “Ding dong . . . the witch is dead.”
He gave no response; she expected none.
Moving back so he could look into her tear-swollen eyes, Redferne said, “You are owed a debt greater than any will know. Any save one. From me, then—” He placed a hand aside her face, wiped a tear, and stroked her cheek gently. “—a world of thanks, Kassandra.” He touched two fingertips to her eyelids, closing them, then leaned forward and kissed each eye, his lips lingering. “You are a good and fine woman,” he whispered.
