by J. L. Doty
He was now close enough that the low background of the spirit interaction was enough to guide him. He didn’t take the elevator because he didn’t yet know what floor, but he’d learn that as he got closer. He started up the stairs moving slowly. If this fool were as dangerous as he suspected, he didn’t want to alert the fellow to his presence inadvertently.
It wasn’t the second floor, or the third, but on the fourth the source of the broadcast was no longer above him, so he walked carefully down the hall, stopping at each apartment door and extending his arcane senses carefully into the apartment, then moving on to the next. When he found it there was no question. But only then, with just the wood of a single door separating them, only then did he sense the fellow had not summoned some sort of spirit, only then did he understand the true danger the poor fool had called into this life. He’d summoned a demon from the Netherworld, a succubus, and it was that that prompted the impulse to knock.
The knock on the door startled Paul. He hadn’t had any visitors in more than a year, the last being a steady stream of friends coming to console him for Suzanna’s death, and then two months later again for Cloe’s death—
No. Don’t think about that. That was the past, a past that didn’t exist anymore. They weren’t dead, not any more, not completely dead, not truly dead.
He looked up from his plate. Suzanna and Cloe had vanished and were no longer seated at the table. And gone too were their plates and utensils. In fact, the table in front of their seats was completely bare. Paul looked down at his own plate, stared for a moment at the half-finished ham and cheese sandwich Suzanna had made.
The doorbell rang, followed by a repeat of the knocking. He stood, hastily swallowing the bite of sandwich he’d taken before the first knock, dropped his napkin on the table and headed for the living room. At the front door he paused and peered through the peephole, was surprised to see an older man whom he didn’t recognize standing in the hall. He wasn’t a neighbor Paul had seen before, and he didn’t look like a salesman. But then perhaps he was a new neighbor who’d recently moved in.
At the first knock his sense of the demon vanished. He waited for several seconds, then rang the doorbell and knocked again. He could be patient now; his sense of urgency had fled with the demon. The lens of the peephole darkened as the occupant looked him over. Then the door opened slowly to reveal a young man looking at him inquisitively. “What can I do for you?” the young man asked politely.
The knock had been an impulse and the older man hesitated. The young man appeared to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in slacks and a nice shirt, handsome, well groomed with neatly trimmed brownish hair, broad shoulders and a trim waist—perhaps even a bit too trim, as if he’d lost weight recently. And he didn’t look like a fool, or an idiot, but he was a sorcerer—there was no doubt of that—and he was summoning demons without the proper protections. At a loss for words, the old man spoke haltingly. “I’m . . . Walter McGowan.”
The young man’s eyes narrowed. “And again, what can I do for you, Mr. McGowan?”
Walter didn’t know the young man’s name. “I . . . just wanted to . . . talk to you about . . .”
“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
McGowan had to make this young fellow understand. “But what you were doing is dangerous, very dangerous.”
“What I was doing was having dinner with my family. And I don’t see how that’s dangerous, nor is it really any of your business. Now, forgive me, but I’m going to go back to that.” The young man closed the door carefully, almost softly.
On the way out, now that he knew the apartment number, McGowan stopped and checked the mailboxes: Conklin, something Conklin. At least he knew the young man’s name.
Paul returned to the dinner table and sat down. Suzanna and Cloe were gone. And they wouldn’t have just left, not vanished like that, not if they’d truly been there. It was a blatant reminder of what he already knew but sometimes forgot: he was nuts, bug-fuck nuts, and getting worse by the day.
He finished the ham and cheese sandwich alone and in silence.
Mikhail stood in the shadows and almost held his breath as the Old Wizard walked out of the apartment building and up the street. Like a small animal in the presence of a dangerous predator, he remained still and motionless long after the old man had strolled out of sight. Mikhail knew his own limitations, and following the powerful, old wizard was a dangerous undertaking. But the instructions he’d been given were quite specific, and it would be even more dangerous to fail to follow those orders.
After the street had been silent and empty for several minutes, he retrieved his cell phone and dialed a number he knew well. His boss answered the call. “Karpov here.”
Karpov had chosen to speak English, so Mikhail did the same in a thick Russian accent. “Mr. Karpov, it’s Mikhail. I followed the old man to an apartment building. He did exactly as you said, appeared to be tracking something.”
“Ah,” Karpov said. “He’s done our work for us, found the rogue and led us to him. That was much faster than trying to track him ourselves.”
“Do you want me to go into the building, sniff out the rogue and kill him?”
“No, Mikhail. He’s probably out of your league, too dangerous to kill without preparation. Just remember the address and you can come in off the street. We’ll kill the rogue another night.”
Chapter 2: Convergence
The two guards standing at the entrance to the queen’s apartments were just ceremonial, for while Magreth walked the halls of the Seelie Court, none could hope to harm her. They both wore the ceremonial armor of their ancestral houses, layered scales of silver and topaz and lapis lazuli, with masked helms that hid their faces completely, swords made of the finest silver strapped to their sides. They had competed for the honor to stand guard at the Summer Queen’s residence.
Cadilus stopped between them, facing the tall doors to the residence. There was no need to knock, for Magreth and her attendants would know he awaited admittance. After only a heartbeat the doors opened slowly to reveal one of Magreth’s ladies-in-waiting, a pretty, young thing, probably no more than a hundred years old. Cadilus nodded politely and said, “Please tell Her Majesty I have news regarding developments on the Mortal Plane.”
She smiled warmly, was still too young to have acquired the cold and hardened exterior of the more experienced Seelie. “She is already aware of your desire for audience. You may enter.”
The walls of the palace began to dissolve, to shift and shimmer, to change and realign in a different form. Beneath his feet he stood on a path of crushed, white gravel in a sumptuous garden of spring blossoms. He was now walking, and beside him walked Magreth.
“You have news?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, though no developments of great import. Merely bits of information that begin to form a picture, though, as yet, an incomplete one.”
“And?” she asked impatiently, her tone flat and hard.
“The Old Wizard is involved in some way, along with some of his colleagues. And it appears the unpleasant Russians are putting their fingers in the pie as well. They’re looking for someone, some sort of young wizard, and I think that when they find him they’re going to kill him.”
“Should we intervene?”
“I think not, Your Majesty. It’s a wholly mortal affair, probably only loosely connected to our concerns regarding the uneasiness in the Three Realms. And what’s one dead mortal wizard to us?”
As they strolled down the gravel strewn path she looked his way and flames danced in her eyes again. “Perhaps we should take this young wizard captive before they kill him. We might learn something.”
“That’s an option, Your Majesty. But first we must locate him, and I’m afraid the Old Wizard and those Russians are ahead of us there. It’s probably impossible to get to him before they kill him. They are, after all, more powerful in their own Realm, while we are weaker there.”
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She stopped and turned to face him. “I understand. But see what you can do.”
He bowed lightly. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
The walls of the garden dissolved and he was now strolling away from the queen’s apartments.
Paul paused for a moment in the lobby of the office building on Market Street, looked at his reflection in one of the floor-to-ceiling windows separating him from the sidewalk outside. His tie was straight, suit neatly pressed; appropriate for an interview, though perhaps a bit more formal than day-to-day attire. But he didn’t know this Dayandalous fellow so he wanted to ere on the side of proper and conservative. He headed for the elevators, got one right away and pressed the button for the forty-fourth floor.
Dayandalous had called him yesterday, said he’d spoken with Strath, said Strath had given Paul an excellent recommendation. Paul had called Strath, and at first Strath claimed to have no knowledge of any Dayandalous, didn’t recall having had such a conversation.
“That’s odd,” Paul said. “I’m sure I got the name right: Dayandalous. Fellow said he spoke with you yesterday, spoke at some length.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” Strath said. “That’s right. We did talk. I just forgot, one of those senior moments. You know?”
What Paul knew was that Strath didn’t have senior moments. The old fellow was as sharp as a tack. Paul chalked it up to the fact that Strath was quite busy, and Paul’s job search wasn’t the highest priority on his list.
Like Paul, Strath had not previously heard of this Dayandalous fellow. He clearly wasn’t part of the local architectural community, and Paul had been unable to learn anything about him prior to this interview. Strange that, but nevertheless, an interview was better than no interview at all. He figured he could learn a bit about the fellow’s firm during the process.
Suite 4401, Dayandalous had told him. When the elevator doors opened it was obvious suite 4401 occupied the entire forty-fourth floor. There was no hallway leading to other suites; the elevator opened directly into a large and luxurious lobby for Dayandalous’ firm. Behind a darkly wooded desk sat a receptionist that could’ve made it into any modeling agency in the world. As Paul approached her she smiled.
“I’m Paul Conklin. I have an appointment with Mr. Dayandalous.”
Her smile widened. “Yes, Mr. Conklin. Dayandalous is expecting you. Please have a seat . . .” she waved her hand at a couch against one wall, “ . . . and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Paul sat down, picked up a magazine and started leafing through it, not really paying attention to anything in it. He didn’t have to wait more than a minute or two before a tall black man in a dark business suit approached him. Paul stood. “Paul Conklin?” the man asked politely, sticking out his hand. “I’m Dayandalous.” The fellow had the deep and resonant voice of a Shakespearean actor.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dayandalous,” Paul said, shaking his hand. Dayandalous was tall, six-four, six-five, broad shouldered, trim waist, early middle age, wearing a suit that must’ve cost a month of Paul’s wages, probably Armani or something like that. And Dayandalous was black. Not the black of an African American man whose skin is actually brown, but real black, true black, carbon black. Paul looked into Dayandalous’ eyes, and for a moment he thought they were amber, like the eyes of a cat, with oddly shaped pupils. But when he blinked and looked again they were simple, ordinary blue, with normal round pupils. As Dayandalous ushered Paul into his office he thought, No hallucinations now, Paulie-boy. Save that for the privacy of your own home.
Dayandalous sat Paul in a comfortable chair facing a desk the size of an aircraft carrier, then sat down behind the desk. Dayandalous held up a couple of sheets of paper. “You’ve got a nice resume, Mr. Conklin.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dayandalous.”
“It’s just Dayandalous. No mister.”
“Certainly, sir.” Paul had a hundred questions, but interviews don’t go that way. The interviewer gets to ask questions first, and the interviewee answers, tries to be polite and make a good impression. If Paul did make a good impression, then he’d get a chance to ask some questions of his own, and if Dayandalous was truly interested, maybe a lot of questions.
Dayandalous questioned him rather thoroughly, though in a nice way. In addition to Paul’s architectural credentials he was quite interested in Suzanna and Cloe’s deaths, not asking for crude, impolite details, but focusing more on Paul’s reaction. And that was understandable, since everyone knew Paul had gone into a funk for an overly long time, and anyone would want some reassurance before hiring him. But at one point Dayandalous raised an eyebrow and said, “Well it’s good to know you’re not seeing things that aren’t there.”
It startled Paul so much that before he could stop he blurted out angrily, “What do you mean by that?”
Dayandalous’ expression turned stony, and again Paul had the impression of amber eyes with vertically slit pupils, but this time the pupils flared dark red instead of black. But when Paul looked again Dayandalous’ eyes were once again blue, simple blue with simple black pupils. Dayandalous smiled warmly.
Paul felt suddenly calm, couldn’t recall what had upset him so, and since Dayandalous seemed unconcerned he let it go.
Dayandalous stood. “Well thank you for coming in, Paul.”
Paul also stood, because that was what he was supposed to do. He was certain of it. Dayandalous escorted him back to the elevators, personally called an elevator for him, kept up a polite and charming banter while they waited for it. But in the back of Paul’s thoughts he kept thinking there was something he’d forgotten, and it wasn’t until he stepped into the lobby back on the ground floor that he realized he hadn’t learned anything about Dayandalous’ firm, hadn’t asked even one question.
He turned around, went back to the elevators and called one, thinking he could at least get a brochure or something from the receptionist. When the elevator arrived he stepped into it, and was going to press the button for the forty-fourth floor, but there was no such button. He stood there for a moment staring at the buttons, but they ended at thirty-eight. Perhaps one of the other elevators went all the way to the top. There were six elevators, and he patiently waited for each, but not one went beyond the thirty-eighth floor. He searched the lobby carefully, thinking he’d taken a wrong turn and there was another bank of elevators. But that wasn’t the case.
Paul asked the security guard in the lobby, “How do I get to the forty-fourth floor?”
The guard looked at him oddly and said, “There’s no forty-fourth floor in this building, sir. The top floor is thirty-eight.”
“But I was just on the forty-fourth floor.” Paul decided to mention the name of the firm and the man he’d just spoken to on the forty-fourth floor, but he couldn’t remember anything about either.
The guard’s expression changed to concern, perhaps wondering if he’d have to deal with a nut case, hopefully not a violent nut case. He spoke carefully, as if speaking to a child. “I said no forty-fourth floor. If you have business on the forty-fourth floor, then you got the wrong building.”
He ushered Paul out to the street. Paul stood there for a moment, then turned back to the building and looked at it carefully. It was like any of a dozen other buildings on Market Street, and for the life of him he couldn’t remember why he’d wasted his time coming here.
Baalthelmass had survived on this Mortal Plane and fed now for more than four hundred years. The occasional wizard or witch had sought to destroy It, but always It had evaded them, and occasionally devoured them, though practitioners of the arcane were far too dangerous to prey upon in anything but self-defense. But when necessity forced Its hand, they were truly the most delectable kill, so much more delicious than the ordinary cattle that walked the streets of mundane life.
Unlike lowly Tertius emergents, Baalthelmass had been exceedingly careful from the first moment of Its entry onto the Mortal Plane. After devouring the soul of the sorcerer that had summo
ned It, It had resisted the initial ravenous compulsion to feed blindly. A Tertius emergent would inevitably succumb to the urge to devour one life after another in a gluttonous orgy. Had Baalthelmass been so foolish, so lacking in control, a string of deaths like that would’ve alerted mortal sorcerers to Its presence and they would’ve hunted It. No, to submit to such foolish excess was a formula for discovery that would’ve resulted in Its own annihilation. Instead, while still unable to disguise Its true nature, It had cautiously consumed a soul here, another there, always choosing Its victims from among the poor and displaced, and never in the same location. And after each feeding It left their lifeless bodies with no signs of violence or foul play. The authorities always assumed natural causes.
Always moving cautiously, It had remained hidden until It had built Its strength to the point where It could cast a glamour and walk freely among the mortal cattle. And now, after centuries of feeding and building Its strength, It had gained enough power to control Its shape, to maintain actual human form, not just a glamour to fool the mortal eye, though that required constant feeding. It could now pass even among mortal wizards without detection, though It didn’t push Its luck in that regard.
But now a Lord-of-the-Unliving had appeared close at hand in Its own feeding grounds, and that frightened It more than any mere sorcerer, though It couldn’t resist a sense of excitement at the possibility of controlling such a Lord. Ordinarily It would hide, find a new city, a new continent, a new identity, and let the Lord live his life in ignorance of Its presence. But this Lord was ignorant of his own powers, and that was the most delicious of opportunities. He was vulnerable, helpless, defenseless, and might be overcome with ease. If so, he’d be the most luscious prey It had consumed throughout Its entire existence on this Mortal Plane.
