Graves Pact (Landon Graves Book 1)

by Matthew Stinson

  Gwen nodded numbly, distant eyes growing watery. She shuddered and narrowed her gaze on me, a clear sign that my influence had been cut short. I could only hope my suggestion lasted, since I’d never tested the limits of the Voice.

  “What are you going to do to him?” she asked in a strained voice.

  The odds were stacked against Oliver. Hosting a demon for any length of time couldn’t result in a happily-ever-after. Even if he survived, his psyche could have been forever altered by the dark, twisted things glimpsed in the mind of an Exiled. He’d also have to face murder charges. The life of Oliver Pontas would never be “good” again, but he could come out alive.

  “His best chance is for us to get to him as soon as possible,” I said, the truth obscured within a version of itself.

  “Okay,” she said. “I understand. Please don’t hurt him.”

  I didn’t say that I wouldn’t. My ability to deceive only went so far. Instead, I thanked her for her time and joined Mendoza at her car.

  “So?” the detective said, peering at me over the roof of the Crown Vic.

  She wanted some kind of reassurance that violating her principles had paid off. “She knows Oliver’s best chance is for us to apprehend him as soon as possible. I believe that she’ll call us if he shows.”

  “Good,” she said, opening her door.

  “So what do we know?” I asked as I got in.

  Mendoza started up the car. “Oliver hasn’t been here. I’d have felt something. He knew about the Lowry dorm-to-office project because he worked on it. So, we talk to the HR guy at Daniels and McGraw construction and see what we learn.”

  I quirked my mouth. “What can we learn? His address? The places he liked to go before he got possessed?” She cocked an eyebrow and gave me a questioning look. “I’m not saying we don’t look into it, but we have better things to do.”

  “What are these ‘better things’?”

  Scratching my head idly, I said, “I’ll dig into a few of my books and see what I can determine from the seal we found at Oliver’s apartment.”

  Mendoza nodded blankly, the prospect of supernatural paperwork apparently off-putting. “I have reports to make to my captain and to Calhan.” She hesitated before starting the car. “You don’t do that very often, do you?”

  “Make reports? That’s ninety percent of my job,” I replied with a laugh.

  “No,” she said. “The magic voice thing.”

  “Oh...” I muttered, mirth draining instantly. “No, I don’t.”

  I didn’t go into details about the “why” of it, though the reasons rolled through my brains. It’s tiring. It doesn’t always work. Free will is tricky. I’m just bad at being a warlock. Mendoza hadn’t seen Alastor do the Voice, but she could tell I wasn’t very good at it.

  “Good.”

  The simple statement told me something about Mendoza’s opinion of me. I might have crawled up a rung on the ladder from “vile scum of the Earth” to “disappointing blasphemer.” I felt it was a big step considering what had happened.

  On the drive back to the precinct, I indulged in one of my worst bad habits. I reflected. It tended to turn into brooding, but chicks like dudes that brood, right? Not the one I rode beside.

  Mendoza came to a stop next to my Buick. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Well, I just think it speaks highly of your character that—”

  “No. I mean don’t mention it. To anyone,” she clarified. “I don’t want it getting around that I chauffeured an FBI agent across town. Or a warlock.”

  “I’d hate to ruin your reputation.”

  “You’d hate what I’d do about it.”

  Seeing that I hadn’t earned myself any slack, I bowed out. “There’s no doubt in my mind. Good afternoon, detective.”

  I glanced at my watch as I walked around to my car. It was four o’clock and there was still work to do. After I got into the Buick, I flipped through my notepad in an attempt to jog my brain. I came across the rough sketch of the seal from Oliver’s apartment. I snapped it shut and started my car. I had research to do.

  Shit, I thought to myself. I forgot to give Mendoza her gun.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Thinking over the little I’d learned, I remembered nothing about the drive to Stanton’s Rare Books. Things were starting to add up and I didn’t like the picture it painted. Oliver’s breakdown mirrored my own life just a bit too well, but pity for the man would get me killed.

  It was after five by the time I arrived at the shop. A blue and white card in the window told me they’d just closed. I buzzed the doorbell. After a few minutes, the locks came undone and the door cracked open.

  “Mr. Graves?” Regina Stanton said from behind the double-thick glass and wrought-iron bars. “Or is it ‘Special Agent Graves’? What can I do for you?”

  I was relieved to see the woman. She was the one who’d pointed out all the books I’d needed the last time and seemed to possess near-encyclopedic knowledge of anything I’d asked. I hoped she could be as helpful this time.

  “Miss Stanton,” I said, “‘Landon’ is fine. I’m sorry to bother you. I would’ve called, but the decision to come here popped up rather suddenly.”

  She swung the inner door open and unlocked the outer security door. “Please come in. I was just making some tea.”

  “Thank you. As I was saying... I’m in need of your expertise. Again. If it’s not too much trouble for you and Mr. Stanton.”

  “I’m afraid it’s just me. My father is out at the moment,” she said, offering me a place to sit in the expansive foyer.

  “That’ll be just fine.” I sat in a ridiculously comfortable reading chair.

  “What is it you’re looking for?”

  I breathed in deeply, knowing that I was most likely opening myself up to some difficult questions. “I’ve acquired a sketch of a particular symbol and I’d like to know all there is to know about it. As I understand it, this ‘seal’ is like a pictograph, containing a great deal of meaning despite its relative simplicity. I’d like to know about the demon it represents.”

  She tilted her head thoughtfully as I handed her the page from my notepad. “If you’ll give me a few minutes...”

  I was left to myself as she headed back into the shop proper. Idle for a few minutes, I grew restless with my urgency and got up. I found Regina in the back corner of the library of old tomes with her arms full.

  Making enough noise that there was no way I’d startle her, I approached. “Can I help you with those? I had no idea there’d be so many.”

  “Oh, sure. Thank you,” she said, her tone sweet and apologetic.

  “It’s the least I can do,” I replied, taking the hefty stack of books. My muscles groaned at the effort, but I managed not to look like a wimp. Looking good in front of the woman should have been the furthest thing from my mind, but I couldn’t help it. Stupid man brain.

  I returned to my plush seat and planned to get started, but I found that the majority of the grimoires weren’t in English or Latin. No matter what languages you knew, there was always something you needed to know written in one that you didn’t. Most of my small collections were translations—which carried their own drawbacks.

  Regina returned to the foyer with a tray and poured us both some tea. Though I preferred coffee, I thanked her for the hospitality. She had no way of knowing how seldom I got to enjoy good company.

  There was a nice aroma of perfume I hadn’t noticed before. I saw that she’d tied back her curly hair and donned her glasses. I assumed that meant it was time to get down to business. I noted to myself how generous she was being with her time. The thought stirred up more self-recrimination about my presence.

  “It’s gracious of you to do this,” I said before jokingly adding, “Harkin won’t let anyone look at a book until it’s paid for. Doesn’t take refunds either.”

  “Harkin?”

  I mentally cringed. Everyone
in the supernatural community for any significant length of time knew Harkin and several normal people did regular business with the rotund man. My brain had misfired and I’d assumed that Regina might have known him professionally.

  “Just another rare book dealer,” I said, smiling wanly as she slid the saucer over to me. “He’s not nearly so pleasant.”

  “So, this is the demon’s sigil?” she asked, taking up the page from my notepad to inspect the sketch once again. “Is that sigil you showed me the other day is somehow related?”

  “Uh, yeah maybe. I think so at least.”

  “Well that will narrow things down. Let’s see...” She picked up a tome and I recognized the cover despite the title written in an unknown script.

  I cleared my throat. “I’ve already had a chance to look for it in the Lesser Key.”

  My copy was an English translation and I’d been through it cover-to-cover a dozen times. I wasn’t about to mention that little fact. That was the kind of thing that screamed, “Weirdo!” Alienating Regina didn’t seem like a winning strategy.

  “What about De Praestigiis Daemonum?” she asked, pronouncing the title perfectly. “We have a rare Italian translation.”

  Then again, maybe my reading habits wouldn’t have seemed odd at all to the woman.

  “Sounds good, but there’s a slight problem... I don’t read or speak Italian.”

  She smiled. “Well then. It’s a good thing I’m here. Let’s see...”

  Regina flipped through the pages of the tome until she found the proper sections. I watched her lips move as she read the Italian script. She looked up and to the side pensively, deciding on the best translation.

  She sat at the edge of her chair and leaned over the coffee table. I followed her finger as it traveled down the page. Several glyphs ran along one side and I got the idea that she was referencing some kind of arcane dictionary.

  “This outer ring of symbols is a form of shorthand,” she said, showing me both in the tome and on my notepad page. “From what I can tell, they are a series of titles for a particularly dangerous and malign demon.”

  “Are there any other kind?”

  The humor escaped her. “Well, that depends on one’s philosophy and religion. Before the rise of Christianity, ‘demon’ didn’t have nearly the negative connotation it does now. According to both Islamic and Greek mythologies, there were good and bad spirits just as there are good and bad people. What the Muslims call ‘Jinn,’ the Greeks might have called ‘Daemons.’ Funny that the Christians lumped them all together and labeled them evil.”

  “But this one is bad,” I said to steer the academic woman back to the task at hand. As interested as I was in what she had to say, there wasn’t the time.

  Regina nodded and read a passage, first in Italian and then in English. “This demon is difficult to summon, requiring magical silver rings bearing his seal and the bones of a black chicken,” she said confidently, adjusting her glasses as she looked up at me. She continued skimming and translating. “A sacrifice should be made in order to draw his attention... and he can only be summoned at a crossroads.”

  Finally, something I could contribute. I happened to know “crossroads” was magic-speak for a Borderline. That part of the ritual wouldn’t take much work, but etching a seal on a silver ring would take time—I hoped.

  “Anything about brass or glass in there? Or any kind of special stone?”

  That god-awful demon summoning I’d gone through gave me some useful information. Though it sent a shiver down my spine, I thought about the little rhyme Ipos had given me. Blood meant the sacrifice and mud was probably the Borderline—one between earth and water—that the Gate needed to be opened through. The bone had to come from a black chicken, I guessed, but who was I to question how a demon got its kicks?

  “No,” she said after re-reading it. “But other works talk about brass as a means to influence spiritual creatures.”

  The yellow metal had some connection to other-worldly creatures. It was hardly the only such element. According to lore, iron was a bane to fey creatures and silver was used against the Fallen and some of the Exiled. My rather modest collection of supernatural books failed to go into great depth in such matters.

  “Are you familiar with The Sworn Book of Honorius?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Can’t say I’ve heard of that one.”

  “It details methods to bind demons to the conjurer’s will,” she said, reading the curiosity in my features. “And goes into great detail about the material and items needed to do so. You might find something useful in there.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly sure I’d want a spirit—mischievous, evil, or otherwise—mad at me,” I said, struggling to process all she’d poured out. “Why do all these books talk about ways to get them here, but not what to do if things go wrong? How does one go about slaying a demon anyway?”

  “You just need to find the right book,” she replied with a smile, carefully retrieving an especially thick tome from the pile. “Unfortunately, our copy of The Malleus Daemonium is in German.”

  “Latin and English are the best I can do.”

  “You read Latin?” Regina asked, setting the book on her knees. She looked at me through her glasses with a hint of intrigue. “I wouldn’t think an FBI agent would find that useful. If you don’t mind my asking, why?”

  “It was an easy high school credit. You know... dead language, no oral exams.” That much was true. “After college, I, uh... decided to pick it up again. It’s come in handy in a few of my investigations.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t carry many books in Latin,” she said, idly touching her bottom lip. “Anything old enough to be written in that language belongs in a museum. Anyway, let’s cross reference those monikers with another text and see what demon we find.”

  We. I smiled at her gracious inclusion of me, as if she wasn’t doing all the work. I drank some of the tea, finding it enjoyable despite my own preference for coffee. I realized with some amount of surprise that I was enjoying myself.

  It was certainly not the subject matter or the circumstances. The spark in Regina’s eyes as she searched out a solution to the puzzle I’d posed... It was nice to see someone engaged in such a way. Beneath her cute, bookish exterior, Regina Stanton had a hunger for knowledge and a drive to figure things out. She’d make a good investigator.

  Then I remembered what it was that she’d be looking into and my smile faded. It was all fun and games in the safety of a bookstore, but I was dealing with creatures that would tear the flesh from my bones to eat my heart. There was such a thing as too much curiosity.

  A short time later, I sat reading an analysis of Persian folklore from a contemporary occult perspective—a light read, really—while Regina worked diligently to identify the demon by the titles she’d gleaned. I stifled the worry that I’d copied the seal poorly. She seemed to be making progress by the number of opened books before her.

  “So what are this demon’s titles?” I asked after a half hour of idle reading.

  Regina glanced up, her fingers pressed to the passages in two different grimoires. “Oh, the King in Gold and Scarlet. The Great Deceiver. The Flayer of Souls.”

  I snorted in amusement. “Sounds like he’s a big deal.”

  The woman shrugged and made a noncommittal noise. “You’d be surprised by the number of Kings of ‘this’ or Lords of ‘that’ in demonology. They have delicate egos, it seems.”

  I laughed softly, knowing the truth of her statement. Alastor never spoke directly of his rank in relation to the other Fallen lords. That was how I knew my patron was middle management at best.

  Regina sighed in exasperation. “Well, I’ve narrowed it down to five red kings.”

  “Five? Can’t they be more original?” I asked, earning a brief smile from the woman. “Can I see what you’ve got? I may be able to offer a bit more insight.”

  She turned the book in her hands around and passed it to me. The page s
howed an early Renaissance era painting with intricate Italian calligraphy beneath. I glanced over it to find her revisiting two other thick tomes and presenting them to me.

  Carefully flipping between bookmarks and between the books, I looked over the pictures of the archaic paintings, knowing they were largely symbolic. Medieval artists didn’t have a plethora of wildlife with which to compare their demons. I studied the images and dismissed three of the red kings before the fourth struck me.

  The illustration showed a regal man in scarlet robes riding a gaunt horse. He wore a golden crown set with rubies. A serpent encircled his waist and a hawk flew about him with talons spread. Lastly, I counted eight spiders crawling about his person.

  The images of fangs, talons, and eight spider-like eyes came unbidden from memory. The form Oliver had adopted before attacking me bore characteristics of each of the creatures shown in the picture. It couldn’t have been a coincidence.

  “This is it,” I said with a sinking certainty. “Which demon is this?”

  Regina scanned the name, translated, and said, “Berith.”

  “Berith…” The perp within my perp. Some fraction of its essence ran the show. While investigating Oliver Pontas gave me a frame of reference for what assets the Exiled had, it was Berith I truly faced.

  That accounted for the differing levels of magical skill. Oliver rated as barely a ritualist, a person who could only create magical effects through mystical ceremonies and processes like alchemy. Aside from my warlock abilities, that was what I did. Fortunately, the power infused into the man by Berith’s sliver of spirit had limited application, but the creature used it to the fullest. Knowledge without the strength to use it meant that Oliver could only effectively work magic when prepared well in advance.

  The demon brought abundant knowledge of magical rites and a spark of power necessary to overcome a lack of resources. That was how it had sent Mendoza and me into the shadow realm. It definitely explained the active spell that triggered when I went into the apartment of James Thompson.