by Harper, Lou
Chapter Two
"I don't think it was her spirit leaving her body," Denton told Bran as he recounted the story later that evening. "I mean, it seemed so at first, but now I'm sure I was wrong about it." Denton sat sideways on the living room sofa, with Murry curled on top of his feet.
Bran was sitting in a chair, an open spellbook in his lap and a legal pad on top of the book, its pages full of Bran's scribbled notes. He tapped the pen on the paper. "What are you saying? What was her spirit doing then?"
"No, I mean it wasn't hers. Thinking back on it, the way I first saw them, it looked more like the spirit was sitting on her chest. And parts of it were around her neck. Like trying to strangle her. Is that possible? Could a mere spirit shadow harm a person? Try to kill her?"
Bran's face turned serious. Seriouser. He slipped the cap on the pen while he considered his answer. "Well…it's atypical, but I've read accounts of such occurrences. Nonetheless, the real cause in those cases could've easily been a demonic entity, not a spirit shadow. Even experts can't always tell the difference right away. But I suppose if the spirit was of a malevolent nature, it could possibly do physical harm. Or at least make an attempt."
A memory floated to the surface of Denton's mind. "Remember when we first worked together?"
"At Sparks restaurant?"
"Yeah, when you tricked me into banishing the ghost of that old gangster."
"I wouldn't say trick—"
Denton shrugged. "Don't matter. I'm glad you did. Anyway, when you went into the walk-in freezer, the spirit tried to slam the door on you, and he would've if I hadn't been standing there. I felt the door push against me. Hard. So if they can affect objects such way, why not a person?"
Bran nodded. "Right."
"I need to see her again and get to the bottom of this."
"I agree, but how do you plan to find her?"
"I already asked Gabe to locate her for me." Gabe was someone he trusted, and knew he could count on.
Bran's eyes narrowed. "Gabe?"
Denton wiggled his toes but Murry kept sleeping on them. "He's a licensed private investigator. Who's better to find someone than a private dick?" Denton hoped appealing to reason would calm Bran's irrational hostility toward Gabe. No such luck.
Bran's expression stiffened some more at the explanation. "Right. What do you plan to do when you see this woman?"
"I…don't know." Denton didn't try to hide his frustration. "I'm thankful for the training—don't get me wrong—but all I know is rituals and incantations and how to summon and banish spirits, but I still feel like I don't have a clue about them. What do they want and how much actual power do they wield. You know more than I do. Where did you learn? Where are those books?"
Bran rubbed his chin. "All I know about spirit traces came in bits and pieces spread over dozens of books dealing with witchcraft in general. I can dig them up for you, but it'll take time, and I doubt they'll be much help. And other things my mother told me," he added. He stared down at the book and notes in his lap but his attention seemed to be elsewhere.
The silence in the room was pregnant with something, Denton couldn't tell what. Even Murry noticed. He lifted his head up and fixed his green eyes on Bran. "Muhrr?" he chirruped.
"Yes," Bran replied.
"What?" Denton cut in impatiently.
Bran closed the spellbook and set it aside. "There's someone who might be able to help."
"Who?"
"My father."
"Your father, the demon?" Denton sat straight up, dislodging Murry as he did. Murry hopped off the couch in a huff and trotted away.
"That's the only father I have." Bran ran his fingers through his hair in a tense gesture. "You don't have to stay for this. I can talk to him and tell you about it afterwards."
"Are you embarrassed to introduce me to your father?" Denton asked in disbelief and with more than a touch of hurt.
Bran froze. "What? No. It's father. He's a little different."
"Well, duh." Denton rolled his eyes. "He's not dangerous, is he?"
"No, of course not, but you might find him repellent."
Denton finally understood Bran's apprehension. "Oh. I'll do my best to have an open mind. Are you going to summon him?" He tried to hide it, but the prospect thrilled him. He'd never seen a real, full demon. Only one single demonic spirit, and he was under the influence at the time. So yeah, he was excited.
Bran regained his sober composure. "The word summon is a misnomer when used in connection with demons." He stood and walked to the window. He kept talking as he foraged through his herbs, snipping leaves from one after another. "Conjure or evoke would be better terms for this act. What you do is, you send an invitation, which the demon may or may not accept. Offering a gift will produce better results. It can be many things—food, music, colors, even numbers. Some demons will appear only on certain days. And there are some who require a sacrifice, but you're best off staying away from those—they're not the friendly kind." He turned with a bundle of green stuff in his hands. "Would you mind making some tea?"
Not a request Denton expected. "You want tea? Now?"
"Yes. For dad. My homemade herbal blend, please."
"All right." Denton pushed himself up. "Which one? You have like five different ones."
"The one in the green jar."
Bran had more than a few peculiarities—obviously—one of them being the tea drinking. And not just the drinking of it, but the whole preparation starting with drying the herbs and culminating in the actual preparation. Denton had found it amusing at first, but had quickly gotten used to it. By now he knew the drill. After filling the kettle and putting it on the stove he took out the serving tray and placed three cups, a selection of sweeteners, and the glass tea pot on it. He filled the pot's infuser with the aromatic blend of dried herbs. The mint was the only scent he could identify. Denton had never been a huge fan of tea, but he could drink pretty much anything with enough sugar.
Denton went back to the living room and saw Bran rubbing the fresh herbs between the palms of his hands, releasing their scent. Next he dropped them into a glass bowl sitting on the middle of the coffee table. "My father likes the smell," he said. "You can send out a general invitation to a type of demon, but if you want a specific one, you need to know his or her name. Of course, your chances of success are best if you use their real name."
"You mean they have fake names?"
"Of course. Telling people their real name would be like handing your phone number to a telemarketer."
"Oh. I see."
Bran put three black candles around the bowl and lit them. Next he pushed the chairs aside and kneeled by the table, facing the bowl. He touched Denton's leg. "You better sit here beside me."
His pulse racing with anticipation, Denton kneeled next to Bran.
"Back a little," Bran instructed, and Denton scooted back. "My father goes by Mal'groth but it's more like a nickname." Bran reached to the shelf beneath the coffee table and produced an old book. The edge of a piece of paper stuck out from the pages—he pulled it out. Denton saw a drawing of squiggly lines inside a circle. "My father's sigil," Bran explained. "Same as a name for a demon."
Bran dropped the paper into the bowl, closed his eyes, bowed his head, and began to chant. Not Spanish this time. Maybe Latin. Denton couldn't tell.
Denton sat back on his heels and stayed very quiet, not to break Bran's concentration, but when a figure appeared on the other side of the table in a puff of smoke and with a fwoop sound, he couldn't help but jump. He might have made some noise too. He had every reason.
Bran's dad was an unusual sight, to say the least. He had the head of an owl, but much bigger than any bird Denton had ever seen. His mottled brown feathers morphed into a fur of the same color over a more or less human body, but Denton could make out large batwings folded behind his back. Bran's dad had only three fingers on each hand but they ended up in claws long and sharp enough to cut a man's throat with one swipe. Past h
is initial shock, Denton thought the demon was rather impressive. He stared like a kid wanting to take in every detail.
Bran cleared his throat. "Dad, I have a guest. Could you please…"
The demon turned its owl eyes at Denton and blinked. He opened his beak. "My apologies," he said in a surprisingly human voice and disappeared. He reappeared a second later in the shape of a dark-haired man wearing an odd assortment of clothes.
Bran stood, and Denton followed his example. "Denton, this is my father, Mal'groth. Dad this is Denton, my…partner," Bran said.
"Call me Mal," the demon said in a deep baritone. He pushed his hand forward in a somewhat stiff offer of a handshake. Denton took it. Mal had a firm grip and his skin was warm, even warmer than Bran's. His stare was as unblinking as an owl's.
Letting go of Denton, Mal turned to Bran. "Did I miss your birthday again?" he asked apologetically.
Bran pulled a chair back next to the coffee table and sat. "No. Well, yes, but it doesn't matter. I wanted to talk to you."
The kettle whistled and Denton excused himself. As he returned with the loaded tray he walked smack into the middle of the horticultural discussion. The candles had already been extinguished and pushed to the side and Mal sat on the couch with the glass bowl in his hand. He held it close to his face and took a deep breath. "Epazote? Unexpected."
"Mother sent seeds. It grows exceptionally well in the right soil and with lots of sun," Bran replied.
Denton put the tray down and took a seat. Views on drainage and soil mixes were swooshing over his head, so he took the opportunity to get a better look at their guest.
With his handsome features and cleft chin Mal bore a slight resemblance to that old movie star Denton's mom liked so much—Cary Grant, the name popped into his head. However, Mal's eyes were black, not blue. His attire, on the other hand, brought another movie star to mind. It was as eclectic as Johnny Depp on the red carpet. Underneath a dark suit jacket with wide lapels he wore an unbuttoned white shirt and a black Rolling Stones T-shirt. The one with the classic lips and tongue logo. His wool trousers were from a different time period completely, and they revealed exceptionally hairy ankles. After a bit of neck cranking Denton got a better look and realized those ankles ended not in feet but a couple of cloven hooves.
Mal leaned forward, placed the bowl of herbs back onto the table, and poured himself a cup of tea. Denton and Bran did the same. Denton slipped his slowly, but Mal took a big gulp without showing any signs of tongue scalding.
Mal's gaze lingered on Denton before returning to Bran. "So your mother's spell worked. I'm glad. She's an exceptionally forceful woman; won't take no for an answer."
Bran's face acquired a pinched expression it often had when the subject of his mother came up. "I know. I can't believe she made you help cast a love spell."
"A spell of attraction," Mal corrected. "As Layla explained to me—and very persuasively, I might add—the spell's purpose was to bring someone who'd be a good match for you to into your proximity. She also said the rest would be up to you. Well, both of you. It caused your mother considerable trepidation. I fear she didn't have confidence in you to seize the opportunity. But here you are. How did you meet? If you don't mind me asking."
"Denton moved next door last fall," Bran replied.
"I had to relocate because of my neighbor's dog," Denton corroborated. "I work from home, you see, and it's hard to live next door to an endlessly yapping monster. My friend, Joy, knew a woman who was leaving town in a hurry and needed someone quick to sublet her place. And it happened to be the apartment next door. Bran and I met on my first morning here. I was sitting on the fire escape when he came out on his balcony to water the plants." It took Murry and a ghost to bring them together, but Denton didn't think he needed to go into all the details.
"Hm. Interesting." Mal emptied his cup and poured himself another. He sweetened it with agave syrup.
"Denton's a necromancer. A real one," Bran added.
Mal lowered his cup and fixed his gaze on Denton again. "Really? How remarkable! How advanced is your talent? I mean, do you see spirit shadows or only sense them? Have you always had it?"
Denton leaned forward and was practically sitting on the edge of his seat. Mal seemed like someone who understood his condition. "I see them usually as foggy shapes, only rarely as human figures. I also experience what I call death traces—the imprints of death. It started when I was nine. I fell under the ice at the lake. I was under at least fifteen minutes. Some stranger pulled me out. And well, I saw my first ghost when I woke up in the hospital." Denton saw Mal and Bran exchange a look. It said they knew something he didn't. "What?"
Mal cleared his throat. "Some demons have power over the dead, can even raise them."
"Bring people back to life?" Denton asked incredulously.
Mal shook his head. "No, only animate their bodies. Very useful in certain situations."
"Oh, making zombies then," Denton said.
"A suitable term within your frame of reference." Mal's face took on a serious expression and it reminded Denton of Bran when Bran was about to go into a lecture. And sure enough, Mal launched into one. "For most practitioners, necromancy is another form of witchcraft. If they have the gift and the discipline they may be able to communicate with the dead. However, there's a deeper form of necromancy. If a demon with command over the dead brings back someone who stands right on the threshold between the living and the dead—as I believe happened to you—the demon would imbue said person with special powers. The person would become a necromancer of profound talents. It's exceptionally rare."
"So I got this thing from a demon?" Denton asked.
"It stands to reason. It might have not been his intention, but the inevitable result of his actions. You've touched the other side, it's part of you now."
Denton mulled this over. "Well, I guess I should be thankful. Running into dead people is not as bad as being one of them, right? But I wish this demon, whoever he was, left a manual behind. You know, So Now You Can See Dead People, or really anything to explain the situation. It would've been most helpful."
Mal gave a rueful smile. "I'm afraid looking after humans is not our strong suit. I trust Bran has been useful to you in this respect." He lifted his cup and sipped his tea.
"Sure. I now know all sorts of summoning and banishing rituals, found my third eye, and can even shield myself from death traces, but I have few clues about the nature of spirits and ghosts. Like why do they stick around? Could a spirit shadow try to kill a person?"
"I thought you could locate some literature on the matter," Bran said, addressing his father. "Preferably something in English and written in the last few hundred years."
Mal harrumphed. "You can be as demanding as your mother. I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you, Mr…Mal," Denton said. "May I ask something?"
"Please do."
"Where are you when you're not here?"
"I'm always here. My world takes up the same physical space, only it is out of synch."
"Like an alternate reality?"
Mal opened his mouth then he closed it. A few contemplative seconds later he opened it again. "You know those three dimensional films of yours? If you watch them without those special glasses the colors slip apart. Your world, mine, and the world of the dead are like so—different colors of the same picture."
"So then you're not fallen angels living in hell?" Denton asked, just to clarify the situation.
Mal snorted. "No, but that's a rumor we've helped to spread for centuries."
"Why?"
"Truth is dangerous and so is humankind. Besides, we're tricksters." He winked and for a briefest moment the seriousness fell off his face. Denton got a glimpse of devilish mirth, but then it was gone and Mal kept on talking. "The dead and we demons are both aspects of you. The spirits are the ethereal remnants of you when your bodies cease to function. Demons are the creations of your imaginations—your deepest fears and desire
s, since the first caveman, or even before. But we broke away and gained our freedom ages ago."
"The dead don't have physical form, but you do," Denton pointed out.
"Yes, but as you've seen, our form is negotiable."
"So how do demons and the dead interact?"
"We don't. You, the living, stand between us."
Denton made another pot of tea, and they chatted on some more, but mostly about herbs, before Mal said his goodbyes and disappeared in a puff of smoke. "He's an interesting guy, your dad," Denton said.
Bran began to gather up the cups and spoons and stack them on the tray. "Not exactly a typical parent. He came around more often when I was young, but I think it was due to pressure from my mother. He was more like tutor than a father. We never played ball or any of that sort of stuff." He straightened up with tray in hand. "So as you see, between him and my mother no wonder I grew up into a weirdo."
Denton grinned. "Don't beat yourself up. My parents were perfectly normal and I still became a weirdo." He unfolded himself from his chair, closed the short distance separating him from Bran, and slowly and deliberately placing his knees on either side of Bran's thighs lowered himself onto Bran's lap. "What do you say we rub our weirdest bits together and see what happens. There might be sparks."
"I'm pretty sure there will be," Bran agreed, putting his hands on Denton's hips and sliding them up under the cotton of Denton's shirt. His fingers dug into Denton's flesh and sent the promises of those sparks racing across Denton's skin.
Light petting turned into an unhurried foreplay of kissing, groping, and disheveled clothes. Their desires grew and hardened—as Denton could attest, and he was just about to suggest they move to somewhere more comfortable, when his blasted phone chirped in a familiar tone—he had custom tones for certain people. "I have to take it, it's Gabe," he said breaking off a kiss.
Bran slipped a hand into Denton's back pocket, pulled out the phone and handed it to Denton. "Here." Sadly, with the same motion, he lifted Denton from his lap and stood.
"Hello, Gabe?" Denton said into the phone and watched Bran tuck his shirt back into his pants, collect his spellbook and notes, and walk out of the room. "You better have something good," Denton grumbled.
