by Unknown
That night I flopped around in my bed, unable to sleep. The summer cicadas sang, the rattles reverberating throughout the forest, but I was focused on Matthew and what he was doing in the next room. He was busy crafting letters to each member of The Black Fang, signing my name. He was planning to kill me, steal my powers and take control of the coven. The fool hadn't considered how powerful these warlocks were nor did he realize they would knock him aside like a pesky house fly before battling each other for leadership of The Black Fang.
His letter read:
Dearest Fang,
My mortal flesh is weakening and we must choose a new leader for The Black Fang. I am tired and it is time to relinquish control of our coven to another. I have spent hours discussing the transition with Matthew and have decided one of you will take over upon my departure from this plane.
In order to help me determine the warlock most suitable for leadership, I am sending you on a quest. Nine pieces of the ancient gold florin once belonging to Abramelin the Mage are hidden in nine American cities. Reassembling the pieces will summon incredible power.
As you know, each one is guarded by a warlock from a rival coven who will give his life to keep it hidden. That is why no coven has been successful — until now. We are coordinating a unified attack to gain control of the florin for The Black Fang. I want you to bring back one piece.
I will assemble the florin, release the energy within and provide the new leader of our coven with that power. I have also drawn tarot cards from the deck. Your interpretation may help you defeat the guardian and steal the florin.
When you have completed your quest, return to us and we will hold the initiation ceremony to choose the next leader of The Black Fang.
Yours of the Left Hand,
Levi Phillips
***
The next morning, I lay in bed listening to Matthew move about the cabin. I could have afforded the most luxurious penthouse in Manhattan or a grand estate off the Pacific Coast Highway. Instead, I chose this shit-stink of land called Ohio. What I sacrificed in prestige, I gained in security. I sent Matthew on rounds only to keep him busy.
It had been years since the last witch hunters showed up on our remote property and I kept their corpses sealed in a hidden part of the cave, in case I needed to disguise my true identity. The best warlocks could reanimate bodies, control them and even reverse decomposition. Zombies only exist in the movies. So Adams County and its seclusion were fine for now. I was saving The Black Fang's vast horde of wealth for my next iteration, the next coven.
The aroma of bacon filled the air again and it was enough to make me swing my legs to the floor and get out of bed. I stood and felt the aches that arrived in the dark of night nestling into my tired bones. I could feel this shell breaking down. I would have to take that into consideration as well. Not that I had an emotional attachment to this crooked, twisted body, but change always brought a bit of anxiety.
I walked to the bathroom and took a long piss. I had to stand at the bowl for ten minutes until the urine dribbled from the end of my shriveled penis. I didn't need a doctor to tell me I had a swollen prostate. Or worse.
I grabbed the shirt and pair of jeans I left on the floor, the same ones I'd been wearing for months. I walked into the kitchen with one hand on my hip and the other rubbing the small of my back.
“Sleep well?” Matthew asked.
“Coffee?”
He pointed at the cup sitting on the table, a curl of steam rising from the top of the black gold within.
I grunted and sat down. With both hands, I grabbed the mug and drank. The boy made damn good coffee.
“We're almost out of beans. What kind do you want me to get next?”
My mind flashed to the blood running through the streets of Paris when I was last there in July 1793.
“French Roast.”
Matthew nodded and turned back to the hot skillet on top of the stove.
Plain omelet again, I thought. The boy wasn't very creative.
“Ain't had a gathering in some time,” he said.
And so the betrayal begins.
“Years,” I said.
“Like we was talkin' yesterday, maybe it's time to gather and at least nominate the next head.”
“It ain't.”
The scraping of the steel spatula on the cast iron skillet stopped.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“But it might be time to take inventory, start to rank our warlocks for when the time is right,” I said.
I felt the flutter in his chest and I waited for Matthew to make the next move.
“Sure,” Matthew said.
He flipped the omelet around several more times before slapping it on a plate and sitting across from me at the table. He had a new sparkle in his eye and darkness in his heart. He didn't know I could see both.
“Way I reckon, we got nine, but not all of the men would make a real play for leadership of the coven.”
This is what the boy was contemplating on those long, lonely walks around the perimeter of our compound or standing next to the stills for hours. I let him continue as there was no sense in doing the recon work when Matthew already did it.
“Go on,” I said.
“Geno is the frontrunner, if you ask me.”
“The old Cajun?”
“Yep,” Matthew said. “He got ties with the witches in New Orleans. That one bitch is crazy. What's her name?”
“Méredithe,” I said.
“That's her. She got an old deck of cards, tarot from one of the Kings of France. Geno's in league with her.”
I took a sip from my coffee and let Matthew continue telling me what he'd learned from spying on my coven.
“Then there's the guy in Mumbai.”
“Right,” Matthew said. “Mayukh. He was a boy the last time there was a challenge for the coven.”
I continued drinking my coffee and nodding. Although Mayukh's father was killed by witch hunters, he was a powerful warlock. I was worried his son could be even more dominant.
“The loose cannon is the Aussie.”
“Brad Kile,” I said.
“He's arrogant and impulsive and he don't think too highly of you. Plus, he's been messin' with sigils. He's hooked on potions. A junkie warlock.”
I smiled. Matthew's surveillance was outstanding.
“McSorley, the guy in Boston. He's been practicing his mind control and pyrokinesis. But Sean's a young guy and don't got a lot of experience.”
“Rufus Carter in New York. He's young and brash, too,” I said.
“The M12.”
“What?”
“He don't go by Rufus no more. Calls himself The M12 and he's run his own torture chamber out of that fancy high-rise in East Harlem, the one we been payin' for.”
“Why are we paying his rent?” I asked.
“He needs to be close to Wall Street. He's one of our most successful embezzlers,” Matthew said. He hadn't touched his eggs or coffee. His eyes buzzed back and forth and with each name mentioned, he slid his finger across the table as if checking them off the list. He continued.
“Jean Vinet has been working on sigils for a long time, but I don't think he's a candidate for leadership of the coven.”
“Why not?” I asked. “You and I have always had good luck with Parisians.” I thought again to all of the bloodshed and pain I helped to instigate during the Revolution. It made me feel warm inside.
“He's weak. He can't resist the ladies.”
Matthew was right. Jean was a Casanova but susceptible to female persuasions.
“So that leaves two more.”
“Three,” Matthew said, correcting me. “Simon, Arthur and Jeremy.”
I took a sip of coffee but my eyes never left Matthew's.
“Simon,” he said. “He's crafty and he's a mind reader. Best keep him at a distance. He was in the UK the last time I heard.”
I spared Simon Bolger from the killing floor many years ago in London. I
sensed the potential in him then and I could sense his ascension now. Unfortunately, Simon had what warlocks call static mind or haze. It allowed him to block mind readers. Even before I trained him, I was not able to see into his thoughts.
“Jeremy has done well for himself in Hollywood. He's an actor, probably a queer. He's gotta lot of cash saved up. Arthur Billington, on the other hand, he's getting old and I think he's losing a step. His powers ain't what they used to be.”
Matthew waited, drumming his fingers on the table like an anxious school boy trying to please his headmaster.
“Who's your money on, son? Who do you like to succeed me?”
He sat back and looked at the ceiling beams while exhaling over his bottom lip.
“Ain't none of them can take you.”
“That's not what I asked. I know they can't best me in a showdown. I'm asking who should succeed when I decide to step down?”
“Hell if I know, Levi. I'm just an apprentice.”
Matthew stood and dropped his plate into the sink before walking towards the shotgun leaning against the wall.
“I got to check the stills.”
He slammed the door on the way out.
I sat at the table for an hour, maybe more. The coffee in my cup was cold and what I drank began to bubble in my stomach. I could sense the desire in Matthew. The letters he wrote to the nine members of The Black Fang would be sent today. Our conversation this morning convinced him I would not hand the coven over and so he planned to take it. Matthew knew the warlocks would all accept the challenge if they believed the winner received control of The Black Fang and access to its vast wealth. He also knew none of the warlocks would know the true power of Abramelin's florin, but neither did Matthew. Only the coven leaders knew what the assembled coin could do. They would bring the florin to me if it meant they had a shot at the throne.
What's the worst that could happen? I thought.
My warlocks would arrive. Some would succeed in bringing a piece of the florin and others would not. If all nine succeeded, I would rule the world, not just The Black Fang. But if some died trying to steal it and the successful warlocks came to Ohio, my goal would be achieved either way. I would let Matthew, impersonating me, summon them all. I would murder the survivors and have a chance to start over.
Several members of The Black Fang were becoming too powerful and they would challenge for my coven sooner or later. I had centuries invested in The Black Fang and in Matthew. We built an empire and a name for ourselves amongst the most powerful covens in the world. For a moment I considered not destroying everything. But I realized I was sacrificing an apprentice for my future, as it should be.
I would let Matthew send the letters to the warlocks. I would let them go on their quest and succeed or die trying and I would feign my own demise in order to convince the coven, including Matthew, new leadership of The Black Fang was inevitable.
And then I would kill them all.
The Story of Geno Divoss by J.R. Rain
I don’t care what Levi says, or how urgent he claims this mission is; I’d never think of leaving the safety of New Orleans without first seeking Madame Moliniere’s wisdom.
At the very least, someone should know that their warlock is gone. But the tarot card is puzzling as well. Why would he send that to me if it wasn’t a clue to how I should engage the task he has assigned to me? He knows quite well how much I value her guidance so he would know that I would take it to her.
As I entered the house on Dauphine Street, I couldn’t help but think to myself how appropriate it was that the woman I considered to be my spiritual mother since childhood lived there. She was a real life Cajun princess, if ever one had existed. The magic she practiced had been passed down by her ancestors for two hundred and fifty years. Like many real royal families, the Moliniere women married men from other powerful families, but they never changed their surname; they remained of the House of Moliniere. In southern Louisiana, if you were in the know, then you understood that meant the woman was a witch, one of the most powerful witches on the face of the Earth.
I laughed when I thought of the countless shelves in libraries and bookstores the world over that held those famous pop culture renditions about New Orleans witches and vampires. If only the fans knew that on any given evening, in that white two story house on Dauphine Street with the black wrought iron banisters and the pretty white fretwork, the very characters those books were written about lounged casually in Madame Moliniere’s drawing room and conducted fittings with world famous designers in her boudoir. Perhaps the world as we knew it would crumble in on itself.
Yes, I thought to myself, we do exist! and laughed heartily at the reference to the popular candy commercial.
I stepped over the threshold of the house and ceremoniously dipped the two first fingers of my right hand into the concealed stoup near the doorframe. I pressed the liquid to the five points of my body: my forehead, each shoulder and each hip, the points of the Pentagon. With my protection in place, I proceeded to the little library where Méredithe Moliniere would be waiting for me. She always read tarot in the afternoon; and only by appointment, even for her dearest friends.
“Discipline, Gene,” she had told me repeatedly throughout my life. “It is the one thing that separates us from ‘rogue crafters’.”
I knocked on the door, even though I knew she was already aware I was in the house.
“Entrer, Mon cher Gene,” she called out to me.
I loved to hear my name on the tongue of a real Cajun woman; Jahn, not Jean as the Northerners were prone to say. Luckily for me, there was no shortage of Cajuns in New Orleans.
“Oui, c’est moi, Madame Moliniere,” I replied as I stepped in to the library.
“Bonjour, Gene. Comment ça va?”
“Ah, ça va bien, Méredithe,” I replied as I took a seat at the card table.
I didn’t have much time for niceties that afternoon; I needed to find out what the card that Levi had sent meant. My entire approach to the task of recovering the florin piece hung on whatever cryptic message lay in it. As I settled in, Madame Moliniere took one look at my face and read my every thought.
“You were right to come to me, Cher. Show me the token.”
I placed the tarot card carefully on the table and unfolded the delicate silk scarf that I had placed it in. Basic black magic dictated that I would not touch a token sent by another warlock with bare hands, whether friend or foe. Some abided by this rule and others did not. When she saw the card and the way it laid when I had unwrapped it, Méredithe laughed.
“What is it?” I asked, curiously.
“Is di Empress, huh? She not no real threat, Gene, but because she is upright to you, I think she ha’ somet’ing to do with how you gonna get this job done.”
“What exactly does that mean? You already know that I have to go to Pittsburgh to find the florin piece; that I will have to kill the guardian there for it. What does the card have to do with my success, because failure is no option, Méredithe?”
“Discipline, Gene; discipline.”
She moved the card to the side of the table, being careful to take it by the cloth it still sat on, and began to shuffle her own trusty deck. Some people said that the colorful deck in her hands came from France with the colonialist Molinieres; that it had once belonged to the woman the world knew today as, Jacquetta Woodville, Countess Rivers. Witches lore had it that even as a child, Jacquetta had been a powerful witch and that at the tender age of nine, she had read the cards for Joan d’Arc when she was held captive at Beaurevoir Castle in Luxembourg.
Méredithe held the ancient deck firmly in her left hand and with her right she played the deck and told me to choose three cards and put them face down on the table between us. When I was done, she put the deck aside and carefully turned over the three cards, one at a time.
The Emperor was inverted.
The Hermit was upright.
Death was upright and faced me down with a body g
rin.
“Oh, Gene!” was all that Méredithe could say for quite some time.
The look on her face was all I needed to know that I had read the four cards as clearly as she had. It seemed I would find that my adversary in Pittsburgh had special abilities which he would use to confuse me in an effort to save himself from eminent death and prevent me from retrieving the florin piece. This she saw in the duality of the Empress and the Emperor. We both knew the Hermit stood for Levi, it was he who had consigned the entire quest; I knew I was but one of several Black Fang warlocks that he had deployed to retrieve the pieces. But the Death card gave us both pause, and with reason. I knew that the guardian would have to die for me to take possession of the florin piece but depending on his skill and talents, that card could easily have been dealt for me. The truth is, both Méredithe and I knew that the Death card was one of the most ambiguous cards in the tarot deck, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that killing Ron Jackson for the gold piece had nothing to do with it.
Something was certainly rotten in the state of Denmark; I just knew it.
Five hours later, I threw my bag on the chaise at the foot of the bed in my room at the Fairmont and zipped it open. I changed my shirt and strapped the gun holster to my left shoulder. The leather shoes were kicked off to one side and replaced with a pair of sturdy work boots and I pulled the black leather jacket over my arms and onto my back.
I’m getting too old for this shit, I thought to myself, as I sat loading the pistol and shoved it securely into the holster. It’s what I get for being so damn good though, isn’t it?
***
It was harder to find Ron Jackson than I thought it would be considering the amount of information that I had been able to gather from the internet and The Black Fang. He was a partner at one of the top accounting firms in the city but getting an appointment with him was like trying to get into Lady Gaga’s dressing room at Madison Square Garden.
