B00N1384BU EBOK

by Unknown

  In any case, I knew an appointment in his office was certainly not the way to approach this. He wasn’t going to be handing over the florin piece casually while sipping a cup of coffee...no, this was going to be a fight. I had to dig deeper if I was going to find him and plan the ambush I needed.

  “Good morning,” I said casually over the phone. “Is Mr. Jackson available, please?”

  “Good Morning, Sir,” the receptionist replied politely. “I do apologize but Mr. Jackson is unavailable to take any phone calls. Would you like to leave a message?”

  A message, I thought. Oh, I have a message for him alright!

  “No, thank you, Miss. He is in the office today though?” I asked for clarification.

  “Indeed, Sir. Just very busy.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “I think I’ll try to catch up with him later in the week then.”

  I hung up before she could say another word and sat back on the bench in the little park to watch the doors to the entrance of the building. I was satisfied with the knowledge that he was inside, seated quite unsuspectingly at his desk. The sign on the building read: Harper, Jackson and Liebman. Chartered Accountants, so I knew I was in the right place and settled in to wait. It was just shy of five o’ clock in the afternoon...and I was more than prepared that the busy executive may not leave until even eight or nine that night.

  So when Ron Jackson exited the building and said his goodnights to the security guard at six thirty, I was pleasantly surprised. He turned and walked a short distance down the street before getting into a black sedan. I knew I had to hurry at that point and jogged down to the curb to my mall rental car. It was also black, which I thought was the best color for staying inconspicuous.

  Luckily for me, Ron paused for a few moments to make a phone call. As he did so, I found myself wondering if he had a wife, a family; even thought briefly about the effect that me killing him would have on them before shaking my head at my incredulous thoughts. Ron Jackson was no ordinary man, I reminded myself, he was a guardian warlock. There was no way he would strap himself down with that kind of vulnerability. The most he would dare is a girlfriend, maybe even a live-in one, at that, but not a family.

  We warlocks are a lonely breed; and that didn’t just go for The Black Fang either. It would make us too easy a target for our rivals if we would have people around us who were so dear to us. In order to gain our knowledge and power, we only had to be killed and the right spells said; a rogue crafter would not hesitate to use a warlock’s family to lure him into the right situation.

  I was glad that all I had was Méredithe; she could more than take care of herself.

  I decided to keep a few cars behind the Audi A4 as it navigated the streets of downtown Pittsburgh; almost losing sight of it on a couple of occasions. It wasn’t long before I realized that Ron wasn’t heading directly for home. I had his home address programmed into the GPS in my car and we were certainly way off track for that destination.

  So, patiently, I tailed him to Liberty Avenue and watched from down the block as he pulled up in front of a bar and grill place near Tenth Avenue, stepped out of the car and walked inside. Again, I waited. I had secretly hoped that the opportunity to follow him a few blocks on foot and ambush him in an alley would have turned up but it didn’t seem likely that would happen that night.

  A few hours later, I followed him down Liberty Avenue and across the Fort Pitt Bridge to where he did finally go home, to his swanky Mount Washington address. I hung back and allowed several cars to get between us. Once done, I cruised into the neighborhood and then onto his street.

  The house was a three-story Victorian that boasted the quintessential "Million Dollar View". Perched on the edge of the hill, laid out below was the entire city with views of the North Shore, downtown and even glimpses of Oakland. It was a one-of-a-kind, unduplicated view that I was sure made the owner the envy of all who visited him.

  As was characteristic of the architectural style of the time, open areas for entertaining took center stage on both the first and second floors, with the view providing the main focal point. Stained glass windows reflected the original Victorian design, while the extensive changes made by Jackson reflected a much more modern feel. To my delight the built-on garage that he had planned as part of the renovation of the beautiful house was still incomplete, so his car was parked out front in one of the four available off-street parking spaces. There was also no other vehicle present that night; Mr. Jackson was home alone.

  For anyone else, or in any other situation, a good old-fashioned breaking-and-entering would have been the ideal ticket to get the job done; but that was impossible for me. I even doubted that I could drive a car or walk up Mr. Jackson’s driveway unencumbered by protection spells and hexes against rogues. It was virtually impossible for a warlock to enter the home of another unless he had been invited to do so. With that thought in mind, I wondered again about the tarot card in my breast pocket.

  The Empress.

  She was supposed to be a mother figure, symbolizing love, plenty, happiness. She was an instrument through which great things happened, opportunities were created and paths were cleared. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. I started the engine and took one last look at the guardian’s house on the hill before driving back into the city of Pittsburgh. I made my way to the Allegheny Cemetery and parked the car.

  After taking a deep breath I went in search of an ancient oak tree, one that had been there when the place had been incorporated in 1844. When I found it, I knelt at the base of the trunk and took out my pocket knife. I drew a pentagram in the bark and pressed the first two fingers of my left hand to the center of it.

  “Help in deed, help those in need,” I whispered, three times.

  It was our version of a phone call to the person I needed the most at that moment.

  ***

  “Alphonse!” I called into the darkened room as the false panel in the wall behind me slid and locked back into place.

  “Gene Divosse,” said a familiar voice, “you are a long, long way from New Orleans, my friend.”

  “It is true, but if anyone would know why I am here, it should be you, Alphonse.”

  The man I knew as Alphonse Louis Constant was more commonly known to the world as Eliphas Zahed and was largely responsible for the doctrines and practices of the mystical arts as they are known today.

  In his first lifetime, Eliphas Levi had distilled practices from a number of belief systems, ranging from Christianity and Judaism to fringe beliefs such as Tarot and the writings of historical alchemists and melded them into a strange hybrid that became known as “Occultism.” A trained theologist who almost became a priest, Levi was always more of a scholar than a practicing magician. Still, he was extremely charismatic and had vast knowledge in many areas of magic and had authored many books of ritual magic. He was particularly known for his work with Baphomet, the gargoyle-like entity that he considered a representation of “the absolute.” He drew the famous picture of Baphomet as a winged, goat-headed female figure which is often the first picture anyone thinks of when the occult is mentioned.

  Levi was over two hundred years old and didn’t look a day over thirty-five. It was how he hid from the mortal world. When Alphonse was sixty-five, he had somehow managed to cast a spell of immortality on himself believed to be the Lazarus Hex; but that was just a myth, every warlock knew the spell did not exist. Well, it had never been found in any written form known to exist, anyway. The truth of it was that in 1875, his body had been laid in a crypt in Cimetière du Père-Lachaise and a year later Alphonse had turned up on the French colony island of Guadeloupe where he opened a curiosity shop in the dilapidated L’Assainissement neighborhood in Pointe-a-Pitre.

  It had been his fatal mistake because it wasn’t long before he drew the attention of the local coven leader who did nothing more than report him to the elders in Massachusetts. After which he was exposed and brought to the United States to report to them. Eventually,
he had been released and had set up several supply stores—hell, there was one in every major city in the US, which he ran on an undercover witchcraft network; our own little version of the Underground Railroad, I guess. When the ‘phone call’ was made, he always made sure to be there in person.

  “I need some supplies,” I admitted finally, “and for you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  I made a noncommittal sound.

  He came to the counter where I stood admiring some flint knives. “What do you need, my friend? Other than information, which I cannot provide.”

  “I’m going to need two of your famous ‘Hex in a bottles’. One to counter a protection spell on a property and another to help reveal a warlock’s true nature.”

  “Do you have your gesture?”

  “Yeah,” I said, as I took the tarot card wrapped in the scarf from my pocket and slid it across the counter.

  Alphonse dipped his finger tips into a dish of water and tore the card in two, placing the pieces back down on the cloth.

  “Is it adequate?”

  “It will be.”

  As he worked, I remembered about the cards that I had pulled from Méredithe’s deck to complete the Empress spread that she had read for me.

  “Say, Alphonse,” I started, “Mére spread that card with an inverted Emperor, the Hermit was upright and Death was upright too. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re going to need stronger potions. I’ll just get busy on those right away.”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “It seems that Ron Jackson may not be anything at all that he appears to be, Gene.”

  “I didn’t mention any names, Alphonse.”

  “You didn’t need to. I don’t know the man personally; he’s never been in any of my stores either but the cards you described tell me that he’s got some unique powers up his sleeve that you ought to be on the lookout for.”

  “Come on! Stop with the cryptic.”

  “Haven’t you thought about it at all? Why would the reversed Emperor come to sit right beside the upright Empress? Right beside her, Gene! There’s dualism in your spread and its concerns his nature.”

  “A shape shifter?”

  Alphonse only looked squarely at me, he didn’t say another word.

  A few hours later, I left what looked from the outside to be a humble butcher’s shop with two bottles of potions in my pocket and drove back to the Fairmont with my plan basically set.

  ***

  The following evening, I returned to the house on the top of the hill in Mount Washington and parked my car way out of sight around the corner. The street was deserted but I knew that the housewives of the neighborhood were already home doing homework with their children and making their family dinners. The workers, however, like Ron Jackson, wouldn’t be returning home for several more hours. I had to be careful, nonetheless.

  As I approached the gate I heard snarling from the other side of the hedge that surrounded the house. I smiled to myself because I knew there was no dog living there. Ron had an open gateway that led up his driveway, nothing stood between the two cut stone pillars there. Still the growling continued, it even took on a much more menacing cadence the closer I got to the entrance but as soon as I drew the first circle on the left side stone pillar, it went silent. My hex was working.

  I next drew the runes of my talisman from the base to the tops of both pillars; it was the only way I knew how to disable his protection spell without it being detected. When that was completed, I had full access to the property...and wasn’t very surprised to find the front door open when I tested the door knob.

  ***

  When Ron pulled up to the house that evening, I was comfortably ensconced in the second floor parlor. He would see me as soon as he arrived on the landing and then we would see who the better warrior was. I had taken my time and gone through the entire house room by room that evening in order to choose the best place to confront him. I had also made a great effort to locate the gold piece but that had been futile; in truth, I hadn’t expected that quest to be successful at all. Though I knew it was certainly there, he would have taken extra precaution to hide it meticulously. It was too much of a powerful token to leave lying in a desk drawer or displayed on a library shelf in full view. It was most likely in his lair and the entrance to that space would be hidden with his most powerful magic.

  He stepped into the house unsuspectingly and I listened as he fumbled with the paraphernalia of his occupation at the doorway. There was no sign that my presence had yet been detected but I knew it was just a matter of time. He went into the kitchen and fiddled with the coffee machine, rinsing the pot out and refilling the reservoir. Then a cupboard opened and closed and there was more shuffling around before I heard the beep of the machine being turned on. Almost immediately I heard it gurgle to life. Satisfied, he made his way to the stairs.

  I stopped breathing for a moment as I grasped the handle of the pistol that lay on my lap and slid my finger through the trigger guard. He climbed each step meticulously. He was aware of something now, another presence in the house. His steps were cautious and pausing. I heard as he sniffed the air around him. But Ron had no time to react when he stepped onto the second floor landing. As he took the first step into the open parlor at the top, he was hit square in the chest by the hexed bullet from my HK45. I gasped as I realized that the person I had shot was not the tall, dark skinned man in a tailored accountant’s suit that I had expected but a blond Caucasian woman in a black coat dress. Before she hit the floor however, things had changed dramatically.

  As I stood and approached the writhing African-American man on the floor, I smiled to myself. It had been a stroke of genius to soak the gun’s ammunition in the potion I had gotten from Alphonse. As I stood over him, I saw that the shopkeeper had been right about Jackson. As he lay there, clutching his chest and rocking from side to side in agony, his features contorted wildly and I caught sight of at least three different personas that he would regularly shift into. There was the blond woman again, an elderly Chinese man and then his familiar, a werewolf. In the form of the werewolf, I watched as Ron convulsed and expelled the bullet from his chest but when he resumed his true form again I pumped two more shots into his body and that seemed to subdue him somewhat. Well, at least he didn’t shape shift again.

  I stooped down next to him, being careful to stay out of arm’s reach and said, “You can’t fight me over this Ron, you’re basically done. Why don’t you just tell me where the lair is and give me the gold piece.”

  “I-I won’t tell you a damn thing, warlock. You’ll have to...you’ll have to just kill me and be done with it.”

  As I pulled the length of rope from behind me and methodically constructed the loops of the noose, I shook my head.

  “Come on, Ron,” I said with a sarcastic tone in my voice. “You know I can’t do that.”

  I cut two pieces from the end of the rope and securely tied his ankles together first, then rolled him over and did the same to his wrists. The noose I looped around his neck...and pulled it tight.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m just giving you a good old-fashioned witchy send off, Ron. I’m gonna hang you with this hemp from your oak banister. Do you get what I’m saying?”

  “No, no,” he cried in panic. “You can’t do that!”

  “Watch me.”

  I lifted him to his feet by the waist of his suit pants and pushed him towards the balcony. I had to fight against him as he dug his heels into the hardwood floor to prevent his advance towards the sacred oak wood that would be his gallows. While I held him with one hand, I tied the end of the rope securely to several of the posts in the banister. Suddenly, I saw his eyes widen and before he had a chance to make any unexpected moves, I pushed him over the ledge.

  I heard a swift snap and then silence, except for the eerie creaking of the rope, as Ron’s body swung from side to sid
e.

  I could have kicked myself at that moment, as I thought, Without Ron’s willing help, how am I going to find the goddamn florin now?

  Frantically, I ran back down to the ground floor. I looked around to see if there were any doorways that had now been revealed. It wasn’t uncommon for a warlock’s magic to dissolve—or at least become severely weakened—when he had died. But nothing.

  I opened every door, even the closets, and looked—still nothing that was out of the ordinary. I lifted the rugs to see if there were any trap doors and searched for a basement door again as well. No luck. Grabbing a big knife from the block in the kitchen, I went back up to the second floor and unceremoniously cut down Ron’s body, the damn creaking was pissing me off. His corpse fell crashing to the first floor. After a moment of thought, I walked slowly back inside the library.

  Ron had chosen to be an accountant in his everyday life, which indicated a high level of meticulousness in his personality; that would only be heightened in his wizardry. In the library there was no trace of anything even remotely related to his company or even accounting; not even a single book on the extensive shelves. If his work stayed in his office in downtown Pittsburgh then his craft would be what he filled his home library with; sadly, all I saw were copies of the classics, mystery novels and the occasional philosophical text; no occult or crafting books there. Slowly I stepped back and waved a hand over the titles.

  “Aperio ostendus!” I commanded

  Eureka! I thought as the fabric in the magic protecting the bookshelf’s’ true contents was dissolved before my eyes.

  I scanned the shelves again and there it was, sitting in the middle of a shelf in the place of a book end, was an old general store cash register. I lifted my hand and grasped the lever, pulling it down swiftly and stood back to watch as the entire wall moved back away from me and slid to one side. I looked into the opening and saw a stairway that led down into the bowels of the old house. As I stepped over the threshold, the torches that lined the walls along the descending stairs lit one by one showing the way down. Quickly, I descended into what could only be Ron’s lair.