by J. R. Mabry
“Did you tell her that?”
“Yeah, but she didn’t want to hear it.”
Elsa’s brows bunched together. “Didn’t want to hear it? Why not?”
Brian shrugged. “I don’t know. I think maybe she didn’t believe me. I mean, what are the odds?”
“You mean the odds of this person she’s been chasing all over the globe actually living in her own backyard?”
“Right. In Berkeley, of all places.” Brian took a sip. “I think she thinks I’m a little crazy for even suggesting it.”
“Ha!” Elsa burst out. “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle shahor!”
Brian suddenly felt bad talking about his friend behind her back. He felt his sadness return. “Maybe she doesn’t want her quest to end. Maybe she’s afraid of meeting her idol.”
Elsa nodded. “That could be. That could very well be.”
“Or it could be that she wasn’t prepared to hear what her hero was doing?”
“What? What do you mean? Is she a stripper or something?”
That made Brian smile. “No, although that would probably have been easier for her to hear. No. Sarah Bat Asher is an Episcopal priest.”
25
Dylan struggled to maintain his footing as he supported not just his own weight, but Mikael’s as well. Clutching the tall friar’s foot in both hands, he groaned as he tried to hoist Mikael just a little bit higher. “Dude, ken you reach it yet?”
Mikael was straining to reach something hanging just above the maroon awning of McGill’s sports bar. “Not…quite.”
Dylan did not understand why Mikael sounded out of breath. “Dude, yer way heavier then you look.”
“Shit,” Mikael said. “Hey, I’m going to jump. You okay with that?”
“Yer gonna jump down?”
“No, I’m going to jump up. On three, push me as high as you can.”
“An’ then what?”
“Uh…I suppose catch me again.”
“I was afraid you was gonna say that. Do they do finger-joint replacement surgery?”
“Ready?”
“Ready as Ah’ll ever be, Ah reckon,” Dylan said. A moment later, Mikael pushed against his hands with unexpected force. Dylan groaned and heaved upward. A moment later, Mikael fell again, and Dylan staggered under the tall friar’s weight. “Dude, Ah can’t—”
But then Mikael stepped down. “It’s fine. You okay?”
Dylan felt at the small of his back. “Ask me tomorrow. What did you find?”
“This.” He held out a small square of what looked like parchment. A sigil matching the one spray-painted onto the awning was scrawled on it.
“That’s not ink,” Dylan pointed out. “That’s blood.”
Mikael shuddered and dropped it. “What is it?”
Dylan stepped on the tiny scrap of parchment before the wind could catch it. He took a lighter out of his pocket and produced a bright, dancing flame.
“Uh…Dylan, why do you have a lighter?”
“Old habits, Ah guess.” He leaned over and picked up the parchment, holding it just above the flame. As the sigil began to burn, it screamed.
“Where is that coming from?” Mikael asked, looking around.
“That is a question fer metaphysical speculation. You mean you never burned a sigil b’fore? Waal, they scream sometimes.” He released the parchment just before the flame reached his fingers, and it fell to the ground. Dylan and Mikael watched it as it curled into a black coil and a thin wisp of smoke rose into the air.
“Now, let’s paint over that sigil up there,” Dylan pointed at the awning.
“Why two sigils?” Mikael asked.
“Waal, Dicky’s the expert on demon-magick, but Ah’m guessing the one we just burned was the activator. And that one up there is the amplifier—’cause it’s big and you ken see it fer blocks.”
“So is it still active?”
“Prob’ly not, but let’s not take any chances,” Dylan said, handing him a can of spray paint. Mikael took it and Dylan interlaced his fingers, once again creating a step for the tall young man. “Let’s get it done while Ah still have some strength in mah hands.”
Mikael stepped up, took a moment to gain his balance, and then painted over the sigil without much care for aesthetics. “Someone’s going to be pissed.”
“If they’re alive, we’re gonna call ’em lucky, and they ken be as pissed as they want,” Dylan called up at him.
Mikael stepped down and looked around. “So…where is Kat?”
She just felt the needle enter her arm when it seemed like a great noise suddenly ceased. She looked down at her arm and her eyes went wide. “What the fuck am I doing?” she said aloud, ripping out the needle. Her head felt a little swimmy, and she wondered if that was just due to adrenaline, or if she had actually gotten some of the morphine. It didn’t matter. She jumped up and nearly leaped out of the ambulance.
“There you are,” Mikael said. She dove for the middle of his torso, planted her face in his belly, and wrapped her arms around his skinny waist. He hugged her back. “What’s going on, baby?”
“Uh…nothing. Just…overwhelmed.”
Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she crumbled to the street.
Tuesday
I will set my face against you,
and you shall be struck down by your enemies;
your foes shall rule over you,
and you shall flee though no one pursues you.
And if in spite of this you will not obey me,
I will continue to punish you sevenfold for your sins.
I will break your proud glory,
and I will make your sky like iron
and your earth like copper.
Your strength shall be spent to no purpose:
your land shall not yield its produce,
and the trees of the land shall not yield their fruit.
—Leviticus 26:17-20
26
When Kat opened her eyes, it seemed like everyone she knew was in front of her, looking at her. “Am I hallucinating this?” she asked the sea of familiar faces. “Because it’s surreal and I feel really weird. Did I just fall into The Wizard of Oz?”
“No, honey, it’s really us,” Susan said, putting her hand on Kat’s arm, just above a purple bruise shaped like Wisconsin.
“What the fuck is that?” Kat jerked her arm up to her face.
“We were hoping you’d remember,” Mikael said.
Kat pulled a pillow over her face. “I hate needles,” she said in a muffled voice. She could hear Tobias panting beside the bed.
“You collapsed, so we gave you one o’ those EpiPen thingies,” Dylan said.
“Is that what gave me the hangover?”
“Nah, that was prob’ly the morphine,” Dylan answered.
“I feel like a moose parked itself on my head.”
Susan pulled the pillow off of her face and held a steaming cup of coffee in front of her eyes. “This will help.”
“Ooooh, counter-drugs.” Kat sat up, and took the cup willingly. “Did I sleep in my cassock?” she asked between slurps.
“Are you in your cassock now?” Richard asked.
“Uh…yeah,” Kat said sarcastically, since everyone could see she had it on.
“You have your answer.”
“Damn. Next time—”
“Next time?” Terry asked.
“Yeah, the next time I suffer demonic oppression and it causes me to shoot morphine into my arm…” she glared and waited for any of them to interrupt her, “I give Mikael permission to undress me.”
“Noted,” Mikael said, smiling weakly but encouragingly.
“Who is that?” Kat pointed.
A little girl had been hiding behind Terry’s legs. She looked like she was about five years old, maybe younger.
“Terry rescued her from a gunfight. We don’t know her name,” Richard said. “In fact, we don’t even know if she speaks English.”
The girl’s eyes widened and she leaped on the bed. “Okie-dokie,” she squealed, instantly cozying up to Kat, who put her arms around her.
“She’s fine,” Kat said. “And Toby, too, I guess. But the rest of you…out.”
“Fair enough,” Dylan said, and turned toward the door. “Time to pray, anyway.”
After morning prayer, the smell of bacon lured the remaining friars into the kitchen, where Marco was blessedly dressed and presiding over breakfast with increased confidence. “Coffee is made,” he pointed to the Mr. Coffee. “Water is hot,” he said to Dylan, “and pancakes are on the way.”
“Hot-diggity-damn,” Dylan said, pouring hot water over his teabag. Richard took his seat painfully and sighed loudly as he tenderly held his bruised rib.
“You sure you’re okay?” Marco asked as he set a large bowl of fried potatoes on the lazy Susan next to the platter of bacon.
“I had Terry look at it in vision. It’s not actually broken, it just feels that way,” Richard said. “Besides, I don’t want to brave a hospital right now unless I absolutely have to.”
“I’ll bet they’re stuffed to the gills,” Marco nodded.
“Ah’m gonna get fat on this kinda fare,” Dylan announced.
“I hope that isn’t complaining,” Marco said without turning around.
“No, suh,” Dylan raised his hands. “Not a bit of it.”
“Is Kat coming down?” Marco asked.
“I doubt it,” Mikael said. “I’ll take her up a plate when we’re done.”
“I’ll go ahead and put one together and set it in the microwave. That way you can just give it a blast before you take it up.”
“Better make two. The girl’s up there with her,” Terry said.
“Oh, an’ take up a bowl o’ kibble fer Toby, too, please,” Dylan said.
“It’s your dog, take his nasty bowl up yourself,” Marco said.
Dylan shrugged.
“We can’t just call her ‘the girl,’” Richard noted.
“I’d call her by her name, if I knew what it was,” Terry said with a slight tone of annoyance.
“Ah’m gonna call her Chicken,” Dylan announced.
“What? Why Chicken?” Mikael asked.
“’Cause she’s skinny and kinda awkward. Her nose is kinda big. And we found her by the KFC. So…Chicken.”
Terry gave Richard a look that he took to mean, Are you going to let this stand?
But the fact was, Richard kind of liked the name. “She is kind of chicken-like.”
Terry looked betrayed, but it only lasted a moment. “She’s cute as a button. She’s also really traumatized.”
“What are we going to do with her?” Mikael asked.
“We should call social services this morning,” Richard said. “Although…with all that’s going on, I don’t expect us to be at the top of their list. We’re probably on our own for a while with her.”
“We can’t just turn her out onto the street,” Terry said.
“You’ve got that ‘Daddy, can I keep the puppy?’ look,” Richard noted. “Stop that.”
“Daddy, can I keep the puppy safe—for now?” Terry asked, a little sheepishly.
“Daddy, ken Ah keep the chicken safe fer now,” Dylan corrected.
“I don’t see that we have much choice,” Richard said. He took a bite of bacon and his face brightened. “Hey, Marco, you’re getting pretty good at this.”
“It’s been a long time since I cooked for a group,” Marco answered. “Took me a couple days to get my sea-legs. But I found ’em. Speaking of which, pancakes are served,” Marco said, setting a steaming plate on the lazy Susan.
“Dude, are those pancakes intentionally shaped like unicursal hexagrams?” Dylan pointed at them.
“Hey, when you make pancakes, you can make them into little crosses, okay?” Marco put his hands on his hips.
Dylan shrugged and dug in. “Dude, when is that CNN report supposed to air?”
“I have no idea,” Richard said. “Soon, I hope. It’s not like we have a lot of gigs right now, and we kind of desperately need the exposure.”
Dylan nodded with what looked like satisfaction. “Free advertisin’. Now yer talkin’.”
“But you know what’s going to mean more to me than that?” Richard asked. “Is finally getting some recognition.”
“What do you mean?” Marco asked. “You guys are famous.”
“We’re well known in a couple of tiny sub-cultures: church hierarchies and the occult community. Those are two pretty small ponds.”
“Both full of people who matter—and people who hold you in pretty high esteem,” Marco countered.
Richard sighed and sipped at his coffee. “I’m just so fucking tired of toiling in obscurity,” he said. “Is that so wrong?”
Susan bolted out of the office holding a few large-format printouts. She set them on the table and took a seat next to her husband.
“It’s not wrong,” she answered. “But I’d advise you to be careful what you ask for.”
“What’s this?” Richard asked.
“It’s a printout of the crime stats in Oakland, Emeryville, and Berkeley,” she said, spreading them out.
Richard stood up and went to the other side of the table, leaning over Susan’s shoulder to see them right-side-up. “Okay, wow. There’s a lot more clusters now. And way more in Emeryville.”
“Just a few starting in south Berkeley,” Susan said. “But they’re starting.”
“Why isn’t this all over the news?” Marco asked.
“It is,” Susan said. “Do you even watch or listen to the news?”
“No.”
Susan rolled her eyes. “Look here—I’ve started superimposing the sigils that we’ve found on the clusters we’ve investigated.”
Richard nodded. “That’s good. Boy, do we have a lot of work to do if we want to get our heads around this, though.”
“What Ah don’t get is how one demon ken wreak so much havoc over an area like that,” Dylan said. “You’d need a horde.”
Terry leaned over from the side. “Or a host.”
“What do you mean?” Richard asked.
“These two aren’t just demons,” Terry said, pointing at the sigils. “They’re both dukes.”
“What difference does that make?” Marco asked.
“Both of the sigils we checked out yesterday correspond to demons that aren’t in anyone’s host.” Terry held up his iPad, toggling between the two sigils they’d found.
“How could they not be in a host?” Dylan asked. “All demons are in a host.”
“Well, that’s not entirely true,” Richard said. “Jinn aren’t.”
“But these aren’t in a host because they’re the host commanders,” Terry said.
“Now yer splittin’ hairs. They’re still part of a host, they’re just leadin’ it.”
“I’m willing to bet that every one of these clusters is being presided over by a duke,” Terry said, “with a whole host underneath him, wreaking whatever brand of havoc that duke is known for.”
“So you want to know what I noticed?” Susan asked.
“Do tell,” Richard said.
“Check out the varieties of crimes for each cluster. Ring any bells?”
Richard scanned the printouts. “They seem like standard-brand crimes to me.”
“But notice the gaps.”
She was right—there were circles of negative space on the maps. “I just figured they missed a spot.”
“I think this was too well planned for that.” Susan sat back and drummed her fingers on the table. “What did you notice when you were driving back?”
“You know, the food is
getting cold,” Marco said testily.
Terry reached for some bacon. “I’m pretty sure we went through a couple blocks that looked like every prostitute and her grandmother was out on the street.”
“Good,” Susan said. “Well, not good. But good noticing. Can you draw it on the map?”
Terry drew a circle around a section of streets. It bordered a cluster of rape reports.
“Just as I thought,” Susan said.
“What?” Richard said. “Spill it. The suspense is killing me.”
“Okay, check it out. Shooting—what kind of sin is that?”
“Uh…murder?” Dylan offered.
“No. Think more classically,” Susan said.
“Methinks it might-eth be murder?”
Susan scowled at her husband.
“Wrath,” Terry said.
“Exactomundo,” Susan said. She pulled the cap off a sharpie and wrote “Wrath” over the sigil of Efranadil. Over the circle Terry had just drawn, she wrote “Lust.”
“What’s the intersection of Wrath and Lust?” Susan asked.
“Rape,” Richard said, pointing to the cluster of rape reports. “Shit. Whoever is doing this is summoning the grand dukes of the seven deadly sins.”
“And not only that, but we have to contend with hybrid sins as well,” Susan said.
“So why the gaps?” Dylan asked.
“Just because something is a sin doesn’t make it a crime,” Susan said. “There’s no crime against gluttony, for instance.”
“The intersection of lust and gluttony is promiscuity,” Richard said, catching on, “but that wouldn’t be reported, either.”
“I think we’ve got this slightly wrong,” Terry said. “I think prostitution is the intersection between lust and greed.”
“Good, good thinking.”
“What about the drug festival Kat and Mikael and Ah came across?” Dylan asked. “Which of the seven deadlies is that?”
“What do you think, Dylan? You might just be the expert on that,” Richard said.
Dylan shifted uncomfortably. “Yer one to talk, with yore whisky.”
