by J. R. Mabry
“Can we get back to the sigils for a moment?” Cain asked.
Richard looked up at him. “Sure.”
“Do you have one?”
“We burned ’em all,” Dylan said. “It’s the only way to deactivate ’em.”
Terry froze. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of parchment.
“I meant to burn this, but I forgot when I saw the girl.”
“You mean Chicken?” Dylan asked.
“Do we have to call her that?” Terry complained.
“Ah think it’s cute,” Dylan smiled.
“Where is she?”
“Napping. In the chapel,” Susan said.
“Who’s this?”
“A little girl that Father Terry rescued from a gunfight,” Richard said. “He even took a bullet to save her.”
Perry looked alarmed. “Then how—”
“Kevlar,” Terry said, fingering the hole in his cassock. “Hurt like hell, though.”
Perry held her hand out to Terry, who handed over the parchment.
“Isn’t it dangerous to bring that in here?” Kat asked. “I mean, what’s to stop the demon from bringing his party to the friary?”
“We’re warded against that kind of thing,” Terry said. “Well warded.”
“What’s ‘warded’ mean?” Cain asked.
“A ward—as we use it—is an angelic invocation against dark magick,” Terry answered.
Perry got up and held the scrap of parchment between her eyes and the kitchen window. The sigil almost glowed from the brilliant backlighting. “What…is…that?” Perry asked, pointing to something on the parchment.
“It’s a sigil,” Terry said.
“No, not the sigil,” Perry said. “That.”
Richard stood next to her and leaned in so that their heads were almost touching. “Uh…huh. That looks like a watermark. Like you see on fine stationery.”
“Who uses parchment for stationery?” Mikael asked.
“Magickians,” Marco said.
Richard froze. He snatched the parchment out of Perry’s hands and held it directly in front of his gaze. “Well, fuck me.”
“What?” Susan asked.
“This watermark has two symbols on it. I see a hawk…”
“Let me guess,” Terry said. “The other one is a serpent.”
“Ah’ve heard the fiddler play this tune b’fore,” Dylan said.
“I can’t believe Larch is behind this,” Richard shook his head. “It’s too…”
“Successful?” Susan asked.
“Yeah. I would have laid odds that something like this would be too ambitious for him.”
“Well, we don’t know why he’s doing it,” Terry admitted. “So we don’t know if he’s succeeded at all.”
“Luna lives in San Francisco,” Kat said. “And the Lodge of the Hawk and Serpent is in San Francisco, too. Is that one of those coincidences you don’t believe in?”
“San Francisco is a big place,” Richard said. “It could be a coincidence.”
“Let’s find out,” Kat said. “Mikael, you up for a trip across the Bay?”
“I’ll grab my coat,” Mikael said, darting out of the kitchen.
“Grab mine, too, will you?”
“Wait,” Richard said.
Mikael poked his head back in.
“The only way to the City is through Emeryville,” Richard said. “Can you get there?”
“The freeways were still clear an hour ago,” Cain said. “They should be fine.”
“And there’s nothing like this in SF,” Susan said. “They’ll actually be safer than we are once they get there.”
“Okay,” Richard nodded. “Go and see if you can find Luna. See what she knows.”
Mikael saluted, and he and Kat made a hasty exit.
“What if Luna doesn’t know anything?” Susan asked. “What if she’s just a passive participant? What if she really is being oppressed and has no idea why?”
“She may not know anything about this,” Terry said, indicating the maps.
Marco held out his hand to Richard. Richard cocked his head but handed the parchment to the magickian. Marco studied it. “We know this demon is involved,” he said.
“Yeah, so?” Terry asked.
“So whatever your Hawk and Serpent bozos are up to, this demon is a witness.”
“Yeah, okay. So?” Terry repeated.
“So let’s ask him,” Marco said.
Wednesday
See, the name of the Lord comes from far away,
burning with his anger, and in thick rising smoke;
his lips are full of indignation,
and his tongue is like a devouring fire;
his breath is like an overflowing stream
that reaches up to the neck—
to sift the nations with the sieve of destruction,
and to place on the jaws of the peoples
a bridle that leads them astray.
—Isaiah 30:27-28
35
Richard awoke to the sound of smashing windows, screaming women, barking dogs, and the soulless madrigal of competing car alarms. He leaped out of bed, threw on a cassock, and rushed into the hallway to find Susan already there. They rushed down the stairs and stood transfixed before the living room window—Berkeley was ablaze.
By the light of the fire filling every window, Richard rushed to the kitchen. “I’m going to get Terry. Find Marco!” he called over his shoulder as he headed out the back door. His gut sank when we saw that the cardboard patch they’d put on the cottage window had been ripped away, and more of the windows had been smashed. The noise outside was a deafening cacophony of voices, alarms, and roaring flames. “Terry!” he called but doubted anyone could hear him. He noticed that the door had been kicked open—splintered wood adorned the place where the deadbolt had been, sticking out at wild angles.
Richard took the stairs in one leap and landed on the porch with enough force to shake the whole cottage. “Terry!” he called again and dashed inside. He didn’t bother to turn on a light—there was no need for it. The fires were so close and so bright that everything seemed to be dancing with a bright orange glow, even inside the cottage. Richard was about to head for the bedroom, when a man emerged from the kitchen, holding Terry in a headlock. An icepick was pressed to the side of the friar’s head.
Terry looked terrified, still in his bunny pajamas. He was also, however, wild-eyed and cackling. The firelight reflected off the bald pate of his head, and his goatee was dark and slick with…what? Blood? Richard couldn’t tell. It could have been molasses for all he knew.
Richard held his hands up. “Listen to me. The voices in your head are not your friends. And you don’t have to do what they are telling you to do.”
The man didn’t answer but only waved the icepick around dramatically, then he held it out as if to lunge at Richard. Richard retreated a couple of steps, and the man shoved Terry in front of him, making for the door. He grabbed Terry by the neck again before the diminutive friar could spin away from him, however, and dragged him down the stairs. Richard followed, feeling helpless. He saw a poker by the fireplace and picked it up. He swung it to get a sense of its heft, and bounded out the door and down the stairs in pursuit of the attacker.
In the back yard, the bearded man had Terry in a choke hold, once again threatening to run the icepick through his temple. They faced Richard but backed up slowly toward the gate that led to the street.
“What’s your name?” Richard called to the man. “Tell me—” he paused. Tell me what? He remembered Jesus in his prayer yesterday. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
But the man seemed too crazed for conversation. His eyes darted about like angry flies, and his lips were drawn back in a maniacal grin. Richard wracked his brain, trying to come up with the name of whatever demon must have this man in his grip. But there were simply too many possibilities. There are 72 demons in the Lesser Key of Solomon, and each of those has countless subordi
nates under him, he thought. He fought the urge to despair and clutched at his head in his hands.
Suddenly the man jerked and flailed and fell to the ground in a spasmodic heap. Terry stumbled backwards and caught his balance on the fence, gasping for breath.
“What happened? What did you do?” Richard asked Terry.
Terry held onto the fence and didn’t answer.
“It wasn’t him,” Marco said from behind them. Richard turned to look at him and saw wires extending from a black handle in his hands to the twitching man. “Taser,” Marco said. “Hey, I didn’t invent it. This is off-the-shelf.”
“Will he be okay?” Richard pointed at the man.
“He’ll be okay from the taser,” Marco answered. “I can’t vouch for the demon possession, or oppression, or whatever is going on for him.”
Richard rushed to Terry and caught him up in a hug. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Terry said, but his voice was rough. “I think so.”
Richard could feel him shaking. “Why didn’t the wards hold?”
“I don’t know,” Terry answered. “Anything can be overwhelmed, I guess.”
“Damn. None of us are safe, now. Terry, go and grab a cassock, and meet us back here as soon as you can. Go!”
Terry took a second to get a grip on himself but then darted off toward the porch of the cottage.
“Where—?” Richard looked around wildly for Kat and Mikael, but then he remembered. They had gone to San Francisco last night. He breathed, relieved for the moment. Richard turned and saw Dylan and Susan standing close together, with Chicken clinging to Susan’s leg. Except for Mikael and Kat, everyone he considered family was in this backyard. “We’re not safe here, anymore,” he said. “Whatever overtook Oakland and Emeryville, it’s here.”
Dylan put his arm around Susan and they both nodded. Chicken buried her face in Susan’s jeans.
“We have to get someplace safe,” Richard continued.
“Albany,” Dylan suggested.
“This is creeping north, now,” Richard shook his head. “Albany will be next.”
“We could go to the City,” Marco said, which Richard took to mean San Francisco.
“We could,” Richard said. “But that’s too far for us to be of any use, don’t you think?”
“It’s safe,” Marco countered.
“Alameda,” Susan said. “There’s no crime in Alameda.”
“There’s never any crime in Alameda,” Dylan noted.
“But there aren’t any of these outbreaks there, either,” Susan said. “It’s the closest safe place.”
Richard nodded. “Let’s do it. Dylan, you and Susan and Terry pack up your gear—five minutes, no more, and head out. Marco, you should go, too.”
“Ain’t you comin’?” Dylan asked.
“Yes, but I have to…I have to do something first. I’ll follow.”
“In what?” Susan asked. “Mikael and Kat have the only other car.”
Shit, Richard thought. His mind raced.
“You guys go ahead,” Marco said. “I’ll take Richard wherever he needs to go in the vanigan. Then we’ll be right behind you.”
Richard nodded at Marco gratefully. “Thank you, Marco. Let’s move, everyone!”
36
Richard watched the beat up Corolla wind through the street around piles of burning trash, dodging running pedestrians, some of whom were holding weapons. He still had no idea what was really going on. He only knew it was bad.
“Up, boy,” he said to Tobias. The great yellow lab hopped up into the VW van, his ears erect and his eyes shining, ready for adventure.
Marco looked far less excited. “Where are we going?”
“The friary next to All Saints,” Richard said.
“Just down the street?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank God,” Marco said. “We won’t be far behind them, then.”
“Shouldn’t be,” Richard stowed his kit bag on the seat next to Tobias, then climbed into the passenger seat. “Let’s move.”
Marco nodded and pulled out of the drive, navigating around the blazing trash and nearly running over a man chasing someone with a knife. “I’m seeing a pattern here,” he said.
“Yeah. I can think of three wrath demons that could be behind it,” Richard said.
“Who are we picking up?” Marco asked.
“Mother Maggie. My spiritual director.”
“Your spiritual director?” Marco sounded surprised.
“Have you met her?” Richard asked. He didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “She’s widowed. She lives by herself in one of the friary apartments. She’s got no one.” He swallowed. “She’s got me.”
Marco looked over at Richard and nodded as the van rolled to a stop. “This it?”
“Yeah. Back me up, will you?”
“Sure thing.” Marco grabbed his taser and hopped out.
“Stay here, Toby,” Richard said, closing his own door. Toby lay down on the floorboard and put his head on his paws.
Richard led Marco to a rickety staircase that clung precariously to the side of the crumbling building. “This does not look safe,” Marco looked up.
“It hasn’t fallen yet. Can you stand guard here?” Richard asked. Without waiting for an answer, he attacked the stairs, two at a time and was winded by the time he got to the top. He pounded on the door. “Maggie! Maggie, it’s me, Richard! I know a safe place!”
There was no answer. “Shit!” Richard yelled. He pounded on the door again, but this time he put his ear to the door and listened. The noise outside was so great he couldn’t hear anything from the inside. He leaned over the small metal landing and peered into the window to the kitchen. It was dark. Richard ran his fingers through his hair and forced himself to breathe more slowly. Then he kicked in the door.
“What the fuck was that?” Marco called.
Tobias started barking so loudly that even Richard could hear it. He turned and called down to Marco, “Check on Toby!” and then he entered the darkened room. He tried a light switch, but the power was out. He found a candle and lit it from the stove, then held it aloft as he looked around. He had never been in Maggie’s apartment before, but it certainly looked like her. The table cloth was ratty, and there was a liberal dusting of toast crumbs across it. A jar of marmite was open on the kitchenette counter.
He strode to the bathroom, but it was empty. He moved to the bedroom. The bed was made, and the closet was open. There was one brightly-colored sock on the floor. Richard blew air through his cheeks and leaned against the wall. “Maggie, where the fuck are you?” he asked.
Just then he heard Marco bellow, “Son of a bitch!” from below. Richard ran to the door, slammed it behind him, and skipped as many stairs as he could manage without falling. He slid down the metal rails the last half of the ground floor. He landed lightly for his weight and ran toward the van. Marco was holding his head and cursing.
“Goddam motherfuckers!” he shouted.
“What?” Richard asked. “What’s wrong?”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘What’s wrong?’ Just look, man!”
Richard first checked to see if Toby was all right. The dog was sitting upright in the front seat, panting. Relieved, he turned his attention to the van. It was tilting at an odd angle. Glancing down, Richard saw that the two driver’s side tires had been slashed. Richard circumambulated the van. A third tire had also been punctured. “Crap,” he said, fingering the slash.
“That’s what I’m saying,” Marco almost wailed. “What the fuck do we do now?”
The piles of burning trash were in the distance, but the streetlights were out. Richard felt blind, vulnerable. He tapped Marco’s arm. “Have you got those spectacles?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Marco said. He opened the sliding door to the van and snatched the velvet bag from the Liahona case. “Here.”
Richard turned them over in his hand. The lenses were stones, not ground lenses, and wer
e opaque. They should be impossible to see through, but he put them on anyway. The light was painfully bright, but instead of snatching them off his face, Richard endured the discomfort and waited for his eyes to adjust.
It took longer than he expected it to, and he almost gave up. But images began to emerge out of the brilliant intensity, and he gasped.
“What?” Marco asked. “What do you see?”
Brighter than the light of day, Richard saw an illuminated street. It was Cedar Street, he was sure of that—he knew it well. But it was transformed. The street itself shone, as well as the very air around him, but the shining wasn’t coming from the street or the air though—it was as if it were a reflected light, yet he could not discern the source of the brilliance. He could see for what seemed like miles in all directions. It was heartbreakingly beautiful, but at the same moment achingly sad. For in addition to the illumination, he saw neighbors attacking each other up and down both Cedar and Oxford streets—hundreds of them, moving like angry bees, stretching into the far distance. Some were fully dressed, some were in nightclothes, some were in their underwear, and some were completely naked. But all of them were either attacking or being attacked.
But he saw more. Hovering above the people, mounted on terrible steeds, were demonic princes, their scepters extended as they bid their troops to fan out in this direction or that. Their great cruel beaks clacked, their animal heads fierce and terrible to behold. Their mounts were dragons, ostriches, and goats, all nearly three times normal size, and their saddles supported palanquins for the demonic royalty. Their troops scuttled to and fro on every visible street, slinging chains and bringing sword and axe to bear on the terrified, stampeding people of Berkeley. He heard the screams of victims far and near, and he had to look away as one neighbor smashed the skull of another with a hammer.
Richard removed the spectacles and put them in an inside pocket of his cassock.
“What did you see?” Marco asked.
“Too much,” Richard answered.
37
Chicken clung to Terry’s neck most of the drive over. He rocked her and wondered just how much trauma a little girl can take before she sustains permanent damage. She buried her face in his cassock and started humming. That’s it, he thought. Sing. ‘He who sings prays twice.’
