by J. R. Mabry
“That’s a deal,” Marco said, tying a knot. “I just need to start my own family…or find them somehow. If I live long enough, that is.”
“That’s a good reason to stay alive,” Richard said.
Marco threw the mass of macramé on the floor. “Shit, man. 1972. You ruined the whole thing when you said that.”
“I’m sorry. There’s something to be said for nostalgia, though.”
“Do you think you’ll ever be nostalgic about this?” He waved his hand around the room of sleeping people.
“I’ll tell you what I’m nostalgic for. Brian frying bacon, Dylan lighting up a joint, Terry prancing by in a tiara…Susan putting me in my place.” He laughed.
“You’ll get it back,” Marco promised.
“I can’t believe I ever wanted more than that.”
“You’ll get it back.”
“I love them so much.” It was Richard’s turn to get emotional.
“I know you do. You know what I find helps at a time like this?”
“Don’t you dare say macramé.”
Thursday
Radiant is the World Soul
Full of splendor and beauty,
Full of life,
Of souls hidden,
Of treasures of the holy spirit,
Of fountains of strength,
Of greatness and beauty.
Proudly I ascend
Toward the heights of the world soul
That gives life to the universe.
—Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook
62
It was the busy chatter of people in the hall and the clang of metal trays that woke Susan again. She was cold. The blanket she had pulled over herself and Chicken was on the floor, and Chicken was nowhere to be seen. Susan sat up, rubbed at her eyes and yawned. Then she noticed that Dylan was gone, too.
“Those must have been a lot of tests,” she said to her herself out loud. In her mind, she made a to-do list: pee, find Chicken, find Dylan. She wove a bit as she made her way down the hall toward the restroom. She half expected to meet Chicken coming out of one, but she didn’t. First things first, she thought, locking the door behind her and loosening her jeans. Sheer relief poured through her, and relieved of her distress, her rational capacity returned.
She washed her hands and ran her fingers through her hair, unclumping the blond locks where they had bunched together during the night. She pronounced her hair, “Sad,” shrugged, and unlocked the door. She went first to the nursing station. Melissa was off duty, but an older Filipino woman was there. Her name tag said, “Felicity.”
“Hi, I’m Mrs. Melanchthon. My husband is in Room A113. Or…he was. He’s supposed to be.” One thing at a time, she told herself. “Have you seen a little girl? About four years old, Hispanic, goes by Chicken.”
“You named your daughter Chicken?” The woman looked vaguely horrified.
“No. She’s not my daughter. I’m just…taking care of her. Chicken is what she wants to be called.”
The woman gave Susan an uncertain look.
“Look, just…have you seen her?”
“No. I have not.”
“Oh, God. Okay, can you tell me what has happened to my husband?”
“Dylan Mela…Melan…”
“Melanchthon.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“It’s German.”
“Are you German?”
“No, I’m Swedish. Mostly.”
“Hmm…” Nurse Felicity clacked at her keyboard and followed a line on the screen. “Your husband was taken for tests.”
“Yes, last night at about midnight. Where is he now?”
“He should be back. The tests are finished.”
“He’s not back.”
“Not back?”
Susan lowered her gaze at the woman. “My husband is not in his room. Did you misplace my husband?”
The woman softened a bit. “I see the problem. Let me ask around. I’ll come find you.”
“Okay,” Susan agreed. She went back to Dylan’s empty room. The blanket still lay on the floor, empty, discarded, out of place. Susan stared at it, and a loneliness filled her that she did not understand. She picked the blanket up and wrapped it around her shoulders, hugging herself and trying not to shiver.
63
Richard woke to the sound of smashing glass. He had been spooning with Toby on the carpet in the squad room that had been converted into a makeshift dormitory, but at the sound he jerked upright and froze, listening intently. Tobias yawned and stretched. “Shhh…” Richard said, ears alert. He heard another crash and sprang to his feet, finding others already awake and congregating in the main hallway of the police station.
“Status,” Herrer barked into a walkie-talkie, speed walking down the hallway toward the sound. There was a burst of white noise, then a high male voice responded. “Doors are holding, Captain, but I don’t know for how long.”
“What’s happening?” Richard asked. Marco stumbled into the hallway.
“There’s a gang vandalizing the station. Everyone stay in the hall! Keep clear of all windows!”
“Vandals—that means we’re at the intersection of a wrath demon and an envy demon,” Richard said.
“But according to your theory, these crimes are territorial,” Herrer paused and narrowed her eyes at him.
“Yes, but the territory can change if the sigil is moved.”
“So we’ve got two mobile…spheres of evil influence that just happen to overlap at the police station?” Herrer asked.
“Sounds implausible, but it’s the best explanation I can muster,” Richard said.
“We’ve got to get rid of those things,” Herrer said. She put her hands on her hips and stared at the floor, apparently thinking.
“We’ve got to be able to get outside safely first,” Richard said. “Marco, can you make and activate enough talismans for two teams?”
“Sure. How many people on a team?” Marco asked.
Richard looked at Herrer. “How many?”
“I’m sending four men with you, tops,” she said.
“That’ll be enough. So…make four, please, Marco.”
“Now?”
“We want to hit the street as soon as that crowd moves on,” Richard said.
Herrer’s attention had been taken by a uniformed officer, so Richard took Marco aside. Before he could say anything, though, Marco asked, “Whose teams are we on?”
“I figure I’ll lead one team, you lead the other,” Richard said.
“That might not exactly be the power structure the Chief is envisioning. But anyway, how are we going to find the sigils?”
“Between us we have two unstoppable sigil-locating machines.”
“We do?”
“You have the Liahona, and I have Toby’s nose. Remember how he sniffed out that last sigil we found?”
Marco’s eyebrows raised and he tried not to smile. “Those are very different methods.”
“Both good, though.”
“You know how to say, ‘Sniff out the sigil’ in Enochian?”
“That’s where I was hoping you could help me.”
“There’s no word in the lexicon for ‘smell,’ I can tell you that. There’s no word for ‘find,’ either.”
“There has to be,” Richard scowled.
“Sure, there has to be, but it wasn’t revealed to John Dee or Edward Kelly. All we have is what they recorded.”
“All right, what do we have?”
“Will ‘bring down’ work?”
Richard scowled. “Maybe.”
“Okay, that’s ‘drix.’ Say this with me: ‘Drix babalon gah.’”
“What’s it mean—I mean, literally?”
“It means ‘bring down the wicked spirit.’”
“We can’t say ‘The symbol of the wicked spirit’?”
“Oh, I guess we could say that,” Marco said, his eyebrows raising. “Try, ‘Drix aziazor babalon gah.’”
&
nbsp; “Drix aziazor babalon gah,” Richard practiced.
Marco shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”
“Let’s see which direction the Liahona wants our teams to head out in,” Richard said.
“Okay, I’ll grab it.”
Richard turned to Tobias. “I wish I had some breakfast, boy.” The dog’s tail thumped twice on the floor.
A moment later, Marco emerged from the room they had slept in, Liahona box in hand. Tobias trotted after them as they headed toward the glass doors at the front of the building.
“I wouldn’t go any closer if I were you,” the door guard said. He had his hand on his service revolver and looked like he was about to jump out of his skin. Richard looked at the doors and saw why. Near the doors was a small pile of bodies—just beyond them a crowd raged, shouting and jeering and daring the police sniper on the roof to take another shot.
“I’m guessing the dead folks there got a little too close to the doors for the comfort of the officer on the roof?” Richard asked the guard.
The young man nodded.
“Okay, let’s ask right here then,” Richard said to Marco.
As Marco pulled the Liahona out of its case, Richard jumped at the sound of another crash. Looking toward the doors again, Richard saw the source of the sound. Someone had lit a homeless person’s shopping cart on fire and had given it a running start. It had crashed against the doors, and then bounced back a couple of feet—the flames leaping nearly as high as the roof.
Just then a rock burst through the glass doors, sending glass spraying over the linoleum. “Dammit! Toby, stay back!” It wasn’t any good. There was no place the dog could step without getting glass in his feet.
Richard could hear the mob outside now, and he could see that it was making the guard more nervous than ever. The young man drew his pistol and trained it out the jagged hole in the plate glass of the door. Richard squatted down and scooped Tobias into his arms, groaning as he stood upright. “Good God, dog, you are fat.” Tobias squirmed then panted in his ear.
“Okay, we’re sending out two teams to destroy sigils,” Marco said, for the Liahona’s benefit, it seemed. “Which direction should the first one go in?” Richard and Marco watched as both needles pointed due north.
“That’s clear,” Richard said. “And the other team?”
“Which direction should the other team go in?” Marco asked. Once again, both needles pointed due north.
“Huh,” Richard said.
“Hey, demon-guys,” Herrer called from down the hall.
Richard and Marco looked at each other. Marco shrugged. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been called worse.”
Richard panted as he lugged Tobias down the hall. As soon as they got to a patch of linoleum not scattered with broken glass, he set the big yellow dog down with a groan. “When we get through this thing, Toby—diet.”
Marco patted Richard’s tummy. “You can do it together.”
“Jerk.”
“Dough-boy.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Herrer stood in the hall with her hands on her hips. “Are you two finished?”
“Uh…yeah,” Richard said.
“Good, follow me.” She led them into the operations room and pointed to a large map of Berkeley. Before she could open her mouth to speak, the power failed. Groans filled the air for a few seconds, and Richard saw one officer bury his head in his hands.
“Mendel, generator, now!” Herrer shouted.
It was early morning yet, but there was still enough dawn coming through the windows to see by. Marco and Richard stepped closer to the map to see it better. Tobias sat and began licking his balls.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Herrer said. “We got riot gear for six at hand. You’ll make two teams of three each. I want you to stay within half a click of each other, if possible. If you’re going to get any backup at all, it’ll be from each other.”
“That’s why the Liahona told us to go in the same direction,” Marco said.
“The Lia-what?” Hearer’s brows knitted together.
“This,” Marco held up the Liahona. “It’s got a complicated history, but—”
The officer with his head in his hands bolted upright and pointed. “Did you say Liahona?”
Marco smiled. “I did. It’s right here. You must be Mormon.”
The man nodded and approached them with wonder lighting up his face.
“Ellison, you know about this thing?”
“Yeah. It’s legit. I mean, I don’t know if this is the one, but it’s a real thing.”
“What does it do?” Herrer stared at it.
“It does a lot of things, and its complicated,” Richard said. “But today, it’s going to lead one of our teams to the sigils.”
“And the other team?” Herrer asked.
Richard pointed to Tobias.
Herrer looked skeptical. Tobias had one leg stretched out and was biting at one particular stretch of skin, apparently scratching an itch.
“Does he have fleas?”
“He might. I’d think that’s the least of our problems at the moment.”
“He could have demon fleas,” Marco said, his voice filled with mock menace.
“Thank you, Vincent Price,” Richard punched him in the arm.
“I suggest you head toward the Albany Tunnel—”
“Due north,” Marco punched him back.
“—and then head east toward the Marina. Then head west on University, skirt the campus toward Telegraph, then College, until you hit the Claremont, then—”
“That’s more than we’ll get to in one day,” Richard stopped her. “I see what you’re doing, cross-hatching the city systematically. It’s a good plan. The only problem will be the roving sigils, but there’s nothing we can do about them except pick them off as we encounter them.”
“I’m going to send everyone out with backpacks,” Herrer said. “Including you.”
“What’s in the backpacks?” Marco asked.
“Mostly ammunition,” Herrer said. “We’re emptying the armory for this. I hope you realize I’m putting all of our eggs in this basket.”
“It’s the right basket,” Richard said.
“It fucking better be,” Herrer brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “One more thing. Can you shoot?”
64
Brian awoke to the tickling of feet. He squirmed and jerked his foot away. When he opened his eyes, Kat was smiling at him. “Hey there, sleepy-headed stranger.”
Brian raised his eyebrows and turned over on the couch to face the room. He heard clattering in the kitchen and smelled the glorious aroma of coffee. He would have liked to have smelled bacon, too, but reminded himself not to mention that in this house.
Mikael joined Kat and gave Brian’s hair a muss. “Mornin’, old man.”
“Watch who yer callin’ old, sonny.”
Elsa came out of the bedroom and stopped short. “Uh…full house, I guess.”
“Elsa, these are my friends Kat and Mikael. They’re Blackfriars—refugees from the East Bay.”
Elsa offered her hand. “Well, we can’t say no to any refugees.”
“They came in after midnight,” Brian said. “I gave them my room.”
“I wish I could stay and chat,” Elsa said, heading to the kitchen. “But I’m going to be late for my first client.”
Brian heard her talking to Chava. A moment later, he heard their voices rise in a testy exchange that he couldn’t quite make out. Then he heard shushing. Brian and Kat and Mikael shared an awkward moment until Mikael said in a low voice. “I left the talisman in the bedroom.”
“The Talisman of Amitiel?” Brian asked.
“Yes. I wrapped it in a pillowcase and put it under the pillow. You might want to check it later.”
“What’s going on with it?”
“It was too cold to touch. It almost burned me in my sleep, it was so cold.”
“Even the leather
thong was frosty,” Kat noted.
“The talisman only gets cold when people are lying,” Brian remembered.
“Right. But neither of us was talking,” Mikael said. “We were sleeping.”
“What do you think that means?” Brian asked, still whispering.
“I think it means that deceit is so pervasive it’s ambient.”
“Either that or there’s a level of wrongness in the world so great that it’s just reacting perpetually,” Brian reasoned.
Mikael shrugged. “Either way, I can’t wear it right now.”
Brian nodded, thinking. Elsa breezed out of the kitchen and through the front door with a wave, coffee and coat in hand.
“That was Elsa,” Brian said. “Chava’s partner.” He lowered his voice even more. “They’ve been fighting a lot.”
“Who hasn’t?” Kat gave Mikael an apologetic look.
Chava emerged from the kitchen with a tray bearing four steaming mugs along with milk and sugar containers. She set it on the coffee table and took a seat next to Brian. “I’m sure I smell like muskrat,” Brian said, leaning away from her.
She waved at him dismissively. “Can you stay for coffee?” she asked Mikael and Kat.
“We were just going to head out,” Mikael said. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just pour them back into the Mr. Coffee. So no breakfast, either?”
“We’re going to head over to the Hoof for brunch,” Kat said. “There’s a strategy meeting for the Bay Area Wiccan Alliance. Forty Wiccan leaders are being detained right now, and the natives are getting restless.”
“Rightfully so,” Chava exclaimed. “I practiced Wicca for a while, in my misspent youth.”
“What pantheon did you work with?” Kat cocked her head, revealing a curious smile.
“Oh, I didn’t wander too far from my roots. I mostly invoked HaShem and Ashera.”
“A middle-eastern classic,” Mikael nodded. “But Kat misspoke—she’s going to the Hoof. I’m off to the Castro.”
Kat shot him a betrayed look, her lips growing thin and rigid.
“What’s going on in the Castro?” Brian asked. “I mean, besides the early morning leather bars?”
