The Glory

by J. R. Mabry

“Save it. I suppose you’ll need supplies?”

  Dylan strained against his restraints, a purple vein bulging on his forehead.

  “Ah could actually help you, ya know. In a way that wouldn’t put everyone on this island in even more danger than we’re in now.”

  “Good to know. But let’s try it my way first.” Betts pulled his suit jacket tighter around him. “I’ve got to get out of this place before I catch cold. Please tell Milo here what you need. I’m going to go enjoy the sunshine. And if you had any sense at all, you could do the same.”

  76

  Mikael sat on the curb to catch his breath. He’d knocked on about fifty doors so far, and along the way he’d honed his technique into an efficient inquiry that solicited very little objection. He looked up and noticed that the sun was starting to descend. The San Francisco fog was beginning to coalesce, lending the street a ghostly cast. I’m going to have to hurry if I’m going to finish this by sundown, he thought. He sighed deeply and pushed himself up. His phone pinged, and he took it out.

  —Going to march with the Alliance across the Bay Bridge. Candlelight vigil. Going to try to retake the East Bay.

  Mikael frowned. “That seems like a baaaad idea,” he said out loud. He quickly thumbed in a text.

  —Going to retake it with what? Your athames and a bundle of burning sage?

  He waited while it sent, then he saw it marked “delivered.” The little dots swirled as she wrote.

  —You’re just jealous. Come with us.

  —Are you still mad at me?

  —Are you still an asshole?

  “Ouch,” he said.

  —No. I found a waxing place on Castro that does de-assholing as well.

  —De-assholed with a Brazilian. Now you’re talking.

  —Haven’t found Larch yet.

  —I don’t think you will, if he doesn’t want to be found.

  —So far he doesn’t know I’m looking for him.

  —Bullshit. His poodle goons know.

  That was true. Purderabo and Turpelo were sure to have told him. Unless… He didn’t really know the internal politics of the Lodge of the Hawk and Serpent. Who knew how close they were? He noticed that he had relaxed. A lot. He hadn’t realized how much stress he had been carrying around about his fight with Kat. Just these few messages put his mind at ease. It was going to be okay between them.

  —I’m worried about you. And the bridge.

  —The bridge will be fine.

  “Ha!” he said out loud. He pocketed his phone and approached the next house.

  Mikael prepared himself mentally as he took the porch and rang the bell. For a few moments, he heard nothing. Then he heard rustling from deep within the house. Then he heard voices. “—not lying to you, I just…” one of them said as he approached, “you didn’t let me—” Then the door snatched open and Frater Eleazar was standing before him in boxer shorts and a flowered shirt, an empty frying pan in his hand. His eyes locked on Mikael’s, and for a moment, he froze. Then he slammed the door.

  Mikael jammed his foot forward and bit back on a howl of pain as the door smashed into it. Knew I should have worn the Doc Martens, he thought, but he didn’t hesitate for more than a second. He heaved the door back in with his shoulder, throwing Eleazar backwards onto his ass. The frying pan went spinning, landing on the tile with a loud noise that was somewhere in between the sound of a bell and a clatter.

  “Where is he?” Mikael said, looming over him. His jet black hair pointed straight up and his tall, angular frame curved down ominously toward where Eleazar had fallen.

  “Uh…where is who?”

  “You know exactly who, you jackwipe.”

  “Jackwipe?”

  “Where the fuck is Larch?”

  “Larch isn’t here.” Eleazar scowled defiantly but didn’t move to get up.

  For a moment, Mikael wished he had his talisman with him, but it didn’t matter. He knew Eleazar was lying.

  “The fuck he isn’t.”

  Mikael began to step over Eleazar. The magickian snatched up the frying pan and rose to one knee. Mikael quickly assumed the hanmi aikido position, and tried to decide whether tantodori—the defense against knife attacks—would be the appropriate strategy against frying pans. But before he could truly center himself, Eleazar came at him with a full-throated scream, waving the frying pan in a wild, erratic pattern that Mikael couldn’t anticipate or repel. It caught him in the collarbone and forced him back against the wall with such force that it knocked the wind from him. Off balance, Mikael flailed, and out of the corner of his eye saw an ornamental blade hanging on the wall nearby. He dove for it, snatched it down, and turned—only to be struck in the groin by Eleazar’s frying pan.

  Mikael howled. “Greasy mutherfucking asshole!” Holding the knife at the ready in one hand, he snatched the pan out of Eleazar’s grip with the other and raised it above his head as if to strike. A long moment passed as Mikael and Eleazar locked eyes. Finally, Mikael threw the pan down, well beyond the magician’s reach. This time it landed with a sickening crunch of breaking tile.

  “What was that?” called a voice from another room.

  Mikael followed the voice and burst into the kitchen. He was disappointed to find Khams there rather than Larch. Khams was wearing a red-checkered apron, holding an electric mixer in one hand and a stick of butter in the other. He dropped the butter at the sight of Mikael wielding the ornamental knife. He looked down at where the butter had landed—squarely on his shoe. “Damn! That was the last of the butter!” He set the mixer on the counter, knelt down, and scooped the butter off his shoe, depositing the mess of it in a mixing bowl. “Don’t tell Larch,” he said.

  “So Larch is here,” Mikael said.

  “Oh, goddam it,” Khams said, wincing.

  “Where is he?” Mikael asked.

  “He is…right here,” a familiar, vaguely reptilian voice sounded from the dining room. A moment later, Larch lurched into the kitchen, his eyes sunken and baggy. He was wearing a puffy, linen shirt—Mikael had only really seen people wear such things in swashbuckler movies or at a Renaissance Faire. Larch’s hair was a mess, as if he had just rolled out of bed. He had a quilt draped around his shoulders.

  “You look like hell,” Mikael said as Larch sat down at the small breakfast table.

  “You’re a vision of loveliness yourself,” Larch smiled weakly. “And you can put that down,” he gestured at the knife. “It’s an eighteenth century Mughal blade, by the way.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Mikael asked, not dropping the weapon.

  “I’ve been sick,” Larch answered.

  Icy cold or no, Mikael cursed himself for coming without the Talisman. How could he know if Larch was lying? Don’t be stupid, Mikael thought. Of course he’s lying.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  Larch shrugged. “Be that way.” He turned to Khams. “What are you up to?”

  “I thought I’d make a cheesecake—with two layers of graham cracker crumbs and caramel marbling.”

  “Oh, that sounds decadent. Do you have something a little more substantial and…well, savory I suppose? I mean, for right now? I just woke up and I’m starving for real food.”

  “A cheesecake isn’t real food?”

  “Don’t take it amiss, Frater. It sounds lovely. But at the moment, I require actual nourishment.”

  “Cheesecake nourishes the spirit,” Khams pointed a spatula at him.

  “Undeniably,” Larch said. “Is there any soup?”

  “None fresh, but we have some Progresso.”

  “That will do nicely.”

  “I’ll warm it up and pour it over some brown rice for you,” Khams said.

  “Splendid. Perhaps the Blackfriar would like some as well? I’m sorry, I know your face but I don’t remember your name. I only know your first stringers—no offense intended. How is Richard, by the way?”

  Mikael ignored the jab. “None for me, thanks.” The idea
of soup over rice actually sounded wonderful, and it was tempting indeed. But all Mikael could think of was Persephone and her fatal pip. Who knew what Khams might slip into his bowl? Better to be hungry than poisoned or drugged, he thought, willing his stomach to be silent and his mouth to stop salivating.

  Khams immediately set to preparing the soup. Larch watched him absently for a moment, then turned his attention back to Mikael. “Richard?”

  “Richard is…I don’t know. He’s in Berkeley.”

  “Ordinarily, I have no great love for the clergy—”

  Khams leaned over and whispered. “His father was a priest.”

  Mikael blinked. “He was?”

  “The next person who mentions my father will wake up to find a cluster of Gunther demons gnawing on their femurs,” Larch growled.

  Mikael had rarely heard a voice charged with such venom. Both Khams and Eleazar looked away, and Khams pretended to be whistling.

  Mikael haltingly continued. “He…uh…Richard called Brian yesterday, from the police station, and he seemed fine. But anything can happen over there.”

  “Hell of a thing,” Larch said.

  Hell of a thing that you fucking caused, Mikael thought. “Larch, look, I’m sorry if you’re not feeling well, but…it doesn’t do any good pretending you aren’t behind this whole thing. Thousands of people are dead because of what you did. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

  “My dear, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. And put that thing down.” Larch pointed at the ornamental blade with his formidable chin.

  Mikael slid the blade into his back pocket. “Like hell you don’t. We also know what you’re up to in the sephirot.”

  Larch bunched his eyebrows in a display of distaste. “What an entertaining notion. Just what am I up to in the sephirot?”

  Mikael faltered. He knew that Larch was messing around “up there,” Brian had said as much that morning. But he didn’t know Larch’s endgame. He couldn’t even guess at it. “We know you’re…putting them out of balance. First the fighting—everybody arguing with their partners. And now the lying.” He leaned in toward Larch. “It’s not like we’re not paying attention.”

  “And I’m flattered that you think I had something to do with such…cosmic disturbances. But as you can see…” He raised and lowered his quilt-covered shoulders. “I have not been in prime condition for a few days.”

  “Look, I can’t speak to that. Lots of us knock back a dose of DayQuil and power through when we’re under the weather. I don’t know if you’re sick or not, and I don’t care. I just want you to…”

  “To what?”

  “To stop it.”

  “To stop what?”

  “Whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “Listen, Blackfriar—what was your name again?”

  “Mikael.”

  “Thank you. Listen, Mikael, I’m going to play along with you. Let’s assume for the moment that everything you just said is correct.”

  Mikael nodded.

  “So what?” Larch asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, let’s say I don’t stop. What do you propose to do about it?”

  Mikael blinked. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. What did he expect to do about it? What leverage did he wield over Larch? None that he could think of. His eyes betrayed his desperation.

  “I mean,” Larch continued, “do you plan to report me? To whom? To the police? ‘Hello, officer, there’s a renegade magickian mucking around up in the sephirot.’ That’s the kind of 911 call that can get you prosecuted for frivolous reporting. ‘Please send an FBI agent, I have the person who started the East Bay disaster. He’s wrapped in a quilt in his kitchen in the Castro. He has a cold and he’s eating cheesecake.’”

  “The cheesecake won’t be done until tomorrow,” Khams noted.

  Larch ignored him. “No? Perhaps you plan to call the Ministry of Magic? Good luck. There is no fucking Ministry of Magic.”

  Mikael felt his neck burning as the heat rose to his face. He clenched his fists into tight balls.

  “Or perhaps you plan to threaten me somehow? Do you have a gun? No, I can see that you don’t. Will you plan some kind of magickal attack? Oh, I forgot, you poor sods don’t do magick, you only study it. That puts you at a disadvantage, doesn’t it?”

  Larch stood up and rose to his full height which seemed taller than Mikael remembered. “Just what do you plan to do about it?”

  “I…I just wanted to…”

  “To what?” Larch thundered.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Mikael said and turned to go.

  “Are you sure you won’t have any soup?” Khams called after him. “It’s hot.”

  Moments later, Larch heard the door shut, and he sank down again into his chair, slouching. “That was unfortunate,” he said.

  “You do look like hell,” Khams noted, pulling a plate of rice from the microwave. “Are you sure you didn’t have a mild stroke?”

  “I didn’t have a fucking stroke,” Larch said.

  “What was is like? In Hod?” Eleazar asked.

  “It was hell,” Larch said. “It wasn’t like anything I expected. It is sheer, utter chaos. I thought the universe got more chaotic the more wedded to matter it became, but it seems just the opposite is true. I fear my pride has taken a hit.”

  Khams ladled a measure of soup onto the rice. It began steaming delightfully. “Ah…” Larch said. “That will be just the thing.”

  “He could do something about it,” Eleazar warned. “Now that he knows we’re here. You just caught him off guard. The Blackfriars are nothing if not…resourceful. Clever.”

  “No need to pile praise onto peacocks,” Larch said.

  “Is that a saying? I like that,” Khams said, setting the plate in front of Larch.

  “When I’m finished here, we must find some new digs. Call Purderabo. He knows people.”

  “What about the cheesecake?” Khams asked.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, fuck the cheesecake.”

  Khams’ lower lip began to tremble. With jerky, exaggerated movements he undid his apron and threw it on the floor, storming out of the kitchen. A moment later, the front door slammed.

  77

  Terry froze, water streaming off of him as he hovered, half-in and half-out of the water. The young man’s rifle was trained directly at Terry’s chest and his wide lips were pulled back in a triumphant smile. Terry looked above the young man’s shoulder. The sigil scrap was so close, yet completely out of reach. Even if he lunged up the stairs, there was no way he could fight his way past the man—he was nearly twice his own size, quick, and lanky to boot. But there was nothing else for it but to try. Terry faked left, then pitched himself up and to the right, head tucked down as he rolled onto the deck. He heard an explosion and felt a punch to his shoulder, as if he had just fired a gun. He ignored it and kept moving, diving for cover as soon as the world stopped spinning. Another explosion rang out and a spray of fiberglass fragments caught him in the face. He wiped at his face and drew his hand back covered with blood. He blinked and was relieved to discover his eyes were uninjured.

  His pursuer stepped around the corner he was hiding behind. His smile was tempered by anger now, and he raised his rifle again. Terry looked away and squeezed his eyes closed, anticipating the blast, wondering in a split second what part of his body was about to become hamburger. Once more Terry heard an explosion, but to his surprise it sounded too far away. I’m dissociating, Terry thought. He opened his eyes just in time to see the young man drop his gun, waver, and pitch forward, nearly falling on top of him.

  Terry dodged his falling body and whirled about in time to see Susan lowering a rifle. “What can’t she do?” he said out loud to himself as relief rushed through his body. Gunshots were still ringing out right and left, but the battle had largely descended into hand-to-hand scrabbling. Susan held her rifle at the ready and walked slowly and steadily tow
ard him—not cowering, not taking cover—but striding with unhurried confidence, as if she were in a religious procession.

  It wasn’t until she stepped down onto the deck of the boat that she began to look worried. “Oh my God,” she said, dropping her rifle. “Terry, you’re hit!”

  Terry looked down and noticed for the first time the sizable pool of blood pooling near his feet. “Oh. God,” he said. Then he crumpled to the deck.

  Susan tried to catch him but succeeded only in keeping his head from hitting the deck too hard. “First things first,” she said aloud, scrambling onto the roof of the speedboat. Leaning over, she snatched up the sigil scrap. “Fire!” she said, wondering in an almost panicked state where she could get some. She ran into the cabin of the boat, straight to the pilot’s station, and looked around quickly. And there it was. The cigarette lighter, just like she used to find them in cars. She pushed it in and waited. It seemed to take an eternity to heat up. While the seconds ticked away, she looked around for an accelerant. She noted a gas can bungeed into a hold near the stern. She snatched up a coffee cup from the floor and, twisting the lid off the can, poured half a cup of gas. Then she dipped the sigil scrap in it and threw the cup into the water. When she returned to the pilot’s station, she found that the lighter had popped out. She pulled it out, enjoying the sight of the glowing cherry of heat at its end and the acrid smell of hot metal. She set the scrap down on the fiberglass floor and touched the lighter to it.

  The scrap lit up with a faint “foom!” sound. As the flames rose over it and licked away at its integrity, a distant scream charged the air with momentary venom. Then it was gone, the scrap nothing more than a black twisted fragile thing shuddering on the deck. She stepped on it, and it disintegrated into thousands of individual ashes.

  She rushed back to Terry, holding the wound on his chest with one hand, and trying to get him upright with the other. It wasn’t working. Fortunately, he came to. “Hold the wound, Ter,” she instructed, “as tightly as you can.”