by Andrew Dudek
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’ll help. What do you need?”
I smiled. “For starters, all I need is a ride to Columbia University.”
Chapter 28
The street outside of Edgar Bogart’s building was deserted. There were windows lit on all three floors, so I could tell that people were home. Same story up and down the block: nobody outside, but lights blazing against the darkness. Something in the air, I guess that made people want to huddle together in their caves against the monsters. It’s an old instinct, and for most people a good one.
Not for me, though. I had work to do.
The building itself had a well-worn brick exterior. It looked loved and cared for. Reminded me of the place where I’d lived with my mother. Not the place where she’d died—that had been a graffitied, dilapidated place in a sketchy neighborhood of the South Bronx—but the place where we’d lived until she couldn’t afford it anymore. This place wasn’t just a building. This was home.
Paul parked on the street. Dallas and I got out of the car and headed inside, through an affectionately appointed lobby, and started up the stairs.
“So,” Dallas said as we climbed. “Rob said something about you and Amy.”
“Oh yeah?” I said.
“She’s a pretty girl.”
“Sure is.”
Something about Dallas’s tone was making me uncomfortable, like he was poking at me with some kind of verbal needles. I changed the subject. “Is he gonna be happy to see us?”
“The Professor?” He shrugged. “At first, probably. But when we tell him why we’re here…not so much. And we’ll be lucky if his husband doesn’t chase us out of here with a grapefruit spoon.”
I grunted. “They’ll have to adjust. We don’t have many options.”
“I hear you, man. It’s just…this is crazy.”
Before we’d left the office, I’d filled Dallas and the rest of my people in on the plan. He was right: it was insane. And dangerous and stupid and there were probably a dozen different ways that it could go wrong. But I was out of options that were on the right side of the sanity scale.
“You’re a wizard,” I said. “I carry a magic sword and I’m part of an organization founded by King Arthur, and we’re about to fight a three-headed dog from Greek mythology. Our entire lives are nothing less than insane.”
The stairwell door opened onto a small, gray, squarish room. There were two doors, one on either side of the hall. One of them, marked 302, had a tasteful, summery wreath hanging on it. Pinned to one edge of the wreath was a little sticker of a teddy bear done up in psychedelic colors.
“I hear you,” Dallas said again. “But it seems like a lot of dangerous effort for saving one person.”
“First of all, if Amy dies, there’s no one else on the planet contesting April’s claim over Cerberus. We can’t allow that. More importantly, the day I don’t put this much effort into saving one person is the day I put down my sword.”
“And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re screwing her.”
I froze. He froze. We stood like that in the cramped room for a few seconds, staring icicles.
“You don’t know me,” I finally said. “Not really. So I’ll let that go. But if you ever suggest that I’m doing my job to get laid, I’ll shove my sword so far up your ass you’ll taste steel. Got it?”
Dallas tightened a fist. Green sparks bounced along his knuckles. “I get that you’ll try.”
My heart beat hard enough I could feel it in my throat. My left hand hovered an inch above the handle of my knife. Dallas’s dark eyes had a hawklike focus I’d never seen. The air in the landing seemed to crackle with static electricity. I took a deep breath.
“I get it,” I said. “You don’t want to help, fine. But if you’re with me, I need you to tell me right now. What’s it gonna be, Dallas: are you gonna help me?”
His fist uncurled. The sparks dropped away and puffed out of existence before they touched the carpet. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m in. I just wanted to make sure I knew what I was getting into.”
“Good,” I said. “Let’s move past it.”
Dallas knocked on door 302. A moment later he was answered by a trim, athletic-looking man in his mid-forties. His hair was an artful wave that fell to his collar. He wore a silk shirt under a white apron, decorated with a pair of cartoon lips and a caption that read “Kiss the Cook…for starters!” His genial smile faded when he recognized Dallas.
“Oh,” he said. “Mr. Dallas. Edgar didn’t tell me you were stopping by.”
“Hey, Arturo,” Dallas said. “He didn’t know. Unfortunately, I need to borrow the Professor for a few hours.”
“We’re only sitting down to dinner. Edgar’s just got back from a late lecture. Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow.”
“Actually, it can’t,” I said, putting a hand on the door, foreclosing any attempts to slam it shut. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Who are you?” Arturo asked.
“My name’s Dave Carver, and I’m going to speak with Professor Bogart.”
Arturo stared at me, trying his best to look intimidating. But his blue eyes were clearly better-suited for laughing than for threatening, and I stared right back. After a moment or three—longer, I should point out, than I’d have expected—he looked away.
“Art,” a voice called from inside the apartment. “Who’s at the door?” Edgar Bogart poked his head past his husband. His face lit up when he saw Dallas and me. “Why didn’t you tell me that Steve and the good Captain are here? Come on in, guys!”
Professor Bogart was till wearing his suit pants. He’d taken off the jacket and the button-down, though, revealing a pair of rainbow suspenders and a ratty Jefferson Airplane tee. His forearms were covered with thatches of gray hair and looked strong for a man of his age, and the wrists were encircled with matching blue tattoos.
The younger man sighed and fixed a smile on his face. “We were just chatting, honey. They seem to want you to come out with them tonight. I told them you’d had a long day—”
“Don’t be silly.” Bogart shook his head. “Steve wouldn’t show up here so late if it weren’t important.”
He shooed Arturo away from the door and ushered us inside, to a dining room. The table was set for two, with a large bowl of some kind of leafy greens and a platter containing a large slab of white fish. A bottle of wine sat on a nearby counter, alongside a pair of glasses.
“Can I offer you guys something to eat? Arturo’s made a lovely vinaigrette to go with his world-famous kale salad. Or a glass of wine, perhaps?”
I shook my head. “We’re in kind of a hurry.”
“Are you sure? Art picked up this splendid bottle of…what was it again?”
“A merlot, honey.”
“That’s right, a merlot.”
“We’re not here to drink wine,” I said.
Edgar sat at the head of the table and spooned a scoop of salad onto his plate. He drizzled some dressing from a nearby container onto the plate and took a small nibble. “Well, Captain, that leaves me wondering: why are you here?”
I looked over my shoulder at Arturo, who stood with his arms folded near the front door. He tapped his foot impatiently. The little gray dog that Bogart had been walking when I first met him was curled up on an expensive couch. It wagged its tail once, and barked lazily. “Well, Professor,” I said. “We need to summon a demon.”
Edgar Bogart paused with his fork in mid-air between his plate and his mouth. A bit of oily, vinegary kale fell of the tines and landed with a splat. He ran a hand over the bottom of his beard and said, “Arturo, my love, I’m afraid we’re gonna have to postpone dinner.”
Ten minutes later, the salad had been covered with saran wrap, the fish had been put in the fridge, and Arturo had retreated into their bedroom. Edgar took a sip of wine, showing off the red tattoos around his wrist, and listened as I explained what had happened sin
ce Dallas and I had spoken with him.
“And you’re alright with this?” he asked Dallas.
Dallas shrugged. “I don’t love it. And I’ll admit: at first I thought it sounded pretty reckless, but I think he’s right. We don’t have another choice.”
Bogart shook his head. “I’m not sure why you came to me. I’m a college professor, not a practitioner. I’m a theoretician at best. I don’t have the skill you’d need for something like this. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry,” I said. “You’re lying.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The tattoos,” I said. “I don’t know what they mean, but I know magic runes when I see them.”
“They’re tattoos, Captain. Your generation didn’t invent youthful indiscretions.”
“True,” I said. “I’ve actually got one myself. But mine doesn’t change color.”
If I hadn’t been in such a serious mood, what happened next would have been hilarious. The skin on the Professor’s face went white. Completely, totally, ghostly white. At the same time, the tattoos on his wrists flashed orange, as if the color in his complexion was absorbed by the ink.
“See,” I said. “Just like magic.”
“Magical tattoos aren’t exactly uncommon, particularly in the kinds of circles that people like the three of us run in,” Edgar said. Which was true enough—just about any hedge magician is likely to have a tat or two that can function as, for example, a mood ring. He looked at Dallas, whose eyes were cool and distant. “How do you know my artist simply didn’t know a few spells?”
“I don’t,” I said. “But I showed that demon alarm charm to somebody who really knew what he was doing. He mentioned that whoever had made it had a pretty solid foundation in magical practice. Not made by a theoretician.”
Edgar sighed and looked into his wine glass. The little gray dog padded across the apartment and hopped into its master’s lap. Edgar stroked its head absently. “Of course. I promised Art I wouldn’t get involved in…that world anymore.” He wiped a smudge off the rim of the glass. “I did things in my youth, Captain. It’s…a long story for another day, but I did things that would have gotten me executed if the Round Table had ever found out about them. I once tried to raise a demon. It nearly killed me. I don’t do things like that anymore. By the time I met Arturo, I’d given up that life. But I told him about it—about the dangers—and he’s always been afraid I’d return to it. He’s afraid to lose me.”
“He won’t,” I said. “If this works the way I want, you’ll never be on the demon’s radar.”
“And how do you plan on going about that?”
“You’ll just tell me how to do it. Step-by-step instruction. Dallas and I will do the heavy lifting. Think of it as overseeing a practical exam.” Bogart refused to look up from his wineglass. “I understand your concern. And Arturo’s. But I need your help. I really don’t have time to sit here and wait for you to make up your mind. There’s a girl in danger, and that’s just the tip of the spear. If we don’t get this demon back where it belongs, a lot of people will get hurt.”
Edgar sighed and shook his head. He set the wineglass down. “Of course. Of course, you’re right. Of course I’ll help.”
“Great.” I smiled, trying to look warm and reassuring. “And you do remember how to do it, right?”
He nodded. “It’s fairly straightforward, really. Most of the power involved in these rituals involves breaking the Plane of Perdition, which of course is the informal term for the border to—”
“Sorry, Professor,” I said. “I don’t really need all the details right now. I just need to know it’ll work.”
He smiled faintly beneath his beard. “You remind me more than a bit of myself at your age, Captain. Always concerned with the practicalities. Yes, I believe I can make it work.”
“Good,” I said. “How do we start?”
“The first thing we need to do is build a bonfire.”
Edgar insisted on leaving the city to perform the ritual. It was too dangerous to summon a demon in a residential neighborhood. Too many things could go wrong and the demon could get loose. He seemed to be speaking from experience.
We went to the beach.
The three of us—Dallas, Edgar, and I—had ridden north of the city, till we found a deserted stretch of sand just east of New Rochelle. Earl, Rob, Krissy, Madison, and the werewolves were spread out in a loose perimeter, making sure no vagrant or high schooler accidentally stumbled onto the scene we were preparing.
The sand stretched out into the dark. A warm breeze brought the smell of saltwater and garbage off of the Long Island Sound. Edgar spread out an old king-sized bed-sheet as if he planned on picnicking, even though it was well after midnight and this was not a particularly appealing section of real estate. Next he picked up a handful of sand and drew a circle on the sheet, then arranged a teepee of twigs in the center of the circle. He added some larger sticks and a few logs. There was no flame, though, and I pointed that out to him.
“Don’t worry, Captain,” he said. “It’ll work. Are you ready?”
I shrugged. Ready as I was gonna be, I guessed.
Edgar closed his eyes and raised a hand. At first, nothing happened, but then the tattoos on his wrists began to glow a bright yellow and a flame appeared in his palm. A small fireball shot out of his hand and landed in the skeletal bonfire outline and, an instant later, was roaring merrily. It flickered above my head, the towering inferno licking at the stars.
I nodded. “Impressive.”
“You gentlemen understand your part in this?”
“Yep.”
“Then whenever you’re ready.”
I opened my switchblade and handed it to Dallas. He nodded once, then cut his palm with the silver blade. Wincing, he stood above the fire and dripped blood into the flame. Then he handed the weapon to me. I repeated the motions, making sure to let my blood mix with Dallas’s (I know what you’re thinking—blood-borne pathogens and other microscopic nasties, but the ritual required it. I just had to hope Dallas didn’t have any transferable infections.), and I dripped my own blood into the fire.
Edgar chanted in ancient Greek. While he did, I pictured Cerberus. Thick black fur. Four legs like tree trunks. Three horselike necks. Six fireballs for eyes. Mostly, though, I pictured the times I’d seen it hurt. The green flames scorching its pelt. My sword cutting deep into muscle. The suicide shot punching into its gut. I added three mental shackles and three heavy-duty chains to the necks.
Beside me, I knew Dallas was also picturing Cerberus. I wondered for a moment what the wizard was seeing with his mind’s eye, but I forced myself to focus.
For a long moment there was nothing. Edgar’s voice had faded away so the only sounds were the cracklings of the fire and the gentle murmur of waves lapping on the sand. Somewhere in the distance, a ship’s airhorn blew, then all was quiet. The silence was unnerving, and it made it harder to concentrate on my mental image of the three-headed hellhound, the Sentinel of the Otherside.
It was utterly quiet. Eerily quiet.
And then something barked.
I opened my eyes. Cerberus stood in the middle of Edgar’s blanket, where the fire had been. All three heads whipped violently around, all three heads barking madly. After a moment of confused, wild howling, the hellhound quieted and stared. At me. Its center head tilted like…well, like a befuddled dog. The other two heads snarled. Nails like arrowheads dug into the old sheet, and the demon took a step.
Right towards me.
Chapter 29
The slobbery, raging barks rattled the night air, loud enough that grains of sand bounced across the bed-sheet from the force of their vibrations. I drew May’s sword from my hip and held the blade diagonally across my body, the tip pointed at Cerberus’ snapping heads. Neither Dallas or Bogart seemed particularly concerned, but I didn't have time to worry about that: there were three heads on the hellhound, and three of us here—it was getting ready to eat all
of us at once.
Except…no, no it wasn’t. Cerberus stopped at the line in the sand, the circle that Edgar had created on the picnic blanket. The hellhound scratched at the fabric. Its hind-legs dug into the the sheet. Nothing happened, except a constellation of puncture marks in the cloth. Bogart shook his head, but he wasn’t afraid. The magic circle held.
Dallas’s face was set in a snarl, and he wiped sweat from his temples. “I don’t have a lock on it.”
I’d almost forgotten the point of this little operation. I closed my eyes and imagined a jolt of energy being sent at the demon’s faces, just a little slap. The dog stopped barking and turned all three heads to look at me. Whoa. That was cool. White noise filled my ears, like water in a sinking car. There was an enormous pressure on my ear drums, like when you go up into high elevations without giving yourself time to adjust. Growls and snarls and guttural barks gradually became audible. The hellhound’s mouths weren’t moving, but I could still hear the sounds.
“Do you hear that?” I said. Or I think I did—I couldn’t hear my own voice over the dull roar. Dallas mouthed something and waved his hands. I pointed to my ear, then at him. He shook his head: no, he wasn’t hearing anything. For some reason, this was my show. The wordless, animal noises must have been passed for Cerberus’ thoughts, at least at the moment. I was inside its mind. I could hear its thoughts.
So could it hear mine?
Listen to me, I thought in the hellhound’s general direction. You belong to me now.
And then, to my surprise, I heard Cerberus answer. It was like three different voices, singing in some grotesque harmony, each one sounding like a guttural vocal cord that had been coated with molten magma. “I belong to no one,” they said. “I am of the Otherside.”
If you belong to no one, why is there a capital-L Leash with your name on it? I thought.
“How are you doing this?”
Not your problem. Your problem is telling me where the woman who’s got your Leash is hiding.
The hellhound’s lips drew back from its teeth. Its really, really big teeth. Between the three mouths, I was willing to bet that it had a few hundred dagger-pointed teeth. “I will pull the muscle from your bones and devour your innards. Your descendants will emerge from the womb with their flesh torn and their organs punctured. I will drain their lifeblood from their veins.”
