The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Okay, Billy. Thanks, man.”

  “No problem. Hey, let me know when you get the Panther reopened, willya?”

  * * * *

  I argued with Ann that it had to be the son-in-law but she was adamant that a Wiccan wouldn’t do such a thing. But when it comes to things like revenge, people rarely let their personal beliefs stand in the way. I called Sara and got the address of her daughter, then drove out to the place.

  It was a singlewide trailer in a neighborhood where the mark of status was having a doublewide. The car parked out front looked like it couldn’t have made the cut to belong to a scrap yard. I parked next to it, got out and knocked on the door. From inside came the sound of a baby crying.

  I had to knock twice more before I got an answer. A young guy wearing a stained sweat suit and three day’s stubble opened the door. He had a crying baby in his arms and was trying to coax it with a bottle but the kid wasn’t having it. I tried handing him a business card but he just glanced at it.

  “Yes?” His eyes pleaded for mercy.

  “I was looking for Mary?”

  He shook his head, bouncing the baby in time with it.

  Behind him in the chaos of a small trailer strewn with toys and dirty clothes another small child wandered by holding a toy truck.

  “Daddy, is it Mommy?”

  “No, son.”

  “Okay.” The kid wandered off again.

  The guy finally got the baby to accept the bottle and quit screaming. He invited me in. We sat at a chipped Formica table in a kitchen where every horizontal space was piled with dirty dishes.

  “Can I get you a drink or something?” He asked.

  “No thanks.” But he saw my glance at the piles.

  “I work nights and it’s kind of hard to keep up with the mess.”

  “When do you sleep?”

  “When I figure that out I’ll let you know.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  He looked at the kid on his lap sucking at the bottle.

  “Six months, I guess. But it seems like a lot longer.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Naw, she couldn’t be bothered with little details like that, what she calls the slave chains of conventional morality. She just took off and we haven’t seen her since.”

  “What is she, some kind of crazy Marxist?”

  “No, but it would be better if she was. It’s really my fault, I guess. She grew up all sheltered and then we met at the community college at an anti-war rally. She was with some group, Students for a Just Society or something like that. They were going to change the world, end poverty and oppression and all that. Most of them probably work at the mall, now. I know I wish I did.”

  The baby gave out a loud belch and went back to sucking down formula.

  “Mary and I started dating and I introduced her to witchcraft. The idea of an all-encompassing spiritual world in harmony with nature was just the thing she’d been looking for all her life. She used to complain about her upbringing in the Catholic Church, all pomp and ceremony but no power. Unless you were a priest all you got to do was watch. The concept of a religion where each one of us is a priest or priestess was very appealing.”

  “So why did she leave? Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know where she went, but I know why. The primary rule in witchcraft is to do no harm to others. We’re quite insistent on only using, on only teaching, white magic.”

  “So black magic is anything that might hurt someone else?”

  “Yes. But she didn’t like that restriction. She used to argue that harm was relative, that we should judge the effectiveness of an action not by whether anyone is harmed by it but by the greatest good for the greatest number. She was always spouting crap she got from her philosophy course to justify her actions. She liked getting her way and if that stepped on somebody’s toes, well, she didn’t shed too many tears. She always wanted to stretch the boundaries of what was permissible as long as it helped somebody, or at least as long as that was the plan, anyway.”

  “So she’s some kind of black magic witch?”

  “No, worse than that. Wicca was too tame for her, so a while back she got involved with a bunch of Satanists. She tried to get me to come to their Black Masses. She said they had real power and weren’t afraid to use it. But I didn’t want to get involved with any of that. But she said I was weak, too shackled to the expectations of polite society to achieve my true destiny.”

  He grinned. “I’m not so sure polite society is all that ready yet to count Wiccans as members.” But his grin vanished as he glanced at the piles of dishes and dirty clothes that seemed to have become his true destiny.

  “So what exactly was her idea of her destiny?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Everything with her seemed to revolve around power, the power to do good, or what she thought was good, anyway. She wanted to change the world, to make it a better place. She believed in God, just didn’t think he really gave a damn, you know? She wanted to make the world a better place and if that meant she had to step on a few toes, well, those toes shouldn’t have been in the way.”

  “So she wants a better world, but taking care of her own kids wouldn’t make things better?”

  He gave me a wry grin. “Yeah, the last few weeks before she left I’d complain about all the time she spent at her Black Masses, getting initiated, all the money she spent on swords and magic paraphernalia. I had trouble getting milk for the baby. But she just said, ‘sacrifices must be made for the greater good.’”

  “That’s the problem with revolutionaries. Everybody has to sacrifice for the good of the people, especially the people. Somehow revolutions in the name of the people never seem to do anything but bring them more misery.”

  He nodded.

  The other kid walked in. His pants were down around his ankles and soaking wet. He’d left a little trail of water on the worn carpet.

  “Daddy, the toilet’s broken. The water won’t stop.”

  He jumped up and headed toward the other end of the trailer and the baby started crying again.

  * * * *

  Ann was waiting for me when I got back to the office about dusk. She closed the book she had been reading.

  “I’ve analyzed the pattern of attacks. Except for the first they always take place at or just before the new moon. That’s the optimum time for the casting of negative magic and combined with the first attack occurring on All Hallow’s Eve means our suspect is…”

  “A Satanist, yeah, it’s the daughter. She’s trying to use magic to kill the old couple, probably thinks she’s doing the world a favor by keeping her inheritance from being squandered at the Indian casino.”

  Her smile of triumph changed to a scowl of confusion.

  “I spent all afternoon just figuring out it had to be a Satanist. How did you figure that out and come up with a name and a motive?”

  “Hey, it’s those amazing detective skills of mine. What can I say?”

  “How about something humble for a change?”

  I shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  She threw a glance at the shadows growing in the corners from the waning light of the setting sun.

  “We’ve got to get out there fast, then. Today’s April 30th. She’s sure to cast the final spell tonight. It’s Walpurgistnacht, the most unholy night of the year, celebrated with sacrifices and blood. Everything she’s been doing has been preparing for tonight.”

  “Call them. Tell them to clear out, to stay away from home,” I said. As she dialed the phone I got my automatic out of the desk drawer and checked the magazine. The dull silver tips of the ammunition seemed to glow in the waning sunlight. I snapped it back into the handle and then tucked it into my shoulder holster.

 
She looked up from the phone.

  “It’s Sara. She’s alone. Ev took their truck to the casino and she can’t leave.”

  “Tell her to hang tight and lock her doors. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  She gave her a few parting assurances. Meanwhile, I went back to the refrigerator and grabbed a couple of slim blue and silver cans of an energy drink and a handful of granola bars we kept for stakeouts. I shoved them into my jacket pockets. It was likely going to be a long night.

  We drove there as quickly as we could, given the condition of the road and of our elderly Buick, arriving well after dark. We passed another car parked along the side of the road just beyond sight of the mine. I parked alongside it and we got out.

  As we walked toward the little scale shack by the road I could hear chanting. It was a woman’s voice and I shivered a little. I was hoping it was just from the cold air of the desert night.

  When we topped the rise we could see down into the little valley. The house had all the lights on, inside and out. Closer to us the loader was parked near the water tank on the big concrete pad.

  In the middle of the pad someone had chalked a large five-pointed star. Ann would have called it a pentagram. In the center of the star knelt a figure in a black hooded robe, something like you’d see on a priest in an old movie or somebody playing at being a wizard at a renaissance fair. Laid out in front of them were a sword, a hand bell, a book and a burning candle. A large gym bag lay within easy reach. The figure raised its hands over its head and the chanting reached a crescendo. There was a boom like thunder and another figure appeared near the pentagram.

  The second figure was tall, ten feet at least, broad shouldered and handsome. Curly blonde hair cascaded down onto his shoulders. He was dressed in a tunic the impossible color of laundry in a bleach commercial, so bright it hurt my eyes.

  I drew my pistol and worked the action to jack a round into the chamber. At the sound both their heads snapped around in my direction. The hooded figure pointed at us.

  “Kill them,” she commanded.

  The huge figure of the fallen angel seemed to melt. Its features became wavy and distorted as if viewed on the desert horizon through the heat distortion of a summer afternoon. They flowed and then reformed into those of a bipedal lizard, a dragon on two legs with a head like a crocodile’s, all snout and teeth. The tunic transformed into reptilian scales revealing greenish outsized human-style genitals that dangled between his legs like a cancerous growth. From his back sprouted a pair of wings, naked like a bat’s and patterned with purple veins. His hands morphed into deadly things with poniard-slim claws longer than the fingers.

  The demon wiggled its claws and began striding in our direction. I raised my weapon, but Ann laid a hand on my arm.

  “It’s useless. That thing is a demon. You can’t hurt it with bullets, even silver ones.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of shooting him.” I aimed at the figure in the robes. She had thrown the hood back revealing long dark hair and a confident grin.

  “No!” Ann pushed my arm down. “You can’t kill her.”

  “Why not?” The demon continued to close the range. We didn’t have time to be arguing like this.

  “Let’s just say it would be a REALLY bad idea for you to try and make a blood sacrifice in the presence of a demon. Let me handle this.”

  With that the little woman stepped in front of me and raised her hand to the approaching fiend like a traffic cop.

  “Halt,” she commanded. “You cannot pass.”

  The creature stopped two yards away, towering over her. His voice boomed.

  “HA! YOU AMUSE ME, SMALL ONE. I SHALL KILL YOU LAST.” He leaned forward, claws extended, teeth bared. I aimed for his face, green ichor dripping from his slavering jaw.

  As my finger tightened on the trigger, Ann commanded in a quavery voice, “In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, I command you to be gone. You cannot harm us.”

  The demon immediately drew back, holding its hands in front of it as if to ward off the diminutive woman. My trigger finger relaxed.

  Its breathing was loud and labored and it turned its head sideways as if looking at something behind us.

  “YES. I CAN SEE YOU ARE PROTECTED. BUT HE IS NOT.”

  It took a step toward me, reaching out with its claws and making a slurping sound. A tongue like a snake darted between his monstrous teeth.

  But she darted forward waving the little pocket Testament she always carried. I once made fun of it, saying she ought to get a shoulder holster for it. The demon drew back from it as if she had been brandishing a blazing torch and I regretted my flippant words.

  “Keep back!” She warned. “You must obey me in the name of Jesus Christ. Be gone!”

  The sorceress in the pentangle laughed. It was a silly laugh, like a drunken schoolgirl.

  “I summoned it. It is my slave. It must obey only me. Slay them! Flay them alive! Let the bloodletting begin!” Then she began chanting something in what I presumed was Latin.

  The demon tried again to reach me but Ann kept herself and her Testament between us. The demon continued to circle, dripping pustulent ichor in a nasty arc. Its outsized genitals dangled pendulously.

  “I think we got ourselves what they call a Mexican standoff,” I said.

  “Not for long,” replied Ann. “She’s summoning another.”

  I looked toward the pentagram. The sorceress was kneeling, making passes in the air over a lit candle. Her voice continued chanting in a strange language. I couldn’t understand the words but the tone suggested imminent doom.

  “Once there’s two of them I can’t protect you anymore. You better pray to accept Jesus and you better do it fast.”

  “I don’t think that’ll work.” I said. “You’ve always been scornful of churches encouraging people to recite that prayer of salvation like it’s a magic formula. You’ve always said people become Christians by following Jesus, not by just reciting a prayer and then continuing their lives as usual.”

  “Just pray the prayer!”

  “I wouldn’t be sincere. I don’t want Jesus. I wouldn’t be asking to become a disciple. I’d just be asking not to get my ass kicked into the afterlife by this guy.”

  “Pray, dammit!”

  Inside the pentagram the chanting reached a crescendo. There was a thunderous echo and a second figure in white appeared. The sorceress pointed at us.

  “Kill them,” she said. Then she gestured toward the house. “Kill them all.”

  The newly summoned figure began to move toward us morphing and changing shape as it walked.

  I thumbed back the hammer on my pistol.

  “No!” Ann screamed.

  My other hand brought out a blue and silver can from a pocket.

  “Hey, Mary!” I called out to the sorceress. “How about a little farewell drink?”

  I flung the can underhand toward her. It bounced once on the concrete pad and rolled, stopping just outside the chalk lines of the pentagram. She gave me an uncomprehending look and I put a round into the little can. It exploded, spraying its caffeine-laden beverage across the concrete.

  Both of the demons halted their movement as if I’d flicked a switch. Their heads snapped around and they stared at the wet spot on the pavement, the place where the chalk corner of the pentagram had been washed away.

  “No!” Screamed the sorceress.

  The two demons charged toward her. She picked up her sword and tried a desperate swing at one that proved futile. The demons each grasped one of her arms and launched themselves skyward, dragging her with them, their great wings flapping as they gained altitude. We could still hear her screaming long after they disappeared into the darkness.

  Ann threw herself into my arms, sobbing. But all I could do was mar
vel up into the darkness of the starry void.

  “I never would have believed it,” I mumbled. “That stuff really does give you wings!”

  THE SORCERER EVORAGDOU, by Darrell Schweitzer

  Originally published in The Ultimate Witch (1993).

  When I was ten, a naked, mad boy came into our village, proclaiming the advent of the sorcerer Evoragdou. I remember how frightened I was of that boy, though he couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than me. He was so emaciated, so filthy, so burnt by the sun that he seemed less a human being than a piece of driftwood inexplicably come alive.

  “Evoragdou,” was all he would say, in a kind of delirium. “Evoragdou shall dwell in this place.”

  In time the women fed him, washed him, gave him clothes, and took him away.

  I asked my father what all this meant, and he merely said, “The sun has destroyed his mind.”

  “Who is Evoragdou?”

  “There is no such person,” my father said, very sternly. I didn’t think he believed that he was saying. He was hiding his own fear.

  * * * *

  Two months later, I wandered out in the night, to answer the call of nature, then to stare at the dark sky and make up stories about what I saw there.

  I walked for a ways, across the rickety wooden bridge over the irrigation canal, then between the rows of newly planted grain, careful of my step. The heavens were clear and moonless, the millions of stars like the sparks of some enormous forge, frozen in time. I could never be lost in the darkness, because the Great River was behind me and the desert before me. Besides, I knew my way among the stars.

  I was hungry for a miracle. Pridefully, almost arrogantly, I longed to be the special one to whom visions came, who beheld the gods leaning to whisper to one another where they sat seated like vast and looming clouds, behind the stars.

  It never occurred to me that the mad boy might have had his own share of miracles, that they had transformed him and could transform me. No, I wanted mine. Now.