by Josh Lanyon
His eyes did this shift from side to side. He whispered. “I know about your…problem…with…” His voice died out, and his lips formed soundless words, “Blade Sable.”
Blade Sable? Was this somebody I should know? Kind of sounded like a gay super hero. “Blade Sable?” I repeated, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.
Gabriel eyed me in disbelief, then said, “Think about it, Aiden.”
“Adrien.”
“Whatever. You wouldn’t want to deal with this on your own. These people are very dangerous. Even without the Powers of Darkness.”
* * * * *
By midmorning, when no one turned up from the agency, I phoned and was informed that they had sent someone. The slightly exasperated implication was that the employee was here somewhere — or perhaps that I had carelessly lost the employee and now wanted another one. The woman at the agency did not actually remind me that employees did not grow on trees, but I felt like she wanted to.
Luckily, it was a slow morning. I decided that it wouldn’t matter if I closed for an hour or two to meet the professor. I was entitled to lunch. Maybe a long lunch. What was the use of being the boss if you couldn’t take a long lunch once in a while?
As previously arranged, we met at Campanile on South La Brea Avenue. Recognizable by its distinctive bell tower, the building housing Campanile restaurant and La Brea Bakery was built by Charlie Chaplin back in 1929. Before the building was completed, Chaplin lost it in a divorce settlement. His loss is our gain.
The professor was seated in the green-walled garden area, with its towering glass ceiling and red-tiled floor. He was reading and sipping a glass of wine. He wore jeans and a velvet doublet over a white shirt. His long, silvery hair gleamed like sterling against the claret-colored velvet. He was a striking presence, oblivious to his surroundings.
Even without the powers of Darkness. Well, there are powers, and there are powers.
I rested a hand on the chair across from him. “Professor Snowden?”
He must have been watching my approach from under his lashes, because he looked up out of his book, and without missing a beat, drawled, “Call me Guy.” He set the book aside and offered his hand. We shook. His gaze held mine a few seconds longer than politeness required.
Interesting.
I sat down across from him. “Guy, then. Thanks for meeting me.”
Guy moved his book aside. He had beautiful hands, tanned, graceful, but with long-fingered strength. I could still feel the imprint of his palm against mine.
The waitress appeared. I ordered a glass of the Clos du Bois merlot. When she was out of earshot, Guy said, “I have good news. I don’t think you’ll be…pestered any further.”
“Really?”
“I’ve spoken to the students involved — former students, actually. It was mostly a…misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding? That’s it?”
The remarkable green eyes met mine. “Er…yes.”
Maybe he was happy to let it go at that, but I wanted a little more reassurance that it was truly over.
The waitress returned with my wine. She was one of those pert waifs, flirting reflexively with us while we ordered our lunches. Guy went for the mesclun salad with marinated ricotta, pine nuts, and crostini currants. I opted for a sandwich with smoked meat, provolone, and tangy cherry peppers.
“So what caused this misunderstanding?” I inquired, returning to our original topic of conversation. “Did anyone explain it to you?”
“Yes. And I’m satisfied that it is over.” His gaze found mine again, and he smiled wryly. “I know the kids involved. They got a little carried away, that’s all. You can tell Angus it’s safe to come home.”
“Just in time for finals,” I said. “Unfortunately, I don’t know where he is.”
His eyes never wavered. “You don’t?”
“Nope.”
After that we chatted idly, politely, until our meal arrived. I thought that, although this was not really a social occasion, certainly nothing remotely resembling a date, it was pleasant to be sharing a nice meal with an attractive man — in public. And he was very attractive. Cultured, urbane, witty — exuding an easy, unconscious sexuality. Polar opposite from Jake. I wondered what Jake would make of him.
“What happens when Angus does come back?” I inquired eventually.
“Is he coming back?”
I thought of Mrs. Tum and Lester Naess. “I hope so,” I said.
Glass stem between his fingers, Snowden gently circled the base of the glass on the linen-covered table, warming the wine. “You see, the others believe that Angus is a warlock.”
“Isn’t everybody?” That wasn’t exactly what I meant. “I mean, aren’t they all part of a coven?”
He answered me indirectly. “Warlock is the term for an oath breaker. For one who has lied or broken a pledge of silence.”
“I thought it was a male witch.”
“Partly. It would be a witch who practices the Black Arts. A witch who worships Satan. Most modern witches are Wicca, and Wiccans don’t, you know.”
“So this group or coven is Wicca? Then I don’t understand why an inverted pentagram was painted on my doorstep.”
His brows drew together. “Inverted? Are you sure?”
I removed one of the photos from my day planner, pushed it across to Snowden. He stared at it for a long moment.
“Are you sure you talked to the right people?” I inquired, watching his expression.
His eyes veered to mine. “Certainly,” he said, but he sounded less than certain.
“What’s the Ars Goetia?” I asked.
“Where the devil —?”
I kid you not. “Where the devil,” like you’d expect to hear from Colonel Mustard in The Study. I murmured, “No pun intended?”
He stared at me, but I didn’t think he saw me. At last he said, “It’s the first section of an anonymously-written seventeenth-century grimoire known as The Lesser Key of Solomon. Do you know what a grimoire is?”
“Book of Shadows, right?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You surprise me.”
“I had a lot of time to read as a kid.” Not that you would find a copy of the Book of Shadows in your school library — unless you’re attending Hogwarts.
“Then you’re probably aware that the Book of Shadows is a kind of witches’ Bible, only rather more than that. It’s a personal record of rituals and spells and lore, each one unique.”
“But isn’t there a definitive Book of Shadows?”
He grimaced at this ignorance. “No. Different traditions have reclaimed and reedited the most famous source materials into their own grimoires. There are illustrious historical grimoires: The Black Pullet, The Greater Key of Solomon, The Lesser Key of Solomon.”
“So what is Ars Goetia?”
“Essentially it’s the name, rank, and serial number of seventy-two demons King Solomon is said to have conjured and then imprisoned in a bronze vessel fastened with magic seals.”
“And this symbol?” I pointed to the line drawing that Ariel had told me was the signature of a high-ranking demon.
He shook his head. “It’s a sigil. A sign or seal in magic.” He glanced at me and said, “It’s a symbol designed for a specific magical use.”
“This sigil is the name of a demon, isn’t it?”
Reluctantly, he admitted, “That also.”
“And the point of this sigil would be to invoke or conjure this particular demon, right?”
“Correct. The idea would be to summon the demon to do the work of the conjurer.”
“Which of the seventy-two demons is this? Out of curiosity.”
“I have no idea.”
I must have looked skeptical. He said, “Off the top of my head? Don’t be ridiculous.” He sounded unexpectedly haughty. “I’m no expert in this particular arena. If you want to understand the role of modern witchcraft in primitive societies or the devolution of Goddess worship into modern
religion, I’m your man. Traditional witchcraft…Satanism…is not my scene.”
“But you could find out?”
“What do you care which demon it is?”
That earned curious glances from our fellow diners. Guy lowered his voice, said, “You need to stay well clear of this.”
“That old black magic gotcha?”
“You may laugh, but the point is not whether you believe in this. The point is that whoever left this on your door believes in it. This is one who wishes you great harm — merely because you got in his — or her —”
“Or their?” I suggested.
“Or their way.”
“I thought you said it was all settled?”
“It is. If you let it lie.”
“What about Angus?”
He didn’t seem to have an answer.
“Dessert?” the waitress asked brightly, materializing beside our table.
I resisted the impulse to ask for devil’s food cake.
* * * * *
Chan was waiting by the front door when I got back to the bookstore. He appeared to have been there a while. He looked tired and frazzled; there was a mound of cigarette butts at his feet.
“Hey,” I greeted him, sliding back the ornate security gate. “What’s up?”
“Adrien —” There was something in his face.
I put my hand out to steady myself on the gate. I’d as soon as not remember the sound I made.
Chan said, sounding kind of frantic, “He’s okay, Adrien. Jake’s okay. That’s why I’m here. In case it makes the news. He didn’t want you to hear it that way.”
I turned to stare at him across a great crumbling distance, hanging on to the gate like it was my spar in a swell.
“He’s fine. I swear to God. Maybe a little concussion.”
“What happened?”
“We were chasing a suspect, and he got hit by a car. Jake, I mean. The suspect got away.”
“Where is he?”
“The suspect?”
“Jake.”
“Oh. Huntington Hospital.” He added as I started back toward my car, “But he doesn’t want you driving down there. Adrien” — he trotted after me — “he doesn’t want you there.”
Chapter Seven
I hate hospitals. I hate the antiseptic smell, the artificial light. I hate those crisp, professional smiles that tell you they’ve seen a million like you come and go, and your little, life-threatening illness isn’t nearly as important as you imagine.
It took a while to locate Jake’s room up on one of the skyscraper floors. I prowled around the sterile halls until I found the right room — the room with the uniformed cop in the doorway.
The cop looked like a younger version of Jake. Probably one of his brothers, most likely the one fresh out of the Academy. He wasn’t watching me, he was staring into the room, grinning, and as I walked by, I was able to snatch a snapshot glimpse of Jake. He sat bolstered by pillows in bed, his face bruised, his head bandaged. He was laughing. The room seemed full of people. There was an older man in a navy cardigan standing with his arm around a woman with a young face and gray hair. A young woman with red hair sat beside the raised bed holding Jake’s hand. She was sort of laughing and sort of crying.
The cop who looked like a younger version of Jake glanced my way. The uncomfortably familiar hazel eyes met mine. I kept walking.
I walked all the way down the hall, stopped by the drinking fountain. It felt like the longest walk of my life. I bent over the fountain and drank ice-cold metallic water. I pressed the button again, splashed my face. My hand was shaking.
Satisfied? I asked myself. Feel better now?
* * * * *
The body dug up in the park turned out to be a missing teenager named Tony Zellig. He had been nineteen, a freshman at UCLA. He had disappeared a year ago, in October. Classmates described him as quiet and a bit of a loner who worked hard and took his studies seriously. There was a photo of Zellig, a nice ordinary-looking kid. Not the kind of kid who gets himself carved into pieces during occult rituals.
I spent a couple of hours working on the computer, seeing what I could come up with on Blade Sable. I found plenty of info on blades and sable, but nothing on any organization called Blade Sable.
I’d have to dig deeper. I noted the titles of a number of occult “classics” that kept popping up on various recommended reading lists. I decided to skip those not written in the past century. At the top of my TBR list was Anton LaVey’s The Satanic Bible. LaVey was the founder and high priest of the Church of Satan. He was credited with creating the official religion of Satanism. A guy named Peter H. Gilmore had been appointed High Priest following LaVey’s death, but he wasn’t much for the written word. The reigning expert in the field seemed to be an Oliver Garibaldi.
Unlike the flamboyant Anton LaVey or the other occult showmen, Garibaldi kept a low profile. I tried surfing for biographical information, but no joy. I figured he had to be in his sixties, given the copyright info on his bibliography.
So I looked for what I could find on Guy Snowden — and was surprised when all kinds of info sprang up. He had a Web site, for chrissake. I had to admit he photographed well. I studied a moody and dramatic photo of him and then read the bio. He had been born in Seattle. Wasn’t that a well-known haven for Satanists? He had traveled extensively, spending several years in Great Britain.
So the English accent was fake. I suppose it said something about his character, but I wasn’t sure what. A love of theatrics?
He was a Rhodes Scholar, accumulating a nice batch of impressive-sounding academic accolades. He had published a slew of articles with titles like “The Feminist Witch,” “The Politics of Twentieth-century Witchcraft,” and “Witch Hunt: An American Tradition.” And he had written two weighty-looking tomes: Modern Magick and The Craft in Conflict.
Both were out of print. Instead, I ordered a copy of the Cop’s Guide to Occult Investigations, telling myself I could always give it to Jake for Christmas. (I mean, how much fishing tackle does any guy truly need — especially a guy who never takes vacations?)
Back to prowling the Internet, I found mention of Snowden in a couple of gossipy student blogs. For what it was worth, a male student, “Spelwerx,” felt he was an arrogant ass. “Devil-Dog” had been taking him every semester apparently since time began and could be listed under the Fan column. Over several months of blogs, “Destiny’s Child” weighed the pros and cons of “bearing his precious seed” (I couldn’t help flashing on a Rosemary’s Baby moment) and frequently speculated on his age (I bet he was in his forties, myself).
All very readable, if not germane. I finally powered down the computer, went through the shop, turning off the Christmas lights twinkling gently in the gloom.
Upstairs, I caught the last minutes of Pirates of the Caribbean on TV, which cheered me a little. There’s nothing like rolling seas, buried treasure, and handsome pirates as an antidote to whatever ails ye. In my expert opinion — a fortune in video rentals should carry weight — Pirates was the finest swashbuckler of the last two decades.
I read in bed for a while, treating myself to award-winning Anthony Bidulka’s amusing Tapas on the Ramblas, but found my thoughts wandering to Gabriel Savant and his missing disk. I wondered again about his relationship with Bob Friedlander. There was something there, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a romantic partnership. Not that you can always tell. I’ve had gay friends who felt I acted too straight, and straight friends who’ve told me they knew I was gay the minute they met me.
I’d asked Jake once if, in his admittedly warped opinion, there was anything particularly gay in my appearance or demeanor.
He’d replied, “You’re…too graceful.”
Too graceful? What did that mean?
“Physically, intellectually, or spiritually?”
“All of the above,” he’d said wryly.
I’d considered this. “It’s probably the tai chi,” I’d answered seriously. H
e’d laughed.
“It’s probably the ballet lessons.”
Jake had never recovered from learning that Lisa enrolled me in ballet from age seven to nine. It made sense; Lisa had been a ballerina with the Royal Ballet before she met my father.
But Jake was always trying to find an explanation for my homosexuality: my father’s death when I was a small child, being raised without a strong male role model, being raised by Lisa — hell, knowing Lisa. The one theory he never wanted to consider was that I might have been born with a genetic predisposition.
I usually didn’t bother debating him, because I knew he was smart enough to realize that none of the above explained him.
* * * * *
The phone rang about ten-thirty. I almost didn’t pick it up, then on the third ring, fumbled it off the hook.
It sounded like a TV was playing in the background, then Jake’s voice was in my ear, quiet and intimate as though he were lying next to me. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
It took me a second to get control of my voice. Then I said, “Me? I’m not the one who got nailed jaywalking. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I should be out of here tomorrow. Just bumps and bruises. Next time I’ll look both ways.”
Me too, I thought. Inexplicably there was something about the size of a baseball lodged in my throat, making it impossible to speak.
Into my silence, he said awkwardly, “I hope Chan didn’t — I told him to try not to scare the shit out of you.”
“He was…uh…very diplomatic.” Again I couldn’t seem to think of what to say to him.
It was Jake’s turn to fall silent. Then he said with a curious gentleness, “Are you okay, Adrien? You don’t sound okay.”
My heart started thudding in a kind of fight or flight reaction. “I’m fine,” I said tersely. “Still half asleep maybe.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. I heard the TV blasting away in the background. “Right. Well, I’ll let you go. They’re trying to close the switchboard down anyway. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Sure,” I said and hung up.
* * * * *
