New Title 1

by Dru Pagliassotti

  “It’s just water polo practice,” Jarret said with a cheery grin. “Bye, Dr. Todd. See you later, Professor Markham.”

  “I’m glad to know you’re disturbing the students, Edward,” Markham said. “I’ve almost stopped caring what they believe, as long as I know they’ve thought about their beliefs.”

  “I agree,” Todd said. Markham fell into step with him, greeting students as they walked through the rapidly emptying hall and headed upstairs to the faculty offices.

  “So how has your first semester been?” Markham asked. “Are you looking forward to finals as much as I am?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Every semester I thank God that I’m finally on the right side of final exams.” Markham stopped at his office door. “You know, we haven’t had much chance to talk, Edward. Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? My friend Jack is making shrimp Creole. He likes it hot, but I can have him cut back on the spices, if you like.”

  “I prefer spicy cooking,” Todd replied, truthfully. He couldn’t taste anything that wasn’t overspiced.

  “Then we’ll see you around seven.” Markham waved and Todd returned the gesture, continuing down the hall to his own office.

  So, things were starting to fall into place. Todd studied the probabilityscape as he walked and felt a tingle of anticipation.

  III

  Jack strolled along the edge of the north campus expansion. At four-thirty, the shadows were lengthening and the balmy winter day was cooling down with desert rapidity. The new construction continued, however. California Hills University wanted to get as much done as possible before the winter rains began.

  He’d spent several hours in the Scandinavian Library, a collection of family artifacts and old leather-bound books housed in the Gudrun Ranch House at the heart of the campus. Only about half the books were in English, but he had enjoyed chatting with the library’s elderly caretaker, Dr. Dunstan Graeme. Graeme had offered to teach him a few Scandinavian folk songs if he brought his guitar next time.

  It’s good to be back on a campus again, he thought, jamming his hands into his jeans pockets. He could feel the tension of next week's finals in the air. Students hurried from their classrooms to their dorm rooms with looks of restrained panic, clutching books and cups of steaming coffee. He remembered what that was like.

  None of them realized how lucky they were to have this brief lull in their lives before entering the responsibilities of independent adulthood. Jack had never appreciated college, either, before he and his friends had gone to Anchorage and his world had gone to hell.

  He crouched on the plowed dirt and pulled a pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket. He’d bought it at the corner drug store that morning, after waking up to find that Andy had flushed all his other cigarettes down the toilet. They’d argued, but now he felt a twinge of shame as he fingered out a fresh cigarette. Andy was just trying to protect him.

  As always.

  He rolled the cigarette between his fingers and watched the bulldozers dumping loads of dirt into the back of a truck. One of the construction workers ambled over to him. Jack straightened and stood.

  “Neighbor?” the worker asked genially.

  “Just a visitor. Smoke?”

  “Thanks.”

  Jack offered the pack and pulled out his lighter. He’d been thinking about putting the cigarette back, but now that somebody else was smoking, it’d be rude not to join in. He lit up with guilty pleasure.

  “How’s it coming along?” he asked, after a moment.

  “Pretty good. Got slowed down for a couple of days when we found out the gas pipes weren’t buried as deep as the county plans showed.”

  “No?”

  “Ground shifts after fifty years of erosion and earthquakes.” The worker shrugged. “Regs say we gotta have at least six feet of soil over the pipes, so the last couple days all we’ve been doing is rearranging dirt.”

  “Sounds frustrating.”

  “Well, we had to dig some holes for foundations, anyway. But it’s going slower than we’d hoped.”

  “What are you building?”

  “That’ll be the gymnasium, indoor court, offices for the coaches and staff.” The worker squinted as though he could actually see a building standing over the broken soil. “The parking lot will go next to it, then tennis courts and a soccer field.”

  “No football field?”

  “Not in the first phase of construction, but it’ll come.”

  “I—” Jack broke off as the bulldozer shuddered to a halt and the driver started shouting.

  “Aw, crap, I hope he didn’t bust a pipe.” His companion tossed the cigarette down and jogged back to the work site. Jack took a moment to grind out the smoldering butt before sidling closer.

  For the first few moments he couldn’t see anything, but then the workers began to fall back, swearing and exclaiming.

  Dirt-covered bones spilled from the bulldozer’s teeth.

  “All right everyone, get back, get back,” one of the foremen shouted, looking worried. Another pulled out his cell phone.

  “There wasn’t any graveyard on the city plans,” one of the workers muttered, looking uneasy.

  “Maybe they’re animal bones,” another suggested.

  Jack stared at the curved top of a skull that was half-buried in the dirt and blew out a thin stream of smoke. The sun hung low over the surrounding hills, lighting them with a crimson glow, and for a moment the broken field seemed covered in blood.

  Andy had been hunkered over his laptop for an hour, searching through the web for a reason why bones might have been found on the north campus. Jack, after a few abortive attempts to engage him in conversation, had given up and started chopping tomatoes and bell peppers. At least Andy had stopped analyzing the recipe’s fat and cholesterol value.

  “Would you mind humming something a little more cheerful?” Andy demanded at last, looking up.

  “What?”

  “First it was ‘Man of Constant Sorrow,’ and then ‘Wayfaring Stranger,’ and now ‘When Sorrows Encompass Me ’Round.’ I swear, Jack, I feel like I’m at a funeral.”

  “Sorry.” Jack set down his knife. “I wasn’t paying attention. Did you find anything?”

  “The land was part of the Gudrun Ranch before it was donated to the college. If it was being used as a graveyard, it wasn’t licensed by the state or the county.”

  “Maybe it was private?”

  “Either way, I think we’ve just entered the angel’s vision.”

  “I’d say you’re right about that,” Jack agreed. “But why would an angel in L.A. warn us about something out here in Vista Hills?”

  “You’re assuming distance matters to an angel. Remember, God works in mysterious ways.”

  “I hate that.”

  Andy grinned, stretching. “I wish I weren’t lecturing tomorrow. I’d like to spend more time looking into this.”

  “Maybe I can find something in the city records.” Jack wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “I can go down to city hall tomorrow and take a look.”

  “Don’t bother. The police will get there before you do.”

  Before Jack could answer, somebody knocked on the door.

  “Ah, that’ll be Edward.” Andy hurried to the door and opened it, welcoming his guest inside.

  Jack studied the newcomer with open curiosity. He’d caught glimpses of Edward Todd on campus and in the small apartment building, but they hadn’t been introduced. The theologian was one of the biggest men he’d ever met, tall and broad-shouldered with huge hands and a strong jaw. He wore nondescript pale khakis and a black wool sweater over a white shirt.

  Andy ushered Todd into the kitchen, which immediately seemed to shrink around them. “Jack, I’ve already told you about Dr. Todd. Edward, this is Jack Langthorn, a friend of mine.”

  “How do you do?” Jack asked, offering a hand.

  “My pleasure.” Todd’s hand engulfed his as they shook. “Is that your Harley ou
tside?”

  “For what it’s worth, I bought it before they became rich men’s toys,” Jack said as Andy opened the refrigerator door. “Do you ride?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Todd’s gaze wandered around the apartment, more intently than Jack thought was quite normal. He wondered what Todd was looking for and followed the large man’s gaze. It lingered a moment on Andy’s old Italian crucifix, which leaned on top of a bookshelf, and then moved to his bookshelves, and then his laptop. “Where are you from, Jack?”

  Jack always felt a little guilty about revealing his Southern birthplace to a black man. “I was born in Kentucky, though I spend most of my time on the road. You?”

  “I moved to the States from London, although I’ve been living here for quite some time. I understand you’re our chef tonight?”

  “Andy can’t cook instant oatmeal. This recipe comes from some friends in Louisiana.” Jack started the rice. “Open me a soda, Andy.”

  “Already done.” Andy passed around the cans. “So, Ed, did you hear the news about north campus?”

  Todd’s eyes leaped to Andy’s face.

  “No. I don’t believe I have.”

  “They’ve uncovered some sort of old burial site. Jack was there when they found the bones.”

  “Human bones?”

  “I saw at least one human skull in the pit.” Jack leaned back against the counter, pretending to examine the soda’s ingredient list while he watched Todd. The man seemed more curious than shocked.

  “Has the discovery made the news yet?”

  “It wasn’t in the seven o’clock report,” Andy said. “The police are probably trying to keep things quiet until they know more.”

  “Bad press for the university,” Jack observed.

  “Yes.” Todd glanced out the kitchen window, then back again. “I’m surprised you weren’t called to take a look at the site, Andrew.”

  “I think Pastor Lindgren would be the first person called in if CHU decides to have a pastor on hand during the exhumation.”

  “You don’t think this could be something occult?”

  “Well, a few bones don’t add up to secret Satanic rituals,” Andy said, although he glanced at Jack. “Are there any tales of cults in this area?”

  “Hasn’t every part of California been home to one cult or another?”

  “You study apocalyptic literature,” Jack pressed. “You haven’t heard of any end-of-the-world groups out here?”

  “I study apocalyptic eschatology in early Judeo-Christian texts. I leave the study of cults to the sociologists.”

  “That must disappoint your students,” Andy said.

  “I’m afraid it does. They come in hoping to learn which world leader is the antichrist and end up with annihilatio versus renovatio mundi.”

  The conversation turned to student expectations, then wandered in a leisurely fashion across the states and over the Atlantic. Jack’s cooking filled the apartment with the scent of paprika and garlic, cayenne and buttery shrimp, and Andy made a green salad.

  They were finishing the meal, and Todd was wryly describing the categorizational panic U.S. citizens experienced whenever he reminded them that he couldn’t be called “African-American” because he was British, when they heard the sirens. They fell silent, listening.

  “There’s a fire station a block away,” Andy suggested hesitantly.

  “Those are police sirens,” Jack said.

  “A problem at the dorms?”

  “Maybe, though I can’t help but wonder if it’s got something to do with those bones they found,” Jack said. He looked at Todd. The big man was looking out the window, his eyes unfocused. “I suppose we’d just be in the way if we walked over to take a look.”

  “If you want to go, don’t let me stop you,” Todd said, blinking and looking back at them. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll stay here and finish the shrimp before it gets cold.”

  Jack glanced at Andy. If they were on their own, they’d already be out the door. But with Todd there....

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see if there’s anything we can do to help, especially if students are involved,” Andy said. “Go ahead and make yourself at home, Edward. We’ll be back in a few minutes, and if we’re delayed, I’ll call.” He pointed to the wall phone.

  “Good luck,” Todd said, lifting a hand.

  Jack pulled on his leather jacket and felt the weight of his Colt .45 against his hip. He ducked into the study, where Andy had set up an airbed for him, and tucked the pistol into his knapsack. He didn’t need the police asking him for a carry permit.

  “Back soon,” he called as he and Andy headed outside.

  IV

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Todd set down his fork and closed his eyes to inspect the shifting patterns more closely. The probabilities were moving swiftly now, a jigsaw iteration of potentialities revolving and slipping into place as people moved and made decisions. Dark blood seethed beneath their thin, crystalline crust.

  “This is a warded place,” Amon complained. Todd opened his eyes. The demon squatted on the linoleum floor, snapping and worrying at the loose skin on its flank. It looked up, cringing. “The priest has prayed over it.”

  “I’m sure he has. They’ve warded themselves, as well—sigils, charms, and blessings. I think they were summoned here, even if they don’t realize it.” Todd rose to his feet. “Do you know anything about the bones in north campus?”

  “No, no, nothing.” Amon tore a strip of skin loose and lifted its beaked head, sharp teeth grinding the strip to shreds. The kitchen light blazed in its mirrored eyes. “They were neither sacrificed to hell nor sanctified to heaven. But I see them, I see them for all that.”

  “Do you?” Todd looked at his own reflection in the demon’s eyes, a man-shaped hole in space that held a jigsaw array of tunnels, corridors, stairways, and doors. “And what do they look like?”

  “They curve and writhe and bend and scream, but they do not belong to the mal'akhim, and they make me uneasy.”

  Todd frowned as he paced through the apartment. It was an architectural mirror-image of his own place, although Markham’s decor ran to cheap furniture and shelves full of books. His eyes were caught by a faded but framed ’70s concert poster in the study. Wolfhowl, it declared across a photo of four young musicians.

  He recognized both Andy Markham and Jack Langthorn. He didn’t recognize the other two band members or the name of the club they were playing. A place in Anchorage, Alaska. Not a successful band, then.

  “Bender....” Amon padded across the carpet, its claws making ripping sounds as they caught in the cheap weave and tore free again. The demon pressed against his leg. “We should kill them.”

  “Let them be, beloved. They were brought here just as I was. The patterns suggest something important is at hand.”

  “The bones make a noise that will awaken the armies of the mal'akhim,” Amon said in its creaking voice. “We will have war.”

  “All the more reason to let them expose themselves while I stay in the shadows.” Todd walked back to the kitchen. “Do you like shrimp Creole?”

  Amon hissed impatiently, its sides rasping and ripping along the edge of a bookshelf as it passed. Todd considered cleaning up after the demon, then dismissed the thought. If Andrew Markham and Jack Langthorn recognized the smudges and skin, they’d realize they weren’t as safe as they thought, surrounded by their spells and sigils. Their wards were sufficient to turn aside a hex or dissuade a black magickian, but they were no good against the mal'akhim.

  Or him.

  Todd took another mouthful, enjoying the faint burn of hot pepper as he chewed. The dish must have been eyewatering for humans.

  Todd had traveled the dimensional pathways long enough to no longer consider himself human. He was perceptible to the mal'akhim as the active emptiness he’d taken as his own, the absence he used to tread the pathways of heaven and hell. As far as he knew, he was the only being to have escaped both
the b'nei elohim and the nephilim yet remain clearly perceived by both.

  But if Amon were right about the bones, there was something else out there, something powerful and dangerous enough to draw the attention of both sides of the Host while remaining outside of their eternal conflict.

  Something like him, perhaps.

  He scraped his plate clean and washed down the last bite with the flavorless soda his hosts had served instead of the beer he’d expected.

  “Let’s go,” he said. Amon looked up from tearing at its genitals and scattered the detritus of its work over the floor. “I want to see those bones myself.”

  The demon shifted and washed its face with jerky, insectile motions.

  “They are loud,” it complained.

  “And I want to hear them.” Todd looked for the possibility that ran from the kitchen to the north campus and unlocked it, opening a bloody, tooth-lined hole. The backs of nail-skewered birds formed a walkway through spacetime. “Are you coming?”

  Amon rose to all eights and scuttled after him as Todd stepped into the other place.

  Behind them, the wound in reality sealed with a low groan.

  V

  Two black and white cars were parked in front of the small Gudrun Ranch House, their strobing lights painting the house’s walls in garish colors. A handful of students pressed around the periphery, standing on tiptoe and craning their necks.

  “What happened, then?” Andy asked one of the nearest students, a tall, thin young man.

  “I think someone hit a window and the alarms went off,” the youth said.

  Two police officers left the building. One began to order the crowds back, and another slid into one of the cars, picking up the radio transmitter.

  Andy touched Jack’s arm.

  “There’s the provost,” he said, jerking his head to one side.

  A slender, middle-aged man in a long wool coat strode down the sidewalk toward them, his pale hair shining in the streetlights. He cast an evaluating look at the crowd and then approached the Gudrun house. Students fell back as he stepped past them.