by Doty, J. L.
McGowan considered his words carefully. “A lot of reasons, kid. First, if you had continued the way you were going, someone, probably me, would have had to kill you to prevent you from harming others. Think about Cassius. Two, three, four hundred years ago some sorcerer let that Secundus loose on the Mortal Plane. And a demon like that needs to consume two or three lives a month. Do the math. It doesn’t matter if that ancient sorcerer let him loose through evil intent, or merely sloppiness or inexperience. If there was the possibility you might do the same, we’d stop you, even if that meant killing you. But while I will admit I can be ruthless, I’d rather not commit murder until I know I can’t fix you properly.”
“So if I don’t cooperate, you, or someone else, will kill me?”
McGowan shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. You’re not what we thought—a simple rogue—so I’d probably hold off. But I can’t vouch for those Russians.
“Another reason I’m working with you is that you’re an unknown, to us all. There hasn’t been a necromancer around for twelve hundred years, not that we know of. So I need to understand why you’re here, now, at this time and place.”
“There has to be a reason?”
“Ya, I think so.” McGowan looked away from the road, looked at Paul carefully for a moment, studying him, evaluating him. His eyes returned to the road and he said, “Our history books are written by historians who don’t believe in magic or sorcery, so they make events fit into their mundane framework. But I’ve spent years translating and studying ancient grimoires—basically cookbooks for magic and sorcery with little bits of history thrown in—written by men and women hundreds of years ago with a vastly different perspective. And believe me it’s a bitch trying to understand them. They’re vague, and superstitious, so a lot of interpretation is needed. But an alternate interpretation that emerges is that a couple thousand years ago a Primus caste demon, one of the nine princes of hell, crossed over to the Mortal Plane. That led to the fall of the Roman Empire and the beginning of the dark ages. And it wasn’t until about eight or nine hundred years later that a necromancer came along to banish the Primus back to the Netherworld.”
“Jesus!” Paul said, his thoughts racing. Maybe he could just run away and hide. Play along with McGowan for a day or two, yank all his savings out of the bank, take only cash, move to some south Pacific island, grow a beard, become a beach-bum and just hide.
“Paul!” McGowan shouted. “Calm down. It’s just all speculation, and conjecture. I told you it’s all subject to wide ranging interpretation. And you should see some of the crap those superstitious idiots wrote ten, twelve hundred years ago. Remember, these are the same morons who came up with the test for a witch: drown her, and if she lives she’s a witch so kill her, but if she dies she’s innocent, so pray for her when you bury her.”
Paul forced himself into an artificial calm. “Well, at least now that everyone knows I’m a necromancer they’re not out to kill me anymore.”
McGowan sucked air through his teeth. “About that . . .”
“Ah shit! Please tell me I’m not a target again.”
“Wellllll!” McGowan grimaced unhappily. “It’s not that simple. You see, the Sidhe don’t have souls, so they’re kind of . . . not really considered among the living, so . . . you may have some extra special powers over them, and they don’t like that.”
Paul turned on him and demanded, “What kind of powers?”
McGowan’s grimace remained. “We don’t know. Maybe none. But the Sidhe Courts, as a rule, don’t take any chances in such matters, so don’t assume anything.”
“Well, at least the fucking Russians aren’t trying to kill me anymore.”
McGowan added a frown to his grimace. “About that too. It’s really hard to bring a Primus caste over, even for me, but maybe not for a necromancer. So your very existence might make it possible.”
Paul managed to get his voice down to a growl. “So everyone thinks I’m going to cause the destruction of civilization?”
McGowan glanced at him apologetically. “I just wouldn’t assume there is anyone who isn’t out to kill you. Well . . . you can count on me and Colleen and Katherine and Clark. We’re on your side. That’s why we’re going to see Clark.”
“Clark?”
“Ya. Clark Devoe.”
“Who?”
“Gun shop owner. You met him when you came to his store. And then again the night you took out that Secundus. That was a nice piece of work, I might add. Earned you a few brownie points among my colleagues. That’s why some of them won’t . . . well . . . might not try to kill you.”
McGowan pulled the car into a parking spot in front of South-Bay Guns and Ammo. Paul remembered the place from his one and only visit. It was still rather seedy, a simple, unassuming storefront with a neon sign. And it needed a coat of paint.
McGowan pulled a briefcase out of the back seat, nodded toward Paul’s shopping bag containing his Sigs and said, “Grab your stuff, kid.”
Paul followed him into the shop. It had only been a few months since he’d first wandered into the place and it hadn’t changed, a long row of glass display cases running down the right side with handguns displayed under glass, racks of rifles on the wall behind the cases. Along the left wall were racks of ammunition, clothing, holsters, cleaning kits, all sorts of paraphernalia.
The plump female with frizzy, unkempt hair sat behind the counter toward the back. She wore another moo-moo, or maybe the same one, and was eating something out of a plastic refrigerator tub. “How ya doin’, Mr. McGowan,” she said around a mouth full of food. “Clark’s expecting you. Go on back.”
Clark Devoe was waiting for them in the back room. He looked to be in his mid-sixties with shoulder length gray-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, and three or four days of stubbly beard growth. Paul thought he might be wearing the same old army fatigue jacket and NRA cap he’d had on the first time Paul met him.
“Mr. McGowan,” Devoe said, shaking McGowan’s hand.
He turned to Paul, shook Paul’s hand in a hard grip and said, “Nice job you did on the vamp.” He looked down at Paul’s shopping bag. “Let’s see what you bought.”
Paul upended the bag on a nearby workbench. Both Sigs were in their hinged, blue, plastic, factory cases. Devoe opened one, lifted the weapon, ratcheted the slide back, then quickly field stripped it, removing the slide and the barrel. He sighted carefully down the barrel. “This is good hardware, little expensive, but a good choice. And it looks like you’re cleaning it and oiling it properly.”
Devoe went through the same process with the other Sig. Paul apparently passed muster on that one as well. The man questioned him a bit on his background as a child hunting with his father, was happy to hear he’d gone through a couple thousand rounds at a gun range to get the feel of the two weapons. Devoe wasn’t so pleased with the holster. “This is ok, but it could jam you up a little, slow you down in a pinch. Leave it with me for a few days and I’ll make some mods.”
McGowan opened his briefcase, handed Paul a small card and an envelope full of paperwork. “That’s a CCW permit—to carry a concealed weapon—for the state of California. You don’t know it but you applied for it and received it several months ago.”
Devoe nodded toward the card. “Those’re hard as hell to get in this state. Mr. McGowan has connections.”
Devoe gave Paul a pump-action sawed-off twelve-gauge and a couple hundred rounds of his “special double-ought.”
Paul looked at McGowan and Devoe and said, “Where’s the uzi, and maybe a fifty-caliber machine gun? I could mount it on the floor of my living room to cover the front door.”
Devoe frowned and looked at McGowan. “Kid ain’t gonna live long if he don’t start taking this seriously.”
~~~
He watched her walk to the bus stop, the beautiful little Mexican girl. Watched her carefully and couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Her parents had dressed her in a blue pinafore ove
r a pale red dress, and matching blue knee-high stockings ending in shiny black shoes—very Alice in Wonderland. He loved Alice in Wonderland, not the story but the girl.
The little Mexican girl’s parents must be very proud of her, must love her very much. She had incredible raven-black hair that hung past her shoulders, flawless olive skin and almond shaped eyes. He thought she might even be more beautiful than the little blonde, and that brought a pang of guilt. It felt like cheating to desire the little Mexican girl more than the little blonde, a horrible act of infidelity.
No, the voice said, a faint hiss somewhere deep within his soul. She is the one.
Yes. He’d loved the little blonde so much, but now she was gone and he so desperately needed someone to hold, someone to share his affection. But this one would be different. This time he would just watch from afar, admire her, love her even, but never touch her. He didn’t want to hurt her. She was too beautiful to be hurt. He just wanted to hold her closely, tell her how much he loved her, how much he needed her.
Own her. We must have her, all of her, nothing held back.
“No,” he pleaded, closing his eyes, grimacing as he tried to shut the voice out of his soul. “Not this time. Please not this time.”
Yes, always. Look at her.
He opened his eyes. The young girl had stopped to talk to a boy her own age, Mexican like her, though his features were a little darker than hers.
Imagine touching her, caressing her carefully, running your fingers along such delicate, flawless skin.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes . . . yes.”
Once she knows how much you love her, how deeply you care for her, she’ll love you back, love you with all her heart.
He could see that she must have a loving heart, a kind heart. “Yes . . . yes, she will.”
Chapter 2: The Black
Katherine watched from the sidelines as Paul tried a small fire spell. He and Colleen were seated opposite one another at a table they’d dragged into her father’s workshop, while Katherine and her father, standing to one side, looked on. She’d come here with considerable trepidation, but now, after about an hour with the four of them working together in her father’s workshop, she couldn’t understand why she’d been so fearful of working with Paul, fearful of just being in the same room with him. It didn’t make sense.
Paul held both hands out, cupped together as if trying to hold water or beg for alms. He concentrated and a faint glow appeared just above his hands. It wavered for a moment then steadied and became a small, hot spark illuminating the room like an uncovered light bulb.
Her father was right. She didn’t recognize the arcane power Paul used. If it was earth magic, or he was tapping a ley line, she’d sense his manipulation of such forces. But she got nothing. She looked at her father and he nodded, as if to say, See what I mean.
Colleen spoke softly to Paul and he extinguished the bright spark. Then she said, “Close your eyes and focus on me, try to sense what I’m doing.”
Colleen extended one palm and, with a thought, she tapped a nearby ley line and fire appeared just above her hand. But unlike Paul’s hot, bright spark, this was a flickering, dancing flame a few inches tall. Katherine easily sensed her use of the arcane forces.
Colleen asked, “Were you able to sense what I did?”
Paul kept his eyes closed as he said, “I felt . . . feel something.”
Colleen nodded. “Good. I’m going to hold this flame, and I want you to extend your hand again, and try to repeat what I did.”
Paul extended a hand and his brow wrinkled with concentration. The hot spark appeared, but he said, “No,” and it just as quickly disappeared. And again Katherine had felt nothing. Then a small flame fluttered to life in his palm, and Katherine felt him pulling normal power, pulling on the same ley line. It was interesting that he could pull on a ley line so instinctively. Katherine had expected him to naturally gravitate to earth magic, and from the expression on her father’s face, so had he.
The flame suddenly flared and grew to about a foot in height, then it shrank back and steadied, though it flickered wildly. Normal magic, with a beginner’s lack of control, but still normal.
“Release the spell,” Colleen said, as her flame disappeared.
Paul did so, and his too disappeared.
Katherine had a sudden inspiration. There were some techniques she’d used with troubled children that might help here. She walked up to the table and said to Colleen, “I have an idea. Let me try something.”
Colleen stood and walked over to McGowan. Katherine didn’t take her place, but paced back and forth in front of the table as she said to Paul, “I want you to show me something. Not repeat something we’ve taught you. Just something on your own.”
He looked at her skeptically. “Show you what?”
“I don’t know. There must be something you can do that no one else can do. Maybe something unique, something you’re really good at. Think about it.”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean belching the national anthem at a beer drinking frat party.”
She stopped pacing. “Can you actually do that?”
“No, but I knew a guy who could.”
“Come on,” she said. “There must be something you can do that’s unique, and doesn’t involve disgusting bodily functions.”
He pondered that for a moment, then a little sparkle appeared in his eyes.
She prompted him, “There is something, isn’t there?”
“Well, ya,” he said reluctantly. “But it’s just a party trick. I used to do it in college.” He grinned. “It was great for meeting girls.”
She looked over to her father and said, “See, he’s slutty too.”
She turned back to Paul. “What is it?”
He was clearly embarrassed at having to make the admission. “I can throw knives. Well, anything that’s metal and sharp: nails, whatever. I can stick it every time, and I can hit a half-inch target from across the room.”
“Did you practice this a lot?”
“No. I can just do it.”
“So you could do it now?”
He shrugged, still clearly embarrassed. “I suppose, though I haven’t tried since I was in college.”
She stopped pacing and faced him squarely. “Let’s give it a try.”
She turned to her father. “Any knives down here?”
He shook his head. “Not that aren’t heavily spelled.”
She looked around the workshop. There were three old wooden cabinets against one wall, all about six feet high, scratched and scarred old things. She pointed at one, looked at her father. “Mind if we use that as a target?”
McGowan shrugged. “Sure, go ahead.”
Katherine turned to Colleen. “Would you go up to the kitchen and grab a random selection of knives?”
Katherine walked over to her father’s workbench, scrounged in a drawer and found a black ink marker, walked over to the cabinet and quickly painted several small circles on the face of it, each about the size of a thumbnail. By the time she’d finished, Colleen had returned and dumped an assortment of knives on the table in front of Paul. He stood and examined them carefully.
Pointing at the cabinet, Katherine said, “Ok, Conklin, let’s see what you got.” Then she stepped several feet to the side, well out of the way.
“Thanks for the show of confidence,” he said, as he picked up a small paring knife and flipped it in the air a few times, catching it each time by the handle. “Ok. Now in the movies, the knife thrower always holds the knife by the blade when he throws it.” He flipped the knife a few more times, was clearly warming up to the show. “But that’s not necessary when you’re as good as I am.” He flipped the knife a few more times as he spoke. “You know, I met Suzanna doing this.” He stopped abruptly, and with a flick of the wrist tossed the knife across the room, stuck the point in one of the targets she’d drawn.
She walked over to the target, noted that the knife was perfectly centered in t
he small bull’s-eye. She’d felt a flow of power as he’d thrown the knife, just the tiniest bit, probably just enough to nudge the direction of the knife. But he wasn’t drawing on a ley line, or earth power, and she didn’t think he’d used his own life force.
She turned back to him. “Not bad, Conklin. Let’s see it again.”
“Ok, sweetheart,” he said in a bad Bogart imitation, now juggling three knives easily. A flick of the wrist, another flick, another flick, and all three knives were stuck perfectly in three targets.
She shouted, “Wooooooo!” and slapped her hands together, applauding loudly. “I’m impressed, Conklin.” She pulled the knives out of the cabinet. It wasn’t difficult since they’d hardly penetrated the wood. She laid the knives back on the table in front of him. “Can you throw them harder?”
“I don’t know. I suppose. Why?”
She wanted to get him to use more power than just the hint she’d sensed. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d think if you’re throwing a knife as a weapon, like they do in the movies, you’d have to throw it a lot harder than that. Otherwise, you’d just give someone a nasty cut. And in the movies they always drop the bad guy with one throw.”
Paul picked up one of the larger knives. “I’ll give it a try.” He flipped the knife in the air a couple of times, then drew back his arm and threw it hard. It thudded into the cabinet with considerable force, again centered in the target. But his throw had disappointed her. He’d still only used a hint of power to direct the knife, while the extra force had come from his arm.
“Come on, Conklin. You can do better than that. Harder.”
He picked up another knife, followed the formula of flipping it a few times, then threw it so hard he grunted with the effort. Again the knife landed home, but again all its force had come from his arm.
“Come on, Conklin. Harder.”
He picked up another, followed his usual formula and threw it with all his strength. But again no real use of power, though she saw his frustration growing as she taunted him. And that was exactly what she wanted.
