Professor Jerome Cormic looked down over Greene Street, watching the steady pedestrian traffic. In his right hand, his cellphone: an unsent text, "meet me in my office at 4 p.m." His thumb hovered by the send button, not a millimeter closer or further than it had been for half an hour. Jerome was perfectly still, but he trembled inside. Today was going to be his best day.
He had prepared everything. The items lay on the white tablecloth draped over his usually messy desk. The diagrams were drawn in chalk and pig's blood all over his floor and walls. He knew his script by heart. And then there was the other thing he'd prepared, the most important of all: the students. They would come at four, even if he sent the text now, at 2:47; they would come willingly, enthusiastically, to participate in the greatest manaetic experiment the East Coast had ever seen. They would come joking about class, or some self-important professor. They would come arm in arm or hand in hand, best friends, lovers, giddy thralls to Jerry's arts. They would come because he owned them, heart, mind, and body. They weren't his first batch: they were his last. They were perfect.
Lined up before Jerry on the windowsill were their orchids, seven vigorous specimens, none more or less beautiful than the others. The plants practically hummed with mana. He could hear their song without looking at them. Orchids had served as the foci of every one of his experiments, and their constant Croon was his favorite background noise. No more orchids, he realized, glancing down at his phone. This is the last crop.
2:48.
He pressed Send and sat down behind his desk. He had come so far, put in so much work, and suddenly he wondered what he would do tomorrow. The ritual would be complete, the experiment a sure success. He would be free—contractually free, truly free—the world his oyster. He wouldn't need a job. He could quit the English Department and just go somewhere. Read, write, follow his original passions. He would live out his final decades blessed, not hashtag blessed, blessed in the truest sense of the word. He was trading his orchids in for the Holy Grail.
Would life become boring, he wondered, when he no longer had to use charm and subtle arts to dominate the minds of twenty-year-old lit undergrads? A shuffling existentialism crept ever closer.
No.
He centered himself, floating on his back in the orchidsong, eyes closed to everything but the pool of mana inside him. It rippled mildly, stirred by only the slightest of concerns. What if the experiment fails? So much rode on this. He wouldn't get another chance, he'd been assured. The Grail wouldn't wait, and if he didn't seize it the Church would. Without the Grail he was useless to his sponsors, and while they hadn't put it so plainly, he was fairly sure they would kill him the moment he ceased to be anything but a liability to them.
Jerry didn't push these thoughts away. He allowed them to breathe on the surface of his mana. He gave them space, time, attention. It's okay. It's okay to worry. But it's also okay not to worry, he reminded himself. It's okay to have some confidence. The kids were perfect. The diagrams were immaculate. The items were of guaranteed quality and authenticity—if something went wrong on that front, his sponsors could only blame themselves. Jerry exhaled deeply as the surface of his mana slowly stilled, becoming a mirror pond reflecting his soul. He peered into it and the minotaur peered back. They smiled at each other, and for a moment Jerry remembered that he was a complete lunatic. Hallucination after hallucination slowly built themselves into a cohesive narrative of a gifted man with a quest. Starting in his own early twenties he had reconciled break after break with common knowledge about the nature of an ever decaying real world, eventually developing his own hypotheses about the nature of magic. Students in his dozens of failed experiments had challenged him on his premises. One of them had even broken into his mind and confronted the minotaur. After his arrest he learned that despite being a lunatic, he wasn't all wrong. His captors had done their best to avoid teaching him, but he had still picked up on a few things here and there. What he had known as the Six Arts of Alters were just one subdivision of magecraft. Magi existed, in secret, with their own organizations and societies. He and the couple accidental wizards he'd encountered in his experiments were far from the only ones keeping ancient arts alive. This knowledge alone had made his imprisonment bearable. In his cell deep beneath the British Museum he had reframed his theses. Each of his experiments since his escape eclipsed the previous. His understanding of magic deepened daily, until today. Jerry stood abruptly but without head rush. He felt incredible.
His phone still in his hand, he speed-dialed Hubert without looking. He gazed at his desk as he brought the phone to his ear.
"How's it looking, Jerry?"
"They'll be here in an hour. I've prepared everything, and I know all the chants by heart. We'll have the Grail tonight."
"Very good. You should be proud of yourself, Jerry."
"I couldn't have done it without your assistance. You and yours have been a delight." Jerry winced slightly at his own politeness. He was grateful for his freedom, and for his chance at the Grail, but Hubert was a Nazi, and Jerry always felt weird about that.
"Thank you," said Hubert. "We do strive for greatness. Now listen, Jerry—do you think you have time to do one more thing for us? It's not crucial to the success of the ritual, but I think it will improve our odds."
"Fuck," said Jerry, then, "shit, sorry. I mean, yes, of course, but Hubert, I don't know about these curveballs! Why didn't we plan for this?"
"Sorry, Jerry, the blame's all on us for this one. Again, it's not crucial, but hey it's coming down from above you know? A new suggestion from the order. A new order, hah. Listen, it's not an order, but again: can you do a thing for us?"
"What is it?"
"Write down the chants on paper, preferably in red ink—teachers have that, right?—one chant per page, and put the pages next to the appropriate relic. Call me back when that's done."
Jerry frowned. "Wasn't I going to tell them the chants?"
"Waters is worried you might trigger the ritual prematurely if you do that. Listen, it's just a precaution, but can you do this?"
"Yeah, yes, of course. I'll call you right back."
Jerry hung up, pulled seven pieces of paper out of his printer's tray, and began writing down the chants. They were each twelve lines long, and within ten minutes he had arranged the pages on the desk as instructed.
"Hubert?"
"Cheers Jerry! Is it done?"
"Yes. It's all written out, and the kids should be here soon."
"Great. You've been a great asset, Jerry. Our buddies in the Clock Tower did a good job. I want you to know this, Jerry. I want you to understand. You are a great man. You have accomplished a lot, and you're about to top it all."
"Thanks, Hubert."
"Have you thought about what you're going to ask of the Grail?"
"Of course," Jerry laughed.
"Well, what is it?"
"I don't have to keep it secret for it to come true?"
Hubert laughed in turn. "No, Jerry, this isn't a birthday candle. It's the Holy Grail! Come on, we didn't get this far on superstition alone. We're talking miracles. What's yours?"
Jerry hesitated a moment, suddenly embarrassed. "I want to write the Great American Novel, Hubert."
"Hey, that's nice." Hubert's voice was warm, comforting. Jerry didn't like being comforted by Nazis. "Listen, it's going to happen, okay? The ritual's at four, it might take half an hour? And then as we say in the order, blip bammo, Grail, wish, miracle, you're the author."
"Thanks, Hubert."
"There's just one more thing we need to do. One more curveball, for me, not you." Hubert chuckled. "You don't need to do anything else, Jerry. It's all on me. Before the Grail can really kick things into gear it needs one more big burst of mana."
"Okaay," said Jerry. "But you've got it covered?"
"Yeah. I know just the thing. Here, look out your window." Jerry looked down at the street, trying to find something noteworthy in the flow of walkers. "No, no, straight across. See me?" Jerry looked up and saw Hubert standing on the roof of the Waverly Building, phone to ear in one hand, waving with the other. His blonde Hitler Youth hairdo flapped lazily in the late November breeze. Jerry waved back, slowly, befuddled. Hubert stopped waving and pointed straight at Jerry. "I think a minotaur should do the trick."
# # #
Onson Sweemey was first. 3:58. Jerry's office door was closed, as usual. (It keeps the mana in, he'd say.) Just as he was about to knock on the door, he heard the others arrive.
"Hey Sonion!" called Jass Bonzalez. Onson smiled at this nickname. It rhymed with Funyun, a quirky American thing.
"Wazzup Jass?"
Jass and Bobsom Dugnutt arrived hand in hand, readers tucked under opposite armpits. Rey McSriff, Anatoli Dustice, Raul Chamgerlain, and Karli Dandleton showed up right at four, the stragglers of the group, always cutting it close.
When Onson had first joined the group, the other six had seemed so similar to him: all American. Of course, they didn't see it that way, and neither did America. With time Onson had figured out that Jass being Latina meant something; that Raul's Algerian roots meant something. These Americans shared a dialect, mannerisms, cultural touchstones, but they weren't, as Onson had originally assumed, a homogeneous gang. He'd made his share of faux-pas, mostly responded to with generosity for the sweet, clueless foreigner, but he had made an effort to learn. Three months into his semester abroad, he was still learning, and it was much easier with these peers than with most of his classmates. Jerry's students were always the friendliest, the brightest.
"Today's the day!" Raul beamed.
"Jerry's going to be so happy," said Karli. "I hope it's a smashing success."
"How could it not be?"
"Well, we could dawdle out here and ruin the timing." Rey laughed as she spoke, and Raul grabbed the doorknob.
The seven students looked at each other, exchanging gazes and smiles. Then in unison they nodded, and Raul opened the door.
Onson was the last to enter the room. His fellows had fanned out along either side of the door, not daring to step forward. The floor was covered in red and white diagrams, geometric shapes, strange glyphs. Jerry's desk was draped in a white tablecloth. Upon that rested seven sheets of paper, each next to a small object: a gilded string, an arrowhead, a dagger, a glass slipper, a pottery fragment, a wilted flower, and a nail. Splashed across the northeast-facing window in messy, red letters, were the words: "Line up by orchid, face your relic, speak the words."
Jerry was nowhere in sight.
"Guys?" Onson looked back to his fellows. They were already at Jerry's desk, standing in order: Jass, Bobsom, Anatoli, Rey, Raul, Karli. Between Raul and Karli was a gap. The wilted flower was Onson's. "Guys, isn't this a bit much?"
Jass looked back at him. "Maybe Jerry can't be in the room for the ritual. We should continue without him."
"I think these diagrams are drawn in blood," said Onson.
"Use the Grail to clean it up, if you care." Raul laughed, then went back to studying the page in his hands.
Onson looked from left to right, Jass to Karli. Was he the only one who had doubts about the scene they were encountering? Was it a Swedish thing, this reluctance? The Americans were gung-ho. Today was the big day, the culmination of decades of research for Jerry. A chance to do something truly extraordinary. They were going to attain the Holy Grail of legend, vessel of miracles. Onson had barely slept the night before, had been a bit weak in the knees climbing up to Jerry's office. We're all excited, he thought. But Jerry is supposed to be here.
"I feel really weird about this."
"Come onnn, Sonion," pleaded Jass, turning to pout at him. "Come look your poem over. I think we're supposed to all do this together. Don't ruin this for Jerry."
Onson stared at Jass for a good twenty seconds before he managed to make a decision. "Fuck it. Let's get that Grail. For Jerry!"
"For Jerry!" the other students cheered.
Onson took his place between Raul and Karli. He looked down at the wilted flower, tiny against the white tablecloth. In front of it was the sheet of paper, with twelve lines written in red ink.
A Seed, to bear Death
Antidote of the 9 Quadrants
A heart, to pump poison throughout
Your garden gate crumbles
I hereby propose
Your Will mine, and I your Sword
Answer if you abide the Grail's Summons and Laws
I hereby swear
I shall define Good
I shall unmake Evil
From the Tree of Thal, Altered by nothing,
Step forth, Ascendant!
"Shall we do this?" asked Bobsom. He waved his page eagerly.
"I don't understand mine," said Onson.
"What's there to understand?" asked Karli. She gazed at the nail on desk, her paper crumpled and discarded. "Jerry prepared this. We just say the words."
"I think I understand mine," said Bobsom. "This is a summoning spell. I bet my chant will make a little green dude show up."
"A little green dude?" giggled Jass. "What is this, King's Cup?"
Anatoli had remained silent, and he now looked over at Onson. "I wouldn't say I'm like, 100% on this to be honest. What if something happens to us? To the department? What if something already happened to Jerry?"
"What could happen?" asked Raul. "This is Jerry we're talking about."
"Come on," said Anatoli. "You read books. This isn't an uncommon theme. We mess with some higher power, maybe there's a reward, maybe there's a price. I'm with Onson."
"No," said Onson. "Let's fucking do this." He knew Americans loved how it sounded when he said "fucking," and it embarrassed him a little, but he needed to pump himself up. "It's time sensitive and we're almost five minutes behind schedule. We all signed up for this, right? Our favorite professor is a loony wizard and we love him. I'm starting in three."
"Two," said everyone in unison, except Anatoli, whose expression darkened.
After a meaningful look around the room, he joined in for "one."
Onson read his chant aloud. Karli recited hers, as did Jass and Raul. Bobsom, Anatoli, and Rey read from the page, except Rey who clearly went off script: she added a thirteenth line, "I've been waiting for you to take me away." Before Onson could give that addition too much thought, the diagrams on the floor and walls began glowing. The message written on the window seemed to float off the glass, swirling into a red cloud in the center of the room. Then it parsed itself into seven smaller eddies, and flew in seven directions, landing on the back of the right hand of each student. Onson looked down and saw a red crest on his hand, three flowers arranged to make a skull shape.
As soon as he had registered this, near-blinding light and a fierce wind gripped the closed room, blurring lines, mangling the curtains, and smashing the potted orchids to the floor. Onson was steady, puzzling at this powerful force that did not even try to move him. His fellows remained on their feet as well.
Then a massive thud shook the floor and the light receded.
In the middle of various circles drawn on the floor were seven strangers, each bathed in a faint blue light. A slight, tunicked man with a jeweled crown in his green hair stood near Jass, a shepherd's crook in one hand. Nearest Bobsom, a stout white man dressed in green stood with a jaunty feather in his hat. A red-haired, pale skinned woman dressed like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean stood by Anatoli. A tall figure in an immaculate white suit stood by Rey's elbow, all features beside dress and height indiscernible. At Raul's feet, a dirty man in rags crouched like a dog. A woman with dark green skin and purple hair squatted next to Onson, clad in ancient Indian garb. On Karli's other side stood—Jesus? Swarthy, bearded, clad in his iconic white robe and red sash.
Onson was still busy taking in the scene when the seven newcomers spoke in unison.
"Your summons have been answered. I am—"
The seven stopped, glancing around the room, at the students, the relics, each other.
The green-skinned woman stood straight in a flash and locked eyes with Onson.
"Are you my master?"
Onson Sweemey could have said no. At least, he thought it was an option. This was a yes or no question. These things weren't always clear. English was barely a second language to him, but he hadn't been in America long, and he got it wrong sometimes. Still, he was sure there was no cultural barrier here. The question was simple. Yes or no. He could say yes—he could say no. He had no other option. The tone of the question was clear as his options: he had to decide fast. There was no time for hesitation. He didn't have much to go on, either. But Jerry hadn't mentioned summoning green people or Jesus. Onson knew in that instant that this experiment had gone off the rails.
Something horrible had happened to Jerry, and something horrible could happen to him.
He needed protection.
"Yes," he said simply, and the woman nodded. Around the room, Onson heard a chorus of yesses.
Then in a flurry, the seven new arrivals were pulling their new "masters" aside, pushing them into corners, blocking them from each other with their bodies. All seven, except Onson's green woman, who had vanished.
He stood in the center of the room, at a loss. The pirate was waving a boarding axe, the dirty man a stick; Jesus was chanting something under his breath, and the guy in green, now obviously some kind of reject Robin Hood, was knocking an arrow to a bow.
"Guys?" asked Onson, his voice cracking as fear gripped him.
And then Bobsom gargled and fell over, dead eyes open, purple bile bubbling from his mouth.
Onson stared in a daze at Bobsom's body as the walls of the office blew to pieces and his friends were whisked away in the arms of the things they'd summoned. As quickly as the ritual had started it was over. Jerry's office looked like it had been bombed. Bobsom lay rigid among the rubble. The hand that had held Jass's fifteen minutes earlier had frozen around his own neck. The nails were already flaking away from his darkening mauve skin. Panicked shouts rang down the hall, and sirens wailed a couple blocks away. Onson couldn't tear his eyes away from his friend, but his vision was weird, part blurry, part jelly, jittery. He was sure he was having a stroke.
"My name is Visha Kanya, Living Death, Servant of the Assassin class," said the green woman, rematerializing in front of Onson. "I will win the Grail for you, but I cannot keep you safe. We will find you a hiding spot, to emerge from when the war is over. Come, before our enemies return."
Onson's vision was clearing up slowly, but he needed to puke. He put a hand out to support himself on Assassin's shoulder, but she backed away and he fell face first into the growing puddle of his vomit.
"Don't touch me, Master."
These were the last words Onson heard before the room spun and his vision departed again, hiding behind the heavy shroud of unconsciousness.