ASHES TO ASHES – A short story taking place within the Universe of the Dresden Files
It was quarter to midnight, and the Black Market was as busy as ever. Small tents and stands lined the promenade of the abandoned mall, selling all manner of occult items, rare herbs, trinkets, jewelry, and occasionally, something of real value. The Black Market appears on the new moon of each month, and I avoid it if I can. Tonight, however, I could not.
I meandered down the center aisle, taking in the wares and people alike. There was a booth selling silver rings and necklaces, staffed by two middle-aged folk caked in white makeup and too much black eyeliner. Opposite that was a small tent covering a table crammed with tarot decks and crystals. Down the row was a stand selling herbs and incense staffed by two young kids in paisley and dreadlocks; farther on another had a respectable collection of animal skulls on display. I let my gaze pass by most of them without mention.
At the end of the aisle sat a large, heavy set man looking very out of place in his open flannel shirt, faded blue jeans, and a battered trucker's cap. He wore a pair of heavy work boots, which he was currently resting on the old card table in front of him, between mounds of mason jars full of every type of pickled vegetable imaginable. I sauntered over to the guy, who was pulling a long drink out of a bottle of beer, managing to spill only a little onto his long gray beard. His eyes caught mine, and a thin smile appeared on his grizzled face.
"Duke Richter!" he bellowed, barely moving the bottle from his lips. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"O'Connell," I said, as I leaned up against the side of the card table. "You still selling those horrible smelling poultices you make?"
"I do, from time to time." He nodded, as he fetched another bottle. He popped the cap off with a thumb and handed it to me. I took it, gave a small nod in thanks, and he continued, "But mostly I sell these." He gestured at the plethora of jars burdening the table. "You'd be surprised how many of these things I can sell here. Everybody working up an appetite and no one else selling food."
I considered that for a moment. O'Connell was a Druid – an honest-to-the-horned-god Druid – and while I knew that he had a fair amount of magical skill, I also knew that he had more of a practical mindset. I shrugged in vague acknowledgement and drank a bit of beer.
"You didn't answer my question," he said, between gulps of beer. "What brings your Wizardly ass down here?"
"Ex-Wizardly ass," I said, "and I'm fairly sure you know why I'm here."
O'Connell chuckled to himself. He raised the now empty bottle to point at the raised dais about twenty feet away from the end of the aisle of makeshift shops. On it was a semicircle of tables, each sporting a number of items marked with a number and small placard.
"Anything to do with the auction going on tonight?" he said, dropping his empty beer into a cooler while picking up another in an almost fluid, single motion.
The auction O'Connell was referring to was the estate sale of the late Sir Archibald Harrington Lansmith, a notable collector of occult paraphernalia, supernatural trinkets and mystic tomes. He had amassed a fairly large collection of such things – one that rivaled my own.
I'm an often-times smuggler, part time appraiser, and full-time dealer in occult artifacts by trade. You'd be surprised how lucrative such a business can be, if you know the right people – and I knew all the right people. Sorcerers who need an ancient grimore, witches needing rare ingredients, dark fey who seek a special ritual tool, monsters who require specific type of blood; I sold to them all. And I was still alive to tell about it.
I nodded to O'Connell slowly, tilting the bottle back and swishing the lukewarm beer in my mouth. "Lansmith was an associate of mine. I've had my eye on some of his collection for a while now, and I can't afford to pass up the opportunity to cash in." I said.
"Was he White Council?" he asked, eyebrow twitching northward.
"Doubtful. I think he was just rich and English." The White Council was the governing body of Wizards on planet Earth, a group of powerful mages who were tasked with keeping the world safe from those creatures that prey on mankind, enforcing the Laws of Magic, and hold the line against the things from outside our universe who would ravage our world and eat our souls.
They were also a group of pompous, arrogant, dickheads. I should know. I used to be one of them.
I had opened my mouth to say something surly, when a tall man in a dark suit stepped onto the dais and struck a small gong, sending sharp tone throughout the Market. The general murmurs fell to a hush, and the tall man turned to address the crowd.
His head slowly scanned the room, his gaze both taking in the surroundings while simultaneously causing rapt attention and silence wherever it fell. He had pale skin and silver hair, cut short and slicked back to his head. His eyes were a piercing green, and if you paid attention, you could almost see the peaks of pointy ears behind his hair. I had ten-to-one odds he was a Sidhe of the Winter Court. The fact that Lansmith could arraign for a Fey arbiter to manage his estate was impressive; the fact that any Fey would agree to do so is down-right mind-boggling.
Once the tall man was satisfied that he had secured everyone's attention, he spoke in a moderate, almost pleasant voice. "The silent auction to liquidate the estate of the late Sir Archibald Harrington Lansmith is hereby closed. Those bids that were accepted will be kept by the Liquidators of said estate; the unaccepted bids will be returned to the bidders. You have one hour to claim a winning bid. All sales are final."
He stalked off the stage, the noise of the crowd rising in volume as he did so. I turned to O'Connell, swallowed the rest of my beer, and said, "Time to see what I won."
I made out pretty well in the auction, all things considered. There was a placard with my name next to a pile of items – a couple of old clothbound books, a curved single sided dagger in an elaborately decorated sheath, a vial of volcanic ash, a box containing a blank key, and bottle of 35-year-old Islay Scotch Whiskey. I pulled out a small duffel bag from the pocket of my black wool coat, and started gathering up my newfound goods.
About twenty feet away from me, at the base of the dais, the tall man was having a rather terse discussion with a figure in a long black velvet cloak. I'm not sure why this attracted my attention, but I stopped what I was doing and took in the scene.
The figure in the cloak was gesturing angrily at the dais, while the tall man stood with his hands behind his back, almost patiently. I couldn't get a look at the face of the hooded person, but a pair of long, slender hands ending in well-manicured and painted nails kept poking and pointing at the tall man. The left hand was sporting a rather gaudy silver ring, set with a larger piece of amber. After a minute of this, the tall man simply stood up straight, raised an open palm at the figure, and walked past her. The cloaked figure followed, seemingly unable to let the conversation go.
I shook my head and returning to my packing. Sour grapes make for a bitter wine.
The next evening, I was sitting in my bar, slowly sipping on a glass of bourbon and paging through a book on renaissance alchemy. The Red Lantern is a little hole in the wall of a tavern – a small bar with a dozen stools on one end of the long, narrow room, and a couple of tables on the other. The windows were glazed over with soot and grime, which helped distract from the faded green damask wallpaper, and the grimy copper on the high ceiling. Like most nights, the bar was empty, save for myself. This would bother me if I expected to make any money pouring drinks, which I didn't. My line of work dealt with a lot of cash, and the best way to keep Uncle Sam off my back was to make sure I had a method of explaining why I had said cash. Besides, I liked sitting in an empty bar.
I was just about to refill my tumbler when a woman walked through the front door. She opened the door slowly, her outline framed against the streetlights outside. She pressed into the room, her stilettos making a sharp clicking sound on the hardwood floors. I put down the bottle of Maker's Mark in my hand, and gave her the once over.
She was average height, maybe 5'6" or so, with dark brown hair falling to her shoulders. She was wearing a crimson dress, cut low in the front, showing off a well-kept frame. She looked vaguely middle aged, with small lines around her eyes, but the impression I got was of red wine, grown better as it aged. She strolled to the middle of the bar and leaned an elbow on it, letting her gaze take in the appalling scenery. It occurred to me that I should clean up this dump one of these days.
"Evening, miss." I said, leaning against the back side of the bar. "What can I get for you tonight?"
Her eyes met mine for just a second, and then continued down the bar. "It looks to me like you were just about the pour yourself a drink." She said, gesturing her hand at the bottle I had just set down. "I suppose I'll have what you're having. And perhaps you'll have one with me? My treat."
It is impolite to refuse a lady's request, and imbecilic to refuse to let one buy you a drink. I stalked down to the other end of the bar, grabbed two of my cleanest glasses, along with the bourbon. When I returned to my only customer, she had sat down demurely on the stool, long legs crossed and hands folded on her lap.
"What brings a dame like you into a joint like this?" I asked, focusing on pouring a couple of ounces of hooch into each glass. Her elegant eyebrows raised high, and smirk began to cross her lips. "Sorry." I said, corking the bottle and placing beneath the bar, where I could get at it quickly. "I've just always wanted to say that."
"Can't a girl just want a drink?" she said, raising her glass to her chin. "Does there have to be another reason?"
I shrugged, lifting my own glass to my mouth and took a generous pull. I set it down, crossed my arms and leaned hard on the bar top. I watched as she took a sip of the bourbon without so much as a grimace, keeping the glass close to her face, her grey eyes peering over it.
I let out a little grunt and stood up straight, my hand reaching for my whiskey. "I'm not that lucky. Not many beautiful women come in here for a drink. Or the company."
She smiled wide, putting her glass to the side. "Your name is Duke?" she said, more of a statement than a question.
"Perhaps." I nodded, "And to who do I have the pleasure of sharing a drink with?" My left eyebrow twitched up involuntarily.
"My name is Eleanore. As I understand it, you are a person that can acquire various items of a more… mystic nature. I am in the market for certain ingredients."
"Ahh. That makes more sense." I said, refilling my glass. "Who told you I was the guy to talk to about such things?"
"It is well known, in certain circles, that the Wizard Richter can obtain almost anything you desire. For a price."
Two things raised alarms in that sentence. First, the social and professional circles I run in are not available to, or even acknowledged by, the average person. It takes a measure of real magical understanding to play in the leagues I do. Second, the fact that she knew that I was once a member of the White Council of Wizards meant that she kept an ear to the rumor mills within those particular circles. When both facts were put together, it meant that whoever she was, she was not to be treated frivolously.
"Ex-wizard. I resigned after an incident a few years back." I said, swirling the glass of whiskey in my hand.
"My apologies, ex-Wizard Duke – may I call you Duke?" she asked, as she leaned in and rested her chin on her well-manicured, slender left hand. She had a large ring on her finger.
And that was the third alarm. I had seen those fingers before, as well as the ring – at the Black Market, poking at the tall man in anger. I put all those facts together, and came to an inescapable conclusion; Eleanore was much more than a pretty face. So, I did what any good practitioner of the mystic arts would do – I Read her mind.
The White Council has several hard and fast Laws against which type of magic is permitted, and which types will result in a swift decapitation. One of those is "Thou Shalt Not Invade the Mind of Another". It's meant to stop people from forcibly pulling out information from an unwilling mind, which causes untold harm to the victim.
I make it a policy to attempt to adhere to those Laws. Mostly.
What the Law fails to cover, however, is the fact that most people radiate thoughts and feelings like a candle radiates light. Few humans (or non-humans, for that matter) are skilled enough to keep their thoughts and emotions to themselves. The skill I like to call "Reading" is just that – passively reading the surface thoughts and emotions that a person unconsciously puts out in to the world. Like studying body language, but with auras.
I calmed my mind and began to focus my magical senses as I said, "Duke will be fine. What exactly are you looking for?" Her aura rippled slightly with contained excitement, then came back under her control.
"The substance I need is fairly specific. I require volcanic ash that has killed the innocent, but has never touched the ground." She said, "Do you have anything that fits that description?"
Another puzzle piece clicked into place. That was one of the items in the auction – an item that I won. Which explains the argument with the tall man, and aggressive her behavior.
"I might have such a thing." I said, adding a little more bourbon to her glass. "What's it worth to you?"
"The question, my dear ex-wizard…" she said, as she grazed a finger over the back of my hand pouring her drink, "Is what is it worth to you?" Her aura was positively radiating lust; and not necessarily the lust for human companionship. She had a need, a visceral craving, for the object of that lust. And for just a second, less than that, a word flashed across her mind:
VUZRATHAR
Whatever that word meant to her, I could feel the hunger attached to it. I was increasingly convinced that she would do whatever it took to accomplish her goal – including seducing a middle-aged smuggler like myself.
I gave her a wan smile, and said, "I think we can come to an understanding." She rose up off the stool, her eyes closed slightly, her hand rising to my face, guiding my lips to hers.
I waited until her face was a hair's breadth from my own.
"Thirty thousand cash. Or an item of equal or greater value, dependent on my own appraisal." Her eyes snapped open, a barely contained look of fury in them. "I don't extend credit," I said, backing away slowly, "and I don't do favors. Come back with cash or something else you can trade, and we can talk business."
Eleanore's eyes still smoldered with frustration and fury, but she leaned off the bar, a slight smile on her face. She reached into her décolletage, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and tossed it onto the bar.
"For the drinks." She said, as she turned to go.
Who said my mama didn't raise a charmer?
It was several hours later, around 3am, when I felt one of my wards go off.
The Red Lantern occupies the first floor of the building, while the second story is split between two small apartments. The one immediately over the bar is used for my living space, humble as it might be. The second apartment was my storeroom, where I kept the items that were my stock and trade. Both apartments were warded; that is to say, they had the mystical equivalent of an alarm system on both doors. The ward around my living space is set to detonate a burst of kinetic energy, launching any would-be intruders violently away from the door and down the very steep stairway that leads to the upper levels. If that one had gone off, you would hear it a block away.
Which meant that someone was knocking on my other chamber door.
I went over to the front door of the bar and slid the deadbolt in place. I went behind the bar, turned off the bank of lights that gave what little illumination there was to the dank pub, then thought better of it. I left one small hanging bulb lit, right above the empty cash register, and grabbed a bottle of something brown. I padded to the far end of the room, and opened a door leading to a small, cramped hallway. To my left, the door leading to an alleyway outside was hanging slightly open. To my right the stairwell led upwards, to two doors. One of which was also hanging open.
I walked up the stairs slowly, taking my time to assess the situation. I got to the top landing and peeked into the open door of my storeroom. On the middle of the floor was a body, lying motionless and gripping a small vial of ash.
Wasn't I just Mr. Popular today?
I nudged the door open with my foot, and entered into the room. With my free right hand I pulled a metal disc, maybe seven inches across, from its place hanging on the wall next to the door frame. I hooked a finger into the back of a folding chair, and pulled it across the room, settling it in front of the motionless form on my floor. I sat, balancing the metal disc on my right knee, while I pulled open the cork to the bottle. I took a deep swill, and set the bottle on the floor besides me.
"I know you can hear me." I said to the form on the floor. "Nod once if that's the case."
A mop of pink hair shuffled on the ground.
"Good. Do you know what just happened to you?"
The mop of pink tried to shake its head, and found it difficult to do so.
"The door to my storeroom is warded with a very particular spell. What you're now feeling is the full effects of that spell. To wit: you are paralyzed from the neck down, and incapable of speech. Does that sound like an accurate description of your current experience?"
A pink nod.
I put the disc in my pocket, and hoisted the body attached to the pick mop into a sitting position. She was young, between sixteen and twenty, with steel rings and studs stuck in her nose, eyebrows, lips, etc. She was dressed in black sweatpants and a hooded black sweater, and her eyes spoke of terror and fury.
I sat back down on the folding chair, picked up the bottle and took another deep pull while giving my guest the once over. I swallowed, pondering my next move.
After half a minute or so of silent contemplation, I said, "Here's how this is going to play out," I reached into my pocket for the disc. "I'm going to release your vocal cords, and you and I are going to have a nice little chat. If you play square with me, you'll be out of here shortly. Sound fair to you?"
The pink framed face nodded again. I flipped over the metal disc, its outer circumference covered with sigils and runes, surrounding an image that looked very much like da Vinci's Vitruvian Man. I put my thumb on a particular symbol and pushed a bit of my will into it. The guest on the floor took a deep breath in, then groaned.
"What's your name?" I began.
The girl grimaced for a moment, then spat out, "Keryn."
"Why're you in my storeroom, Karrin?"
"Not 'Karrin'. Keryn." She mumbled. She pronounced it KEE-ryn.
"That doesn't answer my question. I'll repeat myself: why are you here?"
Her eyes darted to the vial in her hand and said, "Need to get something…"
"Who sent, you, Keryn?"
"No one. I wanted it myself." She said.
I audibly scoffed. I didn't need any magical senses to let me know she was lying.
"You're the second person in the last twelve hours who has tried to obtain that little vial of ash. The second woman, no less. Either this thing is far more precious than it has any right to be," I motioned toward the vial, still clutched in her hand, "or the two occurrences are connected." I took another long drink out of the bottle.
"Let me tell you what I think, Keryn. I think that you and Eleanore are in cahoots. You're either working together, or more likely, you're working for her." Her face flushed at the mention of the older woman; it seems I struck paydirt. I leaned in over her frozen form and plucked the vial from her grasp. I held it up in front of her face and asked quietly, "Why does she need this so badly? Why send you here to steal it?"
She stared at the floor, not saying a word. After about a minute and a half, I got up and turned to the door. I was halfway across the room when she spoke up.
"She is the priestess of our coven." She muttered, almost to herself. I turned back around and waited. "This is the last part of the ritual we need to be fully indoctrinated, to fully realize our true magical power. She said that if I succeeded in getting it, I would prove myself worthy."
I sat back down and took a hard look at the person sitting motionless on the floor. What she told me sounded true, or at least she believed it to be true. But the facts didn't track – most witches I know (and I know more than a few) don't promise power to their covenmates, nor do they go to such extremes to get fairly mundane ritual ingredients.
"Why is it so important to get this particular item now? Why not just wait to do the ritual when you have all the pieces in place?"
She grimaced again, this time violently shaking her head back and forth. "She needs in now. I need to get it too her. She needs it!" I leaned away from her as she continued to thrash about. For the life of me, it looked like she was fighting some internal battle.
Look, I'm not usually a sucker for a pretty face, or a damsel in distress. I've met pretty faces that could tear my face off, and more than enough damsels that would pull out my heart as soon as look at me. But something about Keryn's situation seemed… wrong. Nothing she was telling me seemed to logically hold together, and her behavior seemed much too erratic for your average burglar.
Since logic wasn't working, I rode a hunch and opened my Eye.
The Eye is the term used to describe the ability of a practitioner to open themselves to the forces of the universe, unfiltered and unforgettable. People call it the Sight, the Third Eye, the Gift, whatever. It is a powerful tool in any magical arsenal; but like any power, it comes at a cost. What you see sticks with you, in vivid detail, for the rest of your natural life. It is not something I liked to use; but if my hunch was correct, it might shed some light on my guest's current predicament.
I focused on the space between my eyes, and began to breath in deep, even breaths. The world began to shimmer, and the subtle coursing of magic began to appear in my awareness. I could sense the tendrils of power flowing around the room, greyish ropes wrapping around Keryn's torso and legs – the binding of the paralysis ward. I could see the reddish energy bristling off of her, presumably her anger at being held like this. I caught sight of the vial in my hand, glowing with a dull, warm glow; it reminded me of radioactivity, and I almost dropped it when I noticed. I shook my head to refocus, determined to play out my hunch. I examined Keryn closely with my Eye, paying close attention to her head, especially the temples. Lines of dark black energy were drifting out of her head, an inch or so above her ears. I'd seen this before, and it was all the proof I needed to put my suspicions to rest.
Enthrallment is the magical version of brainwashing, only much more complete, and much more damaging to the person being enthralled. It robs the victim of the ability to choose how to act, how to behave as an autonomous creature; instead it creates a being bound to the will of another. It's a nasty bit of magic, and I don't personally care for those who practice it.
That's not what caused me to instinctually reach for the bottle of whiskey at my feet. Enchantment (or enthrallment, they're essentially the same thing) is a violation of the White Council's fourth Law. When the Council hears of a person breaking one of their laws, protocol dictates that they send in the Wardens – a group of sword-wielding, grey-cloak-wearing magical cops that act as judge, jury and executioner. Once they arrive in a place, they have a habit of sticking around, poking their noses into the business of people like myself.
I didn't need the fuzz on my doorstep, mundane or otherwise. It was a good assumption that Eleanore was the one behind Keryn's enthralled state; it was an equally good assumption that she wasn't going to stop until she got what she wanted.
Hell, she probably wasn't going to stop even when she did get what she wanted.
I closed my Eye, and wandered around the small room, gathering a couple of items off of the shelves lining every inch of every wall. When I felt satisfied that I had everything I needed, I pulled another folding chair next to Keryn and sat down on my own. I pulled the metal disc from my pocket, uttered the command word to release the spell, and watched as Keryn slowly flexed her arms, finding them under her control.
"Sit down, Keryn. I'd like to ask you a few more questions." I said, pointing to the chair next to her. She rose to her feet gingerly, like a new-born faun learning to walk. Her eyes darted to the vial in my left hand, then to the door behind me. I could see the frenzied calculations run through her expression.
"If you don't sit down, Ms. Keryn, I'm going to have to get my attorney involved."
She looked back at me, eyebrows furled in confusion. "Your attorney?"
I pulled the Colt 1911 out of my coat pocket with my right hand, leveling it across my thigh and pointed in her general direction. "Meet my attorney." I said, waggling the barrel slightly. "He's not very verbose, but he has about a half-dozen very poignant arguments."
She sat down on the chair next to her, hunched over herself, her hands clasped together, resting on her knees. She kept her head bowed, pink hair hiding her expression.
"I have a choice, Ms. Keryn." I began. "I could give you this vial to take back to your boss, and that would put me in the clear, for a time. But I'm not sure I'd like it getting around that people can just waltz in and take whatever they want from my place. That would set a bad precedent for my business."
"I could, if I so chose, shoot you right now, and dump the body in the river." She cringed, but only for a moment. I continued, "But that would mean that I would need to call in favors that I really don't want to call in. I suppose I could just wipe your mind right here," Another cringe and a shudder. "but that won't stop your boss from trying something else, with somebody else. It would appear that my options are rather limited."
"The difference between you and I, as I see it, is that while I have options, you do not. You have a compulsion to satisfy your boss's will. Isn't that right, Ms. Keryn?" She looked up at me, and nodded her head briefly.
"In order to let you go, I'm going to ask you to do two things for me. They won't be hard, and they'll further your boss's agenda. The first thing I need you to do is to carry a message back to your priestess." I handed her a sealed white envelope, which she eyed up and down before snatching it out of my hand and stuffing it into the pocket of her hoodie. "Those are directions for an exchange of the vial. So as far as she's concerned, you succeeded in your goal."
"The second thing I need from you is to except a gift."
Her eyes peered up at me, a quizzical look on her face.
I crammed the vial into my pants pocket, and without letting my gun hand waver, I pulled a flat triangular copper amulet from beneath my shirt. It was hanging on a long thong of leather, which I pulled over my head.
"Put this on." I said, tossing the necklace at her feet. She plucked it off the floor, and carefully put it around her neck. She sat up a bit straighter, still glaring at me.
"Now repeat these words: 'deonaigh dom mo shaoirse'."
She did, butchering the pronunciation. I felt a stirring of energy around Keryn, but otherwise she looked the exact same. We stared at each other for a moment, and finally I sighed and lowered the gun. I got up and moved to the side of the room, letting Keryn have a clear path to the doorway. She slowly got up, and began to shuffle toward the door. She hesitated next to the doorframe, and looked back at me.
"What is this?" she said, clutching at the amulet.
"It's a fey charm. It removes any curses or enchantments for the wearer, provided you say the magic words – the ones you just said."
"But why give it to me?"
I shrugged. "Maybe you need it more than I do."
She scowled out the doorway, down the stairs and into the night.
By the time I had locked all the doors and reset my wards, my old rotary phone began to ring. I picked it up on the third or fourth ring. I answered it with silence, and the voice on the other end said simply, "Your terms are accepted."
The voice then proceeded to give me a time and a place. I hung up the receiver and shuffled off downstairs.
I arrived at the appointed place a couple of hours after sunset the next day. It was an old two-story red brick building on the southside of town. There was a single steel security door in the front, flanked on either side by those thick glass windows that you see in the machine shops and factories of the rust belt. I set down the duffel bag I was carrying, fetched a cigarette from my blazer pocket, and lit it. As I exhaled the first drag, I scanned the street around me. It was quiet and empty, not surprising for this side of town. The neon sign of a bar a block east blazed in the darkness. I debated heading down there for a quick nip, but decided against it. There would be time for that once this thing was done.
I picked up the bag and gave the steel door a couple of quick raps, the cigarette hanging out of the side of my mouth. A minute or two went by, and the notion of visiting that bar became increasingly appealing. I stubbed out the smoke and was about to head down the block when the sound of a deadbolt being slid in a lock refocused my attention. The door opened a couple of inches, and a hooded figure in a brown robe peered out of the darkness.
"Follow me." Said the figure, as they pulled the door open a few more inches. I couldn't make out their face, but a passing breeze brought a wisp of pink hair into view. I nodded to the figure, and pushed my way inside.
We walked down a dark hallway, the only light coming from the glazed windows at the front of the building. At the end of the hallway was another steel door, apparently locked. The figure pulled a ring of keys from within the cloak and began to search through them.
"Deonaigh Dom Mo Shaoirse." I said. The figure fumbled the keys and dropped the ring. They bent down to retrieve them, but I was faster. I snatched the jangling hoop and backed off a step, dangling the ring in front of me. The figure stood facing me like a statue.
"You remember the magic words, Ms. Keryn?" I whispered, hoping for a response. I got none, save an outstretched hand, palm up. I dropped the bundle of keys into it.
I waited as my hooded guide found the correct key, and with a jerk, pulled the door open. I brushed past them, into a large open space dimly lit with a series of small fires burning in censers maybe a foot and a half in diameter. The walls were the same dark red brick, the faint light painting them a dark crimson. There were four other people in the large room; three in brown robes, huddled against the far wall, and a figure in the same black velvet cloak I had seen at the Black Market. I made my way toward the center of the room were the lone figure in black was standing motionless. My guide slipped by me and joined the rest of their brown-clothed associates.
"If I knew this was going to be such a formal occasion, I would have dressed up a bit." I said, gesturing to my black slacks, white buttoned shirt, and grey blazer. I dropped the satchel in my right hand to the floor, and crossed my arms. The black hood fell back to reveal Eleanore's attractive face, this time with her dark hair done up in a business-like bun.
"You have what I want, Mr. Richter?" she asked, eyes eagerly sparkling in the firelight.
I reached into the blazer and produced a small vial of grey ash, replacing it after a moment's inspection.
"The terms of our duel are simple." I said, beginning to pace around the room. "There are three challenges – one of strength, one of skill, and one of will. The best two out of three will be considered the victor. If you win, I'll give you the vial. If I win, you release your enthralled acolytes to me."
Eleanore's eyes narrowed, but she nodded and said, "Agreed."
"Good. Now swear it by your Magic. I'll go first."
Trust is a rare commodity in supernatural circles. One of the best ways to ensure that a deal will be honored, at least among magical practitioners, is an Oath of Power. Breaking such an oath erodes one's ability to use their magic; break enough such Oaths and you can kiss your mystical powers good-bye.
"I swear by my Power," I said, "to honor and obey the terms of our duel tonight." As I said the words, I felt a shiver run up my spine. Saying the words, and meaning them, was like a door slamming shut on my soul. Such things are not to be taken lightly.
She repeated the words verbatim, and I could feel the same sort of finality in the air as she said them. "Satified, ex-Wizard?" she said with a sneer.
I nodded my assent, then produced a nub of white chalk from a pocket. I leaned over and drew a circle, about nine feet wide, on the grimy cement floor.
"The challenge of strength is simple: we get into the circle, and try to push the other out. First person who breaches the edge loses." I said, taking a position within the ring. She strode into the makeshift arena as I pulled out an old white handkerchief. "We begin when this hits the floor."
I began focusing my will, assembling a spell of wind and force. I tossed the linen square into the air, and waited to unleash the spell the moment that the fluttering form came to rest.
I was half-way through releasing my magically attack when Eleanore's voice shouted something in what sounded like ancient Greek. I could feel the magical force barreling toward me, and I almost got a suitable defense together to block her advance. Almost.
Her spell hit me like a linebacker, sending me sprawling and rolling across the room. When I finally got my bearings, I was almost twenty feet away from the circle. My head was spinning, but I pulled myself to my feet, determined not to show any kind of weakness. I could see Eleanore's face in the firelight, wearing a confident smirk.
"That's one point for me." She said, striding out of the circle. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather concede? You could spare yourself the pain and embarrassment of continuing."
"That's real thoughtful of you, but if it's all the same, I'd like to get on with round two." I said, brushing the dust and dirt off of my legs and arms. I'd known she was strong, but I didn't think she had that much gusto. A little voice in the back of my head piped up and suggested that I take up her offer and get the hell out of here, before anything worst happened. I told that voice to shut the hell up and limped over to my bag.
I pulled out two blocks of wood, each about a foot cubed. I set both down between Eleanore and I.
"Challenge the second is a challenge of skill. The first one to fashion a sphere out of this cube of wood is the winner." I said, motioning to the wood between us. "Ladies pick first. We start on your count of three."
She pointed to the block farthest from her, and I nudged to toward her with my foot. She picked it up, and I did likewise.
"One. Two… Three."
Instantly, she began uttering in that same language again, calling forth blades of force, hacking into the wood. I fetched the bit of chalk from my pocket, and began marking each side of the wooden cube with a fairly simple sigil. I placed the block on the ground, drawing a circle around it. I glanced over at the competition; she was carving into the wood furiously, whittling pieces away with hammering blows of pure force. She had succeeded in making the top half into the rough shape of a football, and was working on the bottom.
I kneeled over the circle, pouring my will into it. I uttered the word "Pi'el", and broke the circle, releasing the spell. The symbols on the wood began to glow, and as I watched, the block began to dissolve, slowly at first, bits of sawdust falling away to the floor. It took about twenty seconds before the perfectly round shape emerged, rolling across the uneven floor. Eleanore was screaming now, still hacking at the object. I kicked my wooden ball across the ground, where it stopped at her feet. Anger rode high on her face, and as she noticed what touched her feet, she threw her misshapen project across the room. It banged against a wall, bouncing lopsidedly.
"Score stands one to one, sweetheart." I said with a grin. "You sure you still want to do this?"
"Bring out the last challenge, ex-Wizard." She growled between clenched teeth, "I'm growing tired of these games."
I shrugged, and reached into my bag, and with the sleeve of my coat, pulled out a long white wand. It was elaborately carved, and about the size of an adult human femur. Which it might have been, at one time.
"Do you know what this is?" I asked, careful not to touch the wand to my skin. She didn't reply, except to stare at me with naked hatred in her eyes.
"This is an algea wand." I continued, ignoring her gaze. "It is designed to channel pain and suffering. The challenge of will is straightforward – we both grab hold of the wand with a bare hand, and the first to let go loses." I pointed the bleached white rod at Eleanore, who strode forward. She seized hold of it, yanking it away out from my sleeve and into my naked hand.
Whatever pain you have experienced in your life holds a mere reflection to the pain provided by the algea. If you were to be hit by an oncoming freight train, while simultaneously struck by lightning and set on fire, that might account for just the physical pain. But the algea delivered more than just physical pain; it delivered suffering. Every painful emotion, every embarrassing moment, every shameful and cowardly act all relived and felt in magnified detail. There is no description for the anguish, the almost spiritual agony, of what crashed into my consciousness. I grit my teeth, bore down on my will to hold on. Seconds past like eons, thrumming waves of torment and affliction crashing into me over and over and over. It hurt to breathe in; it hurt more not to breathe in. I stared across my grip on the wand, watching the same thing happen to other human being, someone that I had coaxed to join me in such misery; the knowledge of that added fuel to the pain.
I don't know when I let go of the wand, but I do remember my vision refocusing, and I was looking at the floor, hardly able to hold myself up on my hands. It took a massive effort, but I turned my head slightly, enough to see Eleanore, her hand still holding the wand, a victorious grin etched on her face. I barely had the chance to pull in a clean lungful of air when the toe of a pointed shoe caught me straight in the mouth. Between the lingering pain of the algea and the fresh split on my lip, I collapsed onto the floor. I vaguely felt a hand go through my jacket pocket, pulling something out. I heard a high-pitched cackle, as I felt another sharp toe crash into my stomach. I lay there, beaten.
From my vantage on the cold, concrete floor, I watched as Eleanore dropped the algea on the ground with a rattle. She strode over to a cauldron in the middle of the room and dumped the contents of the vial into it. A match was lit and dropped it into whatever potion was brewing there. I pillar of foul-smelling smoke plumed up from the vessel, billowing up to the ceiling and spreading across it, like a mushroom cloud hitting the top layers of the atmosphere. I pushed myself up on an elbow, observing her putting the final touches on some kind of ritual – a complex circle of symbols and runes surrounded her, the cauldron belching smoke in the center.
As I slowly regained control of my limbs, I fumbled the piece of chalk out of my pocket, and inscribed a quick circle on the floor around me. Eleanore and her acolytes were ignoring me, seemingly engrossed with the ritual they were preparing. I managed to get to my feet after a few attempts, taking a better look at what the coven was engaged in. There were two circles on opposing sides of the cauldron, each covered in various sigils and mystic symbols, only some of which I could identify. Encompassing that was the outer circle, which the four acolytes were standing around in an equidistant, loose square. Eleanore began to chant in some bizarre tongue, slowly and softly at first, gaining both in pace and volume.
I stood there, not daring to move or make the slightest noise. I could feel the magic spinning around the circle, gathering power for… something. As I watched, Eleanore's chanting began to crescendo into a fevered wail, and with a wailing cry a column of literal fire and brimstone burst forth from the summoning circle opposite her. I could vaguely make out a monstrous shape in the haze, which confirmed all of my previous suspicions.
Eleanore and her coven were summoning a demon.
As the fire within the circle began to abate, the smoke from the cauldron began to coalesce into a physical form, taking shape in the circle opposite Eleanore. It was eight feet high if an inch, with the upper body of a man, six grotesquely sharp horns splitting through the crown of his head, long black hair floating around him as if he was underwater. If that wasn't enough, his lower half, beginning where his navel should have been, was composed of the body of a massive centipede, its coiled body curling onto itself on the floor. Eleanore kept chanting, low and even; I couldn't see the faces of the rest of the humans in the room, but I could tell that they were shaking, every one of them terrified by the new arrival to our little party.
The demon spoke in a voice like sandpaper and broken glass, "Eleanore Luisant! Hast thou summoned me for the fulfilment of the bargain between thee and I?"
Before anyone could get a word in edgewise, I shouted out the demon's True Name, my voice carrying my will, and the magical power I had invested in it.
"VUZRATHAR SUL'GIDIN XOLMOXOTH JOZ'GANAK! Speak Truth to me!" I cried. The heads of everyone in the room spun in unison to stare at me.
The demonic face faced me. "WHO DARES!" it bellowed, "TO UTTER MY TRUE NAME AND DEMAND- oh! Hey there, Duke."
"Hey there Vuz." I said, calmly fishing a cigarette out of my jacket. "What bring you here?"
"Oh, just running some errands. Got a deal to finish here, then maybe a quick haunting in Peru… the nights young." He leaned back on his insect haunches, inspecting his fingernails. Eleanore's eyes were saucer plates of confusion. I lit the cigarette and continued my conversation with the demon.
"If you don't mind me asking, what was the bargain you had with Ms. Luisant?"
"The ususal stuff," he replied with a shrug, "magical power and knowledge in exchange for a number of earthly followers. You know, servants to use in order to further my unholy goals."
"I see. So what do you plan to do with these servants, once the bargain is fulfilled?"
"Drive them mad, crush their wills and use their living bodies as avatars of misery and destruction." The demon said, rolling his reptilian eyes. "What else would I want them for? Fishing companions?"
"Hmm." I said, scratching my chin thoughtfully. "I suppose that's why Eleanore placed an enthrallment on them – to make them willing to sacrifice themselves for her own personal gain." I watched Eleanore's face, which had pulled itself into a slight smirk. She had plotted this out masterfully; the duel, the ritual, her thralls, all of it. What's more, she was perfectly aware of it.
"Well, its none of my business what transpires between a sorcerer and their demon colleague." I said, blowing a ring of smoke up toward the ceiling. "Of course, the sacrifices have to willing walk into the circle for the ritual to be complete." Eleanore's voice faltered for a moment, steadied itself. She pointed at one of the robed figures and said, "Now walk into the circle."
The hood shook its head, and Keryn's voice squeaked out a small, "No."
Eleanore rocked back as if she was struck. Her tone swelled with equal measures of rage and frustration. "You will walk into the circle. NOW!"
Keryn took a few small steps back, and as she did so, the rest of the acolytes began to wake up, slowly backing away from the circle. I pointed to the door and said, "Go."
I didn't have to repeat myself. They fled, all but tripping over their long robes. After a couple of seconds, Eleanore, the demon and I were the only people… er, beings, in the room.
I puffed on the cigarette for a moment, blowing another ring upwards.
"What have you done, Wizard?!" Eleanore gasped. Her eyes never left the hulking form shape of the demon in front of her. Nor should it have; her concentration on the form of the ritual was the only thing holding Vuzrathar at bay.
"Are you referring to your coven suddenly being able to refuse your commands?" I said innocently. "I gave Keryn a small present that allowed her to release the rest of them from your enthrallment. You were so busy trying to win our duel that you didn't notice your spell dissipating. I figured if someone was going to get sacrificed, they should probably have an honest say in the matter."
"But how…" Eleanore sputtered.
"How did I know Vuzrathar? After a little research, it turns out Vuz and I have a couple of mutual friends, some of which own me a favor. It wasn't that hard to make some bargains of my own and get an introduction." I said, dropping the spent cigarette and crushing it out with my foot. "All you really need to talk to a demon is a candle and a circle, incidentally. All this other crap is just window dressing."
"Vuzrathar and I got to talking, and as it turns out, enthralled sacrifices are a violation of your bargain, Eleanore. Now, I'm not sure what he's going to do once you can't hold onto the ritual anymore. He might just rip the magic out of you, if he's feeling forgiving. If he's not in such a good mood…" I trailed off with a shrug, and smudged open the circle at my feet.
"Either way, it's past my bedtime. Vuzrathar," I said with a nod of my head, "I'll be seeing you. Eleanore… well, I don't really give a shit what happens to you."
I walked out of the room, down the hall and out into the night. I thought I heard a shrill scream come from inside the building, but that could have been my imagination playing fast and loose.
The next afternoon, as I was sitting behind the bar, Keryn walked in, followed by three other young ladies. Keryn sat down at a stool directly in front of me, while the other three stood in a huddle behind her and to her right.
"Mr. Richter," Keryn began, "I – we – wanted to thank you for helping us out. We also talked it over, and we're prepared for you to take over for Eleanore as the leader of this coven."
I gave an amused short. "I'll pass on that." I said.
"But you won the duel!" Keryn said. "We were released from Eleanore's custody to yours. Those were the terms of the duel."
"First, if you recall, I lost the duel, far and mostly square. Second, I have no interest – zero – in leading, training, teaching, or being affiliated in any way with anyone, let alone a bunch of rookie witches with a daddy complex."
I poured myself a couple of fingers of Scotch, while Keryn continued to stare at me. I sipped a bit, silence hanging over the five of us. The three in the back began to trade glances at each other, but Keryn kept her gaze locked onto me.
"So what are suppose to do now?" Keryn blurted out. "Just go about our lives, knowing that magic is real, that demons and monsters actually exist?!"
I was about to make a devastating and thoroughly snarky retort, but I stopped short. As much as I hated to admit it, she had a point. Left to their own devices, these young people would probably continue peering into the shadows, studying things outside of their depth. If history was any indication, without proper guidance they would mostly likely run afoul of the Laws of Magic – which would get the Wardens and the White Council involved. I grimaced and cursed myself silently.
I tipped back the rest of the hooch and set the tumbler down on the bar top harder than I needed to. "Here's the deal;" I said, "you all stumbled into a very dangerous world; one that most people don't know, or want to know, exists. If you were smart, you'd drop it immediately and go chase boys, or go to an ice cream social, or whatever it is kids do."
Keryn tilted her head in confusion. "Ice cream social? How old are you?"
"Nevermind that." I said as I refilled the tumbler. "My point is that that what you don't know can get you killed. And what you might think you know can probably get you in a lot more trouble than that. Worse of all, your incompetence might come back to bite me in the ass. So, from here on out, before you do anything a of mystical, occult, or magical nature – I mean anything – you come talk to me first. If I say it's a bad idea, you don't do it. If I so much as frown in your direction while you pitch me some hair-brained scheme, you drop it. Understood?"
They nodded unanimously, and as a group began shuffling toward the door.
"Keryn." I said, gazing into my Scotch. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I, uh…" she fumbled, already half-way out the door.
"You don't get off so easily. You broke into my home and attempted to steal something from me. That is a debt you still need to pay."
"But… I wasn't in my right mind." She said, letting the door shut.
"Well, you are now. And it has come to my attention that this place is, to put it mildly, disgusting. You're going to clean it."
Her shoulders drooped, but she nodded in acceptance, if not agreement.
"Good. There is a broom in the closet, and glass cleaner under the bar." I said, cracking open a book and finding my page.
"What – do mean now?" she huffed.
"No time like the present." I said, not looking up from my book.
"Will that repay the debt?"
I chuckled. "It's a start."