The summoner had turned the library into a low-budget horror set, complete with the typical misunderstanding of Satanism and its iconography. Growing up Catholic (and especially my mother's brand of the faith) I'd been somewhat reactionary when it came to other faiths. It had taken me years to learn that most Satanists were just atheists with style and a sense of humor.
But apparently, the summoner had never learned that lesson. He'd pushed the child-sized desks to the middle of the room to form a makeshift altar and ringed the thing with black candles. The goat's head pentagram had been drawn in blood, though it was impossible to say whose. I didn't see a body on the floor, but it didn't mean one couldn't be sprawled out of sight. Mercy was strapped to the desks, arms, legs, and waist swathed in duct tape. Half her face was slick with blood and the other had begun to swell. She was only recognizable by the flaming mass of curls and what remained of her clothing.
Mr. Richards was poised over Mercy's prone body, still reciting his spell in that rolling, inhuman language. It bored into my ears, nesting inside like parasitic insects. The light of the candles gave his features an eerie, flickering quality. He was intent on Mercy, balancing a ceremonial dagger in one hand as the words rose in pitch. There was a definite rhythm to them, like a song that was reaching its final, triumphant chorus.
I kept my head down, inching across the floor on my hands and knees, praying that the fug of incense that floated over the room and his continued recitation would cover my entrance. I couldn't extend my senses more than a few feet at a time, afraid I'd slam into the same barrier that had thrown Harry and Dad into a wall. I made it about a foot inside the door before I tripped over a lumpy shape and went sprawling. It took everything I had not to cry out in fright or kick the thing away. Instead, I flattened myself to the floor, peering at what I'd stumbled over.
It was a pink and white polka-dotted backpack. A stack of books spilled out of the open mouth, scattering on the library floor, shifting ever so slightly every time the ground contracted. I recognized three of them as demonology texts we'd bought at the bookstore the night before. And resting on top of the stack was the fourth. Transcripts from the journals of John Dee and Edward Kelly, with annotations by Arthur Langtry. The angel book. The one Mercy had been pouring over since bringing it home. She'd even tried some of the invocations without putting any real will behind them. It wasn't like she really wanted a flaming angel alighting on the end of the bed.
She'd been certain the journal transcripts would be useful. And she'd been right. The circle Mr. Richards had smeared onto the floor would probably be too flimsy to contain anything as huge as an angel, but I had to try, right? There was no way I could take on a school bully in this state, let alone someone powerful enough to call up demons from the Nevernever. I'd just have to have faith that the angel wouldn't level a city block by being summoned improperly. I reached for the journals slowly, fighting the instinct to crawl toward the altar. Mercy's screams were thin and terrified, but I couldn't rush in without a plan. Only my focus could help her now.
The book had flipped over on its side, opening to the last page she'd bookmarked. I couldn't read the Enochian name printed at the top, but I was able to make out the transcript below. Mercy had underlined the passage she'd been examining in red pen.
Invoco Lasciel virtus. Veni ad me.
A frisson of pure, unthinking fear ran over my skin, and a faint buzzing began in my ears. My brain itched so fiercely that I wanted to crack my skull and go after the gray matter with my nails. Tears ran down my cheeks, cool in comparison to the searing heat pressing down from above. Lasciel. Angel and...God, what else? Why couldn't I think? Maybe if Mr. Richards would pause his Razzie Award-winning performance as deranged cultist number four, I'd be able to dredge up the memories associated with the name. Honestly, hadn't the man watched a movie sometime in the last fifty years? The literal cloak and dagger shit had been a cliché staple of horror flicks for years. I'd skip this one, thanks.
Then it clicked into place. I sucked in a breath, eyes widening as I got it. Oh. Oh crap.
I forced an effort of will through my body as I stood. My legs still shook, threatening to fold. I was still in bad shape, but perhaps not quite as helpless as I'd first thought. The spine of the journal transcripts creaked as I clutched it tight. Mercy's eyes brightened when she saw me lurching through the haze, knocking over candles, and smearing the circle as I went. The barrier Mr. Richards had erected put up only feeble resistance when I crossed it. It only took an effort of will to dismantle the circle. That was what really mattered here. Will. My will and what I chose to do with it.
Mercy's eyes were shiny with tears. She strained against her bonds, and I was pretty sure she said my name. It was lost in the final words of Mr. Richard's invocation. He raised his dagger, sweeping an arm back in the high, theatrical swing that would plunge the blade into her abdomen, spilling her guts over his altar. He bared his teeth in a furious snarl when I seized his wrists in both hands, blocking the gut shot.
His eyes went wide, mouth parting in surprise when I used our combined strength to shove the blade up under her ribs instead. Mercy's eyes went wide, betrayal and pain spasming across her face. Tears spilled down her freckled cheeks when I leaned toward her. Her breath came out in shuddery little gasps, and her wildly curling hair brushed my cheek as I brought my lips to the shell of her ear. The soft exhalations dwindled to nothing moments later.
"Aaaaand, scene," I whispered. "That's a wrap, lover. The climax was a bit forced. Don't worry, I'm sure we can fix it in post."