Chapter 3: Star
Author's Note: What could be more cliched and corny than bumbling American tourists (such as myself) who wander into where they're not wanted? I couldn't resist the mental image. Enjoy.
March, 1978
The Masters slept.
All three of them. Dracan sneered to himself as he slipped into the half-conscious state that allowed him to control his dreams. In truth, there was only one Master remaining in the old manor home. Crowley had grown timid and weak in his old age, and Jack was far too timid to begin with. The cripple, with his hidebound ways and slavish devotion to Crowley, hardly deserved to be called a Master, either. But he, Dracan, was in the full flush of his power, unconstrained by Crowley and Jack's many old fears. And he was on the verge of unimaginable power.
"Visum posterus, abraxas." The lips of his material body, currently fast asleep upon its bed, shaped the words, but the energy behind them originated from the wide-awake spirit within. He was good with prescient dreams and visions, far better than Jack or Crowley. It galled Dracan to admit that he needed help even from his own subconscious, but time was growing short.
You believe you have my confidence, Jack, because I amuse myself toying with your limitations. How amusing, brother. Every so often, Dracan would announce a new time for the "Congruence", having long since discovered the real, exact date. Jack lulled himself more every day into a false sense of superiority, disproving every one of the suggestions. The cripple was afraid of the power, afraid of anything that wasn't already recorded in the ridiculously limited store of knowledge in Crowley's library.
Faint shadows brushed at his peripheral vision, toying with him, just out of reach. Dracan ignored them. In every vision, he received hints of danger, flickers of some great evil in the future. Such things were commonplace encounters in the true Art, but even Jack could handle the negative energies occasionally raised during practice.
Abruptly, conscious thought dissipated as the vision struck. Name me, a figure demanded from within a shielding circle. Otherworldly flame blazed about a dark silhouette with glowing green eyes. Just outside the circle, an emaciated figure in dark robes smiled, an unpleasant expression. With a nudge of its foot, the figure scuffed out part of a chalk line on the floor, freeing the entity.
That's a summoning spell, the present-day Dracan realized, astonished. It could be nothing else. The pentagram was chalked onto the floor to hold a spirit captive between dimensions while the nature of servitude was negotiated. Candles flickered at the five points, casting dim light and shadows across the room to conceal the other ritual trappings. Those take far too long. The Congruence will last only for bare seconds.
The dream-Dracan's lips moved—frustratingly enough, most of the time Dracan could not hear his own future voice. Then the man gestured, definitively, and the spirit floated free of the circle, entering the room—which Dracan now recognized to be his own private workshop within the Magisterium.
Stunned, he could only watch stare with incomprehension. It's entering this dimension in its own body! Oh, a portal spell, was his slow realization, between dimensions. Of course. Technically impossible by the laws of the Art, but with the power of the Congruence anything should be attemptible. But how to squeeze it in within the allotted time?
As though in answer, Dracan's viewpoint rotated until he faced the doorway. Jack perched within, observing the ritual unseen, homely features creased in a scowl of deep disapproval and fear. Hardly surprising. But there was something else in his expression, a gnawing discomfort—guilt, perhaps?
The world spun, the vision changed. Jack and Dracan slumped at the manor's long oak dining table—which could comfortably seat twelve but never saw more than the three of them present—coffee pot between them. While Dracan nursed his cup, Jack gestured animatedly, lips moving. Fingers sketched a pentagram into the air briefly, as though to illustrate his point.
Comprehension dawned on the present-day Dracan. Oh, no. This can't mean that I have to rely on Jack for my answer? The idea was abhorrent. What was so esoteric that Jack and not Dracan could discover it? The Master tossed wearily in his sleep. As much as he hated accepting Jack's—or anyone's—help, the lust for knowledge was far greater. All that remained was the construction of a valid excuse.
Ammanor, the manor's little messenger, informed Jack that Dracan wished was looking for him. The squat, many-legged creature twirled happily around the wheels of the chair, occasionally hopping up to perch on the magician's shoulder. Its eyes glittered brightly in the tiny, wrinkled old-man's face as four or five free hands toyed with some small bit of metal it had collected.
Jack had to shield his eyes and look away once he entered the observatory. While most eyes could not see the Art's flow, a Master's were quite sensitive. The force of the magic within smote Jack like a physical blow. "God, Dracan, what are you doing? No wonder the daemons have been so hyperactive."
The dark-haired man glanced up at the intrusion, a rare smile on his thin face. Energy flickered and died around his robed figure as Dracan aborted the spell. "Practicing, my brother. Practicing." He rubbed his hands together, as close to beaming as that sour face could ever approach.
"For…?" Jack prompted tiredly. After sixty-odd years, Dracan's wild mood swings no longer alarmed him.
"For the Congruence, of course." Dracan announced it grandiosely, as though this were some important news. He cocked his head curiously at Jack's sigh. "You're not excited."
"Forgive me if I can no longer muster the same enthusiasm." Jack gestured at the telescope. "Every year, it is a new estimate, and every year it falls through." Sixty years of work and they'd never been able to pin down the precise moment when the stars achieved the Congruence—the perfect pentagram shape within the twelve houses. Every year, the five-pointed shape was slightly off, though the skew had seemed to narrow in recent years. Jack had truly started to doubt that the Congruence was even real. No Master had ever discovered it before, after all. But Dracan, as stubborn as he was overconfident in his own power, refused to abandon the quest.
"This time I believe I have the answer." Dracan grabbed a loose leaf of paper from the table and flapped it excitedly. "The planets, Jack, not the stars. Two sets of five primary astrological bodies—the eight other planets, plus the moon and sun—equals two pentagrams, one inner and one outer. The inner one—well, the inner planets move fairly quickly, but the slow-moving outer-—therein lies the key! When inner and outer pentagram overlap, then is the height of power. The Congruence." Dracan looked extraordinarily pleased with himself.
"I see. Ten heavenly bodies arranged in one specific configuration? It can't happen very often."
"Once every thousand years or so, roughly. I have not yet done all the appropriate calculations—"
"It doesn't matter. I don't suppose the next one is anytime soon?"
"August, I believe. Now, the only dilemma which remains—"
"This August?" Jack fixed Dracan with a flat, unfriendly stare. "Extraordinary coincidence. Exactly how long have you known about this, Dracan? And when were you planning to tell me?"
Dark eyes sparkled back with eagerness, close to hunger, as Dracan shrugged. "I require your assistance, brother." He appeared to choke on the words a bit, and Jack sighed to himself. Dracan would never change. "As I was saying, our only dilemma is to decide what to do with these energies in the time remaining. Anything should be possible within that ambiance…but it is so damned frustrating that we are limited by mere time constraints rather than the laws of the Art, now. The Congruence will last for no more than five or ten seconds before the first planets begin to slip out of alignment. All of our powerful spells—the ones worth casting at this time—take far longer. So…"
Jack had tuned Dracan out long since, and now sat staring into space, chewing on one end of his ever-present pencil, lost in thought. "What if…" When the idea cemented itself in his head, the older man turned a sharp gaze on the younger. "What if the Congruence itself could be cemented and contained, somehow?" Dracan frowned at him, eyes oddly bright. "Then we'd not have one second, but could draw its ambiance at any given time through simple contact with the simulacrum. A basic enchantment spell takes only a moment; the rest is all preparation."
Dracan sucked on his teeth thoughtfully, an old habit which made Jack wince and look away. "Yes," he said slowly, that same uncharacteristic animation returning to his face, "but it would take entire tomes to copy down all of the symbols involved in transcribing the Congruence onto a simulacrum."
"Not necessarily. No tome. One object, one symbol, infused at the very height of convergence."
"A single object serving the purpose of the most powerful grimoire ever produced?" Despite himself, Dracan was obviously impressed.
"It's never been done."
"No one's ever worked with an ambiance this powerful before, either." Dracan's grin nearly took in his ears. He tore off another page from the notebook and began to make detailed sketches. Intrigued despite himself, Jack leaned closer.
Crowley leaned back in the heavily padded chair, vainly seeking the calm of meditation. Dark eyes fixed on the patio, drinking in the view of the garden beyond. Normally, Crowley found such relaxation time most comfortable, but today his brooding would not allow him rest.
Marcus pushed the steaming teacup towards him. "Anything else I can get you, sir?"
"What? Oh. No." Crowley roused himself for long enough to nod a dismissal to the elderly servant, but the man only stiffened and stared past his employer. The Master followed his gaze to the railing, where a small black spider had just begun the laborious web-spinning process.
"It will not hurt you, Marcus."
"Forgive me, Master Crowley." Marcus exhaled shakily, eyes still locked on the arachnid. "I'm a weak man that way, but I'm not scared of nothin' other than spiders. Beggin' your pardon for disturbin' you." Hastily, Marcus grabbed the teapot with one hand and shuffled from the parlor.
Nothing but us, you mean. Crowley sighed, leaning back in the chair. So many generations of men had lived out their relatively short adult existences in the manor, their only purpose to serve the Masters. Though they arrived willingly, normally recommended by their predecessors, once inside they joined a long succession of identical, ignored shadows of men bound to servitude and secrecy by the Master's Art. The sole reward of loyal service was a plain grave within the manor's stone labyrinth. Was it any wonder that these simple men feared the all-too-obvious power of their employers? Not that Crowley would ever threaten or harm a servant; none of the manor's many past and present residents would, except perhaps for—
"You called." Dracan hovered in the doorway, his face a mask of obvious annoyance. Thin fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the engraved silver doorknob. At least he never conceals who--what--he is. He has a peculiar sort of honesty to match his brilliance.
"Come in." Crowley levered himself to his feet with his cane. Even standing for long took a great deal from him now. The Art lengthened one's lifespan—by centuries, if one was powerful and lucky—but it did not grant immortality, and the old Master knew that he was fading. But Dracan was no more a pupil; always prickly, the boy would feel the insult if Crowley sat while he had to stand.
Somewhat warily, Dracan strode into the room. His hair was in disarray, limp and tangled, and his clothing looked to have been slept in—for several nights. All indicated that he was deeply immersed in this ill-fated research of his. "You've been trying something new," Crowley noted diffidently.
Dracan lifted an eyebrow. "This is a crime? Your pet, Jack, is collaborating with me in this…little project of no importance, if that makes you feel better."
"I have no interest in judging your work." Crowley passed a weary hand over his eyes, leaning heavily on the old silver-tipped cane. "But I am…concerned, Dracan. I know what it is you attempt."
The younger man's nearly-black eyes narrowed immediately. "No. You can't."
It took every ounce of strength within him to force his spine straight and throw back his shoulders. Dracan was sometimes more wolf than dragon; one hint of weakness, and the boy would hone in mercilessly. And the younger man was a more than perceptive judge of character and emotions. "I have had…most terrible dreams, prescient dreams," Crowley began forcefully. "Have you forgotten Paraseius, Dracan? Foris magic is extremely dangerous, once we stray from the natural laws." Passion—and fear for Dracan's safety—leant an energy to Crowley that he hadn't experienced since the Brotherhood dissolved. "Will you destroy yourself, and take the entire damned house with you?"
Surprise flickered in the dark eyes, followed almost immediately by fury. "You are no longer the only Master, Crowley. And I am no longer the student. You will not presume to lecture me about what I can do with the Art. Simply because you are afraid to try—"
Crowley sighed, raising a hand to interrupt Dracan's building diatribe. I knew it wouldn't work, but I had to try. I have lost control of him, if I ever did have it at all. "This is no way to challenge my authority, Dracan. Ignore my advice if you will, use and discard Jack if you will—" At his slight widening of the eyes and indrawn breath of surprise, and Crowley smiled grimly to himself. "—but find another way to free yourself from whatever chains you imagine around you. Sixty years is too brief a time to fully understand the natures of the power with which you tamper."
Dracan glared back at him. Insolence obvious in his every movement, the younger man stalked over to the parlor's single chair and sat. Crowley sighed to himself. "Again you try to pass yourself off as the only Master, Crowley. You gave me the title yourself, some years back. Will you revoke it? Will you cast me from this house, or attempt to wrap a compulsion spell around me again?"
"Never," Crowley stated quietly but firmly. "You know that."
"Then stand back and let me be," Dracan snapped. "If you only stopped viewing me as a child, then there is so much that you could learn from me." Crowley winced, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. God, the boy's arrogance, so unbelievable, but justified in the smallest way by his very real brilliance! "Until that day comes, at least allow me the dignity of continuing my research without these little spats. I am not like you or Jack, Crowley. I do not accept restrictions simply because some dead Brotherhood set down laws motivated only by fear. Good day." Nodding decisively to himself, Dracan stood and marched from the room.
Grimacing, Crowley tottered back to the chair, legs aching. He was long accustomed to Dracan's rudeness; Crowley's annoyance was directly wholly at himself. Before sitting, though, the old man reached out to lay one hand lightly on the dusty paisley upholstery, mentally seeking any fleeting impressions of Dracan. Anger touched his sixth sense, and anxiety, arrogance, resentment, driving hunger, and a confusing uncertainty, but no hint of the future. No indication if events still progressed as the vision indicated or if Crowley had managed to sway them. However, the old Master had the distressing premonition that he already knew that answer.
May, 1978
All traces of sullenness gone, Dracan motioned Jack into his room, even standing aside so that the other man could fit his wheelchair through the doorway. Flushed with excitement and anticipation, he barely resembled same irritable Dracan whom Jack saw far too often.
"You have it?" Dracan asked.
"Yes." Jack reached carefully into the bag hanging from the chair's side to withdraw the palm-sized metal disc. Logically, he admitted that there was no reason to treat the thing so tentatively—it was just a blank piece of brass, after all. But its importance still brought tremors of awe to both men.
Dracan held out his hands impatiently. With a trace of irrational reluctance, Jack passed the disc to his fellow researcher. The other man weighed it in his hands carefully. "The specifications are exact?"
"The metalworker is the best in Scotland." They'd had the disc forged by mundane means; even the slightest bit of unnecessary magic could interfere with the Congruence. Jack shrugged, unable to contain his excitement. He wished, not for the first time, that he could pace like Dracan or Crowley when overstimulated. It looked so damned…relaxing.
"Excellent." The younger man held the disc up to the bedside lamp with that insufferable smile on his face. "All we have to do is wait. Within three months we shall have our star, and a power as none have ever seen before."
Jack fought to match the smile. He should be thrilled, he knew; the project was more ambitious and exciting than any ever attempted in the history of the Art, and involved minimal risk. Yet something about the entire situation had grown more disturbing over the months; yet, frustratingly, attempts at prescient dreams and subconscious work failed to identify the sources of Jack's doubts.
It is just Crowley, Jack reasoned. Despite the fact that he and Dracan were both Masters, pursuing a perfectly safe and acceptable independent project, some part of Jack trembled at the idea risking the Master's disapproval. We will tell him when we finish, Jack consoled himself. It would be too embarrassing otherwise, if we failed at pinpointing the Congruence again. This Star will truly change the Art and perhaps the world itself. It is noble work. He couldn't deny traces of anxiety at the idea, but the potential benefits far outweighed the risks. Dracan was right, for once.
August, 1978
The small chamber stank of scented wax and smoke. Jack slumped against the back of his chair, watching the billowing clouds of the cauldron fire form shapes, the pinpoints of flame flicker and shiver as several of the manor's air daemons—drawn by the energies in the room—danced about restlessly. Looking at the energy patterns themselves had made him dizzy.
Apparently, Dracan suffered no such delicacy. Head thrown back, spine stiff, long hair tossing with the daemons' movement, the younger man was in his element. A wide grin creased his thin-lipped face as he intently studied the flow of power around overlapping twin pentagrams chalked onto the floor. Slowly, he and Jack were both feeding their Art into the center, where the brass disc rested on a makeshift pedestal—Dracan's small nightstand. Since he was touching the Art, Jack's senses tingled with the approaching power. It would not be long.
"One moment," the motionless Dracan announced hoarsely. So far as Jack knew, he'd stayed in the small ritual room for days, checking and re-checking their meticulous preparations. For all that the Star was Jack's idea, this was Dracan's project, his opus, and Jack knew that he'd only been invited because it would take two Masters to manage the incredibly powerful flow of energies at the height of the Congruence. Considering the constant tension between Dracan and Crowley, Jack had presented the only viable option. "Can you feel it?"
Jack nodded, wheeling himself over the chalk outline. A brief thought maintained the magical seal about the pedestal despite the intrusion of his body. They'd had to construct quite a shield to contain all the necessary forces.
Just as his hands left the wheels, the tingle along his nerves surged into a roar that nearly overloaded Jack's mind. Linked to the Art as he was, the sudden rush of power flooding through his body was a shock that left him at once breathless and surging with ecstasy.
"God…now!" Dracan gasped.
Jack was already murmuring the appropriate words. His hands felt thick and clumsy as he gestured the symbols into existence, unfit vessels for the sheer power available. "Facultas, abraxas!" The final two words, the seal on the spell, emerged as little more than a breathy mutter. Vaguely, Jack was conscious of Dracan shouting the same. Their volume did not matter. The resulting surge of energy knocked Dracan from his feet and sent Jack slumping against the side of the chair, head ringing as though struck.
Jack had no idea of how long he nodded there, stunned. Dracan was the first to recover. Still tottering slightly, he stumbled to the nightstand, somewhat gingerly taking the brass disc into his hands. Apparently, whatever he saw or sensed agreed with him, for a wide grin spread across his severe features. "Jack! It's done! Jack?" Curiously, Dracan walked—steadier now—over to his fellow magician's still-limp form.
Move right now, damn you, Jack ordered his body. With an effort, he managed to blink, but that was all. Every part of him tingled with the pins-and-needles feeling of a constricted limb.
"Ah." Dracan slumped to the cold concrete floor besides Jack's chair. "I'll show you when you recover. That spell had quite a kick to it." He laughed almost boyishly as he held up the disc. The thing blazed to Jack's sixth sense, practically radiating power. Across the surface of the disc had been imprinted a perfect, five-pointed star.
Grinning, Dracan reached up to pat Jack's shoulder with a camaraderie that was almost tender. "Sleep well, brother. I think…I think we both deserve it."
February, 1979
It was far too early in the morning to be awake, Jack had decided, but he'd risen before the sun with an odd feeling of premonition that disallowed further sleep. With Crowley still resting and Dracan growing more uncommunicative by the day, he'd resigned himself to another day of solitude. Taking the lift down to the first floor, Jack selected a book at random from the library—one of Crowley's anthropological texts, he noted—and wheeled into the foyer to read.
He'd just immersed himself in James George Frazer's clumsy analyses of primitive magic when the intercom next to the door buzzed, indicating that a visitor was at the gate. Jack wheeled himself up to the box and thumbed the receive button. "Yes? May I help you?"
Through the static of the open line he caught a hoarsely whispered conference interspersed with several giggles. Finally, a man's voice interjected in an obvious American accent, "Hello? When are your tours, please? And how much?"
"Tours?" Jack paused, confused. "I think you've been misled, sir. This is a private home."
"Oh." The line buzzed with open static for a moment, then a woman's voice interjecred, "But the Fodor's guidebook has this house listed as one of the main historical sites of Scotland…?" She trailed off suggestively.
This again. "Yes, ma'am, you're correct, this house is a historical site because it's so old—the foundation about a thousand years, I believe. But it still is a private residence, and we don't give tours. I'm sorry."
Jack had just picked up the book again when the buzzer sounded once more. "Yes?"
"I don't suppose you could make an exception…just let us see the entryway and the back and the old foundation, take a few pictures…? We're on our honeymoon, you see, and…"
"I'm sorry, sir, but the master of the house is quite ill, so that is out of the question."
"Oh. Sure. Sorry."
This time, Jack found himself brooding instead of picking up the book. Incidents like that had grown more frequent over the past twenty-five years. Crowley had adamantly refused to open the manor to tourism despite failing financial circumstances, which Jack supported. But it was what Crowley's refusal signified, his slow withdrawal from the world, that worried the younger man.
This strange, fast-paced new life of science confused them both—Dracan, born later, had adjusted far more easily. But, while Jack coped, Crowley had simply stopped interacting with the bizarre new outside world, contenting himself with his books and research. Jack couldn't remember the last time the old man had left the house—not after Marcus arrived, certainly, and probably not after Dracan did. We were right to dissolve the Brotherhood, Crowley had told Jack once, not long ago, we were not meant for this new place.
True enough; the other twelve members of the old Brotherhood had faded away over time, most of them now dead. The few who were still alive lived in the same seclusion as Crowley, but without apprentices, allowing their centuries of knowledge to die with them. We are the new Brotherhood, Dracan and I, Jack noted, and shivered to himself.
"Dave, maybe we shouldn't be doing this…"
The young man paused with one leg already over the top of the brick wall. "C'mon, it was your idea to get a closer look at the house. You heard the man. The foundation is a thousand years old…and did you see the gorgeous little medieval church over the top of the wall? We're just taking a little look from the top. We won't go inside." In a wheedling tone of voice, he played his trump card. "Sweetheart, remember why we came to Scotland?"
The woman grinned to herself. "Of course." With Dave a history major and Laura in architecture, the chance for the two graduate students to travel to Scotland and soak in the history of the ancient towns and monuments was a tremendous one. "Give me a boost-up?"
When they were both perched atop the wall, Dave whistled. "Isn't that a beaut? I'd love to know the story behind this place."
"I get the chapel—gorgeous, by the way—" Laura observed, "—and the old greenhouse, but what's the little building on the far side? The one with the domed roof? It looks almost…Moorish, but that's impossible if it's really as old as the rest of the house. But is that a telescope? How could they butcher a beautiful old building like that?"
Her husband grinned. "Wanna go find out?"
"Dave…"
"C'mon. We're not going to bother anyone." Grunting, Dave turned and scrabbled down the rough, uneven bricks of the wall. "Good thing…that this is so…badly maintained! It's got…footholds!"
Something trembled along the channels of the Art.
Frowning, Jack glanced up from the book. All of his senses were suddenly tingling with that warning sensation which screamed of powerful magic nearby. Concerned, he entered trance with the barest thought and aimed a question at the daemons. All that arrived in return was a garbled sensation of anxiety, verging on real fear.
Dracan, Jack thought grimly. Who else? What on earth are you doing now? He considered contacting the other magician telepathically and discounted it. Few could lie in direct mind-to-mind communication—but a Master could. Instead, Jack set the book on the coffee table and wheeled himself towards the manor's back door. He knew he'd find Dracan in the Magisterium.
Instinct once again proved correct. Dracan had set up in the ritual room he'd created for himself some decades ago. Confused, Jack noted the pentacle chalked onto the floor and the arrangement of lit candles—indicating a summoning spell to his trained eye. The younger man, obviously deep in trance, clutched the Star in both hands. A near-constant stream of Latin trickled from his lips; Jack recognized the words, but he'd never heard them in a summoning spell before. The chant sounded more like the one used to create a direct portal between locations.
Sudden dread flooded through Jack. Oh, no. He wouldn't! Not even Dracan could be so impetuous. The magician hesitated, torn between the knowledge that he couldn't stop Dracan from completing the spell and killing himself and the desire to try anyway. Aborting a summoning spell could be disastrous; the doorway between dimensions had to be managed very carefully.
The rift within the pentagram—normally so thin as to be invisible—was a thick ribbon of nothingness in the air, quivering and twisting wildly as it fought to escape the constraints of the spell. Jack gritted his teeth, every nerve on edge. Yet, by all logic and every rule of the Art, the spell should have escaped control almost immediately. Sharp eyes noted how tightly Dracan's hands clutched at the Star, so that the knuckles stood out sharp and white. He was drawing so much power from the simulacrum—enough for him to accomplish the impossible and keep the portal between dimensions open.
Triumphantly, the spellcaster lifted the star into the air, over his head. "Arcesso, abraxas!"
"No!" Jack hissed, still too cautious to risk breaking the spell by shouting, but Dracan was too deep in trance to hear. "Damn you. Idiot!" Hastily, Jack spelled himself into trance and created a glowing magical shield about himself with a mutter of "Ara, abraxas." He couldn't wheel himself out of range before the spell impacted.
"Definitely Moorish, I'd say, but look at all the Gothic woodwork and stonework along the walls. Authentic, too. Whoever built this—and it was a very long time ago—had traveled a great deal."
Jack's head snapped to the side in alarm, just in time to notice a young couple stop in the doorway, staring inside.
"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry, we thought this building was empty—" the woman started, interrupted as her companion blurted, pointing, "What in God's name is that man doing?"
Startled by the shriek, Dracan broke concentration for a moment to glance back over his shoulder at the open-mouthed intruders before his attention immediately returned to the spell. Its delicate magical control broken, the portal warped, widening until it filled the circle. Something huge and dark hovered in the void beyond, slowly sliding out into the pentagram in the form of an inky-black, undifferentiated shadow. Two glowing points of light flickered open at the center of the shadow—blazing green eyes.
It's entering in its own form, Jack thought wildly. That's not possible.
One of the trespassers—possibly both—screamed; Jack couldn't blame them. Rattled, Dracan lost control of the spell entirely, and even the protective magic about the pentagram flickered out of existence. The portal began to narrow, and the entity rushed to fill the space left behind, expanding beyond the boundaries of the now-defunct pentagram.
Shadows swirled about Jack, striking at him like physical blows. His throat closed as the thing sucked the air from the room. Tendrils of darkness batted at the shield, striving angrily for entry. Jack was vaguely aware of Dracan, voice choked with desperation, calling a similar magical shield about himself.
"Expello, abraxas!" Jack shrieked at the thing. "I banish you! Return through the portal!" Panicked, he'd lapsed into English, but the magic was strong enough that the spell held. Reluctantly, the shadow shrunk in on itself as the shape of the portal stabilized, the unknown dimension sucking back its hellish inhabitant. Dracan staggered to his feet, shaking his head. Wide dark eyes met Jack's.
"That was perhaps ill-advised," Dracan admitted hoarsely. A moment later, when a portal—a regular one, this time—opened and Crowley stepped into the room, face white with fear and anger, Jack allowed himself to close his eyes and collapse against the chair.
Jack had to knock three times before the door opened a crack. Dracan's face peered out, unshaven and gaunt as always. "Leave me alone, Jack."
"Let me in, Dracan. We have to talk."
Grimacing, Dracan obligingly nudged the door open with one foot and stood aside. "Enter, then."
Once Jack had wheeled himself inside, Dracan shoved the door closed with perhaps a bit too much force. The bedroom lay in complete disarray. Clothing littered the floor, and the bed was rumpled and unmade. Sighing, Dracan stumped over to sit at the foot. The younger man's expression had the same, expected insolence, but Jack's keen eyes read tension into the set of the shoulders and the tightness of the mouth.
"I resent this…lecturing by yourself and Crowley," Dracan put in flatly before Jack could speak. "I am no longer a student, and I was never a child here. A Master researches what he will."
His prepared speech momentarily forgotten, Jack stared at him. "Perhaps we would have less difficulty if you acted like a Master. Two people are dead because of you, Dracan."
Dracan blinked back, genuinely surprised. "Two trespassers who brought it upon themselves, intruding into highly delicate work. They interrupted the spell and nearly killed all of us." His expression bore traces of very real sulkiness.
"Highly delicate work," Jack echoed. Hands clenched white-knuckled on the chair's arms. "What did you think you were doing, Dracan? That spell was…an impossibility. It would have escaped control eventually."
"It was almost completed!" Dracan cried angrily. "Using the Star, I had enough power and control to finish the portal and pull the entity through. Can you imagine the possibilities behind the success of such a spell, Jack? Of course I am horrified by the deaths of our two visitors, but if they choose to wander uninvited into volatile situations then they must tacitly accept the risks."
"But what was your purpose? To call in an entity that powerful, that evil—"
"You know such designations are pointless, Jack." Sulleness faded to inspiration as the younger man rose to pace, gesturing animatedly. "Foris magic has always been limited by drawing in only minor entities. The transfer of a spirit between dimensions then robs the entities of most of their powers; they are limited by the mundane shapes we create for them. To call a powerful entity bodily into this dimension, with none of its powers lessened—imagine the potential of control over such a creature. I would have thought you of all people would understand, Jack. You've summoned many a daemon, yourself."
Stubbornly, Jack shook his head. "It's too dangerous. All that would be required is another distraction to warp the spell again. And once the entity enters this world you would need incredible amounts of energy and concentration just to control it! The risks—"
An angry gesture interrupted him. "You and Crowley are always lecturing about risks. Have you forgotten the very ideas behind the Congruence? My Star gives us limitless potential. What is its purpose if I don't use it to explore new dimensions of the Art?"
Jack reached out to grab Dracan's arm; the younger man glanced down at him, annoyed, obviously restraining the urge to shake him off. "Promise me that you will not try this again," Jack said seriously. "Explore other dimensions if you must, but show yourself to be a true Master and exercise a little caution. I am…afraid of what else may happen as a result of this spell."
Impatiently, Dracan shook himself free of Jack's grip. "Of course I will research my spells most carefully. But…you're afraid of everything, brother. It is what weakens you." With a shrug, the younger man grabbed his journal from the nighstand and walked out the door in a swish of dark robes.
The blade was steady in one hand as Jack clutched the heavy gold disc in the other. Carefully, he etched another line into the soft metal, curving it slightly. Other engraved runes and symbols already covered most of the shiny surface, the pentagram prominent among them. At the center of the disc was a small gem upon which Jack would focus the enchantment.
I want to apologize, brother. The visit that morning had been too quick, too convenient, far too unlike Dracan. Jack doubted that his wayward brother had given up any of his plans or felt any real remorse for the damage he'd caused. He still spent his nights in the Magisterium, deep in research, though he knew that Jack and Crowley both watched him closely.
I can't think here, Jack realized suddenly, his train of thought diverted. I feel like a prisoner in my own home, rather than Dracan's jailer.
Sighing, he rubbed his eyes tiredly and lifted the amulet by the glittering gold chain. The pendant swung at the end, a perfect circle of gold, still useless until Jack laid the final enchantment. With a shrug, he reached beneath his shirt to pull out the iron pentagram he normally wore around his neck. That went safely into a dresser drawer, replaced by the gold protective amulet. Its magic was a pale shadow to that of the Star's, but Jack prayed that it would be enough.
April, 1979
Drawing power from the Star, it was an easy matter for Dracan to break the enchantment that locked Jack's door. With a casual thought, he dismissed any resident daemons and strode inside. Dracan cared little for others, but, as intensely introverted as he was, he had some respect for the ideal of privacy. However, necessity excused his actions, the Master told himself. Jack had acted…strangely these past two months, gradually growing more restless and unhappy. Dracan assumed it was the strain of keeping a close eye on him—Jack respected privacy too—but he wanted to be certain.
Jack's desk and dresser yielded nothing of importance—although Dracan wondered why Jack was not wearing his pentagram, as was normal. Folded clothes and piles of old research material did not interest the intruder. The nightstand, however, was an intriguing discovery. Within were a single paperback book and a small stack of handwritten letters.
Frowning, Dracan perched on the edge of the low bed and studied the cover. Finding the Healer Within, by Beth Klein. His lip curled in disdain.
"Jack," he muttered to himself, "tell me that you have more sense than this."
The past few decades had witnessed a startling resurgence of vague occultism into the mainstream. Individuals and groups who had no connection to or knowledge of the Art now openly claimed "psychic powers". It was both amusing and insulting. Dracan had toyed with the idea of teaching these psychics who the real power was in this world. But he knew that Jack and Crowley could and would still stop him from claiming any temporal power or authority—it was too close to the forbidden purpose of their precious Brotherhood. Dracan could be patient, sometimes.
Dracan's amusement deepened as he leafed through the stack of correspondence. As he'd suspected, each was from the author of the book, and by the number of letters they'd kept a fairly regular correspondence going for around a year. Curious, he drew out the most recent letter.
Jack: I'm not sure exactly what else you want from me. By your letters, you're far more advanced in your powers—the Art, you call it—than I. You've already heard my excuses regarding your initial inquiry. Your invitation to study in Scotland is most flattering, but I fear my inclinations lie towards a somewhat different philosophy. There is a power within all of us, regardless of innate talent or discipline, and it is never too late to learn…
Dracan replaced the letter, bored. Flowery, overly self-satisfied, typically empty of real content or power. But Jack obviously thought that this woman had some talent with the Art, or he would not have invited her here. The realization was intensely irritating. How dare Jack try to bring in one of these modern, empty-headed New Age gurus into this place of true power and knowledge? But realization replaced his fading annoyance. Dracan had his desired distraction. Patience had its rewards.
Apologies for putting the story up piecemeal, but otherwise I'd never get it finished. Chapter 4 should be uploaded by mid-June, and Chapter 5 before July; the new job is leaving me less time to write, so it'll take a while.