Chapter 18: Contempt of Court
Christine pulled the heavy damask curtains closed in Erik's spare bedroom. In the near-darkness, she watched Erik where he lay, very still now, in his circle of power. After peeling him out of his wet trench coat and fedora, she and Khan had laid him on his back, his head at the summit of the pentacle. His breathing had steadied as soon as they'd carried him into the circle, and his clawed fingers had relaxed. Khan had left for the precinct.
The only sound was the ceaseless sighing of the rain.
Erik's large, dark eyes opened halfway and slowly closed again. His lofty forehead furrowed and his eyebrows knit above his nose. Again his eyelids lifted. He blinked and stared into oblivion, then his flinty irises flashed in the dim light as he carefully examined his surroundings. With a groan, he propped himself up on his shaking elbows—but froze when he spied Christine, still standing by his window.
She was in shambles: her suit was soaked, her hair disheveled and matted by the rain and smeared with Erik's blood. And she'd forgotten to breathe. Her judge lived.
They stared at each other as the memories of that morning came back to him.
"Christine," he whispered reverently. "You—" He nearly choked on his own words, and a coughing fit stole his breath.
She grabbed a glass of water that she'd left on the console table, and hurried to his side. Held the glass to his dusky lips while he drank. Water missed his mouth and ran down his neck. His chin and lips were caked with dried blood, like a vampire who had feasted.
He pulled back from the glass and gasped for breath. His long fingers wiped the water from his face, and crusty, dried blood rasped his hand like whiskers in need of a shave.
"Ugh, I'm a mess," he groaned, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He wet it with water from the glass and mopped his face. "Más de lo usual."
She said nothing but knelt by his feet. He was alive.
He scrubbed the back of his neck, then sat admiring her in confusion. "You saved my life," he said, amazed. "When everyone ran away, you stayed."
"I couldn't leave you like that."
She had left him before. She winced.
"How did you manage it?"
She explained the serendipitous appearance of Khan, and their struggles to get Erik out to his car. Erik listened quietly. He looked tired, but no longer seemed to be suffering. It was a miracle.
"I think I owe Khan an apology for my earlier suspicions."
"I've been a poor judge of character lately, too."
Their eyes met. Then his brow furrowed as he recalled something else. "Your testimony today…"
Her cheeks blazed, and she lowered her eyes. There wasn't much light to see by, but he must have seen her whole face flush a very deep red.
"You told the truth?"
He knew she had. She had taken an oath; had incriminated them both with her admissions. "I swore before God."
Heavy rain pelted the windows and filled the silence between them.
"You'll need to recuse, after what I told them," she finally ventured. "There's no transcript, but Rosenbaum heard what I said—"
"But you didn't say there was anything between us. Nothing he heard would lead him to conclude that I am anything but impartial."
She knew he prevaricated: Rosenbaum wouldn't conclude… but maybe Erik Delgado was reconsidering his own assessment. At least he sounded less certain. But now wasn't the time to press him. "They'll definitely want us back," was all she said, "since Rosenbaum didn't finish."
"Yes, my spirits interrupted Teddy, didn't they? They're getting impatient. They won't wait much longer."
He struggled to his feet and made to leave the circle.
"Where are you going?" she cried, detaining him by the wrist.
"To prepare a summons. So I can release these souls."
As if at his words, the wind picked up and shook the windows against their frames.
He kissed her fingers that circled his wrist. "I don't have the words to thank you, but it's time for you to go. I have to do this."
"Stay where you are," she ordered him. "If there's anything to be done outside that circle, I'll do it."
"This isn't civil procedure," he said. "This is Evil. This is Damnation. You were right to run when you first found this room. You shouldn't be here. I never meant for you to even know about it. About any of this."
"Erik, the minute you leave that circle, those souls will jump you again. They're practically knocking on your door! Let me help. I'm not running."
He raked his hand through his hair and looked around as though he could find his next argument hidden in the folds of his drapes. At last he nodded. "Open the top right drawer of the console." He lifted his chin towards the table behind her, beneath his mother's wedding portrait. "There's a lighter in there, and a brass box of incense. Light a handful of cones and toss them in the brazier."
The little drawer slid out easily, as though well-used, and she quickly found the white cigarette lighter and the large brass box, which was about the size of a cereal bowl and ornately engraved with Freemason symbols: hexagrams surrounding a square and compass and an all-seeing eye. The pile of pungent cones inside were the dark brown of rich soil.
She was shaking so badly from the day's ordeal that it took a dozen tries to ignite the lighter. Then its flashing flame nearly blinded her in the dark room. She lit the cones, and bluish smoke rose and curled like ephemeral spirits. Soon a strong, earthen musk pervaded the room.
"The left drawer has a false bottom with a little leather bag inside. Bring it to me, please."
The mottled, antique leather was old and stiff and very dry, like something stolen from a crypt. Like a little bag of death. She passed it to him quickly, and watched him kneel and lay its contents on the floor inside the circle: another odd assortment of ancient and modern. First a salt shaker, same as at any diner or pizza counter. Then a tiny, crystal decanter like a small bottle of cologne, engraved on one side with a simple, gold crucifix. In the dim light, she couldn't tell how much holy water was inside. Last was a 5" X 3" notebook with a leather cover, its yellowed pages soft with age. Khan had said that the Freak Show kept a journal of all of their incantations and summoned subjects. She had no desire to read that grimoire.
Erik unscrewed the top of the shaker and began generously shaking salt around the perimeter of his circle. "Light the tall candle on the table," he called over his shoulder, "the one in the glass cylinder, and pass it to me too, please."
He screwed the top back on the shaker and shoved it back into the leather bag, then took the candle from her. The flame scattered shadows against the walls and illuminated his face from below, as though he were about to spin a scary campfire yarn. "Now, leave."
"What?!"
"Get as far away as possible. Go home, or better yet find a church and stay there for the next several hours."
"But… you can't do this by yourself!"
"Of course I can—"
"It hasn't worked! Khan thinks… He said I should help you."
"I won't let you risk—"
"I'll be in the circle. With you. I'll be safe there."
"No, the spirits might fool us into leaving the circle's safety. Then they could kill us, or possess our bodies or take our souls."
"Erik, I love you. I'm not leaving you to do this alone. Whatever danger you're in, I'll share it. Willingly."
"You don't know what you're saying. I'm damned! Even pagans will tell you this is black magic. Disturbing the dead is the Devil's work. He has me, now. I will not share my sin… I won't… I won't let you be condemned, too." His last words were spoken with more sadness and desperation than she'd ever heard in the judge's voice before.
"Make room." She stepped carefully over the salt and joined him inside the circle.
"Christine—No."
"Well, if you're not going to get started, I'll have to do it myself." She opened his journal and glimpsed an entire page of Latin before he snatched it back from her.
"Please. Don't do this."
"If our situations were reversed, and I were damned, would you leave me?"
He scowled, as though he were on his bench in court instead of standing inside a Circle of Power holding a candle in a dark room full of incense. "Once we start, you won't be able to leave until it's finished. No adjournments."
"I understand."
"Don't move, and don't say a word. Definitely don't ask any questions. And for the sake of your soul, Christine, don't look behind you. Stand right here." He held her by the shoulders and shifted her into place, her back to the console table. "Face me. Hold the book like this." He put it in her hands, raised her hands to her chest, and turned her wrists until the book was facing out so that he could read it.
"Can you stay like that without shaking, and without dropping it?"
She opened her mouth to answer, remembered his instructions, and nodded instead.
"Good. But let's sit down, because we'll be here a long, long time. Don't disturb the salt! There. Now we can proceed." He pulled a sturdy glasses case from his jacket pocket and removed his spotless, undamaged horn-rimmed spectacles. These he placed on his nose, then knelt before her with the candle held high in his left hand, the opened flask of holy water in the other by his heart, and cleared his throat. In his black suit, he looked like a solemn priest performing a liturgy.
Reading from the grimoire, he commenced a Latin invocation which she had never heard. He spoke sotto voce as if he were in court, with the same grave manners, but these combined with the toneless Latin made her hairs stand on end. She felt the room grow colder and colder. His eyes were dark sockets in the gilded light of the candle flame, his scars covered his face in bizarre shadows over a terrifying, expressionless mask.
Outside, the rain slapped the window glass and the wind howled.
His chanted Latin continued its mechanical cadence like a sinister march. Then he paused, set the candle on the floor, and turned the page. With his eyes on his cursive handwriting, he pursed his twisted lips, took a deep breath, and recited a single phrase.
A shriek of rage burst behind Christine's skull. She nearly dropped the grimoire. It was the loudest, angriest scream she'd ever heard, and it went on and on until she feared she would lose her mind. The smell of rich incense turned to putrid sulfur, and she gagged. Malevolence emerged in the space behind her, between Erik's circle and the table with the smoking brazier. She felt its wrath deep within her own soul, a powerful and frightening being that made her want to flee the room. Was it coming for them, the way it had attacked Erik at the CJC? It took all of her willpower not to look over her shoulder.
"Keep your eyes on me, Christine," Erik whispered calmly. "Everything will be all right. It's just very upset with me. I won't let it hurt you."
She was trembling. She'd promised him she wouldn't, but she was. She was shaking so hard that he couldn't read. He didn't rebuke her; he kept his solemn demeanor as he steadied her hand with his own and continued.
He recited more Latin and the shriek behind her ceased.
He turned a page.
Behind her, the spirit moaned softly.
Erik watched the spirit over the rims of his spectacles, his eyes focused at something above Christine's head. His jaw clenched. His eyes met hers, and had she not already been sitting she would have lost the strength to stand. Lit from the candle on the floor, his dark eyes appeared to have their own commanding fire.
Had he ordered her to rise, she would have levitated.
Still holding the flask, he stood tall and spat another injunction at the spirit before flicking the holy water across the room, dropping some on Christine's ear in the process.
All sounds ceased. The spirit was gone, or at least now it was absolutely silent. Even the wind and rain seemed hushed. Christine only heard Erik's ragged breathing, and her own pulse pounding in her ears.
Still standing, he lifted the candle and made the sign of the cross, "Quia tuum est regnum, et potéstas, et glória in sáecula. Amen." Then he moved the candle as though drawing a large pentagram in the air, lifting the candle high above his head and across his chest. The trailing flame left a brief, glowing star in the darkness between them. He then recited a word in such a voice, with such tone, as she hadn't thought possible. The vibrations shook the floor.
As for what he said, it didn't sound like Latin. It may have been Hebrew, but could have been Babylonian or Sumatran for all she knew.
He then turned to his right, repeated the pentagram with the candle, and another strange word. Again he turned to his right, so that now his back was to her. Another pentagram, a different word. He turned again, repeated. North, east, south, and west, until he was back facing her. Then he set the candle on the floor at his feet and stood with his arms stretched to either side like he was being crucified. He shut his eyes and invoked the archangels each by name.
The air trembled.
"About me flames the pentagrams," he concluded, "and in the column shines the six-rayed star."
It could have been her imagination, but at the conclusion of his strange invocation, the four pentagrams flashed again before her eyes, and light extended from his fingers. She blinked, and these lights vanished.
He dropped his arms, opened his eyes, and looked around the room. Shadows danced on the walls in the frightful, copper light of the candle flame. Wind whistled outside and slapped rain against his windows. There was no sign of the spirit he had summoned.
Remembering his instruction to stay silent, she watched and said nothing.
He knelt down with her. "Are you alright?"
She nodded.
"It came a little too close for my liking. Sit towards me, away from the edge of the circle. That's better, I think. One down," he said, turning the pages back to the beginning. "Sixty-some-odd more to go."
A sharp crack from behind her rent the silence, and the portrait of Erik's mother slid down the wall until the table halted its decent and it broke free of its frame. His heavy curtains billowed into the room as though from a strong wind, but his windows were still closed. The console table began to shake by itself, and everything on top of it rattled.
Too late, Christine realized she'd turned to look.
Erik's expression darkened, as if an uncooperative litigant disrupted the order of his courtroom. "Don't be afraid," he whispered. "It's just that they all want to be first to go. They have no patience! And the spirit we just banished is still here."
He sounded less calm, less like the confident jurist who'd commenced this bizarre proceeding. She had a bad feeling that they'd made a fatal miscalculation and were now trapped inside his circle.
A ceaseless knocking came from the wall behind her, answered by more knocking on every other wall, surrounding them. The sounds multiplied until they had a cacophony of dissonant knocks, as though seventy gavels banged in judgment against the one who had disturbed their rest.
"Oh, God," said Erik, "what have I done?"