Faustus Resurrectus (25 page)

He shifted his weight. The knife blade cut effortlessly through her flesh, resting on the bone with a sound of a skate blade chipping ice. Joann gasped. Valdes waited as scarlet welled around the blade. He looked into her face, which had gone white. She clamped her lips tight. With a sigh, he leaned his full weight down and cut off her ring finger. A thin red mist spouted up, followed by a thicker spray.

Joann’s eyes rolled back, and she slid into blackness.

***

Without expression, Valdes plucked the finger from the spreading pool of blood, took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and stuffed it in the wound. He took off his tie, made a rough tourniquet around her wrist, and picked up the finger. It was warm and fragile, like a newly-hatched baby bird. He slipped the engagement ring off and set the finger down on the bench.

Coeus stared in fascination at the bleeding. “What about her?”

“I’ll send Faustus down to deal with it.” He opened the door and looked back, eyes shining. “It’s time. The word has been spread; let’s start bringing them in. Tell the others.

“Go.”

***

Throughout the afternoon, shadows formed and grew as Donovan and Father Carroll pondered questions of vessels and sorcerers. The energy in the room seeped away like smoke, leaving dead ash behind. Exhausted, Donovan sifted that ash one more time.

Why Faustus? Why does Valdes need
him
?

As he’d told Fullam at the bar, there were many versions of the legend of the man who sells his soul for supernatural favors. They go back at least to Simon Magus in the New Testament’s Book of Acts, with the most popular tellings the Marlowe—
Faustus
—and Goethe—
Faust
—versions. Both agree on the basics: Johann Faustus (Heinrich Faust in Goethe) was a proud, learned man who sought to expand his knowledge and power beyond what any had ever possessed. Learning the art of conjuring from two magicians—Cornelius and Valdes—he tries to summon Lucifer “to attain a world of profit and delight, of power, of honor, of omnipotence.” Instead it is Mephistopheles, Prince of Darkness and servant to Lucifer, who appears and brokers a deal: he will serve Faustus, provide him with whatever information he might request, and never utter an untruth to him. In return Faustus would sign a contract in blood, renounce his Christian faith and, at the end of the contract’s twenty-four year term, surrender his body and soul to Lucifer.

Once the contract is signed, Mephistopheles grants Faustus’s wishes but in ways that steer him away from his original, virtuous intentions to focus on trivialities. Instead of learning the mysteries of the universe, Faustus contents himself with such deeds as turning invisible to play tricks on the Pope, cursing a knight who mocked him by giving the knight a set of antlers, and summoning Helen of Troy for his pleasure.

The key difference between the versions, as he’d told the sergeant, was the ending: in Goethe, God’s hand takes Faust to Heaven. To Renaissance author Goethe, man could achieve godhood because knowledge was its essence, and man was capable of attaining knowledge. This quest is so noble it transcends all, even joining with evil. Faust was the ultimate example of the ends justifying the means.

The story of Faustus described the opposite. After selling his soul and not repenting even at the urging of angels, Faustus is dragged off to Hell by devils during a terrible storm. Medieval author Marlowe thus described the fate of any man who chose to ignore the religious and moral constraints of life to pursue a goal whatever the cost.

All of it left him with his head in his hands. He opened his eyes and looked at the priest. “Does any of this help us find Joann?”

Father Carroll glanced up from the text he was studying. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve pretty much re-written my thesis in my head, trying to figure out why Valdes resurrected Faustus.” He still couldn’t fully believe it was possible. “I’m getting nowhere.”

“I admit I’m feeling less than totally useful myself, but we must trust God is showing us the way. However convoluted that way may be.”

“The thing is—and maybe I’m missing something here—I can’t remember much that Faustus actually
did
. If Valdes is looking for power, I don’t understand why he’d choose Faustus. I mean,” Donovan gestured at an open book in front of him, a copy of Marlowe’s tale, “Mephistopheles is the one who causes things to happen. Faustus directs him, but it’s Mephistopheles who makes things work.” He smiled without humor. “Mephistopheles—Mister Fizz…”

“Then it would seem logical to suggest resurrecting Faustus was not Valdes’ endgame.”

“Faustus summoned Mephistopheles.” A spark in his chest, a spark of certainty, drew him upright in his chair. “
That’s
what he did that no one else could.
That’s
why Valdes needs him.”

“To invoke the Prince of Darkness?”

“It makes sense. Once he has, he’ll get knowledge and power
from
the Prince of Darkness, like Faustus did. Degree in Classical Lit, right?”

Father Carroll leaned forward thoughtfully. “Infernal Lords do need a physical form to manifest on this plane of existence. A living body, not a piecemeal one like the
resurrectus maledicat
created. A living vessel like—”

“Joann.” Donovan could barely believe what he was saying. He got to his feet. “Valdes resurrected Faustus to summon Mephistopheles. Mephistopheles needs a living vessel to exist on this plane of reality. Valdes kidnapped Joann to be a vessel. Joann is going to be possessed by Mephistopheles.” He stood. “Unless we save her.”

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t sit around and research anymore. I have to get out and do something to find her.” Donovan reached for his motorcycle helmet. “We’ve been looking for Valdes, but Frank said he’s had help. It never occurred to us to ask who that might be. As a former homeless person and fundraiser for them, where do you think he might go for help?”

“Homeless shelters. And soup kitchens.” The priest rose to his feet, stretching to his full, prodigious height. “I know people in several shelters around this area. Do you think it’s worth talking to them?”

Donovan nodded. “I do.”

EIGHTEEN

FOCUS AND DESIRE

W
hat’s all that noise outside? What’s going on?

Is he serious about “cosmic payback”?

Does he believe he’s
not
deluding these people?

Joann still sat on the bench, keeping her bandaged hand down at her side, out of her sight. When she’d come to, she’d managed to drape a piece of newspaper over her severed finger before throwing up what she’d eaten in the dining hall. The sour smell of vomit kept her stomach reeling.

Why did he have to take my ring?

She stared at the wall, desperately clinging to her professional persona, trying to focus on the questions instead of her circumstances. It was an uphill fight; her bloody knuckle throbbed, a constant reminder of what had happened.

The door unlocking made her jump. A straight-backed bald man dressed in antique scholar’s robes entered. He sized her up with penetrating cobalt blue eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?”

He looked down his nose. “Stay thy hand, woman. Doctor Johann Faustus, thrice-learned scholar, renowned astrologer and magician late of the land of Germany and the court of the Emperor Charles, at thy service.”

Although she recognized the name, and the delusion, his certainty threw her. “
Who
?”

He ignored the question. Annoyance brushed his face as he roughly took her injured hand. She gasped. He was brusque and businesslike unwrapping her wound, making low noises of disapproval in his throat. He sighed when he saw the ragged flesh and dark, crusted blood around her knuckle. “The King ignoreth a damaged Vessel,” he muttered. “Valdes, thou art a fool.”

He dropped her hand, drawing another sharp breath from her, and looked about the cell. Joann raised her injured hand to her chest.
What is he—?

“
Welches hath Valdes getan mit thy Finger?
”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Thy finger,” he repeated. “What hath Valdes done with thy finger?”

Confused, she darted her eyes at the end of the bench. He snatched the newspaper covering it away. “Ah.”

Seeing her finger separate from her body, lying there like a sausage link, almost made Joann throw up again. She turned away and swallowed as Faustus picked up and inspected it. “What do you want?” she asked, continuing to avert her eyes.

“The King ignoreth a damaged vessel,” he repeated. “Faustus wilt remedy thy imperfection.”

Remedy?
He took her hand again, and she turned to see him take and uncork a vial from up his sleeve. “What’s that?”

Instead of answering, Faustus tilted a few pearls from the vial onto her mutilated flesh. He murmured words in a language she’d never heard and suddenly a warm, tingling sensation coated her hand. Before she could comment he stabbed her finger back into her knuckle. A shock of pain made her gasp. She looked down; her finger was reattached. She held her hand in front of her face, flexing the digits. “Oh my God!”

Faustus put the vial away and turned to go.

“How did you—?” Her throat constricted as she realized she didn’t care
how,
just that it
had
happened. “I—I—
Thank you
.”

He ignored her, his rudeness a slap. Joann half-turned and saw the open door to her cell. Everything about her circumstances rushed back to her.

Go! Run! Now!

As though he’d heard her thoughts, Faustus paused. Without turning, he said, “Thinkst thou not of escape, woman. This eve, thy role in the tragedy of both man and devil looms, a shadow from which thou canst escape.”

“Man and devil”?
She felt her tether to reality loosen. “Then help me.” She wiggled her fingers. “Again.”

“Faustus hath healed not for thee but toward an end whose shadow
he
canst escape.”

“Of
course
you can! I work for the Brooklyn District Attorney. I can help you escape whatever cult, or group, Valdes has organized.”

“Tis not Valdes Faustus doth fear; rather, destiny is the inescapable shadow cast.”

She felt herself being drawn into his delusion, and she shook her head to regain her perspective. “Do you want money? My family can pay you to help me escape. You can make enough to leave the city, the
country
, and never worry about Valdes again.”

“Money?” Scorn dripped from the word. “Escape? Tempt not Faustus with thoughts of salvation, lest thou hast in thy possession
Magia Naturalis et Innaturalis
?”

What?
“No,” she said slowly, “ but I work for the District Attorney’s office. I can arrange legal documents, get you money and send you wherever you want to go.”

“‘Legal documents’? Thou art a
woman
. What canst thou know of law?”

In spite of what she knew was reality, Joann found herself justifying her words to him. “My gender has advanced in society since, ah, your time. I graduated at the top of my class at Columbia Law. I’ve worked for the DA’s office for seven—”

“Pray, a query: what is the solution when two claim ownership of the same thing?”

“…What?”

“
Ich wußte, daß es eine Zeitverschwendung war. Eine Frau könnte nicht mir helfen.
” Faustus gave her a long look, turned, and walked out of the cell.

She stared after him, thinking about Donovan and his thesis on the Faustus legend, then shook her head.
Their delusions must be catching. For a second there I could have sworn… No. Impossible.
She examined her hand, once again complete.
He doesn’t seem to be Valdes’ best friend, though. Getting on his good side might not be a bad idea…

Closing her eyes, she began to dredge up what she knew about contract law.

***

The sun had set as they began canvassing the Lower East Side. Riding from shelter to soup kitchen to halfway house, Donovan gradually became aware of something in the night air. Indefinable, it drew light and energy from the atmosphere and replaced them with something sinister. No natural illumination came from above; despite the lack of cloud cover, there was no moon or stars. The storefronts of Avenue A, the neon, even the glittering cables of the Manhattan and Williamsburg Bridges seemed dimmer. It was the prime of the evening but there was little traffic, either in the streets or on the sidewalks.

What is going on?

The dark blue SUV followed them at a respectful distance but never left them alone. Donovan debated trying to shake them but didn’t want to waste time. As long as they didn’t interfere he didn’t care about the audience.

It was 9:45 when they reached the Sisters of Mercy shelter on Ludlow Street, the final place where Father Carroll had a connection. He went in to see the nun in charge while Donovan waited outside. He took out his cell and saw on the screen the tiny figure of a voicemail. His pulse jumped.

Frank?

He stabbed the number and impatiently punched in his access code.

“
First message:
‘
Donovan, it’s Corey. It’s about quarter after five. You’re working tonight. You were supposed to be here at five. Where are you’?
”

Donovan groaned inwardly.
This, I don’t need right now.
He skipped to the next one.

“
‘Donovan, it’s Corey again. It’s nine-thirty. I don’t know what happened to you, but I hope it’s nothing serious. ‘No call, no show’ is automatic suspension, and Henri is pushing for it.’
” Henri was a manager Donovan disliked, an elf of a man whose sense of Gallic outrage was constantly being piqued by having to work in America. “‘
I’ll try to smooth it over, but you better have a good excuse for tonight.’
”

“Don’t worry, I do,” Donovan muttered.

“‘
Anyway, if you get this, some blonde girl is here looking for you. Said Joann sent her, but I kind of doubt it. She’s pretty skanky looking.’
”

Donovan almost dropped the phone. He stood stock still, mind churning.

Okay. A plan. Need a plan.