Still Not Dead Enough , Book 2 of The Dead Among Us (20 page)

McGowan frowned at him seriously for a moment, then let out a small snort, clearly struggling to hold something in. But he finally spluttered, bent over, slapped his hands on his knees and laughed openly, loud, roaring guffaws, tears streaming down his cheeks as he gasped for breath. “Gets ‘em every time,” McGowan roared, struggling for air, “though the part about the virgins being pregnant is new. Made that up on the spot, special for you.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped tears from his eyes.

All Paul said was, “You asshole.”

McGowan had Paul place the four candles at four of the five points of the pentagram, saying, “The point without a candle is the principal point where you’ll be seated controlling the entire event. When you light the candles you’ll do so with your power, not matches or any other mundane means. You will be the fifth candle, completing the symmetry of the pentagram, and defining the principal point with your power.”

McGowan then had Paul cut a few strands of his own hair and place them in the copper dish, then place the copper dish and the dark mirror in the center of the circle, arranged so that when Paul sat down at the principal point of the pentagram, he saw his own faint reflection in the mirror, with the copper dish resting just in front of the mirror. “If we were going after a primus-caste demon,” McGowan said, “you’d put a couple ounces of your own blood in the dish, and sacrifice a small animal, like a chicken.”

Paul grimaced. “Sounds kind of satanic.”

“It is, Paul. You’ll use the dark mirror to open up a pathway to the Netherworld, then use the lock of hair and a little power to draw a demon forth. In religions with a heaven and hell concept, the hell part refers to the Netherworld, and Satan and fallen angels are demons, plain and simple.”

McGowan looked at his watch. “It’s dusk out, so let’s grab some dinner. By the time we’re done it should be full dark.”

McGowan ordered out for a pizza. Paul chewed a couple of slices mechanically, his mind preoccupied by what he was about to do, a tense nervousness in his gut as memories of his misadventure in the Netherworld occupied his every thought. When McGowan finally announced, “Ok. Let’s do this,” Paul stood and followed him down to the workshop with mixed feelings of relief and dread.

Under McGowan’s tutelage, Paul lit each of the four candles with the fire spell he’d been taught, then sat down inside the circle facing the small copper dish. He pulled a small amount of power—McGowan had told him,
just a hint
—fed it into the few strands of hair in the dish. Paul then stood and stepped carefully out of the circle and pentagram, and sat down on the floor at the principal point of the pentagram facing the dark mirror. McGowan sat down behind him. Paul fed power into the circle and pentagram, found that to reach the point where it was ready to close, the combination of circle and pentagram took far more power than a simple circle. When it was ready he whispered, “Bullshit,” and the circle snapped shut like the massive doors on a bank vault.

As he’d been instructed, Paul then cast a fire spell to ignite a small flame in the palm of his hand so that magical flame burned at all five points of the pentagram. Then he triggered the power he’d fed into the lock of hair and it burst into flame. He focused on the dark mirror, focused on his own faint but visible reflection there. “Darkness rules the night,” he said, reciting the words McGowan had taught him. “Bring forth the night. Bring forth the darkness, and its minions.”

He repeated that thirteen times, and with each repetition the mirror appeared to become more of a mirror, his reflection more visible and defined. After the last repetition the mirror reflected his image clearly, like a fine platter of silver. He focused on that image, recalled the night he’d accidentally summoned the vampires, the night McGowan had rescued him, and like that night his image slowly distorted, twisted and spiraled away from his regular features. When the moment came, when the image reformed fully, he felt that sideways slippage in reality that he’d felt going to and from the Netherworld, and an image of Katherine formed there.

She stepped out of the mirror to stand in front of it, a small replica of Katherine only about two feet tall. But then in a wink she stood her full height, though the Katherine standing in the middle of the pentagram had a chest like a porn-star queen, with an abundance of cleavage erupting from her blouse, a full, rounded figure, luscious, swollen red lips puckered into a pout. In every other way though, it was Katherine, in one of her sexy business suits, though the skirt was practically a micro-mini. “Hello, Paulie-boy,” she said.

“Don’t ever call me that,” he snarled, thinking he liked the real Katherine’s small breasts much better than the obscene imitations in front of him.

As if reading his mind, the Katherine in front of him spread her hands and looked down at her chest. She pressed her hands up under her breasts, squeezing copious amounts of cleavage up from the blouse. “You don’t like this, do you, mortal? Well then, let’s fix that.” Her breasts slowly shrank to the proper size, her figure and lips thinned and the skirt lengthened until she truly did look like Katherine, though her eyes remained blood-red and goat-slitted.

Behind him, McGowan whispered, “That’s no minor demon.”

Paul whispered back, “I think it’s the one I met in the Netherworld.”

“Be careful here, Paul. That thing is at least secundus caste, maybe even primus. Very dangerous.”

The demon then took on the shape of Suzanna, a perfect Suzanna without any distorted features. It said, “You can have your love again, you know. All you need do is release me.”

It took on the shape of Cloe, his beautiful little child, all brightness and happiness. “You can have anything you want, daddy. Just release me and all is yours.”

Paul felt tears running down his cheeks, tasted the saltiness of his own sorrow as one touched the corner of his mouth. The demon he and Katherine had faced in the Netherworld had tried the same trick. “I’ll not release you,” he told the demon.

The demon shrugged, took on the image of McGowan seated in one of his wing-back chairs. “Well then, mortal, we must come to some accommodation.”

“Why?” Paul asked.

The demon shrugged, still holding the form of McGowan, though a look of pure avarice washed over his features and his eyes turned to pools of black obsidian. “Because I can give you many things, mortal.”

“Like what?”

The demon smiled knowingly. “To begin with, power beyond imagining.”

“I don’t want power beyond imagining.”

“You say that now, mortal. But there will come a time. There always comes a time for your kind.”

McGowan whispered in Paul’s ear, “Try to determine its caste.”

Paul and the demon stared at one another for some time, and the knowing smile never left its face, but the look of pure avarice in its eyes frightened Paul more than anything else. Paul said, “You promise enormous power, but how do I know you can deliver?”

The demon shifted appearance to that of Suzanna again, spoke in her voice. “Paulie-boy, I can deliver anything.”

Paul asked it, “And how will I contact you again?”

The demon’s smile broadened. “I’ll give you a name, mortal, not my true name, but a name I have been known to use. Call for Abrasax when next you want to speak with me.”

Behind him, McGowan swore. “Shit! Get rid of that thing. Now.”

Paul recalled McGowan’s instructions and said, “The darkness no longer rules here, minion. Return to the darkness. Now. I command it.” And he killed the flame in the palm of his hand.

Paul felt that sideways path through reality open up again, the demon disappeared and the pathway closed with a sharp snap.

McGowan stood, circled the pentagram carefully, saying, “Jesus, kid! I think that was an arch-demon, one of the princes of hell.” Paul felt the old man drawing power, testing to be sure the demon was truly gone, and the pathway closed. He finally turned to Paul. “You can break the circle now, kid. And don’t ever call that fucking thing again.”

~~~

Summoned into Ag’s presence, Anogh found the Winter King sprawled upon his bed entangled with one of his concubines, both snarled in silken, white sheets. From a chair to one side Simuth looked on, watching the two cavort. Ag barely acknowledged Anogh with a shrug, continued fondling the concubine as he spoke, “The necromancer lives. So Sabreatha did not deliver the heart arrow.”

Anogh was aware that Ag had already questioned several members of the host that had been present, so he knew the truth of the matter. “I saw her deliver the arrow with my own eyes. If you doubt me, then question others who were there.”

“Impossible,” Ag snarled. “Amazing! Unheard of!”

One of the concubine’s breasts captured Ag’s attention, so he leaned over and nibbled on it delicately. After several moments fondling her he looked up. “Yes. He lives. So Sabreatha violated her contract.”

Anogh spoke cautiously. “Sabreatha never violates a contract.”

The king turned a face to Simuth that no fey would want to see. “This is your fault.”

“But I didn’t—”

The king merely whispered, “Silence, fool,” and frost formed on Simuth’s hair, eyebrows, skin. Frost formed on everyone in the room, on the tapestries on the walls, even in the hair of Ag’s concubine. “I must know more about this young wizard, this necromancer, this Lord of the Dead, and since you clearly cannot bring him to me, I want to question the Old Wizard’s daughter. I am told she is quite close to him.”

Simuth was smart enough to say only, “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Ag turned back to his concubine, caressed her between the legs, bit her breast viciously and she groaned with pleasure. They both became more aroused with each second. “Get her, Simuth. Bring her to me. Now go, both of you. Or stay, if you care to watch.”

The Summer Knight bowed and backed carefully out of the Winter King’s chambers. Simuth chose to stay and watch.

Chapter 15: The Trap Is Set

Paul needed to get out. For the past two months he hadn’t gone anywhere but McGowan’s place, Katherine’s office and his own apartment. Well, there was the trip to Faerie, and nearly dying with a hole in his chest. But that didn’t count when he thought of getting out. He needed to go someplace with normal human beings, though he was no longer that normal himself. He’d love to socialize more with Katherine, see if that went anywhere, but she apparently didn’t feel likewise.

It was early evening and the sun had dropped down behind the hills of San Francisco. He wandered down the block to a bar he’d spotted that looked like a nice, little neighborhood place named
Jessie’s Bar and Grill
. And he discovered to his delight it had a friendly atmosphere, no drunks and barflies hanging about trying to mooch a drink, and a fairly normal looking clientele. A couple of gay fellows had taken over two stools at the end of the bar, with three or four heterosexual couples seated at small tables eating what looked like fairly simple fare. Paul took a seat at the bar a few seats down from the gay couple.

The bartender wandered over as soon as Paul sat down. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

Paul shrugged. “Just moved into the neighborhood a couple of months ago. Renting a small place a block up the street, thought I’d have a look around the neighborhood.”

The bartender stuck out his hand. “I’m Jessie. Welcome to Jessie’s.”

Paul shook his hand. Jessie was about average height, average size, but clearly a weight lifter, which showed rather dramatically in his shoulders and arms. “Paul Conklin. I’ll have a glass of red wine. And a dinner menu.”

“Coming right up.”

Jessie had a decent choice of red wines by the glass. The dinner menu was mostly sandwiches and hamburgers and steaks. Jessie’s partner, Steven, did the cooking, and when Steven came out to take Paul’s order it was clear Jessie and Steven were a couple. Paul ordered a T-bone, leaned back and enjoyed his glass of wine while he waited for the steak.

He’d just finished the first glass of wine when Steven brought his dinner. “Jessie says you’re new to the neighborhood.”

“Ya. Moved in a couple of months ago. Until now I’ve been too busy to have a look around.” Paul started in on the steak.

Steven leaned against the bar. “What do you do?”

“Architect,” Paul said around a mouth full of steak. “Well, until recently. Right now I’m an unemployed architect. Hey, this is good steak.”

“We do pretty good here. Need anything, just holler.”

Steven turned and headed back into the kitchen. A couple of new customers came through the front door, sat down at the bar a couple of stools down from Paul. They spoke to each other in what sounded like Russian, and after recent events anything Russian made Paul uneasy. But they weren’t bothering him, weren’t even paying attention to him, so he decided to forget his paranoia, do likewise and enjoy his steak.

He had another glass of wine, which was probably one too many, but he enjoyed the food and the company, and wouldn’t be doing any driving that night. In any case, on a full stomach he’d gotten only a bit lightheaded. He finished dinner, called for the check, still had half a glass of wine left, leaned back to enjoy it while he waited for the check.

When Steven brought the check, Paul paid cash, left a nice tip.

Steven stuck his hand out. “Again, welcome to the neighborhood, Paul. And what was your last name again?”

Paul shook Steven’s hand and said, “Conklin.” When he said it, both Russians turned and looked at him sharply, then looked away quickly. Steven’s eyes narrowed and he looked from Paul to the Russians.

Paul watched the Russians out of the corner of his eye. They didn’t appear to be in any rush to follow as he walked out onto the sidewalk, so he let it go. Anyway, it was one of those gorgeous San Francisco spring nights, and he’d just had a great meal, and the wine helped relax some of the tension of the past weeks. He strolled up the street, got about a hundred feet from Jessie’s when something slammed into him from behind.

He hit the concrete sidewalk hard, skinning his hands and tearing his jeans. One of them pinned his arms behind him, lifted him to his feet. “Quickly. Quickly,” his attacker said, and even that one word came out in a thick Russian accent. Paul drew power, but a fist slammed into his solar plexus, ending any ability to focus properly. Another fist slammed into the side of his head and his knees buckled.