B00N1384BU EBOK Page 4

  The bottom of the stairs opened up into a circular room that had a large pentagram painted on the floor. It was enclosed in two concentric circles and within the points of the star was drawn the goat head of Baphomet; its horns, ears and beard filling the inside of each point while its caprine face dominated the center. The space between the circles had five letters inscribed at the tips of the star; they read; b, u, n, t , u. There was no furniture in the room besides a few chairs that dotted the south end of the circle and a ceremonial alter at the north end.

  I walked over and examined the altar and was amazed to see the usual accoutrements of a Catholic Church communion. A fine cloth of blessed lace lay across the surface and on it was a heavy golden crucifix that stood in the center of the arrangement; of course it had been mounted inverted on its stand. A challis and a covered bowl of equally fine quality gold sat on either side of the desecrated cross.

  Instinctively I lifted the cover of the bowl, not expecting to see any pieces of the ‘host’ lying there. What was contained in it, was exactly what I was looking for; the piece of Abremalin’s golden florin. I snatched it up, placed it inside my breast pocket and turned quickly to leave, but as I looked toward the stairs that led back up into the house, I was rudely surprised. Slowly, I reached for the gun that was secure in its holster right in front of my heart. Before I could free it from the protective leather of its case, Ron, the werewolf, was on top of me snarling and scratching at my chest and face.

  ***

  We rolled on the floor, knocking over the altar as I tried my best to keep the beast’s massive claws away from making a hit...and at the same time create an opening to draw my gun.

  We tackled each other on the floor for quite some time, taking turns at gaining the upper hand, and then I remembered the big kitchen knife. I had tucked the blade into my calf length boots before taking the stairs down into the lair. While I placed my left hand across the beast’s chest, pinning its arms up against its body, I swiftly reached down into my boot, pulled out the blade and sank it deep into the werewolf’s back.

  With a yelp the creature relinquished its push against me and staggered back clawing at its back and spinning in circles, attempting to remove the knife. I pulled the gun from my jacket and emptied the entire clip into Ron’s convulsing body. Again, he went through the changes of his shifts, but just as had happened before, when he came to rest dead on the floor, he was again in the form of the dark-skinned, athletic accountant.

  I refused to take any chances this time, I had to be sure that the guardian was dead. At the top of the stairs, on the library floor, I found the hemp rope I had used so unsuccessfully before and took it back with me to the lair. I bound Ron’s body hand and feet, then three times around his neck and several more times in groups of threes down the length of his body. From the kitchen, I took a full canister of salt, a bottle of lighter fluid and a box of matches and went back down the stairs. I drew a circle of salt around his body, doused it with the flammable liquid and tossed a lit match on him.

  As I watched him blaze, my hand went to the piece of gold nestled safely in my pocket and I smiled as I turned and left the house on the hill.

  ***

  A few hours later, I dropped the rental car keys onto the counter at Pittsburgh International Airport and pulled my bag across the concourse and into the terminal. It hadn’t been hard to get a last minute flight to Ohio, apparently not too many listed it as a must-see destination. I would have preferred to fly into Cincinnati but it had been easier to get a flight to Port Columbus International. I figured I had the time, and Ohio was such a scenic state...perfect for cruising.

  I figured I’d rent a Harley and take my time riding south to Adams County...and to Levi.

  July 13

  I sat in my rocking chair next to Matthew, watching the sun set through the trees. We had a new batch of shine to taste test before selling it.

  I was lucky Matthew had no interest in making moonshine. Reading a book or two on bathtub gin would have told him all he needed to know about the process and its potential risks. Instead, he relied on me as the expert. I brewed my fair share of white lightning and was respectful of the process. No matter what you see in the movies, making moonshine requires skill and attention. It's dangerous.

  Setting up our runs in the cavern, deep inside the cave, posed its own issues. Ventilation was a problem. An opening must exist somewhere deep in the labyrinth because an air current was always coming through the cave and pushing out toward the mouth. It helped to clear some of the vapors, but I knew it couldn't handle a buildup. The potential was always there for an explosion.

  "It’s a bit sweet," Matthew said. He licked his lips and held the jar before taking another swig.

  "Less berries next batch," I said.

  The first wave of humidity pressed down on the Ohio valley and I wasn't sure drinking moonshine was going to help much. The alcohol burned the chest on the way down and would have been more pleasant on a bitter December evening.

  "Look over there. Buck," Matthew said.

  I looked past the railing of our front porch and into the trees where the nocturnal creatures began to stir. I saw the deer Matthew pointed out as well as three others hiding deeper in twilight's shade.

  "He hasn't rubbed his antlers yet. Still too early," I said.

  I coughed and spit a bloody wad of mucous on the warped floorboards of the porch and used my boot to smear it around. I could see Matthew's face twisting in revulsion.

  "That ain't looking right. You okay?"

  I coughed again.

  "Haven't been feeling myself," I said.

  The Story of Brad Kile by J.C. Eggleton

  The screams never seem to stop. I watch the spray of blood and it sickens me, but I have to endure, have to push on. Flesh rips, bones break, and the soul is released. Violence burns through my veins, leaving me no more than a husk. The fire in my stomach threatens to burn its way out, consuming all before me. I swallow my hate and continue on, hoping to just make it to the end so I can tumble into black oblivion.

  I almost don't hear the knock at the door. Did I really hear it, or was it just that fucking pounding in my head? I mute the crappy old TV, letting an equally crappy CGI ghost shark continue its rampage in silence. I pause, painfully aware of the blood pulsing in my temples. The knock comes again, relieving me of the burden that comes with watching a SyFy original movie. After several attempts to stand, I lose my fight with alcohol and flop back into my chair.

  “Who is it?” I shout.

  “Package for a Mister...Brad Kile?”

  “Just leave it on the porch! I'm busy!”

  “You have to sign for it, sir.”

  “Sign my name and leave it on the porch!”

  “I can't—”

  He shuts up when an empty bottle of Dark shatters against my side of the door. Something, hopefully the package, clatters on the porch and footsteps race away. Seconds later, an engine guns and tires spin out in my driveway. Alone again, I sink back into my chemical cesspool of solitude.

  I should probably get up and see what the turdpoker was prattling on about.

  In a little bit, of course. I look at the backs of my hands, watching the veins pump toxins through my body. If I focus harder, I could probably see every muscle and bone in those hands, but what would be the point? The Buruwimai venom I had peppered the beer with was still running hot, but its power was ebbing. There might still be enough juice left, though...

  I close my eyes, letting the poison run its course. The pounding in my head, the urge to vomit, the bladder yearning to release an ocean of piss; it all fades away. The colors, the familiar signs of the real world's approach, begin to seep into the dark. It would be impossible to describe the lights to anybody who hasn't seen them. How do you describe a bluish-yellow that looks nothing like green? A shade of pink that's almost gray? Whitish-black? It's amazing to see the first time. Still amazing the second time. Around the thirtieth time, though? The fifti
eth? It gets to be pretty boring.

  I walk through this world of living light, casting a glance backwards. My body is right where I left it, gray-scale and ugly in this world of light. From Outside, I notice how skinny I look. How long have I been on this bender? When was the last time I had been out of the house? I discovered this particular blend of booze and meta-organic snake venom in June and it was now...not June. Black gods below, I needed to shape up.

  I open the front door and find the package quite easily. In the midst of a living rainbow, there's a rectangle of emptiness, a black void that seems to be killing the light around it. I watch rays of greenish blue (that looks nothing like the sea) swim through the air like a school of fish. When they reach the package, they split apart and try to swim away.

  They don't make it very far. Whatever is in the box has been touched by a darkness that disrupts the very essence of life. All of the shamanic energy that touches it decays within seconds. The sender of the package is a master of entropic horrors, abominations without names, and deaths without end.

  I grab it without hesitation, feeling a mix of excitement and loathing. I carry it back to my body, closing my eyes and letting unreality sink in. The colors continue to exist behind my eyes for a time before they fade into nothing, taking my quantum echo with them.

  I have just performed an impossible feat of magic, existing in two places simultaneously through an act of will that would have made Crowley and Schrodinger cream their pants. And I have used this to check my mail.

  I don't even have to check the package to know who sent it. Though my coven is full of necromancers and diabolists, my master is the only one who still recognizes my existence. Even then, it has been months since I've heard word from Levi. Without ceremony, I rip the package open and pour the contents into my lap.

  A letter, a photo, and Tarot card. The photo reveals an older man, probably late forties, but nobody I've seen before. The Tarot card is...Emperor. Strength, authority, strong father, warrior, power. Everything that I lack.

  Reading the letter burns the last of the booze from my veins, and I find myself painfully sober. He's passing the torch. Goddammit. Levi is looking for a replacement, and he has his eye on me. That man is crazier than a bag of badgers if he thinks the coven will allow it. He's trying to test me, to see if I'm as clever as he thinks, and why wouldn't he?

  He doesn't trust me. Hell, I wouldn't trust me. Not after Brother Phillip...but what was I supposed to do? He had been trying to commune with the Lord of the Lost. As if the witch hunters weren't running hot enough...there was no other choice. But maybe Levi had realized that? Maybe it was that ruthlessness that had made him change his mind about his wayward student?

  But what if this test was, in itself, a test of another kind? The golden florin of Abramelin the Mage. Could it really exist? A coin that had belonged to one of the greatest thaumaturges of the ancient world: such a thing had to be the old wank's idea of a lark. It didn't matter. If I bring the coin—I picked the letter up, rereading—the piece of coin to Levi, he'll grant me leadership of the coven. All I have to do is get it from—rereading—Thomas Harworth, of...Nashville, Tennessee?

  “I'm guessing you're not paying for the plane ticket, are you?! Cheap bastard!” I scream at the ceiling, crumpling the letter in my hand. How much will that cost? A commute to Sydney, then a third class ticket to what will probably be LA, then hopefully making it all the way out to Nashville? A quick Google search turns into anything but when I realize I have no idea where my desktop is. In the general direction of where I last saw it, only a mountain of bullshit remains. Magazines I don't recall subscribing to. Fast food wrappers. DVDs. Where the fuck did everything come from, and where the fuck did everything go?

  When I find the mouse, I have to follow the cord until I find the monitor behind a pile of clothes. Judging by the smell, they've been waiting to be laundered for quite some time. How long have I been drinking? I power up the Acer, basking in the smell of greatness while I wait for the Windows startup. Google. Hourglass turning, turning, turning...I check the clock while I wait and almost piss myself. I rush off to the bathroom and have a hard time not pissing on the floor. My hands are shaking too badly to hold the Wonder Weasel steady.

  It's August. I've been on this drinking binge for two months straight. Do they even make support groups for that? All the nights of ordering takeout come back to me. Paying the neighbors’ kids to go on grocery runs for me. Puking my guts out, watching shitty television all day. Two months. How am I still alive?

  I try not to look in the mirror while washing my hands, but it’s like trying not to think of a rhinoceros when someone tells you not to think of one. Eyes that once drove women crazy are sinking into their sockets. Cheek bones and ribs threaten to slice through skin that's gone an awful shade of yellow. My hair is a matted mass of tangles and grease. I look like something that crawled off the Mary Celeste.

  I force myself away from the trainwreck, head back to the computer. I dodge through the minefield of my living room and find what I was looking for. Nineteen hundred and seventy dollars. Two grand, just to get to Nashville. I do a quick inventory of my assets and realize I'm so far up Shit Creek, I've found God's asshole. I don't have anywhere near that much in the bank.

  Goddammit! My time has come, my ticket out of this shithole is right in my grasp, and I can't even grab it! I could call one of my coven brothers, but what would come from that? At best, they would laugh at me and hang up. At worse, they'll give me cancer and I'll die shitting my intestines out. No, I haven't needed charity since Levi found me living in the gutter; I'm not going back to that. Never again. I'll find a way.

  ***

  His name is Bob Coullette. He's fat and sweaty, an American on a business trip. He's a wageslave for Smithfield and is checking out the cattle Down Under. His overlords are hoping to import a large number of cattle to the States and maybe expand on their Oceanic processing plants. He's not worried about that, though. He has a wife and a mistress waiting for him back in Nebraska and he's pretty sure that whore at the strip club gave him the clap. He had pissed a lake of fire into the toilet this morning and his dick is still throbbing. She had been gorgeous, though. A black chick, skinny as a rail, probably an aborigine or something. He likes them petite and nubile; doesn’t want to worry about grabbing handfuls of ass fat when he pounds them against the wall.

  Lo and behold. That can't be her, can it? Why is she hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere? As Bob pulls over, she approaches him. That's her! It can't be anyone else! For a moment, she's hidden from view by the dust cloud of his wake, but when she emerges there's something different. It's just some other black chick, not the whore, but the resemblance is amazing. She walks up to the passenger side door and leans into the window.

  “Can you give a girl a ride to Sydney?” she asks. She flashes pearly white teeth and gorgeous blue eyes at him. Blue eyes! He's never seen them on a colored chick, not in person, at least. She's gorgeous, with sharp cheekbones and a pointed jaw. She's everything he's ever dreamed of in a woman, but what's she doing out here in the boonies? Oh god, she asked him a question. Sydney? He wasn't headed that way. But, oh Lord, when will he get another chance like this?

  Her smile broadens before he even answers. She’s stroking a necklace, some gaudy silver chain that ends in a red stone. Over and over, that thumb stroked the—is that a ruby?—red stone. Now that he looks at her, she’s wearing a lot of weird jewelry. Are those bones around her wrist? She must be some kind of freak—

  She taps a silver ring against the windshield, making it sing. He can hear the ocean in the song, the crash of waves and the music of bloated mermaids, their waterlogged tits hanging. Their song is the gurgling hiss of drowning children, an awful sound that draws him in. He starts to shake, feeling a tightness in his chest. He’s just so fucking sad; all those kids drowning without a dad to hold them. He just wants to comfort them and be their drowned father.

  The song ends.

&n
bsp; What had he been thinking? God, she’s gorgeous.

  “You can put the bags in the backseat. That's an awful lot of luggage for a little lady like you to be carrying by yourself. How long have you been waiting for a ride?”

  “Not long. I heard you coming, and here you are,” she says, flashing that dazzling smile and making his balls quiver. That red necklace again. Even when she was trying to jostle her bags into the back, she wouldn't—

  I let go of the Phoenix Eye and Bob's brain goes silent. He quickly loses interest in the stone, which is good. I don’t need him being any more suspicious than he already is. The next phase of the plan is about to be underway, once I figured out what it is.

  “So what brings you all the way out here?” he asks.

  “I was wanting to see a kangaroo. I've never seen one before. My car broke down, then you found me.” The dumbest thing to say, but who gives a shit? Bob doesn’t seem to be the kind of guy who knows anything else about Australia. Kangaroos, diseased whores, and flying sharks. That's all we boiled down to for Americans.

  “I didn't see it coming this way. Are we gonna come up on it soon?”

  “No, it was out in the sticks. Off the road. Don't worry about it.”

  “Are you sure? I can take a look at it or get it towed to—”

  “Don't worry about it.” He looks puzzled. That's not good. I put my hand on his thigh and flash my eyes at him. “It was my ex-boyfriend's. I don't want it anymore.” I smile, and he smiles, moistening his lips.

  “Did he cheat on you? Slap you around or something?”

  “Or something,” I say, looking at my feet. Gotta ham it up, make him feel like a hero. Americans love to feel like desperadoes or white knights, swooping in to save the day by killing everything that moves. I visualize the nettlebird bone bracelet around my wrist, trying to imagine my glamour. Smooth skin and hair, absolutely flawless, but she needs just a little extra. With just a little push, I could have him killing for his goddess. Accentuate thighs, amplify breasts—not too much, he doesn't like them with meat on their bones—clarify skin to provide auric glow.