B00N1384BU EBOK Page 7

  It's not working. No matter how hard I push, the door won't budge. I can hear Harworth's song rising from behind the door as his spell gains power, filling my heart with panic and rage. Only the sorcerer behind the door can open it, and he's not gonna do so willingly.

  The idea strikes all versions of me at the same time. We all stop pushing at once and strike the door with every version of the Ring of Archatapias. A singing fills the air, a force that threatens to drown out Harworth's spell. It crashes over the room in a wave, the force of all our incanting combining to form something more beautiful and terrible than I can imagine. And Harworth...and Harworth...

  Harworth continues singing. I don't understand his words, but they fill me with rage. All the copies of me shiver with hatred, and it has a presence all of its own. They look at one another with disgust, but I'm the object of outright loathing. They press in around me, grabbing handfuls of me and pulling. My shoulders and hips, my elbows and knees: they all creak as the clones start to pull me apart.

  But it never happens. They're dragging me. The song of the mermaids blends with the skald's outside, but they don't drown one another out. They complement each other, forming an orchestra that sings a song of vengeance. The others drag me to a wall and slap shackles on my wrists and ankles. I shriek at them to stop, that they're killing us all, but they won't listen. They've become lost in the music and are now my foes.

  Water is pouring into the room, filling it to our ankles. I kick and buck and spit, but it's no use. I can't get out of the shackles. I can see the mermaids rising from the depths, bloated carcasses of all those who have been lost. The sea of bodies presses forward, their faces twisted with rage.

  At the front of the crowd, looking at me with hatred and depthless sorrow, is a familiar face. I look into Phillip's eyes and know that he's finally been avenged.

  The Story of Jean Vinet by Michaelbrent Collings

  “Do you love me?”

  “Oui, my dear.”

  “How much?”

  “More than life.”

  The answer seems to satisfy her. She does not press for which life, and so I do not reveal that I love her more than her life, which means very little to me. She is my meal for the evening, my bed for the night, my pleasure for the taking.

  The girl – I have already forgotten her name – is pleasant enough to look at. They always are. I deserve no less, and so demand exactly that.

  I wonder sometimes if I could get this amount of love, this amount of creature comfort, of sex and joy and the gifts they all shower me with, without the magic. Then I look at myself in the mirror – tall, handsome, with thick black hair and a gaze that makes love to women in their tracks and drives them to their knees before me – and the answer is obvious. Of course I would.

  Still, the magic makes it easier. And easier pleases me as well.

  “Do you really love me?”

  And now it’s become, quite suddenly, a bore. I trace a figure on the bedspread and she falls asleep. I get out of the bed, which has grown hot with activity and sticky with sweat. There is no mirror in this room – odd for a beautiful woman – so I draw a sigil on the floor. I used to need my grimoire and chalk to complete the magical drawings, but like everything else about me my knowledge has neared perfection. I am the grimoire – the book is within my mind in its entirety, and all its magic is mine to command.

  The sigil glows on the floor and a length of mercury appears, covering the woman’s wall. I dress in front of it. It pleases me to watch my twin do so. He is the only one who understands me, the only one who approaches me in any way.

  I leave. I do not kiss the woman, but I take the money from her purse, and what few jewels she has in her bureau drawers, on her fingers, and in her ears. She will notice them gone and know that I took them, and the loss will remind her sweetly of me.

  She has a second-story walkup that reminds me of many of the flats in my beloved Paris. The memories are good ones – all my memories are – but the haze of pleasant remembrances almost causes me to miss the letter laying on the landing halfway down the stairs.

  It is… arresting.

  The envelope is old. It curls at the edges, and looks leathery. Like it is made not of paper or even linen.

  Skin.

  And I know that is right. Just as I know what kind of skin it is.

  Interesting.

  More interesting is the fact that it has my name on it.

  Jean Vinet

  2451 Aims Street

  First/Second Floor Stairway

  The Landing

  Omaha, Nebraska

  No one knows I am here. No one ever knows.

  Except….

  I open the envelope. It is soft as expected. Soft as a newborn. I shudder, and am not sure if it is pleasure or loathing that grips me.

  The first thing that falls from the envelope is a card. Its back is to me, so I flip it around. The card is now upside down, so I turn it.

  A tarot.

  I recognize it instantly: after all, it is a woman. The tarot is the High Priestess. A tarot that typically signifies wisdom, the recipient’s wise reliance on his or her intuition, sometimes a need to get in touch with one’s femininity.

  When received in an inverted position it can mean hidden agendas, things unknown, superficial understandings.

  I move on to the next object, the only other thing in that exquisite and disquieting envelope. A letter. Written on the same unpaper as the envelope, and as I read it my hands start to tremble. The tarot flutters from nerveless fingers, falling to the floor facedown as the woman was for most of the night. Discarded and no longer important.

  My moment – my great opportunity – is here. I knew it would come, but this fast?

  Still, the nature of the opportunity – and challenge – surprises me. Levi has given me the opportunity to prove my worthiness; to ascend to the coven leadership by challenging another warlock named Shen Fin? To steal a magic artifact held by Shen Fin, a piece of a gold florin?

  I read over the information provided about this Shen Fin. It is spare.

  There is not much known. Typically wears short brown hair, glasses. Works as a mechanical engineer at a Boeing Company R&D office located in Charleston, West Virginia.

  Member of Coven of the Heibai Wuchang. Will not surrender florin piece willingly.

  Extremely dangerous.

  Extremely dangerous, eh?

  I am on the next plane out of Omaha. I don’t have enough money for the flight, but that’s not a problem. It’s never hard to find what I need. Women lurk even in male-dominated industries. I find a pilot who suits my needs. A small sigil and we are in a bathroom stall, having a quick bit of fun. Then we are away. I even get to ride in the cockpit. She smiles the whole way. The copilot does not – I think he might be her husband – but those small inconveniences build character, no?

  It is only a short hop to Charleston. Not long, but long enough to gather my thoughts. To plan.

  I do not know much about the warlocks of the Hebai Wuchang. No one does. They are a secretive bunch, even for warlocks. Rumor has it they are unusual in that they are religious fanatics. Something about guarding the underworld, and they cannot become members unless they possess not only magical skills but certain rare physical qualities.

  And then I remember something that makes me jump.

  “Are you all right, um….” The pilot looks at me. She blushes most prettily, then continues, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “What?” The copilot starts screaming. “You don’t even know his name? What’s gotten into you, Jeri? What kind of slut –” He is screaming so loudly he is likely to give himself a heart attack, which would be sad. Besides, it is hard to concentrate when he yells like this. A sigil on the nearest surface calms him down and shuts him up.

  “I am fine, mon ami,” I say to the pilot. “Do be a dear and don’t talk to me anymore.”

  “Of course,” she titters.

  I r
eturn to my musings.

  The Hebai Wuchang are not mere fanatics. Not mere guardians. They believe themselves each to be half white, half black. Not in the sense that they are of mixed race – each is pure Chinese, I believe. But they each guard the gates to Heaven and to Hell. Each takes the righteous and the wicked to their final destination, according to their desserts.

  More important, they give something to the most worthy.

  A piece of gold.

  A florin fragment, perhaps?

  It fits.

  Why else would I be sent to Shen Fin? Why else would he belong to the Hebai? Why else would he be the one to have the florin?

  It fits.

  And am I worthy enough to receive their gift? Without a doubt.

  The rest of the trip passes in blissful silence. The pilot and her husband (not for long, I suspect, poor thing, but then it’s obvious their relationship was never very strong) are focused on their tasks thanks to my sigils.

  I am silent, though I have my own company to keep. Most pleasant.

  My plans are simple.

  Shen Fin works at an office. An office. Could it get any simpler?

  Many warlocks choose not to keep a “normal” life. Many that do find it either too difficult to balance the “secret” with the “real” – most that do aren’t even sure which is which. But some enjoy the challenge. Some think it important to hide in plain sight.

  Some are just strange.

  Regardless, it makes Shen an easy target. He will go to and from the same place every day. Easy to spot. Easy to attack at a time and place most advantageous to myself.

  The only catch is his sex.

  I am most adept at enchanting women. Easy to see why. But my spells – the greater ones, at least – have never been nearly as strong when cast upon men. I have passed a good deal of very enjoyable time in China. Shen is a man’s name, without question. And the Chinese do not, as the Americans say, “dick around” with such things. Men are named Men names, Women are named Women names. There is no equivalent of “Pat” or “Charlie” or “Alex” in Chinese.

  Plus: short hair, mechanical engineer. Not even a lesbian could be that manly, eh?

  So a man. And thus my weakness. Or at least my less-strength.

  That is clearly what the tarot card meant. A clue that I would have to develop my – ahem – femininity. If I am to drive a powerful warlock to his knees, I will have to bone up a bit on the sigils that focus on masculine attack.

  Perhaps I can remember a sigil that cuts off Shen’s penis. Not many men, warlock or otherwise, can continue a fight when their manhood itself is in a bloody heap before them. Or bloody puddle, depending on how well or poorly that man is endowed.

  I grin as I get off the plane. I am enjoying this idea more and more.

  I have no place to stay. An accommodating girl at the front desk of the nicest hotel in the city very kindly rectifies this issue. And even more kindly accompanies me to the room to spend an hour or two. She brings a friend.

  It is not hard to find this Boeing place. I get a car – no time for seduction, just a sigil on the side of a Mercedes’ door and she opens wide for me – and drive to it.

  The place is sealed tight. Understandable, I suppose. This is a place that designs planes both commercial and military. Highly secret both.

  I wait. I watch. I cannot enter the parking lot without a pass, so I draw a sigil – this time on myself – and can now see the main entrance. When my attention flags another sigil gives the taste and effect of a cup of French café. Not the stuff you get here in America, either, which tastes like someone filtered crap through a pot of muddy water and served it in a dirty cup. No, good strong café noir. Perks you right up.

  I also look into myself. Into the grimoire. It has been ages since I delved this deeply into the book of sigils that I consumed so long ago. It was painful to do, an excruciating process to take a book full of the signs and signals of pleasure and pain and make them one with my very soul. But now I can access them at will. It is what makes me a Master. A warlock above all warlocks.

  The sigils are divided into power centers. Some work better against the old, some against the young. Some against the weak-willed, some against the strong. There is even a division of sigils that function against the dead as opposed to those that work against the living. Not what you would think, though – it just means that some function against trees and bushes and whatnot and some are for use on things like the lovely car in which I now sit.

  Then, bien sûr, there are those that work against men and those that work against women.

  Now, is Shen old or young? I want to target him as closely as possible. The more tailored the sigil, the stronger the effect.

  My body suddenly feels hot. Tingling like there are a million tiny pins jabbing me up and down my spine. Not entirely unpleasant. I realize that the sensation is my subconscious – as well-developed as the rest of me – alerting me that Shen has just left the office building.

  There is little doubt it is him. Short black hair, glasses. With another sigil I can see the badge clipped to his belt. It says “Shen” in large black letters under his picture.

  I watch him. He goes to a Prius (of course) and cruises out.

  I follow him. Smiling. I have found several spells inside me that I think will work very well. Focused not only on his age and sex but on his regional descent. The grimoire is not bigoted, but it is aware that genetics plays a part – even in magic.

  I am an expert in covert surveillance. I place a sigil and the Mercedes blends into the background. I turn on the radio as I follow Shen – but only for a moment. The owner of this thing has appalling taste in music. Every radio preset is tuned to country, and there is no satellite subscription. Cheapskate.

  Shen turns into a new spot, and my heart both soars and saddens.

  The place is what is termed a “gentleman’s club” in this part of the world. Which means it is not a whorehouse – pity – but only a place where lonely men and men who haven’t the means to secure actual companionship go to watch women prostrate themselves before them. But the conquest is only pretend. A pitiful state of affairs, if you will pardon the pun.

  Still, at least this Shen has some balls, if sadly underutilized. Some warlocks are so immersed in their art they are nearly monks. And sadder than a man with no ability to secure a woman is a man who is not really a man at all, n’est-ce pas?

  Most important of all, the entrance and exit to the club is on the side of the building. There is no bouncer or guard. And Shen parks far to the back of the lot, alone. Not unusual for someone who feels himself above this kind of entertainment, or for someone ashamed of his inability to triumph over the gentle sex.

  It is perfect.

  I park the Mercedes in a well-lit part of the lot. Get out. Another sigil ensures that the Mercedes will have engine trouble for the next two years, but that no mechanic will be able to find its cause. I consider this justice for the sin of country music.

  Then I go to the shadows.

  There is a tree nearby. I piss against it – no fun to be in a battle with a full bladder – and then wait.

  Shen comes out a surprisingly short time later.

  Perhaps not so surprising. He doesn’t strike me as the type with much staying power.

  He goes to his car. Opens the door and has one foot inside.

  Now, I will tell you this: the way it is in the movies is the stupidest thing ever. You know, where the one guy steps out and says, “I’ve come for you,” and then they start to fight. Tres idiot. Why give the other man a chance to fight back?

  The way you really want to do it is the way I do it now: my sigil was already mostly finished. So when Shen is halfway into the car and almost unable to move I swipe my finger in the dirt at the base of my piss-tree and attack from the darkness.

  Another thing the movies get wrong: there are few spells that kill outright. Sorry, Monsieur Harry Potter. No waving the wand and the other man keels ove
r dead.

  But there are alternatives.

  The spell I have chosen is one designed to paralyze a man. And if the man is reasonably young and Chinese or Japanese or some other Oriental, then the paralysis will be so complete his lungs and his heart and the blood flow to his brain will be affected.

  Not instantaneous death. But about six seconds after it hits the Chinaman is a vegetable. Ten seconds later his soul flits away on wings of angels, oui?

  It works. Shen stiffens. He trembles once, and then falls to the pavement.

  Now is actually the most difficult part of the operation. I need to move quickly before anyone else comes out of the strip club and sees me. I can deal with anyone who does, but it will be a pain. Messy and inconvenient, and I despise messes and inconvenience.

  I rush to Shen. Flip him over. Begin patting down his pockets. Ten seconds have gone by, he is motionless, gone. I smirk.

  The florin piece must be on his person. There is no way a warlock tasked with protecting something like that would ever let it be away from him.

  Not in his pants pockets.

  His shirt is the stereotypical garb of an engineer: short sleeves. Pockets stuffed with pens. I yank the pens out of one, and it is otherwise empty.

  I turn to the other one. Glance at the still-silent door to the club. Back down to the pocket. I have to brush Shen’s hair away from the pocket.

  Nothing but pens. Merde!

  I am about to stand, but I freeze.

  Shen’s hair was across the pocket?

  But Shen’s hair is short. The letter said so. And I saw it.

  I look back down. I feel like my neck bones have been replaced by rusty screws. The motion is slow.

  The hair. Not short. At least, not anymore.

  Long and dark, straight but lustrous even in the shadows. Trailing over Shen’s shoulders in long strands. Spread around his head.

  His eyes are open.

  He winks at me.

  And I feel the pain.

  I look down. Shen holds the jade hilt of a dagger. The blade is invisible, buried in my gut. Blood runs over his hand. He twists the dagger, and another gout of red floods out.