Pentacle - A Self Collection Page 3

  Electricity charged the air. The hair on my arms rose and wavered, nape of my neck alive with static. I could feel the force of nature lifting its hammer back; the forest thrummed with foreboding, taking a last breath, and in that instant it seemed the crushing burst of thunder crashed before the flare of lightning. As I threw myself into the rushing current of water, I was aware of the hideous blaring of a horn. An explosion of whitewashing flame ignited the world as a stand of Doug Fir erupted twenty yards away; the tops of the trees sheared, burned, and toppled.

  I rolled against the shoulder railing, turned and saw a school bus careening madly in the curve, impossibly pressing eighty without going over the flooded, slick cliff. The driver opened the throttle and swerved, aiming for me.

  My second self rose across my back and sprang over my shoulder, yanking me forward. Dive! I flung myself sideways over the rail, holding on in the muddy rush—the precipice opening below me ended a hundred feet below. I dangled, hoping to leap and catch one of the nearest branches, but the bus grille tagged the tip of my boot and spun me back onto the blacktop. I screamed, the torrent filling my mouth as I skittered down the highway slope, tumbling, elbows tearing. Self yawped and pointed.

  Lifting my chin, I saw a busload of dead children, heads lolling, springing back and forth against the wet glass, tortured smiles and eyes wide open. The exhaust pipe burped black clouds, and the smell of blood thickened around me.

  I took a chance and fired a wild hex. No concentration, no good, not enough behind the evocation; the spell brushed against the emergency window, and a boy's meaty, blue face peered back at me.

  The bus screamed past a sign reading WINTERDANCE: POP. 2713, and rushed insanely into town.

  You're not really thinking of going there, are you? Self moaned.

  "Come on," I said.

  By the time I limped into the town square, the skies had cleared again, sun shining without a puddle in sight. Winterdance's main street was perhaps a half mile long and two car lanes wide, lined with small shops selling mostly homemade products, antiques and woodenware. There were no motels or hotels, but at the east end of town, just before the sprawl of land leading into the mountains, a boarding house resided back among the eaves. I could still smell the bus exhaust.

  A middle-aged man with thinning, rusty hair and a beer paunch sat in a rocking chair on the porch. At his feet lay a sandy-colored, rugged dog gnawing a toy, watching carefully as I approached.

  "Need a room?"

  "Yes."

  He grinned amicably. "Don't take this the wrong way, son, but the town marshal is a little strict about, ah, vagrants in our hometown."

  Town marshal? Self muttered in my ear. We just walk into Gunsmoke? Will we be driven out by the cops? Isn't this what happened to piss Rambo off in First Blood?

  "I'm not a vagrant," I said.

  Anything else I had to tell him he cut off with a firm, emphatic nod. "Nope, never thought you were, just saw you were a stranger and thought I'd spill my little piece, helps if a man knows where he stands. I'm John Bysck, this is my house, and you're welcome to sleep in the upstairs bedroom facing south"—he gestured—"and share three fine meals for thirty- five dollars a day. Less if you plan being here more than a week, any longer than that and we can work something out."

  "I'm not sure how long I'll be. A few days probably."

  "Fine. Come on in then, I'll show you around." He held the screen door open and ushered me inside, the dog brushing past our legs. "I spent a great deal of my youth going town to town. Every man should see at least some of his country before settling on his haunches to face old age." John Bysack needed little return by way of conversation; I noticed his syntax oscillated from upper-crust to folksy, with something of a European accent fading in and out. His name seemed to strike a chord, but I couldn't place it.

  Furniture polish and potpourri took hold of the air. I followed him across the parlor, which opened into a living room and dining area. A hag stone hung by a thread over the fireplace, meant to keep witches away. It shuddered and spun slowly, once, counter-clockwise in a circle. A chilly breeze worked into the room, and my demonic familiar hissed but kept quiet. You don't see many guarding charms west of the Mississippi. Someone had brought it from New England, or perhaps the British Isles, where the gallows' majik of witches' blood soaked the land itself.

  "You caught us just in time for dinner," Bysack said. "You're welcome to join us tonight if you wish, meet the family."

  "Thank you, I'll do that."

  A swinging kitchen door burst open and suddenly there was action around the dining room table, giggles and clatter; a teenage girl brought a tray of turkey in, followed by a young man carrying bowls of cooked vegetables. John Bysack cleared his throat and got their attention. "My daughter, Haley," Bysack said. "And this here's her beau, Arne Whelding. Don't be shy, make yourself comfortable."

  They moved as most young loves do, together, timed in sync, fixed in their orbits around one another. Haley had her father's rusty hair, braided in an ambitious and time-consuming style, rows of sculpted curls. The word 'elfin' rarely describes a face properly, but I could think of nothing else to cover the turn of her nose, dimpled chin, the soft blonde hair on her cheeks beneath her ears. "Here, let me get that for you." She locked my arm in hers and took my satchel from me, put it delicately in the corner and led me to a chair. "Pleased to meet you. Never more than four new faces in Winterdance a year. Yours is nicer than most, them truckers with the scrunched features, scars and cigar burns."

  Arne stood directly behind Haley and knew her movements well enough to dodge when she wheeled. He was light on his feet, thin and tall, pale but not extremely so for a woods-raised boy, carrying a shaggy black mop that couldn't be combed, gelled or moussed into place. I doubt he often tried. He would not meet my gaze directly, though he smiled and shook my hand. "How do there, sir."

  "An actual traveling man," Haley said, scooping potatoes and corn, serving me first. "On foot. Been forever since anyone's stayed in the house that wasn't born and dying in Winterdance. Most are spatting husbands on the lam till his wife forgives 'em for losing the rent in a poker game."

  A crisp, sharp sound came from Arne that took me a moment to realize was laughter. "Or else they just want a little breathing space between their wedding anniversaries, help 'em to remember what it was like being able to drink in the house. What brings you this way, sir? Where you headed?"

  I'd been thinking of how to answer that and hadn't come up with anything adequate. The dog stalked by, giving me a harsh glare.

  Soft, descending steps on the stairs made me turn. Self slinked until he was seated on my knee, and I could sense his arousal. Whoah. Cheesecake.

  "Aunt Marge, come meet our new guest," Haley called.

  "This is my sister, Margaret," Bysack said.

  Sex has its own energy, which Self sees as flowing red, sometimes black; it came off her in shimmering waves, shoving at me, and pulling. I pushed back my chair, stood and took a step to her almost without intention, drawn forward as she smiled and held out her hand. The moment our fingers touched, Self moaned and hugged our wrists. Margaret let out a nearly inaudible squeak. My throat constricted.

  No more than twenty-five, her smile had as many curves as her body: teeth flashing, mischievous grin reaching her eyes, those lips thick and exceptionally kissable. Her breasts jutted to perfection, arms tan and slightly freckled from the sun, hair black as obsidian and unfurled just past her ears. It is rare that a woman encompasses so much beauty at her very core, so that you can be enticed before you are stunned, even before realizing you are staring at someone you are already fawning over.

  Is she using a Glamour spell on me? I asked.

  No.

  My God.

  "How do you do?" I said.

  Margaret gave a deferential shrug. The rise of her shoulders completed an unknown circuit between us. "I'm sorry I missed the introductions. I'm sure you've already been told how rare it is we re
ceived strangers."

  "It's a lovely town but a bit difficult to find."

  We continued to hold hands. "You managed to do a fine job on your own."

  "I had a little help."

  That caught her off guard, and her grin softened. "Really? From whom? One of the loggers?"

  "No, just another stranger. We met on the highway."

  Shrugging again, she motioned me back to my seat. "Well, in any case, I'm glad you've joined us for dinner. Please, let's eat."

  No prayer of grace beforehand. The meal was the first home-cooked food I'd had in more than a month; the four of them proved to be naturally chatty and curious people, but not the least bit wary. The dog grunted and kept its distance, trudging across the dining room, averting its eyes. When Haley found out I'd lived in Manhattan, she quizzed me on everything from Trump Tower to St. Mark's place to the East Village and what I thought of Woody Allen. I answered her questions honestly; I still liked Allen. Arne did not take offense to his girlfriend's interest in me, quite possibly because he was mature enough to understand she wasn't interested in me at all.

  Margaret, though, apparently was, and kept looking at me with sidelong glances, asking several times to redefine my reasons for being in Winterdance; I smiled back and evaded the question no matter how often she tried to loop it over my neck. Bysack finally said, "Marge, you're getting on my nerves a little." She pooh-poohed him and began clearing the table, brushing against my bare arm as often as possible, demure yet aggressive. Soon, I began sweating and each of her touches raised my heart rate another notch. Self panted, the sex rolling in and out like a crimson-black tide. "Mysterious," Margaret whispered at me, taking my plate away. "Like something out of a book." The dog snorted.

  Moon bloated full, the storm returned that night. I wondered which of us would crack first—Margaret, Self, me or the dog. Close to midnight she came to my room; I'd left the door ajar, and she breezed past in the hallway, as if only on her way to the bathroom, even though it was on the second floor.

  "You must be tired, but I just thought maybe you'd like some company for a while." Rain pounded into the gutters, the breeze sending the curtains dancing. Margaret came in and shut the window. "There, that's better. You never know with this house where the wicked drafts will sneak up on you. Get that wetness in your joints and you walk around creaking for the next thirty years."

  "Thank you."

  She stood beside me, hands clasped behind her back, looking down at the floor as she toed a small rip in the carpet, chin to her chest in a self-conscious maneuver. "Not much to tell about us, living here, believe me, just hearing about it would bore you stiff, much less living it." An embarrassing moment, all of it was here: the small town, the lovely lady, the worldly traveler, immediate attraction, and now, the opening opportunity for affection. She raised her gaze and took another step closer.

  "Actually," I said. "I'm pretty tired."

  Self hopped and arched over me. Are you crazy?

  "Oh." Margaret made it sound as if she'd been shot, the blade stuck deeply in her back, not so little girl anymore. Her eyes steeled and, behind them and within them, for only a second, rage swirled, and then that particular window to her soul shut against a different wicked draft. She was suddenly warm and understanding, smiling again. "Okay, then . . . I'll let you get your rest. Talk to you in the morning."

  "Good night."

  An hour later, I looked out the window and saw the bus cruising down main street, children agape, the driver remaining in shadow. The horn blared mournfully, calling. Near dawn I went down, prepared to hurl Cabalistic words of power—Adonai and Elohim, two syllables in the hidden name of Jehovah—but the bus turned around and vanished back the way it came. Headlights igniting shops, it shrieked down the distant darkness of the west side of town, full of dread.

  Any ideas? I asked.

  Self murmured, One. Nail the cheesecake and let's get out of here.

  About who the driver is?

  My familiar settled on my throat, and sighed long and disgustedly. Nobody from the lower orders. Aztoreth, maybe, or one of the minion tormentors. Perhaps even that fake bastard Aleister. We'd run into Crowley twice before, who became a great deal more in hell than he had been as a pretender in the world, but he still had the strength to return. Amazing how many devils abhor hell. It's going to be bad without blood. Maybe, if you take the girl, Haley, now . . . . Laughter bit into my skull.

  Stow it.

  But she's so fuzzy.

  Enough.

  We're in the right place for a wellspring of blood. That cheesecake's gonna cost.

  I know.

  His temptations were growing stronger, or else I'd become more vulnerable to them around a beautiful woman. Loneliness remained my innate human weakness. For the first time, his whimpering songs disturbed me as he crawled over my back, his mouth watering at his thoughts—or perhaps at mine. I didn't understand how he knew about Gunsmoke and Rambo. What had they taught him in the corridors of Purgatory? How much had my second self taken from me?

  In the morning, Haley swept the floor; the hag stone had shattered during the night, sending dust and splinters across the floor. We played checkers after breakfast, and I taught her the rudiments of chess. At noon, Arne came in and sat by her side, watching in confusion. "I just don't get this game. Why's the knight gotta move like that. It's so weird and different from all the others."

  "I like it," Haley told him. "Sorta as if the horse is leaping, y'know, prancing across the board."

  "I still don't get it, making only L's. And why should the castle move? Doing that little thing with the king. You'd think . . . ."

  "Arne, c'mon," she said, "it's only a game. You think checkers makes sense, jumping back and forth? Football? Cowpie slinging? Log rolling?"

  John Bysack and Margaret were gone for most of the day, and returned towards evening, the dog trotting and grimacing between them. Arne took Haley to the movies, a romantic comedy that had come out a year or so ago. Bysack sat on the couch and shook his head, as if he'd had a hard day doing rough work. "I gotta tell you about those boys over in front of the rifle store. They sit out there all day long and talk about semi-automatic weapons and bazookas. You ever fired a bazooka? I know about its range, case I ever need to blow up something a half mile off. I'll give you the information before you leave."

  I smiled. "Never know when it might come in handy."

  "You wouldn't think listening to six men talk about putting the head of the NRA up for president would tire you out, would you? It surely did me." That European lilt entered and retracted from his speech, adding a subtle twist on the end of his interrogatory sentences.

  Margaret brought us both glasses of beer, having poured one for herself. "You could join the sewing circle like me. Today Madge Sinclair started crocheting a blanket that she estimates will take her two years to complete. She intends to leave it to her grandchildren, provided she lives long enough and her arthritis doesn't make it impossible to finish. That's a true heirloom in every sense of the word."

  "'Less there's someone," Bysack said, "who wants to blow it up from a half mile away."

  Margaret laughed, a kind, friendly giggle, life not quite so boring as she'd made it out to be. She sipped her beer, and Bysack sipped his. I brought mine to my lips.

  That night, the torture started in my groin, like scissors trying hard to snap shut. I sat in lotus position on the bed, concentrating, hands clasped, fingers interlaced, pinkies straight out, thumbs to my chest over my heart. Someone was using an aguilette against me—knotted thread meant to cause impotence or satanic castration. The words of a repelling curse came to me in two dead languages.

  Was it the beer? Self asked.

  No, I didn't drink it. This is a ligature.

  He clucked at me. Why are you even playing this game?

  There's a lot going on here, and I still don't know what I'm dealing with. You haven't been much help.

  Pain intensified until I unleashe
d an Assyrian gematria, the sound vibrations working against the ligature, unwinding it wherever it lay tightening in the house. There was no way to feign ignorance now, for me or anyone else. The bus engine roared in the street.

  Downstairs, Haley screamed.

  I ran to the door and found myself locked in, astral serpents guarding the confines of the room, with the walls suddenly alive and squirming. You should have warned me!

  Self roved. A nice set of restrictive spells.

  Wood crackled. I pressed my shoulder against the door and it remained shut; I shoved harder, the snakes rising and biting, blood in my mouth as I chewed into my cheek. Self spit on my fists and they began to glow. Raising my hands over my head, I drew a pentagram of Solomon in the air, fired at the knob, and heard a shout below from Bysack's bedroom. The door swung open.

  Completely silent, the house remained dark as I ran down the stairs. At Bysack's door Self flew off my shoulder and a litany web exploded in a burst of black static. I said, About time you did something.

  I advise you, but you never listen. Look at this guy now. I have more to say but you'll ignore me. Leave the chump and his imps here, let's move out.

  Bysack sat on the floor with his shirt off, six snails feeding on the six teats of his chest. Self was right, they were unformed imps. The dog, though, lay and sucked at his back. It let go and rose on its haunches, blood and milk flowing from its fangs. Ears folded back and snarling at me it said, "Fool," and leaped. I backhanded it with my burning fists and sent it to the floor.

  Take care of this abomination.

  Finally you let me have some fun. Self lunged, reaching for its eyes and mauling as the two came snapping and rolling together.

  Bysack held his hands over his face, the imps moving sluggishly in the sweat of his chest. "You know not what you do," he said, his English accent coming on full. "They taunted and tormented us, based on no more accusations than the ravings of hysterical children."