Incubi

His stocks jumped today, and I really need to get ahold of him. It’s very important.”

“You’re his broker but you don’t have his number?”

Shit! Stupid! Think! “I only have his office number, I’m afraid, and he’s left for the night. This really is very important.”

The operator paused. Then: “991-0199.”

“Thank you very much.” Jack hung up and dialed again. There was a strange, distant ticking. Then: “The Bell Atlantic portable cellular phone you have dialed is not in service at this time. Please call again later.”

Jack slowly hung up. This is some bizarre shit. Why would Khoronos relay calls through a message center to a portable phone? There would always be an alternate number for when the phone was turned off. Now Jack was in the same trick bag as the bank. He could contact Bell Atlantic and ask for the customer service address but they’d never give it to him without a warrant or subpoena.

All this hassle for squat, he thought. He’d run out of alternatives.

Or had he?

He checked to make sure everything he’d touched was in its proper place and turned off all the lights. Then he left.

And as he turned onto Forest Drive and drove away, he considered his final alternative.

You’ve already illegally entered one apartment tonight. So why not make it an even two?

Chapter 27

“Sacred Father, Father of the Earth.”

“Enrich us.”

“Your will is our blessing, your spirit our flesh.”

“Mortal as we are, sanctify us.”

“Our love is to serve you. Accept our love and give us grace.”

“Unto you, we pray. Deliver us.”

“Receive our prayer, O Father of the Earth. Carry us away from the hands of our enemies, and protect us. Give us strength to do your will, and smile upon us.” The aorist held up the jarra. “Accept our sacrifices as a sign of our love.” The aorist held up the dolch. “Accept our gifts as a sign of our faith.” The aorist set the objects back on the altar and raised his hands.

The surrogoti also raised their hands.

“To you we give our faith forever, Father.”

“Pater terrae—”

“—per me terram ambula.”

“Baalzephon, hail!”

“Aorista!”

The Prelate’s black raiments billowed into the nave. Hooded, his face wavered in candlelight. He felt risen, radiant in love.

“Go!” he whispered.

The surrogi, nude and drenched in sweat, stepped off the points of the holy Trine, their heads bowed in reverence. The fresh cuts on their chests — their own blood offerings — glimmered red as slivers of rubies. They turned and hurried out of the nave.

The Prelate dropped to his knees at the Trine’s high star. He lowered and kissed the star, his lips coming away whitened by the powder of crushed bones of priests murdered eons ago.

“Soon, Father,” he whispered. The floor felt hot. The candlelight danced like gossamer veils, or lit faces in the air—

“Soon,” the Prelate whispered. “Again.”

— and back into the earthworks his god took him, the sleek beautiful black bird sailing down and down into the impossible inverted heights rimmed by ramparts of obelisks and ancient dolmens and thrones of kings, ever downward floating in deafening silence and the lovely music of screams over chasms of blood and roasted flesh and heap upon heap of squirming corpses as ushers peeled away living faces and pried open heads and split bellies to reveal the soft, hot treasure of their eternal feast.

Ever downward, yes, of the sweet, sweet black of chaos.

Chapter 28

“Has Jack been in?” Faye asked, briefcase in tow. “He’s not at his office, and he’s not home.”

Craig was crafting a perfect shamrock shape into the head of a pint of Guinness. “He was in earlier, but he left. Didn’t say where he was going.”

It was still early, not much of a crowd. Faye sat down at the end of the bar and sighed.

“Jack’s not on the case anymore,” Craig said.

“What?”

“They suspended him today.”

Faye felt incredulous, shocked. “Sus—why?”

Craig pointed to the TV. “Just watch. Here it comes again.”

It was the six o’clock news. “The Triangle case,” the newscaster kept saying. “Three ritual murders in a week.” The case had blown, and it had blown bad. The news made it look like it was the police department’s fault the murders had been committed, and now some man named Gentzel was passing the buck to Jack. “Captain Cordesman has been suspended from active duty,” the man said as they flashed a picture of Jack, “pending successful completion of the county alcohol program. Unfortunately he was assigned the case before his superiors knew he had a problem.”

“Pretty low-rent, huh?” Craig suggested.

“It’s awful. He was doing the best he could.”

“Those guys don’t care. They needed a fall guy for when the news found out, and Jack was right there.”

Faye could imagine how bad Jack felt. He’s probably getting plastered right now. But what could she do? She didn’t even know where he was. “Was he drinking when you saw him?”

“Nope. Said he was going to quit. His whole career’s on the line now. This time I think he’ll do it.”

Faye hoped so. And where did this leave her? Was she still on the case? Who was she to give her research to?

“Have a drink.”

“No, really, I—” She thought about it, “Sure,” she decided. “One of those big bottles I had last time.” After this, in addition to all the horrible stuff she’d read today, she figured she was entitled to a good drunk.

Next, a couple strolled in. Before Craig could take their order, they were sitting at a corner table, kissing. “You kids drinking tonight, or just here to eat face?” Craig inquired. The couple laughed, snuggling. Faye tried to remember the last time she’d been kissed. A year, she thought: A year.

“Tell me about this girl Jack used to see,” she asked when Craig returned from the floor. “Veronica.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of male confidentiality?”

“No. Just tell me about the girl.”

“Ask him.”

“He won’t talk about it.”

“It’s not my place to talk about his business.”

Faye laughed snidely. “Bartenders talk about everybody’s business, and don’t give me that male confidentiality crap.”