The main problem with this is, of course, that even though I was the one who insisted that "no, no, ten pages is way too much to expect of people" I am now writing a story that I think will peak at around 15-20 pages, which'll take longer than I expected, and so my initial self-proclaimed deadline ("it'll be done before New Year's!") is looking more and more like a pipe dream. Still, I think I have something to show for it, and I can prove it too: by giving you the first half of the story. So, here goes. I just hope that after two years it's coming out in a way that other people will like. I know I do.
Oh, yeah, and you people who know what the plot's about: no spoilers!
Prologue
The warehouse was large, dark, badly heated and thus cold. Rusty beams held up a roof of corrugated metal so old it had entirely gone in some places. In those places, Michigan winter snow tumbled down onto the floor, forming small drifts on concrete that had not been cleaned in years. The warehouse hadn't seen a human occupant for years: near the end of the last century its previous owner had gone bankrupt and hanged himself from the storeroom rafters. The crows had gotten to him a week before the police did. Ownership of the warehouse had fallen to the Florida bank that mortgaged the property, which had promptly forgotten all about its existence, leaving the structure to rot at the edge of one of Crowtalon City's many dilapidated industrial zones.
There were a few boxes and crates scattered around the warehouse, filled with odds and ends that used to belong to the business that used to not-so-thrive here. They were the spectacularly useless odds and ends: the bits the creditors hadn't cared for after the bankruptcy, and which even the vagrants and drifters that had come later hadn't fancied. Someone had parked an old broken-down Buick in the corner, probably just to get rid of it. The car had been on the receiving end of a ghetto pit-stop, leaving nothing but a slowly rusting frame jacked up on some apple boxes.
Clearly here was a place that had been abandoned by its owner and everyone who might possibly care for it, a place so deserted and cold even the homeless didn't care to shack up there. And yet, somebody had. In the back of the warehouse a small circle had been drawn on the ground with white chalk. Within the circle the uneven concrete had been carefully cleared of dust and snow. Cuneiform symbols, the kind that seemed to move a little when you looked at them from the corner of your eye, had been drawn around the inside of the circle in a pattern of dizzying complexity.
A vixenish voice uttered a Word, and Power thrummed through the warehouse. Glass panes rattled melodically in the few remaining windows as sorcerous energy spilled into the room and into the chalk circle. Static electricity sparked and crackled, forming blue arches that licked up from the ground, coursing and surging up the beams of rusty iron that held up what remained of the roof. Raw energy cascaded through the room, infusing the chalk circle with ethereal force. The temperature in the warehouse began to rise as torrents of power popped and fizzed through the warehouse, melting snow and playing off what remained of the old Buick's steering column.
The voice started a melodic chanting, shaping the energy and bending it to her will. With a single Command what had been a simple chalk enclosure became a magical conducting ring, a summoning circle of a peculiar design, from which Power seeped into the cuneal writings. The strange symbols transformed into dancing patterns of silvery ectoplasm, writhing in the air and glowing with increasing brightness even as the light of the stars began to dim. Space inside the warehouse seemed to shrink even as the circle seemed to grow in a relative manner, turning actuality inside-out like a fun-house mirror reflection.
The chanting reached a fever pitch. And within the circle, fading in from Somewhere Else, an incredibly cranky presence began to take shape.
One
The city skyscrapers were defiant fists rising up against a darkening sky, well-lit silhouettes juxtaposed against the setting sun. Fluttering among them were the great city's namesakes, dark swirling murders of crows hunting desperate pigeons like aerial hyenas in the winter afternoon. The hunter crows were an odd ecological phenomenon, one that excited biologists and bird-watchers alike but failed to interest any of the city's three or so million inhabitants. Except maybe for one.
Just beyond the tendrils of the great city and its suburban sprawl, on a forested flatland bordering Lake Michigan, sprawled a gigantic complex of buildings wholly out of place not just in this city, but on this continent and indeed in this time. The stupendous 247 acre-covering recreation of the ancient Egyptian temple-complex of Karnak had been lauded as an exercise in excess that would've made the Carnegies and Vanderbults blush, and had been vilified by architectural and archaeological critics. For better or worse it was the private residence of one of the world's richest individuals.
Jurgen Baccara stood silently watching, hands clasped behind his back, at the top floor of what in Ancient Egypt would've been the Temple of Amun-Re. In this time and space, it was an eclectically furnished office. The last Pharaoh was nearly two thousand years dead but Ancient Egypt lived on in this strange mansion: from the office-doors, framed by lotus-topped columns and bronze sphinxes to the vague odor of linseed oil, the tesserae walls and the enormous desk, carved out of a single block of Nubian marble. But Jurgen was nothing if not practical, and so there were Chippendale bookcases, a Wright reading table covered in newspapers, soothing orange electric lights instead of torches on the walls, thick Persian carpets on the floor, a series of computers scattered all over and a gigantic plasma television mounted on a wall, and tuned to a muted CNN business program.
Right now, the industrial mogul paid little attention to the room, being instead content to watch the crows twirl and spin through the artificial canyons of the downtown area. He did not turn, not even when the thick sycamore doors swung open and his closest confidante entered. Susannah Nixon held a linen handkerchief against her nose to stem the bleeding. “Did you feel that?” she mumbled, her voice muffled underneath the blood-stained handkerchief.
Her employer, teacher and the closest thing she had to a friend nodded slowly. “I felt it. It tickled a little.”
“Well that puts things in perspective.” His protege sounded peeved. “I just had three arithmantic state systems blow up in my face from that. I worked on those damn things for weeks.” He looked closer at her face, and noticed minor scorch-marks on her pale skin and several singed strands of blond hair. That elicited a smirk, which earned him a scowl in return. “Don't look at me like that. What the hell just happened?”
He shrugged. “That was the ripple effect of a particularly impressive piece of spellwork. Popped off quite nearby too, if I had to guess. It's like we were caught in the magical equivalent of the wake of a supersonic aircraft, or the blast-wave of a-”
She sniffed and threw up her hands, interrupting him. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I've always been partial to 'as if a million voices cried out and were suddenly silenced', myself.” She did a bad job miming a posh English accent. “Enough with the cute little analogies, what I wanna know is who's throwing major-league magic around in our town?” She paused mid-rant to follow his gaze, then arched an eyebrow “And why are you looking at the crows?”
“They remind me of someone,” Jurgen smiled, and his voice took on a distinctly dreamy quality.
“They do?” she threw an unconvinced look out the window. “She must've been a real charmer then.”
He looked at her, a little startled. The ability to surprise him was one of the things he liked about Susannah. Not many people could manage it these days. “What makes you think I'm talking about a woman?”
She rolled her eyes. “Jurgen please. I've known you longer than today. This mystery woman of yours, she wouldn't have anything to do with my headache, would she now?”
A frown creased his brow. “Quite possibly,” he admitted. “You felt it, this was sloppy spellwork. Major, but sloppy: improperly grounded, poorly focused... I bet dozens of wannabe-witches all over the city are suffering from migraine now. Stephenson or Lamb wouldn't cast like that, plus if they were in town we'd have known. Old man Luft used to roll like this...”
“But he's been dead since '81,” Susannah added pointedly. “And his son isn't this overt.”
“Quite. That leaves the Sultan...” Baccara began to count on his fingers
“Who never leaves Arabia...”
“... Mr. Lindberg...”
“No, we're keeping eyes on him. He's in Denmark chasing down a band of panty-thief trolls or something.”
“... Mr. Richards...”
“Flagrant spectacles are not exactly his thing...” She etched air-quotes to accentuate the last word.
“... Miss Duvalier...”
“The lady-warlock has a function at Gargoyle Manor tonight, and I doubt the Queen has any tolerance for international incidents...”
“... Anthony's little girl...”
“Contained and not currently on this continent.”
“Well that narrows it down quite a bit, doesn't it?” Jurgen sighed. The tycoon turned away from the window and sat down in the leather chair behind his marble desk. “Truth is, there just aren't that many people with this kind of power. And yes, the pomp, the flair, the vulgar waste of energy... That does feel like my Constance. But... I'm not sure.” He drummed his fingers on the armrest. “You know what, tell our informants in the city to keep an eye out for anything unusual.” He considered that briefly, then smiled. “Or rather, this being Crowtalon City, tell them to keep an eye out for anything more unusual than usual. If they find anything I want to know right away.”
Susannah nodded curtly. “You got it boss.” She turned and left, closing the sycamore doors behind her. He reflected that the ability to know when not to ask awkward questions, to know when he didn't feel like talking about something, that was another quality he liked in her.
Outside in the world the sun had now well and truly sunk beneath the horizon. Snow tumbled out of the sky, a white miasma that blurred the million million lights of Crowtalon City in the distance. Scratching his perfectly trimmed black goatee, Jurgen frowned and rotated the chair toward the wall-sized window. “Constance, Constance...” he murmured to no-one in particular. “What are you up to this time?”
Two
Even though Jurgen was something of a habitual early bird – one is expected to be if one insists on running a business empire – there were strict limits to his tolerance of the wee hours before dawn. So when he was awakened by his bedroom phone merrily chiming ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’ at four in the morning, that in his opinion did not at all classify as a good start of the day. Moaning a luckily incomprehensible curse he leaned over the sleeping bodies of the three naked women in his king-size four-poster bed and grabbed the gold-festooned handset off the hook. Finding the proper button in the near-dark, he muttered a soft ‘Yes?’ in the phone, only to be greeted by the crystal-clear (and completely unsympathetic) voice of Susannah Nixon.
“This is your wake-up call,” his aide said with a tinge of playful venom to her voice. She knew very well how he detested being roused earlier than anticipated. “Sleep well, boss?”
“Not nearly long enough,” Jurgen grumbled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “What's going on?”
“My contact with the CCPD thinks they have something we might be interested in. Police is checking out a warehouse on Jackdaw Avenue as we speak.”
“So go take a look!’ Jurgen whispered, sliding one-handedly into into exquisite silk robe. “Of the two of us you’re the insomniac!”
“I think you'll remember you said you wanted to know 'right away' if we found anything?” Susannah said dryly. “Well CCPD think they have something in a warehouse downtown. Also, the lead detective on the case asked for you specifically. I bet you remember a Detective Ross from the Abracadabra Division. Of course if you're not up to it I understand, I mean you are getting pretty old...”
“Ha-ha, funny,” Jurgen growled. “You're a riot, Susannah. You should think about joining the circus. I can see the posters already: 'the stupefying Susannah, mistress of wit'. Come to think of it, I might sponsor your tent.” He stood up. “Where is this warehouse?”
“Number 212B Jackdaw Avenue. CSU are already on their way. Ross said she'd appreciate it if you beat them to the scene.”
“What a wonderful way to start the day,” he grumbled, put the phone down, and marched into the marble-clad bathing room.
It turned out to be significantly more difficult to make it to the scene on time than he had expected: a gentleman had certain expectations to meet: one had to get properly cleaned, dressed and shaven, one had to have breakfast, had to ensure ones company would have breakfast once it woke up, preferably with Champagne of a good year; Jurgen did not have time for a second cup of espresso, nor did he have time to check on his shares, stock options or the global energy futures market, all of which greatly aggravated him, and that all was before he even left the mansion.
According to the clock on the walnut dashboard it was almost half past five when the Rolls Royce screeched to a halt near the small cordon of police vehicles on Jackdaw Avenue. It was still dark, but in the flickering blue-and-red light of the sirens Baccara could see the street was lined with dilapidated buildings, many of them empty and covered with 'for sale' signs. He passed the yellow crime scene tape, flashing a consultant's badge at two uniformed officers, and entered the warehouse itself.
There were only a handful of people inside the sparsely lit building: several uniforms, and a trio of plainclothes detectives standing around something at the far end of the room. Electric lights had been set up, providing a modicum of illumination. Jurgen's footsteps caused one of the detectives to look his way. “Mr. Baccara,” she greeted him. “Nice of you to join us.” She eyed him speculatively, and added with subtle sarcasm, “I hope we're not keeping you from anything important.”
Jurgen's mind turned briefly to the three Victoria's Secret models in his bed but decided to ignore the dig. Instead he fractionally inclined his head and shook her hand. “Detective Ross, it's always a pleasure. And may I say you look especially lovely today?”
Jennifer Ross simply gave him a weird look, then turned around and beckoned him to follow her. She was an athletic woman with close-cropped hair and a no-nonsense attitude about her. Detective Ross was a lead detective of the 'Abracadabra Division' of the Crowtalon City Police Department, so called because it concerned itself with crimes that had a supernatural angle. Crowtalon City was something of a hotspot for paranormal activity in the United States so even though ABCD, as the division was more commonly called, was far from unique among the police departments of the US' largest cities, it was the largest and most experienced. And Ross was one of its finest detectives, someone with a real talent for closing weird and seemingly inexplicable cases. Ross and Baccara's paths had first crossed in 2005, when Jurgen had helped her track down the Hydra paranormal killer in a case where he'd initially been a suspect. Since then he had assisted her on several cases as a consultant to the CCPD. As far as the police knew he was simply a bored billionaire eccentric with an unusually deep interest in the occult.
“So,” Jurgen asked as he fell in line beside her. “Patterson not here?” Herrick Patterson was Ross' partner.
The detective shook her head. “He's checking out an incident near Ravenhurst. We're understaffed right now, what with Christmas coming up.”
“Interesting.” Despite saying so Jurgen paid only little attention, instead trying to see anything of the scene through the handful of uniforms up ahead. “Something amiss at the air force base?”
“I don't know, Baccara, and right now I don't care. I'd rather focus at the task at hand.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded. “So! What have we got?”
She looked at him teasingly from the corner of her eyes. “Isn't that what we pay you for?”
Jurgen snorted. “Detective, you know the commissioner doesn't pay me. My hourly rates would bankrupt the CCPD.” He smiled innocently. “I'm just here to help the city I love.”
Ross rolled her eyes. “Yeah? Well then tell me lover-boy, what do you make of this?” She stepped aside to grant him a good view of the crime scene.
Although admittedly there wasn't much to see. There was no battered corpse gruesomely sacrificed, no spectacular pentagram drawn in blood of potentially human origin. This time the scene consisted solely of a piece of chalk on a cleared patch of the concrete floor. “That's not very spectacular,” Jurgen volunteered, and he sounded faintly disappointed. “It's a summoning circle.”
“We figured that out ourselves, Sherlock,” Jennifer commented. “What we want to know is, who made it and what did they summon?”
Baccara turned to look at her quizzically. “Why is that important?”
“Because there's roughly two dozen mediums, fortune-tellers, back-alley witches and wannabe-warlocks in the hospital right now with symptoms varying from heavy migraine to hallucinations to conditions best described as 'catatonic'. We know, and I bet you know too, that someone fired off some pretty heavy magic last night. And we think this,” she pointed at the circle “is where they did it.”
“Hmm.” Jurgen frowned. “Why are you so sure that was here?”
“I'm a detective. It's what I do. You don't think I'd ask you to come look at any random summoning circle, did you?” She crossed her arms. “Also, one of the tenants across the street saw a strange lights inside this building at the time just prior to the disturbance.”
“That makes sense.” He smiled and turned his attention back to the circle. “Well, you're right. This is a circle designed to contain a major presence.” He pointed at the faded chalk-marks on the inside of the circle. “See those? Runes of containment. Somebody took precautions. That means whatever they kept in there was probably powerful enough to break free of an ordinary summoning without them.”
“So what was it, a demon?”
“No such thing as demons.” Baccara shook his head. “And I can't tell you what was in here. Because summoned creatures don't have a physical presence it's pretty much impossible to tell what was here after it's gone. Could be a spirit, or an elemental of some kind, or someone was communing with the dead.”
“The dead? Seriously?” Ross' voice had taken on an incredulous tone, as if she thought he was messing with her. It happened to even the best in her business, from time to time. “Someone was talking to dead people? You honestly expect me to believe that?”
“Detective, I think you'll find I expect very little indeed of you.” Jurgen smiled to take the edge off his words. He pointed at an area of the circle where the chalk appeared smudged. “I can tell you that whatever was in there, didn't stay in for long. Somebody messed up. That means its somewhere out there now.”
“Well, that's just-” Detective Ross was interrupted by the chiming of her cellphone. She picked it up and had a short conversation with a voice on the other side. When she hung up after a minute she seemed annoyed. “That was Patterson, he's just left Ravenhurst. Apparently there was a temporary haunting of some kind, but his team was kicked off-base before he could reach any definite conclusions. Air Force Office of Special Investigations is on the scene and will take over.”
“They're stonewalling you.” Jurgen looked at her appraisingly.
“I don't know.” Ross brushed a hand through her hair. “Let's just focus on the matter at hand and see if we can close this case. I haven't had time to do my Christmas shopping yet.”
“Any special wishes this year, detective?” Baccara smiled. “You know, I could buy you a pony...”
“Shut up, Jurgen.”
Three
Mayor Rico Valentin was an important man, and knowing that he was always put him in a good mood. He looked at himself in the mirror as he straightened his bow-tie and polished his cuff-links, the nice silver ones with the diamonds that sparkled. The mayor smiled. It was a warm smile, a handsome smile, the smile of somebody you could trust. It was the smile that had made him mayor of the third-largest city of the United States, the one that had made him the darling of the TV networks where he could frequently be seen giving his opinion on one matter or another, and in his secret dreams he believed it was the smile that would one day make him President. One day, after that liberal hippie Lightning was ousted as the pinko Democrat fraudster he was.
He looked at himself and smiled some more, flashing his pearly whites at his own reflection. “I am happy to accept the nomination of the Republican party for the president of these United States” he solemnly intoned. “Beat that, you goofy-eyed freak-ball.” But that was for another time. Tonight, Valentin had to make nicey-nice with a ballroom full of crusty-ass fossils from some charity or another he had agreed to sit on the board of, probably in a half-drunken stupor. He didn't even remember what charity it was. He hoped it was something to do with veterans or gun rights, and not a gala for the rainforest. Because then the room would be stacked full of liberal idiots yapping all evening about saving the polar bear or some other bullshit. On Christmas Eve, no less.
Well, as long as he looked good for the cameras. “Looking good, big cheese” he said to himself. “God-damn.”
“Spoken like a true patriot” his reflection mouthed in return.
For a moment the mayor could do little but stare, thinking that perhaps he should not have had that double whiskey in the afternoon, or else that that brain aneurysm his secretary was always warning him about had finally caught up with him. But he wasn't collapsing on the floor, and so Valentin noticed that his reflection seemed... off, somehow. His handsome features didn't look quite as suave as they were supposed to. His hairline was receding. His eyes weren't their usual dark brown anymore. And his nose was simply huge.
“I'll tell you what, Ricky” the weird reflection told him. “I have never been a quitter. And you and I, we're going to do great things together. But first...” The mirror-image smiled predatorily. “I need your body.”
The mayor's eyes bulged as something seemed to reach out from the surface of the mirror. He opened his mouth to scream but before he could make a sound something the cold and silvery thing grabbed his face... And then conscious thought was driven forcefully from his mind.
. I actually recently found Sixty Minutes to Hanukkah on my HD and I'm thinking of reviving it after this. I kinda owe Mobius, after all.
. Originally I'd also thrown in a cheap shot at Darkness (Kamin's character) but I cut that out.
