To Kill a Sorcerer Page 18

  I pictured the front door of Scarpelli’s clearly in my mind. The world blurred as I shot through the ether. When everything came back into focus, the doors of the restaurant stood in front of me. Vehicles streamed by on Ventura Boulevard. The chirp of a car’s tires echoed from the direction of Scarpelli’s parking lot.

  A party of four was coming out at the same time I walked through the doors. I slammed into a middle-aged man with Chianti breath and long sideburns, inhabiting him unintentionally.

  “ . . . get home and turn the game on. I hate these damn family dinners. She’d better wear those garters tonight like she promised, or I’m not coming next time.” His mind filled with a picture of his wife in dishabille.

  I lifted up and out of him and stayed near the ceiling so I would not accidentally enter another. One member of the group was a young teenage boy. He was surrounded by a diffuse white light that was barely there but perfectly detectable. The Virginal Aura.

  After they had gone, I floated through the inner swinging doors and settled to the ground next to the hostess station.

  Scarpelli’s was the place to go if you wanted to smell great food before you ate it. Fresh pasta, seafood, and the mouth-watering aromas of garlic and burned butter reminded me I hadn’t eaten dinner.

  The dining room had square tables down the center and red leather upholstered booths along the walls. White linen draped the tables. The floor was dark wood, and on the walls were black-and-white prints from Hollywood movies featuring Italian landscapes.

  In a booth to my right was a man—a dead man—sitting next to a living woman.

  “Hello, Sebastian.”

  “Gene.”

  I walked to the booth and slid onto the bench opposite.

  Gene Winslow was in his early thirties—and always would be. With a heavy mop of blond hair and broad shoulders, he was every inch the California surfer boy. He had been a character actor and stuntman in the sixties and seventies. Driving a sports car in a big-budget action film in the summer of ’78, he had hit a patch of oil someone had forgotten to clean up. His car had spun out of control, crashing into a low brick wall hard enough to shove the high-performance engine into his lap. He had been killed instantly, leaving behind a wife and two daughters.

  Elizabeth, his widow, sat next to him, wearing a yellow dress. She had clear blue eyes and thick hair dyed brown. She looked to be in her sixties. Even with her mouth closed, her prominent buckteeth protruded.

  Gene had worked steadily during his short lifetime and had made good money, but his accidental death policy had not paid enough to ensure his family a comfortable existence. After I had met him twenty-five years ago, I augmented Elizabeth’s savings considerably by having an insurance company I own present her with a policy check, ostensibly for additional coverage Gene had taken out just before his death. She and the children no longer had any financial worries.

  He had taken her to Scarpelli’s on their first date and when he proposed marriage. Whenever they had dined here, they shared a tiramisu for dessert. She still ordered it and ate only half.

  We all looked different from my point of view. As a dead spirit, Gene was grayer than I was, but it was only noticeable if we stood close. Elizabeth was the only one who looked to be part of the physical environment. She was lit the same as the restaurant, whereas Gene and I appeared to glow from within.

  “Elizabeth looks well tonight. How is she?”

  “She’s waiting for Molly and the children,” he said. He sounded depressed as usual. He was bitter over the way his life had ended. That was why he stayed here, in this between world, eyeing the living jealously, hating that he could not be a part of his children’s lives.

  Elizabeth flipped through the wine list, humming, her wedding ring flashing. I lit a cigarette and sent a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

  Gene looked at the third button on my shirt and said, “I can’t tell you anything.”

  “I haven’t asked a question yet.”

  “I appreciate you taking care of her,” he said, his voice low.

  The non sequitur gave me pause. “What is it you can tell me nothing about?”

  “Aren’t you here . . . it’s about those girls, isn’t it?”

  I watched him through the haze of my cigarette smoke.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” he said.

  “The hell you don’t. What’s got you in such a state?”

  He held out his hand as if pleading, then pulled it back. A fierce hardness came over his face. “He’ll kill her. I don’t care how much you’ve helped her, you can’t protect her from him.”

  “Who?”

  “The Voodoo Killer.”

  I tossed my cigarette and with a great effort remained on my side of the table. Deliberately clasping my hands in front of me, I said, “You’ve seen this man in the ether?”

  He stared at me. A single tear slid down his left cheek and dropped onto the collar of his shirt. “Please,” he said.

  “Gene, you know I would never do anything to harm you and that I will guard your family with every resource at my command.”

  “You can’t protect them,” he said, placing his hand over Elizabeth’s knee. “You don’t know what you’re up against.”

  For the first time, I felt a feather of hesitation. I needed more than a feather to stop.

  I did not wish to cause Gene distress, however. He stared at Elizabeth’s cheek, his lip trembling. I thought about it. “I have already met Kanga,” I said slowly. “I know what he looks like. What can you know that could help me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He found the girls by looking for them here on the astral plane, didn’t he? He homed in on their Virginal Auras.”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Gene. Look at me.”

  “No.”

  “Does he have the girls? Sherri and Jessica. Can you tell me that?”

  He gave a harsh, rattling sigh. “Yes. He has them. But they’re not human souls anymore, not after what he did to them.” He tilted his head toward the ceiling and closed his eyes. “He drove them insane with pain when he killed them and captured their souls at that moment. They’re animals now, and more powerful than any spirits I have ever seen. He could use them to kill Elizabeth.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “I won’t do anything that places my family at risk.”

  “You don’t think I could protect them?”

  “Against demon spirits? No.” He turned away and watched as Elizabeth sipped her water.

  “Do you know who the next girl is?”

  His head swiveled so fast I thought he’d snap a vertebra. Then I remembered he was dead.

  “What do you take me for?” he said. “A coward? If I knew that, I would tell you. I would never let him . . .” He trailed off, his face becoming devoid of expression, as if some circuit had burned out in his brain.

  He was telling the truth. Then what could he know that would cause Kanga to threaten him?

  “Do you know where he is?”

  The question jolted him. He shook his head. “I can’t tell you.” He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  “If he kills another, and I could stop it . . .”

  “You can’t.”

  “You know this man is still in the middle of his quest. He will kill again. You must help me.”

  “No.”

  “Gene.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Tell me where this man is.”

  He looked at me with a face that had as much expression as a head of cabbage—with blond hair. “Sebastian,” he said, “I wouldn’t tell you that in a thousand years.” He shifted his gaze to the table, his face stony and stubborn, scared.

  I sat back, nonplussed, listening to the clink of silverware on plates and the soft murmur of people speaking over their meals, remembering that Kanga had killed Madame Leoni for betraying him. I could not continue to press Gene and did not wish to upset him further or place his loved ones
in danger.

  He glanced toward the entrance. “Molly and the girls are here,” he said, a tired, pleading note in his voice.

  I slid off the leather bench and stood out of the way as the hostess brought Gene’s daughter and three granddaughters to the table. Two of the girls climbed onto the bench on his side and squirmed through him to flop against their grandmother. Elizabeth hugged them, and they kissed her on both cheeks.

  He looked up at me for a moment, his expression a mixture of misery and resentment. I knew he was jealous of my longevity—I reminded him of just how brief his existence in the physical world had been. He wondered why I should live for centuries when he could not.

  I wondered, too.

  Gene sat with his hands clasped in his lap, surrounded by his family, his face wretched.

  Lifting out of Scarpelli’s, I flashed through the ether, stopping above my house.

  A continuous tone in my ear. Flashing lights. Sizzle of electricity.

  The water was hot enough. I placed the knife under the stream and carefully scrubbed the blood from the haft. The bottom of the metal sink ran with dark water. The stain swirled down the drain. This time—

  A loud pop. Pressure inside my head.

  I blinked.

  It took me a moment to realize what had happened. For some reason, my ti bon ange had inhabited another person. A man washing a bloody dagger in a sink.

  Kanga?

  Following the silver cord, I descended through the roof, gliding down until my spirit once again inhabited my body.

  Twenty-Nine

  Thursday, December 23, 7:41 p.m.

  I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, remaining motionless, feeling the carpet on the back of my head, and listening to the wood crackling in the fireplace. The clean green scent of the noble fir filled the air.

  So Kanga had made no mistakes in his first two rituals and currently held the girls’ souls. And he had traveled in the ether, as Reed and I had hypothesized, which was probably how he knew the girls were virgins. Gene knew where he was, so Kanga threatened the dead actor’s soul, promising to bring unspeakable horrors to Gene’s wife and children if he gave me any information. That Kanga had once again anticipated me and blocked my investigation reinforced the ominous feeling of playing a chess match where my opponent was one move ahead of me.

  I lit a cigarette and folded my arms around my knees, blowing smoke toward the fireplace, thinking. I picked up my cell, dialed Preston.

  “I want a twenty-four-seven security watch,” I said when he answered.

  “Name?”

  “Elizabeth Winslow and family.”

  “Sounds familiar.” Another reason I had given Preston control of BioLaw. That case went back to his childhood, twenty years before he worked for me, and was processed through an ancillary company. The man did his homework.

  “Yes, she’s in the files, under life insurance. Two children, with children.”

  Something thumped hard against the glass of the patio doors. I glanced over, expecting to see a seagull or maybe a possum. There was nothing there.

  “I’ll put Pitbull on it,” Preston said.

  “Good. Don’t let me down on this. If anything happens to them . . .”

  “I know. I’m fired.”

  “Carry on, Mr. Preston.”

  Putting the cigarette in my mouth, I stood and walked to the sliding doors and scanned the deck. Nothing.

  There was another hard slam against the patio doors. And now the double panes were wrinkling in two places. The quivering, distorted sections of glass were shaped like rippled dinner plates. Then the surface was smooth again.

  I stared at the glass stupidly, not yet comprehending what I had seen. A queer scream filled the room, loud enough to make me jump. By the time I realized what had happened, they were on me.

  Two invisible spirits had invaded my home.

  The first one crashed into my upper torso, knocking the wind out of me and pushing me backward. My legs jammed against the rounded arm of one of the club chairs. The cigarette fell from my fingers as the thing latched on to my chest and began squeezing my lungs.

  The second demon punched my left thigh, fastened on, and began crushing muscle and bone.

  My hands rose in an attempt to fight the first creature off, but there was nothing I could do. The demons had no physical form with which to grapple.

  They surged against me. I slid off the arm of the chair, stumbled, and almost fell. I punched myself in the chest. No effect, and no lessening of the pressure. Brushing the Christmas tree and setting ornaments jangling, I careened toward the fireplace.

  In the kitchen were gris-gris charms that might get these things off me. After I had taken two steps in that direction, my attackers lifted me off my feet, carried me across the room, and slammed me into the glass doors, dislocating my left shoulder. The pain burst white-hot, but it was a tickle compared to the crushing might of my uninvited visitors.

  I scrabbled helplessly at my chest. My eyes bulged. Inhaling was no longer possible. That wouldn’t normally matter. Holding my breath for hours, while uncomfortable, could not kill me. Something else was happening.

  These things were strangling my soul.

  The kitchen. The simple amulets there were meant to repel minor haunts, but I had nothing meant to handle entities as powerful as these two.

  I had taken five steps when they lifted me off my feet and slammed me once more into the patio doors with tooth-rattling force, jarring my separated shoulder. The blossom of pain was huge—as if someone had rammed a large sword into my back. With no air, I endured it silently.

  The demon crushing my lungs still held me in a viselike grip. I began to gray out.

  As consciousness dimmed to twilight, the things became visible. They were milky-colored and amorphous, with flat heads and fat, squat bodies. Seeing their pulsing masses twisting and writhing below my skin revolted me. They resembled giant, flat leeches.

  If these were the murdered girls, Kanga had indeed stripped them of their humanity.

  My left leg went numb. I collapsed onto one of the holly bushes and tumbled over it, bringing it down on top of me as I crashed to the floor. The bush scraped my chin, the sharp scent of it filling my nostrils.

  A shiver coursed me. My heart strained. Immortal blood roared in my head.

  A deep vibration filled the room, an inaudible scream. It sounded like a wail from a malevolent dimension repulsive to our own. Consciousness was slipping away when the grip on my chest loosened.

  The rough holly bristles scraped against my skin as my chest heaved, drawing in cool air. There came another long, hideous vibration. Both spirits released me.

  I struggled to my knees, my hand still on my chest. With a bang, the glass of the sliding door rattled. The strange distortions appeared and then were gone. Then all was quiet but for my ragged breathing.

  I stayed on my knees, head bowed, pulling sweet air into my lungs. My separated shoulder ached. Clasping my left arm across my ribs, I fell hard on my side, jamming the shoulder back into place. My roar of pain filled the room to the corners of its vaulted ceiling.

  Cursing in seventeen languages, I lurched to my feet and carried the holly bush to its place against the wall. My arms and legs were still trembling, but my mind was clearing quickly.

  In 1828, I offended a macumba priestess in Rio de Janeiro. A true conjurer, she sent spirits to haunt me. They were bothersome, petty poltergeists, able to knock over objects like picture frames or blow my cigarette smoke back into my face or make noise all day and night. They effectively turned my daily existence into a litany of small jerks and stops. I endured it for three months. Then I returned to the priestess and gave her what she wanted. That, however, is another story.

  Tonight’s invaders were nothing like those miserable little haunts—they were more formidable than any spirits I had ever encountered. Such revenants inspired mythological dread. Grimoires referred to them as “Shadow Warriors.” Other anc
ient texts called them the “Dim Ones.” Of the conjurers I have known in my lifetime, none has ever possessed the skill to summon a Shadow Warrior.

  Based on Reed’s description of a Thief of Souls, commanding such fearsome spirits would be well within the scope of such a man.

  I had wondered what Kanga would do when he discovered he had not killed me at Madame Leoni’s. My two etheric visitors were obviously the answer.

  And I had no idea how I had survived the encounter.

  Thirty

  Thursday, December 23, 8:42 p.m.

  I needed to vacate my house until I could secure it against future attacks. That meant two urgent phone calls.

  “Hamilton.”

  “Steve, it’s Sebastian. Where are you?”

  “At the office.”

  Good. I did not think Kanga would send spirits after him in the middle of a police station.

  “Listen,” he said, “how about dinner? You can pick me up in two hours.”

  “Sure, that sounds fine. I might be a little longer, but wait for me, okay? Don’t leave the building.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I have to make a stop first, and I’m not sure how long it will take. I will explain everything when I get there.” I wasn’t really going to do that, but it sounded good.

  “Sure, no prob. Where the hell am I going to go anyway? But try to make it close to two hours, okay? I’m starving.”

  Cops.

  The second call went to a very special friend.

  I pulled to the curb outside Geoffrey Bey’s house in Channel Islands and parked on the wide dead-end street. Malibu lights gleamed along the short concrete path to his porch. I raised my hand to the bell when the door opened.

  Bey was a dark-skinned, balding Jew who had grown up in Egypt before being accepted to Columbia University in New York, where he earned a graduate degree in finance. Working as an investment broker for Smith Barney, he made enough money in twelve years to semi-retire.

  We met at a shareholders’ meeting of a company I owned shortly after he moved to Southern California. I knew him by reputation and, after inviting him into the hotel bar for a drink, asked him the secret of his investing success.