To Kill a Sorcerer Read online

  “My secret? I would lie in bed at night and visualize the rolling display at the stock exchange as a way of helping me fall asleep. Like counting sheep. And every now and then, when I was in that twilight area between wakefulness and sleep, I would see numbers for specific stocks or securities. At first I didn’t think anything of it. It was a couple of weeks later that I noticed the prices I had seen in my mind were now reality. That gave me a bit of a shock, but the next time my internal stock ticker showed me a price, I risked fifty thousand selling that company short.”

  The investments he made based on these premonitions outperformed his regular portfolios by 33 percent, an astonishing disparity. I asked him what he thought it meant.

  “I already knew certain natural forces worked through me,” he said. “That’s when I took a professional interest in my hobby.”

  His “hobby” was shamanism. Unlike Madame Leoni, Bey represented the genuine article, able to tap the quantum forces of the universe and focus them for his purposes.

  “Sebastian,” he said, grabbing me in a bear hug and dragging me inside. He was an inch taller than I and had the build of a dedicated weight lifter.

  “So,” he said, closing and locking the door, “what’s your emergency?” He studied me in the brightly lit foyer. “You do look rather unsettled, my friend.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” I touched my hand to my chest, a movement Bey watched with interest. “I’m not at all comfortable right now.”

  “Come.” He led me through his living room, down a long hallway, and into his study. This had always been his room, even when his wife was alive and his children still lived at home. Bey had filled it with the miscellany of a lifetime, including figurines, small and large paintings, an assortment of garishly colored dolls on a large antique table, globes, odd-looking metal instruments, and many other artifacts. One wall was lined with bookcases. Stuffed in between the volumes were charts, maps, magazines, newspapers, and other bits of parchment.

  Geoffrey Bey had been my friend for twenty-one years and was one of three mortals who knew the truth of my existence.

  “To drink?”

  “Single malt scotch, please.”

  He cracked the seal on a bottle of Glenlivet and handed it to me. He poured a double shot of cognac for himself into a small crystal glass.

  “L’chaim,” I said.

  “L’chaim.” He tossed his drink back. I drained my bottle.

  He opened a cherrywood humidor and passed a cigar to me. I held it to my lips as Bey struck a wooden match. “There is a shadow on you tonight, Sebastian. Did something happen?”

  He waited while I rolled the cigar around in the flame until the end was uniformly lit and drawing pleasantly. I leaned back and puffed.

  “I was attacked by spirits in my living room less than an hour ago.”

  He hesitated with the match in the air. “Spirits?”

  “Powerful ones.”

  He got his cigar going, poured himself another double shot of cognac, and filled a large tumbler of the liquid for me. We moved to a pair of wingback leather chairs that faced each other.

  “How did it happen?”

  I told him the story, from the first bump against the window to the pane-rattling exit of the two phantoms. He sat with his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, no socks, puffing and watching me with slitted eyes.

  “They lifted you off your feet?”

  “And carried me halfway across the room. I hit the glass doors hard enough to dislocate my left shoulder.” I touched my chest again, though it did not hurt any longer. “The one that was gripping my lungs . . . I thought the damn thing was going to kill me.” I took a long drink of the cognac.

  “You really felt it was not just killing your body?”

  “That’s right. It was crushing my soul.”

  “I’ll be a son of a pharaoh,” he marveled. “You’re sure about that? That it wasn’t a subjective reaction as a result of losing consciousness?”

  I blew a doughnut-shaped ring of smoke. “I suppose my feelings could be skewed by the supernatural reality of the encounter. And it’s possible they would have let me go when I stopped breathing and my heart stopped beating. Perhaps I would have been fine after they left.”

  “But . . .”

  “But it did not feel like that.”

  “I see. How did you get them off?”

  “I don’t know. After I fell, I heard vibrations that sounded like screams, and then the little devils let me go and went out the way they came in.”

  We sat quietly for a while, thinking and smoking. My shock over the etheric assault was fading now that I was here with Bey. Driving on the 101 Freeway, I had been terrified the spirits would attack me while I was maneuvering through heavy traffic. I knew if I could make it to Bey’s place, he would help me prepare for their next attack.

  “You say you landed on a potted bush when you fell.” He watched me thoughtfully.

  “Yes. One of my holly plants.”

  “Ah, I see. Let me guess: these plants are near your patio doors.”

  “That’s right. One on either side of them.”

  “That is why these miseries had trouble entering the first time, and why you only heard a small boom. It is also why they could not hold on to you.”

  “Because of my holly bush? Are you certain?”

  “Oh, yes.” He puffed his cigar. “Holly is an ancient plant used for centuries as a way of protecting sacred holidays.”

  “Like Christmas.”

  “One of the reasons it’s often referred to as Christmas holly. I assume you purchased your plants for the holidays?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you celebrate the birth of Christ, or you would probably be dead now. Pulling that holly plant on top of you right where the demon was situated on your body was like giving the thing a terrible heat burn.”

  “They gave up because of that?”

  “These are stupid creatures that do not understand the pain they deliver. They do what they are told. And though powerful, they have no tolerance for pain themselves. Harm them in any way, and they will vacate the area.” He stood. “Come over here. Let’s get you fixed up. I have some things you’re going to need to take with you.”

  I followed him to the large antique table. He picked up some of the garishly colored dolls.

  “Juju guardians. Constructed of Spanish moss and pine needles. I think seven will be sufficient for your house and car.” He set them down. Each doll was twisted and knotty with a dark, bulbous head and grotesquely rendered limbs. They were covered with gaudy colors—intermingled purple, red, and green. There was something about the hues that was hideous.

  “The colors are sickening.”

  “The more ghastly the appearance, the more effective the juju.”

  “Then these should be exceptionally potent.”

  He selected a square vial from a rack of a dozen such containers. This one contained a purple-rose liquid. He sprinkled some of the liquid on the first doll, then rubbed it in with his thumb, chanting an ancient prayer in Latin, his eyes closed. I thought of Madame Leoni and her Hamilton doll.

  Bey did the same to the other figures and set them aside. Taking the first juju, he turned it over and threaded a piece of string through the loop on the back of its neck. “I suggest you keep one in your car. Hang this on your rearview mirror.”

  I pictured the doll in the T-bird. “Can’t I just set it on the backseat?”

  “No. First, you limit the juju’s power by not displaying it. And second, you offend the spirits with your embarrassment of them.”

  “Well, goodness knows I wouldn’t want to offend any spirits.”

  “Precisely.” He tapped the ash off his cigar, took a puff. “Keep one at the entrance to your home, and place the other above the lintel of your patio doors. I would leave the holly plants at that portal as well.”

  “I understand.”

  “You may want
to give a couple of the dolls to your partner.”

  “That could prove problematic.”

  He opened another drawer and pulled out a clear bag that looked like it was filled with . . .

  “Bones,” he said. “They have been blessed. Place a couple of them on all of the window ledges in your house.”

  “Right.”

  “Next, you need some protective amulets. How many should I give you?”

  I thought about it. “Better give me four.”

  He took jet-black rocks out of another drawer and threaded leather thongs through small golden hoops embedded in the top of each rock. “Fetishised black onyx, the most powerful defensive amulet I can create.” When he was done with the leather necklaces, he set them aside. “Now, let’s see about some offensive measures.”

  He walked to the other end of the table, stopped in front of an ornate chest of drawers, slid open one of the compartments. He pulled out what I thought at first was a medium-size magnifying glass.

  “That’s rather beautiful,” I said. The handle was a dark, lustrous wood, inlaid with the ankh symbol. Encircling the glass was a band of burnished gold with a cobalt cabochon on top. But the glass was what drew the eye. It was exquisitely beveled, and the shape was not round, but almost rectangular, like a cushion-cut diamond.

  “Yes, it is beautiful. There are only five in existence, and I own two of them.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a Christo Glass,” he said, handing it to me.

  “What does it do?” I pointed it at his desk.

  “It shows you what the naked eye cannot.”

  Through the glass, I saw a mass of grains quite unlike the smooth surface of the table. It appeared the grains were pulsing feebly. Everything within the confines of the glass stood out with startling clarity. “What am I seeing?”

  “The table’s aura.”

  “A table can have an aura?”

  “A weak one, yes. Turn the glass toward me.” I held the glass out in his direction at the height of his chest.

  “Madre de Dios.” I could see his ribs and blood vessels and his beating heart, but there was something more there, a shifting, rhythmic radiance that infused the cells. I moved the glass to other areas. The glow was always there. “The white glimmer is your aura?”

  “Yes. You will see the light no matter where you look on my body.”

  “Where did you get this?” I asked, examining the glass more closely.

  “The first one was passed on to me by my father. The second was from a man who bequeathed it to me.”

  “What man?”

  “An old friend. He died suddenly, the final victim of his bad judgment.”

  “How will this help me against these spirits?”

  “You will be able to see them with it.”

  I set the Christo Glass down and picked up my cigar.

  “Seeing them isn’t the problem, Geoff,” I said, taking a puff. “I don’t need to see them to know where they are.”

  “Once they’re attacking you, you mean.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But if you could see them before they got to you . . . ”

  “I don’t know. That thing is pretty small.”

  “Granted. But once you know where they are, you can use a special preparation of mine to hurt them badly.” He reached over to his rack of vials and pulled two of them, setting them in a separate holder. He opened a drawer under the table and retrieved two small, translucent atomizers with spray pumps. He took the tops off and placed a small funnel in the first tube. Carefully, he poured a pale gold liquid from the first vial until the atomizer cylinder was 80 percent full, then set the vial aside.

  “And now for the kick.” He opened another drawer, took out two pairs of dark green safety glasses, and handed one pair to me. With the glasses on, I could barely see.

  Bey picked up the second vial and, with extreme care, poured a single drop into the funnel. The flash of light was immediate, and even with the heavily tinted glasses, it blinded me, leaving a bright afterimage of the bottle imprinted on my eyes.

  Filling the air was the clean, sharp odor I had smelled earlier this evening.

  “Holly!”

  “In a tincture one hundred times more powerful than the naturally occurring plant. Spray this on one of those demons, and you will wound it terribly, perhaps even kill it.”

  Killing the spirits of the girls was not appealing.

  He screwed the spray top on the atomizer and repeated the procedure with the second jar, blinding us momentarily once more. He took the two jars, the seven juju dolls, the bag of bones, and the black onyx necklaces, and placed them in a small leather duffel bag.

  I handed him my glasses, and he dropped both pairs back in the drawer. He opened another drawer and pulled out three red bands with little gold charms hanging from them.

  “Kabbalah red bracelets,” he said, stuffing them into the case. “They’ll ward off the Evil Eye. It’s sort of an all-purpose charm, but effective. Wear it on your left wrist.” He zipped the bag shut. “Now,” he said, putting all of his materials back as he spoke, “these entities that are after you—they were sent by someone, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the Voodoo Killer?”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss that.”

  “Of course. But if that man is involved, and if these spirits are the souls of his victims, you can only save them from eternal servitude by killing their murderer.”

  “I intend to do that. Is that all I need to do? Just kill him?”

  “It may be necessary to find the vessel in which he keeps them trapped and release them.”

  “Okay.”

  “I would visit as few people as possible until you’ve concluded this investigation.”

  I nodded. He realized, as I had, that these demons might focus on the people I cared about and might even be sent to attack those I visited. I was not worried about Bey. He could take care of himself—but he was the only one I knew who could. I picked up the bag he had packed for me. “I am sorry if I have caused you any trouble.”

  “No, they won’t be able to bother me. They won’t be able to bother you, either, as soon as you have those jujus in place.”

  “I really appreciate this, Geoff. I’m sorry to run, but I must meet my partner.”

  “No need to apologize. Let me see you out.”

  He led the way out of the room and down the hall. In the foyer, I turned and extended my hand, but he pushed it aside and embraced me in a crushing hug before he opened the door.

  “Do give my regards to Aliena.”

  Thirty-One

  Thursday, December 23, 10:38 p.m.

  I drove to the Valley with my bag of protective charms on the rear seat. The juju hung from my rearview mirror, swinging gently, looking like the grotesquely dressed victim of a lynching.

  If Kanga had already attacked me, he was undoubtedly preparing to attack Hamilton as well. I knew I could never get Hamilton to listen to me and place some of Bey’s charmed objects in strategic positions around his apartment, so I would have to do it myself somehow.

  I activated the hands-free and rang Preston.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, Mr. Preston? Don’t tell me you have nothing this time.”

  “We’ve got him. Kanga. First name is Karnall.”

  “Any record?”

  “No, he’s clean. He works as a chemist in Agoura Hills for a pharmaceutical corporation, Arvomed.”

  Aha, I thought. “Does Arvomed distribute a drug requiring an inhaler?” I turned onto Sylmar.

  “Three.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Encino, on Lindley.”

  “Have the police ID’d him yet?” I pulled into the Van Nuys PD parking lot.

  “Not yet.”

  “Thank you.” I disconnected, called Hamilton, and told him to meet me downstairs. A couple of minutes later he pushed throug
h the front doors and crossed the lot.

  “Let’s do Jerry’s,” he said as soon as he climbed into the car. “I need a bacon cheeseburger and fries.”

  “Okay. Let’s get it to go and take it back to your place.”

  “Fine. The Bird looks good,” he said, looking around.

  “Thanks.”

  “What in God’s name is that thing?” He stared at the juju doll.

  “Gift from a friend. I couldn’t hurt his feelings.”

  “Well, he’s not here now. You can take it down.” He reached for it.

  “No!” I held the figure by its feet. “It has to stay there.”

  “You did say this was a ‘he,’ right? I mean, if you promised a hottie you’d leave that ugly thing there, okay, but a guy? I don’t know about that.”

  “You will.”

  “The hell you say.” He batted the juju lightly and leaned back in his seat. He pulled out his phone and dialed. “What did you want?”

  “A Monte Cristo sandwich with fries and a Brooklyn egg cream.”

  “Okay. Hello? Yeah, I’d like to place an order for pickup . . . Montero . . . 555-8011 . . . yes . . . bacon cheeseburger with fries . . . a Monte Cristo with fries . . . two Brooklyn egg creams . . . Dessert? Sure, what the hell, a piece of chocolate mousse cake and—” He looked over at me.

  “Key lime pie.”

  “And a slice of key lime . . . right . . . thanks.” He hung up. He sniffed. “What did you do, get one of those Christmas scents for your car?”

  “It’s holly. And it’s in the backseat. It’s a tincture in a spray bottle.”

  “Oh, boy. You don’t need to tell me what that’s for.”

  “You know already. Just like you knew most of what Reed touched on last night.”

  “So?”

  “So I know your maternal grandmother was a Candomblé priestess. A real one.”

  I kept my eyes on the road, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see his head swivel slowly toward me.

  “How the hell do you know about that? Not even LAPD knows that.” His voice was taut. “Did you run a background on me?”

  “I run a background on everyone I know.”