Dark Arts (15 page)

“Rest easy, luv,” Maxwell said. The blood
pooled around her. “Look at me.”

“I’m light headed,” she said, her eyes
closing.

“I’ve called the police!” the waitress
said.

“Call an ambulance,” Maxwell said. “Stay
here, luv. Try to keep those eyes open for me.” It was no use, the
artery her possessor had cut spilled her lifeblood out onto the
floor by the pint, and no amount of pressure could help.

He knew they wouldn’t make it in time,
judging from the trail of blood to the door, she was already
bleeding before she came in. He had to leave. The spirits that
followed him would not be kind to her soul if he was still there
when it left her body. “Losun, I summon thee, and request you
attend this soul. Take her in your hand, and take up your sword
against those who would obstruct her on her journey to the
Glade.”

He rose and strode from the diner, aware
that the girl was dead. The car he’d been nursing since Chicago, a
rusty Oldsmobile, waited in the car lot. He’d have to buy another
junker, steal another set of plates.

The parking lot was gone in another step
replaced by gravel under foot, and a dark night in the woods all
around. He wasn’t back at the crossroads, he was older, it was
another Gathering, twenty-one years later to the day, and there
were only twenty-eight people in attendance. The lake that was once
pure was stagnant and black. A great evil lurked there, and Maxwell
stood on the shore with his great grandfather’s blade in one hand,
and a lantern held high in the other. “I have no fear for you,” he
said as a shadow as substantial and deadly as a lion rose from the
still water. It was almost shapeless, drinking the yellow lantern
light into its dark form.

Maxwell’s throat was dry, his head pounded,
and his heart was beating so fast it felt like it was trying to
escape his ribcage. “You have called me, Weaver, and come to greet
me alone,” it stated, rising to tower over Maxwell. Its words were
expressed through a voice that sounded like the wet, slow ripping
of flesh. “What is your offering?”

“I offer my body as your vessel for seven
days,” Maxwell said. “In trade for the soul you hold captive.
Surrender her and I will allow you to use me then leave in
peace.”

“Peace is not my nature,” the thing
replied.

“Seven days, I get my meat back in working
order, and Vanessa.”

“No,” the Old One replied, its shadow form
jerking as though taking amusement in the denial. “I get your body,
your soul remains inside, I keep Vanessa while I own you, and then
I leave you. You can have her and your body back in one cycle of
the moon.”

Maxwell dropped the sword on the sand,
pulled one side of his jacket open to reveal a chest full of
protective tattoos, and said; “Done.” He brought the hot iron
lantern to his chest, braced himself, then touched the metal to two
of the tattoos, scarring through the pigment.

The summoned beast seized him the moment the
seal on his chest was broken. It was as though he was being crushed
and ripped through from the inside out at the same time, but his
screams did not make it to his throat. Maxwell was no longer in
control of his voice, or his body.

Maxwell was on his knees back at the
crossroads. He could still feel the echo of the previous moment’s
anguish and his heart was racing. The hole was in front of him, the
shard was back in his hand, and the dark woods were in front of
him. The humid air of the night and reality of his bashed knees
made him certain that he was back where he belonged, whether he had
been mentally transported to three horrors or was somehow there in
body, he couldn’t tell, but he was sure he’d returned.

The gentleman helped him to his feet. “I’m
often the bearer of bad news, but I’ve got to tell you: I’ve seen
some hard roads ahead of people, but few have so many stops for
pain and suffering as yours. It was hard to choose which horrific
events to warn you about, I don’t envy you.”

“Summoner rule number one,” Maxwell said,
catching his breath and stepping away from the gentleman. “Dead
things lie. Rule number two: Demons lie.”

“I’ve never liked those. It’s not fair to us
honest, hard working beings. I keep my business clean, Max. Don’t
you want to hear my offer?”

“That’s your thing,” Maxwell said. “You have
to make the offer, then you let me decide and leave me be for a
while.”

“Exactly,” the gentleman said. “Hey, you’re
good at this, have a real sense for what things from the other
world want.”

“So, out with it.”

“All right. Road Craft, the way it is, is
done. I can’t touch Zachary thanks to a little experimentation he
did on the bus, so this part of the deal is contingent on you
dropping him from the lineup. So, picture this. Miranda joins the
band, you two fall in love – that has nothing to do with me, you
just can’t change some things – and make music unlike anyone has
ever heard. Cream meets Joan Jett, only even better. You go play
that farewell gig, change none of your intentions, and that’s where
your dream is made reality. Picture it, the disco era hold-outs,
those big rock n’ roller suits, have a man in Sudbury, you know,
visiting an aged Uncle, and he sees you as their savior. He doesn’t
want the old Road Craft, he wants the new one with your firecracker
of a lead singer, Miranda on the mic, and you leading with your
guitar. One year later, you’re playing stadiums, and somehow you
guys avoid the pitfalls of drugs and over doing it on alcohol.
That’s not a promise I have made anyone else, but it’s easy with
you lot, because you and your band will get along like the family
you are, life on the road will be bliss, and everyone wants to work
for you. Legends in just three albums and four years on the road.
Everyone in Road Craft gets what they want, stardom, riches, a long
career, and I ask that you brace yourself for what comes next.
Miranda gets pregnant with a firecracker of a daughter, a beautiful
creature with big brown eyes. The best of both of you in a
bassinet. I’ll give her prodigious talent and creativity, just to
sweeten the pot. Then, after you’ve seen her first steps, heard her
first words, and you’ve known the real love of a family with
Miranda, your road ends. You are fulfilled, Maxwell, spared the
hellish life you are headed towards now, and all the people you
love are spared the kind of suffering and death that makes even me
shudder. Your clock stops at twenty-seven, and then your soul
serves me for a century plus thirty-five years. It’ll be over like
that,” the gentleman said, snapping his fingers. “Seven years of
heaven on earth starting this Saturday night, and then a quick
death, a short service, and you’re free again.”

Maxwell could not help but stop and consider
it. If he was willing to offer that much, there was more, he could
press and get something else, but there were always long strings
attached to such offers. The trade seemed too heavily in his favor.
Maxwell looked to the gentleman, held up his silver amulet and
asked; “Would my soul bear your mark forever?”

“Well,” the gentleman said. “That’s an
unavoidable consequence of selling your soul, yes, but you’d have
full visitation privileges.”

“I would serve for a hundred thirty five
years, but never truly be free. I could not leave your sight
without suffering and anguish.”

“Now you’re just quoting your father’s
second Grimoire, dirty. I would dismiss you when your time was
up.”

Maxwell steeled himself and pressed his hand
to the gentleman’s cheek. It felt like moving stone, cold, and
nothing like the flesh it appeared to be. “I seek only truth, the
light of my ancestors illuminates you.”

“You don’t have that kind of power,” the
gentleman said.

“I call Charles Foster to the crossroads,”
Maxwell said with determination.

His father stepped out from behind the
gentleman, tall, in his long dark trench coat, loading his pipe.
“You’ll answer his questions,” he said to the gentleman, who turned
towards him slowly. He had a sharp British accent that was far more
aristocratic than his son’s. “You’ll answer three of his questions
honestly, then he’ll make the deal, or turn it down.”

“I will,” the gentleman said, surprised,
looking the specter of Maxwell’s father over carefully.

Maxwell had difficulty pulling his gaze free
of his father, who was calmly lighting his pipe. The smell of cedar
tobacco smoke filled the air, a scent that followed his father
around while he was alive. The mannerisms of the gentleman had
changed completely, he was more interested in inspecting the ghost
of his father than what Maxwell was saying, bending low to look at
him from the bottom up, standing back to get a fuller look, and
occasionally waving his hand through the apparition. This was an
enchantment his father’s spirit was weaving to trap the gentleman
in a distraction. Maxwell had read about it in stories that read
more like fairy tales when he was young. “Ask your questions, Max,
remember the rules.”

The rules, Maxwell remembered, were the most
important thing. The first he remembered was what a demon could not
change. They could not change what gifts someone was born with. If
Miranda and he had a daughter, the gentleman had no power to imbue
her with great talent. They were also incapable of ensuring the
birth of a child, that was something left to more powerful things
and biology. “What are the lies in your offer?” Maxwell asked.

“Riches, success, opportunities are all
things I can guarantee, but happiness, a child and alteration of
free will, I can’t,” the gentleman answered.

“Good,” Charles said, puffing on his pipe.
“You’ve always been able to make a meal out of a mud pie, Max, you
don’t need his limited help. There are better questions, more
important questions, think harder.”

Maxwell watched the gentleman puzzle at the
image of his father. It seemed like his spirit was distracting the
demon nearly to the point of madness. It couldn’t last much longer.
The next question came to him. “Can you guarantee the safety of
everyone I love, and do so without making other people suffer?”

“No, that is not possible. The disaster
you’ll experience will happen no matter what you do, only I can
prevent it if you take my offer. By preventing that, five people
will die, two will be forever changed, but you will not know them,”
replied the gentleman as he carefully measured Charles’ height with
his hand then compared it to his own.

The last question was easy for Maxwell.
“Tell me about the end of my deal, all the plans you have for me at
the end of one hundred thirty five years, what does that look
like?”

“You are still imprisoned, but you don’t
feel that way: You will have been the master of other souls I
command, teaching them how to wield magic in the spirit world. This
will undoubtedly twist you into something you barely recognize, but
you will still be valuable. I will entice you to stay after your
term of service by making deals with your friends, your loved ones,
and your children if you have any. You will never leave.”

“There, was that so hard?” Charles asked the
gentleman. “What do you say, Max? Do you take his deal? Yea or
nay.”

“Nay,” Maxwell said. “I’ll take my chances,
thanks for the warnings.”

The gentleman seemed to clear his head, and
looked at Maxwell. He seemed genuinely saddened. “I do not envy
your path, boy. Believe me when I say that I truly hope it is not
as dark as it seems, and coming from someone like me, that is a
statement worth worrying over.” He froze in place, losing color. In
a small cloud of dust he crumbled into gravel and sand.

“Wish I could stay, boy,” Charles said, “but
there’s nothing holding me here, not even that trinket in your
hand. One thing, mind you: There are some serious consequences to
leaving that shard here. It’s the best place, you’re right with
your choice, but leaving it in one place will cause trouble you’re
going to answer for.”

“Dad, wait,” Maxwell said he had no idea
what he wanted to say next, but he was relieved when his father
stopped and fixed him with a mildly amused expression.

“I love you boy, wish I said so a lot more,
proud of you too. Just don’t let anyone else pick that shard up.
You’ll hate yourself for what it does to them. Do what feels right,
watch your back, and you’ll be as strong as you need to be,” his
father said.

“Is it going to be as bad as he said?”
Maxwell asked, feeling as young and as frustrated as he did during
his lessons.

“Refuse to embrace sorrow as your
companion,” his father replied, emptying his pipe. “Farewell, my
good boy.” He turned, began walking down the road whistling
Strangers in the Night, and disappeared.

Maxwell fell to his knees and stared down
the empty road. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he brushed it off
with the back of his hand. It was followed by a torrent. He could
not remember wanting the company of his father before that moment,
and as the smell of his cedar scented tobacco dissipated, there was
nothing he wanted more.

He forced himself to bear up, and wiped his
tears away. “Bloody hell, what good is it if you’re right and
dead?” Maxwell said, dropping the shard into his inside jacket
pocket. He immediately retrieved it. “Sorry, dad, I’ve got to try
to get rid of this anyway.” He turned, dropped it into the hole,
put the iron symbol he’d brought with him on top of it, and burst
the cream cup on top, so the white dripped on the shard and the
iron icon. “This cream I bless in the name of the Goddess, life
giving milk from a mother for sacred purpose.” He could feel the
rite working, a calm, peaceful sensation washed over him. “I commit
these things to the earth, where they will cause no strife if they
are recovered by any person ignorant to their purpose. Be reclaimed
by the world and made as one with it once more.”