The Warlock's Curse (50 page)

“What’s the matter?” said Phleger, concerned. He glanced at Will. “Is there something wrong with the boy?”

“Wrong!” Ben exhaled, his voice trembling with excitement. He gave a wondrous little laugh. “Wrong? No, Brother Phleger. Nothing is wrong. As a matter of fact, things couldn’t be more right. I have discovered something incredible—astonishing!”

Phleger’s brow furrowed even more deeply. “What have you discovered?”

“I almost cannot believe it,” Ben mused, looking not at Phleger, but rather past him. “It cannot be, and yet it is—”

“What?” Phleger barked. “What is it?”

Ben’s eyes focused, and he turned his keen gaze on Phleger. “This young man has just provided me with his birth information,” he said. “I used it to quickly calculate his astrological chart, thinking it might be of some use in our efforts. And I discovered that Mr. Edwards was born under ... a
Grand Cross
.”

Ben paused to let the import of the statement sink in. But it was lost on Brother Phleger, for he merely made an impatient gesture.

“Yes? And? So?”

“Aebedel Cowdray was also born under that particular astrological configuration. And while I have never told you, for I know you do not countenance such practices, when I cast your own chart, I discovered that you too were born under a Grand Cross.”

Phleger’s eyes widened. It was clear that the symbology of a Grand Cross shining on his birth was of intense and immediate interest to him—and so pleasing, in fact, that he seemed willing to overlook the fact that he shared the holy-seeming birthright with the wicked Cowdray himself.

“But that is not the incredible thing,” Ben seized a sheaf of papers from the desk, and thrust them close to Phleger’s face, jabbing at specific notes as he spoke. “At this very moment, in the heavens above us, yet
another
Grand Cross is forming. This exceedingly rare and powerful configuration, which occurs when each of four planets stands at a square to the others, creates massive tension—the eternal tension between good and evil, taken to its furthest extreme. The stage is set, Brother Phleger, for a magical event of such unimaginable power ... of such exceptional intensity ... that it literally takes my breath away.” As if to demonstrate this, Ben drew in a deep gulp of air.

“All right,” Phleger said, slight wariness creeping into his voice. He pushed the papers aside with disgust, as if Ben were waving a soiled handkerchief at him. “What does it all mean?”

“It means the box must be opened at the moment the Grand Cross reaches its most precise alignment,” Ben said. He quickly consulted a battered pocketwatch. “In exactly one hour.”

The words hung in the air for a moment—but it only took a moment for Phleger’s face to go from consideration to conclusion.

“No,” he said.

Ben looked stricken. “But Brother—”

“It is impossible,” Phleger interjected coolly. “The Consecration must happen first. We must fortify this Temple, dedicate it and all of its power to the Lord Almighty. If we conduct the ritual without that holy sanction, then it is nothing more than
witchcraft
. And God will not tolerate it.”

“You
are
the Temple!’ Ben cried. “You are sanctified, a man of God—”

“Precisely so!” Phleger flared. “I am just that—a
man
. If we fail, our enemies would gain great comfort—enough, possibly, to empower them to move against us.” He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes. “God tells me very strongly that I must wait. I must wait until the time is truly right, when the ritual can be conducted with all the power of the faithful behind it.”

Ben made a sound of extreme annoyance and threw the papers down onto the desk. He seemed ready to storm out of the office in disgust—but instead, he made a great show of collecting himself. When he did speak again, Professor Coeus’ haughtiest sneer tinged his voice. He spoke very slowly.

“Clearly, Brother Phleger, you do not understand the gravity of this discovery. This combination of astrological omens is so powerful—and so utterly unprecedented—that not to take advantage of it would be the very apex of foolishness.”

Phleger met Ben’s infuriating condescension with an even more infuriating grin. “I understand that faith can sometimes seem like foolishness to a man who does not know God, Professor.”

Phleger’s grin made Ben bristle—but then, all at once, he relaxed. He took a deep breath, and then he, too, smiled—the knowing, weary smile of a man recognizing his defeat.

“No, you are right,” he said. “I am not a man of faith. I am a man of the world, and as such, the ways of the world seem very urgent and important to me.” He began gathering his charts and books from Phleger’s desk and carefully replacing them in the suitcase. “I was thinking more of your secular aspirations than your holy obligations, and I apologize. It’s just that you have no idea how much additional power this could lend to the announcement you’re planning to make after the Consecration.”

Brother Phleger said nothing, just stroked the black blot on his cheek, absently fingering the discoloration’s slightly-raised edge.

“Of course, most of that power will still be available even after the astrological alignment shifts,” Ben said, as if trying to find comfort in the fact. “Not all of it—nowhere
near
all of it—but I’m sure it will be enough.” He sighed as he buckled the suitcase shut. “It’s just that they say it’s going to be a four-man race next year, and ...” He trailed off. “Well, never mind. His will be done, as you so often say.”

“It is—not
safe
,” Brother Phleger said, in a quiet voice. He let his hand drop, and when he looked at Ben his eyes were pleading. “Don’t you understand, Professor? A great responsibility has been placed upon me. I must not fail.”

“You are burdened,” Ben said, and there was real sympathy in his voice. He laid a hand on Brother Phleger’s shoulder, and the preacher made no move to shrug it off. “I
do
understand. I know there are great forces that oppose you, and you very wisely wish to protect yourself and your followers from them.” He gripped Phleger’s shoulder more firmly. “I just want to make one thing very, very clear. This set of astrological circumstances is so unlikely as to be outside the realm of possibility. It is, in a word, impossible.”

Ben paused, as perfectly still as a wax saint.

“As I said, I am not a man of faith.” His voice was low and rhythmic and thrilling. “But if I were to believe in miracles, I could not help but believe this to be one. If I were a man of faith, there is only one word I could use to describe the opportunity we are presented with.” He paused before hitting the last word with an intensity that made it seem almost physical: “
Foreordained
.”

Phleger was not looking at Ben now, he was just listening, his eyes narrowed with careful thought—or rather, with prayer, Will saw, for his lips were moving and his hands were clasped.

“When the Lord sends a man of faith such a message, Brother Phleger, should he question it? I don’t know the answer, you must tell me. And should he question the power of the Lord to shield him?”

Phleger slumped over his desk, resting his forehead on his clasped hands. He muttered to himself for a long time. Ben did not move a muscle. No one in the room did. When Phleger finally raised his head, his eyes were distant and unfocused, glistening with tears.

“
Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all
,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “Just as the Lord protected Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego when they were cast into the furnace’s fiery depths, so will He protect us.”

He wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his cuff. In an instant, his gaze was as keen and sharp as it had ever been. “We will show our faith by proceeding as you suggest, Professor. We will take the risk, secure in the ever-loving protection of the Lord. His will be done!”

“We cannot conduct the ritual in the sanctuary,” Phleger muttered as he went quickly to the large safe. “It is already filling with the faithful. If the ritual were to be presented as a part of the Consecration, that would sanctify it in their eyes. But as a piece of deviltry on its own, it would merely befuddle and worry them. That would not do at all.”

“A wise choice,” Ben murmured, clearly admiring Phleger’s perceptivity, untutored as it was.

“We will use my
sanctum sanctorum
, the private chapel where I retreat for personal prayer and reflection.” Laying a hand on the safe, Phleger whispered a prayer, then unlocked it. Withdrawing the snuffbox, he tucked it inside his coat pocket.

Phleger and Ben strode from the office, and Trahern took Will’s arm, pulling him to follow. As they walked, Will rolled the candies around in his mouth. The taste was beginning to change; now the candies had the flavor of grass and memory and blood—and Will’s body was beginning to feel strange. He was powerfully aware of each of Trahern’s fingertips digging into the flesh of his arm. They burned.

Brother Phleger’s
sanctum sanctorum
was situated directly behind the vestry. It was an intimate space, without the sanctuary’s grandeur—but in some ways, it was even more impressive. The walls were stark, pure white—so white it hurt Will’s eyes. There were no windows and no trace of ornamentation. Just white walls that stretched up to high white ceilings, lit by stark white bulbs. The floor was of glittering white marble, polished mirror smooth. The room was as cold as an icebox.

There was only one spot of color in the room, and that was on the far wall—an enormous red cross of stained wood, at least twelve feet tall.

There was no altar before the cross; instead, there was a single piece of furniture, low and wide and armless, covered in smooth white leather.

“I think only the three of us need to be present for this,” Ben said, looking meaningfully at Trahern.

“Think again,” Trahern growled.

“No, the Professor is right,” Phleger said. “Having four doesn’t seem right. Three is a more hallowed number.” When Trahern made no move to leave, Phleger waved him away with an impatient gesture. “Guard the door. I will call if I need you.”

Ben helped Will lie down on the low ottoman. Will was feeling very strange now. The brilliant whiteness of the room seemed to press against his skin, and his very bones ached.

“I will conduct the ritual,” Ben said to Phleger. “You must assume an attitude of prayer. Beseech God to cover us in his holy Grace.”

Phleger grabbed both of Ben’s hands, and held them for a moment.

“Even though you are not a man of faith,” he said, “may the Lord be with you.”

Then he went to kneel before the cross. When Phleger could not see, Ben shuddered and shook his hands as if he’d been shocked by electricity.

“What is in this candy?” Will murmured to Ben. The words slurred as he spoke them, and his voice sounded strange within his own ears. His muscles burned as if he’d just run for miles. Ben looked into Will’s eyes, assessing something in them, then nodded with silent satisfaction.

“The Gores compounded this potion to help us keep Cowdray at bay while we conduct the ritual.”

“Help
us
control Cowdray?”

Ben nodded. “You’re not trained in magic, but I am. We’re going to do exactly what Dr. Gore and Irene do. I am going to vamp on you.”

“It hurts,” Will whispered, his voice hoarse. “It hurts a lot.”

“I know, Will,” Ben whispered. “I’m sorry. But Cowdray will resist us with every means at his disposal. And we have only one advantage over him. Your body. Your physicality. The pain is the only way you’ll be able to keep from being overwhelmed by him. You must use the pain—be intensely aware of it. You need to use the pain, just like you used it to break Mother’s Send.”

Will nodded, his head wobbling loose on his neck. The movement sent agony screeching down his spine. He remembered pressing his arm against the steam radiator, the pain tearing away the tendrils of magic that had tried to insinuate themselves through his mind. But that had only hurt for a little while. This pain was already so much greater than that. And it was getting worse.

“Ben, it’s too strong,” Will whispered. At the sound of his real name, Ben quickly looked behind him to see where Phleger was. But Phleger had not heard; he was kneeling on the cold hard floor before the cross, shoulders hunched in prayer.

“It’s too strong,” Will gasped again, as a fresh wave of pain surged through his body. Involuntary tears sprung into his eyes as all his muscles clenched against it.

“I just hope it’s strong enough,” Ben said as he unbuttoned Will’s shirt, laying his chest bare.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Will rasped, feeling as if his words might catch fire for speaking them. He felt himself panting heavily. “Ben, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”

“Stop calling me ‘Ben’ for one thing,” his brother growled low. Then, in a louder voice, he called over his shoulder to where Brother Phleger was kneeling. “Brother Phleger! I will need the box now.”