Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black) (18 page)

The first thing to be done was to charge the room properly.

On a simple barbeque briquette in the brazier, he deposited previously mixed together shavings of oak, ash, and hawthorn. Jonathan splashed a small amount of the bourbon in his glass on to the briquette and wood shavings. He took his Zippo, and, spinning the wheel, applied the flame to the wood. The ends of the shavings curled, blackened, and then the bourbon accelerated the process, and a sizable flame flickered over the brazier.

Jonathan waited until it had burned itself out and then gently blew over the briquette until it glowed. Uncorking a glass jar, Jonathan dipped his fingers into the wide mouth and scooped out some of the fine, cream-colored powder inside.

He sprinkled this liberally over the glowing embers, and a moment later, a thick cloud rose from the brazier. A sweet, earthy smell instantly smothered the weaker scents of their dinners, the bourbon, his sweat, and even the stale, lingering smell of the cigarettes.

Wendell inhaled deeply and the look on his face softened. “Divine.”

“Truly,” Jonathan agreed. “It’s frankincense. The stuff used in Christian ceremonies.”

Next, Jonathan sprinkled orris root on the brazier. Its more-pungent scent mixed pleasantly with the earthy nature of the frankincense, an unintended effect. The burning of these two things was for protection and magical acuteness, not aromatherapy.

Jonathan realized he had left the box of salt from this morning’s body disposal in the front office.

When he went to retrieve it, he noticed the blood he had spilled that morning had already become just another dark stain on the nearly textureless carpet. It still looked better than the charred parts.

Returning, he poured the salt into the chalice until it was nearly full and crumpled a dried basil leaf over it. The herb’s rich scent filled his nostrils.

Jonathan used a wand made of hawthorn to mix the two ingredients together as thoroughly as possible. He took the chalice and poured some of the mixture across the front door, the door to his office, and across the base of the windows.

Finally, he emptied the rest by carefully forming a large circle around where Wendell sat.

Jonathan put more frankincense and orris root on the brazier. Another cloud of thick aromatic protection rose up and engulfed the office space.

Jonathan took nine dark glossy holly leaves from a cloth bag and spread them out on the bottom of the chalice.

He placed a mistletoe twig, with a single leaf, on the smoldering brazier and waited for it to begin to char and smoke before turning his attention back to the chalice.

A pinch of boneset, a small handful of anise, and a bloom of betony went in the cup. He dipped into the black snakeroot container twice; once for the chalice, once for the brazier.

A smidge of the herb, dragon’s blood, a sprig of sage and wormwood, dried comfrey, yarrow blooms, and rosemary, and over it all, he poured peppermint oil.

Jonathan took the wand, and calling up a little of his own energy, allowed it to trickle into the chalice.

He hadn’t needed to tap his own reservoir, the natural energy which resided in the ingredients would have done the work, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

It was a small thing—a quitter’s single drag off a smoke, a little rum in the alcoholic’s cake. He stirred the contents clockwise until it was a homogenous mixture which, due to the peppermint oil, had become moist enough to clump together.

Jonathan took some of the mixture on his finger. He spread it on his forehead in the shape of a circle with a cross contained within. He traced the Egyptian hieroglyph for Thoth to the right of the cross, and put the Norse rune Eihwaz—the yew tree—on the left.

He dipped his fingers into the chalice again and turned to his client. Wendell had been watching him the entire time and leaned forward slightly as Jonathan stepped carefully inside the ring of salt and basil.

He drew the same Celtic cross on Wendell’s forehead, but then he made the symbol for Bastet to the right, and to the left, the Norse rune Algiz—the shield—for protection.

The next part of protecting his client would be tedious. This harsh fact contained a sweet kernel, however. Jonathan knew he would have to call up power from within and beyond to accomplish the task.

He would need to work meticulously while a continuous feed of energy flowed through him.

Just the thought of allowing himself to use that amount of energy made his endorphins ejaculate. It would be a controlled release, like a junkie pushing the plunger with exquisite self-hating sluggishness.

Jonathan lowered himself slowly to the floor inside the ring of salt and began to trace the necessary patterns on the floor.

He drew symbols used by Sumerians, Hittites, and Egyptians. He wrote words fashioned for Greeks, Christians, and Islamics. He traced out Kabalic patterns and Norse runes.

For each one, he drew not only on his own energy, but activated the latent power in each of the symbols, summoning their essence by name. It was an hour of Hell. It was an eternity in Nirvana. He felt the power of the White Dragon, but the ascent was slow and tightly reigned.

But by the time he had completed the circle of protection, Jonathan’s stomach might as well have been swollen with white-hot coals from being hunched over for so long.

The precision needed to form each symbol and word had made his arms feel like pond scum. His bones quivered in a way he knew only too well—caused by the magic creating tiny spaces within them; spaces that would be filled with whatever practitioners drew from. Already, the Dragon Black closed in.

He’d progressed so far beyond tired, the word ‘rest’ seemed a half forgotten mirage. Still the addiction called. It cajoled, and coerced, trying to get that one further flare of energy.

Jonathan forced himself to take a short break, an exercise in self-control, of will power. A fool’s swagger of bravado against the approaching legions.

He lit a cigarette for himself and for Wendell. His client had remained completely silent through the entire process, for which Jonathan was grateful.

Wendell took the smoke and nodded his consent to having his glass refilled. Jonathan downed half a glass and then topped it up again. He tried to sip more slowly after that.

“You look drained.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan didn’t bother pretending. “But the worst part’s over. I’ve shielded you.”

He took another drink and tried to relax his muscles.

“While I perform the rites and spells on you, we will be safe from . . . well from just about everything that might care that magic is happening. Nothing ethereal will get in, and that’s important. It’s too easy to be sloppy, cut corners, but the consequences . . .”

Jonathan went silent for a moment. He drew a hand over his face and then said, “The consequences can be worse than death.”

Jonathan leaned against his desk and waited for the worst of it to pass. His brain had become a night sky with a thousand focused bolts of light piercing the darkness. Moving so fast all that remained was the purple halo of after burn on his mind’s eye.

In a word—enrapture.

It made his thoughts dizzying.

It left him feeling like a burned out bulb in a forgotten basement of a deserted mortuary.

He bombed his system with bourbon and sucked back nicotine until his bones no longer felt like they were vibrating out of his body. Jonathan honestly wasn’t sure if his hands shook because of his skeleton trying to jitter loose from riding an adrenaline rush, or simple muscle fatigue.

With his second cigarette done, Jonathan could pretend he had control once more and started on the final stage of the night’s precautions.

It already seemed to be an endless arctic night, and the sooner he could fall over, the better.

Once he had carefully cleaned the chalice, Jonathan began on the final ritual, which should effectively obscure Wendell’s energy.

If done correctly, for a few days his client’s aura, his psychic energy, and even to a degree his physical scent, would be blurred.

Anyone attempting to scry on him would see distorted visions and reflected energy.

A hex sent against Wendell using anything of his teeth, hair, or personal objects would fail. Anyone casting on him from afar wouldn’t be able to find his energy to slide the spell along.

It wasn’t perfect, and it certainly wouldn’t last forever, but then it wouldn’t have to; the ritual only had to buy them some time.

Jonathan hoped, once the predicted day had passed, Wendell Courtney would be fine.

If the whole thing started again, at least he would have bought his client some leeway, and himself some more time to find answers.

Opening a leather pouch from the tray, he spilled some of its contents into the chalice. It was dirt from a graveyard, the grave of an unbaptized child to be precise—unpleasant but potent.

He held his hand over the chalice and moved his two fingers. Immediately, his pains turned to pleasure. The jagged obsidian teeth of the Dragon Black slid out of his body. The flow of energy spread out of his core and Jonathan felt the minor issues of the flesh burned away, supplanted with a radiance of spirit. Speaking in Greek, he called upon certain deities for protection. Tiny, white crystals began to form and fall from his fingers. It looked like he brushed sugar from them.

Grave dirt made an extremely powerful base for most spells, as it had its own properties of protection and aided in spells of retribution. Jonathan hoped the second attribute would help in shielding Wendell, that it would bounce back whatever forces worked against him.

When a sufficient amount of the tiny crystal had fallen from his fingers upon the dark soil, Jonathan stopped. He picked up the chalice and, careful of the salt line, carried it over to where Wendell sat watching.

“Hold this securely,” Jonathan said, passing the chalice to his client.

He took the bone and wood object gently, but his long fingers held it fast.

Jonathan reached into his pocket, took out his knife, and snapped open the five-inch blade. Checking to make sure it was clean, he looked to Wendell.

“Grasp the chalice in your right hand and hold your left over it.”

His client did as instructed and Jonathan grabbed the man’s thin hand in his own. Securing the middle finger, he quickly drew the knife along the tip.

Wendell didn’t make a sound, though blood welled instantly.

Jonathan kept his blade sharp, a habit which had served him well over the years.

He turned Wendell’s hand over, allowing the blood to drop into the chalice instead of pooling into his palm. A dozen fat, red drops fell into the chalice and instantly soaked into the soil, leaving only a richer shade of black as proof.

Jonathan let go of Wendell and took the chalice from him. He returned it to the desk and passed over the white cloth.

“Wrap this on it. It will stop soon anyway, but there’s no point wasting any.”

Jonathan turned away, trusting Wendell could handle wrapping his own flesh.

Stretching his own hand over the chalice, Jonathan jabbed the tip of the knife into his palm and allowed his blood to patter onto the dry dirt. As he watched the blood, inspiration came to him and whispered in his ear. It reminded him of the stain in the front office and how it got there.

Telling Wendell to sit tight, he went back out into the front office. From the wastebasket, he fished out one of the wads of tape that had been wrapped around the Apatedyne employee’s fingers. To his delight, Jonathan discovered the layers of tape had actually kept small amounts of the smeared blood preserved in an un-congealed state.

Jonathan grinned. Feeling smug with himself, he walked into his closet and took out an empty woman’s compact, as well as a red leather-covered bottle.  He smeared some of the blood from the tape on the inside of the make-up container, where the blush had once been stored.

Being careful to take from the chalice only the dirt that had not been touched by either Wendell’s blood or his own, Jonathan sprinkled some of the mixture over the blood in the container. He then un-stoppered the leather-covered bottle and the unmistakable scent of sulfur assaulted his nasal passages. A few drops pattered onto the mixture.

Taking a tiny piece of dry nettle leaf, he dropped it into the compact as well.

Jonathan touched his two fingertips to the concoction and, aware he sounded as though coughing up a daemon, he spoke six words.

But, oh, the power that welled with those few sounds.

From under his fingers, an unnaturally yellow flame burst forth, which died as suddenly as it had started. Jonathan took a pinch of the scorched contents and deposited them in the chalice.

He closed the compact and placed it carefully on the tray, out of the way of the rest of the items he still needed.

“Now we really have something,” Jonathan muttered to himself and began to squeeze more drops of the blood from between the layers of tape, allowing them to fall into the chalice.

When he’d managed to milk all the liquid he could, Jonathan tossed the tape towards his waste bin. He missed, but it was at least in the right area.

More items went into the mixture in the chalice. With each ingredient deposited, he would speak the necessary words to activate the specific properties he needed.

He didn’t bother trying to withhold his own energy from leaping up this time, being too far in tonight to play such inane games. He allowed the White Dragon freedom and soared.

Jonathan carefully wove these utterances into the greater ritual. It wasn’t long before sweat beaded his brow and his bones had begun to tingle again. The fingers on his left hand, his free hand, twitched and jittered as the high rose and cascaded through his soul, spirit, mind, and body. His tongue and lips moved, giving sound to the will, command to the force, direction to the energy.

Occasionally, he had to restrain the middle and ring finger on his right hand from coming together and summoning deeper magic, greater power, tumultuous energy. He would resist at least that much tonight.

A touch more energy as he added an herb commonly called sweet flag. There was careful focus on his pronunciation as he dropped in a wing bone from a bat. Tossing in a bit of peyote, he half wished he could pop a button into his own mouth. Devil’s shoestring, a curl of wood from a tree struck by lightning, the hair of a shape shifter, and the flowers of the bitterest herb, rue, all went in.