Read Online Evil Ways by Justin Gustainis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Justin Gustainis
Tags: Fiction, Occult & Supernatural
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project to succeed."
"That's reassuring," Grobius said. "Hanging on this long, not to mention all the work and money that have gone into it. And the lives. If it were all for nothing, just because of some fucking low pressure area… When are these precise conditions —the moon and so on— going to occur again?"
"I'd have to look it up," Pardee said. "But I think it's safe to say that it won't be within a reasonable time frame."
"Meaning there's no way I could live long enough, even with your magic and the wonders of modern science." The old man made a disgusted sound. "I suppose I'd be lucky to last until April of next year."
"That's quite possibly true. Which is why I intend to succeed the first time. I know how much this matters to you."
"Yes, it does. But why does it matter to you? Is it just the money?"
"The money's important, of course." Pardee said. "I enjoy the things money can buy, as much as anyone. But this is also the chance to do something that has never been done before. Oh, in the movies and cheap fiction, it happens all the time. But in reality, it has never been possible. Those who have tried have either simply failed, or both failed and died. Until now, that is. Quite a momentous occasion, or, rather, it will be."
"Pity is has to remain a secret. You could be named to the Wizards' Hall of Fame, or some such."
"I suspect it would be more like the Hall of Infamy. But that's all right. I have no concerns that my name will be forgotten."
"By those who matter, you mean," Grobius said.
"Exactly. Those who really matter will know."
Andrea McKinnon struggled to balance her heavy briefcase and two thick files of legal depositions while fitting her key into the lock of her front door. She finally managed, without spilling her work all over the front porch. She stepped inside, and kicked the door shut behind her.
She could have used magic either to get the door open, or to transport the paperwork from her trunk, or both. But she didn't like to use her power in public unless absolutely necessary. It tended to upset people, most of whom still thought that there was only one kind of witchcraft —the evil kind. Andrea supposed that she could have been doing more to educate the public about white witchcraft, but Lawrence, Kansas was smack dab in the middle of the Bible Belt, and the last thing she needed was a bunch of crazed fundamentalists howling outside her house at all hours.
Even worse, one of them might try to kill her, interpreting the scriptural admonition "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" in an all too literal fashion. It had happened in Oklahoma, a few years ago. One of her Sisters in the Goddess had been "outed" as a witch by the local paper, and soon a nutcase, off his medication and hopped up with the need to do something wonderful for Jesus, had thrown a pail of gasoline on her and then tried to set it alight. Fortunately for all concerned, the plastic disposable lighter the nutcase had flicked into flame and tossed toward the gasoline-soaked woman had gone out as soon as it was thrown, which such devices are designed to do.
Shrugging out of her raincoat, Andrea shook her head at the idea of it. Jesus of Nazareth had been, by all reliable accounts, a man of love and peace. The antics some of his followers got up to must sadden him greatly, even now.
She was measuring Maxwell House into her coffee maker when she heard the sounds coming from her living room.
A burglar? In this neighborhood?
Well, anything was possible. Meth had caught on among certain elements of the Lawrence underclass, and the resulting small army of addicts was gradually spreading, even into the suburbs, seeking money or anything that could be turned into ready cash.
But the wards on the house should have kept them out. As soon as they tried to get in, they should have felt an overpowering desire to go someplace else.
Worry about that later. For now, deal with the threat, whatever it was.
From a drawer next to
"That's reassuring," Grobius said. "Hanging on this long, not to mention all the work and money that have gone into it. And the lives. If it were all for nothing, just because of some fucking low pressure area… When are these precise conditions —the moon and so on— going to occur again?"
"I'd have to look it up," Pardee said. "But I think it's safe to say that it won't be within a reasonable time frame."
"Meaning there's no way I could live long enough, even with your magic and the wonders of modern science." The old man made a disgusted sound. "I suppose I'd be lucky to last until April of next year."
"That's quite possibly true. Which is why I intend to succeed the first time. I know how much this matters to you."
"Yes, it does. But why does it matter to you? Is it just the money?"
"The money's important, of course." Pardee said. "I enjoy the things money can buy, as much as anyone. But this is also the chance to do something that has never been done before. Oh, in the movies and cheap fiction, it happens all the time. But in reality, it has never been possible. Those who have tried have either simply failed, or both failed and died. Until now, that is. Quite a momentous occasion, or, rather, it will be."
"Pity is has to remain a secret. You could be named to the Wizards' Hall of Fame, or some such."
"I suspect it would be more like the Hall of Infamy. But that's all right. I have no concerns that my name will be forgotten."
"By those who matter, you mean," Grobius said.
"Exactly. Those who really matter will know."
Andrea McKinnon struggled to balance her heavy briefcase and two thick files of legal depositions while fitting her key into the lock of her front door. She finally managed, without spilling her work all over the front porch. She stepped inside, and kicked the door shut behind her.
She could have used magic either to get the door open, or to transport the paperwork from her trunk, or both. But she didn't like to use her power in public unless absolutely necessary. It tended to upset people, most of whom still thought that there was only one kind of witchcraft —the evil kind. Andrea supposed that she could have been doing more to educate the public about white witchcraft, but Lawrence, Kansas was smack dab in the middle of the Bible Belt, and the last thing she needed was a bunch of crazed fundamentalists howling outside her house at all hours.
Even worse, one of them might try to kill her, interpreting the scriptural admonition "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" in an all too literal fashion. It had happened in Oklahoma, a few years ago. One of her Sisters in the Goddess had been "outed" as a witch by the local paper, and soon a nutcase, off his medication and hopped up with the need to do something wonderful for Jesus, had thrown a pail of gasoline on her and then tried to set it alight. Fortunately for all concerned, the plastic disposable lighter the nutcase had flicked into flame and tossed toward the gasoline-soaked woman had gone out as soon as it was thrown, which such devices are designed to do.
Shrugging out of her raincoat, Andrea shook her head at the idea of it. Jesus of Nazareth had been, by all reliable accounts, a man of love and peace. The antics some of his followers got up to must sadden him greatly, even now.
She was measuring Maxwell House into her coffee maker when she heard the sounds coming from her living room.
A burglar? In this neighborhood?
Well, anything was possible. Meth had caught on among certain elements of the Lawrence underclass, and the resulting small army of addicts was gradually spreading, even into the suburbs, seeking money or anything that could be turned into ready cash.
But the wards on the house should have kept them out. As soon as they tried to get in, they should have felt an overpowering desire to go someplace else.
Worry about that later. For now, deal with the threat, whatever it was.
From a drawer next to
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