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Authors: Josh Lanyon
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symbol designed for a specific magical use.”
“This sigil is the name of a demon, isn’t it?”
Reluctantly, he admitted, “That also.”
“And the point of this sigil would be to invoke or conjure this particular demon, right?”
“Correct. The idea would be to summon the demon to do the work of the conjurer.”
“Which of the seventy-two demons is this? Out of curiosity.”
“I have no idea.”
I must have looked skeptical. He said, “Off the top of my head? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He sounded unexpectedly haughty. “I’m no expert in this particular arena. If you want to understand the role of modern witchcraft in primitive societies or the devolution of Goddess worship into modern religion, I’m your man. Traditional witchcraft…Satanism…is not my scene.”
“But you could find out?”
“What do you care which demon it is?”
That earned curious glances from our fellow diners. Guy lowered his voice, said, “You need to stay well clear of this.”
“That old black magic gotcha?”
“You may laugh, but the point is not whether you believe in this. The point is that whoever left this on your door believes in it. This is one who wishes you great harm --
merely because you got in his -- or her --”
“Or their?” I suggested.
“Or their way.”
“I thought you said it was all settled?”
“It is. If you let it lie.”
“What about Angus?”
He didn’t seem to have an answer.
“Dessert?” the waitress asked brightly, materializing beside our table.
I resisted the impulse to ask for devil’s food cake.
* * * * *
The Hell You Say
45
Chan was waiting by the front door when I got back to the bookstore. He appeared to have been there a while. He looked tired and frazzled; there was a mound of cigarette butts at his feet.
“Hey,” I greeted him, sliding back the ornate security gate. “What’s up?”
“Adrien --” There was something in his face.
I put my hand out to steady myself on the gate. I’d as soon as not remember the sound I made.
Chan said, sounding kind of frantic, “He’s okay, Adrien. Jake’s okay. That’s why I’m here. In case it makes the news. He didn’t want you to hear it that way.”
I turned to stare at him across a great crumbling distance, hanging on to the gate like it was my spar in a swell.
“He’s fine. I swear to God. Maybe a little concussion.”
“What happened?”
“We were chasing a suspect, and he got hit by a car. Jake, I mean. The suspect got away.”
“Where is he?”
“The suspect?”
“Jake.”
“Oh. Huntington Hospital.” He added as I started back toward my car, “But he doesn’t want you driving down there. Adrien” -- he trotted after me -- “he doesn’t want you there.”
46 Josh Lanyon
Chapter Seven
I hate hospitals. I hate the antiseptic smell, the artificial light. I hate those crisp, professional smiles that tell you they’ve seen a million like you come and go, and your little, life-threatening illness isn’t nearly as important as you imagine.
It took a while to locate Jake’s room up on one of the skyscraper floors. I prowled around the sterile halls until I found the right room -- the room with the uniformed cop in the doorway.
The cop looked like a younger version of Jake. Probably one of his brothers, most likely the one fresh out of the Academy. He wasn’t watching me, he was staring into the room, grinning, and as I walked by, I was able to snatch a snapshot glimpse of Jake. He sat bolstered by pillows in bed, his face bruised, his head bandaged. He was laughing. The room seemed full of people. There was an older man in a navy cardigan standing with his arm around a woman with a young face and gray hair. A young woman with red hair sat beside the raised bed holding Jake’s hand. She was sort of laughing and sort of crying.
The cop who looked like a younger version of Jake glanced my way. The uncomfortably familiar hazel eyes met mine. I kept walking.
I walked all the
“This sigil is the name of a demon, isn’t it?”
Reluctantly, he admitted, “That also.”
“And the point of this sigil would be to invoke or conjure this particular demon, right?”
“Correct. The idea would be to summon the demon to do the work of the conjurer.”
“Which of the seventy-two demons is this? Out of curiosity.”
“I have no idea.”
I must have looked skeptical. He said, “Off the top of my head? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He sounded unexpectedly haughty. “I’m no expert in this particular arena. If you want to understand the role of modern witchcraft in primitive societies or the devolution of Goddess worship into modern religion, I’m your man. Traditional witchcraft…Satanism…is not my scene.”
“But you could find out?”
“What do you care which demon it is?”
That earned curious glances from our fellow diners. Guy lowered his voice, said, “You need to stay well clear of this.”
“That old black magic gotcha?”
“You may laugh, but the point is not whether you believe in this. The point is that whoever left this on your door believes in it. This is one who wishes you great harm --
merely because you got in his -- or her --”
“Or their?” I suggested.
“Or their way.”
“I thought you said it was all settled?”
“It is. If you let it lie.”
“What about Angus?”
He didn’t seem to have an answer.
“Dessert?” the waitress asked brightly, materializing beside our table.
I resisted the impulse to ask for devil’s food cake.
* * * * *
The Hell You Say
45
Chan was waiting by the front door when I got back to the bookstore. He appeared to have been there a while. He looked tired and frazzled; there was a mound of cigarette butts at his feet.
“Hey,” I greeted him, sliding back the ornate security gate. “What’s up?”
“Adrien --” There was something in his face.
I put my hand out to steady myself on the gate. I’d as soon as not remember the sound I made.
Chan said, sounding kind of frantic, “He’s okay, Adrien. Jake’s okay. That’s why I’m here. In case it makes the news. He didn’t want you to hear it that way.”
I turned to stare at him across a great crumbling distance, hanging on to the gate like it was my spar in a swell.
“He’s fine. I swear to God. Maybe a little concussion.”
“What happened?”
“We were chasing a suspect, and he got hit by a car. Jake, I mean. The suspect got away.”
“Where is he?”
“The suspect?”
“Jake.”
“Oh. Huntington Hospital.” He added as I started back toward my car, “But he doesn’t want you driving down there. Adrien” -- he trotted after me -- “he doesn’t want you there.”
46 Josh Lanyon
Chapter Seven
I hate hospitals. I hate the antiseptic smell, the artificial light. I hate those crisp, professional smiles that tell you they’ve seen a million like you come and go, and your little, life-threatening illness isn’t nearly as important as you imagine.
It took a while to locate Jake’s room up on one of the skyscraper floors. I prowled around the sterile halls until I found the right room -- the room with the uniformed cop in the doorway.
The cop looked like a younger version of Jake. Probably one of his brothers, most likely the one fresh out of the Academy. He wasn’t watching me, he was staring into the room, grinning, and as I walked by, I was able to snatch a snapshot glimpse of Jake. He sat bolstered by pillows in bed, his face bruised, his head bandaged. He was laughing. The room seemed full of people. There was an older man in a navy cardigan standing with his arm around a woman with a young face and gray hair. A young woman with red hair sat beside the raised bed holding Jake’s hand. She was sort of laughing and sort of crying.
The cop who looked like a younger version of Jake glanced my way. The uncomfortably familiar hazel eyes met mine. I kept walking.
I walked all the
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