"She's very hot, but it's not a fever. Her temperature is climbing up and up, but she's sweating."
Danube turned, hunching his shoulders and trying to shut out the sensation of the pounding water.
"Have there been any other occurrences, any other signs of the unusual?"
"Not at this point."
"They're there, somewhere," he said.
"What? The
Gnelfs
?"
"They have great power. They are spirits, the symbols in the books give them a gateway."
"So why is she so hot? Are they hexing her?"
"I'm afraid they're conjuring. If they were able to enter this realm through the doors, they may be trying to bring others."
"But why is she so hot?"
"There are many forms of demons. They could be summoning a fire demon."
"What?"
"A demon that manifests itself as an element.”
“What can we do?"
"Keep her cool. Douse her with water, do whatever else you can, and I'll be there within the hour. They have a ritual to perform to open the gate for their brother. Perhaps it can be delayed long enough."
"How do we fight it if you're not here?"
"Pray for blessing," he said. "I'll be there soon.”
“Danube…"
"Yes."
"Who's doing this?"
"Not your ex-husband. He's not capable of it.”
“Then who?"
"We shall have to find out. Once we deal with the crisis at hand."
~*~
Althea brought towels from the bathroom, while Gab lugged a pan of ice water from the kitchen. Dipping the towels into the water, they quickly spread them across Heaven's body, not worrying about her gown getting wet or the spillover onto the bed.
"What's happening, Mommy?" Heaven asked as Gab bathed her face with a washcloth. The child's cheeks were flushed bright red now.
"Just rest," Gab whispered.
"I feel hot from inside," Heaven complained.
"That would follow, in line with what Danube said."
Placing her hand on the child's forehead, Gab could almost feel the heat increasing. Gently, she pulled her fingers away and replaced them with another rag dipped in the ice water.
"Is she real sick?"
Terry had found his way to the door. He stood there, the towel he'd been using to dry his hair draped around his shoulders. His hands nervously clutched the cloth at each end, and he sawed it back and forth across the back of his neck.
Althea moved from the edge of the bed to put her hands on his shoulders, Gently turning him and guiding him back into the hallway. "Heaven is very sick, and we don't know what's wrong with her," Althea said. "We have to let her rest."
"Why is she so hot?"
"It's a bit like a fever."
"Is she gonna be all right?"
"We don't know. Now please, go back to the living room and wait."
She watched him walk dejectedly back down the hall, then slipped back through the doorway to Gab's side.
"I think she's getting hotter," Gab whispered as she squeezed water across the child's neck.
“We only have to hold out a little while," Althea said. "Danube will be here."
Gab's eyes drooped closed. "Please God, don't let my baby die here. Please."
Opening her eyes, she looked down on the child's tortured features, and from somewhere in the room heard the sound of laughter.
The tires hydroplaned across the coating of rain on the roadway while the steering wheel vibrated in his hands. He did not decrease speed.
He was nearing
Aimsley
now. Shortly he would reach the edge of town, and it would not take long to make it from there to Gabrielle's home.
He had gained slight confidence from the phone call; at least he knew what he would face. He would have to deal with a conjuring, would have to counteract it if possible. But if the demons themselves were doing the conjuring, he wasn't sure he would be successful.
He had no doubt that the powers of light were stronger, but was it their hour to prevail?
~*~
In the darkened room, the man smiled as Gab squeezed ice water onto her daughter's forehead. The liquid provided a picture so clear that he could see the lines of panic cutting across Gab's brow. It was better than watching a video monitor.
It was a grim smile that crossed the sorcerer's countenance. Success was being realized here. He had unleashed the forces, and now they were acting on their own, functioning to fulfill the goals he had set forth at his employer's request.
Stepping back from the cauldron, he moved down the steps of the platform. He had traveled a great distance since that day he had acquired his first
grimoire
in the old shop in London. He had searched and studied a long time, and had finally found the man, Joseph Hall-Patch, who could help him learn even more.
He had stayed with the old man in the cramped rooms over the shop, spending the days poring over musty books with brittle pages. Gradually, the old man had revealed things to him, things learned in secret meetings or gained from forbidden books. Hall-Patch had studied under many teachers and had much to offer.
The most important of them was the book, ragged and faded, its leather binding dusty and cracked. The edges of the pages were ruffled and flecks of crumbling brown paper fluttered free whenever he plucked it from the wrappings which had been placed around it to protect it from further decay. It was a scrapbook of all the old man had gathered, reflecting all his journeys, all his contacts.
While his host continued to peer into the depths of the liquid, Simon knelt at the base of the platform and removed his book, holding it gently in his soft hands as if it were his child. It was too fragile for casual handling, too important to be used frivolously, yet he loved the old book, cherished it, because it explained to him all of the things he must know to build the power he had desired all his life. And that knowledge would allow him to fulfill his feeling of uniqueness.
Gently, he peeled back pages, scanning the ornate lettering. He had known from the first moment his eyes fell upon the pages that he must possess it. Knowing it could become his only if he took it, he had worked diligently, studying, struggling with the spells and incantations; learning first the simple charms the old man suggested he master before moving on, practicing things in the dark hours after midnight on his own. He pored over the book, studying, memorizing and finally breaking through the barriers—or veils, as they were called—that separated the other realm from his reality.
He had looked into that world and invited its patrons to come into him. He had learned their ways, growing more and more powerful. The dark feelings that burned within gave him meaning for the first time, meaning that substituted for the loneliness and emptiness he had known since the death of his parents. He had been placed in an orphanage where religious dogma had been hammered into him until he had nothing but contempt for it and its rules.
He laughed. The forces he gave himself over to represented the opposite of everything he had hated, abandon instead of restraint, anger instead of repressed rage, and indulgence instead of repentance.
The old man had gradually learned of what he was doing, and at last had confronted him.
“You know you are delving deeper than is wise or safe," Hall-Patch had said in his cracked voice.
"I am doing what I must," Simon had replied.
They were standing in the front room of the old shop, Hall-Patch behind the narrow counter, his wrinkled hands flat on the wooden surface.
“You are opening yourself to demonic control," Hall-Patch warned. "That is always a mistake."
"A mistake? Or is it just that none are brave enough to try? Mine is the way of finding all power."
"It is a path that will lead to your death," the old man stated, adjusting wire-rimmed glasses. His voice was weary, heavy with impatience. Its tone conveyed that he had seen this all too many times.
"I'm ready to go beyond what anyone has ever tried," Simon responded. "I'm ready to find all of the power. I can feel it. We're in touch with some, but there's so much more that can be drawn."
The old man turned from him then. "I thought you were a wonderful pupil, but you're a fool. I want no more to do with you, Simon. You're going to cause destruction."
"Am I the fool, old man? If I have to go, I want the
grimoire
."
Hall-Patch laughed then. Simon had known he would laugh, had known he would think the notion so absurd that he would turn away. He had, in fact, counted on that.
The old man
did
turn his back, so he bowed his head, calling on the forbidden names, whispering forbidden words he had committed to memory.
Then Simon clenched his teeth as Hall-Patch continued to laugh.
His face flushed at the old man's contempt, and he focused his thoughts on Hall-Patch, attempting something he had never tried, pushing his abilities to their limits.
The laughter stopped abruptly. Simon wasn't sure if it was because the old man was already feeling the effects of his anger or because he had turned back and seen the glow in his eyes.
He felt his own temperature rise. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his breath grew short. He had to gasp for air, yet he persisted, drilling his thoughts into the man.
Slowly, the old man's eyes filled with terror, bulging as if they might pop from their sockets.
Hall-Patch tried to scream, without success, and his eyes rolled back into his head until only white was visible. He was standing away from the counter now, and as he realized what was happening, his mouth fell open.
He wanted to run, but he was frozen in place as his body began to quiver. His face and hands became incredibly red, and his flesh was drenched with perspiration. He began to swat madly at the air, as if he were being attacked by something flying about.
Again he tried to scream, but only a choking sound gurgled in his throat. It would have been a hideous sight to an onlooker, the sight of death in slow motion, but to Simon it was beauty, the actualization of his plan.
The old man's lungs filled with air, chest cavity expanding then deflating, the process repeating. His chest looked like the small plastic bag attached to a hospital breathing apparatus. He then tried to speak, perhaps to beg for mercy, but just as he could not scream, neither could he plead.
Feet planted firmly on the plank floor of the old shop, Simon raised his hands and shouted the remainder of his spell, calling on all that he had learned.
A tear escaped the corner of the old man's eye as the process continued. Even though his muscle and form were fixed in place, held there at the center of the room, inside his skeleton began to quiver. The stench when his bowels collapsed seared Simon's nostrils, but he only chuckled before he continued mouthing his words. His heart pounded; his erection, which had begun when the spell had been first cast, throbbed, its thunder hammering through his body, throbbing at every nerve ending. He wanted to cry out with ecstasy.
Wind from nowhere swept around him, swirled through the interior of the small shop. Everything shifted, and then the old man's bones began to obey the orders they were receiving. First the toes twitched, rising upward. For a moment, only bulges in his shoes were visible. In the next instant, the bones broke through the flesh that contained them and then the leather of the shoes.
Blood spewed through the ripping material, and the old man's eyes rolled farther back in his head. Yet his bones were not still. The foot continued to rise, and the flesh of his shins began to separate. The leg, then the kneecap, broke free.
Simon watched, amazed even though he had anticipated the power of this spell for a long time. Slowly, the skeleton stepped forward, the hips pulling through the flesh that bound them, and the rib cage forcing its way through the muscles of the chest. As that ripped open, internal organs began to spill from within the chest cavity in a bloody, steaming mass. When the stench of them reached his nostrils, Simon almost vomited, yet he could not avert his eyes from the hideous scene.
The shoulders pulled away next, then the skull forced its way through the face. Lips and cheeks tore open, and the skull emerged, exposed teeth and bone seeming to smile in satisfaction as the act was completed.
For a moment the skeleton stood there, the ruined meat of the body at its feet while blood and bile oozed and dripped over the bones. Then, teetering, it slowly toppled, falling apart like a pile of precariously balanced Tinker Toys.
With a deep breath, Simon let his thoughts soften, then stop. It was like letting go of a heavy burden. He staggered and had to brace himself against a table to keep from falling. His hair was now a mass of tangles about his head, and his muscles ached from the tension of the conjuring.
Breathing through his mouth, he allowed himself a few moments to regain composure.
Then he moved behind the counter, lifted the book from its hiding place, and rushed to the door, stepping onto the street, hurrying away, He never learned how the police explained what they found in the old shop when they went in to investigate the smell.