“I’m -- we’re just worried about you, Paul, that’s all,” Lessa says, reaching over from her seat on the couch to pat me on my knee. Her Liz Taylor eyes glint as she tries to attract my attention, and I expertly stifle the urge to wince at her transparent attempt. Her date, Greg, leans back and half-heartedly stifles a yawn, as bored by her mild flirtation as I am embarrassed for her.
“Lessa,” I say, gently removing her hand from my trousers, “I’m fine. I’ve told you, I’m fine. I’m doing what I want to do now, there’s seriously nothing to worry about. Greg, can I get you another beer?”
“No thanks, Harken,” he says, using my last name with that bold, authoritative voice politicians love to use when they’re trying to make an impression. He runs his fingers absently through his immaculately styled black hair and smiles vacuously. “I’m driving. Appreciate it, though.”
“I could sure use one man,” Bobby says, finally interested enough by a topic to speak up. He picks up his empty from the coffee table and waggles it at me. “Totally dry over here.”
I nod thankfully at him, allowing myself a small grin, and push myself out of my comfy leather couch. “Same?”
“Same,” he replies cheerfully, and I head towards the kitchen.
Tonight’s the train wreck I knew it would be, but that’s okay. Honestly, I feel bad for Lessa, but she needs this kind of a night to understand that we really are through. Breaking up with her was one of the toughest things I’d ever done -- she’s smart, she’s motivated, she’s successful, she’s attractive, and she’s… very demonstrative in her affections. Just about any guy would say she’s the complete package. Hell, I still say she’s the complete package.
And no, I’m not crazy, though I suppose I can understand why she might think that. I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t thought about getting back together with her. Sure, she’s not perfect, but nobody is, and there’s a lot that’s right about her, too. We had some good times together. I’m pretty sure she hasn’t gotten over us yet, and I’m pretty sure Greg is at least partly an attempt to make me jealous. I hope he isn’t, I really hope she’s moved on, but I have my suspicions.
I won’t even deny that part of me is jealous. I cared a lot for Lessa, and I probably always will. She’ll be the one who got away when all of this is over with, and a big part of me would love to take her back and say to hell with all the hard work that’s still ahead of me. Part of me would love nothing more than to go back to being… what I had been. Part of me wants nothing more than to leave reality-breaking and mind-bending to sterner folks wearing wizard hats, flowing capes and wild beards.
But I won’t. I took stock of my position eighteen months ago, and I know this is the only way forward. My battle plan was clear once I determined my goal: I put my relationships on hold, I closed my consultancy, I got my dead ass back in shape, I spent most of my savings on occult artifacts, I changed my diet, I stopped watching television and I’ve read nothing but old books and ancient texts for the last year and a half. There was nothing wrong with Lessa; our relationship was just an unfortunate casualty. Maybe when it’s all over we’ll figure out how to try again, and maybe we won’t, but I can’t let myself think that way. I’m not stopping now. It’s too important.
Reluctantly, I suppress my excitement, but I smile to myself before snagging a cold one for Bobby and heading back to the living room. Lessa’s a good woman, and she’ll make someone real happy one day, but what’s waiting for me at midnight tonight is something I lost a long, long time ago -- lost, and never thought I could get back. Something that’s more important than anything in the entire world. And now that I know I can get it back, no matter what it costs me, no matter how much it hurts, I will get it back.
By the time I get back to the living room, Greg is standing and helping Lessa into her coat, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from audibly sighing in relief. Lessa looks disappointed, but Greg’s expression lies somewhere between boredom and impatience.
“Going already? It’s only eight” I say, briefly taking on the role of Captain Obvious for simplicity’s sake.
“Greg’s got to fly to DC in the morning,” Lessa says, unsubtly tossing her immaculately styled mane as she glances at me. “The Senator asked for him specifically to help prepare for a committee meeting next week. Isn’t that amazing?” she finishes, dramatically clutching Greg’s arm. “I’m so proud of him.”
“Amazing,” I deadpan, handing the beer bottle to Bobby. “Good luck with that, Greg.”
“Yep,” he says, extending his hand to me and assuming the emotionless, reptilian smile so commonly used by members of his profession. “Thanks.”
I briefly consider letting him hang there -- not because of his relationship with Lessa, but because my respect for politicians lies at a level roughly equivalent to my respect for ticks, mosquitoes, leeches and lawyers: to wit, avoid at all costs, and remove with prejudice once they start sucking you dry. But then I remember:
I shall bear no man ill in will or deed.
This is what the Book tells me. I can’t just pretend to be pure, I have to mean it. Changing that cynical, mocking, angry part of myself has been one of the toughest parts of the process, even tougher than letting Lessa go. It’s so easy to let old habits get in the way.
Who knows, maybe he’s the exception to the rule. Maybe he’s an honest, incorruptible politician. It could totally happen, right? And even if he’s not the exception, it’s not my place to judge him.
So I smile, I take his hand, I shake it, and I walk the pair to my front door, booting them out of my house with as much polite decorum and sincerity as I can muster.
I watch the pair head down the walk, take a long breath and realize I have no regrets. It’s a good feeling, and it’s probably the first time I’ve felt it in… I don’t know how long, really.
“Awkward,” Bobby says, reaching for the TV remote as I shut the door. “Why did you want them here anyway?”
“I didn’t,” I say honestly, flopping back on the couch. “She’s relentless; she’s been dying to show him off to me for days. I agreed so she could see how pointless it is. I just want her to get me out of her head.”
“Rough life, stud,” he says, settling on a hockey game. The Rangers are losing. “She’s been stalking you for what, a year now?”
“Year and a half.”
“A year and a god damn half,” Bobby repeats, swigging his beer. “Damn, man. If a woman chased me for a year and a half after I dumped her ass I’d let her have me once or twice, you know?”
I don’t reply, and he peers at me out of the corner of his eye, his thick, curly black hair and beard hiding his expression. “You’re really committed to this, huh?” he asks, his tone taking a turn for the serious.
Bobby knows. Well, ‘know’ is probably a strong word: I haven’t shared any specific details with him, but since I met him a year ago he’s become my closest friend, and his honest, down-to-earth thinking has kept me on the straight and narrow more than once. He’s well-read, and despite his rough, carefree appearance, nothing escapes his notice. He’s been putting two and two together ever since I dumped Lessa, and his guesses are getting closer and closer to the truth. I don’t volunteer anything, but I don’t bother denying it either.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I’m committed.”
“Is it worth it?” he presses me, just a little. “I’ve seen what you sacrificed, man. You’re a way better dude than you were when I first met you, and I hope you don’t mind me saying so. I’d hate to see a good guy suffer for nothing, you know?”
Coming from anyone else, I’d ignore the question, but it’s Bobby. He’s proven that he’s got my back. He’s earned the right to ask, and he deserves an honest answer.
“Yeah,” I say, settling into the couch and thinking briefly about what’s going to happen at midnight. “It’s worth it. So let’s drink to it before I toss your sorry ass out the door, too.”
He laughs, and we drink, and I toss his sorry ass out the door not long after. I promise him I’ll tell him all about it tomorrow, and he says he’ll bring the beers.
Assuming I’m still alive tomorrow, I’ll take him up on that.
* * *
Six minutes to midnight.
The wards are in place: a nine-foot diameter protective circle is set into the wooden attic floor via four five-foot marble tiles engineered to slide and lock together into a perfect square. The circle’s glyphs and symbols are meticulously rendered in inlaid stone and metal, triple-checked for accuracy, colored per the precise directions in the Book, and conjoined seamlessly at all the critical juncture points. An oversized duffel bag full of occult miscellany, like incense for area cleansing, idols for defensive spellwork, and various random but useful gadgets, sits behind me and just within reach, under an antique table. Just in case things get especially weird.
Five minutes.
A square of parchment, inscribed in golden ink with a completed magic square, lays complete at the center of the circle, illuminated by a single hanging electric light and a half dozen thick storm candles positioned around the room. This last magic square had been a doozy: unlike my earlier summonings, this one had been left intentionally incomplete in the Book. An exercise for the student, in a sense -- and a way to assure that only the studied, the pure and the wise would be able to access the ritual’s power. I’ve triple-checked the formulae, and I’ve validated the results a half-dozen times. It has to be right. It damn well better be right.
Four minutes.
I light a tiny brass brazier at the northeast corner of the marble tiles and watch the flames slowly consume the incense as I begin a ritual chant. When the chant is done, the last of the twelve infernal Powers, Magoth, will find herself entrapped within my Circle. Powerless and unable to retreat, she’ll be forced to bargain with me for her freedom, just like her brothers and sisters did. I have no interest in forcing her to do my bidding, though. I have a much simpler request in mind.
Three minutes.
I take a lock of my own red hair and place it in a lead receptacle at the southeast corner of the Circle, readying the Circle for its visitor. Most sorcerers would use this opportunity for something much more worldly; summoning an Infernal Power allows the summoner to find lost treasures, discover secrets, influence others, acquire wealth -- in short, anything I’d ever want would be in my grasp, but all I want is what’s mine. All I want is what she and her brothers stole from me.
Well, that’s partly a lie. I want a lot of things. But I know better than to ask for more.
Two minutes.
Wincing, I carefully slice my palm with an obsidian knife, letting a drop of blood drip into a small silver basin at the southwest corner of the Circle. Three years ago, I couldn’t even imagine a world where I’d do this again, let alone one where I cared about things like purity of thought. Two years ago, I couldn’t imagine changing my entire life to chase after the ritual magics from an old medieval manuscript.
But here I was. Eighteen months ago, I’d summoned an Infernal Prince into this very attic. I’d been scared as, well, hell, and I’d gotten lucky. Stuttering and out of my mind with fear, I’d forced Baelphegor to make a deal with me. By the time he’d gone, leaving the stink of sulphur behind in my rafters, I could feel the difference. Part of me had been restored. I was on the right track, and I knew it.
One minute.
I raise my voice as I reach the final verse of the chant. A crack of thunder sounds outside, and a torrential rain, completely unpredicted by the weatherman, begins to pound on the roof. A car alarm goes off in the distance, and most of the neighborhood dogs begin to bark. I can feel energy, barely contained, suffuse the air around me.
Midnight.
With the last word of the chant I breathe on a small tin bell at the west side of the Circle. It clanks three times, sounding more like a sleigh bell than a church bell as my breath caresses the metal. The quality of the sound doesn’t matter though; what matters is the association of the metal with the direction, with the element, and most importantly, with me. Everything is in order. Everything is as it should be.
At the last sound of the bell, the protective Circle springs to life. Glyphs and symbols of every color abruptly materialize around the circumference of the circle, floating up from the tiles and glowing like multicolored fireflies as they hang suspended in a rich, golden-hued field that spans the circumference of the Circle.
The light and the candles flicker as the sound of the bell dies, and then they all go out simultaneously, the light bulb extinguishing itself with a loud pop as a bright light begins to emanate from the center of the protective Circle. Squinting, I try to watch, but I have to look away as the brightness becomes painful. The light is so intense that it leaves behind an improbable afterimage: a unicorn, rearing. I can see it more clearly with my eyes shut than anything else with my eyes open for at least a minute.
Then, finally, the afterimage fades and my sight returns to me, and only the faint lights of the circle’s floating glyphs and the warm amber aura of the Circle’s protective field provide any illumination. Warily, I stare into the Circle, and at last I can make out a dark shape lying inside, apparently prone.
The last demon is within my grasp. My search is finally over.
“Magoth,” I say, commanding the demon by name. “You know who I am. I have summoned and mastered your brethren, and now I have summoned you. I have sealed this place by the elements of my body, and you are bound to me. You will complete my contract, or you will never leave this place.”
The demon in the circle shifts, and as my eyes become better adjusted, I could swear I see the creature yawn, extending a pair of forelimbs in a deep stretch, before speaking aloud in a sleepy feminine voice.
“Spiiike! I told you to stop eating pizza before bedtime! Gah, it smells like sulphur in… wait, this isn’t my… what!?”
I frown and squint, trying to get a better look at the demon in the Circle. I’ve heard swearing, pleading, laughing and even sexual propositions as the first thing out of a demon’s mouth, but this? This is definitely a new approach, and I watch the creature warily, wondering what other surprises it has for me.
As I watch, the creature’s amorphous form turns in place, quickly spotting me, and its huge, reflective eyes shine in the dim light of the Circle’s protective glyphs, widening further as they scan my confused face.
“Sooo… I’m… not in Equestria anymore, am I?” it asks.