Dark Arts (13 page)

“So he didn’t invoke a major spirit?” Bernie
said.

Maxwell pointed to one of the circular
symbols at the back of the bus. “Three there,” Maxwell said. “All
in one seal. Old enough so no one knows what the language sounds
like aloud, Sumerian. They’re household Gods though, so not Old
Ones.”

“Any idea what they were Gods of?” Bernie
asked.

“None,” Maxwell said. “I listened to my dad,
but not well enough to memorize that whole tribe of minor
Gods.”

“Max,” Allen said, picking up a marker,
shaking it and joining in on the striking of symbols. “You led a
ceremony a while ago. The people who told me about it say it went
well, miraculously.”

“I wouldn’t say miraculously,” Maxwell said.
“Did what it was supposed to.”

“So, I’m already getting pressure from the
Circle to initiate you, and I think my son should stand with you
during the ceremony as your brother,” Allen said. “There are things
you should know, and I can’t tell you unless you’re initiated.”

“Like?” Maxwell said. He was already tired
of the topic.

“Where your father is really buried,” Allen
said. “That graveyard hasn’t been used to bury anyone in a long
time.”

“I want Miranda to stand with me as
Summoner,” Maxwell replied, watching Bernie smile a little as he
looked for a marker that worked.

“I think that can be arranged,” Allen said.
“Welcome to the fold, Max.”

“There goes the neighborhood,” Maxwell
said.

* * *

Maxwell could no longer assume anything he
saw or felt was all in his head, a defense he’d used most of his
life. The book was securely in Max’s jacket again, but he felt
absolutely nothing from it. The shard was a different story. He
suspected that it was why the Ablesmith family was dislodged from
the crossroads, why they were able to follow him, and why their
tormentor was following him. If he kept the stone, they would be
the first of many.

When he finished working on the bus he
quietly left when no one was looking. There were campfires with
people gathered around them dotting the field between him and his
bike, and he was ignored as another shape passing through the humid
darkness between.

He made his way to the main house, ignoring
the people who were inside – a crowd of older visitors playing
cards at the kitchen table, another at the long dining table doing
the same, a few older gentlemen in the den having a drink and a
cigar, and then he was in the library. Three older fellows, one of
whom Maxwell recognized as someone who used to visit his father,
were sitting in the large armchairs. The sofa and table were empty.
“Sorry, gents, time for you to find another room to have your
evening brandy,” Maxwell said, opening the French doors, bowing and
gesturing towards the hall. “Lots of room in the house.”

“Pardon me, son,” one of them said, a tall
man with a full head of grey hair.

Maxwell noticed that the locked cabinet
where many valuable old tomes were kept was open, and the man
sitting next to it had an old book bag in his lap. “You’re fucking
leaving in an orderly, expedient fashion, library’s off limits,”
Maxwell said with crystal clear enunciation, staring the grey
haired man in the eye unwaveringly.

The trio took their bottle, one took his
book bag, and they all took their glasses out of the room. “I fear
for today’s generation,” one said as he passed Maxwell.

“Fear’s the problem, not today’s generation,
grandpa,” Max grabbed the book bag from one of the gentlemen,
opened it and retrieved a book he knew his father brought to the
collection – Jackal’s Book Of Practices – he held the black bound
tome up and threw the gentleman’s book bag back at him. “Not yours,
you bloody thieving geezer. Hammond, right?”

“I used to do business with your father,
young man,” he replied. “That was-“

“His,” Maxwell said. He
opened the roughly cut pages to the middle where he knew he’d find
a note from his father. The yellowed flipbook page said:
$2,800.00 owing – Gregory
Hammond
, and Maxwell held it up. “Don’t
suppose you have this on you?”

“Twenty-eight hundred dollars?” the shorter
of the elderly fellows scoffed. “I should tell you a truth about
your father, he always overcharged.”

Maxwell may have not loved his father as
well as some sons did, but hearing him slighted in the least raised
his ire. “Oh, you think he overcharged, do you? Wait ‘till you’re
beggin’ me to fetch something for you, lazy thief. This is mine
now, and forever,” Maxwell said, snapping the large book shut and
brandishing it for a moment. “This, all this here’s off limits, get
along ye geezers,” Maxwell said. He closed the twin doors behind
the older men then locked them.

Maxwell waited a moment as he waited for the
elderly fellows to move down the hallway. The pressure he felt from
the shard, though it was ever so slight, was gone, and Maxwell
remembered that the main house was blessed and warded in countless
ways. He hadn’t realized the pressure was there until it was gone,
like a stone weighing all his moods down.

The library wasn’t a place he spent time in
since his father passed. He had forgotten how impressive it was,
with an old hearth made from river stones nearest to the fire and
blue quartz on the far sides. It was the second hearth built in the
house. The walls were covered with heavy shelving filled with
books. The old armchairs and sofa in the space had been
reupholstered numerous times, the last rebuild had one of them in
brown, and two in black leather. The sofa was redone in a gaudy
fabric with twisting tree limbs and birds printed across a field of
green.

The thickly varnished study
table had three old wood chairs around it, even though it was made
for six. His handiwork was still carved on one of the corners, the
Cantonese symbol for
RESIST FOOLS,
an act of vandalism that did not impress his
father back in the day.

The old candle and oil sconces had yellow
bulbs in them, and all the lights were on. Maxwell turned off three
of the four switches, leaving only the two small lights by the door
on, and he checked to make sure the old trio had gone. When he was
sure they were down the hall and most likely complaining to the
card players in the kitchen and dining room about their rough
treatment, Maxwell walked to the bookshelves at the rear of the
room.

He knelt down and reached into one of the
shelves, behind the books where there was a knothole in the backing
of the shelf. He pressed his index finger into the knothole and
reached up, pushing hard on an old, narrow steel plate. The plate
moved and Maxwell felt a click underfoot.

A narrow section of floorboards came up with
a slight pull, the latch unlocked using the mechanism in the
bookcase, and Max lowered himself down. He reached for his zippo
lighter and remembered that he’d thrown it at Panos weeks before.
The house’s second basement was a relic, and only had a few
electric lights strung up. He pulled the trap door closed above his
head and made careful steps down.

He felt the stony wall for the old light
switch and found it. The single light in the narrow hallway
flickered, it was on its last minutes. The concrete walls left
behind by Bernie’s grandfather were bone dry, the ceiling was made
out of the same material, skills the man took back to Canada with
him from his service in World War Two were put to use on the
rebuilding of an old cellar into a secret set of rooms.

Maxwell pulled his key ring from his inside
jacket pocket and found the old two-tine key right away. There were
five steel banded doors ahead before a ninety-degree bend in the
narrow hallway. He headed for the second one on the left. The key
slid into the bolt smoothly, but it took some effort to turn before
he heard the bolts slide on the other side.

“You got me, you old bugger,” Maxwell said
as he pushed the heavy door open. The steel hinges creaked loudly.
The floor was marked with wards of protection, interlocking circles
and symbols in white, red, black and green. The ceiling had more
marks on it, but these were meant to turn prying eyes away.

Whatever was brought down into the
surprisingly large space, a fourteen by fourteen foot room, had to
be moved through the narrow, secret passage in the basement, the
only other way to get into the hidden bunker. There was a worktable
in the middle of the room, square, laden with his father’s scrying
tools and many other objects. Maxwell took a quick inventory of the
scrying tools first, there was a fine copper bowl, a brazier with a
wrought-iron stand, copper incense burners of varying age and
ornamentation, as well as a silver plate and a fiercely sharp,
narrow dagger. He knew he’d find knucklebones and river stone runes
in the old leather bags on the silver plate as well.

On the other side of the table his father’s
ceremonial tools were laid out, including an athame that was made
by his great grandfather. The dish, bowl, simple working blade,
three seals – one of iron, one of wood, and one of silver, all
round and ornate – and the hanging bell were all where they ought
to be. There were small, clear vials, one of blessed virgin oil,
another of blessed water, and the last was blessed alcohol. If he
didn’t know which order they were to be placed in, he wouldn’t know
which was which, but it had been drilled into him. The wand, a
simple branch, was not there, nor should it be – Maxwell knew that
it was buried with his father, wherever he lay.

With bated breath, Maxwell drew the oldest
thing on the table out of a folded cloth. The athame had a finely
carved bone handle, featuring a doe’s head on the hilt, and a
silver-plated cross guard. The blade was finely crafted iron, and
the oiled cloth was meant to keep it from air and rust. He held it
up in the light and inspected it closely. The seven-inch blade was
still as fine and rust-free as it should be, evenly coated in oil.
He picked up an old machine oil tin and slowly re-coated the blade
over the cloth, then sheathed it in the scabbard beside.

“Now, let’s see what condition your big
brother is in,” Maxwell said. He turned to the shelf behind him and
opened a lacquer black, long case. Red velvet padding held a long
sabre with a silvered basket in its fine black scabbard. It was a
Weaver’s sword, and it had been used to defend the Circle from
Purifiers once in England. He picked it up gingerly, even though
the scabbard was heavy, a quality made to be carried into battle
with the sword. “All right, killer, let’s see how you are,” Maxwell
said, shuddering at the memory of fencing lessons, something he
managed to get out of after two years. The thick blade gleamed in
the light of the bare bulb, the oil coating on the metal adding to
the shine. “Your coat is good for another year, I’ll fix you up
later.” He slipped it back into the scabbard and closed the
case.

Kneeling down, Maxwell opened another black
box, this one was made of stained wood, not nearly as precious, and
looked at the amulets beneath. A few were in velvet bags, the rest
were made of cheaper, sturdier stuff – old iron or heavily
varnished carved wood. He pulled the dark blue bag he was looking
for up and shook his head. “Never thought they’d get this on me,”
he said to himself, drawing a two inch wide silver circle out of
the bag. He could still recall his bitter disappointment at
receiving it for his sixteenth birthday. Bernie was promised car
insurance, and the opportunity to drive, but Maxwell got a fine
silver amulet instead.

The pentagram was the main feature of the
piece, with carefully crafted protection symbols, two of which were
marks passed down through his family, the serpent on the left side
of the amulet and the doe head on the other.

“Here we go, almost wish the old man was
here to see this,” Maxwell said, standing with the silver chain in
his hand, the small amulet dangling from his fist.

“
We are the
wardens,
walk without fear.
We are the weavers,
act with knowledge.

I am young and proud,
wisdom will come.
Humbled by this token,
service is my lot.

Ancestors,
lead me through wilderness.
Light ones,
guide your instrument.

As it is right in light,
so may it be.”

Maxwell put the chain on, pulled his hair
out from under it and looked at how it fell on his chest. “No
adjustment necessary,” he muttered. “Like he knew.” He pulled an
iron symbol, a circle with three roughly made hands coming together
in the middle, out of the box and closed it.

“Time for the rest,” Maxwell said, scarcely
glancing at the books on shelves that stood a few inches from the
walls. There were five trunks at the back, all locked. He unlocked
the middle one, a giant made from thick wooden slats and heavy
metal strapping with his two-tined key and pushed the heavy lid
open. It creaked on its hinges, the inside stopped at ninety
degrees so it served as a surface to affix knives and an old German
Luger pistol to the top. The trunk smelled of oil and
frankincense.

He took a well-used leather scabbard from
inside the trunk, and unstrapped a blade with fine serrations
across the back and a slightly curved edge. He tested it against
the cuff of his jacket, and the leather parted with the merest
touch. There was a hollowed out section in the middle of the
blade’s body with a silver insert inside. Symbols made to ward off
dark spirits and turn the eye of the enemy were etched into the
insert, and the hilt was decorated with the same symbol he wore
around his neck.

He slipped it into the scabbard, buttoned it
shut, then tied the knife to the scabbard again with a leather
thong. He took a small collapsible shovel from the trunk then
closed and locked it. Maxwell looked along the books, all neatly
sorted on the shelves. So many were hand-written, bound with care.
He could remember many of the family grimoires, all uniquely bound
to last centuries, that his father used to teach him history,
spells and old languages. Most of what was on the thick shelves
were from families whose lines came to an end, those were of great
interest to collectors. Maxwell found a space for the one he’d
taken back from Hammond and carefully slipped it in. That
particular grimoire belonged to an individual practitioner who
claimed to summon spirits to do his bidding. His descendants were
alive, but refused to admit any attachment to the man, so the
grimoire had value, but family to search for it.