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Authors: Christopher Moore

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“Why didn't you tell me that?”

“I thought you would never give me my power if you knew. I am a coward.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“It is as Catch said. When the angels came to drive my people into the netherworld, I would not let them fight. There was no battle as I told you. We went like sheep to the slaughter.”

“Gian Hen Gian, you are not a coward. You are a creator—you told me that yourself. It's not in your nature to destroy, to make war.”

“But I did. So I have tried to vindicate myself by stopping Catch. I wanted to do for the humans what I did not do for my own people.”

“It doesn't matter,” Brine said. “It's finished.”

“No, it's not,” Travis said. “You can't chain Catch to a rock in the middle of Jerusalem. You have to send him back. You have to read the last invocation. Howard translated it while we were waiting for you to wake up.”

“But Travis, you don't know what will happen to you. You may die on the spot.”

“I'm still bound to him, Gus. That isn't living anyway. I want to be free.” Travis handed him the invocation and the candlestick with the Seal of Solomon concealed in it. “If you don't, I will. It has to be done.”

“All right, I'll do it,” Brine said.

Travis looked up at Jenny. She looked away. “I'm sorry,” Travis said. Robert went to Jenny's side and held her. Travis walked down the hill, and when he was out of sight, Augustus Brine began reading the words that would send Catch back to hell.

 

They found Travis slumped in the backseat of Howard's Jaguar. Augustus Brine was the first to reach the car.

“I did it, Travis. Are you all right?”

As Travis looked up, Brine had to fight the urge to recoil. The demonkeeper's face was deeply furrowed and shot with broken veins. His dark hair and brows had turned white. But for his eyes, which were still young with intensity, Brine would not have recognized him. Travis smiled. There were still a couple of teeth left in front.

His voice was still young. “It didn't hurt. I expected one of those wrenching Lon Chaney transformations, but it didn't happen. Suddenly I was old. That was it.”

“I'm glad it didn't hurt,” Brine said.

“What am I going to do?”

“I don't know, Travis. I need to think.”

Rivera drove Robert and Jennifer to their house. They sat in the back, holding each other the whole way, not saying a word until they thanked him when he dropped them off. On the drive back to the station Rivera tried to formulate a story that would save his career. Any version of the true story seemed like a sure ticket to a psychological disability retirement. In the end he decided to tell the story as far as the point where The Breeze disappeared.

A month later Rivera was pumping Slush-Puppies at the Seven-Eleven, working undercover for the robbery division. However, with the arrest of a team of robbers that had terrorized convenience stores in the county for six months, he was promoted to lieutenant.

Amanda and Travis rode with Howard. At Amanda's request, Gian Hen Gian saw that Effrom's body was turned to stone and placed inside the cave. When Howard stopped in front of Amanda's house, she invited Travis to come inside. He refused at first, wanting to leave her alone with her grief.

“Have you completely missed the significance of all this, Travis?” she asked.

“I guess so,” he said.

“Did it occur to you that the presence of Catch and Gian Hen Gian proves that Effrom is not gone completely? I will miss him, but he goes on. And I don't want to be alone right now. I helped you when you needed it,” she said, and she waited.

Travis went in.

Howard went home to work on a new menu for his restaurant.

Chief Technical Sergeant Nailsworth never found out what happened to Roxanne or who she really was, and he was heartbroken. Because of his grief he was unable to eat, lost a hundred and fifty pounds, met a girl at a computer user's meeting, and married her. He never had computer sex again outside the privacy of his home.

Augustus Brine declined offers for a ride home. He wanted to walk. He needed to think. Gian Hen Gian walked at his side.

“I can repair your truck, make it fly if you wish,” the Djinn said.

“I don't want it,” Brine said. “I'm not even sure I want to go home.”

“You may do as you wish, Augustus Brine.”

“I don't want to go back to the store either. I think I'll give the business to Robert and Jenny.”

“Is it wise to put the drunkard in the wine barrel?”

“He won't drink anymore. I want them to have the house, too. I'll start the paperwork in the morning.”

“It is done.”

“Just like that?”

“You doubt the word of the King of the Djinn?”

They walked in silence for a while before Brine spoke again.

“It seems wrong that Travis has lived so long without having a life, without love.”

“Like yourself, you mean?”

“No, not like myself. I've had a good life.”

“Would you have me make him young again?”

Brine thought for a moment before he answered. “Could you make him age in reverse? For each year that passes he is a year younger?”

“It can be done.”

“And her, too?”

“Her?”

“Amanda. Could you make them grow young together?”

“It can be done, if you command it.”

“I do.”

“It is done. Will you tell them?”

“No, not right away. It will be a nice surprise.”

“And what of yourself, Augustus Brine? What is it you wish?”

“I don't know. I always thought I'd make a good madam.”

Before the Djinn could say anything else, Rachel's van sputtered up beside them and stopped. She rolled down the window and said, “Do you need a ride, Gus?”

“He is trying to think,” the Djinn snapped.

“Don't be rude,” Brine said to the Djinn. “Which way are you going?”

“I don't know for sure. I don't feel like going home—maybe ever.”

Brine walked around the front of the van and slid open the cargo door. “Get in, Gian Hen Gian.”

The Djinn got into the van. Brine slammed the cargo door and climbed into the passenger seat next to Rachel.

“Well?” she said.

“East,” Brine said. “Nevada.”

 

It was called King's Lake. When it appeared in the desert, it simultaneously appeared on every map of Nevada that had ever been printed. People who had passed through that part of the state swore that they had never seen it before, yet there it was on the map.

Above the tree-lined banks of King's Lake stood a palace with a
hundred rooms. Atop the palace a massive electric sign read,
BRINE'S BAIT, TACKLE, AND FINE WOMEN
.

Anyone who visited the palace was greeted by a beautiful, dark-haired woman, who took their money and led them to a room. On their way out a tiny brown man in a rumpled suit returned their money and wished them well.

Upon returning home the visitors told of a white-haired man who sat all day in the lotus position at the end of a pier in front of the palace, fishing and smoking a pipe. They said that when evening approached, the dark-haired woman would join the man and together they would watch the sun go down.

The visitors were never quite clear as to what had happened to them while they were at the palace. It didn't seem to matter. But after a visit they found that they appreciated the simple pleasures that life presented to them and they were happy. And although they recommended Brine's to their friends, they never returned themselves.

What went on in the rooms is another story altogether.

Many thanks to the folks who helped: Darren Westlund and Dee Dee Leichtfuss, for help with the manuscript; the people at the Harmony Pasta Factory and the Pine Tree Inn, for their tolerance and support; Pam Jacobson and Kathe Frahm, for their faith; Mike Molnar, for keeping the machine running; Nick Ellison and Paul Haas, for running the gauntlet for me; and Faye Moore, for mom stuff.

About the Author

C
HRISTOPHER
M
OORE
is the author of seven novels, including this one. He began writing at age six and became the oldest known child prodigy when, in his early thirties, he published his first novel. His turn-ons are the ocean, playing the toad lotto, and talking animals on TV. His turn-offs are salmonella, traffic, and rude people. Chris enjoys cheese crackers, acid jazz, and otter scrubbing. He lives in an inaccessible island fortress in the Pacific. You can e-mail him at [email protected]. Visit the official Christopher Moore website at www.chrismoore.com.

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P
RAISE FOR
Christopher Moore

Fluke

“Moore is endlessly inventive…. This cetacean picaresque is no fluke—it is a sure winner.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

Lamb

“An instant classic…. Terrific, funny, and poignant.”

—
Rocky Mountain News

The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove

“Reads like author Christopher Moore laughed his head off while writing it, quite possibly taking hits of nitrous oxide between sentences.”

—
Miami Herald

Island of the Sequined Love Nun

“Humor that seamlessly blends lunacy with larceny…habit-forming zaniness…. The careers of the writers with even a quarter as much wit and joie de vivre as Moore are always worth following.”

—
USA Today

Bloodsucking Fiends

“Goofy grotesqueries…wonderful…delicious…bloody funny…like a hip and youthful ‘Abbott and Costello Meet the Lugosis.'”

—
San Francisco Chronicle

Coyote Blue

“Brilliant…. Moore's raucous, lewd, hip novel is part love story and part spiritual search.”

—
Santa Barbara Independent

Practical Demonkeeping

“Christopher Moore is a very sick man, in the very best sense of the word.”

—Carl Hiaasen

A
LSO BY
Christopher Moore

Coyote Blue

Bloodsucking Fiends

Island of the Sequined Love Nun

The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove

Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff,
Christ's Childhood Pal

Fluke: Or, I Know Why the
Winged Whale Sings

Cover illustration and typography by Ruth Marten

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

PRACTICAL DEMONKEEPING
. Copyright © 1992 by Christopher Moore. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub © Edition APRIL 2006 ISBN: 9780061802638

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Moore, Christopher
Practical demonkeeping/Christopher Moore.
p.cm.
I. Title. II Practical demonkeeping.
PS3563.0594P73 1992
813'.54—dc20
ISBN 0-380-81655-5 (pbk.)
ISBN 0-06-073542-2 (reissue)

10 9 8 7

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