James Swain - Dark Magic

His father returned to the picture. In his hand was a small brown bottle. He uncorked the bottle and tossed several drops of clear liquid his mother’s way. She screamed, and protectively covered her head with her arms. His father calmly corked the bottle, and returned it to his pocket. Then he placed his hand comfortingly on his wife’s shoulder.

“Claire,” he said.

His mother struck out at him. The demon was slowly leaving her body, and the blow bounced harmlessly off her husband’s chest.

“Claire,” he said again.

His mother’s body trembled. Then, slowly, she lowered her hands. Her face had returned to normal, and she looked beautiful again. She seemed bewildered by what had happened, and glanced nervously at her friends.

“What’s going on?” his mother asked.

His father smiled thinly. So did the others in the room, who’d gathered around to comfort her. In the mirror, the demonic face faded away.

It was here that the film ended.

Peter lay in bed trying to make sense of what he’d seen. Before his very eyes, his mother had turned into a monster. Had the others not restrained her, there was no telling what she might have done. It didn’t seem possible. His mother had been the most gentle person in the world, and had never hurt anyone, as far as he’d known.

He felt himself becoming one with the darkness. Was he also turning into a monster? Would he at some point start to physically change like his mother had, and become out of control? He shuddered to think how his friends would react. He had wanted to know the truth about his parents, and now he did. His mother and father and their three little friends had struck a deal with the Devil. In return for their lives being spared, they’d allowed the Devil to inhabit their bodies, and give them psychic powers. There was no other explanation for the things he’d just seen. This was the origin of the Order of Astrum. Its members were in league with the Devil, and had been since they were children.

Which made him what? A child of the Devil? He wasn’t sure. All he knew for certain was that he was changing, and those changes had driven away the woman he loved.

He slipped out of bed, and threw on his robe. His body had grown cold again. He could feel evil nearby, stalking him. He looked around his darkened bedroom. He was alone.

Or was he?

He turned on the light and had another look. In the mirror above the dresser he saw the face from the seance. It was hideous to behold, burned so severely that one eye was gone. He had seen many horrible things in the spirit world, but none quite like this.

“Go away. Leave me alone.”

The face began to laugh at him.

He picked up a shoe from the floor, and threw it at the mirror. The face vanished the moment the glass broke. He had sent it back to wherever it came from.

He sat on the edge of the bed. His heart was pounding out of control.

He thought back to Liza’s text.

You’re scaring me.

You and me both.

“Do you have the money?”

Big Daddy, the ruthless dictator of Somaliland, nodded. He’d said little since arriving at the Order of Astrum’s magnificent estate in the south of England a short while ago. Wearing a black leather cowboy hat and denim jacket, he looked more like the villain in an Italian spaghetti Western than the despot of a tiny African nation. According to the newspapers, his country’s economy was in a shambles, and his people were close to revolting. He was a desperate man, and it showed on his face.

“I brought cash,” the dictator said. “Now give me the information. I am anxious to know when the attack on New York will take place.”

“You know the rules. I must first have the money.”

Big Daddy made a call to his driver on his cell phone. The driver appeared at the front door of the mansion with a bulging suitcase. Big Daddy brought the suitcase into the parlor, and dumped stacks of fifty-pound-sterling notes around his host’s feet.

“There is your money. Now tell me about the attack.”

His host visually counted the money before proceeding.

“Very good. Now here is your information,” his host said. “On Tuesday night, at a few minutes past ten o’clock, New York will experience a major attack in Times Square that will effectively shut down the city. Thousands will perish.”

Big Daddy’s eyes glistened. “Go on.”

“I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

“That is unacceptable. It is not enough.”

His host did not like to be challenged, and his eyes narrowed. “I beg to differ. This information will serve two purposes, both being beneficial to you. It will send the stock market into a tailspin, as these types of events tend to do. You will benefit by shorting the market, and reaping huge financial rewards. Second, it will show the world how vulnerable the United States is. Both of these things serve your purposes, yes?”

“I must know more.”

“Sorry, but that was our deal. It’s not like you haven’t done business with us before.”

“Give me something, anything.”

“I can’t.”

“Will the attack be a bomb? Guns?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“How many men will be involved? A dozen? More?”

“Sorry.”

“What organization are they affiliated with?”

“I can’t share that information with you, either.”

Big Daddy fumed. A long minute passed.

“Tell me where your powers come from,” the dictator said.

His host leaned forward. Rarely did their clients ask them to pull back the curtains, and show them how things worked. “Do you want to know how we see into the future?”

“Yes-it fascinates me.”

“Have you ever visited the spirit world?”

“No.”

“There is a price of admission, if you will.”

“I will pay.”

“Are you sure?”

Big Daddy nodded, having no idea what lay in store.

“Very well. Come with me.”

They walked outside the mansion. The sun was shining, and it was a spectacular day. The Order lived on a sprawling estate in a remote area of England not far from the Chiltern Hills. The area was not on a map, nor could it be found on Google Earth.

The property had been run down when the Order purchased it. Tapping into its vast fortune, the Order had transformed the grounds into an occult appendage of Versailles, with each building more ornate and spectacular than the next. One building housed a Pagan temple, where the elders could indulge in every sexual fantasy known to man. Another was a museum which stored their vast collection of rare paintings and art work. Then there was the castle, complete with drawbridge and moat filled with brackish water, called the Palace of the Occult. It was here that the elders conducted seances and communicated with the Devil.

The two men crossed the bridge to the palace. By the entrance stood a pair of stone-faced guards with submachine guns. For security purposes, guards were strategically placed around the estate, with orders to shoot intruders on sight.

Inside the palace were a maze of twisting, dimly lit vestibules. They passed rows of Carrara marble statues and walls covered in gold leaf. On marble benches sat a trio of beautiful dark-skinned girls in diaphanous white and green garments. Plucked off the mean streets of India, they served as concubines for the elders and their guests.

The host stopped, and pointed at the girls.

“Pick one.”

Big Daddy pointed at the middle girl. “Her.”

His host waved his hand. The chosen girl’s eyelids grew heavy, and she fell into a trance. She rose and followed them as if sleepwalking.