James Swain - Dark Magic

“Is she hypnotized?” Big Daddy asked.

His host did not reply.

“At least tell me where we’re going. I don’t like to be kept in the dark.”

“Be patient. You’ll understand soon enough.”

At the end of the vestibule, a door opened by itself, and they entered a chamber whose walls were covered with burning white candles. In the room’s center sat a wooden table with carved astrological signs. The girl climbed onto the table, and lay facing the ceiling.

His host opened a drawer on the table. A gold knife with sparkling jewels encrusted in the handle was taken out. He handed the knife to his guest.

“What do you want me to do with this?” Big Daddy asked.

“You don’t know?”

“No. Tell me.”

“I want you to plunge it into her heart.”

“ What? You can’t be serious.”

“If you want to be like me, then you must pay the price.”

“Killing her is the price?”

His host laughed. “No. Giving up your soul.”

“And if I do that, will I be like you?”

“If you kill her, you can be like me. It’s how the process works.”

Big Daddy stared at the sacrificial girl lying on the table. Many times he’d ordered his army to kill citizens of his country that he did not like. It was not the same as killing himself.

The dictator shook his head.

“Suit yourself. Give me the knife,” his host said.

“Are you going to do it?”

“Yes. There is no going back with the Devil.”

Big Daddy handed him the knife. His host raised the knife above his head, and plunged it into the girl’s chest. She struggled briefly, her blood soaking her clothes. The candles on the walls flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.

“What is happening?” the dictator asked.

“Be quiet,” his host replied.

A cold wind passed through the chamber. The candles sparked back to life. The table was now empty, the dead girl gone.

They walked back to the mansion, where a limo waited in the drive. Big Daddy did not speak a word, and was visibly shaken. He climbed in, and the limo sped away.

His host waved good-bye. His name was Harold Webster, and he was a founding member of the Order. Webster was well into his sixties, yet looked like a man in his twenties. As part of his pact with the Devil, he had not grown old. In fact, he looked exactly as he had in the prime of his life. It seemed like the perfect arrangement, only his back, which he’d injured playing soccer, always ached. The Devil was funny that way-he never let his subjects forget who was in charge.

Webster walked back to the castle. A hallway took him to the Room of Spirits, an octagon-shaped chamber with an elevated platform on which sat three swivel chairs. Two of the chairs were occupied by the other founding members, Charles Gill and Edward Eastgate. Both looked as they had in their twenties. Gill’s curse was a Cockney accent that he detested, while Eastgate’s nose and teeth remained crooked from when he’d wrecked his car.

Webster took the third chair. It was strange, not growing old. The world around them changed, but they did not. It often made him wonder what would happen if they fell out of favor with the Devil. Would they all suddenly grow old and frail? There was no way of knowing. The Devil held all the cards, while they had nothing.

“How did it go?” Eastgate asked.

“He paid in full,” Webster replied.

“Cash?”

“Of course. Now we just need to make sure that nothing goes wrong Tuesday night. The last thing we need is an angry African dictator after us.”

“Do you think he’d do that?”

“Yes. His country is a shambles. He’s a desperate man.”

They fell silent. Taking risks was part of the game, and so was taking insurance.

“I’m thinking we should help Wolfe with his mission,” Webster suggested.

It was Gill’s turn to speak. “Help him how?”

“We could trick the police into thinking Wolfe is dead. That would give him some breathing room,” Webster said.

“You mean a decoy?”

“It’s worked before. I was in touch with our spy in New York. He found a subject we can use. The man is the same age as Wolfe, and shares the same physical characteristics.”

The elders employed spies on every continent. The operative in New York had provided the information on Wolfe’s hit list, and was reliable.

“Then let’s do it,” Eastgate said.

“I agree,” Gill said.

“Good. We’re in agreement. Are you ready?”

His partners nodded. Webster fingered the control pad on the arm of his chair, causing the domed roof above their heads to slowly part. A hydraulic lift raised the platform into the air until they were outside of the palace, staring at a pale blue sky sprinkled with puffy white clouds.

“Face east toward New York,” Webster instructed them.

They faced the pastoral countryside. Astral projection had been a part of the psychic’s arsenal since the beginning of time. The elders had played with various forms, most recently the use of fiber optic cables to transmit themselves to various parts of the world. But the best way was still the old way.

“Manhattan, Museum of Natural History, Seventy-ninth Street and Central Park West,” Webster said. “The decoy works as a night guard, and has just ended his shift. He’s about to begin his commute home. He’s driving a pale green van with black masking tape covering the rear window. It’s a real junker.”

The elders projected themselves across the ocean to the island of Manhattan. The sensation was like traveling in a bullet train, with scenery rushing past in a blinding blur of color and sound. It was still nighttime in New York, the city being drenched by a storm. The West Side was being hit hard, and traffic was at a standstill. A green van was not among the vehicles.

“I don’t see him,” Eastgate said.

“Perhaps he got off early from work,” Webster said. “Let’s check the Henry Hudson Parkway on the West Side.”

They projected themselves onto the eleven-mile highway which ran from 72nd Street to the Westchester County boundary. Traffic there resembled a parking lot as well.

“I see him,” Gill said. “He’s at the toll bridge over the river with the strange name.”

“You mean the Harlem River,” Webster said.

“That’s it. The decoy is about to pass through a tollbooth.”

They projected themselves up the parkway to the tollbooth where the van waited in line. The decoy was at the wheel, eating a submarine sandwich dripping with mayonnaise.

“That’s him. Are we ready?” Webster asked.

“Ready,” Eastgate said.

“Ready,” Gill said.

“On the count of three. One … two … three!”

The elders projected themselves inside the van. Using the collective power of their minds, they created an image inside the van that was not real. The driver became Wolfe, who was also eating a submarine sandwich. The false image lasted only a few seconds. Just long enough for the surveillance camera above the tollbooth to capture it, and transmit it back to the New York Police Department, the FBI, and every other law enforcement agency that was hunting for Wolfe. Then, the image disappeared, and the decoy was back.

Webster fell back into his chair. “Done.”

“How long do you think it will take?” Gill asked.

“Hard to say. The weather being what it is.”

They watched the van head into Westchester County. Traffic had thinned out, and the van got onto the Saw Mill River Parkway, and picked up speed. Within minutes, a pair of highway patrol cars began to follow. The officers inside the patrol cars wore body armor, and cradled automatic rifles in their laps. They did not seem in any hurry to pull the van over.