Kevin Hearne - Hammered

“No, they’re contemporary witch hunters, based in Russia.”

The crease deepened. “Hold on a moment. They sound like assholes.”

I blinked, uncertain I’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

Jesus grimaced and pointed at his head. “It’s this tiny human brain—I have to have a filing system for all this information or I can’t keep track of it all. It sounds like these guys would be filed under Assholes Who Do Evil Shit in My Name.”

“Jesus. I mean, wow. That’s the name of one of your files?”

“One of my largest, unfortunately. But I have it broken down into subfolders. Here we are. Assholes Who Think They’re Entitled to Judge and Kill People in My Name.” He closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again. “Yes, now I know who you’re talking about. The Hammers of God is an organization of mixed faiths who use Kabbalistic sorcerers as their shock troops. What about them?”

“Well, I think you’ve already answered my question. I wondered if they enjoyed your official sanction.”

“No. They definitely do not.”

“Interesting. They occasionally slay a demon or two, don’t they?”

“Yes, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day. Look, it’s difficult to find fault in them when they eliminate beings that don’t belong on this plane. But they have defined evil so broadly that they often attack those who do more good than harm. There is no charity or patience within them, and they have made no allowances for the possibility of redemption.”

“I see. I don’t suppose you’d pay them a visit for me and tell them to lay off, would you?”

He abruptly looked behind him at the door leading out to Mill Avenue, cocking his head as if he’d heard a noise on the street. Then he turned back to me with a grin on his face and said cryptically, “I don’t think that will be necessary,” before downing the rest of his Guinness in a few long swallows.

Understanding dawned on my face as Rabbi Yosef Bialik entered the restaurant aggressively, followed by nine more Hasidic Jews who all had bushy beards and impressive peyos curling down from their hats. People stopped eating and stared. Hasidic Jews were an unusual sight in Tempe, and these particular fellows had black, grim expressions to match their black, grim clothing. They didn’t look like they had come in search of kosher Irish food. In fact, they ignored the host, who asked, “How many today?” and spread themselves out in the entry area to stand in three columns: four in the center column and three on either side.

“Christ, that’s a battle formation.”

“I know,” Jesus said. “It’s the Kabbalistic Tree of Life. This will be fun.”

Before I could ask him how it possibly could be fun, the man at the very back, nearest the door, drew his breath to speak. His placement in the formation represented Malkhut, the branches of the tree, the sphere of earth, and he shouted, “Yahweh, higen aleinu mimar’eh ha’aretz. ” My Hebrew was a little spotty, but it sounded like he was asking God to shield him from the earth. All ten Kabbalists clapped their hands together with arms held straight out in front of their chests. The sound echoed strangely, as if there had been a pressure change in the air; I felt that clap. Apparently many others did too, because suddenly everyone wanted their checks.

I turned on my faerie specs to scout the Kabbalists’ wards and saw … nothing. They had no bindings around them whatsoever, no threads for me to see, no auras. They and the space surrounding them were a void in the world.

“They just shut you down before saying hello,” Jesus said in low tones.

“Yes, I can see that.”

Rabbi Yosef pointed at me and said to his brethren in Russian, “There he is. The pale one.”

Jesus didn’t miss a beat with the language change. He said in Russian, “Who, me? You’re calling me pale?”

“Stay out of this, sir. We have come for him,” the rabbi growled, pointing once again at me.

“Howdy, Rabbi.” I said this in English, because the rabbi still didn’t know I spoke Russian. I smiled and waved, trying to affect an air of unconcern. “You’ll never believe who I’m having lunch with. I’d love for you guys to talk.” Without giving him a chance to answer, I called to the bartender, an older chap with thinning hair and a properly red nose. “Flanagan, ten draughts of Guinness here for these ambassadors of peace.”

“Coming right up!” he said.

“Stop!” Yosef sternly held up a hand, condescending to use English for the first time. “We have not come for drinks,” he said, rolling the r richly in his Russian accent. “Nor are we here for peace. We are here to serve a judgment; we are here for retribution. For HaShem, and for all people.”

At this point, the host spoke up. “Look, if you’re not here to eat or drink, you’re going to have to leave,” he said. The Kabbalists ignored him.

“I don’t get to say a few words in my defense?” I asked. “I missed the trial?”

“Nothing you say can deny your actions,” the rabbi snarled.

“I don’t want to deny them; I want you to appreciate them properly. I’m not in league with demons—I’ve been killing them. I even killed a fallen angel. Ask Jesus here; he wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Enough mockery.” He turned his head a bit to one side, addressing his companions behind him. “Begin.”

“But you don’t understand,” I said, gesturing to the handsome man on my left. “I’ve truly found Jesus.”

The host ducked away to call over a bouncer and maybe the police. Customers in the restaurant were dropping money on their tables and exiting out the back, where they could leave through the patio and access the parking lot. The manager emerged through the kitchen door and stood behind the bar, finally aware that something untoward was happening.

“Now what’s going on?” he said in exasperation. He was still trying to solve the mystery of the multiplying fish and chips. He looked like the sort who’d start a revolution against the bloody Brits, but he ruined all possible menace (and dignity) he would have otherwise possessed by wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt.

Flanagan bobbed his red nose at the Kabbalists and said, “Those boys in black over there want a piece of Atticus.”

“Well, take it outside!” the manager yelled. The Hammers of God weren’t listening. They had taken silver amulets out of their pockets and held them in their raised open palms. They chanted in Hebrew, and the amulets flashed in their hands: “Yahweh, shema koleinu bishe’at hatzorkheinu. Natan lanu koakh l’nakot et oyveikha bishemekha. ” I caught less of that, but it sounded like they were asking God to give them strength—and I think there was something in there about smiting. When the flash faded, the amulets still glowed with a pearlescent sheen. The Kabbalists closed their fists around them and their hands began to pulse redly, like when you put a flashlight behind your palm at night. Then, in concert, they lunged forward on their left legs and threw a punch with their glowing right fists—from all the way across the room—and yelled “Tzedek!” (That meant “justice.”)

My cold iron amulet sank into my flesh as if a safe had fallen on it, and I was plowed backward into the bar and cracked my spine painfully. “OW!” I cried. Jesus laughed loudly and slapped his thigh.

“Hey, that wasn’t funny,” I complained, rubbing my back. That blow had clearly been intended to take my head off or punch a hole through my chest—or something equally fatal.