Elizabeth Hand - Black Light

“Nope.”

“What about my X-Acto knife?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Yeah, well, keep an eye out for ’em, okay?” He ambled across the room. “See you later, Hillary. Ali.” In the doorway he paused to flash me a grin. “Thalia.”

When he was gone Jamie sank into a chair. “God, I’m sorry.”

“He’s all right,” I said.

“Hey, he’s cool.” Ali gave Jamie a stoned smile. “Can he read auras? Harmony Shakti did that for me when I was over there last week.”

“Who’s Harmony Shakti?”

“Rachel Meyerson’s mother.” Hillary tilted his chair back and wedged his knees beneath the table. “A total fruitcake. Your father doesn’t seem like a total fruitcake.”

“Yeah, well, everything’s relative.” Jamie tapped the butter dish with the wrong end of a fork, his turquoise eyes a little too bright. “You oughta meet my mother.”

“Where’s she?” asked Ali.

“Getting her aura read somewhere down in Tennessee.” With a loud tink Jamie dropped the fork into an empty mug. “She’s part of an experiment in expanding the radical sexual and spiritual consciousness of our nation.”

Ali frowned.

“She dumped me and my father and joined a commune.”

“Cool,” breathed Ali. Hillary gave her a disgusted look.

“That’s a drag,” I said, but Jamie only sighed.

“I’m beat. I think I’ll crash for the night.” He eased from his seat, hands slung into his pockets. “Hillary, man. Thanks for the lift. Lynn—”

“Lit,” I said.

“—Lit. I’ll see you later.” He got halfway across the kitchen and stopped to look back at Ali.

“Hey,” she said, suddenly bouncing up, “where’s your bathroom? I gotta take a leak—”

“C’mere, I’ll show you.”

Hillary and I watched them go. We waited for Ali to return, but after a few minutes Hillary said, “I think they’ve gone to look at his etchings.”

“His aura.” I brushed the hair from Hillary’s eyes, and pointed at the front door. “Come on. I’m pretty beat, too.”

We went outside. Above us stars blazed, and the wind was no longer chilly but downright cold, sending acorns rattling down from the trees. The sound made me think of the horned man and I shivered, buttoning my jacket and wrapping my arms around Hillary.

“Well, gee, Charlotte.” He gave me a rueful smile and drew me close. “Isn’t it nice to make a new friend?”

“ And his groovy asshole father.”

We got into the car and I looked back at the cottage. All the windows were dark; the front door was shut. But as we pulled away Ralph Casson emerged. In one hand he held a hammer, swinging it lazily back and forth. The other cradled a long two-by-four like a shotgun. When he saw us he waved, raising the hammer in a triumphant pose.

“All power to the People’s Party, Comrades!”

“Right on,” hollered Hillary. The Dodge Dart groaned as it crept away, and crickets flew up around us like water spraying from a ditch. When we reached the bottom of the driveway Hillary grabbed my arm and squeezed it hard, the two of us giving the mountain a quick backward glance as the car slammed onto the paved road.

“This will end in tears,” said Hillary. He smiled but his eyes were grim. “Big fat fucking tears.” He gunned the motor and drove much too fast the rest of the way home.

IN HIS STUDY, BALTHAZAR Warnick stood in front of the window, gazing into the twilight of the Blue Ridge but seeing only the anguished face of Giulietta as she was led away by the agents of the Benandanti. When someone touched his shoulder he gasped, and held up his hand as though warding off a blow.

“Professor Warnick?”

He blinked. Beside him stood Kirsten Isaksen, the Orphic Lodge’s forbidding housekeeper. Her thin mouth was pursed, her customary scowl tempered with concern. “You have forgotten your supper, Professor. I’ve brought it up on a tray for you.”

Balthazar drew his hand across his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kirsten, I—”

“It is here.” Kirsten turned and busied herself with setting a heavy silver tray upon Balthazar’s desk, moving aside heaps of paper and a long, coiled parchment scroll. “Grillet laks med dill, also kurkkusalaatti. And please see that you eat it all, Professor, the cat is ill when you give her salmon. The dill is very fresh”— She picked up a yellow-green sprig and waved it admonishingly at Balthazar. —“and there is Tosca cake for dessert. And I am to remind you yet again that you have not performed the pharmakos.”

Balthazar nodded, composing himself. “Yes, yes of course. Thank you, Kirsten, thank you very much—” He pulled an immaculate green paisley handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his thumb with it, wincing as blood welled from the cut left by the orrery. “Dinner looks very nice, and yes, I promise, I won’t feed it to the cat ever again—thank you, that’s very nice, you can bring my coffee up in a few minutes…”

He escorted her into the hall, Kirsten towering above him. When they reached the head of the stairs, she turned. “The coffee is already made, you may get it for yourself. I am going to Front Royal to see a movie. Good night, Professor.”

Balthazar watched her go downstairs, waiting until her brisk footsteps echoed into silence. Then he allowed himself the luxury of a long and heartfelt sigh, and returned to his study.

The salmon was, indeed, very good—Kirsten was a famous if imperious cook—the new dill fragrant as clover, the Tosca cake perfumed with almonds and heavy cream. He tried to force Giulietta’s memory from his thoughts and focus upon the long and irredeemably tedious recitation that was the first rite of the pharmakos —a task he hated, and which it was always a good idea to be well fortified against. When he had finished eating, Balthazar diligently brought his tray down to the kitchen, murmuring apologies as the Lodge’s cat ran to meet him at the head of the stairs.

“I’m sorry, but you are very ill when I give you salmon. Please forgive me.” The cat regarded him through contemptuous yellow eyes before stalking out of sight.

Slowly, Balthazar made his way through the Orphic Lodge’s labyrinthine halls. Past rooms where stacks of books tottered beneath windows draped in velvet the color of claret and very old port, but smelling of myrrh and lemons; past rooms filled with blown-glass globes strung like drying gourds across the ceiling, globes which, if one peered into them, revealed tiny seashores aglitter with azure surf and crimson sails cast like confetti upon impossibly distant swells; through doors that opened without a touch as Balthazar’s shadow grazed their panels, and by other doors that in all his years he had yet to see inside; and last of all, through a corridor filled with monastically simple rooms all made ready for the annual autumn retreat.

Finally he reached the end of the east wing. He walked down the servants’ stairway to the kitchen. There he found a reassuringly utilitarian demesne, and hot coffee in the old electric percolator. His cup and saucer were set reproachfully beside it, along with a plate of Kirsten’s ginger cookies and another note—

Tolle moras!

semper nocuit differe paratus!

Don’t delay! Even when prepared it is dangerous to postpone what must be done! He laughed. “Very well, Kirsten. I won’t delay…”

He poured his coffee, feeling the profound melancholy that always assailed him at the thought of the pharmakos, and looked up. High above one of the gleaming institutional stoves a plaque was suspended. Its legend swirled in gothic lettering, blue and gold and emerald green: