Edward Lee - Incubi

“Dead,” he muttered.

The memories soon converged to crush him. She had loved him once, he was sure of that. Why had she stopped? What had happened that her feelings had so suddenly changed? It wasn’t fair, because his feelings hadn’t changed, had they? Why can’t you just let go? he didn’t ask as much as plead with himself. Veronica doesn’t love you anymore, so why can’t you forget about it?

The past was indeed a ghost, and so was his love — a cruel specter feeding on him, sucking his blood out.

He forced himself to commence with his search. The bedroom, the kitchen, the spare room in back — none contained anything that might hint as to where she was.

He sat down at the kitchen table, hoping that the images would drain away. He was too confused now to concentrate on anything. Ghosts, he thought . Ghosts in every room . Even here. How many times had he eaten with her at this table? He’d even made love to her on it once, himself standing as Veronica lay back. “The bedroom’s too far away,” she’d said, and dragged him over. “I want you right here, right now.” “On the kitchen table ?” he’d exclaimed. “That’s right. The kitchen table.”

Every image scavenged him now; he felt helpless. Get off it! If he didn’t settle himself down, he felt like he might fall apart.

Think.

You came here to—

But, he’d found nothing that might reveal her location. He’d checked everywhere for anything, a note, a phone number, directions. She’d said that Khoronos had invited her to the retreat thing. She must’ve written down something with regard to it.

He thought of Poe’s famous purloined letter . Sometimes the things we search the hardest for are in plain sight.

A stack of letters lay on the kitchen table. An electric bill, a renewal notice for ARTnews , and some junk mail. But right atop the stack was exactly what he’d come in search of.

It looked like a wedding invitation, a fancy white card with a gilt border:

Dear Ms. Polk:

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. In the few moments we spoke, I came away feeling edified; we share many commonalties. I’d like to invite you to my estate for what I think of as an esoteric retreat. Several other area artists will attend. It’s something I’ve been doing for a long time — call it an indulgence. It’s a creative get-together where we can look into ourselves and our work. If you’d care to join us, please contact my service number below for directions.

Sincerely,

Erim Khoronos

Jack wrote the phone number down . Service number? he wondered. No return address on the envelope, but the postmark was local. There were no directions. She must’ve written the directions down when she’d confirmed by phone.

Jack went to the phone and dialed. Have something ready , he warned himself. I’ll just tell her Stewie needs to talk to her. If she asks how I got the number, I’ll lie. Easy.

“Message center?”

“What?” Jack brilliantly answered.

“Church Circle Message Center,” a woman told him.

A message center? “Oh, I’m sorry.” Message centers transfer calls to specific customer accounts. “Would you please switch me over to Mr. Khoronos’ account?”

“Hold, please.”

Why would Khoronos hire a message center to relay his calls? Maybe he’s a doctor or something. Maybe he travels a lot.

The operator came back on line. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Khoronos’ account was canceled last week.”

“Is the transfer number still in your file?”

“Well, yes, but I’m not allowed to give that out.”

Think! “My name is Peter Hertz,” Jack said. “I’m Mr. Khoronos’ investment broker. His stocks jumped today, and I really need to get ahold of him. It’s very important.”

“You’re his broker but you don’t have his number?”

Shit! Stupid! Think! “I only have his office number, I’m afraid, and he’s left for the night. This really is very important.”

The operator paused. Then: “991-0199.”

“Thank you very much.” Jack hung up and dialed again. There was a strange, distant ticking. Then: “The Bell Atlantic portable cellular phone you have dialed is not in service at this time. Please call again later.”

Jack slowly hung up. This is some bizarre shit . Why would Khoronos relay calls through a message center to a portable phone? There would always be an alternate number for when the phone was turned off. Now Jack was in the same trick bag as the bank. He could contact Bell Atlantic and ask for the customer service address but they’d never give it to him without a warrant or subpoena.

All this hassle for squat , he thought. He’d run out of alternatives.

Or had he?

He checked to make sure everything he’d touched was in its proper place and turned off all the lights. Then he left.

And as he turned onto Forest Drive and drove away, he considered his final alternative.

You’ve already illegally entered one apartment tonight. So why not make it an even two?

“Sacred Father, Father of the Earth.”

“Enrich us.”

“Your will is our blessing, your spirit our flesh.”

“Mortal as we are, sanctify us.”

“Our love is to serve you. Accept our love and give us grace.”

“Unto you, we pray. Deliver us.”

“Receive our prayer, O Father of the Earth. Carry us away from the hands of our enemies, and protect us. Give us strength to do your will, and smile upon us.” The aorist held up the jarra. “Accept our sacrifices as a sign of our love.” The aorist held up the dolch. “Accept our gifts as a sign of our faith.” The aorist set the objects back on the altar and raised his hands.

The surrogoti also raised their hands.

“To you we give our faith forever, Father.”

“ Pater terrae—”

“— per me terram ambula.”

“Baalzephon, hail!”

“Aorista!”

The Prelate’s black raiments billowed into the nave. Hooded, his face wavered in candlelight. He felt risen, radiant in love.

“Go!” he whispered.

The surrogi, nude and drenched in sweat, stepped off the points of the holy Trine, their heads bowed in reverence. The fresh cuts on their chests — their own blood offerings — glimmered red as slivers of rubies. They turned and hurried out of the nave.

The Prelate dropped to his knees at the Trine’s high star. He lowered and kissed the star, his lips coming away whitened by the powder of crushed bones of priests murdered eons ago.

“Soon, Father,” he whispered. The floor felt hot. The candlelight danced like gossamer veils, or lit faces in the air—

“Soon,” the Prelate whispered. “Again.”

— and back into the earthworks his god took him, the sleek beautiful black bird sailing down and down into the impossible inverted heights rimmed by ramparts of obelisks and ancient dolmens and thrones of kings, ever downward floating in deafening silence and the lovely music of screams over chasms of blood and roasted flesh and heap upon heap of squirming corpses as ushers peeled away living faces and pried open heads and split bellies to reveal the soft, hot treasure of their eternal feast.

Ever downward, yes, of the sweet, sweet black of chaos.

“Has Jack been in?” Faye asked, briefcase in tow. “He’s not at his office, and he’s not home.”

Craig was crafting a perfect shamrock shape into the head of a pint of Guinness. “He was in earlier, but he left. Didn’t say where he was going.”