Dorothy Mcintosh - The Witch of Babylon

Laurel rubbed her eyes. I could see she was exhausted. When I closed the Picatrix I noticed the white edge of some paper at the back of the book. I gently slid it out. A photograph, at least part of one. The image came from our time at Columbia, one of our legendary parties. It captured me in my student days, long hair and all, passing a joint to the woman beside me. The picture certainly wouldn’t help me to remember who she was because her head had been neatly cut out. My own face had been colored blood red, a crudely drawn symbol inked in above it.

I dropped the photo as if it had bitten my hand. “What the hell is this?”

Laurel bent down to retrieve it and gasped. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.”

The photo had to be Hal’s work, his mind far more hate-filled and twisted than I’d thought. “It’s some kind of stupid curse.”

“I should never have brought you in here. I’m sorry,” Laurel said worriedly.

Still feeling freaked by the photo and the implications of what we’d seen in that room, I felt certain Laurel was in danger too. As we walked back to the family room I knew I had to say something. “Listen, this whole thing is getting really bizarre. I’m concerned about you. Is there anywhere else you could stay until I get this situation sorted out? Eris might try to get to you here. I’m surprised she hasn’t already.”

“Are you kidding? This place is locked up tighter than a tomb. I’ll be fine.”

I gave her my business card so she’d know how to reach me and got her cell number. “I’ll call you then. Just to make sure you’re okay.”

She hugged me. “Watch out for yourself. Don’t worry about me.”

“You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?”

“Next to none.”

“Why don’t you try to rest? Do you have anything to help you sleep?”

She shook her head but took my advice and curled up on the couch. I bunched one of the pillows under her head and tucked a mohair throw over her. She smiled her thanks. I heated up some milk in the kitchen microwave and brought the cup to her.

On the way out I gave Gip a description of Eris, warning him to be on the lookout for her.

I headed over to the Khyber Pass Restaurant, still feeling shaken. It took me a while to organize my thoughts. Hal had stolen an engraving from Samuel. What made it so valuable? His message referred to five antagonists, and he’d set them after me. It was his idea of a vindictive joke, I guess, to include himself as one of them. Did Eris also belong to the group, and if so, who were the other three? Why would people running an alchemy website have any interest in an Assyrian engraving? I hoped Tomas Zakar, the man I was about to meet, could give me some answers.

Still pondering this, I stepped across the street to the triangle of park facing Laurel’s building and immediately stopped short. A heavyset man lurked near a corner, his back turned to me, his fist closed around something. Eris’s strange companion? As if reading my mind, he whipped around and launched himself at me.

Eight

The man threw a tennis ball along the sidewalk, grinning as he moved past. A little dog skittered behind him to take up the chase. I cursed Hal once more for wrecking my peace of mind and left for my meeting.

St. Mark’s Place in the East Village was rambunctious as usual on a hot summer evening, crowded and slightly frenetic. A couple of uniformed cops stood next to their cruisers trading stories with two beefy men in street wear, the local undercover squad, no doubt. The Asian fusion and sushi restaurants were already busy, the smoke shops doing a brisk trade. I always got a laugh out of one store sign that read UNISEX—24 HOURS A DAY, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK. Down the sidewalk, a group of Hare Krishnas swayed toward me, bald-headed and saffron-robed, chanting the familiar mantra and beating their big drum. The sixties all over again. Some things and some places never change.

The Khyber Pass, an Afghani restaurant, was a favorite of Samuel’s. I’d never paid much heed to its name, but after my recent experiences, the fact that we were meeting here was a bit unnerving. Its name came from the famous three-mile-long pass through the treacherous Hindu Kush range—a British officer had once said that “every stone in it has been soaked in blood.” A bad sign for the encounter I was about to have? I hoped not.

I arrived late. The times I’d been there with Samuel the place had been hopping, but I’d always gone late in the evening. Today, only one customer sat at a small table on the postage-stamp-size patio out front. He pushed back his chair and rose, giving me a slight nod. Shorter than me and with a slender build, Zakar was conservatively dressed. He had a formal, ascetic look, with sharp features, dark hair and eyes, and olive skin like mine.

“You’re Tomas Zakar?” I extended my hand.

“Yes.” He returned my handshake and murmured, “Thank you for coming.” He’d obviously recognized me immediately. I felt a touch discomfited that he had an edge on me.

He gave his watch a cursory glance. “Not too late, I hope,” I said.

He waved away my remark. “You’re here. That’s the important thing.” He indicated the entrance. “Shall we go in?”

Inside, we walked down a few steps into a room redolent of the Orient. Afghani music wafted from a nearby speaker on the wall. The place was richly decorated in a cacophony of reds, from deep burgundy to scarlet. Each table was covered with a handwoven rug, a sheet of glass placed over top. The hostess directed us to a banquette beneath the bay window at the front.

“This is the best table for our discussion—the most private,” Tomas said after we were seated. “Would you care for a pipe?” He waved toward a collection of large narghile pipes in ruby-red and cobalt-blue cut glass on the bar. A menu had been placed on our table with a choice of fruit-flavored tobaccos.

“No thanks,” I said.

His dark eyes registered a hint of surprise. “Samuel loved to take the pipe.”

I’m sure he didn’t intend it that way, but his statement came out as something of a put-down. As if I couldn’t quite measure up to my brother.

“A drink then?” he said.

I passed on alcohol for the time being, wanting my wits about me, and chose instead an espresso. He ordered mint tea and smiled ruefully. “Mint tea. The only thing in America that reminds me of home.”

“Speaking of home, how did you know where to find me?”

“Oh, I’ve been to New York a couple of times before with Samuel.”

I suppose my brother had no particular reason to introduce us, but somehow this felt like another bolt from the blue. I wondered how trustworthy the guy really was. “I hate to ask, but since we’ve never met, do you have any ID?” I already knew what he looked like, but I didn’t want him to think he could take my trust for granted.

He seemed taken aback by my request but leaned down and reached into a pocket on his backpack, handing me his passport and a picture of him and Samuel at some gathering, the two of them smiling into the camera, palms and potted plants filling out the background.

He told me he’d grown up in Mosul and had received his degree from Oxford. We found a bit of common ground when I learned he’d taken some exchange courses at Columbia. Samuel had employed him as his assistant for the past three years, their work focusing on the Nineveh site. He’d come to America in search of the engraving. Hence the urgent plea to meet with me.

The waiter brought our drinks. I added sugar to my espresso and gave it a stir.

Tomas blew on his tea to cool it down. “My condolences to you,” he said.