her—because I hadn’t warned her simply wasn’t my thing. That was more than I could live with. I had to clear my own conscience. I had to try and help Vivian, especially if she was one of my own. I pulled my cell from my jeans pocket. “I’ll call you a cab.”
“I live eighteen blocks away, Nick. That big guy was probably just a freak looking for drugs.”
I waited.
Vivian looked nervous. She didn’t believe her own bullshit. She glanced down at the bloody hole she had picked in one thumbnail. “All right, fine, but I want to go home now.” She no longer sounded calm. She sounded scared.
Before she left the Loft, I gave her my cell number. I told her to call me anytime she was frightened, anytime she needed to talk. Day or night. I told her to seek a holy place if she felt hunted, a church, an occult shop, anything. Even a synagogue would do. Hopefully, she’d avoid Malach in the future. I didn’t know if that was possible, but I was trying to be optimistic.
I didn’t expect to hear from her again.
I was wrong.
It’s always the woman that changes your life, that makes it more interesting.
Like my life needs to be more interesting.
We open the shop at noon and close at midnight. Unless something unexpected comes up, or we have a client séance, Morgana takes the first shift from noon to six, and I watch the shop from six to twelve. Such are the hours of an occult shop. Morgana had tackled a séance the night before, so that meant it was my turn to do morning duty. But the following morning I’d overslept and woken around 11:45 to the sound of some very insistent pounding on the back door. I sat up in bed and flinched at the racket.
Morgana stirred and sat up beside me. She is tall and lanky blond like me. She keeps her weight strictly regulated with organic, non-meat products, yoga and a daily five-mile jog. Meat, she says, interferes with her energies, as does my smoking and sarcasm.
I can only hope to be so energetic and focused when I’m Morgana’s age. I smoke. I eat red meat. I like bagging girls. And guys, if they look like girls. Sue me. Morgana tells me that makes me a very bad witch, a very good daemon, and a typical male.
Morgana looked at me through gummy grey eyes and said, “Any chance you can get that, Nick? It’s probably a delivery.”
“The séance go badly?”
“Not at all. But Mr. Bingham brought company.”
“Demons?”
“Some low-levels. Familiars, I think. But I cleaned house.”
I lit a cigarette from the pack of Camels on the bedside table and sucked the smoke deep into my lungs. Morgana had succeeded in seriously pissing me off this morning. “You should have called me. You know I would have come.”
She shrugged her thin shoulders. “There was a problem and I handled it.”
“You don’t handle demons. I do.”
Morgana had gotten in at three o’clock in the morning last night looking like she’d been hit by a truck. I hadn’t asked for details because I knew she would tell me given time, but I also hadn’t known she’d been playing at being an amateur exorcist.
She’d held a circle for one of her aging clients, old Mrs. Bingham. The old woman had deep pockets and a great deal of guilt to unload on her newly deceased husband. I’m by nature a natural conduit. I certainly hadn’t lied to Vivian about that. You’d think I’d be the man for the job, but I can’t channel the dead. In fact, the dead don’t come anywhere near me, not that I can blame them, really. The dead are pretty sensible chaps. The things I can communicate with are very much alive, and have never been human. So Morgana had tackled the job for me while I stayed home watching a Lifetime movie marathon wherein I learned that all men are perverts, psychopaths or both. Seriously, it was either that or old Night Gallery episodes, and I don’t like it when art imitates my life.
See, if you need to speak to your dead mother, Morgana is the one you should call. If you need to speak to
“I live eighteen blocks away, Nick. That big guy was probably just a freak looking for drugs.”
I waited.
Vivian looked nervous. She didn’t believe her own bullshit. She glanced down at the bloody hole she had picked in one thumbnail. “All right, fine, but I want to go home now.” She no longer sounded calm. She sounded scared.
Before she left the Loft, I gave her my cell number. I told her to call me anytime she was frightened, anytime she needed to talk. Day or night. I told her to seek a holy place if she felt hunted, a church, an occult shop, anything. Even a synagogue would do. Hopefully, she’d avoid Malach in the future. I didn’t know if that was possible, but I was trying to be optimistic.
I didn’t expect to hear from her again.
I was wrong.
It’s always the woman that changes your life, that makes it more interesting.
Like my life needs to be more interesting.
We open the shop at noon and close at midnight. Unless something unexpected comes up, or we have a client séance, Morgana takes the first shift from noon to six, and I watch the shop from six to twelve. Such are the hours of an occult shop. Morgana had tackled a séance the night before, so that meant it was my turn to do morning duty. But the following morning I’d overslept and woken around 11:45 to the sound of some very insistent pounding on the back door. I sat up in bed and flinched at the racket.
Morgana stirred and sat up beside me. She is tall and lanky blond like me. She keeps her weight strictly regulated with organic, non-meat products, yoga and a daily five-mile jog. Meat, she says, interferes with her energies, as does my smoking and sarcasm.
I can only hope to be so energetic and focused when I’m Morgana’s age. I smoke. I eat red meat. I like bagging girls. And guys, if they look like girls. Sue me. Morgana tells me that makes me a very bad witch, a very good daemon, and a typical male.
Morgana looked at me through gummy grey eyes and said, “Any chance you can get that, Nick? It’s probably a delivery.”
“The séance go badly?”
“Not at all. But Mr. Bingham brought company.”
“Demons?”
“Some low-levels. Familiars, I think. But I cleaned house.”
I lit a cigarette from the pack of Camels on the bedside table and sucked the smoke deep into my lungs. Morgana had succeeded in seriously pissing me off this morning. “You should have called me. You know I would have come.”
She shrugged her thin shoulders. “There was a problem and I handled it.”
“You don’t handle demons. I do.”
Morgana had gotten in at three o’clock in the morning last night looking like she’d been hit by a truck. I hadn’t asked for details because I knew she would tell me given time, but I also hadn’t known she’d been playing at being an amateur exorcist.
She’d held a circle for one of her aging clients, old Mrs. Bingham. The old woman had deep pockets and a great deal of guilt to unload on her newly deceased husband. I’m by nature a natural conduit. I certainly hadn’t lied to Vivian about that. You’d think I’d be the man for the job, but I can’t channel the dead. In fact, the dead don’t come anywhere near me, not that I can blame them, really. The dead are pretty sensible chaps. The things I can communicate with are very much alive, and have never been human. So Morgana had tackled the job for me while I stayed home watching a Lifetime movie marathon wherein I learned that all men are perverts, psychopaths or both. Seriously, it was either that or old Night Gallery episodes, and I don’t like it when art imitates my life.
See, if you need to speak to your dead mother, Morgana is the one you should call. If you need to speak to
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