Queen of wands sc-2 Read online

  “There is actually something of a sovereign remedy for drakni Mothers, drakia, in certain Christian beliefs,” Sharice said, frowning. “Let me see…Saints, saints.”

  In the antechamber to the prison was a small bookcase. Sharice pulled a book down and flipped through the pages, looking for something.

  “Alas, I don’t think it would help you, though,” she said, flipping back and forth. “Most of the saints whose patronage is possession aren’t recognized by the Episcopalian church.”

  “We don’t do saints quite the same way Catholicism does it,” Barbara said. “But any port in a storm. Well, any reasonably Christian port in a storm.”

  “Your best bet, if it works for your theology, is Saint Dymphna. She’s a Catholic saint for the possessed and anyone suffering from mental illness. Strange story. Her mother died, and her dad looked high and low for a woman who was as beautiful as his wife. Finding none, he noticed that his daughter was as beautiful.”

  “Ick,” Barb said.

  “Ick indeed. Story goes on, including fleeing to a far land and being tracked down by the father. Martyred herself to escape his attentions. The interesting aspect to it is that it was believed her father was possessed by a demon of lust.”

  “And with what you’ve just told me, that’s distinctly possible,” Barbara said. “But he’d have had to be a pretty sick puppy to begin with.”

  “So Dymphna, despite being an otherwise quite inoffensive creature, is reputed to have a real case of the butt with demons, especially drakni and drakni Mothers. I’d suspect the deep story is that it was a drakia who possessed him, and it may have been generational.”

  “So I’m supposed to pray to St. Dymphna if I’m dealing with drakni?” Barbara asked. “That’s not really how Episcopalians handle things. More of a Catholic approach.”

  “Not…exactly,” Sharice said, biting her lip. “I’m afraid to tread on your theology if I go further. My simple answer that should be inintrusive. Christian theology is a bit opaque to me sometimes.”

  “Try me understanding Wicca,” Barb said.

  “Point. Here’s the thing. And it’s simply the real and skinny. Your White God allegedly gave over the world to Satan, which means Satan’s troops, within limits, have free reign.”

  “Because we have free will,” Barb said. “We can choose to resist.”

  “Accepted,” Sharice said. “However, there are indicators that just as demons can possess, so can higher spirits. Angels and saints. There is historical basis for the latter.”

  “If you’re saying you want me to call on St. Dymphna, who, if I get this right, was a teenage girl, to possess me, to help me fight drakni…”

  “It’s more likely that she would possess someone similar to her,” Sharice said. “And it’s very hard to arrange. Extraordinarily rare. It would require someone who is pure of soul, about the right age, preferably has the right look, and who is in mortal danger from a demon. Preferably a similar one to the one that possessed Dymphna’s father. And it would probably require some type of…free pass? I’m trying to put this in Christian terminology. In pagan terms, it would require that the door be opened from both sides of the planes, that another entity opened the door for her to pass through. Not to mention a nod from the White God and acceptance of His Gift upon the part of the possessee. And you don’t have to have help to fight drakni. Or even drakni Mothers. But Dymphna would probably be able to wipe out a whole Legion of drakni Mothers. Or at least dispel them. Cast them back into the infernal realms. Of course some idiot would probably just summon them again, but it’s a point on our side. If a person became possessed of Dymphna and we found out about it, trust me, we’ll recruit her in a heartbeat.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Barb said. “Especially if I can stop seeing these things all over the place.”

  “Now, this is just a gluttony demon. That’s not too bad. But there are others. All the usual sins, of course. Then there are anger demons, hate demons, lust, as in Dymphna’s father, and the worst, murder drakni.”

  “Serial killers?” Barb asked.

  “As far as I know, universally,” Sharice said. “Even the ones the FBI considers ‘common.’ Ted Bundy, a Legion, at least sixteen separate types including several flavors of murder drakni; Charles Manson, Son of Sam. I don’t actually know of one that wasn’t infested. But the point to remember is that they had to have an opening. The demons might have pushed them over the edge, but they had the desires and the interest. As you said, there is free will. The person has to be willing to take the demon into their soul. Whether they realize that willingness or not. And they have to choose to carry out the agenda of the demon.”

  “So we don’t chase these?” Barb asked, incredulously. “They cause mayhem and death and they’re just off our radar screen?”

  “Not always,” Sharice said. “But mostly. We just don’t have the time, Barb. You’ve been taking family time over the last few months. I’m not meaning to guilt you, but the rest of us have been stretched. We could have used a Level Three at least five times while you’ve been playing Suzy Homemaker down in Mississippi. A Level One can dispel a drakni if the possessee is willing. A priest that’s not even particularly holy can get rid of one. Drakni are training demons, mostly for sight and hearing as we’re doing here. Now, a drakni Mother might require a Level Three. And if when we find those, we get rid of them if we can. But, again…”

  “The possessee has to believe and be willing,” Barb said with a sigh.

  “Right,” Sharice said. “So, you ready for the next step?”

  “Which is?” Barb asked suspiciously.

  “To dispel one without using massive amounts of power, you have to have its True Name,” Sharice said, grinning. “As I said, you can get that with The Ear. But he’s going to have to be out of the box.”

  Barb glanced at the pentacle, then looked at Sharice.

  “You have got to be joking.”

  “Ready?” Sharice asked, opening the box.

  “I hope,” Barb said, getting into panther position again.

  “Confidence is pretty important with any demon,” Sharice said, touching one of the symbols on the box and muttering. “There’s a reason I chose this one.”

  “Which is?” Barb asked as the demon popped its head up over the top of the box. She heard it almost immediately, the whispering in her mind. It was more of a craving for…Cheetos? Okay, so she liked Cheetos. It wasn’t like she was…Man, she really wanted some…

  “You’ve never shown much interest in food,” Sharice replied. “Now, me, I’ve got all my defenses up. But I’ve worked with him before. But I figured there wouldn’t be much of a hook with you, not with your figure.”

  “Thank you,” Barb said.

  “Don’t make me get out the vanity demon, skinny,” Sharice said.

  “I can handle it,” Barb replied.

  “Or the pride one.”

  “Okay,” Barb admitted. “Point. But it doesn’t really matter. It found a hook.”

  “Not much of one,” Sharice said, gazing at the demon. “It hasn’t leapt. What’s the hook?”

  “So I like Cheetos…And fried chicken. Is that a sin?”

  “Not if you don’t overindulge,” Sharice replied. “But ignore the Cheetos and cheesecake…”

  “I hate cheesecake…”

  “Never mind. Ignore it. But open up your Ear. Don’t focus. Just stay calm…”

  “Zen…” Barb said. “Ignore the dressing with gravy…”

  “It’s there,” Sharice said, hypnotically. “Can you hear it? It sings its name along with the food. Very faint, an undercurrent, almost unnoticeable…”

  “Zagnatag,” Barb said. “Is that what you mean?”

  At the sound of its name, the demon dove into the box.

  “How long have you…?” Sharice asked, hands on her hips.

  “Pretty much from the beginning,” Barb said, straightening out of her defensive crouch. “It was louder than the
Cheetos. I just figured it was white noise or something.”

  “There are times I really dislike you, Barbara Everette,” Sharice said, half bitterly. “I’ve got years of training, and having someone as Gifted as you come along is just…I had to sit with this thing for a week to catch its True Name!”

  “Yeah?” Barb said. “Well, do you go around with whispers and shouts filling your head all the time? Huh?”

  “Good point,” Sharice admitted. “One which we’re going to have to work on. But since you know its True Name, control it.”

  “How?” Barb asked, crouching again.

  “Oh, quit that,” Sharice said. “Fix the name in your mind and call it out. Tell it to move around. If your will is stronger, it will have to obey. You don’t even have to open your mouth.”

  Barbara raised her hand to do just that, then paused.

  “I’m not sure I should,” Barb said.

  “It’s not hard,” Sharice pointed out.

  “No, I mean I should not, not I can not,” Barb corrected. “My religion does not control demons or consort with them. We destroy them.”

  “Jesus sent the Legion into a herd of pigs,” Sharice said. “Think of it that way.”

  “And it wasn’t a popular thing to do,” Barb said. “Can I do it? Probably. Should I do it? That might take some soul searching. It feels wrong.”

  “Well, you can find out a True Name faster than anyone I’ve ever seen,” Sharice said with a shrug. “And once you have that, and your level of power, he’s basically putty in your hands. If you really feel the need to dispel him, feel free. We’ll have to find another one eventually…”

  “No,” Barb said, shaking her head. “The Foundation does God’s work. But each…”

  “Must find their own God,” Sharice said, nodding. “Okay, you seem pretty solid on this stuff. Pulling out the rest of the boxes would be fairly pointless. Well, the ones I’d normally pull out for beginners; and I don’t have a couple more trained adepts to pull out the advanced. So…Time for field work.”

  “Fun, fun, fun,” Barbara said. “Where?”

  “Rubs.”

  The bar and grill was part of a small chain in the Asheville area. Copying the success of a much more notable national chain, the waitresses were invariably chosen for their looks, and dressed appropriately.

  “Oh, my God,” Barb said as they walked into the bar. It was just the beginning of the evening shift, and while there were still few customers, the full crop of waitresses was on the floor.

  “Don’t stare, don’t Reveal,” Sharice said, walking over to a table with a view of most of the bar.

  “They’re…everywhere,” Barb hissed, setting Lazarus’s carrier on the table. The cat slid open the bi-directional zipper she’d installed and poked his head out, hissed and ducked back in. Probably because every second woman in the grill, not just the waitresses, had a small demon on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” a man said, hurrying over to their table. “There are no pets allowed…”

  “I have a doctor’s excuse,” Barb said, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Under the Americans with Disabilities Act, you have to allow companion animals. My cat is registered as a psychological companion animal. I’m aware that that makes me crazy, but I’m covered under Federal law.”

  The response was automatic and rote. Living with a familiar was a pain, but Barb blessed the otherwise incredibly stupid court orders that had expanded the ADA far beyond its original intent. Designed to force companies to make their places wheelchair accessible, the Ninth Circuit, using its usual logic, had decreed that “companion animals” including yappy dogs that were “psychologically necessary” to crazy ladies, were covered by the statute.

  Barb was willing to be considered crazy if it meant she didn’t have to put up with the headaches she got when Lazarus was more than a few dozen meters from her.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the manager said through gritted teeth.

  “I promise he won’t go peeing on the furniture,” Barb said. “Laz. Stay. See?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the manager repeated, walking away.

  “Familiars,” Sharice said. “Can’t live with them…”

  “We’ve been spotted,” Barb said, craning her neck around. She wasn’t staring at any of the small demons, but she definitely felt eyes on her. Of course, it might have been some of the patrons. Despite her age, she could easily have been one of the waitresses.

  “I feel it, too,” Sharice said. “Not sure…”

  “Now what is that?” Barb asked, blinking. Now she was staring, even though there wasn’t a demon on the girl’s shoulder.

  The waitress was bending over, talking to a customer. Pretty. Very pretty. She looked much like Barb had when she was in her early twenties. Long legs, blond hair, tight derriere and solid double-D chest. On closer examination, though, Barb was fairly sure that was in part fake. But the sense of being watched, even though the girl wasn’t looking at them, was coming from her.

  “Aura,” Sharice said, quietly. “Read her aura.”

  The girl’s aura wasn’t black but it was darned close. It was a red so deep as to be almost indistinguishable.

  “So…I repeat. What is that?”

  “ That is a drakni Mother, a drakia,” Sharice said. “That girl is the reason that there are all these drakni here. They’re all vanity demons, by the way. Well, almost all. Now, look around. Do you see some of the girls who should have drakni but don’t seem to?”

  “Yes,” Barb said. “And their auras are dark, too. Not as dark…”

  “Their drakni have settled all the way in,” Sharice said, then paused as their waitress approached the table. “There are a few who don’t have them. Call them girls who don’t have that particular hook. Stronger-willed, not self-critical and vain at the same time. But they’re rare in a place like this.”

  “Welcome to Rubs,” the girl said perkily. “Our Happy Hour specials are…”

  “I’d like a Coca-Cola and a plate of hot wings,” Sharice said when the girl was finished with the recitation.

  Barb had been trying and failing to not notice the drakni on the girl’s shoulder. It was tiny, no bigger than a small rabbit, and seemed barely attached. But she found herself studying it, and then it noticed. It hissed at her, and she had the hardest time in the world not hissing back. Lazarus had no such reservations, letting out a soft warning yowl from the cat-bag.

  “Uhm, ma’am, your cat…” the girl said.

  “It’s okay,” Barb said, mentally sighing. She focused on the demon and then Displayed, releasing the mental hold on her own aura and showing just a portion of her true power.

  The drakni nearly hopped out of its skin and cowered down, blinking its huge eyes in a way that was vaguely appealing, like a puppy that had been shouted at.

  “Down, Laz,” Barb added as the cat released a meow that sounded vaguely like a snicker. “I’ll take the grouper burger, hold the bread.”

  “They’re not ganging up on me,” Barb said quietly as the waitress left.

  “They saw enough to know not to,” Sharice said, sighing. “But they’ll follow. And they are ganging up on you. You’ve just managed to learn to suppress your Ear.”

  “Not really,” Barb said. “I Hear what you mean, now. But there’s so much other white noise…” Now that she paid attention, she could hear the demons cat-calling at her. They were commenting meticulously on her looks and promising that they could make her look better if she’d just take one of them…

  “Concentrate on one,” Sharice said, quietly.

  “Kavam,” Barb said. “The one on our waitress’s shoulder. I can name off the rest.”

  “The Mother?” Sharice asked.

  “Uhm…” Barb said, looking over at the waitress. “She’s not talking.”

  “Concentrate,” Sharice said. “It’s going to be there anyway.”

  “Long…” Barb said after a moment. “I can hear it in my head, but I’m not su
re I could pronounce it.”

  “And thus we get to the whole unpronounceable name thing,” Sharice said. “But it’s not necessary. Concentrate on the name and then call it over.”

  “It’s in someone,” Barb said.

  “Just do it and watch.”

  Barb concentrated on the waitress, who was delivering a tray of beers to a table, and fixed on the name of the demon, calling it to her. The waitress finished delivering the beers, then instead of heading to one of her tables or the waitress station, came over to Barb’s table.

  “Welcome to Rubs,” the girl said, smiling. “Haven’t I seen you in here before?” she added, looking at Sharice.

  “I love the atmosphere,” Sharice replied. “You’ve been here a while?”

  “Since I turned eighteen,” the girl said. “But I’m getting tired of it. I’m thinking about changing jobs. Don’t tell anybody.”

  “Of course not,” Sharice replied, smiling. “Our secret.”

  “Uhm…” the waitress said, uncomfortably.

  Barb realized that on concentrating on the demon, she’d been staring at the girl’s breasts.

  “Sorry,” she coughed. “I was thinking about something. Penelope, that’s a nice name.”

  “Thank you,” Penelope replied. “Well, I hope you gals stop by more often.”

  “She thinks we’re lesbians,” Sharice said with a chuckle.

  “I wonder where she’s going to move to,” Barb replied.

  “Nowhere,” Sharice said. “This place is too fertile a ground for her Mother. New girls all the time, most of them fixated on the importance of looks. She’ll end up being a manager when she’s lost the looks to be a waitress. And with that demon riding her, that’s going to be quicker than normal. Vanity demons are like that. They promise beauty and make you ugly faster than smoking.”