Mark of the Witch. Maggie Shayne
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You do it often?”
He smiled a little. “Never. And it’s just the one demon.”
“Does he have a name?”
“I’ve only heard him called ‘He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken.’”
“Are you shitting me? He doesn’t even have a name?” I looked at him, waiting for the punch line. But he only smiled and shook his head.
“I know. I know how crazy it sounds. And to tell you the truth, I was pretty skeptical myself until I saw those marks on your back.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I gotta say they made an impression on me, too.” I didn’t want to talk about that, though. My world had taken a turn for the macabre, and I was trying to focus on the parts that went down a little easier. Those phantom lashes from that phantom whip had left real wounds, and that flat-out scared me too much to dwell on just yet. I’d get to it. But right now, I thought, let’s stick to the easy stuff. Stuff about him and this so-called demon of his.
“So how many priests are there on your … um … anti-demon squad?”
“Two,” he said. “Me and the man who trained me, Father Dom. You see, one priest from our sect—”
“The Leaders of the Pack.” That’s right, keep it light.
“The Keepers of the Pact,” he corrected. He gave me an odd look, like he was amused but trying to figure me out at the same time. I liked the way his eyes felt when they moved over my face, probably because I got the feeling he liked what he saw.
Priest, Indy. Priest. Priest. Priest.
“One of us is chosen from each generation as the Guardian of the Portal. Dom chose me. Just as he was chosen by his predecessor.”
“And what was his name?” I asked. “Father Dom’s predecessor?”
Tomas frowned. “You know, he never told me.”
“I bet it rhymed. Tom. Dom. Rom, maybe?”
The look he sent me this time was a searching frown, like he was seeing through my plot. Yeah, I was using humor to keep this light, to try to pretend nothing all that serious was happening. But I was also scared half to death. And I was pretty sure it showed. I got the feeling there wasn’t much I could hide from those perceptive brown eyes of his.
“When the current Guardian begins to age, he chooses and trains his replacement. That tradition has continued since the time of ancient Babylon.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said, holding up a hand to stop him. “Even I know ancient Babylon is BC, as in Before Christ.”
“Fifteen hundred and one BC, to be precise.”
“Pre-Christian, either way. Can’t have a Gnostic sect, no matter how rare, prior to Christianity, can you?”
He smiled widely, nodding his head not in agreement but in approval. “You’re smart. I like that.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m freakin’ Einstein. But you didn’t answer my question. Nice dodge, though.”
“It was a compliment, not a dodge. And it was sincere.”
I gave him a thank-you nod and tried not to warm at the praise. He hadn’t said I was a knockout, driving him mad with carnal lust. He’d said I was smart. That’s all. Down, girl. I tried to focus on the city as he maneuvered the relic through it, instead of on the intense awareness that there was only a foot of space between us. That space, though, wasn’t empty. It was crackling and snapping.
“Priests of numerous religions have been entrusted with the mission. From the Cult of Marduk to the Egyptian followers of Ra to the earliest Jews. The calling doesn’t end, it just converts. It’s only recently that Dom realized the way the stars are lining up on Samhain this year makes it a propitious time for the demon to come through. He probably should have seen it sooner, but he’s getting a little … unfocused.”
He means senile, I thought. I nodded as if that made perfect sense when it actually made none. “You talk about him a lot. Dom.”
I spotted the crease between his brows when I said that. Worry? Something. I wanted to smooth it away with my finger, whatever it was.
“Dom took me in when I was a kid.”
“Took you in—”
“I was an orphan.”
“You were an orphan?” Wait a minute, did my voice just sound like a cheerleader spotting a puppy?
“That’s really not on topic at all, though. You were asking why we need to go to Ithaca.”
He was changing the subject. And just when I’d decided I was far more interested in his sad childhood than I was in some moldy old Babylonian legend. Even if I was somehow intrinsically involved in its fulfillment.
“The Portal is somewhere in Ithaca, at least according to Dom’s calculations. By going there, we can not only prevent the demon from coming through this time but destroy him utterly.”
“Huh,” I said.
“What?” He looked at me, brows raised.
“Well, it’s just that—” I shrugged. “I mean, just playing demon’s advocate here, but … the dude’s been in this underworld slammer for three thousand five hundred years now. It seems a little harsh. A lot harsh when you add ‘destroy him utterly’ to the equation. What did he do, anyway?”
Tomas tipped his head to one side. “I don’t know.”
“You never asked?”
He shrugged. “It seemed enough that he’s a demon.”
“Isn’t that what they said about witches during the hysteria? I mean, can he even help being a demon?”
“You’re confusing the issue.”
“I don’t know that I am. Couldn’t he be a good demon? Couldn’t he have been rehabilitated by now? Open your mind, Padre. Think outside the box.”
He looked at me as if I’d just sprouted horns and a forked tail.
“There’s no such thing as a good demon.”
“That’s what the witch-hunters said about us.”
“What he did isn’t as important as what he will do, given the chance.”
“And what’s that? What’s this big bad demon’s dastardly goal? No, wait, wait, I remember.” I leaned forward, hands on my hips in a superhero pose. “He wants to take over the world.”
“I can’t believe you’re making jokes about this, Indira. Especially given what’s been happening to you.”
I only shrugged and looked away.
He pulled into the long line of traffic heading onto the bridge, and took the opportunity to turn and stare intently into my eyes. “The goal of every demon is the same. Destruction of all that’s good. Perversion of the sacred. Power over the world of man. He could become the anti-Christ, Indy.”
I just sat there staring at him, trying to determine whether he actually believed his own words. I mean, he suddenly sounded like a fire-and-brimstone pulpit thumper in a revival tent. I wondered if that was him talking or if he was channeling his precious Dom, and I decided on the latter. “Uh-huh. So we’re going to Ithaca to face and annihilate the anti-Christ.”
He sighed, lowered his head. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Not so much, no.”
Traffic was at a standstill. His hands gripped the wheel, bumping each other right on top, and I could tell he was squeezing hard.
“And none of it really seems to tie in with what’s been