The Sinister Secrets of the Deadly Summoner Page 9
“Diabolus in musica,” he said. “The Devil’s triad. An interval with a diminished fifth.”
Grace squinted. “What are you guys talking about?”
When Sal faced her, he nearly tripped over Paisley, who was standing close. “It’s a progression of notes that begs for resolution. Your brain wants another note, and when you don’t get it, it leaves you feeling tense, anxious.”
“Like this thing doesn’t make us anxious enough,” Grace said.
“Would you like to hear it? If I don’t actually play it, that is,” Sal said.
“Yes!” Paisley said.
“No!” Grace said.
“It’s a recording. I recorded myself playing it. That won’t make the magic part work, will it? It’s not, what did your uncle say about the lute? It’s without intent.”
Paisley hiked her shoulders. “How else are we gonna chase this thing down?”
“Without intent,” Grace repeated. She recalled the lute, the pear-shaped instrument bejeweled on the head stock, the soundboard, and tailpiece. Sal had come to the shop back when the both of them were in college. Uncle Dave tracked down a listing in the Green Ledgers. Every now and again, there were stories on the news about how a patient awakened from a coma upon hearing his favorite song. The jeweled lute actually put listeners into a coma—or a state very like one. But it wasn’t a random pluck of the dual strings that did it. It had to be played with intent in order to work its dark magic.
She shuddered at the memory. But still. “Okay, it’s without intent. Let’s hear it.”
Chapter 24
Sal had a four-track recorder set up on a nearby table, surrounded by a couple empty microphone stands. He pressed play, and speakers mounted above the recorder came to life. “This is a test of an aboriginal flute,” Sal’s voice said.
The haunting, deep tones followed, reedy and uneven with unusual harmonics. She listened to Sal playing a scale ascending and descending. He shrugged and turned it off.
“It sounds like the soundtrack for just about every National Geographic Special I’ve ever seen,” Paisley said.
Sal made an agreeable face. “Aboriginal bass flute in a nutshell. I don’t think a human mouth could produce the right tension to play it one octave up. The embouchure hole is really uneven. It takes a lot of air just to play the low register.”
The cameo vibrated against Grace’s throat. No visions accompanied the sensation. Uneasy at hearing the notes of the flute being played, she moved to the counter. Like Paisley said, the stick/horn was really kind of ugly. “Okay, so what do we do with it? We can’t give it back to George’s wife. She might take up the flute and end up like Marc and Junior.
“Burn it,” Sal suggested.
“It would take a long time to burn ivory this thick, and at very high temperatures. Maybe a week in a crematorium to fully destroy it. Ivory’s tough stuff,” Grace said.
“And what about the clams?” Paisley played the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth on the harpsichord.
Sal eyed them both. “What about the clams?”
Grace decided to tell him the whole story, as far as she knew it. Sal listened. Anyone else wouldn’t have believed her story, or her theory. But Sal had the benefit, if you could call it that, of experiencing an Objet de Puissance first hand.
“Okay,” he said when she finished. “A couple questions. First, what made the clams disappear from the mudflats? Was it George playing the wrong notes in his final days? Or is it just a natural occurrence.”
“According to Bill Mudge, the flats are fine,” Grace said. “He’s the shellfish constable.”
“So maybe the three notes need to be played to bring them back? There are only six possible combinations. I’ve played and recorded two. Maybe the clams came back already.”
“And that’s why nothing happened to you,” Paisley said.
At that moment, the back door issued a loud groan that stopped their conversation. The building shook, wood creaking. Guitars swung on their pegs. Lights dimmed, even the gray daylight coming through the plate glass window. Grace looked out. People passing seemed to move through a thickening fog. She had to work her jaw to pop her ears. The pressure was rising.
“What the—”
“Holy—”
Before they could finish their echoy sentences, the steel of the back door moaned, rising in pitch. It exploded open, slamming against the inside wall. They all took a step back. But there was nothing outside. Absolutely nothing. Fog obscured the alley, growing darker quickly.
“Let’s go,” Sal said, his voice muted. Grace saw condensation on the windows, the glass door. When Sal pushed it open, he stopped short. No sidewalk remained, or street, or park on the other side. The ground had turned to sand littered with rocks. Something like snow fell, but too slowly. Translucent shapes appeared, plant-like, wavering, growing from the sand. Sal stepped backward into Sal’s Strings.
“What is this? What’s going on?” It sounded like he spoke underwater.
Grace’s skin went to goose flesh. It wasn’t just the sudden chill. “The stick,” she said. Her voice sounded strange. She half-expected bubbles to rise from her mouth.
Inside the shop, more shapes faded into view, mounds of rock obscuring the hanging instruments, growths of coral hiding the counter. Footing became treacherous as the floor turned to sand. Grace heard a squealing sound in her ears before they popped again. Breathing became difficult.
Tiny shadows darted from the forming shapes, like half-visible schools of fish. But no, not like fish—they were fish. Grace moved toward Paisley and Sal. Her movements were slow, and buoyant.
“We’re on the bottom of the ocean,” Paisley said. “Why aren’t we wet?”
From behind the counter, a much larger fish darted, hiding behind the rocks near the guitars. It swam quickly from behind them, brushing Grace. She saw teeth. The cold, scaly touch made her take a step back. It shot behind the counter, a much bigger one taking its place. Looking like a five-foot missile with teeth, the fish made a beeline for the three of them.
Sal grabbed the nearest weapon at hand, an electric guitar on a stand. He swung it at the marauding fish. His motions were slowed. The silver fish grabbed the wood in its fangs, biting through with a splintering crack. Sal staggered back.
Shaking the broken guitar, the fish let go. In a flurry of motion, it targeted Paisley, swiftly swimming toward her.
“Fish!” she shouted, raising her arms to protect her face. Her hair floated around her.
Grace moved clumsily to ward it off. Sal grabbed the empty guitar stand and swung. Resistance in the air thwarted their motions. They could never reach Paisley or the fish in time.
Earsplitting, a peel of bells shattered the underwater silence. Sal tripped over himself, the air no longer holding him up. He landed face down on the floor. Grace took a few running steps to stop herself. Paisley’s hair fell around her shoulders.
Light was bright again, inside and out. Pedestrians gazed at the open door and the alarm bell. There was no more rock-strewn sand underfoot. Sal got to his feet and hurried to shut off the alarm.
He turned from the panel, gawking at the women. “What just happened?”
“We just discovered what the stick horn does,” Grace said.
“Were we—it felt like, seemed like—on the bottom of the ocean?” Sal stammered. His features turned mournful as he caught sight of the broken guitar. Reverently, he crouched over its remains.
“It was… taking us there.” Grace said. “Not completely. Maybe if it went on longer.” Her mind was on Junior Polaski and Marc Branson. From what Barb said, the two of them hadn’t ended up on a coral reef, but some abyss where no sunlight ever reached. Depths haunted by unknown monster fish.
Paisley moved to the kneeling Sal. He cradled the pieces in his arms. “You saved me,” Paisley said.
“Oh my gosh. This is a ’61 Strat, Sherwood Green, custom order.” He grimaced as he touched the bite mark. The neck had brok
en from its mounting screws, held on only by the strings.
Looking confused, Paisley backed away.
“We’ll file a claim,” Grace said. “Don’t worry, you’re covered.”
“What am I gonna say, Grace? My Fender was eaten by a barracuda?” Sal sounded on the verge of hysteria.
Grace asked, “Will the alarm bring the cops?”
“Yeah, although since I keep forgetting about it, they’ll be slow.”
“Great. Don’t tell them anything. We got back here, the alarm was going off, the back door was busted in. That’s all you know.”
Sal stood and moved closer. “What about the huge bite mark in this guitar?”
“You know how this works. Cops make up their own stories. I’ll write it up tomorrow, get you a check right away.”
He took a breath, closed his eyes. “Okay. Fine. Just do me a favor and get that freakin stick horn out of my shop.”
Chapter 25
“I think I blew it with Sal,” Paisley said. “He wasn’t nearly as flirty after I accidentally called him a child abductor.”
Grace drove the Prius. “He did try to save you with a sixty thousand dollar guitar. That means something.”
“Sixty K?” Paisley bobbled her head back and forth. “No wonder he was so freaked out. I thought he was being a turd weasel. So where to now?”
“Your other paramour. I can’t think of anywhere else to go.” In the rear view mirror, she glanced at the stick horn in the back seat.
“He won’t be open. It’s too early.” Paisley glanced at the dash clock. “Seven-thirty? How did it get so late?”
Grace could theorize that the stick somehow messed with space and time. But L’arts de L’occulte was only a block away. Tourists thronged the sidewalk outside the black Victorian. It took a while to find parking.
Stick half-covered in a blanket from the trunk, they shoved their way into the busy occult shop. The crowd was strictly stretch pants and ball caps, out-of-towners gaping at the morbid displays, fingering ritual ingredients and crystal wands. A girl in Goth-wear occupied the cash register, another circulating, answering questions. Grace grabbed the second one.
“Find Jack. Right now.”
“Entitled much? Can’t you see we’re busy—”
Grace touched the girl’s bare arm with the stick. The shop girl's angry expression morphed into shock.
“Okay, right now.” Her voice shook, but she hurried off.
Almost immediately, Stoughton appeared. His lowered brow and frown said he hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. At the sight of Paisley, Grace and the stick horn, his visage went paler. He gestured for them to come. Once they filed into his work room, he pointed to the workbench. Grace set the stick there, and uncovered it. Jack’s hand stole to his mouth, covering it as he studied.
“It brings you to the sea,” Grace said. “The bottom, if it doesn’t like what you play.”
Stoughton sat. He turned on an architect lamp clamped to the bench. From its angle, he lifted a chain hung with a green crystal. Slowly, he moved the bauble an inch from the flute’s surface. No one was surprised when the crystal bobbed and jerked away from the instrument. He hung the chain back in place. The hand returned to his mouth. After a time, his eyes lifted to Grace’s.
“Dangerous,” he said. “What are you going to do with it?”
Grace sank to the stool. “I was hoping you might have an idea.”
“Well, as rare and valuable as this is, it has no provenance. While my little tourist trap out there pays the bills, the real money is with buyers of the truly powerful black arts. But in the end, rock musicians, investment bankers and internet CEOs only really want the low-end spectrum of mystic objects. Something like this, they couldn’t begin to comprehend. It would spin those masters of the universe’s heads to learn that they really have no true control over anything.” His voice was a whisper, as if afraid the stick horn might awaken.
“Well, I wasn’t thinking of selling it. It doesn’t belong to me, really. But I don’t want the owner to get eaten by sharks in her own living room.” Grace sighed. “Isn’t there a way to, I don’t know, discharge it somehow? Just make it a big ugly stick with no power?”
“Not my department,” Jack smiled. “I’m the guy selling cursed objects. It would ruin business if I had them exorcised.”
“Is there someplace safe to put it?” Grace said. “I don’t want anyone else touching it, playing it.”
“You mean like the big government warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark?”
“I was thinking the end of the X-Files pilot,” Paisley said.
“That plot device was ripped off from Raiders,” Jack said. “The answer being, maybe there’s such a place, but not to my knowledge.”
“What if we just cut it up?” Paisley suggested. “It couldn’t make the right noise that way.”
Stoughton shrugged. Rummaging in a desk drawer, he came up with a compact circular saw with wicked looking teeth. He plugged it into a socket on the bench top. “Be my guest.”
She looked at Grace, who shrugged. Paisley stood up, grabbed the saw in one hand, the stick in the other. “Eew, it’s kinda icky to touch.” With that, she thumbed the switch.
With a startlingly loud whine, the saw whirled to life. Paisley touched the spinning blade to the ivory. It skidded away. No mark was left behind. Gritting her teeth, she attacked again. Despite all the noise it made, the saw did not cut. Paisley shut it off.
Stoughton unplugged the saw and put it away. “It doesn’t want to be cut. It wants to be played.”
“I don’t want it to be played,” Grace said.
“We all want things that we can’t have.” Though Stoughton said this to Grace, he gazed at Paisley.
Five minutes later, Grace angled the stick in the Prius’ cargo space and covered it. She felt the urge to wipe her hands on her shirt.
“Did I just get dumped by two guys in two hours?” Paisley asked. “Because that’s what it feels like. Time warp not included.”
Grace closed the trunk. “I think you have to be more than flirting to get dumped.”
“Great. I feel much better.” She looked up at the sky. “Um. Since we did the missing time thing, do you think I can get a ride home?”
“Too dark to cross the Essex Bridge?”
Paisley didn’t answer. “Well, I could drive through New Carfax, and Beverly, and Peabody, and Danvers, and then to Salem, but I have work in the morning.”
“You gotta get over your gephyrophobia.” Grace beeped the locks.
“It’s not a phobia. I swear, the last time I crossed it, I could feel it swaying. That thing’s coming down any day now.”
Grace got behind the wheel. “But it’s okay if I drive across it?”
“Well, yeah, you got airbags. I’m sure this thing floats. Some. Is this the price I gotta pay whenever I need a ride?”
Chapter 26
All Grace got done on Tuesday was insurance fraud. The police report on Sal’s shop indicated vandalism. It didn’t mention the vandal was a large, carnivorous fish. She signed off on it and put the report in the interoffice mail. There were two things plaguing her thoughts all day. One, there was a powerful Objet de Puissance in the trunk of her car that could transport the player to a watery grave. The other was a single word she’d taken from the conversation with Stoughton.
Exorcism.
The vision returned to her, of the bell pulls in St. Paul’s. Sitting in her cubicle, she focused on the vision again and again. When Paisley appeared, she snapped out of it. “What’s up?”
“What’s up with you? I’ve been standing here talking to you for five minutes.”
“Just… thinking.”
Paisley nodded, but said nothing about the stick. “Can I get a ride? I want to pick up my ride.”
Grace looked at the time on her computer screen. “It’s just after lunch.”
“The boss is my aunt, Grace, how much trouble can we get in?”
“Savage. Maybe I can repair my ship with Sal.” Paisley was Office-Goth today, a black velvet baby doll dress with a spider web pattern and puffy lace sleeves, spiked red choker matching her red Doc Martens, tights with a print of black widows.
“Ship? As in relationship? Do you actually have one?”
“I’m working on it. What, you think I should take up knitting?”
Grace caught sight of the church steeple as they crossed the utterly solid Essex Bridge. Paisley crossed her arms over her face and held her breath. The crossing took almost three minutes. As they bumped onto solid pavement, the Goth gasped for air.
“You do that when you drive across?” Grace asked.
“Can’t let go of the throttle. I just close my eyes and hold my breath. Does the trick.” She panted.
She dropped Paisley off, watching as she scootered her way toward Sal’s Strings. For a while, Grace sat, conversing in her head, convincing herself. Then she headed for the town square.
St. Paul’s was not a typical New England church. Instead of white clapboard, it was made of brick that had weathered a dark brown. For a while, she sat in the parking lot, hands gripping the wheel. She remembered sitting next to Uncle Pete in the front pew. Her mother’s closed casket before the altar. Her father maintaining his mysterious absence. The son-of-a-bitch.
When a hand knocked on the driver side window, she was so startled she nearly peed her pants. When she slid it down, a man smiled at her. He wore a minister’s collar below a chiseled face and sandy hair, his hazel eyes blameless. “It’s Grace, isn’t it? Grace Longstreet. What can I do for you?”
Now, it was too late to drive away. “Reverend Swift?”
“Guilty.” His smile became a full on grin. “C’mon inside. It’s hot out here. We’ve got air in my office.”
Puffy clouds filled the sky, air humid and thick. She got out of the Prius, air conditioning sounding good. The vaulted ceiling of the church proper was stuffy going on suffocating. But Swift led her to stairs beside the altar and down. True to his word, the office was practically freezing.