Play with Fire

chapter Seventeen

BARRY LOVE RECEIVED a nod from Libby Chastain, took and expelled a deep breath, and opened wide the door of his office. As instructed, he took a few steps back, but remained squarely framed in the doorway. Morris stood a few feet behind Love and to the side, the blessed switchblade open and ready in his hand. Libby Chastain knelt to the right of the door, out of sight from the corridor. She held Barry Love’s lighter in one hand and was softly reciting the ancient Aramaic words of a spell that she hoped she remembered correctly.

From Love’s office, the hall ran for perhaps two hundred feet before turning a corner to the left. Love stood looking down that corridor like a Christian in the arena waiting for the lions to appear, fear and resolution alternating in his expression.

It was very quiet there on the fifth floor of the old office building, especially after Libby stopped chanting. The battery-powered clock on Love’s wall clicked off the seconds audibly. Once the door was opened, it did so twenty-eight times before Love said, tightly, “There it is.”

Looking over Love’s shoulder, Morris saw the hellhound as it slowly rounded the corner at the end of the hall. A year or so earlier, Morris had encountered a black dog that was being used to guard a sorcerer’s estate, but this was a different creature entirely.

Mate a bull mastiff with a black panther and raise the resulting progeny on growth hormones, and you might have something resembling the creature that stood in the corridor, staring at Barry Love’s open door and growling. Its eyes glowed crimson over a gaping mouth equipped with the kind of fangs a lion might envy. Even from a couple of hundred feet away, Morris could smell the odor of brimstone that clung to the creature.

The hellhound, muzzle dripping, stood for a few seconds, as if mentally thanking Satan for leaving its prey unguarded at last.

Then it charged.

“It’s coming!” Morris snapped.

Libby Chastain began softly chanting again as she raised the lighter and sparked it into a two-inch high flame.

Barry Love stood in place, as he’d been instructed to do, but he apparently couldn’t stop his hands from clenching and unclenching, over and over.

Morris’s stomach felt as tight as one of the detective’s fists. He really hoped Libby’s spell would work as planned, because the closer that monster got – and it was closing rapidly now – the less confidence Morris had that his knife’s six-inch blade would do any good, silver plate and Bishop’s blessing notwithstanding.

The hellhound was fifty-feet away and closing fast. Libby touched the lighter’s flame to the doorframe where she had smeared her hastily-assembled magical concoction. The alcohol in the Scotch worked like a charm, as it were, and within a couple of seconds the doorway was surrounded by flame – but there was only enough fuel to keep the fire going for a few seconds, so Libby’d had to wait until the last possible moment.

The hellhound was, understandably, not deterred by fire, but as it stormed through the open door she finished her chant by shouting “D’Neenad!” which is ancient Aramaic for “Depart!”

An instant after crossing the threshold, the great beast disappeared, leaving nothing behind but the stink of sulphur and its final howl of frustration and rage.

Barry Love slowly took his arms down from where he had crossed them to protect his throat if the beast attacked. “What... what did you do to it?” he asked.

“All systems... tend toward... equilibrium,” Libby said. She sounded a little out of breath. “Even supernatural ones. The beast was not native to this plane of existence – it belonged in Hell. I just gave enough of a magical shove to send it back to its natural environment.”

Morris folded his knife and put it away. “As nice a job of impromptu spellcasting as I’ve ever seen you pull off. Well played, Libby. Well played.”

“I don’t know how I can thank you,” Barry Love said. He offered the Scotch bottle to his guests, had no takers, and so took a long pull from the bottle before putting it away. “That thing was making my life a living hell, if you’ll excuse the expression. It feels like I can take a deep breath for the first time in a week.”

“Think of it as professional courtesy,” Libby said with a smile. “After all, we’re both in the same business, broadly speaking.”

“Well, I sure appreciate it,” Love said. “And if there’s ever anything I can do to repay the favor...”

“As a matter of fact,” Quincey Morris said, “there probably is. Do you reckon maybe we could all sit down again?”

Once they were seated, Morris said, “We’re trying to get a line on a guy – and I use guy just for the sake of discussion. The one we want may well be female.”

“Assuming such a person even exists,” Libby said.

Barry Love leaned forward, the old leather chair creaking beneath him. “Now you’ve got me intrigued. Just who – or what – are you looking for?”

“I suppose the shorthand description is,” Libby said, “we want an occult burglar.”

Love’s head tilted a little to the side. “You mean, something like a vampire who steals stuff? I know quite a few of them.”

“No, we’re talking about somebody who steals from occult types – I mean, folks who can use magic to protect their property.”

“Hmmm,” Love said. “Are we talking about white or black magic here?”

Libby and Morris looked at each other before Libby said, “Either one, probably. I don’t think it matters.”

Love leaned back again. “Maybe you guys better tell me exactly what you have in mind.”

After a brief hesitation, Libby said, “All right, we will. I’m sure we can rely on your discretion.”

The detective gave her a crooked grin. “You could, even if you hadn’t just saved my life. Go on.”

Libby and Morris took turns explaining to Love about the burglary at St. Ignatius Monastery.

When they were done with the story, Morris said, “Ordinarily, I’d be inclined to say that any practitioner could be a suspect. But Libby says there was no scent of black magic anywhere around the book repository.”

Barry Love looked at Libby. “What about traces of white magic?”

“Couldn’t tell,” she said with a headshake. “I’m too close to it. It would be like trying to smell myself.”

“But some kind of magic was certainly used,” Morris said. “Whoever it was, he got past that ward over the door – which would have stopped any run-of-the-mill sneak thief.”

Love sat there for a while, staring off into the middle distance. Then he said, “I don’t know anybody like that personally, but I know a guy who just might.”

He went to one of his battered filing cabinets, pulled open a drawer that squeaked in protest, and came up with a small, ring-bound book. When he brought it back to the desk it was clear that he was holding a battered address book, its bent plastic cover decorated with coffee rings. Several scraps of paper had apparently been tucked between the book’s pages.

Love thumbed through the book for a few moments, finally coming up with an old three-by-five index card that seemed to have the information he wanted. He peered at the card as if the writing on it was in a language he didn’t know very well. Then he said, “Either of you guys got a phone I can use for a local call?”

Libby was closest, and handed him her Samsung Galaxy S. “You have to press the–”

“I know what to do, thanks. I’d call him on my own phone, but you never can tell who – or what – might be listening in, you know?”

Love glanced at the card again and began to tap numbers on the phone’s keypad. Then he put the phone to his ear. He sat there placidly for a few seconds, but then apparently heard something that did not please him. “Pick up, Raoul,” he said, frowning. “It’s me.”

A few moments later, his voice was louder. “I said pick the f*ck up, Raoul!”

The elusive Raoul must have answered, because Love said, “You know better than to blow me off, man. Or you damn well ought to.”

There was a pause, and Love said, “All right, forget it. Listen, remember the guy you were telling me about a couple months back – the one who supposedly got Karen van der Hoeven’s spell book back from the witch who stole it from her? You said the story was, he got past a shitload of magical protection, then cracked her safe besides?” Pause. “Yeah, that’s the one. Tell me, do you remember the dude’s name, or did you even know it in the first place?” Pause. Love grabbed a pen and began writing on the index card. “How do you spell that? Uh-huh. Where’s he live, do you know?” Pause. “Okay, well thanks for the name, Raoul. I owe you a favor. No – not a big one.”

Barry Love terminated the call and handed the phone back to Libby. “Here you are. You know, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t hang on to the number I just called.”

Libby looked down at the phone, pressed the touchpad a couple of times, and said, “Already deleted.”

“Thank you,” Love said. “Now, about the guy you’re interested in – who is a guy, by the way – I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“The good news being that you got his name,” Libby said, “and the bad news is that you don’t have an address for him.”

“Aww, you were listening,” he said with a grin. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Well, at least I got the name. Anybody wanna do a drumroll?”

“We’d rather just have the fella’s name,” Morris said.

“Okay,” Barry Love said. “His name is Robert Sutorius.”