Play with Fire

chapter Sixty

LIBBY CHASTAIN DROVE into the parking lot at First Presbyterian, found a parking spot, and popped the trunk. What she always thought of as her “magic kit” was in there, all primed and ready to go.

Libby opened the large briefcase and took out a small bowl. Into it she quickly poured a mixture of ingredients she had prepared the night before. Then she picked up a wooden match she had made with her own hands, sparked it alight with a thumbnail, and set the contents of the bowl burning. Thin white smoke rose from the bowl, gradually filled the trunk, and spilled out of the sides. Libby opened a small book to a page she had earmarked and began to read aloud in ancient Greek. Every few minutes, she stopped, picked up a small bottle of clear liquid, and added three drops to the bowl, whose contents continued to burn, producing more smoke than should have issued from the small amount of materials involved.

Across the street, Theron Ware stood behind the counter at Wilson Tires and said, “Got our little friend, Elektra?”

She passed him the small metal cage they had purchased at a pet store the day before. Inside it, a black and white rat sniffed the air curiously.

Ware grasped the rat’s tail and lifted it out of the cage. “Begin!” he told the others.

As Elektra, Mark and Jeremy began to read the words they had practiced so often, Ware put the rat down on the counter. He grasped the rodent around the middle, picked up the sacrificial knife he was so used to employing on humans, and cut its throat. As the rat began thrashing in its death throes, Ware slit it open and, in one smooth motion, disemboweled it. The rat spasmed once more and lay still.

Ware would have preferred to sacrifice a clergyman again, but that wasn’t practical this time. The rat would have to do. But soon every clergyman in the world would be at his mercy – his and that of the Master he served.

He set up two slim black candles and lit them by simply touching each with the tip of his index finger. Then came a small silver bell, said to be made from some of the same coins paid to Judas Iscariot so long ago. Ware rang the bell five times.

Finally, he produced a slim black wand, forked at the tip like a snake’s tongue. As his minions continued the words of the ancient ritual, Ware stepped to the large window of Wilson Tires, which gave a clear view of First Presbyterian across the street. He pointed the wand at the building and said a word of power five times. That would set off the incendiaries inside the church. Soon he would be able to hear the screams. Remembering the fancy wrapping that hid the fire bombs, Ware stifled a giggle, along with the urge to sing a verse of “Happy Birthday.”

Now it was time to magically bar the doors. He waved the wand in a broad “X” pattern five times, said another word of power, and pointed the wand at the church again. All three doors were now sealed – and if any of the panicking fools inside thought to get out by breaking windows, they would find that a very daunting task, thanks to Ware’s spell.

Smoke should now be eddying out through the roof as the fire took hold inside. Ware looked upward – and saw nothing.

He stood watching for perhaps ten seconds then turned to his acolytes and shouted, “Stop!”

They looked toward him, shock on their faces, but did as they were told. In the quiet he should be able to hear the screams of people burning alive, and those about to be. Ware listened – and heard nothing.

His eyes bulged as he fought the fury that threatened to turn him into a raging lunatic. Now was not the time to give in to base impulses. He said to the others, “Something’s wrong,” and walked closer to the window. He scanned the street for the source of the interference, then looked over at the church building itself, finding nothing. His gaze continued moving right, to the parking lot adjoining the church – and in a moment, he saw it: a thin stream of white smoke coming from someplace out of his line of sight.

Ware was torn. He would have loved nothing more than to go over there and turn the interloper into a puddle of steaming goo, but he had to keep the spell going. The fire may not have started yet, but those doors had to remain closed. The last thing Ware wanted to see was those happy cretins cross the street leaving after the service concluded, oblivious of the doom that they had somehow escaped. He had to keep the containment spell in place – and as soon as the white magician was dealt with, the incendiaries would ignite and the barbeque – prelude to a much greater fire – would begin.

Ware turned to his minions, whose faces constituted three distinct studies in dismay and confusion. Pointing through the window he said, “Someone in the parking lot is blocking my magic, I don’t know who or how.”

Jeremy started to say something, but Ware’s hand slashing through the air silenced him. “Whoever it is, he can’t fight me and you at the same time. So go over and kill the motherf*cker, then return here at once. Go on!”

“Where is he?” Elektra asked, ever practical.

“There’s a plume of white smoke in the parking lot – he’ll be under it.”

“But boss,” Mark said, “we ain’t got no weapons.”

“Then use your stupid fists!” Ware snarled. “Or pick up a rock and bash his f*cking head in. Now go!”

As they started for the door, Ware said, “Elektra – take the sacrificial knife. If those two fools can’t get the job done, then cut the bastard’s throat with it.”

“Absolutely!” Elektra dashed to the counter, grabbed the knife, then followed the others out to kill the interfering magician.