The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
wondered what Jake would make of him.
“What happens when Angus does come back?” I inquired eventually.
“Is he coming back?”
I thought of Mrs. Tum and Lester Naess. “I hope so,” I said.
Glass stem between his fingers, Snowden gently circled the base of the glass on the
linen-covered table, warming the wine. “You see, the others believe that Angus is a
warlock.”
“Isn’t everybody?” That wasn’t exactly what I meant. “I mean, aren’t they all part of a
coven?”
He answered me indirectly. “Warlock is the term for an oath breaker. For one who has
lied or broken a pledge of silence.”
“I thought it was a male witch.”
“Partly. It would be a witch who practices the Black Arts. A witch who worships Satan.
Most modern witches are Wicca, and Wiccans don’t, you know.”
“So this group or coven is Wicca? Then I don’t understand why an inverted pentagram
was painted on my doorstep.”
His brows drew together. “Inverted? Are you sure?”
I removed one of the photos from my day planner, pushed it across to Snowden. He
stared at it for a long moment.
“Are you sure you talked to the right people?” I inquired, watching his expression.
His eyes veered to mine. “Certainly,” he said, but he sounded less than certain.
“What’s the Ars Goetia? ” I asked.
“Where the devil –?”
I kid you not. “Where the devil,” like you’d expect to hear from Colonel Mustard in
The Study. I murmured, “No pun intended?”
He stared at me, but I didn’t think he saw me. At last he said, “It’s the first section of an
anonymously-written seventeenth-century grimoire known as The Lesser Key of Solomon.
Do you know what a grimoire is?”
“Book of Shadows, right?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You surprise me.”
“I had a lot of time to read as a kid.” Not that you would find a copy of the Book of
Shadows in your school library – unless you’re attending Hogwarts.
“Then you’re probably aware that the Book of Shadows is a kind of witches’ Bible, only
rather more than that. It’s a personal record of rituals and spells and lore, each one unique.”
“But isn’t there a definitive Book of Shadows?”
He grimaced at this ignorance. “No. Different traditions have reclaimed and reedited
the most famous source materials into their own grimoires. There are illustrious historical
grimoires: The Black Pullet, The Greater Key of Solomon, The Lesser Key of Solomon.”
“So what is Ars Goetia? ”
“Essentially it’s the name, rank, and serial number of seventy-two demons King
Solomon is said to have conjured and then imprisoned in a bronze vessel fastened with magic
seals.”
“And this symbol?” I pointed to the line drawing that Ariel had told me was the
signature of a high-ranking demon.
He shook his head. “It’s a sigil. A sign or seal in magic.” He glanced at me and said, “It’s
a symbol designed for a specific magical use.”
“This sigil is the name of a demon, isn’t it?”
Reluctantly, he admitted, “That also.”
“And the point of this sigil would be to invoke or conjure this particular demon, right?”
“Correct. The idea would be to summon the demon to do the work of the conjurer.”
“Which of the seventy-two demons is this? Out of curiosity.”
“I have no idea.”
I must have looked skeptical. He said, “Off the top of my head? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He sounded unexpectedly haughty. “I’m no expert in this particular arena. If you want to
understand the role of modern witchcraft in primitive societies or the devolution of Goddess
worship into modern religion, I’m your man. Traditional witchcraft…Satanism…is not my
scene.”
“But you could find out?”
“What do you care which demon it is?”
That earned curious glances from our fellow diners. Guy lowered his voice, said, “You
need to stay well clear of this.”
“That old black magic gotcha?”
“You may laugh, but the point is not whether you believe in this. The point is that
whoever left this on your door believes in it. This is one who wishes you great harm –
merely because you got in his – or her –”
“Or their?” I suggested.
“Or their way.”
“I thought you said it was all settled?”
“It is. If you let it lie.”
“What about Angus?”
He didn’t seem to have an answer.
“Dessert?” the waitress asked brightly, materializing beside our table.
I resisted the impulse to ask for devil’s food cake.
* * * * *
Chan was waiting by the front door when I got back to the bookstore. He appeared to
have been there a while. He looked tired and frazzled; there was a mound of cigarette butts
at his feet.
“Hey,” I greeted him, sliding back the ornate security gate. “What’s up?”
“Adrien –” There was something in his face.
I put my hand out to steady myself on the gate. I’d as soon as not remember the sound I
made.
Chan said, sounding kind of frantic, “He’s okay, Adrien. Jake’s okay. That’s why I’m
here. In case it makes the news. He didn’t want you to hear it that way.”
I turned to stare at him across a great crumbling distance, hanging on to the gate like it
was my spar in a swell.
“He’s fine. I swear to God. Maybe a little concussion.”
“What happened?”
“We were chasing a suspect, and he got hit by a car. Jake, I mean. The suspect got
away.”
“Where is he?”
“The suspect?”
“Jake.”
“Oh. Huntington Hospital.” He added as I started back toward my car, “But he doesn’t
want you driving down there. Adrien” – he trotted after me – “he doesn’t want you there.”
Chapter Seven
I hate hospitals. I hate the antiseptic smell, the artificial light. I hate those crisp,
professional smiles that tell you they’ve seen a million like you come and go, and your little,
life-threatening illness isn’t nearly as important as you imagine.
It took a while to locate Jake’s room up on one of the skyscraper floors. I prowled
around the sterile halls until I found the right room – the room with the uniformed cop in
the doorway.
The cop looked like a younger version of Jake. Probably one of his brothers, most likely
