7
Our Father Which Art in Hell
The three of us trudged back though the falling snow, the soft powder underfoot muffling the crunch of our footsteps. Theo shrugged off with a grunt every attempt I made to speak to him, so we continued in silence, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts, as if they could cloak us against the cold and the deepening twilight. Mab was right. We should be hurrying on to warn the others, and yet I could not abandon Theo without attempting to get through to him, to urge him to embrace life again.
“We should never have broken with the Catholic Church,” my brother growled, glancing behind us as we put more ground between us and the fallen-angel blood.
“Excuse me?” I asked, taken aback. This was a very old argument in our family, but I seldom took part in it. “Why bring this up now?”
“Exorcists.” He grunted. “Goodness and love are all very well, but these modern churches have no teeth. No way to drive back demons.”
“You don’t need a church to drive back demons. You’re Theo the Demonslayer,” I reminded him. “Besides, I can’t see how you can still defend the Church. Think of the thousands of heretics and witches they killed.”
Theo shrugged. “Many of those people were witches.”
“But historical documents show that many innocent people . . . oh.” I faltered.
“They would, wouldn’t they?” Theo snorted. “The Orbis Suleimani would never leave evidence of real witches for laymen to find. Historical documents only tell us what the Circle of Solomon wants us to think. But I do agree the church erred when they let laymen get involved with witch hunting. They should have left the matter to experts, such as Gregor and me.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Theophrastus, but I don’t think you and Mr. Gregor were born yet during that period,” Mab interjected from where he tramped along beside us, hauling the remaining rock salt.
“Exactly!” I agreed. “I’ll remind you, I myself was nearly burned as a witch.”
Theo shrugged again, his rifle bouncing on his shoulder. “Gregor saved you.”
“Not every practitioner of the White Arts is so lucky as to have a brother who happens to be Pope,” I countered.
Theo glowered. “There are no White Arts.”
I stopped in the snow and drew myself up to my full height. “And Eurynome?”
“She serves the Almighty, does she not?” he responded quickly. I was relieved to see that he was not so far gone as to show disrespect to my Lady. Then, he frowned. “But even that would be easier were I still a Catholic. Then, I could have thought of her as a saint or an angel or something. As Protestants, aren’t we supposed to look askance at that kind of thing?”
“Theo, this is getting us nowhere!” I objected.
“True,” he sighed. “It’s not really an argument meant for you, anyhow.”
“I wish you would come back,” I blurted out with less grace than I had hoped. “You’ve upset Father. He relies on you. Prospero, Inc. relies on you! I rely on you! How can you desert us?”
Theo’s features took on that pained, weary look that often accompanied the dredging up of past arguments. “I don’t enjoy arguing with Father, but I served him for nearly five hundred years. The time came for me to make my own decisions.”
“Have you spoken to Father? What does he say?” I asked.
“Last time we spoke, Father declared if he could not convince me with words, he would have to demonstrate the foolishness of my position. But that was decades ago.”
We trudged on in silence, my mind working rapidly. What had Father meant about demonstrating the foolishness of Theo’s position? Whatever it was, his plan must have failed. Unless—a shiver traveled through me that had nothing to do with the cold—unless Father’s disappearance and the release of the Three Shadowed Ones had something to do with saving Theo!
As I walked through the orchards my brother had cultivated over the last half century, I thought about him, comparing the man he was now with the man he had once been. The contrast was marked and disturbing. When had this change taken place? I tried to recall if this new taciturn Theo had already begun to emerge the last time I had seen him, back in 1965.
We had met that day on the grounds of Father’s estate in Illinois. It was the day our mansion was being demolished to make way for a university. Because Gregor’s death had changed many things, I had only lived in this mansion a short while. I would have liked to stay longer—I had a lovely room overlooking the river, with irises growing beneath my window—however, the thought of Father grieving for Gregor all alone out in Oregon had troubled me. When I asked him how he would manage, he had stroked his long, gray beard and replied congenially, “If you are so worried, you may come with me.” And so, I had done so.
Theo had come walking up the tree-lined driveway just as the dining room fell before the bulldozers. When he caught sight of me, he waved and quickened his step. Coming up beside me, he gazed without expression as a wall crashed down noisily. Then, turning, he proffered me a bouquet of flowers, his eyes aglow with familiar warmth.
“You look beautiful, Miranda, as always. Like an untouched blossom preserved in crystal.”
“You look older.” I accepted the bouquet graciously. “You’ve been to see Erasmus?”
“No. I’ve stopped taking the Water. That’s why I’m here. I’ve come to give you this.” He thrust into my free hand a tiny oval crystal vial, about the size of a plum.
“Are you serious?” I nearly dropped the priceless container. “Theo! You’ll grow old and weak! You’ll . . . die!”
“Exactly,” he replied.
“But . . . why?”
“Because I want to go to Heaven, or more specifically, I don’t want to make my bed in Hell.”
“Heaven? Theo, what are you talking about?”
“For five centuries, I served as a champion of Heaven, Miranda. At Father’s bidding, I sent back to Hell every man who held a black mass or uncorked, to evil purposes, the jar of a renegade djinn. I’ve seen more of the ravages of Hell than any man should see. I’ve seen families poisoned by each other’s hands; mothers who have burnt their children alive to gain some horrid imitation of youth; towns rotting from a plague let loose by some careless thaumaturge, or worse, by a necromancer wishing to placate his bloodthirsty deity. I’ve seen men possessed by demons eat their own eyes. . . . ” Theo shuddered at some unspoken memory. “You need not hear any more. Sufficient to say, I have more enemies than most in Hell. I have no intention of winding up with Gregor’s fate.”
“Gregor’s fate? Struck down by a stray bullet while running whiskey?”
“The day Father summoned up the Archangel Gabriel before Gregor’s grave and the angel told us he could not deliver our message because Gregor was neither in Purgatory nor in Heaven . . . I knew what that meant, Miranda, where Gregor must be. Gregor was a good man, at least as good as I.”
“Theo, be practical! Gregor had been Pope twice,” I objected. “He hardly had clean hands.”
“They were no dirtier than mine,” growled Theo.
“You think people who run out on their families and their duties go to Heaven?”
“God only asks us to live good lives. Serving Him is good, but not if we have to artificially extend our lives with witchcraft to do it.”
“Water of Life isn’t witchcraft! It comes from the Well at the World’s End.”
“It’s not natural.”
The bulldozers knocked over another wall, the noise of it temporarily ruled out further conversation. As I watched the parlor fall, I saw in my mind’s eye—like a ghostly image superimposed over the present demolitions—the groundbreaking ceremony, half a century earlier. I recalled where each of us had been standing as Erasmus stepped forward and crumbled a handful of earth from our Scottish estate into the first hole, which Titus had just dug with a shiny new shovel. Father was smiling, Logistilla wore an extravagantly enormous hat, and Mephisto splashed us all with champagne, ruining Gregor’s priestly habit. Cornelius sat on a yellow lawn chair, and Theo stood beside him, describing the proceedings for his benefit. Even Ulysses was present, though he disappeared in a flash of white light immediately after the ceremony. I doubted that any of us imagined this would be the last time we would all be together.
“What about your work?” I asked when the rumble of the bulldozer finally paused. A sweet-smelling breeze blew up from the river, causing the willows to sway, and the plaintive call of a whippoorwill could be heard in the lull. “So much is still not done! We’ve hardly even touched the Far East! Do you know how many people are killed each year by monsoons? And who’s going to put down the Dab Tsog? They’re killing Vietnamese refugees fleeing their civil war. Who is going to stop them?”
Theo looked troubled. I could see the natural hero in him stirring, struggling to act. Then, his eyes dulled.
“Not my problem.” His voice sounded flat and lifeless. “If I could do something without trafficking with magic, I would. As it is . . . ”
“What about that Scottish lake monster? The one that magician—the fellow who gave you so much trouble some years back?—drew out of the past into the loch by his house?”
“Crowley? Thank God, that’s over! I’ve never had so much trouble with a mortal in all my years! Cleaning up after him . . . ” Theo shivered. “That’s one of the reasons I want out. I never want to deal with that kind of black magic again!”
“And the monster?”
Theo shrugged. “It seems harmless. Let Mephisto take care of it. Really more his kind of thing anyway.”
Back in the present, I considered this encounter from a new angle. At the time, I had thought Theo seemed like his normal self, only moody. I had not dwelt on the subject because I had assumed he would change his mind and repent his vow, as he always had done in the past. In retrospect, I found the memory disturbing. His giving up the use of magic I understood; Theo had always objected to sorcery and enchantments. But walking away from people in need? Leaving human beings at the mercy of supernatural predators? That did not sound like the brother I knew. Theo never did go put down the Dab Tsog. Father eventually had to send Titus.
What had caused this change in my brother? Regret for Gregor? Fear of Hell? He had never feared Hell before, hence the appellation “Demonslayer.” Could he have become convinced that if he died he would become the victim of all the demons he had slain? Even that would not have daunted the brave knight I recalled from my youth.
All this time, while I had been lonely without Theo’s company, I had trusted, I now realized, that Father would rescue him from his foolish vow before any real harm was done. But now Father was missing—a prisoner in Hell, were the dark angel to be believed—and Theo was old, dying.
The dire facts of his situation struck me anew. If the real Theo—the Theo who loved life and loved our family—did not awaken soon, we would lose him, most likely before I could contrive another visit. Then, I would be left living an eternal life bereft of the brother I most loved.
I could not wait for Father. If anyone was going to save Theo, it would have to be me, and—since his health might not hold out long enough for me to find another opportunity to return—I was going to have to save him tonight!
Returning to the barn, we found no sign of Mephisto. After a futile search of the barn, Theo checked on the bonfire, where the bear carcass was burning merrily despite the snow, the flames a flickering beacon against the darkening sky. Then, he stomped off to his house, to call more farmhands. The short winter’s day would soon be at an end, and he felt assistance would be needed to find Mephisto before nightfall. Moments later, however, he came stomping out again.
“Mephisto’s in here, watching my television.” Theo stood in his threshold, framed by golden light, and jerked his thumb toward the doorway behind him. Above, the upper windows of the house were blind eyes reflecting the falling snow.
From within the farmhouse, Mephisto’s voice rang out, “Hi, guys. You weren’t around, so I made myself at home. Your nice housekeeper made me some sandwiches, Theo. I’ve got an extra one. It’s ham and cheese. Want a bite?”
“No. I do not want a bite,” Theo said wearily. “I am glad to see that you are feeling fit, Mephisto. It’s time for you all to leave now.”
We could not leave yet. Walking out on Theo now would be the same as pulling out a gun and shooting him in the heart myself. Shivering in my ripped trench coat, I called, “What about our agreement? You promised you would answer Mab’s questions.”
Theo nodded stiffly. “Come in. No point standing in the cold.”
He walked inside, stamped his feet, and brushed powdery snow from his coat. I followed him and did the same. As I stepped into the pleasantly warm living room, an old basset hound came trotting over to investigate the strangers invading his house, his nails clicking loudly against the bare wood. He nuzzled Theo’s knee and then sniffed my coat enthusiastically.
“What about me?” Mab stood on the walkway, his hands in his pocket and his shoulders hunched against the cold.
Theo gave him a long, veiled look before finally relenting. “You might as well come in too.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mab muttered. “Just don’t touch anything.”
He entered quickly, as if he feared Theo would change his mind, and moved to stand in front of the old white radiator, warming his hands. The dog approached him slowly on stiff legs. When Mab offered him a piece of muffin from his pockets, the hound quickly forgot his suspicions and gulped down the treat. As he watched Mab scratch the dog behind his ears, Theo seemed mollified.
My brother’s living room was filled with wooden furniture upholstered in fiery red and orange wool. Mephisto lay sprawled across the couch, watching an old faux-wood television. A mahogany writing desk stood to the right of the kitchen door, and a large army trunk covered with a patchwork quilt had been pushed against the wall between the radiator and the stairs. The room smelled of warm bread, with a faint aroma of canine emanating from the flannel dog bed in one corner, near the cold hearth.
It was all cozy and welcoming . . . but wrong.
Where were Theo’s treasures: his breastplate of shining Urim and his sword of Toledo steel? Where was the tick of the cuckoo clock Titus had made for him, back when cuckoo clocks were a novelty? And, most important, where was the coat of arms I embroidered for him as a thank you for a time when he stood up for me against Erasmus? Theo had displayed it in every house he had owned since I presented it to him. Yet, it hung nowhere among the many samplers bearing quotes from Psalms and Proverbs that decorated the cedar walls. Nor was there a single photograph of our family. Pictures crowded the mantelpiece and the writing desk, but all featured droopy-eyed hounds or an unidentified woman. I could have been in the living room of a stranger.
Shaken, I moved closer to Mab, sinking to sit on the army trunk beside the radiator.
Theo barked a harsh laugh. “You would sit on that!”
I looked down but could see nothing special about the trunk nor about the pattern in the patchwork quilt covering it. I smoothed a wrinkle in the cloth and considered my strategy. I needed to introduce a topic that would revive the real Theo, the bold and fierce young knight who had been dormant this last half century. It had to be something Theo really cared about.
What better than the other issue that weighed so heavily upon me?
“Theo,” I asked, “How are we going to rescue Father?”
“Father?” Theo sat down in an armchair. Leaving Mab, the hound lay down beside him and put his head on my brother’s feet. “Rescue him from what?”
“I’m guessing she means the part about his being in Hell and all that,” Mab said dryly. “Most ordinary people get a bit distressed when they learn their father’s been dragged bodily into the underworld.”
“Duped by the dark angel, were you?” Theo chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Dark angels lie. You should know that, being a spirit.”
“I do know that. Being a spirit.” Mab regarded Theo coldly. “But, in this case, it fits the facts, being that Mr. Prospero has disappeared and all.”
“Father’s missing?” Theo turned to me. “Disappeared how? When?”
“He came to America in September and never returned home to Prospero’s Island,” I said. “He visited the mansion, though I was out at the time. After that, we know only that he accidentally released the Three Shadowed Ones and asked me to warn the family that they were after our staffs.”
“All three of them!” Theo half rose in his seat. “Merciful Mary!” He took a step forward, disturbing the dog, then paused and glared at me for some reason. “Dam . . . er, darn! That is unwelcome news! And you say Father’s mixed up in all this? Our father?”
“Apparently,” I murmured.
“We don’t know that the dark angel was telling the truth,” Mab offered. “But demons are not averse to using a bit of truth if it will forward their goals. Makes people more likely to believe them the next time. So, we have to at least consider the possibility that Mr. Prospero is a prisoner in that horrific location. Would explain how a demon got past the wards of Prospero’s Mansion. As to what we should do about it?” Mab shrugged. “Well, let me put it this way: he was a nice fella, but you won’t see me going down there to rescue him!”
“Afraid to storm Hell, are you?” Theo stood and put his fist into his hand and grinned fiercely, the old light rekindling in his eyes. “Not me! Remind them what the Demonslayer stands for in ‘Theophrastus the Demonslayer’!”
I nearly laughed aloud. Theo was ready to storm the gates of Hell. My work was done. Could that have been Father’s plan, to get captured and stir Theo to rescue him? It seemed mighty foolish on the surface, but with Father, one never knew.
Mephisto spoke up from where he lay upon the couch, the back of which was toward me. His voice was muffled, as if his mouth were still full of sandwich.
“That sounds great! We can all go together and rescue Daddy!” he laughed happily. “What a dopey-head you are, Theo. All this time you’ve been carrying on with this whole ‘Oh, I’m afraid of damnation, I’ve got to suffer and get old!’ routine, and the moment the chips are down, you volunteer to charge into Hell on purpose!”
Theo looked shocked. The gleam of joy died out of his eyes, and he dropped abruptly in his chair.
“You’re right,” he muttered. “I’m far too old.” He rubbed his wrinkled, veined hands and frowned. “How could have I forgotten?”
“Oops,” whispered Mephisto. From the creaking sound, I guessed he was trying to sink farther into the cushions.
A flash of anger toward Mephisto swept through me, but the chagrin with which he had whispered “oops” made it clear that dampening Theo’s newfound enthusiasm had not been his intention.
Frankly, I doubted we could harrow Hell and survive. The idea was ridiculous. Charge into the maw of Hell, with only our staffs and perhaps a few magical talismans, and face the combined wrath of all the Powers of Hell? We would be dead or worse before we passed the First Circle. No, if Father were in Hell, our only chance of recovering him lay in negotiation.
Even if we wanted to dare it, how would we get there? None of us knew how to reach the Gate to Hell . . . alive, that is. Still, if the thought of marching through Hell, devastating demons while demanding that they return our Father, inspired Theo, far be it from me to point out the impracticality of such a plan.
“We can fix that, you know,” I offered quickly, hoping to stoke Theo’s enthusiasm. I continued, “A drop or two of Water and a visit to Erasmus, and you would be fit to harrow Hell and free Father!” Theo just scowled and shook his head.
Mab had flipped open his notebook and lifted his stubby blue pencil. Now, he asked, “This Staff of Withering, it can work in reverse, too?”
“Yep! Saw Erasmus turn a mugger into a baby once. Nasty attack . . . but the baby was cute,” Mephisto offered.
Theo reached up and rubbed his temples, as if his head ached. “Enough chatter. Ask your questions, Spirit, and go!”
“And Father?” I asked.
“I wish you luck rescuing him, but you’re going to have to solve your own problems once I’m gone. You might as well start now.”
“But you’re still here!” I insisted. “And this is our father! Do you think we would have a chance in Hell without the Demonslayer?”
“Maybe with Gregor’s . . . ” Theo faltered. “No. Without Gregor or myself, the rest of you would never make it. We are the warhorses, so to speak. Erasmus is deadly, even terrifying at times, but his staff is less potent against eternal things.”
“Do you think God will welcome you into Heaven after you abandoned your father?” I asked sternly.
Theo did not answer, but he looked troubled. That was promising, at least.
“So, about these Three Shadowed Ones, Mr. Theophrastus,” Mab asked, pencil poised. “What can you tell us?”
Theo regarded Mab, frowning. “You’re not like any spirit of the air I’ve seen before.”
“I’m of a special cynical variety,” Mab drawled back.
“Ah, well . . . What was the question?”
“Tell Mab about Osae the Red,” I suggested. “I gather you’ve heard of him before?”
“Heard of him?” Theo massaged the muscles of his right thigh. This attracted the attention of the old hound, who rose and laid his muzzle across my brother’s leg. “Osae the Red made my life a living hell for twelve years. Probably would have killed me, too, had Gregor not trapped him behind Solomon’s Seal long enough for me to send him back where he came from. He’s one of three guardians whom the Devil sends to get back his own: The Three Shadowed Ones.”
“And they are?”
“Osae the Red, Baelor of the Baleful Eye, and Seir of the Shadows.”
“Oh! That shapechanger!” I exclaimed.
The memories came rushing back. In retrospect, I felt ashamed that I had not recognized the names “Osae” and the “Three Shadowed Ones,” but in my defense, I had not heard them in nearly three hundred years. Human minds were not designed to hold five hundred-plus years of memories. Over time, our memories blurred. Whole decades of my life have fallen into the mists of time. Those events I believed I recalled correctly often disagreed with the recollections of my siblings. Logistilla still swears we first encountered Peter the Great of Russia on the banks of a canal in Venice, while I recall quite clearly meeting him on a bridge over the Danube in Vienna. To this day, we do not know which of us is right.
As Father was fond of saying: “Faulty memories are part of the price we pay for immortality.”
“So, all three of them are demons?” Mab grimaced. “Darn. I was hoping . . . well, never mind. Tell me more about this Red chap.”
Theo leaned back and stroked the dog’s droopy ears absentmindedly as he spoke. “He’s a cacodemon, a demon of the appetites. His particular forte is shapechange. He can impersonate any beast or man. Once you catch on, however, he’s easy to spot. He’s not a good actor, and he’s nearly always colored gray and red. Even in his more subtle disguises, some part of him—eyes, fur, claws—is always reddish.”
“Is?” asked Mab. “Don’t you mean was? You drilled nearly a dozen bullets into that thing.”
Theo shrugged. “Demons are eternal. They always return eventually. As to the others, Baelor is a duke of the Fourth Circle. His sphere of influence is the mind. He can see the thoughts of others. Seir is an incubus, with all the usual incubus tricks. He is called ‘of the Shadows’ because he can walk through shadows.”
“Walk through shadows?” Mab raised an eyebrow. “You mean like step into a shadow in Hawaii and come out of a totally different shadow in Timbuktu?”
“Exactly.” Theo nodded his grizzled head. “For all intents and purposes, he can teleport. The other two depend on him to move around. Neither Baelor nor Osae have a special method of travel. Without Seir, they would be stranded in the mortal world, unable to return to Hell . . . except by the method any of us could take, of course.” Theo pantomimed the gesture for having one’s throat cut and made an ack noise.
“Is there any relationship between the shadow in ‘Three Shadowed Ones’ and the shadow in ‘of the Shadows’?” Mab circled something on his page and underlined something else twice.
Theo shrugged and stroked the dog under his chin. “Indirectly. The term ‘shadowed’ refers to the Styx. A demon that is allowed to cross the Styx and leave Hell can use the title ‘Shadowed.’ The way it usually goes, when the demon escapes from Hell, he is granted the title ‘Shadowed,’ and given permission to wreak havoc upon the earth. He does this until some priest or virtuous knight sends him back from whence he came. Then, he’s stuck in Hell again.
“As to the connection between ‘Shadowed’ and ordinary shade,” Theo concluded, “shadows are never seen by the sun. This gives them some kind of sympathetic relationship to the river Styx—the river that divides the world of the living from the world of the dead. Seir’s power to move through shadows is derived from this thaumaturgic principle.”
“So, if we kill these Three Shadowed Ones, they can’t come back again the next day?” asked Mab.
“Right!” Theo replied. “Not unless they are released from Hell anew—which is apparently what just happened. Titus, Erasmus, Mephisto, and I slew them the first time. As far as I know, they remained trapped below some three hundred years, until Father released them recently.”
Mephisto bounced upon the couch. “I helped kill them? Really? How exciting! Don’t recall a thing. Are you sure it was me? I’d hate to think you were mistaking me for someone else. That would be embarrassing.”
“It was you.” Theo frowned at Mephisto and then turned to me. “What was Father up to, Miranda, freeing the Three Shadowed Ones? Father knows how wicked they are.”
“I don’t know, Theo,” I admitted. “I have no idea.”
Mab rubbed the back of his neck. “How’d these Three Shadowy Blockheads come to be following you, Mr. Theophrastus? Back in the sixteen hundreds, you and your brothers fought them for the first time?”
“They had been sent to retrieve the Spear of Joseph of Arimathea, after I rescued it from the Vatican.” For some reason, Theo gestured towards me as he spoke. “Maybe Father rescued some other holy talisman, and the Powers of Darkness sent the Three Shadowed Ones after it. Miranda, what was he doing before his recent trip?”
“I don’t know that either.” I rested my forehead in my hand. “I’ve asked him dozens of times what he was about, but you know Father. . . . ”
“He never gives a straight answer,” Theo agreed.
“I thought he was writing poetry and working on some horticulture project,” I cried, “but he must have been doing something else, too. People seldom accidentally free demons while gardening.” Tybalt’s theories of bound demons left lying in flowerpots notwithstanding.
“Of course, with Daddy, you never know,” chimed in Mephisto. “Isn’t that how he found Ariel? Just sitting around, trapped in a tree? Probably knocked that old pine with his shovel as he was puttering around the island, gardening. Bet it scared the willies out of him when the tree started moaning and wailing.” Mephisto rose up on the couch wiggling his arms and making “ooh ooh” noises, his personal impersonation of a specter.
“Nothing scares the willies out of Father,” Theo replied sardonically.
Mephisto gave a last “ooh” and dropped backwards, hands still held at arm’s length before him. The cushions of the old couch compressed beneath his weight with a loud poof.
“Even he might find being tortured in Hell a bit daunting,” I said, thinking this would evoke Theo’s previous sympathy for Father’s plight. But he just scowled. Talk of Osae the Red and his cohorts had not had the desired effect either. I would have to try a new tack. If Theo’s all-consuming hatred of demons had atrophied, maybe I could appeal to his curiosity.
“We do know one other thing Father was up to: we found a new inscription over his alcove in the Great Hall that read The Staff of Eternity. Does that mean anything to either of you?” I looked from Theo toward the back of the couch, beyond which lay Mephisto.
“Nope! Not a thing!” Mephisto declared. The springs groaned as he continued to bounce up and down.
“Cut it out, Mephisto!” Theo snapped. “That couch has been through enough.” The springs groaned once more, then fell quiet.
“Maybe he stole this Staff of Eternity,” Mab suggested, “and that’s why those three demons are chasing him.”
“Could be.” Theo stroked his beard. “Staff of Eternity? Now, why does that ring a bell?” Theo tipped back his head, then slapped his knee. “I know! I once asked Father if he missed having a staff of his own. He said he did not, but if he ever felt nostalgic, he had an idea for another one. I questioned him about it further, but he just chuckled and made the cryptic reply that he had all eternity to think about it.”
I was not certain what to make of this. Referring obliquely to his subject with a cryptic quip did sound like Father’s sense of humor. Had he been planning this for years? Suddenly, I found myself much more curious about this unknown staff.
Theo rose stiffly from his chair. He groaned and pressed his hands against his lower back, his face pale with pain. “Enough. I answered your questions. Now it’s time for you to go . . . before you do any more harm.”
“Harm? Did I break something?” Mephisto sat up and looked around quickly.
“You brought Osae the Red.”
“Actually, Sir,” Mab lowered the brim of his hat, “that wasn’t us.”
Theo squinted at Mab. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s just that I’ve been thinking about it, Mr. Theophrastus, and I couldn’t help noticing . . . that shapechanger? He showed up pretty quick after your brother here pulled the Chameleon Cloak out of the bag. Granted, that’s a pretty big beacon as supernatural draws go, but if this Osae character can’t fly super fast or something, how come we didn’t see any sign of his teleporting friend? If this Seir of the Shadows guy had been around, wouldn’t he have put in an appearance after you shot the bear, to grab the body before we took it away to be burned? I mean being a shapechanger and a demon, Osae can probably regenerate, even from a chest full of lead, given time, right?”
Theo nodded. “Yes, that is their normal pattern of behavior, Seir pulling them out when the situation gets too dangerous. They escaped me that way, oh, dozens of times. Almost enough to make me wish I had Titus’s staff! Nice staff, the Staff of Silence, though I prefer mine. Er, preferred.” He finished, flustered. “Seir must not have been about.”
“In that case, I must conclude Osae the Red was in the vicinity of the thrift shop before we arrived—which can only mean one thing.” Mab leaned forward and pointed a finger at Theo. “They were onto you, Mr. Theophrastus. Osae the Red knew you and your staff were in the area, and he was here hunting for you!”
Theo drew back, reaching out to the wall to steady himself. Mephisto sat up and peered over the couch, his eyes wide. For myself, my heart was pounding with fear and relief!
So, this was why my Lady had pressed me to hurry to Theo’s! Without Her urging, I would never have turned off at that exit for gas either, nor gone into the thrift shop. Had we not found the Chameleon Cloak, we would not have discovered Osae the Red was nearby. I bowed my head and thanked Her for keeping watch over my little brother.
Theo frowned apprehensively. “Osae is easy to spot, but only when I’m on my guard. If he had come when I wasn’t expecting him, when I didn’t have my rifle . . . ” His face paled. “He could have approached me as anything, a cow or a squirrel!”
“Or an Irish Setter.” Mab gestured at the old hound with the elbow of his writing hand. “That’s what he looked like when we first saw him. Good shape to lure a dog lover.”
“In that case, I owe you an apology,” Theo admitted haltingly.
“Nothing to worry about. After all, you rescued us from the shapechanger,” Mab replied gruffly. “Dang lucky you happened to go out for gas when you did!”
“An angel sent him,” Mephisto piped.
“How’s that?” asked Mab.
“Nothing,” Mephisto ducked down behind the couch again. “Just a hunch.”
Theo gave Mephisto a long look while Mab flipped through his notebook. Raising his head, the latter asked, “Any advice on how we could find out more?”
“I’m not a magician,” Theo said flatly.
“In that case, I think—” Mab began, but he was interrupted by Theo, who was still speaking.
“A magician,” Theo continued, “would probably counsel you to hold a séance. Lesser spirits, such as the ones who talk to mediums, are impressed with demons like the Three Shadowed Ones and track their movements. That newfangled device popular during Queen Victoria’s time would be even better. What was it called? Oh, yes . . . the Ouija board. Ouija boards give clear and understandable answers, if used correctly. Wednesdays are best, if you can’t wait for a high holy day. Not that I would know, of course,” he finished brusquely, aware the three of us were watching him. “Oh, and make certain that the axis of the board is aligned with the north.”
The old hound whined hopefully beside his master. When Theo lowered his head to look at his dog, Mephisto gave me a thumbs up. We smirked at each other over the back of the couch. Not a magician, my foot!
“But take care!” Theo raked a hand through his gray hair. “Demons are not to be trifled with! They like nothing more than to breed deceit and mistrust, turning brother upon brother and friend upon friend. Do not trust them, no matter what they promise!”
So fierce and fervent did he look, it was as if the Theo of old had returned. My heart leapt.
Theo’s next comment was cut short by a bout of coughing that bent him nearly double. Tremulously, he pulled his medicine bottle from the pocket of his buff coat and opened the brown plastic container. Upon consulting his watch, however, he changed his mind and slowly put the cap back on without removing any of the pills. Apparently, it had not been long enough since the last one. Setting the container aside, he grabbed the armchair, waiting for the coughing fit to end. The old dog whined softly, gazing up at his master with concern.