"Of course you would know I was here," a gravelly voice muttered as the air shimmered away to reveal an old man. "I told them there was no point in this charade. Honesty is always the best policy, I said. But did they listen? No. Why listen to me? I'm only a hundred and thirty-three years old. What do I know?"
He was dressed in a tweed suit and carried a walking stick something like the one leaning against my knee. Simple, with a heavy silver knob.
I caught a glimpse of the magic circle as it flickered out of existence under his feet. It wasn't a bad design. Slightly different to the one I had used.
At that thought, something popped into my head and I nodded to myself.
"You're appealing to Seere," I said. "I'd suggest Bael or Balam are better."
"Oh?" The old man looked interested. "But they're Kings, and I didn't want to bother them over triflings. Kings can be more temperamental about things like that. I thought the Princes were more open to assisting with such trivialities."
"A sound theory," I accepted. "However, Seere's assistance here is limited. He only helps you move invisibly from location to location. When you're not moving, the circle doesn't work as efficiently. Every time you moved, I could see the air around you bending."
"Yes, I thought that was the case," he sighed. "Also, the young lady detected the cold. I imagine she was feeling the aura of Seere."
"She's a ghoul," I told him, knowing the old man most likely already knew this. "She's very sensitive to magic. She just hasn't been trained yet."
"Yet?"
"Yet," I confirmed. "She's new."
"Ah." He nodded. "Speaking of which. Alan, you may leave now."
"But-"
"Alan," the old man said more firmly. "You may leave. Now."
"I was told to get him to sign a contract!"
"I doubt he'll sign anything you give him," the old man said with a patient smile. "I know I wouldn't. If you stay, I fear all you will get is a quick death. If you're lucky. Of course, that's your choice. I wouldn't want to take it away from you."
"My father will hear of this!"
"I'm sure he will. Now, do you mind? I'm very old, and there's only two chairs. I wouldn't dream of asking the Count to vacate his…"
The little man stood, glaring at both of us as he pulled a small medallion from his pocket. Holding it up, he muttered a few Words of Power and the medallion burst with green light.
I heard a sound, like a roar of a lion merged wit the hiss of a serpent.
And then Alan transformed into an ethereal crow. He gave us one more glare, then flew through the walls and out into the city beyond.
I watched him go, shocked by his method of travel.
The shock was so vivid that a flood of memories slammed into me. I felt them fall into place like a few pieces of a large jigsaw puzzle. They didn't provide a full picture, but it was enough to guess the subject.
Enough to reveal I wasn't surprised that he'd transformed, but that there were vastly more efficient ways to send oneself across long distances.
"Orias?"
The old man winced. "Nepotism may convey power, but doesn't necessarily provide ability," he said carefully. "The boy had talent but wasted it on material vices."
"Ah." I shook my head as the old man limped over and sat creakily in the chair. "Some things never change."
"No," the old man chuckled. "They do not."
"Was this all arranged? Have him anger me, then you please me?"
"Oh heavens, no." He settled back in the chair. "Nice chair this. I could use one like it at home. No, I was asked to monitor the boy. A favour to his father. You do, after all, have a rather wicked reputation, you know."
"Really?"
"I was here to protect him should things go, err, south." He gave a shake of his head and glanced out the window to where Alan had disappeared. "His father isn't completely in denial. He just hopes that a few encounters with greater beings might give him some impetus, yes?"
"I doubt it'll work."
"And I agree with you, Count." He slapped the chair arm suddenly. "Oh! I didn't introduce myself. How rude. I am Mortimer Deem."
"Also from the IRS?"
"Ah." He rolled his eyes. "Well, in fairness, we do control the IRS. But we control many levels of government. Many rich men dread contact with the IRS. The boy assumed you would give him what he wanted if he waved the mention of taxes around. As I said. Power and ability are two very different things. I don't need to tell you this."
"No," I said.
"My organisation is called the Illuminated Order of the Rosy Cross. A bit of a mouthful, I'm afraid. We're a bit of a bastard cadre of old sorcerers from many backgrounds."
A splinter of memory pricked my brain.
"Illuminated? As in, the Illuminati?" I closed my eyes, squeezing everything I could from the memory. "I seem to recall something of them. A long time ago. Belgian? No. Bavarian."
"Something like that," he said with a cheery smile. "If I tried to untangle the mess of secret societies which rose and fell to form what we are today, I'm afraid we'd be here for a week. And, with the sun rising soon, you don't have that luxury. And I apologise for that, too. Another of the boy's ideas. Catch you before bedtime. The youth of today don't understand what it means to be a gentleman. I would have preferred to have arrived in early evening. Especially at my age…"
I noticed he didn't apologise for it, though.
And his eyes, though he squinted them to make it look like he was short-sighted, had been drifting along the books behind me.
Like he was searching for something.
And was disappointed in what he was seeing.
"My time is limited, yes," I said.
"Then I'll get to the point," he said amiably. "We were hoping to get your assistance."
"With a contract?"
"There are few of us gentlemen left in this world, Count," he said sadly. "You'll discover this very quickly, I think. One's word is no longer worth anything. If it's not written on parchment and signed in blood, then everything we agree to is worthless. That's the attitude of today. However, it's worth noting that no one will stab you in the back. No, they'll stab you in the face and tell you it's all your fault for letting them."
"Hmm."
I didn't like the sound of that.
It made me wonder if everything had been reduced to complex system of pointless bureaucracy.
That was enough to make me shudder.
"If it's any consolation, the agreement we'd hoped to make wasn't one-sided. Despite the young brat's arrogance, we are prepared to compensate you most handsomely for your time." He pursed his lips as he pulled a sheaf of papers from out of his suit pocket. "Here's a draft copy. I'd suggest getting a lawyer for it. It's got more gibberish than the Red Dragon."
That was enough to make me smile. "That's a lot of gibberish."
"I blame the French."
"Don't we all?" I hissed. "They're a scourge!"
"On that, we agree," he chuckled. "I won't ask for you to commit to anything tonight. I will return in a few days. Give you a chance to digest it, so to speak. If you need anything, this is my card."
I took the little cardboard slip from him and placed it on top of the papers.
I hadn't felt any magic in the paper, but I'd still check before letting anyone handle them.
Although he called himself a gentleman, I knew that some things never change.
And a gentleman would stab you in the face just as easily as a modern youth.
He'd just be polite about it.
"What is it you want help with?"
His expression grew more serious and he reached up to tug at his moustache before answering. "We'd like you to kill some people."
"You can't kill them yourself?"
"Oh, we've tried. But they're very tricky to get to. And even tricker to kill."
"And you think I can do it?"
"In your current condition, I'm not so sure," he said, showing he understood more than I had thought. "But I feel you'll recover swiftly."
"Hmm," I grunted.
"Their leader is a powerful man. Like you, he has risen from the dead. Although, unlike you, he is not a vampire."
"Who is it?"
"A man who made a deal with the foulest of demons," he said. "Demons even I wouldn't court. A man whose taste for the vilest of perversions will make even you feel sick to your stomach. He is a cancer which has been allowed to grow and his malignant evil has now become too dangerous to ignore. He must be destroyed."
"Rhetoric aside," I said drily. "Does he have a name?"
"It's not rhetoric, Count," the old man said, and I felt a slight shiver go down my spine. "I'm absolutely serious. He intends to tear open a Gateway to the Abyss and unleash the demon Chronzon onto the world."
I raised an eyebrow, but something tugged at me. I felt my memories shift. "That sounds improbable."
"To you and I, it sounds ridiculous," he agreed. "But it won't be so difficult to believe when you meet him. His name is Crowley. Aleister Crowley. But everyone simply calls him The Beast."
Of course.
My resurrection.
St Germaine.
Kalista.
Deem.
Everything made perfect sense.
And, to Mortimer Deem's surprise, I began to laugh.