It belonged to a man by the name of Jan Watson, a ceremonial magician from North Dakota. There were numerous pages of mystical diagrams, recipes for herb medicines and poisons, records of dreams and their magical interpretation in an occult framework. There was also a record of what Watson referred to as altered states of consciousness reached during coven ceremonies-most of which seemed incredibly ugly and vicious.
Apparently, I hadn't been the first persistent burglar to force my way into the coven's headquarters; according to Watson's book of shadows, three other men had been trapped as I was, then put to death in sacrificial rites. It seemed an effective, if somewhat tacky, method of cutting down on the neighborhood crime rate. It also made me feel slightly better. It seemed to mean that they wouldn't simply leave me there to starve to death. Also, I much preferred waiting around for a sacrificial rite to being gassed or shot from some hidden aperture in the walls or ceiling.
The most intriguing sections of Watson's book of shadows were those dealing with the formation of the coven a year and a half before; there were detailed records of the group's activities and proceedings. It made fascinating reading-right up to the point when the plate sighed open and John Krowl stepped into the room. I started to grab for my gun, then froze with my hand in the air.
Krowl was wearing a red, hooded robe with black occult symbols embroidered across the front. Dressed in the robe, his white hair framing the ghostly-pale flesh of his face, he made quite a striking figure. But it wasn't his costume that impressed me as much as the enormous black.45 automatic in his hand. The lights had been turned off in the main chamber, and there was a loud hissing sound from the activated gas jets. Behind Krowl, courtesy of Consolidated Edison, firelight flickered and danced like heat lightning.
Moving very deliberately, keeping the.45 aimed steadily at my chest, the albino came across the room, picked up my gun from the cot and threw it skittering behind him into the darkness. Then he moved back to a safe distance, by the entrance.
The only way out was through Krowl, but he'd have to be set up first. I'd have to try a little game of Concentration; to see just how good he was.
I closed Watson's book, crossed my legs, looked up at Krowl and tried to smile. "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" I was grateful for the fact that my voice came out steady, but with what I hoped was just the right amount of underlying hysteria. The hysteria wasn't difficult.
Krowl looked at me for a few moments, puzzled, then grinned crookedly. "You're a tenacious fool, Frederickson."
"The gun and the gas fire are rather newfangled, aren't they?" I asked, giggling inanely. "I don't mean to offend you, but, frankly, it spoils the image."
"The advantages of living in the twentieth century," he said smugly. With the heavy artillery in his hand, at what he obviously-and with good reason-thought was the end of the matter, Krowl was showing that he could be positively droll.
"I can't believe you're going to kill me with a gun," I said in the same thin, breathy voice I'd been using. "I mean, a shooting would be so declasse for a big, bad ceremonial magician." I shrugged nervously, uncrossed my legs and planted my feet firmly on the floor. "Why don't you just try spelling me to death?"
It was time to try for the secret square and hope it didn't turn out to be a rubber duck-or a dead dwarf. I lunged forward, hitting the floor and rolling, aiming at Krowl's legs. The gun exploded in my right ear, partially deafening me; concrete splinters sprayed my face. Even as I came up into a crouch, I knew I'd missed. Krowl was standing over me, holding the gun steady with both hands. The barrel was inches away from my head, and I stiffened, closing my eyes and biting into my lip in anticipation of the next shot-which I doubted I'd even hear. It didn't come. I opened my eyes, wiped the blood off my mouth.
"You'll die, Frederickson," Krowl snarled, "but you'll die in a way we choose-by fire and athame. The only decision you have to make is whether you want bullets in your kneecaps and elbows when we kill you."
Krowl motioned me back. I sank to the floor, bracing my back against the wall, cursing silently and methodically at myself for missing the only chance I'd probably ever get, and at drug-and-disease-wasted muscles that wouldn't work properly. "You're missing a couple of members," I said, trying desperately to think, to plan. "I'd hate to be sacrificed at anything less than a full-blown official gathering."
Krowl almost smiled. "You're tough, Frederickson. And you have personal power. I respect you."
"Fuck you, you creep son-of-a-bitch."
Krowl looked at me strangely, his pinkish eyes slightly out of focus. "Down through the centuries, dwarfs have always been considered receptacles of power," he said distantly. "They were kept as consorts, for good luck, in the Medieval courts. Maybe that's what we should do with you. We could chain you, keep you here in a cage. No one would ever know."
"Krowl," I whispered, "come Mental Health Week, I'm going to nominate you for Poster Child."
I was rather hoping he'd get mad; if he got mad, he might get sloppy. He disappointed me.
"Keeping you with us was just a thought," Krowl said with a shrug, his eyes coming back into focus on my face. "You're going to die."
I sighed. "Where's the rest of the coven?"
"They'll be here-except for Smathers and Kee, of course. It seems their power was not equal to yours."
"Will Esobus be here?"
"Yes."
"Spouting electronic bullshit from his own private cabin," I said, watching Krowl carefully, waiting for another chance at him. In order to get it, I'd just about have to put him to sleep; I couldn't generate much momentum from my seated position, and Krowl looked as though he were paying attention. "You don't even know who Esobus is, do you?"
Something like chagrin or embarrassment moved in the albino's eyes, but he didn't speak. I motioned toward the book of shadows left open on the cot. "Come on, Krowl," I continued. "Your coven-buddy Watson didn't know, and he indicated that he was pretty pissed off about it. The only reason he went along was because he'd been asked to by the man who'd recruited him. That was Smathers, a fellow weirdo and pervert Watson had known for years. In fact, you all joined by invitation, and the hosts for the party were Smathers and Esobus. Smathers vouched for Esobus, and one of the conditions for joining was that Esobus be allowed to maintain absolute secrecy about his identity." I slowly planted my hands on the floor at my sides. "I think you've all been witched-out, Krowl; Smathers was just jerking around the bunch of you."
Krowl's pale eyes glinted. He noticed my position and wiggled the gun. I put my hands back in my lap. "Esobus is the greatest ceremonial magician alive," he said intently. "He made it possible for all of us to join together. Tonight, we-or one of us-will be asked to share the secret of his identity."
"Smathers was the liaison between Esobus and the rest of the coven," I said. "But Smathers is dead, and you just told me there was no backup man. There won't be a new messenger boy until tonight. How will Esobus know about this meeting?"
"Tonight's meeting was scheduled beforehand," Krowl said softly. "You picked the best of all possible times to visit us."
I most fervently hoped Esobus would show up. It was Esobus who'd saved Kathy's life, Esobus who'd undoubtedly cut my bonds in Smathers' lab-and Esobus who was going to have to get me out of this one. Esobus was my last potential ace in the hole-a possible secret ally. It was a paper-thin chance, especially in view of the fact that he was going to have to pull this particular dwarf rabbit out of a hat in full view of the other coven members, but it was the only hope left on the shelf.