“Yes, this penthouse view is quite breathtaking,” I turned to the luscious blonde before me, “but not nearly as lovely as—”
A thunder clap, and then I was standing in a small, glowing circle, surrounded by a gaggle of chanting fools in robes.
“Oh great Sorasel im Palat, lord of fire and darkness, fell devourer of the innocent, conqueror of—” Arcane symbols covered the speaker’s robes, nearly obscuring the heavy crimson fabric.
“Yes, yes, get on with it.” I gestured with my gin martini.
He paused, then finished in a post-pubescent squeak, “We invoke thy true name and bid thee do our will.”
“Oh you do, do you? Well I want you to send me back. I was having a smashing time, and that girl may not have two brain cells to rub together, but she looked quite likely to do some rubbing together. If you know what I mean.”
The robe-wearers shuffled, and whispered amongst themselves. The leader piped up again. “O great Sorasel im—”
“Stop that, stop that,” I interrupted. “Only my dad calls me that. I prefer my middle name. If you must speak, call me Stewart.”
More shuffling and whispering from my summoners.
“Oh great and mighty…Stewart….” the leader—whose pasty face was mostly spots—began again. “We bind thee to our will.”
I took a sip of my martini—extra dirty, extra olives—and raised an eyebrow at the little prat. Summoners used to know what they were doing. I looked at the floor where their demon trap was sloppily drawn with what smelled unmistakably like fresh, store-bought spray paint. I sighed. What happened to the blood of a virgin? Or even the vital fluids of an unwilling Christian priest?
I noticed their silence; I could practically smell their fear—a mixture of piss and that foul deodorant that promised them flocks of women. I took another gulp of the martini—it was perfect. Almost as flawless as my blonde client who was no doubt currently working her minimal intelligence into a sweat in an effort to find me.
“Well? Get on with it.”
“We bound you, oh great Sora—er—Stewart.”
“I heard that part. So,” I made sure to smile with all of my teeth. “You’ve bound me. Congratulations. Now, what do you plan to do?”
“Jaime, this was your idea.” One of the other robed figures poked the leader.
“Just give me a second to think.” The one called Jaime jabbed an elbow into his pimple-faced accomplice who tripped on his robe and stumbled out of the ring of table salt surrounding the group.
Before the wannabe summoner could scramble back inside the protective circle, I bound his feet with a tendril of flame and pulled him kicking and screaming toward me. With a wink, I yanked out his entrails and sucked them down like a bowl of spaghetti. Normally, I’m not such a messy eater but I got caught up in the theatre of the moment. And besides, he made me spill my martini.
Licking my fingers, I turned to the trembling gaggle. “Alright my little binders,” I said. “The time for playing has ended. Either command me or release me from your service.”
Sweating profusely, the one called Jaime fumbled inside his oversized robe. “Behold,” he shrieked, thrusting a small wooden crucifix in my direction.
A shiver rippled through my body. I had not seen a sacramental of such power in millennia. How the Cross of St Michael came to be in the possession of this snot-nosed punk was a question that would have to wait. The more pressing question was whether he knew how to use it.
Me, Myself, and I
Jamie’s hands shook as he held the crucifix in the air the wood gleaming. He licked his lips as lines of sweat rolled down his face.
“Hurry up, Jamie, his dangerous.” One of the cloaked figures squeaked.
Jamie nodded. ” Meat esta animo…” He stuttered, “That doesn’t sound right.” Then reached under his robe and jostled out a notepad. “Okay, Mea est anima tua.”
His Latin accent was atrocious. As upsetting as that was I started to worry. This wool headed idiot seemed to know the words of the ritual. “What are you doing?”
Jamie throat bulged out as he took a hard swallow. “Voluntas quae tua sunt. Et verba mea cor tuum.”
Not good, not good at all. “Look, kid, tell me what you want. Maybe we could work out a deal.”
Some of fear stink receded from the air. Jamie fingers tightened around the notepad. “Paenitentiam, angelus cecidit, paenitentiam.”
A pause as Jamie glanced around expectedly. I felt a wellspring of relief. He didn’t know the end part. “Well, now that you’re done slaughtering Latin what are you doing to do with me?”
Jamie frowned for a moment, and then his expression brightened. “Sorasel im Palat habeo vobis.”