The Book of Pythiaxe

 The search for a client’s missing daughter takes Tom Jurgen on the trail of a dangerous demon.

The Book of Pythiaxe, Part One

I knocked on the door a little harder than I usually do. It opened a few seconds later. “Y-yes?”

            I held up my card. “Olivia Siegel? I’m Tom Jurgen. I called? It’s about your roommate, Marcy.”

            Olivia let me in. Short, in her 20s, she wore jeans and a blue sweater. She looked me over nervously. “What’s going on? Like I said, I haven’t seen Marcy in three days—”

            “Her parents hired me. She sent them some—disturbing emails right before she dropped out of sight.” 

I looked over the living room. TV, books and magazines, empty soda cans, a cat box in the corner. “Three days? So the last time you saw her was Sunday?”

            “Yeah. She left around two o’clock. She was meeting some friends. She didn’t say who.” Olivia fidgeted, uncomfortable. “Look, I already talked to a cop. This isn’t like Marcy, but I really don’t know—”

            “Could I see her room?”

            She hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess.”

She led me down a short hall to a closed door. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend or anything. Her parents hired a private detective?”

            They’d called me late last night. David and Marian Pratt, in Oregon. The police weren’t taking the case seriously, they insisted. The cops didn’t care about the strange emails Marcy had sent them right before she disappeared. And they’d heard of me—my stupid tendency to keep my mind open about the strange and the supernatural when it reared up in the cases that found me.

 

The emails:

 

I’m going away for a while. There’s someone I have to meet. He’s calling me. 

 

Mom, dad, I love you. I’ll think of you always.

 

Don’t worry, I want to do this. No one is making me do anything. Only Miskal can stop me now.

 

            Disturbing, yeah. Two from Saturday night, the last one on Sunday morning, just hours before she’d left. She wasn’t answering her phone. 

            “We could come out,” David Pratt said, “but we don’t know what to do about finding her, except bother the police, and they don’t think it’s anything.”

            “This just sounds weird,” Marian Pratt told me. “Who’s calling her? Who’s Miskal? I tried looking it up online, but all I could find was some stuff about demons and witches and black magic.”

            That made my spider senses tingle. Okay, I don’t actually have spider senses. My girlfriend Rachel is psychic, but I’m just a P.I. who’s run into too many demons and witches and other supernatural stuff in my so-called career. This sounded straight up my alley, for better or worse.

            “What’s Marcy like?” I asked them. It’s good to know something about the personality of the person you’re looking for.

            A pause. Then: “Independent, I—” her father said, but  his wife interrupted him. “Wild. Defiant.”

            “Has she ever done anything like this before?” 

            “No,” said her father, but again Marian Pratt cut in: “In high school she stayed out all night many, many times.”

“A few times,” David Pratt said.

“We grounded her for a week. Then a month.” She sounded like a judge pronouncing sentence. “She just kept doing it.”

            “I wish she’d stayed here,” David Pratt said. “But she was dead set on getting away—”

            “She wanted her ‘freedom,’ she said.” She sounded like she disapproved of the concept.

            “Please find her,” Marcy’s father said. 

            So here I was at Marcy’s apartment, interrogating her roommate, about to search her bedroom.

            “Her parents were concerned that the police weren’t doing enough,” I told Olivia. “And I have some experience with cases like this. The bedroom?”

            The blinds were drawn, and Olivia flipped on a light. The bed was neatly made. No underwear or clothes on the floor. A clock radio was blinking on the bedside table next to her pillows, along with a small lamp, a pile of markers in all colors, and one medical textbook. Marcy was a nurse, and so was her roommate.

Inside the top drawer I found some prescription bottles, mostly expired, mostly antibiotics and antidepressants. Some old receipts for mail-order purchases, a plastic bag full of weed, and, okay, a purple sex toy that Olivia didn’t see and I didn’t examine.

            The closet was full of clothes, of course, along with a box of older textbooks and two suitcases, which suggested she hadn’t packed for a trip. The dresser drawer contents were equally ordinary—shirts, slacks, sweaters, socks, underwear, another toy shoved in back under a book of erotica and a half empty box of condoms. An envelope with $500 was taped to the bottom of one drawer. Emergency money that she hadn’t taken with her.

            DVDs and a small TV sat on top of the dresser, along with another pile of books. Textbooks, bestsellers, one Stephen King, and an older book on top  with no title on the spine.

            I pulled it out. The book was bound in leather or a good imitation, and the title on the cover was in a language I didn’t recognize. Latin? Sumerian? Klingon?

            On the back was a stamp: 

 

Lair Books

Books, charms, candles, crystals, and more

 

The address was in Northbrook. We were in Evanston.

I showed the book to Olivia. “Have you seen this?”

She shook her head. “No. What is that? I don’t—we’re roommates, but we’re not really close friends. I mean, we work at the same hospital, and I try to be friendly and everything, but . . .”

I opened the book, flipping through the pages. Halfway through, on page 71, I found a piece of paper folded over. Like the cover, the words in the book weren’t in any language I recognized, and neither was the writing on the paper. It looked like a poem, in black pen, with some words crossed out and some parts just blank, as if the writer didn’t know what he or she wanted to say. 

I held it next to the open page. It looked as if the writer had been copying a passage, but trying to make changes in the wording. 

I gave the paper to Olivia. ”Is this her handwriting?”

She scrunched her eyes. “Maybe? Let me see something.” She ran away, and I renewed my search.

Olivia came back with a Post-It note. “This is a grocery list from the garbage.” I could see tomato sauce on one corner. I held it next to the page from the book.

“Looks the same,” Olivia said. “The way she makes the T?”

“Yeah.” I gave her the Post-It, put the page back in the book, and turned to see if I’d missed anything. 

“What’s she like?” I asked. Her roommate might have a different take on Marcy than her parents. A more recent one, anyway.

Olivia shrugged. “I don’t know. We aren’t really best friends, like I said. She didn’t have a lot of boyfriends that I ever saw. We work in different departments, so we don’t see each other at work much. But she seems kind of, I don’t know—bored.”

“With her job?”

Olivia shrugged. “With everything.”

Sometimes that’s a sign that people want to make a radical change. Like running away. I nodded. “Well, thanks for your help.”

“I hope she’s okay.” She led me to the door. “Will you call me? Or have her call me, or something?”

“Absolutely.” I only hoped I’d have good news.

 

Out in my car I called Rachel. My girlfriend. She’s psychic, and helps me with my cases, except lately she’s been busy, studying psychology on top of her regular job as a graphic designer. 

“What?” She sounded frazzled.

“Do you think you could look up whatever you can find on a demon called Miskal? Or maybe it’s not a demon, I’m not sure.”

            “Sure,” Rachel snapped. “I’m not doing anything except writing a paper on ethics in patient relations, designing an experiment with mice, redesigning a website, and, I don’t know, trying to remember if I’m hydrated enough. I’ve got practically nothing to do.”

            “Great, thanks. Love you.” I hung up before she could call me a jerk, although I think she managed to send it telepathically. 

 

Lair Books was in a small town square with trees and sculptures in the center, between a Mexican restaurant and a sunglasses shop. A high, broad awning cast a shadow across the entrance, and crystals and candles glowed in the big front window. The door’s sign said COME IN . . . IF YOU DARE, over a schedule of their hours.

            I dared, opening the door and stepping inside. 

            The shop was dark, with thick rafters overhead and Oriental rugs over a hardwood floor. I waited for my eyes to adjust until I could make out tables and shelves holding candles, jewelry, incense sticks and holders, various oils, bronze lamps, bottles of holy water, Harry Potter wands, and other “magical” items. An assortment of knives and daggers hung in a glass case. Racks of robes and T-shirts stood next to a small dressing room door. A doorway in back opened into a room crammed with towering bookcases along each wall.

            Two women were looking at candles on a shelf. “This one?” She held a dragon with a wick coming out of its tail. “You like it?”

            “I don’t know. This one?” The other one pointed to a unicorn. “I like the color.”

            At the counter a man with a gray beard in a black T-shirt sat on a stool, looking at his phone. “Help you with something?”         

            “This book.” I set it on the counter. “It came from here. Do you remember selling it?”

            He opened the front cover, turned it over and saw the stamp on the back, and then opened it to the title page. “Let me get Warren.” He leaned forward and pressed a button underneath the counter. “I’m Leo, by the way. I own this place.” He looked embarrassed to admit it. 

            “Tom Jurgen.” I showed him a card.

            “Private detective?” Leo’s eyes narrowed nervously.

            “The girl who bought this book has disappeared.” I showed him one of the photos the Pratts had sent me. Marcy had short black hair and wide blue eyes, with a small nose and a sharp chin. She was 5’10”, although you couldn’t see that from the picture—tall enough to play basketball, although her parents said she hated sports and preferred dancing. 

“There’s a piece of paper with something she wrote tucked inside.” I opened the book and showed it to him. “I’m just trying to find out if it has anything to do with where she went.”

            He looked at the paper, confused, and shook his head. Then a young man emerged through the door in the rear. “Yeah, Leo?”

“Warren? Can you help this guy with a book?” Leo seemed relieved to hand me off.

            “Sure.” Warren was Black, in his late 20s, in a denim vest and jeans. “What are you looking for?”

            I held out the book. “A woman named Marcy Pratt bought this here. Do you happen to remember her?” I showed him her picture.

            He nodded. “Yeah, I know her. Not her name, but she’s here a lot. Come on.” He pointed to the back room.

            The two women came to the counter with the dragon candle and some incense. “We’ll take this.”

I followed Warren as Leo started ringing up the sale.

High bookcases lined the walls in back, looming down over thick armchairs. David set the book on a small table in the corner, next to a coffee urn. “Help yourself,” he said, then started walking down a row of bookcases, one finger up, until he found a gap. 

“Right here.” He tapped the edge of the shelf. “She bought it a few days ago or so.”

“Good memory.” 

“It’s not too busy back here. Most people want enchanted amulets and rings of power, not books.” He grinned. “Plus, she’s cute.” 

“You’ve seen her here before? A lot?”

He thought. “A couple of times for a few months. I noticed her. Didn’t hit on her or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.” He frowned. “I have no idea where she is if she’s missing, all right?”

I nodded. “I’m worried it’s something else.”

“Like what?”

I glanced around at the books. “Demons.”

I expected him to laugh. Instead he sighed. “We got a lot of strange people in here. Some of them believe in demons. Sometimes I’m not sure they’re wrong, you know?”

I knew. “What kind of stuff was Marcy interested in?”

“Witchcraft. Wiccan for Beginners type stuff.” He pointed to a shelf near the doorway. “She was here the other day with Dr. Cody, he was pointing out some books for her.”

“Doctor? From the hospital where she worked?”

“No, no.” Warren shook his head. “He’s a professor. Lance Cody. Teaches religion and folklore and stuff at the college.”

“What college? Northwestern?”

“Hastings College. It’s outside town. Small, liberal arts, business, that kind of stuff. He comes in here sometimes to look over our books for this folklore class he teaches. That’s what he says, anyway.”

“Does he come in with Marcy a lot?”

“Just that one time a few days ago, like I said. That I know about, I mean. He was helping her find something, I didn’t hear exactly what she was looking for. But she bought that.” He pointed at the book.

“What’s the name? What language is that?”

“It’s, uh, Aramaic, I think. The Dead Sea Scrolls language? It means . . .” He looked at the cover. “’Beyond the Columns,’ I think.”

“You read Aramaic?” I asked skeptically.

He laughed. “I remember it from the catalog. I just had to look at the letters to be sure.”

I picked it up. “So he works at the college, you said?”

“Yeah. He lives in town, I think. Not far. He usually walks.”

“Thanks.” I took a step toward the doorway, then turned back. “When you said, ‘That’s what he says,’ about books for his folklore class—what did you mean?”

Warren hesitated. “Just—he special orders some weird stuff. I can’t always make out the titles, they’re in all different languages, but some of them are about ancient rituals, and the pictures have—well, witches being burned at the stake, and other stuff. Gross. Doesn’t seem like school material, you know?”

All too well. “Thanks again.”

The Book of Pythiaxe, Part Two

  

Lance Cody lived in a bungalow four blocks from the bookstore. I found it with a little internet sleuthing in my car—I sent him a direct message on three social media sites, and he responded within 15 minutes. I rang his doorbell, and he answered right away.

            Cody was in his 30s, with blond hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. “Are you Tom Jurgen? What’s going on?”

            “It’s about this book.” I held it out to him. “And Marcy Pratt.”

            Inside he offered me tea. His living room was large, filled with books, armchairs, paintings, and a long sofa. And more books.

 He sat in an armchair, the book on a coffee table next to our tea.

            “You were with Marcy Pratt when she bought that book,” I said, seated on the sofa.

            He leaned over to look at the cover. “Yes.” He was wary.

            “How do you know her?”

            “I teach a night class on folklore. It’s an extension course. I do it mostly for fun, and to meet people.” He shrugged. “You know, just to stay in touch with the community.”

“How did you end up helping her buy that book?”

            He sat back, thinking. “We were talking about spells in class one night. The kind they use in fairy tales and fantasy novels, and she was curious about other kinds.”

            “What other kind?”

            “She was interested in, uh, transformation. Metamorphosis. The old myths.”

            “Is that what the book is about?”

            He opened it up. “‘Breaking the Pillars,’” he read. “Or something like that. I’ve heard of it, but I can’t read it, obviously.” He started turning the pages.

I glanced around. The books on the shelves around us all looked well-read. Some were textbooks, a lot were the classics you’d expect an English prof to have—Dickens, James Joyce, Jane Austen, Doris Lessing—and others, along with works of criticism. Some had titles I couldn’t make out, faded or in languages I’m not fluent in. I know a little Spanish, but not enough to decipher some of the titles running down the spines. Other languages I just didn’t recognize.

            Cody held up the sheet of paper. “What’s this?”

            “I was hoping you could tell me.” I set my cup of Earl Gray down. “I can’t read the language. Warren at the bookstore says it’s in Aramaic. Some of the words are missing. Do you have any idea what that could be?”

            He frowned. “Not Aramaic, but maybe Chaldean. I recognize a few words here and there . . .” He bent over the table. “This is ‘water.’ This means ‘fire.’ Those are easy. This . . .” He shook his head. “Might mean ‘call for.’ Or ‘summon.’”

            “Like summoning spirits?”

            He shrugged. “Maybe.”

            “How well do you know Marcy?” I asked. “What’s she like?”

            He cocked his head. “Smart. Curious. A little impatient—she wanted to skip through things, get to the good stuff instead of really getting to know the material. She took lots of notes, different colored markers for different names and topics. She was a little obsessed.”

            “Why did she buy this book?”

            Cody looked at me, then looked away. “She was interested in ancient rituals.”

            He’d said that just a minute ago. “What kind of rituals?”

            “Summoning spirits, like you said. The kind with power. Wild magic, that sort of thing.”

            “Demons?”

            He cocked his head. “I don’t think of them like that, but yes.” He seemed embarrassed to be talking about it, but he went on. “Over the centuries, cultures developed rituals—spells, if you like—for summoning gods and spirits for strength, wisdom, empathy, sexual performance—”

            “And this book tells you how to do that?”

            Cody looked down at the cover. “I can’t read it, of course. But I’ve heard about this book. Studied other writers who have read it, ancient and modern. Some say it’s bullshit, or superstitious gibberish, but the older ones, who took spells seriously, have written that this is a source of powerful magic. If you know what you’re doing.”

            Oh-oh. “Does Marcy?”

            He shook his head. “Of course not. She was just curious. This isn’t the original book, anyway, it’s a reproduction, so it was only 30 dollars.”

            A bargain, but it still sounded ominous. “Does the word ‘Miskal’ mean anything to you?”

Cody’s eyes flickered, but he shook his head. “I don’t think so. What is it?”

“Something from an email.” I glanced around the room, trying to think of what to do next. Was this book and the note even important? For all I knew, Marcy had gone to Vegas with a boyfriend to get married, and ‘Miskal’ was his ex-girlfriend’s name.

Cody closed the book, with the paper sticking out. “I think I know where there’s another copy of this. An older version, more accurate.” 

That pulled me back. “Where?”

“Bibliotheca Davonia. It’s a specialized library. It’s not part of the college, but I have, uh, privileges there. It’s out of town. I could take you.” He stood up.

I picked up the book. “Okay. Do you have a car? I should follow you. I wouldn’t want you to get stranded in case I have to go off somewhere else.” 

He nodded. “Makes sense. Give me a minute.” He started picking up our tea.

“I’ll wait outside.”

Yeah, I didn’t want to leave him behind—or worse yet, have to take him with me—if this library gave me a lead. But the truth was, I wasn’t sure I trusted Cody. I had the feeling he knew more about the book than he was admitting to me. And he seemed a little too willing to help me find a random student.

Out in the car I called Marcy’s roommate. “Was Marcy taking a class in folklore at the college?”

“Yeah, Wednesday nights. She loved it. She thought the teacher was hot.”

Huh. “Did she talk about what they were studying? Did she have any homework?”

“Uh, no. I mean, she was in her room reading a lot. I heard her reading out loud sometimes, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. Not that I stood at her door listening, I mean,” she added quickly.

“All right. Thanks.”

“Are you getting close to finding her?”

It had been an hour, but if this was TV, I’d already have solved the case. “Not yet. Thanks again.” I hung up.

Cody came out of the house, tugging a jacket through his arms. He waved. I made a quick call to Rachel. “Anything on Miskal?”

She groaned. “Just the usual garbage from Google. I called a few people.” Rachel has a lot of friends with supernatural experience—wiccans, séance hosts, demonologists. “Oh, and I wrote two sentences on my ethics paper. Yay me!” She hung up.

I’d be in trouble later. I texted her my location and plans, just in case, then started my car and waited for Cody to back down his driveway.

 

Bibliotheca Davonia had once been a church, with stained glass windows on either side of the front door and a high steeple on top. The red paint on its walls was faded and chipped, but the steps leading up to the front door looked sturdy enough.

            Two cars were parked on a gravel lot to the side. Cody pulled his Nissan up beside them and got out. I parked next to him.

            “This is it.” He led me up the wide front steps and pressed a button next to the broad doors. A faint buzzing told him to pull, and we went inside.

            A woman in a wheelchair sat behind a desk. She had white hair and glasses, and wore a brown pantsuit that looked tailored and pricey. The room was dark, with a low ceiling and a hardwood floor. Twin gargoyles stood guard on either side of a pair of doors with frosted panels hiding whatever was beyond them.

            She set her computer mouse to one side before looking up. “Yes? Oh, Lance! What brings you here again?”

            So he was a frequent visitor? “Hi, Sydney,” he said. “It’s about this book. It’s a reprint, but you have the original, don’t you?”

            Sydney looked me over, as if I owed hundreds of dollars in overdue fines. “And you are?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I gave her my card. “I’m looking for a young woman who bought this book with Mr. Cody a few days ago. She was trying to copy something from it.”

            I opened the book and showed her the paper. She tilted her head, and her lips moved silently as she read to herself. 

“Do you know what it means?” I asked.

            Sydney looked up quickly. “Just a minute.” She tapped at her keyboard and scribbled on a Post-it note. “Let’s go see.” 

She turned her wheelchair and rolled out from behind the desk. Reaching behind one gargoyle, she pressed a switch, and the doors slowly opened toward us like the entrance to a dungeon.

            The library looked bigger inside than out, like the TARDIS in Doctor Who. Tall shelves packed with books rose from the black-and-white tiled floor like monoliths on either side of a central aisle. Lamps along the walls cast light and shadows, and three skylights far above let the gray afternoon sky add a little illumination through the clouds. A gallery on the second floor looked down, its books looming ominously over us.      

            Sydney rolled her wheelchair briskly forward. Three-quarters of the way down the room she swung to the right, wheeling her way between the towering bookshelves. The space was narrow; Cody and I had to follow in single file, like cave explorers in a tight crevice. 

She stopped and leaned forward, her arm out. Then she frowned and looked at her Post-it. “It should be here.”

A gap between books suggested something was missing. Cody reached around me to pick up the book next to it. “Anatomies of—something,” he said, looking at the dusty cover. “My Latin’s rusty.”

“Put it back.” Sydney snatched the book from him. “That’s how things get lost.”

“Is that what happened?” I asked. ”Or did someone check it out? Do you do that here? Is it that kind of library?”

She sighed. “I’ll have to look.” She started backing up her wheelchair. Cody and I retreated.

We made our way up the aisle and back to the outer office. Sydney opened a drawer and pulled out a spiral notebook. 

“You don’t keep the borrowing records on the computer?” I asked. 

“We don’t have many people borrowing things.” She flipped the notebook open. “Some of the traditional ways are still best.”

“It must have been taken recently. The space would have settled it between the books.”

Sydney smiled. “You’d be surprised.” She ran a finger down the page. “Here we are. Herman Weiss.” She squinted. “Only a few days ago.”

“When, exactly?”

“Monday.”

The day after Marcy had disappeared. “Do you have his address?”

Sydney sighed. “I can’t just give out—”

Cody interrupted. “I can find where he lives.” 

I blinked. “How?”

“He’s, uh, in my class. The one with Marcy.”

I was getting more and more suspicious of Cody, but I tried not to let it show. “And you have his address? With you?”

“Yeah.” He held up his phone. “I can pull his student record. I mean, I’m not supposed to, but—”

“Hang on a minute.” I turned to Sydney. “Thanks for your help.” 

I led Cody outside. The afternoon was getting cooler, and I zipped my jacket as he looked at me expectantly.

“Look, you don’t have to tag along,” I told him. “This is my job.”

“I want to.” He glanced over his shoulder at the stained glass window, as if Sydney might be standing inside trying to listen. “Herman Weiss is—well, sort of odd.”

“Odd how?”

“A group of students—including Marcy—were getting together after class at different houses. Herman was one of them. He was always asking about spells. Like Marcy. Rituals for talking to animals, communicating with the dead, that sort of thing. He’s harmless, though,” he added quickly. “Friendly with everyone.”

I wished Rachel were here. She’s psychic, and she can pick up vibes easier than I can. But I still had the feeling there was something he was holding back. 

I sighed. “I’ve got to be honest, Lance—”

“Leonard.” he shifted on his feet, embarrassed. “It’s, uh, Leonard. Lance just sounds more badass.”

“Leonard.” It fit him better than Lance. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I trust you, Leonard. You’re very, very interested in a woman who’s just your student. A young, attractive student—”

He shook his head. “It’s not like that! I never—nothing like that happened. I was surprised when she asked me to go to the bookstore with her. I’m afraid that Herman might be—I don’t know. Into something he can’t control.” He looked away from me.

“Like what?”

“Some of these rituals can be dangerous. I mean, even if there aren’t any actual demons—there are drugs to take, candles and incense and other stuff that could start a fire or fill up a place with smoke, and some of these rituals can really mess with your head. Herman’s a nice guy, but he could get pushed into stuff that’s not safe, by—by a girl like Marcy. Or somebody.”

That tracked reasonably enough. Even if Cody wasn’t telling me everything—and I was pretty sure he was still holding back—keeping him nearby might be more useful than trying to send him home. 

“You can come if you want,” I said. “What’s his address?”

The Book of Pythiaxe, Part Three

Herman Weiss’ house was at the end of a cul-de-sac with homes close on either side. The front lawns were neatly trimmed, the sidewalks smooth, and the thick green hedges guarded against prying neighbors’ eyes and ears.

            I parked in the driveway. Cody parked on the street. The garage door was closed, but I could see a Honda inside.

            At the front door I rang the bell, with Cody next to me. He held up his phone. “This is him,” he said. “Student ID.”

            Weiss was balding, in his 50s, with glasses and bushy eyebrows. “Okay.” I pressed the doorbell again.

            Then I noticed that inside the screen, the front door was open two inches. 

            I rang again, then knocked. “Hello? Anybody home? Mr. Weiss? Hello?”

            No response.

            “This isn’t strictly legal even if the door is open,” I whispered to Cody as I gave the door a push. “Hello?”

            I stepped inside, calling out Weiss’ name again. No answer.

            A strong odor drifted in the air. I sniffed. Burnt coffee, as if someone had left the coffee maker on all day and let it boil away and scorch the pot. That wasn’t good, was it?

            I took a few steps forward, saw the kitchen, then turned to a room on my right and froze. “Oh hell.” 

            A man lay on the carpet, arms awkwardly outstretched. Blood leaked from the back of his skull on the carpet, and blood stained the sharp edges of a bronze bookend lying right next to his head. A pair of glasses lay next to one hand, the lenses cracked. 

I recognized the receding hair and bushy eyebrows from Cody’s phone. Herman Weiss. Still breathing.

            Behind me Cody grunted. “Oh my—what the—how the—”

            “Don’t touch anything.” I knelt next to him and pressed my hand on his chest. His heart was beating firmly inside his ribs. 

            “Call 911,” I told Cody. “Use the phone here. Don’t tell them your name, just say there’s a guy who needs help. Leave the phone off the hook.”

            Cody looked around the room, confused. “Where’s the phone?”

            “Try the kitchen.” I pointed.

            While Cody headed for the kitchen, I checked around. An end table had fallen over next to Weiss, but otherwise the room didn’t look trashed. The TV was intact, no lamps were broken, and the bookshelves were still crammed with hardcovers. I checked out a few spines. Most of the titles had the word “magic” in them. 

No sign of Marcy’s book, but I didn’t spend much time looking for it. I backed out of the room, careful not to touch nothing.

 In the kitchen I saw the coffee maker, the pot blackened on the bottom. Cody was talking.

“Yeah, I think he was hit on the head or something. He’s still breathing.” He looked at me, and I waved impatiently. “Hurry, please.” He started to hang up, then remembered my instructions and set the receiver on the counter. 

“Now what?” Cody asked when we were outside.

I hesitated. I didn’t want to get bogged down explaining to the police what I was doing in Weiss’ house. And Weiss would be fine. I hoped.

I led Cody back to my car. “This group of students, they met here? Anywhere else?”

“Let me—” He closed his eyes to think. “There was Elise. Elise Maimon. And Juana Norris, she was another one, older. Close to Herman’s age. Elise is more like Marcy’s age. A few guys—”

“Can you get their addresses?”

He reached in his rear pocket. “Give me a minute.”

I heard the ambulance wailing in the distance. “Let’s go. Text me with Juana’s address.”

Cody went to his car. I started up, passed the ambulance heading toward Weiss’ house, and pulled over a block away, with Cody right behind my bumper. While I was waiting for his text, my phone buzzed. Marcy’s parents.

“We just—got—an email.” Marian Pratt was gasping, fighting down sobs. “It said—she said—”

“‘I’ll see you in my next life,’” her father read, his voice shaky. “”I love you both.’ Do you have any idea where she is?”

I twisted around to look at Cody’s car. He saw me, and held up his phone. My phone beeped with a text message. Juana’s address.

“Maybe,” I said.

 

Juana Norris’ house was set back from the road, behind a tall fence and a lawn that needed mowing. Cody followed me up the walk, breathing shallowly, nervous. I was nervous too, but I did my best to hide it. From myself more than him.

            What was I going to do if Marcy was here? That depended on why. If she was being held prisoner for some kind of Satanic ritual, I could call the cops. Unless they overpowered me and offered me as a human sacrifice to appease their ancient gods, or something. If she was here on her own, the most I could do was ask her to call her parents. Maybe snap a picture to show she was safe.

            It didn’t matter. The house was empty. We rang, knocked, and peeked in windows, but the lights were dark and everything was locked. At least we didn’t spot any bodies inside.

            “Now what?” Cody’s eyes darted around, afraid of the neighbors as we stood in front of our cars. Maybe he was starting to regret tagging along with me.

            Unfortunately, I needed him now. “Elise Maimon?”

            He sighed. “Yeah. Give me a second.”

            He had the address and the phone number a minute later. I thought about time. I didn’t know if Marcy was in immediate danger, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening driving back and forth through Northbrook and its surrounding suburbs. I hoped this woman knew something. 

I called Elise Maimon using Cody’s phone, so she’d be more likely to pick up. It buzzed four times. Then: “Yeah, this is Elise, you know what to do . . .” Beep.

            I handed the phone to Cody. He said, “Elise, this is Lance Cody. Have you seen Marcy Pratt lately? Please call me.” He left a number, then hung up and looked again at her contact form. “There’s another number. Maybe a landline.”

            “Call it.” It was worth a shot.

            Two rings. “Hello?” A young woman’s voice.

            Cody spoke again. “Hi, I’m trying to reach Elise Maimon? Is this her number?”

            “Uh, yeah, but she’s not here right now. You want to leave a message?” She sounded bored.

            I took the phone. “Hi, my name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective and I’m trying to locate Marcy Pratt. She’s a friend of Elise’s, I believe.”

            “Uhh . . .” Her voice was suspicious. “Who did you say you are?”

            I repeated my name. “She’s not in any trouble,” I said, hoping that was true. “Marcy is a missing person. I’ve been hired by her parents. I’m wondering if Elise might have any idea where she is.”

            “I don’t—I’m just her roommate. Wait, Marcy? Black hair, tall like a basketball player? I think she was just here.”

            I restrained the urge to rush for my car. “How long ago?”

            “Half an hour. Forty-five minutes? She and a guy.”

            “What guy?”

            “I didn’t get his name. I don’t know him.”

            “Where’d they go?”

            “They, uh, I think she said Sacred Grove. She was kind of in a hurry.”

            I looked at Cody. “Sacred Grove?”

            He shook his head.

“Okay, thanks,” I told the roommate. 

“Wait, is everything okay? You said she’s missing?”

“Hopefully we’ll find her. Thanks for your help.” I hung up, handed Cody his phone, and dug my own phone out to search. “Sacred Grove, Sacred Grove . . .”

It was a cemetery.

My GPS mapped out a 20-minute drive. I had my car door open when I remembered Cody, who was still standing at Juana’s front door.

“You coming?” I asked. Not sure what I expected. Or wanted. 

He looked away from me. “I can’t. I—I think I’ll just go home.” He glanced back at the house. “After Herman, I mean . . . I just can’t.”

“I understand.” Finding a body with a bashed-in skull would freak anyone out. It freaked me out, but I kept hearing the Pratts’ frantic voices in my head.

Cody took a step to his car, then hesitated. “Will you call me?” 

“Sure.” I slid into the seat and started the motor up. Cody watched me back away. I waved, turned the car around, and hit Rachel’s number as I hit the gas.

“Tom Jurgen’s office, Tom’s lowly peon speaking, how may I serve you, O Master?” At least she sounded in a better mood now.

I told her where I was going. “Maybe I’ll find her there. I hope.”

“Well, be careful. I have class, and I won’t be able to concentrate if I get a text that you got killed or something.” 

“That would ruin my day too.” I signaled for a right turn. “Anything on Miskal?”

“Oh, yeah. Demon. Bad news. There’s more, but I’m on my way out the door right now—”

“All right, thanks. You finish your ethics paper?”

“I found one to plagiarize. That’s ethical, right?”

“As long as they don’t catch you. I’ll call you.”

“Be careful,” she said again. “If anything happens to you, I’ll be too cranky for sex.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The Book of Pythiaxe, Part Four

The sun was low, fading through the trees, as I pulled up to the entrance of the Sacred Grove Cemetery. The gates were wide open; it closed at 8:30, and the clock in my Prius said 6:17. 

            I parked in front of a small office with a Welcome sign hanging over the door. Inside, a man in a gray jacket set his phone down on his desk. “Yes? How may I help you?” A nameplate in front of him said REG SCHLEMMER.

            I showed him the picture of Marcy. “I think she may have come in here with a group of people about an hour ago. Do you remember?”

            Schlemmer peered at the screen. “I remember a couple of people. Didn’t look a family, but who knows? There was a tall girl who looked like her.”

            “Do you know where they went?” I was getting close at last. Maybe I could get home before Rachel’s class was over.

            “I think so.” He swung his chair over to a computer. “Let me see. Last search. Yeah, right here. Lester DeWald.”

            “Who?”

            “The resting place they were looking for.” He opened a desk drawer. “Let me find it here for you.” 

            Schlemmer unfolded a paper map and spread it out on his desk. He checked his computer, then circled a spot. “Right there. You part of them?”

            “Sort of. I’m running late. Thanks for the map.”

            “No drinking or partying.” The man pointed to a list of rules behind his desk. “No picnics. It’s all there on the map, too.”

            “I’ll remind them.” I headed out the door. 

            So who the hell was Lester DeWald? I didn’t have time to search the internet for him. Maybe I’d find out in a few minutes.

            My tires slid on the gravel road as I headed up the main route into Sacred Grove. The cemetery was a maze of trees, tombstones, and memorial statues, and one wrong turn would send me to Mordor or Narnia without any idea of how to find my way back. With the sky getting darker, I was going to have enough trouble finding Marcy and their friends without getting lost. 

            I found two cars parked next to a grassy lawn halfway through the cemetery. I checked the map—this should be the right spot—and grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment. 

            Tombstones rose from the ground, three or four feet tall or taller. Grave markers, flat in the earth, gaze up at the cloudy sky. Some had flowerpots on either side. Some were almost covered by grass and weeds.

            Heading up the grass, I swung the flashlight beam left and right across the ground, trying not to make any noise. After a few minutes I heard voices through the shadows, and spotted a yellow light glowing up ahead. 

Then the voices turned into a single voice, and the talking became chanting, deliberate and rhythmical. The light came from a lantern sitting on top of a tombstone, a candle flickering in the night.

            Five people stood in a circle, holding hands. A young, tall woman in a long coat stood in the center, holding a thick book in her trembling fingers, rocking back and forth on her heels as she read out loud. Chanting.

            “Marcy!” I waved my arm. “Marcy!”

            She looked up from her book, over the heads of the people gathered around her. Mostly Marcy’s age, one older woman, all in jackets or hoodies. Some turned their heads to glance towards me, but Marcy lowered her eyes and went back to reading, ignoring me.

            I couldn’t make out what she was saying, or even be sure she was speaking English. The others turned back to face her, continuing their chant with Marcy. Something, something Pythiaxe, something, something something Pythiaxe . . .

            “Marcy!” I reached the circle, and pointed my flashlight into her eyes. “Marcy Pratt! I need to talk to you! Your parents are—”

            Marcy blinked into the light, then slammed the book shut with a smile on her lips. She tossed it to the ground and held her arms wide, turning to the tombstone in front of them.

            “Pythiaxe!” she screamed.

            For a moment the cemetery was silent as the moon.

            Then a white light erupted from the ground. I dropped the flashlight, staggering back, shielding my eyes with my hand. Marcy—or someone—screamed again, and a blast of wind knocked me down. I felt the others fall, grunting, and then someone laughed. A loud laugh, joyful but sharp. Then the silence fell again.

 

I jerked up. I was sitting in the grass. Did I pass out? I searched the ground for my flashlight, patted my pockets to make sure I still had my phone and my keys, then scrambled to my feet.

            The others lay on the grass, some unconscious, some just blinking at the dark cloudy sky. 

            Marcy was gone. 

            Damn it. 

I swung my flashlight all around, looking for some trace of her, but the beam touched only the shadows of the tombstones surrounding us.

            I stepped over a woman’s leg to the center of the circle. Marcy’s long coat lay on the ground, the book beneath it. I snatched it up and opened it, flipping through the pages in the lantern’s flickering light.

            It looked like the same book I’d found in her apartment. Maybe a little different—the pages were thinner and delicate, like parchment. The leather cover was thicker and heavier. No page numbers, but a folded Post-It marked what looked like the page Marcy had been copying in her apartment. 

The older woman rolled over and groaned. I dropped the book on Marcy’s coat and walked over. “Are you Juana Norris?”

            “Huh?” She rubbed her eyes. “Who are you?”

            “Tom Jurgen. Marcy’s parents hired me to find her. What are you people doing out here?”

            Juana Norris sat up, looked around, then took a deep breath. “Did it happen?”

            “Did what happen? What’s going on?”

            A man next to her rose to his knees. He was in his 30s, with an earring and a slanted nose. “It must have happened.”

            I sighed. I reached out a hand and helped the man to his feet. “What’s your name?”

            “Terry. Just—Terry, okay?” He looked me over, puzzled. “Who are you?”

            I stood close to him. “Okay, Terry.” I did my best tough guy snarl. “I want to know what you guys are doing here, where Marcy Pratt is, and what happened to Herman Weiss. Or I’m going to be your worst nightmare. Me, Tom Jurgen.”

            Rachel would have laughed. But these people didn’t know me. 

            Terry pushed me away. “Hey, hey! It’s just a ritual. We do this stuff—”

            “What kind of ritual?”

            “The calling of Pythiaxe,” Juana Norris said. She was standing now.

            I turned to her. “So who’s Pythiaxe?”

            She fixed her eyes on me, her teeth clenched. “The spirit of will, free of the old rules, embracing the power in all of us.” Then she laughed. “Really, it’s just a lot of mumbo-jumbo about freedom and free will. Almost Libertarian stuff. No shame, no Puritan morality, no obsolete rules. It’s a goof.”

            “A goof? Someone attacked Herman Weiss. He’s in the hospital.” At least I hoped he was. Not in the morgue.

            “Wha . . .” Her eyes opened wide. “Herman? I don’t—” She looked around. “Wait, is that why he didn’t show up?”

            The others were waking and standing. Terry, two other men younger than me, and a young woman. Elise Maimon, probably. They all seemed confused.

            “Someone bashed in Herman’s head,” I said, hoping to get through to at least one of them. “Probably to get this book.” I held it up.

            “Hey, where’s Marcy?” That came from Elise, a woman around Marcy’s age, in a furry jacket, with blond hair tied back in a ponytail.

            “I don’t feel so good.” A man sat down on the ground abruptly, as if his legs had given out. College age, Black, he looked as if he was about to hyperventilate himself into unconsciousness until Terry knelt next to him. “You okay, Dante?”

            “What the hell is going on?” My frustration was growing, along with my worries about Marcy. “What are you doing here? Why—” I turned to the tombstone with the lantern in front of it, illuminating its carved letters. 

            

Lester DeWald

1917-1999

Free of the bonds

 

            “Who’s Lester DeWald?” I pointed at the lettering. “Why are you at his tombstone?”

            A man stepped toward the tombstone. He was close to my age—mid-40s, maybe—with graying hair in a baseball cap. “Lester was the last one to raise Pythiaxe.” He ran his fingers across the stone. “Pythiaxe is in there. Was in there. That’s why we had to be here.”

            “Is that what Marcy was reading? A spell to raise Pythiaxe from the grave?”

“Oh, God, Marcy.” Elise swung around. “Marcy? Marcy! Where are you?”

The others turned, looking around. I looked at Juana. She took a step away from me, wary.

“What was supposed to happen?” I asked. “After you summoned Pythiaxe?”

The man at the tomb stalked toward me. “This is none of your business.” He jabbed a finger at me. “Get out of here.”

“Finding Marcy Pratt literally is my business.” I ignored his finger. “Who are you?”

He dropped his arm, glaring at me. “I’m Kurt. Kurt DeWald. That’s my grandfather.”

“Okay.” Veteran reporters always say good questions don’t produce answers, just more questions. But this was getting ridiculous. “Are you trying to resurrect him? Or—you know what, never mind. I just want to know where Marcy is.”

“Marcy!” Elisa called again. “Marcy?”

Then Kurt DeWald hit me in the gut. Hard. I doubled over, and my foot slipped on the grass. I fell over, gasping for air and hoping not to revisit what I’d eaten for breakfast hours before. I saw his feet pound the grass, running away.

To their credit, the rest of them didn’t join in on beating me, or follow him into the night. Terry said, “What the hell?” and Elise shouted after him, and Juana leaned over me, her eyes wide. “You okay?”

“Peachy.” I let her and Terry help me to my feet. I planted my hands on my hips, looking from one to another. “Okay, you guys are going to tell me what’s going on. In painful detail. Right now.”

“What about Marcy?” Elise’s eyes darted around. “Shouldn’t we look for her?”

I sighed. Yeah, that was the point of all this. “Five minutes. Spread out. Then come back. I’ve got a lot of questions.”

“Why the hell should we do what you tell us?” Terry was scared, maybe scared enough to run. I didn’t blame him.

“Because someone attacked Herman Weiss, and it’s connected to what happened here, and the police aren’t going to be as nice as me when they ask you questions.” I pointed to where Marcy’s coat on the ground. “All I care about is finding her. Help me with that, and maybe the police don’t have to write down all your names for their files.”

That seemed to get through to them. They separated, and I took a quick walk in the growing darkness too, but Marcy wasn’t nearby. Neither was Kurt. 

“Who did Marcy come with?” I asked, back at the tombstone.

“Me.” Elise bit her lip. “It was me, Marcy, and Terry.”

“So where was Marcy for the last three days?”

“I don’t know. She just showed up at my apartment and said we had to come out here. I called Terry, and—”

I turned to Juana. “What about you and Dante? And Kurt?”

“Me,” Juana said. “Marcy called me, and I called Dante and Kurt, and then I picked Kurt up from Herman’s house. Kurt said Herman was coming on his own. I thought that was weird, but—oh, God . . .” Her face went pale.

I had lots more questions, but we couldn’t stand around and talk in the middle of a cemetery. After a few minutes of arguing everyone finally agreed to follow me to someplace where we could talk. Mostly because Elise insisted. 

“I’m really worried about Marcy,” she said over and over again, until they gave in and got into their cars.