Summoning the Night (6 page)

A petite housekeeper in a gray uniform led us through a two-story foyer with polished terra-cotta floor tiles, her voice echoing off the high ceiling as we followed. The scent of rosemary wafted from an enclosed atrium in the center of the mansion.

An hour before we'd arrived, Lon dropped the bomb on me that in addition to our meeting, Dare would be hosting a small brunch party during our visit. Casual, he insisted. I seriously doubted that my idea of “casual” jibbed with that of the wealthy La Sirenians who'd be attending. Then again,
Lon had only bothered to upgrade to a nicer pair of jeans and donned a charcoal sport coat over a beloved T-shirt that was older than me and so well worn, the green cotton had faded to a soft gray. He told me that he'd learned a long time ago not to bother trying to please these people.

Dare's atrium was overflowing with food, drink, and a mingling crowd. Money, and lots of it, as far as the eye could see. I glanced down at myself and winced. My fitted black shirt wasn't living up to its enticing “no- iron” promise.

Lon slid a hand around my waist and pulled me closer, probably sensing my anxiety with his empathic mojo. “What's that?” he whispered, feeling the top of the portable eight-inch caduceus I'd stashed inside my thin leather jacket.

“Insurance.”

Sure, Dare might be Good Guy of the Year, but a month or so ago, his club members had been prepared to feed Lon to a summoned wild Æthyric demon while considering ways to rape me on the sidelines. One thing I'd learned from all my recent woes was that trust had to be not only earned but also proven, on a regular basis. The Hellfire Club had a long way to go before I would ever trust them again. Not that I ever had. It's hard to put your faith in a cabal of elite demons whose idea of relaxing involves commandeering Incubi and Succubi as entertainment for secret monthly orgiastic parties in caves along the coast.

I scanned the crowded atrium for club members. An older woman who'd tried to feel me up in the Hellfire caves was chatting near a buffet table, and a couple of others looked vaguely familiar. Now, instead of inhaling strange drugs and engaging in group sex, they were transplanted into a Bizarro World setting, eating finger food and discussing city politics while irritatingly smooth jazz drifted from hidden stereo speakers.

“Lon Butler.” A too-handsome blond Earthbound about Lon's age stuck out his hand in greeting. His halo was blue. His teeth, bleached. “Where've you been hiding yourself?”

“Mark.” Lon flipped into defensive mode, narrowed eyes and stony jaw.

“Talkative as ever, I see.” Mark laughed, then slapped Lon on the shoulder before glancing my way. “And you must be his new girl.” He smiled like he was getting ready to sell me something and make a fat commission. “I'm Mark. CEO of Dare Energy Solutions.”

“Arcadia Bell. Bartender.” I declined to shake his hand, crossing my arms over my middle. Last week, some dickish Earthbound in Tambuku shook my hand and made me sick for several minutes, a lame attempt to force me into giving him free drinks. I doubted this guy would sink to something so low, but I didn't know what his knack was. I also didn't like him much.

He shot a wary glance at Lon and immediately evened himself out with a forced chuckle. “That's right,” he responded cautiously. “I believe someone mentioned that you owned a wine bar in Morella?”

“Something like that.” Tambuku stocked one chardonnay and one cab sauv. I went through a bottle of each per shift, if that. People don't come to tiki bars to drink wine; they come to get plastered on flaming rum and fruit juice, but clearly this cultural phenomenon was below Mark's CEO caste.

When Mark introduced his wife, she hung back and gave Lon a tight smile. A well-toned beauty in her forties, she had glossy black hair that shone under the daylight that poured in from the glass ceiling above. She held a full wineglass in one hand, and on that hand was one of the biggest diamonds I'd ever seen outside of a cartoon. Blister-blue mist swirled
inside—a sliver of Mark's halo. Mark had a smaller diamond embedded into his wedding band that was tinged with the green of her halo.

Earthbound couples who could afford it hired a gemplexer when they got engaged, a demon chemist who could siphon off a bit of halo and bend it into certain gemstones.
Very
expensive.

Mark's wife took her time studying me with hooded eyes. Judging. No doubt she saw me as some barely legal gold digger . . . Lon's midlife crisis. Her gaze lingered on my head. For a second, I thought she was staring at my dual-tone, Bride of Frankenstein hair. Strands of bleached platinum white from the nape of my neck were loosely braided into the dark brown bulk that hung down my back. I had hoped wearing it this way would make me look a little older. But Mark's wife couldn't have given two hoots. She was checking out my unusual silver halo as if it marked me as some sort of terrorist in a sea of green- and blue-crowned demons. She'd probably also heard what I did in their Hellfire caves, banishing their incubus sex slaves to the Æthyric plane—an accident, to be fair—and busting up their underground demon mixed–martial-arts ring.

Once her critical assessment of my halo ended, she glanced at Lon and took a step back. It took me a few moments to realize why. Lon's knack. They were moving out of his empathic range, nervous because they knew that
he
knew how they really felt. He'd told me when I first met him that other demons shied away from him when they found out about his ability. He's not the person you want to be around when you have something to hide.

The awkward small talk didn't last long, thank God. A couple of other people said hello, but didn't stop to chat.
When Dare finally walked into the room, I was actually relieved.

“Ah, Miss Bell.” His booming voice filled the atrium. Everyone turned. He grasped my hand heartily and whispered, “Our little wolf in sheep's clothing. It's delightful to finally meet you.”

Dare was in his early seventies, of average height, physically fit but for a slight paunch around his middle, and completely bald. His dark eyes twinkled as he looked me over. Lon seemed to relax in his presence, so I tried to do the same. They greeted each other, then Lon and I followed Dare out of the atrium to speak in private.

His home office was dark and comfortable, part Spanish baroque, part English drawing room. He encouraged us to take a seat on an antique sofa in front of an unlit fireplace, then settled in a leather wingback across from us. His knees creaked as he sat. “Parts of your body start giving out when you're my age,” he admitted while straightening the crease in his dove-gray slacks. “You can take pills for some of them, but others . . . well, you're just screwed.”

I smiled in response. “I'm glad to finally have the chance to thank you in person for the caduceus you sent me a few weeks ago.” Unlike my others, which were cheap knockoffs, his gift was the real thing, hundreds of years old, with a nice, fat plug of graphite and a small precious stone on the end. Most of my staves were simple poles with the two entwined snakes molded around the top half. Not this one. The staff was intricately carved into the elongated form of the god Mithras, and the snakes were replaced with basilisks, one carved from dark wood, the other pale. The wood was smooth and worn. Practically humming with residual Heka, it was an esoteric collector's dream.

Dare smiled thoughtfully and nodded his head. “As I told Lon, I hope you find it to be an acceptable peace offering for the buffoonery to which you were both subjected on club night last month.”

Lon grunted.

“Sure,” I said. “As long as you keep David and Spooner the hell away from us, then yes. And, for my part, I apologize for busting up your glass summoning circle.”

He shrugged. “We'll have it replaced before the annual solstice celebration in December.”

“Nothing says happy holidays like being slaughtered by a pissed-off Æthyric demon in front of a cheering crowd.”

Dare tilted his head to the side and held his palms upward, pretending to weigh the air in front of him. “Participation is supposed to be voluntary. It was designed for entertainment, not punishment.”

Entertainment, my ass. It was dangerous, is what it was. Summoning Æthyric demons is always risky, but it's downright suicidal if you don't have the skills to keep them leashed. Relying on vermilion-filled glass binding circles is a cheat. Good magicians depend on their skills, not on objects.

“So, Arcadia,” Dare said with a gentle smile, “you might be interested to learn that I've known Lon
literally
since the day he was born—visited his parents in the hospital. Lon's father and I were close friends for many years. Dear old Jonathan Butler. I still miss him.” His gaze unfocused for a few seconds as he recalled some memory or another. I was beginning to think he might be a bit senile until he spoke up again. “And Jonathan was present for the birth of my son two days later—Mark. You met him and his wife in the atrium.”

I blinked away my surprise. “I . . . didn't realize he was, uh, your son.”

“Some days I wish he wasn't,” Dare replied dryly. “We had a falling-out several years ago. My son is a bit of a prick, you see.”

“Oh . . . ?” I didn't know whether to laugh or fidget.

Dare chuckled softly. “It's okay, my dear. If you feel the same way, and I can see that you do, it just means you have good sense. Lon will testify to hating Mark's guts. Sometimes I wish I had switched you two in the hospital,” he said to Lon affectionately. “Would've saved myself a hell of a lot of grief.”

Lon inclined his chin in answer, nearly smiling, but not quite. He'd obviously heard this joke before.

“Well, it doesn't matter. I'm getting too old to fight, and it's not worth the stress on my wife. For her sake, I made up with Mark recently and gave him the CEO position at my company. The point I'm trying to make is that despite the bad first impression you got of the Hellfire Club, we are, at heart, an extended family.

“All of us have roots in La Sirena,” he explained, lounging in his seat. “Roots that stretch to the time the community was founded, after our ancestors fled the Roanoke Colony and settled here. We've taken care of one another for centuries, long before the Hellfire Club ever existed. And even if some of us fight or bicker”—he threw a gentle look to Lon—“or drift away from each other, we still take care of our own. And now we're facing a danger that threatens the core of our community—our children.”

I uncrossed my legs and sat up straighter. “The missing kids.”

“Yes. Both were children of Hellfire Club members.”

“What?” Lon said in surprise. “Rick Chapman's kid this weekend, sure, but—”

“The first was Thomas Jones's boy.”

Realization settled over Lon's features. “I haven't seen Tom in years,” he admitted. “I didn't even know he had a kid.”

Dare slumped in his armchair and swooped an open palm over the top of his bare head. “Tom's kept to himself over the last few years, but he's still one of ours.”

“It's certainly a terrible thing,” I agreed, “and I'm sorry to hear that they were both part of your . . . community, but I don't understand why you wanted to talk to me about it.”

“You've heard the rumors about this whole thing being a replay of the Sandpiper Park Snatcher, yes?”

I nodded.

“I have reason to believe that this madman is still alive and targeting Hellfire children out of revenge.”

Goose bumps rushed over my arms as a hollow silence filled the room.

“I'll explain,” Dare said. “Thirty years ago, during the original abductions, Lon was just a boy himself—twelve or thirteen, I believe?”

Lon nodded in agreement and absently rested his hand on my knee. It hadn't even crossed my mind that Lon would have lived through the first snatchings. Sometimes I forgot how much older he was than me.

“Anyway, I'm sure you've heard the story. Seven teenagers went missing during the days leading up to Samhain, one taken every day or so, and the last child was abducted on Halloween night. The police chased their tails trying to find the person responsible, just as they're doing now, and the Snatcher was never caught, nor identified.”

Dare explained that a month before all of this occurred, he'd been embroiled in a yearlong dispute with a club member named Jesse Bishop, who was challenging the Body, the thirteen ruling officers of the Hellfire Club. Bishop wanted
something exclusive that only Body members were allowed—transmutation, a secret initiation spell that made a permanent change to their demonic natures. Members who underwent this spell—like Lon and his ex-wife, Yvonne—were able to shift into a half-human, half-demon form at will. In this state, their demonic abilities increased considerably. But the club limited initiates to thirteen seats at any given time. Until an officer left or died, no one else could undergo the secret spell.

“I was convinced that Bishop wasn't a bad person,” Dare said. “Believed that his intentions were good, and he had reasons for wanting the transmutation ability beyond mere power. But the Body stood by its rule. Only thirteen.” He smiled at Lon. “Your father persuaded me to put my foot down. We made a final ruling. Bishop left. A month later the abductions started.”

“Why would you assume he had anything to do with them?” I asked.

“I didn't at the time. The abductions were frightening—the talk of the town. But after Halloween, the circle of trees was found with the children's names and the kidnappings stopped. It was terrible, but nothing led me to believe Bishop was connected. That is, until a few weeks later. I called him several times to check in, see how he was doing. But I couldn't get him on the phone, so I drove to his house. . . .”

Through a window, Dare observed that a pile of unread mail had collected inside the front door. He became worried that Bishop was dead inside, so he broke into the home and discovered it had been abandoned. The electricity had been shut off—for nonpayment, Dare surmised from the late notices piling up. Bishop's car was gone, but a pot of sludgy coffee sat on the counter with the remnants of moldy food, as if he'd run off in the middle of breakfast. A newspaper on the
table was dated ten days before Halloween . . . the day the first teen went missing.