Satanic, Versus [Diana Tregarde series] Read online

  "I got a glimpse, “Andre continued. “It was very large, perhaps ten feet tall, and—chérie, it looked like nothing so much as a rubber creature from a very bad movie. Except that I do not think it was rubber."

  At just that moment, there was a thrashing from the other room, and Valentine Vervain, long red hair liberally beslimed, minus nine-foot train and one of her sleeves, scrambled through the door and plastered herself against the wall, where she promptly passed out.

  "Valentine?” Di murmured—and snapped her head toward Harrison when he moaned, “Oh, no,” in a way that made her sure he knew something.

  There was a sound of things breaking in the other room, as if something was fumbling around in the dark, picking up whatever it encountered, and smashing it in frustration

  "Harrison!” she snapped. “Cough it up!"

  "Valentine—she said something about getting some of her ‘friends’ together tonight and ‘calling up her soul mate’ so she could ‘show that ex of hers.’ I gather he appeared at the divorce hearing with a twenty-one-year-old blonde.” Harrison gulped. “I figured she was just blowing it off—I never thought she had any power—"

  "You'd be amazed what anger will do,” Di replied grimly, keeping her eyes on the darkened doorway. “Sometimes it even transcends a total lack of talent. Put that together with the time of year—All Hallow's Eve—Samhain—is tomorrow. The Wall Between the Worlds is especially thin, and power flows are heavy right now. A recipe for disaster if I ever heard one."

  "And here comes M'sieur Soul Mate,” said Andre warningly.

  What shambled in through the door was like nothing that Di had ever heard of. It was, indeed, about ten feet tall. It was a very dark brown. It was covered with luxuriant brown hair—all over. Otherwise, it was nude. If there were any eyes, the hair hid them completely. It was built something along the lines of a powerful body builder, taken to exaggerated proportions, and it drooled. It also stank, a combination of sulphur and musk so strong it would have brought tears to the eyes of a skunk.

  "Wah-wen-ine!” it bawled, waving its arms around, as if it were blind. “Wah-wen-ine!"

  "Oh, goddess,” Di groaned, putting two and two together. She called up a soul mate, and specified parameters. But she forgot to specify “human." “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

  The other writer nodded. “Tall, check. Dark, check. Long hair, check. Handsome—well, I suppose in some circles.” Harrison stared at the thing in fascination.

  "Some—thing—that will accept her completely as she is, and love her completely. Young, sure, he can't be more than five minutes old.” Di watched the thing fumble for the door frame and cling to it. “Look at that, he can't see. So love is blind. Strong and masculine as you can get. And not too bright, which I bet she also specified. Oh, my ears and whiskers."

  Valentine came to, saw the thing, and screamed.

  "Wah-wen-ine!” it howled, and lunged for her. Reflexively Di and Harrison both shot. He emptied his cylinder, and one speed-loader; Di gave up after four shots, when it was obvious they were hitting the thing to no effect.

  Valentine scrambled on hands and knees over the carpet, still screaming—but crawling in the wrong direction, toward the balcony, not the door.

  "Merde!" Andre flung himself between the creature's clutching hands and its summoner, before Di could do anything.

  And before Di could react to that, the thing backhanded him into a wall hard enough to put him through the plasterboard.

  Valentine passed out again. Andre was already out for the count. There are some things even a vampire has a little trouble recovering from.

  "Jesus!” Harrison was on his feet, rumbling for something in his pocket. Di joined him, holstering the Glock, and grabbed his arm.

  "Harrison, distract it, make a noise, anything!” She pulled the athame from her boot sheath and began cutting sigils in the air with it, getting the Words of Dismissal out as fast as she could without slurring the syllables.

  Harrison didn't even hesitate; he grabbed a couple of tin serving trays from the coffee table, shook off their contents, and banged them together.

  The thing turned its head toward him, its hands just inches away from its goal. “Wah-wen-ine?” it said.

  Harrison banged the trays again. It lunged toward the sound. It was a lot faster than Di had thought.

  Evidently Harrison made the same error in judgment. It missed him by inches, and he scrambled out of the way by the width of a hair, just as Di concluded the Ritual of Dismissal.

  To no effect.

  "Hurry up, will you?” Harrison yelped as the thing threw the couch into the wall and lunged again.

  "I'm trying!” she replied through clenched teeth—though not loud enough to distract the thing, which had concluded that either (a) Harrison was Valentine or (b) Harrison was keeping it from Valentine. Whichever, it had gone from wailing Valentine's name to simply wailing, and lunging after Harrison, who was dodging with commendable agility for a man of middle age.

  Of course, he had a lot of incentive.

  She tried three more dismissals, still with no effect. The room was trashed, and Harrison was getting winded, and running out of heavy, expensive things to throw....

  And the only thing she could think of was the “incantation” she used—as a joke—to make the stoplights change in her favor.

  Oh, well. A cockamamie incantation pulled it up—"By the Seven Rings of Zsa Zsa Gabor and the Rock of Elizabeth Taylor I command thee!” she shouted, stepping between the thing and Harrison (who was beginning to stumble). “By the Six Wives of Eddie Fisher and the Words of Karnak the Great I compel thee! Freeze, buddy!"

  Power rose through her, crested over her—and hit the thing. And the thing—stopped. It whimpered, and struggled a little against invisible bonds, but seemed unable to move.

  Harrison dropped to the carpet, right on top of a spill of guacamole and ground-in tortilla chips, whimpering a little himself.

  I have to get rid of this thing, quick, before it breaks the compulsion—She closed her eyes, trusted to instinct, and shouted the first thing that came into her mind. The Parking Ritual, with one change...

  "Great Squat, send him to a spot, and I'll send you three nuns—"

  Mage-energies raged through the room, whirling about her, invisible, intangible to eyes and ears, but she felt them. She was the heart of the whirlwind, she and the other—

  There was a pop of displaced air. She opened her eyes to see that the creature was gone—but the mage-energies continued to whirl—faster—

  "Je-sus,” said Harrison. “How did you—?"

  She waved frantically to silence him as the energies sensed his presence and began to circle in on him.

  "Great Squat, thanks for the spot!” she yelled desperately, trying to complete the incantation before Harrison could be pulled in. “Your nuns are in the mail!"

  The energies swirled up and away, satisfied. Andre groaned, stirred, and began extracting himself from the powdered sheet-rock wall. Harrison stumbled over to give him a hand.

  Just as someone pounded on the outer door of the suite.

  "Police!” came a muffled voice. “Open the door!"

  "It's open!” Di yelled back, unzipping her belt pouch and pulling out her wallet.

  Three people—two uniformed NYPD, and one fellow in a suit with an impressive .357 Magnum in his hand—peered cautiously into the room.

  "Jee-zus Christ,” one said in awe.

  "Who?” the dazed Valentine murmured, hand hanging limply over her forehead. “What hap...?"

  Andre appeared beside Di, bowler in hand, umbrella spotless, innocent-looking again.

  Di fished her Hartford PD Special OP's ID out of her wallet and handed it to the man in the suit. “This lady,” she said angrily, pointing to Valentine, “played a little Halloween joke that got out of hand. Her accomplices went out the back door, then down the fire escape. If you hurry you might be able to catch them."

  The tw
o NYPD officers looked around at the destruction, and didn't seem any too inclined to chase after whoever was responsible. Di checked out of the corner of her eye; Harrison's own .44 had vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared.

  "Are you certain this woman is responsible?” asked the hard-faced, suited individual with a frown as he holstered his .357. He wasn't paying much attention to the plastic handgrip in the holster at Di's hip, for which she was grateful.

  House detective, I bet. With any luck, he's never seen a Glock.

  Di nodded. “These two gentlemen will back me up as witnesses,” she said. “I suspect some of the ladies from the party will be able to do so as well, once you explain that Ms. Vervain was playing a not-very-nice joke on them. Personally, I think she ought to be held accountable for the damages."

  And keep my RWW dues from going through the roof.

  "Well, I think so too, miss.” The detective hauled Valentine ungently to her feet. The writer was still confused, and it wasn't an act this time. “Ma'am,” he said sternly to the dazed redhead, “I think you'd better come with me. I think we have a few questions to ask you."

  Di projected outraged innocence and harmlessness at them as hard as she could. The camouflage trick worked, which after this evening was more than she had expected. The two uniformed officers didn't even look at her weapon; they just followed the detective out, without a single backward glance.

  Harrison cleared his throat, audibly. She turned and raised an eyebrow at him.

  "You—I thought you were just a writer—"

  "And I thought you were just a writer,” she countered. “So we're even."

  "But—” He took a good look at her face, and evidently thought better of prying. “What did you do with that—thing? That was the strangest incantation I've ever heard!"

  She shrugged and began picking her way through the mess of smashed furniture, spilled drinks, and crushed and ground-in refreshments. “I have no idea. Valentine brought it in with something screwy, I got rid of it the same way. And that critter has no idea how lucky he was."

  "Why?” asked Harrison as she and Andre reached the door.

  "Why?” She turned and smiled sweetly. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a parking place in Manhattan at this time of night?"

  * * * *

  Author's Note: The character of Robert Harrison and the concept of “whoopie witches” were taken from the supernatural role-playing game “Stalking the Night Fantastic” by Richard Tucholka and used with the creator's permission.

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