Just letting you know.

  Sincerely,

  Mordred

  THE very next morning, Gabe came into Cubicle Land at 17:22 and refused to leave.

  “Manager types visiting Gen-Mai,” he explained, shuddering.

  Manager types? The hair on the back of my neck rose. Without a word—Gabe wouldn’t care about the abruptness of my departure—I raced upstairs.

  Too late. Far too late. The “visitors” were gone and Justin with them. But Gen-Mai had been here just a moment ago; I could still smell the Dior.

  Walking into her office without permission was a no-no. She looked away from her iPad, disapproval writ large on her face, which changed to wariness as I carefully closed the door behind me.

  “Mord—”

  “You arrested him?” I hissed.

  “You’re overreacting,” she said.

  “For a harmless, unsuccessful summoning, you set the Inquisition on him. And I gave him to you, more fool me.”

  “Addiction counsellors, not Inquisitors,” she said. “We know he’s harmless now. We’d like for him to stay that way. They’re just going to scare him a little.”

  “Just one or two fingernails?”

  “That’s completely illegal,” she replied, then added, “If you are so very concerned, you can go spot him. Friends and Family are encouraged to observe and participate in the Step 1 process.”

  Step 1? Process? Friends and Family? What manner of tomfoolery was this? “Very well,” I said. “Make it so.”

  “What am I, your maid? Make it so yourself—the forms are on the website. But you’ll have to make up the work hours.”

  Bitch.

  MY ARRIVAL in Little Italy would have been timelier had the PDF reader not decided to freeze in fear of thirteen-page Inquisitorial forms. As it was, the sky was growing dark by the time I reached the SA Station.

  A secretary ushered me into a classroom-style hall on the building’s second floor. A large screen was displaying a PowerPoint slide, and a man stood in front of it with a laser pointer.

  “… and once the seizures start, it’s too late. This is where you’re going to end up.” The slide changed. Image after ghastly image of eyeless men and women slid across the screen.

  Taking advantage of the riveted attention the audience was giving the presentation, I slipped into the room. There was Justin, sitting near the back, looking at me in absolute surprise. By chance, the seat behind him was empty.

  The distance between the seats made whispering difficult. I did it anyway.

  “I’m sorry—it’s my fault you’re here. If you want to make a run for it, I’ll cover your back.”

  “Just an info session,” he whispered back. “But thanks, bro.”

  He was far too calm. “What did they do to you?” I demanded.

  “Interrogation,” he said. “I got a cookie after that, but this lecture sucks.”

  “Interrogation?” They had no right!

  Justin gave me a puzzled look. “Dude, you okay? It was a multiple choice quiz.”

  With a sigh, I gave up. The boy obviously didn’t want saving. But I was on the lookout. One false move from an Inquisitor….

  THE group of “at-risk youth and their families” were ushered into a waiting room after the PowerPoint presentation, to wait for a tour guide through the Demon Addiction facility.

  Hard plastic chairs, the kind I would have disdained for my home even in the days before the EK job, were lined up against opposite walls. Motivational posters—“Success” and “Control” and “Happiness”—were mounted over our heads. Where was a black marker when you needed one? No, Mordred, you’re here as “Friends and Family”—aka the responsible ones. No de-motivating the motivationals.

  “And this is The Deathtrap Souleater.” A young boy, about twelve, was talking to Justin. My colleague was demonstrating rather too avid an interest in the cards proffered by the child. “It generates one +1 +1 Death Trap every turn,” said the boy. “But it costs like twelve souls of the unborn to cast, and you can have only two in the deck, so if you get it like midgame, you can win, but—”

  “I’m sorry, we can’t have two at-risk youth sitting next to each other,” said an Inquisitor, walking up to us. She was one of the tiniest people I have ever seen, about four-and-a-half feet tall and about sixty years old. The pistol at her side—what would happen to her if she fired it? Nevertheless, Justin and the young boy shut up immediately. “Your Highness,” said the Inquisitor, turning to me, “could you please switch seats?”

  “Your Highness?” whispered Justin as we got up to comply.

  “She’s being sarcastic,” I said, careful to keep my voice low.

  “Hey, I have a Highness card,” said the child. Obviously, he didn’t care who his audience was, as long as he had one. He started thumbing through the deck in his hand. “See, look! His Highness the Demon Prince of Mangala. Costs six goats, six souls of the unborn, and six copper Vessels to cast. It’s a silver—uncommon. See?” The card was proffered.

  I reached out and held it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. “Isn’t this—Demon cards—why you’re here?” I asked, taking in the bizarre creature inked onto the cardboard, meaningless Sigils dancing around its edges.

  “They’re just cards,” the boy said. “But my mom tried to throw them away!”

  His mother leaned over from the other side. “My son here says they’re worth money.”

  “They’re an investment,” the boy said. “Do you know how much a first edition mint condition foil Unpronounceable Demonling goes for?”

  The mother rolled her eyes at me. Trying to humor the child, “What is an Unpronounceable Demonling?” I asked.

  “Only the rarest card ever!” the boy said. “It costs a thousand unborn souls. So you need an Enslaved Mage even to get one out!”

  Enslaved Mage? I could see why the mother was worried—it was a very distressing concept. Smiling sympathetically at her, I handed the card back to the child and pretended interest in “Obstacles” directly across the room from me.

  AT 10:24 we were led to a corridor, one-way glass making up the right-hand side wall. The room on the other side of the glass was large, painted an industrial green.

  Three Mages, dressed in identical striped pajamas and gray slippers sat around a table, fists wrapped around crayons, scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper. A minute or two of scribbling, and then one would crumple up the sheet and toss it behind him. Then the second would do the same, then the third. We watched for a few minutes. It went on and on and on.

  “This is where we evaluate and monitor our patients,” said the Inquisitor. Patients, criminals, no difference between the two, her tone suggested.

  “What are they doing?” asked the Mage I had sympathized with earlier, her arms wrapped around her son.

  “Computing Magic squares,” said the Inquisitor. “We try to keep them supplied with paper, otherwise they start writing on the walls, on the floor, anything. Once the connection with the Demon snaps—”

  “That’s not going to happen to my son, is it?” whispered the Mage.

  “Not if he’s not addicted,” said the Inquisitor.

  “What’s a Magic square?” asked Justin.

  “A puzzle,” I replied. “A grid of numbers. All the horizontals and verticals and diagonals have to add up to the same number.”

  The Inquisitor turned to look at me. “You’re familiar with Demon lore?” she asked. I shook my head no. “They don’t eat, don’t sleep,” she said, giving Justin a pointed look. “Don’t do anything but write out the same square, over and over again. They think it’ll bring the Demon back.”

  I took stock of his reaction. Horrified, like the others. Good. Suddenly, one of the Mages got up and walked up to the glass window. His eyes were filmed over with cataracts, a Sigil I had learned to recognize as “Demonic” branded into his forehead. Not an actor, then. He couldn’t see us, of course, but everyone stepped back, the mother drawing her son away and pulling him behind her.

  The Demonologist raised his crayon—roadside pylon orange—and started drawing a grid, five squares to a side, directly on the glass.

  The Inquisitor sighed. “Sometimes the paper’s not enough,” she said. The Demonologist was filling in the square now, starting with the numeral “1” in the center top box.

  Then, suddenly, the three Demonologists in the room started thumping their fists down—two on the tabletop, one on the glass panel. Thud. Thud. Thud.

  The Inquisitor reached for the radio strapped to her belt, raising it to her mouth. “Station 3, we have a Code Purple. Code Purple, Station 3,” she spoke into the radio. Then, to us, “They do this sometimes. We don’t know why. But it’s best that we keep moving.”

  The line of people started shuffling down the corridor, pressed against the wall away from the window. The Demonologist finished his square and started writing words across the glass in clumsy capital letters. The letters were reversed, the words backward. He knew we were here.

  HELLO WORLD

  Then the other two Demonologists joined the first at the window. They, too, started writing words.

  TOO LATE

  ONE OF US

  “Move along people,” said the Inquisitor. Nobody was going to argue with that.

  HE’S ALREADY HERE

  The line moved faster.

  OUT in the waiting room again, the Inquisitor was handing out anti-Demon propaganda. Justin, along with the other children, got a lollipop and a picture-book—Demons Live Between Four and Six. I, as “Friend and/or Family,” became the proud owner of not one, but two glossy brochures.

  Snorting, I turned to Justin. “I judge you’re not going to try any more summoning?” Wordlessly, he shook his head, his pupils mere pinpoints of black.

  DEMONOLOGY AND DEMON ADDICTION

  Demon Addiction and Demonology are due to many interconnected factors, including your social environment and your emotional health. Not all Demonologists become full-blown Demon Addicts (Babylonian Mages), but it is a big risk factor. Sometimes Demon Addiction develops suddenly in response to a stressful change, such as a breakup, retirement, or another loss. Other times, it gradually creeps up on you as your dependence on Demons increases.

  COMMON SIGNS AND SYMPTOMS OF DEMONOLOGY INCLUDE:

  Using Demons in situations where it’s unnecessary, i.e. to clear traffic during morning commutes, helping with day-to-day chores and homework

  Repeat encounters with the Securitates Arcanarum on account of your Demon Summoning

  Continuing to summon even though your Demon use is causing problems in your relationships

  OBSESSION WITH A PERSONAL DEMON: THE ONLY WARNING SIGN

  Do you feel a proprietary relationship with one specific Demon and believe that Demon honors you above all other Mages?

  Do you make contact with that specific Demon within one hour of waking up?

  Do you spend the majority of any day thinking about the next time you will be in contact with “your” Demon?

  Do you obey “your” Demon’s suggestions as commands?

  Do you repeatedly neglect friends and family members in order to remain in contact with “your” Demon?

  Do you have anger management issues when confronted with the thought of losing “your” Demon?

  If you, or a loved one, are experiencing any of the above symptoms, please seek help! There is still time.

  THE FINAL AND IRREVERSIBLE STEP OF BABYLONIAN MAGEHOOD

  Insomnia and headaches

  Confusion, hallucinations, seizures

  Episodes of uncontrollable rage and violence, leading to spousal and child abuse in some instances

  If you are at this stage, please seek help from an Inquisitor now! The SA offers a number of coping strategies to help Mages and their families deal with the impending tragedy.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THIS IS NO IDLE BROMANCE

  THE day had to begin with a whispered “lesson” regarding a certain developer’s mistaken assumptions about Magic. Sixteen minutes into the conversation, it was taking all of my willpower to keep from rolling my eyes.

  “… and happy! That’s exactly why you need Demons to do Magic,” Justin was saying authoritatively.

  “No,” I said, “otherwise the only Mages we have would be Demonologists.”

  “All Mages are Demonologists. They just don’t know it.”

  Sweet darkness. I don’t have the patience to argue Magical theory with a thirty-year-old dabbler. Not at 11:14, with only one espresso in my system.

  “Whatever,” I said. “Just don’t start summoning things in here. Gen-Mai will murder you. Then make your cold, dead corpse clean everything up.” And make me help, for my sin of comradely concern.

  “She’s totally over the top,” said Justin. Had he forgotten his brush with the Law last week? “I mean, we’ve been summoning Demons for thousands of years? Why is it suddenly so dangerous?”

  “Did you and I see the same thing,” I asked, “or was I hallucinating the batshit crazy Mages?”

  “Ummm….”

  And just then, a soft ping announced that Alan was online.

  “Look, let’s talk about this later. I gotta get to work before the Bitch comes in.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  * alan (~m.penn@electrickindren.com) has joined RandomSportsCommentary

  *** Mode change “+o alan” for channel RandomSportsCommentary by @m:-0

  <@alan> Again, interesting channel name.

  <@m:-0> Sorry, I’m a bit braindead at the moment

  <@alan> Was the coffee machine broken?

  <@m:-0> The machine’s fine, thank Shiva. No, I just spent half an hour trying to explain basic Magical principals to a wannabe Demonologist.

  <@alan> Did it work?

  <@m:-0> What do you think?

  <@alan> I think it would have been a *good* morning if the explanation had been understood.

  <@m:-0> Bingo.

  That was about all I was able to type before my first premeeting alarm sounded and I had to start gathering everyone’s notes. Only eight people on the rack today—passages from Milton’s “Paradise Lost” would be appropriate for such a configuration.

  JUSTIN caught me at my desk afterward.

  “But dude, seriously, thanks for coming in there after me yesterday,” he said, then punched me in the arm. “We got each other’s backs, huh?”

  “Something like that,” I murmured.

  “If you need anything, ever, just ask, ’k?”

  “Will do.”

  “Awesome. And maybe we can like… cast a spell together over beers sometime.”

  Sweet gods of darkness, what have I been reduced to? A twenty-something human thinks he can “cast spells over beers” with me?

  Justin, oblivious to my reaction, smirked, “We could conjure up some hot chicks.”

  “Getting takeout from KFC might be quicker,” I said.

  “LOL!” He actually said the acronym out loud. “Too funny.”

  “I have to check code for syntax errors,” I said. It was the first thing I could think of. Which, of course, meant that I would have to pull up the compiler and actually debug some code.

  “Cool,” said Justin, and wandered over to Josephine’s cubicle. Yes, go irritate someone else.

  * m:-0) (~m.penn@electrickindren.com) has joined RandomSportsCommentary

  <@alan> any improvement in Justin’s outlook?

  Maybe. I think he still wants to summon demons in the basement to do his debugging for him

  <@alan> You’ve put a stop to it for now I hope

  More like the Fear of Gen-Mai has put a stop to it. She might have to make a personal appearance to make it stick.

  <@alan> I never thought of her as particularly frightening

  Because you are the only one she doesn’t threaten with bodily harm

  <@alan> She is *violent* towards you?

  It’s more of a *promise* of violence.

  <@alan> Oh dear

  Yeah—enjoy your immunity while you can

  <@alan> Perhaps I could ask her to tone the aggression down a notch

  I think asking her to do that would be about as effective as asking a demonologist not to stick a screwdriver into a power socket

  <@alan> Gen-Mai says they have a reputation for being extraordinarily thick

  And puerile. Here’s a joke for you: A demonologist goes to the doctor’s office with some unspecified malady. The doctor says they’re going to need a blood, urine, saliva, feces and semen sample. The demonologist asks, “so should I just drop off my ritual robes then?”

  <@alan> That is very funny. Even though I’m cringing inside.

  Thank you, geezer-class Mages.

  I have others…

  <@alan> Do tell

  .

  .

  .

  It was 12:17 when I realized I hadn’t actually done any work, no matter how industrious my typing looked like to others. And I could hear Gen-Mai coming down the corridor.

  Shit. Gen-Mai’s here. Got no work done. Gotta go.

  <@alan> Good luck. Talk to you during lunch?

  Absolutely.

  The IM window was safely closed and the C compiler up on the screen by the time the Bitch Queen stood behind me.

  “Mordred,” she said. “How’s it going.”

  It was less of a question, more of an invitation to a military-style debriefing on my morning’s activities. Luckily, I was prepared. “There is a problem between keyboard and chair somewhere in this office,” I said.

  “Alan pinged me this morning about the argument you had with Justin.”