“Guys, we don’t have time for this,” said Heath, scooping up the book and earning a gasp from both his friends. “Trouble is likely incoming, and we either need to fortify or get out of here.”

  Colin turned to get to work, but Nariko stayed focused on Heath. She leaned forward like she had the urge to rush Heath, but stayed where she stood.

  “Tell me, Heath. This hill doesn’t feel the same as it did before the book got here. Everything’s clouded, like after a big stone gets thrown into a small pond. I can’t read you right, and I can’t read the book right either. I don’t like that. So you tell me—”

  “Fine. I told the book I’d claim it. Now I have, and—”

  “You what?” cried Nariko and Colin in unison, Colin half-turning from his resumed guard post.

  “I had to get the book. You both know it. And we didn’t have time to play around with searching the greater PDX metro area. So I—”

  “Jesus, Heath,” said Colin, “you know better than to tie yourself to strange magic.”

  “Let’s burn it,” said Nariko. “Right now.”

  “That didn’t work so well the last time someone tried it,” said Colin.

  Books don’t laugh. Heath knew that. So whatever sensation made the book almost vibrate in his hand couldn’t have been laughter.

  Could it?

  “It’s trying to laugh,” said Heath. He had to shake his hand to drop the book to the floor. Even then the sensation of holding it lingered like a kiss. Heath rubbed his hands briskly.

  “Great,” said Nariko, managing a step closer with what looked like a good deal of effort. “The thing’s a fucking demon like some fantasy sword and it already has its hooks in you.”

  “I think it just found the thought of someone trying to burn it funny.”

  “Oh,” said Colin, “much more reassuring. How do we get rid of it?”

  “Important question,” said Heath, who could feel things circling high above, “but not the most pressing issue.”

  “Bullshit,” said Nariko, with another labored step. “I’d say that’s now our top priority.”

  “We’re about to have company.”

  “Give them the book then.” Nariko managed another step, but now she was as soaked in sweat as Heath and Colin had gotten hiking here to the Witch’s Castle through the thick mud. “If you claimed it you have the right to give it away. Let someone else contend with a book that can laugh at its own jokes.”

  Heath, in contrast to the sweat dripping down Nariko’s face and the effort in her breathing, felt rested and ready to deal with these intruders.

  “Our enemies are mobilizing. My uncle’s got spirits homing in on us, and he’s not the only one.”

  “He’s right,” said Colin. “My watchers are reporting three groups moving in. Spirits in the first wave, pinning us down while others get here physically.”

  “Let them,” said Heath. “I’m sick of running, and if I have to risk my life and my soul to destroy this book, I might as well get to wield the power at least once.”

  “Touch that book’s power and you stand alone,” said Nariko.

  “A little harsh,” started Colin, but Nariko cut in over him.

  “I mean it. Who knows what happens if you start using its magic?” She stopped almost in reach of the book, spending visible effort to slow her breathing. “You made me promise to kill you if the book corrupted you. Well I don’t want to do that, so what say we skip the corruption part entirely?”

  Heath had forgotten just how good Nariko looked when she was sweaty with effort. The way it made the jade of her eyes even more vibrant. They way her clothes hung tight to her curves. He wished he were close enough to smell her jasmine and rose body wash. Ridiculous that they weren’t together anymore. But Heath could have her again. A simple spell. The Black Book would open right to it for him. Then she would fight beside him without question, and at the end of the day she would welcome him into her bed.

  A pagan like her could never resist that spell. She wouldn’t have a prayer…

  “Gah!” yelled Heath, grabbing his head with both hands and throwing himself backwards. He stumbled to the back wall. The cement felt warm as a summer sidewalk.

  “Not like that!” He yelled. “Never like that!”

  “Heath?” said Nariko, fear in her voice where there should have been excitement. Passion. And there could be again. There would be again. He needed only—

  “Never!” he yelled again. “Forget it, book. Keep your lust spells to yourself. I claimed you, but I never promised I’d use you.”

  A section of stone floor slammed upward, throwing Nariko and Colin out onto the muddy trail and slamming closed with the finality of a tomb. It was as though that section of flooring had been on hinges, made to seal someone inside.

  Heath sat alone in the darkness with the Black Book of Saint Cyprian.

  The book began to glow red.

  The stone wall behind Heath felt hot now, forcing him to stand straight to get away from it. And he could feel the heat from the smooth stone floor, baking the mud on his hiking boots. The room even smelled hot, old urine and dog feces growing pungent as their residue cooked off. Not a taste Heath enjoyed with each rapid breath.

  And in the center of it all, the only thing Heath could see in the pitch black room. The Black Book of Saint Cyprian, glowing red.

  “Only so much air in here,” Heath said, lowering his hands from their grip on his head. He could feel sweat starting up again, under his arms and down his back. And his legs were achy and tired once more from the hike. Whatever the book had done to make him feel refreshed, it must have undone. “If I suffocate I won’t be much good to you.”

  But then, an owner who wouldn’t use the book wasn’t much good to it either. If Heath died in here, someone else would be free to claim it.

  It hadn’t really been fair to trick the book like that. Pretend to be interested just to get it away from everyone else.

  “I’m not sure you have a right to talk about fair,” Heath said aloud. Those previous thoughts may have been in his head, but they didn’t feel right for his mind. He figured that, like the lust spell talk, they had to be coming from the grimoire.

  But he was being too judgmental. The grimoire was nothing but a book of spells, assembled by a master magician and abandoned over a petty disagreement. Not all its powers were dark. In fact, there were spells inside that could help Heath. Help his friends. Help stop his uncle—

  “My uncle,” said Heath. “He’s on his way right now. Probably first on the scene, as always.”

  And Heath was trapped inside the Witch’s Castle, unable to help his friends. Nariko and Colin were good – better than Heath in some ways, or at least better than Heath had been before taking up the book – but they didn’t know anything about the tricky mindset of a conjure man. Uncle Andre would strike from angles they couldn’t possibly see. Could never prepare for. Without Heath—

  “Without me Uncle Andre has no reason to fight. He’s not stupid enough to risk himself with no reward waiting for the winner. As long as you’re trapped in here with me, my friends are safe.”

  Of course, there’s only so much air. Getting a little stale already, wasn’t it? And the heat. All this heat couldn’t be good for him.

  Heath started rubbing his sweaty temples. “Papa Legba, this little fool needs your help. Hear me, Papa—”

  Legba knew deals, and in claiming the Black Book of Saint Cyprian, Heath made a deal. No way for Legba to help him now.

  “Damballah. Damballah-Wedo here me. Damballah the Pure. Dam—”

  Damballah wouldn’t help. Heath touched the edges of Vodou sometimes, but he never had his head washed by a houngan or manbo. Never taken any kind of initiation. Unlike his uncle…

  “Uncle Andre converted? Then he is a bokor now.”

  Damballah would never hear the words of a little conjure man without a house or a lineage to point to. Heath was here, in the dark, all alone. No friends. No gods or saints. Just one little magic worker, trying to match not much more than a decade of occult experience against the spirit of a grimoire that had passed some eighteen centuries on this earth and seen sights the likes of which Heath could not imagine.

  It could show Heath such sights. It could bring him powers beyond anything he had ever known. Power enough to strike down his Uncle. Vizinha. Drake. Those trench coat fools. And everyone else who ever got in his way. And even without lust magic, how much easier would his relationship with Nariko be if he started smartening up in all the right ways? No more problems with money. A home that would drive thoughts of his apartment into the unworthy past.

  And there were many women in the world beyond just Nariko. Heath could—

  “You keep coming back to lust. And power. But I know dozens of lust spells. I cast them for clients from time to time, but I never felt the need to cast any for myself. And as for power, I’m not my uncle.”

  Uncle Andre, who was the leading contender to claim the Black Book if Heath suffocated here. Uncle Andre, who wouldn’t hesitate to use the book’s magic, no matter who got hurt, or worse.

  Heath ran his fingers through his hair until he could grip his scalp. He sat cross-legged on the hot floor. More heat all across his skin, the still air clinging to him.

  Heath tried to clear his mind, but that was no use. The book had a direct line to his thoughts…

  The book knew everything he was planning or even thinking about planning, so there was no use. He had two choices, power and the life of his dreams on one hand, death on the other.

  …which meant that Heath couldn’t cut himself off from the book either. No sealing it up magically, not without sealing himself up too…

  But Heath was already sealed in here with it, and even if the heat didn’t get him first, the air would last only so long. Then the book would drop the floor back into place and lie there waiting for a worthy seeker to find it.

  The floor grew hotter still and Heath hopped back to his feet, his knees and ankles cracking and popping. The air tasted hot now, and it definitely tasted stale. He expected his flowing sweat must have been evaporating into steam, if he could see it.

  Heath could end the heat. He could have fresh air. He could even walk away from the Black Book of Saint Cyprian, if he was positive that he really wanted to turn his back on such power. He would be a fool to do so. Not just the little fool he said he was when talking to the Lwa, but the sort of great fool who will end up as a footnote in the annals of history for what he walked away from. A bare mention in someone more important’s rise to power.

  But if that was what Heath really wanted – if he was absolutely sure – he could walk out of the Witch’s Castle a free man. All he had to do was rescind his claim on the Black Book.

  If Heath freed the book, it would have no reason to keep him prisoner. No reason to bake and suffocate him. If he lacked the courage to wield the book as such a great power should truly be wielded, then all he had to do was say, “Grimoire, I release you.” Then the pain and suffering would end. He would have no more access to world-shaking power, but the book would free him.

  “You would free me if I did that. You would just let me walk out of here with my friends.”

  The book had no reason to imprison an unaffiliated bystander. Only an owner who wanted it as nothing more than a trinket or, worse, to destroy it and remove its glory from the world.

  Such an owner deserved death. But a great fool who turned his back on nothing less than the true Black Book of Saint Cyprian was not worth the effort of killing.

  “Killing me doesn’t release you, does it?” Heath tried to chuckle, but the heat had dried his throat until even his words came out croaked. He’d begun seeing spots in the darkness too, but he ignored those. “What happens, do I turn into some kind of guardian spirit that the next seeker must defeat to claim you?”

  Dead was still dead. No more time with Nariko and Colin. No more sunshine and lazy days. No more laughter. No more fun and pleasure. No Heaven. No Hell. No place waiting for Heath’s soul back across the waters. Only constant battle until his inevitable defeat at the hands of someone more competent. Like Uncle Andre.

  “Fuck you, book. Kill me then.”

  The air ran out, and Heath collapsed.

  12

  Distant voices in the blackness, echoing and resonating into buzzing incomprehension. Each echo went on so long it took on a metallic quality. Combined they sounded less like voices and more like the resonance of someone tapping a length of pipe in the distance.

  No more heat though. That was the first thing Heath was aware of noticing. After feeling damn near slow-roasted in that makeshift tomb, the cool was…

  The cool was…

  Heath didn’t really feel cool either. Not hot or cold. Not comfortable or in pain. In fact, Heath couldn’t tell if the surface he lay on was hard or soft.

  Was he laying down at all? Maybe he was floating?

  “You could open your eyes and find out. Just a suggestion.”

  Heath blinked, so startled to realize his eyes had been closed that he missed not recognizing the voice. Or that the words sounded tight, like they were spoken inside a soundproof room. He was too fixated on the fact that he would have sworn his eyes had been open.

  “Yeah, it gets like that sometimes. Makes the whole world feel upside down. At least, for people in your state.”

  But now Heath’s eyes opened, and what Heath saw wasn’t any less confusing.

  For starters, he wasn’t in the Witch’s Castle anymore. Or Forest Park. Or anywhere that Heath could recognize, for that matter. He was standing – standing? – in a graveyard.

  But not just any graveyard, exactly. No grass grew anywhere in sight. The dirt was blacker than deep space, and just as smooth, except where the graves were. The grave mounds had crumbly tops as though they’d all just been dug, each one with a little tombstone or cross at the far end.

  And there were thousands of graves, stretching as far as Heath could see in every direction but up. Up was a white-gray sky, like an enormous, featureless cloud that didn’t care enough to gather its water into one place and think about raining. It must have kept all its lighting together, though, because it looked staticky. As though if Heath reached too high it would shock him.

  “Best not to think too much about the sky. It might have implications. Wouldn’t want that.”

  Heath started looking around for the voice. It sounded vaguely male and vaguely familiar, and more than a little amused at Heath’s expense. Took a moment, but finally his eyes focused on a cadaverous man in a fine black suit and top hat, with a vivid purple vest and bow tie. He wore sunglasses with one lens missing. Bright white teeth gleamed out from his smile, surrounded by a narrow face with skin even darker than Heath’s father.

  The man sat on a gravestone, one shiny black boot on the dirt and the other cocked up on the stone beside him. His hands in evening gloves, not work gloves, and folded in his lap. A gravedigger’s shovel leaned against the stone behind him.

  As Heath stared at the grinning man, just for a moment – and a fleeting moment if that – instead of finery, the man’s clothes looked decrepit. Like they’d been dug out of one of the many graves after years of disuse.

  Suddenly everything made sense, and recognition of this man … this Lwa … in front of Heath dizzied him. He felt inside like he was falling. He held out his arms for balance, but his feet seemed steady enough on that black dirt.

  Heath’s voice shook when he finally spoke.

  “Papa Ghede?”

  His words sounded muted too, as though he didn’t really have all this open space around him and something kept swallowing up the sound.

  “Papa is it?” Ghede said with a chuckle. “Well, I’m not too sure about that. Better check with your mama when your daddy ain’t listening.”

  “But … you are…”

  “Yes, we both know who I am, and we both know who you are. But I’m betting only one of us knows where you are, and I’m positive only one of us knows why you’re … where you are.”

  “I’m dead,” said Heath. “Aren’t I. That goddamn book killed me. So now what, I have to wait here in between until someone else tries to take up the—”

  “You always talk this much?”

  “I … what?” Heath’s guts felt steadier now, but that was no comfort. Mostly because he couldn’t really feel anything. No air on his skin, no sense of weight on his feet. Not even the brush of his own clothing.

  And his backpack was nowhere to be seen.

  “You remind me of this local boy I know. Not a Lwa, though he’d claim to be if you asked him. Likes whiskey as much as I like rum. And he’ll talk your ear off if you let him about this thing he did, or that thing, or some other damn thing.”

  “I don’t understand.” Nothing to smell either. Not even his own … breath … wait. Heath wasn’t breathing. Not even out of habit. “Am I—”

  “Loves to gamble, but he’s not so good at it, which makes him the kind of friend I like to have around. You know what I mean?”

  Heath patted his face, but couldn’t feel his hand or cheek. But he’d definitely felt the sensation of falling. And he seemed steady on his feet…

  “Am I dead?”

  “Oh,” said Ghede with a grin so full of humor Heath expected laughter to ring out from the gravestones. “Are you asking me this time? Or are you still making your declarations as though there’s nothing more important in this or any other world than Heath Cyr and his problems.”

  “I…” For just a moment Heath had a mad urge to rant about the importance of keeping The Black Book of Saint Cyprian out of his uncle’s hands, and the effect that grimoire could have on the world. But instead he said simply, “I’m asking.”

  “’Bout damn time.” Ghede pulled a lit cigar out of the inside pocket of his jacket, and Heath actually could smell the high quality of the rum-soaked tobacco.

  He could smell nothing else, but he smelled that tobacco.