Graves Pact (Matthew Stinson) - Matthew Stinson Page 0,3

recognized my behavior for what it was, but I triple-checked the text anyway. I walked around the unbroken concentric circles of salt and iron filings. I ensured that the silver chain lay flat and that the grim symbols drawn on the cold cement floor in animal blood didn’t run. Unlike the practitioner responsible for the circle at the crime scene, I wasn’t about to take any chances.

A loaded Glock 22 rested on the plastic folding table I’d set up beside the desk. If I failed, the gun probably wouldn’t do me any good. It made me feel better though. I didn’t like summoning creatures from beyond our world, but I liked the alternative method of contacting my patron even less.

The wooden desk was out of place in my unfinished basement. Vinyl, plastic, and metal made up the rest of the “furniture” in the cavernous space. I had a mini-fridge and some shelves stocked with cleaning supplies and Tupperware bins of paraphernalia for my summoning rituals. They really went well with my lawn chair and the card table.

One of the rolled up sleeves of my white collared shirt fell down. I fixed it and loosened the narrow black tie that seemed to grow tighter by the minute. Kneeling down outside the carefully constructed circle, I adjusted my charcoal gray slacks and inspected my work. Finally achieving the level of mental preparedness I needed, I pulled out my trusty Zippo and lit the seven red candles on the edge of the outer circle.

Magic, as I understood it, was basically about focusing and directing ambient energies toward a desired effect. It was about making connections between disparate objects for that focused energy to react. And a lot more mumbo-jumbo that I couldn’t even pretend to understand. I used my tome as a reference and mimed the ritual as precisely as I could.

I didn’t technically need the salt or iron, but one screw-up could bring a creature out of Lovecraft’s nightmares into my basement. Those other materials were just added precautions in case some dark faerie or wild spirit came instead of the intended target. Not that my intended target was any better.

Reaching over the edge of the circle, I placed the scroll fragment within and lit the special incense that would create the thin tendril of dark smoke I needed. I took a deep breath and began the incantation that would tear a hole in the fabric of space, opening a doorway to Hell. I enunciated each word precisely, painstakingly careful.

I hate this chanting and hand-waving crap, I thought as I finished the ritual. I didn’t know how wizards stood it. I’d ask if I ever met a one.

We warlocks were an entirely different breed. Wizards studied magic. They understood it on levels I couldn’t even fathom. Aside from the handful of tricks I’d been granted, I could only invoke magic through complex rituals. Anyone with the proper technique—and a death wish—could be a ritualist.

A pinprick of red light hung in the air above the concentric circles. A few moments passed before it burst into blinding crimson radiance like an immense hissing road flare. Ebony claws erupted from the fissure, tearing it wider as if the space itself was somehow tangible. The bloody light lined the inky black hole, marking the border between my world and Hell.

The creature pulled itself out, twisting in physically impossible ways from the spatial rupture like some kind of horrible birth. Its flesh was a hash of overlapping scars, the angry lines darkening the scarlet skin tone wherever they ran. Black leathery wings flapped as they came free, but the disturbed air didn’t reach outside the ten foot diameter inner circle.

Though no air moved, I felt the temperature in my basement spike.

Shaggy brown fur covered the creature from the waist down and its legs ended in cloven hooves. A prehensile tail whipped around cutting gouges into the concrete floor with its spear-like end. Two sets of horns sprouted from the fiend’s head, a pair arcing back like a goat and the other pointing forward like a bull.

Breathing in deeply, the infernal creature turned and roared, “The mortals foolish enough to summon me adorn pikes in—” The monster tilted his head quizzically. “Landon?”

“Hey, Alastor,” I said. “It’s been a while.”

As a rule, I kept clear of all things supernatural. I had no desire to get dragged into the undercurrent of weirdness that permeated the world. Unfortunately, there had been a few instances where I absolutely had to summon Alastor.