Kindling the Moon
Page 23
Strangely, though, I found a few subtle similarities between them as well. Jupe obviously considered himself a budding comedian and constantly tried to make me laugh— which he did, many times—but I also caught fleeting looks of amusement on Lon’s face, and they lapsed into several bouts of gunfire-fast witty repartee. Yet, underneath all his manic energy, Jupe had his father’s easy confidence, and occasionally made remarkably concise observations that caught me off-guard.
It was pleasant, being in a normal house with a normal family. My mind wandered to the last few years I’d spent at home with my own family, when I was a teenager. My mom was never much of a cook, and making the meal that Lon had just served would have been beyond her expertise. Besides, my parents were vegans, so meat was never part of our meals at home—though I’d regularly sneak hamburgers and meat loaf in the school cafeteria and tell my parents I’d eaten salad instead. But there was an Indian restaurant close to our house in Florida that made awesome samosas. We used to get take-out from them every Friday and would eat it outside on our back patio. Afterward, my father would point out constellations and tell me stories about the myths behind them. Even though he repeated many stories, I never got tired of hearing any of them; Friday was always my favorite day of the week.
After clearing the table, Lon exiled Jupe to his room so that we could discuss business. I trailed him as he retreated to a door at the end of a small hall past the dining room. The door was locked electronically. He stuck a finger onto a small blue light over the handle of the door and a dead bolt slid open.
“Wow, serious security.”
“There’s dangerous information in some of these books,” he explained as he flipped on the lights and let me inside. “Jupe’s fascinated with magick right now. I don’t want to risk his fooling around in here and getting himself in trouble.”
Once inside the room, my mouth fell open. Hundreds and hundreds—maybe thousands—of rare occult books lined all four walls of the windowless room, and even more titles neatly filed around a large rectangular pillar in the center. On one side of the room was a chunky antique desk and a small fireplace with two stuffed armchairs in front of it anchored the other side. Six frosted art deco pendant lights hung from a high ceiling in two neat rows. A rolling wooden ladder attached to a track that extended around the room.
“Jesus, Lon.” I studied the endless rows of cracked leather spines. “This is larger than the collection in the vault in our main lodge.”
He walked alongside me with his hands behind his back. “I’ve spent twenty years collecting it. Almost got myself killed a couple of times in the process.”
I didn’t doubt it. He was right about there being dangerous information in some of those books. Theurgia Mallecta Gotetica, Hellanicus Magica Infernal, Speculum Artis Bene Moriendi … it was an occultist’s wet dream. Plenty of people would go to less than ethical lengths to get their hands on these.
“Is this a first edition?” I asked, squatting down to inspect a tall, fat book with a green leather spine: Liber Ceremonialle Magicke.
“Yes, 1416. One of five known existing copies. Would you like to look at it?”
“Could I? I’ve only seen the later editions printed on paper.”
“Sure. Let’s wash up first.” The mark of a serious, obsessive collector. He retreated to one of two small doors at the far end of the room, which contained a sink, hand soap, and paper towels. I washed and dried my hands, then returned. The book was sitting in the middle of his desk on a fresh white paper blotter. He motioned for me to sit down, then stood over my shoulder as I opened the book.
It smelled wonderful as I cracked open the cover—old leather mingled with the slightly musty scent of parchment. Lon smelled good as well, like the dinner he’d just cooked. It made me wish I’d ditched my pride and asked for seconds.
“Turn the pages by the corners,” he instructed.
“Yes, I know.” Sheesh. It wasn’t like I’d never handled a valuable old book before. The pages were stiff and brittle, and I carefully turned each one, marveling at the old astrological calculations and tedious ritual instructions. “The illustrations are so bright.”
“The previous owners took good care of it.”
“Very well preserved,” I agreed.
After a couple of minutes of browsing, I thanked him and gave it back. He shelved it, then brought a small stack of goetias over to the desk. The old tomes were each roughly the size of a coffee table art book; their cracking paper pages were swaddled in worn leather covers embossed with the names of the magicians who wrote them. Lon pulled up a wooden side chair next to me, sat down, and took a book off the stack.
“These are all the albino demons I’ve found so far.” He scooted his chair closer until his shoulder brushed mine. A rush of chills spread over my arms at the accidental contact. I stole a quick sidelong glance at him, eyes roaming over his arms and the hint of defined muscle there, just visible through his long-sleeve T-shirt. Christ, I thought. How long had it been since I’d been on a date? I really needed to work less and get out more.
As I tamped these thoughts down, he opened the first book in front of me, gently turning past pages of scrawled arcane symbols, handwritten in ink centuries ago. Calculations for moon phases and detailed charts of summoning variables covered the entries: size of the summoning seal, what was used to draw it (red ochre chalk, soot, blood), where the ritual was performed. Crude drawings and engravings depicted the evoked beings. One had the head of a frog and the naked body of a boy. Another was covered in scales below the waist and had massive twisting horns; he was riding a flying crocodile.
It was pleasant, being in a normal house with a normal family. My mind wandered to the last few years I’d spent at home with my own family, when I was a teenager. My mom was never much of a cook, and making the meal that Lon had just served would have been beyond her expertise. Besides, my parents were vegans, so meat was never part of our meals at home—though I’d regularly sneak hamburgers and meat loaf in the school cafeteria and tell my parents I’d eaten salad instead. But there was an Indian restaurant close to our house in Florida that made awesome samosas. We used to get take-out from them every Friday and would eat it outside on our back patio. Afterward, my father would point out constellations and tell me stories about the myths behind them. Even though he repeated many stories, I never got tired of hearing any of them; Friday was always my favorite day of the week.
After clearing the table, Lon exiled Jupe to his room so that we could discuss business. I trailed him as he retreated to a door at the end of a small hall past the dining room. The door was locked electronically. He stuck a finger onto a small blue light over the handle of the door and a dead bolt slid open.
“Wow, serious security.”
“There’s dangerous information in some of these books,” he explained as he flipped on the lights and let me inside. “Jupe’s fascinated with magick right now. I don’t want to risk his fooling around in here and getting himself in trouble.”
Once inside the room, my mouth fell open. Hundreds and hundreds—maybe thousands—of rare occult books lined all four walls of the windowless room, and even more titles neatly filed around a large rectangular pillar in the center. On one side of the room was a chunky antique desk and a small fireplace with two stuffed armchairs in front of it anchored the other side. Six frosted art deco pendant lights hung from a high ceiling in two neat rows. A rolling wooden ladder attached to a track that extended around the room.
“Jesus, Lon.” I studied the endless rows of cracked leather spines. “This is larger than the collection in the vault in our main lodge.”
He walked alongside me with his hands behind his back. “I’ve spent twenty years collecting it. Almost got myself killed a couple of times in the process.”
I didn’t doubt it. He was right about there being dangerous information in some of those books. Theurgia Mallecta Gotetica, Hellanicus Magica Infernal, Speculum Artis Bene Moriendi … it was an occultist’s wet dream. Plenty of people would go to less than ethical lengths to get their hands on these.
“Is this a first edition?” I asked, squatting down to inspect a tall, fat book with a green leather spine: Liber Ceremonialle Magicke.
“Yes, 1416. One of five known existing copies. Would you like to look at it?”
“Could I? I’ve only seen the later editions printed on paper.”
“Sure. Let’s wash up first.” The mark of a serious, obsessive collector. He retreated to one of two small doors at the far end of the room, which contained a sink, hand soap, and paper towels. I washed and dried my hands, then returned. The book was sitting in the middle of his desk on a fresh white paper blotter. He motioned for me to sit down, then stood over my shoulder as I opened the book.
It smelled wonderful as I cracked open the cover—old leather mingled with the slightly musty scent of parchment. Lon smelled good as well, like the dinner he’d just cooked. It made me wish I’d ditched my pride and asked for seconds.
“Turn the pages by the corners,” he instructed.
“Yes, I know.” Sheesh. It wasn’t like I’d never handled a valuable old book before. The pages were stiff and brittle, and I carefully turned each one, marveling at the old astrological calculations and tedious ritual instructions. “The illustrations are so bright.”
“The previous owners took good care of it.”
“Very well preserved,” I agreed.
After a couple of minutes of browsing, I thanked him and gave it back. He shelved it, then brought a small stack of goetias over to the desk. The old tomes were each roughly the size of a coffee table art book; their cracking paper pages were swaddled in worn leather covers embossed with the names of the magicians who wrote them. Lon pulled up a wooden side chair next to me, sat down, and took a book off the stack.
“These are all the albino demons I’ve found so far.” He scooted his chair closer until his shoulder brushed mine. A rush of chills spread over my arms at the accidental contact. I stole a quick sidelong glance at him, eyes roaming over his arms and the hint of defined muscle there, just visible through his long-sleeve T-shirt. Christ, I thought. How long had it been since I’d been on a date? I really needed to work less and get out more.
As I tamped these thoughts down, he opened the first book in front of me, gently turning past pages of scrawled arcane symbols, handwritten in ink centuries ago. Calculations for moon phases and detailed charts of summoning variables covered the entries: size of the summoning seal, what was used to draw it (red ochre chalk, soot, blood), where the ritual was performed. Crude drawings and engravings depicted the evoked beings. One had the head of a frog and the naked body of a boy. Another was covered in scales below the waist and had massive twisting horns; he was riding a flying crocodile.
