Doomsday Can Wait (27 page)

"Your people are fascinating," Whitelaw continued. "I've researched the Witchery Way." His words tumbled out more quickly as he warmed to his topic. "Most of my subjects equate the word
wolf
with the word
witch.
Would you agree?"

Sawyer just smiled, then struck a match against his thumb and lit a cigarette that had appeared out of nowhere.

"You—uh—can't smoke in a public—" Whitelaw began.

Sawyer lifted his brow and blew a stream in White-law's direction. The professor coughed and gave up.

"I see you have a wolf on your . . ." Whitelaw flicked a finger at Sawyer's bicep, which rippled and twitched as if the wolf wanted very badly to get out. "Are you it—" He stopped as if suddenly realizing that asking a witch if he was a witch might be a very good way to get dead.  He swallowed, his throat clicking loudly in the sudden, waiting silence of the room.

I jumped in before things got too uncomfortable. "I'd love in hear more about your research into the Navajo," I said. "That's why we came."

"Really?" Whitelaw's face lit up again.

"Yes—" I began.

"Tell us what you know," Sawyer ordered, and words spilled from Whitelaw's mouth like a fountain. I cast sawyer a suspicious glance. I hadn't seen him do anything to make Whitelaw talk, but that didn't mean he hadn't.

"Navajo witches are shape-shifters. Skinwalkers." Whitelaw's gaze flicked to Sawyer's tattoos again, and he licked his lips nervously. "They have sex with the dead, practice cannibalism, and possess the ability to kill from afar with the use of ritual."

"Go on," Sawyer murmured. He didn't seem shocked by the professor's words, but I was.

"Dogs will bite a witch when the witch is in human form."

"And?" Sawyer said.

Next he'd be asking Whitelaw where he'd gotten his information, and then deciding just who needed to die—those who'd told secrets or the one who'd listened to them. There were times when he was very much his mother's son.

"Witches are most dreaded when the wind blows. They travel on the storm; they take their power from lightning. They say the rain is a woman."

I doubted Whitelaw would have needed much encouragement to give us a history lesson, but the way he couldn't seem to shut his mouth was too suspicious.

"Witches are associated with death and the dead, also incest."

I jerked so hard I nearly put my neck out of whack. Sawyer's hair lifted. Just a little, as if a fan had stirred the air nearby. But there wasn't a fan anywhere that I could see. Sawyer took another drag of his cigarette, then fixed his eyes, which were the same shade as the smoke coming out of his nose, on Whitelaw as he continued.

"To take a witch's power you must repeat their true name four times."

"True name?" I asked.

"At birth the Navajo are given a secret war name. This name is that person's personal property, never used by anyone, even his or her family."

"How are people distinguished if no one knows their name?"

"Most have nicknames," Whitelaw answered. "Something for the white people to call them. It's still considered bad manners by many of the old ones to call someone by their name in their presence."

I glanced at Sawyer. He'd lost his cigarette and was staring at Whitelaw with murder in his eyes.

"What do you know about the
Naye'i?"
I blurted.

"Dreadful Ones. The most evil spirits the Navajo have."

"Ever hear how to kill one?"

"Kill?" Whitelaw's face creased. "An evil spirit? I don't think that's possible."

Carla had said we might have to help him piece things together. But how would I do that if I didn't know the pieces in the first place?

"Spirits are good and evil," Whitelaw mused. "Both light and dark. There was something once . .." His voice trailed off; he stared out the window.

I glanced at Sawyer, whose stoic gaze remained on Whitelaw. Luther still hung by the door; he'd be the first one out if getting out were a good idea. I had a feeling he'd be hanging out by the open doors for several years to come. Poor kid.

Suddenly Whitelaw spun and headed for his desk. He flipped through a pile of books, tossed several papers aside.  "It's not written anywhere; I heard it. Someone told me." He rubbed his forehead for several seconds, then "Something," he murmured, "something about killing the darkness."

It was only because Sawyer's eyes had made me un-easy before that I bothered to glance at him now. He was lifting his hand, still staring at Whitelaw. I didn't think; I stepped between them.

Behind me. Luther's snarl rumbled. I didn't dare glance back and see what was happening. I didn't dare move at all.

Whitelaw's eyes had gone wide, the dark brown irises looking like demonic egg yolks in the middle of a sea of white.  He saw that Sawyer meant murder; I could smell it.  That scalding scent of ozone in the air, the very same scent that signaled fury in Mommy Dearest.

"Go on," I ordered, and when Whitelaw hesitated, I snapped, "Hurry."

Whitelaw wasn't stupid. He knew he was in trouble, that he'd better spit out the information because once he did there'd be no more reason to kill him. Once the method to kill the darkness was shared, it could no lon-ger die with him.

The question was, why did Sawyer want it to?

CHAPTER 26

"Stop that!" I ordered the room at large.

Luther's snarls faded, which was as good an indication as any that Sawyer had lowered his hand. Didn't mean he wouldn't raise it again. Didn't mean he couldn't kill Whitelaw in some other way. Although I had to think that if Sawyer could have, he would have.

"What are they?" Whitelaw whispered, eyes still too wide and too white.

"You wouldn't believe me."

"I think I might."

I thought he might, too, but—

"Not now," I said, and he nodded, understanding the urgency was still there.

"To kill the darkness," he murmured, "one must embrace it."

"Embrace?" My lip curled. That was
so
not going to happen.

"Embrace or become. I remember asking and he said—"

"Who said? A Navajo?"

It seemed impossible that the Navajo would know that their evilest evil spirit would be the future leader of Hell's army. Hell being a Christian concept as well as its leader.

However, I was finding out that Christianity didn't mean so much in terms of end-time prophecy. Sure, the Christians were the authors of it, but maybe that was only because they'd been the first to write it down.

Whitelaw shook his head. "The Navajo believe in evil, which is why they don't like to talk about it. Sometimes, talking about it"—he lowered his voice, pointedly keeping his gaze from straying to Sawyer—"brings it forth."

"Let's hope not," I murmured, and Whitelaw shud-dered, making me wonder if his yapping about supernatural entities, his writing down of those legends, had brought forth things that had no business being brought forth.

"When I was doing research for my book on Revelation," he continued, "I spoke with a rabbi who had an interesting theory about the end of the world. He said that the final battle would be between good and evil."

"What's so interesting about that?"

"He didn't use those terms. He used
darkness
and
light
. Said the only way to defeat the darkness was with the light. That the light would have to . . ." Whitelaw squinted, closed his eyes, then blurted the rest. "Embrace the darkness and in doing so would become it. Only then could evil be defeated."

"Become,"  I  repeated,  glancing  at  Sawyer.   He shrugged, but he wasn't looking at me, he was still looking at Whitelaw as if he wanted to do something very unpleasant to the man.

Luther stood between us, back to me, his gaze on Sawyer. I'd been wrong. The kid hadn't gone out the door at the first sign of trouble, he'd stepped forward to face it. I was so impressed.

"I had no idea what he meant," Whitelaw mused. "Those old languages are difficult to figure out and sometimes the translations are wrong and sometimes they mix dialects."

He was gibbering. The longer I was here, the more I thought Whitelaw just might be a little psychic himself. He was certainly feeling the "gonna kill you" vibes that were washing off Sawyer like bad BO.

"This rabbi," I said. "Where can I find him?"

Whitelaw winced. "He was killed. Very strange case. Wild dogs."

"Wasn't me," Sawyer murmured.

Whitelaw opened his mouth, then shut it again. Smart man.

"Did the rabbi say how he'd discovered this information?"

"In a grimoire."

"Huh?"

"A textbook of magic. Most are instructions for invoking angels or demons."

"Are?" I straightened. "They still exist today?"

"Parts of them. In translation. Which is why the rabbi wasn't certain of the exact wording." The professor frowned. "I don't know why he told me any of this in the first place, but he seemed determined that I know it."

I was getting more and more certain that this rabbi had been one of us, had known somehow that I, or someone like me, would eventually come to Whitelaw and need this info. So he'd told the doctor and then he'd died. From the sound of it, by shape-shifters. Werewolves, coyotes, possessed puppies—didn't matter. He was dead.

"Do you have a copy of the grimoire he used?"

Whitelaw shook his head. "He said he'd gotten the information from the
Key of Solomon,
which is a book attributed to King Solomon. There are translations and parts of it all over the place. But this particular section"— Whitelaw bit his lip—"he swore it was from the original book."

"And where is that?"

"It doesn't exist. Or rather, no one's ever found it."

Sheesh, could someone please play a new tune?

"The translations date from the Middle Ages," Whitelaw continued.

"But no one's seen it since?"

"Except Rabbi Turnblat. He insisted he'd read the recipe for killing the darkness in the original
Key of Solomon
."

"Do you think that was true?"

"If it was, the book disappeared; it wasn't in his effects when he died."

Probably because whatever had killed him had taken it. I didn't think that was going to prove a plus for our side.

"What else was in this book?"

"Spells to become invisible, gain favor and love, find stolen items, constrain and release demons."

Ah, hell. I had a pretty good idea who had the damn thing.

"We need to go." I said.

"Wait!" Whitelaw started forward, freezing when both Sawyer and Luther growled.

I cast them a look and they subsided, though they both appeared as if they might jump out of their skin, or perhaps into another, furrier one.

"I want to help," Whitelaw said.

"Help what?"

"I've been studying Revelation; I see the signs. I also had a pretty good idea that a lot of those supernatural legends I'd read about were real." He stared pointedly at Sawyer and Luther. "Even before they showed up. I think you could use someone with my knowledge on your side."

I thought we could, too, so I filled Whitelaw in. It didn't take long; he was pretty up on the lingo. Since Sawyer didn't pop a blood vessel, I figured spilling the beans was okay with him. Not that I needed his approval, but it didn't hurt.

"You have any ideas on how one might become the darkness?" I asked.

Slowly Whitelaw shook his head. "According to you the Grigori made the Nephilim by interbreeding with humans. Despite the stories, you can't become one by sharing blood or being bitten or cursed—"

"Become one," I murmured, and suddenly I knew what I had to do. But first things first. "See if you can find any information on something called the Book of Samyaza," I ordered. "Ever heard of it?"

Whitelaw shook his head. "Grimoire?"

"Kind of a Satanic how-to. Revelatory prophecies for the other side."

Whitelaw wasn't slow. Understanding spread across his face. "If we have that, we'll know what they're up to."

"Can't hurt," I said. "And see if you can get a lead on the
Key of Solomon.
I have a really bad feeling it's in hands it shouldn't be."

Whitelaw paled, but he nodded, said good-bye, and when I glanced back as we left the room, he already had his nose so deep in a dusty book, the echo of his sneezes followed us down the staircase.

Outside, night had fallen. I turned to Sawyer and shoved him in the chest. It was like shoving a building. "You knew," I said.

"Knew what?"

"Don't bullshit me, Sawyer. You were going to zap Whitelaw into the next world before he told me."

"I was?"

"Aaah!" I smacked both hands into his chest. Sawyer grabbed  me by the wrists before I could do it again. Luther snarled.

"Back off, kid," I ordered. "This is between him and me. Wait in the car."

Amazingly, he did.

I tugged at my wrists, but Sawyer wouldn't let go. "Why were you going to kill the professor?"

"He knows too much."

"Like how to end your mother?"

Sawyer's jaw worked. He hated it when I called her that, but tough.

"Sometimes I wonder whose side you're on," I murmured.

"Not hers."

"No? Then why didn't
you
tell me how to kill her? You lied when you said you didn't know. Some people might think you were a spy. Some people might think it would be a good idea to kill you right now."

Too bad some people didn't know how.

"Who told you?" I asked.

"No one." He let me go with a tiny shove. "Everyone. It's an ancient legend, a prophecy that made no sense. Until you came along."

"Does she know?" I blew out a sharp, quick breath. "Of course she does." Another very good reason for her to try and kill me.

"There has to be another way," Sawyer said quietly.

"There's usually only one method of killing these things. Why would you think there's two just because you didn't like the first?"

"Whitelaw knew how to kill the darkness. But there also has to be a method of killing a
Naye'i."