Sympathy for the Devil (3 page)

El-Ghaffar suddenly stopped speaking, drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, and blew it out forcefully through his mouth.

Seems kinda dumb, blowing out the candles,
Stark thought,
after just going through all the trouble of lighting the damn things
.

But the candles were not extinguished by el-Ghaffar's vigorous exhalation. Instead,
something
appeared to flash through the air from the altar candles over to where the pentagram had been drawn on the floor. An instant later, the five candles at the pentagram's points sprouted tiny blossoms of flame and were soon burning brightly.

Stark stared at the newly-ignited candles for a second, then shifted his gaze in time to catch the glance that the Arab sent his way.

Yeah, I thought so. Wants to see how well the conjuring trick is going over. Well, it's not bad, although I think Penn and Teller were doing something like it last year in Vegas. You're going to have to do better than that, buddy-boy, if you want to impress me.

Nothing very intriguing happened over the next half-hour. El-Ghaffar read aloud from his
grimoire
, rang the bell periodically - always for five times on each occasion - made mysterious gestures in the air and generally bored Stark half to death.

Then, finally, he lit the brazier.

He first dropped in powders from the ceramic bowls. Stark noticed that each substance was of a different color: first there was blue, followed by green, then brown, then, finally, red. After adding the last ingredient, el-Ghaffar held his hands, palms down, over the brazier, read another few words from the book, then clapped his hands together, hard.

The material in the brazier burst into flame. It burned brightly for a few moments, then subsided to a glow that gave vent to a rather thick, gray smoke.

Stark had been watching closely.
That's a little better. I didn't see anything drop into the bowl while he was clapping. Of course, some substances will spontaneously combust when you combine them. Or maybe there's a heating element hidden inside that brazier. But it's a pretty good trick, anyway.

El-Ghaffar's voice was louder now, and had taken on a rhythmic quality. Among the incomprehensible Arabic words, Stark now heard one that he recognized. He'd seen plenty of news footage of various Arab crowds denouncing America as 'the great Satan,' so the word
Shaitan
was familiar to him.

There were no windows in the basement, or visible ventilation ducts. Even so, the smoke from the brazier was moving now, flowing inexorably toward the pentagram some twenty feet away.

Now you're talking, or, rather, chanting. I can't figure this trick out at all. Wonder if M.M knows how he's doing it?

Stark glanced at Mary Margaret Doyle and saw that her expression was grim. Her eyes were narrowed, and a vein in her neck was visibly pulsing. Stark decided to save his smartass questions for later.

The gray smoke was gathering in the center of the pentagram and had grown noticeably thicker. El-Ghaffar's chanting was reduced to one word now, and he was saying it over and over, louder and louder: "Sargatanas. Sargatanas. Sargatanas Sargatanas! Sargatanas! Sargatanas! SARGATANAS!"

The smoke in the pentagram's center was swirling, congealing, forming and reforming, and finally took on a shape that was vaguely humanoid. Then the gray mist began to dissipate, leaving the figure in plain view.

Stark's suspicion that he had been watching a cleverly produced magician's illusion disappeared along with the smoke that had been shrouding the pentagram. His skepticism had been replaced by a blend of awe and fear and disgust.

The center of the pentagram was occupied by a rotting corpse. At least, it
should
have been a corpse, except that it was standing, apparently under its own power, and the head was questing back and forth, as if it could see all three of them even though the eye sockets contained nothing but a steady stream of maggots issuing from the putrescent skull cavity.

The figure was naked, which gave Stark ample opportunity to observe the precise condition of its decaying flesh, to note the places where the flesh had disappeared completely to reveal white bone, and to consider the number and variety of necrophages (beetles, worms, and the maggots, among others) that were finding the unquiet corpse a tasty treat.

The grotesque sight had been present only for a few seconds when its odor hit them like a great polluted tide - an amalgam of rot and filth and shit and decay that almost made Stark vomit.

"Hearken unto me, disobedient one!" el-Ghaffar said sternly. "Thou wert summoned, as per agreement, and bidden to assume a pleasing form. Do so -
now!
"

The thing in the pentagram answered in a voice that was deep and cultured, like James Earl Jones at his most charming. "
My form is pleasing to me
."

"Well, it pleases neither me nor my companions," el-Ghaffar said. "Change now, lest I smite thee!" He picked up the long, curved sword from the altar and held the blade an inch or so above one of the candles.

"Peace, peace, I hear and obey." For Stark, it was the height of incongruity to hear that voice, so alive and vigorous, coming from something that you might find buried deep in a Mafia-owned landfill.

Then, in an instant, the image of decay and death was gone, replaced by something that was manifestly, defiantly alive. The sculptors of ancient Athens could not have envisioned a figure of human perfection to rival what now stood in the center of the pentagram. The man stood about six feet, with a cap of tight black curls that matched the eyebrows which perched elegantly above piercing blue eyes. The body was literally perfect - muscular, tight, tan, and toned, without a scar or blemish.

"Thy form is now much more pleasing to the eye, not to mention the nose," el-Ghaffar said. "Whilst thou art briefly among us, great Sargatanas, I will ask of thee certain simple tasks, well within thy powers to perform." He gestured toward Stark and Mary Margaret Doyle. "These companions of mine would know of thy power, thy wisdom, thy knowledge of this world's affairs, even of those things which certain Kings and Princes regard as their most closely-held secrets. In return, I shall reward thee as promised in our bargain, made freely and duly signed by us both, in mutual obligation."

"I don't think that will be necessary."

The voice was Mary Margaret Doyle's, the first time she had spoken since the ritual started. Both men stared at her in amazement which quickly turned to shock as, almost casually, she stepped outside the circle.

Stark was mystified. She had appeared to be taking this business seriously from the beginning, whereas Stark's suspicion had evolved into tentative belief only in the last few minutes.

Is she trying to debunk this whole thing? Is el-Ghaffar a fraud, after all? Did she notice something that I've missed?

If Stark was confused, el-Ghaffar looked stupefied. He gaped as Mary Margaret Doyle walked briskly over to the pentagram. The demon trapped inside it seemed to be the only one who did not find her behavior unusual. Instead, he appeared to be watching with great interest.

She approached one of the candles burning at the pentagram's five points, and, after a moment's hesitation, kicked it over.

This brought Hassan el-Ghaffar out of his shocked silence. "You stupid cow, what are you
doing?"
he screeched. "Put that back where it was, immediately! Quickly, before it goes out! Do you hear me, you fucking
cunt
?"

Mary Margaret Doyle turned to look at el-Ghaffar. Instead of the shocked and angry expression that Stark expected, there was a wide smile on her face.

"Goes out?" she said pleasantly. "You mean, like this?" The smile remained in place as she raised her left foot again - and stomped the flame into extinction.

A sudden release of energy knocked all three of the humans off their feet. There was no sound of detonation, no flying debris, just a force of immense power that burst from the center of the pentagram, and if there was any noise at all, it was something that resembled a cry of triumph, although it was a sound that had never issued from any human throat.

El-Ghaffar was the first to regain his feet. He did so slowly, awkwardly, like a punch-drunk boxer determined to answer the bell for the last round. Blinking rapidly, he looked toward the pentagram, where the four remaining candles had been reduced to smoking pools of melted wax. The same fate had befallen the two candles atop the altar. And there was an even more important change in the basement.

The center of the pentagram was empty.

Mary Margaret Doyle stood up next, in a single, fluid motion, and began brushing bits of dirt off her expensive blue suit. El-Ghaffar looked at her, but the rage was gone from his face, replaced by a look of shocked incomprehension.

Howard Stark was just getting to his feet as el-Ghaffar said, "We should... all be dead. There are accounts on record, going back centuries, stories of demons who were conjured and then somehow got free of their fetters."

Stark dusted himself off without speaking, left the now useless protective circle, and walked stiffly toward the altar. His face bore no expression.

"All these stories, these legends," el-Ghaffar continued in a monotone, "say the same thing: after the demon escaped, it slaughtered every person in the conjuring chamber, usually with extreme cruelty and mutilation."

Stark had reached the altar, but el-Ghaffar paid him little mind. If he noticed Stark's hand closing on the handle of the scimitar, he gave no sign of it.

"It makes no sense, when you consider the malign nature of demons," el-Ghaffar said. "I can't understand why Sargatanas failed to kill us all."

"It's simple, really," Stark said, in a deep, harsh baritone that was utterly unlike his normal voice. "This time, there are bigger stakes involved."

In his addled state, el-Ghaffar was slow to understand. In the three or four seconds it took him to comprehend what had happened, something that had until recently been Howard Stark took two steps forward, the scimitar in its right hand. The Arab's mouth was just starting to open in a scream when Stark's arm swung in a low, vicious arc.

There was a wet sound of impact, followed a moment later by a high-pitched scream. El-Ghaffar stared in horror as his intestines began to slide out through the long, spurting slash that had just been made in his belly. After a few seconds he looked up at them, his face showing a mixture of pain, horror and despair as he realized that, this time, the shark cage had failed him utterly. Then he collapsed to the concrete floor.

The thing that had once been Senator Howard Stark turned to look at Mary Margaret Doyle. She stared back, her eyes wide, her body rigid as a marble statue. Then the smile lit up her face again.

"That was nicely done," she said. "You've got quite a stroke there."

Stark's mouth smiled in turn. "Once we are alone, in the hotel, I will show you other strokes that I am capable of. All night long, for a beginning."

"I should certainly hope so," she said.

Stark's head turned to look at el-Ghaffar, who lay in a spreading pool of blood, mouth opening and closing like a hooked fish awaiting the gaff. "I could have killed him at once, but it amuses me to give him a small foretaste of Hell. He thinks that he suffers now - he will soon learn the true meaning of suffering."

Mary Margaret Doyle looked at el-Ghaffar with the same indifference she would give to a dead dog alongside the road. "We shouldn't be away from Boston too long. As you said, there are bigger stakes involved, Senator - or should I say,
Mr. President
."

The thing that had once been Howard Stark chuckled softly. "I like the sound of that title. I could get used to it."

She gave her head a toss. "If all goes according to plan, you'll have the opportunity to do so."

It nodded Stark's head a couple of times. "Yes, the prospects are good, and will yet improve. We have you to thank for that. My Father is pleased with you. When the Final Victory is ours, you will be rewarded."

She bowed her head humbly. But when she straightened up, there was a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Perhaps you can provide a foretaste of my reward, in the meantime." "

"It will be interesting to see just how strong your... appetites are. Perhaps, even in this poor flesh, I will prove too much for you."

"That sounds like a challenge," she said, her voice husky with lust. "And I
do
love a challenge. Shall we go?"

At the base of the stairs, she looked back at El-Ghaffar's still-twitching form. "What about him?"

"Have no concern. He will be attended to."

They climbed the stairs, and soon there was the sound from outside of a car starting. Three minutes later, the first rat crept into the basement through a gap in the house's foundation. Its whiskers twitched as it sniffed the damp air. The smell of blood was fresh and strong, and the rat was hungry.

It did not stay hungry long. Nor did its many relatives

Chapter 1

Trouble with the manly parts tended to run in Ron Brooks' family. His father had died of prostate cancer, as had an uncle. So when Brooks started having to strain to take a leak, he wasted no time consulting his family doctor, who gave him a referral to a urologist.

The specialist ordered a battery of tests, which were performed during a two-day hospital stay. Some of the procedures were embarrassing, others painful, and a few were both. But Ron Brooks went through it all without complaint, and made an appointment with the urologist to discuss the results a week later.

Hyman Reiss - M.D., B.C.U. - had given bad news to a lot of patients over his sixteen-year medical career. Therefore, he was always happy to be the bearer of good tidings - even if the recipient
was
a politician, a species that Dr. Reiss privately ranked slightly below the tapeworm.

Reiss was double-checking the patient's test results and making annotations in the margins when his intercom buzzed softly. "Mr. Brooks is here for his appointment, Doctor," his receptionist's voice said. "Did you want him in an examining room?"