Descended from Dragons: an Urban Fantasy (Moonlight Dragon Book 1) (13 page)

He let go of my arm and led the way to the door. "You're right, Moody. Two's company, but three's a crowd. We've still got a lot of work to do."

Thinking about the demon inside him, I mentally agreed. Threesomes just weren't my scene even if this
was
Las Vegas.

It was time to make this party a private one.

~~~~~

Orlaton wasn't happy to see us. Big surprise.

"No, I don't have an appointment," I said as soon as his large eyes began to narrow in the door slot. "But I do have everything you asked me for and then some." I placed my hand on Vale's shoulder. "This is the gargoyle, Vale."

"I know what he is. How did you pull him out of form?"

"Let's just say I have friends in low places," I said coyly.

I could tell Orlaton was dying to know what that meant, but his ego wouldn't allow him to ask. It was no wonder his head was so large.

With a heavy sigh, he opened the door for us. If Vale was startled by Orlaton's youth, he didn't let it show.

"You've made things more difficult for yourselves," Orlaton said as he again walked off without a backwards glance.

"What do you mean?" I asked. We came to the center rotunda where the occultists had tried to contact the Norwegian serial killer. No one was in the room now, nor had I glimpsed anyone within the stacks as we'd walked through the shop.

Orlaton stopped with his back to a bookshelf and crossed his arms over his chest. He peered disapprovingly at us from over the frames of his glasses. "Your gargoyle—"

"My name is Vale and don't talk about me like I'm not here," he said calmly.

Orlaton pursed his lips, waited a measured beat to let us know he was ticked off by the interruption, and then continued. "Whoever did this to you clearly failed to warn you that in doing so they've measured your life in hours."

"Why don't you try elaborating on that," Vale said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You were pulled out of your shifter form while still under the constraints of a curse."

"What curse?" I cut in.

He rolled his eyes. "Planting a demon into an object isn't done as part of a spell. It's an act of black magick. It's a hex or a curse. And since that curse wasn't removed before he changed forms, the curse is now bastardized." Orlatan added haughtily to Vale, "If you shift back into a gargoyle form, statue or other, while this modified curse remains active, you will never be a man again."

My jaw fell open. "But that's inevitable as soon as the sun rises!"

"I'm surprised you weren't warned about this," Orlaton said with a hint of a sneer on his face.

"Well, I think it was something of a last minute decision," I mumbled. Had Liliana tricked us or had she not known this would happen?

"What can be done about it?" Vale demanded.

"I would have said nothing,
except
," Orlaton said, clearly relishing the drama he was creating, "this is no ordinary case of possession thanks to your multiple forms. If you exorcise the demon, it may also lift the curse."

"This is definitely no ordinary possession," Vale said dryly. "The person who did this to me had intended something else."

"Magickal mistakes lead to the downfall of so many," Orlaton lamented, though his smirk suggested that other peoples' errors only made him feel better about his own skills, whatever they might be.

"We're all agreed that we need an exorcism and we need you to do it, Orlaton," I told him firmly. "You said you'd help, so here's your chance to impress us."

He actually tsked, like an actor in a British period drama. "Impressing you, Miss Moody, will hardly affect my day nor my value to the magickal community."

"Is this kid for real?" Vale muttered to me.

I pretended I hadn't heard him and focused on Orlaton. "Just tell us what you need to get this done." I pointed at the imaginary watch on my wrist. "The sun's coming up in a few hours and I have a hunch this isn't a snap your fingers and it's done sort of thing."

"Hardly."

Orlaton turned and disappeared into an aisle of books. I crossed my fingers that he was looking up books he might need and hadn't simply walked away to watch TV.

No, he'd be too snobby for TV. He'd be the type to spend hours cataloging the larval stages of the tsetse fly.

He returned less than a minute later, carrying a thick book bound in red leather. Its corners were frayed and the edges of the pages were dark and shiny from use. Either it was a dictionary or it was a reference book on demons.

"Knowledge of the specific demon inside you will be helpful," Orlaton said, his tone droll, as he stopped in front of Vale and began thumbing through the red book. "Also," he added almost as an afterthought, "I need your Name."

Vale's eyes glittered and a thin smile curled his lips. "I'm not telling you my Name."

Orlaton raised his head, all wide-eyed innocence. "Then how will I know you truly are the victim in this instance? How will I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you're not here to mislead Miss Moody and myself?"

The young occultist took a hasty step backward when Vale advanced on him. "You'll just have to trust me," Vale growled softly.

I didn't see this scene ending well so I put a hand on Vale's shoulder to stop him.

"I'll vouch for him," I told Orlaton. "He's not in cahoots with this demon. He wants it banished just as much—no,
more
—than we do."

Orlaton sniffed and raised his chin, trying to appear unruffled. He bent over the red book again. "Then I'll need to know which demon possesses you."

"Isn't it enough to know that it's a demon?" I asked, painfully conscious of the time we were spending not performing an exorcism.

"I'll need its Name, Miss Moody, so I can determine if it is ruled by an elemental or a compass direction. If it travels alone or if it commands subordinate spirits. Some demons, Miss Moody, only manifest at specific times of the day. Others can only be summoned on certain days of the week. Still others—"

"Aglasis."

Orlaton and I looked to Vale in surprise. His mouth was downturned, as though he'd just spat out something disgusting. "It told me once, to try to intimidate me."

With narrowed eyes, Orlaton consulted the pages of the red book. "If you had known who Aglasis is, you would have been suitably intimidated, gargoyle." His finger stopped on an entry in the book. "Aglasis is a high-ranking demon with the ability to subvert distances, making them longer or shorter during travel as it sees fit."

"What, so Vagasso needed a demon to get him to New York in a hurry?"

Orlaton flicked me a brief glare. "That is only one of its powers. More likely Aglasis was chosen because upon command it will destroy the enemies of whoever has summoned it." He shut the book with a sharp snap. "You said Vagasso. That is not a true Name."

"Probably not. He's not a demon, but he's something super powerful." I shivered. "You think you could find him in one of your books?"

Orlaton stared at me a moment, his expression unreadable, and then he disappeared between the book stacks again.

"Is that a no?" I called after him.

I rubbed at my temples. Why did occultists have to be so socially inept?

"Why is it a big deal to have your name?" I murmured to Vale while I massaged my head.

"He wasn't referring to what I call myself. He wanted to know my gargoyle elemental Name. My spirit Name. When you know a magickal being's true Name, you gain the power to curse them or worse."

That made sense, considering how much Orlaton mistrusted Vale. "He's not a bad kid, despite all the weirdness," I tried. "I don't think he wants to hurt you."

Vale wasn't buying it. "He's as dangerous as any sorcerer because he's ambitious."

"I prefer the term go-getter."

"He's also a know-it-all."

"'Well read' sounds so much nicer."

Vale sighed, exasperated. "Moody, he's not your friend despite whatever you've been telling yourself. He may be young, but he's not harmless. If he runs this place then he's associated with some heavy hitters in the occult world. You and I both know what kinds of people they can be."

"Guilt by association?" I shot back. "That's hardly fair."

I could tell Vale was bemused by my defense of Orlaton and maybe I was a tad bewildered by it myself. The kid really was the type to electrify his doorbell just for the hell of it, and not just to give you a zap but to stop your heart.

I blamed my feelings on the locked trunk that Orlaton had shown me. As soon as someone revealed a weakness or vulnerability, I felt duty bound to defend them. As noble as that sounded, it was actually pretty dumb on my part. Vale was right: if the opportunity ever came to gain true notoriety and power, Orlaton might throw me beneath one of Vegas' party buses.

I opened my mouth to try to explain myself, when Orlaton's voice floated to us from somewhere within the stacks.

"Vale will need to be purified. There's a restroom near the front door. He'll need to bathe thoroughly and put on the robe that he finds in the cupboard."

I looked to Vale to see how he felt about this. To my surprise, he gave a nod. Desperate times called for desperate measures, including desperate showers.

"What should I do?" I called back.

"Make sure no one disturbs us. The shop is warded against the entrance of dark spirits, but it's a passive defense and it won't hold up against sustained attack. If we're interrupted before the exorcism is successful…well, I'm sure I don't need to go into detail about just how unfortunate that would be for us."

"No," I muttered, "you don't."

"I'd rather stand guard with you than get wet again," Vale said, looking annoyed as we headed for the front of the shop.

I had to shove that imagery to the far, far back of my head.

"Look at it this way," I said, "Orlaton's probably got fabulous taste, so when this is all over you can steal the robe."

We found the restroom. It was immaculate, which was to be expected of Orlaton. He probably scrubbed it clean with a toothbrush every day. The only concessions to it being the bathroom of an occultist were the incense burners on the sink, the unlit black and white pillar candles, and the small bowls of salt that were arrayed around the top shelf that surrounded the shower. In the cupboard was a perfectly folded white waffle weave cotton robe.

"See you when you're clean," I said from the doorway.

Vale had been holding the robe uncertainly, but at my words, he clenched the fabric. "You trust this kid?"

I held his gaze. "I trust him enough for this."

The truth was I had no other alternatives. It was too late to call in any of the other magickal beings I knew. But I doubted Vale wanted to hear that. He was putting everything on the line based on my word, so I looked him in the eye and tried to project a confidence I didn't completely feel.

"This will work."

The taut lines of his face eased. "Okay, Moody."

I sort of hated myself, then, but I told myself there was no point in stressing Vale out when there was nothing he or I could do to improve the situation.

After I shut the door I remained standing there and listened until I heard the water in the shower come on. Vale stepping under that spray was about more than washing off. It meant he had put his faith in me. I realized in that moment that I wanted us to survive this. I wanted the next time Vale took a shower for me to be in there with him, or at least waiting for him with a towel.

With a heavy sigh that wasn't anywhere near as heavy as the burden of responsibility that now rested on my shoulders, I returned to the rotunda. Orlaton was back and he'd been busy in the few minutes I'd been with Vale.

He was dressed in a blood red robe whose hems were covered with runes stitched in gold thread. It was extremely flashy and I was pretty sure he could have gotten away with a plain black one but this was Orlaton and you had to allow the guy his drama. If gaining his help required him becoming His Highness the Grand Archbishop of Demonology and Hufflepuff Studies, so be it.

He had pulled back a couple of the ornate rugs to reveal the wooden floorboards beneath. In his hand he held a small bag that looked like it contained sugar or salt, and in his other hand he held a long, thin sword.

It had a carved hilt that was straight out of World of Warcraft. I would have bet money that Orlaton had bought it at a fan convention. Curiously, I noted that he'd engraved, perhaps with a Dremel tool, the letters AGLA onto one side of the blade.

Orlaton caught me looking and smirked. "A certain demographic would claim I've diminished the value of this sword." He turned the blade over, revealing that he'd clumsily etched four symbols into the metal. "That demographic is made up of Cheetos-eating fools."

I nodded with no idea what he was talking about. "I'll take your word for it."

He looked put-out and an edge was in his voice when he barked, "Follow me and pour a salt trail exactly two inches outside of the line that I carve. Be extremely precise."