InDescent Read online

  InDescent

  K. Z. Snow

  Published 2009

  ISBN 978-1-59578-563-3

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2009, K. Z. Snow. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  Email:

  [email protected]

  Editor

  Devin Govaere

  Cover Artist

  Amanda Kelsey

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For Jan, Greg, Reg, Paul, Johnny, and all the other beautiful boys I’ve laughed with and loved in Milwaukee, Minneapolis-St. Paul, and Green Bay. I miss you.

  Prologue

  Sometimes it helped to have a necromancer as a business associate. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dryyyy bones…

  Smiling, Ivan Kurtz, magus, ruminated further as he gazed at the eldritch thing on his black lacquered cocktail table. Nice find, the Prism of Nezrabi. Wonderful big glob of magical whup-ass glass. The sight nearly made him salivate. It had taken four years and a hurtful bundle of money to secure the perfect deliverer of payback, but the wait and expense would soon be worth it.

  Is revenge sweet? In this case, the cliché was a gross understatement. In this case, revenge was reclining on a yacht in the Mediterranean, eating the finest chocolate and sipping the finest wine, while the multiple hard dicks you had growing all over your body fucked the tightest pussies and asses in all the universe without the rest of you having to break a sweat. Revenge was food, drink and a chain-chain-chain of effortless, transporting orgasms…at the end of which was your own personalized paradise, infinite and eternal.

  Oh yeah. Jackson Spey was gonna get it. But good.

  Ivan snickered then gulped some not-so-fine wine. “Wizard.” He chuffed in contempt. “Okay, big balls, we’ll see how much of a fucking wizard you are.”

  He pulled his feet off the cocktail table and dropped them to the floor so he could lean forward and study his prize. A vellum-bound book lay beside it, but Ivan hadn’t yet perused it. He would do that first thing in the morning, when his mind was fresh. For now he was content simply to savor his victory. There would be plenty of time to figure out how to activate his instrument of vengeance.

  The Prism of Nezrabi was a symmetrical chunk of what appeared to be crystal, roughly three feet in circumference, its surface expertly faceted with various geometric forms set one on top of the other. The intersecting circles etched into the crystal’s surface all contained relief-carved hexagons, then pentagons, then triangles. The center of each figural mound was set with a small stone, no two of which were alike. Thin lines extending from these stones formed an intricate grid in the crystal’s interior. Its core consisted of a silvery black sphere surrounded by tiny metallic flakes that seemed to float around it like stars.

  It was impossible to say what, exactly, the lines were. They could have been precisely placed fractures. They could have been hair-thin infusions of some foreign material—simple water, perhaps, or a mixture of organic or inorganic compounds. Legend had it the crystal contained dragon’s blood. There were just as likely other legends that claimed it contained fairy dust or the sulfuric vapors of hell.

  Conclusion—it didn’t matter what the damned thing held as long as it worked. And if it worked, it would soon be holding Jackson Spey.

  Ivan took another hefty swallow of the fruit of the vine just as Bothu, the necromancer, glided back into the living room from the bathroom. He folded his long, ashen form into a burgundy leather easy-chair, crossed his legs and splayed his bony fingers over the chair’s arms.

  “It better do what you claim it can,” Ivan murmured, sliding him a glance. He hated looking at the guy. Bothu’s complexion reminded him of snow saturated with dog pee and vehicle exhaust. The stringy red hair that seemed coated with shoe polish sure as hell didn’t improve his appearance any.

  The necromancer’s bland expression didn’t change. “How well it works obviously depends on the aptitude of the person using it. I got you the Prism, Ivan, and I got you the instruction book. Now it’s up to you to figure out how to put them together to play out your scheme.”

  “Come on, man, tell me where and how you scored it. That must’ve been some mighty influential crowbait you mumbo-jumboed over.” Ivan leaned forward. “Come on. We’re partners.”

  “Partners?” Bothu repeated with a sneer. “This was a business transaction. Period. I provided you with a rare and desirable commodity and you compensated me. Where and how I got it don’t concern you. So quit asking.” He pulled a joint and lighter from the breast pocket of his somewhat malodorous black silk shirt. “And here’s a word of advice. You’d better figure out how to keep Spey from finding out what you’re up to. Even though your recklessness seems to know no bounds, I don’t need another run-in with that man.”

  “He won’t find out.” Ivan poured himself more wine. “I’m keeping this plan securely under wraps.”

  Bothu barked out a “Ha!” before he lit the joint and took a long, savoring draw. “Just like four years ago,” he said, filaments of skunky smoke drifting from his mouth. “You had it all under control, didn’t you? You were so bloody clever. That’s why Spey came at us like the Wrath of God and we were powerless to stop him.”

  Scowling, Ivan flashed back to the miserable night that had set in motion more suffering than he'd ever known. His resentment mounted along with stubborn, self-righteous determination. “That’s exactly why I’m doing this. I owe him one. And he’s gonna get it—the most monstrous, hideous, crippling strike he’s ever had to endure.”

  Bothu rolled his eyes and shook his head. “When are you going to learn? You’d be well advised to let a sleeping panther lie.” He took a series of shorter, quicker tokes.

  That did it. Ivan Kurtz was sick to death of hearing about his rival’s preeminence. “Panther, my ass!” he shouted, throwing up his arms. “Spey’s a human being, for chrissakes!” He shot one forefinger at the necromancer and the other at the Prism. “I’m sitting on one of the most powerful tools in the history of magic, and you’re trying to tell me it won’t work against some goddamned biker?”

  Bothu leaned forward and said in a measured voice, “In case your notoriously piss-poor judgment has been further clouded by amnesia, let me remind you that ‘goddamned biker’ also happens to be one of the most powerful Adepts on this or any plane. I don’t want to cross him. I learned my lesson.” After a final drag on his dwindling doob, Bothu flipped the roach into his mouth and swallowed it. “Take my advice, Ivan. Be a true mage for a change. Use the Prism for a magical mystery tour of your own. But leave Jackson Spey alone.”

  Dramatically, Ivan dropped against the back of the couch and gripped his head. “I can’t believe my ears. After what he did to you, to us—”

  “You idiot,” Bothu interjected, “we asked for it. Or does your memory fail you on that point, too? It wasn’t as if his attacks were unprovoked. You went after him. You let envy and thwarted lust supersede your judgment, and I was foolish enough to let vainglory supersede mine.”

  Ivan fell to brooding. “Water under the bridge,” he muttered. “That prick still needs to be taken down. His fall is long overdue.” He sat forward and rested his arms on his
thighs. Immediately his gaze was drawn to the Prism. “You know what a high-minded bastard Spey is, how he prides himself on his focus and clarity, his drive and discipline.” The Prism, Ivan fancied, was eavesdropping on his sarcastic characterization. “Such purity of intent. Such high regard for the highest principles of High Magic.”

  “Don’t forget his intelligence,” Bothu said. “The man is no slouch in the smarts department, either. And it’s all those attributes that made him as powerful as he is. I was ignorant of those facts five years ago.” With a dour, thin-lipped smile, he pulled out another joint and lit it. “But the wizard didn’t hesitate to educate me.”

  Ivan barely heard the necromancer. He was still lost in his own bitter thoughts. “I know Jackson Spey once had an Achilles heel. I believe he still does. Once I confirm the existence of it, I’ll know how to take him down.” He lifted a fist and brought it down beside the Prism. “In there.” The thought of his rival’s impending journey—or, rather, precipitous descent—made him smile. “Spey’s weakness will make him wallow in the muck, over and over again, until it either drives him mad or wipes out all vestiges of that precious purity of intent.”

  “What Achilles heel?” Bothu asked, narrowing his eyes.

  Kurtz took a leisurely swallow of wine. “Same one he’s had since his pre-Merlin days, when he was still playing Easy Rider. He managed to overcome that weakness for a while, but I’m willing to bet he never fully rid himself of it. So I’m going to put him to the test.” He drank again and smacked his lips. “And I have just the right tester.”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  Feeling gleefully cunning, Ivan shifted his eyes in Bothu’s direction. “One little word. One little three-letter word that’s been the downfall of many a powerful man.”

  Chapter One

  Jackson Spey had just emerged from the shower, a good day’s work behind him and a relaxing evening of reading ahead of him, when his apartment buzzer made its dying-fly sound. He didn’t have a proper doorbell. He sure as hell didn’t have a doorman. He had a basement flat accessible to pretty much anybody, although the door itself did have three locks. He often neglected to use them. Tonight, only the chain was secured. Not that anything in his domicile would be of much interest to thieves.

  His mind was still on a particularly complicated project he’d been puzzling through at his woodshop. A very wealthy couple would be paying him a very handsome sum to design and build a quirky combination of stairways and bookshelves for their library. Although he was an accomplished furniture builder, he still saw every project as a unique challenge. And he loved challenges.

  The buzzer sounded again. For the hundredth time, Jackson considered getting an updated living space with more amenities. He could certainly well afford it, but he just didn’t desire it. Material things unrelated either to his vocation or avocation meant little to him—except, of course, his bike. Stuff was only stuff, meaningless and ephemeral.

  Tying the short velour robe more snugly around his body, Jackson sauntered through the living room toward the door. A thin spear of hope shot through him, prompting a drizzle of adrenaline. He tried to ignore this Pavlovian reaction. It seemed adolescent, silly. Besides, the person he wanted most to see would have called first.

  The door didn’t have a peephole and didn’t need one. Jackson wasn’t worried about attackers. The neighborhood might be a bit on the seedy side, but he didn’t feel particularly threatened. People pretty much minded their own business. Too much, actually. Besides, any ordinary attacker wouldn’t fare too well against him.

  He pulled the door open against its chain. He left the chain in place, figuring the person on the other side was probably looking for somebody else in the neighborhood and would be gone within seconds. If the visitor was an acquaintance, he or she would have called out his name.

  A woman’s face appeared in the narrow space. “Excuse me. Are you Jackson Spey?”

  He saw made-up eyes, smelled perfume. The cloud of scent almost made his own eyes water. “Yes.”

  “The magician?”

  Jackson wasn’t fond of that word. The fact that this stranger used it immediately put him on guard. Most serious practitioners of High Magic resented its modern connotations. Crowley, bless his rotten heart, had thrown a terminal k onto magic to distinguish the occult art from stage illusion and visual trickery.

  So he didn’t answer the woman’s question. “Who are you?” he asked instead, leery of her motives.

  “My name is Christy. Christy Kemmer. Can I talk to you?”

  “Is this going to take a while?”

  “It might.”

  Jackson believed in civility. As long as a person didn’t get obnoxious, he was willing to give that person a chance. He undid the chain and fully opened the door. “All right. Come on in.” He stepped aside to let her enter.

  The woman’s gaze did a quick slide down his body and up again as she stepped past him. Strolling off to the right, toward the living area, she made a casual loop in front of the bookshelves and desk, peering quite rudely at Jackson’s possessions. He frowned as he regarded her back. She wore an ankle-length leather coat and spike-heeled boots. Her hair, obviously permed and dyed, lay wetly on her back like a squiggly bunch of Chinese noodles drenched in some bicolor sauce. The sound of chinkling jewelry drifted from both wrists.

  “Uh…have a seat,” Jackson said, lifting his jeans and polo shirt from the back of his recliner. He tossed the clothing on the sprawl of books that took up half his sofa then sat on the one uncluttered cushion. “So…” He turned up his hands, releasing obvious questions. Who the hell are you? What do you want?

  Concluding her nosy scan of his living space, Christy sashayed over to the recliner. Settling in, she opened her coat and crossed her legs. She didn’t seem to be wearing much. Long, glittery fingernails curled over the edges of the chair arms. The nails, decorated with tiny decals, looked fake. Maybe she was on her way to a club.

  “I’m the High Priestess of Artemis-on-the-Crescent,” Christy announced. She lifted her over-plucked eyebrows. “Have you heard of us?”

  Jackson thought a minute. The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Is that the all-female coven?”

  “Yeah. We’re old-school.” Christy smiled.

  Spey got the distinct impression she was trying to look alluring. Yet, despite the boot-sheathed calves and shimmering lipstick and electric blue eye shadow, he found her distinctly unattractive. Hillbilly chic, he thought, wishing she’d get to the point and leave him alone. He would’ve bet anything she had some gaudy tramp-stamp—a dragon, maybe—riding her ass. Women who were full of themselves and tried too assiduously to be temptresses really put him off.

  “Okay, so you’re a witch,” he said. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “Once in a while,” Christy went on, “we need a male participant to represent the Great Horned One, the god of the hunt.” She leaned forward, laying her forearms together and clasping her hands on her thighs. The movement not only pressed her breasts together but gave Jackson a clear view of her artificially enhanced cleavage. Again, she smiled. “That’s where you come in.”

  He sat back and folded his hands. “Um…listen, Christy, I don’t know where or how you heard about me—”

  “Ohhh…just through various connections,” she purred.

  “Yeah, well, I’m a pretty low-profile guy, and I don’t generally lend myself out to covens I’m unfamiliar with.” Jackson forced a laugh. “Hell, I don’t lend myself out to covens at all. I’m a solo act.”

  “That’s not what I heard.” Smirking, the High Priestess remained in her folded-over position.

  “Okay, there is one coven I’m associated with. But only one. It’s like I have an exclusive contract with them.”

  “Covens don’t operate under contracts, Mr. Spey. You know that.” Putting both feet on the floor, Christy slid forward in the recliner. “We really need you. We need your power. We need your…se
nsuality. It’s for a good cause.”

  Jackson held her painted gaze. “Sounds like you’re talking about sex magic.” Where did she get that stuff about sensuality?

  Christy wiggled a bit in the chair. “Yeah, I am.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “We’d like to use an upcoming esbat for a Passion Celebration. You know, to kind of juice up our love lives. So we need to bring in a man to serve as a temporary High Priest or magister.” Christy winked. “You know it would be hard to do this kind of rite without one.”

  Jackson was getting more uncomfortable. “But why me?”

  “Because you’re familiar with witchcraft and magic. When we cast this Circle, we want it to erupt with power—the right kind of power.” Christy’s gaze again tripped along his body. “And you sure look like the man to bring it on.”

  Jackson rested an elbow on the sofa arm and ran a thumb and forefinger over his mustache. Of course he was quite familiar with sex magic. He’d performed such rituals many times. Their purpose was to promote potency and fertility, to generate or enhance romance or physical attraction. But he’d always chosen his own priestess, if he used one at all, and devised his own rituals. Glancing up at Christy Kemmer, he realized how much he didn’t want to do such a thing with her. And she definitely seemed to implying that’s how it would go.

  “With all due respect,” he said, lifting his head, “I play by my own rules. Abiding by other people’s constraints only weakens my work.”

  This seemed to throw off the High Priestess. A crease appeared between her brows. She must have thought herself and her proposition irresistible. She rose from the recliner and slipped off her coat, letting it fall to the chair. The faux-leather skirt she wore barely covered her ass. Stepping over to the sofa, she managed to squeeze her behind next to Jackson. Reflexively, he drew back by a couple of inches. Christy didn’t seem to notice.

  “Well, we might be able to work something out,” she said, angling her body toward him and smiling. “We’re flexible.”