InDescent Page 8

  The Prism was one of the most legendary and powerful objets magiques Jackson had ever learned about. Its precise age and origin were shrouded in mystery. From what he’d been able to gather, its physical form was that of a multifaceted crystal. Each facet led to some kind of passageway. More important, though, the Prism was like an intricate map of multidimensional intersections.

  Some mages, true mages, had asserted the specific layout of the map was determined by the person who possessed the Prism, or entered it, and so changed from owner to owner or from explorer to explorer. Other sources claimed it didn’t matter, that the Prism’s “layout” was absolute and immutable. Over the centuries, untold monks and scholars had translated The Book of Paths, which always accompanied the object.

  Jackson had also heard this vehicle could be put to more nefarious uses. But he didn’t know what those uses were or even if this claim was true.

  “Shit,” he whispered, dropping his hands between his thighs. He had to find out more.

  If Kurtz did indeed have the Prism in his possession, it wasn’t necessarily a cause for alarm. Maybe the wanna-be mage wanted to tumble down a rabbit hole into his own private Wonderland. That would be fine and dandy. The jackass could use some enlightenment. On the other hand, if he screwed up his activation of the Prism, he might get an ugly scare. He could benefit from that, too. Anything that humbled Ivan Kurtz was a good thing.

  But those rumors of the crystal’s dark potential were a definite cause for concern. It was just too much of a stretch to imagine Kurtz wanting to better himself in any admirable way. A hell of a stretch.

  Besides, Mikaela’s quirky behavior and the faux-Adin who’d appeared at the door made it clear that shit was already flying off the fan blades.

  Time was of the essence. Any research that could yield conclusive results might take weeks, even months. Literature on the Prism of Nezrabi was scarce, and most, if not all of it, was likely tucked away in the inaccessible archives of foreign libraries.

  Expelling a sigh of resignation and slapping his thighs, Jackson knew what he had to do.

  * * * *

  The last and only other time he’d visited Ivan Kurtz, Jackson had not done so in his body. He’d simply reclined on his own bed and sent out his senses in what was, for the most part, an exercise in bilocation. He'd performed a more modest version of the same feat at the esbat. Few Adepts ever mastered this rare type of projection, and it had clearly rattled Ivan.

  Despite the distance between their residences, Spey could see, smell and hear everything in Ivan’s overdone living-space. He could speak to Ivan, “touch” him, and cause things to move about. Although he was at first invisible to Kurtz—which really threw the mage for a loop, because he couldn’t identify his astral intruder—Jackson discovered he could in fact materialize his projected self, in whatever form he chose, if provoked enough. It wasn’t surprising. The act of sending out the senses was powered by emotion-driven determination. The stronger the emotion, the more vivid and effectual the projection.

  This time, however, sending out the senses wasn’t an option. Jackson had no real fix on what Ivan was up to, if anything, and no degree of certainty that it involved him. That meant he had neither enough just cause nor emotional fuel to carry out this unique act. If he wanted to confront Kurtz, he’d have to proceed the way any ordinary mortal would—by schlepping over to the asshole’s apartment. So, driving through the thin veil of an early-afternoon, spring drizzle, he headed down city streets to the freeway, then up the freeway to another tangle of streets as he made his way from the humble south side to the chichi east side.

  The closer Jackson got to Kurtz’s place, the more his memories sharpened. The more his memories sharpened, the more he withered in revulsion at the thought of setting foot inside. Even in astral form, he could barely stand being in Ivan’s abode—an ugly jumble of heavy, dark furniture and pretentious paraphernalia and smells that could have emanated from a Middle Eastern brothel.

  Then again, there was a good chance Ivan wouldn’t let him through the door.

  Jackson cursed as he approached the twelve-story building near the lakefront. Parking was a total cluster-fuck in this area. He felt fortunate to find a single space on the street, two blocks away. Walking briskly through the cool mist that still fell from the sky, he concentrated on the core of power within him, readying it. He visualized it as a dense, scintillating egg of white-gold light, the “shell” of which could be cracked at will. Once cracked, he could mold and direct the outpouring of energy as he chose. By the time he was on the elevator, ascending toward the eighth floor, his body felt like a drum being played from the inside.

  Of course, Kurtz wasn’t expecting him. Giving the mage any forewarning of his arrival would’ve been self-defeating. Ivan would either have fled the premises or laid some kind of magical trap.

  Feeling amazingly light, Jackson strode like a denim-and-leather-sheathed phantom down the carpeted corridor to Ivan’s apartment. He paused before the door and slowly filled his lungs with air from the diaphragm up. The action both calmed and stoked him. He felt no anxiety, only a need to be cautious. And alert.

  Jackson rang the bell rather than knocked. A knock on a door could be as distinctive as a voice or signature. He stepped far enough to one side of the peephole so only his shoulder, at most, would be visible. For a moment, no sound came from within—no conversation, no strains of music or televised yammering. But Ivan was home. Jackson could sense the mage’s presence as soon as he approached the door. He could smell the intertwined threads of cigarette smoke and incense.

  Then he felt the vibrations of heavy footsteps, heard Kurtz grumble, “What the hell?” He knew the mage was peering through the peephole as he barked, “Who’s there?”

  Jackson stepped in front of it.

  “Holy Jesus,” he heard Kurtz mutter in shock.

  Within seconds, Jackson felt a push to his chest that made him sway backward. Irked, he said through the door, “Hold your salvos, Ivan. I just want to talk to you.”

  “Get the fuck out of here, Spey. I mean it.”

  Jackson felt another, stronger push. Rebounding from it, he lurched forward and slammed his flattened hands against the door, making sure his eyes were visible through the viewing port. “I said, cut the defensive shit. You’re starting to piss me off …and I don’t think you want to do that.”

  A shrill ow sounded from the other side of the door. Spey smiled.

  “What did you do to me, goddammit?” Kurtz cried.

  “Just sent a little something through your peephole to make a point. And don’t try to counter it, or I’ll make the point even stronger.”

  “Why are you here? Why are you attacking me?”

  Sighing, Spey dropped his head between his upraised arms. He let his hands slide off the door. “I told you, I’m here to talk. If you just play nice and let me in—”

  “How did you get into this building?”

  Spey chuckled silently and shook his head. Kurtz couldn’t be that stupid. He certainly knew the wizard could gain access to any building anywhere.

  Then, turning an ear to the door, Jackson listened more intently. His brow dipped in concentration. Indeed Kurtz couldn’t be that stupid. He only asked the question to buy himself some time. He’d apparently hustled his ass away from the door and toward the apartment’s interior, where Jackson could hear him moving about. Maybe he’d left something on the stove.

  Or maybe he had something incriminating to stash away.

  “Ivan? Don’t tax my patience.”

  A flurry of soft footsteps, and the mage was again at the door. “Uh, just…gimme a minute, Spey. Okay? I’m not ready for company. And then, if I have your word that you’re not here to do any harm, I’ll let you in. All right?”

  Frowning at the door, Jackson let his distrust build. That prick is trying to hide something. Or concoct something. “I give you my word,” he said, “but you know it’s only valid as long as you don’t pull
any shit.”

  “Okay,” Kurtz said. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  Jackson did a half-turn, leaned against the doorframe, and closed his eyes. He wished Angelina were with him. She could instantaneously read people, tap into their mental and emotional substrata. Although Jackson was a gifted Adept, his own talents were largely the result of training and discipline. He had but a small measure of natural psychic ability, although he could clumsily muster some when need be. Unfortunately, it was too hit-and-miss to be reliable.

  The door glided open without warning, giving the reluctant visitor a mild start. He turned and stepped forward…and, for the first time in years, found himself face to face with the person he most despised.

  Flushed and slack-jawed, Ivan Kurtz gaped at him. Jackson could feel the man’s unsettling combination of fear, hostility, and awe spill over him like a polluted waterfall. The sexual desire wasn’t as strong an element as it once had been—maybe the mage’s ordeal had diluted his lust—but it, too, was still part of the mix. Jackson forced down a small wave of nausea. He couldn’t let himself he weakened by the noxious effect Kurtz had on him.

  “Well, well,” Ivan said, his tone at once tensely snide and breezy, “to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  Towering over him, Jackson stared impassively down into Kurtz’s skittish eyes. He said nothing. Verbal sparring wasn’t on his agenda.

  “Hm. Guess you’re tired of standing in the hallway, huh?” Ivan moved out of the way. “So come in.”

  He wore some mock-Oriental dressing gown of black silk. His initials were lavishly embroidered on the upper left side—roughly the same area where Jackson’s body bore a far more significant symbol than a personal monogram. After stepping past his host, Jackson politely waited for an invitation to take a seat.

  Ivan trundled to his massive leather couch and dropped onto it. He ran both hands over his thin horseshoe of hair and exhaled, inflating his cheeks. Jackson still hadn’t moved.

  Kurtz slanted his gaze in Spey’s direction. “Sit down, for Christ’s sake. You disturbed me because you wanted to talk. So talk. I have better things to do than let you stand in my living room and stare at me with those weirdass eyes of yours.”

  “Sorry,” Jackson said, seating himself on the edge of a burgundy leather chair, “but they’re the only eyes I have.” He rested his forearms on his thighs and loosely interlinked his fingers.

  Kurtz kept regarding him with almost palpable wariness. His face fell into a sneer. “And I’m sorry you can’t gloat over what you’re seeing.” He held out his stubby arms. “I obviously managed to undo the damage you inflicted.”

  “What’s done is done,” Jackson said quietly. “I’m not here to rehash the past.”

  Kurtz reached for the pack of Turkish cigarettes that lay on his black-lacquered cocktail table. “Well, you still haven’t told me why you are here. And make it snappy, why don’t you?” He lit the cigarette, languidly inhaled and exhaled. “I have things to do.”

  “On a Tuesday? Bullshit.” Jackson eased against the back of the recliner, his legs parting into a wide V. Ivan’s gaze immediately dropped to his crotch. Jackson immediately crossed his legs. “Unless you have a date with Christy.”

  The color drained from Kurtz’s face. His hand, on its way to the cocktail table, froze in midair. The length of ash he was about to flick from his cigarette dropped onto the table’s glossy surface, looking as it lay there like an old, graying cat turd on a strip of tar.

  “Who?” Ivan asked, his voice as flaccid as his dick likely was.

  “Christy,” Jackson repeated more distinctly. “Kemmer. Also known as Lady Alessandra, the most worthy High Priestess of the Coven of Artemis-on-the-Crescent.” He leaned forward once more. “Why did you have her lure me into that esbat celebration, Ivan?”

  The mage spasmodically shook his head in denial. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I didn’t have her do a damned thing.”

  “But you founded the coven, didn’t you? You’re the usual High Priest.”

  “Yeah. So?” Kurtz quickly checked his watch. “That doesn’t mean she can’t act autonomously. I sure as shit didn’t know she sought you out.” Lamely, he chuckled. “Every freakin’ female around here who’s involved in the occult thinks you’re…thinks you’re hotter than a freakin’ gamma-ray burst.”

  Jackson studied him through narrowed eyes. Was it possible Christy did act alone, and Ivan only caught wind of it later? The mage’s curiosity would be understandable, given his history with the wizard, and it could easily explain why he showed up at the covenstead last night.

  Now that Jackson thought about it, Mikaela hadn’t really said anything this morning that proved Ivan’s complicity beyond a shadow of a doubt. Christy could merely have boasted about “bagging” Jackson once he’d agreed to participate in the Passion Celebration. And such a revelation would surely have piqued Ivan’s interest.

  Dropping his face to his hands, Jackson wondered how to proceed. He didn’t want to jump to any erroneous conclusions; his sense of fairness was too strong. And he sure as hell didn’t want to say anything that would implicate Mikaela, despite the fact he felt unsettled about her, too. Given Kurtz’s appetite for vengeance, that would put her at risk.

  Therefore, he couldn’t ask about Nezrabi’s Prism.

  Spey raised his head. “I’ve told you before not to underestimate me. Now I’m telling you again. Make damned fucking sure nobody you’re associated with comes near me. Make damned fucking sure.” He knew his eye color was changing, knew a brilliant gold was spiking through the irises. It certainly drove his message home.

  The widening of Kurtz’s eyes confirmed this. He lifted his hands, palms out, as if warding off the wizard’s glare. “Listen, man, I’m telling you…it’s that crazy bitch you ended up boning that you have to worry about. The one who calls herself Hester. I mean, yeah, Christy’s a sleaze—believe me, I know that—but she couldn’t find her way out of a closet that had a five-foot-tall exit sign. Hester, though…I shit you not, Spey, she’s way smarter, but there’s something not right there. Nobody knows a damned thing about that woman. All the other coveners shy away from her, and she keeps her distance from them.” Sagely, Kurtz nodded. “That’s the person who’s up to something. I haven’t figured out her game yet, but I will.”

  These warnings, which Ivan had issued so fervidly, sent a shiver through Spey’s gut…and he hated himself for it. Why should he give any credence to anything the scumbucket said? This whole strange, sordid episode must be making him paranoid.

  Still, he felt stymied. If he defended Mikaela, it would arouse Ivan’s suspicion. If he took the mage’s claims seriously, it would be tantamount to betraying her. But did she deserve his altruistic silence?

  Jackson decided to steer completely away from the subject. “As far as I’m concerned, Hester has no role in this. No covener does…except Christy, since she’s the one who chose me. Stick to the facts.”

  Flustered, the mage threw up his hands and rocked forward. “I just gave you the goddamned facts! Christy must’ve heard about you and been intrigued by what she heard. But she’s dumber than dirt, and the esbat is over and done with, so where’s the harm?” He dropped against the back of the couch and ran a hand from his perspiring forehead over his bald scalp. “Jesus, Spey, get over it already.”

  “I’ll get over it,” Jackson said evenly, “when I’m sure neither you nor anybody allied with you is bumping up against my life.” He rose from the chair. “Don’t fuck with me, Ivan. Don’t.” He walked to the door, turned, again drilled Kurtz with his gaze. “Just for future reference, since you’re apparently too blinded by egotism to have figured this out, there was only one person in the world capable of easing your afflictions. And that person won’t be nearly as charitable in the future.” Spey opened the door. “You’d be well advised to think about that.”

  *

  Kurtz stared as the tall man in faded jeans and bla
ck leather jacket wheeled out the door. Handsome bastard hasn’t changed a bit, he thought, unable to keep his eyes off those long, taut legs, that small, tightly rounded ass, that thick and glossy cascade of hair. His mind further tormented his body by dredging up an image of Spey in a blood-red ceremonial robe, his then-longer hair buffeted by a supernatural whirlwind. That was how he’d looked when Ivan had last seen him.

  Handsome, diabolical prick. The mage’s dick pulsed in affirmation.

  He wished he’d gotten to the covenstead earlier yesterday evening and been able to see the wizard naked and rutting, all those witches’ greedy hands running over his body, his cock hard as a length of rebar. Christy said it was big. Jesus damn. Just the thought of it jack-hammering into a mouth, a pussy, an ass…

  Ivan’s hand fell to his crotch. Shit, he wanted to get off as he held that picture in his mind. Jackson Spey sexed up, demanding and unstoppable; muscles tense and flexing occasionally; skin glazed with sweat; nipples like garnet beads; balls full and aching for release.

  The cell phone shrilled the first several bars of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Cursing, Ivan leaned over his growing woody and snatched the phone off the cocktail table. He idly fondled his sore nuts with his free hand.

  “What?” he barked.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Christy. The High Priestess of Bad Timing. Ivan rolled his eyes. No, not really. I was just indulging in a big ol’ juicy fantasy and about to choke the lizard. “I was just about to call you,” he said instead.

  “Oh yeah? Why?”

  “Because your favorite wizard just paid me a visit, that’s why.”

  “Who?”

  Ivan let out a sigh of exasperation. “How fuckin’ many wizards do you know, Christy? And of the one wizard you do know, who’s your favorite?”

  “Oh. Oh, you mean Jackson Spey was there?”

  “Duh.”

  “Well…why?” Her tone became snotty. “Did he want Miki’s address or phone number or something?”