Chapter Five

With her head resting against the seat of Gus’ Escape, Cecily relived every word of that long-ago conversation with Calder. Had he slipped while dishing out his vague answers? Had she missed something, a clue, anything to help her now? Think, Cecily, think.

The task remained futile. She'd blocked the discussion from her mind for two years, like she had the immense pain and loneliness she felt after losing the only home she’d ever known, the place she felt safe and loved. Calder's words, “You trust me, don’t you?” echoed through her head. “I’d never do anything to hurt you . . . to hurt you . . ..”

She had trusted him, never again asked about the dark secrets Marcel kept from her. She knew one thing only, Calder loved her, would do anything to protect her from everything bad in the world, real or imagined.

Apparently, the bad included Marcel.

She couldn't convince her heart the locked doors and secrecy surrounding the Frost family didn't exist. It existed all right, for as long as she could remember.

After that heartbreaking goodbye at the airport, she’d moved to Minnesota, opened a cute, but small boutique that specialized in healing herbs and essential oils. She hadn’t given Marcel an explanation, ignored his phone calls for months, and did the best she could to forget him.

Now Calder was dead, his lips silenced forever. She'd never get the truth from him. Well, they wouldn't, couldn’t seal her lips. One way or another she’d find out why Calder insisted she leave Des Moines.

With her heart in her throat, she exited the car, crossed the yard and walked through the back door of the kitchen.

With a pair of pot holder gloves on her hands, Mae hovered about the stove, while Marcel took childish delight in sailing paper plates onto the table from a distant corner of the kitchen. At times she hated his childish antics, his I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-anyone-thinks-of me attitude.

Mae looked up when she walked through the door. “Hello, dear. What, no packages?”

With her arms out at her sides, Cecily shook her head. “Window shopping, mostly, but I did visit the New Age shop.”

“Sounds interesting.” Mae lifted the lid from the cast-iron pot. “What exactly do they do there?”

Marcel interjected a snort. “Sell snake oil and Chinese water.”

“Funny, Marcel. Have you considered stand-up comedy?” She shot him a grotesque face—crossed eyes, outthrust tongue—and turned her attention to Mae again. “Here’s what their brochure says: A place to pursue your individual path of mystical knowledge, spiritual enlightenment, and metaphysical influence. They also sell things like herbs, candles, books, and they teach classes.”

Mae squealed. “Classes? How fun!”

“Yeah, in fact, I signed up for one this Sunday.”

“Let me guess.” Marcel put a finger to the corner of his lip. “Buddha's coming to speak on The Ultimate Reality.”

“Fuck off, already, Marcel.”

Mae gave her son the stink eye, carried the pot to the table and said in a disgusted tone, “Marcel.”

“Sorry, Mom.” With feigned interest, he glanced at Cecily. “So, what is the class about?”

Ignoring the asshat's faux apology, Cecily slumped into a chair at the table. “This one is on how to explore the most practical metaphysical tools around the pendulum.”

Her eyes glittering, Mae set the food down and settled into a chair opposite her. “Beef stew I picked up after the Garden Club meeting. Help yourself, kids.” Without missing a beat, she added, “I'd love to join you Sunday for that pendulum class.”

“Great. I'll call them tonight and sign you up.” After I read through Calder's journal I pilfered from his bedroom. “Where's Elliott, by the way? Isn't he coming down for dinner?”

“He's out of town for a few days on business, dear.”

Cecily glanced at Marcel, countering with a cocky statement of her own. “I bet he’s scouting out this year's paint colors for limos…like, black, black and black?”

Marcel lifted a shoulder. “Could be.”

Typical answer for my-lips-are-sealed Marcel.

Gorgeous my-lips-are-sealed Marcel.

She ignored the familiar fire pedaling through her blood and reminded herself that soon, he'd never underestimate her again. He didn't count on her snooping around, staying in Des Moines after the funeral, but after today, she was more determined than ever to find all the missing pieces of the puzzle. And then she'd hit the lyin' snake with a full-frontal assault right between the eyes.

Cecily finished a half-filled bowl of stew and pushed back from the table. “I'm beat. Think I'll head up to my room for the night. Supper was great, Mae.”

“Thank you, dear. If you need anything, remember, I'm just down the hall.”

Cecily smiled at Mae and hoped Marcel recognized the direct cut she graced him with. “I will, Mae. Goodnight then, see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, dear.”

“Night,” Marcel echoed.

She walked from the kitchen and felt the man’s eyes burning a hole in her back. Wheels were turning in his duplicitous head; she could almost hear them. Near the railing leading to upstairs, a brief moment of panic choked her. He had no way of knowing she drove to the college with a dagger older than Methuselah and then had met with the funeral director this afternoon.

Did he?

* * *

Once in her room, Cecily grabbed her computer from the suitcase, set it on the desk and fired it up. Next, she retrieved Calder's journal she'd hidden under her bed. After a quick glance at the numbers and words Calder had entered, scribbling that meant nothing to her, she prayed the computer would supply answers.

Trepidation and hope mingled, pounding like a bass drum in her heart. She opened the journal and focused on the first entry at the top of the page: N.O.M.E.D, Chicago.

The second entry revealed numbers: 11-27-15. “That has to be a date,” she mumbled to the screen. Next to the numbers the word Sisimite appeared.

Below that, another entry stared back at her, more numbers: 2-10-16, Greenfield, WI, Ba'al aka Beelzebub. She'd heard that word before. Think, Cecily, think.

Her gaze moved on to entry three: 4-5-16, Katy, TX, and next to the numbers, the word Kappa.

Convinced the numbers represented dates, the next entry puzzled her: New Orleans, Dybbuk. Calder had neglected to write down the apparent date.

Her foot tapped out a staccato rhythm against the floor and a fine bead of sweat coated her forehead—intuitive omens something dark and evil stared back at her. What in the hell did it all mean? She scanned the page, her eyes centered on the very last entry: 5-23-16, Sammael. Legion . . . for we are many. Mark 5:9. Chills raced down her spine. “Six weeks before Calder died,” she said under her breath.

She slammed the journal shut, along with her eyes. Drawing a deep breath, she counted off one through ten, pausing between each number to compartmentalize the pandemonium of thoughts swimming around in her head. Mae had taught her the simple feat as a child. Living with three irrepressible boys growing up, she'd lost track of how many times she'd had to employ the count-to-ten mantra in her head.

Why shouldn't the same act work now as she struggled to dissect the meaning of the words and numbers? Not to mention the time she needed to still the rush of blood thrumming through the pulse at her throat.

Opening her eyes, she glanced at the computer screen again and called up Google. Her fingers trembled when she typed in the word Sisimite. She clutched her throat while reading the words appearing before her: Origin: Central America, Large savage wild man known for attacking and abducting humans.

She typed in the next word, Ba'al. The blue light below the keyboard worked overtime while searching for the meaning. Cecily's heart mimicked the fast tempo of that light. At last, the words appeared on the screen: Highest-ranked figure of the 72 demons in the Lesser Key of Solomon. In demon form, Bael (Ba'al) is said to appear in the forms of a man, cat, toad, or combination of those.

Demons? No, it can't be. Godforsaken demons?

Bile rose in her throat. Sick. She was going to be sick, sick, sick.

Her fingers faltered while typing in the next word: Kappa. A groan left her throat and the room swam when good ol' Google supplied the answer: A vampiric creature that resembles a salamander with green skin.

She couldn't wrap her head around the unfamiliar names of the abhorrent creatures . . . or the horrifying definitions. Under threat of amputation, she commanded her fingers to type in the next passage: Mark 5:2. Saliva filled her mouth while Google searched for the biblical passage. Heartsick, and overwhelmed with bone-deep fear, she read the entire passage:

When Jesus got out of the boat, immediately, a man from the tombs with an unclean spirit met Him, and he had his dwelling among the tombs. And no one was able to bind him anymore, even with a chain; because he had often been bound with shackles and chains, and the chains had been torn apart by him and the shackles broken in pieces, and no one was strong enough to subdue him.

Constantly, night and day, he was screaming among the tombs and in the mountains, and gashing himself with stones. Seeing Jesus from a distance, he ran up and bowed down before Him; and shouting with a loud voice, he said, “What business do we have with each other, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I implore You by God, do not torment me!” For Jesus had been saying to him, “Come out of the man, you unclean spirit!” And He asked him, “What is your name?” And the demon-possessed man said to Him, “My name is Legion; for we are many.”

Speaking out loud, she looked toward the ceiling. “Dear God, no.” Air rushed from her lungs. “For we are many? Many demons?” Terror and sorrow charred her heart when her chin dropped down to her chest. “The very same words Calder had written in the journal, “for we are many.”

Pushing from the chair, she struggled to her feet. A sinister veil clouded her vision as she stumbled toward the bed and collapsed. She drew her body into a fetal position and hugged her torso. She'd often wondered what Marcel and Elliott were up to, and later, she worried Calder had somehow been lured into their devious undertakings. But devious undertakings in her limited knowledge of street life meant fencing stolen items or trafficking drugs. Neither made sense when it came to the Frost boys. They didn't need money and she couldn't imagine Calder stooping to such lowlife enterprises.

Never in her wildest imagination, not once in all her late-night pondering did association with demons enter her mind. And yet, Calder's entries in the journal could not be denied or dismissed. They meant something, something ominous and horrific. Were Marcel and Elliott demons? Had Calder been one? The thought was unbearable.

Mutinous thoughts of Marcel ran rampant in her brain. She wanted to kill him, would if he entered the room right now. How could Marcel deceive her all these years after what they once meant to one another? How could he drag her beloved brother into anything that would harm him, result in his death?

She couldn't think about this anymore tonight. If she didn't corral her turbulent emotions, she might end up in Marcel's room holding a knife to his throat. The image brought her a semblance of triumph . . . and believe it or not, calm. The blood would drain from his face; his eyes would bulge like a toad's croaking on a lily pad. He would beg for his life. She, on the other hand, would deny his plea, slide the knife across his treacherous throat and revel in her small victory.

A pipe dream, Cecily. Marcel would never cower or even blink in the face of death. Breathe in, breathe out, girl. You have to bide your time, find out about the silver dagger before you confront him. Two days.

And then I can sever his jugular.

The last vision swimming before her tear-filled eyes before entering dreamland was Calder's perfect face.