The Corpus Grimoire Part 3

The Carpathian warlock sat in his grotto with a lit candle casting light on the leather bound book. He followed a belief system that predated Christianity in that area and, in his practice, communing with harmful spirits was unwise. The three shadowy beings that gave him the book seemed to be such spirits. And yet, the book was enticing. Holding it was safe enough, but he could sense the power within. He could do anything. When he opened the book, he didn’t recognize the language, but somehow, he understood the words. And unlike other books, he didn’t need to search through the contents to find the spells he needed. The words on the page shifted for him, the black ink running together across the page before separating into a new set of words. With a thought, he was always presented with the spell he needed.

When he began using it, he convinced himself it was to unlock the secrets of the Universe. He learned about microscopic and macroscopic realities that would not be common knowledge for centuries. He understood the nature of the world in ways few could process, but he soon found himself using it as a child’s plaything.

He was once annoyed by a traveling merchant, so he placed a curse on him. On another occaision, he changed the climate of the area so that it snowed in the summer. Another time, he manipulated gravity in a far off kingdom he had never visited. The more powerful the spell, the more he noticed physical ailments – rashes, bleeding, tired bones. He’d heal himself, of course, but upon doing so, he’d be faced with a different ailment. When he found himself too nauseous to eat, he healed himself of the sickness, but then noticed a bone spur in his heel. The book was dangerous to use. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop.

This concerned his nephew in particular, who was his apprentice. His uncle became more and more erratic. The more he used the Grimoire, the worse he became, both physically and mentally. He was covered in sores, his features grew gaunt, and his bones became brittle. And still, he never stopped using that damned book. He had apparently built some sort of a reputation, the young man believed, because he knew no other reason why the solomonor came to his uncle’s remote home tucked within the Carpathian Mountains late at night. The solomonor was an old man with a red beard and a staff. The nephew woke up due to some shouting outside and when he left the small cottage, he hid in the shrubbery, unseen by the two mystics.

“Give me the book!” the solomonor shouted as he raised his staff. He was lifted into the air by a swiftly growing shadow; the moonlight caught glimpses of a serpentine tail and leathery wings. The uncle opened his book and the nephew saw the printed words shifting and changing, revealing a particular incantation. Above, an orange line was drawn across the front end of the monstrous form carrying the solimonor. The line opened, revealing illuminated fangs and a glowing light emerging from the throat. The great beast opened its mouth and flames shot down just as his uncle raised a hand. The wall of fire reversed itself, flying back into the creature and a bright flash of light came next. The old man fell from the air with no trace of his steed in sight. He groaned on the hard ground and the warlock used the Corpus Grimoire for another spell after the words on the pages shifted once more.

The solomonor raised his staff in defense but it soon began to shake violently in his hands. Try as he might, he couldn’t hold it steady and the worse it got, the louder his uncle cackled. The staff grew brittle and broke apart like rotted bark and a second later the old wizard let out a scream. His back arched and he looked toward the sky. The flesh and muscle on his face peeled back, revealing a screeching skull. Then there was silence and he fell dead.

Once it was over, the young man found his uncle kneeling on the ground, too weak to stand. It had nothing to do with anything his opponent did. It was the book. It finally took its toll.

“I know you’re there, Nephew,” the warlock said in a weak voice, “There’s very little I don’t know.”

“I’m here, Uncle,” he croaked nervously, “How can I help you?”

“You ask that question as if you care,” the warlock didn’t get up. He couldn’t even turn around.

“I care about you, Uncle!,” he protested, “Of course I do.”

“No, you’re only after the book. Just like that sack of flesh over there! I should expect this, going forward!”

“Please, Uncle. I want to help.”

“Help,” he let out a peculiar laugh and reached for the book once again. The nephew rushed toward his uncle in fear, not wishing to see what came next. The words began to change and unravel to form a new spell, but there was no time to initiate an attack. The nephew brought his foot down on the back of the old man’s brittle neck. He knew his uncle was weak, but he was surprised when he felt the spine snap. His uncle dropped just as the old wizard had. The young man stared stupidly at the dead body and after a long time, he scooped the book up in his hands and ran into the woods, not knowing what else to do.

****

Valencia and Janey began asking around about the mysterious woman who may have been behind the recent events. They didn’t know her name but they knew the description: middle-aged, flowers in her hair, a white gown, and a thick accent (possibly Romanian). They decided to contact the various covens spread throughout the country to see if the person had caused any trouble elsewhere.

Meanwhile, Creed and Alysa visited Helen Smith to inform her about her daughter. “Just bring Gracie home,” Helen’s voice broke as tears welled up, “I trust you, Alysa.” Alysa gave her a hug, “I won’t let either one of you down.” She and Creed left solemnly and got on his motorcycle. “Did I sound convincing enough?” Alysa asked. “You did fine,” Creed assured her.

They drove back to their office, hoping to find leads to Grace’s location. Initially, they were going to use Creed’s truck but Alysa asked to use the motorcycle in case a quick chase was needed. She had hopes she’d spot Grace walking alone down a sidewalk and could easily hop off and convince her to return to her mother. Creed knew it was highly unlikely but he obliged her anyway as he knew how worried she was about her friend. Creed drove the motorcycle down the street with Alysa on the bucket seat, making them both plainly visible. As they got close to their office, another motorcycle rounded a corner and pursued.

They didn’t notice at first but after making a turn and changing lanes, it was obvious to Creed they were being followed. He reached back and signaled to Alysa and she took a peak over her shoulder.

The rider wore a black helmet and black gear which, upon closer inspection, seemed more tactical than something a normal motorcyclist would wear. Going by rumors she had heard, she had a suspicion of who the driver was. Creed turned away from the direction of their office and ducked down a side street, swiftly followed by the mysterious rider. He swerved around a delivery van and then took the next right turn but the driver seemingly anticipated it, taking the turn behind the van instead. Creed darted onto the wrong lane and the cars up ahead honked their horns angrily, just before Creed took the bike down an alley. As he reemerged on the other side, he noticed their pursuer was nowhere to be seen. He turned the corner again, looping around the block before heading back to their original destination. As they sped on, the biker exploded out of another alley, performing a power slide across the lane before catching up to them once again. This time, Creed turned onto a residential street, purposefully leading him into an area with less maneuverability. The biker ran up alongside them and motioned for them to pull over. Alysa raised a palm, emitting a gust of wind that caused the biker to wobble and fishtail. Eventually, balance was lost and the bike was laid down on the asphalt. Creed brought his own bike to a stop and they climbed off to confront their stalker.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the driver sneered as he dusted himself off.

“Who are you?,” Creed asked.

“I can tell you,” Alysa offered, “I saw the file. Cavalier told the team all about `im. He’s the Horseman.”

“Isn’t he in jail?”

“Maybe I escaped,” the Horseman responded, “And by the way, you’re not the only one who’s done homework.” He pointed his finger, “Farrell Creed,” and then again, “Alysa Saraki.” He stood his bike up while checking for damage, “One of you is in the Commission.” He turned back to Creed, “And the other is a traitor.”

“Traitor?”

“NATO released the photos when Rex Robinson was handed over to the U’ntari. Most people focused on the Cavalier or Ryan Bennings. I noticed the big guy in street clothes and took an interest in why he was there. It was only a matter of time before someone recognized you.”

“Yeah, well, now ya see me,” Creed grumbled, “Need an autograph? That why you’re here?”

“Trust me, if I was here for you, you wouldn’t see me coming,” the Horseman growled back, “I’m tracking down someone dangerous. He was last seen in the area and, from what I know, this town invites trouble and the two of you are usually in the middle of it. I came to see if he’s shown up.”

“Why should we help you?,” Alysa crossed her arms defensively.

“Regardless of how you feel about me, I know you don’t want someone like this in your little town. His people were the ones who bombed New York recently and I got no doubt he’d lay waste to a town this small.”

“Wait,” a look of realization crossed Alysa’s face, “The Costa Tristens?”

“Yeah, know anything about it?”

She shook her head quickly, “No.”

The Horseman took a step forward, “The guy calls himself Mano. No last name or anything. Not sure the meaning behind it. He’s supposedly trying to get back home and he’s willing to take any jobs to do it,” he took another step, “If you know anything, now’s the time to say something.”

Creed stood between her and the Horseman as a warning, “She said she don’t know nothing. Get your hearing checked.”

The Horseman’s face was hidden behind his dark helmet but he seemed to meet Creed’s stare, “I have some other leads elsewhere but I’ll be swinging back by here soon enough. If you’re hiding something, I might find out and I won’t be so lenient.”

He got back on his motorcycle and drove off. Creed and Alysa made sure to watch him disappear before he turned to her, “So what do ya know about this guy, Mano?”

“A couple days ago, the Commission fought like a whole ass team of bad guys. Queen Faith even showed up. He was there too,” she explained, “He’s apparently like Cavalier’s main enemy, or at least his boss is. No powers or anything. Dude’s just a badass.”

“He’s supposedly been seen in the area. Think he might be the one hired to steal the Grimoire?”

“Going by what I saw, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Let’s keep an eye out for `im.”

“Okay, but Creed? The guy’s seriously dangerous. Like, he always fights Cav and you know how he is. If he’s involved in all this, things just got worse.”

“I’m alright with that,” Creed led her back to the motorcycle, “I haven’t had a good fight in a while.”

Across town, a tattoo needle was carefully placed against flesh; the customer watched in satisfaction as detail was added to the timber wolf on his arm. His girlfriend sat waiting, a bored expression on her face as she scrolled through her phone. The tattoo artist had applied the finishing touches when he heard the door open.

A middle aged woman in a white gown stood in the tattoo parlor, flowers in her hair. Beside her was Grace Smith; her eyes were dark and tired, her clothes dirty. “Gimmie a minute. Be right with ya,” the tattoo artist said helpfully.

The woman in the gown stepped forward with hands raised; the tattoo artist caught a brief glimpse of strange sigils on the palms. One hand grabbed the tattoo artist’s wrist and the other touched the shoulder of the man in the chair. “What’re you-,” the tattoo artist exclaimed just before he was cut off. He stumbled back as his flesh rapidly turned black, starting at the wrist. The customer likewise sprang from his chair as his flesh darkened. The girlfriend dropped her phone and stood up once she realized what was happening, but the strange woman shoved a hand in her face. Like the others, the girlfriend fell back on the couch as her skin turned dark. The three of them thrashed about the room as the mysterious woman watched with a blank look on her face. Meanwhile, Grace kept a cold gaze, not fully aware of what was happening around her.

Large buboes began to swell along the necks and limbs of the three people flailing on the floor. They began to cough and wheeze as the sickness spread to the lungs and when they tried to scream, bile spilled out of their throats. Eventually, their rattling grew less and less violent until there were only a few light twitches before they went still.

The woman in the gown stepped over the dead bodies and moved toward the tattoo needles positioned on a nearby table. She removed black smudge from the pouch slung over her shoulders and began drawing a diagram on the mirror. She stopped when she noticed the reflection of the man entering the parlor.

Mano stepped inside with a large suitcase, instantly taking note of the diseased bodies on the floor. While he wasn’t adversed to killing, he generally didn’t like murdering “uninvolved” people if he didn’t need to. The fact that the bodies looked as if they died of a plague didn’t help calm his nerves.

“Do you have it?,” the woman in the gown asked in a thick Romanian accent. “Yeah, it’s in the suitcase,” Mano noticed Grace standing nearby and while he stared at her, the woman opened the baggage and removed the large, ancient tome. She smiled happily and ran her fingers down the leather cover before opening it. Mano remained staring at Grace, however. He could tell Grace was young, barely out of high school. He didn’t know what the woman needed her for and he didn’t want to know. Despite the actions of the cartel, both he and his employer refused to bring harm to innocent women or young people.

“Your money,” the woman took an envelope from her pouch and shoved it at him. He hated himself for taking it, but he had little choice. It was the difference between returning to his home or being thrown into an American prison.

“I put in a little extra,” the strange woman told him, “I need you to stand outside a while longer and make sure no one comes in.”

Mano continued to stare at Grace and curiosity finally got the better of him, “What’s this all about?”

“I didn’t pay you to ask questions,” she snarled.

“Right,” he calmly stepped outside the door, his hand dangling near his concealed gun in case he needed it. Behind him, the woman drew the blinds over the windows, blocking the outside view.

Across town, Janey and Valencia arrived at Creed’s office to debrief them on their findings. They had spent a large part of the morning and afternoon speaking to covens until they finally spoke to one in New Orleans that supplied a lead. “They had a problem with some Romanian chick asking about the Corpus Grimoire,” Janey told them, “Apparently, wires were crossed and she was certain it was there.”

“The woman was named Adina Rusnak,” Valencia continued, “A practicing witch who apparently had no coven. What she did, have, however, was a claim of ancestry to the warlock who first owned the Grimoire.”

“It was supposed to be passed down a family line for a while, right?” Creed asked.

“That’s the story. A family in the Carpathian Mountains had it for a long time until they didn’t, then it exchanged hands around the world for centuries. Long story short, it ended up in our coven.”

“So this girl wants it because it’s a family heirloom?,” Alysa asked.

“That’s what she said. She wasn’t taking no for an answer, either. A lot like Victor Athame, really. It’s no wonder the two ended up meeting. It’s very alluring. Magic users who get the book can’t help themselves and start conjuring stuff they shouldn’t conjure and eventually, they die.”

Alysa furrowed her brow in confusion, “If it’s so dangerous to use, then why does this lady want it so bad? If she knows so much about it, she’d know she’ll die from it.”

Valencia gave her a concerned look, “Maybe that’s where your friend comes in.”

“The third step of the Three Sorrows,” Alysa began, “You said it was physical pain. This is all part of the transfer spell?”

“It is,” Janey answered.

Valencia explained further, “And we think this Rusnak woman might transfer the power of the Grimoire to your friend Grace.”

“What would that do?”

“If she were to, say, write the spells on her body, she could essentially have a book bound in flesh and blood. She would be free to use its magic while any ill-effects would go to Grace.”

Alysa grew more concerned, “Would she survive?”

“Initially,” was the answer, “With the amount of power inside her, she could survive much longer than most, but eventually, she’d succumb to the power of the book. Miss Rusnak would presumably find another host after that and it’d start all over again.”

“She’d have all the power,” Alysa said quietly, “But someone else would pay the price.”

“You said this lady might write the book across her body,” Creed spoke up, “Are we talk’n like tattoos?”

“Essentially,” Janey answered.

“And that would be pretty painful. The final sorrow is pain, so maybe she’s gonna kill two birds with one stone.”

“That’d be a logical step. She seems to be in a hurry.”

“This chick’s been keeping everything local so far and there’s a tattoo shop in town. Out by the highway. I think it’s worth checking out.”

At the tattoo parlor, Grace Smith floated in the center of the room, her clothes having been removed. The tattoo needles rose into the air like snakes before biting into her naked flesh. Multiple needles began scribbling along her body, transcribing an ancient tongue across every inch. Below, Adina Rusnak sat on her knees over the grimoire. The book was open to a page which was quickly written across the small of Grace’s back and once it was finished, the page turned on its own and a new section was written onto the young girl writhing in agony above. Grace was coming out of her numbed mental state as the pain increased. Her fingers clenched and her knees bent; she cried out in pain and outside, Mano could hear her. He tried his best to ignore it and continued to stand guard. “The less I know, the better,” he thought to himself.

Continued…