--The Chaldean Oracles of Zoroaster
 
 

        I am sorry to have ever picked this subject for my doctorate dissertation. When I first came across the ancient Sumerian text my youthful exuberance took control of my reasoning and I began the lengthy process of deciphering the cuneiform text as well as the Arabian text into which part of the original Sumerian work had been translated during the pre-Islamic Revolution period of Iran. My studies and research took me into the histories and works of Ur and, as I have said, ancient Arabia as well.
    From what I have learned from my inquiries and my all but fevered studies, I can understand why the ancient civilizations disappeared with barely a trace. I have found myself driven back into the comforting arms of Christianity which I had all but forsaken during my secular studies.
    To the distinguished gentlemen of the doctorate committee and to those that follow, please consider the fact that this work is a translation of arcane and occult knowledge taken from a civilization that never knew the teachings of God and Christ. I entreat you, never endeavor to practice the rituals and ceremonies laid down in this work. Merely doing studies of the Sumerian texts has, I fear, forever cost me part of my sanity.
    And if you are so foolish as to enact any of the leavings of this dead civilization, then may God help you and have mercy on you!
    I finish this now with a prayer to the Almighty that I may be forgiven for partaking of, and setting down in the English language, this arcane and forbidden knowledge.

    Respectfully,
     Charles LaRoche
     Department of Linguistic Studies and History
     University of Nebraska-Lincoln
     15 December 1939

    "Come on man, you got it yet?" Steve's whisper was hoarse and urgent as he leaned through the doorway into the Archives Room of Love Library. Steve was one of the five metalheads who had snucked into Love at two o'clock in the morning after the cleaning crews had left for the night.
    "Just a minute," Rick hissed back from within the stacks. "I've just got up to the "L"s."
    "Well you're taking long enough. I thought you worked here, Rick." Jerry crowded in by Steve, together they filled the doorway of the Archives Room.
    "That was last year and I was just a security guard, not a shelver. Let's see now, LaGrasse, Landry...Here it is!--LaRoche!"
    "When does campus police make their rounds?" Al asked, worried. He was the worrisome type. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket he hugged the dark leather close around himself.
    "We got time," Rick said, not worried. "Let's head down."
    The Archives were on the fourth floor of the library building. The five of them, Steve, Rick, Al, Jerry and the ever silent Andy packed into the ancient elevator and hit the basement button.
    The five young men, all in their early twenties, were members of the heavy metal band, Crowley in Oz. Steve, with his lion's mane of long, tawny hair was the frontman and backing guitarist. He had a voice with the capacity to do the gentle whispers of ballads, the high-pitched scream and the gravelly, guttural growl of death metal.
    Rick handled the lead guitars and he was mildly famous in the Tri- State area for his riffs, improvisations and complex fret work. He sighted Glen Tipton and K. K. Downing of Judas Priest as he inspiration as well as Joe Satriani and the late Randy Rhoades who had played for Ozzy Osbourne. He also served as principle lyricist and wrote much of the music for their songs as well.
    Quiet Andy did bass, his influence being primarily the thunderous chords of Iron Maiden's Steve Harris. But he could do more than just pound the strings. From time to time he studied the works of Billy Sheehan and music of the band, The Call and numerous others. What he didn't say with his mouth he voiced with his fretless bass.
    Al was the jack-of-all-trades of the band. He did backing vocals, keyboards (keyboards in heavy metal?--hey, why not? Nine Inch Nails used them), backing percussion and filler guitars and bass.
    Jerry was the drummer and percussionist, which accounted for his constant state of agitation. He loved his cymbals and an unproportionate part of the meager money made from gigs went into his beloved Zyldjian and Paiste cymbals.
    Once the group had reached the basement Rick used his set of copied building keys to open the door to the library's "Dungeon". Just inside the Dungeon door was the mainframe room which housed the multi-million dollar library system computer.
    Rick led them to the right and turned into the underground tunnel that connected the old Love South building and the newer Love North building. Beneath Love North was a cavernous room used for the storage of old books and equally old and unused office furniture. Off to one side was a steam tunnel that led off into clinging blackness.
    "Whoa," Jerry said, his jitteriness extending into his voice. "Is this the gateway to Hell?"
    "Nah," Steve said, his voice teasing. "This is your girl's pussy, wide as a freeway. Al, you got the So Co?"
    Jerry fumed as he brought up the rear. He kept his retorts to himself, though his hands clenched into fists at his side as he envisioned breaking Steve's nose.
    Al extracted the bottle of Southern Comfort from his leather jacket and handed it to Steve, who took a long swig from it. "You want some, man?" Steve proffered as he slapped Rick on the back and shoved the bottle in his face. "Steady the nerves, you know."
    Rick took the bottle, sipped at the Southern Comfort and handed the bottle back to Steve. Shining the flashlight down the tunnel he led the way into darkness.
    Steve, Jerry and Al traded ghost calls, wolf howls and other deranged sounds as the blackness swallowed them. The steam pipes and the echo of their footsteps followed them through the tunnels. Jerry, still in the rear, would look back over his shoulder from time to time, heart-stopping paranoia clutching at his chest. He crowded closer to Andy and Al, not wanting to lose sight of the dancing light that lit their way forward but which did nothing to illuminate what might be behind them.
    They came to a metal door and Rick fumbled with his keys, all of which had been illegally coped when he worked as a security guard for the library. The light from the flashlight dipped towards nothingness for a moment and Jerry nearly felt his sphincter muscles let go as a chill of fear climbed from his crotch, up his spine and made him dizzy when it reached his head.
    The light expanded again as Rick straightened. A key rattled into the lock of the door, followed by the squealing swing of hinges. Cool, damp air drifted over them and brought the smell of moldering leaves.
    Rick led the way into the narrower, pipe-lined tunnel, thinking of how much he loved the autumn season when the first bits of the waning year's cold nipped at his ankles, cheeks and nipples. It was the season of little deaths as crops were harvested, the leaves fell and students went back to school. The days shortened and the shadows of evening hid mystery and secrets. Then there would be Halloween and pumpkins, tricks and treats of the kind that were forbidden even on this holiday.
    But it was only the last week of August, when the climates warred with each other between humid heat and damp coolness that helped cut down the need for electricity-devouring air conditioning.
    They walked single file in the steam tunnels for two blocks before Rick unlocked another door and peered through, making sure the coast was clear. It was and he switched off the flashlight. They piled out of the steam tunnel and stood in the laundry room of the Selleck Residence Hall.
    Steve crowed with the success of their theft as the steam tunnel door was slammed shut. "We done it," he cheered triumphantly. "We are da best!"
    Rick felt it polite not to point out to their frontman the fact that they could just as easily have checked out the dissertation from the university library. If they had been caught they would have all faced expulsion from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and criminal charges. But then, that had been the thrill of the whole thing.
    They left the residence hall by way of an emergency door, the alarm to which had never been connected. They all piled into Rick"s two door Cutlass Sierra. Steve took the passenger seat up front and the others piled into the back, Quiet Andy taking the middle.
    The bottle of Southern Comfort was passed around and was joined by a fifth of JD.
    "The new moon's on Friday night, right?" asked Steve, his voice loud drunk from both drink and exhilaration. Rick nodded, patting the dissertation beside him. "And we got a gig on Wednesday at the Royal Grove. Whoo! The Grove, man, hottest place in town and where the stars from the Midwest are made! We are on our way to fame and fortune. Crowley in Oz!" Steve chanted the name of the band and the others took it up, their voices getting louder and faster until the sound blended into a ringing mix of white noise, drowning out the blaring radio.
    The band's name and arcane curiosities had been inspired by the Ozzy Osbourne song, "Mr. Crowley". They had all grown up listening to the metal greats like Ozzy, Judas Priest, Motorhead, Black Sabbath, Nazareth, Iron Maiden, Metallica and Megadeth. All of these bands had used the occult and fantastic at one time or another in their songs and album artwork. None of them actually believed in the stuff, though. More accurately, the song writers had had a shade of horror writer in them and the tales of forbidden arcana and devil worship had been just that, tales. The tales were tools to sell records.
    In the mid-nineties, however, it was grunge and not devil worshipping death metal that sold the records. Crowley in Oz had enough brains and foresight to realize this and they spiced up their repertoires with plenty of grunge and angst songs that got the attention of the "which-way-to-Seattle?" kids.
    The lure of black magic was too much for them to ignore, however, and from time to time they would do an occult ceremony, usually on some farmland north of Lincoln. They let slip some rumors about what they did and the rumors got around, piqued the interest of the kids who paid for the tickets and usually managed to keep Crowley in Oz booked with gigs.
    None of the members of the band actually believed in the stuff they pretended to practice. They were merely the latest generation of rebels whose parents had taken them to church and Sunday School. In times of trouble and fear it wasn't unusual for them to offer up a prayer to the Almighty.
    Steve always sported a golden cross on his chest. "Just for show, ya know." Andy wore a cross made from roofing nails welded together and lacquered to keep the nails from rusting. Andy's father had made the cross and presented it to Andy upon completing his Catechism courses in high school. Andy kept his cress under his shirt, where it wasn't garish and where it always touched his skin. He truly cherished it and he truly believed his father's religion.
    After dropping Steve, Jerry and Al off at the house they rented in the old run down section of town adjoining the east end of the university grounds, Andy got into the front seat and Rick drove back to the one half of a duplex they shared along with Ric's girlfriend.
    When they got inside Rick crashed on one of the aged burgundy couches that had been fashioned about the time he had been born and opened the dissertation. Andy took a seat on the edge of the other couch. "We really going to do this one?" Andy asked in his quiet, gentle voice. "I mean---it's different than anything else we've ever done. More 'for real'".
    Rick nodded and rooted between the cushions of the dilapidated couch, searching for the pack of Camels that perpetually hid there. He extracted the pack, fished out and lit the cigarette, using the Zippo he had withdrawn from his jacket.
    "But if you don't want to do it, Andy, then don't sweat it. I'll make sure nobody rags ya. But I could still use your help."
    "Thanks," Andy said, his voice just a whisper, like the rustling of Fall leaves in the breeze. He didn't meet Rick's eyes. After a moment he rose and went into his room, shutting the door. A few minutes later Rick could hear Andy quietly strumming his bass.
    Andy was a nice guy. Sometimes too nice and Rick had found himself acting the part of big brother with Andy.
    Rick looked down at the title page of the dissertation. The short title of the document was: "The Translation of the Sumerian Text Pertaining to the Legends of Qui'Twix Twiel and an Analysis of Said Text."
    Rick read for the next hour, skimming over the history of the Sumerian legend. This Qui'Twix Twiel had shown up in numerous other lands and legends as well. The creature, or cloaked man as he was often described, had been known as the "Collector of Flesh," the "Devourer of Babies," the "Drinker of Tears," and as the "Stealer of Children."
    To Rick it sounded like a rather nasty version of the Pied Piper on bad acid. He chuckled to himself at the silliness of it all and at the grave attitude of the author, LaRoche, who seemed to put way too much faith in tall tales.
    Rick and the rest of the guys in the band were a part of a jaded society that saw wholesale slaughter in Third World nations, serial killers who were cult figures, cross dressers and flaming homosexuals as well as religious madmen like David Koresh. All ages could see this courtesy of CNN and the nightly news.
    Stuff like ancient tales of the Lovecraftian vein were nothing shocking. He tossed the book aside when the clock read 4:00 a.m. and opened the door to his bedroom. Already in bed was his girlfriend, Mary. She lay sprawled on her side, the bed covers twisted around her. She was a restless sleeper. Mary was younger than he, having just turned nineteen a few months ago, but she handled their finances (what little of it there was) and kept both him and Andy in line and glued to their studies. She was the wise little Momma Hen and much more.
    "Took you long enough to get in here," Mary said in a drowsy voice as Rick started to undress.
    "Sorry, I was up reading." Rick pulled off his jeans and stood in his boxers as he pulled aside the bed spread.
    "Take those off," Mary snapped at him. "I've been waiting all day for you."
    With a roguish grin, Rick pulled off his shorts and climbed into bed. His hand found the warmth of her bare breast and she responded to his touch, pressing her body against his.
    "You guys aren't going to do another one of your stupid ceremonies, are you?" she asked as Rick kissed her throat.
    "Yeah," Rick said, felling the heat flood his body. "Steve's real gung-ho for it. You know him." He lifted his leg and wrapped it around her legs. The hand that had been on her breast started to roam her body.
    "It's weird, even for a metal band. All of that stuff was popular when Kiss still wore their make-up."
    "All it is is a hobby," Rick defended. His lips brushing at hers.
    "Some kind of weird male-bonding ritual? Whatever..." she murmured her words. His hand had found her sex and she shuddered in a little spasm of pleasure. "Let's not waste any more time. Come on in, out of the cold."

    Rick walked the circumference of the circle, pouring flour from its store bag as he went. He chanted the ceremonies for the drawing of the circle, the strange words twisting his tongue. His naked body gleamed with a thin film of sweat. During the course of the week the temperature had risen again and even at midnight the air was oppressively warm and humid.
    For the performance of the ceremony Rick had driven to a grassy field in the country northeast of Lincoln where they often performed their ceremonies. It was far from the city and from intruding eyes.
    Next, Rick took up handfuls of salt and turned about the fire pit where Andy was burning cedar, its aroma filling the air. Making invocations to the unseen guardians of the circle, he scattered the salt. The remainder of the salt he poured into the fire, giving supplication to the gods of fire. Andy tossed in a freshly baked loaf of bread that he had made that morning.
    Rick performed the part of the priest for the ceremony with Andy as his assistant. Steve, Jerry and Al stood across from Rick, waiting to perform the chants of calling. Andy handed Rick the ceremonial copper dagger, its blade carved with runes and mystical symbols. Rick had a friend, Marek Richlieau, who made daggers and who was also a real witch, having gone through full initiation into a local Wicca coven three years before.
    Rick now faced to the north and held the dagger before him.

        "Spirits of the North hear me and heed me!
        Throw open wide the gates of the hidden Northern Tower.
        I call upon the Stars in their celestial Orbits.
        I call upon the great Winds and the Lands of Cold.
        I give supplication to the great Hunter.
        Spirits of the North hear me and heed me!"

    He moved to the East and thrust forth the copper dagger again. At the fire pit Andy tossed in pine needles which snapped and crackled as they burned.

        "Spirits of the East hear me and heed me!
        Throw open wide the gates of the hidden Eastern Tower.
        I call upon the Morning Star.
        I call upon the Sun, Giver of Life.
        I call upon the Spirits of Fertility and Growth.
        Spirits of the East hear me and heed me!"

    Rick turned to the west.

        "Spirits of the West hear me and heed me!
        Throw open wide the gates of the hidden Western Tower.
        I call upon the setting Sun and the waning Day.
        I call upon the Shadows of the Dark and the Unknown.
        I call upon the Lands of Mystery.
        I call upon the Spirits of the Waters.
        Spirits of the West hear me and heed me!"

    Finally he faced to the south and lowered the ceremonial dagger so that the tip pointed towards the ground. He faced the fire pit and the glow of the flames danced over his naked body. High above in the skies only the stars shone, the moon new and blackened by the Earth's shadow.
    Andy lighted incense punks and set them around the fire pit, their aromatic smoke, strong with the smell of sandalwood, wafted upwards.

        "Spirits of the South hear me and heed me!
        Throw open wide the gates of the hidden Southern Tower.
        I call upon the dark reaches of the Netherworld.
        I call upon the Keeper of the Netherworld Gate.
        I call upon the Queen of the City of the Dead.
        Heed me and bring forth the Spirit that I call this night.
        Spirits of the South hear me and heed me!"

    With the final invocation to the gates made, Rick struck the earth with the ceremonial dagger, thrusting the blade half ways into the soft soil.
    Rick sat on the ground before the fire, its heat washing over him as did the smell of cedar smoke and sandalwood. He folded his legs into a half lotus and meditated for a few moments.
    When he had finished his meditations, calming himself and balancing his inner strengths, Andy handed him two silver plates wrapped in black silk. Black was for the Underworld. Black was for the dead and the Undead. Black for the Unholy.
    Rick unwrapped the silk and put down the first plate on the ground before him. Its silver was beaten into a thin leaf and polished by the same friend who had made the ceremonial knife. On it was etched the Mandal of Calling, created from geometric design and strange runic shapes, copied from the dissertation they had stolen from the university library.
    On top of the mandal Rick placed the sign of Qui'Twix Twiel. The sign was composed of squares that covered the entire plate. In each square was a single rune.
    Rick took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. He thought again of the purpose behind the ceremonies that they did. It was meant to be all in fun, an expression of their brotherhood. "Weird male bonding," as Mary liked to say as she rolled her eyes. And it was only fiction, after all, born out of superstitious legend.
    Andy's words came back to him. "...it's differed from anything else we've ever done. More 'for real.'" What if it was for real this time? What would they do if they actually did call forth some horrid demon of the nether worlds? Jaded by reality they might be, but none of the five were ready for some mystical abhorrence. For the first time Rick questioned the sanity of their undertaking.
    "Everyone ready to go on?" Rick asked, casting his eyes over Andy, Steve, Al and Jerry while trying not to let his own misgivings show on his face.
    They all hesitated for a moment then nodded in succession. "Let's call up this sucker," Steve whispered in a harsh fight-the-devil whisper.
    And what happens, Rick thought dryly, if we actually do?
    He nodded to Quiet Andy and Andy started a low mantra chant. The other three took it up and as they fell into the rhythm of it they swayed to the sound of the repetitious syllables.
    Rick started the invocation of the Calling, demanding that Qui'Twix Twiel rise in answer to the summons. When he had reached the end of the chant Andy handed him a glass vial. In the vial were the tears of an infant, procured by Jerry when he had baby-sat for his eighteen year old sister, a single mother who insisted on getting her college degree, baby or no.
    Rick unstoppered the vial and poured the salty tears into the fire. The liquid evaporated in the heat and the nearly indiscernible steam rose up over the pit and was carried away on a breeze. Rick recited the invocation a second time.
    At the end of the second recital Jerry handed Rick his hunting knife and Rick pricked his finger, then squeezed a thick bead of blood into the fire. He then handed the knife to Andy, who did the same as did the other three.

        "We have performed the ceremonies as written by the Ancients.
        We have offered voice, incense and the tears of a baby.
        We have burned our own blood in offering.
        Qui'Twix Twiel, hear me and heed me!
        Rise from out of the Fire and do as we bid!"

    But nothing rose out of the fire but heat, smoke and the sound of cedar chips burning. Rick found that he had been holding his breath. He let it out explosively, relieved that nothing had come forth.
    "We done?" Steve asked. Rick wondered if Steve had come to the ceremony half smashed.
    "I'm going to do the binding," Rick said, using his status as priest of the ceremonies to pull rank.
    "Why?" Al asked. This was just for kicks, why worry about bindings?--was his implied meaning.
    "Why not?" Rick shot back and began the Rites of Binding. The others sat fidgeting as he did so. They wanted to go back to the duplex and party.
    When Rick had finished the binding he pulled the dagger out of the ground and slumped. "Put out the fire," he said to the others. They shoved the dirt back into the pit and when the last embers disappeared from sight Rick broke the circle.
    As they stood up the humidity suddenly left the air and a dryness descended over them. Far off in the distance birds called out, plaintive and disturbed. The cries were followed by strange scents. Sand and dust, like in a desert where the sun beats down relentlessly and the winds howl strange names. The smell of sandalwood became oppressively strong, not like it was with the burning of the incense punks. Then the scent that made Andy's stomach convulse in revulsion came to them. Decay. Uncleanness and putrefaction, poisons in the air caused the bacteria that ate flesh and rotted blood and organs.
    Whether it was the smells or something else, a feeling of fear and dread washed over all of them. Goose bumps ran up their arms, across their chests and down their legs.
    "What the fuck?" Al whispered, his eyes furtive and glancing around him as the metallic taste of paranoia rose to his mouth.
    Andy shivered despite the heat of the air.
    Steve glanced back to where the fire pit had been. The strangeness in the air had sobered quickly. The fire pit was still covered, not even a single trail of smoke rose from where the fire had been. There were no bogeymen coming after them, either.
    "Let's go," Jerry bleated as he tugged on his jeans. His jitteriness was rising again, becoming frantic.
    They all dressed rapidly and piled into the Cutlass Sierra, Rick's foot heavy on the gas pedal as they headed back to Lincoln.

    "You smell like smoke," Mary chided. "Cedar, right?" She sat herself in Rick's lap and took the bottle of beer out of his hand, draining half of it in one gulp. She was dressed in a flannel smock, replete with hood and a plaid design done in Autumnal colors. Her hair was tied up in back with a chieftain's knot, the rest falling into her hood. Her lips were a bright red against the paleness of her skin.
    Andy just shrugged. He took the bottle of beer back from her and drank. He was in a sullen mood. Something had happened out there and he wasn't sure what.
    Mary leaned in closer, unperturbed by his silence and smoldering eyes.
    "You guys did it, didn't you? One of your weird ceremonies of male bonding." She wasn't amused.
    Rick still didn't reply. He continued to look past her, staring at nothing. He couldn't bring himself to admit to her the fact that he was afraid.
    From the other couch came a squeal. Steve's girlfriend was here as well. Rick didn't like her and neither did Mary. Angela was a blond floozy, all the way down to her bleached roots. She was overly endowed, her skin a perfect tan (and not just fake back, either), just as her teeth were a perfect white and her lips overly done with ruby red lipstick. There was also way too much make-up on her face for Rick's liking. Her clothes were tight and she insisted on wearing shorts for as much of the year as possible to show off her legs. In Mary's words she was, "Just asking to be banged. And Steve's the obliging sort."
    She was also loud, a case of chronic oral diarrhea. She drank a lot and the more she drank, the louder she got. She was also loose. At the moment she and Steve were making out and feeling each other up on the couch.
    "What's the matter, Andy?" Steve chided, tearing his attention away from Angela long enough to jibe at the bassist. "You need a nipple for that beer?"
    Andy was sitting next to Rick and Mary. He had been more quiet then usual since getting back from the ceremony. Like Rick he was staring off into space, moody and quietly afraid.
    Now he rose and strode to his room, slamming the door behind him.
    "What's his problem?" Steve asked, looking at the others in shock. He raised his hands in mock innocence.
    "Give it a rest, Steve," Rick said coldly. He was suddenly sick of Steve's juvenile attitude.
    "Trying to make something of it?" Steve retorted hotly, leaning forward and nearly dislodging Angela from his lap.
    Rick prepared to push Mary off of his lap and get up. Steve was mostly empty bravado and now that he was drunk Rick would have no trouble trouncing him.
    Mary jumped off of his lap and held up her hands. "Oh no you don't," she said, her voice hot and fierce. "You two aren't fighting in my house." She had a point, the lease was in her name.
    "Come on, guys, let's chill out," Al said, rising. "Let's go home. It's been a long day and a weird night." What he didn't say was that he was spooked.
    "Yeah," Rick said, forcing a mellow tone into his voice. "Let's pack it in for the night."
    "Party's over already?" Angela said in her fake valley girl voice. Her shoulders sagged and her mouth twisted into a disgusted sneer. "That sucks."
    I'm sure you do, Rick thought as he waited for the others to file past him and out of the kitchen door.
    As he followed them out he heard Andy in his room, softy playing his bass. Rick paused for a moment to listen to the gentle chords. Then Steve called back for him and Rick reluctantly went.

    There were currently six babies in the Lincoln General Hospital's nursery and they were all sleeping peacefully, which was in itself a minor miracle.
    Sometime during the ungodly hours of early morning a strange darkness crept over the already dim nursery, blotting out all light. In a moment one of the babies awoke. At first the darkness seemed akin to the womb and the baby's simple brain filled with quick joy.
    But the joy dissipated as a dry, oppressive heat settled over the nursery. The heat was followed by scents. Scents the newborn did not yet know but they brought an immediate response from the newborn as instinctive survival filled the quiet void.
    The sudden shriek woke the dozing duty nurse, who had drifted off half an hour earlier, thankful that her charges had decided to sleep through the night for a change. She was used to being interrupted by the crying babies during all times of the night. But the shriek she heard now scared her. Something was not only wrong, but horribly so.
    The nurse rose quickly, knocking down her chair as she shot up. She pushed through the swinging door that separated her office and the nursery. She noticed the darkness immediately and then the heat. On the heels of the dry heat came the smells: sandalwood that tried to mask the scent of decay and desert sand.
    Her hand went to the light switch and she flicked it. The lights did not come on, though. The darkness was enveloping and she couldn't see the babies that were crying, and they were all crying now. There was a prick at the back of her neck that quickly spread through all of her body. That single prick which had made her entire body shiver was primal fear and her sweat stank of it.
    There was a sound other than that of the crying babies and the clanging of her racing heart. It was the rustling sound of burlap and the dry movement of limbs that made her think of sands blown by desert winds.
    A voice stilettoed the darkness. "Be still," the voice commanded. More dry sand blown by hot winds. "Do not be afraid. Let darkness enwrap you and secure you just as my new cloak will enwrap and protect me."
    What the voice failed to say was that his new cloak would be fashioned from flesh, cured and preserved by the voice's power, imbued with the voice's essence. Then the cloak would be decorated with patchwork, each patch a new expansion of the voice's strength.
    Once she had been stilled the ownder of the voice and flesh-colored cloak turned his attention to the screaming babies. He bent over the first and touched the wet cheek with his fingers. Qui'Twix Twiel's fingers were dry, husky like dried corn husks. He withdrew his fingers and licked them, savoring the salty taste.
    "It's been so long. So very long since I have tasted such clean purity." With that he lifted the baby and stilled its screams. After that he moved on to the other five.

    Saturday's were meant for one thing: sleeping in until at least noon. So when the phone rang at 8:30 in the morning Rick was neither in the mood nor a clear state of mind to answer it.
    "Hello?" he rasped in his sleepy voice. Mary stirred next to him but did not awaken.
    "Rick?"
    "Who's this?" Rick demanded as his eyes caught the time on the bedside clock radio. The really annoying thing was that the voice sounded as though it was awake, bright eyed and bushy-tailed. Rick hated that.
    "It's Marek. Wake up." Rick did wake up, a little. There was a sharp tone to the voice, as if Marek was upset over something.
    "What's up?" Rick asked. He was curious over the reason for the call. Also, he wondered over the sharpness of Marek's voice.
    "What did you fools do last night?" There was definitely a sharpness in Marek's voice now. It was a tone of voice Rick had never heard out of Marek before.
    "Um, why do you ask?" Rick propped himself up on his elbow as some the sleep fuzziness left his head.
    "I felt a rather strange disturbance last night. Something that none of the real witches in this prairie town would have ever been associated with. The only persons I could think of were you and the rest of the guys in the band. Especially considering the fact that you were talking to me earlier in the week about some ancient Sumerian text."
    "Er, yeah," Rick said. He felt an unwelcome uneasiness creep over him.
    "I thought so."  Marke's voice was a touch bit accusatory.  "Call the others and see how they're doing. Then meet me at noon at the Arts Hall on the university campus. In the sculpture garden. Oh, and buy the morning paper as well." With that Marek hung up.
    "If that was another bill collector chasing you down I'm kicking you out of here and letting Andy sleep with me instead."  Mary had awakened and was staring at Rick's back.
    "You'd be too much for Andy to handle.  And it was Marek.  He's pissed about something and I'm not sure what."  Rick dialed the house that Steve and the others shared.  He let it ring for a full three minutes and then slammed the phone back into its cradle.
    He rose and started to dress.  Behind him Mary sat up and frowned.  "Where are you going?" she asked.
    "Over to the others' house," Rick said. He pulled on a Metallica T- shirt and slung his jacket over one shoulder.
    "No one's answering the phone."
    "They're probably hung over," Mary quipped. With that she rolled over and went back to sleep.

    The house was unaccustomedly quiet. The TV, stereo system and electric instruments were all off.
    "Yo, Steve," Rick called as he searched the first floor. "Jerry, Al? Anybody up?" There was nothing. Sleeping the sleep of the dead, Rick thought as he made his way up the stairs to the second floor.
    He stopped at Steve's room first. He paused and frowned as he sniffed the air. Something stank. Probably beer farts. He shrugged and pushed open the door.
    The sight of the bed and walls froze him in his tracks. Despite the jaded facade of immortal and invulnerable youth that he had wrapped himself in for so many years he still felt a cry choke its way up his throat.
    They were dead. Both Steve and Angela lay in the bed, atop the covers. At least Rick figured it was them. Their skins were gone, only muscle, drying blood, shining teeth and bugging eyes. Blood caked the bed and had been splattered on the walls. There was also the stench of shit, urine and the decay of flesh.
    "Oh, sweet Jesus. Jesus." Rick was transfixed with morbid curiosity. His fingers itched to touch the blood on the walls, the bodies in the bed. He resisted the temptation by force of will alone. Crime scene! his mind shouted to him. Don't ever touch anything in a crime scene or they'll think you did it. That was something a person learned from watching cop shows on television.
    Who or what could have done this? he wondered. Images of mass murderers flashed through his head. But a single name came to his mind. A name that would never be printed in the papers or spoken on the television newscasts. Qui"Twix Twiel. The Collector of Flesh, Drinker of Tears.
    He left the room, backing out slowly, afraid to take his eyes off of the bodies for fear that they would spring up out of the bed and come after him. Night of the Living Dead. His gorge flipped and he swallowed hard to keep the hot bile down.
    "Jerry? Al?" Rick called in a squeaky voice. He went to Al's room and threw open the door. It was the same as Steve's room, blood splattered across his keyboards and acoustic guitar. The smell of feces, urine and decay mingled with the smell of blood as well.
    Jerry was dead as well and finally Rick couldn't keep the bile down. He rushed to the toilet and heaved. The bile, mixed with last night's beer and whiskey, burned its way up and splattered across the porcelain bowl. He dry heaved after that, again and again until his sides ached. Dropping to his knees he wrapped his arms around the toilet and cried.
    Laughter bubbled through the tears. Memories of all the parties and all the times that they had each hugged the toilet bowl, vomiting all of the liquor and foods that they had habitually forced onto their systems, rose up to tease him.
    The manic laughter was drowned by the tears again as he fell back against the bathtub and pulled his knees up to his chest. Dropping his head to his knees he continued to sob, soaking his jeans with tears.
    No more gigs for Crowley in Oz, that was for sure.

    Marek was reclined against the back of the Arts Hall as he sat on the marble steps at the rear of the building that faced out into the Sculpture Garden. He was reading some pulp standard fantasy novel and was dressed in his usual black. Loose, black pants, black and unadorned T-shirt, and a baseball cap turned backwards on his head. He looked up when Rick approached and snapped the paperback shut. There was no smile on his face.
    "So, how are the guys?" Marek asked the guitarist and songwriter. There was a biting sarcasm in the witch's voice.
    Rick's tongue felt thick and immobile in his mouth. He held the stolen dissertation under one arm. Taking it in hand he tossed it to Marek.
    "They're dead," Rick said at last in a cracked voice. "Jerry, Al, Steve. They're all dead."
    Marek eyed Rick dispassionately. It was the look of an elder who has been disappointed by a child's performance. Taking his eyes off of Rick he opened the dissertation and read the title page.
    "Qui'Twix Twiel," Marek mused. "I've heard of him. You don't want to know from where. Tell me something, Rick. Why did you guys do all of those ceremonies? You were all Christians. Lapsed Christians, maybe, but belonging to Yahweh nonetheless. Don't you know that you've been breaking His First Commandment over and over?"
    "Does it matter now?" Rick asked.
    "The only thing that matters is whether or not you performed the binding during the ceremony," Marek said.
    "Yes, I did the binding. I performed as priest and Andy was my second."
    "Which is why the two of you are still alive. The bindings restrict Qui'Twix Twiel. Theoretically any one of you five could have performed the banishing, which is why the others are dead. He didn't want them banishing him. But since you recited the binding he couldn't touch you.  Yet.
By the way, did you get the morning paper?"
    "No, I sort of forgot about it after what I saw at the house."
    "So you haven't heard about the neo-natal wing of Lincoln General?"
    "I'm afraid to know."
    "Be very afraid. All of the babies there are missing and the body of the night nurse was found. She was identified through her dental records."
    "The Devourer of Babies," Rick muttered. "Christ. Why isn't he after me right now?"
    Marek pointed upwards in response. "The sun is your saving grace for the time being. His powers are weak right now and his body is fragile.  But every time he adds to his cloak of flesh he becomes stronger. He is a god of death and death abhors the light of the sun."
    "Like a vampire?" Rick asked.
    "Worse. Once he has completed his cloak he is free to walk in the daylight. After that no power on Earth will be able to stop him. Not even the ceremony of banishment."
    "So what do I do?" Rick pleaded. He felt as though Marek was dancing around him with his words.
    "From fire he was called and by fire he will be banished again. Perform the banishment and then burn the cloak. If you do that then he will be forced back to the nether worlds that you called him from. But you have to do it tonight or else you can just kiss it good-bye. I figure that within a day or two he will be strong enough to resist the banishment. Then he'll be after you and Andy, not to mention your girlfriend, Mary."
    Marek rose from the steps and faced Rick. He lifted the dissertation and whacked Rick on the head with it. Rick blinked but didn't do anything else in response.
    "I can't help you, Rick. You gave birth to this monster and now it's up to you to kill it before it's too late." Marek gave the dissertation to Rick and then, without another word, turned and left.

    It was past one in the afternoon when Rick got back to the duplex and Mary and Andy were eating breakfast. Andy had gotten fancy and made waffles, scrambled eggs with green and red peppers and mushrooms as well as frying up some bacon.
    "We saved some for you," Mary said, pointing to a plate they had left out for him.
    Rick took the seat, drank some of the orange juice and looked at the fried bacon. He gagged at the sight of the greasy pork and shook his head, digging out his pack of cigarettes instead. He thought seriously about becoming a vegetarian. And Frank Zappa had always considered cigarettes to be a vegetable.
    "What's wrong?" Mary asked, her brow furrowing. "What did Marek want?"
    "They're dead," Rick whispered. "Jerry, Steve and Al, they're all dead."
    Quiet Andy's fork dropped to his plate with an audible clang. "Dead?" he said in his quiet voice, shock making it even quieter.
    "We actually called him up, Andy. Can you imagine that?" Rick wondered if he was going to break out in manic laughter again. He felt his jaw tremble and his hands shook as he brought the cig to his mouth for an anxious drag. "Qui'Twix Twiel. He's walking the Earth. Fucking- A!--he's right here in Lincoln, Nebraska. Imagine that--and the governor says we don't get enough tourism. Now, instead of going to Florida to get shot on vacation, you can come see the state capitol building that we lovingly refer to as the Penis of the Plains and be slaughtered by some Lovecraftian monster."
    "Is this some kind of sick joke, Rick?" Mary demanded crossly, her fork clutched tight in her hands, her knuckles going white. "If it is, it isn't funny."
    "Oh, it's no fucking joke. It was all supposed to be make believe, 'Weird male bonding,' as you call it. But it turned out to be real. Now he's after the guys who brought him here to make sure we don't send him back again. Three down and two to go." He was feeling downright cheery now. Heck, he'd have no problem going to the cutlery drawer, pulling out the paring knife and slitting his wrists (follow the line of your arm when you cut, don't just slash across the veins, that isn't good enough, not if you're serious about it).
    Andy stroked his cross of nails through his shirt.
    "So what are you going to do now?" Mary asked, her voice disturbingly flat. She didn't look at Rick but regarded her plate instead, her fork stabbing aimlessly at the last bit of her scrambled eggs.
    "First of all, Andy and I have to perform the banishment and then track the bastard down and burn him." Rick crushed out his cigarette on his empty plate, swallowed orange juice and then put another Camel in his mouth.
    "Oh, that sounds easy," Mary said facetiously. "Just find him and then ask him to stand still while you light him up with your Zippo."
    "Do we have to wait for the next full moon?" Andy asked, fear in his voice. He had pulled out his cross of nails from under his T-shirt and had wrapped his fingers around it.
    "No," Rick said, his sanity returning as he thought out what they had to do. "Go get the incense punks and the big white candle. Mary and I will clear the table. At sunset we'll go out looking for him. Better yet, you stay here with Mary and I'll hunt him down. After all, this whole mess was my fucked up idea."
    Andy nodded and hurried to his room to retrieve the candles and incense.
    "God forgive me," Rick whispered to himself as he stacked dishes. "Please, oh please forgive me."
    Mary gave him a pitiful look but didn't say anything. Then she rose and took the dishes to the sink.
 
    Rick had been driving around Lincoln since shortly before sunset and now it was after 1:00 a.m. and there was still no sign of Qui'Twix Twiel. But then, what had Rick expected? That the creature would just be walking along the downtown streets, slaughtering and skinning people as he went?
    On the floor of the passenger seat were four Molotov Cocktails, made out of wine coolers, with gasoline substituting for the wine and rags in place of caps. The cocktails were sitting in the original cardboard carrying tray that they had come in. Rick hoped he would get to use them. He felt the need to burn something, even if it wasn't Qui'Twix Twiel himself.
    Downtown Lincoln was crowded with rowdy college students frequenting the bars. Traffic was congested and hard to get through. Rick had hoped that there would be some way of sensing where Qui'Twix Twiel would be but so far he hadn't had any luck. He kept the radio tuned to the local news stations on the AM dial but there were no new reports of hospitals suddenly losing their neo-natal wards.
    Dejected and depressed, Rick headed back to the duplex to announce his failure to Mary and Andy.
    The house was quiet when he got inside. The television and stereo were off and it was too early on a Saturday night for either Andy or Mary to be in bed. Flashbacks of the house where the others had been visited by the demon collector of flesh came to Rick's mind.
    "Mary?" he called urgently, going to his bedroom. There was no one there. Thankfully there was no blood on the walls or bed, either.
    "Andy? You here, buddy?" Rick went to his friend's room and pushed open the door. His eyes surveyed the room and the last of Rick's fragile hopes snapped.
    Andy had been crucified onto the wall, most of his body exposed down to the muscle. The flesh had been flayed off of him except for a bust that left his head covered as well as the chest where the cross of nails lay on his breast. Blood still dripped down the wall and soaked into the carpeting.
    The worst of it was that Andy's eyes were open and looking at Rick. At first Rick thought Andy was still alive, but there was no movement from the bass player. Still, the eyes were accusatory, saying: "I never wanted any part of this, Rick. I did it because I looked up to you."
    "Oh, Andy," Rick wailed as he his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor in a sprawl. "I'm so sorry. So sorry. Quiet Andy--" But there was no more to be said and Rick's voice degenerated into sobs.
    Rick spun his head suddenly. Was there someone there? Was Qui'Twix Twiel still in the duplex, laying in wait like a predatory animal stalking its unsuspecting kill?
    There was nothing.
    "Where's Mary, you bastard? What have you done to her?" Rick shouted into empty space. He balled his fist and pounded the floor.
    He didn't expect an answer, but he got one all the same. The beads of blood that ran down the wall, dripping off of Andy's crimson body, started to dance back up the wall. They conglomerated into lines that formed words on thewall.
    "Search for me again," they said. "And this time you will find me and your woman."
    Rick gasped for breath through his sobs and he wiped the tears from his eyes to read the words. As he took in their meaning the words fell apart back into beads of dripping blood.
    "I'll get you, damn it!" Rick croaked, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hand. "I'll fucking put you back into Hell even if I have go down with you."
    He scrambled back to his feet and ran out of the duplex. He gunned the engine of the Cutlass Sierra and tore out of the driveway. He knew where Qui'Twix Twiel was. At least he thought he did.

    Toby Kirsch hadn't liked his stepfather. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that his stepfather was a motherfucking bastard who had no problem with being mean. His most eloquent speeches had been made with his fists or with a drunken slur in his voice when he talked. The last straw had been when his stepfather had broken Toby's nose one night.
    The cops had been to the house that night after Toby's mother called them. She had wanted them to take her husband to jail. For what? they asked her. What has he done?
    Her bruises and cuts had healed and he hadn't been violent for a while until that night. He hadn't hit either of them yet that night, but he was drunk and both Toby and his mother knew that a beating was in the works. It was only a matter of time.
    Well, you just call us if there is trouble, ma'am, the cops had said as they left the house.
    It only took another five minutes until his stepfather broke first the collarbone of Toby's mother and then Toby's nose. They took his stepfather after that, for a little while. But when he called one night and said he was coming back and just couldn't wait to see them again, Toby took off like a scared bird and hadn't looked back.
    He lived in the Haymarket District of downtown Lincoln now. He slept in the alleyways and in places where the cops couldn't find him. There were never any posters with his face on them, asking for people to call a number if Toby was spotted. He figured his stepfather was just as glad to be rid of him. Fine.
    Toby had become an excellent forager at the age of twelve. And there were good restaurants downtown as well. There was the Ramada Hotel and Lazlo's Grill and Brewery. Both of them tossed excellent scraps into the trash bins.
    Toby was in back of Lazlo's tonight, standing on tip-toe as he reached into the dumpster, looking for a half-eaten hamburger or sandwich. His body was darkly bronzed and tonight he wore only his cut-off jeans shorts. The night was plenty warm and sometimes there were ways of making extra money if you didn't mind doing certain-- things... His stepfather had said that he was cute enough, "Like a girl," to make money peddling his ass on the corner of Ninth and "O" Street, where the tattoo shops, bars and strip joints were. Bring in a little extra money for the family. Earn his keep, in other words.
    Lincoln wasn't exactly a pedophile haven, but every now and then he got "lucky." But the last time had been a while and now he was skinny to the point of emaciation, and there were sores around his mouth. Wasn't likely to get a date anytime soon.
    There was a noise behind Toby and a sudden breath of dry heat. He turned his head and fell back onto the heels of his feet. Only shadows watched him. Still, there were goose bumps on the naked flesh of his arms and he felt afraid.
    Smells of sandalwood and sand. Then a decay that made even the sickly sweet stench of the dumpsters pale in comparison.
    "Is someone there?" Toby squeaked. He was afraid, very afraid. He let the lid of the dumpster fall back into place and hugged himself, crossing his arms across his chest.
    "Pain," a voice whispered from the darkness. Toby's eyes danced furtively about him in search of the source of the voice.
    "You know of pain, don't you? Pain and hatred and fear and hunger and despair. They all hurt in their own way, don't they, Toby? I know. You can confess to me. I know it all. Even the loneliness that envelops you every day and the void deep inside you where once love resided." The voice was dry and distant, desert wind blowing desert sands.
    Then there was a whimper, as if from a baby, followed by a slurping sound.
    "Who's there?" Toby called. The fear shone through his voice. He backed away from the darkness of the alley, his back connecting with the dumpster. "Please, whoever you are, just go away. Please."
    "It's all right, Toby. I'm here for you. I'll be the one to love you and keep you near for ever and ever. You'll never be cold again. You'll never be hungry again. You'll never hurt again."
    "Y-you some k-kind of chickenhawk or something?" Toby called. "If so, why don't you just say so?"
    There was the baby's whimper again and the slurping sound and this time Toby thought his spine would rip itself out of his body as he shuddered in fear.
    A sound of rustling burlap came from the shadows and was followed by a shape, voluminous and void. The light found its colors then and the shape resolved itself into a figure garbed in a patchwork cloak, the cool breeze stirring the folds of the fabric gently.
    The whimper came yet a third time and Toby saw what had caused the sound. It had been a baby. There were three of them in fact. Each was sown into the fabric of the cloak, most of their bodies hidden, only an occasional pudgy arm, leg and head showing through from beneath the multi-colored patches. One babe was sown into the top of the cloak's hood. Another over the left breast of the creature wearing the cloak and the third on the back. Their eyes still moved and their limbs twitched from time to time. When ever one of them shed a tear the fingers of the figure wiped away the tears and licked the salty liquid.
    The cry that Toby desperately wanted to give voice to was caught in his throat. For the first time ever he wanted to be home with his stepfather and abused mother. He hated his stepfather with a burning hatred, but he knew what to expect from the man. But this creature was a thing of darkness and evil mystery that Toby's mind refused to comprehend.
    "Come to me, Toby, and I will take away your ills. Let me enwrap you in my arms and hold you close and safe to me. Come to me." The words were whispers, gentle as the breeze, that tickled at his ears and which sapped his flagging will.
    "Come. Come to me, Toby."
    First his left foot, then his right and he was making his staggering way towards the arms of the figure as the cloak opened wide and Toby saw within. There were no eyes in the face of his savior. Or if there were, they had long ago dried to dust in the blistering heat of the desert. The body was mummified and the teeth were as blackened as the flesh and they could be clearly seen because there were no longer any lips on Qui'Twix Twiel's face. Marek had been right. He was a god of death and things undead.
    Toby stood within the arms of the demon and then the cloak was folded around him. He was shivering when the light of the street lamps was blotted out and he was sniffling as he cried silently. He realized, in the last moments, how much he would have liked to have hugged and kissed his mother one last time.

    A single, piercing, high-pitched wail cut the night in the Haymarket District of downtown Lincoln and it was the beacon that Rick needed to find his quarry. He found the alleyway behind Lazlo's and he turned his car into it.
    There, in his high beams, was the creature that he had been searching for all of this time. The creature that he had called from the nether worlds and dragged through the gates of the hidden towers: Qui'Twix Twiel, Drinker of Tears, Stealer of Children.
    Rick shoved the gear shift into park and reached for the ceremonial dagger he had used during the ceremony of calling as well as a cocktail. A ragged cry broke his throat as he scrambled out of the car and came to face his creation.
    "What have you done?" Rick screamed. "Who did you just kill, you motherfucker!?"
    "Ah," the voice breathed as the cloak turned towards him. "Richard, my benefactor. Welcome, I have been waiting for you."
    There was blood at the feet of Qui'Twix Twiel and Rick noticed that the feet didn't actually touch the ground, but hovered over the cobblestone street. More blood dripped into the pool that had already formed. Then the body of a child, devoid of flesh,  joined the pool.  The blood and mucus that covered the exposed muscles gleamed in the night's lamp light.
    "You should commend me, Richard. I put the poor thing out of its misery."
    "That wasn't some dog, damn it! That was a child. How can you do this?" Rick could feel himself slipping away again, along the lunatic fringes that he was sure his mind was to be consigned to.
    "It is what I do. I exist only for my own reasons and desires. The flesh of children is the most supple, pliable and sweet. They make excellent additions to the cloak that I wear."
    As Rick watched, a solitary patch of color grew along the fringes of the cloak. He realized that the cloak was still not finished yet, despite the many blocks of color that already comprised it. Each of the blocks contained a single rune of mystical origin, much like the silver square of Qui'Twix Twiel's Sign that Rick had used during the ceremony of Calling.
    The color on the cloak took shape and then solidified, a dark rune burning into its center. The patch had the texture and sheen of flesh.
    "Soon, Richard," Qui'Twix Twiel said in his dusty whisper. "Soon I will be complete again and free to rule this world. I will make you an offer. Undo the binding and the banishment that you have cast upon me and I will make you a king. Would you like to rule this land, this whole continent? It can be yours if you do as I say. Mind you, I do this only out of kindness towards my benefactor. Within a day or so I will be able to break both the binding and the banishment."
    Rick swallowed hard on his rage and tears and stared at the demon. "I want Mary back," he said at last. "Give her to me and we'll deal."
    A chuckle then, like dry corn husks being crushed. "The woman, do you place such value on her?"
    The baby on the top of the hood of the cloak began sobbing, loudly and plaintively. The tears rolled down its cheeks and over the lip of the hood, splattering onto Qui'Twix Twiel's dry and blackened face. He slurped at the tears, a black tongue wriggling out of his mouth to catch the salty liquid.
    "Show her to me, if she's still alive," Rick demanded. He fought for calm now. He needed calm in order to defeat this creature. Rick knew that if he didn't have control of himself then it would be all over and Qui'Twix Twiel would win. Rick had to succeed in banishing the demon in order to save Mary.
    "Very well," the demon said, drawing aside his cloak, revealing void and darkness within. A new shape arose from the void, folded into a fetal position and motionless. Rick recognized the chieftain's knot of Mary's hair and the paleness of her skin, the shape of her breasts and buttocks.
    "Give her to me," Rick said. He lowered the dagger and the cocktail to show his acquiescence.
    "Release me first," Qui'Twix Twiel said. "Then you can have the woman back."
    "I don't trust you, bastard. You've already killed Steve, Jerry, Al and Andy. There's no way I can trust you. But my father always taught me to live by my word and I give it to you now. Once Mary's free and safe, then I will release you. All I care about is her."
    The dusty chuckle again. "You humans, how I have always enjoyed you creatures. But very well."
    Qui'Twix Twiel dropped Mary to the ground. She groaned in pain as she fell and stirred slightly.
    "Now, undo the bindings and the banishment," the demon demanded.
    Rick nodded and came forward. The dagger and the cocktail were still both in his hand. He stood at arms length from Qui'Twix Twiel, Mary lying between them. Rick pointed the tip of the dagger downwards as he faced to the south. He was lucky in the regards that the demon was facing to the north.
     "Spirits of the South hear me and heed me!" Rick called out. "Throw open wide the gates of the Hidden Southern Tower. I call upon the Gate Keeper of the Underworld. I call upon the Queen of the City of the Dead."
    "Wait, that is not--" Qui'Twix Twiel started as he began to open his cloak again. He had overestimated this mortal boy. The demon had sought to play with him, like a cat plays with a mouse before sinking in the fangs. But this time the mouse had the cheese and was sinking its teeth into the cat.
    "Heed me and take from me this Spirit that I banish this night!" Rick yelled as he lunged. He raised the copper dagger and plunged it into the dry husk of Qui'Twix Twiel's skin.
    From his jacket pocket Rick extracted the Mandal of Calling he had used the night before and the Sign of Qui'Twix Twiel. These he cast to the ground at either side of the demon.
    "This will not hold me, boy," Qui'Twix Twiel rasped, a sallow glow shining from the pits of his eye sockets. "I am too strong for this now." The skeletal hands went to the handle of the dagger and started to pull it free.
    "From Fire I called this Spirit," Rick shouted, his hand withdrawing the Zippo from his jeans pocket. "And by Fire I cast him back into Void and Darkness!" The rag stuffed into the cocktail lit easily and Rick raised his arm. Mary still lay between them. Before throwing the bottle, Rick brought up his foot and kicked the demon back. The creature fell to the ground between the plates of silver and the babies each wailed and howled in pain and fear.
    "You dare not!" Qui'Twix Twiel cried. "Do you know how many people it took to make this cloak, to fashion the patches? The babies can still be saved, but not if you burn me." The voice turned sibilant and cajoling, trying to control Rick's thoughts and actions.
    But the guitarist shook his head and swung the burning bottle at the creature. The cocktail impacted and the burning gasoline washed over the demon. A hundred screams rose simultaneously as the cloak was engulfed in fire.
    Rick swiftly squatted down and gathered Mary in his arms. He picked her up and took her back to the car where he sat her in the front seat and wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. She was still semi-conscious, her eyes open only slightly and her head sagging to the side as if drugged.
    Behind Rick the screams rose and howled as the patches of the cloak burned, the aroma of burning flesh filling the air. Each patch was a human being slain by Qui'Twix Twiel, their skins and souls giving him strength and power. Now they were free.
    The desert winds swept through the alley, washing over Rick and carrying away the ashes. The fire had consumed the cloak, the bodies of the three babies and the body of the demon creature that Rick had called into this world out of ignorance. When the dry, hot winds died away there was only broken glass, the copper dagger and the silver plates, all of which were charred.
    Rick gathered them up and tossed them into the trunk. Then he got into the car and held Mary. She was crying now, whatever spell Qui'Twix Twiel had cast upon her was broken. She clutched at Rick and sobbed, from time to time saying Andy's name and speaking of things that Rick could neither understand nor fathom. 
    Rick held Mary as she cried and he felt the night grow chiller with the autumnal air.  This was, after all, the season of little deaths.