Louis had designed the entire home with two goals in mind: plenty of room, and a good view of the lake from his second-floor study. The first goal was, perhaps, too well accomplished, with rooms so large that he sometimes felt like he rattled around in them. But the second had been worth every effort. And he loved the sight of the water all the more when there was a storm, like today. The sight of the wind and water filled him with a joy so strong that his first glimpse had been enough to make him finally settle down in this remote, sometimes-hostile land.

This storm was particularly strong. The trees on the edges of the house yard thrashed about in the wind and the 30-foot swells on the lake were slamming into the bluffs below the house with enough force that foam was thrown onto his study window a full 60 feet above and 20 feet back from the lake’s edge. He could sense the elements straining for even more fury, striving for even more release. Casting his mind forth, he checked the wards he had laid against Gichimaktamurra, the Cold-Water-Lake-Spirit-Beast he had bound in a great battle of wind and magic, a battle that he had begun after the creature had ripped open the hull of an ore carrier far to the east of here. Louis has struggled with the creature for hours, finally trapping it in a web of enchantments just 20 miles offshore from his own home. For the 25 years and more since that day the storms here had been more powerful and more frequent as the beast chafed at its bonds.

Confirming that the wards would still hold, Louis turned back to the stack of mail in his inbox. He disposed of the forms needed to confirm the decisions of his various property managers, slipped the royalty check for a textbook he had written into his deposits envelope, and wrote a small thank you note to the Queen in response to her happy birthday wishes for one of the least of her nobles. He then turned to the part he liked best, the academic correspondence. He filed away two invitations to conferences on theology; mere courtesies since most departments assumed that a 105 year old academician who was never known to leave his country home would turn them down. And he would, but not for any lack of health. It just seemed prudent to avoid explaining why he was not, in fact, feeble, but rather appeared a bit too young to have even finished graduate school. He would write them nice thank you letters and submit a short paper to the University of Michigan’s Conference on Evil to express his gratitude at not being forgotten.

Then came a letter from Dr. Wight concerning a partial manuscript found in a Vienna library that was purported to be an original alchemical work by the Rosicrucians. Louis dashed off a quick reply on his manual typewriter where he confirmed Wight’s suspicions concerning the volume of spurious Rosicrucian works from the 19^th century, and asked for a copy of the work for his own research. He then turned to the letter he had saved for last, one from his friend Ben Turner, Professor of Archaeology at Harvard. Ben had been researching a series of inscriptions from a basalt pillar found in the Sahara just a year before. The slim envelope from an overnight shipping firm told Louis that it was probably  a brief note letting him know that a full translation would be forthcoming. With a half smile opened and unfolded the letter. As he read the note, however, his smile vanished. Staring out his window, the letter fell to his desk where an onlooker would have seen;

                                   Anna Turner
                                   33 W. Hawthorn
                                  Boston, MA

     L. Richardson, Ph.D.
     1 the Bluffs
     Eagle Harbor, MI

 Dr. Richardson,
                 I regret to inform you of the death of my Great-grandfather, Dr. Benjamin Turner, this Monday. He
             spoke often of your friendship and his executor states that you are included in his will. His funeral is this
             Friday and his will is to be executed the next morning.
                Please accept my invitation to join us at the funeral at 5 pm Friday.

     Sincerely,   
                Anna Turner

After a long few minutes, Louis gathered himself and, leaving his study, went to the kitchen. There he found Thomas and Sarah getting dinner together.

Thomas looked up, smiling at something Sarah had said,

“Good afternoon, Dr. Richardson. Done so early?”

After a short pause, Louis asked, “Thomas, where is Arturo? I need him to arrange something for me right away.”

“I’ll tell him, sir,”

Thomas started for the door as he was wiping his hands on an apron, “He’s in the garage working on the car. What shall I have him do?”

“Arrange a flight for me to Boston as soon as is feasible. Oh, and I’ll need a car, too.”

Distracted by his own thoughts, it took Louis a moment to realize that Thomas and Sarah both had stopped what they were doing and were staring at him with identical expressions of amazement.

Thomas cleared his throat and cautiously ventured a question, “A flight to Boston, sir? Boston, Massachusetts?”

Despite the recent news, Louis was suddenly amused. His very proper English butler was actually flustered by the idea!

“Yes, Boston, Massachusetts. I would prefer first class with no layovers, but it is a bit late to be picky. And a nice car, not one of those tiny things I sometimes see on the road these days.”

“Ah, yes, sir. Certainly…”

Sarah broke in with a startled, “But you never leave the Bluffs, sir!”

Louis’ subdued amusement changed to outright delight when he noted the stern look Thomas shot the young cook. From the way she looked down and blushed, Sarah had registered Thomas’ disapproval, as well.

“Sorry, Dr. Richardson,” she murmured, “Its just that in the three years I’ve worked here you’ve never left the grounds.”

Louis, smiling, reassured her, “Its OK, Sarah. It has been a long time since I’ve gone out. But it does happen from time to time.”

Composure regained, Thomas smoothly cut in, “Should we also arrange a hotel room for you, sir?”

“Yes, for a week. I haven’t been to Boston in a long time. I’d like to get reacquainted with the city. Please bring me the details when its all arranged, Thomas.”

“Certainly, Doctor.”

Louis left the kitchen, sure that Thomas would speak with Sarah once he was gone. As he returned to his office, he listened to the house, the house he had designed, and built, and knew so very well. Like an old friend, he trusted it. And, with just a bit of concentration, he could hear anything said within its walls. He turned his thoughts to the kitchen, hoping that Thomas was not too harsh on Sarah.

“I’m sorry, Thomas, I know Dr. Richardson forbids us to talk about certain…”

“No, child,” Thomas interrupted, “He has never forbidden us. We just don’t talk about certain things with him. It’s an unwritten agreement that all the servants have had as long for as I’ve been here.”

“Oh.” Louis could imagine the look of curiosity on her face as she paused.

“Thomas, how old is he?” she asked in a rush.

“Sarah! You…” Thomas paused so long that Louis stopped on the stairs, prepared to extend his sight into the room, as well. But the butler continued,

“I’ve been here twenty years and he hasn’t aged a day since I started. And George, the butler I replaced, told me that there was no change in the doctor during his 20 years, either. Ursula, the previous cook, thought he was 80 years old back then, making him 100 now, although she wouldn’t tell me why she thought that. Sometimes I wonder if he’s much older than that.”

“Do you think he’s like the people on that TV show, that Scotsman who lives in Paris?”

“I don’t think so, Sarah. I think…. Well, I think he’s one of a kind.”

There was a pause that seemed to stretch for minutes, then Sarah asked again,

“Have you ever… seen things, Thomas?”

Thomas’ voice was almost a whisper, “What kind of things, Sarah?”

“Well, once I was walking the grounds to the east, where the trees are so thick, and I got sort of… lost. But just as I started to panic, I saw someone. I saw…”

“The Little Girl,” Thomas interrupted, “You saw the Little Girl.”

“How did you know?”

“Everyone here sees her eventually. You’re lost, or scared, or can’t find something and you see or hear a little girl. She leads you to a trail, or calms your fears, or shows you where the thing you’re looking for is and then she just… goes away. We’ve all seen her and no one has ever heard he speak. George thought she was a ghost and Colleen thinks she’s a faerie. I don’t know what she is, but there’s no harm in her, that’s certain.”

Sarah voice trembled with relief, “I thought that you’d laugh at me if I told you.”

“Sarah, its OK. Working here, we will listen to you and we won’t laugh, no matter what. But…,”

“But what?”

“Only talk about these things in servant’s quarters. Ursula was a strange old bird, herself, but she swore that Dr. Richardson knew everything you said in the house, but he didn’t listen to our quarters out of courtesy. I think its just a story, but, well, its better to be polite. Especially in this house.”

“Thomas, why do you still work here? I mean, all these strange things, and the doctor never getting older, and…,” she stopped, flustered.

“Sarah, girl, calm yourself. 99 days out of 100 this is no more than great job. It’s a nice place, room and board plus a top-notch salary, Dr. Richardson is a nice man, and the work is, frankly, not very hard. We could do a lot worse than having an eccentric boss with a haunted house.”

Sarah laughed a little, obviously calmer, ”Yeah, I guess.”

“Trust me, a few more years here and you won’t be able to imagine working anywhere else.”

Relieved, Louis stopped listening. The first few years were always touchy with new employees; about half quit within 3 months and that many again quit within 5 years. Ursula had been his cook for 30 years and it had been tough to replace her. Sarah was quite young, only 26 when he hired her, and she sometimes seemed lonely on the remote estate. But she was dependable, and got along well with the others, and was a very good cook, if a bit too willing to try dishes that included cilantro or mango chutney.

Already back in his study, Louis pulled out the files that contained all of his correspondence with Ben. Digging a folio out of a closet, he prepared to move these to the growing file of acquaintances who would never again send or answer a letter.  It was growing more and more common that someone he had known had died and he feared becoming inured to the sense of loss.

As he was transferring a stack of letters from a folder to the folio something fell out. Picking it up off the floor, Louis realized it was a picture. Actually the picture, as he thought of it; the master for the photo framed in his bedroom. Ben had sent it to him shortly after Louis had returned to the United States so long ago. The black and white image remained sharp after all these years. It showed a couple and two children standing in a brightly-lit clearing, laughing. The man and woman were older, probably in their sixties, but both seemed healthy and full of life, even in a still photo. The older boy appeared to be in his mid teens; the shock of black hair and strong jaw stamped him as the son of the couple that flanked him. In his arms was a baby, no more than a year old, with a wide grin and pale hair.

Turning the picture over he read the fading sepia handwriting on the back,

 “Aunt Jo, here are our friends, Drs. Seamus and Hilde Richardson, who are also missionaries. Their very tall son, Louis (who is only 15!) is holding our baby Benjamin.”

At the bottom of the picture, it read, “East Africa, May, 1913”.

Louis carefully took the only surviving picture showing him and his parents together and placed it with the rest of Ben’s correspondence.

An hour later Thomas rapped on the door as he entered. He patiently waited while Louis finished a decade of the rosary.

“Yes, Thomas?”

“We have your reservations, sir.”

“So soon? The agency usually takes this long just to call back.”

“He didn’t use the agency, sir,” Thomas paused, “He used the satellite internet hookup you had installed for him two months ago.”

“I see,” replied Louis, “Its good to see it can be as useful as Arturo and Sarah claimed.”

“Indeed. You have a round trip first-class ticket, a reservation at XV Beacon, and a Lexus on reserve.”

Thomas paused, obviously undecided about what he was about to say. Louis waited him out. After almost 10 full seconds, Thomas continued, “XV Beacon has a complimentary limo service, however, so I urge you to take advantage of it rather than to drive yourself. If I may be so bold, I believe it has been at least 12 years since you drove a car, sir.”

Louis smiled up at his butler, “Thomas, you know that you can dare. And I will take your advice. However, if I decide to drive in the country, I want the option with a minimum of fuss.”

“Of course. Since you requested as soon as possible, you must leave within 2 hours to make the commuter flight to Detroit. Your bags will be packed within the hour.”

“Very good. Well done, Thomas. You may go.”

*******************************************************************

Louis paused in the shade of a thorn tree to catch his breath. Sweat streamed down his face as he leaned one arm against the bole of the tree, scanning the plains behind him.  All too soon he saw a glitter on the horizon, the sparkle of the African sun glinting off British rifles. He had widened the lead to about an hour and would add to it before he reached his village. With a deep breath he turned toward home and ran off with long, even strides designed to eat up miles all day.

Forty minutes later he reached Ascension, the missionary village that had been his home for almost ten years, ever since his parents had become the leaders of local lay Catholics spreading the Gospel. He circled the church, not slowing until he reached his home. He burst through the door, breathing heavily,

 “Mother! Father! I’m back!”

The woman sitting in the parlor jumped up in surprise, her needlepoint tumbling from her lap.

“Louis! You must hush, they are resting.”

Louis stopped short, “Mrs. Turner, why are you still here?”

“Your parents’ fever is worse, Louis. Dr. Rolfson asked me to stay with them.”

Louis’ concern was plain on his face as he picked up Mrs. Turner’s sewing and returned it, “How bad is it, Mrs. Turner?”

“We do not…. Louis! You are bleeding!”

Louis glanced down at himself as he raised his shirt, showing a compress tied around his ribs, “Just a scratch, ma’am. M’Bonu already took care of it.”

Mrs. Turner glowered at him as she bustled over to examine him, “That African witch-doctor has a smooth tongue, but he is no Christian doctor! Let me see this.”

As she untied the bandage, she noticed the two neat holes, one in front of his shirt and one in back, that lined up with the wound. Without looking up from her task, she asked, “Who shot at you, Louis?”

Knowing that arguing with or attempting to evade Mrs. Turner was a fool’s errand, he sighed and said, “The South Africans, ma’am. I believe they mistook me for an Askadi officer.”

Mrs. Turner had finished removing the bandage and carefully wiped away the poultice beneath, revealing an angry red 4” scratch over Louis’ ribs. As Louis waited patiently, arms over his head, he had to restrain his laughter as Mrs. Turner began to make little noises to herself, a soft mixture of ‘hm!’ and ‘tsk!’ and ‘never!’ that both conveyed her displeasure and made her sound as if she were clucking. The plump woman was the wife of the Lutheran minister from the Protestant church that shared their village. Her efforts to tend to any illness she heard of and stuff children with food, combined with her bright and oft-heard laugh,  made her the most popular woman in the region. He had once overheard his father say that she was the only ‘mother hen’ he had ever met that actually sounded like one. Remembering this was almost enough to make Louis finally laugh out loud.

She looked up at him, “I’ll clean it and re-bandage it right now. You sit there, Louis, and I’ll be back.”

“But….” His protest was too late; she was off to the kitchen. In a few moments she was back with what she needed. She silently steered him to the bench she had earlier pointed to, sat him down, and began cleaning his wound.

“Mrs. Turner, how are my parents? Really, I mean?”

The lady kept her eyes on her work as she spoke, “Louis, you are about to turn 18 and you have a level head, so I will treat you as the man you are about to become. I think your parents will recover, but it will be a long time before they do. Dr. Rolfson is a good doctor, but he is an old man and, well, he has grown forgetful. I hope that the South Africans get here soon so that we can get proper doctors to aid me in caring for them.”

Louis, wincing from her ministrations, as gentle as they were, tried to smile, “They should be here in about an hour, ma’am. I got them to chasing me and led them here.”

“Louis! You truly are a clever boy.” She stood back and looked up at the boy towering over her. Smiling, she added, “Perhaps as clever as you are tall. Now go wash up and I’ll re-bandage you when you are done.”

Louis paused, then decided to tell her.

“Uh, Mrs. Turner? I am in a bit of a hurry.”

“What? You just got here!” she said with a frown.

“Well, they shot at me thinking I was a German. My mother is Austrian and I do have a bit of a German accent to my English. I’m afraid of being sent to a prisoner of war camp if I stay. Mother will be fine, and Papa has all of his papers as a British citizen. But I came to Africa as a child; most of my papers are from the German East Africa Company. So, well, I was going to leave before they got here.”

Mrs. Turner frowned in thought as she mulled over Louis’ rushed soliloquy. The fright on his face was real enough and she had heard rumors that the South Africans planned to keep all potential Askadi officers in confinement until the war was over, something that could be many years away.  With a flourish she spun him around and swatted him toward the back door.

“Hurry then, boy. Go wash and change clothes quick as you can while I make ready.”

Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Turner was bandaging his side again while Louis tried to comb his unruly black hair. When she finished he threw on a clean shirt and prepared to go.

“Hold it, Louis. I’ve got a pack ready for you.”

She handed him his knapsack, obviously stuffed full.

“I know the local boys have taught you to live with just a spear and knife, but I put in a loaf of bread and a small cheese so you can travel without hunting for a day or two. I also put in a shirt, and sewing materials, and your bible.”

She had tears in her eyes as she watched him shoulder his pack.

“Where are you going, Louis? I should tell your mother when she’s feeling better.”

“I’ll head North to the Uluguru mountains. They are close by, but rugged enough I should be able to hide there for a long time. If it is too dangerous to stay there I’ll keep heading North in the direction of Kilimanjaro.”

He took one last look toward the back of the house, where his parents were, “I should see them, but…”

“Oh, no you don’t! I wouldn’t risk you catching a fever in the best of times, and with you gallivanting off to the Lord alone knows where! Well!!”

Again, she spun him around, this time to face the door, and gave him a push, “Off with you, young master Richardson, and you come back as soon as it’s safe!”

Louis left the house, wondering if he would ever return, and turned to the North. As he prepared to set out, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Snapping his head around he saw little Ben Turner waving at him from behind the church. He trotted over to say goodbye to his little friend.

“Lou! You back!”

Ben held up his arms to be picked up. Louis obliged by swinging the toddler into the air in a high arc, then planting him back on his feet. As the boy giggled Louis tousled his hair and grinned at the cherub-faced child.

“Lou, you come dinner?”

“Not tonight, little fellow, I have to go again.”

Ben started to tear up and, fearing a major tantrum, Louis picked him back up and kissed him on the nose, a move sure to cheer the boy up. Still holding him at eye level, Louis whispered,

“Want to know something, little Ben?”

“What?”

“I’ll be back just to see you, my little fellow. I may be gone for a while, but I will always come back to see you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just you wait and see, Ben, I’ll take care of you for a loooong time.”

Ben’s giggle got louder, then seemed to turn into a chime….

Shaking off these dark thoughts, he began placing his things back into his carry on bag. The last was a thesis by a theologian named Anthony from Boston College. It had some fascinating insights on the interrelationship of the Holy Spirit to humans that promised years of papers on the manner in which God imparted revelation to Man. He hoped to get a chance to visit the Theology department at Boston and speak with some of the faculty in person, a rare treat.

The airport was not nearly the trial he had feared. The staff from the hotel had retrieved his luggage and placed it in his car by the time he got to the concourse. His room was very comfortable, the staff was unobtrusive, and the food was excellent. He spent the morning preparing for the funeral and, on the advice of the staff, left early to make sure he arrived on time. Traffic wasn’t as bad as feared and he arrived at the funeral home early. With a great deal of trepidation, he entered.

The building was amazingly quiet and just a bit too cold. A group of people, all somberly dressed, stood near a set of double doors. Nearby, a man in a dark suit stood next to a pedestal which held an open book.  The man smoothly glided to where Louis stood and spoke with a voice almost a whisper,

“Are you here for Dr. Turner?”

“I am.”

“This way, sir. The family asks that you sign the guestbook.”

Louis strode to the book and signed his name. The man, obviously an attendant, scanned it quickly and continued,

“Thank you, Dr. Richardson. The room will open shortly.”

The attendant then slipped away to meet someone else entering the building.

A bit dismayed, Louis was wondering what to do when a woman’s voice cut through his worry,

“Excuse me, did he say Dr. Richardson?”

Louis turned to find a young woman, no more than 30, in a black dress. Combined with her black hair, the outfit made her blue eyes seem unnaturally bright.

“Yes, I am Dr. Richardson. And you are?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but… Dr. Louis Richardson?”

Louis had encountered this before, of course. No one expected a man who should be over 100 to look 30. He had made preparations for a day like this and was ready. He had even rehearsed his response,

“I am Dr. Louis Richardson, just not the Dr. Louis Richardson. The Old Man of Theology is my great-grandfather, for whom I am named.”

The woman smiled embarrassedly, “I’m sorry, its just, well, Poppy, I mean,”

she looked down, blinking away tears, “He just spoke of Dr. Richardson as his oldest friend and so wanted to see him again. I had hoped….”

Louis wished he could ease her pain with the truth, but it would cause her far more grief. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he quietly broke through her tears,

“My great-grandfather’s health is too fragile to permit travel. He truly wants to be here. He mentioned Ben, I mean, Dr. Turner all the time. He used to tell me stories about when they were children in Africa, and when Dr. Turner was a student of his at university. He was quite upset to hear of Dr. Turner’s death and sent me immediately.”

“Thank you for coming. Oh, my! I just realized.” She held out her hand, “My name is Anna Turner.”

“Ah, yes, you sent the letter.” At her questioning look, he continued , “I have been reading for great-grandfather since I was a young boy and his vision began to fail. I also take dictation, write, and fetch coffee. While less than glamorous, it prepared me quite well for my own studies in theology.”

“Oh, you’re a theologian like Dr. Richardson. I mean, your great-grandfather.”

“Its OK, it happens all the time.” Well, this was the first time he’d tried this, actually. It had been relatively simple to secure the proper documents from the proper agencies, even though he had never married. With his abilities, however, a false paper trail was simple. Too simple, really; the temptation to… fix things was too great.

“If you’ll excuse me, doctor, I must talk to other visitors. Thank you for coming.”

She moved away to greet new arrivals.

Louis noticed the attendant opening the doors to the viewing room. He slowly moved in with the others, finding a seat in the middle of the room. The 40 minutes of eulogies and tearful anecdotes were a blur to him as he reminisced about the little boy he had taught to fish, the young man he taught in university, and the mature scholar who won tenure at Harvard before the age of 40. All those days, all those moments, all gone – nothing, now, but memories. Unfamiliar with these non-Catholic proceedings, he removed a rosary from his pocket and said the prayers to himself, slowly moving from bead to bead, as he focused his mind on the Mystery of Christ’s resurrection. Finishing as the last speaker stepped down, he returned the rosary to his pocket and stood with the others to walk past the open casket and say goodbye.

It took about 15 minutes to make his way to the casket and, once there, he stopped, stunned by what he saw. Physically, he looked much like Louis expected him to – a 90 year old man. But his ‘other’ vision, what some called ‘witch sight’ and some called aura awareness, saw something else; a lingering magic. He had sensed something wrong when he walked in the room, but had put down his unease to sorrow and unfamiliarity. But confronted with it directly, he was forced to realize- his friend had been killed by magic. The dark magic of those involved with demonic forces. He focused his mind upon the body of his friend and ‘felt’ a dark line penetrating Ben’s heart – he had been murdered with a form of sorcery, similar to the sympathetic magic of the thaumaturgic disciplines of the ancient Mediterranean.

Remembering where he was, he moved on. His inspection had taken no more than a double handful of seconds, but it was enough. The nature of the magic that had caused this effect was very short-ranged, very ‘personal’. Whoever had done it had been close enough to touch Ben when he was killed. As he moved to his seat he concentrated upon his arcane senses, senses that had become almost as instinctive as hearing or smell after 70 years of use. He could barely sense something corrupt just outside the building, lingering in his mind like the smell of sour milk. With a short prayer his sense became sharper, more precise at that range.

A single spot in the parking lot held a mix of protective, offensive, and sensory spells, all with the same signature. It was a person, a sorcerer with no small skill, watching the building. Just like the lingering traces of the spell that had killed his friend, these dweomers reeked of evil and corruption and marked whoever it was as the murderer.

The remainder of the service went quickly and they were soon on their way to the cemetery. Louis could sense the sorcerer following at the end of the train of vehicles. The cemetery was close by and the graveside services were very brief. The sun was just touching the horizon as the quests filed by and cast dirt into the grave. Louis glanced to where he knew the sorcerer to be standing and filed away the image of a young man, no more than 30, dressed in black standing by a nearby tree. Louis said a brief farewell to Anna and returned to his car. He watched the young mage mingle with the departing crowd of mourners and sit in a small car without leaving. As Louis watched him, he seemed to be watching something else. Finally, after everyone else had left and night began to fall, Anna returned to her car and left. The stranger quickly followed her, in turn followed by a grim-faced Louis.

Louis had fallen out of practice behind the wheel and would have lost both vehicles if not for his special senses. Even with this help he had two instances where he almost lost his quarry. Eventually, the small convoy reached a large home; Anna pulled into the garage, the stranger parked across the street, and Louis settled in around a nearby corner where he could watch both the stranger and the home. When nothing happened for 30 minutes, Louis settled down for a long wait. After another hour the downstairs lights in the home went off and, shortly after, a single light was turned on in an upstairs room.

At this the stranger bolted from his car and walked briskly to the house. A bit startled, Louis went to follow, cutting through a neighbor’s yard to close the distance. Angry at his hesitation, he focused on stealth, using his experience growing up in Africa, earning his ‘daily bread’ in the bush with nothing more than a speak and a knife. At the same time, he used a small spell to give him eyes like a cat, allowing him to see clearly in the ambient light. In a moment he rounded the house to find the stranger nowhere in sight.

Slipping up to the back door, he found it slightly ajar, the lock melted into slag. Ranging into the home with his arcane senses, he realized that the intruder was already halfway up the stairs. Still as silent as a shadow, he darted into the home and toward the stairs, following the whiff of dark magic. This eventually led him to a darkened upstairs bedroom. He paused outside the room, searching….. There! The sorcerer was hiding in the closet. But just as he started to enter the room, a door opposite him sung open, revealing a steam-filled bathroom and Anna, clad only in a towel, wrapping her hair to dry as she walked into the room. Louis froze in the doorway, clearly visible in the sudden light from the bathroom.

Anna looked up and, to her amazement, saw a huge man, over 6’6”, looming in her doorway. Startled into speechlessness, she sucked in a breath as he suddenly lunged toward her. Her gasp turned into a full-throated scream, however, when she saw that his eyes shone with an inhuman green light. Paralyzed with terror, she could only stand immobile as shoved her to her bed. As she fell onto the mattress she realized that someone else had been behind her. Fighting to regain her feet, she saw a man snarling with rage as he glared at the cat-eyed stranger who had, it seemed, prevented her from being stabbed in the back. Anna stooped trying to get out of bed and instead got to her knees and huddled in the corner where her bed met the wall, clutching her towel to her body as she watched the men stare at each other for a moment. With a shock, she recognized Louis from their earlier meeting. She also thought the other man, the one with the knife, looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Her attention was drawn to the knife he was holding up; she realized that is had a faint glow, like reflected moonlight, and that it seemed to be… smoking?

 The man with the knife started to wave it back and forth, menacing Louis. His face was a mask of animalistic rage and growling sounds came from his throat as he moved back and forth. In stark contrast, Louis stood almost perfectly still, slightly crouched, and his manner was so calm he looked like he was lost in a daydream, not fighting for his life. His sheer indifference seemed to hold the stranger at bay. He seemed so still that when he spoke his voice seemed unnaturally loud,

“Put down the blade, boy. It won’t work.”

“Hah!” Spit flew as the attacker’s face stretched into a feral grin, “I cut you with this knife and your soul is mine, fool! No man can resist a soul blade!”

Louis’ left hand made a soft gesture and the glowing knife seemed to flicker, then vanished in a whiff of steam.

“Fool? I do not put my trust in trinkets, boy. And my soul is not yours to take.”

The would-be killer stared as his empty hand with a slack look for a moment, then stared up at Louis with stunned wonder,

“But that was…. It took me a year to forge….”

His voice trailed off as Louis simply stared at him. The would-be assassin gathered himself,

“So what? I won’t need the soul knife now, not once I get the book. He told me that I could craft a great weapon, a weapon of power with the book.”

He clenched his fists as a look of triumph spread over his face,

“And your feeble tricks are no match for the might he has given me!”

Louis could sense the rapid build up of arcane might as his foe brandished a ring on his left hand. Quickly erecting a shield of eldritch force, he began to analyze his attacker’s spells. He quickly realized that the intruder was casting no spells, but was using enchanted items of great power. Louis parried attack after attack; a bolt of fire, a life-force drain, a disease curse, a sopoforic spell; none could penetrate the master ward he had raised while he waited for his foe to simply tire of the futility of it all. As he realized that none of his attacks were causing Louis anything more than mild discomfort he appeared to grow desperate, finally hurling a mystic bolt at Louis’ shield again and again as he roared with rage. After almost half a minute of effort, Louis saw the other man’s eyes dart to Anna where she was still crouching on the bed. With a look of malice he prepared to unleash a torrent of balefire at the defenseless girl.

Louis’ defenses were entirely personal and crafting a ward for Anna strong enough to save her would take too long. Panicked, he pointed his arms at the evil sorcerer and shouted,

“Vaisee!”

The sorcerer silently crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Louis rushed to his side and crouched over him. His voice rough with emotion, he spoke into the fallen man’s ear,

“You only have a few seconds. Repent of your sins, ask God for forgiveness!”

The sorcerer’s mouth worked for a second, silently, then a rough croak escaped his lips,

“Too… late. Sold… soul….”

“It isn’t too late! Repent!”

The sorcerer’s eyes wandered around the room before finding Louis’ face and staying there,

“Too… la….”

As the last breath escaped his foe, Louis bent his head in prayer,

“Our Father who art in heaven….”

When he had finished, he moved over to the bed where Anna remained crouched. She had tears streaming down her face and was moaning to herself hysterically. Realizing that she was essentially naked, Louis threw the blanket up over her, then drew her to her feet on the floor. Anna looked up at him, trembling with shock,

“He was a meta, right? I mean, he shot fire at you.”

Anna’s eyes glittered like she had a fever and her teeth were beginning to chatter. Louis realized that she was about to pass out from sheet terror.

 “A meta, he had to be. A meta.”

Louis put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes,

“Anna, its OK. I saw him following you and decided to keep an eye on him. But its OK. He’s not going to hurt you.”

He poured magic into her through his touch, slowing her heart, steadying her breathing, and gently easing her into sleep.

**********************************************************************

“Yes, detective, that’s how it happened”

“All right, Dr. Richardson, we have your number. If we need more information, we’ll contact you.”

“Do you know how Miss Turner is doing?”

“No, I…,” the detective looked past Louis’ shoulder, nodded faintly, then looked at Louis again, “Excuse me, I need to talk to this person.”

Louis hadn’t caught this detective’s name, so he just nodded politely as he left, shutting Louis into the too-small room.

 Louis was bored. The police seemed to believe his story. It was simple enough; by simply substituting a ‘bad feeling’ for his supernatural senses and playing up a bit of ‘small town distrust of big city ways’ they seemed to believe he was just a naïve do-gooder that got lucky. Even with their belief, however, the questioning and re-questioning had taken hours. It was now almost 3 am and he was still sitting in the police interrogation room, answering questions off and on. He knew that the goal was to see if his story remained the same between different questioners as he grew tired, but he hadn’t required sleep since an eventful night in the Uluguru mountains over 80 years before.

The detective returned with a sheaf of papers in one hand. He stood in the open doorway gesturing for Louis to leave the room.

“You can go now, doctor. And the hospital says that Miss Turner  is fine.”

Louis allowed a smile to slip out as he stood, “That is good news. I’m glad she’s OK.”

“Me, too.”

Within 20 minutes Louis was standing beside his rental car where he had left it while following the sorcerer. The drive back to the hotel was longer than he expected and, once he arrived, his room seemed oddly cold. Deeply troubled by the events of the day, he spent the hours before dawn in prayer and contemplation as he mulled over what to do. With the sun’s rise, however, Louis spun into a flurry of action. He dashed off two letters and had the hotel staff send them priority before breakfast was delivered. He read the paper while devouring the largest breakfast he had  eaten in a decade. Finally sure that it was late enough in the day for it, he called his home.

“The Richardson residence”

“Thomas, its me.”

“Doctor! Are you enjoying Boston, sir?”

“Actually, no, I’m not. But that is not the issue. Thomas, please arrange a flight to Rome for me tomorrow, hopefully in the morning. I’ll need a hotel and a car, as well. I plan to be there a week, but it may take me longer.”

“Of course, sir. Anything else?”

Louis had to smile; it was obvious Thomas was determined not to be shocked by his employer’s sudden interest in world travel. “That should do for now. Oh, on second thought, please get me one of these “cell phones” I’ve seen so much of. They seem very useful.”

“Of course, sir. Shall I get you a European version as well, sir, or just an American?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Thomas.”

“American cell phones don’t work in Europe and European cell phones don’t work in America, sir. Shall I get you two?”

“That seem rather inconvenient. Yes, by all means get me one of each. Ship them to my hotel in Rome and make sure that the manuals are with them.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll make the arrangements and forward your itinerary to the concierge where you are now.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

Louis hung up and started preparing. Within an hour his bags were on their way to the airport to meet him in Rome, his rental car had been returned, and he was in the hotel’s limo on his way to the reading of Ben’s will.

The reading was to be in a lawyer’s office downtown, not in a darkly-sinister study in a Victorian mansion as Louis had suspected Ben, a notorious prankster, would have arranged. A seemingly too-young receptionist ushered him into a brightly-decorated conference room with large windows that filled the room with sunlight and gave a wonderful view of the harbor.

As he entered the room Louis saw that it already held three people, two seated and one standing. The person standing was a man who obviously worked hard to present the world with a particular image of himself. He was tanned, fit, and trying to look solemn; looked like he was in his late 40’s but was probably in his early 60’s; had a firm grip, manicured hands, and an expensive haircut; his suit looked like it cost $2,000 and probably actually cost five times that much; Louis assumed he was the lawyer. One of the people seated was also a man. In contrast, he was pale, slightly flabby, and the expression on his face was downright dour; he looked about 50 and was probably an unhealthy 40; his suit was off-the-rack and didn’t match his shoes; to an academic like Louis he fairly screamed ‘university administrator’. The third person was Anna; still in black, she looked more fragile than ever.

Louis’ guesses were soon confirmed when the person standing moved to greet him,

“Dr. Richardson, it is a pleasure to meet you, although I regret the circumstances. My name is Eric Howell and I am Dr. Turner’s executor. I believe you already know Miss Turner, and this is Dr. Wilson from Boston College.”

Anna murmured a greeting while staring at the table and Wilson half-stood to limply shake Louis’ hand. Louis took the seat offered to him as Howell sat and pulled three manila folders from an accordion bag on the floor.

“I have a copy of the authorization from Boston College on file, Dr. Wilson, and I received a power of attorney for you, Dr. Richardson, from your great-grandfather’s staff yesterday. Since the three principals or their agents are present we may begin.”

Howell opened the top folder, “In regards to Boston College, Dr. Turner has left a $1 million endowment for the History Department, another $1 million for the Theology Department, and he has created three separate scholarships. The details will be forwarded to the College today, but the summaries are here.”

Anna had gasped a bit as the numbers were read and looked stunned at the amounts of money mentioned. Wilson, obviously nonplussed, took the folder and said a few faint farewells as Howell ushered him out of the meeting room. In a few moments the lawyer was back in his seat where he turned his attention to Anna.

“Miss Turner, your great-grandfather has left you the bulk of his estate. After taxes, fees, and the execution of his will you will be the sole owner of the home you now live in, all of Dr. Turner’s books and papers, with one exception, and a trust fund totaling a few hundred dollars more than $12 million. The trust is set up to provide you with an income of $20,000 a month for life and, upon your death, it will be divided to create equal funds for any of your children.”

Louis wasn’t sure that Anna was still breathing. After a long pause, she was finally able to whisper,

“But he was just a college professor….”

“Well, Miss Turner, according to our records he inherited a relatively modest sum from his parents and invested it very carefully almost 70 years ago. My office has been managing his taxes and working with his accountants for over 30 years.”

Howell turned from the stunned woman and drew a box from beneath the table. Obviously heavy, it resembled the bible cases of a century before but made of plastic. Louis recognized it as a librum box, a container for old or fragile books.

“Dr. Turner has left Dr. Richardson a book and a personal letter. The letter is inside this case with the book.”

Louis took the case and its key and signed some papers before leaving the still-shocked Anna to finalize the details of her inheritance. Within a few minutes he was alone in the back of the limo as it sped him to his flight to Rome. The now-unlocked case opened to reveal a letter resting atop a tissue paper-wrapped book the size of an ancient bible or a modern encyclopedia. He took out the letter and began to read the familiar handwriting.

Dear Lou,

When you finally read this, time will have caught up with me at last. It has been a good life, I think, and I have the hope of heaven to cheer me as I contemplate the end of my earthly life. Indeed, when I think of being reunited with my family I grow positively anxious to move on.

I hope that you are well and I ask you to pray often for my great-granddaughter Anna. She is the only family I have left on this earth and I know that your prayers may aid her. She is a good woman and a fine scholar.

I give you my most prized book, a tome that I am certain that you will recognize. I hope that you are surprised for you once told me that you were sure that every original was lost. I came upon this quite by accident years ago but kept it a secret in the hope that wherever I am at this very moment I can see the look on your face.

Good-bye, my friend, as that word was meant to mean.

Your Little Fellow,

Ben

Louis wiped the tears from his cheeks and set the letter aside to unwrap the book. It was bound in leather with wooden plates front and back and, while in excellent shape, it was obviously quite old. He opened the book to its first, handwritten page and stopped, stunned with shock. He felt the page, peered at the writing for a moment, and then cast a small spell – it was authentic. He slowly re-wrapped the book, sealed the case, and leaned back in his seat. Staring at the roof of the limo, he whispered to the sky,

“OK, you got me. An original of the Codex Orientalis is a long way to go for a laugh, though.”

The flight to Rome was uneventful; the food wasn’t too bad and the woman in the next seat was more interested in a novel than in talking. He only had to fend off one pickpocket in the airport, an all-time personal low, and the car was waiting for him. The Hotel Majestic was very new but had a very old charm to it and it was convenient enough without the noise of being downtown. He spent his first day he wandered the streets  getting reacquainted with the Eternal City while he waited for a message. That evening the anticipated note finally arrived and he made arrangements to visit the Vatican the next day.

Late the next morning Louis took a cab to St. Peter’s Square and walked to the Western Door where he identified himself to the Swiss Guards. After they had looked over his passport and ID, one of them led him to a small waiting room. Within moments a young priest appeared and led him deep into the compound of churches and buildings to three story building. Soon he was being ushered into snug office. The walls were lined with books on theology, history, the canon law, and various bibles; there were scholarly journals on every flat surface, and a bin overflowed with neatly-stacked reports from various wire services.

A man sat behind a narrow desk at the other end of the office. His back was to Louis at first and Louis was a bit surprised to see the red hat of a cardinal on his head. The seated priest slowly spun his chair around and faced Louis. He had a cup of coffee in each hand and a faint smile on his lips. He reached across his desk and placed one of the coffee mugs by the only other chair in the room.

“Please sit and have some coffee, Dr. Richardson. Its Jamaican Blue Mountain, your favorite.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

Louis sat and tasted the coffee, pleased to find that it was actually strong enough for his tastes.

“Thank you, it is quite good.”

The cardinal continued to gaze quietly at Louis with a small smile on his lips. After a long moment he spoke again.

“You seemed surprised to be received by a cardinal, doctor.”

Louis studied the man as he took another sip of his coffee.

“I am. I expected to meet a senior priest or, if lucky, a monsignor and work to convince them I was telling the truth. This may make it much easier.”

The cardinal chuckled. Louis stiffened at the sound and looked more closely at the man behind the desk.

“Joe? It is you, isn’t it?”

“I am surprised you remember me, doc. Its been, oh….”

“Forty-two years. You were in my systematic theology class in ’61….”

Louis broke off, gazing at the man before him with a smile, then continuing.

“You were in my systematic theology class and you were always cracking jokes and chuckling to yourself. And you were quite a good theologian, too. I was on the committee for your dissertation – very good work.”

“Thanks, doctor, that means a lot to me. Especially since you are the only member of my dissertation committee that is still alive. How is it that you look so very, very good, doctor?”

Louis leaned back in his chair, still nursing his cup of coffee.

“The Lord has been good to me, Joe. That’s all I can say.”

Joe laughed a bit as he pulled the carafe out and refilled their cups.

“Don’t worry, I already know about you. Well, as much as we knew 23 years ago when you left the Congregatio. A member of my staff received your letter and was clever enough to actually look in the archives. He found your sealed file and thought it very odd that only one man in the last 100 years has had a sealed file in the archives, so he brought it to me along with your letter. I broke the seal, assuming that I had received a letter from an excommunicated theologian. Imagine my surprise when I found a file on my former theology professor. In it I learn that not only was he once a sacred theurgist for the congregation that I so-recently was appointed to head, but that he may be cursed to never die as other men do.”

Joe took a long pull from his mug as he studied Louis’ reaction. When Louis remained silent, he pressed on.

“So why are you here, Dr. Richardson? Your letter mentioned an encounter with a black sorcerer, but it was otherwise vague.”

 “I realized that I had made a mistake, Joe. I realized that I never should have left the congregation.”

Louis paused, considering what to say, then plunged ahead,

“I’ve been living in an ivory tower for over 20 years. Studying my books, writing my letters, and weaving wards to keep out the world. I realized that I had made a mistake when I found I didn’t know about the Ireland War until after it was over. I had been busy translating a series of clay tablets from the Akkadian period.”

Louis looked down at the coffee in his lap,

“An entire nation ravaged by technology and sorcery and I was too busy translating the handwriting practice of children dead 3,000 years to notice.”

Louis took another drink before going on.

“Just about the time I was convincing myself once again that it was prideful to think that I could make a difference I had to attend a funeral. Oh, invitations to the funerals of friends have been coming my way a long time, now. Indeed, they are starting to taper off as everyone I once knew dies off. But I had to go to see Ben one more time. And I encounter a black sorcerer, a maker of things, a dark smith. He had killed Ben and if I hadn’t been there he would have killed the last of Ben’s family, too.”

“But you killed him, instead.”

“I was forced to. He was planning to kill Anna Turner and I did not have the time to erect a ward for her. I know that what I did was justified, but it made me realize that my reclusiveness  wasn’t. I should have been in Ireland, I should have prevented Ireland. Instead, I was self-absorbed to the exclusion of all else but my mystic research. And if it had not been for that encounter, I would have returned.”

Louis placed the mug on the edge of the desk and looked up at his former student.

“Joe, I want to come back, I want to return to the advisory position I had when we were facing the Black Cult.”

Joe nodded as if to himself and, opening a case on his desk, placed a purple stole around his shoulders.

“I am prepared to hear your confession, Louis.”

“Bless me, your eminence, for I have sinned….”

After twenty minutes of listening and asking questions, Joe leaned forward, careful to catch Louis eye.

“For your penance, I direct you to join the Order of Sacred Theurgists and oppose the enemies of Christ.”

“But I am no sacred theurgist. If you’ve read my file you know that I was just a scholarly advisor, I…”

“Yes, I read that. I also read that  the Cardinal of this congregation begged you for ten years  to become one. You are demonstrably the most powerful mage in the Church since St. William the Younger in the 16^th century.”

“I am no saint, Joe.”

Joe slammed his hand down on his desk and bellowed,

“You ARE a mage! My predecessor thought you were one of the 5 most powerful living mages on earth, and that was before you spent twenty years cloistered in your tower studying the esoterica!”

Louis yelled back,

“I am not a combat mage!”

Rising to his feet, Joe looked down at his former teacher,

“Then you will learn! Mother of God, you’re as stubborn as St. Augustine!”

Louis, about to stand up and return the broadside, suddenly caught himself. With a grin, he looked up at the priest,

“That stubborn, eh? Well, that is a rebuke from my confessor.”

Joe, let out a long sigh, leaned on his desk, and chuckled softly.

“Yes. It was meant to be.”

He hung his head for a moment before returning his gaze to Louis.

“Louis, when you first started working with us back in the 1950’s the congregation had about 45 sacred theurgists, right?”

“Yes. A far cry from the 250 of the 16^th century, but plenty….”

“Louis, we are down to 3.”

“What?!”

“I said we only have 3 sacred theurgists in the congregation now. And two of them have been out of seminary less than 4 years.”

“But, how did this happen?”

The priest straightened and turned a bit to look out of his window.

“Well, there is little interest in such things these days. Many of the ones with a particular talent will not work for the church. And there are very few people in the world who are even aware of the fact that a mage can be approved and blessed by the Church to fight evil as a sacred theurgist. But worst of all, someone has been killing them.”

He faced Joe again.

“In the last 6 years most of our mages retired, quit, or were murdered. I have not allowed the two newest members to leave the Vatican in over 9 months on the assumption that the magical wards here would keep them safe as they developed their strength.”

He looked tired, very tired, and Louis had a hard time seeing the prankster that he had once been in his face.

“Dr. Richardson, until I received your letter I was on the verge of concluding that the era of the sacred theurgist was ended, that the Church would no longer be able to face black magic with white. But now! Now, we might be able to do it. We can return to our role of advising and supporting others and, if needed, opposing these sorcerers directly.”

“Joe, I understand how dire your need is, but I’m not sure that I have the skill to fight someone like the Black Priest.”

“I don’t expect you to face him directly and, if you do, I don’t expect you to do it alone. But the people that are fighting that creature and his ilk need you. They have questions you can answer. Indeed, you know answers they don’t even realize they need yet. But I need you out in the world to do this, not in another cloister answering mail and writing letters.”

Louis stood up from his chair and, looking down a bit at Joe, smiled again.

“It is obvious that I was meant to come here and join you. I will do as you wish, Your Eminence.”

“Good. That is very good.” Joe opened a drawer and pulled out a small satchel. “As Grand Inquisitor for His Holiness I appoint you a Sacred Theurgist of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith. This is for you.” He handed the satchel to Louis.

“Inside you will find your credentials and your diplomatic passport. You are now officially an ambassador-at-large for the Holy See. I used one of your photos from the archives and the Nuncio for the Secretariat of State has already sent out the papers to the rest of the UN.”

Louis flipped through the papers in the satchel with a bemused look.

“Very sure of yourself, Joe?”

“Sure of you, Louis. I don’t understand what happened to make you lock yourself away like that, but the man I knew would come when he was needed. And you are certainly needed.”

Joe moved around the desk and put his hand on Louis’ shoulder.

“Welcome back, Louis. Welcome back.”

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