An Angel of Obedience
by
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The three of them sat in a row wearing matching pink and yellow sweaters and saddle-oxfords, each one holding something different. Chad held a sack of coarsely ground wheat flour and a small envelope. Chris held a bulky leather Torah stolen from the special collections of the British Museum in 1974. Tim held a compass from a box of CrackerJacks and a few twigs of leafy witch-hazel. They were three demons, sitting on a bed in a cheap motel room. Their expressions were blank, and somewhat defiant, like three high school boys caught smoking pot. They listened attentively, but there was an air of arrogance to the way they followed their lecturer with their eyes.
It was obvious. Given different circumstances, they would have torn him apart.
Henry Cornelius Agrippa was pacing back and forth in front of the three demons, running through his options. Henry was a graduate of Brown University with a Masters in Business Administration, and a minor in sculling. He was the kind of guy who played rugby on Sunday afternoons, drank imported beers, screwed his best friend's girl, and sold his soul to the devil as a fraternity prank. Of course, it had turned out to be no prank, but Henry was always one for making lemonade from lemons--so he bargained with the demon conjured by his fraternity brothers, and found himself with a lucrative career in consulting. It had all worked out well, too. He had graduated with honors, was making six figures, and had been promoted again and again over more deserving candidates. The only down side was the fact that he'd found it was a little like working for the mob. If the boss yelled, you jumped.
The boss had yelled, and Henry had come to the Comfort Inn in Cambridge as quickly as his silver BMW would carry him. The job: a binding. A routine procedure that he'd used twice before to get rid of a boss' wife who wouldn't keep her mouth shut and a colleague who'd suddenly acquired a bad case of scruples. Piece of cake, really, if you had something to offer. The spirits did not do a man's bidding gratis. They demanded a price. The trick was to find out what the spirits wanted and provide it at minimal cost to yourself. Some spirits wanted blood; they weren't particularly concerned with whose. Others wanted something more esoteric, such as a year of your life or perhaps an obscure and seemingly inane promise. Avoid making a promise at all costs. It might seem insignificant at the time, but later, it would assume the proportions of a Greek tragedy. The spirits were very fond of ironic punishment.
So, a binding? No, prob. It was the subject of the binding that made Henry start pacing back and forth.
"Okay, let me get this straight. You want me to bind a Nephilim? A real, honest-to-God (pardon the expression) Nephilim?" Henry laughed. "I didn't know those things actually existed. I mean, I thought it was all just talk, you know, like WMDs or the Piltdown Man."
Chad's smile made Henry uncomfortable. "Oh, they're real."
Henry wasn't a sentimental man, but he suddenly remembered, in vivid detail, his mother's death from cancer. He saw her lying in the hospital bed, the respirator gently humming, her sour old person smell filling the room. She had turned to him in her last moments and said: "You've disappointed me so."
The thought hadn't come into his head unbidden. Chad had put it there.
Okay. Point taken. Don't ask too many questions.
"Look, okay. So, where's this dude? He doesn't have to be here in the hotel, but he needs to be fairly close by."
Chad smiled again, but Henry avoided his eyes. "Here." Chad handed the envelope he was holding to Henry. Henry slipped it open and looked inside. He saw several nail clippings.
"Yeah. No one ever said this business wasn't gross. So, okay. You've got a name, don't you? I need his full name."
"Jackson Randolph Carter," said Chad.
Henry thought about the name for a minute. Was it familiar? No. No, it wasn't. "Okay, cool. But here's the deal: number one, I don't give up anything to the spirit. You guys provide the offering."
Chad, Tim, and Chris giggled.
Henry looked like he'd just smelled a fart. "Okay, two. I've never bound a Nephilim before, so I can't guarantee the long-term results. He needs to be alone for this to work. If he's distracted…you know, talking to someone or in a group…it won't work."
"He'll be alone."
"Okay, three. You have to maintain the circle for the spell to hold. You got a complete, unbroken circle? You got a complete, unbroken spell. Circle breaks. Spell breaks. Got it? That means after I cast the spell, I need to spray it with the sealant I brought. That takes about an hour to dry. Then you can put down the new flooring. Your boy will be bound for as long as the floor lasts. His family, friends, fellow Nephilim, whatever, will think he's in a coma. They'll rush him to the hospital, run through their deductible, dip into out-of-pocket expenses. Of course, if they pull the plug, he'll still be alive."
Chad laughed. "Yes. Sealant. Coma. Shame. Now, if you would." Chad handed Henry the sack of flour. "Time to work."
Henry rolled up his sleeves and got down on the floor. As he began to draw the circle, he looked up at Chad. "So, if this doesn't work…does that mean I'm a dead man?"
Chad smiled a row of sharpened teeth. "Everyone has to die, Mr. Agrippa."
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About the Book
Jackson Carter just wants a normal life. Sure, at thirteen, he's just retired from an illustrious career as a classical musician and entered Harvard as a freshman mathematics major. And yeah, he's responsible for raising his two younger brothers while mom is off in Brazil or Thailand spending every last dime they have. But he'd still just like a couple of friends to hang out with and maybe even a girlfriend. But a normal life just isn't Jackson's destiny. He has become obsessed with patterns: the mathematical properties found in the formation of clouds, the outline of a mustard stain on a picnic table, the intricate working of light and dark found in a curtain at the Sydney Opera House. When his mathematics instructor shows him a fractal image, Jackson becomes so engrossed that he cannot look away. Then someone hammers a pre-Roman curse to his front door summoning an angry demon, and his littlest brother starts receiving messages from Eddie Cochran, the dead Rockabilly singer. And, of course, there are the corporate paramilitary units stalking the parking lots of Harvard, his other brother's hysterical blindness, and a demented ex-weatherman from Little Rock, Arkansas who thinks Jackson is an evil genius who needs a good ass-kicking. And, oh yeah, everyone seems to think Jackson may be the anti-Christ. So much for a normal life. An Angel of Obedience is the sometimes funny, sometimes scary, always exciting tale of Jackson Carter, boy genius, over-burdened older brother, and potential destroyer of the known universe. It's a story that just goes to prove that when time and space are on the brink of extinction, that's when you need your friends and family the most.
About the Author
John Giessmann is an author and Rockabilly enthusiast living in Little Rock, Arkansas. He invites you to visit his website at www.NephilimWatch.com for more information about the great Rockabilly artists of the past, the Nephilim, and the historical figures who appear in this book.