Hank and Ray

The smile dropped immediately from Hank's face as he walked into Ray Perry's property and looked around. He spied the side door that probably served as the entrance to Deanna's on again off again fuck toy to the left. The house was dilapidated, grimy shingles and flaked paint. It had once been sky blue with large sash windows. An ornate set of trees and shrubbery decorated the outside. Overall, it had the makings to be cozy. Now, half of the visible windows had been boarded up giving the appearance of scars. The landscaping had long been abandoned. Overgrown weeds and grass were unkempt. Hank lifted his boots, stepped over a pile of dog feces, glided past an old bicycle, its front tire missing, handlebars a crooked smile.
What am I doing here? He thought.
He approached the side door, gave it three knocks. His grated nerves chafed and aching, he stretched his back, willed his teeth to unclench.
"Yeah!" He heard from the inside.
"Hi, I'm looking for Ray!" He called out hoarsely.
"What about?" The voice snapped.
"It's about Stephanie Montgomery. I'm working a case."
"You a cop?"
"No."
"Then get the fuck off my property."
"Look Ray, Deanna sent me." Hank lied.
A full minute passed before Hank heard the click and clang of a dead bolt being unlocked. When the door opened, Hank put on a plastic smile, held out his hand.
"Hi. I'm Hank Dolan. I'm a private investigator hired by Deanna Montgomery. Can we talk?"
Ray Perry was exactly what Hank expected. He had a lanky, sloven appearance, suspicious eyes, sloppy except for carefully maintained facial hair. Hank spread out his hands as the door opened and stepped inside. He was led to the kitchen, sat down at the head of the table.
"You want some water?" Ray asked, not turning from the sink.
"I'm fine, thanks."
Hank smelled something burnt, turned his attention away from the rat traps set up behind the front door and near the fridge. He forced his lids onto Ray who stared clumsily, a smile that said nothing on his face.
"I don't know where she is."
Hank took out his notebook. "I'm trying to piece together Stephanie's last moves before she went missing. When was the last time you saw her?"
"The last time? Oh, I wager it was a few days before. Me and her mom had a row I remember. Always accusing me of this or that."
Hank felt a cold breeze coming from a vent above the refrigerator. Did he just turn on the air in November? "You guys argue a lot?"
"Me and Deanna? Oh, no more than most I suppose."
"What were you arguing about?"
"I thought you wanted to talk about Stephie. You interested in me or her?"
"Yes, of course." Hank said drily. "Do you have any idea where Stephanie may have gone? Are there friends, a boyfriend maybe, that Deanna doesn't know about?"
"I know most of her friends. Including that one who claims to be Descended. But Stephanie don't date, so's far as I can tell."
A tight smile crossed Hank's face. "Yes, I know of Hecate. So Stephanie doesn't date at all? She's pretty. I'm surprised by that."
Ray shrugged. "She's a piece of work though, just like her mother. Got an ass on her."
"What? How do you mean?"
"Oh, you know. Got that tight little pretty ass and attitude to match. Ain't surprised no man wants nothin but a quick tap then move on."
Hank wiped at his eyes, noticed a definite chill in the room. He looked back at the vent near the ceiling. Ray had turned on the air conditioner. It was clear that he didn't want guests and would freeze them out if he could.
"So you've never seen a guy over there?"
"Nah, not really. She shows the interest I guess. I don't know a boy who's seeing her."
Hank felt uneasy. He was unsure how far he could continue this line of questioning. "Well, she is what seventeen?"
"She turns eighteen next month." Ray finished.
Hank accepted this with a nod. "So you two close at all?"
"Me and Stephie?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, I don't know. I party with her sometimes. Me and Deanna both."
"How do you mean?"
"The girls can't buy liquor yet so every once in a while we'll spring for a case of beer, let the girls join in."
"Uh-huh."
Hank turned away, feeling something cold in the pit of his stomach. He had interrogated many sexual deviants on his time with the force. Most often they showed lack of empathy, emotional maladaption, and hostility. Ray Perry certainly was giving off the creeper vibe.
"You know what though?" Ray leaned in close. "I wouldn't be surprised if pretty Stephie just up and gone."
Hank weighed his words. "Pretty Stephie?"
"That's what I used to call her."
Past tense? Hank mind cataloged everything Ray was saying for later.
"-You know, cause it rhymes. She thought it was cute."
But it doesn't rhyme idiot. Hank thought.
"Right,-"
As he said this, Ray's left arm shot to the kitchen counter and grabbed a half full coffee pot. In one long arc he brought it down smashing into Hank's skull. Hank crumpled onto the floor, blood pouring from a shard of glass on the base of his head.
Ray was running now. He fled the kitchen, stumbling over a bag of trash near the door. On the floor, Hank picked himself up, checked the damp spot and blood that was flowing from his head. Everything was fuzzy, a hazy gray. He stood in foggy shock. When the screen door banged shut, he felt the apartment rock and tumbled outside. He smeared his forehead, coughed hard just as Ray turned left at the base of the house and disappeared.
Goddammit. Hank climbed to his knees then feet and burst into a sprint. He made a left, whipped past crippled siding, an old dog house. He sped past the side of the house and spotted Ray leaping over a back fence. He shot through the back yard, noticed the gate had been left open. He followed Ray onto another property, noticed the cold burn on the top of his head. I'm gonna need stitches.
Hank stopped at a shed, its rusty metal thudded then banged. Catching his breath, he moved to the side. Again, something clanked inside. Oh Ray, you complete dipshit. He picked up a tire iron that off to the side and tapped the shed twice.
"Come out asshole."
Nothing.
Hank stood back and waited. The throbbing in his head was like blue fire and he wondered vaguely if he had a concussion.
"Get the fuck out here now!"
The shed door squeaked open. Ray slowly stepped outside, his eyes wide and glassy.
"That's not how I take my coffee Ray."
Hank turned toward him, smearing more blood across his cheek and forehead. He brought his hand down and gripped the tire iron like a baseball bat.
"You're gonna answer me." He said.
"I don't know shit!" Ray screamed shrilly.
"Who would want to disappear that girl Ray? Was it you?"
Ray stepped back, fear visible on his face. Hank looked squarely at him, took  a deep breath.
"Shit, it was probably her Mom!"
Hank noted the bitterness in Ray's tone. He sounded like a jaded lover, somebody thrown to the side. A discarded piece of garbage.
"What are you talking about?"
"I mean they fight all the time!" Ray gasped. "Deanna probably did her herself."
Hank side stepped past the shed, holding the iron up and in Ray's field of vision. He swung it cautiously, observing Ray's wild eyes and stilted pose. "Let me get this straight. You think Deanna caused Stephanie to disappear? That's you on the record."
"I'm just saying they bicker constantly. And Deanna has a drug issue. On the wrong day..."
He let the words trail off. Even without a coffee pot to the head, Hank would have thought Ray the equivalent of human sewage. He emitted a short, sarcastic scoff.
"I think you're full of shit." He muttered.
"Whatever. But you don't know those bitches like I do."
"What does that mean?"
"I lived with her! Seen them in all their bullshit!"
Hank forced a smile. He dropped the tire iron, letting it clang at his feet. As he walked off, he heard Ray cursing. It sounded panicked. Had Ray and Stephanie been fucking? He asked himself. He could sense that something was wrong in that household. Had Deanna found out and made her daughter disappear? Or Ray?
Hank walked back to his car in fading daylight. He noticed the buzzing of a streetlamp overhead. As he started up the Sedan, he took another long look at Ray Perry's shack and wondered if Stephanie was somewhere between the walls. He could almost hear screaming. 

Hecate's Triumph

A faint smell of incense and herbs penetrated the smell of animal fur at the outdoor spice market on 32nd avenue. It was a pleasing smell, one that conjured nostalgia into Hecate. Still, the feeling wasn't the same as before the Descending. A rooftop market, the open air and warm breezes made her think of Thrace but it wasn't the same. How could it be? It was not yet time for the ceremony. She knew they wouldn't start without her but she hated to make the Africans wait, even if her witchcraft was ineffectual now. She would still try.
A drumming could be heard over the conversation of patrons going about their shopping. Every kind of herb and spice available. Some sellers carried candles, snakeskin of every species were displayed in a number of areas. The bodies of chickens and monkeys hanged in a few. Everything the Sangomas might need was available here. Hecate knew that her white painted face and braided hair was a shock. She saw it in their eyes as she made her way to the far corner of the rooftop where her rite would take place.
Hecate sighed. Before Descending, she had been the goddess of all witchcraft. It was no surprise that she'd partake in South African magic. Now, she stuck out and felt almost ridiculous. They were welcoming, yes, even if they had no conception of who she was. But there was a weariness in their eyes, a holding back.
She wondered what others would say if they were to witness the ritual she was about to perform. Many would say it was horrifying and cruel. A savage throwback to a forgotten time. Hecate knew better. The calling of the ancestors was a powerful ceremony that could just work. Who was to say?
She heard murmurings as she walked past and kept her gaze low. She heard a few whispering, the words 'pale trumpet' audible a few times. She knew why. The trumpet was the screams of a dying goat as its throat was cut during the ceremony. The trumpet to awaken the ancestors. Other animals could be used but the Africans preferred a goat. For whatever reason, its scream was the correct intonation.
She thought again of the pale trumpet and swallowed hard. Was this nickname something more sinister? Was she herself the trumpet? She knew that humans, especially tiny children had been used in these sacrifices before. She had personally presided over many, of many peoples, before Descending. It had been what it was and it had been in sacrifice to her. She loved the bleating, the cries and drumming and rattles. For months I've been here now. She thought. And the closest I can find to my beloved magic is a rooftop in New Los Angeles. Not surrounded by Thracians or Greeks but Africans who haven't forgotten the old ways.   
"Pale trumpet."
A voice said from behind her. It was a man she had seen before. Dark and sinewy, he looked out of place in his dress clothes as if he were attending Sunday school.
"Hello."
His large hand motioned for her to follow and she did. As they walked, he put on a bulbous hat that covered his unusually large ears. A large tent opened and Hecate entered. Incense filled her nose. She was directed to a chair in the middle of the area and surrounded by three attendants who would be indispensable when the ritual began. She unbuttoned her blouse and took it off, handing it to one of the attendants. The nakedness was also essential, to excite the male ancestors as they awoke. Her red hair was pulled and smoothed back with warm water til it shined like the head of a puff adder native to these peoples home. She flicked her tongue and let her eyes bore into them. Did they know who she was? Unlikely.
She sat and felt the air pressure drop. Her ears popped and she smiled. One by one the attendants began to chant, some stomped their feet, others whooped and screamed.
Hecate closed her eyes, let her essence billow out like the incense. Dogs that had been brought to the rooftop began to howl. She felt weightless as if she'd been picked up and placed on a cushion. Her equilibrium strayed and she began to lean to the left. An attendee righted her with hands on her head and shoulders. Hecate felt herself succumb and her mouth parted.  She leaned her head back, rolled it to the side. A bursting green glow filled the tent as if accent lights had been placed on the floor. Through the clouds of smoke she saw shadows standing here and there. The bodiless. She thought. The ancestors of these people. She didn't even need the trumpet, they had come, were probably evident as soon as she arrived at the rooftop. Hecate tasted ash on her tongue and spied the small fire that had been built in the tent. More coal colored incense was being added as the bodiless moved back and forth. Each time she blinked they appeared somewhere else. One was off to her side in one instant then inches from her face the next. She gritted her teeth, felt sweat form on her forehead. It was carefully wiped away. The green glow persisted, deepened, took on a pungent hue. It was now almost blue, thick like syrup. The bodiless stretched across the tent until they were all one shadow. A dark mass, a shape. Outisde, she knew the moon had just been uncovered by cloud. But it was a new moon. She felt it. It was delicious and cool. Hecate let her awareness fan out, let it grope all who bore witness. And it was there. And she rose into the bodiless.
The rooftop was now chaos as the howling had gotten crazed, uncontrollable. Gusts of wind blew incense and oils onto the ground. Sellers tried to stake down the tents only to see them picked up and blown like newspaper. The greenish hue spread across the rooftop causing some to scream in terror.
Hecate felt hands on her head and shoulders, chanting in her ear. The tent flaps blew outward a a gust from inside threatened to topple the enclosure. She stared up at the bodiless who were above them all. They spun and spun, tighter as Hecate's magic drove harder and harder.
"The ancestors have come!" She screamed.
Her attendees screamed and she heard the goat pulled within arm's reach. It bleated, it's fur soft on her hand. She was given a knife. The bodiless were now moving through the tent in quick, jagged, bursts. They whipped across her face as she drew the knife across the goat's throat and heard the trumpet sound. A silver bowl was brought to catch the blood as it poured onto the ground and onto Hecate's bare feet. She felt its warmth running between her toes.
"Sangoma!" The man from before said beside her. "Have the ancestors come? Whom do you see? What masks do they wear?"
The moon is the key. She thought. The gate of resurrection. She smiled up at the man with the bulbous hat.
"There is a budding morrow in midnight!" She responded.
"I don't understand witch! Have the ancestors answered?"
The magos persists. She thought.
She sensed it, not nearly as powerful as before Descending. But there was a residual clarity, an awareness of the bodiless and gestating undulation of the magos itself. Hecate slumped off the chair and onto the rooftop floor. She felt blood on her calves and thighs. An attendee stood over her and leaned her head back. Her mouth opened, her tongue extended. Bile from the goat was poured into her mouth and she gagged. Her eyes watered as she swallowed. To her right, she blurrily saw others quickly shearing the goat that had bled out. They worked furiously, four or five hunched over it. They brought a bangle to her. A necklace fashioned of the sheared goat fur, it went around her neck. Smaller ones were placed as bracelets onto her wrist.
"Sangoma!" The man said from beside her.
Hecate was given a large plastic cup of beer. She guzzled it, tasted the bitterness as her senses blurred.
"Sangoma!"
She was given another cup, then another.  Her shoulders softened. She looked up and saw the moon slowly realizing that the tent had been blown apart. She looked down at the ground and saw small streams of blood. The bodiless were still present, great darknesses here and there. Hecate's face darkened, she drank more beer. The man pulled at her arm. Somebody stepped in front of him.
Hecate saw what he was doing, felt his hands on her waist, trying to take her from here.
Her attendees stood in front of him, waved the knife in his face, threatened to cut him. He backed away.
"Sangoma!" He screamed. "Sangoma!"