The Hollow Ones(83)

As the dogs stood there locked into his spell, Blackwood removed a vial from his kit, dabbing a bit of oil on the tip of his right middle finger. He approached the animals with his hand extended, and gently swiped the oil vertically along each dog’s philtrum, the indentation splitting the nostrils, running down to the upper lip.

Two or three breaths and the animals sank onto their hindquarters, falling onto their sides, slipping into a deep sleep.

Blackwood stepped between the slumbering watchdogs, rounding the corner as the incantation grew louder. There he saw a woman wearing a white robe wrap and a white headdress, presiding over a crypt of chalky soil, out of which rose an ethereal violet mist. The cold vapor assumed the form of the long-dead people buried there, some two and three deep: forty or more men, women, and children, silhouettes rippling, wisps of purplish steam slipping from their hair and their shoulders like heat from cooked meat, dissipating into the stale air.

At the low, moaned urging of the conjurer Juanita, the violet spirits turned and faced Hugo Blackwood from the loamy floor of the unearthed crypt.



Odessa looked for the source of the familiar voice, fearing it was Solomon.

“Odessa? Honey, it’s me.”

She watched her father walk out of the shadow, a grateful smile on his face. He wore one of his old cardigans over a Lands’ End oxford, like he always did.

“Dad?” she said. Odessa was amazed to see her father, and yet his presence here in this subterranean catacomb in the center of New York City felt completely normal to her. In fact, his presence put her gently at ease. “Where did you come from?”

He stopped a few steps away from her, a hesitant smile on his face. “Why did you stop visiting me, honey?” he asked.

Odessa was suffused with regret, but at the same time, she welcomed the opportunity to explain herself and clear the air between them. “I couldn’t do it anymore, Dad,” she said. “You betrayed your clients. You betrayed your family. You betrayed me.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. She went on.

“Me,” she said again. “Of all people. I stood by you. I sat at your defense table in court. I vouched for you with everyone in town. You made a fool out of all of us. But especially me. You broke my heart.”

“I know,” said her father, nodding, taking a tentative step closer. “I know I did. But you don’t…you can’t know how lonely it was in prison.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” she said. “I love you, but…”

“Can you forgive me, Odessa?” he said, taking another step closer, holding out his arms to her. “Please?”



Blackwood unfurled his leather kit, hands selecting an ampoule by touch, his eyes never leaving the misty forms. They were advancing toward him, legs not moving, but rather all of them drifting in the same direction like a patch of sage caught in a breeze. The conjurer Juanita had sent them forth, expecting him to resist their assault, to repel them and exhaust himself in the fight.

But Blackwood did not prepare a countering spell. He uncapped the ampoule of green glass and slathered a generous dab of a tincture of white rose petal on each hand, returning the vial to its place and sliding the kit into his jacket pocket.

Rubbing his fingers into their respective palms and intoning the spell in its original Enochian language, Blackwood extended his arms and opened his hands toward the slave spirits. A fine gold vapor was emitted by his palms as though exhaled. It formed a nimbus of honeyed light around his body as his arms spread wide. The slave spirits moved faster as they reached his form, lowering their heads in attack.

Blackwood’s body was rocked as he welcomed these tormented spirits, taking them into himself. Instead of giving them the fight they desired, he absorbed their swarming pain, their fear, their bitter anger, their angst. He assimilated their energy, pulling their agony into his own heart.

He felt the conjurer Juanita pulling at them. Filling them with darkness. Driving them toward evil.

Blackwood could not heal their spirits. He could only commune with them. He could only speak to their souls.

You were exploited in life. You must resist being exploited by evil once more.



Odessa’s eyes welled with tears. She wanted to forgive her father. She had always wanted to forgive him.

But she couldn’t. Some crimes—especially the personal ones, the emotional ones—can never be forgiven.

“Dad,” she said, “I…I can’t.”

His expression moved from befuddlement to disappointment…and then anger.

And then it was no longer her father standing before her. It was Earl Solomon. He swung his right arm very quickly and violently, catching her across the face with a backhanded smack that sent her stumbling backward and crashing hard to the stone floor.

Odessa looked up, stunned, her jaw aching, ear ringing. She looked around for her dad until she realized what had happened. It was as though a veil had been pulled away.

Earl Solomon, wearing a hospital gown and padded socks, ran at her with a face-twisting sneer and weird strength. He jumped for her, coming down socks-first, aiming to crush her throat.

Odessa rolled away at the very last second. Solomon collapsed on top of her, fists flailing, kidney punches pummeling her torso and sides. She covered up defensively at first, but Solomon’s possessed body had stamina to burn, and she realized he would beat her to death if she let him.