The flaming oil spread quickly across the books and assorted screenplays (which probably deserved to be burned) and then dripped onto the tossed-aside bear rug. Within seconds half of the room blazed.

“Will the circle protect us from fire?” Julia asked, already putting a hand over her nose from the smoke.

“Not when the floor burns out from under us.”

The cicada demon somehow still lived, although Doucherock looked dead. Having a deceased host seemed to have hampered its coordination and it spun around the room in blind fury, venting its rage on every object in the room with its remaining claw.

“When I step out, run for the hallway, and don’t stop until you’re outside.” After she nodded, he hopped out of the circle, telekinetically lifted the bear rug, and threw it over the insectoid head like a flaming shroud.

Then they were running. Dying crabs littered their path and shells crunched underfoot. On the first floor, not far from the front door they found a body. Someone had managed to crawl from the basement.

It was Peter, unconscious and covered in blood. Isaac couldn’t imagine how the man survived, but then, the producer had always been lucky.

Peter proved surprisingly heavy, like an oversized medicine ball with limbs. It took the pair of them, each pulling a leg, to drag the producer. The flesh vines on the front door, now smoldering as their creator burned, snapped like frayed rope, and in short order they were outside, gulping fresh air.

They propped Peter against the side of a parked Mercedes and Isaac took his pulse. Weak but steady, same as with the man’s breathing.

“Shit. I can’t help but feel like this is partially my fault,” Isaac said dourly. Next to him, Julia made a series of faces that seemed to suggest she was trying to think of a way to assuage his guilt but never came up with anything worth saying. “So, what happened down there?”

“Rockwell. He snuck up next to the stage. Right after the demon appeared, he reached out and rubbed the circle. I guess he wanted to expose it as a trick. Paid the price didn’t he...”

“They all did. This was a terrible...” Before he could say “idea” the cicada demon came through one of the upstairs walls like a flaming comet. It landed in the yard, bereft now of its human host, and scuttled towards them, leaving a trail of singed grass. Isaac lined up Wilma, nearly made a crack about how dumb the bug continued to be, and then swore loudly when it went underground. The soil parted for it like water for a fish and it disappeared into the earth.

The seconds drug out. Nothing moved. They watched the lawn like swimmers waiting for a great white to breach.

The beast burst through the ground behind them in a spray of soil and grass. Isaac spun to aim Wilma and immediately realized he’d vastly underestimated the creature.

The stint below earth had rejuvenated it. Its size had increased and already the broken talon had begun to regrow. The blazing carapace had cooled and now looked to be even harder than before, like forged iron. It rose, chittering and hissing with rage, its segmented eyes glittering and its jaws clacking.

Isaac fired. At the range his aim was irrelevant but so was the buckshot. The pellets pinged off its shell-like so much thrown gravel and it retaliated with a talon swipe that missed taking off his head by mere inches. He stumbled and fell, barely managing to scramble back to avoid the striking talon that impaled deep into the earth between his feet.

The demon leaned in, the babyface elongating out, mouth open, striking like a snake. Isaac barely managed to bring Wilma up to block it and the needle teeth sank into the stock of the weapon, splintering wood. With a twist of its head, the shotgun was ripped from him and sent spinning away. Disarmed, he lay prone before the beast.

Julia’s thrown knife clattered off its carapace. Just like Isaac’s previous attack, her aim had been true, but the armor proved too resilient. It did draw its attention and the enraged thing tore after her, completely disregarding the helpless magician.

The woman proved nimble. She ducked and dodged the assaults, hopping back with perfect timing, or stepping aside like a matador when it charged. The only flaw in her strategy was that she had no form of counterattack. Eventually, she’d tire. Isaac doubted the demon would.

Maloc’s truck sat at the far end of the property, so as to not visually taint the line of guests’ luxury cars. It was a good distance, but he might make it at a sprint and as long as Julia kept the beast distracted.

Your charge...

Guilt at the thought set in immediately. Time seemed to slow as he looked from Julia, still dancing with the demon, to Peter’s burning mansion. As if to add karmic emphasis, several windows shattered from the heat, and the flames feasted on the new air with a whoomp.

He’d grown numb to the catastrophes he routinely left behind. In each situation, he’d been able to convince himself that circumstances were always beyond his control. Everyone who had died had simply been fated to do so. What did Ambassador Murray call him? Albatross. A goofy bird blissfully unaware of the doom following it. Of course, he didn’t benefit from the blissfully unaware part.

But this time, this mess was all on him. All the death. Dozens of party-goers. Doucherock. Maybe Peter. Maybe Julia. All entirely his fault. None of this would have happened without his cooperation. He couldn’t walk away and not just because the Voice had told him not to.

His moral epiphany stalled out before it reached steely resolve, as he realized he had nothing that could kill the damn thing. He normally prided himself on planning ahead, but he was grossly unprepared for this moment.

Across the yard, Julia looked near collapse as she ducked behind an evergreen. The mantis claw tore into it in a spray of pine needles and bark.

Think, he demanded himself. A dozen scenarios rapid-fired through his brain. Instantly he knew multiple ways to distract, annoy, tease or tickle the beast, but not a single method of putting it down permanently before it tore them to bits.

By any means necessary. The Voice echoed in his head. He reached into his Everbag, felt the Black Tarot Cards, and pulled one out. There must be a purpose to his having them.

The Gorgon.

An undulating ball of snakes illustrated the back of the tarot card. Reptilian eyes glowed and forked tongues flicked. It was a rear view of the famed Medusa head. On the flip side would be the frontal visage, the terrible gaze, the face of the card being her literal face. He was careful to keep it pointed away.

The Black Tarot wasn’t used in the same manner as their real-world counterparts. There was no spreading them on a table to be interpreted, no insight into the past, present, or future to be gained. The Black Tarot was designed to warp reality, with the effects being subtle or catastrophic depending on how each card dealt out.

Isaac’s current theory on the one he held was that it contained the essence of the famed Medusa. If the face of the card came up straight, the viewing target should fall victim to the stoning gaze. But all Tarot could be inverted. If this occurred, Isaac feared the Medusa’s spirit would be released to take possession of its intended prey—the result being a fusion of the two beings. The demon would be transformed into a demigod in a split-second evolution. He could be unintentionally unleashing a powerful evil on the world but shrugged it off when he realized he’d either be bug food or a statue at that point so what the hell.

“Hey!” he shouted.

The Pandemonium fiend turned from Julia at this new challenge, hissed, and made a beeline towards him. He stood his ground and held the card up like a crossing guard’s stop sign. Would the Gorgon vent its rage or take the beast as a host? He had a fifty-fifty shot, so Isaac closed his eyes and waited.

When he wasn’t torn limb from limb, he cracked one eyelid. The demon had stopped before him, its snake-like neck stretched so that the demented baby-face could stare in wonder at the powerful artifact he held. That’s where the change started.

The flesh around the segmented eyes darkened as if being dusted by gray powder. It spread around the bulbous cheeks to the jaws, freezing the demonic face in place. The gray continued, through the carapace to its countless legs and finally the upraised talon. Within moments the beast went stiff as stone. A perfectly crafted statue stood before him.

Isaac let out the breath he’d been holding in a long, slow exhale, which ended with a gasp when the Gorgon card twitched in his hand. As if aflame the edges began to curl inwards, folding repeatedly on itself until it was little more than a wisp, which then disintegrated completely and blew from his fingers with the wind.

Julia had retrieved Wilma and walked a circle around the insectoid statue, prodding it with the barrel. When she turned to Isaac she was positively beaming and between huffs and puffs from her exertions she said, “That was fucking awesome!”

Her enthusiasm both impressed and disquieted him. She clearly had a temperament for this kind of work. On the other hand, the world didn’t need more people like that.

Like him.

But apparently, Arrangement did.

“What do we do with it?” she asked.

Isaac shrugged. “Nothing. It must weigh a ton. I’m sure everyone will just think it’s twisted Peter Goss artwork.”

In the distance, sirens could be heard. “What now?” Julia asked.

Isaac side-eyed her. She struck an imposing figure, standing before the burning house, in tattered witch robes, shotgun in hand. Her potential had been displayed, which is probably why Arrangement wanted her in the mix and at least one reason why he’d been allowed to keep the tarot cards. With or without his help, she would become a force to be reckoned with someday. For what it was worth, he may as well have her on his side. He pointed at Maloc’s truck and she took off at an excited trot.

Acquiescing to the Voice’s directives may keep him in the good graces of Arrangement, but it certainly wouldn’t be without consequences. He was a pawn on more than one chessboard and somewhere out there, in this world or another, he knew his former master, the being that select-few individuals knew as the Mad Magician, could be watching. The passing on of any teachings was expressly forbidden and Isaac wouldn’t be able to conceal an apprentice for long.

The woman climbing into Maloc’s truck would certainly test the limits of the Mad Magician’s patience. But maybe, just maybe, she’d be a rock to help Isaac break the wave of death that followed him. The path forward seemed ominous, as he still had three Black Tarot cards. He could only imagine what Arrangement intended him to use them for. These kinds of journeys rarely got easier.

Before following her, he stopped to check on Peter. The man’s condition hadn’t changed. Isaac didn’t bother to examine the man’s wounds. He had neither the skill nor the time to dress any of the gashes. He’d have to hope Peter lasted until paramedics arrived. As he turned to leave, he noticed one of the producer’s eyes crack open just a slit, before immediately closing again.

“You asshole!” he barked. “I saw you open your eye.”

Both now parted just enough to see but not enough to erase the pain-induced wincing on his face. “Yeah. I’m awake. But I’m in tremendous agony and didn’t feel like a lecture from you.”

The distant sirens increased in volume. “I’m not going to lecture you. I don’t have the time. Help is on the way. Don’t move. You’ll be fine.”

“Sure. Nothing multiple surgeries, extensive rehabilitation, and lifelong psychological therapy can’t fix.” Peter frowned. Isaac had never seen the expression on the man’s face before and it was probably as close to grief as he could get. “Look, I know you thought this was a bad idea. You said it several times. In my defense, you could have done a better job of trying to warn me, been more assertive, but I digress. I should have listened. So right now, I’m giving you my word, I’m done with magic. No spells. No pretend cult. No demons. Done.”

“Well, that’s...”

“And I’m done with B-movies.” The producer ran right over Isaac’s sentence. “No more schlock horror or fake exploitive documentaries or really edgy and cool but probably still really offensive films. I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m going to be a better person.”

“I see. I think...”

“Oh, shut up. Being a better person doesn’t mean I care what you think. You better get going. I’ll come up with a cover story and never mention you were here or that you burned down my damn house.” He patted Isaac on the arm, leaving a bloody handprint. “But thanks for saving me. If you ever need my help, just call. I mean that. Call first. Long-distance. Don’t just show up. Don’t come anywhere near me without warning. Send me an email from several hundred miles away and I’ll do what I can to help.”

Isaac, tired now of the conversation and nervous about disappearing before the authorities arrived, turned to leave. As he did, he asked one final question. “So, if not B-movies, what are you going to do?”

“Internet pornography,” Peter answered without hesitation. “I have a source that says it’s an up-and-coming market.” Then he cackled weakly at his joke as Isaac clambered into Maloc’s truck.

After Julia had gotten over her disgust of both the beat-up vehicle and the really ugly cat that sat between them, she asked, “So are we going to start small? Like with all those little spells you taught Peter?”

Testiculies’ single eye moved back and forth between them, almost as if following the conversation.

“Nope. We may not have much time together. People don’t really thrive in my presence.” They both looked through the windshield at bloody Peter laying in front of his burning mansion. The producer waved weakly. “And Peter there is actually one of the luckier ones. So, we’ll start with the dangerous stuff. If you don’t survive then I know you weren’t worth the effort.”

Julia’s smile told him it was the perfect answer.