The Red Scrolls of Magic

A plush high-backed chair appeared and Asmodeus sat down in it. He looked Magnus over.

“The angels have children,” Asmodeus told Magnus, his voice a horrific parody of a father telling a child a bedtime story. “They are said to be the greatest blessings this world has—the Nephilim, destroyers of demons. And we Princes of Hell have our children too. Many of our children burn into ash and void, unable to bear what they are, but there are those who survive. They are meant for thrones of iron. The tales say they are made to be the greatest curses of the world.”

Magnus could scarcely breathe. It felt as if the air was burning away.

“I have had many children in this world,” Asmodeus said. “Almost all have disappointed me. A few have proved useful, for a little while, but they were hardly worth the trouble. Their powers were extinguished, or their minds broke after a century. Two at the most. The children of Greater Demons can be very powerful, but they are seldom stable. I waited a long time for a true child to be a curse upon this world, and eventually I gave up. My children have been unable to thrive in this world or any other, weak lights begging to be put out, not worthy of me. But you. You’re strong. You fight. You sought me out with a scream that could have torn a world apart. You speak, and the blood of angels listens. You have cut doorways through the worlds. You have performed feats you did not realize were impossible, and continued merrymaking on your way. I’ve been watching you a long time now. Demons can feel pride. We are rather good at it. My son, I am proud of you.”

A hollow space in the center of Magnus’s chest hurt. Long ago, it would have meant something to him to hear that.

“How touching,” he said at last. “What do you want? I really don’t think it’s a hug.”

“I want you,” said Asmodeus. “You are my most powerful child, and therefore my favorite. I want your power in my service. After all I’ve done for you, I want your loyalty.”

Magnus started to laugh. Asmodeus opened his mouth to speak again, but Magnus held up a hand to silence him.

“That’s a good one,” he said, wiping away tears. “When have you ever done anything for me?”

In one breath, Asmodeus moved from sitting in the chair to standing next to Magnus. His whisper in Magnus’s ear was like the hissing of a furnace.

“What did I say?” Asmodeus asked his son. “Time to remember everything.”

He pressed his clawed hand to Magnus’s face.

Magnus’s eyes blurred, and his mind recoiled at the intrusion as the world changed in a blink. One moment he was standing on the stage in the center of the pentagram, the next he could feel the sting of the burning sun prickling his skin. Sweat began to bead at his brow. He took a step backward and felt sand crunch under his shoes. He smelled the scent of the ocean and heard the sounds of waves crashing against the shore.

Magnus knew exactly where and when he was now, and it filled him with dread. He was on the sandy beach at the edge of a jungle. It was lifetimes ago. From the very start of his first lifetime, in the first and last place he had ever called home.

Magnus became suddenly, keenly aware of how small he was. His shirt hung loosely from his narrow shoulders, his thin limbs lost beneath the material. His body had been adult and unchanging for centuries. He had forgotten how it felt to be weak and frail, to be so terrifyingly vulnerable.

Clear in the hot air, he heard a man’s low, gravelly voice. “Come here, my boy.”

The language was an old Malay dialect, one that had fallen into disuse centuries ago. Magnus hadn’t heard or spoken it since he was a child.

His stepfather walked out of the jungle and struck the trembling boy who would be Magnus, sending him sprawling into the sand.

Magnus shook under his father’s blows. All the memories he had of his stepfather he’d worked so hard to forget flooded back, one with every pang of pain. He could taste the sand in his mouth and feel the damp clothes sticking to his body. He could feel all the terror of those days, and all the rage. He balled his hands into fists, desperate to do something, anything.

He could feel his stepfather’s rough fingers wrap around his bicep and pull him to his feet. He was dragged, through the sand and into the trees, to the mouth of the old barn.

This was the past, his past. Magnus knew exactly what would happen next, and the fear he felt now was worse than the first time.

The barn where his mother had hanged herself was a charred tomb. There were gaping holes in the roof, one of the walls had collapsed under the pressure of encroaching tree limbs, and weeds seethed from between the floorboards.

In the dark there still hung a cut rope. A narrow creek ran across one corner of the ground in the barn, shadowed by the remains of the roof. There was a low table bearing a cup of incense sticks, and two offering bowls and a rough sketch on stone of a woman. Magnus looked at the picture and remembered his mother’s sorrowful eyes.

Magnus as a child looked up at his stepfather and saw him weeping. Magnus could feel the boy’s shame for hating him, the boy’s desire to love him.

The adult, watching part of Magnus knew what came next.

His stepfather put his arm around the boy’s shoulder and led him to the creek. The boy felt the stiffness of his stepfather’s fingers, as if the man were willing himself to keep from shaking.

Then Magnus felt rough hands close around his neck as the man grabbed the boy and pushed him into the water. Cold swallowed him, and it became impossible to breathe. His lungs spasmed desperately as he choked in gulps of water. The boy, fists pounding the water, struggled but could not escape his stepfather’s grip.