I phoned Father Ben after my conference with Ralph and told him that I urgently needed to get my hands on some unusual books that would have explanations and names of undeveloped Porphyric demons.
Just as I had hoped, he remembered someone who might aid: a retired demonologist who resided nearby in Linda's beach town, and who was competent to address with us that afternoon.
After a short lunch, I picked up Father Ben and we droved out to La Cotuna for our discussion.
"So, what is this guy's name again?" I inquired after we had converged onto the road heading to the coast.
"Kyle Brandon. A loyal fellow, but he is not loquacious. He was a little hesitant to meet you, so I had to notify him that you exercised the dark arts."
I grunted and shot him a nasty glance.
"I am not a dark magician and you recognize it. I do not adore the devil or offer animals, nor do I molest teenagers … which is more than you can tell about some of your partners."
He murmured something under his breath that screeched more like a scourge than a prayer.
"You said this was crucial. I had to hitch him somehow or he would not have come. He chooses to keep to himself."
Tremendous. Maybe some inhospitable sacred solitary. Father Ben's fingers untangled the band on the black fedora that he was clenching in his lap. He constantly wore a hat, which I always told him was an embarrassment; it concealed a good head of thick, gray hair that fitted his eyes.
But no hat could conceal his ring, thankfully, which was a subtle pale cornflower blue.
"So," I said.
"This Kyle Brandon researched demonology as you did, but he did not come to be a priest. Why?"
"He was booted out of the seminary a year into his scheme. A humiliation. And it did not pertain to molestation before you are captivated to go there again. He is a popular photographer now. I am shocked you have not heard of him."
I sped up when a vehicle struggled to pass us on the two-lane road, but they got through anyway.
"Photographer? Nay, can not say that I have, but I like to hear more about this titillating embarrassment. What did he do?"
"The documents are sealed."
"Really?" This piqued my attention. "Maybe it pertained to a woman. Oh, maybe even a nun—ooh! Wouldn't that be disgraceful?"
"Indeed, but no. I am afraid you will have to inquire of him yourself. It is not my place to rumour about another man's problems. Or a woman's."
He looked at my ring to hammer family his point. Well assumed. How could I ask him to cascade someone else's enigmas but keep mine? He hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat.
"However, what I can tell you is a bit of data that is public knowledge. Different old books went missing from the seminary after his dismissal. They were on loan from the Vatican— very unusual. The church had no evidence that he was to criticize, and he renounced that he had anything to work with them going missing. Still does."
"Do you assume he is lying?"
"Not convinced, he is … difficult to read. A decent poker face."
"Were they Goetias, the books that went missing?"
Goetias were my fundamental focus for experimenting with what I wanted to invoke my demon witness. They are ancient demonic encyclopedias that usually accentuate simple diagrams of Porphyric demons, along with a roster of their proficiency, conjuring names, classification marks, and any difficulties that last summoners had uncovered when negotiating with them.
"Bingo. That is why he may be your guy. One of the Goetia should have never been cast on loan. No other known copy survives. It could earn hundreds of thousands of dollars—perhaps more—from the true buyer. The content inside the book is documented as being incredibly different, so I am thinking it may comprise listings of Porphyric demons not originate in other books."
I must confess, I got a little delighted about this bit of data; I had a thing for unusual occult books and with the pressing issue of my parents' lives on the line, that made it even more appealing.
Father Ben did not offer much more about the disreputable Kyle Brandon, and after the thirty-minute ride, I was beginning to lose the caffeine buzz I had pumped myself up with at lunch. I was required to sleep or a vital cup of coffee. But when we finally made it to the little beach community, I got a second storm.
La Cotuna is a weird place. Only an irregular thousand people reside there, half of whom are bohemian artists; the other half has fortune and lots of it. The heart of the small village includes different square blocks of houses with Hansel and Gretel fairy-tale veneers, recognized completely as the Village.
None of the houses has addresses, just labels. There also are no streetlights, and neon signs are restricted. The sidewalks are jagged due to the amount of wonderful Monterey cypress hedges lining the cobblestone streets, whose contorted roots have nudged the pavement up.
If you are in the demand for art, the Village contains a wealth of stores and balconies that sell portraits and ceramics from provincial artists.
Between these, a plethora of bistros and cafes dot the winding streets, along with quaint old-fashioned candy stores. And once you have had your fill of shopping and seafood, the rough beach is only a few blocks away.
Father Ben and I entered a small coffee shop in the Village with numerous twinklings before our designated meeting time, so we requested inside—quad espresso for me, tea for him— and staked out a crooked table in the back of a tree-filled court at the side of the shop.
When Kyle Brandon rounded the nook and lifted his hand to us, I was seized aback; he was not what I anticipated. I stood up from the table when Father Ben made the openings.
"Kyle, this is Dorathi Wells. Dotty, meet Kyle Brandon."