Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

172 :: JOHN R. MABRY
“But Frater Khams is making bean dip,” Frater Charybdis
protested.
“Out!” he said, without turning around.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see them rise, heads
hung low in shame, tottering to the kitchen to put things
away. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, counting to
seventy-five.
The doorbell rang. Larch glanced at his watch. Who the
fuck could that be? He thought, It’s nearly eleven.
Most of the brothers were filing downstairs, but just as the
last of them descended out of sight, Frater Charybdis
emerged again with a stranger in tow.
He was tall, lithe, and carried himself with an arrogant
and exaggerated grace that was just a tad bit fey. He was also
handsome enough to be a model—with sculptured cheekbones
and wavy black hair that seemed to defy gravity.
He was also young. About half Larch’s own age, he estimated,
and yet he carried himself with an authority far
beyond his years. An authority, Larch guessed, that was purchased
rather than earned.
“I’m so sorry to have disturbed your evening,” the young
man said, offering his hand. “I am Allen Dane.”
“Dane?” Larch looked at him again. “Of the San
Francisco Danes?”
“The same. May I have a seat?” He looked at the seating
options and seemed to have immediately regretted his
request, but Larch waved him into one of the less objectionable
options, and took his regular chair for himself.
“Well, I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Dane,” Larch managed
a smile. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I understand you and your...friends...” he smiled, apparently
realizing he was ignorant of the proper nomenclature
amongst magicians, “have succeeded in a most ambitious
feat.”