Coal to Diamonds Read online

  “Bless your mouth that speaks the sacred names.”

  Cole kissed each of Cam’s eyes. Then he pressed his lips between Cam’s brows so hard his lip flattened and his teeth pushed against the bone under Cam’s skin. He wove his fingers into Cam’s thick hair and said, without moving his mouth from Cam’s forehead, “Cam, bless your eyes. Your eyes that see.” He wet his pinky with the oil and traced a diamond shape where his lips had been, around and around Cam’s potent third eye. “Open this up,” he crooned, rubbing, coaxing. “We need your sight.” Finally, a faint, elliptical glow, the green of new grass, satisfied him. Cam slipped into gnosis, his mind transcending the rational, moving to a plane where reality was malleable.

  He blessed and anointed Robert in the same fashion, lingering over his hands instead of his eyes. “Bless the hands that wield the staff,” Cole said, squeezing Bobby’s palms, stroking Bobby’s thumbs with his own. “Bless them for their strength.” Throughout school, Bobby had been their protector. No one could fathom why popular, athletic Bobby Forester, with his strong chin and disarming smile, would befriend Cole Riley, the bookish outcast, or Cameron Webb, the fairy from the drama and dance club. At first Cole thought it was a joke, or a dare. But Bobby had stood by them with the quiet, unwavering power of mountain stone or an ancient tree. An ochre aura now surrounded his arms to the elbow.

  “Can you do me, please, Bobby?” Cole asked, passing his friend the oil. Bobby knelt, and Cole closed his eyes and let his mind begin to slip to the place it needed to be: a few feet beyond the confines of his body, a few feet into the soil, a few into the sky, and a few to the sides, where it would brush against and join with the souls of Bobby and Cam. Bobby kissed his feet, and they felt light, like balloons filled with warm air instead of blood and bone. He could no longer feel the jab of the pebbles against his soles. The tepid buoyancy spread throughout him. He let Bobby’s slightly calloused palm brush away the mundane from his calves, stomach, chest, and face. Everywhere he touched, Cole felt changed. His body expanded, floated. Only his cock, half erect despite the temperature, felt corporeal. When Bobby’s lips brushed his, it felt like their faces melted together. Cole’s mouth, his speech and words, was the throne of his magic. Bobby’s lips slipped away, and Cole saw the light of his own power escaping between his teeth, white hot, blue-tipped, knife-edged, and flickering.

  In this semi-trance state, Cole never felt like he controlled his muscles. So he willed his consciousness near the tools on the stairs and found himself beside them a second later. One thing he’d learned from his grandmother was to collect rain water. He gathered it from each storm in a mason jar and labeled it by writing on a piece of masking tape the zodiac sign, moon phase, and time of day. Certain rains benefited growth, others banished it. Tonight’s jar proclaimed “Taurus/Waxing-three-quarters full/Dusk.” Cole unscrewed the metal ring, removed the lid, and handed the jar to Cam. It smelled of melted snow, dark, potent soil, and crocuses. “Call West,” he said.

  Cam often spoke as if he recited a poem: musically and nervously. “I call to the spirits who reside in the West. I call to the spirits of water. Be present with us and aid us tonight. Wash and purify us. Refresh us. At my beckoning be with us now.” He dipped his slender fingers into the jar and flicked some liquid into each of their faces, making them blink.

  Next, Cole handed a terra-cotta bowl to Bobby. The muscular man sprinkled some of the cornmeal and basil on their toes, saying, “I invoke the strength of the earth spirits of the North to aid us on this night.” Bobby had been a lawyer; his crisp words resounded. “Come at my calling and stand beside us in our work.”

  Cole struck a match and held it to a bundle of incense sticks. “Spirits of the East,” he said, “spirits of the cold ether, who ride the wind, rush now to my side.” The wind responded, whisking away the fragrant smoke. “Lend us your sharp power, like a double-edged blade, to cut the flesh of our enemies.” This time the blast of air moved through Cole’s body as if his skin had been made of the thinnest gauze.

  With his free hand, Cole lifted a red candle. The flame sprung alight as soon as it touched his palm. Cam gasped. “Fire spirits of the South, whose tongues are flame, join me here, now. Let my soul be engulfed but not consumed. Let the fire temper it, like steel, into a sword. Nairyosangha, Gabija, Adramelech. Fill us with your fury. Agni, Moloch, Belial, Gibil. Let us direct your might toward those who would harm us, boiling their blood and melting their eyes, reducing their skin to bubbling liquid and their bones to ash. Decimate any who stand in my way—”

  “Cole, enough,” Cam whispered, grabbing his friend’s elbow. “Your hair was starting to smoke.”

  “Cast the circle,” Cole panted.

  They followed him in an egg-shaped path around the cabin, from the porch, to the propane tank around the side, to the back, where the evergreen ferns sloped up to meet the hemlocks, and back. Bobby scattered the meal, and it fell like amber to the ground, leaving a radiant golden blockade. Cam’s spring water added a shimmering bottle green. The dual forces in Cole’s hands produced a trail of blazing red and ice blue that twisted together like mating serpents. As they circled again, the colors combined to erect an abalone shell wall, full of shifting hues. Once again Cole was proud of Bobby and Cam. They’d spent ten years away from tutelage, and he’d feared they’d be too out of practice to be effective. But their wills and intentions were as concentrated and devastating as the beam of light a boy directs through a magnifying glass to dispatch ants. Bobby’s aura, clay-colored and steady, walled the small cabin and burrowed into the ground to protect even the foundation. Like a dragonfly touching down on water, Cam’s sparkling, emerald energy flitted here and there, erratic, but peppering everything eventually.

  They circled the cabin thirteen times before stopping at the steps. A tepee-like shield of mutable light surrounded the little wooden structure. The colors bled into each other, mixed, and changed, reminding Cole of the aurora borealis. He could only imagine what the spectacle looked like to Cam, with his finer perception. Still, he wanted it stronger.

  “Now thirteen times with our wands,” Cole said.

  Cam set down the empty jar and lifted the necklace from his throat. He wrapped the cord twice around his wrist, then held the little piece of wood like a pencil.

  “Mine’s in the truck,” Bobby said. He jogged, his naked body light against the dark trees and graphite sky, to retrieve it, and returned with a staff as thick as his wrist. Terra-cotta beads on hemp braids thumped against the wood near the top. Holding the staff beside him and staring into the woods, Bobby looked like the wise, patient, and stoic mountaineer that he was.

  Their magical tools had been carved from the body of the oak whose arms once cradled their tree house. It had been witness and conspirator to their early attempts at enchantment. Among its leaves and swollen acorns, during the tail end of summer, they’d gathered to say their good-byes to childhood and each other. High school, with its joys and horrors, had finally ended. Cam was bound for New York and a dancing job just off Broadway; Bobby was headed for school in New England. Cole’s uncle had offered him a decent paying job at the insurance agency, and he planned to save up for a year or so before studying writing and sorcery, hopefully in England and throughout Europe.

  That night, with the aid of a few six-packs and a tube of hand lotion, they’d pushed through the only wall that still separated the three of them and passed the final phase of their initiation. Drunk, awkward, overzealous, and inexperienced, they’d all left a bit of their blood on the tree house floor. Thinking back, Cole knew this was as it should be. All of the world’s pagan magic involved a rite of passage. All of the rites involved pain and blood. He’d read about circumcision, tattooing, scarring, and worse. Transformation needed sacrifice of something to gain something else. Blood was the ink that marked the moment when childhood ended. Blood, though Cam and Bobby shied from it, held more power than any substance Cole knew.

  Exactly one week after Bobby, Ca
m, and Cole became men together, lightning struck the oak. There had been no moon that night. The catastrophic bolt toppled the tree house and split the trunk down the middle, exposing the dark heartwood. Bobby’s father’s station wagon had been crushed and the shingle roof of the home pierced by a branch. One by one, without discussing it, the young men had each gone to the yard and taken away a bit of the charred wood. Concentrated within the fibers was all of their magic, their love, their innocence, and memory. None of them was willing to lose it completely.

  Bobby, who loved to hike, fashioned himself a walking stick. Cam carved a charm to wear close to his heart. Cole, tutored by fantasy novels, made for himself a real wand, slender and as ornate as his carving skills allowed, covered in sigils that spelled their names in the secret alphabet they’d cobbled together from Angelic script, Theban, and Tolkien’s Elvish. It had three dark spots on the handle, and Cole liked to think each was a drop of their blood, but that was impossible since the wood had come from the core of the tree.

  Still, the timber had absorbed much of their essences. During the ten years they were separated, Cole on occasion stroked the dark stick and recovered a little of his friends: the phantom pressure of Bobby’s hands on his shoulders, or the ghost of Cam’s musical laughter. When they’d met again six months ago, he’d been delighted to find Bobby and Cam had kept their wands. Now, each man stood holding his own piece of boyhood and enchantment, pointing it at the modest cabin. Cole let his mind slip. He began walking, letting the words that formed in his mind spiral from his lips, uncomprehended. After three trips, he lost the perception of placing one foot in front of the other, lost the cold on his skin and the warm oiliness of the wood against his palm. He was only aware of the gathering energy that swirled around the cabin, stronger and stronger. It pulled their bodies in its wake like leaves caught in a whirlpool.

  Then the sky broke open. Icy rain in tablespoon-sized drops pelted their bare bodies. It came so thickly that the individual droplets soon formed sheets of frigid water. It didn’t fall, but was hurled from the dark clouds with such force that it hurt. The rain on the slate roof sounded like machine-gun fire. Branches and bracken bent under its assault. Cam shielded his head with his forearms, and even rugged Bobby slouched. The ground turned instantly to chilly, dark ooze that covered their toes. Cole thought that this must be what it felt like to be stoned to death; the water hit as sharp and solid against his body as flung rocks. It was all he could do to remain standing.

  “Six more times!” he yelled over his shoulder. “We’ve got to keep going.” The weight of the water felt like it was driving him into the ground. He became so cold his body felt brittle. How could anything be so frigid and remain liquid?

  “He sent it,” Cam shouted, the rain blurring his words into static. “Thorn!”

  The first piece of hail hit Cole high on his cheekbone, drawing blood. The bitter-cold mud, up to his ankles now, numbed his feet and made walking difficult. Two more pellets hit the top of his head hard enough to make him see stars. “Three more times. Concentrate! We can’t—” Another piece of ice bruised his face. He heard Bobby slip, land in the muck with a splash, swear, and struggle back to his feet with the aid of his stick. Cam whimpered.

  Cole turned to face his friends. He could barely see them through the curtains of rain, though they stood only a few feet away. Liquid splashing off their skin outlined both men in a silvery mist. “Be strong!” Cole yelled. “Give it everything you’ve got. We can’t let him stop us. Twice more. Hold onto me!”

  They came together and locked elbows. A constant, strong wind joined the barrage. It hit them like a stone wall. The rain fell almost horizontal, piercing their chests, thighs, and tender genitalia like poisoned darts. The ground and sky, everything, had been liquefied. The water seemed to shoot right through their bodies and exit through their backs. Cam, in the center, barely retained the ability to lift his legs. Bobby and Cole practically dragged him. The green crown of light remained bright around his forehead, though, and his hand, though shivering, stayed steady on his wand.

  Finally, they finished their casting and staggered to the porch. The tempest followed them, switching direction to batter their bodies with more cold air, water, and ice. By the time they hurried inside, the storm drenched a rectangle of the floor. They didn’t let go of each other. Closed out, the storm beat against the door and windows with an almost conscious intent.

  CAM dropped to the floor and sat on his heels. With his head bowed and shoulders stooped, his wand resting on his outstretched palms, he looked like either a monk in prayer or a person awaiting execution. His fair hair draped his face. Rivulets dripped from his locks and splattered the floor between his knees. The wood darkened in a circle around him.

  Cole knelt down and gently closed his fingers around Cam’s chin. His skin felt fish-cold, and his lips matched the shade of the circles under his eyes. Small cuts covering his body made him look like he’d tumbled through briars. More than anything, the beautiful man resembled a corpse freshly pulled from the river.

  “I’m so cold, Cole,” he whispered.

  “Cammy, did we do it?” Cole asked. “Can he see us?”

  Cam trembled so hard water flew from his hair.

  Bobby seized Cole’s wrist and wrenched it from Cam. “Jesus,” the bigger man said. “Give him a second.” He took the blanket from the back of the couch and covered Cam’s shoulders. Then he whispered something to Cam that contained the words “baby,” “take your time,” and some others Cole couldn’t hear.

  The conspiracy between the two of them was starting to piss Cole off. “We need to know if we were successful. If not, we need to try something else. Thorn sent that storm. Do you want to wait around to see what else he throws at us?”

  “Why is he doing this?” Cam whispered. “He said he loved us.”

  Outside, the rain tapped like fingernails on the slate, lighter than before but steady.

  Bobby still knelt behind Cam, resting his hands on Cam’s shoulders. His chest was twice the width of either Cam’s or Cole’s, and his skin remained bronze year-round from hiking, running, basketball, and tennis. On his square face came a look Cole remembered well. Bobby wasn’t angry, but he’d decided what should be done and wouldn’t budge. In Bobby’s mind, the matter had been settled. He’d seen the outcome he wanted and simply wouldn’t accept another. This stubborn will had made him a star quarterback in high school, a celebrity defense attorney later, and one hell of a powerful magician. Cole knew he might as well try to level a mountain with a teaspoon.

  “Okay,” Cole conceded. “The damn storm even put the fire out. I’m going to try to get it lit again.” He went to the hearth and knelt down. The logs and coals were soaked, and an inky wet stain covered the floor of the stove, but fire had always been his element.

  “I’ll make more coffee,” Bobby said. He helped Cam to the couch and went into the kitchen, leaving a trail of wet footprints from one end of the rectangular space to the other. Cole watched the crescents of Bobby’s toned ass, the only pale part of him, as Bobby rinsed the carafe. What a beautiful man Bobby was, with the body of a professional athlete and the boy-next-door face of an actor. To Cole he represented the masculine ideal, the way the Venus de Milo exemplified feminine beauty, or the Parthenon stood as a testament to excellence in architecture.

  As Cole worked stacking balled newspaper among pine twigs, Cam spoke behind him, lullaby-soft. His voice raised gooseflesh up Cole’s spine, the same as a physical caress. “Don’t worry, Cole,” he said. “It did work. I can’t feel his presence at all. We shut him out. How long will it last?”

  “I don’t know,” Cole admitted, striking a match. “Depends how hard he pushes, probably.”

  “He’ll push,” Cam whispered.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know, Cam. But we’re safe for now.”

  “I’m so cold, Cole.”

  Content his fire would burn, Col
e stood and faced Cam. He rested his hands on the back of the sofa, close to Cam’s ears, and leaned in until their noses touched. “I know, baby,” he said, brushing the tip of his nose up the bridge of Cam’s. “You want me to warm you up?”

  Cam nodded, and Cole closed the distance between them. Cam’s lips, his tongue, and even the breath that spilled from his lungs and into Cole’s froze like death. His aura glimmered the color of mint ice cream, but more crystalline and delicate. Its spiky edges poked against Cole’s perception as he lowered his ass to the worn cushion beside his friend. Cole hooked his knees over Cam’s thigh. He stroked his hands down Cam’s face and neck, over his shoulders to his wrists. He summoned fire, as he had when they cast the circle, and directed the heat into his palms. He pressed his left hand against Cam’s belly, just at his tawny triangle of hair, and his right against his heart. From the two chakra points, the warmth would spread easily. Then he kissed him again, opening his mouth wide to fill his friend with the heat of his breath. Cam parted his lips to accept it. His tongue pulsed against Cole’s, and he circled Cole’s nipple with his finger, the chill making it harden almost painfully.

  Cole pressed closer to Cam, sliding up so his ass took the place of his knees on Cam’s thigh and his slim legs dangled between Cam’s. Without moving his hands, Cole let his body fall forward, squashing his arms between Cam’s chest and his own. Cam still felt like a fish plucked from under the ice. His fingers, traveling down the gully between Cole’s stomach muscles, stung. When he grazed Cole’s cock, brushing his fingers from the base to the head, it retreated toward his pelvis instead of stretching toward Cam as it should. Cole guided Cam’s hand away, letting it rest instead on his hip.