Free The Music of Razors by Cameron Rogers

distant town sounds, not even a whisper from the uppermost treetops. And again Dorian called:
    “Here again I conjure ye and most urgently command ye; I force, constrain, and exhort ye to the utmost, by the mighty and powerful Name of God,” and he said it, and eleven other names, and a lengthy evocation for immediate appearance. And still nothing. Henry turned the pages and Dorian read. Still nothing.
    Finally Dorian said, “Close the book. This is not done with. None of you lose heart nor focus. There is nothing these things respect more than constancy. We will have our audience. Stand away from the circle.”
    The three of them stood away as Dorian paced the perimeter widdershins, examining the integrity of the sigil and refreshing its outline with the bucket of chalk dust he retrieved from the bole of a dead tree. This done he returned to his place at the head of the sigil, took a fistful of damp earth, and tossed a part of it to each of the four corners of the Universe. Then he faced north, fell to his knees, placed the knife on the ground before him, spread his arms wide, and called: “The Name of
Adonai Elohim Tzabaoth Shaddai,
Lord God of Armies Almighty, may we successfully perform the works of our hands, and may the Lord be present with us in our heart and on our lips.”
    And then he rose, turned, and opened his arms to the circle. Henry again took his place, as did the others. “By the Holy Names of God written in this Book, and by the other Holy and Ineffable Names which are written in the Book of Life, we conjure ye to come to us promptly and without delay, wherefore tarry not, but appear in a beautiful and agreeable form and figure, by virtue of these names we exorcise ye:
Anai, æchhad, Transin, Emeth, Chaia, Iona, Profa, Titache, Ben Ani, Briah, Theit;
all which names are written in Heaven in the characters of the Malachim—
the tongue of the Angels
.”
    Again, as Dorian’s voice rang out, silence. And then, somewhere, a bird began to sing. Something trilling. Another picked up the call from behind Henry, and another to his left, distant and unseen. Dorian’s eyes ranged over the blackness beyond the light of the fires, and Henry felt a new weight to the air. Things began to change. There was an intake of breath from Finella’s side of the circle, and Henry watched Dorian’s eyes widen with sudden and satisfied delight.
    There came a perfume, heady and sweet.
    Henry risked looking over his shoulder, and saw the shoots growing there, climbing toward a vanished sun. Lush grasses sprouted within the perfect circle, a round green bed rising through dead leaves. Flowers foreign to New England were growing and blooming colorfully, the air redolent and heavy with their scent. Henry saw tulips and roses.
    Lying on his new bed, eyes closed and slumbering, was a leopard.
    Dorian swallowed. “Voso,” he said. “Voso awaken.”
    “I am awake,” it said. Its voice was perfection, warm and rounded. Impossible music falling upon ears of dirt. “What is your need, Dorian.”
    Henry closed the journal. Dorian would no longer be needing it.
    “You know my name,” Dorian whispered, half to himself. “But then, you know everything, don’t you?”
    Henry took his place outside the circle, careful to never lay a toe inside it as he traveled.
    The great cat lay with its head on its forepaws, eyes closed. Henry could see its ribs expanding and collapsing with each breath, waiting for Dorian to speak.
    “You know why I have conjured you.”
    “I know,” the great cat said. “And I tell you that my answering will bring about an undoing in this world and the next. And you will demand my answer nonetheless.”
    “Then answer me.”
    “You are just a man, Dorian Athelstane. A man who, to me, appears to have died the moment I met you, so short are your lives. And yet you, this imperfect vessel, seek to contain perfect knowledge.”
    “You cannot deny me, and you know I will not desist, so why do you