The Third Sigil
by Jason Franks

The door burst open and some dread and primal force wrenched me inside.

"Spekman!" yelled Rachelle, letting go of my lapels and throwing her arms around me.

"Hi, Rache," I said, smiling and pulling her close.

"Oh, Spekman! I'm so glad you stopped by!"

Her grip loosened and I stepped away, lowering my hands to her hips and looking into her eyes. Fine looking woman, Rachelle.

Rachelle pushed my hands off her hips and stepped backwards. "I'm so glad you came by, Spek," she said again, turning and leading me into her apartment.

I took off my jacket and hung it on the lop-sided hat-stand beside the door. "Okay, Rache. I can see that. You want to tell me what's wrong?"

The apartment was neat, as usual, the magazines on the coffee table squared away, the cushions on the sofa carefully arranged, every surface dust-free and uncluttered. "What makes you think there's anything wrong?" she asked, doing her best to look offended.

"C'mon, Rache. I know something's wrong."

There usually was. Rachelle had a penchant for collecting magical knick- knacks and a bona fide talent for damaging them while trying to get them working. It usually fell to me to clean up the resulting messes. Thus far, the most difficult of them had entailed getting a pocket vortex to regurgitate a segment of Rachelle's modular couch. Which I had managed, although Rachelle's couch had ended up a little more modular than when she'd bought it.

She looked away "Weeeelll, now you mention it... there is something, but I'm not even sure you should waste your time."

"Just tell me what it is, okay? It's not like I charge by the hour."

"Well, all right," she said, sitting down on the edge of the sofa and looking up at me through thick-lashed eyes. I sat down on the easy-chair opposite her and steepled my hands under my chin.

"I bought this little... well, it's kind of a toy doll. It was supposed to be magical..." Her voice trailed off and she blinked a couple of times.

"And?" I asked, tapping my be-sneakered foot on the floor.

"Well, it didn't do anything. I thought I'd been ripped off."

"And...?"

"And... well, I had Warren over today..."

I winced. I'd met Rachelle's nephew, Warren. Quite the most hideous little beast I've ever laid eyes upon, and I've seen demons from hell.

On video, of course. Some of my friends have some pretty damn nasty magic. All of them would have been dead centuries ago if they were stupid enough to conjure demons just to impress their newbie friends.

"I had to babysit Warren, and he brought with one of his little... whatchacallits. Friends. Anyway, they went off to play in the spare room while I was doing my meditations, you know? And then suddenly they're screaming and climbing all over me, and they're both bleeding from these little nicks on their legs..."

From the lack of noise in the apartment, I inferred that both children had been patched up and sent home. Either that, or Rachelle had shoved them down the insinkerator for disturbing her. I expected the former, hoped for the latter.

"They weren't playing with razors, by any chance?"

"Spekman."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I suppose they were playing with the doll?"

"That's right."

"Okay, so... where is it?"

Rachelle looked around at the armchair by the stereo system, frowning. "It's a slippery little bastard," she said. "It kind of moves when you're not looking. Or sometimes, when you are..."

"Right," I said, nodding helpfully.

Rachelle got down on her hands and knees and peered under the sofa. "Ah," she said, and reached into the darkness. She stood up and presented the doll for my inspection. It was a vaguely humanoid-shaped thing perhaps eight inches tall and made out of some synthetic yellow fabric. It had two iron rivets for eyes and whatever had served it for a mouth had been torn off, judging by the loose threads and needlemarks in the region above its chin. It was definitely magical. At this range I could feel it; a faint, chill pressure behind my face.

"Okay, so what's the problem? Cut it up and throw it out."

"That's just it. Every time I try it kind of... wriggles out of my hands."

"I see," I said, holding out my hands. "Okay, give it here."

Rachelle looked down at her suddenly empty hands. "Aw, crap. I told you it was slippery."

The doll skittered across the floor and disappeared underneath the couch again. It seemed to feel comfortable there.

I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled up to the couch, peering under it. I could see it there, sitting amongst the dust and shadows, staring back at me passively with its iron-rivet eyes. I turned side-on and inserted my arm into the gap right up to the shoulder, fumbling around blindly until I felt it beneath my fingertips. Before I could grab hold of it, it scuttled out of reach.

"Damn," I said, withdrawing my arm and turning to peer under the couch again. It was gone. "You're right. It is slippery."

"Um, that's not all, Spek," said Rachelle. "Come and look at this..."

I followed Rachelle into the spare bedroom. It was small and a little dusty in there. Toys littered the floor, and the bedding had been mounded into some sort of cave or tent.

There was a small plastic cup on the windowsill, and a summoning circle has been drawn on the glass. In blood, naturally.

I picked up the cup and glanced inside it. "It had the kids spitting in here," I said.

"Probably used the spit to jump-start the spell."

"You can get magical energy from spit?"

"S'far as I know, you can get magical amperage from any bodily fluid."

I leaned forwards, squinting at the circle.

"What's it supposed to do?" asked Rachelle.

"I'm not sure," I said. "But whatever it is, it's dead."

"How do you know?"

"There's no power in it."

I rubbed my eyes with my fingers, trying to work out the runes. "It's a summoning spell, but the syntax is majorly ambiguous. It'd need a lot of juice to pull this off, and I seriously doubt a homunculus like the one running around here could channel it." I knew that I certainly couldn't.

I squinted again at the sigils, and the pattern started to resolve itself.

"Let's see. It's trying to summon a... creature. Magic creature. I can't make out this last specifier rune: 'Creature'... 'Magic'... something-or-other. Creature of magic. Magical creature. Probably a little demon or some kind of nasty ghost."

"Oh." Rachelle looked worried.

"Chill," I said, "The spell is dead. Fizzled."

Rachelle nodded, but continued to frown.

"Look around," I said, airily. "You see any monsters here? No? Good. So relax. If the spell had worked, you'd know it."

Rachelle swallowed and nodded. "Right. So, go get the little bastard."

"Yes, Your Majesty," I said, grinning crookedly and taking a bow.

"Spekman!" She punched me in the arm. Pretty hard, too.

First thing I needed was a plan of action. Okay, so I was hunting a magical doll. It was mobile, it was fast, it had at least three senses (sight, hearing, touch), and it had a penchant for building unworkable spells. That meant it was probably damaged. From the store-bought chassis it seemed it was a quite a recent model, and that meant it was probably driven by some fairly complex spellgorithms. That also meant it was probably stuffed with that foam-rubber crap they put in plush toys, and was therefore unlikely to biodegrade in a hurry. As recently as ten years ago, a homunculus like this would have been filled with chicken gizzards and eye of newt, shit like that... but magic isn't like that any more.

"You have a pen, Rache?" I asked.

"Uh, yeah," she said. "Why?"

"Just give me a pen, please."

Rachelle handed me a green, felt-tipped marker. I sat down on the sofa and drew a pattern of runes all over my left hand with it, linking them up and spiraling the feedback structure over the back of my hand and down the length of my fingers. Then I replicated the spell on my right hand, taking twice as long.

"What are you doing?"

"Magic."

"Well, duh. What specifically are you doing?"

"Okay, think about this. The doll has no muscles or nervous system or anything, right? So it's using magic to move around. This spell will leech small amounts of magical energy off've anything I touch. If I can get my hands on it, it should be immobilized."

"Oh."

I shut my eyes and hooked the spell up to the terminals of my magical power source: a nine-volt battery with an electric-magic converter spell drawn over the casing. My friend Heifer the Confabulator had made it for me and I wasn't exactly sure how the magic worked, but we all have to start somewhere. It generated more than enough juice for my own spellcasting needs.

I rose to my feet, flexing my fingers. "Let's get this over with."

It was under the sofa again, but as soon as it saw me it darted off towards the kitchen, its stumpy legs a blur of motion. I rose to my feet and jogged after it.

The kitchen was a mess. At least three days' worth of unwashed crockery was stacked up around the sink, and three weeks worth of grime encrusted the counter. I never could work out why Rachelle's kitchen was always so dirty in comparison to the rest of her place, but I expected it had something to do with the paucity of her cooking skills. Whatever evil this razorblade-wielding doll had intended, I doubted it compared to the horrors of Rachelle's Tuna Casserole Surprise.

I couldn't see the doll anywhere.

Advancing cautiously, walking on the sides of my feet, I scanned the room again. The only exit was behind me; it was trapped. The sink was full, and there was a slowly closing hole in the layer of bubbles that floated on the surface. I smiled and thrust my hands into the sink.

One of the overhead cupboards swung open and the corner of the door struck me in the head. I yelled and jumped back as the little yellow bastard dropped down onto the counter. Although dizzy from the blow I lunged for it, somehow actually managed to catch ahold of it... but it slid out of my grip, dropped to the ground and skipped out the door.

"Ah, shit!" I yelled, shaking the bubbles off my hands and pressing them to my injured forehead. Rachelle's head poked in the doorway, eyes wide. She took one look at me and disappeared again. Growling, I lowered my dripping hands and turned them over to inspect the spells. Those sigla that had not been obliterated were smudged beyond recognition. I clenched my fists and growled again.

The doll had broken my spell with a tub of soapy water.

I stalked back out into the lounge.

"What happened?" asked Rachelle, looking at the darkening bruise on my left temple as I stomped across the room.

"Nothing."

"Are you okay, Spek?"

"Yeah, fine," I grunted and pushed open the bathroom door.

The bathroom was so clean you could have used it for open-heart surgery. I shut the door and walked up to the basin, glancing at the mirror on the door of the medicine cabinet. My image glowered back at me as I patted my hair back into place. I took a deep breath, banished the scowl, and set about washing the smudged green ink off my hands. When they were clean I dried them thoroughly.

I went back into the lounge, sat down on top of the doll's favourite sofa, and started pulling off my shoes and socks.

"What are you doing?" asked Rachelle, starting to get annoyed.

"Testing the ventilation."

Rachelle grunted and turned away, going to fiddle with the stereo while I retraced the spells on my hands and again on the soles of my feet. Something upbeat and treble-heavy came on.

"Turn that off," I said. "Pop music rots your teeth."

Rachelle scowled and switched it off, holding her tongue with obvious effort.

When the spells were ready I put rolled my socks into a ball and deposited them in one of my shoes, which I'd neatly placed on the coffee table. I stood up and smacked my right fist into my left palm.

"Okay, you little piece of crap. Let's go," I said.

Rachelle glanced around at me, startled. I looked away, dropping to my knees and peering under the couch. The doll was lying there, facing me. Predictable little bastard. I grinned nastily. "Come here, little teddy. Come heeeeereeeee..."

The doll actually seemed to hesitate a moment before it got up and shot out from under the couch, swerving to my left. It scooted upwards over the surface of the liquor cabinet as I surged to my feet. I lunged towards the cabinet, raising my left hand to protect my head. The door of the cabinet slammed open, striking the back of my forearm and bouncing away harmlessly. Wasn't going to catch me with the same trick twice. I heard a sharp, tinkling sound and saw a streak of yellow dropping down from the cabinet out the corner of the corner of my eye. I spun around and stomped down towards it. Predictable little bastard, I thought as I ground my foot into the shattered remains of a bottle of Scotch.

Bellowing with rage as I raised my injured foot into the air, hopping backwards two or three paces before losing my balance and going down in a heap. The world darkened for a moment, wavered, then snapped sharply back into focus.

I groaned and sat up, paused a moment to catch my breath and expel it on a string of invective. I pulled my foot in closer so I could get a better look at it. The sole was filmed with blood, and there were at least a dozen pieces of broken glass embedded in it.

"Shit!" I said. I began to prize the pieces of glass out.

"Nice goin', Spek," said Rachelle, her voice coming from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder at her: she was standing a couple of meters away, arms folded, a smile on her face.

"Shut the hell up." I looked back at my foot.

"I'll get you a towel," she said. "You better bring that in the bathroom."

I rose painfully and hopped along after her, leaning on the sofa for balance, swearing under my breath. And then the damn thing slid out from under the couch and jumped up onto an armrest, its ugly little head canted up at me. I stared at it, disbelieving, as it stood there just out of my reach, shaking the back of a fingerless fist at me.

It was giving me the bird.

I lunged at it with my right hand, stepping forwards and putting my all of my weight on my injured foot as I did so. It hadn't expected that. My fist clamped over it before it had even thought about dodging.

"Yes!" I crowed, staggering forwards and steadying myself against the couch.

Rachelle leaned out of the bathroom. "Huh?"

I waved the doll in the air and grinned. "Look what I got, baby."

"Oh, wow!" said Rachelle, eyes wide, mouth open, stepping back into the living room. "Oh, wow!"

I beamed at her.

"Oh, Spekman," she said. "You are so goddamn good. You sure showed that stuffed toy who's boss!"

My smile dissolved. "Yeah, well. I wasn't the one that found it menacing in the first place."

"Oh, Spekman, you are such a total hero."

"You could at least say 'thank you'."

"Thank you, Spekman, O Great and Mighty Wizard! However shall I repay--"

I scowled. "I may not be a pro, but at least I can clean up my own messes."

"Oh, yeah?" she said, looking at the puddle of broken glass and blood and Scotch. "So, when are you going to clean this one up?"

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"When. Are. You. Going. To. Clean. This. Up?" She folded her arms, then added, "Looks like it's gonna stain."

I could feel my fingers tightening around the soft-bodied doll, my mouth twisting and compressing, eyes narrowing; knuckles beginning to itch. The doll seemed to narrow and lengthen in my grip, as though I was squeezing a wad of putty. It slid out of my fist, morphed back into its customary shape, and disappeared into the shadows under the sofa. I stared down at my empty hands, flexing my fingers, blinking uncomprehendingly.

"Oh, Christ," said Rachelle, watching the doll make its umpteenth getaway. "You're on a roll today, Spekman."

I stepped forwards, baring my teeth, so angry I could see the veins in my eyes. I wasn't aware that I'd balled my fists again until my right slammed into her face. Her back arched and her head snapped back. My left fist hammered into her belly. The wind whooshed out of her and she staggered backwards, turning as she fell.

Rachelle hit the carpet face-first. I had kicked her in the ribs twice before I realized what was happening.

Christ! What had come over me? I'd lost it again, and this time it wasn't some drunken barfly I'd kicked the crap out of. This time it was a friend. This time it was Rachelle.

I bent down beside her and swore softly, traced a simple diagnostic spell in the air that drained the remaining power from my little magical battery.

"Broken ribs. Internal bleeding," I said. "Shit."

The cops would murder me. What was I going to say? "My friend's nephew got attacked by a magical doll, and so I came over to help her catch it, but it got away so I beat her to death." Yeah, great. I always wanted to spend my remaining days in a room with soft walls, being spoon-fed dog food by a nurse named 'Attila'.

I rubbed my eyes and sighed. And then it hit me.

The creature's spell. I knew what the third sigil was.

It was 'violence'. The doll hadn't been summoning a 'magical creature', it had been summoning a 'creature of magic and violence'.

"But... but the spell had no power in it. Fizzled..." I knew I was wrong. I knew even as I said it. The spell was dead because it had been spent.

The doll had summoned a monster, and it had gotten me.

Jason Franks was born in South Africa. His family migrated to Australia when he was 10 years old, where he still resides. For the moment. At university he majored in Psychology, Computer Science and English. He has just resigned from his job as a software developer to do some traveling and to get in some heavy writing time.