Suffer the Small Children
The Elucidations of Drake, by Bill Koch is now released into the world.
To celebrate, here’s the first chapter — one of many compelling stories —from the book.
Suffer the Small Children
Wearing a silk Victorian dressing gown, he sat in lotus position in a room lit dimly by candles. The walls were paneled in dark stained oak; there were no windows.
The floor was marble inlaid with a circle of silver of eight-foot diameter, ringed about with writing in an ancient tongue. All was silent as the light of the candles set on the circle, in the four cardinal directions, glinted off the silver, but only moments before, the room had resounded with a deep, mellifluous chanting.
The man sat in the middle of the circle, and before him, on a velvet cushion, rested a mirror with a black obsidian face that cast no reflection. It was a scrying mirror, a tool of witches and magicians used for visions. To his right, a brazier filled with hot coals filled the air with the thick, heady smoke of myrrh, mistletoe, and Oil of Abramelin. His eyes were immobile as glass, gazing down upon the surface of the black mirror, and his face was expressionless and smooth like polished marble.
It was impossible to put an age on him. His features looked young, perhaps no older than thirty-five, but even still as a statue he bore himself with an air of age and wisdom. His black hair had hints of white at the temples. Drake, the famed or infamous mystic and magician, gazed into the mirror.
The night air outside shivered with a barely present breeze. All around the old country home, the hills of northern England rose empty and desolate. One cherry tree was just putting forth buds. Drake had been here, on retreat from the world, for six months and had been considering making that retreat a permanent retirement. He had thought that his time with the world might be over.
But upon staring into the mirror, another story was told. Images rose from the dark. At first, they were unclear and appeared too swiftly to make sense: a boat, a knife, a ring, the sea, a painting, a dried bouquet of flowers. But then the images coalesced and resolved into one solid figure. It was the shape of a person cloaked in shadows. There was little visual information, but the form radiated a sense of danger, and a force of hate aimed at Drake; an enemy was coming such as he had never faced before, and it was someone he hadn’t yet met. That ruled out a good number of known opponents.
The next vision was of Drake standing alone on the Northumbrian heath. The meaning was apparent: he was not ready and could not face what was to come alone.
He grunted and muttered an invocation to Alethea, Goddess of Truth. Suddenly, the mirror filled with golden clouds which, clearing away, revealed to him the aid he required. Five human figures stood side by side. To Drake’s otherworldly ears, a ringing voice granting them titles accompanied each image: the Socialite, the Artist, the Priestess, the Student, the Friend.
“All is sewn,” spoke the voice, “but you must husband the harvest.”
Then the mirror was dark, and there was silence. The brazier was cold — the candles had burnt out. Drake stood and offered aloud a chant of thanks. Then, his movements swift and sure with purpose, he left the room to pack. It was a long trip to London. From there, he would go to America, because each of the five figures in the vision had been standing on the Boston Common. He was returning home.
Lady Victoria Chetwynd, Grand Mistress of the Order of the Golden Lamp and Ruby Flame, was sitting alone in her private library at the Order’s London headquarters when the door inexplicably opened. The opening of the door was inexplicable because there were standing orders not to disturb her — any emergency would have brought a soft knock and not such a boorish intrusion.
The sharp retort that rose to her lips was silenced by shock when Drake marched into the library. She had known he had been at his country estates in Northumberland for months; but, aside from a visit over half a year ago, no one had seen or heard from him. It must be confessed that she was not pleased to see him, though not because of his abrupt intrusion — normal rules of behavior never applied to Drake. Rather, she was distressed to see him because Drake was an uncontrollable variable, a swerve of chance or hand of fate muddling any plan, and she had many plans.
“I will need the assistance of the Order,” Drake stated abruptly before she could speak. He was one of the most high-ranking members of the Order (higher-ranking, she feared, than even she knew), so he had a right to the Order’s assistance. But requests for assistance were usually, well, worded as requests and not demands.
“Is that so?” Her voice was cold, but proper.
“I am returning to America and will likely need the cooperation of the Chapter Houses there.”
“Cooperation with what?”
“I don’t know.”
Lady Victoria groaned silently and turned away in disgust to walk to the window.
“I see,” she said. “We can use your assistance also, my absentee brother.” She had to counter with something. Drake always got what he wanted in the end, but you couldn’t just give it to him or you would find yourself enmeshed in one of his webs with little say of your own. “Andrew Weir and his lodge have been extending their international sway. War may be coming.”
Drake chuckled and sat, uninvited, in a plush leather chair by the unlit fireplace, “War has already begun, Victoria dear. But Andrew is an amateur as is his brothel of Satanists. Something bigger is afoot.” He twirled his black silver-tipped cane between his fingers as she waited for more. Rather than explaining, he stared at her quizzically.
“Well,” she burst out in exasperation, “we could use your help with the dangers we do know about.”
“As I said,” Drake responded, “I am going to America.” With that, he stood and moved towards the door. “If you won’t help me, I will go it alone.”
“Good gods, of course we will help,” she responded in exasperation. “But you do realize that Andrew is coming for you, right? His grudge won’t end until one of you is in the grave, and maybe not even then.”
“Well, then he will have to find me in Boston,” Drake responded over his shoulder, unconcerned.
“Boston?” Victoria frowned, having just read an odd request from the chapterhouse in Boston. “I have a job for you in Boston.”
“I do not take jobs.”
“You said you will need our help,” Victoria countered.
“No, you will need mine.” Drake sighed, “But I suppose that help starts now, what do you need?”
“We have a case of possession. The son of one of our top members in Boston.”
It was spring in Boston, and the weather shifted wildly back and forth between winter and summer. Hot, humid winds ripped apart frigid rainclouds, and cold nights kissed temperate morns. By day, the esplanade along the Charles River filled with half-dressed sunbathers basking in the end of the brutal Massachusetts winter. The Commons were displaying the first blush of summer green, and the dogwood in the Public Gardens were flushing pink and white. However, it was raining in Cambridge as, sheltered under a large black umbrella and wearing a fitted black silk suit and silver tie, Drake ascended the steps of a weathered townhouse.
He paused for a moment before ringing the bell, marveling at the sense of foreboding emanating from the house. The Order of the Golden Lamp and Ruby Flame was, on its surface, an international secret society comprised of intellectuals participating in yoga, meditation, ceremonial magic, kabbalah, divination, and the basic disciplines of the Western Hermetic Mystery Traditions. In other words, it was a group of mainly rich mystics and magicians. There was, however, much beneath the surface. People whispered of its obscure social and political goals and of an inner circle of hidden leaders pursuing ambitious world-historical purposes. This house was the abode Gerald Wood, one of the Order’s wealthiest Boston members, and an uncanny tragedy had struck his family. At the request of Lady Victoria Chetwynd, Drake was to assist the family in addressing the unusual crisis.
Gerald Wood met Drake at the door. “Mr. Drake,” he exhaled with relief, “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see you.” The man spoke effusively as he led Drake out of the rain into the luxurious trappings of the family home. “We have never met, though I have seen you in the past at Order events. I have, of course, heard all about your skill and wisdom. We are so grateful you have come.”
“My name is Drake, sir. Just Drake.” Wood had been holding Drake’s elbow as he led him into the house, and the mystic’s cold gaze and even chillier voice made his indiscretion apparent. He dropped his hand and stepped back.
“Of … of course. I am so sorry, sir. I trust you can help.”
“There is precious little in this world we can trust,” Drake said as he walked ahead of Wood into the parlor room where a small fire was burning next to a table holding bottles of brandy and cognac. “I would reserve your supply if I were you.” Drake looked around, then asked, “Where are your wife and son?”
“My wife is at church, praying. It is where she spends most of her time these days. And my son — well, my son is upstairs, safely locked in his room.” Drake raised an eyebrow. “Yes, well, he gets violent sometimes, and there is no telling what he might do next.”
Drake frowned for a moment and then sat in one of the chairs arrayed around the fire. “Make a drink, sir,” Drake said, “and tell me everything.” He then lit a cigarette smelling lightly of foreign spices and sat back in his chair, waiting.
Moments later, Mr. Wood sat opposite Drake with a glass of brandy in his hands. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“How old is your son?”
“He is nine. No, ten? Yes, ten.”
Drake nodded. “And his name?”
“Thomas, for my grandfather.”
“Go on.”
“It began less than a year ago. The doctors call it a psychotic break, or early onset of schizophrenia, or the late onset of autism. They haven’t got a clue. My wife thinks the, um, occult work of our Order opened him up to demonic possession.”
Drake raised an eyebrow again at this, “And what do you think?”
“I think he is the victim of an occult attack upon me and my household by the enemies of the Order.” Drake made a deep sound in his throat and gestured with his cigarette for the man to go on. “It started fast. First, he would have nightmares at night and wake up screaming. Each time it happened, it would take several moments of us calming him before he realized he wasn’t asleep anymore. Then he started to become absent-minded during the day. At school, at home, he would be found gazing blankly into space. The things he would say became odd. He would burst out with things sometimes. Predictions about the future, comments about the past as if old events had only just happened, strange observations about what people were thinking or feeling.”
“Did you take him to a doctor then?” Drake asked.
“No, we consulted friends from the Order and took him out of school to rest. He was in a private school in the country where he often stayed during the week. We thought it best for him to be home, perhaps the stress was getting to him.”
“Was he often stressed?”
“No. He was — is — brilliant. He found none of the schoolwork difficult. In fact, his intelligence measured off the charts on his I.Q. tests.”
“Intelligence can be measured no more than physical beauty,” Drake said absently, his eyes distant in thought. “How was his social life?”
“Social life? I don’t really know.”
“What are his friends like?” Drake pressed.
“Friends? Well, I don’t think he has any here in the city. No, not even at school, I don’t think. Though I could be wrong. He was always busy with projects of his own. Reading, writing, inventing things. He really is a genius.”
“I see.”
“But he got on great with people. They loved him at the Order Chapter House. He is its youngest member ever. He used to debate the ins and outs of metaphysics and theology with the other members for hours. Can you believe it? At nine years old!”
“Ten,” Drake corrected. “How is he now?”
“Not himself,” Wood stated bluntly. “He doesn’t talk directly to anyone. He won’t respond to you at all, and when he talks, it is as if to himself. Babbling, sometimes ranting, often in foreign languages.”
“You mentioned he is violent? What has he done?”
“Well, perhaps I misspoke a bit. He hasn’t been violent, but the things he says, sometimes, are very violent and passionate. He gets very worked up.”
“But he hasn’t harmed, or tried to harm, himself or others?”
“No. But wait till you see him. He could do anything, the way he talks.”
Drake nodded. “So, your wife prays, your son rants alone locked in a room or else stares silently into space. And what do you do?”
“Everything,” Wood responded. “I have researched every protection ritual, purification, and exorcism I can find. I have performed them all over him, along with the help of Order members. But I know, I just know, that you with your magical prowess will be able to turn aside this attack!”
“Magic, sir? I assure you, I have no magic to offer,” Drake retorted sharply.
“But, I thought —”
“I neither know nor care what you thought. I have a reputation, sir, for solving problems. I solve them, always, in my own way. But I don’t engage in magical rituals to fix other people’s messes as if the world should bow to our whims just so long as they are stated in the proper antediluvian tongue. I have no patience for superstition whether it comes bearing a cross or a wand. Now,” Drake stood, walked to the window and noted that the storm had passed and the sun was once more out, “I would like to meet Tom. Bring him down and we will go for a walk about your back gardens.”
“Down? Outside? I really don’t think that is wise, sir —”
“Drake, call me Drake,” the mystic interrupted in a voice far softer than any he had used so far. “If you truly love your son, and I think you just might, you need to trust me. Bring him outside, I will await you there.”
Outside the house was as nice a garden as a wealthy home in the city could allow. It stretched forty feet or so back from the house, and a wrought iron fence enclosed it. Small paths wandered around little garden plots in which roses and herbs grew. A few benches were placed amidst the growth.
Drake found one, nestled between a trellis of freshly planted jasmine and a large rosemary bush. As he sat and thought, he ran his hand along the pine-like rosemary branches and leaves, releasing their fresh smell into the air. Rosemary was good for memory and cleansing spiritual infection, he reflected.
The boy’s case was the task Victoria had set him in exchange for the Order’s assistance in his future work, whatever that as yet mysterious work might be. It was a challenge, of sorts, but not the challenge those around him thought. Victoria was as convinced as Gerald Wood and his wife that occult forces were at work, and likely ones coming from Andrew Weir’s lodge of black magicians. Whatever Andrew was up to made little difference, however. Every problem was multifaceted: seen from one angle, you have demons, and from another, you have a sad child in a failed family. The same went for mental illness: from one perspective you had a disease, and from another, a seemingly superhuman talent. Many a genius and artist had been destroyed in the flip of that coin.
As these thoughts passed through Drake’s mind a sudden wind arose in the clearing sky and a fierce swirl of leaves kicked up at Drake’s feet. On the wind was the memory of the past winter as if an edge of January had hidden huddled beneath the bench and was now roused by Drake’s reflections on the boy’s case. A few houses away a murder of crows, disturbed by the sudden wind, set to flight with their deep harsh calls filling the air. They circled above the garden in terrible warning for a moment and then winged their way towards the Charles River. A small smile chased,across Drake’s face as he stonily ignored premonition and omen alike.
The back door opened, and Gerald led his son, blinking and shuffling, out of the house. Drake jumped to his feet amidst the dripping bushes and walked forward, taking Tom’s elbow as Gerald had previously taken his own. The boy was thin, dressed in pajamas with disordered blond hair and glasses slightly askew. His cheeks were dotted liberally with freckles. Drake stooped down so that the boy’s eyes and his own were level. The boy stared through him, still blinking slightly.
“Hello, Tom,” Drake said softly, “my name is Drake and I have been wanting to meet you. It is very nice to make your acquaintance.” The boy’s eyes might have flickered, briefly, but then went glassy again. Drake stood tall once more. “Thank you, Mr. Wood,” he stated. “You can go back inside, we will walk around out here for a bit.” Wood made to object, but Drake cut him off, “I said, thank you.” Wood frowned, then turned and went inside.
Leading the boy slowly by his elbow Drake walked him to the back of the garden and then around a loop back to the house. They continued in this way, the sun glinting from time to time from the boy’s glasses.
“They tell me you are sick,” Drake stated casually. “Well, I don’t know anything about that. I’m not a doctor of any sort. But I do know that nothing makes one feel better quite like a stroll in the sun and fresh spring air. Don’t you think?”
Once more the surprisingly chill breeze kicked up as if to contradict the mystic’s words. Drake looked to the boy who still stared into space. They stopped for a moment in a patch of direct sunlight, and Drake placed himself firmly between the sunlit boy and the cold wind at his back. “Just feel that warmth, eh? Rather an improvement from the winter, or some dusty bedroom.”
Drake put his arm around the boy’s shoulder and crouched down next to him conspiratorially, both of them staring into space, and continued talking in a casual manner, “You wouldn’t imagine what they think about your sickness. Such silly rubbish about magic and demons! No. I say where there is a cough there is a cold and not Beelzebub.”
“Tom’s not sick — not sick — not sick,” The boy said suddenly in a sing-song voice, staring into space.
“No?” Drake asked, but the boy acted as if he hadn’t heard him.
“Not sick — not sick. Tom’s all gone. Poor Tom, dead Tom. Dead as dust and ducks for dinner. Dead-ding dong dilly-oh.”
“Really?” Drake asked. “What an amazing thing. And yet here he is strolling the garden with me.”
“Tom toms gone!” The boy said vehemently and then launched into a loud string of foreign speech.
Drake laughed. “That is Ancient Greek, my boy, Attic Greek from the time of Plato actually, but with some hints of Aristotle as well. You can mark the Aristotle because it is more cosmopolitan. Hard stuff, but hardly magic. How is your Homeric Greek? That, I imagine, is rather harder for a boy your age — even a genius.” Drake then switched to speaking in impeccable Homeric Greek.
The boy did not respond. Rather, he turned, stared Drake in the face, and launched into a diatribe in modern French that translated, roughly, to: “My mother is the whore of God and my father is Satan’s banker.”
“Yes, I am quite sure,” Drake responded in French. “Come, let’s sit down.”
He led the boy to the bench next to the rosemary and sat them both. The boy continued ranting, though his body remained still aside from the horrifying animation of a face grown bestial.
“You know,” Drake spoke over the boy’s rants just loud enough to be heard, “you would be amazed at the things I know. The secrets I could teach you. All that stuff you learned from the Order, all your reading, pales in comparison to what I could tell you. The things I’ve seen, the mysteries uncoded.”
Drake continued to speak, but slowly lowered his voice until it was hard to hear over the ranting of the boy. In response, the boy’s ranting became softer as well, as Drake held a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll tell you a secret. I knew a boy once who climbed to the top of a mountain and found an ancient, ruined temple there amidst the snows.” Drake’s voice was a whisper, and the boy went still, staring straight ahead.
“The marble was cracked, but most of it still stood. The white of marble reflecting the white of stone. White on white, all clean and crisp in the fresh high mountain air. The wind rustled the snow about his feet, all white and clean, white and clean. The sky was clear and empty.” Drake’s voice was soft but insistent, carrying an odd note of command.
“See the white marble stone and the white clean snow, the empty sky all around, empty and free, empty and silent. Feel the wind die down so there is only silence. Up the stairs and into the temple we go, into a wide room with no roof — open to the clear blue sky above. White all around, white stone, white snow.” Drake paused, feeling out the extent of the boy’s rapt attention.
“Feel how clean and calm the open temple is. Feel the light of the sky shining down onto the white of the floor, and there we are, you and I, surrounded by white light with the open space above. High above the world. All is calm and still. Feel how the mountain air cleans out your lungs, washes clean your skin and hair, silences your thoughts, and clears your mind. There is nothing to worry about here, above the world amidst the sky.” The boy was lost in the images Drake wove.
“Now close your eyes to see the temple better, see every detail, feel the white and the air. Feel the space and the silence. Close your eyes and rest.” The boy’s breathing was deep and even, his face relaxed, and his eyes softly closed. “Until I say so, you will hear nothing but the mountain silence. Think nothing but the white around you and sky above you.”
At that moment, the back door of the house flew open, and Tom’s mother, Magnolia Wood, flew into the yard. “I don’t know what devilry you are working here, but it stops now!” She fumed. Drake shot her a look that froze her in her tracks as she looked at her sleeping son. She opened her mouth to speak, but Drake shook his head softly and patted a space on the bench next to her son. She came and sat, and Drake nodded.
“Tom, focus on the white of the snow and the openness of the sky. Can you hear me?” The boy nodded to Drake’s question. “Can you speak?”
“Yes,” the boy said, his voice sounding weary. Fearing trouble, the boy’s father had come out into the garden as well. Drake motioned for him to be silent, and he came and stood behind the bench — one hand on his wife’s shoulder and the other on Tom’s — as Drake drew his own arm away from the boy.
“Tom, we are all here now. All people who love you. Can you feel our love?” Drake asked.
“No. No one loves me,” the boy responded.
“That is not true, Tom,” Drake responded. “You can feel the love radiating off the marble of the temple and the white of the snow. The sky above you is the openness of love. Breathe deeply now, Tom, and look around. The temple is no longer ruined. It stands in a complete, perfect circle around you. The marble, pure and smooth, forms an uncracked ring about the open sky above. The temple is full of the love of your mother, Magnolia, and your father, Gerald.”
“And you?” the boy asked.
Drake smiled. “Yes, and I, your friend. You can speak freely now, here with the crisp air and white light of the temple protecting us. What is bothering you?”
“I’m so lonely,” Tom said. “Lonely and scared.”
“Why are you scared?” Drake asked as he saw both mother and father squeeze the boy’s shoulders.
“There is so much to know, so much I want to know and think.” The boy sighed wistfully. “But my mind doesn’t stop, even when I am tired or afraid.” His voice reflected a growing frustration and strain as he spoke, his shoulders growing tense. “There is no one to help me understand it all or help me sleep.” He took a shuddering breath and then continued, “Everyone leaves me. I am alone. And grasping, always grasping.”
Drake nodded. “Forget the books and your thoughts for a moment. Forget wanting to understand. Your thoughts don’t bother you up here, amidst the clear air of the white temple.”
“No,” the boy agreed.
“How do you feel?” Drake pressed.
“I feel … free.”
“You are free. Here you can rest whenever you want. Not for long, just for moments of peace and quiet when your thoughts are too much. I want you to breathe deeply, close your eyes, and come to the pure temple and free sky every night before bed to help you sleep. Can you do that?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good. And any time your thoughts are too much for you, do the same for a moment. I have a secret I want to tell you, Tom. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“The world can’t be known. You can never know it all because it isn’t just about thinking. The world is also beautiful, and beauty can only be felt and loved like now in the peaceful silence of the beautiful temple. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Good. From now on, I want you to look for beauty as much as you look for understanding. And when you find beauty, it will bring you peace and comfort, just like now. Will you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Now I have a question for you, Tom. Your mother and father are here, and they want to make you happy.” Drake looked at them firmly for a moment. “Forgetting books and study, what above everything else would you like to do with your parents?”
“I want to go boating on the river like before.” Tom’s mother stifled a sudden sob and Drake looked to the parents.
“Gerald, what does Tom mean by ‘like before?’” Drake asked.
Gerald Wood cleared his throat, “When he was a young boy, we used to go rowing on the Charles River on the weekends. Then we would picnic along the banks, all three of us. We have been too busy to go for years. Tom had school and — ”
Drake cut him off, “That is enough.” Then he looked back at Tom, his expression growing softer, “Now, Tom, I want you to remember everything I have told you about the temple and beauty. When I say so, you will wake up, hug your parents, and tell them you love them. Then you will spend this week resting up and spending time with your parents. There will be no more trances, or voices, or outbursts in foreign languages. If you get agitated, just take a moment, close your eyes, and breathe back in your temple. Then return to the world and tell your parents what is bothering you. If you can do that, the three of you will go boating this weekend, and every weekend thereafter as long as the weather is nice.” With this last comment, Drake cast a stern look at the boy’s parents. “Can you do that, Tom?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “Can we really go boating again?” His voice had a hint of excited schoolchild to it now. Drake cast a quizzical look at the parents, who both stumbled over each other.
“Of course!” cried his mother. “Yes, son,” agreed his father. “Very well, Tom, wake up.”
The boy opened his eyes and turned to look at his mother. Crying, he hugged her, the tears of the parents blended with those of the boy as they told each other how much they loved one another. Drake turned and walked back into the house and, grabbing his umbrella, left without another word to any of them.
That night, Drake sat in his flat, sipping a cup of tea and writing with a neat, tight script in a leather-bound book, when the phone rang. It was Lady Victoria Chetwynd calling from London. Gerald Wood had told the Order in Boston what Drake had done, and they, in turn, had contacted Victoria to thank her.
“I won’t say I am surprised,” she noted, “You have yet to fail at a task you set yourself. But I do need details. Was this some demonic attack from Andrew’s group or not?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea, dear Vicky,” Drake drawled, noting with a smile her exasperated grunt. “But it doesn’t much matter since the crisis is averted.”
“Yes, but did you need occult means to cure the boy?” she pressed.
“All means are occult to those who don’t understand,” Drake commented clinically. “A home, a family, is like a temple,” he continued, “no evil can enter except what we bring with us or invite in. That family’s temple was in ruins. That alone would cause trouble, especially with a talented and brilliant child playing amidst the wreckage. If there was outside influence, that was why it could get in, and if not, the solution was the same. Rebuild the structure.”
“So, what are you planning to do there in Boston?” she asked after a moment’s silence.
“I do not have a clue, my dear.” Drake sighed in frustration. “Apparently,” he said, “the universe thinks I need to make some new friends and reconnect with old ones.”
Victoria burst out laughing in response, “Good luck with that. It might just prove the one challenge you aren’t fit to meet.”
“Let’s hope not,” Drake said darkly, “I suspect far more hangs on my success than any of us know.”
As Drake hung up, the spring night wind picked up outside, shaking the dogwood in the Gardens and casting waves upon the banks of the Charles River. The city, long awaiting the mystic’s return, was preparing unknown challenges for him. Out there somewhere, the socialite, artist, priestess, student, and friend required his help.
The Elucidations of Drake, by Bill Koch
The Drake Chronicles, Volume One
“Something is coming, and beside it, societies of black magicians engaged in international conspiracies are child’s play.”
Disturbed by a vision of a great evil awakening, the magician known only as Drake must leave what he hoped would be his final retirement in Northumbria and return to Boston. There, with the help — and hindrance — of an enigmatic occult society, Drake must solve perplexing crimes, confront vicious murderers, and — hardest of all — guide lost souls back to themselves before it is too late.
Equal parts urban noir, occult detective, and magical primer, The Elucidations of Drake is the first volume of the thrilling Drake Chronicles