Song of the Ancients (Ancient Magic Book 1) (33 page)

I took one look at her and collapsed back into the bed, bawling like an infant, long keening wails. The sound embarrassed the hell out of me, but I couldn't stop.

She came and put her arms around me again, tears in her eyes. "I'm so sorry you're hurting. What can I do to help?"

"My foot hurts like hell. Would you look at it?"

"Of course."

I stood up and groaned. My legs felt as if I'd run a marathon, and my lower back ached.

Rumor slid her arm gently under my shoulder, and we hobbled into the bathroom. I sank onto the toilet seat, and she propped my foot on her knee, examining it with a penlight. A lingering glass shard had worked its way to the surface overnight. Rumor teased it out with the tweezers while I gritted my teeth. Then she applied antiseptic and bandages, and helped me back to bed.

"Sleep," she instructed as I sank back into the pillows. "Duncan and I had to bring the dog over with us last night. I'll let her out and be right back."

I think I shook my head. "Love your dog," I murmured.

I felt the bed shift as Rumor stood up. "Are you going to tell Nicholas?"

"No. Not yet." I opened my eyes long enough to plead, "Promise me. Promise me you won't say anything until I've had a chance to talk to him."

She kissed my forehead. "Scout's honor."

"You got something on the fax too," she said as I drifted off. "You can look at it later."

* * * * *

"Come today. We need to talk!"

Ravenscroft's cramped handwriting was scrawled across the top of the fax Rumor gave me the next morning. I reread his translation of the grimoire page for the third time to her.

"
From ancient times this power came,

For all to fear but non to reign.

Seize it now, show no mercy,

Drive it deep into the earth.

Born of greed, and power driven

Bind for all time to its Underworld prison
."

"It's obviously a binding spell. But what are we to bind?" I read the lines again. "And how do I drive it into the earth?" I put on my coat, hefted my backpack, with The Sinister Tradition and gloves already stuffed inside, and picked up my truck keys. "I don't know how long I'll be in Flagstaff."

"Do you think it's safe to go alone?" Rumor asked, looking worried.

"I'll call you when I get to Ravenscroft's, and again when I leave," I said. "Anyway, I don't think Nuin would assault me in a public place."

* * * * *

"How much has Nicholas Orenda filled you in about what's happening in this town?" Noah Ravenscroft asked, as we hunched over his desk, his high-powered reading lamp directed onto the crumpled grimoire page. More to the point, I thought, what does he know and
not
told me? I'd keep that question to myself for the time being. Instead, I began ticking items off on my fingers.

"One, I know there is an ancient cabal who guards one of the vor-texes here, because it's a portal to the Underworld."

Ravenscroft raised one eyebrow in mild surprise.

"Two, I know if three of them are killed in succession, it's a sign the dark times have arrived." I paused. "Although I don't know what the dark times
are
exactly. Three, I believe there is someone here, in this realm, who is trying to open the vortex to let a demon into our world." I ticked off a fourth finger.

"Whoever it is, he's going to attempt it before New Year's Eve. No, wait. New Year's Eve is a full moon and a blood moon eclipse. He's going to try and raise the demon that exact night." I snickered. "Come to think of it, Nicholas told me very little. Good thing I have my own sources."

Both of Ravenscroft's eyebrows raised so high they disappeared in his hairline. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, gathering himself to speak, but I put up a hand to stop him.

"There's one other thing," I said, pressing my pinky for number five. "It appears I'm the prophesized Caller, the one drawn to Sedona—without my knowledge or permission I might add—to stop this apocalypse." I twirled my finger in the air. "Whoopee."

Ravenscroft had regained his composure. He cocked his head to the side and looked up at me with those bright, intelligent eyes. "Sounds like you could use my help."

He pushed the grimoire sheet aside and offered me a pair of gloves. I retrieved Nicholas's book and placed it on the table in front of us. "An interesting fact about demons," he began, "is they can't live in our world on their own. They must have a host. They live on the life force of their host, until eventually the host is but a hollow shell and dies. Then the demon must find another human."

"Why would anyone want to be the host, it sounds awful."

"Men seek power in all sorts of awful ways," Ravenscroft said. "This dark magician may think he will be able to control the entity, force it to do his bidding. It won't work. The demon dead are deceivers. They take sport in betraying living men who think to use them as servants."

"How could I kill a demon?"

"You can't," he said. "You can kill the host, of course but the demon simply discards the remains and moves on." He pointed to the grimoire sheet. "But you can bind it to the Underworld. If…." He stopped. "It's a big if. You must find a way to lure it back into the Underworld first. Then apply the binding and seal the portal."

"How?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. Unless," Ravenscroft said slowly, "you had a cooperating vessel."

"So let's say I can find a vessel with a death wish. How do I seal the portal?"

Ravenscroft shook his head sadly.

"I have no idea."

Chapter 49: Black Mass

Nicholas stalked back and forth across the hearth rug, sloshing his brandy over the lip of his glass with every agitated turn as he struggled with a multitude of conflicting emotions.

I hate you.

A log exploded in the hearth, sending a fountain of glowing red embers onto the rug. He ground them out viciously with his boot and continued pacing.

He was jealous, no sense denying it. But something else was wrong. He could feel the premonition creeping up his spine like icy skeleton fingertips.

What am I missing?

He ran through the known events in his head. His mother's death, grandmother's death, aunt's disappearance, discovering Samantha...her apprenticeship. It all fell together like an intricate puzzle, advancing the notion of the prophecy.

Then things got murky.

He knew someone wanted Samantha out of the way. Nuin and his crew were the logical answer. But why would she cooperate with them? Were they using death threats to force her to help them? Surely, she would have told him immediately, knowing he could help her.

No, it was something else, something more insidious. If only he'd had the presence of mind to touch her last night. Then he would know her true intent, or at least more than he knew now. He felt her presence even now, plucking at the threads of his concentration. A subtle tug here, a twist of manipulation there. The timing couldn't be worse, now when he needed to focus on the task at hand; finding and eliminating Nuin and his gang.

Nicholas squatted in front of the fireplace and stirred the embers, staring sightlessly into the dying fire. He could feel the darkness spreading in him like a virus. For so many years he had defended the use of dark magic by his family and their closest allies. It was simply the price Orendas paid for doing what must be done. However, when he shone the light of awareness into the dark of his psyche—as one must in magic—the shadows were ever darker. This darkness could not be let alone or it would fester. It must be questioned, and the questions must be answered. He knew his deeds, and why he'd committed them. Still. So much death, so much violence in the trappings of defense.

His soul felt brittle.

He stood and glanced at the mantle clock. Nearly ten, he would have to hurry.
An hour wasted on self-pity. You pathetic sot.

He whirled around and hurled his leaded glass snifter at the fireplace, shattering the mirror above the mantle into a spider's web of cracks. He stared bleakly at his fractured reflection in the surface.

I hate you
.

* * * * *

Nicholas pulled the severed hand from the oven where it had been baking for the last hour. While it cooled, he flipped the grimoire open to the page titled "Hand of Glory," and used the recipe there to make oil and anoint the candle he'd made from the poor girl's fat.

He curled the dried fingers into a gruesome candlestick, and slipped the candle into the slot, squeezing the fingers tight around the wax.
Catch me if you can
. He pocketed the matches and headed out to meet Lilith.

The back door to the chapel was along a high stone wall over which Nicholas could hear the rustling of shadowy pine trees. A little door, pierced by iron grating, had been cut into the thickness of the unlighted wall. This was where Lilith had told him to wait.

He rang, and the trap behind the grating pulled back. He kept a firm hand on the wretched candlestick and hunched further into his hood. A lantern shone in front of him.

"Hello?" a voice whispered. "What
is
that smell?"

"Glad you like my cologne. Eau de Carcass," Nicholas whispered.

Someone retched and coughed, muffling the sound. "Quickly! Follow me."

The door opened and he stepped into a small courtyard.

Lilith turned silently and disappeared down a dark pathway with Nicholas close behind. The low ceiling of the chapel was crossed by dark wooden beams. The windows were hidden behind heavy velvet curtains, and the walls were cracked and discolored.

Nicholas willed himself not to recoil as an amalgam of unpleasant odors assaulted his nostrils: Mold, sweat, and noxious burning herbs. The room was thick with the mist of incense. His throat felt constricted and soon his temples began to throb. At least no one would detect the added stench of his own candle, he thought.

His stinging eyes swept the chapel by the dim light of sanctuary lamps of blood-red glass. Lilith gestured for him to sit down as she moved away to a group of people in a shadowy corner.

He set the flickering hand of glory on the pew and slouched down in the seat.

A red-robed choirboy advanced to the upper end of the chapel and lit a row of tall black wax candles, adding to the unpleasant stuffiness of the chapel. The candle light cut through the gray gloom like a hazy sinister sun. In its light, the altar became visible; an ordinary church altar covered with a black cloth stitched with an inverted pentagram. A chalice, covered by a napkin, sat in front of the tabernacle.

A young woman with long black hair and black-rimmed eyes stood by the altar holding a bottle of wine. Next to her stood a nervous young boy, about ten, holding a second bottle.

Directly over the altar hung an upside down crucifix, next to the sigil of Baphomet he had seen on his earlier reconnaissance. Above the crucifix, a huge woven tapestry of Satan towered over the congregation.

While he waited for Lilith to return, Nicholas inhaled carefully, trying to decipher the components of the unholy incense. Myrrh and the cloyingly sweet scent of hashish. Also datura, he thought, and nightshade, probably the cause of the headache throbbing behind his eye sockets.
Such are the perfumes dear to your Master,
he thought grimly.

Lilith crept into the pew beside him. She released the clasp of her black cloak and let the material puddle around her hips in a dark pool. Beneath she wore a spotted leopard hide tied over one shoulder, nothing else.

He eyed her skeptically, but she pointed to the front of the room, where the young woman had also removed her robe and climbed, naked, onto the altar top. She lay down on her back and the altar boy picked up two of the candles and placed one in each of her outstretched hands. A third white candle he placed in the V of her spread legs.

The chapel bell chimed nine peals. "Here he comes!" Lilith's words were nearly a pant, breathless and thin. She pulled Nicholas down to kneel with her in front of the pew. He dabbed a dot of wax from the hand of glory candle onto Lilith, and whispered the spell of invisibility for himself, pulling the hood of his cloak further over his head, in case the spell didn't mask him completely.

The Priest emerged from the vestry. He wore a black robe covered by a red velvet cape. As he strode down the aisle toward the congregation, dark energy flooded onto Nicholas, pushing him back into the pew. Embroidered on the back of his robe, a black goat stared at Nicholas as the Priest swept past, its long horns sewn of glowing thread. Nicholas caught only a glimpse of the man's appearance: Tall and broad-shouldered, high cheekbones, the remainder of his face hidden beneath his hood. Nuin? He couldn't be sure. The walk seemed different. Confident. Regal.

Kneeling at the foot of the altar, the Priest began his version of prayer.

"Oh Master of slanders, Emperor of lechery, dispenser of the benefits of crime, sins and vices. Yes, you Satan, not the other fellow. It is you we adore."

Climbing the altar stairs with his head bowed, the Priest filled the chalice partly with wine, filling it the rest of the way from a smaller bottle in his other hand. He then placed the cup on the bare belly of the woman acting as altar. He picked up the host, a wafer stolen by a parishioner earlier from a Catholic church in town, and showed it to the congregation to the sound of catcalls from those in the front pews. He raised the host to Satan, chanted an invocation and placed the wafer on the woman's prone body.

"Oh mighty and terrible Lord of Darkness, accept our sacrifice, which we offer to you on behalf of this congregation."

"Hosanna," murmured the crowd.

When he turned toward the pews, the Priest's face flushed and his pupils glowed a dull red. Nuin's features had been transformed. He'd lost weight, gaunt to the point of emaciation, the skin of his face pulled tightly over the bones. His skin, an ashen gray of death, looked like a skeleton recently dug up from the grave. A solid wall of dark energy flowed from him across the congregation.

"We are moving ever closer to our goal of manifesting our Dark One on this plane," he began. "In recognition of your help, I invite you, my most faithful servants, to participate in our rites tonight."