Booke of the Hidden

by Jeri Westerson

  “No. I’ll be fine.” And yet, I was thinking of Erasmus. Where was he? Was he all right? Now that the Booke was closed, maybe he wouldn’t be back. I tried to think of that as a good thing.

  “Are you sure? I could camp out on the sofa.”

  I looked up at him and, with my bandaged hand, cupped his cheek. “When you spend the night here, it will be in the bedroom…with me.”

  “Oh.” He sputtered and I think he actually blushed, though it was hard to tell in the moonlight. “Well…uh…okay, then.”

  “But not tonight. I’m beat. Literally.”

  “Kylie, I told you we should have charged them.”

  “I believe in second chances.”

  “It’s not exactly his second chance.”

  “How did two brothers become so different?”

  He rubbed his hand over his chin. “The scary thing is we aren’t that different. But he got involved in this Baphomet crap and he’s never been the same. Someday I’ll tell you about it.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “Look.” He lifted me from the glider and escorted me to the backdoor. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I’m taking the night shift and I plan to patrol this street. Sleep with your cell phone.”

  “Not as romantic, but…”

  He looked at me grimly and I tried a smile.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said, only half-believing it.

  We went inside, where the coven was busy putting everything right again.

  I walked him to the plywood-covered door. “Thanks for everything,” I said.

  “You take care of yourself, Kylie Strange. I want this shop to be a success. I don’t want you scared off and moving away.”

  “Believe me, it takes an awful lot to scare me off.”

  “Good.” He leaned over, and this time it wasn’t a kiss on the cheek, but on my lips. He lingered there, even though he didn’t press for more than his mouth on mine. His fingers trailed through my hair and moved softly along my jaw before he let me go. My skin tingled where he touched.

  He waved and left. When the door closed—the broken bell tinkling pathetically—I turned to my posse. “Well, that was certainly a day and a half.”

  “Indeed it was,” said Doc.

  “Did I just kill Baphomet?”

  “No, not likely. I think you just sent him back to where he belonged. You’ll have to be careful. I don’t think he liked that very much.”

  “But it’s all over. We’re done.” I stared at the Booke sitting on the desk, its tarnished lock sealed for good.

  “Well, funny thing about that, Kylie,” said Doc. “Though it’s true the succubus is gone, I don’t think it’s true that it’s all over.”

  My elation drained away, replaced by a sinking feeling. I didn’t want to ask, but I had to know. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Jolene and I have been doing some digging. I went up to the library in Portland a few days ago and looked at some archives. And the book does seem to have a history in New England.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “And…it never seems to be just one creature that escapes the book. I’m afraid there is a crowd of creatures.” The other Wiccans had gathered and looked sorrowfully over Doc’s shoulder. They knew. They knew all this time but didn’t tell me. “The Chosen Host has a lot to do to dispatch them before she’s done,” Doc went on. “So I’m afraid, Kylie, and I’m very sorry…but this was only the beginning.”

  I slid all the way to the floor. Only the beginning? How was I ever going to survive this?

  I felt the walls closing in. The Booke. Demons. Gods. And there was still that pentagram I saw in the church janitor’s closet. Or at least, I think I saw it. Was it another helpful Wiccan…or another enemy?

  “Something else,” said Jolene crouching beside me. “I did some checking on your ancestry with the info you gave me. I can’t seem to find any information on the Stranges, not in California or, well, anywhere. Maybe they had a different name at one time?”

  I shook my head. “No. Always Strange. My father and his father. And I guess…his father.” That was weird. If they had ever told me stories about our family tree, I couldn’t remember a thing about it now. My heart raced. And I didn’t know why.

  “So I don’t know how you could be related to Ruth Russell, though her archives are hard to come by,” Jolene went on. “I think we need to do some additional research at the local library. They might have something.” She hesitated. “And there’s something else.”

  “Something else? Isn’t that enough?”

  She and Doc exchanged glances. “Well…you know that tattoo you wanted me to look up? The one on Mr. Dark? I found that, too, in the online demonology archive. I had a hard time with the translations, but finally sorted it out. Either it means ‘follower’ or…”

  She bit her lip.

  “Well?” I urged. “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he’s gone, I guess.”

  “I don’t think he’s gone,” said Nick. “Not for good, anyway. If the book isn’t done then neither is he.”

  “But he was fading,” I said.

  Seraphina edged forward. “That’s true. But I think that had more to do with Baphomet. I don’t think it’s a good idea if they’re present together on the same plane. I think it’s a very bad idea, in fact.”

  So maybe he was fine. I felt only slightly lighter at that news. But what did that mean for Shabiri? Would she be back, too? I turned to Jolene. “Go on. What else might that tattoo mean?”

  She licked her chapped lips and studied me. “It might mean ‘follower’ or…it also might mean…‘assassin.’”

  I thought long and hard about it. “Follower” could mean the Booke and all that went with it. I grabbed for the amulet that still hung around my neck. It warmed my hand as it always did. I found comfort in it, even though it had that awful demon face.

  Yeah, it could also mean he had to follow me, because of that amulet…or even the crossbow. But that other meaning…

  I knew I had no business worrying or caring, but I still did. I still cared. And I still wanted to know.

  Where the heck was Erasmus Dark?

  Epilogue

  The Lake of Fire rippled with molten waves, glowing bright when a cooled crust of rock slipped below a swell and disappeared. Smoke feathered upward and the orange sky was hazy with the smell of sulfur and death.

  Erasmus Dark walked in long strides over the hills and down deep into the valleys of black rock, his duster swishing over his legs. He looked straight ahead, neither veering his glance toward the shimmering lake, nor toward the volcano above the ridge, spewing its glowing rocks and liquid fire down its treacherous sides. He tried to clear his mind. He knew they would try to listen to his thoughts and it was vitally important that they not be able to hear them.

  The trail descended through a canyon so steep and dark that even the light from the molten lake barely penetrated. The sheer canyon walls were black obsidian, their vitreous edges sharp.

  Still he descended, until he reached a land bridge made of rough black marble. Below that, a river of dark listless sludge meandered. He never knew where it went exactly, but he had no wish to find out.

  The land bridge ended at a cavernous arch, and he passed under it into darkness. Torches set in recesses in the rough-hewn rock gave off feeble light compared with the surroundings, but their flicker was of some comfort. Yes, he thought viciously. He seemed to need comfort now.

  The woman. What had compelled him? She had sworn it was not a charm or spell and he believed her, mostly because he knew she was not competent enough to have crafted them herself. Why was he drawn to her then? Why was he so completely enthralled to his own detriment?

  He crushed these thoughts like a shoe could extinguish an ember and walked up to the altar of black stone, stone so old no one remembered where it came from or who had made it. It was older than the gods, so it was said. Stone so black it gave no reflection.


  He stopped and waited. Time was nothing here. He could have waited a thousand years, and would scarce have known it. But he had the feeling he would not wait long this time.

  A small green flame erupted from the altar and hovered, growing little bigger than a candle flame. And then the chorus of voices began. It arose from all around him, shimmering the steamy air with its discordance. It grew louder and soon the different voices joined until it became one echoing voice, yet still sounding like many. They spoke slowly, precisely.

  “Erasmus Dark,” said the chorus in a harsh whisper.

  He bowed. “My lords.”

  “The Gateway that should have been closed now yawns wide. The book—”

  “I know, my lords.”

  “It has awakened you, has it not, Erasmus Dark?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Chosen Host emerges. Has she been made known to you?”

  “Yes, my lords.”

  Tendrils of thought curled about him, teasing his senses, probing his mind that he had carefully prepared as a blank slate. It pushed. He gently nudged it back. If they truly wanted to penetrate his thoughts, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  “Well? What have you done to secure the book?”

  “One creature has been contained. A succubus. I am keeping watch for more.”

  It sounded like laughter, the susurrating sound. It lingered and rolled over the syllables of “succubus.” They were clearly amused at the choice.

  “Contained?” The chorus was surprised. “Such a dangerous creature. But not so much to females.”

  “Another clutch released an incubus. That, too, she subdued.” He made certain there was no pride in that statement.

  “Incubus.” The syllables of that word were lovingly caressed. There was a pause. And then: “We wonder, Erasmus Dark, why you simply do not accomplish your task.”

  “My lords—”

  “It is your nature, your destiny, to seal the book. Or is it that you enjoy the sport of delicious deception?”

  “Y-yes, my lords. For if I am to be locked behind the prison of the book once more, then I will taste my freedom for as long as I can.”

  Laughter. Shimmering sounds like rocks sliding over rocks into a molten pool. A long silence followed.

  He took a breath. “And…there is a complication.”

  The tendrils reached for him again, but did not push harder than before. They seemed to want him to say it, not force it from his mind.

  “Shabiri. She…”

  A loud rush of wind…or was it a roar…swept up, ruffling his long hair. He endured it stoically.

  “Ah…” said the chorus of voices. “The Shabiri. But you will not allow it to complicate matters.”

  “No, my lords. But…she is aligned with…with Baphomet…”

  The roar swept up again, swirling around him in displeased gusts.

  “It is a minor complication,” he said as smoothly as he could. “I shall deal with her as I have done before.”

  “Yes. See that you do.” There was a hushed sound, like distant laughter. And then: “So be it. You may go.”

  He almost sighed with relief. But even as he turned, the chorus called him back.

  “Erasmus Dark,” said the chorus, stringing out his name so that it almost sounded like many more syllables. “Do not delay too long. If the Chosen Host escapes, if she somehow frees herself, you will suffer the everlasting torment of your failure. We hope that this is very clear…Erasmus Dark.”

  He took a deep breath and bowed. “I have not failed in four thousand years, my lords. I shall not fail this time.”

  The shimmering sound rose to a crescendo and then cascaded down all around him like sparks, dead once they touched the ground.

  END

  Author’s Afterword

  Would you believe the plot and general idea for this series came to me in a dream? I’m not kidding. It was one of those serendipitous things. I dreamed of the Booke (which was amusingly called “The Big Book of the Occult” in my dream), Kylie, the demon, and the monsters beaten with a crossbow. The whole Magilla. When I awoke I lay there for while absorbing it. It was so entertaining, I immediately told my husband who was just getting up for work. He told me, “Write it down!”

  So I went off to my office to write down as much of it as I could remember. Then I fleshed it out a little more, trying to make sense of dreamscape logic, and had a half a page of a loose synopsis. Before he left for work I read that to him. He said, “Write the book!”

  So I did. Even more fleshed out with a planned-out universe and everything. “Booke of the Occult” became “Booke of the Hidden,” the demon got a name, and so did everyone else (although Doc was always Doc). It’s strange what the sleeping imagination can dream up. I’m glad it did and made it past the memory sensors. It’s a fun series to write. I usually write medieval mysteries, which are heavy with research and dense with prose. To shake things up a bit with a fantasy/horror book is a good stretch of the writing legs, and getting me back to my roots when I was immersed with reading fantasy and science fiction in my teens and twenties.

  There will be six books in this series. I hope you will enjoy following Kylie and the gang through them as she works to make right what she unwittingly made wrong, and through the trials of her indecision where men and demons are concerned. The next book in the series is DEADLY RISING, where something is luring young women to their doom in the swampy marshes outside the village. Kylie must figure out a way to stop this new fiend without following its siren song herself, except she’s preoccupied with thoughts of another demon—Erasmus Dark. The Ordo are up to their old tricks, and a new danger only stirs up more questions about the hidden secrets just below the surface of Moody Bog.

  See more about me and the series at BOOKEoftheHIDDEN.com.

  About the Author

  Los Angeles native and award-winning author JERI WESTERSON writes the critically acclaimed Crispin Guest Medieval Mysteries, historical novels, paranormal novels, and LGBT mysteries. To date, her medieval mysteries have garnered twelve industry award nominations, from the Agatha to the Shamus. Kirkus Review said of her latest Crispin Guest Medieval Mystery A Maiden Weeping, “Once again Guest’s past misdeeds actually help him in the present in a case that includes plenty of red herrings and an interesting look at medieval jurisprudence.” Jeri is former president of the SoCal chapter of Mystery Writers of America and frequently guest lectures on medieval history at local colleges and museums. She lives in Southern California with her home-brewing husband, a complacent tortoise, and 40,000 bees.

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