Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  High Priestess

  (August 7–8, 2002)

  M

  agdalena waited for George to continue.

  “Surely you realized, if a woman like Fen’ka—who has been dead several hundred years—made the effort to contact you and enlist your aid, you were embarking on serious business,” George said soothingly, patting her hand. “How often has a person made the effort to contact you from beyond the grave? It must take a great deal of energy, mustn’t it? If Fen’ka made such an effort and asked you to gather those that could clear her name, did it not occur to you that the powers arrayed against her vindication must be formidable indeed? Why else would she still need her name cleared? If it were simple, surely it would have been done long ago. Or she would have asked you to do it yourself. But she asked you to gather those in a position to aid her. Here. Now.”

  Magdalena had to admit that he had a point. “It makes sense.” She slowly formed the words quietly. “It just seems so… so real. So serious. So secretive, at least so far. But exciting! But what if we do unleash powers that we cannot control?”

  George patted her hand again and looked into her eyes. “I am not sure myself. Thankfully, no decisions or plans need be made tonight. Fen’ka has waited hundreds of years to be vindicated. It will do her no harm to wait another day or two. It is a very serious undertaking she asks you to shoulder on her behalf and you need to know what that entails and have time to consider it. Fully. Without pressure. If you do agree to set out on this journey, it must be of your own free will and with at least some appreciation of the dangers that await you. That takes time. Fen’ka knows that. I know that. That is why even I am not certain that I will agree to aid—her? you?—in this task. Even our friend Elizabeth, who has arrived here in Prague certain of her decision, must take the time to truly consider her position. This must be something that each of us agrees to. Do you understand?”

  Magdalena nodded. Hearing him explain it that way, she had to agree that his position made sense. How often did the dead attempt to contact her? How often did the dead contact anyone she knew, for that matter? Never. Well, hardly ever. Madame de Thebes, the tarot card reader in Golden Alley, had also reached out to her but it seemed her intent was only to confirm the reality of her encounter with Fen’ka. Though she had mistakenly driven away Madame de Thebes when she had broken the Nazi charm silencing the tarot reader.

  Magdalena had felt surprised earlier, and even angry, that George could have come to Prague uncertain if he would assist her. She realized now that she needed to consider her role in all this and if she was truly up for a task that might have serious repercussions. If a trumped-up charge of witchcraft were set aside, what other lies might be exposed? George had hinted that there were others. Lies told by men who were leaders of society to protect themselves and their power. Lies told to justify oppression and violence against those who stood opposed to those men and their abuse of that power. Other needless murders would be exposed. The foundations of modern society might be shaken. If she had thought before that Fen’ka’s vindication would be principally a correction of historical records, she realized now that what Fen’ka wanted would require a much greater sacrifice and have many more consequences. Overt political consequences that would spill over not simply into the Czech Republic but throughout Western Europe, or even the entirety of modern, Western society, which was built on those same political foundations. But the opportunity Fen’ka presented seemed to far outweigh the sacrifice demanded.

  “We have time to talk and consider all that. Show me your apartment, Magdalena. You can collect your thoughts. We can sit and speak more comfortably there and then I can leave you to consider the options before you.” George began walking again, refusing to let Magdalena’s hand slip from the crook of his elbow.

  Now Magdalena led the way, guiding the Jesuit silently through the Little Town to the building where she lived, and she had time to remember how anxious she was about revealing her small apartment to him. She fumbled with the key—was it because of the dark lobby or her nerves? Magdalena wondered—and opened the door. She flipped on the light switch and braced herself for George’s reaction.

  The priest looked about, taking in the kitchen and living room. He glanced at the doors at the other end of the kitchen, one leading to the back garden, the others opening into her tiny bathroom and the slightly larger bedroom. Magdalena was relieved that he did not seem repulsed.

  He strolled through her living room, where the lights were on, pausing to look over the titles of the books she had on her few shelves. He walked through the shadowy kitchen, taking in the disheveled state of the shelf above the sink. Why hadn’t she put away the few first aid supplies she always kept there, rather than in the bathroom? There was the last of the green candles she had been using to practice her meditation skills. There was the box of kitchen matches that she used to light the gas stove as well as the candles. A few pots and pans were there, in addition to those that sat in the dish drainer beside the sink.

  “Will he simply walk into my bedroom?” Magdalena wondered. What state had she left it in this morning when she had dashed out—it seemed ages ago now—eager to begin the conference registration? She thought it likely that the bed was still unmade. She half-expected him to drag his fingertip along the kitchen counter and inspect it for grease and filth. “Should I offer him a glass of wine?” She was completely flummoxed and unsure of what to do next or what he expected from her.

  He stood in the kitchen, his back toward her, looking at the door that led into the back garden. Suddenly he turned to her.

  “Magdalena, do not kid yourself or try to hide from me,” he said. “You have always desired power, have you not? Power and skill and excitement. Well, Fen’ka has noticed you and now, so have I. I can offer you this power that you yearn for, Magdalena. This power that has always seemed just beyond your grasp, the importance you felt the world had cheated you of. You yearn for excitement, Magdalena, and now it is within your grasp. Do you deny any of this?”

  She stood there, unable to answer, thunderstruck that he seemed to read her innermost, private thoughts. He knew things about her that she was hardly aware of herself, but the instant she heard the words, she knew what he said was true. Every word of it. Excitement. Power. She had always wanted to be somebody but had never been able to be more than an assistant secretary in a university academic department office.

  “But how can you offer me this power?” she heard herself asking him. “How can a priest do this?”

  “It is because I am both a priest and a master of the Old Ways that I can offer you this power,” he reassured her. “I can show you the paths of power that predate the coming of Christianity to the world and I can show you the paths that lead to the power of the saints as well. I have a foot in both camps, as they say, and can reveal the secrets of both to you.”

  He locked onto her eyes. “You know that many of the Old Ways were unfairly slandered and libeled by the early Christians and the medieval churchmen, yes?”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “So you know that the power of the Old Ways is not necessarily in opposition to the New?” he asked.

  Magdalena nodded, unable to take her eyes away from his.

  He reached to the shelf above her sink and took the green candle down, setting it on the table. He struck a match against the side of its box and lit the wick. The flame sprung up, wavering slightly in the tense air. Magdalena hardly dared to breathe. Could she bring herself to admit aloud that George was correct?

  He looked into her eyes again and stretched his right hand out to her. But his arm was bent low, as if reaching for her waist. His hand, open and palm up, was in the midst of the candle flame.

  Magdalena gasped when she realized that he was holding his hand in the candle flame with no apparent pain. In fact, no reaction at all. As if the candle and its fire where nowhere near his hand. There was no smell of singed hair, no stench of burning flesh.

  “You w
ant power, Magdalena. I can give you power. I can teach you secrets forgotten by all but the most studious and advanced of the occult masters.” George’s voice was soothing again, inviting her to trust him. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to reach out and take his hand in the fire. Did she dare?

  “Do you think that I am holding back some great secret from you, Magdalena? Is that why you hesitate?” George asked. “Do you hesitate because you think I would hide any of the secrets of power from you?” Keeping his hand in the fire, he took down the bottle of rubbing alcohol she had left on the shelf next to her toothbrush and a tin of bandages. He handed it to her.

  “Unscrew the lid,” he instructed her. “Open the bottle and pour it out upon your table.”

  She took the bottle from his hand, unscrewing the lid without ever taking her eyes from his. She splashed the alcohol on the wooden table. With a sudden lunge, George seized the green candle and tipped it to one side, touching the wick to the tabletop.

  Flames blazed up from the alcohol-drenched wood. Wax spilled from the candle into the midst of the spreading conflagration. He threw the dead candle to the floor. The fire licked at the edges of the table top and began eating more than just the alcohol spilled there. The wood itself began to singe and grow dark, feeding the frenzy of the fire. George stood closer to the table, now his forearm and not simply his hand engulfed by the fire.

  Magdalena could feel the heat, see the flames, smell the first hints of wood consumed by flames. But still no scent of burning flesh or fabric, even though his coat sleeve was in the flames.

  “I can offer you the power you have always wanted, Magdalena,” he repeated. “Can you, or anyone you know, reach into the flames as I do? The flames of the green candle, the fire that burns to summon Flauros and Halphas and all their race? This is the least of the skills I can teach you, Magdalena.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “Can you afford to refuse the invitation I extend?”

  Magdalena was mesmerized. The fire was growing more intense. Everything she had been doing since meeting Fen’ka—practicing with the tarot, learning the use of the herbs, meditating with the candles, the Walpurgis Night and Midsummer magic to set free Madame de Thebes—had been leading to this very moment. “Do I dare?” she asked herself. “How could I dare not?”

  Slowly she reached her hand out to George. She felt the heat on her knuckles, on her arm. Inexplicably aware of small details now, she saw the few fair hairs on her arm casting shadows on her skin and remaining unburned by the fire surrounding them. Her fingertips touched George’s.

  He seized her hand tightly, gripping it in the flames of the burning table. Shadows leaped and danced on the kitchen walls. She found herself unable to tear her eyes away from his. A hint of a smile played along his lips. Still holding her hand in the fire, he stepped around the table and came closer until she could feel his breath on her cheek.

  “Your life will never be the same again, Magdalena,” he whispered in her ear. “Let me teach you.”

  She touched her tongue to her dry lips. She wanted to say yes. She ached to accept his offer. She feared that if she moved, the dream would dissolve and she would find herself standing alone in her kitchen, fantasizing in the dark. She took a breath and parted her lips to respond.

  But George did not wait to hear what she would say. With the hand holding hers, he pulled her tightly against him and kissed her with a ferocity and a passion she had only read about in romance novels. He swept his other arm and hand across the tabletop, scattering what little might remain of the alcohol, the fire suddenly and mysteriously extinguished. He pushed her against the table and she fell back atop it, her tongue still entwined with his.

  He pulled himself back from her and stood. They both gasped, lungs desperate for air. Then he reached down and swung her legs over his shoulders. He leaned over her again, tearing open her blouse, buttons popping and scattering across the floor. She felt his lips against her ear and heard him whisper hoarsely, “You are a beautiful girl, Magdalena. More beautiful and intelligent and talented than you realize. Your occult skills will be legendary!” Then, like a lion on the hunt discovering its prey, his mouth closed first on one nipple and then the other.

  Waves of fear and excitement, desire and passion washed through Magdalena. She reached up, seized his ears, and pulled his face more forcefully to her breasts. She felt his tongue slide along the delicate underside of each breast and the delightful scratch of his whiskers on her skin. His teeth nipped her skin and shockwaves of electric ecstasy sizzled within her. He pulled his cheeks slowly down her torso and then back up towards her throat. She writhed and moaned beneath him, unable to stop herself. His tongue and teeth teased her along her throat, under her chin, behind her ear. His panting and groans mingled with her own, filling her head with the deafening thunder of yearning like waves crashing on the shore.

  She heard, but could not see, his zipper open and the pants fall down around his knees. She felt his fingers on her thighs. He pushed her skirt up and tore a hole in her stockings along the creases of her inner thigh. She rocked her pelvis toward the ceiling, gasping and panting, her eyes closed. She felt his hands, his mouth, and then…

  She felt him plunge within her, any and all defenses she might have mustered against his advance dissolving even as she realized she had no desire to resist. The splinters of the burned tabletop pricked her buttocks. She drove herself to meet him and pulled him down into her. The world seemed to consist of only their moaning, their fervent gasps, his touch and her response, and then the gasps become roars and cries that she thought must surely be waking the entire neighborhood.

  It was done. He stood up, extricating himself from her. The light from the living room, behind George, made him little more than a silhouette looming above her. He pulled up his pants. She heard the zipper and the belt buckle restore the thin veneer of order to his appearance. Her breasts still heaved, her lungs seemingly starved for air.

  “Consider my offer, Magdalena. If you would wield the power I can give you, we must begin your lessons soon. Tomorrow night.” He stood at the door.

  “Reject my offer and you will always wonder what you might have done, who you might have become.” He stooped and picked up something from the floor. Then the door closed behind him. He was gone.

  It was a few more moments before she realized that the heavy breathing she still heard was her own. With his words echoing in her head, she eventually sat up. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair.

  “What just happened?” she asked herself. He had said she was beautiful. Those were words she had never thought to hear from anyone. He had offered her excitement. He had offered her power and that was something she had never expected either. He had offered her a new life, the chance to become someone else, an opportunity to experience the world as few could ever experience it. He had demonstrated the power that he offered and she had already taken the first steps toward accepting it. His command of the flames, and his command of her, left her breathless.

  How could she say no to a man who offered her all that?

  Alessandro, still seated in the courtyard of the tavern, saw Elizabeth step through the gate from the street.

  “Going to the restroom, I took a wrong turn and came out a door in the back of the tavern,” Elizabeth gushed in explanation, both of where she had been and why she was coming back into the courtyard from the street.

  Alessandro half-rose in acknowledgement of her entrance. “No problem, no problem at all. I was just about to have another pint. Would you care to join me?”

  “I would be happy to.” Elizabeth sat next to him, shaking her red locks. Alessandro gestured to the waiter and, having snagged his attention, held up his empty foam-flecked glass and two fingers. The waiter nodded and darted back into the depths of the tavern to fetch the drinks.

  “So. You told me you teach at Trinity in Dublin,” Alessandro said to restart their earlier conversation. “Is that where you grew up? Is your family
from Dublin?”

  “No, not at all,” Elizabeth replied, leaning back in her chair. “My family is from the south, from the Waterford area.”

  “Waterford? Like the crystal?” Alessandro thought he recognized the name.

  “Yes. Quite. Like the crystal.” Elizabeth congratulated him on his recollection. “Waterford is on the River Suir and was the second most important city in Ireland, after Dublin. It was a political center as well as a center for shipping. The historic parts of the city are delightful. My family lived across the river though, near the old castle that served as the seat of the Irish kings of that area. Quite picturesque.”

  The waiter reemerged into the yard with the two glasses, thick heads of foam slightly dripping down the sides and across his fingers. He set them down with the slip of paper indicating a new bar tab had begun. He moved on to another table filling with German-and French-speaking tourists coming in from the street.

  “Old castle, heh?” Alessandro raised his glass. “It’s not every beautiful woman who can say she grew up near an old castle!” They both laughed and sipped at their pints.

  “True enough,” Elizabeth conceded, blushing.

  “Do the local nobility still live there?” he asked. “Is it still a working castle? With stables and servants and coaches and all that? With a handsome prince?”

  “Alas, no handsome prince,” Elizabeth told him. “It was never a large castle either. Any stables or other buildings it once had must have stood apart from it and crumbled away or been rebuilt. But the castle did have its own churchyard. The family hasn’t lived in the castle since at least the very late 1700s, when a new mansion was built on the estate. The churchyard, though, is still there and is old indeed.”