House of Secrets

by James Moore

  Crowley leered, leaning on his staff and clutching it with both hands. “And Tremere did it, make no mistake. He gave the Dark Kiss to one of the oldest beings to walk this earth. Yet, of all of Caine’s grandchilder, whom did he chose? Ennoia, the Queen of Beasts? Nosferatu, Master of the Hidden Places? Perhaps Arikel, the Sculptress, the Subtle One, who shaped the arts down through the ages and thereby shaped the lives of men? No, none of these. He chose Saulot, Caine’s favorite. Saulot, the Holy Martyr and Healer."

  He chuckled conspiratorially. “I’ve always wondered, once Tremere rises from torpor, what does he plan to do for an encore? Kill Mother Teresa? Phaugh!" He swung the staff, dismissing the thought, then leaned down and stared Use in the face, eyes blazing. “Let me ask you this — when one has set one's sights on power, which you Tremere so proudly state that you worship, what sort of fool would chose the Holy Martyr when the only thing he has to recommend him is that he’s the most lightly guarded and the least likely to put up a fight?"

  Ilse chose her words carefully and told Crowley what she thought he wanted to hear, “A cowardly fool.”

  “Bright girl,” Crowley said. “Go to the head of the class.” He patted her twice on the cheek and straightened up. “A cowardly fool indeed. He took the straight and simple course, settling for what seemed good enough, when any fool could see that if one desired magical power, the proper choice was not Saulot the Blessed Healer, but Malkav the Magician.” Crowley sat down on the floor before her, taking the posture of a patient teacher, his crosier across his lap. “Tremere took the easy choice, not the proper one, and your line has been tainted forevermore with cowardice, both Saulot’s holy cowardice and Tremere’s unholy cowardice. For this, your magic has suffered. So you can see why I arranged to be taken by the line of Malkav."

  “Then why do you hate us so much?" Ilse asked. “If you didn’t want to join us, why do you resent us?”

  “I don’t resent you,” Crowley said, leaning forward. “I just hate you for the same reason I hate the Ventrue. I see no reason to suffer fools gladly, and both clans are composed of fools, arrogant fools and cowardly fools. I must hate you because it is either that or pity, and hate is so much more satisfying." He smiled, running his fingers up and down the length of his staff. “There’s also the matter of a personal grudge between me and Dr. John Dee. You see, among other things, I am also the reincarnation of Edward Kelly, the mage who first deigned to teach Dee anything of spirits or the ways of Enochian magic. We were quite fond of each other once — there was even an open marriage between ourselves and our wives — yet he betrayed me, and while he continued on as a learned doctor and then vampire, I was cast into prison and died during my escape. It was a very painful death, let me remind you, and one that I shall never forget. I have had four hundred years to plot my revenge, and it is just about ready.”

  Crowley leaned back, smiling. “You’re holding up well. You're made of much sterner stuff than most of your line. So, what uncomfortable truth should I tell you next? I know. Look at my aura, my dear, and tell me what you see. Look closely. I know you've been glancing at it the whole time, but like most creatures, you've blinded yourself to the shocking and the obvious. So look now and see."

  Ilse did not want to look, but she did, the madman’s aura holding that same sort of horrid fascination as did accidents or freaks or shocking acts of perversion. The outer shell of his soul swirled with psychosis, the colors as she had seen them, brown and black and a full palette of reds, mostly crimson and scarlet. Yet the aura was bright with magic, Ilse realized, bright as that of a mortal mage, and in the expectant silence, she could hear the madman’s heart beating."

  “You’re...” Ilse could not finish.

  “Say it, my dear. Say it. What word are you searching for? Alive?"

  “No, a ghoul. You’re just some puppet. Where’s Master Therion?"

  The man laughed, stroking the wood of his wand of power. “Right before you, my dear, or have you refused to see the riddle I’ve set you? My soul is stained by the Black Kiss, and how could a mere ghoul have come by that ?"

  Use looked at his aura and shrank back, blood turning to ice in her veins. “It's impossible...”

  “Please, that’s a vulgar word. Why, sometimes I drink six impossible things for breakfast. You're impossible, after all. Ask anyone on the street." He smiled broadly, showing too many fangs, his mouth like the maw of a manticore. “Can you guess how I did it? Or why? It’s very simple, all just part of my plan. I never intended to remain a vampire, only to bide my time and leam and steal a bit of their immortality, as it was one of the few simple ways left in this modern world. So, once I was taken by the line of Malkav and slew my sire, I procured a catamite, a young man related to me by blood, and with him performed the rites of Zeus and Hermes, thereby bonding him to myself. He drank my blood and soul, diablerizing me, my spirit flowing into his young, living body and my immortal blood coursing through the marrow of the wand into his living veins. I had my immortality and my mortality. Once I have finished learning the rest of what I require, I shall do what Tremere never had the courage to do — track down Malkav and take his power for myself. After that, I believe I shall proceed to Caine, then God. Lilith I’m not certain of, though I believe I’d like to enjoy her company for a time before deciding whether I should do without her.”

  “You’re insane."

  “No," said Crowley, getting back to his feet, “I’m just not a coward like those of your line. Why, looking to your clan as example, less than a thousand years ago, a mortal usurped the power of one of the grandchildren of the third mortal to walk I this earth. Or fourth or fifth mortal, actually, if you count

  Lilith and the nameless virgin. Second man, anyway, and that's what counts for power." He fingered the lingam. “Given that as a precedent, why shouldn’t I be able to kill Malkav or Caine or God, if I have a mind to? I am the Beast, and what I do shall be the whole of the law. It is my desire to kill God and take his place, and my destiny that this will come to pass. Read the Bible if you don’t believe me, then read between the lines. They leave so much out of the official histories, but those who are clever can still discern the truth.”

  “What do you want with us?” Use asked.

  Crowley gestured and shrugged. “I have a desire to rule London, and a certain measure of malice for your clans. Both have sworn vengeance on the other if anything untoward happens to either of you. It being a night past these oaths, and neither of you returned safely home, they should now be going about their shortsighted war, Dr. Dee blowing up Parliament, Lady Anne responding with whatever takes her fancy. It hardly matters. They will be trapped by their enmity, and, on the off-chance that Dr. Dee does not make good on his threat, the Brujah will make certain that any possible hint of diplomacy is negated by the actual destruction of the House of Lords and the House of Commons.

  “This act of vandalism will be attributed to the Tremere, whether or not they actually did it, and this will be matched from some equally appalling atrocity by the Ventrue. After the struggle is begun in earnest, I will release you and Mr. Westphal to run back to your own clans — jointly or separately — it hardly matters, and allow you to tell them of the perfidy of the Brujah. They will of course unite against the common enemy, but poorly, as they hate each other more and will have both just indulged in the most spiteful and heinous crimes against one another. Regardless, the victory of whatever clan shall come to the top of the heap shall be short-lived, for I will then step in myself and seize it.

  “The only thing you and Mr. Westphal might do to thwart me would be to remain here and do nothing, allowing the Brujah to consolidate their power and making them that much harder for me to dislodge, but I find that unlikely. The Ventrue is far too arrogant, and you are far too cowardly to do what would be most sensible and spiteful, so you will do what I said, loyal not so much to your clans as to your own pride and cowardice and thereby bringing about your clans’ downfall."

  Crowley cr
ouched down, reaching into the sleeve of his vestments. “But before I leave you to your amusement, one last thing....” Like a conjurer, he produced an old pair of silver pliers with an elaborate loop-and-pincer arrangement at the end.

  With the ease born of long practice, Crowley slipped the instrument over Kurt Westphal’s left fang. “So good he already has them extended. Less chance of damaging the tooth.” With a wiggle and twist, Aleister Crowley extracted the fang, dropping it with a flick into his empty hand. He pulled the other fang just as neatly, then turned to Ilse.

  Crowley smiled, showing his own teeth, rows and rows of them like a shark. “Now, Miss Decameron, if you would be so obliging? I really hate to damage the tooth; it spoils it for my purposes.”

  Ilse bit back on her anger, trying to force herself to remain calm, to keep from extending her fangs as both Crowley and her instincts wanted.

  Crowley looked at her, smiling. “Good, very good, Miss Decameron. Not so weak-willed as you might be. But observe—" He grabbed her by the throat, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Bitch! Shrew! Whore! Mewling coward!”

  His will pressed against hers. Ilse felt her growing fury, and her fangs extended on reflex. Quick as thought, Crowley forced her mouth open and grabbed one, then the other with his forceps, yanking them out and dropping them into the palm of his hand with Westphal's.

  “Thank you, Miss Decameron,” Crowley said. “That did very nicely." He released her chin and stood back up. Use’s head fell forward as cold rage flowed through her, blood pouring into her mouth in place of her missing fangs. She held her lips tightly closed, not wanting to lose a precious drop.

  “I think you might find this interesting, Miss Decameron. Watch carefully." Crowley lifted his upper lip with the thumb of one hand, using the nail of the other to stab the gum in a space between two pointed teeth. Carefully he inserted one of the pulled fangs, where it took root, then proceeded to the other side of his mouth where he placed its mate.

  He smiled at her like a barracuda. “It is a standard belief that the parts of one’s enemies hold a share of their power, and if you consume them, you gain a portion of that strength. The quintessential part of a vampire is, of course, the fangs, and these, thankfully, are fresh.”

  He then proceeded to his lower jaw, putting the other two fangs in place, and Use felt the blood flow in her mouth in sympathy as he snapped his jaws and smacked his lips. “There is, of course, another belief, that so long as one holds a portion of one’s enemies, they can never act against him. Otherwise, they destroy themselves.” Crowley pointed the iron tip of the crosier over her heart. “I have your fangs, Miss Decameron, the core of your vampiric magic, and you would do well to remember it.”

  Crowley sucked his teeth, seeming to savor the taste. “I was right,” he said at last. “Mr. Westphal has much stifled passion, and you, Miss Decameron, also have a measure of ...unrequited love?” He looked askance at her, then nodded, as if he’d already answered his own question. “My, what a rare passion to find among one of your clan. I was given to understand that tragic love affairs were solely the province of the Toreadors. Never mind. Unrequited love makes lust all the more urgent, and you’re linked to mine now, you know. Taste and you will feel the passion.”

  Crowley stroked his staff, and Use felt a wave of hot animal lust sweep through her as the blood poured through the holes where her fangs had been. “You see? Delicious, isn't it? Now, perhaps we should do something just as nice for Mr. Westphal. Ozmo! Dana!” He rapped his staff twice on the floor, striking sparks, and Ilse felt ecstasy surge through her. “Bring Miss Jacqueline in!"

  “But I’ve hardly finished her make-up, Aleister, darling!" came the distant call of a husky falsetto with an ever so proper British accent. “She’d be terribly embarrassed to be seen like this. I know I would!”

  There was the sound of a large door slamming open somewhere beyond Ilse’s range of vision, and light spilled in, almost blinding her before she could dim her heightened senses. “’Oo gives a rat’s arse wot you think, Davie?" came another voice, much louder, male, speaking in an almost incomprehensible Cockney dialect. “Mistah Crowley wants 'er, 'ee gets 'er, wit’ or wit’out 'er make-up."

  “My name is Dana, Ozmo! Dana! How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Yer name’s Dave Wilkins, mate, and yer nuttier than a fruitcake from 'Arrods, that’s wot you is. Now get yer arse out o’ me way, or I knock you right down the bleedin’ stairs!"

  There was a ladylike gasp, then tripping down the steps with nimble feet came a woman in a beautiful silver fox stole and a long purple evening gown, her matching panorama hat piled high with scarlet ostrich plumes, the same shade as her lipstick and gold-framed cabochon earrings. Or his lipstick, Ilse suddenly realized, for it was a very large woman and moved with that exaggerated femininity you only saw in transvestites and transsexuals.

  Dana/Dave stepped back as another man came down the steps after her. This one was a huge bruiser with snow white hair and skin, an albino and a vampire at that, wearing a denim jacket sewn with hundreds of pearly buttons and the legend “P.K.B. — Pearly King of Battersea." His pants and cap had more of the buttons, and the only part of him that had any color were the glittering multicolored plastic rings on his fingers. In his arms he bore Westphal’s chauffeur, Jackie. "Where d’you want ’er, Mistah Crowley?”

  Crowley smiled at Ozmo and gestured to Westphal. “In his lap, if you would be so kind. I’d like her to be waiting for him when he wakes up.”

  “I really must fix her make-up,” Dana protested.

  “You need to fix yer bleedin’ ‘ead, that’s wot needs fixin’!” sneered Ozmo, carrying Jackie across the grey stone floor of the chamber. “Yer a fuckin’ loony, Davie, that’s wot you is.” “Please, Ozmo,” said Crowley. “If you would be so kind...” “That's me, Mistah C, soul o’ kindness. Promised this 'ere little tart I’d get even wit’ ’er, an’ wot am I doin’? Why, nuttin' more than lettin’ ’er take a loverly restful nap in ’er boyfriend’s lap. A nice long ’un...”

  He set Jackie gently across Westphal’s legs, the chauffeur now dressed in a long, peacock-blue beaded gown and a gigantic feathered hat like something from the Ascot Races scene of My Fair Lady, her long Titian-red hair done into a fall of tightly sprung curls down one side of her face. There was a bruise on her cheek, visible even under the heavy makeup, and a bandage on her arm partially covered by one of the long silk gloves. Her head lolled back, eyes blind with shock. From the pale persimmon color of her aura, Ilse could see the woman was near to death, or at least would be if she suffered even the slightest additional injury.

  Westphal just lay there and stared up, eyes also frozen wide, mouth open and empty except for the dried film of blood across his remaining teeth.

  “He’ll kill her,” Use breathed. “When he wakes, he’ll kill her...”

  “That’s the gen’ral idea.” Ozmo grinned, fangs extended. “H’ain’t Mistah Crowley got a wonderful mind? Provides fer alluvus, 'ee does.”

  Crowley smiled fondly and patted Ozmo on the shoulder, making the buttons rattle. “I would not be overly alarmed,

  Miss Decameron. As I’ve taken the precaution of removing Mr. Westphal’s fangs, any damage he does to his woman will not be a crime of passion, hut of careful consideration. He shall not salve his conscience with the pleasant lie that he had no choice. His choice is clear and simple — once he wakes, he may either savage his woman, drinking her blood and extinguishing her life, or refrain by an act of will, allowing himself to slide into that night from which there is no return.” “I really hope he decides not to bite her," Dana remarked. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get blood out of silk?"

  Aleister Crowley leaned upon his staff, the Shiva lingam at the tip throbbing with power. “One last thing, Miss Decameron. On the off-chance that I cannot be here when you are released, please convey the following message to Dr. Dee: First, that I am not the only one he has displeased, and that the
Comte expresses his disapproval of your current scheme in the strongest manner possible; and second, and more simply, just inform him that my revenge has begun.”

  He straightened up then, still smiling. “Thank you for your time, Miss Decameron, but I must now be off. I have other matters to attend to. Ozmo! Dana!" Crowley turned sharply and swaggered out of the room with his bright, mad aura, as Ozmo and Dana followed him out of Use's field of vision.

  A moment later, the door slammed, and the room was once again plunged into darkness.

  Ilse allowed her enhanced senses to return, the persimmon shade of Jackie’s aura fading, but still brighter than either hers or Westphal’s. She then turned and studied the cuff, the manacle that prevented her from using her magic. It was heavy and incised with old Etruscan charms, iron twisted with silver and gold for power and strength, snug about her wrist. The lock was at the far side on the base, impossible to reach with her mouth, even if she could get to her pick. It was a trap worthy of Master Harry. Feet were right out too, since Crowley had bolted the ankle shackles so tightly to the floor Use couldn’t even feel them.

  However, Use’s hands were fine and slim, and she tried to see if she could slip free directly, pulling straight through the cuff. The metal was sharp and jagged, a saw-toothed edge formed by the crudely incised charms, but Ilse began to work at it, slowly dislocating the bones and letting the muscles slide one over the other. The skin of the back of her hand caught on a metal spur. It was nothing, just a scratch, barely a wound, but a drop of her vitae oozed from it and roiled down around her wrist and down the side of the cuff.