by Lorelei Bell
By Abigale's cowering look, she gathered that it struck fear into her. Good. But she moved to tie her hands, anyway.
“Not in front, stupid woman! Behind the back,” Phineas instructed. “She won't be able to use her Powers that way.”
Zofia thought of fighting, but she still had three wizards aiming wands on her. Even if she could incant Abigale into a slimy snake, she would have to endure the repercussions from the wizards. Just not worth it.
“Do cooperate, Zofia. Turn around,” Phineas directed imperialistically, making a twirling motion with his wand.
Rolling her eyes, Zofia did an about face, and put her hands behind her back. Abigale was now filled with a little more pluck, not having to face her, and so yanked her arms back and tied her wrists together rather roughly.
Suddenly, Zofia's feet left the ground, and she was floating. Phineas was making her float, of course. This way he had total control over her, and she wouldn't be able to make a break for it. She could feel his Power overriding her own. He was a strong wizard, no question about it.
Abigail held open the curtain over the threshold. Zofia didn't know why there was a curtain over it, it looked the same as what they'd just come through. Just a little bigger.
She had to know a few things before they gagged her, or whatever else they had planed for her and forged ahead with questions.
“So, Phineas, how did you learn about this Egyptian Lodge?” Zofia asked hoping to glean some knowledge.
“I'd read about it, years ago. How did you know what it was called?” he nearly growled the question out from the bottom of his lungs.
“Saint Germain told me as much as he knew about it,” she answered, not sure that she should have. But she didn't want silence to escort her down the hallway to her eventual doom.
“The only known work was done by Cagliostro,” she said, trying to keep the conversation going.
“Ah, yes, him too,” he responded amicably, as though they were just chatting about things. “An old text—letters really—existed on our world. It was Saint Germain's transporter which really gave us the ability to go and do some research on First World. Oddly enough, Cagliostro still lived—even into the modern times, just as Saint Germain has.” He laughed. “He even has a website—the funny thing about Ugwumps on First World, they like to advertise who they are and what they're into on—why am I wasting my breath? You wouldn't know—” he stopped himself. “Ah, but then again, you would. I gather you left this world to live on First World when Dorian disappeared?”
“You gather correctly.”
“Yes. Cagliostro still lived on as does Saint Germain,” he informed, almost scathingly.
“With the Philosopher's Stone, which he stole from Saint Germain,” Zofia shot back.
“Curious,” Phineas said in an unctuous voice. “Cagliostro accuses Saint Germain of exactly the same.” He made a weary sigh. “I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that two equally adept alchemists would vie for the same valuable treasure—an elixir which would make them immortal—and claim they had first achieved it. It matters not who achieved it first. Between the both of them, I've managed to collect enough Philosopher's Stone for my plans.”
“I don't suppose you'll let me in on what you need that for?” she tried.
“I think you'll be around long enough to find out,” he smirked.
“And you've managed to find Cagliostro, as well and bring him to our world. Why?”
“You've certainly discovered a lot, my dear,” he said, not at all sounding a bit pleased by it, but rather astonished.
“I've managed to find a lot of things out,” she said, trying to look back at him as he floated her down the long, and now bending corridor, which was looking more and more cave-like the deeper they went. “Why would you bring Cagliostro here? What purpose would he have here?”
“Because, my sweet, Cagliostro knows the ritual, and will help us perform it. Parts of the ritual have been missing for ages. He is very eager to help us with this major achievement of magic. To bring forth a god that has been banned from this world, as well as others, will be grand.”
“How will you control the Helsingas once they get here?” she asked as they moved along.
“Apep is their god. They will obey him.”
“And who will control Apep?”
“I will!” he said with the conviction of a mad man. He would control a god. Yeah, right.
“How?” she asked. “How would you control a god?”
“By giving him everything he wants. Women, food, whatever it is he desires.”
The dark corridor twisted a little. Phineas kept her ahead of him, still levitated about a foot off the floor. She knew that he wasn't going to let her out of his sight, at least not for very long, anyway. All the while she was testing the ligature. Abigale hadn't done a very good job in tying the rope. And it's always handy to know how to untie a rope by magic—not many sorcerers do. She had to know what had happened to Dorian and Saint Germain. She wanted to know why he'd done what he'd done to Dorian, five years ago. She couldn't help but want to make some sense of it. It was normal. People want to know why a terrible thing happens, even if the person behind it is deranged.
“Stop that!” Phineas halted her in mid-air and came around to look at her. His stern voice startled her. “I mustn't let my guard down with you.” He then chuckled as though suddenly amused by something. “It shouldn't surprise me that you would try to escape, even though the odds are stacked against you.” He studied the bindings at her wrists. “I seemed to have heard a curious thing, and I must know, before I give you to Apep.”
She really wished he'd quit referring to her as though he were giving her away as a gift.
“Is it true you killed Blood?”
Well, well, well. He was curious about her. She smiled tightly, trying not to look surprised at his question, but she did wonder how this rumor about her killing Blood had gotten started. She realized quickly such a rumor didn't hurt her reputation any, in fact it might be why Phineas was a little frightened of her now.
“I not only killed him, but his half-sister, Xilomorah, too.” There. Let anyone try and say different. Even her daughter would give her at least half the credit for helping Blood meet his doom.
Phineas paused, seeming to ingest this information for a moment. She didn't know what he was thinking, but she knew none of this would help her avoid whatever he had in mind for her.
“Ah, but of course.” He squeezed his eyes at her, still holding his wand at the ready. “You're the Keeper of the Stone, I'd almost forgotten. Where is the Stone of Irdisi, now?”
“No where you can get your paws on it, Phineas,” she shot heatedly at him. She was now grateful that Stephen had made her leave the Stone behind, but still, she sure could use something stronger than three wizards just about now. Of course, it would help if her hands were untied, too.
Phineas shrugged. “Doesn't matter. I'll have plenty of Power after this is all over. I won't need your stupid Stone.”
Power. Of course. It's what made the world go around.
“So, that's why you joined the Egyptian Lodge? For Power?”
“Why, of course. That, and to bring down the Witenagemont.” He laughed.
“And when Dorian became suspicious of what you were up to, you sicked Xilomorah on him?”
He chuckled that deep, sinister laugh of his. Then in a near whisper said, “Astonishing. I don't know how you did it—bring Dorian's soul back—but I must confess I'm impressed. Oh, yes, very much so. I would offer you a place at my right hand, but I fear you would bite it off. Thus, you'll make a very good token to Apep.”
“I wouldn't take it, anyway,” she said. “One thing I'm just not quite clear on, however.”
“What's that?”
“Why did you do that to Dorian? Do you hate him that much?”
His smile rearranged itself into a hard frown. “I was top in my field,” he hissed, fixing her with his intense stare. “I should
have had Dorian's job as a Fixed. He didn't deserve it! I did!” his voice filled the tight chamber suddenly. The color in his neck and face burst to crimson. Even his ears and hairless head had turned a particularly brilliant shade of red. Then, just as quickly, it faded as he relaxed his shoulders and gave a deep sigh. The color returned to normal. Amazing he could turn it off, just like that. “Ah, well, I no longer am a Knight,” he said, hitching up one shoulder, he quickly cocked his head slightly to the side and then the other, popping the vertebra in his neck. “I am now leader of The Egyptian Lodge. Once we call forth Apep, and his league of Helsingas, the Witenagemont will be brought to its knees—it will become no more, and all the people associated with it—well—they'll become the hunted, won't they?” She had thought him mildly insane before. Now, seeing it firsthand, she was sure he would make a wonderful poster child for the criminally insane somewhere. Under violation of a multitude of Codes, he would be taken straight to Hamparzum's, after a very quick trial, should Stephen come in time, that is.
“Now, come, my dear. Apep has been waiting a few millenniums for a nice, tight womanhood like yours.” Zofia wanted to slap him. Instead she made a disgusted face; his words revolted her.
Phineas moved her ahead, and with the aid of Keeler, who pushed back another curtain, they proceeded through, and emerged into a candlelit anti chamber. Standing on the other side, and to the left of a wooden door stood a tall, wide-shouldered, and heavy girth of a man. He wore a black hood over his head, holes in it for eyes and a place for his nose to poke out. It was large, bulbous. Where had she seen a nose like that recently, she wondered. His hands were large, fingers like sausages with big, red knuckles. Looked like someone who worked with animals or iron. But he wasn't the local iron smith. The nose was all she could go by, and she remembered Obadiah who was the local blacksmith. He didn't have the same stature at all.
Upon seeing Phineas walk in, the man made a bow. “My Lord,” he said, unable to bow very low because of the protruding belly, which proclaimed his penchant for too much food and brew at the local taverns.
Zofia rolled her eyes, and somehow controlled her tongue.
“Good evening, Otto,” Phineas said. She was surprised he used the man's name. But then, no one expected Zofia to come back out of the next room, once she went in. “As you can see, I have brought the second offering.”
Zofia felt herself lowered, and her feet touched solid ground once again.
“Please take her into the temple, while I attend to another matter,” Phineas instructed.
Otto bent again, trying to achieve a proper bow, but couldn't. Stepping over to Zofia, and sparing no roughness as he grasped her arm, he chivvied her forward. Although the door looked heavy, Otto threw it open as though it were made of straw. They entered a short hall that dipped slightly because of the stone floor, and followed this to yet another door. By the time he had her through that one, Otto was breathing heavily, sounding like a bellows blowing on an alchemists' flame. He sure didn't sound like someone who had to lift heavy anvils and hammers and shoe horses and oxen all day long. No, the only thing this guy did all day was lift pints. And then it hit her where she'd seen him before—well, his nose, anyway—the bartender at Ravenwood Inn. Ah-kay-y-y-y. That fit. Of course. Abigale and all the other people who worked at Ravenwood Inn knew about the secret entrance. It was quite possible that they were coerced into joining this bizarre cult, whether they wanted to be part of it or not. Otto probably got a little kick-back for providing a secret route, plus food and liquid refreshment.
Even while pondering the man's identity and status in the cult, Zofia attempted at working at her bonds, remembering the hex for it. She did so as discreetly as possible, since Otto looked as though he could clobber her on the head with a small tap and put her into next week very easily. So, she dolefully padded along, slightly ahead of him, and they entered a columned chamber. It was brightly lit with sconces and many branched floor candelabrums. Now she knew where all of Mrs. Clutterbutt's entire stock of candles had gone to. It was quite possible they'd relieved her of the batch that Saint Germain had brought her the other day, too, considering the hundreds of candles that it would take to light such a place.
Chanting met her ears as they drew further in, past a forest of stone pillars. Just beyond, the main columns were made of black marble. Who had built this, Zofia wasn't sure, but these few people couldn't have done all this. Not in just a few years' time.
Down a half-dozen steps was the main chamber with the marble columns arranged in a circle. Within the circle stood worshipers, she supposed, or people who were coerced into the Egyptian Lodge one way or another. As Otto led her down the steps, Zofia took in the room and all its murals along the walls. The colors and the images were striking and hard to miss. They were done in the old Egyptian style of the legs and head shown in a side view, the torso facing forward in the physically impossible pose that Egyptian art was always known for. But as Zofia's glances took in more and more of the paintings, as she passed the columns and got a little better view of it all, she found them to be of graphic, even crude depictions of these strange, rigid figures copulating. The whole wall, she realized, was a lexicon of forbidden lusts, each one more terrifying than the last, all dealing with the Helsingas coupling with each other, with human women, as well as men and various animals. Yeesh! She knew if she were able to get out of here, she would never get those images of Helsingas in these horrifying embraces out of her mind.
Even as terrible as the pornographic depictions were—and she didn't think there could be anything worse to view—in the center, enclosed by about twenty or more worshipers, was a stone dais. The dais was made in the vague shape of a human body, with arms and legs spread-eagle. It looked something like a stone gingerbread man. Around this were six stone figures of Helsingas, with their crocodile heads, and crocodile tails and feet, and man-like bodies, legs and arms. The hands were more reptilian too. The one thing that was more horrific than their strange bodies was their male genitalia, graphically depicted in the upright position.
Zofia stumbled on the last step, staring at the art work. She felt as though she'd entered the wrong door in the Museum of Art in Chicago, (as she had the one time she had gone along with Blanche on a school outing).
Even though this stuff had the power to make her swoon, the one thing that yanked her out of it was what she saw next. On the other side of that odd-shaped stone dais, stripped to the waist and tied to a slim obelisk, was Dorian. Bleeding from cuts made diagonally across his chest and stomach, head down, he appeared to be unconscious and quite helpless.
Seeing Dorian in this condition tore at Zofia. A deep emotion swept over her. She was barely conscious of balling up her fists while her whole body shook with rage. As though suddenly tapped into some supernatural adrenaline, it was no less than if she held the Stone of Irdisi in her hands. She felt as though she could easily take the whole place down with one incantation. Not since the murder of her parents had she felt this much rage. Back then she had been a small girl, with very little powers. But now, she was a full grown sorceress. A royally pissed off one. She realized what was to befall her and Dorian, and it tore at her that no one could stop it. No one knew where they were.
There was some activity near the center of the stone effigies. Two men in black hooded robes were moving a small round table closer to the dais. The top, she noticed, was made of a white marble. Next to the men was a small, older man with a beard. He wore a black robe as well, but the hood was off his head. Speaking in Tuscan, he gave hand gestures, trying to get the two men to move the table into the right position.
She remembered seeing him in much different dress only yesterday. Cagliostro.
Turning around, his attention suddenly went to her. Cagliostro ambled over to her in a slightly rocking gate, using his cane. His age-lined face, scraggly gray beard and thinning long, wavy, gray hair put him into his sixties. Was he that old when he finally gained the secret of the Philosopher's St
one? Since she could not see him except from a distance that day, she couldn't be sure of his age until now. His right eye had an amblyopic cast to it: It wandered a little to the left of center. It was hard to not stare at that eye. His smile revealed crooked, yellowed teeth—the ones he still had. His face basically looked something like a Halloween mask, only it wasn't a mask.
He spoke directly to her, in a very amicable way, happy, as though the sight of her made his day. His grandfatherly tone and demeanor gave the impression Zofia had been invited to lunch, or dinner. He kept gasping “Ah, sí sí! Siete perfetti!” while nodding as his gaze traveled down and stopped at her chest. If her hands were not tied behind her back, she'd zap the dirty old man right where he lived. He was looking at her as though she were for sale and what he wanted were her breasts and everything else that went with them.
Cagliostro's smile deepened as he reached up two gnarled, palseied hands toward her shoulders. “Non essere timido,” he said as he grabbed at the material and yanked hard. She heard the material rip, and yet until she looked down, she hadn't realized he'd just stripped the upper body part of her clothing.
“You just ruined my dress, you jerk!” she cried, incensed.
Behind her, Otto laughed. She looked back at him. He was taking in her flesh as well.
“Oh, that's great! You're both big toad lickers aren't you?” she yelled shrilly.
“Siete perfetti!” Cagliostro said as he reached toward her breasts with both hands and unabashedly fondled her in front of everyone.
Otto let go another stupid chuckle and moved a little forward, looking like he wanted to get in on all the fun. Enough was enough.
Zofia snapped. The indignity of it all, plus the fact that they had Dorian trussed up like a feast pig; it was all just too much. Her leg flew up as hard as she could swing it and caught Cagliostro in the vulnerable soft area of the groin. The outcome was immensely satisfying. Groaning, and holding himself he leaned and then fell sideways, crashing to the floor. No longer groaning in pleasure, but in pain.
