Oak wanted to be part of this new thing, and he was petrified of saying no to Dante. Dante outlined the plan, telling Oak the Magus would appear at midnight six days later, just as the letter had read.
This would be his initiation, Dante had said, not just into the Church of the Beast, but into the new organization that would subsume both the House of Lucifer and the Church of the Beast. And Oak would be at the vanguard, might even be invited into the Inner Council.
Oak had played his part, still not expecting anything to happen. Then the clock struck midnight and the Magus appeared just as Dante said he would, materializing in front of hundreds of witnesses, burning poor Matty alive with a whisper.
After that, Oak didn’t just have a church.
He had faith.
Oak held the phone in his hand before he dialed, remembering for a moment his bland Sacramento childhood, his poor pious mother, who, were she alive, would be devastated by his choices in life. He loved her still, but she was weak and had understood nothing.
Dante answered the phone with his throaty, heavily accented English. Oak felt a shiver of fear sweep through his body. He composed himself, then spoke in the gruffest voice he could muster. “I just had some visitors.”
The taxi dropped Grey and Viktor in Pacific Heights, on the street outside the home of the next witness, John Sebastian Reynolds III, Esquire. A foghorn moaned, and lights from the Marina District twinkled below.
Grey shoved his hands in his pockets, the air thin and cool, seeping through his ripped coat. “Oak’s a liar, though not sure I make him for a murderer. Doesn’t have the nerve. I could see him paying someone else, but that’s about it. And that still doesn’t explain what happened.”
“No,” Viktor said.
“What’s your theory?”
Viktor paused on the sidewalk, oblivious to the chill. “I believe there’s a power struggle happening, and Matthias and Xavier were on the wrong side. I’m just not sure who’s behind it or why. Given the involvement of both the House and L’église de la Bête, it would seem that someone’s trying to win the hearts and minds of Satanists.”
“What a prize.”
They approached the house, a fancy Georgian with a lamp-lit walkway. Grey pressed the doorbell twice before a dead bolt clicked. The door opened a few inches, stopped by a chain.
A man’s ruddy, clean-shaven face appeared in the crack. Grey thought him to be in his forties, once handsome, now saddled by the mushy skin and bulging veins of an alcoholic.
His voice was slurred but under control. “Do I know you?”
Viktor produced his identification. “John Sebastian? We’re investigating the death of Matthias Gregory. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
He looked at the ID and then up at Viktor. “Interpol?”
“We’re assigned to local police,” Viktor said, handing him a card.
John released a deep, resigned sigh, then unhooked the chain. “Come in. Anything I can get you officers, or detectives, or I suppose you call yourself agents?”
Grey and Viktor exchanged a look. A far cry, Grey thought, from the greeting they had received from Oak and his hellhound.
John led them into a study filled with creamy leather furniture. A bay window overlooked the city. Both Grey and Viktor refused his offer of a drink, and he refilled the tumbler in his hand with a generous pour of Scotch, his trim haircut and tidy fingernails marking him as a professional even without the esquire.
“What can I tell you?”
“Have you spoken to the police?” Viktor said.
“I gave a written statement at the scene, but no one’s contacted me about it. I’m no criminal attorney, but any fool can see the murder of the city’s leading Satanist is not exactly public priority numero uno.”
“Why don’t you take us through your version of events?” Grey said.
“Sure. It was my third ceremony. Third. And this madness happens. I don’t know how much you know about the House, but we don’t actually worship Lucifer, Beelzebub, Satan”—he waved his glass at them—“whatever you want to call that archaic nonsense. The House is antireligion, a protest against the creationists and jihadists of the world. Hell, I’m not even political, I just have too much time at night on my hands since my divorce.” He eyed one of the bookshelves, filled with the gold-lettered spines of legal volumes. “My professors were right, you know, all those years ago. The law is a terrible mistress. She steals all your time and leeches the fun out of life, leaves you sterile and analytical. I suppose when I joined the House I was trying to rekindle an intellectual passion of some sort, any kind of passion.” He directed a sardonic chuckle at his glass. “I guess I chose poorly. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted. On to Zen Buddhism.”
“The ceremony?” Viktor said.
“I was pretty intoxicated that night, so I’ll never make a decent witness in court if that’s what you’re after. Then again, I’m intoxicated most nights, and I hold it together fairly well. That’s to say, I know what I saw.”
As if to prove his point, he took a long drink and regarded them both with a steady eye. “I arrived towards the end, maybe fifteen minutes before midnight, and I sat in front with the other new members. I had a great view of Matthias, because he was all alone at the pulpit. It’s not a huge church, probably holds a couple hundred people. No organ or choir loft or anything like that, though why am I blabbering? I’m sure you’ve seen it.”
“We have,” Viktor said.
“My point is, there’s nowhere for anyone to hide up there, and I had an unobstructed view.” One side of his mouth lifted in a sardonic grin. “At the proverbial stroke of midnight, a figure in a black-and-silver robe appeared behind Matthias. Then Matthias burst into flames”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that. Everyone started screaming, someone called the police, we tried to put out the flames, and that was that.” He gave a little shudder. “The poor bastard burned to death right there beside the pulpit.”
“And the robed figure?” Grey asked.
“I took my eyes off him when Matthias became a living torch, so I can’t say for sure what happened. But when I looked back he was gone.”
Grey noticed Viktor staring at the witness with an intensity not present before. “You said the robe was black and silver,” Viktor said.
“That’s right.”
Grey wasn’t sure what Viktor was getting at, but the police report had mentioned only a black robe.
“I should clarify. The robe was black, but there were silver stars on it.”
“You’re absolutely sure of that?” Viktor said.
“They were definitely silver, and there weren’t that many of them, I’d guess about—”
“There were seven,” Viktor said, and it wasn’t a question.
Grey joined John as he turned to stare at Viktor. “If you say so. It was too chaotic, and I can’t say for sure. I’m a trial lawyer, so I know how easy it is to appeal to memory.”
Viktor’s face relaxed a fraction. “Was there anything else distinguishing about the robe or the figure?”
John Sebastian cocked his head as he thought. “Just the stars.”
“Have you heard any rumors from the other practitioners,” Viktor said, “perhaps relating to other Satanic organizations?”
The man laughed, too loudly. “You think this was some sort of take out? By a rival Satanist?” He downed his drink and poured another. “I know how to pick them, don’t I? Religions and wives, my fortes.” He took a cloth off the bar and patted the sheen of sweat on his brow. “I can’t think of anything like that, though everyone knew Matthias and Oak weren’t getting along. Sorry, Oak’s the lead bishop, he’s been with Matthias longer than anyone.”
“We just met him,” Grey said. “Helluva guy.”
“Not exactly the brains of the organization, though he might surprise you. I think he was an engineer or something back in the day, before he sampled California’s finest pharmaceuticals for thirty years. Or at le
ast that’s the rumor. Never spoke to the man myself.”
Viktor said, “Do you know what may have caused the rift?”
“There were rumors Oak had different ideas about the direction the church should go. Advocated a more direct approach to fulfilling the church’s goals, if you know what I mean, while Matthias was pretty much a pacifist. This is all hearsay from the other newbies, but I think if Oak had his way, the House would fight back a lot harder against the fundies, as we call them.”
“Perhaps become more like a true Satanic cult,” Viktor said quietly.
“I don’t really know about any of that. I’ve been a member for a month, and all I had to do was memorize some tenets and pay a small fee. Oak didn’t kill him, though. I can tell you that. He was there the night it happened, a few seats down from me, right in front of Matthias. That was a bit odd, come to think of it, because he usually sits by himself on the far left. But not always.”
Viktor leaned forward. “What do you think happened?”
John took his time answering, contemplating the question with a shrewd narrowing of his eyes. Grey thought he was a probably a good attorney.
“I haven’t thought about much else, these last few days. I don’t believe in God or the supernatural, so that’s out, at least for me.” He looked down at his Scotch as he swirled it. “I suppose one way or the other, Matthias left us with a parting gift to think about, something to test our faith, or lack thereof. I don’t know, gentlemen. What I know is that I’m going to get stinking, roaring drunk tonight, and probably every night for a while.”
It was late by the time Grey and Viktor filed into Viktor’s suite. Viktor returned to his absinthe, and Grey unwound with an Anchor Steam, feet propped on the marble-topped coffee table.
Grey again wondered about Viktor’s home, his family, his past. Since Grey preferred not to answer reciprocal questions, he avoided such topics, but the human need for connection was strong, and the lack of personal information between the two of them at times bordered on awkwardness. In their short time together they had discussed everything from philosophy to literature to where to get the best sushi in Tokyo, yet Grey didn’t know where Viktor had grown up, or if he had ever had a family.
As Viktor sank deeper into his emerald brew, Grey had the sudden urge to question him about his past, even if it meant answering questions himself.
“Viktor, have you ever been married?”
Viktor’s dark eyes burned beneath torpid eyelids, as if the absinthe could not reach that deep. “No,” he said, though his response was slow and distracted, oozing a tale untold.
Grey wanted to inquire further, but instead he took a swig of beer. “Do you want to tell me about the stars on the robe?”
Viktor’s gaze shifted to the window. “The silver stars are a classic sign of a magus. A magician.”
“I take it you don’t mean the David Copperfield type?”
“No.”
“So whoever or whatever the robes were attached to,” Grey said, “it involved the occult?”
Viktor waved a hand. “The occult is an extremely broad term, and simply signifies supernatural or mystical beliefs and practices. The occult has thousands of branches and subsets, and a magus is but one type of practitioner of the occult.”
“Then why were you so surprised when the silver stars were mentioned?”
“Because magicians, at least real magicians, have no connection to Satanists. The popular American conception that gullible teenagers are drawn into Satanism through the occult is an urban myth. Someone who reads Harry Potter, plays role-playing games, or dabbles with tarot and palm reading is no more likely to start worshipping the Devil than anyone else.”
Grey said, “You have to admit it gets confusing when neither the House of Lucifer nor the Church of Satan actually worships the Devil.”
“They’re not helping to alleviate popular misconceptions, but that’s rather the point.”
“So is there anything to it?” Grey said, kicking his feet down and leaning forward, elbows on his thighs. “The practice of magic?”
“That depends on who you ask. I think you know by now that the line between belief and nonbelief, magic and reality, can be a thin one. And one which we do not yet fully understand.”
Grey gave a compressed smile, the memories of his last few cases with Viktor lingering in the back of his mind like a spider’s abandoned web, gumming up his secular worldview. “Like I’ve always done, I’ll try to keep an open mind.”
The answer seemed to satisfy Viktor, and he stroked his glass as if caressing the arm of a lover. “Though a robe with seven silver stars is a classic accoutrement, it affords no particular insight into the magician’s specialty. I’ll have to find some way to narrow down the branch of magic with which we might be dealing.”
“Specialties? Branches?” Grey waved his hands. “What is it that magicians… believe? What do they think makes magic work?”
“Unlike priests, who look to a spiritual entity or entities as a source of power, magicians look to the cosmos, to the ineffable powers of the universe.”
“That sounds New Age,” Grey said.
“The New Age movement is a modern one; the roots of true magical study extend for thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of years. Magicians spend decades, an entire lifetime, practicing and honing their beliefs.”
Grey drained the last of his beer, cupping the empty bottle in his hands. “I still don’t understand what they do.”
“A collection of works on the history and practice of magic could fill the Library of Alexandria. But generally speaking, the typical magus believes in the universe as the source of all mystery and power—thus the stars on the robes—and believes that he or she can access this power through various rituals and practices.”
“Going with the flow,” Grey said, “does this universal power have a name or personality? Is it good, evil, doesn’t care?”
“Most magicians believe the universe is an incredibly vast and complicated entity that can never be fully understood by man. And that understanding even a part of the universe is worthy of a lifetime of study, and can grant access to a whole new realm of power and comprehension. Of course, different magicians gravitate towards different aspects of the universal power.”
“Does it work?” Grey said bluntly. “Or are you going to tell me that depends on the definition of work, and the perceived effect on the mind of the believer?”
“To be frank, I’m not as convinced in the possibilities of advanced magical study as I am in, say, the effect of mental persuasion offered by the Yoruba babalawos. But there are legions of brilliant and long-practicing magicians who would vehemently disagree. I do believe in unexplained powers of the universe, whether they’re termed science, magic, or faith. I’m just unconvinced that the complicated spells and rituals of the magus unlock them.”
“Something tells me we’re going to have the chance to find out on this case,” Grey said.
“Perhaps,” Viktor murmured.
“So why would Oak lie?” Grey said. “Unless he’s protecting someone.”
“That’s the only conclusion I can draw.”
Grey ran a hand through his hair and left it cupping the back of his neck. “From what you’re telling me, magicians and Satanists are about as similar as Christianity and Shinto. So what’s the connection between these murders and a practitioner of magic?”
“That,” Viktor said, standing in a brusque manner that Grey knew meant the discussion was finished for the night, “is our job to uncover.”
Grey returned to his room, exhausted. He pulled off his boots and shirt, then washed his face. He moved into the bedroom, stripped to his boxers, and crawled into bed. He felt a hand brush his cheek, and he scrambled to get out of the bed, adrenaline spiking, a thousand scenarios running through his mind. He panicked as he got tangled in the sheets, knowing it was unlike him either to panic or get tangled, but he heard a soothing voice and the same hand, warm and soft,
returned to stroke his face. Then he noticed the mass of dark blond hair, the exotic face both round and defined, the voluptuous lips. Before he could speak, before he could ask her how she had gotten into his room and how he had failed to notice her in his bed, before he even knew her name, the woman from the plane wrapped her bare arms around his neck and pulled him close, the covers falling off her chest. She pressed his face into her hair and he felt weak from the sensual power of her scent, and when their lips brushed desire coursed through him in shuddering waves, leaving him weightless. He sank with her into the sheets, groaning as she moved along his body, feeling the erotic swirl of her tongue, warm and insistent. She dug her nails into his back as he stripped off the rest of their clothes.
He rose with her, her full breasts pressing against his chest, his desire arcing to an unbearable level. As he lightly bit her neck she moaned and moved her head downward, kissing his chest as her hands massaged the ridged muscles in his stomach. Then he looked down over her shoulder and saw not the smooth curvature of her back, but scaly skin and a jagged reptilian ridge where her spine should be. Stomach recoiling, Grey tried to push her away, but somehow she was too heavy. He was suffocating under her weight, unable to catch his breath.
He shot up in bed, panting, realizing it had all been a dream. The bead of sweat dripping off his brow evidenced the intensity of the nightmare. Despite the gruesome ending, his whole body was flush with desire, tingling at the memory of her touch.
He was parched and went to the bathroom for some water. This time he saw her in the mirror when he flicked on the light, standing behind him with the same expression she’d had on the plane, that exquisite face pleading for help.
She was gone before his eyes adjusted to the light, a lingering effect of the dream, a living ghost to torment his lonely nights. He checked behind the shower curtain as if he were a child, then splashed his face with water and hovered over the sink. As water dripped off his chin, he peered up at his unshaven face and tousled dark hair and sleep-filled eyes, at his scars and the edges of the tattoos covering his back and triceps.
The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) Page 6
