The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3)

by Green, Layton

  Viktor read aloud. “‘You will renounce your false beliefs and declare yourself a HERETIC, or you will die at the hand of the one true God on the sixth midnight hence.’”

  He returned the letter to Gareth. “Almost identical to the others,” Viktor said. “Ludicrous as it may seem, you need to take this letter seriously. At least three people have been murdered after receiving such a letter.”

  “And you have no idea who the sender might be?”

  Viktor folded his arms. “I believe the man behind the letters might be Darius Ghassomian.”

  Gareth’s hawkish eyes flared at the news. “I can’t say I ever believed Darius’s—or shall I say Simon’s—recent conversion was genuine, but genuine or not, why send me a letter?”

  “I don’t think Darius has abandoned his beliefs,” Viktor said. “I suspect his popular cult is a front, a vehicle to mask his true intentions and make them more palatable to the public. In cult vernacular it’s known as cloaking: instilling the subversive belief system gradually, corrupting slowly and from within.”

  “And the letters, the murders?”

  “He’s weakening his competitors, putting his people in positions of power among the occult vanguards. Though I’ve no evidence, I have the feeling he might soon target other, more mainstream, competitors.”

  “Traditional religion?” Gareth said.

  “History has never seen a movement dedicated to a malefic power that approaches the influence of the major religions. I believe Darius has such ambitions.”

  “But why?”

  Viktor scoffed. “Because there will always be human beings who wish to dominate others, whether through government or religion, in the boardroom, or on the playground. Lust for power is simply narcissism, and cult leaders tend to be the most narcissistic of all. In the worst cases, true conviction is involved.”

  Gareth took in Viktor’s answer with a slow nod. “Darius was always the most determined among us. And the timing, the grand scheme?”

  “I’m unsure, and it’s irrelevant to your situation.”

  “I once taught him, you know,” Gareth said. “He was an extraordinary magician, but from what you’ve told me about these murders… this is far beyond his power.”

  Viktor flicked a wrist. “Don’t be foolish. Neither Darius nor anyone else is using magical powers to carry out these murders. We’re awaiting toxicology reports, but the victims who died alone exhibited signs of asphyxiation by poison gas. I’m sure the fires have a logical explanation as well.”

  “Darius was always interested in fire and its magical properties,” Gareth said.

  “He was just as interested in its physical properties. He read chemistry at Oxford.”

  “But how could he start the fire if he was never there?” Gareth said.

  “With inside help from the organizations.”

  “And the appearing and disappearing at will?”

  “You know as well as I,” Viktor said, “that Darius, like most magicians, started off as a master of sleight of hand and illusionist technique. There’s no evidence that he has actually had a corporeal presence in the places in which he’s appeared.”

  “So what do you propose?” Gareth said.

  “I propose you step aside as chief mage until I bring him to justice.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “You need to take this threat seriously,” Viktor said.

  Gareth’s lips curled. “I won’t step aside for that egomaniac.”

  Viktor stepped close to Gareth, towering over him. “Don’t be a fool,” he said, his voice heavy. “Your hand waving and incantations in dead languages won’t protect you from a common murderer.”

  “Maybe not,” Gareth said. “But it will protect me from a practitioner of magic. I’ll be in this very room two nights hence, under the protection of the entire Circle.”

  Viktor balled his fists in frustration. “He’s not using magic. At least let me stay with you, and a police escort.”

  Gareth considered the proposition. “I’ll allow you and no one else. I won’t have the other magicians see me cowering behind the police. And I refuse to make this building a public spectacle.”

  Viktor shook his head. “You’re a fool,” he said again.

  Gareth’s face reddened. “You of all people shouldn’t scoff at what you don’t understand. Words and paraphernalia are irrelevant, a way to channel the will. Magic is self-realization, unlocking the powers of the cosmos and the abilities that lie dormant within us all. If you never saw the results, then you weren’t paying attention.”

  “Do prdele!” Viktor said, then stalked back and forth as Gareth watched with flashing eyes. “I can’t make you leave,” Viktor said, “but in the meantime, I need your help.”

  “With what?”

  “Access to Crowley’s possessions. Specifically, a book entitled The Ahriman Heresy.”

  “We keep what we have of Crowley’s in our museum in Whitby,” Gareth said. “I’ll grant you access.”

  “Whitby?”

  Gareth gave an embarrassed shrug. “We have a magic shop next to the Bram Stoker museum.”

  “I see,” Viktor said.

  “I’m unfamiliar with The Ahriman Heresy,” Gareth said.

  Viktor gave a brief account of his search for the Ahriman Grimoire, and Gareth plucked at his beard. “There were always rumors that Crowley was seeking something significant. And the possibility of a new grimoire…”

  “What do you know of Darius’s recent past?” Viktor said.

  “He left us fifteen years ago when we wouldn’t promote him directly to Magister Templi. No one’s heard from him since. There were rumors that he went east, following in the footsteps of Blavatsky and Crowley, and one adept claimed to have met him in Tehran as Darius was enroute to the Kurdish regions of Iraq and Syria. The adept said Darius was searching for the Yazidi.”

  “There’s basis for believing the early followers of Ahriman borrowed elements of Yazidi devil worship,” Viktor said.

  “There were also rumors that Darius reached the level of Ipsissimus.”

  Viktor waved a hand at the mention of the near-mythical society of advanced magical adepts. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, Viktor, that is all. You know, despite your personal convictions, you might be wise to open your mind.”

  “I assure you no one has a more open mind than I. It’s your universe that is limited, Gareth. You see only one piece of the puzzle, and even that is obscured by pageantry.”

  Gareth straightened, his voice cold. “When would you like to arrange to see the book?”

  “Now.”

  Grey reclined in his seat as the train pulled out of King’s Cross. If this were pleasure travel he would have had a Hesse or Vonnegut novel on hand, perhaps Murakami or Thomas Mann. Grey, realist though he was, believed deeply in the beauty and truth of literature, and all art. The world was a depressing place, full of the triteness and tragedy of the human race, governed by the selfish decisions of whoever had clawed their way to power. The best works of art were cathartic, the very act of self reflection a spark of hope for humanity.

  But this was a far cry from pleasure travel. The sordid details of the case cluttered his mind as the train escaped the endless grays and browns of greater London, morphing into a bucolic landscape that was a blur of lime-green squares divided by low stone walls.

  Grey grabbed a coffee from the dining car, then stood near the restroom to stretch his legs. When he pushed through the door that led to his compartment he stopped, his coffee sloshing against the rim.

  She was in the seat next to his, watching him as the train rocked back and forth, full lips pressed together, eyes uneasy, hair loose and framing her face.

  He approached slowly, his eyes both searching the train for danger and keeping her in his line of sight, afraid she might not be there when he looked back. She was dressed in designer jeans and a white suede jacket, her exquisite face reeling him in. He saw no sign of trouble and
slid in beside her, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her, ensure that she was real.

  “Let’s start over,” he said. “I’m Dominic Grey. My friends call me Grey.”

  She put her hands in her lap and expelled a long breath, as if gathering her courage. “I’m Anka.”

  “Just Anka?”

  “I’m an orphan. The state gave me the name Georgescu. I didn’t like it.”

  Romanian, then. “How do you keep finding me?” Grey said. “I didn’t tell anyone where I was going today.”

  She bit her lip and her eyes slid to the side. Grey spread his hands. “Why don’t I start with thank you. I’m not sure what would’ve happened in Paris if you hadn’t shown me that passage, but it wouldn’t have been pretty.”

  She blinked and didn’t answer.

  “That was you, wasn’t it?” Grey said.

  “Yes.”

  “Look, you’re obviously here for a reason, so why don’t you just tell me what you have to say? And I’d like it if you stayed longer than two minutes.”

  “It’s very dangerous for me to be here,” she said. “If he realizes I’m gone he’ll find us.”

  “Who? Simon?”

  She put a finger to his lips as he said the name, and his first thought was that she was corporeal. His next thought was that the contact, the smoothness of her skin, almost made him dizzy. He scoffed at himself. He knew nothing about this woman except that she had helped him once, disappeared twice, and he had no reason to believe a word that came out of her mouth.

  “I need your help,” she said in her throaty accent.

  “Then why didn’t you stick around in Paris? And where’d you go?”

  Grey was guessing she hadn’t wanted to risk being seen with him and had slipped into a different passage. But he wanted to hear her explanation.

  “I couldn’t stay,” she said.

  “You couldn’t?”

  She shifted. “I was… never there.” It was Grey’s turn for silence, and she said, “I know how insane this must seem, but I need you to trust me.”

  “Trust is gained, not asked for,” he said. “And you didn’t come to me for trust, you came for help. I can’t help you if I don’t know anything about you.”

  She wrung her hands. “I’m not sure I can be helped.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Let’s start with the obvious: Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  Grey frowned, and she laid her hand on his arm. “I’m not trying to be difficult,” she said. “But he can find me whenever he wants. If he discovers I’m gone and wants to find me, he’ll come and… it won’t be good.”

  Grey put a hand up. “Slow down. What do you mean, he can find you whenever he wants? I don’t understand. Does he have people everywhere?”

  “I thought you understood,” she said.

  “Apparently I don’t.”

  Her eyes clouded. “He read the grimoire.”

  Grey stared at her. “You mean he has the three powers of the Devil? What are they, the powers to charm, seduce, and move about the world, or something like that?”

  “Yes.”

  He continued examining her face for signs of deceit. Her liquid eyes were unblinking, without a shred of subterfuge or forced calm. Which meant either she was a very good actress, or she believed what she had just said.

  “Forgive me if I’m not a believer,” he said. “Though for the sake of argument, why wouldn’t I think that you can do the same thing, given our last few meetings?”

  Her face morphed so rapidly, shrinking as if she had been slapped, that Grey knew it wasn’t faked. “Never.”

  He put his hands up. “Okay.”

  She looked out the window, then back at him. “I understand your confusion. And you’re right that trust is earned.” She took a deep breath, as if what she was about to say pained her. “I was raised in a Romanian orphanage in Brasov. When I was sixteen, my… ability… manifested.”

  “Ability?”

  “Astral projection.”

  Grey gave her a frank, disbelieving stare. She flinched. “I’ve been facing that look my entire life.”

  “So you’re telling me that on the plane, and in the catacombs, you were only there in spirit?”

  “Not just in spirit,” she said, “but not fully there.”

  “You seemed fully there to me.”

  “It’s hard to explain,” she said. “There’re plenty of documented cases in the world, though mine is an extreme case. I can’t control it. It usually happens when I’m under great duress, and on rare occasions when someone I know is.”

  “But how’d you know I’d be on the plane?” Grey said.

  “I didn’t. I’ve been so afraid lately, and after a particularly frightening visit from him, I passed out. When I woke… I was on the plane beside you, and he was on the monitor. I knew I’d been sent to you for some reason.”

  Grey shook his head and looked away.

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” she said. “Astral projection, psychic powers—they work on a level or in a place we don’t understand. Science has shown us that distance is irrelevant at the quantum level, that we’re all interconnected in ways no one understands. I have to believe our subconscious somehow brought us together.”

  “And Paris?” Grey said.

  “He tells me things sometimes, to torture me. He told me about you and Viktor, and I knew what was waiting for you in Paris. That time I was able to appear and help. It’s not easy, you know. It takes great concentration and it almost never works when I want it to.”

  “How’d you know about the passage?”

  She tugged at the collar of her jacket. “I have a different sort of vision when I’m… there. I can’t explain it.”

  “So you’re telling me you saw through the walls?” Grey saw the hurt in her eyes at the sarcasm he knew was dripping from his voice, so he said, “Let’s set this aside for now,” he said. “How’d you get hooked up with Simon, or Darius, or whoever he is?”

  She seemed relieved to be switching topics. “I was thrown out of the orphanage when my abilities first manifested, because in Romania the Devil is given credit for such a thing. I lived on the streets of Bucharest, selling trinkets to tourists, but that’s a dangerous life and there was only one other choice of employment. I made my way to a remote village and started a new life, as a librarian of all things, doing everything in my power to suppress my abilities. But one night I manifested in the village square, scaring a group of old men half to death. I was called a witch and thrown out of the house where I was staying. Word spread to the other villages, and I was forced to live outside like a dog. Not even the gypsies would have me.” She looked Grey in the eye, any emotion at her past long since spent. “One day Simon found me and took me in.”

  Grey couldn’t imagine this beautiful creature forced to live on the streets of anywhere. Romanian superstitions must be strong indeed. “How’d he find you?”

  “He heard about me, I’m not sure how. I thought he was being kind, so of course I went with him. Winter was coming. But I later learned he just wanted to use me, find out why I was able to do what I did. He, too, believed it was a power of the Devil, though he had a different agenda than my countrymen.”

  “How is it that you speak English so well?” Grey said.

  “You don’t trust me at all, do you? The nuns in my orphanage were English. It’s quite common in Romania. Only outsiders help the street children.”

  “And did Simon learn your secrets?”

  “Once I arrived in London,” she said, “we studied day and night, but there’s no rhyme or reason to psychic powers. I have no idea how it works, and neither does science.”

  “And Simon? Assuming for the sake of conversation he can just show up whenever he wants, what will he do when he gets here?”

  “He’ll burn you,” she said simply.

  Grey again searched her face for signs of pretense. Not only did h
e fail to find any, but her lack of emotion lent an eerie ring of truth to her words.

  “So you tried to leave,” Grey said, “but he wouldn’t let you?”

  “He’s in love with me.”

  “And you’re not with him?”

  She hesitated. “Do you really want to hear all of this? Or are you just humoring me?”

  He glanced around the train, opening his palms. “I’m kind of trapped here.” She laughed lightly, and he said, “I very much want to hear your story.”

  “You’re a good listener,” she said.

  She relaxed in her seat, laying her hand on the armrest next to his. The light touch sent a tingle of warmth arcing up his arm.

  She faced the seat in front of her as she spoke, curled into her seat. “When he found me he took me to the nicest hotel in Bucharest and gave me my own suite. We discussed literature and history for hours. He was very charming and, yes, even handsome. I was never in love with him, but he was my savior.”

  She turned her head towards him again. “You must understand, in the beginning he kept who he really was from me. When he asked me to come to London I had to tell him I wasn’t interested in him romantically, but he demurred and said he would help me find a job and start a new life, that there were no strings attached. I agreed. I know it was foolish. I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, and in Romania I had no money, no family, and no future. I was an outcast, penniless, homeless. Sometimes we hear what we want to hear, and believe what we want to believe.”

  “That we do,” Grey said.

  “This was more than a year ago. Of course I knew about the Order of New Enlightenment, and that was fine. I’m not religious—or at least I wasn’t then—but I didn’t mind that he was. It was quite thrilling to be with someone so admired. But then I saw… some terrible things.”

  “Such as?”

  “A month ago we had a wonderful day of shopping and dining in the West End. I felt like a princess, felt that perhaps one day I might even develop real feelings for him. That night when he left my apartment I looked out the window and saw him talking on the street to a man with a terrible tattoo on his head. Even from that distance there was something about his face that frightened me, an absence of humanity. They walked down the street and in that moment I asked myself why I trusted Simon so much, when I really knew nothing about him. I know on some level I never trusted him, but didn’t care. I followed them to a townhome and waited outside until they exited with an older man. All three left in a black sedan. I followed them again, in a taxi, to a mansion in North London.”