The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3)

by Green, Layton

  The gate was unlocked. Once past the tree line Grey spied a cottage in the clearing, complete with a thatch roof, chimney, and a rock garden. A stream gurgled through the woods to the left, a bench beckoned from underneath an apple tree, chirping birds darted through the forest.

  A wisp of a man appeared in the doorway, crinkled eyes hidden within a beard that swarmed over his face and down his white tunic. Age lines etched his swarthy skin, and he smiled at Grey through tea-stained teeth.

  “Please, come in.”

  Grey removed his boots and followed the old man to a sitting room. Despite the relative warmth of the day, a gas stove poured heat into the room. Grey took a seat and waited until, just like Ervad Kasraavi, Dastur Zaveri returned with tea and a platter of light snacks, this time dates and pistachios.

  Dastur Zaveri eased into the chair across from him. Grey felt a strong vibe of peaceful energy emanating from his eyes. “I’m Dominic Grey. I assume Ervad Kasraavi informed you I’d be stopping by?”

  “Sorry, no. I don’t keep a cell or computer here. I have an apartment in town with more modern amenities.”

  Grey eyed the platter of food. “How’d you know I was coming?”

  “I didn’t.”

  He saw Grey’s confusion and said, “Our faith strongly encourages kindness to visitors. You looked as if you needed tea.”

  Grey felt for a minute as though he were back in Japan, in a village outside Kyoto, having tea with some kind soul who had invited him in from the rain. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I went to Ervad Kasraavi in London, seeking information on your faith, and he suggested I see you. I’m looking for information on Ahriman.”

  The priest’s head bobbed, lips parting in interest, as if Grey had just asked him to recommend a good walk through the woods. “He told you I’m a historian and that Ahriman is one of my spheres of interest?”

  “He did,” Grey said.

  “You probably have the opinion of most, which is why concern oneself with something considered taboo by nearly every society?” Grey didn’t dispute the statement, and Dastur Zaveri said, “I think it’s best if we know and understand our adversaries, or at least those whom we perceive our adversaries to be. I believe in combating ignorance with knowledge, and hopefully wisdom.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Grey said. “I’m a private investigator, working on a case believed to involve a priest of Ahriman.”

  Wrinkles appeared like a bundle of twigs on his forehead. “A case? Involving a priest of Ahriman? That’s certainly fascinating, but as far as I know there’ve been no worshippers of Ahriman for quite some time.”

  Grey rolled up his sleeves, his forearms damp from the heat. “Exactly. No one seems to know much of anything about Ahriman.”

  Dastur Zaveri fussed over the platter, finally selecting a pistachio. “Are you aware the plateaus of modern-day Iran have been continually inhabited for at least thirty-five thousand years, making it the oldest developed civilization in the world?”

  “That’s a long time for a religion to develop,” Grey said.

  “As well as the perfect place for a deity to make itself known.”

  “I suppose.” Grey leaned forward. “Have you heard of the Ahriman Heresy?”

  “Of course. There’s a historical treatise by the same name.”

  His eyes flicked into the next room over, which Grey could see was filled with ceiling-high bookshelves. “I have a copy,” he said. “It’s quite rare, I believe.”

  That rocked Grey back in his seat. “I don’t suppose you have a copy of the grimoire?”

  “The legendary Ahriman Grimoire?” Dastur Zaveri said. “I’m afraid not. As I understand it, there are no copies.”

  “What’s your opinion on it?” Grey said. “Is there anything to it?”

  The old man took a long sip of tea. “Let me ask you a question, if I may.”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s your definition of evil?”

  “I don’t know,” Grey said, “the evening news?”

  He chuckled. “Granted. But if you had to choose a concrete example?”

  Grey cupped his tea in his hands. “Molesting a child.”

  “Intriguing answer,” he said, cocking his head. “Pure hedonism as the highest form of evil, the antithesis of selflessness. And from where do you believe the impetus for such behavior derives?”

  “I’m sure not going to blame God or the Devil or Ahriman for my or anyone else’s actions, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Grey said.

  “I understand. But I sense that you’re a philosopher, so if you had to speculate?”

  Grey shrugged. “I’d like to say nature, but I’m not sure I believe that. Plenty of evil acts serve no biological or evolutionary function. But nurture just begs the same question, since it started somewhere. Looking at this world, it’s a hell of a lot easier for me to throw my hands up in ignorance than to try and believe that some guiding force is behind all this misery.”

  “The easiest path most often leads down the wrong trail,” the priest said gently.

  Grey spread his hands. “Consider me lost. Not to be rude, but where exactly are we going with this?”

  His eyes were kind, understanding. “Bear with me a moment longer. So if asked to choose, do you believe in an invisible God whose ways we cannot hope to understand as the source of all evil? Or rather that no God exists, and instead we have an unthinking multiverse that somehow created itself, in contravention of the principles of science?”

  “Those are both pretty hard to believe,” Grey said.

  “But if you had to choose?”

  “I suppose the first,” Grey said slowly.

  “If I may, then: You believe that certain acts, such as the abomination you proffered, are indeed evil. Yet you also find it impossible to conceive that God would allow such evil to exist in this world, if He has any shred of humanity or compassion as we understand it.”

  “Something like that,” Grey said.

  “Then you would make a good Zoroastrian. We Parsi don’t try to fit God within a complicated and ultimately indefensible moral scheme, but rather believe there are two competing forces in the universe, one good, one evil.”

  Grey didn’t have a response to that.

  “Some question whether true evil exists at all. Is existence not reality, good and evil but a different viewpoint? Perhaps our gods are a race of beings to which humanity is a parasite, much like the tick or mosquito is to us. Perhaps Ahriman and Satan view the human conception of God as a belief gone terribly wrong.”

  “I can’t speak for them,” Grey said.

  Dastur Zaveri bit into another pistachio, acknowledging Grey’s point with a small nod. “While there may be two competing forces in the universe, nothing is black-and-white, and those forces are by definition more complex than we can ever possibly understand.”

  “Yeah, I get it. If the forces in the universe are by definition more complex than we can possibly understand, then maybe you and I and every other compassionate human being have got it all wrong. Sorry, I can’t subscribe to that.”

  “But we must allow for the fact that perhaps this man you pursue, this follower of Ahriman, is correct. That Ahriman and his dominion of this world is the path of good, rather than evil. That the ashavan is filled with endless darkness and the drgevant the endless light.”

  Grey saw heat waves shimmering from the gas stove. His wrists had dampened with sweat. “I suppose anything’s possible. And I never told you it was a man.”

  Dastur Zaveri opened his palms. “Forgive me. In the Zoroaster tradition women do not become priests, as archaic as that may sound.” He leaned forward, an intense light pooled in the depths of his eyes. “To understand a priest of Ahriman, the question you must answer is not from where does evil derive, but what does it mean?”

  Grey started to retort that after what he had seen in the catacombs, he understood that part just fine. But he coul
d hear Viktor in his ear, telling him: It’s not about what you believe, Grey, but about what they believe. Like Viktor had said, no one believes he or she is evil.

  Then again, some people were just blind.

  “You asked me to help you understand Ahriman and his followers,” the priest said softly. “I could point you to a few dry historical texts or discuss the evolution of Zoroastrian cosmogony, but would such things really help?”

  “The man’s name is Simon Azar,” Grey said. “Have you heard of him?”

  “I would have to live under a rock not to have heard of him.” He gave a rueful grin. “Though I do come close. Azar is a name of Parsi origin. Do you know the meaning?”

  “No,” Grey said.

  “Fire.”

  Grey wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, ready for the crisp night air. “Does anything you’ve read or heard about this man lead you to believe he’s a follower of Ahriman?” Grey said.

  “I approach Ahriman from the philosophical and theological angle. I wouldn’t know any more than Ervad Kasraavi about the practices of a modern-day follower of Ahriman.”

  “What about an ancient one?” Grey said.

  He ran his thumb and forefinger along his beard. “Records are almost nonexistent. The only rituals mentioned in the histories were similar to those of the medieval worshippers of the Christian Devil. As you’re probably aware, many of the concepts later attributed to Satan or Lucifer originated with Ahriman.”

  “Yes,” Grey said, frustrated with the lack of progress. Maybe he should leave the phenomenological research to Viktor.

  “There is one thing,” Dastur Zaveri said. “Though my research has never verified it, I assume the priests of Ahriman also utilize the fire temple, the eternal flame. You might be able to identify a shrine that way. Though I wouldn’t expect it to be… the same.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve read about the Zoroastrian fire temples.”

  “The thing to understand about the followers of Ahriman is that they viewed Ahura Mazda—God—as unimaginably remote and uncaring, and Ahriman as more concerned with the trials and tribulations of this world.” Dastur Zaveri took Grey’s hands in his own, and Grey felt a trembling in the age-spotted grip. “Understand that I believe deeply in the Gathas and in the light of my Creator, just as I believe in Ahriman and the existence of evil. What I must question is the demarcation of human knowledge. Zoroastrianism is about devotion to truth, having the courage to cast off comfort and see reality for that which it truly is.”

  Grey squeezed the old man’s hands in return, then rose. It was time to move on. Just before he left, he thought of one final question and hesitated in the doorway. He felt silly asking this learned man such a question, but he did, after all, specialize in Ahriman.

  “Have you heard of the three powers of the Devil—of Ahriman?” Grey said. “The power to influence the minds of men, seduce, and move about the world unseen?”

  “Indeed. Why do you ask?”

  “During the investigation there’ve been reports of some… remarkable… occurrences,” Grey said. “I was just wondering if, to the followers of Ahriman, there’s any truth to the myth? In their minds, I mean.”

  “Do the followers of Christianity consider the miracles of Jesus a myth?” Dastur Zaveri said mildly. “The abilities of the saints, the power of prayer? Do they doubt the power of a Supreme Being to affect the world in mysterious ways?”

  Grey pursed his lips and gave a slow nod. “Thank you for the tea,” he said, and eased the door shut.

  As her return train to London slowed during its approach to the station, grinding on the track, Anka rose to disembark, peering out the window at the passengers lined up to board.

  Then she dropped low into her seat, forgetting to breathe, pulse spiking with fear. In the line of passengers she saw an image she could never mistake, the top of a man’s head ink-stained with a terrifying image.

  Why send Dante? she thought in a panic. Does Darius know about her and Grey?

  Her questions sparked in her mind and then faded, ceding to her survival instinct, an instinct honed from years of homelessness as a street urchin in Bucharest. Her world shrank to one finite problem: How do I get away from the psychopath waiting outside this train?

  As the passengers disembarked, she grew more and more desperate. She couldn’t stay on the train, or she would be too easy to spot. No, she had to get off the train. But to where? She couldn’t outrun him, and he surely had other men with him, watching both ends of the train.

  Why does it never work when I want it to?

  She saw a filthy knit cap on the ground under the luggage rack, and she grabbed it and pulled it low on her head, stuffing her hair inside. It smelled like stale milk and body odor. An old couple were struggling to exit with their bags, and she hurried to help them, hunching as she slipped between them.

  It got her off the train, but the old couple stopped to rest, and Anka panicked. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and caught a glimpse of a long black cloak swishing her way.

  Oh God.

  A group of teenagers ambled from the rear of the platform towards the station, paralleling the tracks. She joined them, trying to blend long enough to merge into the crowded station. Dante must have noticed and signaled, because she saw a man in a brown bomber jacket snap to attention and start towards her. She looked over her shoulder and saw Dante behind her, closing in.

  She would never make it to the station. To her left, there were at least a dozen more tracks. To her right, only two tracks remained before the far end of the station, but a train was approaching on the next track over, seconds away.

  Without further thought, she jumped down into the track on her right, gasping as she landed with a thud. Someone behind her shouted as Anka jumped over the electric rail tracks, made a desperate grab for the top of the next platform over, and scrabbled to climb up as the train approached, horn blaring and brakes screeching. She pulled, but wasn’t strong enough to lift her body up.

  She hung there in horror as the train drew closer, almost stopped but still fast enough to crush her. She twisted and flung a leg up, trying for the top of the platform.

  Her leg only reached halfway. She couldn’t do it.

  The train was almost on her, and she screamed. Then she felt herself lifted up by her arms and set down on the platform as if she were weightless. She cringed as she looked up, but it was some random giant of a man in a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, helping her to the top.

  Before she had a chance to thank him, she saw that Dante had pulled himself out of the same tracks, ten feet behind the man who had saved her, just ahead of the train. She screamed again, and her savior turned and saw Dante approaching. Dante’s hand reached inside his duster.

  “Hey, pal,” the towheaded man said to Dante, “why don’t you—”

  His next words gurgled out of his mouth as Dante whipped out a knife and gutted him. The American slumped against the train, and the crowded platform devolved into chaos. Anka swallowed her terror and took advantage. She darted into the crowd, her small size now a boon.

  She could feel Dante behind her as she wove in and out of the mass of people, knocking over a magazine stand as she raced into the cavernous station.

  She knew she wouldn’t make it to the surface. She had to think of something else, somewhere to hide, but her mind could focus only on not letting Dante catch her. She careened around a corner and entered a tubular tunnel.

  Bad choice. The tunnel extended as far as she could see. Her heart slammed against her chest, her body electric from fear-laced adrenaline. She risked a backwards glance and saw him thirty feet behind her, knife in hand, people melting to the sides as if he were parting the Red Sea. Dante knew about the hidden places underneath London, and he would take her and disappear down a tunnel before the police could help her.

  She didn’t have another option, and she ran with everything she had. Pushing and dodging through the crowd, she regressed to
her time on the street when she would run from the police, stolen pretzel or jam-filled pancake in her tiny hands, eyes cast downward for someplace to hide. Though she couldn’t risk another backwards glance, she could hear footsteps thumping behind her, the shouts of alarmed pedestrians.

  She came to a convergence of tunnels filled with people and food stands, the crowd of people giving her one last chance. She dove into the crowd, then slipped down one of the emptier side tunnels, knowing she had seconds before Dante figured out which one she had chosen.

  Just beside a kebab stand she noticed a square, two-foot high metal door set into the base of the tunnel wall. She had seen these before, storage units for the businesses in London’s crowded subterranean complexes. The proprietor eyed her as she stopped right in front of his stand and said, “Please help me. You never saw me.”

  Anka folded her hands in the prayer position, put a finger to her lips, then dropped to the ground. The tiny door was unlocked, and she squeezed herself feetfirst inside the claustrophobic space, not risking a glance to see if Dante was watching, pulling the door shut and stuffing herself into the musty darkness.

  She scrunched past the boxes and containers of foodstuffs and then stilled, nauseous with fear, her skin prickling as cockroaches and other unseen things skittered across her hands and face.

  Viktor’s mind burned on the way back to York. He would not have thought Darius capable of murder, but Viktor had witnessed countless cult members commit murder and other acts considered abhorrent outside of the cult setting. And he knew from long experience that ambition, personal tragedy, and insecurity were gateway drugs.

  All three of which Darius had in spades.

  Still, Darius was part of Viktor’s past, and people in one’s own past did not murder Satanic cult leaders and use a manipulative pseudo cult to strive for religious hegemony.

  “I’d like to make a detour,” Viktor said to the driver, as the rain lashed the windshield. “Are you familiar with Glaisdale?”