The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3)

by Green, Layton

  “Dominic Grey? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Been a long time, Dickie,” Grey said.

  “Can’t say you’ve changed much, still scruffy and frail as a baby bird.” His voice possessed a touch of both warmth and nervousness. “Rather a grown-up Ollie Twist, aren’t you?”

  “You look good,” Grey said.

  Dickie ran a hand over his bald head, muscles rippling along his forearm. “Sorta easy staying in shape when you run a gym.” He patted his belly, which was still hard, though Grey remembered it being much less rounded. “Now it’s more like a leisure center.”

  “The neighborhood’s doing well for itself,” Grey said.

  He spread his arms. “Can you believe this shite? Used to be people were afraid of the East End, now we’ve got Starbucks and wine shops. But go a few blocks down and you’ll see the same depressing shite as twenty years ago. The West London poofters like to stick their foot in Spitalfields, tell their pale-arsed friends they hang out in the East End. A few of them even buy condos here, then wonder why their wives get mugged walking the dog. Anyway. Last I heard you joined the goon squad.”

  “That didn’t work out too well,” Grey said.

  “Didn’t figure it would. And after that? Haven’t heard a word about you in a decade.”

  “Is that right?” Grey said softly.

  Neither spoke, and Dickie swallowed. An aerobics instructor chirped instructions in the background.

  Grey took a step forward, and Dickie shifted in his seat. “Grey—”

  “I know you put the word out. Just tell me who it came from, and we’re all good here.”

  “Can’t do that,” Dickie said.

  Grey took another step forward, and Dickie’s hand moved under the desk. “I’ve got an alarm. Cops’ll swarm this place in five minutes.”

  Dickie flinched as Grey spun the metal chair in front of him around, then sat. “I’m not going to hurt you, Dickie. That’s what the people you work for do. And we both know you’re not calling the cops. You may have upgraded, but the Dickie I know always has a hand in the cookie jar.”

  “I’ve changed, mate. Gone straight. No more tracksuits and paychecks in paper bags.”

  “Is that why you’re cozying up to a bunch of militant Satanists?”

  This time Dickie paled, and his fingers started tapping a nervous staccato on his desk. “You remember that time we tossed those Jamaicans who were putting twelve-year-old boys from Hackney in the ring? You, me, and Willie went right to Brixton and gave it to the lot of them.”

  “We go back, Dickie, you know we do. So talk to me. Why’re half the lowlifes in London on the lookout for me? Who put out the word, and from where?”

  “I always liked you,” Dickie said, “and I never saw anyone fight like you. You were an angry pup, but you had the gift. We coulda made a lot of quid, if you’d listened to me. But that’s not one of your strong suits, is it? Take some advice from an old chum: Go home. I’ve seen a lot of ugly shite in my day, but someone bad has it out for you. Real bad.”

  “Someone?” Grey said. “You mean Dante?”

  Dickie pursed his lips, the finger tapping more insistent. Grey could see the affirmation in his eyes, the slither of fear across his brow, and it surprised him. Dickie was a hard man.

  Grey said, “What do they have on you? Surely the people you work for could step in?”

  “It’s not like that anymore,” he muttered. “I freelance now. Dante and his people, they’re like ghosts.” He shuddered. “They come and get you in the middle of the night and there’re only pieces of you left in the morning. Get out of East End, Grey. Get out of London.”

  “Where can I find him?” Grey said.

  “I truly can’t help you, mate. He calls me, not the other way around. He came around once, and made it clear the only way I’d see him again was if I wasn’t waking up the next morning.” He turned his forearm over, exposing two half-healed, deep slashes that formed a crude upside down cross, the longer slash running from wrist to elbow. “He left me with a parting gift.”

  Grey clenched the back of the chair when he saw Dickie’s arm, his knuckles whitening as he stared at Dante’s handiwork. Grey pulled out a business card and left it on the desk. “Call me if anything changes.” He started to leave, then paused with a hand on the door. “Or if you need me.”

  Viktor returned with Philip Lackle, the captain of the Minster Guard, to the sprawling and now deserted grounds of the Minster. They traversed Dean’s Park on the north side of the complex, then approached an elegant limestone building with an arched roof and columns. After unlocking a door in the rear, Philip took him past a series of sitting rooms, up a flight of stairs and to a door at the end of the hallway. He unlocked that door, revealing a handsome room filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  Philip pointed out a card catalog in the corner, and Viktor flipped through the letter T until he found the single subject entry for the Tutori Electus, a book printed in York in 1872, and entitled History of Special Commissions from the Vatican.

  Viktor tracked down the section with the book as Philip puttered about the room. It took Viktor some time to root through the stacks, but he found the title, engraved with faded red lettering on the spine.

  The section on the Tutori was short, and Viktor read it while he stood.

  In response to the threat of certain heresies endemic to occultism and magick in Europe, the Vatican did theretofore assign the Tutori Electus to extinguish those heresies considered most dire. Having been tasked in groups of twenty, the priests of the Tutori were trained to withstand the severe physical and mental assaults fostered by the heresies. Much of the activities of the Tutori Electus were maintained in secrecy by the Vatican as these Commissions, ordained by the Pope himself, bore utmost importance to the health of the Catholic Church.

  Viktor skimmed a few sections discussing other heresies in which the Tutori were involved. He then felt a frisson of excitement when he read the next to last paragraph in the section.

  The Heresy of Ahriman, seeded in the late fifteenth century, was of particular concern to the Catholic Church for its Gnostic genesis and mass appeal. The origins of the Heresy remain unclear, but the involvement of the Tutori Electus in the year 1533 is certain, acknowledged by various sources of the time, and this particular Commission was augmented by a sizeable regiment, and tasked with the swift annihilation of the threat. Written records of the Commission are nonexistent outside the Vatican, but it is known that after a successful campaign the remaining Tutori Electus were honored for their valour by the Knights Hospitaller in a ceremony in the Palazzo dei Normanni in Palermo, then of the Kingdom of Sicily.

  Viktor closed the book, remembering Rudolf Steiner’s bizarre reference to an Ahrimanic influence occurring during the middle of the fifteenth century.

  During the time of the Ahriman Heresy, the Maltese Islands were still part of the Kingdom of Sicily. Viktor knew that Charles V had given Malta to the Knights Hospitaller—an order similar to the Templars—in 1530 to help protect the Holy Roman Empire from the Ottomans. In exchange, the Knights had paid the eclectic yearly tribute of one Maltese Falcon to both the Holy Roman Emperor and the Viceroy of Sicily.

  All interesting historical facts, but it didn’t answer the question of why the Tutori Electus had been in Sicily.

  Viktor flipped through the rest of the book, finding nothing else useful. Attached to the inside of the back cover was a flap with a ledger containing the names of previous borrowers of the book, similar to that used by modern libraries.

  He would have missed it had there been more names on the ledger, because the last name would have been hidden by the flap. But there were only two names, the latter with the date 1914 scrawled beside it, and the corner of Viktor’s eye glimpsed the name of the second borrower just before he closed the book, his breath catching as he did.

  The last person who had borrowed the book was listed as A. Crowley.

  The name alo
ne sent a tingle down Viktor’s spine, but his next thought turned the tingle into an electric current of knowledge, swift and sure.

  After his stint in America, Crowley left New York to establish his infamous Abbey of Thelema, purportedly a school of magical training for new adepts. The location he had chosen for the school had always been a bit of a mystery. It was a backwater, hard to reach and possessing no real spiritual or magical significance.

  The site Crowley had chosen was Cefalù, a small village in Sicily.

  Viktor thanked Philip as they left the library and passed through the fog-enshrouded grounds of the Minster, the tips of the spires floating disembodied in the moonlight. Just as Viktor was about to say good-bye and return to his hotel, he caught the flicker of a cloak in the fog behind them, in the direction of the Minster. Before he could catch a face, the cloak faded into the gloom.

  Viktor didn’t know who was stalking the grounds of the Minster at two in the morning, but he had a very good guess, and it left his mouth dry and his stomach churning.

  The town was dark and still, the revelry dissipated, the buildings a stone tableau frozen by a Medusa in a time long past.

  “Is your car close?” Viktor asked Philip, scanning the streets for signs of the cloaked figure.

  “Just a couple of blocks past the Fleece.”

  “I’m headed that way, too,” Viktor lied, cursing to himself. The Golden Fleece was all the way across the center of town. His hand moved underneath his suit, finding the handle of his wavy-edged dagger. He couldn’t let Philip walk the streets alone, and the chance of finding a taxi at that time of night was slim to none.

  Viktor’s eyes searched the streets for signs of movement. Had the cloaked figure been a chance sighting, or had Viktor glimpsed one of many hidden within the fog? He was no stranger to physical danger, but he knew that if L’église de la Bête had come for him, then this night might be his last.

  He berated himself. He had been so absorbed in searching the library that he had forgotten the time and exposed them both. Images from his last investigation involving L’église de la Bête came to mind, the mutilated remains of the girls. He forced the fear away, knowing he had to keep a clear head to have a chance at staying alive.

  As they turned onto Low Petergate, he took Philip by the arm. “Keep walking and don’t show panic, but I think we’re being followed.”

  Philip tensed, but he kept walking without looking back. “Who’s there?” he said, his voice strained.

  “Some very dangerous men. Do you know a faster way back to the Fleece?”

  “We can try the snickelways,” Philip said, “though we’ll have to pop in and out of the streets.”

  “Lead on.”

  They hurried down the street to the entrance to the first snickelway, the narrow medieval footpaths that wove in and out of York’s old town, connecting the larger streets or leading to hidden courtyards and back entrances.

  After traversing the clandestine passageway, they popped out on Stonegate. They padded down the dull stones to another snickelway, hearing footsteps behind them just before they slipped into the stone-walled corridor.

  “I think they saw us,” Viktor said.

  Philip took the cue, increasing the pace and leading them on a crisscrossing journey through the medieval alleys of the old town. The entrances to some of the snickelways were so cleverly hidden that Viktor never would have noticed them on his own. If it had been just one pursuer they might have been able to avoid them, but Viktor guessed a number of them lurked in the darkness, spread out among the old town.

  They emerged into a courtyard Viktor recognized as Saint Helen’s Square. The Golden Fleece was just a few blocks away, and they hurried out of the square. Just before they reached the next intersection, Viktor heard the patter of footsteps approaching from one of the other streets. Do prdele. The snickelway was too far behind to seek cover, and their pursuer was about to round the corner.

  Viktor noticed a stone archway just past a closed jewelry shop, and he pulled Philip through the archway and into a darkened courtyard that dead-ended thirty feet away, at the iron-studded door to a cathedral. The courtyard was empty, its walls high and sheer.

  The footsteps grew louder. Viktor spied two plastic trash cans in a corner and pulled Philip to them. They hunched behind the cans, praying the fog would help conceal them.

  The footsteps manifested into a booted foot that appeared out of the fog. Viktor held his breath, knowing the trash can failed to conceal half his body, praying the fog and darkness concealed the rest. He could feel Philip trembling beside him.

  Viktor had his knife in hand, but he knew the members of L’église de la Bête rarely worked alone. Even if Viktor managed to overcome their pursuer, the noise would carry into the night and betray their position.

  As the figure peered into the courtyard, Viktor thought the pounding of his heart would announce their presence, like Poe’s telltale organ. The way Viktor was positioned he could just see the side of the man’s face, and Viktor gripped the hilt of his knife.

  It was the same man he had seen twice in San Francisco, the customer from Zador’s bookshop.

  Viktor lost five years of his life as he waited, but the man scanned the courtyard without moving farther inside. When he turned to leave, Viktor sagged with relief, thinking it odd that L’église de la Bête would send someone halfway across the world when they had local chapters. He must be higher up in the hierarchy, perhaps an assassin sent for Viktor alone.

  Whatever the reason, Viktor had no doubt there were more of them prowling within the fog, and his fear metastasized as they waited. They couldn’t stay where they were.

  He helped Philip to his feet. “Let’s make a run for the Fleece,” Viktor whispered. Philip nodded, his face ashen.

  They emerged again near Saint Helen’s Square, dashing down Parliament and turning left onto Pavement for the final few meters. The Golden Fleece was just ahead. Just as they reached the distinctive sign, a group of people emerged from the Shambles, led by a man in a black cloak.

  Limbs rigid with panic, Viktor dug in his heels and twisted to sprint in the other direction. He yanked Philip by the sleeve, almost pulling Philip off his feet. There had to have been twenty people behind the lead man, and Viktor and Philip had walked right into their line of sight.

  As they fled, he saw Philip look over his shoulder, then slow and stop. Viktor was about to shout at him when Philip said, “It’s the bloody Devil’s Hour, the three a.m. ghost tour. The Fleece is one of the stops.”

  When Viktor turned he saw the group with new eyes, this time not blinded by fear: the black-cloaked, unshaven figure smoking a cigarette and addressing the crowd, pointing at the Golden Fleece with a flourish as the crowd of tourists looked on with eager faces.

  Philip pointed at his car just down the street. Viktor felt like a fool, but there was no time to relax. They hurried forward while the tour group was still within sight, the tension in Viktor’s body not lessening until they were safely inside the vehicle, speeding into the night.

  Grey left Dickie’s gym and got on the Tube again. Though he didn’t think Alan Lancaster, the speaker at Speakers’ Corner, was clued in to the underbelly of the cult, Grey did expect Alan to have been questioned after their meeting.

  Dangerous or not, paying a visit to the director of the Earls Court chapter house was Grey’s only link to the upper hierarchy, so he had decided to don a disguise and hope for the best. The Earls Court chapter house was a two-story flat in a cramped row of brownstones near the Exhibition and Convention Centre. Grey showed up in clothes he had picked up in a secondhand store along the way: ripped jeans and a long-sleeved Rolling Stones concert tee, a ragged Union Jack scarf, clip-on earrings, and a long-haired wig. With his week’s growth of scruff and his wiry frame, Grey thought he pulled off the starving artist look nicely.

  He didn’t notice anyone watching the entrance. He knocked on the front door, keeping a close eye on anyone and everythi
ng, seeing nothing out of place in the bustling commercial district.

  A handsome, middle-aged man with a full head of blond hair opened the door. Behind the door Grey saw a sitting room slick with modern furniture.

  The man’s accent was posh. “Can I help you?”

  “Hey, man,” Grey said, “is this the Order of New Enlightenment?”

  “Indeed it is. I’m Director Thomas Greene.”

  “Yeah?” Grey said. “I wasn’t expecting a director.”

  “This isn’t normal hours, but our door is always open.”

  “Yeah, man, I’ve been hearing good things about this New Order thing, saw the sign outside and thought I’d check it out.”

  “Let me get you a pamphlet.” Thomas disappeared, and while he was gone Grey spied a stack of mail on a table just inside the door. He quickly flipped through the mail, seeing a copy of the Times, a few items that looked like bills, and an envelope addressed to Director Thomas Greene from a company called Central London Staffing Agency on Inner Ring Road. It was the end of the month, and Grey had a hunch about the contents of the envelope. He pocketed it just before Thomas returned to hand Grey the same pamphlet Alan had given him.

  “Services are Saturdays at ten,” Thomas said, “but they’re held in our auditorium down the street, just behind the bus stop. This is the chapter house.”

  Grey ran a hand through his fake locks and gave Thomas a knowing look. “Where the bigwigs are.”

  Thomas chuckled and said, “I’m just a director. The, ah, ‘bigwigs’ are a few steps above me.”

  “I heard this was a regular-Joe kind of thing, no more rules and bishops and popes, if you know what I mean. How many steps are there?”

  “I meant steps in a strictly intellectual sense. While we reject the frivolous hierarchy inherent to today’s religions, we do believe the tenets of our system are best digested over time, with wisdom. You can think of it as learning algebra before you learn calculus.”