Sky Pirates
Page 9
Crowley gave a condescending look. “Well, while you might be vibrant and powerful, your background has left you largely unschooled in the grim realities of occult politics, my good man. By virtue of our education and breeding, most of us are seasoned warriors by the time we reach the top. But you are positively virginal, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He sat forward and arched a sparse eyebrow. “And take it from someone who knows. You need to be a seasoned warrior in order to survive the constant dogfight that is the Council.”
Patrice felt himself grow angry. How dare this—this bullfrog of a man presume to condescend to him in this way?
“I would hazard that some new contender will challenge you for leadership before this year is out,” Crowley said, quickly interrupting Patrice’s thoughts.
“Is that so?” Patrice said.
Crowley regarded Patrice with his eerie gaze. “If you don’t watch out, it is you who will crumble to dust.”
“You are entitled to your opinion,” Patrice said.
“What you need is a mentor. I could be that mentor, if you’ll let me.”
“That is a most generous offer. But if what you are saying is correct, why not challenge me and take my place? What possible benefit could you gain by helping me?”
Crowley smiled. “It is true, I have always coveted de Montague’s place on the Council, I will not lie to you about that. But you, Mr. Chevalier, by assuming leadership, have changed the playing field forever. You have been touched by that which dwells in the deepest, darkest recesses of the Shadow realm and you have lived to tell the tale. I have spent years studying those dark recesses and I can only guess at what must be going on inside you. I mean, just look at you. You are a work of art, such beauty and grace and intelligence. Looking at you now—it’s, it’s … like watching a panther from the jungle,” Crowley drawled. “It sets my pulse racing.”
Patrice felt himself blush. “I suppose I am rather unique,” he said, looking away.
“Exactly so!” Crowley exclaimed. “And we cannot let a rare and beautiful creature like yourself be swallowed up by filth of the system. It would be a complete travesty, so hence my offer to help you.”
Patrice narrowed his eyes. “Admiration is all fine and well, but what’s in it for you?”
Crowley’s smiled broadened. “Well firstly, I get to spend time with you, you delicious beast. And, as I understand matters, you still need to fill that thirteenth place at the table. If you like what I can do for you, I would be honored if you could consider me for the place. As a token of your appreciation, of course.” His eyes grew dreamy. “Just think of all the wonderful things we could do together, you and I.”
Patrice nodded slowly. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the advances Crowley was making. They left him feeling flattered and slightly aroused at the same time, which was rather disturbing. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Crowley did have a point, though. Patrice knew he needed help. He had almost been sucked into the swirling vortex the alchemists had created in their plan to use darkness to take over the Council not two years before. And he had barely escaped from it with his life. He had spent months limping along half in reality and half not, until his run-in with the Lady in White. She too had nearly finished him, but in the end he emerged transformed: a self-made warlock.
He was the first of his kind, not born of the ancient bloodlines. It was all thoroughly nouveau and exciting, but also deeply dangerous.
“And how would you help me if I were to agree?” Patrice said.
“I gather you have heard the rumors?” Crowley said.
“Depends on the rumor,” Patrice said.
Crowley laughed. “Oh, you do like to tease, don’t you? The one about a certain, rather important young lady who went missing very recently on her way back from the Sudan.”
“Ouais,” Patrice said without thinking. Immediately he regretted the informal answer as he allowed his careful, cultured French to slip in his moment of excitement. “Mon Dieu, how on earth do you know about this?”
Crowley nodded, seemingly oblivious to Patrice’s slip. “The London papers are full of reports of the lady pilot and her ship that disappeared on the way back from North Africa. A terrible tragedy they are calling it. Her poor father is said to be distraught.
“And I know who the Oracle is, so it really was not difficult to put two and two together. Such an inconvenience when an Oracle goes so young. It throws everything into disarray until a new one takes over, don’t you think?”
“She is not dead,” Patrice said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course I am sure. I am the Shadow Master. I can sense shifts in the divide. I would know if there were a gap in the Shadow and Light continuum and there is not. She is still alive and holding the layers of the realm together. The question is just where.”
“That’s even worse, in a way,” Crowley mused. “Knowing she is out there, but not being able to reach her. What exquisite torture.”
Patrice sighed. Crowley had hit the nail squarely on the head. This was precisely the thing he had been brooding over before the man had arrived.
The Council had people searching on both sides of the divide for Eleanor, but so far their search had turned up nothing. Perhaps it was time to seek assistance. Being Grand Master was certainly proving to be far trickier than he had envisioned. Maybe having someone who could provide him with advice on how to navigate this quagmire might not be such a bad idea, after all.
“So what are you proposing to do about the matter?” Crowley said, interrupting his thoughts.
“We are searching, but she seems to have disappeared into thin air.”
“And so soon after your appointment to office.” Crowley shook his head and tutted. “I am sure this would have set tongues wagging. How are things in Venice these days? The floodwaters this season are worse than ever. Venice is sinking, I have heard it told.”
Patrice swiveled round and glared at Crowley, for he had gone one step too far. “I am sorry if I appear to be rude, but who exactly do you think you are, bursting into my apartment at such an early hour and then accusing me of incompetence? I should ask you to leave, sir.”
Crowley lifted a placatory hand. “Now, now, Mr. Chevalier, there is no need for Gallic histrionics. As I have told you only a few moments ago, I am here because you and I share the same goal. We must find this Oracle. She must be taken in hand. We cannot allow the world to drift along with the barrier unguarded. Or else pretty soon we will have every Shadow creature in the realm clambering for a foothold here in the Light. Each one will be seeking to establish its own little base of power. And when that happens, we will be stuck in a world where warlords battle one another for whatever foothold they might gain.” Crowley paused for breath. “And you never know who or what might be slipping through or what their plans are. I mean, just look at that awful business in Battersea last year. I would not relinquish my position so easily, would you?”
“Certainly not,” Patrice said, recalling images of La Dame Blanche, which involved armies of indestructible clockwork soldiers. And she was small fry compared to some of the Shadow creatures out there.
“Well, what do you propose we do?” Patrice said.
Crowley folded his hands over his fine brocade waistcoat and thought for a moment. “They say there is a man here in Paris. He is born of the unholy union of a human and a creature of the Shadow. This has given him a few … what shall we call them … unusual quirks. One of these quirks is that he can summon demons up from the darkest recesses of the Shadow to do his bidding. They call him the Summoner.”
“The Summoner?”
“Yes. He is a most useful fellow to know. All you need to do is give him something that used to belong to the person you seek and he does the rest. And before you know it, you have whomever you are looking for.”
“And where shall I find someone like that?”
“Well, he is a regular attendee at my masses. He hold
s a rather important position in our rituals—for obvious reasons. I have been asked to say mass this evening as I am here in Paris for only a short time. If you’d care to join us, I am sure he’d be happy to assist.”
Patrice pondered the matter for a moment. “And you sure this Summoner would be able to find her.”
Crowley inclined his head. “If he cannot find her, my dear fellow, then no one can.”
“Very well then, Mr. Crowley. I shall see your man this evening.”
“Ah, how marvelous.” Crowley beamed. “And please, call me Alec. All my friends do.” He held out a small black card with an address inscribed on it in red. “Mass is said at midnight, but you are welcome to join us for supper at the café from about ten o’ clock onwards. Oh, the congregation will be so delighted to meet you. The dark forces will flow with such potency with a Shadow Master there.”
“Till this evening, Mr. Crowley,” Patrice said politely.
Crowley rose from his seat. “I look forward to it,” he said with a little wink, as Patrice escorted him to the door.
“Oh and one thing, Mr. Chevalier, do try to keep it discreet. We don’t want our little alliance to bear too much scrutiny too soon,” Crowley said with one more of his strange smiles that made Patrice feel stirrings in places where he really wasn’t supposed to.
Then Crowley was gone.
Patrice stared at the card in his hand and shook his head in disbelief. What a strange morning this had turned out to be.
CHAPTER 9
The journey to Montmartre seemed to take forever. From the back seat of his new Rolls-Royce 20hp, Patrice watched the streetlamps pass in the misty gloom as Mr. Chunk negotiated the uneven cobbles from the driver’s seat of his new Rolls Royce 20hp. He had purchased the car for the princely sum of £650. The fact that one could buy a large house for the same money gave Patrice much pleasure. Which was just as well, for he was in short supply of pleasure at the moment.
He shivered in his coat. The night was cold and damp, and he was in no mood for pretend-occultist nonsense.
The prospect of sitting through one of Mr. Crowley’s masses was not filling him with any measure of delight, but as much as he hated to admit it, he needed help. So far, negotiating the politics of the Council had proven to be tricky. The other warlocks were still too stunned to take action, but it would only be a matter of time before they started plotting against him. He needed someone like Crowley to help him negotiate the pitfalls. And if it meant trawling the underbelly of Paris, then needs must.
“Are we there yet?” he asked Mr. Chunk, rather irritated.
“Not long now sir,” Mr. Chunk said as he turned the car into a dark side street. “Boulevard de Clichy is just up ahead.”
The motor slowed as they pulled up outside a building with an elaborate doorway that resembled the head of some demonic creature surrounded by molten lava rock. The doorway was the monster’s huge jaws, splayed wide between large fangs. They were outside the Café de l’Enfer. Hell.
“I suppose this must be the place,” Patrice said dryly.
“It’s the very address as it says on the card, sir,” Mr. Chunk replied as he opened the door for his master, seemingly oblivious to Patrice’s sarcasm.
“So it is,” Patrice said. He narrowly missed drenching his fine handmade leather boots in a puddle as he alighted from the motor.
“Welcome to the gates of hell, monsieur,” the doorman said. He was dressed in a ridiculous red satin devil suit, complete with horns and pointy tail.
“I am a guest of Mr. Crowley’s,” he said as he handed over the little card.
The doorman nodded and stepped aside. Behind him was a smaller wooden door, hidden in the shadows. He knocked on the wood six times in rapid little bursts.
Patrice rolled his eyes. This was beyond the realm of ridiculous.
There was a shuffling sound before a small peephole opened in the door.
The doorman muttered a few words.
The peephole closed and he heard the slide of the latch and the door opened with a shudder.
“Enter and be damned,” the doorman said with a flourish as he ushered Patrice inside. Patrice just shook his head as he brushed past the man. Crazy Bohemians, he thought.
Inside was a little vestibule, lined with swathe upon swathe of purple velvet. Black candles flickered inside lanterns against the wall, and it took him a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
“Good evening. We have been expecting you, monsieur.” Before him stood a woman dressed in a hooded cloak that covered her from head to toe. She had been waiting for him in the shadows.
She lifted a lantern form the wall and took a few steps along what seemed like tunnel. “Entrez, s’il vous plait,” she said in soft tones.
Patrice hesitated.
“This way please.” She beckoned for him to follow.
Patrice followed her down the tunnel and down a set of stone steps.
“What is this place?” he asked his silent companion.
“Here there once stood an old nunnery, long buried under the city,” she replied. “We are all gathered in what used to be a chapel. You are late, monsieur. You were missed at the feast,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I was unexpectedly detained,” Patrice said. It was the closest thing to an apology he would offer to a lowly servant.
They stepped through the narrow doorway and down another flight of smooth stone steps that led into the chapel.
“Please make yourself at home. May I take your coat?” she said.
Patrice blinked and coughed. The inside of the chapel was also lit with row upon row of candles, which made the space hot and airless. The smell of rising damp, unwashed bodies and acrid incense nearly knocked the breath out of him.
Through the haze, he could make out the shape of other attendees. They sat on narrow wooden benches, heads bowed, whispering to one another.
“Mon Dieu, what is that stink?” Patrice said to the woman. He pulled out his handkerchief and held it over his mouth and nose.
“The incense is henbane and mirkwood mixed with other herbs and substances. The fragrance pleases the Lord of Darkness and we seek to please him. You will get used to it before long,” she said as she held out her hand to take his coat.
Patrice blinked the tears that the fumes had caused from the corners of his eyes.
“No, here is fine for me. I shall hang on to my things, if you don’t mind.” It would be wise to be in a position to make a rapid exit from this place—before death by suffocation set in.
The woman dropped her hand. “Suit yourself,” she said in a tone that was exceedingly rude for a servant. “We will begin in a few minutes,” she said over her shoulder as she disappeared down the isle.
Patrice sat down on one of the narrow benches at the back and squinted into the gloom. At the front of the chapel an altar had been erected. It was covered with a cloth of black velvet, and a series of daggers, chalices, chains and other silver paraphernalia were laid out upon the fabric. The wooden pulpit was also painted black, and a cloth adorned with a red pentagram surrounding the head of a goat was draped over the front.
More thick, black candles dripped wax from the various chandeliers suspended from the rough roof. There was no mistaking what this place was. It was a sanctum dedicated to Baphomet: the Demon-ruler of the Underworld.
Patrice could not help but smile at Crowley’s brazenness. He had hidden his cult in plain sight: below a hell-themed cabaret club in the heart of Bohemian Paris.
He took a deep breath and instantly regretted it, because the stale air made him cough. The source of the intense smell came from a silver brazier that was situated next to the pulpit. It was oozing the foul sweet-smelling smoke in little tendrils.
The room swam before his eyes. The smoke made his head spin and he wondered whether the brazier contained something more than just mirkwood incense. He suspected it did, for he was no stranger to the effects of opium and hashish.
The silence was broken by the sound of cymbals crashing, followed by the low hum of a chant. Patrice clutched his coat to his lap and shifted in his seat. The Black Mass had begun.
Two altar boys dressed in black robes entered from an unlit entrance at the front of the chapel. Each one carried a chafing dish held high.
Patrice blinked through the gloom at the tableaux that was forming. In fact, it took him a moment to realize that the altar boys were no children. They were in fact grown men, dwarf-size in stature. They chanted as they stepped along in a slow procession. Before the altar, they lit the chafing dishes with tapers. More pungent incense filled the chapel. The ladies seated in the front rows swooned and started loosening their laces in a most unseemly manner.
In the midst of all this undressing, the high priest stepped out before them. He was dressed in red satin robes embroidered with elaborate symbols. On his head he wore an animal skull with two large horns protruding from the forehead. In the center of the skull, a black pentagram was carved.
As the high priest reached the pulpit, he made eye contact with Patrice. It was Crowley.
“Arise, brother. Please join us. Don’t be shy, we are all here in the service of the Shadow,” Crowley beckoned for Patrice to approach.
Patrice sighed and rose. He stepped forward, leaving his coat on the seat behind him.
The imps picked up sets of cymbals from the altar and started bashing them together, causing quite a racket.
Amid the noise, Crowley started muttering all manner of profanities and blasphemies. He spoke them with such fluency that they blended together into something almost beautiful in its obscenity. The soliloquy was punctuated by the imps beside the pulpit who echoed the worst of the words in places.
The ladies in the front row were by now in a rather advanced state of undress. They cooed and sighed, quite content in their euphoria. A few of them were even sat back against their seats, with their eyes rolled back, breasts exposed, offered up to Baphomet, their master.