Botis was unlike anyone she’d ever met. He seemed young, almost a teenager, but he assured her that he was much older than he looked. He was dark and mysterious, and always wore black. And he was brilliant… he seemed to know everything. His knowledge of history, art, and religion would put any of her professors at NYU to shame. Many evenings they’d sit together on the floor of her apartment sharing a joint, and she’d listen in fascination while he expounded some complex point of esoteric philosophy. Then, just before they slept, he’d hold her close and they’d make warm romantic love.
One night he told her that Botis was the name of a powerful demon from medieval lore… To the ancient writers, the demon Botis was a prince in hell with many legions of demons under him. At the time that seemed very exotic. Syl reached out her hand and lovingly tousled his raven-black hair.
As the months passed, Botis became her life. Her old friends gradually stopped coming around, and she spent more and more of her time stoned. She skipped class and her grades plummeted, but she no longer cared. Knowing she was failing anyhow, she dropped out of school.
The day she quit NYU, Botis introduced her to heroin. And after that, the heroin was all that mattered.
A year later, when she’d lost her job and was evicted from her apartment, her mom pleaded with her to come back home and get her life together, but instead she went with Botis.
That night he took her to the house. She was frightened at first. She had never been to a place like the house. But Botis assured her that the best drugs were always plentiful there.
He led her up darkened stairs to a back room, and they did drugs together… but then, without warning, he began to beat her. It was a side of Botis she had never seen. He screamed obscenities, shoved her into a corner, and pounded her body with his fists. Terrified and confused she sank to the floor and tried to shield her face, but he kicked her repeatedly, then—with seemingly superhuman strength—he picked her up and threw her across the room. Finally, he raped her brutally and left her in agony, barely conscious.
When she finally awoke the next morning, she was alone on the mattress and the door to the room was locked. Her purse and cell phone were gone. Sylvia was trapped.
That afternoon Botis came again. Again he beat her and raped her and left her locked in the dingy room. For a full week the pattern repeated, with never an explanation. Occasionally he brought her food, and always heroin, then left her alone—imprisoned in darkness.
In anguished tears, she pleaded with him to tell her what she’d done… why he was doing this to her… but he just smiled and beat her more.
Then others in the house began to come. They came at any hour, individually and in groups. Some raped her savagely and left her bleeding. Others came gently in the night, whispering words of love while they were on her. Some felt sorry for her and promised to take her away, but never did. A few were so stoned they barely knew she was there. Gradually, as the agonizing months dragged by, she’d grown numb to them all.
The only one she dreaded anymore was Botis. She knew now what he was.
One night, two weeks into her imprisonment, Syl had been hunched over on her mattress sobbing. Hearing a noise outside the room, she looked up and saw Botis appear—walking right through the closed door—leering at her with his demonic grin. At first she thought she was hallucinating. But then she knew. Botis truly was a demon.
The day after that encounter someone left her door unlocked and Sylvia made her first escape attempt. She almost succeeded, but they caught her a few steps from the front door, and beat her severely. In the following weeks she tried several more times with the same result.
After a while, even escaping didn’t matter. The last few weeks they hadn’t even bothered locking her door. Syl was just the freak in back room. And she was numb… she didn’t care about anything, as long as she got her next fix.
Botis still came every day. He rarely spoke, and didn’t even seem to enjoy the sex. He just wanted to hurt her. And each time he came, her depression and hopelessness deepened.
Her mixture was boiling now. The heroin had dissolved. She sat the spoon down on the floor in front of her. Rolling a small wad of cotton into a ball, she placed it in the spoon, then pushed the tip of the syringe into the center of the cotton and pulled back the plunger until all the heroin was sucked in. She tapped the syringe with her finger, checking it for air bubbles.
Then she picked up the electrical cord and tied it around her arm as a crude tourniquet. With her forefinger she palpated her skin, searching for a vein. She inserted the needle, drew back on the plunger and looked to see if blood was entering the syringe. It was not. Syl shifted the needle under the skin probing for a vein. Four times she pulled back the plunger but without success.
The voice was louder now… she could hear it plainly. It was pleading with her, screaming at her, telling her to stop. To run. To try one last time to escape.
Finally she found a good vein… She carefully pressed the contents of the syringe into the vein, and in a few moments felt the warmth spreading through her body. And then nothing else mattered. The voice stopped screaming. She lay back on the mattress in momentary bliss. For the moment she didn’t hurt anymore. That was what mattered. Sylvia closed her eyes and sank into a dreamless sleep.
***
There was a flicker of light, then the rasp of leathery wings sounded from the dark alleyway. Three gaunt figures emerged from the alley and walked purposefully down the row of crumbling, three-story tenements.
In the lead was a woman who called herself Kareina. A tall, thin, plain-faced woman with a pallid complexion and long black hair, Kareina looked to be in her early twenties, but was, in fact, much older. Her subordinates, Botis and Turell, followed a few steps behind her.
The street around them was a picture of devastation. Broken glass crunched under their feet and the stench of garbage rotting in the gutter assaulted their nostrils.
Tremont Point had been an exclusive suburb of New York City in the late 1800’s. After the First World War, however, when its aging mansions were supplanted by cheaply constructed apartment blocks, the neighborhood became a melting pot for the city’s immigrant masses.
As the community aged, living conditions deteriorated. By the late 1970’s, a dramatic rise in violent crime and random shootings forced the city to cut off essential services. When police patrols, fire services, and even garbage removal finally ceased, there was a mass exodus from Tremont Point.
Those bold enough to drive through Tremont Point today pass block after block of burned out or abandoned tenements. While other neighborhoods in the Big Apple have experienced a measure of renewal in recent years, Tremont Point remains one of the most dangerous in the city, a haven for gangs and drug dealers.
Near the middle of the block, the trio turned and climbed garbage-strewn concrete steps to the door of an abandoned tenement. Not a single pane of glass remained unbroken on its dingy façade, and the front door had long ago been ripped from its hinges. As they crossed the threshold into the dim interior, a rat ran across the hallway in front of them.
The stench of urine and feces permeated the hall. Fearful eyes peered through the narrow cracks of chained doors as the three intruders walked past. Through an open doorway they glimpsed a cluster of emaciated people lying motionless on soiled mattresses scattered around the floor.
Ascending a narrow, creaking stairway, they made their way to the third floor and walked a darkened corridor to the back of the building. They paused before the closed door of the last apartment. On the door, someone had clumsily scrawled two words in dark red paint, “THE FREAK.”
The three did not knock. They simply walked through the closed door.
The only light in the room came from a small window opening. The glass was broken out, leaving an open hole overlooking the trash-filled alley far below and the shell of the burnt-out tenement next door.
The room reeked of vomit and the floor was strewn with piles of garbage and
scattered remnants of soiled clothing. In one corner sat a grimy, lidless ice chest where roaches skittered around scraps of moldy food.
In the center of the room Sylvia Romano was sprawled, naked, across a filthy mattress. At the sound of intruders, Syl stirred slightly. Empty eyes peered through a tangle of matted hair, struggling to focus on the figures standing over her. Finding it too much of an effort, she sank back into unconsciousness.
Botis gave her a leering grin and took a step in her direction. A hard slap in the face from Kareina stopped him in mid-stride. “That’s NOT what you’re here for this time.”
Like her companions, Kareina was a killer, and one of the best. She was sent to do only one thing… to destroy human life, and she had a long history of success. But Kareina had grown weary of just killing. Like a cat with a mouse, she liked to play games with her prey. When the assignment allowed, she would get to know her victims, befriend them, earn their trust… and then look into their eyes in their final moments to see their helpless terror.
But she couldn’t do that on this assignment. This assignment required a human instrument. She needed a body she could possess. And Botis had offered Sylvia.
Kareina eyed Syl for several minutes.
It was obvious that Sylvia had once been attractive, but long months of neglect and abuse had taken their toll. She was emaciated, almost anorexic, with track marks up and down both arms. From the bruises on her limbs and face, it was clear that she’d been severely beaten many times… and recently.
Kareina twirled a wisp of her long black hair around a slender finger and smiled. She found it amusing that her easiest recruits were always found among self-righteous religious fanatics… or among the burned-out husks of humanity in a crack house.
Approaching Sylvia, Kareina leaned down and gently touched her forehead. If a casual observer had been present, they would have been shocked at what happened next. For Kareina suddenly faded from sight and disappeared, slipping effortlessly into the concealment of the shadow realm.
A moment later, the body on the mattress contorted in a violent spasm. Sylvia’s head rolled back and thrashed from side to side. Her eyes rolled up, exposing only the whites. Another spasm, and then her body sat up.
Botis had almost done his job too well, Kareina thought with disgust. There was barely any humanity left in this body. She preferred at least a moderate amount of resistance when she took possession, but this ruined creature offered none. It was hardly worth the effort to destroy her. Still, she’ll be a useful tool for our purposes.
Under Kareina’s control, Syl stood shakily to her feet. The drugs coursing through her veins made her body sluggish and unresponsive. Sylvia’s lips opened, and in the gravelly voice of one possessed, she barked, “Quick, help me dress.”
From the parcel he’d been carrying Turell unwrapped a loose-fitting garment.
“No, first the bomb,” Kareina directed.
Botis and Turell hastily fastened a harness around Sylvia’s torso, then lifted the explosive device into place. Sylvia’s frail body could barely support the weight of the 30 pound suicide belt, but Kareina would provide all the strength she needed. Kareina quickly pulled on the rest of the clothing.
Her eyes fixed on Botis and Turell. “Quickly, now… we must be in Manhattan by four o’clock.”
Chapter Eight: The Island of Iona
THE ISLE OF IONA, ARGYLL, SCOTLAND
For Patrick’s first morning on Iona the sun rose bright in a cloudless sky. From the window of his room in the Saint Columba hotel, Patrick could see sheep grazing contentedly in the nearby fields. Beyond them, the early morning sun glistened across the calm waters of the Sound of Iona and starkly illuminated the distant, red granite mountains of Mull.
Michael was already eating breakfast when Patrick entered the hotel restaurant. He motioned for Patrick to join him.
“Good morning, Patrick,” Michael said cheerfully as Patrick took his seat. “How did you sleep?”
“Wonderfully,” Patrick responded. “I don’t think I’ve slept that well in years. There’s something very peaceful about this place.”
Glancing around the restaurant, he added, “How’s the breakfast?”
“Outstanding, as usual,” said Michael. “I’ve stayed at the Saint Columba several times, and the food is always superb. They have their own organic garden behind the hotel, and much of the food is grown right here.
“By the way, might I suggest the blood pudding?” Michael pointed to a black sausage-like disk on his plate. “Most Americans are afraid to try it, but once you get used to it, it’s really quite tasty.”
“I think I’ll have to pass on that,” Patrick laughed, as he glanced at the menu, “but the food does look good.” Patrick ordered a full breakfast, beginning with strong black coffee, which was promptly brought to the table.
Taking a sip of his coffee, Patrick again looked up at Michael. “So, what will you be doing here on Iona?”
“I want to start by interviewing some of the locals,” Michael replied. “There are always new angel stories on Iona. Just about every inhabitant is ready to bend your ear with story after story of strange events.
“But mostly, I come here to write. I’m working on my fourth book, and somehow Iona just seems like the right place to write about angels.”
As they ate, Michael quizzed Patrick about his recent travels in Ireland. Michael seemed particularly interested in Patrick’s visit to the city of Bangor—situated in a section of County Down known as the Valley of the Angels. According to legend, Saint Patrick had once encountered a large gathering of angels in the place. Michael hadn’t yet visited Bangor, and immediately began to pepper Patrick with questions.
Unfortunately for Michael, Patrick’s most vivid memory of his stay in the Valley of the Angels was of a pub called the “Salty Dog,” a few blocks north of his hotel on Quay Street. He couldn’t recall seeing a single angel.
When they finished eating, Patrick stood and stretched, still stiff from his long journey.
“Before I get to work,” Michael said, pausing to drain the last of his coffee, “How about a quick tour of Iona?”
“I’d like that.” Patrick replied. “You know, if you ever give up writing, you’d make a great tour guide. Your knowledge of this part of the world is incredible.”
“Having a photographic memory does help.”
“I have a photographic memory too …” Patrick quipped as they walked from the restaurant, “I just keep forgetting to buy film.”
Patrick purchased a map of the island from the little display beside the front desk, and they were off to explore Iona.
“Let’s begin in the south,” Michael suggested as they exited the hotel. They turned to the left and followed a winding road that led past the crumbling ruins of a medieval nunnery, through the tiny village of Baile Mòr, and along the waterfront. Odd formations of twisted rock lined the shore.
“Patrick, on the map, Iona looks like a little sliver of land that crumbled off the end of Mull. But actually, Iona is enormously older. In fact, the rocks on Iona are some the oldest on Earth… four billion years old. Iona literally dates from the beginning of the earth itself. These rocks formed when the molten mass of the globe first formed a solid crust.”
The road along the shore took a sharp turn to the right, heading inland across the center of the island. Walking between lush green fields on a spring morning, with sheep calmly grazing on either side of the road, was one of the most peaceful experiences Patrick could remember. The view was breathtaking in every direction. Clusters of multicolored wildflowers were splattered across the landscape, while steep, heather-clad hills rose to the north and south.
Seeing the look of wonder on Patrick’s face, Michael said, “Do you begin to feel the uniqueness of this place? There’s really nothing else like it. Sooner or later it affects everyone who comes here.
“The Scottish mystic Fiona Macleod wrote that Iona is ‘the one bit of Eden that had not been de
stroyed.’
“Historians call Iona, ‘The Light of the Western World.’ You’re no doubt familiar with Thomas Cahill’s popular book, How the Irish Saved Civilization. Well, the Irish really did save western civilization, and they did it—for the most part—from Iona. For centuries—during the darkest of the dark ages—Irish monks from Iona went throughout Europe, teaching, and founding schools.
“And then there are the angels. Many writers describe Iona as a ‘thin place’ where the material and spiritual planes meet. Angelic beings seem to pass in and out of our dimension very easily here. But at least one writer attached a strong warning to that description. He said that great care must be taken to prevent Iona from becoming a ‘demoniacal centre.’”
As they neared the center of the island, Michael gestured toward a nondescript mound of grass-covered earth rising to the left. “That mound is one of the most significant sites on the island. It’s sometimes called Sithean Mor, ‘the faerie mound.’ Through the Middle Ages it was known by its Latin name, Colliculus Angelorum, or its Gaelic equivalent, Cnoc Angel. In English that means ‘The Hill of the Angels.’
“Your cousin Columba used to come to this hill to pray. It’s recorded that he climbed to the top of that mound, lifted up his hands in prayer, and that ‘citizens of the heavenly country’ flew down to meet with him.
“Columba had a special relationship with the angels. Ademnan relates that angels often visited Columba as he prayed. It was rumored that they revealed to him secrets hidden since the beginning of the world.
“They say the night St. Columba died, all of Iona was filled with the brightness of angels as thousands of them descended on the island. One contemporary writer said an immense pillar of fire appeared at midnight at the eastern tip of the island, illuminating the earth like the summer sun at noon."
Iona Portal (The Synaxis Chronicles) Page 6
