Kenny, evidently puzzled by his patient's behavior, got up. He stooped to avoid hitting his head on the low cabin roof.
“I'll let you get some rest,” he explained. “We've already sent a message to the Coastguard, there'll be an ambulance waiting when we get to port.”
“Thank you, Kenny,” Dan said. “I owe you, big time. You guys saved my life.”
I wish I could believe that, he thought. Maybe it's half true.
“Och, dinna mention it,” said Kenny, his accent growing thicker with his embarrassment. Then he seemed to remember something, and reached into the pocket of his jeans.
“I nearly forgot, amid all the excitement,” he said, taking out a small, dully gleaming object. “You had this in your diving suit pocket when we hauled you in. We were just looking for ID, you understand, not trying to pinch your credit cards.”
“Oh, right,” said Dan, taking the silver piece. “Thanks.”
“Silver's supposed to be lucky,” said Kenny, pausing in the low doorway. “But I reckon it didn't bring you good fortune.”
Dan turned the Spanish coin over in his fingers, looked at the half-erased face of the long-dead king.
“I guess not,” he said. “But you can never tell.”
***
After the Coastguard and the media had been and gone, having discovered nothing of significance as usual, Malahide decided to return to his old routine. He finally gave up any fantasies of returning to the world of normal men, of being transferred to a regular parish. He had prayed to God for deliverance, for a good death, and the Lord had simply ignored him. So he went to Moira Bell and asked if he might more properly serve Mother Hydra and Father Dagon by following the rituals of the islanders' true faith.
Moira made him tea, gave him scones with home-made jam, and told him of the rituals he would need to perform. Some trace of his old self rebelled against some of the more unusual details, but Malahide easily suppressed any doubts. When Moira asked him if he was sure that he wanted to be a true member of the Deep Ones’ cult, he nodded almost casually.
“I'm an islander now. We islanders do things differently.”
Moira smiled, and explained that she had been expecting this conversion for some time. When they had finished their tea and scones, she led him back up, past the church, and back into his own kitchen. There, they shoved aside the old freezer, opened the newly-repaired wooden door, and descended to the Cavern of Offering. As they approached along the corridor, Malahide heard low voices echoing up ahead. There was another voice, too, querulous, weak, but persistent. A man, fearful and protesting.
When they entered the cavern, the priest saw two strangers standing on the ledge by the submerged stairway. Both were naked. One was a tall, fair-haired young woman. The other was a man, slightly older than his companion, with a handsome, friendly face. Each of the strangers bore on their body the marks of early transformation.
Beside the strangers on the ledge stood the golden crucifix. With a sudden, sweet shock of recognition, Malahide realized that the cross was finally in its rightful place. He had never understood before, yet it seemed so obvious in retrospect. The cross was a thing of the caverns and the waters, and its placement in the church above was a mere charade. Here, in the lamplight reflected from the green waters, the strange and beautiful artifact seemed to twist and vibrate with inner life. The figure of the half-human creature was no longer caged in strands of weed. Instead, it appeared to writhe ecstatically in the flickering glow.
The Soray cross radiated the power of ancient faith and magic, and Malahide gazed at it in wonder. His sense of awe was coupled with self-mockery. He thought of his attempts to thwart the deities who were present, albeit by proxy, thanks to the wondrous symbol of their benevolence. He felt anger, too, at the stupid, evil men who had tried to steal this object, ignorant of its significance, its power.
“Father,” said Moira, gently reminding him. “The ritual.”
A third person was waiting in the cavern, but he was not one of the cult. His naked, very human body was trussed up on the top step, struggling against a tight webbing of seaweed.
“Hey, priest!” shouted the man, in an American accent. “You gotta let me go! They've all gone crazy! How did I get here? What the hell is going on? Lisa, please, why won't you talk to me, I–”
The young woman bent down and shoved a lump of slimy green organic matter into the American's mouth.
“Thank you, Lisa,” said Moira, removing her own clothing. “Now, Steve, if you will?”
The naked man gave a quick bow to the woman and, stooping to a bundle of cloth that lay on the ledge, unwrapped a dagger. Steve walked over to Malahide and presented him with the gleaming blade, which had the same curved asymmetrical look as the crucifix. The bound man began to scream through his glutinous gag. Malahide could still make out the name 'Lisa'.
The young woman looked down at the captive and gave him a tranquil smile.
“Sorry, Chad,” she said. “I've moved on. All that time looking for love with people like you. And all I really needed was a sense of belonging, in a place like this.”
“Quite right, dear,” said Moira, patting Lisa gently on the arm. “Now, Michael, if you would? The guests have begun to arrive.”
Malahide had been staring at the strange decorations on the hilt and blade of the knife. They depicted beings something like old-time mermaids and mermen, but with altogether more reptilian, or perhaps amphibian, features. A few yards away in the flooded cavern there was a stirring of waters as the Deep Ones themselves appeared. Malahide stared, seeing in one face a hint of humanity, in another none at all.
“Michael,” Moira urged gently. “They have come a long way, and have worked up quite an appetite.”
“Of course,” Malahide said, stooping to his task.
Moira Bell and the two new acolytes began to chant in a language that had been old before the Sphinx and the pyramids. The offering writhed more violently, eyes bugging in terror, as Malahide serenely began to open the torso lengthwise.
My first communion in a new faith.
Epilogue: London
“But he did not complete the task!” protested James Nisbet. “Not properly, at any rate!”
A couple of members looked up from their armchairs. One even made a distinct shushing sound. The Secretary looked amused, and wagged a finger at Nisbet in reproof.
“Composure, lad; one must keep it all times. Tea?”
“Oh for God's–” Nisbet began, but this time the shushing was louder, from several directions. More quietly, Nisbet continued, “He was supposed to bring back the Soray treasure, yes? That's what it said!”
The Secretary finished pouring two cups of tea, put the pot down, then looked speculatively at the cake-stand.
“So hard to decide,” he murmured. “One of life's few remaining pleasures, and yet even confectionery can be troublesome. Do you favor the éclair over the profiterole?”
“Did he perform the task correctly?” hissed Nisbet.
“Yes,” said the Secretary, simply. “He did. Because he found out what happened to the Soray treasure, and came back with a small part of it. That was sufficient.”
The older man picked up a profiterole, opened his mouth wide, and popped it inside, all the while staring at Nisbet. The Secretary gave a gulp, then a brief smile of satisfaction. He picked up a napkin and dabbed at his mouth.
“He also got innocent people killed!” Nisbet objected. “Is that acceptable?”
“Your employee, Mister Burdus, was killed,” the Secretary pointed out. “Now some might say that by pointing him our way you were responsible for that. And as for innocence, well, that was not quite the case – not entirely. Was it?”
Nisbet sat back in his chair, looked out of the window.
“How did the smug bugger survive, anyway?”
The Secretary shrugged, poured some milk into his teacup.
“How does anyone survive? A combination of talent, good fortune,
and perhaps some outside assistance. That's how life is. The utterly self-reliant hero is a concern for Hollywood scriptwriters, not sensible folk. Your tea is getting cold, young man.”
Nisbet picked up his cup and then set it down again, rattling the delicate china.
“Damn it,” he said. “Why bother with this charade at all? You know he's totally unsuitable for the club. Our higher calling–”
Again, the Secretary raised an admonitory digit.
“We must never speak of that in here,” he warned. “This is the Reading Room. And even if it were not, you are not a member of the Inner Circle. It is not for you to pass remarks on long-term policy.”
Chastened, Nisbet picked up a slice of carrot cake and took a bite. A chunk of creamy confectionery fell onto his well-tailored pants.
“Bugger,” he exclaimed, dabbing at the mess.
“It will dry clean,” the Secretary said. “Some problems are easily solved. Others take time, and a little effort.”
Nisbet looked up, the cake stain temporarily forgotten.
“Is this all a plan to get rid of Fox, or do you actually want to recruit him?”
The Secretary sighed deeply.
“Passing remarks. Again. Finish your cake, lad.”
***
After Dan finished, Savita poured herself a glass of water.
“It's a pity these sessions are confidential,” she said. “I could make a fortune by simply recording them and uploading them to YouTube. This one, in particular, would be a great little earner. Not sure about the title, though. Monsters Galore?”
Dan frowned in puzzlement.
“There's an old comedy film about a Scottish island called Whisky Galore,” she explained. “It was a lot more realistic, though.”
“You don't believe me,” said Dan. “I wouldn't. I'm not offended.”
“I don't disbelieve you,” she pointed out. “I'm here to listen to you, not form a judgment on whether strange humanoid beings living on the bottom of the sea have colonized a small Scottish island.”
Dan laughed, breaking the tension. He had been unsure as to whether he should continue his therapy sessions. But Savita was the one person to whom he could tell the complete, unvarnished truth. And it felt good to unburden himself.
“So,” she said, after taking a sip of water. “What next? Are you going to carry on performing missions for this Mephisto Club?”
“That's what I wanted to talk about,” Dan said, reaching inside his jacket.
He drew out an envelope made from costly-looking cream paper and held it up so she could see it. Savita frowned, held up a hand as if to ward off a threat.
“Ooh, can't stand bloody spiders!” she said. “Even pictures are too much.”
“You should get some therapy,” he said. “I hear it can do wonders.”
She gave a weary smile.
“Okay,” he conceded. “You've heard that one before. Point is, I haven't opened it yet. All I know is that it's got a spider drawn on the outside. So what does that imply?”
Savita held up a slender, dusky hand.
“One, drawn into a web of some kind. But that's a given, as you're involved with this shady club. Two, there's the old rhyme that goes 'come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly'. Kind of a variation on number one, really – you might be walking into a trap. Again, kind of obvious. Three, spiders are famous for their tenacity, as in the legend of King Robert the Bruce. How does it go? If at first you don't succeed–”
“Try and try and try again,” Dan put in. “Let's see what it actually says.”
He slit the envelope open with a thumbnail and took out a sheet of paper. Opening it, he felt a sense of anticlimax.
“Just like the first time,” he said. “Not very useful.”
He passed the paper over to Savita, who read, “Shiel Manor Spider Idol.”
She passed the note back to Dan.
“I'm guessing Shiel Manor is a place in this country,” she mused, “so finding it isn't going to be the challenge, huh?”
“No,” said Dan. “I guess this idol will be the tricky part.”
“Well, rather you than me,” she said, with an elaborate shudder. “Creepy crawlies, not my cup of tea.”
Dan saw the shadowed corner of the room behind Savita begin to grow dark, as spreading shadows swallowed the last of the August sunshine. The therapist shuddered, drew her silk scarf closer around her throat. Melinda stepped forward out of the gloom, crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and held up clawed hands over Savita's head. But it was not the ghost of his lover that Dan was looking at, or not completely. Behind Melinda, just visible in the deepening darkness, work was under way. Many-legged creatures, each with a swollen body bigger than a man's fist, were weaving a curtain of silver-gray threads.
* * *
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Table of Contents
Prologue: North Atlantic, 1588 AD
Chapter 1: Outsiders
Chapter 2: Ghosts and Strangers
Dark Waters (Mephisto Club Series Book 1) Page 15
