‘It must look very stupid to you.’
‘No, it’s wonderful.’ A pause. ‘If only it were me.’
The silence in the car was suddenly tense.
‘Frankie…’
‘It’s OK, Gabriel. I’ve accepted that I’m not the one you love any more.’
‘I do love you.’
‘And you always will. But I can’t compete with a woman like Morrighan Monk. I’m slippers and hot cocoa by the fire. Morrighan is an adrenaline rush.’ She smiled again; a smile full of sorrow. ‘But I want you to know that when you get tired of always being on a high, I’ll be waiting. Adrenaline rushes are hard on the body.’
Gabriel held out his arms and drew her close to him. For a long time they sat like that, simply hugging, not speaking. What was wrong with him? He and Frankie were meant for each other. When she returned to his life, it had seemed to him as though they had been given a second chance. But that was before he read the diary. The diary had bewitched him.
Frankie stirred against his chest. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Get some sleep. I don’t know why Minnaloushe is laying off, but I should probably grab some sleep while I can. But first, there is one thing I need to check out.’
‘What?’
‘It may not be important. But if it is, I promise I’ll call you.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Whatever happens, Frankie, I want you to know I am so grateful to you.’
‘I know.’ She smiled lopsidedly. ‘So get out of here. Get some rest.’
Watching her drive away, he started to walk towards his apartment building. There was indeed something he should have checked out long ago. He was surprised that he hadn’t followed it up earlier. He prided himself on being meticulous: his success as an information thief depended on it. In his defence, it was probably fair to say that he had had rather a lot on his mind over the past few days. Like brain bleeds. Like death.
As he stepped into the lift and punched the button for the top floor, Gabriel removed his mobile from his trouser pocket. Pressing the call log button, he scrolled down to the last message he had received from Isidore and pressed playback.
He brought the mobile up to his ear. The sound of Isidore’s voice, so immediate, so alive, caused his heart to contract painfully.
Gabe. Call me. I have interesting news. No, I have stupendous news. A sepulchral laugh. Beware the crow…
The lift shuddered to a halt. Gabriel shoved the mobile back into his pocket and took out the keys to his front door. A strange urgency had taken possession of him.
His apartment was in darkness but the neon glow outside his windows was strong enough to allow him to walk to his desk without switching on any of the lights. Without even pausing to take off his coat, he slid into his work chair and tapped the keyboard.
The screensaver disappeared. He logged on to the search engine and typed in one word only.
Crow.
Results one to ten of 3,920,000 filled his screen.
3,920,000? Good grief.
He tapped the ‘New Search’ button again.
Crow AND Magic
The first ten entries of a mere 514,000 possibilities came up.
This was not going to be easy. Absent-mindedly, he stared at the objects on his desk, bathed in the computer screen’s lunar light. The damaged African mask was lying in his out-tray. He couldn’t remember placing it there. But then his memory was pretty poor these days. The face seemed oddly rakish with its grinning mouth and the wide crack running like a battle scar through one eye socket.
He placed his fingers on the keyboard.
Minnaloushe AND crow
0 results found.
For a moment he hesitated.
Morrighan AND crow
The screen flipped over.
Morrighan: Irish mythology. Derived from the Irish Mhor Rioghain meaning ‘Great Queen’. In Irish mythology, she was the goddess of war and death. She offered herself to those warriors she had chosen and if they accepted her they were victorious in battle. Those who refused her died. A shape-shifter, she often took the form of a crow.
For a moment he felt as though all the breath had left his body.
Morrighan. Not Minnaloushe.
Morrighan was the woman he had encountered in the house of a million doors, a black crow her constant companion.
Morrighan was the killer.
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ The whispered words came from directly behind him.
He swung round. From within the deep armchair scarcely three feet away, a figure lifted her hand and the tall lamp next to the chair blazed to life. The light fell on the woman’s hair.
Red hair.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The red hair fell to her shoulders like a burning waterfall. Her face was pale.
Minnaloushe. The voice in the diary.
His love.
And it suddenly made immediate sense. No wonder he had had such a difficult time coming to terms with the idea that Minnaloushe was the killer. It had never felt right. His internal compass had tried to tell him he was looking in the wrong direction.
She stepped closer and glanced at the screen. ‘So you figured it out. I knew you would.’
‘Morrighan killed Robert Whittington.’
‘Yes.’
‘And his father. And Isidore.’
‘I’m sorry, Gabriel. I’m sorry for everything. Your friend—’ She brought her hand up to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry about him.’
‘Morrighan is the remote viewer.’
Minnaloushe nodded. Her eyes seemed haunted.
‘Who is the architect of the memory palace?’
‘I am.’
‘Then I don’t understand.’
‘I’ll explain it all. But first, just hold me. I need you to hold me.’ She stepped forward until she was standing right in front of him. This close, he could see the texture of her skin and the delicate laughter lines at the corners of her eyes.
She placed her hands hesitantly on his chest. He did not respond.
Like a young girl she stood on tiptoe and kissed him chastely on the cheek.
His breath caught. But still his arms hung like lead at his sides, as though he were held in a spell.
She stepped back and brought a trembling hand to her lips.
Silence. Then she said one word only and he heard her voice break: ‘Please.’
The spell broke. He reached out and pulled her roughly towards him.
• • •
He made love to her—the two of them wrapped in a cocoon of light, the edges bleeding into the dark shadows of the room.
He ran his thumb over her feathered eyebrows, across the sweep of her cheekbone and down to her chin.
She was his.
He touched her body, in awe. She was his to touch and feel and enter. The idea of it was almost too much for him to grasp. He had read her diary and he had fantasised. But the woman of his imagination had been as insubstantial as air. And now, when he had least expected it, here she was—glorious flesh and blood—her pulse racing beneath his fingers. Her eyes were languid. Her mouth was slack. As he touched her mouth, she opened it slightly and against his finger he felt the moist inside of her lower lip.
He picked up the spill of hair and kissed the nape of her neck. She smelled of attar of roses. He flicked his tongue across her breastbone, and pressed his lips to the pampered skin in the hollow of her throat.
Everything about her body was amazing. The pale half-moons of her nails. The underside of her arm, gleaming like mother-of-pearl. The subtle slope of her shoulders with the skin so soft when he touched it he wondered if his hands were not too rough. At the base of her spine the Monas embraced by a red rose. Drops of blood beading on its spiked thorns. Pleasure. Pain.
Lifting her arms above her head, he licked the exposed hollows. His mouth travelled slowly down the entire length of her body, tracing the sculptured outline of ribs, the lovely rounded hip and long, smooth thigh. Round he
r ankle she wore a delicately linked chain made of gold. It flicked bright in the gloom. He took her foot in his hand, kissed the raised arch, the pink rounded toes.
In his life he had loved one woman: Frankie. There had been other women, of course, and he had usually felt great fondness towards them. But as he looked at the woman who was now lying in his arms, staring up at him with eyes like bright water, he realised that of all the women he had known, he had adored—truly adored—only one.
He could be consumed by this woman. He could lose himself in her, lose his identity. The intensity of what he was feeling was overpowering. He might burn up in the boiling, spinning heat. But he did not care. How many people ever got to experience what he was experiencing at this moment?
He kissed her eyes, her nose, her lips, cupped her face in his hands. He stroked her fingers one by one. He entered her, slipping inside her so deeply. Where did her flesh end? Where did his begin?
He sensed a purr coming from deep within her throat. Her fingers tapped against his shoulders. And then he felt her grip tighten and her nails cut sharply into the skin of his back. As he lost control he felt her shudder underneath him and he was gripped by a primitive sense of triumph. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her so tightly that she made a muffled sound of protest and laughter.
Pushing him away from her, she coaxed him onto his stomach. As she lowered herself on top of him, he could feel her breasts soft against his back. Her arms were resting on his, their fingers intertwined.
For a long while they stayed like that, not moving. Against the sensitive skin of his neck he felt her breath as it left her mouth gently. Her breathing slowed. She was asleep.
If only they could stay like this. In this safe room, within this warm bed. The clocks stopped. No tragedy. No danger.
She stirred and made a soft whimpering sound. Her arm reached past him to the bedside table and she turned the alarm clock towards her in order to see the time.
‘It’s very late.’
‘Or very early.’ He smiled and suddenly turned over and flipped her onto her back.
She gave a small shriek and laughed, clasping her hands to his shoulders. Propping himself up on one elbow, he pushed the heavy hair from her forehead.
She will age well, he thought, looking down at the lovely face under his hand. The intelligence in her eyes will remain undiminished; the beautiful bone structure as fine. The laughter and wisdom and quicksilver playfulness will not fade, nor that strange, wonderful luminosity which envelops her very being.
‘Minnaloushe.’
She smiled at him. Her smile was the smile of a woman who had made love and was now feeling satisfied and intensely feminine. She rolled her head on the pillow, pressing her face into the soft down, and stretched.
‘Minnaloushe… will you tell me what happened?’
She stilled the movement of her body and he felt her muscles tense.
She turned her head towards him and he saw the sheen of her eyes. For a long moment there was quiet between them.
Then she said, ‘I will tell you everything.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
‘Why did Morrighan murder that boy?’
Minnaloushe had moved to the far side of the bed. She was hugging herself, the line of her shoulders taut. The empty stretch of sheet between them seemed to signify a mental, not just a physical divide.
He tried to make his voice sound less accusing. ‘Why, Minnaloushe?’
‘Morrighan was worried Robbie might betray her. That once I knew, I would stop building the memory palace.’
‘Know what? And why is that bloody palace important enough to kill for?’
‘It is the ultimate prize, Gabriel. Within its walls lies enlightenment. Behind its doors lies knowledge of the great secrets. People have killed for far less…’
‘My mother’s death.’ Minnaloushe was nodding. Bright tears stood in her eyes. ‘That’s where it all began…’
• • •
When Jacqueline Monk died at the age of fifty-three, her brain was a tangle of protein plaques interspersed with soft spots where the tissue had simply given way. She was still a beautiful woman, but Alzheimer’s disease had erased her memory and her personality. The sight of her two daughters standing at her bedside was the last impression she had before her breath finally left her body, but the image of the weeping girls made little imprint on her emotions. She did not know who they were.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead tells that a person’s last thought at the moment of death determines the character of their next life. Looking into her mother’s lost eyes, sixteen-year-old Minnaloushe Monk felt her heart break. Her mother’s final thoughts… what could they be?
For the young girl, whose interest in mysticism was already highly developed, her mother’s loss of memory was profoundly traumatic. Memory, Minnaloushe came to believe, was what set man apart from all other living things in creation. Without memory, you have no sense of self. Without memory, you cannot remember the road you’ve travelled, and you have gained nothing from the present life. Even at such a young age, she began to study the concept of memory with a driving hunger.
As time went by, her studies took on an even wider spiritual significance. Not only memory, but knowledge itself, was now the object. Perfect knowledge, which could lead to direct contact with God.
Gnosis.
• • •
It is nineteen years ago. Minnaloushe Monk is seventeen years old. Outside the window, it is night. Lamplight pools on the pages of the book she is reading.
The founding of Gnosticism, or religion of knowledge, is widely credited to the miracle-worker Simon Magus, who was branded the ‘father of all heresies’ by his enemies. Gnosticism became a reviled practice, considered a dangerous, heretical sect in orthodox Christian circles. But even before the birth of Christ, Gnostic ideas had already surfaced in the Egyptian mystery cults and in Buddhism, Taoism and Zoroastrianism. The idea that man may gain insight into the secrets of God by striving for ultimate knowledge is an old belief.
A movement at the door draws her attention away from the book. Morrighan has entered the room. Minnaloushe watches her sister walk over to the CD player and a few seconds later the sound of violin notes fills the air. ‘Andante cantabile.’ Tchaikovsky’s string quartet no. 1, opus 11. It had been their mother’s favourite piece.
Minnaloushe watches warily as Morrighan lowers herself into an armchair. She is always wary where Morrighan is concerned; has long since given up on the idea that the two of them could be close. How sad, she thinks, looking at Morrighan’s face—the elegant cheekbones, the black hair smoothed into a sleek French twist—to look at your sister and know that you have absolutely nothing in common with her.
But tonight Morrighan seems unsure of herself. In fact—Minnaloushe surprises herself with the word—she looks vulnerable. Maybe because today is the first anniversary of their mother’s death. Earlier, when they had taken flowers to the grave, she had noticed tears in Morrighan’s eyes.
‘You’re leaving for school tomorrow?’ Morrighan nods at the volumes stacked up on the desk.
‘Yes.’ Minnaloushe quietly closes the book in front of her. Let Morrighan think she was busy with school work.
‘I’ll drive you.’
‘No need. I’ll take the train.’
‘Please. I want to.’
Curious… and unexpected. But Minnaloushe nods. ‘Thanks.’
For a while they are quiet. Then Morrighan leans forward and says the words which change the relationship between the sisters forever.
‘Minnaloushe, I have a secret to tell you.’
• • •
If the death of Jacqueline Monk represented a turning point in the life of her younger daughter, it was only fair to say it had a similarly powerful impact on the elder. At the time, black-haired Morrighan Monk was seventeen years old. For five years she had belonged to a secret society of teenage girls: a pseudo-wicca coven where the members talked abou
t goddesses, lapis, magic, boys and MTV with equal enthusiasm. Morrighan’s revelation that she was descended from the great wizard John Dee conferred on her special status in the group and gave the young woman a strong sense of identity.
It was during this time that she also made a discovery about herself which at first alarmed and then delighted her. She had a secret muscle inside her brain, which she could flex almost at will. It allowed her to ‘see’ inside the minds of others. She was wise enough to know that such a gift would breed fear rather than admiration in her classmates and decided to keep this knowledge, unlike the story of her ancestry, to herself.
But the discovery of her gift fuelled her interest in magic. Remote viewing, she was convinced, was essentially a magical act. After her discovery, the magic-lite of her wicca coven no longer satisfied her and she embarked on a serious study of the occult. Her main interest was talismans: ordinary objects turned into tools of magic through precise magical rules. Her talismanic knowledge would become all-important later in her life, as would her gift of remote viewing.
Most viewers discover their gift in childhood and share the discovery with a parent, a sibling or a close friend. Morrighan did not. It was a skill she relished, played with and refined—but kept deadly quiet. She had no intention of letting on to anyone. Least of all her sister.
But then her mother died. On the first anniversary of Jacqueline’s death, Morrighan found herself saying, ‘Minnaloushe, I have a secret to tell you.’ The confession wouldn’t have been made if she hadn’t been grieving. Afterwards, she fully expected derision from her sister. Instead, she found whole-hearted acceptance.
Up till that moment, the sisters had not been close. They were jealous of each other and had little in common. Minnaloushe was the cerebral one, Morrighan the athlete. They grew up at separate boarding schools and saw each other infrequently. But on that evening, with the scent of their mother’s roses drifting in from the garden and violin notes stirring memories of childhood, the sisters had the first open-hearted conversation with each other they could remember. And they made a surprising discovery. Far from not having anything in common, they realised they were both mystics. They were approaching their goal from different directions, but they were on the same journey. A journey which over the years would metamorphose into a project which was vastly ambitious.
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