by Joel Jenkins
The world became soft at the edges and yet more vibrant as his senses expanded to fill the void left by his thoughts and physical sight. Humans were, by and large, as sensitive to the paranormal as animals were to earthquakes. But they put on blinders instinctively, blocking out everything but what was ahead of them.
He could see the lights of each person’s Ka flickering like candles in the fog all about him. The Ka, or Odic Force, as Baron Von Reichenbach referred to it, was a force which permeated all living things, to greater or lesser degrees. It wasn’t quite a soul or the life-force, but something in-between and indefinable. Some were brighter than others, and some guttered like matches in a breeze.
As he looked about the room, the common factor among those chosen by the red-clad society members became evident. The Ka of each and every one blazed like a torch. He was so taken aback that he didn’t realize that he was no longer alone until a hand suddenly fastened on his arm. “What’s this, then? A party-crasher?” a woman’s voice asked.
His third eye slammed shut, hard enough to send a wave of pain rippling through his mind as he was abruptly wrenched back to reality. St. Cyprian turned, and fought the urge to flinch back from the speaker.
It wasn’t that she was ugly, particularly, but that there was an ineffable wrongness about her. Even as he pulled his arm free of her grip, he realized that she was the woman he and Gallowglass had followed inside. She wore a short red dress, red stockings and red gloves. In the dim light, she looked somehow out of proportion, as if her head were too small and her body too big. Her eyes shone with a peculiar, almost lurid light, and he stepped back warily. “I thought it was an open party,” he said.
“And you just invited yourself in, is that it?” she said. She smiled in an unnerving manner and patted his hand. “Well, no matter. One more or less is as the gods will.” She looked at him in an unpleasant way for a moment, and then handed him a red stamped square of card. “An invitation, if you wish. There are more pleasant entertainments around than this smelly little booze-up.” She leaned close, her eyes shining strangely. “I can see that you’re a man with a great need in you. A thirst that no amount of gin and fizzes can slake.” Her voice slid across his nerves like a bow across a violin’s strings and he felt a peculiar muzzy-headedness settle over him, just for a moment. He shook it off, his stomach roiling as he realized what had almost happened. The Strix Society was far more dangerous than he’d thought. “No. Don’t speak,” she said as she held up a hand. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes, if you’d care to tag along.”
“Oh? And where would we be going?”
“Oh not far, darling. Just a few moments, as the bird flies.” She tittered, as if at a private joke, and patted his hand again. St. Cyprian’s skin crawled at her touch, but he was careful not to let it show on his face. As she moved off through the crowd, he flicked the card up and examined it. It was cheaply done, and the only thing on it was what looked to be a stylized owl’s head. Which, given their name, wasn’t inappropriate. The Strix of Boios, Plautus and Seneca the Younger was nothing more than the common owl; a bird which had long been regarded as a harbinger of ill-omen in the Mediterranean, divine associations aside.
He tried to spot Gallowglass. He caught sight of her near the bar, and caught her attention. As she looked at him, he raised the card in a silent signal, and she nodded. While they had only known one another for little more than a year, they had already established a somewhat comfortable routine in matters such as this. He would go, and she would follow, ready to render assistance, if necessary.
The crowd was beginning to thin. The woman in red caught the crook of his arm and smiled unctuously up at him. “Come on darling, don’t dawdle,” she purred. St. Cyprian allowed her to lead him out through a side door, where they joined perhaps a dozen others on what he found to be Coventry Street. Of the dozen, less than half were dressed all in red, though two or three—Mosley among them—wore some item of it on their person. One of the red-clad men clapped Mosley on the shoulder and pumped his hand in an attitude of congratulation.
It was an initiation, then. A test, perhaps, of some innate sensitivity. In his brief time at his post, St. Cyprian had encountered more than one society dedicated to collecting individuals with certain abilities and skills, willing or otherwise. He glanced at the woman who still held his arm, and she lavished him with a penetrative stare that he could only describe as possessive. He smiled genially at her, and gave her his best impression of a blithering ass.
He heard a dolorous sound from somewhere above, and looked up to see a swirl of loose feathers and a dark shape winging away. The woman tugged on his arm. “This way,” she said. With that, the whole crowd of them began moving along Coventry Street, in the direction of Seven Dials.
It made a depressing sort of sense that the Strix Society had its lair in the midst of such a stew. Barely more than two decades prior, Seven Dials had been more popularly known as St. Giles Rookery, and had been one of the worst slums that London had to offer. The area had become a byword for squalor and depravity, and had hosted more than its fair share of occult-types; palm readers, clairvoyants, herbalists and the like had occupied, and indeed, likely still did occupy, the crooked lanes and hidden storefronts of the area. There were also Bolsheviks, Anarchists and Mafioso crowding each other in the garrets, taverns and side-streets. Too, more than one occult society had settled roots into the coiling streets, including Theosophists, Freemasons, Swedenborgians and the infamous and unlamented Esoteric Order of Thoth-Ra.
St. Cyprian still had nightmares about his abortive encounter with the latter; they’d accidentally awakened a particularly pernicious former pharaoh from his centuries-long slumber. The mummy had gone on a short, but vicious rampage before he and Gallowglass had managed to set it, and the house it was in, on fire. They’d never found what was left of it after the fire brigade had done its work. For weeks afterward, St. Cyprian had kept a wary eye on the newspapers for any sign that the creature might have survived its immolation.
The walk didn’t take long, and it wasn’t made in silence. People chatted happily and a bottle was passed around as they made their way towards an innocuous row of flats. St. Cyprian participated little in the chatter, and kept one eye on the open air above. More than once, he caught a glimpse of something, several somethings, fluttering above them. Birds, he thought, or even bats, though he couldn’t be sure.
The group was herded like so many sheep towards a singularly unprepossessing red door. It opened as they approached, and a hunchback with sandy hair and huge ears stepped aside to admit them, his eyes lingering on each person for an uncomfortable period. St. Cyprian began to suspect that whatever else the Strix Society looked for in its members, subtlety wasn’t one of them. Then, maybe subtlety would defeat the purpose. He looked about him at the others chosen, and what he saw wasn’t amusement or disgust, but interest and, in a few cases, longing.
In the years following the war, people had begun to look for reassurance where they could find it. The poor went to church, but fraudulent mediums and spiritualists were doing boom business amongst the rich, and the membership rosters of occult societies swelled as traumatized souls sought peace in the houses of mystery.
There was music echoing softly from somewhere in the back of the flat. Most of the non-load-bearing walls had been knocked out, creating the illusion of a far larger space. The wallpaper and the carpet both were a dark, disturbing red, and between them and the music, St. Cyprian fancied for a moment that he was standing in a giant’s heart. He could smell the acidic tang of insects and the air felt strangely damp.
He went with the flow, and found himself led through the flat and into what had once been a dining room and kitchen, and was now a species of sitting room. Like the rest of the flat, everything was red; the walls were stained the color of blood and a blood red rug covered part of the floor. The other part had been left bare wood, and, seemingly painted on the boards of the floor was a large, extraordinar
ily realistic image of an owl. Through an open door at the other end of the room, he spotted a narrow, high-walled garden, empty of life save for thick clusters of ivy which draped the walls and the house, stretching from one to the other like a leafy shroud.
A Victor talking machine sat in one corner, expelling music into the thick air. Drinks were doled out and hushed conversations took place here and there. The party was a muted affair, one of those shindigs where you coughed before you spoke, and then decided not to speak at all, and as he sipped a badly-stirred gin, St. Cyprian had the sense that they were waiting for something. Even as he came to this conclusion, an unseen gong sounded and a woman stepped into the room from the garden.
Where she’d come from, St. Cyprian didn’t know, for he’d seen no one outside, and there were precious few places to hide. She glided into the room, a vision of loveliness with more curves than a scenic railway, clad in thin red robes that showed off a gratuitous amount of alabaster flesh, and bestowed a glowing smile on the gathered celebrants. As that smile turned in his direction, he felt his hackles quiver and he quickly hid the resulting flinch in a gulp of gin.
“I am Helen Strix, and I bid all of you welcome,” she said. She brushed a lock of dark hair out of her soft, round features, and gestured. “Welcome to my home. May you leave a little of the happiness you bring with you.” She held out her hands. “You were all invited because in each of you is something greater, waiting to be freed. My brothers and sisters all possess it as well, and those whom I left behind in Paris, Vienna, Venice and Istanbul. And those who have already freed themselves will help you, tonight, if you wish.”
No one spoke. Recalling the muzzy-headedness he had felt earlier, he wondered if he was the only one even truly aware of what was going on. Strix went on. “You shall have your first taste of freedom tonight, in but a few moments. But until then, please...drink and make merry. Fill this lonely house with joy,” she said, motioning for the Victor to be wound back up. Her eyes flickered over the crowd and before he could look away, her eyes met his. Her eyes were like swirling pools of molten brass, and he felt something leave him as she gazed at him. His muscles felt like cotton, and his head swam. She swept towards him, a half-smile on her face. “Good evening,” she murmured.
“Funny name that,” St. Cyprian said. “Strix. Not your average handle, I must say.”
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed, Mr...?”
St. Cyprian smiled. “ St. Cyprian. Charles St. Cyprian. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Oh. Well, you have been out of the country, I suppose,” St. Cyprian said. He smiled. “That is right, isn’t it? You are newly arrived to our fair Albion, aren’t you? Do I detect the faintest hint of a Greek accent?”
She smiled in return and tapped her lips with a finger. “I have been away for some time, I am from all over, and now I am here.”
“And why did you come back?”
“Why does anyone?” she said, as she circled him slowly. “You came here looking for something. I can tell.” He tensed for a moment, but relaxed as she went on. “What is it that you are missing, Mr. St. Cyprian; Charles, may I call you Charles? Is it a woman, perhaps?” she asked teasingly. “Or a man, maybe? Whatever it is, I can help you find it, if you wish.” She stroked his cheek.
“And how would you do that?” he asked. There was a strong smell on the air, like a hawk’s roost at midday. His vision blurred for a moment as she leaned close, her breath tickling his ear, and he felt a crackle of power as she did so. Whatever Helen Strix was, she was far from human. And the fear he’d felt earlier was back, stronger than before, and at that moment, he wished he’d gone to the Savoy after all.
“I can show you,” she whispered. Then she was whirling away, her robes flaring about her as she clapped her hands. “Bring out the flowers, sisters!” As she spoke, a number of women, now clad in robes similar to Strix’s rather than the red dresses they had been wearing before, entered the room bearing wooden trays. Upon each tray lay small heaps of white flowers. Every person in the room was given a flower. St. Cyprian took his gingerly. The petals were fleshy and curled tight to the thin, pale stem. Faint veins of red ran through them, and he was suddenly struck by a memory of a dead horse, caught on the barbed wire at the Somme and the white folds of decomposing fat which flopped appallingly from its eviscerated body.
“Lower the lights please, Evelyn,” Strix said, to one of the women. She looked about, smiling in a pleased, almost matriarchal fashion. “The flowers you hold are from the Balkans. And they are the key to unlocking your inner potential. Eating of their petals is the first step on your road to finding what you seek, be it wealth, love or power. It can all be yours. Eat, and be shown the way.” The red-clad members of the Society began to sit or lay down on the floor, eating their flowers as they made themselves comfortable. After a moment, several of the guests followed suit. Others, like St. Cyprian, still stood, uncertain.
Strix smiled at these, and continued, “The second step is concentration. Hold in your mind the vision of one who stands in your way or is the object of your desire.” She inclined her head. “We all have them, friends; the woman or man who refuses your love, the banker who ignores your request, the politician, the neighbour, the rival on the pitch, or even the family of a loved one,” she said, and gestured towards Mosley, whose face darkened momentarily. “At the root of all the world’s ills is man, and as for the world, so for you. Enemies, friends, rivals, obstacles all in your path. Let your mind and spirit slip the tethers of flesh until you fly through the dark like the stirges of legend.”
As she spoke, her eyes seemed to reflect the dim light like an animal’s. “Find them, find the scent of their soul and fly to their side. Drink of their vitality, fill the emptiness in you and be rewarded with a fulfilment that no material experience can provide.” She held up a hand as one of the invitees began to speak. “Do not fret; they shall not be harmed by the experience. And they shall have no knowledge of your visit. But they shall become amenable to you. In time, they may even be considered for membership in our august club, even as you yourselves are.”
She held up her hands. “You have until dawn, my friends, for we may only fly by night, when the world is dark and quiet. Fly quickly, and fly sure, and in the morning, you will see that everything is as I promised. Eat and dream and fly my brothers and sisters, and all you desire shall be yours.” Her voice reverberated oddly and St. Cyprian was tempted, despite himself. He looked about, and saw slack faces and dull eyes that no amount of booze could explain.
There was a power to her words and gestures that was almost hypnotic, and he knew, in that instant, that Helen Strix needed no flower to feed on the vitality of others. She did it with her eyes and voice, and if he allowed himself to be lulled, he would be as lost as those he’d come with.
Hastily, he put the flower in his pocket and made for the garden. No one tried to stop him. He closed the door behind him as he walked into the garden. Outside, the cool night air helped clear his head, and the muzzy feeling evaporated. He could think clearly again, and with that clarity came a cold surge of fear. The situation was far worse than he’d first thought, and required immediate action. He was considering just what that action might be when someone said, “What are you doing out here?”
He turned. Oswald Mosley glared at him from the stoop. “I say, did you hear me? What are you doing?” he asked again, as he closed the door behind him.
“Just getting a bit of fresh air, what? Bit close in there for my constitution, you know?” St. Cyprian replied, smiling doltishly. “Ruddy strange party, if you want my opinion.”
“I’m sure I don’t. Come back inside, there’s a good chap.” Mosley reached for him, and St. Cyprian let the other man grab his sleeve. As he lurched towards Mosley, he widened his eyes comically.
“I say, is that you Mosley?”
Mosley’s eyes narrowed. “You know me?”
“Do I?”
“Who wants to know?” St. Cyprian said.
“I asked you first,” Mosley snapped. He made to grab St. Cyprian, and the latter staggered back, out of reach and away from the door. Mosley followed him. As they reached the middle of the garden, St. Cyprian straightened.
“My name is St. Cyprian. Your father-in-law to be sent me,” he said softly. Mosley stopped. His dark eyes widened slightly and he frowned.
“What? Why?” he demanded.
“I think you know why, Mosley.”
Mosley smirked. “It’s none of his business, I should think. And yours neither, whoever the devil you are.”
“Oh you’d be wrong there. This is indeed my business, if what I suspect about what’s going on in there is true. Is that how they got you? A promise, then a taste and then…what?” St. Cyprian cocked his head. “Curzon was looking quite ill. What would you know about that, I wonder?”
“What are you doing out here?”
Mosley’s face flushed. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“I think you do. And I think you had best come with me, for the sake of your soul, if not his,” St. Cyprian said harshly.
“I’m not leaving,” Mosley growled. “And neither are you.” He swung a fist. St. Cyprian easily avoided the blow, and caught the other man in the belly with a swift blow of his own. Mosley wheezed and bent forward. St. Cyprian caught him easily and dragged him backwards, away from the door, towards the back wall. Once they were far enough away, he caught Mosley a blow on the jaw. Mosley’s eye lids fluttered and he dropped.
“Hsst.” He looked up, and saw a familiar face peering at him from the top of the wall. “You didn’t half knock the bugger silly, did you?” Gallowglass said wonderingly.
