by David Wood
The scuffle of footsteps, someone hurrying along, made her nervous. “Come on, we’re late!” a voice said urgently. Rose quickly ducked around the low stone wall and crouched in shadows across the bridge from the witch carving. Two young men jogged up to where she had just been standing, their faces concealed in the pulled-up hoods of sweatshirts. They didn’t look around, and she was thankful for that. Her hiding place was rudimentary and wouldn’t have passed even cursory scrutiny, but it sufficed for these young men in a hurry. One of them trotted straight up to the witch pillar and put his thumb against the carved jack-o-lantern half concealed by the witch’s flapping cloak. He pressed hard, and the pumpkin sank back. With his other hand, he took hold of the witch and twisted anti-clockwise. There was a deep click, and the man stepped quickly back as the ground at his feet, right at the base of the pillar, sank two or three inches, and slid back. The two men hurried down the stone steps it revealed and disappeared into the darkness. Almost immediately, the stone trapdoor slid closed again.
Rose shook her head in wonder. Would she have figured it out? It didn’t matter now, she knew she was onto something. More voices. This time Rose moved further away, chose a better hiding place, and waited. Two more people, a man and woman of early middle age, checked quickly around themselves to ensure they were alone, and then copied precisely what the two young men had done, and disappeared below the bridge.
Rose waited a few more minutes, but no one else came along. Maybe that was the last of them. The first two lads had said they were late, so perhaps anyone coming was already inside. Whatever inside was. Crowley would go in, she knew that. If she were with him, she’d most definitely go along. The question was, did she have the courage to go alone? Well, if Crowley would go, and he definitely would, Rose could summon the courage too. Hurrying over, before nerves got the better of her, she pressed the pumpkin, twisted the witch, and stepped back. The ground slid open. The steps led down a fair distance, disappearing into gloomy shadows. But orange light, flickering like flames, leaked up, so it wasn’t pitch dark down there. Taking a deep breath, Rose started down, and the bridge closed over the top of her.
The steps led down to an arched tunnel, and she heard voices, a kind of monotone chanting. The passageway went along a short way, then grew brighter as it opened out. There were steps at the end leading down to a vast open space, brick walls, and an arched ceiling. Flaming brands stood on poles all around the edges of the walls. Above the brands, a narrow gallery, a kind of thin mezzanine, encircled half of the room, accessed from either side of the tunnel she stood in, instead of taking the steps down.
Rose moved as quietly as she could to one side of the gallery and squatted in the deep shadows there, watching between thick stone balusters. In a semi-circle around one side of the large room were a couple of dozen people, their voices providing the chanting, all wearing long masks that concealed their features completely. She spotted the two hooded lads among them.
Before them stood a raised dais, on it an altar covered in a black silk cloth. Atop the cloth were eight tall, thick black wax candles, burning brightly. A man in a heavy black robe, lined with red silk, stood at the altar, his arms raised as if accepting their worship. The hood of the robe was up, the man’s face lost in shadow. The voices seemed to be speaking a form of corrupted Latin, but Rose couldn’t quite pick out the phrases. Either way, this wasn’t some pagan ritual or modern Wicca. This was black magic, surely. Modern Wicca was a fairly benign belief system, but this had the feel of something entirely more malevolent.
Then someone started screaming. The voices chanting rose suddenly over it, in volume and passion, the delivery fevered. A man was dragged out, shouting and hollering, his eyes wide in terror. The masked men holding him either side lifted him roughly and slammed him face down onto the altar, his scream ending sharply in a whoosh of air. He began babbling, shouting “No, no, no!” over and over as the two men held him down by pulling his arms out to either side and leaning their weight into them. A third masked man stepped up and leaned over the unfortunate man’s thrashing legs, pinning him to the altar. His protestations continued.
The leader, his hood still up, moved around to the man’s head and held up a large silver tool of some strange design. It looked like a hand drill, but with a broad, serrated bit. The chants of those who had congregated in this dark place increased pitch and fervor again. Rose clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in horror. Surely this couldn’t be happening. What could she do about it? Against this many people, she was impotent.
The high priest, or whatever he was, pressed one hand hard into the top of the prone victim’s head, squashing his face into the altar. With the other hand, he placed the disturbing metal instrument just at the base of the man’s skull and squeezed a trigger-like control. The toothed bit spun, and the man screamed, high and long, in pain and terror. Rose realized the priest was coring out a section of the man’s skull. She felt dizzy with shock and disgust. The drill punched through, and the man’s scream ended abruptly. Blood flooded from the hole. The chanting continued as the hooded man extracted something from his victim’s brain with a syringe, his own voice rising over the chant, claiming, “The brothers will be reunited again!”
He repeated the phrase over and over as he took a small silver knife and slipped it into the hole in the skull. With a deft movement, he cut a chunk out of the victim’s brain and ate it right off the shining, blood-soaked blade. Rose gasped, despite her hand pressed over her face, her body shaking. This practiced ritual was so efficient, the priest-like man had obviously done it dozens, maybe hundreds of times before.
The man threw back his head in ecstasy, his hood falling away, and Rose saw Matthew Price’s face clearly. Even though it confirmed all her worst suspicions, it was a shock that made her heart skip a beat, the breath lock in her throat.
Price looked right at her and Rose stilled as if frozen instantly. His dark eyes flickered in the torchlight, then his gaze moved on. He must not have seen her in the shadows, but for a second, it had been as if their eyes locked. Taking no more chances, Rose scurried away and ran back up the tunnel as fast as she could. At the end, she ran up the stairs, and a new panic struck her. How did she get out? How did the ground open from the inside?
She scrabbled around the stone walls, doing her best to suppress sobs that threatened to burst out of her like a flock of startled birds. Her hand brushed over something, and she turned to look. A simple lever, cold metal in a narrow slot in the wall. She yanked down on it, and the deep click sounded, the stone above her sinking down and sliding back. Gasping in the fresh air of Central Park, Rose ran up the last few steps and out next to the pillar with Jacob’s Witch carved into it.
She jerked as a heavy hand grasped her shoulder.
Chapter 32
Crowley headed back to the hotel, first along East 60th Street, heading for the south end of Central Park. The road wasn’t too busy, the foot traffic thin. He passed a woman with a shopping cart, muttering to herself, wrapped up in three or four coats. He offered a smile as she passed, and the woman gasped, stopped to stare. Her dirty face was intense, dark eyes glittering in the streetlights.
“What is it?” Crowley asked. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes, I’m just fine. But you’re not, are you.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m not?”
The woman leaned forward, gaze intensifying. Crowley felt as though she were looking not into his eyes, but through them, her gaze searing his soul. “You’re marked,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means there are clouds about you. Shadows and clouds, darkness binding you, wrapping you up!”
Crowley swallowed, licked suddenly dry lips. He had nothing to say to that. He wasn’t even sure what she meant.
The woman nodded as though he had told her he understood her words. “Watch your back, young man. And beware the knife.”
“O... okay. I will. Thank you.” It felt weird to
thank her, but there was a weight to her warning that he couldn’t ignore.
The woman continued on her way. Crowley stood on the sidewalk for a moment. He’d barely recovered from the adrenaline rush of his close shave at the Grolier Club, now this strange woman had him worked up again. He glanced back and startled slightly to see her standing on the corner, staring back at him. She lifted one hand and made a throat-cutting gesture with it, then wagged her index finger once left, once right. As Crowley’s mouth fell open, she turned and pushed her cart around the corner and disappeared from sight.
“Holy hell,” Crowley whispered to himself. “This is one weird night.”
It was nearly two in the morning, and all he wanted was to collapse into a warm bed and nestle up close to Rose. He hoped she wasn’t too cranky with him for doing this job alone. But he had been successful, so surely she would be happy about that. He carried on and was about to turn left onto 5th Avenue, right at the southeast corner of Central Park, when a man crossed the street towards him. Crowley recognized him immediately.
“Matthew Price!” he said in surprise. “You’re out very late.”
“Oh, ah, Jake. Well, so are you.”
There was an awkward moment while Crowley tried to think what on earth he could say to the man without sounding like a fool. Price’s cheeks were flushed like he’d enjoyed a few drinks, but his eyes were bright. Even his skin seemed to glow somehow, and Crowley realized it was because the man appeared to have a fewer wrinkles than the last time they’d met. Surely Crowley was imagining that.
“I went out to catch up with an old pal,” Crowley said. “We ended up talking and drinking far later than I expected.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s not often you get to see people here, so make the most of it, eh?”
“My sentiments exactly. I hope Rose won’t be too angry with me for staying out.”
“Surely she’s asleep by now. If you sneak in quietly enough, she need never know. She’ll be dead to the world.”
Crowley frowned at Price’s choice of words. The man seemed gleeful in a way Crowley couldn’t quite reconcile. Perhaps he was drunk. “What about you?” he asked.
“What about me?” Price asked.
“You’re out late too.”
“Ah, yes. Well, when one reaches my age, it’s sometimes hard to sleep. I find that a brisk walk around the outskirts of the park is better than staring up at the ceiling in the dark.”
“That makes sense. Nice to bump into you, but I’d better be getting along.”
“And you. I’ve been so busy lately, which is probably half the reason I can’t sleep. And I’ve been neglecting your aunt. I’ll have to make things up with Trudy when my business calms down again.”
“I’m sure she understands,” Crowley said. “Rose and I had a nice dinner with her just this evening, in fact. She’s well.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Now, you’d better get home to bed!”
“See you soon, I hope.”
Price smiled. “Oh, I hope so too.”
Crowley turned and headed south along 5th Avenue, discomforted by the meeting. He didn’t buy the insomnia excuse at all. He glanced back and saw Price watching. The old man raised a hand in farewell, and Crowley returned the gesture. He continued on and glanced back again a few paces later, but Price was out of sight. Crowley paused, a smile tugging at his lips.
... a brisk walk around the outskirts of the park...
If he were making a circuit of the park, Crowley should be able to see him heading north up 5th Avenue. But it seemed Price had continued east. And if that were the case, could he be heading towards the Grolier Club, perhaps? Crowley turned back and ran up to the corner he had just left. Sure enough, there was Price, halfway along the block heading towards the Club.
Crowley pulled Jerkwad’s phone from his pocket and, hiding in the shadows of the corner, he tapped to call the only number in the phone’s memory. After a couple of seconds, Price patted his jacket pocket and then pulled out his own phone. The call was answered.
“Hello?” Price said into Crowley’s ear. “Where have you been? Hello?”
Price pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it as if staring might answer the mystery for him. With a smile, Crowley hung up and pocketed the purloined phone again. He turned back and resumed his walk back to the hotel.
Chapter 33
When the heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder, Rose had sucked in a breath to scream, but another hand quickly covered her mouth.
“Please, don’t scream. I’m not going to hurt you!”
“Derek?” Rose said as the hand on her mouth lifted slightly.
“Don’t scream?”
“Okay.” Her heart raced, but she was so thankful it wasn’t someone from the cellar room below the bridge that Rose was prepared to hear him out. She was released and turned to see the bulky janitor standing there, his face a picture of misery.
“We need to move away from here,” he said.
He had led her away from the Bethesda Terrace, up to a hilly, wooded area of Central Park called The Ramble. There, within the privacy of night and shadows, they talked.
“We needed to get away before the others came out,” Derek said.
“You were in there?” Rose asked, aghast. “You’re part of this?” She had the urge to hit him as hard as she could and run, especially after he’d creeped her out so much before. That he was part of that atrocious murder she’d seen was too much. But something in his face, some measure of shame and unmasked fear, made her pause.
“Derek, I need to know what’s going on here. I need to know how and why you’re involved.”
Derek nodded, staring the earth, his eyes as shadowed as their hiding place under the trees. “I know you don’t trust me. But I promise I’m on your side.”
“Derek–”
“You saw the pictures of Jazz in my locker.” He looked up, met her eye, and that disarmed Rose somewhat.
“I did, yes.”
“I get that maybe that’s weird. I know Jazz would never have loved me, but she was always kind to me when so few others were. I loved her, though. And isn’t it normal to have photos of people you admire? People put posters of pop stars or sports stars on their walls, even if those stars will never love them.”
He looked at Rose for some kind of validation, and she didn’t have it in her to try to explain the difference. Those stars were public figures, they made their images available, they were miles and miles away from their fans. It wasn’t the same. That was hardly the point here, and not relevant any more anyway, now that Jazz was dead. “I guess,” Rose said quietly instead, favoring Derek with a soft smile. “Tell me about what I just saw.”
“This used to be a normal coven,” Derek said. “You know, we were harmless.”
“Hidden under one of the oldest parts of New York City?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised at the things that go on around this city, Rose. There are all kinds of groups and secrets and secret places. You know, there’s a whole community of people who live in the old tunnels under New York? The mole people.”
Rose nodded. “Actually, yes, I’ve read about them before. But homeless people aren’t the same as a witch coven.”
“They’re not homeless. The undercity is their home. It’s their community.”
“Okay, granted. But Derek, a coven?”
Derek pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, then he said, “There are lots of different kinds of witchcraft. Wicca is modern, some other forms are older than the Salem trials. Nothing is as simple as people like to think.”
Rose nodded again, wondering at the wisdom coming from this big, seemingly simple man. But while he lived a simple life, and seemed to be dealing with his own challenges, social and possibly cognitive, he was certainly no fool.
“Anyway, ours was one of the oldest,” Derek went on. “We practiced our rituals, and we minded our business. But then, about a year ago, a man showed up who called himself t
he Witchfinder. He said he’d found us through powerful magic, and had come to show us the way. Things were amazing at first.” Derek looked up, his eyes glittering in the darkness, alive with wonder. “He showed us magic that really worked. And he taught us these stories, almost prophecies. But things turned dark really fast. He told us that true power always exacts a price, and he killed a young man, right there in front of everybody. He said that was a binding act, to ensure the loyalty of the coven. Several people quit right there and then, of course. But they didn’t get far. Three of them were found dead the next day, from varying causes. A failed robbery, a street mugging, one fell onto the subway tracks, but we all know he was pushed. The others? Well, we just never saw them again. So they’re certainly dead too, aren’t they? Maybe some got away, I don’t know. But after that, everyone was afraid to leave.”
Derek paused, staring at the ground again, and Rose caught the sparkle of a falling tear. The big man’s shoulders were shuddering slightly. She reached out, put a hand on his forearm. “It’s okay, Derek. We can do something about this. Tell me more.”
“Next meeting he brought in the first sacrifice. It was one of the mole people, that’s how I know all about them. I didn’t help, but I didn’t do anything about it. And it was so much worse than the first killing. He ate a part of the man’s brain, Rose! Just like he did again tonight!” A sob escaped the big man, and he put his face in his hands.
Rose let him cry for a moment, sure this was the first time he’d told anyone and he certainly needed the release. She gave him that, one hand still on his arm.
