Ash

Dedication: To Julie, for always being there and listening to me rant about how I was going to get over the next stumbling block in the story and for offering helpful suggestions to keep me going.

To my son, Gabriel and his wife, Mercedes, for chuckling at the right places when they read the first parts of the manuscript in its early stages.

To my Mom and Dad who would roll over in their graves if they could read this book.

PREFACE : The Facts Behind The Story.

Let me make it crystal clear: reality is a blurry thing. So, before I begin to tell the strange and horrific present-day tale of death-metal musician, Rodney Duckworth, there are a few facts I should present without delay, facts that will help clarify the story that is about to unfold. To do so we must begin by going back in time to introduce an entirely different character, a man whom the British press once referred to as “The wickedest man in the world”. His name was Edward Alexander Crowley.

Edward Alexander Crowley, named after his father, was born into a wealthy and fanatically religious Christian family at a place called Warwickshire, England, on October 12, 1875. When young Edward would misbehave, his mother would berate him––spewing all the righteous hellfire and damnation she could muster––calling him The Beast. This was, as you may have correctly surmised, a reference to the Beast of the Apocalypse associated with the number 666 in the book of Revelation in the Holy Bible. Such a scolding was apparently the loving, Christian thing to do to the young child.

Years later, while attending Trinity College in Cambridge, Edward changed his name to Aleister. This act symbolically disengaged him from his father whom he both loved and despised (and who, by then, was long dead anyway) and, thus, the young Crowley effectively established his own unique identity. That identity, however, did not escape the influence of his mother. This was evidenced by the fact that, later in life, he would publicly refer to himself as The Beast, a title seared into the consciousness of his inner child by his mother’s scorching tongue.

Crowley was highly intelligent, cynical, sarcastically witty, and completely obsessed with the occult. His adult years were spent traveling the world, meeting and befriending––as well as making enemies of––some of the most influential literary and artistic figures of his time. During his travels he studied and learned all he could about mysticism, occultism, and ritual magick, or what some might call the Dark Arts.

For the sake of saving the reader from having to recoil in utter disgust, I shall refrain from describing some the most vile activities in which he was often engaged. Suffice to say, in his later years, he had

dragged himself down into the deepest, darkest depths of depravity and would likely––with great pleasure––have plummeted even deeper, had he but discovered the means by which to do so.

Notorious for his use of narcotics, his heterosexual, bisexual, and homosexual escapades (quite often as part of his magickal rituals) and known for his lengthy, critical, and insightful writings on the nature of ritual magick, Aleister Crowley became arguably the most important figure in all of modern-day occultism. To this day Crowley’s influence continues to attract the attention of all who take an interest in such things.

Curiously, but perhaps not unexpectedly, many of those who adore, admire––and in some cases, worship––this master of mysticism, are musicians of the hard rock variety. Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones, Ozzie Osbourne, David Bowie, The Beatles, and Iron Maiden are reportedly among such luminaries. Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page even went so far as to purchase the home in which Crowley once lived. Not surprisingly then, we could––and we will––add the tortured soul of singer/guitarist Rodney Duckworth to the list. But not yet. We’d be getting ahead of our story. Before we leave Aleister Crowley––God rest his tattered soul––there is one more piece of information concerning him that is most essential to our tale.

Crowley died, financially broke and heroine addicted, at the age of 72 on December 1, 1947 in the comfort of a large estate called Netherwood on the southern coast of England. In accordance with his wishes, his body was cremated. Now, ordinarily that would be the end of it. But nothing in the life––or, apparently, even in the death––of Aleister Crowley was ordinary.

The cinerary urn containing Crowley’s ashes was sent to a man named Karl Germer in New Jersey. Germer was a wealthy German living in America. He and Crowley had been members of the Ordo Templi Orientis (OTO), an occult organization with links to the Order of the Rosicrucians. Germer became one of Crowley’s most dedicated followers. And since Crowley had a talent for squandering away whatever money he managed to scrape together, Germer helped provide him with a livable income for many years.

When Germer received Crowley’s cinerary urn he buried it on his property, in a garden, under a tall pine tree. Some time later he decided to leave his home in New Jersey and move to sunny California. He planned to take Crowley’s ashes with him and rebury them in Malibu.

That plan, however, met its own strange fate and spawned a mystery that has remained unsolved until now. What became of Aleister Crowley’s ashes is a story so unbelievable it could only be true.

PROLOGUE - Part 1 December 23, 1947, New Jersey, USA Karl Germer shivered from the bitter cold as he climbed the concrete steps to the solid oak door of his stately two-storied, brick home. He retrieved the house key from deep inside the pocket of his woolen overcoat, stomped his feet on the mat to shake the snow from his heavy boots and entered the house. He removed his coat and hung it on the rack just inside the foyer and exchanged his boots for the comfort of his old leather slippers.

He moved to the living room, put a log on the dwindling fire and was about to fix himself a brandy when there came a knock at the door.

Perturbed by the interruption, he went to the door and opened it. There stood a delivery boy holding a package.

“Karl Germer?” the young man inquired.

Germer nodded.

“Package for you, sir. Christmas present, perhaps?” The young man attempted his best pleasantries in spite of his teeth chattering from the cold.

Germer grunted. Christmas was just two days away but it held no significance for him. “Doubt it,” he muttered under his heavy, dark mustache.

The young man seemed not to hear the smug response. “Sign here, please.”

Germer signed for the package and started to close the door but noticed the young man was still standing there as if waiting for something. Germer rolled his eyes and drew an impatient breath. He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a silver dollar and handed it to the young man.

“Thank you, sir!” the young man chirped as he made his way down the steps. “Merry Christmas to you!”

Germer grunted again, shut the door and returned to the living room.

It was only then that he noticed the return address on the package and realized instantly what had been delivered to him. He’d been expecting it, hoping it might come, but when it didn’t arrive several days earlier he wondered if perhaps it wouldn’t arrive at all. Now his whole demeanor was transformed from dour to delight, punctuated by a gleam in his eye.

He carefully peeled back the brown paper wrapping, opened the box and removed the wads of newspaper tightly packed around the cinerary urn containing the ashes of the Beast.

He removed the object from the box and held it gently, reverently, cradling it in his hands with the tenderness and care typically reserved for the handling of a newborn child. A knowing smile crept across his weathered face. “Aleister, my dear friend. You’ve arrived.”

The slick black ceramic urn was simple in form with a graceful contoured curve, almost pear shaped, narrower at the base, wider toward the top. The name, Aleister Alexander Crowley, was inscribed in an elegant script followed below by Crowley’s date of birth and the date of his passing.

There was a single adornment attached to the urn, positioned just above Crowley’s name. It was a round, ruby-like gem about the size of a half dollar. It was oddly faceted in such a manner as to produce a strange sort of geometric design the likes of which Germer had never seen. He puzzled over it momentarily, tracing the faceted pattern with his finger as if it might trigger some distant recollection, some memory of having come across such a design anywhere in his extensive experience with magickal sigils and talismans. But nothing came to mind.

With great care and a sense of excited curiosity, he lifted the lid of the urn and peered inside to see the remains of the man he’d so admired in life. But gazing down into the opening was like staring into the dark void of death itself. He could see nothing. For a moment he fantasized Crowley’s form rising, ghost-like, up and out of the container like the genie emerging from Aladdin’s lamp. I must see you one more time, Germer thought.

He tipped the urn until a few particles of ash slid toward the lip of the opening. His elation suddenly turned to melancholy as a flood of memories rose up from the depths of his past, memories of his relationship with the most unusual man he’d ever known, a man whom he was convinced could turn day into night, black into white, simply through an act of will.

Germer’s desire to touch the ash, to once again connect with the Master, was overwhelming. But dare he? A brief, intense argument ensued between his better judgment and his longing desire. Would it be sacrilege? Yes––! No––! He brought a finger toward the sacred dust but at the last moment he stayed his hand. No, he thought. The profane should not touch the sacred. With some reluctance, but knowing it was the right thing to do, he replaced the lid, closing up forever the remains of the Beast.

Tracing his finger over the strange jewel again, he nodded thoughtfully. Rest in peace, my friend.

He placed the urn atop the mantle above the fireplace and the glowing embers of the dying fire abruptly burst into fingers of flame reaching upward, desperately grasping to hold onto some tiny spark of life. Germer gasped and jumped back, momentarily stunned by the pyrotechnic display. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over, the flaming fingers shrinking to nothing and leaving naught but dead, gray ash at the bottom of the grate.

Germer released his breath, shook his head and grinned. Even in death Crowley could work his magick. “Tomorrow, my friend, we will give you a proper burial. I have the perfect place reserved for you.” *** The next day, Christmas Eve, Germer placed the urn inside an oak wood box he had constructed weeks ago in preparation for this special occasion. A biting chill was in the air and the frozen grass crunched beneath his boots as he carried the urn and a shovel across the yard toward the garden where he would bury his friend in a perfect spot beneath a tall pine tree.

Having broken through the frozen ground, Germer dug a shallow pit and lowered into it the box containing the precious urn. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small book, tattered, dog-eared and bound in dark red leather. It was his only copy of Crowley’s eminently influential work, Liber Al Vel Legis, The Book of the Law. It was a strange and prophetic, poetic work that Crowley produced in Egypt in 1904. Crowley claimed the text had literally been dictated to him by a mysterious entity, an ethereal being, calling itself Aiwass. In effect––among other things including hints of a mysterious alphanumeric cipher––the text was an announcement of the coming of a new age beginning that year of 1904. This was to be known as the Aeon of Horus––referring to a god of the Egyptian pantheon––and Crowley was to become the appointed prophet of this New Age. This small book was the source of one of the best-known phrases among the world’s practitioners of ritual magick: Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. This mantra formed the entire philosophy around which Crowley would conceive and implement his unique brand of magick and for which he became like a god to those with eyes to see and ears to hear.

Germer knew the book by heart and could recite it word for word.

Words, magickal words––being key elements of ritual magick–– were in fact the inspiration behind Germer’s choice of what would be his final words of ceremony spoken on this special occasion.

He laid the book upon the box and covered the box with the frozen dirt. Standing over the tiny grave, on what was now hallowed ground, he recited the short and final verse from The Book Of The Law: “The ending of the words is the word Abrahadabra. The Book of the Law is written and concealed. Aum. Ha.” He remained standing over his friend for a few minutes in silence, lost in a sea of memories of days gone by, good and bad, joyful and horrendous, comforting and frightening, unpredictable and completely expected, familiar and strange. These were not just descriptions of the times spent with Crowley. He realized, just then during those solemn moments, these were reflections of the man himself. Aleister Crowley was all of these things and more. But now he was gone and, for all Germer knew, perhaps the world would soon forget about the Beast altogether. He chuckled. God knows there are plenty of people who wish they could forget him.

With that final thought, Germer picked up his shovel and returned to the house for a stiff brandy and the warmth of a roaring fire. *** In the Spring of the following year Germer decided it was time for a change. He’d not been particularly happy living in New Jersey and had often contemplated a move to sunny California. Now was as good a time as any to do just that. Having made preparations for the move, he certainly had not forgotten his old friend still resting peacefully beneath the pine tree.

Travel plans in place, bags packed and ready to go, he grabbed a shovel from the garage and went out to dig up the box containing Crowley’s urn. His plan was to take the urn with him on the trip to Malibu, the town he’d decided would be a good place in which to settle down. There he would rebury the urn in a new plot of ground overlooking the rolling surfs of the blue Pacific Ocean.

Within moments of the first dip of the shovel into the well-thawed ground, a confused look came over his face. Where was the box?

Surely he had not mistaken the sacred spot. He knew it as well as he knew the back of his own hand. Frantic now, his brow crunched into a look of frenzied confusion. What the hell?

Quickly, he dug into the ground a few inches to the left but found nothing. To the right. Nothing. Again and again, here, there, but still nothing.

Breathing heavily, his chest heaving from exhaustion, he stopped digging when, to his horror, he realized the futility of the search. He cursed the ground and heaved the shovel against the tree. His friend was gone. How or why, he could not comprehend.

Had Crowley, somehow in death, risen up and removed his own urn?

What other explanation could there be? It was an insane idea and he knew it. But, in the weeks and months that followed, it was the only idea that brought him any peace and he carried that idea with him to his new home by the sea and eventually into his own grave. *** What Germer never knew was that back on that cold, blustery Christmas Eve, as he was laying the urn to rest, someone had been carefully observing the entire burial proceedings from the comfort of a black Cadillac limousine parked directly across the street.

The man in the limousine was a wealthy American, an eccentric to the extreme. He had flown to New Jersey from his own home, thousands of miles away, in Seattle.

With his long, gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses he bore a striking resemblance to the visage of Benjamin Franklin on the hundred-dollar bill. The man was possessed by two things: an addiction to drugs–– with a special affinity for mescaline––and a long-time interest in the occult. He fancied himself, in fact, as a true initiate of the Dark Arts. A self-professed 33rd degree Freemason, well into his 60s, he went by the name of Sir Michael J. Moorehouse.

Whether the title of ‘Sir’ had been officially bestowed upon him by the Queen of England or whether, as some surmised, it was an adornment bestowed upon him by virtue of his own imagination, was not clear. Whether or not he was a Freemason of any degree whatsoever was also not clear. What was clear to anyone who knew him was that he was totally and unblushingly obsessed with Aleister Crowley and had been so for many years.

He had, in fact, spent several years of his life tracking and stalking the Beast from New York to Paris, from Italy to England. Wherever the Beast did roam, Sir Michael J. Moorehouse tracked him down.

Once, in Paris, he even managed to have a few words with his idol.

To actually converse face to face with Crowley was always the primary goal. But that singular conversation was cut short as Crowley found Moorehouse to be annoying in the extreme. Crowley quickly dismissed the man, rather rudely, as he often did to anyone with whom he did not feel an immediate kinship.

Moorehouse became increasingly obsessed with Crowley over the years and was determined to win favor with the Beast one way or another. He would send letters and telegrams to Crowley begging for an audience but, much to his frustration and dismay, none of the attempted communications were ever answered. Then, when he learned of Crowley’s death and the plan to send the urn from England to the

home of Karl Germer, he knew he might have a chance to possess what he had thus far failed to acquire: a personal and permanent audience with the master of magick––even if it was only the ashes of the great man. At this point in his life, a dead idol was better than no idol at all.

Now, having observed the burial ceremony, and knowing the precise spot where the urn was resting, he ordered the limo driver to take him back to his hotel but not before dropping him off at the nearest hardware store to purchase a few items. That mission accomplished, he returned to the hotel and instructed the limo driver to pick him up again at midnight.

That night the limo arrived at the appointed hour and took Moorehouse back to Germer’s residence. This time, however, to insure privacy, Moorehouse instructed the driver to park around the corner, out of view. The driver, having been tipped handsomely, complied without question.

Moorehouse exited the limo, shovel and flashlight in hand, and made his way on foot, through the darkness, directly to Germer’s house.

Without hesitation, he quickly, stealthily, scurried onto the property and dug up the oak box containing the treasured prize. He scooped up the tattered copy of The Book of the Law and shoved it into his coat pocket. Then he filled the empty hole and brushed the dirt around, attempting to make it appear undisturbed. He stuffed the flashlight into his other coat pocket, picked up the shovel and, with the oak box cradled under his arm, his heart pounding, he departed the scene like a phantom in the night.

When he entered his hotel room he was shaking like a schoolboy who had just stolen a candy bar from under the nose of the shopkeeper and somehow got away with it. He was overwhelmed by the sheer excitement of the entire ordeal but a heavy dose of liquor soon numbed his rattled nerves and put him to sleep for the night.

The return flight to Seattle the following day seemed like it was taking forever. Sir Michael Moorehouse was laboring under an acute case of high anxiety. He had an important date with destiny and a short time to get there. *** Moorehouse Manor, the large, foreboding, residence of Sir Michael Moorehouse, was situated at the far end of Millionaire’s Row atop Seattle’s old Capitol Hill. The long street, extending for several blocks, was lined with stately, well-manicured mansions.

This mansion––once among the most luxurious and elegant on the entire Row––was now in a sorry state of neglect and disrepair and had been so for several years. A sad visage of its former self, it sat alone at

the end of the street separated from the other homes by its large plot of property obscured by a jungle of meandering overgrowth.

Michael’s father, William Bentley Moorehouse––a widower of many years and a successful trial lawyer––had been the original owner.

Every facet of the huge estate had been designed and built according to his personal specifications. Michael inherited the Manor when his father died unexpectedly from a heart attack.

Within a short period of time, following the death of the elder Moorehouse, the Manor’s beautiful gardens soon withered, its manicured lawns turned to a tangled field of dry grass and the ivy began creeping up the old brick walls, eventually surrounding the windows and winding its way into and around nearly every feature of the exterior.

Moorehouse Manor had become the bane of the neighborhood and Michael could not have cared less. He had more important things to do, like trekking across the globe, stalking the elusive Beast whom he had now finally managed to capture and with whom he was presently having a long-awaited conversation.

The conversation was entirely one-sided as Michael reclined comfortably in his father’s favorite old chair in the mansion’s private library. The mahogany-paneled library––with its volume-filled shelves, reaching nearly to the top of the 9-foot ceiling––had the musty but oddly pleasant smell of dusty old books and worn leather furniture.

Next to Michael’s chair was a small antique table upon which the polished black urn now rested peacefully.

Michael lit a cigar and casually blew a plume of smoke upward toward the lazily revolving ceiling fan. With a contemplative look on his face, he turned to the urn, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and spoke.

“So tell me, Aleister, how should I proceed with this…” he paused, gesturing with his hand, searching for the right word, “… this experiment?” Then he nodded, thoughtfully. “Well, yes, you’re right. I quite agree. Bringing a person back from the dead is not an easy feat.

But––” Then, abruptly, he leaned forward and shot a worried look toward the urn. “What? You do want me to bring you back, don’t you?”

A moment later he let out a sigh of relief and settled back into the chair.

“Ah, good. Very good. For a moment I thought… But it matters not.

All that matters is that finally we’ll be together. You and I.” He laughed. “Think of it,” he said, his voice tittering with excitement, “think of what we can accomplish.”

If Crowley had somehow actually been listening to this insanity he surely would have been curious to know how Michael planned to carry out such a remarkable feat. To achieve resurrection of the dead would mean Michael J. Moorehouse had discovered the Philosopher’s Stone, the Elixir of Life. Impossible! That was the goal of alchemy and only the most accomplished of Master Alchemists had ever done such a thing. Many had tried. Only a few, over thousands of years, had succeeded… that is, if one were prone to believe such claims. In any case, Michael Moorehouse was no master alchemist. In fact, he was no alchemist of any stripe and he certainly had not discovered the illusive Philosopher’s Stone. The only possible answer was that the man was utterly deluded. Nevertheless, deluded or not, he did have a plan. The plan had been given to him from a most unusual and unanticipated source: The evening before his flight from Seattle to New Jersey, to steal the urn, he had intoxicated himself with a fine and highly potent variety of mescaline. The effects were swift to come and pleasurable as always.

He was lost in the ecstasy of swirling colors and geometric patterns ever shifting, changing, blending in a dance of surreal beauty. But the dance was unexpectedly interrupted by the vision of an entity–– vaguely human in form––which introduced itself simply as the Messenger. The message, it turned out, was both exciting, in a perverse sort of way, and yet profoundly frightening in its implications.

The Messenger informed Michael that the Antichrist was desperately eager to enter the world in physical form. To do so, however, would require nothing less than the virtual resurrection of Mr. Aleister Crowley.

“In life,” the Messenger said, “Aleister Crowley referred to himself as the Beast. Now, with your help, he can truly become the Beast he once only fancied himself to be. Normally this would require the presence of the body to be reanimated. But, since his body has been reduced to ashes, the process must be slightly altered.”

The Messenger told Michael that this feat could be accomplished if, once he acquired the urn, he would be willing to ingest Crowley’s ashes in conjunction with a particular ceremony while reciting a specific incantation. The incantation––should Michael be willing to partake of this magickal working––would be provided to him at the proper time. The end result of the entire process would be that Michael’s body would become host to the soul and spiritual essence of Aleister Crowley. All of this, the Messenger said, must be done on a night of the full moon which, as he further informed Michael, was only three weeks away.

Michael didn’t have to think twice about whether or not he would be willing to do this. Being with Crowley, side by side, as friends with

common interests, had seemed all along like such a marvelous idea that he could not imagine anything more exciting. But now, he thought, to actually have the essence of the great man literally living within me?

And then to have the Antichrist move in and take possession of me through him? The power I could wield. God almighty. The world would be at my feet!

Clearly, there was no doubt in Michael’s depraved mind. This is what he wanted to do. “Yes, of course,” he responded to the Messenger. “I am humbled beyond words to have been chosen for this honor.”

“There is one more thing,” the Messenger said.

“Yes, yes, anything. Whatever I can do.”

The Messenger gave an approving nod. “My master has instructed me to provide you with this puzzle, a riddle if you will, that you must solve in order to prove, beyond a doubt, that you are the one.”

Michael did not understand. “A puzzle? But why? I thought––” “Write this in your diary, Michael. Your success or failure to correctly solve this riddle will determine the fate of your participation in this unprecedented task.”

Michael understood he had no option and he desperately wanted to be found worthy. He put his pen to the page of his diary and wrote the words of the riddle as they were dictated to him: My number is no secret.

The secret is in reverse.

It is encoded In chapter and in verse.

Let he who has wisdom Discover the sacred key.

Only then can he become The embodiment of me.

The Messenger then faded away into a swirling kaleidoscope of colors leaving Michael staring at the mysterious words. Baffled and confused, he nevertheless had the momentary clarity of mind to realize he’d better record the entire episode––everything the Messenger had told him––into his diary lest he forget a single detail.

The black leather diary was a veritable record of Michael’s obsessive pursuit of the Beast, every thought he’d had about the great man, every emotion he’d experienced upon the several times he’d actually come

close enough to touch the cuff of his sleeve, and the one momentous occasion, brief though it was, when he and Crowley had actually exchanged words in face-to-face conversation. But nothing in those pages could compare with this. Nothing. *** Two and a half weeks passed following Michael’s return home to Seattle after stealing the urn from Germer. The arrival of the full moon was just a few nights away and Michael had still not been able to solve the riddle. To save his damned soul, he could not understand the meaning behind the words. Moreover, he still did not have the necessary incantation. He was, therefore, most anxious to receive another visit from the Messenger. So, having prepared and consumed another hit of the same batch of mescaline, he reclined comfortably upon his bed, and waited.

He couldn’t say how long it took for the Messenger to arrive–– perhaps minutes, perhaps an hour––but when the Messenger did appear, Michael was quick to request the words of the incantation.

The Messenger, in turn, asked Michael if he had solved the riddle.

Reluctantly, Michael admitted he had not.

“My instructions are clear,” the Messenger said. “I cannot reveal the incantation until you tell me the answer to the riddle. You have three days until the arrival of the full moon. If you have not solved the riddle by then, my Master may choose someone else for the task.”

Michael’s temper flared. “But I have Crowley’s ashes in my possession. The urn is here in my house. How could anyone else be chosen for the task? Your master needs me. The urn, the ashes, they’re mine!”

The Messenger laughed softly. “May I suggest, Michael, that you not underestimate the power of my Master.”

“But––” “Your task is clear. There are no options, Michael. Three days.”

The Messenger vanished and panic crept through Michael’s bones.

The sense of utter frustration was so intense he feared it might drive him completely mad.

Later, when the effects of the mescaline had worn off, Michael thought about the situation and realized the time had come to engage in a magickal working, a ceremonial ritual that would open the door to the answer of the riddle. He would drink the precious Soma, the elixir of ecstasy, the drink of the gods, the true fruit of the Tree of

Knowledge. Such were the titles bestowed upon the most magickal of the magick mushrooms, the Amanita Muscaria, the blessed fly agaric used by the Hindu mystics and the ancient alchemists. Michael knew a source from whom he could purchase the sacred fruit and he knew exactly where this most magickal of ceremonies should take place: His father’s own Inner Sanctum.

When Michael’s father designed Moorehouse Manor he included what every good mansion must have: a secret room. This room––the entrance to which was hidden behind one of the bookcases in the library––was well appointed and included a kitchenette and a bathroom. This Inner Sanctum served as a quiet sanctuary where the distinguished Mr. Moorehouse could study the details of whatever high-profile legal case he might be working on at any given time.

There, away from any and all distractions, he could mentally prepare himself for the ensuing courtroom battles from which he would inevitably emerge victorious.

Many times, as a child, Michael had seen his father enter the Inner Sanctum––agitated and frustrated over the details of a case––only to return from the room hours later, completely transformed into a confident courtroom warrior armed with the answers to all his questions and the certain knowledge that he would most assuredly win the case. And now it would be so for Michael. His own trial date loomed near. He had three days in which to acquire the solution to the riddle and he knew exactly how he would find it. The Soma, the juice of the sacred mushroom, would provide the answer. It had to. There was no other way. *** For all of Michael’s deluded ideas about his mastery of magick, he had never really performed a single magickal working in his life. All he knew was what he’d read in books. Such was the case with the Soma.

He had no experience with it, whatsoever. Nevertheless, he knew it could be accomplished and he carried on in preparation for the great revelation that was about to be bestowed upon him.

He did manage to procure the magickal elixir and he prepared it to the best of his ability. He was now ready to imbibe the mixture and meet the ancient god of knowledge from whom he would receive the gift he knew was waiting for him. The one thing he didn’t know––in fact, had not even considered––was just exactly how much of this strange milk of the gods he should drink.

Now, secure and comfortable within the Inner Sanctum, the urn at his side, his diary opened to the page upon which the inscrutable riddle was written, he consumed a copious amount of the Soma and waited

for it to take effect. As he waited patiently, he chanted his own bastardized version of a line from an ancient Vedic ritual.

“Oh drop of Soma, flow for Indra, flow for me. Oh drop of Soma, flow for Indra, flow for me. Oh drop…of…Soma, flow…for Indra, flow…for me. Oh…drop…of……Soma………..Oh…….drop….…”

His eyelids grew heavy. His head fell back. The room began to spin.

Round and round it went and suddenly he found himself riding on the back of a beautifully sculpted white Unicorn on a carrousel at a bizarre and glorious carnival of the gods.

He was soon overtaken by the sensation of leaving his body, his consciousness drifting, floating upward into a sea of bliss. In the midst of this reverie he noticed a white glow filling the entire room, softly at first, but slowly increasing in brilliance. He seemed to be merging with this light as he transcended all sense of physical self.

After several minutes––or was it hours?––he became aware of another consciousness in the room and he knew, instinctively, he was in the presence of the god of the Soma. A sublime feeling of ecstasy washed over him, through him, bathing him inside and out. Time ceased. He was eternal.

Then, abruptly, the ecstasy was gone, shut off like someone had thrown a switch.

The sudden change caused his body to twitch violently in a long series of nerve-wracking convulsions. He lurched forward then backward then forward again before flopping helplessly onto the floor.

A thick drool leaked from the corners of his mouth as he coughed and sputtered, his limbs flailing wildly like a fish out of water. A surge of terror rushed through him but eventually, mercifully, the spasmodic episode ended.

Breathing heavily, he pulled his heavy body back up into the chair, wiped the drool from his chin and, in spite of his near total exhaustion, he managed a grin. The gift he’d so urgently sought had been given to him. He knew the answer to the riddle. The game was on.

After taking a few minutes to gather his strength and calm his nerves, he rose victoriously to his feet and stretched, feeling perversely smug as if he had just battled the gods and won.

He placed the diary and the urn, side by side, atop his father’s antique mahogany desk and exited the Inner Sanctum through the secret door. In a somewhat perverse reflection of his father before him, he strode out into the library. He was energized, confident and ready to secure his place in the great Hall of Destiny. But his reverie was cut short. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

His stomach began to churn, he became nauseous, his bowels cramped painfully. He felt disoriented. His legs quivered, barely able to sustain the weight of his body and, in a matter of moments, they gave way completely and he toppled to the floor.

Retching violently, writhing in the warm soup of his own vomit, he slithered a few feet across the dark hardwood floor, one hand gripping his stomach, the other reaching out in desperation toward the bookcase behind which the diary and the urn now sat secluded and silent, closed up within the Inner Sanctum. “…Aleister…”

The word gurgled from his mouth, his eyes rolled back, his body twitched ever so slightly––once, twice, a third time––until finally the dark, billowing shroud of death settled over him, engulfing his beleaguered soul.

Michael J. Moorehouse, the would-be host of the infamous Beast, and the bridge across which the Antichrist would walk into this world, now lay dead on the floor of the great library within the confines of the dreary, deteriorating mansion. **** In the years following the death of Michael Moorehouse, the Manor became the property of a series of new owners who came and went.

Curiously, none of them ever actually lived in the old house. It was always purchased as an investment with intentions of fixing the place up and reselling it. The exterior of the structure was in dire shape but the interior required very little in the way of refurbishing. That being the case, and as fate had apparently dictated, no one ever discovered the existence of the secret room, the Inner Sanctum.

Eventually the home was restored, not quite back to its original condition, but much improved over the state it was in when occupied by the now deceased son of the late William Bentley Moorehouse.

So, for the most part, Moorehouse Manor sat quietly at the far end of Millionaire’s Row waiting for its own fate to unfold. Empty it was, and empty it remained, save for the extraordinary secret it kept hidden behind a certain and otherwise very ordinary bookcase.

PROLOGUE – Part 2 Seattle March, 1948 Joshua Kane had a lot on his mind. Only a week ago he’d celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday. Still, sometimes, he felt like more things had happened in just the past four years than had happened in all the previous years of his life.

Barely a year had passed since he’d been honorably discharged from the Army and only six months ago that he and his wife, Margaret, had settled into their modest 2-bedroom home across from a lumber yard and a smoke-billowing industrial plant near the edge of Seattle’s Lake Union, just a few miles north of the city’s downtown district. He was also trying to run the small antique store that he’d inherited from his father just before the War and, to top it all off, Margaret was pregnant and the baby was due any day, a week at most.

Joshua never dreamed that naming a baby could become such a contentious topic of discussion between he and Margaret. The list of names was eventually whittled down to three possibilities: Mary for a girl––they both agreed on that––and John or Peter for a boy. He favored John and she favored Peter. John was the name of Joshua’s favorite disciple in the story of Jesus.

“I know,” Margaret, said. “But Peter is the one Jesus called ‘his rock upon which his church would be built’.

In the end, unable to come to an agreement, they decided to toss a coin. It was an odd way to name a baby but, given the circumstances, it seemed to make sense at the time. Heads, it would be John. Tails, it would be Peter. It was tails.

Joshua accepted his defeat with a grin and a bit of relief. It was one less thing on his mind and he was okay with it. The only thing left to do now was wait to see if they had a Mary or a Pete. Either would be a blessing.

He put on his coat and grabbed the keys to his old pick-up.

Margaret saw him heading for the door. “Where are you going?”

“There’s an estate sale at an old mansion up on Capitol Hill.

Moorehouse Manor, I think they called it. Saw the classified ad in the paper. The owner passed away some time ago.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, apparently there was no family to inherit the place. It went to the State and somebody recently purchased it and they’re selling off some of the furnishings. I thought I’d check it out. Might find a good buy on a few pieces to resell. Never know what little gems you can stumble across at those estate sales. I won’t be long. You relax.” He gently patted Margaret’s bulging belly. “And take care of our little rock.” He gave her a wink as he opened the door.

“Josh?”

He turned around. “Yes?” “It could be a girl, you know.”

He shrugged. “Could be.”

Unfortunately, by the time Joshua arrived at the Manor, most of the good stuff had been sold. In fact there were only two items that caught his eye. One was a Tiffany lamp and the other was an ornate old trunk that looked like it had been imported from China. He was certain the lamp would be out of his price range but the trunk was probably something he could at least try to bargain down if the asking price was too high. As it turned out, the owner was anxious to sell everything as quickly as possible and he offered Joshua a package deal on the lamp and the trunk. It was too good to pass up.

“Can I check out the inside of the trunk?” Joshua asked.

The owner shrugged. “Well, yes you could but it’s locked and I haven’t been able to find the key. So whatever’s inside, it’s yours if you want it.”

“There’s something in it?”

“I think so. When we brought it down from upstairs we felt something inside slide from one end to the other.”

Joshua purchased the two items and on the way home he couldn’t help fantasizing about whatever was inside the trunk. Some valuable antique that would bring a fortune. Diamonds. Gold doubloons from a sunken ship. Why not? He’d read about people stumbling across valuable things at estate sales and flea-markets. He grinned.

That evening, after supper, he set about trying to unlock the hasp that held the secret to his fortune. After an hour of trying every ingenious idea he could think of to pick the lock, nothing worked. Finally, he couldn’t take it any more. The suspense was killing him. He grabbed a hefty 14-inch screwdriver, wedged it between the hasp and the body of the trunk and gave it a couple of good tugs. Nothing. Again and again.

Still it would not budge. Then, fully determined to get the damned

thing opened, come hell or high water, he put his full force behind it.

Straining like a man determined not to fold under the pressure of an arm-wrestling match, he conjured up one last shot of adrenaline and let it loose. The hasp snapped with a resounding Crack! and, from another room, Margaret screamed his name.

“It’s nothing!” he called back to her. “I just––” He turned to see her standing in the hall doorway, bracing herself against the doorframe.

His eyes grew wide. “What the––?”

Her dress was soaked below the waist. Water was dripping down her leg, forming a puddle at her feet. The look on her face was that of the proverbial deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights. Joshua dropped the screwdriver. The baby was coming. *** Margaret and the baby remained at the hospital another day following the birth. Joshua, returned home alone. It had been a long, exciting, nerve-wracking and, ultimately, joyous night with not but a few nods of the head that could hardly be called sleep.

Exhausted from the ordeal, he immediately flopped onto the couch with all the grace of a bag of rocks. His eyelids were about to close under their own weight when he noticed the old trunk still sitting on the floor across the room.

He managed a half grin. “Oh, yeah. I’d almost forgotten about you.”

He stared at the trunk for a minute, recalling his visions of diamonds and gold doubloons. He chuckled. It was silly, of course. Still, his curiosity once again got the better of him. The hard part was over.

He’d already ripped the hasp nearly clean off the damned thing. All he had to do now was lift the lid.

With an exaggerated grunt, he sat up, ran his hands through his hair, and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. He pushed himself up off the couch and sauntered over to the old trunk. “Okay, you. Let’s see what you’re hiding in there.”

He dropped to his knees, grabbed the sides of the lid and gave it a gentle tug. The hinges gave a series of tiny staccato creaks as he pushed it all the way open. His visions of priceless treasure vanished at the sight of nothing but a very plain, old cardboard box. It was sealed with cellophane tape, dried and crinkled with age. Still, he thought, you never know. Gold doubloons could be cleverly hidden inside a cardboard box. Why not?

He lifted the box from the trunk and guessed its weight to be about ten pounds. How many gold doubloons would make up ten pounds? He shook the box like a kid with a mysterious present on Christmas

morning. The anticipated sound of the rattling of gold coins was not to be heard. Maybe they were tightly wrapped in multiple folds of fine Chinese silk from an ancient dynasty. Yeah. That could be. He grinned and set the box on the floor.

The crinkled tape peeled away easily and nearly crumbled in the process. He opened the top flaps and let out a sigh of disappointment when he saw his treasure: a bunch of old books. Six, to be exact. He pulled them out, one by one and read the titles: The Complete Works of Aleister Crowley; The Secrets of Alchemy; Divinatory Geomancy; and three whose titles were in Latin and completely meaningless to him.

He’d never even been sure he knew the correct translation of E Pluribus Unum. He had no idea who Aleister Crowley was. The word ‘alchemy’ seemed vaguely familiar. He knew he’d heard it somewhere but he didn’t know what it meant and the title, Divinatory Geomancy, just brought a shrug.

If the books had been rare imprints of the works of Charles Dickens or Mark Twain or Tolstoy, or any of the great classics, then he would have been interested. Books like that could bring a pretty penny.

Maybe even better than gold doubloons. But this stuff was probably not worth its weight in pennies, pretty or otherwise.

He put the books back into the box and was about to close it up when he noticed he’d overlooked one. It’s dark leather binding was cracked with age and was beginning to peel back at the edges. It was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand and very thin, maybe only 20 or 30 pages. He read the title: The Keys of the Gatekeeper. There was no author’s name on the cover. He flipped through the pages and had no idea what he was looking at or even what language it was written in.

He sounded out a couple of the strange words. “Brishem halak malthalah Kutulu.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than he was overcome by a feeling of light-headedness. He put out a hand and braced himself against the old trunk. The strange feeling passed quickly but was enough to remind him that he was in dire need of some good sound sleep.

After returning all the larger books to the box he wedged the small book in tightly between them, closed the box up and set it next to the basement door. Tomorrow he would take it to the basement and store it away. Right now he just wanted to get some sleep and dream about his brand new baby boy. *** January, 2000 Joshua Kane passed away at the age of 87, barely one month into the turn of the new century. His wife, Margaret, followed him into the next

world a month later. The box of strange books, along with a number of other personal effects passed into the possession of their son, Peter, who had become a pastor at a local church. The items were stored in the attic of the pastor’s home where he’d been living alone since the death of his own wife from a tragic accident many years earlier.

The new millennium had not been kind to the Kane family. Only a few weeks following the death of Joshua Kane, Pastor Pete––now in his 60s––suffered a heart attack that resulted in the paralysis of his legs. He became severely depressed and quit the ministry. Hospital bills and lack of insurance forced him to sell his house and he moved into a rented single-wide mobile home at the Trail’s End, a trailer park on the edge of town.

There was not enough room in the small trailer for many of the items from his house. So, his son, Brian, reluctantly offered to store several of the items in the basement of his own house. One of those items was the box of books that had once belonged to Pastor Pete’s father. Brian had never bothered to open the box so he had no idea what it contained and, frankly, he couldn’t have cared less.

PROLOGUE – Part 3 Four Years Earlier…

August, 1997 Somewhere in a peaceful Seattle suburb Pastor Pete had just completed a heinous, depraved activity.

Sweating and sated, he untied the straps that bound the naked, shivering eleven-year-old boy to the bed.

The chubby, fair-haired youth lay shaking uncontrollably.

The restraints had been needless. The preacher had made the situation quite clear from the beginning. He’d leaned in, a warm breath away from the boy’s rosy cheeks, and whispered: “If you move, if you scream, if you make any sound whatsoever, I will most assuredly kill you and dispose of your body and no one will ever know what happened. You will simply cease to exist. Do you understand?”

The terrified youngster nodded.

The preacher’s soft lips grazed lightly against the boy’s ear as he continued: “And when this is over you will tell no one because, if you do, I will find out and I will hunt you down and I will bring you back here and I will kill you. Do you understand that?”

Again the boy nodded. It was better to be raped and silently bear the burden of shame than to be dead.

Freed from the restraints and having somehow endured the endless minutes of terror, Rodney wanted to run but his eyes rolled back, his eyelids fluttered uncontrollably, and he nearly collapsed onto the floor.

The preacher flung the straps aside and tossed the boy’s clothes onto the bed. “Well, Duckworth? What are you waiting for?” He seemed genuinely perplexed by the boy’s hesitation. His eyes narrowed and he bellowed with the same grandiose, commanding voice the boy had heard so many times thundering from the high pulpit on Sunday mornings, “Go now! And sin no more!” Then he added, almost parenthetically, “And use the back door on your way out, for Christ’s sake.”

The boy’s response to the command was instant. He grabbed his clothes and threw them on in a single, fluid motion. In the process, something slipped from the pocket of his jeans and rolled under the

bed. He didn’t bother to see what it was. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. He fled across the floor of the preacher’s bedroom, flew down the stairs to the living room and out the back door.

The preacher knelt down to see what had rolled under the bed. He retrieved it easily and stood up. In his hand he held one of the boy’s prized possessions, something that cost the boy two cereal box tops and 50 cents of his allowance. It was a black plastic coin about the size of a silver dollar embossed on one side with the Batman logo and the visage of that famed masked crusader on the reverse. It was the ninth and final coin in the set and Rodney had collected them all. The preacher stared blankly at it for a moment, then flipped it into the air. With a sweeping motion, like swatting at a fly, he caught it, gave it a final moment of consideration and then dropped it into the bottom drawer of his dresser.

A memento of sorts. A keepsake. A trivial thing. The boy would never miss it.

That night Rodney discovered his precious Batman coin was gone and he knew who had it. *** Sunday morning, as Pastor Pete preached on the sins of the flesh, young Rodney Duckworth glared at him from a back pew as he sat somberly, squeezed between the alcoholic breath of his useless father and the overbearing perfume of his self-righteous mother. The boy watched the preacher’s mouth moving but he heard nothing coming from it. The only sound he heard was that of his own inner voice struggling to formulate a vow of revenge. But his 11-year-old vocabulary had not yet acquired words strong enough, dark enough, to articulate the phrasing necessary to form a vow of such a deep and bitter hatred. Hard as he tried, only one word seemed to surface with any clarity. But it was enough. It was loaded, ready to explode: ‘Someday’.

For a brief moment he fantasized a scenario in which his hero, Batman, would swoop in and wreak havoc on the evil villain behind the pulpit. But the fantasy faded quickly. He knew full well there was no Batman. No, he would have to manage this revenge on his own. He didn’t know how but he knew he would. Someday. He relaxed with a long slow breath, folded his arms, bowed his head and drifted into a half sleep, waiting for the Someday that would surely come. *** Four years later: Chubby little Rodney Duckworth was now 15 years old and not so little. He was thrilled to learn of Pastor Pete’s heart attack and couldn’t have been more pleased that the bastard had moved out of the

neighborhood. Nevertheless, he was still emotionally and psychologically scarred from the abuse he’d suffered at the Pastor’s pleasure, an experience he never shared with a living soul. He was also tired of being bullied by his schoolmates who constantly taunted him with names like ‘Rubber Ducky’, or worse yet, ‘Rodney-FuckworthNot-Worth-a-Fuck’. That was the year Rodney Duckworth had taken all he could take and he decided to do something about it. It was time for a change. If he couldn’t change the bullies, he would change himself, like Bruce Wayne transforming into Batman. He didn’t know what he would change himself into or how he was going to go about it but he was determined to make it happen. *** Rodney only had one real friend in the entire world. His name was Jason Hall. Jason played rhythm guitar in the school orchestra and of course anybody who played anything in the school orchestra was automatically branded as a nerd or a geek––which, in Jason’s case, was actually a fitting description. Pimple-faced and skinny, Jason didn’t have much going for him but he did have three things that Rodney coveted: a huge collection of Batman comic books and two guitars.

Up in Jason’s bedroom, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, Rodney finished reading one of Jason’s vintage Batman comics, carefully slid it back into its protective plastic sleeve, and picked up one of Jason’s electric guitars. He strummed the strings with his thumb. The sound was tinny and barely audible without the amplifier. He looked at his friend. “Can you teach me how to play?”

Jason shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

“Cool. What do I do?”

Jason took hold of Rodney’s left hand and helped him place his fingers in the correct positions on the neck of the instrument to form the notes for a C-chord. “Okay, strum it.”

Rodney strummed the strings but still it was tinny and didn’t exactly sound like Stairway To Heaven.

“Plug it in,” Jason said. Then he grinned. “It’ll probably sound just as bad, only louder.”

Rodney plugged the cord into the amp and turned it on.

Jason adjusted a couple of knobs and turned the volume up full. “Go ahead,” he said, handing him a plastic pick. “Let’er rip.”

Rodney gripped the pick between his thumb and forefinger, raised his arm back as if he was about to burn a 90-mile-an-hour fastball over home plate and ripped the pick across the strings. The deafening sound

slammed the air with the force of a hurricane. It rattled the windows and shook the walls.

The sonic blast was immediately followed by the voice of Jason’s father shouting up the stairs. “Turn it down, goddamit! You wanna wake the dead?”

Rodney looked at Jason and grinned. “Yup,” he said quietly, with a kind of prophetic confidence. “That’s exactly what I want to do.” **** There’s an old story––a true story, at least in part, and famous among guitarists––about a young black man, a guitar player named Robert Johnson. Johnson was born into poverty in the deep South in 1911. He endured a life fraught with hardship and trouble but he managed to learn the guitar. He soon gained some local recognition as a good blues guitarist but ‘good’ wasn’t good enough for Robert. One day he disappeared from the local music scene and no one knew where he’d gone. A short time later he reappeared, guitar in hand, but now “he could play the hell out o’ that thing,” as one of the locals put it. Legend has it that during his short absence he had gone to the Crossroads.

According to the folklore of the rural South, the place where two roads cross was often thought to be a kind of evil vortex where the Devil could pop up at any moment and steal the souls of unsuspecting travelers. As the story goes, Robert Johnson took a walk to the infamous, dusty crossroads of Highways 61 and 49 in Clarksdale, Mississippi where––in the middle of the night, under a full moon––he made a deal with the Devil. The deal was simple. Robert promised his soul to the Devil if, in exchange, the Devil would bestow upon him the ability to play blues guitar like no one had ever heard before. The Devil agreed, took the guitar from Robert, retuned it, and handed it back to him. That done, the deal was sealed and Robert walked away into the night and into the realm of legend.

Young Rodney Duckworth didn’t know this story the first time he struck that resounding C-chord in Jason’s bedroom. Nevertheless, that very moment, on that rainy afternoon, was Rodney’s first step on his journey to the Crossroads. *** Three years later: Rodney Duckworth was now the lead guitar player and primary vocalist of his own death-metal band, GraveStone. The band was good

but, echoing the Robert Johnson story––which, by now, Rodney had indeed heard––good wasn’t good enough.

Rodney’s disenchantment had nothing to with the other members of the band, really. They weren’t the problem. His boyhood friend, Jason, played great rhythm guitar. Billy Cox was a monster on bass and Rick DeCarlo was arguably one of the best young drummers around. But nothing was happening. A few gigs had come their way but most of them paid so little it was hardly worth the effort. It wasn’t for lack of trying. They tried everything they could think of to promote the band.

They even posted videos of two of their best live performances on the Internet and despite their efforts to promote the videos through a number of popular on-line social-networking sites, no one seemed to be taking notice. Rodney, himself, had developed into a good guitar player, a very good player, in fact. But that, he decided, was the problem. Good and very good were not going to cut it. Good guitar players––even very good guitar players––were a dime a dozen. He needed to be flat-out, mother-fucking, kick-ass great if they were going to go anywhere in the business. But how? Sell his soul to the Devil?

Not likely. At least not yet. No, the only way it was going to happen was for him to do it on his own and this goal became an insane obsession. *** After several months of driving himself to the brink of exhaustion, choosing to play rather than eat, drink, or sleep, he finally made the breakthrough that his tortured––sometimes bleeding––fingers had been striving for. The litmus test for his arrival into the realm of motherfucking-kick-ass greatness would be to slip any Eddie Van Halen CD into the player and match every blazing solo, note-for-note, the finger taps, the pull-offs, the tapping harmonics, the works. The day he broke through that barrier was the day he put the guitar down, collapsed on the bed and slept for eighteen hours straight. And somewhere near the end of that stretch of darkness he had a dream that would change the course of his life forever.

Just a few short years earlier––in fact, just a day or so after he’d struck that first C-Chord in Jason’s bedroom at the age of 15––Rodney had been surfing the Internet for information about heavy-metal bands.

It was during one of those searches that he stumbled upon a website dedicated to the infamous practitioner of the Dark Arts, Aleister Crowley. Rodney was immediately taken with the concept behind Crowley’s ideas about ritual magick. The word was always spelled with a k, as Rodney learned, to differentiate it from the parlor tricks and illusions produced by stage magicians. This was not that. This was the real thing.

Rodney felt a strangely intimate connection with Crowley, especially resonating with Crowley’s own tortured Christian upbringing and his later rebellion against the whole idea of Christianity. For the next three years Rodney delved ever deeper into the writings and activities of the strange man whom, he learned, had once been known as The Beast, ‘the wickedest man in the world’. But there was another name Crowley had taken for himself, a name not as well known to most people. The name was Mega Therion. It was Greek for The Great Beast.

Presently, as Rodney lay dreaming, his mind reeled with strange, surrealistic images, the shrill sounds of blazing guitar riffs, and the faces of unrecognizable people. Then he began drifting away from it all ––or it was all drifting away from him––until he found himself alone in the middle of an intersection where two dusty, deserted roads crossed.

He stood there, squinting against the glare of a blazing hot sun. The air was dead still. The heavy smell of dry grass and baked earth stuffed his nostrils. Disoriented and utterly lost, he looked around for something, anything that seemed familiar. But all he could see in any direction was flat, desolate land. Soon––unnaturally soon, it seemed––the sunlight began to fade. Purple shadows crept across the baron landscape and moments later he was enveloped in an eerie darkness save for the glow of a full moon directly overhead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the silhouette of a figure, perhaps a man, in the distance, at the far end of the road to his left.

Soon another––an exact duplicate of the first––appeared at the far end of the road to his right. He spun around and saw another on the road behind him. He turned back and saw yet another figure down the road in front of him. From the four directions the dark figures approached, until they converged at the center of the crossroads where he watched them merge, coalescing into the single figure of a solitary man.

“Hello Rodney. Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, You’re the Beast.”

“Hmm… but I have another name, you know.”

“I know.”

“Let me hear you say it.”

“Mega Therion.”

“Very good. Now that, too, shall be the name of your band.”

“The name of my band? Why?” “Trust me. Now, tell me your name.”

“My name? You know my name.”

“Let me hear you say it.”

“Rodney.”

“Rodney what?”

“Rodney Duckworth.”

“Does that sound to you like the name of the leader of a death-metal band?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Indeed not. Your name shall now be known to the world as Rye Cowl. And I do mean the world. Simple as that. Aum. Ha.” Rodney awoke with a start, drenched in sweat and shaking from the encounter. He looked at his watch. It was just after 2 a.m. He didn’t know what day it was. Or what night it was. He only knew he had to call Jason.

“Jase?”

“Rodney? What’s up, dude? You sound like you got a hangover.”

“Listen, man. Get the guys together. We gotta meet at the garage.”

“Dude, do you know what time it is?”

“I don’t care. Just do it. This is important.”

“What the fuck, man. Are you nuts? You been drinkin’?”

“Jason! Just do it, man!”

“All right! Jesus. I’ll call them. But they’re not gonna wanna come over. I mean, you know, like Rick, man. He’s gotta get up and go to work in the morning. And Billy. I don’t know what he’s doing.

Probably doing that chick he met the other day. He definitely won’t be coming over if that’s the case. You should see her. Man, she’s––” “Just fucking call them, will ya? Tell them to get their asses over to your place. We’ll meet in the garage.”

Jason’s parents owned a nice suburban home with a double-car garage separated from the house. The house and the garage were situated a considerable distance from the street, and were separated from any neighboring homes by a vacant lot on each side. It was a perfect set-up for the band’s long and hellaciously loud practice sessions. The garage had become much more than just the birthplace of Rodney’s band. In Rodney’s mind it was a holy place, his church. The guitar was his crucifix and death-metal was his religion––a religion he wore wrapped around him like a cloak. Jason, Rick and Billy were in it for the fun of it, the comradeship, something to do. Rodney was in it because he had no choice.

“Why don’t you call them?” Jason argued. “Your phone’s not broken. And what the hell is the big deal anyway?”

“Believe me, it is a big deal. The band’s got a new name.”

“What?”

“And so do I.” “What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain when I get there. I’ve got some things to do. Call the guys.” *** Rodney’s announcement about changing his name, as well as the name of the band, was met with extreme skepticism by the rest of the group that night in the garage. But eventually, reluctantly, they succumbed to Rodney’s bizarre idea. The band was going nowhere in its current incarnation so they figured it couldn’t hurt. They could never, however, in their wildest rock-star-wanna-be fantasies, have imagined the extraordinary and ultimately horrific chain of events that this decision was about to unleash.

Rodney––who now insisted he be referred to as Rye Cowl and only Rye Cowl, despite the reluctant glances from his band mates–– immediately deleted the videos of the band’s old performances from the Internet and replaced them with videos of the band––now billed as Mega Therion––performing in the sacred temple of Jason’s garage.

The songs on these new videos were no different from those performed on the previous videos. They were, in fact, exactly the same.

The response, however, was as if a spell had been cast across the entire nation. The videos went viral in no time, attracting huge amounts of attention. A Mega Therion fan base had formed seemingly overnight and requests for their CD were pouring in to their website by the hundreds. There was only one problem. They had no CD. The explosive surge in their popularity had taken them completely off guard. They knew in advance that a CD would have to be the next step but they had no idea they would need to take that step so soon. It would cost money, lots of money. Studio time was expensive, more than they could possibly dredge up in a short time. Sitting around in the garage, the boys didn’t know whether to celebrate or cry.

Jason’s frustration was at a peak. He chucked an empty beer bottle across the garage, just missing Billy’s head. It bounced off the wall onto Rick’s snare drum. It bounced off the drum and tumbled onto a paint can where it spun a half turn before toppling onto the floor and proceeded to roll across the floor right back to Jason. Jason stuck his foot out and stopped it, dead. “Shit!”

The moment of comic relief temporarily eased the tension they were all feeling. A chorus of laughter filled the garage. But Jason wasn’t laughing. “It ain’t funny,” he yelled. Billy snorted out a chuckle. The others stifled the temptation.

Jason picked up the beer bottle, bored holes into it with his eyes, and considered tossing it again but it seemed pointless. “We could be getting fucking rich selling CDs like hotcakes,” he said. “But between us all we couldn’t afford studio time if our lives depended on it. And where the hell is Rodney… or Rye, or whatever the hell he’s calling himself today.”

Just then the side door of the garage opened and Rye Cowl stepped in.

Cowl closed the door behind him and stood quietly for a moment, looking at the others. They couldn’t quite read the look on his face but that was nothing new. It had become difficult to read him at all anymore, since the night he’d had the weird dream about changing his name and the name of the band. There was more than just a name change going on with the former Rodney Duckworth. He seemed different, almost as if someone else had crawled into his skin. He was losing weight, not that he needed to. Chubby little Rodney Duckworth had grown up to become a tall, blonde-haired, chiseled-faced young man with a slender but solid build. Now the hollows beneath his prominent cheekbones were becoming deeper, his torso thinner, his eyes darker, his long, straight, blonde hair––now past his shoulders–– was dyed jet black. Rodney Duckworth had undergone a complete metamorphosis and emerged as Rye Cowl, leader of a group that was soon to become a full-fledged death-metal phenomenon. Cowl shoved his hands into the pockets of his black leather jacket and casually leaned against the wall. “Um––” he started. “You guys might want to sit down.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Christ. Now what?”

Cowl shrugged and feigned a tone of nonchalance. “Oh, well, I just got a call from Rusty Howard.”

Everyone’s jaw dropped simultaneously. The name was legendary.

Rusty Howard was the owner of SubGenre Recording Studios, the once small but now highly influential independent company that launched the careers of some of Seattle’s garage bands to stardom in the ‘80s.

It took a moment for Cowl’s words to sink in.

Jason shot Cowl a skeptical look. “Bullshit.”

Cowl grinned. “No bullshit. He’s been monitoring our website.”

Rick’s eyes lit up with anticipation. “Well, c’mon! What’d he want?”

Cowl hesitated, drawing some perverted pleasure from their agony.

Jason pointed the beer bottle at Cowl. “Stop fuckin’ around, Rye! What’d he want?”

“What do you think he wanted?” Cowl said. “He wants to sign us.”

Billy jumped up, his eyes wide. “Are you shitting us? Is that for real?”

Cowl opened the garage door again, stepped out, leaving Jason, Rick and Billy with confused looks on their faces. A moment later he popped back in with a case of beer. “Boys,” he said, handing a brew to each of them, “If I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’. He wants us to come down Saturday and sign on the dotted line. Two-year contract to start. We’ll begin cutting a CD in his studio on Monday. That is…” he paused and grinned, “…if you guys don’t mind.”

The celebration that night lasted into the wee hours. Saturday the deal was made, the contract was signed and two weeks later the recording of their first CD, Rise Of The Beast, was completed and in production. By the end of the year 100,000 copies had been sold and a tour of the hottest arenas up and down the West coast had drawn countless thousands of head-banging fans. Mega Therion had become a phenomenon. The money was rolling in. Life was good. Hell, it was great. Then tragedy struck.

At least most people would have considered it a tragedy. But the death of Rodney’s parents in a car accident––even though, ironically, it was on his own 21st birthday––seemed to barely phase the young star now known to the world as Rye Cowl. Rodney had never felt close to his parents and now, fully entrenched in his new persona, he almost felt as if he was not related to them at all. Jason, Rick and Billy couldn’t quite comprehend his callous attitude about the whole thing. Then again, understanding Rye Cowl was something they didn’t spend a lot of time trying to do anymore. As long as he kept churning out hit songs and as long as the CDs kept selling and the money continued to roll in, that was good enough for them. Nothing, it seemed, could stop Mega Therion from scorching its way across the musical landscape. It was as if the fires of Hell were blazing the trail and all the band had to do was follow in its wake. *** CD sales reached the one million mark. The boys were up to their necks in a river of money that seemed like it would flow forever. Jason bought himself a classic, red, ’57 Thunderbird convertible and moved out of his parent’s house into an elaborately appointed high-rise condo overlooking the Seattle skyline. He was on top of the world.

Rick was sitting pretty in a new ‘Beamer’ convertible and Billy bought a Porche. They both purchased homes relatively close to one another inside one of the city’s upscale, gated communities. They were living the life of millionaire party animals even if it was much to the chagrin of several of their more conservative neighbors.

Cowl, oddly enough, didn’t seem all that interested in the money. He did buy a glossy black, completely restored-to-mint, 1959 Cadillac with tinted windows, and a custom-installed stereo. From the deadly sharp tail fins to the enormous front chrome bumper, the classic rolling land yacht was only slightly shorter in length than an aircraft carrier, a perfect size for hauling around his expanding ego. He named the car, Maybellene, after a classic of another kind, his favorite old Chuck Berry song. As far as major purchases, however, that was about it for him.

Standing alone now in the kitchen of his parent’s home, staring blankly out the window over the sink, Cowl watched the sun going down behind the trees. The money meant little to him. He was satisfied to bask in the glory of his success, the freedom from his parents and, perhaps most of all, in having finally broken the restraints which, for so long, had kept him chained to that loser, the nobody that nobody ever really knew. Rodney Fuckworth-Not-Worth-a-Fuck was, indeed, now worth a fuck. A million of them.

A tiny smile formed at the corners of his mouth. His someday was near. He didn’t know how it would happen, what it would be like, or even when it would happen. All he knew was that he could feel it coming.

He turned away from the window and moved into the living room.

The old curtains, the old carpet, the old furniture, the old paint on the walls. It all seemed so foreign to his newly acquired persona and yet it was uncomfortably all too familiar. There wasn’t a place in the house where he couldn’t still smell the alcohol on his father’s breath or hear the preachy, nagging voice of his overbearing mother.

He walked across the room and sat in the overstuffed chair where his father used to park his lazy ass and drink his cheap booze until he passed out. Cowl raised a hand and gently smacked the big, soft, round arm of the chair. A plume of dust rose and settled. He looked around and nodded. It was time to move. *** Rye Cowl could have had any house in the city. There were plenty of mansions available in a metropolis the size of Seattle. Hell, he could have purchased a beauty on the shores of Lake Washington, just down the road from Bill Gates if he’d wanted to. But those homes didn’t feel right to him. He wanted something different. Something more suitable

to the dark and heavy persona he’d come to embrace––or which had come to embrace him. He took his time. Weeks passed. Then, one dark, blustery, rainy afternoon, he found it.

After touring around the city for hours in the rolled-and-pleated comfort of Maybellene, he’d somehow unintentionally ended up on Seattle’s old Capitol Hill, driving down the tree-lined avenue of Millionaire’s Row. As Maybellene’s wipers swished back and forth, battling in vain against the driving rain, he passed––almost without notice––the wellkept estates and meticulously manicured lawns. Squinting to see through the torrential downpour, his attention zeroed in on something– –something large and dark––at the far end of the avenue. He approached slowly and pulled Maybellene over to the curb directly in front of a disheveled, and apparently abandoned old mansion.

He switched off the engine and sat silently, staring at the place.

Something about it was familiar. Then it hit him. Oh, man. It’s Moorehouse Manor. He recalled reading an article about it just a few years earlier. A photo had accompanied the article and he could see now the great home had not changed at all. The theme of the article focused on historically prominent people from Seattle’s past. In addition to the information about William Bentley Moorehouse, it also mentioned the rather disturbing rumors about William’s son, Michael Moorehouse, who had inherited the home when the elder Moorehouse died. According to the rumors, the article revealed, the younger Moorehouse had a bizarre fascination with black magick and a rather unhealthy obsession with the infamous Aleister Crowley.

Cowl grinned.

Two weeks later, on a cold winter afternoon in the year of 2007, Rye Cowl became the newest resident on Millionaire’s Row. He settled into the dank, dreary mansion as comfortably as one slides one’s tired feet into a pair of old slippers. He was home at last. *** On Cowl’s first night in his new surroundings he smoked a bowl of his best weed and unpacked his few belongings which included two boxes of his favorite books. He began the task of placing the books on a shelf in the library, a room with which he had felt an immediate and intimate kinship. The room seemed to welcome him as if it had been waiting all those years for his arrival.

The final book to be shelved was a hefty volume, the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe. As he was about to place the book on the shelf, it slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. He tried to catch it but he fumbled in the attempt. It tumbled around to the side of the bookcase.

He stooped to retrieve the book and found it had fallen open, quite serendipitously, to his favorite of Poe’s tales of terror, The Fall Of The House Of Usher. Situated comfortably, cross-legged, on the exquisite Persian carpet covering the floor, he took a moment to browse the opening lines of the story. But the hour was late, he was tired, the effects of the marijuana were doing their job and there was a chill in the air of the old library. I’ll take it upstairs, he thought, and read it in bed. Indeed, it seemed like a fitting way to end the day.

He closed the book and started to stand but, feeling the full impact of the weed by this time, his legs were unsteady. Light-headed and wobbly, he stumbled backward against the bookcase causing the structure to slide sideways. It moved not more than half an inch but it was enough to reveal an otherwise nearly invisible and hair-thin seam in the wall.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed it was not so much a seam in the wall as it was a very narrow gap. It extended from the floor upward to about eight feet, at which point it made a 90-degree turn and continued on behind the bookcase. Curious now, he leaned against the bookcase and slid it another couple of feet along the wall. Well, well, he mused.

What have we here?

He was convinced it must be some sort of a door. But how to open it? There were no visible hinges and no door latch of any kind. He pushed against it. Nothing budged. He tried again, harder. Still no movement. What the hell? He was about to lay into it with more force when he noticed a small flat button, flush against the wall, just off to the side. He pushed the button and heard what sounded like the click of a latch inside the wall. The section of wall sprang open, just slightly, apparently on a vertical hinge at the center. He pushed it a little more and it pivoted on its center axis, opening like a revolving door.

He peeked his head into the dark space. The slightly musty smell of abandonment wafted into his nostrils. He reached in with one arm and felt around for a light switch but found none. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and gave it a flick. It provided enough light to see a few feet into the room.

He stepped in, scanned the wall for a light switch, found it and flipped it on. The result was a dim, but adequate light from the one working bulb in a large chandelier suspended from the middle of the ceiling. He stood at the door and surveyed the room.

Empty bookcases lined the walls to the left and right of the door. A few feet directly in front of the door was a brown leather couch. Near the far wall sat a large, dark, Victorian style desk facing out into the room. Atop the desk were three objects, two of which he could not

discern from where he stood. The one that he could identify was an old brass desk lamp. He moved closer for a better look.

At first he thought one of the objects must be a flower vase. But why did it have a lid? He picked up the odd relic, blew off the dust and ran his fingers over the strangely faceted, deep red gemstone attached to it.

Then he noticed the name and dates inscribed into the black ceramic finish. What the––?

He turned on the desk lamp, brought the object into the light and looked again. What? Aleister-fucking-Crowley? No way! He realized then that the object was a funerary urn. Goosebumps rolled across his flesh. He lifted the lid and tipped the urn. A small amount of ash slid forward. Startled, he tipped the urn back upright and replaced the lid.

He felt a flutter in his chest. This can’t be real. Then his eyes fell upon the third object, a dust-covered diary.

He lowered himself into the chair behind the great desk, picked up the diary and brushed the dust off the leather covering. He turned it over and back again. What in the world do we have here?

He leaned back in the chair and opened the book. The solitary light in the chandelier suddenly flickered and went out. Surrounded by darkness––save for the small dim circle of light from the desk lamp–– his body tensed. He could no longer see the door on the other side of the room. The old house had become disturbingly quiet. The usual creaks and groans of the aging timbers had fallen silent. He held his breath. Time ceased. He wondered for a moment if even the world outside had vanished.

He sat motionless, gathering the courage to get up and feel his way to the door. But as he rose from the chair the light in the chandelier flickered again and came back on. He fell back into the chair and froze.

Moving only his eyes, afraid to breathe, he scanned the room. He heard the familiar sound of an old timber creaking somewhere deep in the bowels of the house. Listening closely, he detected the faint whisper of the wind outside. He released his breath, his tension eased. He took another look around. No ghosts. No demons. A nervous chuckle involuntarily rattled up from his churning gut. Just a faulty fucking light bulb.

Convinced that all was once again right with the world, he eased back in the chair, flipped open the diary and began to read.

CHAPTER 1 Three Months Later…

It was hot––sweaty hot––especially for Seattle in the middle of June.

Detective Lieutenant, Brian Kane, took the day off from his duties at the homicide unit in the West Precinct to celebrate his 47th birthday.

He set the electric fan on the coffee table and pushed the high-speed button. His thick black hair fluttered in the refreshing breeze. The fact that he was only now beginning to show a slight touch of gray at the temples belied the daily stress of his years as a big-city cop. The crevasses that defined the contours of his broad face, however, told the real story like a gritty, pulp crime novel written in Braille. His six-foot, one-inch frame still carried his 185 pounds quite well considering he hadn’t set foot in a gym in five years and he’d had to let his belt out a couple more notches. One of these days, he kept promising himself, I’ll get me one of those treadmills. But this wouldn’t be the day. This was a day for relaxing.

It was exactly the kind of birthday celebration he preferred: alone in his downtown apartment, slouched back in his old recliner, comfortably attired in his t-shirt and skivvies with a bottle of Scotch, a bag of corn chips and a Saturday afternoon ball game on TV. It was perfect. That is until the top of the seventh inning when the Mariners came to bat and the phone rang. With a disgruntled effort he reached over and took the call.

“Kane here. What is it? Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mitch. Get Davis to handle it, will ya? I’m celebrating here. Oh, for the love of… all right.

Where?” He grabbed a pen and jotted down an address on the palm of his hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on my way.” **** The crime scene was a Presbyterian church in a semi-residential district just north of the downtown area. Kane ducked under the yellow police tape that cordoned off the front entrance of the church and walked in. A couple of CSI guys were snapping photos of the body that was lying face down on the floor at the foot of the altar. Mitch Wheeler, a relatively new detective with the division, was busy taking notes and didn’t notice Kane approaching.

Kane announced his presence with the standard opening line from every similar scene on every cop show on TV. “Okay, what’ve we got?”

Mitch looked up. “Hey, Lieutenant. I’m sorry about––” “Forget it. The Mariners were losing anyway. So what do we have here?” Without waiting for an answer he knelt down beside the body to see for himself. He grimaced. “Oh, Jesus. You gotta be kidding me.”

“Yeah. Just like that other one nine days ago.”

The first victim, nine days ago, was Reverend Paul Nichols. His body, branded with strange symbols on the forehead and the chest, had been found in an alley near the waterfront. The body Kane was staring at now was marked in a similar manner. The symbol on the forehead was the same on both victims. The symbol on the chest, however, was different from the one on the chest of the previous victim.

In the previous case from nine days ago, the Medical Examiner had determined the cause of death was a heart attack. He was puzzled, however, by the strange symbols––not so much by what they might mean but by how they were applied. He first thought they appeared to be the result of branding by a heated metal implement applied to the surface of the skin. Or possibly––even more likely, given the flowing lines and complexity of the symbols––the perpetrator employed the more advanced method: electro-cautery pencils. One way or the other, the welted skin seemed to be a dead giveaway that it was a case of human branding. However, much to the M.E.’s surprise, a closer examination back at the lab had suggested something more bizarre, disturbingly so. The markings had not been the result of something applied to the surface of the skin. They were the result of something that happened under the skin. Nothing in his medical training or in his twenty-three years of practice could offer even a hint as to what mechanism––biological or otherwise––could cause such a thing to occur. So, although he hadn’t been able to come up with an explanation for the ‘how’, he was reasonably certain about the ‘when’.

“It was done while the victim was still alive,” he told Kane. “And the pain had to have been excruciating. Look here, how the nerve endings…”

“That’s okay, doc. I’ll take your word for it. What else you got?”

“Well, as you already surmised, the victim was apparently sodomized.”

“Apparently?”

“We only have what you might call surface evidence of anal penetration. Minor tissue damage to the orifice shows––”

“Like I said, I’ll take your word for it. So you’re telling me there was no semen? Nothing? Hairs? Fibers? C’mon, doc. You gotta give me something. I could use a little help from a DNA sample. Y’know?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. Nothing. Not under the fingernails, not on the clothing… nothing. This is definitely one for the books. It’s like the poor guy was attacked by a damned ghost.”

“A ghost. That’s your expert medical opinion? He was attacked by a fucking ghost?”

“Just telling you the way it is,” the Medical Examiner said with a shrug. He snapped off his surgical gloves. “Anyway, there you go. If I find anything more, you’ll be the first to know.”

Now, kneeling over the second victim, Kane shook his head and glanced up at Wheeler. “What kind of a sick fuck does something like this?”

“I don’t know, but there’s one more thing.”

Kane got to his feet. “What is it?”

Wheeler held out a clear plastic evidence bag containing a small, thin, black object. He handed it to Kane.

Kane held it up to the light. “Son of a bitch. Another goddamn Batman coin.”

“Yup. Stuffed into the mouth of the vic just like the other case.”

“What the hell is it with these Batman coins? Get it to the lab right away. The other coin didn’t tell us anything but maybe we can get a print off this one.” He glanced down at the body. “Any I.D. on this guy? Do we know who he is?”

Wheeler peeled back a page or two in his notes. “Thomas Morgan.

Pastor here at the church.”

“Preacher, huh? Same as that other poor bastard.” Kane’s brow crunched as he studied the body. “Doesn’t look like a preacher.”

Wheeler shrugged. “What should a preacher look like?”

“Black shirt, white collar. You know.”

“Well, he was a Presbyterian minister. They don’t always––” “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He took another look at the dead preacher.

“Those weird markings on the forehead, the chest. What the hell are they, anyway?”

Wheeler shook his head. “Don’t have a clue.”

“Then what good are ya?” Kane said as he turned to leave.

The comment took Wheeler by surprise. “What?”

But Kane’s footsteps were already echoing down the aisle between the pews toward the door. He’d entered the scene with a standard line and, true to form, he was exiting with a standard line. “Need a full report on my desk by morning,” he hollered over his shoulder.

Just as Kane reached the door, Wheeler called after him. “By the way, Lieutenant! Happy birthday!”

The words ‘fuck you’––another line from Kane’s voluminous lexicon of famous phrases––was barely audible as the large oak door slammed shut behind him.

CHAPTER 2 The next morning Kane scanned through the pages of Wheeler’s report. The results of the autopsy of the second victim were nearly identical to those of the first. The cause of death, in both cases, was heart attack even though both victims were in excellent health. And again there was not a trace of hair, skin, semen or fingerprints.

Kane washed down the last bite of his morning donut with a swig of coffee. I don’t like it. Doesn’t make any sense. Two preachers, both die from heart attacks and then some creep comes along, does the nasty with the corpses, shoves a fuckin’ Batman coin into their mouth and then somehow brands them with weird symbols? No fingerprints? No sign of a struggle? He shook his head. It’s just goddamn weird.

Wheeler knocked on Kane’s door and walked in. “I take it you’ve read the report?”

Kane looked up. “Hey, Mitch. Sorry about yesterday. I wasn’t in my best mood.”

“No problem. So what do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. The weird thing––or at least one of the weird things––is that it doesn’t really look like we’re dealing with a homicide. That’s what I can’t wrap my brain around. Doesn’t look like anybody killed anybody. You know what I mean? We got two dead guys, both died from heart attacks, no sign of a struggle, nothing.”

Mitch nodded. “Well, there is something. The Batman coins and the branded markings. Those were clearly applied by somebody.

Somehow.”

“Yeah. Crazy designs. Looks like something my daughter would have scribbled when she was little. Except for the one on their foreheads. That design––whatever the hell it is––it’s pretty complex.

Like there’s some geometry to it.”

“You have a daughter?”

“What?”

“You mentioned your daughter.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sarah. She’s ten, now. Still can’t draw for crap. Takes after her ol’ man.”

Mitch smiled. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“Divorced.”

“Oh?” Mitch said, waiting for the rest of the story.

Kane gave a perturbed look. “What––you writing a book?”

Mitch held up his hands and backed off. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yeah, well…” Kane said, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

“Long, sad story and I’m fresh out of violins.”

“Sorry. I just thought––” “Well, don’t.” Kane spat the words out. It was an order, not a request.

Mitch got the point. “So, what do you want me to do now?”

Kane turned away from Mitch and stood staring out the window.

“For starters you can get the fuck out of my office.”

Wheeler had heard about––was warned about––the Lieutenant’s erratic personality: a nice guy one minute and a prickly asshole the next. But hearing about it and experiencing it were two different things. Without another word he took his leave and gently closed the door behind him.

Kane turned from the window and sat down at his desk. He reached into the side drawer, pulled out a photo of his daughter and stared at it.

His face was solemn. A grim sort of sadness welled up inside and he brushed a bit of moisture from the corner of his eye. It was the last photo he’d taken of her before the accident. His fingers traced the contours of her face as he relived the day, five years ago, when that pleasant sunny, summer morning quickly transitioned into a nightmare.

Sarah had just finished breakfast when he scooped her up in his arms.

“Hey Squirt,” he said, staring into her bright blue eyes. “You want to see where daddy works?”

“Yeah!” she squealed. “When?”

“Right now,” he said, laughing.

His wife, Linda, had been watching them.

Kane turned to her. “Okay with you, babe?”

Linda shook her head as her fingers unconsciously kneaded and twisted the terrycloth dishtowel in her hands. Even though she’d known what she was getting into by marrying a cop, she still didn’t like the whole cop thing. It was a gritty, dangerous business and she didn’t like the idea of her five-year-old daughter getting too close to it. “Not really,” she said, glaring at her husband.

Sarah pleaded. “But, Mommy…”

Kane put Sarah down and looked at his wife. He gently lifted the dishtowel from her hands and draped it over the sink. “Yeah, Mommy.

Come on. What can it hurt? I’ll have her back by lunch.”

Reluctantly, and with a heavy sigh, Linda gave in. “By lunch,” she said.

“By lunch,” Kane echoed, confirming the deal. He grabbed Sarah up and threw his wife a kiss as he and the true love of his life, his little Squirt, danced a fox trot out the front door.

Sarah sampled every station on the car radio during the 10-mile drive into town. Other than that, the trip had been uneventful until they turned the corner at Jackson Street, one block from the precinct building. A man with a ski mask covering his face, a paper bag in one hand, a handgun in the other, had raced out the door of a pawnshop and into the street directly in front of Kane’s car. Kane slammed on the brakes. The gunman panicked, stumbled backward and the gun went off. The bullet shattered Kane’s front windshield and ripped a chunk out of the side of Sarah’s face. The scar she would live with for the rest of her life––unsightly as it was––was not as deep and ugly as the one that would mark Kane’s soul forever. Even his wife’s lack of forgiveness could not match his own inability to forgive himself.

It was an accident, his friends and colleagues tried to convince him.

There was nothing you could have done to prevent it.

Yes there was. I could have taken the turn at Cherry instead of Jackson. I could have waited just two more minutes before leaving the house. I could have given in to Linda and not have taken Sarah in the first place. There were a dozen things I could have done.

“Lieutenant?”

The voice brought him back into the moment. He looked up. It was Tom Bower, the nearly retired street cop who’d been pushing a pencil for the past year at the desk just outside the door to Kane’s office.

“Someone here to see you.” Bower said.

Kane slipped the photo of Sarah back into the drawer. “Who is it?”

“F.B.I.” “What?”

“Special Agent, Rowena Ravenwood.”

“Ravenwood? Never heard of her. She look like an old wooden crow?” He didn’t like it when the F.B.I. butted into his investigations.

They tended to keep information to themselves and then took all the

glory when the case was solved. On the other hand, when a case went unsolved Kane took all the flak. It pissed him off but, like a law of nature, there was nothing he could do about it.

Bower didn’t reply.

Kane nodded. “All right. Send her in.”

Ravenwood’s entrance––briefcase in hand––was all business… and a visual surprise. With the name of Rowena, Kane had imagined a frumpy, old librarian-type in a wrinkled gray tweed suit. This woman was tall, attractive, supermodel-slender and appeared to be in her late 30s, early 40s.

Kane tried not to look impressed. Actually, he tried not to look at all, but it was impossible. Her deep-set eyes, light copper complexion and high cheekbones suggested Native American genetics. Her straight, black hair reached a few inches below her shoulders and was streaked with signs of approaching gray which, in this case, only enhanced the sex appeal that a woman like her can never adequately conceal.

Her moderately low-cut beige top contrasted fashionably under a tailored black denim jacket that matched the black denim boot-cut jeans. It was all certainly unconventional attire for an FBI agent on duty, not to mention the turquoise and silver jewelry that adorned her fingers and caressed her narrow wrists. How the hell does she get away with that? In her 2-inch black patent leather heels, she clicked confidently across the floor and stopped a couple feet from his desk.

She introduced herself by name and flashed her I.D. Kane didn’t bother standing up to greet her. No matter how great she looked, she was still FBI. He was determined not to like her. “Have a seat,” he said. “What can I do for you, Ms. Ravenwood?”

He knew she would probably prefer to be addressed as Special Agent, Ravenwood but he wasn’t about to give her that satisfaction. He did, however––and with some reluctance––offer her a chair.

Special Agent Ravenwood removed her jacket, draped it over the back of the chair, and took a seat. Having been briefed on Kane’s often-explosive personality and his dislike of the FBI, she was ready to defuse him from the get-go. “Please,” she said, flashing her most disarming smile, “call me Ro.” “All right… Ro.” Christ, I can’t believe I just fell for that. “What can I do for you?”

She drew a document-sized envelope from her briefcase and handed it to him. “I’ve been assigned to assist you with the investigation of the case.”

“Hmm. What case would that be?” He knew full well she must mean the case involving the deceased preachers.

She nodded toward the envelope.

Kane opened it. “Ah,” he said, looking at the first page of the documents. “That case.”

She nodded toward the documents again, implying that he should look further. He flipped to the next page and was surprised to see graphic renderings of the same strange symbols that were found on the two dead bodies in question.

“How did you know about these?” he asked. “None of the photographs of the bodies have been released to anyone on the outside.”

She shrugged. “We’re the FBI.” In Kane’s ears her words came across as ‘We’re the bane of your existence.’

“Yes,” he said. “You certainly are.” He tossed the document onto his desk and leaned back in his chair. “So what makes you think I need help with this case? We’ve barely begun our investigation. I don’t see why––” Ravenwood subtly raised a hand to cut him off as she scooted forward in her chair. “First of all, I’m not the bad guy. Okay? I’ve been sent here to help you find the bad guy.”

The comment came within a hair of lighting Kane’s fuse. He leaned forward to meet her eye-to-eye from across his desk. “Listen Ms. Ravenwood––” “Ro.” Christ. “Ro. Whatever. We do a pretty damn good job of catching the bad guys on our own. So how about you go away and if we need you we’ll call you. How’s that sound?”

“Trust me,” she said. “You’re going to need me on this one.”

“Really? And what makes you so sure? Do you already know something you’re not telling me? Damn it! That’s what ticks me off about you guys.”

“Okay,” she said. “Listen. I’ve been through the files you’ve put together on this case. I know everything you know about it. And, yes, I know a little more than you do.”

Kane threw up his hands. “Of course you do.”

“No, wait. I am going to tell you what I know, but…” she paused a moment.

“But––?”

“Well, it’s just that you’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”

Kane laughed. “Look, lady––” “Ro.” “Oh, for Christ’s sake. All right. Ro! Jesus. I already don’t like you even being here. But seeing as how you are here––and apparently you’re not gonna go away––why don’t you just go ahead and lay it on me?”

Ravenwood smiled. She was actually beginning to like this son-of-abitch. She had an extraordinarily well-honed sense of intuition and that was only one of the unusual attributes that made her so valuable to the special unit to which she was attached. At the moment, this intuition was telling her that the man sitting in front of her had an inner Teddy Bear with more soft stuffing than he would generally admit to anyone, least of all to himself.

“All right,” she said. “Here it is. I’m a profiler of sorts with a special unit called the A.P.U.” Kane shook his head. “Never heard of it. What is it?”

“The Anomalous Phenomena Unit.”

Kane despised big words about as much as he despised the FBI. “What the hell is that? Greek, or something?”

She smiled. “Basically, we take on cases in which the evidence points to… Well, let’s just say, to things of an unusual nature.

Paranormal. Occult. Things like that.”

Kane laughed. “You can’t be serious. Come on. Who are you, really?

And what the hell do you want?”

Ravenwood took out her I.D. once more and handed it over to him.

“You might want to take a closer look.”

He leaned forward and squinted. Sure enough, the unit to which she was assigned was, indeed, the Anomalous Phenomena Unit. He leaned back in his chair and gave a skeptical snort. “You gotta be kidding me.” He waited for her response. “You are kidding me. Right?”

“Not at all. But, if you think that’s funny, you haven’t heard anything yet.”

“Okay,” Kane said, taking a deep breath. He knew there was no getting rid of her. “Let’s hear it. What have you got?”

“Thank you.”

He squirmed in his chair. You’re not welcome.

“To begin with,” she said, “you need to accept the possibility that what we’re dealing with here may very well involve some sort of paranormal phenomena.”

“Oooh… You mean like spooks and stuff? Great angle for the press.

I can see the headlines now. ‘The Boogeyman Killer Strikes Again!’”

Ravenwood dug a polished red fingernail into the palm of her tightly clenched fist and began silently counting to ten. She barely got to three when her cell phone chimed. She pulled it from her pocket.

“Ravenwood. ….Now? ….Mexico? But… Okay, I’m on my way.” She stood up and looked at Kane. “I’m sorry. Something’s come up. I have to go.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. And we were having such a good time.”

She ignored the comment. “I may be out of the country for a few days. We’ll continue this when I get back.”

“I can hardly wait. Oh, and Ms. Ravenwood? Ro?” She stopped at the door and turned. “Yes?” “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

CHAPTER 3 One Week Later…

Kane was still puzzling over the mystery of the two dead preachers.

The two cases were clearly related but the investigation had come to a dead end. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t help wondering if maybe Special Agent Ravenwood really did know something that could help solve the case.

“Lieutenant?”

Kane looked up and saw Bower standing in the doorway.

“Yeah, Tom. What is it?”

Bower hesitated, almost afraid to tell him the news. “She’s back.”

Ravenwood didn’t wait for an invitation. She brushed by Bower and strutted into Kane’s office.

“Well!” Kane said with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Special Agent Ravenwood. I was just thinking about you. Won’t you come in? Oh, but you’re already in, aren’t you. My bad.”

Sporting a tailored black suit and starched white blouse, Ravenwood finally looked like an FBI agent.

Kane gave her a conspicuous once over, scanning her from head to toe. “Going to a funeral?”

She grimaced. Yours, if you’re not careful. “Nice to see you, too, Lieutenant.” She pulled up the chair in front of Kane’s desk and made herself comfortable. “So,” she said, forcing a smile and tossing her hair back, “Shall we continue where we left off?”

“Well, let me see. If I remember right, we left off with you walking out the door and heading for Mexico. So, yes, let’s continue with that.

There’s the door. Have a nice trip.”

Her forced smile vanished. “Look, Lieutenant. I know you don’t––” He stopped her before she could finish. “Wait,” he said. He took a breath and paused, trying to figure out how to make an apology without sounding like he was caving in. If he could make the apology sound sincere, he reasoned, maybe he could actually get some helpful information from her. It seemed worth the humiliation of an apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. As much as it pains me to say this, I think you’re really a nice lady. For an FBI agent. So you think we could start over?”

The words caught Ravenwood off guard. It took her a moment to regroup. I was right. There is a Teddy Bear inside the belligerent bastard. “Thank you,” she said, graciously acknowledging what she knew must have been difficult for him to say. “I’m ready if you are.”

Okay, he thought, this might actually work. “Well, I don’t know if I’m ready or not but if you’ve got something to bring to the table I’d like to see it. Because, frankly, when it comes to this case… my table is pretty much bare.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. So let’s get started. Do you have the documents I gave you?”

“Yup,” he said, retrieving the large envelope from a drawer. He pulled out the contents and spread them across the desk.

“Excellent,” she said. “Now, check this out.” She pointed to the photos of the two deceased victims, “See those marks on the forehead and the chest of each body?”

“Of course. That’s what… wait. You’re going to tell me you know what they mean?”

“Not exactly what they mean. At least not yet. I’m working on it.

What I can tell you is that the marks on the chest are sigils.”

“Sigils? What the hell is a sigil?”

“For simplicity’s sake let’s just say they are signs––symbols, if you will––that are created for some magickal purpose.”

Kane shook his head. “Lady, you’re losing me real fast here. Magic?

You mean like abracadabra, watch me pull a rabbit out of my ass?”

She glared at him. “I thought you were ready to take this seriously.

And it’s not abracadabra. It’s abra-ha-dabra.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t. Everybody knows––” “Well, everybody’s wrong. Trust me. This is exactly why you need me on this case. I know things you can’t imagine.”

Kane rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Go on.”

She was about to explain further when Kane’s phone buzzed. He mocked an apologetic shrug and took the call. “Yeah, what is it? I’m entertaining a lady in here, so make it quick.” He winked at

Ravenwood. After a moment his expression changed. “You gotta be shittin’ me. All right. Yeah.” He hung up the phone and looked at Ravenwood. “Hate to break up our fascinating conversation but it looks like victim number three just made the roster.” He got up, put his jacket on and headed for the door.

Ravenwood spun around in her chair. “Where are you going?”

He was already half way across the outer office when he hollered back. “Gotta go look at a dead guy. Have a nice day Ms. Ravenwood.”

Ravenwood stood up, grabbed her briefcase and jacket and started after him. “Wait a minute,” she said, coming up behind him. “I’m coming with you.”

Kane stopped short and turned to face her. “Abra-HA-dabra,” he said, waving his hands like a magician performing a vanishing act.

“Disappear, will ya?”

Ravenwood pursed her lips. So much for the Teddy Bear. “Sorry,” she said, “it doesn’t work that way. Your car or mine?”

CHAPTER 4 Mountlake Terrace, A Middle-Class Seattle Suburb The crime scene––a small, one-bedroom home owned by Robert McKale, a Methodist minister––yielded no real surprises. No sign of struggle, no sign of violence. Yet, face down in the middle of the living room floor, was one dead preacher. The Medical Examiner rolled the body over. As in the previous two cases, the man’s shirt was unbuttoned, there were strange markings on his forehead and chest, his trousers and underwear were pulled down to his ankles and, like the other two victims, a black plastic Batman coin had been stuffed into his mouth. *** When Kane and Ravenwood returned to the office, Kane plopped himself into the chair behind his desk and stared at Ravenwood. Finally he spoke. “Sigils, huh?” he said, picking up the conversation where they’d left off as if nothing had happened.

Ravenwood was a little surprised. “So you’re ready to listen to what I have to say, I take it.”

“Might as well. Can’t dance.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I said––” he stopped and shook his head. “Never mind. Can we just get on with it? Dazzle me with your mystical brilliance.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “That’s what I’m here for.” She clicked open her briefcase, pulled out the sheet of illustrations of the odd symbols and slid it across his desk. “Like I said, I’m certain these are sigils. The word sigil is derived from the Latin, sigilum, which means seal, although some––” “Look, lady. I don’t need a friggin’ history lesson here. Just give me the goddamn bottom line, will ya?”

She took a deep breath. How the hell did this guy even graduate from high school? “Okay, all right, no history lesson. But even you will like this next part.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Ever hear of sex magick?”

Kane chuckled. “Sex magic? Hell yeah. I’ve performed a lot of that in my time.”

“Really? That’s not what I hear.”

Kane found himself caught off guard without a clever retort.

“May I continue?” Ravenwood asked.

“By all means,” Kane said. “Don’t stop now. It’s just getting good.”

“It gets better.”

“Do tell.”

Ravenwood leaned back in her chair. “Remember I told you sigils are symbols used in magick?”

“Right. Magic.” He raised two fingers and traced the sign of a cross in the air as if performing a blessing. “Hocus pocus dominocus, betican beecha indominos.”

It was corny. It was juvenile. It was also kind of funny. Ravenwood couldn’t quite suppress a grin. “Cute,” she said. “But no.”

“Whaddya mean, no?”

“We’re not talking about hocus-pocus here. That’s stage magic. This isn’t David Copperfield making the Statue of Liberty disappear.”

“No?” “No.” “Then what the hell are we talking about and when do we get back to the sex stuff?”

“We’re talking about ritual magick, the dark arts as some call it.

Maybe even black magick. Possibly satanic. Hard to say at this point.

But ritual magick of some sort.”

“Witchcraft?”

“Maybe. It’s complicated.”

Kane thought for a moment. “You’re an expert in this stuff, right?”

“You could say that.”

“Then let me ask you a serious question.”

Finally, Ravenwood thought, trying not to look shocked. “Shoot.”

He looked her straight in the eyes. “What, exactly, does ‘colder than a witches tit’ really mean, anyway?”

She shut her eyes and shook her head. Jesus Christ, the man is still back in the sixth grade. “Actually,” she said, “I could answer that for you.”

Kane looked surprised. “Get outta here. You serious?”

Ravenwood couldn’t believe he could think she was serious. She decided to play it out. “I said I could tell you. I didn’t say I would tell you. Because you know…” her face turned deadly serious, “…if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Oh, that’s original.”

She gave a chuckle. “Yeah, I know. But there is actually an answer to that question.”

“Really?”

“Tell you what. You stop screwing with me and one of these days I’ll tell you. And I won’t kill you. Promise. Deal?”

Kane grinned. Stop screwing with you? I wouldn’t screw you if you were the last woman on earth. Well––maybe the last woman. “All right, deal. I’ll hold you to that promise.”

Ravenwood hoped the smile on her face appeared more appreciative than condescending. “Okay, then. Are we together on this magick thing? Do you get what I’m telling you?”

“Yeah, I’m gettin’ the picture but what is it with this ritual magick stuff? People believe this shit really works?”

“Yes, they do. The idea behind the practice of ritual magick is to learn how to use one’s will to bring about some intended change.”

Kane nodded for her to go on.

“For example, let’s say there’s this job that you really want but you heard the employer is intending to hire someone else for that position.

So you would engage in some particular magickal ritual in which the intention is to bring about a change in the employer’s decision. You could be very specific about the means by which you would like your intended outcome to manifest or you could leave it open-ended. Either way. Doesn’t matter, really, just as long as the end result is that you get hired instead of the other person. See what I mean?”

Kane raised an eyebrow. “Or you could do one of these rituals to make somebody die?”

She nodded. “That, too.”

“Okay, I’m getting the gist of what you’re saying. I don’t believe a word of it, but I get it. So what exactly are these rituals, anyway?”

Ravenwood spent the next several minutes explaining some of the various forms of ritual magick: invocations, evocations, consecration, divination and others. Most of it was over Kane’s head. His eyes were glazing over.

“And, of course,” she added, “sex magick.”

Kane’s eyes brightened.

Ravenwood grinned. “I knew that would wake you up.”

“What can I say? I’m a guy. So what about this sex magick thing.”

Ravenwood launched into a short introductory course on sex magick while Kane listened intently. Even though it wasn’t more than fifteen minute’s worth of information on a subject she could have expounded upon for an hour, she didn’t hesitate to mention some of the more lurid elements that are occasionally included in such rituals.

Kane thought he’d heard it all in his line of work but this was definitely a new one on him. He sat up and, for the first time, showed some signs of genuine interest. “So,” he said, “let me see if I’ve got this right. Basically, what you’re saying is that these people use sex to get what they want. What’s new about that? It’s one of the oldest tricks in the book.”

“You’re not quite getting it. What I said was, the practitioners of this particular ritual use the sex act and the energies it releases as a tool for activating the intended outcome––for good or for evil––whatever the case may be. The orgasm is that momentary window of opportunity, when the sexual energy is at its peak. The practitioner has one goal at that moment: to cast his spell and give it life in the real world. In other words, to make the intention become a reality. It’s entirely a mental exercise requiring the most intense concentration.”

Kane leaned back and scowled. “Hmm… Doesn’t sound like much fun. Now, me, I’d rather––” “I don’t really care what you’d rather, Lieutenant. This isn’t about you. I’m trying to get to a point here.

“Well, hurry it up then. Get to the point.”

“Thank you. Now––” “You want some coffee?”

“What?”

“Coffee,” he said, nodding toward the coffee maker on the file cabinet. “You want some?”

My god, she thought. His Teddy Bear is showing. “Well, sure, thank you.”

“Cream? Sugar?” Arsenic?

“No, just black, thanks.”

He got up, filled two Styrofoam cups and handed her one. “Careful,” he said. “It’s hot.” He thought about adding the words, like you, but caught himself before it came out. Christ. I must be slipping.

“Thank you,” she said. Now, where were we?”

Kane sat down and blew the steam off the top of his coffee. “Sex in front of the window or something like that.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Okay. I get what you were saying. It’s weird shit but I get it. What I don’t get is what this has to do with the case.”

“I’m getting to that.”

“Think you can get to it before the coffee gets cold?”

Teddy Bear doesn’t stay around long. “Okay. Here is where we begin to put a couple pieces of the puzzle together.”

“Which pieces?”

“The sigils and the sex magick. Remember I told you the sigils are symbols that represent something?”

Kane gave a nod.

“Well, sex magick can be used to activate a sigil. In the ritual, the sigil can be physically applied to the practitioner’s partner. On the forehead, on the chest, the back of a hand or whatever.”

“Like on our dead preachers.”

“Exactly. But usually the application is nothing more permanent than an ink drawing or, in more extreme cases, blood might be used instead of ink. The practitioner––or magician, to use the more common term––then holds this image in his mind during the sex act. Then, at the very moment of orgasm, the magician mentally launches the sigil into what is thought of as the logosphere.”

“The what?”

“The logosphere. It’s believed to be a kind of cosmic void in the universe where the symbol is interpreted and sent back to the earth in the actual form of the thing the symbol represented in the first place.

Follow me?”

“Yeah, I’m with you. Does this shit get any weirder? Because I’m pretty much maxed out on the weird-o-meter here.”

“Oh, it gets a lot weirder. Believe me. But do you understand what I’m trying to explain?”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. And you’re suggesting that somehow some crazy asshole out there is killing these preachers, branding symbols onto their bodies and then he has sex with them in order to turn his symbolic squiggles into something real. Am I right?”

Ravenwood’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Very good, Lieutenant! You’re not as––” She stopped herself mid-sentence.

“No,” he said, “I’m not.” He reached for the crime scene photos of the dead preachers, studied them for a moment and then spread them across the desk. “So let’s say you’re right about this. Then what the hell do these sigils mean? You’re saying they represent something, right? So what do these particular sigils represent? What the hell is he trying to manifest?”

Ravenwood drained the last sip of coffee from her cup and set it on Kane’s desk. “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to figure that out yet. The sigils on the chests of the victims seem vaguely familiar but I can’t nail down where I might have seen them.”

“Well, that’s a good start.” His tone was drenched in sarcasm. “And what about that weird mark on their foreheads? I suppose you don’t know what that is either.”

“Well, that’s not technically a sigil. At least not like any sigil I’ve ever come across. But I’m working on it. I have quite an extensive library full of this kind of information. But the bottom line is, I think the perpetrator is attempting an evocation of some sort by––” “Hold it. An evo––what?”

“It’s another magick term. Evocation. To evoke something. Usually it has to do with attempting to call on the services of a particular angel… or demon. I suspect that’s what our perp is trying to do. And I’m guessing it’s not an angel he’s looking for. Another guess is that these sigils, these marks on the chests of the victims, are somehow associated with whatever demon––or demons––he’s attempting to evoke.”

Kane shook his head. “Lot of guesses.”

Ravenwood shrugged.

Kane rubbed his eyes. He was tired and pretty much mentally tapped out from this barrage of bizarre information. A whisky shot with a beer chaser would be good right about now. “You do know how insane this all sounds, right?”

“Of course. But insane or not, that’s what we’re dealing with.”

Kane thought about it for a moment. “So, again, let’s just say you’re right. I mean, let’s just assume for the sake of argument that these deaths are actually homicides, murder. Two big questions still remain.

How the hell is he killing them? And what the hell are the Batman coins all about?”

“Right, the coins. Glad you brought that up.”

“You got something on them?”

“Well, obviously they have some profound meaning to our killer.

God only knows what that might be. But I found out those coins were promotional items distributed by a breakfast cereal company about 10 years ago. There were nine coins in the complete set and each one was numbered. Kids collected them and it looks like maybe our perp was one of those kids. That alone might give us a clue as to how old he is now.”

“Good point. Unless he just went out somewhere recently and bought a complete set––assuming, of course, that he actually has a complete set.”

“I think he’s had these coins for a long time. Long enough to have developed some deeply personal psychological attachment to them.”

“Really? Well, if he’s so attached to them, why is he suddenly giving them away like party favors?”

“Part of the ritual. A sacrifice. He’s giving up something to get something in return.”

Kane considered the idea.

“There’s more,” she said. “According to your own forensic reports, the coin found with the first victim had the number ‘one’ stamped on it.

The second victim had coin number ‘two’. Just an hour ago––while we were at the crime scene––I took a quick look at the coin they pulled out of the victim’s mouth. It was stamped with the number ‘three’. So, if our perp did have all nine coins he could be telling us how many preachers he intends to kill before this is over.”

“Nine?”

Ravenwood shrugged. “Just about stake my reputation on it.”

Kane considered Ravenwood’s analysis of the situation and had to admit that her speculations at least followed some logic. Maybe they were beginning to get somewhere. “But, still,” he said, “how is he killing them? The Medical Examiner says heart attacks. I know certain drugs can be used to induce a heart attack even in a completely healthy person. But the autopsies show no evidence of any such drugs in the bodies. Got any ideas on that one?”

Ravenwood stared at the floor for a moment then looked up. “You know, Lieutenant,” she said, looking Kane straight in the eye, “I don’t have the slightest fucking idea.”

Kane had to laugh. “Well, that’s a big help. But I do love it when you talk dirty. More coffee?”

“Just trying to fit in,” she said with a coy grin.

“Fat chance. You’re FBI. You’ll never fit in.”

CHAPTER 5 Three Months Earlier…

Leaning back in the old leather chair, Cowl paged through the diary, absorbing with intense interest the strange life and experiences of Michael Moorehouse. The more he learned about Moorehouse’s obsession with Crowley, the more he began to feel an odd sort of kinship with the man. Cowl was mesmerized by the diary entry about the episode with the Messenger. The mysterious riddle fascinated him.

He studied it with a zealous curiosity: My number is no secret.

The secret is in reverse.

It is encoded In chapter and in verse.

Let he who has wisdom Discover the sacred key.

Only then can he become The embodiment of me.

Cowl read every detail in the diary and reflected on his own experiences and his own personal infatuation with Crowley. He became convinced that his moving into Moorehouse Manor was no mere coincidence. Fate, he was certain, had brought him to this very moment. His discovery of the hidden room behind the bookcase was one thing. But the idea that he was the one destined to become the host for the essence of Crowley’s spirit excited him nearly to the point of nausea. But how? he wondered. Will I have to drink the Soma? The thought frightened him. He knew even less about the magical elixir than Moorehouse had known. And what about the Messenger? Had it been real? It seemed too weird to be true. A moment of doubt crept in.

Maybe the Messenger was nothing more than a drug-induced hallucination. No, it had to be real. Too many details in the whole friggin’ story for it to be one sick-o’s imagination. Germer receiving the urn and burying it... Moorehouse digging it up and bringing it back here to the house... The house that I, of all people, bought and moved into. It’s all real. It’s gotta be real. But the damned riddle. The key to the whole thing is in that damned riddle. Shit!

He read the words of the riddle over and over until his eyes grew tired. The night was descending heavily and he was unable to bear the weight of it much longer. He soon gave in to a deep sleep right there in the lap of the old Moorehouse chair that seemed to caress him,

protecting him, rocking him, mothering him like some ancient benevolent keeper of precious souls.

Moments later he was awakened by the sound of someone speaking his name. His eyes snapped open. He sat up in the chair and looked around. “What the––? Who’s there?”

CHAPTER 6 Three Months Later…

Ravenwood’s car pulled up next to the police cruisers parked along the drive that meandered through the impeccably manicured lawns of the Greenwood Cemetery. She stepped out and saw Kane with a group of officers. They were standing over a body that was lying between two upright gravestones.

“Number four?” she asked, approaching Kane.

Kane looked up. “Took you long enough. I called you an hour ago.”

“I was having my nails done.” It wasn’t true but his attitude pissed her off.

He ignored the comment. “Yeah, number four. Coin number ‘four’, too. Poor bastard. A Baptist this time.”

“Any surprises?”

“Nope. Same, down to the last detail. And, of course, nobody saw nothin’.”

Ravenwood nodded. “Check the calendar today?”

“What?”

“The calendar. If you check the dates when these four men died you’ll see we may have another piece to add to our puzzle.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think we have a pattern here. Their deaths have all occurred exactly nine days apart.”

“No shit?” Kane gave it some thought. “Interesting. But what’s it mean?”

“Well, for one thing it means we can probably expect to find another one nine days from now.”

“I see your point. I guess that would be useful information if we knew where the next incident would occur or who the next victim would be. But there doesn’t seem to be any pattern to the where or the who. We can assume it’ll be another preacher but that isn’t much help.

And how long is this gonna go on? Until every last preacher in the city is dead?”

“If we’re lucky there’ll only be nine. Remember the coins.”

“Oh, only nine. Well, that’s a relief. What the hell is it with this guy and all of this nine shit?”

“You haven’t heard the half of it.”

“You got something else?

“Oh yeah. You’re gonna love this.”

“What is it?”

“Not here. Can we meet back at your office?”

Kane looked at his watch. “It’s almost noon. What about we meet at Roxy’s on Pike street. You know the place?”

“Roxy’s? The topless joint?

“What’s the matter? Too much competition?”

Ravenwood shook her head. “You really are unbelievable.”

“Believe that.” *** Ravenwood walked into Roxy’s and was immediately blinded by the darkness. She removed her sunglasses but it made little difference.

When her eyes adjusted to the ambiance she saw Kane sitting at a table near the back of what apparently doubled as a dance floor at night.

He looked up and waved her over.

“So,” she said, taking a seat at the table, “is this your hangout?”

“Not really. Been here once or twice.”

A well-endowed waitress bounced her way over to their table. “Hi Lieutenant!” she chirped. “Your usual? Tuna on rye, again?”

Ravenwood looked at him. “Once or twice, huh?”

“Whatever.” He turned to the waitress. “Cindy, this is Special Agent Ravenwood. She and I will both have the tuna on rye.”

Cindy looked wide-eyed at Ravenwood. “Wow, really? You’re an FBI agent?”

Ravenwood nodded.

“Wow!” the waitress said. “How cool is that!”

“Cindy,” Kane said. “The sandwiches?”

“Okay, Lieutenant. Sorry. Coming right up.”

Ravenwood watched Kane watching Cindy walk away. She pulled a napkin out of the dispenser and handed it to him. “Here,” she said.

“What’s this for?”

“You were drooling.”

“Funny.”

Ravenwood grinned. The man was both deplorable and yet oddly appealing at the same time. Despite the caveman persona that seemed to dominate his personality she was beginning to see the Teddy Bear was never really buried all that far beneath the surface.

“Okay,” he said, “what’s with the nine-day thing? You said there was something else.”

She reached into her briefcase, pulled out her laptop and powered it up. “This is interesting,” she said as she pulled up a black and white line-art rendering of two symbols. She turned the laptop so Kane could view the image on the screen.

She pointed to the image at the top. “This is the same symbol that is branded into the foreheads of our victims.”

“I see that,” Kane said. “So what is it? And what is that one below it?”

“Hang on. I’ll get to that. At first glance I thought the outside border of the symbol was an octagon, an eight-sided polygon, you know? But then I noticed it actually has nine sides, not eight. This is a very unusual geometric form. I didn’t even know what it was called. Turns out it’s called a nonagon and apparently it’s impossible to create a nine-sided polygon in which each of the nine sides are exactly the same length.”

“They look the same length to me,” Kane said, squinting at the image.

“That’s what I thought, too. But we did a complete analysis of the this thing and found that six of the sides are of identical length and the remaining three sides all have identical lengths, too, but they’re slightly

longer than the individual lengths of each of the six sides. Are you following me?”

“Yeah, I get what you’re saying. But, so what?”

Ravenwood explained that she’d decided to measure the angles from the center point of the design out to the ends of each of the nine sides.

She found that the three longer sides yielded angles of 42 degrees and each of the six shorter sides yielded angles of 39 degrees. She then showed him the following math: 42 x 3 = 126 39 x 6 = 234 “Now look at this,” she said, demonstrating how each of the products reduced to 9 by a method borrowed from numerology. “It’s called cross-adding.”

1+2+6 = 9 2+3+4 = 9 “Nine is a very intriguing number,” she told him. “I won’t bore you with the details but I will tell you this. You’re familiar with the number 666 from the book of Revelation, right?”

Kane nodded. “Yeah. The number of the Beast. What about it?”

“What is the sum of three sixes?”

“Eighteen.”

“And the sum of one plus eight?”

“Nine.”

“Exactly.”

Kane looked at her. “So what are you saying? This design is the Mark of the Beast?”

“Well, actually, yes. And no.”

“That’s what I like. A straight answer.”

“Hang on. Your question brings us to the second symbol.”

Kane studied it for a moment. “Looks like a stripped down version of the top symbol.”

“Yes and no, again. The second symbol is actually the original. And it’s not a case of it being stripped down so much as it’s a case of the top symbol being an elaborate modification of the original.”

“Slow down, Einstein. You’re close to losing me here. What do you mean by the original? The original what?”

“That stripped down symbol, as you called it, is known as the Lucifer Seal.”

“The Lucifer Seal? So I was right. The Mark of the Beast.”

Ravenwood shook her head. “Not exactly. At least I don’t think so.

Then again, who knows what the mark of the beast really is? But here’s the deal. What I do know is that this symbol is what you might call high magick. Very, very obscure and buried so deep within the tradition that only the highest of initiates in the Dark Arts would even know it exists.”

Kane eyed her with a look of surprise. “Really,” he said. The tone of his voice oozed with curiosity. “And so you just happen to know this… how?”

“I have my sources.”

“You mean your sorcerers.”

Ravenwood grinned. “My, Lieutenant. That was very clever.”

“I thought so.”

“Actually, I found the information in an ancient book. Very rare.

From the middle ages, in fact. It’s called Liber Malus, the Book of Evil.

Only two copies are known to exist but a persistent rumor has circulated for decades that a third copy was once in the possession of Aleister Crowley.”

“And who, dare I ask, is Aleister Crowley?”

“Who was Aleister Crowley.”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“No. You said ‘is’. I’m saying ‘was’. He’s long dead.”

Kane rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. All right, then. Who the hell was he?”

Ravenwood briefed Kane on the life and times of the infamous master of the occult. She could have told him much more because she knew enough about Crowley to fill a book. But, having learned the limits of Kane’s tolerance for anything even approaching an academic level, she just gave him the essential ingredients of the story. Much to her surprise, he actually seemed to be listening with some interest.

He gave a bemused look. “You mean his own mother called him the Beast?”

“Yup. And apparently he didn’t mind because in later years he even referred to himself as the Beast. Took considerable delight in it, actually.”

“Strange man.”

“Very.”

The waitress brought the sandwiches. “Here you go,” she said. “Two tunas on rye. I had them put extra mayo on yours, Lieutenant. Just the way you like it. Enjoy.”

Ravenwood looked at Kane. “Only been here a couple times my ass.”

Kane took a bite of the sandwich and muttered a confession. “Couple times too many, maybe. But I’m telling you the sandwiches are great.

Try it. You’ll like it.”

The brief interlude gave Kane a few minutes to try wrapping his brain around what Ravenwood had told him. He was way out of his element with this stuff. Still, as weird as it all seemed, he had to admit he was beginning to find it fascinating. He turned again to the drawing of the Lucifer Seal. “This,” he said, pointing to the vertical and horizontal lines inside the image of the original symbol, “ this looks like a cross. Is that what it’s supposed to be?”

“That’s right. Hey, Lieutenant, you’re starting to catch on.”

He scoffed. “I don’t know about that. What the hell is a cross doing in the middle of a symbol that has some connection to Satan?”

“Lucifer,” she corrected him. “It’s called the Lucifer Seal.”

“Satan, Lucifer. Lucifer, Satan. What the hell’s the difference?”

“Well, depending on what branch of mystical belief system you subscribe to, it does make a difference. But to answer your question, the cross represents death, resurrection and transformation.”

“Like the Jesus story. I mean, if you believe in that stuff.”

“I take it you don’t?”

“My dad… I mean, my adoptive dad––” “Yes?” “Nothing. Forget it.”

“Your dad, what?”

“I said forget it!”

The harsh tone of his voice threw her for a moment. The Teddy Bear’s got Daddy issues. Interesting. Wonder what that’s all about?

“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to––” Kane sat back in his chair. “Yeah, well…” His voice became more relaxed. “Where were we?”

Man, talk about Jekyll and Hyde. “Um… Oh. The cross. It represents death, resurrection and transformation.”

“Yeah. Which brings me back to my question. If the cross represents Jesus then why is it in the middle of a symbol called the Lucifer Seal?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“Okay,” she said, reluctantly. How am I going to explain this one?

“The short answer is this. There’s a school of thought, a kind of philosophical perspective, according to which Jesus and Lucifer are one and the same. Or it might be more accurate to say they’re two sides of the same coin, so to speak.”

Kane looked at her as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

She gave a little laugh and nodded. “Like I said, it’s complicated. I don’t even want to get into it. We don’t need to go down that road right now.”

Kane agreed. “Yeah, you’re probably right. So, then, what’s the deal with the other symbol? The more complex one. What are all those additional lines for? Do they mean something?”

“I think we should go on the assumption that they do mean something. I doubt that it’s just some kind of random adornment.

There’s a distinct symmetry to the design created by those lines. I’m working on it. I think if I can figure out what the lines represent it will get us that much closer to understanding our killer.”

She shut down the computer, packed it into the case and glanced at her watch. “I have to go. I’ll let you know when I get something on that symbol.” She stood up and straightened the front her short, black skirt. “Oh, yes,” she said as she started to leave, “and, thanks for the sandwich. It wasn’t bad.” She tossed her hair, put on her sunglasses and smiled. “Had better, actually. But it wasn’t bad.”

Kane leaned back, folded his arms and watched her walk away. He hated the fact that she was so goddamn attractive.

When Ravenwood got to the door she stopped a moment and beckoned for Cindy, the waitress. The two of them exchanged a few words but Kane couldn’t make out what they were saying. Ravenwood left and Cindy bounced over to Kane’s table.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“The lady told me to tell you that if you don’t leave me a really big tip she’ll cast a spell on you. She sounded serious. What is she––like a witch or something?”

Kane laughed. It was the first really good, honest laugh he’d had in a long time. “Yeah, “ he said, slipping a twenty under his empty plate.

“She’s a witch, all right.” He couldn’t help wondering if maybe Ravenwood had already cast the spell and he was falling under it. The idea was absurd and he knew it. The fuck am I thinking? She’s FBI, for Christ’s sake.

CHAPTER 7 Three Months Earlier…

Cowl rubbed his eyes and squinted into the darkness. He was certain a voice had called his name. “Who’s there?” he asked again. “Is someone there?”

He started to rise from the chair but froze in mid-stance when he saw a shadowy figure begin to form in the far corner of the room. With a death-grip on the arms of the chair, he slowly lowered himself back down.

“You seem surprised, Rye Cowl,” the figure spoke. The voice was low, resonant, with an oddly hollow sound. “You should have been expecting me. We’ve been expecting you. Your ‘someday’ is closer than you realize.”

Cowl’s brow narrowed. “What? Who are you? How did you––?”

Then, in an instant, he knew what was happening. “You’re… the Messenger?”

“I am.”

“But how? I mean––” “The mescaline?”

“Yeah. I didn’t take––” “It wasn’t necessary. I would have appeared to Mr. Moorehouse whether he was intoxicated with the drug or not. I come and go at the whim of my Master.”

“Your master? Who is your master?”

“In due time, Mr. Cowl. In due time. Right now you only need to know you’ve been chosen.”

“Chosen?”

“You’ve read the diary.”

“Yes, but––” “Then you should be quite aware of what I mean.”

“But Michael Moorehouse was chosen, too.”

“Yes, and he failed. You will not.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s your destiny.”

“But what about the riddle? I’ve read it over and over. It makes no sense. I can’t figure it out.”

“You will.”

“But how? Will I have to drink the Soma?”

“You will do what ever you need to do.”

“But I don’t understand. If you’re so sure I’m the one––that this is my destiny, as you put it––then why should I have to prove myself by solving the riddle?”

“Call it an initiation. A rite of passage. The key to your ‘someday’.”

The word ‘someday’ resounded deep inside Cowl’s soul. He felt dizzy, disoriented. He closed his eyes and his skin crawled as he recalled, in excruciating detail, the horror of being tied to the bed with the weight of Pastor Pete’s naked, sweaty flesh pressing against him.

“Damn you to Hell, you fucking son of a bitch!” The sound of his own voice echoed throughout the mansion and snapped him out of his trance. He shook the vision out of his head, wiped the tears from his face and looked around. The visitor was gone.

Cowl sat still for several moments, dazed, wondering if the visitor had been real or some bizarre hallucination. No. It was real. It had to have been real.

He turned his eyes to the glossy black urn and then to the diary. He grabbed the diary and opened it to the page bearing the words of the riddle. I can do this, he thought with renewed conviction. I can fucking do this. If it takes me the rest of my life, I can do this.

CHAPTER 8 Three Months Later…

Kane and the young detective, Mitch Wheeler, stood together in front of Kane’s desk as they studied the crime scene photos of the latest victim in the string of mysterious deaths.

“Number five, right?” Wheeler asked.

“Yeah. Poor bastard.”

“Who was he?”

“Name was Paul Hansen. A perfectly healthy 39-year-old pastor of a non-denominational community church. Next door neighbor discovered the body in the pastor’s own back yard early this morning.”

“What was the neighbor doing in the pastor’s back yard?”

“He wasn’t. He was in his own driveway, getting into his car. He happened to glance over the fence and saw the body on the ground.”

Wheeler ran his fingers through his thick brown hair and gave Kane a sideways glance. “That FBI lady was right, wasn’t she?”

“About what?”

Wheeler pointed to the time/date stamp on the photos. “Exactly nine days since the last one.”

Kane nodded. “Yeah, I can count.”

The phone on Kane’s desk buzzed. He picked it up. “Kane. What?

No shit? Be right there.” He hung up the phone and turned to Wheeler.

“Looks like maybe we finally got a break. Come on.”

They hurried out of the office and took the elevator to the photo lab two floors down.

CHAPTER 9 Three Months Earlier…

Slouched in the chair behind the desk in the Inner Sanctum, Cowl awoke with a start. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep.

Minutes? Hours? Was it day or night? It was impossible to know as there were no windows in the Inner Sanctum.

Groggy and emotionally drained from his encounter with the Messenger––and from a taxing but unsuccessful attempt at solving the riddle––he rubbed his eyes fitfully and tried to stand. Half way up he stopped, his attention poised and focused on a faint scratching sound.

The hell is that? It seemed to be coming from the wall to the right of the desk. He lowered himself back into the chair and listened. Nothing.

Then it came again, briefly, then it stopped.

He got up and crept across the floor in the direction of the noise. He put his ear to the wall and heard it again but realized it wasn’t coming from inside the wall. He backed away, listening intently. It came again.

He looked down. It was coming from under the floor, directly below the spot where he was standing. Son of a bitch. Fuckin’ rats. He stomped on the floor. “Get the hell out of here you little bastards!” He stomped the floor again and a portion of the carpet slipped loosely beneath his feet. What––?

He crouched down for a closer look and saw the carpet had been neatly cut so a section of it could be moved.

He grabbed it, rolled the loose section back as far as it would go and found himself staring at a trapdoor. You gotta be fucking kidding me.

He gripped the recessed handle and gave it a tug. The old hinges squealed in pain as he lifted it higher. Silky cobwebs stretched like dusty strands of cotton candy until they separated. A rush of damp, cool air gushed up from the depths of the dark pit. A frightened rat spun on its hind feet and scurried back down into the darkness.

Startled, Cowl lost his grip on the handle. The trapdoor slammed shut and he tumbled backward. He stomped on the top of the trapdoor with his heel and hurled a series of curses at the rat.

He regained his composure, crawled back and lifted the door again, cautiously peeking under it before raising it all the way. The cool rush of pungent air hit him in the face again but the rats had skittered away to God knows where.

Just enough light was coming from the lamp on the desk so he could see part way into the void. A wooden ladder was firmly attached to the frame of the opening, leading down into the hole. It beckoned him with an invitation he couldn’t resist.

He maneuvered himself into position and lowered his right leg into the cool damp darkness. His foot caught the first rung of the ladder. He tapped on it a couple times to test its strength. He brought his left leg down and found the footing equally stable. He stood, poised on the first rung, wondering if this was really such a good idea. He lowered himself down another rung then stopped abruptly. What was that? He listened intently. Nothing. He continued his descent. Finally, his foot touched a dirt floor.

The dim light from the lamp on the desk in the Inner Sanctum, now a good eight or nine feet above him, had no effect this deep into the hole.

He could barely even see the ladder that he was clinging to.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his lighter and gave it a flick.

The yellow glow from the small flame was enough to reveal that he was surrounded by four brick walls that were beginning to crumble from age.

The entire enclosure was small, about six feet square. On the wall directly across from the ladder was a wooden door. It had been painted a hideous shade of olive green, the paint now cracked and peeling like the decaying scales of some long dead serpent. The rats had gnawed a hole through the bottom panel. At least he assumed it was rats. Of course it was. What else could it be? For a moment, he conjured up an assortment of Lovecraftian creatures crouching on their haunches, waiting patiently in the dark just beyond the door, waiting to devour him like a side of fresh beef. He quickly held his imagination in check.

Hoping to find a light switch, he moved his lighter closer to the wall on his right. There it was, an old fashioned push-button switch, the likes of which he’d never seen before. The two buttons, one above the other, were color-coded although the colors, now, were faded and worn. The upper button was green, the lower one, red. He pushed the green button. A small, low-wattage light bulb on the ceiling of the enclosure flickered a couple times and came on. The bulb itself was yellowed with age. Its dim light flooded the room with an eerie, amber glow.

It was only when the light came on that he realized he’d barely breathed at all since the moment he began his descent. He relaxed a bit and examined his surroundings. Then a brief moment of panic set in.

Shit. What if someone comes along and closes the trapdoor and locks me in? But the fear passed quickly as reason prevailed. Don’t be an idiot. Who’s gonna close the fuckin’ door?

Having talked himself into at least a temporary state of confidence, he turned his attention again to the old wooden door in front of him. He stood, staring at it for several moments, afraid to imagine what might be on the other side but equally unable to resist the temptation to find out.

He stepped forward and gingerly wrapped his fingers around the worn, bronzed doorknob. It was cold and smooth and slightly damp.

He held his breath and gave the knob a gentle twist.

Click.

He froze for a moment, then allowed himself to nudge the door open just an inch or so. Another gush of cool, earthy air pushed into his face.

He winced, nudged the door another few inches and peered into the darkness.

Once again he flicked his lighter and extended it into the void, not yet daring to take the first step across the threshold. The small flame allowed him to get a vague glimpse of what was waiting for him.

From what he could see, it appeared to be nothing more than a narrow tunnel, maybe four feet wide and, like the small space in which he was still standing, the walls appeared to be lined with crumbling red brick. Light. Gotta be a light. He waved the lighter around and finally spied another push-button switch protruding from the wall of the tunnel just inches beyond the door.

He reached in and pressed the top button but nothing happened. He pushed the lower button and that caused the upper button to pop out again. Once more he pushed the upper button. The action caused a momentary crackling noise. In the next instant the tunnel was dimly aglow from the light of a long string of small bulbs, spaced about six feet apart, trailing along a wire loosely hanging from wooden planks overhead. The wire ran the entire length of the tunnel, perhaps about fifty feet. He strained to see what was at the far end but there wasn’t enough light. He was tempted to turn back but his sense of curiosity got the better of him. He sucked up one more ounce of his dwindling supply of courage and stepped across the threshold.

As he crept along, step by cautious step, a bizarre thought passed through his mind. Could I be dreaming all of this? He let his hand brush along the cold, damp brick wall as he continued his slow pace.

No. This is real. Surreal, but real. Real surreal. He gave a quiet chuckle as the musician in him took hold. Could be a song in that. As his hand continued to graze the side of the wall, a small chunk of the crumbling brick came loose and fell to the ground. He stopped for a moment, then continued on.

The end of the tunnel was now just ten feet ahead and he could clearly see what was waiting for him: Another wooden door.

The rats––again, he hoped it was only rats––had managed to gnaw their way through a portion of the bottom panel of this door, too.

Unlike the other door, this one was unpainted, warped and splitting from the dampness. He stood directly in front of it, shaking his head.

How far can this thing go? He reached for the knob and flung the door open. Another rush of cold air rolled in but it smelled fresher than he’d expected. He’d reached the end of the tunnel.

The lighting from the tunnel behind him filtered in through the open door just enough so he could see he was about to step into a small enclosure much like the one back at the other end where he’d started.

He entered the enclosure and found yet another push-button switch.

He pressed the button but no light came on. He tried again but still nothing. He pulled out his lighter, gave it a flick and held the flame high. He looked up.

The ceiling of the enclosure was about eight or nine feet above and he could see the light fixture was missing a bulb. Damn. He moved the lighter around and found a ladder attached to one of the walls. He looked up. Must be another trapdoor. He climbed the ladder and gave the lighter a flick. Just as he suspected, it was another trapdoor. He braced himself on the rungs of the ladder, reached up and gave the trapdoor a nudge. The rusty hinges creaked. With another heave, he flipped it all the way and scrambled up the ladder into the opening.

Standing upright now, he flicked the lighter again and looked around. His eyes widened. What the–? You gotta be kidding me.

CHAPTER 10 Three Months Later…

Kane and Officer Wheeler stepped out of the elevator and hurried down the hall toward the photo lab. When they entered the lab Kane was surprised to find Ravenwood sitting at a table, sipping coffee and chatting with one of the technicians.

As she turned in her chair to greet Kane, her short black skirt slid up, revealing enough shapely thigh to spark Kane’s imagination––more so than he would ever admit.

She smiled. “Morning, Lieutenant. Glad you could join us.”

“Hmph,” Kane grunted. “I should have known. How the hell did you––? Never mind.” He took a seat next to her and turned to Wheeler whose eyes seemed to be glued to Ravenwood’s legs. “Well, don’t just sit there gawking at the scenery, Wheeler. Grab a seat.” Then he addressed Bob ‘Mack’ MacIntire, the lab tech. “So how did we get this, Mack? Have you seen it yet?”

MacIntire nodded. “It’s an old style surveillance tape. One of the detectives noticed the camera hidden under the eves of the victim’s home.

Kane glanced down at the report on the table. “Reverend Paul Hansen. Victim number five. The body that we found this morning.”

MacIntire nodded. “There were two other cameras in different locations around the perimeter of the house but this is the only one that had anything on it. I’m the only one who’s seen it so far. We were waiting for you to get here.”

Kane looked surprised. “A preacher had a surveillance system?

Pretty weird.”

MacIntire shrugged. “I heard the guys saying something about the vic’s house being burglarized a couple times in the past. Guess he just got paranoid, you know?”

Kane nodded. “Okay, Mack, run it. Do we have a good shot of the purp?”

“Not really. Whatever actually happened to the victim takes place just out of range of the camera. But what you can see is pretty weird.

Take a look.”

The grainy, black and white footage showed a small portion of the back yard and part of the side of the house. The camera had been

situated so it would capture the image of anyone approaching the back door. For a minute there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen.

Then a dark figure in a hooded robe suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

Kane’s head jerked back. “Wait a minute! What the hell? Run that again and slow it down.”

MacIntire ran the footage again, back and forth several times, in slow motion.

Kane shot a puzzled look at MacIntire. “How can that be? Did you examine the tape? It looks like maybe it’s been edited. Something spliced out. Or the image of the man spliced in. Something...”

MacIntire shook his head. “The tape’s in perfect condition.

Nothing’s been done to it. I told you it was weird. But it gets weirder.

Check it out.”

MacIntire ran the tape from the point where the mysterious figure suddenly appeared. In a moment the back door opened and the pastor stepped out. He walked a few feet into the yard and simply stood, facing the hooded figure. The pastor’s movements were slow, emotionless, robotic, and showed no signs of distress or panic. Then the head of the hooded figure tilted to the right as if motioning for the pastor to move in that direction. The pastor, with his arms hanging loosely at his side, turned as if in a trance and slowly moved to the right. The hooded figure glanced up toward the camera but his face was so shrouded in the shadow of the large hood that not a single identifying feature could be discerned. The hooded stranger turned and followed behind the pastor until they were both out of the frame.

Kane rubbed his forehead and grumbled. “That’s it? That’s all we get?”

“Hold on,” MacIntire said. “There’s more.” He hit the fast-forward button, absorbing about 15 minutes of elapsed time, then he cut it back to normal speed. “Watch this.”

After a few moments the hooded figure moved back into the frame and glanced up toward the camera once again. Then he turned his back to the camera and slowly lowered the hood of his robe revealing not much more than the figure’s shoulder-length hair, possibly black. Then the figure raised both arms straight out to the side in a deliberate and ritualistic manner. He remained motionless for a moment then lowered his head. An instant later he didn’t exist, he simply vanished from the screen.

MacIntire stopped the tape. “Ever seen anything like that in your life?”

Mitch Wheeler sat with his mouth open, speechless.

Kane had one question. “What…the fuck…was that?” He turned to Special Agent Ravenwood, the one person he thought might possibly be able to provide an answer.

Ravenwood looked at Kane and then at MacIntire. “I’ll need a copy of that tape as soon as possible.”

Kane chuckled. “Well, I’ll be damned. Are you telling me our resident witch has no idea what the hell we just saw?”

Ravenwood wasn’t about to admit that she was as perplexed as anyone else in the room. She stood up, tugged at her skirt, grabbed her briefcase, straightened her shoulders, flipped her hair and clicked briskly across the room. She stopped at the door, turned briefly to Kane and gave him an enigmatic smile that would have made the Mona Lisa jealous. “I’ll be in touch, Lieutenant.”

Kane stared at the door as it closed behind her. “Hate that woman,” he grumbled.

Wheeler stood up and stretched. “I’d do her.”

Kane shot him a look. “Shut up, Wheeler.”

CHAPTER 11 Three Months Earlier…

Having crawled up through the second trapdoor, Cowl was surprised to find he was now inside the garden shed located at a far corner of the mansion’s sizeable back yard. What the hell is this all about? This time he didn’t have to search for the light switch. He knew exactly where it was. A few days prior to purchasing the place, he’d inspected the shed just to see what was inside. It seemed to contain nothing of any value: some old paint cans, a few rusted garden tools and an old lawnmower covered with spider webs.

He opened the shed door and stepped out into the brisk winter night.

The moon was nearly full behind a thin layer of cloud. The filtered moonglow bathed the surrounding area in a pale, ghostly light. Some fifty or sixty feet away, at the other end of the yard, the old mansion stood stoic, dark and quiet, rising up from the ground like something out of an ancient gothic fairytale.

He lit a cigarette and walked further out into the yard.

A dilapidated chain link fence stretched the entire width of the back yard, separating his property from the alley. The alley spanned the full length of the long block of homes known as Millionaire’s Row. Every mansion along the Row had access to the alley as it ran along the backside of their yards. Cowl’s own fence had a gate that opened out to the alley but the gate had long been obscured, hidden behind a huge tangle of blackberry bushes and weeds. He sauntered over to the fence and flicked his cigarette butt over the blackberry bushes. It landed in a puddle in the alley. He took another quick look around and shivered from the cold. He blew some warm breath into his cupped hands and walked back to the shed.

Inside the shed, he closed the door and was about to turn off the light and climb back down through the trapdoor when a rat leaped out of a large can on a shelf above the lawnmower. The can tumbled to the floor. Cowl jumped and fell backward against a shovel that was hanging on the wall. “Jesus H. Christ!” He spun around, grabbed the shovel and was ready to do battle but the creature was long gone.

“Fuck!” He threw the shovel on the floor and it knocked a plank loose.

Shit! He maneuvered the board back into place with his foot. As he did so, the plank next to it moved. He got down on his hands and knees and was sliding the boards back into place when he caught a glimpse of something under the flooring. He lifted the boards away. What the hell is this?

An object about the size of a large shoebox was resting snuggly in the space once covered by the boards. A third board came up with little effort. Tossing it aside, he reached in, brushed the wisps of cobweb away, and retrieved the item.

It was a plain-looking copper box, tarnished with age. The lid was fastened shut with a padlock and a corroded hasp. He tilted the box.

Something jostled inside. He tilted it the other direction. Again something moved. The back and forth movement of whatever was inside the box was very slight. Whatever it is, he figured, it must be nearly as long and wide as the box itself.

He rattled the lock a few times but it wouldn’t open. He jumped to his feet and rummaged around looking for a hacksaw or, better yet, a pair of bolt cutters. Come on. Come on. Gotta be something here… He spied a rusty hacksaw hanging on the wall and grabbed it. It took a few minutes but the rusty old blade did the job. He twisted the lock out from the hasp, tossed it aside and lifted the lid.

The object inside was a large book. The heavy tome was covered in thick black leather, worn at the edges as if handled by someone a great many times in some ancient past. The gold leafing on the embossed title was cracked and faded. Cowl lolled his head, staring at the title, trying to figure out how to pronounce the strange word: NECRONOMICON As he ran his fingers across the gilded letters he was unaware that he had awakened something: something ancient, something hideous, loathsome, dangerous. Some morsel of madness, now aroused and aware, uncurled from its dormant sleep and slithered into the dark recesses of Cowl’s subconscious where it took root… and waited.

CHAPTER 12 Three Months Later…

Special Agent Ravenwood tried to catch her breath. She was trembling with fear as she dropped to her knees cowering in a corner of a cold, dark, unfamiliar place, cavernous in size and empty save for the high walls of a confusing labyrinth through which she’d been running… running for her life.

Death was coming. She could feel it, smell it. It was getting closer. It knew where she was hiding.

Suddenly it appeared before her, huge in stature, towering fifteen, twenty feet into the darkness. Her body went limp. She slumped to the cold floor, gazing upward at the awesome figure. But it wasn’t the horrible beast she had expected. It was fearsome and frightening yet it had the appearance of an angel, not the loathsome demon she had imagined. But this dark angel cast no light. It was draped in shadowy folds, its huge wings ashen and aged yet she could see they possessed a terrible strength.

Ravenwood suddenly felt faint. She knew her time had come. Why now? Why like this?

The angelic beast raised its great wings, stirring the air into a rushing torrent of wind, twisting, howling, winding its way through the unholy labyrinth. Ravenwood’s long black hair whipped around wildly, stinging her face and momentarily blinding her. She struggled to stand but the force of the wind pushed her backward along the floor and slammed her against the wall.

Panicked and confused, shielding her watering eyes from the onslaught of the torrent, she glanced up. A strange symbol was forming upon the chest of the creature. As the symbol continued to take shape, the wind subsided and the creature itself dissipated like a vapor, until it was gone. Only the symbol remained, suspended high in the air.

She rose cautiously to her feet, her eyes fixed on the symbol. The strange shape glowed red, like neon, burning itself into her subconscious.

As she stood there, mesmerized by the sight, the symbol dropped from the heights and crashed to the floor. It shattered into a thousand glowing shards. The shards morphed into tiny red creatures like little serpents of molten lava. She screamed and jumped back and the hideous things slithered away, disappearing into the cracks in the walls.

Ravenwood awoke, terrified, and sat bolt upright in bed. Her heart was pounding. The sheets were soaked with sweat. Finally, convinced it was only a dream, she eased out a slow, cautious breath. The tension in her shoulders relaxed. She reached over to the nightstand, turned on the lamp and leaned back against the black satin pillow. She stared blankly at the wall across the room for several moments.

A dark angel? She shook her head, trying to make sense of it all. She had a knack for deciphering her own dreams but this one had her completely baffled. Eventually she gave up and drifted back into sleep.

A moment later her eyes snapped open. The symbol! She jumped out of bed, threw on her robe, stumbled across the room and grabbed her briefcase.

She took out the drawings of the symbols that had been found branded onto the chests of the dead preachers. The symbol she saw in her dream was etched into her memory. It didn’t match any of the symbols on the paper but it was similar enough that she knew there was a connection. Dark angels…fallen angels… Something, some piece of forgotten information, was inching its way forward through her own labyrinth of gray matter. Then it hit her. Oh, my god. Of course. The Necronomicon!

CHAPTER 13 Three Months Earlier…

Although Cowl now counted the Necronomicon amongst his prized possessions, he’d scarcely given it a second thought since the night he’d discovered it. Solving the riddle in the diary remained his singular obsession. He surmised the strange verse had something to do with the Bible but of all the books in his collection a Bible was not among them. He slammed his fist on the desk. Shit! Who would have thought I’d ever be in need of a fucking Bible! He lit a cigarette and wracked his brain. Where could I get my hands on a… The internet! He leaped from the chair and left the Inner Sanctum. A few minutes later he returned with his laptop. A quick keyword search brought up exactly what he needed: Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six. – Revelation, 13:18 He reached for the diary and flipped through the pages until he came to the riddle: My number is no secret.

The secret is in reverse.

It is encoded In chapter and in verse.

Let he who has wisdom Discover the sacred key.

Only then can he become The embodiment of me.

It seemed like it should be so simple. Of course the number is no secret. Six hundred, three score and six. It’s six-hundred and sixtyfucking-six! Everybody knows that. So what the hell am I looking for?

The secret is in reverse. What the hell does that mean? What secret?

Then he had an idea. Wait a minute. Numerology? It occurred to him that maybe the alphanumeric values of some of the key words would reveal some clue. But what are the key words? Wisdom? Number?

Beast? Six-hundred-three-score-and-six? Or maybe the words, ‘six-sixsix’? He didn’t know, but he liked the idea. At this point anything was worth a try.

He wrote the alphabet and numbered each letter consecutively: A1, B2, C3, and so on, ending with the letter Z as 26. He knew enough about numerology to know it was important to reduce the multi-digit

numbers like 666, down to a single-digit value. It was simply a matter of adding the three 6’s to get 18. Then add the 1 and the 8 to arrive at the single-digit value of 9.

He applied the numerology to each word or combination of words that seemed as if they might be the key words. Over and over he tried but nothing jumped out as any sort of an answer to the riddle. It was a time-consuming task and he was becoming intensely frustrated with one failed attempt after another. Then it occurred to him that maybe the second line in the riddle might be the real key to the whole thing. The secret is in reverse!

He tried reversing the entire numerical sequence of the alphabet.

Now with A as 26 and Z as 1, he recalculated the words he suspected might be key words but still nothing made sense. Jesus Christ! He slammed down the lid of his laptop, shoved it across the desk and stormed out of the Inner Sanctum.

Up in his bedroom he threw himself onto the bed like a child having a tantrum.

He could hear the wind gusting and a driving rain was pelting the roof like an endless barrage of tiny bullets. He stared blankly at the ceiling for several minutes listening to the battle raging outside. Then he reached over to the nightstand and grabbed a joint. He lit it up and inhaled deeply. A few more tokes and the desired effect took hold.

Within minutes his eyelids grew heavy. He crushed out the joint and let his head sink into the pillow. The sounds of the battle receded into the background as he drifted off into a mildly chaotic sleep.

Visions of numbers danced in his head, forward and backward and forward again. The words of the riddle soon joined the dance, twisting and turning like snakes in the grass. Then one line lit up like a neon sign. It flashed over and over in his mind: It is encoded in chapter and in verse.

His eyes snapped open. “The chapter number and the verse number.

Shit! I didn’t even think about that!” He tried to recall the number of the chapter and the verse where the number of the Beast was mentioned but he couldn’t remember. “Damn it!”

He sat up quickly and swung his legs over the side of the bed but the rapid movement made his head swim. He paused a moment to steady himself and then rose to his feet. Bleary-eyed, he stumbled his way back down the stairs and into the Inner Sanctum.

He flipped open the laptop and navigated back to the web page where he’d found the information about the specific chapter and verse.

Okay… Chapter thirteen, verse eighteen. Now what the hell do I do with it? Need something to write with–– He opened the desk drawer and found a pencil and a note pad. After several minutes of frantically manipulating the numbers 13 and 18 every way he could think of––adding, subtracting, dividing, multiplying, reversing the sequences––his frenzied scribbling came to a sudden halt. He froze, wide-eyed, staring at the paper.

“Holy shit! I did it!”

Indeed, the solution to the riddle turned out to be deceptively simple: 13 x 18 = 234 The secret is in reverse.

Reversing the 234 to 432 and adding them together was the key: 234 + 432 = 666 So there it was, the number of the Beast, staring him in the face.

It’s been said that when one stares into the eyes of the Beast, seeking to possess the forbidden secrets, the Beast stares back, seeking to possess one’s very soul. Rye Cowl had just put one foot into the mouth of the Beast and it was about to swallow him whole.

He gleefully circled the number with his pencil, over and over, each turn of the lead punctuated by a self-congratulatory chuckle. The chuckling quickly escalated into a full-blown frenzy of laughter. One would have thought he’d gone completely mad. He hadn’t, of course–– not completely––not yet. However, unbeknownst to him, there was a dark and hideous thing slowly and silently creeping into his subconscious. Something unearthly and ancient was waking from a deep sleep, stretching its long fingers outward, reaching up from the abyss, driven by its own dumb, instinctual yearning to caress the soul of the young man whose laughter had now reached a howling crescendo. The celebration was accompanied by a rolling explosion of thunder that shook the neighborhood and reverberated across the dark and clouded sky above Moorehouse Manor.

“Congratulations,” came an unexpected voice.

Cowl spun around. What––?

Then he saw the apparition of the Messenger forming in the corner of the room.

“I did it!” Cowl said, jumping out of his chair. “I solved the riddle!”

“You seem surprised,” the Messenger said.

“Well, I––”

“I told you. It’s your destiny.”

Cowl nodded. “Yeah, about that––” “You might want to resume your seat.”

“What?”

“Sit down and listen. It’s time you learned who you really are.”

“What do you mean, who I really am?”

“There’s much more to who you are than you know.”

Cowl returned to the chair, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You see,” the Messenger began, “William Bentley Moorehouse–– the man for whom this home was built according to his own design–– was born in Warwickshire, England, in 1875, the same place and the same year as Aleister Crowley. They were, in fact, neighbors and William became Aleister’s best friend as they were growing up. The Moorehouse clan can be traced back to the time of the Druids. To this day, William’s family still practices many of the Druid rites and customs back in the old country. It was William’s tales of the Druid ways that first introduced the young Crowley to the mysteries of Magick.”

“Druids? Heard of them. Don’t really know much about them.

Sounds cool, though. But what does this––?”

“The Druids were magicians and diviners. Their history reaches back into the mists of time, many thousands of years.”

“Yeah, okay. But I still don’t get what this has to do with me.”

“Patience. If I may continue––” Cowl sat back and listened.

“The Moorehouse family left England and came to America when William was 12 years old. William’s departure caused Crowley to suffer a deep depression. He mourned William’s absence for several months but they kept in touch by letter for many years and Crowley never forgot his beloved childhood friend.”

Cowl’s patience was wearing thin. “Okay, that’s sad and all––and I’d send him a Hallmark card if I could––but I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”

“There’s more to the story. William Bentley Moorehouse married a woman named Rose. They had a son, Michael, whose diary is there on the desk beside you. Now, Michael never married but he did have an insatiable penchant for prostitutes. One of those prostitutes––a woman by the name of Virginia Duckworth––”

Cowl leaned forward. “Wait… what?”

“Listen to me. This prostitute––Virginia Duckworth––gave birth to a son she named Alex. Michael was, indeed, the father of the boy although he denied it and Virginia could never prove it. So she raised Alex by herself and young Alex kept the Duckworth name. Are you following this?”

Cowl nodded, listening intently.

“Alex Duckworth grew up, married and sired a son of his own. His son’s name was Charles. Charles Michael Duckworth––your father.”

Cowl’s eyes grew wide but his expression seemed otherwise blank as if the Messenger had just spoken in a foreign tongue. He shook his head. “What did you just say?”

“Let me put it to you another way. William Bentley Moorehouse was your great-great-grandfather.”

Cowl sat straight up. “What? You gotta be shittin’ me.” He shook his head, trying to absorb the shocking revelation. “But, wait a minute. If all this is true, then why did you first pick Michael Moorehouse as the Chosen One?” “It was all a game, a ruse perpetrated upon Michael by the spirit of Crowley. Crowley despised Michael and Michael had to be eliminated anyway, so you could take your rightful place as the owner of the Manor. Because you, Rye Cowl, are the true Chosen One.” Cowl slumped back into the chair and stared at the Messenger. “This is a hell of a lot to take in, I hope you know.”

“Oh, but there is even more to learn about your new home here and about your great-great-grandfather.”

Cowl was overwhelmed but fascinated at the same time. “Okay. Lay it on me.”

The Messenger explained that by the time William Bentley Moorehouse had designed and built the manor, he had long abandoned the Druid practices of his earlier years and had joined something called the Mystic Order of the Old Ones.

“The Old Ones?”

“A mystical order that followed the teachings of the Necronomicon.”

Cowl’s face lit up. “The book I found in the shed.”

“Indeed.”

“But why hide it in the garden shed, of all places?”

“Under the circumstances,” the Messenger explained, “it was a good place to keep it hidden and yet make it accessible for use during the ceremonies and rituals that were held right here in this room––the Inner Sanctum.”

“Here? Right here? What kind of––?”

The Messenger moved ghost-like across the room. “This way,” he said, beckoning Cowl.

Cowl got up and followed until the Messenger stopped directly in front of a tall bookcase.

“Okay, I give up,” Cowl said with a puzzled look. “What’re we doing here?”

“Grab hold of the right edge of the bookcase and swing it toward you.”

“What, another secret room?”

The Messenger’s reply was a simple nod toward the bookcase.

Cowl swung the heavy bookcase outward. A slight musty smell followed.

Behind the bookcase was a large walk-in wardrobe. On one side of the space was a row of hooded robes––eleven white and one black––all neatly draped over crimson, velvet-covered hangers. On the opposite side were shelves containing a variety of strange objects: red glass goblets encased in ornate metal holders; candles of various shapes and sizes; a silver dagger; a string of beads; a wooden flute; some copper bowls; something that looked like a very old clock but with odd symbols in place of numbers; three small, leather-bound books and other paraphernalia the likes of which Cowl had never seen in his life.

“These,” the Messenger said, “belonged to William, your great-great grandfather. He had become an adept of the highest order, a master of the magickal arts. The Inner Sanctum was built to serve as a secret room for the rituals he performed, sometimes alone and sometimes with the members of his branch of the Order of the Old Ones. That was the reason for the tunnel. The tunnel was how the members of his group could come and go in the middle of the night without being observed by the neighbors. William’s remarkable success as a trial lawyer was due as much to his use of magickal workings as it was to his innate abilities and knowledge of the law––perhaps even more so.”

“No shit? Did his son, Michael, know about any of this?”

“Only toward the end of his father’s life. William didn’t trust his own son. In fact, he blackmailed Michael into silence once Michael became aware of his father’s secret. He told Michael he would not

bequeath to him the house or even a penny of his fortune unless he swore to keep the secret. Michael did keep the secret, of course––not so much for the house, obviously, but mostly for the money.”

“And Mrs. Moorehouse, Michael’s mother. What happened to her?”

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Moorehouse. Poor thing. She died a year before her husband, William, passed away.”

“Died? How?” “She knew what her husband was into and she didn’t like it. Loathed it, actually. She threatened to expose him. But of course that couldn’t be allowed to happen.”

“So what did happen?”

“Mrs. Moorehouse had an unfortunate accident. Tumbled down the stairs right here in her own home. Broke her neck. Very sad.”

“Pretty convenient accident.”

“Indeed.”

“Hmm… So, all this stuff… It’s all mine now, is that right?”

“It belongs to you now, yes.”

Cowl brushed his hands across the row of hooded robes. He grinned and reached for the black one. “Well, then, let’s see how this baby fits, shall we?”

He slipped into the robe and turned to the Messenger. “So, how do I look?”

“Like it was meant to be, of course.”

Cowl laughed and brought the hood up over his head. Instantly, his body convulsed with a spasmodic shudder as if he’d stuck his finger into a high voltage socket. Mercifully, it was over in a split second. He ripped the hood off his head and stumbled backward, his eyes wild with terror. Spittle was dripping from his lips and drizzling down his chin. He wiped his face with his sleeve and cursed. “Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?”

An amused chuckle issued from the Messenger. “Call it a confirmation.”

“A confirmation! Of what, for Christ’s sake?”

“The Old Ones are pleased. Your initiation has begun.”

CHAPTER 14 Three Months Later…

Before Kane even had a chance to finish his first cup of morning coffee, Ravenwood flew into his office unannounced and flung herself into the chair in front of his desk. From the look on her face he could tell she was all jacked up about something.

“Oh, God,” he grumbled. “Whatever it is, it better be good.”

Ravenwood opened her briefcase and pulled out some papers. “Oh, it’s good all right. Wait’ll you see this.”

“What is it?”

“Last night I had a hell of a nightmare.”

“I’m having one right now.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am serious.”

Ignoring him, she laid the papers on his desk and gave a brief synopsis of the bizarre dream.

Kane looked at her. “Fallen angels, spooky labyrinths and glowing symbols that turn into little creepy crawlers?” He shook his head. “I know a good psychiatrist if you––” Ravenwood snapped at him. “Look. I’ve been up all night. You want to know what I figured out or don’t you?”

Kane backed off but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Yeah, sure. What is it?”

She shuffled through the papers and pulled one to the front. “See anything familiar?”

Kane studied the strange images. “Yeah. The first five are the same weird squiggles that were burned into the chests of the dead preachers.

What are the others? What are these words?”

“Ever hear of the Necronomicon?”

“The Neker…what?”

“You’ll probably want to brew another pot of coffee. If you thought what we’ve been dealing with up to this point has been hard to wrap your mind around, this is really going to strain your brain.”

Ravenwood gave Kane the Cliff Notes version of the Necronomicon and the murky, often confusing, history of its origins. She explained that it was often thought to be a work of fiction attributed to H. P. Lovecraft, the early 20th century author of bizarre horror stories.

Others, she told him, claim to have traced its origins back into the mists of time and linked it to the gods and goddesses of the ancient Sumerians.

Kane was lost, already. “Sumerians?”

“Pre-biblical. We’re talking really old. Even the origin of their culture is a bit of a mystery. It seems some of the Old Testament stories in the Bible were even borrowed from the earlier Sumerian tales. So, right away we’re into controversial territory here. But that’s nothing compared to this book.”

“The Necker…Necker…”

“Necronomicon. Literally translated, the book of dead names.”

“Dead names.”

“Or names of the dead, if you prefer.”

“Names of what dead? What dead people are we talking about here?”

“Not people, exactly. Gods. Or demons. Both, actually. And not dead exactly, either. More like… sleeping.”

“Sleeping.”

“Yes. Waiting to be awakened.”

Kane shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The details of this case were beginning to stir his own sleeping demons… memories… his dad… I should tell her. No you shouldn’t. Not now.

Ravenwood studied his face for a moment. “Are you still with me?”

“What?”

“Looked like I lost you for a minute.”

Kane straightened himself in the chair and loosened his tie. “Yeah.

I’m with you. Sleeping demons…yada, yada….”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Okay. Well, look, I won’t bore you with all the details. But, whether you believe any of this or not, we’re talking about some seriously strange and potentially dangerous stuff here.”

“Dangerous? C’mon.”

“Uh… five dead preachers?”

Kane pursed his lips and conceded her point with a reluctant nod.

Ravenwood sucked up her exasperation and continued. “Remember what I said about the sleeping demons? Well, the Necronomicon is–– among other things––a book of calls.”

“Calls.”

“Right. Calls. In ritual magick, calls are incantations to be recited in a particular sequence. These calls are intended to awaken the sleeping demons and raise them up from the Underworld, the dark Abyss, to do the bidding of the magician.”

Kane chuckled. “And you’re telling me this is actually supposed to work.”

“Well, here’s the thing. There are two versions of the Necronomicon.” She paused, pulled a paperback book from her briefcase and handed it to Kane. “One of them looks like this. You can buy it at just about any good metaphysical bookstore.”

Kane took the book and examined it. The cover was black with a strange symbol printed in red in the center. The word Necronomicon was printed in bold white letters above the symbol in a font that had an intentionally sinister look about it. He flipped through the pages as Ravenwood continued to talk.

“Open it to the page with the bookmark. Look at the illustrations.”

Kane turned to the marked page and recognized the illustrations as the same symbols Ravenwood had sketched on the sheet of paper.

“Look closely at those symbols,” she said. “You were only partly right about the first five symbols being the same ones that are on the bodies of the victims. Symbols one, two, four and five were used but symbol number three didn’t appear on any of them. Symbol number nine was used in place of number three.”

“Does it matter?”

“Oh, it matters all right. It means our perp is no ordinary, run-of-themill, self-proclaimed black arts magician.”

“And you know this, how?”

“Those symbols are the signs or seals representing each of the nine offspring of the group of gods or entities known throughout the ages as the Ancient Ones or the Great Old Ones. These Old Ones and their offspring have one goal: to somehow, by any means, find a way through the gate of the Abyss and enter into the land of the living. If they can accomplish that then they will destroy every last remnant of the human race and take possession of the world that they claim was theirs in the first place.”

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. There was a war between the good gods and the bad gods. The bad gods lost and they’re just waiting to get their revenge.”

Ravenwood’s eyes lit up. “Very impressive, Lieutenant! How did––” Kane chuckled. “Well, I mean come on. It’s the old story. Standard mythological fare. Good versus evil. Skywalker versus Darth Vader.”

“Exactly. But all myths have some factual beginning, some actual event from which the eventual mythological tales are created. And this––this story of the evil Old Ones and the good guys known as the Elder Gods––is where it all started.”

“You sound like you believe that.”

“Doesn’t matter if I believe it or not. What matters is that some people not only believe it but they believe it with a fervor that rivals that of any radical religious fundamentalist on the planet. Fortunately, most of them are relatively harmless because they don’t have the necessary tools to do much damage. But if you put something like the real Necronomicon into the hands of one of these people… well, let’s just say the term weapon-of-mass-destruction comes to mind.”

Kane scoffed. “Aren’t we exaggerating just a little here? I mean, come on.”

“Like I said, you don’t have to believe it. You just need to know there are those who do. And that makes them potentially very dangerous.”

Kane studied her face. “Do you believe it?”

“I believe––no, I know they believe the knowledge contained in the Necronomicon gives them the potential to become as powerful and evil as the dark gods they believe in. And I think whoever our perp is, he’s

someone to be reckoned with. The sequence in which he’s using the symbols is the tip-off.”

“How so? Tip-off to what?”

“Like I told you, there are two versions of the Necronomicon.

There’s the one you’re holding in your hand. You can buy it at any metaphysical bookstore. Hell, you can probably order it on line from Amazon.”

“And the other one?”

“The other one you can’t order from anywhere. You won’t find it in any bookstore. And there are only two copies known to exist. One is rumored to be buried, along with other powerful books, in a chamber called the Hall of Records located deep beneath the sands of the Great Sphinx in Egypt. The other, some are convinced, was once in the possession of none other than Aleister Crowley. What happened to it after Crowley died, no one knows. My guess is that now it has somehow ended up in the possession of our mystery killer. Otherwise he wouldn’t know about the correct sequence of the symbols.”

“Or maybe he just made a mistake. I mean, we’re assuming he’s bent on killing nine preachers, right? And you’re assuming the ninth one will be decorated with the symbol that the so-called real Necronomicon has in the ninth position––the one that’s listed as number three in these drawings. What’s it called?” He glanced at the drawings. “This Kutulu symbol, right? But so far our perp has only killed five people. For all we know this Kutulu symbol will turn up on the sixth victim. Or the seventh, or whatever. See what I mean? Maybe he doesn’t have a clue. Maybe he doesn’t know what you think he knows. Maybe he’s just some deluded asshole messing around with this shit. Or how about this? Maybe he does know about the proper sequence but that doesn’t mean he actually has the real Necker…”

“Necronomicon.”

“Right. You see what I’m saying? I mean, look at you. You know about the sequence and you don’t have a copy of the real Necker…whatever.” He paused for a moment and considered his last statement. “At least I’m guessing you don’t. Right?”

As much as it pained her, Ravenwood had to admit that his logic made sense. “No, you’re right. I don’t have a copy of it. But so few people even know the thing exists, let alone that there’s a difference in the sequential arrangement of the symbols. We have to assume he has the real thing in his possession. And don’t forget, this guy somehow managed to brand an accurate, although elaborately modified, depiction of the Lucifer Seal on the foreheads of the victims.

“Remember I told you the Lucifer Seal is probably the most obscure symbol in the entire realm of the occult. That, alone, told me from the start that this guy is deeper into this stuff than anyone I’ve ever come across. And, believe me, I’ve been involved in some of the darkest, weirdest phenomena you can imagine. And don’t forget the video.

How many people do you know who can appear out of nowhere and then vanish into thin air? Trust me, Lieutenant. We’re dealing with something far beyond any kind of weirdness that I’ve ever encountered. And I’ve seen stuff you wouldn’t believe.” Then she remembered who she was talking to. “Of course, for you, I guess that wouldn’t take much.”

Ravenwood’s verbal jab pretty much sucked the air out of the room and the whole conversation had drained the energy out of Kane.

Ravenwood, on the other hand, was even more charged up than when she came in. She was in her element. In her ten years of involvement with the FBI’s Anomalous Phenomena Unit this was the most intriguing case that had ever come her way. The alien abduction case she investigated last year had, until now, been at the top of her list of favorite cases. But this case of the preacher killer moved her in a more personal way. It brought back memories of the stories her mother––a full-blooded Mesoamerican Indian––had told her when she was a young girl growing up in New Mexico. Ravenwood was fascinated by tales about the shamans with their ability to disappear from one place and magically appear in another place instantaneously.

The idea that they could transform themselves into Jaguars, and cross over into the spirit world and back again, gripped her imagination. Her father, whose Celtic roots could be traced back to the Middle Ages, had his own stories to tell as he was the son of an Elder of the Craft. The tales of the rituals, the invocation of spirits, and being brought up in the middle of two magickal traditions from opposite sides of the world, it was all incredibly exciting to the young girl who would one day win a college scholarship for her essays on shamanism and who somehow, through an odd series of circumstances, would end up working for the FBI. “Well, okay,” Kane said with a quick drum roll of the fingers on the top of his desk. He pushed his chair back, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his wrinkled white shirt.

“Okay? Okay, what?”

“Okay, you’re the expert on this stuff.” He made a courtly gesture with his hand. “I defer to your expertise on the matter, madame.” He got up and moved to the coffee maker. “Coffee?”

Ravenwood gave him a skeptical look.

“No, really, I mean it,” he said, pouring himself a cup. “It’s pretty clear I don’t know jack about this shit and you do. You want coffee or not?”

I don’t believe it. The Teddy Bear is back. “Thank you, yes. Black.”

Kane returned to his chair. “It’s just so damn frustrating,” he said.

He set Ravenwood’s coffee on the desk and pushed it across to her.

Then, reaching into a side drawer, he pulled out the case file and flipped it onto the desk. He tapped it with his finger. “As you know, the investigation hasn’t turned up a single thing pointing to any sort of a connection between our five dead preachers. We’ve interviewed their wives, their closest relatives, their friends and nothing makes any sense. Hell, it turns out these five guys didn’t even know each other. So we have no clue as to how our perp is choosing his victims and we have no idea why he’s choosing them. What’s the motivation? What the hell possesses someone to do something like this?”

Ravenwood nodded. “I’m thinking revenge.”

Kane’s gut tightened. The word triggered a disturbing childhood memory and he shut it out as quickly as it had come in. He looked at Ravenwood and wondered if she’d noticed his reaction. “Revenge? For what, for god’s sake?”

Ravenwood shrugged. “Just a hunch. But not only revenge. I think there’s something more to it. It gets back to the fact that he’s using these symbols and he’s using them in the proper sequence. Or at least I think we have to presume he’s using the proper sequence. In any case, as far as the motivation question is concerned––besides whatever personal revenge factor might be in play here––I believe he’s attempting to awaken the offspring of the Old Ones. To resurrect them from the Underworld and bring them through the Gates of the Abyss into our world. That’s the best explanation for why he’s using these symbols.”

The look on Kane’s face told Ravenwood he was about to spout off with more objections to any more of this nonsense. He opened his mouth and managed to get out a single “But…” before she cut him off.

“Excuse me,” she said. “You deferred to my expertise here, remember?”

He closed his eyes and let out a sigh, almost sorry now that he ever made such a concession. “Yeah, yeah. Go on.”

“Thank you. Like I was saying, he’s trying to conjure these demons, the offspring of the Old Ones. I think he’s performing an elaborate ritual and these murders are sacrifices to the Old Ones in exchange for the Old Ones giving their permission for their offspring to be let loose from the Underworld.”

Kane shook his head. “Where the hell are you coming up with all this crap, anyway?”

“I’ve studied this crap extensively. It’s what I do. It’s my job, remember? Anyway, listen to me. There’s more.”

“I don’t know if I can take anymore.”

She pointed to her sketch of the symbol of Kutulu. “This Kutulu character is special among the offspring. He is said to be the most powerful of all the offspring because he alone holds within him all the magick and power that the other offspring can use against the humans here in the world of the living. That’s why he’s the last one, number 9, in the sequence. Curious thing, though. He’s the only one of the offspring that can’t be summoned. Not by any priest or magician of any occult order.”

That raised Kane’s eyebrows. “Really? Then what the hell are we worried about? Going on the assumption that all of this is true––and I’m not saying I believe a word of it, mind you––then even if all the other offspring showed up here like a bunch of freakin’ zombies, they’d be pretty much powerless to do anything without this Kutulu character, right?”

“Maybe.”

“What maybe? You just told me––” “I know. But there is one more thing. Trouble is I can’t verify the information.”

“What is it?”

“A rumor with absolutely no background as to where it started and, as far as I’ve been able to determine, there’s no historical evidence whatsoever to support it.”

“Well, c’mon. What the hell is it?”

“Another book.”

“Jesus. What is this, the library of the damned? And what, pray tell, is supposed to be in this little book?”

“Little is the right word. Supposedly it’s small enough to fit in the palm of your hand and doesn’t have more than maybe twenty-five or thirty pages.”

“This little gem have a name?”

“Roughly translated, it’s called The Keys of the Gate Keeper.”

“Wasn’t that a movie?”

Ravenwood grinned. “I don’t think so. The keys are spells and incantations, said to have been created by the ancient Sumerian god, Enki.”

“Inky?”

“Enki. The supreme Lord and Master of all magick. One of those spells or incantations is said to have power over Kutulu. In the hands of a true magician it could be used to awaken and summon the otherwise nearly comatose Kutulu.”

“So he’s the baddest of the bad?”

“Oh, he’s worse than that. It’s said that when Kutulu comes through the Gate, and enters the land of the living, all Hell will break loose.

The indestructible offspring will feed on human flesh, the world will be in chaos and the carnage will continue until no human is left alive.”

She let that image impress itself into Kane’s brain as she got up and set the empty cup on his desk. “You know,” she said in a serious tone, “your coffee sucks.”

He shook his head. “What?”

“Your coffee. It sucks. And anyway, I have to leave. I have to get to a meeting in an hour. Think about what I told you. I know you don’t believe any of it but, trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

When she was gone Kane was left with an unsettled feeling in his stomach and it wasn’t from the coffee. Out of the entire conversation, one word was still at the forefront of his mind: Revenge. A memory that he’d managed to keep repressed for so long was now churning in his gut and it wanted to come up all over his desk.

CHAPTER 15 Three Months Earlier…

Cowl shed the strange hooded robe and hung it back in the closet.

“My initiation?” he asked, turning to the Messenger.

“We’ll begin tomorrow night. If you’re ready.”

“Ready? For what, exactly?”

“To receive the Beast, of course.”

“What?”

“Are you ready to resurrect the spirit of Aleister Crowley? To become the vessel of his spiritual essence?”

“You’re shitting me. Right?”

The Messenger laughed. “Not at all. The time has come to take the first step to exacting your revenge… to realizing your ‘Someday’.

That’s what you’ve been waiting for all these years, is it not?”

The word, ‘Someday’, seared itself into Cowl’s brain and burned like hell. Every last horrifying moment of that encounter with Pastor Pete flashed through his mind in excruciating detail. He looked at the Messenger. “Hell, yes. What do I have to do?”

The Messenger pointed to the cinerary urn. “I think you know.”

“Yeah… but how?

“Tomorrow night.”

“But––” Without another word, the Messenger was gone.

A rush of anxiety crawled over Cowl’s skin like a swarm of ants. He turned his gaze toward the desk across the room. The shiny, black urn beckoned for his attention. He started to approach it but stopped with a confused look on his face. The lid of the urn had been removed and was now sitting upon the diary. What the––?

He moved quickly to the desk and stared at the opened urn. I know I didn’t do that.

He leaned over and peered into the accursed container. A puff of ash suddenly burst up out of it, directly into his face. He gasped, sucking the sour ash into his mouth and up his nose. Choking, spitting and nearly blinded, he grabbed the lid of the urn but it slipped from his

fingers, hit the floor and tumbled away into the shadows. His nostrils burned, his eyes watered, as he staggered backward into the chair.

Nauseous and groggy, he struggled to get to his feet to retrieve the lid but his quivering legs gave in and he flopped back into the chair.

His eyelids fluttered, his head dropped to his chest and everything faded to black.

He awoke the next morning with a stiff neck and a foul taste in his mouth. He looked about, groaning and wiping the grit from the corners of his eyes. As the fog cleared from his brain he recalled the events of the previous night. Gotta find the damned lid. Half way out of the chair, he froze, stunned by what he saw. The urn was sealed with the lid firmly in place.

CHAPTER 16 Three Months Later…

Kane blew the head of steam off his first cup of morning coffee and stood staring at the calendar on his office wall. It had been nine days since the last preacher met his maker at the hands of… what? A lunatic? A boogeyman? Kane didn’t know. All he knew was that this was day number nine and, unless something had changed, all he had to do was sit and wait for the phone to ring.

The hours passed.

By 2 o’clock in the afternoon the only call he got was from Special Agent Ravenwood asking if he’d heard anything.

“Nothing. Nada,” he told her. “You think he’s changed his M.O.?”

“Doubt it. This guy’s carrying out some sort of a ritual. Unless he’s dead he won’t stop until he’s completed the pattern. Let me know the minute you hear anything.”

“If I don’t hear anything does that mean I never have to talk to you again?”

“Yeah, right. Just call me.”

Kane chuckled and hung up the phone.

Another three hours passed and Kane was beginning to think maybe Ravenwood was wrong. God, wouldn’t that be sweet?

The call came in a few minutes after five. The preacher killer had struck again. Martin ‘Marty’ St. Martin, victim number six, was only 33 years old, married with two kids.

It crossed Kane’s mind that making a trip to the crime scene was almost pointless. He doubted it would reveal any more clues than they already had which was next to nothing. The call from Detective Wheeler––already on the scene––pretty much confirmed his suspicion.

Every detail of the scene was an exact repeat of the other five. But the location seemed a little odd.

“They found the body where?” Kane asked.

“In the men’s restroom at the Queen City Concert Hall. And get this.

His clothes were soaked with urine. Presumably his own.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Nice, huh? Samples are on the way for DNA testing.”

“Anybody see anything?”

“No. But shortly after we got here about a half dozen people from his church showed up. Apparently he was heading up a protest and was supposed to meet these people at five o’clock to get organized. He’d arrived ahead of them and by the time they got here he was dead.”

“Who found the body?”

“Maintenance guy. John Cushman. Long time employee. He was just getting off work for the day. We checked him out. Family man.

Volunteers as a soccer coach for under privileged kids on weekends.

Clean record. He was pretty shook up about the whole thing.”

“Okay. What about this protest? What’s that about?”

“Ever hear of a band called Mega Therion?”

“No. Tell me.”

“Death Metal crap. You know. Head bangers. That shit.”

“Yeah. Second only to rap for the most annoying noise on the planet.”

Wheeler chuckled. “Yeah, well these guys are into weird stuff. At least you’d think so if you ever heard the lyrics to their songs.”

“How so?”

“Dark stuff. Satanic. Demons and shit. You know. That’s why this Pastor St. Martin and his people were here. The band’s playing here tonight. The pastor and his people were planning to stage a protest.

They believe the band is responsible for turning kids away from Christ and all that stuff.”

“Hmm… interesting. Sort of fits with this mumbo jumbo that Ravenwood’s been feeding me. Any of the band members there?”

“No. Not yet. According to the guy who manages this place the band isn’t scheduled to show up for another hour to get set up for the show.

But you’ll like this. We got another video. The concert hall manager is getting it for us as we speak.”

“Excellent. Bring it in, pronto. I can’t wait to see this one. And get me all the info you can about that band. I want names, addresses, phone numbers. Whatever you can find out.”

Kane ended his conversation with Wheeler and promptly called Ravenwood.

“So, Ravenwood, you wanna see a movie?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“You should be so lucky. The boogeyman struck again. We got video.”

“Save me a seat. I’ll be right there.”

“Bring popcorn.”

CHAPTER 17 A Few Hours Earlier…

The old stairs creaked with each step as Cowl made his way down to the main floor of the Manor. He looked at his watch. There were still two hours before he had to meet with the other band members at the concert hall to prepare for the show. Plenty of time.

He entered the Inner Sanctum, moved straight to the secret closet, pulled the door open and stepped in. The musty smell that permeated the interior of the enclosure was well suited to the foul deed he was about to commit for the sixth time. He glanced at his watch again and immediately began removing his clothes.

When he was completely naked, he lifted the hooded robe from the hook. Draping the robe over his arm, he stroked its velvety blackness as if it were a beloved pet. Then––feeling a sense of piety that surely the Pope himself must feel when donning the holy vestments in preparation to administer some sacred rite of the Church––Cowl slipped into his own sacred garment and drew it closed at the waist.

Now, secure in his new skin, he reached up and retrieved a wooden box from the shelf above the robes. The box, slightly larger than a shoebox, was smooth and unadorned, coated in a glossy black lacquer.

He gently, admiringly, brushed the tips of his fingers across the cool, smooth finish of its brass-hinged lid.

He moved to a corner of the room, set the box down, and rolled the carpet back, revealing a 6-foot diameter rendering of the modified Lucifer Seal he’d painted onto the hardwood floor. He stood for a moment admiring the precision of his work. Then he lifted the hood of the robe onto his head, stepped into the center of the magickal Seal and opened the box.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Dear Reader: You’ve reached the end of this excerpt from Ash: Return Of the Beast. Don’t miss the strange, frightening and life-threatening surprises waiting for Kane and Ravenwood as they wind their way through the dark labyrinth of this diabolical mystery. Kane reveals his own dark secret to Ravenwood while the clues to help them solve the case are in terribly short supply. Worse yet, so is the amount of time they have left to stop the mysterious killer before all Hell breaks loose. And, according to Special Agent Ravenwood, that’s not

just a figure of speech. Don’t miss the shock-ending to this most unusual tale.

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Sincerely,