Authors: Teri Brown
I shake my head. “Even more frightening. We have to get it past her father.”
Before Leandra and I formulate a plan, I decide to go visit Harry Price. If anyone knows about Aleister Crowley and how we can protect ourselves, it’ll be Mr. Price. Or at least he should, with all his knowledge of the occult.
The next morning I wash and dress quickly, planning to forgo breakfast in order to get to the Society before Cole does. He’d been quiet when he brought me home last night and when I tried to sense what he was feeling, he was so blocked off I felt nothing, not even that warm individual feeling I always get from him. Even though I knew he was doing it just to keep me from knowing he was planning on going after Calypso himself, it still hurt. Or maybe he is still upset over my friendship with Billy and this is going to be the way it is from now on.
It hadn’t helped that Billy had been reading a book on the couch when Cole walked me into the hotel. Billy’d stood and stretched, his long lanky frame towering in the lobby.
“I just wanted to make sure everything was all right,” he drawled in his best Texan.
Cole had tensed next to me and for a moment they eyed one another like rival bulls over a heifer. Not very flattering to me, but an apt description.
“Everything is fine,” Cole said stiffly. “Thank you for assisting Anna.”
“Of course. I would pretty much do anything for a friend.” He had given me an easy smile and ambled off to his room. Cole had given me a quick kiss, but I could tell he wasn’t pleased.
That’s all right. I wasn’t pleased that he was putting himself in danger and cutting me out of helping him.
The sun is just coming up as I hurry down to the corner to catch the tram that will take me to the tube. Being spoiled by being driven everywhere in Cole’s motorcar, I wouldn’t have known how to get around in London had Calypso not shown me how to ride the underground wherever I wanted to go.
The thought of Calypso turns my stomach. All along she had been conning me, but for what?
Within half an hour I am ringing the Society’s bell. To my surprise, Mr. Casperson opens the door. He’s wearing a plaid woolen jacket and a hat, as if he were on his way out.
His eyes widen. “Anna! I am surprised to see you. I thought you were on tour.”
He looks much better than he did at the séance, but still rather wan. “I got back several days ago. Is Mr. Price in this morning?”
“Yes, yes. You do know where his office is, don’t you?”
He glances at his wristwatch and I narrow my eyes. He’s jittery, nervous, and I sense panic coming off him in waves.
“Yes, I can see myself up. Are you all right?” I ask.
He nods. “I’m fine, I just have an early morning appointment. So if you’ll excuse me . . .”
He looks meaningfully at the door and I move aside. Waiting for a moment after the door closes before peering out the blinds covering the tall window next to the door, I huff in frustration when he climbs into a motorcar across the street. If he had been walking, I would have followed him. Right now, everyone seems suspicious to me. Pulling off my gloves, I pause before the door, taking in the beautiful wooden marks. I’ve never asked what the marks mean and suddenly recall how Calypso wouldn’t touch it that first night. A connection? Perhaps.
I open the door and move down the hall to Mr. Price’s office. The heels of my Mary Janes click-clack across the floor and it sounds so loud to my ears that I’m surprised no one sticks his head out of his office to see what the clatter is. Perhaps no one is here yet. I’m glad when I make it to Mr. Price’s office without seeing anyone, though. It’ll be easier if I can just slip in and out without getting waylaid. Leandra is picking me up out front in an hour for stage two of our plan.
I rap lightly on the door and take a deep breath before entering. Nerves whirl in my stomach. At this point, I suspect everyone of colluding with Calypso.
Mr. Price has a book on his desk and I note he closes it when I walk in. “Anna! Sit, sit. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
I take off my wraparound coat and then sit, laying it and my gloves across my knees. “I’m hoping you can give me some information.”
His lips curve and his dark eyes look pleased. “I can’t promise anything, but I will do my best. What sort of information has brought you out so early in the morning?”
“I want to know more about Aleister Crowley and about black magic.”
His response is immediate. He stills, his genial smile disappearing and his wide face becoming impassive. “I know of Mr. Crowley, of course, but what makes you think I have any more information than you could get from the newspaper archives?”
I smile and nod toward his massive bookshelf. “Anyone who has studied the occult knows about Thelema and Aleister Crowley. I know about him and my studies haven’t been nearly as extensive as yours.” I lean forward, my shoulders tense. “It’s incredibly important that I discover as much as I can about him.”
He relaxes but his dark eyes are still watchful. He leans back in his chair and knits his fingers across his chest. “So tell me, Miss Van Housen. What do you wish to know?”
“T
he newspapers have called him the wickedest man in the world. Is he really evil?” I ask.
“The newspapers exaggerate to sell newspapers. Don’t get me wrong. I believe Aleister Crowley to be the most powerful occultist and warlock in the world, perhaps of all time. His intentions in the beginning were altruistic. He believes in good and evil and has an intimate knowledge of both forces. Unfortunately, he seems to have chosen one over the other.”
“You say in the beginning, what about now?”
Mr. Price shrugs. “Who knows? Time changes a man. Fame changes a man. I can hardly comment on the motivations of a man I haven’t spoken to in nearly ten years.”
I blink. “So you know him personally, then?”
He nods. “Yes, we both belonged to the Order of the Golden Dawn. We both rose through the ranks, or orders, very quickly but have gone in different directions.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he is still involved in the Golden Dawn, but on second thought, I don’t want to know. The less I know about that secretive organization, the better, and it isn’t important for what I need anyway. “How well did you know him? Do you know, for instance, if he has any children?”
“I know he has a daughter named Lola whom I believe lives with her mother. He may have another child now, but you typically don’t discuss your family much with Golden Dawn members.”
So he doesn’t know about Calypso? I study his impassive features for a long moment. Is he telling the truth? I sense no deceit in him at this moment, but the heavy dark power he is infused with makes me doubt what I’m feeling. “So what you’re saying is that most people have nothing to fear from him?”
His eyes narrow and I suddenly feel a deep sense of mistrust coming from him. I understand. I don’t trust him either.
“Typically no,” he says. “I wouldn’t cross him. As I said, he is very powerful. But he doesn’t go around arbitrarily harming people, contrary to the lurid newspaper descriptions of Thelema. He’s been accused of human sacrifice, but I doubt that story. Animal sacrifice, most definitely, but then many of God’s chosen people also sacrificed animals at God’s behest.”
“Are you saying Aleister Crowley is one of God’s chosen people?”
At this Mr. Price throws back his head and laughs. “Certainly not. But who’s to say who God’s chosen people are but God himself? But on the whole, the average person has nothing to fear from Mr. Crowley during a casual meeting. Of course, that said, it must be pointed out that both of his wives went insane and a number of his mistresses have committed suicide.”
My blood chills, thinking of Calypso. Perhaps she herself is in some way a victim of this powerful man. I switch directions. “How badly could a poppet hurt someone?”
His brows arch ever so slightly. “The poppet itself is harmless until it’s in the hands of a skilled practitioner. Anyone can make a poppet with all sorts of intentions, but unless he knows how to activate and manipulate the poppet, the doll is harmless.”
“But in the rights hands it could be . . . ?”
His reply is immediate. “Deadly, if combined with a blood sacrifice.”
I swallow. I have no way of knowing if Calypso has made another poppet yet. I haven’t felt any psychic attacks lately, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe she has been distracted by her guests, or maybe she is just gearing up for something really dangerous. “How would one go about protecting herself?”
“She would have to bind the practitioner’s powers.” He leans forward, warming to his subject. “There are a number of ways to do this. A circle of salt is very effective, though in this day and age, you can’t really keep someone locked in a circle of salt forever. There is also a way to bind someone’s powers with a blood sacrifice, but the exact ritual is quite vague. It’s also said in the ancient texts that witches and warlocks can steal someone’s powers or abilities, but again the texts are vague. As you can imagine, many practices have been lost due to people not wanting to write them down. Magic, black or otherwise, is primarily an oral tradition.”
“That makes sense,” I say. “Rather like a cook not wanting someone to steal her recipes, right?”
He laughs. “Essentially. It was a way of protecting oneself. Bad things generally happened to those women found to be witches. No one wanted to be found with a book of spells. There also are charms and symbols that are protectants.”
“Like the symbols on the door below?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Very astute. Yes, they can’t be touched by someone who practices black magic. It’s not foolproof, of course—there are ways to get around it—but someone would have to know how and even then be very determined. My colleagues are less likely to believe in our need of protection than I am. I feel it prudent to have a protectant wherever I spend a great deal of time.”
Speaking of symbols . . . I tilt my head to one side, considering. Then I snap open my pocketbook and hand him the medallion. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
I watch with interest as his face blanches. “Where did you get this?”
“It was left for me as a gift. Why?”
“You know what it means?”
I nod.
“You have made some interesting enemies since you came here, Miss Van Housen.”
I want to ask if he has many enemies, but he rises abruptly and walks over to one of his shelves. Taking down a large wooden box that looked vaguely medieval, he sets it on the desk and opens it. I try to peer over the hinged top but can’t see from where I am sitting. He rummages through it, his face intent.
I squirm, my curiosity getting the better of me. “What is that? Pandora’s box?”
He regards me over the rim of the cover. “Perhaps.” Pulling something out from the inside and palming it, he closes the lid and replaces the box.
“I have a gift for you,” he says, holding out his hand.
I eye him before hesitantly sticking my own hand out, palm up.
“You’re not a very trusting person, are you, Anna? You’re perhaps the only woman I’ve ever encountered who meets the words ‘I have a gift for you’ with suspicion.” His voice is laced with humor, but his eyes are not. Whatever he is giving me is extremely important, as are the reasons behind the gift.
The object he drops in my hand is heavy and green with age. There’s a long, dark silk cord attached to it and I know it’s some kind of pendant. It’s shaped like a coin and imprinted with the spokes of a wheel. Within each spoke is a symbol, much like the ones present on the door below. “What is it?” I ask.
“It’s an ancient Celtic protection amulet. I’ve had it for many years and have been waiting for the compulsion to give it to someone. The power in this kind of pendant is increased by giving it away, so you don’t give them lightly.”
My skin crawls with foreboding. I hold the amulet up and it swings in front of me. “And you were compelled to give it to me?”
“Yes. In exchange for the medallion.”
“A trade?”
“Of sorts. Trust me, my dear. You do not want this in your possession.”
He has that right.
“Do you have any more questions, Miss Van Housen?” His voice is formal, which I take as a sign that the meeting is over.
I place the cord over my head and slip the amulet down the front of my dress. The pendant lies heavy and warm against my skin and I am certain that I made a good trade. “What are you going to do with the medallion?”
“Destroy it.”
I shiver in relief at his words. “Thank you, Mr. Price. And thank you also for the amulet. It’s lovely.”
He nods his head and I hurry out of the office and down the hall, feeling as though Harry Price knows far more about magic, the real kind, than he lets on.
Leandra is waiting for me in Harrison’s neat, unpretentious British Model T.
“What did you find out?” she asks as soon as I hop into the front seat.
“We should be fine going to visit Aleister Crowley. The newspapers exaggerate, though Mr. Price did warn me that he is a very powerful warlock. He also gave me a protective amulet.”
“Only one?” Leandra gives me a grim smile as she pulls the car onto the street.
“Only the one.” I pull it out and let her look at it. She does, nearly driving into a pushcart in the process.
“Oopsie,” she says, righting the wheel.
I tuck the amulet back under my dress. “Did you get the information we need?”
She nods. “If he’s in London, I know where his house is. Unfortunately, he travels quite a bit. I also have some bad news.”
I look over at her, my heart sinking. “What’s wrong?”
“Today is the last day I’ll be able to help you. My husband cornered me last night and told me in no uncertain terms that I am joining our progeny at his mother’s.” She gives me a pained glance. “How could I say no? He told me that putting myself in harm’s way was an act of selfishness. Of course, I didn’t mention that as a Scotland Yard detective, he puts himself in harm’s way all the time, but somehow it’s different for me. At any rate, I will be on the train headed for Manchester this evening.”
“It’s all right,” I say, though I’m sick to lose her. “You need to be with your children.”
“As much as I have relished the break, I am missing them dreadfully.” She sighs. “But I have the morning and afternoon. What should we do first?”
I rub my temples, doubt assailing me. Do I even have a right to ask her to help at all? Harrison is right: She should be playing in the country with her two little boys whose pictures I’ve seen on the mantel of her sitting room. On the other hand, I really need her brains. Not to mention her support. If I had Cole’s . . . I push the thought out of my mind and make a decision. “Let’s go see Aleister Crowley. Maybe he can give us a clue as to Calypso’s whereabouts.”
“What are we going to tell him?”
I put my hands up in the air. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
By the time we arrive at the modest house just off Old Brompton Road, my hands are slick with sweat. Silently, Leandra and I walk down the brick path and up the steps. I can feel Leandra’s nerves and that ever-present darkness that lurks just beneath the surface.
“Look,” she says, pointing. Someone has painted the words
Do what thou wilt
in rusty red above the door. My stomach churns as I realize that the paint could very well be blood. The line is from
The Book of the Law
, the text Mr. Crowley claims was divinely given to him by his spirit guide.
Perhaps madness runs in his family, but then again, who am I—a girl who has visions, talks to a dead boy, and feels what others are feeling—to throw stones?
Leandra’s face is determined as she reaches up to knock on the door, but before she can, a man so ancient he almost looks prematurely mummified opens it.
“Please come in,” he says.
Leandra’s mouth forms a little
O
before she closes it and drops her hand.
He escorts us into a dusty sitting area that smells strongly of sawdust, old straw, and something dank and growing, like mushrooms sprouting from a rotting log deep in the forest. The shelves on all four walls are so cluttered they make Harrison’s office look tidy. Plants sit here and there on stacks of books, which no doubt accounts for the scent of old straw.
At first glance, the room is just the normal messy abode of a bachelor professor, but my stomach churns as I look closer. Hanging on every wall are African masks, some made of wood, others of ivory or ceramic. All have wide-open mouths as if their primary purpose is to scream. The blank eyes look as if they are watching our every move. Suddenly, Leandra clutches my arm and points to a shelf near the front window.
“Are those what I think they are?”
I step forward to get a closer look and realize a moment too late what they are. Heads. Ancient shrunken heads, the kind missionaries used to bring back with warnings of the wicked savages.
“Ah, I see you’ve found my bonces.” The timbre of the voice, slow and deep, sends a chill down my spine and I turn.
The newspaper pictures I remembered seeing of Aleister Crowley had shown a dark, handsome man, with rather florid features and round, intensely dark eyes. The man in front of me is a much heavier caricature of that man. His features have softened like melted wax and he’s lost every bit of his dark, luxuriant hair. But the eyes—the eyes are the same, only so much more terrifying in person. Immensely more terrifying. A shot of fear runs through me and I feel Leandra stiffen.
I find my voice. “You are interested in Africa, Mr. Crowley?”
“I am interested in everything,” he says. “Now please do me the honor of telling me who has so charmingly invaded my home?”
Leandra steps forward and starts to hold out her hand. I grab it and pull it down next to mine. Mr. Crowley’s eyes flick over the movement, but he says nothing.
“My name is Anna, and this is my friend Leandra.” My voice is as firm as I can make it, but I get the feeling that Mr. Crowley detects the tremor and enjoys it immensely.
He bows his head slowly. “Leandra, Anna. And what can I do for you? It’s not every day I have two such lovely visitors. Would you like to have some tea or other type of refreshment?” His words are polite, but the hair on the back of my neck rises at the way he looks at us, as if he could devour us, even after a jolly big lunch.
I shake my head. “Thank you, Mr. Crowley, but we are in need of some information about your daughter.”
He frowns and for the first time looks surprised. “Lola? I just heard from her. What could you possibly want to know about her?” He picks up a pencil from a cluttered side table and works it between his fingers. When I raise my eyes back to his face, his gaze is boring into mine. Classic distraction trick.
“You’re an American, aren’t you?” he says. “I’ve lived in the States. In New York, actually. On an island in the Hudson River, but my mind wanders. What do you want?”
“No. Not Lola. Your other daughter, Calypso.”
The pencil in his hand snaps and the threat I feel coming from him is instantaneous.
It’s followed by a wave of anger that hits me so hard I gasp, doubling over for a moment.