31
LOVECRAFT SCRIBBLED NOTES in his journal while, around him, Houdini’s brownstone thumped and creaked with activity. He shut his burning eyes briefly, but there was no time to sleep. If these were the End Days, Lovecraft was determined to see every minute through. And though his will was strong, his body faltered. He felt his heart flutter weakly against his bony chest. His hands shook, and his stomach burned.
They’d returned from the morgue hours before and postponed their trip to Crow’s Head in order to tell Abigail the terrible news about the fate of the Rescue Society. Or rather, Doyle and Houdini had; Lovecraft had stood in the hallway and listened. He’d been impressed with their sensitivity. Lovecraft, himself, wouldn’t have thought to shield Abigail from any of the gruesome details. Still, it would have been almost a relief if the girl had reacted—to anything. Instead, she took the news with an unnatural calm. The only words she spoke were: “I’ll have a rest now.”
That was hours ago. Lovecraft could hear Houdini and Doyle in the kitchen, debating the fate of the girl—weighing the pros and cons of dragging her into an adventure that might cost her her life. On the other hand, where to take her if not Crow’s Head?
Lovecraft sat back in his chair and stretched, then winced at the freakish wallpaper in Houdini’s guest bedroom. He assumed the room was reserved for the visits of small nieces and nephews, thus explaining the undersized furniture and disturbing circus motifs. But it did nothing to curb Lovecraft’s distaste. The blankets, rugs, and walls were awash with cartwheeling midgets, unicycling monkeys, trumpet-playing elephants, and sinister ringmasters.
Lovecraft preferred a padded cell.
Then he heard voices outside his room. It was Houdini and Julie Karcher.
“. . . Just wanted you to know, sir, she’s taken the silverware.”
“And put it where?” Houdini asked.
“In her coat pockets. I hear it clinking when she walks.”
“Then let the poor waif keep it. We’ll buy more silver.”
“Yes, I figured, sir. But I just wanted you to know.”
“Thank you, Julie.”
Lovecraft turned back to his journal and accidentally tipped the inkwell with his elbow. A black puddle washed over the desk. “Blast it.” He could not find a towel, and so he went to the second-floor hallway and crossed into the bathroom. It was double the size of Lovecraft’s room. In fact, it was larger than his old apartment and was the only bathroom he’d ever seen with a full-sized sofa and set of chairs in it. There was also a claw-toed bathtub big enough for three. Lovecraft entered the walk-in closet, searched in vain for the light, then bumped into a shelf and was buried beneath an avalanche of several dozen towels. He resurfaced to hear the bathtub faucets squeak open and water patter into the tub. The closet door was nearly shut, but there was still a wide crack that let in light. Lovecraft inched his shoe out of the light and wormed his way into the back of the closet, unsure of what to do.
Voices came from the bathroom:
“Now, you just put your clothes on that chair, and I’ll wash them up first thing. I put your towels and a robe on the sink, and some warm milk beside the tub.” Julie Karcher sounded more nervous than usual.
Lovecraft could see shadows and movement through the crack in the door, but nothing more.
“Do you need anything else, my dear?”
There was no answer.
“Well, if you do, just holler, and I’ll come running, okay? Just keep putting your finger in there to make sure it doesn’t get too hot, now.”
The bathroom door creaked shut. Lovecraft fought off a flash of panic. He thought of running, but instead just sat there, frozen. Through the crack in the door, he saw Abigail cross over to the tub.
Almost without conscious volition, he crawled across the fallen towels and pressed his face to the narrow seam of light along the door’s hinges.
Abigail sat on the edge of the tub, still wearing her filthy coat. The ever-present top hat sat on the floor. Her hair was a tangle of greasy blond ringlets. She gazed into space as her hand stirred the water. Steam rose from the bath. She turned and stood up a little sleepily, then her hand went to her forehead and she faltered, falling to her hands and knees.
Lovecraft almost sprang up to help her, but then held back when he realized she was crying. She was collapsed on the floor, her eyes open and unblinking, letting tears stream unheeded off her nose and lips and face. Lovecraft shifted in indecision, but gradually she rose to a sitting position and stood again. She locked the bathroom door and set a chair under the knob. Then her coat fell to the floor.
Abigail wore a long sweater, which hung to her knees, and scruffy, dark red boots. She brushed the tears off her cheeks absently and pulled the sweater over her head, getting her arms briefly tangled.
Lovecraft’s neck grew hot, and he was certain Abigail could hear his heart pounding. He tried to breathe as shallowly as possible.
Under the sweater was a dirty man’s dress shirt, which was missing both the collar and cuffs, and the bottoms of a man’s long underwear.
She untied her boots and kicked them off, rubbing her toes through socks that might once have been green but were now dingy and filled with holes.
Abigail then pulled the long underwear down around her ankles and stepped out of them. She still wore a slip that hung down about to mid-calf. Her dirty fingers undid the buttons of the shirt and it, too, dropped onto the pile.
She was now wearing just a slip and a strange corset as she went to the tub and turned off the faucets. She had become little more than a phantom in the steam, which now filled the bathroom.
Lovecraft perspired, and the silence roared in his ears. He squinted to see her through the steam. She would sharpen into view, then fade into a shadow again as she crossed from the closet to the sink.
But even the steam couldn’t hide the gleam of scissors in Abigail’s hand and, for a terrible moment, Lovecraft thought she would turn them on herself. But instead she just flipped the strings of her slip from her shoulders and allowed it to slide to the floor.
Lovecraft bit his lip. Abigail was now naked from the waist down, and it was the first time in Lovecraft’s life he’d ever been in the same room with a nude woman. He wasn’t sure if he could handle the cumulative effects. Sensations flooded his mind, and he could not swallow.
But what distracted him most was the way Abigail attacked the corset with the scissors, pulling off bits that seemed to have been pinned on. In fact, it seemed to be less a corset than a collection of bandages, which gradually unraveled under Abigail’s attacks.
This activity pushed Abigail farther from the closet and into the mist. Lovecraft could not see what was happening. Then something upset the water and Lovecraft could barely make out the form of Abigail through tufts of dispersing white steam, bending over in the tub, now pouring hand-cups of water over her bare arms and her small, white breasts. She knelt and slowly eased herself into the hot water. There was a curious
whump,
whump
sound, like wet canvas shifting, then Abigail stretched out her arms as two dark shapes unfolded behind her.
Lovecraft’s eyes widened and he gasped.
There was a splash of water, and Lovecraft kicked his way into the back of the closet as the door flew open.
ON THE FOURTH floor, Houdini was just tying the rope of his bathrobe when an earsplitting scream shot through the house. He ran out into the hall.
Doyle was already out there, clad only in an undershirt, suspenders, and slacks, his glasses still perched on the bridge of his nose as he peered about in confusion.
Bess was not far behind them.
“Where is she?” Houdini demanded.
“Second floor,” Bess answered. “Julie, come quickly!”
Julie and Marie were waiting on the third floor in their robes, and quickly joined them.
“I made a bath for her, I can’t imagine—”
Julie was interrupted by a crash and a slamming door.
Houdini and Doyle reached the landing of the second floor simultaneously. Lovecraft stood stiffly against the wall next to the bathroom, pale as a sheet.
Houdini could read his stricken expression. “What happened?” he barked.
“She ran that way,” Lovecraft answered, pointing.
“Your shirt is soaked through, Howard,” Doyle said. “And your glasses are fogged. What were you doing in there?”
Houdini pushed Lovecraft against the wall. “Were you spying?”
“This isn’t my fault,” Lovecraft stammered.
Houdini couldn’t find words in his fury. He only thrust a warning finger under Lovecraft’s nose before racing down the hall.
Doyle followed.
Houdini skidded to a stop at the door to the servants’ stairwell. “This goes down to the kitchen, but it’s locked at the bottom.”
Doyle opened the door and gazed into the blackness of a spiral staircase. “Abigail?”
There was silence. Then they heard shuffling at the bottom, and a desperate scratching at wood.
“Abigail, what happened?” Houdini asked gently.
When no answer was forthcoming, Houdini started down. Doyle padded behind him, followed by Marie, holding a candle.
More furious scrabbling came from below.
Houdini peered around the corner.
“Don’t come near me!”
Abigail shrieked.
Her voice was high and panicked, her breathing labored, like an animal’s. There was more scratching at the bottom of the stairs, a symptom of Abigail’s frantic efforts to open the door.
“My dear girl, what happened?” Houdini continued.
Abigail sobbed deeply.
Houdini stepped closer. He could make out Abigail’s outline, huddled in a tight ball at the bottom of the stairs. “It’s all right—”
“Don’t! Stay away from me. All of you,” she cried.
Houdini knew something was wrong by the way Abigail moved, the way her body lifted with her breathing. In the darkness it was difficult to discern, but a prickly feeling crept up his back. The hairs on his arms stood up, and the floorboards creaked under his weight as he inched closer.
Abigail was wrapped tightly in something both thick and soft, which covered her body. Her sobs echoed painfully in the darkness.
Behind Houdini, Doyle drew a breath and said, “Marie, give me your candle.” And as Marie complied, he added, “Prepare yourselves.”
Abigail squirmed into a tighter ball.
Another stair groaned as Doyle passed Houdini and he crouched down beside Abigail, lowering the candle.
In the glow of the candlelight, Abigail’s tearstained face rose up from between two enormous wings of silk-white feathers. They twitched nervously even as they enfolded naked Abigail like a vast blanket. Her wet eyes pleaded for understanding, acceptance, forgiveness. No words were, or could be, spoken.
In that musty corner on the bottom floor of Houdini’s Harlem brownstone in New York City, the barriers between realities shattered.
32
THE MORNING AFTER dawned crisp and clear, the sky brilliant with that rare blue clarity so unique to October in Manhattan.
A perfect day on its surface, except that Lovecraft was missing. Marie and Doyle searched both the brownstone and the surrounding streets, but the demonologist was nowhere to be found. Whether a permanent leave-taking or merely a temporary absence driven by his own embarrassment and shame, no one could surmise. Lovecraft was dependably unpredictable. But significant though it was, it came second on Doyle’s list of concerns.
Abigail had spent most of the night huddled at the bottom of the stairs, shivering. Deciding a woman’s touch was needed, Houdini and Doyle had left her in Julie and Bess’s care. They exerted all their charms to lure her out, offering bribes of baked breads, fresh chicken soups, warm teas, and bricks of fudge. But it soon became apparent that the way to Abigail was not through her stomach.
Ultimately, it was Marie who succeeded where the others failed. The priestess sat on the second step of the stairwell with a pot of herbal tea and a candle, and told Abigail stories of her childhood. One, in particular, had the desired effect:
THE COOL POND water ripples away from her naked legs. With
a soft splash she submerges, eyes open, staring into the watery
green darkness. Marie is thirteen years old. Her limbs are long,
but still awkward and bony as childhood flirts with adolescence.
She twirls up to the surface, face to the sun, eyes closed. She is
safe here. This is her mother’s swamp. Even the snakes fear the
Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.
The young Marie takes hold of the smooth branch of a live oak
bent over the waters like an old woman’s finger, and pulls herself
up. She lays her naked body on the curve of the branch, and lets
the sun roast her skin.
The birds are quiet.
The swamp is quiet.
Marie opens her eyes and turns to see a silver fox watching her
from the shore of the pond. It pants but does not drink.
The fox follows Marie as she walks home, barefoot, through the
swamp. She is shirtless, skirt tied low about her boyish hips.
“Go home,” she tells the fox.
It hunkers down and lays its snout to the dirt submissively.
Marie approaches the fox, kneels down, and reaches out to
stroke its silver fur. The fox allows this, worming closer to nuzzle
at Marie’s toes.
Marie wants the fox as a familiar. This must be a sign from the
spirits. Her mother has many familiars: a snapping turtle, three
tabby cats, and a flightless crow. And now that Marie is of child-bearing age, she, too, should follow in her mother’s footsteps.
Her mother pays the fox no heed when Marie comes home with
it curled about her bare shoulders like a stole.
“Clean a chicken for supper,” is all she says.
Marie’s feelings are hurt. She is a voodoo priestess and deserves
respect.
The silver fox waits outside the chicken coop, ears pricked.
Marie emerges with a tawny hen held by the neck. She takes the
butcher knife from its nail on the coop wall, holds the hen against
a stump with her hand and foot, and takes the head off with a
clean chop. The fox watches, nose twitching.
“What you got there, girl?” Marie’s uncle Toto has a sleepy eye
and a slow mind. There’s a machete in his fist, and sweat on his
muscular chest. “Ain’t that a pretty fox.”
Marie avoids the leer of Toto’s good eye and continues ripping
feathers free. “You act like you never seen one,” she answers.
The fox lies between Marie’s feet, head on paws, watching Toto
with bright green eyes.
“Prettiest I ever seen,” Toto says again, his eyes on Marie.
That night, the Voodoo Queen does not allow her daughter to
sleep with the silver fox.
“If he your familiar, he be back in the mornin’,” she tells her
daughter.
Marie is inconsolable. Tears wet her pillow. There is an inexplicable pain in her heart at being separated from the fox.
The fox sits on the porch, panting, as the Voodoo Queen shuts
the front door in its face. The fox turns and pads down the porch
stairs onto the lawn. It skirts under the moonlight and trots two
miles into the forest, over a worn dirt path to a dimly lit cabin,
deep in the swamp. The fox scratches at the door with a front paw.
Uncle Toto finally answers. “What you doin’ here?”
The silver fox looks up at Toto with bright green eyes.
Toto stiffens. “How you do that?”
The fox tilts its head.
Toto hisses, “How you talkin’ like that?”
MARIE’S HEAD LIFTS off her pillow. “Mama?” There is a curi
ous scent of mint in the air. The curtains flutter in the hot wind.
Marie turns on her back and kicks off the sheets to cool her skin.
Then she smells the reek of bourbon.
A hand slaps over her mouth. Her scream dies in her throat as
Toto looms over her. His one good eye burns red.
“Ain’t that a pretty fox?” he slurs. His other hand paws at her
kicking legs. Marie scratches at him as he climbs onto the bed,
smothering her under his weight. Toto fumbles at his drawstring
pants.
Marie squeezes her eyes shut, wishing herself elsewhere. The
bourbon fumes sting her nose. She can’t breathe.
Then Uncle Toto screams. His weight lifts away, and Marie
opens her eyes in time to see him burst into flames, his arms
swinging like burning timbers. Marie looks about her bed and
sees a crystalline dust scattered there: angelica root. That explains
the smell of mint.
The Voodoo Queen herself stands in the doorway. She holds the
silver fox by the scruff of its neck and it howls with a dozen
voices—some laughing, some screaming, some weeping. It is unlike any sound Marie has ever heard, and one she’ll never forget.
The fires catch on the fluttering curtains as Uncle Toto topples
out the window and runs into the night, skin still burning.
The Voodoo Queen takes the fox’s snout in her fist and hisses in
his ear. “Your fight’s wit’ me, Devil. Leave my daughter alone.”
Then with a quick jerk, she cuts the fox’s throat with a knife. It
howls again in that terrible voice and breaks free of the Voodoo
Queen’s arms, scampering down the hall and out of the house.
Marie Laveau lunges into her mother’s arms, sobbing.
MARIE UNFURLED A blanket and held it out with both hands. “You see, child? We can’t always know what’s best for us. We got to trust sometimes, even though it’s hard.”
After a long pause, a small voice rose up from the bottom of the stairwell. “Did you ever see the fox again?”
“That weren’t no fox, Abigail, that was de Devil, hisself. An’ that’s his pleasure, that’s his power. To corrupt, see?”
The steps creaked softly, and Abigail emerged from the darkness like a child of myth, her skin like porcelain, and her wings tucked tightly against her back. She crept into both Marie’s embrace and the blanket, holding back tears.
“There, there, sweet miracle. It’s all right. Ssh. Everythin’s all right.”
“WE ARE THE Arcanum.” Doyle sat in the parlor on a walnut-backed chair, with Houdini standing beside him.
Abigail sat on the matching love seat, cupping a bowl of tea. Until her clothes were washed, she wore one of Bess’s plush white bathrobes. Marie sat with her, a reassuring hand on her leg.
“You might call us Investigators of the Extraordinary,” Doyle continued. “The four of us were brought together by a mystic we knew as Konstantin Duvall, a man of many secrets. His charge and our mission was the same: to act as both explorers and defenders of the unknown. For as Hamlet said: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ And you, Abigail, are living proof of that. More than anyone, Duvall knew that in such cases as these, there needed to be a secret society, with talents uniquely suited to the task, to ensure that these secrets did not fall into the wrong hands. In short, Abigail: You are our responsibility.”
“You’re wrong, old man. I’m not special.” Abigail’s voice was flat. “I’m a freak. Like those babies born with no arms, or two heads. That’s why my parents gave me up.”
“Is that what Judith told you?”
“She didn’t have to. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can take care of myself.”
“I see. And how long did you live with Judith?”
“Forever, it seems.”
Doyle paused, then said, “How old are you?”
Abigail shrugged.
“How long have you lived in New York?”
“Not long.”
“And where were you before that?”
“Budapest.”
“And before that?” Doyle continued.
“Nanking.”
Houdini took over. “And which was your favorite?”
“None of them,” Abigail said, dismissively. “Though, I liked the Buddhist caves of Mandalay.”
LATER, WHEN ABIGAIL was sleeping, Doyle, Houdini, and Marie conferred in the first-floor hallway.
“Well traveled for a teenage orphan,” Houdini said.
“Indeed. Not many can recommend the Hanging Gardens of Babylon as a pleasant spot to picnic.”
“She thinks she’s human,” Marie said.
“That seems to be the case,” Doyle agreed. “Somehow, across the oceans of time, Abigail’s lost her origins.”
“Perhaps Judith didn’t want her knowin’. Didn’t want her feelin’ diff’rent,” Marie said.
“Either way, it presents us with a unique dilemma. Considering what she’s already been through, I’m hardly inclined to burden her further. And yet if she doesn’t understand the role she plays in all of this, she’ll have no reason to stay under our watch.”
“She’s a flight risk,” Houdini agreed.
Doyle and Marie gave him a weary look.
Houdini smiled. “You know what I mean.”
“You’re right, though. For the moment she seems to trust us—and you in particular, Marie—but that could change at any moment. We need to keep a close eye on young Abigail.”
“Now, I have only one question,” Houdini said, “Where in the blue hell is Lovecraft?”
CROWLEY OPENED THE door to his Greenwich Village studio wearing only a loosely tied blue kimono. His face and hairless chest were damp with sweat. “Dear me, someone’s left their babe at my door.”
Lovecraft gazed at him from under the brim of his fedora. “If I can get the Book, you’ll have it. Provided you help me stop them.”
Crowley pursed his lips to keep from smiling. “Poor Howard.” He opened his door wider and slung an arm over the demonologist’s shoulder as he entered. “It can’t be all that bad, can it?”
The poorly ventilated studio smelled sour, as though meat was rotting in a corner, yet it was also sweet with vanilla incense. Just like Crowley himself, with his repellent attraction.
“You timed your visit perfectly. I just finished my yoga practice and was boiling some water for tea.”
Lovecraft looked around, seeing first a tall, black marble carving of Baphomet—a demon with a bull’s head, a female torso, and a goat’s legs. It was a rendering made famous by Eliphas Levi. The exposed brick walls were partially covered with Crowley’s watercolors: renderings of hallucinatory worlds and deformed self-portraits.
Crowley folded his meditation blankets and dropped them in the corner, beside a ceremonial plate used for conjuration. Headless mannequins wore the magical vestments of Crowley’s numerous mystical associations, and beneath the studio’s only window was an East Indian circular table—an altar—on top of which were all the accoutrements of a practicing sorcerer: the serpent crown, wand, sword, simple cup, and holy oil, as well as Crowley’s own Book of Spells.
“You’re wearing your heart on your sleeve, boy,” Crowley warned as he plucked two dirty cups from the basin. “Lucky for you, this week I’m vegetarian.” And he smiled.
Lovecraft was forced to stand because there wasn’t a chair. He turned his hat in his hands. “No more riddles. I want straight answers.”
“Is there any such thing?” Crowley answered.
“Who is he? Who is Darian?” Lovecraft demanded.
“He is a gifted young man who is drowning in deep waters.”
“And how do you know this? Was he a student of yours?” Lovecraft pressed.
“Not only of mine,” Crowley said smugly as he poured boiling water into the strainer, “but of Duvall’s as well.”
Lovecraft was horrified. “Duvall?”
“Darian was a prodigy. I haven’t seen his like since your promising early years, before you chose the safe road.”
Lovecraft winced.
“And it wasn’t simply his scholarship and ambition that impressed me. He was also a telepath of rare ability. That combination heralds the arrival of a true magus. Naturally, he came to me once he tired of Duvall and his controlling ways.”
“And?” Lovecraft took a small step forward.
“At first he showed promise. But in the end he was unwilling to shake loose the chains of his upbringing, and I tired of him.” Crowley offered Lovecraft a cup of tea.
He took it. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t,” Crowley sneered. “The boy’s full name is Darian Winthrop DeMarcus.”
Lovecraft’s voice lowered to a whisper. “The son of Thorton DeMarcus, the steel magnate?”
“You know him, do you?”
“Only from the archives. The DeMarcus family has one of the oldest and most feared Satanist bloodlines in the world,” Lovecraft stammered. “But that was before I was . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Invited into the Arcanum?” Crowley finished. But was that a hint of envy or contempt in the sorcerer’s voice?