“Yes. Thorton DeMarcus was one of their most feared adversaries.”
“Present company excepting, I pray.” And Crowley blew on his tea.
“He was behind those murders in Arkham, the witch cult.”
“And the Boston exorcism, and the summoning of the Jinn. And, lest we forget, the scroll of Nyarlathotep,” Crowley said, easily listing three of the Arcanum’s most infamous investigations.
“Duvall killed him, didn’t he?”
Crowley smiled.
“But Darian still came to him to study?”
“He kept his family name a secret; it’s what I admired about the boy. So young, yet so calculating. He broke into Duvall’s inner sanctum and used the old dog’s vanity against him until he sucked him clean of secrets.”
“Then you were deceived as well.”
“Perhaps.” Crowley sipped his tea. “Or perhaps the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Lovecraft threw his tea to the floor, shattering the cup. He swung around and yanked a ceremonial dagger from a sheath nailed to the wall and turned it on Crowley. “Don’t think I won’t!”
Crowley’s eyes widened, then he laughed. “So. There’s fire in the boy yet.”
“You set him on the path. You’re one of the preeminent scholars on Enochian magic in the world. How else would Darian know it was there in the Hall of Relics?”
“Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than being responsible for Duvall’s death, but the boy beat me to it. His agenda was clear from the start. He would acquire the Book of Enoch from Duvall, and the means of using it from Aleister Crowley.” Crowley gazed off into space for a moment. “He really is a creature after my own heart.”
Lovecraft frowned. “So that’s what this is? Revenge?”
“Don’t you listen, you pup?” Despite the knife in Lovecraft’s hand, Crowley circled around the kitchen counter and backed him into the wall by the sheer force of his presence. “Detach! Use your intellect, not this . . .” he jabbed a sharp nail at Lovecraft’s chest “. . . useless organ.” In a swift move Crowley snatched the dagger from Lovecraft’s hand and pressed it to his throat. “Revenge was an afterthought. This boy has ambition. He’s a purer strain than his father.”
Lovecraft stood paralyzed under the press of both the steel and Crowley’s regard.
The sorcerer breathed hotly on his face. “He serves one master and one only: the true Lord of Darkness. He seeks to bring about the end of the world, and possesses the means and the will to do so.” Crowley shoved off Lovecraft and crossed the room. “You’ve become just like that oaf Doyle: despicably soft.”
Lovecraft rubbed his throat. “I don’t seek your approval, Aleister, and I don’t want it. This is a simple transaction: the Book for Darian.”
“And why are you so hot to bargain? Getting close, is he? Some boys and girls getting the ol’ chop-chop? How many are left, eh? Go on, you can tell me. Tell Uncle Aleister how many little birds are left.”
“You can go to Hell,” Lovecraft growled.
Crowley laughed. “You’re dancing to his tune and you don’t even realize it. He’s lured you right into his trap.”
“How? There’s no . . .” Lovecraft trailed off, blinking. “The party. The invitation.”
Crowley picked his nails with the knife blade.
“But that was Madame Rose. She was the . . .” Again Lovecraft hesitated, remembering Crowley’s earlier words. “ ‘A Rose by any other name’ . . .”
“Dear Thorton didn’t only father a son,” Crowley said.
“She’s his sister,” Lovecraft deduced.
“Madame Rose is really Erica DeMarcus. And her gala Halloween celebration will be hosted at the DeMarcus family estate. So, you’ll be walking into the mouth of the lion. He’ll be waiting, and so will his forces.”
“How do we stop him?”
“By giving him what he wants.”
“But that’s—”
“That’s all the answer you need,” Crowley spat. “Now leave.”
Lovecraft started to go, then hesitated. “You ask for no assurances about the Book?”
Crowley turned his heavy-lidded gaze on the demonologist. “You’ve given me your word as a gentleman; that will suffice. I have ways of dealing with those who betray me.” Then with a dismissive wave, he turned his back on Lovecraft.
Lovecraft opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
“Howard . . .” Crowley called after him.
Lovecraft turned.
Crowley stood facing his window at the opposite end of the studio. “There’s yet another player in this game.”
Lovecraft stepped toward the apartment, a question on his lips, but the door suddenly creaked on its hinges and, under its own power, slammed shut in his face.
33
“WHERE THE BLAZES were you?” Houdini demanded as Lovecraft entered the Harlem brownstone.
“At the library, doing research,” he mumbled as he crossed into the parlor to warm his hands by the fire.
Doyle and Marie joined him there, with Houdini following.
“And?” Houdini insisted.
Lovecraft sighed. “Close the door.”
Marie shut the French doors dividing the parlor from the first-floor hallway.
“You have a great deal of explaining to do, Howard,” Doyle scolded.
“What the hell were you spying on Abigail for, you little pervert?” Houdini demanded.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were in the closet.”
“It was a mistake. I spilled the ink . . .” Lovecraft looked at their faces and saw only scorn. “Think what you want, then,” he snapped. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it?” Lovecraft glared at Doyle. “Does it?”
“That’s not what we’re—”
“Yes, I’m convenient, aren’t I? Useful in a pinch but never accepted. Never trusted.”
Houdini waved him off. “Please.”
“Where would you be without perverted, scheming, little Lovecraft, I wonder?” Lovecraft’s eyes were dark and cruel.
“Your value to the Arcanum has never been questioned,” Doyle said.
Lovecraft laughed dryly. “The Arcanum. That name has always meant more to you, Arthur, than it did to me. Duvall had knowledge I sought, that’s all. Now that he’s dead, I see little to keep me here.”
Houdini swung around. “We won’t be victims of your childish snits,” he growled. He turned to Doyle. “Send him away, and the sooner the better.”
But Doyle kept his gaze locked on Lovecraft. “We all miss Duvall—and none of us more than you, I’m certain.”
Lovecraft turned, hiding his reaction.
“But this is the course he set for us,” Doyle continued. “It was his dying wish. We honor him by putting past differences aside and uniting on this final quest. And I think I speak for all of us when I say the Arcanum would cease to exist without H. P. Lovecraft.”
“It’s true, Howard,” Marie agreed.
Lovecraft rubbed his eyes, though he did not turn to face them. Then, still speaking to the window, he said, “Darian is Darian Winthrop DeMarcus, the only son of Thorton DeMarcus.”
Houdini turned ashen. “DeMarcus?”
“How do you know?” Doyle demanded.
Lovecraft ignored him. “Madame Rose is his sister, Erica. The party is to be held at the DeMarcus Manor.” Lovecraft stepped away from the window, turned, and slumped in one of the chairs by the fire. “They say there’s an old system of tunnels beneath the house, connecting it to the local cemetery. Legend has it there’s a church in those tunnels, a Satanic church where Thorton performed his Black Mass.”
“So, the son avenges the father,” Doyle mused.
“More than that,” Houdini said. “He wants to finish what the father couldn’t. We can’t go to this party.”
“Oh, yes, we will,” Doyle countered. “In fact, Abigail’s coming, too.”
Lovecraft looked over at him.
Marie took Doyle’s arm. “C’est fou to bring her, Art’ur.”
“Precisely. One hopes it will be the last thing he expects. We’ll lure him as he attempts to lure us. Force a misstep. Drag him kicking and screaming into the light.”
“And then?” Lovecraft asked.
“And then . . .” Doyle’s voice dropped “. . . we avenge Duvall, and destroy the DeMarcus bloodline once and for all.”
HOUDINI’S SILVER GHOST Rolls-Royce rolled along a narrow road, lined with towering birch trees, their limbs knobbed and hooked overhead like dragon claws. The car’s headlights barely cut through the darkness, giving the impression they were submariners in a deep ocean trench.
Inside the car, Lovecraft sat in the driver’s seat, wearing a chauffeur’s uniform, with a bushy moustache glued to his upper lip. His eyes kept darting to the rearview mirror, watching as Abigail sat stiffly beside Houdini in her Little Red Riding Hood costume.
“Eyes on the road, Howard,” Doyle cautioned from the seat beside him.
Lovecraft glanced at Doyle, who was clad in a deerstalker cap and English cloak. The costume was topped off by a long, curving pipe clenched between the author’s teeth.
“Subtle,” Lovecraft offered.
“Anything but, and that’s precisely the point,” Doyle countered.
Through a clearing in the trees, Lovecraft spied a sprawling graveyard in the bowl of the valley. Thousands of headstones dotted the terrain like broken teeth, a withered field of desolation stretching to the gnarled trees of the distant woods.
“The Willow Grove Cemetery,” Lovecraft said.
All eyes traveled from the graveyard at the bottom of the valley, up to the peak of the promontory where the DeMarcus Manor sat: a forty-room Tudor glowing with candlelight.
“I don’t want to wear this cape,” Abigail complained from the backseat. “It itches.”
Doyle turned to address her. “Should anyone ask, what do you say?”
“I’m your niece from California,” Abigail recited absently.
“Very good. And what are you never to do at any point this evening?”
“Leave your side,” Abigail answered, sounding annoyed.
“That’s correct. That’s supremely important. Our objective here is to lure our enemies to us. And it’s you they want, Abigail. Do you understand?”
“I’m not deaf,” Abigail snapped.
“Be respectful, Abigail,” Houdini chided.
“I don’t have to listen to you; you’re not my parents. I don’t care how famous you think you are.” And Abigail folded her arms.
Doyle shared a look with Houdini.
“Howard, are you up for this?” Houdini asked.
Lovecraft drove on in silence for a moment before answering. “Without the Book, Darian’s powers are greatly diminished. If it’s in that house, I’ll find it.”
Doyle freed a pocket watch from the inside of his cloak. “Regardless of our progress, we’ll rendezvous at the main gates at ten-thirty.”
Lovecraft checked his own pocket watch. “Ten-thirty; fine.”
In the backseat, Houdini was gazing at Abigail. It was clear to all of them that just beneath her bluster lay a profound fear. Lovecraft knew how she felt. Who had ever been able to protect her? And why, at this hour, did she have any reason to trust the Arcanum?
He didn’t know how to help her—though it seemed Houdini did. Suddenly, the magician freed a pink handkerchief from his breast pocket and sneezed theatrically, startling everyone in the car. Abigail turned to him, alarmed. Houdini crumpled the handkerchief in his fist, then handed it to Abigail.
“Hold this for me, won’t you?” Houdini said, and placed it in her hand.
Abigail stared at it. “That’s disgusting.”
“It is not,” Houdini said, hurt. “Open it up.”
Brow furrowed, Abigail unfolded the pink handkerchief, revealing a tiny canary. Abigail’s gasp of pleasure was genuine, and brought a smile to everyone’s lips.
The canary tweeted and shivered.
“He’s cold,” Abigail said.
“It’s a she, I think. Warm her with your hands.” Houdini demonstrated, and Abigail cradled her hands protectively over the bird. Doyle looked back and Houdini gave him a wink.
“What shall you name her?” Doyle asked.
Abigail stroked the canary wings with her thumb. “Isabella,” she said, with sudden certainty.
“Bravo,” Doyle said, then turned back to face the road.
Abigail turned to Houdini. The words were on her lips but she had trouble speaking them. Houdini patted her knee and nodded. “I know; it’s all right.”
Abigail smiled and turned her attention back to Isabella.
“There’s something you should know, gentlemen,” Lovecraft stated, after some deliberation. “Darian’s a telepath.”
“And what am I to do with that information?” Houdini snapped.
“Just make sure your thoughts are your own,” Lovecraft cautioned.
“ ‘He’s in my mind,’ ” Doyle muttered under his breath before turning back to Houdini. “Duvall’s last words.”
Houdini frowned. “Well, thanks for the tip, Howard,” he offered sarcastically.
Lovecraft tapped on the brakes as they reached the wrought-iron gateway to the DeMarcus mansion. The car idled as they surveyed the murky forest and the menacing gargoyles perched atop the spears of a high gate.
“From this point forward, be on your guard,” Doyle counseled.
The Silver Ghost rolled up the drive. But the house was not the vampiric fortress any of them were expecting. The tuxedoed parking attendants and the tall torches lining the gravel road destroyed that illusion. In fact, the only off-kilter aspect was the structure’s unsettling geometry. The house spilled out over the grounds as though an architect had run amok. Many incongruent additions had been applied over the Manor’s three-hundred-year history, slowly bleeding grandeur away into chaos.
Expensive cars lined the wide circular drive, gleaming in silvers and blacks. It looked to be a well-attended event.
Parking attendants wearing devil masks opened the doors of the Rolls-Royce. Doyle, Houdini, and Abigail stepped into the cool night air.
Houdini handed a coin to one of the attendants. “My man will park the car.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Houdini,” the attendant answered, clearly marveling at both the man and his automobile.
With a wary look, Lovecraft pulled away and drove to the farthest, most shadowed portion of the driveway, nearest to the sprawling lawns of the estate. He exited the car and circled around to the trunk to open it. With a sigh of relief, Marie emerged and crouched down behind the car. She handed Lovecraft his leather briefcase, and once they were certain no one was watching, they struck out across the grounds, toward a sheltering of trees.
A BUTLER WITH the eyes of a lizard, dressed as a Musketeer, complete with a curling wig, held the door open for Doyle, Houdini, and Abigail. Immediately they became entangled in fake cobwebs hung for effect. Thousands of candles flickered, as a string quartet played haunting melodies. Hundreds of costumed guests flowed through half a dozen rooms.
“Gentlemen!” Madame Rose breezed through the dining room. She was wearing a stunning strapless black dress, her raven hair spilling over her white shoulders. Her eyes shone brightly behind a black butterfly mask. “How thrilling to have such distinguished guests.” Her smile flashed, and she shook their hands. There was an intensity to her, a coiled tension that set Doyle on his guard.
“Well, we were thrilled to be invited,” Houdini said, carefully not mentioning the events that had brought them together.
Madame Rose pretended not to understand, and instead turned her attention to Doyle. “Is this a first, or do you do this every Halloween?”
He tipped his deerstalker cap. “Ah, you’ve missed the sly shading, Madame Rose. The costume of Sherlock Holmes, but . . .” Doyle opened his top coat and patted his belly “. . . sadly, Watson’s body.”
Madame Rose laughed—too loudly. Then she whirled on Houdini.
“And you. Where is your costume?”
Houdini held up his arms, revealing handcuffs, one set dangling from each wrist. “Why, Madame Rose, this evening I am none other than the Great Houdini.”
“Of course. How silly of me not to notice.”
Then, with certain predatory interest, she turned to Abigail, who shrank back behind Doyle and protected her canary with cupped hands.
“And who is this darling thing?”
“I’m his niece,” Abigail answered from behind Doyle’s coat sleeve.
“Cousins of my wife’s in Los Angeles, of all places, sent her to keep an eye on me,” Doyle explained with a wink. “Her name is Abigail.”
“And look at this wickedly adorable ensemble. Little Red Riding Hood, isn’t it? Oh, and you even have a picnic basket for Grandma. Perhaps we can find some cookies for you later, my sweet.”
Madame Rose’s manner seemed unnaturally forced. The shade of her skin, the fierceness of her gaze, the lines in her forehead all suggested a woman under enormous strain.
With the pleasantries over, Madame Rose vanished back into the crowd, saying, “Walter will take your coats. Do enjoy. And thank you so much for coming.”
Meanwhile, the presence of celebrities had drawn more party-goers into the foyer. Doors opened from the kitchen and guests wandered in from the large, chalet-style living room. Being New Yorkers, however, no one pretended to recognize Houdini or Doyle. Proximity was the key.
Doyle clasped Abigail’s hand, despite her resistance, and the three of them made their way into the living room, which was cleared of furniture, replaced with groaning tables of food. There were steaming bowls of cider, pumpkin pie, dripping caramel, buckets for apple bobbing, and freshly baked cakes brought in from Ferrara’s in Brooklyn.
A waiter in a disturbing white mask that gave his face a look of solemn coldness brought a tray of martinis to the men, and a cider for Abigail.
“Compliments of the hostess,” he said.
The olives, Doyle noted, had been painted in the likeness of jack-o’-lanterns.
“I must have truly arrived,” bellowed Barnabus Tyson, looking oily in his Teddy Roosevelt costume. “Two sightings in one week.”
“How lucky can we be?” Houdini asked Doyle as Tyson clasped their hands in his sweaty mitts.
With Tyson was the young district attorney, Paul Caleb, wearing a simple brown robe with a rope belt and a bald cap on his head, in the middle of a nest of straight black hair.
Before Tyson had the opportunity to leer and drool over Abigail, Doyle said, “My niece.”
At that, Tyson lost interest. Instead, he asked, “Have either of you met Paul Caleb, the new D.A.? And this monk business ain’t an act, so watch the cussing.”
Caleb sighed, pretending not to notice.
Houdini offered his hand. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Mr. Houdini.” Caleb shook his hand in a firm grip. “I’m a huge fan. Really, the pleasure’s mine.”
Houdini smiled broadly and motioned to Doyle. “May I introduce my dear friend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”
Caleb hesitated only an instant. “Well, well. Mr. Doyle, creator of legends.”
“You’re too kind,” Doyle answered.
“Tell me, Sir Arthur, just out of curiosity, and noticing your uniform this evening . . . does the creator ever confuse himself with his creation?”