The cries were everywhere now, building to a crescendo.
“Konstantin!” Marie screamed to the sky.
More than two dozen huge owls came plummeting through the autumn leaves on massive wings, their talons extended. They wheeled and dived, ripping at the squealing demons.
Doyle, Houdini, and Lovecraft watched as two barn owls bit and clawed a demon’s fragile wings. Feathers and blood rained across the clearing, and still the owls continued to come. The sky was a solid wall of bodies. The demons were lost in the mayhem—a swooping, devouring blanket of claws and beaks.
It was in this maelstrom that Caleb broke through the Arcanum’s ranks and grabbed Abigail by the neck, baring his white teeth. “You’ll still be mine!”
At that, Abigail ripped the pouch from her neck and cast it into Caleb’s face in a cloud of sparkling dust. Caleb coughed and retreated, wiping his eyes as Abigail fell back into Lovecraft’s arms. Then Caleb stared at his hands and saw the tiny crystals. He turned to Marie.
“Angelica root,” he said, then burst into flames, howling in rage as his arms flailed and his borrowed flesh blistered and blackened. The fire caught on the wings of the plunging owls and licked at the shrieking, slapping demons, some of whom tried to escape into the sky, but the owls followed, unrelentingly savage.
And while the battle still raged higher above their heads, Caleb stumbled about the clearing until the inferno that was his borrowed body died down. He coughed up bits of scorched lung as he turned his melted eyes again on the Arcanum, his skull singed bald, cheeks dripping skin.
“We’ll remember that, Marie,” Caleb mumbled through swollen, still-sizzling lips.
“You’ve lost,” Doyle told him.
The creature that had been Caleb managed to stretch its ruined mouth into a grin. “Have I?”
Lovecraft stepped protectively in front of Abigail. “You’ve no power here; Darian proved that. The Laveau legend is true. You’re a corruptor, that’s all.”
“Have you heard nothing we’ve said?” Caleb chuckled as he gagged a black gruel onto his hand. “You presume us weak because we come to you in the form of a man. But as we’ve said before, there is great power in all of us, if only we channel that power into action.” Caleb opened his charred suit jacket, and produced a Mauser. He fired three shots at Lovecraft.
IT HAPPENED TOO quickly to register. Before he knew what had happened, Lovecraft found himself on the ground. He felt himself over for blood and wounds, but found nothing. And then he noticed the others gathered over Abigail.
Caleb seemed stunned as well, the muzzle of his pistol still smoking in his grip.
Doyle opened Abigail’s blouse. Deep red blood pumped from a hole in her chest and over her white skin.
Houdini cradled her head in his lap, tears welling in his eyes.
“Did I—?” Abigail tried to speak, but instead found herself fighting to breathe as blood flooded her mouth.
Lovecraft rose and joined the crowd leaning over Abigail. His face creased in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, and Marie touched him lightly on the back.
“Yes, Howard’s fine, Abigail,” Doyle answered her. “You saved him.”
“I did?” Her eyes were wide with pleasure.
“Ssh; be still.” Doyle placed a hand on her cheek.
Abigail’s fists suddenly clenched Doyle’s lapels as she struggled for breath, and he held her through the panic, tucking her head against his chest.
Marie covered her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Houdini pulled Bess into a tight embrace.
In the meantime, Caleb wheezed, “Now step aside.”
Lovecraft lunged to his feet. “You stay away from her!”
Caleb held up his hands. “I’m taking what is mine. I’m taking back what was stolen from me. You of all seekers should realize this.”
“No,” Lovecraft protested. “Not her wings.”
“Oh yes, her wings, dear boy. Claiming them opens a fissure between worlds. It shatters the false barriers that have kept us from Him all this time. Stand with us as we enter a new reality.”
Caleb offered his hand as a sudden wind kicked up in the clearing. Clouds churned overhead in a sky empty of both demons and owls.
The Arcanum bowed their heads over Abigail as she took her final breath. Only Lovecraft turned his eyes skyward.
Meteors—or at least what seemed to be meteors—crisscrossed in the sky above the swirling clouds. First there were two, then four, then twelve, then twenty. After a time, Lovecraft lost count of their flaming tails.
A deep rumble of thunder sounded on the horizon.
Then beads of light, resembling fireflies, began appearing all across the clearing, swirling in tight loops, rising from the ground like bubbles from champagne.
At this, Caleb’s eyes narrowed.
By now, the entire Arcanum was paying attention. There was a buzz on the air, as if a live field of electricity surrounded them.
And it came from Abigail’s skin.
It was a bluish sheath of energy crackling with life. It became uncomfortable touching her, and Doyle had to lay the dying angel back onto the grass as the muscles in his hands and arms reacted to the small shocks.
The forest came alive with blinking lights. Frogs croaked and crickets chirped, suddenly awakened to the curious events of the evening. Farm hounds barked in the distance as sleeping birds started calling sharply from the treetops. Locusts hummed and foxes yapped.
Lovecraft heard Caleb mutter, “Don’t you dare.”
As the noise of the forest rose to a frenzied pitch, a wave of light composed of billions of tiny nimbuses swept through the clearing then out across the forest. It enveloped the Arcanum, rolling past Caleb, burning all eyes with its brightness.
In the white intensity of the light, colors and textures disappeared.
Lovecraft held his forearm over his eyes, attempting to see what was happening. He could hear Caleb’s protests behind him.
“You can’t do this. You betrayer. You coward!” Caleb’s voice was strained, hysterical. “Face me! We dare you. Bastard! Lying dog! We hate you. We hate you!”
Lovecraft covered his ears to keep them from bleeding as Caleb’s voice rose to the shrieking pitch of all the damned. One voice became hundreds of thousands. Only the light around him kept Lovecraft from slipping into the Abyssal sea of those agonized voices.
DOYLE, ON THE other hand, could not see. He could not tell if his eyes were closed or opened, so bright and all-encompassing was the light. It was hot but not burning, bright but not blinding, and somewhere within it Abigail’s body lifted off the ground. Doyle could not touch her, but he felt her rise up and heard her say, “What is happening?”
And he heard himself answer, “I think you’re going home.”
And that was all that was said. For many moments, there was only white light and silence. Doyle could not feel the Arcanum, but somehow he knew they were close. And not only that, but he felt the closeness of many others. Somehow the essence of thousands was dissolved in the light, and was with him through those endless moments of resonant stillness. He felt the presence of the dead, and though he could not isolate any one name or any one touch, he knew Kingsley was there, and his mother and father, and his ancestors. He was flooded with warmth as the light began to fade. Gradually, the shape of the clearing resolved itself, and the muted chirps of the crickets began again.
And the Arcanum found themselves kneeling over an empty patch of matted grass.
Abigail was gone.
Most of their faces were wet with tears and sweat. The only one not crying was the only one who couldn’t, because his tear ducts had been burned away. Caleb swayed in the cool breeze, steam still rising off his charred skin.
Doyle stood and turned to face Caleb. He did not speak, but simply stuffed his hands in his pockets and raised his eyebrows.
With that, Caleb exploded into a flock of large crows. They cawed, bitterly, and flapped away.
Doyle walked over to Lovecraft and helped him to his feet. “Are you well?”
Lovecraft nodded.
Something heavy moved in the bushes.
Doyle and Houdini crossed to the edge of the woods. They lifted the branches away, revealing a flustered and sweat-soaked Detective Mullin, lying on his back, still stunned from what he had just witnessed.
“Good evening, Detective,” Doyle said.
Mullin just blinked. His lips were moving, but no sound came out.
Doyle knelt down. “Come to think of it, you’re just the man I wanted to see.”
46
MULLIN CRANKED THE handle of the Dictaphone, spinning the wax cylinder as Darian DeMarcus’s scratchy voice spooled from the recording horn and into the office.
“You were going to tell on me! Why couldn’t you just let me be?”
Mullin’s red hair was slicked back against his scalp and he was dressed in a sharp-looking Cassimere suit with Oxford dress shoes and a Bat Wing bow tie. His felt fedora sat on the table beside the Dictaphone. As he kept spinning the cylinder, his eyes fell on McDuff, the chief of police, seated in an expensive leather chair. McDuff pulled on his close-cropped beard as he listened to Darian’s screams.
“I was your brother. You were supposed to be loyal to me, and
instead you tried to hurt me.”
Next, Mullin’s eyes fell on Captain Bartleby of Fourth Ward, who seemed more interested in the pricey hourglass on the coffee table than anything Darian had to say.
“Stop it, Erica. You’re not real.”
Across from Mullin, glowering hotly, was Barnabus Wilkie Tyson. He chomped on an unlit cigar as the Dictaphone warbled on.
“You’re dead!”
Finally, Mullin’s eyes fell on William Randolph Hearst, standing behind one of the lounge chairs, arms folded across his chest, his demeanor grim.
“I killed you.”
Mullin released the handle and the cylinder stopped spinning. “Shall I play it again?”
Chief McDuff shifted in his seat. “If you don’t mind—”
“That won’t be necessary, Detective,” Hearst interrupted. “I’ll be hearing that voice in my nightmares. Obviously, a deranged and dangerous individual. Certainly fits the profile of the Occult Killer to a tee.”
“And this all checks out, Shaughnessy?” Chief McDuff asked, scratching his beard.
“It does, sir,” Mullin answered. “Papers of the estate identify ’em as brother and sister. The DeMarcus family had a history of this sort of Devil worship. Motives appear to be related to some kind of ritual scenario. The sister—Madame Rose or Miss DeMarcus, however you want to call her—found out about these crimes, but before she could contact the authorities, she was murdered by her brother. This fellow in the recording here.”
“And what happened after this recording?” Tyson growled.
“Overdosed. He was a drug fiend. Thought he was seein’ phantoms and what have you.”
Tyson scoffed, but offered no rebuttal.
“But how’d you get the recording, Shaughnessy?” McDuff asked, still confused.
“A good investigator doesn’t give up his sources. Isn’t that right, Detective?” Hearst asked.
Mullin nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Hearst. That’s my feeling about it.”
McDuff scratched his head and leaned back in the chair. “And there’s no sign of Mr. Caleb?”
“None, sir,” Mullin answered. “He’s skipped town.”
“Astonishing,” McDuff said.
“There was something about Paul Caleb that never felt quite right, I must say,” Hearst added, then clapped his hands together. “Well, gentlemen, it’s been good of you to come.”
The men all stood. Tyson didn’t bother shaking hands. He sneered at Mullin, popped his cigar into his pocket, and stomped across the office, slamming the door behind him.
Hearst ignored him, shaking hands with the captain and the chief of police. Mullin did the same, turning to Hearst, who, instead, took his arm.
“Stay a moment, won’t you, Detective?” Hearst asked.
The chief and the captain took their hats and wandered over to the door, looking back at Mullin before shaking their heads.
Hearst gave Mullin a wry grin and went to his bar. He dropped ice cubes into a highball glass. “Drink, Detective?”
“Bit early for me, sir.”
Hearst poured himself a scotch, then turned around, raising the glass to Mullin. “You’re a member of the club now, Detective. Tell me, what are your plans?”
Mullin looked out at the blue sky and sprawling cityscape beyond Hearst’s window. “Thinkin’ of goin’ into business for myself.”
“Private investigation?”
“Something like that.”
“Excellent. Perhaps I’ll call on your services sometime. Discretion is a large part of the job, isn’t it?”
“Can be, sir,” Mullin answered as he plucked his fedora off the table. He nodded to the publishing magnate. “Good day, Mr. Hearst.”
“Good day, Detective Mullin.”
Mullin had crossed the office and put his hand on the door-knob when Hearst called to him again.
“Oh, and Detective?”
Mullin turned. “Sir?”
Hearst smiled. “Tell Houdini he owes me one.”
“I expect you’ll see him before I do, sir,” Mullin replied as he stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind him.
GULLS CRIED OVERHEAD as Lovecraft, with a square object wrapped in cloth under his arm, pushed through cheering crowds who were greeting soldiers just returning off a military transport from Annapolis. A brass band filled the air with celebratory music from a makeshift grandstand off Pier 14. Trucks and taxis honked—though whether in welcome or in irritation at the bottleneck, Lovecraft couldn’t tell.
He elbowed his way onto Pier 16, where porters shuttled carts of luggage onto the gangplank of the mighty
Mauretania.
Lovecraft stopped.
Aleister Crowley stood on the dock in his camel-hair coat and English cap, some twenty feet away, throwing pieces of bread to a hovering group of seagulls. As was his custom, he spoke to Lovecraft without having seen him. “You need a better coat,” he said.
It was cold. Lovecraft pulled his frayed collar around his throat. Then, sick with guilt, he thrust a cloth-wrapped object toward Crowley with both hands. “Take it.”
Crowley deigned to look over. He sniffed, brushed his hands free of breadcrumbs, and strolled over to Lovecraft. He took the bundle, then threw back the cloth and ran a hand over the cracked leather binding of the Book of Enoch. He then rewrapped the codex and tucked it under one arm.
“I’m headed to Sicily, you know. I’m opening the Abbey of Thelema. When you tire of vaudeville acrobats and overrated novelists, you should join me there.”
Lovecraft only stared at the Book.
Crowley smiled. “Well, there it is. Cheers, Lovecraft.” The sorcerer turned on his heel, and wandered slowly into the gathering crowd of ticketed passengers.
Hours later, Lovecraft had wandered through Battery Park, past the ferries to Brooklyn and Jeanette Park. He had tried to sip a whiskey at Fraunces Tavern, but had recoiled at the taste, and instead walked north to the Jewish cemetery near Mariner’s Temple and Chatham Square. He was sitting on a bench gazing at gravestones when a black carriage, drawn by two horses, pulled up to the cemetery gates. Lovecraft recognized the driver as Franz Kukol, Houdini’s assistant.
Sure enough, the door opened and Houdini stuck his head out. “What a surprise to find you here.” Houdini gestured with his thumb for Lovecraft to join him.
Lovecraft entered the carriage and sat down beside Marie and across from Doyle and Houdini.
“Hello, Howard,” Doyle said as he dropped a large, square object wrapped in protective cloth into the demonologist’s lap.
AT THAT VERY moment, Aleister Crowley laid the shrouded Book of Enoch on a table in his cabin. The Atlantic Ocean swelled outside his porthole. He removed the shroud and caressed the leather binding. Then, perching a pair of reading glasses on his nose, he opened to the first page. In an immaculate handwritten script, it read:
Once
upon a
time,
Cinderella
lived
with
her jealous
step-
mother
and
evil
step
sisters . . .
“Eh? What is this?” Crowley muttered. Then his face darkened. He examined the leather binding and found traces of glue. In a sudden fury, he tore at the book, ripping and slashing the leather binding until its true nature was revealed. The title read:
The
Tales
of
Mother
Goose
Crowley roared and threw the book across the stateroom. As it thudded off a wall and onto the floor, a note slid free from one of the pages. The sorcerer snatched it up, and read:
Dear Aleister,
By way of thanks for your helpful information, we offer you
this gift: a 1729 first edition, the very first English translation of
Perrault’s
Contes de ma mere l’oye,
or as you probably already
discovered:
The Tales of Mother Goose.
Enjoy.
Best regards,
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Crowley crumpled the note in his fist and squeezed until his nails drew blood. He bared his teeth and growled, “Doyle.”
IN THE CARRIAGE, Lovecraft gazed at the Book of Enoch sitting in his lap, minus its ancient binding. Then he looked up at the others. “It wasn’t what you might think.”
“And what is that?” Doyle asked.
“I was never working for him, I . . .” Lovecraft shook his head, unable to explain. “Do your worst. I deserve it, I suppose. But know this: I value my membership in this association. I . . .”
“But, Howard, this was my plan from the very start,” Doyle said.
Lovecraft looked up. “What?”
“I counted on Crowley making this bargain and you following through with it. I’m sorry if you feel misled.”
“But you couldn’t,” Lovecraft stuttered. “The . . . the conversation . . .”
“From the moment I learned of Konstantin Duvall’s death, I knew the path would inevitably lead to Aleister Crowley. The circumstances were simply too tempting. And what we know of Crowley proves he is a man who prefers indirect means of getting what he wants. He far prefers to use others for his dirty work than risk a frontal assault. Yet the circumstances seemed to eliminate him as a suspect. My conclusion: If Crowley wasn’t the hunter, then he very well might be the prey. Why else would he send us the clue leading us to Madame Rose? Why aid the Arcanum in avenging the death of his sworn enemy, if not to save his own hide? Only a student of Duvall and Crowley would know the location of the Book of Enoch and the means of unlocking its mysteries. But Crowley’s no fool. I knew he would whet your appetite with clues, but save the meal for when you struck your bargain. And I knew you’d accept it.”
“Why? Because I’m the heartless demonologist? Incapable of feeling? The one you all distrust?” Lovecraft’s jaw was tight with embarrassment and anger.
“No, Howard, for precisely the opposite reason. Because any rational, caring man in your position would’ve done the same. Because when you saw Abigail, the stakes became clear to you. Because you cared for her, and for her you were willing to take a grave risk. And I respect that. Now, were I to seek out Crowley and ask for his help, the results would have been quite different. But the two of you share a unique bond, a bond I chose to exploit. So don’t torture yourself. For, though I loathe to admit it, in this situation we needed Crowley’s help.”
“But how could you—?”
“Honestly, Howard,” Doyle cut him off. “It’s elementary.”
Lovecraft sighed, shaking his head. When he looked down at the codex, however, a cloud passed over his eyes. “He won’t forget this, you know. He’ll want revenge.”
“Yes, that’s what I want, too,” Doyle admitted. “Because that way he is in our control. I prefer an Aleister Crowley bent on revenge against the Arcanum rather than one scheming in the shadows, with nothing but time on his hands. Do you understand? For every action there is a reaction, and therefore, predictability. And that’s what I want Crowley’s behavior to be: predictable. This occupation offers great rewards and great dangers, and we must be willing to accept that.” He leaned over and patted Lovecraft’s knee. “You took on a great deal of responsibility and did splendidly, my boy. Duvall would be proud.”
“Quite.” Houdini winked. “Good show, H. P.”
Marie elbowed Lovecraft in the ribs—the closest she would come to a compliment.
“Now, here’s the real question, Art’ur,” Marie said as she slid a long, white feather from her pocket. “What we gonna do wit’ dis?”
Doyle examined the feather. “Interesting. A remiges feather. Of a wing, in other words. The calamus. The downy coat, obviously keratin. It’s real, all right. Taken together with the extraordinary proportions, it suggests a creature with an eight-foot wingspan—a flying creature roughly the size of an adult human being.” Doyle handed the angel feather to Lovecraft. “Here is the newest addition to the Arcanum’s Hall of Relics. I leave it in your able hands, Mr. Curator.”
Lovecraft spun the memento in his palm and smiled, remembering her face.