The Awakening (23 page)

“I know that you mean that,” Sara said earnestly.

“Okay, Sara, what is this help you're going to give me?”

“Knowledge.”

“Knowledge? That's it? No spell, no incantations?”

“You should be blessed, and learn a few incantations—it certainly wouldn't hurt. But for now . . . Morwenna and Joseph just want you to meet Eddie.”

Finn hesitated, head cocked, hands on his hips as he studied her a long time. Morwenna and Joseph. Were they really trying to help him—or seal the lid on his coffin?

“What is this knowledge?”

“Come on down the street. There are just books in here, same old, same old. Eddie has bound books that are centuries old, true collector's pieces.”

“Then he'd want a mint for them.”

“When he sells one of his historical volumes, he does sell it for a small fortune. He has a number, though, that he won't part with.”

“All right. Lead the way,” Finn said.

Morwenna stood in the basement, a place where only those closest to her, those who shared her beliefs, were ever allowed to come.

The altar was to the rear. Herbs, far superior to any she sold in the shop, lined the walls in various bottles. Her own wand, an exquisite piece with a crystal handle, lay near the altar. Her best ceremonial robe was around her shoulders.

She approached the altar, and said the words, earnestly, from the heart. She made the proper motions, then moved to the centuries-old fireplace. She had burned ash, the proper wood, throughout the afternoon. The potion within the cauldron bubbled and brewed. She added the last of the ingredients, her lips moving as she did so.

She had become so involved that, at first, she didn't realize that Joseph stood in the rear. He had come down the steps, slipped through the false wall, and waited.

When he spoke, his words were terse.

“You're certain you know what you're doing?” he demanded.

“I'm certain that I can read, and follow directions,” she snapped. “And you mustn't come in like that again. You might have interrupted me in the midst of a chant.”

He turned away, ready to depart, but then he paused. He spoke without turning back to her. “You mustn't make any mistakes. Any mistakes at all. If we're right . . .”

“We are right. And we won't make any mistakes.”

“It is happening. It has all truly begun.”

He started to slide the door.

“Joseph,” she said, calling him back.

He paused again.

“Blessed be,” she said.

He inclined his head. “Blessed be.”

Eddie's book shop was just that—a book shop. He didn't sell incense burners, herbs, T-shirts, capes, or anything else. The space was narrow, and there was barely room for two people to pass one another in the aisles between the bookshelves.

There was a new section, a used section, and a “collectibles” section. Sara led Finn by them all, calling out to the young man working the cash register that she was on her way to see Eddie.

The tall, lanky, college-age kid nodded his shaved head, waving her on by.

Beaded curtains seemed to be big in Salem that year. They passed through one on their way to the back of the shop.

There was a desk there, with the typical computer. Nothing in the back was surprising except for Eddie himself.

Finn started. He was certain he had met the man before. Except that his name hadn't been Eddie, and he hadn't said that he ran a bookshop.

The man behind the desk looked exactly like the cop he had met in the bar the night before—albeit he had been in costume. The man who had introduced himself as Theo Martin.
Officer
Theo Martin.

“Eddie, this is Finn Douglas,” Sara said. “Morwenna called you about him.”

“Hi, Finn.” The man rose, extending a hand.

Finn stared at him, automatically accepting the handshake. “Eddie?” he said.

“Yeah.” The man frowned for a minute, then grinned quickly. “I take it you've met my brother.”

“The cop?” Finn said. “You're twins?”

“Identical,” Eddie said.

“I believe it.”

Eddie grinned. “I hear you want to see some of my books.”

“Well, I've been told I should see a few of your books.”

Eddie nodded. “The old ones are under glass. Hang on a minute. Hey, have a seat. There are chairs under the coats there.”

Sara didn't mind dumping the coats on a stack of book boxes on the other side of the desk. She indicated to Finn that he should take a chair. Awkwardly, he did so. He'd followed Sara here; he still had a strange urge to keep his distance from her.

Eddie returned a minute later, having gone downstairs in the back, presumably to a basement area. Finn didn't know a lot about books, but he knew that the volume Eddie was bringing was
not
an ancient text.

He glanced at Sara. “A firsthand account of an ancient Babylonian demon?” he mocked.

She shot him a warning glare.

“Actually, I have some very ancient pieces,” Eddie said, taking a seat now on the edge of the desk, facing Finn and Sara. “But they wouldn't do you any good—unless you can read ancient and archaic languages. Hell, even English is hard in some of the old stuff.”

“You speak ancient and archaic languages?” Finn asked him.

Eddie shrugged. “I can read Arabic, Hebrew, have a sound understanding of hieroglyphics, and majored in Latin.”

“Wow,” Finn said, acknowledging his admiration.

“But this . . .” he indicated the book he held, “was written by a man named Cabal Thorne in the early seventeen hundreds. Thorne was convinced that he had properly translated an ancient text. He belonged to a number of secret organizations—very secret at the time, of course. And he had been careful to get the hell out of Europe—witch crazes went on for several more years there than they did here, in the States—or colonies, as they were, at the time. Anyway, Thorne was born in England, had a very rich father, and an absurd hatred for traditional religion of any kind. He traveled extensively in Africa, India, and the Middle East. Somewhere along the way, he became convinced that, if circumstances were just right, and he had the correct number of followers, and performed the rites exactly as they were prescribed, he could bring a demon to life. Bac-Dal was the creature's name, and was an intimate of the Devil himself. Bac-Dal, of course, as Satan's minion, was a true menace to all who were ‘good,' obeying the basic tenets of behavior found in almost any known religion—you know, like refraining from murder, adultery, stealing, mauling little children, rape, ravishment, looting, what have you. Power went to those who most deserved it through their ability to seize it, survival of the fittest, and any lechery and decadence as well. Do you follow me?”

“I'm following your story. I don't believe in demons.”

Eddie shrugged. “Bac-Dal needs servants on earth, naturally, to bring him to life. Those who intend to bring him back begin by forming a coven—”

“Not a
Wiccan
coven,” Sara said firmly. “A coven of devil worshipers.”

“Right,” Eddie acknowledged.

His hair was neatly trimmed, a little long. He was wearing jeans and a blue denim tailored shirt. Finn had no idea if he was a Wiccan, Christian, Buddhist, or maybe even an atheist.

“Once Bac-Dal was properly titled and summoned by the followers, a certain power was to come to the one who orchestrated his return. That power would help him or her gain strength over others in the pursuit of preparing the circumstances just as they must be for the return of Bac-Dal, or his ability to take on human form.”

“A certain power?” Finn queried.

“What the power is, exactly, I don't know. ESP, telekinesis—the ability to make dogs bark, I'm not sure; it doesn't say exactly. However, Thorne does talk about the fact that he murdered a young woman. He claims that he walked into her home, with her family present, abducted her, and they didn't even know.”

“Ah,” Finn murmured. “Well . . . he wrote the book. He could claim what he wanted, right?”

“True enough,” Eddie said.

“Show him the passage that Morwenna found,” Sara said impatiently.

Eddie opened the book, offering it to Finn.

Finn, frowning, accepted the volume. It was large, and the cover was leather. The pages were fragile.

“I shouldn't be handling this,” he murmured.

“Just read,” Sara said.

But he frowned again. The pages were handwritten. The language was indeed archaic.

“I can't understand this. It seems to be about . . . items needed for a strange stew or something. In fact . . . it almost reads like a kid's Halloween book. ‘Eye of newt' and all that.”

“There's no eye of newt in there,” Sara said impatiently. She pointed down the lines, and read aloud. “‘Thou shalt take the greatest care; the blood of the anointed must be mixed with that of the sacrifice; and the hair that is taken must not be cut, but torn from the head. Of all that is needed, these three are of the greatest and utmost importance—the blood of the sacrifice, the blood of the anointed, the hair of the anointed. And as these come together, as there has been life, there will be death, and where there has been the sleep of the dormant like dead, there will be life. And to all who would honor He who is the God of Darkness, remember that All Hallow's Eve, that which falls upon a full moon, is a night when the elements of the spirits and those who roam the nether world are strongest, and therefore, it can be as well, the Time of The Coming.' ”

Finn looked at Sara, and then at Eddie. “I'm sorry. I don't see where any of this means anything. This man, Cabal Thorne, was a devil worshiper who came to Massachusetts at a time when he was . . . what? Left alone, because people were still ricocheting from all the horror that the craze had created. But . . . lots of people have written things. That doesn't make them real.”

“Hey, Morwenna found this text, and she wanted you to see it,” Eddie said with a shrug.

“Well, thank you,” Finn said, still lost. He rose, “I appreciate the time—and your faith in me even holding something so old, and surely rare.”

“Finn!” Sara said, rising.

“I've got to go,” he told her. “Thanks. Thanks for the concern.” He was feeling that strange sense of friction within himself again, looking at Sara. An urge to reach for her . . . and God knew just what exactly he wanted to do to her. He needed distance right now. Real distance. Away from Sara, and this bookstore, and even normal-looking, guy-next-door Eddie.

“I have to do some things before tonight,” he rushed out. “Sound check,” he lied. He started out. “But thanks . . . thanks, both of you.”

He made it back to the street. Kids in costume were in abundance. He wanted to shout at them all. One little kid crashed into him, and he fought the urge to pick him up, and throw him far from himself.

He made it back to Huntington House, giving a quick wave and ignoring the fact that Sally and John were in the parlor, sipping tea, and wanting him to join them.

He made it to his and Megan's room. His room now; Megan was gone. And everyone around them was crazy.

He threw himself on the bed, grating his teeth. Damn, he could use a drink. That would be just great. He could play drunk—and confront Megan in the same shape.

He reached for the pillow at his side, needing something to punch.

He touched something else.

It was the book he had inadvertently stolen from Morwenna's shop. The one written by the woman in New Orleans who had gotten both local and national coverage.