The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) (14 page)

Darius’s recent emergence as Simon Azar pooled and gummed in Viktor’s mind like the muddy waters of a swamp channel. Nothing made sense. Though Darius had possessed a superior intellect, he had never been handsome or charismatic. To achieve what Viktor had seen on that video, he must have gone to charm school and undergone a physical metamorphosis when he reached adulthood.

Still, he was an angle that had to be investigated. Viktor got an acrid taste in his mouth. There were few things in life he wanted to do less than contact Darius Ghassomian.

As he turned onto Polk that thought tugged at him, pulling him down into the rabbit hole of memory. He let them come, the memories he shunned above all others. He let them come because he needed to see clearly in the present.

Becoming black magicians possessed a powerful allure to the three young adepts, but first they had to be scholars. They started with the modern canon, Eliphas Levi’s
Doctrine and Ritual
and
History of Magic
, the Necronomicon and the Lovecraftians, Blackwood and Dion Fortune, everything Aleister Crowley had ever written or said. Then they moved further back, to Blavatsky and the theosophists, to Francis Barrett and MacGregor Mathers. They studied the late alchemists Isaac Newton and Comte Saint Germain, and then braved the wicked intelligence of Arthur Dee, Cornelius Agrippa, Abramelin the Mage, and the other Renaissance occultists. Then they delved deeper still,
like moles into a secret mountain, seeking out ancient books and even more ancient masters, back in time to when myth and reality blurred and were one, when King Solomon and the Witch of Endor looked to the star-filled sky for answers, when Hermes Trismegistus and the Egyptians built the Pyramids and tapped into things unknown.

They grew in confidence, moving from minor arcana to more complicated spells and rituals, eventually braving the great grimoires themselves. It was hard to say whether everything worked as planned, because most real magic did not have overt results. But there was one thing Viktor could say for certain about every dark incantation performed by the light of the moon: It was thrilling. They were dancing with the hidden forces of the universe, snapping the shackles of human convention, exploring the deepest levels of reality and consciousness.

There were gatherings with other occultists and budding magicians, there were parties and drugs and sex, but above all else, there was a great tittering excitement at probing the waters of the unknown.

It was the happiest time of Viktor’s life, buzzing with the discoveries of youth, adrift in the sort of foggy, romantic mystique that dissolves with the responsibilities of adulthood. It was all so fresh, vibrant,
alive
.

Though Viktor enjoyed the occult, he wasn’t consumed by it, as was Darius. The three of them seemed to Viktor like the famous puppet shows of Czech culture, marionettes poking their noses into the bizarre and stumbling around the stage of life, fools all the while. Their own quest for magic had produced no real answers, and they knew no more than the puppets.

Eve, Viktor knew, enjoyed the occult on a surface level, like a role-playing game. She participated because it quenched a thirst deep inside, an empty place that had never been filled by her absent salesman father or her codeine-addicted mother. She enjoyed the drug-induced rituals most of all, though after the first few Viktor decided those were not for him. It was not until many years later, when the Juju nightmares first appeared in London, that he would turn to absinthe to help numb the memory of the monstrosities he had witnessed.

While Viktor sought answers and Eve sought solace, Darius sought power. Unlike Viktor, who conducted himself with a cool, if somewhat remote, confidence, Darius came from a poor family and was ill at ease with the world. Painfully thin and frail, he had never had a girlfriend, and had never enjoyed the finer things in life unless Viktor paid his way. Viktor knew that being a magician gave Darius a sense of control he had never before experienced. Goethe’s
Faust
was Darius’s favorite play, and he used to tell Viktor that if he ever had the chance, he would call the Devil and worry later about how to escape the consequences.

There was only one thing Darius craved more than power, and that was Eve. It was becoming harder and harder for Viktor to hide the electricity flowing between Eve and himself, and Viktor knew how much it hurt Darius when Eve looked right through him.

Viktor had fallen just as hard as Darius. He had mistaken Eve’s introspection for shyness, her sensitivity for weakness. Now he knew her for who she was: an intelligent, highly emotional, complex human being, whose beauty was matched only by her empathy. And Eve, he knew, found comfort in Viktor’s solidity, probably saw her father in Viktor’s remoteness—though Viktor was someone she could reach. And he was a striking figure on campus, handsome and foreign and brilliant, towering above the other students.

Viktor and Eve had started seeing each other in secret, though Viktor knew Darius loathed their obvious chemistry, and loathed their pity even more. But he also knew Darius would never disrupt the trio, because it would mean losing touch with Eve.

Instead, Darius found solace in the one thing at which he excelled even more than Viktor: the practice of magic. Darius had the gift. His dexterity was extraordinary, his stamina already a thing of legend, and most important of all, he had the one thing Viktor had never been able to achieve through the application of his powerful will: faith.

Viktor knew that if magic did, in fact, work, even if it was just some unexplained function of the universe, then Viktor had to at least believe in it to see the results. This, above all else, was what drove and tormented Viktor
Radek. He had a burning desire to know, yet he himself believed in nothing. He wanted, he
craved
, that faith-supplanting proof.

Darius, on the other hand, had an abundance of faith, so much so that it drove him to believe that true magic lay at the intersection of the magician’s esoteric skill set and a higher, mysterious power. Darius had never claimed a religion or moral alignment, but he came to believe that it was the so-called forces of darkness that responded most to human entreaty and practical magic.

After that year’s All Hallows’ Eve party, something changed in Darius. He talked to Viktor less and less, grew sullen and angry. The three almost split when Darius demanded that, for the sake of their magical development, they follow Aleister Crowley and explore sex magic as a group. Perhaps the most notorious black magician to have ever lived, dubbed by a British tabloid in 1923 as the “Wickedest Man in the World,” Darius idolized Crowley and his infamous motto, “Do what thou wilt.”

Eve threatened to never speak to Darius if he ever again mentioned such a revolting thing. Darius had been crushed and started using prostitutes for his magical experiments.

By this time Darius and Viktor knew a rift was inevitable. Neither, however, could have guessed just how deep and terrible the circumstances of that rift would prove to be.

Viktor’s reverie with the past broke when the muscular sprawl of the Pacific appeared in the distance. He realized he had walked too far and berated himself for losing concentration. It was unlike him.

Despite the chill, his body felt hot beneath his suit, a warm flush from the intensity of the memories. He straightened his tie and strode towards the bookshop, a denizen of the present once more.

He found Zador’s Rare Books halfway down a side street off Polk, the narrow entrance almost unnoticeable, the incline so steep the cars had to park angled against the curb.

A bell tinkled as Viktor entered the shop.

G
rey grabbed a
croque-monsieur
on the street, walking as he pondered the morning’s events. It was good to get a visual of the crime scene, but he doubted he was going to discover anything of interest unless he found one of the members of the Church of the Beast. Even if he found one, he knew they weren’t going to be sipping cappuccino and discussing the case. But he would deal with that when the time came.

Grey followed the directions he had printed to the house of the journalist Viktor said might help. Gustave’s apartment was in a shabby section of Saint-Denis, one of those edgy urban areas populated by artists, a host of people on the fringe of society, and die-hard cityphiles who didn’t make much money but wanted to live in town.

According to Viktor, Gustave had investigated the Arceneau kidnappings, running an exposé on the twin girls who had turned up in pieces in a sewer. Gustave had exposed a few reputed members of the Church of the Beast, but despite a lengthy investigation and a huge public outcry, no arrests were made.

For his troubles, Gustave had received a visit from two men in goat masks who had left him impaled through his anus on a Judas Cradle. His neighbors rescued him before he died, but the horrific torture had left him crippled.

Grey approached Gustave’s building, the weathered stone streaked with grime. The building was on the corner of a hectic intersection, and judging by the seedy bars and package stores, the area might be busier at night. The
perfect place for someone uncomfortable in isolation, Grey thought. Someone forced to live a life of fear.

After following another resident inside the building, using his Interpol badge to allay suspicion, Grey climbed to the fourth floor. He knocked and knocked on Gustave’s solid metal door, obviously a special install, with no answer. No sounds emanated from the apartment.

He called and knocked even louder, then took out his lockpick. He had the door open in seconds, surprised neither the dead bolt nor the chain had been set. As soon as the door opened, the stench of death poured out of the room and settled onto Grey like a shroud. He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, then crouched and moved inside.

In the center of the high-ceilinged room a man hung upside down from a wooden beam, slash marks on his neck and wrists, blood coagulating beneath him in a sea of flies. Grey guessed the body was a few days old.

He searched the apartment, finding nothing of interest except an empty laptop case and a few pictures identifying the man hanging in the center of the room as Gustave Rouillard. Grey snapped a picture of the body on his cell phone, sending it to Viktor with a short text.

Gustave’s investigation had taken place years ago. Why kill him after all this time?

There were only three reasons Grey could think of. Either Gustave had reignited his investigation, which was unlikely, or someone had tapped into Gustave’s e-mail and seen the message from Viktor, which Grey also found unlikely. Judging from the state of the body, Gustave had died before Viktor had contacted him.

It was option three that Grey found most reasonable.

Gustave was a loose end, and the Church of the Beast was under new management.