The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) (20 page)

The next call was to Viktor, who surprised him with a rare show of emotion, saying he had been unable to relax since Grey sent his cryptic text and the photo of Gustave. Viktor provided little feedback except despair at the fate of the girl and approval when Grey told him about London.

When Grey finished, Viktor was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think I need remind you to be supremely careful in London.”

“No,” Grey said, “you don’t.”

“There’s been another murder, two nights ago, though no letter has appeared. It was in London—oddly coincidental.”

“You know what I think about coincidence,” Grey said. “Who was murdered?”

“The reputed head of the Clerics of Whitehall.”

“Who?” Grey said.

“The Clerics are the modern successor to the Monks of Medmenham, an infamous occult social club that started in eighteenth-century England. As a mockery of Christ’s disciples, the Monks were comprised of twelve influential men—including a prime minister—who would meet in the ruins of Medmenham Abbey to perform debauched occult rituals. A risky target today,
since the Clerics of Whitehall allegedly have deep connections in business and politics, as the name implies.”

Grey kept a continual vigil for anyone or anything out of place, but the airport was still and quiet. “I wouldn’t think they’d want a public investigation.”

“No.”

“So who was the guy?” Grey said.

“Earl Ian Stoke, a prominent businessman and former MP, found dead in his South Kensington townhome yesterday morning. The coroner reported time of death at roughly midnight, and the state of the body resembled Xavier’s.”

“Do we have those toxicology reports yet?”

“No,” Viktor said.

“Get them.”

“I suspect the English report will come before the French,” Viktor said. “Deaths of former MPs tend to take priority over Satanic cult leaders.”

Grey checked the time and stifled a yawn. Five-thirty a.m. “What’s the next move?”

“I leave for York tomorrow. I’d like you to investigate Ian’s death in London.”

“Why the letter to the York magicians?” Grey said. “What’s the link? Are they Diabolists?”

“There exists no society of Diabolists, as far as I’m aware. The York Circle, however, is one of the most well-organized groups of magicians in the Western world. My guess is this is a power play. Whoever’s behind the murders—and I’m not ready to point the finger at Darius—is trying to extend his power base, from Satanists to practitioners of magic and the occult. Though if it is Darius”—Viktor hesitated, as if he were sharing the next piece of information grudgingly—“then the York letter is personal.”

“Darius knows the recipient,” Grey said.

“Yes.”

Grey took a stab. “You, too?”

“Yes, I know Gareth.”

“I’m gonna guess Darius was kicked out of the York magic circle for not playing nice,” Grey said.

“Your instincts are correct. Diabolists are not looked upon very kindly by modern magicians. Consider them the fundamentalists of the magical world.”

Grey crouched in a squat as Viktor described his conversation with Zador, interrupting when Viktor mentioned the Ahriman Grimoire. “What’s a grimoire?” Grey said.

“A grimoire is simply a transcribed collection of magical instruction, ritual, wisdom, or incantation. The form can vary wildly. Think of it as a textbook for practitioners of magic.”

“You mean a spellbook.”

“In the vernacular, yes,” Viktor said. “Though while there have been countless books, scrolls, texts, and parchments reputed to contain magical knowledge, an extreme few have survived to become grimoires. Designation as a grimoire means that the knowledge has been… attested to… over time.”

“What’s so special about this one?” Grey said.

“I haven’t seen it myself, but the book Zador lent me,
The Ahriman Heresy
, discusses the Ahriman Grimoire. It was a startling read.”

“And there’re only six copies of
that
book?” Grey said.

“
The Ahriman Heresy
is more akin to a historical pamphlet. It was written in the mid-sixteenth century and discusses a sect of Ahriman worshippers that proliferated rapidly among the remnants of the Gnostic sects and heresies. The text was unclear whether the cult had just formed or had existed for millennia and recently emerged. In any event, the Ahriman cult became a major problem for the Catholic Church, challenging the Church’s views on theodicy.”

Grey rose to stretch his legs, blinking to stave off exhaustion. “Why was it so dangerous?”

“According to the pamphlet,” Viktor said, “the devotees of the heresy were advanced practitioners of black magic, and their leader possessed a book he claimed was the source of his power.”

“The Ahriman Grimoire,” Grey said.

“The heresy was a terrible one, believed responsible for all sorts of atrocities. It syncretized Lucifer with Ahriman, promoting him not as a doomed fallen angel, but as an equal adversary to God. Numerous people attested to the leader’s powers, including the ability to appear in two places at once.”

Grey thought back to the woman’s strange appearances, as well as the claims of a robed figure manifesting out of nowhere behind Matthias. Instead of calm and sleepy, the airport now felt too quiet. He started walking towards the ticket area.

Viktor continued, “The Church moved more swiftly than it ever had, rounding up the followers of Ahriman in Templar style, torturing and burning every last one within a short time span.”

“Can you actually make a group disappear from history like that, such that no one’s even heard of them?”

“In that era,” Viktor said, “with a fringe group that never gained historical traction, then yes. Who’s to say how much of history has been spoon-fed to us, and how much remains to be discovered? I’m aware of hundreds of historical cults that no one outside of a few scholars has heard of.”

“And the treatise is reputable?” Grey said.

“I found it to have the ring of authenticity.”

Grey was walking through a deserted hallway, following signs to the ticket counter. “So this grimoire was their playbook, their bible of black magic.”

“Grimoires run the gamut in size and scope. According to
The Ahriman Heresy
, the Ahriman Grimoire is not a compendium of occult knowledge, such as the Key of Solomon, but a thin codex made for a very specific purpose.”

“I’m guessing it wasn’t to discuss fertilization techniques in ancient Persia,” Grey said.

“In classic medieval thought, the Devil possessed three principal powers he used to wreak havoc on earth. I never made this particular historical connection between Ahriman and Satan until now—I’m not sure anyone has—
but the Ahriman Grimoire is dedicated to unlocking three powers that Ahriman can choose to convey to his disciples: the power to influence the minds of men, mastery of the art of seduction, and the ability to move about the world unseen, like Ahriman himself. According to the treatise, the leader of the heresy claimed to have mastered the secrets of the Ahriman Grimoire.”

“It sounds more like a fairy tale than history,” Grey said, quickening his step and wondering how long this hallway would go on. His exhaustion and the events of the last few days were getting to him.

“So does the Bible, to nonbelievers. I believe Darius thinks the grimoire will grant him leverage with his worshippers, historical validation. Some movements rely on prophecies or revelations, some on golden plates found buried in a hill. It’s always more potent for a cult leader to anchor himself with the weight of history.”

“So what happened to it?” Grey said. “Did Crowley ever find it?”

“I have no idea. The leader of the heresy was burned alive, all mention of the grimoire lost. I hope to learn more of the story in York, as Crowley apparently had a copy of
The Ahriman Heresy
.”

“I don’t like the idea of you going off somewhere by yourself. I’m already a marked man, and we have to assume you are, too.”

“I appreciate the concern,” Viktor said.

Grey’s voice was harsh. “You didn’t see what I saw, and the person we’re tracking just took out the leader of these fanatics. You hired me for a reason, dammit, and I don’t think you should be investigating by yourself right now.”

“I made a superb hire, but we don’t have the luxury of time. I’ll avoid dangerous situations and utilize local law enforcement if there’s any trouble.”

“Trouble chooses you,” Grey said quietly, “not the other way around. And when it does, there’s no time to call for help.”

“Granted,” Viktor said.

“You’re set on this?”

“I am.”

Grey waved his hand through the air, dismissive. “There’s something else. I saw that girl again.”

“The one from the plane?”

Grey saw movement up ahead and started. He realized it was just a janitor, crouched low over a mop, and Grey gripped the phone. “Yeah. She helped me escape from the catacombs, then disappeared again. My guess is she slipped into some hidden doorway, but I didn’t have time to check.”

“I have no idea who she might be,” Viktor said, “but I do know Darius is an expert tactician, a game player extraordinaire.”

“Somebody’s playing games, that’s for sure.”

Grey finally reached the ticket area. It stirred with morning life: ticket counters opening, passengers pouring in, the smell of roasting coffee wafting in the air. A modicum of tension left his body. “Where’s all of this going, Viktor? What’s the endgame?”

“I don’t yet know,” he said, a rare hint of confusion in his voice.

V
iktor didn’t like keeping things from Grey that might impact an investigation. While nothing was certain, he was growing dangerously close to that line. Viktor was quite familiar with the collected works of Shakespeare and the tragic consequences of withholding truth, but what went unsaid by the Bard was that some things were so private, so painful, they were worth the risk to conceal.

It was true the Ahriman Grimoire and even the heresy were news to Viktor—startling news—but he had his own past with this ancient god of evil, this eldritch deity that had given birth to the Christian Devil.

He rose from the couch in his suite. Since he had read
The Ahriman Heresy
at Zador’s shop earlier that day, he had been in that addled state that succeeds disturbing news, nerves jittery and mind spinning, his body moving as if wading through a sea of oil.

He uncorked another bottle of vintage absinthe, his second of the day. Viktor knew this was unhealthy, that consuming this much thujone was a risk to his health and his sanity. And it could put him in a dangerous place, unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy, when he most needed to be lucid.

The truth was that he had to finish the story, he needed to return to Darius and Eve and remove the coffin lid of buried memories. He had to confront the demons of his past before they climbed out of their graves on their own, devouring him from within.

And he didn’t want to do it sober.

His plane left for York at noon the next day, and the itch was upon him, whispering in the air and crawling up his skin, his sweet muse calling.

Drink me, Viktor, take me to the dregs, forget your troubles and sink into my sweet embrace
.

And drink he did. Viktor loosened his shirt and cuffs and sank into the leather couch as the capricious imps of memory cavorted around his skull in a dark ritual of remembrance, taking him back to his final year at Oxford, shoving Viktor inside the ring of faerie.

Are you ready
, Darius said.

Viktor finished inscribing the second and third layers of protection around the pentagram, inch-thick concentric circles of runes and sigils. This was no ordinary circle of protection: This was a sealed fortress of magic that had taken days to prepare and months to research. As he looked from the nervous face of Eve to Darius’s eager eyes, both of them wearing Egyptian amulets of protection similar to Viktor’s, he asked himself what he felt.

The problem was, he didn’t feel very much. It was all very interesting, and he had thrown himself into the research and preparations with gusto. If Ahriman did, in fact, exist and paid them a visit that night, then Viktor was satisfied that every precaution had been taken, the laws of magic satisfied, the old masters and grimoires followed to the letter.