The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) (24 page)

York’s old town was not large, but it was a maze, and Viktor realized he had ventured too far east. He found his way back to Stonegate, a handsome street which housed the headquarters of the York Circle.

The entrance was deceptive: An iron gate gave access to a brick-walled alley, but further in he realized the end of the alley opened into a large courtyard and an even larger mansion that had been built within the surrounding blocks, such that it was unnoticeable from the street. Two stone sphinxes flanked a set of double doors, and a weathervane in the shape of a dragon pierced the sky from atop the four-story building. Viktor guessed the entire structure had been planned and built by the Freemasons who had lived in York for centuries.

Viktor rolled his eyes as he performed the secret knock Gareth had given him. A young mage in white robes opened the door and led Viktor down a hallway covered with tapestries, through an oak door and then up a staircase to the fourth floor. Down another hallway to a rune-covered wooden door that was reinforced with iron hinges and cross-braces. The mage performed a different knock, and the door swung open to reveal a domed room with walls covered in more arcane scrawl. A room whose purpose Viktor recognized from his own days as a magician.

A room designed to protect its occupants from magical attack.

The mage bowed and left, and moments later Gareth Witherspoon entered from a concealed door opposite Viktor. He was wearing the white robes and golden sash of the Magister Templi, the highest grade of magician awarded by the Circle, requiring decades of study and demonstrations of power during secret rituals. Though it was alleged that different planes of existence were tapped at the higher levels of initiation, Viktor had not witnessed these rituals and had his doubts as to just what in fact occurred.

Viktor studied Gareth’s appearance as he approached: a short and compact body more suited to an aging footballer than a magician, a tight silver
beard adding gravitas to his burly appearance. Viktor had not seen Gareth in years, but he had aged well.

“Viktor,” Gareth said, clasping Viktor’s hand. “A shame we have to meet under such circumstances. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Viktor said.

“How’s your work?” Gareth said.

“At the moment, quite interesting.”

Gareth’s mouth tightened, and he withdrew a folded letter from his robes and handed it to Viktor. “This was delivered on Saturday.” Viktor opened the letter as Gareth said, his voice laced with sarcasm, “It appears I have two days left to resign my position as chief mage.”

Viktor read aloud. “‘You will renounce your false beliefs and declare yourself a HERETIC, or you will die at the hand of the one true God on the sixth midnight hence.’”

He returned the letter to Gareth. “Almost identical to the others,” Viktor said. “Ludicrous as it may seem, you need to take this letter seriously. At least three people have been murdered after receiving such a letter.”

“And you have no idea who the sender might be?”

Viktor folded his arms. “I believe the man behind the letters might be Darius Ghassomian.”

Gareth’s hawkish eyes flared at the news. “I can’t say I ever believed Darius’s—or shall I say Simon’s—recent conversion was genuine, but genuine or not, why send me a letter?”

“I don’t think Darius has abandoned his beliefs,” Viktor said. “I suspect his popular cult is a front, a vehicle to mask his true intentions and make them more palatable to the public. In cult vernacular it’s known as cloaking: instilling the subversive belief system gradually, corrupting slowly and from within.”

“And the letters, the murders?”

“He’s weakening his competitors, putting his people in positions of power among the occult vanguards. Though I’ve no evidence, I have the feeling he might soon target other, more mainstream, competitors.”

“Traditional religion?” Gareth said.

“History has never seen a movement dedicated to a malefic power that approaches the influence of the major religions. I believe Darius has such ambitions.”

“But why?”

Viktor scoffed. “Because there will always be human beings who wish to dominate others, whether through government or religion, in the boardroom, or on the playground. Lust for power is simply narcissism, and cult leaders tend to be the most narcissistic of all. In the worst cases, true conviction is involved.”

Gareth took in Viktor’s answer with a slow nod. “Darius was always the most determined among us. And the timing, the grand scheme?”

“I’m unsure, and it’s irrelevant to your situation.”

“I once taught him, you know,” Gareth said. “He was an extraordinary magician, but from what you’ve told me about these murders… this is far beyond his power.”

Viktor flicked a wrist. “Don’t be foolish. Neither Darius nor anyone else is using magical powers to carry out these murders. We’re awaiting toxicology reports, but the victims who died alone exhibited signs of asphyxiation by poison gas. I’m sure the fires have a logical explanation as well.”

“Darius was always interested in fire and its magical properties,” Gareth said.

“He was just as interested in its physical properties. He read chemistry at Oxford.”

“But how could he start the fire if he was never there?” Gareth said.

“With inside help from the organizations.”

“And the appearing and disappearing at will?”

“You know as well as I,” Viktor said, “that Darius, like most magicians, started off as a master of sleight of hand and illusionist technique. There’s no evidence that he has actually
had
a corporeal presence in the places in which he’s appeared.”

“So what do you propose?” Gareth said.

“I propose you step aside as chief mage until I bring him to justice.”

“Out of the question.”

“You need to take this threat seriously,” Viktor said.

Gareth’s lips curled. “I won’t step aside for that egomaniac.”

Viktor stepped close to Gareth, towering over him. “Don’t be a fool,” he said, his voice heavy. “Your hand waving and incantations in dead languages won’t protect you from a common murderer.”

“Maybe not,” Gareth said. “But it will protect me from a practitioner of magic. I’ll be in this very room two nights hence, under the protection of the entire Circle.”

Viktor balled his fists in frustration. “
He’s not using magic
. At least let me stay with you, and a police escort.”

Gareth considered the proposition. “I’ll allow you and no one else. I won’t have the other magicians see me cowering behind the police. And I refuse to make this building a public spectacle.”

Viktor shook his head. “You’re a fool,” he said again.

Gareth’s face reddened. “You of all people shouldn’t scoff at what you don’t understand. Words and paraphernalia are irrelevant, a way to channel the will. Magic is self-realization, unlocking the powers of the cosmos and the abilities that lie dormant within us all. If you never saw the results, then you weren’t paying attention.”

“
Do prdele!
” Viktor said, then stalked back and forth as Gareth watched with flashing eyes. “I can’t make you leave,” Viktor said, “but in the meantime, I need your help.”

“With what?”

“Access to Crowley’s possessions. Specifically, a book entitled
The Ahriman Heresy
.”

“We keep what we have of Crowley’s in our museum in Whitby,” Gareth said. “I’ll grant you access.”

“Whitby?”

Gareth gave an embarrassed shrug. “We have a magic shop next to the Bram Stoker museum.”

“I see,” Viktor said.

“I’m unfamiliar with
The Ahriman Heresy
,” Gareth said.

Viktor gave a brief account of his search for the Ahriman Grimoire, and Gareth plucked at his beard. “There were always rumors that Crowley was seeking something significant. And the possibility of a new grimoire…”

“What do you know of Darius’s recent past?” Viktor said.

“He left us fifteen years ago when we wouldn’t promote him directly to Magister Templi. No one’s heard from him since. There were rumors that he went east, following in the footsteps of Blavatsky and Crowley, and one adept claimed to have met him in Tehran as Darius was enroute to the Kurdish regions of Iraq and Syria. The adept said Darius was searching for the Yazidi.”

“There’s basis for believing the early followers of Ahriman borrowed elements of Yazidi devil worship,” Viktor said.

“There were also rumors that Darius reached the level of Ipsissimus.”

Viktor waved a hand at the mention of the near-mythical society of advanced magical adepts. “Is that all?”

“Yes, Viktor, that is all. You know, despite your personal convictions, you might be wise to open your mind.”

“I assure you no one has a more open mind than I. It’s your universe that is limited, Gareth. You see only one piece of the puzzle, and even that is obscured by pageantry.”

Gareth straightened, his voice cold. “When would you like to arrange to see the book?”

“Now.”

G
rey reclined in his seat as the train pulled out of King’s Cross. If this were pleasure travel he would have had a Hesse or Vonnegut novel on hand, perhaps Murakami or Thomas Mann. Grey, realist though he was, believed deeply in the beauty and truth of literature, and all art. The world was a depressing place, full of the triteness and tragedy of the human race, governed by the selfish decisions of whoever had clawed their way to power. The best works of art were cathartic, the very act of self reflection a spark of hope for humanity.

But this was a far cry from pleasure travel. The sordid details of the case cluttered his mind as the train escaped the endless grays and browns of greater London, morphing into a bucolic landscape that was a blur of lime-green squares divided by low stone walls.

Grey grabbed a coffee from the dining car, then stood near the restroom to stretch his legs. When he pushed through the door that led to his compartment he stopped, his coffee sloshing against the rim.

She was in the seat next to his, watching him as the train rocked back and forth, full lips pressed together, eyes uneasy, hair loose and framing her face.

He approached slowly, his eyes both searching the train for danger and keeping her in his line of sight, afraid she might not be there when he looked back. She was dressed in designer jeans and a white suede jacket, her exquisite face reeling him in. He saw no sign of trouble and slid in beside her, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her, ensure that she was real.

“Let’s start over,” he said. “I’m Dominic Grey. My friends call me Grey.”

She put her hands in her lap and expelled a long breath, as if gathering her courage. “I’m Anka.”

“Just Anka?”

“I’m an orphan. The state gave me the name Georgescu. I didn’t like it.”

Romanian, then
. “How do you keep finding me?” Grey said. “I didn’t tell anyone where I was going today.”

She bit her lip and her eyes slid to the side. Grey spread his hands. “Why don’t I start with thank you. I’m not sure what would’ve happened in Paris if you hadn’t shown me that passage, but it wouldn’t have been pretty.”

She blinked and didn’t answer.

“That was you, wasn’t it?” Grey said.

“Yes.”

“Look, you’re obviously here for a reason, so why don’t you just tell me what you have to say? And I’d like it if you stayed longer than two minutes.”

“It’s very dangerous for me to be here,” she said. “If he realizes I’m gone he’ll find us.”

“Who? Simon?”

She put a finger to his lips as he said the name, and his first thought was that she was corporeal. His next thought was that the contact, the smoothness of her skin, almost made him dizzy. He scoffed at himself. He knew nothing about this woman except that she had helped him once, disappeared twice, and he had no reason to believe a word that came out of her mouth.

“I need your help,” she said in her throaty accent.

“Then why didn’t you stick around in Paris? And where’d you go?”

Grey was guessing she hadn’t wanted to risk being seen with him and had slipped into a different passage. But he wanted to hear her explanation.

“I couldn’t stay,” she said.

“You couldn’t?”

She shifted. “I was… never there.” It was Grey’s turn for silence, and she said, “I know how insane this must seem, but I need you to trust me.”

“Trust is gained, not asked for,” he said. “And you didn’t come to me for trust, you came for help. I can’t help you if I don’t know anything about you.”

She wrung her hands. “I’m not sure I can be helped.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Let’s start with the obvious: Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Grey frowned, and she laid her hand on his arm. “I’m not trying to be difficult,” she said. “But he can find me whenever he wants. If he discovers I’m gone and wants to find me, he’ll come and… it won’t be good.”

Grey put a hand up. “Slow down. What do you mean, he can find you whenever he wants? I don’t understand. Does he have people everywhere?”

“I thought you understood,” she said.

“Apparently I don’t.”

Her eyes clouded. “He read the grimoire.”