The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) (27 page)

Grey hailed a cab. A mile past the university the driver turned onto one of those tiny lanes that wound through the English countryside, originally built for the horse and buggy and for some perverse reason never expanded. Following Grey’s Google directions, twenty minutes into the maze of hedge the driver stopped in front of a wooden gate bearing the address of Dastur Zaveri, the Zoroaster priest and historian whom Ervad Kasraavi had recommended in London. There was no buzzer or sign of a house, just a pebbled path that disappeared into the woods.

The gate was unlocked. Once past the tree line Grey spied a cottage in the clearing, complete with a thatch roof, chimney, and a rock garden. A stream gurgled through the woods to the left, a bench beckoned from underneath an apple tree, chirping birds darted through the forest.

A wisp of a man appeared in the doorway, crinkled eyes hidden within a beard that swarmed over his face and down his white tunic. Age lines etched his swarthy skin, and he smiled at Grey through tea-stained teeth.

“Please, come in.”

Grey removed his boots and followed the old man to a sitting room. Despite the relative warmth of the day, a gas stove poured heat into the
room. Grey took a seat and waited until, just like Ervad Kasraavi, Dastur Zaveri returned with tea and a platter of light snacks, this time dates and pistachios.

Dastur Zaveri eased into the chair across from him. Grey felt a strong vibe of peaceful energy emanating from his eyes. “I’m Dominic Grey. I assume Ervad Kasraavi informed you I’d be stopping by?”

“Sorry, no. I don’t keep a cell or computer here. I have an apartment in town with more modern amenities.”

Grey eyed the platter of food. “How’d you know I was coming?”

“I didn’t.”

He saw Grey’s confusion and said, “Our faith strongly encourages kindness to visitors. You looked as if you needed tea.”

Grey felt for a minute as though he were back in Japan, in a village outside Kyoto, having tea with some kind soul who had invited him in from the rain. “Thank you.”

“Not at all.”

“I went to Ervad Kasraavi in London, seeking information on your faith, and he suggested I see you. I’m looking for information on Ahriman.”

The priest’s head bobbed, lips parting in interest, as if Grey had just asked him to recommend a good walk through the woods. “He told you I’m a historian and that Ahriman is one of my spheres of interest?”

“He did,” Grey said.

“You probably have the opinion of most, which is why concern oneself with something considered taboo by nearly every society?” Grey didn’t dispute the statement, and Dastur Zaveri said, “I think it’s best if we know and understand our adversaries, or at least those whom we perceive our adversaries to be. I believe in combating ignorance with knowledge, and hopefully wisdom.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Grey said. “I’m a private investigator, working on a case believed to involve a priest of Ahriman.”

Wrinkles appeared like a bundle of twigs on his forehead. “A case? Involving a priest of Ahriman? That’s certainly fascinating, but as far as I know there’ve been no worshippers of Ahriman for quite some time.”

Grey rolled up his sleeves, his forearms damp from the heat. “Exactly. No one seems to know much of anything about Ahriman.”

Dastur Zaveri fussed over the platter, finally selecting a pistachio. “Are you aware the plateaus of modern-day Iran have been continually inhabited for at least thirty-five thousand years, making it the oldest developed civilization in the world?”

“That’s a long time for a religion to develop,” Grey said.

“As well as the perfect place for a deity to make itself known.”

“I suppose.” Grey leaned forward. “Have you heard of the Ahriman Heresy?”

“Of course. There’s a historical treatise by the same name.”

His eyes flicked into the next room over, which Grey could see was filled with ceiling-high bookshelves. “I have a copy,” he said. “It’s quite rare, I believe.”

That rocked Grey back in his seat. “I don’t suppose you have a copy of the grimoire?”

“The legendary Ahriman Grimoire?” Dastur Zaveri said. “I’m afraid not. As I understand it, there are no copies.”

“What’s your opinion on it?” Grey said. “Is there anything to it?”

The old man took a long sip of tea. “Let me ask you a question, if I may.”

“Sure.”

“What’s your definition of evil?”

“I don’t know,” Grey said, “the evening news?”

He chuckled. “Granted. But if you had to choose a concrete example?”

Grey cupped his tea in his hands. “Molesting a child.”

“Intriguing answer,” he said, cocking his head. “Pure hedonism as the highest form of evil, the antithesis of selflessness. And from where do you believe the impetus for such behavior derives?”

“I’m sure not going to blame God or the Devil or Ahriman for my or anyone else’s actions, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Grey said.

“I understand. But I sense that you’re a philosopher, so if you had to speculate?”

Grey shrugged. “I’d like to say nature, but I’m not sure I believe that. Plenty of evil acts serve no biological or evolutionary function. But nurture just begs the same question, since it started somewhere. Looking at this world, it’s a hell of a lot easier for me to throw my hands up in ignorance than to try and believe that some guiding force is behind all this misery.”

“The easiest path most often leads down the wrong trail,” the priest said gently.

Grey spread his hands. “Consider me lost. Not to be rude, but where exactly are we going with this?”

His eyes were kind, understanding. “Bear with me a moment longer. So if asked to choose, do you believe in an invisible God whose ways we cannot hope to understand as the source of all evil? Or rather that no God exists, and instead we have an unthinking multiverse that somehow created itself, in contravention of the principles of science?”

“Those are both pretty hard to believe,” Grey said.

“But if you had to choose?”

“I suppose the first,” Grey said slowly.

“If I may, then: You believe that certain acts, such as the abomination you proffered, are indeed evil. Yet you also find it impossible to conceive that God would allow such evil to exist in this world, if He has any shred of humanity or compassion as we understand it.”

“Something like that,” Grey said.

“Then you would make a good Zoroastrian. We Parsi don’t try to fit God within a complicated and ultimately indefensible moral scheme, but rather believe there are two competing forces in the universe, one good, one evil.”

Grey didn’t have a response to that.

“Some question whether true evil exists at all. Is existence not reality, good and evil but a different viewpoint? Perhaps our gods are a race of beings to which humanity is a parasite, much like the tick or mosquito is to us. Perhaps Ahriman and Satan view the human conception of God as a belief gone terribly wrong.”

“I can’t speak for them,” Grey said.

Dastur Zaveri bit into another pistachio, acknowledging Grey’s point with a small nod. “While there may be two competing forces in the universe, nothing is black-and-white, and those forces are by definition more complex than we can ever possibly understand.”

“Yeah, I get it. If the forces in the universe are by definition more complex than we can possibly understand, then maybe you and I and every other compassionate human being have got it all wrong. Sorry, I can’t subscribe to that.”

“But we must allow for the fact that perhaps this man you pursue, this follower of Ahriman, is correct. That Ahriman and his dominion of this world is the path of good, rather than evil. That the
ashavan
is filled with endless darkness and the
drgevant
the endless light.”

Grey saw heat waves shimmering from the gas stove. His wrists had dampened with sweat. “I suppose anything’s possible. And I never told you it was a man.”

Dastur Zaveri opened his palms. “Forgive me. In the Zoroaster tradition women do not become priests, as archaic as that may sound.” He leaned forward, an intense light pooled in the depths of his eyes. “To understand a priest of Ahriman, the question you must answer is not from where does evil derive, but what does it
mean
?”

Grey started to retort that after what he had seen in the catacombs, he understood that part just fine. But he could hear Viktor in his ear, telling him:
It’s not about what you believe, Grey, but about what
they
believe
. Like Viktor had said, no one believes he or she is evil.

Then again, some people were just blind.

“You asked me to help you understand Ahriman and his followers,” the priest said softly. “I could point you to a few dry historical texts or discuss the evolution of Zoroastrian cosmogony, but would such things really help?”

“The man’s name is Simon Azar,” Grey said. “Have you heard of him?”

“I would have to live under a rock not to have heard of him.” He gave a rueful grin. “Though I do come close. Azar is a name of Parsi origin. Do you know the meaning?”

“No,” Grey said.

“Fire.”

Grey wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, ready for the crisp night air. “Does anything you’ve read or heard about this man lead you to believe he’s a follower of Ahriman?” Grey said.

“I approach Ahriman from the philosophical and theological angle. I wouldn’t know any more than Ervad Kasraavi about the practices of a modern-day follower of Ahriman.”

“What about an ancient one?” Grey said.

He ran his thumb and forefinger along his beard. “Records are almost nonexistent. The only rituals mentioned in the histories were similar to those of the medieval worshippers of the Christian Devil. As you’re probably aware, many of the concepts later attributed to Satan or Lucifer originated with Ahriman.”

“Yes,” Grey said, frustrated with the lack of progress. Maybe he should leave the phenomenological research to Viktor.

“There is one thing,” Dastur Zaveri said. “Though my research has never verified it, I assume the priests of Ahriman also utilize the fire temple, the eternal flame. You might be able to identify a shrine that way. Though I wouldn’t expect it to be… the same.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve read about the Zoroastrian fire temples.”

“The thing to understand about the followers of Ahriman is that they viewed Ahura Mazda—God—as unimaginably remote and uncaring, and Ahriman as more concerned with the trials and tribulations of this world.” Dastur Zaveri took Grey’s hands in his own, and Grey felt a trembling in the age-spotted grip. “Understand that I believe deeply in the Gathas and in the light of my Creator, just as I believe in Ahriman and the existence of evil. What I must question is the demarcation of human knowledge. Zoroastrianism is about devotion to truth, having the courage to cast off comfort and see reality for that which it truly is.”

Grey squeezed the old man’s hands in return, then rose. It was time to move on. Just before he left, he thought of one final question and hesitated in
the doorway. He felt silly asking this learned man such a question, but he did, after all, specialize in Ahriman.

“Have you heard of the three powers of the Devil—of Ahriman?” Grey said. “The power to influence the minds of men, seduce, and move about the world unseen?”

“Indeed. Why do you ask?”

“During the investigation there’ve been reports of some… remarkable… occurrences,” Grey said. “I was just wondering if, to the followers of Ahriman, there’s any truth to the myth? In their minds, I mean.”

“Do the followers of Christianity consider the miracles of Jesus a myth?” Dastur Zaveri said mildly. “The abilities of the saints, the power of prayer? Do they doubt the power of a Supreme Being to affect the world in mysterious ways?”

Grey pursed his lips and gave a slow nod. “Thank you for the tea,” he said, and eased the door shut.

A
s her return train to London slowed during its approach to the station, grinding on the track, Anka rose to disembark, peering out the window at the passengers lined up to board.

Then she dropped low into her seat, forgetting to breathe, pulse spiking with fear. In the line of passengers she saw an image she could never mistake, the top of a man’s head ink-stained with a terrifying image.

Why send Dante?
she thought in a panic.
Does Darius know about her and Grey?

Her questions sparked in her mind and then faded, ceding to her survival instinct, an instinct honed from years of homelessness as a street urchin in Bucharest. Her world shrank to one finite problem:
How do I get away from the psychopath waiting outside this train?

As the passengers disembarked, she grew more and more desperate. She couldn’t stay on the train, or she would be too easy to spot. No, she had to get off the train. But to where? She couldn’t outrun him, and he surely had other men with him, watching both ends of the train.

Why does it never work when I want it to?

She saw a filthy knit cap on the ground under the luggage rack, and she grabbed it and pulled it low on her head, stuffing her hair inside. It smelled like stale milk and body odor. An old couple were struggling to exit with their bags, and she hurried to help them, hunching as she slipped between them.