by Rex Baron
Contents
Hexe Volume 2
Legal
Dedication
Forward
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Author Notes - Rex
Social Links
Magic: When Ruthless Ambition is not Enough
H E X E
WITCHES, WARRIORS, MAGIC & MURDER
By Rex Baron
V O L U M E T W O
MURDER BY MAGIC
Hexe (this series of books) is a work of fiction.
While some of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are based on real people and events, everything that happens to them are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
This book Copyright © 2019 Isobella Crowley, Rex Baron
Cover Design by Jeff Brown
Cover copyright © ProsperityQM LLC
ProsperityQM LLC supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
ProsperityQM LLC
1500 South Lamar Blvd, 1050
Austin, TX 78704
First US edition, 2019
Version 1.01.01
Hexe (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are copyright © 2019 by Isobella Crowley, Rex Baron
DEDICATION
Dedicated to the Power and Magic that lies deep within each of us.
— Rex
MURDER BY MAGIC
HEXE VOLUME 2
JIT Beta Readers
Jackey Hankard-Brodie
Kelly McCormick
Raine Ward
Kimberley Beaulieu
Nora McGuirk
Suellen Wiseman
Mary Morris
Sara Keyes
If I missed anyone, please let me know!
Editor
Sarah Kante
AUTHOR’S FOREWORD
Thank you for reading HEXE.I hope that you will find it an enjoyable and exciting experience. But it is important for the reader to be aware that although there are any number of historical personages characterized throughout, the events described surrounding them and their interactions with the fictional characters are largely imagined and presented as such, strictly for the sake of storytelling.
There is no intention on the part of the author or publisher to demean or malign the reputation or character of any historical person represented and any reference to their sexual orientation or personal actions is simply hearsay, based on information collected from outside sources.
A great deal of research has gone into the creation of this series, and every effort has been made to ensure historical accuracy—even to the descriptions of the recipes for spell casting, which have been researched from credible, centuries-old sources and included (in part) to enhance the story’s authenticity. This being said, HEXE is not intended as a primer on witchcraft and much of what is described that deals with Wicca and Witchcraft is left for the reader to further investigate for their own enjoyment.
It might also be noted that because much of the storyline is set before the new millennium, when the notion of political correctness was not in place culturally, some of the language and description of characters might be judged as harsh or even inappropriate by today’s standards. But in the times when the events of the story are set, this was assuredly not the case. The manners and language of the 1920s differs greatly from that of the 1930s, and certainly from the parts of the story set in the 1980s or present times. In order to give the correct “feeling” to those times, I have made a strong effort to depict situations and people as they would have been seen and described then, with all the flavour and gusto of those unique and exciting times.
I do hope you enjoy your journey into the fascinating world of HEXE, “the chosen”, and look forward to continuing the saga until its fateful and exciting conclusion.
So Mote It Be REX BARON
Fountain Hills, AZ, September 2019
CHAPTER ONE
Claxton’s house, Los Angeles, 1922
Helen looked at the clock above the mantle, an enormous wrought iron sun with the dial at its center, spewing out its black metal rays to dominate the entire wall above the glowing fire.
“It's nearly eight o'clock,” she said.
Claxton sat in the center of a dusty tan-colored sofa.
“I know. I'm dying for a martini, even if I have to use the hooch I bought from that little ass at the studio,” he answered with mock annoyance, as he toyed with the rope belt on his smoking jacket.
He had tied a scarf around his neck in an attempt to appear dashing for Helen's benefit. Even though he did not possess a screen lover’s reputation, he held a legitimate claim to the position of leading actor, box office draw and top moneymaker.
Perhaps these qualities, in the dim peach light of his Spanish living room, could take the place of a perfect Roman Novarro nose or a Barrymore jaw, and ignite the fires of passion in a woman whose mercenary appetites and shallow character he could only hope would equal his own.
“You can't drink until this is over. It will dull your senses,” Helen said, lifting his attentive hand from her thigh and dropping it lifeless onto the sofa, as if she were picking fleas from a dog.
Claxton sighed his agreement.
“Well, at least let me consult the old Clavicula Salomonis, known in the low streets as the Key of Solomon, to find out what the appropriate conjuration is for this demonic little act of yours.”
“All I'm asking you to do is help me with a love spell,” Helen snapped. “Why is it suddenly such a big deal, and why did you insist that I wear all black? This is supposed to be a love philter we're creating not a death spell.”
“Love is death,” Claxton smiled wryly, “just ask any victim of it. From the helpless first pangs of it to the grimy, repetitive mundanity of its strangled conclusion… consult the philosophers! Ask any poor fool who's been there and they'll tell you I'm right.”
Helen ignored his jaded philosophy as if it were a small transgression to be tolerated and overlooked, like a twitching cheek or a nervous stammer.
“Anyway,” he continued, “if we're to get it right, there are some very specific rules to follow. I needn’t remind you that you are the one that asked me for this tutelage. I recognized you as one of… well, as one of the children of the dark side, when I saw that mark on your shoulder in the opium den. I’m more than happy to be your mentor, but you must be a good little student and pay attention.”
Helen nodded her acceptance with a sigh.
“I am here to teach you that there is more to the business of magic than using it to pilfer cheap jewelry from department stores. As much as I may regret helping you with this particular sleight of hand… knowing that I am spiting myself if yo
u are successful. Nonetheless, I am still willing to help you broaden your education… if for no other reason than for you to discover that what comes around, goes around, as the popular expression goes.”
Helen rolled her eyes at his interminable babbling, but remained mute.
“This is meant to be a love spell, directed toward our celebrated celluloid lover, Paulo,” Claxton replied, ignoring her dismissive gesture. “You will note that love is ruled by Venus, the planet AND the goddess. The angel who presides over the event is named Monachiel. The chosen day for said invocation is Saturday, and the given hours, according to my planetary chart, are either eight p.m. or one o'clock in the morning.
Claxton looked up from his notes and raised an appraising eyebrow at Helen.
“I naturally prefer the later hour, so that you might comfortably stay the night. But you, in your exquisite modesty, chose the decent, earlier hour. I, of course, bow to your discretion.”
“You really are a beastly little man,” Helen said.
“You know, my pet,” he said, lighting a cigarette and offering it to her, “you and I have a bargain. I help you with this enslavement of your little movie star on the astral plane, solely for the benefit of your career, you understand, and you reward me on more personal and physical levels.”
Again, he placed his hand on her leg, but this time she did not brush it aside. Claxton smiled approvingly.
“You see, you need me for this, not only for the correct information, but for my energy as well.”
He explained that magic of this kind required both male and female energies. It had always been that way since time-immemorial. There had always been the village witch, the solitary hag, who made herself useful by insuring the fertility of farm animals, male children and a decent crop. But the real magic, the magic of destruction, required the male counterpart to make it work.
“There was, in the beginning, that singular pair, Chomak, the Will and purpose of the male, and Binah, the female receptive, the virgin womb from which all manifestation, all conscious effort is nurtured and springs full-grown into being. They are the primordial parents, Diana, the mother earth in mythology, and the Horned God, later to be called Satan or Old Scratch.” Claxton concluded with authority.
“Satan, a lofty aspiration for yourself,” Helen said, tightening the strap on her shoe.
“I've been called worse.”
“I bet you have.”
“I'm merely trying to point out that any powerful product, like the one we intend tonight by our union, is better made from powerful parents. And we are just such parents for the fledgling incubus of desire and hate that is to be unleashed on the handsome and hapless Paulo… and in turn, on the heedless young heroine Lucy. A more macabre and Gothic melodrama I could not hope for.”
“You talk too much,” Helen said, as she rose to pace the room. “You're a very smart man, and charming in many ways, but you do babble on. All we're doing is making a simple amulet, and all this talking is making me nervous.”
“I'm just trying to explain why the energies have to be in balance to have success, the physics behind the duality.”
“It doesn't matter as long as it works,” Helen said, once again checking the time.
The apricot-colored bulbs had failed to cast the glow of glamour that Claxton had planned. Helen stood there unmoved and unimpressed by the Spanish villa with its five hundred feet of hand-painted tiles that led to the grand stairway, or by the life-size portrait of the great Claxton that hung respectably over the monastic fireplace.
Her face reflected her singular purpose. She was no schoolgirl to be deluded and seduced with no more reward than the cab fare home and a secret memory of a shabby intimacy with the mighty and the powerful. She was a worthy adversary for even the greatest sorcerer.
Claxton drew the smoking jacket up around himself and resumed with authority.
“True magic is simply defined as Will into Substance, or the manipulation of Matter according to divine law and order. That's where we get into questionable territory,” he said, eyeing Helen with amusement. “In other words, one isn't supposed to be dabbling in moving matter and energy to suit themselves. That's considered very bad, and at some point, you are going to have to pay for it. That's why they call it Black Magic.”
“I don't care if it's every color of the rainbow as long as I get what I want,” Helen answered coldly.
“That's my girl.”
At precisely eight o'clock by the wrought iron clock, they began.
The servants had been given the night off and had been asked to leave the house until morning, not an unusual request, and one that had been implemented for countless all-night parties and other group indiscretions, as well as matters of magic.
Claxton tucked a small mahogany box under his arm and took Helen down a set of stairs that led to a swimming pool, tucked under the house, built into the hillside with a view that overlooked the city. He threw a switch that illuminated twelve alabaster globe lamps outlining the rectangular pool.
“They are designed to simulate moonlight,” he said. “Pretty aren't they?
“What are we doing here, not going for a swim I hope?” Helen asked impatiently.
“Hardly,” he laughed. “Besides, if you'll note the obvious, there isn't any water in the pool. This is where we will carry out the necessary ritual to make your romantic little heart sing.”
Helen's expression of dismay was sufficient for him to elaborate.
“Surely you didn't think we had to visit some desolate and terrible place to do this, a crossroads on the Moors, under the full moon, or some such nonsense.”
Helen shook her head as if she understood perfectly. She stepped toward the edge of the indigo-lined pool and peered down into its vortex. There, at its heart, a series of squares, one turned at right angles inside the other and two concentric circles inside the smaller square, were inscribed in elaborate tile work. It was a beautiful geometric design of perfect balance, a worthy insignia for any steamship company or grand hotel. It had the tailored look of an imposing monogram, without the initials, some princely seal from an undesignated kingdom.
“I had it done by Italian craftsmen, brought over when they built the house. One of them recognized what it was and refused to work anymore. Fortunately, he subsequently went back to the old country.”
“He recognized what it was… so what is it?” Helen asked.
“Honestly, dear girl, I do wonder what kind of work you do on your own. I hope I haven't overestimated you,” he said. “It's the magic circle, only without all the Hebrew and Egyptian names for the gods, of course. I find having it already laid out, whenever I need it, saves a lot of crawling around on my hands and knees, drawing out the design with that blasted dagger, my trusty Athame. It also saves a good deal of wear and tear on the hardwood floors of the house as well.”
“But what happens if you need to use it when the pool is filled with water?” Helen asked with some real interest.
Claxton laughed.
“Do I look like someone who swims? Besides, the pool is really only filled once a year for a party I give. Everyone is half loaded and hardly anyone ever gets into the water. It's really little more than a pretense for me to see everyone I like in a bathing suit… or naked.”
A broad expanse of indigo steps led them down into the center of the pool. Claxton looked at his watch and without hesitation, opened the wooden box and began to arrange its contents on a white silk cloth, which he spread out on the floor of the swimming pool.
Like a surgeon preparing for an operation, he carefully placed a black-handled dagger directly across from the white-handled one, the scimitar with the white cord next to the incense… one thing placed purposefully adjacent to another, until all the contents of the box had been laid in readiness on the cloth.
Quickly, he scribbled the compass points at the four corners of the inner mosaic square and inscribed the names, Elohim, Yah, Adonai and Agla.
As Helen
stood over him holding the white-handled dagger she had lifted, he hurriedly scrawled phrases and incantations around the circumference of the circles and along the edges of the squares with a piece of chalk.
“We have to hurry a bit,” he said. “We must finish within the eighth hour if we are to be successful. Have you brought the medal for the medallion? You're sure it's made of pure copper?”
Helen nodded her head. She produced a small metal disk from the pocket of her dress and held it up for him to see.
“Drop it in this glass of rose water,” he instructed.
Within minutes they were ready. The eerie light from above spilled over the edges of the pool, encompassing them in an orbiting milky way of artificial moonlight from the twelve circling, alabaster planets.
Helen did whatever Claxton instructed, quickly and without question. His voice had lost the edge of sarcasm, that conscious tone of self-amusement that she found so hard to take seriously. His instructions were now direct and impersonal, as if he was moved by a reverence for a power beyond himself. He was pure in his actions, precise and clear, a man preparing to meet the gods on their own ground.
They removed their shoes and entered the circle, standing together in its center with each of the four compass points less than five feet away.
Claxton undid the rope belt and slid the smoking jacket down from his shoulders to expose his bare chest. He pulled the scarf from around his neck and threw it outside the area where they stood.
Helen appraised the sinewy musculature of his back and chest, finding it more appealing than she would have imagined. She unconsciously crossed her arms across her chest, in resistance to the suggestion that she might peel away her clothing, but no such suggestion came.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.