Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2

by Josephine Pennicott

  ‘Well, save yourself the trouble, freak,’ Connie said sharply. She no longer felt afraid of the weirdo in front of her.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like your revenge on Ellis? Wouldn’t it be satisfying to see Juliet Kingston get what’s coming to her for the secrets she revealed to your classmates about Trevor What-Was-His-Name?’

  ‘Phelps,’ Connie said. ‘How do you know all these things? What are you?’

  The freak in front of her smiled. ‘Didn’t I tell you that I know everything?’

  Now Connie began to believe.

  *

  It was stinking hot. The long sultry days had reached their climax, and they all longed for rain. Theresa was sprawled on a banana lounge in the shade of the verandah, sketching with children’s coloured pencils, a jug of mineral water by her side. She had lost weight, Lazariel realised. He stared at her for a second, attempting to work out how she had changed. She was thinner in the face, she had let the blonde dye grow out, and her hair was back to light brown, which suited her better. She looked younger, softer.

  She wore a floral cotton dress handed down by Sophie. She looked up, sensing his scrutiny.

  ‘What? What are you looking at?’ There was a slight edge to her voice. He frowned. For a disorientating moment, he had the impression someone else was looking out at him from her eyes. Laughing at him. ‘What is it? Have I got a booger on my nose?’

  He shrugged. ‘I was just thinking you’ve lost weight.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Why this sudden obsession with people’s weight? Have I suddenly become sexually desirable, because a few pounds have melted away?’

  Jesus, she was so prickly. He was aware of Sophie’s and Minette’s interest, as they lay in their bikinis, frying themselves in the open. Thanks, big-mouth bitch. He kept his face neutral.

  ‘You haven’t been coming to the sessions lately.’ The truth was, he didn’t miss her at the sessions at all. Her energy always seemed to nag him. Also, he realised he couldn’t fully remember the last time they had had a session. Time was like cobwebs in his mind; his senses were numbed, confused. But now, irrationally, he wanted her to be there. She shrugged, picking up her sketchbook and studying her drawing. ‘I’ve been working on my own stuff.’ There was an odd tension between them. Was it sexual energy? Christ, was he getting turned on by her again? Or was he some sort of weirdo, needing everybody’s attention, and needing to chase it if it was missing?

  Minette stood up to adjust the straps of her bikini top. He could see the sunburn already marking her skin, despite the sunblock she had applied. And there was the cellulite she despised on her upper thighs. The cellulite he had licked and kissed. Her eyes slid angrily over Theresa, and he realised with a sudden awareness that Minette hated her. Minette was shaking, and there was an unpleasant odour from her body.

  ‘What sort of stuff, Theresa?’ she asked bluntly. ‘What are you doing by yourself all the time? Some sort of witchcraft stuff?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Theresa said. There it was again, the odd little flicker of amusement in her eyes. Why did he have the feeling she was playing with them? Why was he suddenly getting an erection just looking at her?

  ‘Well, don’t you think if you’re living at Light Vision, sharing all the resources we provide you with on a material level, the least you can do is show an interest in what we’re about spiritually? Couldn’t you at least attend the ritual?’

  What ritual? Lazariel thought in confusion. There it was again, the sticky unbearable feeling he was taking part in some lucid dream.

  A silence ensued, broken only by Theresa’s pencil scratching angrily. Lazariel sighed, looking out at the shimmering view. A feeling of deja vu spread through his body. He had dreamt this conversation before. Either that, or he was dreaming now. He no longer knew what was real and what wasn’t, these days. His shoulderblades burned again, and he winced. He had become accustomed to the stinging sensation in his upper arms, and he no longer worried about the meaning of the pain. There was a lot he didn’t question any more. He was just grateful for the painkillers Ishran provided him with.

  He frowned, a taste of metal in his mouth, like old blood. Where the hell was Ishran?

  Alan and Daniel were inside sleeping off their midday meal. The heat was oppressive, and Lazariel longed for the sharpness and fresh breath of winter. He felt too dulled to think or care. He stared out at the silent bush around them. There had been bush-fires nearby, so near that he could see the smoke rising, thick and black. But it didn’t concern him. He knew Light Vision would be protected from any fire.

  They all prayed so much, he was convinced no natural disaster could ever touch them.

  ‘When is Ishran returning?’ Sophie asked, leaning up on one elbow. Lazariel knew she and Minette had been screwing Ishran. He had heard their cries of pain and lust in the night when he had been meant to be sleeping. It had been inevitable; both women had been throwing themselves at him for so long. To Lazariel’s surprise, he felt no jealousy. He sensed that Ishran’s interest in the women was just sexual. It was Lazariel he really loved.

  ‘When will he be back?’ she repeated. Lazariel’s vision blurred and, for a second, her face distorted into a hideous vision. Red eyes, black leathery face, huge fangs. His heart jumped, and then she shifted back to a very pretty blonde with full red lips. He stared in fascination at her for a second. His mind had been playing tricks like this for weeks now. He had become terrified of mirrors; every time he looked into one, he saw a different face staring out at him. He would hear voices in rooms that weren’t there, and once he had seen a woman with one leg standing in front of the house, her face twisted in pain, before she had transformed herself into a bird.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. He found it difficult to remember when Ishran had left.

  ‘Anyone want tea?’ Minette was standing, hands on hips. Lines. She was speaking lines from a play, he realised. He frantically tried to remember his next line. ‘Okay, thanks. That would be great.’ She smiled, touching him lightly on the shoulder as she went inside. He covered his face with his hands for a second, unable to cope with further conversation. A blue flame leapt in his mind, burning thoughts, stealing wisdom.

  Theresa was watching him furtively, touching the pentacle that hung around her neck. Her eyes were filled with rays, vivid green rays that shot out of her skull. ‘There’s a storm coming,’ she said, smiling.

  *

  The television was on, blaring, as he sat trying to empty his mind and quieten his frightened heart. Frustrated, he got up, unable to concentrate. Bloody Theresa, it had to be her. She was the only one that ever turned the ancient set on.

  ‘Theresa?’

  He looked around the small lounge room. Newspapers and women’s shoes were scattered on the floor. Considering the number of people who shared the house, the room was curiously devoid of personality, with the exception of the creepy mural and the ancestor painting. The windows were open in the room, with white lace curtains billowing upwards. Just great, perfect to let the mosquitoes in. Welcome to the house of flies.

  ‘Theresa?’

  Nobody in the room. The newsreader was speaking of a disappearance, the suspected murder of a young schoolgirl in nearby Katoomba. Lazariel’s attention was aroused by their proximity to the violent crime. He stood, hugging himself, watching the item. A photograph was flashed up on the screen of the girl, and he reacted with shock. He knew her. He had seen that face, that smile, before. Where? She had light brown hair, freckles, and a slightly round face. Where had he seen her? A vague memory came to him of one of their sessions before Ishran had left. Hadn’t this young girl been at that session? But that hardly made sense — why would a schoolgirl be interested in attending a Light Vision session? He was aware they were generally considered crackpots, barely tolerated by the mountain locals. What was her name? Damn, he had missed it! They had already moved on to the miserable state of the Australian dollar. She hardly looked the type to be interested in attending a meditati
on session to further her enlightenment.

  The curtains flapped again, and he moved over to close them, suddenly afraid of letting the night into the room. Soft whispers came from the corners of the room. He turned around quickly. Nothing. In the dark outside he could see the squat silhouettes of his housemates’ cars. Where was everyone? There was a movement behind him, and he turned. Theresa stood in the doorway, a plate of toast in one hand.

  ‘God, you frightened me!’ he said. She didn’t smile. Instead she just looked irritated that he was in her space.

  ‘You’re too jumpy,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’re lacking in vitamin B. You need some red meat in you.’

  He stared at her. She was positively glowing. Her skin was looking healthier than he had ever seen it. She had lost a lot of weight, and she looked years younger for it.

  She glanced up at him. ‘Did you want something?’ He hesitated, longing to suddenly unburden himself to her, to describe his nightmares, his headaches, his disorientation and attacks of nausea. But he realised he no longer knew this person. The old Theresa would have listened sympathetically, opened his fly, got down on her knees, and then taken him to her bed to make him forget. This new Theresa looked as if she could barely stand to give him the time of day. He saw himself through her eyes, unshaven, hair in need of a good wash, as awkward with her as an adolescent boy. The aching in his shoulderblades increased.

  ‘Where are the others?’ he asked, at a loss for what to say. What he really wanted to say was, What the hell is going on here, Theresa? You’re looking beautiful, and I’m starting to feel like I’m losing my mind. I feel as if I can walk through walls, but I’m frightened of my own reflection. My back is killing me, and I know that it sounds insane, but I feel as if something is beneath my skin trying to get out. Is anything real? Are we living in the house of flies?

  ‘What others?’ she said without interest.

  When will he be returning? That was the only sentence that seemed to be on everyone’s lips at Light Vision. Lazariel could no longer remember a time when they had sat and talked about popular culture, or comparative religions, music or politics. Now everybody was just concerned with Ishran’s absence. As though a tooth had fallen from a collective mouth, everyone had to keep checking the empty space with their tongues. It frightened Lazariel that he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember Ishran leaving, saying goodbye. There was a vague certainty within him that he would return, he could feel that. He could sniff it in the air. But he couldn’t remember him leaving.

  One balmy night, when the crickets hummed in the scrub around them, the group sat in a circle practising the breathing technique Ishran had taught them. Theresa had finally consented to join them, much to Lazariel’s discomfort. He hated the fact he was sexually aroused by her. It made him uneasy, as if she had put some sort of hex on him, although he doubted she would have enough personal power for any charm to be truly effective. Perhaps the pain in his shoulderblades was manifesting an imbalance in his sexual centres?

  He sat, focusing on his breathing, trying to ignore Theresa seated so near him. He was concentrating on the mantra Ishran had given him, knowing the others were doing the same. These were extremely personal power mantras and were never to be spoken out loud, or shared with another. He was aware of unseen energies in the room, watching and guiding the session. Then, like lightning flashes, came a series of violent flashbacks.

  He saw the schoolgirl being brought to the house by Ishran. He was introducing her to the others as they sat around the kitchen table. Minette was cutting up vegetables for the evening meal, the large kitchen knife slicing through them. Minette was laughing; she picked up a string of green capsicum and began to nibble the end of it. Her eyes watched the schoolgirl as she chewed slowly. Sophie was arranging flowers in a vase, smiling at the girl, tucking a flower behind her ear. Her hand caressed her cheek briefly. Then he saw Alan and Daniel laughing, their mouths smeared with lipstick. Their eyes were heavily lined with kohl and blue eye shadow. They looked like a pair of tragic drag queens.

  Lazariel’s breath came faster as the memories broke free. He didn’t want to see any more, he didn’t want to relive the events of that night, but he was unable to help himself.

  The women were bathing the girl. Theresa was nowhere to be seen. Minette began to sing as they ran the wash sponge over the young firm body. Ishran had sedated her. Her head lolled slightly, and there was a small smile on her lips. She was enjoying herself. Enjoying the attention. Can’t see. Don’t want to see. But still the pictures came.

  Ishran had started the ritual. His hands were high in the air. The room was very different. Esoteric markings were chalked onto the floor. There was incense wafting in the air, but Lazariel did not recognise the smell. Watching the ritual on a golden throne was an angoli, a small child seated in his lap. Rachel. There was no reaction to their presence among those in the room. His eyes flickered over Lazariel, with little interest.

  The girl was naked, and a dark energy swirled around her. She was howling, screaming as she tried to break free, Ishran was controlling the energy in the room, his face contorted with its force. His beauty slipped, his face was demonic. There was the flapping sound of many wings in the room, thousands upon thousands of wings.

  The women were approaching the girl. They were crawling on hands and knees, Lazariel saw with horror. Minette was snarling, tossing her head from side to side. Her eyes were red. Sophie was first to reach her, running her fingers down her face as if in wonder at her youthful vitality. Tears were now running down the girl’s face as she began to beg for her life.

  No more. Wanted to stop the images.

  She took so long to die. That was the truly nightmarish thing to Lazariel. How could one person bleed so much, have so much of her body pulled to pieces and still live? Her eyes still retained some spark of life when Ishran finally stepped forward, pulled her head backwards, and tore out her throat.

  There was blood everywhere. The women were singing, dancing in blood, smearing it over their naked breasts and bodies. Alan and Daniel were embracing each other in a corner, their faces smeared with gore. Lazariel stood back and watched as the angoli fed upon the energy in the room.

  Ishran was busy extracting a long, thin black strand from the girl’s body. At the end of the strand was a sparrow. He threw the bloodied bird into his mouth and swallowed it. His eyes sought Lazariel’s and he smiled, crazy with power. For the briefest of moments, Lazariel thought that he understood everything. He laughed, drunk with the energy, with knowledge. Then he had a golden chalice, bordered with beautiful engravings of grapes and demonic faces. He passed it around. It was filled with the girl’s blood, and all drank from it.

  Oh Christ! He opened his eyes, disturbing the meditation. He stood up, panicked for a second. He longed to vomit, but knew that nothing would come up. Was it real? Had it really happened, or was he going quietly mad?

  ‘Hey!’ Minette was calling to him, perturbed he had disturbed the session. ‘Hang on! Lazariel, are you all right?’

  He was backing away from them, trying to reach the door. This was the room he had seen it happen in. How could it have? Yet it was so real. His thoughts were chaotic, and he could feel nausea building up in him again. Sophie was standing up, holding out her hand.

  ‘Lazariel? What’s wrong? Come and ground yourself. What have you seen?’

  He shook his head. An image flashed through his mind of Sophie pulling the girl to pieces with her bare hands.

  Oh God, it couldn’t have happened. These people are serious spiritual seekers, not demons, for Chrissake! Oh God, I’m going mad.

  Theresa was sitting staring straight ahead, a small beatific smile upon her face. Unlike the others, she didn’t try to prevent Lazariel from fleeing the room.

  *

  He still had not returned. None of them had left the house for days. The cars remained parked in the drive. The phone rang occasionally, no doubt disgruntled employers from the city, but no-one
ever picked it up. The group seemed to exist purely for Ishran’s return. Every breath pulled him closer to them. Every night, a dark friend, embraced the pain of his absence.

  Lazariel stood in the back garden looking out at a view that was lifted directly from an Arthur Boyd landscape. The colours seemed so rich and dramatic. Two black crows were seated together, talking love talk on the back fence.

  One for sorrow. Two for joy. Three for a letter. Four for a boy. He felt drained and stagnant. His dreams last night had been filled with horror. He was some sort of winged beast, living in a great city that had ornate carvings of fantastic beasts. There had been an arena, filled with terrified people, begging for their lives. He had been wearing a necklace which represented great power, and his neck could still feel the impression where it had rested. It had been a green-gold colour, with an eagle intertwined around a winged angel. In the dream the people had directed their cries for mercy at him, but he had ignored them, pointing to the skies instead.

  From the heavens had moved a dark cloud. At the sight of the cloud, the people had begun to scream harder. Some had tried to climb the arena’s high walls, but had been forced back with electric prods from angels prowling the perimeter specifically for this purpose. The air had become darker and darker. There was the sound of beating wings, and then there they were, the Ushblaz, the winged demons of the sky. He had smiled, never tiring of the sight of them, circling gracefully, anticipating the kill. Their great jaws snapped furiously, and they spiralled in the air in perfect formation. He could see their lethal claws, even from this distance, and smell their rubbery, hot musky odour. One of the leaders, a young male, swooped near Lazariel, acknowledging him with a glance of his shining yellow eyes for his gift to them. That was the signal for them to start. The black mass of Ushblaz descended upon the arena.