The Palm Reader

by Christopher Bowron

  Since he’d been in Ft. Myers, Mason had inquired about the old McFadden estate. Stigmatized by its past, the county appeared unable to sell it at any price. Mason could find the resources easily enough. Stashed away in offshore accounts was enough money to purchase the place and bring it back to its former splendor. The history, rumors and lore of what transpired there meant nothing to him. Mason would blend into South Florida society seamlessly with his new identity, while building a new coven, stronger than LePley’s network.

  She’d grown old and complacent. He didn’t want to take anything away from her accomplishments because she had been a devout follower of Satan and garnered much power from the relationship. Still, she’d only risen to the level of Witch. Powerful, yet nothing compared to a Magus. Mason would right the ship in no time. But first, he needed to complete the Black Mass, one of the most powerful devotions to honor one’s Divine Leader. The ritual was not to be taken lightly. Once completed, he would have the support of those who traveled to Ft. Myers. Mason tried his best not to get giddy over the ramifications of a successful ceremony.

  Paramount to the success of the ritual was the inclusion of Jack Walker, who was strong with the spirits and a lightning rod for everything bad within the Church of Satan in South Florida. He’d been baited and powerfully cursed. He would not know why he’d been called to that place, but he would come. Full of bravado, thinking he could rescue his grandfather, that he could dispatch Mason, the man didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell. The power within the room would be able to grab hold of the roots of the curse, leaving the despicable creature soft like putty in his hand. Mason’s joy would be in making Walker watch as they slew his grandfather. Walker’s hatred would surely attract the strongest denizens of the abyss and, most positively, Satan himself.

  Just thinking about what was ahead so excited Mason that he had to stop and brace himself. He knew what was coming and it was only seconds away. The Magus learned to perform the self-imposed act; the zap of electricity, rippling down his spine and crossing his hips, only increased his anticipation. Breathing heavily, he felt the hot pain in his heart as it strained to pump double time. Only true Satanists who enjoyed the excitement of whipping the innocent were able to conjure the self-induced climax. He held still as his muscles stiffened, waiting the few more seconds for it to come. He was not disappointed when his pleasure exploded without anyone or anything touching him.

  Mason gave himself a few minutes to come down from his euphoria and thank Satan.

  He had already placed Nathan back in his prison, not wanting to show off one of his prize catches until the time was ready. The Mass would be a show, which would build to a crescendo, culminating with Walker.

  Many of the guests had arrived, though more would filter in throughout the night, a quorum of thirty being easily attained. Most of the congregation wore masks, some in the form of a white-faced devil, while others wore the face of a horned goat. Those who didn’t wear masks were split almost evenly between male and female.

  Candles were lit, along with a choking ensemble of burning incense: henbane, Datura, dried nightshade and myrrh.

  A few caught his attention, one group of three in particular. Two females and a male, though he wasn’t sure he’d be able to confirm gender. The male wore a black robe, with a necklace made of finger bones, his face painted white, lips and eye sockets black in typical Vodun manner. What caught Mason’s eye in particular were the blood red lips. His lip color was not painted on, and his eyes were black as coal. Through the white paint, Mason saw deep wrinkles, which gave away his age.

  The stranger stood tall. His hands stayed on the much shorter females beside him. One looked quite plump and wore a purple robe, denoting her rank as Witch. Her stare looked delirious, Mason guessed from bloodletting or some sort of opiate, which was not uncommon among the satanic hierarchy. The other female, thin and exotic, wore little clothing: a black leather corset and black tape to cover her nipples. He hoped they were not stylists just there to sit in on the Mass. Word of the gathering would have charged around the Satanist networks over the past few days. He did not doubt there would be pretenders presenting themselves. Looking back at the tall man, the lips continued to disturb Mason. They were most unnatural and he did not recognize the man. But then, why would he, having been in prison for the past number of years.

  Another mixed group arrived looking ready for the orgy that usually sprang up from such occasions. Mason hoped the night would be more spiritual, but letting go of inhibition was one of the satanic tenets.

  The Mass would take place in four parts. The first was a cleansing of the spirit and mind, where the congregation opened itself up to the spirits who might be present. The Catholic Church would call it the Greeting and Penitential Act.

  By custom, Mason deferred to the High Priest to perform the first prayers. The seventy-year-old Graham De Foe from Upstate New York stepped into the chalk circle and pentagram after cleansing himself. He wore a red robe like Mason, a silver amulet depicting a horned goat embossed on a pentagram around his neck. He raised his hands. The crowd’s mumbling quieted. He stood in front of the metal mortician’s table, set at the north end of the pentagram to use as an altar. He gestured to a middle-aged woman to enter the circle.

  Disrobing, she dropped the black garment to the wood floor before she cleansed herself with a short invocation. A beautiful creature. Mason’s groin came alive again in anticipation. She lay on the cold steel table, her feet pointing north, her head to the south.

  One of the High Priest’s acolytes rang a heavy bell, the chime resonating through the room, the congregated Satanists becoming quiet. The priest moved toward the center of the circle and pentagram. Once there, he spread his hands wide and chanted.

  “In nomine magni dei nostri Satanas, introibo ad altare Domini Inferi.”

  As he finished the words, the assembled resonated as one: “Ave Satanas.”

  He chanted again: “In nomine dei nostri Satanas Luciferi excelsi.”

  Again the congregation responded: “Ave Satanas.”

  As the High Priest sat in the pentagram, the rest of the followers circled the outside. Stragglers continued to enter the smoky, candlelit room. Mason estimated fifty people at this point, the room getting somewhat crowded. He began the summoning of the four Princes of Hell, lighting a candle procured from Moses, made with the fat of an unbaptized baby. The wick fizzled and crackled as the flame came to life.

  He pointed the candle to the south and chanted in his deep, resonating voice, “Hail Satan.”

  “Hail Satan, unholy father,” they responded.

  He pointed to the east. “Hail Lucifer.”

  “Hail Lucifer, who is never questioned.”

  He pointed to the north, where the woman lay on the altar. “Hail Belial.”

  “Hail Belial, god of the wicked, bringer of death.”

  Finally, he pointed to the west. “Hail Leviathan.”

  “Hail Leviathan, god of serpents.”

  The energy in the room was palpable, electric. The congregation wanted more. For many, the ceremony was akin to a close encounter with their favorite rock stars. The High Priest, as well as Mason and some of the lesser clergy, all represented the highest levels of attainment within the Church of Satan. The High Priest stood and motioned to Mason that it was his time to lead the rest of the Mass.

  Mason moved to the center of the room, bringing with him a reluctant, handcuffed Nathanial Portman.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  A PLAINCLOTHES OFFICER FROM the Hillsborough Sheriff’s Department stepped forward. He looked to be of Hispanic descent. She vaguely remembered his face. “Is your name Janie Callaghan?”

  Janie sighed and smiled. “That would be me, sir.”

  “Then you’re the one who called this in?” He brandished a piece of paper. “I’m Deputy Garcia. The DA reluctantly issued a warrant to search the premises.” He flashed his badge for her to see. “I don’t know if you remember, but
I was here the last time this place was investigated. We take these things very seriously, ma’am.”

  “I do remember you. And”—she pointed to Perry, who stepped out behind her, his face bloodied and grossly swollen—“I too take this seriously. Actually, it is my boss, Peter Robertson, who made the call.”

  Garcia could not hide his agitation. “Now, tell me this isn’t a coincidence that Mr. Robertson called this in at the same time as a reported shooting took place inside. We can find no evidence of the shooting, yet there are several eyewitnesses claiming to have heard the gunshot or thinking they saw somebody or somebodies getting their brains splattered.”

  “There are no coincidences in life, Garcia”—borrowing the line from Gramps—“and there have been a number of shootings. You were not able to find the Russian’s hidden basement the last time you searched. There are a number of men down, including one of our clients, who’s been held prisoner inside for nearly a week.”

  Garcia motioned for his men to enter the garage. Eight men dressed in combat gear and carrying assault rifles filed past Janie and Perry, entering the garage through the side door.

  Janie waved when the ambulance arrived. The paramedics calmly exited the large white vehicle and came over to Janie and Garcia.

  Garcia said, “We’re doing a sweep of the interior before I can let you down there.”

  The thirty-something female nodded. “Can you give me an idea of what we’re in for?”

  Janie spoke. “You’ll find three deceased males from gunshot wounds. Another male with his throat cut and missing eyes. The other gentleman is in a cell at the back of the first room on the right. He’s been shot, maybe four days ago, and doesn’t look good. He’s a client of ours held prisoner here by the owner of this establishment. He’s integral to determining the legalities of the whole situation. I’d ask you to attend to him first, as we’d hate to see him die.”

  “We’ll do our best as soon as we’re given the green light.”

  “In the meantime, Perry here looks like his jaw is broken.”

  The EMT took a cursory look at Perry, and pulled him aside to look closer at his injuries.

  Janie said to Garcia, “There are two thugs in one of the cells. I’d be careful of them.”

  “Ms. Callaghan, what the hell happened here tonight? Who’s been shooting whom? It doesn’t add up. Do you mean to tell me you took out all of these men?”

  “Garcia, I’d be lying if I told you that I had. Let’s say it’s complicated. I’m going to need to make a statement, but I’m not going to do so until my boss and legal counsel arrives—Peter Robertson. It might be best to make that statement at your headquarters.”

  “You can sit in the back of my car. It’s the black Impala over to the right.” He ushered her to the car, opening the rear door for her. “I’m going to have to lock you in, ma’am. Until we find out otherwise, I’m going to have to detain you. You are a lawyer, correct?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Then you know I have to read you your rights.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  VENICE, NORTH PORT, PUNTA Gorda—Jack drove slowly past the signs, trying to keep awake. Nodding off and being sick did not help how he felt. He wished someone could teleport him from where he sat behind the wheel to his bed. Looking over at Lolita, her chin still on her chest, he figured she fell asleep not far out of Tampa. With all the craziness that had happened, staying awake was a major problem. He tugged on her elbow, jolting her large frame to sit up.

  “What the hell, Walker! I was having a helluva dream. Why’d ya wake me up?”

  “I’m about ready to fall asleep behind the wheel. Besides, we gotta figure out what the heck we’re gonna do here. You said this . . . whoever-he-is would be ready for us? For me?”

  “Yep!” She yawned. “You’ve been cursed and are being reeled in like a fish on a hook.”

  “Knowing this, why are we going to where we’re going, besides the obvious?”

  “Like I say, you’re being played. And very skillfully, I might add. This Mason character knows you’re coming. Hell, he’s counting on it. We must find a way to use this knowledge against him. Here’s a point: he’s not expecting a 400-pound medium to be accompanying you. Plus, we have guns. He’ll expect you to storm the door alone, without weapons, and be controllable due to your feeling the way you look right now. There’s no way you could defend yourself. Picture this—we allow him to take you into his clutches. Making him think he’s in control. When he least expects it, I’ll come in and blow his brains out, POW!” She stopped to laugh. “We find your grandfather, and we skedaddle. How does that sound?”

  “Let’s say I accept your take on the curse shit. How do you or I end it?”

  “That’s easy. The curse layer must undo it, or the one who cursed you must be killed.”

  “Okay, sounds good. But let me put one caveat into all of this. I’m feeding his guts to the fucking gators. I want to make sure he’s good and dead, and never coming back.”

  “I will not hold you back, Jackson, as that seems to be the reason why you’ve been brought in contact with this evil man. Our world is all about good versus evil.”

  Jack enjoyed a breath of relief as they crossed the Caloosahatchee, meaning they’d arrived in Ft. Myers. Within a half hour they would arrive at the McFadden estate. For better or worse. Jack felt his stomach rise at the mere thought of the old decrepit place.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  THE BELL RANG AT midnight to announce the witching hour. Nathaniel Portman lay in the middle of the pentagram, his feet and knees bound together tightly. One of the young acolytes acted as guard by stepping on the old man’s shoulder to keep him pressed to the floor. He held out the Seminole leader’s wrist.

  Mason stood close, holding his athame and a silver chalice. Grasping the outstretched wrist, the little man in the ruby red robe deftly cut the soft underside of Nathaniel Portman’s wrist. Not enough to kill the elderly gentleman, but enough that he bled slowly into the chalice. After the bowl filled a few inches, Mason wrapped the arm in a bandage, stanching the flow of blood. He didn’t want to kill his sacrifice—not just yet. The smell of fresh blood made him lick his dry lips. Oh, how he wanted to dip his finger into the rich blood and lick the drippings off his finger, but Mason held back; the magic moment was not even an hour away.

  Mason eyed the supine female. Her mouth open, taking fast breaths, she was caught up in the rapture of the moment. In most satanic ceremonies, it was time for the priest to enter the female and masterfully copulate until orgasm. The semen would be added to the blood, creating the sacred mixture to be shared from the chalice. Mason, however, did not want to expose the diminutive nature of his manhood. Instead, he decided to ad lib. Bending between her spread legs, he made a small cut on the bottom edge of the vagina, adding to the bowl. As the flow of rich red liquid slowed, he inserted a tiny clip to pull the sides of the minute wound together. The pinpoint of pain sent her high arousal into orgasm and her body recoiled as she screamed out her divine love for Satan.

  He turned to the worshippers and saw their bobbing heads and blinking eyes, all ecstatic with their own physical excitement in anticipation of the rapture soon to come.

  Mason proceeded with the Midnight Evocation of Satan. He held the chalice in both hands, as if offering it to the congregation. “Ya! Zat-i-Shaitan!”

  The gathering responded, “Ave Satanas.”

  “By the Gate of the Black Light, when I name the words against the Sun, O’ Fire Djinn Azazel, Set-heh, I summon thee forth with Serpent’s tongue. That my oath before this blackened flame, ignited within, in the dreaming aethyr shall I be known in the wisdom of the Moon.”

  Pausing, he raised the cup higher while once again motioning as if to offer it to the gathering. “Al Zabbat, Hekas Hekau, serpent soul, I do summon you. Rise now from thy black light, that I see what has never been known. Akharakek Sabaiz!

  “I call forth the shadow of which I am and have alwa
ys been, the darkness, which I nourish in between the light. Eclipse now the face of God that I become in this darkened image.”

  Mason gestured to the chalk circle. “By this circle do I become.” He pointed to the candle in the center of the pentagram. “By this flame do I emerge. I am the peacock angel, beauty revealed unto those who may see. As the black sun rises, I become in this emerald stone. I am the imagination, the seed of the fallen angel. In darkness exists my light. My will gives birth to the kingdom of Incubi and Succubi, to nourish their desires in the blood of the moon, Lilitu Az Drakul.”

  He took a small sip from the chalice, then exclaimed, “So it is done!” He handed the chalice to the High Priest, who in turn handed it to the person to the left of him, and thus the cup holding the blood of a Magus and Holy Priestess was shared by all who bore witness to the ceremony, adding collective power to the incantation.

  As the bowl found its way throughout the room, always being passed to the left, Mason returned his attention to Nathaniel Portman, who now sat with his knees pulled up to his chest. Mason enjoyed what he interpreted, for the first time, as fear upon the old man’s face.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  GRAMPS WATCHED THE CEREMONY with utter disgust. It was all poppycock. None of it made sense from a spiritualistic point of view. The only true part of the whole thing was the bloodletting. The rest was just made-up words. No self-respecting spirit would pay attention to such crap.

  Satanism seemed like so much shock-and-awe to him. Nathaniel wondered how many followers stayed with the religion. He guessed there would be the diehards, who truly wanted to believe because it made them physically feel good with all the sex. Then, there were those who used the satanic excuse to rebel against society and their families, because most were losers. They would never be a success no matter what they tried.