“How old were you?” I ask.
“I don’t know…fourteen, fifteen.”
“You lived at the silo all that time?”
“On and off. I’d hang out at clubs where Blood Moon was playing, and I met all these fans who called themselves the Sodality. I wanted to be a part of that, a part of something. And ʼcause I needed money for the meth, I started doing spells for people at the club and they would pay me. I’d put curses on people and they usually worked, so I got to be pretty popular. Sometimes I stole stuff. I went to my mom’s house and stole her jewelry and even this gun she had, and sold them. Whatever I could find. Once, I put a hex on my father for leaving us, and a month later, I found out he had a heart attack and died.”
Mace stops eating, clearly shamed by that memory.
“How did you get involved with Jam…I mean, Torega?” Penny asks.
His face twitches. “I met him at a Blood Moon gig. He found me and told me he’d heard about my sorcery skills. He worked for a cartel called Rosa Negro. Black Rose. The leader is La Parca—‘Grim Reaper.’ I thought that was a cool name. La Parca owned some seafood companies, fronts for his drug business. He was expanding his operation to Buffalo. Torega offered me and the Sodality all the crank and smack we could want in exchange for doing certain rituals. No brainer. I was like, bring it on.”
“So you went into business with La Parca.”
Mace nods. “Until that night at the silo. When I got caught, I confessed and told the cops all about Torega and the cartel. La Parca put out a hit on me.” He leans back in his chair and rubs one arm obsessively. “They never give up. They will find me and kill me, only they won’t do it quickly. They’ll use me for a sacrifice. That’s what happens to anyone who betrays them.” His voice breaks. “I’m sure La Parca is the one who got me out of jail early. I don’t know how he did it but I know that he has people everywhere, even in the government, the prison system, and the courts. They’re everywhere.”
Penny uses a tissue to dry her damp cheeks. I set my jaw. I do not want to feel sorry for this boy.
“You’re safe here,” Ralph says in a gentle voice. “But more importantly, you are forgiven. Always remember that.”
“Forgiven,” he repeats. “You mean, you can just ask God to forgive you…and He does it?”
“When there is a transgression, there is always a cost. Someone has to pay. That’s what Jesus did, on the cross. He paid, because you could not, no matter how hard you tried.”
“But the stuff I did, it’s way worse than the stuff any of you did.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Mace’s head moves slowly back and forth. “That don’t make sense.”
“You’re right—it’s completely illogical,” Ralph replies. “But that’s what makes it…wonderful.”
“Satanism makes a lot more sense,” Mace says. “At least, it used to. The way Ned and Fred taught me, if you give your life to Satan, you get power. Money. Total freedom. You can do anything.”
“Anything Satan wants you to do,” Silas murmurs.
“Everyone worships something,” Ralph adds. “And whatever you worship owns your soul.”
After dinner, while Mace and Penny clear the table, I take Ralph into the other room. “You aren’t going to let him stay here, are you?”
“For the time being,” Ralph says. “He has nowhere else to go. Besides, we have plenty of room these days.” His voice chokes up. “Mace has a lot to learn about God. I can help him with that. It feels good to…help someone.” He turns away so I won’t see his tears.
“We’ll find him.” I put my arms around his waist and hold on.
“Of course we will.”
25: Conversations
Jared
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope,” says Speer. “Look, I’m the kind of guy who believes in the power of possibility—that’s how I live my life. If this Abyss really exists, and these Watchers you say are your—our—ancestors, I want to see for myself.”
I shake my head. “Not possible. And even if it were, I would never go back.”
His eyes bore into mine. I steel myself for a long argument. In the end he sighs. “Think about it anyway. We’ll talk more.” He picks his napkin up and begins folding it in an intricate pattern. I’ve noticed he can never keep his hands still. “We’ll be docked in the morning.”
“Where? Switzerland?”
“No. Reykjavík.” He grins at my alarm. “I have some business in Iceland, and I own a nice little place there. You’ll like it. It’s off the grid. It’ll give you time to think things over.”
“I don’t need time.”
“If you change your mind, it’s only a short flight to Norway—”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“Just saying. You might need some time anyway. All of this will be hard to explain to your family, won’t it? Will you tell them about this? That you signed a contract?”
I say nothing. He smiles.
“That’s what I thought. So I’m doing you a favor, see?”
“You need to book me on the first flight to New York.”
He sighs, still folding the napkin. “Okey-dokey. If that’s what you really want. First flight to New York.”
“Fine,” I stand and turn to leave.
“Wait…tell me something. Why did you go there in the first place?”
“Where?”
“The Abyss.”
I hesitate, but I know he won’t stop asking until I give him an answer. “To kill Azazel.”
“Azazel?”
“One of the Watchers.”
Speer finishes his napkin sculpture and sets it on the table between us. It’s shaped like an angel, wings and all. “Tell me about this Azazel.”
I take a breath. “He was one of the leaders of the Two Hundred, the Watchers who descended to earth on Mount Hermon and sinned with human women.”
“So you’re saying that angels have—body parts?”
“In this realm.”
“This realm? You mean our own visible universe?”
“Yes.”
“So they exist also in another, invisible realm?”
“Yes.”
“And they can go back and forth?”
I nod. “Some of them have that power.”
“Fascinating.” He glances around. “Are there any in this room right now?”
“Angels? Maybe.”
“Demons?”
“A few.”
“Really?” His eyes widen. “What do they look like?”
“They look like…you and me.”
Speer stares at me a moment, then throws his back and laughs. “You can be funny when you want to be.”
“I’m not joking.” But he doesn’t hear me. He’s too busy laughing.
***
I stand at the bow the rest of the night and watch the northern lights dance in the sky—an undulating curtain of blues and greens and purples. Seeing the lights awakens something inside me, something I’d thought long dormant. Fear. Longing. Dread. The irresistible pull of the Dark. Even here, on this boat a thousand miles from Seiland, I am much too close to the Abyss, that place of my origin and my curse.
We head into Reykjavík Harbor as the sun rises. The gentle peaks of western Iceland surround us. Clouds descend, making the air heavy with dew—mist settles like a blanket on the water. There is a mystical quality to this scene that makes me feel at home.
Many large fishing boats are at anchor as well as a small cruise ship. Lucille’s crew flies into action, guiding the yacht to its berth and tying in. The passengers come to the top deck to watch Iceland’s capital city reveal itself. A sea of low, colorful buildings gives way to the breathtaking backdrop of stark gray mountains dusted with green.
“Great, isn’t it?” Harry remarks.
I don’t respond although I sense Shannon’s eyes on me. I turn away and go to my room to get my things.
My passport is missin
g.
I find Speer and demand he return it. He says he knows nothing about it.
“You had my backpack all the time I was drugged,” I say. “Someone took my passport out of my backpack.”
“Jared, I will find out who did this, I promise.” The crew searches the yacht but my passport isn’t found.
I still suspect this is one of his games—a way to keep me around a little longer. Speer assures me that we will go to the embassy and have my passport replaced at once. I have no other recourse but to agree.
“Let me call my family,” I say. “I need to tell them I’ll be home soon.”
“Oh, sure, you can use the phone on the yacht.”
I go to the bridge, and the captain hands me a ship phone. I dial the number, but the call won’t go through. After several failed attempts, I give up.
“Must be the heavy cloud cover,” says the captain. “But you can send an email.” He gives me access to the yacht’s computer. I sit down, wondering what I should say.
I’m with Speer in Iceland. Need to replace my passport but will be home soon. Don’t worry. I’m fine.
I should write more explain all that has happened. But Speer is right. I can’t tell them what I’ve done. Not yet. I dread the moment when I get home and have to confess it all. I can already see Ralph’s disappointment and Grace’s disbelief in my mind’s eye. It is enough, now, to let them know I’m alive.
Once we disembark, Speer says goodbye to the Ravels, who are flying directly to California. Harry shakes my hand and tells me again what a “great” thing I am doing for humanity.
Shannon gives me a knowing smile. “Give my love to Grace.”
Marta supervises the offloading of several refrigerated crates, shouting at the crew to be careful. My blood is in those crates. I have a manic thought. What if I destroyed them? Walked over and casually tossed them into the harbor?
But I do nothing.
I wonder about Speer’s plan to manufacture a serum from my DNA. Switzerland, he had told me, is one of the easiest places to get new medical treatments onto the general market. Still, it will take some time. Perhaps the trials will fail and the serum won’t be approved. I perhaps the serum will prove ineffective on non-carriers. I can hope for that.
But Speer will not be deterred for long. He will put his treatment on the black market for those who can afford to pay millions for the gift of perfect health and perpetual youth. Shannon no doubt will be one of his first customers.
Speer directs Lucille and me to a car, and we drive to the embassy, stopping along the way at the passport center to have a new picture taken. Once they realize Darwin Speer is in the house, the embassy workers promise to fast-track the application. The passport will be ready tomorrow.
We drive to a private airfield outside the city. A black helicopter with the golden spear logo stands waiting, the rotors turning lazily.
“Let’s go for a ride!” Speer’s childlike enthusiasm is grating. We fly low under the layer of heavy cloud, and the mist below us breaks, revealing a barren, moon-like terrain, broken by deep craters and narrow rivers. Iceland, the land of fire and ice, a landscape out of some fairy tale universe. According to Speer’s running commentary in my headset, this island is very young and still growing: volcanos erupt frequently, and earthquakes rip apart tectonic plates. A deep fissure runs through the entire island, like an open wound widening each year.
I keep my eyes on the scenery to avoid Lucille’s unblinking stares.
“You’ll like Iceland, Jared,” Speer says. “They believe in invisible people too.”
“Invisible people?”
“Elves. The people here are mad about them. I couldn’t even build my house until I had it officially certified elf-free. Cost me almost ten thousand dollars.” He laughs. “Ask anyone in Iceland and they will have an elf story to tell. Icelanders are very good at telling stories. They’re mostly descended from Vikings anyway, so you’ll feel right at home.”
A half hour later, we land on a high plateau ending at a dramatic cliff on the ocean’s edge. The chopper shimmies, buffeted by gusty winds, as it settles into place. Speer jumps out and helps Lucille.
“Where’s the house?” I duck to avoid the rotors and follow them away from the chopper.
“Right in front of you!”
I can’t see anything but a blade of white concrete surging from the edge of the cliff. Speer leads us down a flight of stairs and through a narrow passage. As we enter the house, it reveals itself: a soaring structure of glass and concrete that sweeps out over the sea. The house stands poised on the precipice, like a knife handle sticking out of the rock, the blade imbedded in the earth.
“I saw the design for this house on an architectural website.” Speer is clearly pleased with my reaction. “Everyone said it couldn’t be built. So of course I had to build it.” He takes me through the sparsely furnished main room with its wall of windows to the wide balcony. I glance over the railing to the waves crashing against the cliff’s edge, overwhelmed by an urge to jump. Swaying, I take a white-knuckled grip on the rail.
“What do you think?” Speer asks.
“It’s…hard to put into words.”
“I know, right?”
“I’m going to take a nap,” says Lucille from the doorway. When she disappears from view, I glance at Speer.
“She seems…off.”
“She’s fine. You’re something of a distraction—better lock your door tonight.” He winks and heads inside. “Look around, make yourself at home. Dinner will be ready in a half hour.”
“Are you cooking?”
“Of course! I love to cook. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
***
A noise invades my senses, heavy with sleep. I’m surprised, as sleep is still an uncommon experience for me. I rise and look around, searching for the source of the sound—monotonous and rhythmic, like an army marching to war.
I leave my room and creep along the hallway to the concrete stairs. The bedrooms are underground, and the lack of windows creates a Stygian darkness. The thudding noises grow louder as I ascend to the main floor and go out to the deck. I hear a strange noise over the crashing sea, like chanting. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I go inside and take another set of stairs to the upper level. Lights flicker in the windows—I follow them to the upper deck. The chanting grows. The lights become torches encircling a large bonfire near the cliff. Dark shapes twirl and dance around the fire. Demons.
A dream. I’m still asleep. I try to wake up, but I can’t.
Something touches my shoulder. I whirl, then cough and sputter when a cloud of dust fills my nostrils, burns my eyes and bites into my throat.
“Come with me.” The voice emanates from within the cloud. Female. I cannot tell if it’s demon or human. A hand clutches my arm and leads me down the steps to the ground where the fire rages and the demons dance. I focus my burning eyes on the figure leading me—a flowing robe, a hood, teasing glimpses of pale skin, and eyes black as midnight.
The chanting pierces my brain and makes me dizzy and disoriented. Heat courses through my veins like rivers of molten lava bursting through my skin.
The dancers gather around me. The spawn of Azazel, exploding into kaleidoscopic patterns of color I never knew existed. The patterns are strangely symmetrical, far too perfect, the faces hidden by masks. But the eyes blaze and waft, multiply and diminish, a hundred and then one and then a hundred again. They chant a single word.
Babble, babble, babble.
I stand before a large, flat stone. The robed figure tugs at my arm and then gives me a firm shove, so that I find myself lying down. The stone is hot from the fire and it sears my naked back. I’m naked? I don’t remember undressing.
The chanting rises to a roar.
—Flee! Flee!
I try to rise—a hand pushes me back onto the stone. I comply as if I have no will to refuse.
I see red—lips, red as blood, and bright, famili
ar eyes. Something sharp touches me—a knife? The blade slides down my arms and my legs, igniting every inch of my body, until I am nothing but a raging flame that spreads to the edges of my fingers and into the stone itself, turning me to ash.
26: Figure it Out
Grace
Ripley forwards Jared’s email to me. I read it over and over, unbelieving. That’s it? That’s all we get? It makes me spitting mad. How dare he? He disappears without telling us where he’s going and doesn’t even have the decency to call and then…this?
“Maybe he can’t say anymore,” says Penny. “Maybe they have him under surveillance and they are controlling what he says. Otherwise, he would have called, right? Not emailed.”
Ripley does manage to trace the location of the email server. “He’s in Iceland all right,” he says. “Makes sense. Speer has a house there, although no one knows exactly where it is. They say you can only get there by helicopter.”
But why didn’t he say more? I concoct an elaborate scenario in my head—Jared acting as a spy, learning Speer’s secrets and his intentions. He would come home soon and reveal all.
Another day passes with no further word. And then I get a call out of the blue. From Shannon.
“Grace…” Her voice is tentative, as if she’s afraid I will hang up. “How are you?”
“Uh…okay. What’s the matter? Is everything all right?” I wonder if Lilith is back but I hear no trace of the demon in her voice.
“Yes, fine. I’m in New York. I wondered if I could come and see you. I—I need to talk to you.”
“You want to come here?” My mind scrambles for an excuse. I’m traveling to Paris. I’m under quarantine. I’m going into witness protection.
“Only for an hour. I can’t stay.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Great. I’ll be in Buffalo in two hours. Can we meet somewhere?”
I give her the name of a restaurant called the Flying Tigers, near the airport.
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