by Lanyon, Josh
“This is Adrien English,” Guy introduced me.
“Hello, Adrien English.” Garibaldi offered his hand. He had a strong grip, but his fingers were uncallused, his skin as soft as a woman’s. His eyes were black and intense, his mouth flesh-colored and sensual in line. It was a face of great character — what kind of character, I had no idea. “Guy tells me you have a small problem. Small, but interesting.”
I glanced at Guy, wondering exactly how much he had told Garibaldi. Everything — or at least everything that Guy knew — I bet.
“I hope you’ll find it interesting. I appreciate your agreeing to see me.”
He shrugged, a Gallic gesture. His eyes followed one of the girls — the topless one — as she rose from her lounge and dove neatly into the sparkling water. As though recalling himself, he beckoned us to follow him inside.
We found ourselves in a long, elegant room with a black and red Chinese screen and a marble statue of a noticeably excited satyr. The cause of the satyr’s excitement was not visible, but the results were pretty impressive.
Garibaldi went to the carved cherrywood paneling. He swiveled one of the brass sconces. The panel slid back, revealing a hidden bar well stocked with an inviting selection of expensive bottles and crystal stemware.
“It was built during Prohibition,” Guy informed me as Garibaldi poured green shots into three parfait glasses. I deduced that Guy had spent a fair amount of time visiting Oliver Garibaldi in his mansion on the hill.
I watched Garibaldi dip a perforated spoon into a jar, then pour water from a carafe over the white powder so that it drained into the glasses.
“Are you familiar with the green fairy, Mr. English?” Garibaldi inquired. His eyes met mine in the etched mirror above the bar.
“The green fairy?” I felt sure this was someone I should know.
“Absinthe,” Guy informed me.
The toast of La Belle Époque? I didn’t think that stuff was legal. Not that I wasn’t curious to try it. I felt certain that Oliver Garibaldi drank only the best.
“Hemingway was a fan, wasn’t he?”
“Hemingway, Poe, Wilde — Aleister Crowley. You’re heard of Aleister Crowley?”
Writer, painter, mountain climber, occultist, and sexual revolutionary? The tabloids had labeled him “The Wickedest Man in the World.” He had modestly referred to himself as “The Great Beast 666.”
“Sort of the father of modern Satanism, wasn’t he?”
Garibaldi permitted himself a curve of his lips at this. He brought Guy and me our drinks.
I could imagine what Jake would have to say about this, I reflected, sipping the milky potion. It tasted a bit like licorice, but with an herbal or floral undertone. It was like nothing I’d tried before.
I glanced up. Garibaldi was watching me with those coal black eyes. He had incredible presence, close to animal magnetism. It was hard to take my eyes off him.
“Cheers,” I said.
He fetched his own glass, taking one of the elegant chairs across from us. I reminded myself that he was sitting in a pair of damp swim trunks, however magnetic his personality.
“So?” His eyes held mine. “Tell me about this small problem of yours, Adrien English.”
I pulled the photo of the pentagram out of my Day Planner, handed it across to Garibaldi. He took it, made an expression of distaste.
“Paint.”
“Yes.” I wondered how he knew that at a glance, but perhaps he assumed the obvious.
“This is a childish prank. There is no mystery here.” He seemed disappointed. I found that I didn’t wish to disappoint him.
“There may not be mystery, but there is murder. That symbol has turned up at the scene of three ritual slayings.”
The black eyes raised, met mine. Moved to Guy for confirmation. Guy nodded imperceptibly.
“Ah.”
That was it. Ah. He made it sound profound.
I said, “That symbol. It’s a sigil, isn’t it, representing the name of a demon?”
He nodded, pondering the photograph.
“Would you happen to know which demon?”
He answered without hesitation. “The fifty-sixth spirit. Gremory. Also called Gamori, Gemory, or Gomory.”
“What does it do?”
“What do you know of demons?”
More than I had two weeks earlier.
“Well, I know that before Christianity, demons were considered either good or evil. Post Christianity, they seem to be primarily viewed as malevolent. Like junior league devils. Apparently a lot of earlier pagan deities have been dumped into the pantheon along with fallen angels and political figures.”
Garibaldi considered this gravely. “It is better not to judge demons by human standards of good and evil. Let us think of them as useful or not useful.”
“I actually don’t think of them as real,” I felt obliged to point out.
He fastened those jet eyes on mine. “No?”
One simple word that seemed to contain unspoken volumes.
I said, to fill the silence, “So what does Gremory do?”
“Do?”
Like, did I think he had a day job? Maybe he lounged around the pool drinking absinthe and fooling with red-haired nymphs.
“Would he be considered useful or not?”
Garibaldi replied, “He’s a powerful Duke of Hell who commands twenty-six legions. He appears as a beautiful noblewoman riding a great camel. It is his office to tell of all things past, present, and future.”
My demon was a camel-riding transvestite? The Devil Wears Prada, indeed.
“That’s it? He can tell the future?”
For the first time a glimmer of humor crossed Garibaldi’s austere features. “But you see, because the Duke knows all that has been, is, and will be, he has the ability to deliver all the lost treasure of the material world — as well as the sexual favors of the most desirable women.”
In other words, useless.
“So this demon’s seal at a grave site would indicate what? Human sacrifice in exchange for treasure and sexual favors?” It sounded like a frat boy’s dream come true.
Garibaldi shook his head. “You’re attempting to attribute logical motivations to an aberrant psyche. To the true Satanist, all life is sacred.”
We seemed to have moved away from the idea of useful and non-useful demons. Was I being fed the party line, or was this Garibaldi’s personal opinion?
“So it’s your opinion that these crimes were committed by a person with a warped view of Satanism?”
“I imagine this is the view of the media and the police, is it not?”
“That these killings are the work of Satanists? Yes.” But interesting that Garibaldi had leaped to the same conclusion. I remembered something from my reading. “I thought Aleister Crowley advocated blood sacrifice. Didn’t he actually boast about carrying out the ritual killing of children?”
“Crowley was a showman. He delighted in his reputation as the Wickedest Man in the World. Nor was he a true Satanist, although many of his ideas and writings were used as a foundation for traditional — theistic — Satanism.”
Guy said, “Anton LaVey is generally regarded as the real father of Modern Satanism. He borrowed from everyone from Crowley to Gardener to Ragnar Redbeard and formed the Church of Satan.”
“If these murders are the work of renegade Satanists, would you know of such a group?” I inquired of Garibaldi.
He handed me back the photos, saying lazily, “But they’ve caught the madman who committed these atrocities. The madman and his accomplice.”
At my expression, he said, “I read the papers, Mr. English. Indeed, I read several publications each morning. It is important to remain informed.”
“Have you ever heard of a group called Blade Sable?”
Lifting his glass, Garibaldi seemed to pause for the tiniest fraction of a second. He finished the motion, sipping and swallowing with great deliberation.
“No,” he
said. He met my eyes.
He’s lying, I thought. But he expects me to recognize that. I took out the photos of Angus and handed them across.
“This is the man they arrested. He worked for me — and for Guy.”
“The boy was my teaching assistant, Oliver,” Guy said. “The police are trying to draw a connection between him and my own teachings.”
“That is awkward, but hardly unexpected. Witch hunts are a national pastime here, are they not?” Garibaldi’s olive face was impassive as a basilisk’s as he studied the pictures. He handed them back. “Are you asking whether I know this man? I don’t.”
“I don’t believe Angus committed these murders,” I said. “But I think he knows about them. I think he was involved with a group called Blade Sable.”
“A group?”
“A cult.”
His lips twitched as though he found this funny, but was too polite to laugh in my face. “Where did you learn of this Blade Sable?”
“From a writer who disappeared about a week ago.”
Garibaldi permitted himself a colorless smile. “You believe that this sect is guilty of abduction and murder, but that the police would have no inkling that such an entity exists?”
“The police don’t have a lot of imagination.”
“Whereas you have a great deal.” Yep, he was distinctly amused. “Well, perhaps I shall make inquiries for you. It is an interesting problem. I make no promises, but if such an order exists, I’ll soon know.”
He drained his glass. Guy and I hastily did the same as he rose. The royal audience was clearly concluded.
“May I offer you luncheon?”
Guy said quickly, “Unfortunately, we’ve plans. However, I think Adrien would enjoy seeing your library, if you’ve the time.”
“But of course, my dear. It would be a pleasure.”
We followed him downstairs to a long, oddly shaped room papered in blood red brocade, lined with glass-fronted bookshelves. In the center of the room were several library tables and a couple of glass chests. A magnificent mummy case stood at the far end.
“Originally this was the screening room of Elias Creighton. I don’t suppose you would know of him, as he was long before your time. He killed himself in this room one night while watching one of his final films.”
I guessed that the room had begun its existence as a basement; it was chilly. There were no windows.
Garibaldi added with caustic humor, “No one knows whether this was a critical commentary of his own work or despair over the knowledge that his career was finished. Now the room serves as my library and personal museum.”
The books alone in that room had to be worth a fortune. I moved slowly from shelf to shelf, absorbing the titles with a combination of shock and lust. Magick in Theory and Practice by the Master Therion (Aleister Crowley), Moonchild by Aleister Crowley, Spirit Slate Writing and Kindred Phenomena by William Robinson, the Qabalah, The Golden Bough…shelf after shelf of occult classics.
The glass cases contained old and fragile grimoires as well as gem-studded ritual artifacts such as athames, chalices, wands, ceremonial masks, mortars and pestles. I noted a belt made of faded blue silk strands intertwined with beads. Not a belt. A scourge.
Strange exotic artwork hung above the bookshelves. I thought I recognized the efforts of Austin Spare and Rosaleen Norton from my recent reading. Demons and devils smirked and spread their wings — as well as other body parts — for the viewer’s pleasure.
“Would it be impertinent to ask whether you’re a Traditional or Modern Satanist?” I inquired of Garibaldi as he stood to the side conversing quietly with Guy.
He looked faintly amused. “Neither, I’m afraid. Like the true philosophers I’ve come to believe that religion is an illusion of childhood, outgrown after proper education.”
Chapter Eighteen
We stopped for lunch at Gli Amici off Sunset Boulevard, eating soup and French-style sandwiches at an uncomfortable wrought-iron table on a crowded patio. Overhead, seagulls swooped and sailed, their cries mingling with the crash of the surf a few yards away.
Surprisingly, there was plenty to talk about without once veering off into murder or demonology, but eventually we circled back to what was on both our minds.
“What did you think of Oliver?” Guy asked. He drew his pipe out, then put it away again. Apparently he was still adjusting to the fact that California was not a smoker-friendly state.
“He’s an interesting guy. But I think he knows more than he’s letting on. He avoided answering what significance the sign of Gremory might have at a crime scene.”
“He didn’t avoid it,” Guy objected. “He pointed out that it’s impossible to follow the reasoning of a disturbed intellect.”
“Not so. Profilers do that very thing. If the sigil has symbolic or ritual significance, then that’s an important clue to the killer.”
“Oliver doesn’t believe that’s the case.”
“Maybe he’s wrong. He dismissed the idea of group involvement, and I know that’s wrong. I didn’t imagine my run-in with Betty and Veronica.”
“Who?”
“Sorry. Betty and the Perone girl. Someone painted an inverted pentagram on my threshold. It wasn’t Angus, ipso facto, other people are involved.”
He didn’t reply. I studied his brown profile as he stared out at the beach. The sea breeze stirred the long silver tendrils on his forehead back from his face. His silence, his stillness seemed to shut me out — and I realized I didn’t like that.
“You said you spoke to this former student. Whatever he told you led you to infer that others were involved.” Casually, I added, “Granted, whatever he said also led you to believe that the problem had been resolved.”
Once again, I had Guy’s full attention. His face mirrored exasperation. “The point of visiting Oliver was that he’s the expert in this field. If he says there’s no cult involved, there’s no cult.”
I noticed Guy seemed touchy every time I brought up the subject of this mysterious former student. “Garibaldi didn’t say that. He said he had never heard of Blade Sable. I think he was lying.”
“Lying? Why should he lie?”
“Maybe he wanted to know a bit more about me before he revealed trade secrets.” I paused. “Or maybe he’s involved.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Well, you’ve got to admit that for one who professes to be above any form of religion, he’s got an awful lot of expensive religious artifacts lying around.”
Testily, he answered, “The fact that he’s reached a point in his own intellectual and spiritual development where he no longer requires the opiate of religion doesn’t nullify a lifetime spent in exploring and studying these mythologies.”
What was with me? I couldn’t seem to resist needling Guy. By his expression he was thinking the same thing. I said, trying to appease, “I agree. I’m not seriously suggesting he’s involved, just that I think he didn’t spill all he knows.”
The waitress arrived with the bill, forestalling an answer. I reached for it, but Guy was faster.
“Hey, this one’s on me,” I protested.
“I’ve got it.” When I opened my mouth to argue, he repeated, “I’ve got it.”
“Well…thanks, then.”
He nodded curtly, our earlier rapport gone.
Too bad, because I liked Guy, even if I didn’t totally trust him — although apparently I trusted him enough to coerce him into helping me help Angus.
I sensed he had allegiances to people who might not be as sympathetic to my aims. Garibaldi was one such person; another was this former student whom Guy had originally suspected of being involved in harassing Angus. Apparently Guy didn’t entirely trust me either, since he wasn’t sharing that person’s name — or maybe he was demonstrating loyalty to an old friend. Loyalty wasn’t a bad trait in a friend or a lover.
The problem was, I had made a bad mistake once — a nearly fatal mistake — and not that long ago. I d
idn’t intend to repeat history.
We walked back to the parking lot, folded ourselves into the red Miata, still without speaking. Guy started to pull out of the parking lot, then braked.
“D’you want to take a walk on the beach before we head back?”
I hesitated, thought, why not? “Sure.”
We parked along the highway and walked the steep, curved path to Abalone Cove.
As it was off-season, we had the beach to ourselves except for a pair of seals sunning themselves on rocks. Several yards out in the slate blue water, wet-suited surfers sat on their boards waiting for the next wave. Gulls squawked overhead, hanging motionless in the salty air.
Guy nodded out at the sun-dazzled ocean. “They’re seeing more white sharks along this stretch of coast.”
“Great whites?”
“Juveniles and sub-adults mostly.”
“Juveniles and sub-adults can do a lot of damage.”
“True.”
With his hair pulled back and the loose sleeves of his shirt, Guy had the look of a buccaneer. I admitted to myself that trust or no, I was increasingly attracted to him — but then, let’s face it, I’ve got a thing for pirates.
“You’re not seeing anyone?” I asked, against my better judgment.
He replied, as though stating it for the record, “I’m not involved in a serious monogamous relationship.”
I was, but it was apparently a solo effort.
I stopped to dump the sand out of my shoe, gripping the hand Guy offered as I balanced there on one foot. The muscles bunched in his forearm as he steadied me, his fingers locking with mine. He didn’t immediately let go when I straightened. We stood there for a moment holding hands; I tried to remember the last time I’d held a guy’s hand.
“It’s funny,” he said. “But the older I get, the more I value the conversation that takes place between the hot sex, as opposed to the hot sex itself.”
I grinned. “You are getting old.”
He laughed and let me go.
We walked and talked a while longer, both of us deliberately avoiding any subject that might disturb our newly-recovered amity. Guy spoke about studying and living in Great Britain, and I talked about the thrilling adventures of running a local bookstore.