Her pulse quickened as she heard footsteps ascend the stairs. She squelched the desire to sit up and watch for the door to open. With her back to the door on the opposite side of the bed, she watched more light enter the room as the door opened. His shadow on the wall before her was imposing.
He took a few steps into the room; then she heard a drawer slide open. She knew it was the one in which he kept his journal. Each night he would sit with his back against the headboard and pen at least a line or two about his day.
Stephanie waited to feel his weight upon the bed. Her heart beat hard with anticipation. Then she heard him cross back to the door and pull it closed behind him. She didn’t even need to wonder if he had remained in the room as she listened to his feet descend the stairs.
She buried her face in her pillow and wept. Each footfall was another nail struck by Brendan’s hammer; another nail driven into the coffin in which lay her dying heart.
6:34 A.M.
AFTER A FITFUL night and very little sleep, Stephanie reluctantly extracted herself from the bed. Truth be told, she would have gotten up an hour earlier except that she feared leaving the bedroom. But, she knew she couldn’t remain inside it all day, and now was as good a time as any to face whatever new harshness Brendan might have in store for her.
It was possible that he was in a better mood this morning. Surely, he had become remorseful over his words and actions of the day before.
With that slight hope, she crept down the stairs in her pajamas, thinking she might find Brendan asleep on the couch or maybe in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. Halfway down the stairs she saw a vacant couch; no pillow, no blanket. Reaching the bottom of the flight she turned right through the living room and hesitantly walked into the kitchen where disappointment again struck her soul. A look at the sink and the breakfast nook added to the realization that he had not stayed in the house the previous night.
A look out the kitchen window facing the garage showed that his truck was gone. Had he left right after taking his journal? Where had he gone to spend the night?
Maybe she was over thinking things. It might be as simple as Brendan taking one or two of last night’s initiates to breakfast or to some coffee joint before they left the country. But when had he ever done anything like that? She sighed.
He had been so angry; angry enough to spit poison at her, anyway. But he had been amazing, yet again, during the initiation—the blood-letting ceremony.
There had been no pomp and circumstance. It had been really, more or less, a swearing-in ceremony.
AFTER THE CELEBRATION feast, all of the initiates, once again wearing tunics, gathered outside in front of the porch, even as the hundreds of others departed the property for the final time. These were the priests and priestesses of all of the covens, domestic and international.
Each man and woman was handed a length of rubber surgical tubing, a sterile wipe, a piece of gauze, and a large hypodermic syringe as he passed through the front door of the farmhouse and into the living room. All of the furniture had been pushed out of the way, allowing the large room to accommodate the forty-plus initiates.
The floor had been covered with transparent Visqueen, a self-adhering plastic sheeting, to protect it from any spillage or splatter that may occur. A single round coffee table was at the center of the room. On it were six lit candles surrounding a large ceremonial bowl covered in Pictish symbols. Also, two decanters, one filled with water another filled with isopropyl alcohol, sat to the outside of the candles.
Brendan stood in the living room and greeted each individual by name as he and she entered. He kept a solemn look upon his face which kept the atmosphere both somber and quiet.
When all were in the room, including Stephanie, David, and the whole of the Home Coven, Brendan asked the faithful to form two concentric circles around the table, leaving enough room for him to walk around the table and in between the two human rings.
Brendan walked around the table and spoke while looking into the eyes of each individual. When he came to look into Stephanie’s she was sure she was provided with a purposefully-icy stare. She tried to shake it off in order to pay attention to the rite of passage.
“My people—my brothers and sisters of the Olde Faithe—tonight is a night of submission. This is a branding of loyalty, and each of you must take it of your own free will.
“There is an old joke that is used sometimes when someone is entering a contract that is causing the signer some measure of trepidation. The contract holder attempts to assure the signer that things will be just fine by saying something along the line of, “Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m having you sign in blood.”
“Tonight, however, that’s exactly what I’m asking you to do. It will not be signatures on paper, but rather something even more personal and binding. You will be signing on the souls of each of your brothers and sisters in this room.
“First, though, I want to have your verbal commitments. I will walk the inner circle followed by the outer. I will look you in the eyes seeking your answer. If you offer yourself freely to the Olde Faithe, you will affirm so as you look me in the eyes.”
Brendan reached down to the table and picked up his sterile wipe and cleaned an area on the inside of his left elbow. Then he called upon Eithne and Mùirne to come stand before him. One was a member of the Home Coven and a phlebotomist, the other was from one of the covens in Ireland and a full-time nurse. He handed Eithne the surgical tubing which she tied above his left elbow. Then after handing her his syringe and gauze she proceeded to insert the needle and siphon blood to the amount of five milliliters. Withdrawing the needle, she placed the piece of gauze over the insertion point and indicated to Brendan to hold it in place by lifting his hand up toward his shoulder. She then handed him the syringe.
Brendan turned to the table and held the needle over the ceremonial bowl. He pressed the plunger into the syringe and forced its contents into the bowl. Setting the needle on the table he spoke again. “Nothing to fear,” he said with a wry grin.
“Eithne and Mùirne will come to each of you and perform what you’ve seen done with me. Once all have been attended to, you will be asked to come forth and mix your blood with that of mine.”
Brendan turned around and looked into the eyes of the closest individual, a woman, and said, “Ceana, do you pledge your heart, your mind, your body, and your livelihood to the cause of the Picti? Do you commit yourself to the Olde Faithe with a willingness to give up your very life for it? Do you consign your soul to the Pictish gods of old?”
“I swear that I do,” she said without hesitation.
Brendan lifted his right hand and laid it upon her head for a moment before moving to his right to ask the same question of the next initiate. Over and over he asked the questions, looking each individual in the eyes; each of them affirming his and her allegiance to the faith. As he moved from one to another Eithne and Mùirne would leap frog each other to make sure that each initiate’s blood-letting took place quickly.
After all of the affirmations and the shedding of blood were complete, all of the faithful made their way to the ceremonial bowl mixing their vials of life with that of the others. That complete, Stephanie stepped to the table to take on her pre-assigned duty.
She lifted the bowl of blood into the air and called upon the deities. “Gods of the Olde Faithe of the Picti people, we call upon all of you this night to take this blood offering and consecrate it for your use. Let this be forever remembered by each person in this room as a blood oath, an oath of service to you, our people, and to our ancient lineage. May it be done.”
“May it be done,” echoed all in the room.
Stephanie put the bowl onto the table and took the decanters of water and alcohol, one in each hand, and poured an equal amount of both into the ceremonial bowl, both diluting and making the mixture safe for the next element of the rite.
“I want everyone in the room to find someone that he or she did not know prior to coming t
o Pittston and then face one another.”
There was a rustle as everyone, including Brendan and Stephanie, shifted from one location to another to find someone unknown to him the week before.
Stephanie did not know whether what she would say next would be true of the Picti warriors of old, but she had heard it was true of some Native American tribes as they had prepared for battle. Regardless, her next statement would hopefully make things a bit more comfortable for each man who was paired with another man.
“It is said that Picti warriors would prepare each other for battle; that each warrior would offer another his own courage and will to live. That warrior would paint upon his brother his promise of faithfulness and loyalty in battle. That is what we do here tonight.
“It does not matter what Pictish symbol or image you choose, it is enough that you are taking your blood, and the blood of your brothers and sisters, and making an oath of faithfulness to the one before you. Draw the symbols over each other’s hearts with your fingers. After tonight, everyone in this room will be tied together by the blood of everyone else; a bond of Picti blood.”
Stephanie untied the sides of her tunic and lifted the article of clothing from her shoulders and discarded it on the floor. As she stood naked, the others in the room understood her cue and removed their tunics as well. Stephanie was paired with a large man, tall and a few pounds overweight. She could tell that he was struggling to keep his eyes from roaming her body.
Turning to the table and the bowl, she dipped two of her fingers into the bloody mixture and stirred the contents. Taking them out, she drew a Celtic comb over his heart. She again turned to the bowl and brought it before the man. He dipped his fingers in and drew over her heart a symbol that on many standing stones appeared to be a mirror. She smiled and gave him a nod.
Stephanie then carried the bowl to each pairing in the room allowing them to dip their fingers and perform the rite of fidelity. Not a single word was spoken, though there were many smiles and no small amount nervous energy.
At the conclusion of the rite, Brendan picked up his tunic and placed it back over his muscular form. After securing the sides, he spoke as the others in the room also donned their clothing. “Tonight we have become one people. We are now truly our brothers’ and our sisters’ keepers. We will protect each other. We will correct each other. We will connect with each other. Protect, correct, and connect.”
Brendan paused. Stephanie saw what probably no one else did, a twinge of frustration that struck his features.
“Everyone in this room knows about the ceremony that did not take place tonight. Rest assured, though, that the Picti will soon have its vengeance for the betrayal that led to the extinction of our culture and religion. The appeasement sacrifice will take place. I promise you that. I’m only sorry that you will not be a part of it.
“Brothers and sisters of the Picti faith, go now and lead your people well.”
With those final words to the group as a whole, he walked to the front door and opened it. All in the room exited the house with words of affirmation from their leader. That is, all but two; David and Stephanie.
STEPHANIE STILL STOOD in the kitchen. The morning sun was creeping over the trees in the distance to fill the room with natural light. Again, she sighed and moved to begin her day without her lover.
She wanted to be positive about all that the two of them had accomplished over the past few weeks. She wanted to believe that she was important to all that would take place moving forward.
Today all of the Picti would begin to travel the long distances to their respective homes and commence the formal reestablishment of the Picti as a unified people. Maybe one day the Picti would even have their own homeland again.
Stephanie knew she should have felt ecstatic, but instead she felt abject sorrow and dread. She felt that she had gained the whole world, but lost her soul in the process.
Tara stood with her back turned to the bedroom vanity. She lifted her hand-held mirror before her to get a good look at her tattoo. If I had gotten rid of it years ago I might not have been thrust back into the middle of all of this. She turned around and put the mirror down. But what this tattoo has brought me into is not a coincidence, is it?
She finished getting ready to take on her day. She felt a sense of adventure, an exhilaration that quickened her pace. Maybe today would be another day of revelations, maybe it wouldn’t. Regardless, just knowing that something big was going on around her and that God was seeing fit to use her… Well, it made her want to do more! But what would that be?
As she left her bedroom and began walking down the stairs, she felt a light dizziness that caused her to stop and grab the banister. Her headache was coming back, too. She sighed and made her way downstairs and into the kitchen to take a couple more pain relievers. Maybe a combination of Aleve and ibuprophen would do the trick.
Grabbing one of each and downing them with a bottle of water, she walked into the living room. A wave of intense nausea coursed through her midsection and she immediately ran into the bathroom, barely making it to the commode in time. Sweat broke out on her forehead and shoulders and she began to shake. What’s going on? She rested on her knees for a few minutes and caught her breath. She felt weak and suddenly tired.
Feeling relatively sure that she wouldn’t expel again, she got up, flushed the toilet, and washed her face. She felt a little better. Or did she? Her headache intensified.
Tara walked to the pantry and took out a box of saltine crackers, grabbed another bottle of water and two more pain relievers, then walked to the living room and sat on the couch. Maybe her day of adventure was to consist of a day of Gunsmoke and Bonanza on TV Land.
9:07 A.M.
BRENT SAT AT his desk looking over reports that were left from his third-shifters. Just another typical night in the burbs, he mused. Looking up he saw Tracy Larkin going about his day.
He’d known Tracy for over ten years and had a lot of admiration for him. Despite that, he still periodically wondered what kind of parent named a boy Tracy. Larkin took his job seriously and garnered a lot of respect from those with whom he worked.
Brent was suddenly struck by a thought. “Corporal Larkin!”
Tracy looked over to Brent who waved him over.
“I thought we knew each other well enough to be on a first-name basis,” Tracy said with a coy grin.
Brent smiled. “Got a minute?”
Tracy pulled back a chair at the front of Brent’s desk and sat down. “What’s up?”
“Chief Connor in Pittston. Know him?”
“I’ve encountered him a couple of times at cop functions and at Batterson’s funeral.”
Brent recalled that sad day. The Pittston police officer, Kevin Batterson, had been shot point blank by a man from Fairborn, Michigan after pulling the man over for a simple broken tail light.
“Know anything about him? On a personal level, I mean?”
It showed on Tracy’s face that he didn’t know where this was going. “Nothing. Why? What’s going on?”
“Just found out that he lied to Morelli during a call that the captain placed to him yesterday.”
Brent filled him in on the details, including the evidence of occult activity in the town. Aside from the fact that Connor had blatantly lied, Tracy wasn’t overly concerned about what might be happening in Pittston.
“First of all, it’s none of our business,” Tracy began. “Second, who cares about a bunch of religious nut jobs—present company excluded, of course,” he concluded with a laugh.
Brent smirked. He enjoyed the banter that the two of them had; he’d been sharing his faith with Tracy for years. Brent knew that Larkin was at least willing to respect his beliefs, though he refused to ascribe to the idea of a literal Heaven and Hell. That had led to some interesting conversations over the years.
“Do you have any friends on the force over there?” Brent probed. “I’d really like to get the scoop on this religious group.”
“John Eldredge works first shift out there.” Tracy looked at his watch. “I’m sure he’s out on patrol right now.” He looked at Brent for a moment before asking his next question. “Brent, you’re not doing an end-round, are you? Is this off-the-record stuff or does the captain know you’re investigating something out of our jurisdiction?”
Brent pursed his lips, which gave Tracy his answer.
“Don’t do this, Brent. This is the kind of thing that ends badly for a good cop.”
Brent combined his pursed lips with a nod.
Tracy sighed and pulled out his cell phone. “Here’s Eldredge’s phone number. I think he’ll keep quiet about your call if you ask him to.”
12:13 P.M.
BRENT PULLED INTO his driveway. Jenna had called to let him know that Tara was laid up on the couch in the family room. Brent couldn’t stay away.
Entering the house, he nearly bumped into Jenna who was on her out, her new purse slung over her shoulder.
“What’s going on with Mom,” he asked?
She shrugged. “Headache and dizziness. She said she’s going to be okay and told me to get out of the house and not to worry. So, Kara Parker and I are going to the mall.”
Brent kissed Jenna on the top of her head and smiled. “I’m sure she’s right. I’ll see you later this afternoon. Love you.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”
As Jenna left, Brent walked into the family room at the rear of the house. His wife lay on the couch with a cold compress on her forehead.
“It’s not a migraine, is it?” he asked as he strode into the room.
She rolled her head and opened her eyes into a squint. “How would I know? I’ve never had one before.” She forced a smile. “No, it’s just a strong, regular ol’ headache.”
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