Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  On the other side of the graveyard, patrolling the street beyond, was a cop car with a spotlight. The beam swept the cemetery with jerky, sudden motions. Lucas followed Panic to the car and, with the lights off, they eased out of the graveyard. Once on the street Panic turned on the lights on and floored the gas. The Escort's speed increased a little.

  "That was close," Panic said, looking in the rearview mirror.

  Painting over Mike's tombstone really bothered him, now that the drugs were wearing off. He was about to tell Panic what a jerk he was for doing it when Panic pulled another joint out from somewhere and lit it with a Bic torch. A moment later he was trying to remember what he was all steamed up about.

  Panic took him home. "I'll pick you up tomorrow night at nine and we'll have some real fun."

  "Okay," Lucas said.

  His parents had long since gone to bed, for which he was grateful. He found his way through the darkened house to his bathroom, closed the door and turned on the light.

  His eyes were red and puffy, and in the mirror he saw he was having trouble standing up straight. The fist of sleep was descending on him, but the evening's activities nagged like a splinter under his skin.

  "I can't believe I did that shit," he said, to the mirror, looking at himself with some difficulty. Then, I painted over Mike's tombstone. . . .

  The grief and remorse began to well up behind his eyes. He turned the light off before he saw the tears. In his bedroom he turned on the dim desk lamp, and looked for Doctor Vaughan's card. He had left it on the big gray blotter, but it was nowhere to be seen. He looked in his thin phone book for the number. The "V" page had been ripped out.

  Lucas was convinced that he had to call Mike's father. He was the only one who might, might understand . . . or care.

  He looked in the Albuquerque phone book for M. Vaughan, Physician, and dialed it from his black rotary phone.

  "Yes?" a man's sleepy voice said. "Doctor Vaughan here."

  "Yes, Doc, this is . . . uh . . . Lucas."

  "Who?"

  "Mike's friend."

  A long silence followed. Lucas was about to hang up when Doctor Vaughan said, "Are you okay, Lucas?"

  "Yeah, I'm . . . at home." How in Hell's name can I tell him I vandalized his son's grave marker?

  "Well, Lucas. I can't . . . talk to you. Your father called and said that I was to have no further contact with you."

  Lucas stared at the phone, then at the wall that divided his bedroom from his parents. You bastard.

  "Please do this for me," the doctor said. "Are you with me?"

  "Yeah," Lucas said. "I'm with you." But he had already given up hope.

  "No matter what happened tonight, call the suicide hotline."

  "No, you don't . . ." Lucas stammered.

  "No buts. Whatever you were going to tell me, tell them. Please."

  "Okay," Lucas said. "I miss Mike," he managed to get out.

  "I do, too," the doctor replied. "Please do it. Goodbye, Lucas."

  The line went dead, and Lucas replaced the receiver on the hook.

  Damn him, he thought, wishing his father dead. The prospect chilled him. Is this what Panic would want me to wish? He turned out the light and lay down on his bed. As he stared at the dark ceiling, Mutant, his black and white Manx, hopped up on the bed. The cat curled up between his arm and body, resting its head on his elbow and purring like a chainsaw. Mutant seemed to always know when he was upset, and slept as close as possible to him.

  At least Mutant gives a shit, he thought as he gently curled around the cat. Then the tears came with a vengeance, and he cried himself to sleep in the cat's fur, an ordeal Mutant endured without complaint.

  True to his word, Panic showed up the next evening promptly at nine. Panic was dressed in all black, even to black gloves with the fingers cut off. Around his neck hung a huge silver pentagram, point down.

  "You really are into this," Lucas said, recalling the bumper stickers.

  "You bet," Panic replied. "You still want to be initiated?"

  Lucas looked at Panic blindly.

  "You remember, don't you?" Panic persisted, and the edge of disapproval in his voice made Lucas nervous.

  "Well, yeah," Lucas lied. "I guess I was a little stoned. I'm not so sure now."

  This was the wrong thing to say. Panic's silence filled the car like thick fog; wordlessly he reached under his seat and pulled out a large manila envelope, then flipped on the dome light. "Here," Panic said abruptly. "Have a look."

  Curious as well as a bit intimidated, Lucas withdrew the contents of the envelope, a thin stack of glossy photos. His heart skipped a beat when he saw they were photos of himself spraypainting grave markers.

  "Thousand speed film," Panic said cheerfully. "Full moon gives excellent light. Now, what were you saying about the initiation?"

  Fear leaped into Lucas' throat, temporarily stifling a reply. "Okay, what do we do?" he asked, without emotion. "Initiation into what?"

  "The Temple," Panic said solemnly, touching his pentagram lovingly. "The Temple of Satan."

  Lucas knew he should have guessed it, though he had never heard of this group. I'll pretend to go along, he decided, then get the hell out, with those pictures and the negatives, and forget this ever happened!

  "You have an appointment with Damien," Panic said, putting the car in drive. "We will not be late."

  Howard Hull had belonged to a Satanic organization in Burbank. His parents had passed away, leaving him a tidy fortune in real estate and oil and gas royalties, allowing him to retire from his profession as a "Sanitation Engineer." Though he had dabbled in the occult as a teenager, and had studied Anton La Vey's The Satanic Bible, his beliefs in the black arts hadn't really taken flight until much later.

  Howard learned about the Church of Baphomet and wheedled an invitation to a meeting. To his delight, they quoted from The Satanic Bible chapter and verse. From the very beginning Howard was able to convince them of his sincerity by reciting from memory LaVey's Nine Satanic Statements.

  Howard joined the Church, changed his name to "Damien Szandor," and started a goatee. A few months later the group became mired in a child abuse case. One of the members ran a day care facility in Long Beach. Being a new recruit, Damien was not privy to the high-level activities, but he did hear of the deflowering rituals the Church of Baphomet engaged in, and put two and two together. He had been so looking forward to participating in the rites.

  Satan appeared to Damien in a dream. Go forth, and start your own Temple, Satan had commanded. The next day Damien liquidated what he could and left behind what he could not, and made arrangements to move out of state. Among his holdings were a rental house east of Albuquerque, currently vacant, and a small adobe on ninety acres south of the city. That property included an unused gravel pit. A good enough place to start the Temple of Satan as any, he'd decided, and set out for New Mexico.

  It all seemed so long ago, Damien thought as he peered from his living room bay window, regarding the moonlit valley that ran past the Sandia Mountains as if it were all his very own. He had worn his "Sunday best," the black silk Catholic priest's suit with one minor alteration: the white collar insert had been replaced with a jet black one, to reflect his role as group leader, the high priest, the Ipsissimus of the Temple of Satan.

  So Panic has found a new one, after all, Damien thought. The high priest had just re-dyed his goatee and hair jet black. Already naturally pale, Damien had applied a thin layer of white to his face to enhance his undead look. He picked up an old fashioned doctor's bag and, in his black Lexus ES300, took off for the suburbs of Albuquerque.

  Panic drove like a maniac, urging the Escort up to eighty. Conversation was impossible over the wail of the tortured engine. An old ghetto blaster bounced around on the back seat as they listened to fuzzy old tapes of Black Sabbath and Ozzy Osborne, music that had been around long before either of them had been born. And the higher he got on the fat cigarette they passed back and forth,
the less Lucas cared what happened to him.

  This may not be so bad, after all, he found himself thinking. The blackmail pictures weren't bothering him anymore, because they weren't for blackmail. They were to document his own willingness to serve the Master, Panic explained.

  Panic took an exit ramp that didn't seem to go anywhere, and turned down a gravel road. "This is it," Panic said, parking the Escort and turning it off; they were in total darkness. A short distance ahead of them a pair of headlights cut through the dark like a knife, then went out. "Let's go," Panic said, getting out and lighting the ground before them with a flashlight. Lucas followed him to a rocky clearing where a huge slab of concrete had been set up as an altar. On it was some kind of skull, a goblet, and a row of candles, which Panic lit with his Bic.

  When he regarded the thirteen black candles, lined up in a row behind what he now perceived as a cow's skull, the full understanding came to him: These people are devil worshipers, and I'm about to become one of them! Wouldn't father just shit if he knew! The thought added a rosy glow to the bizarre little ritual.

  "Behold, the Master," Panic said, getting down on his knees and bowing. A dark form appeared behind the altar, and Lucas repressed a shudder. It's a damned vampire!

  "Get down, you fool!" Panic hissed. "Show proper respect!"

  Lucas got down, cowering.

  "You may rise," a deep voice said, and the form behind the altar opened a dark cape and allowed it to drop to the ground. At first Lucas thought he was a Catholic priest. Then he saw the white collar was missing . . . or rather, the collar was all black. The "Master" was as pale as a ghost, and for an instant Lucas wondered if he was a vampire after all. Slowly, Panic got to his feet, his head remaining bowed. Lucas followed his lead.

  "Who wishes to become a member of the Temple of Satan?" the Master bellowed.

  Lucas stood there, feeling stupid. Panic elbowed him, hard, in the ribs.

  "Uh . . . I do," Lucas stammered.

  The Master rolled his eyes. "And who are you?"

  "I am Lucas," Lucas said. That's what he wanted, wasn't it?

  "Not so far as the Temple of Satan is concerned, you're not," the Master said. "Let's see, you are . . . let's make you Helter Skelter."

  "Yeah!" Panic whispered. "Way cool."

  "That is your new name. I am the Master, and you are always to refer to me as such."

  "Yes, Master," Lucas said, wondering if he was supposed to look at the "Master" when he said it. Dammit, they're not telling me anything, letting me screw up before . . . Before the anger took hold, he realized that he didn't care, that he wanted in this group, and he would jump in a river if they told him to. Finally, he was belonging to something, and it felt rather good.

  "Now drink from the chalice of hate," the Master said, "and be one with us!"

  Lucas took it and, without question, drank. Whatever it was, it tasted horrible, like something had died, or maybe sour milk. Only when he spilled some on his hands did he realize what it was: blood.

  Lucas suppressed an urge to vomit, and realized these people might appreciate something like that. But nothing came up. Panic took the cup, drank deeply, and handed it to the Master, who drained it.

  "Very good," the Master said, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. "You are one of us. You will not betray us, for if you do we will kill you, and drink your blood at future ceremonies."

  This is what I was looking for, he thought giddily, trying not to think about the blood he'd just drunk, or its origins. The Master retrieved his cape from the ground and walked away, disappearing into the darkness.

  Chapter Nine

  King Aedham Tuiereann stood before the tall window overlooking the fork of the two mighty rivers; he imagined himself on the bow of a large ship, its prow splitting the river in two. Watching the swift flow of the mighty Arannan and Gruac rivers had a profound calming effect.

  When will Avalon dispose of this scourge once and for all? he wondered as he gazed into the deep currents.

  He walked over the floor's chilled flagstones to the display cabinet against one wall. Inside were gifts from neighboring elfhames: jewels and gemstones, each coded specifically to him to allow instant communication to the gift's sender. Though some he could not name, he did recognize several examples of diaspar or elvenstone, the most precious gem of Underhill. Diaspar was rare and powerful, and as a gift of this nature its value was beyond measure.

  Set off to the side of the case was a small box of inlaid wood, its lid open to reveal a four-faceted blue crystal. It was, among other things, a memory crystal, a depository of his father's last thoughts. Niamh had identified it as being a specimen of amene crystal, a perfect stone for concentrating node energy. The stone had been used in the weapon Aedham had slain Zeldan Dhu with.

  That weapon, a long aluminum and magnesium rifle, complete with a backpack battery, hung on the wall of the solar. It had been dubbed "Madame Photon" during one of their celebratory castle-warming parties. In Underhill it was useless, with or without the crystal. In the humans' world, however, it amplified node power as it amplified light, and in a mage's hand was as powerful as a levin bolt, with a much longer duration and more easily aimed. It was kept as a trophy of the final battle . . . a battle which was turning out to be less final than he had thought.

  Aedham reached for the blue crystal, his hand hovering over the box. After all it had been through, he wondered if it still retained his father's message. That was why he had retired it from service, to preserve what might still remain recorded on it.

  One way to find out, he thought, and carefully picked it up. Holding it between his hands, he reached as if it were a node.

  He was only vaguely aware of the bright blue light which found its way through his fingers. In moments he was in touch with the stone's message. Closing his eyes, Aedham saw the flickering mage light, the tiny room, the few survivors of the attack. His mother, dead, under a blanket . . . himself, asleep on the floor, looking no more than twelve. The ceiling thundered with the levin bolt pounding. Falling dust, the walls that threatened to collapse. He saw it all, remembered it all . . .

  . . . this is the last message I will ever send you, dear son. All is lost here, as I record this crystal. Your mother has died and soon I will, too, but what is important is that you take the clan to safety. Zeldan Dhu will pursue you until he finds you and kills you, and once that is done he will kill the rest of the others, and there will be no Avalon. Do not misunderstand me, my dearest son. I want you to find safety in the humans' world, but once you've established yourself there, you must make yourself strong and attack Zeldan. Soon, and quickly. If you don't attack, he will surely kill you. That is the only way you will survive, and this request is the only gift I can give the elfhame, in my dying breath. Find Zeldan and—

  The message ended, suddenly, and Aedham found himself kneeling on the flagstones, trembling. Collecting himself, Aedham got to his feet and returned the crystal to its box, and closed the lid.

  How he yearned for Japhet's severed head on the end of a pike, to post just outside Avalon territory as a warning to other Unseleighe who might try to subdue them!

  The fire in the solar's hearth had dimmed, and with a touch of magic Aedham gave it new life. The King had felt a chill spread throughout the castle the moment Petrus had returned with news of the Unseleighe. In his mind's eye he saw another Unseleighe army, larger than Zeldan's, massing on the other side of the rivers, with the familiar black eagle banners that had heralded so much disaster in his elfhame's past.

  Are we ready this time? He'd awakened many a night with that question burning in his mind.

  He wanted to accompany his men to the humans' world and slay Japhet himself, but his first obligation was to his people. His father's message, still impossibly clear after all this time, had convinced him of this.

  I must protect the clan, he thought, the decision slamming down like a hammer, and send my best men to hunt down Zeldan's son. That's what Fath
er would have done.

  Petrus was sound asleep now, but when he awakened the King would tell him he would be in charge of the small unit; Aedham hoped the youth was up to it. If not, there's always Odras, Aedham thought, knowing the wise old mage would work his magic in ways no one would see, if necessary, no matter who was officially in charge.

  Petrus is a capable warrior, and a leader. We're ready for you, this time, Unseleighe vermin!

  While he was fantasizing about the slaughter of an Unseleighe army, his mage hearing picked up the faintest cry. The vision shattered. Aedham turned, pulled his royal robe around him, and started for his bedchambers, two floors up.

  I'm coming, young Traig, Aedham sent, though he knew the words would only be buried in the baby's wails.