More mystical mumbo-jumbo, he thought. They can't even be bothered to chant it in Latin.
But as he edged closer to the group, he felt the electric charge in the air intensify. There was an undeniable power about the ceremony, no matter how much contempt Quigley felt about Clay's beliefs. And, if he was right about the Kavanagh boy, these people would even stoop to murder.
The priest set down his bag and took out a large crucifix and the prayer book. He had memorized the ceremony of exorcism, anticipating near-total darkness. But the last light of the sun was still bright enough to make out the words. He began to intone the ancient ritual as loudly as he could, and heads turned as people in the outer circle heard him.
“Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies,” he chanted, “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in our battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of this world of darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places.”
“Stop him!” shouted a voice that might have been Clay's.
Continuing the rite, Quigley raised up the cross. He heard angry voices, and mocking laughter. A couple of men were coming towards him, their faces angry. The priest had a sudden conviction that he was going to be thrown off the mound.
They would call it an accident, he thought, as he continued to intone the rite.
But before the men could get to him, there was a sudden rumbling noise, so deep that it was felt rather than heard. The ground seemed to shift under Quigley and he almost fell. There were exclamations of surprise, tinged with fear, from the circle of dancers. The last of the sun dipped below the horizon.
“Do not be afraid!”
It was Olivia's voice, loud and confident. Quigley saw her standing close by the fire, arms upraised, the flickering light playing over her naked form.
“Continue the ritual!” she commanded. “The Great Old One is starting to awaken!”
Clay rushed up to her, seemed to protest, gesturing at Quigley.
“Ignore the holy man,” she said, her voice dripping with scorn. “Let him chant his magic spell. He will bear witness to the rebirth of a deity.”
The group began to circle the fire again, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence. The chant was resumed. Then another earth tremor shook the summit. A glow began to form above the top of Hampton Round. It was like a sinuous cloud of luminous vapor, weaving in the air above the cultists. It formed a spiral, began to descend towards the summit.
“See!” cried Olivia. “The Great Old One, the child of Lilith, manifests herself!”
Quigley raised his cross like a shield and continued the rite of exorcism.
“I adjure you, ancient serpent, by the judge of the living and the dead–”
If the words were having any effect on the phenomenon, it was not apparent. The glowing cloud encircled them, and started to become more clearly defined. Greenish scales flashed, a great triangular head formed, huge red eyes gazed balefully on the tiny creatures within the creature's coils.
“It's going to eat us!” someone screamed.
“No, no, don't panic! We are here to pay homage!” shouted Clay. But his voice betrayed his fear.
This is not what he had in mind, thought Quigley.
“Surrender to her, to ancient Lilith, the first true mother!” cried Olivia, her voice triumphant now. “Let her consume your souls!”
Quigley almost laughed at the effect the woman's words had on the cultists. He remembered a playful remark from one of his theology lecturers.
The last thing any pagan needs is for his god to actually turn up in person. It would be embarrassing, at the very least.
The priest reached down into his bag and took out the vials of holy water. Well aware that the gesture was a cliché, but lacking a better idea, he opened one small bottle and hurled it at the glowing serpent. There was a brief flash of greenish light as the liquid entered the nebulous being, and another subsonic roar shook the mound.
“That hurt didn't it, you big scaly bastard?” yelled Quigley. “Have another!”
He hurled two more vials at the serpent-being, then was shoved hard in the back and sprawled on the trodden grass. He twisted around to see Olivia standing over him, her face contorted with fury.
“She will consume your pious soul!”
In the uncertain light, Quigley could not be sure, but he thought he could see scales begin to form on Olivia's naked flesh. Her face seemed misshapen, her eyes grown huge with vertical slits for pupils. One of the people from the outer circle barged into Olivia and she fell, writhing.
Her legs, they're merging together, thought the priest. A monstrous transmutation.
The worshipers, or most of them, were fleeing. Quigley saw the huge spectral head of the glowing monster descend upon one elderly man. The man cowered, holding up his hands as if to fend off the serpent. Quigley groped for his last vial, threw it, splashing the holy water over the hapless cultist. There was another, much louder roar, so intense that the priest clamped his hands over his ears. He was buffeted and kicked by running figures. In the unearthly light from above, he caught a glimpse of Olivia, her lower body now pure serpent, raising her arms in supplication to the glowing behemoth.
“Fill me with your power, Great One!” she cried, voice rising above the screams of panic and dismay.
The huge serpent seemed to hesitate, gazing down at the snake-woman. Quigley unsteadily got to his feet, brandishing his cross and babbling what parts of the exorcism rite he could still remember.
“Go back to hell!” he shouted. “Get ye gone, old deceiver!”
Another fleeing cultist collided with him and knocked the crucifix out of his hand. He scrambled for it, wincing as another shadowy figure stepped on his fingers. He felt bones crack, wept tears of pain and fear. Looking up, he saw the baleful gaze of the false god, its huge fanged jaw opening to engulf him. A terrible pain shot through him as he clasped the crucifix, held it close to his chest. Darkness overwhelmed him.
The next thing he saw was a pulsing light. He was lying on his back, floating through space. A young, beautiful face appeared directly above him. The face was framed by golden hair and illuminated by blue flashes. A cool hand rested briefly on his forehead, brushed back his hair.
“Don't be afraid,” said the face. “You're quite safe.”
Lightning, he thought. An angel of the lord appearing midst heavenly fire.
He heard a different voice saying, “This one's alive, but he's been through the wringer.”
Quigley realized he was being carried toward an ambulance on a stretcher. A plastic mask was put over his nose and mouth. He turned his head to look sideways at the scene where the ambulance was parked. There were police cars, too, and officers were apparently taking statements. There was also a body covered in a sheet.
“Could have been worse,” said the young paramedic he had taken for an angel. “Only one dead.”
“Heart failure, I reckon,” said the second voice from near Quigley's feet. “God knows what they were doing up there.”
He does indeed, thought Quigley.
A familiar face appeared in the crowd by the vehicles. It was Jonathan Clay, talking to a police officer. A senior officer, judging by the man's uniform. As the paramedics carried Quigley past them, the two glanced at the priest then resumed their discussion.
“I'm sure we can keep this discreet,” Clay was saying. “Nobody wants a scandal.”
Yes, we bloody well do, thought Quigley. He tried to shout but the oxygen mask silenced him.
“How is he?” said another familiar voice.
Olivia was bending over the stretcher, feigning concern.
“He'll be okay, but we'd better get him to the emergency unit,” said the angelic young woman.
Quigley began to shake his head and protest loudly as Olivia reached out and patted his shoulder. She acted the part of the concerned friend with conviction, but her smile did not reach her eyes.
“Hang in there, Patrick,”
the big woman said, soothingly. Her tongue flickered along her lower lip. “You're in good hands. And when you're feeling better, we'll all come and visit you. That's a promise!”
After that, Quigley became so agitated that the paramedics had to sedate him.
Chapter 8: Westward
It took a while for Marcus and Declan to calm Father Quigley down.
“I'm sorry,” said the priest. “I do get a bit worked up, you know? But it's not surprising.”
He took Marcus by the arm with both hands and looked beseechingly into the Englishman's face.
“None of them will help me,” said Quigley. “The church, the police, the government. I've written to them all, campaigned for years. The press is even worse, making me out to be a lunatic. Now I have to hide away here. I hear slithering in the night, stealthy noises in the loft, under the floorboards. I don't even know if the sounds are real or in my head.”
Marcus made soothing noises. Healy, who had plenty of experience of fearful and disturbed individuals, intervened.
“Father,” he said, “I can assure you that Scotland Yard will not rest until this case is solved. It's a murder inquiry, and I have no intention of letting it drop. You have my word.”
Quigley looked back and forth between the two men, then shook his head in resignation. He sank back into his chair, staring blankly at the tea service on the table before him.
“They are too powerful and there are too many of them,” he said. “You don't know what it feels like. The sidelong glances, the snatches of conversations overheard. Going into a room and knowing that everyone else is in on the secret, the conspiracy. Facing a brick wall of lies and equivocation at every turn.”
“Father,” asked Marcus, “have you ever heard of a place called Wychmere?”
The priest did not look up when he replied, “Yes, it was one of the places I thought Clay might be interested in. He wasn't there, of course.”
“I think,” said Healy, “we've taken up enough of your time, Father.”
They discussed Quigley's incredible story on the drive back to London.
“How much of that can we believe?” asked Healy. “I mean, I was okay with it until he started talking about giant glowing snakes. I tend to see these things in terms of official reports, and there's no category for that one. But drug-induced hallucinations, that's another matter.”
“I've no idea how accurate his account is,” admitted Marcus. “He's clearly been under a lot of pressure. But there is one rather mundane point that I find believable. Most cults have hierarchies, and it seems Ouroboros is no exception.”
Healy frowned, then asked, “You mean the inner and outer circles, during the ritual? So the naked ones leaping over the fire are the upper echelon?”
“Exactly,” said Marcus. “It seems the inner circle is exclusively female, which raises another question. Is Jonathan Clay really in charge?”
Healy drove on without speaking for a few minutes, then said, “All that stuff about the woman turning into a snake, and the monster appearing. Hallucinations, right? Symptoms of mental illness?”
“I sincerely hope so,” replied Marcus. “Because if even part of it is true, we really are up against something very powerful, and very dangerous. Oh, and I did check all the press reports of what happened back in June, 2005. And you may be interested to know that, for the first time in recorded history, on that night there was a small earthquake in the county of Sussex.”
“Quite a coincidence, if that's what it was,” agreed Healy. “When we get back to London, I'm going to do some digging in our files from around the time. If anything significant was covered up, there'll be traces. I'm an old hand at finding them.”
“I'd be careful if I were you,” warned Marcus. “Matt Arnold was killed.”
“By a snake-woman?” asked Healy, raising an eyebrow.
“By someone or something,” returned Marcus. “And he was lured into a trap.”
“Point taken,” said the detective. “Seductive reptilian ladies to be avoided at all costs.”
***
Brad hired a car and set out for Herefordshire determined to speak to Kelly face to face. As he drove westward from London, he ran possible scenarios in his mind. Over and over again, he came to the same basic questions.
What if she won't talk to me? What if she does and it turns into another blazing row?
Brad had never ventured far from London before on his visits to England. He had never had to, as he had only ever been concerned with work matters. Now he found himself on a ‘motorway,' as the British called their freeways. It was an unusual road, curving in great arcs left and right through verdant countryside. At first, he found this irritating. Then he recalled someone telling him that motorways were deliberately made that way so drivers did not fall asleep at the wheel. He had to admit that it worked.
It was when he was about an hour into his journey that he noticed the silver Lexus.
Brad's job in the oil industry had taken him to some dangerous places. He had received a lot of training in security matters. Apart from the threat of terrorism, foreigners were sometimes ideal kidnap targets. So he had been taught to recognize when he was being followed. He was not sure when the suspect car had first appeared, but he soon became suspicious of its pattern of behavior.
The silver Lexus was always two or three vehicles behind him, never right behind. He slowed down at one point to give following cars a reason to overtake. Two did, but the Lexus fell back and let a red Toyota tuck in behind Brad's rental BMW.
Could be a coincidence, he thought.
Brad decided to try another experiment. Every few miles there were 'motorway services,’ essentially mini-malls with burger joints, coffee shops and the like. When the turnoff to the next one appeared, Brad took it, and waited to see if the Lexus followed. Sure enough, the silver car appeared in his rear-view mirror, still keeping its distance.
Okay guys, let's take a look at you.
Brad parked some distance from the entrance to the mini-mall and waited to see where the Lexus ended up. Sure enough, it slid into a parking slot some rows behind him. He waited, but no one got out of the silver car. In the April sunshine, he could not make out anything through the tinted window of the Lexus.
“Well, I could use a coffee,” he said, and got out.
He did his best to saunter casually into the mall, wondering how fake he looked. He bought a coffee to go and a newspaper, then went back outside. There were plenty of people around, but none seemed to pay him any attention. He looked around for his car, and for a few moments struggled to find it among the dozens parked. That gave him an idea.
Yeah, he thought. Dumb tourist just forgot where he parked his rental car. Gosh, I wonder where it might be?
Brad put on what he hoped was a puzzled expression and set off across the car park towards the silver car. As he got within five yards of the Lexus, he could make out someone in the driver's seat.
Okay, genius, what's the plan now? Just saunter past it, I guess.
There was a sudden movement and the door of the silver car opened. A young woman got out, and for a second, Brad thought it was Kathy Hopkirk. The impression only lasted a second, as this young woman was healthier looking, less thin, and much more confident.
“Hi, Brad!” she said, smiling. “How's the coffee?”
“As bad as usual,” he replied, for a moment off balance. “Why have you been following me?”
“Because you're headed in an interesting direction,” said the woman, walking up to him. “I'm guessing Herefordshire?”
“I'm told it's a beautiful part of the world,” said Brad. “And somebody I care about might be living there. Who are you, by the way?”
“Salome,” she said, as if it were the most normal name in the world.
“As in the Bible?” he asked. “Girl who got a prophet's head cut off?”
She shrugged.
“I chose it when I converted. It's a way of saying, 'I'm starting a new
life.'”
“Has Kelly changed her name?” he asked bluntly, hoping to catch her off balance.
“No,” she said, “but she might do so soon. A lot of things are going to change. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll get myself a cup of tea and a jam scone.”
She walked away without looking back.
As if she had just had a nice chat with a casual acquaintance, he thought. Whereas in fact she's informed me that they know exactly what I'm doing, and I don't scare them.
He went back to his car and set off immediately. After about twenty minutes, the silver Lexus appeared, just visible, two cars behind.
***
Declan Healy dropped off Marcus at his Camden apartment. The cult expert was taking out his door-key when Kathy Hopkirk appeared out of the bookshop doorway.
“I need help, Mister Valentine,” she said, gripping his sleeve. “I need you to stop them getting into my head. I'll go barmy if this goes on.”
Five minutes later, she was sprawled on the sofa in Marcus' living room. He listened while she explained the way her dreams had become a conduit into the not-quite-human mind of Olivia Ballard.
“You have to put me under again, break the link somehow,” she insisted. “I can't stand it much longer.”
Marcus noted her red-rimmed eyes, her face even paler and more gaunt than before.
She's been through the wringer, he thought. And I'm responsible as much as anyone.
“I'll do anything I can to help,” he said, “but there are no guarantees.”
Kathy leaned forward, resting her face on her hands.
“If this goes on I'll do myself in,” she mumbled from behind a screen of mousy hair.
“Okay,” said Marcus. “I will hypnotize you again and try to block Ouroboros in some way. Would you like a cup of tea first?”
Kathy laughed, looked up.
“And they say there are no more English gentlemen. How about some more of that Scotch?”
“Maybe afterwards,” he said. “And I'll probably join you.”
Marcus made the same preparations as before, dimming the light and setting up a microphone. Kathy's tiredness made it easier than the first time. Soon she was sitting, eyes closed, responding to his every suggestion.
The Sign of Ouroboros Page 10