That done he made himself a cup of tea and splashed a good dollop of brandy in the mug for good measure. Then he leant back in one of the wooden chairs, the cup of brandy tea in his hands, his feet resting on the table top.
And waited.
CHAPTER THREE
A SUPRISING REVELATION
Marcus awoke from the darkness like a spider crawling in from the night.
There was an intense brightness to the room which made him feel dwarfed in size; it was as if the sun was somehow being transferred directly to his closed eye sockets in all its intensity.
Okay, he was exaggerating and he knew it. Yet still all he could think about was getting to the source of the light and extinguishing it. His reluctance to open his eyes left him with little choice but to get as close to the source as he could with them clamped firmly shut, and as he had awoken face down he figured the best way forward was to get up.
He twisted his body into as straight a line as needed then hauled himself into a crouching position, with the intention of standing, however the lights intensity combined with a wooziness he hadn't counted on, put him straight back on all fours; his head bowed as if awaiting the executioners sword.
This was hopeless. The intensity of the light had died down slightly, yet he was in no mood for whatever effect he was suffering to wear off. It's like the world’s worst hangover, thought Marcus. Except it wasn't alcohol I was drinking.
Capillaries shaped like forked lightening stood out in the darkness behind his eyelids; yet even with them firmly shut he felt a dull throb, as if it had been lightening itself that had caused the pale red impressions, the signatory tattoos of an electric sky. Fearing that he may in some way of damaged himself at the moment of his collapse, yet still not daring to open his eyes, he raised his right hand to search his head for signs of damage.
Again however he experienced the giddy sensation that he was whirling around at high speeds and quickly replaced his hand to the floor. This time however there was a splash. For a moment his palm lingered in unseen fluid before fear set in, causing him to recoil in surprise and disgust.
Now his eyes sprang wide open, all previous thought to their well being temporarily forgotten in light of this new discovery and Marcus winced as his now unguarded pupils began adjusting to said light and discovery. A dancing sheen of unfocused colour swam before his eyes, changing with each passing second into a variety of recognisable concepts. With kinetic consideration it became apparent that he was indeed the owner of the wavering spectrum of reds and pinks which danced in rhythm with his mental commands; thus, a sudden sharpening of his visual senses concluded his deduced assertion that he was looking at both his wrist and hand, and more so, that the unseen fluid which had aroused his anxiety had been justified in doing so.
Where his wrist still held the same slightly off pink complexion, which had been where the familiarity ended; the entirety of his right hand was now coated with a slippery redness. He looked from his blood smeared hand to the floor and sure enough a small pool of the stuff had puddled together in one of the uneven floorboard's many dips; he briefly wondered if it would stain. Then, much like a piece of elastic stretched to its fullest, his attention snapped back to the visual percept before him with a jolt which made him smile.
The blood wasn't his. He kept his gaze fixed on the golden chalice which lay on it's side, noticing the way the remainder of it's contents gathered at the rim, as if afraid to venture further lest it should be of further assistance. Marcus knew the thought was crazy; hell it was just blood. Okay, it wasn't just blood, but regardless it bothered him that he had missed the chalice which had been in full view all the time; had caused him panic when panic was undue.
How the hell did you miss it? The truth is always in plain sight... you only have to look... who said that again? He cut the thought short. There were now questions greater and more important that the locutions of wise men.
The real question was – had it worked?
Now with his memory restored, he took to his feet with an agility which surprised him. His naked body shivered and he folded his arms across his chest whilst he scanned for the nearest object of warmth. His eyes settled on the cotton blanket which lay draped across the sofa, and he grabbed for it and wrapped it around him, his body responding with a last shiver at the sudden heat it provided. Content for the moment, his hand reached automatically for the packet of Gallois cigarettes which normally sat on the small coffee table and came away empty. His mind was torn between the need to investigate further and the sweet dark inhalation of the drug.
Compromising, he decided to do both, and set out to look for the garments which he had symbolically shed; an act he could barely remember, yet something the ritual had demanded.
He located his clothes in the back corner of the room and quickly identified his jeans in the candle lit darkness. A quick rummage in the pockets revealed a crumpled soft top packet of the French branded cigarettes and he drew one out and lit up immediately, taking the smoke deeply into his lungs; the taste as always invoking fond memories of his homeland.
Clutching the cigarette between his mouth, and now in the presence of his clothes, he began to dress. Now standing in dark denim jeans and a slightly crumpled white linen shirt, his craving now satisfied, he returned his attention once more to his surroundings.
He had made the altar from an item that he had found in one of the city's many charity shops. It was wooden and on finding it, for the life of him, he could not see what purpose it had served. Perhaps a side board or something; that had been his best guess at the time of purchase. It was made from a non expensive wood although of which variety it belonged he was unsure. It was perhaps just under three foot long, a foot wide and stood at the same height as his navel. It's insides were hollow and it had no bottom to it, which had made it easy enough to carry. He had paid precisely eight dollars for it.
Only now did it occur to him that it may in fact be an alter.
It had come from one of the many Christian charity organisations so it was plausible enough, and the irony of this fact gave way to a thought that perhaps it wasn't just by mere chance that he had happened upon it. He had draped a sheet of red silk over it, as the rite had demanded and he now appraised the items which it had subsequently been furnished with.
Smoked Datura plant still glowed a smouldering red memory in the ashtray, where it had half fallen out of a Rhodesian style pipe. He had originally opted for the Zulu however he had finally admitted (quietly to himself) that he was choosing it purely for its name which he thought sounded magical.
There were few real tobacconists to be had where he lived, yet whilst purchasing the pipe he had been asked in the authoritative tones of one in the know what blend of tobacco he favoured, and he had nearly confessed there and then his intention to use it to smoke a delirient plant with the intent of becoming a werewolf. He had been raised in a strict Catholic background and often found himself nearly confessing any guilt or fear he had to complete strangers.
In compromise he had said that it he was new to the pipe smoking world and wanted something which would allow even the thickest of tobaccos to not only be inhaled with ease, but also without having to be relit after each inhalation. The man had nodded as if this all made perfect sense and had suggested the Rhodesian, explaining that many pipe smokers actually liked their tobacco to die out after a few puffs, thereby prolonging it's use, but that was something he would learn in time.
From the faux-silver ashtray his gaze passed over the golden chalice and back to the small, slightly worn book; it's faded blue cover hidden from view by its interior. Glancing now at the ancient symbols he felt a surge of revulsion so strong that he snapped the book shut without another moments thought. Fire still danced on the wicks of several candles, and he pressed his fingers quickly against each flame, snuffing the flickering light which had cast exaggerated shadows; leaping ghouls in black who now one again merged with the darkness they had come from, and then that too
was gone, replaced by the normality of a single sixty watt bulb.
Now that he had flicked the light switch and the room was again back to a near recognisable state, he felt better. Truth be told he had been pretty creeped out for a moment there.
It had taken years of searching to even find out about the Grimoire Lykos, and another two to get his hands on a copy.
So far as he was aware it was probably a copy of a copy of a copy of the real thing. How many copies of it had been made in between he did not know, however he had been assured that it's contents were identical to that of the original. He was unsure of where the book had originated and how old the writing inside of it was, however this particular translation had been written in ancient Greek which held no problems for Marcus; who was well versed in the Greek languages, both ancient and modern.
The book had cost him nearly his entire life savings, just under $4000. The man had wanted more, however Marcus had lied and told him that was all he had. He had kept back the extra thousand he had saved should he need to purchase ingredients for the rite. As it turned out, what he needed he was not allowed to buy. The book itself was a series of rites designed to allow the practitioner to transform himself into a variety of animal. Some of the rites were for temporary transformation, allowing a person to take the shape of an ox, lion, bear and even a horse for hours at a time. The last rite in the Grimoire however was one which allowed only the transformation from man to wolf. The person could do so at will, however the effects would be permanent.
Despite the rite being written in Greek, it was made clear that the rite itself belonged to a god who was worshipped mostly in Mexico, sometime around 600AD. In fact the only translation problem Marcus had was deciphering the Gods name. He could not find him mentioned anywhere else in the Greek Myths, nor in his Encyclopedia of Magick. The closest he could come was “the walking skin of the council of the eight.” and he knew that certainly was not in line with the other God or Goddess names he had come across. It was rather a description, something which alluded to the God, instead of naming him.
He crossed to the kitchen and began to wipe the blood from his hand, and as he did so bits and pieces of the ritual he had undertaken started to form in his mind, like a badly assembled jigsaw where the detail on some of the pieces had eroded.
He had stared the rite as was dictated, by undressing. Then he had loaded the pipe with the Datura plant and filled the golden chalice with the wolves blood; the blood itself a mixture made from the flowing veins of both a male and female wolf - the rite dictating that each wolf be slaughtered afterwards, yet the blood be taken whilst each creature was still alive. Then he had began the chanting – words which made no real sense, not in an etymological way; yet instead words which gave rise to a sense of power. No. Gave rise to power itself. He had not had to glance at the Grimoire once from the first word – had he done so the rite would have been useless and he knew it – yet he had kept it at a handy distance none the less, just in case. As he spoke each word, his voice seemed to rise of its own accord and at some point he must have gone into some kind of trance for he now held no memory of this time, only that it had to have continued for at least another twenty minutes or so.
Previous to this his body had been shaking, but not in any terrified sense, instead with a rising ecstasy, filled with a knowing which words now failed to describe. The last he remembered had been near the end of the rite. He had taken nine large inhalations of Datura; the first had been the worst. It had tasted like grass which had been soaked somehow in evil, yet he had not coughed as he had feared he would and by the third intake of smoke he now remembered enjoying the taste.
This had been followed by a large swallow of the wolves blood from the golden chalice and as he had chanted the final words – foreign sounds which he could have sworn he understood – he had watched as the shadows in the room had taken form and gathered around him, blinding him with their darkness before pulling him downwards into sleep.
As his grasp on reality weakened so did his grip on the chalice and the blood it contained had cascaded across the wooden floor followed moments later by Marcus who had landed with a thud.
However, the question remained; had it worked? He flexed his hands. Remembered the way he had leapt to his feet. Yes, there was a power and dexterity there that had not been previously. He turned to face the full length mirror above the fire place, searching for signs of noticeable difference.
He gave a startled yell.
Turned fully behind him.
The room was empty.
Still, he looked about for other signs of life, yet as his breathing subsided he conceded that perhaps he was seeing things. It was only when he again faced the mirror that he realised that he was seeing something.
No! He was seeing someone.
Despite giving the apparition in the corner his full gaze, it seemed by its very hideousness he could not take all of it in. Him! He could not take all of him in.
His heart began to beat faster, pounding a fearful rhythm against his rib cage, and in this flustered state he was suddenly unsure whether he should be gasping for air or expelling it, resulting in a painful ache in the region of his Adam's apple.
Again he tried to scream, however it was aborted, strangulated by the very air which he breathed. His face reddened and began to sweat, whilst his trembling hands flew to his throat, and still he could not look away from those eyes... those red dead searching devouring eyes, the horror, the evil, death and the toll and the piper to pay... and finally his somatic states rectified the mistake and fresh oxygen molecules flooded his lungs.
He looked again and the being was gone.
A glance behind; nobody there. However this time he was taking no chances. A quick search of the room, what little there was to hide behind; the worn arm chair, the slightly out of tune piano in the corner, all yielded nothing but empty space. He reached without much thought for the whiskey decanter that sat on the piano, and poured a glass full of the brandy which it held, which he downed, completing the action before he fully realised he'd made it. This time he repeated it more slowly.
After a full minute he began to regain his composure and with every moment which followed his elation began again to grow.
This time he stood with his back to the wall when he looked in the mirror, and slowly he manoeuvred himself forward. As it became apparent that nothing apart from his own reflection and that of his surroundings would be reflected, it dawned on him that there had been at least a full three pages of warnings written in the most comprehensive guide he had been able to find about the Datura plant. It was after all a delirient, and according to the book, its toxic nature was sure to give one hallucinations from anywhere between twelve and thirty six hours. The matter settled (for the time being at least) he turned his attention back again to the mirror.
It took a full minutes searching for the subtlety to register.
His eyes had turned a deep shade of forest green, and on closer inspection he could see flecks of shiny gold in their pupils. So… was it possible? Had it actually worked? From a young age Marcus had been inseparable from certain ideas, concepts which pertained more to mythology than fact. Due to his outlandish beliefs he had lived a lonely childhood, a lifestyle which he found suited him as he ventured into adulthood. He wanted nothing more than for those myths to become, in accordance with his beliefs, once more a reality.
The myth; lycanthropy.
The word was derived from the Greek language, Lykos meaning wolf and Anthropos meaning man. And so he had set out to become one. Now, in a mild state of reality shock at the possibility that his wish had come true, he reached for the radio, an old habit in times of stress. Turning the dial to ON, he recoiled in fright as threatening waves of coloured sound claimed his senses, mauling them into one. The radio was set to a classical station and by some appalling synchronicity Dies Irae from Verdi's Requiem now blasted out.
With the same enslaved stare one may use when witnessing somethi
ng truly disturbing; something one does not want to see yet needs to witness, lest the horrific consequence go forever unknown, Marcus experienced a total recall of that particular piece of music. Paranoid shades of green mingled with sinister hues of red and three slightly different blues, all darkening at times to near black. This sudden synaesthestic assault seemed somehow apt, and his old Catholic upbringing tugged painfully at irrational fear based nerve endings somewhere in his gut.
Whilst a choir of voices repeatedly fell from great heights before once again making their ascent, Marcus was drawn back to his early years in Marseille, to the church who had used the 'Day of Wrath' in their masses every Sunday until 1981 despite it supposedly being phased out of use at the start of 1970.
Marcus had been six the last time he had heard that piece of music. And now of course his soul would undoubtedly be condemned to the fiery pits of hell. He was after all a dabbler in magic and any magic to the Catholic faith was black Magic.
That their Lord and saviour was a magician and necromancer didn't seem to bother them. Not that he still believed in any of it. Or more like he wasn't sure what he believed any more.
According to Faith, the God reality was much worse than he could have imagined; Faith being his green eyed... friend? Lover? Both? What was Faith to him when it came down to it?
Was she unshakable undeniable belief personified?
She certainly seemed unshakable. As for the rest..?
Marcus took a deep intake of breath. His tendency to over think had left him feeling faint, yet as he snapped out of his reverie he realised the music had stopped, and he stared at the broken mess of his AM/FM radio only now aware of his body's immediate defensive reaction to the music. It had been hurtful because of his intolerance to it, and he now wondered about the way he would react to other things he found either startling or just merely annoying. The radio's destruction had occurred without any reasoning or thought of consequence. And that was the scary part. If it had been an emotion based decision, driven by anger, he could understand why he would want to smash the radio to bits. This however, this had been purely instinctual.
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