Scenting Hallowed Blood

by Constantine, Storm

  ‘We all agree to that,’ Betsy said from the other end of the table. She spoke rarely and only when she felt she had something important to offer. ‘If the Hanged One is drawn to the Grigori in these parts, all to the good. It halves our work for us. When the time comes, we must lure him to us. The Shining Ones will give us the knowledge on how to do this when we need it. In the meantime, we must do as my sister suggests and prime our sacred sites in readiness. The storm-beasts gather in the clouds. They feel him drawing near.’ She put her hands flat upon the table, and threw back her head. ‘Yes. He will come to the Grigori, and in their pride, they will overlook us. The season becomes darker and the winds cry for the sun, but his spirit walks always back to the land of his people.’

  In the silence that followed, Agatha shyly brought forth a peg-doll from her robe pocket. Gravely, she held it over the table. It was crowned with yellow woollen hair and wore a shapeless robe of sacking. Gripping it by its waist, Agatha made it walk slowly along the tabletop before her. Its wooden legs could not bend. It was a stiff-limbed, zombie, drunken walk. All the women glanced down at it.

  ‘Where did you get that, dear?’ asked Tamara.

  Agatha did not move her eyes from the stalking doll, sinister in its very simplicity; a golem. ‘Del made it for me,’ she said.

  After the meeting, Tamara drove home in her red VW Golf, navigating the sharp bends of the winding cliff road with almost masculine zeal. She was suffused with a sense of hysterical excitement, but it was pricked by a nagging needle of annoyance. The Conclave were so dim-sighted! Tamara couldn’t believe their naiveté. They spoke with scorn about the Grigori, maintaining an obsolete feud that was rooted only in ignorance and superstition. The time of change was imminent, and clinging to outworn beliefs and opinions could only obstruct their work. The Pelleth needed to listen to the voice of reform, a voice that Tamara firmly believed spoke clearly through her, but she knew this voice must be heard as a seductive whisper, not an ear-splitting shout. She must be patient.

  Tamara had been born in Cornwall, but had spent her childhood and teens in North America. As a young girl, the Native American culture had intrigued her and she read books on the subject voraciously, filling her bedroom walls with posters of young braves on horseback and the feather and thong concoctions available at ethnic craft stores. At High School, she met a girl whose mother was of Hopi descent, and put a lot of effort into befriending her intimately. Although the girl herself had scant interest in her heritage, Tamara saw her as a means through which she could meet the Hopi people. Part of her hungered for this, and when, after a lot of pleading and blackmailing, her wish was granted, she was not disappointed. The memory would never fade in her mind. Her friend’s grandfather had been a true medicine man, and from the moment of meeting Tamara had recognised the thirst for magic within her. Tamara had always been able to charm men, and this sage shaman had been no exception. He had been happy to teach her the things she desperately yearned to know: how to call spirits from the waterfall and the fire, how to dance the Ghost Dance. On her eighteenth birthday, he had given her a prophecy. He spoke of a great serpent that slumbered beneath the land of her father, and that in its sleep, it dreamed of her. He spoke of a great sun chief who would come to her. As priestess of the sea, she must lead him to his destiny. But he warned her that her heart must be true, for only the light of love would lead the sun chief to the great serpent.

  Listening to these words, in the dark, before the sparking fire that burned for her day of birth, Tamara had been filled with a sense of purpose and resolve. As soon as she was able, she left her parents and moved back across the ocean to Cornwall.

  It had taken her very little time to discover the legends of the ancient land, and how they aligned with the prophecy she had been given. The serpent had chosen her. At night, she felt it stir in its sleep, and its dream voice called out to her. Her passion and her sincerity enabled her to infiltrate the Pelleth, and she had spoken openly about her experiences, sure that the women would recognise her as the sea priestess, the chosen one who would guide Shemyaza to the serpent. But while the Pelleth had been happy to initiate her into their group, they felt her passion was the misguided zeal of youth. The Pelleth were all chosen ones, and would guide the Hanged One together. Tamara had been bitterly disillusioned at first, and it had hardened her. She realised she’d have to play the game their way until the time came when they’d be forced to recognise what she was. Her powers as a scryer and as a shamaness far outranked that of any of her Pelleth sisters. In her mind, she was clearly destined to be Meggie’s successor. But Meggie refused to acknowledge Tamara’s abilities, and would not promise her succession. Tamara felt this was not because Meggie doubted her powers, but that she was, in Meggie’s eyes, a foreigner. Tamara considered this discrimination small-minded and inexcusable. Surely, the welfare of the Pelleth overcame such considerations? Meggie would never admit that Tamara’s upbringing in America was behind her decisions, however. She would talk about the need for experience, and point out that if Tamara’s childhood absence from Cornwall was really seen as a problem by the Pelleth, she wouldn’t have been initiated into their ranks at all, never mind reach the Conclave. Tamara did not believe these excuses.

  Now, Meggie’s opinions no longer seemed to matter. Another had come into Tamara’s life, who recognised the power within her. A dark sister had come, and in her veins ran the royal blood of angels.

  Two days before, Tamara had been outside her cottage, tidying autumn debris from her garden. A woman had stopped at the gate, a tall woman wearing a pale raincoat and a headscarf, her eyes hidden by dark glasses. Tamara had felt the scrutiny before turning round, a prickle on the skin at the back of her neck. She saw the long, ungloved fingers resting on the gatepost, the red smile splitting the attenuated, white face. She had known immediately: Grigori! And her heart had convulsed within her. Like all of the Pelleth, Tamara knew where the Grigori families lived around the area, and had watched the limousines with darkened windows gliding in and out of the gates of their estates. Sometimes, she had seen tall, charismatic men and women in shops or pubs, whom she’d been sure had been Grigori. As a rule, they tended to avoid the local community, for the native Cornish were attuned to their frequency, and would undoubtedly recognise them, if not for exactly what they were, then as being unusual or fey. Quietly, Tamara had been calling out to the Grigori for some months. She’d never been truly convinced they would heed her call, but she’d had no doubt at least some of them had heard it. And now: the response. The woman at the gate knew her measure. She was a powerful creature, a daughter of a powerful family, yet here she was, in the flesh, cool and seductive as a ghost of desire. Tamara had not been afraid or filled with disgust, as Meggie might have been. No. Curiosity and excitement had bubbled up within her, and the tall woman had nodded at her, as if recognising an affinity between them.

  ‘You are Tamara Trewlynn?’ Her voice was low, beautiful. When she took off her glasses, her eyes would be large and deep as ocean pools.

  Tamara’s mouth had gone dry. She rubbed her soil-seamed hands on the front of her jacket. ‘Yes. What can I do for you?’

  The woman laughed — a full, secret sound. ‘May I come into your garden? I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘All right.’ Tamara wasn’t sure if the gate opened, or if the Grigori woman walked through it, but suddenly she was looking up into her face, only inches away from the heat of her body. The dark glasses were removed, and there were the eyes: full of history and forbidden knowledge. Tamara felt sucked of breath.

  ‘We have lot in common,’ said the woman. ‘My name is Barbelo.’ She held out her pale hand, a giant’s hand, which enfolded Tamara’s grubby fingers like a muscular team of serpents. ‘I don’t want to waste time. Let me tell you the point of this contact. My people know of the Pelleth, as they know of us. We all know the Shining One is coming to us. The Grigori look down upon the Pelleth, and the Pelleth despise the Grigori, yet we should be work
ing together at this time. The destiny of the Hanged One affects humanity and Grigori alike. Old quarrels should be buried now. This is a crucial time.’

  Tamara knew her face had gone red. ‘But that’s exactly what I feel!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m here.’ Barbelo coiled an arm around Tamara’s shoulder and began to lead her towards the cottage door. ‘I know we will be friends.’

  Inside the cottage, Tamara made tea while Barbelo sat at her kitchen table, seeming to fill the room with her body and her presence. She spoke openly about how she felt the Grigori had become stale and staid, almost to the point where they had forgotten the reason why Shemyaza would return. ‘They are obsessed with conspiracies and politics,’ she said. ‘Smug little cabals of pompous power-mongers, whose magic is bled of life.’

  Tamara interjected excited remarks to illustrate how her own opinions of the Pelleth mirrored Barbelo’s of the Grigori. ‘They live in the past,’ she said, waving her arms for emphasis. ‘They hate and fear change. It is absurd, for that is exactly what Shemyaza represents.’

  Barbelo smiled a long, thin smile and nodded. ‘Oh yes! I heard your dreams, Tamara Trewlynn. I heard your lonely call. We are both renegades, and I respect your abilities. However, I do have more knowledge of this subject than you, and am prepared to help and guide you. We must work together, as outsiders in the dark.’

  Tamara warmed to the image conjured by these words. A Grigori woman was sitting here in her kitchen, talking to her as if they’d known one another for years. She could hardly believe it was happening. ‘Nothing would please me more,’ she said.

  Barbelo put her head on one side. ‘Of course, our association must remain secret from both sides... for now.’

  Tamara nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘We must use them without them knowing it.’ Barbelo delicately took a sip of tea. ‘We work only for the good of the land.’

  Tamara’s trust in Barbelo had been instant and all-consuming. After the woman had left, Tamara had felt as if she’d met someone with whom she was destined to fall in love. She’d been unable to relax, pacing her cottage like a restless cat.

  Now, Tamara knew instinctively that the voice that had spoken through Delmar Tremayne that night had been the voice of Barbelo. The Pelleth, in their blind faith, hadn’t even questioned where it might have come from. Meggie’s talk of dead ancestors was pathetic. The Pelleth lived on the same land as Grigori, yet seemed to think they were invisible to them.

  Tamara parked her car and went into her garden. She saw a light burning low in her kitchen and knew that a visitor was waiting there for her. Before she entered the house, she paused to look out upon the night, extending her senses to read the currents and vibrations that flowed through it. The dreams of the serpent were faint music in her mind. It dreamed of the sun chief and of those who would guide him to it. Tamara expelled her breath in a shuddering sigh. She was smiling when she entered her kitchen.

  Chapter Two

  The Temptation of Eve

  Daniel Cranton slipped out of the house into the grey twilight that presaged the dawn. This was the time, for him, when ghosts walked the ageless streets of the city, and myriad overlays of past times were visible to his eyes. There was no interference, no white noise, and the traffic sounds were muted. Occasionally, a dog might bark or a cat yowl, and sometimes he had heard screams, cut off sharply, or sobbing, but mostly, he supposed these were memories replayed upon the resting air, oozing from the relaxing stones of the buildings. London thinking about its past.

  The house where he was staying did not look like a house, but a hall, a gathering place. It had a double flight of steps running up to the double front doors, and railings at the front. Above the lintel were the words Moses Assembly Rooms, carved into the likeness of a folded ribbon or sash. Large, uncleaned windows reared up for three storeys, while in the roof small gables peered out like squinting eyes. Daniel rarely ventured onto the top floor because it screamed at him. It was a place where heart-broken domestics had hanged themselves in the cold, stillborn children had been delivered, blood steaming in the cruel winter nights of the Victorian age, and harsh voices had uttered condemnations. Daniel could still hear the muffled echo of those words. At night, they escaped down the stairs; a man’s unforgiving tone, a woman’s trembling, desperate pleas. He could never make out the words, even when he left his room and stood in the hallway, listening. Altogether, it was not a good building, for it would not let go of any of its history, and most of its history was cruel. Perhaps this was why the outcasts of the Grigori congregated there: the shunned seeking a shunned residence. It was like a commune or a squat, inhabited but not loved or cherished. The rotting rooms were full of finery — drapes and antique furniture — but the walls were crumbling and everywhere smelled of mildew. Daniel, the most purely human of his group of companions, did not like the people who lived there. They seemed to him to be like mannequins, sequinned and painted, but only representations of living beings. Their eyes were shallow and their movements were jerky, making them all the more eerie for their semblance of life. When any of them looked at Daniel, he could sense their hunger, but for what they hungered, he was unsure. What did they do when they were alone? Did they speak, eat or sleep, or simply sit staring at the walls? Was it his own presence, or that of Lily, Owen and Emma, which made them come alive? It scared him to think that might be true, even though he had seen clusters of them sneaking out into the night through the alley door. During the day, he had heard the front doors being opened and closed, but he liked to keep to his room then or spend time with his companions, for he was uncomfortable with the thought of running into any of the other residents. They might speak to him, and he did not want to hear what they might have to say.

  What was Shem thinking of, bringing them to a place like this? It was a sideways step into the dark, and Daniel could think only of light.

  Out on the streets, he could breathe more easily. He was not afraid of the Assembly Rooms, and in fact was fascinated by the dark, cavernous rooms and endless corridors. But sometimes, it stifled him.

  Lime trees edged the road, leafless now. The Rooms were situated on Black Lion Square; a small quadrangle of white Georgian houses, hidden away from the bustle of city life. In its centre was a Garden of Remembrance, where a robed statue stood pointing at the sky. Sometimes strange figures in black would huddle on the benches there among the trees. Daniel would watch them from a window on the second floor. They never seemed to move, nor could their faces be seen, but they appeared to be very old. Most of the other buildings in the square housed offices; nobody lived in them now.

  Daniel walked around the square, feeling cold. He wondered whether he was lonely, for his life seemed to have frozen. He was held in this place, hidden away. Several weeks ago, he and his companions had arrived at the Rooms: Emma, the rejuvenated Grigori dependant and self-appointed leader of their group: the hybrid twins, Lily and Owen Winter, and the shattered remains of the Grigori, Peverel Othman, whom they must now call Shemyaza. Daniel was sure that Shem had been to the Moses Assembly Rooms before. He seemed to know the deranged Grigori who lived there, even though he rarely talked to them. He must have visited them during the shadowy, unknown and frightening time he had lived as Peverel Othman. Neither Daniel, nor any of his companions had yet ventured beyond the square into the city itself, unless you could count the times when Emma scurried out at dawn to the news-agents a short way down the main road to buy cigarettes, or magazines and papers. Daniel supposed they had all contracted a kind of agoraphobia, perhaps because they were afraid of pursuit, although it seemed silly to fear that. Even if other Grigori had followed Shem’s trail from the north and had guessed he was in London, no-one came to the Moses Assembly Rooms, no-one who wasn’t wanted or invited. It was a bleak and invisible place.

  After the first circuit of the square, Daniel paused at the street, which led to the outside. Already, faintly, the city was waking up, but then it neve
r really slept. Crows roosting in the trees in the Garden began to squawk. Presently, the sun would come heralding another day during which nothing would happen. When he’d followed Shemyaza out of the north, or more accurately allowed himself to be led, Daniel had been sure that unbelievable and wonderful things would happen to him. His life could never be the same as it was. Shemyaza had become and the world must change. But it seemed Shem was not going to accept what he was, which was why he was hiding himself in the feathery, powdery shadows of the Moses Assembly Rooms amongst the discarded outcasts of his kind. Soon, Daniel knew, Shemyaza would shrug off his apathy, but Daniel was not convinced he would then become anything other than what he had been before; Anakim, a madman in Grigori terms. How long would they stay here? Daniel knew that nothing was keeping him there other than his own loyalty, a loyalty to an ideal that was long dead. The candle had been ignited but the flame had fizzled out. It would take more than one attempt to keep it burning bright and true.

  The side street, which led to the wider road, where the bright hoardings stood and garishly lit-shops, was dark and narrow: an effective camouflage. Who would expect to find the square with its Garden beyond it? But at its end was a small cafe, which opened very early in the morning. Sitting in the Garden on occasions, Daniel had been able to watch the side-door of the cafe and had seen people hurrying out of it to march swiftly across the square to several of the office buildings. Smartly-dressed people, whose minds were a blur of hurrying and worrying. The cafe was like a door to the outside.

  Daniel had a pound’s worth of change in his pocket. Unconsciously, he slipped his hand into it and fingered the coins. He could go down to the cafe, buy tea, sit among people who lived real, mundane lives, and bask in their frenetic warmth. It might be the first step to leaving the square. He did not want to stay there forever.