Stairs lead downwards. Chords of distemperate classical music waft towards her. She descends. Halfway down the staircase the wall ends and she peers over an iron banister into the gloom. A ceremony of some kind is being held.
A crowd are gathered, some naked, others dressed in robes. At one end lies a naked woman, her long hair spread around her on the floor. Between her teeth and her thighs she holds metal cups upon which black candles burn. Her body is so still that the candles hardly flicker and yet she is obviously breathing. There is no fear in her eyes, but rather a fierce pride as if she is honoured by her role as altar.
Behind this woman stands another. Draped in a red robe, she faces outwards into the room. On the other side, a few men and many women are gathered. They are chanting but their voices are so soft it is hard to catch the sense of them.
She lingers, hoping to watch the group throw off their cloaks and fall upon each other. Yet their rapturous faces, intent on internal journeys, seem barely aware of each other’s bodies. Each perfectly content in their isolation from each other, filled with an energy they alone created. Lilith feels as though she is voyeur to a ritual she does not comprehend. Tendrils of distilled power radiate from the worshippers and caress Lilith’s body. On an outward breath she blows air towards the gathering. As her breath reaches them she sees the group change. At first the men and women glance at each other. Some stop chanting and the music peters out. Then the men’s bodies harden. Hands stretch out to touch each other. Men fall upon women and enter them roughly. Women pull at each other’s breasts and drink each other’s juices. Within moments one ritual is over and another has begun.
Delighted by the transformation, Lilith watches them for a while, then, as her puppets tire, she returns to the upper room. Heat and sound fill the bar. The gamblers have been joined by two more. Eyes flicking, tongues rapidly moistening lips, they huddle around a pile of coins and tattered bank notes. Blank faces and stiff postures shield their thoughts and their cards from the scrutiny of fellow players.
Four women slouch together in the corner of the room; they are all young, around the magician’s age. On the far left is a blonde girl who keeps smiling at the other three. Next is a tall girl. Unlike the others she isn’t giggling nor pointing at the paintings and the bartender. She sits aloof, sucking her drink through a straw. Physically she is head and shoulders above the rest. Her build is strong, her black hair thick like a lion’s mane. Lilith feels a strange kinship with this human. She might make a fine apprentice.
Reluctantly, Lilith’s eyes shift right again to the next girl. She looks familiar, but Lilith has seen so many faces that features tend to blur into homogeny. The girl’s countenance is soft and pretty. Thick black curls frame her face, her wrists and shoulders look small and delicate: breakable. The last girl is huddled so close to her friend that she is almost invisible. Lilith wonders whether they are lovers. The fourth girl’s hair is also black, but cut short, in a sharp bob that she wears across her cheeks. There is a scar, just below the girl’s eye, and she touches it whenever she laughs.
‘How did you find this place, Raven?’ the blonde friend asks.
‘Your brother told me last night,’ the tall girl says, smiling. Lilith understands that smile. ‘Star, aren’t you going to drink that? What a waste.’ Raven stares at the woman to her right.
Lilith stares too. Now she is certain she knows that face, but how? Why do I recognise her? Lilith thinks back over the last twenty-four hours. Of course, hers is the face from the magician’s photographs. This must be his girl. A smile plays across Lilith’s lips. Sipping her drink, she continues to watch the women. Star never looks at her, but the taller one – Raven, keeps glancing across the room. When Lilith smiles Raven smiles back and shifts in her seat.
Lilith can feel something. Some power, or rather the potential for it, radiates across from the group of girls. She sends her mind out to each one. Her thoughts touch the blonde girl first: she is cleverer than she pretends. The girl makes eye contact. A look of recognition passes between them, but she isn’t the source of the power. Now Raven - lust and an overwhelming need to be in control. Star – mmm, there it is: an energy as yet untapped, ignored. Repressed even. Lilith starts to understand what the magician sees in her. They are an interesting group. Raven stands up, still looking at Lilith. Later, Lilith silently promises. In one gulp she finishes her drink and leaves.
Outside, her breath makes curls of mist in the chill air. Her lightly covered nipples respond and harden. She laughs, all flesh is weak. In spite of her body’s reaction she does not feel cold and walks comfortably among the other bodies, wandering or standing outside bars and restaurants. Many of these others are also coatless. She walks through the streets, over cobbles and tarmac alike, along ancient lanes and through modern shopping centres. She is not followed. She returns to her room alone as the sky lightens. There are no voices any longer, bodies are slumbering or elsewhere. She closes her eyes, allowing her body to rest.
Chapter 6
Satori rubs his forehead and looks up from the heavy book. Star’s voice crackles and hisses in his head, like a mistuned radio, stuck between channels.
‘I don’t trust Paul. Be careful,’ it warns him.
He nods and tries to reassure her that he’s perfectly safe, that his power is greater than the older man’s and that he will see her soon. The room shifts and floats before his eyes. Closing them, he wonders if coffee might help him concentrate. Getting coffee would involve walking through the house and seeing Paul again.
He wishes Star had stayed. So much knowledge and only Paul to share it with, if Star was here he could show her some of his power. The research is a revelation. He can bind people by his will. The first time was with a delivery driver. The man was held motionless for three minutes, before Satori released him. He sneers thinking back. The power, it’s all about the intoxicating power. It works on Paul too. At least it has stopped the man barging in without knocking. But Paul’s strength to resist Satori’s will is nothing compared with the power of Lilith, and all of this feels like play. He knows he is no closer to solving the riddle.
The more Satori practises the more he realises that he has gone beyond what Paul can teach. Paul’s books, however - opening them, absorbing their musty pages and archaic language, he can smell power. Energy lifts from each paragraph and crackles in the air around him. He doubts their owner has read even a tenth of them. The secrets they hold: power beyond reckoning. He will learn how to defeat Lilith, he is certain of it. But how long will it take? Will I run out of time? He could spend an entire lifetime in these books and still leave some pages unturned.
The room has settled again. His eyes are ready to focus once more. Instantly, Satori forgets the idea of coffee and returns to the book on his lap. He sits cross-legged on the floor. His eyes pore over the words. A noise behind him makes him jump.
‘Paul, you scared me.’
‘Sorry Satori. I brought you some water and I’ve made lunch. Would you like to eat?’
Satori shakes his head. ‘Your library is amazing, but I can’t find the answers I need. These books just don’t cover battling anything as powerful as Lilith.’
‘Well think about it, Satori. What is Lilith? If it’s a demon then it’s as powerful as Asmodeus or Satan. But the Kabbalists call it a god. I’m not sure we’ll ever find the answer,’ Paul says. ‘You might as well rest for a while. I’m worried you’ll burn out.’
‘There is always an answer. We just need help. Maybe to fight a god you need a god. But who? One of the old pre-Christian ones? Do you really have no ideas?’
‘I have one.’ Paul walks across the room to a black lacquer cabinet. Taking a key from a chain around his neck, he unlocks the door. On a shelf at chest height Satori sees something covered with black linen. Paul beckons him over. Even covered, Satori can feel the object’s power. It frightens him.
‘What is it?’ he whispers.
Paul pulls the material away and Satori f
aces a clay head. Glyphs are carved across the forehead, cheeks and on either side of the chin. The eye sockets are filled with obsidian and the mouth, opened in an eternal scream, is stuffed with red clay.
Satori lifts his hand towards it.
‘Careful,’ Paul says.
‘What is it?’ Satori asks. ‘It feels … powerful.’
‘It’s a vessel of Balon,’ Paul answers, staring at the head. ‘And if you break the seal, the demons inside it will tear me apart. It’s an oracle of sorts. If I ask it a question it has to tell me the truth.’
‘Ask it about Lilith,’ Satori says.
‘What precisely do you want me to ask?’
‘Can I destroy her?’
Paul lifts the head and sets it on a low table. He pauses, then turns it a few degrees anti-clockwise. His movements are gentle and full of reverence. A thread of sweat trickles down his brow as he concentrates. ‘Vessel of Balon, I have fashioned you with my Art. I have given you life. Now answer in truth. If the sorcerer Satori battles Lilith, can he destroy the demon?’
The room is silent. The glyphs on the head glow red. Its obsidian eyes shine as if lit by an internal fire. Satori’s ears strain to hear the answer. Holding his breath, he watches the head. Every hair on his body stands on end. In spite of his fascination and desire for knowledge, his body tells him to run from the room and never return. A trio of cold, powerful voices echo each other. ‘No.’
Satori sighs. ‘Ask it whether I can get rid of her.’
Paul asks and the same deep, alien voices reply. ‘Yessss.’
‘How?’ Satori asks. His voice is brighter now.
‘The magician Satori must use his instinct. The answer will not be found in one thousand years of research.’
‘What kind of answer is that?’ Satori yells. He lunges towards the vessel. Paul stops him and holds him fast.
‘No, you can’t break it,’ Paul says, shaking. ‘Please, you cannot break the seal.’
Paul’s breath tickles his ear. Satori steps backwards. He needs to think.
‘What will you do now?’ Paul asks.
Satori shrugs. ‘There’s never been a magical problem that I’ve not found a solution for. The vessel told me to follow my instincts, and my instincts tell me I need to keep looking. So I’ll go back to the books until something else pops up I guess. But at least it means I can ignore all the modern volumes. What have you got older than one thousand years?’
Paul doesn’t answer. He covers the head and relocks the cabinet.
‘You really made that thing?’ Satori asks.
Paul nods. ‘I often wish I hadn’t. It’s like the picture of Dorian Gray. It haunts my dreams and plots my downfall.’
‘How did you make it?’
‘I’ll get the book, and all the other old books,’ Paul tells him. ‘After you eat.’
Chapter 7
Everyone is wearing black. No one speaks. You are the centre of attention, sister. Music surrounds Freya, voices wailing, trying hard to communicate their pain. Freya does not sing. She watches. She thinks. I know you’re there, although your shell is hard and dark and shiny. But I also know you’re not. You’re still at home, painting your eyes and backcombing your hair. You’re still in the park. I can hear your screams every time I pass the gates. Most of all you’re inside me. Your rage fills me. Your spit runs from my eyes. Your hatred tastes bitter in my mouth.
All but one of the heads bow, a room of whispers. The shell descends. The machinery groans, unwilling to accept one so young. Freya shakes. A desire to run to the altar and throw herself into the flames with the coffin pumps adrenaline around her body. I cannot take this burden, the only daughter. I cannot be protected, feared for, held forever—a double image on a single face.
Her brother’s fingers reach across her lap and grasp her hand. He holds her still. Then her head does bow and tears fall from her face. Not her sister’s spit this time but a spring of regret. I will miss you.
Ivan’s hand still holds hers as they walk outside. The sunshine hides its face. The sky’s funeral garb may be faded from years of grief but it serves its purpose and its own cold tears fall on mourners’ heads. The mother and father cry too. Lorraine, the mother, cries loudest. She cannot accept it, what they did to her baby, her daughter, her life. That beautiful face squashed beneath boots. Her ribs crushed and her vagina torn. Why? Freya loosens the grip on her fist and runs to her mother. Arms open to hold her and her mother washes her hair with tears.
‘I love you,’ Lorraine whispers.
Is she telling me or you? Maybe both of us.
‘Who are you going to see?’ Lorraine calls through the kitchen door.
‘Just friends,’ Freya answers.
‘Dad will drive you,’ Lorraine insists.
Mother always insists. At fifteen I’ve never had a boyfriend. My sister died two years ago. I wish it had been me instead. ‘Forget it. I’ll stay home. I’ve just remembered I’ve got homework to do anyway.’
Freya trudges back up the stairs. She is wearing one of her sister Tanya’s skirts. Tanya’s bedroom remains untouched, except by Freya: a shrine to the girl who once was. Freya moves her hips in circles, like a belly dancer, as she walks towards her room. Satin brushes against her ankles. She feels romantic yet powerful, but has no one to test the effect on. Her eyes linger on her brother’s door for a moment. Her heart pounds as she listens to his movements inside. Does he have a girlfriend? Her hand hovers at his door-handle. One smooth click and she could open the door. She pauses there, frozen in time, a statue pointing towards temptation or salvation. She bites her lip then turns away. He’s my brother.
Throwing herself onto her bed, Freya sighs. Routine crushes her. She can feel it squeeze the life from her until only husk is left. She opens her school bag. The smell of old pages escapes into the air. Her electrified hand reaches towards the book.
On the way home she passes a bookshop. A book calls to her through the window. She wants it so badly it makes her shake. Checking her purse she almost walks away. Three pounds would never be enough, but the book drags her back. She feels its claws tug at her hair. The coins feel like concrete in her purse. So what if don’t have enough money? I’ll ask about it anyway. The shopkeeper smiles and takes it from its stand. His eyes never leave her. She feels his stare as she grasps the paperback from his hand. Her ragged breath ruffles the yellowed pages.
‘Pay me what you have and call in with the rest next week,’ he says.
‘I will pay you, every penny.’ Even if it takes longer than a week. ‘Thank you.’
Freya stares at the cover; a beautiful woman with long hair and a snake between her legs laughs at the world. She traces the image’s naked curves with her finger. If I cannot kiss boys I can at least drink words of love and sex.
Lying on her bed, thighs squeezed tightly together, she flicks through the pages. She needs to pee, but holds it inside her, luxuriating in the feeling. It adds to the tingle. On almost every page there are line drawings, unusual and exotic people, men with beards, asleep yet ecstatic, mounted by a woman. So many drawings, most, but not all, are sexual. Her mouth feels dry, and her thighs moist. She tries to ignore the burning sensation in her bladder. Wanting to stay like this, to feel this heaviness inside of her. She reads the first paragraph. The words are hard to understand. She rereads it, trying to make sense of them. Urgency builds inside her. She really needs that piss. Throwing the book across her mattress, she crosses her legs. Almost too late, she sprints to the bathroom, harnessing her bladder for a few more moments until the warm relief and then the familiar emptiness returns.
As she walks back to her room her finger tips brush against the painted wood of her brother’s door. She pictures him in his faded jeans and white t-shirt, bare-footed, his nose buried in a book while his iPod whispers music into his ears, lost in his own world.
The doorbell rings. Mum shouts up the stairs. Ivan doesn’t hear so Freya opens his door. He is exactly as she pictured
him and he looks up at her as she enters. A smile breaks across his face. She mouths words at him. He removes his headphones and tilts his head.
‘Steve’s at the door,’ Freya tells him.
‘Thanks, sis,’ he says, closing his book and winding the wires of his personal stereo around his wrist. He puts both on his desk then kisses Freya on her forehead. ‘See you later. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
It’s a traditional farewell, but she has no idea what he would or wouldn’t do, he never tells her. I wish he would. Even if she knew the boundaries he was setting, she couldn’t escape her prison to fulfil them. She watches him leave. He takes the air from the room with him and for a moment Freya feels lost in a void. Her sense of balance and gravity, which way is up and which is down, are confused. She grips the smooth surface of the door until the corners of it press into her flesh. Gradually her orientation, her knowledge of the physics of this world, pushes back into her mind. She walks unsteadily across the room and glances at the book on Ivan’s desk, but it doesn’t hold her interest. She thinks of her own, waiting for her on her pillow. She unwinds the wires of her brother’s iPod and listens to the music: heavy guitar and melodic voices. Shaking her head, she carefully winds the wires around her wrist. Will he notice any difference? Part of her hopes he will. She wants him to challenge her, argue with her, strike her. Why did I tidy them at all? As she walks back towards the bedroom door she reaches into the linen basket and grabs an unwashed t-shirt. Draped carelessly across her bed, nestling in the musky cotton, she picks up her book and reads.
Chapter 8
Starblood (The Starblood Trilogy) Page 4