Morris and Libby both showed raised eyebrows.
“Well, naturally, you can’t stage a black mass without having some kind of an orgy afterwards,” Duval said. “People expect it. And as long as they’re willing to pay for the privilege...”
Libby Chastain smiled. “I was just wondering,” she said, “what Satanists might say at the point of orgasm. ‘Oh, God!’ hardly seems appropriate, does it?”
“Why don’t you stick around for a while,” Duval suggested, with a gleam in his eye. “You can find out for yourself.”
“Perhaps another time,” Libby said pleasantly.
Morris leaned forward in his chair. “We didn’t come to join up, Simon. But we could use some help.”
Duval sat back and spread his hands. “Whatever I can do, I will. You know that.”
Morris described the problem they faced in trying to protect the LaRues. Libby chimed in whenever she thought a point needed explanation.
When they had finished, Morris summarized. “So we’re trying to find a black witch, a powerful one, someone who’s descended from a long line of left-hand path practitioners.”
Duval nodded solemnly. “You realize, I assume, that what you’ve been talking about has got nothing to do with what goes on here. Nobody in this church, including me, knows the first fucking thing about real black magic.”
Morris nodded. “I understand that.”
“I mean, this whole operation is just a money-making scam, which means it’s no different from a lot of Christian churches, if you know what I mean. And there’s the added benefit that I get laid—a lot.”
“You’re being very frank,” Libby said.
“Ah, Quincey and me, we go back a long ways. He knew me when I was still Seymour Lipschitz.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” Libby said.
Duval frowned. “What? That we’ve known each other for all those years?”
“No—that anyone was ever named Seymour Lipschitz.”
Duval laughed again. “I like you, Libby, I really do. Hey, are you sure you don’t want to stay for the orgy? I can promise you a good time, whether you like guys, or girls, or both.”
An enigmatic smile in place, Libby just shook her head.
“How ’bout you, Quincey?” Duval asked. “You used to be quite the stud back at Princeton, at least to hear you tell it.”
“I’ll pass, Simon, thanks. What I really need is a line on this witch we’re looking for. You’re plugged into the occult underground all over the country. I was hoping you might have come across something.”
Duval sat stroking his goatee for several moments, then shook his head. “Nope, haven’t heard a thing that sounds like what you want, man. But I can make some calls, maybe talk to a few people who are closer to that side of things than I am.”
“I’d appreciate it, especially if you can do it soon.”
Duval checked his watch. “We finished tonight’s service about half an hour ago, which means the post-mass orgy should be in full swing, as it were. I need to put in an appearance there for a little while, but I can probably start working the phone by midnight, or a little after.”
“Isn’t that rather late to be calling people?” Libby asked.
“No, not really,” Duval told her. “Most people in the biz tend to be night owls. Comes with the territory, you know.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Where can I reach you guys later?”
“We’re at the Sir Francis Drake,” Morris said. “Call anytime.”
Duval led them out, but not the way they’d come in. “Might as well give you the quick tour,” he explained. They passed various rooms that he identified as the chapel, robing room, library, and even a couple of classrooms. These last, he said, were used for lectures, orientation sessions, and even twelve-step program meetings.
“You have twelve-step meetings here?” Libby asked. “I would have thought that your church would favor most of the vices those programs are designed to control.”
“You’re right, we do,” Duval said. “But we sponsor regular meetings of Fundamentalists Anonymous, and I’ve been thinking of starting a twelve-step for sex addicts, too.”
“You’re not the kind of guy who’s opposed to sexual addiction, Simon—assuming there really is such a thing,” Morris said.
Duval grinned at him. “’Course not. I just thought the meetings would be a good way to meet babes. Save a lot of time, you know?” He opened a door and motioned them inside. “Let’s cut through here.”
The big room consisted mostly of shelves containing all the impedimenta so vital to the conduct of modern Satanism: robes, incense, blasphemous books, videos, DVDs, sex toys—and a large cage containing a Burmese python. The snake, which appeared to be at least five feet in length, looked up at its visitors placidly.
In the lead, Duval was saying, “This is the shortest way through to the—oh shit.”
Quincey Morris had not followed the others into the room. Instead, he was standing in the doorway, looking with narrowed eyes at the reptile that was now ignoring him completely.
“My fault, I’m sorry,” Duval said. “I forget we kept Percy in here. Otherwise I wouldn’t have...”
Duval bustled about the shelves for a few moments before snatching up a large black cloth with red symbols woven into it. He quickly unfolded it and draped it over the glass cage.
Only when the snake was completely out of sight did Morris enter the room. “Sorry about that,” he said. An embarrassed grin spread across his face.
“No, my fault entirely,” Duval said. To Libby, he said, “See, my man Quincey has kind of a thing about—”
“Simon.” Morris’s voice was a little louder than it needed to be. “Just let it go.”
“Sure, okay, no problem,” Duval said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Maybe lighten the mood a little. Follow me.”
It was another large room that he led them into, but this one was dimly lit by some small spotlights in the ceiling, along with dozens of fat black candles that were burning atop various tables and shelves. The walls were done in a red velvety material, and the floors appeared to be covered by a number of mattresses and futons, atop which at least two dozen naked people, in various combinations of twos and threes and more, writhed and strained and grunted in a fair approximation of ecstasy. The air was pungent with a combination of incense, marijuana, sweat, and sex. Especially sex.
Morris said through clenched teeth, “Simon...”
“Just giving you one last chance to change your mind,” Duval said innocently. “As you can see, the party’s still going strong, if you want to join in.”
“No, but thanks anyway,” Morris said firmly.
“Suit yourself,” Duval said with a shrug. “How about you, Libby? Libby?”
Libby Chastain appeared not to hear. She was staring at a slim man with blond hair who was looking back at her intently even as he received vigorous oral sex from a slightly pudgy woman in a black garter belt with matching hose.
“Looks like your friend is thinking about sticking around, man,” Duval murmured.
Morris stepped over next to Libby and took her arm gently. “Libby, are you all right?”
No response. Libby continued to lock eyes with the man on the floor.
Morris shook Libby’s arm, then put his mouth next to her ear. “Libby!” he said sharply.
Libby turned her head toward Morris slowly, a faraway expression on her face. “Quincey?”
“Are you okay?” There was real concern in Morris’s voice.
Libby closed her eyes tightly for a moment. When she opened them, they seemed more focused. “Yes, I’m all right, but, please, let’s get out of this sleaze pit.”
“You heard the lady, Simon,” Morris said. “Which way’s the exit?”
QUINCEY MORRIS TURNED the rental car onto Lombard Street and drove two blocks before being stopped by a traffic light. Without taking his eyes off the street he said to Libby Chastain, “So, what the
hell was all that about?”
Libby stopped chewing her lower lip and said, “I don’t know, Quincey. I really don’t.”
“I mean, you weren’t really thinking about joining that Tijuana circus that Simon had going back there, were you?”
“Dear God, no. Not in a thousand years. I’m not a prude, you know that. And I’ve never begrudged other people their fun, as long as everybody’s a consenting adult. But that kind of mindless rutting is definitely not my scene.”
“Then what—”
“It was that man, the blond one. I mean, okay, I’ve never seen a real orgy before. So I was looking around, you know, at who was doing what to whom. Prurient interest, I suppose. But when I noticed the blond guy, there was something...”
“Did you know him, or did he maybe remind you of someone you know?”
“No, it wasn’t that. And he’s not even that good looking. But there was this instant, I don’t know, connection, as if everyone else in the room had suddenly disappeared, or become irrelevant.”
“Just like in the movies, huh?”
Libby snorted. “I don’t usually have trouble separating the movies from real life. But for a few seconds there, I experienced such a surge of, well, lust is the only word for it, that I was seriously tempted to tear my clothes off, elbow the garter belt lady aside, and jump him right there, with all those people around.”
“Goodness gracious,” Morris said mildly. “Um, does this kind of thing occur often?”
“No, never. I mean, I’ve felt lusty before, everyone has, but nothing like that has ever happened to me.”
“I’d almost wonder if Simon might’ve slipped something into your glass of virgin’s blood, except you didn’t have anything to drink.”
“No, you’re right, I didn’t,” she said pensively. “It’s an interesting idea, though.”
CHAPTER 16
THE KNOCK CAME as Libby Chastain was pulling on her nightshirt, a blue cotton garment decorated with little images of Shaun the Sheep. She went to the door, frowning. Quincey was in the next room, and he’d knock on the connecting door if he wanted something. Libby hadn’t ordered anything from room service, and she certainly wasn’t expecting company.
She peered through the fisheye lens into the hall then suddenly became very still. She stood looking through the glass for quite some time, then her right hand went slowly to the security chain and worked it loose, then dropped to the doorknob and turned it.
The door opened to reveal the blond man from the orgy at Simon Duval’s church. He stood there in tight jeans and a white T-shirt with Jim Morrison’s picture on it. The clear outline of his erect penis under the worn denim suggested he wore no underwear. Part of Libby’s mind was acutely conscious that her nightshirt only came down to mid-thigh. The rest of her brain couldn’t have cared less.
The man, who looked something like an older, taller Brad Pitt, gave Libby a lazy grin. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Libby found herself stepping back from the door, but the man continued to stand in the hall. Finally, she heard herself say, “Why don’t you come on in?”
Only then did he cross the threshold, closing the door behind him. Libby kept backing up until she stood in the middle of the room. The man followed her, like a stalking leopard.
“What do you want?” Libby asked in a voice not quite her own.
“You, of course.”
“But—why me?”
He smiled knowingly. “Unfinished business.”
He reached behind his head and pulled off the T-shirt to reveal a hairless, muscular chest and flat stomach. He tossed the shirt on the floor, followed it with his sandals, then the tight jeans.
A long, aching moment later, they were joined by Libby Chastain’s nightshirt.
LIBBY’S MIND SEEMED suspended in a red velvet fog, even as her naked body responded avidly to the blond man’s kisses and caresses. Somewhere, deep in her consciousness, a voice was shouting out a warning, but Libby could not be bothered to pay attention.
The man had parted her thighs now, and she was gazing with fascination at the huge, engorged penis he was about to slide into her, when there was a knock at the connecting door.
The man kneeling above her turned his head toward the door in annoyance, and for an instant something showed in his face that was not quite human. The mists within Libby’s mind parted enough for her to snatch a quick breath and yell, “Quincey!”
The blond man immediately clamped a hand over her mouth, and in tense silence they both listened to the doorknob rattle as the locked connecting door refused to open. The man looked back down at Libby then, and the smile was just returning to his handsome face when the door frame splintered under a mighty kick and Quincey Morris charged into the room like an avenging angel.
GETTING THROUGH THE connecting door had been relatively easy. A patient veteran of the Austin SWAT team had once taught Morris the basic techniques of what he called “explosive entry.” But nothing in the training had prepared him for what he found in Libby Chastain’s room.
There was enough light for him to recognize the man rearing up from the bed as the one from the group grope at the Church of Satan. Morris resisted the urge to stare at Libby’s naked body and instead watched as the blond man slid off the bed to stand facing him.
For half a second Morris feared that he had just interrupted an intimate moment between two willing grown-ups, but then he remembered the urgency in Libby’s voice when she’d called his name. Morris moved his feet a little, seeking perfect balance just as his sensei had taught him. Keeping his eyes on the blond man, he asked, “Are you okay, Libby?”
“Yes, I’m all right,” she said shakily. “But there’s something—”
“Quincey Morris, I presume,” the blond man said smoothly. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, although I would have done so later this evening, in any event. Still, there’s nothing wrong with saving a little time...”
As Morris watched, the man began to change. The face became rounder and softer, the hair longer, and his entire body seemed to shrink a couple of sizes. Breasts began to bloom on the hairless chest, while the penis and testicles retracted and were soon transformed into female genitals, shaved bald as a baby’s bottom.
It took only seconds for the handsome blond man to become a stunningly attractive blonde young woman.
Quincey Morris thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life.
“You like me, don’t you Quincey?” The voice was a throaty alto, only a little higher than the man’s had been. Morris found himself getting an urgent erection.
“Yes, I thought you might. Well, then, why don’t we do something about it?” The woman stepped forward, holding Morris’s eyes with her own. “All three of us, together.”
She turned to look toward the bed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Libby? I know you like girls as well as boys; I could tell the minute I saw you. So what do you say, kids?” She returned her gaze to Morris. “Let’s all have some fun.”
Without consciously deciding to do it, Morris began to unbutton his shirt. His eyes saw nothing but the woman, his mind thought of nothing but having her, right now, this instant.
Sitting up on the bed, Libby Chastain slowly raised her left hand, the way some unlucky swimmers do when drowning. Then, using all the strength she could muster, she slammed it backhand against the edge of the night table.
The pain, as expected, was excruciating. It drove everything else out of Libby’s mind, including the red fog that had enveloped it. She pointed her right index finger like a gun, and its target was the nude blonde woman. “Depart, unclean spirit!” she cried, sketching a sign in the air with her finger. “And return no more! I revoke my invitation! Isa ya! Ri ega!”
The door to the hallway opened, seemingly of its own volition. Morris never saw the woman-thing move, but one instant she was there in all her nude glory, and the next she was just—gone. Then the door slammed—loudly en
ough, it sounded, to wake the whole hotel.
Morris stood there for a couple of seconds, blinking like someone newly awakened. “Holy Christ,” he said softly. He turned toward Libby Chastain, then quickly looked away. “Listen,” he said to the wall, “I’m going to use your facilities, if you don’t mind. Splash some cold water on my face, or something. Why don’t you get dressed, and then we’ll talk, okay?”
“Sure, Quincey, you go ahead.” Libby’s voice sounded a little unsteady.
He went into the bathroom and closed the door softly behind him.
“I THOUGHT I heard the phone ring while I had the water running in there,” Morris said. He sat on the edge of Libby’s bed, a few errant drops of water glistening in his hair like diamonds.
“You did,” Libby told him. She had put on her nightshirt and covered it with a pink terrycloth robe. “The concierge wanted to know if everything was all right. He said he’d had reports of some noise.”
“What’d you say?”
“That I’d heard the noise too, but it sounded like it was coming from further down the hall. I said that the racket had woken me from a sound sleep, and that I was just dropping off again when he called. He was quite apologetic after that.”
Morris smiled briefly, then was serious again. He looked at Libby, who sat in the room’s sole armchair. “What was that you said at the end of your dismissal of our visitor? I didn’t recognize the language.”
“Ancient Sumerian. It’s part of a charm against demons.”
“Is that what we were dealing with? A demon?”
She nodded. “An incubus—in its male form, anyway. The female side is called a succubus.”
“I thought the legends describe those as two separate creatures.”
“They do, but the legends are wrong. That’s because the demon’s victims are usually exposed to only one side of its nature. But, as you saw, it can take on either a male or a female aspect, depending on the person being targeted.”
Black Magic Woman (Morris and Chastain Investigations) Page 13