by Frank Lauria
Isis’s shoulders began to jerk. Gregory put his hand on her neck and the movement stopped. "Mr. Kramer," Isis rumbled. The man who had placed his request before the circle flushed and half-rose, somewhat startled at hearing his name being uttered by the straining girl.
"Wife—will speak." Isis fell silent. Her body shuddered and her arms began to move back toward to her body, crossing slowly over her breasts, fists still clenched. When she began to speak, her voice was no longer low and coarse; it was pitched very high now, coming out as a squeaky whisper. "Arthur? It’s Agnes here."
The man struggled to his feet. "Agnes? You’re not dead," he stammered.
"There is—no death—only the journey—" The words were somehow out of synchronization with Isis’s curled lips. "Must have faith."
"But the will, Agnes," the man said quickly, taking a step forward.
"Will—can be found in—the attic—my chest." The voice became louder. "Must have—faith, Arth—" Isis stopped and her arms thrust forward again. She began to rock back and forth on the table.
The man looked confused and started to speak, but before he could say anything, Isis opened her mouth and began to shriek.
As if the screams were a signal, Kali began to tremble uncontrollably. She fell to the floor growling, and working her jaws like an animal gnawing on fresh-killed bones.
Thor and the black boy were rolling on the floor near her, their arms and legs twitching.
The room was suddenly filled by static electricity, and Orient felt his hair rising. Everyone else in the room seemed frozen with fear, their faces blank and uncomprehending. Orient looked up and saw Gregory standing with his head thrown back, muttering a jumble of words and phrases. Isis began to weep hysterically, her breath coming in choppy, hiccupping sobs. Thin streams of liquid were running down her thighs. It took Orient a moment before he realized it was urine.
Isis uttered a long, weak wail and fell to the floor unconscious. A brief flash of blue flame illuminated the star above the table, and abruptly all the noise and movement in the room stopped.
For long seconds everything was suspended in stillness. Then Thor got to his feet and pulled the cord hanging against the wall. The linen curtains closed Gregory and Isis off from view.
Orient moved to help Kali, but she was already on her feet. There were large wet stains on her gown, and her face was pale and covered with perspiration.
"All right now?" Orient asked.
Kali nodded, and sighed luxuriously. "Fine. I love it when Gregory calls Astaroth. He fills my whole body."
Orient didn’t answer. From the excited murmur of conversation buzzing around the room, he knew that most of the people there shared Kall’s rush of physical enthusiasm. His own thoughts, however, were numbed with fear and depression.
The curtains parted and Gregory stepped into the room. "One of you here had a request unanswered," he said, "but Isis is too exhausted to continue the celebration. If you wish, we are available for private consultation. There will be another celebration of the universal power of Astaroth in two days. Thank you for coming."
Most of the participants started filing toward the door, but a few lingered to talk to Gregory.
"Later," Kali whispered. "I’m on duty at the door."
Orient edged closer to the group surrounding Gregory. He had underestimated him, Orient admitted ruefully; the boy was able to wield sizable amounts of occult energy.
"It was just the greatest thing I’ve ever seen," the man who had contacted his dead wife was saying. "I’d clean forgotten about the chest. Nobody else could know. It was just fantastic."
Gregory bowed his head. "I’m glad we were of service."
"I want you to know I’m behind you and Isis a hundred percent," the man told him.
"But Isis," a woman said, "I’m worried about her, Gregory."
"My wife was overcome, but she’ll be completely normal in a few minutes," Gregory assured her. "Isis is proud to use her powers on your behalf."
Orient waited patiently until Gregory had finished chatting with his guests before approaching. There was a great deal he still wanted to know, but it wasn’t wise to appear too anxious. From now on he would have to move very carefully.
"Hello, Owen," Gregory said softly, "I’m pleased you could come."
Orient made himself smile. "Thanks for having me. It was fascinating."
Gregory nodded slowly, studying Orient. "Now you see that the power of the Circle can be of use to you."
"I believe it could. I’ve made some inquiries into psychic science myself, but never with results like that. Magnificent control."
The boy responded to the slight flattery. His amber eyes clouded over with pride. "Yes," he said, "I knew when I saw you. You’re sensitive."
"Was the rite to Astaroth you used according to Honorius?" Orient tried to sound casual, but he was tense. The information was crucial.
The mist faded from Gregory’s eyes, leaving them hard and alert.
A tiny vein in his smooth skull jumped. "I’m not sure," he purred.
"My wife and I developed our powers in California. There we discovered that Astaroth is goodness and fife." His smile was a cold dismissal. "But I must see about my wife. Good night, Owen." He turned and walked back through the curtain.
Orient frowned; Gregory wasn’t telling the truth. Astaroth was not goodness. The being was a guide of the left-hand path. Gregory
Gregory knew how to wield psychic energy, but it was negative energy. His power and that of Isis was Satanic in origin. Orient moved to the entrance. He was sure that the prayer to Astaroth was from the books of Honorius III, the occultist who became Pope. Perhaps Gregory had sensed the urgency behind the remark and guessed his intention. If that was the case, it would make everything difficult.
"Wasn’t it beautiful?"
Orient looked down and saw Kali standing just beside the door.
She was holding a wooden bowl in her hands. The bowl was filled with cash, and Orient saw that someone had dropped a diamond ring on top of the green bills." Looks like the Circle made a profit," he said.
"Oh, that." Kali make a face and set the bowl carelessly down on the floor. "We need it right now, but pretty soon we’ll be beyond money. As soon as the Circle is established." She took his hand and walked with him to the outside door. "There are more important things, you know. Like you and me."
Orient stopped at the door. He didn’t want to arouse Kali’s suspicions. "I think I was too moved by the celebration," he said. "I’m still not together."
Kali reached up and touched his cheek. "I understand," she said tenderly. "It was the same with me my first time."
"But I want to see Gregory again," Orient confided. "Can I have his number?"
Kali didn’t turn around, but merely raised her voice slightly. "Slavie," she said, "bring me a card."
Instantly one of the girls sitting in the front room rose and came to Kali’s side, holding a pale blue calling card.
Kali handed the card to Orient. "Don’t let this number get around; I’ll see you at the next meeting." She smiled and her tongue flicked over her lips. "Then you can try out my waterbed."
"I’ll be looking forward to it," Orient said. He wanted to tell her much more but he knew she wouldn’t understand. When he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he saw that the limousines had departed and the street was empty and quiet.
He walked slowly, letting the night air cool the feverish tenseness stretched tight across his brain. Kali and her friends were using forces that were extremely powerful. Gregory and Isis were calling up Astaroth’s energy with blood sacrifice. Tonight it had been a dove, but Orient knew that it was only a matter of a few phases before they attempted a human sacrifice. Astaroth would demand a higher and higher price for his services. And Gregory was in no position to deny him. The boy was making a serious miscalculation. Gregory and Isis didn’t control Astaroth’s power; it controlled them. They were completely possessed by its influence. Orient a
lso knew that if the celebrations continued, the sanity and life of innocent people would eventually be destroyed. He took a deep breath and tried to push away the doubts jabbing at his thoughts.
His first impulse was to try to help Gregory and Isis. To free them. But it was held back by the dancing, taunting fears. He wasn’t sufficiently prepared. Control would have to be perfect, and he didn’t know if he was up to it.
And then there was something else, perhaps even more important than his ability to do anything for them. Gregory and Isis, he reminded himself, had no desire to be freed from Astaroth’s exhilarating embrace.
CHAPTER 6
Keeping tabs on all the telephoned bets that came into Joker’s apartment wasn’t taxing, but it demanded attention. And Orient’s mind was still wrestling with what he had seen the night before, at Gregory’s meeting. He tried to concentrate on his work, but it was impossible. He took the phone off the hook, lay back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Sun Girl didn’t know how perceptive she had been. Kali’s friends were riding an express to madness. They were so carried away by their ability to conjure power that they’d forgotten to protect themselves. The possession of Gregory and Isis could have happened any number of ways; by forgetting to say the proper prayers for the binding of the spirit, or neglecting to make the Circle of Protection perfectly. Many amateurs fell into the same pitfalls. Anyone calling up occult energy had to be certain that every safety measure was covered. The forfeit was injury, madness, and sometimes death. Gregory and his wife hadn’t taken the correct measures, and they’d been entered by Astaroth. And if the celebrations continued, everyone who participated would be prey to the virulent disease of their rites.
Of course there was another possibility. One that sent sharp darts of anxiety through his thoughts. Gregory and Isis hadn’t taken any precautions because they wanted to become possessed. Because something in their personality had made them decide to worship evil for its own sake.
A chill crept across the back of his neck as he remembered the sacrificed dove. And the cell of impressionable Slavies.
He sat up, found the card Karl had given him, and put his finger on the receiver button while he dialed Gregory’s number.
"Hello."
Orient thought he recognized the voice at the other end. "Kali?"
"Yes. Who is it?" Kali’s voice rose slightly with anticipation.
"Owen."
The voice dropped flat. "Oh, hi. What is it?"
"I’d like to make an appointment with Gregory. For a private consultation."
"I think Gregory’s all booked up," she said quickly. Too quickly, Orient thought.
"Tomorrow?"
"Sorry. He’s booked through this week. And he won’t be available again for a few months."
"How much is his regular fee?"
"Expensive. A hundred dollars."
"I’ll give him five hundred."
Orient didn’t even have the regular fee, but he didn’t believe he’d be called upon to produce a cent. Something about Kali’s manner made him sure that Gregory wouldn’t be available to him at any price.
He was right.
"Sorry, Owen. Gregory’s been booked in advance."
Orient pushed it. "Okay. I’ll see you at the next meeting in that case."
"I don’t think so, Owen." Kali’s voice was brittle and remote. "Gregory’s decided not to hold any more open meetings."
"But I’m really interested in the Circle. Can I speak to him?" Orient persisted.
"I’m sorry. Not right now. Why don’t you call mc in a few weeks. I have to go back to my chores now." She hung up.
Orient replaced the receiver slowly. Kali had obviously scratched him from her waterbed list. And it wasn’t difficult to figure out why. Gregory had become suspicious when he mentioned Honorius. So he had told Kali to turn him off. Orient shook his head. He had tipped his hand. Now it would be impossible to get to Gregory. And every passing day would increase the chances of someone else in the Circle being possessed by Astaroth. He stood up and began to pace the floor.
He had to find some way of being alone with Gregory and Isis.
He sighed aloud as he realized that was only the first jump. Then he would have to convince them to let him help them. And there was no way that would work. He would have to surprise them somehow.
A plan began to form. He pushed it aside as impractical, and then came back to it again. But he couldn’t carry if off alone. Then he remembered Sybelle, and the ragged edges of the idea fell into place. If she agreed, there was a chance. He decided to call her.
This time the voice at the other end was vibrant and rich. "Speak," it commanded in a dramatic mezzo-soprano.
Orient snorted. "Same old Sybelle," he said. "Still intimidating the customers."
"Owen," Sybelle gushed enthusiastically, "you’re back! You’re safe! I thought something had happened. I almost held a séance for you. Where are you?"
"I’m in the city. Sorry I haven’t called sooner, but I’ve been involved in some research. Can I see you right away?"
"How about later this evening?"
"How about now?"
Sybelle’s resonant voice lowered. "Why the hurry?"
"It’s rather pressing," Orient said, "and difficult to explain on the phone."
"Well, of course, then. Come up. I’ll be waiting." Orient felt better when he hung up. With Sybelle’s help his plan had a decent chance of success. But he had to do some shopping before he went to see her. He wrote a note for Sun Girl and Joker, then carefully made a list of the items he needed.
Everything had to be right. He wouldn’t get another try. When he’d completed the list, he left the house, found a cab, and convinced the driver to wait for him while he made a few stops. The first place he went to was a pharmaceutical wholesale outlet in the Wall Street district. Orient had done business with the firm before, so he was able to obtain what he needed without producing extensive credentials. After that he went to an herb pharmacy in the Bowery. When his purchases were completed, he stopped at a nearby church for a few moments before finally giving the driver Sybelle’s address.
As the cab crawled up First Avenue toward 60th Street, Orient considered the details of his plan. It wasn’t foolproof. It could go wrong at any point. If Gregory and Isis refused to see Sybelle privately, he’d be unable to do anything. He had chosen Sybelle for two reasons. She was a professional medium who would understand the situation. She didn’t have telepathic ability, but she did have a strong clairvoyant psychic talent which she controlled effectively. Orient didn’t always agree with the headstrong woman, but he knew she could be depended upon in a crisis. And Sybelle had a room in her apartment that was perfect for what he had in mind today.
Sybelle lived on the ground floor of a three-story brownstone off Second Avenue. When she answered the bell she started talking even before she had fully opened the door. "Owen. It’s been eons! I knew you were going to contact me. I felt it this week. Nobody knew where you were. Everyone was positively mystified. Come in—come in, why don’t you," she admonished, blocking the entrance with her wide body.
Sybelle’s figure had once been described as a "classic Reubens; the delicatessen, not the painter," but today, with a ruffled pink pant suit coveting her ample curves, she looked more like a watermelon that had grown inside out. Her hair was a frizzy hennaed halo around her florid face, and her eyes were tiny
dots, like pits, peeping out through the mounds of flesh that formed when she smiled. And she was beaming.
"Come in, for heaven’s sakes," she repeated, finally stepping back to give Orient room. "Where have you been, anyway?" She stood up on tiptoes, closed her eyes, and puckered her bright red lips. Orient gave her a loud kiss.
"I’m glad to see you haven’t changed," he said. "Still lusty."
Sybelle waddled ahead of Orient on her gold, high-heeled slippers. "Fat as ever, you mean. Some of my so-called friends are calling me the obese oracle beh
ind my back. Do you want a drink? Or are you still on that monk’s regime of yours?" She waved her plump, jeweled fingers at him. "Sit down, sit down, and tell me everything."
Orient shook his head helplessly, set down his shopping bag and sat. Sybelle was as dizzy as ever. But underneath the fat and the flamboyance there was a highly gifted woman who used her talents with the shrewd precision of a surgeon.
"Tell me now," she demanded as she went behind the red, plush bar, elaborately worked with gilded signs of the Zodiac, and began filling two glasses with ice. "Why did you sell that beautiful house? And where have you been all this time?"
"Just working on some research. I guess I’ve been pretty absorbed," Orient murmured apologetically. "But it’s good to see you looking beautiful. How’s the medium business?" Sybelle patted her vivid orange hair and winked. "Business, as you so crudely put my profession, is fabulous. I’d be a rich woman if could be bothered to go on TV, or do magazine articles like some other psychics. But I prefer to keep my readings small and private." She came out from behind the bar holding the two glasses. "Now this is Scotch," she said firmly. "Drink it, it’s good for you."
Orient dutifully took the glass and drank. "There," Sybelle prompted encouragingly, "isn’t that better than those insipid juices?"
Orient nodded. He knew better than to try to argue with Sybelle, who was a devoted believer in the natural magic of food and drink. Especially booze.
"Now then," Sybelle sighed, settling down in a delicate French Provincial chair that looked ready to splinter under her weight, "what’s all the fuss? Why did you want to see me right away?"
"Let me ask you something first," Orient said. He told her what he’d seen at the meeting the night before. He described Isis’s strange convulsions and the rite to Astaroth. He didn’t go into his own conclusions, but waited for her reaction.
"I don’t like it," Sybelle frowned. She took a gulp of her drink. "It sounds like the sort of thing I don’t like to be associated with."
"Why?"
Sybelle looked at him. "You know as well as I that calling up psychic power through a blood rite can lead to complications."