Grey woke with the bizarre dream of the woman still lingering in his mind. The disappearance on the plane, those troubling images from the dream… it all left him unsettled and on edge.
He met Viktor at the same café. Grey stifled a yawn as he ordered a cup of coffee. He found Viktor in a secluded corner, legs crossed and head bowed in thought, an empty cappuccino on the table alongside a fresh one.
Still shaking off the dream, Grey said, “So what’s on tap for today? More witnesses, an arson expert, do a little checking into Oak’s activities over the last few months?”
“All good ideas,” Viktor said in a distracted voice. He finally looked up, and Grey was startled by what he saw. Though clean-shaven and dressed in his familiar black suit, his eyes betrayed a sleepless night. His broad face and dark brow, always intense, seemed locked in a duel with some unseen entity. Grey knew how tight a rein Viktor kept on his emotions, and knew he could magnify whatever manifested on Viktor’s face by twenty.
“Viktor? Everything all right?”
He composed himself. “Forgive me. I was pondering the preacher you requested I look into. Last night I viewed his press appearances.”
“Simon Azar?” Grey said.
“Yes, though that’s not the name I know him by.”
“You know of him?” Grey said. “From a previous investigation?”
Viktor’s massive head moved side to side. “He was once my best friend.”
At Viktor’s request, Grey and Viktor returned to the hotel before discussing Simon Azar any further. Viktor uncorked his absinthe with a distracted air, though it was not yet ten a.m. Grey sat on the couch with a fresh cup of coffee, waiting for Viktor to continue. Nothing could have surprised Grey more than what he had heard in the café. Viktor and Simon did look to be about the same age, late fifties, but that was the only similarity Grey could fathom.
And not on any of their cases had Grey seen Viktor this unnerved.
“His real name is Darius Ghassomian,” Viktor said, sitting in a chair across from Grey. “He’s from New York, though he moved to London during high school. His parents were both Iranian. We once were very close, when I was a student at Oxford. I haven’t heard from him since university, though for some time I heard rumors of his whereabouts and activities.”
“Rumors?” Grey said.
Viktor gripped his glass between his palms, hovering over it like some giant, dark bird of prey. “Do you remember we discussed two types of Satanic cults?”
“Sure.”
“The House of Lucifer and LaVey’s Church of Satan are examples of symbolic Satanism, for obvious reasons. Adherents of L’église de la Bête and its ilk are known as theistic Satanists, because they actually worship the Devil. There is a third type, however, far more rare and whose roots are planted deep in history, even before the Gnostics. It originated in ancient Persia, where the concept of the Devil arose.”
“Zoroastrianism again.” Grey whistled. “And your friend’s Iranian.”
“He’s indeed Iranian, but he had no love for Zoroaster, and we did not part ways as friends.”
Whatever this third type of devil worship entailed, Grey had the uncomfortable suspicion that Viktor had more than a surface knowledge. “What happened?”
“Remember when I said the origin of the Devil was a story for another day?” Viktor said. “Unfortunately that day has arrived.”
“It always does.”
Viktor swirled his absinthe into a tiny whirlpool inside the glass. “What even most theologians fail to realize is that the concept of the Devil as an antagonist to God predated Christian thought.”
“I’d think the idea of an evil deity would be timeless. Universal.”
“Not exactly,” Viktor said. “Pantheistic belief in multiple deities, both good and evil, was, of course, widespread in ancient times, as were pseudo-monotheistic beliefs in religions such as Hinduism, where a multitude of avatars represent different facets of one Supreme Being. But not until the Abrahamic concept of pure monotheism arose did we encounter a single omnipotent god and the problem of evil.”
“Which led to the need for horns and a pitchfork,” Grey said, though he had to digest Viktor’s words before responding. Viktor’s encyclopedic knowledge of religions and cults amazed Grey, but during these lectures he often felt as if he were a student in one of Viktor’s classes, struggling to keep everything in context.
“That’s right. As I said, the dilemma of theodicy troubled monotheistic theologians from the beginning, but long before the Christian era the Zoroastrians were dealing with the issue in a novel manner.”
“Dualism,” Grey said, recalling his readings on Zoroastrianism. “The belief in an equal and rival deity to God.”
Viktor rose and started to pace, reinforcing his professorial demeanor. “A logical solution to the problem of evil. The Zoroastrians believe there are twin forces at work in the universe, Ahura Mazda and Angra Mainyu, also known as Ahriman. Zoroaster and his followers worshipped Ahura Mazda as the benevolent creator-God, while Ahriman and his legion of daevas, or demons, represented the forces of darkness.”
“It does simplify things.”
“The concept of dualism threatened the fabric of the early Christian Church,” Viktor said. “The Gnostics, the gravest danger to the Catholic Church in history, lifted the dualistic elements of their theology from the belief in Ahriman. As did many other heresies.”
“To be honest,” Grey said, leaning back on the sofa, “it’s easier for me to conceive of some evil god up there causing mayhem than to believe in a Supreme Being who I have to hold responsible for genocide and child prostitution.”
“And many learned minds in history would agree. Had the Catholic Church not been so politically powerful, popular dualistic heresies such as Manichaeism, Catharism, Bogomilism, Albigensianism, and Marcionism would likely have endured to this day. Saint Augustine was a Manichaean for nine years.”
“Saint Augustine was in a cult?” Grey said. “I’ve never even heard of the Manichaeans.”
“That’s because cults, heresies, and alternative beliefs were not just frowned upon by the Catholic Church. They were annihilated.”
“It all sounds so… cosmic. The idea of an evil God.”
Viktor stopped pacing, his lips curling upward. “Who truly believes in his own evil, Grey? The perspective of those on the inside of a cult, even a monstrous one like L’église de la Bête, would surprise you.”
“I think I’ve got a handle on the history, and I see where this is leading, but how does this connect up to Darius or the murders?”
Viktor stood in front of the window, staring off into space again. Grey had the suspicion he was deciding how much to tell him. “I seek knowledge above all else, and I hope you understand that. When I was a student at Oxford, at the beginning of my journey, I was a practitioner of magic. Darius and I and… a girl… explored it together.”
Grey had a hard time imagining Viktor either as a young, carefree college student or as a romantic, but he could see by his wistful, faraway gaze that he had once been both. Yet Grey also saw a sadness, a great loss, lurking in those memories. He wondered if this was the girl Viktor had thought of when Grey asked him about marriage.
“There is a subset of black magicians,” Viktor said, “whose practitioners believe that magic derives not just from the laws of the universe but from an entity or entities who control the darker forces. These magicians are called Diabolists.”
Grey held a finger up. “When I was reading about Zoroastrianism I read about a priestly caste called magi. They were magicians of course, which is where we got the name, and also the Three Magi from the Bible. Did Ahriman have his magi as well?”
“The magi who worshipped Ahriman were reputed to have instructed King Solomon in the dark arts, including the summoning of demons. We know almost nothing about Ahriman’s followers, except they were feared throughout the ancient world. And there’s almost no mention of Ahriman in historica
l records except for the writings of Rudolf Steiner, a prominent philosopher and Goethe scholar from the early 1900s.”
“Don’t know him, either,” Grey said.
Viktor pushed away from the window to prepare more absinthe, speaking as he fitted the slotted spoon and sugar cube above the glass. “He started a movement he termed anthroposophy, which combined elements of Nietzsche, Goethe, European transcendentalism, and theosophy. He gained a sizable following, but his cosmology was bizarre. He viewed three figures as central to human evolution and spiritual development: Christ, Lucifer, and Ahriman. He believed an ‘Ahrimanic influence’ has been at work since the middle of the fifteenth century, and that Ahriman would incarnate sometime during the third millennium, just as Christ once did.”
“The third millennium being now? ‘Bizarre’ would be an understatement.”
“I mention it solely out of lack of reference points,” Viktor said.
“Another guess,” Grey said, rising to stretch his legs. “Your old pal was a Diabolist.”
Viktor’s lips pursed. “Correct.”
Grey placed his empty coffee cup in the kitchen, returning to face Viktor. “And so were you.”
“I dabbled,” Viktor said evenly, “but no.”
Grey had long known that Viktor’s interest in religion and cults went far beyond mere law enforcement. On more than one occasion he had questioned whether Viktor’s decision making was geared towards helping the victims or satisfying his own curiosities.
“So what does this mean for us?” Grey said.
“Darius—Simon—was brilliant, but awkward and terribly reserved. A social outcast. It’s hard to believe this was the same person I saw on the Internet, yet I’m sure of it. And magicians, especially Diabolists, shun the limelight.”
“Maybe your old pal had a change of heart along the way,” Grey said. “Decided he’d rather have a Porsche and some nubile young followers.”
Viktor did not look convinced.
“So a Diabolist,” Grey reasoned, “could have motive to call both Matthias Gregory and Xavier Marcel a heretic.”
“Possibly, yes.”
“Of course it could all be a coincidence, the Diabolist’s robe, the emergence of Simon close in time to the murders.”
“Of course,” Viktor said.
“I don’t believe very much in coincidence,” Grey said.
They stared at each other, Viktor in silent acquiescence.
“The immediate question,” Grey said, checking his watch, “is whether it stops here. Are we solving murders or preventing them?”
“I received a call from my Interpol contact this morning. Jacques said another letter has been delivered, to a society of magicians in York. One of the oldest in the world.”
“I didn’t know there were societies of magicians,” Grey said.
“There are many.”
“Well, today’s a day of enlightenment,” Grey said. “Another six-day deadline?”
“Yes, but three days have already passed.”
“So we go to York?” Grey said.
“I do, but not yet,” Viktor said, his gaze disappearing into his glass. “There’re a few things I need to investigate in San Francisco, based on this new information.”
Grey didn’t even bother asking. “And my job?”
“I need you to look into Xavier’s death.”
Grey nodded, slowly. “That makes sense.”
“Good. I’ll purchase a ticket to Paris for this evening. We’ve no time to waste.”
Grey said his good-bye and moved to leave, then paused with the door half-closed. “Just one more thing.”
“Yes?” Viktor said.
“I understand why you didn’t mention the Diabolist angle sooner. Keeping things to yourself is fine, Viktor, we all have our secrets. Just make sure it never impacts an investigation I’m working on.”
PARIS
From a booth in the corner, Luc Morel-Renard watched the crowd gather at the working-class bar in the eighteenth arrondissement. The neighborhood was home to Sacré Coeur, but also to some of the worst neighborhoods in metro Paris, and for some time Luc had seethed as North African and other immigrants overran his childhood home, bringing unemployment, crime, and gangs.
Luc had been a rising star in the far right Unité Radicale, but when that organization disbanded after the failed Chirac assassination, Luc, gifted in both oration and the ideology of hate, had been approached by a member of L’église de la Bête. Though shocked at first by the group’s depravity and the requirements for membership, Luc realized that both his carnal and political ambitions could be furthered by joining the underground society.
Luc had never been comfortable with Xavier’s leadership, which was too blunt for his taste. Xavier’s misguided Arceneau kidnappings had almost exposed them, and if the press got a whiff of Luc’s affiliation with L’église de la Bête, even his own radical followers would shun him. His church helped his political career from the inside out, not the outside in.
As a fight broke out in the corner, Luc pondered his good fortune. Xavier was dead. Luc was now in charge of the direction of the church, and the only person he had to answer to was far more closely aligned with his own goals. In fact, Luc had come to realize the beauty and power of the Magus’s vision, and counted himself a loyal disciple. The Magus had promised to help Luc’s political career and more. Much more.
The fight in the corner ended, a rare silence encasing the crowd as the bartender cranked the volume on the television. Simon Azar was speaking again, and every union man, biker, anarchist, Satanist, and local thug was listening. Luc watched in awe as Simon, sitting in a high-backed chair, spoke with a potent cocktail of intelligence, charisma, and self-effacing wisdom, his humanist message somehow managing to please intellectuals, blue-collar types, and social outcasts all at the same time. Religious leaders had already denounced him, but everyone else, the vast swaths of humanity swimming in the murky waters of agnosticism, clung to his life raft of hope. As Hitler said and proved, the power of the spoken word had started the greatest religious and political avalanches in history.
Luc listened to the translator.
“This morning I logged on to the Internet, and do you know what the three top news stories of the week were?” Simon ticked them off on his fingers. “One: another earthquake in Haiti. Two: Severe flooding in Brazil destroyed thousands of homes and millions of dollars’ worth of crops. Three: An Italian man living in an upper-class neighborhood, less than a mile from Vatican City, kidnapped and dismembered two local schoolchildren.”
Simon paused to reflect on the gravity of the events. “Do you know what these three atrocities have in common? They happened, you see, in three of the most devoutly Catholic countries on the planet, and all in the same week. How many tens of thousands of people in those countries, how many millions, had prayed just that week for peace and prosperity? How far did it get them, how did it help the poor souls who died in those events? To think that God would kill our children or allow such atrocities to occur, under any theological system, is beyond ludicrous. We are not a rational species; rather, we rationalize. We do what we must to fit God within the framework we know.”
The crowd murmured in approval.
“And what if such tragedies were to occur in the countries of the godless, where original sin brings them hobbled into the world, and eternal damnation finishes the job? What kind of being creates humans so terribly flawed, and then condemns the majority to everlasting punishment?”
Simon clasped his hands and leaned forward in his chair. “Who then, I ask you, is the evil one? Ah, you say, but Hell is not literal, eternal damnation a myth. What then, I must ask, is the meaning of Christ’s sacrifice? From what is there to be saved?” He opened his palms. “I understand that many of you don’t believe in the concept of Hell or eternal damnation, but why cling to an ethos that includes such anachronistic concepts? Why not be free thinkers, free beings? What is there to fear except a lif
e unlived?”
A look of infinite sadness lengthened Simon’s face. “Isn’t it time we redefined our concept of God? That we cast not us in His image, but His in ours? Our pleasure, our pain, all the aching beauty of our love and loss and longing: these hallmarks of human existence are all that we know. All that we have. Isn’t it time,” he said softly, “that we look for universal solutions to our problems, rather than unattainable ideals that divide our nations, our cities, our villages?”
Despite his knowledge of the speaker’s true identity, Luc found himself drawn into the speech. It was, quite simply, the God that everyone wanted, whether they admitted it or not. Wise, caring, devoted, fair, and just a little bit flawed. It was a modern God, a stay-at-home-dad God, a God more in line with the complexities of the world.
Luc could only smile.
Since becoming a member of L’église de la Bête, Luc had agreed with the wisdom of the old adage that the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist. But there was a reason for this trick, the Magus taught, and it wasn’t to spend eternity playing second fiddle.
On the contrary: When the time was right, when the tipping point had been reached and the balance of faith had shifted, the curtain would be yanked away and the illusion revealed to the crowd, shining and terrible beyond imagination.
His cell phone vibrated. When Luc saw the number he swallowed.
Dante.
Luc had done things in life that would make the Marquis de Sade blush, but talking to Dante made him feel ill and unbalanced. Looking at Dante was like looking at someone without a soul, a human cavity where nothing existed except those empty eyes and that horrific tattoo. The Magus might have his gifts from the Beast, but Dante was someone Luc would rather die than cross.
He excused himself from his friends, wading through the stench of the patrons and into the street. “Oui?”
“A man named Dominic Grey is coming to ask questions. There is someone he should meet.”
The phone call ended as abruptly as it began, and Luc was left standing in the street with a silent cell phone clamped to his ear.
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