Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04

by Heartlight (v2. 1)

He spoke of the occult powers that the black covens could wield to steal a man's mind, to bend the will, to hurt or even kill. It was pure Rosemary's Baby stuff, but as far as Colin could tell, Cannon never quite stooped to out-and-out fabrication. There was always a grain of truth in even his most lurid writings, and so there must be something to this.

  But your viewpoint depended on your perspective. By Cannon's wide-ranging definition of Black Magick, Colin MacLaren's own Lodge and its ancient sacred trust was a part of that same recondite occult conspiracy that seemed—from Cannon's description—to be on the verge of taking over Manhattan at this very moment. Left to Cannon to describe, the activities of even the whitest Witchcraft would take on an unholy tinge.

  When Cannon finished, there was a scatter of pleased applause, and a few people came to the podium to get autographs or to ask questions. Colin dawdled until the traffic jam in front of the door had eased, then got up to go. He had no particular desire to meet John Cannon.

  "Colin MacLaren!" Someone behind him had called out his name, and Colin stopped, turning to see who it was.

  Cannon hurried up to him. "It is—You are Colin MacLaren, aren't you? The ghosthunter?"

  Any residual sympathy Colin might have felt for the writer evaporated with his easy use of the dated, pejorative term. But he answered, cordially enough:

  "I'm Colin MacLaren. That was an interesting talk you gave back there."

  "Years of practice," Cannon said candidly. "But I think I've really struck gold this time. This stuff is real—these people are actually out there, and they're as serious about this hoodoo as you or I about the pennant race."

  "I don't follow sports, Mr. Cannon," Colin said, hoping he didn't sound too disparaging. "But what can I do for you?"

  "Well, you know a writer's always looking for his next book," Cannon said. "And I think I've got a doozy. So I was wondering if I could interview you. Let me give you my card—"

  "Me?" Colin was horrified, and thought, absurdly, about how Claire would laugh to see his expression. "I'm sure I'd be of very little interest to you." Automatically he took the proffered card and tucked it into his jacket pocket without looking.

  Cannon finally seemed to notice Colin's coolness.

  "Well, that is ... Naturally I'm familiar with your work, Dr. MacLaren, and I certainly wouldn't dream of doing anything to, ah, sensationalize the work you're doing—"

  "As a ghosthunter?" Colin asked, and Cannon had the grace to wince.

  "Sorry if I put your back up. I'm afraid I've fallen into the habits of my profession, Prof—"

  Colin held up a minatory hand. "Please, Mr. Cannon. My doctorate in psychology was a long time ago, and I no longer teach. Just plain 'Mister' is good enough for me."

  "Mr. MacLaren, then. But I was serious when I said I admired you. That article you did for Police Journal about ten years back on the commonest sorts of psychic frauds—I freely admit that it was a great inspiration to me. Sort of got me into the field, so to speak."

  Colin remembered that John Cannon's first book had been an overview— and debunking—of fraud mediums. There were several, Colin knew, whom Cannon had researched but not included, because he could find no way of exposing them.

  "I'm glad my life has not been wasted," Colin said dryly. "But you'll understand my confusion, Mr. Cannon. Why would you want to interview me?"

  "Thorne Blackburn," Cannon said quickly. "You knew him, didn't you? I've talked to some people, and your name came up a few times. After I'm done with the current book, I'd like to do one on him, you see, and—"

  "Thorne Blackburn?" Colin said blankly. "Forgive me, Mr. Cannon, but unless you're planning to solve his mysterious disappearance—and, frankly, it's pretty clear to me that the man's dead—I can't see what appeal your book will have. Nobody outside of a rather specialized field even remembers him."

  "Now there you're wrong," Cannon said, warming to his subject. "Everybody's interested in Blackburn—look over here."

  He led Colin to a section of bookshelf in the center aisle of the store. Neatly typed labels on the front of each shelf said "Golden Dawn," "Crowley," "Kabbalah," "Regardie," "Blackburn." There were four or five different titles in the Blackburn section and several copies of each, ranging from crude pamphlets to a gaudily produced small-press volume bound in black leather and stamped in red and gold foil. The spine of the book said The Opening of the Way.

  Colin reached to take the book down and hesitated, letting his hand fall to his side once more. He'd looked at some of Thorne's writing just after the accident, and had found it an amalgam of blasphemy and wishful thinking more suitable to a pulp novel.

  "Even if there is the interest that you say, Mr. Cannon, I'm not so sure that a popular book on Thorne Blackburn is such a good idea. What he was trying to do—whatever it was—got two people killed. Putting that material into the hands of the general public might be considered a bit irresponsible."

  "Oh, pish," Cannon said, lightly dismissing Colin's objection. "You don't really believe in all this hoodoo, do you?" He smiled briefly at his own joke. "We aren't talking poltergeists here; this is a bunch of people who think that if they click their heels together three times and say, 'There's no place like home,' something's going to happen. Besides, Blackburn's stuff is already in print, as you see. I just want to humanize it a little, that's all. Make it accessible. Give people an idea of the man behind the myth."

  "Mr. Cannon," Colin said. "A moment ago you called this hoodoo, and from your lecture tonight you seem to be hell-bent—and I use the term advisedly—on involving yourself with a lot of pretty unsavory people. I'm not interested in arguing the legitimacy of any of this with you, but without even entering into the realm of the supernatural, let me remind you how fiercely people will defend their beliefs when they feel them threatened ... no matter how outre you feel their beliefs to be."

  "I can defend myself," Cannon said, patting a pocket as if he held some sort of weapon there.

  Colin shook his head. "I'm certain that you believe that, Mr. Cannon, just as I'm certain that the forces that you are trifling with—if you're so unlucky as to run into the genuine article—are dangerous beyond your wildest dreams. And completely without a sense of humor, when it comes to investigative journalism."

  "You talk a pretty good line, Professor," Cannon said. "I don't suppose you'd like to back it up with some names, places, dates? Something I can check out?"

  Colin sighed, feeling suddenly tired. "No, Mr. Cannon, I wouldn't." He felt in his pocket for his wallet and withdrew one of his cards, holding it out to the younger man. "But I strongly advise you to give up this project of yours, and forget about Blackburn as well. You haven't the right attitude for it. But there's no way I can force you, so ... please. Here's my card. If you ever feel that you're in over your head, call me, at any hour of the day or night. I'll do my best to help you."

  Cannon took the card, inspecting it closely. All it contained was Colin's name, address, and phone number. The writer shrugged and thrust the card into a jacket pocket.

  "Sure, Mr. MacLaren, thanks," he said in a tone that made Colin certain he would throw out the card as soon as he got home. "Thanks for the tip. And maybe I'll give you a call in a few months, and we can work on that Blackburn thing together. Call it something like King of the Witches, eh?"

  Without waiting for a reply, he strode jauntily off.

  It was hard to imagine who'd be more offended by such a title, Thome or the witches, Colin mused as he gazed after the departing writer. He'd say a prayer for John Cannon tonight. The man was playing with fire.

  Hellfire.

  The lecture had started at six, so it was dark by the time Colin left the shop. Wan streetlights at the end of each block did little to illuminate its middle, but Colin was not worried. The evening was mild, and the hour was still early. Possibly he'd arrive home ready to tackle the galley proofs for a few hours more before bed.

  As he rounded the corner, a man in a dark blue trench co
at brushed past him, hurrying up the street. He wore no hat, and as he passed beneath the streetlight, it flashed brightly off his flaxen hair.

  Colin stopped and stared after him before continuing on his way, somehow suddenly uneasy. When he was within a block or so of home, he finally traced the source of his disquiet. The chance-met pedestrian had reminded him, somehow, of Toller Hasloch.

  He had not thought of the boy in years, and so Colin took the connection advanced by his unconscious mind seriously. Instead of returning to the manuscript when he reached his apartment, he went to his bedroom and opened the closet door. In the back of the closet hung a long tunic of heavy cream linen and a pair of loose-fitting pants of the same material. He changed into them, then reached for the items piled atop the chest in which his robes were stored—a large flat pillow, a low wooden stool, and a small oil lamp.

  He set the pillow on the floor, and, using the stool as a low table, set out the lamp and a packet of matches beside it. He checked to be sure the lamp— a simple clay shape, purchased on one of his passes through the Near East— was filled, and then sank down to the floor in a lotus position with an ease that belied his years.

  Lighting the lamp, Colin let his eyes fix on its brilliant light. His Lodge did not invoke the elements to aid them, as Alison Margrave's did; rather, Colin had been taught to make his appeal directly to the Light itself, the Light which held the elements and all Creation within itself. Colin gazed into the Light, allowing the Light to gaze into him as he breathed slowly in and out in the Yogic discipline of "no mind."

  He did not permit his mind to drift; rather, he emptied it completely, so that it could become a more perfect reflection of the One Mind upon which was built the foundations of the world. It was one of the first disciplines that the Adept was taught, the one upon which all of the others were based, and it was both a tool and an end in itself. He released all Self and all desire, and waited, like a blank page, for the touch of the scrivener.

  Hours later, the oil lamp flickered out and Colin stirred, closing his eyes and stretching after the long immobility. He put away his equipment and checked the time: nearly midnight.

  It could have been Toller Hasloch that he'd seen in the street, but whether it had been or not did not matter now. It had been a warning.

  People like John Cannon existed to be protected. No matter how strenuously they put themselves in harm's way, it was Colin's job—and that of those like him—to see that they never came to any. The words he had said to Claire when he'd first explained himself to her, many years ago, came back to him now: "The great mass of humanity has the right to not be troubled by forces outside the scope of their daily lives, or manipulated by forces they have no way of resisting. When I find someone interfering in people's lives with Black Magick, it's my duty to stop them if I can. It's my job."

  John Cannon was hunting for a black coven. No doubt he'd already run into an example or two; there were a lot of would-be Satanists out there, filled with a collegiate desire to shock and impress the mundane world. Most of them were pretty harmless, never rising above extortion and a little forced sex from its female acolytes, leaving their members sadder but wiser overall. If that sort of thing was what Cannon faced, the man was quite right: he could take care of himself.

  But Colin did not think it was. Call it a hunch, a whim, or even a genuine communication from the Inner Planes. He was certain that bigger game prowled the forest of the night; something darker and altogether more proficient than the hobbyists who made up the clientele of places like the Sorcery Shoppe. For their own sakes, as well as for the sake of those lives they might harm, Colin must stop them.

  All that he had to do was find them—before John Cannon paid the ultimate price.

  A fortnight later, Colin was less sanguine. As he knew from his own experience, the only time a cell—which was how he must look at the thing, after all—became vulnerable was when it communicated with outside groups. If this black coven were not recruiting or making some other sort of mundane contact with outsiders, it might take Colin years to find them. A Black Lodge might be easy enough to track down in the Overlight—though the hunt was insanely dangerous—but locating its Astral Temple gave no clue to its temporary location. Finding their real-world location required real-world means.

  Unfortunately, Colin could not hunt them in person. His meeting with Jock Cannon had shown him that he was too well known to risk impersonating a gullible Seeker, and because of what he was, it was impossible for him to pretend to his quarry that he was instead a more experienced practitioner of the Black Arts.

  For this hunt, he'd need help.

  "Nothing." Claire's succinct assessment as she slid into the booth opposite him made Colin sigh.

  They were meeting at an all-night coffee shop up near Columbus Circle, far enough from either of their homes so that if they were under surveillance, there was a good chance their stalkers might miss them.

  His wartime habits had come back to Colin with frightening ease, as though the war were not thirty years ago, but yesterday. He'd taught them all, painstakingly, to Claire: how to follow, and how to see if you were followed. How to lose a pursuer. How to tell whether your home or office had been searched. How to leave a message for a confederate. How to run, and when, and what to do if you could not run.

  It all seemed silly—theatrical, somehow, without even the shadow of a present threat to justify it. But Colin knew they would not always be as lucky as they had been a decade ago in Berkeley, when Toller Hasloch, boy Nazi, had tipped his hand so grandiloquently. So often the Shadow only manifested itself unequivocally in the moment it was about to strike.

  "You're sure of that?" Colin asked. Claire pulled a wry face.

  "I'm certain," Claire said.

  The waitress came over to take their orders, and after she'd left, Claire resumed her story. Colin reached for his pipe and began to fill it.

  "I didn't Sense a blessed thing. The so-called Inner Grotto of the Court of Typhon isn't anything much. Some drugs, I think, and probably a lot of group sex. Nasty enough, but not what we're looking for. They've got an Enemies List, all right, and members are encouraged to add to it, but as far as I can tell, they couldn't raise enough Power to blow out a candle. They've got a very fancy setup, though—apparently one of their members is a theatrical set designer—Mr. Cannon's going to have a field day when he gets around to them."

  "And they were our most promising lead." Colin sighed and struck a match. He puffed his pipe alight, giving the gesture all his concentration.

  The waitress brought their orders—an omelette for Colin, a hamburger for Claire. Claire tucked into her food with good appetite.

  Colin was glad to see her looking so well—he would never have involved her in this dangerous game if he had not thought she was psychologically whole. It was a little over four years now since Peter's death; perhaps enough time had passed that Claire could finally gain enough distance from it to be willing to take emotional chances again. Lately, she'd been taking classes in small business management and was thinking about finding a career outside of nursing. Considering the dangerous state of the city hospitals, it was a move that Colin heartily endorsed.

  "What now, Colin?" Claire paused with a french fry halfway to her mouth. "I'm getting pretty good at this wide-eyed innocent act, and I'm not crying quits, but ..."

  "Actually, I'm wondering if we're going about this in completely the wrong way. We've been going after the coven and running up against a dead end. We might have better luck if we started at the other end and worked backward."

  "You mean, start with the victims ... or so-called victims, anyway? Like that woman from Minnesota who wrote that book about how she suddenly remembered she'd been a Satanic High Priestess?" Claire's lip curled in scorn.

  "Not quite," Colin corrected with a smile. "We know from Cannon's lecture that the group we're looking for is operating somewhere in the New York area, and it's probably up to the traditional scare tactics to co
nsolidate its power. We just need to find out who they're using them on."

  "A tall order," Claire said. "Frightened people don't talk—they're too scared."

  "No," Colin agreed. "But they look for protection. And if the conventional safeguards fail them, they're likely to fall back on instinct, even superstition."

  "Organized religion, you mean," Claire supplied teasingly. Colin smiled sheepishly.

  "Well, yes. And since these days even the Catholic Church won't perform an exorcism without some pretty hard evidence, those poor souls who find themselves victimized by the forces of Darkness frequently find themselves appealing to their parish priest—or local rabbi—in vain."

  "Which throws them right into the laps of the occult con artists. Fee-charging lay exorcists, bogus psychics, and all that sort of unscrupulous two-legged shark. But Colin, you know as well as I do how many of those creeps are out there. As fast as we close one down, another pops up. How are you going to check every single one of them, and their clients as well?"

  "I'm not," Colin sad, gesturing to the waitress for the bill. "I'm going to check out the sharks who were scared away by a bigger shark."

  ELEVEN

  NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1972

  Tell me where is fancy bred. Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished? — WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  IT WAS THE EVE OF THE WINTER SOLSTICE, AND THE ROOM WAS DARK EVEN at midday. It was the living room of an apartment on West 8th Street just off Broadway, a neighborhood that had been poor not many years before but was now steadily becoming more fashionable.

  The chamber was almost a parody of the popular conception of the occultist's Sanctum Sanctorum. The floor was painted with a Seal of Solomon copied out of the Grimoirum Verum, with additional arcane symbols added around the edges for effect. The walls were covered in purple crushed velvet and held plaques representing the signs of the Zodiac, a phrenological map of the human head, a poster depicting the path of kundalini energy, a drawing of the Tree of Life, and several blowups of Tarot cards. The ceiling was draped with dense swags of multicolored fishnet, into which had been thrust a number of objects that had apparently caught the occupant's fancy: a baby doll, stuffed animals, a hand mirror, some Mardi Gras masks, and several of the small mirrored fishing floats colloquially known as "witch balls." The windows were hung with black velvet drapes, and the panes were covered with stained-glass Contact paper, making the room murky even in the brightest daylight.