"Oh, Lord no!" Alan said, appalled. "At Christmas? I'm not quite that much of a Scrooge! No, we can make payroll for a few months yet, but come January I'm going to be putting the press on the market. Not that I think there's the possibility of a buyer, but disposing of the inventory may defray some of our debts. And most of our authors are dead, so there is the backlist on the asset side of the ledger. But I'm afraid that we're done for. Barring a miracle, of course."
Colin sighed, trying to take an interest in the problem, though his thoughts were largely elsewhere.
"What about the books I'm working on now?" he asked.
Daggonet shrugged. "Anything that's already in production, fine, but nothing new. We'll need to get together in January after I've talked with the lawyers, but I wanted to give you as much warning as possible."
"I appreciate it," Colin said. He shook Daggonet's hand. "My best to Barry."
"You'll have to come by the place for a drink," Daggonet said. His voice was hollow. Alan Daggonet was a gentle man, and hated to be the bearer of bad news.
"Sure," Colin said. "And do try to have a Merry Christmas, Alan."
So. Perhaps I should look into that Taghkanic thing Michael mentioned after all, Colin thought to himself as he reached the street. He'd always known that Selkie Press wasn't something meant to last forever, but getting his walking papers so abruptly was still something of a shock. Still, he was willing to bet he didn't feel half as bad about things as Daggonet did.
And Colin had much bigger fish to fry at the moment.
By now it was nearly noon, and Colin's stomach was reminding him that he'd missed breakfast. He was on York Avenue in the upper eighties; hardly an area in which he was likely to find an open pizza joint. Still, there ought to be a coffee shop somewhere in the area where he could snatch a quick bite.
He was just crossing Park Avenue when he felt a sudden tugging, as precipitously as if someone were plucking at his coat. He glanced around, trying to see what had summoned his attention.
Across the street, he saw a building of professional suites nestled between two old dowagers of apartment buildings. It stood out sharply to his schooled perception, as though it was illuminated by a separate light.
When the traffic light changed, he crossed the street and inspected the building's entryway more closely. None of the names on the brass plates— Clinton, Wynitch, Barnes—were particularly familiar to him, though Wynitch woke a vague spark of recognition in his mind. Oh yes. An ugly little scandal a few years ago, when a boy he was treating committed suicide.
Someone in there needs help. Of this, Colin was quite certain.
But not now. Not yet. He had another errand to run first.
Blackcock Books' offices were located on the sunny side of Park Avenue South, down in the thirties. Though small by the standards of older publishing firms, their offices still took up an entire floor of their building, including a stylish foyer containing the company logo, executed in brushed aluminum and mounted on the fabric-covered wall behind the receptionist's desk. A tinsel-cloaked Christmas tree stood in the corner of the foyer, testament to the season.
Blackcock published paperback originals exclusively; it was one of the publishing houses that had sprung up like mushrooms in the last thirty years to handle what had been (at the time) a new, low-cost format that no one had really thought would ever endure. But these days, over half of all new books weren't even published in hardcover anymore, but only in the cheap disposable paperback format. Only one of John Cannon's vast and varied output— The Occult History of the New World—had ever seen hardcover publication, and it hadn't been Blackcock that had published it.
Several of his other books, however, made up a lurid display on the wall behind the chair where Colin MacLaren was sitting.
He had identified himself to the receptionist and asked to speak to James Melford. As he'd surmised, the next person he saw was not Melford, but a pretty young woman in a very short skirt who introduced herself as Peggy Kane and identified herself as James Melford's assistant. She, too, asked his business, but when Colin told her that his business was private, she had accepted that with a good grace and disappeared once more.
He'd been waiting now for more than an hour, and was wondering if they simply hoped he'd go away, when Ms. Kane returned again. Colin followed her through the door into the Blackcock offices.
This close to the holiday, most of the staff was on vacation, and the bareness of the desks in the little cubicles along the hallway reflected that fact. But despite the barrenness of the office, it had a slovenly, unkempt look that went far beyond the normal chaos of editorial offices. Potted plants had been hastily righted, but the dirt spilled when they'd been overturned had only been hastily and sketchily tidied.
It was a calculated risk, Colin knew, to come to Cannon's publisher on such an outlandish mission as this. But Cannon's last manuscript, like a literary Typhoid Mary, would continue to spread death and destruction in its wake so long as the black coven was trying to suppress it.
Ms. Kane stopped outside a door and knocked perfunctorily before opening the door and ushering Colin inside.
James Melford was a man in his early forties. His curly light brown hair— worn long in the fashion of a man who was late for a haircut—curled over the collar of his striped Oxford shirt. His jacket was tossed over the back of his chair, and the room was filled with boxed manuscripts and other publishing ephemera, including two framed awards and something that looked like a comic-strip spaceship cast in bronze. Its display stand had been cracked— Colin was willing to bet recently. The sense of derangement in this office was, if possible, even stronger than that in the hall outside. He stood when Colin arrived.
"Mr. MacLaren. How are you? You're a friend of Jock's, aren't you? I remember him mentioning you to me a few months ago. I don't know quite how to bring this up, but—"
"I know that Cannon's dead," Colin said. "And how he died. In a way that's why I'm here. Mr. Melford, I've come to see you about John Cannon's last book—"
He was entirely unprepared for Melford's reaction.
"Get out!" James Melford roared, rising to his feet.
It took Colin several tense minutes to convince Cannon's editor that he was not a minion of the black coven that had been harassing Cannon—and had broken into Blackcock's offices just last night in search of the publisher's copy of the manuscript.
Unfortunately, that was the only thing that Colin managed to convince Jamie Melford of, and by the time he left the office half an hour later, he wasn't completely sure that Melford didn't believe that Colin was, if not somehow connected to the group that had murdered Cannon, at the very least an unwitting dupe of their schemes. He had certainly not convinced Melford to either suppress the manuscript or to let him have a look at it.
Still, perhaps the seeds he had sown here today would bear wholesome fruit in the future. And at least he now knew how determined the black coven was. Murder by magick was one thing—a wholly physical break-in was quite another, and in one sense, far more menacing.
For a moment, Colin wondered what secret they could have that they would have revealed to an outsider—John Cannon—and yet still go to such lengths to protect. Colin himself, oddly, had more reason to wish to suppress such a book as Witchcraft: Its Power in the World Today than they did. Based on his recollection of Cannon's lecture, the manuscript undoubtedly provided a detailed occult workbook for the mentally unbalanced.
"Would you give a baby a loaded gun?" Colin had asked Jamie Melford in their interview, but he knew that Melford had not grasped the analogy. Melford was an editor, a man whose business was books—yet at one and the same time he could believe that there was nothing more powerful than the written word and that written words could do no harm. Colin prayed that Melford would never discover differently—though he had failed to protect Cannon, Colin vowed he would not fail twice. Even without gaining access to the manuscript, Colin still had one lead.
The so-
called black coven Colin was after was composed of Satanists, not witches. He could only hope these Satanists were highly traditional in their practices—if they were, they had very particular requirements for the practice of their Black Art, including that their conventicle be led by a Catholic priest. And Cannon had mentioned a Father Mansell.
A quick call to the diocesan offices netted him the information that there was a Father Walter Mansell, but that he had been laicized—defrocked, in the old terminology—over ten years before, and thus the diocese no longer kept track of him.
Colin hesitated for a long moment, then dialed a second number.
"Can I help you?" The familiar voice was efficient, neutral, and crisp.
"I'd like to speak to Father Godwin, please," Colin told the housekeeper.
"Who is calling, please?" Now the voice was decidedly cooler, betraying an undertone of an accent. English was not Frau Keppler's first language, and her devotion to Godwin was intense. Few callers got past her dedicated protection of his privacy.
"This is Colin MacLaren," Colin said. He switched to an accentless German. "How are you, Inge?"
"Very well, thank you, Herr Doktor." Her voice warmed slightly, taking on a note half prim, half playful. "You are playing a very dangerous game these days, nicht wahr?"
Colin did not waste time wondering how she knew what he'd been up to. Frau Keppler's intelligence-gathering service was still one of the best he'd ever seen.
"I'm afraid so. Will it be possible to speak to the good father?"
"He has not been well, lately. But if you must see him, be so good as to come around four. I believe he can give you a few minutes then."
TWELVE
NEW YORK, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1972
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart
— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
FATHER ADALHARD GODWIN LIVED IN AN IMPOSING BROWNSTONE IN THE East Fifties. The building had been the gift of a grateful client, and Father Godwin, who took his vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience with absolute seriousness, had donated the property to the Church. In turn he had been granted a lifetime tenancy. Since his retirement fifteen years ago at the age of eighty, he'd lived here, compiling the notes for a book he would never write.
Colin presented himself on the steps of the brownstone at precisely four o'clock. Frau Keppler inspected him through the peephole for almost a minute before she relented enough to open the door and let him in. She guarded her charge with the maternal ferocity of a lioness, and did not feel that Colin was a good influence on Father Godwin.
Colin stepped into the hallway and waited as Frau Keppler bolted the door behind him. It slid back into place with the sound of a bank vault closing— the door was sheathed on both sides with thick steel plates against the enemies Godwin had made in the course of a long and turbulent life.
The young man in the dark suit and clerical collar—as much a fixture of the house in the east fifties as Frau Keppler herself—watched Colin with a fixed, pale-eyed stare until he had satisfied himself, then withdrew through the doorway and closed the door behind him. Colin had made many visits to this house in his life. The identity of the young man in the foyer changed frequently, but Colin had never exchanged a word with any of them. He'd never even heard any of them speak.
Frau Keppler conducted Colin to the ornate elevator at the far end of the hall and slid its telescoping bronze gates closed. The small cage made its slow progress four floors closer to the angels, stopping at the top floor. Frau Keppler slid the doors open and stepped out.
"You will not tire him?"
"I would not have come at all, Inge, if the matter weren't urgent. You know that."
She sighed, giving up. "He is in the solarium," she said.
What had once been an open patio on the top floor of the building had since been glassed in with thick, triple-paned windows. Even on this bitter December day, the room was tropically hot, and the pale winter light turned golden as it shone through the shelves and tables covered with plants. Colin could almost feel the pulse of vegetable life here in this place.
"I take such pleasure in watching the plants grow. There's such reassurance to be found in nursing them from cutting to bloom, each always the same, according to its nature; each blossom producing more of its own kind . . ."
"Hello, Adalhard," Colin said.
The old man got slowly to his feet—Colin knew better than to help him— and turned around, wiping his earth-stained hands on his apron. His skin had the porcelain translucency of age, and his thick white hair was still cut in a military brush.
"Ah. It is bad tidings when you come to see me, my stormcrow. Which of my fallen angels concerns you?"
"I'm not even sure—" Colin began.
"Tut." Father Godwin held up a minatory finger. "Let us not fence, you and I. We both know what you have come for. But I will give you a few moments to gather your resources. Youngsters your age have no stamina," he added with a twinkle in his eye.
Father Godwin crossed to the intercom and pressed a button. "Sherry and biscuits in the solarium, if you would, Mrs. Keppler," he said, and turned back to his guest.
"It becomes awkward. I hardly know how to address my dear housekeeper these days. Is she a 'Mrs.'? Or must I stoop to calling her 'Miz' as the liberationists would have us do? It is a larger problem than mine, of course, and will not be solved in my lifetime, but once more Holy Mother Church is being asked why it is that women cannot administer the sacraments." He lowered himself into a chair with a sigh. "And of course we have no good answer for them, since we must all restrict ourselves to the domain of the strictly rational." Father Godwin snorted derisively. "If we were all rational beings in a materialistic world, what need would men have for the Church, or She for them?" he asked. "Or the Good Lord for any of us?"
For eighteen years Father Godwin had been an exorcist, one of less than two dozen men worldwide empowered by the pope to perform the Ritual of Exorcism for the Catholic Church. Calls for his services had come from all over the world. If the case satisfied the Vatican's strict requirements for intervention, Father Godwin had interposed himself between an embattled soul and the blackest forces of Hell itself.
An exorcism could take months—even years—to complete, and the work destroyed its instruments quickly, taking their health, their strength, and their sanity. At last Father Godwin's superiors had forbidden him the work, but in his retirement he had found another way to continue the fight.
"Men always have need of the Light," Colin said.
Father Godwin nodded. "Most of all when they least think so. Ah, Mrs. Keppler. Here you are with something to tempt our palates."
"The doctor says you should not drink," Frau Keppler said, whisking a white linen cloth over a table with one hand and then setting the tray carefully upon it. Working methodically, she emptied the tray of a decanter half-filled with ruby liquid, glasses, and a plate of cookies that smelled as if they were still warm from the oven.
"When the doctor has reached my advanced age," Father Godwin said with some spirit, "I shall be delighted to entertain his suggestions. Until then, we must presume that what I have eaten for the past ninety-five years will not kill me in the ninety-sixth."
Frau Keppler sniffed audibly.
"Go on, go on," Father Godwin said, taking a linen napkin from the table and waving it at his housekeeper as if she were a wayward crow. "And tell Donald that he might smile more if he took a glass of wine occasionally."
Frau Keppler left.
"I ought not to tease her—or that terribly serious young man who has come to learn all that I can teach him before he must walk these dark roads alone. I shall have to apologize to the Lord when I speak with Him this evening."
"I'm sure it's good for them," Colin said mildly, pouring two glasses of sherry and handing
one to Father Godwin.
"Ah, yes . . . certainty. One of the cleverest pathways to damnation," Godwin said softly. "No man can know with certainty what is best for another, yet God has called us to be the shepherds of His people and to choose their path. ..."
His voice subsided, and he sat silently for some minutes, his sherry un-tasted. Colin was about to attempt to attract his attention when Father Godwin roused and lifted his glass.
"One of the penalties of a long life, Colin. So many memories—and so much experience that each choice becomes a dilemma. But you did not come today to hear a lecture upon the horrors of age. You've come about a spoiled priest, have you not?"
Father Godwin still used the older term for a laicized member of the Roman Catholic clergy. Many who left the priesthood left the Church as well, but Father Godwin never gave up hope of returning them to the fold. He had made these men his special vocation in his retirement, watching over them as tenderly as a mother hen over her chicks—though some of those he watched over would have cursed his name had they known of his concern.
"Yes. A Father Walter Mansell," Colin said. "I was hoping you could give me some information about him. His name came up in rather . . . odd circumstances."
Father Godwin chuckled dryly. "You should give up trying to spare my feelings, Colin. Walter is a Satan-worshiper. He was excommunicated for it, as well as laicized. Even after Vatican II, the Church retains some standards, though She makes many foolish compromises. I pray for him every night, that poor dear tormented soul." There was no irony at all in Father Godwin's words.
"May he find the Light," Colin agreed quietly.
Father Godwin gathered himself together with a sigh. "But you won't have come to tax me with my failures. I was his counselor before he left the priesthood, did you know? This was some few years after my retirement, but the bishop kindly allows me to keep my hand in. I think His Grace and I both suspected the direction that Walter's curiosity would take. And so it became necessary to ... do what was done."
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