‘I want to live.’ Rachel bit her tongue as she spoke. No blood dripped and she longed to cry in frustration. ‘I want to remember.’
The angoli wiped a tear from his eye and tapped his nose. ‘Learn from my wisdom,’ he said. ‘Remember pain? Remember fire and bruises and your father biting you as he came? Stay with me. Charmonzhla, your brother, your father, your lover, older than time, older than dreams. I will help you remember.’
‘Let me pass, demon.’ She tried to move past him and he grabbed her arm. The couple were becoming more frenzied. Lazariel had moved Theresa over onto her front and was entering her from behind. Rachel could sense in her groin his orgasm was not far away. Her last hope, her only chance.
‘Your choice, daughter slut!’ he hissed. ‘Choose me, choose the night, the end to all pain, all death.’ Then he moved aside and placed his sunglasses over his eyes. ‘Don’t ask me to watch,’ he said, striking his hand against his head in feigned despair. ‘My only daughter, destroying her life!’
‘You stink like the grave, Devil man!’ Rachel screamed. She broke free from him and ran towards the bodies. The man was starting to move, to jerk. Screeching, Rachel threw herself on top of them, dissolving into their flesh. Confusion, heat, pleasure, pain. Aaah! Life slipping away. Death was sweet.
Lazariel had left the room. Theresa lay among the crumpled sheets. Never before in her life had she felt more complete, more at peace. She remembered the look in his eyes when he had kissed her before leaving the room. She had glimpsed his true self staring out at her. Across his face she had traced lines of fear, vulnerability and weariness. He had wept. Holding her on the bed, his back heaving. A garbled incomprehensible stream of words flowed from him about a woman in India, a son he had lost, his fears of madness, his terror at the recent changes in his body. His feelings of isolation and loneliness. His shame over the women whose bodies he had abused for so long.
She had listened to him silently, rubbing the wings that protruded awkwardly from his back, feeling fear loop within her, smelling death around them. For so long she had lived in the dark towers of despair and struggle, it was hard to recognise and claim happiness when it arrived, She was afraid the gods would demand a penalty for her joy. She loved him. It was as simple as that. Stupid love spells to Aphrodite aside, the delirious need she had placed onto him had been replaced by love. She loved him. Her hands instinctively moved over her belly, rubbing and kneading. She loved him and she was pregnant. This she knew for sure; she had conceived by him. Her dark, lost, lonely fallen angel.
A sound alerted her to another presence. Theresa looked up to see Sophie standing in the doorway. She was thin, so thin it seemed her eyes were bulging from her head. Haggard and grey, she looked haunted, but her smile was cruel.
‘So you have won your prince,’ Sophie said. ‘Will the slipper fit? Or will you have to walk on coals to claim your beloved? Perhaps we shall turn him into a donkey, set him loose in the mountains and send you on a quest to find him!’ She laughed, holding her skinny arms over her head and pirouetting slowly in a circle. There were flecks of white foam on her lips. Theresa watched her, a protective hand across her stomach.
Sophie abruptly stopped her spinning. ‘I don’t ever want to die,’ she said in the voice of a child. ‘I don’t want to fall into the dark night. I am so afraid of not being me, of being wiped out in a second. Do you hear the voices, the tongues of fire saying you are going to die?’
Theresa shook her head. She cleared her throat, trying to gauge how quickly she could make it to the door, whether she would be strong enough to push the woman in the doorway aside.
Sophie smiled. ‘Liar,’ she said in a deeper tone than any Theresa had heard her use before. ‘LIAR! FUCKING DEMONWHORELILITHBITCHSHELO SLUTKALI CUNT QUEENOFFLIESLIAR!’ Her eyes had rolled up into her head leaving only the whites, then she shook her arms out and laughed. ‘Come down,’ she said. ‘Join us for a cup of tea.’
After she left Theresa lay on the bed, her hands pressed against her eyes trying not to think. From downstairs she could hear muffled laughter and chat. How mad was Sophie? When had she started behaving like a bad actor from an Australian remake of The Exorcist? Or, oh God, a more horrible thought. Was Theresa insane? But didn’t they say, a voice argued inside her, if you realised you might be insane, that was proof you were sane? Or was that the opposite way around?
She had to leave here; perhaps not the mountains because she couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing Lazariel, although she would try to convince him to leave Light Vision as well. Neither of them were safe here. She remembered the look in Sophie’s eyes when she said, Do you hear the voices, the tongues of fire saying you are going to die? It had been a warning, But she was pregnant with no money. Her mind rebelled, telling her she could not possibly be pregnant. But her body knew. She could feel the subtle energy that had entered her. Where was she to turn? The police? She could not trust the cops who looked at her with contempt in the street. She was just a cult weirdo Sydney chick to them. No, she couldn’t face the thought of turning to them for help. Emily Robson? She had shown her kindness and had displayed an interest in her. Theresa had felt more relaxed in her company than she had been in anybody’s presence for a long time. Still, asking a stranger for a job was one thing, asking for help in escaping from Light Vision was another altogether. She couldn’t afford to antagonise Emily. But she couldn’t think of anyone else. No one. She had never felt more lonely, or more blissfully happy in her life before. She lay, listening to the being breathe within her, hearing shrill laughter from downstairs.
Aiden’s memorial service was packed with both locals and people from Sydney he had known. Art students travelled up by train to pay their respects, their faces blank with grief. The service was a celebration of Aiden’s life, but there was little to celebrate when one so young, so filled with potential had been taken in such a shocking and horrible way. His parents had been unable to view his body. He had been carried from the railway track in bags. The train driver had been too traumatised to attend.
The service featured a beautifully sung rendition of ‘Ava Maria’ and an acoustic version of one of Aiden’s favourite songs, ‘Forever Young’. Everyone cried, and his frail, crushed parents stood and thanked everyone as they left the church shaking hands or kissing people. The mother had been crying for days, crying until she would vomit. The father had sat for hours in his paint studio, unable to work.
The older locals watched the mourners with interest as they paid their respects. These days the community spirit of the mountains was diluted by the number of yuppies moving in while continuing to commute to work in Sydney, but there were still plenty of old-timers who knew the rhythm of the mountains, who understood the changing patterns of the skies. These were the people who forged historical societies, who wrote pamphlets on the mountain towns. Their ancestors had been buried here for generations. Now they stood in groups dressed in black cardigans and long grey skirts with flat black shiny pumps, watching with equally shining eyes the newcomers and the dead man’s friends from Sydney. There was no better entertainment than a funeral to distract you from the daily routine, especially if you were not personally involved with the dead. This death had been a doozie, they whispered to each other. Who had ever heard of a bee swarm causing somebody to run in front of a train? Some remembered a couple of people who had died from a bee sting, being allergic, but never anything as dramatic as this latest tragedy. So sad of course to happen to a young person, but such a fascinating case to muse and discuss for hours.
Then there had been that television girl who had fallen off the cliff, the young English mother who had jumped to her death, and poor little Jackson killed by a pack of wild dogs. No, the mountains hadn’t experienced anything like this since Johanna Develle’s body had been found on one of the walking tracks with not a drop of blood left in it. Was it sixteen, or eighteen years ago?
A small group of people appeared outside the church and the old-timers star
ed. With recognition came relief. The witches had returned. The hated group who had lived in the cottage taken over by Light Vision had reappeared in the grey day as if by magic. They had aged, but they were unmistakably the same group. Phillip, yes, that had been his name, the long-term locals unknowingly thought as one. He bowed his head in recognition to them, and they as one, dipped their heads towards him. But they also drew closer together, pulling their cardigans tight against the chill wind as smug smiles of triumph played around their wrinkled mouths. A certain knowing throbbed between the two groups. Whatever was happening here would now be brought to an end. It had begun with the appearance of the witches, and now with their return, it would cease. The old-timers knew this, as they knew the best cure for toothache, and the meaning of conical clouds.
Emily Robson, who had been engaged in twittering sympathies to Eileen, sensed the interest of the old-timers. She looked outside the church gates and saw the coven. Quickly she ducked back inside the church, half hiding herself behind the priest. Even Dea Dreamer was standing with them. What a fool she had been to underestimate Phillip. He had dragged them here, even little Dea, a born-again Christian. She waited, blinking in the light, smelling the odour of frankincense from the priest’s robes. She blinked for one moment, and when she next looked for them, they were gone.
The Valley View Hotel was more luxurious than Dea had imagined. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. The scripture nagged at her conscience, but she found herself drooling over the spacious bathroom, the king-sized bed, the panoramic scenery outside. ‘Oh, to hell with it!’ she exclaimed, putting the plug into the spa. There was no way she was going to stay in this centrally heated, vanilla-scented room without trying the spa, the pay television, the mini-bar . . .
Soon the jets of warm water had soothed away many of the fears and anxieties she had been feeling. Surely Jesus would understand Dea wasn’t turning away from him by assisting the coven to close the portal? All she was trying to do was make amends for her original sin of opening the doorway. Please understand, Jesus, she begged. Make me an instrument of your peace. Work the power of the Holy Spirit through me so the doorway to evil shall be closed. Now and forever. As she prayed a part of her mind wondered idly if there was a television guide in the room. It would be wonderful to watch television tonight, perhaps an old movie. She hoped Phillip wouldn’t expect her to join them for dinner in the downstairs restaurant. She liked the idea of curling up in one of the white fluffy dressing-gowns that the hotel provided and ordering room service.
After her bath, Dea, clothed in one of the dressing-gowns and eating a cold Mars Bar from the mini-bar, was trying to decide whether to order a gourmet pizza or potato wedges with avocado dip, or both, when there was a tap at the door.
‘Dea?’
Damn. It was Faline. I am not going to join them for dinner.
‘Dea?’
He can force me into joining them to participate in the ritual, but he cannot force me to eat dinner with them.
‘Dea?’
Damn her. She wasn’t going away. Dea threw down the menu and moved towards the door making sure her robe was fastened. Faline was dressed in a red silk blouse teamed with a long black ruffled skirt, her shining black hair fastened in a long ponytail down her back with a jewelled comb, her mouth a bright red slash of glossy lipstick. She looked Spanish, exotic, and Dea felt more of a frump than ever. The lines that fanned out from her eyes and ran in grooves down the side of her mouth, her cellulite thighs and bum, her thinning hair — all her anxieties leapt to her mind in a frenzy of self-consciousness. How did Faline do it? She had not aged one iota. It was supernatural.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just came to see if you wanted to join us for dinner.’
Dea felt resentment prick her in angry bites. Faline looked so untouched, while she had deteriorated so much! Love thy enemies, Jesus had said, but Dea felt in that moment she did not love Faline. She resented her beauty, her money, her success. Faline talked openly about the Craft on television and in the media and it was converting young people everywhere to witchcraft. She was one of a group of well-educated, charismatic beautiful people that vulnerable youth aspired to. They saw witchcraft as a game, a positive thinking course. Buy a green candle, pray to Aphrodite to help them find a boyfriend. The old gods demanded more respect, Dea thought. They were not there to be invoked on whims of the heart. The old ones could be merciless and cruel. They could give, but they would also take, and their names were not to be spoken lightly. The early Christians had no doubt sensed the grim power behind the old ones and had done their best to stamp them out. Now people like Faline were helping to wake the sleeping past. All of these thoughts flashed through her mind as she gazed at the perfect white skin of the woman in front of her.
‘I’m tired,’ Dea said. ‘I’m going to stay in my room.’
Faline nodded, her enormous green eyes regarded Dea calmly. ‘Good idea. I’ll call for you in the morning.’
Dea regarded her sullenly. If I’m still here, witch, she thought. You’ve had your way so far, as you’ve always managed to do. I’m here for now, but it doesn’t mean I’ll be here in the morning. I might disappear with the night. Don’t push me too far, Faline. You might be able to buy youth, but you can’t buy Dea.
Faline went to move away. ‘You resent me,’ she said. ‘I don’t blame you. But I don’t resent you. I love you, Dea, for what you’re doing for us. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’
Dea stared at her, feeling an urge to cry.
‘Yes, John 15:13,’ Faline continued in her silky voice. ‘Fear, hate and resent me as much as you like, Dea, but I can’t hate you in return. I love you.’
‘I am doing it for Cael,’ Dea said. ‘I’m doing it for the innocents who had to pay for their lives because of what we did. Not for you, not for Phillip, nor any of your brainwashed coven. Leave me alone.’ She shut the door in Faline’s face, sat down on the bed and began to weep.
In the downstairs restaurant, Faline was silent as she picked at her meal of filet mignon, lobster tails and egg rolls. A woman with a shock of dyed orange hair and a bright green dress played Frank Sinatra songs on a white piano at the front of the room. It was midweek and winter, but the restaurant was nearly full due to the midweek cut-price deals the hotel offered. A party of Japanese tourists took up half of the dining area, their cameras occasionally flashing. Faline concentrated on her black shoes, admiring the classic workmanship of their simple style. Where had she bought these shoes from? Florence? Prague? Paris? She couldn’t remember. There were some nights when the years seemed endless and rolled into one.
There was a lump in her throat, the piano music was making her feel melancholy. She forced herself to concentrate on her shoes so she wouldn’t cry. Aah, now she could remember, she had bought them in Rome from a shop that looked as if it had been dipped in black and silver, wincing as she had mentally done the money conversion. Lucius had groaned when he had met her at the Trevi fountain and spotted her carrying the silver bag. ‘Not more black shoes! Faline, how many black shoes can one person own? You haven’t even worn some of the ones you already have!’ He was right, of course. Shoe shopping was her obsession. She could trace it back to the second-hand shoes she had been forced to wear when she was a child, because of her family’s extreme poverty. She could still remember the faint sweaty smell that had lingered in the shoes. Oh blissful day when she had finally treated herself to a pair of brand-new shoes after the first pay-packet from working in Mrs Chee Gong’s shop. The smell of the shoes lying between the crisp white tissue paper, the sensation of the shoe embracing her foot.
‘Are you all right, Faline?’ It was Phillip, jolting her from her reverie ‘You haven’t commented on what you think.’
What I think of what? I’m sorry, Phillip, I was just thinking about shoes. She was tempted to say the
words out loud for a second, just to goad Lucius.
‘Is everything all right, Faline?’ Phillip repeated. He didn’t miss anything.
‘I’m just concerned about Dea really,’ she said. ‘It seems cruel to make her go through this. She’s no longer the Dea Dreamer we used to know. It’s breaking her heart she’s forced into rejoining us, even if it is only temporary.’
Phillip stared at her, for a second looking like a stranger. ‘Dea needs to take responsibility for what she did,’ he said, breaking a roll and buttering it in angry swipes. ‘She can’t hide behind her Christian god forever. This ritual’s going to be hard enough with only seven and not nine. The woman annoys me. How many deaths does she want on her conscience? She has always been a vacuous, immature, self-centred piece of work. I wouldn’t waste my energy worrying about her, Faline. We need you fully focused if we’re going to have any hope of closing this doorway.’
A sudden flash of light shocked Faline. She looked up to see a smiling Japanese man had taken a photograph of their table. Phillip smiled, raising his glass to him, causing his friends to grab their cameras. The room exploded into light. Annoyed at her image being captured without her permission, Faline had to resist putting her hands up to her face to shield herself.
Dea had been worrying about her cats. Were they fretting for her? Had the neighbours honoured their promise; were they changing the litter twice a day and not just the once? And her poor babies needed to be fed at least twice a day. Finally she had slept and found herself gliding along in a murky ocean where strange, frightening shapes bumped against her.
‘Wake up, Dea,’ a voice said in her ear. She fought against the interruption. ‘Dea! Wake up now!’ the voice commanded. She opened her eyes to see Cael standing in the room, bathed in light. He was the most beautiful sight Dea had ever seen, like a glowing angel. Far more radiant than he had ever been in life. She sat up in bed, staring at him, crossing herself.
A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3 Page 31