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DIVINE EVIL
Nora Roberts
PART I
Men would be angels, angels would be gods. —Alexander Pope
What’s past is prologue. —Shakespeare
Chapter One
The rite began an hour after sunset. The circle had been prepared long ago, a
perfect nine feet, by the clearing of trees and young saplings. The ground had
been sprinkled with consecrated earth.
Clouds, dark and secretive, danced over the pale moon.
Thirteen figures, in black cowls and cloaks, stood inside the protective circle.
In the woods beyond, a lone owl began to scream, in lament or in sympathy. When
the gong sounded, even he was silenced. For a moment, there was only the murmur
of the wind through the early spring leaves.
In the pit at the left side of the circle, the fire already smoldered. Soon the
flames would rise up, called by that same wind or other forces.
It was May Day Eve, the Sabbat of Roodmas. On this night of high spring, both
celebration and sacrifice would be given for the fertility of crops and for the
power of men.
Two women dressed in red robes stepped into the circle. Their faces were not
hooded and were very white, with a slash of scarlet over their lips. Like
vampires who had already feasted.
One, following the careful instructions she had been given, shed her robe and
stood naked in the light of a dozen black candles, then draped herself over a
raised slab of polished wood.
She would be their altar of living flesh, the virgin on which they would
worship. The fact that she was a prostitute and far from pure disturbed some of
them. Others simply relished her lush curves and generously spread thighs.
The high priest, having donned his mask of the Goat of Mendes, began to chant in
bastardized Latin. When he had finished his recitation, he raised his arms high
toward the inverted pentagram above the altar. A bell was rung to purify the
air.
From her hiding place in the brush, a young girl watched, her eyes wide with
curiosity. There was a burning smell coming from the pit where flames crackled,
sending sparks shooting high. Odd shapes had been carved in the trunks of the
circling trees.
The young girl began wondering where her father was. She had hidden in his car,
giggling to herself at the trick she was playing on him. When she had followed
him through the woods, she hadn’t been afraid of the dark. She’d never been
afraid. She had hidden, waiting for the right time to jump out and into his
arms.
But he had put on a long, dark coat, like the others, and now she wasn’t sure
which one was Daddy. Though the naked woman both embarrassed and fascinated her,
what the grown-ups were doing no longer seemed like a game.
She felt her heart beating in her throat when the man in the mask began to chant
again.
"We call on Amman, the god of life and reproduction. On Pan, the god of lust."
After the calling of each name, the others repeated it. The list was long.
The group was swaying now, a deep hum rising up among them while the high priest
drank from a silver chalice. Finished, he set the cup down between the breasts
of the altar.
He took up a sword and pointing it south, east, north, and west, called up the
four princes of hell.
Satan, lord of fire Lucifer, bringer of light Belial, who has no master
Leviathan, serpent of the deep
In the brush, the young girl shuddered and was afraid.
"Ave, Satan."
"I call upon you, Master, Prince of Darkness, King of the Night, throw wide the
Gates of Hell and hear us." The high priest shouted the words, not like a
prayer, but a demand. As his voice rang out, he held up a parchment. The lights
from the greedy flames washed through it like blood. "We ask that our crops be
bountiful, our cattle fruitful. Destroy our enemies, bring sickness and pain to
those who would harm us. We, your faithful, demand fortune and pleasure." He
placed a hand on the breast of the altar. "We take what we wish, in your name,
Lord of the Flies. In your name, we speak: Death to the weak. Wealth to the
strong. The rods of our sex grow hard, our blood hot. Let our women burn for us.
Let them receive us lustfully. " He stroked down the altar’s torso and between
the thighs as the prostitute, well-schooled, moaned and began to move under his
hand.
His voice rose as he continued his requests. He thrust the sword’s point through
the parchment and held it over the flame of a black candle until all that
remained of it was the stink of smoke. The chant of the circle of twelve swelled
behind him.
At some signal, two of the cloaked figures pulled a young goat into the circle.
As its eyes rolled in fright, they chanted over it, nearly screaming now. The
athamas was drawn, the ceremonial knife whose freshly whetted blade glimmered
under the rising moon.
When the girl saw the blade slice across the white goat’s throat, she tried to
scream, but no sound passed her lips. She wanted to run, but her legs seemed
rooted to the ground. She covered her face with her hands, weeping and wanting
to call for her father.
When at last she looked again, the ground ran with blood. It dripped over the
sides of a shallow silver bowl. The voices of the men were a roaring buzz in her
ears as she watched them throw the headless carcass of the goat into the fire
pit.
Now the stink of roasting flesh hung sickeningly in the air.
With an ululant cry, the man in the goat mask tore off his cloak. Beneath he was
naked, his white, white skin glimmering with sweat, though the night was cool.
Glinting on his chest was a silver amulet inscribed with old and secret symbols.
He straddled the altar, then drove himself hard between her thighs. With a
howling scream, a second man fell on the other woman, dragging her to the
ground, while the others tore off their cloaks to dance naked around the pit of
fire.
She saw her father, her own father, dip his hands into the sacrificial blood. As
he capered with the others, it dripped from his fingers…
Clare woke, screaming.
Breathless, chilled with sweat, she huddled under the blankets. With one
trembling hand, she fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp. When that wasn’t
enough, she rose to flip on others until the small room was flooded with light.
Her hands were still unsteady when she drew a cigarette from a pack and struck a
match.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she smoked in silence.
Why had the dream come back now?
Her therapist would say it was a knee-jerk reaction to her mother’s recent
marriage—subconsciously she felt her father had been betrayed.
That was bull.
Clare blew out a defiant stream of smoke. Her mother had been widowed for over
twelve years. Any sane, loving daughter would want her mother’s happiness. And
she was a loving daughter. She just wasn’t so sure about the sane part.
She remembered the first time she’d had the dream.
She’d been six and had wakened screaming in her bed. Just as she had tonight.
But then, her parents had rushed in to gather her up and soothe. Even her
brother, Blair, came in, wide-eyed and wailing. Her mother had carried him off
while her father stayed with her, crooning in his calm, quiet voice, promising
her over and over that it was only a dream, a bad dream that she would soon
forget.
And she had, for long stretches of time. Then it would creep up on her, a
grinning assassin, when she was tense or exhausted or vulnerable.
She stabbed out the cigarette and pressed her fingers to her eyes. Well, she was
tense now. Her one-woman show was less than a week away, and though she had
personally chosen each piece of sculpture that would be shown, she was plagued
with doubts.
Perhaps it was because the critics had been so enthusiastic two years before, at
her debut. Now that she was enjoying success, there was so much more to lose.
And she knew the work that would be shown was her best. If it was found to be
mediocre, then she, as an artist, was mediocre…
Was there any label more damning?
Because she felt better having something tangible to worry about, she rose and
opened the draperies. The sun was just coming up, giving the streets and
sidewalks of downtown Manhattan an almost rosy hue. Pushing open the window, she
shivered once in the chill of the spring morning.
It was almost quiet. From a few blocks up, she could hear the grind of a garbage
truck finishing its rounds. Near the corner of Canal and Greene, she saw a bag
lady, pulling the cart with all her worldly possessions. The wheels squeaked and
echoed hollowly.
There was a light in the bakery directly across and three stories down. Clare
caught the faint strains of Rigoletto and the good yeasty scent of baking bread.
A cab rumbled past, valves knocking. Then there was silence again. She might
have been alone in the city.
Was that what she wanted? she wondered. To be alone, to find some spot and dig
into solitude? There were times when she felt so terribly disconnected, yet
unable to make a place just for herself.
Wasn’t that why her marriage had failed? She had loved Rob, but she had never
felt connected to him. When it was over, she’d felt regret but not remorse.
Or perhaps Dr. Janowski was right, and she was burying her remorse, all of it,
every ounce of grief she had felt since her father died. Channeling it out
through her art.
And what was wrong with that? She started to stuff her hands into the pockets of
her robe when she discovered she wasn’t wearing it. A woman had to be crazy to
stand in an open window in SoHo wearing nothing but a flimsy Bill the Cat
T-shirt. The hell with it, she thought and leaned out farther. Maybe she was
crazy.
She stood, her bright red hair disheveled from restless sleep, her face pale and
tired, watching the light grow and listening to the noise begin as the city
woke.
Then she turned away, ready for work.
It was after two when Clare heard the buzzer. It sounded like an annoying bee
over the hiss of the torch in her hand and the crash of Mozart booming from the
stereo. She considered ignoring it, but the new piece wasn’t going very well,
and the interruption was a good excuse to stop. She turned off her torch. As she
crossed her studio, she pulled off her safety gloves. Still wearing her goggles,
skullcap, and apron, she flicked on the intercom.
"Yes?"
"Clare? Angie."
...
Januszek66