Dark Magic

29

“Do you have the money?”

Big Daddy, the ruthless dictator of Somaliland, nodded. He’d said little since arriving at the Order of Astrum’s magnificent estate in the south of England a short while ago. Wearing a black leather cowboy hat and denim jacket, he looked more like the villain in an Italian spaghetti Western than the despot of a tiny African nation. According to the newspapers, his country’s economy was in a shambles, and his people were close to revolting. He was a desperate man, and it showed on his face.

“I brought cash,” the dictator said. “Now give me the information. I am anxious to know when the attack on New York will take place.”

“You know the rules. I must first have the money.”

Big Daddy made a call to his driver on his cell phone. The driver appeared at the front door of the mansion with a bulging suitcase. Big Daddy brought the suitcase into the parlor, and dumped stacks of fifty-pound-sterling notes around his host’s feet.

“There is your money. Now tell me about the attack.”

His host visually counted the money before proceeding.

“Very good. Now here is your information,” his host said. “On Tuesday night, at a few minutes past ten o’clock, New York will experience a major attack in Times Square that will effectively shut down the city. Thousands will perish.”

Big Daddy’s eyes glistened. “Go on.”

“I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

“That is unacceptable. It is not enough.”

His host did not like to be challenged, and his eyes narrowed. “I beg to differ. This information will serve two purposes, both being beneficial to you. It will send the stock market into a tailspin, as these types of events tend to do. You will benefit by shorting the market, and reaping huge financial rewards. Second, it will show the world how vulnerable the United States is. Both of these things serve your purposes, yes?”

“I must know more.”

“Sorry, but that was our deal. It’s not like you haven’t done business with us before.”

“Give me something, anything.”

“I can’t.”

“Will the attack be a bomb? Guns?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“How many men will be involved? A dozen? More?”

“Sorry.”

“What organization are they affiliated with?”

“I can’t share that information with you, either.”

Big Daddy fumed. A long minute passed.

“Tell me where your powers come from,” the dictator said.

His host leaned forward. Rarely did their clients ask them to pull back the curtains, and show them how things worked. “Do you want to know how we see into the future?”

“Yes-it fascinates me.”

“Have you ever visited the spirit world?”

“No.”

“There is a price of admission, if you will.”

“I will pay.”

“Are you sure?”

Big Daddy nodded, having no idea what lay in store.

“Very well. Come with me.”

They walked outside the mansion. The sun was shining, and it was a spectacular day. The Order lived on a sprawling estate in a remote area of England not far from the Chiltern Hills. The area was not on a map, nor could it be found on Google Earth.

The property had been run down when the Order purchased it. Tapping into its vast fortune, the Order had transformed the grounds into an occult appendage of Versailles, with each building more ornate and spectacular than the next. One building housed a Pagan temple, where the elders could indulge in every sexual fantasy known to man. Another was a museum which stored their vast collection of rare paintings and art work. Then there was the castle, complete with drawbridge and moat filled with brackish water, called the Palace of the Occult. It was here that the elders conducted seances and communicated with the Devil.

The two men crossed the bridge to the palace. By the entrance stood a pair of stone-faced guards with submachine guns. For security purposes, guards were strategically placed around the estate, with orders to shoot intruders on sight.

Inside the palace were a maze of twisting, dimly lit vestibules. They passed rows of Carrara marble statues and walls covered in gold leaf. On marble benches sat a trio of beautiful dark-skinned girls in diaphanous white and green garments. Plucked off the mean streets of India, they served as concubines for the elders and their guests.

The host stopped, and pointed at the girls.

“Pick one.”

Big Daddy pointed at the middle girl. “Her.”

His host waved his hand. The chosen girl’s eyelids grew heavy, and she fell into a trance. She rose and followed them as if sleepwalking.

“Is she hypnotized?” Big Daddy asked.

His host did not reply.

“At least tell me where we’re going. I don’t like to be kept in the dark.”

“Be patient. You’ll understand soon enough.”

At the end of the vestibule, a door opened by itself, and they entered a chamber whose walls were covered with burning white candles. In the room’s center sat a wooden table with carved astrological signs. The girl climbed onto the table, and lay facing the ceiling.

His host opened a drawer on the table. A gold knife with sparkling jewels encrusted in the handle was taken out. He handed the knife to his guest.

“What do you want me to do with this?” Big Daddy asked.

“You don’t know?”

“No. Tell me.”

“I want you to plunge it into her heart.”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“If you want to be like me, then you must pay the price.”

“Killing her is the price?”

His host laughed. “No. Giving up your soul.”

“And if I do that, will I be like you?”

“If you kill her, you can be like me. It’s how the process works.”

Big Daddy stared at the sacrificial girl lying on the table. Many times he’d ordered his army to kill citizens of his country that he did not like. It was not the same as killing himself.

The dictator shook his head.

“Suit yourself. Give me the knife,” his host said.

“Are you going to do it?”

“Yes. There is no going back with the Devil.”

Big Daddy handed him the knife. His host raised the knife above his head, and plunged it into the girl’s chest. She struggled briefly, her blood soaking her clothes. The candles on the walls flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.

“What is happening?” the dictator asked.

“Be quiet,” his host replied.

A cold wind passed through the chamber. The candles sparked back to life. The table was now empty, the dead girl gone.

They walked back to the mansion, where a limo waited in the drive. Big Daddy did not speak a word, and was visibly shaken. He climbed in, and the limo sped away.

His host waved good-bye. His name was Harold Webster, and he was a founding member of the Order. Webster was well into his sixties, yet looked like a man in his twenties. As part of his pact with the Devil, he had not grown old. In fact, he looked exactly as he had in the prime of his life. It seemed like the perfect arrangement, only his back, which he’d injured playing soccer, always ached. The Devil was funny that way-he never let his subjects forget who was in charge.

Webster walked back to the castle. A hallway took him to the Room of Spirits, an octagon-shaped chamber with an elevated platform on which sat three swivel chairs. Two of the chairs were occupied by the other founding members, Charles Gill and Edward Eastgate. Both looked as they had in their twenties. Gill’s curse was a Cockney accent that he detested, while Eastgate’s nose and teeth remained crooked from when he’d wrecked his car.

Webster took the third chair. It was strange, not growing old. The world around them changed, but they did not. It often made him wonder what would happen if they fell out of favor with the Devil. Would they all suddenly grow old and frail? There was no way of knowing. The Devil held all the cards, while they had nothing.

“How did it go?” Eastgate asked.

“He paid in full,” Webster replied.

“Cash?”

“Of course. Now we just need to make sure that nothing goes wrong Tuesday night. The last thing we need is an angry African dictator after us.”

“Do you think he’d do that?”

“Yes. His country is a shambles. He’s a desperate man.”

They fell silent. Taking risks was part of the game, and so was taking insurance.

“I’m thinking we should help Wolfe with his mission,” Webster suggested.

It was Gill’s turn to speak. “Help him how?”

“We could trick the police into thinking Wolfe is dead. That would give him some breathing room,” Webster said.

“You mean a decoy?”

“It’s worked before. I was in touch with our spy in New York. He found a subject we can use. The man is the same age as Wolfe, and shares the same physical characteristics.”

The elders employed spies on every continent. The operative in New York had provided the information on Wolfe’s hit list, and was reliable.

“Then let’s do it,” Eastgate said.

“I agree,” Gill said.

“Good. We’re in agreement. Are you ready?”

His partners nodded. Webster fingered the control pad on the arm of his chair, causing the domed roof above their heads to slowly part. A hydraulic lift raised the platform into the air until they were outside of the palace, staring at a pale blue sky sprinkled with puffy white clouds.

“Face east toward New York,” Webster instructed them.

They faced the pastoral countryside. Astral projection had been a part of the psychic’s arsenal since the beginning of time. The elders had played with various forms, most recently the use of fiber optic cables to transmit themselves to various parts of the world. But the best way was still the old way.

“Manhattan, Museum of Natural History, Seventy-ninth Street and Central Park West,” Webster said. “The decoy works as a night guard, and has just ended his shift. He’s about to begin his commute home. He’s driving a pale green van with black masking tape covering the rear window. It’s a real junker.”

The elders projected themselves across the ocean to the island of Manhattan. The sensation was like traveling in a bullet train, with scenery rushing past in a blinding blur of color and sound. It was still nighttime in New York, the city being drenched by a storm. The West Side was being hit hard, and traffic was at a standstill. A green van was not among the vehicles.

“I don’t see him,” Eastgate said.

“Perhaps he got off early from work,” Webster said. “Let’s check the Henry Hudson Parkway on the West Side.”

They projected themselves onto the eleven-mile highway which ran from 72nd Street to the Westchester County boundary. Traffic there resembled a parking lot as well.

“I see him,” Gill said. “He’s at the toll bridge over the river with the strange name.”

“You mean the Harlem River,” Webster said.

“That’s it. The decoy is about to pass through a tollbooth.”

They projected themselves up the parkway to the tollbooth where the van waited in line. The decoy was at the wheel, eating a submarine sandwich dripping with mayonnaise.

“That’s him. Are we ready?” Webster asked.

“Ready,” Eastgate said.

“Ready,” Gill said.

“On the count of three. One … two … three!”

The elders projected themselves inside the van. Using the collective power of their minds, they created an image inside the van that was not real. The driver became Wolfe, who was also eating a submarine sandwich. The false image lasted only a few seconds. Just long enough for the surveillance camera above the tollbooth to capture it, and transmit it back to the New York Police Department, the FBI, and every other law enforcement agency that was hunting for Wolfe. Then, the image disappeared, and the decoy was back.

Webster fell back into his chair. “Done.”

“How long do you think it will take?” Gill asked.

“Hard to say. The weather being what it is.”

They watched the van head into Westchester County. Traffic had thinned out, and the van got onto the Saw Mill River Parkway, and picked up speed. Within minutes, a pair of highway patrol cars began to follow. The officers inside the patrol cars wore body armor, and cradled automatic rifles in their laps. They did not seem in any hurry to pull the van over.

“There’s must be a roadblock ahead,” Webster said. “We can’t let the police take him alive. Who wants to handle this?”

“It’s your turn,” Eastgate said.

“I think he’s right,” Gill said.

Webster projected himself up the parkway. Just as he’d expected, the police had created a roadblock by parking a pair of cruisers sideways in the middle of the road. Four officers with rifles were crouched behind the cruisers. The trap was ready to be sprung.

The van pulled up to the roadblock. Webster projected himself behind the wheel, and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The van rammed the two vehicles in the roadblock. A bullet came through the windshield, scaring him half to death. Webster didn’t know if bullets could kill him while he was projecting himself, and was in no mood to find out. He departed, and watched the resulting carnage from the safety of his perch above the palace.

Bullets ripped through the van and turned the driver into a quivering mass. The van veered off the parkway, and rolled down a steep incline. The gas tank would have exploded on its own, but Webster helped it along with a murderous glare. Soon the vehicle was a mass of flames, the driver burned beyond recognition.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” Eastgate said.

“Or your sense of timing,” Gill said. “Good show.”

Webster fingered the arm of his chair, causing the platform to lower back inside the palace, and the domed roof to close. He took a moment to collect himself. He found himself wondering if the driver had a wife, or children, and just as quickly dismissed the thought. In making a pact with the Devil, he had accepted that something was due the Devil, the rest of the world be damned. This was the nature of the Order of Astrum, and let no man stand in its way.