DISCOVERY
Chapter 1
Mortimer’s Antiquarian Bookstore
Friday afternoon
London
Peter Ashford stood dead still in his shock. He never expected to see anything like this. On the table before him rested a crude hand-made book, centuries old. Despite its great age Peter was taken aback for another reason – transfixed by what had been used to cover the book – the timeworn faded, squalid and tattered hide of a black wolf. He well knew such a cover denoted the most nefarious tome of the Dark Ages. Vile. Sordid. Evil. For this man, however, it was a tome utterly astounding to behold though a highly unseemly feature of the cover caused him to grimace. The wolf’s tail had never been severed. It hung from the base of the spine well down over the table’s edge, a foreboding warning – then and now – to open the book at your own risk. Still, the man’s enthusiasm could not be contained.
“What a find! It’s just amazing to see!”
Amazing? That was the last word Henry would have used to describe the tome. Its mere appearance frightened him. He said nothing in reply as Peter remained rapt by the almost ancient work, taking in the title at a glance…Imprecatio Sortiarii. The Latin words were grim. Curse of the Sorcerer, but this man was thrilled to read them, his first words nearly breathless.
“Do you know what this is, Mr. Mortimer? I…I almost cannot believe my eyes!” Henry sensed a big sale in the offing. “Only two are known to exist in the world and here’s another!” The book of near antiquity held Peter’s attention like a magnet. “I could spend years searching for one of these in a dozen countries and not succeed. Now I find one on my doorstep, so to speak…minutes from my house!” Henry smiled broadly in response, exquisitely pleased with himself. His warm feeling of satisfaction derived from an impending sale would, however, be erased in only seconds by Peter’s next words even though the man’s eyes were still intensely locked on the book.
“Gauging by the nature of its construction I would say this piece is more than a thousand years old!” Finally averting his gaze from the tome, Peter’s eyes met Henry’s. He solemnly added, “I want you to know that not only is this one of the rarest books in the world but the most wicked. I’ve no doubt people have been killed in its presence.”
Henry flinched that moment, startled by this customer’s trenchant remark that forcefully resurrected a ghastly memory. He began to feel nervous for two reasons…desperately hoping nothing of the sort would happen again – especially to him – and losing the sale. Peter quieted to reflect upon a tome whose sole purpose was sobering.
“No pious person, Mr. Mortimer, would ever think to read this book. Its very existence offends heaven. Even those of no faith would likely find its subject matter repellent.” Peter had to note the obvious. “Still, judging by its condition, I’m sorry to say it has been opened many times.” A wistful desire preceded his last thought. “I would love to know of the one that made this.”
THE DEMON
Chapter 2
Ayshire coastal waters
Scotland
Sixth century
Lóegaire feared for his life. Two calm hours out from land the sky abruptly darkened, the sea’s mood suddenly sour. As if realizing the unholy reason this man had for setting sail, large gray swells came out of nowhere, threatening to capsize the puny craft. It took all Lóegaire’s strength to hold the helm steady. Dead ahead lay his destination, a desolate mass of solid rock. Close as it was, the man could only hope to make it there alive. Chances were that if the sea didn’t kill him, the island would. Indeed, many had perished trying to put ashore on this forbidding place, their boats too often captured by angry waves that did not deliver these unfortunate seafarers safely to shore but instead smashed them against towering cliffs, littering the seabed with broken keels and bones. A rock of the devil some called it, but that name had far less to do with the island’s daunting granite walls that nearly ringed the island or the deaths of so many men that had tried over so many years to make it ashore. The name much more referred to something else – something held captive in a stone keep – a prison guarded not by men but by a cross.
Hoisted high by a powerful wave, the little boat sped towards the island, the deadly cliffs looming rapidly closer. Lóegaire’s heart began pounding. This was it. Letting go of the now-useless helm, he quickly reclined against the stern, locking his hands onto the rails, gripping them for all he was worth. His face twisted in fear, his knuckles white with fear. A man’s life hung in the balance. His gruesome death was seconds away. It was then his fear surged even more as the wave crested, flinging the tiny vessel ahead. A narrow slope of stones and survival lay ahead to the left. To his right, a sheer and massive stone wall three hundred meters high, impervious to anything the sea could throw against it. Lóegaire watched in dread terror as one large wave after another exploded upon impact, their shattered remains thrashing madly at its base…just as his soon would. Death by crushing. Drawing ever nearer to this fearsome vertical face of rock, a long dark shadow covered Lóegaire like a funeral shroud. A second later cold spray began wetting him everywhere…saline last rites. Only moments to go. The sound of the thundering surf was now ear-splitting. A heart pounded harder. No one heard a scream of sheer terror as the boat sped in. And then…it was over. The craft was roughly thrown onto shore. Lóegaire’s life was still his. By two meters. The murderous sea and cliff had failed to kill him.
Rocks bit everywhere at the hull before the boat finally came to rest. Letting out a large breath in solemn relief, slowly the man stood and stepped out of the boat. The solidity under his feet was more than comforting. What he had come here to see was not.
It was time to begin the difficult climb to the keep. Lóegaire had to hurry. Sunset was approaching. At last drawing near, he spotted several armed men sitting around a fire, warming themselves while exchanging quiet words. He had to be careful. Being captured would produce a punishment far worse than these three could mete out even if they killed him. He knew full well that what he came here to see could reach him even in death. In great caution, aided by the encroaching darkness, Lóegaire made his approach. Minutes later he nervously stood before his owner that looked back at him through iron bars…in approval, it seemed, for his arrival.
“Did ye bring everything I told thee I wanted?” Only one answer was possible. Quickly, the man opened a goatskin pouch around his waist to pass sheets of papyrus, ink and writing implements through the bars. Everything was still dry. A grunt acknowledged the delivery. “Take these.” Putting out his hand, Lóegaire was shocked to be handed pieces of skin, torn from the body. Each was stained red and still moist. “Protect them with thy blood. They are the keys to my plan.” Lóegaire listened intently as their purpose was explained. “Still, I will write of them that ye make no mistake doing as I have bid thee. Once ye have seen to this, destroy my words that speak of them. Tell no one of them. The time for their use is not at hand. It will come when enough men turn away from God to do as they willst. On that day they will cause my brethren below to celebrate in our victory over heaven. We will rule in the light as well as the darkness. Ye will see it.” With that, the prisoner’s eyes flashed while Lóegaire’s opened wide in wonder and confusion yet he remained quiet. “Our time together here is our last. No more will we speak in this world but in mine. Return in two fortnights to collect my writings. Assemble them as instructed. Above all, keep them safe lest my anger turn against thee. By what it is ye will make I will hear all that is asked of me, all that is said of me. Heed well everything ye hast heard. Now go.”
DECEIT
Chapter 3
Mortimer’s Antiquarian Bookstore
Friday afternoon
London
Peter continued to fawn over a grotesque-looking tome. He couldn’t learn enough about it.
“Mr. Mortimer, I must ask...where did you get this?!” Henry, relieved to hear a voice full of enthusiasm, glowed inside upon the resurrected prospect of a major sale.
“From an estate in Dublin, sir. The family has long been aware of my interest in it. I was able to acquire several choice books, in fact.”
It was all a lie. Henry had never gone to Ireland, hadn’t bought it from anyone. His illicit acquisition of the book six months ago was the beginning of a terrible – unimaginable – string of events no one, not even Dr. Peter Ashford, could have foreseen.
QUIET DESPERATION
Chapter 4
London to Scotland
Six months ago
The alarm clock’s annoying buzz jolted Henry awake. It was 2:00am, nearly time to leave. Forcing himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, he hazily contemplated the long drive in front of him. Despite the early morning hour and distance involved there was no thought of not going. Henry’s very livelihood was at stake. The bookstore he’d owned and operated for twenty-nine years was faltering. In years past the man had been able to find and acquire choice antique volumes within London and nearby cities. Not any more. Now he had to go far afield in search of them, often having to leave the country. His efforts weren’t always successful. Martha was sick with worry about their finances no matter her husband’s reassurances…the brave front he put up for both their sakes. She paid the bills. Those she could pay.
Finally, Henry was ready. His faithful wife waved good-bye from the front door as he put the Fiat into gear and headed northwest out of London. His destination was elegant Drumlanrig Castle near to Thornhill in Scotland, a majestic dwelling built in the late 17th century for William Douglas, the first Duke of Queensbury. For many, visiting such a regal place was a holiday of sorts. That thought never crossed his mind. He’d been lured to Drumlanrig solely to examine a rare collection of medieval writings about to be put up for sale later this morning by an anonymous owner. It was Henry’s ardent hope he’d discover desirable books of known and unknown authors whose words were all that was left of them. He badly needed to acquire distinctive works that would cause his small shop to be noticed by affluent clients willing to pay handsomely. More than a few times he squeezed the steering wheel harder as the need for a successful trip weighed on him. Coming home empty-handed wasn’t an option though Henry was under no illusion. He expected many merchants and collectors to attend this sale, a lot of them well-heeled and eager, as he was, to examine for themselves a private library filled with books written centuries ago. Henry’s budget, however, was no match for most buyers at this level. That didn’t matter. With what he had in mind, he wouldn’t be staying the night.
MISGUIDED PLEASURE
Chapter 5
Mortimer’s Antiquarian Bookstore
London
Peter kept marveling at the item, simply smiling at the falsehood offered him.
“I presume you’ve handled this.” The strange remark jolted Henry. He nodded haltingly, unnerved by the simple question, his smile gone in an instant. He asked himself whatever could this customer have meant by that. Of course he’d touched it and on numerous occasions. Standing motionless, Henry waited for an explanation that clearly portended something no less than unwelcome and possibly dreadful. Peter realized he would have to bleakly note for this man the awful significance of merely having laid hands on this of all books. “I don’t mean to frighten you, Mr. Mortimer, but touching this is the closest anyone will come to hell…while he’s alive. You should know you introduced yourself to Satan.” The statement hollowed out Henry’s insides.
“Uh, yes, well…” he stammered, now very worried for himself. “To be perfectly frank, Dr. Ashford, its appearance did put me off when I first clapped eyes on it. I had no idea, however, there was a…personal risk…in simply holding it.” Henry indeed remembered the first time he’d placed his hands on the book, imagining there might damn well be a risk. The result of having touched it produced consequences that still haunted him. The response from the bookstore owner was not worth pursuing. Peter was on to something else.
“I need to ask you something else, Mr. Mortimer.” The tone of Peter’s voice maintained Henry’s nervousness. Afraid of the question to come he man nodded once. Peter spoke slowly. “Did anything…happen…when you first touched it?
Another direct hit. Another alarming question found its mark, jolting Henry, intimidating him. Something had indeed happened. The customer’s knowledge – or was that intuition – of such a dark subject as this book represented was not only considerable but nerve-wracking. Henry’s reply would again be less than honest.
“No, uh…uh, nothing I can recall,” was the lie even as Henry queasily remembered the frightening result of placing his hands on it for the first time. Several seconds passed before Peter continued. It seemed to him Henry was being evasive. He didn’t press the matter.
“Well, if that’s the case, you should consider yourself very fortunate. It seems Satan doesn’t view you as someone whose soul he wants.” Tiny beads of perspiration began appearing on Henry’s forehead. His mouth opened slightly to take in more air.
“I am fortunate if what you say is true, sir. Now I must ask something.” Peter nodded his willingness to hear the question. “Aren’t you going to touch it?” The answer was immediate.
“Not if I can help it.” Henry had just been exposed by this man as the occult neophyte he was. Worse, according to this customer, he’d inadvertently paid a sickening price for it.
“Well, if I had known, sir…” was the beginning of a slightly indignant reply, “…I would have made arrangements for its transport to my place of business rather than collecting it and carrying it here myself. It’s too late for me to do anything about that now, however.” It was time to change the subject. “Though I have no personal interest in the subject matter of this book, I nevertheless firmly believed at the time someone else would. That’s why I contacted Mrs. Ashford this morning. As you may know she visited here about a month ago…was looking for a birthday present for you. I was told of your great passion in the dark arts. She left me her number. With such a book as this now available, I called your wife straightaway to let her know of this rare find. You are the first to view it.”
Another lie. The book had been sold twice before this and returned both times. Now, with what more Henry had heard this erudite man tell him about Imprecatio Sortiarii, he was desperate to get rid of it. One person was already dead while two others that had purchased the book in previous months had reported supernatural events in their own homes. Yet Henry kept piling it on.
“If I may say so, sir, this book should fit nicely in your collection of artifacts dealing with Satanism. I am pleased to have the opportunity to show it to you.” No less agog over the work than he was at the outset, a book much older than the first printed bible, Peter mused aloud in his abiding fascination.
“I can only imagine whose hands have touched this over all the years – for what reasons – and what happened.”
To be quite sure, the book was one few in the world might want or even understand…a singular book that dealt with the practice of arcane and obscene rituals of the underworld; however, Melanie Ashford’s husband was one of those few. Anyone seriously interested in the occult had certainly heard of Dr. Peter Ashford, an authority in this field, especially with respect to paganism, iniquitous beliefs and satanic practices that dated to antiquity. Interestingly, even oddly, he was a member of Oxford University’s Faculty of Theology. There he held the title of Professor of Biblical and Early Christian Studies in the Theology/Religious Studies Department. It was this person that also knew better than most the evolution of Christian spirituality, his primary subject area. Such an expansive knowledge of both fields was by no means derived entirely from reading. Peter’s study of these subjects had long been augmented by discoveries made during numerous archaeological digs he’d organized throughout Europe, the Middle East and northern Africa. Consequently, the dynamic books Peter had authored as a result of his studies and field work for more than twenty years were eagerly purchased and read by like-minded academicians and scientists throughout the world.
“Mr. Mortimer, your call to Melanie is deeply appreciated. I’ve wanted a book like this as long as I can remember, never imagining my desire could be fulfilled. Your good fortune is my good fortune!”
Peter, delighted with the knowledge the book would soon be his, had no way of knowing he was complimenting a man guilty of grand larceny. There was much more of which he was unaware, all of it lurking in the focus of his attention
