Born of Deception

Eighteen

“The newspapers have called him the wickedest man in the world. Is he really evil?” I ask.

“The newspapers exaggerate to sell newspapers. Don’t get me wrong. I believe Aleister Crowley to be the most powerful occultist and warlock in the world, perhaps of all time. His intentions in the beginning were altruistic. He believes in good and evil and has an intimate knowledge of both forces. Unfortunately, he seems to have chosen one over the other.”

“You say in the beginning, what about now?”

Mr. Price shrugs. “Who knows? Time changes a man. Fame changes a man. I can hardly comment on the motivations of a man I haven’t spoken to in nearly ten years.”

I blink. “So you know him personally, then?”

He nods. “Yes, we both belonged to the Order of the Golden Dawn. We both rose through the ranks, or orders, very quickly but have gone in different directions.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he is still involved in the Golden Dawn, but on second thought, I don’t want to know. The less I know about that secretive organization, the better, and it isn’t important for what I need anyway. “How well did you know him? Do you know, for instance, if he has any children?”

“I know he has a daughter named Lola whom I believe lives with her mother. He may have another child now, but you typically don’t discuss your family much with Golden Dawn members.”

So he doesn’t know about Calypso? I study his impassive features for a long moment. Is he telling the truth? I sense no deceit in him at this moment, but the heavy dark power he is infused with makes me doubt what I’m feeling. “So what you’re saying is that most people have nothing to fear from him?”

His eyes narrow and I suddenly feel a deep sense of mistrust coming from him. I understand. I don’t trust him either.

“Typically no,” he says. “I wouldn’t cross him. As I said, he is very powerful. But he doesn’t go around arbitrarily harming people, contrary to the lurid newspaper descriptions of Thelema. He’s been accused of human sacrifice, but I doubt that story. Animal sacrifice, most definitely, but then many of God’s chosen people also sacrificed animals at God’s behest.”

“Are you saying Aleister Crowley is one of God’s chosen people?”

At this Mr. Price throws back his head and laughs. “Certainly not. But who’s to say who God’s chosen people are but God himself? But on the whole, the average person has nothing to fear from Mr. Crowley during a casual meeting. Of course, that said, it must be pointed out that both of his wives went insane and a number of his mistresses have committed suicide.”

My blood chills, thinking of Calypso. Perhaps she herself is in some way a victim of this powerful man. I switch directions. “How badly could a poppet hurt someone?”

His brows arch ever so slightly. “The poppet itself is harmless until it’s in the hands of a skilled practitioner. Anyone can make a poppet with all sorts of intentions, but unless he knows how to activate and manipulate the poppet, the doll is harmless.”

“But in the rights hands it could be . . . ?”

His reply is immediate. “Deadly, if combined with a blood sacrifice.”

I swallow. I have no way of knowing if Calypso has made another poppet yet. I haven’t felt any psychic attacks lately, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe she has been distracted by her guests, or maybe she is just gearing up for something really dangerous. “How would one go about protecting herself?”

“She would have to bind the practitioner’s powers.” He leans forward, warming to his subject. “There are a number of ways to do this. A circle of salt is very effective, though in this day and age, you can’t really keep someone locked in a circle of salt forever. There is also a way to bind someone’s powers with a blood sacrifice, but the exact ritual is quite vague. It’s also said in the ancient texts that witches and warlocks can steal someone’s powers or abilities, but again the texts are vague. As you can imagine, many practices have been lost due to people not wanting to write them down. Magic, black or otherwise, is primarily an oral tradition.”

“That makes sense,” I say. “Rather like a cook not wanting someone to steal her recipes, right?”

He laughs. “Essentially. It was a way of protecting oneself. Bad things generally happened to those women found to be witches. No one wanted to be found with a book of spells. There also are charms and symbols that are protectants.”

“Like the symbols on the door below?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Very astute. Yes, they can’t be touched by someone who practices black magic. It’s not foolproof, of course—there are ways to get around it—but someone would have to know how and even then be very determined. My colleagues are less likely to believe in our need of protection than I am. I feel it prudent to have a protectant wherever I spend a great deal of time.”

Speaking of symbols . . . I tilt my head to one side, considering. Then I snap open my pocketbook and hand him the medallion. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

I watch with interest as his face blanches. “Where did you get this?”

“It was left for me as a gift. Why?”

“You know what it means?”

I nod.

“You have made some interesting enemies since you came here, Miss Van Housen.”

I want to ask if he has many enemies, but he rises abruptly and walks over to one of his shelves. Taking down a large wooden box that looked vaguely medieval, he sets it on the desk and opens it. I try to peer over the hinged top but can’t see from where I am sitting. He rummages through it, his face intent.

I squirm, my curiosity getting the better of me. “What is that? Pandora’s box?”

He regards me over the rim of the cover. “Perhaps.” Pulling something out from the inside and palming it, he closes the lid and replaces the box.

“I have a gift for you,” he says, holding out his hand.

I eye him before hesitantly sticking my own hand out, palm up.

“You’re not a very trusting person, are you, Anna? You’re perhaps the only woman I’ve ever encountered who meets the words ‘I have a gift for you’ with suspicion.” His voice is laced with humor, but his eyes are not. Whatever he is giving me is extremely important, as are the reasons behind the gift.

The object he drops in my hand is heavy and green with age. There’s a long, dark silk cord attached to it and I know it’s some kind of pendant. It’s shaped like a coin and imprinted with the spokes of a wheel. Within each spoke is a symbol, much like the ones present on the door below. “What is it?” I ask.

“It’s an ancient Celtic protection amulet. I’ve had it for many years and have been waiting for the compulsion to give it to someone. The power in this kind of pendant is increased by giving it away, so you don’t give them lightly.”

My skin crawls with foreboding. I hold the amulet up and it swings in front of me. “And you were compelled to give it to me?”

“Yes. In exchange for the medallion.”

“A trade?”

“Of sorts. Trust me, my dear. You do not want this in your possession.”

He has that right.

“Do you have any more questions, Miss Van Housen?” His voice is formal, which I take as a sign that the meeting is over.

I place the cord over my head and slip the amulet down the front of my dress. The pendant lies heavy and warm against my skin and I am certain that I made a good trade. “What are you going to do with the medallion?”

“Destroy it.”

I shiver in relief at his words. “Thank you, Mr. Price. And thank you also for the amulet. It’s lovely.”

He nods his head and I hurry out of the office and down the hall, feeling as though Harry Price knows far more about magic, the real kind, than he lets on.

Leandra is waiting for me in Harrison’s neat, unpretentious British Model T.

“What did you find out?” she asks as soon as I hop into the front seat.

“We should be fine going to visit Aleister Crowley. The newspapers exaggerate, though Mr. Price did warn me that he is a very powerful warlock. He also gave me a protective amulet.”

“Only one?” Leandra gives me a grim smile as she pulls the car onto the street.

“Only the one.” I pull it out and let her look at it. She does, nearly driving into a pushcart in the process.

“Oopsie,” she says, righting the wheel.

I tuck the amulet back under my dress. “Did you get the information we need?”

She nods. “If he’s in London, I know where his house is. Unfortunately, he travels quite a bit. I also have some bad news.”

I look over at her, my heart sinking. “What’s wrong?”

“Today is the last day I’ll be able to help you. My husband cornered me last night and told me in no uncertain terms that I am joining our progeny at his mother’s.” She gives me a pained glance. “How could I say no? He told me that putting myself in harm’s way was an act of selfishness. Of course, I didn’t mention that as a Scotland Yard detective, he puts himself in harm’s way all the time, but somehow it’s different for me. At any rate, I will be on the train headed for Manchester this evening.”

“It’s all right,” I say, though I’m sick to lose her. “You need to be with your children.”

“As much as I have relished the break, I am missing them dreadfully.” She sighs. “But I have the morning and afternoon. What should we do first?”

I rub my temples, doubt assailing me. Do I even have a right to ask her to help at all? Harrison is right: She should be playing in the country with her two little boys whose pictures I’ve seen on the mantel of her sitting room. On the other hand, I really need her brains. Not to mention her support. If I had Cole’s . . . I push the thought out of my mind and make a decision. “Let’s go see Aleister Crowley. Maybe he can give us a clue as to Calypso’s whereabouts.”

“What are we going to tell him?”

I put my hands up in the air. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

By the time we arrive at the modest house just off Old Brompton Road, my hands are slick with sweat. Silently, Leandra and I walk down the brick path and up the steps. I can feel Leandra’s nerves and that ever-present darkness that lurks just beneath the surface.

“Look,” she says, pointing. Someone has painted the words Do what thou wilt in rusty red above the door. My stomach churns as I realize that the paint could very well be blood. The line is from The Book of the Law, the text Mr. Crowley claims was divinely given to him by his spirit guide.

Perhaps madness runs in his family, but then again, who am I—a girl who has visions, talks to a dead boy, and feels what others are feeling—to throw stones?

Leandra’s face is determined as she reaches up to knock on the door, but before she can, a man so ancient he almost looks prematurely mummified opens it.

“Please come in,” he says.

Leandra’s mouth forms a little O before she closes it and drops her hand.

He escorts us into a dusty sitting area that smells strongly of sawdust, old straw, and something dank and growing, like mushrooms sprouting from a rotting log deep in the forest. The shelves on all four walls are so cluttered they make Harrison’s office look tidy. Plants sit here and there on stacks of books, which no doubt accounts for the scent of old straw.

At first glance, the room is just the normal messy abode of a bachelor professor, but my stomach churns as I look closer. Hanging on every wall are African masks, some made of wood, others of ivory or ceramic. All have wide-open mouths as if their primary purpose is to scream. The blank eyes look as if they are watching our every move. Suddenly, Leandra clutches my arm and points to a shelf near the front window.

“Are those what I think they are?”

I step forward to get a closer look and realize a moment too late what they are. Heads. Ancient shrunken heads, the kind missionaries used to bring back with warnings of the wicked savages.

“Ah, I see you’ve found my bonces.” The timbre of the voice, slow and deep, sends a chill down my spine and I turn.

The newspaper pictures I remembered seeing of Aleister Crowley had shown a dark, handsome man, with rather florid features and round, intensely dark eyes. The man in front of me is a much heavier caricature of that man. His features have softened like melted wax and he’s lost every bit of his dark, luxuriant hair. But the eyes—the eyes are the same, only so much more terrifying in person. Immensely more terrifying. A shot of fear runs through me and I feel Leandra stiffen.

I find my voice. “You are interested in Africa, Mr. Crowley?”

“I am interested in everything,” he says. “Now please do me the honor of telling me who has so charmingly invaded my home?”

Leandra steps forward and starts to hold out her hand. I grab it and pull it down next to mine. Mr. Crowley’s eyes flick over the movement, but he says nothing.

“My name is Anna, and this is my friend Leandra.” My voice is as firm as I can make it, but I get the feeling that Mr. Crowley detects the tremor and enjoys it immensely.

He bows his head slowly. “Leandra, Anna. And what can I do for you? It’s not every day I have two such lovely visitors. Would you like to have some tea or other type of refreshment?” His words are polite, but the hair on the back of my neck rises at the way he looks at us, as if he could devour us, even after a jolly big lunch.

I shake my head. “Thank you, Mr. Crowley, but we are in need of some information about your daughter.”

He frowns and for the first time looks surprised. “Lola? I just heard from her. What could you possibly want to know about her?” He picks up a pencil from a cluttered side table and works it between his fingers. When I raise my eyes back to his face, his gaze is boring into mine. Classic distraction trick.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?” he says. “I’ve lived in the States. In New York, actually. On an island in the Hudson River, but my mind wanders. What do you want?”

“No. Not Lola. Your other daughter, Calypso.”

The pencil in his hand snaps and the threat I feel coming from him is instantaneous.

It’s followed by a wave of anger that hits me so hard I gasp, doubling over for a moment.

“Anna!” Leandra cries.

She puts her hand on my shoulder and I receive another bone-jarring hit of rage so deep and menacing that I almost cry out. I have never in my life felt anger like that, fury so wild and unleashed, it’s like a deadly plague from the heavens.

And it’s coming from Leandra.

I stare at her, my eyes wide, but even as it transmits itself from her hand to my shoulder, she reins it in. I straighten. “I’m fine,” I tell her.

Mr. Crowley looks from me to Leandra, his eyes alight with interest. “Well, well, well. What have we here? Not just pretty women, but women of power as well. Could it be the reincarnation of Catherine Cadière, or perhaps the original Jezebel, who have come to visit me this day? At any rate, I hate to disappoint my fellow practitioners, but I don’t have a daughter named Calypso.”

My body trembles from the emotional hits I just took from both Mr. Crowley and Leandra. I stare at him, uncomprehending. If Dr. Boyle lied about that, what else might he have lied about? But no. I can feel dishonesty oozing from Mr. Crowley like sweat from pores. Whatever he says, Calypso is his daughter.

“Calypso is in over her head,” I continue as if he hadn’t spoken. “If she isn’t detained or subdued, she could go to jail, or worse, end up in an asylum.”

He stares at me, his black eyes glowing like dark twin embers. I feel as if he is reading and dismissing my abilities. Leandra is frozen next to me and I can feel her trembling with the effort it’s taking to control herself. We’re at an impasse, the air around us crackling with power and tension.

“What has Calypso done?” he finally asks.

“Sacrificed a human,” I tell him, my entire being focused on him. His jaw tightens and the disgust I feel is immediate. Whatever the rumors are, this is a man who has not sacrificed humans.

His face stills and the clenching of his jaw eases. His control over his emotions is incredible. “Assuming I am the father of a girl named Calypso, what would you have me do? Especially if I haven’t seen her for months.”

“Tell me where you think she might be hiding.”

“Are you her friend?” he asks. I hesitate for a moment too long and comprehension dawns. “You’re not. So what is your stake in all this? How do you plan on subduing her?”

“I was hoping you could tell me how to do that.”

He turns away and walks to the door. For a moment I think the interview is over, but he gives his man rapid orders in a language I don’t understand.

“When you subdue her, bring her to me. Do not give her to anyone else except me. You may not die if you betray me, but you will wish you had.” His voice is as cold and commanding as a north wind blowing from Siberia.

Leandra is clutching my hand and I feel her shaking like a leaf. I clutch at a straw. “Why don’t you come with us, sir? I am sure she will be more amenable if you are with us.”

He chuckles as if we were discussing the weather instead of the life of his daughter. “Because she thinks she hates me right now. She is being quite rebellious. Plus, I am in the middle of a casting a lengthy and rather complicated spell and shouldn’t leave the house.” He laughs again, and the sound is so disturbing, I almost feel sorry for Calypso. But then I remember what she’s capable of. Mr. Crowley can have her. They deserve each other.

The old man comes in and hands me a paper. I glance down and find an address on it. “Is this where she is?”

“That’s where she could be,” Mr. Crowley corrects. “And may I ask if you are properly protected?”

In answer I pull out the amulet and show it to him. To my discomfort, he steps toward me and narrows his eyes. He’s so close I can see his pupils darting around the various symbols as if he’s reading them. He probably is.

He licks his lips. “Where did you get that?”

I shudder. “Mr. Harry Price gave it to me.”

He nods as if his suspicions were confirmed. “That should protect you fairly well.” He looks at me for a moment longer. I resist the urge to step back, even though every instinct I have is screaming for me to run; but logic tells me that running will make me look like prey and Mr. Crowley is definitely predator. “Beware of mirrors. In my world, mirrors can be pathways for all sorts of undesirable visitors from the netherworld. Now, as enjoyable as this has been, ladies, I must get back to my work.”

The old man firmly sees us out the door and Leandra and I find ourselves standing on the steps, just that fast.

“Did we really just have a meeting with Aleister Crowley in a room with shrunken heads?” Leandra’s voice wavers and she continues without waiting for an answer. “No, don’t tell me. I would think that was a nightmare, except that I don’t generally have nightmares in the middle of the day.”

I snort. “I do.”

“Really? You must tell me about it sometime, but right now I say we quit this place.”

We hurry down the steps to climb into the car. The sky is dark and ominous and I feel eyes boring into my back. “I think there’s going to be a storm,” she says after she starts the engine.

I’m silent but finally decide to just ask, “What happened in there? Not with Mr. Crowley but with you?”

For a moment she looks straight ahead and I think she isn’t going to answer.

But then she shrugs. “I don’t really talk about it. Let’s just say that anger is as much a part of who I am as the color of my hair or eyes. I don’t have any choice in the matter. I do, however, have a choice about how I let that anger control me. As a mother and human being, I refuse to let it affect my life. But sometimes like today, its gets the better of me. I felt the threat from him toward you. Plus, it almost felt as if he were stripping me of my control.” She gives me a rueful smile. “I rarely lose control like that anymore. It nearly ruined my life once. It may have except I met Harrison. He introduced me to the Society and I learned to diffuse it. That’s why I get upset at how the Society has changed. We Sensitives need that knowledge.”

I want to ask more, but sense her reluctance to say anything else.

“You can ask Cole about it. He can give you the rest of the story. I am just not up for it today. Besides, we have more important things to consider, like what our next move should be.”

I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to put her at any further risk. She deserves to go spend time with her children. “I need to pick up a few supplies to confront Calypso, but after that I want to head back to the hotel, if you don’t mind. I think I’ll wait for Cole to come with me.”

“All right. Where do we need to go?”

I tell her and she takes me to a grocer’s. I’m worried she’s going to see what I’m planning, but her mind has already leaped ahead to the moment when chubby arms and sticky fingers will be wrapped around her neck.

I hug her hard before she leaves me at my hotel.

“Be careful,” she whispers.

“I will. Enjoy your children and stay safe.”

I wave as she chugs off and then go upstairs with my bag of supplies. Once in my room, I pull a box out of my wardrobe and take out several pairs of handcuffs before selecting three. I have no idea what I’m walking into and I should be prepared.

I pack them in a small satchel and add a length of clothesline that I picked up at the grocer’s. Then I pull out the solid silver knife and leather strap and sheath Cynthia had given me for my going-away present.

I strap it on to my thigh and smooth my slip down over it. I pull down the mirror from over the dresser, shivering when I remember Mr. Crowley’s warning about mirrors. I set it against a chair and turn this way and that until I’m satisfied that the knife doesn’t show. I haven’t put it on until now. Of course, I’ve never had to until now.

Lastly, I take out the two-pound bag of salt I bought at the grocer’s and add it to the satchel.

Taking a deep breath, I look at the materials I’ve gathered. They seem inadequate against an occultist who practices black magic and commits ritualistic murder to harness more power, but it’s all I’ve got. Besides my ace in the hole.

Walter.