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Authors: Amanda Quick
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multidimensional mazes he constructed in his mind when he was working on a problem were not merely the product of his strong talent but rather full-blown hallucinations created by a fevered brain.
From his position in the second row he had a clear view of the altar and the arched, curtained doorway on the far side. A boy of about twelve or thirteen lay stretched out on the surface of the stone slab, wrists and ankles bound with rope. He was awake but dazed, either from fear or a stiff dose of opium. Probably the latter, Caleb thought. He gave thanks for that small blessing. The boy was not alert enough to comprehend the danger.
This was not the way he had wanted to handle the case but by the time he had received the message from his informant, it had been too late to come up with any other plan. As it was, there had been barely enough time to attempt a rescue.
The first rumors of the existence of the cult had reached him only a few days ago. When he had realized that the man who had established it was powerfully talented and quite possibly dangerously unhinged, he had consulted immediately with Gabe. Neither of them had seen any way to build a case that could be handed over to the police, at least not before grave violence had been done. They had concluded that the Jones agency had no choice but to act.
The low chanting started in the front tier of hooded figures and spread swiftly to the second and third rows. It was a mix of mangled Latin with the occasional Greek word thrown in for effect. Caleb doubted that any of those standing with him actually understood what was being said. The acolytes were all young males in their teens and, judging by their accents, they had come from the streets.
He had done a quick head count when he and the others filed into the chamber. There were fifteen figures arrayed in ranks of five in front of the altar. Two more acolytes stood at either end of the stone slab. One was somewhat taller than the other and more solidly built. A man, not a youth. The leader and his closest associates had not yet appeared.
The harsh rumble of the chant grew stronger and louder. Caleb absently translated while he watched the curtained doorway.
. . . Great Charun, oh Demonic Spirit, we seek the power you promise to those of us who follow the true path . . .
. . . Praise to our master, the Servant of Charun, who commands the forces of darkness . . .
The black velvet curtains that covered the arched doorway were abruptly swept aside. A youth in flowing gray robes that were far too big for him strode solemnly into the room. He gripped the hilt of a jeweled blade in both hands. The lantern light seemed to flare a little higher. It glinted on the malevolent weapon. Power hissed and slithered across Caleb’s senses.
No doubt about it, he thought, the group had found the dagger that had been used by the ancient Etruscan cult. A nasty paranormal artifact if ever there was one.
A hush fell over the crowd. The sick energy of unholy lust intensified in the chamber. Caleb slid his hands into the folds of his robes and gripped the handle of his revolver. The gun would be of only limited use against the large gang of tough young males. He would be able to get off a shot or two but the acolytes would soon overwhelm him. Mindlessly enthralled by their leader, they would sacrifice themselves for him, he had no doubt. That aside, the last thing he wanted to do tonight was shoot some poor boy who’d had the misfortune to come under the mesmerizing influence of the master of the cult.
“Behold the Servant of Charun and show him all honor,” the boy holding the dagger intoned in a voice that cracked a little. “Tonight he will reach through the Veil to summon great powers.”
Another figure appeared in the doorway, his tall, thin frame shrouded in black robes. Large rings glinted on his fingers. The cowl concealed his features.
Even from where he stood in the second row, Caleb sensed the dark, sick energy around the
From his position in the second row he had a clear view of the altar and the arched, curtained doorway on the far side. A boy of about twelve or thirteen lay stretched out on the surface of the stone slab, wrists and ankles bound with rope. He was awake but dazed, either from fear or a stiff dose of opium. Probably the latter, Caleb thought. He gave thanks for that small blessing. The boy was not alert enough to comprehend the danger.
This was not the way he had wanted to handle the case but by the time he had received the message from his informant, it had been too late to come up with any other plan. As it was, there had been barely enough time to attempt a rescue.
The first rumors of the existence of the cult had reached him only a few days ago. When he had realized that the man who had established it was powerfully talented and quite possibly dangerously unhinged, he had consulted immediately with Gabe. Neither of them had seen any way to build a case that could be handed over to the police, at least not before grave violence had been done. They had concluded that the Jones agency had no choice but to act.
The low chanting started in the front tier of hooded figures and spread swiftly to the second and third rows. It was a mix of mangled Latin with the occasional Greek word thrown in for effect. Caleb doubted that any of those standing with him actually understood what was being said. The acolytes were all young males in their teens and, judging by their accents, they had come from the streets.
He had done a quick head count when he and the others filed into the chamber. There were fifteen figures arrayed in ranks of five in front of the altar. Two more acolytes stood at either end of the stone slab. One was somewhat taller than the other and more solidly built. A man, not a youth. The leader and his closest associates had not yet appeared.
The harsh rumble of the chant grew stronger and louder. Caleb absently translated while he watched the curtained doorway.
. . . Great Charun, oh Demonic Spirit, we seek the power you promise to those of us who follow the true path . . .
. . . Praise to our master, the Servant of Charun, who commands the forces of darkness . . .
The black velvet curtains that covered the arched doorway were abruptly swept aside. A youth in flowing gray robes that were far too big for him strode solemnly into the room. He gripped the hilt of a jeweled blade in both hands. The lantern light seemed to flare a little higher. It glinted on the malevolent weapon. Power hissed and slithered across Caleb’s senses.
No doubt about it, he thought, the group had found the dagger that had been used by the ancient Etruscan cult. A nasty paranormal artifact if ever there was one.
A hush fell over the crowd. The sick energy of unholy lust intensified in the chamber. Caleb slid his hands into the folds of his robes and gripped the handle of his revolver. The gun would be of only limited use against the large gang of tough young males. He would be able to get off a shot or two but the acolytes would soon overwhelm him. Mindlessly enthralled by their leader, they would sacrifice themselves for him, he had no doubt. That aside, the last thing he wanted to do tonight was shoot some poor boy who’d had the misfortune to come under the mesmerizing influence of the master of the cult.
“Behold the Servant of Charun and show him all honor,” the boy holding the dagger intoned in a voice that cracked a little. “Tonight he will reach through the Veil to summon great powers.”
Another figure appeared in the doorway, his tall, thin frame shrouded in black robes. Large rings glinted on his fingers. The cowl concealed his features.
Even from where he stood in the second row, Caleb sensed the dark, sick energy around the
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