CHAPTER ONE

THE ROOM WAS SMALL AND AIRLESS, SEALED AWAY INTO AN existence of its own. So complete was its barricade that even the windows were closed to the light, making it impossible to tell day from night. Candles blazed at the altar and in holders beside the four short pews directly facing the holy circle. This was the only light. In prayer was a single woman, a crone, eighty at least and yet strong as a lean man in his prime. Her breasts were bare, long and firm still with large pointed nipples. As the crone prayed, a murmur began to rise from within her chest, an echo of her own desire, faint at first and then fierce until she made her nails into claws and turned them against her own flesh, digging them deep into the skin of both breasts. The pain brought a scream from between her lips and still she clawed deeper, bringing the blood.

In a surge of power, the goat materialized at the altar fully formed.

“You shall be satisfied,” he hissed. She was trained to hear his words and heard plainly what he had spoken.

She relaxed backward, almost fainting as by his power he touched her sex, rippling through her and bringing her abruptly to a shattering climax.

She collapsed moaning and he waited until she had composed herself before he said, “She will come tonight. Call the coven in my glory.”

“It’s been three years now,” said the old woman softly, wiping her face with her sleeve

“She will come. Prepare the coven.”

He began to disappear but stopped for an instant as he read one further question in her mind.

“Why are there so few of us who are young? Why is it so seldom we have a really young body to enjoy?”

“Because the young have so few needs,” Ahriman said. “Old age and suffering, these are the things that bring worshipers to Ahriman.”

“You have shown us that these frailties of the flesh can be overcome,” the old woman said craftily. “But some of our members doubt. I beg you, Ahriman, to prove to them once again your greatness. Show them....” The old woman hesitated, licking cracked dry lips, and then lowered her eyes. “Show them through me,” she finished and then felt the hot flush of shame on her withered cheeks as the goat began to laugh.

“For your proof,” Ahriman said contemptuously, “Look to the one who comes tonight. She is the one who has mastered much of my understanding. Protect her. Learn from her. To the extent you help her, so shall you be rewarded.” He smiled then and went away knowing that already the old woman was thinking of her reward.

“Tonight,” she whispered. “She will come tonight.”

The harsh sounds of traffic made her head throb. Her mind swirled. She blinked, the kaleidoscope of light nearly blinding her eyes. And the smell. Lilac. Heavy and suffocating. It seemed to emerge from some distant memory of an experience long forgotten. The aroma of lilac, so removed from her present life and yet surrounding her.

The taxi fought its way up Eighth Avenue, around Columbus Circle, and swayed onto Amsterdam, as if it were propelled forward by the rain.

Her head lay against the window; her mind wandered. It couldn’t be New York. How could she have gotten from California to New York without knowing it. Ridiculous. Yet reality challenged her in the form of crowded sidewalks, dirty streets and skyscrapers all cloaked in a constant fluorescent glitter.

She wiped the damp vapor from inside the window and peered out. She tried to read the street signs. It was raining. Black silhouettes against the wetness. People. So many people. Her thoughts spun around. Turned in on themselves. Became little twisted gorges of confusion.

Then a new terror took hold. Where was the driver taking her? Had she given him an address? She didn’t remember doing so. But then she wasn’t remembering much of anything.

She banged on the plastic partition with her fist. What was wrong with him? Why didn’t he hear her? She banged even harder.

“Stop the cab,” she screamed.

“What?” The driver turned to stare at her uncomprehendingly.

“I want to get out. Please. Stop the cab.”

She felt the heavy door slam shut behind her. She was left standing on a dark, narrow street. She was the only person there. A sharp downpouring of rain lashed her. She had no raincoat, no hat, no umbrella. Her throat felt swollen and sore.

She glanced around but couldn’t recognize her surroundings. There was only this nameless street. She grew angry with herself for not having made a more determined effort to ask the driver where she was.

She began to walk. Something drew her forward. Something. Was this really happening? Or would she wake up at the sound of the alarm, squint at the flickering luminescent digits and realize that it was all an incredible dream. She felt like a blind person, at the mercy of others. She had never been so lost.

Forcing herself to keep moving, she watched for a sign, waited for a signal—anything. There was only the heavy downpouring of rain. She passed from street to street, walking along wet sidewalks which failed to reveal any new awareness. If only she could stop, at least momentarily, she might be able to discover where she was. But her legs seemed independent of her body and moved with a will all their own. Faster, she had to move faster. Don’t stop, whatever you do. Just keep walking.

Then, in a quick instant, some tremendous force took hold of her. She shivered. An invisible hand reached out, gently, slipped itself into her palm with such ease, such softness, that she let the tension of the moment flood from her body with the same quickness as the rain that now raced past her in the gutter on its way to the sewer. She no longer found it necessary to fight for direction. She moved forward, gaining more and more permanent mastery over her isolation, her fear, until at last she smiled. A kind of frozen smile that affixed itself to her lips, yet her eyes remained blank.

Still smiling, Chandal Knight no longer saw or felt any sensation that one could call her own. All meaning drained from her actions. No longer was she disrupted by her own inward chatter. The restlessness of dislocation vanished, giving way to a deeper presence of inner peace. Absolute and secure.

They sat on wooden benches organized in rows. Old men and women gathered in the rear third-floor apartment of a totally abandoned brownstone.

Chandal sat in the center of the room and listened to the muted traffic sounds which filtered in from the three narrow windows at the back of the apartment. She grinned. All of them wore the same unearthly smile.

Abruptly the door slammed shut. A rod was passed through two steel hooks across the door frame. A figure in black, the keeper of the door, knelt and bowed her head.

The ceremony was about to begin.

Chandal could feel her heart start to flutter. She felt the blood thumping in her temples. A dazzling flash of light burst across her eyes as the old woman lit the first candle.

A shudder of ectasy stopped midway in Chandal’s throat.

“Darkness is the strongest of all weapons,” the young girl beside her whispered. “A goddess who opens doors and reveals mysteries....”

Standing beside a table draped with thick velvet cloth, the old woman lit the second candle. A crucifix hung upside down above the flames. Christ’s body, twisted in helpless agony, seemed to writhe in the motion of the light.

The young girl laughed, a high-pitched animal sound.

Solemnly, the old woman gave a signal to the musicians. The drummers began a strong, pulsating rhythm, the thin, mournful sound of a flute joined in, and then, almost inaudibly at first, the voices of the singers rose. Women to the left and right of Chandal began to moan. Others jumped to their feet and danced around the room with such speed and exotic patterns of movement that it became impossible to distinguish one dancer from another.

A haze floated above the candles.

In a quick swirl, the old woman turned to face the rest of the room. Her eyes were searing points of light. Her shadow swayed and expanded out across the table and up the wall, bobbing against the cracked plaster of the ceiling. She raised her fists and the dancing ceased. Now her eyes burnt icy-blue in hypnotic brilliance as she turned them upon her worshipers.

She began to speak in a sharp metallic voice, communicating her thoughts in a strange, disconnected language. The others joined in, chanting, wailing at the top of their voices. Phrases were repeated again and again, allowing the energy within the room to accumulate.

For a second the drummers stopped, only to begin a new rhythm. Faster... everything moving faster, louder, the energy building, coming together as if shaping itself into an entity, separate and distinct, with a will all its own.

Chandal was on her feet now. “Take me,” she screamed. “Take me!”

The old woman smiled at her and, stepping closer, began to remove Chandal’s clothing. The chanting continued. Flowers and herbs and oils were brought from the table to the floor. A circle was formed.

After stripping Chandal naked, the old woman led her to the center of the circle, knelt before her, and began rubbing Chandal’s body with ointment. Others kissed her, fondled her breasts. She wailed with ecstasy as the energy of the room rushed into her body, twisting and turning, driving itself deep into her being, like a snake slithering easily under its favorite rock.

What entered her seemed to be familiar, to have such a welcoming seductive nature and sense of belonging that the thrill she felt stunned her with a pleasure she had never dreamed possible.

A low howl issued from her mouth. Her whole body shook violently. Again she heard her own long, howling wail.

Inexorably the ceremony continued. Herbs were eaten, animals slaughtered for the drinking of the blood. Amid the moans and the heaving, Christ was mocked and tormented, the crucifix defecated upon.

Finally the sounds subsided into unchartered darkness. The energy within the room slipped away, its essence spent. The last faint echoes died. All was quiet. Chandal’s glance rested finally on the table. She gazed at the two black candles whose flames flickered weakly. Flickered once again and then went out.

Amsterdam Avenue was deserted as Chandal stepped from the building. The rain had stopped. She paused to listen for a moment. The wind swept down from the overcast sky, pushing the March air through the darkened street, gently caressing her face, murmuring, sighing, still heavy with the scent of lilac. It picked up a discarded piece of newspaper and blew it against her foot. She looked down and smiled. The New York Times. How long had it been since she had seen The New York Times?

Her smile widened. It was good to be home.