In the center of the former Grand Salon, directly beneath the painted-over archangel fresco, five mature women gathered for a rite of sanction. The fresco’s central orb survived, incorporated into a scepter held by one of several court jesters that now frolicked across the ceiling of the so-called Throne Room. The women stood in a circle, linked by arms around each other’s shoulders, heads bowed. Margaret led the invocation.
“Glorious goddess, Divine Mother of all Nature, protect and guide our sister through the challenges which lie ahead, and grant her the courage to accomplish the mission which has been pre-ordained. Empower her through your grace to defend this place so vital to spirits and their transmigration. Give her the strength and the resolve she seeks to enable their afterlife journeys and her own, in the name of Your Love and Light.”
“Amen,” they said in unison.
In the ensuing moment of silence, the historian thought back to the morning of the vernal equinox in the very room where they now stood, the rays of the rising sun shining directly upon the Grand Entrance, the liquid light emanating from the glowing headpiece of the Dominion’s scepter and coalescing around her. She marveled again at all that had been set into motion by men with a secret knowledge of the cosmos and an ancient respect for phenomena beyond explanation. She knew without question that the Griffins Keep truly was a sacred place, created to bridge the straits between planes of reality. The elements in play for more than a century were now seriously threatened, and, for reasons she might never understand, it fell to her to preserve the sanctuary.
This was right.
She was ready.
Breaking the physical connection to the others, she raised an arm above her head, open palm outward.
“Crone power!” she cried with a new bravado.
“Crone power!” the others echoed. Maureen and Molly and Rosslyn each grinned and slapped her palm with their own, high-five style. Margaret followed suite, though she couldn’t quite manage a smile.
“You got it, girl,” she said. “Show these bastards what they’re messing with when they mess with the Griffins Keep.”
“Protest the Prostitution of Denver’s Great Lady” read the placards carried by members of the Denver Women’s Press Club, the Past Timers, and like-minded compatriots as they paraded back and forth outside the Carson Street entrance. “Boycott the Griffins Keep!”
The adamant protesters hindered but could not block representatives of city government, the Chamber of Commerce, Downtown Denver Partnership, and sundry media reps arriving to cover the unveiling of the much anticipated new hotel lobby feature. Press releases had promised: “Moments after the artesian well water supply to the old Griffins Fountain is shut off forever, TITHE leadership will unveil a specially commissioned sculpture and wave pool in the atrium lobby. The life-sized statue, by a renowned Loveland sculptor, honors Chad Tagawa’s spirit of adventure and entrepreneurial innovation.”
The new wave pool, a bit nearer the front desk than the Griffin Fountain, had taken three weeks to install. The sculpture had been kept under wraps – literally – since its arrival and installation just a few days earlier. Rumor had it that the piece depicted the TITHE founder on a surfboard. It had, of course, nothing to do with the medieval castle theme the new Keep was going for. It had everything to do with Chad’s ego.
A popular Beach Boys tribute band was on hand for the high-profile occasion. AV crews installed large screens in two corners of the lobby at third-floor level to provide enhanced views of the proceedings to all. They checked the sound. The pseudo-Beach Boys kicked in. And the local power brokers and boosters streamed inside.
On the seventh-floor balcony, Rebecca Bridger prepared to play the role predestined for her decades before. She was dressed in all vintage black, as if for a ghost tour. The myotrageous Balearicus horn, suspended on a golden chain, dangled between her breasts. Thrust into the back elastic waistband of her skirt and concealed beneath her taffeta peplum jacket, the bronze sword of the third griffin awaited its call to action.
When the band took a break about 20 minutes later, the podium microphone crackled to life.
“Welcome, everyone, to a historic day at the Griffins Keep. I’m Stan Tagawa, CEO of Tagawa International Theatres, Hotels, and Entertainment. And it is my great pleasure to introduce my nephew, the founder of TITHE, Chad Tagawa.”
“Hey, everybody!” Chad shouted out. “Make sure you help yourselves to beer and mojitos at the bar here by the Grand Staircase. And we’ve got awesome munchies being passed by some of our Keepettes. How great are they in their serving wench outfits? This is just a taste of how fun and accessible the stuffy old Griffins Keep is becoming as the newest TITHE property. We’re really proud of the transformation we’ve already accomplished, and we promise there’re more big changes on the way. Be sure to scope out these architects’ renderings of the new Royal Tower, coming soon.”
Flashes flashed. TV cameras panned the scene. Chad returned the mic to his uncle.
“Of all the TITHE properties Chad has acquired throughout the world over the past 15 years, the Griffins Keep is without a doubt the most impressive. That’s why we’ve chosen it as the spot for this statue, fittingly honoring Chad, his free-spirited lifestyle, and his mega-success. We’ve chosen today – June 21, the summer solstice – because, as a surfer, Chad has always followed the sun. But before we unveil the sculpture, it’s time to say good-bye to a remnant of The Keep’s old glory days, the Griffin Fountain.”
Unexpectedly, several attendees booed.
“Now, now,” Stan said, raising his hand to silence objections. “I know the crusty old relic was beloved by generations of Keep visitors. Many of you may have even tossed a wishing coin or two into it. But it’s an archaic reminder of a former time, a time when the Griffins Keep was off-limits to all but the privileged elite. TITHE properties are family friendly properties, affordable accommodations and entertainment for average travelers. Our new branding calls for a new focus. I’m going to turn it over now to The Keep’s general manager, Mickey Branson.”
Branson stepped up and took the mic. “Let me just add my own welcome to all of you who’ve taken the time out of your busy day to help us usher in a new era for a Denver icon. As you may know, the Griffin Fountain has been fed since the hotel opened by The Keep’s own artesian well, more than 700 feet beneath us. Great bit of trivia. But maintaining our own water company in this day and age makes no sense, practically or economically. We’re proud to partner with Denver Water from this day forward to supply all the hotel’s water needs. Denver Water reps, where are you? John, Bill – great to have you guys here today. And to symbolize this historic shift, we’re kicking off the unveiling by shutting off this fossil of a fountain.”
In the hotel basement, Lochlan answered his radio page. “OK, MacKenzie. Close ‘er off in 10.”
“Copy that.” Lochlam counted backwards. 5, 4, 3, 2…1. With effort, he cranked the steel wheel that sealed off the flow of water from the artesian well to the fountain. The last remaining channel from the spiritual portal was blocked. None could enter or depart.
Lochlan drew a deep breath and blew it out, “It’s up to you now, Rebecca,” he said.
Above him in the lobby, Mickey Branson declared, “Out with the old!” The Griffin Fountain spluttered and burbled its last. If he expected applause, he was disappointed.
“And in with the new!” Yanking the cord that held the sculpture drape, Branson revealed the bronze statue of a surfer on his board, knees bent, arms outstretched for balance, long hair blown back. It probably resembled Chad 20 years and 50 pounds ago. A mechanism below the turquoise-tinted pool at the base began to undulate, creating waves that splashed against one side before disappearing to be recirculated.
The crowd politely golf-clapped.
“An awesome monument to an awesome dude,” Branson proclaimed, draping an arm around Chad’s shoulders. “May it inspire visitors to the Griffins Keep for the next century.”
“Thank you, Mickey. I’ve gotta say it’s pretty cool,” Chad said, beaming. “And thank you all again for coming. We hope you’ll stick around for more brews and snacks on the house. Be sure to pick up your souvenir miniature of my statue from the kiosk by the bar – Just $19.95!”
“Mr. Branson!” a reporter from Westword called out. “Can you tell us what’s going to happen to the old fountain?”
The GM hadn’t invited questions. Wasn’t prepared. “Well now, we haven’t really thought about that. I suppose we could auction it off, like we did with the other artifacts a few months ago. Why, do you want it?” He laughed. The reporter didn’t.
“Can you make wishes in the wave pool?” another reporter inquired.
“No need!” Branson replied cheerily. “Here at the new Griffins Keep, we make all your wishes come true! And right now, I’ll bet I’m not the only one wishing to hear more tune-age from the Beach Boyz. How ‘bout it, guys?”
With that, the band kicked in, effectively shutting down any more questions from the media.
High above it all, Rebecca closed her eyes and began the Kabalah chant Rosslyn had taught her to summon the spirits of the Templar Knights. The horn talisman grew warm against her skin. She felt their presence. Electrifying. Empowering. The Good Sir Knights could not physically act to preserve the place they protected. But she could.
She was the conduit, the conductor, channeling their powers in defense of The Keep. Rebecca opened her eyes, clutched the balcony railing in the center of the triangular building’s hypotenuse, and cast her gaze upward to the skylight, where midday solstice sunrays were endlessly refracted by the stained-glass patterns. She set her sight on the center of the ceiling and focused fiercely.
Like Pete’s silver teaspoon, the supportive steel framework below the skylight began to vibrate. Almost imperceptible at first, it quickly increased in modulation, creating a harmonic resonance that would have been heard by those below had the band been less amplified.
A few who felt the disturbing vibrations looked up. Rebecca couldn’t think about potential collateral damage in the lobby below. She concentrated completely on the support beams. The vibrations intensified. The supports shuddered. Within moments, they would give way.
Now. The command emanated from ancient voices inside her head. Rebecca pulled the third Griffin’s sword from her waistband and pointed it dead center.
She did not imagine the stream of sparks that shot from the sword tip. The shock of it knocked her backwards into the wall and off her feet. She dropped the sword and watched as what happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion.
The heavy winch detached. It plummeted 100 feet to the lobby below. The statue of Chad Tagawa was decapitated. Chad himself and the uncle who stood beside him in self-congratulatory satisfaction were crushed beneath the huge iron hoist.
Pandemonium ensued, as shards of broken skylight showered down upon the panicked guests. In the blind rush for the two lobby exits, a woman with a walker fell and was nearly trampled.
The fire alarms sounded. Lochlan, Maureen, Rosslyn, Margaret and Molly herded people to safety, making sure everyone got out before the next stage of the retribution.
Rebecca struggled to stand as the Knights’ spirits surged within her. The horn suspended over her heart grew almost too hot to bear. Their collective energy was astonishing, intoxicating. She imagined for a moment she could fly were she to leap from the railing. She looked down upon the lobby chaos with detached curiosity and surreal calm.
“Ladies and gentleman!” Mickey Branson’s voice came over the rarely used hotel-wide public address system. “Don’t panic,” he said, barely managing to suppress the panic in his own breast. “We seem to be experiencing some sort of earth tremor. Please make your way to the nearest exit quickly and calmly. Do not attempt to use the elevators. Take the Grand Staircase or the service stairs inside the walls opposite the public elevators. Emergency personnel are on their way.”
Guestroom doors flew open to the hallways. Frightened people, visitors and staff, hurried to obey Branson’s directions and evacuate the premises. No one on the seventh floor stopped to question the small woman in black, making her way not toward the stairs, but rather toward a predesignated spot on the balcony. Ten panels right of one corner post. Thirteen panels left of the other. She positioned herself deliberately behind the inverted balcony panel and turned toward the corner high above the concierge desk.
For the first time she saw what the mediums had described. Incredibly bright, constantly swirling, and pulsing with the same harmonic resonance as the building’s steel frame. Numberless entities. Shining power. Elemental and ethereal. The Keep’s essence. Given form with stone and iron, consecrated by bone and blood. Empowered by sacred geometry, golden treasure, solstice sunlight, and – until minutes ago – subterranean waters.
This sanctuary shall not be defiled. She fell to her knees before the blazing phenomena, grasped the handle of the third Griffin’s sword with both hands and thrust it aloft.
“Make of me your instrument!” The strange phrasing came naturally form somewhere deep in her subconscious.
A bolt of blinding light flashed from the guardian multitude and set the sword ablaze with heatless flame. Emboldened, Rebecca stood and aimed the blade at the mezzanine balcony far below. Lightning burst from its tip, and the sigil-smattered carpet caught fire. Within seconds, the black lacquered walls were consumed. Spectral spiritual sparks within the flames evinced the complicity of the hotel’s ghosts. Their purge was begun.
Still clutching the handle with both hands, Rebecca swung the blazing sword in a wide arc around the atrium mezzanine, then up to the third floor, continuing the broad sweeps, level by level, to the sixth floor.
Two paper mache griffins suspended in midair combusted phoenix-like, ashes in an instant. Huge sections of the skylight directly above had given way with the winch, exposing glimpses of the glass-bricked top floor through shard-rimmed gaps. Directing her weapon first below, then through the openings, she sparked the devastation of the executive suites on 8 and 9, until the only floor not ablaze was the one on which she stood.
Continuing vibrations of the metal framework spawned an unearthly symphony that swelled throughout the structure, resonating beyond the sirens and the screams. The steel skeleton sang as flames danced from room to room, obliterating all contents. In an instant, Rebecca saw them feeding the blaze, the spirits of the Griffins Keep. They morphed and melded, focused and faded, flashed and flickered out, reclaiming their sanctuary.
What seemed like forever was essentially over in less than 9 minutes.
The flames that had engulfed the sword suddenly spluttered out. The vibrations stopped. The Knights’ spirits abandoned their temporary vessel and returned to their rounds. Rebecca collapsed, exhausted, on the balcony floor.
Suffocating smoke billowed throughout the Griffins Keep atrium. The door of the guestroom directly behind Rebecca burst open and a fresh breeze blew through its broken windows to clear the air. With impressive efficiency, the Keep’s thirteen ventilation shafts worked to remove the smoke not sucked through the broken skylight, which acted as a central chimney. A shaft of sunlight beamed through a space in the remaining stained glass and fell directly onto the silenced Griffin Fountain.
EMTs loaded the Tagawas’ bodies onto stretchers and hustled them out of the building, kicking the severed statue head out of the way. Other than Rebecca, only a handful of firefighters remained to witness the finale.
The fountain gushed back to life, shooting water six stories into the air. Glorious sprays and droplets glittered like diamonds in the sunbeam.
From the fountain’s center urn, something other than water began to bubble.
Glowing globes.
Shimmering energies.
Orbs.
Are they visible to anyone else?
The bright, translucent baubles began to spin around the Griffin geyser in a mesmerizing double-helix pattern, rising upward. Like flocks of birds, they reeled in perfect synchronization, the first of them rising to make room for more emerging from the fountain’s depths. And more. And more.
Below the fragmented skylight, the initial wave of orbs spread out at the seventh-floor level. Soon a second wave hovered below that. The orbs drifted in shifting planes like the mass ascension of hot air balloons in a box formation. Hundreds of them. Layer upon layer. A few darted about the atrium like ecstatic fireflies. The joy, the relief, and the gratitude emanating from the entities washed through her.
Rebecca understood somehow that they were all there – Harrison Griffin, Edward Brookings, Sybil Thorne, Collier Lockhart, Marjory Crispin, Charlotte Woods, Max Barnes, and numberless other spirits -- some tied to The Keep, some just passing through.
The fountain’s eruption suddenly dropped to a burble. The orbs throughout the atrium wavered in anticipation.
Time hit Pause.
Weakened but strangely euphoric, Rebecca dragged herself across the balcony floor to grasp a filigreed iron panel and peer down upon the scene below. A new wave of orbs began to arise from the point where the copper griffins’ wingtips touched above the urn. These moved more deliberately, shone more brilliantly than the others. Indigo. Irridescent. She watched in wonder as they rotated faster and faster.
They’re coming for me. The breeze that had dispersed the smoke had no effect on their trajectory. I know them. I’ve always known them.
Lochlan rushed into the now deserted lobby with Maureen and frantically scanned the topmost open floor.
“Can you see her? What’s happening?” he demanded of the psychic.
Mo found she was incapable of answering as she watched the whirling orbs ascend to the seventh floor where they lifted a small, limp figure dressed in black from the balcony. Surrounding the form like a swirling funnel, they enveloped it in light.
A cry of elation. A flash of transmutation. The dark garment bundle dropped back to the floor beside a charred bronze sword. Riding the ray of solstice sunlight through the fractured glass ceiling, the deep blue orbs vanished, their host increased by one.