Divine Evil (9 page)

She had to smile. “I'll bet you do.”

“Why don't I take you for a ride on Sunday?”

She considered, polished off the brownie. “Why don't you?”

T
HE COVEN OF THIRTEEN
met at moonrise. Thunder grunted in the distance. In twos and threes they stood, chatting, gossiping, smoking tobacco or marijuana as the ceremonial candles were lit. Black wax softened and pooled. In the pit the fire caught and crackled and began to climb, digging greedy fingers into the dry wood. Hoods shadowed unmasked faces.

The bell was rung. Instantly voices were hushed, cigarettes extinguished. The circle was formed.

In the center the high priest stood, clad in his robe and his goat mask. Though they knew who he was, he never revealed his face during a rite. No one had the nerve to demand it.

He had brought them three whores, knowing they required the release of sex to remain faithful-and silent. But that feasting would wait.

It was a time of baptism and beginnings. Tonight, two members who had proven themselves worthy would be given the mark of Satan. To brand them and bind them.

He began, lifting his arms high for the first invocation.
The wind carried his call, and the power rushed into him like hot breath. The bell, the fire, the chant. The altar was ripe and lush and naked.

“Our Lord, our Master is the One. He is the All. We bring our brothers to Him so that they might be joined. We have taken His name into ourselves and so live as the beasts, rejoicing in the flesh. Behold the gods of the pits.

“Abaddon, the destroyer.

“Fenriz, Son of Loki.

“Euronymous, Prince of Death.”

The flames rose higher. The gong echoed.

Behind the mask, the priest's eyes glittered, reddened by the light of the flames. “I am the Sayer of the Law. Come forth, those who would learn the Law.”

Two figures stepped forward as lightning walked across the sky.

“We do not show our fangs to others. It is Law.” The coven repeated the words, and the bell was rung. “We do not destroy what is ours. It is Law.” The response was chanted.

“We kill with cunning and with purpose, not with anger. It is Law.”

“We worship the One.”

“Satan is the One.”

“His is the palace of Hell.”

“Ave
, Satan.”

“What is His, is ours.”

“Hail to Him.”

“He is what we are.”

“
Ave
, Satan.”

“We shall know, and what we know is ours. There is no path back but death.” “Blessed be.”

The Princes of Hell were called. And smoke billowed.
There was incense to clog and mystify the air. Tainted holy water in a phallic-shaped shaker was dashed around the circle to purify. The hum of voices rose into one ecstatic song.

Again the leader raised his arms, and beneath his robe his heart gloated at the followers′ weakness for imagery. “Cast off your robes and kneel before me, for I am your priest and only through me you will reach Him.”

The initiates cast aside their robes and knelt, sex thrusting, eyes glazed. They had waited twelve months for this night, to belong, to take, and to feast. The altar rubbed her breasts and licked her slick red lips.

The priest, taking a candle from between the altar's thighs, circled the two, passing the flame before their eyes, their manhood, and the soles of their feet.

“This is Satan's flame. You have walked in Hell. The Gates have been flung wide for you, and His beasts rejoice. Hell's fire will make you free. We toll the bell in His name.”

Again the bell rang out, its tone echoing, echoing until there was no sound. All the night creatures were hidden and silent.

“Now your path is set, and you must follow the flame or perish. The blood of those who fail is bright and will guide your steps to the power.”

Turning, the priest reached into a silver bowl and drew out a handful of the graveyard dirt where an infant had rested for a century. He pressed the soil into the soles of the initiates′ feet, sprinkled it over their heads, laid it gently on their tongues.

“Revel in this and stray not. You make your pact tonight with all who have gone before into His light. Seek and be glad as you obey the Law.”

He took up a clear flask filled with holy water and
urine. “Drink of this and ease the thirst. Drink deep of life so that He will shine within you.”

Each man took the flask in turn and swallowed.

“Arise now, Brothers, to receive His mark.”

The men rose, and others came forward to lock the first initiate's arms and legs in place. The ceremonial knife glinted under a full ghost moon.

“In the name of Satan, I mark you.”

The man screamed once as the knife sliced delicately over his left testicle. Blood dripped as he wept.

“You are His, from now and through eternity.”

The coven chanted. “Ave, Satan.”

The second was marked. Drugged wine was given to both.

Their blood stained the knife as the priest lifted the blade high, swaying as he gave thanks to the Dark Lord. As the thunder rumbled closer, his voice rose to a shout.

“Raise your right hand in the Sign and take the oath.”

Shuddering, faces glinting with tears, the men obeyed.

“You accept His pleasures, and His pains. You are returned from death into life by His mark. You have declared yourself a servant of Lucifer, the Bringer of Light. This act is of your own desire and by your own will.”

“By our desire,” the men repeated, in thick, dazed voices. “By our will.”

Taking up the sword, the priest traced an inverted pentagram in the air over each new member's heart.

“Hail, Satan.”

The sacrifice was brought out. A young black goat, not yet weaned. The priest looked at the altar, her legs spread wide, her breasts white and gleaming. She held a black candle in each hand, with another nestled at the juncture of her thighs.

Well paid and comfortably drugged, she smiled at him.

He thought of her as he raked the knife across the kid's neck.

The blood was mixed with the wine, then drunk. When he cast aside his robe, the silver medallion glinted against his sweaty chest. He mounted the altar himself, raking his stained hands down her breasts and torso while he imagined his fingers were talons.

As his seed spilled into her, he dreamed of killing again.

Clare woke in a cold sweat, her breath heaving, her face drenched with tears. Reaching out for the light, she found only empty space. There was one frozen instant of panic before she remembered where she was. Steadying herself, she climbed out of her sleeping bag. She counted her steps to the wall, then flicked on the overhead light and stood shivering.

She should have expected the dream to come again. After all, the first time she'd had it had been in this very room. But it was worse this time. Worse, because it had melded into the dream memory of the night she found her father sprawled on the flagstone patio.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and leaned back against the wall until both images faded. In the distance she heard a rooster heralding the new morning. Like dreams, fears faded with sunlight. Calmer, she stripped off the basketball jersey she had slept in and went to shower.

Over the next hour, she worked with more passion, more energy than she had felt in weeks. With steel and brass and flame, she began to create her own nightmare image in three dimensions. To create and to exorcise.

She puddled the metal, laying an even bead to fuse mass to mass. Controlling the motion with her shoulder
muscles, she gave in to the rhythm. As moment by painstaking moment the form took shape, she felt the emotion of it, the power of it. But her hands did not shake. In her work there was rarely any need to remind herself of patience or caution. It was second nature to her to raise the torch from the work for a few moments when the metal became too hot. Always she watched the color and consistency of the metal, even as that freer part of her, her imagination, swam faster.

Behind her dark-lensed goggles, her eyes were intense, as if she were hypnotized. Sparks showered as she cut and layered and built.

By noon, she had worked for six hours without a rest, and her mind and arms were exhausted. After turning off her tanks, she set her torch aside. There was sweat skating down her back, but she ignored it, staring at the figure she'd created while she stripped off gloves, goggles, skullcap.

Cautiously she circled it, studying it from all sides, all angles. It was three feet in height, coldly black, apparently seamless. It had come from her deepest and most confused fears-an unmistakably human form with a head that was anything but human. The hint of horns, a snarl for a mouth. While the human part seemed to be bent over in supplication, the head was thrown back in triumph.

It gave her a chill to study it. A chill of both fear and pride.

It was good, she thought as she pressed a hand to her mouth. It was really good. For reasons she didn't understand, she sat on the concrete floor and wept.

Alice Crampton had lived in Emmitsboro all her life. She'd been out of state twice, once for a reckless weekend
in Virginia Beach with Marshall Wickers right after he'd joined the navy and once for a week in New Jersey when she'd visited her cousin, Sheila, who had married an optometrist. Other than that, she'd spent nearly every day of her life in the town where she'd been born.

Sometimes she resented it. But mostly, she didn't think about it. Her dream was to save enough money to move to some big, anonymous city where the customers were strangers who tipped big. For now, she served coffee and country ham sandwiches to people she'd known all her life and who rarely gave her a tip at all.

She was a wide-hipped, full-breasted woman who filled out her pink and white uniform in a way the male clientele appreciated. Some, like Less Gladhill, might leer and gawk, but no one would have tried for a pinch. She went to church every Sunday and guarded the virtue she felt Marshall Wickers had trampled on.

No one had to tell her to keep the counters clean or to laugh at a customer's jokes. She was a good, conscientious waitress with tireless feet and an unshakable memory. If you ordered your burger rare once, you wouldn't have to remind her of it on your next visit to Martha's.

Alice Crampton didn't think about waitressing as a bridge to another, more sophisticated career. She liked what she did, if she didn't always like where she did it.

In the reflection of the big coffeepot, she tidied her frizzed blond hair and wondered if she could manage a trip to Betty's Shop of Beauty the following week.

The order for table four came up, and she hefted her tray, carting it across the diner to the voice of Tammy Wynette.

When Clare walked into Martha's, the place was hopping, just as she remembered it from hundreds of Saturday afternoons. She could smell the fried onions, the hamburger
grease, someone's florid perfume, and good, hot coffee.

The jukebox was the same one that had been in place more than ten years before. As Wynette entreated womenkind to stand by their men, Clare figured its selections hadn't changed, either. There was the clatter of flatware and the din of voices no one bothered to lower. Feeling just fine, she took a seat at the counter and opened the plastic menu.

“Yes, ma'am, what can I get you?”

She lowered the menu, then dropped it. “Alice? Alice, it's Clare.”

Alice's polite smile opened to a wide
O
of astonishment. “Clare Kimball! I heard you were back. You look great. Oh, gosh, just great.”

“It's so good to see you.” Clare was already gripping Alice's hard, capable hands in hers. “God, we have to talk. I want to know how you are, what you've been doing. Everything.”

“I'm fine. And this is it.” She laughed and gave Claire's hands a squeeze before releasing them. “What can I get you? You want coffee? We don't have any of that ex-presso stuff they drink in New York.”

“I want a burger with everything, the greasiest fries you can come up with, and a chocolate shake.”

“Your stomach hasn't changed. Hold on, let me put the order in.” She called it back, picked up another order. “By the time Frank's finished burning the meat, I can take a break,” she said, then scurried off.

Clare watched her serve, pour coffee, scribble down orders, and ring up bills. Fifteen minutes later, Clare had a plate of food and a well of admiration.

“Christ, you're really good at this.” She doused her fries with catsup as Alice sat on the stool beside her.

“Well, everybody's got to be good at something.” Alice smiled, wishing she'd had time to freshen her lipstick and brush her hair. “I saw you on
Entertainment Tonight
, at that show you had in New York with all those statues. You looked so glamorous.”

Clare gave a snort and licked catsup from her finger. “Yep, that's me.”

“They said you were the artist of the nineties. That your work was bold and…innovative.”

“They say innovative when they don't understand it.” She bit into the burger and closed her eyes. “Oh. Yes. Oh, yes.
This
is truly innovative. God, I bet it's just loaded with steroids. Martha's burgers.” She took a second sloppy bite. “I dreamed about Martha's burgers. And they haven't changed.”

“Nothing much does around here.”

“I walked up from the house, just to look at everything.” Clare pushed back her choppy bangs. “It probably sounds silly, but I didn't know how much I'd missed it until I saw it all again. I saw Mr. Roody's truck outside Clyde's Tavern, and the azaleas in front of the library. But, Jesus, Alice, you've got a video store now, and the pizza parlor delivers. And Bud Hewitt. I swear I saw Bud Hewitt drive by in the sheriff's car.”

Tickled, Alice laughed. “Maybe a couple things have changed. Bud's a deputy now. Mitzi Hines-you remember, she was a year ahead of us in school? She married one of the Hawbaker boys, and they opened that video place. Doing real well, too. Got them a brick house off of Sider's Alley, a new car, and two babies.”

“How about you? How's your family?”

“Okay. Drive me crazy half the time. Lynette got married and moved up to Williamsport. Pop talks about retiring, but he won't.”

“How could he? It wouldn't be Emmitsboro without Doc Crampton.”