Scenting Hallowed Blood

Stafford, England

Scenting
Hallowed Blood: Book
Two of The Grigori
Trilogy

© Storm
Constantine 1998

Smashwords edition 2009

This is a work of fiction. All
the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious,
and any resemblance to real people, or events, is purely
coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License
Notes

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All rights
reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions
thereof, in any form.
The right of Storm
Constantine to be identified as the author of this work has been
asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act, 1988.

http://www.stormconstantine.com

Cover Artist: Ruby

Layout: Andy Lowe

An Immanion Press Edition
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Grove, Stafford ST17 9BJ, UK

The landscape of ‘Stalking Tender
Prey’, the first book of this trilogy, was that of the Peak
District of England; a place where tiny, mysterious villages nestle
in ancient moorland and shadowy paranormal beasts are reputed to
roam. Although the village of Little Moor, where most of that story
takes place, was inspired by the quaint hamlets of Derbyshire, I
had no particular one in mind when I wrote the book. But the
locations in the novel you are about to read are more faithful to
the places that inspired them in my imagination. As some readers
have said to me they’d like to visit the places I write about, I
thought this would be the perfect opportunity to give some
directions. Turn left at the crossroads and walk up along the rays
of the moon.

At the end of ‘Stalking Tender
Prey’, the characters moved south, escaping everything that had
happened in the no-longer sleepy village of Little Moor. Near the
beginning of this second book, when you first meet Lily, Shem and
the others again, you will find yourself in a place called the
Moses Assembly Rooms. These are based on a real location in London,
which is often used as a venue for conferences and conventions of
an occult or earth mysteries nature.

Conway Hall, in Red Lion
Square, is very different in appearance to the Moses Assembly
Rooms, being clean, airy and spacious, rather than dark, Gothic and
foreboding, and neither, to my knowledge, do Grigori live in its
upper rooms! But the little square it’s set in, with its central
gardens, and the house across the way where some of the
Pre-Raphaelite painters lived and worked, is a wonderfully
evocative area. It seems cut off from the hubbub of the city, even
though it’s part of the busy West End. This just had to be the
place where Shemyaza and his followers hid out for a while. I’ve
attended Psychic Questing Conferences and a Fellowship of Isis
conference in Conway Hall, and walking along the wide pavement to
its front doors has always inspired my thoughts. I imagine the days
when Jane Morris, the famed wife of William Morris, and model for
many Pre-Raphaelite paintings, alighted from her carriage on this
street and entered the tall, pale stone house, her gown rustling on
the step outside.

In a small side alley off the
square, just to the left as you come out of the Hall, is a cosy pub
called The Dolphin that we always frequent when attending events.
This also makes a brief appearance in the novel, when Lily and
Daniel go out for an evening.

A large part of the story takes
place in Cornwall, on The Lizard Peninsular, which will be the
centre of attention in August this year (1999) as the location
where the full eclipse of the sun will be most visible in England.
(This eclipse actually features in ‘Stealing Sacred Fire’, the
third part of the trilogy, but I very much doubt whether the
bizarre paranormal events that occur in that story will actually
take place, though it would be nice if they did!)

The coastline of The Lizard is
a very magical place, its serpentine cliffs riddled with caves,
while the wild landscape inland is dotted with ancient monuments
and important historical sites. The atmosphere that oozes from the
rocks themselves can affect you profoundly. Cornwall has a
reputation for sending people ‘fey’. You can walk the cliff path
from Pistil Meadow to the head of Azumi, the lion simulacrum in the
rock that plays a significant part in this story. I should point
out that Azumi is the name for this guardian feature that was
picked up psychically by a friend, when she was once working in
Cornwall. Azumi stares out to sea, looking as much like a lion as
if he’s been carved by human hands, complete with eyes and
whiskers. If, in ancient times, as legends suggest, the descendants
of the Watchers did come to these shores and landed at The Lizard,
the first thing they saw would have been the inscrutable leonine
face gazing out at them from the red, green and gold cliffs.
Cornwall abounds with legends of giants, and many of its features
are named after them. Perhaps these are ancient memories of actual
individuals, not of monstrous people, but simply members of a tall
race, who came to these islands from far over the sea. My friend
picked up a rhyme psychically, which seems to be an ancient Cornish
song, remembering the advent of the Watchers:

‘
Winter sun alight the
sea,

brings in a boat for all to
see.

Red, gold and green in colours
bold,

bringing in giant men of
old.

They spilled their blood upon
this land,

Across these coves they drew
their hand.

And every
killie
moved
by thee, turned to colour red, gold and green.’

(We presumed that the word
‘killie’ is an old term for a cove, bay or cliff.)

The Michael Line, which is a
renowned path of natural earth energy that cuts up through England,
begins at St Michael’s Mount off The Lizard. This too has a part to
play in the story. The ancient spiritual English town of
Glastonbury is on the Michael Line, and it is said that the
Glastonbury Zodiac, (otherwise known as the Table of Stars), was
laid down by the ancient giants, magi from a far land. The Zodiac
consists of natural and manmade features that relate to
astrological and equinoctial symbolism. The giants supposedly bound
the secret knowledge of the grail at the centre of the Zodiac,
which would only come to light when the true king, who would be a
descendent of their race, came to power.

I have already explained, in
the introduction to the first book in this series, that the trilogy
came about through my working with earth mysteries investigator,
Andrew Collins, who was researching his non-fiction book on the
fallen angels, called ‘From the Ashes of Angels’. Andy let me use
his research notes to help me construct the background to the
story. Some of his information was inspired, in that it derived
from the visionary work of psychics. This material had no place in
an academic study of the subject, as the majority of people are
very sceptical and scornful of psychic information. However, it was
perfect for fiction, when the writer can say what she likes. Well,
it’s all made up, isn’t it? Andy had many adventures in Cornwall,
and a lot of very strange and wonderful things happened to him and
his team, which would make an absorbing book in itself. I borrowed
from a few of their experiences in constructing this novel. Most of
the story, of course, is completely fiction, but not always the
bits you might expect!

There is reputedly an order of
witches in Cornwall called the Peller. While their name and
existence inspired the creation of the Pelleth for this book, I do
not wish to imply I know anything about the beliefs and practices
of any real Cornish witches. The Pelleth sprang entirely from my
imagination.

I hope that you, via the pages
of this book, will enjoy roaming through the enchanting landscape
of ancient Cornwall as much as I enjoyed writing about it. If you
get the chance, go visit. Sit upon the head of Azumi, explore the
caves at Caerleon Cove, or creep into the camomile grove of Pistil
Meadow, and see what dreams spring into your mind. I guarantee they
will be strange.

Storm Constantine

February 1999

He was little more than a boy, gleaming
in the candle-light like an icon, while the night wind cleared its
throat in the long, narrow chimneys of stone that threaded down
from the cliff-top to the cave. Candles were set at his feet in a
ring; rough wax obelisks, ill-formed as if shaped by hasty hands.
He sat upon a giant’s throne that was as ancient as the land
itself, his body dwarfed within the great stone chair, his toes
just touching the worn rock beneath it. There was an oily smell to
the air, slightly fishy, and the sound of the sea, the eerie lament
of the rising storm, came faint and threatening down the tunnel of
rock that led to the beach.

Outside, white waves would
thrash upon the bleak Cornish shore and the rain come down in
blades.

Symbols of his goddess littered
the floor of the cave, like gnawed bones left by a predator:
bleached and fragile shells; osseous tree branches, sculpted by
wave and sand; the long, alien-looking skeletons of serpents, with
their heads like fishes; the feathers of sea-birds, bedraggled in
damp sand. The youth himself seemed made of shell; delicate and
translucent. His eyes were black, yet his hair was pale, wet and
clinging to his shoulders, snaky tendrils like tiny eels plastered
across his face. He wore only a skirt of feathers and his head bore
a crown of coral.

Beyond the light of the candles
a group of seven women, the inner circle of the Pelleth, stood
robed before the boy. They were breathing quickly, having just
ended a stamping dance of invocation. Echoes of chanting still
vibrated in the folds of the rock walls. Two of the women were old,
their grey hair loose down their backs. Two were voluptuous and
mature, with snakes fashioned from coloured folded paper in their
hair. Two were teenagers, their eyes sly and watchful, while the
other was a girl-child, clad in ragged grey-green lace, into which
tiny shells had been threaded and the skulls of infant vipers.

The women were silent, patient,
and the only sound was that of spitting wax against the dull,
distant roar of sea and storm. For hundreds, if not thousands, of
years the Pelleth had tended the sacred Cornish sites and waited
for the return of the Shining One. Now, they sensed that change was
imminent and consulted their oracle within their holy cave beside
the crashing shore.

Presently, the boy sighed and
shuddered upon the throne. His head jerked back and a word came out
of his mouth in a bubble of foam.

The women glanced at one
another. The word meant nothing, but they dared not ask questions
for fear of breaking the trance.

For some minutes, the boy sat
with his head slumped upon his breast, then he sucked in his breath
sharply and looked up, his dark, colourless eyes focused ahead of
him, on the black maw of the tunnel that led to the sea. The
candle-flames shivered in the brine-soaked wind, which fretted the
grey muslin robes of the women. The boy uttered a keening sound,
and his lips were wet. His head rolled upon his neck, tearing his
salt-sticky hair from his throat and shoulders. The thunder of the
waves outside grew momentarily louder, then abated with a faint
sound of shifting shingle.