Marc Olden - Poe must die

Zimmar, who ruled the north.

Gorson, who ruled the south.

Amayan, who ruled the east.

Goap, who ruled the west.

The dog’s blood was in homage to Hecate, goddess of witches, magicians, and ruler of the world of darkness, who was always accompanied by howling dogs, long considered symbols of death.

By remaining within the circle, Jonathan protected himself from Asmodeus and those demons he might raise but be unable to control. The circle also kept in the magical energy produced during the ritual; being naked allowed Jonathan’s energy and power to flow unobstructed.

Jonathan chanted.

He chanted incantations long forgotten by almost all of mankind, incantations first spoken by the ancient Egyptians, then by the Magi, those priests of old Persia, who served Zoroaster and who gave their name to magic and magicians and who worshipped on tops of mountains, sacrificing to the sun, moon, earth, fire and winds long before and after the birth of Christ.

He chanted incantations from ancient Greece and from the Moors who carried wicca, craft of the wise, from north Africa to western Europe where it became witchcraft.

Jonathan’s body was now totally rigid on the floor as he forced his mind deeper into that world of darkness which had belonged to the universe for as long as time.

Through clenched teeth, he whispered the nine mystic names in words combining Greek and Hebrew: Shaddai, Elohim Tzabaoth, El Adonai Tzabaoth, Eloah V a-Daath, lod, Eheieh, Tetragrammaton Elohim, El, Elohim Gibor.

Suddenly he heard a rush of wind in the closed room, felt its blood-freezing chill sweep across his body and still he lay face down, chanting, chanting, chanting.

Within the room Jonathan heard moans, shrieks from souls lost and still wandering in darkness, souls of men and women desperate to find their way back to this world. They were a danger to Jonathan, for if they could, these souls would enter his body to spare themselves further torment in the world of darkness.

He concentrated with all of his mind, clenched fists vibrating with tension. The moans and shrieks stopped. Jonathan had defeated all attempts to possess him.

Silence.

Jonathan, weak with the strain of performing the ritual, did not leave the circle. He waited. To leave the circle now, was to die. Asmodeus was in the room.

The smell of the demon king was horrible, beyond even the stench of burning human flesh, which Jonathan had smelled before. The odor was paralyzing, unearthly, a burning beyond all burnings and with it came the terrible sounds-the roar of a dragon, of a bull, the raw sound from the throat of a ram and the sound of a man screaming in maniacal rage.

Jonathan, fighting an awesome fear, lifted his head inches from the floor and saw the demon king.

The sight, sound and smell of him lasted brief seconds but it was terrifying. Jonathan trembled, forcing himself not to run, to stay within the protective magic circle.

The demon king filled the room with his image and presence, seeming to be everywhere at once, beside Jonathan, then hovering over him, taunting, threatening, tempting him to leave the magic circle. Asmodeus’ face changed swiftly into different faces, each more terrible than the last and the demon’s three heads blended into one, then separated before blending into one again. Colors surrounding him came and went, shifting from the red of an open wound, to a black that blended purple with blue then became the deepest black once more. For terrible seconds, Jonathan feared he’d lost control, that for the first time he’d raised forces which he could not control. But the demon king did not enter the circle and Jonathan sent his thoughts out to him, telling Asmodeus of the blood sacrifice that was to be his, of the woman and children who would soon die to give Jonathan more time to locate the Throne of Solomon.

Would Asmodeus accept this sacrifice as he had accepted the others?

The dragon roared, the cold wind blew and Asmodeus opened the mouths on his three heads to show teeth glistening with spit and blood.

Then the colors faded and the cold wind disappeared, and the demon king was gone. Asmodeus would accept the sacrifice. Jonathan had bought himself more time. Now there was no chance of him showing mercy to the woman and children; only if they died could Jonathan live.

When Jonathan sensed that the room was empty, he stood and left the circle, stepping near the black candle facing north and into the blood-scrawled name of the demon Zimmar. Later, Jonathan would smile at the thought of demons being beneath his feet.

Rachel Coltman noticed that Eddy Poe was very much the polite and courtly southerner with the beautiful child Dearborn Lapham, who had arrived at Rachel’s Fifth Avenue home this afternoon with Hugh Larney and Miles Standish. The Eddy who was talking to little Dearborn was not the Eddy who used words with bitter precision. This Eddy Poe had the aristocratic charm of the Virginia in which he’d been raised; Rachel delighted in seeing his pleasantries to this lovely child, whom Hugh Larney had introduced as his niece.

Dearborn, in an ankle-length dress of green taffeta, her golden curls reaching to her waist, stirred her tea with a delicate silver spoon gripped between thumb and forefinger, the other three fingers on her right hand pointing up at the ceiling.

“I shall be an actress, you know. One day I shall.”

Poe, sitting across from her, nodded with a half smile. “A laudable profession, Miss Lapham, one in which my mother excelled.”

The child whore looked at him for several seconds. Her smile came after some small reflection, mildly surprising Rachel who found such poise intimidating in a child. Was it Rachel’s imagination or had Miles Standish actually smirked behind his hand when Hugh Larney had introduced Dearborn as his niece?

Dearborn said, “Did your mother love the stage, sir?”

“I am told she did. She died when I was but a child, just days short of my third birthday. Yes, she loved the stage. She performed some two hundred different roles, this in addition to her chorus and singing work.”

“Your parents were travelling players, sir.”

Poe smiled. “I am the son of an actress, Miss Lapham. It is my boast.”

Dearborn sipped tea, gently placing the cup back on the saucer she held in her left hand. “I have never known my parents, sir.”

Hugh Larney, sitting beside her on a small leather sofa near the fireplace, smiled into his half-filled glass of brandy. “She has a Dutch uncle who sees that her hands are never idle. I myself arrange excursions for our little Dearborn which take her far from this teeming metropolis. Why today, she accompanied me to the country where we had a rousing good time, did we not Dearborn?”

The child looked down at her snow wet boots. “Yes sir. We did see some things indeed, sir.”

She looked at Poe. “You are from the South, sir?”

His smile was gentle. “Yes and no. I was born in Boston-”

“That is far north, is it not, sir?”

“Massachusetts. And not too far north. Then I spent some time in Virginia-”

“Oh, I see, sir.”

“Then it was to England where my family and I lived five years.”

“Is England far, sir? Is it near Virginia?”

“No, my dear. It is indeed far, a long way across the ocean.” She reminds me of Sissy, my dearest wife. She has the beauty and gentleness of darling Sissy, and she is around the age Sissy was when we married.

But Dearborn Lapham was a child whore, one seen in the company of Hugh Larney on more than one occasion, one known to belong to Wade Bruenhausen, the blind, bible-reading Dutch procurer. In the child’s company, Poe had noticed the startling resemblance to his wife and first cousin, a resemblance that had overshadowed what he knew of Dearborn’s life. To think of her as a whore was to resent Hugh Larney more than usual, something Poe didn’t want to do this afternoon for Rachel’s sake.