Teri Brown - Born of Deception

I rap lightly on the door and take a deep breath before entering. Nerves whirl in my stomach. At this point, I suspect everyone of colluding with Calypso.

Mr. Price has a book on his desk and I note he closes it when I walk in. “Anna! Sit, sit. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

I take off my wraparound coat and then sit, laying it and my gloves across my knees. “I’m hoping you can give me some information.”

His lips curve and his dark eyes look pleased. “I can’t promise anything, but I will do my best. What sort of information has brought you out so early in the morning?”

“I want to know more about Aleister Crowley and about black magic.”

His response is immediate. He stills, his genial smile disappearing and his wide face becoming impassive. “I know of Mr. Crowley, of course, but what makes you think I have any more information than you could get from the newspaper archives?”

I smile and nod toward his massive bookshelf. “Anyone who has studied the occult knows about Thelema and Aleister Crowley. I know about him and my studies haven’t been nearly as extensive as yours.” I lean forward, my shoulders tense. “It’s incredibly important that I discover as much as I can about him.”

He relaxes but his dark eyes are still watchful. He leans back in his chair and knits his fingers across his chest. “So tell me, Miss Van Housen. What do you wish to know?”

“The newspapers have called him the wickedest man in the world. Is he really evil?” I ask.

“The newspapers exaggerate to sell newspapers. Don’t get me wrong. I believe Aleister Crowley to be the most powerful occultist and warlock in the world, perhaps of all time. His intentions in the beginning were altruistic. He believes in good and evil and has an intimate knowledge of both forces. Unfortunately, he seems to have chosen one over the other.”

“You say in the beginning, what about now?”

Mr. Price shrugs. “Who knows? Time changes a man. Fame changes a man. I can hardly comment on the motivations of a man I haven’t spoken to in nearly ten years.”

I blink. “So you know him personally, then?”

He nods. “Yes, we both belonged to the Order of the Golden Dawn. We both rose through the ranks, or orders, very quickly but have gone in different directions.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he is still involved in the Golden Dawn, but on second thought, I don’t want to know. The less I know about that secretive organization, the better, and it isn’t important for what I need anyway. “How well did you know him? Do you know, for instance, if he has any children?”

“I know he has a daughter named Lola whom I believe lives with her mother. He may have another child now, but you typically don’t discuss your family much with Golden Dawn members.”

So he doesn’t know about Calypso? I study his impassive features for a long moment. Is he telling the truth? I sense no deceit in him at this moment, but the heavy dark power he is infused with makes me doubt what I’m feeling. “So what you’re saying is that most people have nothing to fear from him?”

His eyes narrow and I suddenly feel a deep sense of mistrust coming from him. I understand. I don’t trust him either.

“Typically no,” he says. “I wouldn’t cross him. As I said, he is very powerful. But he doesn’t go around arbitrarily harming people, contrary to the lurid newspaper descriptions of Thelema. He’s been accused of human sacrifice, but I doubt that story. Animal sacrifice, most definitely, but then many of God’s chosen people also sacrificed animals at God’s behest.”

“Are you saying Aleister Crowley is one of God’s chosen people?”

At this Mr. Price throws back his head and laughs. “Certainly not. But who’s to say who God’s chosen people are but God himself? But on the whole, the average person has nothing to fear from Mr. Crowley during a casual meeting. Of course, that said, it must be pointed out that both of his wives went insane and a number of his mistresses have committed suicide.”

My blood chills, thinking of Calypso. Perhaps she herself is in some way a victim of this powerful man. I switch directions. “How badly could a poppet hurt someone?”

His brows arch ever so slightly. “The poppet itself is harmless until it’s in the hands of a skilled practitioner. Anyone can make a poppet with all sorts of intentions, but unless he knows how to activate and manipulate the poppet, the doll is harmless.”

“But in the rights hands it could be . . . ?”

His reply is immediate. “Deadly, if combined with a blood sacrifice.”

I swallow. I have no way of knowing if Calypso has made another poppet yet. I haven’t felt any psychic attacks lately, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe she has been distracted by her guests, or maybe she is just gearing up for something really dangerous. “How would one go about protecting herself?”

“She would have to bind the practitioner’s powers.” He leans forward, warming to his subject. “There are a number of ways to do this. A circle of salt is very effective, though in this day and age, you can’t really keep someone locked in a circle of salt forever. There is also a way to bind someone’s powers with a blood sacrifice, but the exact ritual is quite vague. It’s also said in the ancient texts that witches and warlocks can steal someone’s powers or abilities, but again the texts are vague. As you can imagine, many practices have been lost due to people not wanting to write them down. Magic, black or otherwise, is primarily an oral tradition.”

“That makes sense,” I say. “Rather like a cook not wanting someone to steal her recipes, right?”

He laughs. “Essentially. It was a way of protecting oneself. Bad things generally happened to those women found to be witches. No one wanted to be found with a book of spells. There also are charms and symbols that are protectants.”

“Like the symbols on the door below?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Very astute. Yes, they can’t be touched by someone who practices black magic. It’s not foolproof, of course—there are ways to get around it—but someone would have to know how and even then be very determined. My colleagues are less likely to believe in our need of protection than I am. I feel it prudent to have a protectant wherever I spend a great deal of time.”

Speaking of symbols . . . I tilt my head to one side, considering. Then I snap open my pocketbook and hand him the medallion. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

I watch with interest as his face blanches. “Where did you get this?”

“It was left for me as a gift. Why?”

“You know what it means?”

I nod.

“You have made some interesting enemies since you came here, Miss Van Housen.”

I want to ask if he has many enemies, but he rises abruptly and walks over to one of his shelves. Taking down a large wooden box that looked vaguely medieval, he sets it on the desk and opens it. I try to peer over the hinged top but can’t see from where I am sitting. He rummages through it, his face intent.

I squirm, my curiosity getting the better of me. “What is that? Pandora’s box?”

He regards me over the rim of the cover. “Perhaps.” Pulling something out from the inside and palming it, he closes the lid and replaces the box.

“I have a gift for you,” he says, holding out his hand.

I eye him before hesitantly sticking my own hand out, palm up.

“You’re not a very trusting person, are you, Anna? You’re perhaps the only woman I’ve ever encountered who meets the words ‘I have a gift for you’ with suspicion.” His voice is laced with humor, but his eyes are not. Whatever he is giving me is extremely important, as are the reasons behind the gift.