him. That he knew for a fact.
He opened his computer, routing himself through several servers until he was confident the originating address would lead to Japan, then pulled up YouTube. The video was gone.
He felt the fury flow through him, the dark angel’s fury. He tapped the keys, searching, then found it again, on a sharing site called Vimeo. He glanced at the comments; they ranged from shock to admiration. He breathed a sigh of relief-the plan had worked. It was going viral, just like he wanted. He looked in a few more places-some had it, some had taken it down. That was fine. People would continue posting it in his stead, until the entire world viewed his masterpiece.
His lips pulled back in a grin and he ran his tongue over his chapped lips. Despite constant exfoliation with a tube of Fane’s Philosophy Kiss Me lip scrub, the black lipstick he liked seemed to eat away the top layer of skin on his lips, leaving them perpetually chapped. His nervous licking didn’t help, he ended up smothering his mouth in Carmex when he wasn’t in public. It was a shame, because he hated looking in the mirror when he wasn’t dressed. The makeup gave him strength, helped him hide. He turned off the desk lamp behind him so he wouldn’t see his reflection in the laptop screen.
He queued the movie, sat back in his chair and watched.
It had taken him and Fane many weeks to make the film. There had been so many little things along the way-the screenwriting course she took at Watkins, the digital film course he’d taken last summer at The Art Institute, the expense of buying the camera and laptop that would allow him to edit the video down into cohesive footage. They’d pooled their money and made the investment-he was sure it would pay off in the long run. Movie Maker ended up being incredibly simple to use. He and Fane had written the script, taken turns filming the shots. It had taken them three weeks to get everything perfect, to shoot, edit the scenes down, storyboard the sections that weren’t flowing right, building the film frame by frame. The music had proved harder than he expected, but once he found Audacity, an online music editor, he was able to get it seamlessly integrated.
Granted, he’d been tinkering with the background music up until yesterday, but that was more an effect thing, deleting out the real names being shouted and dubbing them with the characters’. He had to admit, he’d done a brilliant job. Fane had helped too-they’d gotten so good at the software, so flawless, that when the time had come to load in the actual murder scenes, they were able to do so in less than an hour. Well, an hour and a half- they’d stopped midway through to have wild, unrelenting sex. It was the deepest joining they’d ever experienced, leaving them both breathless and trembling; their hands still covered in the blood of the nonbelievers.
Yes, the production quality was a bit off, shaky in spots, but they were filming horror, after all. The Blair Witch Project was a huge hit and their camera had bounced around through the whole film. It would be fine. Once it was picked up by a studio, a new producer might want to fill in some of the rough spots, but for the most part, Raven felt sure his genius would be appreciated. And he was right. The movie going viral would cement the first part of the plan.
He sat back in his chair. He’d always known he was meant for more. He was meant for much, much more.
Aware of his differences at an early age, Raven had done everything he could to understand himself. Philosophy gave him a respite, the burden of self-actualization allowing him to find out his true motivations. He couldn’t help but think dark thoughts-it was his nature. He couldn’t help being a natural leader-that was his role in the universe. He devoured Sartre and Nietzsche, Jung and Freud. Plato, Aristotle, Socrates. He filled his mind with great works, delved into a study of mythology, found he had a great affinity for the concepts of the pantheon, the polytheistic religions. One God did not fit all, that was readily apparent to him. He stopped watching television and devoured books. He started at the beginning, with Hesiod’s Theogony, and Bullfinch’s Mythology, built from there. His library was extensive. He felt an affinity for the soil, for nature, for the moon and the cycles of the earth, and started openly practicing paganism early in his teens.
Thinking back, he fingered the spine of the Italian witchcraft book he always kept handy on his desk. He felt a true kinship with the Stregheria, the Italian version of Wicca. It was the closest to the Old Ways he could find, the closest to the origins of Mount Olympus, to the beginnings of time. He loved their practice, thought the modern versions of Wicca, the Gardnerian and Alexandrian methods, weren’t nearly as beautiful. He’d never felt it was wrong to believe in the Old Ways, never felt he should have to hide himself from the rest of the world, from the austere gaze of the older witches who practiced in Nashville. He preferred to let everyone know his joy, but the traditional covens wouldn’t accept him. Too young, too controversial. That mattered not a whit-he’d formed his own.
He was an evangelist for the Strega. Two hundred years ago he would have been burned at the stake, crisping to the merry shouts of local villagers, being damned for having prescient moments.
No more. The Strega were powerful, and he was proud to worship in their ways.
It was only natural that his dark path, his nocturnal tradition, his self-initiations strengthening his link to the divine, would show him the path to the Goths. The Gothic lifestyle-the real Gothic lifestyle, not the smearing on of makeup and black clothes because it looked cool-worked through a path of self-awareness, dedicated observation and worship, mourning for the rest of the world as it collapsed into capitalistic greed, an affinity for individual practice. It all spoke to him. He’d found his place at last.
He took the name Raven and became.
That’s when his true awakening began. He was unrelenting in his quest, his Book of Shadows filling with spells and charms, ideas and recipes. The book was a leather-bound journal he’d found at a bookstore, with a rawhide strap that tied it all together. He wound the strap lovingly around the leather, knowing that only he could understand the forces within. The shadows of the spells, the ideas glimmering on the blank parchment, that’s where his true power lay.
He researched, and continued his education. He made himself an expert in spell work, using his lyrical words to change things he wasn’t satisfied with, writing his own versions of the traditional, and not so traditional, calls. He practiced drowsing-reading minds; path work-finding his way among the ancestors, allowing them into his world. He honestly believed that if he were open and willing, the Gods and Goddesses would make themselves known in myriad ways. And they did. Signs of his acceptance into their ways were everywhere.
Divination, ways to predict the future through sophisticated spell work, wasn’t far behind. He began to play with the thoughts of others. He attracted like-minded individuals, eventually settling on the strongest of those-his three, his Immortals. He taught them the Old Ways, and they worshipped him.
The path was righteous and good. The path would lead him to greatness. The path would show him how to become as powerful as the cycles of the earth, as the rising of the moon, as the Goddess Diana.
It began so simply. He planned, and plotted, knowing he needed to spread the word, to recruit. The Immortals were only four now, but their numbers would grow. His very own army, guided by perfect love and perfect trust. Together, they would change the world. Together, they would make all those who treated them with derision and disdain pay for their sins.
He realized the movie had finished playing. He queued it up again, wanting to pay closer attention this time. It was hard to see a work of such magnificence and not get caught up in the story behind it. He wondered if he should write some sort of liner notes, something to explain what their purpose was, where their heads lay. But the letter was enough, for now.
Screams rang out from his laptop, tinny, life being taken as he stood near, feeding on the souls of the despised.
He wondered what would happen if everyone in the world died.
Twenty-One
Quantico June 15, 2004 Baldwin
B aldwin’s conference room was a train wreck. He had the files spread before him, five sets of crime-scene photos, whiteboards full of conjecture. Each seat was taken by someone; the scent of burned coffee lingered in the air. The team was getting tired, wired on caffeine and little sleep, waiting to get the call they all knew would come soon. The call that another girl had been taken.
Never mind the fact that every parent in the tristate area had their kids under lock and key-the Clockwork
