Procuring the bones of corpses hundreds of more years old, or even a thousand, seemed quite feasible. There was no limit to the sights he could behold.
And who knew? He might even bring the Bridle with him…
««—»»
In the wee hours, Fanshawe went to the baby’s two-thousand-square-foot suite and told the guard and night nannies to take a short break. Much gold, chalcedony, and jasper decorated the suite, along with fineries that would stagger the most indulgent sultan. Above, great skylights of nearly indestructible Lexan commanded the beauty and sheer vastness of the universe. This is what Fanshawe wanted his son to see whenever he might awaken at night.
His footsteps made no sound as he walked the black-carpeted straightaway toward his son’s bassinet. He’d had the bassinet custom-crafted by some of the best sculptors in the country. It was a fabulous, shining basin carved of unflawed onyx: the color of the abyss, of Lucifer’s smile, and of the hearts of the faithful. Ribbons of labyrinthine carvings weaved about its outer surface, recalling not only the inscriptions of the Bridle, but the most paramount ancient blessings of evil, unholy formulae, and every variation of the Benefactor’s name in every language known.
Fanshawe’s lower lip quivered when he peered down at his sleeping scion.
“The world is full of secrets, son,” he uttered, “and for some people, those secrets are power. What you’ll learn soon enough is that faith and a willingness to understand is the key to
Overhead the stars seemed to shift in the skylights. Fanshawe listened with great intent to the silence.
Through his mind, Letitia Rhodes’ words seemed to slither:
Ms. Rhodes’ “feeling” was on the mark.
As Fanshawe gazed in wonderment at his slumbering son, his heart had never felt blacker, nor more splendorous. Wraxall had indeed shared the Two Secrets with him during their unfathomable meeting. “Ye first secret be as thus: if one black of heart shalt gulp blood of his own child, and if he shalt disentomb ye corpse of a witch’s babe died untimely, and shouldst he then burn that heart to ash and let those ashes be put in ye Bridle, then, ye necromancer shalt be enabled to project himself into
Hence, the payment that Fanshawe owed, which was…
Of course, Fanshawe had named the child Jacob Wraxall Fanshawe. Abbie had raised quite an objection, but when Fanshawe dropped a sack of coke in her lap, those objections had ceased without another word.
He smiled at the tiny form swaddled in raven-black linen. It slept in a state of peace that could only be called consummate.
“Goodnight, son,” Fanshawe whispered, turned, and left.
—
AUTHOR BIO: Edward Lee is the author of almost fifty novels and numerous short stories and novellas (or is it novellae? Hmm.) Several of his properties have been optioned for film, while HEADER was released on DVD in 2009; also, he has been published in Germany, England, Romania, Greece, and Austria. Recent releases include
