“We call upon the triple goddess,” Jutting spoke softly, looking up. “Consort of the horned god. Whose name is the plowed field, the three phases of the moon, huntress, mother, witch. We call her in her form as maiden. To consummate the sacred union which births creation. The union of male and female power which opens the gate. Which calls forth and binds the underworld to our will. We call your name. Hecate.”
“Hecate,” the whispered answer came from the men surrounding me.
Jutting intoned the name again and again and the robed figures answered him. It seemed to drone on and on. I was unsteady on my feet, feeling hazy. My vision blurred, doubled, sharpened back to hallucinogenic clarity. A smell like freshly turned earth filled the chapel. Gradually I become aware that a figure in white had emerged from the shadows of the transept. Two black robed companions led her toward the circle, carrying censers from which thick, perfumed smoke snaked in sinuous billows. Her face came into focus, emerging from darkness into the red glow of the candles. It was Victoria Butler. She was dressed in a Greek chiton, tied at the waist with gold cord. Her face was blank, emotionless, but she did not seem to be drugged or entranced. She walked forward under her own power. Once inside the circle, she continued forward on her own. As she reached the altar, Jutting stepped back. Victoria faced him, back to the altar for a moment, then lay back. I saw her shiver as her skin touched the cold stone. Jutting stepped forward. Was he really going to…? It was inconceivable. At first I didn’t believe what I was seeing but Ashna’s joke about naked orgiastic sex rites had not been far off the mark. I stood there, stunned. She was his niece. I considered darting forward, picking the paper from Jutting’s pocket while he was otherwise occupied, and fleeing in the resulting confusion. It was too risky though. I needed a better opportunity.
Without missing a beat, Jutting began to read from the book. His voice was guttural, spitting out each word. The sound was barbarous—a forgotten or made up language of hard consonants and long vowels. My vision filled with holes, black spots dancing in front of my eyes. Colors shifted and separated. A rational corner of my brain wondered if I had been dosed with some kind of psychedelic. Was it possible? I hadn’t consumed anything. I had hurried into the ritual at the last moment. It had to be the concussion. I swayed, unsteady. The air felt hot and close. I needed to stay alert. The droning of Jutting’s voice continued, reaching a crescendo. I focused my eyes on the altar. I saw his hand reach out, feeling across the stone surface until his fingers found and closed around the handle of the knife. Quickly, he raised it in the air. I followed the path of the knife up, watching the blade glint in the light of the lamp, reflecting a multitude of candle flames. Jutting’s face blurred and I thought I saw, superimposed over his features, some other face even cruder and more cruel than Jutting’s, full of cold hauteur and writhing with blood lust. Above that face, spectral horns curling up, shimmering in the darkness. All at once, I understood what was about to happen. I saw Victoria’s eyes go wide with shock. I fumbled for the stun gun in my pocket and ran forward as the knife flashed toward her throat, describing a golden arc. I was too late. I couldn’t get there in time. Someone else lumbered ahead of me though, already rushing the altar, a bulky shape in black. A second blade flashed silver in the dark—a sword that pierced Jutting at the breast bone, running him through, throwing him back. The knife flew from his grasp and he screamed, an unholy, primeval howl ripping through the darkness. I saw him fall and, standing over him, Lester Dworkin like an avenging angel, bloody sword in hand. Someone ran forward and Dworkin turned, swinging the sword wildly. I dodged, knelt at Jutting’s side and thrust my hand into his left pocket, then his right. The paper was there. He looked up at me in confusion, life draining from his eyes. There was a thunder of feet around me and voices yelling. Jutting tried to speak but his mouth filled with blood which bubbled over, running down his face in a red sheet.
“Sorry, Jutting,” I said, reaching under my robe and shoving the paper into my own pocket. “I have to go.”
Chapter 22
The Aftermath
July 6-9: Powick, London, Mid-Atlantic
Leaving Jutting where he lay, I wound my way unsteadily through the pandemonium of robed figures and security guards. A shoulder bumped me hard. Someone fell sprawling in front of me and I jumped reflexively, landed hard, and staggered but kept my feet. The image of an emergency exit door flashed in my mind. It was at the back of the apse. I had seen it during my previous visit. I made my way toward it, dead reckoning through the shadows. The black tapestries covering the windows hung to the floor, blocking and hiding the exit. I parted them, fumbling along the wall, and felt the cool metal of the crash bar on my palm. I hesitated for a moment, taking one last look at the chaotic scene in the chapel before turning away. With the last of my strength, I pushed through the door and bolted across the grounds, adrenalin giving me the energy I
