Shadows and Spirits

Chapter 9-2

I have also read of Crowley"s ritual, the Knowledge and Conversation with the Holy Guardian Angel, which takes six months and is supposed to be the first step taken into truly becoming a Magus. Crowley"s version has its roots in some of the oldest magic books, such as the Seal of Solomon and The Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage. Since it concerns a literal conversation with an angel and the consequent focusing of this guardian"s power with one"s own Will it certainly sounds like a similar union.I realise that I desire to undertake this journey, to unite my higher spiritual self with my earth bound mind and flesh.

I realise that I desire to undertake this journey, to unite my higher spiritual self with my earth bound mind and flesh.This still sounded like a load of insane bollocks, but he could accept that becoming a Nephilim was just a phrase representing this change. It seemed just as likely as finding Nirvana or any other so called spiritual enlightenment. Really it was just a psychological effect, at best, insanity at worst. What had Kate gotten herself into? She could be rash and a little ditzy at times, but was usually a rational person. It began to seem a lot had happened to her since they last spoke. McEwan began to be afraid that she had changed too much from the woman he knew.

He turned down onto the A81, before turning right towards Milton of Campsie. McEwan followed the road carefully, looking for the final turning. A deep forest grew up and flanked the road, pine trees interspersed with deciduous. The turning appeared out of nowhere; unmarked and unlit. He almost missed it. Yanking the wheel sharply, he skeetered onto a dirt road. Hoping his suspension wouldn"t give out on him, he negotiated the potholes and was surprised to find the road was cobbled after about a quarter of a mile. The trees towered over him, cutting off the light; heavy winter snows had bent the boughs. His headlamps, on full beam, barely pierced their depths. He expected to hear a howling, followed by a wolf pack bursting from the trees in front of him. Nothing so dramatic happened, until he cleared a bend and saw ahead of him a Jacobean castle, a narrow square tower thrusting into the sky. There were no sprawling ramparts and battlements that he usually associated with castles. Nonetheless, impressive stone lions flanked the entrance doors. Pale, golden light spilled out of an upper window, like Rapunzel"s hair cast down for her prince.

As McEwan clambered from his car, the damp, pine-scented air catching in the back of his throat, Helen emerged from the main doorway, surrounded by the golden light streaming from the house. He was surprised that she had arrived here before him, but thought it likely she knew some more direct route than his map had given him.

“Hello again, The Mistress is expecting you. Please follow me,” Helen said, and turned and went inside.

“How did you get here so quickly?” McEwan said.

“I know a few shortcuts,” Helen said, with a slight smile.

“How long has the castle been here?”

“I"m not sure. Since the seventeen hundreds, I think. The Mistress will know. May I have the map please?” Helen"s pale hand stretched out, palm up.

“Sure,” said McEwan, handing the folded paper back.

The hallway was like an ornate Victorian gentleman"s study. It was lined with dark wooden panels and covered with swords arranged into huge star shapes, points in the centre, and basket hilts on the outside. Sometimes a shield sat in the centre, covering the blades. Here and there, a gilt edged portrait of some minor noble looked down upon him. Helen led McEwan towards the large sweeping staircase that curved round and up to the first floor. Thick carpet, such a dark red it was almost black, was held in place by shiny brass stair-rods. Rising up the stairs in Helen"s wake, McEwan passed a huge banner of blue silk with a silver crescent in its centre. According to a small plaque, the banner once belonged to Clan Douglas. The landing was dark, except for the light shining out of an open doorway.

“Please come in, Mr McEwan,” a voice said with a heavy French accent.

It appeared to come from the open room ahead, which Helen was now indicating for him to enter. He dutifully did so, the bright light dazzling him after the dark hall outside. A redheaded woman, wearing a long black dress, probably in her mid twenties, sat in a large, leather wingback chair beside a small fire. She held a book of Keats" poetry, which she closed carefully and put down on the small table beside her.

“Good evening to you. I am the mistress of the house. If you have need of refreshment then please ask and Helen will bring it to you. Please, sit,” she said in flawless English, while indicating the wingback chairs that faced hers.

“Hello, Ms, erm?” said McEwan, choosing the chair nearest to the fire. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was sitting with royalty; something about this woman"s tone and bearing made her seem older and more confident than he had expected, given her appearance. He felt a palpable sense of authority from her and yet a serenity too. This woman commanded all she surveyed, whether in her own demesne or elsewhere.

“It is irregular that I meet people without first seeking them out,” The Mistress stated, looking into the flames.

“I"m sorry to use such unorthodox methods. Please don"t blame the people who helped me, but it is concerning quite an urgent matter.” McEwan hoped he would not be dismissed as Kate"s journal said she had been. He didn"t have anything else to go on right now.

“What would that be, Mr McEwan?” The Mistress turned her head away from the fire.

McEwan felt the pressure of her gaze. Her eyes were a deep blue and he felt their cold interest dissect him like a pathologist would a corpse; the meat was almost irrelevant to the answers hidden deeper within. “As you may know, I have been investigating a series of murders. I believe we have found the killer, but he has also been murdered. I have reason to believe that a woman named Kate Harlow may be in danger from this second killer.”

“Correct me if I"m wrong, but these days it isn"t normal for a case to be pursued without someone paying the consultancy to do so. You have surely won the reward from the grateful families and the press? No one other than an un-mourned murderer lies dead. Why persist?”

“The killer may not have been found after all. Also, I don"t wish to find myself hunting a copy-cat killer in a few months, with more people dead,” said McEwan, feeling distinctly uncomfortable under her stare.

“How very altruistic of you,” The Mistress said. “However, I don"t think you have quite told me everything, Mr McEwan.”

Her eyes looked straight into McEwan"s. He found himself trapped like the proverbial rabbit in the lights of the oncoming truck. He felt the pressure increase and a small pain began to spread from the base of his skull into the surrounding muscle. “That"s all there is to it,” McEwan said with great difficulty.

“Really? I don"t think you"re being completely honest with either of us,” said The Mistress. The pain increased again. His eyes felt like hot pins where poking out from the back of his eyeballs.

“Kate was a woman I loved,” McEwan blurted out, the pressure lifted. As the pain in his head died, the pain in his heart grew, as he was forced to relive buried feelings. “Assuming this is the same Kate…” He wanted to turn away, to hide his sorrow and loss, but he was still impaled under The Mistress" gaze.

“Mr McEwan have you considered that it may be too late for Ms Harlow. That the killer you seek has already destroyed her. That, maybe, she is in fact the second murderer herself?”

McEwan"s mind was still foggy, he tried to think straight, but the pain hadn"t fully gone. “No, I hadn"t. The Kate I knew wasn"t capable of such a thing.” McEwan had begun to wonder what he did know about Kate. Her journal entries seemed like insanity.

“Mr McEwan, in my experience, everyone is capable of murder. Ms Harlow came looking for me to help her. What you may not be so aware of is that she had undergone an operation, a journey, which transformed her. She meddled in something she was not wholly prepared for. The result left her somewhat unbalanced and so she sought me out.” The Mistress still regarded him intently, as if weighing his responses.

“She had succeeded in becoming a Nephilim?” said McEwan.

“Ah, so you do know. That was her frame of reference for this change. Yes, she succeeded.”

“In what way was she unbalanced?” McEwan both needed to know and didn"t really want the answer.

“Since you know of her change, perhaps you also know of its effects on her too. If not, what do you recall of the Nephilim?” The Mistress" inquiry seemed almost casual now, like two people talking about the weather.

“She referred in her journal to her internal struggles, and something to do with someone named Kether teaching her to control what was inside her. The Nephilim on the other hand were reputed to be wicked blood-drinkers, creators of mayhem and destruction…” Verbalising his thoughts finally made the pieces fall into place, and left McEwan feeling like he had been punched in the stomach; perhaps Kate had become capable of murder after all, urged on by whatever part of her was let loose inside her mind by the ritual she had performed.

“You have begun to understand,” The Mistress said watching him crumple, a slight smile touched her face, subtle and enigmatic.

McEwan was released from her gaze and he felt himself slump into the chair. Helen appeared, seemingly uncalled, and placed a small crystal glass containing a rich amber fluid on the table beside him. Her face showed some sympathy where The Mistress did not, but she left quickly. McEwan lifted the glass presuming whisky, only to find the amber fluid was a little thicker than he expected, more like a liqueur. It tasted of whisky though, probably Drambuie, and he was glad he could feel the burn as it slid past his hollow heart into his stomach. Meanwhile The Mistress continued to study him. It seemed she was savouring his misery. He pulled himself up in the chair and met The Mistress" eyes once more. Defiance had grown within him, a desire to prove her wrong.

“Could you tell me where I would find Kether?” McEwan asked firmly and evenly, getting himself under control again.

The Mistress smiled in delight. “I will tell you what I told Kate. You will find him on the Tree of Life. Thank you for coming, Mr McEwan,” The Mistress said, dismissing him at the same time. He rose slowly and left the room. He was met by Helen and escorted to his car.

McEwan was numb for the whole journey home. A headache began to grow in the knot where his skull and neck met. He was barely conscious of driving along the roads and stopping at traffic lights. He walked into his flat. He hoped Kate hadn"t turned into a murderer"s killer through playing with some stupid occult bullshit. At the same time The Mistress obviously didn"t think it was bullshit, she was deadly serious about the whole thing, as the pain behind his eyes reminded him. How could she have caused it with just a look? More likely he"d spent too many long, late nights on the case and it was catching up on him. He was glad to find his bed and hoped the nightmares of his waking world would not follow him into his sleeping one.