“Indeed.”
Gavin was amazed at how easy this was, how natural it felt. “And there’s a darkness in you.”
“Darkness?”
This was more than encouraging. “Yes, but a good kind of darkness. The darkness that brings light.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a witch. My parents were witches, my grandparents, going back half a dozen generations in Exmouth, and before that Oldham, the New Salem Marsh Colony, Salem, the British Isles, and so forth into the mists of time. I was born into this tradition just as naturally as Christians are born into their faith. Our practices may seem a little startling to an outsider, but so would a church service to someone who knew nothing of Christianity. I hasten to add that we’re not in opposition to Christianity. We believe in live and let live. We aren’t cruel people. For example, we never would have participated in that horrible mass murder of women and children on board that ship. That was done by so-called Christians.”
Gavin paused, looking at her with curiosity, trying to peer into her mind. “Look at the beauty of this chamber, the ancient things in here, the sense of history and purpose. The corridors leading here, I know, can be off-putting — the blood and the smell and the rest. But you see, Constance, our Sabbat ceremony is free of euphemism. It involves real blood and real flesh in real sacrifice. And, I might add... real sensuality.”
Again, her face betrayed nothing of her thoughts.
He reached out to take her hand, and she allowed it. Her hand was cold and clammy, but he pressed it anyway.
“I don’t want to force our beliefs on you. But let me tell you a little of our history and origin. I’m sure you know much of the story already: for seeking his freedom, Lucifer and his followers were cast out of heaven. But not into hell. They ended up right here on earth — and we are the Maleficarum, their spiritual descendants. Lucifer, the rebel angel, gives us the freedom to be and do what we wish.”
“And you wish to convert me to these beliefs.”
Gavin laughed, blushing despite himself. “You didn’t end up here, this night of all nights, by accident. You and I were guided here by forces greater than ourselves; forces we ignore at our peril.”
“What kind of forces?”
“Earlier tonight, two members of our community were supposed to have conducted a rare and extremely important sacrifice. However, it didn’t go as planned.”
“What kind of sacrifice, exactly?”
“We worship Lucifer, but we breed a mortal devil as the focus of our worship. He’s part demon, part human. His name is Morax and he has lived here, in these tunnels, for many years. He is a symbol, a spiritual gateway, a... a medium to help us communicate with the unseen world. But now, we’re in troublous times. Your friend Pendergast discovered and defiled our ancient settlement, removing important artifacts. That was a shock to the Daemonium, to our protectors. And Carole tells me you figured out that the witches’ colony didn’t die out as everyone believed, but instead moved south. Here, as a matter of fact. As a result, our community has been thrown into its worst crisis since 1692. Secrecy is the only way we can survive. We’ve always perpetuated the idea that the witches, the real witches, who fled Salem died out centuries ago. But with all that’s happened in Exmouth recently — the killings and the subsequent attention — our coven was in danger of being exposed. Worse, the blasphemous use of the sacred Tybane Inscriptions by the Dunwoodys, trying to cover their murderous family history, surely angered the Daemonium. This forced us to do what we’ve only had to do a few times in the past: sacrifice our living demon to appease the powers of darkness. The last time we sacrificed our demon was during the hurricane of 1938. As a result, we were without doubt saved from extinction. And so just yesterday the coven leadership decided that we once again had to sacrifice our demon, Morax, to Lucifer in order to gain his intercession; to keep our worship a secret. It was supposed to happen earlier this evening — on the first night of the full moon.”
“And it didn’t go as planned?”
“Not yet. The demon escaped before the ritual could be completed. Nevertheless, he must be sacrificed. That’s why I’m here — to finish the job my brethren failed to do. Morax is in Exmouth now, free for the first time in his life, satisfying his bloodlust. But he will come back here when he’s sated. It’s the only home he knows. And when he does, I’ll be ready.”
“And after you sacrifice him? What then?”
“Lucifer works in mysterious ways. We’ll be protected — I don’t know how precisely. And we will eventually breed another demon from the same genetic line.” He nodded toward the archway that led to the women’s cell. “Those two, a mother and a daughter, are in fact our breeders. They carry the gene, which came to us with whalers from the South Pacific back in the eighteenth century, when a family of remote islanders joined our order. A certain defect was common among these islanders — some were born with a tail. These were true tails, Constance, not vestigial tails: caudal appendages with fully formed vertebrae, an extension of the coccyx. When my ancestors saw the women of this family give birth to such a creature — well, you can imagine their excitement. This was Morax, reborn — Morax in the flesh, just as he had been described and depicted in the ancient texts. It was a gift to us from Lucifer. And it immediately became a central element of our worship ceremony. And so it, and its descendants, have remained to this day.” He nodded out the archway again. “The mother bred the current Morax; the daughter will breed the next one.”
“This is highly illuminating,” said Constance.
He beamed at her. “A deep and powerful philosophy, Constance, and it can’t be understood all at once. You have to live and breathe it, as we have these many millennia. We bother no one. Once a month we anoint the altar with the blood of Morax, which we regularly draw. Real blood is important in our ritual. Otherwise we live our lives in the most ordinary ways, like everyone else. We pray, we ask for help, and we communicate with the unseen Daemonium — the ranks of demons and devils, equivalent to the Christian saints. But we don’t stir pots and toss in eyes of newt or jab pins into dolls. Ours is a libertarian philosophy. And I might add, in our group, women and men are absolutely equal.”
“And you want me to join you.”
“Yes. But it’s more than that. Carole Hinterwasser and Mark Lillie, our former leaders, are dead by the demon’s hand — which elevates me to the leadership of the community. I need a partner. I want you to be that partner.”
He still could not read her face. He took a step toward her. “I sense in you, not just a depth of understanding, but also a burning sensuality, white hot — and yet beautifully controlled.”
She continued to look at him, without moving, and without betraying her thoughts. He had never met a human being with that much self-possession. It only reinforced his feeling that she was destined to join with him.
He plunged ahead. “Sensual pleasure is at the very core of our religion. That’s how we celebrate the gift of life, through our physicality, our flesh and blood and organs of pleasure. That’s how Lucifer asks us to worship him: by celebrating the sensual pleasures of the body.”
“In other words,” Constance said, “you worship carnally.”
“We call it Sexual Discourse.”
“In public?”
“As with all worship, we celebrate together. To celebrate Sexual Discourse in front of all increases the excitement, the pleasure. We observe the Sabbat rites here, in this room, on that altar.”
“So you copulate on the altar, in front of a crowd?”