He woke with a start, pulling himself out of the twisted bedclothes. He sat up and deliberately calmed his breathing as the sounds of London waking came from the window. The light was dull, grey clouds scudded past and the wind whistled through the chimney pots in the roof above. Blake took a deep breath. These were the sounds of his flat. He was safe.
He reached for the silver hip flask next to his bed, his hand hovering over it for a second. Just a little, he thought, taking a quick swig. Tequila was better for dulling the visions, but this early in the morning and before work, vodka was a better choice.
Feeling calmer now, Blake turned and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching underneath it for the package wrapped in dirty ivory sailcloth. His bare fingertips brushed it and Blake pulled away, reaching instead for the gloves by his bedside. This was a book he dared not read again with bare hands, since the visions had been so bloody and violent on the day his father had died.
Blake pulled the gloves on and then reached back under the bed, pulling out the tightly wrapped book. The Galdrabók. His father had used rites from the grimoire to summon powers of persuasion and charisma to lead his extremist Christian sect. In the last moments of his life, Blake had seen him consumed by demons come to claim what he had bargained for earthly power.
Or at least he had seen a vision through his father's eyes of what he'd believed was there to claim him. The visions were so tightly bound to the people he saw through, Blake was never sure how much could be considered objectively real. He smiled, shaking his head. Could demons ever be considered truth?
He pulled open the sailcloth to reveal the Galdrabók, its cover of deep burgundy leather inscribed with a circle bisected by four lines ending in prongs. Each line was cross-hatched with other markings, each a form of controlled chaos, like a deformed snowflake that had missed its natural perfection.
Blake opened the book, gazing again at the pages of Icelandic spells, invocations to demons and Christian saints. There were symbols and images for calling on the Norse gods and instructions on how to use herbs for visions of the otherworld. There were runes and symbols of power, Icelandic magic sigils, Latin texts and sacred images within. It was a dense bible of pagan belief, but Blake didn't really know what to make of it.
The museum researcher part of him wanted to take it in for study, to academically discern the meaning of the symbols and words within. The book could be a lifetime of research, perhaps a way for him to discover the Nordic half of his family tree and give his academic life some deeper meaning. His mind skipped forward to conferences in the icy north, tweed jackets with elbow patches, book signings with bearded colleagues.
But the other part of him, perhaps the Nigerian half from his mother, perhaps the part that allowed him to see visions through time – that part wanted to read the book with bare hands laid upon it and speak the words within. His mind flashed to the vision of the ash grove, the human sacrifices to Odin, the power that hummed through those present. There was a world a long way from London, up in the dark forests of the Arctic Circle.
Blake closed the book and traced the symbol on the front with gloved fingertips. He thought of the man he had seen in the museum, the man who now haunted his dreams. Had the book really belonged to his father, or had he stolen it? Blake placed his hand flat on the burgundy leather. Was the stranger here to take it back?
An hour later, Blake walked up the steps into the British Museum, his close-cropped hair still wet from the shower. The Galdrabók was tucked safely beneath his bed again, the decision on what to do with it put off for now. Blake felt spring fever in the air, a sense that something was changing, and if he didn't move with it, he would be left behind.
He walked into the Great Court, looking up at the glass panels above, the sun streaming through. He descended to the research area and waved at Margaret in her office as he sat at his desk to work on some of the text for the exhibit. To his consternation, she stood and walked towards him.
"Morning," Blake said, his voice jolly as she approached.
"You weren't here much yesterday," Margaret said. No small talk today. "Even after our discussion."
"I was actually researching the sex trade in Southwark," Blake said. "To add some color to the exhibition."
Margaret raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. Well, your research might come in handy, as the curator needs a hand constructing the exhibition space. I'm volunteering you for the job since you can't seem to sit still down here."
"But –" Blake protested, but Margaret held a hand up.
"I actually think you'll enjoy it," she said with a smile.
Blake walked back upstairs towards the exhibition space, right in the middle of the Great Court. There was a security guard on the door to keep out the tourists. Blake showed his pass and then went into the central space. The walls were black and could be shifted around to bisect the space into various sizes, all the better to display the objects within. Spotlights lit the glass cases and Blake could see that the curator was aiming to entertain as well as educate.
The first case contained an array of phalluses – from the stone carvings offered to the gods for fertility, to the wind chimes of winged penises from first-century Roman London used to ward away evil spirits. It was a comical display, setting the tone for a tongue-in-cheek ride through erotic London.
A clanging noise came from further in.
Blake followed the sound into a larger space, where a petite blonde woman struggled to maneuver a leather stool onto a stage area. Her long hair was tied back in a simple ponytail and her plain blue jeans and black t-shirt gave her the air of a graduate student.
"Let me help with that," Blake said, helping her to lift the stool up. Once in place, he ran his gloved hand over the metal rivets at the edges. "Well made, isn't it."
"Yes," the woman said, a cheeky smile on her face. "Britain makes some of the best spanking stools and bondage gear."
Blake pulled his hand away quickly and the woman laughed.
"I'm Catherine Agew," she said.
"You're the guest curator for the exhibition," Blake said. He had assumed that the curator would be older … and not so good-looking.
"You must be Blake. Margaret said she was sending someone up to help me with the lifting and shifting."
Blake raised an eyebrow. "Lifter and shifter at your service." He turned to look at the stage area. "So what's this going to be?"
"Flagellation was a popular sexual service, especially in Georgian London and particularly amongst the nobility," Catherine said. "Brits have always enjoyed a good spanking."
She pointed at a wall filled with images of Victorian pornography, some of the more acceptable pictures from the museum's extensive collection. A black and white illustration showed a bewigged aristocrat bent over by a window, a woman beating his behind with birch twigs.
Blake found his eyes lingering on one image where a young woman lay over the knees of an older man, her blonde hair hanging down as he raised his hand to spank her. He turned away to find Catherine looking at him, curiosity in her eyes. He swallowed. Suddenly it seemed stuffy in here.
"So," he said. "What do you need me to do here?"
Catherine smiled and pointed out some of the other items to be placed on the stage, creating a tableau of a boudoir in one of the high-end establishments. Blake began to move the furniture, trying to push the lewd images from his mind.