The dead man knew the secret of the grimoires, those books of black magic stolen by the child thieves in London. That Justin Coltman lacked the knowledge to use them was a sign to Jonathan that he, and not any on else, was meant to triumph.
In performing the ritual for the past seven days Jonathan was no longer functioning on mere reason; hi mind had now achieved a level of comprehension known only to those with faith in powers denied morta men. Be it as your faith. So said Jesus Christ and so say all beliefs. Be it as your faith and Jonathan’s faith in hi power as a sorcerer was never stronger than now.
Behind him in the protective circle, Laertes sat chewing the raw, rancid dog meat. He chewed slowly, eye glazed, a face dusty with human ashes, a man with only the remnants of a mind and will of his own. The ordeal of the ritual had drained him and all he could do was mechanically obey Jonathan; his existence was in the magician’s hands. The restoration of his sanity was a matter that could wait until Jonathan had obtained the throne.
Jonathan’s chanting was almost finished. “Has malim, enlighten me with the splendors of Eloi and Shechinah! Aralim, act! Ophanim, revolve and shine Hajoth a Kadosh, cry, speak, roar, bellow! Hallelu-jah Hallelu-jah. Hallelu-jah.”
Two more days. And then he would have the greatest prize man had ever dreamed of.
Suddenly the barn was filled with bright orange flames and the strong, foul smell of demons. Animals shrieked, threatened, and the cries of dead men were everywhere.
Asmodeus!
Again he had returned to demand his sacrifice.
Magician, he cried, the woman offends me.
Torment me not, thought Jonathan. I renounce her.
Give her to me, magician. Bring her here and give her to me in sacrifice.
I will. Before the ninth day ends.
The fire disappeared. Asmodeus, the fire, animals, the dead men’s cries all vanished.
Jonathan sat rigid. When his fears had eased and his hands had stopped trembling, he looked over his shoulder at Laertes who sat unseeing, showing no reaction to what had just occurred. I will save him on the final day, thought Jonathan, for then all power will be mine.
Since demanding Rachel Coltman’s death in exchange for the soul of her dead husband, Asmodeus had not ceased to torment Jonathan. The demon king, in all his hideous fury, had appeared daily; the sight and smell of him would have defeated all men, except Jonathan. But Jonathan, tiring and fighting hard against collapse would need all of his concentration for the final day. Let Asmodeus have Rachel and leave Jonathan alone.
The magician was working at full strength, exhausting himself and his powers, but the prize was worth it. The prize was within reach and Rachel Coltman’s life was a small price to pay for it.
* * * *
“Mr. Figg? It is I. Poe.”
“I said no one was to come down ‘ere. No one!”
“It is Poe.”
“I know ’oo you are. I said no one, you hear me?”
Poe stood in the middle of the cellar stairs, squinting down into the darkness. “Mr. Bootham and the others are worried about you. You seemed to have cut yourself off from them and I am told you eat very little. Why are you down here alone in this oppressive, foul-smelling darkness? Would you please light another candle? I cannot see-”
“No candle!” Figg’s voice was a primeval, gutteral sound coming from the blackness. He was hostile, unfriendly and Poe was shocked.
“Is there anything wrong, Mr. Figg?”
“Jes’ leave me be, mate. Climb back up them stairs and leave me be. Tell the others I says to keep away and leave me be.”
Poe stared down at the two candles flickering on top of barrels; the candles cast a pale red glow on the brown dirt cellar floor. Something was wrong. Figg was spending all of his time alone in Titus Bootham’s cellar, eating vegetables, drinking plain water. No meat, no milk or foods made from milk. If anyone saw him it was Bootham and then only briefly. With the duel less than two days away, an anxious Bootham had begged Poe to go down into the cellar and talk with the boxer. Because of Figg’s odd behavior the Bootham household, servants and family, was afraid to approach him.
A thought nagged at Poe. Figg’s choice of diet. His living and training down here in the cellar. And those candles. Could it be-”
Poe said, “There is a crowd of Englishmen gathered in the street at the front of Bootham’s home, Mr. Figg. All are enthused over the forthcoming combat. Word of the duel has spread and you are the man of the hour.”
“They want blood. I know what they want.”
“It is true, Mr. Figg, that this duel has assumed the proportions of a holiday and a circus in the eyes of many and for that, I am deeply sorry. Mr. Barnum has twice been to this house and twice Mr. Bootham has turned him away-”
“On my orders.” Figg was still invisible in the darkness.
“I understand and my sympathies are with you, dear friend. Mr. Barnum has offered any assistance you may need and he wishes you to know that he is among your most fervent backers. I understand that Mr. Barnum has offered the use of one of his warehouses for the duel.”
“Talk to Bootham about that. Will you leave me in peace?”
Poe took one more step down into the cellar. “Mr. Figg, I know what you are doing. And I understand, sir.”
“Understand what?”
“The ritual. Your preparation.”
There was a noise in the darkness directly in front of Poe; he cocked an ear.
“What is it that you know, Mr. Poe?”
“Jonathan fears you. Let me say with good reason, for he sees in you those forces which are deeper and darker within himself, those forces you continually deny. All of us see in others only those things which are in ourselves and Jonathan knows and can recognize the occult. You are fasting, dear friend. Not an ordinary fast but the black fast.”
Poe could feel the silence in the dark cellar. Meaning he was right in what he’d just said.
“The black fast, Mr. Figg. To aid the concentration, to strengthen the powers of thought. Abstain from meat, avoid all milk and milk foods. If I recall correctly, an Englishwoman was executed in the sixteenth century after having been accused of using this particular fast in a witchcraft plot to kill King Henry the Eighth.”
Figg’s voice was softer. Nearer. “I ‘ear tell that witchcraft is called ‘the old religion,’ the one the English useta ‘ave long before Christianity come to our island.”
“That is true. It is also known as ‘the cult of the wise’ and history shows how important it was to the ancient tribes of Britain, the Angles, Saxons, the Celts. Your ancestors, Mr. Figg.”
“I do not fast in order to kill anyone, Mr. Poe. It’s stayin’ alive, I am after. The fast you speak of is also used to bring misfortune to an enemy, not that I am admittin’ to what yer sayin’.”
“I understand, Mr. Figg.” Poe sat down on the stairs. “Forgive me, but I am tired and not too well. Much time has been spent in tracing the land transactions of Hugh Larney, no easy matter in these days of speculation and questionable business dealings. Everyone is anxious to become a millionaire, a new word coined by the envious to describe the avaricious.”
“What is so interestin’ concernin’ Mr. Larney’s dealing’s in land?”
“Note, Mr. Figg, that Miles Standish and Volney Gunning are both dead. Which eliminates either man being of much use to Jonathan. Note that the recently assassinated physician who attended Rachel, was contacted by a servant of Hugh Larney, one Jacob Cribb, who as I have mentioned, beats his horse too severely in public and shouts aloud the urgency for needing a physician. Now if as I surmise, and I believe myself to be correct, the physician died because he had come directly from Rachel and myself to treat the wounded woman used by Jonathan to deceive me, this means that Hugh Larney has the woman. But where?