Magwyth’s appearance is not known, though it is known that he works with underlings, two vassals who assist him with his eternal duties: the Zyramon—the hermaphroditic offspring of the notorious owl-like demon Amon. The Zyramon is known to be quite sexual in her antics, reputed to resemble a beautiful woman, but surprising unsuspecting men with her auxilliary equipment—male genitalia, in other words, which emerge from her feminine recesses at will. Though very passionate, the Zyramon is cunning, brutal, and merciless in her resolve. So, too, is Magwyth’s second underling, the less-resourceful twin brother of the Zyramon: Kyl-Lemi, distinctly male, yet equally murderous. A handsome male figure in human form, Kyl-Lemi’s chief role is to provide Satan’s hirelings with the most exotic culinary delights—hell’s chef!
At this Vera blinked; the coincidence seemed to warp in her mind. Magwyth? she thought. The name of the company Feldspar worked for? And now this satanic chef?
Kyl-Lemi?
Kyle?
A handsome male figure in human form?
She read on:
Magwyth and his pair of helpers are all fully hairless, it is said, since all inhabitants of hell come in such extreme proximity to fire. Long ago, when Magwyth served directly in hell, the zeal of his co-attendants, it is cited, flew off the proverbial handle; it seems that several of Satan’s personal favorite demons were mistaken for pleasure-fodder, and were heinously abused as a result. For this injustice, Satan was infuriated and he banished Magwyth and his two underlings from hell for an indeterminate time—to the earth. Here was Magwyth’s penance for his blunders as overseer: to live in the world, and his job then was to provide Satan’s friends with the pleasures of that same world. Incarnations were allowed for short periods of time, whereupon certain demons were permitted to come into Magwyth’s domains on earth and partake in earthly gluttonies…
Earthly gluttonies? Vera thought.
And more thoughts backtracked. Hadn’t Feldspar said he was on a penance? Hadn’t the implication been that his penance had come about for something akin to blunders as overseer? And hadn’t he told her that Magwyth Enterprises existed to cater to a “select clientele,” and that in the past he’d been reprimanded for getting into trouble with the “authorities?”
Though even in his punishment upon the earth, Magwyth has retained certain privileges—financial security, for one. His lord Satan promised to always provided untold riches for Magwyth’s use—
Another queer snag. Vera couldn’t help but be reminded of the amount of money which no doubt had been sunk into The Inn’s refurbishments, nor could she forget the inexplicably large sum of capital that Magwyth Enterprises had deposited into Waynesville’s local bank…
Then:
Magwyth, in other words, has been condemned to provide for Satan’s favorites until he is back into the good graces of the Prince of Darkness…
Still one more snag. Wasn’t it coincidental that Feldspar himself had used essentially the same terminology: that he’d be transferred to a better inn once he got back into this employer’s—
Good graces? Vera recalled.
She read on.
Magwyth and his two acolytes are, to no surprise, cannibals, and so, too, do the tenants of the abyss enjoy the flavor of human flesh. And in more ways than one—it is Magwyth’s job to provide not only satisfaction for his clients’ bellies but also for their libidos. To put it more bluntly, Magwyth’s duties, during his indeterminate penance, is to also provide Lucifer’s favorites with other manners of earthly delight—not only the taste of human flesh but the sexual satisfaction thereof. The abduction of female humankind is a chief task of Magwyth, to offer to hell’s underlings the opportunity to enjoy the pleasures of fornication…
Vera blinked hard, shook her head. This was some of the worst writing she’d ever read, yet somehow she remained enthralled.
Then she read more slowly, and intently. She made herself read the next passage several times.
Yet Magwyth, in his time on earth, must remain in league with the powers of his acursed lord. The notoriously occult semiprecious gemstone amethyst serves as Satan’s total empowerment to Magwyth. The stone of passion, the gem of surfeit. Magwyth and his pair of acolytes always wear an amethyst to keep them aligned unto the powers of Lucifer…
Vera nearly gagged now. Amethyst, she baldly thought. Feldspar always wore a big amethyst pinky ring. And there could be no mistake: Kyle, too, wore an amethyst. Vera clearly remembered the bright purple stone hung about the man’s neck the night he’d invited her to the pool. And one more thing—
She also remembered the large, finely cut amethyst set into the stone transom above The Inn’s front door…
And the last passage:
Little is actually known on Magwyth, save for the minuscule registry left by certain pre-Druidic settlements. It is known, though, that Magwyth is the offspring of the first earthly generation of the pre-Adamics, or the initial foundry of Satan’s failed attempt to rule the physical world. The original Magwyth, according to the early Britonic archives, was originally imprisoned for heinous misdeeds, sentenced, and executed by knife upon an altar of the then-abundant sedimentary rock: feldspar.
— | — | —
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Paul parked off a little layby in the woods rather than The Inn’s parking lot; he wanted to be discreet. He crunched up through the winter thicket. It was starting to snow. When he made it to the elaborate, paved cul-de-sac, he stood gazing up in awe.
The Inn was immense, grandly refurbished, eloquently lit by spotlights planted in the outer yard. It’s a palace, he thought, then noted with some astonishment that the resort’s parking lot was empty save for a beat-up Plymouth station wagon and two Lamborghinis. He traipsed to the huge stone-framed front door, passing granite verandas before high windows. But a sign on the door indicated that The Inn was closed for repairs.
All this money for this big place, and they’re closed? Paul wondered. Was Vera inside now? If so, what was she doing?
An oddity caught his eye: the large, finely cut gem-stone set into the door’s granite transom. Its darkness flashed in the strangest way. Midnight-purple razor-sharp facets. Amethyst, he realized. But the largest amethyst he could ever imagine.
He pulled away, skirted around the front facade. In the center of the cul-de-sac, a heated fountain gurgled, whose splattery noise seemed to follow him along the building’s left wing. He wasn’t even quite sure what he was doing; bitter cold air and some vague impulse propelled him around the corner of the building and down a steep slope. Several times he almost fell, and he had the sensation of submerging into dark. When he came around the bend, though, more floodlights lit the back of The Inn. And behind that, there were only dense woods.
Except…
He peered down, shivering. Through branches of winter-starved trees he spied what seemed a curving sweep.
It was the snow, he realized. Glittering on…pavement.
He followed the incline down farther, then pushed into the woods. Something was there, he just didn’t know what. Was it some kind of hiker’s trail? A service road, he realized once he’d trundled through the net of trees and vines. The light snow sparkled like halite on fresh, new asphalt. He followed the road around the bend.