Merkabah Rider: Tales of a High Planes Drifter Page 24

  In reality such as it was, they were almost uniform in appearance. The gray flesh drooped from their hairy, emaciated frames, bellies swollen in perpetual, malignant pregnancy, their bodies covered in suppurating sores. Their groping fingers were hooked. Each bore one leg of a mangy mule, and gargoyle-like bat wings sprouted ungainly from beneath their jutting shoulder blades.

  Before his eyes, one of their grotesque newborns flopped onto the floor, spilling like a calf from Lamia’s womb. It bore the likeness of the black man she had escorted out, and scuttled on centipede legs and webbed feet. The infant demon matured almost instantly, flapped a few inches off the floor on black vulture wings, and hurtled itself mewling into the hearth fire. This baptism complete, it went shrieking up the chimney to join the mass exodus going on above.

  As he recoiled, the black toothed harridans withdrew from around him, and from the corner, the music of the dwarf stopped.

  “He sees us now,” said Agrat flatly.

  “Yes, feel it? He’s gone,” said Eisheth.

  “Ah! So close!” said Lamia, shaking her head.

  “Yes,” said Nehema, her hideous face fallen into what could have been disappointment. “It is regrettable.”

  “I was told you called me here to talk,” said The Rider, fighting back his revulsion now, instead of his ardor. All sense of temptation had bled from him at the sight before his filtered eyes.

  “Yes, but not to us, and not on our authority,” said Nehema.

  She pointed to the curtained partition.

  “Mother is through there,” she said.

  “What about the baby?”

  Her expression filled The Rider with dread. It was as if she did not know what he was referring to at first. Then she nodded.

  “The baby. Yes. With Mother.”

  The Rider backed away from them toward the doorway.

  They made no move to follow.

  “Whatever happens,” Nehema said suddenly stepping forward, to the apparent surprise of her sister-daughters, “remember the song of the Order Of Nehemoth, Rider. Remember the angels of prostitution.”

  She held out her hand to The Rider, and dangled a coin from her fingers. It was one of the pass coins Eisheth had tried to give the fat man.

  He hesitated, then held open his palm.

  She dropped it into the middle of his hand. It was a simple copper coin with a rosette design in the center.

  Nehema smiled strangely and turned back to the others.

  The Rider drew back the curtain, and nodded once. He wasn’t sure what Nehema meant by her admonition. Whatever it was, it did not sit well with the others. He turned and went into the dim hall beyond, slipping the pass coin into his pocket.

  The house was deceptive. It didn’t seem quite so large without, but this hallway was long. He wasn’t sure if it was some trick of the architect or a result of illusory magic.

  Two small bedrooms branched off on either side, and lining the remaining wall space were six full length mirrors, three on each side.

  At the end of the hall was another curtained doorway, and leaning against the wall beside it was Junior, looking as if he could be shot and killed a couple times over and still think it a mild day. He had changed his shirt to a dark paisley blouse with a matching kerchief. The Rider could smell him from the other end of the hall. Junior had apparently bathed in some sort of rose perfume.

  Junior said nothing as The Rider slowly made his way down the hall, ready to pull his Volcanic if the shed made a move for his own gun. Halfway down the hall he caught a hulking movement in the corner of his eye, but when he looked, there was nothing but his reflection staring out of one of the polished mirrors.

  He went on, until he stood before the doorway.

  Junior had been still as a statue the entire time. He hadn’t even blinked. Then, when The Rider reached out to pull back the curtain, Junior moved. Blindingly fast, he slapped his open hand to The Rider’s chest and held it there, so quick his palm cracked audibly on The Rider’s coat. He grinned widely as The Rider jumped and touched his gun.

  “I could’ve killed you,” Junior assured him. Through the Solomonic lenses, his eyes were a ghostly white, devoid of irises, confirming The Rider’s suspicions about his infernal nature.

  He hadn’t gone near his gun.

  The Rider relaxed his grip on the Volcanic. He hated to be startled like that. Whether Junior was referring to earlier today or just now, The Rider didn’t know, but he retorted;

  “Maybe. But you won’t have another chance.”

  It was all bluster, but Junior didn’t care for it.

  “Stop pestering the man, Junior,” came a woman’s voice from behind the curtain. It was like whiskey in a broken china cup.

  Junior took his hand off The Rider’s chest and drew the curtain aside for him in one swipe. The Rider stepped through the doorway, into a well-furnished bedroom dominated by a large, four-poster double bed with a red coverlet with white rose patterns. There was a mirrored dresser against the back wall and a wash stand with a white porcelain basin near the window, to the right. The room was lit by red glass kerosene lamps, poppy designs etched into the glass breaking up the light, casting chimeric patterns on the walls.

  The Rider saw a woman standing at the washbasin in the lamplight. She was indeed beautiful, but not in the otherworldly, unattainable way the illusions of the succubi had been. She was broad hipped and heavy breasted, and her dairy white skin was heavily freckled. She wore the same dark lace dress he had seen her in at the funeral. The peacock feather parasol stood in a corner, and the dark glasses he had seen her wearing were folded on a nightstand beside the bed. Her hair was unbound, and fell in a thick mane of scarlet rivulets nearly to her heels. The light coming through window shone in her hair, painting it like curling rivers of dripping moon milk. She was drying her red nailed hands, and as he watched, she ran her fingers over her pleasant face and through her hair, then turned from the window towards him. She smiled a full lipped, generous smile. He had thought her blind when he saw her at the funeral, but the bright green eyes that regarded him were direct and alive.

  What struck The Rider was what he saw of her through the Solomonic lenses.

  Nothing. Only the faintest hint of magic glow clung to her like wisps of St. Elmo’s Fire. She was entirely human.

  “We’ve never met,” she said, in her husky voice. “But I feel like I know you already. You’ve met quite a few of my family. My children.”

  He tensed.

  “Relax,” she said, taking a towel off the washstand and drying her hands. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t see it coming. I’m not a demon, so your wards don’t work against me, and your bullets won’t kill me. I never ate from the Tree of Knowledge, and I left Eden on my own. I’m quite immortal. About the only thing you can do to me, you’ve already failed to do with your miserable little medallions. Why don’t you take off those ridiculous spectacles?” She nodded to the nightstand. “I’m not wearing mine.”

  He took off his lenses and folded them, but kept them in his hands.

  “Yes,” she smiled. “You’ve got his eyes. You mortals always have either his eyes or hers. I’m glad you have his,” she said, hanging up the towel. “It’ll make you a little easier to deal with. It’s not the easiest thing in the world for me to do you know, entertain you like this when you’ve hurt so many of my children.”

  “Why have you asked me here?”

  She crossed the room towards him, the moonlight and shadows playing over her bright skin, her hips rolling suggestively, but quite unconsciously. Her powers of attraction weren’t as vulgar as her daughter’s, but they were just as potent.

  “I know you’re going to try and bust up my operation with your silly little talismans and spells. Your Order has harried me and my kind all over the Earth for generations. But I want to parley, Rider.”

  “Parley?”

  “Yes. A truce. I’ll provide you with information in exchange for your letting me pu
ll up stakes peacefully.”

  “What’s The Hour of Incursion?” he asked promptly.

  “No, I’m afraid that’s not on the table. You don’t get to ask me anything, but if you let myself and my daughters go, I’ll tell you a great deal. I’ll tell you some things you don’t know; about Adon.”

  The Rider’s eyes must have betrayed his emotion at hearing his renegade teacher’s name, for she nodded.

  “Oh yes, that Adon. Your ambitious ex-teacher. He destroyed your enclave in San Francisco, killed all your friends and faculty. He’s been very busy the past seven years.”

  “Tell me,” The Rider pressed, almost breathless.

  “First, your word,” she said, holding up one finger. “We’ll cut our losses here, but you don’t harm my dear daughters, or any of my children this night.”

  The Rider stared. Could he trust her? Could he deal with this ageless creature, when she had been responsible for the deaths of innumerable children since the dawn of time?

  “How can I trust you?”

  She inched toward him now, leaning forward to whisper in his ear.

  “You must, Manasseh Maizel.”

  The Rider felt cold sweat break out all over his body. She knew his name. His true name. Adon had warned him about taking an alias early on, to prevent anyone or anything from gaining a hold over him. Demons, even angels could be controlled if their names were known. It was the basis for most of the protective magic The Sons of the Essenes had taught him. Some entities could likewise gain power over mortals in the same way. They could circumvent his preventive charms.

  “Now you understand the power I hold,” she said, straightening. “I know you, Rider. I’ve known you since your cradle, as I have known your father before you on back to Adam. I could render you forever powerless against my children. All I have to do is whisper to them what I just whispered to you.”

  “Why haven’t you?” The Rider said dryly, after taking a moment to find his voice again. It was true. With a word she could destroy him. She could put him at the mercy of mazzik and malakh alike. If she had known his name all these years, why hadn’t she destroyed him before now?

  She smiled, and walked a little past him to a low table next to the door where a decanter, of what smelled like liquor, sat on a tray of glasses beside a chair. She poured herself a drink. The trickling and clinking in the pregnant interim was like the ticking of a strange clock.

  “It’s not that I haven’t had ample opportunity. I’ve watched you a long time. I’ve seen your work. You’re good, Rider. There’s a new kind of war coming. Smaller, sneakier than the one you’re used to, but the stakes are more immediate and far reaching. I’m not on your side, but I don’t much care for some of the participants. It might be that you’ll wind up all that stands in their way when the time comes.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “No more questions,” she said, putting the glass to her lips and knocking it back with a swift, practiced hand. “Your word, or we can have this out.”

  The Rider swallowed bile, desperate for a way out of the deal he was set to make. He had been so long without purpose, so long without a clear trail to follow.

  “You’ll just set up your operation somewhere else.”

  “Well of course,” she said, pouring another glass for herself. “We all have our roles to play in creation, Rider. All doled out long ago. If God had no reason for me He’d have taken me out of this world Himself, ages ago. I didn’t say I wouldn’t set up somewhere else. But it won’t be on this scale. My daughter and I can’t usually stay very long in the same place. Familial difficulties you don’t want to hear about it. We’ll go on doing our work, but we’ll spread out again. This, what I was doing here, was a favor for someone, Rider. I’m willing to call it quits myself if you’ll go easy this time out.”

  She pushed one finger at his face and lowered her brow.

  “But if you don’t, I promise you I won’t go easy on you either.”

  She drained her drink.

  “I have a caveat,” said The Rider.

  “Please,” she said, rolling her eyes and replacing the glass. “No caveats.”

  “I want Hetta’s baby, if it’s alive.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “The baby.” She opened them again. “Alright. Done. Hetta was a good girl for awhile, doing Tamiel’s work on all those daughters of Eve. She’s one of mine you know,” she grinned, a hint of pride in her voice. “I can always tell.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked sharply, for he hadn’t noticed anything strange about her.

  “Oh, not a demon.” She dispelled the notion with a wave of her hand. “I have human descendants too, Rider. Adam didn’t want anything to do with Eve after their expulsion. He blamed her. He always blamed women for his shortcomings. We spent a hundred and seventy days together in Nod, just for old time’s sake. But he was an idiot. You can trace most of humankind’s general idiocy back to him.”

  The Rider shook his head and clenched his eyes. He didn’t know if this was true or not. He didn’t want to.

  “Alright, alright,” she said, pushing him lightly down into the chair and crossing back to the dressing table, her long hair swaying behind her. “Don’t go rending your garments. You wanted to hear about Adon. I’ll tell you what I know, and then we’ll find out the rest. But first, your word.”

  The Rider leaned forward in the chair and clasped his hands between his knees. She could be lying about everything. She was the mother of all demons. Yet she did know his name. Everything was in her power. She could give him over to her succubi, or call in any of the myriad of devils circling in the sky to come down and rend him to pieces. It was a position he was not used to being in.

  “Alright,” he said. “You’ve got my word.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and opened a drawer of the dresser, taking out cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco. “Do you smoke, Rider?”

  “No.”

  “You might take it up, and drinking, after this is over. It’s a good thing you’re sitting down.” She proceeded to sift out a measure of tobacco and expertly roll it on the dresser.

  He waited quietly while she sealed the cigarette, lit it, and smoked. The smell wafted across the room to him, acrid.

  “When’s the last time you’ve spoken to the surviving chapters of your Order?”

  The Rider shrugged. After he had mustered out at Ft. Leavenworth, tired and battered from the war, he had drifted for a time to clear his head. When he’d finally returned to San Francisco he’d nearly been killed by a pair of Merkabah Riders from the Berlin enclave who had been tasked with finding him. They had told him of Adon’s treachery, and he had gone with them to stand before the Council of Yahad at Ein Gedi to plead his innocence before the ruling tzadikim. He had been found blameless of collusion in his former teacher’s crimes, but had nonetheless been shunned and excluded from the sanctioned hunt for Adon. In the eyes of the council Adon’s teachings had tainted him and he could not be trusted. That had been in 1872. In the interim, he had traveled the world searching for Adon himself, and had only returned to America last year out of desperation. Yet the Order hadn’t caught him either. The tzadikim had promised to inform him if they had.

  “It’s been oh, eight or nine years, hasn’t it?” Lilith said, dragging on her cigarette and looking at him in the mirror.

  Had she really paid that much attention to his career? It was almost flattering.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because it was eight years ago that Adon showed up in Palestine and massacred The Riders at Ein Gedi.”

  The Rider half stood in his chair, but his knees buckled and he fell back heavily.

  The Council of Yahad was a temporary body that met only in matters of extreme importance to the entire sect. It was composed of the leading tzadikim from each of the eight worldwide enclaves. If Adon had destroyed that body, he had cut off the heads of the Sons of the Essenes. All thir
ty two of them.

  “No—when could it have happened? I was there.”

  “Not long after you left, I would think,” Lilith said.

  A gathering of the Council was made known only to those invited to attend. How could Adon have learned of its meeting at Ein Gedi? Unless Adon had followed him there. Which meant Adon could have guessed that as his known apprentice the foreign enclaves would have sought him out and brought him before the Council when he returned. Was Adon that calculating? Could he have murdered the San Francisco chapters while The Rider was away fighting in the war simply as a first step towards eliminating the Council? The Rider’s thoughts began to recess further back into his history with Adon. Suddenly he was seeing conspiracies in the most minute events. Why had Adon chosen him as his favored pupil? Why had he introduced so many arcane, forbidden teachings to him? To discredit him from the start? This was dangerous thinking. It compounded his growing sense of helplessness.

  “How do you know this?”

  “My children tell me things. I have eyes everywhere.”

  The Rider pulled at his beard and reeled back in the chair. The Council of Yahad, dead. Thirty two elder rebbes of the Order, the honorable tzadikim. It was such a loss!

  “There’s more, Rider. Adon went on something of an overseas tour around that time. He left a number of corpses behind in Berlin, Livorno, Amsterdam, Thessaloniki, Owernah, and Krakow. Do these places mean anything to you?”

  He shook his head. They did. They were the six European cities that housed enclaves of the Order: Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Greece, France, and Poland.

  The Rider held his head in his hands and trembled. All of them? All!

  “That’s what I thought,” Lilith said. “With your San Francisco chapter, and the bunch that died at Ein Gedi, that makes eight cities.” She turned her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye. “Are there any more of you anywhere?”