The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh - Страница 45

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For the first time a glimmer of humor crossed Garibaldi’s austere features. “But you see,

because the Duke knows all that has been, is, and will be, he has the ability to deliver all the

lost treasure of the material world – as well as the sexual favors of the most desirable

women.”

In other words, useless.

“So this demon’s seal at a grave site would indicate what? Human sacrifice in exchange

for treasure and sexual favors?” It sounded like a frat boy’s dream come true.

Garibaldi shook his head. “You’re attempting to attribute logical motivations to an

aberrant psyche. To the true Satanist, all life is sacred.”

We seemed to have moved away from the idea of useful and non-useful demons. Was I

being fed the party line, or was this Garibaldi’s personal opinion?

“So it’s your opinion that these crimes were committed by a person with a warped view

of Satanism?”

“I imagine this is the view of the media and the police, is it not?”

“That these killings are the work of Satanists? Yes.” But interesting that Garibaldi had

leaped to the same conclusion. I remembered something from my reading. “I thought

Aleister Crowley advocated blood sacrifice. Didn’t he actually boast about carrying out the

ritual killing of children?”

“Crowley was a showman. He delighted in his reputation as the Wickedest Man in the

World. Nor was he a true Satanist, although many of his ideas and writings were used as a

foundation for traditional – theistic – Satanism.”

Guy said, “Anton LaVey is generally regarded as the real father of Modern Satanism.

He borrowed from everyone from Crowley to Gardener to Ragnar RedBeard and formed the

Church of Satan.”

“If these murders are the work of renegade Satanists, would you know of such a

group?” I inquired of Garibaldi.

He handed me back the photos, saying lazily, “But they’ve caught the madman who

committed these atrocities. The madman and his accomplice.”

At my expression, he said, “I read the papers, Mr. English. Indeed, I read several

publications each morning. It is important to remain informed.”

“Have you ever heard of a group called Blade Sable?”

Lifting his glass, Garibaldi seemed to pause for the tiniest fraction of a second. He

finished the motion, sipping and swallowing with great deliberation.

“No,” he said. He met my eyes.

He’s lying, I thought. But he expects me to recognize that. I took out the photos of

Angus and handed them across.

“This is the man they arrested. He worked for me – and for Guy.”

“The boy was my teaching assistant, Oliver,” Guy said. “The police are trying to draw a

connection between him and my own teachings.”

“That is awkward, but hardly unexpected. Witch hunts are a national pastime here, are

they not?” Garibaldi’s olive face was impassive as a basilisk’s as he studied the pictures. He

handed them back. “Are you asking whether I know this man? I don’t.”

“I don’t believe Angus committed these murders,” I said. “But I think he knows about

them. I think he was involved with a group called Blade Sable.”

“A group?”

“A cult.”

His lips twitched as though he found this funny, but was too polite to laugh in my face.

“Where did you learn of this Blade Sable?”

“From a writer who disappeared about a week ago.”

Garibaldi permitted himself a colorless smile. “You believe that this sect is guilty of

abduction and murder, but that the police would have no inkling that such an entity exists?”

“The police don’t have a lot of imagination.”

“Whereas you have a great deal.” Yep, he was distinctly amused. “Well, perhaps I shall

make inquiries for you. It is an interesting problem. I make no promises, but if such an order

exists, I’ll soon know.”

He drained his glass. Guy and I hastily did the same as he rose. The royal audience was

clearly concluded.

“May I offer you luncheon?”

Guy said quickly, “Unfortunately, we’ve plans. However, I think Adrien would enjoy

seeing your library, if you’ve the time.”

“But of course, my dear. It would be a pleasure.”

We followed him downstairs to a long, oddly shaped room papered in blood red

brocade, lined with glass-fronted bookshelves. In the center of the room were several library

tables and a couple of glass chests. A magnificent mummy case stood at the far end.

“Originally this was the screening room of Elias Creighton. I don’t suppose you would

know of him, as he was long before your time. He killed himself in this room one night

while watching one of his final films.”

I guessed that the room had begun its existence as a basement; it was chilly. There were

no windows.

Garibaldi added with caustic humor, “No one knows whether this was a critical

commentary of his own work or despair over the knowledge that his career was finished.

Now the room serves as my library and personal museum.”

The books alone in that room had to be worth a fortune. I moved slowly from shelf to

shelf, absorbing the titles with a combination of shock and lust. Magick in Theory and

Practice by the Master Therion (Aleister Crowley), Moonchild by Aleister Crowley, Spirit

Slate Writing and Kindred Phenomena by William Robinson, the Qabalah, The Golden

Bough …shelf after shelf of occult classics.

The glass cases contained old and fragile grimoires as well as gem-studded ritual

artifacts such as athames, chalices, wands, ceremonial masks, mortars and pestles. I noted a

belt made of faded blue silk strands intertwined with beads. Not a belt. A scourge.

Strange exotic artwork hung above the bookshelves. I thought I recognized the efforts

of Austin Spare and Rosaleen Norton from my recent reading. Demons and devils smirked

and spread their wings – as well as other body parts – for the viewer’s pleasure.

“Would it be impertinent to ask whether you’re a Traditional or Modern Satanist?” I

inquired of Garibaldi as he stood to the side conversing quietly with Guy.

He looked faintly amused. “Neither, I’m afraid. Like the true philosophers I’ve come to

believe that religion is an illusion of childhood, outgrown after proper education.”

Chapter Eighteen

We stopped for lunch at Gli Amici off Sunset Boulevard, eating soup and French-style

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