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  “You are getting jumpy! You’ve got to be calm! I have enough to do here without you causing me additional problems. We’ve got a lot to get done tonight and I still don’t know what to do with Maeva.”

  “Of course. How foolish of me. It shouldn’t be much longer … Maeva? What do you mean?”

  “She’s not going to let us get away with this without causing some kind of stink. When we are done here, perhaps we should go back to the clubhouse and knock her on the head and then throw her in the Thames? Better yet, maybe untie her and then slit her wrists. We could make it look like she killed Butterfield in some kind of jealous rage and then took her own life. The press would have a field day with a headline that read OCCULT LOVING RICH GIRL MAKES A HUMAN SACRIFICE OF HER BOYFRIEND THEN KILLS HERSELF. It might throw the cops off our scent long enough for us to scatter. But still, I’ll have to think of something nice to do with Zoraida as well. That may take a little more thought.”

  “No, we can’t do that! We can’t kill Maeva or Zoraida.”

  “Of course we can. Once Crowley and the Goddess rid us of our affliction they’ll be no stopping us. The cops will be no match for us. We’ll outwit them at every turn. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t think we should do that. Burning Butterfield is bad enough. No, let’s talk about this later. We will all calmly discuss what’s to be done with them. Put it to a vote. I’m sure everyone will see reason.”

  “Yes, of course,” Hecuba said feigning a reassuring tone. Then she added, “We are a sisterhood after all.”

  “That’s right,” Artemisia muttered. She was no longer looking at Hecuba but instead was staring distractedly up at the big Art Deco clock on the top of the Shell-Mex building. It was showing a quarter after three. She then turned around to face the river.

  “Look!” She motioned frantically to her right. “Over by the London Eye.”

  A peculiar looking moon was peeking through the spokes of the Ferris wheel. As it rose upward, the lights of the London Eye changed from a fiery red to the strange opalescence of this full moon. Both circles, the moon and the London Eye, were reflected in the flood tide of the Thames. The river was rapidly rising, causing a choppy backwash, which was distorting and elongating the images upon the water.

  “Where is he?” gasped Artemisia. “You know what they say about the Thames?”

  “No, what now?” Hecuba said derisively.

  “When the Thames lions drink, London will flood.”

  “Stop obsessing on those lions!” Hecuba snarled. “Crowley said he will be here at moonrise and I’m sure he’ll be here any second now. If he’s not here already.”

  The mirror images of the Ferris wheel and the moon rocked and twisted on the surface of the river. The images suddenly narrowed, merged, and reached across the Thames in the form of a beam of blue. Light struck the obelisk on the opposite shore like a laser beam. Then it diminished as the ghost of Aleister Crowley appeared triumphantly at the base of Cleopatra’s needle.

  “Where’s our birthday boy?” He mirthfully intoned.

  The four women jumped in unison off the park bench and went running to him.

  “Master! Master! Prince Chioa Khan! Oh Mega Therion! Great Beast of Revelations! The Baphomet! 666! Abracadabra! Abracadabra! Abracadabra!” they shouted.

  “Yes — yes — yes. Enough groveling. What have you done with our infant?”

  “He’s under the bench, master,” volunteered Hecuba.

  She and the others ran back to the park bench. Artemisia and the guards grabbed Butterfield by his taped-up legs and pulled him out. They carried him toward the base of the obelisk, while Hecuba fished out a jerry can full of petrol from a nearby clump of bushes.

  Lifted to his feet by his female guards, Butterfield was groaning and emitting a pitiful whine through his duct tape and panty gag. His body was shaking convulsively and he was now messing himself from several orifices.

  But his ghost paid no attention to this. He no longer cared. Wallace Butterfield was nothing more than a conveyance and would soon be but a memory. His immolation would have no more sentimentality attached to it than a clunker of a car being towed off to the salvage yard.

  The guards now propped him up against the base of the obelisk and Hecuba pored petrol all over him. Butterfield tried to scream but the sound would not come out.

  “There, now!” Aleister Crowley’s ghost admonished. “This is a great honor. Human sacrifices release great magic! Try and control yourself. The amount of energy you are about to release is dependent on how willing you are to be slaughtered. I know. I know. In the olden days you would have garlands of fragrant flowers draped around your neck and tiny bells about your ankles. And there would be sweet music to send you off; flutes, tambourines, drums, lutes, and lyres all would be playing in your honor. But poor fellow, this is the twenty-first century — and you appear none too willing. So, suck it up. Duct tape and petrol will have to do.”

  “Master?” Artemisia inquired.

  Crowley’s ghost looked down upon the chubby one with a contemptuous smile. “Yes?” It obviously pained him to even recognize her.

  “Master, will the Goddess receive this sacrifice considering his state?”

  “Why, of course. It’s been a long time since Sekhmet has received a burnt offering and this is a very good place to slaughter Mr. — Cowfield?”

  “Butterfield, master.”

  “Yes, well, of no consequence — he’ll burn well whatever he’s called.”

  Hecuba decided to throw her lot in with Artemisia and question Crowley’s ghost. “Why is this a good place? Because it’s Egyptian? It doesn’t appear to me that sacrificing at an obelisk put up for Thutmose has anything to do with our Goddess.”

  Crowley’s ghost drew himself up large and towered over the women. “It doesn’t occur to you that Thutmose was a devoted servant of hers? He lined the boulevard to her temple at Karnak with hundreds of statues of her, made from the finest and blackest basalt. Her altar was always kept clean. The city was commanded to bring Sekhmet daily offerings of bread, fruits, wine, and beer. He himself placed precious vessels of gold and silver upon her temple floor and filled them with precious stones. It was upon his command that a throne of electrum was made for her and that the blood of sacrifices of old were renewed. And yet you dare to question the sanctity of this place?”

  Hecuba and Artemisia went to their knees. “No master. No. Forgive us,” they pleaded.

  Hecuba felt compelled to explain. “It’s just that we wanted to make sure our Goddess would be pleased with this site and of our offering. We do so wish that she will be merciful and consider our predicament.”

  Crowley’s ghost then calmed and shrunk back into the stature of a man.

  “As I said, I shall speak to her on your behalf and I will also speak to the ghost hatchling to find out how it came to be unstuck. We will sort out that muddle in your minds. Soon you will be able to live normally — that is, up until you decay. Which I’m sure won’t be for some time.” He smiled benevolently. “Now get up off the ground and go light a torch.”

  Obediently, Artemisia jumped to her feet and went off to the bushes where the petrol had been hidden and pulled out an unlit torch. As she did, she could see that the level of the Thames was rising. She ran back to Hecuba, handed her the torch and attempted to tell her what she had just seen.

  “The river is going up—”

  “Stop it!” Hecuba hissed. “No more of your river nonsense. Let’s just get this over with and get out of here. Whether the Goddess is pleased or not, the police won’t be, and I don’t want to spend the time I have until I decay in a prison cell.”

  Hecuba then took out a butane candle lighter and pressed the trigger. A little flame formed at its end. She touched the flame to her torch. A bright crimson blaze whirled upward from its end. S
he held it high and, letting go of all of her concerns about being discovered, shouted,

  “Mine is a heart of carnelian,

  Crimson as murder on a holy day.

  Mine is a heart of corneal,

  The gnarled roots of a dogwood and the bursting of flowers.

  I am the broken wax seal on my lover’s letters.

  I am the phoenix,

  The fiery sun,

  Consuming and resuming myself.

  I will what I will.

  Mine is a heart of carnelian,

  Blood red as the crest of a phoenix.”

  Aleister Crowley’s ghost merrily watched. Rocking back and forth on his heels, he hugged himself. Then, raising his arms to the night sky, he pronounced: “Oh Mistress Sekhmet, take this mortal offering as an act of obedience to your will. Feed upon his singeing hair, his boiling blood, and his spitting fat! Let him cook well within your sacred fire. We show him no pity! But we beg of you pity. If this sacrifice pleases you, pity these wretched WITCHes. Grant them peace from the torments within their minds.”

  Crowley’s ghost nodded to Hecuba. She was standing at the base of the obelisks with her firebrand held high above the heads of the squealing Butterfield and his ecstatic ghost.

  But nothing happened.

  So, Crowley’s ghost nodded again.

  Still nothing happened.

  “Set the victim ablaze!” he commanded while furiously motioning with his hands for Hecuba to get on with it.

  But Hecuba wasn’t paying any attention to him. Her eyes seemed fixed on something behind him.

  Perplexed, Aleister Crowley’s ghost swung round and faced the Thames to see what could possibly be holding up the sacrifice.

  “Oh crap!” he said.

  A duck-shaped pedal boat approached along the river. A large red bowtie around the duck’s neck formed the prow of the boat, making the craft appear to be utterly ridiculous, but yet it still had an ominous air.

  John Bradshaw was seated in the boat and working hard at the pedal boat mechanism, cycling madly to keep the big yellow plastic duck from drifting backwards with the tide.

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi was standing up in the prow of the boat with a bronze lantern hanging down by his side. He was staring intently at Hecuba, but said nothing.

  She was dumbfounded. She lowered her torch so that it now pointed toward the ground. Growing confident by the Reverend’s silence, she raised the torch again over her head. Standing on her tiptoes, she held the lit end of the firebrand as high up as she could get it, singeing the tape on Butterfields head. Reverend Poda-Pirudi just stared at her, as though he was anticipating something.

  But Aleister Crowley’s ghost was too distraught over the present turn of events to allow the ceremony to continue. Turning toward Hecuba, he waved his arms about and shouted. “No! No!”

  Hecuba paused briefly, but then shouted back at him in defiance. “We can’t live this way any longer. Butterfield will feed the Goddess!”

  Then she brought down the torch to do a proper job of igniting Wallace’s head. As she did so, Reverend Poda-Pirudi raised his lantern. Across the Thames the thirteen-ton white stoneware statue, the South Bank Lion, rose up on its hind haunches and roared.

  With this, the mooring lions, on either bank of the Thames, spit out their mooring rings and began a dreadful bellow.

  But Reverend Poda-Pirudi’s bellow was even louder. “Drop that torch or I’ll cut your legs into strips and use your skin for flypaper ribbons at the Mucking Marshes Landfill!”

  With this threat, Aleister Crowley’s ghost fell to his knees in front of Hecuba. He was sniveling and covered with a ghostly sweat. Clasping his hands beseechingly he pleaded, “Please. Please. Dearest Hecuba, don’t do it! Please!”

  Hecuba made a motion as though she was going to ignite Butterfield, but faltered. The torch dropped from her hand to the pavement.

  “Oh thank you.” Crowley’s ghost whimpered. “Oh thank you sweet Hecuba.”

  When the torch fell, the Thames began to recede. The South Bank Lion went back to all fours and the mooring rings rose up from the river and returned to the jaws of the Thames Lions.

  “You are all in very serious trouble,” said the Reverend. He brought a nickel-plated bobby’s whistle up to his mouth with his free hand.

  Then, he blew on it several times.

  In response to the shrill calls of the whistle, ghostly specters dressed in Victorian police uniforms suddenly appeared all about the obelisk.

  “Good lads!” shouted Reverend Poda-Pirudi. “Good lads! Ladies, I give you straight from London’s Brompton Cemetery, Police Division L of the Woolwich Dockyards and their inspector, the renowned Charles Frederick Field.”

  The specter of Inspector Field flashed into form just in front of Hecuba. He was a clean-shaven ghost, fortyish, that is, if he had been alive. There was a dimple in his chin and a bowler hat on his head. And he seemed to be quite enjoying himself.

  “You’re all under arrest!” he proclaimed.

  “Indeed you are!” affirmed Reverend Poda-Pirudi.

  With this, the Reverend Poda-Pirudi placed his police whistle in his pocket. He opened the door to the lantern and allowed the light within to escape. All went bright white. Then the dazzling light vanished, and in the moonlight that remained, the scene was very different. The duck boat was gone, so were the WITCHes, the bobbies, Aleister Crowley’s ghost, and Wallace Butterfield.

  Now, the scene at Cleopatra’s Needle appeared just as it had at three o’clock, just before Hecuba and her WITCHes had arrived. Even the big illuminated clock atop the Shell-Mex building confirmed that it was three o’clock.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Trial

  Inside the flash of light, it was bright and unpigmented; as though color could not exist within such intense brilliance. There was no definition here, nor substance. There was only the sense of being part of a radiant void.

  Though it took Wallace Butterfield some time to arrive, time had no meaning during his journey. It was an unnecessary construct, arbitrary and of no purpose. All was present, a present without a beginning or an end.

  But clarity began to creep in. It started as the color white, and dissolved into subtle variations of the same shade. White contours formed upon a white background, sparingly providing definition, like subtle shadows on the petals of a white rose. Time started to beat again. Shapes sharpened. Gothic design emerged. The interior of a great building embossed itself upon the empty air. Color seeped in, smells rose up, disjointed sounds and muffled speech could be heard in the distance.

  Butterfield felt as though he was coming out of anesthesia. He had no knowledge of the things about him. Nothing made sense. He didn’t know who he was or, even, that he was.

  Gradually, sounds began to take on coherent form. Wallace began to understand their meaning.

  A voice boomed, “The prisoner known by the Wicca name of Morgana approach the bench!”

  There was a pause followed by, “How do you plead?”

  Sobbing followed — widespread sobbing. Butterfield realized that many people were crying.

  “Well! Your plea?”

  “Guilty, my lord.”

  “I hereby find the prisoner Morgana guilty of attempted murder as charged. Go stand with the others and await my sentencing!”

  “The prisoner known by the Wicca name of Artemisia, approach the bench!”

  Butterfield knew this name. In fact, he could now see her. She was standing before a long table. There was a man in a red robe seated at the table. He had on a long curled white wig, quite a contrast to his very black skin.

  “How do you plead?” The question was asked again. “How do you plead?”

  But Artemisia stood before the man seated at the table trembl
ing, unable to speak. Another woman ran up to her and whispered in her ear. Wallace knew this woman too. She was Hecuba.

  Now, things were beginning to make sense to Wallace Butterfield’s brain. One particular after another was becoming clear to him. This was the Abbey. He could see its grandeur all about him. The long table was in front of the ornately carved gold High Altar. A golden cross and two large gold candlesticks stood directly behind where the judge was seated. He realized that the judge was Reverend Poda-Pirudi. But the fact that Reverend Poda-Pirudi was officiating at a trial wasn’t half as strange to Butterfield as the recent memories that were now rushing in on him. He shook in horror at the thought of the evil blue man, the obelisk, the torches, and the fact that the women were going to burn him alive and that he had spent hours and hours wrapped up in duct tape. Wallace glanced at his arms and realized that he was no longer so constrained. And to his relief he seemed to be no worse for wear. Someone had even taken the time to clean and press his father’s suit.

  His hands were gripping the wooden armrests of a fancy chair. He must have been in that chair for some time, because he felt awfully uncomfortable. His arms had that painful tingling sensation, as though they were no longer part of him. Butterfield attempted to move them and get his circulation going but they wouldn’t budge. He tried again, but something held them fast. He began to squirm about in his seat. Then what was holding him in place became clear to him. Several pairs of hands gripped him. Hands were pressing down on both his wrists. Hands were on his shoulders — and these hands were a luminescent blue.

  In a panic, he looked to his left. A lanky spirit with long hair had hold of him. Wallace turned in horror towards the Reverend to ask for help, but there were other creatures like this one seated just to the left of the Reverend’s table and the Reverend appeared to be quite comfortable having them there.

  Yet again, during the course of this very long day, Wallace Butterfield felt compelled to scream.

  “Ahhhhhhh!!!! Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!” The “creatures” were all dead queens and kings whose pictures he had been required to memorize in school.