Smoke and Dagger Page 4

  Catherine put her purse back down and settled beside it, at the edge of the seat. She adjusted her watch on the wrist he had grabbed. It reminded her of her parents and how far from home she was. “You’ve got one minute to tell me what you expect me to do, or you can keep your second gate closed and forget I ever crossed the first.”

  “Jack is dabbling with dangerous forces. He’s indiscriminate—unable to tell the difference between harmless superstition and truly apocalyptic lines of inquiry. He’s attracted to darkness—”

  “Forty seconds.”

  “We need someone who knows what to look for. With Marjorie—his wife—out of the picture, there’s an opportunity to reach him, and yes, if he finds you attractive, it will help you slip past his defenses, but it’s only conversation we’re asking you to engage in.”

  “You said he’s practicing sex magic.”

  “And we’re not asking you to take part. The last thing we want is to further his pursuits. We fear he’s done enough harm already. But we need to assess how much. I would train you before sending you out there, so you’re aware of what to look for and what questions to ask, if he takes you under his wing. It would be dangerous work, but we will take every precaution to protect you. There are hermetic practices that would reinforce your aura, provide you with psychic armor of a sort. And we have allies you could turn to in California, if you needed to flee.”

  “What does this have to do with the amulet buried under the obelisk?”

  “Again, we can’t be sure it’s there. If it is, it may be best to let it lie beneath a few hundred tons of stone until such a day as the city falls. There are cultists who would seek to destroy the scarab and would kill to obtain it. The time may come when the Fire of Cairo is our last defense against the Great Old Ones. If Jack Parsons can be diverted from the work he is pursuing, we may prevent a catastrophe: A trans-dimensional incursion. Prophesy heralds its arrival, but perhaps not in this century. And should you manage to retrieve a certain book we fear Parsons has acquired, we would be better prepared for the dreaded day when it comes.”

  “What book?”

  “The Mortiferum Indicium, or ‘Deadly Amulet.’ It describes the scarab’s functions and powers, its origins, and the mantras that activate it. Like most grimoires, it has been passed down in fragmentary forms and bastardized translations. The copy Parsons may possess was once the property of Henry Hurlbolt Gorringe, stolen with his briefcase by a member of the Starry Wisdom cult when he tripped and fell from the train platform.”

  “There was a branch of the Starry Wisdom near where I grew up, in Newburyport. But no one knew what they worshipped.”

  “They prefer to keep it that way. Their gods are monsters. Their holy books are summoning manuals.”

  “Why then would they want a book about a weapon that could threaten their gods?”

  “To aid them in recognizing the threat if it were one day recovered.”

  “And is Parsons actually summoning these Old Gods? Evoking them to physical manifestation?”

  “Not quite. Not yet. He lives in a concrete castle overlooking the beach, but if he’d called something like that up, if he’d brought it through from the other side, there would be no hiding it. We would have no need of spies. His neighbors—any who survived the event—would know. For now, if our sources are correct, he is limited to communing with the gods through a relic of the Starry Wisdom Church, an obsidian mirror upon which the black pharaoh Nephren-ka exhaled his dying breath. Parsons would have obtained both the book and the mirror from an acolyte of the church named Abdelmalek, a mathematics student at Cal Tech.”

  “How does the mirror work?”

  “It’s a window to the other side. But a window only, not a door.”

  “And Parsons just happened to meet someone who had possession of it? At a technical college.”

  Hildebrand grinned at his teacup and took a sip. “You’ll find that initiates don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Then you’re suggesting that members of the Starry Wisdom have been surveilling Parsons the same as you. Using him to further their plans.” Catherine laughed. Her slice of pie was gone. She picked up a crumb of crust and popped it into her mouth. Not very ladylike, but she was famished. It had been a long night. “Between the government, the Golden Bough, and the Starry Wisdom, is there a minute of the day when someone isn’t spying on Jack Parsons? I’m surprised you aren’t all bumping into each other.”

  “That’s a real risk. And why we need someone to get closer.”

  “So your adversaries planted someone in Jack’s orbit to ensure that these occult objects fell into his hands. Why?”

  “Among the initiated, there is a feeling that the Second World War ushered in a new age. In the winter of 1945 to 46, Parsons and an associate named L. Ron Hubbard engaged in a series of rituals derived from the Enochian system of magic, intended to evoke what he called an ‘elemental mate.’ This, mind you, was after Jack’s companion Betty, the sister of his first wife, had left him for Hubbard. For a time, they all lived in Jack’s rundown mansion in Pasadena.”

  “That sounds like an incestuous hive.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. In any event, several weeks of evocation reached a climax at an intersection of power lines in the Mohave Desert, where the rocket scientist declared to the science fiction writer that the operation was completed. Upon returning home, Parson found a striking redhead named Marjorie Cameron on his doorstep. She’d heard about the commune from a friend, but Jack believed she’d been sent by the gods.”

  “Is this the wife you mentioned who recently left for Mexico?”

  “Indeed. She goes by ‘Candy’ among her friends. She had no interest in the occult until Jack cultivated it. Her ambition was to be an artist, and with Jack’s guidance, she has produced a terrifying portfolio. Our friend in the OTO set eyes on a few of her sketches. Apparently Jack spent a solid month conjuring Great Old Ones in the obsidian mirror while Marjorie committed their alien anatomy to paper.”

  The electric heater beside the table had slowly driven the chill from Catherine’s bones, but now it crept back in.

  “She is gifted with a certain sensitivity.”

  “Like mine, with the meteorite?”

  Hildebrand nodded. “Do you see now why we feel that your mind is of greater value than your body in this endeavor?”

  Catherine wrapped her cold hands around her cup. “I’m a student. I can’t just skip town for California.”

  “Parsons appears to be in a dormant phase after furious activity over the past few months. Candy is out of the country, and the stars won’t be right for him to resume his experiments until summer, which gives us ample time to prepare you.”

  “I’m expected home for the summer. What will I tell my parents?”

  He shrugged. It was hard to tell with the beard, but she thought he might be struggling to suppress a smile. “Tell them you’ve been offered an internship.”

  5

  Catherine’s roommate was asleep when she let herself in later that night and gone by the time she woke the next morning. She didn’t find the note on her desk until she was packing her basket with books for her nine o’clock Study of Unwritten Languages class. Sarah’s typically meticulous cursive was sloppy enough to give Catherine a pang of guilt at the thought of her scrawling the message half-asleep in the depths of the night.

  Peter called.

  TWICE

  The pang of guilt only lasted for a second, and the tingle of anticipation that followed it surprised her. She’d first met the wiry, blue-eyed Columbia med student at a beatnik poetry reading Sarah dragged her to in November. Catherine and Peter had bonded over their mutual disdain for the material (he was dragged along by the lit major Sarah was dating). Catherine had seen him three times since—once at a party and then on two dates: a movie, and a tour she’d given him of the museum that maybe didn’t count. She’d been tempted to show him the Willamette meteorite, just to see if he had
any reaction to it, but steered clear of it at the last minute for fear it might befuddle her in front of him. Raised on a farm in Rochester County, he seemed more awkward and out of place in the big city than most students, but he possessed a modest charm, free of artifice, that appealed to her.

  The movie date had left her with little hope he would call again. In hindsight, she supposed if she’d picked a more romantic film, maybe The Red Shoes, things might have gone differently. But no, she had to suggest The Snake Pit, a dark drama starring Olivia de Havilland that chronicled a woman’s stay in a mental institution. It was good, if unsettling. Catherine had read the book the film was based on and hoped the realistic depiction of mental illness might appeal to an aspiring doctor, but they’d spent their coffee afterward searching for other things to talk about, leaving her to wonder about his family’s mental health history. When he didn’t kiss her goodnight at the doors of Milbank Hall, she wasn’t surprised.

  Sarah had thrown a pillow at Catherine when she recapped the date. “You made him sit through the asylum movie? Oh God, Cat. What was that; some kind of test? What is wrong with you? Even Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein would have been better. At least then, you’d have an excuse to squeeze his arm and laugh about it.”

  “But I did clutch his arm over the tension.” She threw the pillow back at Sarah.

  Sarah shook her head in pity. “Tension isn’t passion.”

  She’d thought at the time that Sarah was right. But when she stepped out the front doors this morning, still smiling from the note, and saw Peter leaning against a limestone column, she reconsidered that assessment. He was waiting for her; pairing his thumbnail with the pocketknife he carried everywhere, his shock of sandy hair stark against the snow-laden shrubs behind him. And before he looked up, she had time to muse that maybe the tension of learning she was out all night—though Sarah couldn’t say where or with whom—had inspired enough passion to bring the farm boy straight to Milbank Hall bright and early on a cold day?

  “Peter. What are you doing here?”

  He folded his knife and dropped it in the front pocket of his trousers. She imagined his red scarf was probably knitted by his mother, and his knife likely bore an Eagle Scout insignia. There was nothing studied about the way he brandished it or lounged against that pillar. What had she been thinking taking him to see The Snake Pit?

  “I just wanted to make sure you got home okay last night. Sarah said you were out late and she didn’t think you’d been back since you went to the museum, so…I know it’s none of my business, but the city’s a dangerous place for a girl alone at night.”

  It was subtle, but the unspoken question hung in the arid air between them. Was she out alone? She was supposed to correct that concern of his by telling him whom she’d been with, and even though there was nothing amorous in her strange liaison with Hildebrand, she didn’t have the first idea of how to explain their dealings and bristled at the notion that she should have to just because a country bumpkin suddenly felt possessive about her.

  No, that wasn’t fair. He was worried. It was writ plain on his face.

  “That’s sweet of you, Peter. But no need to worry. I’m fine, see? But I am late for class.”

  “Can I walk with you?”

  “If you like.”

  Crossing the quad, Catherine noticed that Peter turned a few heads. Boys weren’t entirely rare on the campus, but they did tend to stand out at the all girls school. She felt his body bump against her basket and looked up from the salted footpath just in time to see him tucking a brown paper bag in among her books. Flattened and fastened with tape, it looked like a parcel wrapped for mailing. He must have produced it from under his coat in an effort to pass it off to her discretely. She repositioned the basket handle on the crook of her elbow to accommodate the added weight and shot him a questioning look.

  “The book you asked me to look for in the Butler Library.”

  A frisson of excitement quivered through her skin. “Not the von Junzt?”

  Peter grinned guiltily. “Short term loan. I’m going to need it back by the end of the day tomorrow when they close for winter break.”

  “There are only four copies of Unaussprechlichen Kulten in public collections in the entire country. There’s no way they let you check it out. Is this a prank to get my heart rate up? Am I going to find a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover when I open it?”

  He shook his head, all traces of humor and mischief gone from his face, and she realized what a great risk he had taken to please her. Peter Philips, the straight arrow, had broken a rule that could get him in hot water for theft if he were caught. She’d been on the hunt for a copy of the book after noting a reference to it in her Man and the Supernatural textbook. Asking Peter to join in the search was something she’d done on a lark in the remote hope there might be a copy at Columbia. At best, she imagined angling for a quick look at the book in the confines of the Butler Library, where Barnard girls were barely tolerated. She’d never in her wildest dreams imagined he would abscond with it in a paper sack.

  “How…”

  “I make friends pretty much everywhere I go. They trust me because I keep my word. And I gave my word that this German abomination would be back on the shelf before anyone looks for it.”

  She knew she should take the package from the basket and thrust it back into his hands, urge him to return it right away, but the temptation was too great. If she passed up the opportunity, she might never have the chance to study the work again. According to Hildebrand, not even the Golden Bough had access to a copy. And if she didn’t sleep tonight, she could transcribe the sections that interested her and get it back to him within the time he’d been granted by whoever was doing him the favor of looking the other way. She was a fast typist.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Course I am, or I wouldn’t have brought it.”

  “Well, you really shouldn’t risk it on my account. But I won’t lie; it will be an enormous help in my studies. Barnard has come a long way since the days when they only had two shelves of books for the girls. Still, we can only dream of the resources you have at Columbia. Just promise me you’ll be careful when you return it. It’s a rare treasure. So are you.” She squeezed his hand.

  Peter smiled and looked away and she thought the rose bloom on his cheek wasn’t from the December air. But when he turned to look at her again, his expression was serious. “Maybe you’re the one who should be careful, Cat.” He spoke quietly, though they were alone on the path now, approaching the ivy-covered brick arch where she would have to leave him behind for her lecture. She climbed a step and turned to face him at eye level, the basket swinging at her side. “What should I be careful of? Strange men tempting me with illicit reading materials?”

  He laughed, but the sound had little humor in it. “I don’t know much about that book, but my friend said it has a reputation. Do you know what happened to the author?”

  She nodded.

  “So then you know he was found murdered in a room locked from the inside?” Peter asked.

  “Sounds like a case for Sherlock Holmes, right? Legends sprout up like mushrooms around books of this sort.”

  “What sort is that? Books about devil worshippers?”

  Catherine sighed. “I mistook you for a man of science, Dr. Philips.”

  “Well, I’m not a doctor yet, and you’re right, I don’t believe in devils in the literal sense. But what do you hope to get out of it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Knowledge.”

  He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “You know that mural of Athena they have at the entrance to the Butler Library? Goddess of Wisdom?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “They say she’s fending off the green demons of chaos and malevolence with her shield.”

  “Is that right?”

  “There’s a difference between knowledge and wisdom, Catherine. You know that, right? Same tree, different fruit.”

 
She smiled. Still waters ran deep. “I’ll keep that in mind. And thank you, Peter. Really. It means the world to me. I’ll return it safe and sound.”

  “I know you will. Would you like to see a movie this weekend?”

  “I was afraid you’d never ask.”

  “How about Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein?”

  “Perfect.”

  * * *

  They would take many more walks together as winter turned to spring and spring to summer—through city streets, brightly lit exhibit halls, and the shaded paths of Central Park. Peter would continue to loan Catherine rare books, usually in languages he couldn’t read, and Catherine would show her appreciation while keeping the contents to herself. She never spoke of her initiation to him, and if one of her private sessions with Walter Hildebrand conflicted with a date, she would tell Peter she had a faculty consultation for a project. For the most part, these excuses felt like white lies. It was only her increasing discomfort with them that led her to the realization she had found something special. But by the time it fully dawned, other stars were aligned, and it was time for her to fly.

  6

  There was no mistaking the concrete castle. It towered over Esplanade Road, complete with Moorish arches, parapets, and stained glass windows, its gothic grandeur undermined only by its modern construction. Catherine found it on an afternoon hike up the shore from the beach shack she’d rented less than a mile to the south. It looked deserted in the daylight, the only visible human figure near the place was a mannequin perched at the side of the road, dressed in a tuxedo and holding a bucket emblazoned with the words, THE RESIDENT. Some joker’s idea of a mailbox. The absence of a proper name on the bucket might have led her to wonder if Hildebrand had sent her to the right address. But it was the only castle on the street, and clearly the home of an eccentric. Satisfied she’d found it, she retreated to the beach house to meditate and fortify her psychic armor for the encounter ahead.

  When she returned at dusk, the stained glass was backlit in hues of purple, green, and gold. The beach crowd had thinned with the end of the day, leaving only a lone surfer and a woman walking a dog along the path that cut through the bottom of the grassy embankment, which sloped down from the road. Cars passed at long intervals, their engines droning into the distance as they splashed their light up the coast. Catherine walked without a plan, dressed in sandals, clam digger pants, and a yellow blouse patterned with little red flowers that brought out the fiery hues in her hair. In a small leather pocketbook, she carried a Minox subminiature camera Hildebrand had loaned her, a model favored by spies for the covert capture of maps and documents during the war.