The Psychonaut Read online

  Okay, so her sense of humour needs a little thawing out.

  “So, what are we up against, Lazlo?” he said, turning back to Karapetian.

  “I wish I knew exactly. Shamon will be accompanied by Sarlic, his ... what did you call him, Jason?”

  “A snake decorated as a bird of paradise.”

  “Yes. He’s little more than an errand boy with a sado-masochistic bent. But don’t trifle with him. Like us, Shamon will have brought along a far-seer and possibly one or two lieutenants.”

  “And you want me to weigh up his motivations. Is that right?”

  “Oui,” Barone said. “That and his underlings’ states of mind. You can tell a lot about an adversary’s strength from the relationship with his chain of command.” She looked out of the one-way glass and continued. “For example—are they loyal? And is this loyalty based on fear or respect?”

  “It could be both,” Merrick replied. “But I’m still going in a bit blind here. I normally have the full background of everyone in a business meeting. Tell me more about this Jagur Shamon.”

  “The first thing you should know,” Jason said, “is that his business is power and domination. He recognises few moral or magickal boundaries and uses anyone and everything to achieve his goals.”

  “His goals being?”

  “Ultimate and complete mastery of a growing empire. He’s aware of the gateways, and wishes to exploit them through his completion of the Great Work.”

  “So, not much different to you two then?”

  Jason shook his head. “The man’s a Philistine. He has no culture and seeks to enslave all who stand in his way. Our purpose is noble. We intend to share the fruits of our endeavours with mankind.”

  Merrick stroked his chin. “And establish a democratic order amongst the peoples of these new realms?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Whyte. Be in no doubt, we will rule a new order. But it will be benevolent, not a dictatorship.”

  “Really? Well I’m not averse to a bit of autocracy, but you’ll need to think about checks and balances in this new system of yours —and aren’t you overlooking something? Shamon doesn’t recognise any boundaries, yet you’re trusting this mage-lock thing to keep us safe?”

  “That’s why Celestia is here,” Karapetian said. “She has honed her powers of far-sight during time spent in the East. If anything goes awry, she’ll see it coming.”

  “Wait,” Barone interjected, “I sense their approach. They’re on the far side of the gas-holder.”

  “Right,” said Karapetian. “Let’s go. Albany, stay with the car.”

  “I’ll keep the engine running boss—just in case.”

  Karapetian and Jason led the way while Barone and Merrick followed.

  Merrick attempted a further thawing of relations with Barone. “I’ve been thinking,” he said under his breath, “what’s Karapetian’s contribution to the arsenal? I get that he’s a charismatic leader, but does he have any ability like ours?”

  “Watch him in action when you get the chance,” she replied. “You will see why he leads us.” Celestia Barone walked with a lithe grace, her black leather trousers looking like they were painted on. The halter top gave her freedom of movement but exuded style at the same time.

  Please God, if I die this afternoon, let me be reincarnated as her legwear. Merrick thought. A brief image of Lotus flashed across his mind at the intrusion of this carnal thought. He tried to banish it but it continued to flutter around the lamp of his new infatuation.

  After climbing a set of iron steps, they stepped out on to the, rust-streaked dome of the gas-holder. Four figures strode towards them.

  “Are you picking up anything, Celestia?” Karapetian said.

  “Three more adepts half a mile away. They’re unarmed.”

  “A back-up?” Jason asked.

  “It could be. Have you got anything, Merrick?”

  “Too far away. Wait until they get closer.”

  The figure at the front approached as a shadow, darker than the roiling storm clouds above. A dying beam of sunlight revealed a man dressed exotically in a fur-lined tunic. His black hair, formed in knots and plaits, festooned about his shoulders. It framed a weathered, oriental visage. Merrick couldn’t see his eyes, hidden as they were by a leather, lattice-like mask. Several black, studded strips hung from it, completing the impression of vanity.

  Just been to a masquerade? Merrick thought. Despite the mental jibe, his mouth was dry with apprehension.

  By Shamon’s side was a tall, long-haired statue of a man. Merrick detected palpable clouds of testosterone rising from him, balanced by an almost equal concentration of oestrogen. Unusual, he thought. Suggestive of androgyny—both hormones off the scale.

  “They’re all filled with intent,” he whispered to Karapetian. “The one on the far right is hiding his thoughts.” The man in question presented an expression grim as granite. “I think we’ll need to watch him.”

  The party of Ukurum stopped a couple of steps in front of them and the man in furs bowed simultaneously with Karapetian.

  “Lazlo, it’s been quite some time,” he said in a gruff, Eastern-inflected voice. The words slid like cobras off his tongue.

  “Indeed it has, Jagur. I don’t know if I feel honoured or insulted.”

  Shamon smiled but didn’t rise to the bait. “Let me introduce my associates. You know Sarlic of course.” He gestured to his right. “But I don’t believe you have met Radice or Theta.” The one called Radice remained expressionless, but Theta bowed, her headdress almost touching Karapetian as she did so.

  “Impressive, but impractical,” said Barone under her breath.

  Karapetian gave a flourish with his hand. “My colleagues are Jason, Merrick Whyte and Celestia Barone.”

  “Jason,” said Shamon. “Your rise through the Hierophants has been meteoric. Karapetian must value your indefinable skills.”

  Jason gave a restrained nod and folded his arms.

  “And Celestia,” Shamon continued, “your far-sight almost rivals that of Theta. You’ve nurtured some powerful talent, Lazlo. But Mr Whyte, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Merrick forced himself not to give a flippant answer. “It’s my privilege,” he said instead, mimicking Karapetian’s courtesy. Cold aura, he thought, and no detectable signs of sweating. There’s something else too—passionate, erotic love for Sarlic.

  “I know you didn’t come here to score points,” said Karapetian. “You called this meeting, but I must admit surprise, given our previous parting words.”

  “Yes, they were less than civil. But, in the interests of diplomacy, I felt it would be perspicacious of you to hear what I have to say.”

  Karapetian narrowed his eyes. “I’m listening.”

  “Very well. We both know that the procession of recent events has put us all on a threshold of sorts. The age of Horus is now eclipsed by something altogether different. I know of your delving into the gateway system, and you are aware of our order’s desire to complete the great work. Both endeavours work towards the same goal.”

  Shamon spread his hand wide in an arc. “All around us, the jaded ones jostle with each other for economic superiority, polluting the planet as they do so. They are oblivious to our hidden struggle. Our orders are like two great carnivores with huge overlapping niches. The law of ecology predicts this cannot continue. One will displace the other.”

  “And you think you’ll win this competition?” Karapetian said.

  “I’ll tell you what I think.”

  Increasing testosterone and supreme confidence. Also a disdain and lack of respect for his adversary. The analysis swept across Merrick’s pineal gland, and there he saw a weakness.

  Shamon continued. “I think you outgrow your resources, limited by your misplaced morality.” A trace of spittle seeped onto Shamon’s lower lip. Like a Komodo dragon he licked it off.

  “Misplaced morality such as refusing
to murder innocents or engage in the abhorrent practises of Moloch’s disciples?” Karapetian said, the contempt showing in his voice.

  “You are following the misguided example of your predecessors, Lazlo. Placing love above will. History is against you on this, which is why I want to give you one last chance to merge your order with our’s.

  Karapetian shook his head. “You’re deluded, Jagur. Our resources, as you call them, are considerable and grow by the month. This is why lesser orders seek us out and offer us agreeable terms of coalition. I think you know this, and recognise that your form of extremism is no longer popular amongst our kind. My answer, as I’m sure you predicted, has to be no.

  “Predictable, but nonetheless disappointing,” Shamon said. “When we next meet, it will not be on such pleasant terms. Never let it be said I didn’t offer you a way out.”

  Merrick sensed the leader’s conversation coming to a conclusion. He also sensed something else. Something coming from Radice—a push of consciousness. Neither overtly hostile nor friendly. He pushed back and Radice gave way. It was akin to a potential suitor’s brush-off.

  “Then I believe our business is concluded,” Shamon said. “I’d like to wish you every success, Lazlo. But that would be an unconcealed lie. So, I will just say Adieu.” He looked at Barone as he said this. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

  The Ukurum turned their backs on the Hierophants and walked away.

  “Well that wasn’t exactly productive,” Jason said.

  “Are we clear, Celestia?” Karapetian said.

  “No movement from the other three,” she said.

  “Looks like the mage-lock is holding then. Give me some detail Merrick. What was going on underneath the surface there?”

  He apprised Karapetian of his assessment as they made their way back to the car. Karapetian paused before opening the door.

  “Radice is incompetent,” he said. “I imagine Shamon reigned him in before he made a fool of himself. As for this attraction between him and Sarlic … hmm. It could prove useful in the future. Well done, Merrick. I think everything else was as expected. No ultimatum from him and nothing that should divert us from our course.”

  Barone looked pensive. “I can’t help feeling something else went down here.”

  “He loves to brag and preen himself in public, that’s all,” Karapetian said. “His order has no earthly allies yet, while ours forge bonds as we speak. Are the arrangements with the Hermetics complete, Jason?”

  “Signed in blood,” Jason replied.

  “What happens now?” Merrick asked, unsure if Jason’s remark was literal or figurative.

  “I think it’s time you moved in to Paraganet House,” Karapetian said. “We have much to plan, and you have a lot to learn. No need to pack for an expedition. I think you’ll find we have most things you need.”

  “It’s a bit like a five star hotel in some ways,” Jason said.

  Merrick smiled. “Is there a mini-bar?”

  “Always stocked,” Karapetian replied. “See you in the morning.”

  The Hierophants climbed into the SUV, which pulled away with a crunching of grit beneath the over-sized tyres.

  Merrick’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He slid the connect button without pausing to look at the caller id.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi.” Merrick’s pulse increased as he recognised Lotus’ voice. She sounded hesitant. To Merrick’s ears it was a siren song.

  “Hi,” he said again. “I didn’t expect to hear you again ... ever.” He tried not to make it sound accusatory.

  “I may have been a bit ... hasty. I got to thinking, and maybe … maybe I flew off the handle. I didn’t give you a chance to explain.”

  “Can I come over?” he interrupted.

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Chapter 12

  Hey angel

  Merrick’s life was running at breakneck speed. The encounter with the Ukurum had opened up another window into the secret world Karapetian lived in, but he still didn’t have full confidence in the Hierophants. He’d learned long ago that trust was something hard won but easily lost, and he didn’t believe either Karapetian or Jason had paid their dues yet.

  He’d given Karapetian a summary of his perceptions, but what he could never do was convey the breadth and magnitude of sensory information he’d acquired. Even now he was still processing it. If a cinematographer could record, in meticulous detail the footage his mind had accumulated from this one event, then the archive would form story boards both preternatural and aberrant. His third eye watched the playback while his natural eyes guided him on autopilot through the traffic.’

  He saw, as stream of consciousness, the awakening of the Ukurum’s power. It was part organism, infused with the chi of a non-empathic entity in an ancient Pangaeal existence. In another sense it was a product of mathematics, sprung from the womb of twisted calculus and abominable quantum fluctuations. It coalesced into being like a proto-sun, collapsing under its own gravity. No light escaped from its black maw. The essential core was a dark energy that, over millions of years, manifested itself as a pathway of magickal lore. With the parameters defined it rose, bound and encapsulated in a shibboleth, drawing practitioners from ancient primate hordes dominating as they spread, plague-like across the continent.

  Yet, like any organism, its spiritual DNA mutated. A mitotic offshoot developed, then budded off to form a counter-law, an alchemical check to balance the metastasis of malign intent. It too attracted its own adherents from different tribes. Thus virtue sprung from evil—the child subverting the parent.

  Merrick saw in the final frames of the storyboard how a filial battle ebbed and flowed over the centuries. The product was a spectrum of syncretic orders drawing differential sustenance from father and son. It was clear where the Ukurum were positioned on this spectral line, but where did the Hierophants place themselves? And where did he stand?

  By the time his car pulled up at the destination, black thunderheads formed over a static-laden sky. There was an electrical charge in the air as he stepped out onto the pavement. Drops of rain heralding a storm spotted the grey slabs with cochineal portent.

  The red slab of wood that was Lotus’ door stood framed by a Virginia Creeper, its tendrils hugging the brickwork like a a suckling infant. He raised the heavy, brass dolphin knocker and let it fall. There was movement behind the door and he tried to imagine her face again. When it opened, his memory of her dissolved—replaced by a newer, more vital image. She’d tied her hair up with a clip, revealing silver hooped earrings. The smile spreading across her face was at the same time warm, yet intriguing.

  She looked up at the thunderheads. “Come on in before you’re soaked.”

  He stepped into the narrow hallway and brushed off the raindrops from his jacket.

  “Here, let me take that,” she said. He handed her the jacket and followed her into an adjoining room. It was a spartan affair with only a chair and threadbare settee for furniture. Oil paint stained the bare floorboards and the scent of thinners filled the air. Canvasses, both blank and painted leaned against every wall. An easel supported one board in the centre of the room. He looked at it closely in the dimming light and saw it was a portrait of a man, more sculptured than painted. She’d laid the oils on in thick furrows, sweeping this way and that in a swirling pattern. The palette knife, parked below the picture dripped cerise on the pine below.

  “It’s me isn’t it?” he said, walking towards it.

  She threw his jacket on the sofa. “I started in the early hours. Couldn’t sleep, so I picked up the knife and kept going. There are rare times when art consumes me and I can’t eat or do anything until I’m finished.”

  The face was abstract, staring straight out from the canvas. Around it a whirlpool of brightly coloured glyphs and runes emanated, spiralling into the background.

  “It wasn’t
until my phone alarm went off that I realised I’d been totally absorbed. That’s when I rang you.”

  He turned to look at her and perceived a mixture of mischief and desire. It was bewildering, as if the conflicting qualities changed from one to the other, like heads and tails on a spinning coin. In the end, he stopped trying to fathom her. He took her face gently in both hands and pressed his mouth to hers.

  ~~~

  Lying in the bed afterwards, Merrick looked down at her. Linen sheets, half draped on the floor, were tousled across their bodies. She dozed with her head on his chest. He felt breath on his skin, could smell the jasmine-scent of her hair and knew this was a fragile completeness. Their love-making had been wordless and exquisitely intense. It bore them through the rapture of hours until they forgot themselves.

  She stirred, looking up at him with doe eyes. “What time is it?”

  He looked at his watch. “Seven thirty. You need to be somewhere?”

  “No. Well, I told the gang I’d meet up with them at the Twisted Wheel later.”

  “You’re in a gang?” he said, propping himself up on one elbow. “Are we talking outlaws here or hell’s angels maybe?”

  She looked out of the corner of her eyes. “Well, if you can keep a secret, I’ve joined the Yakuza.”

  He gave her a skeptical look. “You don’t have enough tattoos.”

  She paused. “I guess I should apologise.”

  “You guess?”

  Let me finish. You need to know why I went crazy.” She sat up and drew her knees into her chest. “I haven’t made the best choices in my relationships. It comes from being impulsive. I get caught up in the moment and then read too much into things. It seems my history is littered with men who wanted me as a possession, but then insisted they be free to do ... well, whatever.”

  “You don’t go a bundle on open relationships then?”

  “It’s not like we ever discussed it, they just assumed. The last guy was particularly shady and I became your typical trophy-girl. I thought I could handle it, but there was only so much I could take. I always had to be available for him, but when I demanded his attention I’d just get the cold shoulder.”