Episode 6: Metus

I return to my body.

That's the simplest way to segue from what was happening to what is happening – stating it simply, for your benefit, rather than conceiving of some artistic, even surreal introduction to this chapter. You have seen me wake in the dark from a drugged stupor before. This was little different – except this time someone is talking to me. The voice is the same one I was hearing before, while I was still in the Void: low, almost chanting, a bone-dry, genderless monotone. And it is nearby – to my right. I listen, unmoving, not even daring to breathe loudly.

“In those days shall you resign your peace with the eternal maledictions of all the righteous, and sinners shall perpetually execrate you; Shall execrate you with the ungodly. The elect shall possess light, joy, and peace; and they shall inherit the earth.”

What the Hell is going on?

Who has come to bother me now?

I almost expect these thoughts, articulate as they are, to echo aloud with this strange visitor's voice. they do not. But I notice something: While my office is as hot as it ever is – hotter, this summer, by the passing day – my head feels.... That isn't right, I realize. I feel something, like fingers or tentacles of cold just barely touching my scalp, almost probing my skull.

I don't know.

And what the Hell was that?

I don't know! But whatever it was, that Void had more to do with Peitho's poison than anything I did.

“But you, ye unholy, shall be accursed. Then shall wisdom be given to the elect, all of whom shall live, and not again transgress by impiety or pride; but shall humble themselves, possessing prudence, and shall not repeat transgression.”

Is it... quoting scripture?

It is.

We know this book.

“They shall not be condemned the whole period of their lives, nor die in torment and indignation; but the sum of their days shall be completed, and they shall grow old in peace; while the years of their happiness shall be multiplied with joy, and with peace, for ever, the whole duration of their existence.”

The Book of Enoch.

I shift in my chair when I recognize what I'm hearing. Not exactly an involuntary action – I am being rude by pretending to be asleep through all this – but not exactly how I might have intended to announce my consciousness. Surprise moves me.

We make much todo about the canonized books of the biblical traditions. The book this person – A priest? I don't know – is quoting is called the Book of Enoch. It has a storied and, some might say, interesting past. Written probably sometime in the five centuries Before, it was not included in the Jewish canon, then some five centuries After, it wasn't included in the Christian canon, either. Why not? This is a question that has plagued scholars – both professional and amateur alike – since the book was rediscovered – in the West, it was never missing in Ethiopia – in the 17^th century. It is easy, knowing how violently the heresiologists of the Early Christian centuries attacked anything they believed not to be Christian enough for them, to imagine that the Book of Enoch was banned, forbidden, owners or proselytizers of it hunted down and either forcibly removed from it or killed. This is especially the case after Aramaic fragments of the Book were found among the Dead Sea scrolls in the 1940s and 50s.

This book was, by the time this speaker was quoting it to me, lost to Christendom. How could he have read it? Did he travel to Ethiopia? Was he Ethiopian? Two things were immediately clear: I am listening either to a priest or a person extraordinarily well educated in history; and I should be afraid.

Since yesterday, the activity in my life sure has ramped up with a hurry.

But what does this passage mean – to the person speaking it?

It sure sounds a hell of a lot like an accusation.

Like an execration – a curse.

Sounds more like a warning, I think.

A warning?

Yeah. Like... if I don't shape up, bad things are coming to me.

Bad things have already come for you.

“And Enoch also, the seventh from Adam, prophesied of these, saying, 'Behold, the Lord cometh with ten thousand of His saints to execute judgment upon all, and to convince all who are ungodly among them of all their godless deeds which they have godlessly committed, and of all the harsh speeches which godless sinners have spoken against Him.'”

“Jude.” I hear the name in my voice.

“Ah. He has returned to us.”

There's no pretending I'm still asleep now. So I push myself upright with grunts and groans indicating the little ease with which I get there.

“It is good,” the priest-presumptive says. “We were growing bored with waiting.”

A groaned sigh deflates my lungs, as though I were waking up from a surprise nap rather than—

Whatever the Hell that was.

A visionary experience?

A dream, no more, no less. There is no Truth in what we witnessed.

I'm not so sure of that.

Never had a dream like that before.

Shaking my head, I use the chance, the pretense – though why I felt I needed it in the utter dark is beyond me – to rub my neck, to search my throat for Peitho's dart. It is not there, though I feel the raw spot pricked by it.

She wouldn't have left it.

Not that you could have learned anything from it.

I am almost inclined to argue with myself about this, but do not. It's not like I could have analyzed it for the properties which make it unique and identify where it was made or what the poison was or something. That was just fantastical thinking.

“Forgive us if we interrupt you, if we woke you rudely, Mister Longshore, but we must conduct with you an interview, and we have little time – or patience. You are familiar with this, yes? The Book of Enoch – the Book of the Watchers?”

“I am,” I admit. No sense in lying.

“This is good.”

Why is he talking to me from over there?

I turn my head toward the sound of the voice, and only then remember Peitho turning my chair ninety degrees away from my desk.

Well, at least he's respecting my desk? I don't know what else to take from this. I can't see anything. For that matter—

How can he see to know where your desk is?

If he's respecting it at all.

“There are many things in this world which must necessarily be secret. Occulted. This Book and its truths are among them. Though they are... useful, in educated hands.”

As I listen to this, I am peering into the dark of my office. And I'm almost certain I see something. It must be my imagination – the mind is prone to filling darkness with hallucinations, after all. But I feel sure that there is a shape, not that far from me, on the other side of my desk. I can describe it only as a sort of blacker-than black cloud – like a big puffy cloud, perhaps three of me across, and a little higher than my six feet. If I am almost certain that I see it, I am convinced that it is looking at and can see me.

“I see,” I say, running my hand through my hair at the back up to my forehead – in an effort to convince myself there aren't tentacle-fingered hands massaging my scalp.

My head is pounding.

Why is this happening?

What could they possibly want from me?

“We do not believe that you do, Mister Longshore.”

I have leaned forward in my chair, automatically reaching for the upper-left drawer and a Draig. Then I remember that it's to my right – and I'll have to fumble for it. If I can even reach it at all.

“It is dark. Allow us to illuminate you.”

Before I can think to wonder what this speaker means, I hear a snap! It sounds, at first, to be that of a dried twig – or bone. An instant later – or perhaps the same instance; perhaps it is only my awareness which is slow – two flames are dancing above the candles trisecting the clutter of my desk.

Their light is faint enough that they do not sting my eyes as I stare into the one on the right. Flames, glowing a sickly green which I can only describe as malevolent – repellant to my senses – dance, hauntingly, above my candles' wicks – neither consuming them, nor melting the wax. I want, almost, to reach out and touch them, but remember the account of Moses and his burning bush. I wish I were burning bush – that would make any of this make some kind of sense – if only in the retelling.

“That is better, we think. Expedient, at any rate. Now – Mister Longshore—“

My eyes, it is clear to me, have been avoiding looking at the speaker; but now I have no choice. I couldn't stop them from shifting between the candles had I wanted to. And I am horrified by what I find.

A hooded, black-robed figure stands in the sickly green light. He is short, for the time, five feet tall if he is lucky. And hovering behind him, I can almost believe that I see that same cloud-like black mass. It looks, if it looks like anything, like a torso, bent and looming over the head of the figure before me, arms dangling down by his sides. My first inclination is to fear. Is this the person that hired the thugs to attack me? Is this one of the hooded figures from my dream-vision-thing? No. The answer is immediately obvious. This is a priest. But not any priest of any order I've ever seen – and let me tell you, I'd seen a bunch of them, enough to think I'd seen them all.

The uniform of the Christian clergy has changed throughout the years – but not nearly so much as secular fashions have. For the most part, the garments have special meanings and were worn at special times. There are the cassock and the alb, for starters. The cassock is sort of ankle-length tunic – that being what the word means in Latin. It is similar to the habit of a monk. The Alb is worn over this, usually to celebrate the sacraments, especially and specifically the Eucharist. It is shorter, usually below or around the knees – like the Roman toga. There is a particular kind of belt or sash that is worn between these two articles, its colors and symbols bearing some particular significance. Bishops and other high-ranking clergy will wear, during the sacraments, a chasuble. This is effectively a poncho – being what it was developed from – and is brightly colored and elaborately embroidered.

The priest before me is wearing these articles. But unlike any priest I'd ever seen, his are all black. And his chasuble – his chasuble gives me long and unsettled pause. It is hooded. No chasuble to my knowledge is ever hooded. His face is hidden within its black maw. I remember the thugs.

Did he hire them?

Could he have not noticed that his hirer—

Was he hired?

...was a priest?

Was he instructed to conceal this?

It is decorated, but not with elaborate embroidery: from the neck to the hem descends an inverted white cross. But this – and the fact that I'm being visited by a priest at all – is not what fills me with the dread of the tormented damned in Hell.

Around his neck he wears a thin chain. Its links are too small for me to see, and woven in a tight spiral like rope. The metal of this chain seems to glow, faintly. Not with the reflection of the sickly green light floating above my candles, but as with a light all its own. From this, at the center of his chest, hangs another inverted crucifix, fashioned of that same fainly luminescent metal. Now... these inverted crosses are not, at the time, un-commonplace: Long before Satanists took in their antagonistic way this sign to be a mockery of Christ, the symbol was known as Saint Peter's Cross – in memorium of the particular way that apostle was martyred: upside down, in deference to – some might say one-upping – his Christ. It wouldn't even draw my attention if not for the way the arms and base flair out in sickle-moon arcs – not at all unlike the heads of three Franciska axes fashioned together, a comparison which I am drawing as I observe him – and the wickedly sharp gleam of their rounded edges. This crucifix is no mere piece of jewelry. It looks like a weapon – and not in the metaphorical sense.

I know him by his dress alone.

Venatores Maleficarum. Iustitiarius.

Impossible. They were disbanded.

Is an imposter any less dangerous?

All of this realization, this revelation, comes to me in less than the space of a breath, the beat of my heart. And in that time, I nearly forget he'd been talking.

“Good. You know us. Then we can continue without need for time-wasting introductions.” The priest smooths his robes behind his legs and lowers himself into the guest chair. “A woman came to your office today, Mister Longshore. We would discuss her with you.”

In an effort to take some measure of control of what is happening, I stand and turn my chair to face him. Sitting back down, I say:

“A – a woman? Do you mean Peitho?”

Instinct chuckles in its caves. How quickly you betray her.

I cannot see the priest's face, but I can hear the low sound he's making. It's not exactly a laugh, but it approaches close to it.

“Is that what she calls herself?”

Is he going to suggest the priest means Regina?

Does it make more sense that this priest would be here for Peitho than for her?

Does it make sense to suggest we know of Regina's possession?

She's not possessed.

She killed her husband!

There is ugly distaste in his monotonous voice. Time seems to be flowing strangely, as though it is stopping to give my thoughts time to speak. Something like that. Either that or this priest is a prodigy of dramatic pauses.

“I do not mean the one called Regina, she of the recently-deceased husband.”

Does everyone in Genoa know about Francis?

“He was not a well-liked man, we understand. Many were those paying his servants for the slightest rumor coming out of his house. It did not take much for them to extrapolate that he died – and horribly, we would imagine.”

How... has he had time to learn all of this?

How long have I been asleep?

Is he reading my mind?

“Secrets are not meant to be kept, Robert. Your Regina was not a woman of... discretion. But we do not wish to discuss them. Their fates are their own. I would like to discuss yours. What do you know of this woman, this Peitho?”

He says her name like he knows where it comes from.

Already know he's educated.

You want to try to guess how he has a book that's supposed to be lost memorized?

“Next to nothing,” I am thankful to answer honestly – if a moment later.

“Elucidate us.”

“She is a foreigner. Greek, I think. Educated. Either literate or somehow connected to the ancient oral traditions.” The words tumble out of me, as meaningless and half-thought as they are. Certainly no help to either of us in figuring her out.

“Why do you think this?”

“Because of the way she spoke. I think most of what she said was planned. Practiced. Almost like it was scripted – for or by her. Which makes sense. She had plenty of time – making her way here from Wherever, Greece – to practice what she would and would not say. But she made mistakes. That's how I noticed. Well, I noticed almost immediately. But I ignored it. That's why I took note of it. Thought maybe it was relevant somehow. She said things that I don't think she was meant to.”

What am I saying? I'm just rambling like an idiot.

Like an idiot who wants to be seen as cooperating.

Like an idiot who doesn't want to learn whether that crucifix can cut.

I knew the reputation of the Iustitiarii. I didn't want to test it.

“You know this to be true, or you suspect it?”

“I'm not really sure. I haven't thought about it. She—“

“Accosted you?”

I am shocked by this – until I see that the hood is moving in a way to indicate the priest is observing the wreckage made of my desk. I'd almost forgot about how Peitho had knocked my books to the floor.

“Yeah. You might say that.”

“This is what we believed when we found you. It is uncommon for a man to sleep in the middle of the day – when his office is so... disorderly as this.” He turns – that is, his hood turns – so that he might regard me. Is there more you would like to share?”

“I think she hinted at being part of some... secret society. I don't know. I don't know what to call it. What to even think of it. A mystery school or a cult of some kind. I'm really not sure. It wasn't much. Just a hunch.”

“Hm. A hunch. These are useful for your kind, are they not?”

I don't know what to say about this. My mouth just kind of hangs, half opened.

I—

Uh....

Your kind?

“There is so much Chaos about you, Mister Longshore. It is disappointing. We would prefer if you were ordered – of mind, if not of... comportment. Do you have cause to believe she is part of the Scholeio Demiourgoi?”

“No.” I was beginning to get used to hearing those words. Still, it was not exactly my favorite thing, hearing them from the mouth of a priest. Priests weren't supposed to know about the School. They weren't supposed to know it existed, and they weren't supposed to think it might still exist.

Who would be worried about the Scholeio besides the Venatores?

Shut up. Please. Just—

“She denied that,” I add for good measure.

“It is... difficult, witholding or concealing from you the Truth.” The priest seems to be mulling this over out loud, less to me than for himself. “This is a problem for us as well. Do you believe her?”

“I don't know whether it matters one way or the other.”

“A statement loaded with meaning. We could make great allies, you and we, Robert Longshore.”

“I prefer to work alone.” I try to laugh, but there is only anxious fear in the sound.

“Be not afraid. I am not here to harm you. Indeed, I am here only to help.”

“That would be easier to believe if I could see your face.”

Why did you say that.

He's hiding his face for a reason.

Probably a good one!

The priest rocks the chair back and forth on its short leg.

“You do not provide for your guests the same amenities you do for yourself.”

“That would give the impression I want them to be comfortable.”

“You do not.”

Not a question.

“If they're comfortable, they will stay.”

“We feel that this is meant as a joke, and yet you are not joking. Your work, hearing their confessions, listening to the secret evils of their hearts, it is not comfortable for you. Is this why you want them uncomfortable? You have made this space as a cave, as the mouth, the portal to Hell. You play Cheron, ferrying these people along the Styx of their lives, yet you wish them not to see you. You would prefer to be invisible. Although you know that they leave your office and talk about you. At this rate, it is a surprise the whole world does not know your name.”

I sure hope not.

Hope is for fools and the slothful.

I say nothing. There is nothing to say. He doesn't let me try anyway.

“You are like a pagan Martin of Tours: wherever you go, cities seem to spring to life and activity. Yet, instead of Enlightenment, closeness with God, you have chosen Oblivion. Why is this, we wonder? Why have you turned from God, your Father in Heaven? We know you know enough to know you do this. You make this dark choice. And still there are those who would entrust to you their lives – good Christian souls who likewise know better. They come to you to hear your oracle, your wisdom. They turn from God, but, finding you, are reminded to look for him. Why is this, we wonder?”

Until now, the priest's hands have been hidden within the long sleeves of his alb and resting in his lap. Now one of them appears, as he reaches for his hood. For a moment, I seize in fear – as much because of the desiccated nature of that hand, as pale as moonlight and covered in gastly burn scars, the bones and tendons jutting angrily against the skin as though they mean to tear through it like it were little more than desert-dried papyrus, as because he might reveal his face to me. I calm, only slightly, when the hand disappears into his hood, evidently to stroke or cradle his chin thoughtfully.

“You are interesting to us, Mister Longshore. When first we learned of you, we must admit, we wanted to strike you down. To destroy you and what you might wreak upon this world. We believed that removing you from the world would do the Soul of Man much good. But we have learned much since then. You and we, we are not so different. It is a shame, we think, that it was the Archi who found you first and not the Grand Magus of my Order.”

I don't even get a chance to react to this, let alone to consider its meaning.

“We have decided: we will do as you ask.”

And with that, the priest pulls the hood from his head.

I am shocked by what is revealed to me.

As beautiful as Peitho was to me, this man – if he, it, can even be called a man, a human – is hideously ugly.

His face is that of a mummy – the skin pulled too tight and shrunken so that the lips are permanetly pulled back from the broken, blackened teeth, and as white as bleached bone. Its eyes are a colorless grey, and as long as I will see its face, never seem to blink. What hair clings to its scalp does so in stringy, filthy clumps like starving leeches. And all over, networks, webs of gruesome scars, like burns – or unimaginably worse.

“Be honored, Robert. You have seen what no other man alive has – my face. Let this be a token of our friendship.”

I swallow hard, unable to look away.

What happened to you?

I don't think I can look at that for much longer without going mad.

It looks like a living corpse.

The agony that must be its existence.

I don't think I even want to know its name.

“I am known as Metus.”

I choke. It... smiles, I think is the word. Its shrunken, scarred lips pull back from the teeth, the cheeks move as though they mean to lift the eyes. But this gesture is not one of friendship, not one I can trust at any rate – it looks like... pride.

Some seconds later, I ask, because I have to say something, “Is that with an I or a U?”

“It would be interesting if it were an I, would it not? Two of the Okeanides come to you in one day? One of them the goddess of wisdom and deep thought and cunning magick? A handmaid of Zeus himself? Yes, I should think that that would be interesting. What a day that would be for you. Unfortunately – for you – no. It is not an I. It is a U.”

Latin: Dread.

Someone named him Dread? What kind of church—

You know what kind of church would name its priest Dread.

No. I don't.

The Venatores—

“Still your mind, please, Robert. We have much yet to discuss, and we would command your full attention. You have nothing to dread from me.” I hear the wicked smile in his voice. Try to tell myself I don't see the ghastly light sheen on his crucifix with a subaudible shhhhhheee like the removal of a sword from its scabbard.

“What – what do you want with me?”

“It happened after the sons of men had multiplied in those days, that daughters were born to them, elegant and beautiful. And when the angels, the sons of heaven, beheld them, they became enamored of them, saying to each other, Come, let us select for ourselves wives from the progeny of men, and let us beget children. Then their leader, Samyaza, said to them; I fear that you may perhaps be indisposed to the performance of this enterprise; And that I alone shall suffer for so grievous a crime. But they answered him and said; We all swear; And bind ourselves by mutual execrations, that we will not change our intention, but execute our projected undertaking. Then they swore all together, and all bound themselves by mutual execrations.

“Their whole number was two hundred, who descended upon Ardis. Then they took wives, each choosing for himself; whom they began to approach, and with whom they cohabited; teaching them sorcery, incantations, and the dividing of roots and trees. And the women conceiving brought forth giants, Whose stature was each three hundred cubits. These devoured all which the labour of men produced; until it became impossible to feed them; When they turned themselves against men, in order to devour them; And began to injure birds, beasts, reptiles, and fishes, to eat their flesh one after another, and to drink their blood. Then the earth reproved the unrighteous.

“Moreover Azazel taught men to make swords, knives, shields, breastplates, the fabrication of mirrors, and the workmanship of bracelets and ornaments, the use of paint, the beautifying of the eyebrows, the use of stones of every valuable and select kind, and of all sorts of dyes, so that the world became altered. Impiety increased; fornication multiplied; and they transgressed and corrupted all their ways. Amazarak taught all the sorcerers, and dividers of roots: Armers taught the solution of sorcery; Barkayal taught the observers of the stars; Akibeel taught signs; Tamiel taught astronomy; And Asaradel taught the motion of the moon. And men, being destroyed, cried out; and their voice reached to heaven.

“Then Michael and Gabriel, Raphael, Suryal, and Uriel, looked down from heaven, and saw the quantity of blood which was shed on earth, and all the iniquity which was done upon it, and said one to another, It is the voice of their cries; The earth deprived of her children has cried even to the gate of heaven. And now to you, O ye holy ones of heaven, the souls of men complain, saying, Obtain Justice for us with One the Most High. Then they said to their Lord, the King, Thou art Lord of lords, God of gods, King of kings. The throne of thy glory is for ever and ever, and for ever and ever is thy name sanctified and glorified. Thou art blessed and glorified. Thou hast made all things; thou possessest power over all things; and all things are open and manifest before thee. Thou beholdest all things, and nothing, can be concealed from thee. Thou hast seen what Azazel has done, how he has taught every species of iniquity upon earth, and has disclosed to the world all the secret things which are done in the heavens. Samyaza also has taught sorcery, to whom thou hast given authority over those who are associated with him. They have gone together to the daughters of men; have lain with them; have become polluted; And have discovered crimes to them. The women likewise have brought forth giants. Thus has the whole earth been filled with blood and with iniquity. And now behold the souls of those who are dead, cry out. And complain even to the gate of heaven. Their groaning ascends; nor can they escape from the unrighteousness which is committed on earth. Thou knowest all things, before they exist. Thou knowest these things, and what has been done by them; yet thou dost not speak to us. What on account of these things ought we to do to them?

“Then the Most High, the Great and Holy One spoke, 2. And sent Arsayalalyur to the son of Lamech, Saying, Say to him in my name, Conceal thyself. Then explain to him the consummation which is about to take place; for all the earth shall perish; the waters of a deluge shall come over the whole earth, and all things which are in it shall be destroyed. And now teach him how he may escape, and how his seed may remain in all the earth. Again the Lord said to Raphael, Bind Azazel hand and foot; cast him into darkness; and opening the desert which is in Dudael, cast him in there. Throw upon him hurled and pointed stones, covering him with darkness; There shall he remain for ever; cover his face, that he may not see the light. And in the great day of judgment let him be cast into the fire. Restore the earth, which the angels have corrupted; and announce life to it, that I may revive it. All the sons of men shall not perish in consequence of every secret, by which the Watchers have destroyed, and which they have taught, their offspring. All the earth has been corrupted by the effects of the teaching of Azazel. To him therefore ascribe the whole crime.

“To Gabriel also the Lord said, Go to the biters, to the reprobates, to the children of fornication; and destroy the children of fornication, the offspring of the Watchers, from among men; bring them forth, and excite them one against another. Let them perish by mutual slaughter; for length of days shall not be theirs. They shall all entreat thee, but their fathers shall not obtain their wishes respecting them; for they shall hope for eternal life, and that they may live, each of them, five hundred years.

“To Michael likewise the Lord said, Go and announce his crime to Samyaza, and to the others who are with him, who have been associated with women, that they might be polluted with all their impurity. And when all their sons shall be slain, when they shall see the perdition of their beloved, bind them for seventy generations underneath the earth, even to the day of judgment, and of consummation, until the judgment, the effect of which will last for ever, be completed. Then shall they be taken away into the lowest depths of the fire in torments; and in confinement shall they be shut up for ever.

“Immediately after this shall he, together with them, burn and perish; they shall be bound until the consummation of many generations. Destroy all the souls addicted to dalliance, and the offspring of the Watchers, for they have tyrannized over mankind. Let every oppressor perish from the face of the earth; Let every evil work be destroyed; The plant of righteousness and of rectitude appear, and its produce to become a blessing. Righteousness and rectitude shall be for ever planted with delight. And then shall all the saints give thanks, and live until they have begotten a thousand children, while the whole period of their youth, and their sabbaths shall be completed in peace. In those days all the earth shall be cultivated in righteousness; it shall be wholly planted with trees, and filled with benediction; every tree of delight shall be planted in it. In it shall vines be planted; and the vine which shall be planted in it shall yield fruit to satiety; every seed, which shall be sown in it, shall produce for one measure a thousand; and one measure of olives shall produce ten presses of oil.

“Purify the earth from all oppression, from all injustice, from all crime, from all impiety, and from all the pollution which is committed upon it. Exterminate them from the earth. Then shall all the children of men be righteous, and all nations shall pay me divine honours, and bless me; and all shall adore me. The earth shall be cleansed from all corruption, from every crime, from all punishment, and from all suffering; neither will I again send a deluge upon it from generation to generation for ever.

“In those days I will open the treasures of blessing which are in heaven, that I may cause them to descend upon earth, and upon all the works and labour of man. Peace and equity shall associate with the sons of men all the days of the world, in every generation of it.”

I listen to this, transfixed. Unable even to consider thinking about what any of it could mean – to him; I think I understand what it meant to the author.

“You have heard this before, no?” Metus asks. I had, actually – in Ethiopa, where so many of the oldest things can be found, still as fresh as when they were new. “We do not need to ask. We see your mind written plainly on your face. The Book of Enoch. Yes. Forbidden to most of our kind – forgotten, destroyed – but not to our kind. Not by our Order. Not to one such as we – a Iustitiarius of the Venatores Maleficarum!”

The sickly green flames glow brighter. My heart falls.

“Those beings, the Nephilim and the Watcher angels from whose unholy union they were born, have survived the Great Flood, hidden as they were, in the bowels of the Earth. We were formed to stand against them if ever their prison-tomb they should attempt to escape. I was made, wrought, like a sword and shield and commanded: 'Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.'”

Swallowing hard, I hear words I cannot believe coming from my mouth:

“You think that Peitho—“

“We do not think, Fulcrum. Robert, We know that this creature, this Peitho, is not as she claims. But be you not afraid. You are only in danger should you choose to align yourself with her evil cause.”

“I don't even know what her cause is.”

I feel panicky. Madness of the sort this priest, this Metus, suffers from – if suffer he does – conviction, that is, to name it – is contagious. It is a tide, a tsunami, which pulls all within its reach who are not prepared into its depths. It is a flood, and was I like that son of Lamech, one Noah by name, prepared with an Ark of my own? I did not believe so.

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

My mind is spinning with all these verses. I knew them – of course I did – but what they could mean in this context was too much for me to discern. And again, the priest, the Metus, did not give me time to attempt this.

“Today is what matters. For you, Longshore, today is the Day of Judgment.”

“What do you want me to do?”

If I didn't understand exactly why I resisted Peitho, I know exactly why I'm willing to ask this of this Metus: I don't want to learn what he can – or will – do with that crucifix.

“She wants you to find an item that has been loosed upon the world. Is this not what she told you? It is something like that, we know it. Are you familiar with the Rod of Asclepius, Robert?”

I nod, but say nothing. Am I really so transparent?

Or is he reading my mind?

“It is good that we do not have to discuss with you ever detail of what we must say to you. I am glad we can... converse... on like terms. Whatever you do, do not find her artifact. Do not so much as look for it. There are things in this world of great... power. Significance. They are symbols, nothing more. And yet symbols which demand questions – and with their answers, action. These questions must not be allowed to take seed in mens' hearts, Robert. You may think you understand what it is the Church wants – the pitiful thing the Roman Catholic Church with it's pathetic and human Pope atop the Throne of Saint Peter is – has become. You may think you understand what we want. You may think that it is a crime to keep men ignorant of the battle for their souls. But it is the greatest good that can be done. Let those who are properly equipped, adequately educated, deal with Evil. Let other men live their lives in peace. Is this not what the author of Enoch teaches us?”

Is it?

Metus's hands caress the crucifix hanging from his neck delicately, like one might a rosary – or a favorite blade. Then, with an oddly discordant jingling of the chain, stands, covering his head once more with his hood.

“We have said too much. Go home, Robert. Leave this foolish life of pretending after the Truth. Leave the lives, the souls, of these people to those prepared to protect them from the attacks of the Evil One. You are not what you believe you are – you were not properly prepared, adequately educated. Abandon this folly as you wisely abandoned the Scholeio Demiourgoi. Go to your wife. Love her and the children with which God the Almighty will reward you – like he rewarded Abraham and Isaac and Jacob. Be happy. And stay out of our way.”

I realize, as he says this last, that Metus has been walking across my office to the door. He opens it and I am blinded by the afternoon sun.

“And give up the alchemy in your basement. We really don't want to kill you. We would like it if next we meet our chat could be this casual again. We are sure there is much we might learn from you – and much we might teach.”

The door slams shut.

The sickly green flames die.

And I am left alone once more.

In a dark that feels darker than ever before.