Chapter 1
The house stood on a corner lot. A busy thoroughfare passed by on the right of the house; the other side faced a decrepit old cottage that was probably held together by chains of termites. The entrance faced a quiet street, not a dead end but near to it in the amount of traffic passing through.
A Victorian charm made the house look inviting. Curlicues and gingerbread decorations swept across the exterior. Lacy gauze curtains covered each window, except for the dormer window. Red-wine velvet curtains hung from that one. No hint of light ever shined from the top window, no flowery vase as appeared in the living-room window. But once a week, if neighbors bothered to look they would see the velvet curtains parted. Two hands would lift the window, and a third hand would quickly dispose of a blessed liquid offering that fell onto the abundant spring and summer flowers growing below. In winter the liquid would soften the layer of snow covering the ground. Year round the goddess accepted the offering.
On this night a full moon backdropped the black cat-shaped weather vane. Louis Sade had noted the sight before approaching the sage and pine wreath hanging on the front door. A thirtyish earth mother, Heloise, had brought him here to experience the old religion.
Now Louis stood in that dormer room, part of a human circle. They held hands. The earth mother's hand felt rough and strong. The woman on his other side had a softer, gentler grasp. He could hear her swallow in giant gulps as the others measured their breathing to the events of the evening. Undoubtably she was a new convert and a very young one, from what he could see. The girl appeared tender, unused, and highly susceptible. He would correct the cursory introduction that had been made by engaging her in a lengthy chat after the ritual had ended.
"Let us call the quarters," a meaty woman across from him said. "Zaira, would you perform the task?"
A spindly matronly-looking woman stepped from the circle and drew a black-handled knife from a scabbard lying low on her hip. Her green velvet robe dragged along the floor as she walked to the East. With the knife in her right hand she raised her right arm and spoke.
"Greetings unto the spirits of the East, Rulers of the Air, Gwydion, Master of Phantasy and Illusion. We call upon thee to guard our rites and protect our circle."
The lit candle before her flickered and died. Silence.
Louis smirked. If these women were really witches they would be unable to work their magic tonight, he knew. The young woman next to him seemed to stop breathing, while an octogenarian female used an altar taper to try and relight the Eastern candle. "Zaira, please move on to the South," said the meaty woman, who was high priestess.
Holding her knife high, Zaira faced the South, and the flame on that candle immediately died. Zaira cleared her throat and spoke, while the octogenarian rushed to light the South's candle.
"Greetings unto the Guardians of the South, Rulers of Fire. Bridgit..."
The elderly woman had no luck in lighting the candle. She turned and shrugged in the direction of the high priestess.
"There must be a draft in here," Heloise whispered. She gripped his hand tighter.
"No draft," pronounced the high priestess. She shivered when she made eye contact with Louis.
"Does this happen often?" Louis innocently asked.
"It has never happened before," pronounced the high priestess.
"Once," Heloise interrupted. "When Penelope's cat was in the room."
The matronly-looking woman's back stiffened. She sniffed her indignation.
"Perhaps you should scabbard the knife, Penelope," Louis suggested as he saw her hand tighten around the handle.
"Zaira," Penelope answered.
"We have magic names," Heloise explained. "I misspoke by using her mundane name. I'm Chrisyllis. Our high priestess is Bride, and then there's Amaranth," she said, nodding at the elderly woman, who continued trying to light the candle.
"And you, my dear?" Louis asked, turning to the young girl. Her eyes were wide, and she seemed speechless.
"She doesn't have a magic name yet. She's not initiated," said Heloise.
"So even in this room you're still called Lora." His eyes fixed on the girl's, and he rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. She didn't pull away, but she looked frozen and incapable of moving. Wisps of short brown hair framed Lora's face, emphasizing the arched brows, the round blue eyes, the short pert nose, and the succulently thick lips, parted just enough for him to glimpse the straight white teeth. His mouth watered, and the swelling in his loins forced him to change position. He noted that Lora’s nipples had hardened against the thin knitted cotton of her blouse.
"Louis." Heloise rested a hand on his arm. "The candles are relit. We're going to try again." She tugged at his sleeve until he turned to face the center of the circle.
The high priestess glared at him, and he amiably smiled back.
Gwydion was called again and the East went dark.
His smile grew broader as the high priestess' expression grew darker.
She's got me pegged, he thought.
"Why don't you call the guardians, Mr. Sade," said the high priestess.
Louis reached out for Zaira's knife and all the candles blew out.
"Don't give your athame to him." Zaira followed the high priestess' instructions and slid the knife back into its scabbard.
"Children, drunks, criminals, and the insane should never be trusted with sharp instruments. You are a sage woman." He sensed that the other women were confused, and each turned in a circle, checking each of the nonburning candles.
Finally Amaranth scurried over to the altar and took up one of the side candles.
"It will not be necessary to light the candles."
"But, Bride, shouldn't we try at least once more?"
"Amaranth, give the candle to Heloise's guest. Please light the candles, Mr. Sade."
For some reason unfathomable to Louis, the high priestess wanted a confrontation between him and the spirits. He knew she expected him to back down. Instead he took the altar candle and turned to the East.
In the East, South, and West, each candle's wick refused the flame's kiss; however, there were no other repercussions. He would complete the charade and then shrug innocently at his audience, he thought.
One last candle, in the North. Where the powers of the earth resided. He moved quickly in that direction, but found himself falling back a step, a heaviness building in his chest. He moved forward again and felt the suffocating weight of the earth pushing him down under its layers. He could not get within arm's length of the northern candle. Fear, an emotion that he had almost forgotten, tensed his body. He belonged under the earth, not above it. He should be decaying into the loam.
Bride now chanted in a Celtic tongue. He could not absorb the words; they seemed purposefully to rush by him. To whom is that exécrable femme calling? No one else said a word. The flame of the altar candle flickered. Hot wax fell onto the knuckles of his right hand. He gripped the candle too close to the flame. His hand was colder than it had ever been. The dripping wax caused practically no pain, since the hand was almost numb from frost. But he knew the room was warm. There was no chill, only the iciness of his death, which was coming for him again to recapture his condemned soul. Something hit the outside of the window, and the curtains behind the Northern candle shivered.
The smell of burning incense turned his stomach, but soon the fragrance was overcome by the odors of moss and clay. The earth wanted him back.
"No!" He tossed the altar candle at the window. "You can't have me!"
Bride was still chanting. He turned and saw that the other women were stunned. Amaranth suddenly reached out a hand. He followed the direction in which she pointed and turned to see the bottom of the velvet curtains smoldering. Jagged swirls of smoke ascended, followed by the lick of flames. But no one else moved.
Louis reached out and pulled the curtain from its rod. The window pane shattered, allowing a fireball to enter and light the North's candle.
Screams were rising behind him, but he stood his ground as a ribbon of fire circled the room.
"You imbécile!" he yelled at the high priestess.
And still she chanted in the Celtic tongue while the other women clustered together in the center of the room.
The black smoke from the carpet emanated a foul odor, a sickly, deathly odor of rotted souls sizzling in the depths of hell.
He would never succumb. He would survive and replicate as he always had done. The fire had cut off the exit. Black smoke clouded his vision. But he knew where the door was and rushed through the sooty fog. 
