LIGHTS FLASHED INTERMITTENTLY AS a rushed crowd of screaming fans and paparazzi swarmed the limousine like insects on a porch light. High above, beaming lights pierced the clouds, moving about like two swords dueling in the heavens, lighting up the night sky from downtown LA. The event had lured countless onlookers and press alike, a monumental movie premier drawing out the who's-who of Hollywood elite and entertainment professionals the world over. The famous theatre's global premier of an A-List blockbuster was a grand event in this city, one which many would sacrifice just about anything to be included, but amongst the renown and desperate alike there was one who felt out of place, like she had no business attending.
Chelsea had spent the last few days working on her debut album, her voice feeling scratchy and irritated from countless takes of the same annoyingly catchy songs, which had somehow escaped her personal seal of approval. The trauma of the contract signing ritual was still ripe in her mind, but as time snailed by she was beginning understand the double-edged sword of her indoctrination. She had been savagely ravished and abused, and the memories of this event rendered the talented singer less willing to fight for creative control of her own work. Letting go the quality of her craft was nothing compared to what had been taken from her that night, and so she had spent these last few days simply agreeing to anything the producers suggested. Like a beaten horse, there was nothing soulful left in her once brilliant green eyes.
These were not songs of her own design, but written by the same pop-writers who orchestrate all of the industry's big hits; each melody less like poetry and more of a manufactured synthetic forfeit of creative thought. Every moment spent in the recording studio, there was an obvious ambience of forfeit, knowing each song would have been recorded by another, had her producers not acquired the rights. This is how the modern era produced mechanical music which seemed to sound the same, she was convinced. Still, Chelsea swallowed her pride, selling her soul to the Godfather for outright enslavement disguised as fame and fortune.
She had put in the work, regardless, sinking herself into her craft as Harris had suggested, and the results were somewhat pleasing but frustrating, as she had not been permitted to record her own songs. The title track of her debut album was the first to be recorded and mastered to perfection. It was an exceptionally catchy song, there was no denying, but it wasn't Chelsea Ellis. Ironically, the song sounded exactly how she felt day-in and day-out, merely a shadow of her former self. There was neither grace nor rectitude remaining in both her music and general demeanor, but merely the callous and apathetic version she barely recognized.
Though she had never thought it possible, Chelsea found herself yearning for her busking days, as at least the street performance was virtuous and reverent. She could play on street corners with her head held high, unscathed by the sinister men who pulled the strings behind the preverbal curtain of the entertainment industry. As the broken soul watched the paparazzi rush the limousine, there was no virtue in her eyes, only shame and indifference.
This was supposed to be a time of celebration, but the devilish red eyes of the Shadow Man had been burned onto her psyche like a hot cattle prod. His was an evil she had never known, and for the first time in her life there were monumental questions regarding faith, God and the like; for if the demon had existed before her very eyes, where were the angels and saints to stand guard on her behalf?
The City of Angels was a tragic irony, as nothing holy could possibly dwell here, she was convinced.
Harris Hangman sat at her opposite in the back of the limo, her eyes slightly glazed over. She wore a shimmering red gown, the slit so high it exposed her pelvis had she shifted at a particular angle, and matching silk gloves which stretched to her elbows. Perfect strands of blonde locks tickled her collar bones, having sat for the last hour and a half as her make-up and hair specialists went to work, though she had found herself drifting off at her dressing mirror more than once. A relentless yearning to mess up her hair and tear at her clothes took great willpower to thwart, her inner Kurt Cobain relentlessly prodding at her very soul when she caught her reflection in the window.
Chelsea looked into the eyes of a photographer trying desperately to sneak a peek through the dark tinted window at the rear of the vehicle.
'I don't understand what I'm doing here. Nobody even knows who I am yet.' she stated, pouring herself a second glass of scotch from the mini-bar; the cool, smooth liquid soothed her throat after a long day of overuse.
'That's exactly the point, deary.' He stated, eyes lowered to the midnight black carpeted floor of the vehicle. 'They know who I am. When we are seen meeting up with some of the more seasoned celebrities the world will become obsessed with discovering your identity. Anticipation is a key strategy.'
'I don't want to be here.' she shook her head. 'I just want to go home.'
'Don't we all?' he forced a defeated smile, avoiding eye contact.
Chelsea had been home sick since her arrival, and now more than ever she felt like coming to L.A. was a horrible mistake. She neither wanted to mingle nor play with the other celebrities, wanting no more than to feel the cool touch of her own pillow back in her home town. Everything about the City of Angels felt blasphemous and corroded at the core, and a return to innocence seemed the only remedy.
'You won't have to do much, love—just smile, wave and shake hand or two.' He reached into his pocket and sniffed something, as though his drug addiction had become much more than habit but second nature. He was not dressed nearly as formal, his long hair worn down matching his usual V-neck shirt, multiple tribal necklaces and leather arm bands. Harris looked much more the part of a rock'n'roll icon than she did, which irritated his counterpart, as Chelsea felt as though she were being groomed as a sex symbol. 'Watch the bloody movie and go back to the hotel. No one is expecting any more than an appearance tonight, so just play your part accordingly. You know . . . get the media stewing a bit.'
'When can I leave? I know I have to do a tour at some point, but—'
Harris cut her off with a frustrated sigh, and so she lowered her eyes and took another gulp of scotch as her friend pulled the long strands of hair from his rugged, unshaven face, hooking them behind his ears and locking his gaze unto her.
'Look, Chelsea . . . this lifestyle takes some getting used to. It's going to take time to adjust, but you'll get there, I promise. You're supposed to be flying right now—sitting on top of the world.'
'I would be if I wasn't fucking drugged and sexually—'
'You are forbidden to speak of such things.' He cut her off with a stern tone. 'He's always listening, you know that.'
'What about you? Are you not a prisoner yourself? Don't you ever wish you could step away from this bullshit?'
'Of course I do. I have a wife at home—well . . . had a wife at home, I suppose.' he shrugged his slumped shoulders. 'Not to mention two kids who won't even speak to me. I can't even remember the last time I saw them.'
'Well, there you have it. There's got to be a way to—'
'There's not.' He gave no lean to argue further. 'Now, I suggest you change the topic and mind your tongue. God-awful things happen to those who defy the Chief. Just shut up and pull yourself together, before you get us both killed.' he insisted before lowering his head and sniffing yet another tiny spoonful of cocaine. 'Now, have your dinner and let's get out of here.' He handed her the tiny tube of what was supposed to be chapstick. 'Security is approaching the car.'
'I don't want any more fucking drugs.' she sniggered.
'Suit yourself.' he shrugged again and reached for the door latch, forcing a smile. 'Do try and play nice, won't you, deary?'
The doors opened as Harris stepped out of the vehicle. Being a lesser-known celebrity, many of the crowd dispersed and moved on to more popular Hollywood figures. Nevertheless, he gave a wave to the remaining crowd as security personnel surrounded the door, and he extended a hand to help Chelsea out of the limousine. As the vehicle pulled away, another quickly took its place and the crowd of paparazzi swarmed once more.
The two musicians walked arm-in-arm down the red carpet, stopping for photo-ops as Chelsea smiled as authentically as possible, her inner self not nearly as enthusiastic.
'You think he's here tonight?' she asked under her breath so only Harris could hear.
'Who?' he asked as they stepped through the golden archway of the famous theater.
'You know damn well, Hangman.'
Harris let out a deep, exhausted sigh and replied.
'Most likely; though he doesn't always take the form you expect. Now, I'm done talking about it, if you wouldn't mind. Ignorance is bliss, and you'd do well to let it go.' His tone grew harsh as the couple approached a small crowd of film producers. One in particular eyed her up in a way that had Chelsea feeling rather uncomfortable.
'Who's the new meat?' the man welcomed them into his inner circle. His receding hairline and cratered face added to his overweight figure, completing the look of a predator amongst prey. Harris delayed for a moment, perhaps unsure if introducing Chelsea to this particular man was such a good idea.
'This is Chelsea—sort of an up-and-comer in the music industry. Chelsea, this is Harvey.'
Stepping closer, his aging features crinkled with intrigue in an almost sickening way.
'I see . . . and does Chelsea have any interest in the film industry?' he asked, even though she instinctually backed away from him, unwilling to shake the man's hand. Though he seemed polite, she could sense his intentions, and her blood curdled at the thought.
'I'm a singer, not quite the actress, I'm afraid.' she shrugged nervously.
'Pity,' he replied, his dirty eyes scanning her from stiletto to cleavage. 'You have talent, it seems. Let me know if you change your mind. There's always room in my films for your kind of . . . talents.'
'She's under his wing, Harvey. It would be wise to keep your distance.' Harris warned.
His gaze turned hungry, as though the very thought of forbidden property only fueled his perverse thoughts, the taboo pulling him inward as Hangman hastily lead her away. The sudden jolt almost caused her to fumble, but she gripped his arm and held tightly as they moved further into the crowd.
'Who the hell was that?'
'Film titan—bit of a creep, really. I've heard some unsettling rumours about that man. Stay away from him if you value what virtue you have left. He's been pushing his luck as of late, and the Chief's just about ready to throw him to the wolves.'
'You mean . . . expose him?' she assumed.
'Harvey has done enough damage in his career to create his own leverage. One word from your Godfather and his accusers will have permission to pounce. He'll lose everything he's worked hard to build, and good fuckin' riddance, if you ask me. If he makes the slightest move on you, for your own sake and many others, say something. That man would be behind bars if he weren't of such value professionally.'
The Hollywood premier was stocked full of the elite. Flowing, shimmering gowns, pressed tuxedos and flutes of champagne were nowhere out of sight. Every turn of her gaze was another familiar face, and for the first time Chelsea felt truly exposed, an outsider looking in, never really one with the crowd.
A set of distressing eyes suddenly crossed her path, as yet another recognizable face revealed a frantic sense of apprehensiveness. He was the star of the film they were there to watch, but seemed to be the most uncomfortable of them all.
'No, I aint aright, believe that!' he argued with his co-star. Both men were normally hilarious individuals, as Chelsea knew them well from their many film and television appearances, but there was nothing funny about their demeanor in the moment, the topic of discussion growing heated as the skinnier of the two looked around, hoping to calm his friend and not make a scene.
'Just calm the fuck down, Mart—'
'I'll put a bullet in that mo-fuckas head before I put on a fuckin' dress. He aint gonna demean us no more. A brother's got rights, damn it!'
'I feel ya, mah man, trust me; we all had to do it. But this aint our world, and you know what he's capable of. Now, you the strongest brotha I know, but you aint gonna survive this; you feel me? You don't wanna be goin' around shooting your mouth off for all to hear—'
'I aint afraid of that mo'fucker; believe that. I was raised a good Christian boy, and I know what he is . . .'
The conversation faded with the commotion of the crowd, as the two musicians ventured further inward, leaving Chelsea curious as to what the Godfather had done to get the popular star so ruffled.
'What was that all about?'
'Black men in the film industry are . . . treated rather different, if you didn't know.' Hangman lowered his eyes in sympathy. 'No point in discussing the matter when there's nothing we can do to change it, I'm afraid.'
'The Godfather is a racist?'
'What part of "evil" didn't you understand, Chels? Now, don't wander too far. It's my duty to keep an eye on you for the night, you understand?'
'Yes, of course. But why would I want to wander?' she asked, the conversation between the two famous comedians still fresh in her thoughts. If anything, she was slightly relieved she wasn't the only one who felt trapped, even though there was a lingering guilt, knowing they were treated even worse simply for being black.
Thoughts suddenly froze in place as her question was answered in an obvious fashion. Chelsea's wide stare caught view of a man who, like Harris, didn't wear a tuxedo at all, but appeared as though he'd stepped right out of an album cover. His long, dark hair rested over an open sports coat, sleeves scrunched up, his many arm tattoos exposed and a large silver cross hanging from his neck.
'Oh, my God! Is that—'
'Sharon and Ozzy?' he smiled widely as to tell her "I told you everything would be fine." 'Well, don't just stand there like a deer caught in bloody headlights; go and meet the man, already. Make some friends for fuck sakes.'
'No, I—I couldn't possibly—'
'Go!' he insisted playfully, lightly pushing her toward the famous couple. Harris Hangman let her meet her lifetime idol by her lonesome, as he was specifically ordered. He hung back to discuss business with a fellow musician, allowing his new friend to make her own way.
More nervous than she had ever thought capable, Chelsea stepped forward and approached the famous couple. Her heart pounded and palms sweated as she recalled the first album she had ever purchased. The young girl had saved up her allowance for a month just to buy it on vinyl. Her tiny twelve-year-old hands gripped the record in awe, as the image of Ozzy Osborne on the cover of "No Rest for the Wicked" flashed within her mind's eye. He was indeed her greatest musical influence, and was now standing a mere three feet away.
'Aren't you quite lovely, dear?' a charming English accent addressed her. 'I was curious as to when you were going to poke your head up.' said Sharon, her bright, pleasant smile and welcoming eyes now focused on Chelsea Ellis of all people. Her husband carried on beside her with whom she assumed to be a security guard, as the large man's gaze kept watchful attention.
'Y—you know who I am?' Chelsea barely managed to spit it out.
'Of course we know who you are, darling.' she beamed, reaching forth and grazing her gloved arm affectionately. 'Our mutual friend tells us you are set to make quite the splash on your upcoming tour. We've been most anxious to meet you, isn't that right, Ozzy dear?' She looked to her husband, but he seemed more focused on his conversation with the guard, laughing and carrying on.
'Ozzy; it's Chelsea.'
'Who the fuck cares, Sharon, honestly . . .'
'Chelsea Ellis.' she repeated slightly louder, but much clearer as to demand his attention. A fleeting memory abruptly kicked in, and the eyes behind his dangling black locks, covered by red, circular frames, suddenly came to realization.
'Chelsea . . . yes, of course, Chelsea. I apologize, dear—the name slipped for a moment, as does many things these days, you can imagine.' He reached forth and shook her hand, many bracelets dangling from his tattooed arms. Ozzy's handshake wasn't nearly as firm as she was expecting, but she froze in her spot, still in shock and lost in wanderlust. 'I'm not the head-sure, and cock-strong spring chicken I once was.'
'You mean headstrong and cock-sure, Ozzy dear.' Sharon corrected.
'What did I say?' he asked, genuinely confused, but Chelsea's voice was caught in her throat.
'Cock strong.' The security guard chuckled.
'Yes, quite the feat for a man my age, wouldn't you say, Chelsea?' he winked.
'Are you all there, dear?' asked Sharon as the newbie's jaw slightly dangled.
'Happens all the time, I'm afraid; nothing I'm not used to, I assure you.' Ozzy waved his hand before her eyes, and she suddenly snapped out of her star-studded trance. 'I'm just a normal person, like yourself, dear. Do try and pull it together, will you?'
'I—I'm sorry; I'm usually not so nervous.' She gave her head a shake, and followed with an awkward laugh.
'He told me you'd be a bit star struck to meet my Ozzy. We're told my husband is somewhat of an inspiration to your ongoing career; an honour, truly from what we hear of your potential. Our meeting was, of course, no co-incidence. In fact, we rarely make it out for these celebrity gatherings, but he was quite insistent that we meet you in a somewhat public setting. You know the Godfather—never takes "no" for an answer, that one.'
'You're here . . . for me?' she asked, her palms sweating even more as she thought of it. The fact that her idol was willing to drop all plans just for her was overwhelming. After a moment passed of awkward silence, Sharon smirked.
'Well, I'll leave you to it then. If you'll excuse me I have business to discuss with Ms. Winfrey.' Pointing, Chelsea spotted the famous talk show host waving in the distance. 'There is truly no rest for the wicked, I'm afraid.' Sharon winked, her words more ironic than she could possibly know.
'Of course; it was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Osborne—'
'Please, call me Sharon, dear. You are family now, after all.' Sharon kissed her lightly on either cheek and stepped away from the conversation, leaving Chelsea alone with her greatest inspiration.
'Well, don't just stand there like a twat, tell me about yourself. M'supposed to get to know you, after all.' said the Metal icon.
'Uhm . . .' she froze yet again.
'Contrary to popular belief, I'm not in the habit of talking to myself, so you're gonna have to eventually speak up, I'm afraid.'
'I'm . . . such a big fan.' she exhaled, finally relaxing her demeanor toward the so-called Prince of Darkness, though he wore his Christian cross with pride around his neck.
'Yes, there you are. Noise from the throat goes far in means of communication, wouldn't you agree?' he smiled. 'The Chief tells me you pull off quite a remarkable rendition of Tinkertrain. It takes a lot to impress a man like him, so that's certainly saying something.'
'Yes, it's a band tradition to end each gig with Mr. Tinkertrain. Our regular crowd has come to expect it, actually; just heavy enough to go out with a bang, every time. You . . . mention our mutual friend with no regard for the rules, I noticed. I thought we were forbidden to speak of him.'
'You are forbidden; bloody evil bloke hasn't got much on me, however. Back in the Sabbath days, we scarcely needed help moving forward. My solo career, on the other hand, needed a bit of a boost after Diary of a Madman. Records sales were plummeting; shit, I had to release Speak of the Devil just to get in his good graces again.'
Once again Chelsea's voice caught in her throat, listening to him talk about his career, the simple concept that she was even standing there with him was an overwhelmingly surreal thought.
'Look, there's somewhere private we can talk.' The metal legend gestured toward a nearby stairwell, and Chelsea didn't hesitate. 'My agent has secured us my regular private balcony if you wish to join me for the evening. There is much that shouldn't be discussed amongst this particular crowd.' Lead by his head of security, the two newly acquainted musicians stepped through the busy hall. As they climbed up the stairwell she tried to settle her nerves, as she could feel countless eyes upon her.
Reaching the top landing, she gazed upon the interior of the historic theatre, a massive screen mounted before a thousand famous faces, many still making their way to their seats from the crowded and slow-moving entrance hall.
The metal mogul sat at a small table as several drinks were served, and a seat was pulled out for Chelsea.
'Leave us the bottle and fuck off, if you please.' he addressed the servers, and three politely bowed, vacating the spacious balcony and leaving them alone.
'Oh!' Chelsea's spine straightened, suddenly remembering that she wasn't supposed to wander. 'I'm not to be out of Harris' view tonight—'
'He was informed of our meeting.' Ozzy waved over the railing of the balcony, and Harris Hangman waved back before taking his seat with the rest of the celebrities. 'Good man, Hangman.'
'So, why are we together tonight? I mean, is there a specific reason for our meeting?'
'Would you prefer the company of someone else, dear?'
'No!' Chelsea froze in her seat, terrified that she had offended the very man she had come to practically worship. 'I mean—'
'I know the confliction you've been dealing with as of late, Chelsea.' He cut right to the chase, Ozzy's statement both relieving and curious. She paused, unsure of how to react. Though the lifetime fan felt she had known him all her life, there was a lingering doubt in her heart. Basic instinct told her he was a good man—someone to whom she could confide, but she had been wrong before.
'What do you mean?' she reached for her champagne flute, but stopped as she recalled the last time someone handed her a glass. Sensing her hesitation, Ozzy assured her.
'You have nothing to worry about, dear—not in my company, anyhow.' He reached forth and took a quick sip from the flute, easing her worry that she would be drugged yet again. 'Furthermore, this balcony has certain attributes which ensures our conversation remains private. Anything you say here cannot be overheard, not even by the Chief. So, feel free to speak your mind.' He quickly downed the contents of his own glass, reached forth and refilled.
There certainly was something about him that she instinctually trusted. The fact that he was part of the so-called "family"—as Sharon referred to it—didn't faze her in the slightest. It wasn't even the fact that he was a common household name throughout her entire life, but something else entirely. His vibe was as welcoming as a close relative, an older brother—or perhaps a cool uncle.
Chelsea grabbed the glass and began to sip, putting her trust in the man, perhaps the first since her arrival in the infamous City of Angels.
'It can be rather daunting at first. They tell you you'll eventually get used to it, but how can they possibly know, right? Personally, I've never grown accustomed to it, the constant prying, ritualistic demands and whatnot. It's not right.' He shook his head.
Chelsea Ellis had felt alone since she arrived, and Harris Hangman alone seemed to give a damn about her until now. Ozzy's sympathetic and caring composure helped ease her nerves.
'You're in for a Hell of a ride, no doubt.' He grinned, recalling some of the crazier moments of his career, the life of a metal god. 'I remember when I first made the deal. Of course, my contract was without the added curse of blackmail, like it is these days.'
'I don't understand any of it?' she recalled the harsh manner in which she was ravished that night, barely conscious and forced to please against her will. It brought tears to her eyes just thinking about it.
'As you are aware, the Chief considers blackmail a crucial tactic to ensure you play by his rules. The old ways were much too . . . messy, you see.' his eyes wandered into nothingness for a moment. 'Blackmail became the choice of tactic in the early seventies, to keep his secrets in the industry. All of us know, but few have spoken of him publically, knowing he could destroy us with a snap of his figure.'
'What do you mean? There was another way back in your day?' she asked as his eyes came back into focus behind his red lenses.
'His is a game of spiritual chess, Chelsea, and we are merely his pawns. These days, blackmail is much easier than blatant threats, or flat-out murder in some cases.'
'Murder?'
'Yes, murder. You see, blackmail is the easy way, as far as he's concerned. As long as he holds evidence of you engaging in perverse and illegal acts, you'll do what you're told, the pawn you are. He didn't have such leverage on me, back in the day. The Chief had to resort to blatant threats on my loved ones. One way or another he finds a way to get to you.'
'The Godfather . . . threatened your family?' she asked in relative shock.
'Threatened and followed through, unfortunately. It was the Speak of the Devil tour that claimed the life of my guitarist—my closest friend and confidant at the time. I was struggling with my solo career, unsure if I wanted to deal with our mutual friend at all. Back then he was more of an optional route, if one desired the additional assistance to the top of the charts; not like now, where the fucker has a hand in everyone's affairs.'
'So, what happened?'
'Initially, when I signed my first contract, success was then guaranteed as long as I played the game by his rules. At the time, I was hoping to separate myself from the darker sound of Sabbath, and was looking for more of a monster-make-up sort of approach to my image. The Chief had other plans, however. I was to further promote satanic ideals in my music and convince my fans that God doesn't exist—that the devil is a silly symptom of rock'n'roll not to be taken seriously. My job was to get as many people as I could to lose their faith. The more devil horns thrown up in the crowd, the better.' Ozzy made the sign with his hand, his index and pinky fingers pointed up, symbolizing the well-known gesture she'd seen a million times before.
'I often wondered where that came from.' she grimaced. Chelsea had indeed often wondered why there was such an obvious connection between Satanism and the music industry; not just in the metal scene, but even in the modern pop and rap culture, she'd noticed as of late.
'It's all about influence, my dear. Everyone in the entertainment industry and even some pockets of politics are charged with similar duties; fame and guaranteed success in exchange for manipulating the masses into abandoning their faith.'
'Why though? I mean what's the big deal if people want to believe in God?'
'The grand chess game, of course, dear—it's all about the big spiritual chess game. On one side of the board is the faithful—the ones who cannot be bought, and the other side is . . . well, us, not to put too fine a point on.' he shrugged.
'If we are pawns on the devil's side of the board, then who's on the other side?'
Ozzy held up his silver cross, his eyes revealing she should damn well know.
'So . . . you do believe in God?'
'Of course I do, Chelsea; you'd have to be sheep to not believe in a higher power. I mean, the evidence is overwhelming, despite what I've been charged to convince my fans otherwise. Lately I have refused, however. The Chief doesn't much like it, but there's not much he can do as our contract was up many years ago.' he winked.
'But how? I mean, everyone's afraid of the Godfather. How is it you are somehow immune?'
The metal idol reached into the inner pocket of his black blazer, then placed a small paperback book on the table before him, so small it could fit into a standard denim jean pocket. Chelsea reached for it, and her eyes met the metallic lettering on the cover as she read the title aloud.
'"The Divine Ritual." Written by Aleister Crowley? You mean Mr. Crowley . . . like your song?'
'Where do you think I gained the inspiration?'
Chelsea flipped through the pages, reading the odd title page and taking in the many drawings of strange symbols throughout the little book.
'Mr. Crowley was many things, one can't deny. He was indeed an exceptionally evil man, but a devout scholar nonetheless. During his lifetime, Aleister learned how to keep the Shadow Man at bay through use of angelic symbols, prayers and divine rituals. This very balcony is protected in such ways, which is why the Chief cannot hear our conversation at the present moment. You can keep that copy, by the way; I brought it especially for you . . . as well as this.'
Ozzy placed a long, blue velvet box before her, a jewelry casing for a necklace, she was sure.
'You . . . brought me a gift?' she blushed and opened the case with a sense of excitement.
Gazing upon a shiny silver necklace, the pendant caught her eye first; a smaller replica of the silver cross he wore around his own neck. Taking a closer look, she noted many tiny symbols engraved all over every surface of the cross.
'Thank you.' She smiled, touched that he had thought of her.
'It's been given every blessing imaginable; many of the engravings and incantations taken from that very book. You must not wear it all the time, however, or the Chief will grow suspicious. When you do wear it, he won't be able to read your thoughts, hear your spoken words, nor track your movements. The angelic symbols will shroud you from anything demonic, including your so-called Godfather, though there's nothing Godly about the bloody bastard.'
Chelsea placed the protective necklace and the pocket book in her purse, not wanting to leave it out for others to see, as there were many balconies on either side of them—many with a direct view into their own. In that moment, she was thankful there was, at least, a small resistance to the demon she knew as the Godfather. As the lights dimmed and the massive screen lit up the entire theatre, she looked across the small table into the eyes of her idol. A peaceful thought of hope suddenly washed over her as she got the impression that perhaps the so-called Prince of Darkness may not have been on the dark side of the proverbial chessboard, after all.
Ozzy clearly was no pawn, despite what he may have believed at the time. Perhaps he was actually a white knight, and simply placed on a dark square among his evil ilk. If so, he seemed strategically placed where he could do the most damage. If such sentiments rung true, that would mean that God was working through him, and by extension, despite the contract she had signed, Chelsea as well.
'Are you the only one rebelling? I mean, there's got to be more right?'
'Smart girl; yes there are certainly more. In fact, the one who created our silver crosses is most anxious to meet you. They'll be dropping in momentarily, if that's alright with you.'
'Of course, whatever you think.' she replied, not giving the identity of their additional company much thought. 'You mentioned that he succeeded killing off your loved ones that is.' She kept her voice low, as the entire theatre remained quiet, the movie's opening sequence just beginning. Chelsea had brought up the subject for a specific reason, as she had worried about her sister, Meredith, and her two children throughout the conversation.
'The Chief made my options perfectly clear, and when I decided against my allegiance with the Dark Man . . . that's when he struck. He couldn't blackmail me, obviously—had nothing on me, after all.'
'Randy Rhoads?' asked Chelsea, her jaw hanging as Ozzy nodded his confirmation. 'I'm so sorry, Ozzy; he was a wonderful musician, to say the least.' She reached over and gently caressed his tattooed forearm when a thought suddenly occurred to her. 'Wait, I thought Randy died in a plane crash?'
'It was a strange occurrence.' He let out a mournful sigh. 'It was a long time ago—lifetimes ago, really. Randy hated flying, but someone had convinced him to take a private plane on a joyride while we were on tour. You see, Randy and I wrote Mr. Crowley together. I had seeped myself quite heavily into the drugs, trying to forget, you can imagine; Rhoads, on the other hand, kept himself relatively sober, devoting himself to Crowley's literature and practices, studying day and night, learning how to counter the Chief's stranglehold on the industry, and determined to fight back.
'It was a sweltering hot morning after a long night of binging. The air conditioning in the tour bus had broken down, and our driver pulled into an industrial mechanics garage that doubled as a small private airport. Sharon and I were passed out, exhausted in the back of the bus while it was being serviced. We'd just come from one of our shows on the Speak of the Devil tour, as I mentioned, and on our way to another. Everyone was exhausted, but Randy was more the morning person, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed most days.'
'How did it happen?'
'Well, our bus driver was also an amateur pilot with an expired license, the bloody twat. So, out they went, flying about the area. Rhoads wanted to get some aerial shots to show his mum. He fancied himself an amateur photographer, and quite the mama's boy, good ol' Randy. Sharon and I woke to a loud bang; the wing of the plane had clipped the roof of the tour bus before flipping out of control, off the top of a pine tree and into the garage, then burst into flames.'
'What . . . how the hell did that happen?'
'No one really knows for sure.' Ozzy stared blankly at the screen, his thoughts heavy as he watched the premier film. 'He wasn't the only one with a camera that day, though.'
Reaching into the inside pocket of his open blazer, he removed an old photograph and handed it to Chelsea. Her jaw dropped as she looked upon the famous guitarist struggling for control over the plane, a distraught and terrified look in his eyes as the nose veered low, toward the tour bus. What caught her attention, however, were the eerie midnight black eyes of the pilot.
'Your driver, the pilot . . . he was possessed?'
'Tried to take me and Sharon out too, and crash the fucking plane right into the bus. The demonic bloke fortunately managed to only clip the plane's wing against the bus. Rhoads saved our lives that morning. My life, marriage, children, I owe it all to him, and I carry that picture with me everywhere I go to remind me of what I should have lost that day, if not for Randy's iron clad bravery. This is what happens when you say "no" to the Chief, and you would do well to remember it.' Ozzy slipped the photograph back in his pocket, suitingly just over his heart.
'This story . . . it's not unique to the industry, is it?' asked Chelsea, knowing her history of the industry well, far too many anomalies and strange deaths to be ignored.
'Randy wasn't the first, and certainly not the last. Hendrix, Joplin, Lennon, Jon Bonham, Cliff Burton, Skynyrd, Kurt Cobain, Elvis . . . the list goes on and on.'
'Wait . . . Elvis?' she asked, once again in shock with the mention of such a highly influential name, amongst many she had come to know and love.
'Elvis . . . well, he took the Chief's threats rather personally, you see. He told the bugger where he could stick it, and devoted himself to gospel music from there on in. Fully aware of his own influence and rabid popularity, the good Christian man set out to reverse the Shadow Man's dark influence on his fans. The King grew paranoid . . . depressed that so much of the world had already gone along with the dark agenda, but it was his own indulgences that got him in the end.'
'Indulgence?'
'The Chief specializes in enticing indulgence and addiction through use of the seven deadly sins, vanity the norm amongst us image-types. Just like Cobain, Elvis could care less about how he looked, so when vanity no longer worked, the Dark Man employed the sin of gluttony to discredit and destroy him. Alice Cooper had a similar experience, but in the end . . .'
Chelsea couldn't wrap her mind around what Ozzy was saying. So many of the greats brought to their knees and snuffed out at the hands of the Godfather, and she was on the same roster of the unfaithfully departed, if she dared cross him.
'The influence in the eighties was the most obvious, of course. It seemed every band worth their nickel were worshipping the devil, inserting subliminal messages into their lyrics and trying to get their fans to rebel against Christianity. Suddenly it became cool to be a Satanist. It's all to do with the end times, really.'
'The end times . . . I don't get it?' Chelsea's attention piqued at the mention of the phrase, her eyes slowly opening to what the Shadow Man would expect of her in the coming years.
'There are rules to follow if you want to bring about biblical apocalypse, from the demonic perspective that is.' A third voice on the balcony caught Chelsea by surprise. She turned her head, eyes wide and jaw dropped as a beautiful, well-aging woman pulled up a chair to join them. Her long, flowing white gown and Victorian patterned shawl draped over her shoulders gave her the look of a white witch, and the newbie quickly rose to her feet to address the famous singer. 'Of course, I was one of the first to tell the so-called godfather where he can stick his contract.' The lovely woman inserted herself into the conversation, holding her demeanor with great integrity.
'You . . . you're—' her tongue was caught yet again.
'Oh, Stevie Nicks; it's a pleasure to meet you Ms. Ellis.' She bowed ever so gracefully, gently shaking her hand with an equally smooth silk glove, similar to her own but white as snow. 'Please, have a seat, Chelsea. We have much to discuss, including the Biblical End of Days, I'm afraid.'
'Biblical . . . you mean like Revelations?' she asked, sitting down and taking in the sight of the two legendary singers, her heart pumping loud with excitement.
'Lucifer and his minions are not capable of bringing about the End of Days, contrary to popular belief.' Stevie revealed, a sparkle in her eyes the likes of which Chelsea had never witnessed. There was an obvious magic about her, a calming—almost hypnotic vibe in her melancholy demeanor. A sweet vanilla fragrance accompanied her enchanting presence, so much, in fact, she could barely concentrate on her foreboding words of warning. 'The Almighty would destroy any attempt, if you believe in such matters.'
'I—I didn't used to, but something tells me that my personal beliefs are fairly irrelevant.' Chelsea replied, though she found it strange that such a heavy topic could be so casually discussed. She swallowed her star struck apprehension, feeling all the more lax and comfortable sitting amongst such legendary icons. Stevie had such an effect, somehow able to calm whoever sat in her presence. 'So, if the Devil can't bring about the End of Days, why are we even talking about it?'
'Have you ever wondered why the Bible was written by man, Chelsea?' Stevie asked, pulling her perfectly brushed blonde locks behind her ear.
Chelsea had never thought in a million years she'd be having a religious discussion with the so-called Prince of Darkness and White Witch of the music industry, certainly not with her of all people.
'It has . . . crossed my mind.' she replied honestly. 'I mean, everyone wonders about that type of stuff. When the noise of the day silences and the night leaves us in solitude, it's only natural to wonder where we come from—how we got here, right?' Chelsea shrugged regarding religion as a whole, and not quite grasping the meaning of the question. 'I think the Bible is just one of many guesses man has concocted to attempt to explain our origins. I see no reason to put stock in such tales.'
'Your beliefs—or lack thereof aside, I believe Stevie's referring to the book itself.' Ozzy elaborated. 'I mean, if the message is so damn important, why wouldn't it be written by God Himself—or at least the fucking angels for that matter?'
'Indeed so.' Ms. Nicks concurred. 'Instead, the Almighty trusts mankind to relay His vital message, knowing just how seriously flawed and corrupt we truly are.'
'I just assumed it was all bullshit, at least until now.' Chelsea shrugged, sipping away on her champagne.
'Free will must not be altered or interrupted by either side.' Stevie continued. 'Mankind is ultimately responsible for their own destiny—even their own downfall. The world must end by the hand of humanity itself, not the devil—or even God. Humans evolved themselves, hence they must destroy themselves. So it is written, and so it must be done.'
'Okay, I'll humour you.' She waved them on, the star-gazing slowly fading with the flow of interesting conversation.
'Destruction of the human species must be a symptom of guilt. The Almighty allows only the guilty to perish in such ways, but the guilt is not on Lucifer or his demonic ilk, you see.'
'Can't blame a dog for licking his own balls, after all.' added Ozzy with a slight chuckle.
'Charming.' Stevie smirked. 'In other words, demons are demons and cannot be expected to behave otherwise. Humanity, on the other hand, was born both innocent and independent, free will an innate, fundamental attribute to their own existence. They must be shown the obvious right in front of their noses, and willingly choose to ignore what's in front of them. Only then will humanity render themselves guilty, and worthy of extinction, you see.'
'The Chief wants nothing more than our fans to shrug their shoulders when speaking of the devil, hence the title of the album.' Ozzy continued. 'When the masses see us performing an obvious Satanic ritual on the stage right before their eyes, or when they look upon obvious demonic symbolism on our albums, indifference is the goal. The Shadow Man wants ignorant followers to throw up the sign of the devil whenever possible, each and every one of them completely oblivious that they've already chosen the dark side of the chessboard.'
'But why? I mean, what's the fucking point of it all?'
'Heaven has rules, Chelsea—rules to which even the demonic must abide.' Ms. Nicks revealed.
'As I mentioned, similar to the justice system, knowing of the crime and doing nothing to stop it is guilt by association. Indifference in the heart of humanity will bring about the End of Days; that's the bloody point, dear.' Ozzy concluded, lighting up a cigarette, though Stevie didn't seem impressed, waving a gloved hand to fan the smoke away.
'Must you, really?'
'Oh, fine; have it your way.' Ozzy sulked, took a long drag and dropped the cigarette into his drink, less than a centimeter of liquid remaining on the bottom of the glass.
'You can't possibly believe any of this.' Chelsea concluded, gulping down the last of her drink. 'I mean, I thought you were a Wiccan?' she looked to Stevie in particular.
'Did you give her the book, Ozzy?' she asked, and he quickly nodded. 'Where do you think the protective symbols come from, Chelsea? Tell me something, do you believe in dark magic, demonic power and whatnot?'
'Kind of difficult not to, considering the Godfather and all.' she shrugged, recalling the snap of his fingers, and the apparent teleportation from downtown Toronto to New Orleans in the blink of an eye. The magical element of her journey thus far was simply too obvious to ignore.
'Dark magic is simply the conjuring of demonic entities to intervene in human affairs. If this much is true, what do you think white magic is?'
'Is there really such a thing?' the thought rendered her bewildered. 'You're saying you can . . . converse with angelic beings?'
'Converse, employ for protection, most certainly. This is what witches have been doing since before the Dark Ages. A White Witch, like myself, is basically a practical Christian, you understand? It's the same beliefs, really; just taken to a whole different level. The key goal of the Dark Ages, the Inquisitions and Witch Trials, was to convince the masses that magic in itself was evil, both light and dark alike. The point was to strip the average believer of their own personal magic, which worked like a charm, pun intended.' she winked. 'Devil worship is dark magic, requiring blood and grotesque ritual sacrifice, where light magic requires only devotion, faith, wisdom, self-sacrifice, and loyalty to the Trinity. Any and all sacrifices had already been made by the Savior Himself, you see. So, after the crucifixion, all believers were granted the gifts of the divine. Don't' you see, dear,' she paused to make sure she was paying attention. 'Wicca—good, positive Wicca—is a basic, practical rendition of Christianity. We are one in the same.'
'I'm not sure how much more I can take of this.' Chelsea raised a single eyebrow, her believe now dangling by a thread regardless of her admiration for her idols.
'Why do you think the apostles were able to perform miracles after the crucifixion?'
'You're saying the Apostles were . . . wizards?' she laughed at the thought, though Stevie Nicks didn't produce even the slightest smirk. She was dead serious, and didn't take Chelsea's humour toward her faith lightly. The White Witch took her beliefs most serious, paramount to her overall identity.
'What I'm saying,' Stevie straightened her spine in defense. 'Is that every one of us, if properly devoted to the light, are capable of performing miracles, healing the sick, walking on water and the like. Only your ignorance and lack of belief stunt you, Chelsea.'
The newbie lifted her hands, halting the conversation before the two legendary musicians could carry on any further.
'Let me get this straight,'
Ozzy waved her on, hoping she had been paying attention.
'You believe the End of Days is near, and because the fucking Devil can't destroy the world himself,' she rolled her eyes. 'And because humanity has to destroy itself, Satan has sent the Godfather to influence the world through media and entertainment, to force the masses into deciding their allegiance?'
'Close enough.' Ozzy concurred with a pleased clap of his hands. 'Go on.'
'So, he instills anti-Christian ideals through pop culture and movies to gradually get all of humanity to denounce God, essentially recreating Babylon the fallen and bring about Biblical Apocalypse. Does that about sum it up?'
'Sounds about right.' Stevie nodded. 'I'd thank you for a less sarcastic tone, if you wouldn't mind. I'm not easily offended, dear, but you're walking a fine line.'
Chelsea lowered her brow, not intending to upset one of her greatest musical influences.
'I didn't mean to offend. This is just all a bit overwhelming, you can imagine.' she sighed, sitting back and staring at the giant screen at the front of the room. The film seemed more irrelevant by the minute, considering the heavy topic of conversation, though there were many laughs among the massive crowd of celebrities below. She removed the small pocket-sized book from her purse and placed it on the table before her. 'So . . . this Divine Ritual is our only defense against the Godfather and his minions?'
'Not our only defense.' Stevie replied. 'There are others out there, divine beings amongst the living who plot against the darkness.'
'There are . . . angels among us?' Chelsea gasped, surveying the crowd before her.
'Certainly not in Hollyweird, I assure you.' Stevie grimaced. 'No, they are in hiding, biding their time, preparing for the rise of the Antichrist and the battle of Armageddon. The City of Angels is not named without a sense of irony, you see. This is the dwelling place of demons, my dear girl, and as such, you'll find nothing angelic here.'
'And you've seen one . . . an angel I mean?' Chelsea asked, still not quite believing.
'Dated one briefly, back in my younger years, of course.' Stevie Nicks smirked, her gaze adrift with wondrous memories. 'Of course, he'd lost is wings long ago. Unfortunately he was unwilling to have relations with a mortal such as I, but I can't help but wonder.' Her eyes glazed in the distant memory, a brief but profound encounter with a being not of this world, one which seemed to set her desires aflame with the mere thought.
The image of a renaissance-likeness swept through Chelsea's imagination, but the truth of the encounter was not nearly as fantastical; the being in question resembling a man in appearance, almost indistinguishable from other men.
'This angel man . . . he wasn't mortal?'
'Last I had seen him, Samael hadn't aged a day since I first met him in the seventies.' she replied, recalling his long blonde hair, solider-like build and olive skin tone, a face scarred with battle, but divinely carved otherwise.
'I wouldn't mention his name aloud, not around these parts, Stevie.' Ozzy warned, and Chelsea assumed the name of the strange angelic being was somewhat taboo amongst the damned.
'Why not?' Chelsea looked from one star to another, unsure of why this immortal man was so controversial amongst the L.A. crowd.
'Samael is sort of the unofficial enemy of the darkness . . . a white knight on the chessboard, you understand. The Shadow Man wouldn't like us speaking of him. To proclaim your allegiance with the immortal divine is to swear conflict against the demonic powers that be. In the City of Angels, you are an island, my dear, and Samael cannot save you. So . . .' Ms. Nicks tapped her perfectly manicured nail on the cover of the book. 'I suggest you study as often as possible. Learn how to protect yourself, and for the love of God show no one—not even Mr. Hangman.'
'I—I'll have a look at it.' she gazed at the title with curiosity. Chelsea stuffed The Divine Ritual back in her purse and grazed her fingers along the blue velvet case which held Ozzy's gift. 'What about the cross?'
'Only put it on when you need to shield yourself from his view, and in times of immediate peril.' Stevie warned. 'Its protection just may save your life, which is why I found it prudent to take the liberty in the first place. Not all of us are under his spell; some of us, in fact, secretly plot against him. Pawns we may be, but the Shadow Man knows not of which side of the chess board we truly belong. Darkness is shrouded from light, and light from darkness, so it has always been.'
Stevie took a moment, reached forward and grasped her arm gently. As their eyes met, Chelsea felt mesmerized by her bewitching beauty, the wisdom in her soul unmistakably divine.
'I have a good feeling about you, Chelsea Ellis. Stay positive, and we'll be in touch.'
Stevie left her in the company of her idol, a grace about the way she walked, and the sway of her classic dress and flowing shawl catching the eye as she stepped down the stairwell and off the protected balcony. There had been many newcomers who had piqued her interest over the years, but Chelsea was special. The purpose of her visit with the new blood that very evening was to inspire hope more than anything, as a common link between the two women could be felt, but not mentioned aloud by either party. The White Witch had seen her in dreams more than once, well aware of the dark path the Devil had been trying to set her upon, but there was work to be done. Ms. Nicks was not someone to be underestimated, and like the angelic being to whom she had once given her heart, she was considered a deadly thorn in the Shadow Man's side, one which had proven herself rather tricksy and cunning for many years.
'Well, on a happier note, you'll be opening for me during my farewell tour, I'm told. So, there's that.' Ozzy shrugged as she watched Stevie's flowing blonde hair turn the corner of the stairwell.
Chelsea wished the news didn't come during such a devastating conversation. A week ago, if you told her she'd be opening for such a top performer, her greatest influence by far, she would have lost it. But none of that really mattered now. The real threat was the Godfather and the safety of her family, and if Stevie's worries rang true, the coming End of Days. This was a thought which did not seem possible, but she'd been wrong before.
'What about my family?' she asked barely more than whisper, knowing there were many eyes upon them as they watched the film from the balcony. 'Should I be concerned?'
'As long as you play by his rules, they will be spared.' Ozzy assured, but finished with a fair warning. 'Rub him the wrong way, however, and he will surely execute each and every person you've ever cared for; youth and innocence will not spare them.'
Chelsea's family was in danger, and it was up to her to play the game his way, with his rules.
'Who is he, really; the devil himself?' she took a shot in the dark.
Ozzy took a moment, curious as to whether answering the question was a wise choice, but decided to oblige.
'Many have guessed, few have known, but alas I believe I have figured it out.'
'And?' Chelsea pushed.
'He's not the devil, contrary to popular believe, though he clearly acts on his behalf. No, he is a living being, and demons are not permitted to take physical form in the real world. He was once a man, long ago, but a hybrid of human flesh and demon power, somehow. His heart beats, his lungs draw breath, blood flows through his veins. No, the Dark Man is human; make no mistake—one who has committed an ultimate sin to gain his infernal power.'
'An Ultimate Sin?' Chelsea smirked at the mention of yet another ironic song title. 'I'm beginning to see where you find your muse, Ozzy. What exactly is an ultimate sin, in the biblical sense?'
'A stark act against the Creator—one which marks the soul as rebellious against the light. Killing your own child—your own blood for example, is considered an ultimate sin. Great power, in the demonic sense, may only be acquired with great sacrifice of those who mean most to you. The Shadow Man would have had to carve his path in human blood to acquire the power he possesses.'
'What is his real name?'
'You think me a madman, girl?' he scoffed. 'To mention a demonic name is to conjure the beast.'
She thought of her niece, Ashley and the expression upon her face when Chelsea had mentioned the Godfather, the unmistakable look of worry which suggested she somehow knew of the demonic man and his horrific nature. She didn't know how, but the worried aunt was more than aware that her niece knew exactly who she was talking about in that moment.
Was it too late? Had the Godfather already gotten to her somehow? She worried, staring blankly at the movie screen, a straight face whilst the theater erupted in laughter. One way or another, every move she now made would have to be carefully calculated; the life of her family a cost too heavy to bear for the slightest slip up.
~
Jennifer Jenson drove in silence through the wet roads of the East Side Village. Droplets of rain pelted against the windshield as she tried to erase the horrific images of the crime scene from her mind, as did Dawson and the two priests who sat in the back of the unmarked police cruiser.
'I've never seen anything like that.' stated Father Jeremy as he made the sign of the Holy Trinity. 'What on earth could possibly do something like that?'
'You don't want to know, my young friend.' Theron assured him as he surveyed the houses from the backseat while they passed. The horrible memories of the crime scene in question aside, the seasoned priest kept his attention on the passing homes, admiring the charming and historic style of the countless Victorian and Edwardian designs. He thought the lovely area would be a wonderful place to retire, despite the seemingly cursed nature of the City of Belleville.
'Wait, Father Theron, if you know what's going on, than you need to tell us!' insisted Dawson, craning his neck to look into the eyes of the priest.
'You spoke with the fire marshal.' Jenson pushed as she kept her eyes on the road. 'There's no evidence as to what could have caused the child to just catch fire like that. If you know something—'
'There are certain matters in which we do not speak—matters that if brought up in conversation would only result in more untimely death. Leave it alone, I implore you.' He shot a warning look to young Jeremy looking for support, but it did not come.
'I'm with the officer's on this.' he pushed his elderly partner regardless. 'If there's something you know, I wish to be informed as well.'
'When we are alone.' he whispered under his breath to his comrade.
'Oh, no you don't!' Detective Jenson pulled the car over and parked on the side of the road in order to address the priest formally. Turning in her seat, she looked at him through the plexi-glass that separated the two spaces.
'Obviously this is an extreme circumstance, Father. I called you here to get insight into what the Hell is going on in my town. Now, if you know what's happening then you need to tell us now.' The image of the burnt adolescent corpse played itself over and over again, like a skipping record in her mind's eye. There was so little flesh left behind, just lying there in her own bed, arms askew—seized permanently in position. The young lady's charred jaw was found wide open, telling the detective that the thirteen-year-old died screaming in the utmost agony.
'Turn around and drive, Detective. We mustn't draw attention to ourselves.' said the priest as he noticed several groups of students walk by the car, their eyes locked on the vehicle in a most sinister fashion.
Turning, Jenson noticed them as well, and she quickly re-engaged her seatbelt and put the car in drive as Father Theron sighed a breath of frustration. This was a conversation he simply didn't want to engage—a topic which chilled him to the bone, long since buried in the past.
'What I'm about to tell you is strictly confidential in the highest regard. You must not speak of it aloud to anyone no matter how much you think you may trust them. We will discuss the matter once, and you will never speak of it again. Do I have your word?'
The police officers thought about it for a moment, and agreed.
'I was addressing all three of you.' he looked to Father Jeremy, and the younger priest agreed with a slight note of hesitancy. 'Very well.' Theron took a moment to think about how to proceed, the heavy topic not so easily discussed.
As the rain grew heavier, the wipers worked harder to allow Jenson the sight to keep driving. The winds felt like a shroud falling upon them as all occupants of the vehicle could feel a thick foreboding energy fill the air.
'Well, I suppose it all started in the late seventies.' Father Theron began, his hands calmly resting on his lap as he searched his memory. 'I was only a young priest, about five-or-six years into my line of work. I had considerably more hair and much less wear and tear those days. I had been paired with Cardinal Paul at the time, forming the very foundations of the controversial program in which we are now employed.'
'You mean our specific unit of paranormal research within the Vatican?' asked Father Jeremy.
'Who's Cardinal Paul?' inquired Dawson.
'One of the directors who manages our branch. He's the one who paired me up with Father Theron . . . he's a friend.' Jeremy replied.
'Yes, well there was no such program at the time.' Theron continued. 'We had a small handful of Vatican scientists, and only two capable of performing a basic exorcism, myself included.
'Only two?' asked Jeremy, unable to fathom such a time. 'Exorcism—possession rather, just didn't occur back then, at least not in first world nations. The odd infestation would occur in certain parts of Africa and India but never in the modern world. Father Vincent Alameda was my first mentor, and the only priest within the whole of the Vatican with the knowledge, will, or stomach to battle the devil and his minions in such ways. I had assisted him many times, learning how to repel the forces of darkness first hand. When I first took my vows, I never thought for a moment such evil could possibly exist outside of Hell . . . but Vincent had shown me otherwise.'
'What happened to Father Alameda?'
'He returned to Africa with a new ward when I was placed with then Father Paul. Given his old age, I was thought to be more valuable for my youth, as the elderly are not apt for constant travel. And so, Paul and I were charged with investigating similar events. Although we hadn't known it at the time, possession was gradually becoming more frequent and widespread, though we had no idea of the extent.'
'Strange, don't you think?' asked Jenson. 'I mean, possession was so rare that the Vatican only had two exorcists in their service. How many cases were there when you first assisted Father Alameda?'
'About six or seven confirmed cases every year.' he replied.
'And now?' she pushed.
'Five hundred-thousand reported and about half that confirmed every year throughout the globe.' Theron answered, and every jaw in the vehicle dropped. 'Mind you, this number wasn't so high over night. Many years of demonic influence over the masses slowly opened the door, one unsuspecting naive soul at a time. As mention of God disappeared in communities and schools throughout the modern world, that number only ever went up. Preachers lost their way, congregation attendance diminished, and countless church doors closed permanently. The basic belief in God was then replaced by the atheistic mindset, and the world population, gradually believing there was no eternal consequence for sin, began to indulge in occult beliefs and practices. Demonic influence became ramped in the entertainment industry—music mostly, but the release of the films The Exorcist and The Omen certainly made matters worse. Every worrywart and their brother was wasting our time, convinced they were possessed or infested with demons. The Devil worship in the eighties was probably the worst of it, however. And then morality slipped from the average soul, forfeit to the seven deadly sins. Hook them while they're young, much like the tactics you are all too familiar with, Constable Dawson.'
'Theron smirked as Leonard lit up a cigarette in the front seat, even though smoking in an official police cruiser was strictly forbidden, regardless of the vehicle being unmarked.
Dawson shook his head and moved to flick the cigarette from the window, but Theron spoke up.
'It doesn't bother us,' Jeremy managed a grin. 'Though it is only common courteously to ask first.'
'The banning of all religious symbols began in the schools.' Father Theron pushed onward. 'Children are always the gateway. Influence the youth and change the future, which is why certain political movements, like socialism for example, target the youth of today in order to sway the vote for tomorrow. This is a form of control, or grooming ideology in our youth today.'
'The Black-eyed Children . . . I never considered what they would one day become . . . what they would grow into.' Jenson's heart skipped a beat as she shared a worried look with her partner.
'We're getting off topic.' Jeremy tried to stay on point. 'What does this have to do with you and Cardinal Paul in the seventies?'
'I digress.' Theron turned his attention to the historic houses once more as he continued on point, though the heavy rain distorted them to melted versions of themselves. 'We were following a case of possession—one of the first we had encountered in the United States, when we were suddenly pulled off the investigation. Strange times, I tell you.'
Jeremy was finding it rather difficult to picture Cardinal Paul or Father Theron as a couple of youthful priests in the seventies, but he listen carefully, as did the officers in the front of the cruiser.
'There had been a sudden surge in what some people would call spontaneous combustion. It had happened before in the forties and even throughout the sixties, but nothing like this.'
'Spontaneous combustion?' Dawson's muscles seized with the thought. 'Like people just randomly engulfed in flames for no particular reason?'
'That is what the name implies, Constable.' Theron sighed, honestly hoping to forget the many cases he had worked with then Father Paul. 'We couldn't figure out how or why it was happening—such atrocities occurring on a global scale. With great difficulty, only through intense interrogation of the possessed had we finally traced the source of the problem to a remote location in Southern California—to a self-proclaimed messiah, as he called himself.'
'Huh.' Jenson bit her lip, all the more intrigued.
'This man, you see, had been tainted as a boy by his mentor—an infamously evil man who died before he had the chance to see his protégé reach his full potential. Charles Manson's mentor was one Aleister Crowley.'
'Wait, Charles Manson—like Helter Skelter Charles Manson?' asked Dawson as he exhaled a cloud of smoke from the open window, disregarding the rain that splashed inward.
'The very same.' replied the priest. 'He had paid close attention to Crowley's instruction, studied his notes carefully, but he played with the rituals like a boy. With his master deceased, his training had only barely begun. And so, Manson learned from Crowley's lost journals, experimenting with mind control and other evil ritualistic practices. One in particular was of grave interest to the clergy, a complex ritual designed to summon an ancient demon from the deepest crevices of Hell—a fire demon who's name must never be mentioned aloud.'
'A fire demon?' Jenson's believe dangled by a thread.
'This particular creature was birthed of the spirit of the Jezebel, and fueled by the screams of Satan's children, those burned at the steak in the witch trials of the Inquisition, the Dark Ages . . . and of course Salem. It was called upon to avenge those who were accused of witchcraft and devil worship. Crowley rarely called upon this particular entity to do his bidding, summoning it only when he was positive he could subdue and control the entity. Manson, however, was a foolish man in nature, not nearly as disciplined as his deceased mentor. He played with a dark power he didn't truly understand, nor had he possessed the spiritual or mental capacity to control.'
'Okay, so Manson summoned this thing, but he's been locked away for half-a century. Should we be trying to contact him?' asked Dawson, but Theron ignored his question and carried on.
'This particular entity requires human sacrifice, as do most demons; but significantly those of Christian belief. Only by the corruption of innocence would this fire demon grant great power to the dark sorcerer who conjures it. In the twisted mind of Charlie Manson, Helter Skelter was the only way to bring about the demon. Luckily, we caught him before the fire demon could fully emerge from the bowels of Hell.'
'What do you mean?' asked Jenson, her eyes locked on the road as they made their way toward Meredith Rhoads' apartment building.
'Cardinal Paul and I seized Crowley's notes, as well as any Manson had made himself.' Theron assured. 'We then began the long, strenuous task of erasing the fire demon's true name from any Vatican, historical or religious text. We burned everything, hoping that nobody would ever attempt to summon the demon again. Nobody other than Charles Manson, myself, and Cardinal Paul know of its existence. Paul has nothing to do with this case, and I certainly refuse to speak the name aloud, even to officers as reputable as yourselves, which can only mean one thing.'
'What's that?' asked Father Jeremy.
'There hasn't been a single case of spontaneous combustion since we eradicated the text . . . until this morning. Only someone with direct access to Charles Manson would know of it, which is the same unknown culprit behind the recent events in Belleville, and all over the world. One man is behind it all—someone old enough to remember the days of frantic possession, before the Vatican program was created.'
'Perfect.' Jenson sighed in frustration as she looked to Dawson, who flicked the butt of his cigarette from the vehicle with a note bitterness. 'No one on our list of suspects is your age, Father Theron.' If this were the case, Samuel Higgins and Benjamin Shackleton were not at the root of her investigation, after all, though both were clearly involved.
'Most paramount, we must pay attention to the specifics of this crime scene. Every case of spontaneous combustion we had encountered back then, we'd find the charred corpse mended to furniture—even burned into the floor where they stood. The child's mattress, upon which we had found her just now, was completely unscathed.'
'Which means she was placed in the bed afterwards.' Jenson concurred.
'Someone in this town set her ablaze—someone who couldn't bother to light a match, which suggests they are more than likely drunk with power, or just showing off. Either way, we are playing with fire, ladies and gentlemen. So, there's just one question that remains.'
'Which is?' asked Dawson.
'Are you both baptized?'
'What does that have to do with anything?' he asked.
'It has everything to do with it, Constable.' Father Theron raised a single eyebrow in place of a scoff, which he was sure would only offend. 'We baptize our children, giving them over to the Good Lord for protection from entities like this. Affirming your faith as an adult keeps His protection strong. So, if you have not done so, I suggest you get on it as soon as humanly possible.'
'You're suggesting we get baptized? Us, grown-ups for fuck sakes?' Dawson rolled his eyes, finding the notion ridiculous that ritualistic words and few splashes of water could possibly protect them.
'Brianna . . . the young lady who just went up in flames was scheduled for baptism this coming Sunday. In fact, that's the one connection to every case of Black-eyed Children to which you both seemed to have overlooked.'
'Wait!' said Jenson as she stopped at a streetlight with a heavy foot, at the corner of Meredith's street. 'That's the big connection we've been looking for?' Her eyes widened, never once thinking there was a religious link. She was not raised in a religious household, and so the thought had never occurred.
'It helps to think in the spiritual sense, and authorities have the habit of approaching their work in a practical sense. Darkness cannot touch that which has been blessed by God. Each and every one of your missing children thus far has yet to be baptized. Take your report on the Massacre at St. Mark's you sent me, for example.' The mere thought of the footage still raised the hair on Dawson's arms. 'There were plenty of children in that hospital, but only a select few turned into one of these Black-eyed Kids. Many of the victims were baptized, however. On a hunch, I managed to locate some of their names in the Vatican's baptism database, meaning only the non-baptized children were selected to be taken.'
'Son-of-a-bitch!' she slammed her fist hard against the dashboard, irate with herself that she had overlooked such an obvious connection. 'You're telling me that a fucking splash of water and a few words of scripture could have stopped this thing in its tracks?'
'Oh, it's far too late for that Detective.' Theron turned as he heard the ring of a school bell, and watched the countless young students migrate into Centennial Secondary School, and the cruiser pulled into the Meredith Rhoads' apartment building. 'Once the soul has given itself over to the darkness, the entity must be . . . pulled out.'
'Exorcism?' asked Jeremy.
'Yes, but on a mass scale, I'm afraid.' He looked to Jeremy noting his worrisome expression. 'Quite the impossible task, I must say. There isn't a priest alive who can perform a mass exorcism. It's never been attempted, and I'd consider anyone a fool for even trying.'
Dawson suddenly couldn't help but lose his breath. He seemed nervous and was beginning to sweat.
'You okay, partner?' asked Jenson, noticing his pale state and wandering eyes.
'No, I'm not alright. Let's hurry up with this already.'
'What's the rush, officer?' asked Father Theron, sensing his fear.
'We need to get to a church, and soon.' he stated with exasperation, knowing he could burst into flames at any given moment.
'I'll perform the baptism myself; for you as well Detective Jenson, if you'd like.'
'Yeah, I suppose we're both in; better safe than sorry, right?' she agreed as she shifted the vehicle into park and starred beyond the rain now letting up, lightly trickling against the windshield. The talk of demons, Aleister Crowley, Charles Manson, Helter Skelter, Witch burnings and devil worship, was a far stretch in the tangible world in which she existed. Most of it seemed surreal, folk stories and old wives tales to her . . . but in the pit of her stomach, Jenson knew there was truth in the matter. Something sinister had arrived in Belleville, and there were only four people in an unmarked cruiser with the slightest means to stop it. Jennifer was suddenly questioning everything she knew about faith, but she kept her confliction hidden well, buried deep in her mind as to not worry the others.
If Father Theron was indeed correct, the children of her town were possessed, taken by a demonic and sinister force. A great fear was surging within her that begged one simple yet terrifying question: when and if the time comes, would she have no choice but to open fire on a child?