Into the Mirror Black

Copyright © 2006, 2010 Frank Bittinger

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ISBN: 978-0-595-38877-6 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-67650-7 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-83256-9 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date:01/28/10

For Fanbelt,

who gave much love

...and paws for thought.

And for me...

because I’m selfish.

Special dedication:

For all those police officers & firefighters.

Special Acknowledgments

LRH—for providing the technology for all of us to become the people we are meant to be.

The CoS and the IAS—for working toward Planetary Calm so the world will be a better place for everyone; I am very proud to be part of such extraordinary organizations…and I am continuing my quest to be Patron Maximus!

Samantha—for helping me with the edits and corrections for this book. I love working with you because you keep me in check and you help make my books more enjoyable.

Laura—for once again designing a fantastic cover for my book, one that captured the image I had in mind, and for another photograph of me; and for photo shoots in the cemetery in the frigid weather.

Heather—for making sure my pretty face is out there for the world to see, and for listening to all my ideas and nicely saying Sounds good instead of hitting me in the head.

Charlene—my buddy and traveling partner, for making all those trips to signings fun and memorable; we have a ton of fun and I look forward to more trips.

Savannah—for encouraging me and for sharing a love of animals; and for writing all those books I enjoy reading, whether under the name Lucy Finn or Savannah Russe.

My mother—because she gets a kick out of me writing these books and because I wouldn’t be here without her.

Into

the Mirror

Black

________________________________

The First Book of the Scarabae Saga

________________________________

Frank E. Bittinger

Contents

Prologue

I

Shadows Fall

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Interlude

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Interlude

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

II

Lost in the Shadows

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Interlude

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Interlude

III

Shadows End

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Interlude

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Epilogue

Prologue

New Mystic, Maryland - 1900

Candles flicker, casting a concert of disjointed shadows. They dance up the walls and across the ceiling in rhythm to the gentle swaying of the cloaked figures. All is reflected in the great framed mirror at the side of the room. Hypnotic chanting reverberates against the walls, making the air itself shiver with anticipation. The chant builds in pitch, reaching a crescendo.

A solitary figure attired in a satin robe of burgundy and black stands before the intricately carved stone altar, his face concealed in darkness beneath his hood. In slow motion, he raises his arms and tilts his head to the side, assuming a stance that could be seen as a macabre parody of the crucified Christ.

The chant fades into silence.

Tonight, we gather to usher in a new dawn, he informs the twelve figures. We celebrate the coming of a new age, when darkness shall descend and a new realm shall rise. This night, we summon Him into the flesh. He gestures to the growling faces painstakingly chiseled into the stone pedestals of the altar as he walks behind it. "And he will bring with Him an army of minions to war with the nonbelievers: an army unlike anything ever imagined by the artisans who carved these rock faces. This army will be far worse, but fear not, for He will watch over us and see that no harm comes to us, for we are His most devout disciples."

He opens the front of his robe to bare the flesh of his chest, flesh upon which sacred symbols are painted, symbols which tell the secret tale of his beliefs. He pushes back the hood to reveal his face. With barely a whispering of material, the satin shroud slips from his broad shoulders, slides down the length of his body, and gathers at the ankles of his thigh-high boots. Standing over the would-be sacrifice lying silent on the great stone altar, he pulls a ceremonial dagger from the sheath strapped to his thigh. Candlelight reflects off the blade, arcing rays of color across the altar, as he raises it over the child.

Master, hear us and accept our offering of the soul of this vessel; take the soul, mold it, and make it Your own. We summon You forth, into the realm of the flesh, to become as one with the flesh. We summon You to lead Your children into the new dawn. He waves the blade over the small chest of the sacrificial lamb. "In turn, we ask You grant us the ancient powers of prophesy and illusion, to better serve You. Bestow upon us the gift of Your magic, to better spread Your word to the world. Allow us to reinvent ourselves and this entire realm in Your image."

Turning the dagger on himself, he slices open his forearms. Raising his arms above him, crimson streams of blood run in rivulets down his bare arms and drip onto his chest. Lowering his stained arms, he steps back from the altar, and bows his head in reverence to the object of his devotion.

"In Nomini Scarabae."

The slamming of a heavy door jars the worshipers from their reverence. It’s followed by the sound of running. Seconds later, a voice shouts, "They’re coming." Someone runs into the room and pushes through the people to stand before the altar.

They’re coming, he gasps and he bows his head.

What the hell are you talking about, Jefferson? the man asks, pulling his robe on. Who are you talking about?

Jefferson looks up into the eyes of the figure. Reverend Davis and the men from the church, Alex. They’re coming here now.

What could they possibly want with me? Alex questions, walking from behind the altar. I’m so far out of town; who would give me a thought?

Reverend Davis called a meeting tonight. Jefferson breathes heavily. I heard about it from Tom Swan only this evening. The Reverend gave the order it was to be the men only; word was spread from man to man. He coughs and has trouble catching his breath.

Alex signals for water to be brought, and he drinks greedily. Wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve, Jefferson continues. The Reverend assembled the men in the church hall and locked the front doors. I was standing behind Doug Sands, right by the side door. Sam Arrands started ranting about having a lot of work to do; most of them were talking back and forth, asking questions, speculating about what was going on. It was tense in there, Alex. Nobody knew what the meeting was about, but they knew it wasn’t going to be good.

He drinks the rest of his water and refills the glass. By this time the twelve others have gathered close so they, too, can hear what is being said. Danny Marlowe, who was sitting up in the first row, stood up and said they needed to get on with it; like he knew what everything was about.

And? Alex prompts him.

You need to get out of here. He turns to the others, who have all removed their robes. You all need to get out. They’re going to be here soon. They were still in the church hall when I left and I got here as fast as I could. But they’re coming.

Alex places his hand on Jefferson’s shoulder and it seems to calm him a bit. "I need to know what went on before I vacate my home. I cannot—I will not—be chased off my own property without an explanation!" He takes a breath and softens his tone as he urges Jefferson to speak the rest of his story.

Well, the Reverend quieted the men down. Then, he said how it was a mortal sin to traffic with demons and to lay with Satan, and how it was just as sinful to know it was going on and to do nothing about it. He said evil came to live in this town; it was invited here and given a home. He worked the men into a lather by saying it would soon be after us all; evil would rape the women, defile the children, and then slaughter us all while we turned a blind eye to it.

Alex clasps his hands together and contemplatively places both forefingers against his lips. But I do not understand why this has anything to do with me. I have nothing to do with anyone in town. I hardly ever even set foot in town. Tell me why, Jefferson. It is not the Satan of their Christian beliefs we conjure.

Jefferson’s eyes are wide, as if he can’t understand why they are still there, why they haven’t run for a safe haven. Reverend Davis blamed you for everything. He didn’t name anyone else, but he named you. He points at Alex. Turning to the others, he says, "And he said he has his suspects. He said God spoke to him and told him it was time to cleanse the town of the evil, to burn out the sickness. Reverend Davis started handing out bottles of holy water for the men to drench themselves. He said it would protect those pure of heart against any evil they’d encounter once they were in the house. This house. He had them all shook up with his ranting and raving: they were rattled into being a lynch mob, Alex. He was getting ready to send them on a mission to seek out and destroy when I sneaked out to come warn you."

A murmur of confusion ripples around the twelve and soon turns into a frenzy that rips through them. Cries of fear and curses of vengeance are silenced by Alex.

They dare to come here! he thunders. Those around him cringe. He takes a deep breath to regain his composure before speaking again. They’ll find nothing, no evidence to fuel this witch hunt. There is no cause for alarm. I’ll—

No, Alex, Jefferson interrupts. "They’re coming to destroy you; to destroy all of you. They have no evidence, and they don’t need any. They are coming to rid the town of the evil—to kill you, Alex!"

Dead silence engulfs the room as they struggle to comprehend what has happened. No one speaks and no one moves, frozen like statues instead of living flesh.

One voice suddenly rings out, shattering the silence. They’re here. I was trying to leave before they got here, but it’s too late for us.

What’ll we do? a voice asks.

Some try to gather their cloaks around them for a sense of protection; others want to take their chances and try to leave.

"Enough," Alex commands and everything falls silent once again. He points to the great framed mirror. There is a haven which awaits us, where we shall hide until they leave, he tells them. He has provided an escape for us, one that will keep us safe and allow us to remain in the house. Through the mirror. Through the mirror we shall go, into His realm and He shall provide for us sanctuary until this madness ends. Gather your robes, the dagger, and the child; there is nothing else for them to find.

Shouts from outside can be heard as the townsmen get closer to the house. The twelve joined by Jefferson gather the robes and the dagger and wrap the body of the child in the cloth draped across the altar. Jefferson himself picks up the child and cradles it carefully in his arms.

Alex walks to the mirror and stands before the glass. An ornately carved wooden frame surrounds the highly reflective surface. Bowing his head and raising his arms, he begins the incantation to open the mirror.

Father, save us from those who would do us harm, from those who seek to keep Your word from this world. Open to us the doorway to Your world, where we shall find sanctuary until the time comes when we may once again enter this world and spread Your word. Alex continues to conjure as an ethereal light begins to filter out from under the carved mirror frame, growing brighter and brighter until the reflective surface of the mirror is lost to the light. Bring us to You so we may be safe from those who would destroy us. Bring us into You.

The bright light pulses, beginning slowly and continuing until the pulses are so rapid they hurt the eyes. Suddenly, the light subsides, and the room is lit only by candlelight. The reflective glass of the mirror has disappeared. In its place is a transparent wall of a water-like substance. Alex reaches out with one hand through the liquid glass and then pulls back quickly. His hand remains dry.

So it is, he announces. He has provided just as I said He would. Come.

One by one, Alex instructs them to enter through the mirror into the sanctuary beyond. Alex looks around the candlelit room before he, too, walks through the mirror. He turns to look over his shoulder just as the watery wall solidifies back into mirror glass, as if this mystical moment never took place. All that remains behind are hundreds of burning candles and the great stone altar; there are no tell-tale signs left anywhere in the room, not even a grimoire to be found.

Bursting into the house only seconds after the mirror returns to normal, the men find Mrs. Cassavettes standing in shocked silence on the stairs. They search the house from top to bottom for Alex and his cohorts. But they search in vain. There is nothing to be found of the night’s unholy activity. Hundreds of burning candles do unnerve the men, whose religious fervor begins to fade.

Where are they? a voice asks Reverend Davis.

You said we’d surprise them in the middle of calling their demons, another accuses. There ain’t nothing here.

They’re out for the evening, someone says.

Reverend Davis turns to them with the eyes of a zealot, the fervor still burning hot. Just out for the evening? Then why all these candles? he shrieks. I can smell the corruption here. I can smell the sin that permeates every inch of this cathedral of evil.

The men don’t want to disbelieve or desert the Reverend, but their willingness to follow is steadily declining. Several have already abandoned the house, beginning the journey back home to their families. Others are merely humoring the Reverend until he comes to his senses.

Where are they, Davis? Danny Marlowe, Davis’ staunchest supporter, questions. There ain’t a thing out of order here but some candles burning, and that just strikes me as more stupid than devil worshiping. The remaining men laugh. Let’s blow out these candles while we’re here, save these people from maybe burning down this nice house, and haul ourselves back home. I’m tired of the foolishness.

STOP, the voice of the Reverend rings out. This blasphemy must end.

Where the hell are they? They didn’t have time to get away; we got here too soon. How would they have known we were coming much less have a chance to get away?

We had the element of surprise on our side this night. There was no time for them to be warned, no time for them to plan and execute an escape. There is but one explanation, Reverend Davis points out. The evil-doers are still in the house, very close to us right now.

What are you talking about, Davis? Sam Arrands demands. I’ve just about had my fill of your nonsense. Make yourself clear.

I have the wisdom of the Lord on my side, he answers. I see with His clarity; I cannot be fooled by their diabolical doings. Davis points to the great mirror. I know exactly what has happened here, and I will let it be known right now where these sinners have slithered. A secret room is the nest of these heathens. We will find it behind this mirror.

Reverend Davis has made his last ditch bid sound convincing enough for three men to help him reveal the hiding place of the evil-doers. The four grunt as they remove the mirror from the wall, only to reveal there is no secret room. Greatly embarrassed by his folly, the Reverend slinks from the room without argument and the men commence extinguishing the multitude of lit candles. He knows his standing as a community and church leader has been diminished to the point of ridicule; his once-sterling reputation is now as tarnished as the lowest cretinous fool. When the men return to town he will become a laughingstock, forever viewed as a lunatic preacher without followers.

I

Shadows Fall

Chapter One

Leesburg, Virginia - Present Day

An overcast Wednesday morning was enough to make him want to turn his car around and go home. Temptation whispered to him to crawl back into a warm bed and doze while listening to the coming storm. Dark clouds blanketed the sky, making it seem like late evening even though it was barely eight-thirty. The morning weatherman warned that a front from the southeast was moving in; a severe thunderstorm would batter the area for the rest of the day and possibly for the next two or three days.

Bad jokes at my expense predicted for the remainder of this foul weather, he thought. I can never get enough of the pathetic puns and half-witted humor people seem to relish.

Storm Cassavettes, a quarter of an hour into his drive to work, brushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes and attempted to convince himself the day wouldn’t be a complete pain in the ass. The expressway teemed with other drivers trying to make it to work before nine, or, at least, before the deluge descended upon the city. Lightning flashed across the sky, briefly illuminating the skyline. The downpour began. He switched on the wipers, and they swished rhythmically in time with the song playing on the radio.

Traffic was bumper to bumper, just like every other morning. He flicked on his turn signal and patiently waited for some kind Samaritan to allow him into the right lane. No quarter given but every quarter taken on what seemed to be a road to nowhere. And just when all faith in the basic goodness of humankind was nearly lost, the lady in the red jeep flashed her high beams to signal Storm she was willing to let him pull over into the lane. Miracle of miracles. He floored the accelerator and swerved to the right and spent the next eight miles with her right behind him.

Cursing under his breath, he tightened his death grip on the steering wheel. The high-heeled stormtrooper didn’t back off an inch until he hit his signal and drove down the off-ramp. Then, she cheerfully waved as she passed by. He begrudgingly smiled and waved in return.

Never let ‘em see ya ache. Or was it never let ‘em see your ass?

He pulled into his parking spot just as the bell over the church chimed the hour. The deluge flooding the city had yet to slacken. He grabbed his briefcase and made a mad dash across the parking lot for the front door. He hurried inside, drenched like a sewer rat, grateful to be out of the falling water. Grateful until his shoes came into contact with the slick floor and his ass was intimately introduced to the marble tile.

Another wonderful moment in another wonderful morning. What’s next, the seven plagues of Egypt?

Storm stood up, gritted his teeth, and gathered his belongings as his glutious maximus throbbed with pain. He glanced around, sighing with gratitude no one was present to bear witness to his graceless entrance. Summoning his bruised dignity, he walked to the elevator, stepped into the empty car, and wished the day were over.

Like a lamb resigned to the slaughter, he pushed the button and ascended to the third floor, knowing a day of torment lay in wait.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hey, Stormy, some weather you cooked up for us today, greeted him when he stepped off the elevator, followed by the inevitable round of snickers.

Piss off, Whipple, he replied.

Jesus, somebody sure got clouds in their coffee this morning. Whipple snorted and stared disdainfully at him.

Best be careful I don’t electrify you with a lightning bolt, Whipple, Storm retorted and headed straight for the bathroom to towel off.

The bathroom was devoid of anyone else, for which Storm was thankful. He was already tired of the tasteless taunts people tossed around whenever a cloud crossed the sky or a drop of rain fell to earth. It never failed, no matter where he worked or who his friends were: the bad jokes were universal. At least in the cool silence of the bathroom he could get a grip on himself and force a positive attitude to surface.

He looked into the mirror and didn’t much like what he saw: hair hanging down over his forehead and dripping droplets of water into his eyes. Taking off his coat, he used a wad of paper towels to dry his hair as best he could without getting bits of paper all through it. Cold water sluiced down his back, causing goose bumps to rise all over his skin. His pants weren’t too bad—a couple wet spots here and there—nothing compared to his shirt. The front was soaked. Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw his back was just as wet.

Bad enough his back hurt and his butt ached from the fall but, on top of that, he was soaked through.

Now I’ll probably get pneumonia and die.

He moved to the hand dryers and turned both of them on. Standing in front of them, he dried off enough so he’d be semi-comfortable for the remainder of the day. The hot air felt good as it warmed him and dried his clothes. His dark mood lifted some.

At least, it lifted until one of his coworkers came in singing a song about a stupid spider on a rainspout. He left the bathroom before he got to the lyric along came the rain.

His secretary, Nannette Dupres, already behind her desk sorting through a leftover mountain of paperwork, didn’t greet him with a smile when he made it to his office. A fiery red-head with military experience, Nannette’s take charge, take-no-shit attitude was rumored to scare the people in the office more than her renowned dead-shot ability with her favorite thirty-aught-six. Maybe what actually scared people the most was the fact that she kept a picture of her favorite gun in a chrome frame on her desk and was more than happy to regale anyone who passed by with stories about the outlandish escapades she and her gun experienced over the years.

You’re behind already this morning since you left early yesterday, she said without looking up from her work as Storm tried to sneak unseen into his office. Seven messages on your desk, four from yesterday and three from this morning. There are two from some guy Dexter Evans who called for you last afternoon. He called again this morning. Just got off the phone from him not two minutes ago. She held up a message slip for Storm.

Any idea what he wants?

Sorry, not a clue. I haven’t had time for my morning coffee much less any psychic moments. I’m sure he’ll call back if it’s that important.

He just stood open-mouthed. Nannette was sure in rare form but then she was formidable on any given day.

Said he needs to talk to you, it’s important, but he won’t leave a message about what it concerns. Nannette snorted. Sounds like a self-important little shit. Must think he represents the Queen of Sheba.

Be nice, Storm half-jokingly chastised the older woman. Another two decades and she’d be one of those eccentrics everybody gossips about in hushed tones.

Honey, this is me being nice. Deal with it, she responded, still sorting through the paperwork and not looking up. Work for Disney if you want Mary Poppins.

He shook his head and held in a laugh. Any encouragement from him and she’d set off on a tirade about everything from missing office supplies being pilfered to the tawdry tramps down in the mail room who fantasized about being executive assistants someday. I’ve seen transvestites with better fashion sense, she was known to opine on the subject.

You gonna work or stand over my shoulder all day? she suddenly looked up and asked. She cocked her head and stared at him. You’re wet.

Instead of responding, Storm took shelter in his office. He knew Nanette thought of him like a son, and he knew she could be as overprotective as she was caustic.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Storm immersed himself in his work and the rest of the day passed without too much turmoil. The rain eased up and so did the half-witted witticisms. All in all, it wasn’t as bad as he’d initially thought it would be. By mid-afternoon, the regular routine kicked in and time flew by. In fact, Storm was so immersed in his work he completely forgot about placing a return phone call to Dexter Evans.

The drive home was even better than the morning’s, with half the traffic. But Storm did keep a wary eye out for the pseudo succubus in the red jeep.

Maybe things are starting to look up,