Prologue:
The six men held six candles in a dark place, five tiny flames in a circle around the sixth, their combined light accentuating the inky blackness beyond their bounds. The wavering candlelight didn't dispel the ground-in labor of their worn jeans, of their workboots and plaid workshirts, of their leathered faces and careworn eyes which reflected no light.
But the light loved the man in the middle. It shone in his short blond hair, clung to his sunkissed skin, reflected from his clean white t-shirt and his firm eyes.
"Brethren," the blond man said. "For our families. For our people. For the good of all we hold dear."
The folding table at his side held a penknife, a small brass bowl, and an open book covered by a cloth. He set his candle down and unfolded the penknife. Without a pause, he drew the blade across his thumb. Blood ran into the bowl.
Each man in turn approached the table and offered his thumb to the blade of the knife. The blood of six men mingled in a dark pool at the bottom of the bowl.
The blond man dipped two fingers in the blood and daubed it on his forehead, one red streak over each eye. He dipped his fingers again and anointed each of the other men in turn.
The men now surrounded the table, each setting his fingers on the edge of the bowl and holding the candle in the other hand. The blond man looked from man to man, meeting their eyes.
"One of us," he said, "will be the host. One will be the sacrifice. To whoever that martyr turns out to be... I salute you. We all do."
With his free hand, he pulled back the cloth and exposed the book, its archaic lettering faded against the yellowed paper.
"We begin."
He read with practice, words in a language familiar to none. The syllables sounded like curses, threats, savage growls and challenges meant to be wrung from other throats.
And between his words, behind them, around them, a hissing started. A breathy murmuring like the approach of a swarm of locusts. The air moved. The candle flames wavered and danced.
"Now," said the blond man, and all six pushed their fingers from the edge of the bowl to the blood at the bottom. The reading continued, louder now, as the droning whisper rose and whipped around them, tearing and clutching at their clothing.
And as the blond man's voice caught and ground on the harsh sounds – something leapt from the bowl.
Candles flew as bodies instinctively pulled back. The room sank into darkness, as the voice of the wind filled the space left by the candlelight. Men screamed. And something speaking in the wind hissed a laugh. Then the wind died like the closing of a window.
Silence.
The hot wick of a single candle on the floor flared to life again and was lifted by a bloody hand. The blond man surveyed the dark place.
Four more men slowly drew themselves up from the floor. The sixth did not; his eyes were rolled back into his head, and blood crept slowly down his cheek from his open mouth. The survivors stood in a ring around the corpse.
One man found his voice. "Did it... we... did we..."
The blond man smiled slowly, illuminated by the candle he held.
"We did. The herald is here."
** ** **
By the time I swung into the parking lot, it was 8:20am and I was late for an appointment in my own office. Not a sure sign of professionalism.
I hustled through the foyer doors to where Amy answered phones for five of the businesses in the building, mine included. She hung up just as I got to the reception desk.
"Morning, sister," she said. "You're appointment's waiting."
"Missed the alarm," I said. "Beth was up with nightmares."
"What about?"
"Drowning," I lied. "She's afraid of the water."
"Poor thing," she said.
"How long's he been here?"
"Walked it right when the clock said eight," she said. "He didn't want coffee or anything. Been sitting quietly on the chair outside your office ever since. Have you met him?"
"No," I said. "First impressions?"
"Old. Damn old."
I flipped my hair onto the outside of my jacket collar. "All right. Thanks for covering."
"Just call me a private eye in training."
I walked around the corner and down the hall to where my one-room office sat between those of a paralegal and a web designer. On the chair outside the door labelled "Avalon & Company, Investigations and Personal Security," waiting patiently as if he had all the time in the world, sat Ernst Vielstich, my 8am appointment. Amy was right; he was beyond old and well into damned old. He rose slowly as I walked up with my hand extended and my not-yet-hired smile on.
"Mr. Vielstich, I'm so sorry to keep you waiting."
He was small, only just cresting five feet, and thin like the years had sucked the marrow out of him. His emaciated skull was topped with a surprisingly strong head of white hair. He grip was measured and firm, but he cocked his head to one side as I unlocked the office door and ushered him in toward the client chair facing my desk.
"Please, have a seat," I said as I slid into my chair and nudged my purse under the drawers. "Can I have Amy get you some coffee?"
He lowered himself deliberately into the client chair and sat leaning forward on the edge, his eyes still crinkled with some confusion.
"I.. am sorry, but..." his voice was low and unassuming and bore the subtle stamp of a long-abandoned German accent.
I changed my expression from the "not-yet-hired smile" to "open-and-listening."
"I had thought," he said, "that I had an appointment with Mr. Rennie Avalon."
"Almost, I said. "Rennie Avalon is not a mister. That's me."
The confusion was replaced with gentle concern. "I am sorry," he said. "I did not realize that ‘Rennie' was a woman's name."
"That's okay, it's not common for either sex. And have I pronounced your name correct–"
But Vielstich was raising himself to his feet. "I am sorry," he repeated. "I did not mean to take your time."
By the time he gained his footing, I had come around the desk to him. At five-foot-eight, I'm not used to towering above anybody. I stood a few feet off so that my chin wouldn't rest on my chest.
"Mr. Vielstich, please don't assume that I can't do what you need because I am a woman. I've been in this business for seven years, and I've never run into a situation where my gender has been a problem."
The side of his mouth cracked in a smile; his teeth looked strong and real. "Forgive me, Miss Avalon," he said. "It's not a question of unsuitability, but one of chivalry. I am old-fashioned; I do not wish to place a woman in danger."
"I'm old-fashioned too," I said, "and I don't want to have to arm-wrestle you to prove how tough I am. Please sit down."
His smile broke across to the other side of his mouth. He nodded and settled back into the chair. I took my own seat again.
"Let's make a deal," I said. "You tell me what it is that you need. I'll tell you if I can handle it."
"Very well," he said. "It is this: I have lost a book."
