Chapter 12 Dark Figures and Rituals
DARK FIGURES AND RITUALS
As I delicately push the door open, I see the familiar set of stairs leading down.
The same stairs where I fell asleep listening to the band rehearse.
With only a brief hesitation, I proceed down the steps into the pitch black.
As I continue, I begin to hear the low hum of voices and pause for a moment.
Focusing on where the sound is coming from, I see a line of light near the floor, rising up in a thin L shape.
I step closer, careful to move slowly and purposefully so as not to give myself away.
As I get nearer, I can pick out specific voices. Malam’s guttural, deep tones, Fem’s voice a rich, dark sound, Lent soft and mid, Reem’s throaty and light, and finally the most unfamiliar, which must be Dio. His voice is a low, rich tone, at odds with the way he sang.
As I hear him speaking, I feel my shoulders tighten at the memory of the way he looked at me after he auditioned. I pull myself away from that feeling and focus on the words they are speaking.
Malam’s voice says, “You will tell me why there is a fourth.” His voice is a low hiss.
Reem says, “Dio auditioned and is part of the band.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t explain why he’s here.”
Fem begins to say, “He—”
Malam cuts him off. “He’ll speak for himself.”
There is silence for a moment, and then Dio says, “I’ve been against the government and all their policies since I was—”
“With who your parents are, I find that highly unlikely.” Malam’s voice is stony, and as I risk a glance through the crack in the door, I see his back. The boys stand beyond him, facing him and the door I stand behind. His whole body is tense as though he’s nearly ready to turn and leave the room.
I prepare to hide, noting a small cubby alongside the stairs.
As I risk another glance, I see Dio move closer to Malam, his eyes on Malam’s face. Even from here, I can almost feel the clash of their gazes like blades in a silent swordfight.
“You don’t need to believe me for it to be true, demon,” Dio says.
I step back, careful to be quiet, ready for Malam to come through the door at any moment. There is a lengthy pause in the room, and I stay still, my heart pounding, listening for movement.
Then Dio’s voice, a deep growl, says, “Who my parents are is immaterial to this discussion. Just because they were aligned with our political leaders doesn’t mean I follow in their footsteps.
Early on, I was able to think for myself and felt strongly that what they were doing wasn’t right.
All that money doesn’t come from something good.
When they died and deeded me their estate, I accepted it and began investing and involving myself in anti-government actions. ”
Dio pauses, and there is silence in the room.
After a few minutes, he continues. “Starting many years ago, I learned about dark magic from a friend, and since then, I’ve been a solo practitioner.
I was introduced to your ethos several years ago by those I met in my practice of magic.
The guys from the band saw my tattoos and thought to ask.
When I explained my background, they invited me here. ”
Another pause, then Dio says, “I’ll learn from you if you’ll allow it, but if not, I’ll continue as I have.”
Silence falls over the room again.
Finally, I hear Malam’s voice say, “Let’s see them then.”
I hear a quiet rustle and again peer through the crack in the door in time to see Dio finish unbuttoning his shirt. He removes it carefully, folding it over one arm.
Tattoos twist around his torso, arms, and up his neck in shapes I can’t untangle.
Every part of his abdomen and upper arms is covered in ink.
It’s not just tattoos, though. From what I can see, there are also multiple scars cutting across skin that covers corded muscles.
By his build and neat, controlled movements, I am again confident he’s either skilled at fighting or dancing, perhaps both.
Malam steps forward and runs his fingers over the twisted shape of a tattoo that travels from Dio’s collarbone to the bottom of his ribs on his left side.
I wouldn’t have noticed that shape amongst the other twisting lines.
Malam, though, has clearly identified it as something specific.
As his fingers near Dio’s last rib, he pauses.
From his body language, I can tell he looks back up, meeting Dio’s eyes.
They both remain there, still for a moment, and then Malam steps back and, in a quieter voice, says, “Put your shirt back on. We will begin.”
With that, Malam moves deeper into the room beyond what I can see from the door, and the boys follow him. Dio pulls his shirt back on and begins to button it as he joins the others.
I step back from the door, trying to process what I just watched. When I close my eyes, the shape that Malam traced on Dio’s chest is visible as though it's been burnt into my memory.
As I think through everything I just saw, breathing as quietly as I can, something catches my attention. A low murmur increases in sound until I can hear chanting. I clench my hands in fists, unable to see what’s going on because of the placement of the narrow crack in the door.
Finally, unable to remain patient any longer, I push at the door trying to widen the crack so I can see more of the room.
For a moment, I think I might succeed at my goal.
Then the traitorous hinges let out the slightest, high creak of the ungreased.
I freeze in the darkness, holding my breath.
Moments pass, and the chanting continues, low and guttural from the other room, and I let out my breath.
I am not unwise, however, and having already nearly given away my presence, I know better than to tempt fate again. Instead, I turn and head back up the stairs, moving carefully to avoid any further incident. I pass through the door at the top of the stairs and push it closed.
My heart rate is returning to normal, and the door is nearly latched when resistance meets my palm. I’m pushed back roughly into the room as Dio steps out from behind it. There is a wild storm of emotion across his face. I smell a coppery tang clinging to him.
He looks at me as he gets through the door, and his expression darkens. “I knew I heard something,” he grinds out through a clenched jaw.
I’m trembling slightly, my hands in fists and chest heaving.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and regards me with a sneer. “Why are you spying?” he snarls.
I remain frozen, and after a few breaths, he steps forward with another snarl. “You will tell me.”
“I don’t know why you are so angry. I was just curious what you were doing,” I grit out. Anger is crashing through me at the way he is treating me.
“I’m angry because I recognize what you are, and this behavior is unacceptable.”
That strange intelligence must have understood something that my own mind has not yet because, before I recognize them, words emerge from my lips. “And you want to control me? You want me to just go away? What is it you see in me that is making you so angry?”
He takes another step towards me, his whole body shaking. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and clenches them into fists at his sides as he snarls at me, louder this time. “I see a spoiled brat with an addiction who, through her actions, is endangering the people who are trying to help.”
My chest heaves, “Addiction?” I splutter out, “What does that even mean?”
Dio throws his hands in the air in a wild gesture as a mirthless laugh leaves his chest. “What a surprise. She denies it,” he says as he takes another step towards me.
I remain in place as he closes the distance between us.
My feet are still, but my brain is running, trying desperately to understand the meaning of the words he is throwing at me.
They feel like knives despite my lack of understanding.
I know it’s important for me to figure it out if I have any chance of survival in this sudden and unexpected battle.
Of course, my brain chooses this particular, clearly important detail to not understand. The strange intelligence granted to me by the little boy, which has led me through so many important and mundane interactions in this world so far, doesn’t help with this.
“Look, just like a good addict when confronted, she doesn’t have anything to say,” Dio spits at me.
My body does what I tell it, which is nothing, and stands still in the same spot as he closes in and stands directly in front of me. My chest is tight, breathing is difficult, and despite the absence of physical pain, my eyes begin to water.
Suddenly unable to deal with the feelings in my body, I spin and walk quickly, nearly run, away from Dio. I go to my room, the only sanctuary I can think of at the moment.
“I’d recommend you stay in there until we decide what to do with you,” says Dio, darkly from behind me.
I break into a real run until I crash through the door to my room and slam it closed.
I don’t understand Dio’s anger. He caught me watching something private, but his emotion seems too violent for that alone. Tears slide down my cheeks from the brutal interaction.
After a few moments, I give up trying to understand and decide to ask one of the much more reasonable boys about what “addict” means when I see them.
With that decided, I scrub the tears from my face.
I grab the bag with the books out from beneath my bed and settle myself across the covers.
Then I spread the books around me and begin looking through them, still battling tears as I attempt to read.
Hours pass as I work to gather more knowledge of angels to fill in the continued gaps in my understanding.
As I read the history book I purchased, I discover that angels ruled openly in the past. The writer credits them for developing an effective and successful system of government that has led to many decades of prosperity.
I read that the population increased to such an extent that, as of the publication of this book, one large city covers the entire world.
My stomach twists, a sick feeling filling me as I think of it; however, the author seems to feel this is an acceptable cost of progress and prosperity.
The book also postulates that there may still be some angels in high levels of government.
However, it seems that no one has proven the theory.
As I consider, I picture Rex sitting on the dais.
In my mind’s eye, I can also see all of the angels that were in that space when Bonum brought me before the High Leader.
Eventually, though, I can remain awake no longer and sleep claims me.
Idream of dark figures chanting in a guttural language.
There is a spark of something directly in front of me, and the outline of a face is revealed behind it in the momentary light.
The light flashes again, and I feel as though I recognize the face, but I don’t know from where.
As I try in vain to search for the memory, the chanting increases in volume.
I hear an intake of breath and then someone says, “You didn’t need to cut that deep, fuck that hurt.”
The light flashes again, and this time catches. In the light, I see I’m standing behind a torch outside a circle of men. In the center, one of the figures moves, drawing a shape in blood on the ground in the center of a circle of arranged plant stems.
As I watch, the figure completes the shape, stands, and returns to the other shadowed men.
As they all clasp hands and step backwards to the edge of their reach, a heavy, soaking rain begins to fall.
In that moment, the dream changes, showing me a street littered with the bodies of angels, and heavy rain falling around me.
In my ear, Lent’s voice says, “Even those few drops are so rare it’s a lucky thing.”