A Wicked Beginning (33 page)

“Most spiritualties have a myth that goes something like this: An ordinary human looks into the eyes of a deity and sees the All That Is before him. He sees the cosmos being born, the destruction of the galaxy, life, death, and all manner of existence reeling before him in a flash of breathtaking, mind-fucking brilliance. For a moment, he is transfixed, he is there with all that brilliance, at peace with it. But his mind, his small little mind that deals with the daily grind, paying bills, crawling around the planet like a rat, can’t comprehend what he sees. He goes mad and ends up in a loony bin; he becomes some kind of savior or guru; or he goes into denial and erases the memory from his mind. I imagine that it may be like that when she assumes her full power – when you behold her in her magnificence.”

Cam felt a sulk coming on, as if he were a small child. “What if I want to be with her for the rest of our lives?”

“That’s just it, Cam. The ka
is
…she just
is
…she doesn’t have a life like you and me. She assumes human form, experiences a human lifetime to learn and to experience, but then goes back from whence she came. And she always co-exists with her ka’kriyayago, her other half. One cannot exist without the other. If Kayden were to disappear, Chérie would disappear. Similarly, if they were to physically consummate with one another, they’d disappear as well. Poof! Hence the ka’kriyayago allows the female half – that’s Chérie – to commune with a worthy individual. It’s his ongoing gift to her and to him because in that way he gets to experience her fully the way a human would.”

“That makes me feel used, man, like I’m just a tool.”

“Oh, no, Cam, don’t even go there,” Mano said fervently. “I imagine you’ve been Chérie’s ‘worthy individual’ for eons. You keep coming back, over and over and over to be with her. You’re her chosen.”

Cam felt a little better hearing that but still; he didn’t like the idea of the three-way with Fabio.

As if reading Cam’s mind, Mano said, “It’s not a three-way with Chér and Kayden, stop going there. It’s like the fullness of Chérie is made up of both male and female energy. You’ve got it, I’ve got it; we just manifest one or the other usually, based on our gender. The ka is not only aware of her maleness and femaleness; she chooses to act them out willingly, with passion and creativity.”

“You sure know a lot about this, Mano. Did you learn this stuff in all your secret rituals?”

“Sure did. I’ve been fascinated by the concept of the ka’kriyayaga since I was a child. Guess I was just made for this moment when the concept was made manifest through a friend.” He looked askance at Cam. “That’s you, by the way.”

“Don’t get all warm and fuzzy on me, Mano, I can only take in so much goodness,” Cam said, pushing away from the table. “I’ve got a shitload of things to do today. Guess I’d better get to it.” He stood up and put his coffee cup in the dishwasher. “Thanks for the insight, Mano. I’ll chew on it for a while and see what I can make of it.”

“Sounds good, Cam.” Mano stood up and stretched. “Oh, by the way, I’m going to comp Chér and her friend into the club next week.”

“Are you? Her and Zuri? Cool, Mano. Keep an eye out, will you? I want her to be safe while I’m gone. If Angela’s after me, she might come after her, too.”

“Oh, I imagine the ka can take care of the ka, but I’ll keep an eye out just the same. The world’s a crazy place. Come on, girl,” he called to Severe. “We’ve got things to do and places to see.” He stood up and walked down the hall with Severe trotting by his side.

Cam stood in the kitchen before heading out.
More new info to digest
, he thought sourly.
Why not? Why bother having an ordinary day?
Fuck.
Fabio as the other half of Chér?
He’d find a way to deal with that.
Him not being able to look at Chérie in her ‘magnificence?’
Not if he could help it. He’d do whatever he could to make sure that he truly ‘saw’ her whenever she saw herself. Yup, this was a Class 6 rapid for sure. Danger to life or limb…that was how the experts classified a Class 6…well, he’d always wanted to run a Class 6. Here was his chance. He threw back his head and laughed out loud before going to his room to get ready for the day. Wasn’t life a fucking trip and a half?

Chapter 32 – Angela

Tonight was the night of the big ritual – the one that would deliver the love of her life into her world -
forever
. Angela let herself out of the car in front of Jill Primcott’s small disheveled yard, her eyes bright and shining with anticipation. She blinked at the flickering streetlight overhead, sputtering and winking in and out.
The city needs to put some money out here and get these darn things fixed
, she thought with a scowl. She hated when things were broken or out of place. Reaching into the back seat, she pulled out the small brown paper sack of nasty smelling herbs, dried blood, and animal semen she’d gotten from Mrs. Primcott last time she was here. She’d added some of her blood to the mixture, as well. When her menses had come on last night, she’d retrieved some of the fluid, dabbed it all over the herbal mixture, and laid it in the light of the waxing moon to allow everything to marry together.
Just like she wanted to marry him.

The blood retrieval process had been difficult for her. You weren’t supposed to touch your own menstrual blood – ugh. Who did that? Not her. She’d always pulled out her blood-soaked tampons with her fingernails or with a latex-gloved covered hand, quickly shoved them into a paper towel lined zip lock baggy she carried for that purpose, sealed them, and threw them away. It was disgusting. But for this ritual she’d gone into the pristine white bathroom and just sat there for the longest time. She’d broken her own rule about smoking in the house; she was so uncomfortable with this process. Instead, she’d lit a cigarette, turned on the overhead fan, removed her panties, and squatted on the floor, hoping that some of the blood would just leak out onto the herbal bundle spread out on red silk along the smooth, snowy-white tiles. She really didn’t want to have to stick her fingers up inside to get it. But no, her body hadn’t been that cooperative. She’d finished her cigarette, flushed the butt down the toilet, washed her hands, and reached for a latex glove. Then she remembered Mrs. P telling her that she had to have skin contact with her blood - revolting. Taking a deep breath, she pushed a finger up inside the slippery opening, pulled the red smeared digit out, and wiped it on the dried herbs. Everything had stuck to her finger, and she had to use her long nails to gently push the blood soaked concoction off of her skin onto the silky cloth. After she was through, she’d washed, washed, and re-washed her hands using strong sanitizing soap. Then she’d taken the precious bundle out to place it on the windowsill facing the moon. The whole process had been vile. Now, however, walking up Mrs. Primcott’s rickety steps, she was filled with excitement, all previous revulsion vanished.

Standing on the front stoop, she heard heavy, shambling feet and cringed. It was obvious who was coming to the door. It was Joe Dallas. He pulled the wooden door ajar and just stood there, wearing jumbo-sized, shabby denim overalls, staring at her red clad form. For the purposes of this ritual, she had been advised to wear nothing but red, so red it was. A long slinky red skirt hugged her hips and legs while her feet were clad in a pair of glistening red spiked steel heels aptly called Devious Scream. A red camisole, cut to her belly button, wrapped around her torso while accenting her voluptuous breasts. A sensuous red Luxxa thong served as panties. Long, red painted sharpened-to-a-point fingernails and Red Carpet lipstick by Dior in the Addict series completed her look. She’d even added a bold red streak of color down her shimmering aubergine hair. Let’s face it – she looked nothing but hot.

Saliva started to form at the corners of Joe Dallas’ slack mouth. One long string of spit fell to the floor making a wet dot in the faded beige carpet.

“Shut your mouth, Joe, you’ll catch nothing but flies,” Angela said derisively. She pushed past him, brushing up against his shoulder, holding her hand over her nose to avoid his stench. She felt him tremble at the touch and heard him moan, and she wrinkled up her nose. Good grief, the man was revolting. “Where’s Mrs. Primcott?” she asked crisply.

“Uh, uh, uh,” Joe began.

“Oh, puh-lease, just answer the question and stop being a tongue-tied dolt,” she snapped.

“Uh, uh, uh…she’s…she’s…she’s in the back. She’s waiting for you. Follow me.” He began to push past her, but she angrily shoved him to the side.

“I can find it myself, thank you, you idiot. It’s the room she always uses, isn’t it?” She certainly didn’t expect or want an answer.

He shuffled along behind her as she strode purposefully down the hall. When Angela got to the doorway of the back room – the one she always met Mrs. Primcott in – she stopped in surprise. Mrs. Primcott’s severely taut skin shone with a greasy pallor in the candle lit room. Her tiny, pig-shaped eyes had been lined with kohl. The black lines extended from the edges of her eyes were intended to look like Cleopatra. Instead, they were barely visible, like black string pressed between folds of Play Dough. Her liver colored hair had been pulled back even tighter than usual and was trapped in a tight gold beaded headband, with foot-long strands of beads flowing down the sides, and a gold-painted plastic snake head poking out the front of the band.

A small altar had a picture of Mrs. Primcott’s recently departed husband on one side, a picture of He Who Could Not Be Named
on the other side. Mrs. Primcott, wearing what could only be two king-sized burgundy sheets sewn together, sat in the throne-like chair that had been built to her exacting specifications. An ornate structure, it was built like a double-wide throne to seat her massive 375 pound bulk. It was covered with gold leaf, painted with Egyptian symbols, and had cat’s heads carved into the arms of the chair. When she sat in the chair she placed her fleshy, moist palms on each of the cat’s heads. To add to the freakish scene, there were these strange bat-like creatures hovering about Mrs. Primcott’s scalp like tiny, slobbering ghouls. Angela’s forehead creased deeply as she viewed the scene.

“Do come in, Angela,” Mrs. Primcott intoned in a regal voice. “Joe, you wait outside.”

“B-b-but,” Joe began.

“Shoo!” Mrs. Primcott waved him away.

He slunk out of the room and closed the door behind him.

“Do you have the sacred ingredients?”

“Yes, they’re right here,” Angela said, extending the brown paper sack.

“Good. First, go retrieve that picture.” She pointed to the picture of him that sat on the altar, next to her dead husband’s image.

Angela did as she was told.

“Now pull out the silk wrapping and lay it out over there, with the photograph in the center of the circle.” Mrs. Primcott pointed to a spot on the rug, in the middle of a circle drawn with yellow chalk. Angela did as she was told. “Sit opposite me on the floor.”

Angela frowned at the dirty, stained carpet. She didn’t want to sit on that filth. She looked over to see Mrs. Primcott staring at her with hard, cold eyes.

“Sit down,” Jill demanded.

Angela reached into her purse and pulled out a couple of tissues. She spread these out on the floor and sat, trying to stay poised on the small white paper rectangles as best she could.

“Now release the sacred herbs into the circle. Spread them all around his image.” After Angela did this, Mrs. Primcott continued. “Good. Now bring him into your mind without thinking of his name. Stand up and remove your clothes. Retrieve some more blood from your sacred canal and dab it on the edges of the photo.”

“Ew,” Angela uttered. “Must I? I thought that part was done.”

“Do you want him bound to you or not?” Mrs. Primcott began tapping her sturdy brown shoe on the floor.

“I do, I do,” Angela conceded. First, she stood and stripped off her clothes, folding them carefully and resting the folded pile on a couple of tissues. She pulled another paper hankie out of her purse, stuck a finger up inside of her slick interior, and dabbed the bloody finger at the edges of the photo lovingly. Thoroughly wiping her finger with the tissue, she then plucked a sanitizing wipe out of her purse, tore open the tiny package, and sanitized the manicured digit. She carefully placed all the soiled remains in a zip lock baggy and sealed the edges. Hearing Mrs. Primcott’s shoe tap, tap, tap on the floor, she looked up.

“Are you finished?”

“Why, yes, I am,” Angela replied coolly. “I mean no disrespect, but this is
my
ritual, Mrs. P.”

“And this is my house,” Jill responded sharply. “And this is my binding ritual, made up by
me
.”

The two women gave each other a menacing glare, like enemy cats with their hackles raised. With the black, sinister wraiths flaring up from her head, Mrs. Primcott’s eyes pierced Angela’s like small, stinging needles, causing Angela to look away first.

“I apologize, Mrs. Primcott,” she uttered demurely all the while thinking,
bitch.

“Shall we proceed?”

“Yes, we shall,” replied Angela, brushing her bare skin with her hands.