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Authors: Jeff Gelb

BOOK: Dark Passions
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Susan thought she heard Mark's New York accent peel away like dead skin flaking off a snake.
“Aurora left us while in the elevator and has been using it as a temporary domicile until a more suitable vessel could be found.
You
are that vessel, Susan.”
A part of Susan wanted to run back through the hole in the wall and rouse Artie to help her. But an unnaturally strong desire, tenfold stronger than any longing she had ever experienced before, held her fast.
Suddenly Mark dropped his pants in one fluid motion and stood near, his erection pointing straight at her, and his lips—of which she'd dreamed so long—now only inches from hers. Her mouth slowly came to touch his, and down below her hand guided his scalding-hot penis toward her flesh. She felt his glans tease her outer labia and start to penetrate, and her thighs turned to butter and melted into him.
“Aurora has waited a long time, a very long time,” he said, speaking directly into her mouth as his tongue reached out to hers. “I have tested so many and found them wanting.” He nuzzled her neck and drove himself another inch into her. The position would not have worked, but Susan's suspicions had been correct and Mark's erect penis was enormous, for she could feel that he still had length to give her. Now his mouth was on her nipples, driving her wild even as another inch of him slid into her folds.
“Oh Mark,” she whispered.
“Aurora, I have brought you the One.” His teeth nipped a nipple; then he withdrew from her and turned her around. He flicked the skirt up and with his hands spread her labia apart. With the longest dildo from the collection, he prepared her to receive his burning flesh. The wooden phallus was cold and yet radiated heat, and it seemed to melt her insides.
Then Mark withdrew the ancient artifact and entered her. Susan gasped with pleasure and pain, almost fainting, her eyes glazed. And when he drove farther into her, she wondered for a moment if she could possibly take his entire length. But then he pulled her head back toward him and doubled her pleasure by thrusting even deeper within her. Her orgasms began to roll in waves and she barely heard him. Her vision failed, and the room became a blur.
“Aurora, I have brought you a Vessel worthy of your lust and of your ambition, and I give her to you as a gift of gratitude for the immortality you will grant me.”
Susan heard, but her ears were muffled by the roaring of her blood singing through her veins like floodwater through a canyon. She felt as if Mark's erection was splitting her open from top to bottom, and suddenly she felt another presence—another presence inside
her.
How could this be possible?
How?
Susan heard a voice. “You will need the final offering, Marcus! You must have an offering to complete the transfer ...”
Susan gasped. It was her own voice, but she hadn't spoken the words.
Just then she heard a crashing, tearing, and pounding coming from the hole she had torn in the drywall.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Artie!
Artie had found her and was coming to rescue her.
Susan opened her mouth but emitted no sound other than a lustful purring that she knew—
knew beyond any doubt
—must have been Aurora's.
“Welcome, Artie,” said Mark from behind her. And suddenly he withdrew from her and she saw him leap like a panther over her and toward Artie, whose eyes could not have yet adjusted to the light. In Mark's hand, a curved dagger glimmered in the dancing candlelight.
Oh no! Artie!
The broad slash slit Artie's throat and almost severed his head, sending a great curtain of blood gushing over her bare flesh. He crumpled into a heap. While Artie's feet still twitched, Mark went to work with the dagger and one of the erotically designed dishes. Susan could barely make out the butcher-shop sounds that came next. She was receding: the sound of blood rushing in her ears had become a din of white noise, and her glazed vision had tunneled and was now fading into darkness.
“You must move quickly, Marcus!” Aurora's whisper was a hiss.
“The blood sacrifice is done, my Aurora,” said Marcus.
When he turned, he saw Susan rising to her feet.
But now her hair was flaming red in the candlelight, and her eyes were no longer glazed.
Aurora had returned, and now her mood needed an elevator. “Come to me, Marcus,” she purred, and he brought his blood-splattered flesh to her, letting her sink to her knees before him.
There was nothing left of Susan but the Vessel. But that was the last thing on Marcus's mind.
The
Thirteen
Locks
Dave Zeltserman
 
 
 
 
A
hand clapped me on the back of the shoulder. I could barely believe it when I turned and saw Roger Hormsley's round, pink-cheeked face beaming at me.
“Jack, Jack McFarssen,” he exclaimed as he held out a damp hand. “Jesus, of all places to run into you, downtown Manhattan. Last I heard you were skulking around the banks of the Euphrates. Would you mind?”
He was referring to the empty chair at my table. I have to admit seeing him was a shock. As casually as I could, I signaled for him to join me. Hormsley, of all people. Such rotten, putrid luck. If that's what it was.
“Roger, quite a surprise,” I said. “And no, I don't know what you've heard, but I haven't been near the Euphrates. Too dangerous these days with what's going on in Iraq.”
He smiled thinly, then looked past me to wave over the barmaid. When she came to the table, Hormsley smiled broadly at her, showing off his perfect white teeth, and told her that he was guessing I was drinking my usual, twenty-four-year-old Macallan.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Well, then, set me up with the same and bring another for my old friend.”
He watched her as she walked away, his smile fading and his small eyes turning dull. When he looked back at me, his round, jolly face was lifeless. “Jack, rumor has it you've been searching for the Scrolls of Hazaa.”
“Roger, I've been stateside the past six months. San Francisco, if you must know. What made you think I was in Iraq?”
“Charles Lutton. He saw it with that glass of his.”
The barmaid returned with our drinks, and I was grateful for it. Charles Lutton! I should've expected as much. Spying on me with that glass dragon's eye of his. A shriveled prune of a man, more gristle at this point than flesh. If he were broken open, there would probably be nothing more than rust in his veins. How old was he? A hundred years? Two hundred? All I knew was he'd been in the occult game longer than anyone could guess. Hormsley and I had both been in it for over twenty years and were novices compared to Lutton. Of course, as experienced as Lutton was, as far into the dark shadows as he may have slid, he didn't have in his possession the Scrolls of Hazaa. I did.
My hand shook slightly as I brought the scotch to my lips. Hormsley noticed, and it showed briefly in his eyes. I waited until the barmaid left and then told him that Lutton must be playing with him.
“Must be.”
“Or maybe that damn dragon eye of his has been clouded up by cataracts. Making San Francisco Bay look like the Euphrates.”
“Hmm-hmm.” He took a slow sip of his scotch. “So, Jack, what were you doing in San Fran?”
“I heard there was a copy of
L'Occulto Illuminato
hidden there.”
“And did you find it?”
“No.”
“Of course not. All known copies were destroyed in the sixteenth century.”
I shrugged and made a weak excuse about how I'd been tracking down a bum tip. Hormsley stared at me intently as he sipped his scotch. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out and licking his lips.
“I believe what Charles told me,” he said. “He was quite earnest.”
I could imagine that. Anyone would be
quite
earnest knowing the Scrolls of Hazaa had not only been unearthed but had fallen into the hands of a skilled occultist like myself. I forced a laugh. “This is ridiculous,” I said. “If I did have the scrolls, what would I be doing in New York?”
“Akkadian is a tricky language. Outside of you, myself, and Charles, there are maybe a handful of people alive who could decipher it. One of them is Professor Tappani at Columbia. My guess is you've come here for his help.”
“No, Roger, I'm not here to see Professor Tappani. I'm here to rest a bit and take advantage of Christmastime in New York. Nothing more.”
His eyes bored into me as he edged closer. He said, “Look, Jack, I can help you with the scrolls. The nuances of Akkadian are immense, but together we could translate them without error. There's no reason the two of us couldn't enter the Hall of Hazaa. As one man, you'd have to solve all thirteen locks by yourself. Why not do it together? Both of us could have what the scrolls promise. Immortality. Agelessness. Virility of a god. Why not, Jack?”
It was pitiful watching him demean himself like this. Why share something that I could have all to myself? Especially since he failed to mention the most treasured of the rewards for solving the thirteen locks. The eternal services of the Furies. I would be like a god. And share them with this whining, wretched excuse of a man? Was he insane?
“No, Roger,” I said, struggling to keep the pity from my voice, “I don't have the scrolls. And I am not here in New York to see any professor from Columbia.”
I looked away and drank my scotch. From the corner of my eye, I could see his round face deflate like a punctured tire. He stood up, placed some money on the table for the drinks, then nodded toward me and, with his shoulders slumping, trudged off to an empty table.
Of course, while Hormsley had been right about the scrolls, he had no clue as to why I was in New York. It wasn't to see Professor Tappani or anyone else. I was quite confident in my own translation of the scrolls. But my reason for being here—as bizarre as it may sound—was that the Hall of Hazaa was right here in Manhattan. As the full moon reached its highest ascendancy, and if I were standing in the prescribed spot, the gate would become visible for a mere few seconds. After that it would be another seven years before entrance to the hall would be possible. According to my calculations, the gate would be able to be seen at exactly two thirty-one this morning, giving me a little over three hours to wait. I had gone over the scrolls a hundred times, and I was sure of this—as sure as I was of anything. After I gained entrance to the hall, I would have twenty-four hours to solve the thirteen locks. If I failed, well, I didn't want to think about the consequences. All I could do was trust that I wouldn't. The rewards were too great to do anything else. Anyway, while the scrolls didn't spell out how to solve the locks, they hinted that if I asked I would be told. Whom I would ask, I didn't have a clue, but I would cross that bridge when I got to it.
I ordered another drink, and after finishing it looked over and saw that Hormsley had left. He had to have known I wouldn't share the scrolls with him, but I guess desperation can make men do foolish things. Or maybe he was simply trying to get a read on me, to see whether or nor Lutton hadn't lost his mind and that I actually had the scrolls in my possession.
I ordered dinner and black coffee. The next twenty-four hours were going to be long ones. After I finished eating, I hung around until twenty past one. The location of the Hall of Hazaa was no more than an hour by foot, and I wanted to get there close to the time that the gate would show itself. I didn't want to have to loiter in case Lutton or anyone else was spying on me.
It was nippy out. My breath showed in front of my face as I exhaled. I held my overcoat tightly by my throat and pushed forward against the wind, dropping my head as I walked. The cold air was quite a contrast from the blistering heat of Iraq, but after a while I got used to it. Soon the numbness in my ears faded, and I could hear the footsteps keeping pace with my own. I walked a little farther and then turned down the next alleyway and pushed myself against the building. Sure enough, Roger Hormsley followed me into the alley. He seemed surprised to see me standing there waiting for him, then shrugged weakly.
“Jack,” he said, “how could you blame me? We're talking about the Scrolls of Hazaa, for Chrissakes—”
I stepped forward and punched him hard in the throat. His face purpled as he gasped for air. His eyes searched out mine, begging me, pleading with me. I kicked his legs out from under him, sending him to the pavement.
“That's right,” I told him. “We're talking about the Scrolls of Hazaa.”
I kicked him in the mouth, knocking out several of his perfect white teeth. With the force of the kick, his head banged against the brick building, and as he lay still I stomped down on his throat, pushing hard with my foot until I was sure he was dead. I was staring at his dead, half-opened eyes when a beam of light hit me in the face. I looked up and saw a patrol car had stopped by the alley and a police officer was shining his flashlight at me. Then the light lowered to Hormsley's body. I started running. The shattering high pitch of a police siren followed.
I raced down the alley, cut across two others, then through a building until I was able to backtrack to the street I needed to get to. All the while I could hear the cops chasing after me. Adrenaline pumped through me, pushing me faster than what I thought humanly possible. I spotted the alley where I would find the gate to the Hall of Hazaa. There was a parked car mostly in the shadows of the streetlights. I dove under it, rolling as far back as I could. My breathing was ragged from the hard run, and I tried desperately to control it and to keep from making any noise. The two cops ran by, both of them panting hard. I heard them yelling at each other, asking if they saw what direction I had run off to. Their voices grew more distant. I waited until I thought it was safe. Then I pulled myself out from under the car. Squinting hard under the streetlight, I saw I had two minutes before the gate would show itself.
As quietly as I could, I made my way down the alley. Earlier in the day I had found the exact spot to stand using a GPS tracker. I now stood there. In front of me was a dumpster. If I had properly translated the scrolls, the Gate to Hazaa would unveil itself to me. All of a sudden I heard yelling, and then the beam from a flashlight hit my chest and then my face. One of the cops yelled at me to get down on my stomach. I heard them running toward me, but I ignored them.
All at once I could see the gate. Massive in size, a tarnished silver exterior with carvings of the Furies decorating it. They were hideous, horrific creatures, and if I solved the thirteen locks they would be in my service.
I moved quickly, placing my hands and fingers in the positions that the scrolls had outlined. It was a complex series of movements, but I had them memorized, and as I completed the last one, the gate swung open. While I never looked in their direction, I could feel one of the cops reaching toward me as I slipped through the open gate. Then it swung shut behind me.
I was in a narrow hallway illuminated by an eerie green light, maybe fifty feet or so from the Hall of Hazaa. My heart pounded in my chest. So close. So damn close.
Immortality. Agelessness. Virility of a god. The service of the Furies.
It would all be mine if I could solve the thirteen locks.
The hallway bent to the right. When I made the turn, I could see it. I could see the Hall of Hazaa. And then I could see them.
I almost stumbled into the hall, dazed, as I stared at them. And they just stared back at me, their eyes shining brightly. I counted them. There were thirteen of them. Thirteen girls, all naked, all heart-stoppingly beautiful, all of them looking no more than eighteen years of age. All of them thin, petite, with just barely perceptible bulges to their bellies, all with pert, champagne-glass–sized breasts and perfect pink nipples. Each of them only showing bare traces of pubic hair—more like peach fuzz than anything else—making the lips of their pussies visible. I remembered a passage from the scrolls, how the key would be an
arrow made of flesh and blood.
It all started to make sense. I knew how to solve the thirteen locks.
All their eyes were on me. I walked farther into the room. One of them—a girl with long red hair that fell past her shoulders—moved toward me. The others, their eyes were blue or gray, but hers were an emerald green. Absolutely dazzling. She stopped five feet from me and then lay on the ground. One of her hands crept down to her pubic area. She had her legs spread wide as her hand rubbed her pussy, and then using two fingers she pushed through the opening, going deep inside herself. And she moaned with each thrust of her fingers. I heard more moaning, and as I looked around the room, I saw more of them on the ground, moving in ecstasy as they fingered their pussies and pulled at their pink nipples. Several of them had paired off and were rub-bing their breasts against each other as they touched each other. My mouth felt dry as I watched them. I could barely swallow.
The redhead rolled onto her knees so her ass was facing me. It was about as perfect an ass as I'd ever seen. Small, tight, with just enough to it to make the blood rush through my head. I could hear it pounding in my ears. Her hand snaked between her legs, and I watched transfixed as she rocked rhythmically back and forth, each thrust from her fingers into her pussy bringing a soft moan from her lips. Her head turned back to face me, her eyes rolling upward in orgasmic delight.
I shook myself out of the trance I had fallen into and asked her if I would solve the locks by entering each of them. She gave me a puzzled look, all the while thrusting two of her fingers back and forth into her small, tight pussy, her small hips gyrating and shivering slightly with each thrust. Of course it was stupid asking her in English. I tried again, this time in the extinct language of Akkadian. I had never spoken the language before, and my dialect sounded unnatural to my own ear, but she seemed to understand me. In a throaty purr, she answered me back in the same dead language, telling me that penetrating them wouldn't be enough—that I needed to ejaculate in each of them to unlock them.

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