"What's wrong?!" She glanced down at the drawer. "What is it?"
Bellamy seemed unable to speak. He had the look of a man who had just seen something he deeply wished he had not.
"What's in the drawer?" she demanded.
Bellamy's tear-filled eyes held hers for a long, sorrowful moment. Finally he spoke. "You and I wondered why . . . why this man seemed to hate your family."
Katherine's brow furrowed. "Yes?"
"Well . . ." Bellamy's voice caught. "I just found the answer."
CHAPTER 119
In the chamber at the top of the House of the Temple, the one who called himself Mal'akh stood before the great altar and gently massaged the virgin skin atop his head. Verbum significatium, he chanted in preparation. Verbum omnificum. The final ingredient had been found at last. The most precious treasures are often the simplest.
Above the altar, wisps of fragrant smoke now swirled, billowing up from the censer. The suffumigations ascended through the shaft of moonlight, clearing a channel skyward through which a liberated soul could travel freely.
The time had come.
Mal'akh retrieved the vial of Peter's darkened blood and uncorked it. With his captive looking on, he dipped the nib of the crow's feather into the crimson tincture and raised it to the sacred circle of flesh atop his head. He paused a moment . . . thinking of how long he had waited for this night. His great transformation was finally at hand. When the Lost Word is written on the mind of man, he is then ready to receive unimaginable power. Such was the ancient promise of apotheosis. So far, mankind had been unable to realize that promise, and Mal'akh had done what he could to keep it that way.
With a steady hand, Mal'akh touched the nib of the feather to his skin. He needed no mirror, no assistance, only his sense of touch, and his mind's eye. Slowly, meticulously, he began inscribing the Lost Word inside the circular ouroboros on his scalp.
Peter Solomon looked on with an expression of horror.
When Mal'akh finished, he closed his eyes, set down the feather, and let the air out of his lungs entirely. For the first time in his life, he felt a sensation he had never known.
I am complete.
I am at one.
Mal'akh had worked for years on the artifact that was his body, and now, as he neared his moment of final transformation, he could feel every line that had ever been inscribed on his flesh. I am a true masterpiece. Perfect and complete.
"I gave you what you asked for." Peter's voice intruded. "Send help to Katherine. And stop that file."
Mal'akh opened his eyes and smiled. "You and I are not quite finished." He turned to the altar and picked up the sacrificial knife, running his finger across the sleek iron blade. "This ancient knife was commissioned by God," he said, "for use in a human sacrifice. You recognized it earlier, no?"
Solomon's gray eyes were like stone. "It is unique, and I've heard the legend."
"Legend? The account appears in Holy Scripture. You don't believe it's true?"
Peter just stared. Mal'akh had spent a fortune locating and obtaining this artifact. Known as the Akedah knife, it had been crafted over three thousand years ago from an iron meteorite that had fallen to earth. Iron from heaven, as the early mystics called it. It was believed to be the exact knife used by Abraham at the Akedah--the near sacrifice of his son Isaac on Mount Moriah--as depicted in Genesis. The knife's astounding history included possession by popes, Nazi mystics, European alchemists, and private collectors.
They protected and admired it, Mal'akh thought, but none dared unleash its true power by using it for its real purpose. Tonight, the Akedah knife would fulfill its destiny.
The Akedah had always been sacred in Masonic ritual. In the very first degree, Masons celebrated "the most august gift ever offered to God . . . the submission of Abraham to the volitions of the supreme being by proffering Isaac, his firstborn . . ."
The weight of the blade felt exhilarating in Mal'akh's hand as he crouched down and used the freshly sharpened knife to sever the ropes binding Peter to his wheelchair. The bonds fell to the floor.
Peter Solomon winced in pain as he attempted to shift his cramped limbs. "Why are you doing this to me? What do you think this will accomplish?"
"You of all people should understand," Mal'akh replied. "You study the ancient ways. You know that the power of the mysteries relies on sacrifice . . . on releasing a human soul from its body. It has been this way since the beginning."
"You know nothing of sacrifice," Peter said, his voice seething with pain and loathing.
Excellent, Mal'akh thought. Feed your hatred. It will only make this easier.
Mal'akh's empty stomach growled as he paced before his captive. "There is enormous power in the shedding of human blood. Everyone understood that, from the early Egyptians, to the Celtic Druids, to the Chinese, to the Aztecs. There is magic in human sacrifice, but modern man has become weak, too fearful to make true offerings, too frail to give the life that is required for spiritual transformation. The ancient texts are clear, though. Only by offering what is most sacred can man access the ultimate power."
"You consider me a sacred offering?"
Mal'akh now laughed out loud. "You really don't understand yet, do you?"
Peter gave him an odd look.
"Do you know why I have a deprivation tank in my home?" Mal'akh placed his hands on his hips and flexed his elaborately decorated body, which was still covered only by a loincloth. "I have been practicing . . . preparing . . . anticipating the moment when I am only mind . . . when I am released from this mortal shell . . . when I have offered up this beautiful body to the gods in sacrifice. I am the precious one! I am the pure white lamb!"
Peter's mouth fell open but no words came out.
"Yes, Peter, a man must offer to the gods that which he holds most dear. His purest white dove . . . his most precious and worthy offering. You are not precious to me. You are not a worthy offering." Mal'akh glared at him. "Don't you see? You are not the sacrifice, Peter . . . I am. Mine is the flesh that is the offering. I am the gift. Look at me. I have prepared, made myself worthy for my final journey. I am the gift!"
Peter remained speechless.
"The secret is how to die," Mal'akh now said. "Masons understand that." He pointed to the altar. "You revere the ancient truths, and yet you are cowards. You understand the power of sacrifice and yet you keep a safe distance from death, performing your mock murders and bloodless death rituals. Tonight, your symbolic altar will bear witness to its true power . . . and its actual purpose."
Mal'akh reached down and grasped Peter Solomon's left hand, pressing the handle of the Akedah knife into his palm. The left hand serves the darkness. This, too, had been planned. Peter would have no choice in the matter. Mal'akh could fathom no sacrifice more potent and symbolic than one performed on this altar, by this man, with this knife, plunged into the heart of an offering whose mortal flesh was wrapped like a gift in a shroud of mystical symbols.
With this offering of self, Mal'akh would establish his rank in the hierarchy of demons. Darkness and blood were where the true power lay. The ancients knew this, the Adepts choosing sides consistent with their individual natures. Mal'akh had chosen sides wisely. Chaos was the natural law of the universe. Indifference was the engine of entropy. Man's apathy was the fertile ground in which the dark spirits tended their seeds.
I have served them, and they will receive me as a god.