Argonautika

By Arthur Bainwright

A disgraced hero, an impossible mission, an object of desire.

Saul Davis, fresh out of a stint in prison, wants to rebuild his karma. But this scam artist has found himself working as a psychic consultant for LAPD detectives. When a woman painted in gold is found murdered at a luxury home in Benedict Canyon, the police look to Saul for answers. It's a ritual murder, but signifying what? Is this Saul's chance to redeem himself, or will he fall into his old hustling ways?

This is the first fascicle of the Zodiac Rising serial novella.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Etheridge Press
• Release date: Jun 4, 2020

Arthur Bainwright

Arthur Bainwright is a master of astrology and the occult. Learn more at www.etheridgepress.com.

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Prologue

King Pelias and Jason

Benedict Canyon, March 23rd, 2020

The modern mansion bolted to the hillside with steel girders and concrete pilings looks its best at night. That is when the uplights embedded in the driveway reflect off the three million dollar sports car parked there, when floor-to-ceiling windows afford a voyeur’s view into the glamorous furniture arrangements and art pieces inside, when the glitter of the Los Angeles skyline illuminates the horizon below.

The killer, shirtless and barefoot, relaxes against the glass railing looking not out at that skyline, but at the blue glow of the rectangular pool. A tall woman approaches him with a glass of champagne. She is naked, but covered by gold body paint and a mask like those worn in Venetian Mardi Gras festivals. Jewels are pasted on her nipples and in a necklace along her collarbone. She walks toward him on her toes, criss-crossing her legs in what he is sure someone told her is a signature walk. The woman is putting on a show for him. Typical Aries, he thinks.

She’d been at this empty mansion, on the market for six months with no serious interest, to film a gaudy marketing piece to sell the place. She and five other women had cavorted with each other in each room like auditions for Eyes Wide Shut. If you buy this house, the parties will come, the listing video implied. The realty group was targeting a particular audience: nouveau nerds, the ones who released their apps from their basements and woke up hundred millionaires.

The killer knows the truth. They’ll be no wild nights here. The eventual buyer of this mansion will spend his days playing video games in his home theater with friends he just met who eat all his food and never leave. The buyer’s orange Lotus Evora will stay parked on the rotating platform because he can’t handle the stick shift in L.A. traffic. No one told him money is a tool you must learn to wield, like a sword or a buzz saw.

The killer considers the woman approaching him. Bond, Amber Bond, she'd said to him. He'd already known her name and that she was born under Aries, the first sign of the zodiac. She’d been chosen. Like the war god after which her sign is named, she is fiery, independent, and impulsive. The killer guesses her story. She was an over-achiever in her small town school. She dreamt of bigger things and her family encouraged her because she was more stylish, and worldly, and fun than they were. In her obituary, her mother will recall her zest for life. We’re archetypes, all of us, obeisant to the stars.

The killer had asked Ms. Bond to stay and she had. She doesn’t know him. He isn’t a recognizable face. But she stayed. It is his looks, his charm, his money, yes. But it is more than that. Women, all people, are compelled to obey him.

They just need the right prize.

Pretending to leave, Amber had waved off her fellow actresses—also painted, but dressed now—as he had instructed. For a woman of perfect proportions, with her job, who mixed in these circles, this was not her first proposition. This was how one such as her achieved. Here in the exclusive neighborhoods of Los Angeles, like in a royal court in an ancient Mediterranean city, the powerful got what they wanted. Perhaps sometimes she even enjoyed it. She may have guessed why she is here with him now, but she guessed incorrectly.

Tonight will be a rite of spring. She is his golden ram presenting herself for sacrifice.

In the Greek myth, it is Jason and his Argonauts questing around the sea who are remembered. But what of King Pelias, the usurper of Jason’s throne, who goaded Jason on his heroic journey by dangling the Golden Fleece as a prize? School children don’t remember his name. But true power lies not with the hero, but with the one who spurred him to action.

Men must be incited to greatness. Lulled into believing the ordinary is sufficient, their lives tick by. Today’s latent heroes content themselves with yearly bonuses, spare bedrooms, and faraway vacations. Those hampered by the conventions of society are not following a heroic journey no matter what striving, long hours, and risks they take. They follow their role, their innate capacity for divine feats never realized.

Saul Davis has fallen into the wrong role, not the hero, but the victim. He needs only the blinding dazzle of a golden prize to cast him on his proper journey.

When she reaches him, he accepts the glass of champagne. It had been a prop for the marketing video. He pours it down her chest. She tilts her head back to enjoy the sensation, so naïve and trusting. He removes a knife from his pocket and drags it along her throat. The blade is sharp, and she feels no pain. She looks at him with a question in her eye before the blood starts to flow. He guides her by the hair to the edge of the pool and forces her down. Her blood drains into the water. He doesn’t like a mess.

While her black blood swirls in the blue of the pool, he retrieves his tools. The sacrifice is not yet complete.

1

Early in the morning of March 24th, 2020, a Tuesday, Saul Davis’ world was rocked. It was likely the sportsfishermen from the commercial dock headed out for a day at the Channel Islands. The wake of their two deck ship swayed his Watkins thirty-six foot sailboat as it tugged against its dock lines. When Saul bought the boat, he didn’t think he’d live on it. But then, he didn’t think he would spend eighteen months in prison either.

Saul sat up in his berth and banged his head. He still wasn’t used to the tight quarters aboard. The sound of the fishermen’s engine reverberated through the hull. Mere millimeters of fiberglass separated him from the marina’s salty water. His new home was so different from the thick cellblock walls, but no more secure. It had been cold last night, but Saul slept with his hatches open. Ever since the slammer, fresh air had become an imperative.

Saul slung his quick-dry towel over his shoulder, grabbed his shower kit, and climbed the ladder into the cockpit. He slipped his lanyard over his head. It contained the keycard that got him past the security gate on his dock and into the marina facilities and his Metro TAP card so he could ride the bus. He no longer carried a wallet. Never picked up the habit after prison. Didn’t have anything to put in it anyway.

When Saul popped out of the cabin, he didn’t look around. He was inured to the sights—white plastic boats tied to the docks, a jumbo jet flying overhead, sea lions lolly-gagging on transoms, quarantined people staring down at him from