The Prodigal Band Trilogy

By Deborah Lagarde

Take a fictional ‘road trip’ on a mystical mystery and spiritual tour as a fictitious six-member 80s and 90s rock and roll band fashioned after the Beatles rides through occultism and New Age mysticism with their lives of stardom mixed with plenty of tabloid fare, sex, drugs, and rock and roll. The crash that comes afterward, including near-death experiences for two of the band members, leads to a more uplifting spiritual journey along with missions to defeat the Evil after nearly getting sacrificed on a blood-laden altar while the forces of Good watch over them. This is a three-book tale of good vs. evil, where the band must make their choice. The first two books in this complete trilogy were originally self-published and printed in 1996 and 1998 while the third book was e-published as a PDF in 2018. This ‘three-novels-in-one’ e-book was revised somewhat from the original novels, created for the e-book market. Printed versions may also become available.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jun 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684703647

Book preview

THE

PRODIGAL BAND

Trilogy

DEBORAH LAGARDE

Copyright © 2019 Deborah Lagarde.

Cover Art: Photo of night fireworks at Sea World, summer, 2009, by Deborah Lagarde

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0365-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0364-7 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 06/18/2019

Also by Deborah Lagarde

Battle of the Band

The Prophesied Band

The Prodigal Band

INTRODUCTION

This e-book is somewhat of a revision of each of the three novels that make up The Prodigal Band Trilogy conceived by myself beginning in the early 1990s; only the most important sections were included from the originals. I believe divine inspiration caused me to finally, after almost thirty years, get my fictional group of teenaged boys that morphed into rock and roll musicians (due to my fanaticism over this 1960s-1970s popular music genre) out of my head and onto paper. Further, being a teen loner of sorts, rock and roll music was one of the few ways I felt comfortable being around my fellows, especially in high school. Yet writing was my thing, and, as the sixties turned into the seventies and rock music morphed into heavy metal combined with progressive orchestral, and, in the eighties, punk, and in the nineties, alternative and grunge among others, my characters morphed as well. As did the storyline, from simply rock musicians who became stars, into musicians-stars that were caught up in a web of evil agendas. Experiencing trials and tribulations, they began to fight their way out of this evil cause by searching for its antidote—good. The creation of this trilogy was by good spiritual guidance, and it is divine intervention that drives the band characters and their women into doing what they had to do to overcome evil and the evil agenda.

The first book originally published by OmegaBooks, my self-publishing sole proprietorship, is Battle of the Band (1996) that begins the journey of the band called Sound Unltd, which wants fame and fortune more than anything. They get more fame and fortune than they can handle, however, and get caught up in one crisis after another leading to near-death experiences that require the forces of good to rescue them for a purpose.

In the second book, The Prophesied Band (1998), the band begins the search into solutions in overcoming evil and is given a mission as the book closes. After recapping their story from the beginning including the origin of the band, The Prodigal Band (2018) tells how another death-defying event drives them into the arms of redemption and salvation. As with the Biblical tale of the Prodigal Son, who takes his inheritance and wastes it on debaucheries until his pocketbook is empty and then must redeem himself in the eyes of his father, the Prodigal Band undertakes a similar and modern-day journey, overcoming evil in the process.

There are three narrators in the trilogy. The narrator of Battle of the Band is a counselor angel of The Creator, God. The narrator of The Prophesied Band is that same counselor angel in human form, pop culture writer Jay Elliot, an American. Lloyd Denholm, from England—where my fictional band is from—narrates The Prodigal Band. He, too, is a popular culture media pundit.

Most of the changes from the original three novels listed above, for e-book purposes and according to publishing guidelines, occur with proper name changes of various groupings, various places, various media and government agencies, and various things. A couple of iconic brand names remain, however, for fictional purposes.

British slang is also used, but I added my own mock up to this. The term yeah is used in Britain as much as it’s used in the US, but I turned it into yeh for the sake of defining the main characters. They also sometimes use the me instead of my that is common in the working classes there. For instance, They put me dad in jail after he beat up me mother instead of They put my dad in jail after he beat up my mother. The word bloody, very popular in Britain, is also used frequently, as is the idiom eh? Cuss words are also used, but I cut down considerably on the use of the f word as compared to the original works. The use of sex scenes and occult rituals were also reduced, but some had to be included to make my point that this trilogy is a spiritual journey toward redemption. Bible quotes are also used.

Deborah Lagarde, 2019

BATTLE OF THE BAND

CHAPTER

One

On the eve of apocalypse

A private 747 jet began its descent into a London airport from Philadelphia. Six male passengers, members of the greatest rock band ever, sat aboard.

Twenty minutes later, the plane landed.

The passengers were missing.

Through a white mist up a long spiral walked the men. High above, the soul-faces of teen music legends looked down at them biding their time toward judgment.

And I, Counselor-angel to The Creator, watched the band ascend to meet their Maker.

A lead singer with dark brown mid-back length hair accentuated by sensuous bangs on a baby-face was slender, thin-lipped and of medium height. Voice a Godly gift. Yet, some said, the devil’s tool.

The tall dirty-haired guitarist possessed an angular face and had hair growing on once side-shaved sides of his head. Now without the screaming instrument he fired into immortality.

The dark, strapping bass player with bushy black curls and coal-dark eyes walked without his trademark gold chains.

The tall, lanky, beak-nosed, ringlet-haired master of many guitars worried over his past perversions.

The pot-bellied, biker-esque synthesizer player famed for red hair as wild as the wind, fiery as his brew, bore a downcast of regret.

A short, curly-blond percussionist once angered by lost love approached with the others to an unknown destination, glad with a full life behind him.

For they knew Who sat ahead.

They knew why He sat ahead.

And how would He judge them? For they were the prophesied band. And at the moment the chosen were being reaped in a lightning flash before the biblical tribulation, their Creator waited for the six as I, His Counselor-angel, reviewed in the Book of Life the story of this prodigal band.

The Alpha

The Beforetime. The Creator. Sons of the Creator.

Then…

The light. Then…

The dark. When Corion, His wayward son, used his serpent fire to make off with the Light, his Father banished him.

Be gone to the Darkness, Evil one, where your only sight will emanate from this.

A gold chain from which hung a red crystal beacon was flung around Corion’s neck.

But you will not be alone, errant son. Your Demons will sit beside you. And you will use your crystal sight to capture fellow souls. Playthings for your evil designs. To make sure you can’t wage war on Me again, My angelic muses, The Tooters, will guard over you.

The Tooters three sang as Corion and his Demons were cast into the Abyss.

Livin’ fast and full they forgot one rule,

For every pleasure there’s a measure of life, so slow and cruel.

Corion never escaped the Abyss. He grew in strength and prospered there, the world below unknowing of his Evil.

Until one day in 50 A.D. when Crynnwagg, High Priest of the Celtic Crag-Dwellers of Wales, came back from the dead, his blood having been drained by Druid priests.

Crynnwagg brought back from the Abyss Corion’s legacies. And with the red crystal, the Crag-Dwellers dealt retribution on the Druids. They tied fourteen children to fourteen trees and burned them.

In the unification of Norman-ruled Britain in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the First Duke of Effingchester stole Crynnwagg’s treasure—and with it, the power to summon the Evil.

July, 1136

A song from hell is learned so well by all the wicked spirited.

They’ll burn in fire and moan with ire the Demons’ sound unlimited.

You, old woman.

The witch of the Hovels turned her head upward when The Tooters spoke to her.

You will be with us into the final battle to help our minstrel-troubadours. Your survival to strengthen them in the face of the Demons that await them is our prophecy to you.

The witch then heard The Creator tell The Tooters, Henceforth, you must enliven the souls of the people with the Word of My Spirit.

The Code, wise Tooter Three said with hushed tones. Loyalty, Honesty, Love, Good Will, to self, to thy neighbor, and, above all, to The Creator. Our minstrel-troubadours must abide it, or their souls will perish.

The old woman heard The Creator tell His angles, For this band and all men will come to believe their souls will rot in Hell who defile My Word.

She heard Tooter One ask, Creator, what will this band be called?

They will be called the greatest rock band there ever was.

Rock band?

Their name will be sound, unlimited.

That is, Sound Unltd.

Early morning, June 6, 1986

Bound for London for fame and fortune, sleepy-eyed band leader Jack Lubin lifted himself out of bed, went to his wash basin and communed with the deities.

If anyone is listening, please answer me. Look, man, we want to make it big. Huge! The greatest rock ‘n roll band there ever was. We got the talent, we got the ambition, and I got the will to drive us. Do you think you can fix it for us?

We hear you, a deep voice answered.

The seventeen-year-old guitarist stumbled backwards into a dresser drawer, aghast. Who the hell are you?

One of your guardian angels, as you would call us. As for your wish, it’s done.

Huh? Just like that? By wishing for it?

Of course, you won’t make it right away. You’ll have to work your way up like anyone else. That’s so nobody suspects our pact.

"Our pact?"

Yes. We will see you make your big break. And once you make it, no one will be able to stop you. Sound Unltd will be invincible. All you boys have to do is prove you want it more than anything. More than anything! The Demons laughed in uproar. When the time is right, we’ll name our price.

Jack shook. "A price? What you mean by that?"

Well, the deep voice laughed, you can’t expect fame and fortune for nothing, can you?

As the notion of paying a price for success swarmed in his head like attacking bees, Jack repeated out loud, I didn’t hear that. Just me imagination, eh?

The Tooters heard the exchange and shuddered.

What price? the first Tooter asked.

His eternal life? asked the second.

They will not sign a blood-pact right away, Tooter Three said. The Demons will work their dastardly plan under the guise of building a one-world community. You know, on the eve of tribulation.

Revelations! The Plan awed Tooter One.

Not merely for his soul or the souls of his four fellows. Corion’s Demons work to capture the souls of the young. Listen. Our boys will gain the world, but they won’t be able to handle it. They’ll step into a morass only calling on us will ease. Remember what The Creator told us. Those evil beings plan to use Sound Unltd to do their dirty work of calling the youth of this world once and for all to their Evil cause. This way, the Demons will ensure the spiritual enslavement of the children who worship a Sound Unltd elevated to godly status. Those five will be able to do anything they wish so long as they lead the young into debauchery. The chaos and confusion of Corionic concepts.

When will this happen? Tooter Two worried.

Mustn’t we give our boys our song now to prevent the Demons from capturing them?

The wisest Tooter answered. The Demons’ work will begin when the five become six.

Six! The first Tooter gasped. The number of Satan!

Don’t interrupt our wisest one! The second spoke with irritation. Go on, Tooter Three!

Once they are six, the Demons will have the opportunity to make a blood pact with them. They have the free will to accept the pact. The enticements will be many. Money, lavish homes and art works, women who would drive any man to the abyss of wasted soul. The six won’t be able to resist such pleasures. No human can. But we must, against all odds, protect our minstrel-troubadours, even if they don’t want to be under our guidance. We will give them our song the night the deal with the sixth member is made. They won’t understand our song and how it’ll protect them, but they will see our song become what they call a mega-hit. Later, the boys will begin to unravel the mystery of our song.

Will we lose contact with them in the between-time?

Yes. They will come under the spell of the Demons. So will the young of this world.

Then, will we lose the battle with these monsters?

Battle? Maybe, Tooter Two. But not the war.

October 20, 1988

Geneva, Switzerland (WorldPress): The World Youth Cultural Council reports that young people today desperately search for one unified voice to lead them. Though religious leaders try to provide one, traditional religions are no longer relevant to today’s youth. Much more successful has been the media, the music business paramount. But even in the dazzling world of mega-star idols, a unifying leader has not been found.

A small group of exceedingly powerful men sat in red plush chairs surrounding a polished mahogany table. In front of each participant lay grey leather folios that displayed the gold-leaf embossed symbol of the Novordo Club—a pagan cross radiating from a sun-circle encasing an s-like snake. The Demons watched over the assembled luminaries.

See these men of Our Lord Lucifer? Silver Demon said. Their agenda bears our Corionic Cross which The Creator banished from His realm. The red crystals around their necks prove their allegiance to us. Whoever wears or minds those crystals of Our Lord shall heed our cause to own this small planet.

Their governments are implementing our political, financial, and social programs targeted by Our Lord for placement. This group of leaders will discuss how they will control the culture of the young of this world. Gold Demon then whispered as if the men below might hear them. It is today they will choose our troubadours of the new generation. Of course, we will make sure they choose our boys of the spoken-pact two years ago.

Some of the men left the oak-paneled room to attend other Novordo Club meetings involving environmental policy. Those involved in deciding who would lead the world’s youth remained. These included Baron Torquay-Lambourgeau, head of the world’s largest banking cartel; a forty-two-year-old record mogul; and two media kingpins, Mr. X and Mr. Y.

Talent manager Joe Phillips, that is, my wayward son, the Baron said, has a five-man band of ill-repute that has the talent-skills, the charisma, and the desire to succeed where all others must fail. More than anything, my son says. More than anything will this group perform to impassion the youth into a frenzy of hero-worship.

The record mogul asked, Are you referring to Sound Unltd? They’re not exactly a hot act right now.

Who the hell cares? Mr. X asked. Isn’t it us who decide who will own popular entertainment? That they aren’t now the top band is all the more reason to go with them. They’re obscure enough so as no one will ever guess our motivation for picking them.

They truly have it all, Mr. Y said. "Their singer-lyricist Erik is, pardon the expression, a godsend. Matchless voice, and even better, his naughty operatics and pyrotechnics on stage drive girls and boys into the lap of devilish fanaticism. He lived in great poverty after his hated father abandoned his family and later died. This one’s in it primarily for the money.

"Their guitarist-composer Jack is already of hero-quality with his screaming guitar style. He led a street gang and demands perfection and unity from the others. He’s in it for the glory. Coincidentally, my agents told me that the guitarist believes he made a pact with Our Lord Lucifer for success. Both the singer and guitarist are handsome rogues with model-gorgeous girlfriends, perfect for the idol image both of them must project.

"Mick, their current bassist, is skinny with a beak for a nose and a long, pretty face surrounded by dark-brown hair ringlets down his back. He was sexually abused by his mother and neglected by his father. He’s in it for the perversion. A cultist who wears our symbol of the old Celtic Crag-Dwellers of the Craggy Mountains of Wales.

"Bryan, their keyboard synthist, is a bulky biker with bushy red hair and associates with bikers. He made his girlfriend pregnant last year and felt obliged to marry her. Reggie Lewis, a top studio musician, is helping him build a keyboard-effects synthesizer. He’s in it for the ride.

"Their drummer Tom lives with clairvoyant Prissy Wyatt and pretends to channel the god Corion for amusement. His father is indentured to the Duke of Effingchester. The young curly blond doesn’t know this. He’s in it to find out.

"Later, a sixth member, a Warwicke’s Ship Works riveter named Keith will rejoin them on bass. A strict follower of the outdated Code. But his dad was a womanizer. Like father, like son. He’s in it for the women.

When the sextet is formed, they will be unstoppable.

So, the mogul said, you’re saying Sound Unltd won’t have any trouble winning over multitudes of fans? They’re that good?

My son thinks they’ll have an impact greater than any band before them, Baron Torquay-Lambourgeau said, and my agents, who do disparage their obscene antics, by the way, agree with my son. They’re fit to rule youth culture in the nineties. Sound Unltd stands for money, glory, perversion, self-interest, sex. You know, naked power at any price. Other acts will compete with them, but it has been decided.

You have decided, Baron, the record mogul said. I’ve never seen their so-called raunchy antics. How do I know Sound Unltd can best harness the basest desires of the young?

Mr. X placed a cassette on the table. "The best I can do right now is to show you this video of a live performance at XanadU. X put the tape into the VCR. Not another band in the world does the routines these boys dare to do, though many come close."

Music of raw, slow, hot passion set even middle-aged hormones ablaze.

The record company man watched and listened in titillated awe.

The first scene showed Erik singing with his hands down his skin-tight leather trousers.

Rub me, suck me, tease me, (bleep)

Then, with his exposed hands about his genitals, he humped a mic stand while moaning in climax.

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-ooooh, baby, (bleep) me dry

In the next scene Mick and Jack, on either side of Erik, jabbed their guitar necks into the singer’s awaiting rear. Scene four showed Jack and Mick flicking their tongues together as their bodies rubbed. Finally, Erik and Bryan butted each other’s rear-ends together atop the synthesizer which quickly exploded into red flames.

These boys’ll do anything to rouse a crowd, won’t they?

That’s the point, the Baron said. They’ll do anything. The guitarist, their band leader, will drive them to greatness. Kids today don’t buy a product strictly on industry hype. The younger generation will follow them precisely because they are great. Baron Torquay sipped his water. And so, are we agreed about Sound Unltd?

Each nodded. Each red crystal glowed heart red.

Torquay adjourned the meeting. Let us now end the discussion with a prayer to Our Lord Lucifer. The rotund aristocrat began the affirmation. We are ever in service to you, god of darkness born in light. Your realm of power and pleasure shall purchase all who bear your light-cross symbol.

CHAPTER

Two

Late afternoon, January 8, 1989

Powerhouse went gold. A celebration held in the head office of EpiGram Records was attended by everyone responsible for Sound Unltd’s third, breakthrough, record album.

Against the office mantle Erik leaned, the shimmering gold CD plaque seen out of the corner of his right eye through thick dark brown forehead locks. Jack stood with the slender singer, holding a drink in his left hand, right elbow propped on the mantle.

The latter said, "Powerhouse is gold! Only a month-and-a-half after its release. Incredible, eh? Like, I know Joe’s told us our break’s been worked out."

Yeh, yeh. You’d think we had nothing to do with our own success. I tell you, Jack—

Right. We made our break! We did, Erik. We did it! Jack plopped his drink on the mantle and raised his right fist. We did it! We did! Not the music establishment suits. We did! And don’t anyone forget that!

Jack heard Tom yell in a nasally voice, You got that right! They didn’t make Sound Unltd. Sound Unltd made Sound Unltd! And anyone who says or prints differently—

Has me to answer to! As soon as skinny Mick said that, everyone poo-poohed him.

Especially Tom, who had a running personality conflict with the lanky one. Now we are in trouble. Ol’ Skinny couldn’t fight his way out of an invisible paper bag, eh?

Fuck you, Shorty!

Not in this lifetime.

‘Skinny’ growled at the curly-haired blond while everyone else laughed.

Jack approached the middle of the office and looked at the antagonists. Right. You two have to argue now, eh? On the biggest day of our lives? Cut the crap! The guitarist then turned to the crowd and shouted, As leader and driving force of this illustrious band—

Sure, Jack, Bryan sneered. Who died and made you God?

The six-foot dirty blond ignored red-beard’s snide remark. As leader of Sound Unltd, I’m calling a toast in a ritual of unity. Can you handle it, Bry?

The hulking synthist with wild red hair only sighed as he joined the other four holding hands in a unity circle.

Jack led off. Let’s bow our heads and affirm our unity, our greatness and glory, our thanks. He then raised his right fist again and yelled, We did it!

Erik followed. To our fortune!

Then Mick. To our success!

Bryan. To our continued success!

Tom ended the ritual by shouting, We the best!

All five shouted, We the best!

As the band dropped hands, manager Joe Phillips shouted, More than anything! And yes, you boys did do it. You better believe it. Phillips looked like a pony-tailed young Laurence Olivier with fine features and slick veneer. At least I hope you believe it.

One of the four luminaries who attended the Novordo Club enclave also witnessed Sound Unltd’s unity ritual. He wrote the coded message to Baron Torquay that night.

Torquay read the note the following evening. "Our Sound Unltd plan is right on schedule with gold record. Powerhouse will be platinum—one million units sold—by the end of February the latest. I suggest to you we use Sound Unltd as a cover as well as youth leaders. When they grab page one headlines in the diet of bread and circuses the masses crave, we can implement our plans for cultural domination in the name of Our Lord Lucifer. Signed, X."

Earlier that day

On one of the many beastly, rainy, winter days in London, Lady Sandy Burdon-Hogg wore boredom as she would her full-length sable. The twenty-one-year-old heiress topped with a baby-doll pony-tail was born to be titillated.

Heiress? She had once told her friend Ger Manilow that she worked as a nurse-aid at St. Markham’s Hospital so she could meet an eligible—rich—bachelor. One of her liver cancer patients, Lord Quentin Burdon-Hogg, the publishing tycoon, was touched by her succor. They married in March, 1988; she never left his side until she buried him eight months later. But not his ten million pounds, his publishing empire, or his fabulous castle to the northwest. Now single, she turned herself into a constant tabloid item made to be ‘seen’ consorting with bevvies of rock stars.

While picking at her lunch of dried fruit and curried rice, she reviewed her latest night time exploit in Tattle Tales:

"The latest rendezvous between Lady Sandy Burdon-Hogg and rock singer Mark Sheridan at the night spot, XanadU, turned heads when the flamboyant twosome led a table-top dance jam in the nude to the shock-horror sound of White Metal, a band on the make."

Sandy skipped down a few lines to read that, Model-heiress Lee was seen leaving a pub arm-in-arm with Erik Manning.

A light went on in her head. That reminds me. I haven’t bought Powerhouse yet.

After visiting four record shops, she was finally able to purchase it, then went back to her townhouse in one of London’s fanciest sections, and rang up London-born Ger Manilow, Erik’s main squeeze. As she dialed, she thought why is Ger still living in that four-room flat in Islingtown?

Ger, a coquette with a close-cropped asymmetric page-boy hair-do with an accentuated widow’s peak and nearly as tall as Erik, sat on the couch near the phone. Hello?

Ger, this is Sandy. Get ready to move out of that garbage dump, girl. Get ready to move to my neck of the woods.

Oh, right, Sandy. Right now.

My God, girl. Have you been hibernating in bohemia lately?

The past few days, yes. I have a stomach flu or something.

Oh! Sorry, luv, but hasn’t Erik told you?

Told me? He hasn’t been home the last few nights with me being sick. Last night he stayed at the recording studio composing or something. And I know what you’re thinking! No, Sandy, it’s not another girl, okay?

A second later, her conviction faltered.

No, Ger, I didn’t think that. Sandy knew otherwise, but wisely dropped the subject. You mean they’re working on new tracks already?

Yes, since the beginning of last week. They want to have it finished by the end of February. So what’s the big news?

"My God, Ger, Powerhouse is selling out all over the place!"

Ger gripped the edge of the couch. You mean the record shops are selling out?

Yes, Ger.

She shot out of her chair, screaming, Are you serious?

Yes!

Ger sat speechless for about a minute.

Are you there, Ger?

"God! I must be the only person in London who doesn’t know Powerhouse is selling out. Listen, I have to ring off and go out."

But you’re sick, remember?

I don’t care! I’m too excited to fidget around in here.

Well, don’t go mews hunting until you get better.

Mews hunting? Laughs. No, I’m going for a walk. Bye.

Around the same time, in Scotland, two bands rivaling Sound Unltd—headliner Wolfin and opening act Gr8 Expectations—partied in the hotel room of Wolfin singer Denny Spradlin before the show that evening. Accompanying Spradlin were Wolfin guitarist Blake Fenmore, Gr8 Expectations singer Bruce Letham, and guests singer John Mocke and his bassist Rob Falcone. All high on booze or reefer.

Well, Den, at least you’re not skuzzing your brains out today. Blake said as Spradlin was pouring himself another drink.

Whatsamatter, Blake? Denny’s gravelly voice slurred. You think I screwed up me singing last night? Laughed, then the white-blond threw back his flowing hair.

You bloody did! You missed a whole line of a song you wrote. Don’t think too many people noticed. Art liked to tear off your head, though. Blake laughed at the thought of Wolfin’s bass player holding his best friend’s head.

Screw it, Blake. Art’s a party-pooper, eh? Too bloody serious. I’ve had about enough of that bloke.

Okay, Den. Where we gonna get another bassist? Fenmore shook his sandy bouffant hair.

What about— Denny laughed. No, they’d never go for it. That friend of Jack’s and Erik’s. Used to play bass with ‘em.

You mean Keith Mullock? Come of it, man. Art’s damned good. And anyway, if it wasn’t for him, Wolfin’d split up a long time ago. Let’s face it, Den. We’re more interested in partying than anything. If it wasn’t for the money—

Jet-black, wind-blown-hair atop his face Bruce Letham, whose band could not live up to its name being Wolfin’s constant opening act, quite potted, spoke up. Yeah, the money, man. What the hell are you two complaining about? You blokes’re raking it in. You both own fancy estates. Like, I don’t wanna hear about you splitting up, or you saying you’d rather party. I know better. You’d rather make big loot. Money first, party second.

Well, we would rather party, Spradlin said. But you know us. When it comes to the limit, you know Wolfin’ll pull through.

I wish Gr8 Expectations would pull through, Bruce said. We’re always this close. Brought his right thumb and index finger together.

Don’t sweat it, man. 1989 will be the year for Gr8 Expectations.

Yeah, we’ll do okay. But our year? Don’t think so, Den. It’s gonna be Sound Unltd’s year. Got one helluva video promo going. Hell fire from blazing guitars. Shit, man! Now Bruce sat up in envy. That new album of theirs is selling a bomb. Now there’s a band headed for the big time.

Well, it’s about time, Denny said. I’ve always said they were the best of the Outlaws. He referred to the leather-clad shock-metallic rave-up movement which threw Wolfin into the limelight in 1986. Certainly the rowdiest.

And they’re gonna be the biggest, too, John Mocke, topped with wild-man curly brown hair, said. They got Joe Phillips working for them, and what a Torquay-Lambourgeau wants, a Torquay-Lambourgeau gets, eh? Besides, that song o’ theirs, ‘Heart Lies,’ has the best time-dilation effect I’ve ever heard.

Falcone, Mocke’s bassist, wearing a diamond earring in his nose and holding a bottle of whiskey, said, That’s a great song, eh? But Bruce, you know what Jack told me? He said he thinks he made a pact with some gods or other, some angels, so that Sound Unltd would make it.

"He thinks he made a pact with angels?" I shoulda done that! You mean he doesn’t know?

He said he called to the angels, and it blew his mind that they actually answered. They told him they would see to it that Sound Unltd made it. A scruffy-looking Rob saw four incredulous faces. Hey, don’t look at me like that! That’s what Jack told me at some pub a while back.

Was he drunk, man?

No, but I think I was, eh?

You would be, Mocke said aside to his closest lover.

Hey, Johnny boy, they didn’t have to carry me out like they did Erik, eh? Guy musta had a whole fifth o’ whiskey. Man drinks like a fish!

Denny swallowed his drink, then got on the defensive. So, you saying me friend’s a boozer, and me other friend’s a devil worshiper? That ain’t bloody right, eh Rob?

He ain’t saying that, Den, Blake answered with a sigh. He didn’t say Jack made a pact with Satan. In fact, he said he was drunk. You likely don’t know what the hell Jack said, eh Rob?

You right, Blake ol’ man. Likely I don’t.

Well, Bruce admitted, I’d like to check it out.

You do that, Brucey, Mocke slurred. We’ll announce it at my bash in April. Hear ye, hear ye, Jack Lubin signed a blood pact with the devil. And the devil made him do it!

All except Bruce laughed.

Before Ger went for her walk, the soon-glamorous petite took her time out to vomit. Her toilet was marked by residue of previous bouts of bulimia she wouldn’t admit to having. Even to herself.

Must be stomach flu, but I’ve had this a couple of months on and off. Could be I’m just anxious about being too fat to model. Maybe it’s good I have this flu because I keep throwing up and I’m losing weight fast. But I need to be shapelier, skinnier. And now, Sandy thinks Erik’s cheating on me. I’ll check that out in Tattle Tales.

The nineteen-year-old with bedroom blue eyes moved briskly in the rain two blocks until she reached the vendor, bought the tabloid, then walked back to her flat. Once inside, she opened up the paper to the centerfold where this item appeared.

"Not only does sumptuous auburn model Cassie rival Laurie Koolig at the Morreson Agency, but also for rocker Jack Lubin’s affections. While the blonde bombshell—Koolig is fast becoming the super-model of the year—is away, her paramour plays around with the newcomer. But really turning heads lately in various soirees is the peachy playgirl, steel-heiress Lee, and sensational singer Erik Manning, seen arm-in-arm leaving a pub and being ushered into her awaiting limousine."

By God! The brunette’s head swam. While I’ve been stuck here being sick and concerned I wasn’t good enough to model—though Laurie insists Morreson’s after me—Erik’s used my sickness and his studio work as an excuse to playboy! He’s always said he loves me—and only me. He’s never lied to me before! What an idiot I’ve been to just sit here, sick, with Erik and the world passing me by. Well, no more of that! I’m phoning Morreson to tell him I’ll be there with my portfolio Monday. And when Erik gets home, he’s got some explaining to do!

She then weighed herself. One hundred five pounds at five-feet-eight inches.

Erik came home from the Powerhouse gold record party a little before seven p.m. in John Mocke’s old sports car. He practically bashed the door down, yelling, Babe, you won’t believe what happened!

Ger, a poor cook, finished placing take-out fish ‘n chips into the oven. She rushed out to confront him.

"Ger, Powerhouse is gold!"

All thoughts of unfaithfulness vanished. She screamed as she ran to him. Gold? You mean, your album’s sold half-a-million copies? Let’s celebrate!

I have some champagne in the Jag. Or, we can go to that pub I told you about.

Ger’s bad mood returned. Lashed her finger at him. "That pub, eh? The same pub where you met with Lee, according to Tattle Tales?"

Yeh, Ger, but, like, don’t get the wrong idea. It’s a promo thing. You know. She’s someone to be seen with.

Right! In the back of her limo!

Nothing happened. We went back to her place, and—

And you made love to her!

Yeh! So what, babe? She don’t mean anything—

You make love to me. Maybe I don’t mean anything, either!

Brandishing his arms at her, he shouted, Shit! Come off it, Ger! You know better than that! These other women—

Women? You mean there’s more than one?

Shit! Lemme finish! These other women are only part of me image. I couldn’t care less about ‘em. Our promoter said I needed to be seem with beautiful women.

He put you up to this? I’m not beautiful enough for your image?

You are, but— Don’t say that! And you’ve been sick, remember? Then his bark subsided as he turned to open a fifth of whiskey. Are you better yet?

"I was doing fine until I read Tattle Tales."

So that’s it! Slamming the bottle on the table, he turned on her and changed the subject. So when you gonna get better so you can model? He paced before her. You know, I’m gonna be really busy this year, next year, and after that, who knows? You need something glamorous like modeling to keep you busy. Then stepped back to view her luscious form. Take your clothes off. His rich guttural voice purred in passion.

Her nakedness made him drool while her silky-fine sultry voice moaned to entrap his restless soul.

With smothering hugs he caressed her and fondled and squeezed her rear. Sweet love, no matter what you do, I love you more than myself. You gotta believe that. Succulent kiss. I’ll always have you up there on a pedestal, my queen.

Into the bedroom he took her.

You mean I’m still the only one, and all those others are mere furniture? Ger slinked onto the bed.

"Yeh. Window dressing. Groupies, eh? And you more beautiful than all the others combined. Inside and out. You’re the passion of me life. You got this something! He moved on top of her. And you’re soooo good in bed."

Something? So you’ve told me. She smiled vainly as he lusted for her.

And his passion fruit inflamed her.

About thirty minutes later, Ger asked in jest, So, if you can be seen with other women, can I do likewise with other men?

As long as you don’t forget who really loves you, sure babe. I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t let you. But, for people to see you, you have to be a star.

The following day

Accompanied by Erik and Ger, Jack drove his sporty car north to Walltown so he could see his friend, adoptive father, and guitar mentor Billy Prestin—his band’s first manager—and so he and the singer could get their old gang mate Keith Mullock back into the band. They arrived late in the afternoon.

After an hour or so of discussion about Sound Unltd’s new found success with Powerhouse being gold, Billy sat back reflectively in his office swivel chair. So, you’re a big star now. Is that what you want?

Jack expressed confidence. It’s what I want. He leaned forward. Billy, you know the morning we left for London I asked the angels to help us succeed. And we have, eh?

Billy paid little attention. Jack always spoke to angels. That’s why his father used to beat him up with a Bible. Why his dad kicked him out of the house. That’s why I took him in. The older man laughed, Right, Jack. Like my guitar and songwriting lessons have nothing to do with it.

A bit later, Jack ran into three ex-gang brothers—Charlie, Roddy, and Fred. After greeting them with the handshake—fingers clasping then knocking fists—Jack asked them, So, what’s happening?

Nothing. Warwicke’s sacked us, Charlie said.

Fred then told this story. Remember that grand foray against the Rowsers in 1984? They wanted to pay us back, eh? Three o’ them jumped the three of us off dock twelve, back in January. So they got us into a scuffle down there. Then they got two more.

Roddy continued. Then Sookie and Vinny tried to join in when the foreman, a real ex-Rowser, stopped the fight and got us booted out.

So, where was Keith?

Sick that day, Charlie said, "He was practicing songs you sent him. He played at the River Rat the night before and that night, too, with the Marauders."

And I’ll tell you, Fred cut in, Keith’s playing great.

Best damned bassist I ever hear, Roddy said. He’s ready for you.

Better than Mick?

Yeh, I think so, Fred said. You still want him in the band?

"Hey, look. We came up here to tell Keith he’s gonna be in soon. We need his raunchy metal and his backing vocals. He’ll get a chance to play with me and Erik tonight at the White Horse Pub. So, what you been doing lately?"

Charlie answered, Anyway, Jack, we’re headed for Ulster. Fifteenth Regiment.

Ulster? Jack snickered. Do you blokes really want to get blasted at by the militants?

Better than getting screwed by your own.

Roddy quipped. Yeh, Jack. We’re as good a load of cannon fodder as any threesome, eh?

When Erik and Ger arrived at Keith’s place, the time was seven p.m. Jack was already there. The flat had four rooms—a dinette-kitchen, an adjacent living room, and two bedrooms, one of which Keith had converted into a recording studio. Jack and the strapping, bushy black haired part-Afro Adonis with thick sideburns jammed within, playing folk guitar, joking through a traditional, un-authored piece. One of four ‘Geordie Pub Songs.’ The song required flute to placate its twelfth-century origins, so Keith’s pretty red-haired wife Jarris provided the imitation.

You doing pub songs? Erik snickered. You jokin’, eh? Woulda least thought you’d be grinding out ‘Sexxy Lady’.

They laughed.

Not on this set-up, bro. Keith’s raspy tenor voice played a thick Geordie accent. We’d blow the city’s circuits. But did you listen? This stuff hard to play without music.

So? Get the music.

Keith defiantly got off the stool and looked his blood brother straight in the eyes. There isn’t any.

Then how do you know you playing it right?

Because me dad taught me. Me dad don’t lie, bro. And his dad taught him, and me grand-dad don’t lie, and—

Okay, Keith, okay! Erik backed off. But why wasn’t it written down?

Because the bloke who first played it knew the chords and notes by ear but didn’t know how to compose it. It just got passed down. Actually, me dad said, it first got played in eleven-something.

Ger gasped. You mean the twelfth century?

Yeh. Not the pub songs, but the song that became the pub songs. Anyway, bro, I got the lyric, one o’ four, eh, here with me. Let’s give it a go, eh?

Hours later at the White Horse Pub, Erik got the hang of the song and imagined flutes, lutes, violins, and mandolins accompanying him.

So we drink a drink to yer manly style

And all yer ladies waiting.

Here’s to yer health and new-found wealth.

Come join the celebrating!

‘Tis worth jubilating!

Life is emancipating!

Amidst the merriment, Keith spoke with his former gang lieutenant, Charlie. So, you going to Ulster?

Yeh. Me, Roddy, and Fred head to Belfast soon. Have to support me family somehow. Charlie had a wife and one-year-old son.

I’m really sorry about that. Shoulda been me that got sacked.

Were you really playing bass that day?

"I had to take the day off because I’d played the night before until 3 a.m. and had to play that night as well. With the Marauders. Needed the practice in front of an audience. Funny being back at The River Rat."

I’m gonna miss you, Keith.

They gang-shook hands.

Keith’s eyes met Charlie’s. Miss you, brother. Now, don’t you go dying on me, eh?

Hey, Keith, brothers never die.

You mean brothers who follow the Code never die. You right. I promise that, no matter what I’m doing, even when I rejoin Sound Unltd, I’ll stand by the Code.

Together Keith and Charlie said, Or may my soul rot in Hell.

Back to Keith’s council flat they trundled at 3 a.m., immediately hitting their respective sacks. Jack in the studio, Erik and Ger on a kitchen floor mat.

Though he’d been slugging whiskey shots for hours, Erik’s dreaming senses could not be dulled by Mr. Single-Malt. He tossed and turned for two hours.

When the sun makes haste beyond the sight-line

And the dwellings catch the rays of star shine.

When house lights spark and it’s almost dark,

Playing voices whisper that it’s dream time.

When the moon cascades across the night sky

And the stars display love’s energy so high.

Pleiades makes off with intense desire,

Brandishes Orion’s Belt and flays the fire.

North Star intercedes from the boundless sea.

Eons pass, then a voice is nigh. I hear its cry.

Erik sat up from his fitful dream. I can’t sleep. Keep hearing this song in me head. Won’t let me be!

Ger awoke scowling. Stop tossing and waking me.

Ger, this song’s keeping me awake.

Get up and write it down then.

Right, Ger. Who’s gonna write the music? You know, the music is like the pub songs, but it’s a lot slower. A lot slower.

Again, Erik tried to sleep.

I hear a wondrous voice in my dream.

Most inspired words in my dream.

Angelic song, it won’t be long

‘Til protection it brings.

I hear a loving song in my dreams

A vision of timeless love in my dreams.

All I must do is call to love

When The Tooters play and the water rings.

Am I doomed to believe in my poverty

No right have I to touch the sky?

But, let me try!

And so I cry let the night down

For my sweet love to wear a golden crown.

Erik’s mind raced. The Tooters? That statue with the fountain where we used to swim as kids? A song about The Tooters? Why? I know they say talking to The Tooters brings you closer to heaven, but that’s just a fairy tale.

The singer tried to sleep again, but, as if willed by an outside force—

And your dreaming prayers will go answered.

The Creator will love you in His answer.

Make your peace with Love, answer Love with love.

And your soul will live in the land above.

Now the shadows fade in Love’s glow.

Buildings once enslaved by the darkened bow.

Now they’re free, chanting merrily as the dawn grows.

Brightened street lights fade. Saffron glows invade.

Testifies new day! And so I say,

And so I cry, let the night down

For my sweet love to wear a golden crown.

Before Erik even realized it, he was at Keith’s kitchen table writing the song lyric. Soon, Jack joined the singer, writing music he’d dreamt—the same song—which the two called ‘Let the Night Down.’

So we heard the same song in our dreams? I know the music sounds like ‘The Geordie Pub Songs,’ but the words are not of this world, eh? And you heard the same— Erik looked at his partner. How could that be, Jack?

"I dunno, but we both heard the same song. And it’s a beautiful song that we have to write. We have to play it! A magic song, eh? Must be, if we both heard it in sleep."

Yeh. A song from— heaven?

I dunno. Like it couldn’t come from— Hell, eh? Jack then stared smiling into space. It’s too wondrous and it eases pain, eh? Like, it’s a healing song. I felt soooo contented when I heard it. Like I was floating above all my cares. Definitely angelic.

At first I couldn’t sleep. That song just kept me awake wondering where the song came from. Playing it over and over in my dreams. But later I just went with the flow of it, and, yeh, I felt at complete peace as well. Like the force of Good was guarding me from—evil? I dunno. Then Erik turned to his partner, agitated. "But who the hell are we to come up with, or to be given, this song?"

Given? You mean—heaven gave it to us?

"Yeh. Given. But why us? We’re just musicians. Songwriters. A band. It’s not like we’re going out to save the world, eh? I don’t understand why we’re so lucky to have this song. I mean, what makes us so bloody special? And what does this song mean? You know I feel like I’ve heard this song before. I don’t mean the pub songs. Like, when I was a kid back in the Hovels I almost died of scarlet fever. I heard a song like this in my dream one night. The next day I felt a lot better. But I’m fine now, so why us?"

I dunno, Erik. But the song’s ours now. And we have to glorify it. It must take our greatest effort, and it must give us some—meaning, which will be revealed to us—someday.

In the meantime, each in the group would live like kings. Then like gods.

And I, His Counselor-angel, bore witness.

They trekked upon life-paths where one high outdid the last.

CHAPTER

Three

At John Mocke’s party in April, 1989

While White Metal played their raunchy and mystical fare at John Mocke’s star-studded bash in April, Mick organized some of the kinkier guests into a cultist sex orgy styled after those of the Druid-age sect known as The Crag Dwellers.

History tells us, Mick told his followers in a feminine-sounding voice, that they gouged the eyes of their victims and ate them to acquire the powers of the dead. At the height of passion, the sex partners slit each other’s genitals and licked the blood. The faint-hearted among you may have your wrists slit instead.

That night, Mick formed his own Crag-Dwellers cult made up of his live-in ‘family’ followers and other notables such as Nigel Speke of the hot group Blood Beast, controversial for their first album with its satanic symbols. The group’s singer was Adam Raite.

Magda Blue, an eighteen-year-old blue-haired groupie and future pop star who crashed at Mick’s fancy London parkside townhouse and followed his family cult doings, made a tiny cross cut into Nigel’s penis and sucked the oozing blood with her pointed tongue. In her nectar-sweet voice, she asked her man of the evening, Did I hurt you, Blood Beast of mine?

Didn’t feel a thing, you luscious babe. Your knife cut is sharp and new, just like your flicking tongue. Do it some more, luv.

Nigel lay back on a silk pillow, satisfied Mick’s cult was all the guitarist said it was. I’m joining your little group, Mick ol’ boy, and I might be able to get Adam into it as well. Adam does this witchy thing all the time. But tell me, Mick, does all your band do this?

I started doing this last year when we all went Stateside with Wolfin. I met a groupie in some tit bar in Iowa who told me she always had her wrists slit before she made love. I asked her if she’d ever had her twat slit, and she said, ‘No. Where’d you get that idea?’ I told her I read that in a book. She said, ‘I’ve always wanted to do that stuff, but around here, no one’s really into that.’ So we did it. She told her friends about it, and after the gig the following night, her friends got Erik and Jack into it. It was funny with Erik, because he kept asking his girl if she was having any pain.

Magda said, That’s because Erik’s such a gallant. And he’s sooo good in bed.

How would you know? Mick answered. You’ve never had Erik.

But I intend to. Have you, dear Mick?

No. Erik’s not into that. I respect him for that.

Poor, poor Mick. Allyson Hallsey-Foxworth had her eyes and desired to have her womanhood on the lanky one as she rubbed his thigh. There’s no one else in your band who’ll open their buttholes for you.

Shit, girl. I don’t need one o’ them. I can have any groupie I want. Our producer Mike D’Arcy, Colin Hedgely, our agent and promoters all do nicely when we’re on the road. Half our roadies, too. So, babe, don’t feel sorry for me. I get enough.

What about Tom? Melanie Ross had the beauty of a Nubian goddess.

Tom and I don’t get along very well. First time I met him, his teeth were ghastly and he looked like a fanged monster, eh? Really turned me off. Now that he’s gotten his teeth fixed, he’s a self-styled pseudo-Marxist-guru little shit and a fake medium. Says he can channel the god Corion. Ha! I’ve been called Sound Unltd’s contribution to the occult. Well, Tom’s our contribution to pretense.

Adam Raite, who’d joined the group a few minutes before, said, And Bry’s your contribution to biker-dom, right?

Yeh. And brew-dom. He’ll quaff a sixer of Ale before they even ship it out.

And Erik and Jack?

Erik’s a boozer. One party at Mike’s, Denny bet Erik that he could drink him under the table. Before it was all over, they’d drank a fifth of bourbon, Denny puked all over the back of his car, and Erik was staggering outside yelling, ‘Eh, Den, I bet you’ll never try to drink me under the table again!’

The crowd laughed.

Mick continued. And Jack? He’s a driver—a slave driver! He used to get on me because I’d play me bass like I felt, and ol’ Jack used to bow his axe real strained and yell, ‘Shit! You off, boy! You supposed to play it this way!’ He’d grab me bass from me neck—not that he really knows how to play bass, eh?—and show me how to do it. Jack’s a former gang leader, and he tries to run Sound Unltd as if it were a gang. But I’ll tell you, it works. He, and Erik less so, are sheer geniuses.

Well, now that’s settled. Nigel quipped. Let’s get back to blood-letting and butt-loving, shall we?

No, Nigel, Adam said. I want to hear more about Mick’s Crag-Dweller cult.

They lived in the Craggy Mountains of Wales at the time of the Druids. But they weren’t Druids. In fact, they fought against the Druid priests, on the side of Corion, the god of all light and dark knowledge. Corion is the god that balances the light and dark forces into one holistic unity, and this is his symbol.

Mick wore a medallion of a cross with a blazing sun in its center, and an S-shaped snake in the middle of the sun. I picked this up in a gift shop at a Druid history museum close to Holyhope Castle. He took it off and handed it around. This is going to become Sound Unltd’s insignia, with a minor alteration. The cross of our insignia will have snakes instead of a cross, eh? That way, our Crag-Dweller cult can use that medallion symbol, called a Corionic Cross. But I need a name for my cult. Excuse me, our cult.

Magda spoke up enthusiastically. You said the Crag-Dwellers lived during the age of the Druids, right Mick? Why not call us ‘The Age of Druids’? That way, we can do all sorts of Druidic things, like sacrifices.

Druid Family. Super idea. But, Magda luv, we’re not gonna do any sacrifices. Some moaned, and others breathed a sigh of relief at that news. We’re in it mostly for the sex. The Crag-Dwellers had sex orgies every night, and they did it every way you could do it. For them, there was no restraint. They lived for sensuous pleasure. And so do I.

Allyson asked, Are the other boys in your group joining this cult?

No. Jack, Erik, and Tom believe in what they call The Code. Very outdated. Very Judeo-Christian. It’ll take a bit o’ time before they’ll come around. But they will come around. That Code of theirs won’t fit into their party-party lifestyles.

Adam had one more question. Is your Crag-Dweller cult involved with devil worship?

No. Corion works with light as well as dark. For me its sex, not Satan.

Melanie, who called herself a devil worshiper, said, Adam, if you’re into Satan, you need to take a look at the Slake of Satan. I know the leader personally. You need to get a look at them too, Mick.

Tom, once consigned to the background as clairvoyant pop star Prissy Wyatt’s toy boy, had the street sense to develop his own jet-set following which turned enraptured on his every word. Lying against pillows depicting woven dragons, his little entourage surrounded a hookah. They discussed the future of Prissy’s singing career guided by her producer and promoter, Mushroom Paul, son of an MP. With his advice, Tom might as well have been her manager, agent and songwriter.

Prissy inhaled some hashish. "Whatever happens, I swear I won’t make any decisions without consulting Mushroom Paul and Tom. Tom’s sorta my spirit-guide right now. He knows. He knows."

Peter Slade, a low-level aristocrat and singer with Hot Vinyl, asked, What kind of music will you do? Raunchy metal? Orchestral? Mystical?

None o’ those, Tom answered in his nasally baritone voice. All that shit’s on the way out, eh? Prissy’s gonna do what I call honky-tonk. Really, Pris, you have that show-parlor style. You could do a flapper act, eh girl? Tell you what. I’ll even be your drummer, eh? With EpiGram’s permission and all that crap. The five-foot-six drummer laughed, then took a hookah hose and inhaled.

Paul snickered. Right. And her songwriter, and her manager, and her limo driver.

Yeh, and you could be her bootlicker.

Paul responded with a cuss. Tom responded with, Not in this lifetime.

Really, you two. Lady Moira Sedgewick sighed. Why do you both always have to argue?

Tom’s an arguer, that’s why. Paul whined.

Prissy came to the drummer’s defense with a giddy smile. Now that’s not true, is it, Tom?

That’s what Mick and Bry say. I love to argue. But I feel I have something to say, so I say it.

Tom saw Prissy gleam at him. He quickly turned away to roll his eyes. She’s such a little nuisance.

Slade said, You don’t like ol’ Mick, do you?

"It goes back to when Mick and Bry joined us. Mick acted like I was going to consume his skinny little bod. Like I was a vampire. Little prevert. And get this. He really grimaced when I smiled and said hello to him."

Knowing Mick, Slade said, he probably would have loved it if you did consume his skinny bod. Laughs.

No. I won’t even have lunch with the bastard.

Tom laughed to himself as he thought about the others lying with him. No sense telling these silly people why I don’t go for that perv shit. They’d never understand. They’ve never been abused, poor, homeless, indentured. Really such stupid little rich kids. So ripe for my plucking. They’ll never guess I’m only using them to find out who indentured my family.

That Prissy, whose tabloid predictions usually came out true, needed a spirit-guide bothered talk-show celebrity Moira. What I don’t understand, Pris, is why you—a fortune teller—need Tom or anyone else to make your decisions for you.

Because my auras and chakras have been so clouded lately. Too much interference from bad angels. I can’t handle it now, and I’ll prove it.

Lady Sedgewick slapped the floor. Prissy? Are you saying you can’t be my medium anymore? Please don’t tell me that. Just who the hell am I supposed to get to replace you?

I’ll show you who. The spirits that communicated with me will now do so with Tom. Tom’s a channel. He didn’t even know it when I met him last year. Did you know the god Corion speaks through him?

Slade, a debonair but insecure star who was new to New Age ideas, asked, Who the hell is Corion?

Prissy answered. "A god of light born in darkness. The One we call God threw Corion out of Paradise, but then Corion changed his ways and is now a god of light. There’s a tribe in Africa that claims Corion is married to the deity we call The World. He