Auminous: Occultus Ecclesia, #1

By Bryan Rivera-Rivera

Millennia ago, a wise man discovered the secret of tuning to the quantum world. In the modern era, humanity is under threat from the Exodus Occultus. Can Hermes' plan for the Great Work be stopped?

When Konner Lavi, a disabled photographer, stumbles into Silva Isle, Colorado, to make a weekend buck shooting a wedding, he finds himself entangled in the local folklore of a mysterious cult that is said to meet a quota of blood based on the phase of the moon. Stirrings of shadowy beings called syres run amok, along with missing person reports. Is it all bunk? Or is there something more sinister at play?

Euthalia Chrysant thinks the word cult is a bit unrefined. She's a fine tunist, one of the top-ranked in the Auminous Sect. The Auminous Sect are practitioners of the dark science handed down by Hermes Trismegistus, the Philosopher King. Her goal? To occult the profane masses through the Great Work of tuning. And maybe redden her lipstick a little while she's at it...

Xantheus Eizencroft would skin you alive if you referred to a tunist using such pathetic terms as "witch" or "cultist." In fact, he's done it many times. Too many to count. He's always down for having a blast. There's a reason his Auminous moniker is Xantheus the Death.

The world that Hermes envisions is one of noble aspirations, but only for those worthy of attaining enlightenment through tuning.

Will Konner answer destiny's call? Or will the Auminous Sect raise the age of golden men from the depths of the corridors of time, leading to a mass culling and a world reborn?

The Occultus Ecclesia Series has but one question to ask.

Who has the true Light?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryan Rivera-Rivera
• Release date: Oct 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224406715

Book preview

PART THE 1ST

What Do You Mean They Stay In?

Fragment of Hermes 23

From Diminished Root Stars

Procyon holds an incredible secret when mixed with Algol. But in this case, the moon cannot be at 100% illumination. When mixing Procyon with Algol, it is beneficial to inscribe the genes at a waning gibbous phase. I have named this mixture: Thorns of Absolution. The ability need not be performed with the intent to kill, but only with the intent to seize.

KONNER

Patience lay in a casket , strangled by the pattering fingers of discourtesy himself.

Konner’s eyes targeted like crosshairs on the attendant. A meek-eyed man far too mesmerized by his phone to check him into his room. The threadbare hotel, while not his first choice, was the only one for miles. Blood rushed to his cheeks while the attendant’s typing sloshed through the room, unpleasant against the backdrop of silence as brass chandeliers offered a tame glow like twilight. A reprieve came as the wind battered the windows, causing creaks and twists in the wood framing the building.

All I need is one good squeeze. This guy’s a pencil neck. Make me wait a minute longer… I’ll crush your …

One second, the attendant said. My wife doesn’t like when I don’t text back right away. He continued his tirade of incessant tapping.

"I’ve given you five entire minutes. Let me speak to the manager." Gusts screamed against the building, insulting his predicament with a haunting howl. Konner Lavi had reached the critical point where a passerby might mistake him for a pulsing tomato with broad shoulders. Why did he avoid the hotel off I-70? Tattered pewter curtains surrounded every window, too worn to be practical, and his neurosis kicked up to top gear when he realized he could not escape the copious amount of dust in his presence. Abode Away called to him from eighty-eight miles away with each of its four stars, but convenience had won over quality. Konner sipped his favorite brand of alkaline water, and the receptionist looked up after many eons of finger patter resounding through the arched ceiling.

"I am the manager." A pernicious grin of pomp and buffoonery followed, a grin from two opposite ends of the spectrum at the same time.

"Course you are, Konner said with grit. He drank once more, wishing to spit it out on the man’s face. He pointed at the poster on the right-side column behind the desk. Five-star service guarantee?" Guess I’ll be doing time tonight …

We’re the finest in town. The receptionist grabbed a brochure, stunted by the oncoming semi-truck in Konner’s eyes.

"You mean only. Not like I had a choice." Konner slammed his fist on the desk, popping up hardly used pens and a busted stapler. The off-blue carpet shook in a miniature quake of torrential displeasure.

The receptionist cowered, the booming voice causing him to study Konner closer. He had messy stubble about his face and was wearing a navy-blue denim jacket, spotlighting a man who preferred to work with his hands. Konner’s buzz cut and cowboy boots further pulsated waves of a hard man’s energy. The attendant’s hands flurried at the computer, as the glaring blue-collar grim reaper watched without blinking.

Konner’s eyes narrowed, his face stern, further terrifying the receptionist, whose name Konner had noticed on the desk plate. Rod. Yeah, nim-Rod.

Rod gulped, meeting eyes. Your room is twenty-four, and that will be $109.65.

It’s about time. Konner handed Rod his credit card and took a deep breath before picking up his belongings, a small suitcase and two charcoal Pelican cases sporting large Canon stickers.

Rod rang the bell for the porter. There’s no need, sir, Rebecca will take your bags. Enjoy your stay at the Gray Pine. He offered a warm smile, but his face disappeared into his phone within a second.

Rebecca strutted into the lobby, leaving a mahogany door with a scratched-in message showing it was the maintenance closet. Real professional.

Konner hesitated for a moment. Should he let her carry his things? The poor woman needed a sandwich. Direly. Though gaunt, he let her trudge his cases up the stairs despite her frame. He was the only guest in the lobby, the only guest period, it would seem. A crescent moon pumpkin carving dipped in far too much preservative greeted his ascent. Opposite the pumpkin stood a weathered totem pole, carved from a single log of wood with six sections. A fox climbing a waterfall on the top division, a bear and two cubs feeding in a river on the middle three sections, and three people sitting around a fire on the bottom two sections—under a half-lit moon with ten stars.

Konner made his way up, the wooden steps sinking so low in the middle he swore he would break through. His hand shook, but he resisted the urge to wipe dust from the banister. Deep breathing led to foot tapping. He glared back toward Rod. There had to be legal codes for these things. Things fared not to be in his favor tonight.

Rebecca dropped his bags off in front of room twenty-four. At least Konner assumed it was room twenty-four. A piece of the two was missing so it was hard to tell for sure, especially when the adjacent rooms lacked numbers at all. Of all the places to stay the night.

Here you are, sir, Rebecca said, her voice soft with feminine grace. She handed Konner the key card, and he gave her a crinkled twenty-dollar bill, nodding and cracking a slight smile.

His eyes darted to the left and right, noting the clean bedspread and pillowcase. White, with no sign of dirt. How fortunate. The rest of the surfaces caused his teeth to chatter. How could they get away with this? Konner plopped into the brown recliner in the room’s corner, trying to ignore smothered dressers and window ledges. The cushion molded itself around his body, and the headrest did likewise. Not bad, but not great.

He needed his microfiber towel, and fast. It had to have been at least a year since they dusted the room. He fumbled his suitcase open, grabbed his orange-scented cleaning solution, and got to work at once. The dust could not win, not when the evening had left him with a newly discovered vein. The sun had set by the time Konner finished. But he beamed like he had won a million-dollar prize as he marveled at his handiwork.

That should do it, he whispered to himself. He relaxed, but soon his thoughts trailed to dinner. The hotel lacked any redeeming quality, but how would the town restaurants fare? There had to be something here, some reason people wanted to live in this place. He placated himself, willing to give the town a second chance, not that it had earned it or anything.

Silva Isle, Colorado. A quiet nook nestled among the forest within the Rocky Mountains. Seven thousand people called this place home. He had lived in Colorado for over twenty years and had never heard the name until two days ago. While his best friend Tynan visited his studio, he passed along a request for Konner to photograph a wedding with excellent compensation from an old family friend of the Baems. Being a shrewd freelance photographer, Konner thought it would be an excellent way to make weekend money. He had always found the common churches and golf courses boring projects, and always hoped for something more exotic. The last request he had received, a barebones gig from a couple wishing to marry in the courthouse with no witnesses, dulled his aesthetic, and he longed for a change of pace. A static courthouse? Not the best place for a photographer to spread his wings. Late September had come, a month perfect for a vibrant color palette, and the leaves had churned into a myriad of accentuating reds and yellows offset by the evergreens. An artist could not ask for a more perfect canvas. His client had excellent taste in setting, an outdoor fall wedding, and for the first time in a long time, someone’s big day lit up his soul.

He hurried over to his half-rusted pickup and cruised through town to find any decent place to grab a bite. His grandfather had given him the old Jeep Gladiator J-Series as a reward for graduating high school, but Konner had not maintained the body as well as he should have. It had lost a sizable number of metallic chunks over the years. Still, it was a reliable classic car.

The streets were desolate for seven o’clock on a Friday night, but he shrugged it off because of the intimate climate. Nothing like Wheat Ridge or Denver to be had here. He drove onto Oswald Street and did not see a soul moving about, only empty streets and dead shops. Half tempted to shift to fourth or fifth gear and speed through the straight main road, he perished the thought when he heard a scream coming from in between the art shop and a laundromat through the opening in his passenger side window.

A blur of smoky prominence crossed his peripheral vision, in a hazy movement lasting less than three seconds. He turned the corner onto Dim View Lane, forgetting his turn signal and coming to a halt in the middle of the street. A well-groomed man wearing a brown fedora ran in the opposite direction in no hurry to slow down. Nothing chased him, but Konner knew better than to disregard his behavior as anything but fright.

Pure fear.

He pulled up to the curb, fumbled for his iPhone, and dialed 911. When he dialed the last key, a blue mist enveloped the air, swallowing the worn-down laundromat, with no cracked masonry left to be seen. The moon glinted off the smoky haze as if on a mirror, and the mist glowed with a faint outline of blue and violet interweaved. Suspended in place like normal fog with no moisture licking the truck’s windows.

Odd, and wrong.

His call did not go through. Only static popping like rice cereal met his ear, adding to the maelstrom of high strangeness.

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The mist fizzled out after rippling on the ground in waves, gone like a cold breath.

Konner sat rubbing his chin, trying to piece together what had happened, but concluded it was the mountain air mixed with the moonlight. Something a meteorologist might be apt to explain. He gave the local police station a direct call after a quick Google search. This time it worked.

His stomach roared, screaming and ravenous, not having eaten since the previous night.

Parking the truck at Fat Joey’s Mountain Diner, he jolted out as a translucent cloud covered the moon. He had found salvation at last, or at least promise. The restaurant doors had scratched stainless steel handles and a sizable number of scuffs, but appearances often deceived when it came to dining. On a trailing trip in Utah, Konner came to love Chunga’s, a Mexican restaurant that had to have been filled with roaches and greased tiles. He had assumed they violated every major health code, but despite the rough exterior they turned out to be great. Of course, Konner had never set foot in the place. Talk about a perfect example of hell no. He had used the drive-thru to keep himself sane.

He breathed in, chest tight with worry, wiping the handles with a cloth until they shined a fair bit enough to reflect cool moonlight.

Welcome to Fat Joey’s, the cashier said, warm and friendly. What can I get started for ya?

Konner inspected the room, noting any and every crease or ledge able to trap dust. Sourdough burger, well done, hold the cheese, no pickles either, Konner said, gagging at the thought of the green death traps.

Coming right up. Say, ya don’t look local. What brings ya to Silva Isle, and on a night like this?

I’m a photographer. Doing a wedding in a couple days. Konner’s hands remained in his pocket, as he’d rather not freak the man out with his urge to clean his windows. He twirled his towel back and forth in his jacket pocket.

"Must mean the Chrysant wedding. Grant is one lucky dog. I tell ya what. I’d be over the moon and back one more time if a woman like that was my heifer."

Konner sat in the west corner booth and opened his laptop to catch up on a few invoices. He ended up browsing through the news instead, and the tiny cashier came closer with a small waddle in his step as he went. The man looked healthy despite his age, and he had been smiling the entire time. Konner noticed the nametag on his blue polo shirt said Joey.

Aren’t you a little scrawny to be calling yourself Fat Joey? Konner sank himself further into the booth chair and felt it for dust. Not a trace. Good.

Aren’t ya a little gruff to be a photo-thingy? Figured ya were an oil rig crewman or some dig. Besides, the name’s all about marketing, so what’s it to ya if I bend the truth a little? Brings people in. His eyes reflected the dim fluorescent lighting as they widened, clearly proud of his statement.

I’ll admit to being hopeful a guy named Fat Joey would know how to make a decent burger, Konner said. Where are the rest of your staff? He noticed a fry on the checkered tile beneath the booth and tapped his feet, six times and seven.

They’ve all gone home early ’cept for Ramone, Joey said, pointing toward the kitchen doors. Onyx dark, and covered in hard water stains, with the smell of well-seasoned meat wafting in through the opening between them. A savory and inviting smell, to be sure.

The whole town is like a graveyard. Everything’s black and empty. Konner straightened up from the back of the booth. The wind sung in agreement with his statement, haunting but terse.

Folk around here are, how to say it … ’stitious types. Every twenty-nine days, people get a little weirded out. The church says blood drinking cultists are out trying to fill a quota durin’ a full moon. Silva Isle is almost all Christian folk. But they eat that story up like Grandma’s chili. Joey raised the blinds above the booth next to Konner’s, pointing at the moon. Folk here hate the moonlight. Paranoid types and such. Too much X-Files.

Cultists? Jim Jones or … Konner almost forgave the crumb on the floor. Almost. He flipped his laptop closed and stuffed it in the case, shoving it in at the corners. What a crock.

"I’d say it’s a bit more nuanced than Mista Jones. I’ll check on ya burger." Joey disappeared behind the kitchen doors, grunting as he waddled in with a small slide in his left leg.

Konner leaned his elbow on the table. Religious nuts in a small town. It made sense. It reminded him of his alcoholic and schizophrenic father, who would always try to catch the demons around Konner’s head in his delusions after pounding down eight shots of whiskey and huffing a gallon of his favorite paint. Shutting down a whole town?

Clanging doors captured his attention, and Joey strode to the dining area once more.

Here’s ya burger, sir, Joey said, handing him an oval platter and a tumbler of water. Sourdough, no pickles, and no cheese like ya wanted. Don’t mind the straw, it’s s’posed to be green. Environmentally friendly.

Thank you. Your service is way better than the Gray Pine Hotel.

Rod ain’t the friendliest fellow in these here parts. Sorry bout that, mate, Joey said. His warm smile developed into a frown. "Can’t blame ’em too much, though, we don’t get too many visitors out here so business can’t be great for ’em. He just passing the time. The guy’s made of money. Not too keen on etiquette, though. Nothing to fret over, I says."

Did I end up in a town full of kooks? Konner set his half-eaten burger on the plate and swigged his glass. Christians really do belong in the nut house if they all shrink back because of some urban legend.

Back during the gold rush, the men would come back ta town with stories of a blue fog, Joey said, sitting in the booth across from Konner, shutting the blinds. I know how it sounds. Most of it was ’round that big craggy peak of ours. I’m sure ya saw it when ya drove in. Folk here call it: Satan’s Claw. Think it was back in 1853 when the story picked up steam. Prospectors worked out in the mountains and would go on and on about how strange-looking men and women would head into the woods with old books for hours, while a blue and silver mist seeped through the trees at night. Swore to God Almighty they was witches, castin’ spells and drinkin’ blood till they had their fill. I reckon they were trying to sway ’em gullible folk from striking gold.

The misdirection makes sense. Throw them off with ghost stories so you can hoard all the gold for yourself.

"The mist is a sign of manifested evil accordin’ to the stories. My old man called it the sign of the syres, the servants of the witches. My old man loved ’em tales. Told me all about the weird stuff his parents told him. These stories go back almost two centuries, and we’ve carried ’em with us as the town has grown. Over the years it’s turned into a cult instead of witches. Changed with the times I s’pose. Preacher Davidson has everyone all riled up. Swears his kid was snatched by ’em."

Konner pressed two fingers against his skull. Some people can’t let go of crazy. He shrugged and took another bite, leaving a quarter of his burger remaining.

He finished while Joey’s discourse of the town folklore went on. The restaurant owner spoke with polished country bumpkin charm while Konner’s mind drifted off onto other matters. Did he want to use his Mark IV EOS camera for the wedding, or the 80D he loved to carry with him? He heard bits and pieces about people going missing and oddities in town, but the meal made him weary. He took his last bite, not forgetting to mention the single fry crumb underneath the booth chair.

Joey sputtered and dragged the crumb out with his foot. First time someone’s complained on my cleaning. Take care now. Your name again?

Konner. He shook Joey’s hand, at once pulling out a travel-size container of hand sanitizer to defer any residual filth.

Joey tilted his head, staring at his hands front and back and cracking a smile. Have yaself a good one.

Konner hobbled in satiated fullness to his pickup, a blood-orange and gray hunk of metal in the moon’s light. He drove back to the hotel, the streets as empty as before. He turned onto Olson Street, a stretch of road peppered with mom-and-pop shops. A discount hardware store with faded stucco stood next to a bakery named Seth’s Baked Goods, which had giant chocolate chip cookies on the sign where the o’s would be. He passed the Occult Emporium, a shop hosted by a woman named Mistress Perkins according to the window. Profane graffiti, rhyming with and painted next to the word witch, defaced the space under her ad. It seemed there was a difference of opinion on the local boogeymen. The Gray Pine came into view, and he shut the truck off, breathing in a whopping amount of fresh mountain air. Rod manned the counter, preoccupied with his phone again.

Careful tonight, sir? Gaze fixed on his screen; Rod typed away like a bomb would go off if he let up the pace, but his mouth fizzled into a joking smirk.

Did a cult try to kidnap me? No, thankfully.

The town comes alive when the full moon passes. You get used to the weirdos with their misconceptions after a while. Sleep well, Mr. Lavi. Complimentary breakfast in the morning if you want it.

Konner pushed away his thoughts from the dusty banister. How long would it take to clean? Five minutes max. He breathed in, choosing to ignore it for the sake of his composure. Five steps, three steps, five steps, three steps. He wiped his door with his cloth and opened the door halfway, making a mark on the floor with a pen. He flipped the light switch on and off three times, finding comfort in the pattern. Changing into his pajamas right leg first and pulling the strings, he nodded off, counting to seven in five sets.

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Gordon Rufino, a wealthy heir with nothing out of place in his life. If America had a dream, he snoozed fast asleep inside of it. A wife who cheered him on despite his humdrum day job as a financial advisor, two children who thought the world of him, more free miles than he knew what to do with, and a bank account with almost no limits to round it all out. A well-off man with the world in his hands. But there were the others, those religious zealots who would pump a shotgun, spit tobacco on the ground, and swear to Almighty God a powerful secret society of loons was overtaking the town. Gordon supposed fools were entitled to believe in their little tales. Still, the place embodied peaceful, a decent place to raise a family and live the cushy life. In his mind, the world turned on its axis as it did every day, with nothing remarkable or dazzling about it. Certainly nothing esoteric or arcane if the other crazies were right. Therefore, he kept to his ritual walk, even every twenty-nine nights. There were no hooded men in the bushes, and no way he would quiver at a normal astronomical phenomenon like the other idiots in town. It would be hilarious if it turned out to be an astronomy club from out of town. Something real.

He needed to take those mountain air breaths after a long day, and although he made his way amongst them, spending time around the affluent rubbed him the wrong way.

He paced himself as he crossed Albert Street, humming his favorite tune, taking his usual turn toward Grace Drive. Silva Isle, tranquil and routine. Every day a rerun of the last, the beauty of the night sky kissing the mountaintops and calling out to him. The same tin garbage cans at Old Jammy’s, with bags spewing out of the tops, the lids resting on top of fluffed out garbage. To his left, the tire swing in Joffrey Pleasant’s front yard, tied to a maple tree, with that rat-sized mutt of his barking at him again. All was right in Silva Isle, all was well.

Gordon slowed his pace, realizing the surrounding air had become thick and at least ten degrees lower than the twenty-nine the weatherman had reported, but he kept moving. Severe gusts brushed against his face but receded to unremarkable speeds with every few steps.

I should have brought my scarf. The weather man is a buffoon like usual.

A chill crept through his spine as his breath fogged up in the incursion of mist. Dull, blue hues outlined the puffs of moisture, trailing the vapor as it left his mouth. Fog interspersed the entire street, and everything became dead still.

Silence.

Yeah, dingus Dave Heatherton is wrong again. Who would have thought it? Bunch of bootlickers at DONA.

Through the settling fog he made out the outline of a figure. A woman dressed in an open, black overcoat with ink-dark hair, her lipstick emanating a somber glow under the moon. She walked closer, almost floating, and he gave her a once over. The black and red dress she was wearing under the coat caught his attention, fashioned with lace patterns in an old-time look, but with refinement modern enough to earn a spot in a designer magazine. Her cleavage protruded but wasn’t the main attraction. The dress itself stole the show. She carried on in elegant stride, mesmerizing to his senses, ethereal and poised. She stopped on the corner of Ansley Drive, and he greeted her as he took a brief break. Was middle age catching up to him? Gordon spoke friendly to everyone, even on the wintry nights. Small towns had a way of injecting cheer into one’s veins. Whether or not you asked for it.

Lovely weather, Gordon said, infused with a sliver of sarcasm. He watched as her layered hair danced with the breeze. It was the type of hair you could feel with a mere glance, soft to the eyes and shining with silver luster under the queen of the night.

Yes, I’d say it’s quite soothing. But the moon is far more divine, she said.

The moon?

She covered her mouth with her fingers spread out over her lips and giggled at Gordon’s question. She smiled, eyes locked onto his, her gaze sharp and composed. Something about her stare did not sit right with him. And that lipstick. Familiar touching the edges of discomfort. And what she had said about the divine moon. An astronomy buff, perhaps? Not his forte. He hardly knew Venus from Jupiter.

Breaking the ice with strangers came easily enough to Gordon, so he conversed with her further.

She kept her body still—stiff even—smiling, and twirling the sides of her hair as if she waited for a kiss after a long stint on some faraway island.

The moonlight and the fog together are beautiful. Gordon moved his hands through the mist, but it did not feel wet. Only present. It’s quite the sight.

She smirked, looking at the moon with reverence on full display. Is it now? It’s only Kokabiel having a walk with me. It’s just him bringing the quantum world to ours. She giggled somewhere between laughing and snide chuckles, pointing at her shadow. The twirling had stopped.

Something radiated from her. Something off. Undefinable outlines of something. But what that something was, escaped him. Prostitute made little sense, so did astronomy buff. Had he met an ill-in-the-head woman in the middle of the night? An escapee from an asylum in Denver who had found her way to Silva Isle. That had to be it. Cautious, he walked away from her backward, inching his way, but she kept staring at him and pointing at her shadow. His skin prickled, filling with goosebumps.

The temperature dropped.

To almost nothing.

He turned around, this time moving at a pace short of running. As running, wishing for it as best he could, was inconceivable to his legs.

"Forgetting something, Gordon?"

Neck hairs grew rigid, while goosebumps crawled along his skin in purposeful bursts, skimming the forest of hairs, and maybe even pushing them up a good few centimeters. She knew his name. But everyone knew everyone here in quirky old Silva Isle, and he had never seen her before. So stalker wasn’t the right word. That would be someone closer to home, if anything. He pulled out his phone to call the police, but the signal faded to zero, the screen on his phone now behaving like a grainy television static. The glass cracked into pieces, cutting open his right hand. Glass levitated in all directions and halted in the air when he dropped his phone, as if maneuvered still by an external force. He heard whispers, thunderous, impossible whispers.

Gordon …

Gordon …

Become our apostherium.

Gordon …

An elongated shadow loomed over Gordon’s on the sidewalk. It raised from flat, standing twice his height with the outline of a man, a green fire blazing where he supposed its eyes would be. The shape was translucent-black, with feline ears on its head. Four ragged wings sprawled along its back, with feathers like the sharpest blades, the top wings spread wider than the bottom two. Fiery, green whiskers burned near its mouth, if it had a mouth at all. The creature cooled the air as it pulsated in and out of view. It had a physicality to it, but it danced in the night as spectral as a ghost.

Gordon froze in place and his eyes pulled to the creature’s. The pulses became shorter and shorter until the being stayed within the visible material spectrum. The night spoke no sound, and the wind had gone missing. Gordon felt crushing pressure on his chest and breathing became a chore. He felt on the cusp of giving up and letting fate have its way with him. The being floated closer, and the woman giggled playfully.

I told you I’m on a walk with Kokabiel. He’s so keen to meet you, the woman said, raising her arms to the moon. He wants to play with his food. A violet shine emanated from her left eye, as if enlightened with the knowledge of fear itself. She was its conductor, playing a symphony of cold notes, octaves lower than the cheery persona enamored with the moon from earlier. Kokabiel danced to her whims, oh, did he dance. Elegant movements of fluttering wings broke through the mist. Radiant teeth gleaming a fine gold in the moonlight, devouring Gordon’s bravery with a stirring desire, bit down into his soul.

Get that thing … away … from! Get it away!

Gordon lost all knowledge of emotions, leaving only terror in his bones. Not about the creature, and not about whatever came next. No, he sweated icicles and felt his heart sink down under pressure as his mind fixated on family. They would be none the wiser about what had happened to him. This thing, this something that he couldn’t place before, would rob Jeanette of her only solace. Far from the strongest woman, her imagination would run wild with ideas if he did not come home. And the kids, not even old enough to tie their shoes. Losing him would solidify him as an enigma. Did he run off with some mistress? Did he walk out? Did daddy get hit by a car or get shot by a man with a gun?

Gordon …

Gordon …

The name’s Euthalia, the woman said softly, putting one hand on her hip and blowing him a kiss with the other. "You’re already dead, sugar, no use fighting it. Sleep, love. Sleep." She licked her lips, grinning wide enough to reveal golden fangs, the moonlight a streak across their face.

The being inched closer, and heavy tears oozed down, morphing into icicles as fast as they ran down his face. He felt wispy frost creep along his skin and shards of ice pinched at his joints. The subject of his thoughts?

His only reason to wake up every day.

Jeanette, Will, and Samantha, with their faces imprinted into his mind, faded out in a torrent of black. Ice enveloped his eye sockets, freezing his eyes like solid gelatin. His skin chipped and cracked away in the fervent cold, as blood seeped onto the pavement. A stream of life washed over concrete as Gordon left the physical plane. Leaving only a mystery, and a man-shaped hole in the life of his family for years to come.

PART THE 2ND

An Alchemical Delight for a Proper Lady

Fragment of Hermes 2

From Southern Mixings in the North

While it is common knowledge that Crux is at its weakest when called upon in the frosted northern extremities, this does not mean that the root stars of the southern hemisphere are of no use to those in the northern hemisphere. Mixing Spica with Karaka at 100% illumination yields much prowess with the winds.

EUTHALIA

A steady stream flowed to Euthalia’s feet, surrounding her heels. She bent over, placed her index finger in the liquid and traced her lips. She smacked her lips twice, coating them with an even layer of blood. Her coat pocket held an empty, glass vial shaped like a test tube. She bottled a sample of his blood and his body evaporated into dust as fine as powdered sugar.

This should be enough for me to continue another month, don’t you think, Kokabiel? Get rid of every trace, darling.

Kokabiel hovered over Gordon’s pool of blood, mopping the liquid into his body, sparks lighting up the being as he drank. A flash of blue light burst open the sky and the creature faded from visibility. The only trace of Gordon Rufino would be in the minds of his widow and children. A perfect crime committed by those faithful to her cause.

She smiled as she walked home, glancing up at the illustrious moon with each step. Euthalia found driving to be trite when her legs worked fine, and with Kokabiel’s help instant travel was only a thought away. He could transport her anywhere in two or three seconds. Nothing to it at all as long as she had visited the place once before. Euthalia walked for two blocks before integrating with the silver mist as it rose into the sky, and she appeared near her home in embers of azure fire, unscathed from the trip.

The spacious yard displayed faux plants, the turf false and green, even in the dark. Columns of white marble held up the upper deck, the only sign of activity the photons from her floodlight, penetrating the murky night and illuminating her shed.

Time ticked away with each passing minute, as the blood she had collected needed purification by moonlight before it spoiled. It tasted fantastic after the process, and she could practice at full strength revitalized. Euthalia grabbed an ornamental flask from inside the vine-covered shed in her backyard. Time to begin the process.

The first step was the most important, pronouncing her desire onto the vessel by which she would receive her boon. Kissing the glass with her lips, she uttered a blessing in Hebrew. Vial in one hand and flask in the other, she laid them next to each other on the stone table behind the shed, positioning them away from the structure to receive the moonlight. While the moonlight glimmered over the blood in the vial, the crimson liquid turned a shade of silver and swished in the manner of a miniature tornado. After the blessing, she clapped, joyous at the new creation. Still, her work continued. She added water to the flask and mixed the two elements together. A chrome pan over the interior fireplace devoured the flask, allowing transmutation to occur. Heat penetrated the substance, bubbling and ready to drink, growing into a delicacy of raw power.

The lustrous substance weaved a sparkle in golden grains after it changed in fire for five minutes. Now it glowed in the state of matter known as apostherium. Only the privileged knew of the substance, as the science of the 21st century had been lagging in the mainstream while the underground flourished. Those with the eye to see beyond the quantum veil of the physical universe profited immensely from their endeavors.

Euthalia grabbed the flask and poured it on her head, reciting another blessing in Hebrew. Her skin absorbed the substance, and she left not a drop on her face after she took her index finger and wiped the rest of the fluid into her mouth. Ever so sweet, it satisfied her craving for pure apostherium. The price to pay for tuning to the quantum world. Drinking the life of others to do so. She often thought of the Book of Leviticus, where God told the Israelites not to drink the blood, for the blood was the life. How right He was. She felt her veins, spongy and full of golden liquid, offering a spurt of bursting power.

Kokabiel’s shape emanated from her shadow when she passed by the window. She grinned, licking her fangs, the tip of her tongue tasting heaven once more.

"Thank you, sugar, she said, primping her hair in the mirror. You’ve blessed your master tonight. What would I do without you?"

Kokabiel vibrated at a lower frequency, becoming visible to Euthalia, and uttered words of servitude. My liege. I can only call it my pleasure to serve.

A crackle in the branches of the scrub oaks down the hill made her stand up alert. Something in the night moved fast, pops and snaps tearing through the silence. She peeked through the curtains and witnessed a man in a red pinstripe suit approach the shed. Euthalia knew the monocle on his left eye anywhere. He knocked on the door, wiping leaves and twigs from his attire.

Good to see you, Xantheus, she said, opening the door and beckoning him inside. How did your night turn out?

I found myself a coward for prey, Xantheus said. The man ran four blocks before I could snatch a drop of his blood. Then again, Arethus loves the chase. How about you?

Our night went well, Euthalia said, smiling with bountiful delight. My syre is elated from the feast he had. My prey was hilarious. He begged me to leash Kokabiel, but my sweetheart needs his blood. You haven’t forgotten, have you? It’s been a month. I hope everything is well. She moved her hair out of her eye, stashing away the transmuting pan in a perfectly-sized receptacle next to the warm fireplace hearth.

At least somebody’s night went well, Xantheus said, pushing up on his monocle and rubbing it between two fingers. I haven’t forgotten. Two days, was it? Xantheus chuckled, giving Euthalia a sliver of a smile.

"Right, sugar." Euthalia leaned against the back windowsill, her eyes glowing violet as the moonlight trickled through the gap in the curtains.

Xantheus settled his back in an amethyst rocking chair, a gloved hand sliding over his slicked-back, gray hair as the gemstone’s surface met the center of his neck. Next moon, Denver sounds inviting. I’ve harvested here two months back-to-back. No need for Renner to suspect anything.

There’s no place like home. She crossed her arms and shook her head. Renner isn’t the brightest star in the sky. I say push on through the rest of the year.

Xantheus scowled. "Don’t underestimate the tenacity of police officers. Everyone here knows something is going on. He stood, meeting Euthalia’s eyes with seriousness. It isn’t quite time yet. Be patient, and we will have our glory. I’m turning in for the night. Enjoy the rest of yours, my dear." Xantheus stepped out of the shed, offering Euthalia a cordial wave.

He might be right, Euthalia muttered. She stepped away from the silver kiss of the moonlight. Her shadow elongated against the wood paneling on the south wall. Kokabiel, might you draw me a bath?

Kokabiel manifested into physical reality. Snapping his wings shut, he encroached upon his master and shrunk himself to fit underneath the ceiling planks. "Certainly. Would you like to bathe in water, or are you in the mood for something a little more … red?"

PART THE 3RD

Musings of the Death and His Collection

Fragment of Hermes 46

From Of Cloaking Flesh to Match the Environment

Alkaid is the most important single star a fledgling tunist should learn. The etching can only cloak at 80%, not ideal by any means. But if one should emblazon the star into the genetic profile while the moon is at least half full, the full potential of Alkaid shall manifest.

XANTHEUS

Thank the moon for another splendid night, Xantheus said, entering his manor. The building stood a strong landmark with a rustic charm. Not as eloquent as Euthalia’s abode, but still shy of a mansion in scope. Not too shabby, if you asked Xantheus. Tonight’s catch of apostherium—enough for two moons—had worn him out. He had chased his prey without enhancing even a finger. To Xantheus the Death, using tuning to kill was as dishonest as possible. He opted to play a game with his victims instead. What a game it was, when the dice would lead him to kill them based on the numbers. He thought back, reminiscing over the past few decades of this illustrious life.

Could it have been so long ago? How many years … How long have I … Can’t believe it’s been almost forty years.

For thirty-nine years he had dwelled among the best of the underground world. The first of what the worthy world called a tunist under the age of three hundred to solve the dilemma of apostherium transmutation by moonlight alone. He had but to drink, and the resplendent refinement of his inscribed Gienah root star would do the rest, no full transmutation process necessary.

Xantheus had summoned his syre Arethus to the physical Earth when he had turned eight. The two were inseparable from the first contact onward. His family, a powerful practitioner group known as the Auminous Sect, were the titanic, the undisputed, masters of syres. Auminous innovation of the craft spearheaded the study of both available walks. They practiced the hidden eye walk of silver tuning through the influence of the sun. But they were infamous for their moon craft mastery. Only possible at night, the illuminated eye walk of the root stars, gold tuning. The Auminous Sect had ruled over all sects for millennia. But only those with talent stood a chance of emulating their success, meaning few tunists had ever ranked into their sphere.

Most Auminous Sect initiates had lived for eons, but Xantheus had no interest in extending his life. He had aged to forty-seven like a normal man. His father—the Philosopher King—Hermes Trismegistus, never could wrap his mind around why his son desired to live like the rest of humanity. Xantheus had not seen his father in three years. But they were three years of bloodshed and prowess.

He, along with the rest of the Silva Isle tunists, tried his best to blend in with the rest of the town. However, Euthalia was not so strict. She cared not about what anyone thought about her. Keener eyes had perceived something amiss, as the extension boons she would cast upon every moon had enabled her with almost eternal youth. The Pleiades blessed the faithful with many years.

Xantheus smirked as he made his way across a wall where Middle Eastern carpets with a penchant for flight hung, assessing his comrade’s boldness in the face of superstitious Christians.

Euthalia had spent one hundred and seventy years in Silva Isle. Xantheus chuckled to himself, thinking of the idiots who had never noticed Euthalia did not age like them. The Noon family was on his hit list, but as much as he kept his passions aflame, too many would notice their disappearance. Exposure of the philosophic world was not an option yet, but he had patience.

The consensus of the Silva Isle population on tunists, if one could even call it consensus, was that they may or may not exist, but uncertainty did not stop them from staying in on full-mooned nights in case the story held weight. Even the Christians in name only, who had a tough time believing their own ideas stayed in. But the residents had confused them for something as unrefined as mere cult members, or witches of some kind. Laughable really. Only in Silva Isle, Colorado, Christian capital of the Midwest per something far removed from capita would such a thing even happen. Xantheus had always kept his escapades hidden, but the past two months had alerted him to the careful eyes who could piece together all the scattered clues. The truth, obvious as it was, floated about through the story of the town, entrenched in the local folklore.

Xantheus fetched his old Bible as he passed his living room bookshelf, thumbing through worn pages and smirking. —Such foolish … Oh, dear reader, I’ll spare you that word. This is a good Christian novel. Get used to my awareness. I’m more than some plot device