Appendix

Midnight falls upon what little remains of the broken, ruined village of Rukriz. The starlit sky shines milky and bright, with only the Mathers estate still standing tall enough to block it. A cluster of hedges rustle on the outskirts and Aleister Crowley stumbles out of the brush. His face is muddied with dirt and sweat; his skin pallid. Dangling limp at his side is one arm, burnt and sliced, with dried blood making clotted lines down to his fingers.

In the other hand, he holds the bulbous lump of bone, the Aztec Death Whistle. “Curse the both of you,” he snarls. “And curse the day I ever saw fit to train that abominable witch.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Show me,” he sputters. “Oh, Watchers, I beseech and invoke thee, reveal my course, show me what I must do.”

Strange, malevolent shadows flicker across the surface of fallen rafters and dusty thatch roofs. Whispers from an unseen dream dance across broken homes and split rafters to orbit around his ears. Cruel, mocking voices who say that nothing is there; he has failed, as expected. They are pleased. Furious, he casts the little flute against the manor wall where it cracks in half.

High above them, a star flickers, weaves about delicately, and then swells into a hovering orb that drifts down to the ground. The craft lilts and sways like a leaf falling from a tree, and a queer, unearthly humming fills the as it approaches.

Blinding white light overtakes his vision, and Aleister Crowley takes a step back, shielding his eyes with his good arm. The light recedes, his vision readjusts to the night, and he sees a towering alien craft of smooth, gleaming metal. Two saucer cups in the middle slowly gyrate to a halt. The craft goes near motionless, save for domed pods above and below which extend in unearthly tiers like ziggurats to dead insanities. A door opens in the saucer and a long, metallic tongue unfurls, rolls out onto the ground, and then becomes a rigid sloped incline.

Trench coated storm troopers, their entire bodies covered by gas masks, gloves, and boots, march out of the ship single-file. Some carry canisters of gasoline, others wield flamethrowers with fuel tanks strapped to their backs. Once all of them have exited the craft, a tall woman descends the ramp. Her exceptionally long blonde hair is tied back in a horse tail. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of her cane is all that breaks the silence as she approaches Crowley, her uniform tight, black, and deigned for martial warfare.

“Herr Crowley,” she says at the landing. “You look vell.”

“Madame Orsic,” he says, with a quick nervous bow. “My apologies, but I… I have failed.”

“Failed? How?”

“It was the Star Queen’s sister,” he spits. “She–”

“She is a child,” the woman says. “And now she has the Book of Splendor.”

Her storm troopers disperse throughout the village. The ones carrying canisters of gas begin pouring the fuel inside the old Mathers estate. Those wielding flamethrowers begin torching the remnants of the other houses. Soon a fiery orange glow and a sweltering heat engulf the village.

“All I need is but time and I shall retrieve the tome from her,” Aleister Crowley says. “I almost had them at first, but there were… interruptions. Your agent was also less than helpful.”

“Herr Raubtier has been reborn,” Madame Orsic replies. “An infant in New Schwabia. A blessing to be born at the edge of ze new vorld.”

“I don’t suppose that offer extends to me?”

Madame Orsic lifts her cane under his chin then stares him down. “It is not your time to die, Herr Crowley. Let this failure embolden you, strengthen you, for your work is not done.” She lingers for a moment, Crowley never breaking perfect contact with her. Tilting her head to the side, Madame Orsic asks, “Was it ze girl? Or ze Star Kveen who maimed you?”

“Niether. Perhaps both. It was Marchosias, I conjured–”

“You evoked a Marquis? Qvite impressive, und vithout Aivass.”

“You know about–?”

“If only it vere zat simple,” Madame Orsic says. “If ze Fallen do not ‘ave ze book und ‘er sister does, zen zat is enough. For now. She does not understand all of vat ‘appened ‘ere. She does not know how to read ze book, und vith her sister’s protection gone, she vill be much easier to apprehend.”

Four of the stormtroopers turn their flamethrowers upon the Mathers’ estate as the rest march out of the ruins. One of them is not fast enough and the fire catches his trench coat. He keeps walking as if the burning does not bother him, until the right glove and arm of his coat melt away.

“Of course, Madame Orsic.” As the flaming soldier walks past him, Aleister Crowley sees that there is no human, no body, nothing inside the stormtrooper’s uniform. He stammers out, “Th-th-then I don’t understand what I’m–”

“Your task remains as it vas – to retrieve zat book.” Madame Orsic says with a wry grin, “Surely you can handle one little girl.”

“She is proving to be quite obstinate, perhaps moreso than her sister,” Aleister Crowley warns. “She can not be trusted with it.”

“Zen take it back from ‘er.”

Aleister Crowley becomes furious. “Then why was I told to help the brat get it in the first place?!”

“Surely you of all people understand temptation,” Madame Orsic says. “She ‘as the zhe book, she is re-united vith ‘er sister, a sister whose power has been demonstrated. Zhe child will keep it for a time, study it, und perhaps learn.” Madame Orsic closes the remaining distance between them until their noses practically touch. “But imagine if, after zat, she lost ze book. Perhaps… stolen by, why, none other zan ze villainous Mr. Crowley. Zen, oh zen she vould chase you across every angle of ze vorld to get it back.” She chuckles, “Und zat is how you vill lead her to us.”

“How am I expected to retrieve a book when I am oblivious to the child’s whereabouts?” Aleister Crowley snarls through clenched teeth. “Even the most base and domestic of servants are provided with clear instructions.”

Madame Orsic lets out a smug huff then closes her eyes, pressing her hands to her temples. A minute transpires, during which her hollow storm troopers board their alien vessel. “Scotland,” she says, opening her eyes. “Zey are traveling by foot on ze roadside, but it appears a traveling salesman ‘as picked zem up… hmmph, interesting, ze driver ‘as a new mystery for zem. Ah, selling a strange und possibly ‘aunted car. You vill not attempt to follow. You must avay to Scotland. To Loch Ness.”

“Boleskine House,” Aleister Crowley whispers. “Why should I go there?”

“You are vounded, you must rest und recuperate. She vill come to Boleskine ‘ouse of ‘er own accord, und you vill be vaiting.” Madame Orsic tips his chin with the end of her cane then turns his face until it meets hers. “Remember, Churchill is no longer alive to protect you.”

“I am… ever loyal, to the Risen.”

“Zen prove it.”

She ascends the incline ramp and the silver tongue curls back in. Her ship begins to spin violently, crackling iridescent bolts of energy that leak out from between the metal seams, and then in a bright flash the craft is gone. A fluttering orb of white light shoots up into the sky and far across the horizon.

Flickering slivers of darkness cast by the flames erupt in a chorus of laughter. Writhing like charmed cobras, leaping from pyre to pyre and dancing in the street, cruelly jeering at him. He mustn’t dawdle. After all, Scotland is on the other side of Europe. It will take him nearly a week to reach civilization with his old, weak body. Resigned to his failure, Aleister Crowley braces his mutilated arm and limps down the dirt path, his only companion the mockery of shadows.