gift of mental agility, which many underestimated. This was why Patrice liked him so much. No one ever expected much of Mr. Chunk and he surprised them.
Mr. Chunk gave a short, awkward bow. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but you have a visitor. Are you available to see him?”
“A visitor?” Patrice frowned. He had arrived in Paris only the evening before and had tried to be as discreet as possible. It concerned him slightly that anyone should know his whereabouts. He would have to take care to be more guarded in the future.
“Who would be calling on me this early? It’s not even ten o’ clock yet.”
“A Mr. Crowley, sir,” Mr. Chunk said.
“Aleister Crowley the occultist?”
“I think so, sir. His card didn’t say.” Mr. Chunk held the visiting card out to Patrice.
Patrice scanned the card. It was white, cut from expensive-looking card. The one side simply said,
A. Crowley, Esq
. The other side contained a series of magical symbols printed in a vertical row. The symbolsfizzed slightly when he touched the paper.
I have important information for you …
they whispered.
Patrice dropped the card on to the tablecloth and waved a dismissive hand. That was an impressive trick. He would have to remember to ask Crowley how he did that. “Very well, send him in. Let’s see what he has to say.”
A few moments later Patrice rose as Mr. Chunk ushered their guest in.
Aleister Crowley was the kind of man everyone noticed. He was burly, with a bristly, jowly face that was perfectly ordinary in its ugliness, but for a gaze that hinted at a fierce intelligence. He moved with a silence and grace that belied the coarseness of his features, and his presence filled Patrice’s drawing room entirely.
“Please sit. Would you care for a coffee? Have you eaten? I am sure I could ring for something to be sent up for you.”
Crowley cleared his throat. “No, thank you,” he said softly as he sat down.
Patrice took a seat opposite him and folded his hands in his lap. “And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Crowley gave him a smile that sent shivers up and down Patrice’s spine. “Well, I am in Paris only temporarily. I am busy with preparations for an expedition to British India. There is a particular mountain that is just begging for me to mount.” He gave Patrice a dirty smile. “But then I heard rumors that you were due to arrive and so I simply had to come and make your acquaintance.”
“Well isn’t that kind of you,” Patrice said, returning the creepy smile with one of his very own. “I am at your service, monsieur.”
“So a Shadow Master has taken control of the Council of Warlocks,” Crowley said.
Patrice did not answer.
Crowley looked greatly amused. “Oh, Conrad de Montague and I go back many years. He blackballed me for membership to some of the London clubs when I was at Oxford. He was most indiscreet about … certain things,” Crowley said. “This in turn barred me from becoming part of the set to which one must belong in order to negotiate membership of the Council. My career as a warlock was forever ruined. It was all frightfully boring.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Patrice said.
Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Oh I have managed well enough on my own. You are, I take it, familiar with my work?” He paused and waited for Patrice to nod. “So I am sure you now understand the reason why I have hated de Montague for so many years. And my joy at hearing of his demise.” Crowley folded his hands in his lap, mimicking Patrice’s gesture. “Mr. Chevalier, you did me a most excellent favor when you killed him and I thank you for it.”
Patrice nodded slowly. “I suppose I did,” he said.
“Come now, Mr. Chevalier, there is no need to be so modest. Achieving what you have is a most outstanding feat and I regard you with the greatest of admiration.”
“Thank you, sir,” Patrice said. To his surprise, he found himself starting to warm to his
Mr. Chunk gave a short, awkward bow. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but you have a visitor. Are you available to see him?”
“A visitor?” Patrice frowned. He had arrived in Paris only the evening before and had tried to be as discreet as possible. It concerned him slightly that anyone should know his whereabouts. He would have to take care to be more guarded in the future.
“Who would be calling on me this early? It’s not even ten o’ clock yet.”
“A Mr. Crowley, sir,” Mr. Chunk said.
“Aleister Crowley the occultist?”
“I think so, sir. His card didn’t say.” Mr. Chunk held the visiting card out to Patrice.
Patrice scanned the card. It was white, cut from expensive-looking card. The one side simply said,
A. Crowley, Esq
. The other side contained a series of magical symbols printed in a vertical row. The symbolsfizzed slightly when he touched the paper.
I have important information for you …
they whispered.
Patrice dropped the card on to the tablecloth and waved a dismissive hand. That was an impressive trick. He would have to remember to ask Crowley how he did that. “Very well, send him in. Let’s see what he has to say.”
A few moments later Patrice rose as Mr. Chunk ushered their guest in.
Aleister Crowley was the kind of man everyone noticed. He was burly, with a bristly, jowly face that was perfectly ordinary in its ugliness, but for a gaze that hinted at a fierce intelligence. He moved with a silence and grace that belied the coarseness of his features, and his presence filled Patrice’s drawing room entirely.
“Please sit. Would you care for a coffee? Have you eaten? I am sure I could ring for something to be sent up for you.”
Crowley cleared his throat. “No, thank you,” he said softly as he sat down.
Patrice took a seat opposite him and folded his hands in his lap. “And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Crowley gave him a smile that sent shivers up and down Patrice’s spine. “Well, I am in Paris only temporarily. I am busy with preparations for an expedition to British India. There is a particular mountain that is just begging for me to mount.” He gave Patrice a dirty smile. “But then I heard rumors that you were due to arrive and so I simply had to come and make your acquaintance.”
“Well isn’t that kind of you,” Patrice said, returning the creepy smile with one of his very own. “I am at your service, monsieur.”
“So a Shadow Master has taken control of the Council of Warlocks,” Crowley said.
Patrice did not answer.
Crowley looked greatly amused. “Oh, Conrad de Montague and I go back many years. He blackballed me for membership to some of the London clubs when I was at Oxford. He was most indiscreet about … certain things,” Crowley said. “This in turn barred me from becoming part of the set to which one must belong in order to negotiate membership of the Council. My career as a warlock was forever ruined. It was all frightfully boring.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Patrice said.
Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Oh I have managed well enough on my own. You are, I take it, familiar with my work?” He paused and waited for Patrice to nod. “So I am sure you now understand the reason why I have hated de Montague for so many years. And my joy at hearing of his demise.” Crowley folded his hands in his lap, mimicking Patrice’s gesture. “Mr. Chevalier, you did me a most excellent favor when you killed him and I thank you for it.”
Patrice nodded slowly. “I suppose I did,” he said.
“Come now, Mr. Chevalier, there is no need to be so modest. Achieving what you have is a most outstanding feat and I regard you with the greatest of admiration.”
“Thank you, sir,” Patrice said. To his surprise, he found himself starting to warm to his
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