The cool, crisp night air sent chills running up and down his spine. Tight muscles bunched in knots beneath his skin. Hidden in the folds of his cassock, his hands clenched into fists. A man could only stand so much. The events of the past few days had stretched his temper to the limits. His patience was nearly exhausted.

  The burden of four lives weighed heavily on his soul. Tim and his mother, Ape Largo and Papa Benjamin, all depended on him for their rescue. Originally, his plans dealt entirely with the destruction of the Black Lodge. Nothing else mattered. Used to working alone, he never worried about his own safety. In the past, he always relied on his own special skills for protection. That all changed when he met Janet Packard.

  Taine couldn't help feeling a bit chagrined. Romance complicated everything. Up to this week, he carefully managed to avoid entangling situations. It kept life much simpler. Now, engaged in the most dangerous case of his entire career, he fell in love. So much for timing. Man plans and God laughs, he decided wryly.

  The amphitheater formed a giant horseshoe, with the open end facing Harmon Sangmeister's mansion. Built to resemble an outdoor concert arena, there were well over two hundred seats built into the concrete. Approximately a third of them were filled tonight. All present wore the monk's robes and white surtouts of the Black Lodge. Taine's group blended in perfectly with the rest.

  Carefully avoiding any eye contact with curious Initiates, Taine led his small party up the stairs to the top row of the theater. Here, free from any restraining walls, the night wind swirled wildly. Fortunately for them, no one else dared the cold. They had the upper levels all to themselves. Ignored by the other Lodge brothers, they made their way across the top of the arena until they were directly opposite the stage. Taine motioned for everyone to sit.

  The large number of seats in the arena puzzled Taine for a minute. The Lodge never totaled more than a hundred people, yet there was room for nearly triple that number in this stadium. Then he mentally noted that the apparent random seating arrangement favored by most of the members was decidedly not random at all. Only a small handful of Initiates sat next to anyone else. Most of them were isolated from their fellows by one or more empty chairs. Even among their own kind, the brothers of the Black Lodge trusted no one.

  Taine shifted his attention to the center of the arena. Filling most of the open end of the amphitheater was a huge raised stage. Five feet high, fifteen feet wide, it extended all the way back to Sangmeister's huge home. A series of recessed lights provided just enough illumination to brightly light the front section of the platform, while leaving the rest of the amphitheater and the back of the stage in semidarkness. In the center of the floor rested a speaker's podium, complete with microphone. At the foot of the lectern, Taine spotted a large silver bowl.

  A few feet away from the lectern stood a massive, ten-foot-long, inverted wooden cross. It was secured to the stage at a forty-five degree angle, so that the base of the cross pointed out at the audience like a medieval catapult. Taine shook his head in disgust as he noticed the leather thongs high up on the base as well as on each arm of the transverse bar. All of the necessary ingredients for the Black Mass were present.

  Clustered in a semicircle around the base of the structure were a dozen plush hardwood chairs. Eleven of the twelve were occupied. Wearing red instead of black cassocks, these were the Masters of the Lodge. Only Willis Royce was not in attendance.

  "Welcome now the Grand Master of the Order of the Mystic Knights of Antioch," came the same voice as before over the loudspeaker. "All rise."

  Standing along with everyone else in the arena, Taine drew in a deep breath. After all the waiting, the actual start of the ceremony was almost anticlimactic. He felt sure things would not stay placid very long.

  Two robed figures emerged from the darkness cloaking the rear portion of the platform. Dressed in robes the color of purest gold came the Grand Master of the Black Lodge, Harmon Sangmeister. Even the heavy cassock could not hide the millionaire's emaciated condition. His body was so twisted with pain that he walked only with the help of his companion, a tall slender individual wearing the robes of an ordinary Initiate. A muffled groan of pain accompanied his every step. An audible ripple of surprise ran through the arena as the crippled Grand Master made his way forward. Evidently, no one in the crowd realized before the apparent seriousness of Sangmeister's condition.

  Finally after several long, agonizing minutes spent shuffling across the floor, the oddly matched pair reached the podium. With a shrug of his head, Sangmeister gestured for the other man to back off. Gaunt, gnarled, trembling hands emerged from the voluminous sleeves of the cassock and gripped the edges of the stand with deathlike intensity.

  Slowly, Sangmeister leaned forward until his head nearly touched the stationary microphone. "By all the powers of darkness," came his harsh whisper, "I call this meeting of the Mystic Knights of Antioch to order."

  Still buzzing, the audience regained their seats. Even Taine had to admit that the elderly millionaire looked like he was ready to collapse on stage. Perhaps that report on AIDS had not been faked after all.

  The reaction from the other Lodge members was not lost on Sangmeister. "Silence!" he whispered defiantly, the microphone amplifying his voice a thousandfold. "I'm not dead yet."

  "It won't be long," shouted someone from the stands. Shielded by the darkness, other Lodge members roared their approval.

  "Bastards," said Sangmeister weakly, his voice barely audible over the din. "I hope you all rot like me."

  With a shake of his head, the Grand Master sent the gold cowl of his cassock tumbling back to his shoulders. The sight of his hideous features shocked the crowd into silence.

  A bleached white skeleton of a man chuckled in mad triumph at the dismay caused by his unveiling. Sangmeister's face, skin taut right to the bone, was a red mask of burst blood vessels and dying flesh. All of his hair was gone. Even his eyebrows were missing. Dark black lines circled his mouth and eyes, emphasizing the hollow emptiness of his sunken features.

  "Welcome to my personal hell," he whispered to the startled Lodge members. A thin line of blood dribbled out of the side of his mouth and ran down his chin. Red drops stained gold cloth.

  "Remember my delightful smile the next time you screw some cheap slut," he said, laughing insanely at the silent throng. "Or maybe your wife or girlfriend has already infected you. Wouldn't that be a wonderful surprise."

  Raising one clawlike hand up to shoulder height, Sangmeister beckoned to his assistant. "Bring forth our reluctant altar girl."

  The Initiate disappeared into the darkness at the far end of the stage. He emerged seconds later brutally shoving a naked young woman ahead of him. Savagely, he herded her toward the huge cross. Her cries of despair rang through the arena. "Help me, help me," she begged the crowd desperately, to be greeted only by silence. No one dared help Angel Caldwell.

  "Welcome, daughter," said Sangmeister, his monstrous face twisting in a sneer of hate. "Thank you for sharing your charms with our group. Please, mount our Holy of Holies and prepare yourself for our offerings."

  Cursing softly, Taine risked a quick look around at his companions. Ape Largo was half out of his seat, ready to charge the stage. Only the restraining touch of Papa Benjamin's hand on his sleeve held him in place. "Not now," said Taine, in a low voice. "Not yet."

  With a muffled oath, Ape dropped back into his chair. Taine understood the bodyguards frustration, but it was too early to act.

  On his other side, Janet sat stiff and unmoving. He knew there was nothing he could say now that would calm her fears. There was much worse yet to come.

  By the time he turned back to the stage, Angel had already been strapped onto the cross. Bound face-first, she was spread-eagle against the rough wood, completely exposed to the Lodge members. Her hands were bound together and pulled high over her head, held tight by a leather thong to the inverted base. Her feet were strapped to the ends of the transverse bar, spreading her legs wide apart. Droplets of sweat glistened on her white skin. Eyes blazing at her tormentors, Angel was silent now, obviously realizing the futility of pleading with her father and his colleagues.

  "The altar is prepared," said the Initiate solemnly to Sangmeister.

  "Good. The time is right. Let us begin."

  "All rise," said the Initiate loudly to the crowd. Many of them were already on their feet, anticipating his announcement. Most of them had participated in these ceremonies before.

  Reversing the sign of the cross on his chest, the Initiate solemnly chanted, "Aquerra Goity, Aquerra Beyty."

  To which the Lodge brothers responded, "The Goat above, the Goat below."

  "In the unholy name of Satan, our Lord and Savior, be seated," commanded Sangmeister.

  As they both sat down, Janet nudged Taine. "That's Roger," she whispered, nodding in the general direction of Sangmeister's assistant. "I recognize his voice."

  "I suspected as much," replied Taine. All of the players in this grisly drama were present. One of them was Arelim. The final confrontation was about to take place. The Black Mass had begun.

  47

  Our Father," recited Harmon Sangmeister in surprisingly strong tones. "Who art in Hell."

  The Grand Master paused after every few seconds to let the membership repeat his benediction.

  "Cursed be thy Name."

  Janet squeezed her eyes shut, blotting out the sight of the obscene ceremony on the stage below. But there was no way she could close her ears to the twisted prayers of Harmon Sangmeister.

  "Thy kingdom come. Thy evil will be done. On Earth, as it is . . ."

  Without warning, the chanting stopped. Beside her, Taine jerked upright in his seat, caught by surprise by the turn of events. Quickly opening her eyes, she scanned the floor of the arena for the cause of the disturbance. It took only seconds to discover the problem. One of the red-robed Masters of the Lodge was on his feet and shouting something at Sangmeister.

  With the man facing away from them, it was hard to make out what he was saying. The wind carried away most of his remarks. But it was abundantly clear from the rage evidenced on Sangmeister's face that he did not take kindly to the other's remarks.

  "It's Victor Caldwell," said Taine quietly. "He's challenging Sangmeister's authority to conduct the service. He says Harmon is too weak and sick to serve the Lodge any longer as Grand Master. He wants to be the one who replaces the old man."

  "You can't be serious, Victor," said Sangmeister, his voice trembling with anger. Oddly enough, he sounded a bit stronger than before. "I've served the Lodge for nearly twenty-five years. You can't just push me out because I'm getting old. The Order owes me better than that."

  Caldwell turned and faced his fellow Lodge brothers. "I've put up with your crap long enough, Sangmeister," he shouted to roars of approval from the crowd. "Either step down voluntarily or submit to Trial By Combat."

  "Trial!" screamed a man a few rows down from Janet. Then another, and then another. Soon, the entire Lodge membership had picked up the cry. "Trial, Trial, Trial!"

  Sangmeister's face flushed bright red, as if shocked by the reaction of the crowd. Trembling, he swung his head back and forth, surveying the arena for some sign of support. He found none. By now most of the membership were back on their feet, shouting their approval of Caldwell's challenge.

  "So be it," said Sangmeister softly. "Let those Masters who dispute my rule come forth in judgment."

  With a roar of triumph, Victor Caldwell mounted the steps leading to the stage. Behind him came two other red-robed Lodge members. From beneath their robes, all three men pulled ornately carved daggers.

  "Ceremonial knives," said Taine. "Normally they are used only in certain magical rituals. But they also come in handy solving arguments."

  "Draw your weapon, old man," said Caldwell to Sangmeister. He was close enough to the microphone that it projected his words to the entire arena. "Or die without a fight."

  Sangmeister made no move to comply. Instead, he appeared almost complacent as the trio approached. "I've known of your ambition for years, Victor," he said tranquilly. "But I never expected treachery from Nagle or Pierce. How good it is to finally learn the truth."

  Janet bit her her lower lip. Somehow, Sangmeister seemed bigger than before. During the past few minutes, his body had fleshed out, gaining both height and weight. The slackness was gone from his features. There was a strength in his voice that had been missing earlier. He looked and sounded years younger.

  There was a familiar ring to his voice. Janet cringed, suddenly very afraid. Next to her, Taine nodded to himself, as if in confirmation of her worst nightmare. Huge dark shadows gathered behind Harmon Sangmeister. Shadows that seemed to possess a life of their own.

  "Get him," Caldwell yelled to his allies. "Get him, quick!"

  All three men rushed forward, slashing wildly with their knives. But they acted a few seconds too late. Without warning, all the lights in the amphitheater went out. The entire arena was plunged into darkness.

  On stage, a man shrieked in pain. A wordless, intense scream of pure agony, it rose to shrill heights before coming to an abrupt end. Somehow, though all the lights were out, the microphone was still working.

  A low moan of fear swept through the crowd. No one had anticipated this turn of events. Something monstrous was taking place on stage and they could hear every word of it.

  "No, please god, no!" screamed a different man.

  "Too late to call on him," came the reply, in a voice smooth as silk.

  Thunk. The amphitheater quivered with the force of the blow. Thunk. Thunk.

  The audience was in an uproar now. Above it all rose the grisly sound of steady chopping. A deep, powerful laugh filled the night. Terrified, Janet reached out and gripped Taine by the arm. She recognized that voice.

  The lights flashed back on as unexpectedly as they had gone out. Even expecting the worse, Janet was shocked by the scene they revealed.

  Three smashed and bloody bodies lay in huge pools of blood on the wood floor. The men had been hacked to pieces. Their tattered robes clung to their mangled forms. The entire stage dripped with blood. Splashes of bright red even dotted Angel Caldwell's nude white body. The young woman's eyes were closed, but whether she had fainted or was just frightened beyond belief, Janet couldn't tell.

  Janet choked down a scream. A trio of grisly ornaments decorated the lectern. The heads of the three rebels looked out at the audience, their final expressions twisted in mindless, overwhelming horror. Behind them, gripping a butcher's cleaver dripping with gore, stood their intended victim. Chuckling softly, he surveyed his horrified audience.

  The Grand Master of the Black Lodge had undergone an incredible transformation. The disease-ridden, elderly man of a few minutes before had disappeared. In his place stood the real Harmon Sangmeister. Still clad in the gold cassock and white surtout of the Order, he was a powerfully built, tall man with hawklike features and burning black eyes. Ageless and evil, he could have been thirty—or a hundred. At his feet, darkness swirled in eddies like some living thing.

  Sangmeister's thin gash of a mouth twisted in a grim smile of satisfaction. Shadows clung to him as he spoke.

  "Anyone else unhappy with the way I run this organization? I thought not." He laughed. "Remember, dissent is an integral part of our Order. Anyone attending is welcome to disagree with my policies. However," and he laughed again, harshly, "all arguments are resolved through Trial By Combat."

  With a flourish, he raised the bloody butcher's cleaver into the night air. "There is only one law. The strong take what they want. Nothing else matters."

  Janet turned to Taine. There was no mistaking that voice. Though she had only heard it one time, it would live in her memory forever.

  As if sensing her questions, Taine nodded slightly. Keeping his face fixed forward, he leaned his head close to hers. "Poor Victor Caldwell never realized the truth until it killed him. His most powerful ally was actually his worst enemy. Victor and his friends, including Willis Royce, never had a chance. No wonder the Dark Man was so effective in his attacks on the crack market. As Sangmeister's doppleganger, he possessed all of the Grand Master's memories. He knew every secret of the Children of Danballah."

  Taine paused. "Harmon Sangmeister is Arelim. And by all indications, Arelim is the Dark Man reborn. To save Tim, we'll have to defeat that monster again. This time, unfortunately, mirrors won't work."

  48

  Get this garbage off the stage," said Sangmeister brusquely, waving one hand in the general direction of the three corpses. "The ceremony must continue."

  As if waiting for his commands, a half-dozen men came running out from the shadows leading back to the mansion. They worked with smooth, silent efficiency, clearing the stage of bodies while scrubbing the floor clean of blood. Experts at their craft, they had evidently done such work before. Violent death, Janet guessed, was no stranger at these meetings.

  "Leave the heads," said Sangmeister. "Let them remain here as reminders of the price of treachery."

  Almost fondly, he patted Victor Caldwell's bloodstained forehead. "This traitor deserved to die. He committed the one unforgivable crime of this Lodge. He cheated us.

  "Given total control of one of our most important money-making enterprises, the crack cocaine network, Caldwell was still not satisfied. He wanted a larger cut of the action. Working hand in hand with Willis Royce, another traitor to our Order, he cunningly siphoned off large amounts of cash from the take each week. He blamed the continual shortfall on the rapidly declining price of drugs in a boom market. Meanwhile, the two renegades and their silent partners, Nagle and Pierce, deposited millions of dollars of our money in numbered Swiss bank accounts. Now do you understand why I had to act in secret?"

  Listening to Sangmeister's explanation, Janet sensed a subtle shift in the temper of the audience. The mood changed, from overwhelming, mindless fear to annoyance and then to anger. Money obsessed these people. They were willing to forgive any excess, any crime, if it paid enough.