Franz stood at his window, watching wind sweep leaves down the cobbled street.

At his back, rows of old books skinned in leather were pressed into the polished shelves. A small fireplace coughed light into the room along with a generous amount of heat. Warmth was something he’d grown fond of in recent years.

A small writing desk squeezed against one wall among the shelves. A couch waited for him in front of the fire.

Thick rug under his feet.

Large round glass in hand. Brandy. The finest he could afford.

He sipped with absent relish.

Swirled the glass thoughtfully. Inhaling fumes.

“Mister Hartmann?” Small voice from the doorway. “Was there anything else you’ll be needing me for tonight?”

“No, Marie. I suppose not.”

“Then I’ll bid you goodnight, sir.”

“Yes. Goodnight, Marie.”

A short exchange. About as personal as he ever got with her. She was, after all, just a servant. There to tidy the rooms and dust his shelves.

Nothing more.

A slim book rested on the floor beside his couch. Closed. Green leather binding. Black ribbon marking his page.

He thought about opening it, but something was bothering him. Something was tugging at his mind, and he couldn’t quite put a name to it. Something he’d been reading in a paper said to be the work of Paracelsus.

The skeptical side of him couldn’t accept it as genuine. The language wasn’t quite right. Not what he’d expect from the legendary alchemist.

Yet, despite its dubious origin, there was something in it which fascinated him. One line. Could he trust it, though? Should he absorb it into his doctrine, or discard it for now?

The gaslight lamp flickered on the wall above his writing desk.

He didn’t notice.

Instead, he watched as Marie darted down the path, eager to make her way home. She looked to be in a hurry. Had she said she was married? He couldn’t recall.

He stared after her, intense eyes unblinking as they followed her passage. The gentle glide of each step accentuated the feminine wiggle of her behind.

His tongue touched the edge of his lips.

Was she beautiful? How would her soft flesh feel in his hands? Would she moan or whimper? He hadn’t given her much thought before.

Did it matter?

He turned from the window and ran his finger across a line of slender books. His gaze slid over the promising spines of his collection.

Gently, he pulled a few from their shelf and placed them on his desk in a neat pile. There was a purpose to his selection.

Eyes glinting, he felt himself in the grip of a ritualistic pattern of movements as he reached into the gap he’d created. Then tugged at a hidden board to reveal a small collection of books secreted inside the wall.

His fingers sifted through them until he found what he was looking for.

A silver pentagram was all that adorned the dark green leather cover. It was a book without name and it had cost a good deal of money to procure.

How many times had he read its crisp pages? Too many.

Most of it didn’t make sense. It could leap from one idea to the next with a suddenness that made him question both its authenticity and its author’s sanity.

But some sections were alluring in a primordial way. The twisted passages seemed to whisper to him even when he wasn’t home. Every time he gazed at the grotesque lines, they were etched a little deeper into his memory.

As he worked on his patients, he thought about this book more than any other he’d ever read. He couldn’t get it out of his mind.

He opened it to a familiar page.

A page which described a ritual so blasphemous it made his heart race to read. Should anyone discover this book in his possession, he’d be arrested. Its contents were so heinous that no judge would hesitate to have him hanged at the very least.

His colleagues in the Theosophical Society would be both horrified and secretly thrilled by it. But he dared not show them. Their tongues were looser than their purses.

Licking his lips, he read it over and over as he’d done many nights before.

His lip curled slightly as he marveled at the ritual’s cold violence and the intoxicating promise of power beyond imagining.

What made a man capable of committing such obscenities as those described on this page? Was he such a man?

Had India taught him nothing of the peace a man should struggle to attain?

The daily meditations.

The frequent brush with the spiritual.

The words of enlightened men.

Were these so inconsequential compared to the abhorrent whispers of the Devil himself? After all, what other hand could have written of such occult perversions as this?

He closed the book with a shiver, the slam of its pages making his heart skip a beat before he shoved the cursed tome back into its hiding place.

Unsettled by the images conjured into his mind by the book’s words, he took his seat by the fire and swirled his brandy.

Sipped.

Shook his head.

And realised that, above all else, he desired to perform this foul ritual before he grew too old to enjoy any mystical rewards it might deliver.

He had to attempt it.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

But anxiety gnawed at his heart with every passing second. Would he be able to commit to the final act, though? Would his hand quiver and shake?

What if he couldn’t finish the thing?

What if the woman screamed? Or beg for her life? He wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t flinch from what had to be done if she did.

He’d need to gag her.

And where would he even find a suitable sacrifice?

He knew so few women.

And a virgin? How did one even ask that question of a woman? It had never come up in polite society before. There was no polite way to ask such a thing.

Marie looked innocent enough, though. Could she be virgin?

Even if she was, questions would be asked if she disappeared. Uncomfortable questions.

Who, then?

Who?

And how to get them to where he needed them to be?

It was said there were men who’d kidnap someone for a fee. Where would he find such blaggards? Should they be local? What if they blackmailed him? They’d be sure to blackmail him.

He’d have to kill them, too.

He rubbed his cheeks, frustration making them redden.

If the ritual was both authentic and succeeded, the power he’d gain could be indescribable. And if not?

Execution.

It was too much of a risk.

The whole thing was ridiculous. He couldn’t do it.

He slumped in his chair and finished the last swallow of brandy, bitterness evaporating his fantasy.

Sighed.

Said; “Shit.”

Then jumped as someone knocked on his door.

He wasn’t expecting company. Was he? Lately, he’d been forgetting things. Too much of his mind was focused on that damned book.

He put his glass down a little heavily and stomped from his library. Irritated that he’d sent his servants away so soon. But he hadn’t wanted anyone home while he studied in case they saw what he was reading.

Flinging the front door open faster than he’d intended, he stared in slack-jawed amazement at the three ladies standing in a neat row in front of him.

“Mister Hartmann,” one of them purred. “And so eager to meet us, I see.”

“I’m sorry,” he choked. Pulling his voice loose. Looking from one beautiful face to the next, unsure what to think. Were his cheeks still red? They felt hot. Warm from liquor, or something more carnal? “I wasn’t expecting visitors. If you’re patients, I’m afraid I don’t do work from my home. And certainly not this late. I mean…”

“Oh, we’re not patients, Mister Hartmann. Not at all.” She stuck out her lips in a coy smile. “Aren’t you going to invite us inside? It’s terribly cold out here, you know.”

“Inside?”

“Of course. Is that a fire? That would warm our skin so much. You’re cold, aren’t you, Senka?”

“Very cold,” the youngest said. Her voice sent shivers through his lower region. She was dressed in a top hat and coat. Like a man. But there was no mistaking the lush curves of her figure. “I want to be warm.”

His mind felt distant all of a sudden, but a question managed to reach out and slip over his tongue. “Who are you?”

“My name is Vasilja. This is Hailwic. And that’s Senka. She’s very hungry. I wouldn’t recommend feeding her, though. Well. Not straight away.”

“Are you…” Hesitated. Looked to see if anyone he knew was around. Lowered voice; “Prostitutes?”

“Why, Mister Hartmann, what an offensive thing to suggest. Do we look like harlots to you? Of course we don’t. We might be ladies of the night, but the emphasis is most definitely on lady, I should think.”

“Then…”

“We’ve been informed that you have a collection of philosophical books we might find very interesting. We do so adore books. Senka here, she loves books. Don’t you, Senka?”

“Yes,” Senka nodded, her face serious. “I like books.”

“We were hoping that you might show us your collection, Mister Hartmann. And perhaps tell us all about your travels? We’ve heard you’ve been to India. Is that right? All the way to India. I hear the weather is intolerable, but their people are very educated in all sorts of very interesting things.” Her smile grew wider. “Won’t you please invite us inside and educate us?”

An alien part of his mind whispered that this was a very reasonable request despite the hour. “Yes, well. I suppose there’s no harm…”

“None at all.” Vasilja moved forward a little, pale hand reaching for his. Stopping short at the threshold. Her smile penetrated him deeply. Through to his soul, he thought. Couldn’t help nodding as she said; “You want to invite us inside, don’t you?”

A curtain seemed to pull itself around him like hot perfume. Smoking his thoughts even more. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Well, why don’t you? You’ve left us standing outside for far too long. The cold air is absolutely ruining my hair.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” He stepped aside and gestured toward the library as he felt the natural comfort that comes when a gentleman allows the manners ingrained by good breeding to dictate his words and actions. “Please. Come inside, ladies. Be welcome in my humble home.”

Senka flashed a grin which hid her fangs and skipped through the doorway without a word.

Vasilja looked around the little entrance, noting a few small paintings on the wall. “I wouldn’t say it was humble, Mister Hartmann. It looks very fine indeed. Oh, I do like this one.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course. I said it, didn’t I?” She turned on him, stunning him back into silence. Reached out with a finger and pressed it to his cheek. He flinched at the cold touch, but didn’t pull his head away. “Do you know what else I like, Mister Hartmann?”

“Franz,” he said. His name tripped awkwardly across his tongue. “Please. Call me Franz.”

It sounded like a plea from his heart and he wondered how he’d let so much desperation fall into his voice.

All he knew was he desired for her to say his name.

Just once.

Say it, he thought. Please say my name.

“Franz,” she purred, sending a jolt of electricity into every cell in his body. “Very well, Franz. Please take us to your library. We would be delighted if you’d allow us to see your books. We’ve heard so much about them.”

“This way,” he said. “Follow me. I hope you like my collection. I’ve spent years acquiring everything I could. Some have come from as far away as America. Spiritualism is very popular there, you know. In fact, I think America will grow to become a new centre for study in the future. So many very talented people are working there already. Good work, too.”

“America?” Vasilja sounded impressed. “You speak as though you’ve been there.”

“I have. It was some years ago.”

“Did you like it there in America, Franz?”

“I’m not sure.” He stopped in the middle of the library. Thinking as hard as he could. “I think I did. Some of it. I was married for a brief time.”

“Was she beautiful?”

“She was.” The sadness was like a plucking of a harp’s string, but distant. “I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t well-liked. I tried hard, but they didn’t like me. And they barely tolerated me in India. I’ve come to accept my interests may be somewhat more specific than theirs. In the end, I think America was a bit of a disappointment now I think about it…”

“It’s not here,” Hailwic said softly.

“You’re not like all those other people,” Vasilja purred, pressing against his side. He liked the feel of her up against him. Wanted to snatch her into his arms. But his body wouldn’t move. It was frozen. As if in fear, but it wasn’t fear. “Their way is too feathery for you, isn’t it? Too empty. All that vapid talk of astral bodies. Fourth dimensions. Touching the spiritual plane. It’s all nonsense to you, really. When you close your eyes and try their mental exercises, you fall asleep.”

“I take what interests me,” he said. Carefully. Was she testing him? The damned fog wouldn’t leave his mind. “Everything they would share with me had holes in it. Pieces missing. I believe if I can find what fills those empty places, I might discover a better way.”

“A better way for whom? Your friends? The world?” She ran her fingers down his collar. “Or for yourself?”

Strangled, his voice squeaked out; “Myself.”

“That’s why these aren’t the only books you have, are they? You have others. Secret books. Books which could get you into a lot of trouble.”

He shook his head.

Sweat beads probed the edge of his forehead.

He wanted to wipe them away.

They itched his skin.

But he couldn’t move. His heart was hammering in his ears.

“I don’t know,” he said, struggling with the fog in his mind.

“Yes, you do.” She slid around behind him and wrapped arms around his chest. He could feel her breasts soft against his back. Her cheek rested against his shoulder. “We want to see it, Franz. We want to see the book you dare not show anyone. The book which makes you frightened of the man you were meant to be.”

“I’m sure I don’t have such a book.” His words were dry. He could hear the lie in them. Each syllable thick.

Too thick.

“Show us, Franz,” she moaned. “Please show us. Don’t you want to please us? Don’t you want to please me?”

“Behind the shelf,” he said. Fast. Washed with relief. It felt so good to say. Even better as her fingers gripped him hard as she pulled him tight against her body. His blood roared through his body in an excited rush. “It’s in a secret compartment. There’s a trick to opening it. I can show you.”

“Show us.”

“As you wish.” A little of the fog cleared. Not much, but enough. Enough for him to loosen his lips a little. “You’re not human, are you? You look human, but you’re not. You’re something else.”

“Are you scared, Franz Hartmann?”

“I am.”

“You don’t need to be. Not if you bring us what we want. Not if you please us.”

Everything suddenly seemed so clear to him. It was as if the fog revealed some prophetic truth.

They were the key. The key he’d always been waiting for. He didn’t know how, yet. But their path led to his magical success. He was sure of it.

A hole inside his soul had found its perfect filling.

The spark of hope burned brighter and he gave in to the fog swirling through his brain like brandy in a glass.

“You see, Franz? Isn’t that so much better? Aren’t we everything you ever wanted?”

“Yes.” And it was true. “You are.”