Hearts Desires and Dark Embraces by Margaret L. Carter

Voice From The Void

As the speaker stood on the tiger-skin hearth-rug droning on about hypnotism and reincarnation, Claude D'Arnot contemplated the gaslight's gleam on the man's bald head and gold-rimmed spectacles. "Recently I recovered the buried memories of a gifted subject who had served as a priestess in the temple of Dagon on the island-continent of Mu before its cataclysmic destruction..."

Claude, bored with the speech, let his eyes wander to the fur rug, complete with tail, paws, and head. His sympathies lay with the tiger, a solitary predator vastly outnumbered by both its natural prey and the human interlopers.

He shifted his attention to his own quarry, the medium, Violet, beside him on the divan. Flushing beneath his scrutiny, the young woman met his eyes for a second, then looked back at the speaker. Claude sensed Violet's skepticism--no wonder, considering her own role in the group--as well as her lack of interest in the lecture. She's disturbed about something. She radiated unease, reinforcing the message Claude read in her depressed skin temperature, erratic pulse, and shadowed aura.

Could this be the opening I've waited for? He'd watched her for weeks, his desire mounting, but he'd held back. He wanted more from her than a casual supper engagement. Why? What makes this one different from any other human female?

The medium's friend Harriet Harmon, seated on Claude's left, showed greater enthusiasm for the saga of ancient Mu, as did the other dozen or so people grouped around the drawing room. Miss Harmon leaned over to whisper in Claude's ear, "Isn't this fascinating?"

"Indeed," he murmured, waving away a maid who hovered nearby, offering a refill of his sherry.

Fascinating drivel. Among the countless people he'd mesmerized during his lifetime, not one had dropped a hint of a previous existence. But he had joined the Esoteric Order of Leviathan for entertainment, not its intellectual resources. More importantly, these occult societies made excellent hunting grounds. Women enthralled with the supernatural could easily be seduced into "ritual blood-sharing", so long as he clouded their minds to obscure the one-sided nature of the "sharing".

Claude had dabbled in several such cults, including that unsavory young fellow Crowley's circle, and the Leviathan devotees peddled the most imaginative brand of drivel he'd encountered. As far as he could untangle the threads of their doctrine, they taught that when the Elder Gods broke through from the void beyond the stars to lay waste the Earth, their faithful servants, as sole survivors, would be transformed into powerful inhuman creatures and rule the world. Those who had died before the glorious conquest would enjoy reincarnation in similarly monstrous guise. Why not? Sounds more exciting than a cloud-paved heaven with perpetual harp music. All the religions practiced by ephemerals struck Claude, who wavered between deism and frank agnosticism, as equally silly anyway.

A patter of applause interrupted his thoughts. The High Archon of the Order took the speaker's place in front of the hearth. "Thank you, Professor Rinaldo, for that most enlightening presentation. That concludes the public portion of this week's convocation." He chanted a benediction in what he claimed to be ancient Sumerian. For all Claude knew, it might be; it resembled no language he'd ever heard.

The Archon, a bony middle-aged man, clean-shaven except for a bushy mustache that matched his tufted eyebrows, wore an aquamarine robe and a bronze pectoral set with semiprecious stones. A bronze circlet of similar design adorned his high forehead and abundant iron-gray hair. Though he made cryptic claims to an aristocratic bloodline, the Archon was actually a former stage magician named Matthew McFadden. Claude had satisfied his curiosity on this and other points--for instance, the medium's identity as McFadden's orphaned niece, Violet Cade--the first night they'd met, afterwards making the cult leader forget the conversation. Not that Claude disapproved of the spiritualist; as a former actor and something of a trickster himself, he could appreciate a clever charlatan.

While the maid cleared away the sherry decanters and trays of sweet biscuits, the butler ushered the guests to the front hall. Claude, along with Professor Rinaldo and Miss Harmon, had the privilege of staying for the medium's private performance, the weekly seance. During that first interview with McFadden, he'd implanted an impression of himself as a scholar of the occult who deserved a place in the Order's inner circle.

Standing, Violet said to Claude, "Will you be joining us as usual, Mr. D'Arnot?"

He heard an atypical strain in her voice. Yes, something's bothering her tonight. Clad in a loose, white robe, with her chestnut hair unbound, showing golden highlights in the lamp's glow, she looked ethereally delicate. Claude knew the appearance belied the facts; she managed McFadden's correspondence and financial affairs as well as any hired secretary could have. Despite her cheerful cooperation in her uncle's spiritualist schemes, in other matters she retained her innocence. Claude suspected she had no idea of the erotic symbolism of the bronze ankh pendant she wore.

Her fleeting blush, evoked by his intent gaze, stirred his appetite. He had to restrain himself from touching her by a stern reminder that he had no socially acceptable excuse for doing so.

"You know I wouldn't miss it." He said more quietly, "Miss Cade, you seem troubled. Can I help?"

Violet's aura darkened, her smile fading. "There's no need." She cast a nervous glance toward her uncle, making his farewells to the uninitiated. "There's nothing wrong."

Without directly challenging the lie, Claude whispered, "Please keep in mind, if I can offer you any assistance, simply ask."

McFadden walked over to her. "Come along, Violet. It's past time to begin the sitting."

Violet flinched, though her uncle spoke softly. "Yes, I suppose so."

I've never seen her reluctant to participate before, Claude thought. And what has the man done to her? His own indignation at the idea of her being hurt surprised him. Feeling possessive about the girl already? Not a good sign.

McFadden headed for his study, where the "sittings" took place. Rinaldo, the hypnotist, followed, with Miss Harmon close behind. She said over her shoulder to Violet, "I can't wait--this is going to be so exciting."

The medium still hung back, gazing unhappily at her friend. So that's part of it. It's Miss Harmon's first time, and Violet has scruples about tricking her. Claude wondered why he didn't find Harriet Harmon irresistible; traits such as her intelligence and eccentricity usually appealed to him. She made a living as a journalist, scandalous enough in itself. She wore her own version of the Bloomer costume, a long tunic over billowy trousers, which most other suffragettes had abandoned. She openly advocated free love and quoted from the poetry of Baudelaire and Swinburne. Having attended one meeting of the Esoteric Order of Leviathan to write them up for the Society for Psychical Research, she'd lingered as, if not a convert, at least a sympathizer.

Yet Claude found himself fantasizing, instead, about Violet. He'd even begun dreaming about her. Since his kind seldom dreamed, certainly not with the sensuous clarity of the visions that had recently haunted his days, he couldn't deny how strongly the girl obsessed him. I have to get her out of my system. Or would this obsession yield to a night or two of dalliance? What is it about her? Maybe his fascination grew from the preoccupied frown with which she often stared at him, as if she saw something hidden from others. Dangerous, if so. I ought to run the other way.

When the group entered McFadden's study, a plump, white Persian cat with mismatched eyes, one golden and one blue, leaped down from the desk and twined around Claude's ankles. Once he had overcome her instinctive animal aversion to him, the cat, Ishtar, had become his devoted friend. He bent to stroke her while McFadden directed the others to the circular table in the center of the room. The only illumination came from a pair of tapers on the desk; according to the Archon, too much light disrupted the "astral vibrations". With an obvious ploy like that, how does he manage to gull so many victims? And people think of our kind as rapacious!

Besides the candles, the desk held a mummified cat, still in its tea-brown wrappings, and a green statuette about a foot high. The sculpture represented a crouching, taloned, bat-winged, tentacled figure with a vaguely humanoid visage. The table reserved for the "sitting" bore a silver chalice, with a silver-bladed dagger lying diagonally beside it, representing the feminine and masculine polarities, though of course McFadden would not be so indelicate as to make the symbolism explicit.

The occultist nodded impatiently to Claude. "Mr. D'Arnot, perhaps you'll join us so we may begin."

"Certainly, I beg your pardon." Ishtar jumped up to her usual vantage point, the top of a bookcase. Claude took his seat between Violet and Miss Harmon.

"Please join hands," McFadden commanded in his sonorous stage voice, "and remember, whatever you see or hear, do not break the circle. Discarnate entities are both sensitive and capricious. Now, we require silence for the medium's concentration. You can aid Violet's entry into trance by breathing deeply and projecting tranquility to her."

When Claude's fingers closed around Violet's slender wrist, his fingertips on the pulse point, he gave little thought to discarnate entities. The thoroughly incarnate woman at his right side held his attention, even to the exclusion of the equally healthy female on his left. The tiny hairs in his palm bristled at Violet's touch. Again he noticed that her skin was cooler than normal, and she stiffened as the others obediently relaxed into the deep-breathing exercises the leader modeled in gusty sighs. Why this apprehension? Just because of her friend's presence? She usually treats the whole process as an entertaining charade.

After a couple of minutes of silence, aside from the sitters' breathing, like the rush of surf on sand to Claude's sensitive ears, McFadden judged the moment ripe for a message from the "other side". Three sharp raps crackled through the air. Claude saw Rinaldo start and almost snatch his hand from McFadden's. "Good God, what was--"

"Silence!" the leader hissed. A louder rap punctuated the command.

Claude knew the origin of the noises; after the first seance he'd attended, he'd hypnotically induced McFadden to explain the tricks. The Archon wore no implements under his clothes and therefore had nothing to fear from a skeptic's search. Instead, McFadden produced the sounds by cracking his toe joints, a skill, Claude understood, possessed by many spiritualists.

"Is anyone present?" McFadden intoned.

Another minute or two of silence ensued. Claude sensed McFadden's annoyance. Violet wasn't following the script. Her fingers convulsively tightened on his. He gave her a reassuring squeeze in return.

"Is anyone here? Please reveal yourself to us. We are all sympathetic and open to your presence." A longer succession of taps.

At last Violet emitted a low moan. Her blue eyes widened in an entranced gaze that made her look almost childlike. McFadden chose well; how could anyone suspect such an innocent maiden of fraud? Her head rolled languidly from side to side, with parted lips and a feverish blush. Claude didn't know whether the pink tint arose naturally from her exertions or whether she was one of those rare ephemerals with some control over involuntary body functions. Either way, he enjoyed the effect.

"Yes, speak to us," McFadden said. "Do not be afraid. Span the gulf between this world and the next, and appear before us."

More raps. Another moan from the medium. A glowing vapor began to coalesce above the center of the table. Both Rinaldo and Miss Harmon gasped. Claude had to admit he'd been impressed, too, when he'd first seen the phosphorescent cloud. McFadden produced it by stepping on a trigger underneath the Oriental carpet, activating a device inside the table. For the "ectoplasm" he had to rely on mechanical aids, risking discovery, but so far no observer had insisted on peeling up the carpet or dismantling the furniture. McFadden did have in his favor the conspicuous absence of the cabinet most physical mediums used; his seance room looked like a respectable gentleman's study.

"Who is there? Do you have a message for one of our number?"

Violet gave a hollow groan. Why isn't she delivering the message, whatever that may be?

"Speak, we await you," said McFadden. Even the other ephemerals, Claude reflected, should sense his impatience.

"Rinaldo," Violet sighed. The hypnotist jerked up his head. "Your work--" She exhaled a long breath, as if drawing the words from a deep well. "Sophia is here. She is watching over your work."

"Sophia! Oh, my God!"

"Who is she?" said McFadden in a soft, solicitous voice.

"My daughter--died twelve years ago--fifteen years old."

McFadden had known that, of course. Like any confidence man, the occultist had his sources. He passed on the relevant information to Violet and coached her in its use.

The Archon said, "Please be quiet, Professor, lest you disrupt the ether."

"Sophia is well--happy--" Violet murmured.

That's what paying customers want to hear, Claude thought. Not that the Archon would be so crass to ask for money, but grateful mourners never failed to make donations to the Order. If they didn't do so spontaneously, the "spirits" dropped hints. Claude couldn't fathom this fad for believing that, while waiting to reincarnate, the dead hovered at the beck and call of "sensitives" like astral parlormaids. Well, maybe they do; what do I know about the post-mortem destiny of ephemerals?

Violet continued, "Your work brings great comfort to many. But take care with your gifts, lest you unleash powers beyond your ken."

Good advice for anyone dabbling in mesmerism, but judging from McFadden's frown, not what he'd instructed her to say.

She finished with, "Sophia watches over you and waits to rejoin you in the next incarnation. Be of good cheer." She slumped in her chair, miming exhaustion from the strain of the otherworldly powers surging through her.

The phosphorescent mist thickened, coalescing over the table like steam from a teakettle until each face was shrouded in an eerie, bluish-green veil. More cracklings and poppings sounded.

"Someone else is here," said McFadden. "Speak, we are listening!"

Violet gave a loud groan. Claude felt her hand quivering with tension.

"Yes, Violet, open yourself to the higher plane. Let the spirits emerge from the void beyond this world and deliver their message through you."

"Harriet Harmon," she breathed.

"Yes? You have a communication for Miss Harmon?"

That lady leaned forward, trying to peer around Claude at Violet without breaking their handclasp.

"Your father--"

Claude felt Miss Harmon go rigid. Her father, he knew, had died four years previously. "Is he there?" she whispered.

Instead of answering, Violet threw back her head and writhed in her chair, as if fighting an invasion from beyond. The undulations of her slender body in the soft robe impressed Claude as blatantly erotic. Does she know that? Probably not; she's too upset about her friend.