Magnus gave up. “This is definitely my cult, isn’t it?” He paused. “I hope the altar was a later addition.”
“Maybe not,” said Alec. “There might be another warlock who would have wanted a wet bar next to their blood altar.”
“Well, if there is, he should introduce himself,” said Magnus. “I think we would get along.”
In their haste to leave, the cult had left the place a mess. Half the pews were overturned, litter covered much of the floor, and a pile of mostly burnt debris cluttered a sunken fire pit.
At one point, the fire must have jumped the pit and gotten out of hand, because a few of the pews around it were charred. Magnus walked behind the bar counter. Plenty of liquor, no ice or fruit or garnish, though. He poured himself three fingers of the bitterest amaro he could find and sipped it angrily, pacing the room.
Memories were powerful forms of magic. Everything in the universe had them, even events, places, and things. That was how ghosts from particularly tragic moments were born, why houses became haunted. Magnus was willing to bet that a demon-worshipping sanctuary involved in sacrificial rituals would have manifested its fair share of powerful memories from which they could glean clues.
Making a slow circle around the perimeter of the sanctuary, he began to chant. His hands were outstretched as he moved, and a glittering trail of white mist leaked from his fingertips.
The mist lingered and shifted in the air like lazy ocean waves, and then it condensed, taking shape into human bodies in motion. These were some of the strongest memories that had imprinted upon this place.
But something was blocking Magnus’s casting. The cult had prepared for this. Magnus reached out and pushed against the strong ward blanketing the entire area. A few memories did coalesce into something tangible, but they remained faint and unclear, dissipating after only a few seconds.
Of these, only three were vivid enough to materialize into something discernible. One was a stained glass window that was no longer here, portraying someone who looked awfully like Magnus being fanned with palm leaves. One was of two figures kneeling in prayer, an adult and a child, both smiling. One was of a woman standing over the altar, holding a long kris knife. Then there were faces, too many faces twisted in agony. He saw mundanes, and even a couple of warlocks, but mainly he saw faeries. Faerie blood, the blood that could be used to call up Greater Demons.
By the time Magnus gave up, he was gasping and wet with sweat. Breathing hard, he waved off the thick haze that had clung to the air around him. After the mist in the room cleared, he noticed Shinyun leaning with her arms crossed against one of the columns. She had been studying his work with great interest.
“Anything useful?” she asked.
Magnus leaned back against the wall and shook his head. “Someone set up a spell to block me from finding anything at all. Someone very powerful.”
“Do you notice anything strange about that wall?” Shinyun said, nodding toward the portrait of the man with jagged teeth. Magnus had been trying to avoid the portrait’s eyes, as if his father Asmodeus could watch him through them.
Even if he had started a cult, surely he would never have involved Asmodeus. Surely there was never a time he had been that mad or reckless.
“I do,” said Alec suddenly, and Magnus started.
“The portrait is hung on a bare stone wall, by itself. That’s a big wall, why not use it for anything else?”
Alec strode forward, walked underneath the picture frame, and pulled the bottom outward. He lifted the giant portrait off the wall and put it on the ground against one of the columns. He returned to the now-naked stone wall and banged a knuckle against it.
Shinyun walked next to him and placed a hand on the wall. Orange waves flowed from her hands and over the stone, and the stone shimmered like water to form an alcove tiled in the same glittering stone as the other walls. Set in the alcove was a large book, bound in calfskin dyed deep crimson, with gilt letters set deep into the cover.
The gold letters formed the words THE RED SCROLLS OF MAGIC.
Shinyun drew the book out and sat down on the stone to read. The book looked huge in her slim hands. As she began to turn the pages, the yellowed vellum crackled beneath her fingertips. Alec began to read over her shoulder.
Magnus did not want to, but he made himself take the steps past the altar, to where Shinyun and Alec stood reading the book.
Awe and dread both dissipated somewhat as Magnus read some of the holy tenets laid down by the Red Scrolls.
“Only the Great Poison, he who is handsome and wise and charming and handsome, can lead the faithful to Edom. So cater to the Great Poison with food and drink and baths and the occasional massage.”
“They wrote ‘handsome’ twice,” murmured Alec.
“Why is it called the Red Scrolls,” said Shinyun, “when it is a book? And not a scroll?”
“It’s definitely not plural scrolls,” said Alec.
“I’m sure whoever this handsome, handsome cult founder is,” said Magnus, his chest constricting, “he had his reasons.”
Shinyun read on. “The prince wishes only the best for his children. Thus, to honor his name, there must be a hearth crowded with only the finest of liquors and cigars and bonbons. Tithes of treasure and gifts showered upon the Great Poison symbolize the love between the faithful, so keep the spirits flowing and the gold growing, and always remember the sacred rules.