As he tied his cravat, he smiled wryly. Perhaps Jane would turn up tonight, her leggy frame and mobile features disguised as one of Mace's footmen. If she did, this time he wouldn't be fool enough to let her out of his sight.

Chapter 15

As soon as Lucien stepped inside Mace's house, a dark, heavy cloth was dropped over his head and a voice- Roderick Harford?-said portentously, "The moment of truth has arrived, Strathmore. To become a Hellion, you must undergo initiation. Do you choose to go forward into the unknown, or will you withdraw and never become one of us?"

Lucien suppressed a sigh. He should have known the Hellions would do something juvenile like this. "I wish to be part of your fellowship," he said gravely, "so I shall proceed."

"Obey all orders," Harford intoned. "Expect only the unexpected, and let the hellfires transform you."

Anonymous hands tugged the dark fabric down over Lucien. Apparently it was a shapeless, hooded robe that completely covered the face. After his hands were loosely bound in front of him, he was led through the house and outside to a carriage. A low voice warned him of steps and turns, but it was disorienting to be without sight. Cynically he guessed that the treatment was designed to undermine a man's confidence and make him more susceptible to whatever nonsense followed.

The carriage ride was long and took them out of London. No one spoke, but humans are seldom totally silent. From the sounds of breathing and shifting weight, he guessed that three men accompanied him.

Eventually the carriage lurched to a stop, and someone helped Lucien climb out. The chill wind carried the damp, earthy scents of the country and the sound of lapping waves. After a short walk over soft turf, he was urged into a flat-bottomed boat. It had the narrowness of a punt, designed to be poled through shallow waters. It rocked precariously when he stepped inside, so he sat down quickly.

Three more lurches as the others climbed in. The punt was pushed from the bank, and it glided smoothly through the water. Ahead of them a church bell began to toll somberly, as if counting the years of someone who had just died.

The journey was short and soon the punt crunched into gravel. The passengers disembarked, Lucien banging his shin on the gunwale in the process. More men waited on the shore, for he heard shufflings and a muffled cough. It was a much larger group, perhaps two dozen people. Someone turned Lucien to the right, then tugged at the head of his robe. It fell away, and suddenly he could see again.

On the hill above sprawled a medieval castle, the full moon gilding the ancient stones with cold, uncanny light. The mournful, doom-laden tolling of the church bell made Lucien's hair prickle. He schooled his face to mask his reaction. It was merely theater, but damned effective. If he were superstitious, he'd be frightened half out of his wits.

Surrounding him were perhaps thirty men wearing deeply hooded white robes and clasping tall, lighted candles. They looked like a conclave of ghosts. His own robe was black, presumably because of his novice status.

The nearest man was Roderick Harford. Raising his arms, he cried, "What is our password?"

The false monks chorused, "Do what thou wilt!"

"What is our goal?"

"Pleasure!"

"Come, then, brothers, to our sacred ritual."

A man wearing a medallion around his neck started up the hill and the rest of the group fell in behind him, marching single file. The wind whipped the flames of their candles, sending wild shadows careening across the landscape. Harford gestured for Lucien to join the end of the line, bringing up the rear himself.

The castle was surrounded by high walls. A heavy iron gate admitted the marchers into well-kept gardens. The path wound between shrubs and dimly glimpsed pieces of statuary. As nearly as Lucien could tell in the dim light, one statue was a twenty-foot-high marble phallus. Pure wishful thinking, no doubt.

Their destination was the chapel, which appeared to be the only building intact. As they neared, he saw that the doorway was bracketed by statues of a naked man and an equally naked woman, each holding a finger to the lips in the sign of silence. Both were so well-endowed physically that the average person would feel sadly inferior. Carved above the entrance were the words, Fay ce que voudras. Do what thou wilt. The phrase had sounded familiar earlier, and now Lucien recognized it as the motto of the original Hellfire Club. He wondered what Jane would think of all this masculine self-indulgence, then suppressed a smile at the thought.

The iron-banded door swung open with a squeal, and the procession entered the chapel. Braziers glowed around the sanctuary, filling the air with eye-stinging fumes of incense. Though care had been taken to maintain an atmosphere of crumbling antiquity, Lucien guessed that the structure had been recently restored. Certainly the dozen stained glass windows depicting the apostles in lewd acts were new and undeniably imaginative.

He glanced upward and saw that the vaulted ceiling had been decorated with an equally obscene fresco. As with the rest of the abbey, the images were an eclectic blend of Christian and pagan. Goat-footed satyrs coupled with angels and lustful monks pursued Greek nymphs. The Hellions obviously liked variety.

As the monks formed a circle around the edges of the room, Harford whispered, "Walk to the altar rail and prostrate yourself. After the priest bids you to rise, stand at the railing throughout the ceremony. Address the priest as Master."

Lucien obeyed with the irreverent thought that if he had known he would have to wait so long for his dinner, he would have eaten first. Prostrating oneself on cold stone was no fun on an empty stomach.

A door behind the altar opened and footsteps approached with a rustle of brocaded scarlet robes. Lucien refrained from looking up, but Mace's husky voice was readily recognizable when he asked, "Do you understand the gravity of what you are about to undertake, Novice?"

Trying to feel a proper sense of awe, Lucien replied, "I do, Master." The flagstones were gritty beneath his cheek.

"Rise and face me, Novice." After Lucien obeyed, Mace continued, "Do you swear solemn allegiance to this brotherhood, knowing that falseness will bring the curse of the Hellions down on you?" His words rolled like thunder, and there was danger in his eyes.

Lucien's levity vanished. Reminding himself never to underestimate the other man, he said, "I do so swear, Master."

Mace's gaze probed and judged. Finally he nodded. "So be it." He turned and used a candle to ignite a fire in a stone basin atop the altar. The acrid scent of burning herbs joined the heavy incense.

The service that followed was not a black mass, but a strange mixture of pagan and blasphemous Christian, both portentous and self-mocking. Speaking in Latin and French as well as English, Mace's voice rose and fell in a rhythm that wove a potent spell of mystery.

As the smoke thickened, Lucien began to grow lightheaded. He guessed that the burning herbs included narcotics such as belladonna and henbane. The pungent blend produced a receptive state where it was easy to believe that mystical powers were being invoked. He forced himself to take rigorous mental notes, for analysis kept him detached. He preferred it that way; sacrilege had never been his style.

At the climax of the ritual, Mace cried, "Thou art one of us!" He dipped his fingers into a black chalice, then sprinkled brimstone-scented brandy over Lucien in a parody of baptism. "Within the fellowship of Hellions, our new member will be known by the mystical name of Lucifer."

"Welcome, Lucifer!" the monks chanted.

Mace turned and flung a handful of powder onto the altar fire. Violet flames shot up toward the ceiling while clouds of smoke swirled in all directions. Above the altar the smoke thickened into a menacing shape, as if the devil had come to call. The air in the chapel became electric with tension.

Mace raised his arms and barked an unintelligible phrase. The diabolical figure began to dissolve, and with it the tension that had gripped the onlookers.

Lucien admitted to himself that the smoky apparition had been a good effect. Given a bit of time, he didn't doubt that he could reproduce it himself. Apparently, Mace was using his technical skills for something more than obscene toys.

Mace lowered his arms, the exalted glow fading from his eyes. "Come, brothers, and let us feast."

A monk pushed aside a black drapery in the corner, revealing a passage that led into a banqueting hall. Instantly the solemn atmosphere was replaced by a cheerful babble of voices as the Hellions streamed into the hall and sprawled on the Roman-style couches that lined the walls.

As Lucien hesitated, Mace gestured toward the head of the room. "Come sit beside me, Lucifer." He settled onto his own couch. "What do you think of the service?"

"Impressive," Lucien said truthfully as he reclined on the leather squabs. "It's certainly not as simple as the devil-worship of the Hellfire Club. It must have taken considerable study to weave together such a unique blend of classical, Christian, and pagan customs."

"I knew you would be capable of appreciating the multiple levels of meaning. Not all of our members are as learned." Amusement showed in his eyes. "Certainly one must give the devil his due, but Satanism is too banal, a mere reversal of Christian customs. It's far more intriguing to invent one's own religion."

He was describing his research when a bevy of serving girls swirled into the hall, garbed in translucent silk costumes that revealed every enticing curve and cleft. Only their faces were invisible, concealed behind elaborate feather masks.