Alchemy of Murder Read online

  Magic: When Ruthless Ambition is not Enough

  H E X E

  WITCHES, WARRIORS, MAGIC & MURDER

  By Rex Baron

  V O L U M E S I X

  ALCHEMY OF MURDER

  Hexe (this series of books) is a work of fiction.

  While some of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are based on real people and events, everything that happens to them are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  This book Copyright © 2019 Isobella Crowley, Rex Baron

  Cover Design by Jeff Brown

  Cover copyright © ProsperityQM LLC

  ProsperityQM LLC supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  ProsperityQM LLC

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  Austin, TX 78704

  First US edition, 2019

  Version 1.01.01

  Hexe (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are copyright © 2019 by Isobella Crowley, Rex Baron

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Author’s Forward

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Author Notes

  Social Links

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the Power and Magic that lies deep within each of us.

  — Rex

  ALCHEMY OF MURDER

  HEXE VOLUME 6

  JIT Beta Readers

  Brian Roberts

  Kimberley Beaulieu

  Sara Keyes

  If I missed anyone, please let me know!

  Editor

  Sarah Kante

  Author’s Forward

  Thank you for reading HEXE. I hope that you will find it an enjoyable and exciting experience. But it is important for the reader to be aware that although there are any number of historical personages characterized throughout, the events described surrounding them and their interactions with the fictional characters are largely imagined and presented as such, strictly for the sake of storytelling.

  There is no intention on the part of the author or publisher to demean or malign the reputation or character of any historical person represented and any reference to their sexual orientation or personal actions is simply hearsay, based on information collected from outside sources.

  A great deal of research has gone into the creation of this series, and every effort has been made to ensure historical accuracy—even to the descriptions of the recipes for spell casting, which have been researched from credible, centuries-old sources and included (in part) to enhance the story’s authenticity. This being said, HEXE is not intended as a primer on witchcraft and much of what is described that deals with Wicca and Witchcraft is left for the reader to further investigate for their own enjoyment.

  It might also be noted that because much of the storyline is set before the new millennium, when the notion of political correctness was not in place culturally, some of the language and description of characters might be judged as harsh or even inappropriate by today’s standards. But in the times when the events of the story are set, this was assuredly not the case. The manners and language of the 1920s differs greatly from that of the 1930s, and certainly from the parts of the story set in the 1980s or present times. In order to give the correct “feeling” to those times, I have made a strong effort to depict situations and people as they would have been seen and described then, with all the flavour and gusto of those unique and exciting times.

  I do hope you enjoy your journey into the fascinating world of HEXE, “the chosen”, and look forward to continuing the saga until its fateful and exciting conclusion.

  So Mote It Be REX BARON

  Fountain Hills, AZ, September 2019

  Chapter One

  Los Angeles, 1983

  The waves crashed in, nearly sweeping Elizabeth off her feet. Marc was a few yards away, laughing and waving her on, coaxing her farther out into the ocean. The cold green water churned about her, bringing up murky unpleasantness from the bottom that clung to her legs and coated her oiled shoulders. It was far too late in the season for swimming, but the sunshine had been deceiving and Marc had been so persistent that Elizabeth had little choice but to give in.

  Marc had insisted that she have this day of relief from the work, that she needed to give her brain a rest, and repeated the fact again and again as they drove up the coast near Malibu.

  “Don't be such a big baby,” he shouted. “It's not that cold.”

  He dove into an enormous wave as if to prove the point. Elizabeth laughed. He came up shivering, pushing the water away from his smile.

  “You lied,” she yelled back. “It's horribly cold. If we hadn't worn bathing suits, as you suggested, we'd be freezing our butts off.”

  “I just thought it sounded like a daring idea,” he called back.

  Elizabeth struggled to her feet against the pounding waves and waded toward shore. “Well, I for one am going to keep mine on. I didn't pay that outrageous price for this new suit just so it could keep my beach towel company.”

  She trotted up onto the beach and dropped down on her towel, hugging the sand for warmth. Marc followed and knelt beside her. He covered her with his towel, tucking it all around her the way a parent would tuck a blanket around a greatly loved child.

  “It's wonderful to be here,” she said. “You were right about getting away... to not have to think about the lab or worry about where the funding's coming from. It's so perfect being here. There is something so right about it.”

  Her hand crept out from under the towel and touched his.

  “It's been wonderful working with you,” Marc replied with a sincerity in his voice that she had longed to hear. “I can hardly wait until we test out some of the witchy stuff we were reading about.”

  Elizabeth's mouth dropped open and she floundered for something to say.

  “I'm not sure that's a good idea. I'm frightened by it. You saw how tapped in I got just from reading the list of names from that odious book.”

  “But that's the point,” he answered with the enthusiasm of an excited child. “If you can tap into that... then the whole concept is something you already know, buried deep in your subconscious, a lost memory that we can jog into the present. Think of it Elizabeth. We can produce results that no university could deny. We could conjure the demons of the deep and command them to do whatever we want. We have access to instant knowledge of all the arts and sciences. There is even a demon you can summon to give you knowledge of any language on the planet.”

 
; “I don't want to hear any more,” she said, holding up her hand to silence him. “I already told you that the world is divided into good and evil, and you've got to choose which side you're on. You must recognize the existence of the opposite side and balance the pairs of opposites, but one must choose.”

  “Maybe that choice has already been made by your ancestors, and you have absolutely no say in the matter but to continue in the family business, so to speak,” Marc replied.

  “Tell me… why are you so interested in all of this?” Elizabeth asked coolly.

  “Because I want the funding for the department, and I want it for you... so those people on the Board of Directors will sit up and take notice.”

  “I agreed to do experimentation with my own abilities, not engage in witchcraft,” she snapped back. “I'd make a fine fool of myself presenting a video tape to the Board of some demonic two-headed dog giving me spelling lessons in Sanskrit. No, I think you have a better reason than enhancing my reputation.”

  “What do you mean?” Marc asked.

  “What I mean is that I'm talking to a struggling painter... the classic suffering artist. Except in your case, you're not about to die poor and be remembered later. You're too ambitious for that, and too attractive. You're not willing to sleep with the people who call the shots in order to get what you want, so you're looking for a shortcut. Do you really think that everything is going to fall into your lap, just because you spread around a little salt and start mumbling at midnight?”

  Marc moved away slightly and shook his head.

  “You're wrong,” he answered with a convincing expression of hurt and disappointment. “I only want it for you. But I'm not going to argue with you over it. It's far too nice a day for that.” He bent forward and planted a harmless kiss on her cheek. “I thought it was a good idea, that's all.”

  “You're talking about true magic, manipulating the forces of Nature and that's a dangerous idea. You'd do well to forget it,” she insisted.

  Marc jumped up and bounded toward the surf. “I can't forget it. It's too exciting,” he called back over his shoulder.

  Elizabeth did not know what to think. She had assumed that Marc had come to understand the reason behind her resistance, but he had not.

  She watched him running into the rolling waves, his hands over his head, laughing and waving for her to join him.

  He would probably only make himself feel foolish by attempting some half-baked spell from that silly book, her mind tried to comfort itself. After all, she knew enough about the history of the Middle Ages to know that the incantations and charms described in the ancient Grimoires and Black Books were intentionally elusive and incomplete, veiling the truth in order to confuse all those who were not fully initiated into the Kraft.

  Still, the idea frightened her. For some inexplicable reason, the thought of carrying out even the most rudimentary ritual made her blood cold. She felt gripped by the same fear and loss of control that she felt when the furniture moved unaided around her.

  She glanced out into the water and saw Marc splashing and waving to her. Suddenly, she realized that he was calling for help. Her heart stopped beating. The thought of losing him raced from her brain to every part of her, and before she knew what she was doing, she was fighting the cold green water to get to him. She approached him as if in a dream, pushing back the heavy water with powerful strokes. He was calling to her. His voice was hoarse and out of breath, and yet, at the same time, slow and strangely reassuring in its instructions. She took him by the shoulders and kicked her feet as hard as she could to ferry him close enough to shore for both of them to stand. As the water receded, she saw that he was covered with blood. The lower part of his back had been torn open when a fierce wave had tossed him against a stony reef. Together they limped to the blanket with their arms around each other.

  Marc fell face down, gasping for breath, as Elizabeth knelt beside him, pressing the towel that he had used to warm and comfort her into the open wound.

  “I've got to get you to a hospital,” she shouted above the sound of the pounding surf.

  “I'll be all right in a minute,” Marc answered breathlessly. “Just let me lie here for a while.”

  “I'll go call an ambulance,” Elizabeth insisted.

  “Don't be stupid,” he said angrily. “I said I'm all right.”

  He lay there sleeping for several hours, as Elizabeth watched him. The bleeding had long stopped, and she marveled at the peacefulness and calm of his slumber, as if he were so far away that the pain of his wound could not find him. She studied his handsome features and gently ran her fingertips along the edge of his face as she silently thanked the sea gods for giving him back to her.

  Chapter Two

  Marc’s studio, Westwood Village, Los Angeles

  Elizabeth sat in a chair near the bed as Marc continued his sleep of regeneration back at his studio. She stared into the painting on the easel of the two women vying for the golden apple in The Judgment of Paris, and wondered what sort of women in the painter's life had inspired those faces of envy and greed. It felt so intimate and personal to be in Marc's space without his entertaining supervision. She was able to drift through his world, running her fingers across small personal objects that had come to him with memories attached. A long narrow table near the bed contained a curious assortment of objects, among them a collection of mismatched candlesticks and a lovely bowl lined in gold. Elizabeth felt its flawless, smooth surface with the tips of her fingers, and came closer to the table to peer into the cluster of old photographs displayed in elaborate frames.

  A dark and beautiful young woman, dressed in the elegant clothes of the wartime years, appeared time and again within the frames of crystal or shining mahogany on the curio table, and Elizabeth presumed it to be Marc's mother. In one photo, the woman was dressed in a smart suit, standing in a row of officious-looking men in front of a gigantic sculpture. The statue was stark and without grace, much like the faces of the gentlemen who surrounded her. But the smile of the woman was riveting and seductive. Elizabeth examined one small particularly glamorous photo more closely, and found it puzzling that the flags in the background of what appeared to be a large ballroom had been obliterated quite intentionally, making it impossible to determine in what state or country she might have been.

  “How odd,” Elizabeth muttered aloud. She carefully replaced the photo on the dark line etched in the dust where it had stood undisturbed for weeks. She did not want Marc to think that she had been indiscreetly snooping amongst his things while he was unwittingly unconscious. How like his glamorous and theatrical relative he was, she thought, as she settled back into a deep leather chair next to the bed, and appraised the fine features she had just seen on the face in the photos. Obviously, his flair for clothes and his easy style had been inherited from his beautiful mother.

  As the afternoon slipped away into evening, Elizabeth watched the hypotenuse of a triangle of white light on the ceiling slowly lengthen, expanding the right angle at its base and flattening into an awkward boomerang-like crescent before it disappeared altogether.

  Elizabeth sighed and glanced with envy at Marc, sleeping soundly on the bed. Her own mother had not been pretty. She remembered the plain somber face of her later years, seldom carrying the burden of anything as useless as a smile. Needless to say, she had not been schooled in the necessity of charm or the value of beauty for its own sake as Marc had been. She had no style. Her mother's favorite blouse was mustard-colored and had come from a church’s rummage sale. She continued to wear it countless seasons after it had outlived its fashionable purpose, and had attached ill-fitting collars made of insubstantial lace and dime store buttons to it, in order to further extend its service.

  Surely, there was nothing anyone could call glamorous about her mother. But she had been brilliant in a time when it was difficult for women to be competitive with men. She had been extraordinary in her own small way, but everything she remembered about her belied the b
lood of the sorceress that Marc insisted flowed in her veins.

  Of all the women in the family history, perhaps only her Aunt Lucy bore any respectable resemblance to a candidate of that description. Elizabeth knew very little about her, only that she had been lost at sea on the Titanic or the Troubadour or one such naval disaster. She had once seen a photograph of her, looking surprisingly modern and current, with a stylish short haircut and unpainted lips amongst a group of women powdered and painted with doll-like precision.

  It had been rumored that her aunt had belonged to the Golden Dawn Society, studying metaphysics and ceremonial magic under the tutelage of Aleister Crowley. It was impossible to glean any real information about her from the thin and prejudiced recollections of her Christian relations. It was hard to know, in the dim accounts of the early century, what practices constituted magic. And she wondered if her aunt had been guilty of nothing more than an academic interest in the workings of the mind, which had later found credibility and validation as the science that she, herself, now practiced.

  She closed her eyes under the weight of the unwelcome memories of childhood, and escaped into a daydream-like conscious sleep. Her brain whirled with images of her mother, the strangely familiar faces of her Aunt Lucy and the beautiful dark woman in the photos. Finally, a summery vista of fruit orchards, viewed from the heights of a mountaintop, settled into her consciousness. A green valley stretched out in front of her, with sunlight skimming the treetops on its way west. Behind her stood an ancient convent, from which issued the songs of nuns on their way to midday mass.

  In the dream, she looked down at her feet and saw that she stood on a beautiful and elaborate maze, fashioned from intricately-placed tiles, ranging in color from the palest pink to indigo blue. An intense feeling of dread and sadness seemed to overtake her as she looked down at the stalk of dead flowers she held cradled in her arms. They represented a great loss for her, a failure, as if the accolade and triumph associated with their presentation had long since been forgotten and now lay decaying, like the flowers themselves.