I. December, 2001

The man with hair as white as snow-topped mountains scraped yellow-tinged nicotine fingers across a heavily pockmarked face. He pulled the hood of the red velvet robe over his face, leaving only a hooked Roman nose peeking out, a jot of dew hanging off the edge. He sucked it in, inhaling the crisp, damp air of the cellar and he smiled, glancing up, his eyes flickering in the swaying light provided by the solitary candle-lit candelabra which illuminated the room. The only sound emanated from the five men, standing on the lines of the pentagon, their breathing rapid, like children too excited to control themselves, their fingers twirling against the ties of their cassocks as if eager to rip open a present in front of them. One of them sucked in a hungry tongue, flapping against thick lips. He looked to the white-haired man, eyes imploring him. Is it time? Can we begin? I’m hungry. The white-haired man pushed a smile away from his face, aware it was not proper for him to show amusement or any emotion for that matter. There was a time and a place, and this was certainly neither of those. They were on hallowed ground, and respect and protocol must be upheld. Respect the sanctity of those we represent.

His head jerked upwards, tired, too-white eyes scanning the ceiling, searching for something, anything, which might indicate a change. He was not even sure what had caught his attention, if anything had at all, but he knew they had to be on high alert. There was too much at stake. There was too much to be lost. He shook his head, irritated at himself. They were forty-feet below ground, solid concrete wrapped the cellar, accessed only by a narrow, twisting stone stairway, cracked by the feet of hundreds of years’ worth of light-footed zealots, each silently coming down to the sacred space for reasons so secret they were barely spoken of, and certainly never beyond The Circle, the group of men who had been entrusted with The Secret. He alone had the key, and it never left his person, tied around his neck with a simple piece of string. He had locked the door behind them, as he always did, and there was no reason to believe anyone even knew of the existence of the cellar, the entrance to it obscured by a bookcase. He knew his imagination was carrying him away; it was only natural. He could taste what was to come, like salt from the sea blown into his face, and his appetite, like his compatriots, was whetted. There was something about savouring the moment. It was part of the ritual after all, but knowing what was coming, knowing what the reward would be, was consuming. He wanted it. They all wanted it.

He turned, stepping into the pentagon. ‘Frères,’ he said to the four men around him. ‘Bienvenue to this very special evening. I know how eager you are to begin,’ he stopped, thin lips twisting into a smile, ‘as am I, but I beg your indulgence because there are protocols to be followed. Transcribed by our forefathers and created to ensure our lineage continues.’ He paused. ‘There are, of course, those who seek to stop us, to see darkness where there is really only light, because through their own blinkered reality they project the darkness from their own souls onto us, what we do. The goodness we do, the greatness. Join me,’ he said, outstretching his hands, the four men reaching across the pentagon and joining together, ‘in our mantra.’ He closed his eyes, clearing his throat.

le pouvoir de l'amour
le pouvoir de la création
coule à travers le lien sacré entre nous nos doigts enlacés
notre sang combiné
nos âmes brûlantes du feu du Tout-Puissant nous faisons ce que nous devons faire
on s'enflamme, on exhume
on boit
on se régale ENSEMBLE,

NOUS PRIONS POUR CE QUI DOIT VENIR AMEN

The white-haired man could not help smiling, filled with the pride of all the men who had come before him. He had begun his journey, barely a child himself, unsure of the path which was being laid down in front of him. Unsure of the wisdom of the words spoken, the truth they told, indoctrinated as he had been by the stiff formality of his upbringing. His brothers had spoken to him, whispering into his ear. There is a distinct path. There is a different story no-one had told you. Come with us and we will show you. He had not wanted to, his soul seemed to scream in protest, but in that cellar, in the darkness, he had seen the light. He had seen the glory and all it had to offer. He had tasted the immortality. He smiled at his brothers. The men he had chosen to stand by him. To share in the glory. Finding them had been the hardest part. When one person left the pentagram, they had to be replaced, and it was not something to be taken lightly. The position was for a lifetime, and once in, only death would allow a person to leave. He had chosen wisely, fixated by a flick, a spark in the eye, telling him they shared a secret, a bond. The brotherhood had survived for Millennia because of the bond, the trust, and the careful choices made by the leader. The white-haired man folded his hands in front of him, his attention drawn to the whimpering in the middle of the pentagon - a sprawling mass of naked limbs, slowly awakening and the dawning realisation appearing. It was almost time. He smiled at his brothers and they all lowered their heads, eyes wide and bright as they watched. Beneath them, on the cold, stone ground, naked limbs sliding, two eyes snapped open, wide and terrified.

The white-haired man laughed, his voice light like a breeze on a summer’s afternoon. ‘Frères. It is time. Time to feast and honour those who came before us. This is the Annunciation!’

The five men dropped to their knees, their cassocks covering the naked young woman lying in the pentagram, her pointless, desperate screams echoing around the cellar. The white-haired man laughed, pressing his lips against the virgin skin. He sucked in scent through the hooked nose, his lips smacking together like a starving dog.