Ash Return of the Beast

CHAPTER 26



Three Months Earlier…

The Transformation

Cowl sat cross-legged on the floor, at the center of the Seal with the urn in his lap. He was groggy, emotionally and physically drained from the previous eight days of grueling initiation. His naked body shivered beneath the hooded robe.

The Messenger stood towering over him just outside the perimeter of the great Seal. He spoke solemnly but urgently. “The time has come to receive the Beast.” He stretched his arms out and cupped his hands together as if he were holding something. Then he uttered three words. “Meshadah mahranah abion.” The words themselves seemed to cause a momentary disturbance that vibrated the entire room.

Instantly, a small glass vial containing a blue liquid appeared on the floor in front of Cowl. Under normal circumstances Cowl would have been astonished at such a trick but now he was far too spent to register much of a response at all. He stared blankly at the object for a moment, then reached for it. Holding it in one hand, he tipped it gently back and forth and looked up at the Messenger as if to ask, ‘what is this?’

“For our purposes,” the Messenger said, “think of it as the water of life, the elixir of resurrection. That’s really all you need to know. Now, remove the stopper and pour the contents into the urn.”

A soft crackling sound bubbled up out of the urn as Cowl emptied the liquid into it. The urn became warm to the touch and an inky blue mist rose up out of it, filling the room with the thick, stifling fragrance of Jasmine. He knew what he had to do next. The nine days of initiation had come to this. The moment had arrived.

Cowl stood up, removed his robe and let it slip to the floor. Completely naked, he held the urn firmly in his hands and glanced at the Messenger.

The Messenger nodded.

Cowl raised the urn up over his head. “Akaylah sutum rasham!”

With that, he closed his eyes, brought the urn to his lips and tipped it back slowly. The elixir and the ash had congealed into a bitter, thick, oily substance that now slithered down his throat like a living thing.

As the last drop of the vile fluid slid from the lip of the urn onto his waiting tongue, his eyes rolled back into his head, his body went rigid, then shuddered. His knees gave out, he went limp and slumped to the floor. A brief, weak moan escaped from his lips. Then everything went black.

Somewhere, deep in the shadows of some ancient invisible underworld––populated by demons and hordes of abominations of indescribable horror––the essence of the man the world once knew as Aleister Crowley began its ascent toward its long awaited host.

A moment later, Cowl’s body sprang to life, reanimated by some unseen force, eyes wide-open, alert. He maneuvered his legs into position and rose to his feet with the awkward grace of a newborn calf. He found his footing, straightened his back and scanned the room. The essence of Crowley was observing his surroundings for the first time. Lowering his eyes, he examined his youthful body. With an approving smile, he turned to the Messenger. “Well done,” he said. “Your services will no longer be required. Simple as that.”

The Messenger gave a slight bow and backed away, fading slowly into the void.

Outside, in the midnight sky, the full moon slid behind a billowing blanket of black clouds gathering, en masse, like an army of demons over the brooding fortress of Moorehouse Manor. The Old Ones were pleased.