Loreley, Episode 8: Rite of Passage


Simon introduced Loreley to Claire, a woman of many secrets.

Loreley, Episode 8: Rite of Passage

Loreley holds an onyx pendulum on a platinum chain above the Grimoire, now closed and resting on a silk Indian altar cloth.

The pendulum makes wild angled geometries in the air.

Claire’s eyes are rolled up in her head, her lips silently chanting something in a long dead tongue.

Loreley watches wide-eyed, mouth agape, mesmerized.

Simon quietly flips through a lifestyle design magazine from the Swedish magazine holder next to the sofa.

Suddenly Claire drops the pendulum on the Persian rug with a hiss, shaking her fingers as if they’d been burned.

Loreley shakes herself out of her trance. Simon looks up from the Magazine.

“Well, it was worth a try,” he says.

“What-what happened?” Loreley asks.

“Fuck. I guess we’re going to have to do it the hard way,” Claire says.

“Tantra?” Simon asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Claire shoots him a look, an artful mix of disdain, disgust, and pity. Then she turns a gaze at Loreley that’s much deeper and longer than Loreley is comfortable with.

“What?” Loreley asks defiantly.

Claire shakes her head subtly. “Food? You must be starving after what you went through. I’ll call out for you. Is Thai ok? There’s a good restaurant downstairs. And the bath’s ready for you when you want it.”

“Uh. Wait. How do you know what I’ve been-”

Simon shakes his head in resignation and looks back at the magazine.

“Uh. Yeah. Thai is fine,” Loreley amends.

The bathroom is monumental in black marble with a kind of infinity pool effect merging the floor of the bathroom with the pre-dawn city skyline.

Loreley thinks the oval-shaped tub set into the floor feels more like a pool. She activates the jacuzzi and enjoys the aggressive massage of the jets of water against her skin as she looks to where the black marble floor disappears into the gradually brightening sky, and she feels, for a moment, completely at peace with herself. She’s almost even aware that her aura is beginning to glow gold in the light of the dawning day.

Meanwhile, in the open glass paneled gazebo on the rooftop, the book lies closed on a black velvet altar cloth inscribed with white, red and gold symbols, surrounded by stones and herbs.

Smoke from an impeccably polished medieval church censer blows across the book.

Claire is now wearing a hand-spun black robe and a diadem delicately inset with specific gems, glinting in the first light of the day. She’s wearing a lamen with a solar sigil at her heart. She raises Simon’s wand, a storied stick of polished hazel wrapped in copper, silver and gold wire with a terminated synthetic quartz at one end and a ball of black tourmaline at the other, high above her head and concentrates until the quartz begins to glow a purplish-golden glow. Then she draws that energy down to her chest, and with an incantation, she points it at the grimoire.

A thick black smoke rises up from the book, swirling as if it was contained within the pyramid of light flooding in from the windowed arches of the atrium.

Simon, standing off to the west side of the circle, feels his sphincter tighten, the skin on his back crawl. A bad taste creeps into his mouth.

The smoke forms a dirty black sphere in the air above the book.

The smoky sphere opens three eyes and looks balefully at Claire. An iridescent beam of black light passes between its third eye and Claire’s.

Claire undulates her body to try to keep herself from being pushed over.

Simon bites his lips to stop himself from praying.


Loreley, feeling like a new woman in Claire’s plush bathrobe looks through the jewelry in Claire’s late Turkish Empire jewelry box, carefully studying several pieces before putting them neatly back in the box. Then she notices the brass hand sculpture on the vanity.

She immediately takes the second ring off the middle finger, a black onyx set in black gold with five black diamond chips set into the inlay.

“There you are, my precious,” she says and chuckles to herself, slipping it into the pocket of the robe.

“My precious,” She repeats, for her own amusement.