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Ebony Wild, having decided on her course of action, has, with solemn and deliberate care, spent some time choosing just the right occult equipment from that scattered around her flat. The equipment she chooses includes a grey stone box ornately inscribed with a powerful symbol. The box is small, about the size of two cigarette packets laid end to end, but it is remarkably heavy, weighed down with protective magic. The full import of the occult symbol inscribed on all its surfaces is, should be, known only to Ebony Wild, who does know that it is both a protection and a warning, but who is also aware that she should know much more then this. Inside the box are a set of golden keys, equally ornate and equally well protected. Both box and keys were, until the moment of his death, in the possession of Solomon Brown. How they came to be in Ebony Wild’s Islington flat moments after his death is no great mystery. The box and the keys it contains cannot be lost by the Master, or as it may be Mistress, of The Mystic Lodge because these are the keys of The Mystic Lodge itself. Ebony Wild is not about to summon an Angel into her flat, not even after it has had a good clean and tidy. Firstly, she will need help with this ritual, and there is just not the space. Secondly, to summon an Angel into her flat would be both insulting and dangerous. If it all goes horribly wrong then she wants it to happen somewhere where innocent people are not going to get hurt. Ebony Wild is going to open The Mystic Lodge. The sorceress is going to do something that, to her knowledge, has never been done before. All her nerve and all her skill and all her poise she must gather, and a bit of well thought out preparation would not go amiss either. First, she bundles the occult equipment she has selected into a sturdy rucksack and places this into the boot of her car, which is parked in the mews adjacent to her flat. Then, after whispering a word of protection, she returns inside to enlist some help. From the thousand luminaries of The Mystic Lodge scattered across the globe, from the seers and shamen, priests, priestess, mystics, visionaries and druids who will answer her call, Ebony Wild selects twelve. These she commands by uncanny means, and by email, to meet her at The Mystic Lodge at midnight next. Ebony Wild can be a bit of a traditionalist when she wants to be. Ebony Wild showers the night off her skin and out of her hair. She changes her clothes, she pays her congestion charge online, and she sets off through the dull, damp day across town. She drives carefully, taking precautions all the way. She is on important business and does not want anything to go wrong. She drives across bridges and through tunnels, by minor routes and alleyways, not heading directly towards her destination. Occasionally, she stops and waits and watches to see what is watching her. She notices as a silver Mitsubishi L200 pick-up, with a slight dent in the front and a crack on its windscreen, begins to follow her and she filters away from it, turning down a turning that is really there. By mid-morning, she approaches her destination. As if by chance, as if accident and not design has led her here, as if it is just another manoeuvre, she draws close to her goal. Parking her car, she leaves its womb warm sanctuary and faces the chilly London air. She retrieves her bundle from its boot and the box of keys from the bundle. As she dons the rucksack her eyes remain fixed on her destination only a few yards away. She is already within its magical aura, and no physical harm can come to the Mistress of the Keys here, but her mind remains ever alert for supernatural danger. One can never be too careful, even here where her powers peak. Though her stride is steady and dignified her heart beats faster, her breath comes sharper, her pupils dilate. For the first time in all the long centuries of her life it will now fall to her, Ebony Wild, as Mistress of the Keys, to create the way. Here at the beating heart of London, here at the place that sums up all that the city is and all that it aspires to be. Here, at the one building that is closer than any place to being the soul of the great capital, is the gateway in this world, in this town, to The Mystic Lodge, the entrance to another realm. Here, where the scent of power hangs heavy in the air, or is it the scent of untreated excrement? For here we are, at the Crossley sewage treatment works. The entrance to the shit factory is locked and secured, but no surveillance cameras pick up her image; no security guards challenge Ebony Wild. She seems to slide through the greylight of a London winter like a mere eddy in the rain. Ebony Wild, seeker of truth, pursuer of Angels and paramount sorceress of The Mystic Lodge, stands before the gate and takes a deep breath. Not the wisest of moves, as she must then, of necessity, stifle the urge to gag. This she does, and without further mishap, she begins. Pause for a moment with Ebony Wild as she creates a stillness around herself, as she purges her mind of all thoughts, as she prepares for the great work to come. The wind and the rain do not touch Ebony Wild. Look at her, motionless in her long black dress that clings to her sensuous figure and brushes the ground. A hint of make up but no more, around her neck a silver necklace symbolises the moon, but this is her only adornment. Truly, she scrubs up well. Well, you would want to make the effort if you were planning to meet an Angel. If you look closely at the gate in front of Ebony Wild, if you really look, and if you have a small amount of the talent, you might be able to see, very faintly, the outline of a key impressed in the metalwork. The sorceress holds her box in front of her and gently caresses it. As her long, subtle fingers complete the motion, it seems that a key has always been held in them, even though you may not have noticed it before. Ornate of design and golden of colour, the key is identical in shape to that impressed in the gate. Mistress of the Keys, she places her first key in its place. If someone without the talent to see the things that are really there were to pass by now, they might notice nothing, but, to a person with the eyes to see, the results are incredible and would look fantastic in a film. Look through my eyes as the key, in its place, seems to melt and merge with the metal of the gate, a play of lightning energy on its surface. The lightning bursts forth, its energy detonates in a blinding flash. This gate, which until now had appeared to be but functional ironwork, reveals itself as a mighty portcullis. Behind this formidable barrier, far in the distance, can be glimpsed a mighty tower. Seconds ago, it had been a sludge tower, processing waste into electricity. Now its elegant spire scrapes a low sky and speaks of hopes and dreams, real and deep and true. The portcullis roars open and a shrieking wind of nowhere issues forth. It is now less of a gate, more of a wormhole in the fabric of reality, so please do not try this at home. Many-coloured lights flare in a spectacular display that would not stretch the skills of a half-decent special effects team too much, and Ebony Wild passes through. The instant she passes through the portal everything changes again. No portcullis, no mighty fortress of dreams, no wormhole in reality and no Ebony Wild. Just a gate and a smell and the rain, oh, and a silver Mitsubishi L200 pick-up driven by something that can no longer remember what it was like to be human.
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