The Mephisto Club

been undisciplined. “I have taught you all the ancient rituals, and for what?” she asked. “So that you will ignore them? Remember who you are. You are the chosen one.”
    I have not forgotten. How could I? Since my earliest years, she has recited the tales of our ancestors, about whom Manetho of Sebennytos, in the age of Ptolemy the Second, wrote, “They set our towns on fire. They caused the people to suffer every brutality. They waged war, desiring to exterminate the race.”
    In my veins runs the sacred blood of hunters.
    These are secrets that even my distracted and oblivious father did not know. Between my parents, the ties were merely practical. But between my mother and me, the bonds reach across time, across continents, into my very dreams. She is displeased with me.
    And so tonight, I lead a goat into the woods.
    It comes willingly, because it has never felt the sting of human cruelty. The moon is so bright I need no flashlight to show me the way. Behind me I hear the confused bleating of the other goats that I’ve just released from the farmer’s barn, but they don’t follow me. Their calls recede as I walk deeper into the woods, and now all I hear is the sound of my footfalls and the goat’s hooves on the forest floor.
    When we have walked far enough, I tie the goat to a tree. The animal senses what is to come and gives an anxious bleat as I take off my clothes, stripping down to naked skin. I kneel on the moss. The night is cool, but my shivering is from anticipation. I raise the knife, and the ritual words flow from my lips as easily as they always have before. Praise to our lord Seth, to the god of my ancestors. The god of death and destruction. Through countless millennia, he has guided our hands, has led us from the Levant to the lands of Phoenicia and Rome, to every corner of the earth. We are everywhere.
    The blood spurts in a hot fountain.
    When it is over, I walk naked, except for my shoes, to the lake. Under the moon’s glow I wade into the water and wash away the goat’s blood. I emerge cleansed and exhilarated. Only as I pull on my clothes does my heartbeat finally slow, and exhaustion suddenly drapes its heavy arm around my shoulders. I could almost fall asleep on the grass, but I don’t dare lie down; I am so tired, I might not awaken until daylight.
    I trudge back toward the house. As I reach the top of the hill, I see her. Lily stands on the edge of the lawn, a slender silhouette with hair gleaming in the moonlight. She is looking at me.
    “Where have you been?” she asks.
    “I went for a swim.”
    “In the dark?”
    “It’s the best time.” Slowly I walk toward her. She stands perfectly still, even as I move close enough to touch her. “The water’s warm. No one can see you swimming naked.” My hand is cool from the lake, and she shivers as I caress her cheek. Is it from fear or fascination? I don’t know. What I do know is that she has been watching me these past weeks, just as I’ve been watching her, and something is happening between us. They say that Hell calls to Hell. Somewhere inside her, the darkness has heard my call and is stirring to life.
    I move even closer. Though she’s older than I am, I’m taller, and my arm slips easily around her waist as I lean in. As our hips meet.
    Her slap sends me reeling backward.
    “Don’t you ever touch me again,” she says. She turns and walks to the house.
    My face is still stinging. I linger in the darkness, waiting for the imprint of her blow to fade from my cheek. She has no idea who I really am, who she has just humiliated. No idea what the consequences will be.
    I do not sleep that night.
    Instead I lie awake, thinking of all the lessons my mother taught me about patience and about biding one’s time. “The most satisfying prize,” she said, “is the one you’re forced to wait for.” When the sun rises the next morning, I am still in bed, thinking about my mother’s words. I am thinking, too, about that humiliating slap. About all the ways that Lily and her friends have shown me disrespect.
    Downstairs, Aunt Amy is in the kitchen cooking breakfast. I smell coffee brewing and bacon crisping in a frying pan. And I hear her call out, “Peter? Have you seen my boning knife?”

TWENTY
    As usual on a hot summer’s day, the Piazza di Spagna was a sea of sweating tourists. They milled elbow to elbow, expensive cameras dangling from their necks, flushed faces shaded from the sun beneath floppy hats and