The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror by Joseph Vargo, Joseph Iorillo Page B

middle, reminding Logan of Jesus in da Vinci's "Last Supper." Logan noticed an object on the altar—a small, tattered canvas scroll bound with a black ribbon.
     "This is the Secret," Yardley said. "And it will be yours for one hour."
     Logan's mouth was dry. After eleven years, here it was, just a few inches from his hand.
     "But again, Mr. Logan," Yardley said, "its contents have already been divulged to you in one way or another by your time in the Brotherhood. What have you heard about the Secret?"
     "Just rumors."
     "What sort of rumors?" Parmentier asked, his thin lips twisting into a wry smile.
     "That the Secret deals with the true origin of man. Or that it reveals the location of some source of wealth that would put El Dorado to shame."
     The Masters exchanged unreadable looks. "What else?" Yardley asked.
     "That those who learn it end up with worldly success beyond their fondest imaginings." Logan met Yardley's amused gaze. He knew that once Yardley had passed the Ritual of the Final Secret his net worth quadrupled; Logan also knew that another Master, Lewis Benning, had progressed from an unremarkable professor of political theory to a key advisor on the President's national security team once he had gone through the rite.
     In an hour Logan would be one of them. His hands ached to unfurl the scroll.
     "Perhaps that success had more to do with the accumulated power of all the Brotherhood's teachings," Yardley countered, "and nothing to do with this." He laid a finger on the scroll.
     "And if the Secret really has no power or magic, then you wouldn't need to have it guarded day and night by armed men."
     Yardley's eyebrows rose. A smile slowly erupted on his face. "You have certainly been a most intrepid investigator, Mr. Logan." The Grand Master nodded to another man, who presented Logan with two books of matches.
     Logan's brow furrowed. "What are these for?"
     Yardley blinked. "It gets dark in the coffin."
     "Coffin," Logan said, not understanding.
     With a flourish, Yardley removed the black sheet from the altar, revealing the stone sarcophagus beneath. Upon the lid was a relief of a fallen knight, his arms crossed over his armored chest, the effigy of a scroll clasped in his hands. Logan noticed the words carved along the rim of the lid: Le jour de gloire est arrivé (the day of glory has arrived).
     All eyes of the Masters were upon Logan, who was perspiring heavily, even though the cellar was damp and cool.
     "Do you have faith in our words, in the words of your Brothers and Masters?" asked Geoffrey Parmentier.
     "Yes," Logan said after a brief hesitation. Images of the Ritual of the Crossing flashed through his mind, but he tried to banish them.
     "Do you trust in our words?" asked another man, an elderly gentleman named Gustafson.
     "Yes," Logan said.
     "Do you have faith in our honesty, in our integrity, in the words of our teachings?" asked Yardley.
     "You keep asking the same thing in different ways," Logan said, becoming slightly annoyed. "Yes, I do have faith."
     Yardley handed him the scroll, a gentle, pained look on his face. "Then you won't need this."
     The scroll felt warm in Logan's hand. He could feel the centuries of power within it, as if it were some pulsing, living thing. He was about to undo the black ribbon tying the canvas when Mansfield stopped him.
     "Not yet."
     Six of the other Masters took hold of the sarcophagus' massive granite lid and lifted it away. The casket's interior was decorated with elaborate carved diagrams and words that Logan could barely make out in the dim light.
     "Just as our founder, Henri le Dechambeau, lay for days in a tomb, buried alive by the Inquisition with only the sacred teachings of the Brotherhood for comfort, so too will you lay in