The neighborhood was beyond sketchy. A shame, really. It had some killer views of the mountains in the distance. But no view was good enough to make up for the largest number of homicides in the city, or the fact that they made the national news last year because of an infestation of superlice that closed down every local school and motel in a five-mile radius.

The sprawling former high school that now harbored the Silent Temple had been split into thirty-plus separate apartments and dubbed the Mountain Lofts. Some people rented them for homes, others for businesses. And, from the looks of the boarded-up windows pasted with 4:20 stickers and psychedelically colored tribulation posters, I was guessing most of those businesses weren’t exactly legal. Maybe Hajo got his sømna here.

We drove around the block twice looking for the temple’s unit number, then decided to try on foot. After we weren’t able to find a vacant parking space around the building, we parked Lon’s SUV at a nearby gas station.

The rain didn’t help matters. We huddled under an umbrella and hiked around the building, splashing through puddles. Lots of interesting sights at the so-called Mountain Lofts, such as a courtyard filled with brightly painted sculptures made from welded scrap metal . . . an overflowing city Dumpster being rummaged by three homeless people . . . a woman in a red-and-white-striped tube-top holding a soggy piece of cardboard over her head to block the rain, asking passersby if they’d seen her cat—which might’ve been some sort of prostitution code word. The whole place was classy with a K.

A few gutter punks sat lined up against a brick wall under a dripping cement eave that extended from one side of the building. This is where we finally found the unit number, painted sloppily on the brick. No temple sign. No sign at all, other than a ripped piece of brown paper bag taped above the handle. Scribbled on it in black marker was the instruction, Door remains locked. Knock for service until 11 a.m. After that time, doors will not be opened. DO NOT KNOCK after 11! An inverted pentagram served as a signature.

Lon glanced at his watch. “Not eleven yet.”

I knocked three times in quick succession. A mini caduceus and a piece of red ochre chalk were both stashed in my jacket pocket. Inside Lon’s was his loaded short-barreled Lupara. I could see the outline bulging through the worn denim. So could everyone else if they took a second look—which was the point, Lon said.

After a few moments, a metal square opened in the center of the door, revealing a grimy security window and a pasty face peering through slender iron bars.

“Yes?” A tinny voice floated through a small old speaker beneath the window.

“We’re here for the service,” Lon replied.

The face leaned closer to the window. Eyes roamed over Lon’s fuck-you countenance, then flicked to my skunk-striped hair and tight jeans. That must have been enough to persuade him that we weren’t officials from an esoteric organization coming to bust them, because we were let inside, no questions asked.

A small foyer was crowded with a motley assortment of templegoers. Goth kids mingled with old-money elderly Californians dressed in expensive cruise wear. All of them were speaking in hushed library voices, and most of them were Earthbound. Everyone looked up when we stepped inside. Cigarette smoke mingled with a cloying incense that was drifting in from the entrance to the main temple. The rain outside was churning it all into a foul-smelling stew.

We stood frozen in place for a moment, wondering what to do next. The man who’d let us inside tapped my shoulder, looking slightly oddball in a plaid dinner jacket and mismatched bow tie, with deep frown lines etched into his face and loose chicken-wattle skin drooping below his chin. He asked us if it was our first time attending. After we confirmed that it was, he instructed us to take seats inside.

We parted a beaded curtain and entered the main temple area. It was surprisingly spacious inside . . . wood floors, high walls lined with built-in bookshelves—the old school library, likely. The windows had been blacked out with thick coats of paint.

Mismatched furniture filled the center of the room. A collection of yard-sale loveseats, patio furniture, and armchairs that had seen better days were set in three rows facing the opposite wall. Lon and I claimed a stained love seat at the end of the back row.

Two sets of stairs hugged the front wall, both leading to separate loft areas. Between the stairs, a large marble sculpture stood—a winged, naked man with the head of a lion and a snake winding around the length of his body. Zodiac signs were carved into his skin. He held a set of keys in his hand.

“Leontocephalous?” Lon whispered, nodding toward the sculpture. I nodded in confirmation. An obscure Roman god associated with the Mithras mysteries. His keys were thought to open doors to other planes, Æthyric and otherwise. Two lighted metal torches were set into wall holders on either side of him.

The mood of the room was reverent and quiet, cut with a thin whisper of impending danger. You could see it in the way people held themselves, formal and wary, their eyes darting defensively as if they were hunters in the wild expecting to be attacked by a pack of wolves at any moment.

I grew up in an esoteric organization, so I had plenty of experience attending similar ceremonial functions. But they were never held in places as shabby and depressing as this. I thought about those local superlice outbreaks and found myself scratching under my clothes before I realized what I was doing.

Right before eleven, the remainder of the congregation filed inside and occupied the remaining seats. Someone dimmed the lights. Two altar girls lit torches on either side of the room. They wore long, red pioneer dresses, and their hair was braided and pinned to their heads. They could’ve been satanic stand-ins for the girls on Little House on the Prairie.