The Second Seal

by Sean Deville

  If there were any more guards left in the house, he would have to deal with them as and when he encountered them. Going in alone meant an inability to secure the area against potential additional threats. He was relying on a good deal of luck here as well as his own intuition.

  If more guards arrived, he would have to kill them as best he could.

  Descending the steps, little in the way of sound reached him. Demons were not ones for silence, so the cellar was undoubtedly fitted out with sound suppressing insulation. Whilst those guarding the damned were clearly of low morality, it was unlikely they would know the horrors inflicted to the innocent down here. The torture and murder of children was not easily tolerated by the worst of the criminal underclass. Even the vilest scum had their code, although lately some of the cartels coming out of South America seemed willing to break that code.

  The civility the world had established after two world wars was beginning to unravel.

  There were sections of humanity that had descended lower than the demons in the Pit. Demons did what they did because they were created by the Fallen for this purpose. They had no choice; it was in their nature. Humans always had a choice, despite their environment, despite the brutality life inflicted upon them.

  The trials and tribulations of the Saints was proof of this.

  At the bottom of the steps Lucien found another door. Now he could hear words, muffled, but enough for him to know there were multiple targets behind this door. They should have posted a guard here, but this would have meant the truth of what demons got up to leaking out. Men talked, and a guard would have no doubt forced his ear against the door to listen to the words those inside spoke.

  Lucien did that now.

  “Do not deviate from the path. Do not step from the circle. Only the Sons of Perdition will survive this night.” Lucien knew the words from his teaching, the Librarian having instructed him in the black rites. There would be five inside, as well as the child.

  “Now is the hour. I come, I come to join you my brethren.” This was a summoning ritual. Inside a foolish soul was giving himself to a higher demon. What had the idiot been promised? Fame? Wealth? A lifetime of meaningless sex and pleasure? Lucien crossed himself, for he couldn’t imagine anything worse. To allow a demon inside you would be Hell on Earth.

  “Take this life so that we might feed off its essence.” There followed a child’s scream, a cry of anguish. God allowed the innocent to suffer for that was his way.

  “Yes, call him forth with your suffering.” Lucien put his free hand on the door handle. The time to intervene was now. Carefully, he applied pressure, the handle turning, the door breaking loose of its moorings.

  “Welcome, brother. The fifth of us, the sacred number to bring upon the world that which we crave. Who can doubt our claim to what is ours?” When Lucien stepped through, he saw he was right.

  In a second, he took it all in. The marble altar in the centre of the room, the five-pointed star marked out on the floor around it. Each of the five stood at one of the points, the knife one held the only weapon visible. The blackness, the evidence of sin, filled the room, emanating from four of the figures. The fifth still had the shroud but it was weaker, less dense, the demon still taking root.

  “I can,” Lucien shouted, his gun already raised. Shock and awe was needed here, the Glock 17 already speaking, bullets rather than words sending the only message these bastards could understand. He had thirteen rounds left, and by the time he stopped shooting, there were only three bullets remaining.

  The child was screaming, but Lucien ignored him. Instead he moved over to the one of the five he had left alive, the one at the head of the pentagram. He’d killed the one with the knife first, not because of the weapon, but because of the power of the demon that was being brought forth. That was what these rituals were for, to open the portal, to let the strongest through into hosts who were suitable and accommodating to the evil that would rip an average human body apart. There were too many ways for demons to come into the world.

  Lilith had been right. She had been right about everything.

  This had been planned long in advance. Whoever they had been calling forth, that demon was back where he belonged, cast back to the heat and the flames. Lucien put his gun away and took out one of his knives, his fingers interlacing through the holes of the attached knuckle duster. Punch or stab, the Inquisitor could do serious damage here against an enemy that was basically defenceless.

  “Inquisitor bastard,” Malphas spat. He lay on the floor with both knee caps rendered useless.

  “You know how this goes,” Lucien replied. Still he paid no attention to the boy.

  Malphas tried to crawl away on his back, the legs dragged painfully until his progress was stopped by a wall. The demon was in possession of a flabby middle-aged body that hadn’t seen exercise in decades. Its opponent was honed, muscular, with a will of iron. This was to be no contest at all. To ensure no surprises, Lucien bent down and held the knife to the demon’s neck. His other hand frisked for hidden weapons and found none.

  “Your mother was a whore,” the demon said through gritted teeth.

  “Is that supposed to insult me, goad me into killing you? I have no memory of my mother so you might be right. Your words mean nothing.” Lucien knelt by the ailing demon. To the world the host looked like a middle-aged balding man. The suit he wore was expensive, likely the person who owned the property in which the sacrifice had been planned. Lucien saw he was right to intervene instead of holding back, the teacher lying dead out of sight, hidden by the altar. The killing spree these demons were about to unleash would have been horrendous.

  “Just kill me so I can return to my home.”

  “Oh, I will kill you, but that is a long time coming.” To prove that point, Lucien plunged the knife deep into the demon’s right hand, the point of the blade scratching the floor beneath. This brought a howl which mingled with the cries of the child, especially when Lucien twisted the knife, severing tendons, the fingers now all but ruined.

  “You should not have interfered. This is our time.” The demon laughed, which prompted Lucien to again twist the knife viciously. Pulling the weapon free, he allowed the demon to cradle the injured limb against its chest.

  “Tell me your name, demon.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you do to me,” Malphas screamed. “My Lord will have his time with this pitiful world. You and your kind will be no more and I will return to piss on your corpse.” The knife came down again, slipping to the back of the right ankle, slicing open the Achilles tendon. Wound by wound, Lucien witnessed the demon’s resistance failing.

  “Your name. All your guards are dead. I can spend hours on you if I need to. I have the training and I have the will.”

  “You are nothing,” Malphas sneered. The bluster did little to hide the fact that his resolve was weakening. Father had been right. They didn’t enjoy the pain of this world. It was so much worse than what they experienced in the fire and the smoke, a reverse of the fate humans faced when they were hurled down there.

  “Your name.” Against feeble resistance, Lucien grabbed his victim’s uninjured hand and pushed it against the hard floor. The knife sliced with stunning accuracy, the tip of the demon’s little finger severed.

  “Kill me, damn you.” That earned the demon a punch in the face, the knuckle dusters attached to the knife shattering several teeth and splitting open the lip.

  “You are the only damned one here.” Lucien inflicted more wounds, working methodically across the body.

  “Malphas.” They always relented eventually. Malphas, not a King of Hell, but still a major demon. Lucien knew the name and knew the lore that went with it.

  “Then I cast you out, Malphas.” Lucien raised the knife high ready to strike, but something inside him paused. It was rare to have such an opportunity. The knife came down, but only into the meat of Malphas’ wrist.

  “You promised,” Malphas screeched.

  “
You should know better than to trust an Inquisitor.”

  Lucien nearly lost himself then, the sadistic frenzy threatening to descend upon him. He caught himself though, knowing the child still needed to be dealt with. At the end he finished the demon off quickly by plunging the knife deep into the back of the creature’s neck so that Lucien could watch the blackness fade from the eyes and from around the aura of the body.

  The body died before the demon could vacate, so Lucien was spared the last moment of a human freed from possession. That was fine; he preferred it that way.

  21.

  New York, USA

  When he first arrived in the city, the instructions Mohammed had been given told him to go to Central Park and stand in the middle of Bow Bridge at the allotted time. He was to wear an I Love NY baseball hat and wait for the local contact to approach him. He did this now, the cap an irritation. He had no idea why so many people wore them, especially when the slogans emblazoned on them could be so tacky, sometimes tasteless.

  To those who passed by him, he was just another tourist enraptured by the view. Little did they know he was here to bring destruction to everything they held dear.

  Although the city itself was oppressive, he liked the tranquillity in Central Park. There was beauty here that countered the huge concrete monoliths surrounding the park. It would be a shame for such a place to be destroyed, but nature could always repair itself.

  From the corner of his eye he saw three men approach. These were not the people Mohammed was here to meet, for they were not of Persian descent. He monitored them covertly for he could detect they came on an ill wind. As peaceful as his surroundings were, he was not naïve enough to think Central Park was a refuge from the crime that always stalked cities of this size.

  With no other people visible, the men approached, one passing him so as to cut off any chance of escape. Turning, Mohammed viewed them warily.

  “You like the view, bro?” the Caucasian member of the gang asked. His head was clean-shaven and his face and neck sported an interesting array of tattoos. He had never seen such in his home country or in Rome, and Mohammed was perplexed as to why someone would so deface themselves. It certainly wouldn’t do much for their job prospects, although he strongly suspected this individual had no interest in honest employment.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?” Mohammed could speak multiple languages, one of the reasons he was sent to Rome. English, Turkish and Italian he could both read and write. German he could get by in. Languages was one of the many gifts with which Allah had blessed him.

  “Guy talks funny,” said the second member of the group, a brutishly large African American man with a gold grille across his teeth. The third member of the gang, also dark-skinned, didn’t speak. Instead he watched Mohammed warily. “Where you from, bro?”

  “I am from Turkey,” Mohammed answered. “I am on holiday in your great country.”

  “Great? What’s so fucking great about it?” the first gang member demanded.

  “Do you not love your own country?” Mohammed asked in mock surprise. He knew what this was, the three thugs probably all addicted to an array of illicit substances.

  “You won’t like this country after we’ve done with you,” the brute pointed out. “Now give us your money.” A knife appeared. Mohammed sighed.

  “But of course,” Mohammed said. “Happy to.” With exaggerated caution, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the wallet. The money wasn’t important, he could easily get more. There was nothing else of worth in the wallet. Mohammed handed it over, the fifty dollars inside obviously not satisfactory reward for the gang’s hard work. Taking the currency out, the brute handed it over to the first gang member who searched every aspect of it before throwing it into the water.

  “That all you got, bro?” the first man asked. He stepped into Mohammed’s face and grabbed his wrists so as to expose them. “Fucker hasn’t even got a watch.”

  “Regrettably I am just a poor tourist here to see family.” He so wanted to teach these three punks a lesson, but he knew that would draw unwanted attention. This was not the time to be inviting the police into his arena of influence. There was also fear lurking there, ready to pounce on him, but he managed to keep that supressed.

  The brute peeled off twenty dollars and handed it to the third gang member. The first thug opened Mohammed’s coat and pushed his hand into the available pockets.

  “He ain’t got anything else,” the Caucasian man said with marked disappointment.

  “Barely worth our time,” the third man said, finally speaking.

  The two African American muggers moved away, while the Caucasian gave Mohammed a light tap on the cheek.

  “Well enjoy your holiday, prick,” the Caucasian smirked before following his friends. Mohammed watched them leave. Fortunately, he had already ditched his passport as it had no US entry stamp on it. Mohammed knew they would have taken that out of spite. He didn’t want a picture of him floating around in the hands of criminals, because criminals had a tendency to be arrested.

  Part of him wished he had a gun, but that would have resulted in a more severe confrontation, and there was no guarantee he would have come out of it intact. This would have also most certainly drawn the police, because there was an eavesdropping network across the city that could respond to gun shots, triangulating their location so that law enforcement could be dispatched.

  Mohammed turned back to look at the water, his empty wallet still floating there. This city was everything he had been told it would be. Dirty, decadent and filled with corruption and violence. It would be no loss to the world to see it struck from the map.

  Again, he spotted a presence, this time a lone male. The man approached hesitantly, sidling up to Mohammed. He was also wearing an I love NJ baseball cap of the same colour as Mohammed’s.

  “The park can be lovely this time of year,” the stranger said. The newcomer kept glancing after the three thugs who were still within their sight.

  “It has its qualities, but I prefer Mellat Park in the spring.” That completed the code.

  “My name is Farrokh.” He held out a hand and Mohammed shook it. Farrokh’s palm was sweaty. Then they embraced. “I am not sure I understand why you are here.”

  “I have orders to check the integrity of the device. There are concerns that it will not function.” The device. When he had learnt that he was being sent to check on the nuclear bomb in New York, his ego had overridden his doubts.

  “Everything is as it should be.”

  “You will take me to the device.” He was here for a reason and the sooner he fulfilled that, the sooner he could get out of this city. “I have to verify everything with my own eyes.”

  “Of course. I have a car parked, not far from here. I have fresh ID for you,” Farrokh said, pulling a backpack from his shoulder and extracting an envelope. Mohammed took it eagerly. “There is a credit card in there, a Green card and a driving licence. They will pass any cursory inspection.” Mohammed took the cards and inspected them. He would have to trust that the person who made these forgeries knew what he was doing. They should pass a cursory inspection, even get him through any internal checkpoints. But if he was arrested or detained, an in-depth data dive into his identity would quickly show it to be fake.

  Looking past him suddenly, Farrokh’s eyes flashed in alarm.

  “Yo, what’s this? You been holding out on us, bro?” The two Iranians turned. The trio were back, moving towards the end of the bridge. Evidently, they had lingered far enough away to see the exchange.

  “I hate this city,” Mohammed cursed under his breath. The Caucasian, who had spoken, came first, the swagger a pathetic attempt at intimidation. “Do you have the other item?” Farrokh nodded eagerly and pulled the paper bag from his backpack.

  “What you got there?” the brute demanded. The gang members were about seven meters away now.

  “What, this?” Mohammed asked innocently. “Let me show you.” The paper was strip
ped away to reveal the fully loaded Beretta M9. Mohammed suddenly had a strong desire to pull the trigger. The gun felt alien to him, years since he had been able to practice with any kind of firearm. It would still be enough to end three lives.

  “Whoa, there’s no need for that,” the brute said. The cockiness had been stripped from him. Mohammed saw the truth of his personality then, a coward who used menace and violence to try and prove his significance. His street smarts had abandoned him.

  “Bullets are expensive, so go away and leave me and my friend alone.” The three were already backing up. There was still a risk one or more of them was similarly armed, but intuition told Mohammed that this wasn’t the case. If they were carrying, it was likely Mohammed would have been introduced to such delights already.

  Finally, one of the three ran, the other two close behind. Still holding the gun out at them, Mohammed expected to find his hand shaking. It wasn’t.

  “Bastards,” Farrokh spat. “We need to get out of here.”

  “You need to relax, my friend. They were fools who mistook a wolf for sheep.”

  “They still might come back.” Mohammed was surprised by his new friend’s nervousness. Anxiety was to be expected in the profession they had accepted. They did what they did because their government and their faith demanded it. Still, you needed to possess a degree of control over it. “You don’t understand how this city works,” Farrokh added.

  “It doesn’t matter how it works. New York won’t be a city much longer.” Mohammed stuck the gun in the back of his trousers so it would be hidden by the long coat he wore. As for the baseball cap, he ripped it off and threw its ridiculous statement into the water that rippled under the bridge.

  The only way he could love New York was if it was a burning, radioactive crater.

  22.

  Moscow, Russian Federation