The Second Seal

by Sean Deville

  The church walls allowed the sounds from the surrounding streets to penetrate, but other than that it was filled with silence. With her prayer finished, Lilith broke that stillness, her steps echoing around her as she forged into the church’s interior. Still feeling the effects of her ordeal, she staggered slightly.

  “Father?” She didn’t shout, but her voice was of sufficient volume that she knew Father Creed would hear her. Reaching the altar, Lilith remained standing, the harshness of the wooden pews not inviting to her already damaged pelvis.

  “Father, a child of Christ awaits.”

  A door opened, softer footsteps than the ones she offered up on entry, the slight limp Father Creed offered noticeable in the sound. Creed made an appearance, the shepherd called to attend to one of his wayward sheep. The smile that was forming on his lips evaporated when he saw Lilith. This wasn’t the attire of an Inquisitor, the way Lilith stood showing Creed the discomfort she was in. Her face was bruised, the lower lip swollen and split.

  “Come, my child,” he beckoned. Lilith didn’t need to be told twice. “Do you need assistance?” Lilith shook her head. She supposed this could have been called pride, but it was more the stubborn insistence not to give up in the face of adversity. She had been carried once today, she wouldn’t let anyone do that for her a second time.

  Creed led her down a corridor to his office, a room Lilith hadn’t been in previously. Before today she had never got further than the nave for there had been no need to venture deeper into this house of God. She only ever came to drop off the orphaned children she had rescued. The demons didn’t always kill the parents of the children they desired, but when they did, the church was considered the best prospect for those distraught young minds. The Order of Tyron gave them a chance at developing a purpose, despite the harshness of such a life.

  “It looks like you have been through the wars,” Creed noted. He had held this position for nearly thirty years and, in that time, he had seen seven Inquisitors killed. Rarer still was when one came to his door in such distress. Normally Inquisitors tended to themselves, or at worst had medical aid sent to them.

  “I have had better days,” Lilith admitted. “I need access to a secure phone.”

  “You need a lot of things, Lilith, but I will get you your phone.”

  Creed held the door for her, Lilith entering the priest’s secret domain. She didn’t wait for permission to sit down. Within the Order of Tyron, she held a higher rank than the priest, although hierarchy was of no concern to her. The Order had a whole bureaucratic structure, the Inquisitors being a relatively small part of that. Most of the non-Inquisitors who were part of the Order came from the training camps, rejects who couldn’t make it through the training. Although some who failed in their ordeal did so through death, others found they could redeem themselves by fulfilling other tasks needed to fight the demonic threat.

  There was no shame in this. Everyone had a part to play in God’s plan.

  Father Creed had started out as Lilith had, rescued from the clutches of a monster who was intent on ripping out his innards. But unlike Lilith, he had not been made of the correct mental and physical fortitude that was required in an Inquisitor. At the age of thirteen it became clear Creed would not be able to continue, and he had nearly died trying to disprove that. There was no disgrace in his heart. Whilst the army of Inquisitors was essential, so were those who supported them. He knew he was exactly where God wanted him. When it became clear that Creed could no longer continue with the training, he was moved to a special orphanage high in the hills of Tuscany where he eventually received a different type of instruction.

  The sofa Lilith sat on was the most comfortable thing she had seen in months. At first, she resisted the temptation to allow herself to sink into it, but she soon relented. Her whole core felt like she had lost a fight with a bull, her ribs and abdomen engulfed in a constant ache that intensified every time she breathed.

  “Were you made aware of my plight?” Lilith asked.

  “I was told,” Creed admitted. On the far wall he slid open a hidden panel in the room’s only bookcase, which revealed a formidable looking safe. The safe was opened with the combination Creed believed he would never share. Would that be the case if he had been through the trials inflicted on Lilith, he thought to himself?

  He extracted the satellite phone from the safe and passed it over. This was the first time he had let another soul touch it since it had come into his ownership. Creed had last used it yesterday to inform the Order that a child required collecting. Simon had been picked up this morning after spending a restless night filled with nightmares and the memories of what demons were capable of.

  The priest remained standing as he watched Lilith dial in a number. She put the phone on speaker.

  “This is Lilith,” she said into the phone. On the other end an intricate computer program would analyse her voice to ensure it was an Inquisitor speaking and not an imposter.

  “Your capture was regrettable,” John said on the other end.

  “There is nobody more upset by my kidnapping than myself. I’m surprised the Order went to such lengths to secure my rescue. The Russians took a significant risk.” Creed’s eyes showed their shock at that. He’d had no knowledge outsiders had been employed in the rescue. He had assumed Lilith had escaped of her own accord.

  “I believe your salvation was on the orders of Cardinal Esposito himself. He was displeased to hear of your capture.”

  “Then he will like my news even less,” Lilith added. “My capture was no accident.”

  “Explain!” Listening in, Creed found he would also like an explanation. Lilith shifted her weight in the seat uncomfortably.

  “The demon that has taken up residence in the body of the Home Secretary was instrumental in the operation to find me. It was sent here explicitly to acquire an Inquisitor.” Lilith paused. “It seems this demon wanted to expose our presence to the world.” Already the various agencies of the British security services could be being used to uncover the existence of other Inquisitors both in the UK and abroad.

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because when I was being tortured the demon came to visit me. It could not resist gloating.” Lilith coughed, tasting blood in the back of her throat, proof that there was internal damage.

  “By all that is holy,” John exclaimed. Although there was no way for Lilith to see it, she knew John had just crossed himself. “There is talk about acting against this demon.”

  “There may be no need for that.” Lilith remembered vividly the flesh on the Home Secretary’s neck and the way the demon kept scratching himself. “The body the demon owns is corrupting, already rejecting the invader. I would give it days before the demon either leaves or the host dies.” Still, there was plenty of time for it to create further mischief.

  “So rare to get good news in this age,” John said.

  “What happens now?” Lilith asked. There was no doubt her time in the UK was over.

  “I will need to arrange for your extraction and redeployment.” The last word could have been another beginning with r. Retirement. For an Inquisitor, retirement was something that rarely occurred. As they aged their reflexes became slower, their minds more filled with doubt, despite the experience they gained. Most of them died doing the job they were bred for. Some of those who resisted the call of death had a new mission found for them, like Father, the man who had trained her in the camps. Retirement for failure though usually meant a bullet in the back of the head. “You will wait with Father Creed until arrangements can be made.”

  “I agree that is the best course of action.” She looked up at Creed who nodded his consent.

  “Lilith, I feel I must apologise,” John managed. The voice was strained, as if John was having difficulty with the words, his own ego struggling with the admission. “It seems you were right all along. You should know, the Cardinal met with the Pope. The decision has been made to reveal our presence to a select f
ew.”

  “Then it really is the End Times?”

  “Yes. We believe the Antichrist has risen and stalks the earth.” With that the phone went dead. John certainly knew how to leave her hanging. She handed the phone back to Creed.

  “Is there anywhere I can sleep?” The weariness was hitting her now. Like this, she would be little use to anyone. Rested, she could still be a force to bring God’s hammer smashing down on those who were unworthy.

  “I would say the couch you are on, but I have guests coming. You can sleep in my room. Take as long as you need, an old man like me finds sleep elusive these days.”

  47.

  New York, USA

  Fox sat across from the brutish man. This was how threat detection worked. Sometimes it was down to hard work, putting in the hours to track and trace dangerous individuals. Other times a certain amount of luck was involved, such as a mugger having a gun pulled on him on a secluded bridge in Central Park.

  “Tell me about the men on the bridge.” The brute was known by his friends as Big T, a low-level gang banger who had been picked up in an NYPD raid. He somehow figured the information he had would cut him some slack, maybe buy him some consideration against the charges he was facing.

  Fox was alone with Big T in an interview room that had been painted sometime during the last Great Depression. One of the light bulbs was out which could have been deliberate. It gave an eeriness to the ambience, dark shadows that could be used to intimidate those unfortunate enough to find themselves here.

  The metal desk in front of him had been scratched by the intricate hieroglyphics of a thousand fingers. The worst people imaginable had been in this room, thousands of them, tainting the air with the sickness coursing inside them.

  “The first dude said he was a tourist, only for him to pull a piece on us. Not cool, man.” Big T sat back arrogantly, his large frame filling the chair. “Looked like an Arab to me. What’s an Arab doing with a gun in my city?”

  “The city you love, eh?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “And why would he do that? What would cause this man to threaten you?”

  “We didn’t do nothin’, man. Guy was tight for no reason.” Of course he was, thought Fox. I’m sure there was no attempt by you or your friends to rob him of everything he was worth. Big T’s record spoke of exactly the crimes he was into. He’d started out stealing bags and cell phones, and had graduated with honours into mugging those who seemed vulnerable enough. No doubt there would be a drug history with him too, but so far that hadn’t landed on his NYPD rap sheet.

  “So you and your friends were hanging around in Central Park when some random stranger pulled a gun on you? And to be arrested a day later. Your luck seems to have abandoned you, my friend.” Big T nodded that this was a correct assessment of the previous day’s events. “Let’s say I believe this. You say there were two of them?”

  “Yeah, second guy acted all thirsty. The cat with the gun played it cool, though.”

  “Did it seem to you the gentleman in question was familiar with firearms?”

  “Familiar?”

  “Let me put it another way. Did it seem to you that he had held a gun before?”

  “Yeah, yeah it did.” See, wasn’t such a hard question now was it?

  “Do you think you could provide a sketch of this man if we brought in an artist?”

  “What do I get for my cooperation, man?” Big T demanded to know.

  “I will have a word with the arresting officer and see if a certain degree of leniency could be directed to your case.” Of course, no such leniency would be permitted, but Fox had no interest in this thug’s well-being. He was down for possession with intent to supply and resisting arrest. The DA was going to throw the book at him, but not until Fox got what he wanted. A trip to Rikers was definitely on the cards.

  Before all that, before the wheels of justice could grind him within its mighty gears, Big T could make himself useful.

  With the threat of an impending terrorist attack, the police commissioner stationed at One Police Plaza wasn’t going to let any angle go uncovered. If this meant cooperating with Homeland Security, then agents like Fox would be given all the help they needed. Mutual cooperation was always appreciated and expected.

  Big T’s information that the guy who pulled the gun was likely a foreigner of middle eastern descent, and that he had met up with another man who had provided that gun had seen that report sent up the chain of command. From there it spread out like a virus to all the various law enforcement branches, landing on Fox’s desk like an omen. That’s why Fox was here. Was it purely coincidental that his informant had mentioned a stranger with a gun? Fox would need to chase that up with his informant.

  “Is there any other information you can give us? Did one of your associates perhaps ask this gentleman for a loan? You know, a gratuity to help with groceries or such?” Something clicked in Big T’s brain.

  “Dude was generous. Took some cheese out of his wallet for my kid.”

  “How is that relevant?”

  “He done dropped his wallet in the water, man. Guy was wild.”

  It was slim pickings, thought Fox. Maybe NYPD could be persuaded to search and dredge the water under that bridge. Maybe they could find a wallet with some prints on it. And maybe they could get an artist’s impression that didn’t look like Grover off Sesame Street.

  Fox felt it though, the spark he was so familiar with. There was something here. If Big T could be believed, there was a stranger in New York of Middle Eastern appearance meeting up in a secluded spot with another Middle Eastern man. A gun was exchanged. This at the same time the NSA was going batshit about a pending terrorist attack on the city.

  Fox would grab hold of any threads he could and let them unravel. He had every confidence this one would lead somewhere.

  48.

  London, UK

  The words of Sir David rang in her head. Before leaving the Home Office on Marsham Street, Baal had been informed that the Inquisitor Lilith had been rescued by unknown forces. The whole facility where she had been held was a smoking ruin, all the agents present believed dead.

  To put it bluntly, Baal had gone ballistic at the news. Once she had replaced the telephone in its receiver, she had ripped her host’s office to utter shreds. The chaos felt good, nourishing, although the sweat caused by such sudden exertion aggravated the already troublesome rash. What would have made it better though would have been to have Lilith in the room with her so Baal could tear out the bitch’s heart. Baal would have taken her eyes first for good measure.

  And now the Inquisitor was once more free, out there in the world. A nugget of fear lodged in Baal’s chest. Could the Inquisitor come for her? Was Baal herself now vulnerable?

  The loss of her prey plus the itch that had spread across most of her host’s skin was finally getting to Baal. The itch was also mingling with an incessant burning which was slowly gaining prominence in the sensations the King of Hell was having to endure. The rash was now visible on her host’s face, having crept up the neck as the night had progressed. There had been a worrying moment when she had been washing the blood off her hands in the bathroom the night before. She could have sworn she could see the rash spreading in real time.

  She was sure she had imagined it.

  Baal’s time here was coming to an end. Right now, she was in the back of a ministerial car as it traversed the last few metres of Downing Street. There were fortunately no news crews camped out, so the standard photo shoot wouldn’t be required. Baal wouldn’t have done it anyway. When she had turned up at her office this morning, the secretary to her host had informed Baal that an appointment had been made to see the Prime Minister. Obviously, this would be the moment Baal was expected to hand in the resignation the Prime Minister had requested the night before.

  Baal would comply with that so that she could further destroy the career and reputation of the host who had become so troublesome to her. The bastard was
screaming profanities at her in the mind they shared, his voice getting louder as the rejection of Baal’s presence intensified. Briefly, as she had held the knife above the sleeping woman last night, Baal had felt resistance. The host had almost forced her out which wasn’t supposed to be possible.

  Would the PM have also been informed of the news Sir David had given her? There was no clue as to the identity of the attackers, the safe house still on fire, most of it having collapsed in on itself. The only good thing to come from this was the fact that MI5 and MI6 would now both believe there was an international organisation threatening the stability of the country. In Baal’s last phone call to the MI5 chief, she had again tried to guide them to the idea of an international Catholic order of assassins that spread itself across the globe with the blessing of the Vatican.

  Demons sent to Earth before her had tried to find the proof that this organisation existed. Those attempts had been unsuccessful. Even Beleth, Vine and Balam had failed, despite the resources available to them. Baal regretted that she had not had the chance to meet with her brothers. It would have been good to see them again.

  Stepping from the back of the car, she ignored the light drizzle that filled the air. The door to Number 10 opened to accept her, and she stepped through, glancing briefly at the police officer who was on guard.

  Inside she was met by the Prime Minister’s private secretary. Baal’s acquired memories told her the secretary was competent as well as having a no-nonsense approach to the job. An ideal candidate for what Baal might need to do.

  “The Prime Minister is expecting you in the Cabinet Room,” the Private Secretary advised. “Do you have something for him?”

  “All here.” Baal tapped her left breast. The something referred to would be the demanded letter of resignation. There was of course no such letter. Instead what she carried was a written confession regarding the murder Baal had committed last night. Seemingly satisfied, the Private Secretary led Baal up the iconic flight of stairs.