“Everyone, everyone,” he rose shakily to his feet, “meet my lovely sister, Morrigan. She’s like . . . she’s like . . . witchy.”
“Hello.” She nodded to the group of FCP leaders. “Well, I already know Hans and Kim. How do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart? And I know you’re George from the meetings, and who might you be?”
“Aleksandra.” The Russian stepped forward and accepted Morrigan’s outstretched hand. “That’s . . . an interesting pentagram you wear,” she noted awkwardly, and pulled away back to George.
Morrigan looked down. Her pentagram had become entangled in its chain, and was inverted.
“By the Goddess, I hate when that happens.” She cursed, disentangling the silver. “I may be a witch—but I’m not a diabolist.”
“Oh, yes you are,” accused the barbarian. “You’re a regular devil-bitch!” He laughed and gave her a shove. The push was given velocity by his drunkenness, and was harder than he had planned. Morrigan staggered backward from the impact, and nearly fell into the bonfire.
With raised lip she gathered herself up and smacked his jaw. His head turned half its range of movement, and beer and sweat flicked on George’s sleeve.
“What the fuck?” Alaric roared. But his ire was diffused when he saw her eyes, which teemed with the lurid verdure of clinical, killing nature. “Hmph.” He blinked and opened and closed his jaw several times. “See, guys, I can take a hit. Hey, why the hell wasn’t I picked for the Pankration team, George? Why not?” He wheeled on the Athenian with a drunkard’s belligerence.
“It’s a select group . . . ah . . . Alaric,” George reasoned. “Very few guys are invited.”
“Well, fuck your select groups!” He spat. “I know why you didn’t pick me. I know why! You didn’t pick me because I’m not one of your swarthy, Mediterranean toadies—like Pedro. You and your greasy Greeks and Waps and Spics and Slavs wanna fuckin’ highjack the FCP!”
The Athenian’s glare was Hadean, and Aleksandra felt him take a step away from her. His right shoulder rolled almost imperceptibly under his king’s robe.
“I’m sure the Muslims would love to hear you say that,” George breathed. “I’m sure resurrecting discrimination toward southern and eastern Europeans would really help our movement. While we’re at it, maybe we could work on rekindling the feud between Catholic and Protestant. Hell, in our present company, we might even work on Christian versus pagan.”
“Everyone knows northern Europeans are superior to southern Europeans,” Alaric boasted, chin elevated.
“I guess that’s why when my ancestors were charting the fields of math and science and philosophy yours were still living in huts along the Rhine puzzling over your stick-figure runes,” mocked George.
“Don’t talk shit about the Futhark!” the drunkard roared. “I’d rather live in a fucking card-board box than back in ancient Greece with queers all around me.”
George laughed. “It was generally accepted in ancient times, you’re right. But last I checked homosexuals don’t reproduce—and Greece had a pretty big population. So I doubt it was as widespread as you might think.”
“Well, whatever,” Alaric blustered, “all I know is that I’ve read Tacitus, and I know that my Germanic ancestors knew how to handle queers. We’d fuckin’ kill ‘em. Drown ‘em in the mud or something like that, can’t remember exactly. All I can remember is that we killed the fuckers.”
George’s look was severe.
“That’s disgusting and sinful,” he said. “That’s evil.”
“Do what thou wilt . . . that is the whole of the law!” Alaric exulted, taking a step forward. “So I don’t really care if you think it’s evil. You can take your Hebrew notions of morality and shove ‘em up your ass. Because I account to Thor and Odin and no one else. Yeah, and fucking Tyr and Heimdall. And they want me to be strong and to take what I want!” His eyes riveted greedily to Aleksandra, and he stepped toward her, hands outstretched.
The Russian’s view of Alaric was obscured as George stepped in front of her and unleashed a punch toward the assailant’s stomach. Rotating at the hips, he plunged his fist into the drunkard’s solar plexus. The sot gasped, eyes wide, searching for air but finding none. Seconds later, he was on his knees, still gasping.
The Athenian hesitated, his face a mask of wrath. Perhaps he had seen the tableau too many times in street fights as a youth to resist what came naturally. Perhaps Alaric’s derision had struck a nerve. Whatever forces restrained George were temporarily overthrown, and he sunk both hands into the barbarian’s thick hair to steady the skull.
Hans watched George’s right foot slide back. The youth raised a hand in protest, but the Athenian’s knee was already hurtling forward into Alaric’s nose. An audible crunch sounded upon impact, and the drunk fell backward, head slamming the ground, supine, knees still bent underneath him. Dark blood gushed from each nostril, and his nose pointed sharply to the left.
“My God, man, lay off him!” cried Hans, stepping forward between George and Alaric. “What the fuck’s your problem? He’s wasted. What are you trying to do, kill him?”
George blinked. His fury had departed, slaked on blood, and now left him cold and puzzled.
“I . . . I didn’t mean to do that last part,” he stuttered, bending over Alaric alongside the youth. A vestigial scrap of anger remained. “Well, hell, how much was I supposed to take? He was coming after Aleksandra.”
“Yeah, and you could have stopped after knocking the wind out of him,” yelled Hans. “You didn’t have to go and break his fucking nose.”
Eyes shut, Alaric slowly rolled his head and groaned.
George bit his lip. “I’m sorry, but . . .” the Greek searched for words. “I just hate it when guys start talking about killing people for no reason. It makes me sick. We let guys like him gain power in the FCP and we’re going to become a bunch of monsters.”
“He’s not a monster!” Morrigan protested, while stroking her brother’s forehead. “Damn it, he can’t even breathe through his nose now, you fucker.”
“Ha!” interjected Aleksandra, “Just a moment ago your angel brother almost had you in the bonfire.”
“All right, all right, let’s stop this—there are children around.” Mr. Stewart boomed, as a cluster of vampires, pumpkins, ghosts, and princesses began to gather. “George, you shouldn’t have followed up with that knee strike—but I can understand your anger.”
“Max, I know . . . I’m sorry.” George looked at Stewart, then frowned at the wretch still lying on the grass. “But I think we’ve gotta start screening people or something. You get guys like this Alaric character stirring things up, sowing some kind of FCP civil war bullshit, and we don’t stand a chance.”
“That’s right, y’all won’t stand a chance.” An unknown speaker warned, his tone decisive, his accent southern. A trio pressed their way into the group, led by the speaker. “Y’all won’t stand a chance so long as you brook the children of Satan among you. Y’all won’t stand a chance so long as you honor pagan holidays, like this one here. Y’all won’t stand a chance until you accept the eternal love and strength of the Lord Jesus Christ into your hearts.” The speaker was dressed in a plaid long sleeve shirt and blue jeans. His hair was blond and curly, and his eyes bore the intensity of profound conviction and assurance. He was young—early thirties—but his confidence and sense of purpose were of a man of advanced years.
Behind him trudged a grim looking, older man in black. A white notch was evident in the collar beneath his chin—the Roman collar of the priesthood. The triumvirate was completed by a giant—taller and broader than Hans, face canyoned by scars.
The leader surveyed the felled drunkard and woman kneeling beside him. Her pentagram refracted moonlight, and his face tightened.
“Begone, witch!” He yelled, arm elongated, finger directing toward the bonfire. “Out of my sight! Your presence is a blasphemy. For the Lord has declared ‘thou shall not suffer a witch to live!’”
> Morrigan looked up briefly, narrowed her eyes, then continued to wipe blood from Alaric’s nose.
“Hey, wait a minute.” Hans stepped forward. “Just who the hell are you, anyway? Apologize to that woman.”
“Pastor Joshua Evans—pleased to meet you.” The cleric extended his hand.
“That name doesn’t mean anything to me. Are you a member of the FCP?” The youth folded his arms in front of Joshua and his companions.
“I . . . I hope to become a member, and to help steer you away from disaster. God has sent me to dispense his grace and love upon you.” The pastor blinked his eyes as a crisp wind rode through the field.
“Well, by the way you addressed this young woman right here,” Mr. Stewart nodded at Morrigan, “you seem like the type capable of steering us into disasters of your own making.”
“No one said the path to Jesus would be easy,” conceded Joshua, then smiled at George. “I liked the way you polished off that pagan a minute ago. And yeah, he deserved the knee. But I’m forgetting my manners. These are my two companions—Father Carlo Andrade, and his bodyguard, Klaus Albrecht.”
Carlo’s face bore the dour tranquility of a stagnant, ancient bog. He nodded slowly at the group, and mumbled something into his white beard. Klaus’s eyes alternated discretely among Kim, Aleksandra, and Morrigan as he stepped forward and said hello in a heavy accent. The bodyguard was no youngster either, looking around forty.
“Father Andrade and Klaus don’t speak a ton of English.” Joshua explained. “The good Father was serving at the Vatican in 2052 when it fell to Muslim hordes and the Pope was slain on his own throne. Klaus was just a boy at the time, the son of a Swiss guardsman. The two managed to escape, and the years they spent tryin’ to flee Europe are so fraught with peril and adventure it’d be a damned shame if they aren’t memorialized in a novel or something.” He laughed.
Max rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes.
“But you’re clearly from the U.S.,” the head of the FCP asserted. “What’s your story?”
“I’m just a traveling pastor, trying to find a good place to settle down and develop a congregation. I come from a long line of preacher men. Heck, my grandfather would prob’ly roll over in his grave if he knew I was hangin’ round with a Catholic priest. He didn’t even think Catholics were Christian. But, you know, good Christian-Christian folk are hard to find these days.”
“So you’re non-denominational . . . a fundamentalist?” asked Max.
“Yes, sir.” Joshua grinned broadly. “A strapping young evangelist from the great state of Texas. I’ve sworn my life to Jesus. I’ve sworn my life to fighting the anti-Christ in every capacity possible. And I think it’s pretty evident that President Swan has revealed himself to be the Anti-Christ. So I wanna fight him with all the strength and courage Jesus Christ will imbue me with—and I wanna make this land safe for Christians again—of all denominations.”
“A noble objective,” commented Mr. Stewart. “You and your friends are welcome to join the FCP. But don’t expect to ascend the hierarchy unless you tweak your objective a bit. You see, religiously, we’re a very diverse group. We want to make America safe for all religions.”
Joshua tried to smile. “Well . . . I’ll work on making America safe for Jews and Christians, and ya’ll can see to your pagan people. Or are your doors also open to Muslims and worshippers of Divine Color? Because if they are I’m leaving y’all and will bring the good word to other, more receptive organizations.”
“Don’t let us hold you back.” Hans laughed. “But for the record my dad likes to be theoretical. Over my dead body would we tolerate worshippers of Color or fuckin’ Muslims in the FCP. When we get America back on track we intend to revive religious freedom for the country. But the FCP is our organization, and we can let in who we want and reject who we want. So don’t count on seeing any jihadists or gray filth walk through our fuckin’ doors without getting laid out by my fists.”
“Now that’s the kind of FCP I was hopin’ I’d find.” The pastor chuckled. “Maybe I’m in the right place after all. Okay, here’s to the overthrow of the Anti-Christ.” He raised a can of soda. The rest of the group held up beer, wine, and cider, then tilted back bottles, glasses, and cups.
“You are deceived,” Father Andrade spoke up, slowly shaking his head and glaring at Joshua. “You are so intent to see things . . . to interpret things . . . through Christianity. And yet you fail to prioritize the obvious. A vampire walks this land . . . a true revenant sent by Lucifer! He is the real power . . . he is the genius. And he is the one who must be dealt with first.”
Chapter 25
Swan pressed his face against the window of his limo and watched gnarled branches scroll past. The moon was a perfect circular incision into black cloth, and a portal through which could be seen an antipodal world beyond of bright white. The president dragged his fingers across the glass. How he would love to rend that lunar circle, split it wide, so that the two worlds sloshed together in an admixture of hot white and cool blackness. Then there would be no discriminating day and night—just one horizon of eternal gray.
“Selenolatry,” mouthed Hommler, reclining in the crook of leather seat and door jamb. “That’s the learned term for moon worship. Rarer than heliolatry, to be sure, but still found among primitives to this day.”
“Watch your language!” scolded Swan. His hair was a gelled black spike, and his eyes were sharply ascendant. The president’s cheeks were thin, a mustache unwound atop full lips, and his nose was aquiline.
“Yes, primitives,” mused the fiend defiantly. “A subjective word, unless you infuse it with an objective criterion. And for me that criterion is technological progress. So, if a people are technologically bankrupt, I can call them primitives if I wish.” Hommler watched Swan’s eyes blaze, and his mouth writhe.
“That is heresy!” The president choked. “Recant before Divine Color strikes you down . . . and strikes me down for being in your presence!”
The silver haired man laughed slowly, languidly.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I’m parched and weak. I’ve purposely deprived myself of sustenance so that I might delight in gorging myself. And when I’m in this state, I like to toy with people.”
The limo rounded a corner, and the moon swam into Hommler’s view.
“Recant, I’m serious,” pleaded Swan. “You . . . you desecrated Its polychromatic rays with that utterance of p—p—prim . . . I can’t even say it. What’s wrong with you?”
The vampire raised a finger to each temple, closed his eyes, and smiled.
“There,” he commented smugly. “I apologized in my mind.” And metallic laughter clattered through the cabin.
“That may not be good enough. Just to be sure you had better fall down on your knees in the House of Color when we get ba. . .”
“Terry,” interrupted the fiend, “when you gaze at the moon, what do you see?”
The president frowned for a moment, and folded his arms. Five gray bodyguards looked on with interest.
“I see a hateful dualism—the white moon contrasted with the black night.”
“Really? But the moon is merely an orb alone in the sky. It’s dwarfed by the black night—so surely the night is more powerful.”
“But you see,” chattered Swan tensely, “I don’t think of the moon as an orb. I think of it as hole—a window. And through that hole lies a world, much like our own. But in that parallel world the sky is bright white—and they have a moon of black.”
“Fascinating,” remarked Hommler. “Sort of a celestial yin-yang. A touch of the antipode, represented by a circle, embedded in the principal. But in this configuration the antipodes alloy each other—neither one is pure. Here you have the white moon in the black sky, and in your parallel world they have a black moon in a white sky. Isn’t that enough diversity to satisfy you?”
“Please, hardly,” exclaimed Swan. “If nature had the most rudimentary understanding of equality and d
iversity then the moon would be stirred up like liquid egg whites and slopped across the night sky till black and white were indistinguishable.”
“But then your pure blackness would be no more,” challenged Hommler.
The president was silent for a moment, and the bodyguards looked on, brows furrowed.
“Well,” Swan conceded with raised nose, “pure whiteness would be gone too. Both would be supplanted by glorious gray. So it would be worth it.”
“Oh, would it now?” The genius grinned. “You’re so reductive this evening, Terry. Because as you well know when two entities merge you are left with . . . one.”
The president’s jaw tensed as if he had tripped a spring gun.
“Tell me, Terry, are you a monotheist?”
“No, no!” discharged the president. “Monotheisms as well as dualisms are theologically flawed and susceptible to the deepest evil. Monotheisms are prone to becoming dualisms. And both monotheisms and dualisms are by nature adversarial and hate-breeding.”
“Well, what is the alternative?” Hommler raised a hand to his ear.
“Polytheisms. Polytheisms!” cried the president. The guards nodded vigorously, as their world view returned from jeopardy.
“Bingo,” exulted the vampire. “But why?”
“Because monotheisms and dualisms are simple. But polytheisms are complex—and the world is complex. Polytheists are accustomed to an array of diverse gods and goddesses. There are no black-and-white notions of good and evil. Consequently, they tend to be less discriminatory and more accepting of other gods, customs, and people.”
“Bravo, my president. You receive an ‘A-plus.’”
Swan beamed ghoulishly, gray saliva bubbles expanding and popping between his teeth.
“But you, and no other, were the first to receive revelations from Divine Color,” observed Hommler. “Tell me how It first made Its presence known to you.”
The Gods of Color Page 27