They kissed. Then turned their attention back to the computer screens.
Becky said, “What's it say? Make the window larger.”
Gary maximized the current browser window which was all text. Gobbledygook actually.
“Is that Latin?” Becky said.
“More like Pig Latin. Except it isn't.”
“Then what is it?”
“I can't freaking believe it.” Gary slumped back in his chair. “The damn file is either corrupt or encrypted.”
“Encrypted?”
“Yes. Without a magic decoder ring, or the technological equivalent, our chances of reading this are slim to—”
“Slim to fucked,” Becky finished.
“Wait. What's this?”
“You're the one mousing around. Click it and find out.”
Gary moved the mouse pointer over the hyperlinked README.TXT file and clicked it. Top of the page read as follows:
README.TXT
Unlock the power of knowledge.
Each file has its own requirement for access.
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
The file read like a table of contents of the current directory listing, with each file (a book written in Latin if the titles of the books were an indication) specifying a brief set of instructions to unlock the forbidden knowledge.
Becky, having skimmed some of the instructions, said, “Give me a break. Blood? Sacrifices? Contracts with demons? Yeah, right.”
“Pretty crazy stuff,” Gary agreed. “Like some computer file on a web server would know if you sacrificed a goat.”
“Only one way to find out,” Becky said, thus reminding Gary of her GothGrrl96 handle, which also reminded him to mention the possible and mutual deletion of their dating profiles later.
“You're not doing what I think you're doing, are you?”
“How should I know? I'm not a fucking mind reader.”
Neither was Gary, yet he knew:
She'd noticed the same access instructions as he
She was headed into the kitchen for a knife
And she fully expected him, the resident geek, not her, to go through with the procedure
He didn't want to do it but saw little chance of talking his way out of it
He should probably get the spare keyboard from the closet
He also needed to suggest: “Get the paring knife. I rarely use it; it's sharper.”
“Now who's the mind reader?” Becky called from the kitchen.
Gary had just retrieved the keyboard from the top shelf of his walk-in closet when Becky returned with the paring knife and a glass of vodka rocks. She dropped the knife into the glass, blade first.
“I don't think the alcohol content is high enough to sterilize,” Gary said.
“Do you have rubbing alcohol or a lighter?”
“No. Neither one.”
“Then don't be a pussy. Give me a finger.”
“Just a moment.” Gary plugged the keyboard cable into a USB port and pushed aside the wireless keyboard he typically used.
“Okay,” Becky said, “give me your hand.”
“Just cut one. The pointer.”
“This isn't high school. You don't type with just your pointer finger.”
“I do today, for this.”
“Fine.”
“Just a prick, like they do for a blood smear at a doctor's office.”
Becky, unlike her typical ornery self, took his hand in hers, held his pointing finger straight and firm, and quickly and efficiently poked a shallow cut in the tip. “Don't cry,” she teased as she milked a fat drop on the tip.
“Okay. Now type your name,” Becky's voice turned ominous, “in blood, for the demon to read.”
Gary pressed each key in turn: G-A-R-Y
“Anticlimactic, don't you think?” he said.
“Yeah, a little. Try opening the associated file. Let's see, which was it? There it is. Nox Terrorem.” Gary clicked the associated link to open it.
“Is that...”
“Latin,” Gary said. “It sure looks like it. Not that I can read it.”
“Holy shit, it worked.”
“Did it? We didn't try this link before.”
“Shit. You're right, it might not have been scrambled.”
Gary tried opening a few other links and each displayed gobbledygook. Of course, they hadn't “unlocked” those files, with their associated “spell,” as Becky called it.
“We'll just have to try another spell,” Becky continued. “This time we'll double-check the gobbledygook first, see if it changes.”
“I don't know,” Gary said. “I'm not sacrificing a virgin, a baby, or a dog.”
“Not even a mangy stray?”
“Not even a mangy stray.”
“We can find another spell, one that is simply, like with the finger.”
“Sure. Maybe later. This file is awfully damn long and all the other spells I've read are, well...”
“Too fucking crazy for a sissy-boy like yourself?”
“Exactly. But the finger cut spell can't be the only simple one...” Gary scrolled down the page, browsing instructions, sacrifice... midnight mass... reciting an extremely long series of Latin they'd surely mispronounce. “Here's one,” he said, “but it has to be performed on Samhain.”
“It's not pronounced Sam Hane, dumb shit.”
“How should I know, mistress of freaking darkness?”
“Tell you what,” Becky said. “You promised to take me to see a movie. And I'm hungry. This is your hobby, not mine. Shower, babe. Seriously. You stink. I'll finish my drink then you can take me for a taco. We'll catch a movie and come back and fuck. You have all day tomorrow to skim the Read Me file for an easy spell to test.”
“Hmm...” Gary did like that plan. All except... “Hey, I don't stink.”
“Trust me. Hit the shower. Now.”
35
“I want to help. You know I do. You know that, don't you, Sir?”
“I surely do, sweetie. But—”
“But nothing. I'm sure.” Katie's chin begin to quiver and Brant realized his daughter, his lover, was on the brink of tears and it nearly broke his heart. “Those college girls...”
“The coven.”
“Yes, the coven. You and the coven—you..”
“We perform rituals. We cast magic.”
“I want to do it too. I want to help you.”
You want me to fuck you instead of them, Brant thought and that nearly broke his heart as well.
But Katie, as well-meaning as she strove to be, she'd never be another Brainy or Goth Witch. Hell, she'd never attain the level of occult knowledge as Fat Witch either but that was okay. As a lover, a companion, an assistant, shit, even a daughter—Brant couldn't ask for more. He'd never dream of it.
Of course he enjoyed the others during rites. But that was to be expected. Kasas expected nothing less.
Which brought them to the task at hand, here, at the soon-to-go-live server facility in Santa Fe, New Mexico. It was a large site, larger than the others. However, it would also provide office space for Tara Jones and her team, as well as a home base for the new sales staff. The sales force was led by a hotshot up-and-coming salesman whose name eluded Brant. He'd placed Tara in charge of hiring and setting up the team and didn't care to do more than casually meet the guy and his entourage of service and co-location pushers. Brant simply cared about results. For Kasas.
Brant had merely advised Tara to set her hungry team of sales wolves loose generating or stealing business of the adult or pornographic variety. Kasas would be pleased if this endeavor not only broke even but began to turn a profit in short order.
Which also reminded Brant that upon return to Austin he needed to:
Follow up with Derek Smith regarding the new occult web crawler and search engine
And its ability it gather data regarding both users and domains
Follow up regarding Joey's interviews for more operations staff
/> And Alex's handling of the captives in Nebraska
And the web cam operations based there
Much remained to be done, but this, today, served as a major milestone. The christening of the fifth and final server site. Which, just like the others, required ritual sacrifices.
The rest of the coven had already performed the associated protection, power, and concealment spells, as part of a vacation of sorts during their summer break from school. They'd flown out two weeks prior to perform the rites. Brant and Katie had arrived today. But Alex had visited last week, along with a few trustworthy ex-cons he'd met in prison, to gather today's sacrifices.
“Are you sure it's okay?” Katie asked. “Sure this can't be traced back to us?”
“Of course I'm sure. This isn't my first rodeo. Would Daddy steer you wrong?”
“No, Sir. You wouldn't.”
“Okay, then.” Brant slapped her ass. “Let's get moving.”
She'd dressed in black slacks and black blouse specifically for the occasion. Even dressed in dark colors as she was, Brant could see her growing baby bump. A stranger wouldn't notice, but he knew his daughter's body well, and although her belly had expanded to accommodate what grew within, the rest of her body didn't appear to have changed. Just thinking about her body, along with the lengths to which she'd go to please him, turned him on. He'd certainly enjoy her tonight, back in the hotel room, if not sooner.
“This is it,” Brant said, stopping in the hallway in front of a locked door. “You're sure? You don't have—”
“I'm going to do this,” Katie said.
“Okay.”
It was late, the facility as vacant as could be. Tara and some of her staff, primarily to oversee remodeling efforts, frequented the facility during the day. But here at night, Brant knew, he had the place to himself. In fact, just for the hell of it, he'd sprung for a business dinner for Tara Jones and her team to celebrate the long hours and hard work that they'd put in lately. He'd suggested dinner and an evening at a comedy club but if he knew Tara, and he believed he did, she and her team of women would end up at a Chippendale's show, or whatever Santa Fe had to offer along the same lines. Which reminded him, perhaps he should mention the need to hire a male business analyst.
Fuck it, Brant thought. So what if the analysts are all women. Most of sales staff are men. It isn't like we have some hard-ass human resources department telling us what we can and can't do. Shit, look at everything we've done so far. Like affirmative action initiatives are a priority. Besides, even if they were, we have Denzel Watkins in Memphis and at least two minority business analysts and plenty of women. Isn't there a black systems operator in Memphis?
Brant believed there was. Not that it mattered. They'd hired the right person at the right time. Now there were other priorities.
He removed the key, of which he possessed both and soon he'd possess none, from a separate ring in his pocket. He fit key to lock and twisted the knob. The door swung open to muffled cries.
Six captives, bound in rope and duct tape, lie on the floor. The room smelled like a sewer, as the hostages had been here for days and, surprisingly, none had died in the interim.
“Huh,” Brant said. “You really can go without water for several days.”
It had been four, nearly five, since they'd last drank anything. Alex had given them food and as much water as they wanted, as evidenced by the odor of urine clinging in the air.
Katie crinkled her nose as Brant locked the door behind them. Katie said, “Smells like a port-a-potty in here.”
“Yes, it does. But don't worry. A scent of copper will soon cover the stench.”
“Copper?”
Brant ignored the question and moved first to one of the prostitutes. He'd learned, same as he'd surmised, that nobody cared if a couple prostitutes went missing. Well, other prostitutes may, but as long as a string of bodies didn't start turning up, there were plenty for his purposes. He nudged one in the side to spur her awake.
“Thank god,” he said. “Still alive.”
“Yes.” Katie clasped his arm and hugged him close. “All alive and accounted for.”
They certainly were. Struggling and wriggling for freedom, with no chance at salvation. They'd been chained together at the ankles and the chain cinched to a rack that would soon house network hubs. Good luck dragging that thing out the door with your arms bound behind your backs.
Brant proceeded by telling Katie, “Okay. I'll begin by reading the incantation. You'll cut their clothing from them to allow easy access to their flesh. The particular spell I've selected for tonight requires plenty of pain and agony. This will allow the racks, hell, the very walls of this building, to soak up the energy expended by each sacrifice.
Katie unzipped a small, wheeled piece of luggage that she'd dragged into the room. It contained everything they'd need, including Cum Diabolis which contained tonight's spell. She handed him the heavy, musty tome and retrieved a large pair of scissors for herself.
“Go ahead,” Brant urged, “cut free their clothing.”
It took Katie some time as she squeamishly cut away all six captives' soiled clothing. Brant casually tossed out snippets of Latin for Katie's benefit. She wouldn't know what he was saying and so he called her a good girl and explained in rudimentary Latin all the ways he wanted to enjoy her sexually. She thought the spell had begun which served to motivate her to completion, along with scaring hell out of the prostitutes and even the two ex-cons that Alex had somehow fittingly conned into drinking something laced with sedatives so that he could also tie up their loose ends. When they went missing, their parole officers would assume the worst, which in this case wasn't bad at all. At least for Brant.
He smiled, pleased with himself and the actions of his pregnant daughter who cut away and discarded clothing much like a little girl might be forced to change a younger sibling's diaper for the first time. Brant found it very amusing and somewhat erotic.
Finally, the captives awaited them, track marks, prison tats, and all.
“Good job, sweetie. Now remove the tape from their mouths. They'll plead for release, beg not to be killed, even curse you as a sick cock-sucking whore. But remember: Daddy loves his sick cock-sucking whore, and wouldn't want anything less.”
“Yes, Sir. I'll remember.”
“Good girl. Now we want them to plead. We want them to scream. And if someone says something you don't like, just jab them with a knife.”
“Right. The knife.”
Katie returned the fabric shears to the carry-on case and removed the dagger Brant had used in other ceremonies. Its blade had been magically steeped in the blood and agony of past victims. He loved how Katie wielded the blade. He loved her black-tipped fingernails.
“Make them cry. Make them scream,” he said. “I'll tell you when to do more.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Brant opened the book to the correct page and began to recite the words that would ignite the room in the power of misery and death.
“Kasas Domine, hic me. Audi gemitu hac sacrificium! Remove the tape.”
A prostitute, one chained furthest from the rack, a diminutive crack whore by appearance, squirmed but Katie, using a fingernail, pulled free a corner of tape before ripping it off audibly, in one quick movement.
“Let me outta here, you fucking—!”
A jab of the blade tip into a buttock turned the plea to a yelp of pain. Katie looked to her father for approval; Brant nodded and continued with the incantation:
“Ut hostiae ad moenia luctu licinio...” Let the walls wick the cries of agony. “Suscipe dolorem meretricum! Accipite cruciatus sceleratis!” Accept the pain of whores. Of criminals.
Katie ripped free tape from the mouths of two other prostitutes; their screams, intensified by slashes of the blade, echoed loudly in the small, confined space.
It came as music to Brant's ears and he knew Kasas would revel in the streetwalkers' harmonious cries.
The fourth and final
prostitute, thrashing as wildly as possible, considering being chained between a woman and man, made it a challenge for Katie to remove the tape.
“Step back, sweetie,” Brant shouted over the cries. “Sometimes you have to take the fight out of them.”
He kicked the woman in the face. Tears spilled from her eyes and a trickle of bloody saliva passed her lips but she settled enough that Katie released the tape holding back her screams.
One of the two men, having kept his emotions in check, began to wrestle to stand despite being bound hand and foot. His turn had come.
“Cut him, baby,” Brant said. “Make him hold still. You're in control.”
It was tough, but she did it. Much like a squeamish country girl butchering a chicken for the first time, she seemed reluctant at first to thoroughly use the dagger to her advantage. But when the man attempted to bite her ankle, she slammed the blade down forcefully into his back and a gush of blood spewed from his mouth.
“Oh, god,” Katie said. “I didn't mean to kill him. Not yet.”
“It's fine. You just pierced a lung. Now pull out the knife.”
“I can't.” Again, Katie appeared on the verge of tears.
“Use your foot for leverage.”
Once she had stepped on the man's back and pried free the blade, Brant commenced with the incantation and Katie removed the tape from the sixth and final captive. The cacophony of their cries proved nearly deafening as Brant spurred Katie to: prod one, kick another, stab or slash one or another.
“Suscipe dolorem suum. Accipite et angustia, Domine Kasas! Accipite et sanguine!” Accept their blood. “Do it. Slash that one's throat.”
Katie, a terrified prostitute thrashing before her, looked to her father dumbfounded, “I don't know how... I can't.”
“Don't give me that... You said you wanted to do it. Now, do it!”
Tears streamed from Katie's eyes, same as the prostitutes, a running stream of black mascara.
“Give me the damn knife,” Brant said.
“No... No, I can do it. Just tell me how.”
How? Brant thought. Just drag it across her fucking throat.
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