by Grey Durose
It was time to begin the job of deciphering the text and George plucked various reference books from the shelves to assist him. A couple of aged tomes describing early Persian texts and an old, dust-laden book about the ancient Persian language and how it had evolved over the millennia, alongside other Iranian dialects. It was painstaking work, and it took several hours out of his day, but George was eventually satisfied with his translation. The heading of the page was the name and city of the sect and beneath were a list of members and their positions within the sect. Some of the names were hard to recognise, and the characters used were clearly a compromise, but George had always been adept at word puzzles.
The first page was dedicated to the sect George had already encountered, they called themselves the Followers of the Serpent. The names meant nothing to George but the list of twelve contained no mention of the vampire himself, as far as he could tell, which meant that one of the twelve men recorded had not been at the meeting and was still at large. George recalled the spare robe he’d worn.
He was starting to get the hang of the script and the sounds it implied and each page became a little easier to translate. By the time he realised it was evening he'd finished the last page. He now had a set of lists of his own, twelve locations, each with their own sect name and the one hundred and forty four individuals who comprised the cult.
The names of those men and women could become useful when he delved deeper in to each branch of the cult but, for now, the names of each sect were what intrigued George: the serpent, the tail, the left leg, the right arm, the backbone, the right leg, the left arm, the under belly, the eagle, the breast, the left wing and the right wing. Together these components built an image of the beast George had encountered in his dream of the temple in Eridu, all that was missing was the human head. There had been twelve great jars smashed in the back room of the ruins of the ziggurat and a space where another had once stood. The beast had been dismembered, cut in to thirteen parts and placed in to the jars to be contained forever, but one of those jars had been removed, or stolen, and the other twelve must have been destroyed at some later date.
The cities were an interesting and diverse collection of locations: New York, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo, Mumbai, Rome, Alexandria, Hong Kong, Eridu (of course), Thessaloniki, Fianarantsoa and London. They were spread across the world, most were important global cities but Alexandria and Eridu were more significant for their history. Thessaloniki was a crucial port for supplying Europe from the east and Fianarantsoa, well, it was in Madagascar and other than that George was stumped.
He broke from his contemplation and decided it was time to eat, he'd get no further with the pages alone. After his meal, George poured himself a large measure of golden-brown brandy in a bulbous glass and put on some suitably atmospheric classical music. For some reason the ebb and flow of Beethoven helped him to think creatively and he'd need to do a lot of that in the coming days and weeks.
George realised he would need to eliminate the various sects he'd uncovered and, given their distance from each other, it would have to be done one at a time. Even then, there still remained the problem of the Nameless One, where does It fit in to the puzzle and how can It be removed from this world, permanently? he wondered.
London was the closest of the locations on the list and it would be a relief not to have such enemies living right on his own doorstep. He took a look at the notes he'd made earlier and took a sip of brandy. London was home to the Sect of the Tail and the names on the list contained a few surprises. Most of them were anonymous figures who would require in-depth research but three of them stood out from the crowd: one was John Matravers, considered by many to be somewhat of an authority on the occult, his books on the subject could fill an entire shelf in any library. George had always considered this man's work to be ill-informed drivel but this discovery had changed his perception. 'I might have to reread a few of his books when I have the time.' he mumbled in to his glass.
The second of the prominent names was Selina StClair-Woods, George was only aware of her from her constant media presence. She was what used to be known as a socialite but these days might be better termed an 'It girl', either way, this tall, slender media darling was a cultist. She kept company with the wealthy and the powerful, as well as the famous. If you were a celebrity, a billionaire or a politician the chances were that you would have attended one of her parties, along with members of aristocratic families, great and small.
The last of the famous three was Sir Edward Jameson, he was a businessman who could easily fit in to the top ten of Britain's rich list. He was the largest single donor to the Conservative party and famously lost out in an attempt to be their candidate for Mayor of London. He was from an extremely privileged background, his father had been a government minister and he'd followed down the standard 'Eton then Oxford' road to power. If George was going to find the heart of the sect, these three were obvious places to start. They'd all have well documented lives and could easily be traced with a few well phrased searches online. George decided to retire for the night and get an early start in the morning.
He was up with the larks and hit the ground running, after an unusually peaceful sleep. He did his research first and found out the habitual hang outs of the three most prominent sect members, then did some basic research on the remaining nine. One of the others was a senior officer in the metropolitan police force, another was a General in the British army, a third was a doctor with an office on Harley Street who'd treated the ailments of many grand public figures and a fourth was a children's television presenter, of all things. Maybe I should be monitoring children's television too George thought, before snorting with laughter.
The other five were bureaucrats of various levels of seniority in and around the London area, George presumed they were used to clear the way when red tape stood in the way of the sect's requirements, or to cover up their activity. All he needed now was a plan, and the means to carry it out.
Improvised weaponry was simple enough; as part of the art of stage magic and escapology George had learnt to craft many different types of props. He went out and bought the required materials, paying in cash, in case any of it should have to be left at the scene of some carnage. Security cameras wouldn't get a clear and recognisable image of his face and shop assistants would be equally useless in providing a description, should they be asked. The only weakness would be his car, so he made sure he parked well away from anywhere it could be matched to him, or rather matched to a man in clothing that was the same as in security images of him.
When he returned, he went down to the workshop in the basement. He'd decided that fire would be his best weapon and began to construct a suitable delivery system. A small fuel container would be strapped to his inner thigh, it would be filled with a blend of lighter fuel and a petroleum based gel, this would provide flammability and a texture that would stick to the surface of its target, while remaining fluid enough to pass through the rest of the weapon. The fuel would run via tubing to his armpit, where it would be connected to a battery-powered pump from a child's water gun. More tubing would carry the fuel from the pump, down his arm to a small insulated nozzle. Fine wires attached to the inside of the forefinger of his left hand, would run along the tubing and provide power from the pump batteries to create an ignition spark at the nozzle. A flat button, attached to his palm, would act as a trigger for the mechanism and appropriately cut gloves would cover it all from sight.
George needed to do some testing, there was a small concrete bunker at the bottom of the garden which had been built there for precisely that purpose. It was sound proofed, had its own water and air supply and had plenty of targets to aim at. George strapped the mechanism in to place on his body, trying out several positions until it felt comfortable. He slipped on a glove over the nozzle and cut a hole at the end of the forefinger.
He got himself prepared - water and sand were on hand, just in case - and he raised his left hand at a human-shaped target. He
extended his forefinger and clenched the rest of his fingers in to his palm. There was a whirring and a crackle at his fingertip, which flashed with short blue sparks. The fuel gushed out at the target, roaring with flames, coating the target with extraordinary efficiency. George unclenched his fist, pointing his hand downwards and away from his body, the flaming jet dried up to a trickle then stopped, the target continued to burn. George nodded, a look of satisfaction on his face, 'That'll do!' He declared.
He decided to make Matravers his first target, he only lived about fifteen miles from George's own home and it seemed as good a place to start as any. Once he was eliminated, it would send the rest of the sect in to a flurry of activity which could lead George straight to their leader.
Matravers lived in a medium sized property outside the village of Rowly, it was surrounded by clumps of woodland and had no near neighbours, which made George's job a lot easier. He'd timed his journey for the late evening, it was a dry but overcast night with thick cloud which occasionally broke across the face of a part eaten moon, and it was surprisingly warm for the time of year.
George parked the car off-road, shielded from any passing drivers who might have noticed it and later recalled seeing it in the area. He got out of the car, skipped lightly across the dark puddles of standing water which surrounded his car and began to make his way through the undergrowth towards the lights of the house which were peeking through the trees.
He was carrying a bag of tools and had brought along his trusty dagger, now he needed a torch more than anything. At first the undergrowth had been bracken - turned to rust and curled by earlier frosts – but it had now switched to thorny brambles, small birch and oak trees, with the ground becoming increasingly uneven under boot. The torch shone down on the path ahead, picking out the drops of water collected on the remaining leaves and the fine gossamer of busy spiders. George shuddered at the thought of the spiders, they were unnatural.
The air was still and silent, only disturbed by the occasional rush of a passing car clipping puddles on the road. George picked his way to the edge of the property, where a wooden panelled fence stood in his path. He reached up and lifted himself just high enough so he could get a view across the garden. From his research George had gleaned that Matravers was single, and he fully expected him to be alone but there were no guarantees this would be the case. He had no problem ending the life of any cultist he encountered but innocent blood should not be shed if at all avoidable. Be alone, was his silent prayer. The driveway was empty, any cars would have been safely tucked away in the double garage to the left of the house, which appeared to be a modern mock-Tudor affair with brick facing on the ground floor and dark beams between cream-white panels above. The windows on the lower floor were leaded in a diamond lattice.
Two of the rooms inside were lit, just with mood lighting or table lamps, and the curtains were drawn, obscuring any further view. George pulled himself over the fence and landed in a crouched position on the other side. Underfoot was the soft, mulch-covered earth of a flowerbed, with just enough evergreen shrubs to offer some cover. He made his way along the flowerbed toward the back of the house, keeping close to the fence. The back door was in the middle of the wall and seemed to be one of those stable door styles that split in the middle so the top could be opened independently.
George scanned the back wall, his breathing was heavier and he could feel a surge of anxiety. His torch was extinguished now, so he only had dim residual light to work with but he could just make out the shape of a security light on the wall, immediately above the back door. The light forced George to move to the side of the house, he slipped round the corner and approach the back door while keeping flat to the wall. The lock on the door had heavy tumblers but a simple mechanism and the only thing that slowed him down was the need for silence.
George opened the door and found himself in a country-style kitchen, the lights were off but he could see by the light escaping from a room further down the hall. He closed the back door behind him, to avoid creating a draught that might alert his prey, and slipped across the tiled floor and in to the hallway. The house was quiet, the only noises where the soft chaotic tones of some jazz and the muffled clatter of a keyboard. He crept along the short hallway until he was at the edge of the doorframe and peered in at the part of the room which had now come in to view. From his position, George could see a large, Comfortable sofa with olive green covers patterned in gold thread. The parquet flooring was partly covered with a large rug, woven with autumnal shades of brown, orange and deep red. In one corner was an armchair from the same suite as the sofa, a lit table lamp stood on the table next to it and a well-used paperback, carelessly held open, face down on one of the chair’s arms.
George got closer to the doorway and looked around the corner at the rest of the room; a desk came in to view, it was far older than the rest of the furniture, carefully worked by the hands of an old-fashioned master craftsman from dense oak and fruit woods, and topped with a newer, red leather writing pad. Sat at the desk, with his back to the door, was Matravers.
Matravers was in his early forties, he had long black hair, streaked with artificial white and pulled back in a ponytail. His skin was bone-white, and he had dark grey rings under his eyes that betrayed the habits of a night owl. Matravers was leaning over a laptop typing with unbroken fluidity, his long bony fingers covered by a collection of elaborate silver rings. He was wearing a dark red, velvet bathrobe but, from the nakedness of his lower legs, George assumed little else, save for the black leather strop which clung to his neck.
George stepped stealthily in to the room, moving silently towards Matravers, his dagger drawn and raised, his breathing slowed. Just as he was about to strike, a phone began to ring loudly in the kitchen. George's heart leapt and he stopped with a jolt as Matravers span around in his seat. The two men froze and for a moment locked gazes. George felt his face distort in to a look of panic, which reflected the mix of anger and horror on Matravers' own gaunt, bespectacled face. George shook off the momentary thrall of the situation and began to bring down his dagger-hand but as he did, Matravers' slender right hand shot out and an unfamiliar word slipped from his lips.
George suddenly felt a powerful force impact on his midriff, knocking the wind out of him and sending his whole body flying backwards through the doorway. He crashed against the side of the stairway beyond; every ridge of woodwork making its mark. He slumped to the floor, struggling for breath. Matravers rose from his seat his open right palm extended towards George and his left hand clutching the pendant on the leather strop.
'Who are you?' Matravers demanded, his eyes were wide and the centre of his brow pulled down between two arches of wiry hair.
George, was still in no position to answer and could only lie there on the floor trying to recover his composure and his wind.
'I'll only ask you once more; who are you and what are you doing in my home?' the writer asked, his mouth a flat line between thin lips.
George looked up at Matravers, his breath was returning to him. 'My name is... irrelevant. And as for what I'm doing here... I'd have thought that was obvious enough.' George spoke between gasps.
'You came here to kill me? Who sent you? Some cult? One of my rivals? WHO?' Matravers raged, a hint of paranoia slipping in to his questions.
'No one sent me. As for cults: you really aren't in a position to criticise!' George said, as he went to rise, pressing down with his left hand while still clutching his dagger in his right.
'Don't bother getting up, you stay there, on the ground where you belong!' He warned 'So, you're aware of my other calling?' Matravers seemed determined to do the interrogating and showed very little sign of being afraid.
'I have a certain amount of knowledge on the subject.' George replied. He'd recovered his breath now and was looking for an opportunity to turn the tables again. Being cowed by a middle-aged writer was almost too embarrassing.
'Then you should know what you just attempted t
o do was extremely stupid! When I introduce you to my friends they'll take the greatest delight in cutting every piece of that knowledge from your mind.' the hack gloated, his lips curling in to something between a snarl and a smirk.
'I'm sure they would.' George acknowledged. His anxieties forgotten, he sprang forward, plunging his dagger deep in to Matravers's foot. The point passed straight through, between the long bones of the foot and in to the polished wood of the flooring. Matravers screamed, attempting to pull his foot away from the source of the agony but only succeeding in dragging the edge of the blade along the length of his foot, splitting it down the middle between the second and third toes. He fell to the ground grasping at his divided foot, trying to hold the two halves together, his blood oozing warm and thick between his fingers.