Infixion (Mesmeris Book 2)

by K E Coles

  Something brushed against his forehead. He shrank back.

  Ruby bumped into him, shoved him forward. ‘It’s a tree, stupid.’

  Tree or not, at every touch, Spicer recoiled. Whatever drug they’d fed him had left every atom of his body at screaming point, every nerve on edge. Even the feather touch of a leaf burned his skin.

  They reached a clearing. In the centre, a fire roared, crackling and hissing. In front of it, lay a stone slab. The yellow-white flames reached over twenty feet, illuminating the trees around them.

  Art came out of the shadows, dressed in a black cassock. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Bit of a cock-up with the pre-med.’ Nico nodded in Leo’s direction.

  Art groaned. ‘You okay, Spicer?’

  Spicer nodded.

  ‘He is now,’ Nico said, ‘cos the pre-med’s all over the car park.’

  Art shook his head, closed his eyes. His hand shot out, and smacked Leo’s head, so hard, the crack echoed from the trees.

  Leo staggered, one hand to his face. ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘If Papa knew, he’d have your balls,’ Art said, ‘so think yourself lucky. Now, get in position.’ He walked into the trees, disappeared into the shadows.

  Nico led Spicer to a spot where a cross had been scratched into the earth. He positioned him facing the fire. The others stood side by side, a couple of feet apart in a semi-circle. They all stared at the fire, as though expecting something.

  Spicer felt sure he was being watched. He glanced back at the trees. Art had disappeared. Shadows moved amongst the gnarled trunks, the swaying branches. Monsters. Ghosts.

  He moved a little closer to Nico.

  Hands gripped his arms from behind. Blood red fingers dug into his flesh. He opened his mouth to scream.

  ‘There, stupid.’ Ruby shoved him back into position.

  The fire settled, glowed orange. The whole time, the four of them stood in silence.

  Spicer’s legs grew tired. He wanted to sleep. He counted to ten, then twenty, then one hundred, a thousand.

  A bell rang nine times, and Papa appeared from behind the fire. He wore a black cassock like a priest. Over his shoulders, hung an ornate stole, inverted crosses embroidered in gold at each end.

  Behind him, followed Art. In his right hand, he held a huge raven by its feet. Its wings fluttered desperately as it struggled to escape. It pecked at Art’s gloved hand with its massive, powerful beak.

  Everyone knelt.

  Papa stood in front of the fire. The red light glowed around him like some kind of demonic aura. He drew a knife from his pocket. It flashed silver in the flickering light. He slit the raven’s throat in one easy swipe.

  Black blood poured onto the stone slab at Papa’s feet. It pooled in a depression carved in the centre as the bird twitched above it. Once the last drop of blood had fallen, Art tied the now-still raven to a nearby branch. Spicer squinted at other branches he’d thought odd. Ones with what he’d assumed to be dark leaves clustered at the ends. Dead birds, all of them, at least twenty, suspended at intervals around the clearing. He shuddered.

  ‘Come forward,’ Papa said.

  Spicer looked around. He stood, walked towards Papa. He glanced at the raven. Was he next?

  ‘Kneel.’

  Spicer knelt.

  Papa laid his hands on Spicer’s head. ‘Repeat after me. I will love you, my master, above all others.’

  Spicer repeated it. He closed his eyes.

  ‘I will serve you with my life.’

  Someone poured icy water over Spicer’s head.

  ‘I swear that I will never disclose the secrets of Mesmeris – the meeting places, the events I witness, or the identity of any member.’

  It travelled slowly over his skin, across his shoulders, down the outside of his arms and legs, all the way to his fingers and toes. Too slow to be water – something thicker, something glutinous.

  ‘My body, my soul, my life, is yours, to use as you will.’

  It seeped into his eyes, his ears. It went up his nose, hurt like breathing in sea water. He tasted it, sharp, acidic.

  Papa put his hand under Spicer’s chin, and lifted it. ‘Open your eyes.’

  Spicer gazed up at him.

  ‘Should you ever break this oath,’ Papa said, ‘your sentence shall be that you will be consumed alive internally, little by little - an exquisitely painful and prolonged death.’

  Papa bent and dipped his finger into the congealing blood. He marked Spicer’s forehead. A vertical line. ‘We welcome you, Spicer, into our family.’

  He dipped his finger again, drew a short, horizontal line. An inverted cross. ‘My new son.’

  Spicer’s eyes filled with tears. He gazed up at Papa, felt overwhelming love. He wanted above all to please Papa, to repay his trust. Why hadn’t he realised before? This was the only way, the only way that made sense of everything – Papa’s way. He felt so much better. All the stress, all the strain, had gone. All he needed was to follow Papa, nothing else.

  ‘Stand,’ Papa said.

  Spicer stood. He bowed his head, noticed his hands were dry, as were his clothes. No sign of the icy cold liquid, but something was inside him. He could feel it.

  Papa handed him a silver goblet, half-full of clear liquid.

  ‘Drink,’ Papa said.

  Spicer drank every drop. It burned his throat, made his eyes water, his nose sting.

  ‘Come.’ Someone pulled on his elbow.

  Spicer shivered. He couldn’t remember laying down, or even sitting, and yet he must have been there for some time, because the fire had died down to glowing embers. His limbs ached as he staggered to his feet. He tottered for a moment, his head groggy.

  The others were already heading back up the path to the car park, all except the person tugging on his arm.

  Nico smiled. ‘You had a good time, yeah?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You became one of us.’ Nico slapped his back, nearly knocked him over. ‘Feels good, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Spicer smiled. It did feel good – to be one of them, to belong. If only he could clear his head.

  Nico led him back to a small car, the colour indistinguishable in the darkness. ‘Now, party time.’ He fastened Spicer’s seatbelt around him.

  ‘Party?’ The word slurred, as Spicer drifted into sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE SPICER

  He woke back home on his sofa, fully dressed, shoes on. It was light outside, broad daylight. Spicer had no idea how long he’d been asleep. It could have been hours, or days.

  His head ached. A bitter taste filled his mouth. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry and coated. Flashbacks of the night before came and went – Ruby. They were cutting Ruby.

  He sat up, too quickly, saw stars. His head throbbed. Something was spattered over his jeans, tiny drops, brown. The colour bothered him, red-brown, rusty, but his brain hurt. He’d think about it later, when his head stopped thumping.

  He staggered to the bathroom, had a pee. He cleaned his teeth, retched every time the toothbrush touched his tongue. As he splashed his face with water, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The eyes frightened him.

  He stood in the shower, let the hot water pour over him. Papa slicing flesh, running a scalpel down Ruby’s spine. Spicer shook his head, tried to clear the image. Blood welled up, ran from the wound, trickled over her dark skin. Then the syringe, injecting along the open wound. It couldn’t be real. That would be agonising. She hadn’t flinched. She wasn’t dead, so why hadn’t she screamed? He laughed aloud. Because it was a dream, dickhead – a nightmare.

  There was something else, afterwards – music, pounding beats, dancing. There was a girl, soft skin, and a guy, in his face.

  A pounding knock went on and on. He assumed it was in his head, then, not so sure, turned the shower off.

  Definitely knocking.

  He tied a towel around his waist, went and opened his front door.
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br />   ‘Thought you’d pegged it, mate.’ Nico pushed his way in. ‘Been knocking for ages.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Spicer pulled on his jeans, and slumped onto the sofa.

  Nico walked over to the window, opened the curtains. ‘You okay?’

  Spicer grunted. ‘Head hurts.’

  Nico laughed. ‘All part of the process.’

  Spicer frowned. It hurt his eyebrows. ‘What were they doing to Ruby last night?’

  ‘Induction.’

  Spicer reached a hand back and felt his spine – nothing.

  Nico saw him, and smirked. ‘Only Elites get the mark, mate. You haven’t made it yet, although in my opinion . . .’

  ‘What’s the Mark?’

  ‘We all have it – all the Elites. It’s only footies that don’t.’ Nico turned his back and lifted his t-shirt. A red weal ran down his spine and another across the top of his hips. ‘Sign of Mesmeris - inverted cross.’

  ‘And the stuff in the syringe – the white stuff?’ Spicer said.

  ‘Parasitic wasp eggs.’

  ‘Para what?’ Spicer shuddered.

  ‘It’s all about discipline,’ Nico said. ‘Keeps us in line. We disobey, Papa activates it, and we can kiss our grey matter goodbye.’

  And you want that? Spicer thought. Fight over it, even? What the hell was wrong with these guys?

  ‘Anyway,’ Nico said, ‘came to tell you Art’s gone to London again, so you have a day off. Chance to get over last night.’ He winked. ‘Unlike your guy.’

  ‘My guy?’

  ‘Tried to stop you,’ Nico said. ‘Man, you were wild. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You did him.’

  ‘Did?’ Spicer’s gaze slid to the rusty specks on his jeans. He scraped at them with his thumbnail.

  Nico nodded. ‘Messy. Sprayed everywhere. But it’s cool. We nabbed the CCTV, sorted the witness. Man, she was hysterical.’

  Spicer’s head swam. ‘Christ.’

  ‘Hey,’ Nico held his hands out, palms up. ‘Don’t worry, man. You’re in the clear. We got the weapon . . .’

  Weapon? Shit! CCTV, a weapon, a witness.

  Nico chuckled. ‘Thought you were gonna take his head off.’

  Spicer’s vision blurred, his hearing muffled. He wouldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t. He lay his head on the arm of the chair.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Not the time, not the company. Later, when he was alone. Then he’d think about it, not with Nico there, watching him. ‘Just hungover.’ He sat up, breathed through his mouth, tried to block the images from his mind.

  ‘I’d go back to bed, mate,’ Nico said, as he left.

  Spicer couldn’t relax, had to know if he’d done it. He sat on the edge of the sofa, stood, paced to the window and back. He’d remember something like that. He’d remember. The guy in his face – was that him, the victim?

  He made coffee, took a sip, threw it in the sink. Why couldn’t he remember? Why?

  He sat, head in hands, went through the evening chronologically. After the induction, there were gaps all over the place. Last thing was the girl, the soft skin, the face, and after that, nothing, a complete blank.

  All day, he paced around the room, switching from one news channel to another. At six o’clock in the evening, the headline appeared at the bottom of the screen - Murder investigation after body found. A man in his twenties had been found dead, having suffered ‘a sustained and brutal assault with a blunt instrument’.

  Spicer was pretty sure he’d been in no fit state to hurt anyone. Last thing he remembered he could barely walk, let alone pick up a weapon, aim it . . .

  Unless . . .

  That stuff that had seeped into his head at the induction. He could still feel it in there, taste it.

  He paced to the window again, watched the street lights flicker into orange, then sulphurous yellow life.

  They must have set him up, the bastards. They must have.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR PEARL

  I settled into work, even quite enjoyed it. As long as I didn’t think ahead, to the empty evenings and even emptier weekends stretching ahead of me, I was fine. Whenever I could, I escaped before Ed finished and caught the bus home. It felt like a freedom of sorts, if only for an hour or so, and I liked to see London from the top deck. I bought a window box, and planted herb seeds – basil, coriander and mint. I stuck drawings up on the wall, photos, posters. It still didn’t look like a home, more an oblong box that I happened to live in.

  One dull Monday afternoon, I left work to find Art outside, leaning against the wall, watching the swing doors. My pulse increased as I neared him, aware of his gaze travelling up and down, insolent, blatant.

  Every atom in my body burst into life at the sight of him. He wasn’t Jack, I told myself. He would never be Jack, but my body wouldn’t listen. I walked straight past him, ignored the buzz low down in my belly, wished it away.

  ‘No hello, then?’ he said. Even his voice seduced, soft, slightly husky.

  I walked on, clasped my shaking hands together to still them.

  ‘Heard you were working here.’ Right in my ear. He was so, so close.

  I stopped, spun around to face him. ‘Are you spying on me?’

  ‘Taking an interest,’ he said, ‘that’s all.’

  ‘Well, don’t.’ This time, I wasn’t as stupid. This time, I did an Ed, and focussed on his eyebrows.

  ‘I have to,’ he said.

  They really were quite beautiful eyebrows - strong, blunt, and so black. I tried to laugh as I turned away. It sounded rubbish – high and nervous.

  ‘If I know you’re here,’ he said, ‘then so do the rest of them.’

  I put my head down, quickened my step and tried to block out his words.

  He called after me, ‘Including Leo.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE SPICER

  For a week or so, Spicer tried to forget, to act normally, but he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t shake the feeling he was somehow contaminated, infected.

  He called Jim, concentrated on keeping his voice level, calm. ‘Listen, there’s something weird going on.’ The room was too hot. He stood, phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear, and opened the windows wide.

  ‘Like?’ Jim said.

  How could he put it without sounding like a nutter? ‘Pitt has some kind of power. I don’t know what it is, but you can feel it.’ He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  ‘It’s mind control,’ Jim said.

  ‘You’re sure that’s all it is?’ Spicer held his free hand outstretched, concentrated on keeping it still, resisting the tremor.

  Jim paused. ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Spicer said it too quickly, tried to cover it with a laugh. Damn it! Why did he want to cry? What if he’d done it? What if he’d killed that guy? ‘I just feel . . .’ His voice quivered. ‘. . . weird.’

  ‘You need to speak to Luke,’ Jim said. ‘He believes in – other stuff.’

  Spicer coughed. ‘Right.’

  ‘Same as last time. I’ll pick you up.’

  This time, Spicer had no trouble staying awake. Every time he began to doze off, he felt it again, seeping into his mouth, into his ears, into his brain. He had to open his eyes to convince himself Papa wasn’t right there in front of him.

  A frisson of fear gripped his belly and wouldn’t let go.

  *

  Nothing had changed at the vicarage. The same cobwebs hung from the ceiling. The chill air raised the hairs on Spicer’s arms.

  The young priest, Dawn, sat in the corner, like an observer. She smiled a greeting.

  ‘The lad has a few questions,’ Jim said. ‘Reckons Pitt has some spooky powers.’

  ‘No,’ Spicer said, too forcefully. He felt himself flush. ‘Just wondered, you know, if . . . if it’s just mind control, that’s all.’ Even in that freezing room, he was too hot.

  Luke and Dawn exchanged a glance.


  ‘What makes you think it’s more?’ Dawn said.

  Spicer wished he hadn’t come. He was afraid he’d tell them everything, about the dead guy, about the blood on his jeans, afraid they wouldn’t believe he was innocent. Most of all, he was afraid they’d be right.

  ‘Something happened to me,’ he said, ‘at the induction.’

  Luke nodded. ‘What kind of something?’

  Spicer shot a glance at Jim, and laughed. ‘Ah, it’s okay. It’s nothing. Don’t worry.’

  Jim coughed. ‘Think I’ll nip out for some fresh air.’ He stood. ‘Don’t need me, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Luke and Dawn said together.

  They waited until the front door closed.

  ‘So?’ Luke said.

  ‘It was weird.’ The words came out in a rush. He needed to say them before he changed his mind. ‘Like someone poured cold liquid over my head. I was so sure my hair would be wet, but there was nothing – bone dry. And afterwards, it felt like someone, something, had climbed inside my head.’ He stared at the ceiling, fixed his gaze on a cobweb. ‘I know it’s crazy, but that’s how it felt, how it still feels. I try to keep it real, but every time I close my eyes, it’s there.’

  Luke stood. ‘Would you mind if I gave you a blessing?’

  Dawn stood too, came towards him.

  ‘You think I’m possessed?’ Although Spicer laughed as he said it, dread clutched at his guts. His mother’s face swam before him – except it wasn’t her. The body was the same, but the person looking out of those eyes was someone else, someone evil.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Luke said. ‘Marcus?’

  Spicer forced himself to focus on the priest. ‘My mother’s possessed.’ He couldn’t hide the rising panic.

  ‘No, she’s not.’

  ‘Shit!’ Spicer pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Luke said. ‘You are not possessed. Do you hear me?’

  Spicer nodded, swallowed.

  ‘Look at me.’ Luke laid his hands on either side of Spicer’s head.