by David Mack
General Arnold’s genial manner turned confrontational. “Do you have a plan for finding them? Or for dealing with them when you do?”
“Not as such. Not yet, anyway.”
Marshall’s visage darkened. “You’re far from the wonder Mr. Churchill led us to expect, Mr. Macrae. You seem unwilling to assist our plans, and even those objectives we all agree are within your sphere of responsibility appear to confound you. The War Department has spent a significant sum on your Midnight Front. Tell me, if you can: How are we to justify your group’s continued funding with the money of American taxpayers?”
“Remind them we’ve kept the host of Hell from killing you, your president, these gents, and Generals Eisenhower, Patton, and MacArthur. And I swear, we will hunt down Kein and Briet.” Adair closed the folder and slid it down the table to Stimson. “It’s just a matter of time.”
He got up, walked to the door, and opened it. Tolbert waited there in the corridor. He fell into step beside Adair as the master left the meeting room. Adair retraced his steps from earlier and snapped an order with the confidence of a man who expected it to be obeyed. “I’m done here. Let’s collect my man so I can go home.”
* * *
Not a word passed between Cade and the master after they left the central plaza of the War Department. All the master had told him before their jaunt to America had been, “Stay alert, and notice everything.” And that was exactly what Cade had done, every step of the way.
Adair had traded a few pleasantries with Colonel Tolbert on the return to his office, and he had shaken the man’s hand before motioning Cade through the portal mirror.
Cade emerged from the looking glass in Adair’s study, stepped out of the way, and waited until the master returned. As soon as Adair was through the portal, it reverted to its mundane form behind him.
The master walked to a hutch and retrieved a pack of Lucky Strikes. He stuck one in his mouth and lit it with a snap of his fingers. As he inhaled, he lobbed the pack to Cade, who lit a smoke of his own. Then the master blew a series of smoke rings, nesting each new one inside the others. Cade just enjoyed his cigarette. They relaxed into armchairs facing each other.
Adair took another drag. Smoke curled around his every word. “Tell me: Did you notice anything odd about the War Department?”
“You mean aside from the fact they built it in the shape of a pentagon? Which happens to be the same shape in the middle of a grand circle of protection?”
“Aye. Aside from that.”
“There’s residual demonic energy in its plaza. I might not have noticed it if the rest of the building wasn’t as cold as an Eskimo’s ass. But once I set foot outside—it was like that tingle you get when you yoke a lightning spirit, or when you close a thaumaturgic circle. The hairs on my neck stood up.” He watched the master, hoping to read his reaction, but Adair’s face remained a blank slate. “What was that? Part of their defense system?”
The master shook his head. “Not one I devised. This is something worse, I think. I told them how to defend the building from magick—but I never told them to make it a pentagon.”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“Not likely. I know these varlets. They don’t do shite by accident.” He fixed Cade with a grim, conspiratorial look. “They’ve set up a magickal warfare program under their War Department. Or they mean to. Either way, it’s not good.” A heavy sigh. “This is why I wanted no part of the war. Limited to a few, properly trained karcists, magick can be a force for good. For insight. Wisdom.” A long slow pull on his Lucky, then a despondent exhalation. “The world had forgotten us. Now it wants us to drive its war machines. This is everything I’d hoped to avoid.”
Cade hoped he might salvage some excuse for hope from the master’s news. “It didn’t feel active, if that’s any consolation. And who knows? Maybe they built it for you.”
That drew a mordant chuckle. “Oh, I doubt that. I told those bum-biters years ago they could chew ma banger before I’d ever be their knife-in-the-dark. And if that didn’t take me off their short list, I’m fairly certain I just burned whatever bridges I had left.”
“Maybe you’re assuming too much. I mean, if they didn’t ask you to run a project like that, who else could they get?”
That question stymied Adair. “Buggered if I know. Not many karcists in America. There’s a Salem-style coven down in New Orleans, but they’ve no love for the government, and they like to keep to their own. I knew a karcist who tried to make his name out West when it was still the frontier … but he died in some Nevada shithole.”
“If they won’t ask you,” Cade said, “would they ask me?”
“If we’re lucky, maybe.” He snuffed his cigarette butt and lit another. “I know as much as I need to for now. We’ll follow up on this when the war’s over.”
Something in the master’s tone troubled Cade. “You don’t sound optimistic. You really think this might be a problem?”
“Magick in the wrong hands? It could be a right fucking disaster.”
37
JUNE
All of the conjuring room’s details had been prepared in accordance with the Covenant. Tapers of beeswax from a new hive stood atop stands of unalloyed gold, their flames populating the walls with erratic shadows. The flayed skin of a newborn lamb was staked with spruce to the floor beyond the northwest quadrant of the double circle; its entrails bubbled in a pot of brandy and magpie’s blood, above coals taken from a priest’s funeral pyre.
The ritual’s key component dangled from the ceiling, suspended above an iron brazier filled with myrrh and camphor: an eighteen-year-old boy, unsullied, naked but for the bindings about his wrists and ankles. Two silken cords—one white, one carmine—restrained his extremities. His hands flailed through the smoke rising from the brazier as he struggled.
He gazed at Kein with frightened, desperate eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I must.” It was true, and Kein didn’t wish to belabor the proceedings with mawkish sentiment. But when he looked down at the man-child, he had to admire him.
His hand stroked the youth’s cheek. “You look so much like Sabine. You have her eyes. Her hair.” He gestured toward his own face. “But my nose, I think.” He caressed the teen’s earlobes. “And a few of my other features.” Noting the youth’s confusion, he couldn’t resist the temptation to confess. “Forgive me. Did you really think Herr Lohmann was your father? How sad you should learn of your mother’s indiscretion in this manner.”
Tears ran from the young man’s eyes; sobs racked his chest. Kein stroked the youth’s cheek, then purged himself of pity and cleared his own mind for the ritual at hand.
He had taken many lovers over the centuries, most of them by dint of his own charm and good looks, and only a rare few—those who existed at the intersection of great beauty and intractable refusal—by sorcery. Never had he seduced a woman out of love or affection. A few he had enjoyed for recreation; others he had conquered in the name of spite. But a special few he had chosen to serve as vessels for his offspring.
His decision to spawn progeny had stemmed not from some illusion of legacy through his descendants, but from a pragmatic need for sacrifices born of his own blood.
When he opened his eyes, all was in order. The hour had come for his experiment to commence. His sword was balanced atop his toes, his athamé was tucked against his left hip, and his wand was ready on his right. He reached into a pocket on the front of his alb, clutched a handful of sulfur and powdered wormwood, and cast it into the brazier at his feet as he spoke:
“Havoc! Havoc! Havoc!”
Green sparks jetted from the brazier and rebounded off the ceiling. Moans and cries from Hell’s depths drowned out the youth’s screams inside the conjuring room, which was hidden underground, deep within the Wolfsschanze complex.
Kein lifted his voice to break through the unholy clamor: “I invoke thee, LUCIFUGE ROFOCALE, by virtue of my lawful pact with thee, and by the
names ADONAI, EL, ELOHIM, JEHOVAM, TETRAGRAMMATON, and by the names ALPHA AND OMEGA, by which Daniel destroyed BEL and slew the Dragon; and by the whole hierarchy of superior intelligences, who shall constrain thee against thy will: venité, venité, submirillitor, LUCIFUGE ROFOCALE!”
Thunder shook the room. Blue fire and noxious smoke manifested outside of the circle, then dissipated to reveal Hell’s prime minister. It took stock of its circumstances, then showed Kein a fanged grin. YOU’VE BROUGHT ME A SWEETER GIFT THAN I NORMALLY DEMAND. It sniffed the air. A VIRGIN SON. ONE BORN OF YOUR OWN SEED. YOU MUST WANT SOMETHING SPECIAL.
Kein drew his athamé and slashed the young man’s throat. Blood rushed out, drawn by gravity into the brazier. “LUCIFUGE ROFOCALE, as prescribed by the Covenant, I give you the blood of my own virgin son as a sacrifice, so that I may ask of thee a boon of prophecy.”
The boy’s death jolted the beast into ecstatic spasms. Its forked tongue flicked in and out, as if it were lapping up the sweet wine of slaughter.
When the sacrifice’s veins ran dry, the demon ceased its convulsions and leered at Kein like a whore ready to serve. WHAT TRUTH DO YOU WISH REVEALED, MY FAITHFUL SERVANT?
“The Allies gather strength. It is only a matter of time before they try to land a major expeditionary force on the European mainland. I want to know precisely where and precisely when that assault will occur.”
His question sent the demon into a trancelike state. Its eyes fluttered shut, and its hands fell still at its sides. When its jaundice-yellow eyes snapped open, they burned with madness. WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH THE KNOWLEDGE I GIVE YOU?
“That is none of your concern. I have abided by the terms of the Covenant. Answer my question—” He drew his wand and poised it over the brazier. “—or feel my wrath.”
A growl from the beast, then sullen compliance. THE ALLIES WILL STORM THE SHORES OF NORMANDY, FROM BARFLEUR TO LE HAVRE, NEXT YEAR, ON THE MORNING OF JUNE THE SIXTH, THIRTY-TWO MINUTES AFTER THE SIXTH HOUR OF THE DAY. It leveled a withering stare. KNOWING THIS WILL NOT ENABLE YOU TO CHANGE WHAT IS TO COME.
“I think not to change it,” Kein said, “but to usurp it … in the name of Hell.”
38
JULY
No journey had ever been so tedious to Briet as the one she had just made from Cherbourg to the compound known as Wolfsschanze, the Führer’s military headquarters in the Masurian woods of northeastern Poland.
Despite the urgency of Kein’s telegraphed summons, he had forbidden her to hasten her journey by magick. He had ordered a moratorium on portals of fire and shadow, on account of the enemy’s seeking his whereabouts with the same fervor that he sought theirs.
So it was that Briet had bid a reluctant farewell to her amoureux Victor and Sandrine, to endure nine days on three trains, each a sadder rattletrap than the last, all of them crowded and stinking of sweat and dirty clothes.
Europe was caught in the grip of a miserable summer. Across the continent, temperatures soared and potable water grew short. German propaganda had repeatedly forecasted rain and relief from the heat, but its last half dozen predictions had gone unfulfilled.
There had been little for Briet to do during her journey but read the stacks of newspapers the conductor brought to her sleeper car. Each day had brought fresh reams of bad news. In recent months, she had been skeptical of the Nazis’ efforts to conscript foreign nationals to serve as labor in German factories. Today she was dismayed by reports of the ease and rapidity with which the Allies had invaded Italy and forced Duce Benito Mussolini into retreat.
The Devil take the fucking Italians. First they lost North Africa, now they can’t even hold their own country. Useless.
Steel shrieked and the train stopped with a shudder. Vapors spewed from its undercarriage as Briet looked out the window to see they had reached Wolfsschanze. Outside, German troops manned defensive posts or assembled to meet the train.
Standing among them but palpably separate from them was Kein Engel. In spite of the swelter, the creases of his suit looked crisp, and the man himself was impeccably groomed. His composure filled Briet with admiration and envy.
She gathered her sole piece of luggage, a long leather bag in which she carried her grimoire and her tools of the Art. The rest of her belongings—all the mundane necessities of daily life—she had foisted upon DANOCHAR, her hellbeast of burden. With her tools over her shoulder, she got off the train and was met trackside by Kein.
“Master.”
“Welcome to Wolfsschanze. I trust your journey was tolerable.”
“It was nine days in hot metal cars with the rabble.”
He almost smiled. “My apologies, then.” He motioned toward a nearby structure. “Do come inside. A chilled bottle of Gewürztraminer awaits us.” What the master lacked in emotional warmth he had always made up for with generosity and taste.
They retired inside his guesthouse, whose interior, to Briet’s relief, had been cooled and dehumidified to levels that approached comfortable. Its appointments were simple but of quality, and had been chosen for comfort as much as for aesthetics. There was a minimum of decoration; the walls were mostly bare but had at least been painted and, in a few places, paneled to help one forget that the building was little more than a cement box.
The house comprised an office, a bedroom, a lavatory with a shower, and a small kitchenette. A trapdoor in its central hallway appeared to lead to a basement level, which Briet surmised must be where Kein had established his conjuring room.
He walked to his desk, on which a pair of tulip glasses stood beside a slender bottle drenched with condensation. Briet set down her tools and relaxed onto the room’s sofa. The master uncorked the bottle and half filled the glasses before handing one to her.
“To victory,” he said.
She clinked her glass against his. “Victory.”
The wine was tart, with notes of apple and green pear, and its acidity made her mouth water. She liked that it was less sweet than some Rieslings she had found cloying. She guzzled the rest of the glass, hoping to shed the stresses of travel and dull the pain of dragging nine yoked demons. Then she set the glass aside and regarded her master. “You didn’t bring me here from Normandy for a wine tasting. Why am I here?”
“As ever, straight to the point.” He set his glass on his desk. “I have received … a revelation from Below.”
“Of what?”
“Things to come. Inevitabilities we can turn to our advantage.” He paced while folding his hands one over the other, massaging the knuckles. “For months I have had you seed the Atlantic coast with Enochian wards. And you have done an exemplary job. But now I know where and when the Allies will strike when they invade France, and I mean to prepare something special for their arrival.” He stopped and faced her. “Something never seen before.”
His penchant for drama vexed her. “Am I meant to guess what it is?”
“A trap—one that will change the face of the earth, leave the Allies and the Axis in ruins, and force both sides to pursue the kinds of desperate measures that will turn the people of the world against them and their precious Science once and for all.”
Had the master finally gone mad? The gleam in his eyes suggested the possibility. Briet kept her tone neutral. “What kind of trap, exactly?”
“One that can unleash a legion from Hell, without instruction or restriction, to wreak havoc on the earth until I am satisfied it has laid waste Science’s decadent modern world.” Perhaps noting some hint of alarm in Briet’s gaze, he added, “You and I will have nothing to fear. Knowing the day and the hour, we will be protected by circles and wards greater than any that Solomon or Honorius ever dared to conceive.”
“Putting aside the logistical hurdles to crafting such a trap, why do it at all? Unleashing that many demons on the earth, without commands or control, would almost certainly herald the coming of Armageddon.”
“Ridiculous. The Seven Seals are unbroken, the Antichrist has yet to appear—”
&nbs
p; “You’re quite certain of that?”
He inferred her meaning at once. “The Führer is many things—a megalomaniac and a small-minded worm of a man, for starters—but I assure you: He is not the Antichrist. At any rate, my point stands. The prophecies remain unfulfilled. Judgment Day is not upon us, no matter what we do. And I will make certain I can rein in the mayhem when I have had my fill.”
“How?”
“By being the one to mold the trap. I am going to compose a seal of bondage that will put Solomon’s to shame. He became a legend for trapping seventy-two spirits in his vessel of brass. I will imprison a thousand and one inside slabs of stone—which I will put squarely in front of the Allies’ invasion. However they break them, once the seal is shattered, the Allies will be the first to feel Hell’s fury. And when their armies are vanquished, the demons will turn on the Germans. And then on anyone and anything else they find.” A malevolent smile gave him the affect of a madman. “It will be glorious, my dear.”
Was there any reason left in him? She had to try to find it. “How does destroying the world benefit us? Would it not be prudent to leave some of its technologies intact?”
He refilled his glass, then hers. “Technology gave us industrialized warfare, Briet. This slaughter that engulfs the globe—where will it end? Can it end? The Chinese flooded the Yellow River valley in a failed bid to halt the Japanese army, and ended up killing half a million of their own people. Defenseless civilians, most of them women, children, or the elderly, all drowned without warning because war drives men to madness. Now, thanks to Science, governments can eradicate entire populations in the blink of an eye.” He spread his arms in a dramatic flourish. “Man has used Science to make a vision of Hell on earth. I plan to give them the real thing, and to make sure Science takes the blame.”
“And a night of demonic carnage accomplishes that … how?”
“By forcing all sides to the ends of their desperation. The Germans have built rockets that will let them bomb London and eventually America’s east coast, without risking any pilots. The Russians have already sacrificed the better part of a generation, and I have no doubt they will push their own people to extinction in the name of pride. And the Americans…” He pressed a finger to his lips, then shook his head. “Let it suffice to say Hell gave me a taste of what the Americans have in store for the world. If I can push them far enough—say, by sinking their attack fleet and sending their invasion force to the bottom of the English Channel—they will have no choice but to unleash their nightmare masterpiece. First on Germany. Then, I suspect, on Japan. Compared to that, a night of a thousand demons will seem like a pale prelude.”