by Rick Heinz
“Like the nineties movie Flatliners?” Mike asked.
“I suppose.” O’Neil looked behind Mike.
In the dimly lit mirror behind the bar, Mike noticed that Morris began to bleed drops of black blood by his right eye.
O’Neil placed his hand on Mike’s shoulder to keep his attention. “Listen, I want you to come join us before the month is out. Work for me. Put that fight you have inside to some proper use. World-changing events are going to happen shortly. The kind I’ll fill you in on once you decide which side of the fence you’re on. Our side, or those good folk out there.” O’Neil gestured out the window to the city.
“That’s a pretty easy choice if you’re asking now. When did I strike you as the kidnapping, accident-causing, horror-movie stand-in like yourself?” Mike laughed.
“Lady Fate is a fickle bitch, kid. And I’ve wagered my name on protecting this city. The Second City has been chosen as a safe haven for what’s to come and the damned who survive. You can be a leader, or just another face in the horde. Make your choice. But time’s running out. You might not have a mouth left to voice your decision after it’s burned off by demon fire.”
O’Neil snatched the bottle out of Morris’s hand and uncorked it. A rich aroma of sweetness filled the room. Mike thought he heard chairs slide out of place, and suddenly he felt a bit crowded in a bar with only the three of them. “Morris, would you be so kind as to keep an eye on our guest. Make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble or a demon doesn’t sniff him out in the next three days. Keep our cops on him during the day,” O’Neil said. “I already have eyes on the society. We’ve given them more than enough fuel. We need men like him here in case that goes wrong.”
Morris placed his hands over the glass, defying O’Neil, while Mike’s hand was still trembling. “We are the rejects of the Unification for our perceived loyalty issues. They’ve sent more of our family diving down than any other group that joined them. Now we hide in the shadows like starved hyenas for the coming global change. Are you sure you want to bring this kid into the Unification, the noisy rioter? By making him Nosferatu with one of your last vials? What makes you think he’ll change our fortune?” As Morris spoke, Mike had the feeling that he was in a crowded room. He could almost hear the whispers from behind him, yet Morris was keeping him pinned.
O’Neil placed a towel over his arm and rocked back and forth on his feet, letting the silence sit while he contemplated. His gaze wandered across the entire bar before finally resting on Mike, who he regarded with a wry grin. “People like you are born once a decade. You’d never even know it, but Lady Fate spins you into action one way or another.” O’Neil grabbed the bottle from Morris without further protest and slowly poured the thick black ichor into Mike’s glass. “So drink up.”
Mike raised the glass and took a sip. It tasted like an incredibly sweet peach, with a fiery burn as it went down. He licked his lips and held up the glass for closer inspection. “What the hell is this?” Poison, probably. Now he’s going to say if I don’t accept his offer, I don’t get the cure. I am way too tired to be doing this. He didn’t feel tired, however. He felt as alive as ever, the pain in his wrists and legs washing right out of him. A sense of renewed vigor filled him.
“Demon blood,” the bartender said. “Has a different effect on everyone. Kills some people and gives others strength. I’m sure you’ll love it. You’re gonna take that bottle home and finish it off. I’ve already taken the liberty of getting you a replacement for your job. Daneka is going to stay with us for a while and study his father’s missing notes. You figure out if you like where your life is going and make your own choice.”
“Morris will get you a cab home. When you’re ready for more, we’ll be here, kid. Remember, though, it’s okay to gamble with your life, but Lady Fate will make you pay thrice if you gamble with other lives.” He reached over and rubbed Mike’s head like a father tussling his kid’s hair. “Hey, you’ll be fine. Your life is going to come into focus. Now get outta here before my associates decide to make a meal of you.”
Mike began to feel more than a bit drunk and was grateful for Morris helping him outside into a cab. He didn’t notice skinless Frank driving him home and tucking him into bed. Mike only noticed that he felt like a paradox. Half wanting to scream and shout at the world, and half wanting to cuddle up with his pillow and sleep. At least I brought clean underwear . . . was his last thought of the night.
CHAPTER 6
Talking heads bobbed up and down on an array of monitors. Sounds of the drivel echoed off the glass windows in the vast penthouse of Walsh Tower. Thirteen figures in tattered gray Masonic robes stood in silent judgment of the chattering screens as the moon cast a peaceful light on the Twin Cities. Only the porcelain-skinned creature daintily sipping on a goblet of blood seemed amused by the events unfolding before them.
“. . . and that, Janice, wraps up our highlight on Macgregor Brewery’s newest addition of local brewers to their line. On to you, Michael.”
“Pause!” All monitors except one went dark. Charles Walsh stepped out from the corner of the room, jamming buttons on a remote. His bright-blue vest, lavender tie, and sandy-blond hair stood in contrast to the rest of the room’s inhabitants. “Okay, my lords and ladies, watch this!” Charles had a face perfect for the front page of magazines, accented now by sideways light from the screens.
“. . . in other news, international pop star Molly LeMuse is starting her tour right here in . . .”
“Did you see that?” Walsh asked. “Alexandria, you of all vampires had to appreciate that.” Flicking a pocket watch open and closed out of habit, he let the quiet linger to that moment where everyone was standing in awkward silence. “Okay, let me rewind it.”
“I saw you cut away from news of my favorite singer, Walsh,” Alexandria said at last.
“Right, right. Let me play it again.”
“Please. Heavens no. Even immortals have busy nightlives. Enlighten us.”
Slamming the pocket watch shut, he straightened his position. “Very well. What you did not see is a video made a few days ago in which a crane fell in Chicago, killing two people and injuring fourteen.”
One of the robed figures spoke. “Your point, please.”
“That we can control the narrative fully now. Everything is on schedule. We’ve fully perfected our technique that the Unification started with McCarthy in controlling public discourse. Uh . . . here, let me highlight.” Walsh snapped his fingers and pointed to one of the smaller figures. “Lord of Murder, over forty shootings happened in Detroit this weekend alone. Here’s the news.”
“. . . caught in a sexting scandal . . .”
“Lady of Age, warlords in Africa continue to press children into their ranks for their wars, even going so far as to sacrifice them, drinking their blood, and having them charge naked into battle. Because we want to prove the point, here is the coverage.” Charles turned off all the monitors. “Absolutely nothing.” He took a flourishing bow in front of the middle figure. “Lord of Heaven’s Wrath, a tiny fraction of the world’s total population is killed by supernaturals each year. That’s still thousands of people. Yet the news of strange accidents is replaced with this.”
“. . . this winter’s must-see blockbuster . . .”
“The Treaty of Unification is working. With the majority of the world’s occult groups on board controlling the flow of blood—”
“The rockin’ sockin’ business hour is up next with Tim . . .”
Walsh turned on more monitors, each showing people of influence in developed nations. “After McCarthy, we’ve been giving demon blood to those with power and influence to shape the direction of the masses, relying on the trickle-down effect, and it’s worked.”
Lord of Heaven’s Wrath took a step forward and placed his hand on Charles’s shoulder. “We are grateful for your efforts, my child, yet until our work is complete, souls of the dying are still sorted by demons and angels of all the world’s reli
gions. Often with a great deal of inconsistency. One goes to a heaven for slaughter in his god’s name while another goes to a hell for killing.”
Charles tapped the remote on the creature’s shoulder. “We can finally save the souls trapped in purgatory. We’ve slowly recruited descendants of Lazarus for centuries and trained them in helldiving and how to navigate purgatory.” Charles winked at Alexandria. “We’ve made the warlocks, located and readied all the prime ritual sites into the underworld, and now, thanks to the beta run by the Unification with McCarthy, we can control collective will for what comes after.”
Alexandria applauded. “So the sheep can be herded because we gave the sheepdogs demon blood. It doesn’t matter, when we bring Lazarus back for the third time, we can just slap all the angels and demons in line like the good little servants they were created to be.”
Robed figures next to her shuffled away quietly. “Or we could do it peacefully, as intended by the accord of the Unification,” Walsh replied. I really wish we could muzzle a three-thousand-year-old vampire. “It’s proven that by focusing man’s will, anything can be done. We put a man on the moon because they longed for it.” He turned back to the monitors. “All the regional directors are on board. The great ritual to bring back Lazarus can be done, with miniscule casualties by our projections. When he returns, the entire world will be ready to receive his message. One world thought, one world nation, one world humanity. All heavens and all hells will be forced to follow a united world. Our suffering in purgatory will end, and all will be saved.” He smiled at the thought, but knew deep down he acted out of fear. Tow the party line.
Lord of Heaven’s Wrath let out a warm chuckle. “A true believer if I ever saw one. I understand that our last hurdle is here? An emergency certamen is under way for replacements?”
“Uh . . . oh, yes, but an emergency it is not. There are plenty of occult groups looking for glory and blood from you lords. They’ve sent their finest sorcerers in contest here. Delilah has already picked her favorite, however. And . . . and . . . the Second City has enough death for the walls to power the ritual for a week, easily, longer than most. Delilah Dumont is holding the contest now.” How did they find out about this?
“Ooooh, trouble in paradise,” Alexandria chimed in before she took a swig.
“What happened to the original first seed we sent to Primus Vryce?”
“The fireman? He—”
“It doesn’t really matter. Delilah has, as always, found the best way to settle things. We only need the portal open for three nights at best. All other regions are ready.” He gestured to the others in the room. “Come, let us enjoy a final certamen.”
Charles waited for the death lords to shuffle out of the room. He stared at the pale bare skin on Alexandria’s back while she looked out the window at Chicago. Eater of a demon lord’s heart, a noble vampire. Without creatures like her, this wouldn’t be possible. She slowly drank the remaining blood out of her glass while looking back at Walsh in the reflection.
CHAPTER 7
The body twitched on the ground, its jaw opening and shutting as it tried to scream and hold on for life. Smoke rose from its blackened skin like a bonfire that had just been doused with water. Ceremonial robes fused with flesh gave off a nice fragrance, Gabriel thought. It would serve this failing apprentice well to learn a lesson he should never forget before stepping into a certamen circle. Gabriel reached down and tried to brush soot off his jeans, letting out a tsk sound in frustration, as he knew the stains would not yield easily. At least my Chucks are still clean, he thought as he retied his shoelaces and looked up at the scoreboard. Gabriel D’Angelo stood firmly in first place. Out of the forty-nine applicants for the position, Gabriel had bested over half of them in the arena.
The certamen arena was carved into the basement of a Masonic Temple in the heart of Minneapolis. Large, overlapping circles were etched into the concrete, with Latin markings and formulas from every Hermetic introductory manual. Inside one of them lay the twitching body of the second-best applicant. Gabriel had already forgotten his name. He did not just think he was the best; he knew it. Gabriel looked at the judges’ table. Thirteen of them sat in full old Freemason robes with deep hoods. Before them, a diminutive blonde girl with stick-straight hair and golden spectacles wore a modern, immaculately clean pine-green suit. She has no business being here. The Council of Death Lords rules over the Unification and all its occult groups. They alone should determine the victor. Gabriel straightened his back and stared straight ahead while awaiting acknowledgment. Robed men dragged the body of the second best free from his circle and got to work pouring demon blood back into the etchings. Ever since magic had gotten scarce centuries ago, such trappings were now required for the most basic of spells.
“Satisfactory work, Gabriel. Tell us, you believe you are performing well in this tribunal, correct?” came a voice from behind a hood.
“My success is the only measure of performance, sir,” Gabriel said. This is my chance to prove my lineage, even if I have to endure these rituals. He kept his face calm by clenching his jaw and focusing on the circles in the floor.
“Tell us, what do you believe is the purpose of this barbarism?” asked another.
“Primus Vryce, the warlock for the third circle of ten, requires apprentices to complete his coven for your worldwide ritual. A mandate to bring the divine presence of Lazarus back into this world offering humanity guidance into the next age,” Gabriel said. The first of his family to be born with his talents in generations, he spoke with confidence. This was his chance to break the cycle of addiction the Unification had trapped his family in. “Of the forty-nine applicants selected by the Society of Deus’s ambassador, Delilah Dumont, the victor of the tribunal will be granted the glory of becoming the first seed. The right hand of the primus. The following nine shall serve as proxy for the other nine rituals happening worldwide. The remaining thirty-nine will lend their power as if they were the base of a pyramid.” In other words, I get to prove that sorcerous lineage will always be better than these blooded hacks who have cut deals with demons and become junkies. He liked his version better.
“Have you read Primus Vryce’s Arcannum Arcannimusim, his thesis on Gnostic Hermeticism in the modern age?” another voice said.
“No, sir.”
“Have you read Warlock Lucian Montegue’s manual on the Vodun Loa and the risks of tampering with Bondye?”
“No, sir.”
“Perhaps, have you studied the radical theory of technologically inspired magic by Warlock Peter Culmen?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then tell us, Gabriel, how is it that an uneducated member of the Unification, such as yourself, believes he is fit for such a position?” yet another said, placing his hands on his robust belly while a servant poured him another glass of black ichor.
“Because I am better than them, sir,” Gabriel said. He failed at containing a small smirk. “My mother, Maria D’Angelo, served the Italian branch of the Unification within the Order of the Eastern Star. She saw fit to train her seventh son in the arts of controlling his will. Unlike the rest of the apprentices in this room, I do not imbibe the demon blood to fuel my magic. I control it by birthright granted to me, an art form far faster and simpler, yet deemed useless by the educated Unification. I am proving everyone wrong.” Gabriel pressed his hands to the sides of his jeans. His palms were starting to sweat. That was probably the wrong thing to say. He returned his focus to clenching his jaw.
The judge who sat on the highest chair stood up. He had long brown hair that frayed at its edges and a beard, but candlelight played tricks with the shadows to obscure the rest. “Centuries ago when magic flowed freely, that method was vital. Now it is only practical as a counter to magic. Demon blood is in such rare quantities that outside a certamen circle, or facing a Unification sorcerer, you will never cast more than a single spell. Your style of magic burns the divine blood around you, rather than from within. Perhaps in the
past when demons were more prevalent . . .” He let the words hang in the air. “Now, unless you consume the blood yourself, you are as useful as a wolf to a sheepherder.” He placed his hand gently on the shoulder of the woman. “Delilah, we shall accept your recommendation of Visago as the first seed,” he said.
She entered a sequence of numbers into her tablet and made a few notes with her stylus, then nodded curtly. “Yes, Lord of Heaven’s Wrath. What shall be done with the remaining recruits?” Her accent was remarkably British.
“We will leave them in the capable hands of Vryce to rank as he sees fit. See to it Visago’s wounds are attended to immediately. He must grasp glory from the heavens soon enough. We verified your initial assessment, Delilah. Gabriel is unfit to be a first seed. You may use him for your ritual as you see fit. We must return to Rome. As always, it is a pleasure to see your work, my dear.” Lord of Heaven’s Wrath stepped off his podium and proceeded to leave the room. In ranking, displayed as golden rings along the back of the robes, each of the other judges left the room in procession after wishing Delilah farewell.
Gabriel’s face was quickly turning shades of red and purple. The Masonic ring dug into his fingers with its sharp edges, leaving a punctured indent. The pain provided only a sense of focus and calm in the room. What useless old wretches. I dropped their best on the floor like a sack of bricks. What am I supposed to do now? Gabriel stayed motionless in the circle as the rest of the applicants filed out of the basement, most of them limping or holding bandaged arms from wounds Gabriel had given them. None of them displayed the courage to look Gabriel in the eye. He bit his tongue to remain silent while staring at the circles until the last of them was gone. Thoughts raced through his head at a frantic pace. Dismissed so quickly? What a farce. His entire life of practicing his family’s craft was utterly insulted by the aging order of the Unification.