Mammon

by J. B. Thomas

  ‘We have our plan.’ He looked around the group. ‘Now, are there any questions?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good. Five minutes. Seth – send in the Night Ravens.’

  Ivan turned back to the car and reached into the back seat. ‘Here.’ He slid a pair of night-vision glasses over Grace’s head. ‘You need to be ready to use these if they cut the lights.’ He squeezed her shoulders with tight fingers. ‘Stay close to me, remember?’

  She nodded, heart racing. ‘I will.’ Even at this distance, her demon ‘radar’ – as Joe had begun to call it – was pinging hard; the bile threatened to spill over, her stomach tied in firm knots. Her face crumpled with fear. Doubtless, there was so many of them in there. With a shake of her head, she closed her eyes, took a breath and sampled the cool evening air. Breathe. Just breathe.

  Ivan passed her a shotgun, his eyes scanning her face. They flared briefly with concern, but his tone remained businesslike. There was no time for anything else now. ‘Remember, you are to fire at will. Don’t wait for my word, don’t leave anything to chance. You have live rounds: use them.’ He pointed to one of the quad bikes. ‘Jump on the back. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  He picked up a rifle and took position with the other snipers, deep within the bushes. He stared up into the blackness where the Night Ravens – ten attack drones – were already flying across, silent killers homing in on the guards at the second gate.

  Ivan’s eyes drifted across to his mark: a man in the first guardhouse, who was staring out into the darkness.

  On screen, the red dots flashed at a furious rate then vanished. Obliterated.

  ‘A direct hit.’ Seth’s voice was crisp in Ivan’s earpiece. ‘Secondary guardhouses are down.’

  ‘Fire,’ Ivan said. He pulled the trigger.

  The guards fell instantly. Ivan put down the rifle, ran across to the bike and started the engine. ‘Hold on, Grace!’

  The bikes swooped through the stone arch and along the driveway. Grace caught a glimpse of Joe riding nearby with Sarah on the back, her shotgun trained on the bushes.

  Grace lifted her gun, her eyes searching for a target. Behind, a wave of riders were spreading out, following Ivan’s lead into the right-hand side of the grounds.

  Joe and Sarah veered left.

  It was easier than she’d thought. The guards were slow to respond to their assault. When she made her first kill, it almost seemed anti-climactic.

  Something nicked at her arm. She looked down to see a light scrape in the smart suit.

  A guard ran alongside, barrel aimed at her head. She tensed, lifting her gun.

  Ivan was faster – he blasted the guard with his shotgun, while steering the bike with his other hand.

  Relief swamped her.

  Ivan lowered his gun and pulled the bike up next to the gate. ‘Grace, Sarah – masking.’

  Grace concentrated. She could feel the energy coming from the other side of that gate – the blend of desire, anticipation and fear emanating from the hosts in a solid wave of psychic energy.

  Demons, all.

  Politicians joked with actors, businessmen made propositions to celebrities. Each one truly believing it. They all believed that they would still be in control of their bodies tomorrow morning, no matter what happened tonight.

  The hosts were mindful, attentive. Privileged eyes cast regular glances towards the mansion, waiting for that moment when their beloved masters would soar across to them and take possession of their bodies with their majestic power. Grace concentrated harder, feeling Sarah’s energy merge with hers.

  Nobody is here. There are no other people – just you, waiting for the glorious honour to take place.

  Now, the hosts stood, silent as cattle in the night.

  Grace gave Ivan a nod. ‘They’re ready.’

  ‘Blast the gates.’

  Three mercenaries ran forward; each slammed a shaped charge against the intricate steel weavings. They took cover just as the gate blew, bursting shards of metal inwards.

  The bikes began to move around the edge of the crowd, heading for the mansion’s great door.

  AT THE REAR of the mansion, in a warmly lit, circular room bordered by golden drapes and large bay windows, Halphas watched the scene develop. Mammon was standing directly behind Malcolm, his hand clamped on the boy’s head. Malcolm was standing, but not of his own volition. Like a great puppetmaster, Mammon was keeping the boy upright – while also devoting his energy to the small rift that had emerged in front of the pair.

  It had materialised strangely, its clouds seeping into the atmosphere as if by force.

  Now, it began its rapid growth.

  Mammon’s fingers dug harder; frost oozing from his flesh as he strained, teeth clenched, dark eyes locked on the expanding rift.

  Halphas peered at the three apprentices standing nearby. To the youngsters, it must have seemed that Malcolm was in a deep, painless trance.

  But Halphas knew better.

  Hours before, his Master had finally realised there was only one way to make Malcolm open a Dark Rift. Something that Halphas had known the day he’d met the boy.

  Malcolm would have to walk through his own nightmare. To live inside the same dream he’d woken from, sweating, as the rift shuddered above his hospital bed.

  And so Mammon had entered his mind and dragged him into the dark place where his fears lived; flinging him into the pit where his terror tore at him, trapping him in its tentacles, rolling him down into the well of his subconscious; a place from which he would never return.

  And now, a Dark Rift was forming.

  Halphas sank into a chair, groaning as his pelvis creaked. His gaze flickered to the door and his senses tingled. Joe was out there, in the darkness. No doubt he’d brought an army with him. A warm, secret satisfaction flooded Halphas as he stared at his master’s back. Mammon had never known – Halphas could detect where each and every Ferryman was at any moment. Down to the square inch. He didn’t need to tune in, or search for a Sign. The Signs came to him. Of course, that wasn’t something Halphas was about to reveal. Too big a trump card.

  The rift grew some more, and Halphas pictured the Shadows: pressing, pushing against the rift’s inner walls, bursting to come through and claim their hosts, who were kneeling in neat rows along the floor. Halphas’s eyes creased with worry as he watched the rift grow. But of course, if Joe didn’t kill his master tonight, that was a card Halphas was very willing to play.

  * * *

  ANDRAS GLANCED AT the CCTV monitor. He gasped at the swarm of bikes that were making their way around the insensible crowd. ‘Master! We have trouble outside!’

  ‘What?’ Mammon glared at him. ‘Well, see to it, Andras!’ With gritted teeth, he turned back and kept giving energy to the rift.

  The cloud expanded.

  Andras closed his eyes and began to join with the hosts downstairs. Fight! Kill them all! The demons jolted – yanked out of Grace’s trance and turned on the intruders. They dropped their champagne glasses and tore off their fine clothes as they raged towards the bikes.

  They pounced on the mercenaries. Supernatural strength oozed through well-manicured fingers, breaking necks, squeezing throats until they burst. Those who had the power to move objects sent a combined wave of telekinetic energy across, crashing into several of the bikes and sending them into a violent roll.

  ‘Fire!’ Ivan shouted.

  Grace raised her shotgun and pulled the trigger. All around her, a tide of bullets hit the hosts. Some of them fell.

  ‘Wait! Get back!’ Joe roared. He shot up his arms – the air exploded into a giant ball of cloud, spewing shards of lightning and sending a thunderous boom into the air. Consuming the demons in a frantic, turbulent death.

  Joe dropped his arms. The
disturbed earth settled into a shallow crater. Joe gave a delirious grin. ‘Cookie cutter.’

  For a few seconds, the entire battalion stared at the Ferryman in silent awe.

  Joe slumped. He rubbed his forehead. ‘Whoa. That was intense.’

  ‘Conserve your energy, Joe!’ Ivan pushed the bike towards the building. As they rode past the hedgerows, two guards – both demons – stepped out of the greenery, swiping their arms across the bikes. Ivan swerved; Grace shot a look back just as Sarah blasted the pair to kingdom come.

  They rode on towards the left-hand side of the mansion, where a giant garage was dwarfed by an airplane hangar, next to which a dark strip of tarmac ran from the lawns all the way to the edge of the river.

  Another demon guard sprang out from behind a statue, his cold hand slamming against Grace’s throat. She soared backwards, hitting the pavement with an agonised gasp as sharp pain dashed up her spine. In the distance, she saw the bike skid to a stop.

  The demon seized her around the neck, and she was dragged off her feet. Her hands flew to her neck, but too late – his fingers had begun their death squeeze.

  Then, his Shadow dissolved into nothingness. The demon lurched backwards, hands searching the back of his head for the neurotoxins that Ivan had just fired into him. Powerless, he staggered around.

  Grace slumped to the ground, leaning on the statue’s column. She watched in terrified fascination as Ivan pulled the demon towards him and plunged a knife into the side of its neck. Blood erupted from the wound. Ivan sank the knife into the guard’s abdomen and then drew the blade up, rupturing the vital organs and slicing him open.

  The demon fell in a puddle of blood, flesh and entrails.

  With weak legs, Grace dragged herself up, using the column to help her. She stared at Ivan’s face as he wiped his knife on the demon’s shirt and put it back into its sheath.

  ‘You okay?’ His eyes were hard. Savage, even.

  Trembling, she nodded. ‘Ivan the Terrible,’ she whispered.

  But when he took her hand and helped her to her feet, his grasp was soothing, his voice gentle. ‘Come on.’

  The squads began to regroup at the side of the mansion, near the hangar. Grace settled on the ground, next to Sarah. For a time, they watched the grounds in vigilant silence. Mercenaries shot regular looks upwards, but no more guards appeared on the balcony.

  Joe nodded to the airstrip. ‘Bet he’s planning a getaway straight after.’

  ‘Good point, Joe,’ said Ivan. ‘Adams, go into that hangar and put a banana in the tailpipe.’

  Grinning, the mercenary ran off, explosive in his hand.

  Ivan watched as Evans, one of the squad leaders, approached with a grim expression.

  ‘All accounted for?’

  ‘We’ve had some casualties,’ said Evans.

  Ivan nodded, his eyes grim.

  Grace looked up at him. ‘We should be careful when we go inside. Someone in there interfered with our telepathy, big time.’

  ‘If only we could get in there and have a sneaky look.’ Bemused, Ivan scratched his chin.

  ‘I could.’

  Ivan’s gaze fell on Grace. ‘How?’

  ‘You know . . . what I said at the meeting.’

  ‘Not a good idea. We may need to move suddenly. Anyway, you’re unpractised at that kind of thing.’

  ‘But we don’t really know what’s in there, do we?’

  Ivan stared at her. ‘That’s true,’ he admitted.

  ‘I might not even be able to do it. But it’s worth a try. Nobody will know I’m there, and I can find out what we’re really up against.’

  Ivan knelt in front of her. ‘Are you sure?’

  With a deep breath, she nodded.

  ‘All right. But don’t waste time in there, Grace. In and out.’

  A hush fell as she sat back, leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. ‘I haven’t practised very much.’

  Ivan’s voice was close. ‘Just try. If you can’t do it, we’ll go in anyway.’

  Grace focused – imagining the white room. She always visualised this room when she was trying to go to sleep, using it as a springboard into a calm, peaceful dream after a harrowing day of training. The white walls appeared more quickly this time.

  She imagined sitting inside the room, crossing her legs on a feathery floor.

  Minutes passed, and she opened her eyes. ‘I need something to trigger it. Last time, it was tasering.’

  A mercenary, overly eager, stepped forward and took aim at Grace.

  ‘No!’ Ivan shoved him away. ‘Sanderson. Can you help?’

  Grace looked at her friend. ‘The psi-attack, Sarah. Do it to me.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘If you’re sure.’

  Grace closed her eyes again; Sarah focused on her forehead.

  Something was battering at one of the white walls. It trembled, vibrating like the ground when an earthquake hit. Grace’s fingernails began to dig into the ground. Heat spread through her forehead. It stung, as though a scar was being slowly burned into her skull. She clenched her teeth, struggled to endure it, and then the white walls were trembling, shaking.

  They exploded into pieces and fell away into the blackness.

  She was out.

  She turned her consciousness towards the mansion. Straight through the solid front doors – doing this freaked her out just as much as that first, horrible time – and she tried to close her eyes.

  Can’t. Not in body, stupid.

  The joke was a tactic to remain calm, to avoid the desperate, disconnected feeling that being out of her body brought on.

  Into a large entrance hall. Above, a giant dome with gold patterns lent an elegant light to the twin staircases that graced the back wall, their marble steps swathed in red velvet. Giant terracotta pots lined the walls, their innards bursting with white lilies.

  A quick count put the number of hosts in here at one hundred. The light sparkled off the multiple chandeliers – somehow, it seemed brighter than it would if she were in her body, looking through her eyes. The women’s dresses shimmered like peacock feathers – a vibrant blend of red, gold and blue – while the men’s white collars were luminescent.

  They milled around an immense statue of a golden calf, nearly as tall as the landing above the staircases that wound their way along the circular walls. On the right-hand wall, a massive portrait of Mammon.Yuck.

  Up the stairs and towards the rear room of the mansion. That guy – Anthony, or whatever – stood at the top of the staircase, staring down at the gaggle of hosts. She looked into his eyes and remembered the calming sensation she’d felt when he looked at her.

  He was the one controlling the hosts. Messing with their telepathy.

  She soared past Andras and through the final door. There was a strange, squelchy sensation and she realised she’d just passed through a throng of human guards, stationed at the exit. Now she knew the difference – there was a cool, neutral feeling when passing through wood.

  It was a circular room – an elegant ballroom.

  Malcolm was standing on a dais, three steps higher than the crowd; Mammon directly behind him. The high demon’s energies seemed to be directed at the rift but also at keeping the boy entranced. Grace looked into Malcolm’s face. Vacant eyes sat deep in his skull; she sensed all his energy had been squeezed out by Mammon and dumped into the rift.

  Malcolm was in a standing coma.

  Malcolm wasn’t there anymore.

  She looked at the rows of hosts, and outside, back in the safe gloom of the night, her body reacted – her stomach raging with nausea. Top-level ghoulies. They kneeled in rows on the parquetry floor, arms behind their backs, heads bowed. All men. Each had his own Shadow – of course – which pulsated with energy, striving to touc
h the essence of the High One himself.

  Grace glanced around; a rough count estimated fifty of them. Plus Mammon, Malcolm, and two of the ‘mercenaries’: another guy and that girl whom Joe had liked.

  ‘Behold!’ Mammon shouted. ‘The Dark Rift!’

  Grace was spellbound. The Rift’s tumbling whirlwind, its thunderclouds in turmoil were drawing all physical matter in. She watched the curtains pull and strain against their fixings.

  A doorway into Hell.

  Dark shapes – Shadows – began to emerge from the Rift’s mouth and spew out into the air. Each of them bore a unique, bestial shape. Each moved with the urgency of a beast mid-hunt – shadowy limbs chasing down prey. The energy field reversed, and the curtains fell back into place as the dark forces flooded the room.

  MAMMON WATCHED GLEEFULLY as his Shadows spilled out of the Dark Rift. ‘That’s it, my generals! Assume your places!’

  It was sickening – Grace watched the first Shadow home in on its chosen host and then loom above the back of his head for a few seconds, forming a tornado-like shape, the tail a fine point like a bee’s stinger, poised to enter. The Shadow pushed inwards, its dark energy rippling behind the skin, invading face, neck and torso – bringing gasps of pain from the host.

  The gasping stopped. Grace watched the host calmly stand up and pull a cigar from his pocket. He lit it, took a puff and smiled at Mammon. ‘Good to be back.’

  Mammon smiled. ‘Good to have you here, Bathin.’

  There was no more demonic gloom around the body; no sign that this was an Earthborn demon. This Shadow, this Hellborn thing seemed to have obliterated the consciousness of the host.

  Bathin looked at Haures. ‘Mammon, I see you’re keeping the same calibre of company as always.’ His eyes lingered on her cleavage. ‘Perhaps she can provide me with my first sample . . . of many.’

  Haures scowled. She stepped towards Bathin and shapeshifted into his image: a fifty-something man – pale, sweaty and balding. ‘I don’t know if you’ll like what you see.’

  Grace backed out as quickly as she could – through the mountain of human flesh at the door, the cold, flat mass of the wood – and fled back to the dark corner of the house, sinking into her body as quickly as she could.