by Ryan Attard
“You are referring to the Seven Deadly Sins, yes?” Greg shrugged when I looked at him. “We have all heard of their appearance on this plane,” he explained. “And of your involvement with their destruction.”
“So much for keeping a lid on it,” I muttered.
“Regardless,” my sister said. “Ryleh Corp’s influence has become more prominent. My sources at the underground magical community have been sending in reports of their activity, and all of it leads to one thing: Ryleh is planning something.”
I cocked my head. “We have an underground magical community?” I asked.
“That is what you got from my sentence?” Gil sighed. “Of course, there’s an underground community — there always is an underground community. Where have you been living in the past few years, brother?”
“Welcome to a world where the air I breathe is mine,” I sang.
Gil rolled her eyes and looked like she might throw something at me, so I stopped.
“So, to recap, we have a real-life version of Evil Corp, a book of the dead, and Mr. Turtleneck over here,” I said, stabbing the profile picture of Alan Greede with my finger.
Gil turned to Greg. “When was the book stolen?”
He pursed his lips and ran a hand through his stark white hair. “I do not know exactly. I would say about three weeks ago, give or take.”
Gil swiped at the tablet and showed us yet another picture of Alan Greede.
“This was taken three weeks ago, when one Alan Greede visited our city, for the first time abandoning his post in Seattle.” She looked at me. “This is not a coincidence.”
And she was right. It was all too convenient, too neat. This guy wasn’t even trying to hide.
“Besides,” Gil continued, “we’re forgetting a crucial element.” She tapped through the tablet and showed me a photograph, one that haunted my nightmares.
A beach on Lake Michigan where an inter-dimensional rift had appeared, vomiting monsters from another world into our own.
This was reason I couldn’t talk to anyone for a while.
It was all just too much; getting trapped on an island full of monsters; living with a community of elf-like humanoids called Vensir — which were now living somewhere on Earth, tucked away in a remote corner; finding out that the whole pocket universe was powered by Leviathan, the Sin of Envy, and that the plane was crushing into Earth; fighting him, fighting Raphael, the angel who went rogue; and to top it all off, begin taken to Heaven to witness capital punishment by Grim Reaper.
My mind broke soon after. I stopped functioning, simply going through the motions, living more akin to a ghoul than to an actual human.
Therapy helped.
Knowing I was getting closer and closer to the bastards who started all this helped even more.
“The Black Ring Society,” I snarled.
The Black Ring Society was a terrorist group, and the guys responsible for opening that rift in the first place. When we interrogated one of their lieutenants, we discovered one of Ryleh Corp’s calling cards. At the time, I thought they were just a supplier, just an innocent third party caught up in this cluster-fuck.
Now, not so much.
“I can’t prove Ryleh’s ties to the Black Ring Society,” Gil began.
“But you got a hunch,” I finished.
She nodded and that was all I needed.
Gil was the smartest person I knew. Nothing short of a genius, really. She had survived this world without my volume of power.
Not only that, but she rose to power and became her own boss, before becoming everyone else’s. If her instincts were telling her this Greede guy was bad, you could take that to the bank.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a business card, an exact replica of the one we pulled off from the Black Ring Society months ago.
“Where did you get that?” Gil asked.
“Some guys jumped me yesterday,” I replied.
“Wizards?”
“Nah, vanilla.”
“Excuse me?” Greg said, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.
“Vanilla means regular,” I explained. “As in, they were regular people. Utter dicks, but no magic to speak of. I was abducted by them after… well, after my date.”
Gil raised her eyebrows. “You convinced some drunk girl to go out with you? Well done, brother, on no longer being a hermit.”
“She wasn’t drunk!” I retorted. “I think.”
“And where did you meet this woman?” Gil asked.
“What’s it to you?” I took one look at her intense gaze, and decided I should provide an answer — my sister had her crazy face on. “If you must know, I met her at the meetings.”
Gil frowned. “At the meetings?”
“Why does everyone give me that look?”
She raised her hand. “Far be it for me to judge who you spend your nights with-”
“You judge all the time!”
“But do you really think it’s wise to shack up with someone with… issues?” she continued.
“Do you wanna rephrase that, so you don’t sound like you own a few plantations in the New World?”
“You know what I mean, Erik,” she said. “I’m just looking out for you.”
“And I appreciate that,” I said. “Now, butt out.”
I noticed Greg looking at us like we were a pair of zoo animals he was seeing for the first time.
“Anyway,” I said. “Back to the card. I found it on one of the guys who jumped me. They were working for the Necromancer. That’s when I met Whitey McBeard over here-” I gestured at Greg “-and we had the time of our lives fighting animal-headed zombie creatures.”
“He was asking the ghouls for information,” Greg added. “About the Necronomicon and Ryleh Corp.”
“Which means that the Necromancer is independent from Ryleh,” Gil said.
“So if we were to retrace the Necronomicon’s steps,” I said, “it goes something like this: Someone — most likely commissioned by Greede — stole the book from the Russian Orthodox Church, and transported it here to Eureka. According to some of those ghouls — and that asshole, Reginald — the book just came to life and whizzed off. The Necromancer must have either been tipped off, or maybe he did some tracking spell. Either way, now we have two guys chasing after the Necronomicon: the Necromancer, and Ryleh Corp.”
“And us,” Greg added.
“And us,” I agreed.
“Ryleh has yet to make a move,” Gil said, a worried look on her face. “I’ve been tracking their movements rather closely and so far they’ve been quiet. If they really are after the book — and all evidence points in that direction — then they must be using channels that not even I can tap into.”
“Then it’s settled,” I said. “We just go ask this Greede guy directly.” I looked at Greg. “How good are you at scaring people?”
“You will do no such thing, brother,” Gil snapped. “Greede is not someone you can mess with. I have been working tirelessly for the past few months to get in touch with him, to worm my way inside the same circles he’s in, and I’m close. If you step in guns blazing, all that effort would have been for nothing. And what happens if he calls the police and you get arrested again?”
I sighed. “So you heard about that, huh?”
“You know I dislike the fact that you work with law enforcement, exposing magic like that,” she reprimanded.
“Well, someone has to help then,” I retorted. “Speaking of which, have you ever seen a goat-like humanoid? One that’s really good with guns? This guy in particular shoots silver anti-magic bullets. I tried asking Sun Tzu about it, but apparently the Paladin Parade is in this week, and he got all jumpy.”
Gil gave Greg a sideways glance, whose face remained impassive.
“I heard of their arrival,” she admitted. “But I’ve never heard of this goat-man.” She lowered her eyes, lost in thought. “Anti-magic bullets?”
I reached into my coat pocket and plopped the de
formed bullet I had dug out of my shoulder on the table.
She snatched it up and gasped.
“This is some really intricate magic,” she said. “I’m surprised this type of magic can be worked into something like this.” She looked at me. “May I keep this? I might be able to elicit more information out of it with further examination.”
“Go right ahead,” I replied. “What about those Paladins? What are they doing here?”
Gil shook her head.
“What does that matter?” Greg asked. “We must focus on the book.”
I scoffed and smirked at him. “And you think that a whole bunch of church flunkies appearing in town at the exact same time as the Necronomicon is not related? I think it’s safe to assume they’re here for the exact same reason you are, Greg — the Necronomicon is up for grabs, and whoever has it wins the jackpot.”
I looked at Gil. “Anything to add?”
“For once, brother,” she replied, “I wholeheartedly concur.”
“Hallelujah. So what’s our next move?”
She snapped her fingers and Mephisto came gliding from where he was silently hovering. He took the tablet she offered him.
“Compile all the data we have on the Necromancer,” she ordered him. “This is a priority. I want to know where he is, and what he’s thinking, and I want to know it all yesterday.”
The demon nodded and wordlessly walked out.
I rose to leave.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Home,” I said. “I got a business to run. And besides, I know what you’re gonna say: sit tight and wait. Which happens to work out great since I got my own case to solve.”
I nodded at Greg. “You coming?”
The Kresnik stood up and bowed towards Gil. “Thank you for your hospitality and your help.”
She dipped her head. “The pleasure is all mine.”
We were barely outside the mansion’s gates when Greg tapped me on the shoulder.
“The look on your face tells me that you’re planning something,” he said. “Would you care to share?”
I smiled. “We’re going to have a look at this Ryleh business.”
“But your sister-”
“My sister said we weren’t allowed to talk to Greede,” I said. “She never said anything about sneaking into the warehouse where the Necronomicon was last seen and looking for clues.”
Greg shook his head in disbelief.
“Come on, Greg,” I said. “What’s life without a little rebellion?”
“Anarchy,” he replied, straight-faced.
I held up my hand with my index and pinkie fingers extended. “Rock and roll, baby. So, are you in?”
He grinned and mirrored my gesture. “I can do a little anarchy.”
“Amen.”
Chapter 16
We snuck in at night.
Why? Because all good heists happen at night.
And also because I had no frame of reference on how to pull a heist other than The Italian Job, and that was way too complicated for the likes of myself and my partner in crime.
Sneaking in at nighttime was simple enough that even the two of us could pull it off with a moderate chance of success.
The first barrier was a fence and some guards were patrolling outside. They moved about lazily, each barely moving two feet from their perch, and I spotted one of them sleeping on the job.
The fence wasn’t even electrified. For a rich guy, Alan Greede sure was lax with his security.
Ah, well. That just made our job easier.
Greg poured some type of potion on the fence, promptly dissolving it into a molten puddle with the barest of hisses.
“I need to get one of those,” I murmured undertone.
He smiled and hushed me with his finger.
I flipped him off.
He grinned again and passed through the fence. I followed after him and tapped him on the shoulder, drawing his attention towards a guard. We ducked, counted to three and popped our heads out to find the coast cleared.
We literally walked up to the front door and stopped in front of a padlock.
“Got any more of that potion?” I asked. Greg shook his head. I exhaled into my hands, warming them up against the evening chill. “Okay, I think I can pick it-”
Greg smiled, grabbed the padlock and simply wrenched it apart.
Oh. Right.
Superhuman Kresnik strength.
He unhooked the broken padlock and opened the door, both of us rushing in before someone noticed our presence.
I waited for my eyes to adjust. Shelves lined every inch of the warehouse, stacked next to each other and packed tightly with crates, packages and god-knows what else.
“That’s a lot of crates,” I muttered.
We separated and walked between the shelves, careful not to make any noise or brush against anything. Most of the light came from the back, so we naturally gravitated towards it, although I scanned some of the crates as we passed by.
Different packages had different languages on them. Some I recognized as government seals or logos of official institutions, while others seemed rather crude or even hand-drawn.
My eyes caught subtle movement from the side and I found myself staring at a crate that looked like faded tupperware, except this was large enough that I could almost fit inside it. As I approached I saw something dark floating inside the container, until my face was pressed against it, trying to see what was inside without actually opening the crate.
A small hand, almost like that of a baby’s, pressed against the other end of the container as if reaching out for me. The shock of seeing a human limb made me jump back and almost knock a shelf over.
Greg hushed me from the other side.
“Sorry, sorry,” I whispered hoarsely, still unable take my eyes off of the container.
The hand was still there but now the rest of the mutated baby body floated into view, bumping against the side before lifelessly bobbing away.
“This guy is one sick bastard,” I said.
“Did you find anything?” Greg asked.
“Just something that will haunt my nightmares,” I replied.
“Keep looking. If it’s not related to the Necronomicon then it is of no interest to us,” Greg said.
I forced my eyes away from the container and continued looking, except now my imagination populated every parcel I passed with all manner of horrors.
Finally, I reached the opposite side of the warehouse and saw Greg emerge from the adjacent side.
The back of the warehouse had fewer shelves. Instead, boxes and crates of all shapes and sizes were left open, with their contents bare. Most were nondescript, full of hay or styrofoam, with packing peanuts spilling out. Others were clearly marked with radiation labels or toxic warnings, but whatever dangers they held within them had long been extracted, leaving behind empty shells.
One crate in particular caught my eye. It wasn’t the shape or size or anything inside, but rather, the sigil on the side of the crate.
Stamped in red ink, the symbol looked like an eye: two circles, one inside the other, with ten angel wings emerging from the outer circle. I craned my head: just left-hand wings, so that all faced the same direction.
Bisecting the two circles was a cross with a serpent draped over it — a symbol I recognized as the Flamel, named after the famed alchemist.
I moved closer without realizing, inspecting the symbol. Something about it felt familiar, as if I had seen this somewhere, a long time ago. I felt I should know this, that this was a small yet crucial detail I had missed.
But what was it?
Greg approached the crate and glared at the symbol.
“You know what that is?” I asked.
It took him a second too long to shake his head.
I sighed and pulled out my phone. “Whatever it is,” I said, snapping a picture of the symbol, “it’s bound to be important.”
I peered inside the
crate itself and pulled out a handful of straw. Frowning at it, I threw it back inside. There was nothing strange about straw.
Unless…
“What are you doing?” Greg asked.
I ignored him and proceeded to pull out handfuls of straw from the crate. Entire clumps came out before I found what I was looking for.
“Ah hah.”
I pointed at the bottom of the crate.
Carved into the wood were thousands of small sigils, each so tiny that it was impossible to make out their details unless I put them under a microscope. But clumped together like this, the depression in the wood was evident and we only had to look hard enough to see the tiny suckers.
“Something tells me we hit the jackpot,” I said.
Greg peered even closer to the symbols, thrusting his head inside the crate, before finally straightening up.
“It seems your instincts were correct,” he said. “Those are indeed spirit warding symbols, meant to keep the powerful magic within the Necronomicon suppressed.”
He suddenly snapped his head around. I was no stranger to seeing someone getting spooked, almost like an animal.
“What is it?”
“We’re not alone,” he said, gently reaching inside his tunic for a long dagger. He held it close to himself in reverse grip, his icy blue eyes darting from one side to the other.
I pulled my coat back and reached for Djinn. “Maybe we should head back-”
I never saw it coming — the creature was suddenly in front of me.
Crouched on all fours, its feline body was coiled for attack, while it looked at me with a round human head. Its teeth were bared and ink-black, its eyes just two round marbles, glittering like opals.
From behind it, a scorpion’s tail arched over with a stinger the size of my forearm, quivering slightly.
Manticore, I thought.
I felt Greg shift to my side — he had seen it too and slowly took a step back.
I heard the clicking of nails on the floor and saw a second manticore come out, surrounding the two of us. They made sounds like sea lions, emitting a deep trumpet-like voice that was dulled only by the hissing of air as it passed through their serrated teeth.
From the depths of the warehouse, calmly strutting out from between the shelves — the same shelves I had just walked through — came out a third manticore, bigger than the other two put together, with enormous black shaggy hair draping the back of its body.