by Ryan Talbot
“Ah yes,” she shook her head. “There’s the eloquence and elocution we’ve come to expect.”
“Did you seriously come here to fuck with me?” I clenched my fist until my knuckles popped.
“No,” she shook her head. “I came here to see what the vessel of the Lord of the Fallen planned to do.”
“I don’t know what he wants me to do yet,” I snapped back.
“I’d start with independent thought, my Lord Emissary.” She turned on her heel and headed for the door.
I started to say something, but held back. Anything else would just feed the situation. She hated me enough as it was. Not that you’d know it, but she worked for me. She was, for all intents and purposes, my second in command. Erzebet Balescu was the Consul-General of Satan’s Diplomatic Corps. I was his face, his voice on Earth. Theoretically, she did what I said. In reality, she might follow my orders, but I was forced to endure her criticism the entire time she did so.
I turned my attention back to the body, to Magda. Her skin had been pale in life, but it was paper white in death. The bruises that riddled her body seemed obscene, contrasting against the blank canvas of her skin. I was struck with a sense of foreboding. Her body seemed so wrong. I stepped closer. There were no other marks on her, no vivisection, nor obvious signs that her flesh had been disturbed. I stepped closer and closer, as if drawn. I blinked once, and pulled my Ghūllish blood to the surface. My vision swam with the force of my Sight. A blood-red glow emanated from Magda’s mouth creating a sort of aetheric miasma around her, like a profane halo. I spoke soft Ghūllish words under my breath, incanting a ward against hostile magic. My skin shimmered with faint traces of luminous script as my sorcery took hold. I wasn’t taking any chances.
I pressed the palm of my right hand against her chin and forced her mouth open. Another tarot card had been forced down her throat, its ivory edges biting deep into the soft tissue of her esophagus.
“Motherfucker,” I whispered.
I gently reached my fingers into her mouth and pulled the card free. I didn’t turn it over. I closed Magda’s mouth first. She deserved that. We might have been enemies, but soldier to soldier, respect was more important than loyalty. I turned the card over, the Devil. Funny. Someone had a sense of humor. Someone was going to fucking die.
The card had the same weeping peacock feather on the back. I knelt next to Magda’s clothes as I pocketed the card. There had to be some clue, something missed by her assailant. In my real life, I’d been a military cop. Some habits die hard. I didn’t need to get any closer, her clothes reeked of chloroform. There were indentations and staining across the chest of her tunic and another in the center of her habit. I stepped back over to her body, and sure enough, bruises marked the exact same spots on her face, and just above her breasts. I leaned over and caught a whiff of the chemical reek again. Based on the wound pattern, I guessed they’d knocked her out with chemical rounds. Somewhere deep in my chest, a fire ignited. A warrior of her caliber deserved better. She had a right to die in combat, a right to face her aggressor. This wasn’t right. Now, more than ever, I needed to know who’d done this.
I stepped out of the morgue, digging my cigarettes out of my pocket nervously. Simon fell into step alongside me.
“Did you see her,” he nodded back at the morgue, his blond hair nearly white under the fluorescent lights.
I nodded.
“I couldn’t believe it when they brought her in,” a smile played around his lips. “Magda…”
“Calm down,” I muttered.
“She didn’t suffer enough,” he said coldly.
I stopped. “That’s no way for…” I took a breath. Fucking zealots.
He stepped up beside me. “It doesn’t matter how she went out, it’s just good that she’s gone.”
“She just showed up? No warning, just dead nun on the lawn?”
“Exactly,” he said. “I was just coming on duty when the call came across.”
“None of the sentries were asleep, or fucking off?”
“No,” he shook his head violently as we got into the elevator. “Not a chance.”
In any other place, I might’ve disbelieved him, but these guys were absolute zealots. They were as devoted to the cause as any of their Angelic counterparts. To fail in their duty was to fail their god. That wasn’t going to happen. It was also damned unlikely there’d been any treason. The punishment would’ve been so swift and harsh that anything I could consider, hell, even what’d been done to Magda would’ve paled in comparison.
“What’s next, Jason?” Simon asked as we reached the Barracks’ central corridor.
“I gotta go see some people.”
“The Angelics?”
“Eventually,” I said, shaking my head. “They gotta know this wasn’t us. Someone’s trying to restart the damned War.”
“It’s never stopped,” he said, his blue eyes hardening with hate.
“It went cold, Simon.” I caught his eyes with mine. “It’s better that way.”
“You’re the Emissary,” he shrugged. “Peace is your job, not mine.”
The elevator opened.
3
All life converges to some center. All matter is attracted to other matter. Yet somewhere, something had gone so wrong. The convergence of Heaven and Perdition wasn’t Earth, it was Man. The War that raged in the hearts and souls of men had far reaching consequences. The prize was Reality itself. On a million, million worlds, man lived, loved, fought and died. It’s not my place to say if it was worth it, fighting, dying—all for what? The love of some savage god that demanded blood, that demanded pain? Don’t get me wrong, I mean all of them, the Devil included. In my experience, no god offers salvation free of charge. Bargain basement beneficence isn’t ever on the menu. Men, by our nature, seem to want to serve, to bow our heads. It’s disgusting.
I had to find some way to show the Angelics that this wasn’t our party and we had nothing to do with it. If the War exploded all over again, all mankind would suffer. There’d be no safety, no middle ground, the Earth would become a true and bitter Hell. I stepped out of the front entrance of the Barracks and lit my cigarette. I rubbed my temples as I took a deep pull, the smoke encircling my head. I paced back and forth in front of the doors.
How? How the hell did I let the Angelics know that this wasn’t us? It wasn’t like I could simply walk into a Church and explain myself. Rachel. She was the key. But she wouldn’t listen to me either. Not that I would have been willing to listen to her if she’d come with her tail tucked between her legs and some fucked up story about how someone just happened to have murdered one of the Master’s faithful. This wasn’t going to end well.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed a number I knew by heart. It rang once.
“Beckett,” She spoke my name like a curse.
“Rachel,” I replied.
“Why?” Her voice quavered.
“We didn’t. I didn’t.”
“You’re a liar.”
“I am,” I admitted. “But not this time.”
“Magda was a good woman.” She paused, as if mastering herself. “She deserved better.”
“She did,” I said.
“This can’t go unanswered—”
“It didn’t,” I interjected. “You blew up our embassy.”
“We did no such thing!” She snapped.
“It didn’t blow itself up,” I said dryly.
She was silent for a second. I pulled the phone away from my ear to make sure we were still connected.
“Rachel?” I asked.
“I...we, want her back.” Her sorrow cut through to the heart of it.
“I have her,” I said quietly. “She’s been treated with respect.”
“What do you want in return?”
“Nothing,” I said, surprised. “The Accords grant you your dead.”
“Where?”
“The Secret, Midtown.” The Secret and the Sacred was a bookstore.
It belonged to a half-human child of Ganesh, the Indian deity. He was worshipped as The Remover of Obstacles, Ganesh, I mean. His son’s name was Dhaar. The bookstore survived on the tithes paid by the parties that needed the sort of neutral ground with a celestial insurance policy. People that broke the peace at The Secret tended to lose their heads. Literally lose their heads, I’m not being cute.
“When?”
“Four hours,” I hung up and turned back to the doors as I flicked my cigarette into the darkness.
I hopped a cab to Central Park. Yeah, I could’ve had a limo take me, but the last thing I wanted was more zealots swearing vengeance against the Angelics who’d sworn vengeance against us. Religion. Christ. I had the cabbie drop me a block or so away from the entrance. I’m not much for company when I’m in a shitty mood.
As I walked, I flipped the cards over and over in my hand. The Tower. The Devil. On the surface, they meant bad shit was coming, but deeper than that? Someone had intended to send a message; the only problem was I had no idea what it meant. That’s where the Park came in. Well, what was in the Park, anyway.
There are places where the Veil between worlds is thin. The Sacred Grove of Hekate is one of those places. You won’t find it on any map. Hell, you won’t find it if you walk right through it. The only entrance is in the shadow of Cleopatra’s Needle as it crosses a forest that Normals can’t even see. Aetherics, or Veilsiders, live in a world separate from the one you know. Yeah, I know, you’ve heard this all before. I get it. You think you know where I’m going with it. You don’t.
See, the movies get it wrong and the books are written by liars. They all have lessons, points, and the final sign you’re being lied to: hope. There’s nothing on the other side of the Veil that will give you anything other than a painful death. The Veil separates you from the Nightmares of your nightmares. Corrigan Alefarn was no different, except he was. Corrigan spoke of kindness, of affection, of safety. Corrigan spoke with the certainty that only true faith provides. Corrigan defended Hekate’s faithful with a diligence that bordered on the perverse. He welcomed me when no one else would.
I stepped through the shadow of the Needle and into the Grove. The Grove was a massive stand of trees that flanked an equally huge temple complex. The temple, in turn, surrounded an enormous font. The font was filled with crystal clear water and surrounding it, standing eternal vigil, thirteen three-headed statues of Hekate. I took in a deep breath, the scent of yew and mistletoe overpowering my senses.
“It’s rude to lurk in doorways, Jason.” Corrigan’s voice echoed across the vast temple courtyard.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” I grinned. “For once.”
“Come, pour a libation on the altar,” he gestured over his shoulder toward the altar where the ritual tools rested. “Give the Lady her due, then we can talk.”
I nodded and clapped Corrigan on the shoulder as I passed him. He wasn’t much to look at, long raven-dark hair hung to the middle of his back. His piercing gray eyes reflected cruelty and humility in equal measure. He wore a gray button-up shirt over black jeans and snakeskin cowboy boots. A silver disk hung on a black cord around his neck. The disk continually shifted forms, each a representation of the Titan-Goddess. Corrigan’s mouth twisted into an easy smile. Okay, I’m lying. There wasn’t a single, or married, Aetheric woman in the greater New York area that didn’t lust after him. The smug bastard knew it too.
“Nice try,” he grinned. His hand trailed through my aura shredding the ward that shielded me from magical detection.
“What?” I frowned as I lifted the crystal decanter of pure water over the basin on the altar. “What’d I miss?”
“You didn’t bind the ward; every source needs a terminus.” He smiled and shook his head. “Anyone close to you can feel the aetheric pulse. They might not know why, but being near you is off-putting as hell.”
“I don’t need sorcery for that,” I snorted and poured the water over my right hand. I switched hands and cleansed my left hand as well, wincing as my Mark burned.
Corrigan shrugged. “You might just stick to Words, then.”
I set the decanter carefully on the altar and picked up the ritual knife that rested alongside it. I spoke a soft prayer to Hekate and gripped the blade with my right hand. Bowing my head, I tugged the knife swiftly with my left hand, growling as the steel bit deep into my bones. I held my hand over the altar and my blood spattered over its surface. The Chthonic gods hunger for more than empty words. I spoke the ritual words of praise and set the knife gently beside the basin and decanter. A blue flame sparked into existence and cleansed all of the tools, leaving them exactly as I found them.
I held my slashed and mangled hand up and spoke a Word of healing. My flesh knit itself back together and I scratched at my palm like a madman. There’s nothing like the itch of healing skin. I looked back up at Corrigan who kept smiling that Cheshire Cat grin.
“And fuck you too, pal.” I rolled my shoulders. “You only saw the ward because I was standing right next to you.”
“I shouldn’t have seen it at all,” he shrugged. “Otherwise what’s the point of hiding it?”
“So it wasn’t my best work,” I scratched my hand vigorously. “Sue me.”
“Something’s on your mind,” he pointed toward the wood line where his small cottage lay hidden. “Spill it.” He walked toward his home.
I fell into step beside him. “I’ve got a serious problem.”
“I’ve got a bottle of Laphroaig.”
“That’s the first hopeful sign all day,” I said.
Corrigan’s house was small, comfortable and well-kept. It smelled like wood-smoke, cloves and peppermint, and it felt…right. I sat across from him, my feet resting on his coffee-table, a glass of scotch in my hand. He held up the cards to the light from his fireplace.
“I’ve never seen anything like them,” he said softly. His eyes shimmered silver as he peered at the peacock feathers with his Sight.
“Yeah,” I nodded. “I hadn’t either. That’s the point of the visit.”
“Peacocks aren’t an uncommon icon,” he scrunched up his face as his eyes faded back to gray. “Any other hints? Anything that puts it into context?”
“Seriously, man,” I scratched my head. “I woke up in an alley covered in blood, the fucking card was in my pocket. The other was stuffed in the throat of the dead nun.”
“Her throat?” He canted his head slightly and stared off into the fire.
“Yeah, I had to dig it out,” I confirmed.
“That doesn’t help much.” He leaned back and stared into his drink, swirling it as if discerning a pattern.
“Agreed.”
He sat up slightly and looked at me quizzically. “Did she asphyxiate?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “She was beaten and crucified. I suppose she could have been strangled too, I mean fuck it, why not? Is it relevant?”
“It could be,” he frowned. “The means of sacrifice is always important. It implies some enduring effect on the soul of the sacrifice.”
“I can only think of one for crucifixion,” I shuddered.
“No,” he scratched his chin. “The Romans killed tons of folks that way.”
“Yeah, but it only takes one to set a precedent,” I said.
“If we’re speaking of demigods,” he rolled his eyes. “Then sure.”
“We’re not,” I said.
“Right, she was human.”
“No, I mean, he wasn’t a demigod.”
“I refuse to entertain any simultaneously corporeal-divine collocated deity theory,” he snapped.
“Whatever,” I waved his anger off. “Just hear me out.”
“Fine,” he took a deep drink of his scotch.
“Crucifixion is a means to forgive sin,” I said. “What about the rest?”
“Asphyxiation by hanging is also,” he sat up fully, set his drink down on the oak side table, and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands folded
against his chin. He looked at me quizzically.
“What?”
“Jason, are you sure she was beaten?”
“She had fist sized bruises all over her body, I’m pretty certain.”
“I’m not.” He smiled, a sly smile.
“No?”
“Leviticus twenty,” he smiled.
“No, there’s no way that she worshi-” I cut myself off. What if Magda had been planning to defect? What if she’d seen the light in the darkness and decided to move South?
“They all fit. All of the punishments fit the crime, the expiation of sin through torture.” Corrigan smirked at me. “Your nun was going rogue and her own people whacked her for it. By stoning.”
“And then they blamed us?” I snorted. “Not likely.”
“What’s your theory then?”
“I don’t have one.”
“And yet you dismiss mine?” He asked.
“I think it’s…not right,” I held up a hand to stall him, as I took a drink. “I just can’t see her turning traitor.”
“Then why kill her?”
“It’s gotta be something about those cards, man.” I tugged at my hair absentmindedly. “They’re the only thing that doesn’t fit. Angelics don’t fuck with tarot cards, no matter the symbol on the back, no matter the circumstance.”
“There is that,” Corrigan’s eyes shifted to the cards on the table. “But why the cards?”
“Sending a message?”
“Well, they failed,” he snorted.
“Why?” I asked. “Not enough cards for a reading?”
“No,” he grinned. “They gave them to an idiot like you.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Fat lot of help you’ve been, you prick.”
“You’re closer than you were,” he said.
“How’s that?”
“You’re thinking,” he tapped his temple.
4
I can’t remember a time I ever left the Grove without being more confused than when I arrived. This time, however, it was a damned good thing I was. I’d pulled out my cigarettes as I passed Cleopatra’s Needle and managed to fumble my lighter. A whistle overhead turned my haphazard snatch at my falling lighter into a full-on combat roll. Whatever had gone by my head thudded into the ground behind me. I came up pistol in hand, my eyes burning with sorcery as I stared through the Veil. There was a faint flicker of motion to the east, from the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A figure in all black, his face veiled with a skull bandanna leapt from the roof and darted away with supernatural speed. There was no way I was catching him.