“--but his name doesn’t matter,” Muriel continued, paying little attention to the pest. “He’s in charge, and we serve. Service is what we were made to do; it’s what we’ve always done. Now that I’ve had a chance to say my piece, I won’t threaten to microwave you or turn you into a statue. Do what you want, but we will see each other in San Francisco. You’ll either come willingly, or you’ll mindlessly walk into an office suite one day. Of course, the punishment for insubordination is, as always, a harsh one. But we’ll cross that bridge if or when we get to it.”
Voltumna looked up at the sky, simultaneously wanting to beat Muriel to death and keenly feeling the pull of this Adversary. “I’ll go,” he conceded finally, “but only because I have no choice. Adversary will lose, and he’ll pull all of us down with him. Patheus will take the demon hordes; it is his right.”
“He has a long way to go,” Muriel noted. “Patheus may have been Metatron’s commanding general, but he wasn’t the only general. Chances are pretty good that Adversary also held a significant rank.”
“Significant doesn’t matter. It is Patheus’s right,” Voltumna reiterated. “If we are to serve anyone, it should be him.”
“Blasphemy!” Gazardiel hissed.
“Shut up,” Muriel commanded forcefully, causing the little girl to cower. Then, to Voltumna, she asked, “Are you being drawn to Vienna, or are you being drawn to San Francisco?”
Glowering, he replied, “I said I will go.”
Muriel nodded happily. “Good. I’ll drive; you can take shotgun, and the runt will ride in the back where she’ll be beaten senseless if she doesn’t keep her mouth shut,” she added with a pointed stare at Gazardiel. “Understood?”
The little girl nodded her blond head once from behind arms she’d crossed in front of her face to hide.
Muriel motioned for them to follow her in the direction of the parked rental, adding, “We’d fly, but we have a stop we need to make on the way.”
Chapter 3
Dylan lay in his bed for an hour, despite the smell of frying bacon, until his stomach got the better of him, and he got up and plodded to the door. He almost jumped back when he opened it to see Jeremiah standing there with a plate filled with food.
“Okay,” the demon said, “I’m sorry.”
Having caught himself in the doorjamb before tumbling backwards, Dylan stammered, “Sorry?”
“I’m sorry that I framed you for a crime,” Jeremiah answered. “I’m sorry that you spent time in a correctional facility and for any traumatizing events that happened while you were there. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t more sympathetic last night. Breakfast?”
The boy narrowed his eyes and studied Jeremiah. “You aren’t actually sorry for any of those things, are you?”
“I’m trying to be,” the demon responded without emotion as he shoved the plate at Dylan, who took it, surprised. “That should count for something.”
“Why act nice? Why would you try to be sorry if you aren’t?”
“Because I know what I did hurt you, and—believe it or not—that wasn’t my intent. I do believe that, in doing what I did, I’ve given you a chance to live out your life. But, no matter how nice I might be or what toys I might buy for you, I won’t be able to give you back the time or innocence you lost.”
Dylan shoveled eggs into his mouth and asked, “And what about making me hit myself in the face?”
“That I am not sorry about. Time is of the essence. Even with my considerable pull, getting you out of the system took longer than I anticipated. We simply don’t have the luxury of taking this slowly. I would’ve liked to have groomed you over the course of years, but the Elder Prophet Council demands results.”
Dylan’s eyes got wide. “What is the Elder Prophet Council?”
“A group of the strongest and—as the name implies—eldest prophets, who come together to make sure that humanity is safe from itself and demons.”
“Doesn’t seem like they do a very good job,” Dylan noted as he went back to his eggs.
Jeremiah snorted a laugh. “No, I’ve never known them to be terribly effective as opponents. But that was in a past life; now I’m sort of obligated to do what they say, and they want to see your progress in a week’s time.”
“A week?” Dylan protested, accidently spitting some of his eggs back onto his plate.
“Correct,” Jeremiah said as he turned to leave Dylan standing in the doorway. “Eat quickly; we have work to do.”
***
Four men and two women of varying ethnicities and ages sat around the table in the meeting room of the General Assembly and murmured quietly to themselves. The room they were in was small with stone floors and walls that did little to insulate. This was the only remnant of an ancient tower that once served as the perpetual gathering hall for those who would see knowledge live on through the years despite the efforts of governments, armies, and religions.
The only heat in the room came from the sources of the only light in the room: a torch on each of four walls and a candle in front of each of seven chairs at the table. Their tradition and rituals were as relatively unchanged as the room they met in. Since the seventeenth century, when the tower was destroyed, the Society of Minds had taken advantage of the gifts of its members and technology to build around the remains of the tower and actually into the Alps. And, like the base of the broken tower, the old ways and traditions were all steeped in so much symbolism and meaning that no Chancellor could bring him or herself to abolish even the more asinine of traditions, such as lighting the room with candles and torches as opposed to electricity (which they certainly had access to in the rest of the underground complex).
Indeed, as a consequence of all the symbolism and secrecy of the Society, conspiracy theorists who caught whiffs of them in recent decades had sometimes branded them the Illuminati. In truth, the Society of Minds and the very mortal Illuminati had worked together a few times since the latter group’s conception, but the Society was much older and much more guarded.
Conversations became hushed as the tell-tale sounds of Chancellor Hixson’s electric wheelchair, coming down the hallway toward them, signaled that the quorum was about to begin. The door opened shortly thereafter, and the Chancellor rolled in, flanked by a man they all knew, even when he was covered by his traditional thick, black woolen cloak. They all stood out of due respect for Byron and Raul, their most recently appointed Regent and the person almost all of them had previously served under.
“Of course you all know our distinguished guest,” Byron began as he wheeled to his spot at the head of the table.
Raul moved a chair that he, himself, had occupied for decades out of his successor’s way and sat in it a few feet from the table. He was an observer, a guest; he had no official authority inside this room. That said, he was quite certain that he would have the room’s undivided attention if he should have something worth saying.
“All in favor of calling this special meeting of the Society of Minds to order?” Byron asked.
Six right hands rose into the air.
“Good. I apologize for calling you all back so soon after our last meeting. I know you each have responsibilities around here, and summoning you again is no doubt inconveniencing. Nevertheless, a friend of ours has had some trouble,” Byron said, motioning to Raul, “and we owe it to him to look into this. Two days ago, Regent Habsburg was forced to defend his student, Lonny Talbott, from a vicious attack by demons. I’ve done some research since then, and I have come to a disturbing realization.
“The majority of the demons across the world have been held in check by common leadership throughout the years. In the last millennium, the fallen Voice of God, Metatron, has been their chief. I’ve gotten some conflicting information as to exactly when, but in the last few years he was killed, throwing his horde into disarray. His highest ranking general, Patheus, seems to be unable to hold all of the factions together. I’m guessing that one of those factions has identified Lonn
y as a target. This is an issue that we must resolve.”
“Wait,” a large, heavily-muscled, middle-aged man directly to Byron’s left interjected. He had thinning, salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed graying mustache and beard that underscored the calm, calculating eyes behind his spectacles. “Demons? The Voice of God? Is this a Sunday school lesson? It was my understanding that the Society did not officially accept the mythology of any religion as scientifically acceptable.”
“Call it what you want, William,” Byron answered his typically outspoken rival with mild condescension. “It doesn’t change anything, and we waste time bickering over semantics. I promise that my sources are reliable. If you’d prefer that I name these supernatural enemies monsters, aberrations, extraterrestrials, or whatever other silly term we have stubbornly given them in the past, I can. But the prophets have fought these creatures for longer than this body has existed. They call the monsters demons, and, so as to not confuse the monsters that are attacking us with—say—the Loch Ness Monster, or Frankenstein’s Monster, or a monster truck, I’m going to refer to them as demons too. I can’t speak to the existence or non-existence of a god, but the prophets seem to believe in it, and the demons seem to believe in it. We have to at least acknowledge that the concept of deity is very important to other world powers, including a group that has targeted one of our own.”
“Raul…?” William pleaded.
“I appreciate tradition as much as anyone, Will,” the Regent rasped, “but you know that I came from a prophetic background, so I know these stories, and I’ve seen what these demons can do. Regardless of how you identify them, they’re scary, and they’ll hurt anyone they think is a threat. When they see us, they aren’t going to differentiate between us and prophets. In fact, I sincerely hope they don’t even know we exist. But, I agree with the Chancellor: The longer we sit around and argue about their names or their origins, the harder it will be for us to get to the bottom of…whatever this is.”
“So, how do you know Lonny was even an intended target?” a petite, Hispanic woman across the table from William asked. “What if it was just a coincidence, bad timing?”
“We don’t know,” Byron conceded. “And, like the Regent, I hold out some amount of hope that the enemies of the prophets aren’t aware of our existence. But, I think you would agree, Estella, that not looking into this matter would be blindly dismissive.”
“I’m not asking for much,” Raul added. “I would like the General Assembly’s approval to look into this matter further. I can do this on my own, but it would be easier with help.”
William stood for effect. “Regardless of the Assembly’s vote, I’ll volunteer my services. We’ll get the bastards, Raul.” Then, he sat back down.
Though no one could see it, Raul smiled with relief. “Thank you, old friend.”
“I’m sure anyone here would volunteer his or her services,” Estella put in as the others around the table nodded. “Certainly, if we’re just talking about fact-finding, you have my full support.”
Byron cleared his throat, whether as a result of the mucus that would collect on his lungs due to his muscular dystrophy or in an attempt to get the attention of the Assembly, Raul didn’t know. But, when the Chancellor spoke, he did so quietly and deliberately, and everyone fell silent.
“The world is getting larger and smaller simultaneously. In the time that Raul and I have been Chancellor, the population of the world has gone from around two billion to about five and a half; humanity has gone through two world wars, and they’ve developed a means of wiping out all life on this planet; they’ve gone to space and left satellites up there that can monitor nearly everything they do. We should be guiding them, teaching them, instead of letting the prophets and demons fill their heads full of religious nonsense and fear. They need science and reason, not mysticism and faith.
“We’ve always steered clear of prophets and demons for good reason. However, now they have come knocking on our door, intentionally or not, and we sit here pondering and talking about fact-finding, when we should be deciding how we’re going to answer.
“The twenty-first century is rapidly approaching, and we are cowering in Switzerland, hiding from the world. I say this is our time.”
Raul couldn’t help himself. Slowly, he turned to Byron and asked, “Our time to do what? You sound like you’re building up to something bigger than what I was talking about.”
“We should go public,” the Chancellor answered, without missing a beat.
***
Forty-five minutes after Jeremiah had delivered breakfast and a contrived apology, Dylan had finished eating and cleaned himself up. As he walked into the living room, he saw Jeremiah sitting on the couch with irritation apparent all over his face.
“I’m glad that my call for haste didn’t fall on deaf ears,” Jeremiah greeted sarcastically.
Dylan shook his head as he admired the clothes Jeremiah had bought for him, and the fit was pretty good too. He was pretty skinny, so sometimes pants didn’t fit too well. “Not deaf. I didn’t really feel like I needed to rush.”
The demon tapped a cigarette on the table and lifted it to his mouth to light. “Ah. Passive-aggression. Under normal circumstances, it’s one of my favorite games, but, like I said, we’ve got a week. After that--”
“No,” Dylan said, taking a big, fluffy chair opposite the couch, “now.”
Jeremiah leaned back on the couch, kicked his feet up on the coffee table, and made himself comfortable with his ashtray in one hand and cigarette in the other. “Go on.”
“You need my help,” Dylan explained.
Jeremiah grinned broadly. “That’s right.”
“It’s going to cost you.”
“Of course it will.”
Dylan also propped his feet up on the coffee table. “A million bucks.”
The demon laughed raucously. “For pain and suffering, I suppose?”
The boy nodded bravely.
“How would you like this money delivered? Shall we put it in a black duffel bag and use code names? Maybe we can take a lesson from our friend on the phone and use a voice changer for flair. What would you do with a million dollars?”
“I don’t know,” Dylan confessed.
Jeremiah took a drag and nodded. “Yeah, that’s the problem. What makes you think I’m going to give you a dime? I’m giving you a magnificent place to live; every need you could ever have will be provided for; I’ll keep you safe and teach you how to use your superhuman powers; and, on top of all of that, I apologized.”
“Look, you’re rich, right?”
“You have no idea.”
“Then, what’s a million bucks to you?”
“Inconsequential,” Jeremiah answered. “Don’t you know it’s a bad idea to make deals with demons?”
“If there was someone else around, I’d make a deal with them instead.”
“Fair point. Here’s my counterproposal: If you can master your skills and stay alive until your eighteenth birthday, I’ll deposit ten million dollars into an offshore account for you. In the interim, you will do exactly what I tell you to do, but not for money. Money isn’t always a powerful enough motivator. You will master your skills because, if you don’t, one day someone who’s stronger than you are will kill you when I’m not paying attention.”
“Ten million?” Dylan asked from some dream world in his head.
“If and when you turn eighteen,” Jeremiah reminded him. “And no more talk of money until then. I’m more than happy to purchase anything you think might make you happy. Furthermore, if you ever try to extort me again, I’ll have you blacken both of your eyes for me. Deal?”
“Deal,” the boy mumbled.
“Good,” Jeremiah said.
With blinding speed, Jeremiah leapt off the couch and over the coffee table to land just to the right of the boy; a knife appeared in his hand; and, to Dylan’s horror, the demon slashed at him. Not having much room to retreat from the attack, h
e only succeeded in sitting up straight against the back of the chair and letting out a startled yelp. Then, Jeremiah took a couple of steps back and pointed down. Dylan followed his direction to his naked arm, where a thin line of blood trickled over the side from what must have been a pretty shallow cut. Even as he looked at the cut on his arm, he only registered a faint sting through his confusion and alarm.
“You’re welcome to stop bleeding on my furniture whenever the mood hits you,” Jeremiah advised.
“What did you do that for?!”
“That should be obvious, even to a child. Stop the bleeding.”
Dylan peered down at his arm and back up at Jeremiah, who only gave him an impatient cock of his eyebrow, then back to his arm. He focused on the cut. No, that wouldn’t be good enough. He focused on the blood that was oozing out of the gash. A sort of harmony occurred between his thoughts and the energy in the blood.
Stop, he requested in his head. Stop bleeding. But he felt no different. In the past, it had been less of a conscious determination and more of a primal one.
He looked at Jeremiah helplessly and shrugged his shoulders.
The demon shook his head. “Not acceptable.” Examining a gold watch on his wrist, he added, “In sixty seconds, I’m going to add a cut to the other arm. A minute after that, there will be a cut on your right leg. The only way to stop me is by doing something I’m sure you are completely capable of. Make it a slave to you or yourself to it; I don’t care. Just get the blood to obey you.”
Dylan reflexively closed his eyes and regained focus. Obey, he commanded. Immediately, he felt the harmony change a little. There was no longer balance; now, he was in control. Stop, he repeated.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked up. Jeremiah was still counting down time on his expensive watch.
“Thirty-five seconds. If you think I’m bluffing, you need only call me on it.”
Dylan wiped the blood from his forearm and held it up without even looking at it. His face was hard and confident.
Beyond the Shadows (To Absolve the Fallen Book 0) Page 5