Order of the Black Sun Box Set 7

by Preston William Child

Sam chuckled in amusement, feeling better already. Even just the awkward expression on Miss Know-It-All’s face was enough to fuel him. Especially the fact that she was literally sitting with an open mouth, waiting in vain for words her brain could not articulate – that was the best reward Sam could ask for.

  “So, tell me more about the man that has Nina, Father,” Sam said, rescuing the deluded woman from the clergyman’s debate. After all, he had to garner as much information as quickly as possible so that he could call Purdue and ask for help in finding her. “Why have they not called Harris with some sort of ransom command?”

  “Because they did not take Nina for ransom,” Father Harper elucidated. “They took her because she was here. She was conveniently here, speaking to me, when they broke in to reclaim the corpses of their brothers. You see, they have to inter their own, but they could not very well arrive on the doorstep and prove kinship. These people, for all intensive purposes, do not exist.”

  Jan Harris gasped. Sam had expected that, because he also realized how Pulitzer-worthy such a story would be. But right now he had to get Nina back before getting everyone killed. Awards and career boosters were hardly important here.

  “They took Nina because she was speaking to you?” Harris asked the same question Sam was going to. “Then they know you?”

  Father Harper sighed, his face laden with distress. He looked at Sam and nodded slowly before shifting his gaze to the nosy female journalist. “I was not always a priest.”

  22

  Canto in the Dark

  Nina woke to the sound of chanting, the likes of which made her flesh crawl, even in the state of heavy inebriation she found herself. She couldn’t recall how she’d fallen into a slumber, or coma by the heaviness of it, but she remembered a burlap hood being pulled over her head before several strong hands subdued her from behind the chair she was sitting on.

  “Dr. Hooper! Dr. Victor!” she cried out in the solitary darkness that was wrung around her body like a heavy wool blanket on a summer’s day. Nina’s mind opened little by little, allowing her to remember bits and pieces of what happened, but she could hardly breathe. By the choking humidity that aggravated the heat, she figured that she was probably not in the Nirvana Public Morgue anymore.

  Her heart pounded as the deep masculine voices repeated the litany over and over, only broken by the sound of a bell to divide each verse. A crescendo in volume echoed through the structure she was in. Nina reluctantly reached out into the blackness.

  “Oh God, please, don’t let me touch a cadaver…or a spider,” she mumbled. Her tongue was numb in her dry mouth, her sight worthless in the dense darkness. But she would gladly have sacrificed her hearing instead. Their cantos in hierarchal voices terrified her to her core. It was not the aspect of the unknown that frightened Nina, or the sinister sound of monks singing odes in voices with the power of an Iron Maiden concert. Something in the words, the words she did not understand, appealed to her soul, beckoning like a beautiful nightmare. It promised the sublime pain of redemption and the calling of higher orders, and that made her tremble.

  Her fingertips found cold stone, slightly rugged, and under her body a slab of the same composition. Soft wool cradled her body, draped over the stone to make her more comfortable.

  Maybe it’s your funeral shroud, her inner voice warned.

  A loud bellow ensued from one man, and the chants ceased instantly, followed by a deafening gust of wind that roared through the place. Under Nina’s hand, the stone wall trembled under the force of the din. Inadvertently she began to weep. Fear and uncertainty mated in her heart, but it was the sheer power of the moment that shook her to tears, the power of something so awesome that she could hardly breathe in its magnificent presence.

  Chains clattered, startling her enough to cease her crying for the sake of ascertaining the nature of the sound. Nina sat shivering, cold, in the pitch-blackness of what she construed to be a cavernous prison, listening. Heavy steel ground like nails on a chalkboard, hoisting up something big while the men started their final aria.

  She remembered their hoods over shadowed faces, giving them the illusion of not being human and robbing them of individuality. Now she was putting that image together with their perfect voices, deep male voices in unison – quite the opposite of their hoodies and sweats at the morgue.

  Aside from a slight headache, Nina actually felt fine otherwise. Physically, she had no injuries or discomfort, a strange occurrence for someone who had been taken by force. Gradually she became used to the powerful song, but the words disturbed her immensely. In her quest to procure King Solomon’s diamonds, she had learned much about the binding of catastrophes into stones by her Egyptian alchemist colleagues. The names of demons written in the Testament of Solomon whirled in her memory like a thousand colors poured into a maelstrom, difficult to isolate, but some of the names had stuck in the process.

  Latin was not Nina’s strong suit, yet she recognized root words like infestus, forneus, and malefica. Not names, per se, but unsettling words normally used in conjunction with nefarious deities. In a sea of noise, their chants grew more and more forceful, almost violent, until with another bell chiming, it all stopped. Nina held her breath, too scared to whimper. Nothing but the dampened fury of that previous gust prevailed, bring a restlessness to the fresh emptiness.

  Eventually she heard men’s voices in casual discussion that she could tell by ear were moving in various directions. She imagined them moving all about the place by how the sound was traveling. At once, a man spoke right in front of her. “Did you enjoy the sermon, sister?”

  Nina jumped at the phenomenon. He’d been invisible to her, she thought, until he moved into a growing light against the wall behind him. In fact, he’d been standing in front of her all the time, masquerading as a shadow, but it was her own distorted perception that had deceived her.

  “I love the song, but the lyrics suck,” she retorted indifferently.

  To her surprise, he chuckled at her snide comment and called out, “Ayer, she is with us!”

  When the man had moved into the light, Nina realized that she was not locked in some chilly prison chamber after all. There was no door, no obstruction, to stop her from leaving. The molten darkness had fooled her sight to the illusion of confinement, making her feel a right fool when she discovered the contrary. But she did not mention it.

  Ayer, the man she’d seen on the screen at Sam’s apartment, stepped into the doorway. Physically, he was unremarkable, unlike the lion in his eyes. She could see that he was a leader none would question, but their obedience was not born from fear, rather from reverence.

  “Dr. Gould, are you hungry?” he asked simply. Nina could not figure out what his intentions were, for his idle offer did not give any indication. Indifference slid through his question, yet he smiled warmly and held out his hand to her.

  “Famished, actually,” she replied.

  “Then come, have something to eat,” he suggested, and proceeded to stand aside, waiting patiently for her to creep out of the small room.

  “I quite expected to be the meal, not the guest,” she jested without humor.

  “Now why would you think us cannibals, madam?” he asked in amusement. Nina’s head was a bit dizzy from getting up too rapidly, but she carefully made her way to him in the slight light that reflected off the wall at the entrance. When she reached him, she gave him a solid look in the eye and shrugged, “Well, if you can kill security personnel and God knows who else in order to steal dead bodies, I would not expect morality to be in your nature.”

  “Morality is a subjective term, madam,” he answered, unperturbed by her mild hostility. “We know why we do what we do, and the rest is a matter of speculation, judgement, and opinion, none of which means a thing to us.”

  “Care to fill me in on that, mister…,” she asked.

  “Call me Ayer, Dr. Gould. Ayer Molay of Troyes, in the Grand Est region of France. Maybe you have heard of it?” he asked in a char
ming manner.

  “Patroclus the Martyr, as I recall, was spawned there. Am I correct?” she answered, keeping her tone cordial, even though her words were cast in contempt for her captor.

  “Oui!” Ayres smiled. “You really are living up to your reputation as one of the world’s foremost historians, madam.”

  “Merci,” she said, accepting his praise as she followed him down the stone corridor that looked more like that of a sports stadium than a hallway of some antique and secret meeting place. “But wasn’t he a very rich man before the drowning attempts and…you know, the ultimate beheading?”

  “He was very wealthy, known for his charity and generosity,” Ayer replied, catching on to her intended disrespect.

  “Like the Templar Knights,” she sneered, “possessing such riches behind a veil of piety.”

  He gave her a long glare, but Nina pretended not to notice, wary of meeting eyes with him. “And like the Templars, his riches profited his good deeds nothing in the eyes of his intolerant critics.”

  “Aye, leading other converts into the claws of those same persecutors,” she persisted.

  “Madam, it is clear that you do not accept the beliefs of those you deem fools in the light of your obvious expertise, but I implore you to cease your war for the moment. At least enjoy a few minutes with us at the dinner table before continuing your war on us,” he suggested.

  Nina was astonished at his docility towards her attacks, no matter how she tried to vex him. Another oddity was his fluent and well spoken English in person, particularly since she’d thought his message on Sam’s footage was only well rehearsed words.

  “We understand absolutely that you would feel this way towards us,” he continued as they turned the corner and entered a kitchen with a modest table and chairs in the center. “Anyone would detest someone who kidnaps them, I am sure.”

  “At least you do not feel bad for having committed a crime against me,” she raised an eyebrow. A few men stood around, waiting. On the table was a meal of ciabatta and olives, roast beef, and potatoes. “Please excuse the quality of the feast,” Ayer apologized. “We did not expect to eat tonight.”

  “I would also lose my appetite if I ran around with the bodies of my friends, trust me,” she mumbled audibly. Ayer pulled out a chair for Nina and gestured for her to sit down.

  “Please, have a seat, madam,” he requested. Nina looked around suspiciously, clearly having this notion that she could be seated just to be tied up or worse. The other men looked like ravenous wolves. They were dressed in jeans, sweats, sneakers, hoodies and sweaters – like average young men in casual attire, yet their demeanor was unnerving. Nina looked at their faces, now that she was afforded the chance, to better distinguish them in a line-up later.

  She sat down. Apprehensively, they stared at her. The only sound in the kitchen was dead air from a police scanner and an old transistor radio, tuned in to some AM frequency station that played classic rock hits.

  “Please, take what you wish onto your plate, Dr. Gould,” Ayer reassured her. They all watched as she filled her plate with a bit of everything, trying to take small portions, even though she was famished. When she was done, she placed her hands in her lap.

  Motionless, the whole bunch of them stood watching her. Nina figured she had to say something, if only to kill the awkward atmosphere. “Aren’t you going to eat as well?” she asked inquisitively. Nina was met with a sudden charge, a rush of hungry men to the table. At her word, they found their permission, and it made Nina feel oddly flattered. She watched as they greedily dished up before each sitting down one by one as soon as their plates were stacked, wolfing down their meals.

  “Aren’t you guys supposed to say grace or something?” she asked, trying to act dainty with a small morsel of roast beef on her fork. They knew better. If Nina’s manners would have permitted it, she would have buried her face in the plate and licked it clean.

  “Say grace?” one of the men asked.

  “Aye,” Nina frowned, flabbergasted that they didn’t practice such an obvious tradition, so relevant to their order. “You are Templars, are you not? Men of the cloth, practically? Do you not pray before you eat?”

  A roar of laughter erupted at the table, with the solitary woman looking decidedly perplexed at their reaction. Eventually, the laughter dwindled to chuckles, until finally they just ate. Reluctantly, Nina joined in on the dinner, still bewildered. With the scratchy radio transmitter in the background, Nina found her question still unanswered.

  Frustrated, as she was with Sam’s lack of disclosure back at the apartment – and similarly desperate for answers – the petite historian tried not to be too pushy, considering her position.

  “May I ask, what was the din I woke from? A service of some sorts?” she asked, expecting more ridicule, but Ayer gave Nina a straight answer. “A funeral.”

  23

  The Call

  Dr. Hooper pulled Sam aside just as he was about to leave with Father Harper and Jan Harris to head for Scotland. In his hand, bunched up, were the notes Nina had compiled before she was taken. He had spent a good hour explaining to the three visitors why he and Dr. Victor hired Dr. Gould, what they had discovered on the bodies, and why they’d stored the corpses separate from the other ‘customers.’

  “Here, son,” he told Sam. “I don’t know this lady, but for the few hours we were acquainted I could tell that she was a special creature. Creatures like those should not be compromised, so I will protect your involvement.

  “What are these?” Sam asked.

  “Looks like our friends didn’t have time to take all of Dr. Gould’s damning information with them in their haste. She has discovered some truly fascinating things about these people, Mr. Cleave. And by fascinating, I mean frighteningly esoteric in nature,” he whispered. “You’ll see when you study these papers. You already know about the markings and sigil. But there is more information your lady uncovered that night, and she wrote them down on these papers. I believe she was trying to associate what is on here with their peculiar elemental names and origin.”

  “And you’re willing to take all this at face value, doctor?” Sam asked under his breath. “Did you not initially hire Nina to validate your suspicions so that you and Dr. Victor could get something out of it? Fame and money?” Sam jested, smiling.

  “Yes, we did, son,” Dr. Hooper smiled. “But I speak for both myself and old Glen when I say that we are far from greedy. With such a lovely lady’s life on the line, nothing is more important to me than giving you all the facts I can to help you get her back.”

  “Thanks Dr. Hooper,” Sam said. “I really appreciate your truthfulness with this. Hopefully they will trade Nina, if I play my cards right.”

  Dr. Hooper leaned in to whisper, throwing a quick pointed finger at Jan Harris outside on the steps. “See if you can trade that one. Not much of a loss there.”

  Sam threw back his head and laughed. “Excuse my villainy,” the doctor smiled.

  “Oh, no, please,” Sam laughed, “do not apologize. You share a very common consensus, Dr. Hooper. Very common!”

  “Sam, we have to go,” Father Harper reminded him in a soft voice that traveled surprisingly far.

  “Be right there, Father,” Sam answered. “Dr. Hooper, please be careful. These animals killed some of your staff. They know you meant to hide the bodies of their men and they know that you know about the curious markings. After all, you hired Nina to delve into it and they know that too. You get what I’m saying here?”

  “I should take my sick days and my annual leave for a bit of a sabbatical?” Dr. Hooper asked rhetorically.

  Sam nodded. “Aye, sir. Exactly. You have my e-mail address, should you need me, right?”

  “Yes, yes, I do, son. Now go on and get back Dr. Gould,” Dr. Barry Hooper urged hopefully. He watched the three leave and locked himself in his office for the rest of the evening.

  Jan Harris threw a few garments into her travel bag while Sam and Fath
er Harper waited outside. Under a mild early evening the two dark-haired men stood, enjoying the coolness under the reddened clouds of sunset. Sam was sucking on a Marlboro, while he explained his motives for saving Toshana, the message on the footage, and Harris’ compromising role as middleman for the deal.

  “So she has you cornered,” Father Harper said, after listening to Sam’s confession.

  “Aye, Father,” Sam said indifferently. “I have to give her the story, which is alright. But if they hurt Nina, I will personally rip Harris…”

  “Hey, hey,” Father Harper halted Sam’s hateful threat. “Just concentrate on Nina, understand?”

  Sam sighed, flicking his cigarette into the pond under the trees. “Father, you always elude questions about your past.”

  “And will continue to do so while it has no significance in conversation,” the dark priest added nonchalantly, hoping that he made it clear to Sam that prying was not allowed. However, he feared that his previous vocation was becoming more and more prevalent these days.

  “Just tell me this,” Sam insisted. “How do these men know you? Are they really related somehow to the Knights Templar? You being a,” he hesitated a bit, running his PC-meter in his head, “well, pretty much a monk. That makes them have something in common with you, right?” Sam kicked his feet about awkwardly. “Look, trying to formulate a question here is making me sound like a child with no goddamn vocabulary.”

  Father Harper glanced at Sam in reprimand.

  “What?” Sam asked.

  “The blasphemy, Sam,” he reminded the journalist.

  “That is another thing,” Sam related his vexation with a bit of a bite. “It’s only blasphemy to you and your flock, Father. I’m respecting your choice of belief by addressing you by your title. As an atheist, I think I’m giving your religion enough goddamn respect as it is.”