The Alien Accord

by Betsey Kulakowski

  “Ow!” She protested.

  * * *

  Rowan turned to see about the rest of the team but paused when his mom called his name. “Honey, fetch the Colonel,” she called after him. “He’s probably in there telling war stories with his Air Force buddies.”

  Rowan hadn’t seen his dad slip off. “Dad’s in Mission Control?” Rowan hesitated, realizing Lauren wasn’t standing there anymore. He scanned over the crowds that were beginning to gather in the hallway outside. She wasn’t anywhere.

  “Oh goodness! Where did that girl go?” Martha turned. “Lauren?” she called, turning to chase after her. “Hurry up, Rowan. I’ll go catch up with Lauren. We’ll meet you in the commissary.”

  Rowan stood dumbfounded as he looked after his mother, but his eye went to the horizon searching. He grimaced and shook his head. Mama, Go, indeed.

  Afterword

  Thank you for reading The Alien Accord. If you enjoyed it, please post a review where you purchased it.

  The next book in the series, The Monk’s Grimoire, will be released in October 2021.

  Sneak Preview of The Monk’s Grimoire

  Prologue

  “Petre? What was that? Did you see it?” The cop’s partner froze beside him, pressing his back against the wall of the ancient cathedral. Both were breathing heard. Both had their weapons drawn. “I know I saw ... something.”

  “Take a breath, Demetri,” Petre said calmly. He put a hand on his partner’s arm. “I saw something too.”

  “But what was it?”

  “I’m going to find out,” he said. “Cover me.”

  Petre slid along the stone wall, making his way to the gate that lead to a courtyard where a statue of the Virgin Mary glowed in the moon-kissed fog. The night had gone cold. Reports of a break-in at the Church of Our Holy Lady, the Victorious had gone out shortly after midnight. The two detectives had been the closest.

  It wasn’t normal for detectives to follow up on a simple break-in, but at such an historic site, Petre had insisted on responding. He had been baptized in this very cathedral, as had his father, grandfather and great-grandfather. His great-aunt had chosen the consecrated life of a Carmelite Nun and had lived in the monastery here until her ascension to grace earlier this spring, at the age of 106.

  Petre had spent many hours here at the ancient gothic cathedral. This was where he learned to pray. He had served as an altar boy as a child, and a torch bearer in his teen years. He had even been chosen to aid the priests in the preparation of the holy sacrament on Palm Sunday, the same day he turned eighteen.

  At that time he had considered the priesthood, but then he met a girl, and he chose another path. He didn’t marry her, but she was the one who nudged him to pursue a different career field. He joined the police academy because she did. While she washed out early in the process, he thrived. He discovered a love for law enforcement and felt called to protect and serve. His own teenage son was now on course to take up the Mantle of the Lord and would begin his studies in the seminary soon.

  “Petre,” his partner called in a high whisper when Petre didn’t move.

  “Shh!” Petre called back, watching over his shoulder as he found the gate unlocked. He eased it open, but the ancient wrought iron groaned and creaked as he slipped into the garden and secured the latch behind him.

  He heard footfalls behind him, knowing his partner would reposition to keep his back protected. The experienced detective did his best to keep to the shadows as he made his way through the courtyard. He paused and genuflected in reverence to the image of the Holy Virgin. This was one of his favorite images of the Madonna. He’d prayed to her when his wife was ill with childbed fever after the birth of his son. She had been brought to full health as if by some miracle, the doctors had said. If he had time, he might have stopped here to pray, but now wasn’t the time.

  As his knee straightened and his eye lifted, he saw something move in his peripheral vision. The door at the end of the long pathway to his left clicked as it latched. He turned and signaled his partner. Even though he couldn’t see him, he knew he was there. He pointed towards the entryway before quickly making his way to the door.

  This door, he knew, lead to the apse of the cathedral. He waited at the door, listening for sounds of shoes on the marble floor, but only silence came from within. With a nod to his partner, he pressed the door open and slipped inside. The apse stood opposite the main entrance of the cathedral, leading to the ambulatory and on to the quire. He moved silently, aware of the whisper of his own leather-soled shoes on the white marble. Half-tempted to remove them he found his way to the nave and skirted along the side where the hidden buttresses projected into the room. Each provided a shadow in which to hide, and he had to suspect if someone were inside, they would make use of these shadows too.

  As he neared the altar where a single candle burned he realized it illuminated the Holy Sacrament. His eye scanned the rows of pews, and he realized there was a priest sitting in the third row, with his head down. At this hour of night, he could be praying, but he may have also fallen asleep on his watch. He knew no one would leave the Sacrament unattended. Priests would take an hour’s watch at all hours of the day and night to guard the Blood and the Body of the Lord Jesus Christ. But to fall asleep on watch was highly frowned upon. There was a shuffle at the back of the nave and the slamming of a door echoed through the high ceilings. The priest didn’t even flinch.

  The hair on Petre’s neck rose. Something wasn’t right. He knew it. He had tucked his gun back into his holster in reverence to the House of the Lord, but he drew it back and kept it at his side as he moved towards the priest, silently. He came to kneel at his knee and put his hand on the man’s arm as it rested in his lap. His rosery hung loosely from unmoving fingers. Petre recognized him by the color of his hair. It was a rusty red.

  “Father Jerome?” He spoke softly, realizing the priest’s hand was cool beneath his own. “Father ...” he moved to lift the man’s head but fell back with a gasp when he realized the front of his plain black cassock was drenched in something dark and sticky. The echo of a drip on the floor beneath his feet resonated in that quiet hour. The same dark, sticky fluid trickled down his hand and dripped off the rosary. He knew at once what it was; blood. Upon closer inspection, he realized the man’s throat had been cut. The wound was deep, nearly to the spine; ear-to-ear.

  Petre didn’t have time to mourn. There was a killer on the loose.

  He rushed to the vestibule where he’d heard the door slam but found nothing. Outside there was no one on the streets outside the cathedral. The fog was growing thicker. The full harvest moon was obscured behind glowing cloud-cover, which gave the world an eerie glow.

  “Petre,” the radio on his belt squelched. He reached down and turned down the volume before unclipping it from his belt. “Where’d you go?”

  Something moved in the shadow beside him as he lifted the mic to his lips to answer. He froze. A man stepped out of the shadow beside the stairs. He had a scroll tucked under his arm; his fingers clutched the document. Petre recognized it immediately. The church housed a large collection of sacred documents, but it also protected what were considered apocryphal texts. These scrolls were stored in an alcove behind a tapestry near the quire. Hidden there, he had only found them himself while playing as a child, hiding from one of the older altar boys between their lessons. The one he had taken down and opened had been hand written, in a language he didn’t understand. What he remembered most was the sketch of what he could only describe as a demon, an effigy of Old Nick himself.

  “Drop your weapon,” Petre said, leveling his own gun at the thief.

  “You have no authority over me,” the man said, his accent different from anything Petre had heard. Swiss? Italian? He couldn’t be sure. “I am an Agent of God himself.”

  “No Agent of God would take the life of a priest in his prayers, not in God’s House.” Petre felt sweat build on his brow, despite the falling temperatures
.

  “I did what I was called to do,” he said. “That priest was no man of God. He was an agent of the Dark One, placed here to thwart my mission.”

  Petre, considered this man a moment. He was young, maybe the same age as his own son. His eyes, as blue as the fog-shaded moon had an eerie glow. His blond hair was cropped short in the back, but hung over one side of his face, and Petre realized the hand holding the gun was trembling.

  “You’re too young to ruin your life like this,” Petre started toward him. Somehow he felt sorry for the boy who’d lost his way so young. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him. Petre wanted to help.

  The echo of gunfire broke the eerie silence of the night. It resonated off the tall stone walls, crackling into an echo as it was carried on the still night air. Petre saw the puff of smoke rise from the weapon in the man’s hand, had heard the concussion of the hammer against the charge. He had not felt the bullet pierce his flesh though he had staggered back a step before regaining his balance. It never occurred to him to pull his own trigger.

  The young thief stepped closer, knocking the gun from the cop’s hand. He made the motion of the cross in front of Petre’s face. “Go with God,” he said, and fired his gun a second time at point-blank range.

  The cop crumpled falling into the thief’s arms. The boy caught him and lowered him to the ground, gazing into his terrified eyes. He knew now he had been shot, knew it was a fatal wound. “No,” he reached up and caught the scroll, pulling it from the man’s hand as he sunk to the stone stairs. The thief snatched it back and tucked it under his arm, freeing himself from the detective’s death grip.

  “Petre! Petre!” The radio squawked. “Where are you? I’m coming!”

  A moment later, the front door flew open. Demetri dropped at Petre’s side. The detective clutched a hand to the wound in his abdomen, but his blood flowed freely from beneath it. “He ...” Petre grabbed Demetri’s arm. “He ... took ... a ... scroll ...”

  “Who?” Demetri was busy trying to staunch the flow of blood from his partner’s body. He took out his radio. “Officer down, repeat, officer down...”

  “Just ... a boy ...” Petre fought for breath. It gurgled in his chest as Demetri found the second bullet wound, just beneath his breast. There was a sick sucking noise as he tried to breathe.

  “Officer down!” Demetri screamed into the walkie talkie, tears pouring from his face. “Officer down! I need back up!”

  Petre let go of the wound in his stomach and caught Demetri’s hand. “You ... you’re my son’s godfather ... take care of Tomáš. Take care of ... my son ...” With that, Petre took his last breath.

  About the Author

  Betsey Kulakowski has thirty years of experience as an occupational safety professional and recently completed her degree in Emergency Management. She lives with her husband and two teenage children in Oklahoma. Betsey has been writing since she could, and created her first book at the age of six—cardboard cover, string binding and all.

  Also by Betsey Kulakowski

  The Veritas Codex (Book 1 of The Veritas Codex Series)

  The Jaguar Queen (Book 2 of The Veritas Codex Series)

  The Alien Accord (Book 3 of The Veritas Codex Series)

  About the Publisher

  Babylon Books is a division of Bernhardt Books, a family-owned publishing house founded in 1999 that showcases emerging authors and compelling fiction.

  Editor-in-Chief: Alice Bernhardt

  Chief Financial Officer: W. Harrison Bernhardt

  Marketing Director: Ralph Bernhardt

  Learn more at: www.babylonbooks.net

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