The Third Seal

by Sean Deville

  “Bastard,” she spat.

  “Hardly the way to thank your saviour,” Aadam admonished.

  “Then let me free, you sick fuck.” He ignored the insult. Such words had no power over him.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to free you from your bonds. You are then going to take a shower. Do you have fresh clothes and makeup in this suite?”

  “In the other bedroom,” she said hesitantly.

  “The shower needs to be quick, and you need to hide as much of the bruising on your face as possible. Wear sunglasses when you finally leave here. Can you do that?”

  Kacey nodded. “You’re going to let me go?”

  “In a moment. What else can you tell me about Kane?”

  “The eyes,” she said after a brief pause. One of the things Aadam knew about demons was the way they seemed almost obsessed with revealing their nature to those they were about to kill. Although Kane wouldn’t be here to see Kacey’s demise, he’d still revealed the blackness in his heart. Kacey had seen the demon but didn’t understand what it meant.

  She was dead already.

  “Do you know who sent Kane here?”

  “No,” Kacey said. “Wait, he did say a name, something like…” she struggled with her recollection. “Horn. He said, Mr Horn.”

  The name meant nothing to Aadam. Perhaps the apparatus of the Inquisition could uncover something. “You have one chance to live, Kacey. Are you willing to take it?”

  “Anything,” she insisted.

  “I have people who can get you out of the country. Any life you had here is over, you realise that, right?” She nodded reluctantly. Jonah had promised her so much, only for her dreams to be engulfed in the fire of a brutal reality. “But you can start fresh with Jonah’s money. There’s nearly two hundred thousand in the other room. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Of course,” Aadam said reassuringly.

  “But the police…?”

  “The police can’t help you, Kacey. You think a man like Kane cares about the police?” Aadam knelt down on the bed by her and grabbed the right wrist. They had used a tie to immobilise that limb, and Aadam worked at the knot without fully undoing it.

  “Pull your hand free, Kacey,” he instructed. Despite the pain, she managed to squeeze the hand out, the welts on her wrist visibly sore. “Once you’ve untied your other wrist, I’ll help you to the bathroom.”

  “Thank you,” Kacey said quietly as she worked at the other knot. “Who are you?”

  “That’s not important right now. Kane is the one I am after. You just happened to fall in my lap.”

  It was painful watching her gather herself. Kacey had been beaten and raped multiple times and Aadam was suddenly impressed with the steel she was managing to forge as he helped her sit at the edge of the bed.

  “Here,” he said, passing the glass to her. “Drink this, it will help.”

  “What is it?” It was understandable for her to have doubts.

  “Medicine. There’s some pain killers crushed into it.” She still seemed reluctant. “If you want my help you will have to trust me.” Kacey took the mixture, the coke ensuring the alcohol wasn’t harsh on her throat. Clutching the glass with both hands, at first she sipped it, but her thirst got the better of her, the liquid downed in several violent gulps.

  “How long has Kane been associated with Jonah?”

  “I don’t know,” Kacey replied. “This is the first time I’ve been allowed to travel with Jonah.” The tears came again. “He said I was special.”

  “And you are, Kacey, as are all God’s children. Where is Jonah based?”

  “Kansas,” Kacey said. The word was slightly slurred, Kacey’s fear being replaced by a look of confusion. “What…what did you put in this?” She could barely get the words out, the drugs hitting her system hard.

  “A little bit of this, a splash of that. Oh, and some of Jonah’s painkillers.” Fentanyl, a powerful opioid substitute. He sat next to Kacey as she collapsed back onto the bed, the glass rolling from her fingers. The plush rug on the floor prevented the glass from breaking.

  “Why?” was the final word before unconsciousness took her.

  Because you are a means to an end, Aadam answered silently. As she lay there, he knew death was hurtling towards her. Using the dressing gown lapel, he covered her mouth, pinching the nostrils closed gently. He held her like that as she died.

  The Inquisition had no network to save her, and it wouldn’t do to have her talking about the mysterious man who came to her rescue. Let Kacey come before St Peter to be judged.

  Taking his gun out of the holster, Aadam played the same trick as he’d done with the knife. She’d reached for the glass with her right hand, so he was pretty confident he’d guessed that correctly. The gun had the serial numbers filed off, and couldn’t be linked to anyone. Such a compact gun, Kacey must have smuggled it in here. After being abused so brutally, she worked herself loose from her restraints, only to be caught in the act by one of Jonah’s cronies. After shooting him in the head and taking her fury out on the corpse, Kacey had been overwhelmed with self-pity, taking a deadly cocktail of illegal narcotics to end her unbearable suffering.

  That was the picture Aadam was painting here. He would leave the door open when he left, taking the burner phone with him. Whoever found the scene would more than likely be fooled by his elaborate ruse, and hopefully so would Kane.

  As for the money, he would burn that in the fireplace, leaving a few bills scorched. Another act of revenge by Kasey, to further deflect any notion that a third party had been involved here. Who in their right mind would burn nearly a quarter of a million dollars?

  This was a test. Firstly, to see if the double killing would make the news. Secondly, to see if Jonah was able to shake off the scandal. All of this would tell Aadam how powerful an adversary Kane and his master were. He supposed he could phone the police and leave them an anonymous tip, but Jonah was a known person, someone who could be followed.

  Something from his biblical study struck him then. One of the names for the Antichrist, often ascribed from Daniel, chapter seven, was the Little Horn. Had he uncovered a clue to the identity of the devourer of mankind?

  26.

  London, UK

  It had taken Damien less than a day to find another one of Lucifer’s sons. The Nephilim was barely a man, eighteen years old perhaps, but there could be no mercy no matter what the age. Even a baby was fair game, although the death in that case would be quick. Not out of any kind of mercy, but because Legion would be unable to extract the terror he so craved.

  Those he hunted always seemed to be damaged in some way. Rarely did their lives have any sort of stability, the vast majority of them clearly of a criminal predisposition. These were not the sons of rich and successful people, their lives shattered by violence and drugs. Occasionally he encountered one who gave off the illusion of a normal life, only for Legion to reveal the truth of them. Everyone bared their souls when Legion had his fingers around their intestines.

  The present target was no exception. Damien had felt himself drawn to an estate in the East end of London, the streets littered and rife with graffiti. Having spent years in the city, he knew its secrets, knew how to move about, knew how to avoid the main roads wherever possible. His face was out there now, every surveillance camera on the hunt for him, so he kept his head hooded, sunglasses and a scarf wrapped around his mouth. He also changed the way he walked, knowing instinctively that the forces of law and order would try and seek him out by how he moved. It was easy enough to do, a small piece of gravel placed in one shoe, the discomfort enough to alter his gait.

  When he had been arrested, he’d lost one of his preferred killing sites, a place that had been ideal for his butchering ways. Damien knew such a luxury was no longer open to him. He would need to keep on the move, constantly vigilant to the prying eyes that could spot him on any street corner and
kill the vermin where he found them. The deed took precedent over the pleasure that could be derived from it, and Damien hoped that Legion fully understood that.

  He still had his lair which the police had never found. It wasn’t much, a space he had found in the basement of an old dilapidated building, but that was not a place for killing. It was enough to give him a refuge to sleep and re-evaluate his mission. Mobility was also a problem, public transport out of the question. Instead he had found a mountain bike, Legion easily defeating the pitiful bike lock with brute strength. That would be his means of moving throughout the city from now on, although his hulking frame was not designed to be propelled around on two wheels.

  His lair contained additional clothing, plus another killing belt. It felt good to once again be suitably armed for the task required of him. Around his waist, hidden by the thick coat he wore, several knives dangled by their sheaths, each wickedly sharp. Legion’s favourite blades had been lost during his arrest, but these were adequate substitutes.

  The estate he was presently on was free of police interference, one of those places the cops only ventured onto in large numbers. This collection of concrete structures would be rich with crime, drugs, desperation and there would be gangs armed with a variety of weapons to harm anyone foolish enough to find their way here. The law abiding who were trapped within these bleak cells would live in fear, locked behind reinforced doors hoping that they could avoid the intentions of those whose souls had already been claimed by Satan.

  Pedalling slowly, he made his way down a car-lined street, noticing the signs that most people wouldn’t see. The man selling drugs from a darkened stairway. The timid child with the bruised face looking out of a dirty window. The old woman crossing the road whose eyes darted back and forth looking for signs of impending danger. This was a place for the lost and the dispossessed, the victim and the predator. The noble character of humanity was crushed and sedated here, desolation and resignation like a shroud across everything. The trees and the weeds that broke through the manmade surfaces seemed to be sick with the disease of this place. It broke your spirit, infusing the residents with a hopelessness that could rarely be defeated.

  My kind of place, thought Damien. Soon, this would be the best that humanity could hope for.

  The people who lived here would know to keep their eyes open and their mouths shut. They were unlikely to share anything they saw, witnessing years of violence against those who broke the unofficial code. If anyone saw Damien, they would choose not to remember him and would never speak to the agents of law enforcement who might come questioning.

  The pulse of the man he sought drew him. Likely Damien’s presence here had already been noted by the criminal element that owned this domain. The gang networks would be on the lookout for strangers to the area, which was why Damien cycled in a meandering fashion, playfully veering across the road that was free from any oncoming vehicle traffic. His attire gave him the look of one of a vagabond, his clothing dirty and ragged. To those watching, he could be a homeless man, or someone whose mind was fractured and lost. No threat, nothing for the estate’s owners to concern themselves with. And with his size, perhaps someone that was best left alone unless no other option presented itself.

  To his right, part of a block of flats four stories high seemed to glow, Lucifer’s son living within its structure. Most of the doors there had been boarded up, the edifice no longer fit for normal human habitation. But Lucifer’s sons weren’t normal, so there was no surprise to find one here. Damien knew that Legion would prefer to do this another way, to kill over a period of hours, but neither of them had that luxury. Lucifer was arriving sooner than expected, so quantity was the overriding factor now.

  As many of the remaining sons as possible needed to be eradicated before Lucifer rose, or before Damien found himself in custody once again.

  Abandoning the bike on an unkempt grass verge, Damien sauntered towards where his foe hid. He strode boldly, showing those who might be watching that he was not someone to be toyed with. I am a threat to you, his posture screamed, but only if you choose to get in my way. When he walked through humanity, they stepped aside, looking away so as not to catch his eye out of fear that Damien might somehow take their glances as a slight. He oozed malevolence, and most people would be wary of the violence a man as big as him could unleash.

  Reaching the concrete steps that snaked up through the structure, Damien began to climb, his ears vigilant for those who would oppose him, feet heavy on the unswept steps. The staircase was as he expected it, decrepit, rife with graffiti and the stench of human urine. There was evidence of drug use here, syringes and other paraphernalia scattered in the corners where normal society would never see them. This place was where the damned came to lose themselves. Hidden away amongst the derelict flats would be a drug house that gave people a safe place to feed their habit. For thirty pounds you could lie on a dirty and infested mattress and let the troubles of the world melt away, for a time at least.

  “You lost, bro?” The voice assaulted him when he reached the second level. The man who spoke was leaning against a wall, a blunt trapped between his teeth. Damien had already smelt him, the cannabis stench revealing his presence to the world. To Damien the man looked like a thug, but he was not the son of Lucifer.

  “We are all lost to this world,” Damien said as he continued to ascend.

  “Hey, what you looking for?” the man persisted. Many would have feared this individual, but not Damien. He wouldn’t need to trouble Legion to end this troublesome and wiry lookout.

  “Salvation.” The answer didn’t satisfy the thug, who started to follow Damien up the steps. He was invading their valued territory, although why anyone would be willing to fight to protect this shabby piece of the city would forever be a mystery to Damien.

  “The only thing you’ll find here is pain, mate,” a second voice said from above. Another man, slightly bigger and older than his counterpart, came into view in the stairwell above. His body pulsed like a beacon, making Damien’s mouth water with delight. This was the one he was here for.

  Oh brother, we are well met, Legion said silently. Soon I will feast in your torment.

  “I seek to purchase,” Damien offered, pulling a twenty-pound note from one of his pockets. Despite never having any kind of employment, Damien rarely had difficulty getting his hands on money. Many of those he killed had ample currency on them. Rarely did he need to buy anything for his own sustenance. London was a place where you could easily scavenge and forage if you knew how. The bins outside the fancier restaurants offered up food that over a billion people across the world would have fought for.

  “What you after?” the first man asked. Damien was sandwiched between them.

  I can hear your blood coursing, Legion whispered.

  “Spice. I’d have thought my appearance would have made that obvious.” Damien continued to ascend, holding the money out before him.

  “How did you know to come here?” Damien’s half-brother asked. He could see the suspicion now, despite Damien’s dilapidated appearance. His clothes might have screamed poverty, but the body they covered was strong and raw with power. He did not have the physiological characteristics of someone addicted to Bombay Blue.

  The first man came up closer behind him.

  “You got more on you?” The first thug grabbed Damien’s coat from behind, hands disappearing into pockets, pulling out more bills. “Hey Craig, guy’s fucking loaded.”

  Unleash me, Legion insisted.

  What, and spoil the fun these boys are having?

  Unleash me now. Damien relented. His right hand slipped beneath his coat, just as the body shifted, the shoulders growing slightly, the eyes switching colour. The one called Craig, the half-brother, stepped back in surprise. With a powerful thrust, Legion swung his arm backwards, the knife embedding into the first thug’s abdomen. The injured man grunted, thinking he’d been punched, but then the pain came as Legion twisted his wrist, wrenchi
ng his arm sideways, opening up the gut, small intestine spilling out onto the steps at the man’s feet. Pulling the knife free, Legion went in pursuit of his fleeing brother, letting the man behind crumple to the floor and down the steps where he lay quietly moaning.

  To look at Legion, you wouldn’t expect him to be particularly agile, but he bounded up the steps now, taking them two at a time, the power in his legs more than a match for Craig. Reaching out with his grasping fingers, Legion almost caught the man, a sliver away from hooking the hood. Craig made it to the next landing and ran along the balcony that had once serviced more than a dozen homes.

  “Run, you little shit,” Legion taunted, enjoying the look of terror Craig cast over his shoulder. Legion let his prey get a few metres ahead and then he came, the foundations pounding as Legion’s boots made contact.

  Craig didn’t stand a chance, and was brought down by a vicious rugby tackle. A knife appeared in Craig’s hand, but Legion was too quick and too well versed in the ways of his enemies. Struggling on the floor together, the feeble thrust was intercepted, Legion encasing his enemy’s wrist in a vice-like hand. The wrist snapped, the knife dropping, the hand now useless.

  “What the hell did I do?” Craig begged.

  “You exist, that is enough,” Legion said solemnly before finally mounting Craig. Legion had a significant weight advantage. Despite his wriggling, there was no way for Craig to escape, and with one working hand, there was no stopping the meaty and dirt-caked thumb that pushed into his right eye.

  People across the estate would whisper to their nearest and dearest about the time they heard that scream.

  Legion pushed the thumb so as to gouge out the eye, his knife still held in the other hand. He used that on the knee cap, plunging it into the meat and the cartilage with shocking force and accuracy. The scream that elicited was louder, Legion taking great satisfaction when he noticed his half-brother’s bladder unleash. This man, this creature, was not worthy to call himself Lucifer’s son. He was a pretender, a usurper, and Legion pushed himself off the ground so as to look down upon his bleeding and whimpering foe.