Blood Moon Eclipse (The Shadow Lands Book 2)

by Lloyd Behm II

  “The Church raided a cult site we’d been watching in Oklahoma City,” Miller said. “Along with the lump of devil, the combat exorcists recovered three senior followers of his cult, and debriefed two of them. The third went terminally insane when we asked the first question.”

  “Terminally insane?” Diindiisi asked.

  “Yes. He started gibbering, and then his neck exploded. We found the remains of implants, similar to the ones you found in the werebear in Austin, in his neck.”

  Another slide, this one showing an ugly decapitation.

  “I was going to ask what followers of the devil of greed had to do with the intrusion here in Piccadilly, but the dawn lights,” I said.

  “It gets better, I assure you,” Miller said with a grim smile. “The two cultists we interviewed said they’d been instructed to cooperate with followers of Abzu, to gain vengeance for their devil.”

  “Fuck me,” William said. “Devils and chaos working together?”

  “Yes. This is not seen as a good thing by the Church,” Miller replied.

  “No shit? I’d hate to see the fucking paperwork,” I said.

  “Jesse, this is serious,” Miller said.

  “Yeah, I know. But the end user agreement has to be stone clad,” I said. “Wait a minute. You said the implants were similar. What about the implanted?”

  “Therianthrope. Although he was a wereraccoon, and they’re not known for being one of the more aggressive species.”

  I started laughing. I couldn’t help it.

  “What’s so funny?” Diindiisi asked.

  “We’ve apparently pissed off a diabolic prince, an ancient god and goddess of chaos, and they’re teaming up with weretrash pandas, weretigers, and werebears, oh my, to get us. It’s funny.”

  “If you say so, my love,” she replied. “It seems very serious to me.”

  “Oh, it’s serious, too,” I replied. “Only way this could be funnier, though, is if the head of the RLF in Austin turns out to be part of the mix.”

  I looked into the faces around me and realized they didn’t know about the RLF.

  “Rodent Liberation Front. It’s a bunch of minor werecreatures, prey types mostly, run by a wererabbit named Harvey.”

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Fred said.

  “Nope. Takes all kinds,” I replied.

  “Anyway,” Miller said, bringing up the next slide, “we included the data about the implants exploding in our data dump to QMG.”

  “Thank God,” Mina said. “Hopefully they’ll be able to get the implant out of Lou without it exploding.”

  “It’s possible,” Miller replied. “Jesse, does what’s on the screen look familiar?”

  “Yeah, it’s a stripped-down version of ‘Ye Greate Spelle’ by Mother Shipton, and an ingredients list. Let me guess, you found this in the hands of the devil worshippers.”

  “Close. It’s been popping up here and there on the internet since before our little side trip into Shadow. The ingredients list is a new item, though,” Miller replied. “The Vatican’s analysts think that someone, probably Oeillet’s followers, has been dropping them on the usual websites so dilettantes will use the spell.”

  “I’ll bite, why?” William said.

  “This is conjecture on the analysts’ part, but they think Oeillet’s followers are trying to hone the spell by letting others have it blow up in their face. There have been a number of incidents in Europe over the last few years involving the spell, now that we’re analyzing the data.”

  “It would be cheaper to do it that way—both in terms of monetary cost and loss of worshippers. But why did it take so long to tie the spell to the activity?” Fred asked.

  “A couple of reasons,” William said before Miller could answer. “How many ritual scenes have you cleaned up through the years?”

  “Most dwarves have more sense than to summon something they can’t control and try to bargain with it,” Fred said, popping the top off a Mexican Coke with his bare hands.

  All the humans around the table laughed.

  “Humans aren’t that smart,” William said. “Which probably ties into the first reason it took a while to tie the Spelle to the activity—most ritual scenes are messy, with bits of idiot scattered around the landscape like a bad Rorschach test. If you’re lucky, their spell book is encrypted or written in ‘ancient runes’ some Oxford Fellow invented to sell books, instead of completely unreadable gibberish that would make the Zodiac Killer join a monastery.”

  “I’ve gone half blind trying to figure out what some idiot wrote in hen scratch Tengwar or illegible Sindarin,” Miller admitted.

  “That’s if you find the spell book at all—usually some survivor grabs the ‘ancient mystical tome’ before they flee the scene. The spell has to work; after all, it did summon whatever it was that just ate poor Christine right in front of you.”

  “I can see that,” Fred said, “but you said ‘reasons,’ plural.”

  “I did,” William replied. “The second biggest reason I can think of is that spells don’t leave a signature. You can tell someone has cast a spell here from the residue, or if you’ve got a really good saint’s relic or something, but you can’t tell what spell was used.”

  Miller blushed.

  “That’s not entirely true,” he said, the flush rising to his hairline. “The Church has a relic that allows us to tell what spell has been used. It can be tuned to a specific spell.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t your decision to keep this hidden from us, Robert,” Diindiisi said.

  “No, but I am the one who found the references to it in the archives,” he replied. “It’s not technically a relic of one of our saints, either.”

  “Who does it belong to? Voodoo?” I asked.

  “The Eastern Orthodox Church. It is a finger bone from Mitrophan of Voronezh. The Church acquired it when the Bolsheviks were confiscating Mitrophan’s relics after the Russian Revolution and lost it in the secret archives.”

  “Lost or ‘lost?’” William asked.

  “There was no indication I can find that the artifact was deliberately hidden to prevent its return,” Miller said. “You have to understand how large the Archives are…”

  “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” I said.

  “Yes,” Miller said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “The final scene in that movie is a close approximation of what we’re talking about. Now imagine that, instead of little more than a century, the government had been collecting relics and items of power for two millennia or longer, and you can understand the scope of the problem.”

  “How does the Holy Middle Finger of Saint Mitrophan work?” I asked.

  “How’d you know it was the middle finger?” Miller asked me, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “Lucky guess? The sarcasm inherent when I open my mouth?” I replied, doing my best to look innocent.

  I failed, of course.

  “I’ll go with number two,” Miller said, chuckling. “But yes, it’s the middle finger of Mitrophan’s right hand. There’s a ritual to attune the user, and a talking board…”

  “You’re using the finger of a Russian saint as a planchette on a Ouija board to determine what spell was cast?” Fred said, breaking into thunderous laughter. “Let me guess. Part of the problem is the user has to know the Cyrillic alphabet to be able to translate the message from the other side!”

  “Well, yes,” Miller replied. “That is one of the issues we’re having. Another one deals with the form of the Cyrillic alphabet on the board.”

  “How is the form of the letters a problem?” Mina asked. “Aren’t they, well, the same as they’ve always been?”

  “No. Peter the Great reformed the alphabet in the early eighteenth century. While Mitrophan was a supporter of Peter, he didn’t agree with many of his reforms. Apparently the changes to Cyrillic were one of them, so the person working with the relic has to have a working knowledge of seventeenth century Cyrillic.”
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  “Sounds messy,” William said.

  “Unbelievably so. The good news is, the relic can tell us the spell used, even if it was used years ago.”

  “The bad news?” Cletus asked.

  “The finger is…sulky. It won’t work on holy days, feast days, or fast days. Do you know how many holy days there are in the Eastern Orthodox Church? The Feast of the Apostles can last up to six weeks, depending on the year,” he said, frustration dripping from his voice.

  “Is that going to cause issues with determining what spell was used here?” Diindiisi asked.

  “We weren’t going to use the finger here,” Miller replied. “Based on what happened, the analysts are confident it was the newer variant of Ye Grate Spelle.”

  “We might have supporting evidence,” I said. “But until the body bag gets opened in Austin, we won’t know for sure.”

  “Body bag?” Miller asked, moving his mouse so the projector stayed on.

  “Yeah, we found a…thorn in our sides from Austin under the dead whale,” I said.

  “Okay, there were obviously some things left out of the report I read,” Miller said. “Where does the whale enter into the picture?”

  “Fortean phenomena,” I replied. “Only instead of salmon, it was a whale. A juvenile blue, I think.”

  “Fin whale,” William said. “Color was wrong for a juvenile blue.”

  “Wonder what its last thoughts were,” Fred said. “Did anyone find the petunias?”

  Everyone looked at him.

  “You know, you’re the last person I’d suspect of having read The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy,” Bubba said. “Well, other than my brother here.”

  Cletus punched his brother in the arm. Bubba just looked at Cletus.

  “Whales aside, you mentioned proof?” Miller asked. He’d already figured out that this bunch was harder to keep on track than the group we’d shepherded through the Shadow Lands.

  “I mentioned supporting evidence. There’s an Austin-based undead rights group that lost a member here. The member had multiple cameras on him. The pointy hat and pipe smoke brigade want to make sure the gear isn’t spelled before letting the guys who perform forensic IT voodoo have the cameras to pull the data,” I replied.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Jesse, you awake?” Other Dave called from the door to the room Diindiisi and I were sharing.

  “I am now,” I mumbled, rolling out of bed.

  “Everything alright?” Diindiisi asked.

  “Not sure, Hon,” I replied. “I might have to kill Other Dave.”

  “I get his jacket,” she said, turning over and going back to sleep.

  “I see Diindiisi’s got her priorities straight,” Other Dave said when I walked out into the hall.

  “What’s up that can’t wait until morning?” I asked.

  “I got a hit on an upload from PBR Street Gang,” he replied.

  That opened my eyes.

  “What kind of hit?” I asked, following him down the hall.

  “They uploaded camera video from the event here to their website. The MAC address was spoofed, and it was a new number, so I’ve added it to the list,” he answered, taking a hit from his vape. Tonight it smelled like mango.

  “That gets us a new number and nothing else,” I replied.

  “Which isn’t the good part,” he replied, opening the secret door and walking out into the Gas N’ Go.

  “Look, man, I was sleeping, warm, fat, and happy next to my wife. I’ve had no caffeine and my brain is still broken from that Q&A with Dallas yesterday after Miller’s briefing. On top of that, I’m no computer whiz, so break it down in words of two syllables or less for a former grunt, okay?”

  “Fine. Through a truly epic amount of hacking, I’ve got the IMEI number for the phone that was used to upload the video to the net,” he said, blowing on the nails of his right hand before buffing them on his lapel.

  “Okay, let’s try words of one syllable or less, because I’m still not tracking,” I said.

  “The IMEI number is the International Mobile Equipment Identity number,” he said, rolling his eyes at me.

  “So the phone’s serial number,” I replied.

  “Yes,” he said. “I can track the phone by that number.”

  “So you can use that number to tell where the phone is right now?”

  “No, but the IMEI can tell me what number is assigned to the phone, and I can use the phone number to tell me where it is, within about three yards, yeah.”

  “But that just tells us where that phone is…you wouldn’t have woken me if you’d just found the phone,” I said, things clicking in my brain.

  “Nope. You’re looking for some real live rocket barbers, let me tell you,” he said with a shit-eating grin. “I used the IMEI as a start. I violated the hell out of the service provider’s servers to figure out who had purchased the phone. The phone was sold as part of a family plan to a family from Houston.”

  “Which gets us nowhere.”

  “Au contraire. Does this person look familiar?” he asked, showing me photo.

  “That’s fucking Handlebar,” I said. “You got a name?”

  “Ashley Williams,” Other Dave said. “He’s dumb enough he used a debit card in his own name to get cash from an ATM at that little no name motel about ten miles north of here. Doing it that way rather kills any chance of hiding using a fake name on the registration form. Before you ask, I checked. His phone is in one of the rooms.”

  “Hot fucking damn!” I said, turning toward the stairs.

  “Where are you going, man?”

  “We’re going to do this all legal. I’m going to wake up a Van Helsing and get him to wake up a sheriff and a judge,” I said, taking the stairs down three at a time.

  Bubba rolled out of bed when I banged on his door and led me back upstairs and around the back of the Gas N’ Go to ‘The Right Reverend Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar Anderson’s All-Night Salvation Chapel.’

  “Bubba, I need a judge for a warrant,” I said.

  “Reverend Anderson is a county judge, and the only one awake at this ungodly hour of the night,” Bubba said, scratching himself.

  When in Rome, I guess. I went in. The All-Night Salvation Chapel was pure Las Vegas Strip. The only thing missing was the slot machines, and they could have been under the tarps in the corner. Reverend Anderson was a well-fed fifty-year-old, whose mahogany skin shone in the lights of the chapel.

  “Bubba! Welcome! I see you’ve brought another sinner with you!” the reverend boomed.

  “Sorry, Mirabeau, but Jesse’s here for legal reasons, not salvation. Besides, his bishop might get miffed if you converted him.”

  “One moment, please,” Reverend Anderson said, stepping behind the altar.

  He whipped the altar cover off, revealing a stark wooden desk, and pulled on a judge’s robe over his three-piece white linen suit in the same motion.

  “Court is now in session,” Judge Anderson said, dropping into a chair and banging a gavel. “How can I help y’all?”

  “Well, Your Honor, I need a warrant to arrest someone,” I said, dropping my US Marshall credentials on the desk.

  “Now, son, I can’t just go issuing warrants on your say so,” he replied.

  “I get that, Your Honor, so I brought evidence,” I said, handing him a folder Other Dave had prepared while I was getting dressed. “I need to arrest Mr. Wilson there before he flees the jurisdiction.”

  “Mirabeau, he might be part of the group of idiots from last week,” Bubba tossed out.

  “That puts things in a different light,” Anderson said, signing an arrest warrant. “Y’all want to toss his location as well?”

  “Yes, sir. I need a John Doe warrant as well, for this individual,” I said, tossing Fedora’s photo and description on the desk.

  “That one looks like an idiot,” Anderson said, filling out the pertinent information. “I take it he’s involved as well?”r />
  “Yes, sir. They’re part of an undead rights group called PBR Street Gang,” I said, gathering up the papers when he was finished.

  “Dumb as it sounds, there’s nothing illegal about being in an undead rights group,” Anderson pointed out.

  “No sir, there isn’t. But when you’re in an undead rights group and we find the third member of your group dead at the site of the largest cross-dimensional intrusion since the Tunguska event, well, you got some ‘splainin’ to do,” I replied.

  “That you do, son. I’ll let the sheriff know y’all are going to make some arrests,” he said as we walked out the door.

  The team, along with Fred and his dwarves, were waiting out front next to a motley collection of vehicles—a lifted and blown primer-tone ‘69 Camaro, an ‘80s model Chevy Blazer on tires so damn tall you had to climb a rope ladder to get in it, a faded red and white Ford Pickup, and…

  “Not just no, but hell no,” I said, looking at the Renault Le Car the dwarves were clustered around. It was painted Hemi Orange and had 01 painted on the door.

  “Hey, it’s a hatchback, and the doors aren’t welded shut,” Fred argued. “Besides, it ain’t a damn VW Bug—that was the other option.”

  “What the hell is painted on the roof?” I asked, stepping closer.

  The roof had a French Tricolor and the name ‘General Leclerc’ painted on it. At least the paint job was professional, if strange.

  “What’s the bug look like?” I asked.

  “I am not riding into possible combat in a clown car painted like Herpes the Love Bug,” Fred said in a voice like glaciers grinding granite.

  “Fine, whatever,” I said, tossing my hands into the air before climbing into the bed of the red Ford Pickup.

  Engines rumbled, and amid the opening notes of “La Marseillaise” and a cloud of dust, we left the Gas N’ Go headed for the roach motel. At least it was a cool night for riding through the country in the back of an old pickup. The only smudge on the night was the dwarves in the Le Car blasting K-Pop at unimaginable levels as we drove through the night.

  “What kind of music is that?” Diindiisi shouted, leaning in close.