Occult Assassin 4: Soul Jacker

by Massa, William

  CHAPTER TWO

  DEMONS ROAMED THE streets of Paris.

  Ismael Henni had spotted the first creature three weeks earlier on his daily train ride to the City of Lights. As an elderly French lady had struggled to shuffle into the packed Metro, their eyes had met. There had been nothing human about those eyes, just black orbs of unforgiving darkness. A gnarled hand had clutched his forearm, and he had choked back a gasp of pain, stunned by the lady’s fearsome strength. A reptilian tongue had slithered between the blackened stumps of her teeth.

  Taking three quick steps back from the shocking apparition, he had crashed into a businessman who shot him an annoyed glance. By the time Ismael whirled back to the old lady, reality, to his relief, had returned to normal. Once again the sweet madame, she’d eyed him with a stunned expression, as surprised by his behavior as he’d been by her demonic transformation. Ismael attempted to convince himself that his vision had been triggered by an overactive imagination, but knew he was lying to himself.

  The rest of the train ride turned out to be uneventful, but that night sleep hadn’t come easily. The next day the old lady’s mad cackle kept ringing through the one-bedroom apartment he shared with his mother and sister. Ismael was twenty-two and of Tunisian and Algerian descent, a third generation French Muslim. On average he spent two hours every day commuting between his home and Paris, where he worked at a fast food burger joint. A menial gig, but a step up from the job at the Coca-Cola bottling plant he’d held before. The color of his skin and his post code automatically disqualified him from the better jobs in the city. An address in the Parisian suburbs—the banlieues as Parisians referred to the area—would be a warning flag for any recruiter. It was a wasteland of housing projects dominated by poverty, unemployment, and gang violence best to be avoided. Rarely did the police patrol the crime-ridden slums, except for the occasional appearance by your friendly neighborhood RAID team.

  Ismael got up, showered and dressed. His mother greeted him in the kitchen, concern etched across her features. “You’re having nightmares,” she said. “I could hear your screams.”

  Ismael didn’t feel like getting into it and kissed her on the cheek before dashing out. Hopefully work would make him forget. But the horror was merely beginning. Over the next weeks, more creatures began to reveal themselves on the trains and streets of Paris. The demons always appeared innocuous at first before their true nature surfaced. Taut skin would transform into the rotting flesh of a leper. Smiles became snarls, revealing rows of sharpened teeth. He might admire the derriere of a well-endowed customer at his restaurant, only to spot a glimpse of a monstrous tail slithering underneath her dress a second later. Soon he could no longer deny what his senses were telling him: devils dwelled among them.

  They wore the mask of humanity, but the illusion now failed to put him under its blinding spell. He knew the truth. The evil hordes controlled Paris, and suddenly everything else in his hard life made sense. The discrimination against his people, the lack of opportunity for a better life. The citizens of France were the true enemy, demons that had enslaved generations of Arabs and Africans. They would deport them all if they could, but it was far easier to keep them trapped in the broken suburbs that orbited the City of Light like burnt-out stars.

  Ismael now saw the world for what it truly was, stripped of all illusions. The time had come to strike back at his oppressors.

  To take a stand against the demons.

  After two weeks of bearing witness to the horrors around him, he started bringing a knife to work. He concealed the weapon under his jacket, but its weight filled him with a sense of security. Would the twelve inches of stainless steel do much good if the bestial horde decided to strike out at him? He doubted it, but the knife made him feel better. At least he would be able to take a few of them with him if they attacked.

  His terror came to a head five days later—exactly three weeks after he’d spotted his first demon. Three men boarded the train, and their mistrustful eyes landed on Ismael. He picked up on their dismissive judgment, their sly grins and superior laughter. They saw him as someone who didn’t have a place in this European city. An outsider. An alien.

  What are you doing so far from home, brown boy? You’re trespassing, beur! Paris is for real French! Time to head back to the Middle East where you people belong!

  Eyes blazing with crimson fire, their words devolved into guttural shrieks directed at him. As they pointed their fingers at him, the digits elongated and sprouted claws.

  In the past he would’ve held his tongue, but not any longer. His days of slinking through French society like a shadow were over. Something snapped in Ismael, and he whipped the knife from his coat. For a frozen moment, the fluorescent lights of the subway train played across the steel. The three demons paused, reverting back to their human disguise. The eyes facing him filled with fear, but Ismael wasn’t going to fall for their tricks this time. He was tired of their games.

  Without hesitation, he drove the knife into the first man’s chest. The blade cut easily through layers of muscle, and the stunned man gasped with agony. Green blood spurted and pooled on the subway floor.

  The blood of a demon.

  Reassured by this proof of the man’s inhuman nature, he withdrew the knife and slashed the second man’s throat in one swift move. The other passengers screamed and tried to surge away from him in the same panicked way Ismael had recoiled from the old lady demon three weeks earlier.

  The third monster tried to join the retreating ranks, but Ismael’s knife still managed to find him. He struck with force and precision, catching the fleeing demon in the shoulder blade.

  There was a stunned cry as the man went down, reduced to a screaming, bleeding mass of humanity.

  The wheels of the train squealed as they pulled into the bustling Gare de Norde station, the frontier zone between the world of affluent Paris and the ghettos of the banlieues. It was one of the few places in the city where the two worlds met.

  A soft ding announced the train stop and the doors swung open. The mob emptied into the station, cries of panic accompanying their rapid escape.

  Ismael took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a green streak on his forehead. Following an irrational impulse, he dipped two fingers into the widening pool of blood and drew a symbol that resembled the letter M on the nearest window. His body moved of its own volition, the act disconnected from conscious thought.

  Once done, he stumbled into the station. His gaze flitted back and forth, surveying his environment. He was intimately familiar with the station from his daily commute, but the place appeared foreign and hostile now. Everywhere terrified people turned away from him as if he was the monster. Shouts drowned out all other sounds. A part of him rejoiced in their fear. Serves them right, he thought. This was a taste of their own medicine. How many times had he worried some skinhead might jump him on the way home?

  A police officer barreled toward him, gun up. The cop’s features were grotesquely distorted as if some mad plastic surgeon had tried to mold flesh and blood to resemble a living funhouse mirror. A slash of a mouth, eyes set too far apart, a crumpled mass of cartilage pretending to be a nose. It reminded Ismael of a Picasso painting given unnatural life.

  All thoughts of his own safety cast aside, he rushed toward the demon, his knife raised, lips pulled back into a scream.

  The police officer’s gun roared.

  The world went topsy-turvy as the impact propelled him backwards. The train station’s stone floor rushed up at him. Bone slapped concrete with devastating force. He heard footsteps and shouts, but he couldn’t tell where they were coming from.

  Ismael’s adrenaline spiked, and somehow he managed to jump back to his feet. He lurched toward the officer, his knife outstretched, and this time his blade found its target. Even as the demon in the police uniform fell, others rushed forward. They fired on Ismael and he collapsed. The shouts and gunshots grew dim as a soulless darkness consumed the station.r />
  CHAPTER THREE

  CASCA PERKED UP as he leafed through the age-worn pages of the Grimoire, fingers trembling with excitement. His awed expression made Talon think of a little kid unwrapping his first present on Christmas morning.

  Thirty-six hours had passed since Talon had battled the mysterious Order of the Flayed Prince for the occult object in question. He now sat across from his benefactor in a quaint café in the Italian city of Cuneo. Located at the foot of the Maritime Alps, it had been nicknamed the “City of Seven Sieges” and still bore the marks of its military history. The ruins of the fortress walls that once ringed the area were visible everywhere. The twelfth-century fortified town had once been a strategic military center. Now Cuneo was better known for its Cuneesi al Rhum, chocolates with a rum-based filling.

  Funny how the world turns, Talon thought. Eying Casca, he wondered how much his own perception of the billionaire had changed since their last mission. Back in Ohio, when they’d faced the Reaper, Talon had learned that Casca was not just trying to understand metaphysical forces but was also practicing magic himself. His benefactor justified his actions by claiming that he was tapping into the light, not the darkness.

  Or at least so he believed.

  Talon had witnessed enough horrors during his military career to be skeptical. How often had men with good intention set the tragedies of history in motion? Could the billionaire continue on his current path without being corrupted by forces he was trying to control? Only time would answer that question.

  Almost as if Casca guessed what Talon was thinking, he said, “Sergeant, you look like someone who just handed a kid a loaded gun.”

  Talon warily met Casca’s gaze. Had the billionaire actually learned to read minds?

  “I know you’re worried I might turn into some magical big bad,” Casca continued, “but I’m on your side.”

  Talon nodded. His benefactor had a point. On the surface, a billionaire and former Delta Force Operator might seem to share little in common, but what connected them was a shared sense of mission. They’d both declared war against the forces of darkness after losing loved ones to the occult. Together they would do their best to make sure no one else suffered a similar fate.

  Casca leaned closer and said, “To battle terrorists, you and your men needed to get into their heads. Figure out what made them tick. My studies of the occult are not so different. You’ve seen yourself how important some of the magical weapons have been in our recent battles.”

  Casca was referring to the demon slayer blade Talon carried and the pentagram amulet draped around his neck, which could alert him of approaching black magic dangers.

  “All I’m saying is be careful,” Talon said.

  Casca flashed him a grin. “I’m touched by your concern.”

  Talon decided it might be better to change the subject for now. The billionaire had offered up few details about the Order of the Flayed Prince when he sent him after the Grimoire, and Talon was hungry for answers. “So what do we know about this cult besides their interest in classic literature?”

  “Not much, unfortunately,” Casca replied in a sober voice. Talon detected a trace of hesitation, and he suddenly wondered if his benefactor might know more about this mysterious cabal than he had let on. “They’ve been recruiting wealthy people into their ranks. To what specific purpose, I don’t know.”

  Casca raised the Grimoire. “The loss of the Incatrix marks a blow against them, but it won’t end their activities. You took out a cell and eliminated their latest wave of recruits but the larger organization remains.”

  An organization that now knows someone is gunning for them, Talon mentally added. Aloud, he asked, “How do we proceed?”

  “Their agenda is to recruit members of the economic elite. Influencers. I doubt that’s going to change. So why not let them come to us?”

  Talon studied Casca carefully, his curiosity building.

  “Forbes is doing an interview with me next week, and I plan to mention my interest in the occult.”

  Realization hit Talon. Instead of tracking down the cult, Casca would let them come to him.

  “What if they don’t take the bait?” he asked.

  “Considering we just thinned their numbers, I’m sure I’ll be hearing from them soon enough.” The billionaire’s eyes glittered with a confidence that bordered on cockiness. The events in Ohio had definitely changed him. Talon still wasn’t quite sure what to make of this new Casca.

  “What do we do while we wait?”

  “Why not focus on a more immediate problem for now? There’s a situation developing in Paris which requires our attention.”

  Talon perked up. “You’re referring to the recent string of terror attacks orchestrated by North Africans and Algerians?”

  Casca nodded. “I’m glad you’re keeping up with the news.”

  Even though Talon was busy fighting a different war these days, he still shared a keen interest in world affairs. Battling demons and cults hadn’t made him forget that evil came in many forms—and that earth-bound enemies could cause as much harm as supernatural ones. His thoughts often turned to his Delta brothers on the frontline in the battle against terrorism. Part of him still felt like he’d abandoned his unit by stepping away from his military duties but what choice did he have after what had happened in San Francisco? If not for him, who would stand against the darkness?

  “How much do you know about the ‘banlieues’?” Casca inquired.

  There was no hesitation as Talon answered. “Since the 1970s, the phrase banlieues has been used to describe the grim high-rise housing estates in the suburbs that ring many French cities. They are the home of many immigrants and French citizens of foreign descent, mostly of Algerian and North African origin.”

  “I’m impressed. Go on.”

  “French Muslims often straddle two worlds. Unlike immigrants in the US, the descendents of foreigners aren’t well integrated into mainstream French society. They have little economic upward mobility and feel that secular France is at war with Islam. Consequently, it doesn’t come as a surprise that France has supplied more jihadists to the Islamic state than any other Western country.”

  Talon recalled a nearly three-week riot in 2005, which illustrated the potential of conflict in the area. And then there was the recent attack on the magazine Charlie Hebdo by Islamist extremists offended by their satirical portrayal of Muslims. The killers were all Frenchmen born of Algerian and North-African descent who had grown up in the impoverished Paris suburbs. Their attack had ratcheted up ethnic tensions in Europe, igniting social problems that had been simmering away since the 1950s when the first Algerian immigrants arrived. Many Parisians feared the banlieues could become incubators for future acts of terrorism, and this fear was unfortunately turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  “What makes you think these attacks have an occult explanation?” Talon asked.

  Casca answered by turning his laptop toward Talon. “The following video was taken by a witness two days earlier on the Metro.” Casca pressed play, and a chilling scene began to unfold. Onscreen, a young Algerian man exploded into violent motion as he whipped out a knife and launched a terrifying attack at the stunned commuters. Shouts of panic rang out as blood flowed freely. At one point, the camera zoomed in on the knife-wielding killer, the attacker’s voice growing audible over the screams on the train. The man was mumbling strange words in an exotic language. There was no fanatical glee on the young man’s face, nor did he display the aloof, removed quality found among most mass murderers. In fact, he appeared even more terrified than the commuters.

  It hit Talon then. This attack wasn’t inspired by hatred but by fear.

  Before the young man exited the subway, he drew a symbol, which resembled the letter M, on one of train’s windows. The video went dark and was replaced with a surveillance shot of a train station. It showed the killer facing down a police officer. Bullets lashed into the crazed man and hurled him to the ground.
Despite the violent hail of lead, the man picked himself up and lurched toward the cop, his knife finding the hapless officer. How could he be displaying such freakish strength after taking multiple bullets? He had to be on PCP or some other drug, Talon thought. More cops appeared, and this time, the power of their firearms dropped the madman.

  In the end, he was only human.

  The video ended and Casca’s eyes locked on him. “As you can see, the attacker was gunned down by the French police shortly after the attack on the Metro.”

  “Did you observe anything unusual about our attacker?”

  “He looks terrified. And he appears to be on some kind of drug, if he could take a few bullets and keep on coming.”

  “My feeling exactly. Could be just a symptom of psychosis, but there’s more. Let me replay the scene without the background sound.”

  A moment later, the scene of violence unspooled again, this time with he background noise stripped out. The man’s words were clearly audible. Talon possessed a working knowledge of Arabic and would have recognized the language, but this was gibberish to him.

  “What language is he speaking?”

  “Good question. Some of the words sounded familiar, and I had a linguist verify my suspicion. He is using Suryaniyya, or ancient Syriac, which is a dialect of Aramaic. It’s an offshoot of the ancestral language of the Semites.”

  “Why is a French-born Algerian using an ancient language?” Talon asked.

  “I’m getting to that. Could you make out the symbol he painted on the window in the train?”

  “An M?”

  “An M to us. If we separate it down the middle, we get two opposite Vs. An inverted ‘V’ means ‘eight’ in Arabic. So this symbol may look like an ‘M’ but is a double eight or eighty-eight. In the Islamic world, 88 holds the same dark power as 666 does for a Christians. The holy Quran states that the Devil has eighty-eight Jinn tribes.”

  Talon searched Casca’s face. Had he really said jinn? “Don’t tell me they’ve spotted a flying carpet in Paris too.”