A few of the older boys exchanged glances—they were normally forbidden from the space where musicians played and Wisdom walked. Instead of mounting the stairs on either side of the stage, they ran straight forward and climbed the front.
Byron positioned himself in the center of the stage, urging the children to scoot closer, pack in tighter. When the last child sat on the stage, Byron let out a deep breath, expelling the tension in his chest. No one could touch him here. Not in his house, surrounded by his youngest followers.
The injustice Eric had brought upon Holy Mountain grated at the back of his mind, and he swore to make him and all of his associates pay. Byron’s followers inhabited every corner of the globe, and the vast majority would die for him if he asked them to. When the sun rose and his mind was clear, there would be a cleansing. He would assemble a holy army to root out anyone that threatened him. Larson, Renner, and even The Nightmare would not escape the purge.
Casting his dark thoughts aside, he put on his million-dollar smile and said, “If you are tired, sleep. If you are hungry, there are cookies on the jubilation table. This is a time for peace, not fear. For contentment and joy, not despair.”
Most of the young listeners were bleary-eyed and weary from lack of sleep, but a few were energized by the unexpected change in their normal routine and watched their leader with rapt attention.
“Now,” Byron continued, “who knows the parable of the sower?”
Eric and Cameron marched side by side, retracing their steps to the Punishment Room. Kane followed behind them at a safe distance, wielding the shotgun he had taken from Eric. At every corner, he sidestepped to keep a clear line of sight with his prisoners, and he never shifted his aim from the center of Eric’s back.
“Inside the isolation room,” Kane mumbled, squinting at the pain from working his damaged mandible. “Both of you.”
Cameron looked to Eric for direction, and the battered private investigator gave a stiff nod. They stepped into the barren room, then moved to opposite corners and placed their palms on the wall under Kane’s direction.
“It is important to learn from our mistakes,” Kane said, tucking the shotgun under his arm and tossing a pair of flex-cuffs on the floor. “And it is just as important to learn from the mistakes of others. Cameron, put these on Mr. Larson’s wrists.”
Cameron hesitated, then glanced back to find the shotgun aimed at his face. Slowly, he picked up the cuff and zipped one side down on Eric’s left wrist.
“Tighter,” Kane growled. “No, not that way, behind his back. That’s better. Now, step away.” He tossed another pair of cuffs at Cameron’s feet. “Put these on. Use your teeth to pull them tight.”
When Cameron had finished binding himself, Kane grinned and let the shotgun hang from its sling. “You are a very slow learner, Cameron. The discipline we give you is not for our enjoyment—it is for your betterment. You think this outsider is your savior?” Kane shook his head. “He is a corrupter. He would free your body and damn your soul. But there is still hope for you. You are young and can still be taught. You’ve learned many lessons through physical pain, but I fear that method of instruction is growing stale. Today, I will introduce you to a new kind of pain.”
Kane unbuckled a thin holster on his belt and withdrew a steel baton. He snapped it to its full length and stepped forward, touching the tip to the back of Eric’s head. “This, Cameron, is what happens to sinners who reject Wisdom.”
The baton whistled through the air and struck Eric on the shoulder. Eric grunted, then cast a furtive glance at Cameron and gave a tiny shake of his head.
Kane watched the exchange and stared at Cameron as he landed the next blow. This one hit the side of Eric’s knee, and the big man dropped to the floor.
“Stop!” The plea burst out of Cameron. “I get it, alright. You don’t have to hurt him anymore.”
Kane shook his head and sighed. “I wish that were true.” He raised the baton again and cracked it against Eric’s left ear, knocking him to the floor.
Cameron couldn’t take it anymore. He rushed forward and held his arms in the air, trying to intercept the next strike. The baton slipped past his hands and thumped against his collarbone, which broke with a dull pop. Kane withdrew the weapon and shoved the butt-end into Cameron’s sternum.
Cameron stumbled back, hit the wall, and dropped to the floor. He clenched his teeth and took shallow breaths, holding back his tears in defiance.
Eric struggled to lift his head off the floor. “It’s…it’s okay, Cameron. You don’t have to fight for me; I’m ready.”
Tears streamed down Cameron’s face. “This isn’t right. He’s the one that should be punished, not you.”
“Quiet, boy,” Kane spat.
The command only served to stoke Cameron’s rebellion. He took in a deep breath despite the blinding pain in his chest and began to scream. “I hate you! You’re a sick, evil old man, and I wish you were dead!”
Kane bristled at the impudence and lashed Eric on the shoulder, ribs, and thigh.
The world seemed to close in around Cameron. He felt as desperate and helpless as he did the night he had scaled the wall. But someone had heard him that night. Against all odds, Eric had arrived in the prison cell right next to his and was willing to sacrifice everything to save him.
He had to try. He took another deep breath and cried for help, drowning out the sound of the beating. He closed his eyes and focused on moving air in and out of his chest, shaking his vocal cords raw.
Then, as he paused for another breath, he noticed the room had gone quiet. He glanced up, and his brow wrinkled in confusion.
Kane was completely still, and his eyes were bulging in his head. The baton clattered against the floor. “What—what is this?” Kane stammered. His fingers unfurled farther and farther, bending at unnatural angles until the bones began to crack.
Cameron blinked. At the end of Kane’s hand, another hand—as black as coal—began to materialize. The darkness crawled upward, inch by inch, until a terrible face came into view. It was an inhuman skull, with white flames flickering in the mouth and eyes. There were two separate jaws, one overlapping the other, and they were both lined with needle-like teeth. Shoulders and a torso appeared. Every inch of the ebony body undulated with black tendrils—pawing at the air as if the creature’s skin had a mind of its own and wanted to tear Kane apart.
The beast spun Kane around, bringing its face close to his. Kane froze—his breath caught in his chest and his limbs rigid. The scent of ammonia filled the small room, and a dark patch began to spread from the cultist’s crotch.
The beast spoke in a voice that both pierced and rumbled. “I can feel your wickedness in the air. You, and everyone on this mountain, are a malignancy. Know this: you and those you care about will know true suffering before your hearts stop beating.”
Cameron flinched as the beast whipped around, tossing Kane across the room as if he were made of paper. The bearded cultist slammed into the opposite wall and had barely hit the floor when the creature dug railroad-spike claws into his shoulders. It lifted him up and pinned him to the wall, then pulled one hand away. There was a wet tearing sound as gristly muscle separated from bone, then Kane began to shriek.
“Music to my ears,” the beast said. Using a razorlike thumb, it pierced both of Kane's cheeks and severed the tendons at the back of his mouth so his jaw hung loose. “Sing for me, little bird.”
The screams rose and fell in pitch, interrupted by coughing spasms as Kane tried to expel the blood entering his lungs. His limbs twitched and convulsed as they hung from his body, and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Though he despised Kane as much as any evil human being, Cameron was nauseated by the sight and began to dry heave. The beast became still and turned its head.
In a completely different voice—one that was soft and kind—it said, “I am sorry. You did not deserve to see that.” The beast carried Kane out the door, and there was a splashing noise,
then silence. When the dark figure stepped back into the isolation room, its armor had changed to swirls of pink and red. The terrifying skull peeled away to reveal a handsome face with a stubbled beard and distant eyes.
“Please, forgive me for my miscalculation,” the man said. “Your heartbeat was rapid and uneven when I entered the room. I assumed that you would fall unconscious when I revealed myself to your captor. You are more resilient than I anticipated.”
Cameron remained speechless as the heavily muscled man in pink and red armor stepped forward and cut him free from the flex-cuffs. When he cut Eric loose and sat him up, the private investigator seemed strangely unsurprised.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Eric said, his voice slow. “I’m grateful, but…what was that all about?”
“You are badly wounded,” the newcomer said. “Some of your abrasions are becoming septic.”
“I’ll be fine.” Eric nodded toward the door. “Why…why were you torturing him like that?”
The man nodded. “I intended to employ him as a tool for psychological warfare against the guards on the walls by disfiguring his face and arms but leaving his legs intact. He would be able to walk and make noises that would unnerve everyone in the city. This would reduce their will to fight, and all but the most stubborn and dedicated cultists would retreat.”
Eric sighed and reached out with one hand. The newcomer helped him to his feet and held him steady. He closed his eyes for a moment as he managed the pain wracking his body, then said, “How did you know I was here?”
“Kayla contacted me, through my father.”
“You were with your dad? Why didn’t I think of that?” He took a shallow breath, then added. “When did she reach you?”
“Last night. I flew here with Thomas and arrived a few minutes ago. I was conducting reconnaissance of the city and its inhabitants when I heard someone shouting inside the Cathedral. I responded as quickly and quietly as I could. As far as I can tell, my presence in the city is still unknown to the cultists.”
Eric glanced at Cameron and noticed the bewildered expression on his face. “Cameron, this is a friend of mine. I know he looks scary, but don’t worry—he only hurts bad people.”
Cameron absently ran his fingers along his broken collarbone and spoke softly. “There are a lot of bad people in this city.”
Jarrod watched Cameron for a moment, then stepped back. “Stay here. I will return for you when it is safe to leave.”
Eric steadied himself by placing an open palm against the wall. “What are you going to do?”
Pausing in the door, Jarrod said, “The details are better left unspoken.” As he left the prison cell, his armor became translucent, then faded beyond human sight.
24
Rain pounded the walls of Holy Mountain. Lightning cut a channel of light through the dark sky, towing a peal of thunder in its wake. Titus Thatcher instinctively hunched beneath the noise, then muttered a string of curses. Working a double-shift was bad enough without record-breaking rainfall and the risk of being electrocuted. And he couldn’t sneak off to a guard shack to dry out, either. The wall was packed with people, and his supervisor said the shacks were reserved for women only.
Funny how, even in their religion, men still pretended to be chivalrous. To Thatcher, women were nothing but sex toys and incubators. And he knew the other men felt the same way, but some idiots had to make a show out of being polite in public. They were all the same behind closed doors—he’d walked in on more than one elder “disciplining” one of his wives. The only difference between them and him was the number of Bible verses they’d memorized and maybe a college degree or two.
He glanced at a thin man further down the catwalk. He was clad in a Gore-Tex parka, Gore-Tex pants, and Gore-Tex boots, and he was strutting along with his chest puffed up. Thatcher imagined it was a lot easier to stay optimistic when dressed like that. And guard duty probably seemed like an important job to the elder, who hadn’t worked a shift on the wall since the town had been built.
Thatcher shook his head, unzipped his pants, and peed off the side of the wall. The strap around his wrist twitched, then jerked to the left.
“Take it easy, Arnold,” Thatcher said. “You’re gonna make me piss on myself.”
The strap jolted again, then again.
“Will you knock it off?” Thatcher finished and zipped up, then pulled on the nylon leash. “You’ve heard thunder before. You don’t need to freak out.”
The massive dog, a mix between a Rottweiler and a Pitbull terrier, didn’t relent. He whined and pulled against his steel collar, whirling his head as if tormented by a swarm of flies.
“Hey, hey, hey, easy…” Thatcher knelt beside the animal. “What’s the matter, boy?”
The dog growled, let out a high-pitched moan, then growled again. He rubbed his paws against his ears, alternating between the left and right.
“Got something in your ears?” He reached out to lift the dog’s folded ears, then jerked his hand away when the dog snapped at him.
“Knock it off, Arnold.” Thatcher dug his thumb into the skin by the dog’s rear hip, which had been shaved to increase sensitivity. “What’s gotten into you?”
The growling stopped, giving way to moans of pain. Thatcher gripped his radio and was about to report the dog’s odd behavior to the shift supervisor when he felt a diffuse pain in the back of his skull. He set the radio aside and clenched his head with both hands. The headache rapidly spread forward and down, reaching into his sinuses. Squinting, he looked left and right, trying to find the nearest guard. A man in a poncho stood thirty feet behind him and was clutching his forehead.
“What the hell is going on?” he muttered to himself. He glanced out at the surrounding desert, wondering if a weather phenomenon was responsible for the blinding pain. Then a flash of lighting connected with the ground, and he saw an outline in the air through the corner of his vision.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, getting to his feet.
It was strange—he could see clearly with the aid of the floodlights, and yet he couldn’t really see what he was looking at. Rather, he perceived the raindrops bouncing off something that wasn’t there.
Two sharp tugs on the leash, and Arnold broke free. Before Thatcher could issue a command, the dog had dashed out of sight. Gripping his rifle with one hand and cradling his head with the other, Thatcher turned his attention back to the strange apparition. He took a step back as an asymmetric black shape appeared, floating in midair. It spread in every direction, growing millions of languid fingers as it pulsed outward.
Suddenly, the pain stopped, and Thatcher raised his weapon. “Who—or whatever you are—stay back.”
The blackness filled in, sharpening the outline until it looked disturbingly human.
Having a frame of reference for his mind to grasp, Thatcher regained his faculties and shouted, “Get on the ground, or I’ll shoot.”
The blackness cocked its head as if confused.
“I said get on the ground!”
The liquid-black substance expanded at the chest, and the face stretched downward.
Thatcher raised an eyebrow. It looked like the thing was opening its mouth…
Fresh pain, as acute as daggers, stabbed into Thatcher’s ears, forcing him to his knees. He released the rifle and slammed his palms against his ears, but it was no use. The noise vibrated his eyes in their sockets and squeezed fluid from every gland in his head.
The thing moved forward, seizing him by the shirt collar and pulling him close. The sound ceased for a brief moment, then resumed with bone-splitting concussion.
Thatcher couldn’t breathe. Blood seeped down his face, pouring out of his eyes and nose. In the passing seconds, he hoped the noise would stop his heart.
Unfortunately, it didn’t.
The thing spun him around and stabbed something sharp into his spine, then hurled him off the wall. He felt cold air against his skin as he soared but felt no pain when he hit the
ground. He had landed on his back, next to the greenhouse. Every inch of his body felt numb, and his arms and legs refused to move. Raindrops blurred his vision, and he found it difficult to blink.
Something was flying through the air. No—not flying, falling. It was the man in the poncho. He impacted the ground next to Thatcher and tumbled like a rag doll before coming to a stop against the greenhouse. He couldn’t see who it was, but he assumed the man was dead by the crumpled shape of his body.
Looking upward, Thatcher watched the events on the wall unfold. One of the floodlights went out, and muzzle flashes stood out against the cloudy backdrop. More bodies fell from the wall, inward, toward the city center. Another light went out, then another. Soon, Holy Mountain was devoid of artificial light.
As Thatcher’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, his chest puffed with a sardonic laugh. The clouds were a lighter shade of gray to the east—dawn had arrived. And he was alive. Paralyzed, but alive. The thing had accidentally spared him. When this nightmare ended, someone would come for him. He would survive.
Jarrod paused and looked over his shoulder. His eyes blinked through infrared, visible, and ultraviolet spectrums while his mind sorted through millions of trace scents. The analysis appeared in his mind: 215 wounded, 1 dead. So far, Kane Corvin had been the only fatality. Thirty-seven people—mostly guards—lay crippled on the battlefield. The rest of the injuries came from cultists jumping off the wall to flee the city. Hundreds of Holy Mountain residents fled to their homes and barricaded themselves inside, but he wasn’t concerned with them. Only a few would continue in their perverted ways after he was done sending his message.
He leapt off the wall and landed on the main pathway that led to the cathedral. As he strode forward, he made no attempt to conceal himself, choosing instead to flush bright pigments into his armor. Ninety-six armed men and women stood between him and the center of the city, and he could sense them gathering for a final defense.
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