Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  The wood cut into his fingers. It flexed and squeaked, but didn't break. Elsewhere in the house, something thumped. It sounded like a body falling to the floor. A pistol with a silencer coughed twice.

  Bellamy tried to make his muscles loose and relaxed and then, shouting, wrenched at the wood again, attempting to exert every iota of his strength in one explosive burst the way his unarmed-combat instructor had taught him.

  The post snapped at the top. He hastily fumbled the handcuff chain free, scrambled up, and swayed with another surge of vertigo. Ignoring it as best he could, he snatched a handcuff key off the little table and unlocked his restraints. He grabbed his Browning, made sure it was still loaded, jacked a round into the chamber, pivoted toward the door, and hesitated.

  What was waiting beyond the threshold? A ghastly marvel like the living statue or something even worse, something so awful the mere sight of it would drive him out of his mind?

  Grimacing, he told himself it didn't matter. Whatever it was, he had to deal with it before it murdered another potential informant, or wandered into Astarte's room and found her lying helpless.

  Moving warily through the door, he found himself at the end of a gloomy hall, beside an upper-story window. Beyond the glass were the night sky, towering oaks, cobblestone sidewalks, and elegant houses with colonnaded facades and cornstalk fences. Evidently the Chapter House was in the Garden District.

  He noticed that the palm of his left hand was bleeding. He must have cut it on a splinter when the headboard broke. He wiped it on his pants leg, then stalked on down the corridor.

  The hallway led him to a curving staircase. He surmised that the noises he'd heard had echoed up from the ground floor, but everything was quiet now.

  Trying to be silent himself, he crept down the steps, past a series of small Impressionist landscapes that looked familiar, as if he might have seen them, or other works by the same hand, in the Art Appreciation course he'd taken in college. His mouth felt as dry as desert sand again.

  As he neared the foot of the stairs, he caught the smells of blood and gun smoke. At first glance, the ground floor of the house seemed to be furnished with the sort of antiques one would expect in an antebellum mansion, but also with shelf after shelf of books and an assortment of strange curios. The freakishly misshapen skull of either a man or some other primate. A desiccated coffin lying on trestles. An alabaster statue of a kneeling witch kissing a goat-headed Satan on the rump.

  Alighting in the foyer, Bellamy saw an Asian woman sprawled motionless just inside a doorway to his right. She had a bloody dent in her scalp and a spike of broken bone protruding from her twisted arm, and she wasn't breathing. Resisting the temptation to flee through the front door while he had the chance, he stepped over her and skulked on.

  Hideous faces leered from the shadows. His heart jolting, he kept pivoting and pointing his gun before he realized that he'd merely glimpsed another macabre piece of art. In the course of the next two minutes he found two more Arcanists, one unconscious, his left eye gouged from its socket, and the other dead. Then he heard a contralto voice chanting in Latin.

  Following the sound, he peeked through a doorway. On the other side was a spacious room furnished with desks and leather armchairs, evidently the heart of the library which had spilled out into the rest of the house. Row after row of books covered the walls from floor to ceiling, suffusing the air with the musty scents of old paper and crumbling leather.

  Marilyn stood at the far end of the chamber, brandishing a crucifix with the coils of a snake rather than the body of Jesus draped around the cross. She was the one doing the chanting. A stocky, gray-haired man in the center of the room was doing his best to approach her. From the hunch of his shoulders and his laborious, lurching movements, Bellamy understood that he was having to force his way forward, as if the air around him had thickened to the consistency of mud. Presumably the artifact in Marilyn's grip was responsible.

  Despite the uncanny aspects of the situation, Bellamy felt a pang of relief, that Marilyn's assailant was a human being. Obviously a formidable one, but not some horror that would freeze him in his tracks. He was going to be all right.

  Suddenly the crucifix shattered, and Marilyn reeled backward. Released from his invisible bonds, her attacker scrambled after her. Bellamy lunged through the doorway, leveled his automatic, and shouted, "Stop or I'll shoot!"

  The gray-haired man spun around, and Bellamy gasped. Judging from the bloody holes, someone had already shot the intruder, once in the center of the chest and once in the forehead, and it didn't appear to have slowed him down at all. There should have been exit wounds, the agent thought uselessly. That would have given me a little warning.

  The stranger charged. Shoot! Bellamy told himself. For a moment, he didn't think he'd be able to, that shock had severed the link between his will and his body, but finally his finger started squeezing the trigger.

  The bullets staggered the gray-haired man, but he wouldn't fall down. Snarling, hands outstretched, he made a grab for Bellamy's throat.

  Bellamy sidestepped and swept his arm in a block, but he wasn't quite fast or strong enough. His attacker missed his neck, but managed to grasp his shoulder and bull him backward.

  Bellamy's spine slammed against the door frame. The gun nearly tumbled from his hand. Clutching frantically, he managed to keep his grip on it.

  Using only his right hand, the gray-haired man grabbed him by the throat and jerked him into the air, a jolt that nearly snapped his spine. His assailant began to strangle him.

  Bellamy tried to swing the Browning into position for another shot. With his free hand, the gray-haired man struggled to immobilize the gun. Bellamy supposed that was encouraging in its way, in that it implied the murderer was susceptible to gunfire. It was just that no one had shot him enough yet.

  A roaring filled Bellamy's ears, and dark spots swam at the corners of his vision. He realized he was only seconds from blacking out. Straining, he managed to force the pistol another inch toward the gray-haired man's torso. He couldn't tell if it was actually in line to hit the target, but he knew it was as close as it was going to get. He fired three shots and then the magazine was empty.

  The gray-headed man's mouth fell open. Then, to Bellamy's surprise, the slack- jawed expression of astonishment gave way, not to a grimace of anguish or another snarl of rage, but to a smile. The agent had the feeling that he was looking into the face of a completely different person, someone who was grateful he'd been shot.

  The gray-haired man collapsed, dragging Bellamy to the floor with him. Still choking, Bellamy scrabbled at the fingers constricting his throat. Finally he managed to tear them away. He slumped on the floor, shivering and gasping.

  Rapid footsteps pattered across the floor. Bellamy jerked his head up. Marilyn was running toward him with a knotted blue cord in her red-nailed hands.

  It took Bellamy a moment to remember that she was a potential threat as well. And he was still too winded to wrestle with her. Hoping she didn't realize it was empty, he raised the Browning. His hand trembled as if he were ninety years old.

  Marilyn skidded to a halt. "It's all right. I want to bind him. This particular rope should hold him."

  "He's dead," Bellamy croaked. He realized that he'd never killed anyone before, not unless you counted the statue. He wondered if he'd feel terrible once he'd had a chance to think about it. "Where were you when I needed you?"

  "When the Cross of Hermes broke, there was a sort of backlash," Marilyn said defensively. "It stunned me. I came running as soon as I recovered my senses. Now please, let me tie him. You can't be certain he's dead, or that death will stop him if he is."

  Bellamy supposed she had a point. He shifted himself away from what at least seemed to be a lifeless corpse. Marilyn knelt, rolled it on its stomach, and hog-tied it.

  The agent wished that his heart would stop hammering, and that he could catch his breath. "At least one of the people who got attacked is hurt but stil
l alive. He needs Kelp right away."

  "We have a doctor on retainer," said Marilyn. She reached inside her jacket and brought out a cellular phone.

  "I think you should get an ambulance."

  The transsexual shook her head. "The Arcanum is a secret fellowship. We can't afford to let the authorities know about this mess. Besides which, at the moment you're more or less operating outside the law yourself. Do you want to talk to the police ?"

  Not without a pang of guilt, Bellamy silently conceded she had a point.

  "Our man is very good," Marilyn continued. She dialed, spoke tersely to the physician, and hung up. "He'll be right over. I just hope the neighbors didn't hear the shooting. You wouldn't think it to look at the old place, but we paid a contractor to install state-of-the-art soundproofing."

  Bellamy dragged himself to his feet. "I know first aid," he said, his voice still a rasp and his throat still aching. "I'll try to help your friend until the doctor gets here. If I can trust you not to jump me while I work."

  "You can," Marilyn said. "They began to retrace their steps through the enormous house. Lightheaded, Bellamy could have sworn that a sphinx in a painting winked at him.

  "What happened here?" the agent asked.

  Marilyn shrugged. "I didn't see the start of it, either. I was upstairs with you. But apparently our attacker somehow broke into the house and started attacking everyone he encountered."

  "How could he get hurt as badly as he was and keep coming for us? What was he?"

  A dead body appeared in the gloom ahead. Marilyn flinched. Perhaps she cared more deeply about her fellow Arcanists than Bellamy would have suspected. "He was supernatural," she said, her cool tone betraying nothing of her dismay. "Otherwise, the Cross of Hermes wouldn't have affected him. I can't be sure of any more than that, but I do have a theory. When statues and similar objects come to life, it's supposedly because a spirit has decided to inhabit them. It's also possible for a discarnate entity to possess a living human or animal body, and such beings can remain active in the face of damage that would incapacitate a wholly natural creature. I hat's because they don't feel the pain to the same degree that you or I would."

  "I wonder if he was the Atheist." Bellamy scowled. "No. No, I don't. Maybe he committed some of the murders, but even if he did, my instincts tell me that he was only one small part of whatever it is that's going on."

  "So do mine," Marilyn said.

  They stepped into the next room and the body of the Arcanist with the missing eye came into view. Bellamy crouched and pressed his fingertips lightly against the side of the occultist's neck. The injured man's skin was clammy and his pulse was fluttery, but at least he still had one. "Get something to cover him up, and something we can use to prop his feet up."

  Marilyn pulled an afghan off a sofa and draped it over her unconscious colleague. "This is my fault," she said. "I should never have brought you here. Paranormal creatures have arcane means of locating people they want to find. I should have anticipated that your enemies might track you."

  "Maybe they did," Bellamy said. He noticed that the wounded man had a blue handkerchief in his breast pocket. He removed it and packed one end in the Arcanist's ravaged eye socket in an effort to stop the bleeding. Despite his training and experience, the operation made him feel queasy. "On the other hand, they might not even have realized I was here. Maybe they decided to hit you for the same reason they apparently decided to kill Waxman, just to make absolutely sure the Arcanum wouldn't interfere in their plans."

  Marilyn hoisted the injured man's feet onto an ottoman. "But except for R. ]., none of us intended to meddle in their business."

  "They may not have understood that," Bellamy said. "Or they may have figured that you guys were some of the very few people who might eventually catch on to what they're up to, and that if you did, you would feel obliged to get involved. Anyway, considering what's happened, you have to assume you're targets, which means you'd better clear out of this place for the duration."

  Marilyn grimaced. "Yes. I thought we had the house sealed with magical wards, but evidently they don't work. But dear Lord! All the artifacts and books, unprotected! They could set the building on fire!"

  "If they do, it'll be better if it burns without you inside it."

  The transsexual sighed. "I can't argue with that. I suppose everyone should leave his home as well. Ciiven that the Atheist located our headquarters, it's conceivable that he knows the identity of every member of the Chapter. Damn it!"

  "Are you going to help me now?" Bellamy asked.

  "What choice do we have?" Marilyn replied bitterly. "But we could still erase Astarte's memory and send her on her way."

  Bellamy hesitated. The brainwashing would probably serve to remove the girl from danger. But, as he knew all too well, it was horrible to have something punch a hole in your mind. Much as she sometimes annoyed him, he could never subject her to such a violation.

  "No," he said. "Now that she's come this far, maybe she's earned the right to go the distance."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Kevin Bolan awoke hot and sweaty, his nerves jangling with tension, the residue, he assumed, of some forgotten nightmare, and the bedclothes tangled. Beside him, his plump, curly-headed wife Dora slept on oblivious, a soft snore buzzing from her open mouth.

  Bolan looked at the glowing face of the digital clock radio on the night stand. It was almost seven. Time to rise and shine, and even though he felt as if he'd barely slept at all, he did his best to feel cheerful about it. A minister ought to be happy to get up Sunday morning.

  Trying not to wake Dora, he stood and shuffled into the bathroom. After urinating, he stepped in front of the sink. He was reaching to open the medicine cabinet when the image in the mirror caught his eye.

  At first it was just a peculiar shape, as though his brain refused to interpret it.

  Then it snapped into focus. A misshapen head with two reptilian faces leering side by side, each with a fanged, scaly set of jaws, a pale forked tongue, and a pair of luminous amber eyes.

  He squealed and stumbled backward into the doorway. His heel caught on the edge of the bedroom carpet and he tumbled onto his butt.

  Dora bolted upright in bed. "What's wrong?" she cried.

  "The mirror—" Bolan began, and then rapid footsteps pounded up the stairs. The minister yelped again before he realized that he must be hearing his bodyguard, rushing to his aid.

  Clad in camouflage fatigues and combat boots, a CAR 15 assault rifle leveled, the red-faced, barrel-chested form of Glen McGinty burst through the door. "What is it?" he asked.

  Bolan belatedly realized that he couldn't really have seen what he'd thought he'd seen. Though his heart was still racing, his fear began to give way to embarrassment. "I'm sorry," he said. "I looked in the mirror, and I thought the face looking back wasn't mine. I guess I was still half asleep. Still dreaming."

  "Good grief," Dora said, grimacing. She grabbed a handful of covers and pulled them up to her chin, shielding her heavy breasts with their prominent nipples, inadequately concealed by her thin cotton nightgown, from McGinty's gaze.

  Even though Bolan approved of her modesty, he thought that in this instance, she almost needn't have bothered. McGinty was too caught up in his role of protector to cast a lustful eye in her direction. Stepping over the minister's legs, he stalked into the lavatory as if the Atheist actually might be lurking in the mirror. He peered suspiciously this way and that, whisked the shower curtain open, and finally, almost grudgingly announced, "All clear."

  "Thank you," said Bolan, clambering to his feet. "I really am sorry to have made you race up here."

  "All part of the job," said McGinty in his manliest tones. "I'll be downstairs if you need me." He ambled out the door and closed it behind him.

  "How much longer are you going to keep those people around?" Dora asked.

  "Until the Atheist is arrested," Bolan said. "I'm sure the police will get him soon." He felt a twinge of guilt, b
ecause the second statement was a lie. Since he'd begun to fret about the murders, he'd read up on the subject of serial killers. Some of them operated for years without getting caught. Some were never apprehended.

  "What do you think the odds are of the Atheist actually coming after you?" Dora asked.

  "Probably slim," Bolan said, pulling off his striped pajama shirt. As always, he felt a pang of disgust at the ring of flab around his middle. "But for some reason, I can't stop thinking about the possibility. Call me timid, but that's the way it is. If Glen and the other members of the militia want to guard me, and that makes me feel safer, what's the harm?"

  "The harm is that we don't have any privacy," Dora said. "I hope you understand that I am not going to have relations with you as long as there's a chance someone might overhear. Besides, you've said yourself that the Tennessee Patriots' League are a bunch of gun-crazy yahoos. Have you talked to any of them about the Atheist? They think he's a secret agent working for the Trilateral Commission and the International Masonic Conspiracy."

  "They may be eccentric," Bolan said, "but they're still my parishioners, and they're giving up their free time to help me. Please, can't you put up with them for at least a few more days?"

  "Can't you try putting your trust in the Lord?" she replied, but then her expression softened. "Oh, all right. If it makes you feel better. Do you feel all right now? Did you hurt yourself when you fell?"

  "I'm fine," he said. "Thanks for being so understanding."

  She got out of bed and pulled on her quilted housecoat and fuzzy Chip 'n' Dale slippers, souvenir of a Disney World vacation two years ago. Then, to his surprise, she came to him, put her arms around him, and gave him a long kiss. "You really don't need bodyguards," she murmured. "I love you too much to let anything happen to you."

  He felt a surge of desire and slid his hand onto her bottom, but she squirmed out of his embrace.

  "I told you, no," she said, a hint of mischief in her dark brown eyes. "Not until we're completely alone. Besides, we don't have time. Get ready for work and I'll go start breakfast." She turned and exited the room.