“Both men had been on leave together, rock climbing in New Hampshire for the weekend. They received an urgent page from the duty commander at around 3 a.m. this morning, signaling them to return as soon as possible. They packed their gear and drove south immediately thereafter, arriving here around 7 a.m. They were obviously too late.”
Duncan glanced down at his notes, before continuing. “I checked their service records; they both seem to be good men, dedicated to the Order and to its mission. They are clearly distraught over what has happened and, so far, haven’t given me any reason to distrust their explanation or question their story.” Finished with his report, he sat back and waited.
“All right,” said the commander after only a few moments of thought. “Unless forensics comes up with an angle we haven’t seen yet, we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. I want all three of you working the files first thing in the morning. Start with the latest threat assessments. I want to know every single individual or organization in the last six months that has been labeled by our intelligence people as dangerous. Of those, single out the ones who have actually made threats against us. I want to know who has the manpower, financing, and equipment to pull off an assault like this one. After that, we need a list of any other group or groups that are capable of such an attack, regardless of whether they’ve showed up on a recent watch list or not.” His gaze swept the table and the men seated around it. “They caught us once unprepared. That will have boosted their confidence. Chances are they’ll hit us again. The longer we take to get a lock on who they are, the higher the likelihood of its happening again.”
Cade turned to face Riley. “I’m going to recommend to the Preceptor that he place all of the North American commanderies on alert effective immediately. I want you to work with the temporary base commander to come up with a suitable way of protecting this location in case they decide to take another shot at us this evening. When you’re done with that, put the rest of Echo on twelve-hour standby. I have the feeling we’re going to need them sooner rather than later.”
With that final comment hanging in the air, the commander stood, indicating the meeting was adjourned.
Chapter Seven
Templeton Commandery, Cincinnati, Ohio.
Knight Lieutenant Nathan Jessup stared nervously out into the fog.
Unusually thick and heavy fog.
Instead of clinging to the ground in small, swirling pools and eddies, it rose like a wall, sweeping down the length of the road that was the only entrance to the estate, a juggernaut inexorably marching forward. From where he stood on the opposite side of the tall iron gate that governed access to the property from the road, Jessup watched the fog advance slowly through the night until it stopped a few hundred feet from the gate.
He shivered, and not as a result of the cold September night air. He turned away from the sight and stepped back inside his guard shack. He crossed to the small portable heater and stood in front of it, trying to warm the chill from his bones.
Every few moments, however, his gaze was drawn back to the windows and the slowly advancing fog that crept its way toward him and his meager sanctuary.
Ordinarily he didn’t mind such weather. It made driving some of the backcountry roads a bit difficult and played havoc with his ability to keep his window clear, but that was usually the worst of it.
This fog was different, though. Its very presence tugged at his nerves, and, more than once, Jessup felt like someone was watching him when his back was turned.
Watching.
Waiting.
Moving closer.
He shook off the uncomfortable feeling and decided he’d stood there alone in the dark long enough. It was time to hear another human voice and remember he wasn’t the only one out on the grounds pulling guard duty that night. He put the handheld radio close to his mouth, intending to check in with control, when a sound from out beyond the gates reached his ears. Lowering his hand before keying the mike, he stepped outside his guard shack to investigate.
A minute passed with Jessup standing just inside the gate, his head cocked to the side in an effort to hear better.
Two minutes.
Three.
He was about to give up and blame it on his overactive imagination when he heard it again.
From out of the fog came the sound of human footsteps, muted by the damp air, but audible nonetheless.
As Jessup listened, the footsteps grew closer.
Gradually, a figure could be seen, moving out of the haze toward the gates. It was indistinct at first, nothing more than a dark stain against the fog where the spotlights cut into its heart, but before long, as it grew closer, Jessup could tell it was a man.
Whoever he was, he was dressed against the night’s chill in a long overcoat with a hood pulled up and over his head, obscuring his face from view. The boots on his feet struck the pavement with hard, sharp footfalls, clearer now that he had emerged from the fog, the sound following each step like a devoted puppy.
The visitor strode up to the gate and stopped.
Jessup watched the man examine the gate, him, and the area beyond, but the man’s hood shrouded his face in darkness, and the guard was unable to see his features.
“Can I help you?” asked Jessup.
His own voice sounded strange to his ears, the fog muting the sound and making it seem flat and lifeless.
The visitor made no response.
Jessup stepped a few feet closer, the radio in his right hand forgotten, his left hand on the butt of the pistol at his waist. “Sir? This is private property. Can I help you with something?”
A strange sound came from the dark depths of that hood in response. It took Jessup a moment to realize what it was.
Sniffing.
The man was sniffing the air, like a dog tracking a scent. His head moved in a slow circle, the sniffing continuing, until at last it came to rest pointed about fifteen degrees off center.
Turning his head to follow, Jessup realized that the manor house lay directly through the trees in that direction, despite the fact that it couldn’t be seen from the street.
Jessup felt his skin crawl at the sight, and a chill passed through him. He’d had enough; this was just too weird. Turning back to his mysterious visitor, he opened his mouth to order him away from the property.
The words never left his throat.
When he turned around he found that the fog had suddenly jumped forward, closing those last few hundred feet until it stood like a barrier on the heels of his hooded visitor. It writhed and rolled, churning about like it had a life of its own. Faces could be seen here and there within its depths, grey distorted shapes with mouths open wide in silent screams, ghostly phantoms shrieking for release.
Jessup stumbled backward, the radio falling from his right hand in shock as his left hand clawed frantically for his weapon.
He was too late.
The intruder raised an arm and pointed a hand at the gate, a hand that was battleship grey in color, with an extended finger tipped with a long, curving, yellow nail. A high-pitched keening suddenly burst from inside the thing’s hood.
The sound was deafening in volume, pounding at Jessup’s ears, forcing all thoughts out of his head except the need to cover his ears and escape from the noise. He forgot both the radio and the gun, slipping to his knees and using his hands to try and block out the sound. Despite this, he found he couldn’t take his eyes off the figure standing on the other side of the gate.
The fog grew more agitated as the keening continued, the faces forming and dissolving at a furious speed, each more horrible than the last. Then something larger moved within the depths of the fog.
Jessup watched in horror as the fog suddenly charged the gate. He glimpsed an indistinct shape of horrendous proportions in its depths, then the gates were torn free from their posts and tossed aside.
The strange visitor stepped through the opening, chuckling to himself, and the fog followed obediently at
his heels.
The sound of Jessup’s screams soon drowned out the newcomer’s laughter.
The battle was going well, so much so that the man born as Simon Hamilton Logan but now known to his followers simply as the Necromancer decided it was time for phase two. He and his acolytes changed their clothing and swiftly climbed inside the two vans that would take them to the other side of the commandery grounds, where a small cemetery awaited their attention.
The driver in the lead van parked behind a small grove of trees to the left of the cemetery, shielding it from the manor house that served as the commandery’s main operations center. The other parked just behind the first. Eight figures emerged from the vehicles, all of them dressed in the same dark robes. Two reached back into the rear vehicle and dragged out a young woman, her hands bound behind her back and a gag in her mouth. The drugs they’d given to her made her docile, but also required that she be supported on either side in order to walk. A few of the men carried shovels. Two of them lugged large duffel bags over their shoulders while another led a young black Labrador on a leash. Logan was attired in a similar manner as the others, though his robe was made of finer materials and it had a number of Kabalistic symbols sewn into it in gold thread.
He listened for a moment to the sounds of combat drifting through the night air from the direction of the manor house and smiled in satisfaction. All was going according to plan.
He gave the signal, and the group moved out among the gravestones, their flashlights briefly illuminating the face of each marker before moving on to the next, obviously seeking one in particular. With eight of them looking, it took less than ten minutes.
While those with the shovels went to work on the grave, piling the dirt beside the headstone, two others began to lay out large circles made of salt from the supplies drawn from the duffel bags, one circle around the grave and another several yards away on a bare patch of earth. Each circle was precisely nine feet in diameter, and both were left temporarily incomplete.
Logan stood to one side, watching. When things were ready, he gave the command for the dog to be brought forward and placed inside the second circle, where it was laid on its side on the ground and its legs tied together. The drugs it had been given earlier kept the dog docile and quiet, despite the restraints.
The diggers reached the coffin. One of them climbed out of the open grave and helped the circle-makers erect a block and tackle over it. The loose ends of the rope were thrown down to those below and secured around the coffin they had just unearthed. Five minutes later it was raised high enough to be dragged over the lip of the pit and settled on the ground beside it, well within the circumference of the salt circle. One man stepped forward and, with a small hammer and chisel, smashed the latches that held the black-lacquered lid closed.
Logan smiled with satisfaction.
It was time for the ritual to begin.
The woman was brought forward and deposited next to the casket, where one of the men knelt to tie her feet. Her drugged senses barely registered the change.
As the rest of the men stepped away from the casket and moved to stand behind the smaller circle several yards away, one of them took up a handful of salt and closed the circle that now surrounded the casket and the woman. He then rejoined the others, sealing the entire group inside a circle of their own.
The use of the circle as a protective barrier was as ancient as the practice of magick itself. Once activated with the appropriate incantation, the salt barrier would withstand even a direct attack by an inhabitant of the lower planes and should easily protect the Council members from the revenant the Necromancer intended to raise. While the circle around the coffin itself should keep the revenant safely trapped behind its barrier, redundancy was a tactic only ignored by the foolish when performing magick of this caliber, hence the additional circles around the participants themselves.
Logan used more of the salt to draw a series of Sumerian symbols around the inner circumference of the circle. When he was finished, he used the small remaining portion of salt to close the circle behind him, sealing himself, his assistant, and the dog inside its protective barrier.
The assistant readied the rest of the equipment; set up a small folding table, covered it with a swath of fine silk, and arranged the bowls and the obsidian athame, or ritual knife, in the necessary sequence. The dog was next. It was tied down to the tabletop, its legs stretched in both directions, leaving its belly exposed. As the other man worked, the Necromancer considered the rite he was about to perform, a rite that, without the tutelage of the Other, he never would have been powerful enough to handle. Nor would he have had the aid of the men around him, men who had been seduced by his connection to the demonic and joined him in forming the Council of Nine. Yet the Other needed them as well, needed human servants to carry out those tasks that it was prevented from handling on its own, like invading the holy ground of a Templar commandery. It was a partnership made of a mutual desire and greed for power, one that Logan fully understood and encouraged. When it was all said and done, he would be that much more powerful, more capable of carrying out his own plans of conquest.
For him, power was the ultimate reward.
Now that he had it, he knew that he would do anything to keep it.
Anything.
He stepped over to the table. The assistant had finished with the necessary preparations, having added two golden bowls, an incense burner, and a variety of herbs to what was already on the table.
As his assistant set a heady combination of belladonna, mandrake, henbane, and opium burning in the incense dish, the rest of the Council began to chant. The chanting started softly at first, a low, sonorous drone, that gradually built in volume and timbre until it became a strange, high-pitched keening that picked at the nerves. The sound rose and fell, fell and rose, dancing along the wind’s edge like a bird of prey.
An electrical tension filled the air, similar to that felt before a summer storm, yet what was looming was far less benign than such a simple act of nature. A wind kicked up suddenly, sliding amongst the gravestones, hissing in sibilant whispers as it grew in strength, setting the ends of the Council members’ robes fluttering in its breeze.
When the song was at its height, the wind howling around him as if in counterpoint, Logan raised the obsidian knife high over his head.
With one sudden, downward swing, he slashed the canine’s throat.
Blood flowed, hot and wet in the night air.
The assistant stepped in with the smaller of the two bowls, catching the streaming liquid.
Logan used his knife again, this time on the dog’s exposed underbelly, slashing it open lengthwise, working quickly so that he could complete the ritual before the dog died. Setting the knife down on the table, he turned back and plunged his hands inside the still-warm carcass, drawing forth handfuls of entrails. These he smeared liberally about his face and neck, breathing in the thick scent of death and the coppery smell of freshly spilled blood, using the physical senses to activate his arcane ones, linking him with the realm of the dead.
With a snap, power suddenly flooded through his body, and he grinned at the sheer thrill of wielding such might.
He felt it coalesce in the air around him like a living, breathing creature, and with a sharp thrust of both his arms, he flung it outward to strike the exposed coffin.
Logan laughed aloud, heady with power.
Templar Knights Stan Gibson and Neil Jones had been separated from their unit in the confusion of the surprise assault on the commandery and found themselves wandering on the outer periphery of the battle.
“What is that?”
Gibson turned his head and glanced toward where his partner was pointing. Across the lawn near the old cemetery, a bright glow of greenish-colored light could be seen playing across the grounds.
Curiosity got the better of them.
Moving carefully and staying in the trees as much as possible, the knights crossed the distance to the cemetery
. They approached the gates slowly, using hand signals to inform each other of their intentions. Jones slipped through the gate first while Gibson covered him with the shotgun before following behind.
They could hear voices, chanting in a strange tongue, the sound rising and falling with the wind like some insane chorus, causing the hair on their arms and the backs of their necks to stand at attention.
Cautiously, they moved closer.
Surprisingly, the spirit he was calling forth fought back with a power almost equal to his own.
Logan could feel the spirit resisting his call to return to its former body, fighting his commands to cross the barrier and answer his summons. Frustrated, the Necromancer increased his efforts.
It quickly became a battle of wills, Logan’s arcane power pitted against the righteous nature and faith of the former Templar Knight, each side refusing to give in. Power spit and crackled inside each of the circles like hot grease on a grill, and the smell of burning ozone filled the air. The Council chanted, the Necromancer forced more of his power back down the link that connected him to the shade, and still the knight sought to avoid being called from his rest for so nefarious a purpose.
As a result, the energy began to spill over, no longer affecting just the target grave but those in the immediate vicinity as well, seeping down into the earth to affect coffins on all sides. Where the bodies inside them were too decayed to support their return, the indistinct forms of apparitions began to appear, hovering over their gravestones or rising slowly out of the ground. Their lack of physical form fueled both their hunger for life and their anger at the living. When mixed with the Necromancer’s potent magick, they became not ghosts but spectres, vile creatures with a desire and craving to bring harm to the living.
Hunters Rise (Echo Team Book 1) Page 5
