“Cross-checked those photos against police databases and most show up as missing,” said Seb2. “The ones that don’t have been found dead. All drained of blood.”
“For Ms. Svetlana, this is just the start,” whispered Mason. “Once she has completed the final rituals, which will involve your death, my death, or both, she will instruct her followers to kill all male children born within the last three months. It’s some kind of perverse tribute to Herod, designed this time to bring about the rule of the Antichrist. I have no reason to lie about this, Mr. Varden. Scanned copies of all these rituals can be found on their website, where they are assumed to be of only academic interest. I assume you’ve checked it?”
“Hmm,” said Seb2, “I guess he’s not completely underestimating us. Yes, I’ve checked, and yes, he’s telling the truth.”
“So we tip off the cops,” thought Seb.
“I think he’s in favor of a more permanent solution,” said Seb2. “The police will never be able to contain someone like her.”
Seb spoke to Mason. “Ok, they’re crazy, I get it,” he said. “But that doesn’t make me a killer. You don’t seem to understand this. Not everyone treats life with the same disregard as you. Bob Geller was my friend. A good man. No threat to you or anyone else.” Seb felt the anger surging inside him. He breathed more deeply and calmed himself. He couldn’t help Bob now, but Mee was still out there, alive, and she needed him, despite what she’d said.
“Bob Geller was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” whispered Mason. “After witnessing what happened to you in the mountains during your first, unfortunate, encounter with my people, he started doing some digging online, asking questions. He wasn’t the type to let something drop. But there was another reason he had to die.”
“What possible reason could you have, you twisted sadist,” said Seb.
The voice from the laptop didn’t react to Seb’s anger.
“He had to die so you would believe I am prepared to hurt Meera Patel,” whispered Mason.
Seb stood up.
“You so much as look at her wrong and I swear I’ll hunt you down and kill you, you sick son of a bitch.”
A thin laugh was the response.
“You see, Mr. Varden,” whispered Mason, “you are prepared to commit murder after all. It’s just a case of finding the right motivation. If you kill me, you believe it will stop me hurting innocents like your friend. But I’ve just shown you evidence of the killing of many more innocent people. You don’t seem to care enough to break your precious moral code for them.”
“That’s different,” said Seb.
“How so? The only difference is mathematical. I am not hiding anything. In the last thirty days, I have had eighteen people killed. During the same period, Ms. Svetlana and her followers have killed at least thirty-two people. The deaths I ordered included your friend and the members of the Order who were sheltering him and Ms. Patel. These deaths were regrettable, but necessary. I have no thirst for blood. The members of the Order had to die to stop a conflict erupting between them and my organization. They may suspect my involvement, but suspicion won’t be enough for them to act against me. Which means I can concentrate on the Acolytes, without having to divert significant resources to deal with the Order.”
“None of them deserved to die,” said Seb.
“Yes, well, I have no ambitions to pry you away from your idealistic moral code and introduce you to reality. I merely need you to understand the lengths to which I am prepared to go. And so to Ms. Patel.”
The screen, which had gone blank after showing Sonia Svetlana’s roster of victims, came to life again. It was the same hotel room as before, Mee sat at the desk. This time, there were two figures behind her, both dressed in the anonymous black suits of security agents the world over. Seb recognized the taller one. Westlake. Seb’s eyes narrowed. Mee was handcuffed to the chair. Her expression was tired but defiant.
“Mee, are you ok? Mee?”
“She can’t hear or see you, Mr. Varden,” whispered Mason. “Now I will ask you one more time. Will you kill Sonia Svetlana? If not to prevent her continuing slaughter of innocent young men, then perhaps to save your friend here?”
Seb’s lips tightened, and he felt himself making fists almost unconsciously.
“You won’t kill her,” he said, finally. “You’ve done your research. You know I have no family, no close friends. Mee and I only dated for a short time. She doesn’t mean that much to me. And if you kill her, not only do you lose your leverage, you guarantee I come for you.”
“Cogently, and logically, argued. I agree entirely. I have absolutely no intention of killing Ms. Patel.”
“Good,” said Seb.
“I only intend to hurt her. Maim her. Torture her, if you like.”
Seb started to get up. Across the desk, the old woman was still unmoving. Barrington met his eye and smiled.
“Don’t do it,” said Seb2. “Sit down. Lots of primordial instincts from your cerebellum are causing chemicals to flood the rest of your brain. Very useful when a tiger jumps out on you, but counter-productive now. You need to think clearly and calmly.”
Seb sat down. “If they hurt her…,” he thought.
“You’ll just have to watch,” said Seb2. “Don’t make the situation any worse. We will find her, but I can’t do anything about it immediately. You need to play along, buy us time.”
On the screen, Westlake picked up something and held it up to the camera. It was a pair of garden secateurs. He grabbed Meera’s left hand and place the blades around her pinky. She started to struggle, thrashing in her chair, but the other man held her firmly down. When she realized she couldn’t get away, she suddenly went limp, all the fight gone out of her. Westlake waited, then Seb heard Mason’s whisper come from the laptop in the hotel.
“Go ahead.”
Seb closed his eyes as the blades closed over Mee’s flesh, opening them again to watch her body jerking in agony, eyes rolling back in her head, her screams distorting the mic on the laptop. After five seconds, the screen went blank and the sound was, mercifully, muted. Seb felt unnaturally calm and detached. “You doing this?” he thought.
“Yes,” said Seb2. “We need to get through this and make rational decisions, so I’m countering your normal responses. Don’t let them see your real reaction. What good could it do?”
“I know you’re right, but I still want to hurt someone,” said Seb. He focussed on his breathing, trying to live with the horror he had just seen, trying not to think about what Mee must be going through, alone.
“There are many ways to cause pain,” whispered Mason. “Removing fingers is effective, but it has the disadvantage of being permanent. Eventually, you run out of fingers. And toes. And other appendages. But it carries a strong visual element, which was necessary in this case. If you refuse me again, I will instruct Westlake to remove her tongue. She will never speak again. More pertinently, she will never sing again. So think carefully before giving me your final answer. Will you kill Sonia Svetlana for me?”
Seb stood. Barrington was still smiling. Seb looked at him. Barrington stopped smiling and started wincing, holding his hand up to his ear. For the first time, he spoke.
“He’s Using,” he said to the old woman. “Stop him.”
She barely moved, but Seb was aware of a huge force building around him.
“Leave it to me,” said Seb2. The old woman’s eyebrows suddenly shot up in surprise as her chair flew back against the wall. The wall itself seemed to soften as she reached it and her head and body moved about six inches past the physical barrier, the bricks softening like a pillow. Then they hardened again and held her pinned in place. She looked at Seb.
“Don’t,” he cautioned, and she slumped.
In the next room, the massive guy grabbed the door handle and was hurled six feet backward by a huge electric shock. He twitched once then was still.
Barrington was breathing hard now, the pain in his ear becoming
worse. His attempts to defend himself or attack Seb were being batted easily aside in a way he had never encountered. Finally, he could bear it no longer and shouted with pain as his left ear slowly tore away from the side of his head. When it detached completely and fell to the floor, it burst into flame and was consumed, leaving just a charred piece of blackened flesh. He clapped his hand to the side of his face and hissed at Seb.
“I’ll just grow a new one.”
“I don’t think so,” said Seb and watched Barrington’s face as he realized his Manna could do nothing to repair the permanent damage inflicted by Seb’s Roswell Manna.
“Very impressive,” whispered the voice from the laptop. “Well?”
“Yes,” said Seb. “My answer is yes. I’ll kill her. Then we’ll talk.”
45
The Keystone Hotel was situated in a quiet, affluent neighborhood. The wealth and, often, notoriety of its guests was such that they appreciated the anonymity the hotel provided, blending perfectly as it did with other brownstones on the street. Security was easily arranged, as the buildings on either side were owned by the same group and used as offices. Deliveries were made through the back which had a soundproofed loading bay hidden beneath the beautifully landscaped gardens. Asked why they chose the Keystone above other, equally opulent, hotels in Manhattan, guests almost invariably used the same words: “it’s discreet”.
For the vast majority of New Yorkers, including every other resident of the street, the arrival of the Acolytes Of Satan had done nothing to alter the calm anonymity of the hotel. If anything, it was even quieter than normal. This was because there were only thirty occupants in a hotel which, even with its enormous rooms and reputation for exclusivity, normally saw occupancy levels average out at forty-four guests - eighty including staff. The Acolytes lived in luxury, and, as they could feed themselves using Manna, they only needed to leave the Keystone for one of two reasons: either to refill at the nearest Thin Place, which was a twenty-minute walk away in Central Park, or to hunt.
Hunting in New York was not as pleasurable as it had been in Europe. Many of the longest-serving Acolytes hailed from small Eastern European countries that had gone though two or more name changes in the turbulent twentieth century. Those countries had a rich tradition of myth and folklore which appealed to the Acolytes’ sense of history, ritual and theatre. The legend of the Vampire had been born in one such country. A nobleman whose family fortunes were on the wane after finding themselves on the losing side in one of the many wars common in the middle of the 1800s had developed a talent for Manna use. As he was virtually a recluse, due to a skin condition that kept him indoors during the hours of daylight, he had never met another Manna user and had received no training. The first time he had absorbed Manna in the forest near his ancestral home coincided with his first taste of human blood, taken as a suggested cure for his skin condition. He attributed his subsequent power to the blood. Thereafter, he hunted by night, slept in a darkened basement during the day, and terrorized the local population until the night they burned his home to the ground. Forced to escape, he finally met other Manna users and began to understand the real source of his abilities. His association between power and evil never truly left him, however, and he began collecting literature on the subject. Eventually, he founded the Acolytes of Satan and slowly built an organization of believers.
The nobleman’s longevity was legendary - he was almost certainly over one hundred and fifty years old when he died. Some believed he was nearer his two hundredth birthday. He assumed his leadership would continue until they had brought about the return of Satan. Or so he said. One or two very close to him suspected he had no real belief in anything of the sort, but enjoyed the prestige and privileges of unquestioned power. So it came as quite a surprise to him and his inner circle when a true believer rose quickly through the ranks, challenged him openly, and killed him briskly and efficiently, leaving only some charred bones for his former followers to dispose of.
Sonia had modernized many elements of the organization since then, but she had a deep appreciation of the importance of ritual. She didn’t drink the blood of her victims, using it instead to paint runes on her skin while she performed the lengthy rites designed to focus her own Manna as well as that of the senior Acolytes, making it possible to use a combined power that would eventually break through the barriers between this world and others, opening a door for their Master.
In the penthouse at the top of the hotel, black candles burning, five sacrifices at various stages of blood loss hanging from their inverted crosses, she and twenty-four of the High Council of the Acolytes knelt in the semi-darkness, chanting softly, waiting for Sebastian Varden. They knew he was coming. Mason had passed on that piece of information hours ago. All they had to do was wait. Sonia smiled in the shadows.
Seb had prepared for his one-man attack on dozens of old, powerful Manna users intent on his destruction by eating noodles. Lots of noodles, then a pizza, then two steaks. Seb2 had assured him his body could store the energy without slowing him down, and the physical evidence seemed to back this up. He felt fit, rested and ready. Well, as ready as he could ever be.
Seb2 had researched the Acolytes, so Seb knew a little about the mindset of the people he was about to take on. He had read about their core beliefs and seen details of the rituals they apparently performed. Added to the information from Walt and Mason, it was a pretty unpleasant picture.
“He expects us to die, you know that, right?” said Seb2 as he finished the second steak and ordered two sundaes and a slab of Death by Chocolate cheesecake, the waitress not bothering to close her mouth as she thought disbelievingly of the amount of food he had already consumed.
“It had crossed my mind,” said Seb. “But I’m out of options.”
“Nothing we can do if he’s right, but we need to think about what happens next if he’s wrong.”
“About saving Mee,” said Seb.
“Yes, and yourself,” said Seb2. “If you die—which I still think is impossible—it’s all over, but if you live, you’ve proved yourself far more powerful than Mason. More powerful than anyone. We’ve downplayed the new Manna potential so far, but killing Svetlana and her crew will make it obvious to him. How can he release Mee, the only hold he has over us, if he knows your power is at an unheard of level?”
“We’re going to have to work that out later,” said Seb. He gave us until the end of the day. It’s 10pm. Let’s go.”
Seb had carefully considered his lack of any relevant training, experience, or inclination to inflict physical damage before deciding to disregard these shortcomings. There were many Acolytes and only one of him. They had been using Manna to commit appalling acts of violence for hundreds of years. He had never heard of Manna until just over a week ago. They had carefully planned and executed the murders of many experienced and powerful Manna users. He got a bit upset when he saw videos of badly treated puppies. Since the odds were stacked so thoroughly against him, he settled on the only approach he could think of.
At 10:21pm, Sebastian Varden walked into the lobby of the Keystone Hotel. Veronica, a small, plump member of the Acolytes was on duty at the desk to deter unwanted attention from New Yorkers. Her matronly appearance meant she was often underestimated, usually leading to physical discomfort for those who did so.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “the hotel is closed until August next year.”
Seb walked over and put both hands on the desk, mostly to stop them shaking.
“I don’t want a room. My name’s Seb Varden. I’m here to see Sonia Svetlana.”
Veronica stared at him. She was slightly disappointed. Their leader had spoken of him as the most powerful User on the planet, but she could only sense a little Manna. She nodded.
“Penthouse suite, right?” said Seb, walking across the lobby. He pushed the button and the elevator doors opened. He stepped inside. “Just give her a call, tell her I’m on my way up.” As the elevator doors shut, he saw
the Veronica pick up the phone, still staring at him.
As the elevator doors shut, Seb looked for a button to press, then realized a small scanner on the wall was designed to recognize guests’ thumbprints. It wasn’t the best start.
“Wait,” said Seb2. Then, “Ok, try it now.” Seb held his thumb on the pad and the elevator started to move, swiftly and silently ascending.
“How?” said Seb. “Or—don’t tell me—you don’t have a clue, the nano-stuff did it all on its own.”
“Nah,” said Seb2. “Don’t know if it’s the quickest method, but I reviewed our last encounter with Sonia, got a hi-def image of her thumb and pasted it onto yours.”
“Man, I’ll never get used to this,” said Seb. The elevator arrived and the doors opened. The sound of many voices softly chanting came from the room behind the big door at the end of the hall. Seb walked into the room.
The Acolytes, over thirty of them, were dressed in long, dark hooded robes, their faces in shadow. They were lining the back wall, some making arcane gestures in the air as they chanted. In front of them was a pentagram. The inverted crosses at each point now held mostly fresh sacrifices. As one victim bled out, he was simply replaced with a new unfortunate. The channels of blood gathered at the point where stone jugs were kept to collect the precious fluid. Sonia Svetlana stood naked in the middle of the pentagram. Her eyes were rolled up into her head and her voice was harsh and guttural as she led the chanting. As Seb entered, she dipped her fingers into a jar at her feet and drew a simple design across her breasts and stomach. To Seb’s eyes, it looked like a Chinese pictogram, but Seb2 corrected this opinion.
“It’s ancient Macedonian,” said Seb2. “I just searched online, found a reference to ‘curse tablets’ - very similar calligraphy.”
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 33
