THE HISTORY OF THINGS TO COME: A Supernatural Thriller (The Dark Horizon Trilogy Book 1)

by Duncan Simpson

  ‘Vincent, the letters!’

  For a moment, Blake was frozen to the spot, his brain unable to process the information being relayed by his eyes. The Hebrew lettering running along its length had begun to glow, its brightness now stronger than that of the pale torchlight. Blake released the staff, sending it clattering onto the hard marble surface of the platform. The sound echoed out into the darkness.

  Chapter 66

  Crossland switched off his torch and stared at the diffuse shadows reflected on the back wall of the tunnel. The light source from the opening in the stone passage appeared to be static, but every so often the elongated shadow of a person reared up and then disappeared back into the stonework. He could hear voices clearly through the entranceway. After adjusting the large hunting knife secured on the belt of his trousers, Crossland checked that there was a round in the chamber of his pistol. He would allow himself some fun with these two. Indeed, he would savour the sensation of slicing through the tendons in the man’s neck and watching the blood gush from his carotid artery. This job had been fucked up from the beginning, and they would pay for it.

  Denic recognised the blood lust in his partner’s eyes. He would turn the other way when the time came for him to satiate his hunger. The military psychologist at his court martial had described Crossland as borderline psychopathic, but the truth was that the British Army had nurtured his talents for violence and created a killing machine: a killing machine that needed to be fed. Denic readied himself. It would all be over in a matter of minutes.

  A bright flash from the darkness some twenty feet to their rear burst from the barrel of a titanium silencer on the end of a Walther P22. Denic had often wondered what his final seconds would be like: whether the passage of time would slow down or whether the events of his life would be replayed in his mind. The reality of the experience was very different. He managed to turn just enough to see the back of Crossland’s head explode in a cloud of red mist. As gritty splinters of bone hit the side of his cheek, he became mindful of a second flash of light from behind. A tenth of a second later, a .22 pistol round exited his left eye socket. As the electrical activity in his brain ebbed away, he had the most dreadful sense that his soul was being dragged down into the London earth.

  When Denic’s body had finally stopped twitching on the floor, a tall figure emerged from the darkness.

  ‘Too many mistakes, gentlemen. You were just making too many mistakes. Your contract with the Drakon has been terminated.’

  The female whisper was as cold as the stone floor. Slowly, the figure moved towards the tunnel opening. It would be tidier this way. All the bodies would be resealed in the chamber and there would be no trace. Before walking through the opening, the Drakon stopped and looked down at the pool of blood now surrounding the two corpses. A walking stick prodded at Crossland’s crumpled body, and the serrated edge of a hunting knife was visible from beneath his blood-stained jacket.

  Hearing sounds echoing in the tunnel, Blake grabbed the rod from the podium and quickly placed it on the floor next to the edge of the platform as a strong beam of light emerged through the opening leading to the sanctuary. Squinting into the light, Blake tried to make out the shape behind the glare. He took Sabatini’s hand and prepared himself for what was to come.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re safe,’ said the voice.

  The words reverberated around the sanctuary and were so unexpected that for a moment Blake’s mind couldn’t quite take them in. Slowly, the beam of the flashlight was directed to the floor, revealing the face of the figure concealed behind it. The tall and well-dressed woman had a deep frown of concern across her forehead. Strangely, instead of looking directly back at Blake and Sabatini, her line of sight was fixed firmly on the podium. After a long pause, she spoke with renewed urgency.

  ‘My name is Ema Mats. I was a friend of Brother Nathan’s. We must leave this place immediately,’ said the woman. She beckoned them forward and turned towards the doorway.

  ‘Come quickly, and bring the rod. There is no time to lose.’

  As the woman’s body turned, Sabatini noticed the strange walking stick illuminated by the flashlight. She noticed its curious carved handle and her expression turned troubled as she tried to hook a memory from deep within her subconscious. Blake stepped away from the podium to get enough space to crouch down and pick the rod up from the floor. Then he heard Sabatini whisper something under her breath.

  ‘There’s something wrong.’

  As the realisation of where she had seen the elaborate carvings detonated in her mind, Sabatini shouted at Blake, ‘Stop. It’s a trap. It’s Newton’s walking stick! She has Newton’s walking stick!’

  By the time Blake looked back at the woman, he was staring down the barrel of the pistol.

  ‘Where is it?’ Mats’s voice had a chilling intensity.

  ‘It’s not here,’ said Sabatini, her voice trembling. She took a step closer to Blake.

  ‘Don’t lie to me. It’s here. I can feel it,’ said the Drakon. For a second time, Mats demanded an answer to her question. ‘Where is it?’ This time she moved forward menacingly, the pupils of her eyes narrowing like a reptile.

  ‘I will ask you one more time. Where is the rod?’ As she emerged from the shadows, Mats’s physical frame grew in stature, like a terrible wave rising on the sea. ‘Dr Blake, Dr Sabatini, you will tell me.’ The woman’s voice was hard and filled with threat. Her teeth bit through the cold, murky air as she came closer.

  Sabatini spoke, ‘It’s not here. We’ve searched the—’ before she could finish her sentence, the Drakon lashed out in fury, the handle of the pistol smashing into the side of Sabatini’s skull. The impact sent Sabatini’s body crashing to the ground. Blake stared in horror as a small dark trail of blood seeped from behind Sabatini’s head.

  ‘You fool!’ The terrifying sound of the Drakon’s voice reverberated throughout the sanctuary.

  Blake stumbled backwards, recoiling from the barrel of Mats’s pistol being driven into his temple. He stared directly into Mats’s crazed face. Her tongue stabbed at the air as the sinews in her neck tensed like strings of catgut, straining against the writhing motion of her head. Blake shut his eyes. He felt the cold metal of the pistol move away from his forehead. Was this it? Was he going to die? He tried to drag the memory of Sarah’s face into his mind. Then he felt Mats’s warm breath against his ear.

  ‘You will tell me. Or soon you will be whimpering like your daughter.’

  Blake’s eyes slowly opened. ‘Sarah?’

  A collection of untethered thoughts now snapped into place.

  ‘You are … the Drakon.’ Blake’s voice faltered, as the name opened up a seismic fault in the bedrock of his mind. Blake now stared down the barrel of the gun into the eyes of the brutal criminal mastermind. ‘It was you. You were the one who broke into my house and …’

  A mocking grin opened up at the side of the Drakon’s face as she sucked in air. ‘Who killed your wife? Yes, that was me. I relished every second, seeing her brains spilled out on the tarmac.’ She paused. ‘But that wasn’t the best thing; the best was biting into the flesh of your deformed daughter.’ As the words came out of her mouth, her tongue darted between the fingers of her hand. ‘Mmm, her young blood tasted so sweet.’

  Wild with rage, Blake lurched forward, his chest jabbing into the barrel of the gun, as though he were an enraged fighting dog straining against a short leash.

  Mats stabbed the gun hard into Blake’s ribs. ‘You want to kill me, don’t you? I can feel the poison rising up in your blood.’

  There was a loud click, and then a pain exploded from the centre of Blake’s right kneecap that sent shockwaves reverberating through every nerve ending in his body. Blake’s leg buckled backwards and spun him to the ground like a corkscrew. The back of his head struck the stone floor.

  Mats stood over Blake’s crumpled body.<
br />
  ‘Do you think you will prevent me getting what I am destined to possess?’ said the Drakon. ‘The pain you are feeling now will be nothing compared to the misery you will feel if you do not tell me where the rod is. No one will be able to hear your screams. You are completely alone. Tell me now where you have hidden the rod and I promise your daughter will live.’

  As Mats’s walking stick pressed down on Blake’s shattered knee, an excruciating jolt of pain ricocheted up the side of Blake’s body. The intensity of his screams brought a glimmer of satisfaction to Mats’s face.

  ‘We are wasting time. Where is it?’

  Straining to find his breath, Blake turned his head in the direction of the marble platform and groaned something. His throat choked.

  ‘Again, louder!’

  ‘It’s on the floor, aghhh … next to the platform.’ The last word collapsed into a gasp for breath.

  The Drakon spun round and redirected the beam of her torch onto the base of the plinth. It only took her a matter of seconds to locate the relic against the marble pedestal. After pulling on her patent leather gloves, she raised the relic triumphantly above her head. Sucking in a long draft of air, she closed her eyes and started to recite an incantation. The intensity of her voice increased with every phrase.

  ‘I claim this rod for you, my Master. With this relic, the dark prophecy will be set in motion. Let your fire be unleashed and let God and all His prophets be thrown down into the stinking pit.’ She was now spitting the words from her mouth. ‘They will all be consumed in your blackness, and the tribulation will last forever.’

  Abruptly, the invocation came to an end, interrupted by the loud groans from the body writhing pathetically on the ground. The Drakon’s eyes widened as she remembered the hunting knife, which weighed heavily in her pocket.

  With a cruel grin flickering on her lips, she placed the rod carefully on the platform and unsheathed the knife from her pocket.

  After all, the occasion did warrant a great sacrifice. The search had taken millennia, and finally it had come to an end. Her master would appreciate the spilling of blood deep under the temple of God.

  She would start with Blake, then Sabatini, and end with Blake’s precious daughter. Butcher them all like pigs.

  She circled Blake’s crumpled body. A large pool of dark blood had formed around his leg. The sound of Mats’s shoe heels clicking on the stone floor close by jolted Blake back into consciousness. As his vision cleared, he became aware of Mats’s silhouette standing above him. A hand reached down and grabbed a clump of Blake’s hair, lifting up his head several inches above the ground. The serrated blade of the hunting knife rested against the tendons of Blake’s neck. Mats pressed the blade against Blake’s pulsing carotid artery and watched as a single drop of blood tracked slowly down his white skin.

  Blake tried to fight, but his efforts were useless. Excruciating pain had now been replaced by a heavy coldness that made anything but the smallest of movements impossible. As he stared into the face of evil, he felt the past reach out to receive him.

  Chapter 67

  ‘Stop! Get away from him.’ The Drakon looked up, jolted by the unexpected voice. At first, she struggled to discriminate between the shapes hidden behind the strong light, but as her eyes readjusted, the profile of a woman and a large dog became clear. The strange vagrant woman standing in the doorway to the sanctuary was pointing a pistol directly at the Drakon’s head. Mats recognised it as Crossland’s Sig Sauer. The Drakon slowly lowered the blade from Blake’s throat.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re here. My name is Ema Mats. This man and woman are dangerous criminals. They tried to kill me and bury me here. Help me, please!’ said the Drakon.

  Blake felt his body slump forwards. With his mind moving in and out of consciousness, he tried to focus on the blurred shapes morphing in and out of his field of vision. He felt the dull chill of the stone floor against his right cheek and then heard something like the barking of a dog resonating high in the ceiling. A tremor shivered through his body and then all went black.

  Falling to her knees, the Drakon began to sob uncontrollably.

  ‘He said he would tie me up and kill me, cut me into pieces while I was still alive. He said I would feel everything.’ Her words could be barely heard through her sobbing. ‘Thank goodness you’re here.’

  Mary looked at the aura shimmering above the head of the figure kneeling in front of her. It was different from anything she had seen before. Like the raised sting of a scorpion, it arched out from the woman’s shoulder blades and rose six feet above her head, its surface shimmering as if made of flowing oil. It seemed to possess a quality that distorted the very fabric of the space around her body, drawing the surrounding light into itself. Mary struggled to cock the pistol, which felt heavy and awkward in her hand.

  ‘I know who you are, Ema Mats. It has been foretold,’ shouted Mary.

  Mats’s eyes narrowed, her tears replaced by a malevolent gaze. With the pistol trained on her target, Mary slowly unbuttoned her large overcoat. Shaking the coat from her shoulders, it fell to the ground by her feet. The Drakon inhaled loudly at the design tattooed over Mary’s body. Swamped by an oversized vest and skirt, Mary’s emaciated body was criss-crossed by a web of lines and symbols tattooed into her skin. At certain places on her arms and shoulders, the intersection of lines was marked with the crude motif of a church. Many of the lines terminated at a single point several inches below Mary’s throat. In a circle surrounding the junction, the words ‘St Paul’s’ were etched into her pale skin, their rawness a testament to their recent age.

  ‘Step away from the rod!’ shouted Mary.

  ‘The rod needs to be studied as a historical artefact. I have a team of research scientists already assembled in Jerusalem,’ said the Drakon.

  ‘It can never be returned to Jerusalem until God has willed it.’ Mary’s voice trembled at first but quickly took on a hard determination. ‘Returning it to Jerusalem will usher in the End Times.’

  The Drakon spat back a contemptuous reply. ‘What do you know of the rod?’

  Mary turned her arm and exposed the inside of her forearm. Running along its length were a series of ten Hebrew characters cut into her skin. The scarring was deep, and by the inconsistency of the texture, each letter appeared to have been made over several different occasions. Mats immediately recognised the sequence of letters as the same as those engraved down the length of the rod. She breathed in loudly through her teeth like a snake tasting the air.

  ‘I see you are aware of the ten symbols of the plagues of Egypt.’ The Drakon’s words were slow and deliberate. ‘Each symbol is the first letter of one of the ten plagues unleashed by your God to force the release of the Jews from their captivity.’

  The Drakon walked slowly around the plinth.

  ‘We have both been chosen to find the rod,’ said the Drakon.

  ‘Don’t move! I have been chosen by God to keep the rod hidden until the allotted time has come, and you …’ A long pause followed. ‘You are the Watcher, chosen by the devil himself to wreak destruction on the world.’

  ‘The Watcher? You know nothing of me,’ spat the Drakon.

  Swapping the pistol from one hand to the other, Mary turned her other forearm into the light.

  Three words—‘Mastema the Deceiver’—were written, one above each other, in scar tissue along its length. ‘I cut your name into my body so that I would never forget your evil. Ema Mats. Mastema. You are the same.’

  Mats smiled. ‘Just a playful rearrangement of letters. I am known by many names: Ema Mats, Mastema, the Drakon, Abaddon, Haborym, Beelzebub. I have searched for millennia for the rod and now I have found it.’

  Trembling, Mary took a step backwards. ‘You are the agent of the devil!’ she shouted.

  Mats’s head dropped as if pulled down by an invisible force and then rose slowly t
o an angle that just exposed the whites of her eyeballs.

  ‘You understand so little.’ The sound of Mats’s words were now contorted and unrecognisable as coming from the voice of a woman.

  ‘I understand what is written in the Holy Scriptures, about you and your kind,’ said Mary.

  ‘My kind?’

  ‘It is written in the Book of Enoch that the 200 fallen angels, known as “the Watchers”, were banished to earth at the time of the falling. Taking on human wives and producing children, half-human, half-demon, they had only one reason for living: to seek revenge for Satan’s great expulsion from heaven. You are Mastema, the angel of hatred, created by Satan.’

  ‘We are both children of the expulsion,’ said the Drakon.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Mary.

  ‘In the beginning, there was only the symmetry of God; a prison of uniformity. His grand purpose was to hold existence in a cage of regularity, His perfect symmetry cancelling out all opposition to His will. You call that heaven?’ The words spewed from her mouth, driven out by some demonic force inside her body.

  ‘Then, in the recesses of the universe, the Dark King willed himself into existence, a kernel of disturbance in the perfectly balanced field of your God. Once there, the disturbance grew rapidly, creating ever-increasing vibrations in the fabric of heaven. Eventually, the growing presence of the Dark King threatened to shatter the cage’s symmetry forever.’

  Mary shouted out, ‘You are Mastema, the Deceiver!’

  ‘Don’t you understand? Without the disturbance, you and I simply couldn’t exist. God’s symmetry would cancel out all opposition, all aberration, all instability. But once the disturbance had occurred and the symmetry of his prison had been broken, He had to expel its cause. We exist because God had no choice.’

  ‘God expelled Satan, and he fell from heaven like lightning,’ said Mary raising the pistol.