The Church of Sleep (Central Series Book 5)

by Zachary Rawlins

  Daniel Gao killed a guard on the way in, sneaking up behind her and stabbing her in the neck. He dragged her to the ground with his hand covering her mouth, holding her in a perverse embrace until her body went slack. They could have evaded her easily, taking advantage of the mist and the banks of Ether that clung to the hills, the rough ground, and the long grass, but Simeon wanted a clear path of escape.

  They left her body beside some saplings at the side of a nearby creek, the top half of the body lying in the creek bed. The creek was little more than a trickle of water descending from distant hills, but it had already started to coat the body with mud as they moved on toward the manor house.

  Daniel ranged ahead, Simeon marking his presence by occasional ripples in the grass.

  They did not bring a telepath by Simeon’s design, instead relying on hand signs and whistles, Daniel making himself visible at intervals to indicate direction. The night was utterly still, and so quiet that Simeon caught himself holding his breath. He followed Daniel’s footprints through the pastureland, the rifle strapped tight to his back and tied down to suppress any rattle. Simeon had attached a suppressor to the muzzle before they departed camp, but that would not conceal the sound of a shot. It did little more than allow him to fire the heavy .308 without ear protection.

  Near the second cosmetic fence that surrounded the manor garden and driveway, Daniel left another body huddled in a nest of wild grass, so well concealed by the feathered tufts that Simeon nearly tripped over it. It was a man this time – a boy, really, no more than a teenager – whose blood dribbled into the perpetually thirsty earth, his throat cut so wide he appeared to have a second, larger mouth in his neck. As Simeon crept past the body, he was briefly troubled by the impression that the corpse’s eyes followed him.

  He caught up to Daniel in a dirt lot that separated the whitewashed barn from the Tuscan-style residential compound. Daniel was frozen in place like an illuminated deer, one hand extended, a bloodied knife concealed behind his back.

  Two dogs circled Simeon, whining in agitation, while a bolder pair of dogs advanced on Daniel, growling deeply. Daniel’s fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife, and the lead dog prepared to charge, chest muscles bunching.

  Simeon pushed Daniel aside hurriedly, snatching the dog out of midair, seizing the broad flaps of skin below the ears and behind the slavering jaws. He twisted and pulled, sending the dog sprawling into the dust.

  The remaining dogs started to bark.

  Simeon activated his protocol, and the dogs were knocked from their paws and sent flying, as if by a great wind, tumbling relatively harmlessly into the broad grassy field behind the barn.

  Daniel rubbed his shoulder and watched Simeon with veiled amusement.

  “Was that quieter?”

  “Not at all,” Simeon snapped. “I simply prefer not to kill dogs.”

  “What an odd concern,” Daniel said, vanishing. “Do you think the Mistress will appreciate your sentimentality?”

  Simeon grimaced and followed the fresh footprints in the dust toward the villa, every window in the place shining with light the color of butter.

  “I do not presume to guess what Lady Martynova prefers,” Simeon said. “I take her at her word.”

  Laughter from thin air, not too far ahead.

  “Ever the loyal servant,” Daniel remarked. “Tell me, old friend – what sort of Great Lady do you believe would marry her servant?”

  Simeon said nothing as they advanced toward the house, winding their way through an ornamental garden on a path of decayed granite.

  “You will lose the contest if you don’t take the initiative,” Daniel said, his voice cool and mocking. “The field has already narrowed.”

  “How so?”

  “Are you really that far behind? I shouldn’t be so nice, considering that we are competing, but I just can’t help but feel bad for you, Simeon.” Invisible laughter raised the hackles on Simeon’s back. “Peter Rurikovich is dead, God piss on his grave.”

  More laughter.

  “You always hated him, didn’t you, Simeon? Over what’s her name…Rachel, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Simeon said dully. “I never liked him.”

  “Nor did I,” Daniel said. “He was always obsequious whenever a superior was around, but heaven help the underling left in his authority. Impulsive as all hell, too.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I’m not a hundred percent, but I overheard something on the way to camp with Serafina.” Daniel was suddenly visible beside him, climbing a set of stairs to the main building in the villa. “I heard he went straight at Lord Thule.”

  “That is exactly the sort of thing I would expect from Peter.”

  “I guess Lord Thule was expecting it, as well,” Daniel said, grinning. “Peter challenged him to a duel on the spot, and poor Peter died.”

  “How?”

  “I heard you ask the first time, but I don’t know.”

  Daniel disappeared again as they approached the long, cypress-lined walk that led to the front door.

  “What about Maxim?”

  “Maxim?” Daniel’s voice seemed to come from one of the carefully trimmed columns of cypress ahead and to his left. “I’m sure he’s in Central somewhere. Just waiting in the shadows for the right time to fuck this up for all of us.”

  ***

  Maxim had spent the day concealed in a thicket of blackberries, doing his best to hold still and not scratch the many places the thorns had punctured his skin, even as mosquitos settled on his arms and face. When the night finally darkened the sky, he was sore and itching, and had cultivated a fantastic reservoir of ill will toward the entirety of humanity, the Thule Operators he was watching in the valley below most of all.

  The time since sunset had been more encouraging.

  He had trailed the Operators for the better part of a day simply because they were the first people he encountered. They were professional enough to set a guard as they settled down for the night, but not professional enough to set that guard out of the range of the camp lights, in the same dark that Maxim crept through, so that they might have had a chance to see him coming. Maxim crossed the last several meters with incredible patience, waiting until he was sure that he had the drop on the perimeter guard. He timed his route, waiting for him to pass, and then snatched the guard from behind in a Krav Maga grip, squeezing and wrenching until he crushed his windpipe and snapped his neck.

  Maxim rolled the body into a nearby bush, taking the bolt-action rifle and rucksack the guard had carried with him.

  There was a second guard posted, too far inside the perimeter to make any real difference, dozing with the butt of his rifle planted in the ground, close enough to be both warmed by the fire and dazzled by its light.

  Maxim raised his hand in greeting as he approached, and the Thule Operator responded the same way, peering at the approaching figure and likely making out nothing but an outline. That got him within a few meters. Maxim activated his protocol, comforted by the immediacy of the visual overlay, coding threats and priorities in a veritable rainbow of superimposed hues.

  Delphi, he thought, out of long habit and personal preference. Telepaths at the top.

  All about him, the colors shifted as his protocol performed its tactical magic. The guard he approached noticed something that disturbed him, and called out uncertainly, tentatively readying his rifle. Maxim did not hurry.

  There was no need.

  The guard drew a bead on Maxim as he advanced, but his protocol assured him that he was not ready to shoot while still uncertain who approached. Maxim waited until he could see the serrations at the edge of the bayonet on the old Soviet Mauser rifle. The warning indicator shifted to orange, and Maxim tensed. His protocol suggested a direction, and Maxim moved his head just slightly as the rifle discharged. Maxim felt the bullet rush by his ear before he heard the shot.

  Maxim did not so much as break stride.

  His protocol tagged a
potential telepath opposite the fire, perhaps twenty meters away. Maxim considered angles as the guard’s second shot skipped harmlessly along the ground to his right.

  He reached for the hatchet that hung at his belt, a stainless-steel tomahawk that a Polish friend had forged as a birthday gift. The guard yelled for help, and Maxim saw figures stirring from blankets and sleeping bags around the campfire. The guard took a third shot, the muzzle flare on the old bolt-action almost touching Maxim’s unarmored chest, a puff of hot air ruffling his shirt.

  The shot went over Maxim’s shoulder.

  The guard – an aging man with blonde hair turning rapidly grey and a two-week-old beard – gave Maxim an astonished look, and then attempted to plunge the saw-toothed bayonet into Maxim’s chest. Maxim grabbed the rifle on approach, wincing as he grasped the hot barrel, and then tore the weapon free and flung it over his shoulder and into the night.

  Maxim could hear people calling and weapons being readied further in the camp, and set Delphi loose, sorting and tagging.

  The guard turned to run, and Maxim planted the hatchet in his neck. The blade gouged a ravine in his flesh and bounced off his spine. The man toppled over and moaned weakly. Maxim whipped the hatchet across the back of his neck like a pendulum, severing his spinal column.

  Automatic fire peppered the ground around Maxim, kicking up miniature clouds of dust. His vision was tinted red as his protocol labored. Maxim grimaced and unslung the rifle, firing off a couple of shots as he walked forward, trusting his protocol to optimize his aim, and the reverse effect to keep him safe from the fire.

  The gunfire became sporadic as the Thule personnel adjusted positions and sought cover. Maxim cast the rifle aside and broke into a sprint, clearing the remaining distance before his opposition could take aim.

  They attempted an improvised ambush, concealing themselves behind a bit of ancient masonry that had resisted the settlers’ explosives. Maxim studied their outlines as he advanced on the crumbling block of stone, the nearest tagged bright orange, indicating that the woman on the other side of the wall was likely a pyrokinetic.

  Maxim slowed his stride and crouched, returning the hatchet to a loop on his belt. He snatched up a pair of good-sized rocks as he went, each about the size of a grapefruit. He followed a serpentine path full of sudden turns and shuffles, each movement dictated by Delphi, as bullets whistled and hummed harmlessly about him in the dark.

  Maxim tracked the red outline waiting on the other side of the old wall. He moved closer, and then tossed one of the rocks ahead into the dark. The outline lunged forward with her bayonetted rifle, stabbing wildly at nothing. Maxim pitched the second rock into his would-be ambusher’s head. The woman dropped her rifle and clutched her head, giving Maxim time to trot over and finish her with the hatchet.

  A gunshot punctured the ground at his feet. Maxim looked up calmly.

  Delphi, he thought. Evaluate.

  Four Thule Operators waited on him in a nearby culvert. Three had rifles, while the fourth illuminated the scene with the strands of vividly blue energy that arched over his shoulders like wings. Maxim shaded his eyes and looked them over, wiping his hatchet on the dead man’s sleeve.

  “You in the back,” Maxim said, his protocol outlining one of the Thule Operators with a golden hue, to indicate a probable telepath. “Does your protocol still work?”

  They responded with laughter, more nervous than haughty, and uncertain glances. They moved to more exposed positions, utterly confident that Maxim was blind, unable to see anything but the sapphire-colored light.

  That was true, but also incidental.

  “Answer the question,” Maxim growled. “It could save your life.”

  More laughter, then the telepath glanced at the Operator on his flank. That Operator – tall and tagged blue, indicating a direct energy protocol – shrugged and nodded.

  “My protocol works,” the man said, the length of his vowels a distant affirmation of West Texas roots. “I get nosebleeds, though, and headaches, even after a few seconds…”

  “That’s enough, Jessie,” the shorter, pink-tagged figure snapped. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

  “I serve the Mistress of the Black Sun,” Maxim said, reaching for his pistol. “I am here to deliver some bad news.”

  “Really?” At a nod from the pink-accented Operator, the sapphire glow intensified, radiance pouring from the twin arcs poised above the Thule Operator’s shoulders like elongated bones from some exotic fossil. “What news is that?”

  “My Mistress has ordered me to kill you all.”

  There was no way to tell the gunshots apart by sound, but the Delphi Protocol informed Maxim that he shot first, by a fraction of a second, his shot striking the dark-blue figure near the end of the culvert that his protocol had been unable to identify. Maxim hustled out of the way just before a bolt of light cooked the area like a high-wattage laser, firing as he moved. He hit the glowing Operator several times, finally dropping him with the last round in the magazine. An M4 rifle spat bullets at Maxim from somewhere behind, overwhelming his protocol. He was already reloading as he spun about, grimacing when one of the rounds grazed his side. Maxim ignored the pain and returned fire, puncturing the left lung of his attacker with the first round and then knocking the rifle from his grasp with the second.

  Maxim walked up close to put a final round through his head.

  The pink outline tossed her rifle and ran.

  Maxim snapped off a quick shot that dropped her before she made it far, but decided he had more important things to do than finish her off right then.

  The Thule telepath was perhaps the best of the lot. The Texan smiled at Maxim and tossed a grenade his way in a low, easy arc, like a friendly softball pitch, simultaneously launching a telepathic attack to keep Maxim pinned in place.

  It was more than the Delphi Protocol could deal with head-on, so Maxim improvised.

  He caught the grenade with one hand, his feet rooted to the ground to the extent that he suspected that his shoes might come off if he attempted to take a step. Maxim tossed the grenade over his shoulder.

  The detonation showered them with clods of dirt and knocked them both over. The telepath’s hold on Maxim wavered, and he moved quickly, before the telepath could recover.

  Maxim pulled the telepath from the debris and then shook him vigorously, rattling his skull until his eyes rolled open. Maxim forced the telepath to his knees, and then placed his gun against the Thule Operator’s head.

  “I have questions. If I feel you in my head, then I will put a bullet in yours,” Maxim said, spitting dirt from between his teeth, “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  The Thule Operator nodded, surprisingly composed for the situation.

  “Good. Can you reach Central?”

  “You are a telepath yourself, aren’t you?” He studied Maxim with evident disbelief. “You must know.”

  “Combat telepathy,” Maxim growled, prodding the man with his pistol. “I don’t read minds.”

  “Neither does anybody else, just lately,” the Thule telepath said. “Not outside of eye contact.”

  “Can you reach anywhere at all? The Network, maybe?”

  “Don’t you think we tried? They told us line-of-sight, before it all came crashing down, and that’s what works.”

  “You knew this was coming? You were briefed?”

  “Of course I was!” The telepath looked at him indignantly. “This was a planned Operation. Whatever you do to me, it doesn’t matter. The Black Sun is dead, and the Thule Cartel owns Central.”

  Maxim sighed. The Delphi Protocol whispered in his head, warning of a spike of telepathic activity.

  “So, you really can’t communicate with anyone?”

  “That’s not entirely true,” the telepath said, smiling as blood poured from his nose, blooming like a red carnation on his white cotton shirt. “I just managed to reach Thule command, to warn them you were coming. It was quite a strain,
but I made it through.”

  Maxim scratched the stubble on his neck.

  “Good. Are they watching us now?”

  “They see what I see. A dead man,” the telepath confirmed, bleeding into the sand. “You have something you want to say?”

  “Not necessary. I’d rather show than tell.”

  Maxim hefted the hatchet. The telepath was probably dead after the first blow, but he kept at it until his head drooped off the front of his neck like a grotesque necklace.

  He cleaned the hatchet and reloaded the pistol, whistling tunelessly to himself as he worked.

  Maxim readied himself to leave, and then Delphi nudged him.

  One more? Oh, yeah! Pinky. Thanks, Delphi.

  He followed pink arrows on the ground to where she had crawled behind a half-rotten fallen tree, wheezing and sniffling, a ballistic plate with a bullet lodged in the center discarded near her feet. If Maxim had to guess, she was still a student at the Academy, but Maxim was terrible with ages.

  Especially girls.

  “You talk to your protocol like it’s a person,” she said, looking much more curious than afraid. “Why is that?”

  “Force of habit,” Maxim said. “Did you ever have an imaginary friend?”

  She was smaller than he expected, with giant brown eyes and long brown hair bunched into a single braid. Even the smallest size of combat gear looked comical on her.

  “Not that I remember,” the girl said pleasantly. “I have lots of real ones, though.”

  “Bad analogy, then. I work alone, in the field, and sometimes it feels better, like I have someone watching my back.” Maxim aimed the gun at her forehead. “Why am I telling you these things?”

  “I am an empath,” the girl explained, smiling hesitantly. “And an excellent listener.”

  Maxim’s finger tensed on the trigger.

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Maxim pushed the gun into her cheek.

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  “I’m not!” The girl put her hands up on either side of her head. “I’m nineteen! I swear!”