by Gilliam Ness
Dear Father in heaven. Deliver me from this hell.
With the corpse now divided, Isaac proceeded to take up the fourteen butchered sections, placing each one at the base of a different standing stone. Overhead, a mass of heavy black cloud rolled in under the boiling sky, and a great clap of thunder shook the island.
With the grisly sections at last distributed, Isaac stood motionlessly at the centre of the ring, looking down at the top of the stone where he had done his butchering. It was crawling with the maggots that had been left behind, and beneath them he could see the image of a labyrinth carved into its surface; the crude figure of a man standing at its entrance.
“What horrors have you been forced to commit, Isaac,” came a voice of such cunningness that he was instantly lured into its spell. “Where is your loving God? How could he have allowed this to befall you?”
Isaac teetered as though on the edge of an abyss. He was suddenly back in the hospital room, the demonically possessed body of his son in the bed before him. To his right and left he could see the stiffened corpses of the two priests, hanging by their necks in the cold blue light.
“I am Ahreimanius,” hissed his son from the bed suddenly, and Isaac looked down to find a pair of wicked eyes looking up at him. “Your blessed Father has deserted you, Isaac, but I can give you powers beyond your comprehension. Come with me, and I will make you more powerful than God.”
Isaac’s soul groaned in agony. Ahreimanius was right. Throughout his tribulations, Isaac had never once felt the presence of God. On the contrary, he had felt as though God had abandoned him when he needed him the most. A great temptation to accept the offer arose in Isaac, and as he considered it, a vision of himself on high appeared before him. No sooner had he contemplated these things, however, than a voice within him cried out against the insidious offer.
“Never!” he exclaimed with all his will, and just then he was back on the island, released from the demons who had forced him to butcher the body of his son.
“You and your stupid little Cube!” hissed the voice of Ahreimanius in fury. “Did you really think that I would ever allow you to do anything but serve my purposes? You will never assist the Two in their endeavors! You will die here tonight, and your pathetic life will have served no purpose but mine!”
Isaac staggered backwards, looking around in shock. He could suddenly think clearly. He struggled to understand.
“What have I done?” he gasped, bringing his bleeding hands to his face. “Lord Jesus, what treacherous sin have I committed?”
Like the world returning to one who has awoken from a long slumber, so was the unholy scene revealed to Isaac. Forgotten now by the demons that had possessed him, he found himself stumbling to the edge of the circle, cowering in the dense undergrowth but unable to look away from the centre of the clearing.
Whereas each of the standing stones had begun to sink into the ground, the central monolith appeared to be rising ever so slightly into the air, its bulking mass levitating until it hung there weightlessly. Countless worms and other lightless insects scurried around beneath it.
Quite suddenly, in the depression where the monolith had rested, there appeared a rapidly growing pit of fire and ice, and the surrounding circle of stones were sucked into it, along with their grisly charges. A great chorus of wicked cries was issuing forth now, and from the black pit there arose fourteen great demons, like dense clouds of earth and dust. These were the Fourteen Emissaries of Ahreimanius, and their forms were horrendous. One by one they rose, churning in the air like blackened masses of cinder smoke; one by one screaming in hatred before shooting upwards into the boiling sky.
Only then did the floating stone fall, its ancient bulk fracturing suddenly into countless shards before being swallowed by the gaping portal as well. Isaac trembled with fear. Deafening claps of thunder were assaulting him from above now; an incessant barrage of lightning crackling down around him and setting the island alight. The demonic chorus grew louder and louder until it seemed to Isaac that the entire world would be consumed by it.
“What have I done?” he moaned, his hands covering his ears. “What have I caused to happen?”
Before him he could see that a conflagration had begun, and that the twisted trunks around the clearing were fully ablaze. Stunned and exhausted, Isaac stumbled wearily through the thickets to the water’s edge, throwing himself into the black lake so that his death might come by drowning, rather than by fire.
“Forgive me for what I have done, Father,” he said, his somber face lit by the flames of the burning island. “Save my soul.”
CHAPTER 36
Florence, Italy.
The black sports car rolled slowly over the cobblestones, its headlights cutting through the heavy downpour. Natasha was looking intently through her window, scanning the shadows as they proceeded. They were driving along a narrow alleyway in the city centre, the heavy rain blanketing them.
Given the weather, the drive from Rome had taken more than twice what it should have. It was almost sunrise, and they were only approaching Natasha’s workshop now. They had decided to take the back entrance as a precaution.
“So far so good,” said Gabriel, easing the car forward along the constricting laneway.
He pushed a button and Natasha watched as the side view mirrors collapsed inwardly.
“You are like a little boy with your new car, Gabriel,” she said, laughing.
Gabriel was tired from the long drive.
“Just keep an eye out for the opening,” he said. “If you’re good I’ll let you play with the mirrors later.”
Natasha guffawed in surprise.
“Don’t you tell me what to do,” she said. “I will look where I please!”
Gabriel pretended to ignore her, looking through the windshield to scan the peeling plaster walls that passed outside.
“Did you hear what I have said?” she asked, frowning.
“Did you hear what I have said?” he mimicked inaudibly.
“You are a testa di cazzo…” said Natasha.
On an impulse, Gabriel turned to Natasha and began to sing. It was a romantic piece of music from a famous opera by Puccini; his voice mimicking that of a tenor’s.
O soave fanciulla, o dolce viso
Di mite circonfuso alba lunar,
In te ravviso il sogno
Ch’io vorrei sempre sognar!
Gabriel finished proudly. He was an avid opera fan, but hardly a tenor. He had tried his best to sing the part as correctly as possible, and Natasha had at first been wooed by its melody, her peevishness dissolving instantly. But as the passion had gained in intensity, Gabriel’s voice had become more and more abrasive, until Natasha was at last able to regain her perspective. She looked over at Gabriel as though he were crazy, still laughing at his botched crescendo.
“You think you are really a good opera singer, don’t you?” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Oh, yes,” said Gabriel, nodding emphatically.
He continued his scanning.
“Hey,” he said. “There’s an opening in the wall here.”
Natasha rolled her eyes and looked out the window.
“You can park your fancy car now, Pavarotti,” she said. “We are here.”
By positioning the car next to the opening, Gabriel allowed Natasha to open her door directly into it. He climbed over to her side and followed her out. They made their way through a narrow passageway and into a drenched inner courtyard, arriving at a pair of old wooden doors. Natasha produced a large iron key from her bag in the pouring rain.
“I really hate this storeroom,” she said, inserting it into the lock.
In a moment the smell of raw earth and ancient mildew had wafted out of the darkness to greet them. With the increased humidity, the musty air could almost be tasted on the tongue, and Gabriel breathed it in deeply, savouring the antiquity like a connoisseur.
“Got a flashlight?” he asked, squinting into the darkness.
Natasha produced one from her bag.
“Follow me,” she said.
They made their way through the maze of shelves until they had reached the front room. It was not as dark here as in the storeroom. The bluish light from the street lamps was filtering in through the watery panes, casting shifting patterns of light on the floor.
“Please, make yourself at home,” she said, beginning to pack a field case with equipment.
Just then Gabriel’s phone rang.
Gabriel remained on the phone the entire time that Natasha packed the equipment. She could see that he was doing more listening than talking, but it was not until she had finished, that it looked as though his conversation might end.
“Alright then, Amir,” said Gabriel. “If all goes well we’ll be seeing you later this afternoon then. Stay in touch.”
He pocketed the phone, turning to Natasha.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Natasha,” he said, “we’ve got some driving to do.”
* * * * * *
Gibraltar
The old Bishop awoke to find the plane in a sharp bank. It was no longer raining. Looking out his window he could see the Rock of Gibraltar turning below him, its small cosmopolitan centre twinkling with a thousand lights. Stretching out into the distance, the shimmering waters of the Bay of Algeciras could also be seen, dotted with freighters and ships of all kinds.
To the starboard side towered Gibraltar’s majestic peak, silhouetted against a predawn sky. It was a time sculpted rock formation, topped with the famous single white cloud that had come to be known as El Levante, named after the easterly wind that was responsible for its formation. In minutes they had circled the small peninsula, leveling off to make their landing approach on the short strip of runway that separated the British colony from the Spanish mainland. The Bishop smiled in delight.
“Gibraltar!” he exclaimed. “One of the two great pillars of Hercules! The fortified bastion of the British Royal Navy, and home to the largest per capita density of pubs in all of Christendom! Aye, but a pint of stout would be nice. That and a breakfast of steak and kidney pie!”
CHAPTER 37
Amsterdam, North Holland.
It was just past six in the morning when Prince Vladimir Rodchenko arrived at the Vanderhoff suite. The front desk had awoken him with orders from the Nautonnier to go there immediately. Christian met him at the door and led him into the room, locking the door behind them.
The old Prince gasped in horror. Resting on a table at the back of the suite could be seen the severed head of the Nautonnier, propped in a pool of coagulated blood. In a facing chair, Christian had placed the headless corpse. It sat there stiff and macabre, like a gruesome figure in a wax museum.
“As you can see,” said Christian, positioning himself behind his mortified uncle, “there has been a change in command. The Nautonnier has ceded his position to me.”
The Prince seemed only then to come out of his shock, and would have fled the room had Christian not placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Do you remember when you used to drop me off, and pick me up from school, Uncle?”
“Before and after every holiday,” stammered the Prince.
“Was it ever difficult for you?” asked Christian. “Knowing that you were taking an innocent boy to be buggered by the man who is now dead before you?”
The Prince froze, unable to respond. The psychologists had assured them that Christian’s memories would remain suppressed for the entirety of his life.
“I had nothing to do with it!” he stammered. “It was something between your father and the Nautonnier.”
“You had everything to do with it! You knowingly allowed it to happen!”
“I will not be held accountable for your father’s actions!” said the Prince with rekindling authority. “I am leaving!”
He attempted to move, but found that an invisible force was holding him fast. He struggled to free himself from it, his eyes bulging from the effort. Christian looked on. In the space of a few seconds, the Prince’s face had gone from a pasty, ashen white to a vivid purple.
“Sit down!” barked Christian with icy hatred. “I am the Nautonnier now. You will leave when I am finished with you!”
“Please, Christian. I am your family,” said the Prince, giving up his struggle and sinking into a chair.
It was on hearing this reference to his family that yet another deep, childhood wound surfaced in Christian. Impossible as it might seem, it had been the cause of more pain than all the abuses suffered at the hands of Father Adrianus. Christian had once had an older brother named Isaac. He had been the only source of love and support in his deprived life.
It was not long after the birth of their sister Alina, and the death of their mother, that Isaac had been sent off to study at Vatican City. From that point onward, everything in Christian’s life had changed. Christian lost all contact with his brother, and two years later would himself be shipped off to school, returning home on his first holiday to find that his baby sister had also been displaced.
“What happened to my brother and sister?” said Christian, trembling with a strange combination of fear and rage. “Tell me about my brother and sister!”
The Prince remained silent until he felt the force of a vicious slap to the back of his head.
“Your father sent Isaac to be manipulated by Father Adrianus. He was persuaded to disown himself from the Antov family. Your sister Alina was sent to be raised in another household.”
The Prince held up a hand to ward off another blow. Christian obviously wanted the full story. He proceeded with trepidation. He could well imagine the effect that the truth would have on Christian, and he feared for his life.
“Your father repeatedly raped your sister in Satanic rituals, Christian. He drove her to madness, and then disowned her at sixteen. She became a prostitute. Years later, in accordance with their plan, she was recovered and brought to Father Adrianus at the Vatican. She and Isaac were then made to marry. Of course, they did not know that they were brother and sister, but through their union a hermaphrodite child was conceived. Alina died giving birth to it.”
Christian looked down in silence, unable to comprehend what he was being told. It made no sense.
“The child was created to fulfill a Satanic prophecy,” said the Prince slowly. “Your father and the Nautonnier were obsessed with the occult. They used our science facility in Jerusalem to genetically mutate the child while it was still in Alina’s womb. They used the genes in our bloodline to create a monster.”
Christian broke from his stupor and turned to face the Prince, his eyes smoldering with deadly rage.
“And you knew all this?” he said, coming slowly out of shock.
The Prince shook his head from side to side as Christian bent down over him.
“No,” gasped the old Prince, his eyes wide with fear. “You do not understand.”
Christian’s face was contorting with the pain of betrayal now. This was his uncle. His family. How could he have allowed this to happen to innocent children? He reached out a hand, as if to caress the Prince’s face, but instead took him by the throat and began to shake him violently.
“You did nothing to stop it,” he snarled. “You didn’t give a shit.”
Christian was beside himself with fury. How could such a thing be possible? It was too repugnant to even imagine. He stopped shaking the Prince and released him suddenly in disgust. The same dark-self that had possessed him when he had killed the Nautonnier was paying him another visit. All he could do was watch as it took control.
“You’re responsible!” he bellowed suddenly, the veins exploding from his neck. “You stinking SON OF A BITCH!”
The force of Christian’s violence and hatred caused the old Prince to recoil in his chair, his head jerking backwards in fear. He brought one of his hands to his chest, and the other he thrust outward, beseeching his nephew to desist. Christian positioned himself
directly over the old man, smiling cruelly.
Under the candlelight, the Prince’s unfocused eyes were blinking erratically now, his facial features contracting with pain. He was clearly having a heart attack. In his cold eyes there could almost be seen a cry for mercy, but it seemed wooden and insincere. Christian drew closer until his lips were physically touching the old man’s ear. He smiled coldly, his wickedness ringing like an icy bell.
“Dear, Uncle Vladimir,” he said with mocking innocence, his words twisting into the Prince’s head like a carving knife. “Now you will DIE!”
The Prince’s pupils contracted with fear, a look of surprised desperation contorting his features. He struggled to breathe, trying frantically to ward off the icy hand of death. Christian moved away from him in disgust. He could see the life force slowly leaving the body. He smiled wickedly, watching with great satisfaction as his uncle executed a long, drawn out death rattle. When all was over, he spat on the corpse, and then bent immediately afterwards to tenderly kiss the forehead, a tendril of saliva stretching and breaking as his lips pulled away.
* * * * * *
The morning was still young when the chief inspector left the Vanderhoff suite with Christian. Behind them, in a shaft of sunlight, the dead Prince could be seen sitting opposite the decapitated corpse, the Nautonnier’s waxy head still on the table.
“A tragic incident, Mr. Antov,” said the inspector solemnly, closing his notebook. “It is clear that your uncle died of a heart attack after murdering Father Adrianus. No investigation will be needed.”
