To Talon, Bergen felt both modern and magical, an example of living history. Rows of postcard-perfect homes climbed up the mountainside and overlooked the sea. The irony was not lost on him that a country with one of the lowest crime rates in the world and best social support systems would spawn a musical genre dedicated to Armageddon and chaos.
Talon’s thoughts remained preoccupied with his latest target. Despite the nickname, Rezok wasn’t a supernatural creature of the night. Vampires weren’t real. The enemies Talon faced in this new war were evil men, not fantastical creations. Fools reckless and ruthless enough to tap into occult forces that they could never hope to understand, much less control, these misguided souls were attempting to unlock ancient secrets and harness powers beyond anything the human imagination could conjure. And sometimes in their insane attempts to master the dark arts, monsters could indeed be born.
As Talon passed the fish market, his thoughts turned back to the events of the last 48 hours, and what had set him on Rezok’s trail...
* * *
He was staying with an old Army buddy in Astoria, Queens, when he received Simon Casca’s text. The billionaire, according to Forbes one of the 100 richest men in the country, expected to meet him in an hour for lunch. He’d chosen Bar Primi in the Bowery, one the hottest new Italian eateries in Manhattan. Was the billionaire showing off again, or did rich people just gravitate toward trendy places? Talon suspected it was a bit of both. Personally, he’d take a burger and fries over some fancy, overpriced small-plate dinner any day of the week. But as long as Casca was picking up the check, why not indulge him.
Talon caught the next subway headed into the city. Talon sensed that the impending lunch wasn’t a social call. Three weeks had gone by since the horrifying events in Arizona and his instincts told him the brief lull in the fighting was nearing its end. The billionaire would have a new mission for him. A mixture of excitement and dread filled the pit of his stomach. Going into battle was never easy. All too soon, he’d be facing the horrors once more.
Talon found it hard to believe that only four months had passed since he first ran into Casca, back in San Francisco. It felt like the eccentric billionaire had been part of his life for a lot longer. Most of the world regarded Casca as just another rich weirdo, a 21st Century Howard Hughes.
Talon knew better.
Simon Casca had studied the world’s occult traditions for years and had become one of the leading experts on the subject. Similar to the NSA, which monitored the chatter of various terrorist networks, Casca kept his ear to the ground when it came to worldwide occult activity. If a biker gang had been accused of devil worship or an African warlord was rumored to practice Vaudun rituals, it would be on Casca’s radar. If he concluded there was something to the reports, a real possibility that evil men were trying to tap into some ancient darkness, Casca would send Talon after them.
He got off the train at Astor Plaza and walked the remaining blocks. The crisp December air put a bounce in his step. He loved winters in Manhattan. As long as the sky remained clear and the sun burned bright, he didn’t mind the cold.
A few minutes later he walked through the doors of Bar Primi. The establishment exuded an authentic, Old World charm. Despite it not being noon yet, the place was filling up already. The hostess led Talon to what appeared to be the best table in the house. No surprise there – Casca traveled in style.
The man himself was sipping an aperitif and enjoying Italian bread and olive oil. He faced an open Stealth MacBook Pro that, at $6000 dollars, was one of the most expensive laptops in the world. The SofTouch housing left the machine with a no-nonsense matte-black finish even Batman would be envious of. Casca had told Talon Apple produced a limited-edition run of ten units and he owned two of the 256GB SSD machines. Show off!
Talon had barely sat down when the waitress arrived with a perfectly chilled bottle of Peroni. Talon gratefully accepted the Italian beer and his gaze found a smiling Casca.
The two men represented a study in contrasts. Talon was athletic and rugged with an animal magnetism, while the twenty-five-year-old Casca projected wealth and sophistication with a boyish charm. Talon favored jeans and a green Army surplus jacket while Casca wore two-thousand-dollar skintight suits by Prada, befitting a man worth north of a billion dollars.
What connected these two men was shared tragedy. Both their lives had been devastated by the occult.
Casca hadn’t even turned twelve when members of a devil cult invaded his parents’ lush Silicon Valley estate and slaughtered the servants and his sister. Only Casca had been spared and was taken hostage by the cult. They were about to sacrifice Casca when the FBI raided the estate and saved his life.
The horrific experience had shaped him as greatly as the events in San Francisco had impacted Talon. In the years that followed, Casca began to prepare for a war with the occult. Despite his vast knowledge and considerable resources, he lacked the training and lethal skill to carry out his plan. He needed a modern-day warrior and found one when his path crossed with that of the Delta operator.
Talon would be the soldier the billionaire could only aspire to be, the man in the field operating with all the firepower and knowledge Casca’s wealth and expertise could provide.
Talon could be Casca’s assassin.
The billionaire flashed him a welcoming smile. “I took the liberty of ordering your drink – service can be a bit slow around lunchtime.”
“Thanks.” Talon sipped his Peroni. It felt refreshing and made him recall his stay in the Milan countryside a few months back, when he tracked a satanic cult that was abducting and murdering tourists.
“Have you had a chance to recover somewhat from the events in Arizona?”
“If you’re asking me if I’m ready to get back to work, the answer is yes.” After a beat, he added, “So what’s good here?”
“I hear the Orrechiette with sausage is exquisite. The mussel app is supposed to be pretty amazing too…”
“Why don’t you just order for both of us?” Talon suggested.
Casca nodded and indicated to the server that they were ready. The billionaire used the Italian names of all the dishes. Though Talon spoke four languages, Italian wasn’t one of them. He would just let Casca surprise him. You can’t go wrong with Italian, right?
Once the waiter turned away from the table, Casca removed a small stone engraved with a strange symbol and slid it toward Talon, who eyed it curiously. “Familiar with rune stones?”
Talon inspected the item in question. He’d done his share of reading on the occult in the last year, learning and studying the enemy, but he was a long ways from becoming an expert like Casca.
“Runes were a form of writing used by the ancient northern European tribes,” Talon said, “the Celts, Vikings and Germans, before they adopted the Latin alphabet when they became Christianized. In short, runes are Viking hieroglyphics.”
“I’m impressed. Someone has been doing their homework.”
Talon took another swig of his beer, his eyes never leaving Casca. “Your turn. What’s this all about?”
“In addition to being a writing system, runes served a purpose in magic. We find evidence of this in Icelandic magical staves and Germanic runic spells—“
“Get to the point, Dr. Strange,” Talon said with a grin. He wouldn’t quite call Casca a friend — in a weird way, they had become too dependent on each other for that label. They were partners, business associates, comrades in arms, but not buddies. At least not how Talon understood the term. They didn’t catch movies, hit bars or play sports together. Casca was part general and part intelligence officer, and their dynamic was all business. The billionaire respected Talon’s marksmanship and steely self-command in combat situations. Talon admired Casca’s vast knowledge and the laser-like focus he brought to their asymmetrical shadow war against the forces of darkness.
Over the course of the last few months, however, Talon had come to the conclusion that he liked his benefacto
r and even enjoyed teasing him from time to time.
“A number of rune stones were stolen from various Scandinavian museums in the last six months,“ Casca elaborated. “The most recent robbery occurred at the Icelandic Museum of Sorcery and Witchcraft.” He punched up the photographs of the rune stones and continued. “The original rune set, the futhark, consists of 24 runes, which can be divided into three sets of eight known as Aetts.”
His eyes lit up with intellectual enthusiasm for the subject matter. The billionaire had developed a genuine fascination for the occult that sometimes worried Talon. Personally, he had a little less patience for the esoteric details. Just tell me what I’m up against and who I need to take out, Talon thought.
“All the stolen runes are part of a set that belonged to Sar Akka, the winter warlock. He was a feared Finnish practitioner of the dark arts who worshipped the Nordic Ice God, Ull. If the legends are to be believed, the rune stones gave Sar Akka Ull’s power to control snow and ice. He was captured by witchhunters in 1754 and executed for his alleged black magic crimes.”
“Sounds like a lovely Christmas story, perfect for the whole family.”
Casca cocked an eyebrow at Talon, yet chose not respond to the flippant comment. He might not always find Talon’s humor amusing, but he had come to tolerate it. “The rune set was broken up and disbursed across the various Scandinavian nations, to prevent them from being reunited.”
“Until now,“ Talon said.
Casca nodded.
“So who do you suspect is behind these robberies?” Talon asked. Casca would have a theory. He always did.
“Are you familiar with black metal music?” Casca inquired.
Talon shook his head. He had been a bit of a metalhead back in the day, but nowadays his taste ran toward hard rock and alternative. That’s what turning 30 could do to you.
“Black metal evolved from Swedish death metal in the ‘80s and became weaponized by extreme ideology in the ‘90s. Initially dabbling with Satanism, the movement soon came to embrace Paganism and ancient Norse ritual.” Casca tapped a button on his laptop. An image of Rezok and the other members of Ice God flashed onscreen.
Talon immediately took note of Rezok’s genetic affliction.
“One of the biggest bands in the scene is Ice God, led by its outspoken lead singer Rezok. Suspected of murder and a string of church burnings but there hasn’t been enough evidence to make any of it stick.”
“Charming.”
A new image of Rezok appeared onscreen and showed the ghostly musician skiing down a series of steep mountains. With his alabaster skin, he blended in with the frozen background.
“Rezok is a dedicated, Olympic-level nightskier and obsessed with Scandinavian occult magic. He’s known for combining Norse magical imagery in the look and songs of his band. The winter warlock is one of Rezok’s spiritual heroes and the inspiration for his music. Over the years, he’s acquired three of Sar Akka’s rune stones at various auctions across Europe.”
“And you believe he decided to complete his collection.”
“Let’s just say Ice God’s touring schedule corresponds with the dates on which the theft of the other stones occurred. They were in the right country at the right time.”
“What does Rezok plan to do with these stones?”
“Good question. Since Ice God’s return to Norway, seven women have gone missing.”
Talon’s eyes narrowed at this latest revelation. The last few months had taught him that human sacrifice fueled ritual magic. Had these missing women become part of some ancient Nordic rite?
“Tell me about the missing women.”
“All of them were in their twenties, white, blonde, of Norwegian descent.”
“How is the police investigation proceeding?”
“The authorities refuse to acknowledge a link and are treating the abductions as unrelated crimes, to stave off a panic. But people are talking and rumors are spreading.”
“Any patterns to the kidnappings?”
“The vics were all locals from the Oslo and Bergen region.”
Talon studied the image of Ice God again.
“Even more disconcerting is the fact that Norway is experiencing its harshest winter in recorded history. I’ve analyzed the temperature pattern and it keeps dropping a few degrees with each successive kidnapping.”
“You think Rezok has been sacrificing these women?”
The question triggered a flash of his fiancée’s face in his mind, and Talon balled his fist until the white of his bones stood out beneath his taut skin.
“A life for each stone,” Casca said grimly.
“So only one sacrifice remains to complete the set.”
Casca nodded gravely. “Time is running out.”
“What happens after the eighth sacrifice?”
“According to the legends, the winter warlock’s ritual resulted in a series of catastrophic avalanches in Finland that killed hundreds of people.”
“You think Rezok is trying to bury his hometown under a mountain of snow?”
“That’s for you to find out. I took the liberty of booking you a flight to Oslo. Your plane leaves at 1800 hours.” Casca leaned closer. “You understand what must be done.”
Talon nodded. He understood.
If Ice God turned out to be guilty of these crimes their musical career would be coming to an untimely end.
4
AFTER THE SHOW, Talon arrived at a quaint bed-and-breakfast nestled in the center of the city. A soothing warmth greeted him inside the front lobby. When he checked in hours earlier, there had been a sour middle-aged man behind the reception desk but an attractive blonde in her twenties now stood in his place. She looked up from a thick chemistry book and regarded Talon with friendly eyes.
“Enjoying sunny Norway?” she said.
“Should’ve booked that trip to Hawaii.”
To Talon’s surprise, he returned her smile. Something about the desk clerk’s open, genuine expression broke down his defenses. He’d been guarded around women since the death of his fiancée. His whole world had crumbled when he lost Michelle. Grief threatened to render him useless and he had replaced the emotion with anger that quickly metastasized into armor.
He knew he couldn’t go on indefinitely like this. His self-imposed solitude was taking its psychological toll. No woman could ever take Michelle’s place, but she’d want him to move on or at least find momentary comfort from the horrors he hunted.
Part of him was tempted to keep the conversation going, but he decided against it. This was neither the time nor the place. Talon quickly wished the Scandinavian beauty a good night and turned towards the staircase.
A minute later he stepped into his room. It mirrored the warmth of the establishment. The wood-paneled walls and plush carpets created the illusion of being in a cozy cabin, but the titanium case resting on the freshly made bed reminded him that he wasn’t here on vacation.
Talon switched on the TV to a local news station. He couldn’t understand the language but drew some comfort from the sound of other human voices. The scent of the pub clung to him and his hands felt like blocks of ice. A hot shower would hopefully wash away the grime and get his blood pumping.
Unfortunately, it took forever for the water to warm up. The heaters hissed and strained, waging a losing battle against the frigid cold outside.
Talon made this shower a quick one.
As he toweled himself off, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. His physique was perfectly muscled, without an ounce of fat, and lined with various scars accrued over the last decade of warfare. A history of violence had been etched over his body.
The largest scar happened to be the most recent one. An inverted, five-pointed star had been carved into his massive chest. Talon earned the pentagram during his first battle with Zagan, back in San Francisco, and no laser technology in the world could remove the thick-webbed scar tissue.
The demonic symbol of darkness served as a daily r
eminder of the enemy he faced.
Talon slipped into a T-shirt and sweats, then returned to the bedroom. He was still on New York time and refused to go to bed just yet. He feared that a restless night lay ahead for him, a night in which he would be haunted by the lifeless faces of the missing women. Better to put his excess energy to good use and once more review all the intel at his disposal.
With the TV news droning away in the background, he started analyzing a map of Norway and noting where the victims had gone missing. The first woman had vanished in Oslo on the same weekend that Ice God was performing in the capital. Four more women disappeared in surrounding towns.
Talon quickly established a link with Ice God’s touring schedule. The police weren’t seeing the pattern because they didn’t know what to look for. Casca had approached the case from a completely different angle and established the connection.
Did the live shows factor into some type of overarching occult ritual, Talon wondered. He remembered all too well how Rezok’s guttural, haunting musical set had mesmerized the crowd. It sent a chill down Talon’s spine.
He didn’t consider himself a superstitious or overtly spiritual person. A born skeptic, he viewed reality from a practical perspective. The last year had forced him to change that about himself. Letting go of his old worldview had been the hardest part. Stories he would have once found laughable now defined his daily reality.
Talon switched from the map to a series of articles Casca had put together for him. Ever since Ice God’s earlier troubles with the law, the band had become ghosts. Little was known about the eerie quartet. They didn’t seem to have a phone number, email or mailing address. Rezok’s band communicated with their fanbase solely through their website. Gigs were announced at random times and you had to be a devoted follower who checked their page on a regular basis to know where to find them next. They had no label and released all their music online. All that was known about them was that they resided somewhere in the snowy mountains near the city of Geilo, a resort town located about two-hundred miles from Bergen.
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