Hellgate: Goetia

by Mel Odom

  The Limehouse District lay on the north side of the river between Shadwell and the Isle of Dogs. In the past, it had been a major port for the English Navy. The locals had been called limeys due to the numerous limekilns in use at the various potteries that existed in the area. Gradually the name had spread to the English sailors, who’d been forced to drink rations of lime juice to prevent scurvy.

  The Ellis Building had been erected in 2014 and named after a popular English writer. It had also been put to use by those that Leah served.

  Staying to the shadows, mindful of the Soul Reaper clinging to the top of the eight-story building, Leah went up the steps. The Soul Reaper didn’t overly worry her. The demon only preyed on the bodies of those recently slain. Living beings didn’t interest it.

  They tended to be crudely formed of writhing flesh and pulsed with what the Cabalists called “spectral” energy. This one looked like a cowled man from the waist up but had a serpent’s tail that flicked restlessly. Four tendrils of purple-white energy opened and closed around it.

  Leah went through the shattered doors and stepped into the lobby. Framed pictures of the author’s creations hung on the wall and looked out of place in the devastation. Debris and corpses lay scattered on the floor.

  Before the Hellgate had opened, the Ellis Building had housed independent businesses that included a travel guide, a temporary personnel placement office, an independent film studio, clothing shops, and other businesses. The upper four floors had held apartments.

  Now they held nothing but the secrets concealed in the lower levels.

  Leah entered a style shop containing swivel seats, sinks, and shelves that had been filled with product. All the product had been stolen in the early days after the invasion.

  That anyone would steal hair care product at a time when London was being razed by demons had amazed Leah. Food and water were common sense, but gels and sprays were pure larceny. Of course, with her training those things could be used as weapons.

  At the back of the style shop, Leah stepped into a closet and pressed a hidden switch over the door. The setup at the time had been a joke, an acknowledgement of a famous television show that had been on sixty years ago.

  A hidden door opened in the back of the closet. Leah hesitated a moment before she entered. This could be the last free breath you take, she told herself. Then she stepped inside.

  “Warren?”

  When he heard Naomi’s voice, Warren turned from the window where he’d been standing and letting the sun fall across his face. For four long years most of his face had been dead to the touch, all the nerves killed by the fire. Now he felt the warmth again.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Shock filled her features. “Your face.”

  Warren smiled. “It is,” he agreed.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I’ve learned more since you slept.”

  Naomi walked over to join him. She studied him with open fascination. “Is this really you?”

  “It is.” Warren captured her hand in his human one and brought her fingers to his face. He felt her touch against his skin. She was warm and smooth.

  Her fingers started to peel back the turtleneck he’d put on to cover his throat.

  “No,” he said. “It is finished.”

  Naomi took her hand back. “This is what you looked like before Merihim claimed you?”

  “Mostly. I don’t have any pictures to go by. All I have is what I remember.” Warren took one of her hands and turned the palm up. The scar that he remembered was there. He couldn’t remember how she’d gotten it exactly. There was a half-remembered tale of a chase through an alley.

  He concentrated for just a moment, imagining the skin whole and unblemished. Shimmering force radiated from his palm. The scar vanished.

  Naomi took her hand back. “That’s amazing. The Reiki teachings say that people can learn to do things like this for themselves, but not for others.”

  “They’re wrong,” Warren said. He studied her horns and the tattoos she wore.

  The horns had been grafted to her head by small demon symbiotes the Cabalists had learned to control. Most of the grafting had been done through arcane energy or fire, sutures or symbiotes. In some cases, the most desperate among the Cabalists used a blend of technology and arcane forces.

  “I could remove those horns and erase those tattoos,” he told her. “Like they’d never been.”

  Naomi quickly stepped back and raised a hand to protect herself. “No.”

  “You don’t need them.”

  “They help me use the power,” Naomi said. “I won’t give up what I’ve learned.”

  “The power doesn’t come from those things,” Warren said. “It comes from inside you.”

  “A little of it comes from inside me. I’ve never been as powerful as you have. I borrow the power. I don’t create it and command it the way you do.”

  “Do you like looking like that?”

  Hurt gleamed in Naomi’s eyes. “You’ve never said there was anything wrong with the way I looked.”

  “I’m not saying there is now.” But Warren knew that he wanted to see what she had looked like before she’d grafted the horns on and inked the tattoos. In his mind’s eye she would be beautiful. “But you could go back to the way you were. I could give you that.”

  Naomi crossed her arms. “You could also take away my power and leave me defenseless. Is that what you want to do?”

  Warren let his hand fall to his side. “No.”

  “I’m not Kelli,” she said. “I can stand up for myself. I can take care of myself.” She paused. “I won’t give that up. Not for anyone.”

  “I could take care of you.”

  “I don’t want to be taken care of. I don’t want to have to trust anyone to take care of me.”

  “I trusted you to take care of me last night.”

  Naomi eyed him harshly. “That was one night, Warren. And you didn’t have a choice. Merihim pushed you into that confrontation. If I hadn’t been here, you still would have had to have gone. That’s not trust.”

  Knowing that what she said was true pained Warren. He’d made deals with other kids in foster care. While they’d been together in one house or another, they’d watched each other’s backs. Trust still hadn’t been easy.

  “If you don’t trust me, why do you come here?” Warren asked.

  “Because I can learn from you. The way you used to learn from me.”

  “What if you couldn’t learn from me?” Warren stared into her eyes.

  “Are you telling me you’re not going to teach me?”

  “What if I did?”

  Naomi’s eyes turned flat and cold. “Then I would find someone else who could teach me.”

  Warren turned from her and walked back to the window to stand in the light. He’d liked her more when she was asleep.

  “I don’t have a choice either, Warren,” she told him. “You’re serving a demon. And I’ve got to survive in a city that’s overrun with demons. I have to learn everything I can every day. Just to stay alive. I can’t control zombies the way you can or stand toe-to-toe with demons like Hargastor.”

  For a moment Warren thought he heard jealousy in her words and it surprised him. He couldn’t imagine that he had anything anyone else would want.

  “I like you,” Naomi said in a softer voice.

  “Because I can teach you,” Warren said with soft sarcasm.

  “That’s part of it. I have to admit that or I’d be lying to you. But that’s not all of it.”

  Warren heard her approach him and he thought about telling her to stay away. He would have if he didn’t dislike being alone so much.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” she said.

  “You didn’t hurt me,” Warren said in that old litany he’d learned in his childhood. “I was just foolish enough to hurt myself.”

  “I’ll go if you want me to.”

  Part of him wanted to tell her to go, but he w
asn’t strong enough for that. He’d let her into his world, and now he was going to have to suffer the consequences.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want you to go.”

  Naomi took his hand and held it tightly. It took him a moment to realize that she’d taken the hand that Merihim had given him instead of his human hand.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  S tanding in the elevator and waiting for the cage to descend, not knowing if it would or if she’d be sprayed with a nerve toxin that would kill her in seconds or vaporized with energy beams, Leah knew she was being surveyed by sophisticated equipment that peeled her clothing and her flesh away, and even scanned her skeleton.

  “Leah Creasey,” a mechanical voice said above her.

  “I am Leah Creasey,” she said automatically. “I’m a citizen of Great Britain and will lay down my life for my king and my country.”

  The response was necessary and allowed the security systems to compare her voiceprints with records on file. She had to update the file on a weekly basis to keep it current.

  “Open your suit.”

  Leah did, but she took a deep breath and held it in case the elevator cage suddenly filled with gas. It was a ridiculous response to the possibility. If the cage were flooded with gas, she wouldn’t have to breathe it to be dead.

  And it would be colorless anyway.

  “You can breathe, Leah,” a male voice said.

  “Thank you,” Leah said, feeling foolish. Still, she was tense as she breathed in, and maybe a little surprised when she remained conscious.

  The elevator cage dropped. For a moment Leah felt weightless. Then gravity returned and tried to claw her to the floor. She knew she’d dropped over three hundred feet.

  The Templar weren’t the only ones with secrets.

  “I’m powering your suit down,” the male voice said.

  Leah felt the extra weight of the suit suddenly pull at her. She knew the exoskeleton built into the suit had a lot of the same designs the Templar armor had. After all, the designs had been lifted from the work the Templar had pioneered, then reverse-engineered and rendered into something that fit more in with how she was expected to use it.

  Despite the outside control, Leah’s suit had been built to deny the power-down command. That was solely within her discretion. But if she hadn’t powered down, she’d never have made it out of the elevator alive.

  “There is an escort waiting for you,” the male voice said.

  “I understand,” Leah said. “But I need to speak to someone in Ops.”

  “Go through channels. Speak to your handler.”

  “Affirmative.” Leah stood straight and tall.

  When the elevator doors separated and opened, six armored men and women stood waiting to receive her. All of them carried small arms naked in their fists. With their helmets in place and their armor unmarked, Leah didn’t know if she knew them or not.

  “Let’s go,” one of them said as he motioned her out of the cage. They took the metal tube containing the burned manuscript.

  “Be careful with that,” Leah said. “It’s important.”

  “We just want to make sure it isn’t a bomb,” the man said.

  “If someone thought it might be a bomb, I’d never have been allowed down here.” Leah knew her voice was tight with anger despite her best intentions not to feel that way.

  Leah knew the underground complex wasn’t large. Their operations weren’t meant to be. They were self-contained units with limited manpower and limited risk of exposure.

  The six guards took her by the shortest route to her room. One of the guards even told her that they had her room ready for her.

  It was a joke. No one lived in the underground complex. Her quarters was a small room set up with two bunk beds for wounded or unassigned to float until arrangements could be made.

  “I need to speak to my handler,” she told the leader of the six-man team.

  He was a young man about her age with a military haircut even four years into the demon invasion. Scars that looked like barely healed weals from a demon’s claws marred the right side of his face. He looked like he’d been lucky to keep his head.

  “Sit tight,” the man said. “Someone will be with you.”

  “What I’ve brought is hot. I don’t want to let it cool.”

  The man gave her a stone face. “Someone will be with you,” he repeated. Then he closed the door on her “quarters” and locked her in.

  A selection of paperback books and vids occupied a small shelf on one of the walls. As usual, the selection was eclectic and consisted primarily of whatever people brought in.

  Tension tightened Leah’s nerves, but she didn’t want to let it show. She knew she was being observed through concealed video and audio systems. It was standard procedure for an agent who’d been out in the field.

  Especially one that’s been off the grid, Leah thought sourly.

  She stripped out of her armor and hung it in one of the metal lockers. A quick check, standard operating procedure on her part, revealed that no one else was currently checked into the room.

  She took a quick shower because she hadn’t been out of the suit in hours, then tended to it, cleaning it inside and out. Antibacterial nanobot foam zipped through the armor in seconds and left it operating room clean.

  Dressed in khaki shorts and a sleeveless olive T-shirt, Leah pushed her frustration aside and concentrated on filling her time. That was what she was supposed to do when she was confronted by a situation like this.

  A quick check through the library netted a techno-thriller that had all the equipment and SOP errors marked in the margins, as well as a few choice comments about the author’s lack of military experience. She chose a fantasy novel that she’d read bits and pieces of before the Hellgate had opened and settled back onto one of the beds.

  With her memory enhanced with X-Brain neural implants created by SofWire, she picked up on the exact page she’d last been reading. After a while, even though the writing was sharp and clever and the hero’s perils were many and large, she pulled the book down onto her chest and slept.

  “The Templar is in disarray, Simon.” Wertham sat across from Simon in the small room they’d claimed after Mathias’s condition had improved.

  Simon ate the pork chops, potato soup, and fresh-baked bread listlessly. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but he knew if he didn’t sleep deeply enough all he’d have were nightmares and he wouldn’t rest. Food would put him to sleep better, and he needed to build his strength. He’d lost weight lately.

  “Grand Master Sumerisle died in the Battle of All Hallows’ Eve,” Wertham went on.

  “I know,” Simon said. “The Grand Master led the charge.” He’d met Patrick Sumerisle on a few occasions and had always been impressed by the man. Thomas Cross had respected him like no other.

  The Grand Master had lived out in the public eye. He’d been involved in the British military and had been a member of the Home Office Ministry.

  “A finer man never walked this earth,” Wertham said. “But his brother Maxim is another matter entirely.”

  Simon knew that no one had cared much for the Grand Master’s younger brother.

  Wertham broke a loaf of bread and pushed a chunk into his soup bowl. “You’ve heard that Maxim tried to take over as Grand Master?”

  “Yes.” Simon didn’t elaborate or venture an opinion either way. What the Templar Underground did wasn’t his concern. He concentrated on saving lives.

  “Nearly every other House voted against that,” Wertham said. “As well they should have. Maxim is a madman.”

  Simon concentrated on his dinner. As soon as it was finished, so was the conversation. He fully intended to go to bed.

  “But it didn’t stop him from becoming Seneschal and High Lord of House Sumerisle.”

  “It was his right,” Simon pointed out.

  “Oh, and I agree.” Wertham’s face softened and some of the craggy wrinkles smoothed out. “Don’t get
me wrong, I’m not here to simply cast stones. I want you to take note of what the Templar Underground is dealing with.”

  “There is Jessica Sumerisle,” Simon said. His father had known all the members of House Sumerisle. As a result, so had Simon. “I’ve heard she’s intelligent and shows a lot of promise.”

  Wertham snorted. “She’s just a girl. Barely twelve years old, if that.”

  “The demons went after the Sumerisle family the night the Hellgate opened. Jessica Sumerisle was one of the targets. From what I hear, she barely got away that night. A lot of people didn’t.”

  “She’s years from being able to lead her House, much less the Order.”

  “There’s another Sumerisle.” Simon barely remembered the girl.

  “Avalon.” Wertham nodded. “She’s seventeen now.” He sighed. “Most of those with experience to lead the Templar during these times were wiped out in the battle four years ago.” He looked at Simon. “This is why we need someone to stand up for us. For all of us. Maybe then the Order can be reunited and grow strong again.”

  Simon shook his head. “That’s not me.”

  “It could be.”

  “It can’t be.” Simon drew a deep breath and pushed his food away. He’d had all he could stomach. “I turned my back on the Templar two years before any of this happened. I abandoned them. I didn’t believe in my father or the way I’d been taught all my life.”

  Wertham was quiet for a moment. “We’ve all had our moments of disbelief, lad. All our lives we’d prepared for a war with the demons, and—before All Hallows’ Eve—none of us had ever seen one in the flesh. Your mistake has been forgiven. They’ve seen what you’ve done.”

  “Since I turned my back on them again? Since I let them know that I didn’t believe in the Templar way a second time?”

  Wertham frowned. “It’s not like that. Four years, filled with death and sorrow and misery and fear, is a lifetime. People forgive and forget.”