by Siegel, Alex
"Your hair is too short," she announced.
That's how I like it, Marina thought. "You think so?"
"Yes. Beautiful, red hair like yours should flow like a river across your shoulders. Still, I think I can do something." Shen pulled over a portable sink with water hoses connected to the wall. "Lean back."
Marina let her head fall back so Shen could wash her hair.
"I've never seen a salon like this," Marina said.
"It is unique." Shen began to rinse her hair with warm water.
"You must have interesting customers."
"With interesting auras."
"What is my aura like?" Marina asked.
"Hmm." Shen clucked her tongue. "You are sweet and kind. You must be wonderful with children."
Marina had a hard time keeping a straight face. "You really think so? Some people say I have a bad temper."
"I'm sure that's not true. I can see the gentle light in your eyes."
You couldn't be more wrong, Marina thought. "I've been upset lately."
"Oh?" Shen squirted shampoo into Marina's hair.
"I keep hearing terrible stories about what's happening at Saint Athanasius. All those poor people dying of tuberculosis."
"Tragic."
"Somebody should do something about it." Marina said.
Shen massaged her hair and scalp. "I think it's a sign."
"Of what?"
"The end. A true shaman told me the other day the world is getting old. It might die soon."
"How soon?"
"Three years from now," Shen said.
"Wow," Marina said. "That is soon."
"Or maybe four years."
"I guess true shamans don't have a strong sense of time."
Shen nodded. "They're immortal. Time means little to them." She rinsed out Marina's hair.
"That's true," Marina said. "You're so insightful."
Shen used a warm towel to dry her hair. "Thank you."
"I'm still worried about the tuberculosis. What have you heard?"
"I don't pay attention to crazy rumors."
"But you must've heard something," Marina said eagerly.
"Maybe. Does it matter?"
"Please, tell me."
Shen walked around and stood in front of Marina. "Let's see. I think I'll bleach your hair, just a little, to lighten the color. That red is too aggressive. Then maybe I'll give it a little frizz to add volume."
Over my dead body. "What about the tuberculosis?"
Shen shrugged. "I keep hearing about some punks who are bragging about being responsible. Can you imagine? As if killing innocent people were a good thing. They want to look tough, I guess, but it's just sick. Death lovers with diseased auras."
"What kind of punks?"
"They wear black all the time. The boys dress like zombies and the girls are whores. They hang out at Kendall Park, near the train tracks. Why are you so curious? Are you into that kind of thing?"
"No," Marina said, "I'm just asking."
"This used to be such a nice town, but now it's going to Hell. Another sign the end is near."
"But you don't believe these punks are actually responsible."
"I don't see how it's possible," Shen said, "unless they use black magic. But I would sense that. I'm attuned to the slightest hostile influences."
"Of course." Marina nodded. "Have you heard any other rumors?"
"No." Shen went to a cabinet and looked inside. "Where did I put my bleach?"
Marina got out of the chair, put a hundred dollars on the seat, and fled.
* * *
"This is a waste of time," Aaron said.
"Probably," Marina said, "but it's our only lead."
He looked out at Kendall Park. A small play structure stood at the center of a large field of grass, which had faded to a pale green due to the recent cold weather. No children were playing. Closely spaced trees ran along the far side of the park. During the summer the trees would screen a railroad track, but the leaves were gone now, and the black rails were exposed.
He spotted a group of teenagers dressed in black on the far side of the park. They were sitting on a wooden bench behind a baseball backstop.
"How do you want to handle this?" Aaron said.
"They're just kids," Marina said. "We'll scare the crap out of them. If they know anything, they'll talk. We don't have to be subtle."
He walked over to the teenagers with an aggressive stride and a scowl. She stayed with him, step for step.
"Hey!" he yelled. "I want to talk to you."
The teenagers stood up. The largest among them, a young man with spiky black hair, came forward. Apparently, he was their leader. He was big and beefy for a teenager.
"What's your name, kid?" Aaron said.
"Hardcore. What do you want, old man?"
Hardcore wore black eyeliner all around his eyes and looked like a raccoon. His black leather jacket went down to his knees.
Aaron stepped forward until their chests almost bumped. "Saint Athanasius. Does that name mean anything to you?"
"Maybe." Hardcore glared aggressively and didn't back down.
"Tell me what you know."
"I don't talk to fucking cops."
Aaron landed a roundhouse punch on Hardcore's jaw with enough force to knock him down. "I'm not a cop."
Hardcore lay on the ground and rubbed his jaw.
Aaron kicked him in the chest. "I'm still waiting for an answer, punk!"
The other teenagers started to back away.
Marina drew a knife from her sleeve, crouched down, and held the blade against Hardcore's neck. "Nobody leaves," she yelled, "or I'll give your friend another mouth. Stay where you are."
The teenagers froze.
Hardcore was still trying to catch his breath, so Aaron looked at the others and said, "I heard a rumor that you assholes know all about Saint Athanasius. Is that true?"
Nobody spoke, but he could tell from the pale faces and wide eyes that the "scare the crap out of them" part of the plan was working.
Aaron walked over to another boy. This one wore plastic fangs and black sunglasses.
"Well?" Aaron growled.
"I don't... I can't...," the boy whined.
Aaron took the sunglasses off, dropped them deliberately, and stomped on them. The crunching noise was satisfying. "Oh, sorry. How clumsy of me."
The boy glanced at Hardcore.
"Eyes forward!" Aaron ordered. "Start talking, or I'll rip out those stupid fangs and shove them up your ass."
Hardcore opened his mouth as if to speak, but then Marina pressed her knife against his throat. "Shh," she said. "Wait your turn."
The boy with the fangs had tears on his cheeks. "We didn't do anything!" he cried. "It's not our fault! We just..."
"What?" Aaron said. "Tell me."
"Hardcore has the card."
"Card?" Marina dragged the tip of her knife across Hardcore's neck. "What card?"
He slowly reached into his pocket and took out a black business card. Aaron snatched it.
The card had "Order of Eternal Night" printed on top in gold, Gothic lettering. Below was a stark, red symbol. It was a half-circle with lines radiating from the center, and it reminded him of a sunset. There was also a phone number.
"Who are these jokers?" Aaron said.
"They were here a month ago," Hardcore said. "They know all about Saint Athanasius."
"Then why were you bragging about it?"
"It sounded so cool..."
Aaron snarled. "Stupid kids. What does this red symbol mean?"
"The end of sunlight, the beginning of eternal night, death."
"I get it." Aaron nodded.
Marina released Hardcore and stood up. He quickly crawled away from her on all fours.
"Are we done?" Aaron asked.
"Yes," Marina said. "I think so."
They started back to the car.
"Hey!" Hardcore called out. "Those Eternals will fuck you up. They
'll drink your blood!"
Marina glanced back. "They drink blood?"
"They call it warm, red wine."
"Interesting." She raised her eyebrows.
She and Aaron continued walking.
"Waste of time?" she said.
He grunted. "Maybe not."
They sat in the car, where it was warm and quiet. He took out his gray phone and called the number on the card. He turned on the speaker so she could hear, too.
Instead of a person, a machine answered with a recorded message. "The next public meeting will be on Wednesday night at 10 PM. The location is the Shroud of Steel Nightclub. Mention our name at the door, and be appropriately dressed." The message ended.
"That's tonight," Marina said.
Aaron nodded. "I'll call Edward."
He called another number, one programmed into his phone.
Almost immediately, Edward answered, "Hello?"
"Are you in front of a computer?"
"Always."
"Check out a name for me," Aaron said. "The Order of Eternal Night."
"Hold on." Keyboard keys clattered in the background. "They have a website. It's all black. There are pictures of skulls, blood, and maggots."
"What does it say?"
"Not much. No contact information. But listen to this. For billions of years, Earth was lifeless. Inevitably, the Earth will return to that pristine state, and it will remain so for the rest of time. The existence of life is a temporary departure from the natural order. Death is simply the universe eliminating that which is aberrant and unsustainable. We must celebrate death. We must embrace the eternal night!"
"Nice," Aaron said. "A death cult with a taste for human blood."
"I'll find out more about these guys," Edward said.
"Make that your top priority. Also, tell Ethel we're going to an Order of Eternal Night meeting at ten tonight. It's at someplace called the Shroud of Steel Nightclub."
"Be careful, sir."
"Always."
Marina grabbed the phone and said, "One other thing, Edward. I'll need a ceremonial knife for tonight. It needs to be elaborate with lots of sharp points and real jewels. Make sure the edge is razor sharp. The most important detail is a homing device hidden in the hilt. Can you put that together and have somebody run it out to us before the meeting?"
"I'll get Nancy to work on it, ma'am," Edward said, "but it will be a rush job. Maybe not up to our usual standard."
"That's fine. Do the best you can as long as I get it in time."
"Yes, ma'am."
Chapter Nine
Smythe felt like a new man. Ten hours of sleep, a hot shower, a shave, and a big meal had restored him. It was also nice to put on clean clothes, even if they weren't his own.
The "safe house" had proved safe indeed. Nobody had bothered him at all. If anybody lived on the floor below, he had heard no evidence of it. He could almost forget he was a fugitive.
Now he had to make one of the most important decisions of his life. He could run. With guns, money, and other supplies taken from the apartment, he could get pretty far. However, Ethel had made it clear that she would come after him, and that was a frightening prospect. The unnatural darkness in her eyes still haunted his dreams.
Being wanted for murder didn't help his situation. Smythe couldn't go back to his house. If he tried to use a credit card or access his bank accounts, the police would immediately know his location. He couldn't even turn on his cell phone. If he wanted to stay out of prison, he would have to live on the margin of society, a vagabond with no name. That didn't sound like fun.
He needed a friend, but he didn't have any that he could rely on in a crisis. He realized he was much better at ruining relationships than keeping them.
He had no choice. He picked up the phone and dialed the number on the card that Ethel had given him.
"Dr. Smythe," she said at once. "I hope you're rested and feeling better."
"Much," he said. "I suppose I should thank you for your hospitality."
"My pleasure. Welcome to the Gray Spear Society."
"The what?"
"That's us," she said, "and like everything else we do, our name is secret. Revealing it to a stranger is punishable by death."
He suspected she was just trying to scare him. "Come on."
"I'm not joking."
"How many people have you actually killed?"
"I lost count a long time ago. Thousands. Are you ready to work?"
"I never agreed to work for you," he said.
"I don't need your agreement," she said. "Aaron and Marina are investigating a lead tonight. I want you to help them."
"They're criminals."
"They're fine warriors and the best teammates you could hope for. Regardless, I'm giving you an order. Don't begin your new career with insubordination, or it will quickly end."
He frowned. "You keep threatening me."
"If you don't like to be threatened, that's fine. I won't do it again."
Smythe heard the implied message clearly. The next time Ethel needed to chastise him, she would just kill him instead.
"What is the mission?" he said in a low voice.
"It's simple. We want to know who is responsible for the illness you call PRooFS."
"Why?"
"Because it's interesting to us," she said. "We're concerned."
"Who are you? What do you do?"
"The Gray Spear Society is a global organization that protects the Earth from God's enemies. It's possible PRooFS has a supernatural origin. If so, we must stop it."
He took a deep breath. "Do you know how crazy that sounds? PRooFS is a medical crisis, not a religious one."
"I'm not going to give you an orientation lecture over the phone. We'll deal with that when you see our headquarters. In the meantime, just follow orders. Meet your new senior officers across the street from the Shroud of Steel Nightclub in Naperville at 9 PM sharp. They will give you additional instructions."
He clenched his jaw.
"Hello?" she said. "I didn't hear a proper response to a commanding officer."
"Yes... ma'am."
* * *
Aaron looked across the street at the Shroud of Steel Nightclub. The entire front of the building was covered with sheets of rusty steel. There were no windows. Abstract images of guitars, drums, and screaming faces decorated the facade. He could tell music was playing because he could feel the drum beats through his feet. The sound level had to be deafening inside the club.
He checked his watch. "9:05. The rookie is late."
"Not a good start," Marina said.
Both of them were dressed for the occasion. She wore a leather bustier that showed plenty of cleavage, matching leather shorts, and boots with spike heels. Underneath the leather, a body stocking made of elastic, red fishnet covered everything but her hands and head. Aaron had to admit she looked sexy, even though the biker slut style didn't appeal to him.
He also wore too much leather, but his was brown instead of black. Dangling chains and rings added extra weight, and he clanked when he walked. For once he was glad for the cool weather because it kept him from sweating and stinking.
Timothy Smythe came around a corner and approached with a scowl on his face. His right hand hovered near his belt buckle, suggesting he carried a gun under his jacket.
"Hello," Aaron said. "Welcome to the team."
Smythe looked like he wanted to puke. "What are we doing here?" he muttered.
"Gathering intelligence," Aaron said. "A group that calls itself the Order of Eternal Night will give a presentation inside that club. We believe they can tell us something about PRooFS."
"What kind of group is it?"
"They have a death fetish and drink blood. That's all we know."
"Sounds like a stupid cult."
"Put this on." Aaron handed Smythe a leather outfit similar to his own.
Smythe held the leather with his fingertips as if it were contaminated.
&nbs
p; "Hey," Marina said, "you can stuff that attitude."
"Don't tell me what to stuff. I spent too many years fighting in Afghanistan and too many years in medical school. I deserve respect."
"You're just a junior partner in this outfit until you prove yourself to us. Now put on your damn costume." She glared.
Smythe snarled. "What about the clothes I'm wearing?"
"Throw them away, along with any identification in your pockets. You can't carry anything with your real name on it. You're deep undercover now."
Grumbling, he wandered off in search of a place to change.
After he was gone, Aaron said, "This will be a problem."
"Not a surprise," Marina said. "He has no reason to trust us. Fear and desperation are the only reasons he came at all."
Smythe returned ten minutes later, wearing his ridiculous leather and studs. Aaron couldn't believe that some people thought the look was fashionable.
"I have to ask you something," Smythe said. "Ethel claimed she has killed thousands of people. Is that true?"
"Absolutely," Aaron said. "She's the most terrifying person I know."
Smythe frowned and turned to Marina. "What's your opinion?"
"If she gives an order," she said calmly, "obey it, because if you mess with her, you'll be dead before you can blink."
"Hmm. She told me that you're the Gray Spear Society. Tell me about it. How big is it? What is the command structure?"
"We cover the globe. There are seven divisions with about twenty or thirty cells in each division. Our cell is based in downtown Chicago. Each cell has a commander, who is called a decurion. That's Ethel. She reports to a legatus legionis, who is responsible for all of North America."
"Are you backed by a government? Who funds you?"
"We are independent," she said, "and self-funding. The Lord provides for us."
"How does that work? Does God sign your paychecks?" He smirked.
She reached into her red leather purse and took out a velvet bag. "Take this." She handed it to him.
He poured the contents of the bag into his hand and diamonds spilled out. His eyes opened wide.
"The Lord may not sign actual checks," she said, "but He makes sure His bills get paid. Money is never an issue. Are you ready to work? It's cold out here."
