Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I

by Athanasios

  He gave them no time to respond, but continued, “I am the new head of our church. Mr. Balzeer McGrath was killed the same day you were assaulted, and at the hands of the same man. Now, we gave you the strictest of instructions that the police must not be involved, and we paid each of you very well for your silence. That silence is only for the authorities.” Mordecai sat at his desk and resumed his monologue. “You all know for whom you work. I need not say it aloud and conjure up Halloween images. I have never seen the reality of these superstitions, but rest assured, we do Lucifer’s work. However, you are not required to join us, simply to answer our questions. Do you have any questions?” Mordecai hoped that, at most, he would simply have to scam these people. He wanted their cooperation; he didn’t want their thoughts to be sullied through the pain of torture.

  An older woman, one of their better cooks, spoke first. “Mr. Mordecai… may I call you that? Is that alright?” Mordecai nodded to the old woman. She was rail-thin and her voice still hinted at the islands of her birth. He was no linguist, but placed it as the Caribbean, Jamaica, Barbados or Haiti.

  “I don’t care a whit about what this church might be. It puts food on my table and has given me more money than I could imagine, all because that man gave me a knock on my noggin. Oooo, that man gets me so vexed, just thinking about him. I’ll help you any way you want. In Anse-d’Hainault, we have no fear of the First Born Son. We pray to him too.”

  Haiti it was then. “Thank you, Hazel. Anyone else? What about you, dear?” Mordecai spoke to another older woman, who looked fearfully at Hazel and Mordecai.

  “Are you serious? Do you expect me to believe that you’re all some kind of witches or warlocks? Though I’ve got to admit, this is pretty spooky.” Clearly, the woman was becoming agitated. “Anybody got a smoke?”

  Mordecai motioned and someone came forward, eliciting a yelp of surprise from the second woman. Her second chin jiggled as she laughed nervously and accepted the lit cigarette produced by a thin man who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

  “Wow, that was goddamn freaky, I tell ya. Wow, that was something. Wait till I tell the hubby. Goddamn Satanists, huh?” The woman puffed and chuckled nervously to herself.

  “They won’t believe you, Cheryl. You can try to convince them, but they won’t believe you. Now, the generous amount of money we normally pay you has been augmented, as a result of that with which you have recently had to deal. So you stay quiet. Silence is what is required in return for the payment. The money was, in part, for the knock on your noggin, as Hazel nicely put it, but also so that you will tell no one about this incident. Is this, in any way, unclear to you?” Mordecai measured his words so Cheryl could digest them and their implied menace. “We, as nicely, or as dispassionately, as I can put it, do not care you were hurt. We did not do it. However, we want to find this man. We want to find him very much and you WILL tell us all you remember, understood?”

  “Sure, boss, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout me. Old Cheryl’s a team player. I’m a good little soldier, yes sir.” The cigarette went from lip to hand with every breath she took.

  “Excellent. Cheryl, Hazel, please go with these two gentlemen behind you. They will see to it you will not be inconvenienced in any way. You will not even have to tax your memories. Someone will put you to sleep for a short while and will gather every detail you have retained about the incident we are investigating.” Mordecai watched them leave and realized there was someone left who had yet to be addressed.

  It was odd no one else remarked on his presence even as they left. Mordecai saw he was a middle-aged man he occasionally passed in the service hallways of the mansion. He was a slight, short man, who rarely spoke and stayed in the background at most of the staff meetings. His balding head was bent forward and Mordecai struggled to remember his name.

  “Mr. Lecker, is it? What’s your first name? What was it, Harold?” Mordecai contemplated his name and struggled to understand why he had completely overlooked him. He remembered they all entered, bleary-eyed, and recalled Harold cleaning his glasses, seeming confused and squinting when they were offered seats. Harold did not speak, but raised his head from its bowed position. He had a smile on his face, which was unlike his own.

  He shot upright, standing without bending forward. Harold continued to smile, his lips parting slowly, extending until they stopped at this ears. The smile was obscene, but did not overly bother Mordecai.

  “Whoever you are, I don’t understand. This man was already our servant, so why take him over?” The Grand Master was beginning to feel a sense of unease. He had seen, and been responsible, for his share of possessions, yet there was something different about this one. “Why do you meet your temporal master in this boring form?”

  “There is much that you don’t understand, Master of Nameless. It is a wonder you were given the reins of power. I know I wasn’t consulted in the matter.” As he spoke, the lips remained painfully stretched. “Now, you will listen to your orders. Your ancient Leviathan is also our final goal, but you will do as you are told.”

  Unbelievably, Harold’s teeth began to expand in their positions. The gums retreated to reveal more teeth. Seconds later, they bent forward; making it appear he had a mouthful of daggers.

  “You are in no position to tell me anything, demon. I am the Supreme Tribunal on this earth.” The new body art began to squirm as he reprimanded the possessed Harold, who openly mocked his attempt at authority, making even wider and more forlorn faces with his maw.

  “Look at you, barely a week on the throne and already throwing your weight around. How adorable. Do you feel the tattoos argue my point? Those aren’t marks of power, as most of your predecessors believed. Those are our brands. You are our most useful cattle, but cattle you remain.

  “If you choose to rebel, that is certainly your prerogative, but our brands, as well as the canvas on which they are drawn, goes with us. In the past, some have opposed us, but you would not believe how quickly you perish without your epidermal layer. You flesh monkeys are all alike — lose your skin, and just like that, you’re of no use at all.”

  The lips still pulled back and the teeth were now triangular, almost shark-like. In truth, there was nothing living on earth that had teeth such as these. They had only been seen in fossilized form.

  “Now, is your decision to listen like a good cow, or do I take our brands with me?” The tattoos inched towards flaying him alive. “Mmmmm, yes. The fear is already a nice appetizer, and now the pain. The pain of a colossally arrogant cow such as you is very flavorful with an abundance of body. Please, Supreme Tribunal, remain obstinate, for your end will be completely engorging. What a feast you will be. Mmmmm, yes. Fight and show me how strong you are. Show me your power.”

  Harold’s usurped body began to laugh — a sound not heard since before man crawled out of caves. It was a halting, jerking and grating screech, which added another level of pain for Mordecai.

  To Mordecai’s relief, one of the mercenaries hired for security after the attack came in at a run. Once he got within hearing range, he began to clutch at his ears. Despite his anguish, Mordecai managed a hoarse shout. “Shoot him, kill him, shoot him!” The mercenary’s pistol went off in quick succession, knocking Harold back and onto the ground with the force of the bullets. As the inhuman laughter ceased, the click of the pistol’s slide was heard. Another series of clicks followed as the mercenary released the spent clip. It hit the floor as he replaced the clip and thumbed the slide stop, bringing the slide group into the ready position. He pulled the slide back, forcing a round into the empty barrel.

  “Oh blast, that was too close. What was that? Thank you for your timely intervention. Your fee will be doubled. Thank you.” Mordecai ached at each of the points where the tattoos tried to leave him. He noticed that his ear was bloody and he shook his head, collapsing deeper into his chair. The mercenary did not reply, neither did he call for help, which seemed odd, even to Mordecai’s addled senses.

  “Did
he injure you?” he asked. He watched as the same smile, which had so recently animated Harold’s face, took hold of Mordecai’s rescuer. The lips met at the ears and the impossibly large mouth lost its gums, which were replaced with canines, belonging to long-extinct reptiles.

  “A valiant effort, Supreme Tribunal. You are worthy of your station, but now I await your answer. The brandings will begin their return to us while I wait. I have not feasted on such agony for a long time; do take your time. I would even hope you do rebel. I would love to taste your soul once it leaves your body, moments after I hold your skin in my hands. Go on, be obstinate.” There was no laughter now, and his eyes changed from pupils to slits, the irises gone from white to sickly yellow.

  “I’ll do what you ask, whatever you want. What is it? Tell me what you want.” The response was quick and the mercenary’s disappointment was evident.

  “You’ve deprived me of a wondrous feast, Grand Master. How disappointing. Very well then, once our discussion is over, you will call anyone associated with finding the Seed of the Leviathan and tell them to return to whence they came.” As quickly as spittle, the order was tossed out of his teeth-engorged mouth.

  “What? Why? We have waited millennia for his coming. Why are we not to claim him? You cannot demand this of us. By all that is unholy we can retrieve him, why do you want us to renounce him?”

  Mordecai was careful to ask, rather than demand, of this possessor. He did not know who he was dealing with, but knew he had a power that dwarfed any Mordecai ever saw or read about. There was no evidence he was from the pits of Hell and that, more than anything else, frightened him.

  “Who are you to demand this of me? This is a thing that goes against all we hold in reverence — everything for which all of Hell, and all that is evil, has ever striven. You must listen to reason. Why do we have to renounce our savior? We must not; we cannot.” Mordecai noted a pause in the mercenary’s gaze and he did not feel any new tugging at his skin.

  “He has renounced us, therefore he doesn’t deserve the mantle we have kept for him. We have another way to gain absolute power on earth.” The mercenary continued, “Who am I to demand this of you? I will tell you, only because I like you. You have proven yourself to be a worthy successor to Balzeer and to all who came before him.”

  He looked down at the mercenary’s hands, and at the pistol he still held, squeezing it into a mass of twisted metal and letting it drop at his feet.

  “We are of the same race and mind as the Grand Dragon. We are the Nephilim of the Stole of Unholiness and continue to strive against the Nameless Weakling.” His arms spread back to display his still changing form. He expanded, straining at his clothes. “We take possession of some of you to give instruction. Most often, you follow your own path, and whether you know it or not, you follow the design of the great families of the Dark Nobility.”

  Mordecai had heard of the Nephilim. They were the race, ruled by Lucifer Lightbringer Morningstar. If this being was Nephilim, Mordecai was honored to be able to speak with a direct servant of Lucifer, himself.

  “But who are you? How shall I call on you if I need your help?” The being launched himself at Mordecai with an irritated scowl. He stalked onto the desk and smashed a few of the carefully placed phones. From his position on the desk, he crouched and looked at Mordecai, mere inches from his face.

  “Your need for help does not concern me, Mordecai. I am Azazel, of the Se’irm. We have mingled our seeds with great families, whom you know as Dark Nobility. Guard this secret, Supreme Tribunal; guard it well, because it is also the source of your expanded power. In time, I will bring you further into the light, but for now, we will concentrate on the task at hand.”

  He pulled away from Mordecai’s ear, though he remained on the desk, resting his full weight on his haunches and sitting crouched as a resting bird. His skin changed and took on a leathery texture. “What do you propose we do, my pet?”

  “Why do we have to renounce him? He’s barely a year old. Why can’t we put both plans into action? Why stick with only one?” As the words registered on Azazel’s face, Mordecai hoped he had not just signed his life, or soul, away.

  “Why not? That is sound strategy, Mordecai. Because you have impressed me, I shall call you this from now on. You reason very well.” He pleasantly continued the conversation. “Very well, continue with your plans to question these people and find out all you can. I will tell you of our alternate plans. Since Lucifer’s whelp chooses to turn his back on his destiny, we shall continue our Ascension by usurping the Weakling’s Citadel. Our ancient enemy’s earthly house will throne the Prince and we will push the world into the New Order.” Now, Mordecai was completely confused.

  “Take over the Papacy? How?”

  A brief glare from the terrible slits of his eyes was all that it took to silence Mordecai into listening. “We will not assassinate him, he will die soon enough.”

  “He is not well, but well enough to rule the Catholic Church for at least another decade,” Mordecai answered quickly and quietly.

  “There will be a new pope, rest assured of this. He will take the name of Paul and ascend to the throne of Peter on June 21st of next year. We will conduct our own Enthronement of the Prince, which will have a phalanx of Genuine Servitors of the Prince at the target ceremony in the Chapel of St. Paul, in the Vatican, itself.”

  “How will we do all of this in such a short time?” Mordecai was becoming giddy from the confidence with which Azazel spoke.

  “We have people in the ranks of the Weakling’s clergy. Some are even in their most revered offices and orders.” Abruptly, Azazel jumped backward and landed with a thundering crash on the floor, cracking the stone tiles. “I will send a telephone that is the Nobility’s and will be the way in which we contact you. It must be monitored at all times. In time, you will know more of the Architect’s Plan, for the Master’s Availing Time is close at hand. Continue your search for the savior. As you asked, why must we turn our back on him? He is not yet old enough to be held responsible for anything. We will tell you more when the time is ripe.”

  Azazel left the mercenary’s body with a greater effect than that with which he had entered it. The man fell to the floor, but was no longer discernibly human. Mordecai yelled for someone to come in, and in a moment, two of the ever-present tall, thin men rushed from their places.

  “Where were you?” In all the excitement, Mordecai had forgotten about the sentinels.

  “We were not called, Excellency,” one replied in an emotionless tone.

  “I see. Get these two out of here.” He indicated the corpses of Harold and the mercenary. “Also, get me our telephone technician. I’ll need new phones.”

  He strode to his desk and picked up a receiver on the far right, closest to his chair. “Send up a boy with auburn hair and seraphim face and form. Have him bring up a bottle of Craigellachie and two glasses.”

  Mordecai fell into his chair and smiled when he saw the boy enter with his favorite single-malt bottle. “Close the door.” With barely a sound, the boy obeyed, without hesitation.

  TIME: MARCH 16TH, 1963. SECRET ARCHIVES, VATICAN

  Martin was alone, amongst volumes of age-old codexes, tomes and manuscripts. As Quentin said, he was a man who was more at home amongst history than out in the tangible world. The world held more horrors and abominations than Martin chose to deal with. He was trained to handle the monsters and evil for which he searched in the pages in front of him. For Martin true horrors were those he dealt with every day; the pleasant smiles hiding treachery, observed in the corridors of the Vatican. He hadn’t been among the Romans many years, and had yet to distance himself, as Cardinal Bae once instructed him to do.

  He learned how to deal with true horrors, and sometimes relished battling actual evil, but quickly realized it was never evil’s true face. Its true face was never clear; it knew how to seduce and to lie. True evil was indistinguishable from us. It could be urbane and quite charming. It was disarmi
ng and seductive, and that was the best reason for its success. Its goals were met in small degrees — through small tangents to an already safe norm. Over time, all of these amassed corrections revealed corruption, complete and irreversible. Evil was like many small snacks, which resulted in a fat, bloated, gluttonous humanity, unable to move and ready for slaughter. Martin began to worry about all the Romans around him. Which were praetorians and senators, and which were lions?

  - A New Dawn -

  TIME: OCTOBER 27TH, 1963. DIGBY ISLAND, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

  Kosta watched as Adam sat in front of the television, engrossed in The Outer Limits. It wasn’t Kosta’s cup of tea and he thanked providence it didn’t air on Saturday nights, because that was hockey night. Kosta didn’t have a favorite team, per se, but loved to watch the rivalries that developed in this six-team league. Last April, he watched the Maple Leafs trounce the Red Wings in four games to one — nearly a sweep.

  In addition to watching as much television as the boy, Kosta kept up on world news through special newspaper deliveries from all over the world. True, he got them late, but he didn’t mind. If he cared enough to follow up on specific topics, he had his own sources. The year-end articles now came in and he reviewed the twelve months through the major news. He was grateful that the exciting parts of his life were relegated to news stories.

  After attacking the Luciferians in late February, Kosta searched far and wide for a place remote enough no one could find them. He settled on a little island, off the coast of northern British Columbia. When they left San Francisco, the biggest story was the closing of Alcatraz. As they went up the coast past Seattle they listened to the radio playing Puff the Magic Dragon. Kosta was surprised puritan Americans allowed it to be publically broadcast. It wasn’t long before concerned parents were saying that the song promoted marijuana use and Kosta chuckled over the fact it took so long to catch on.