by Barry Reese
From a nearby radio, a sad-sounding Christmas carol was being sung, slowly and reverently. “Merry Christmas to me,” John muttered.
***
The young man’s parents had disowned him years ago, well before he’d ever become involved in the skinhead movement. He’d been a bad seed all his life and when his father had caught him with his hand up his little sister’s skirt, it had been the final straw. He’d been kicked out on the streets at sixteen years of age.
Robbie Sinclair had never regretted any of the things he’d done. In his mind, they were all justified. The old Jew whose skull he’d broken last fall had it coming—he’d looked at Robbie like he was less than dirt. And Robbie’s little sister? The tart may have only been twelve years old but she’d been a cocktease of the first order.
Rape, thievery, even murder... all of these and more he’d done in his relatively short life.
He would never do any of those things again.
Robbie Sinclair screamed and screamed, backing up quickly, trying to scurry away from the armored black man that was approaching him. His buddies in the Aryan Brigade lay about like broken dolls, most of them unconscious, but a few of them so still and silent that Robbie wondered if they were dead.
The armored figure stopped before him, energy swirling about his closed right fist. The majority of his metal covering was silver, though blue piping glowed here and there, emphasizing the broad shoulders and well-muscled form. Robbie had never seen armor that fit a man’s body so tightly.
Babylon, the cosmic spirit of retribution, leaned forward and spoke in a deep voice. “The immigrants that you assaulted... they were innocent. You struck them down because, in your heart, you know only evil. I will teach you more than that. I will show you the pain that they felt, the horror that all your victims have felt.”
“No... please!” Robbie slid to his knees, holding his arms out in front of him. Sweat glistened on his forehead and a trail of slime leaked from his right nostril. “I’m sorry. I swear!”
“Did you offer mercy when you heard your victims’ pleas? I think not.” Babylon placed a palm atop Robbie’s head, squeezing just enough that Robbie whimpered in fear.
The racist youth’s mind exploded as cosmic energy flooded his brain, triggering the synaptic connections of his memory. Robbie suddenly relived all of his many sins, but this was a different experience than any he’d had before. He saw the scenes as an outside observer and what he saw horrified him... he saw himself as the monster he was and he hated it. He hated it so deeply and so badly that there would never be any forgiveness of himself. His self-loathing would stay with him for the remainder of his days. He slid from Babylon’s grasp, landing on his side. His mouth hung open, allowing a line of spittle to drip from his slack lips, and his eyes stared ahead blankly, seeing only the sins of the past.
Gideon Black, the spirit that had come to be Babylon, turned away from the youth and took to the air. He flew into the London skies, his soul ill at ease. Whenever the need for retribution came upon him, he felt compelled to act, but in the aftermath, he rarely felt satisfied. In a city this size, there were always more victims to avenge.
Babylon’s unease had worsened since his battle with Damian. The Lord of Lies had revived dormant memories within him but still there were things that were unknown. Damian had taunted him that perhaps Fisher could provide answers... but to what purpose? It seemed unlike Damian to provide true assistance.
Babylon spoke aloud as he soared through the night sky. He ignored a flock of small dragons that flew past in the opposite direction. “There is no guarantee that Fisher even still lives. It has been years since he last appeared to me, and that time Daniel was angry with him he told him that his years of service were now over and that he should join the ranks of the dead.”
I wouldn’t count him out, Jennifer answered, her consciousness floating in the other-dimensional void where she resided when Gideon controlled their form. She had grown better at making her thoughts known to him when she was hidden away, thanks in no small part to her training in the mystic arts. Immortals like him don’t die off easily.
“True enough,” Babylon confirmed. “But now it is time for me to swap places with you in the Void. Your human work begins tomorrow.”
Glad you remembered, big guy. I don’t want to make a bad impression on my first day at the bookstore. I’m not sure why he’s even open on Boxing Day but he is, so...
Babylon landed outside the building where Jennifer had secured an apartment. It was not far from John’s hotel, which made it all the more convenient. Cosmic energy swirled around the hero’s metallic form for a moment and a transition began to occur... the armor slowly vanished, turning to soft flesh, and the overall form became smaller and more feminine.
Jennifer stood panting in the aftermath. She wore a sweater and brightly colored spandex pants—more than she’d initially had upon arriving in London. It still wasn’t enough, though, and she found herself shivering as snow fell about her.
“You’re not going to do anyone very much good if you insist on parading about in the snow half-dressed. Then again, you never were one for subtlety when it came to fashion.”
Jennifer whirled about, astonished to hear such a warm, familiar voice. There, floating in a field of golden light, was her mentor and father figure—Byron the Enchanter.
“Byron! How... ?”
Smiling gently, the wizened old mage said, “I’ve come to set you back upon the proper path, child. The imprisoned mages need you—and their time is running short.”
***
W.H.A.T. Headquarters, London
Agent Amber Greene hurried down the hallway, holding a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a large file folder under the opposite arm. She was dressed professionally in a tweed jacket, gray blouse, and knee-length skirt, but she couldn’t help but turn a few heads as she passed. A devilishly attractive woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and brown eyes, she had an air of sensuality that was impossible to miss.
She hurriedly stepped into a briefing room where a dozen or so people sat, many of them looking through folders of their own. None of them looked happy to be there and she didn’t blame them. It was Christmas, after all, and unlike her, they had family and friends that they wanted to spend time with.
“Sorry, everyone,” she said, setting her tea and folder down on the table. “Had to make a mad dash to get here.”
James Heathrow nodded impatiently, gesturing for her to take a seat. An older man with a bushy white beard, Heathrow had been one of the founders of W.H.A.T. and scuttlebutt was that he’d personally come up with the group’s somewhat unfortunate acronym. W.H.A.T. stood for Weird Happenings Activity Team and the group was a super-secret arm of the British government, tasked with handling investigations of a supernatural nature.
Heathrow cleared his throat and launched into an obviously well-rehearsed speech. “All right everyone, let’s get this underway... late last night we got our first big break. We’ve been researching the overall spike in paranormal activity, much of which coincided with the arrival of the so-called ‘spirit of cosmic retribution’—Babylon. Well, now we have something new that should help speed our investigations along quite a bit.”
Amber leaned forward with mounting interest. She’d downloaded every bit of info she could find on Babylon and felt like she was a bit of an expert on the matter. “Did one of our agents make contact with him?” she asked, unable to hide her hopeful nature.
“Not quite,” Heathrow replied, obviously annoyed that his spiel had been interrupted. “Still, it’s almost just as good.” He picked up a remote control and pointed it at a large monitor suspended on the wall. A split-screen image appeared, showing two very different beings in similar situations: the headless Dr. York and the vampire Bloodshot, both bound by energy-dampening manacles. “These two monsters were recovered in poor condition, reeking of cosmic energy. Neither of them have been very interested in sharing information with us but we do k
now that they were defeated by Babylon.”
Amber took a noisy sip of tea and then added, “And both of them are longtime foes of his, especially Bloodshot. Some of their battles have been particularly bloody, indicating there may be some personal connection between them. Detailed interrogations might yield all sorts of details about Babylon!”
“Quite so,” Heathrow nodded. “We’re also going to be studying their physiologies, see what makes them tick. The one called York, for instance... how the hell does he even live like that? And how does he talk?”
“Magic,” someone at the end of the table muttered and several others laughed. That was the one-word answer given for anything that defied explanation.
Heathrow ignored the comment and instead slid a folder toward Amber. “Ms. Greene here is going to pursue our armored friend in a different avenue while we’re focusing on our prisoners.”
Amber opened the folder, flipping through a series of photographs. “John Galahad, African-American paranormal investigator and presumed host of the Babylon spirit years ago.” She held up a second photograph. “Jennifer Black, cousin to Galahad and practitioner of Atlantean magic.” Amber didn’t pay any attention to the rolling of eyes that accompanied her comments. Many of her coworkers saw her as a show-off but that never bothered her; she knew her job and did it very well. That was all that mattered to her—most of the time.
Heathrow smiled. He sometimes thought she was a bit too precocious but he admired her spunk. “Quite right, Ms. Greene. Both Galahad and Black have been spotted in London. A coincidence?”
“Not bloody likely,” Amber replied. She ran a finger over Jennifer’s picture, remembering that the girl’s profile had indicated that, like Amber herself, she was bisexual. She flushed slightly, wondering why she’d even remembered that fact at the moment. You know why, she thought to herself. This girl is gorgeous.
“Are you all right, luv?” Heathrow prompted.
Amber realized with a start that she’d phased out into a daydream while staring at Jennifer Black’s photograph. Blushing, she nodded and said, “I’m fine, Mr. Heathrow. I just can’t wait to get started.”
“Good. Then make it your first priority: find them both. Watch them. And let’s see if they lead us to Babylon.”
“Yes, sir,” Amber said. She and the other agents were about to rise, believing the meeting to be over, when Heathrow stopped them in their tracks.
“There is one more thing, gents and ladies. This entire operation has just gone Code Indigo.”
Amber heard the confused mutterings all around her but she couldn’t make out their specific words over the rush of blood in her ears. Code Indigo had, to her knowledge, never been implemented. It meant that the operation was a total black ops... totally encompassing even other agencies and government officials. “Can you tell us why?” she heard herself asking.
Heathrow fixed her with a steely gaze and nodded. “I probably shouldn’t but caution must sometimes be tossed to the wind. I was directed by the Prime Minister himself to free these two captured murderers and desist from any further delving into the Babylon situation. I was told, furthermore, that Mr. Winthrop would be handling all future Babylon-related affairs from his own office.”
“That’s absurd!” another agent shouted, and Amber nodded in agreement.
Heathrow held up a hand to silence the tumult. “I don’t know what’s going on at Downing Street and I don’t care. This falls under our umbrella and I’ll be damned if some two-bit politician is going to tell me how to do my job. I told him we’d agree to all of his directives... that is a bald-faced lie. He’ll figure it out eventually and I’ll be sacked most likely. So our time is limited. Go forth and prove that I’m not making a mistake here.”
Amber had never admired Heathrow more than she did at that moment.
***
Ancient Tomes Bookstore and Café—the following day
Jennifer Black balanced on the rolling ladder, carefully shelving a couple of aged texts in the ever-expanding occult section of the shop. With the recent weirdness that seemed to be infecting not just the United Kingdom but the entire world, people were turning more and more to the supernatural for explanations. From Jennifer’s perspective, as one raised in a veritable cult of magic and superstition, it was far past time that the modern world recognized the other realms of reality.
“I cannot believe you are making them wait like this,” Byron sniffed. The aged wizard, reduced now to a mere shade of his past self, floated nearby, invisible to all but Jennifer.
Out of the corner of her mouth, Jennifer replied, “I’ve been sneaking glances into spell books all day, Byron. So far I’ve found three promising rituals but all of them require the presence of moonlight to activate the components. Now will you please leave me alone so I can get some work done?”
“Work?” Byron grunted dismissively at the thought. “You are a powerful mage, reduced to serving tea and shelving useless books written by amateurs.”
Jennifer held up a dog-eared copy of Byron’s Atlantean History & Relics. “Yeah, it’s horrible how much garbage gets published these days, isn’t it?”
Byron’s eyes blazed for a moment but seeing the mirth in his former student’s face brought a smile to his own. “I do not mean to push you, my child... but Nathaniel and the others are in grave danger.”
Jennifer sighed, hanging her head. “I know. I’ve been trying to help them, Byron, but I’ve been so busy with Babylon’s activities... and now that I know that Damian is posing as the Prime Minister, I’m not sure what to do next. I mean, do we attack him? Or should we try and expose him somehow first? It’s a big mess.”
“You know, it usually takes a few weeks before my employees start talking to themselves.”
Jennifer glanced at Bansi, her new boss, standing nearby. He was looking at her with a funny expression, but Jennifer was confident that he couldn’t have heard her whisper. Thank the gods for that, she thought. The last thing she needed was for her secrets to be revealed on the first day on the job.
“Sorry,” she said with a shrug. “It’s been so quiet today that my mind gets to wandering.”
Bansi grinned. He was a handsome guy and had been pleasant company throughout the workday. She wasn’t blind to the way he sometimes looked at her, but he wasn’t a perv about it and as long as he maintained a respectful attitude, she took his glances as complimentary. “You’re right,” he answered. “I probably shouldn’t have bothered opening today, and I don’t blame most people for staying home. The snow is really coming down hard.”
Jennifer hopped down from the ladder, wiping dust from her hands. “Yeah, I nearly froze my butt off riding to work.”
“You came on the motorcycle that’s outside?”
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
Bansi looked concerned. “Hmm. You might want to consider leaving it here and taking the bus. The streets are too slick for a bike.”
“Not this one. Trust me, it can handle any terrain.”
Bansi cleared his throat. “Listen... since you just moved to London, how would you like to come to a little dinner gathering I’m hosting tonight? You could meet some new people there and it won’t be anything extravagant—just nine or ten of my mates, hanging out.”
“I’d love that... but I can’t.” Jennifer looked over Bansi’s shoulder, watching as Byron floated nearby. “I’ve already made plans. Maybe some other time? I really would like to make some more friends.”
Bansi pushed his hands into his pockets and nodded. He gave the impression that he wasn’t surprised to have been turned down and she felt guilty, even though she suspected he was just being nice by inviting her in the first place. “Okay,” he said. “You have fun. Go ahead and take the last thirty minutes off. I’ll lock up.”
“Thanks, Bansi. And thanks again for giving me the job. I appreciate it so much.” She gave him a quick hug and he grinned broadly as she pulled away.
“You’re welcome. Be careful, okay?”
Jennifer gave him a thumb’s up and headed toward the door. As she stepped outside, she snatched up a pair of goggles that she’d stored in a pouch on the side of the bike. She pulled them over her eyes and looked at Byron, whose spirit had accompanied her. “C’mon, old man. Let’s go rescue some wizards.”
***
John Galahad opened his eyes as the pounding in his head intensified. With a groan, he realized that he’d been awakened by the sound of someone at his door. With slurred words, he asked, “Who’s there?”
Muffled by the door, he heard a familiar voice say, “Johnny? It’s me—Jennifer.”
John rose from the bed, staggering across the room to open the door. He stared blearily at Jennifer and asked, “Yeah?”
Jennifer’s expression was one of horror and fascination. “Uh... what’s that smell?” She took in John’s appearance—the disheveled clothing that he’d slept in for two days, the unshaven face, the heavy eyelids—and her heart ached for him. “How long have you been drinking?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. What do you want?”
Jennifer pushed past him, casting a worried glance at all the empty bottles that littered the floor. It looked like a fraternity party had recently ended in this place. “I was hoping to make contact with Catalyst and the others. I’m going to be vulnerable when I do that and I wanted you to watch over me. Can you do that?”
John shrugged, not noticing that the spectral form of Byron floated right through him. “Don’t know why not.” He moved to the bed and sat down heavily upon it, picking up his shotgun off the floor. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
Byron looked at Jennifer with a frown on his lips. “This is the man that you’re counting on to help you?”
“Hush, you,” she whispered. Jennifer began dragging some of the furniture around to give her room on the floor. When she’d cleared a space, she reached into her jacket and pulled a few spell components that she arranged in a specific order on the floor: the fur of a black cat, her own name written backwards on a slip of paper, several dead flowers, and an unlit candle. “Did you call Roxanne?”
