“‘Requested’? Then you were successful?”
“Come.”
Valdes followed him across a patch of bloody dirt. The earth was so dry it had soaked up the liquid, leaving only a dark stain and the scent of burnt copper. From everywhere he sensed the possessed, whispering seductively in their bizarre, warped language. The darkness hid them well but he glimpsed an occasional flicker of scythe blade in the torchlight.
“Where’s Coeus?”
“‘
Procer porta
’; the child was
‘
the gate of the Prince.’” He gestured into the darkness. “As thou seest.”
In front of the stage, within the Sigil of Baphomet design, there loomed a terrifying, disgusting…
thing
. Valdes stopped short. It writhed over and in on itself, a Chthulian vision from the heart of Lovecraft’s fevered hallucinations, seeking escape from the confines of its magical prison with every greasy lurch. It glistened, roared, twisted; its flesh bubbled and churned, changing shape in a ceaseless parade of unearthly forms and figures. It was repulsive. It filled Valdes with loathing and an urge to inflict harm upon others, and himself. It was darkness in all colors, blues and grays and purples and blacks, a palette unlike anything he had ever seen, but its magnetic ugliness drew his gaze. The longer he looked the further in he fell. Beneath the surface the figure exuded a potent lure, an almost pheremonal hold that belied the physical. In an instant he realized what he was seeing, and he turned his head with a smile. “
Quin redis
,
Mephistopheles,
fratris imagine
!” When he turned back, the nightmare vision had been replaced by a giant silhouette. “…Coeus?”
“Partly.”
The voice was as deep as it had always been, but now possessed a quality Valdes hadn’t previously encountered. Confident and persuasive, it reminded him of his own.
“‘
Quin redis, Mephistopheles
’?” the giant continued. “I see you’ve read Marlowe.”
Valdes watched as one hand slowly rose to remove the sunglasses. The giant’s features were still scarred, but serenity had replaced Coeus’s dull brutality. Now his eyes glowed dark purple with tiny white flecks, galaxies in deepest space. His lips curled, and even his smile was more knowing.
Valdes quickly recovered from his surprise. “I read a lot while I was in prison.”
“Prison?” The giant glanced around his feet. “
There’s
something we share.”
Valdes stepped forward and smudged the outer circle of the design. He extended a hand across the line, bridging the magical barrier. “I’m Cornelius Valdes.” Mephistopheles accepted the handshake. Coeus’s grip had been clammy and clumsy; this one was warm and firm. “Forgive me. I was expecting, well, a friar.”
Mephistopheles gave a sly smile. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Valdes…” Faustus watched, amazed, as Mephistopheles stepped free from the design. “How didst thou know—?”
“I resurrected you to instruct me,
Herr Doktor
. What kind of pupil would I be if I did no study on my own?”
“No man worthy of his destiny has it handed to him, Faustus.” Mephistopheles turned and looked at the stage, and at the structure behind it, approvingly. “Have four hundred odd years with me taken from you the thrill of discovery?”
“What thou doth offer hath robbed from Faustus any semblance of joy at the new.”
“Then it’s a good thing,” Valdes said, “this isn’t about
you
.”
The flush in Faustus’s face cooled to granite. Mephistopheles nodded and inspected his fingers as he flexed them. “Quite an ambitious undertaking you’ve been on, Neil. Contacting
me
takes a tremendous amount of focus and desire. A
resurrectus maledicat
—by yourself—is truly impressive.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t totally without guidance, though. I had a grimoire to help me through the zodiac sacrifices.”
“Did you? You certainly made the most of it.”
“So far. But I’m not finished yet.”
Mephistopheles paused in his exploration of the physical and cocked his head. Coeus’s misshapen features took on a bemused cast. “Such confidence.” He inhaled deeply the scents of blood and death. “
I’ll
decide whether you’re finished. And then I’ll decide whether to hang you from your ribcage on that hook above the stage.”
Valdes didn’t look up. “You could,” he acknowledged, taking out his pack of cigarettes. “However—and I mean absolutely no disrespect—
you
aren’t the reason I did all of this. The grimoire helped me get to Faustus. Faustus helped me get to you. Only you can help me get to the King. And
he
can get me to what I want.”
“
I
reign over desires and wants, Neil.” Mephistopheles’ smile revealed teeth perfect and sharp. “If you want something, it will involve me.”
“That’s my understanding. However, my understanding is also that you provide the
things
; the King is the power that creates them.” He tapped out and lit a cigarette. “I want to deal with
him
.”
“Is that what you learned from reading Marlowe? Mark your blood on a piece of paper for the King and you get a servant like
me
?” Mephistopheles drew himself up to Coeus’s prodigious height. His aura darkened the world around him, and the muttering of the possessed grew silent. “Do you think I’m an
errand boy
, Neil?”
“I think you are the path to get me where I want to be, but you aren’t the destination itself.” Valdes held his ground and continued to smoke. “Nothing personal.”
Mephistopheles stood astonished. He looked at Faustus, back at Valdes, blinked, and chuckled. The sound began as grating, stone on steel, and rose to a wheezing rasp that echoed across the Lawn as the possessed joined in.
“Yes.” Mephistopheles shook his great head and peered down at Valdes. “Neil, you might actually understand how things work.” He spread his hands and gave a slight bow. “I would be
delighted
to work with you towards achieving your desires.”
Valdes smiled. “Let me tell you what I’m looking for…”
***
Fullam met Donovan a few steps outside the group, indicating what Donovan carried on his shoulder. “What’s that?”
“One of the spires the city is using to build a wrought-iron fence. There’re a bunch of stacks of them back there.”
“Why are you—?”
He looked towards the officials. “What’s going on?”
Fullam stared at him for a long moment. “Valdes’s stunt with the hostages,” he finally said, “convinced Clark and a few captains that we can’t wait this out or wait for them to open negotiations. They’re definitely going in, and are drawing the plans now.”
“Can you get me a few minutes?”
“If I can’t, crack a couple of heads with that thing. Start with the FBI.”
Clark seemed to be leading the discussion. Fullam waited for a pause before inserting himself. “Excuse my interruption, gentlemen, this is Donovan Graham. He’s one of my research people, been working with me the last few weeks. He’s got background on Valdes and his group that might be helpful.”
“Graham?” the FBI man repeated. “Do you have another involvement in this case?”
“Joann Clery is my fiancée.”
“He’s also the one who picked up Valdes’s trail at the Cancer Hospital,” Fullam added.
“What sort of background information do you have?” Ed Devine, a large, round-bellied man in a tweed sport coat, asked. “Because I have never seen anything like what they’re building outside of a horror movie. People impaled on hooks? Hanging thirty feet in the air? What kind of terrorist group
is
this?”
“They don’t think of themselves as terrorists. Valdes has created a powerful cult of personality.”
Here we go.
Donovan moved through the ring of people, to where he could make eye contact with them all. He stood in front of a map of Central Park, which had designs showing the directions from which the police forces would approach. “There’re all kinds of cults of personality—political, military, religious. This is the last; specifically, an ‘Apocalyptic Cult.’ They have a purpose and a cause: to bring about the Apocalypse. They believe in a literal Heaven and Hell. They believe they’re soldiers for Hell. They believe you and all of your men are soldiers for Heaven. They believe they’re fighting Armageddon—the Final Battle—right here, right now, against you.”
Dead silence.
Donovan started to wonder if he’d overplayed his hand when everyone began talking at once. Mike Quentin, the captain from the 28
th
Precinct, who looked like a young Morgan Freeman, spoke the loudest. “You’re telling us those people are devils from Hell? And we’re fighting to stop the end of the world?”
Yes.
“I’m not ‘saying’ it. I’m telling you they
believe
it.”
“Mister Graham,” Clark interrupted. “In 1890, the tenets of a Lakota Sioux religious cult held the ‘ghost shirts’ their ancestors gave them would make them bulletproof against the U.S. Cavalry at Wounded Knee. They didn’t. Why does it make a difference to us what they believe?”
“Their beliefs dictate their behavior. Even though the Lakota Sioux weren’t bulletproof, they attacked as though they were. How many cavalrymen could have been saved if they’d understood that? This has less to do with
your
reality than
their
perception. The key to beating them is to understand their perceptions and exploit them.”
“What perceptions?” Devine asked.
“Valdes has been feeding them drugs and liquor all day. They have a very high tolerance for pain and very low threshold for reason right now. They’ll follow their beliefs before they take time to think things through. They believe themselves invulnerable to most things
but
vulnerable to others, and will respond accordingly. For instance, they’re a Christian cult; certain symbols of Christianity will be effective.”
“Like crosses?” Darenelli sneered. “You want us to go in with wooden stakes, too?”
His tone of voice gave Donovan flashbacks to his father, but he resisted arguing. “It’s not about what
I
want, it’s about what
they
believe. If you understand it, not only will you have a better chance of rescuing my fiancée, you’ll have a much better chance of surviving this. So no, they’re not afraid of wooden stakes. But they
are
afraid of wrought iron,” he held up the spire, “like this.” The fact that it looked like a weapon—it was about three and a half feet long and painted black—gave him confidence he could sell it. “As it happens, the Parks Department has stacks of them for a fence they’re looking to build. If you equip your men with these you will definitely have the advantage if or when you go hand-to-hand.”
Clark shook his head, dismissive. “I can certainly accept these people
believe
they’re devils, but are you saying the only way to defeat them is to treat them as though they
are
? To use iron fence spires instead of our standard weaponry?”
“Not ‘instead of,’ in addition to. They also fear holy water, so—”
“So why not get some squirt guns, too?” Darenelli scrubbed his head with one hand. “Look, I don’t know why we have to complicate this with talk about devils and cults and iron bars. After what we just saw, there is no way I’m going into a whole mob of them armed with something designed to keep dogs off the grass. I have a hard time justifying anything besides bullets, and plenty of them. If it’s true they took out the Central Park Precinct, let’s send
’
em to meet
whoever
they worship as fast as we can.”
Murmurs of agreement ran through the group.
“They aren’t afraid of guns. If you shoot at them, they’ll keep coming. If you come after them with an iron bar, they’ll hesitate, they’ll back off.” Donovan withheld as much urgency as he could from his voice. “You’ve seen what they’re capable of. When you try to stop them, they’re going to throw everything they have at you, up to and including suicide attacks. If you have these—”
“Thank you for the strategic advice, Mister Graham,” Clark cut him off. “We’ll certainly keep it in the mix as we prepare. I think your fiancée will have a much greater chance of survival, though, if we stick with tactics and weaponry that have been developed and tested over time. Scary make-up and drug-induced rage are no match for the firepower we’ve assembled.”
Captain Matz took the spire from Donovan’s grasp and hefted it. “What is this, about five, ten pounds? That’s a lot of extra weight when you’re trying to move fast.” He handed it back. “Sorry, Mister Graham. I’m inclined to agree with Special Agent Clark, too. But my men will keep an eye out for your lady.”
Donovan’s mouth tightened. He noticed and consciously relaxed the tension. “Thank you, captain. I appreciate that. I saw her on one of the video feeds. Wearing a white dress, tied to a tree at the north end of the Lawn.”
Before he could go on, Fullam nudged his arm. “Are there any other questions?” he addressed the circle. With cursory shakes of the head and nods of thanks, they turned back to their planning. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”
“Good luck,” Donovan added, before the sergeant steered him away. “What’s going on?” he asked. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”
“Here and now, yeah. You did what you could. Go wait with Maurice.”
Donovan looked at the spire, taking strange comfort in its weight in his hand. “What’s the hurry? Maybe I can—”
“Go wait with Maurice,” Fullam repeated, pointing his chin at a dark gray Lincoln that had just pulled up near the 60
th
Street subway entrance. “And keep your head down.”
Donovan recognized the car from Newark Airport.
Yarborough
. “Got it.” He held the spire out of sight and started to walk away. “I’ll see you over there.”
***
As tightly as Joann clung to unconsciousness, the wailing around her finally grew too loud and too pained to avoid. With a groan she forced her eyes open. Darkness kept the night air slightly opaque, allowing her to see shadows but not differentiate too many details. She had never felt so alone.
A ring of odd-shaped torches was being lit in a circle in front of her, and she could see a recognizable figure moving around them. “For the love of God, Faustus, put those people out of their misery!” she cried. “Don’t you have any mercy in your soul?”