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.”