Queen of Wands-eARC (10 page)

“Indeed,” Brother Marquez said. “But that symbol is why we are here. The reason that that file is so…sparse is that it is what you can give your FBI contact. He’ll be sent a similar file though his channels, since the FBI is aware of the information. Upper echelons of the FBI are aware of…more. Some of it I do not have. Need to know, as they say. But some more I do. A tale I shall tell.”

“Go ahead,” Barb said, getting comfortable. “Does it start ‘Once upon a time’?”

“Given my background, I suppose I should start ‘So there I was, no shit…’” Marquez said with a grin.

“You were military?” Barb said, surprised.

“For my sins,” the monk replied. “Or, rather, I am now in
this
position for my sins during my military service and before,” he added with a shrug. “But I digress. So there we were, no shit. My tale starts with a group of French archaeologists in Syria in 1923. The proverbial shepherd boy had found some pottery fragments, which attracted the attention of a local magistrate. A small expedition visited the area. They found a city that had been destroyed, they believed, by an earthquake or possibly waters drying up or just drifted away. There were some fragmentary inscriptions of no known language. Almost everything was shattered, destroyed, gone. They only found one fragment that was of any value at all.”

The monk pulled a somewhat larger file out of a bag and slid out a picture. It was a copy of an old sepia-toned photograph that showed a piece of chiseled stone. The only thing that was clear on it was the symbol the hostess had been wearing. There might have been some human figures and flowing script, but it was so worn as to be illegible.

“Unknown race, unknown religion, the lost civilization, Terra X,” Brother Marquez said with a shrug. “The archaeologists catalogued their meager finds and took back the stone tablet. It was filed under ‘uninteresting’ in the French Museum of Archaeology, and moldered there for several decades.

“In the 1950s the Hittite language was finally deciphered, and it opened up a door into the past. A fragmentary codex of the Hittite history detailed the destruction of a race called the Osemi.”

“Never heard of it,” Barb said.

“That is because the Hittites were quite complete in their destruction,” Brother Marquez said, frowning. “And I cannot find them wrong in that. The Osemi were, according to the Hittites, worshippers of demons. And given that the Hittites were worshippers of
Baal
, that’s saying something. Let me correct, worshippers of a demon
ess
. Her name was not recorded by the Hittites, perhaps so that her name
would
be lost. But the Osemi were fanatical in her worship. And to them she gave, quote, great powers in battle. End quote.”

“Define,” Barb said.

“The Osemi were, apparently, the original suicide bombers,” Marquez said, grimacing. “Certainly suicidal in their attacks with, quote, the strength of ten men and caring not for harm. They would push themselves upon the spear to kill the spearman. End quote.”

“Ouch,” Barb said. “Sounds like… Actually, that sounds like PCP zombies.”

“Excuse me?” the brother said, confused.

“My FBI contact’s term for the seven…afflicted,” Barb said. “They act like they’re on PCP. They don’t have a pain response, among other things. As with any psychotic, extremely strong. Clumsy, but fast when they’ve got a target. And they just won’t stop. One reason being that they truly
are
undead. No soul at all. If you do fight them, don’t have any qualms. You’re not killing anyone, you’re just stopping some sort of flesh robot.”

“Joy,” Marquez said, frowning. “And we shall have to stop them if it comes to it. My story ends, as most do in our business, with more questions than answers. We only recently, as in today, found the link between the Osemi and the stone tablet. What the archaeologists had found was the civilization of the Osemi. But without the Hittite codex, that was impossible to determine. And ask me about the stone tablet.”

“What happened to the stone tablet, she asked with wide eyes,” Barb said, smiling tightly.

“Gone,” Brother Marquez said, shrugging. “Vanished from the Museum. When, no one knows. There is a high-level request in to Interpol to find out where it went. We will see what they turn up. However, this,” he added, pointing at the file, “indicates that someone, somewhere, knows somewhat more. We just don’t get to.”

“Joy,” Barb mimicked, sarcastically. “We’re trying to stop this…whatever is going on, and we don’t get all the information available?”

“Try pulling ops in the Rockpile in the same condition,” Marquez said. “You’re a military brat. You should understand need to know. Here’s the important part. You were involved in the action in Roanoke.”

“Yes,” Barb said, sighing. “It wasn’t fun.”

“So you’re aware that demons can control groups,” Marquez said. “But they normally can only make large groups…still. They may be able to make them move in a particular direction, to shuffle out of or into a room. But they cannot direct them to fight with any real functionality. They cannot force them to kill themselves.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Barb said, her brow furrowing. “What’s the point?”

“This demoness seems to be able to
easily
create very large groups of maniacal killers,” Brother Marquez said. “And according to something in the briefing documents with no attribution, to force large groups to act in more complex ways. Even if they are not sworn to her.”

“That…violates the doctrine of free will,” Barb said, frowning. “The Lord gave the earth to Satan but gave man free will. She can’t…”

“Well, welcome to the varsity, Mrs. Everette,” Brother Marquez said sarcastically. “Sometimes it’s more complicated than Catechism. I haven’t seen anything in the documents I have that show
where
the information came from, but I was given it by Germaine. And he wasn’t going to make a mistake that simple. She can control large groups, apparently
against
their free will. There may be a complication of which the…providers are not aware. It is possible that she or her acolytes can only control these flesh robots. But that’s the nature of intelligence. You go with what you have, not what you’d like.”

“Do I get to read the thicker file?” Barb asked.

“Yes,” Marquez said, handing it over. “But it’s not for your FBI contact. He’s simply not cleared for it.”

“And I am,” Barb said, bemusedly. “What fun.”

The thicker file didn’t have much more than Marquez had given her. Very little was known about the demoness or the Osemi, only the sparse data from Hittite records. And for some reason it was “a known fact” that she could control “groups equal to or greater than thirty” in complex actions. From the combination of “known” facts it was “highly probable” that a larger group could be turned into “directed or undirected” psychotic killers. Joy.

“Says here Kali can’t even do this,” Barb said. “And she’s thoroughly bound, right? A greater goddess of murder can’t turn large groups into psychotic murderers, and this minor demoness
can
?”

“That appears to be the case,” Marquez said, getting another cup of coffee. “Most such groups were definitely under the influence of drugs or simply in high-combat state. Berserkers with our newfound friend Frey, thuggees with our unquestionable foe Kali. Possibly the Jaguar Warriors of Quetzalcoatl.”

“And it violates free will,” Barb said. “I don’t buy that. Free will is…If there is no free will…”

“Free will is not…absolute,” Marquez said. “A tale I shall tell thee.”

“Another one?” Barb said, smiling faintly. “How many do you have?”

“Only my confessor knows that,” Karol said, smiling. “But this one touches on such questions. Once upon a time a young man came to America from Colombia under pressing circumstances.”

“How pressing?” Barb asked, taking a sip of tea.

“Very,” Karol replied, frowning. “A matter of a money dispute that turned quite ugly with a cartel. Blood was shed. Not that blood had not been shed
before
; that was what the money dispute was about. The young man felt he was owed more than he was paid. The buyer of his services disagreed. The buyer was a member of the cartel. One does not kill one’s clients. Especially if they are members of the Cali cartel.”

“I see,” Barb said, her eyes wide.

“The young man decided that enough was enough with such things and went to work, very much under the table, for a lawyer in New York,” Karol said, looking into the distance. “The lawyer was an immigration lawyer and asked very few questions about background. The young man was paid for various services, none of which involved bloodshed. Translation: Looking up people who were in areas that angels would fear to tread. Fortunately he was not an angel and had no issues. Suchlike. And he was happy. He continued his schooling. He hoped to become a doctor or a history professor someday. Possibly an immigration lawyer like his friend. The lawyer worked in the Twin Towers.”

“Oh,” Barb said, her jaw working.

“The young man went to an Army recruiter in New Jersey on September 12th, 2001,” Karol said, taking a sip of coffee. “If you don’t mind, I shall make another cup. Would you care for a refresher?”

“Please,” Barb said, holding out her cup.

“The Army recruiter, like the lawyer, asked few questions,” Karol continued, making coffee and tea clearly on muscle memory. “Later, more were asked. It is a funny thing about getting a security clearance. As long as you are absolutely truthful, under current laws, nothing that you say can be held against you. A polygraph can be a very refreshing experience. Better in many ways than a confessional. So many people hold things
back
in the confessional. Honesty is good for the soul and a polygraph requires quite complete honesty. I have made a recommendation to the Holy See that polygraphs be required for confessionals, but I doubt they will see it my way. I digress again. The young man joined the Army. He was trained as an infantryman. He went to airborne school. He joined the Fourth Infantry division. Two months after joining his unit, he was in Iraq. He got quite a reputation since he sustained the most strikes from IEDs of anyone in his unit without being medically evacuated. Also a few minor scratches here and there.”

“The nose?” Barb asked.

“He was, in fact, shot in the face. And two other places. Scratches, as I said. He, however, came to the conclusion that driving around as a mobile IED magnet was not the life he preferred. However, there were hajis…”

“Hajis?” Barb said.

“Pardon my descent to colloquialism,” Marquez said. “Insurgents. There were insurgents that needed killing. However, a better place might be in a more elite group. So he requested a transfer to the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center for training as a Special Operations weapons technician. It was as a member of the United States Army Girl Scout Brigade that he experienced a life-changing event. There are some very strange things going on in Afghanistan, Mrs. Everette. Very strange indeed. And occasionally when such things come up OCONUS—outside the continental United States—the designated red-shirts to support the local versions of FLUF are the US Army Girl Scout Brigade or similar groups.” He handed her a refilled cup and shrugged.

“I see,” Barb said.

“This forced him to consider the state of his immortal soul,” Marquez continued. “To wit, if there be demons, then there was a hell. In that case, given some of his actions over the years, he was in deep doo-doo. You have no clue, I’m sure, Mrs. Everette, how many Hail Marys contract killings cost. Also, that there were aspects of his personality that he had always considered to be…psychological that might not, in fact, be mundane. And he found that despite the many positive things he’d done in the military over the years, it was not the best place for repentance. Temptations of the flesh are high around military bases, and he had always had a bit of a weakness in that regard. So he got out. Reluctantly, in many ways. But he ended his term of service.

“That left him with the question of where he could spend a great deal of time repenting for his many…many…
many
sins. After talking about it with a couple of understanding priests, he decided that the best place was as a monk.”

“Jesuit?” Barb asked.

“Heaven forbid,” Karol said with a laugh. “Those leftist pantywaists would pee themselves if they ever saw a demon. No, Cistercian. Nothing like spending eighteen hours a day on your knees in prayer to catch up on those Hail Marys. A small cell and a lot of time on his knees was his lifelong goal.”

“So what happened?” Barb asked.

“A bishop came to visit,” Karol said, looking into the distance again. “He did the usual rounds of glad-handing, and then sat down with a certain monk and questioned him at length and in detail. The bishop was strangely knowledgeable in the area of military operations, and especially close-quarters battle. It turned out later that the bishop had been one heck of a swimmer in his day. The bishop then explained that the monk had a ‘skillset’ that the Holy See needed more than they needed a bunch of Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Anyone could pray. Very few could kill a man at two thousand yards. And that there were certain rituals he was going to need to go through before being fully prepared to serve the Lord. And thus the former infantryman…among other things, became a member of Opus Dei.”

“This has a point, right?” Barb asked.

“Part of the rituals were to find and eliminate every trace of demons in the soul,” Karol said, turning to look at her finally. “More people are possessed than you can
possibly
imagine, Mrs. Everette. By and large their demons are minor creatures, wills with a life of their own. Anger, lust, gluttony, all the usual sins. Vanity. So,
so
many vanity demons—and greed. Any suburban mall is awash with them. A person with an interest, a hook, is subject to being caught by one and pressed towards more sin and more. And once they are in, they are
very
hard to get rid of. All the confessions, all the prayers, all the benedictions had not rid m— the young man of his demons. It took multiple exorcisms to do so. And a great deal of will.