The Demonists (12 page)

John’s eyes opened to sunshine pouring in through an open window, and the sounds of birds chirping happily outside.

For a moment he considered that this was just another figment of his active imagination, and waited to see if it would suddenly turn to shit.

But it didn’t.

He lay there, gradually waking up, trying to recall where he’d last been in an attempt to figure out where he was now. He tried to sit up and the pain was viciously sharp—startling—and he remembered that he’d been shot.

Anastos had shot him.

And then he remembered the entire, nasty affair, his thoughts freezing upon the fate of his wife.

He had no idea if she was all right.

Carefully pushing himself up in the bed, he saw that he was shirtless and his wound expertly bandaged. He gently probed the gauze where a quarter-sized bloodstain had seeped through.

He looked around the sparse room and saw a shirt and pants hung over the back of a nearby wooden chair. Cautiously he climbed from the bed on tenuous legs. The stone floor was cold beneath his feet as he crossed the room to retrieve the clothing. Images from the last moments he could recall flashed before his mind’s eye. He remembered the box, and the evil that it contained, and the scarred old man who had appeared as his savior.

At least he hoped that was the case.

He needed to find a phone, some way to find out if Theo was . . .

Putting on his shoes and socks, which proved far more difficult than he would have expected, John walked to the door and stood.

Listening.

Wherever he was, it seemed to be incredibly quiet. Slowly he reached for the doorknob, turned it, and stepped out into a corridor. He looked from one end of the hall, to the other, deciding which way he should venture. Not knowing one from the other, he took a chance, going left and passing other doors.

Based on the style of his surroundings, he gathered that he was in a rectory, priory, or convent. There was also an air about the place, a vibe that couldn’t be missed. A sense of peace, of protection from the corrupted.

At the end of the corridor, he could go left or right and was considering his choices when the decision was made for him.

“Is that you, Mr. Fogg?”

John walked in the direction of the voice, finding an office with its door partially open. “Hello?” he called, placing his hand on the door and pushing it open some more.

The scarred old man was inside, standing at a coffee urn filling his cup.

“Good morning, how are we feeling?” he asked cheerfully, bringing his cup up to his mouth.

“I’m getting a strong sense of déjà vu,” John said.

“Help yourself.” The older man nodded toward the urn as he stepped behind a heavy wooden desk and sat down. “Oh yes, your wife is quite all right,” he added. “Survived the incident unscathed.”

“My wife . . . ,” John began, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. “She’s all right, then? She’s okay?”

The old man nodded as he drank. “My associate Mr. Royce confirmed her well later last night,” he said, resting his cup in his hand. “Did you have anything to do with—”

“Let’s just say we kept a situation from escalating,” the old man interrupted. “Please do have some coffee.”

John hesitated for a moment but then decided why not? He filled his cup and had his first sip.

“Good?” the old man asked.

“Excellent,” John said. “Thank you.”

“Please,” the old man said from behind his desk, motioning to two chairs on the other side. “Take a seat. We have some things to discuss.”

John walked to one of the chairs and sat, careful not to spill his coffee.

The old man reached across the desk and placed a tile coaster in front of him. “You can put your cup on that.”

“I think some serious thanks might be in order,” John said, feeling the need to start the ball rolling. “Not only did you save my life, but it looks like you saved my wife’s as well.”

The man lifted a hand, waving John’s thanks away.

“Not necessary,” he said. “We’d been waiting for an opportunity to raid Anastos’ home for quite some time. You provided us with it.”

“Who are you?” John asked before taking another sip of his coffee. “I’m guessing some sort of law enforcement organization? A division of Interpol perhaps?”

The old man stared, having some coffee, bringing a napkin up to the ragged side of his damaged face so as not to dribble.

“Okay,” John said. “Could you at least tell me if I’m warm?”

“Did what you experienced last night look anything like something that Interpol would be involved with?”

John stared, ready for some answers.

“My name is Elijah,” the man said finally. “And I am the leader of an organization—a coalition—that exists to attend to matters very much in the vein of what you experienced last night.”

“So you deal with megalomaniacal multimillionaires who want to release ancient, supernatural evils out into world?”

“Far more often than I’d care to admit,” Elijah confirmed with a chuckle.

“No connection to official law enforcement?” John questioned.

“Some are aware of our existence,” Elijah said. “While others would prefer not to think of the things with which we find ourselves involved.”

John finished his coffee and held up his cup. “May I?”

“But of course,” Elijah said.

“Would you like some more?” John asked, reaching for the man’s cup.

“Thank you,” he answered. “That’s very kind.”

John took Elijah’s cup, along with his own, and brought it to the urn.

“I’m not sure if you’ll recall, but when we spoke in the hotel lobby, you talked to me about containers and the things that were inside them,” John said as he pulled the spigot down and filled Elijah’s cup. “I had a strange sense then that you weren’t talking about coffee urns.”

“And that sense was correct,” Elijah said, taking the refilled cup from John. “Thank you again.”

“You were talking about the jar.” John filled his own cup. “The container we found in the basement of the home we investigated for our Halloween show, weren’t you?” He returned to his seat.

Elijah slowly nodded. “The jar was left there specifically for you and your wife to find,” he said. “The Coalition has followed through with some research on that home’s history, and found that much of the information that you received in order to consider the property for investigation had been tampered with, much of the research fabricated, the actual history far darker.”

Elijah placed his cup down upon his own coaster.

“I don’t believe that any of you were supposed to survive that Halloween night. You and yours were to die horribly, and the great evils contained within the jar released out into the world.”

“My wife,” John started, imagining her lying in her hospital bed.

“Your wife saved you, and quite possibly many other innocent lives, by taking those demonic spirits into herself.”

Elijah rose from his seat.

“The world has changed far more since that fateful All Hallows’ Eve night than you could possibly imagine, John,” Elijah said, coming around the desk. “Walk with me, won’t you?”

John set his cup down and did what was asked of him.

“It’s as if the jar was some sort of trigger,” Elijah explained as they walked down the long corridor to a set of stairs. “The first shot fired in a new war against the forces of light.”

They descended the steps to a first-floor level filled with multiple desks, computers, and office equipment, clashing with the walls, which were painted with old, and quite gruesome, representations of the Stations of the Cross, depicting Jesus’ torment and crucifixion.

“Interesting decorating choice,” John said, eyeing the art.

“Left over from the previous tenants, the Blessed Sisters of Christ,” Elijah explained. “The last sister of the order made me promise on her deathbed not to paint over it. As you can see, I keep my promises.”

There were people working busily at their stations, not even noticing that they were there.

“This is where we do our research,” Elijah explained. “Gathering information to determine whether or not we are to be involved. As you can see, we’re quite busy.”

A door at the far end opened and a thin man with a bald head entered the room, travel bag slung over his shoulder.

“Ah,” Elijah said in response. “Just the man I wanted you to meet.”

The man approached. He had dark circles beneath his eyes and moved like somebody who was exhausted.

“John Fogg, Griffin Royce—the man who kept your wife from harm.”

John gripped the man’s hand firmly and gave it a shake. “Thank you so very much.”

Griffin nodded, squeezing back. “She really didn’t need my help,” he said, and the expression on his face told John that something more had occurred, but before he could ask— “I was just explaining to John about the Coalition,” Elijah began.

Griffin studied him for a moment. “Think you’d fit right in,” he said. “Scarred just like the rest of us.”

“Scarred?” John asked, confused.

“Griffin is making reference to the fact that most of our members have been . . . damaged in some way by our encounters with the supernatural.”

John could still feel the burning sensation of his wife’s kiss upon his cheek.

“Don’t tell me you’re not sporting some scar tissue, John,” Griffin said. “I’ve read quite a bit about you, and your past—and remember I’ve spent some quality time visiting your wife.”

Suddenly John didn’t care much for this Griffin. “And what about you, Mr. Royce?” he asked coldly. “What scars do you carry.”

“A dead wife and an eight-year-old daughter who misses her mother something terrible are the thickest right now,” he said, his stare intense. “But as long as I’m with the Coalition, there will be more.”

The sudden friction between him and Griffin was almost palpable, and Elijah, obviously sensing that things could take a turn for the worse, stepped in.

“Why don’t you go and get some rest?” Elijah said, reaching out to take Griffin by the arm.

Griffin allowed himself to be moved along, but he kept his eyes on John.

“Yeah, I’m pretty exhausted,” he said. “Want to see Cassie, too.”

“Go on, then,” Elijah said. “I think she was in the garden waiting for you to return.”

“Nice meeting you, John Fogg,” Griffin said. “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”

John said nothing as the man slowly turned and strolled through the office toward the stairs, the staff acknowledging him with nods or smiles as he passed.

“He’s rather—intense,” John said.

“That would be an accurate description,” Elijah said. “He lost his wife in a house fire when his daughter was just an infant.”

“Very sad,” John said. “You said that most members of the Coalition had been affected somehow by the supernatural. Was the paranormal involved with that?”

Elijah looked at him gravely. “His daughter, she caused the fire.”

“But she was just a baby. How . . .?”

“Pyrokinetic,” Elijah said. “She was upset, as babies can sometimes be, when her unique ability manifested.”

“She killed her mother,” John said, horrified.

“She doesn’t remember, and Griffin will never tell her,” Elijah said. “But Griffin remembers . . . he remembers everything.”

The room was silent then except for the clicking of computer keyboards as data were collected, as research was done.

“Why am I here, Elijah?”

“I would think it obvious,” Elijah said. “I want you to join us . . . I want for you to be part of the Coalition.”

John looked around the space, at the people as they scrutinized their computer screens searching for signs of something preternaturally amiss. He wondered about them, how the supernatural had touched each and every one of their lives.

“The world, and the many lives that live within, unbeknownst to most, are at constant war with the forces of the unnatural,” Elijah explained. “Since man emerged from the shadows into the light, we have been there to fight this war. Call us what you will—Demonists, the Coalition—some form of our brotherhood has existed to battle the forces of evil.”

“I’m sorry, Elijah. It’s good that something like that exists, but . . .”

“Even more so now—since that fateful Halloween night,” Elijah said. “The war has amped up, the attacks upon decency more pronounced. There appears to be a demonic incursion into the world since that night.”

“So you’re blaming me for the world quite literally going to Hell?”

“Of course not,” Elijah scoffed. “You and your team were targets. Whoever was responsible wanted you out of the way. Removed from the world so that you could not intervene in what’s to come.”

Elijah paused, hoping that his words were sinking in, that he might be swayed.

“Elijah, I can’t,” John said with a sad shake of his head. “My focus needs to be on my wife, curing her of her affliction if I can.”

The old man sighed, obviously disappointed. “Of course,” Elijah said, “but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

“I can’t give up before I try,” John said. “I’m not going to give up on her.”

“Of course you’re not,” Elijah said. He reached out and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “But evil of this magnitude is quite corruptive and your time is limited. I fear that you might already be too late.”

“Which makes having access to the Demonists’ library all the more important.”

“Certainly,” Elijah agreed. “Everything will be at your disposal.”

“Thank you,” John said.

They left the control center and returned upstairs in silence. At Elijah’s office door they stopped.

“I’ll have a driver take you back to your hotel to retrieve your belongings and then drive you to the airport,” Eljah said.

“I appreciate it.”

“The pertinent materials to be found in the Demonists’ library will follow.”

“Again, I can’t thank you enough.”

Elijah smiled, the twisted side of his face becoming even more grotesque with the attempt.

“I wish you the best of luck,” he said, shaking John’s hand. “But if you should fail in your endeavors . . .”

“I can’t fail,” John said. “I refuse to accept that as an option.”

“Excellent,” Elijah said, stepping into his office. He took something from his desk. “But if things turn grim, and you start to lose hope.”