One webpage led to another and the hours passed without Marcos realizing it. He turned off his computer, with bloodshot eyes, tormented by an incessant headache. He could spend the rest of his life without ever reading again about another demon, and yet he had failed to find any information on the ritual followed by the cult against their hapless victims. Whatever it was they imagined they were doing, it was probably something of their own invention. He went to his bed, sighing with relief as he lay down, set the alarm on his phone to a few hours later and then closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when the phone started ringing. He answered, sleepily, without checking the caller id.
“Yes?”
“Come down to the station, now”, said the voice belonging to a colleague of his and Marcos immediately jumped up.
“What happened?”
“Just, come”.
“Tell me!”
“John… he’s dead… That man killed him…”
Marcos did not hear a single word after that, both his body and mind had gone numb. Mechanically, he got dressed, picked up the keys from the basket filled with those colored pebbles and left his apartment. On his way to the station, those words the man had said earlier were playing again and again in his mind: “Just for you, buddy, remember that, because you went ahead and asked a third idiotic question…”
He let the water ran and splashed some on his face, in an attempt to calm down. He may have been a cop, having worked for three years in drug enforcement and another three in homicide, but nothing could have prepared a young man of twenty six to watch on video his best friend being slaughtered in a cell by a madman. His stomach churned as those horrifying images sprang back in his mind and, unable to resist, he run to an open stall and threw up.
Marcos had lost all sense of time, he did not know how many hours had passed since his phone rang. He could not recall getting to the station, the only things he remembered were that they wouldn’t let him see the body of his friend and all the questions they had for him; those endless questions, since the people from Internal Affairs had arrived on the scene. The detainee somehow had managed to get his hands on a knife and then remove his handcuffs; exactly how he did that remained a mystery. And this madness did not stop there, since, following the murder of a police officer, he had managed to escape from the station, completely undetected. The brass had sent their hounds from the Internal Affairs to interrogate the single suspect, Marcos, believing that he alone was in a position to help the detainee get hold of a weapon and escape. The moment Marcos realized that he was being interrogated, suspected of being an accomplice in the murder of his friend, his mind clouded even more. He grabbed one of the men asking the questions by the head, slammed him against the wall and launched a barrage of blows against his ribs and face, before their colleagues managed to pull him away. After that incident, the questions stopped and he was left alone for a couple of hours, to stew in his own juices, while his colleagues were poring over the video from the security cameras, looking for clues.
Late in the afternoon they announced their findings, namely that, after all, Marcos appeared to have no connection to the escape, whereupon they allowed him to watch the video on the station’s computers. John had entered late that night the cell where the man was being held, a few hours after talking to Marcos on the phone. Despite police regulations, they had not removed the handcuffs from the detainee when they locked him up and John was holding a baton, apparently determined to continue with the interrogation in his own way. The moment he entered the cell he tried to hit the man with the baton, but the detainee lunged at him, with the handcuffs dropping to the floor as if they weren’t locked around his wrists. He blocked the baton with his arm, striking John on the wrist of the hand in which he held the weapon, landing a powerful blow with the other hand on the policeman’s head. John, stunned, tried to defend himself, but the scales were tipped against him. His opponent was attacking him with terrible speed and ferocity and soon had managed to disarm him, breaking one of his arms. With the baton now firmly in the hands of the detainee, the clash was over. The man landed a final, powerful blow against the back of John’s head, dropping him unconscious. At that point, the detainee produced a small knife from his pocket, about the size of a jackknife, then paused over the body of the policeman, seemed to consider something and left him there. He returned a little later, with the knife now bloodied. Marcos was informed that in the meantime he had killed the single guard on duty at the jail, so he would be able to work unobstructed. He took the handcuffs from the floor, put them on John and then splashed some water on his face from a small bottle they had given him earlier, so as to wake him up. What followed was truly horrible. Horrified, Marcos watched the rest of the video, which showed the man chanting as he was cutting John’s face, while the policeman was screaming in pain. Each and every attempt to resist and escape his tormentor ended with stab wounds in various parts of his body. The man ripped the policeman’s shirt and began cutting symbols on his chest. Each symbol he cut, he would then join with the others, drawing the knife on the skin in between. With a quick turn of the knife, he cut John’s vein from end to end and then, pushing down his head, forced him to drink his own blood. John’s body was raked by violent trembling and soon after went limp. He was now dead, in a pool of his own blood, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing. And yet, his tormentor was not done with him; he stabbed the symbols he had cut on John’s chest right in their center, eight in total, and finally he plunged the knife with all his might on the forehead of the victim, where he had cut the ninth symbol. He let go of the knife and placed his hand on John’s eyes, before covering his own eyes with his other hand. His whole body began to tremble, as if he was being electrocuted, and he held that position for several seconds. When he finally stood up, he appeared to be somewhat dizzy, stumbling on his way to the exit. What happened next had been recorded on another video, which showed the man exciting the station from the main entrance, unchallenged. A policeman who was standing guard at a small post outside the building saw him and immediately run towards him, with his gun drawn. Before he had the chance to do anything else, a shot fired by an unknown marksman, dropped him to the ground. A tall woman, wearing a thick leather jacket, approached the wounded guard and, indifferent to the fact that the camera was capturing her face, shot him a further two or three times, from close range. Then, she went to the bloodied man and grabbed him by the arm to support him, as he had stood nearby watching the scene, and then she quickly led him to her motorcycle, which had been parked mere yards from the entrance to the station. By the time the other policemen on duty at the time arrived on the scene, the two of them had disappeared.
Slowly, Marcos got up from the toilet bowl where he had been kneeling and returned to the sink, attempting to regain control of his thoughts and push aside those images from his mind. Again, he splashed some water on his face, stood still for a while to make sure his stomach had calmed down and then returned to his office. He took his jacket, along with his service pistol and left the station. He had some murderers to catch.
This time it was Travis who was sitting behind the wheel. They had “acquired” an old Mustang, which they had found collecting dust at a small car dealer. The man who had sold them the car was very pleased that he had finally managed to get rid of it, so he didn’t pay particular attention to the check he took from Erica. In any case, it was already dark when they arrived at his store, minutes before he could leave for the night, and the moment Erica had begun talking to him, a terrible headache descended; the only thing he then wanted to do was close the deal and head home to get some rest. Perhaps, he could call in sick the next day. Afterwards, Erica had to take the car to a garage for a few essential repairs. Fortunately, there were a few shops that were open around the clock; although they were quite shady and charged a premium for discretion. The hefty price at least included speedy services, so a couple hours later the car was ready and she went to pick up Travis from the hotel she had dropped him off.
They loaded the weapons and money in the trunk and hit the road. Soon, Tower was receding in the distance as they were following the highway which would take them deeper into the mainland. Their first stop would be at El Morte, to the north of the state of Texas; a fairly big city, home to one of the major military training centers of the United States, as well as several departments of the federal government, dedicated to combating crime. It was a city teeming with soldiers and agents, an ideal target for Erica to find some recruits. While she was human, a member of the Order of the Silver Sun, they had brought her once to this place. Although rather young at the time, it hadn’t been difficult for her to realize that the Order maintained a barracks there, recruiting former military and agents. Now, she intended to do exactly the same, particularly since the Order was no longer active, so it couldn’t foil her plans.
She lowered the window on her side and allowed the air to cool her face, closing her eyes. She could feel Travis glancing towards her every now and then, as he was driving, but paid him no mind. It may have been a couple of days since that incident at the mansion, but she was still feeling tired, while deep inside a sense akin to guilt was gnawing at her. She could not get the face of Dimitri out of her mind, the way she had killed him without a second thought, despite his close relationship with her family. The darkness had truly gotten hold of her soul, but what mostly impressed her was the realization of how little that bothered her. The fact that she remembered fully well both Dimitri and the time he had spent together with her father and herself, as well as the realization that she wouldn’t see him again, did not stop her from feeling utterly unfazed by that murder. She simply felt that his time on this earth had expired. God had a plan for them all, as the Order priests used to say, therefore he was obviously destined to die by her hand in order for Erica to get hers on some dozens of weapons, along with enough bullets and money. Life wasn’t fair, but then again she didn’t ask to become a vampire; thus, she excused what she had done.
Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted when she felt another presence inside the car, other than Travis. She opened her eyes at once and looked around, ready to strike. She saw no intruder, yet she was certain someone was there. Travis turned and looked at her, surprised.
“Something’s wrong?”
With a gesture, Erica asked him to be quiet. Her hair was standing, for the first time since she had become a vampire. Stunned, she realized she was afraid. She would not brook such a sensation; she hadn’t experienced fear since she was a little girl. Her nerves were frayed; the blood in her veins was boiling. All of a sudden she could see, as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes. At the back of the car there was a humanoid shadow, like a ghost. Its characteristics constantly shifted, between those of a woman and a demonic creature. Erica wasted no time in introductions. In the tight space of the cabin, she lunged as best as she could towards the apparition and with one hand she tried to strike. Her fist went through the humanoid shadow, as if it weren’t there. Before she had the chance to regroup, the ghost attacked. A muffled sound was followed by a fierce attack with both hands against Erica’s face; its claws easily pierced her skin. Blood flowed from the wounds, but Erica ignored it. Turning her back to the apparition, she opened the glove compartment on the dashboard to grab the pistol she had placed earlier in there. The ghost took advantage of that turn and grabbed her by the shoulders, biting her on the neck. Erica screamed in pain and Travis looked at her, terrified, unable to understand why Erica was screaming so or how she had gotten those wounds. Only when Erica managed to get hold of the gun and fire a single silver bullet at the ghost’s head, did he see their opponent. Travis and the ghost screamed in unison, but for very different reasons. The former lost control of the car, careening to the opposite lane; at the very last second he managed to avoid an incoming vehicle and with sharp turns of the steering wheel, managed to get the car back on track. The apparition began clawing at its head, where it had been hit by the bullet and, screaming, shattered into a million pieces. The bullet dropped down and immediately the ghost regained its original form. It growled at Erica, who went ahead and emptied the pistol clip on it. The ghost attempted to evade the bullets by shapeshifting, but several of those hit their target. As before, the apparition screamed in pain, unable to counterattack while it was being struck by the bullets. Erica, the moment the clip was empty, threw the gun down and grabbed from the glove compartment a small knife she had taken from the mansion and which, thankfully for her, was made of silver. Before the ghost had time to recover from the bullets, Erica landed three successive hits with the knife all over its form, forcing it to disappear with a screeching sound.
Still holding the knife, Erica carefully examined the space around her. The wounds on her face had healed already, while the bite marks had all but closed, though she was in excruciating pain. Travis, next to her, unable to contain himself any longer, began shouting:
“What the hell was that?”
His voice was trembling, mirroring the reaction of his hands. Erica didn’t know what answer to give him so he would calm down. In any event, she didn’t have the time to utter a single word, as her vision clouded and her hearing became muffled, as if she had ascended rapidly to high altitude. A male, old but melodious voice echoed inside her mind, as if from a great distance:
“They attacked the heir to Naram-Sin. Be on your guard, they know you are on your own”.
A second male voice joined in, while her head felt like it was about to burst from the horrible pain.
“Impossible, they are already here and…”
The words of the second voice were lost in the hubbub, as other voices were speaking up. Someone was having a telepathic conversation and Erica could not quite follow. She focused all her strength on understanding what was being said, but the headache was far too intense. The dizziness surrounding her gave way to blackness and Erica collapsed in her seat, unconscious.
Marcos had spent the last three days looking for clues on the movements of the cult and more particularly the man who had murdered his friend; he was joined by almost the entire Athens police force, since, with the death of John, the majority of his colleagues felt that this case had become deeply personal. Every single piece of information, no matter how minute, was being investigated either by Marcos or one of his colleagues. Now, however, Marcos was back at his place. He had decided to start working from home since the situation over at the station was too chaotic for him to concentrate. So, back at the desk he kept in his apartment he had cleared as much space as possible to spread all those papers that might prove useful: testimonies by bystanders, assets belonging to the suspect and all manners of documents, organized in two piles. The one contained those documents he hadn’t read yet, while the second those he had seen at least once. He was close to going through that first pile and Marcos was feeling desperate.
The cult seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth since the last murder. Some assumed that its members had gone into hiding due to the intense interest surrounding the case and the ensuing publicity, but also because the faces of two of their comrades were almost constantly on television. Marcos wasn’t that convinced that this was the case. Without being able to pinpoint the exact reason, he felt that something big was about to happen. For the last three days, life at the capital was fairly calmer. Most junkies had disappeared from the streets, while several dealers were missing from their usual haunts. It was like the calm before the storm, and Marcos was convinced that this storm was about to unleash its fury.
He decided to change tack. He continued to have various contacts, gained during his service at the drug enforcement department, so he took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number which he could still recall from memory.
“Hello?” said a female voice from the other end of the line.
“Hi, Christina, it’s Marcos”, he told her.
It had been some time since they’d last spoken, so he wasn’t sure whether she still had his number. They
had been a couple, at the time he was studying at the Academy. She was studying finance at the University; her family was one of the richest in the capital. Her father never really liked Marcos, despite the praises he would receive from his superiors and his rapid ascent in the hierarchy. Even before he had completed his first year of service at drug enforcement, the pressure from her family had become insufferable and the two of them had called it a day. Marcos, however, wasn’t bitter and always tried to help her as much as he could, for example when he would offer her information on who’s a dodgy character and who’s clean when her father secured for her a position at the Ministry of Finance.
“Marcos, dear, how are you? My condolences for your friend… I meant to call you, but…”
Her voice trailed, she was lost for words.
“It is all right. Thank you. Say, I need a favor. Off the record, of course”.
“Anything for you!” answered Christina, and her voice sounded happier this time; she preferred it this way, being asked for favors, as she felt she was in control.
“Remember a case that surfaced a couple of years ago, with that famed businessman who was a ringleader of a network of dealers? In fact, the largest network of these past years? Hatzikostas was his surname”.
“Yeah…”
“Well, among the many assets this guy had in his possession, there was this hotel he was using so that his dealers could meet the junkies they’d been supplying, away from prying eyes. Could you try and find similar places, belonging to him or some other member of his family? Whether they’re behind bars, like the ringleader, or not”.
Christina asked for a little time to get the information he had asked for.
Just ten minutes later, Marcos’ phone began ringing.
“So, the family still has in its possession a number of houses, all located in the suburbs. The apartments they owned downtown were all sold to cover the expenses from the various lawsuits they faced. I couldn’t trace any other major properties in their names, but they do own shares in a chain of fitness institutes, as well as one of the telecom companies. None of these companies is doing well, financially. However, despite their heavy losses, they seem to be doing rather well, overall. Someone must be financing them, but who that might be… I’ve no idea…” she told him.