Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (31 page)

“Though the Luciferians are in disarray they will
never give up trying to find their Redeemer. We must stop that from happening,
and if we can find the child, remove him ourselves.” As he continued, Quentin
saw affirmation in Martin’s eyes. “With these texts, I was gaining more insight
about his nature.” He indicated the codexes, in which he had been immersed at
the beginning of their tumultuous discussion. “Would you continue to read?”

“My good Father, I would be happy to, but what am I
looking for?” As he sat down, Martin was already in the process of turning the
books to face him.

“With your knowledge, you will know what it is when
you come to it. I was not sure until I opened them myself. God guided my hand
in selecting these seemingly unrelated texts, and he will guide your eyes in
finding what you, and we, will need to squash this oldest evil, our most
despised of enemies.” As he spoke, Quentin turned and walked away.

“I will do what I can, Quentin. Godspeed with your task.”
Martin knew the battle he must wage in order to get what he needed to make the
fight across the Atlantic.

- Meet The New Boss -

TIME: MARCH 16TH, 1963. WHITTIER MANSION, SAN FRANCISCO,
CALIFORNIA, USA

Mordecai sat in a chair, wincing as the last of the
ink was applied to his body. He assumed the role that Balzeer McGrath once
occupied, and receiving the marks was a required part of the position. Without
appointment, different artists came to Whittier Mansion and applied each of the
marks of power. They only presented a letter and preceded to weave the
patterns, which every master had worn since the church began. They went to
Mordecai, alone, wouldn’t speak to anyone else, repeating his name.

Mordecai said nothing as the last artist finished and
folded up his instruments. The master did not deign to thank those who showed
allegiance. Allegiance was given with their breath, or taken, if not willingly
given. He didn’t have time to talk to anyone, save the people whom he sent to
find their treasonous savior.

He pulled on his black robe and tied the sash as he
walked to his desk, crowded with telephones. He winced as the designs, recently
applied to his body, quarreled with the air around them. They were patterns,
forbidden to all but the ruling head of the Church of the Lightbringer, the
first-born Son of God. Individually, variations of each were from profane
rituals, summoning war, famine, pestilence, disaster and death. Mordecai,
McGrath and the antipopes before them had worn these profane, forbidden signs
and never told anyone of their weight and difficulty.

They shifted and moved around their fleshy, earthly
prisons. They did not want to be in the air, on the earth and inscribed upon
human skin. These marks were intended only for native skin from the brimstone
rings of hell. They were a constant irritant, with which Mordecai must learn to
deal.

The desk, before which he sat, was the same desk on
which McGrath died. He demanded that none of the gore be cleaned. He preferred
to sit among the remains of his former master. He thought it fitting, though he
never shared this thought with anyone else. His days of sharing died with his
little Greek, Haggios.

Lifting the first receiver, he had no need to dial.
The connection was not magical, but a direct line to the sister chapel in South
Carolina. Every phone on his desk was hooked into another at each contact point
Mordecai had dictated. The logistics involved with connecting all of them in
such a short time was phenomenal, but the threat of death, as well as promises
of unheard of wealth, were incredible motivators. By simply lifting a receiver,
the other end rang. Upon pain of death, and worse, there was always someone
available to answer the calls.

To anyone else, each of the phones appeared black,
plain and indistinguishable from each other, but Mordecai knew to what location
each phone was connected. Their placement could not be altered, as they were
all bolted into place. There was one for each major chapter house in the world,
and several for their people in Catholic dioceses, spread throughout the
Weakling’s Church. There were others, yet to be added, as connections and
infiltrations were established.

Many would be assigned to mercenaries and
governments, willing to do anything for the right price. Still others were for
organizations with amiable faces, but under Luciferian control. To be sure, the
church was in disarray, but only because of McGrath’s old methods of
supernatural reliance. The chamber where he left Mossy, as well as all the
other fuel for his machinations was lost. Only Balzeer knew how to access it.
Each of those souls would die with him, except Mossy, who would linger, in
accordance with his punishment. Mordecai smiled at that. A lingering death
spanning years was just reward.

Mordecai’s methods relied on man’s most basic and
powerful desires: greed and fear. Most of the people he used were paid, never
knowing from whom their payment was received. Others exhausted their monetary
needs. These individuals — and possibly even their loved ones —
were threatened with bodily harm, if not death.

Those motivators had been in place since before
civilization and were universally used by many of the church’s unwitting
errants: governments, banks, military, criminal organizations and businesses.
Most never even knew they advanced the Luciferian cause. Some did, but they
didn’t care; wealth and position was sufficient to quell any moral pangs.

Mordecai waited three rings before he heard a
response on the other end. Before he became Grand Master, this delay would’ve
infuriated him, but now, he simply decided to remember it, in case it occurred
too often. If such were the case, no reprimand would follow, simply swift
removal.

“Yes, how may I serve you, and in serving, bring
closer the age of the Prince?” The voice was that of a youth, unaware of that
which he invoked.

“Get me the Bishop, child. I want to speak to Leo.”
Mordecai waited a few seconds before he heard a hurried rasp of breath on the
other end of the line. This was good; the bishop of South Carolina waited for
permission to speak. That chapel had long been in competition with San
Francisco for the position of mother chapel of North America. Both were, at
different times, second and third only to Milan — the closest chapel to
the Weakling’s Citadel. “Leo, you have doubtless heard of Balzeer’s death. His
direction shall be missed.”

Leo exhaled slowly and sounded as though he was
seething, resenting the fact that he must prostrate himself to this faggot and
posturing pretender to the throne — a throne that should’ve been his. Leo
did not know why the Artists of Ascension had not come to his door, or why the
Prince’s servants didn’t give him the mantel of temporal power, but he was
forced to swallow his monumental pride and do as he was bidden.

“Yes, he will be missed. Hail to the new Supreme
Tribunal. What is your will of me? Ask and I will obey.”

“Yes, Leo, I know that you are a genuine servant of
the Prince and I know that you wanted to be the new Supreme Tribunal, but I am
heartened to see that you can control your personal disgust and continue with
what we must do. Our problem is that the Prince’s only son, the Sangrael of the
Cosmic Dawn, is lost to us.” Leo heard genuine pain in Mordecai’s voice.

“Yes, it’s very troubling that he’s involved with the
one who attacked our chapel and killed Balzeer. Why would he do this? Did you
see him?” Leo wanted to learn all he could about their savior.

“No, I didn’t, and I believe that if I had, I would
not have been spared either. Any high-ranking servitor of the San Franciscan
Phalanx the abductor came across was killed without hesitation. We do have some
audio recordings of the torture and murder of the grand master,” Mordecai
muttered.

Leo’s next exclamation was like that of a child,
begging for candy. “You have the voice of our savior? Have you listened to it?
What does he say? Can you send me a copy? I beg of you; I would do anything to
hear his voice.”

“Yes, I have heard it. I don’t know if it would do
any good if you listened to it. The child is older than we imagined. Even if he
had been born on the date prophesied, he would only be a year old, though he
sounds like he is seven or eight. This cannot be him. This child is too mature
to have been born only last February.”

“Can you send me a copy, your Excellency? Whatever
the circumstances, He is still our messiah. I implore you, send me his voice
and I would be forever indebted to you.” Leo was now begging with fervor,
unlike anything Mordecai ever encountered.

“Very well, Leo, I will send you this and will hold
you to your promise. Now, to the business of this call…” Mordecai was cut off
by Leo’s wet happiness.

“Oh, thank you, your Excellency. Your predecessor
never showed such a kindness. Thanks and blessings upon you, Supreme Tribunal.
Thanks and blessing for all that you desire.”

“Enough! Leo, get a hold of yourself! I tell you now,
however, this will not be the gift it seems. The savior is not pleased with us.
He is not following his path and you will be disappointed with the recordings.
However, you will understand this better when you hear it for yourself.”

Mordecai continued, “Now, listen carefully. I want
you to go to your people in the Freemasons. The man who has caused so much
damage to us had all the trappings and iron will of a Templar. Those whom he
left alive all describe him as a Holy Knight.”

“A Templar? That’s impossible; they’re only a memory,
Excellency. The Masons are all who’re left, and they’re rich, middle-aged men
who like to pretend knighthood and the camaraderie of their own kind. Whomever
told you that is mad.” Leo scoffed at Mordecai’s words, though the Grand Master
brought him up short.

“They are not a figment of imagination, bishop!
Indeed, they are real, and as far as I can see from here, where we lost more
than two-dozen members, he has struck our very soul. The Templars did not die
out in 1312, fool. They have endured under the protection of the Petrine Office
and have been the cause of most of our failures.”

“If they have our savior, then why is he still
alive?” Leo’s question was as quick as it was perceptive. “The man whom you
describe needn’t be a Templar. He could be military, CIA, MI-6, or even
Mossad.”

“Bishop, you’ve been watching James Bond too often.
However, the point was well made. It cannot be the Templars, or else they
would’ve killed him by now.” Mordecai continued to play dumb, attempting to
elicit Leo’s analysis of the situation.

“You’re serious about the Templars, your Excellency?
They did not die with de Molay, but remain?” Leo spoke, but barely above a
whisper.

“Why are you whispering, bishop? Are you afraid that
they’ll hear? Yes, they’re real and they put the rest of those amateurs you
mentioned — CIA, MI-6 and their celebrity golden boy, James Bond —
to shame. Just as in the middle ages, they answer to no one.” Mordecai was
losing his patience, detailing that which should have been obvious to the South
Carolinian bishop.

“Well, that’s not true. In the middle ages, they
answered to the Citadel’s Keeper. Their power was at his discretion. Is this
not still the case?” As a professor of medieval history, Leo knew his facts.

“Well noted, Leo. Indeed, you are right again. Now
that we are sure that this man cannot be a Templar, what are our options,
considering that he has our savior and that he has manipulated him into
renouncing his birthright?” Mordecai’s query was met with silence. “Leo, do you
have any further insight?”

“We are all sure the boy was born on the prophesied
date, correct? In addition, we know he was not born at the prophesied location,
because the Prince’s Ceremony of Darkness and Fire, with the sacrifices, or the
waiting Supreme Victim, was sufficient to lure him to his intended place of
birth. We know who took him, though we don’t know how or where,” Leo surmised
and then continued. “According to your own words, Supreme Tribunal, we know
very little. It is foolhardy to proceed from here without further information.
Is there anyone still alive who can describe the man?”

“Yes, there are a few who saw the man and they are
being summoned now. I’ll call you back when I know more.” Mordecai hung up and
rose from his desk as three bleary-eyed kitchen workers were brought in and
directed to sit in wing-backed chairs, facing him.

“Thank you all for coming. I’m sorry to have roused
you from your sleep.” Mordecai glanced at each of them before he continued. “Do
you know who I am?”

He gave them no time to respond, but continued, “I am
the new head of our church. Mr. Balzeer McGrath was killed the same day you
were assaulted, and at the hands of the same man. Now, we gave you the
strictest of instructions that the police must not be involved, and we paid
each of you very well for your silence. That silence is only for the
authorities.” Mordecai sat at his desk and resumed his monologue. “You all know
for whom you work. I need not say it aloud and conjure up Halloween images. I
have never seen the reality of these superstitions, but rest assured, we do
Lucifer’s work. However, you are not required to join us, simply to answer our
questions. Do you have any questions?” Mordecai hoped that, at most, he would
simply have to scam these people. He wanted their cooperation; he didn’t want
their thoughts to be sullied through the pain of torture.