The Demonists (19 page)

“What had been forgotten is remembered again,” the Teacher said, his hands disappearing into the wounds in his body. “Given life through the belief of the innocent.”

The Teacher withdrew his hands and they were not empty. Something had been extracted from inside his person, something that squirmed and splashed in the blood of birth.

Something alive.

Something that had not existed until he . . .
they
had been taught of it.

The newborn nightmare squealed and writhed as it was brought to the edge of the fish tank and released over the side to splash down into the filthy water.

And as Christopher watched the newly birthed life swim within the fluids of the tank, he understood what it was they had been responsible for. An old god had been reborn this day, and it was the students who had given it life.

He let the blood-covered box cutter drop from his hand with a clatter as he stared at the tank and its new inhabitant.

“Praise Him, He has returned,” the Teacher said, swaying from side to side inside a circle of his own blood.

“Damakus,” Christopher said, understanding then why he and the others had been brought to this place.

And with that understanding, the god within the tank started to grow.

“Damakus,” the students said in unison.
“Damakus.”

John Fogg stood in the doorway of their bedroom watching his wife. Theo had been out of it for three days and had barely moved since the last time he checked in on her. Squinting in the darkness, he looked for signs that she was indeed breathing.

Franklin had given her a quick checkup once Elijah and his people left. He said that she was actually good, better than good really. There was a calmness to her now that hadn’t been present since . . . John grabbed hold of the doorknob and was about to pull it closed when he heard his name softly spoken.

“John?”

Damn it,
he thought. He hadn’t wanted to wake her.

“Yeah,” he answered, leaning into the darkness of the room. “Just checking to see if you were all right. Go back to sleep.”

“Well?”

The door was halfway closed again, and he pushed it back. “Well what?”

“Am I?” she asked sleepily.

“I think you’re good.”

“I feel . . . different,” she said.

“It’s to be expected,” he said. “You need to rest. Then you’ll feel better.” He started to close the door again. “Now go back to sleep.”

“Hey, John,” Theo called out.

“Yes,” he answered.

“I wanted to tell you . . . I wanted to say that I love you. I think it’s been a long time since I’ve told you that.”

He found himself genuinely smiling for the first time in months.

It was taking everything he had not to go to her, to take her in his arms and . . .

“I love you, too, babe,” he said. “Now get some rest.” The door finally closed, and he allowed himself to feel something that he had not experienced since the events involving his wife began.
Hope.
Elijah and the Coalition had seemingly given it back to him. It was time that he began repayment on his debt to them.

Brenna had been staring at the pictures for hours, similar in nature to the single symbols found at all the kidnapping scenes.

Strange, jagged shapes in succession, primitive writing long forgotten even by scientists who proclaimed themselves to be experts of such things.

Written on the extracted teeth of a six-year-old.

They had noticed the gouges when the teeth were collected from the parents, scratches in the yellowish enamel. At first they had believed them to be some natural defect.

But then Grinnal had looked closer.

The markings were intentional, put there for a reason.

But why?

To send the child’s parents even further down the rabbit hole to insanity? That was at least one sure bet, but there was something else to it as well. Something that the agent couldn’t quite put her finger on—yet.

Brenna remembered her coffee and picked it up for a sip. Ice cold. She made a face, disgusted, and set it back down on her desktop. She guessed that more time had passed than she would have expected.

She was considering heading out to get another cup when there came a knock at her door. A secretary—she believed her name was Nadine—stuck her head quickly inside the office.

“Agent Isabel?” the woman asked. “There’s somebody here to see you about your missing children case. He said that he’s expected.” Brenna wasn’t expecting anybody. “Did they give a name?” The woman shook her head. “No.”

Brenna got up from her chair, going to the door and peering out. “Where—” she had started to say just as Nadine pointed him out.

John Fogg stood in front of Nadine’s desk, hands clasped in front of him, head bowed. He looked as though he might be praying.

“Should I tell him you’re busy, or . . .”

“No, I’ll see him,” Brenna said. “Just give me a second.”

She went back to her desk, placed the pictures of the teeth back in their folder, and put them away inside her drawer. Returning to the door, she leaned out, motioning for John to come down.

He smiled pleasantly when he saw her and headed down the aisle between workstations to her office.

“Mr. Fogg,” she said, holding out her hand. “Nice to see you again.”

He took her hand and squeezed lightly.

“Agent Isabel,” he said. “I’m sorry that it’s taken me this long to get back to you.”

“Come in,” she said, ushering him into her office. Brenna closed the door, then walked behind her desk, gesturing for him to take the chair opposite her as she sat. “Please,” she said.

“Thanks,” he replied, sitting down.

She was trying to be polite, but it was hard for her not to show her annoyance. She’d been trying to communicate with this guy for nearly two months and hadn’t heard a peep.

“So,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “To what do I owe this visit?”

Fogg leaned forward. “I doubt that I’m your favorite person right now,” he said with what appeared to be genuine sincerity. “But you did ask me for my help, and I’m here to offer it to you.”

“Really?” she asked, unable to contain her annoyance with the television celebrity any longer. She seriously doubted that he had anything to offer and was about to blow him off. “How nice of you to offer, but right now we’ve got a pretty good handle on the case and—”

“That’s not what I was led to understand,” he said, his delivery quite serious.

“Oh, really?” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “And should I perhaps be asking the source of your information?”

“Let’s just say there are people paying attention to certain . . . things going on in the world at large,” he said. “Things that I believe pertain to the case that you’re working on.”

She wanted to rake him over the coals, to dig for specifics, but the way he was staring at her, the intensity in his demeanor, she came to the conclusion that maybe she’d be better off if she didn’t know.

“Please, let me help,” he then said, and she knew that she couldn’t send him away, that maybe—maybe there was a chance he really could assist in some way.

She pulled open the desk drawer and removed the file that she’d been looking at. Laying it down upon the desk, she opened the folder to reveal the photos within and slid them toward him. “What do you make of this?”

John Fogg delicately picked up the tiny incisor with a hand encased in rubber.

He held it beneath the high-intensity magnifying glass and looked at the markings that had been etched there. Studying the strange configurations, his eyes tracing each and every shape, he felt an icy chill run up and down his spine.

This was something very bad.

“Well?” Isabel asked from the corner of the room. “Can you read it? Does it look like anything you’ve seen before?”

“No,” he said, setting the tooth down with the others. He wanted to pick them all up, each and every one, and examine them, but was sure that the outcome would be the same. “It’s definitely a language, but nothing I’ve ever encountered. I can tell you that it’s very old.”

John moved on to the other items left at the homes of the missing children in the last few weeks. He felt the familiar chill again with the sight of the tiny figurine. It had been carved from the finger bone of one of the children. It was a simple carving, the major details being on the figurine’s face—its eyes and mouth open wide as if in surprise.

“And all of these objects . . .” He ran his hand over the tabletop with even more evidence laid out, printed numbers beneath each. “. . . were found after the children’s disappearances?”

“Yes,” Isabel said, moving closer to the table. “Every home has received some strange piece of paraphernalia in connection to their missing child.” She leaned her hip against the table’s edge, her eyes moving over each of the familiar items. He wondered how many times she had already done that very same thing. “Almost as if the son of a bitch responsible was rubbing it in, reminding these poor people that their children were gone.”

“And that he has them,” John said.

She looked at him hard.

“There haven’t been any bodies found, or remains,” he explained. “I’d guess that whoever is responsible still has them. Whether or not they’re still alive . . .” He shrugged, turning his attention back to the table of gruesome oddities.

“Would it be possible for me to have copies of the case files?” he asked. He could see that she was about to object, but he was persistent.

“I have an extensive library at home, as well as contacts that run the gamut of just about every strange topic imaginable. There might be answers readily available. We’ll just need to sift through tons of bullshit to find them.”

She appeared to be considering his question, arms crossed defensively across her chest. “Let me check with my director,” she said, striding toward the door. “Give me a moment.”

Agent Isabel stepped out and he made his move.

John reached down, taking one of the teeth and slipping it into the pocket of his navy blue blazer. Pictures were all well and good, but to have one of the actual teeth, with the markings made by the kidnapper. He wanted to touch it—to feel it beneath his fingers without the gloves. He wanted to possess it.

It could make all the difference in the world.

Certainly he could go through all the proper channels, the Coalition capable of pulling some strings, but he believed time was of the essence. If the children taken were still alive, they would need to move as quickly as possible.

Agent Isabel stepped back into the room and he turned toward her.

“Yes,” she said. “I can have copies made up of all the pertinent information for you to continue your review.”

“Excellent,” John said, removing his rubber gloves. “As soon as I receive the files, I’ll go through them with a fine-tooth comb and hopefully find something that will help us to crack this case.”

There was a small barrel in the corner of the room and he tossed the used gloves inside.

“Thanks so much for agreeing to speak with me,” he said as he stood beside the agent in the doorway to her office.

“And thank you for finally responding to my requests,” she said sarcastically.

“I deserved that.” He extended his hand again. She took his hand in hers. The grip was firm, powerful. This was a woman to be reckoned with, but he wasn’t sure if even she had the strength to handle the darkness that might be approaching.

“These people you mentioned earlier,” she said as she squeezed his hand, looking him hard in the eye. “Will they be offering you assistance with this?”

“I’m sure they will,” John said.

She stared at him harder as she loosened her grip.

“So they’re aware,” Agent Isabel began.

“Aware?”

“Aware of how things are now,” she said.

He knew exactly what she was talking about.

“Very much so,” he said.

“That’s good.”

He started through the doorway, his business there done. “I’ll be in touch, Agent Isabel.”

And she nodded at him as he left, the last look that he saw in her eyes changing his opinion.

Maybe she was indeed strong enough.

T
he demons believed that they would soon be free, their frail prison of flesh, blood, and bone brought to death.

They imagined their escape out into the earthly realm. So much life, so much frailty, so much goodness to corrupt; it would be a most glorious thing to be free.

They were all ready, waiting, deep down in the darkness. They could feel their host dying by inches, her life functions gradually shutting down one at a time, and as this occurred they rose.

Closer to the surface.

Ready to leave the fleshy trap that had ensnared them when they were freed from the jar.

The jar. Thoughts of their original imprisonment brought a wave of confusion and anger. They had no memories of how they had come to be within the jar, awaiting their prey.

But that was a mystery for another time . . . for when they were truly free.

And they were ready. The life of the woman that held them inside her was coming to a close.

An end for her.

A beginning for a multitude of evil.

The demons swarmed closer, digging their claws and talons into her fading soul as they ascended.

The demons were of a common mind, a hive mind so to speak, each of them sharing with one another their twisted and awful desires for themselves, as well as the world of man.

But suddenly something was wrong.

The flesh had died, but something kept them there . . . something of a magical nature.

The demons were enraged, throwing themselves against the confines of their fleshy prison . . . which appeared to be exactly what someone had intended.

They had been corralled, trapped, damned up within an area of the human woman’s body, the magicks being used ancient and so very powerful.

So powerful that their human host would not have survived if they were used upon her.

Most of the demons ranted and raged, but some admired the trickery used.

The magick had trapped them, bound them, and now the body that they had possessed had been returned to life, and even more powerful magick was being used upon her— Upon them.

Even though their numbers were legion, they could not escape. They were bound to their host, grafted into the fabric of her being.

Where they had expected to be free when the cage of flesh of expired, now they were as one. If she were to die, they would die as well.

The demon swarm roiled in a last-ditch attempt to take control of their host, but something prevented them.

Something held them back.

Marks, symbols, black tattoos inscribed upon her soft and supple flesh.

The demons saw these marks and knew terror and despair, for they were powerful sigils designed by their most reviled enemies.

Designs that gave those adorned with them power over the forces of shadow.

That gave those adorned with these figures power . . .

Over.

Them.

Theodora stood naked before the mirror in awe of what had been put upon her skin.

At first she had been horrified, shaken to the core that these strange sigils had been inked upon her body. The marks flowed up her arms, around her neck, and down her back to circle her waist like a belt. From there they continued, seeming to slither down her hips, to explode outward on either side of her vagina, before winding around her thighs and legs and onto the tops of her feet.

Look at me,
she thought, turning in the mirror, admiring her shoulders, lower back, and buttocks.

All covered with the ancient marks.

But the shock had been short-lived, for she could feel the strength that they gave her, the power over the forces that had infected her.

She could still feel them there, inside her—waiting.

There was no doubt that the demons were still strong, powerful beyond words, and she was certain that if it wasn’t for the strangers who had come into her home to work their magick, and put these marks upon her, she would have fallen by now. Would have died, allowing the malignant forces out into the universe to infect many other poor souls and eventually bring about their demise and the doom of any who loved them.

They had saved her. Somehow they had done what her husband, with all his arcane knowledge, could not.

For a moment she remembered a needle in the hands of her husband, and how he had injected her with its contents, and how she was pretty sure that she had died.

But only temporarily
.
She remembered a sense of peace—an inner calm as her spirit was released from its corrupted flesh to flow upward from the earthly realm to a place of warmth and light.

She thought she would have been content to stay there, to join with the stuff of creation, but Nana Fogg had told her that it was not yet her time, that she still had much to accomplish.

She and the love of her life.

It was that love that had brought her back, that had given her soul the weight and strength to return to a body still infected with a multitude of evils.

But the vessel—her body—had been fortified, made stronger by the magickally infused sigils that had been inscribed upon her flesh, their power flowing under the skin to the muscle, sinew, blood, and bone beneath.

Yes,the evil—the demons—were still there.

Theodora held out her hand, feeling influence of one of the demonic entities as it attempted to assert itself. She could feel it slithering beneath the flesh, entwining around her fingers. She watched as the flesh grew leathery and spotted, the nails at the tips of her fingers growing longer, hooking as they grew thicker, becoming more like a bird’s talons now.

She knew what the demon wanted. It wanted her to reach up with those nasty claws to her delicate throat and rip the flesh away. The hand rose, and the long, spindly fingers trembled in anticipation of the violent act it was going to commit.

And she said,
No
.

With that simple command, the flesh softened, the talons receding, changing, until they were nothing more than fingernails again. Theodora flexed the hand, opening and closing her fingers, and she smiled Yes, the evil—the demons—was still inside.

But it was now she who possessed them.

John Fogg held the tooth in his fingers, trying with all his might not to think of where it had come from.

“There are repeated patterns,” he said as he brought the tooth under the focus of the magnifier lens that he had attached to his glasses. “Which convinces me that these scratches are most definitely part of an alphabet, but not one I’ve encountered before.”

Elijah grunted in response.

John looked away from the tooth, to the image of the Coalition leader on his computer screen. From his office in Romania, the scarred old man hovered over the multiple photographs taken of the teeth from the files Agent Isabel had given them.

“We’ve run the patterns through our database with no luck,” he said. “Perhaps what we’re looking at here is older than the data we’ve collected. So old it has been lost to time.”

John removed his glasses, rubbing at his tired, burning eyes. “Or our perpetrator is more ambitious than we thought and has created his own alphabet and written language.”

“There is a man in Sicily who has helped us on occasion,” Elijah said as John watched him slowly lower himself down into a chair. “Ever since an accident on a construction site that caused a steel bolt to be lodged in his skull, he has been capable of deciphering Enochian script. Perhaps he might be able to do something with—”

“Hello,” said a voice.

John nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning around in his desk chair to see his wife standing there.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, and watched an apologetic smile creep across her pale features.

“Sorry,” she said with a shrug. She hugged herself nervously. “I heard voices and thought that maybe . . .”

Theo focused on his computer screen, seeing Elijah there.

“I thought so,” she said, recognizing the old man and moving toward her husband’s desk and the small video camera built into his screen. “Hello.”

“Theodora,” Elijah said. “I must say, you’re looking well. How are you feeling?”

“Good, Elijah,” she said, leaning against the desk. “More myself every day.”

John watched her communicating with the Coalition leader, paying attention to her every word. She appeared to be telling the truth, seeming to be getting better each day, but he was still cautious, watching for signs that the sigils they had placed on her body weren’t performing as intended.

So far, so good, but he didn’t want to let his guard down.

“And the itching?” Elijah asked. “Has that diminished?”

“Lots of body lotion,” she answered, running her hands up and down her arms, across the exotic markings on her flesh that kept the demons trapped inside her at bay.

John could see them move, changing their configuration in order to counter whatever new threat the evil inside his wife might be attempting.

“That will pass with time,” Elijah said.

“I’m sure,” Theo agreed. “I want to thank you again—you and your people—for what you did for me.”

“You are so welcome, my dear,” the old man said. “Now you must get well again so that you and your husband can assist the Coalition in our future endeavors.”

John cringed at this reminder but remained silent. He no longer wanted his wife involved in any form of investigation, especially the cases that the Coalition would bring, but that was a discussion for another time.

There was a pause in the Skype conversation and John decided that it was time to wrap things up for the evening.

“So you’re going to take the pictures of the teeth to your man in Sicily?” he asked.

“Yes, that might be the best approach right now,” the old man said.

“Pictures of teeth?” Theo questioned.

John nodded. “I’m consulting with the FBI on a case and there is some evidence—a child’s teeth—that appear to have been inscribed with—”

“May I see?” she asked.

“I actually have one of the teeth,” he admitted ashamedly. He had put it away in an envelope on his desktop. He poured it into his hand to show her.

“May I?” she asked, tentatively reaching down to take it from his palm.

“We were saying that neither of us has ever seen symbols or writings such as this before,” Elijah said through the computer speakers. “And that maybe the language is something far older than—”

“It is,” Theo gasped, closing her eyes as she wrapped her fingers around the tooth and began to swoon.

John reacted, jumping from his seat, ready to catch her if necessary.

Theodora swayed where she stood, her entire body trembling.

“Theo, what is it?” John asked.

“I . . . ,” she began haltingly. “I . . .
he
. . . he knows what this is,” she finished, fist still wrapped around the tooth.

“Theo? Are you all right?” Elijah asked. “John, what’s going on?”

“It appears that she’s having some sort of reaction—to the tooth.”

She had brought her closed fist to her chest and was holding it tightly as she seemed to struggle. John saw that the exposed tattoos on her arms and neck were moving, slithering across her skin as they attempted to reconfigure.

“Who knows about the writing on the tooth, Theo?” John asked.

“One of them,” she answered. “One of them inside . . .”

She dropped to her knees, in the midst of some great inner struggle. “He knows what it is . . . what the writing is. . . . He can read it. . . .”

John squatted down beside her as she started to laugh—but it wasn’t her laughing; it was something inhuman . . . monstrous . . . demonic. “Theo! Theo, are you all right? Are you there?”

He saw that her eyes had changed. They looked reptilian now— crocodile-like— to be more specific.

“If you only knew,” the voice of the demon said, Theo holding out the tooth to him.

“Elijah, what should I do?” John asked, unsure if there was something he should be doing, something he should know.

“She should be able to fight them off,” the Coalition leader said. “Give her a moment before—”

The demon screamed, Theo’s neck swelling up like a bullfrog’s. She began to thrash, bending forward until her head touched the floor.

“Theo?” John asked. He reached out cautiously, wanting to touch her but . . .

“I’m all right,” she said breathlessly. “I’m all right now. . . . He said that . . . he said that he wasn’t going to tell us what is written on the tooth.”

John squeezed her shoulder. “That’s perfectly fine,” he said. “Let me help you up and—”

“But I told him that’s not how it works anymore,” she then said, a touch of maliciousness in her tone.

“And?” John questioned.

She smiled, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

“You might want to grab a pen and a piece of paper.”

She had gone back inside again.

Sitting on the floor of her husband’s office, she’d closed her eyes and dove into the darkness, where the monsters lived inside her. They were all there, waiting in the shadows. She couldn’t quite believe the number that had found their twisted way into her body, affixing themselves to the stuff of her soul.

The demons sensed her at once, coming at her in a tidal wave of jabbering obscenity, and for a moment she was afraid.

But then she remembered who held the true power now. “Stop,” she commanded them, and as much as they did not want to, and as much as they struggled and fought against the words, her magick was strong.

Theo noticed her flesh, the markings that had been put upon her naked body. In the material world these sigils were as black as a murderer’s soul, but here, they glowed as if white hot.

They glowed like the stars in the sky.

They screamed at her, this demonic army, threatened her with bodily harm and worse, but they did not move.

They could not move.

She looked out over the sea of them, at all their twisted and horrible faces, searching. She was looking for one of them in particular. One of them who had information that she wanted.

“Where are you?” she asked them as they continued to screech and wail, still held in place by the markings on her body. “Where is the one that knows about the tooth, and the writings scratched upon it?”