The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) (4 page)

The Magus was different.

The Magus knew.

As he entered the final tunnel, Dante heard the guttural intonations of the Black Mass, inhaled the first whiff of burning flesh that saturated the air in the cathedral of L’église de la Bête. He left the tunnel and entered the cavernous underground grotto, saw the crush of members gathered around the lantern-lit pedestal. He decided to wait in the background.

Xavier had placed great emphasis on the Black Mass, believing it channeled just as much spiritual power as the Christian ritual it mocked. The Black Mass had been performed by Satanists for century upon century, and participation was required. Everyone important would be in attendance.

Dante could tell the ritual neared its conclusion. The reversed Ten Commandments would have already been recited, the unclean host from the sacrifice ingested and imbibed. He saw some of the more devout members walking backwards on their hands and feet, crablike, towards the effigy of the Beast at the base of the huge inverted cross.

The Mass ended, but before the orgy could begin, Dante made his presence known. He waded through the crowd, the worshippers scrambling out of his way when they recognized him. Dante had been known to whip out his knives for anyone who failed to move fast enough, and by the time he was halfway to the platform the path was clear.

A veil of silence dropped as Dante climbed the stepladder and stood upon the wooden platform, his black coat and tattooed head a wreath of darkness within the halo of dim light. He spoke in harsh, raspy French, and with the lisp that had always plagued him.

“I know many of you are having trouble accepting the rule of the Magus.”

Shouts of agreement rose from the crowd, as well as several cries of blasphemy from those outside Dante’s line of view.

“I hear some believe it was I who did this thing,” Dante said.

A voice from the crowd: “Who else could do this? Who is this new prophet, and where is he?”

“Trust me, my brothers and sisters, it was not I.”

Dante sensed the presence behind him even before he saw the shocked faces of the worshippers. Without turning he knew what they were seeing: the huge cross now aflame, the figure in the black robe on the dais a few steps above Dante, looking down on the crowd. Fear was not an emotion Dante experienced—he was not sure that he experienced emotion at all anymore—but Dante could sense the awe and terror ricocheting through the cavern.

What Dante did feel was the heat from the burning cross a few feet behind him. He hoped the Magus hurried his speech.

Someone cried out, “It’s the Angel of Death, the Beast himself.”

A voice behind Dante boomed forth, somehow amplified to ring throughout the cavern. “I, too, have heard the rumors, and have come to set your hearts and minds at ease. It was I who deposed Xavier, but I am neither angel nor beast.”

Dante recognized the next voice as Margaux Fournier, the oldest female member. “Then who are you?”

“I am the Magus. I came because Xavier refused to recognize the one true God. I remain because I do.”

“Then you’re our enemy.” The firmness in Margaux’s voice surprised Dante.

“Enemy? I’m your new prophet. Keep your symbology and your chants, practice your religion how you will. But know that your theology is primitive. I ask you: Would you worship a beast, a discarded fallen angel, or would you worship a
god
?”

A ripple of noise scuttled through the crowd. “Why should the God of Abraham have sole claim to that title?” the voice behind Dante continued.
“Why waste your time mocking an inferior religion? Be free of that yoke, and worship the one who came first, the one your Satan was searching for when he rebelled.”

The crowd murmured and then quieted, until the licking of the flames behind Dante was the only thing he could hear. Sweat poured down his neck and back, the heat almost unbearable.

“You have a new mission,” the voice said, “a departure from the black cross alone. A mission worthy of the One who sent me.”

Another undulation of noise from the crowd.

“Dante will appoint your new leader, and he will instruct you further. Heed his words and know them as my will.”

Dante again had a sensation, this time that the presence behind him was gone. Unwilling to show weakness, yet knowing he had to leave the platform before the intense heat overcame him, Dante raised one of his knives. The crowd followed his every movement, wondering who among them had been chosen. Framed by the hellish glow of the flames, Dante pointed his knife at a man in front named Luc Morel-Renard, leader of France’s fastest growing far-right movement and a rising political voice among the disenchanted.

Luc raised his fist, and Dante stepped off the platform.

G
rey slid his lean six-foot-one frame into an aisle seat in the rear of the plane. Whether restaurant, train, or plane, Grey preferred no one had his back. The seats next to him were empty, and he kicked off his boots and rubbed his week’s worth of dark stubble. The day might be a long one and he hadn’t fallen asleep until after three a.m. He was dozing before the plane took off, in a state of half awareness cultivated in his missions with Marine Force Recon.

Grey’s attempt to exorcise the ghost of his father by joining the Marines, to follow the same path yet prove he was different, had been a disaster. He soon found himself in a dusty Iraqi city brimming with misery, lying on a terra-cotta rooftop a mile from the targets, seeing a human outline in his scope and realizing he did not even know the sex, could not snuff out a faceless life. He already struggled with the violence that kept a constant vigil, like a diseased candle, deep inside. He had closed his eyes and let the weapon lie loose in his grasp.

Back at base a colonel put an arm around Grey and told him that someone as talented as he in the art of inflicting pain and suffering could still help his country. That Grey could teach hand-to-hand combat to new Recon soldiers, or enjoy a court-martial.

Grey left with a clean record and never looked back.

After flirting with the CIA, who loved his profile but loathed his internal moral compass, he stumbled upon an opening in Diplomatic Security. He thought the mix of travel and security work would be a good fit, but after
tossing his badge at the feet of the United States ambassador to Zimbabwe, again for disobeying orders, he realized that no government position, no job where he was forced to compromise his principles for any reasons other than his own, would ever be a good fit for Dominic Grey.

In Zimbabwe he had been staffed on a case with Viktor that still caused Grey to lie awake at night. After the case, Viktor offered him a job. The work hit the right notes: travel, intellectual stimulation, using his skills to help those in need.

Working with Viktor was a lonely lifestyle, but Grey had always been an island, and work was not to blame for those demons. And there was one thing he could say for sure about Viktor’s cases: They were never boring.

He nodded off. When he woke, a blond woman had claimed the seat next to him. He thought he had fallen asleep after boarding had finished, but he wasn’t certain. Maybe she had switched seats.

It wasn’t like him not to wake up. In the middle row beside him, a businessman sprawled across all three seats, lightly snoring. The plane had the quiet hum of midflight.

The woman was watching the running script on the bottom of the overhead monitor, and Grey caught the tail end of a news report about the murder of a Satanic church leader in San Francisco. There weren’t many details, but he had the strong suspicion he was about to learn a lot more about that murder.

The news switched to sports and then to the upcoming election, both of which Grey ignored. He had never played sports, because his father insisted he train in his spare time. And politics just disgusted him.

A tall man in his fifties appeared on-screen, giving a video conference to a group of reporters gathered in London. He was a dapper man with silver-streaked, coiffed dark hair. The caption read
Order of New Enlightenment Worldwide Headquarters.

Grey had heard of the Order and its clever Iranian-American leader, Simon Azar. The “church,” one of those New Age self-help nightmares, was very young, but Simon’s few taped speeches had already become a social-media phenomenon.

The Order was reputedly based in London, but Simon appeared only on the Web, from an undisclosed location. The mystique seemed to fuel the growth. Grey had read somewhere that Simon planned to unveil the location of the brand-new headquarters after he gained a million followers. He found it ridiculous that the reporters were pandering to this guy. The Internet had crowned another jester as king.

A reporter was speaking. Grey decided to use his headphones. “Congratulations on your success, Pastor.”

Simon was wearing a silver shirt and a crisp black suit with no tie. He clasped his hands in front of him. “Thank you” he said, “but I prefer not to be called pastor.” He had the smooth voice of an orator and a smile that showcased perfect white teeth. Grey didn’t trust anyone with perfect white teeth. “A pastor implies a traditional religion, and our Order is anything but traditional.”

“What title do you prefer?”

“How about my name?” Simon said mildly. “I’ve no need for a title. And it isn’t my success; it’s the success of our members worldwide, united in their desire to usher in a new way of thinking for a modern world.”

Another day, another demagogue,
Grey thought. Whether politics or religion or business, it was always the ones with something to prove, the ones who burned from within to dominate others, who clamored loudest to be heard.

It was something Grey particularly enjoyed about his new profession: taking down those who sought to control others for their own gain. Grey’s mother had died in extreme pain after electing not to seek medical attention, following the advice of her fist-shaking pastor. Praying every second of the day while the cancer ravaged her from within.

Another reporter said, “Is the Order of New Enlightenment a religion?”

“Call it what you will,” Simon said. “What we worship is creation. And we believe God enjoys what He has created, rather than the logical fallacy that defines the rest of the world’s religions.”

“Would you care to expound?”

“Why would a Supreme Being go to the trouble to create us, this world and everything in it, this physical
universe
, to be concerned only with the
realm of the spirit? To deny worldly pleasures, to act against every principle of nature and biology? Worshippers of every creed should ask themselves whether their theology actually makes sense, or whether it was invented to fit the religion neatly inside the particular political and social agenda of the time. We live in a radically different era, and it’s time we espoused a theology that relates to today’s world.”

Despite his own feelings, Grey could see why this church was gaining popularity. The man had a hypnotic voice, as well as a sharp intelligence conveyed in a down-to-earth manner.

“Your followers have been accused of having some rather… open… views on sexual behavior. Would you like to say something about these radical claims?”

“More radical than a record of rampant child molestation? Or of archaic subjugation of women’s rights? Or of arranged marriages, polygamy? Our policy of embracing our natural sexuality in a responsible manner rather pales in comparison, wouldn’t you say?”

The reporter faded into the background, and another stepped forward. “You’ve been hard to pin down on who or what it is that you worship.”

“I’m sorry, was that a question?”

The reporter waved a hand. “Do you worship a Supreme Being, or are you just espousing a philosophy, a way of life?”

“Perhaps it would put your mind at ease if I tell you that we worship the same God as everyone else, if by God you mean a force or entity that created and governs the universe.”

Another smile, this time accompanied by most of the reporters. Grey wondered if Viktor had seen this guy.

A slender blond woman stepped forward, all high heels and confidence. She reminded Grey of Veronica Brown, the ambitious investigative journalist who had followed Grey on his previous case. She had pursued him in other ways as well, and though clever and beautiful, they were two ships sailing in different directions. Veronica was searching for worldwide fame and fortune,
while Grey was searching for a coffee shop where someone knew his name. “What about the criticism that your Order has attracted many, well, fringe elements?”

Simon gave a patient nod. “Is it possible these fringe elements have not yet been spoken to, or been denied access elsewhere? Your statement implies that, should these ‘fringe elements’ all of a sudden join, for example, the Catholic Church, that Rome and the Papacy should be questioned? Did Jesus not wash the feet of the prostitute? Why was your question not: What is it about my Order that
is
speaking to these ‘fringe elements’? We have new followers of all types, all races and cultures and nationalities. We embrace them all.”

“But isn’t it true that the meetings of the top leaders are conducted in secret? Is that not indicative of a cult?”