The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) (44 page)

Clever.

Grey worked his way back to Hackney Road, stopping at a pharmacy for supplies to treat and bandage his wounds. After stopping at a liquor store for a bottle of rum, he found a parking garage and went to work on his injuries.

Emergency medical care wasn’t his forte, but he had enough training from the military to disinfect his wounds and stop the blood loss, stitch himself, apply bandages, and get through the next few days. Or so he hoped. The bruised ribs and the head injury would be fine, and the gunshot wound had only clipped his side, taking off a quarter-size piece of flesh. The leg needed a doctor. He knew he was risking infection and long-term damage by not seeking medical care. And if he lost too much blood, then he was no use to anyone.

He picked up a burner cell at a Vodafone store, having left the guard’s phone in the garage, in case it had a tracer. He would ditch the SUV as soon as he reached central London.

He tried Viktor, but the call went straight to voice mail. Grey grimaced. He had to believe Viktor had been compromised. It didn’t fit with the MO of the other murders, but Viktor didn’t fit within the MO at all. Viktor was personal to Darius, and when something was personal, all bets were off.

Which made Grey think about Dante.

Made him think about his own torture, the people Dante had murdered, his carelessness for life and human dignity. Then Grey stopped thinking, consumed by an all-too-familiar rage that burned within him like a bottomless furnace, stoked by the injustice honeycombing the world.

Grey’s temper had always flared at the slightest offense, and it was his greatest weakness. Not just because it could get him killed, but because of the easy violence that went with it.

Grey had been steeped in violence, beaten by his father from his earliest memory, alone on the streets as a teen. It shamed him. He knew he was part of an unfortunate cycle of violence that humankind had yet to overcome. Jesus and Gandhi and King, these were men who had changed the world with peace.

They were better men than he. He hated what the violence did to him, but he could only play the hand he was dealt, try to do good with it, and work to break the cycle the only way he knew how.

Dante had also been thrust into violence. Grey empathized with him, but he would never sympathize. Grey knew as well as anyone that violence was a choice, and Dante continued to choose poorly.

While Dante had to be stopped, Grey had to ensure that when they met again, Grey fought not out of rage, but out of necessity. Not only because Grey might lose the fight if he let the violence blind him, but also because if he lost control, then Grey and Dante would be no different, amoral slaves to their fury.

And
that
was what Dominic Grey feared most.

He checked his remote voice mail as he drove into central London. Still no word from Viktor. The one message he did have made him press the phone to his ear.

Anka.

She had called him less than thirty minutes ago, at nine p.m., asking him to meet her at a restaurant in the West End. She said she thought terrible things were about to happen, and that she would wait for him all night if need be.

Grey’s first thought was that she had called him awfully close in time to his escape. His second thought was that she might be the only person who could help him find Darius and Viktor. His third thought was that the sound of her voice got under his skin, causing a tingling to spread throughout his body.

His fourth thought was that he was hungry beyond belief.

T
he monk in jeans and a worn shirt looked about Viktor’s age. He was a robust man, short and stout. A trimmed gray beard covered the bottom half of a round face.

As the monk secured the gate with an iron bar as thick as Viktor’s leg, Viktor eyed the top of the gate. “He might have climbing gear, though I didn’t notice a pack.”

The monk took a very modern pistol from the back of his jeans. “The gate is not the last line of defense.”

Viktor eyed the pistol. “You’re one of the Tutori. A warrior monk.”

He didn’t deny the statement, and Viktor took in his surroundings. He was on a hidden summit perched at the top of the mountain, a flat bed of rock-strewn grass perhaps a hundred yards square, dotted by a few hardy pine trees. On the other side of the summit he saw the stone rampart he had glimpsed from the valley. He realized it wasn’t a rampart at all, but a small, fortresslike chapel made of granite and surrounded on three sides by another iron gate. A sheer drop protected the fourth side.

He stopped to consider the implications of the long climb, the gate at the end of the tunnel, the impregnable chapel, this entire medieval fortress stuck on top of a rock in the middle of nowhere.

What are they protecting?

A rectangular stone dwelling rested in the center of the plateau, topped by a barrel-tiled roof and a chimney. Viktor was not overly surprised by the
isolated location. He had seen examples of asceticism from around the world, and the extreme lengths to which human beings would go in the name of religion or faith or enlightenment no longer surprised him. He had seen self-flagellating priests covered in puss-filled wounds, nuns who never slept more than an hour without rising to pray, Shaolin monks who meditated while lying under a two-ton rock, Tibetan lamas living in caves at twenty thousand feet with only a thin robe for protection.

In their quest for the divine, Viktor thought, some became more than human.

The monk led him to a chair outside the dwelling, facing the huge gate. “Wait.”

He went inside and Viktor watched the gate, ready to call out if anyone appeared. Strangely, no sounds of attempted entry emanated from the rock passage. Viktor assumed the man on the other side was searching for another way through, but he felt secure with the monk and the centuries-old fortification, and was too exhausted to analyze further.

As night approached, the view of the valley changed from stunning to sublime, the pyramidal slopes rose-hued in the twilight. The monk returned with another chair in one hand, a glass of water in the other. “I’m Brother Pietro.”

Viktor accepted the glass. “Thank you, Father. For this and for my life.”

“Call me Brother, or just Pietro. I’ve taken the monastic vows, but I’m not ordained.”

The monk sat in the chair beside Viktor, facing the gate, pistol in his lap. “Not many know of the Tutori outside these walls. Until last year, excepting a handful in the Vatican, I would have said none.”

“I’m a student of history,” Viktor said.

“Professors should be the best students,” the monk replied. “What is it you teach that you’re familiar with such an esoteric subject?”

“Religious phenomenology.”

The monk turned to Viktor. “Interesting. And to what do you ascribe the religious phenomena you must have witnessed over the years?”

“A phenomenologist does not concern oneself with the question of ultimate origin,” Viktor said.

“But a human being does.”

Viktor took a long drink of water, soothing his parched throat. He was very much concerned with those questions.

“Who are you running from?” the monk said.

“A member of an organization called L’église de la Bête.”

“I know them,” the monk said quietly. One of his hands moved to the pistol. “How can I be assured this is not a clever ruse to gain access?”

“Because they wouldn’t have sent an aging professor,” Viktor said, “and because I believe that after recent events, no member of L’église de la Bête would dare renounce the name of Ahriman. I believe someone is reviving the heresy.”

Brother Pietro returned to pointing the pistol at the gate, knuckles tensing. “I feared as much.”

“I assume the Tutori settled here after defeating the original heresy, but why?”

The monk pursed his lips before he spoke, and Viktor sensed a tone of resignation, even loss, in his voice. “I’m a religious man by trade, but… let us just say that faith has never been my strong suit. I’m a man of duty, if nothing else.”

Pietro turned his head towards the house, and this time a look of pain overcame his visage, his eyes flooding with such empathy and heartache that Viktor himself was moved.

“We defeated the Ahriman Heresy,” the monk said, “but the threat of Ahriman remained alive and well. It is not so simple to defeat a god, or the idea of a god. The Vatican was terrified the heresy would spring up again, and it commissioned the Tutori to keep a perpetual vigil. It might sound extreme, but it’s no different than any religious apparatus fulfilling Christ’s commission over time, to keep the faith alive and well. Ours is just a more unusual task.”

“But why here?” Viktor said.

“The leader of the heresy was possessed, according to the history, of supernatural beauty and charisma. It was also said that he could move about the world as did Ahriman, appearing at his whim.”

“The legendary three powers of the Devil,” Viktor said. “A myth originating with Ahriman.”

“Nonsense, of course, at least to me. But it wasn’t nonsense in the sixteenth century, and it was believed that this priest acquired his powers after reading a book, a certain occult tome.”

A movement near the gate made Viktor’s breath catch in his throat, but it was just a bird rustling through one of the pines. “The Ahriman Grimoire,” Viktor said.

“You’ve read one of the surviving histories?”

“I have. Why didn’t the Tutori simply burn the book?”

“The Vatican may destroy copies, or make a public show, but they always keep the original, to study and preserve the knowledge. Even if profane.”

“But something as allegedly dangerous as this,” Viktor said, “at least in those times…”

“That’s why we have this absurd fortress in the middle of nowhere. The Vatican has a very hard time letting go of tradition, and two monks at a time are commissioned here to this day.” The monk made a wry face, but Viktor saw a squandered life reflected in his eyes. “Though I think they’ve kept this place so long because of the excellent wine we cultivate from the hillside.”

“How did Crowley find this place?”

Brother Pietro’s gaze sharpened. “How do you know about Crowley’s visit?”

“Once I learned the Tutori were decommissioned in Palermo, and given the location of Crowley’s magical school in Cefalù, I made inquiries.”

“I suppose the monastery is no secret to the villages in the area, though no one knows our true history. Aleister was a clever man and approached our predecessors.”

“They turned him away, I assume,” Viktor said.

“Aleister threatened magical reprisal, and they threatened to send him home via the sheer cliff behind our fortress. He was forced out of the country soon after. A few others have found us over the centuries, with the same result.” The monk’s eyes again found the dwelling, fists clenched. “Until last year.”

“Darius?”

The monk’s head whipped around. “You know him?”

“I did, a very long time ago.”

The monk looked through Viktor, his face tight and still.

“He took the book, didn’t he?” Viktor said. “It’s why you asked me to renounce the name of Ahriman. Not because of your beliefs, but because of his.”

“I’d gone to the village for supplies. He must have known my schedule. My brother, the second monk commissioned, had not been… well… for some time.”

“Your brother in the Tutori?”

“And by birth. He’s my only family. After what was done to him, I begged him to return to Rome and let them send someone else. He refused.”

Viktor’s eyes slipped towards the dwelling. “You haven’t told Rome what happened?”

“My brother chooses to live alone, not to be made a spectacle.” Viktor didn’t understand what he was talking about, but Brother Pietro stood with a world-weary sigh. “Come. He’ll want to speak to you.”

He led Viktor to a door in the rear of the dwelling, then gripped Viktor’s arm. “His name is Father Angelo, and you should prepare yourself. Terrible things were done to my brother. Unlike me, he’s a very holy man.”

A
nka had left no return number, and her call registered as unknown on Grey’s voice mail. She wasn’t giving him an option, he thought. She knew he would come.