Modern Rituals (30 page)

“Just have a slab of meat on hand—or a cow,” Theo said. “We’ve got three or four hours before we need to worry.”
 

“I hope you know what you’re doing. What
did
you do by the way? They placed this branch on lockdown until arresting you—er…your doppelgänger.”

“Clayton, I promise I will explain everything to you if I get out of this. Did you find anything on Anzabar?”

“Of course I did, Theo,” Clayton said. “Where do you want me to begin?”

“Blood seals and Anzabar’s dissolution.”

All Magnus employees knew that Anzabar had defeated three of the ten Gods and made a pact with Oman, trapping the remaining seven in blood chambers where rituals would feed them whenever they desired. In return, they would lay dormant and allow humanity to progress on its own terms, without magic. Anzabar offered himself as the last sacrifice of the Old Age, and from his life energy, fed the Gods until humanity evolved and became capable of performing the rituals themselves. Thus, Magnus was born. The remnants of magic that remained—unbeknownst to the rest of humanity—were controlled by Magnus in performing the rituals.
 

“Anzabar split his soul into seven pieces, embedding a fragment into each blood seal. In order for the seal to unlock, the contract must be broken via a failed ritual or through Anzabar’s doing—”

“Wait, Anzabar’s doing? You mean he still has the capacity to
act
?
”

“Oh, yes,” Clayton said. “Anzabar’s vibrational metrics can be read through a spectrometer and are distinctly different than the sealed Gods’. He was human, after all.”

“Clayton, you are a god-send—literally. That’s what I needed to know.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Theo said and shut off the earpiece.

4

Before General Ethan Holmes had earned the title that gave him such power and pride now, he’d led an explosive-disposal unit responsible for training K9s who he and his colleagues fondly referred to as DIDOs, or Disposal Dogs. Holmes trained them with a Pavlovian strategy of classical conditioning: present large quantities of explosive material to each sensitive snout; provide treat; reduce quantity; repeat. Over time, these DIDOs could identify trace amounts of explosive substances via long distances and through dense objects such as metal and earth. This proved useful in discovering makeshift land mines and projectiles in Afghanistan.
 

Ethan nicknamed one of the dogs Scruffy for a ring of swirled hair near the dog’s collar—an unusual characteristic for a purebred German shepherd. Scruffy had a long career in the field, where he uncovered vast yields of dangerous devices and prevented many deaths.
 

He was a good dog.
 

Nevertheless, canine noses tire with age and stress takes its toll. But before Holmes’ unit retired and released the dog, Scruffy—in the midst of a routine search—came upon a young Afghani boy caught between two land mines. As any good DIDO should, Scruffy attempted to warn the child. He barked and snarled and stood between the boy and the mines. This frightened the boy, who fled toward the opposing explosive. Scruffy pounced on him and dragged him by the throat to a sandy knoll some ways away.
 

Scruffy’s teeth sank in and never let go of the boy.

Holmes had—without a second thought—placed a bullet in Scruffy’s head.

Now, he was about to do the same with Trevor.

“What just happened? Where’s our connection to the chamber elevator?” Holmes said.

“An electromagnetic spike blew the transponder. We can’t restore the connection without onsite maintenance,” Susan said.

“Dammit! What caused it?” Holmes said.

“There’s a fluctuating spectral pattern resonating throughout the chamber cavern,” Susan said. “It’s like nothing we’ve ever seen. Other than that, we have no idea.”

Holmes rubbed his chin and puffed his cheeks.

“Send a squadron and get down to the blood chamber however you can. Shoot to kill, people. I had hope for Trevor, but it’s too late,” Holmes said. “He’s lost.”
 

“But sir, Trevor threatened to unlock the seal,” a decorated official said from behind Holmes.

“He doesn’t have the balls to unlock it—he knows the ramifications better than anyone,” Holmes said.

“We’ve confirmed alpha squadron is on their way,” a man in fatigues said, pounding on a tablet.

“Keep a live connection with them—I want to see what’s going on down there,” Holmes said.

“Sir, we’ve recaptured Theo Holmes. He is in the detention facility,” another guard said.

“That wily bastard,” Holmes said. “How he does it, I’ll never know. Station extra guards around his cell—I’m heading there now. Keep me posted, Susan.”
 

Susan watched Holmes storm from the monitoring station. She rubbed her stomach and swallowed back an uneasiness in her throat left behind by Holmes’ and Trevor’s exchange in the chamber elevator. She respected Trevor as a colleague and friend, and his betrayal warned her of Holmes’ lethal impatience and the expendability of she and every Magnus employee.
 

Theo warned her that a day like this may come. He said the chances were infinitesimal and “nothing to worry about”—he explained this in their ninth year working together then entrusted her with the “emergency protocol.” Only a handful of people understood “Schrödinger’s cat is dead,” Trevor among them, and these words signaled an imminent threat to Purgatory 8, to the ritual and to the world—and that alliances must be chosen, and if she chose him, then his direction must be trusted without question.
 

“Press the red button,” Theo said. “This will alert those that I trust. They will know what to do.”

She and Theo had been through much worse since that moment—or so it seemed. This must be bad. Horrifyingly awful. And it wasn’t at all like Trevor to go against General Holmes. It was suicide. Trevor had allied with Theo—had laid his life on the line.
 

She trusted Theo—more than trusted—she adored him. His intellect fascinated her. His capacity to dismantle impossible problems was, in itself, captivating, but he didn’t just solve problems, he rearranged the universe, bent it to
his
will. Theo knew what he was doing—didn’t he?

Susan made a nervous habit of pressing the emergency button under her desk—while it did nothing, it offered a counterfeit sense of control. Other monitoring facilities had been informed of Theo’s arrest. Those favorably disposed toward Theo expressed their outrage—others expressed their satisfaction. Four other stations had begun prepping emergency rituals—in case Purgatory 8 failed here.
 

Failed? I don’t believe this…

She didn’t know whether it was possible to recover from Holmes’ power struggle; to recover from whoever or whatever was interfering with the ritual.
 

And now they’re heading to the Blood Chamber? What is Trevor thinking? And whose voice was that in the chamber elevator?

Tomorrow’s outlook was bleak at best. She jammed her finger into the emergency button again and again.

Armed guards accompanied Holmes as he stampeded to Theo’s cell, hell-bent on uncovering Trevor’s motive. A nagging suspicion had welled in Holmes since the ritual’s near collapse—Theo was up to no good. While decisive evidence against the man had eluded Holmes, he’d known that—for the sake of humanity—he had to interfere with Theo’s operation of the ritual. He’d had no choice but to seize control. He wouldn’t stand for Theo sidestepping direct orders and organizational hierarchy—a travesty in and of itself.
 

Theo deserved whatever punishment was coming to him.

Holmes wiped a line of sweat off his brow. He and his entourage entered the detention ward and passed four guards erect in salute.
 

“At ease, soldiers. Where is Theo Watson’s cell?” Holmes said without breaking stride.

The guards stood down and the officer closest to Holmes hooked a thumb down the hallway. “Last door on the left.” Holmes stiffened his already steely gait.
 

Through the cell’s porthole, Theo appeared calm and relaxed. He sat on the bench, staring at the floor. Holmes pointed to the ceiling—a guard answered by swiping his hand against the control panel. The door retracted with a swoosh, and Holmes entered.
 

Theo glanced at Holmes, his expression blank—almost grave.
 

“Leave us.”
 

The door swooshed closed.

“Theo, you are one slippery bastard,” Holmes said. “What makes you think you can prance around doing whatever it is you want? Speaking of which, what
were
you doing in the containment facility? The report shows that a sphere was recalled, the ID for which was erased.”

Theo stared.

“This is a first. Keeping your mouth shut, are you? Keep that up, and this won’t go well, I promise.”

Theo stared.

Holmes chuckled.

“Theo,” he said. “I’ve wanted to do this for oh, so very long.”

Holmes gripped Theo by the shirt, pulled him off the bench and threw him to the ground.

“Stand up, Theo.”

Theo stared.

Holmes swung down, striking Theo’s face, splitting his lip wide.

“Having fun yet?” Holmes said, wiping his mouth.

A puddle of blood pooled on the floor in front of Theo.

“Ready to talk? What were you up to in there? Why is Trevor aiding the ritual participants? Answer me.”

Holmes clenched his fists.

“I gotta give you credit—you are tougher than you look.”

The combined sound of grinding meat and a balloon deflating gave Holmes pause.

“What in the hell?”

A violent shiver overtook Theo’s body and escalated into a seizure within seconds. Foam formed at his lips and his eyes shuttered open. He fell to the floor and thrashed there, rolling the length of the cell. His arms flapped, bones first snapping and then becoming spaghetti-like. His legs followed, then his torso, until a sac of skin and guts lay in front of Holmes. A pulsating mound quivered beneath the folds of Theo’s stomach.
 

Holmes leapt up onto the cell’s bench.
 

The bulging mound hesitated, then a furry hand erupted from the carcass, followed by another. They pulled apart the gooey flesh of what had been Theo’s midsection and revealed a brown head. Two large, wet eyes, glared at Ethan.

“What in the fuck?”

The creature’s mouth flew open, baring thousands of razor-sharp teeth.

“Oh, shit.”

Holmes screamed knowing full-well no one could hear.

5

James huddled beside Olivia, his stare intent on Trevor, who reciprocated with a waning smile. The skylight shifted from dark to light to dark to light as struts passed overhead while the elevator repelled into the cavern.

The elevator alighted, jostling the group, and the chamber doors trundled apart as though parting teeth. White light poured into the rotunda, washing all color from the world. James shielded his face with his forearm, squinting until his eyes adjusted, revealing what lay beyond the elevator’s threshold. His legs moved without thought, drawn to a vestibule shimmering in golden halos and glinting metals. As he approached these multifaceted sparkles, ticks, tocks and a cacophony of tinny machinations tickled the hair in his ears.

“What…” James said, his eyes struggling to take it all in. “What is this place?”
 

“We’re here,” Trevor said, his smile gone.

Trevor quickened his pace and strode past James into the chamber room. He appeared as a black silhouette within the elevator’s yawning lips. Humidity clung to James’ skin as if he stood in a giant’s mouth.
 

Trevor stopped.

Olivia caught James’ arm with a nervous hand and paired with him as they entered the foyer. Colette found her way to Olivia’s other side. They crossed the threshold and froze.

“Whoa,” James said and covered his mouth with one hand.

A pair of titanic figures guarded each side of a double door that vaulted overhead, its apex blurring into a dark, distant point. James’ eyes attempted to discern the door’s surface—its mottled, metallic textures and seas of whirring gears dizzied him. His eyelids tired and he looked away. To his right towered the statue of a skeleton. It carried a shield whose insignia took the form of a skull-shaped chalice brimming with blood—a dribble of sanguine liquid traced a line down the skull’s cheekbone. The skeleton’s hollow eye sockets bore down on James—Olivia gripped his arm tighter.

To their left stood a monumental sculpture of a nude woman, her outstretched arms reaching to the heavens, her flesh pillowy and marbled pink—save for strands of cream and crimson where the stone conferred imperfection. James yearned to touch her skin. She gazed upward, eyes lazily fixed on a location neither here nor there, caught between worlds. Both statues stood upon large bases under which black, gaping maws tunneled to unknown destinations.

Hundreds of thick, silver chains wrapped a golden lock embedded within the chamber door’s two closed halves. A mere lock—a sliver of stone—a paltry partition divided them from whatever slept on the other side. Assembled around this immense clasp—and masterfully intertwined into the gears and mechanisms—swam an array of translucent conduits, their cavities sticky with fresh blood, which coursed into the round lock as arteries feed a beating heart. A barely audible
thump-thump, thump-thump
accompanied the blood’s movement.
 

James swiveled to glance at the chamber elevator. Its open doors yawned wide and its stone eyes now gazed high above. The chamber had bewitched the elevator, as well, James was sure.

“Don’t move,” Trevor said.

James turned back to see what had alarmed Trevor. His heart skipped a beat and his throat constricted.
 

An old man stood before the locked chamber doors. He wore flowing, midnight blue garments with layers of sleeves that touched the floor, flowing in all directions from his feet. Upon his wrinkled head sat a rimless conical hat, stiff and erect and almost comical: it careened upward, nearly doubling his height. From his chin sprouted a long white goatee that fell to his chest. His eyes darkened when they met James’.