The Relic Hunters

CHAPTER THIRTY

It seemed that one of the most notorious serial killers in Munich’s history had been active again. The man the press had dubbed the Day Stalker for obvious reasons, usually took his victims, kept them for twenty four hours and then made sure the grisly remains were found by way of a phone call, having dumped the body and vanished without anyone ever seeing. The police secretly referred to him as the Vanisher — since no matter how many living, breathing humans were around, no matter how many windows overlooked the scene, nobody ever saw the Day Stalker come, and nobody ever saw him leave.

Fear surrounded him like the blackest tornado, impenetrable, furious, deadly. To rat out the Day Stalker meant you would become the next victim.

Urban legend? Clever myth?

Well, Xavier Von Gothe mused, perhaps a good mix of both.

The Illuminati drew from the deep well of humanity that inhabited Munich whenever it suited their needs. Why shouldn’t they? The herd existed only to be ruled, led mostly by emotion, and fear was just one of those healthy options. Xavier made sure the victims were chosen at random, his best Hoods on the case, and the legend of the Day Stalker grew and grew.

Xavier held up a black candle and placed it upon an altar. He lit the wick, and watched it catch fire. The flame was hypnotic, an external reflection of his soul. The chamber all around him echoed to a quiet chant, the darker, vaulted reaches above taking the whispers and feeding them back tenfold. A crescendo began to build, still quiet for now. Xavier took the candle, careful to hold it away from the folds of his hood, and turned away from the altar.

“Join me as I conduct this service in Your honor.”

He spoke to the candle, to the air, to the night sky that hung high above, beyond the chamber. He spoke to that which they could not see but worshipped with absolute conviction.

“Join me as I conduct this service in Your honor.”

Another seven times he spoke the chant, starting the ritual. To left and right, arrayed in a half-circle, their bodies covered by cloak and hood, were his Illuminati brothers and just a few chosen acolytes. Soon, they all held candles, the fire catching the glint and glare of their eyes.

Xavier fell silent after the chant, and bowed his head. Sconces were lit around the room, offering only a faint illumination as was appropriate. The faint glow picked out the Order of Illuminati present, not the entire group by any means, not even the highest ranking members, but the leaders of this particular lodge, and Xavier himself.

“Light Bringer,” Xavier said softly. “Storm Bringer. Death Dealer and Great Dragon, we are thankful for You and we invoke You!”

A murmur of agreement from all present.

“Prince of Darkness. Lord of the Bottomless Pit. We invoke You!”

Another murmur.

Xavier lost himself in the ritual, consumed by his belief, knowing that everything he did and all he had was on the whim of the Great Lord, and he was but a lowly servant. The fervor rose within the chamber; the religious passions inflamed. A brief meditation followed and then a guttural chanting arose, their master’s name repeated in as many guises and languages as they could speak.

Xavier turned after it was done and the low, animalistic urges rose within him.

A broad, high altar stood before him, three steps high, and upon the altar lay a body, naked, strapped down, rendered incapable of speech. Today it was male, average age, height and build. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that would cause any ripples.

The body was clean, recently washed. Even now, it wriggled, pulled at its bonds as if imagining it might pull free. Xavier stared at it without compassion, without concern, wondering why such a fortunate creature would not want to be sacrificed to such a greater, higher purpose. The pleasure was all his.

Others should be so lucky.

Xavier placed his candle at the head of the altar. One by one the other Minervals — members of the higher Order of Illuminati — came forward, mounted steps to the altar, and reverently placed their candles around the glistening body. Each Minerval bowed and spoke a prayer. Each nodded at Xavier. The writhing creature was ignored. The bulging eyes were regarded with dispassion, the pleading face overlooked.

All these years it had lived. All the hopes and dreams, leading to this very moment.

Xavier knew it didn’t have the intellect to see how incredibly fortunate it was. He moved slowly to the center of the altar, held up two hands, the robe falling down his arms to reveal two pale, hairy hands and wrists, the left covered with ritualistic tattoos. The gathering spoke a slow unknown language, taking their time, an invocation specific to the Illuminati order and kept secret for untold years. Only the initiated, the highest of the highest, would ever know it even existed.

A consecrated Host was then unveiled and placed at the back of the chamber. It then required but a few seconds for Xavier to utter the Latin expression: “Ave, Satanas!”

Welcome, Satan.

A gleaming, razor-edged knife lay out of sight upon yet another small dais at the foot of the main altar. Xavier reached down for it now, took hold of the broad, ribbed handle and lifted it above his head, point first.

The tied creature began to writhe once more, finding some extra purpose in his struggle. Xavier allowed him to feast his terrified eyes upon the weapon that would exalt and elevate his soul and sanctify this sacrament. Its great blade flashed, bright and roiling with fire in the dimmed chamber. It was the center of all things, the dark and holy vessel for the Great Dragon, called Azazel, Belial, Samael and Leviathan. It held a mesmerizing presence, the fire and the darkness inherent, the life it could spare and the death it could deal as clear as the heavy, burgeoning specter that now filled the chamber, hanging and multiplying and weighing like blood, gold and power on the hearts and souls of all those present.

Xavier could feel it, more than that: he could draw it in. Revel in it. Nourish his worthless, blasted soul in the spirit of the master.

Between them, the believers, the crazy and the intensely passionate conjured up that which they desired, a religious fever sweeping them away.

Xavier knew it, but reveled in the blade. He turned it one way and another, let the fire catch and the darkness wither, then angled it another way. He lowered it slowly until his hands rested on the man’s stomach.

“Out of love and thankfulness for you,” he said.

The gathering chanted the words back to him.

“Amen!”

Xavier raised the blade, cracked a smile just for the man on the altar, to let him know before he died that there was a real — a deeper—truth here, before turning it and plunging the vessel of Satan to the hilt into the man’s heart.

Not a sound was uttered. Not a limb moved. The blade stayed within, Xavier now with his eyes closed and a deep, satisfying ecstasy overcoming him, the vessel, the ritual and the sacrifice all together for just thirteen seconds.

Then, Xavier removed the blade and placed it reverently back upon the dais. He ignored the still creature and turned to his brethren.

“Thank you, brothers. We are remade and will prosper again. The Great Dragon will guide us.”

“The Great Dragon will guide us,” they chanted back.

Xavier left the chamber quickly, eager to contact Baltasar and hear about the progress of the map — the one thing that could bring their inverted black heaven crashing down.