All-American Werewolf E-Book

Antonio Ricardo Scozze

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In 1999, a spate of vicious attacks in rural Maryland lead the authorities to believe that a rabid bear is on the loose.

Meanwhile, Congressional staffers Peter Brunnen and Angie Fontaine stumble upon information about a powerful congressman, who has eyes on the White House and a dark secret that has propelled him into power.

The two soon become the target of Congressman Louis Garrou, who is willing to sacrifice anyone and anything that could pose a threat to him and his goals.

Racing against time, can Angie and Peter stop him, or will they be silenced forever?

Leseprobe

ALL-AMERICAN WEREWOLF

ANTONIO RICARDO SCOZZE

Copyright (C) 2021 Antonio Ricardo Scozze

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Epilogue

You may also like

About the Author

This book is dedicated to my Nameless Ones; you know who you are.

PROLOGUE

Are you ready?

Are you, my Dear Friend, ready to delve once again into this world of horror, into this twisted hellscape we’ve only just started to explore – this, the Atrocissimus? We scratched the surface of this perverse space and began to expand your awareness in my first book, The House on Blackstone Hill. There I revealed to you some horrifying truths of the world around you, and now, with every step we take together in this journey you grow ever closer to knowing the truth – stark, clear, and unadulterated.

But once again, my Dear Friend, I must ask you: Do you really want to know? Do you truly want to know the unvarnished truth, to peel back the curtain that’s been draped over the Atrocissimus for all these millennia, to fully see and understand what lurks beneath you? I would understand if you didn’t; knowing the truth, the absolute truth with no embellishments, can be a terrible burden to bear. I would understand if you wanted to turn aside from this journey even now.

The secrets we’re going to unveil together are shocking and realizing that you’ve been lied to your entire life can be overwhelming. Not only that, but learning you are part of an endless supernatural war, that you are the plaything for evil entities can deeply disturb some people. Discovering that there is an entire hidden world ruled over by foul, twisted demons can be well-nigh traumatizing.

However, what I’m about to show you in this next part of my slowly unfolding series might haunt you. Realizing there are people, regular humans who willingly, even happily, traffic with these evil beings for their own enrichment and power, and the ends to which they’ll go to secure that power… well, my Dear Friend, that might be just too much.

If you’re disturbed by this level of awareness, perhaps you should turn aside. If learning the uttermost truth, if having all the workings of this massive cosmic system plainly revealed to you is knowledge you’d rather not have, then, by all means, Dear Friend, lay aside this book and continue floating in a stream of blissful ignorance. But if not, let’s begin exploring some more of the dark, dank corners of the Atrocissimus.

So, again I ask you… are you ready?

CHAPTERONE

Lenny Stevens sat on the front porch of his small rural house in the brutal early July heat, slowly swaying on a two-person swing as the odor of fireworks still hung in the moist air. The slight, gentle movement he made as he swung through the humid night was the closest thing he’d get to a breeze; the heat wave that had gripped Maryland for the entire summer continued to hold the region in its grasp.

If the heat this summer weren’t bad enough, the humidity made it even worse. As Lenny lit a cigarette and breathed in the late-night air, he could smell the damp hanging in it. It felt like being wrapped in a wet blanket. The bedroom he shared with his wife was like an oven, and since they couldn’t afford to replace their air conditioner, he’d come to the porch to cool down rather than spend one more sleepless minute lying in a pool of his own sweat.

To cool down, and to think.

Lenny worried about the future. Ever since graduating high school, he’d worked at one of the factories just over the county border in Pocomoke City, the past seven of which he’d been first shift foreman. Although he and his wife, Cindy, had never had much in the way of riches, Lenny’s factory job had afforded them the comfortable little house in which they lived with their two rambunctious boys – both of whom were, thankfully, visiting his parents for the week. His job allowed for the bills to be paid and put food on the table, and enough acres of land so Lenny could pursue his side-business as a small farmer. Overall, things were good.

But that rock-solid foundation on which Lenny thought he’d built his life was starting to crumble. He realized the mistake he’d made by thinking life would be predictable, assuming it would follow his plan when he was promoted to shift foreman. Lenny figured he’d stay in that job for the next decade or so, then move into the shop foreman position. Finally, after many long years of loyal service to the company, he’d retire to Florida with a nice pension to live out his days fishing and growing fat.

It was a good plan until the manufacturing jobs started to disappear. For the past five years Lenny had watched as one factory in Pocomoke City after another grew ever more anemic until, after having moved most of the operations elsewhere, each factory finally closed. Lenny had prayed his own factory could avoid that fate, but in the last two years, he’d seen the same process starting there. He’d watched with growing angst as first one division was closed and everyone working there got laid off, then another division was moved overseas, as everyone there likewise got pink-slipped, and so on. Lenny feared he had a target on his back, and it was only a matter of time before he, too, lost his job.

Lenny felt like he was trapped on a slowly sinking ship, knowing what the inevitable outcome would be but fearing he might drown if he jumped overboard. He took a long drag of his cigarette and looked down at this dog, curled comfortably at his feet.

“What would you do, Max?” he asked, patting the dog’s head as he did. “What would you suggest I do?”

If Max had any wisdom to offer, he kept it to himself.

Lenny let out the smoke in a long, discontented sigh, and as he did, he thought he heard rustling in his cornfield a few yards away from the porch. Max suddenly became interested in that spot as well, but at the same moment he heard Cindy open the screen door. Thoughts of whatever the sound might have been immediately left his mind when he looked at his wife, her skin glistening with sweat, her hair sleep-tousled, wearing a sheer negligée that hid very little of her nude body under it. Max, however, fixed his stare at the same spot in the cornfield.

“Can’t sleep again?” Cindy asked softly in the quiet night, lighting her own cigarette as she joined him on the swing.

“Nope,” Lenny answered, putting his arm around Cindy, and pulling her close to him, though her skin was warm and sweaty. “Too damn hot up there.”

“Not much better out here, though.”

Lenny nodded his head in agreement, taking a long drag off his cigarette. “No, not much better, but at least it don’t feel so damn stuffy out here.”

After a moment of silence, Cindy said, “But I assume it ain’t just the heat that got you up. Worried ‘bout work?”

“Yeah, I am,” Lenny said, flicking the cigarette butt out towards the driveway. “I’m worried, but I’m also stuck, you know? Like, I can see what’s gonna happen. The writing’s on the wall, everyone can see it coming. So, I should leave, get another job.” Lenny paused to light another cigarette, taking a long first drag as he did. “But problem is, factory work is all I ever done, all I know how to do. I’m thirty-five, a little too old to learn a trade, no way I’m going back to school. And honestly, I don’t want to start over in another factory. I worked my ass off to get where I am now, and I really don’t want to go back to working on the line.”

Holding Cindy close to him, Lenny could feel the soft swell of her breast pressing into his chest, and he found her slick, sweaty skin to be wonderfully distracting.

“We need to come up with something,” Cindy said, her head leaning against her husband’s bare chest.

“I know.”

“I heard people talking at the restaurant of maybe there being oil or natural gas or something in the western part of the state, maybe up in Pennsylvania. They say that pays real good money.”

“Yeah, I could do that. I’d probably like that. I think that’d have me out in the field a lot, though,” Lenny said, gently massaging his wife’s hot shoulder with his fingertips as he drank in the image of her body. “We’d be separated for weeks at a time, I think. You okay with that?”

She thought for a moment, her hand resting on his thigh. “Hmm… I don’t think so. I’d miss you too much. Maybe one of them crabbers that work out of Crisfield?”

“Well, babe, then I’d be out for weeks at a time. I’d be gone more than if I were in the oil fields.”

A silent moment as the two thought about their very limited options, coming up with nothing.

“So, what do you suggest?” Cindy asked at last, lifting her head from Lenny’s chest to look into his eyes. “You don’t make enough from farming to cover the bills, even with what I bring in. We’ll need to do something else.”

“I know, I know,” Lenny said, no longer focused on the discussion and dismissing it from his mind. He’d gone over it a million times before and found no obvious answers. He was tired, and the more he looked at his wife’s all but naked body, the hornier he became. “For now, let’s just enjoy having the house to ourselves for once,” he said, as he leaned in to start kissing his wife’s neck.

But just as Lenny was about to move his hand to Cindy’s breast, he again heard the rustling sound in his cornfield. Lenny and Cindy both looked that way, half-expecting to see someone watching them, as Max got on his feet and started barking loudly. As they did, they caught the faint odor of rotten eggs.

“What is that?” Cindy said in a harsh whisper.

“I don’t know,” Lenny said, as he started to walk towards the cornfield, Max joining him. “Stay here,” he said to Cindy.

Lenny walked slowly, carefully, the way he would while out hunting, like he was trying to sneak up on whatever might be in the corn even though he was exposed on his lawn. He scanned the field, hoping to catch sight of what might be lurking in the waist-high corn. The dim lamp over his driveway only illuminated a few rows into the field, so there could be something hiding in the dark beyond the light. Max barked aggressively the whole time as he approached next to Lenny, eyes on the cornfield.

Lenny paused, coiled and ready to move in an instant, if need be, trying to see or hear anything. He couldn’t, though he knew there was something out there in his fields as the rotten egg smell became worse.

“Max!” Lenny yelled as the dog suddenly ran headlong into the field, disappearing into the darkness. Lenny took two quick steps to follow him, then stopped when he heard Max yelp once in pain, followed by an immediate end to his barking. “MAX! MAAAX!!”

Lenny stood in the abrupt silence, trying desperately to hear or see anything. He saw nothing but his darkened cornfield and heard nothing but blood flowing in his ears as his heart pounded in unexpected terror.

“Lenny,” Cindy whimpered from the porch behind him, “what’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I think Max got hurt. Get the—” Lenny stopped speaking abruptly, as he caught swift movement to his left and the odor of sulfur became overwhelming. He pivoted and whipped his head around to see what it was but only had time to catch a glimpse of his own death approaching.

Lenny shrieked once in abject, overpowering horror. A shaggy creature with a gigantic paw swiped down at him, the long, curved claws slicing easily and deeply into his face, tearing off his cheek and ripping out his lower jaw, then continuing down to pull open his neck. As Lenny’s bloody corpse fell to the ground, the creature sank its fangs into his chest and, clutching his body with its talons, ripped his upper body wide open with a deep growl.

When Lenny was attacked by this huge, hairy beast, Cindy threw herself back against the screen door, frozen in terror, her eyes shocked wide open, unable to breathe let alone scream. But when it ripped open Lenny’s chest cavity, his blood pouring everywhere and pink organs falling out of his body with wet plops, she could no longer contain the shock of watching her husband being killed and mutilated; she screamed loudly, piteously, and until her throat hurt.

The creature stood looking at her, blood and gore dripping off its claws, red irises glowing in the dark night. It roared once in answer to her screams, an unearthly cry, one unlike any animal on Earth. Running with impossible speed on two legs, the beast ended Cindy’s life as savagely as it had Lenny’s, then took the time to destroy her remains.

Then, its fur caked and matted with bits of flesh, clotted blood, and shards of bone, the creature threw back its head and howled triumphantly into the dark night.

CHAPTERTWO

As his personal chauffeur passed the iron gate and turned onto the long gravel driveway leading to Raven Hill Manor, Louis Garrou finished reading a small story buried deep in the pages of The Washington Post Sunday edition about a spate of bizarre animal attacks in the past week all throughout rural Somerset County, Maryland. According to the article, conservation officers were on the hunt for a rabid bear that had apparently killed no less than seven people in the days following the Fourth of July. All the bodies, the report noted, were ripped and shredded beyond recognition.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Garrou said. “Carlos, did you see that story in the Post about those animal attacks?”

Carlos, his driver, glanced in the rear-view mirror a moment to look at Garrou, then said, “No, sir, but I saw a report on the news about it. That’s horrible.”

“Damn right it is. I was going to all those town hall meetings on the Delmarva and never once realized this was happening. How terrible.”

“Yes, sir. It is that.”

Garrou looked again at the headline that read Thompson Closing Poll Numbers with Garrou in Senate Race, then tossed the paper aside with a grunt. He watched as the gigantic Gilded Age mansion loomed in front of him with all its imposing Italianate revival opulence, surrounded by flocks of crows as it was always. He’d grown up in that mansion with his parents, his siblings, the servants, and the memory of the entire Garrou family history, something that had been drilled into the children from an early age. He and his siblings all knew that they weren’t so much living their own lives as they were furthering the glorious history of the Garrou family and fulfilling its destiny.

His six siblings were scattered all around the world working as leaders in industry, banking, the media, and education. His generation was doing their duty to live up to the family name, furthering their agenda on a massive scale. But he, as the eldest and living so close to the family estate, had the additional duty of visiting his mother on a regular basis.

As Garrou walked into the grand foyer, he breathed in the familiar odor of his childhood home: Old leather, fresh-cut flowers, and tangy burnt incense. He paused to check himself in an enormous, gilded mirror that had once belonged to a king of France. His Bill Blass suit was impeccable as always, as was his strawberry blond hair, though he did adjust his tie to perfect the knot dimple. Though only meeting his mother for their weekly Sunday brunch, his appearance mattered.

He thought of the cold, hard woman that was his mother as he picked a small piece of lint off his suit coat. Mariette Garrou, matriarch of the family and incessant driver of her children’s success. She was ancient and unyielding and had been his entire life.

He knew she’d be sitting on the private family patio reading the Post as she waited for him because Sunday brunch is served on the patio during summer, and she always read the newspaper. If it were raining, the table and chairs would be moved to the portico, but brunch was always served outside. She would never consider an alteration to her ways, nor would the thought enter her mind that it is unrelentingly hot outside and perhaps not the ideal environment for eating.

He knew she was unbending, obdurate, and implacable, and always would be.

Garrou smiled to himself as he walked onto the patio; the picture he’d created in his mind perfectly matched the reality he saw. There sat his mother, stiff and straight as always, her half-moon glasses perched on her nose, reading the Post. She, as always, wore an archaic black dress that seemed as if it was original to the one hundred ten-year-old family mansion, with her hair tied into a severe bun atop her head. Servants in sharp white Eton jackets and matching white cloth gloves on their crossed hands stood a respectful distance away, awaiting an order from either Garrou.

“Good morning, Mother,” Garrou said as he crossed the patio to kiss her. She presented her cheek to him, but never once did her eyes stop reading the story.

“Did you have a pleasant hunting trip?” she asked.

“I did indeed. I downed seven of them.”

“Well done. That was a fine speech you gave about how workers need the full backing of the government, and so it should support them everywhere,” Mariette said, without making eye contact. “Very inspiring, and no doubt uplifting for the poor and working classes.”

“Thank you,” said Garrou, glancing at one of the servants and snapping his fingers. The young man rushed to the table, laid Garrou’s napkin on his lap, poured him a cup of coffee from the silver carafe, then served him a croissant and some fruit before retreating with similar alacrity to his original spot. “You do know how deeply I care for the plight of the working man.”

“Of course,” she said, as what passed for a smile briefly teased up the ends of Mariette’s thin lips.

Garrou regarded his mother closely and noted that, although he remembered her as always being old, she looked even more aged of late. Her always pale skin was now nearly translucent and was so pallid it seemed almost to glow in the glaring sun; if he weren’t wearing his Ray-Bans, Garrou doubted he could look right at her. Her wrinkled skin seemed to have become more deeply etched of late, and her slight tremor appeared worse. Her hair, which up until recently had always been her natural red color, was now streaked with long wisps of pure white, making her bun look almost like the swirl of a candy cane.

Though Mariette had surrendered none of her intensity or vitality, and she moved with the grace she’d always shown, Garrou believed his mother looked somehow older. He’d once thought she was immortal, but, no, she could age just like everyone else.

“How are you, Mother?” he asked. “Is everything well?”

Mariette looked up from the newspaper at her son with unflinching ice blue eyes, one eyebrow raised.

“Am I well?” she said, her voice strong and fierce. “Am I well? Louis, may I remind you that I’m not the one running for the open Senate seat and not the one who should be leading the polls by double digits – especially given our connections – but who is not! I’m not the one who is being upstaged by some country bumpkin farmer and being made to look foolish. You are!”

Louis sat back in his chair and sighed. Fuck, he thought to himself. Politics. Always politics. And now here comes the lecture.

Mariette pointed to the folded newspaper she was reading. “Have you seen these latest poll numbers, hmm? Are you reading what the opinion pieces are saying?”

“Yes, Mother, of course,” Garrou said. “I’m a United State Congressman, I know enough to check the poll numbers and opinion pieces. My election staff is keeping me updated on all of this.”

“Uh-huh,” she said dismissively. “Sim Thompson is gaining on you in the polls. They are writing about him now like he is a viable alternative, that heis the leader the state needs and not you. Earlier in the year, after the sudden and tragic death of Senator Wilkes, Thompson was being written off as an ‘also-ran,’ as an opposition candidate just for the sake of opposition, but now he is becoming a serious threat to you… to all of us.”

“I know, Mother. I know.”

She swept her thin, bony hand into the air as if pushing aside his defense. “You know, you know,” she said contemptuously, “but I don’t see any action, Louis. I don’t see you taking on an enemy and annihilating him, the way you were taught.”

He looked at his mother as the realization of what she was saying dawned on him. “You want me to… again? Like Wilkes?”

“Nothing and no one can be allowed to stand in your way,” she said, and then in a whisper, “in our way.”

Garrou slowly chewed a small piece of croissant as he thought. “I need some time to plan it. I want it to look like an accident, like with Wilkes.”

“Time?” Mariette asked, speaking softly. “What time do you think you have? Might I remind you it was long ago decided by the High Commission itself that you would be president? Your duty, your singular mission to our coven, and to the Coven Universal, is to become president so you can establish policies to further our rule. The national covens will, of course, assist you to win the presidential race, but if you lose this race then all these plans will have been for naught – and, let me also remind you, this was the entire reason you were given the Gift of the Wolf.”

The Gift of the Wolf. The ability to change into a huge, wolflike beast at will, one granted through demonic power to only select members of the Coven Universal. It was a most convenient power to have when one wanted to eliminate political rivals in a clandestine way, or just to kill just for the sport of it.

Garrou thought back twenty-seven years to the night of his sixteenth birthday, the night he was given the Gift.

He’d been raised in the regional coven. He’d been saturated in its beliefs, aware of its awesome powers, and dedicated to its goals from an early age. Having a High Priestess as his mother made that inevitable. Garrou had become a full member three years earlier when he’d sacrificed a child on the bloody altar, and in that time, he’d been preparing himself to be worthy enough to deserve the Gift.

Garrou had been given a list of challenges to accomplish, of goals to achieve in something of a Satanic agoge. In addition to reading and analyzing some dark grimoires, Garrou had been given a list of heinous acts to commit. As a student at the Fairmont Preparatory Academy in California, Louis not only had many potential victims within easy reach but an even larger pool of victims waiting in the surrounding community, a community that would never believe a Fairmount student could be guilty of these crimes.

The first task on Garrou’s list was a simple one: Kill a random person, anywhere, at any time of day, with any weapon. That was easy enough and he was able to check it off within a few days. The tasks, however, grew in complexity and danger, as any good agoge should. It took him the entire three years to accomplish them all.

One of the later tasks he struggled with was to kill someone in public with nothing but a screwdriver and without being arrested. Garrou puzzled over that for a time but eventually found an elegant solution. He ground down the end of a large screwdriver until it was nothing but a giant shank, then went to an adult movie theater. Taking a seat directly behind a man who was too focused on the action on the screen, Louis waited until he was distracted by pleasuring himself and shoved the screwdriver into the base of the man’s brain in one swift movement. Garrou twisted and turned the screwdriver a few times to make certain the man was dead, and then simply walked away, leaving him there with a screwdriver sticking out the back of his head.

Garrou’s final task was a challenging one, but one that, like all the others, he accomplished with aplomb and ability. He was to rape and murder a married woman in her house during the day while her husband was home, but to do it without his ever being aware. Garrou pulled off this most difficult of all agoge tasks with planning, daring, and a little bit of luck: He pulled the front door closed behind him even as the husband walked in through the back after having finished his yard work.

And so it was that Garrou had proven his worth, his ability, and his willingness to kill, maim, and rape in Satan’s name. Due to completing his agoge, he was finally allowed to have his Gifting ceremony when he turned sixteen. He recalled how on that night so long ago he’d stood naked before the altar as several masked priestesses in black robes anointed him with aromatic oils and painted his body with potent runes and sigils.

As they did so, Mariette, wearing a horned animal skull mask, chanted powerful ancient words of magic while she sacrificed seven choice young virgins, slitting their throats, and collecting the blood in a large, gilded basin. After killing them, she eviscerated each one in turn and collected their entrails to chop into the base of a chunky salve, which she smeared all over his body after the priestesses had finished, still chanting her spells.

Mariette had taken the athame she’d used to sacrifice the girls and sliced a sigil into Garrou’s back, and then finally called upon the demon Marchosias to grant him the Gift as she poured the virgins’ blood over his head. From that moment, Garrou could take werewolf form whenever he wanted, towering over ten feet tall when he did, having supernatural strength and speed.

The very next night he went hunting for the first time, whispering the words that turned him into a werewolf, and killed a farmer who lived not far from their mansion in Poolesville. The transformation process turning into the Wolf was agonizing, and while not as long or drawn out as depicted in the stories, it took nearly a full minute for Louis’ bones to be broken and knitted back together, for his muscles to swell into their massive proportions, and for his tendons and ligaments to stretch so he could reach his full inhuman height. As he endured the pain of becoming the Wolf that first night, the words his mother often said to her children echoed in his head: There is no power without sacrifice, and there is no sacrifice without pain.

Garrou had loved the feeling of unbridled power that first kill afforded him and lusted after the feeling with every subsequent kill. The power that came with limitless wealth was magnificent, and the power that was attached to being a congressman delightful, but Garrou found there was no power like that of taking another person’s life, especially in the form of a demonically empowered beast.

He sipped his coffee, meeting his mother’s unwavering blue eyes. “I’ll take care of it, Mother,” he said. “One way or another I’ll take care of that up-jumped hick farmer.”

CHAPTERTHREE

Peter Brunnen loved watching the deliberations in the House Chamber from the galleries above. Though others might think them unbearably dry and boring, he found the processes that ran the American government to be fascinating. Every little procedure, every tradition, every symbol of American democracy built into the Chamber itself was exciting for Peter.

He glanced around the galleries. Built to accommodate hundreds, there was a mere handful of people watching that day, most of whom were Congressional staffers like himself. Stretching his long legs out to have more space and rubbing his smooth, cleft chin, he could never understand how the galleries weren’t packed every day with people watching their government do its work.

Peter returned his attention to the speaker, a congresswoman from California: “… was arrested and subjected to a secret, hooded military tribunal in which she was denied due process, according to the State Department, human rights groups and the United Nations Commission on Human Rights…” Today the House was considering, among other things, what actions to take to secure the freedom of an American convicted of terrorism held prisoner in Peru. Peter found it amazing that the government of the most powerful nation on earth would take time to even discuss helping a citizen convicted of a crime in another country. He ran his hand through the mop of unruly, sand-colored lazy curls atop his head as he considered the marvel of it.

How could people not be riveted by this? he thought. How could they just not care? I’ll never understand people.

As the proceedings went on, Peter looked around the Chamber, thinking about the meanings of the symbols in it. There were, of course, stars and cornucopia and bas relief busts, but his favorite was always the illuminated skylight above. A bald eagle, wings outstretched, seemed ever to float serenely above the Chamber as if watching the decisions made there and judging their worth. But to Peter, the eagle always seemed more than just a passive observer and judge – as Peter believed were too many of the American electorate – but more of a protector, as if it soared above the deliberations with its wings spread wide to shield those in the Chamber from evil influences.

He brought his attention back to the congresswoman for a bit as she continued. “… She has been held under horrendous prison conditions in the Peruvian Andes and we are all very concerned with her failing health. Lori has been subjected to long periods of isolation which have been cited by Amnesty International as cruel, inhumane and degrading treatment, in violation of…”

His eyes lifted from the lectern where the congresswoman spoke to the two great fasces flanking the large flag behind the Speaker’s podium. Peter had always been a fan of that Roman symbol and the meaning behind it. He appreciated how it meant an individual thin rod could easily be shattered, yet when bundled together, a group of such rods is both flexible and strong, strong enough to weather many blows.

It’d been pointed out before to Peter that he was an idealist, but he truly believed if enough people were to act in concert to create change, then change could happen, regardless of how poor or disconnected or otherwise powerless they might be as individuals. He believed it was only a matter of the willingness to fight and to stand together against what people thought was wrong.

That was the entire reason he’d taken a job on Congressman Sim Thompson’s staff after graduating college the previous year. Peter had been born and raised in a little Maryland town called Mountain Lake Park, and he’d spent the last several years watching as all the businesses seemed to slowly evaporate. Never much of a thriving metropolis to begin with, Mountain Lake Park had turned into a husk of its former self and was now just a scattered collection of houses. It was the same in the nearby town of Oakland just as it seemed to be all throughout Garrett County.

And he believed the reason was entirely because of terrible decisions made in Washington, decisions that favored the powerful at the expense of everyone else, ones designed to line the pockets of those who needed it the least by taking it from those who had the least. So, idealistic or not, Peter came to Washington to help change things.

The congresswoman finally finished her remarks as Peter again attended to her words, “… has given the President the authority, short of war, to gain the release of a U.S. citizen who has been wrongly incarcerated abroad, then we must do all that we can do to bring Lori home.”

“Hey,” Peter heard a hushed voice say next to him. He could smell her distinctive lilac odor just before she spoke as a lightness settled on his heart and a thrilling tingle went down his spine. “I thought I might find you here.”

He turned and smiled broadly at Angie Fontaine, a fellow staffer working for a congressman from Alabama.

“Hey, babe,” Peter said, kissing her quickly as she sat next to him. “How is your day going?”

“Pretty well, thanks,” Angie said in a southern accent he thought would sound musical, even if she were reciting tax code. “It’s been a fairly straightforward day. How about you, honey?”

Peter paused a moment before answering, realizing he was again getting lost in Angie’s brilliant green eyes, the way her long, brown hair framed her lovely face, and the way little dimples formed every time she smiled. He’d been doing that a great deal lately, noticing with excited amusement that he’d spent much of the past several months staring into her eyes, especially at their dinner dates. Pete would listen to Angie’s lilting voice as she talked about politics, getting lost in the depths of her eyes, finding it adorable the way she kept pushing her glasses up her little nose.

Peter had been driven by idealistic goals to come work in Washington, preparing for a future in Congress himself; he had also, unexpectedly, fallen in love.

Peter still found it amazing that this smart and ambitious woman, who was also lusciously curvaceous, had somehow found a tall, lanky policy nerd was a catch worth dating. Peter loved her sharp mind and her sense of humor, the way she’d put a pen to her lips when thinking, and even her habit of bouncing a leg when she was nervous. Though an unbiased observer might note that Angie was perhaps a bit too plump or that she had an overbite, Peter noticed none of that. To his eyes, Angie was perfection and beauty personified.

“It’s been pretty busy, actually,” Peter said, noting that it was now Angie who seemed to be lost in his hazel eyes. “We had a meeting earlier today, Thompson’s voting on the Bilbray amendment now, another meeting in a little while, and then maybe some committee stuff. I’ll eat, I guess, at some point. It’s not easy juggling a full-time Congressional schedule with an election.”

“No, I guess not,” Angie said, gently stroking his hand as she spoke. “Okay, so… who’s your favorite poet?” This was something the pair had been doing since they started dating. They’d been together now for several months but hadn’t known each other the previous twenty-five years of their lives. They were trying to find out these little details and so would randomly ask such questions.

“My favorite poet?” Peter asked. He liked reading but wasn’t much of a poetry guy. “Umm… Poe, I guess.”

“Poe?” Angie asked incredulously.

“Yes, Poe,” he said. “C’mon, ‘Nevermore, quoth the Raven,’ and all that. That’s classic stuff.”

“Actually, it’s ‘Quoth the Raven, Nevermore,’ but whatever.”

Peter looked at Angie and waggled his finger at her, yet she continued smiling a toothy grin at him, nonetheless. “Listen, Little Miss Smarty Pants…”

“Uh-huh.” Peter’s threats were unimpressive.

“Okay, fine… what’s your worst personality trait?”

“Hmm…” Angie said, putting a finger to her cleft chin. “I guess it’s that I can get so lost in a good book, I don’t hear if people are talking to me and forget what I need to do. I can’t tell you how many times mamma had to come get me from my room because I didn’t hear her yelling my name for dinner.”

“Ooh, damn,” Peter said. “You don’t want mamma mad at you.”

Angie chuckled. “Definitely not my mamma. What about you? Your worst trait?”

“That’s hard to answer since I’m so awesome, but—”

“I can provide some suggestions, if that’d help,” Angie said smiling.

Peter looked at Angie with mouth wide open, hand on heart, as if crushed. “Hmpf. Fine, now I guess I know where you stand… I suppose it’s that I’m too stubborn. When I get something in my mind, I’m like a bulldog with a bone. I just can’t let go.”

“Sometimes that can be a good thing,” said Angie.

“Yeah, sometimes it can be, but I can also drive people crazy with it. Okay, favorite genre of writing?”

Angie giggled as she covered her face, then said, “Horror.”

“Horror?!” Peter asked. A few of the other gallery attendants turned to look at the sudden outburst as the couple shrunk into their seats, again speaking softly.

“I know, I know, it doesn’t go with poetry so much but, you know—”

“You kidding me? I love horror. Want to guess whose work first got me into it?”

“If you say Poe then that’s another thing we have in common,” Angie said, the pair clutching hands in their whispered excitement for the genre. “I read The Tell-Tale Heart in middle school and got addicted to horror right away.”

“Me too!” said Peter. “Man, the dead vulture eye of the old guy always gave me the creeps. Do you like – shit, wait, what time is it?” he asked, now looking at this watch. “Shit. I need to get going.”

“Okay. Dinner tonight, my place?” Angie asked with a smile that flashed her dimples and brightened her already lovely face.

“Yeah, absolutely. Hey, that Blair Witch Project movie comes out next Friday. You want to go see it?”

Angie scrunched up her face, then said, “Well, I like horror books a lot more than I do horror movies, but we can give it a try. Wait – what’s your favorite horror movie?”

Peter chuckled a little, then said, “It’s definitely Fright Night. A little campy, I know, but I just love that movie. Okay, babe, I gotta go!”

Peter gave Angie another kiss then headed out. He grabbed a quick lunch and returned to Thompson’s office as the team was assembling for their afternoon meeting, then took a seat at the large conference table near his friend, Rick Johnson.

“Hey, Rick,” Peter said. “How’s it going?”

Rick shook his head and rolled his eyes, then said, “I’m just about going crazy keeping up with all these media requests. I mean, it’s good that the boss is getting national attention now, but damn it! My head is spinning.”

“I hear you, man,” Peter said as he nodded solemnly. “I think we’re all just about crazy at this point. All I know is I’m really looking forward to the recess. At least it’ll get us out of here.”

“Mmhmm… hey, how are things going with Angie?”

Peter smiled reflexively at the mention of her name. “It’s going good, man. It’s going real good. I think she’s the one for me.”

“That’s awesome, Peter. I’m happy for you.” Rick patted his friend on the shoulder and smiled as Thompson rapped his knuckles on his desk to get the meeting started.

Thompson, as he always did during these staff meetings, sat at his desk, suit jacket off, tie loosened and collar open, sleeves rolled up, leaning back in his chair with his hands cradling his head. His chief of staff, legislative director, and press secretary sat in the chairs in front of his desk while the remaining staff sat at the conference table off to the side.

“Alright, Jimmy,” Thompson said to his chief of staff after he’d gotten everyone’s attention, “take it away. What do we got?”

“Well, to begin with,” Jimmy said, “we’ve made some of the language in the speech you’re going to give on the floor about keeping manufacturing in-country crisper and more succinct, but we do need to discuss some of the verbiage…”

Peter tried desperately to follow the thread of the discussion and take notes on what was assigned to him, but ever since he started dating Angie, his mind wandered away in meetings with surprising ease. Try as he might to pay attention, somehow his thoughts seemed to quickly drift back to her. As the team discussed prioritizing legislative initiatives for the upcoming fall – and as he pretended to be attentively taking notes – Peter found himself thinking about how good Angie always smelled of flowers when he hugged her. As the meeting changed focus to what Thompson could expect during his appearance on Face the Nation that Sunday, Peter seemed almost stuck on how smooth her skin was when he’d rub her arms – Angie could somehow feel chilly in an oven, apparently! – or how soft her lips were when they kissed. As the team started to debate the best tactics to leverage advantage against Garrou, Peter found himself wondering how edible she might look nude – a delight he had yet to experience.

Nearly an hour later, Peter was jolted back to the meeting when Jimmy, the chief of staff, and Drew, the legislative director, began to loudly disagree on some important point. As they did, Lana, the press secretary, aligned herself with Jimmy and the disagreement looked like it was about to become a two-on-one fight.

“All right, all right, all right!” Thompson yelled even louder, taking control of the meeting back. “That’s enough. Killing each other isn’t going to help us win an election against big bad Lou Garrou. That’s got to be our focus here, not whose idea might be better.”

Thompson stood and sighed heavily, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair as he walked out from behind the desk. The weight of his schedule was showing on him.

“You know, I never quite feel comfortable in this town,” he said. “Everyone’s too fake, everything’s too fake. I always feel we’re all on some damn Hollywood set and I can’t stand it. I don’t know about you guys, but it makes me cranky. Makes me antsy.” The nodding heads, Peter’s included, indicated Thompson was not alone in that. He sighed again heavily, then said, “We need to get out of here for a spell, go on something like a retreat. We got a lot to work on and we can’t do it here, not without killing each other.”

The staff members looked at one another, murmuring their assent, then Jimmy, as chief of staff, spoke on their behalf as usual. “Hey, sounds good. What do you have in mind, Sim?”

Thompson walked back to his desk to check the calendar. “Let’s see, today is the… twenty-first of July. Our summer recess begins August ninth. Let’s just table everything we can for the next two weeks. In that time, I want all of you coming up with as many ideas, proposals, new perspectives, whatever, as you can. From the eighth to the thirteenth, we’ll take a retreat at my hunting lodge up there in the mountains. It’ll be cooler than this damn place, it’s smack dab in the middle of a hundred acres of woods so no one will be around, nice and quiet. What do you say, folks?”

Everyone agreed this would be an excellent idea, and Peter was especially thrilled to be once again in the woods of Garrett County, where he’d spent most of his youth. Plus, he’d heard about the hunting lodge before, a great sprawling building made out of huge oak beams built at the turn of the century by Thompson’s grandfather and he was eager to spend a week in it, even if it was to work.

The team was suddenly rejuvenated and energized, ready to begin what they were certain was going to be a memorable retreat.

CHAPTERFOUR

1

Garrou’s home was right on the Chesapeake Bay in Crisfield, a sprawling glass and steel modern house separated by acres of marshy fields from his neighbors, and he also owned a stylish brownstone house he lived in while working in Washington. He’d regularly entertain guests at both these locations, but when he wanted to have a large, formal dinner party set to show off his wealth and prestige, nowhere was better suited than Raven Hill Manor.

He sat now at the head of an immense dinner table in the mansion’s ballroom. The table, though oversized and easily capable of accommodating the twenty dinner guests that sat there now, was still dwarfed by the size of this ballroom in which Garrou’s great-grandfather had once held dances for hundreds at a time.

Cream colored, with a painting of blue sky on the ceiling and architectural details gilded in actual gold leaf, and an intricate parquet design in the hardwood floor with a gaping fireplace behind Garrou, it was a gigantic room in which to hold a dinner party. He felt the empty space was fine, though, because not only did it give the servants plenty of room to attend to the dinner guests it also seemed to focus the entire room on him, which he always enjoyed.

Garrou and his mother sat at either head of the table, and between them were some of the most powerful and influential people from seven important spheres: The news media, entertainment industry, government, education, banking, manufacturing, and the military. These important facets of modern American life were carefully chosen since these, more than any others, influenced what people were allowed to know, how they were taught to think, and how they spent their money. The individuals who represented each were chosen with even more care based upon their ability or willingness to support Garrou, as well as the overarching goals of the Coven Universal. Although only three of the dinner guests belonged to and knew the occult power of the Coven, all of them were receptive to its goals to one degree or another.

This was an extremely important dinner party for Garrou. He always used every interaction with a person as an opportunity to gain advantage, but tonight was a rare chance to gather a collection of influential people and then develop some power over them. Every detail of the dinner had been thoughtfully planned. The finest foods were being served after having been prepared by chefs flown in from Michelin three-star restaurants just for this evening, the best wines from their well-stocked cellar were offered along with the meals, and then whiskey, cigars, and other treats for a select group later, after dessert. A professional string quartet was hired to provide soft, pleasant live music during dinner. The entire mansion smelled of the delicious feast being prepared.

All their guests’ appetites had to be fully satisfied, and Garrou wanted everything to be perfect, regardless of expense.

As Garrou watched his guests slice their filet mignon and saw the blood-tinged juices ooze out of each cut, he was reminded of the fresh young girl they’d sacrificed earlier at a Black Mass in their hidden sacrarium just before dinner. He and Mariette had wanted to ensure their demonic companions were all well pleased, so they created evil spiritual energy for the evening to feed from. Having a steady stream of lost, homeless waifs at Garrou’s disposal was one of the benefits he enjoyed by volunteering as a director on the board of a national foster care agency.

“So, Congressman Garrou,” Nick Arnolds, the corpulent president of a large manufacturing conglomerate said, “what do you hear about a possible trade deal with China? Do you think that’s likely?”

Garrou chewed his mignon slowly as he thought, then, pausing with his wine glass half-raised to his mouth for effect said, “What I can tell you is that there will be a deal signed between our two countries by the end of the year.” To finish the dramatic scene, Garrou took a sip of his fine red as he looked at the industrialist through his wine glass.

The man lowered his fork, regarding Garrou slack-mouthed, his second chin wobbling heavily. “Are you serious? I mean, you are absolutely confident in this information?”

“Nick, I can guarantee it.”

The man’s face twisted into a hungry grin as he glanced at his wife, and he seemed almost to drool in anticipation. “This is the most perfect news I could imagine, Congressman. This means that market will finally be open to our products, and hopefully soon we can move production there, too. That’ll save us millions while we earn billions. The only thing better than more is even more. Do you have any details you can share?”

“Well,” Garrou said, taking another sip of his wine, “obviously not everything is agreed upon yet, but it now looks like China is willing to slash their tariff rates for the United States, and to open all the various markets to our businesses. We’ll definitely come out on top in the agreement, though it’s a winner for everyone.”

“I understand labor is pushing back,” said Sam Cain, a high-ranking official in the Department of Defense. Cain represented a small but powerful cabal within the department, one that made most military decisions. Should America go to war it would be because Cain and his associates believed it profitable, not because of any decision the president made. “Any worries about that?”

“Actually,” said Mick O’Callaghan, a congressman representing the Boston area and long-time supporter of the Garrou family, “they’re not so much pushing back as they’ve expressed some concerns about industries moving overseas. They’re worried about potential job losses.”

“So, what will we do about them?” Arnolds asked through a large bite of steak.

“Same thing as always,” Mick said. “Assure them American manufacturing will remain strong. We’ll make sure the union leaders benefit financially if they only make a show of pushing back, and then offer them a hand in making some domestic laws. Something different, something high-profile and not related to labor laws, maybe something like the environment. Let them stick it back to the activists. Their blue collars will show, they’ll get a kick out of that.”

“Sounds like a reasonable plan,” Cain said flatly. “Garrou, are you worried about how something like this will play out with voters, what ‘Main Street’ will think about it?”

Garrou felt a sudden flare of anger and gave Cain a hard look for not using his title, something he felt he’d earned. He knew it was a deliberate slight on Cain’s part. It was a subtle way for the proud government official to remind the congressman that he was there before Garrou was elected and would probably be there long after.

If I didn’t want tonight to go smoothly, you’d already have your throat ripped out, dickhead.

The anger passed just as quickly as it arrived, as did the hard look, replaced by Garrou’s charming smile. “Well, Sam, to be honest,” he said, “I don’t really care. Oh, I’m sure there’ll be some people that complain, grassroot activism, action committees, so on and so forth, but I’m not worried about that. We’ll lose a few votes here and there as factories close, but it won’t affect enough people for it to really matter. And, honestly, people won’t care at all after a while because they can get their stuff for cheap, which is all most folks are really interested in.”

Arnolds raised his wine glass, and said, “Here’s to consumerism. Long may it reign.” He then took a large swig of his drink.

“Bottom line,” Garrou went on, “is that I don’t care about factory workers enough to worry about their votes. I’m certain they’ll still vote for us regardless because that’s what they do. Honestly, this is what they get for working in factories to begin with. Besides,” Garrou said, looking at two other dinner guests, “if our friends in the media play their parts right, we’ll be able to convince people this will benefit them in the long run.”

“As for my part,” said Hugh Pettibone, an influential Hollywood movie producer with a reputation for a perverse sexual hunger that started during his years with Garrou at Fairmont, “I’m eager as fuck to break into that market. It’s fucking huge. We’re already developing scripts that take place in China or feature Chinese characters as the good guys and shit like that. It’s going to be huge, fucking huge, so I don’t want to do anything to threaten it. You can bet your ass we’ll add messages into some of the TV shows our subsidiaries control that present this in a positive light.”

“Excellent,” Garrou said. Then, turning to Emma Oscuro, a woman in an emerald-green business suit who ran a news media corporation with newspapers, cable news programs, and news magazines under its control, he said, “Em? What will the news have to say about this?”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Lou,” she said. “This deal will be heralded as being the greatest boon to the American economy since the Square Deal, the envy of the entire free market world. It’ll be written up as starting the new millennium in a whole different, and lucrative, reality.” She then popped a cherry tomato into her mouth, smiling at Garrou.

“Thank you, dear,” he said, raising his glass to her and winking. They had a long and passionate history together, having come of age in the coven at the same time.

“How are you feeling about Sim Thompson?” Mick asked, his timing perfect and just as they had rehearsed it earlier. He didn’t know about the existence of the Coven, but he’d unwittingly spent his long career in Congress working towards many of its goals, nonetheless. The older congressman had always been a supporter of Garrou’s despite the age difference due to a debt of gratitude he owed his grandfather; the elder Garrou had gotten Mick out of serious trouble when he was much younger.

“I’m glad you brought that up, Mick,” Garrou said, standing at the head of the table to give his practiced speech. “I appreciate all of your help with this important China initiative and having the chance to coordinate our message. Now, I’m going to ask for this same support and coordination for me personally. As you all know, I’m currently engaged in a killer campaign against Thompson, and so I could use all of your help, and the help of your colleagues to assist me to claim the Senate seat come the special election. So,” Garrou said, raising his wine glass for all to join him, “here’s to victory in the Senate… and to everything that comes after.”

“Hear, hear,” they all said in unison, his mother’s voice raising above the others.

“And what does come after, congressman?” asked Abiku Ogbanje, a professor, dean, and popular writer from Howard University, with a knowing smirk.

Garrou sat again, his most disarming smile in play. “Well, Dr. Ogbanje, you know our mother raised us all in the Episcopalian Church to be good and faithful servants, so I’m just going to answer that question by deferring it over to the will of God.”

“Amen to that!” said Mariette.

2

Later, after dessert and coffee had been served, Garrou took a select group into what was once called the men’s smoking room while his mother escorted the remaining guests to continue entertaining them in the drawing room. Together with Garrou were Mick, Hugh, Nick, Sam, Jerry Black, and Raymond Leonard. Black held a position of power and influence like that of Emma in news media, whereas Leonard was highly placed in the Federal Reserve. Of the six additional men in the room with Garrou, only Nick and Leonard were also part of the Coven Universal, although they conducted their rites at different covens.

The men sat on comfortable hunter green leather furniture original to the house, leather than had been oiled daily for over a hundred years and so was still as soft, supple, and squeaky as the day on which it was purchased. They sat smoking Cuban cigars and drinking a twenty-year-old bottle of Glenrothes whiskey in a room with coffered walnut walls, trophy elk racks, and an antique pool table beyond the setting on which they sat. At one end was a large fireplace, and at the other were French doors, currently obscured by dark red, velvet drapes.

“Well, gentleman,” Garrou said, loosening his tie, “as you all no doubt already know I will be running for president in 2000. Some might think it narcissistic to be a Senator for such a short amount of time before running for president, but I’m doing it. The support I mentioned out there, about the Senate race, I will really need next year, when I go after the White House. Are you men with me?”

Each man nodded his head as he either took a sip of smooth whiskey or puffed on his cigar.

“Absolutely,” said Nick, to which Black added, “Yes, absolutely.”

“Of course, I am,” agreed Leonard.

“You know I’ll always support you, Lou,” said Mick, slapping Garrou’s knee.

“Good,” said Garrou said with a smile, “because… I believe I’m looking at the core of my cabinet right here in this room.” Each man’s chest puffed out a little bit with pride, especially Sam’s, no doubt imagining themselves running the department of his choice and enjoying the benefits that come with such power, just as Garrou knew they would.

“One thing I can tell you for damn sure, Lou,” Mick said, “Is that I’ll be able to assure Massachusetts goes to you when you run for president, and I’m confident I can bring all of New England to you.”

“Good,” Garrou said. “And I assume we can count on the base coming out to vote?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Mick said with a chuckle. “That’s a lock. Look, bottom line, all you have to do is keep saying the right things, win the Senate, keep looking like older Brad Pitt, and I can guarantee you the presidency next year. Well, all that, and don’t completely fuck up on Meet the Press tomorrow.”