Thornfalcon E-Book

Matthew W. Harrill

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A scion of legends. The future of an organisation. Or an outcast and a pariah?

Samantha Scott is at odds with her family. The focus of a cult of hundreds, she seeks solace in the attention she never found from her mother, her small acts of rebellion a frustration for an organisation that has seen peace settle over the earth.

Yet something festers in the world. Undefinable, gnawing at the edge of religion. Why does humanity feel so alone? Why are more and more people turning away from the Church? And what does a mysterious group of terrorists calling themselves ‘Aeon Fall’ have to do with it all?

Join Samantha as she crosses continents, unable to avoid the machinations of Anges de la Resurréction des Chevaliers (ARC), a reluctant pawn yet a key figure as she seeks to find clues to the memory of a man who saved her life, a man who takes her right to the very limit of her skills and understanding.

Leseprobe

Thornfalcon

Matthew W. Harrill

Copyright (C) 2019 Matthew W. Harrill

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

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.

For Tricia, my wife, who always has faith that one day one of these books will make it.

Thanks go to Marie and Lynzie for their editing, and teaching me a thing or three, and Carrie, my always-vocal proofreader.

Chapter One

Clarity is one of those paradoxical phenomena. It seems to make sense to get a good look at something close up, but in truth it is time and distance that truly illuminate.

Her eyes were open for the first time in years. Samantha Scott crouched, balancing on one hand, squeezing the beach sand between her fingers with the other. A thousand micro points of pain began, with a network of assaults on individual nerves as miniscule specks of shell and stones dug into her skin, the sum no more than a tingling. The discomfort barely registered as another portion of her life slipped away. Behind her, a companion raged against their failures. How could she have been used for so long, she wondered?

She heard the roar of celebration in the distance, smelled the faint waft of distant fumes, but pushed it away. She had given too much already. This would be her own little dig at her mother's greatest achievement.

It was already late afternoon; she felt the sun on her face, tasted the salt carried on the light breeze to the edge of her tongue. She imagined the sky sling, the culmination of a decade of international co-operation spearheaded by the brightest minds on the planet—noting the pull on the ocean as preparations were underway. Was there nothing humanity could not alter?

“Sammy, you should see this,” urged one of her companions.

“What?” The wind whipped her voice into strands.

“This sight is the only success you'll have today if you don't concentrate.”

Luke? Lance? Her mind was scrambled, as it always was when she drew blood. Lucas. The young man was the latest in a long line of sycophants—devil worshippers. He, and the three bootlickers cowering behind him, was a distraction. Her priorities had changed and with that came a black cloud of responsibilities. Her head swirled with confused energy, like lightning randomly erupting.

She opened her clenched palm, examining the laceration stretching from the base of her forefinger to the heel of her hand. Skin deep, the wound had stopped bleeding as soon as it started; grains of the coarse sand now stuck in what would become another scar on the latticework already there. She wiped the laceration on the faded grey of a once-black t-shirt bearing the word 'Disturbed', the sand spilling onto tight jeans of a similar hue.

She looked up at Lucas and the others, “It's not why you came. This is why you're here. All of you.” Samantha pointed at the sand beneath. Waves lapped at the edge of a circle with symbols etched within. As the seawater spilled into the furrowed shoreline, the mark faded, taken back by the sand and ocean; here there would be no scar.

“Give her time, Lucas,” one of the three girls whispered, her voice shaking. She stared at him, then cowered, scuttling along the solitary beach on the island of Brusnik.

Samantha took everything in; the acrid taste of jet fuel caught in the back of her mouth, the Adriatic had been forever spoiled by the enormity of Hunter's Ridge. The salt air scent forever gone.

A tiny black lizard scampered across the beach and then darted into a volcanic outcrop, one of many on Brusnik covered by the followers and sycophants of Lucas and his trio. Brainwashed believers in the Devil, or those along for the sheer rebellion against one of the world's greatest and yet most secret organisations. Fifty metres across, the shoreline and the lapping blue sea became Samantha's refuge amidst this gathering of the lost. But behind her, the strange technological behemoth, whose birth she had ushered in, dominated the skyline. The revolving spaceport and two miles of runway loomed. Twin vapour trails traced the heavens, a rocket at their head, bearing a satellite into space roared over the cheering masses.

My mother is likely there, celebrating, she thought. Both of them had been catapulted into the upper echelons of society and legend, but Samantha now wanted no part of it. This gathering would drive her nuts.

All her life, Samantha Scott had been dragged from place to place, country-to-country, in her mother's wake; Eva Scott worked for Anges de la Résurrection des Chevaliers—ARC. Twenty years ago, she had stopped the demons. Because of that, the world saw her mother as a saviour, so of course there was no time for a young daughter. Besides, Samantha was not like her older sister Nina, who dutifully followed in their mother's footsteps. Nonetheless, Samantha had not been completely neglected; she was well educated, had acquired skills … still, she rebelled.

“Unique parentage,” her mother explained, refusing to offer additional details. She and Nina had unusual skill sets. Nina, for instance, could communicate with no more than a look, and Samantha suspected that she could also pull thoughts from anyone in her vicinity. It was the only thing she envied about her sister. Samantha's particular talent differed, although it too centered on communication—she could, in fact, summon the Devil. Who wouldn't want that, she mused?

“Do you want to try again?” Lucas urged. Leather-clad, in a long black trench coat, Lucas Rossi's long, greasy hair hung loose about his face, the waft of a seldom-washed body threatened to overpower her more than the menace in his voice.

It was in Geneva at the age of fourteen that Samantha first discovered her skill, the ability to call forth an image of a demon. The book she had used, a gift from her sister Nina, was full of arcane instruction. Fascinating. The first time she carved the symbols into the ground and cut her hand, spilling her own blood into the pattern, filled her with such immense euphoria she almost fainted. Power pulsed through her. Discovery. Her very own secret. Before long she rebelled; descending into the lowest common denominator, she styled herself as a priestess, gathering a flock of wannabe worshippers—little more than goths with attitude. It was two years ago, as she turned twenty that Lucas attached himself to her. The three girls: Tamsyn, Donna and Tracey, were his latest trio, his coven. The rest of the crowd contained those wishing or even plotting to take his place. They followed him aimlessly, living from moment-to-moment, devoid of any self-esteem or personal goals.

Lucas stayed, mostly because he had access to Samantha's unlimited funds, to which he regularly helped himself. He and his pathetic coven contented themselves in ritual sex, drugs and booze. Now all waited, excited, expectant.

Although Samantha had fallen, she had not slipped into the slime of wanton sex, money and meaningless rituals. None of it held any interest for her. As life went on, she became more and more disassociated from the world into which she was born.

“If I must,” she muttered. The apathy was for his benefit. She wanted this. It was the only way she felt anything. Kneeling, she carefully redrew the summoning glyphs in the sand, hoping the water would remain calm now that the satellite was in orbit—her mother's crowning glory.

Strawberry-blond curls draped over her shoulder, obscuring her view; she took a moment to tie her hair back. She drew the familiar work from rote, the intricate markings magically rising out of the sand.

Lucas leaned in, fanatically checking her design. He leaned over her shoulder and Samantha tried not to recoil. He seldom brushed his teeth, leaving his breath putrid. She was his prize, and it pissed off her mother.

“Give me the knife,” she instructed, raising her hand aloft.

He pressed the hilt into her palm with a flourish, playing to his crowd. Wooden, bound with string, it housed a blade of black conchoidal obsidian tinged with red. Razor sharp, never losing its edge, the blade could have been used to perform surgery. Rotating her hand Samantha used the point of the blade to score her scarred palm, bringing blood to flow across her hand and drip as she squeezed her fingers into the cut. She felt nothing.

Lucas began to chant an ancient language as her blood spilled into the complicated sand carving. She had long given up the rite of summoning, content to allow Lucas to impress his women. The three girls, made brave by the confident chant, crept closer, the crowd edging in behind. Samantha ignored them, watching for signs that the spell was a success.

The sand swirled—satisfaction —it had worked. She tightened her lips, bored with any sign. The downside was that her mother would know where she was—under her nose, spiting her with this act of insurrection.

A body that prevented a demon incursion two decades ago produced one capable of returning demonkind to earth. Samantha studied all the reports. Access to the full ARC database had given her information the average man would pale to consider. There she discovered the darkest secret—her father was a demon.

Now it was her secret; her companions could never know. The truth was that Samantha's father was the demon.

Samantha discovered his earthly name, as well—Madden Scott. He had taken the mantle as the protector of the nether realms. Through his own choice he had risen, or fallen, to become Satan.

Samantha wondered, Was he a hero, or the ultimate villain?

In the shadow of Hunters Ridge the sigil she formed in the sand turned from yellow to darker brown, and then to sullen red. The circle pulsed with her heartbeat, the base of her skull throbbed—she had succeeded. She knew she was close to drawing the likeness of the most-unholy himself.

Samantha glanced at Lucas, seeing the lust in his eyes for both the rite and the women around him. But she could feel his desire was mostly for her.

She knew she was sacrosanct, beyond his reach while she was in control. The other girls were his only outlet and he flaunted his dominance over them as if to impress Samantha with what she was missing.

What they both knew was that he could never conduct this rite. It was not in his blood.

With the glow, many of the crowd began to edge away, furtive glances seeking the easiest route back to the flotilla of speedboats anchored to the far side of the island. They came for the thrill, but now it had become a reality.

Lucas rose from a mutter to a shout as his chant reached its climax. “He comes,” roared Lucas as he spread his arms wide.

Samantha ignored his theatrics, concentrating on the glowing circle of sand. Waves hissed into steam where they touched the edge of the circle, seaweed catching fire and leaving a fishy stench in the air. A steady red light glowed in the shade of the late afternoon, the vapour whirled, caught in the spell. The background roar of celebration, like a call from Hades, heightened the drama and in that moment, a form materialised into being.

To Samantha, it was nothing new. Since learning her power, she had seen the image of her father many times. She understood others saw what he wanted them to see, and on this evening, Samantha watched in silence as the body coalesced into a form not quite human.

Glowing yellow eyes and curled black horns of polished onyx sat atop a body with combat boots, black trousers and a well-muscled torso. For a moment this was it. No change. Behind her, Lucas and the trio were on their knees, foreheads pressed to the ground.

“Command us, Lucifer, mightiest of Hell's army,” Lucas announced in grand tones.

“Idiot,” Samantha muttered, shaking her curls loose in disgust. “Lucifer is quite someone else.”

Turning back to the form held by her blood, she shrugged. “They never learn.”

The horns shimmered, the eyes darkened. Time seemed to slow about her, as had always happened with the spell. Lucas' voice lowered, his movements sluggish. In place of the evil perceived by others, a man's face looked back at her from the sullen ruby glow, A long dark ponytail hung behind. The pain returned, crushing her. Every time their eyes met she wished for death, to be by his side. Her father, in a place she couldn't reach him. Stubble framed a look of concern, or maybe exasperation. It seemed to say, And yet, you bring them to me, time after time.

“What can I do?” Samantha asked. “It's the only way I get to see you. Mom never arranged proper visitation rights. Seeing you impresses his flock, keeps him off my back.”

What would you have me do?

“Take me with you, Dad. There's nothing for me here. I miss you.”

That's not an option. However, it's about time you walked away from them, daughter.

A smile crept round the edges of her mouth. “Do you have something in mind?”

Satan grinned, and winked.

She chuckled. She was not a cruel person but her father had proven on many occasions that he needed no more than a look. Satan, it seemed, had quite an impish sense of humour. It's time to move on. You know what to do. What you should be doing. Unspoken words were delivered with an inclination of his head. Time moved normally once again.

“Stand,” she commanded, silencing Lucas and his gibbering. “Stand and behold the true face of your Lord and Master.”

Lucas scowled at the assumption of her authority but the three girls stood, obedient to anybody with a will stronger than their own.

Samantha witnessed no change as her father gazed upon the four parasites as they began to pale, their eyes fixed on his face.

“What is he doing?” Tamsyn cried out. “Those teeth, the blood. Those eyes — I.” Her hands shook, as did her legs, and losing her balance, Tamsyn began to scream, with Tracey and Donna joining the hysteric chorus. Around them the crowd gave a similar reaction, the ear-splitting screams held immobile by his gaze.

Lucas was mute, his eyes wide, tracking the demon with his shaking head. He cried out, the scream strangled in his throat.

The crowd, given their freedom at last turned and bolted as one. The three girls ran, gibbering and howling back up the beach, followed by their master.

Samantha smiled at her father.

He raised his eyebrows. 'Job well done' was the satisfied impression he gave. A nod, and a wistful look and he was gone.

The air teemed with sorrow, with regret. Satan, or as Samantha longed to call him, Pop, disappeared, leaving a knot in her stomach. All that remained of the summoning was a feeling of emptiness and a circle of charred rocks. Samantha turned away, touched unexpectedly by the game. Could there be another way?

She followed the four sets of footprints leading up the beach, listening to the screams mixed with cries and incoherent shouting. The island was only a few hundred meters wide; she watched Tamsyn and Donna for a while, their backs turned away. After such an unmanning, Lucas would avoid her until his lust for power overcame his fear of the consequences. She didn't know where Tracy had gone. The growl of boat engines in the distance meant some of the gibbering mass had made it off the island.

Samantha sat in the sand, watching the sunset. The sky softened with the onset of distant mists. The dark at the edge of the horizon was familiar, a moody counterpoint to the emptiness she felt within.

A plane flew toward her. Chaff exploded in three directions, dropping vertically as the military celebrated with their own angel, as it was called. Wings of smoke from the flares expanded. If there were angels, Samantha thought, they kept well away from humanity.

She heard footsteps in the sand behind her and turned, seeing the fear-ravaged face of Lucas above her. His eyes were wide, haunted, the flesh of his cheeks withered as if recoiling from the face he had witnessed. His hands clawed, reached toward her.

“What … what did you do to … to me?”

“Do to you? Don't you mean what have I done for you? The same thing I've always done for you, Lucas: Brought your demons to life. Is that not my role? To make you look good in front of your followers?”

His clawed hands were now fists, as anger rose out of Lucas, dominating his will. His neck mottled with a fresh flush of blood, he took a step closer, a waft of stale body odour assaulting her nostrils. An all-too-familiar face presented itself, that of the man she knew to have bullied his way through those who did not accede to his wishes. And of course she knew it was all her fault; he had told her so too many times. She waited for the accusation, “You made that happen.”

With a casual deliberateness, Samantha stood. While not as tall as Lucas, she made a much tougher target when on her feet. “Funny. I remember you chanting the rite of summoning. What's the matter, Lucas? Finally see something you didn't like?”

“Tracey ran straight into the sea. She kept running, right off the cliffs back there.” Lucas threw his hand up behind him. “The rest of them. My followers. Gone. What did you make them see? Tracey lost her mind. This is your fault.”

Samantha followed his hand. Spume sprayed up as waves hit the rocks beyond, specks moistening her face. “This shouldn't have happened to her, Lucas. You know the risk involved. People see what they see. This isn't some parlour trick, some childish fantasy.”

He stepped into her space and slapped her hard across the cheek.

She fell onto the sand, the world reeling around her. She tasted the coppery salt of blood, as Lucas stood over her, gloating.

“The risk is now your responsibility. You fail me again and you … unhnnn…”

Lucas collapsed to the ground, the twin electrodes of a Taser protruded from his chest. As he spasmed, Samantha rolled to avoid contact, finding herself looking at a pair of black leather combat boots. She shook her head. Busted.

“It comes to something when ARC sends the head of Global Security out to look for a mere girl.”

John Wolverton reached down, offering a hand up. “You were never a mere girl, Sammy. Playtime's done. You're overdue to meet your mother.”

Chapter Two

They're always watching me. Will I ever be alone? Samantha wondered, reaching for Wolverton's outstretched hand and pulling herself up, hand being crushed in an iron grip.

Although Past sixty, Wolverton retained a commanding presence, a giant bear of a man. While those around him expected suits and formality, cargo shorts and tank tops for him were de rigueur, the tattoos on his arms and legs still bright despite age. He was a fighter with muscles once extensive, now lean and tight. It seemed he would always be strong, never going to fat. Bald with a bushy beard that young Samantha had tugged many times over the years, he was a father figure to her, continually training and teaching her. She had learned to fly under his tutelage, and when she had crossed swords with her mother, John had patience for her, even if he did not agree with her actions. She confided in him, and he held her secrets sacrosanct. He was the only father she'd had, the only man of integrity around that had given her his time with no expectations.

Behind him, several black-clad ARC operatives waited, three aiming machine guns in the direction of the remaining stragglers. The fourth retrieved the taser from the still-prone Lucas, now squawking as the electrodes were jerked from his chest.

“I'm only worth four?” Samantha asked, nodding in the direction of the operatives. What she didn't say was that she would have run had there been fewer commandos.

“Only room for you, me, and four in the boat.”

Samantha grinned, nodding to Lucas and the two girls who lingered, “Maybe they can get back the way we came. I did all the navigation, anyway.”

Leading the small team to the black speedboat moored against the volcanic outcrop, Samantha jumped in without waiting for assistance. She was a capable woman despite her outward faults, not waiting for others to pass sentence on her actions, nor caring whether they did if she felt she was right. When their opinion didn't matter to her, she dismissed them out of hand. The only person who persisted in making judgement was her mother.

As John gunned the throttle of the speedboat, seagulls shrieked in protest at the noise from the engine and the air traffic in the distance as they swirled above. Samantha stared at the superstructure of Hunters Ridge looming and expanding on the horizon. Several miles out in the Adriatic, the only way in or out was by air or sea. Planes were taking off from the runway amid ships; the celebrations concluded. Samantha shifted her balance as the boat skipped over the surface of the water.

“What does she want this time?” She sounded weary and she knew it.

Wolverton scanned the water between Brusnik and the nearby superstructure. One distant tanker from the cargo port of Trieja, the only port allowed to send traffic to the ARC project, was preparing to dock.

“She worries about you, Sammy. She might not show it but your stunts scare her. You girls are the only link to your father she has left.”

“It's not like she had many to begin with,” Samantha retorted. She knew that her mother's primary concern was not for her; her mother's demands were always about what she needed or wanted.

Wolverton didn't answer.

They passed under the outer edge of the superstructure. Massive concrete supports plunged into the water around them like the legs of some squatting monstrosity resting on the bedrock. Above, the control centre, a building the size of a football stadium, rotated on its mechanical base. Her mother had said, “The view of the Adriatic is too good to waste on a runway and a launchpad.”

Wolverton eased the boat to into a dock built inside one of the supports lit with industrial lighting. It seemed alien in contrast to the beautiful sunset. The boat bobbed as it was tied off and as soon as it was secured, Samantha jumped onto the bolted walkway which stretched from pillar to pillar. She watched the waves lap through the honeycombed metal. “Come on then, old man,” she taunted her guide and protector.

Wolverton snorted and pulled himself up behind her. “Not too old to put you in your place, young lady.”

They followed the walkway up as it spiralled around the inside of the structure until they came to a pair of doors. Two operatives with machine guns, loosely held, manned the entrance. They nodded to Wolverton and opened the doors.

To Samantha, it seemed an imposing route for any would-be assailant, but whatever. She peered over the railing at the lapping water and the blue-green algae a hundred feet below while John summoned the lift, the metal cold and unyielding. Anybody who might try to gain entrance from the sea would surely fail. This wasn't just a technological miracle; it was a fortress.

A bleep and the lift door opened, as John tapped her shoulder and nodded. The two guards remained stationary while Samantha passed.

“Just try to be polite,” John advised as they rose through the superstructure. “She might not show it but your mother only wants the best for you.”

Samantha scowled. “I'm only doing this out of respect for you. Mother only wants what's best for mother. They have no time for me, nor I for them. The sooner you and the rest accept that, the better we'll all be. I'm going in there and coming straight back out. Mark my words.” It was hard to love and respect someone as distant and cold as her mother, as hard as she had tried, and she hoped John would finally admit she was right; they'd had this conversation too often before. Instead, he huffed and sighed. She saw the frustration flash in his eyes.

“You're too much like Daniel. The time will come when you have to accept responsibility and grow up.”

As much as John was right, the comparison to the elderly head of ARC irritated her. She rounded on him. “Grow up? Accept responsibility? John, I'm twenty-three years old. I have a degree in International Diplomacy from MIT. I fly planes and helicopters, too, and I speak three languages. How much more growing up do I need to do? Besides, Daniel Guyomard has no time for protocol and he runs the entire organisation. I don't want any part of this. What more do I have to do to prove this to everybody round here? If Pop were around —”

“Your father would tell you the exact same damned thing, girl. There's more to this world than your own wants and needs.” John frowned, a tightness around his eyes. He was keeping something from her. “There's a difference between learning skills and applying them, Sammy. It's a skill when you fly a plane for pleasure. It's responsibility to fly one to further someone else's purpose. If you gave your mother a chance instead of flying off the handle every time you meet, you might understand that.”

“Like Nina has?” As she spoke the words, Samantha knew she was behaving badly. She loved her sister, yet resented Nina being so compliant—never questioning, always acceding to their mother's wishes.

The lift stopped, opening onto the edge of the runway, with a stunning sunset and a brisk wind. The red sun dipped into the sea where Italy lay over the edge of the horizon. She caught her breath as her hair blew back, and despite her scepticism Samantha couldn't help admiring the sheer size of the construction.

She stepped out onto the hot runway, the day's heat radiating off the asphalt, filling her nose with fumes from the painted markings underfoot. Far above, more seabirds floated on the thermals, out of reach of the air traffic chaos. Instinctively, Samantha ducked as a twin-engine Cessna Citation roared past. She shielded her eyes against the glare of the dazzling runway lights. Apparently, more dignitaries were leaving for home. She imagined them in the executive offices atop the control tower, elegantly dressed, clinking champagne glasses as the rocket lifted skyward.

The less elite guests were at the other end of the runway, queuing up to board small business planes along with larger carriers and even a private Boeing 747.

Not speaking, John ushered Samantha across the runway, hurrying her into a waiting transport as ground crew frantically waved them out of the way. The noise was deafening and Samantha held her hands over her ears until they reached the rotating mass of the control tower.

As she disembarked Samantha said, “I'll try to control myself in there, but I'm making no promises, John.”

“See that you do, girl,” he growled. “What you did today was deliberately goading your mother, and because of that, ARC itself. There are only so many second chances. You've had more than most.” He pressed the call button, and the glass door slid open for Samantha. “Go on up. There are a lot of important people up there.”

Stepping into the slowly rotating structure, Samantha watched the old man disappear into the distance. She felt the whirl of the building at the edges, where she could see the rest of the runway, then turned to face the enormity of the cavernous control centre.

Well of course there would be a lot of important people. On a day like today everybody would want to party. She looked at her reflection in the glass and saw an athletic figure framed in strawberry blonde curls. They'll just have to take me the way I am. This isn't my party, after all.

The lobby of the control centre was palatial. Tropical plants topped out at three times Samantha's height, nourished by subfloor water and lighting intended to mimic daylight. Glass sculpture, objects d'art, and water features designed by world-renowned artists refracted the light, occasionally creating rainbows. ARC named the lobby the 'Orbiting Tropical Gyratory', but Samantha called it 'Fairyland'. It was all for show, an aspect of ARC the dignitaries appreciated and understood. The politicians and relations experts in the organisation brought everybody here. World leaders mingled with the high and mighty in business and social circles.

None of that impressed Samantha; she ignored it all. It was an extension of her mother, an attempt at a calming influence. Something the world sorely needed. What mattered stayed out of the public eye and that was where she headed.

She noted the lingering VIPs gawking at her in alarm or outright disgust as she passed. She smiled and walked past; if a roughed-up rock chick was part of the celebrations, so what?

She made her way to the central column rising from the middle of the building, this one constructed of opaque glass. Behind the demure door were offices with a receptionist behind a small desk. The middle-aged blonde in a couture black trouser suit waited, scanning the surroundings.

“Miss Turner,” Samantha nodded and smiled. She certainly had authority issues with her mother but she was perfectly capable of being polite.

“Miss Scott,” Hollie Turner's face broke into a knowing smile. A long-time acquaintance of Samantha's Aunt Clare, Hollie had been part of ARC for as long as Samantha could remember. Nonetheless, her role was precise—trusted to guard the gate but never enter the realm. “The suits are sure gonna love that get-up.”

Samantha glanced down once more at her bedraggled state. “Oh this? I just threw it together, last minute. You know how it is.”

Both women burst out laughing.

Hollie pressed a button below the desk, then cautioned “Be good in there.”

“Whose in?”

“All of them.”

“What is this? Some sort of court?”

Hollie shrugged. “No idea, love. I just man the gate.” Hollie waved Samantha on as two panels in the glass cleared and retracted, revealing a doorway.

Feeling a wave of anxiety, shaking hands and dry mouth, Samantha left the opulence behind and entered a glass corridor walling off a bank of computers. Not a person in the rooms, just unending technology. The brains of the global organisation were in stark contrast to this palace of perfection. It was dark, except for the countless red lights to the waiting elevator, its doors agape. The air was not the usual stale reek, something she and her mother clashed over. At least this issue would not test their wills. No doubt there would be something else.

She stepped in and instantly the doors clicked shut. Sudden upward force made her legs buckle as it raced up five floors to the top of the control tower. It took only moments but uncertainty loomed large, as did the face of Lucas. He was vengeful and she had deserted him on Brusnik. Security would see him safe but at what cost to her?

Samantha was still considering the ramifications of her actions when she realised she was not alone. The lift doors opened and a roomful of people turned, staring at her.

She gazed back at the suited, formal group looking at her with disdainful expressions and gestures. A figure pushed through, separating them with gentle hands. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, the guest of honor is here,” Nina Scott said in a commanding voice.

The stunned press of bodies parted, leaving Samantha staring at her sister. Only a year apart in age, Nina nonetheless appeared many years older with her severe ponytail of platinum-blond hair, maroon leisure suit, and thick-rimmed glasses. She was the archetypal corporate sort, embracing this world of secrets. Samantha felt little in common with Nina. Other than blood and slim bodies passed on from their mother, they did not share commonality. Samantha's curly hair reflected her wild nature. According to those who had known him, she had too much of her father in her, while Nina was her mother's daughter in every way.

“There you are,” Nina said, her tone neutral, though to Samantha it rang of disapproval. She was, at least, present. “Been playing on the beach again I hear.”

“Not that anybody here cares,” Samantha muttered. “Lucas and my friends had to leave.”

Nina placed an arm about Samantha's shoulders, steering her through the press of the murmuring exclusive. Samantha nodded to Gila Byron, one of the ARC Council with whom she was familiar; An Egyptian with grey streaks in her otherwise black hair and a flawless olive complexion, the ageless Gila and her mother were close friends. The story was that Gila was instrumental in her mothers' rise within the organisation. Other than Gila, Daniel and John Wolverton, the rest of them Samantha barely knew.

“You might be surprised how much these people care,” Nina countered. “Our family has a legacy here. It's time you embraced it.”

“Maybe. I always felt this place did nothing for me. There's so much more out there.”

“Like hunting down strange rituals in Indonesia?”

“Papua New Guinea,” Samantha corrected her sister on reflex, realising she had just been baited. “At least those people live within their traditions. This organisation erases most beliefs and rituals through technology.”

Nina's face went flat, a quick flash of anger in her eyes.

“Really, Samantha—that tired argument again? You know what this place is, what they hope to achieve. You know our history. You are just as much a part of it, whether you acknowledge this or not.”

“Oh, I understand. I'm not sorry, Nina.”

Nina led Samantha to the front of the assembled group, pressing a button on another set of glass doors.

“Ladies and gentlemen if you will be so kind as to follow me please?” It smacked of an order rather than a request.

Samantha followed her sister to the front row of plush blue office chairs lined up in ranks. A woman sat three seats along, facing forward. Her grey streaked brown hair was tied back into a ponytail, exactly in the same way as her daughter's hair. It was easy to tell that Nina followed Eva Scott in habit and mannerism.

Nina sat next to their mother, squeezing her hand in affirmation. Samantha had no words for the moment, and sat beside her sister, squirming to get comfortable on the thin cushioning. Something was up. Her mother kept her face forward but there was a distinct reddening around her eyes. Samantha leaned forward to comment but Nina forestalled her with a warning glance.

Whatever your game, now is not the time. Her sister's voice sounded in her head. Nina's gift. Samantha could summon her father's image but Nina could speak directly into the mind. They were both offspring of a demon, but Nina was dealt the best hand.

The final few sat, John Wolverton closing the doors behind them, and a sombre shaven-headed man with a slight paunch stepped up to the podium. Eyes normally strong and full of confidence were sunken. Swanson Guyomard regarded them all, sparing a hollow glance for Samantha, as he looked each person, one by one, in the eye.

His voice was subdued as he leaned forward. He cleared his voice and said, “It is with utmost regret that my beloved uncle and head of the ARC Council, Daniel Guyomard, has passed away.”

Samantha gasped.

Chapter Three

It was one of those moments that defined a person: The end of an era.

A gasp rose as one from the gathered notables. Samantha's own cry of loss was lost among the tide. People began to weep, reaching for handkerchiefs. Many expressed their disbelief. If John Wolverton had been her father, Daniel Guyomard had been her grandfather. A wicked sense of humor akin to her own, he had always been welcoming to her. She had imprinted him as she grew up. His lack of regard for protocol was infectious.

In front of them Swanson raised his hands to quiet the audience. His voice was shaky. “There are protocols in place for this event. His death occurred only moments ago, although it was not, in the grand scheme of things, unexpected. My uncle was neither a healthy, nor a young man. There will be a proper time for mourning, but at present we require continuity. In this place, especially in this place it is important to remember that ARC has a responsibility to the past, to the future. To mankind.”

Samantha glanced about her. Nina placed her arm about Samantha's shoulders, her head bowed. Feeling compassion for her sister, Samantha squeezed Nina's hand, not making eye contact for fear they might both break down. Instead she concentrated on Swanson as he tried to reassure everybody; he was focussed on nothing else. Nearby an elderly lady she had never met sobbed into her hands. Daniel had been a regular part of her mother's life as part of the ARC Council. A kindly man with a rebellious streak, his own appointment occurred during an emergency; a flood had hit Geneva when Nina was born and countless had died. He was a man loved by many, respected by all. Worshipped by her. Samantha's eyes welled up.

Samantha knew the history: The Guyomards had a special claim on the rite of succession within ARC due to the organisation being formed by Swanson's ancestor Jerome.

A face caught her eye from a few seats down the row behind her. Thorsten Guyomard winked at her and grinned. Only a few years older than her, he was added to the ARC council at the behest of the man now speaking. Cocksure, bordering on arrogant, Thorsten wrung every drop of benefit out of his position. Samantha couldn't help but like the man. With his sun-bleached blond hair and infectious nature it was hard not to. Yet now, his disregard for the sombre news ate at her.

“…as such it is only proper that we hold a ballot for the next Chair of the council,” Swanson concluded.

Murmurs raced through the audience. It was hard for Samantha to pick up on individual words, but 'succession' and 'dynasty' were prevalent.

“If I may,” said John Wolverton from where he stood just inside the door, “there is a simple solution here.” He crossed to the podium, standing next to Swanson and holding the lectern on both sides with his immense hands. Samantha could feel the tension. Was this a coup?

“Let me say on behalf of the entire Council and senior staff how sorry we are, Swanson. Your uncle was a man of many talents, and he led the organisation well.” John turned toward him. “But this is not the time for radical decisions and wholesale change. The council functions efficiently as is. The staff know their roles and there is clarity between all. Everybody in this room knows what happened when you invoked clause three of the charter of the Council of Anges de la Résurrection des Chevaliers: In time of imminent demonic threat, a member of the family Guyomard may assume the role of Council Chair, independent of the vote of the Council. There is no imminent demonic threat. The world is safe. But I insist that you now take up the role which you should have had twenty years ago. Take the chair, Swanson. Take the chair.”

The chant began immediately. Samantha wasn't sure who started it, either Thorsten, or Gila, but both stood, repeating, “Take the chair, take the chair.”

Moments later, her mother joined in, the faces all around her still streaked with tears, although she had not openly wept. Samantha watched, fascinated by the momentous turn of events?

Swanson held his hands aloft, entreating the room for silence. “Is there anybody who objects to this course of action?” Strangely, he looked directly at Samantha.

She shrugged.

“Consider the motion carried,” John announced. “Long live the king.”

The room chuckled.

“Thank you for coming, Swanson continued. “It makes the hardship of losing my uncle that much more bearable that you are all behind me. Will the councilmembers please remain? We have matters to discuss.”

With the dismissal, Samantha started to rise only to find a hand clamped above her elbow.

“Not you,” Nina said. “You stay this time. There are things you need to hear.”

The room emptied around her, only a dozen or so people remained.

“If you would, please,” motioned Swanson, opening a door to the council chamber.

One factor was consistent in the world of ARC. No matter where they had a conference room, it looked just like Geneva. 'A home away from home' is how many referred to such places with its oval glass table and pale blue lighting, all of it Spacious and airy. To Samantha, it was bland and repetitive.

She took a seat next to Nina near the door, along with a tall woman she didn't recognise, and a man in a sharp black suit.

“Alexander, how many more times do I have to remind you that your place is at the table now?” Swanson held out a hand and flicked it toward the table where there were two free seats. Her mother sat opposite her, regarding Samantha in silence. There was disapproval in that gaze, and a steely resolve.

“I'm sorry, sir,” the sharp black suit said, standing next to the tall woman, as he rose. “I was taught never to presume.”

“By your father, no less.” Swanson paused to smile. “We all miss him.”

“That's Alexander Steadman?” Samantha's hushed tones reached her sister's ears.

It is. His father was a legend in ARC, saving the archives in Geneva from destruction.

“I remember Mom telling the story,” Samantha whispered. “He was a hero.”

Nina nudged her. Several of the Council members were glancing their way. Just nod.

Samantha let a small smile creep across her face.

Swanson had turned to sign the ancient ARC charter on the council table as Steadman took his seat. “Your reasons for being here are threefold. First, we have an empty seat at this table. Are we agreed on the choice for candidate?”

Heads turned as the council looked to each other.

“I don't think there is any dissention this time,” said an elderly American woman with white hair.

“Good. Bring her in.” Swanson waved at the door, which slid open.

Samantha's mouth dropped. “Aunt Clare?”

Clare Rosser winked at her and strode into the room, pausing only to nod to the woman seated to Nina's left. Clare was their mother's half-sister and was introduced to them only ten years ago. Apparently she was recruited into the organisation before Nina was born. She was well-loved by everybody, a consummate professional with a tenacious knack of rooting out oddities in the world. A former forensic analyst, she left nothing uncovered. Moreover she had accomplished her great feats while learning to live with type-1 diabetes.

Taking the final seat and brushing a stray lock of hair over her ear, Clare said, “Thank you for the opportunity.”

“You deserve it, Clare,' Swanson cooed. “You've produced results consistently and above expectations and built a formidable team. Many people in this world are safe because of you and your people. We may yet authorise a new branch of ARC - covert hunters or some such.”

Clare smiled. “That doesn't even begin to describe us.”

“As things stand you will be a non-sitting member of this Council. We can hardly tether you to Geneva.”

“Fine. Charlotte Benson there will run things when you need me.”

At mention of her name, the identity of Nina's neighbour was revealed and she stood. An imposing figure, Charlotte Benson was a woman perhaps of forty, standing a good six feet tall. “We will be fine,” she reassured the council, and took her seat.

“I have no doubt. Now Clare it is custom for me to introduce the Council. First, the sitting members, the permanent base. Gila Byron is my new deputy and Council co-ordinator.”

Gila flashed a welcoming smile. The two knew each other well.

“Next, Swanson continued, “well, you know most of the council already. Tricia Pelirrojo and Gaspard Antroobus are all sitting members alongside John Wolverton and your sister “Some of our non-sitting members may be new to you. Forrest Kyle is ex-Shikari and works closely with Eva on our technology wing. Alexander Steadman heads up Biblical Interpretation. Mohammed El-Rafi is head of Grail, our artifact research wing. Jeanette Gibson, our media relations boss, I am sure is familiar to you, and our last councilmember is my cousin Thorsten.”

Samantha raised her hand. “Why are we here? Nina and I aren't councilmembers.”

This interruption earned Samantha a look of venom from her mother and an amused smile from several of the other notables.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe you all know Nina Scott and her younger sister Samantha,” Swanson spoke with barely-contained amusement, which served to additionally irritate Eva.

Swanson's face turned serious once again. This was clearly no time for levity. “We're here for several reasons, Samantha. Firstly to fill the spare council seat—”

“But there are only supposed to be five sitting members.”

“Sammy!” her mother warned, getting visibly angry as her eyes widened in a glare.

“No, Eva, that's a justified question. One that shows young Samantha has as good a claim to be here as anybody. In answer I would say to you that due to the age and role of many here, we need a larger permanent council body in place. The time has come for expansion.”

Samantha ground her teeth at being referred to as 'young'. She was about to retort when Swanson got there first.

“Secondly, as the Sky Sling has been successful in placing our satellite in orbit, the time has come to unveil it to the world. We shall get to that in due course. What is a more pressing matter is your behaviour, young lady. The time has come for you to account for your actions.”

“And just what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Samantha stood, coming to the edge of the table between Gaspard Antroobus and Tricia Pelirrojo.

“It means the days of you attempting to raise demons are at an end,” her mother said from the far end of the table. “It means that one way or another, your rebellious streak is about to be curbed. ARC has need of you.”

This wasn't a reprimand. Her mother's tone was in earnest. Eyes wide and pleading, she was serious. “I don't want any part of this,” Samantha replied, defiant. “I didn't want to know when I was growing up and my life was being decided for me. Nothing's changed.”

“Sammy, there's much more at stake than you know.” Nina stood, crossing the conference room to stand behind their mother.

Samantha felt completely alone facing all the silent accusations from across the glass table. She had committed her fair share of misdemeanours. Daniel's death put it all into perspective. There was no longer any excuse to fall back on. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow. “Nothing's changed,” she repeated. “What do you demand of me that the all-powerful ARC cannot accomplish? You have the foremost experts in the world, governments at your beck and call. You don't need me.”

Her response caused raised eyebrows among some. Eva sighed, her face drawn. Samantha felt the same impasse she always had.

Nina turned to Swanson, who picked up a remote from the lectern. One click of a button locked the door, sealing them in. A second click turned off the lighting. A screen came into view. A picture of bloody carnage filled the screen, dozens of rats missing parts of their heads.

“Rats with their faces chewed off,” Swanson emphasised.

“So?” Samantha challenged, still ready to question, unwilling to bend to their will.

“They chewed off each-other's heads. The natural order of things has been upset. That's not all. Since the incursion twenty years ago, we've monitored and ended any number of threats.” The screen changed to a dust-covered farm. Rickety fences were held together by rusting nails, steel drums cut in half to make food troughs and a very perplexed farmer looking on.

“Here in Africa we have a case of a cow feasting on sheep. Nothing could tempt the cow. Normal feed, water had no effect. The animal wouldn't touch it. But it was left alone in a pen with a sheep and the following morning the sheep was dead with the cow feeding from its corpse.”

“What has any of this to do with me?” Samantha asked. “Oddly behaving animals? Doesn't that warrant your attention?”

Her Aunt Clare stood, brandishing a handful of documents. She began to toss them across the table toward her. “Goats eating chickens. People claiming dinosaurs are clawing their way out of the ground. Look at these, Sammy.”

Samantha rose and crossed to the table. She opened the covers as the documents slid to her. “Jellyfish slime coating rocks?”

“Not just rocks, an entire fjord in Norway went purple with this stuff. And not just in Norway. Across the planet, at exactly the same time. Thailand, Darwin, Krestovaya in Russia, and there are reports of this happening in Lake Victoria in Uganda.”

“And they don't get jellyfish there?”

“Sammy, the species is saltwater, and it's filling a landlocked freshwater lake in the middle of a continent. This is only the natural phenomena. I came here straight from hunting Voydanoy.”

This meant nothing to Samantha.

Clare threw another folder at her. This contained a photo of a humanoid creature with a wide, froglike mouth and pale green skin covered in warts. “People don't want to believe in this stuff, and so we keep it quiet. That's why we seldom reveal the real purpose behind this organisation. Do you understand? It's also why we don't go around raising images of demons—Voydanoy, Viruñas, Imps, Sprites, and Nuns that can absorb people's sins from their bodies. We have been dealing with a global catastrophe in the making for the last twenty years. You're here because, like it or not, you and your sister are deeply involved in the cause and consequence of one immutable fact.”

“And that is?”

Clare leaned forward, placing her hands on the table, one atop Eva's, and said, “Religion is dead.”

Chapter Four

Samantha dropped the files to the table, now further annoyed. This entire gathering seemed more and more like a set-up, an intervention to try and teach her a lesson. They didn't know a damn thing about her—not really. Was Clare suggesting somehow the fault of waning belief was at Samantha's feet?

“You're trying to pin the fact that people don't go to church on me? Samantha's voice was low, cautious. Why don't you throw in the Holocaust and tidal waves while you're at it?”

“Samantha, you misunderstand.” Her mother finally spoke. There was not a lot of emotion in those words. Frustration perhaps. Regret? Maybe. “Now she speaks. Why don't you enlighten me, Mother? How exactly should I interpret those words?”

Eva remained seated, her eyes hard. “Since before you were born, there's been a gradual disregard for religion. The secular nature of the world has come to define much of what we say and do. It was always accepted that some would always consider themselves spiritual. ARC is an organisation based on the melding of religion and technology. Swanson and Gila are Coptics, for example. I, as you know, once practised aspects of psychology. We take the best of both worlds.”

“Some might say you still practise what you preach,” Samantha accused; she noted her sister's frown.

“The same people, were they to see your ploys, might start saying similar of you,” Eva retorted. “You have to understand why your distractions could have such dire consequences. When the darkness fell, when demons tried to colonise the earth, it was my blood—” Eva looked to Nina, taking her hand, “Our blood—that was the key. Our blood could have opened the gates of Hell, but events proved otherwise. Your blood runs the same as your sisters. Like it or not, Samantha, you're a person of religious significance.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” Samantha realised how stupid she sounded as the words slipped past her lips. She snorted a laugh. “I'm sorry. Of course I do. I speak to the dead because the living aren't interested.”

Her mother stood, removing her suit jacket. An angry star-shaped scar was noticeable on her forearm as she reached over to tug at her collar. A five-pointed mark, a replica of the scar, was on the skin of her neck.

Nina pulled up her sleeve, revealing a six-pointed star. Samantha bore an identical mark on her right thigh. “We both have these, Sammy. You know it means we are scions of the House of David.”

“I'm not Jewish,” Samantha hissed. “I'm not anything.”

“And therein lies the problem,” Swanson concluded.

Samantha stepped back from the desk. She could make no sense of what they were saying to her. “This meeting's been convened because you've decided I need to get religion?”

Mohammed El Rafi moved to speak but Alexander Steadman stood, shifting the focus in the room to himself. “If I may, Council?” He didn't wait for permission. “Samantha, what your mother and these preeminent members of the Council are trying to put into words is, in fact, quite different, yet at the same time, is exactly that. You are not being requested to don a cassock, so to speak. The rest of the world is shedding their vestments. Literally. They are losing faith.”

El Rafi stood to join his new colleague. An old friend of her mother's, Samantha was inclined to ignore him, but Steadman's words intrigued her. “Won't you take my seat?”

“I'm happy where I am,” she stated. “I'll have a seat here.”

Those beside her made room as Clare brought a seat to the table for her. There was no way she was going to sit that close to her mother.

“You understand my position within this Council, yes?”

“Head of Biblical Interpretation,” Samantha replied. “You take what happens in the world and apply it to texts and scrolls for meaning.”

Steadman nodded in approval. “Good. Mohammed heads up Grail, which looks for physical evidence of religion. Our departments have similar remits, although differing methods. What we tend to agree on is the current interpretation of the world. What happened twenty years ago precipitated this current state of affairs. Although we were saved from disaster, there is a lingering aftertaste, a festering sore that has not healed.”

Samantha glanced at her mother. Eva's worn face could not hide the pain as she stared down at the table. The spark of a once vibrant and energetic woman had dimmed. This was all about her father.

“That being the death of religion?”

“Exactly.” Steadman's face was animated as he elaborated. “Imagine, if you will, a physical link between Heaven and Earth, a conduit through which prayer is heard. Sever that conduit and what happens?”

“If you are correct, prayers are no longer heard.”

“And in some cases, not answered where once they were.”

Samantha leaned back in her seat. It was not hard to understand their logic. She had grown up hearing snippets of her father's great sacrifice. “You think Dad was responsible?”

Steadman shook his head. “No, I do not. He was not the only one to make a sacrifice. We lost many in that ill-feted journey, including—

“Metatron,” Eva finished for him. “He said his name was Metatron.”

“Who?”

Eva looked up at her. The pain of loss still shone in her mom's eyes. “A man we met once. He helped us. He called himself Janus. He took the fight to those beyond.”

Samantha looked around the table. Not one face registered surprise. “You all know of this?”

“If you didn't distance yourself behind distractions you would know too,” Nina chided her. “What do you know of the name?”

“An angel. Called the Scribe by some. The Voice of God by others. Are you saying he is the reason this is all happening?”

“We can't be sure,” Mohammed stood, pacing around the room. “What we do know is this: In the two decades since the demon incursion—yes, a demon incursion is what happened—ARC has gone a long way to silencing the rumours. People forget, move on, dismiss what is incredible, and live for the mundane. Yet as they accept that reality, changes still occur. They are small at first, but with increasing frequency, they become noticeable. And then they gather a following. The oddities: The jellyfish, the strange animal behaviour. It's just the start. Religions starts to splinter, attendances fall. This might not appear much to the person on the street, but religious attendance globally has reduced by thirty percent. All religion—Catholic Mass, Muslim prayer—you name it; the numbers don't lie.”

“There are some that say numbers are as close as you get to the handwriting of God,” commented Tricia Pellirojo.

“You could be right,” Mohammed agreed. “To be honest, we are running out of ideas. But as religion wanes, these strange occurrences increase.”

Clare added, “I'm here because the occurrences are physical in nature too. Monsters out of legend, creatures that can suck a person dry of their sins, bizarre scientific experiments on horses that should not be physically possible. I've investigated them all. The Voydanoy are a prime example. Water creatures with frog-like faces who steal children?”

“Sounds considerably far-fetched,” Samantha dismissed the example.

“And yet not only do we have one in our lab, we have at this table a dissenter who raises images of demons for kicks,” Clare argued back. “This lack of interest in religion is reaching epidemic proportions.”

Samantha listened and watched as the arguments flew across the room like flies batted with swatters—first Mohammed…

“This is more than a lack of interest. This is a forced increase in apathy. Do you have the coverage, Jeanette?”

Jeanette Gibson, head of media, swatted back, “I do.” She dialed a few buttons into the conference table console, and a series of stills followed, the black and white photos showing groups of people surrounding rocks and other items as if praying to them. “A marked resurfacing of Pagan rituals. People are disappearing into mysterious cults of their own free will and never being seen again. These cults are no longer clandestine. They're actively recruiting. As religious attendance decreases, the interest in pre-religion increases. The world is slowly reverting. Mankind craves ritual and ceremony, looking to worship idols if they believe religion doesn't hold the answer. The names are many: Xris, Vodec, Drue, Lost, Heaven's Gate. We are struggling to understand their draw. As the years have gone by, one group, though quiet at first, has been making increasing noise—Aeon Fall.”