Son of Perdition (Chronicles of Brothers) (10 page)

SIX MONTHS LATER

Chapter Thirteen

The Seed of the Serpent

Vatican Heliport, Vatican City, Rome, 21st December 1981 – 5 am

Kester Von Slagel strode the icy tarmac impatiently, his black Jesuit robes blowing in the freezing winter blizzard that had swept in from the North. He hesitated briefly in front of a statue of the Madonna and Jesus, then continued his incessant pacing.

‘December,’ he muttered bitterly.
‘Qui fa un freddo inferno!’
The cruel weather only served to deepen his irritation at having to reside at present in this infernal body as one of the Race of Men.He surveyed the Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk assault helicopter that was barely visible through the driving sleet. It stood in the circle of floodlights on the tarmac of the Vatican heliport, guarded by six soldiers in British military uniform, all holding sub-machine guns. The Brotherhood had financed the Black Hawk’s prototype and maiden flight six years earlier and had been well rewarded. Over 900 gunships in Brotherhood hands were now operational. On every continent on earth.

He smiled faintly. The single redeeming factor was that this undertaking was, without doubt, the most momentous operation in the history of the Fallen.

Four cardinals bearing a sealed silver casket strode towards him, their scarlet robes lashed by the violent winds.

Von Slagel studied the casket’s lid, exquisitely engraved with a golden inverted pentacle, and then surveyed the cardinals in front of him. Unlike these simpletons,
he
was well aware that inside the chest, sleeping soundly on indigo velvet, lay his Master’s seed. The Prince. The Lorcan clone.

Here lay the Fallen’s sole opportunity to destroy the Nazarene’s illegitimate claim as King of the Race of Men. Von Slagel’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction. . . . Unless
Yehovah
had some new-fangled line of attack up his sleeve.

He nodded to the cardinals and they carried the casket carefully up the helicopter steps and into the gunship.

The Black Hawk’s sole occupant was a thick-set nun, her pasty features hidden under her wimple, leaving only her eyes, nose and mouth visible. Her habit fell to just below the knee and thick dark stockings were taut over her hefty lower calves. She stared mesmerized at the golden image of a goat that filled the pentacle on the casket.

‘The Sigil of Baphomet,’ she uttered, her pale eyes wide with a combination of elation and terror. ‘God of the Witches.’ She clutched her own inverted crucifix with quivering fleshy fingers.

The pilot, a Jesuit priest, approached Von Slagel and knelt before him in the snow.

‘My son,’ Von Slagel said, ‘you have been chosen for the highest order. You have your instructions?’

‘
Si, Padre
,’ the pilot answered reverently.

‘The navigational system is set. You will transport the casket to the prearranged destination. Abbess Hiltrude will conduct the exchange.’ Von Slagel laid his hands on the priest’s head.
‘In nomine Patris.’

The priest wiped a tear from his cheek, saluted, then marched towards the cockpit.

Von Slagel walked over to the commander of the six soldiers.

‘Captain Granville, your final instruction,’ he said softly. ‘On receipt of the exchanged infant at St Gabriel’s Nursing Home, you will exterminate it, then the pilot and the crew.’

Granville saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

Granville signalled to the soldiers and, as one, they fired a burst of 9mm rounds into the chest of each of the four unsuspecting cardinals. Then they loaded the bodies into the hold before climbing into the gunship.

Von Slagel smiled in approval and saluted, then turned sharply on his heel to fight his way through the rapidly intensifying storm towards the shelter of the old Vatican fortifications.

All at once, Rome’s skies filled with the rasping screams of a hundred thousand starlings. The skies above Von Slagel turned black as the rotating column of birds swooped across his path in a sinister swirling mass, twisting and turning like a great feathered cyclone. His Master’s advance party.

The familiar aroma of frankincense permeated the heliport and Von Slagel flung himself prostrate onto the tarmac as a tall form materialized out of the savage churning flock directly in his path.

He raised his head to stare at two feet shod in a pair of black Tanino Crisci patent leather shoes. He looked up further to see a silver cane with a black gloved hand resting on the carved serpent handle.

‘He is en route to London, Your Excellency.’ Von Slagel’s voice quivered. ‘The infants will be exchanged, sire, according to your plan.’

He grasped his Master’s hand and kissed the golden seal of an immense onyx ring.

Lorcan De Molay smiled in approval and adjusted the large crucifix that hung from a cord around his neck. He stared down at Von Slagel, his features hidden by the circular brim of his black
cappello Romano
.

‘You have excelled yourself, Charsoc the Dark,’ he murmured.

He looked out from under the wide brim, his eyes riveted on the sleek black gunship gliding upwards into Rome’s dawn skies. It circled the Vatican twice before flying off towards the Tyrrhenian Sea, its lights soon just a speck on the shimmering blue-black horizon.

Lorcan De Molay walked over to the statue of the Madonna and Jesus and stood before it, his black Jesuit robes blowing violently in the raging blizzard.

‘The Nazarene.’ He ran slim manicured fingers over the infant Jesus’s finely carved features.

‘An exquisite rendition . . . almost flawless,’ he whispered, strangely captivated by the infant king’s expression. His intense sapphire gaze moved slowly upwards until it rested on the intricately carved golden crown on the child’s head.

Abruptly, he pulled his robes tightly around him. His steel-blue eyes flashed with sudden venom. He raised his face to the heavens.

‘
Your
Son’s kingdom comes to an end!’ he hissed.

The King of the Damned stood in the wind, his face raised in wild abandon to the glowing dawn skies, his raven hair lashing wildly in the ice storm as he transformed to Archangel. Six monstrous black seraph wings billowed behind him.

‘
My
Kingdom come!’ he cried.

OVER ONE DECADE LATER

Chapter Fourteen

Ancestral Ties

De Vere Ancestral Home, Narragansett Bay, Newport, Rhode Island, 1994

The sleek black limousine was flanked by four Lincoln SUVs. It purred past the three gatehouses, through tall cast iron gates emblazoned with the De Vere family crest and on to the vast acreage of the immaculately manicured grounds of the De Vere ancestral mansion. The limousine sped past the Pavilion and up the winding driveway, past grand overlooks and ornamental features, finally drawing to a halt outside a fifty-room mansion of Indiana limestone overlooking the Atlantic Ocean at Narragansett Bay.

An elegant, dark-haired man in his late forties alighted from the back of the limousine holding a slim black briefcase. Four security men exited behind him. James De Vere stood completely still for a long moment, drinking in the sight of his childhood ancestral home. His handsome face was haggard – he was weary to the point of exhaustion.

James walked up the steps to an enormous yew front door which was held open by an elderly butler with a mop of silver hair.

‘Welcome home, Master James,’ he said, in a cultured English accent. ‘Excellent to have you back, sir.’

‘It’s been a long trip, Maxim,’ James said, with a tired smile, handing over his briefcase. ‘Good to see you, too. Have the boys been behaving while I’ve been gone?’

‘Everything is quite in order, sir.’ The butler stared down at his white-gloved hands sheepishly.

James’s eyes narrowed, catching sight of the charred patch on Maxim’s pressed black trousers.

‘No more scientific experiments?’ James studied Maxim intently.

A sudden pink flush started at Maxim’s collar and spread up his neck.

James sighed. ‘Maxim, when I agreed you were to take over the boys’ scientific tutoring, I meant theoretical study not advanced chemistry experiments.’ ‘We were merely studying biochemical reactions in the woodshed,’ Maxim said, awkwardly.

‘Let’s see – in summer Nick blew up the aviary with nitroglycerine, in the fall Adrian exploded a mixture of acetone peroxide and sawdust in Frau Mahling’s study and at Thanksgiving Jason was discovered assembling a homemade pipebomb. Mrs De Vere’s nerves will be shot to pieces.’

James turned to the security men, hiding a smile. ‘Make yourself at home on the porch, gentlemen.’ He gave Maxim a pointed stare. ‘Maxim will bring refreshments.’

The butler scowled and looked the dark-suited entourage up and down sniffily.

‘As you wish, sir.’

James walked into the spacious hallway with its eighteen-foot vaulted ceilings. He stopped in the vestibule, his features visibly relaxing as he breathed in the aroma of bergamot and mimosa that wafted through the halls. Maxim eased him out of his overcoat.

‘You are weary, Master James, sir?’ He looked at James in concern. ‘I took the liberty of placing your smoking jacket and slippers next to the fireplace as always.’

James laid a hand on Maxim’s shoulder.

‘Maxim, old friend, it’s been a hard week.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Madam Lilian?’

‘Madam Lilian is in the drawing room, sir.’

‘Get the boys, please – I have news that concerns them.’

James walked to the huge mahogany drawing-room doors and slowly pushed them open.

Standing by the log-burning fireplace was an elegant fine-featured woman. Her skin was alabaster smooth, her make-up perfectly applied, her glossy chestnut hair swept up in a chignon. She wore a pale apricot silk dress that fell just above her well-turned ankles and a pair of apricot satin mules. Nothing was out of place.

Lilian De Vere turned, instantaneously coming alive at the sight of James. She rushed over and they clung to each other. He closed his eyes, burying his face in her neck, visibly at peace.

Slowly he raised his head, unclasped his arms from around her waist and walked over to the window, gazing out at the darkening thunder clouds building up over the Atlantic.

Lilian studied him.

‘You were summoned?’ She placed her hand on his back. ‘The Council of Three Hundred?’

James shook his head. ‘No.’ He turned to face her, his face ashen.

‘I was summoned by my father to San Francisco. To the Grand Druid Council.’

Lilian pulled her hand away from James as though she’d been scalded.

‘The Witch High Priests,’ she whispered. ‘The Council once came to our house on All Hallows. They held a Black Mass in my father’s chapel.’ She walked over to the wet bar and poured herself a martini, her hands trembling violently. ‘They conducted a child sacrifice on my behalf. What did they want this time?’

James took a deep breath. ‘We leave for London in five weeks.’

‘London?’

James reached out to clasp her arm but Lilian backed away against the drinks cabinet.

‘You said . . . you said you would do what we discussed. That this time you would tell them no,’ she said, her voice dangerously soft. She walked over to the French windows, glass in hand, staring out over the beautifully manicured lawns, then turned to him emotional but controlled. ‘You couldn’t do it, could you?’

James nodded, world-weary. ‘You knew when we married there would be . . . ’ He hesitated. ‘Demands: things that we would have to do.’

‘We said we would tell them NO.’ Lillian stared at him, an unsettling wildness in her eyes.

‘They made it very clear. If we refuse,’ his voice was hard, ‘they will kill us, Lilian.’ He hesitated. ‘If we refuse. They will kill the boys.’

‘
The boys
 . . . ’ Lilian whispered in horror. She turned from the window and a solitary tear ran down her cheek. ‘They will kill them like they killed my father.’ Her slender shoulders shook with fury, her soft grey eyes like ice. ‘My entire childhood was “managed” – child sacrifices, mind control, my father’s suicide . . . And
they
managed it just like they manage
you
. We have to get out.’ She let out a strangled sob. ‘For the sake of our sons we
have
to get out.’ Her perfectly coiffed hair fell awry across her face

James turned to her, his hands trembling.

‘There
is
no out, Lilian.’ James’s voice was uncharacteristically harsh. ‘You knew when we married that I was born into one of the thirteen Illuminati bloodlines. You knew the high price we would pay.’

She recoiled.

‘I don’t want this for my
sons
 . . . ’ she sobbed,

James took her face in his hands. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘I have their word. If we meet their demands,
every
demand they make, they will
not
touch our sons. If we do their bidding, all their bidding, the boys will exist outside of their clutches. Free to live a normal life. Freed from covens and their depraved rituals. Freed from things too unspeakable to utter.’

Lilian stared at James, her breathing shallow.

He continued, relentless. ‘We sacrifice
our
freedom so that our sons may live free from subterfuge. That our sons may live free from their clutches.’

The martini glass slipped from Lilian’s hands, shattering on the floor.

There was a soft knock on the drawing-room door. A petite girl dressed in maid’s livery entered with an elfin-faced six-year-old boy in tow.

Nicholas De Vere saw his mother and broke into a cheeky grin. Lilian wiped the tears from her cheeks, regaining her composure instantly. She held out her arms.

‘Nicholas, darling . . . ’ she said. ‘Thank you, Laura. I had a slight accident. Be a dear and clean it up, will you?’

Nick ran over to Lilian, then caught sight of his father. Excitement swept across his features.

‘Dad!’ he cried, running full tilt into James’s open arms. James picked Nick up and lifted him high above his head. Nick screamed in exhilaration. James set him down on his lap.

A Germanic-looking woman stood at the door, her blonde hair pulled severely back off her face. She wore an unflattering houndstooth suit and dark stockings over hefty calves. Following immediately behind her was a handsome boy of about thirteen. His dark hair was cut short, framing high cheekbones. He was sweet-faced but serious.

‘Has Adrian done his homework, Frau Mahling?’ Lilian asked, her eyes suddenly cold.

The woman nodded briefly. ‘Master Adrian has completed his social science, madam. He has algebra still to do.’

Adrian walked over to his father and embraced him. ‘Good to see you, Dad.’

‘Great to see you too, Adrian.’ James ruffled his hair.

Maxim entered with a tray of canapés.

James gingerly picked up a sticky green-looking hors d’oeuvre.

‘A new recipe, Master James,’ Maxim said, beaming proudly.

James exchanged a look with Lilian.

‘It’s Beatrice and Pierre’s day off.’ Lilian hid a smile, in spite of herself.

James grunted, took a bite and spat it immediately into his handkerchief.

Adrian winked at Nick who collapsed into loud giggles.

‘Chilli, Maxim?’

‘
Chilli
, sir.’ The butler glowed with pride.

James looked around and frowned. ‘Where’s Jason?’

Maxim raised his eyebrows. ‘I have just been informed that Master Jason unfortunately had a technical
hitch
with his Mustang and had to “hitch” . . . ’ Maxim grimaced slightly ‘ . . . a ride home.’

James sighed in irritation.

Suddenly there was a loud screech of brakes outside, accompanied by raucous laughter. Lilian walked to the window and watched a dark-haired seventeen-year-old ease his six-foot frame out of a lime-green Mustang crammed with high school students.

A petite blonde twined her arms around him flirtatiously and Jason smiled back rakishly. He looked up to see Lilian watching him through the drawing-room window.

Blushing furiously, he slammed the car door. The girls in the back blew kisses at him while the guys shouted unintelligible insults.

Jason slung his satchel over his shoulder and strode up the front steps. A moment later he pushed open the drawing-room door.

‘Mom . . . ’ He kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek. His eyes lit up when he saw his father. ‘Hey, Dad! You’re back!’

A genuine smile spread across Jason’s face.

‘Hey, Adrian, Nick!’ He grabbed Nick’s shoulder and drew him to him. ‘There are four security dudes on the porch.’

The boys made a scramble for the door.

‘POW! POW!’ cried Nick, shooting at Adrian with an imaginary pistol.

James held up his hand.

‘Sit down, boys,’ he said, his voice serious. ‘Your mother and I need to talk to you.’

With a groan, Jason slung his satchel onto the floor as the younger boys reluctantly retraced their steps.

Jason punched Adrian in the side. Glaring at him, Adrian punched him back.

‘Boys!’ Lilian glared at Jason. ‘Your father has news.’ She looked over to him.

‘Not another promotion.’ Jason scowled. ‘And another
move
.’

James spoke quietly. ‘I have been offered and have accepted the post of Ambassador for the United States.’ He poured himself a whisky from a tray next to the canapés. ‘ . . . To the United Kingdom.’

The boys stared at him in complete astonishment.

‘It necessitates our moving to London. We take up residence in Winfield House in Regent’s Park in just over a month.’

‘Aw, Dad – my baseball game . . . ’ Adrian moaned.

Nick ran around the room. ‘The Queen. POW! POW! The Queen, POW!’

Jason sat, staring down at the floor. His shoulders shook with a cold fury. Lilian looked at him anxiously.

‘Jason,’ she said, softly.

He ignored her. ‘I’m not leaving.’ He stood up, his hands shaking. ‘You’ll have to kill me and drag me out of here.’

James took a sip of his scotch. ‘Then I’ll kill you and drag you out of here,’ he said, matter-of-factly.

Jason turned to Lilian, trembling with uncontrolled rage. ‘I
won’t
go, Mother.’

Lilian looked at James imploringly.

‘You’ll do what we say,’ James said quietly.

‘Do what
you
say,’ Jason snarled. ‘
You’re
no example –
you’re
never here.’ His voice rose. ‘My life’s
here
– not in some backwater Limeyland!’

‘Your life’s with this
family
!’ James’s voice rose.

‘
What
family, Dad? You’re never
here
! We’ve moved five times in five years.’ He picked up his satchel. ‘Thank God I’m in boarding school!’