章節 152: The Book
Even though the situation with Simon and the guarded treasure required a thorough investigation, we still decided to follow the plan and first learn as much as possible about the secret mystical society, whose members cooperate too closely with demon spawn. I don't want to wake up in the morning and suddenly find a gateway to the Underworld or another infernal dimension. Unfortunately, our new acquaintance because of amnesia knew nothing about the fanatics, who for some reason preferred to organize sacrifices on the burnt ruins of the church, but I had several strings to pull.
Firstly, the name of the mystical circle "Geo Populus" clearly hints at Roman roots, and secondly, the decapitated corpse that the coroner received was most likely not possessed, or the process had only just begun, because even the most careless forensic expert simply could not fail to notice the decomposing tissues too quickly, which means that the headless man can be quite possible to run through the databases, unlike other dead fanatics. And the third link has to do with the tracker on the van that got away.
I gave Harley a ride to the local morgue, and went to the coordinates of the beacon, which hadn't moved for an hour. The skills of my faithful companion would be much more suitable for examining bodies, and I didn't want to drag my beloved into another dangerous adventure without a preliminary reconnaissance. Still, it's one thing to meet the enemy in a prepared area and quite another to climb into the lair of a demonic creature. I should have called Zee, of course, but I really wanted to test my own skills as a budding demon fighter.
In the meantime, I contacted Mouse and asked him to find information about the secret society, since the Internet, except for translations from Latin and all sorts of nonsense, did not want to show normal results. Although it would be funny if a mystical cult had its own official website or page in social networks: "Join our ranks: demon possession and a trip to Hell as a gift". The Gotham Library has existed since the very founding of the city, and its archives hold many secrets, so it may well be the right documents.
The road led me to another warehouse on the outskirts of the Village. It was a little unusual that this time the building wasn't abandoned, and it was still active, despite the nighttime hours. Dozens of workers scurried around the premises, packing goods into bulky wooden crates bearing the symbol of the Mendo Company. I knew the Mendo Company well, for it supplied soap and laundry supplies to the entire state and even beyond.
"What are those assholes up to? - I asked the void, after twenty minutes of observation that revealed no demonic presence.
Unfortunately, no one was in a hurry to give a clear answer to a quite logical question. The first thought that they were going to make a huge bomb, like in an old movie about a dude with a funny schizo, was immediately discarded, because with money to hire people and rent a big warehouse, getting a normal explosive was a no-brainer, especially considering recent events. The second thought was that it was just a legal business through which money could be "laundered". But this theory was immediately destroyed when I got to the main office and did a little poking around in the papers, and then double-checked the information on the Internet. The firm the warehouse belongs to is not affiliated with Mendo at all. Although it could be blamed on some lousy logging.
Averting my eyes with light chameleon charms allowed me to get a better look at the room, gliding invisibly beside the workers, and adding a couple of new questions. The people here were not possessed, including their boss, who was actively supervising the process, but the crates themselves were a surprise: they were sealed with seals designed to restrain demons. And these demons were clearly weak, given the amount of energy they had invested and the unfortunate material.
However, with the exception of weird crates, shitty documentation, and a van that had previously been in a cemetery, there was nothing unusual about the place. In the end, I just hacked into the local surveillance system, set up a couple cameras in blind spots, and went to nightmare the man in charge. The image of Babadook worked well here, allowing me to intimidate the man and get to know his background. He turned out to be a regular six and just did what he was told to do by a certain Vincent, described as a one-eyed man with a full set of visual organs.
Barbara's situation was even worse. Redhead couldn't dig up anything at all, which is not surprising, because the archive occupies a large basement, and it's very difficult to find what you need there, despite the catalog. But Harley has perfectly coped with the task at hand. She not only found out the identity of the headless corpse, but also the address of his residence, which means that the night is not over yet, and it's time to organize a break-in with penetration. The superhero awards are scheduled for just a day from now, and I have to be there to make people happy with my satisfied face and gauge their reactions, so the cultists should be finished quickly.
***Catacombs under the ruins of a church***
The young man tossed about on the old mattress in his sleep until a black cat landed on his chest and started purring, pretending to be a miniature tractor. The dungeon dweller immediately calmed down, and a few minutes later he left the realm of Morpheus, staring blankly at the stone vaults.
"Nevermore, you saved me from my nightmare again. Thank you," he smiled weakly, scratching his loyal pet behind the ear, making him purr and squint his green eyes in amusement.
Simon's dreams had become much more vivid in the past few weeks, and only the presence of his cat and reading books kept him positive. Creepy rituals, maddening images of other worlds filled with death and cruelty, bloody sacrifices and worship of some shapeless ball of tentacles with many mouths. These pictures, as long as he could remember, had always been an integral part of his life, but they had never been so vivid before and had always been accompanied by some pleasant memories: a holiday in the circle of a large loving family, a vacation with friends, or even a trip to the cinema to see an interesting movie. The faces of everyone present were always blurred, but even so the young man felt a pleasant warmth coming from his heart. Now, however, something else had been added. He ran his finger gently over the smooth skin on his forearm, from which the rough scar had disappeared. It wasn't a dream after all, and he'd actually met a real mage.
Throwing a sad glance at the crumpled bed, the boy sighed and decided to go to town to return the book of Edgar Allan Poe stories he had taken without asking. He is determined to become a real hero like his new friend, so it is worth returning the stolen item to its place.
It didn't take long for the unwilling guardian to leave the cozy catacombs, only to be suddenly confronted by a man in a long beige cloak sitting on the altar, who was serenely smoking a cigarette and looking straight at him.
"You're Simon Dark, aren't you? - The stranger asked.
"Yeah..."
"My name is Tom Kirk. Detective Tom Kirk," he showed a shiny badge.
"A detective? Like Sherlock Holmes?"
"Something like that, only without the drug addiction."
"What?"
"Huh, forget it, bad joke," the man got off the altar and approached Simon without fear, ignoring the creepy mask. - Before we start the important conversation, let me show you something, - the detective lightly tweaked the watch on his left wrist, demonstrating that under it there was a rough scar, consisting of many separate strips that formed a kind of chain. - Here. I'm sure you have a similar one.
"And what does that mean? - The young man pulled up the sleeve of his sweater, checking for a notable scar.
"It means we're brothers in a way. We have the same "father," and I... Hey, are you okay? - Tom asked worriedly, noticing that his companion was clutching his head.
"I don't have a father."
"I didn't mean to upset you."
"I don't have a father! - Simon shouted even louder and darted away at a very fast pace.
Left alone the detective spat frustratedly on the ground.
"Well done Tom, you're a master negotiator... I wonder how long I'll have to sit here?"
The man landed back on the altar and lit a cigarette. He knew the boy would come back, for, according to the chief, it was in his nature.
Simon ran forward as fast as he could while his mind was tormented by too vivid images of the past. The strange detective, with his display of the unusual scar and his words about his father, had set off a chain of associations that triggered a flurry of painful memories. They came from the depths of consciousness, like waves crashing on the shore, and caused a terrible headache.
A gloomy laboratory, medical equipment on the walls, as if from the pages of a novel about a psychopathic doctor who loves to dissect corpses in his spare time, and in the center of the room a bloody pentagram drawn directly on the tiled floor, surrounded by the severed heads of teenagers. Inside the gruesome drawing lies a naked body with many all too familiar scars, but instead of a head it has a shapeless gray mass that looks like melted wax. At the star's headboard, with a black book in his hands, stands an obese silhouette in a dark red robe, his face hidden by thick shadows. The words of magical activators fly from the mage's lips, and then the room is drowned in a black and white flash. An unknown force jerks Simon forward, and suddenly the view from the outside is replaced by a first-person view. He turns his head perplexed, realizing that he is now lying in a pentagram, but his new vision has not yet adjusted, so his eyes can see only blurred images of things around him.
There is only one conclusion to be drawn from the visions: he is not human. Happy dreams of family and friends are just a fiction, a pathetic remnant of the memories of people whose bodies took part in the ritual. He's just a magical chimera, whose purpose is...
The new wave of pain was several times stronger than the previous ones.
Simon felt as if his soul were being torn apart, which wasn't far from the truth. But nineteen human souls in one body was a bit much, even for a chimeraologist. He didn't notice the root protruding from under the snow, but he caught it and skidded down the gentle slope and straight into the murky waters of the river.
No new images came, but the young man's mind had had more than enough of the previous impressions, so he just lay on his back and stared blankly at the dark clouded sky.
Simon woke up when the sun's faint disk appeared over the river. A few hours on the shore had helped him to regain consciousness, and at the same time he'd picked up a couple of important details he hadn't paid attention to before, trying in vain to get away from the terrible pain. Gustav Farmer, that was the name of his creator. The second detail, however, was the location of the laboratory, and the magical folio with which he had been breathed life into it. It would seem that many years had passed since the ritual, and during this time the folio could have changed its location more than once and more than twice, but the guy's inner gut kept telling him that it was still waiting for him in the hiding place, which was located right under the pentagram.
As he rose from the cold ground, Simon accidentally snagged the storybook hidden in the inner pocket of his cloak, the one that had started his journey to the surface, and which had miraculously escaped damage during the extreme descent down the hillside. He may be an obscure magical chimera, but that hasn't diminished his determination to become good... sane? Besides, since the mystical grimoire had been waiting for him for so many years, it would wait a little longer. Rapidly making his way through the forest, the young man could not get rid of the feeling that he had forgotten something important, and at the same time the detective smoked his fifth pack of cigarettes, still hoping for the return of his goal.
***
Unfortunately, the inspection of the decapitated fanatic's apartment didn't bring any sensible results, so now we were sitting at the central table in the Batcave and discussing the further plan of action. The owner of the mansion, by the way, was absent, still dealing with business in Washington.
I quickly discarded the original idea of dealing with the cultists using only our awesome duo, since the same warehouse surveillance was incredibly boring and tedious, and this way the little guy would at least get some work done and stop pouting that he wasn't invited to the epic brawl. At the same time, I didn't want to call in the heavy artillery just yet. I'm sure Zee would quickly find the secret lair and put the entire secret order in a kneeling position, but I'd spent so much time (three months!) studying magic for a reason. And it's worth admitting that I'm slowly turning from a rather judicious and cautious person into an adrenaline junkie who just wants to try his own strength at something serious.
"So, the cult of Roman demon-worshippers Geo Populus under the leadership of a certain master is operating in the city, - imitating Bats, I displayed on the holographic screen the photos taken during the day, which were united by red threads, and some of them were just pictures with kitties from the Internet, but if you don't look closely, you won't notice it. - Judging by the speed of response, one of the bases is clearly in the Village neighborhood. The cult is also interested in what's stored in the catacombs of St. Martyr's Church. The ritual murders may be aimed at loosening some kind of restraining seals, though it's possible that this is just one of the steps in the initiation of new adepts, and the church ruins were chosen for their convenient location and lack of prying eyes. Further, the active members are possessed by weak demons, and judging by the rate of decomposition, the possession lasts at least six months to a year. The leader of the arriving link demonstrated a good command of demonic magic, as well as high resistance to physical and magical damage. I had to literally crush his skull to finish him off. What is it? - I was distracted from the story when the little one raised his hand in a disciplined manner.
"Isn't... Well... Isn't that murder? - Nightwing asked after a brief pause.
The most curious thing was that only Richard, and a little redhead, were interested in this question, while Alfred did not even waggle an eyebrow. That's what it meant to be in daily contact with Bats, and the Court of Owls was supposed to be a good way to turn him into an effective liquidator.
"The Claws killed by Bats had more humanity in them than the recent possessed. Huh, think of it as robot annihilation. By the way, if you encounter any of these, I recommend acting for sure. Demons can very decently boost the combat potential of their meat suit by removing the muscle restriction and increasing reaction speed. In addition, capturing possessed people is a hassle, and just useless. If their master isn't an idiot, and he isn't, given the number of forces under his control and their secret activities over a long period of time, then the contract will simply prevent them from saying anything unnecessary."
"Jay, how can we tell if a person is possessed or not? - Barbara asked.
"Hmm, good question..." I covered my eyes for a moment, until I thought of an elegant solution that had been used in the Middle Ages during witch hunts. - Holy water and consecrated silver. They give possessed people burns when they come in contact with them, so you can't go wrong, I'll have everything I need ready," I made a note on my clipboard. - So, where were we? Uh, yeah. Harley and I managed to find one of the secondary warehouses, where ordinary people work, but the crates there are a bit unusual and clearly designed to contain weak demonic creatures. That's it now. So, - I looked carefully at my comrades, - who has any ideas how to find their lair?
Cultists traditionally weren't too friendly with modern technology, except for firearms and ground transportation, or they were well aware that any device could be hacked if they wanted to, so none of them had even a crummy pushbutton, let alone a normal smartphone. The DNA samples they had brought back were also inconclusive, because they looked more like rotten slime than human flesh. Luckily, Alfred found a way out, offering to run the van numbers through the databases, and while one of them was assigned to the warehouse visited earlier, the other belonged to a small trucking company that had appeared in police reports a couple of times. And though the police hadn't been able to bring its owner to criminal responsibility, I felt that we were on the trail of something very serious, because even the dumbest owner would hardly place a warehouse outside the city limits, and in a place where there were no normal roads, when you could rent a hangar at the same docks.
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