Exodus, page 22
Inside the house, Warren was impressed by the size, and the obvious wealth that filled the numerous rooms. His boots echoed against the tiled floor, letting him know how cavernous the rooms were.
They passed through the foyer and Grand Ballroom and walked into a study just off to the right. Books filled shelves. Beautiful exhibits of Asian history filled more shelves. Warren had no doubts that much of it was expensive.
Malcolm walked to the large fireplace that took up most of one full wall. When it was lit and there was a fire burning in the hearth, Warren felt certain the heat would have filled the room easily.
Pressing his hand against a sequence of stones framing the fireplace, Malcolm waved to them to join him inside. Warren and Kelli did so. Standing in the fireplace, though, Warren felt inordinately foolish.
Then the fireplace jerked into motion, spinning around on hidden pivot points. Immediately behind the fireplace was a set of narrow stairs that descended into the earth.
Malcolm took the lead at once, descending into the inky blackness with his torch lighting the way before him. “This way,” he urged, standing on the narrow steps that curved down into the darkness.
Warren hesitated. But there wasn’t a choice. Going back to the flat might have been possible, but he wasn’t ready to deal with what was going on there. He set himself, took a final breath, then followed Malcolm.
“Hedgar Tulane’s forebears took advantage of the natural caves under his ancestral home,” Malcolm said as they went down the spiral stairs cut from the cave itself. “They had to have a bit of modification done here and there, but for the most part they just made the most of what was already here.”
Even with his newly acquired ability to see in the dark, Warren wasn’t able to see much. The smooth texture of the cave walls around them spoke of much usage.
“The Tulanes used this place back in World War II, during the raids,” Malcolm said. “Of course, the people who were allowed here weren’t shown all of the secrets. They’ve always protected their Cabalists beliefs from unbelievers. But there was some overlap of that during the Second World War. Hitler’s minions were after many of the same powerful talismans our organization pursued.” He stopped and played his torch over the large pool of water to the left. “Watch your step here. It’s actually quite deep. And cold.”
As Warren watched, a handful of fish surfaced and kissed the air.
“It’s drinking water.” Malcolm swung his torch around to show a trail that skirted the pool to the right. “The limestone in the bedrock in this area makes a natural filtration system. It’s a bit heavy with minerals, if you ask me, but it can keep a man alive. We filter it a bit more to get out some of the taste.”
Warren crossed the damp trail. The rocks felt slippery and his stomach convulsed as he thought about falling into the water. He’d never been a strong swimmer. In his present condition, though he felt stronger, he doubted he’d be able to save himself.
Only a short distance farther on, they entered another passageway that barely allowed Warren to walk through standing upright. Light glimmered in the distance and he thought they were headed there.
Instead, Malcolm halted midway down the passageway and stood facing the wall. A moment later, the wall opened onto a smaller passageway.
Two armed guards in military riot gear stood post at a small landing. Security vids showed brightly on the wall behind them. Two cameras mounted on the ceiling of the passageway focused on the new arrivals.
Malcolm gave their names and said that they were expected. One of the guards nodded and waved them forward.
Entering the passageway, Warren followed Malcolm to the left. The descent was much steeper than the last passageway, and he felt certain the designers and builders had taken advantage of a natural cave formation to lay in the passageway. The carved stone stair steps followed the striations in the rock.
Near the bottom, Warren spied light. It was weak at first, but grew stronger as they neared. Eventually they emerged into a well-lighted cave filled with computer equipment.
“This is one of the communications centers we keep here,” Malcolm said, waving to the computers and the people who manned them.
“Is this where most of the Cabalists are?” Warren asked.
“This cave system?” Malcolm shook his head. “Of course not. There are far more of us than this place can hold. But this is one of the strategic locations for—” He paused. “What you might consider research and development, I suppose.”
“Do any Cabalists live within the city? In the Underground?”
Malcolm nodded. “A few. But primarily the larger gatherings of our group are outside the city. At least at the moment. The Cabalists initially moved out of London during the nineteenth century to avoid detection. A few of our constituents started discussing what we knew about magic much too freely. Spirit boxes and séances became all the rage. They were interested in talking to ghosts, though, not contacting the demonic world as we were trying to do. Currently, there is some talk of moving our operations back to London.”
“Why?”
Malcolm began leading them to another passageway. “To be closer to the nexus of power, of course.”
“What nexus of power?”
“The Hellgate. Surely you’ve felt the backlash of it lessen as we’ve come out here.”
Warren had felt a decrease in the pressure he’d felt while in London, but he hadn’t recognized it for what it was. His mind seemed less clouded, less busy, but at the same time that part of himself that he’d known belonged to his power of suggestion had seemed less strong and less certain.
“Yes,” he answered.
“In order to properly study the powers the demons possess, we need to be there. Where the magic and power flows at its most primitive form.” Malcolm paused in front of a wall. He put his hand out and looked at Warren. “Can you touch this?”
Warren stretched forth a hand and placed it against the wall. It felt solid and grainy, not as smooth as the other walls.
“Yes,” he replied.
Malcolm smiled. “The real question is whether you can pass through.” Then he stepped forward and passed through the stone.
Astonished, Warren trailed his fingers across the stone surface. It’s got to be a trick. He can’t just have walked through solid stone.
“Where did he go?” Kelli asked.
“I don’t know.” Warren pressed both hands against the stone, searching for a trigger or a release of some kind that would reveal an opening. There can’t be an opening. I didn’t see one. I would have seen an opening. I was standing right here.
“You can pass through, Warren,” Malcolm encouraged from the other side of the stone. “You just have to align yourself.”
Align myself? Warren pressed against the stone and sought to understand what kind of alignment Malcolm might have been referring to. He stared at the stone and tried to see through it the way he’d tried to see through the darkness when he’d gone to the Cabalist meeting.
At first, all he saw was the solid stone. Then, just as he was about to deem the task impossible, he saw configurations that took shape within the stone. The rock wall was made up of several two-dimensional planes that didn’t quite touch. In fact, some of them were loose enough that Warren found he could shove them aside. Most of them didn’t move easily, though. They moved slowly, and it took a great deal of effort to shift them.
Even as he unlocked the secret of the wall, he also felt the alignment within himself. Pieces of himself seemed to shift as well. Almost unconsciously, drawn by the excitement of this new knowledge, he stepped forward through the wall.
Twenty-Six
M oving through the rock was like walking against a strong river current.
Warren thought about what would happen if he didn’t make it through the rock, wondering if the shifting patterns could slip beyond his control and rip him apart. The way suddenly seemed much harder. Panic thrummed inside his head.
“Don’t think about failure,” a man’s voice commanded. “You have to assert yourself over what you think of as the natural laws. Only part of how you’ve perceived the world is true. Many things that you’ve considered impossible are going to be possible for you. You’ve just got to master what lies within you.”
Concentrating again on the whirling two-dimensional shapes, Warren pushed through. A moment later, he stood inside another cave. This one was more elaborate, more finished. Arcane drawings that glowed with power adorned the walls. Glass cases and shelves held all kinds of objects. A lab stretched out behind Malcolm and another man as they stood and smiled at Warren.
The other man was almost seven feet tall. His body was elongated like an insect’s. His head looked massive, broad forehead and long-jawed. Tightly cropped reddish hair covered his head. Tattoos and scars covered every square inch of skin that Warren could see. Two curving horns a foot in length jutted up from his temples and flared into three points. He looked like he was in his late twenties.
The man’s appearance immediately put Warren to mind of Cernunnos, the Horned One from Celtic legend. Cernunnos was supposed to represent horned male animals and fertility. The god had been featured in a few of the books Warren’s mother had read in her studies of the arcane.
“Ah, you’ve arrived,” the man said.
“I told you he was strong,” Malcolm said, looking pleased.
The horned man drew a symbol in the air. Warren saw a ghostly afterimage for just a moment, then it vanished. But he felt a wolf’s warm, fetid breath over him. Since he’d never had a wolf breathe on him, though, he wondered how he knew what the sensation was like. But he was convinced that was what it had been.
“I never doubted you.” The horned man gazed at Warren in open speculation. “But being able doesn’t mean that he will choose to embrace his ability.”
“The demons have marked him,” Malcolm said. “Look at him.”
Warren grew self-conscious of his burns and pulled his cloak more tightly about him. “Who are you?”
“I am Hedgar Tulane,” the man answered. “Welcome to my home.”
“Warren!”
Hearing Kelli through the stone wall, Warren reached back for her, negotiating the spinning two-dimensional shapes much easier this time. “Take my hand.” When he felt her fingers in his, he pulled her through the wall. A moment later Kelli stood inside the cave with him.
Malcolm and Tulane stared at him.
“She’s with me,” Warren said defensively. “Where I go, she goes.”
“Of course,” Tulane said. “I’m just surprised that you could pull her through the wall like that. It’s one thing to negotiate passage yourself, but I’ve never seen anyone who could bring another through.” He paused, examining Warren more closely. “Working with you, helping you discover your true potential, is going to be exciting.”
Warren bristled at that. “I didn’t come here to be someone’s science project.”
“Oh no,” Tulane agreed. “You won’t be anyone’s science project. This isn’t about science. At least, not about science in the truest sense of the word, which has been rather limited in our experience. This is definitely about the arcane forces in our world.”
“There are several groups like this scattered throughout London and England,” Tulane said as he headed the procession through the caves. “Throughout the world, in fact. Ever since the human race first came in passing contact with the demon world through visions and voices, there have been those among us who have studied them. We’ve never accepted that the power the demons wield are out of our reach.”
Warren stared into the various rooms they passed. He’d seen dozens of Cabalists during the last few minutes. Several of them were undergoing tattooing or taking part in experimentation.
“Why do you wear tattoos?” Warren asked.
“Me? Or Cabalists in general?”
“The Cabalists.”
“Tattooing allows us to focus our powers,” Tulane answered. “Writing of any sort—symbols as well as words—has always provided control over arcane energy. Magic is just a colloquial word we use for the energies we harness. Calling our field of study that makes it easier for newcomers to grasp, and it instantly differentiates us from those who choose to view the world through the limited means we term physical science.” He smiled derisively as they stopped at a cave.
Inside the cave, a young tattooed woman with an eyepatch gestured at a knife lying on a table. The knife levitated, spun on an invisible axis, then flew toward a freestanding wooden target at the other end of the room. When the knife struck the target, it sank up to the hilt, shearing through the wood as if it were water.
In an adjacent cave, a young man reached into a fire and flames danced up his arm without hurting him. Watching the sight was almost unbearable to Warren, bringing memory of pain and the stench of burning flesh. Turning, the young man held his flaming arm up ahead of him. A second later, the flames flew from his arm and struck a wooden target a few feet away, engulfing it at once.
“There have always been instances of people able to wield the demons’ energy in our world,” Tulane said. “Once they touched our world, as we believe they must have done, the demons opened fissures that were never truly closed. Some of that energy leaked in. Not enough to do the things you’re seeing today, things that you’ve apparently done yourself. Nor on a scale so wide as we’re now experiencing.”
“That’s because of the Hellgate,” Warren said.
“We believe so. Since it opened, there has been a sharp increase in both incidence and ability.”
“Why was I brought here?”
“To teach you, of course. And to learn from you.”
“Learn what?”
“Whatever there is to learn.”
“What makes you think there is?”
Tulane looked at him meaningfully. “No one,” he said, “has ever withstood a demon’s attack before. Not one of us, at least.”
“We don’t combat them,” Tulane said as he switched on a holo-vid mounted in the table they surrounded. They sat in an expensively appointed study with wooden paneled walls. Only the fact that there were no windows reminded Warren that they were in a cave far belowground instead of in the massive house. “We observe them.”
Images of demons battling military tanks and airplanes in the streets of London played in the vid projection. A huge demon slammed his oversized fist onto a tank’s main gun. The barrel wilted before the onslaught, then finally snapped off. Another tank fired at almost point-blank range, but the shell burst against the demon’s hide without doing any apparent harm. The demon roared and turned to face the tank, gripping the main gun barrel and ripping the turret free of the vehicle’s body. He used it as a hammer to flatten the tank and kill the soldiers inside.
“This is Shulgoth, one of the primary demons,” Tulane said.
The note of reverence in the man’s voice almost made Warren ill. “Do you know him?”
“We know of him.” Tulane watched as the battle progressed. “We know that he is a fierce warrior, totally merciless. I would like to know more, but that hasn’t proven feasible at this juncture.” He cut the vid and focused on Warren. “How long have you known you were different?”
Warren hesitated, wondering how much he should reveal. He didn’t want to tell the man anything. Tell him. It’s the only way you’re going to survive.
“I don’t know that I am different,” Warren answered.
Tulane held his gaze for a moment, then casually tapped the keyboard mounted in the table. The vid returned, this time bringing with it images of Warren’s parents.
“Your stepfather’s name was Martin,” Tulane said. “But he wasn’t your biological father.”
A chill sickness blazed through Warren. His father’s broad, cruel face had always had that effect on him. His father’s skin was so black it held a bluish tint. He shaved his head, but wore a short goatee that framed his blunt chin.
“Your biological father’s name was Hakim N’Bush,” Tulane said, “but you don’t carry his name.”
“No. When I was in foster care, I chose my mother’s maiden name instead.”
“Tamara Schimmer.” Tulane punched another key.
The image this time hurt Warren, but it also confused him. His mother was white but showed her Jewish ancestry. Her dark eyes looked soulful and her dark hair hung in ringlets down to her shoulders. She was too thin and too pale. Warren had never known a time when she looked healthy. He hadn’t looked at a picture of her in years. Now, though, he was struck by how young she was. No more than a couple years older than he was.
“She was married to Martin DeYoung, who became your stepfather.”
A third image materialized on the vid, revealing a sallow-faced white man with wispy blond hair and small eyes. Martin looked feral and rat-like.
“Your stepfather murdered your mother,” Tulane said.
Warren felt Kelli’s eyes on him. He didn’t look at her. She took one of his hands in hers. For a moment, he felt guilty about using his power over her, but he was too afraid and too hurt to be there alone and have to face this.
“Yes,” Warren answered in a thick voice.
“Neighbors called in the attack,” Tulane said.
A recording of a frantic phone call came from the vid. “Yes. Police? It’s my neighbors! I think he’s going to kill her this time!”
The conversation rolled for a moment, including the screaming voices on the other side of the wall or floor or ceiling. Warren had never known who had called in the domestic disturbance.
The memories opened up and swallowed Warren down. For a moment he was no longer in the cave with Tulane. He was back in that flat, listening to the argument between his mother and father. Then the flat cracks of his father’s gun punctuated the conversation between the neighbor and the police.
“I’ve had enough of both of you,” Martin DeYoung declared.
In Warren’s mind, he could see his stepfather shoot his mother, then turn the pistol on him.
