THIRTY-NINE
It was generally understood amongst Randall's kind that all but a few of the stuffy, pious, overfed, overdressed population of the Vatican hierarchy believed (if they knew of them at all) that the collectors were nothing more than a left over myth from the good old days of witch trials and inquisitions. Their numerous and largely unread records from that dark period in the churches turbulent history showed that an unfortunate individual could just as easily be accused of being a collector of souls as of being branded a witch. At the time they were considered to be one and the same evil, just a different label on which to pin unmentionable horrors to.
As the years past and civilisation and reason took a grip
of the righteous, the activities of the collectors grew more and more clandestine, until finally it was assumed by the soldiers of darkness and their own hierarchy that none but the most vigilant of believers even knew of their continued existence. And that even today they still walked the earth causing chaos. That was evil’s greatest weapon in the war, the ability to carry on its work unmolested by the church.
They were predators in a world with no equal, natural (or unnatural) foes. Free to do as they wished without fear of interruption. The truth of them lost somewhere in the dusty Vatican archives, lost along with the means to fight them.
Mynor and his poem (or at least the poems potential power) fell into this lost category along with the collectors and their like. Myth, nothing more than rumour to any but the staunched believer. So why had the priest been allowed to take such a valuable artefact out of the Vatican's secret Museum? Even if taken just at face value, the relic was a priceless piece of the church’s history. Most there believed it was the ravings of a religious madman from an age where man believed that evil walked the earth.
If no one at the Vatican truly believed that the darkness was a real and present threat. Why had they let it out of their vaults, to be taken to a nondescript place like this, with minimal protection. For the sake of a low life criminal like Larry McCulloch?
It was a brain teaser alright, and more importantly to Randall it was a welcome kick in the pants. For far too long now he had gone about his work unchallenged and it had made him bored, which in turn have made him sloppy.
Coming here, he had expected, like always just to waltz in and take McCulloch and if needs be kill anyone foolish enough to get in his way. But not this time, Randall had felt something standing in that room he had not felt since that fateful New York night when his old life had so abruptly ended and this new one had begun. Fear.
It was his first real strong emotion since coming back. Everything else had been a breeze, too easy. Thinking about it now, he had almost sleepwalked through the last twenty years since the novelty of his new existence wore off. They called it 'the game' and that was how it had felt. But not any longer, now in the presence of such power it felt like life and death. This was a new dawn and he couldn't wait to see the day that followed. It would be a shame to rid the world of this new found threat, but Ishrel was insisting they had to get their hands on the poem and thus tip the scales back in their favour.
Usually Randall would have expected Ishrel to go running off to his superiors with the news, then things would escalate and Randall pushed to the side lines. But Ishrel hadn't left his side, he was a coward but he was also ambitious, and Randall suspected he wanted all the glory for himself. And so the little demon wanted it more than anything, even more than Larry McCulloch's tainted soul.
And there in lay the dilemma, he couldn't storm in all demons blazing, the priest was scared of the poem’s untapped power but he would unleash that power if handed no other options. So what to do? This solution to soften them up with the freezing void and its noisy inhabitants was a good enough start, but what if it pushed the priest over the edge?
“Ishrel, what if the priest destroys the poem?”
Ishrel, who had been laid on his back in the over grown garden leapt to his feet. “No!” He waded through the knee high grass to where Randall was leant against the gate. “He wouldn't... He, he couldn't! It’s their only chance of survival.”
“I just can't see him giving it up. We've pretty much got Larry, that's a given. But I think he'll burn the poem before letting us get our hands on it.”
“No, no, no!” Ishrel protested, he approached Randall and even though he was a good two feet shorter than the collector, he did his best to square up to him. “That is not acceptable,” he warned, stabbing a scaly finger at Randall. “We must get that box. Don't you realise how important it is?”
To your career, Randall thought and looked down at the diminutive demon with mild amusement. “Ishrel, relax.”
“No I will not relax! We have never been this close to actually getting our hands on one. Not for a hundred years!” Ishrel made a small fist and shook it comically in Randall's face.
“I say let the priest burn it, if he wants to,” Randall said more to vex Ishrel further than anything else. “One less of those things floating around can't be anything other than a good thing, if you ask me. What will that leave if this one’s destroyed? How many copies was Mynor supposed to have made? Two, maybe three? I say burn away preacher boy, burn away.”
Ishrel pulled at his leathery face in disbelief, raking his brittle nails over the scaly kin and then stamped his feet like a child on the verge of a major tantrum. He made to speak again but was so mad that he couldn't get a coherent word out.
“Relax,” Randall said before the demons head exploded. The truth was he knew how important the poem could be. Only one of those things could allegedly take out a collector, so was best in their hands than the enemies. And Randall was sure that if they did get a hold of one intact, that Ishrel or one of his kind could then set about deciphering its power, perhaps come up with a counter incantation as a defence against its formidable potential. After all, as far as most players in the game, on both sides, knew. A Mynor's poem was the only sure fire way of killing a collector. So even if taken only as a self-preservation exercise. He had to get his hands on that ancient scrap of paper.
So Randall had sent the priest a text with the offer of a get out clause for him and his team (McCulloch was fucked, that was a given). One which, so far Nichols had refused in no uncertain terms. What he needed was a little more motivation.
“Randall! Time is wasting,” Ishrel said and the collector drew his attention back to the demon. First thing's first, he had been nice to the creature for too long, Ishrel might think he was getting soft on him. So Randall decided that he could keep his current form, it just needed a little modification.
“Nice tutu, Ishrel.”
The demon looked down at the bright pink fluffy tutu he was now wearing around his waist. “Really collector? I thought we were past such immaturity.”
Randall cocked a grin. “But it suits you.”
He dug into his jacket pocket and brought out a piece of paper he had already torn into a three inch square and also a small Swiss army pocket knife. He selected the sharpest blade and cut into the palm of his left hand and once the blood came he spat into it, then using the tip of the blade as a pen, he mixed the fluids together and drew a crude picture of a spindly old woman onto the paper square. The design was little more than a glorified stick figure with wild hair, but it was more than detailed enough for what he needed.
Ishrel peered around him to see the picture. He grunted approvingly.
A Banshee charm. That should liven things up in there no end.
FORTY
Not like this. Larry McCulloch silently vowed to himself as he shivered in his next to useless duvet, which he had wrapped around himself in a very vain attempt to ward of the now sub-zero temperature of the room.
No. He would not go out so, so pathetically. That idiot priest had supposedly survived an encounter with one of Randall's kind, and a woman at that if Nichols was to be believed. So surely, he, Lucky Larry McCulloch could come through this rapidly deteriorating situation.
He eyed Nichols with contempt. The priest was huddled in a corner sat whispering with Peroni and clutching that box of his like a lover. What were they plotting? After more whispered words, Peroni crawled on her hands and knees across the room. None of them had the energy or desire anymore to do much else, and over to Lewis, who was slumped on his arse in the doorway, still clinging to the pretence he was somehow standing guard.
If only Randall knew the state they were all in he would just waltz in and take Larry without so much of a whimper in response. The Italian shuffled up close to Lewis and the exchanged words in hushed tones, Larry strained to here but couldn't make out a thing. Plotting, those bastards were plotting something. Christ if only he had a gun.
His attention was drawn back to Nichols who was checking his mobile phone again, which he had been doing on and off for hours now. The old crooks eyes narrowed suspiciously. Was Randall sending him clandestine messages? Little texts of seduction offering him life and liberty in return for giving up Larry?
The priest seemed to be struggling with indecision. He put Larry in mind of an alcoholic desperately fighting the urge to take that first sip from a freshly opened bottle of cheap whiskey which would send him spiralling back into drunken oblivion.
Finally Nichols tucked the phone back into his pocket, mumbling something to himself as he did so. A prayer perhaps, the brainless zealot. But a prayer for what, Larry wondered? Guidance, or forgiveness for what he was about to do?
Nichols glanced furtively around the frozen meat locker of a room until he caught Larry's gaze. The priest started in shock as if he feared Larry was reading his mind, then he tore his gaze away, the look on his face something akin to shame, or was it guilt?
What are you up to Holy man? That look seemed to confirm all of Larry's suspicions. It was all so crystal clear to him now. If he had any chance of survival he would have to take control of this shitty situation, and fast. Shaft them before they could do the same to him. He knew now that for all of Nichols words of assurance, now that the shit had hit the fan he would sell Larry out half as fast as Larry would do the same to him if the roles were reversed.
So be it. What was called for now was a touch of the old McCulloch magic. And he would gladly put that up against anything these saps or that fucking yank outside could conjure up any day.
It was a bold statement that, little did Larry know, would soon be tested.