EPILOGUE
The man sat in his office reading a memo and jotting down notes for a briefing he’d be giving in a few moments. The gold nib of his Montblanc fountain pen made a small scratching sound as it moved across the paper. It was only sound in the room. The traffic sounds from the busy city were fifty-seven stories below and completely silenced by the tinted triple-thick glass. The man could feel the slight movement of air, from the air-conditioner, but had paid to have that muffled also. He’d even had all of the ringers turned off on all of his phones. He liked things to be quiet. This allowed him to operate in a heightened state of awareness, a state the Japanese people called haragagei. The man had been studying different philosophies for most of his fifty-five years, and he’d found that the oriental philosophies fit his personality best.
He rejected some of those philosophies though, minimalism. He looked around his office. It was a very large office, taking up a full corner of the building and measuring a little over three-thousand square feet. It was divided into four separate areas, like a house with thick walls blocking off each section. He had his workout area with a stationary bike and the latest resistance training machines. There was room for massages, a sauna and steam bath, a jacuzzi, and a shower of course. The last room, which was closest to his working space, was the place he spent most of his time in.
The finished his writing, washed a small bit of ink from his fingers with a damp clean cloth, then moved around the Indian teak desk and toward the worship room. He stopped in front of a large book case with many different types of books, from law books to geology, physics, mythology, religion, languages (he spoke seven fluently) military history and of course every type of philosophy, from Plato, Socrates, Sun Tzu, and including some of the newest thoughts about life.
The man reached up to a shelf that was just above eye level, pulled a book down; the Kama Sutra. He smiled at what a psychiatrist might think of that. He reached into an empty space and back to the back of the shelf, lifting the heels of his two thousand dollars Oxford dress shoes from the thick carpeting and standing on his toes in order to reach the recessed button there to unlock the door.
There was a click that sounded loud in the quiet room. The man lowered his heels to the ground, put the book on the lower shelf, grasped an edge of the case and pushed inward. The whole case moved in like a door. He walked into the room, the soft, dark carpeting absorbing his footsteps.
There were no windows in the room, and it made it very dark. Not absolutely lightless; some light was coming in from the windows in his outer office, enabling the man to see well enough to manoeuvre around some chairs and an altar to get to the light switch, but he could have walked there in complete darkness, with a blindfold on. He’d been in this room so many times since his move to upper management in the organization that he could literally recite perfectly the position of every piece of furniture and every item in there, no matter how small. When he turned on the light, the man walked over to small table and picked up an object from it. The light put out a warm glow that was a sharp contrast to most of the other lights in the building.
He held the object up about a foot or two in front of his face and admire its’ beauty. It was a human hand. It was perfectly preserved, looked exactly the same as it had twenty-two years before, when the man had dismembered and killed the man as part of his initiation into the hierarchy into the Hellfire Club. He looked at the hand for a few more moments, twisting it to see the runes he had tattooed on the fingers and top of the hand above the knuckles. He swivelled it around and looked at the pentagram he’d carved into the palm on the first day of the torture session he’d given the man. He stood there for a few moments until a knock at his outer office door interrupted his memories. He put the jar down and shook his head, smiling ruefully at his wool-gathering. As he turned off the lights and exited his devotional/torture chamber. He raised the sleeve of his dress shirt and glanced at his Patek Philippe. He shook his head again. The initiate was six minutes late. Not a good start. The man closed the book case, went back to his desk and sat down. He paused a moment, preparing himself for the coming encounter.
“Come in,” He said loudly.
A short man with dark hair came through the door. He approached the desk with his hand out to shake.
“Mr. Hathaway, It’s good to meet you. My name is—“ He stopped speaking abruptly and dropped his hand as Hathaway held his hand up.
I know who you are, Mr. Martin,” he said sternly. “I also know that you’re six minutes late. I’ll let that go this once, because you’re new to the upper levels of the brotherhood, but that will be the only time you get a free pass. From now on, any discrepancies will be dealt with will be dealt with immediately and harsh!” He stared at Martin for a moment, his face tight. He wanted to make sure the man understood the consequences of his actions. Martin nodded.
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again,” he said humbly. He lowered his eyes and Hathaway grunted. “See that it doesn’t,” he said. The look on his face he would remember and hold the man to his word.
“The reason you’re here, Mr. Martin, other than to meet with me, is to give you advice about a threat to our organization.”
Martin looked back at Hathaway with a surprised expression on his face. “A threat, Sir? What kind of threat?”
I’ve just been informed that there is a demon stalker out there hunting down our demon kings. He’s already killed Crocell, and he has injured Orias. He’s working with the Sons of Solomon.” Hathaway paused. “You’re aware of the threat the demon stalker presents, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Martin replied. He nodded emphatically, his face serious.
“And you know about the Sons, of course.”
Martin nodded again.
“Well, we’re going to set up a task force to hunt down and capture this stalker, and to eliminate the Sons of Solomon.” He looked at Martin for a moment and saw the slight puzzlement in his expression. “You’re wondering why I’m telling you all this, right?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Well, the first reason is that I looked over your records and I liked how you handled your initiation, and how you killed your friend when we asked you to. Not many people would show that kind of commitment.”
“Thank you, sir. It really wasn’t a hard decision.”
“Ok,” Hathaway said. “The second reason I’m telling you this, is because I want you to lead the task force.”
Now, Martin’s face really showed surprise. He recovered after a moment.
“Sir,” he said. “Although I appreciate the opportunity, I don’t know that I’m qualified. In fact, I know several people who’d be better, who have more knowledge of demon stalkers, and the Sons of Solomon. I—“
Hathaway held up his hand and interrupted.
“Mr. Martin, I know you’re not the most qualified to take charge of this task force, but you bring something to the job that those others you’re referring to do not.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Well, it turns out that you have a connection to this demon stalker.”
How’s that, sir,” Martin asked.
“The demon stalker is your friend. The friend you killed.”
Martin stepped back and his mouth dropped open in astonishment.
“Wh-what? I-I don’t understand.”
Hathaway sighed. “Your friend, Jake Steel, right?”
Martin nodded dumbly.
“His spirit has been returned to Earth. He inhabits and controls a body for a set amount of time. During that time, he has powers and abilities to kill demons. Are you following me?”
“Yes, sir,” Martin nodded again.
“Ok. I want you to hunt your friend down, Capture him and bring him to me. I will then render him useless. I will give you whatever help in manpower and financial resources you need to do this, alright?”
“Yes, sir,” Ben Martin said. He smiled, and unconsciously reached up and caressed the scar on his face.