Tag: Europe

The Pyrennean Peril – Dakota’s email

Posted on by Athena
An image showing occult symbols
The photo Thomson took – NOT an amulet, Maya.

Dakota submitted a copy of this email for the mission file. See to it would you please, Darling?

 

RE: Thomson’s photo

OK, so you said this image was an amulet, but the image was probably a book of some description, and there was more than one image on the page…

We’ve talked about this. You need to be SPECIFIC.

One of these images is alchemical. It’s part of the tree of life, a sort of Kabbalistic map showing how to give the magician (or alchemist, if we’re being pedantic) the power of God. Or a god, anyway. Immortality and enlightenment.

The one on the top left is Enochian, which is angelic script. That’s the language used by angels when they want to write notes to each other. If Archangel Gabriel scribbled his shopping list on a PostIt, it would probably look like that. Well, not that like, because that’s a summoning nonagram.

In Enochian.

Ask yourself: what kind of being would angels want to summon? I mean, how badly do you have to piss off an angel for them to summon something other than an angel to come along and do their work for them? How dirty does a job have to be that even angels, not known for being averse to some pretty heinous works (we do remember pillars of salt etc, right?) would want to summon something else to do it instead?

And what would that look like when it arrived?

Underneath is some random collection of occult symbols — an alphabet of sorts.

The clearest image on the page is the symbol of an obscure Elder God called Yigg. When I say Elder God, I mean the King in Yellow, Mountains of Madness, eldritch horror from the cosmic beyond kind  of Elder God. Maybe the kind of Elder God an angel would summon if they thought, “Boss, I love you dearly, but dude this shit is awful and Imma gonna have to ask a favour from someone with even fewer scruples than I’ve got, my man.”

This stuff is old, too. I had to call up the Covenant and get one of their people to look in the main Archives, because the schism happened after this was written.

Yep. That old.

I don’t think this Elder God has been summoned since before the Schism. I bet he’s really bored and just itching to get back out into the world. This page seems to suggest that someone able to summon this god would achieve immortality and the kind of power that would make an actual angel sit up and take notice.

What the heck have you found out there, Maya?

The Pyrennean Peril — Episode 3

Posted on by ravenbait

 

 

“There’s only so much vaguely fishy digestive juice Thomson would be prepared to put in their ear”

 

 

ANIMAL MAGIC

John turns the crisp packet upside down and shakes it, then offers it to Maya so she can fetch out the last of the paprika-flavoured crumbs. He drops the earpiece into the crisp packet and folds over the top, then hands it to Maya. She takes it in her beak and flies once round the vehicle to make sure it doesn’t interfere with her flight too much, before flying off towards where she last saw Thomson.

As she soars towards the tree under which Thomson was sheltering, she passes by a rookery. The rooks and jackdaws spot her and the shiny crisp packet, and descend en masse, croaking and cawing. They mob her, attracted by the shiny crisp packet. Despite her best efforts to fend them off, a particularly bolshie rook smacks her over the head, and she drops the crisp packet, only for an opportunistic jackdaw to snatch it out of the air and fly off with it.

With no other option available, Maya flies back to the car.

“What happened?” John asks, not expecting to see her again so soon.

“I was attacked by some crows,” she says. “I lost the transmitter.”

“What? You?” John starts laughing. “But you’re a great big herring gull! You’re a ninja in feathery form!”

Maya’s feathers are ruffled even though she’s not currently wearing them. “There were loads of them!” she protests. “And they were huge! And vicious!”

“If you say so. Well, I guess we’d better see what else we can find to replace the transmitter.”

John goes digging through the accumulated roadtrip detritus in the back of the car and eventually finds something that looks like the chopped-off end of an earbud. It’s not as small as the lost one, and it would be visible from the right angle, but it’s got to be better than nothing, right? Maya finds a small, handheld unit that makes a series of rapid clicks like a sperm whale homing in on a giant squid when she points it at the various bits of electronic wizardry in the Section 7 kit.

“This was made by Merlin, wasn’t it?” John says rhetorically. “So it’s magically enhanced. I dread to think how it will go wrong.” He remembers the underwater breathing apparatus that attracted sharks, even if sharks didn’t even live in that area. Those things could attract sharks in a landlocked freshwater lake. What the hell will one of his comms devices do? “Suppose it must have decent range on it, though.”

Maya pulls a receiver/transmitter from the case. It’s a box about the size of six audio cassettes stacked together. “We can bring this with us and find out.”

Everyone agrees that the crisp packet plan was somewhat flawed, and they don’t have any more crisp packets anyway, so this time Maya just takes the earpiece in her beak, careful not to swallow it down into her crop. There’s only so much vaguely fishy digestive juice Thomson would be prepared to put in their ear.

She avoids the rookery on her way back to Thomson, and lands on the far side of the big tree from the yoga class, which is still going on. She walks carefully around to where Thomson is still sitting, mindful of Topaz watching Thomson, and paddles around on the grass a bit as if looking for worms before lowering her head to set the earpiece on the ground within Thomson’s reach. She wanders off, pecks a bit at the ground for the sake of appearances, then launches herself back into the air and heads back to the car.

Thomson reaches with one hand to feel where Maya had obviously left something, careful not to look at what they’re doing in case Topaz asks to see what they picked up. It’s something small and feels vaguely electronic; they stuff it in their pocket for later.

Just in time; class finishes and Topaz comes over.

“How are you feeling?” she asks with genuine concern. “You seem to be finding everything very intense.”

“Yes, sorry. It’s just this place. It’s great, but I find it very overwhelming.”

“You must be very sensitive,” Topaz says. “I shall have a word with Marina and see if we can come up with some exercises that will suit you better without being too intense for you to cope with.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

“Did I see you talking to a seagull just now?”

“Well,” Ashley says, “A seagull landed very close to me and came over. I couldn’t say if I was talking to it. I’ve always got on well with animals. I seem to have a calming effect on them.”

“Do you think that the seagull might have had a message for you? Had you considered that it might be what we call a companion animal, some sort of spirit guide?”

Ashley’s eyes widen. “I hadn’t considered that at all. Do you really think so?”

“Well, we wouldn’t normally expect to see a seagull here in the mountains so far from the ocean, and it came very close to you, so I would say it’s a very strong possibility, especially given how sensitive you are.”

“That would be wonderful. I never dared to hope that something like that could happen.”

Topaz smiles almost fondly. “We have a library in the main house, and while Marina doesn’t really like people using it unsupervised, I’m sure she will make an exception for you. I will tell her you need to read up on companion animals.”

“I’d be so grateful.”

“Good. Come on, I’m sure it must be time for lunch.”

Back at the car, the rest of the team consider what to do next. Maya plays with the volume controls on the receiver, turning it all the way up until she can hear what sounds like rustling noises. “Seems to be working,” she says with a shrug.

“I suppose our only other option is to go to the cave where C said they last tracked Bert,” Bea says. “We don’t have any more leads.”

The others agree.

They check the map and then navigate back onto the D8 and drive until they’re as close as they can get. Parking up at the side of the road, they find the track that leads into the woods, towards the mountain. It’s not a long walk, but it’s a hot day, and they are high in the Pyrennees. The air is filled with the scent of greenery and the songs of birds proclaiming their territories – presumably in French, although it doesn’t sound that different from British birds.

They follow the stone track until eventually they reach the cave entrance. It is blocked off by heavy iron bars, the door locked with a sturdy padlock.

“Did you bring the boltcutters?” Bea asks.

John pats his pockets. “Strangely enough, no.”

They all traipse back to the car.

At lunch, Ashley is sitting down at a long wooden table set out in one of the courtyards near the small houses where the guests stay. Everyone around the table is dressed in white except for them. The table is loaded with a vegan feast of fresh vegetables, fruits, salads, nuts and grains, most of which look like they were probably grown on the farm. They glance to the top of the table, where Marina Blavatsky is listening to Topaz murmuring something close to her ear. She looks straight down the table at Ashley, then turns to the man sitting on her left and says something to him. With a start, Ashley realises that he’s not wearing white, either. He is dressed entirely in black, and the only adornment on him is an amulet hanging around his neck. He meets Ashley’s gaze and, with a smirk, tucks the amulet under his shirt.

The team gets back to the car, moderately hot and bothered, and have a rummage. Maya finds some lockpicks in the Section 7 kit, but Bea insists on bringing the boltcutters, just in case. They also find a few more Merlin toys — a nanofibre rope around 150m long, gossamer thin and feather light, and a compact grappling hook that folds up into a tiny package, like origami.

John shakes his head. “I dread to think how those might go wrong.”

They head back to the cave.

The padlock does not succumb to the boltcutters. Maya hands Bea the lockpicks.

“We know you have something of a dark past, Bea. I’m sure you learned how to pick a lock at some point.”

It’s not necessarily a good thing that Maya knows about Bea’s past — the Sect has a very firm stance on black magic and evil things in general, after all — but Bea gets the lock open and they push the gate. It clangs loudly in the echo-chamber of the cave.

At lunch, Ashley’s pocket makes a loud, metallic noise that reverberates oddly. The man sitting next to them leans over, furtively trying to catch their eye.

“Do you…” He seems hesitant to speak. “Do you still have your phone? Was that a notification I just heard? Could I… Could I maybe borrow it? I’ve been here for two weeks. They haven’t let me even glance at mine since I got there. I haven’t spoken even to my family in all that time. Do you… Do you have facebook? Or twitter even? What’s happening in the world? I feel so lost.”

“This isn’t a good time,” Ashley says.

“Later then? I’m in house number 3.”

“Um… Maybe. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you.”

He turns away, as if pointedly ignoring them will make up for him actively soliciting illicit electronica.

Back at the cave, the team creep into what is clearly part of a vast network of tunnels and caverns inside the mountain. Maya takes the transmitter-receiver box from her pocket and thumbs the mute switch. “Should probably have done that earlier,” she says.

Progressing further inside the cave, they come across what appears to be a shallow pit inside a cage. Lying in the bottom of the pit are skeletal remains. Some of them look human, but the others don’t resemble anything currently living. They look old, but Bea recognises a particular kind of accelerated aging in the bones, in the way they aren’t fossilised but delicate and frangible, almost like packed dust. Someone summoned something here, some creature, and then locked it in a cage with a human and let them fight to the death. Maybe one of them survived the fight, maybe neither did; with the remains in this advanced state, it’s impossible to say.

They move on into the cave.

The cavern system becomes more complicated, and it is difficult to tell which way to go. The footprints they have been following head off in multiple directions, and there is every danger of becoming lost down here. They scuff dust from the floor, and it sparkles oddly, like tiny flecks of impossibly bright glitter caught by a powerful arc lamp. Magic is happening down here. There’s probably some sort of magical protection.

Maya checks the receiver, but the only noise it makes is a pffzzzt pffzzzt pffzzzt… pffzzzt pffzzzt… pffzzzt pffzzzt pffzzzt pffzzzt… pffzzzt.

The dust seems to drift in one particular direction, following gentle air currents, and so they decide to track that movement into the cave.

At the compound, Ashley is finishing her lunch with some fresh fruit when Blavatsky comes over. The woman crouches slightly next to Ashley’s chair, and again Ashley feels that comforting sense that nothing bad could possibly happen.

“Topaz tells me you would like to read about companion animals.”

“Yes! I was visited by a seagull, and Topaz suggested that perhaps it had a message for me, and I should try to find out what it is.”

“An excellent suggestion. Come with me.”

She takes Ashley’s hand and leads them to the house, then upstairs to the third floor.

“The library is here,” she says. “My office is just next door. The section on companion animals and spirit guides is over there. If you need anything, please just come and find me. My door is open.”

She goes into her office, leaving both doors open, and Ashley enters the library. It’s much tidier than Bea’s, and not as well stocked. There is room to move, for a start, and no piles of ancient texts and random scrolls lying higgledy-piggledy all over the place.

They’re not sure where to begin, but Thomson decides it will be nowhere near the section on companion spirits.

Further into the cave, and the team begins to feel uncomfortable. There is a sense of something crawling inside their limbs, an itch they can’t scratch; the feeling of being surrounded by midges but unable to swat them away, or a mosquito entering the ear when hands are bound. The further they progress, the worse it gets, until John can’t stand it any more.

“I feel like I need to claw my skin off,” he cries, close to panic. “I need to get out of here!”

“This is serious magical protection,” Bea says. “I need to know what’s down there.”

“I can’t stay. I need to get out!”

“Well, look. You take the communication box and head back outside, see if you can hear what Thomson is doing,” Maya says. “I’ll stay with Bea.”

“OK,” John says, snatching the box, turning on his heel, and booking it.

Maya and Bea carry on, each step making it harder and harder to resist the urge to tear their flesh from their bones with their fingers, their teeth, anything.

Even each other.

In the library, Ashley takes the opportunity to put the earpiece in, wiping gull spit off it on their jacket. Scanning the shelves, they find a pair of what appear to be leather-bound books — what kind of leather they dare not contemplate. They are ancient, battered, and the pages are made of vellum or… Again, best not to think about it. The language is unfamiliar, but the imagery is half Agrippa, half Voynich manuscript. Leafing through, Thomson finds a symbol that they recognise from the amulet that the man next to Blavatsky was wearing. They can’t read the text but recognise some of the other symbols in this section as being the kind of symbol someone might use to form a pact with a demonic entity. Summon the demon, make a bargain, wear their symbol for as long as the pact is in place. Power, riches, long life… The usual.

They quickly dig their phone out and take a picture, sending it to John and Bea because Maya’s still stuck with her stupid Nokia 3210 and it can’t handle pictures.

Saw a guy wearing an amulet, and this is the symbol. Might have a pact with a demon.

Footsteps in the hall outside thud towards the library. That’s not Blavatsky. Blavatsky wafts. Ashley is supposed to be finding out what the heck a seagull means as an animal companion, and Thomson hurries to put the books away before they are discovered.

John follows his own footsteps out of the cave, but before long he realises he should have reached the cage by now, and he hasn’t. He glances at the ground and realises the only footprints that belong to him are behind him, and they all point in the direction he’s facing. Looking around, he doesn’t recognise this part of the cave.

He carefully scrawls an X in the dirt, turns through 180° and follows his own footprints back in the direction he has just come, never looking up from the trail. When he reaches where his steps head off in another direction, he draws another big X in the dirt, then follows those, hopefully in the direction of the cave entrance and safety.

The closer they get, the more familiar this sensation is to Bea. A long time ago, so long it feels like another lifetime, she was in South America, making a decent living working freelance for a number of underground crime syndicates. Each of them thought they had her exclusive services, but she went where the money was, and if someone was willing to pay, well…

One of the crime bosses had acquired, by means about which she had never thought it prudent to ask, a skull. Not an ordinary human or animal skull — he could have had as many of those as he wanted for pocket change — but something else altogether. This was only vaguely human, with a low, flat cranium that swept back from a heavy, anvil-like brow like the landing deck of an aircraft carrier. It was covered in strange symbols that were impossible to copy, so badly did they hurt the eyes. They seemed to move and shift, shimmer as if in a heat haze, following impossible, contorted lines that didn’t exist in normal space. They were not drawn, or carved: they were part of the bone itself. Inside the eye sockets flickered the colours of flame, of molten rock, of iron heated to melting. It gave off an intense, bone-curdling heat, and it was impossible to remain within the same room as it for more than 5 seconds without wanting to tear your own eyes out.

The skull, with the right incantations and some of the type of ingredients that people don’t usually offer willingly, would open a portal to Hell. The effect of the skull by itself was bad enough; being locked in the same room as the open portal had caused one victim to bite the flesh off his arms, all the way down to the bone. They kept it in a lead box, and Bea had developed a magical protection so that she could get into the room where they kept it, take it out of the box, and get out again before she did herself harm. Her one stipulation had been that she only ever had to go in there when there was no one else in the room. She didn’t want to see it in use. She’d heard enough stories on the street to know what they did with it.

Give them their dues: they’d always made sure there was nothing left of what they’d been doing when they’d asked her to go back in and put it away again.

They reach the point where they physically cannot go any further. Chemical reactions that have stopped biology self-immolating since the dawn of time see to that. Every primordial instinct in every cell brings them to a grinding halt.

“Listen,” she says to Maya. “I think I know what’s down there, and I have ways to keep myself safe, but I can’t protect you. You have to go back.”

“What do you mean?” Maya asks. “I’m not letting you go down there by yourself.”

“You must. I can protect myself, but I can’t help you.”

“I don’t understand! How could you know what’s down there? What do you mean? I’m not leaving you!”

Bea bites back on the frustration, knowing that it will make her more vulnerable. She doesn’t want to tell Maya what’s in her past. It is utterly incompatible with the Sect’s mission. Who knows what it would do to their relationship. But what choice does she have? “Look, I used to work for this guy who had a skull that would open a portal to Hell. I think that’s what’s down there. Or something like it. It feels almost the same. I have magical protection I can use, but it only works on me. You HAVE to go back!”

Maya forces another couple of steps forwards, but falls back immediately.

“All right,” she says. “We need to talk about this later.”

She turns and runs.

Bea takes one of her magical pouches from her pocket. She hadn’t thought she’d need this one on this trip.

Thomson is still trying to remember where they found the books when they feel the hairs prickle on the back of their neck and there is the unmistakeable sensation of not being alone in the room.

They turn round, and the man who had been sitting next to Blavatsky at lunch is standing there watching them. His gaze is open, frank, intense, unguarded, unapologetic. Most people only meet someone else’s gaze in conversation, and even then it is not constant. This man looks at Thomson as if they are a laboratory specimen.

“Some extra-curricular reading, I see,” he says. His voice is smooth, warm, exuding a confidence that is almost electrifying. This man walks into a room and owns it, no matter the room, no matter the company.

“I…” Thomson stumbles and Ashley takes over. “I was looking for something on animal companions and I felt drawn to these books. There was something in them that just called to me.”

“And you’ve read them, I take it?”

“I’ve looked at them. I can’t claim to have read them.”

“Hmmm.” He smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They are dark and deep, almost black, and it seems impossible a smile would find space inside them. “Marina told me you were sensitive. She must have been right. Most people couldn’t even find those books.”

“What… What do you mean?”

“I could bring your friend Luna in here, tell her those books were in here and I wanted them, and she still wouldn’t be able to find them. That you could suggests something odd, don’t you think?”

“I don’t understand.”

“No. I don’t expect you to.” He perches on the edge of a table and drums his fingers on the edge. The amulet is still tucked safely under his shirt; Ashley can see the chain around his neck. “I imagine Marina will be along shortly to find out what you’ve learned about companion animals.” There’s something supercilious in the way he says it, as if he doesn’t really believe they exist. “I think you should probably have something to tell her, don’t you?”

Without waiting for a response, he leaves the room.

Feeling like that could have gone a lot worse, and that was quite possibly the best person to have found them reading the wrong books, especially those books, Thomson finds the place on the shelf for the two volumes, then starts riffling through some books on animal magic.

Maya finds John stumbling around between several stalagmites. He walks into one, rebounds, turns, walks until he hits another one, rebounds, turns, walks until he hits another one… He’s like a Roomba that can’t find its way out of a bunch of furniture.

Mayra grabs his arm and keeps going, dragging him with her out of the cave. They only stop once they can see the sky.

“Whew!” John says. “Thanks for getting me out of there. I don’t know what happened. It was like I was mazed, or something.”

“Probably something to do with the magical defences. At least you didn’t drop the box.”

John still has the comms box in his hand.

“No. There is that. Where’s Bea?”

“She said something about a portal to Hell and being able to counteract it or something.”

“A portal to WHAT?!” As John’s phone picks up the nearest cell tower, it buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and reads the message. “Speaking of Hell, I’ve got a message from Thomson.”

Maya leans over and looks at it. “We should forward that to someone. Here. I’ll give you Dakota’s number.” She pulls up his contact details on her own phone and shows them to John.

“Okay. What do you want me to say?”

“‘Found this picture of an amulet, can you find out about it’?”

John dutifully types his message into the phone and hits send.

“Hopefully he’ll be able to tell us what it means,” Maya says.

The park themselves on the picnic table by the cave entrance and settle down to wait for Bea.

Ashley looks up when Marina Blavatsky comes into the room and sits gracefully on one of the chairs.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I think so,” Ashley says. “I’ve learned that seagulls are social, and they look after their family, but they don’t like to be too close — herring gulls don’t like to touch each other like other gulls do, and they keep a ‘safe distance’ from others of their kind. But they don’t like to be alone, either, and they only really fight over food, or to protect their eggs and chicks. If there’s more food than one bird can eat, they call all the other birds to come and share.”

“It sounds like your gull friend was giving you advice on how you can be part of this community,” Blavatsky says, clearly moved.

“I have to say, this really does speak to me,” Ashley says.

“It seems to me that the gull was saying that you do belong here, and you can be part of our community and share in our greater mission, but we need to make sure you have your personal space.”

“I think so. I’m so glad you feel that way too.”

“I think I shall speak with Topaz and we shall come up with a programme for you that you can work on that involves less personal contact than we would generally advise for someone with your particular blockages. Especially given how sensitive you clearly are.”

“That would be marvellous.”

“I’m so pleased we had this chat,” Blavatsky says. “Shall we go and see about getting you settled in?”

As they walk out of the library, Ashley realises they sense nothing in Blavatsky that would have come from the man with the amulet. Thomson had thought maybe the man was acting as a power bank for Blavatsky; a contractor she’d brought in to amp up her abilities. But Ashley can’t detect anything like that.

And Thomson begins to wonder what it means that they can tell.

Bea hefts the pouch in her hand, then hurls it at the ground by her feet. It explodes in a cloud of sparkly, rainbow-coloured dust, and she feels the terrible effect of whatever is down there move into the background. It’s still there, but muted, muffled, like hearing someone speak in another room.

She follows the increasing intensity — the thaumobars — deeper into the cave, aware that she doesn’t have long before this armour wears off. The sheer intensity of this dark magic field will wear it away.

Another couple of hundred metres in, and she finds another pool of water in a cavern. It glows with intense sapphire light. There is a rocky outcrop in the middle of the water and, hovering above the outcrop, an orb. It rotates slowly, eldritch blue glimmers emanating from odd shaped cut-outs on its surface.

She can’t get any closer. Her armour isn’t potent enough to combat the magic here. Grimacing, she takes her bolas from her pocket and lets fly. It hits the orb squarely, but the rope parts, and the pieces fall into the water.

With a muttered curse, she realises there’s nothing more she can do here. She can’t get any closer, and her armour is starting to fade. She quickly scans the cavern, looking for clues, but it’s becoming harder to concentrate, and images she had thought long-forgotten are introducing into her thoughts.

She turns and heads back out of the cave.

It’s such a relief to be out of the most intense part of the dark field that the mazing has little effect on her. She makes it out through the stalagmite maze and past the cage no problem.

Just as she’s feeling the sense of relief at making it out turn to frustration at not being able to accomplish more, she hears footsteps behind her. They are running.

She spins around.

Quartz is sprinting towards her. His expression is stone cold, his eyes murderous.

And he has a gun.

The Pyrennean Peril – Episode 2

Posted on by ravenbait

 

 

“I can’t believe this mush is coming out of my mouth.”

— Bea

 

DEEPER UNDERGROUND

Marina Blavatsky escorts both agents to a small room somewhere at the back of the hotel, just off the wine cellar. It is small, and they need to descend steps to get there, and that is all either of them can say, lost in the balm of her presence.

“I understand you wish to join us at our Sanctuary,” Blavatsky says in the soft, earnest voice of someone who understands she needs to make people believe in her. And it’s so, so easy to believe, her calming presence emanating a sense of peace and contentment. “What is it you seek?”

“Oh!” Thomson says as Ashley. “I have been experiencing some blockage in my heart chakra. I have tried for a long time to resolve it myself. I’ve done a lot of work on it, but I just can’t seem to clear it.”

“The heart chakra is commonly blocked by our exposure to the ills of the modern world,” Blavatsky says sorrowfully. “War, conflict, our destruction of nature — all these things serve to make our souls sick and our hearts ache. Tell me, do you have any negative experiences in your base chakra?”

“No,” Ashely replies, clearly grateful for this blessing. “I feel entirely grounded. The power flows up from my basal charka to my solar plexus, but then my heart chakra blocks it reaching my third eye.”

“I am sure we can help you reconnect your higher vision to your root,” Blavatsky says. She turns to Bea. “And what about you, my dear? How do you think we can help you?”

“Well, I’m just out here for some rest and relaxation, really,” Bea says. “Your retreat seems like a nice place.”

“We don’t offer mere rest and relaxation,” Blavatsky says, letting her expression reveal a trace of disappointment. “Our Sanctuary is for people who wish to work on self-improvement and reconnecting to the One-Consciousness of their Higher Selves.”

“Yes, well, I just need some R&R, really, and Ashley is keen to go, so I thought I’d come along with them as your retreat just seems so great.”

“Hmm. Well, I think it would be better if you stayed here for a while and perhaps gave some serious consideration as to how we could help you improve yourself,” Blavatsky says. “Meditate upon your lost connection to One-Consciousness, and I will return in a day or so to see how you are getting on. But you, my child,” she smiles serenely at Ashley, and her smile is like an ancient deity sending a sunbeam to pierce a stormcloud, “you can come with me.”

Blavatsky leads Ashley from the small room and back into the cellar, and to a stout metal bulkhead in one corner. Bea hurries after, saying, “No, really, I want to stay with my friend,” and is stopped at the door by a couple of great hulking lads who do a very effective job of blocking the way. Each one of them looks like three gorillas stuffed into a human suit, and they are implacable.

“I need to go with my friend,” Bea says. They remain impassive. “Look, I’ve got her phone, if you’d just let me past for a moment so I can give it to her…”

They might as well be statues.

Cursing under her breath, Bea kicks one of them hard in the shin, and, when he bends to brush the dirt from his trouser leg, snatches some hair from his head. He doesn’t seem to notice.

She turns and draws a rough sketch of him in the dirt on the floor of the cellar. Head, arms, legs, a torso like a brick shithouse… That will have to do. She scatters the hair over the sketch and, with a sharp, violent movement of one finger, scores a line though his stomach.

This is rough and ready dark magic. With a more detailed poppet there is all sorts she could do, but with this brief sketch the effect is mild, if unexpected.

The man she kicked makes a noise like a blocked sewer. It comes from his abdominal region. He clutches his gut, and there is an almighty flapping, farting sound from the vicinity of his trousers. The sound is accompanied by a stench as foul as Satan himself eating rancid eggs then letting out a vast and potent bottom burp in the lower depths of Hell.

The guard’s face turns bright red, and he runs off in the direction Blavatsky took Thomson. His twin turns to watch him go, an expression of disgust on his face.

Bea takes the opportunity to slip past the guard and head on into the cave.

There is an area of dirt covered by lots of footprints heading in both directions, as if this route in and out of the hotel has been used by many people, or a few people for a long time. On the left is an area of water, glowing with a soft, greenish-turquoise light, the colour of oxidised copper. On the right, the cave wall is set with irregular, distantly-spaced amber downlighters, which give enough light to see but not so much that night vision is destroyed.

Following the path, she comes to a wooden boardwalk, which tracks around the side of the cave, over the water. Following the stench, as much as anything else, Bea is about 200m into the cave when she hears a metal clang, as of a bulkhead door being shut.

She has seen enough, and without her kit there’s not much she can do. She heads back to get the others.

Thomson-who-is-Ashley accompanies Blavatsky all the way through an underground grotto. The lights are an exquisite amber glow that sets off the stalactites and rocky fissures to aesthetic perfection, and the water is a calming, blissful shade of tropical blue. They pass through another metal door and reach a sturdy wooden landing stage. Ahead, the cave is flooded with that same pristine water, but there is a boat waiting for them. They climb in, the boat held steady by a man with the height and muscle of a bodybuilder, and then he gets in behind them and punts them down through the cave.

Perhaps they travelled for minutes, perhaps they travelled for hours. It is hard to say, wrapped in the blissful contentment of Blavatsky’s presence. Eventually, they disembark onto another small, underground beach, then leave the cave system by an exit Thomson recognises from the video Maya shot in her seagull scouting run.

There is a car waiting — a luxurious 4×4, probably a Range Rover. It takes them to the villa where the team first registered their interest in coming to stay.

Blavatsky ushers Ashley into a spacious room where the colours are soothing tones of oatmeal and ripe wheat. A delightful scent of sandalwood and cypress suffuses the air with the healthy, calming aroma of a luxury Scandinavian spa.

“So. Tell me more about your blocked heart chakra,” she says, patting a seat.

“As I said, my heart chakra just feels blocked. I can’t get in touch with my third eye properly. It’s very frustrating. I’ve tried everything, and I really hope you can help.”

“I’m sure we can. You see, our personal power is like water in a river. It needs to be free to flow, free to find the pathway to our own personal enlightenment, and that path can be different at different stages. We become stifled by the trappings of the modern world, and substitute personal growth for acquisition and power over others rather than power over ourselves. We see this kind of blockage here very often. I would like to introduce you to my partner, Obsidian. He has a powerful kundalini energy that is most potent in these cases. Would you like to meet him?”

As they listen to this, Thomson constructs a partition inside their minds, channelling every childhood experience of living in a commune with hippy parents who once fed them mushroom tea to demonstrate to a friend having a bad trip that it was his own fault for not getting his karmic balance sorted out before trying to talk to the mushroom people. Thomson had a great time. Now it is Ashley who is open to everything Blavatsky says, and the more Blavatsky talks, the more Ashley thinks she has a point. Well of course her heart is blocked. Look at all the terrible things happening in the world. And maybe the things they said to the receptionist when they first arrived hadn’t been made up, maybe they only thought they were inventing them to get on the inside. Now they are here, it seems only right that they get that blockage sorted out so they can achieve ever greater levels of insight.

“Yes!” Ashley says. “I would love to meet him.”

Bea runs back through the cave and meets John and Maya, on their way down the steps having failed to find either Thomson or Bea in the bar.

“They’ve got Thomson!” Bea says. “We were looking at the picture, and this woman just wafted in and she put her hands on us and… Guys, I think she has magic abilities. It just felt so right for her to touch us.”

“Slow down,” John says. “What happened?”

“This woman! She came and touched us and took us to another room. Thomson started talking about heart chakras and — I can’t believe this mush is coming out of my mouth — and how it was blocked and she couldn’t see through her third eye any more or something. Then, when she talked to me, I just told her I wanted some rest and relaxation and she lost interest. Just like that, I feel like I snapped out of it, but she took Thomson.”

“Where?” Maya asks.

“Down there. There’s a cave. I couldn’t follow because there were a couple of goons blocking the ay, and by the time I managed to get past them, Thomson and the woman were gone.”

“Time to gear up,” Maya says.

They run upstairs and get some weapons, Maya going as far as donning her armour, then they head back down to the basement.

“What’s that on the floor?” Maya asks. “Looks like some black magic has been going on down here.”

Bea shrugs. John looks suspicious.

The door is a thick steel bulkhead, the type found on submarines. This time, although the two goons have gone, it is locked.

“What do you think, John? Would your baseball bat take care of that?” Maya asks.

“I don’t know. It looks pretty thick.”

“How did you get through the gate at Codona’s?” Bea asked. “That was a spell, wasn’t it?”

“It was an orb with a door opening spell bound to it. I don’t have it any more.”

“Okay, but what about dragon fire? Would that maybe weaken it so John could have at it with his baseball bat?”

“I suppose it’s worth a shot. My dragon fire isn’t like a welding torch, it’s more of a flood. I don’t think it’s hot enough to melt the steel. It didn’t melt the brass plate from the vampire’s coffin, but we could have a go.” She looks around the room. It’s not very big, certainly not for a minibus-sized dragon, but she should just about fit if she lets her tail go up the stairs. “You guys had better give me some room. I don’t want to squish you.”

Bea and John make room, and Maya squeezes her dragon form into the wine cellar. Bottles smash. Half a dozen bottles of 153 Chateau Lafite Rothschild spills their heady contents into the dirt, making wine connoisseurs everywhere weep. A number of fine cheese smear into the walls as shelves crack and racks splinter. An aged ham is crushed into the ceiling overhead.

Maya turns her flame onto the door for a couple of minutes. The stone bakes. The cheese melts and toasts. Eventually she is squashed into a very expensive, burnt red wine fondue. She turns back into human form and brushes melted cheese off her shirt.

“Aw, man,” John says, as he gingerly tip toes back into the wine cellar. “Now I really fancy a cheese toastie.”

He approaches the door, settles his stance, and swings. Right at the apex of the curve, the baseball bat accelerates, almost leaping from his hands, and smashes into the door. The heated sandstone crumbles around it, weakened by the heat driving moisture from the interstitial spaces, and the door flies into the cave. It lands in the water with a splash. Water drenches the wooden walkway and the dirt beach.

Under the cooked cheese and boiled wine is a distinct eggy smell, along with the unmistakable aroma of barbecued pork.

John pulls a face. “Oh no. I know what else smells like barbecued pork.”

They carefully enter the cave. As they do, a pair of shoes floats up from where the door landed in the water. A greasy slick spreads on the water.

“Ew,” is John’s only comment. He avoids looking down into the water.

“We should check,” Bea says.

“Check what?” John pulls a face. “You want to go down in the water and see if Goon Mark II is still alive?”

“Was it just his shoes that floated up?”

Wondering what else Bea might be considering, John says, “Yes.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right then.” Bea nods, satisfied. “Let’s go.”

Ashley’s eyes widen as Obsidian enters the room and stands in front of the window looking out onto the surrounding shrubs. He is more than 2m tall, with long, brown hair, a chiselled jaw, blue eyes, and a lean, muscular body of which entirely too much is on show as a result of the fact he is wearing what looks like a loincloth made of torn chamois leather.

“Obsidian leads our Men’s Primal Power meditation groups,” Blavatsky says. From the way she looks at him, and he at her, there is more to the relationship between these two than conning gullible hippies out of their life savings in the promise of self-improvement.

“You know,” Ashley says, in response to the frantic prompting from their more sensible alter-ego Thomson, “I’d really like to learn how to do this myself.”

“Oh, I understand entirely,” Blavatsky tells them with a sympathetic smile. Is that a hint of superciliousness underneath, though? “But unblocking such things when you are the one who is blocked is next to impossible.”

“Even so, I’d really like to try. I think I’d feel more empowered.”

“I do understand, but Obsidian is blessed with exceptionally potent, powerful kundalini energy, and is particularly skilled at clearing blockages of this nature.”

“Um, yes, but I’d feel much more able to channel my own power in pursuit of my higher calling if I did this myself, rather than accepting what someone else did for me.”

Blavatsky sighs a little. “Unblocking something like this is expecting a river to unblock a great dam that has been built across it. The river may not be able to find enough energy, partially because of the dam, and it takes someone else to come along with pick and shovel or, when it comes to it, explosives, and unblock it. Only then can the river use its own power to find its true path. That is all Obsidian wishes to do for you. Remove that dam so your power can flow into its correct path. He will not choose the path for you. He is particularly powerful at such things.”

“All the same—” Ashley is almost squeaking now. In how many ways and how many times do they have to say no?

“Very well,” Blavatsky sighs. “I can see you are uncomfortable, no doubt a symptom of the very blockage you have asked us to help you remedy. Would you prefer if I introduced you to one of our meditation groups, and you can work away at it yourself? Perhaps after you’ve chipped enough of the loose material off the edges, you’ll feel ready for Obsidian to clear the rest for you.”

“Oh yes. That would be super, thank you,” Ashley says, unable to contain her relief.

Blavatsky goes to Obsidian and murmurs something in his ear. He grunts, wordlessly, and leaves the room. A moment later, Luna from reception comes in.

“Luna, show Ashley to one of the kundalini yoga meditation groups, please.”

“Of course, Madame,” Luna says with what looks like a slight bow.

Luna gestures for Ashley to precede her, and guides them from the villa.

“I’m so thrilled you were able to join us,” she trills once they are outside.

“Yeah,” Thomson says, a little shaky in the aftermath of what feels like a very close call. “Nice to see you too.”

Down in the cave, the rest of the team finds another door. It’s the same as the first: a metal bulkhead door, waterproof, as if someone expects the cave to flood at some point and is trying to stop water flooding up in the hotel. Maya gives the wheel a shove. It shifts a little — the door isn’t locked — but it’s too stiff to move. Probably needs someone with the strength of three gorillas.

“Should have brought some of that rendered fat,” Bea says, earning horrified gasps.

“You’re getting worse, Bea,” John says.

Bea grabs the other side of the wheel from Maya and, with John keeping time for them (much to Bea’s irritation), they get it open.

On the other side of the door Is a small beach with a wooden landing stage built against it. The air is bitterly cold, all the heat sucked away by the glacier-melt water.

“You’ve got your sword, right?” John asks Maya. “Is it…” He breaks off laughing. “Is it a long one?”

Maya rolls her eyes. “It’s a two-hander, John.”

This does not help.

Eventually John manages to explain that he wanted to use it to check how deep it is, but the water is incredibly clear and they can see it is at least eight feet where the small quay disappears into the water, and probably gets deeper beyond that.

“And they went down there?” Maya asks. She kneels to test the temperature of the water. Icy cold.

“Must have had a boat,” Bea says. “No boat here, though. We could swim.”

“The water is SUPER cold,” Maya tells her. “And we don’t know if those lights go all the way, or if there are other side passages, ways to get lost.”

“Well, what if you go down there in your seagull form?” Bea asks.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“They’re bound to be going back to the compound, right?” John says. “I mean, we know that’s where they’re based. We don’t know our way through this tunnel, we can’t call Thomson because there’s no reception down here and we don’t even know if they still have their phone on them. We can’t use GPS to find our way for the same reason. So maybe we should just go back to the compound in the car and look for Thomson that way. You know, like sensible people. Not that we’re especially know for being sensible, but still.”

“Yeah,” Maya agrees, peering ahead into the depths of the cave. It really is very cold and dark down there. “Let’s grab Thomson’s stuff and go.”

Luna takes Ashley over to one of the meditation groups on a large, grassy area between the potato field and the woodland that buffers the working estate from the mountains. Around a dozen people, men and women, all dressed in white, are gathered on and around a white blanket next to what looks suspiciously like a Maypole. Luna crosses to a lithe, athletic blonde woman with glowing skin and perfect, toothpaste-advert teeth, and whispers something to her. She rises gracefully to her feet, like a ballet dancer, and comes across to where Ashley is waiting.

“Hello Ashley. I am Topaz. I am the leader of one of our Kundalini Yoga groups and Luna tells me Madame has suggested you join us for the day while you get your bearings. I know this place can be overwhelming at first.” She smiles a toothpaste smile. “Have you done yoga before?”

“Yes. Not this particular type of yoga, but I have done yoga.”

“Excellent. You should feel right at home.” She gestures to the blanket. “Have a seat. Would you like some tea?”

There is a glass urn in the middle of the blanket. If that’s tea, it’s not the kind a builder would be pleased to see in his mug. The liquid has a greenish-yellow tint to it, and there are flowers and herbs swimming around in there.

“Thank you,” Ashley says. Luna nods to Topaz and then strides away towards the villa.

Topaz pours a glass of tea from the urn and hands it to Ashley. Thomson sniffs it. Chamomile, certainly. Maybe nettle. Some mint, a touch of cinnamon, ginger and… Oh my. That’s artemisia. Pungent, intensely herby, incredibly fragrant in the way you know means it’s bitter as all hell. Thomson isn’t sure what the wormwood is supposed to do — they’re pretty damn sure it’s not to expel parasites — but is 100% certain they do not want to drink it. They pretend to take sips while tipping it surreptitiously onto the grass.

Once the cup is empty, Topaz stands and claps her hands. “All right, class, time to begin.”

They start in child’s pose, which is unusual. Topaz has them breathe in and out, and in and out, and then moves into a variation on Sun Salutation. She says, breathlessly, “Now breathe in and feel the grounding energy of the Earth beneath you rise up and connect with your root chakra. Feel it rise up and in and up and…”

Thomson chokes and scrabbles back from their mat. Topaz notices and tells the rest of the class to carry on.

“Are you all right?” she asks, concerned.

“It’s just… Maybe the tea? All so…” Thomson exaggerates their shakiness and pretends to lose their balance. “Overwhelming.”

“That’s all right. These things can affect us like that. Let it wash over you. Come, sit by this tree. Lean into the tree.” She sits Thomson-Ashley down on the grass in the shade of a large sycamore. “Feel the tree. Be one with the tree. Let its strength nurture and sustain you. Let its mighty length give you strength. Breathe with the tree. Be the tree.”

“I will,” Ashley says, breathlessly. “I will.”

Topaz goes back to class but continues to watch her latest pupil keenly.

As Bea, John and Maya emerge from the cave system into the cellar, they find George Figgs clutching his hair in the middle of his ruined cellar, wailing.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” he screams, frothing at the mouth.

“Us? Nothing,” John says.

“Oh. Hope there was nothing valuable in here, ” Maya adds, poking a cheesy splinter with her toe.

“There was an ENTIRE CASE of Chateau Lafite Rothschild 1953 down here. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT WAS WORTH?”

“Not much of a wine drinker,” John says with a shrug.

“What did you DO? Did you bring EXPLOSIVES into MY HOTEL?”

“Don’t be silly,” Bea says. “Looks like rats to me.”

“Rats? RATS? Look at the cheese! The wine! Le jambon! Ma charcuterie!” He pulls some hair from his head. “Rats would not do this. IT IS NOT FRENCH.”

“Um.” John scratches his head. This guy is taking it pretty hard.

“GET OUT!” George screeches.

“Yeah, we were just going to get our things and—”

“GET OUT! OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT!”

“Wait,” John says, as if he has forgotten something. He reaches over to the wall and drags his finger through some melted Camembert. He sticks it in his mouth. “Yum.”

George screams. It sounds like a pig with its tail caught in the barn door. He chases them out of the cellar. “You will pay for this! I will charge the damage to that ridiculous credit card you carry! Don’t think I didn’t recognise it!”

The team run upstairs, grab their things, and leave.

“Wow,” says John. “He was a bit dramatic.”

“Yeah,” agrees Maya. “I wonder what his problem was.”

“So, shall we go and look for Thomson?” Bea asks.

They drive back to the compound and park in a layby near a small wood, pulling as far off the road as they can get without running over the fence.

“Seagull?” John asks.

“Seagull,” Maya confirms. She sheds her armour, because the carrying capacity of a gull is only about a kilo, and armour doesn’t vanish in quite the same way that clothes do when she changes.

Taking off, she circles around the perimeter of the estate in the same way she did before. She sees fresh tyre tracks at the cave entrance and, edging into the wind, drifts slowly over a grassy area where a group is participating in some very loud and grunty yoga of a type she doesn’t recognise. A pair of feet are just visible under the canopy of a nearby tree, and, on a hunch, she drifts lower still and closer to the tree, as if scouring the grass for worms.

It’s Thomson all right. Maya lands on the far side of the tree and waddles around to where they are sitting.

Thomson spots the gull. “Maya,” they whisper. “If that’s you, do the seagull tippy-tap dance.”

Maya papples the grass as if looking for worms.

“Oh thank God,” Thomson mutters. “Listen, I’m okay. I think I’m good on the inside here and can learn a lot.”

Maya does the patter dance again to show she understands.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Thomson says.

Maya waddles back round the tree then takes off, running across the grass to build up speed.

Back at the car, she updates the others.

“We need some way to stay in touch,” Bea says. “Do you think they’ve still got their phone?”

“Maybe. Let’s hope they’ve got it on silent,” John says, although Thomson always has it on silent. “But it would be pretty obvious and they might take it off her.”

“Maybe there’s something in the surveillance kit,” Maya says.

They dig around and find a tiny two-way transmitter-receiver, small enough to disappear inside an agent’s ear.

“Cool. But how are we going to get it to them?” John asks.

“I’ll just change back into a seagull and take it to them,” Maya says. “Have we got a backpack that might fit? We should have asked Merlin to make a seagull sized backpack.”

“It would be pretty obvious if a seagull went up to Thomson wearing a backpack and they had to dig around inside it. How about this instead?”

And he holds up an empty packet of Benuts 3D Bugles. Paprika flavour.

“Perfect,” says Maya.

The Pyrennean Peril — Episode 1

Posted on by ravenbait

 

 

“Mystical, self-centred do-goodery that attracts the kind of person who can afford a jade egg to put in their unmentionables.”

— C

AN EARLY START

At 3am in the morning, UK time, all team members receive a text message informing them to report to their nearest airport. There they are collected by private Lear jets.

Maya is surfing in Malibu, so it takes her a little longer to arrive, but eventually the team is re-united at a tiny private airport that appears to be near Toulouse. Merlin, the Covenant’s Head of R&D, is there to meet them. Everyone bundles into a minibus with blacked-out windows, and they drive several hours to the Covenant’s European Strategic Command, ESiC, a mediaeval castle perched on a forested hillside somewhere in Aquitaine, France.

C is waiting in her office, and when they arrive wastes no time.

“Congratulations on your first mission,” she says coolly, before adding, “I’m still waiting for your report.”

“John has been remiss in not filling that in,” Maya replies with a shrug.

C narrows her eyes but says nothing further on the matter. She tosses a file across her expansive desk: a plain manila folder with TOP SECRET stamped on the front.

“Do you remember the Dracula cosplayer with whom Thomson instigated an argument on your last mission? Went by the name of Professor Peacock.”

“I had a very good reason for starting that argument,” Thomson protests, but C holds up one hand.

“I do not doubt it, and I am not interested in taking you to task over it. That man was one of our own: a member of Section 7, part of our undercover division.” She observes the team for a moment. “It was your first mission together. We were hardly likely to send you out there without a backup plan. You didn’t think we would normally be able to source a fake fire engine to clean up your mess at such short notice, did you?” She taps the file. “His name — his real name — is Bertram St John Cholmondleigh Featherstone-Hawe. Codename Gawain, but known to us as Bert. Bert is one of our most experienced agents. We sent him in to investigate a cult called the Sons and Daughters of the Eel, as they have been attracting a lot of high rollers, and we’d heard they had got their hands on some sort of powerful object. That was about three weeks ago. He went dark eight days ago. We need someone to go and get him back. And retrieve this object, whatever it is. Think you can manage it?”

“Oh. Is that all,” John says.

“What can you tell us about this cult?” Maya asks.

“Think Scientology meets New Age. It’s all about personal development and auric cleansing. Mystical, self-centred do-goodery that attracts the kind of person who can afford a jade egg to put in their unmentionables. Instead of finding out if you were a space clam in a past life, and being told which engrams you need to erase, you find out the mistakes you made in a previous cycle of the karmic wheel and how to unburden yourself of the weight that’s holding you back from universal consciousness.” C rolls her eyes. “You know the type. They believe the Norse myths referring to Jörmungandr in reality refer to an entity they call the Great Eel. All sea monsters, loch monsters, wyrms, worms and wurms are the Great Eel. All dragons” —she nods at Maya— “seals, whales and dolphins, squid, nautili and octopodes, jellyfish, snakes, dachshunds, mongeese, stoats and weasels are manifestations of the Great Eel.”

“And the object?”

“We really don’t know anything about it. Only that it is potent, valuable, and the kind of thing we wouldn’t want to see in the wrong hands.”

Maya takes the file and leafs through it. “Where was he last seen?”

C produces a map with a location marked deep in the Pyrenees. “His tracker was last recorded there, which is about 6 miles from the compound where the cult is based. It appears to be the entrance to a cave system, so you might wish to start at the compound.” She taps the map. “Merlin is waiting for you in case you need additional equipment. Try not to make a mess this time.”

C bends back to her work. The meeting is over.

Merlin hurries them all back into the bus, and they drive a couple of hours to EFOC — European Field Operational Command. This is an ancient fortress in the foothills of the Pyrenees, walls within walls enclosing tiny houses and creeping vines, wiry old trees clinging on to the scraps of soil they can find.

And, underneath, an entire modern complex of training facilities, lecture rooms, monitoring stations and…

The Armoury.

As they enter a vast room stuffed to the gills with every weapon known to man and some Merlin invented while sitting on the toilet, Merlin bellows at an unfortunate tech.

“Count to THREE, man! THREE shall be the number of the counting!”

There is a puff of smoke and the tech looks sheepish.

Someone is firing stakes at a wooden dummy using a compressed-air delivery system. Someone else hurls discs like hockey pucks across the floor: they float, skimming across the ground before coming to an abrupt halt and sticking. The air above them shimmers in a way that hurts the eyes.

“So what can I do for you?”

“Well,” John says. “I could really do with something better than a broken hockey stick. Do you have anything like a bludgeon?”

“We have EVERYTHING like a bludgeon!” Merlin booms, leading John through to the next part of the room. There is an entire wall covered in truncheons, nightsticks, retractable cudgels, baseball bats with nails in, baseball bats without nails, and staves. “Well. Other than the staff of the Cerne Abbas giant.” He pulls his beard, lost in thought, a wistful look in his eye. “But I WILL have it one day!”

“I’m sure you will,” John says, distracted by a metallic baseball bat.

“Ahh, good choice!” Merlin says as John selects it. “It has a magnetised liquid core. Beautifully balanced, easy to carry, relatively lightweight. As soon as the inbuilt accelerometer detects a swing, it releases the liquid to the tip, greatly increasing the angular momentum.”

“Does it need maintenance?” John asks.

“No!” Merlin scoffs. “Almost entirely passive.”

John walks over to one of the straw dummies. The techs move out of his way and line up to watch. He takes a gentle swing, and as the bat hits the apex of its curve it suddenly accelerates and smashes into the straw dummy so hard the dummy explodes. Fragments of straw fill the air. The techs all give a round of applause.

“Excellent taste, young man!” Merlin exclaims. “Hardly anyone ever gives it a second glance.”

“I could use a silencer for my 9mm,” Thomson says.

“What sort of silencer?” Merlin strides to another part of the room and pulls out a drawer approximately 3m wide, about 15cm high, and at least 2m deep. It keeps going into the wall. It is lined with various silencers sitting in slots in the grey foam insert.

“Just something to make the noise less noticeable,” Thomson says.

“Because we have all sorts. Magical ones. Laser sights. You name it, we’ve got it.”

“Magical ones?”

Merlin pulls the drawer out further and selects a dull grey silencer with arcane script on the side. “This one is resistant to magical interference.”

“Oh! I like the sound of that.”

“And what about a laser sight? Very practical.”

John starts laughing. “The kind of thing that would help when one of your team-mates is lying on top of a wendigo and you’re trying not to shoot him in the head, for instance?”

“Ha HA! Yes! I LIKE you, young man!” Merlin bellows. “Precisely that.”

“I’ll take it,” Thomson agrees. Merlin hands over another silencer that is almost identical, but has a narrow tube mounted on top.

“Have you got any surveillance gear that would fit a seagull?” Maya asks.

For a moment, Merlin is completely nonplussed, then he starts muttering to himself. “Seagull… seagull….” He looks up at Maya. “Is it a pet? Do you have it here? Is it a herring gull? A tern? An albatross? I need to know what size it is.”

“Well, you tell me,” Maya says, and transforms.

Everyone in the facility stops to stare.

“OH! OH I SEE!” Merlin rubs his hands together. “Very good! IVAN! Where’s Ivan?” A small, mousy man in a lab coat scurries over. “Where’s that rat cam set up?” Merlin turns back to the team. “We were experimenting with using rats as infiltration agents. Very small, intelligent, trainable. Turns out easily distracted, too.”

Ivan returns with what is effectively a shrunken GoPro on a tiny harness.

“Excellent. See if you can get that set up for Maya, will you? Adjust the straps or something.” He grins. “Now. Bea.”

“I’d quite like some bolas, if you’ve got any.”

“HAVE WE GOT ANY?” He leads Bea across to a big box. Lifting the lid, it is full of various thrown weapons and bits of thrown weapons, including boomerangs, spear throwers and, yes, bolas. “Now. What kind would you like? Exploding?” He waits with a hopeful expression. Bea shakes her head. “Magical?”

“No, just plain bolas, please,” Bea says.

Merlin grunts, yanks out a set of balls on a cord and thrusts it into her hands, already distracted by something more interesting.

“Is that working for you?” he asks Maya. Maya squawks as Ivan adjust the straps around her wings. “You’ll have to get someone to help you put it on. Unless you have thumbs. Do you have thumbs in there?”

“It’s all right,” John says. “I can help.”

“Excellent! So. Some transport. Do you need transport? Of course you need transport. We flew you out here.”

“What have you got?” Bea asks

“What do you want?”

“Anything fancy?”

“We don’t have any Aston Martin DBs, if that was what you were thinking. We don’t give those out to Hunter teams, they always end up wrecked.”

Maya, back in human form, says, “I think a 4×4 will be most useful.”

“You have one of the Toyota Hilux then. They’re practically immortal, and we have them fitted out with passenger space, GPS, comms units etc.”

“What colours have you got?” Bea asks.

“Any colour you like as long as it’s black.” Merlin bumps fists with John.

“Oh, and can we have one of the Section 7 surveillance kits?” Maya asks.

“You’ll have to sign for it,” Merlin says, scratching his head. “Those kits are mainly for Section 7. We don’t normally give them to Hunter teams because you lot are so hard on kit and C says you’re forever forgetting to clean up after yourselves, so then we have to send in another team to retrieve the equipment.”

“That’s all right,” Thomson says, pressing their thumb to the PDA.

She tries calling Alistair, to see if the Sect has any information that can help, but the call doesn’t go through.

“We have some serious EM shielding around this place,” Merlin says. “Far too much sensitive equipment not to. Wait until you’re a couple of miles out and maybe you’ll get some reception, although it’s always a bit patchy in the mountains.”

Later, out on the road, John is driving while Bea fiddles with the sound system, Maya looks at the file and Thomson tries to find out some more about the mysterious Cult by texting their NetFriend, Titan.

Mock up of a text chat

“Bert’s going by Simon Templar on this assignment,” Maya tells the others.

Bea snorts.

“So, where do we go first?” John asks.

“How about we go look where Bert was last seen?” Bea suggests.

“Well, that was just his satellite tracker, so we don’t know if he was seen there, and it’s just a cave. So maybe start at the compound,” Maya says. She tries again to get hold of Alistair, but this time it just rings out. “He never picks up when I want him to.”

The “compound” turns out to be a vast estate butting up against the mountains, entirely surrounded by a wall at least 2m tall. Even from the road, it’s clear the cult has a working farm, along with vineyards, an orchard, vegetable fields, and a couple of acres of fresh green wheat ruffling in the wind.

The team leaves the truck parked up on the road with most of their equipment safely locked inside, and wander up the long, unmetalled drive to the chateau. They see various people going about their business, all dressed in loose white clothing. All keep their faces turned away and refuse even to look at the team.

The house as been refurbished as what looks like a boutique hotel. They walk into reception and Bea dings the bell on the reception desk. A young woman comes out from the office at the back, also dressed in white, a picture of health and vitality, with clear, soft skin; long, honey-blonde hair; and sparkling blue eyes. She smiles with plump, glossy lips.

“Time to send in John to charm her,” Bea whispers.

John sighs.

“Bonjour Mesdames, Messieurs. Comment allez-vous? Je m’appelle Luna. Comment puis-je aider?”

“Oh! Hello! We were just in the area and we heard so many good things about the place, we thought we would stop in and see for ourselves,” Thomson says.

“Goodness. It is so rare for people in the area to recommend visitors here,” Luna says in flawless English. “Here is our brochure.” She hands over a very glossy, thick book with a soft focus photograph of white candles and a pile of soft, white towels on the front. “Would you like one each? We have more.”

“Yes please,” Bea says brightly.

Luna hands out three more brochures and indicates a small seating area where there is some bottled water and what look to be seaweed crackers.

“Perhaps you would care to take a seat while you see what we have to offer.”

The brochure lists various treatments, from hot rock massage to aromatherapy and various more personal treatments that has Maya dropping her brochure in disgust while John turns it around to various angles in an effort to work out what is supposed to be happening.

“Do you do Reiki?” Maya asks.

“Oh no,” Luna says, her delightful forehead creasing in an adorably worried frown. ” Our Spiritual Leader disagrees with Reiki, as it involves an act of permanent disfigurement of the energetic body. We have our own school of touch and energy-based healing that is more effective and does not require the practitioner to submit to permanent scarring of their soul casing.”

The team tries very hard to remain straight-faced.

“This all looks delightful,” Bea says. “Do you have any vacancies?”

“I am afraid this isn’t a resort. This is a retreat. We are not open for drop-in services.”

“Then perhaps you could give us a tour?” Maya asks.

“Yes. Of course.”

Luna takes them on a short walk around the farm, from where they can see the people working in the fields and the vineyard. The team quizzes Luna about what sort of things happen there, and discover that the estate acts as a haven for the Sons and Daughters of the Eel. The Great Eel will one day arise and unite the world in peace and one-consciousness, and everything the cult (not that they call themselves a cult) is doing is to further that mission. People come to stay for a minimum of one month, so they can “work to release their burdens” over a full lunar cycle. Anything less and they wouldn’t feel the benefit. Some people stay longer, perhaps for years or even permanently. Occasionally they may start to run out of space, and then the residents will be offered the opportunity to experience one of the other facilities. They have retreats all over the world, including American Canada, Japan, and Russia. As far as Luna can say, this is the only one in France.

“We came because one of our friends said he was going to be here.” Bea says. “Simon Templar.”

“I can’t say I recognise the name,” Luna replies. “But then many of our guests leave their ‘real world’ names behind when they come here, as those labels anchor them to their worldly burdens and can be obstacles to achieving oneness.”

“Can we check the register?”

“We do not have a register. This is not a hotel.”

“Have you seen him? Tallish, wavy brown hair. English. Looks like Colin Firth.”

“We have many guests from England,” Luna says politely, although her tone is cooling.

“Maybe we could show you a photo.”

Thomson pulls out their phone and finds a photo of Bert, then holds it out to show Luna. Luna takes a couple of steps back, her tiny button nose wrinkled in disgust.

“We do NOT permit such devices here. They pollute the energetic body and distract our higher selves from attaining one-consciousness states. None of our guests would bring such a thing here.”

“That might be why he’s not answering his phone,” John mutters.

“It’s not going to bite you!” Bea says impatiently. “Just look at the picture and tell us if you have seen him.”

“Look,” Thomson tells her. “I’ve put it in airplane mode.”

Luna glances at the image. “Well, I suppose that could be one of our guests. He is known among us as Quartz.”

“It’s just, he said he’d be here and we thought we might meet up,” Thomson says.

“Oh, I doubt that would happen,” Luna replies, shaking her head. “Our guests would not wish to expose themselves to external influences, such as that.” She indicates Thomson’s phone with revulsion.

“Well have you seen him lately?” Bea asks.

“Not for a few days.” Luna is working to remain polite, but they can see she is uncomfortable and becoming annoyed.

“Where could he be?”

“It is possible he has gone on a meditation retreat. There are several men’s primal power groups among us at the moment. They seek to cast off societal restrictions and retune their one-consciousness with their true selves.”

“Could we visit one?” Bea asks. “I mean, can we walk over and have a look.”

“No! They are spread out across the estate. They form fortuitously and organically and are not planned. They can last a few hours or many days.”

“And anyone can just form one of these groups, can they?”

“Long-term residents are free to form groups as they wish. New arrivals and recent inductees would have to be part of a group led by one of our more experienced brothers. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“We’d like to stay,” Bea says. “It seems wonderful here.”

“Yes!” Maya chimes in. “Delightful.”

“Well I am sorry, but this is a retreat. It is not possible for guests to arrive spontaneously, especially if they are not members of our movement. There is an induction process to go through.”

“Can we arrange that?” Bea asks.

“I can speak with our Spiritual Leader and tell her that you would like to join us.”

“That would be marvellous. Is there somewhere nearby we can stay?”

“Yes, there is a small hotel we recommend to our guests. We normally expect them to arrive the day before coming to the retreat. If you will accompany me back to our Centre, I will give you the address.”

Back at the house, Luna prints the hotel address on a small piece of blank paper, using a pencil, and hands it over.

“Thanks very much. We’ll just wait for you to get in touch then,” Bea says.

“Can I take a name, so our Leader knows who to ask for?”

“Oh! Yes of course,” Thomson replies. “Ashley. Ashley Smith.”

“Our Leader will be in touch.”

The team say goodbye and turn to head back to the car. John stumbles over his own feet and, as he does so, catches a glimpse of something shiny inside a bush by the side of the track. He allows himself to fall and snatches the object from the bush as he does, palming it and shoving it in his pocket.

The team heads back to the car.

John has found a small camera, which Thomson identifies as the kind people put on wildlife traps. It has on-board memory in the form of an SD card. Whoever planted it was expecting to come back. It matches the camera in the Section 7 surveillance kit, so it’s likely that Bert put it in the bush. They extract the SD card and load it into Bea’s Tuffbook.

It’s full of photos. All of them are taken at night. They start at around dusk and the time stamps are at all hours between then and dawn. Every photo shows one or more of the commune residents, each of them in long, white clothes. Scanning quickly through them, they find one that might be Bert. It’s hard to tell, though, because he is flanked by two tall men. All three are wearing the same flowing white clothes. It was taken three days ago. After he went dark.

“This place is too big to survey on foot,” Maya says.

“Could we bring the car in?” Bea asks.

“Bit obvious, don’t you think?” John replies.

“Time to test out the rat cam,” Maya says.

They drive the car a short distance away and Thomson checks over the gear.

“It’s got a wireless transmitter, but the battery pack is tiny. Not much power,” they say. “We could transmit realtime to Bea’s Tuffbook, but we’d only have a range of about a mile, which is useless. Better to use the microSD card, and then Maya can go as far as she needs to. I’m sure we can entertain ourselves.”

Maya transforms into a gull and John helps her get into the camera harness.

Soaring over the compound, Maya sees 1 a number of smoke columns swirling up into the purple sky 2. Swooping closer, she is startled by a burly, sweaty, naked man emerging from a tipi-like tent, taking a rock from a nearby fire, and going back inside. Steam puffs from the opening at the top of the tent. The same thing happens when she flies close to the source of the next smoke column, and she decides she’s seen enough naked men for one day.

At the back of the estate, where it begins to encroach on the mountains, she spies a cave entrance, low and squat in the sheer rock. She lands to have a look inside, but the light fades rapidly and gull vision is optimised for diurnal acuity.

On her way back to the truck, Maya sees ranks of people on a grassy field performing exercises that look a little like Chi Gung or Tai Chi, but not like any form of either she has ever seen. They are all dressed in white and moving with eerie synchronicity — so precise and accurate in the matching of their movements that it looks less like a field of different people and than a camera effect created by filming one person and copying them over and over and over.

She heads back to the car.

John helps her out of her harness and she changes back to human while the others examine the film she recorded, then they drive in search of the hotel.

After a quick stop for a bite to eat and some coffee, they find the hotel. It’s a little ramshackle, the sign over the door somewhat off-kilter. It reads Hôtel de la Manche. Manche is the name of the town, possibly because it comprises two streets either side of a river.

The team head inside. Standing at reception is a dapper man with a moustache. He gives off a faintly creepy vibe. This is George Figgs, the hotel owner.

“Bonjour,” he says, in a notably English accent.

“Hello!” Bea says. “We were just at the sanctuary up the road and they suggested we stay here while we wait for an induction.”

“Of course,” he says, in a received pronunciation accent he clearly has to work to achieve. “Are you all together?”

“Yes.” Maya says.

“And will that be separate rooms or…?”

“Depends on how far our budget stretches!” Maya laughs. “I think we would probably get into trouble for anything more extravagant than twin rooms.”

“Very good.” He scans through his book and lifts some keys from hooks behind him. “Adjoining rooms.”

“Thank you,” Maya says. “Say, you haven’t seen our friend Simon Templar, have you? He came to the commune a couple of weeks or so ago, and we were supposed to meet him but haven’t heard from him.”

“No, I can’t say I recall the name,” the man says.

Thomson leans forward and whispers in Maya’s ear. “He’s lying!” Thomson can always tell.

“Are you sure? Show him the photo, Thomson.”

Thomson shows George the photo of the missing agent. George leans over the counter and studies it carefully.

“No,” he says at last, “I can’t say I recognise him.”

“That’s very odd, because the girl at the sanctuary said people stay here the night before going there.”

George merely shrugs. “As I told you: I can’t say I’ve seen him.”

He looks shifty, his eyes darting sideways to glance at a painting on the wall. It’s an old oil painting, nothing special, depicting a mounted man driving a spear into a massive wild boar.

Thomson leans over and whispers in Maya’s ear. “He’s still lying, but sort of not. He literally means he can’t say.”

“All right. Thanks anyway,” Maya says.

“A name, please?” George inquires.

“Ashley Smith,” Thomson tells him.

“Very good. And now for payment. Cash or card?”

“Card,” Maya replies, pulling out the Covenant Amex. It’s fully transparent, with a holographic shimmer. George can’t quite hide the widening of his eyes when he sees it. Payment complete, Maya says, “John, shall we fetch the bags?”

While Maya and John head back to the car to collect their things, Bea and Thomson stroll over to the painting to take a look at it. It is, as noted before, nothing special. There is an uplighter at the bottom and a downlighter at the top, to show it better, but it’s not really a good enough painting to be worthy of the attention.

As they try to work out what the deal is with the painting, a woman steps up behind them. She places one hand on each of their shoulders and, somehow, this doesn’t seem rude or threatening or undesirable. Instead, a gentle warmth emanates from her, welcoming and soothing.

“Hello,” she purrs. “I understand you wish to join us at our Sanctuary. Welcome both. Come with me, please.”

And she leads them away into the depths of the hotel.

 

 

  1. See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNlC6812KNM  for a really interesting demonstration of the width of a seagull’s field of view.
  2. Gulls have an additional cone in their retinas that allow them to perceive a wider range of colours than humans. See http://www.spwickstrom.com/gullfaq/ (which also specifies the maximum carrying weight of a seagull as 1kg, while rat cam weighs in the region of 200g, in case that should be important).

 

 

Unit 13 success

Posted on by Athena

“Where’s a Karen when you really need one?”

— Thomson

 

Success in Scotland

A SUBHEADING

Congratulations to Unit 13 for their first successful intervention in a matter of community safety. Our newest team took action in north east Scotland, bringing an end to the reign of terror conducted by one of the remaining Master Vampires, as well as detangling a possessing spirit from its host. Not to mention clearing up a minor matter regarding industrial sabotage.

Our Geneva labs have some interesting new material to examine, and I await their report with eager anticipation. The more we know about this thankfully rare species the better able we will be to engage with specimens causing harm.

Any partner organisations wishing updates on our findings or a more details report into our actions in this area should contact their Covenant contact using the normal methods.