Lazarus 6 - TWELVE: The Eye of Akroid

The trip back to the safe house was uneventful, which was almost unusual in itself. When I was working a case, nothing was uneventful. Shit, it seemed like I usually couldn’t get a cup of coffee in the morning without a demon attacking me, or some ancient godling materializing in the friggin’ fridge while I was going for the creamer. It was always something, which sucked a bagful of assess, but it turned out shit not happening was almost worst in its own way. Yeah, getting sucker punched in the teeth at every turned blew, but it also meant you were going somewhere. Making enough progress that the asshole baddies felt a moral imperative to try and stop you.

But this? This felt like we were just spinning our wheels. The fact that we were running around, kicking ever ant hill we could think of without getting a reaction, meant we were off base.

And that feeling, the encroaching sense of hopelessness, was its own special kind of pain. Especially since we all knew what the stakes were.

Worse, we weren’t the only ones hitting dead end after dead end. Darlene had been up most of the night and morning, trying to find other leads for us to chase down—only to be met with failure. Sullivan and Levi had put out feelers to their contacts in the mystic pipeline, the Arch-Mage had touch-based with every deep ops S-2 assets left in the field while Greg had done the same with the remaining Venántium cells. Not even Sir Gal—who was good at everything and connected to the actual Fates, was getting traction. I mean, sure, we were getting chatter, just nothing useful.

It seemed the New Wave was aware of our movements and my return, since they were going into serious lockdown mode. The sons of bitches were crossing their T’s and dotting their I’s to make sure we weren’t going to bust into their shindig, guns a blazing. According to a few of the Arch-Mage’s sources, the shitheads had even reached out to the Army of Five. Strigoi. Or vampires, for those not caught up on Romanian folklore. Now, Vampires were one of the original OG monsters to haunt the imaginations of humans, and for good reason. They are power-houses—one of the few supernatural creatures that can sling some serious hoodoo of their own.

And they were harder to kill than cockroaches. Garlic, sunlight, crosses. None of that shit worked.

Hell, rumor was they had started those rumors themselves as a way to lure their victims into a false sense of security. Truth was, if you pulled out garlic and holy water, they’d laugh right in your face before slitting your throat and eating you like a friggin’ luau pig. At least for the Strigoi Overlords that was the case. Who knows, maybe on lesser Strigoi some of those cheap parlor tricks actually worked, but no one had seen a lesser Strigoi in a century or more. The Guild had waged a hundred-year war against them in Europe, until they were actual myths.

Getting rid of the Strigoi Overlords was another beast entirely—though, thankfully they were rare.

Thing was, they were Magi, once upon a time.

Just like me or Sullivan or even Darlene. Magi infected with a parasitic host from the depths of Outworld, something so old and ancient its origins were lost even to the Guild. And those parasites were smart bastards who shared a relationship with their hosts, not so different from the relationship Bokors­—dark, voodoo sorcerers like Pa Beauvoir—shared with the Loa who fueled their magics. And not so different from the relationship I shared with Azazel.

They latched onto the host mage’s soul, transforming them into something both more and less than human, then sustaining themselves off the Vim, the life essence, of humanity.

They were a blight. A plague. The living embodiment of leprosy, cosigned to the shadowy fringes. But like a lot of ancient plagues, they’d been mostly eradicated.

Doing business with them was taboo, even among other supernatural communities. Not even a shitstain like Beauvoir would’ve trucked with their ilk. The fact that the Morrigan had reached out to the Army of Five, and had done so openly, showed exactly how few shits she gave about the opinion of everyone.

All of that was interesting in a morbid sort of way, but it didn’t give us anything new. Anything we could act on.

So, I did the only thing I could when the chips are completely down…

No, not commune with demons. I’m talking about good ol’ day drinking.

I sat in the war room, staring at the damned business card Smith had given me, idly turning it over and over in my fingers, while sipping on a lowball glass of bourbon.

Everyone sat around the war room, the Arch-Mage at her desk, reading reports, Darlene clacking away at her computer, Ferraro and Greg both busy on their phones. Winona and Chris were sharing a basket full of crispy onion rings—the Sasquatch, had really developed a thing for onion rings during my time in hell. Sullivan paced and Levi brooded. The great gray shitkicker was a pro at brooding. The only ones who seemed to be enjoying themselves were Sir Gal and our recently rescued Scion, Candace. She was staring dreamily at the knight, chattering away, while Gal nodded politely and countered with quippy jokes.

I tuned them all out focusing on the card, flipping it over and over in my fingers like a street magician practicing a flourish. It was mesmerizing, relaxing.

Flip…

I absently scanned the name and the logo, letting my mind wander and drift without any particular direction.

Flip…

Maybe it was finally time to dip into my subconscious mind. Cassius Aquinas, Undine of Glimmer-Tir—who also happened to own a little time-share in my soul—was always great for stuff like this. But our relationship wasn’t exactly on solid ground at the moment. Probably because I locked him up with two demons, and he’d born the brunt of the responsibility of containing them. The last time I’d seen the water spirt, he’d slapped the shit out of me on principal, and I couldn’t say I blamed the guy. I’d dealt him a raw hand, and he’d never had a say in the matter.

Flip...

But even if he wasn’t game for helping me, there was always Azazel to consider. I didn’t want to talk to him, of course, but we were sort of running out of options and if we didn’t figure out something pretty damned quick, the world was liable to end. Well, maybe end was a bit melodramatic. The world wouldn’t really end, though life as we knew it was definitely on the way out the door.

Flip…

I turned the card again, but this time faltered.

Something was niggling in the back of my mind. The glimmer of a thought floated up. There was something about that logo. An upside-down black triangle, with an off center red dot and a pair black curved horns swooping up. I’d felt a sense of Déjà vu the first time I’d seen this symbol at the Wayland and Smith office building. I’d pushed the thought away then, dismissing it as unimportant, but I had that same feeling again. I ran my thumb over the symbol, feeling the ridges of the embossed ink, the grooves and raises.

Where the hell do I know this from?

With a start, I dropped my glass. It landed on the floor with a dull thud and the tinkleof ice.

“You okay?” Sullivan asked me from his own padded club chair across the room. He sounded about as morose as I felt.

“Yeah. Better than okay. Levi,” I said to the MudMan, ushering him over. With his almost encyclopedic memory of kabalistic runes and symbols, I knew he would be able to confirm my suspicion.

The dumpy man in his flannel and mustard brown Carhartt grunted a noncommittal response and trudged over, his hands in his pockets. Everyone had stopped what they were doing. Staring at me. Hopeful expressions flickering across their faces.

“Look at this.” I thrust the card toward him. “The logo. Does that look familiar to you?”

He accepted the card, pinching it just so, and craned in, eyes squinted as he studied the markings. “I suppose it looks familiar. But its not any ward of sigil I know off the top of my head. Definitely not Kabbalistic, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s not it. It is a logo. But I’ve seen it before—or at least a version of it. Over in the Hub. Think. Mechanical augmentation. Supernatural surgeons. Technomancers.”

The color drained from his face and he looked up, shocked.

“The Cult of Akroid. You’re right.” He tapped a pudgy pale finger against the logo. “That’s it. This version is sleeker, more streamlined, but the symbols are the same. So are the placements.”

“Are you sure?” Sullivan said, straightening in his chair.

“See for yourself.” I flicked the card and drifted it to him on a conjured gust of air.

He snagged it and flipped it over, shaking his head. “It was right in front of our faces,” he said, sounding disgusted with himself. “They were baiting us. Practically advertising their presence and we almost missed it.”

“Care to fill the rest of us in?” Chris said. “Cult of Akroid doesn’t really ring any bells for me.”

“Me either,” Winona said, shaking her head. Black locks swaying.

That wasn’t totally surprising. The People of the Forest were all about knowing their place in the world and seeking unity with self and nature. The Cult of Akroid couldn’t be further from that.

“Care to give us a run down, Darlene?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “The Cult is fairly widespread throughout the Hub. They have three different operations facilities and a corporate headquarters that they operate out of in Gylfiholt Heights.”

“Gylfiholt Heights… That’s predominately old Elven territory, right?” Sullivan asked. “Dökkálfar and the Ljósálfar.”

“Dontcha know it,” Darlene said. “They’re primarily technomancers who specialize in high-tech body upgrades, mechanical retrofits, and—

“They are heretics, is what they are,” Arch-Mage Borgstorm barked, slamming a fist against her desk. “They specialize in the obscene unities that lay at the intersection of technology, flesh, and magic. They’ve been on our radar for years. Pushing the boundaries at every occasion. Technically, what they do is not outlawed, but that was primarily because their technologies and innovations evolve faster than we can pass laws. That, and Black Jack Engelbrecht. He was always rather indulgent and lenient toward their cause. Likely because the Cult helped him after he lost most of one leg in a raid against Libya back in the 90s. There was an uprising of Blemmyes that turned rather nasty.”

I whistled softly.

Sullivan winced. “Austria, ’93,” he said.

As though I would ever forget that shit show. Iron Stan and Black Jack had tackled Libya, but around the same time, the Guild had dispatched me and Sullivan to a town in Austria that had a Blemmy problem of its own. Blemmys were a type of Anthropophage. Nasty, headless creatures with faces improbably located on their torsos. They were fast as hell, stronger than a grizzly, smart as any human I’d ever met, and also had a penchant for cannibalism.

“Hold on just a skoosh,” Darlene said, leaning forward. “I have administrative access to the Guild servers, and I’m pretty sure we still have a video we show to the newer judges…” Her fingers flew furiously across the keyboard, click-clacking like mad. “Ah, yeppers. Here it is. Just going to cast it up on the TV.”

There was a 42” plasma hanging against one of the walls and it blinked to life a second later. A grainy, black and white man appeared on the screen. He had a chiseled jaw, slick backed hair, and a sharp suit that screamed 1950s Cold War era propaganda video. Cheesy record music started playing and the words Technomancy and You flashed across the screen in bold gray letters.

“Hi there, my name is Dick Rangel, Public Relations Manager for the Guild of the Staff, and if you’re watching this, it likely means that you’ve run afoul of the Technomancers of the Cult of Akroid. Chaotic and cryptic in nature, the Initiates of the Cult have been classified in the moderate threat level category, due to their large number of body modifications.” Dick Rangel paused, fished a cigarette from his pocket and lit up on screen—something that would never fly into today’s world. “With that said, you need to keep your head on a swivel with this lot, since many of their members may have access to higher magics and powerful constructed artifacts.”

He stepped aside and images started flashing across the screen—pictures of Halfies augment with pipes and wires. Retrofitted with buzzsaws, iron plates, brass rivets, and spidery metallic legs. Just like Harold the Mange, my occasional Hub-side information broker. There were pictures of operation gurneys and tables full of tools—pliers and saws, clamps and battery wires. It was uniformly horrifying.

“The Cult has deep historical roots that trace all back at least as far as the Crusades,” Dick Rangel said. “They were among the first to forge and create prosthetic limbs for war survivors and were on the forefront of armor innovation through the ages. Legends says the founder of the Cult, known as the Grand Techno-Architect, is still alive today. Pushing technology forward at, what some would say, an alarming rate. No one is sure who the Grand Techno-Architect, but he or she is universally revered by those within the Cult itself. The stated goal of the Cult of Akroid is the perfect union of man and machine—integrating thaumaturgy, technology, and biology until only singularity remains.”

Dick tipped his fedora and blew out a cloud of gray smoke. “Stay safe out there Judges and remember, you are the dividing line. The shepherds standing guard over the sheep.” The music blared and the screen flickered and faded.

I couldn’t help but snort.

“I’m sorry, this is what you still show Judges,” Ferraro choked out right behind me.

“Perhaps it is a little antiquated,” the Arch-Mage replied with a sniff, “but the information is still valid. The important part is the Cult is full of dangerous fanatics. I’ve always advocated for sanctions against them and their hideous technology,” Borgstorm said in a tight voice. “It’s unnatural what they do. But aside from the legal challenges, there were also a few other political complications.”

I frowned. Political complications. That sounded like code word for dubious, unethical tit-for-tat bullshit. The very same kind of bullshit that had driven me away from the Guild after everything went south with Alia and the Morrigan. The Arch-Mage had sided with the Tuatha De Danann instead of getting my back, because of political complications.

“Care to elaborate,” I damn-near growled.

She pursed her lips, thick lines at the corner of her mouth lengthening. “It’s classified.”

“Oh give over,” Sullivan said, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re going to try to conceal this now? Under these circumstances?” He rolled his eyes. “What she doesn’t want to tell you is that we know who calls the shots over at the Cult of Akroid. The Elder Council has known who the Grand Techno-Architect since the 1500s. If you dig deep enough, you’ll find rumors that say he is a one of the Dökkálfar Nobles. But that’s only a shadow of the truth. The fact is, he’s far more than just some noble. The Grand Techno-Architect is none other than Wayland the Smith, King of the Dark Elves.”

My stomach dropped and my hand shot toward the butt of his pistol.

“Yes,” Sullivan said with a nod. “That Wayland the Smith.”

“And you assholes wonder why I have trust issues with the Guild,” I said. I poured myself three fingers of bourbon from the liquor bar and slammed it. “This is why I left. This exact reason. Because of all the hypocritical garbage the Guild pulls.”

“Maybe it’s just because I’m the new guy here,” Chris said from across the room, “but I feel like that should me something to us.”

“Not just you Ferraro,” replied shaking her head. “I’ve never heard of this Wayland the Smith guy either, although it doesn’t take a world-class detective to figure out that he runs and own the firm working with the Morrigan.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Levi grunted. “He’s not immortal, but he might as well be. Goes back a long way—certainly before the Crusades. Though back then, he was Wayland the Weaponsmith. Sometimes Wayland the Forge Master. Ran the World Forge deep beneath the earth, making some of the most potent weapons in history.”

“Still does,” I shot back, fishing out my immortal-slaying pistol and slamming it down on the liquor cabinet, glasses rattling from the impact. “He made this. And not just this. The Guild has employed Wayland for centuries. He’s responsible for at least half of the arsenal that the Judges have access to.”

There was an audible gasp around the room.

“Yeah,” I said in response. “And here I find out he’s moonlighting as a Cult leader. You assholes knew it and still did business with him. It’s pragmatic, and I get that. Hell, I can’t cast stones since I teamed up with a demon to save the world, but I also never pretended I was anything other than I am. Your overwhelming hypocrisy never ceases to amaze me.” I ran a hand through my shaggy hair. “Maybe it’s a good thing the Guild is broken. Sometimes, it seems like we were worse than the monsters we were trying to stop.”

“I will concede it was a questionable arrangement,” Borgstorm said after a beat. That was an actual shock. She didn’t ever concede or apologize about anything. In her mind, she was a paragon of virtue and a pillar of moral truth and certainty. “But now is not the time or the place to discuss this topic.”

“She’s right, Yancy,” Greg said. “Leaving aside the ethics of it, we still have a mission to accomplish. The mission comes first, you know that.”

I sighed, deflating a little. Fact was, I did know that. The mission was always the priority. If the Marine Corps had taught me anything, it was that.

“Fine,” I said begrudgingly, “you’re right. Now isn’t the time or place.” I stared daggers at the Arch-Mage and Sullivan in turns—he’d known about Wayland, too, I had to remind myself. “But this conversation isn’t over. We need to stop whatever the Morrigan has planning, but then we’re going to talk about the Guild.” I set my glass down and picked my pistol back up, sliding it home into its holster with the rasp of metal on leather. “For now, I think its high time we pay Wayland and the Cult a little visit. See if we can’t get to the bottom of this thing.”

“Doesn’t sound like he’s gonna talk willing,” Greg said, rubbing thoughtfully at his jaw.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t count on it. And forcing him to talk isn’t going to be easy. Its time to suit up.” I turned my gaze of the Arch-Mage. “We’re gonna need weapons, powerful ones. So if you have anything stashed away around this joint, now’s the time to trot them out…”

The Arch-Mage went rigid, her jaw clenching. “Very well,” she finally said. “I’ll give you access to my private armory.” She stood with a swish of robes. “Follow me.”