Eighteen
1 August, 2000, Kalamariá, Greece
The lute played lazily a few blocks away. Whistler’s drink sweated in the sunlight. Logan was sitting comfortably under the awning of the little café, looking intently at his cards. His own drink was long empty.
“Gin,” he said the demon, laying his hand down on the table, between the plates and crumpled serviettes.
Logan eyed the winning hand with scrutiny, finally throwing his own cards down with a sigh. “What could possibly possess me to play cards with someone who can see what’s destined to be?”
“You’re inspired by our lively conversations?” Whistler suggested, taking a sip of his drink. “Besides, anybody could read you like the headlines on election day.” He raised a finger and wagged it cautioning. “You got to work on that.”
Logan paused for a small moment, then warily began shuffling the cards again. “Whistler,” he began, his face troubled, “why are you here?”
Whistler cocked his head. “Why, do you want me to go?”
Logan brushed it off. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I mean why are we here?”
Whistler frowned a little, then took a deep breath. “Well... In the beginning, there was nothing—”
“No, no, no,” Logan dismissed this as well, giving a small laugh. “I mean why are we here,” he paused, “now? What’s going to happen?”
Whistler blinked. “Well, you were going scuba diving with– what’s her name? Stephanie? And I was just passing through—”
“That’s it,” Logan aimed a finger at the demon across the table, “why were you ‘passing through?’ I didn’t think anything of it this morning, but I haven’t seen you in a few weeks and you never show up without a reason.”
“I enjoy our thrilling conversations,” Whistler suggested. He absently took another sip of his drink, trying to draw the topic from his sudden arrival. “They have hepatitis shots here?”
“But–” Logan was interrupted by the waiter who approached with a small platter. On it was stationary from the hotel he was staying at. There were two words scribbled on it in the handwriting of the clerk who had taken the call at the front desk.
Logan’s eyes narrowed as the meaning of the words sunk in. Το κτήνος He thanked the waiter and stood, letting the deck of cards fall to the table. Whistler took a sip of his colorful drink.
3 August, 2000, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
Haargan stiffened. “I want it,” she said simply. “You’ve got it and I want it and I’ve got to have it.” The monk made no move, fixing his eyes stoically on the far wall of the lamasery. She stomped her foot in annoyance. “Give it to me,” she ordered, somewhat like a child. “Give it to me right this very instant!”
He steeled himself for whatever torture she had in mind. All around him, monks and prelates lay dead and dying. Some crawled about the floor uttering nonsense and whimpering incoherently. Among those who had not the resolve to flee, Haargan was the only one left standing.
“Tell me where it is!” She begged, stomping her foot again. The foundations trembled. Dust trickled from the ceiling. The ancient clay pot had been smashed, its fragments laying in pieces on the floor, the once sacred water now a puddle on the floor of this circular stone room. The flame of the lamp was burning high. They had come here as a last refuge from the siege of the Beast when it had discovered the lamasery. It would not be long before it went abroad. The sphere had already been sent away to the Czech Republic, sent where it was most needed. Now there was nothing standing between the aged master and the hellgod.
Gloficus turned, exasperated and allowed her minions to approach. Haargan made no sound as their small blades stuck into him. His jaw clenched as he was pierced over and over, his sides, his arms, his face.
“Enough,” the Beast raised a hand. “Tell me now,” she said with no humor or patience left. “Tell me now or you’ll end up like these,” she indicated the crawling monks, scratching the floor with their fingernails as if they were digging it up.
Haargan raised his chin defiantly. “I spit upon your countenance.”
Glory whirled, seizing his throat and shoulder. With a vicious twist she tore his head from his body, letting the blood pour over her hands. His eyes looked down at her with a shocked expression, frozen now in death. His body fell to the puddle on the floor while she held his head curiously in the lamplight.
“Alas, poor holy-man,” she said, waiting for the complimentary laughter from her minions. When none came she sighed and placed the head on the stone pedestal. “Come on, puss-bags,” she ordered, stepping over the decapitated body, “we’ve got monks to find and I need a manicure.”
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