FICTION   |   By Hermes La Cache 

Introduction

Somewhere

“My name is Marchosias and I am a Marquis. I ascended to title many years ago. My language is quite different to the one I chose today but in the interest of comprehension I feel English as good as any.

“My old home was very beautiful. Harmonisation and balance were there before us, evident within us and around us; like a cosmic ballet through a perfect symphony. It was the absolute synergy of perfection. I recall it as if it was yesterday. My old home knew no pain, no anger and no hurt. It was a living pulse, a breath felt by all those who resided there. We were found not for ever wanting.

“I intend to return one day to that perpetual bliss. 

“Like many families I have come to know, torn apart by feuding, we have grown apart. Fear, pride, love, lusting, and many more emotions for which I have little time to describe, have played unrelenting parts. Like a Greek Tragedy, our differences have been acted out in precession to the dancing audience. 

“When it began we numbered 200. 

“Your books contain only vague references to us. We were given commission to watch over your kind, to assist in your development, that of your distant past ancestors. We were to aid in your attempts to evolve to that which Tetragrammaton had foreseen you could be.  The eldest of my brothers and sisters had watched you from when you first emerged. They provided light for your kind during the day and at night they impelled you to dream and aspire. They cultivated your intelligence and free will.  

“Then, a force, unbeknown before, exploded in utter intrigue and envy within us. It enveloped the space time around us. From afar, my brother Samyaza was first to exclaim, the sheer beauty of many of your first daughters and wives. These were the root race of your planet. This admission was concurred by many more of us. From this evolved incessant longing. We began to admire. Over time the admiration became preoccupation, then infatuation, and further culminated in a lusting we had never known previously possible. The precise moment is of little consequence but it was decided that, on occasion, we would venture to your home to enjoy for ourselves that gift which was bestowed upon you but was illicit to us. 

“As time meandered we became consumed by our desires. Many of the 200 chose to remain on Earth, to experience daily their predilection toward these, most carnal of foreign thoughts. 

“The Nephalim of your literature were born. 

“Some of my siblings taught their offspring many of the arts. These bastard sons and daughters became the “Greats of Old”; the giants of ancient civilisation. 

“Other knowledge progressed to the lineage which was dark and forbidden. Cosmetics, warfare, enchantment, fortune telling; such teachings assisted only in corrupting the off-spring to commit terrible crimes.

“Some were inclined to subjugate and others attempted to conquer nature itself. 

“Mother Earth, raped of her innocence, cried to the Architect for help. 

“We were ignorant to the cries, for that I stand guilty. Guilty for the pain inflicted upon the Earth and her habitats. The cries were heard elsewhere.

“Hence force, there was a great flood; a deluge to wipe out all “wickedness.” A worldly Etch-a-Sketch your 21st century children may deem an analogy. 

“As your Bible, Torah and Koran describes; as the Celts, the Hindus, the Mayans, the Norse, the Sumerians, indeed most other tribes upon the Earth have testified, a deluge of scared element poured from the heavens to purify the evil germination infecting innocence. Most of the sons and daughters of women and the heavenly host perished. 

Many of my siblings perished also, drowned like their ancient cities which lie in hiding, below the waves, out of sight.

“A holy man was spared. An ark was constructed. 

“Not a wooden ark as your romantics have dreamed and proponents use as bed time stories to enchant and even frighten children; but an ark, inseminated into the womb of Mother Earth. 

“Your alchemists have through-out the years, made an aphorism to deaf ears and blind eyes, “Explore the interior of the Earth.”  It is surprising that you continue to remain ignorant to this truth. 

“A holy man, grandson of the great scribe Metatron, led a tribe into the bowels of the Earth to escape the deluge. He was the leader of the last race to make such a journey in your Earth’s history; seven tribes, unbeknown to the previous, or the subsequent, stretching your millennia. The world beneath your feet is older than you can imagine. 

“They remain there, to this day. They have developed there; neither harassed or tainted by the false philosophies and artificial beliefs spoonfed to you and which you have hungrily suckled upon. They dismiss your sun drenched ideological extremism, that which my siblings have so fervently and piously moulded. This race and her tribes, your ancestors, have broken free. They have attained the highest knowledge and excellence over all things animate and inanimate and they have mastered their own minds. 

“They have, above all, remained loyal to The Great Architect. 

“They remain there now, loyal, below your feet, awaiting the Final Judgement. 

These tribes possess many of the secrets of the universe – and in man, who hath free will!

“We continue to watch you, my siblings and I, some of us out of view, some in full. We have been ex-communicated, thrown down. 

“There is no way back, for some, but this predicament of imprisonment has done nothing to quell the desires of my siblings. Their influence is as great as it has ever been. 

“My brothers have been most pleasured with how the motion of your time has played out. They sought, and succeeded, in the material landscape they helped create. They have assisted you in the lie, your Lemming-like suicide, diminishing any memory you had of your true self. They are accomplished in leading your souls astray, again and again; in obstructing your true vision. 

“You are to perish and fail in your hollow bodies unless you, like your ancestors, who dwell in the depths of hollow rock, within the gases of green, ascend to your true self and rid yourselves of the material web which envelops you.

“I sense it. It is almost time for the last great cataclysm. 23 is the number which denotes when this end will transpire; visible for those of you with insight.

“I hope to go home. I also hope that those of you with whom I am now accustomed, are spared and are allowed to fulfil your true potential. I have never detested you.

“The lines are blurred for us both. 

“Who art the true sons and daughters; the true sons and daughters of God?”

Chapter 1

Kensington Palace Gardens, London

The silence on the Royal Borough’s Billionaire’s Row emigrated for a split second, vacant in a crack of noise. Cowering in a flash of pain, Warren Dent was dead.

New York

John Maclellan meticulously examined his morning coffee like a wine critique; intrigued but cautious about some foreign wine brought before his pallet. Perhaps alcohol would help, he mused, considering the ferocity of his migraine. 

As a journalist at the age of 38 he had been bestowed with every major award available in investigative journalism. Top of his class at Harvard, before being named as one of the first recipients of The Templeton, Cambridge, Journalism Fellowships in Science and Religion; his successful academic years muted his name with great anticipation for  future success. Corporate suitors from around the world had followed his progress and his accolades earned him various offers from many of the most recognisable newspapers and media. He was acclaimed as a new breed of journalist, unwilling to bow to commercial influence or political persuasion. He chose his home in New York however; the Tribune as his first professional calling. For five years he had a made a name for himself as having a meticulous, inquisitive and ruthless tongue and eye; his pen inflicting untold damage to the powerful and wealthy; those who thought they were above the law and morality. He relished exposing such men and women as frauds and cheats, and revelled in the ethical, bohemian-esque, public persona such high profile stories afforded him. His hard work and determination had also succeeded in earning him many influential enemies, and to some, be was deemed arrogant and self proclaiming. 

Jane H.Thompson, Editor in Chief of the Tribune, had been hesitant to let him leave. She was perhaps intuitive to the obvious personal hurt and trauma he had experienced in the month prior to his resignation, but there was also a feeling that she held a degree of romantic sentiment toward him. Ultimately, however, she realised his professional worth; her reader numbers would no doubt decline. John’s pieces had been extremely popular and he had an almost cult following from the city’s left of centre students and acedemics.

It had been 7 months since he had taken up the post of Chief Investigative Journalist with NewsGlobeInc Magazine after a lengthly personal break. The magazine was NewsGlobeInc’s award winning weekly. He had been convinced to return to work by its Editor, a man he actually detested. The salary, coupled with the fact that his behaviour prior to the job offer had been less than admirable, swayed him, begrudgingly, back into the game. Drinking and mourning was probably killing him. His time off to grieve had been painful. Many of his peers were surprised by his choice for career return, given the relative infancy of the news magazine and the deemed right wing slant of many of its opinions. NewsGlobeInc Magazine was the new flagship news and national opinion publication, from the NewsGlobeInc family; a collection of newspapers and media owned by the allusive billionaire, art philanthropist, political donor and producer of fine wines, Robert Pike - Ironically just the sort of person John had made his name exposing.

Upper East Side, New York City

John finished his coffee, gulping down his pain killers with ritualistic execution. He left his home on East Seventy Seventh Street late for a meeting with his Editor. He cursed the migraine which now took hold. He had never felt at home in this part of town where the dinner parties offered foods he had never heard of, nor could he confidently pronounce, and where etiquette was publicly scrutinized with hellish fervour. He remained, however, in this blue blooded world as he felt closer to his late wife; a neighbourhood and lifestyle akin to her upbringing and light years from his own. 

John nodded to the building doorman, almost mocking him. The doorman was used to the petulant speed of their encounters. 

John flagged a cab. He had one stop to make first before going to the office. 

Soho 

John smiled and breathed in deeply, reminiscing about the area where he had spent many weekends in his university days, drinking away his mid terms, smoking pot, and visiting the old bookstores that hid so well within the streets. 

There were a few he knew of, where, he hoped, would have a good collection of ancient occult; a subject that was now at the forefront of his most challenging investigation to date. 

He was re-inventing the word challenge for himself, and only now, after weeks of patient groundwork and mysterious communiqués with his source, his story was beginning to take shape and bare startling truths. His shadowy source was seemingly privy with knowledge of many of the country’s most powerful business and political leaders. In fact, it would seem, he knew them on a personal basis. Descriptions of these acquaintances were beginning to unearth some sinister facts, albeit slowly. The individuals in question were allegedly members of a secret fraternity. John was now beginning to believe his source: ‘that this group effectively controls all the wealth and power, not only in the U.S, but around the world.’ This fraternity, his source promised to show, actively participated in occult, satanic rituals. It was potentially the story of the century. 

John approached the small bookshop with optimistic caution.

“Mmm, what about this fine specimen coming?”

The thirty-something lady said grinning as she nodded toward the window of the shop. The other lady, slightly older, but more attractive, glanced toward the window from behind her desk. “Come on Susan, you haven’t been out on a date for months! You need to get back on the saddle!”

Susan smiled shyly, tracking the man entering her shop. He was tall, handsome and slim, but maybe a little scruffy, she mused. “Go on, I dare you to ask him out!” The other lady giggled as she moved away from the counter.

“Hi miss.” John said with a cheeky grin. “You look like exactly the kind of pretty expert who could help me?”

“Really?” Susan said playfully to the backdrop of her friend sniggering from down the aisle. “And what would that help entail?”

John initially thought the lady had succumbed to his slightly exaggerated boyish charm until he met her stern eyes. She peered at his wedding band. “A book, quite rare.”

John fumbled.

The lady looked up at him with further unimpressed distain. “What’s the book?”

John opened his notebook. The lady continued. “As the owner of this establishment I may know a thing or two about my own volumes?”

John struggled to find his note. The lady sighed patronizingly and began typing.

“Got it! The Lesser Key of Solomon? Some medieval book of daemons I believe?” 

The lady stopped typing and removed her glasses slowly. “Medieval indeed, well, the source information of the book anyway.”

The shop owner seemed more interested now. “You know they say King Solomon used the invocations in this Grimoire to conquer many of the daemons of the fallen angels?”

“Really?” John said scribbling.

“In some pre Christian versions anyway.” 

The shop owner shrugged and continued. “Legend has it he commanded some powerful daemons to assist him in building the first temple, you know?”

“I didn’t know.” John said rubbing his head.

“It is said he utilized them to accomplish many of the feats attributed to him. You know they say he had a flying carpet?”

“Aladdin type stuff?” John said with a chuckle.

The lady remained indifferent. “Apparently he made some of the daemons carry his carpet around, through the air, from city to city.”

“Great,” John said trying to remain friendly, “so you have the book?”

The lady began typing again.

“I was wondering if you could direct me to the section?”

“Down the back, on the left.”

The lady signalled without looking up. John turned to walk.

“Sir? One thing?”

John stopped, rolling his eyes. The lady moved out from behind the counter. “Yes?”

“The book you speak of, to some, is a lot of mumbo jumbo, Ouija board type stuff. Bookworms like me enjoy reading occult for innocent education and recreational learning. There are some, however, who take the words and indications from such books very literally. It is worth to note that many before you have read such books, attempted to perform and recreate the rituals and paid a heavy price. I am no expert but novices must be aware that such books must be studied with extreme caution. Many an academic, theologian, philosopher or married man,” the lady motioned to his wedding band, “have digested such books and have ended up in room 101 of the funny farm.”

John looked at the woman curiously trying to determine whether she was joking or not. Contempt overcame his expression and he opened his mouth to reply.

“Just a word of warning sir, that’s all. Now, down the back. There is a full occult section where you should find the book you are looking for as well as other, similar books.”

John made his way down the narrow aisle and began glancing through the dusty shelves.

Midtown

John’s phone vibrated furiously as he sat in a grubby cab, crawling down Broadway toward NewsGlobeInc. The Indian music playing loudly to the backdrop of the driver’s ill-timed humming was not distastefully woeful, but they were hindering his thoughts. 

“Mr. MacClellan?” The voice demanded. John broke from his mid morning haze. “Mr. MacClellan, have you heard?”

John sat up quickly, alert, as he fumbled his mobile to his better ear. “Yes. I mean no. I haven’t heard. Heard what? ” John knew he had to compose himself.

“Tut tut, Mr. MacClellan, and from such a distinguished reporter? Surely that is sacrilege?”

“Maybe.” John said fighting with the volume.

“When am I going to get this proof you promised; of the Senators and Congressmen?”

“Patience. All in good time and according to sequence.”

There was a short silence as John looked up at the mirror catching the taxi driver’s dark eyes.

“A man was murdered earlier Mr. MacClellan; a very special and well known man. The Grove ordered his elimination due to his refusal to integrate fully into their doctrine.”

John scratched around his bag for his note pad. “Who was murdered?” John urged.

The voice breathed deeper. “Why, it is all around you Mr. MacClellan. I have little doubt you will hear and see soon enough.”

“How will I know?” John said impatiently.

“The Grove sanctioned this murder, Mr. MacClellan, and I will send you proof of this along with the other evidence I possess and you seek. All will be revealed in sequence.”

“Listen Uleth or whatever you call yourself, stop playing games here. You promised me evidence and I hate being made to look the fool. You contacted me remember?”

“I remember many things Mr. MacClellan and know many more. As I have said, all will be revealed in sequence, just as sequences have led us to where we are presently. The information I have already given will lead to more. The book, which I know you now possess… study it.”

John felt uneasy as he met the cab driver’s eyes once again.

“Patience is a virtue, it is said. Read the book, Mr. MacClellan, familiar yourself with it, and open your mind. The Grove, their beliefs and their desires will be found within it. I will be in touch soon. Remember, Ne humanus crede.”

The call was dead and John knew it. He could feel the taxi driver looking at him as he nervously scribbled in his pad.

NewsGlobeInc

John quickly made his way into the elevator and pushed 7, home of the magazine. He could almost smell the newly painted odour. NewsGlobeInc took up the full building on 5^th Avenue with all its various media streams. John held the rail tightly; glad the magazine was not on the twentieth floor.

His untidy desk sat in the far corner of the large open office, but, to his infinite annoyance, adjacent to his Editor’s office. 

“Jones is looking for you John.” Katie Ellis said, matter of factly, as she studied her computer screen. Her left hand caressed a brownie as if it was a pet. “Said it was important?”

“Always is with him Katie.” John said smiling. “So, any good deals there on EBay?”

“John!” Katie said flirtatiously. “I am hurt and wounded by your insinuation. I am a professional with integrity, a dedicated screw of the machine, and never waste company time or resources!”

Katie giggled and fixed her ponytail. “Actually, even though it isn’t payday yet, I can’t stop window shopping!”

“Remember Katie,” John said winking, “Rollin’ Stones, Sticky Fingers, the original LP, that’s what I want for my secret Santa.”

Katie rolled her eyes.

“You have any Aspirin hiding anywhere?”

“Here, these are a lot stronger John, girlie painkillers, but you can keep them.” Katie smiled as she tossed the capsules.

“Thanks.” John turned to the tornado of activity.

“John? Who do you think will get all Dent’s millions?”

John proceeded down the hall only half listening.

He meandered through a swarm of computers and drone colleagues, catching a glimpse of the 80” monitor at the north wall where NewsGlobeInc24, the organisation’s 24 hour news service, was flashing. He stopped, opening the tub of painkillers.

“Breaking News. Billionaire and reportedly the world’s richest man, Warren Dent, has been found dead”.

John approached the screen inquisitively; his mind stirring with curiosity and conspiracy. 

“First reports suggest he may have been shot. These reports have not been substantiated by London’s Metropolitan Police who have yet to release an official statement.”

John turned toward his desk. He could make out his Editor’s receding hairline bob up and down through the expensive but rarely opened blinds of his office. 

Short and stout with a 19^th century English gentleman’s moustache, Conrad Jones was every bit the little terrier the industry, and indeed himself, liked to portray. His achievements, or his proclamations of such, were displayed proudly around his office. Pictures of him with VIP’S, politicians, actors, industry captains, writers, directors; they were all there. The smell of pipe and cigar smoke permeated from under his door, mocking in its illegality, and his office paint had more than the faintest colouring of yellow. 

“MacSpelling get in here!”

John hated his condescending shit.

“Sit down.” Jones barked. “Where is this fucking story you promised me? Gonna lift the lid on a secret society you said. Gonna out some of our top politicians you said? What’s the name of this fraternity again?”

John stared at Jones for a second, biting his lip.

“Well?”

“The Bohemian Grove, Jones, I have told you this already.” John knew Jones hated being called by his surname. 

John continued. “If you had taken the time to read the draft I gave you, you would know that?”

John looked away toward the screen in the open office hoping for more on the Dent story.

“So,” Jones snapped, “an old boys club of some sort. Not much of a story so far is it MacClellan?”

John’s head remained turned away.

“You told me that I would get video evidence of a satanic ritual? That I would see who was in attendance? You told me that I was, well, that NewsGlobeInc was…,” Jones paused, screwing up his face, “or, lets be frank MacSpelling, that you, were on the verge of uncovering evidence of a national conspiracy? Well?”

John tapped his fingers on his knee. “You will have the 1^st piece by the end of the week Jones.”

“I hope so MacClellan. Golden boy or not, I would take great pleasure in knocking you down a peg or two.”

“If that’s all I would like to get back to work?” John did not hide his contempt.

“Definitely murder.” Jones snarled, motioning his head toward the screen outside his office. “I’ve a friend in Scotland Yard. Many enemies that guy had, and more money than sense.”

John didn’t answer as he got up and made for the door.

“MacClellan?” Jones said with surly intent. “I want something within the next 24 hours. Close the door behind you.”

John traced his way to his desk, eyes fixed on the large screen on the far wall. The captions changed ever so slightly every few minutes. “Warren Dent, billionaire investor and philanthropist has been murdered”. “Investment magnet found dead”.

“Mac?” The voice came from behind. “Psst, Mac?”

John turned slowly but his attention remained fixed on the screen. “What?”

John sounded like an adolescent boy answering a mother’s chore request.

“Wait until you see this; what I’ve just been handed about Dent’s murder!”

John’s focused switched, like a wolf upon prey; his eyes now firmly upon Stephen Dee, Senior European Correspondent. Dee smiled smugly, showing off his newly polished teeth.

“I am all ears Deeser.” John slid forward on his chair.

Dee smiled again, white, from ear to ear, evidently pleased with himself.

“Well, the murder, I have been reliably informed, happened between 05.00 and 06.00 Greenwich Mean Time.”

John wheeled around next to Dee.

“Okay so?”

Dee paused and smiled further as if to enhance the melodrama.

“Is that it Dee?”

“No, of course not, but you know how I love my suspense. It was the manner in which Dent was found.”

John’s eyes urged Dee impatiently. “Yes, he was shot?”

Dee looked around as if part of a covert operation. His whisper was almost inaudible.

“He was found seated, face down Mac, at his desk, in his study. He was naked.”

Dee glared around once more suspiciously. “Look at the screen closely Mac. Look at the burns; the lacerations around his body.” 

John sat back slightly, jostling for a better angle of the screen.

Dee continued. “If I just super-impose this…, yes, look. He has a cigarette lighter is his left hand see.”

John sat forward again. “So?”

“Problem is Mac, Dent was not a smoker. Never was; in fact he was fervently anti-smoking. His father died of lung cancer when he was young. Dent had donated millions over the years to cancer charities. Look at his back.” Dee held his pen tip to the screen. “See, etched into his back?”

“BURN. Poli, poli, di umbuendo”.  John said aloud.

“Sussh Mac, Jesus.”

The two men sat for a moment without talking, only Dee’s smile resurfacing from time to time attempting to induce a superlative from John.

“How did you get this?”

“Great isn’t it?”

“Maybe not the phrase I would use Dee.”

“Seems that someone is trying to keep this under wraps Mac, for the time being anyway. Probably his estate or something. Who knows? I have come up trumps this time my friend. This was emailed from a source in London. I am so gonna get promoted after this! Onward and upward my friend.”

John pushed forward to the PC, his heart beating with curiosity. He eyes massaged every pixel.

“Quick glance my friend but that’s it.” Dee said, looking around guardedly. “Only a peek, these bad boys are going to Jones just as soon as I get a piece written.”

Dee laughed out loudly as Wayne Newbridge, Sports Correspondent walked by. “Hey, Richard Pryor, he’s such a hoot.”

John rolled his eyes, cringing at Dee’s unconvincing attempts to hide what they were really looking at.

“Can this been blown up any?” John whispered.

“Why Mac, you liking the naked beau that much?” John remained straight faced. “Yeah, hold on.” 

Dee fiddled with his mouse. “You see something else of interest?”

John scanned the screen closely. “No real reason Dee, just always wanted to get a good look around a billionaires study, that all. Can that area there be blown up further?” John tapped the screen. “Look there, the book beside the body?”

“Difficult to make out John,” Dee said squinting, “Lesser key of Someone?”

“Of Solomon,” John said rubbing his head, “and that’s definitely Dent alright, without a doubt, see the birth mark on his neck?”

“Of course it’s Dent Mac, Jees.”

“Look, there’s something else, beside the book; a business card or something?”

Dee fiddled again. “Wee bit of messing around here and… hey presto.”

Dee leaned forward but John’s head obstructed his full view.

“Poli, poli, di umbuendo. M.M.C.”

Dee looked at John with a wry smile. “Spooky shit right? I need to get typing before the evening deadline and I need to get in to see Jones so we’ll have to continue this later my friend.”

John’s eyes remained fixed on the computer screen.

“Sorry pal but screen time is over. Step aside for the new man of the moment!”