Chapter 1: Neophyte

The messenger’s shoes squeaked on the tiled floor as he made his way towards the inner court, the black and white squares a symbol of holy Euclidean geometry. The Masonic lodge was steeped in arcane symbolism, from the golden reliefs that decorated the walls, to the carving of the all-seeing eye adorning the massive keystone that held up the stone arch above the court’s twin oak doors.

He stopped before them, straightening his black suit and adjusting his tie nervously as he prepared to enter. Disturbing the Grand Masters of the thirty-third degree when court was in session was almost unheard of, but the information that he had been tasked with delivering was of the utmost importance, and no less unusual. He took a moment to compose himself as his eyes played across the marble busts of the organization’s most important members that were lined up to either side of the lavishly furnished corridor. They rested atop white columns that were themselves a symbol, denoting the busts as princes and nobles. There were some that he recognized, great thinkers and presidents, and others that he didn’t.

He could hear muffled conversation coming from the other side of the massive wooden doors. Court was in session, and the most important Freemasons in the country were currently engaged in debate. Someone of such a low degree couldn’t fathom what they were discussing, perhaps they were deciding the future of a country or corporation, or maybe they were in a heated theological argument.

Finally mustering the courage to proceed, he pushed one of the heavy oak doors open and stepped into the inner court. The door creaked on its ancient hinges, the sound echoing throughout the sanctum. The conversation died down as all eyes turned towards him.

He was immediately awestruck by the sanctum’s brilliance, having never set foot in this part of the lodge before. The room was shaped like a rough rectangle, with a checkered floor in the center that almost resembled a chess board, the rest of the floor carpeted in regal purple. To the left and right were raised stands, the dozens of leather seats currently occupied by frowning Grand Masters. Each of them wore a purple leather apron and a pair of matching cuffs over their suits, adorned in the mystical symbols of their ancient order.

The ceiling was high above his head, the circular recess in its center occupied by a relief of a blazing star, the many rays that extended from its core embellished in shining gold. It was held up by decorative pillars, not dissimilar from those that he had seen in the corridor outside, but as thick as tree trunks and fifteen feet tall. That same gold and purple theme was present everywhere, as prevalent in the jewelry and adornments of the Grand Masters as it was in the furniture and murals that decorated the room.

Seated in a golden throne at the far end of the court was the Grand Master of this particular lodge, the others having traveled from around the country to take part in the meeting. Each of them had their own grand lodges and oversaw Masonic operations in their own jurisdictions.

“Most worshipful Grand Master,” the messenger began, “honorable Grand Masters. Please forgive my intrusion.”

The man in the golden throne leaned forward, the many pendants and jewels that hung around his neck indicative of his high rank. He had a large salt and pepper beard that betrayed his advanced age, his wrinkled face contorting into an expression of displeasure as he looked the messenger up and down through a pair of round spectacles that were perched on the bridge of his crooked nose.

“What is the meaning of this?” he boomed, his powerful voice echoing through the chamber. “Can you not see that court is in session?”

“I know Grand Master, my deepest apologies,” the messenger said as he bowed deeply. “I was sent to deliver a message of the utmost importance.”

“Well? Out with it!”

“Of course Grand Master. There has been a...” His eyes darted about the room, examining the leering faces of the Freemasons to ensure that all present were of a high enough degree to hear what was about to be said. If he revealed this information to the wrong people, if a servant or a janitor overheard him, then they would both be severely reprimanded. Few members of the order were privy to such sensitive information.

“There has been a series of unauthorized summonings in a nearby city.”

“That’s four this year alone,” one of the Grand Masters in the stands exclaimed, “we must get the spread of this information under control!”

The messenger waited for him to finish before continuing.

“The novice summoner in question appears to have obtained the information from an internet message board. The appropriate steps have been taken, and it is now being astroturfed. It will soon become flooded with inaccurate information and rendered unusable.”

“Who was summoned?” the Grand Master asked, adjusting his spectacles as he waited for a reply.

“It was Orobas, worshipful Grand Master.”

“A lesser demon,” another of the men in the stands scoffed. “It’s hardly worthy of our consideration. Just follow procedure and have the summoner in question eliminated, what’s the problem?”

“There have been some ... complications. It appears that Orobas assigned a familiar to the summoner, one of the ancient Seirim. The summoner somehow succeeded in feeding the familiar enough magickal energy that it was freed from Orobas’ control. He started a local myth, drawing a summoning circle in the woods outside his city and taking a video recording of the Seirim in question manifesting, which he later uploaded to the internet. It garnered enough interest to get the local news organizations and a supernatural television show involved. The combined magickal energy produced by such widespread belief has been considerable. The nearest lodge is working in conjunction with members in the local media and the city council to suppress the story, but we fear that the damage has already been done. The myth is self-sustaining and has propagated both throughout the surrounding area and in online circles. The video alone now has millions of views.”

“Then this is not a normal summoner,” the resident Grand Master mused. “He was able to obtain all of this information from an internet forum? How did this situation escape our attention for so long?”

“We must push through legislation that will allow us to take down these websites,” another of the Masons added, “seeding them with false information is a half-measure. We have to be proactive, we have to stop the spread of information at the source. Senator Griswold, you have contacts in the entertainment industry. Can we make this an extension of the digital millennium copyright act?”

“We already have members in the NSA who have been feeding us information,” one of the men replied, perhaps Griswold. “But these forums are often so obscure that finding them at all is a challenge. Taking them down isn’t the problem. Consider how few people will be interested in demonology or the occult, and then the minority of those people who will actually attempt a real summoning. Sometimes it can be as few as a dozen individuals sharing fragments of information.”

“There’s more,” the messenger continued, and the Grand Masters went silent. “As you well know, familiars feed on the energy of the demons to which they are bound, they cannot exist on their own. In order to free the Seirim familiar from Orobas’ control, the summoner had to awaken the Seirim’s original master.”

A concerned murmur spread through the court, a few of the less knowledgeable Grand Masters looking about in confusion as they waited for him to elaborate.

“The original progenitor of the Seirim is the Watcher, Azazel,” the messenger explained.

“Impossible,” a member of the court scoffed. “No novice could summon a fallen Angel, it would tear him apart on the spot. Even an experienced wizard would have to take special precautions.”

“We have reason to believe that the magickal energy accrued was enough to awaken and free him, along with the entire Seirim tribe. Millions of people saw the internet video, thousands more saw Azazel’s sigil, as the summoner seems to have drawn it everywhere. Azazel may have gained enough power to manifest in our plane.”

The resident Grand Master considered, stroking his beard as he absorbed what he had been told.

“If this information is accurate,” he began, “then strict measures must be taken. We can’t very well have Watchers running around unsupervised. It is our duty to ensure that knowledge of the occult is suppressed, it must remain under the unique control of the Freemasons if we are to maintain order in the world.”

“Do we have a contingency plan for this situation?” one of the Grand Masters in the stand asked.

“Yes, this should be treated as a high-level summoning gone awry. Contact the most experienced wizards in the state and have them convene a meeting. We can’t afford any delays, there’s no time to bring people in from overseas. We’re going to need contracts written up for high-level demons, and they’ll need to be ironclad if we’re going to be operating in a major population center. Get in touch with local law enforcement and have them be ready, we’ll need to send in a special response team to clean this mess up.”

“As you wish, honorable Grand Master,” the messenger said as he bowed again. He had expected to receive such orders. After all, it often took a demon to catch a demon.

“Watchers are fickle creatures,” the resident Grand Master added, “we can’t be sure what kind of relationship it has with the summoner. Relay my concerns, I don’t want any mistakes. You are dismissed.”

The messenger bowed once more, then turned and marched back towards the safety of the oak doors. Although he was not usually privy to such highly sensitive information, rumors usually made their way down through the lesser degrees, and he had never heard of a Watcher being awakened before. They were fallen Angels, Seraphim, holy beings that had been cast out of heaven for their transgressions during the antediluvian period. Azazel was prominent among them, best known for fornicating with human women in order to produce a tribe of Satyrs known as the Seirim and for teaching mankind forbidden knowledge.

If such a creature was free to roam the Earth once again, then who knew what kind of havoc it might be causing? One thing was for sure, he didn’t envy the poor summoner. The man probably had no idea what he had gotten himself into, and his death warrant had just been signed...

Ryan stepped through the door of his apartment, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack. The sweet scents of cooking were already reaching his nose, Nahash must be preparing dinner. He spotted her in the kitchen, hunched over the stove due to her exaggerated stature, the massive Seirim was hard to miss.

She stood tall enough that her crown of half a dozen twisted, black horns scraped the ceiling, protruding from the soft wool that lined her head and neck. The mane of feathery, white material stopped at her collar and shoulders like an Elizabethan ruff, where it tapered into ashen skin, smooth and clear. A pair of heavy, full breasts hung from her chest, swaying gently as she stirred something that was cooking in a pot on the range. They were as large as his head but appropriate on her massive frame.

Her belly was soft and paunchy, her hips and thighs curved and feminine to give her a full and comely figure. At her elbows and knees, the fluffy wool began anew, covering her forearms and her lower legs. Her arms ended in three-fingered hands, two digits and a thumb, which were tipped with black nails that were almost sharp enough to be described as claws. Her legs were bent like those of a goat, ending in cloven hooves that looked like they might belong to a cow or a deer.

He watched one of her ovine ears flick as she sensed his arrival, turning to greet him in her musical voice. It was husky and feminine, unearthly, almost sounding like it was being run through a synthesizer. It was beautiful in a way, hypnotic.

“Welcome home, Ryan,” she cooed.

She smiled at him, her golden eyes brightening. Her face was a little odd at first glance, but he had gotten so used to her appearance by now that to him it seemed flawless. It wasn’t quite that of a goat and not quite that of a woman, more like something between the two. Her features were softer and subtler than those of an animal, with an almost imperceptible snout, her clear face framed by her mane of soft wool. Her nose was undeniably that of a goat, the same pink color as her lips and her nipples. Her eyes were amber in color and sported the horizontal pupils of a sheep, her long lashes batting at him as he drew close.

Ryan sidled up behind her, wrapping his arms around her wide hips and burying his face in her back, the Satyr too tall for him to reach her fluffy head. Her flesh was warm and yielding, his fingers sinking into the pleasant dough of her belly, her skin as soft as silk despite its unhealthy color. She was wide enough that his fingers scarcely met on the other side, the generous cushion of her plump rear pressing against him as she chuckled to herself.

“Did you miss me so terribly?”

“Always,” he sighed, breathing in her flowery scent as she stirred. “What are you making?”

“Does it matter?”

He had to admit that it probably didn’t. One of her many powers was the ability to influence his senses, making him taste, smell and feel anything that she desired. She could make water taste like the finest wine, or a pot noodle taste like food cooked by a gourmet chef. Whatever she was making, it would be divine once it touched his tongue.

It had been almost two weeks since she had been freed from Orobas’ service now. Ryan had summoned the Goetic demon in a last-ditch attempt to get his life back on track, never really expecting it to work. The entity had used its powers to secure him a high-paying job, along with various other resources that had seen him go from being unable to pay his rent, to working a dream job that paid more than he could ever hope to spend. Wealth had not been his goal, however. It was merely a side effect, and it was one of the reasons that the summoning had gone so well. Demons did not take kindly to greed, they would only give you what you needed.

Ryan’s needs had been urgent and genuine, he was not merely in search of undeserved riches or unwarranted power. He had drawn up a contract with Orobas, and the demon had exceeded all of his expectations, rescuing him from the brink of poverty and depression.

During its work, the demon had assigned Nahash to him as a familiar, her job being to act as an intermediary and to help Ryan sleep with her uncanny powers. She could induce a relaxation in him that would overpower even the most troubled mind, allowing him to sleep properly for the first time in months.

He had quickly fallen in love with her, and after a long and arduous process, he had succeeded in freeing her from the demon’s control. The Seirim were Pagan deities, sustained by the belief of mortals. As the legends of Satyrs roaming the untamed wilds had slowly faded, her tribe had been forced to enter into the service of more powerful entities, living off their energy to survive. Ryan had managed to rekindle belief in them by starting a myth, resurrecting their patriarch Azazel and securing a new source of vital energy for them.

As a reward for his efforts, the ancient Watcher had crafted a ring for Ryan, black as night and engraved with arcane runes. It was both a wedding band and an object of binding, an item that would bind a demonic entity and allow it to manifest without the need of complex summoning circles and rituals.

Nahash was drawn to the ring like a moth to a flame, and as long as he wore it, she would be able to find him anywhere in the world. He liked to keep the old chalk circle that had been drawn on the floor of his apartment all the same, it gave her the run of the place, letting her manifest here when he was at work.

She had been acting as his doting housewife since she had been freed, enjoying the mundane aspects of human life that were still a novelty to her after spending countless centuries in the formless void where demons resided.

“So what did you do today?” Ryan asked, taking a step back and releasing her from his bear hug. “Anything interesting?”

“I’ve been using the internet,” she replied, her attention still firmly focused on her food. “Humans have certainly been busy over the last few thousand years, it makes for interesting reading.”

“I can imagine,” he laughed, taking a seat at the kitchen table and drinking in her figure as she worked. “How’s the power situation?”

“Strong,” Nahash replied, knowing that he was referring to the energy that she used to manifest in the physical world. “It has been a very long time since I have felt this ... material.”

Prior to Ryan freeing her, Nahash had only been able to make use of what little energy Orobas could spare, meaning that she could only manifest when necessary and for limited periods of time. Energy was everything to a demon, it was their currency and their life force, accrued through the belief of mortals. The more worshipers and believers an entity had, the more powerful it became, able to expend that energy in greater quantities in order to increase its influence. When a demon was forgotten and ran out of energy, they either faded into nothing, or they entered into the service of a more powerful demon. Most demons had legions of servants and lesser entities to do their bidding, Nahash had been one of them until recently.

Ryan’s scheme seemed to be keeping her and her sisters fed, that was good. The media storm around what was now referred to as the haunted forest had been immense and was still being fueled by blurry videos of the Seirim that now inhabited the woods, filmed by mystery hunters and cryptozoologists who had traveled from far and wide to investigate.

He hadn’t seen head nor tail of Azazel since their last encounter at the bonfire, the Watcher seemed to have vanished from the face of the Earth. It was probably for the best. Despite the creature never showing any ill will towards Ryan, it exuded an aura of palpable unnaturalness that made him wary and uneasy.

Nahash interrupted the thought, placing a bowl of what looked like tomato soup in front of him, standing with her hands on her wide hips as she waited for him to taste it.

“What’s this?” Ryan asked, picking up the spoon and stirring it. There were floating spices in the thick liquid, perhaps basil or thyme.

“Doesn’t matter,” she replied with a smirk, “eat it.”

As he brought the spoon up towards his lips, he felt a familiar warmth overcome him, as though he had been draped in an invisible blanket. It permeated him to the core, making him feel comfortable and drowsy. The hairs on his arms and neck stood on end, and he felt Nahash’s warm breath on his skin as she leaned closer to whisper in his ear.

“Eat,” Nahash breathed. Her musical voice was low and husky, seductive. He could almost make out the faint sounds of instruments accompanying her as if heard from a great distance.

She was using her powers on him, his mind growing foggy and muddled as she manipulated his senses. It was a kind of dull euphoria, irresistible and overpowering. As soon as he felt the warm liquid touch his tongue, he was assailed by an explosion of flavor. It was the most delicious thing that he had ever tasted, sweet and savory flavors mingling to produce a wonderful contradiction, ambrosial and divine. It was food fit for the Gods, every swallow bringing with it new and unexpected tastes, as if she had somehow combined every spice and herb that existed into a single dish.

He ate like it was going out of style, wanting to taste every last drop of the soup before the wonderful sensation subsided. When the final spoonful had been swallowed, Nahash released her hold on his mind, Ryan snapping out of his trance-like state. He blinked to clear his eyes, glancing up at the Seirim as she smiled down at him, an unearthly glow slowly fading from her golden eyes.

“You never disappoint,” he chuckled.

The armored truck bounced along the city street, the SWAT team that was seated in the cramped interior checking their submachine guns and adjusting their helmets as they neared their target. The half a dozen police officers were clad in matching black body armor, their uniforms beneath the tactical vests and protective padding a shade of dark blue. They wore balaclavas and ballistic goggles beneath their helmets, all the better to conceal their identities should things go awry. The patches and lettering that would have denoted their police department were absent, but that wouldn’t be noticeable to a bystander. As long as nobody inspected them too closely, they would look like any other armed response unit.

The call had come through from the Grand Lodge, there was a priority target that needed to be dealt with quickly and quietly. There were Freemasons in every branch of the city’s police department, the commissioner included, and it was a trivial task to orchestrate this kind of operation. Any non-Mason officers in the area had been called away, and their counterparts in the emergency services had been tipped off. They wouldn’t respond to any calls from this block until the raid had concluded, it was on lockdown.

They would get in fast, take out the target, and then falsify the paperwork. The records would show that one Ryan Cutter had called in a false police report claiming to have hostages and that he had opened fire on the officers when they had stormed his apartment, intending to commit suicide by cop. One of the officers had a weapon ready to plant, a handgun with the serial marks filed off, untraceable. The paramedics would arrive too late to save him, it had already been decided.

“The target has a familiar,” one of them said, raising his voice over the sound of the engine. “Mike, did you prepare the vessel?”

The officer that he was referring to brandished a brass container, roughly the size of a coffee mug, designed to serve as a vessel that would contain a demonic entity while being as compact as possible. Like a Genie in a lamp, the demon could be commanded into it using the correct seals and wards.

“The seal of Solomon is ready,” Mike replied, “I’ll take care of it. Just make sure your wards are visible, we don’t know how much energy this thing has loaded up with. The Grand Master said it was a Satyr, and there isn’t much info on them. Near as we can tell, they’ve not been sighted for hundreds of years.”

“Do we have backup?” another of the masked men asked.

“Halphas is seeing us to our destination,” Mike replied, “and if the familiar gives us too much trouble we have Haures on standby.”

“Is that necessary?” one of the others asked. “We’re in an armored truck, and nobody knows we’re coming. I don’t want to be anywhere near Haures if shit hits the fan.”

Mike shrugged his shoulders, bouncing in his seat as the van went over a pothole.

“They don’t want any fuckups on this one, this guy is apparently a big deal. He’s already summoned one demon, we can’t be sure that he hasn’t done it again. There are plenty of lesser demons who could have tipped him off. Speaking of which, where the fuck is Malphas?”

A terrible stench of sulfur filled the truck, and their eyes were drawn to a shape in the middle of the floor. It was as if all of the shadows in the compartment had coalesced into a single point, blacker than black, creating a darkness from which a writhing shape emerged. It was twisted and formless, seen with the mind as much as with one’s eyes as if it was projecting an image directly into their brains like a hologram. Their breath crystallized as the temperature in the truck plummeted, the air thick with acrid fumes as the shape became solid, manifesting in the form of a small and unassuming crow.

The little bird hopped up onto Mike’s lap, flapping its wings as they watched it. It opened its beak and began to speak in the voice of a man, hoarse and guttural.

“I have done as bidden,” the demon croaked. “The mind of thy enemy is clear of suspicion. He knoweth not that you approach, he knoweth not of thy secret order, nor has he taken any measures to shield himself from magickal threats. I cannot see into the mind of the Seirim, her powers cloud my vision.”

Malphas had the power to see into the minds of his master’s enemies, able to relay their thoughts and desires. It was an incredibly useful tool that made being taken by surprise almost impossible. If the target had set up an ambush or knew that they were coming, the team would be warned well in advance. The Seirim was an enigma it seemed, but it was unlikely to take any actions without the approval of its master.

“Your work is complete Malphas,” Mike said, “return to the magician who summoned you and complete your contract.”

The demon bowed its tiny head, and then it was gone as abruptly as it had appeared.

“We’re coming up on the apartment block, two minutes,” the driver called out from the cab.

“Alright, lock and load people,” another of the masked men ordered. “Let’s do this by the book.”

There was a chorus of clicks and clatters as the team loaded their weapons and chambered rounds, checking safeties and affixing silencers. They were all equipped with H&K UMPs besides Mike, who was sporting a pump action shotgun. The submachine guns were accurate and incredibly quiet with a suppressor, even in the close confines of an apartment block the sound wouldn’t carry too far. They could kick out six hundred rounds of nine-millimeter parabellum per minute on full-auto, with a thirty round magazine, enough to turn Cutter into Swiss cheese and to obliterate whatever physical form his familiar had taken.

That was the problem with manifesting in the flesh. A soul was invulnerable to damage, but most demons would succumb to a shotgun blast to the face just as well as any human. Once they smoked the thing, it should be weak enough that they could seal it inside the brass vessel. Assuming that the entity wasn’t jacked up on energy of course.

The truck pulled up and came to a stop, the SWAT team piling out of the back with their weapons shouldered. They were in the parking lot of a fairly average apartment block, deserted save for a handful of shitty cars and one old lady who was pushing a walker on the other side of the street. The sun had set, and the stars were just peeking out through the cloud layer. The building was tall and made from ugly concrete, it looked like a miserable place to live. This Cutter guy had used Orobas to land himself a high paying job, why had he not moved out?

Their target was on the eighth floor, and the building had no elevator. Fantastic. Mike took point and waved the team forward, the SWAT team making for the stairwell.

Ryan opened his eyes groggily, rubbing them as he sat up and got his bearings. Nahash was sitting next to him on the couch, her massive frame cushioning him with its soft flesh and downy wool. He looked around the room, night had fallen, and the streaming service that they had been watching on the television had paused their show at some point. Everything was dark besides the pale glow from the screen, casting them in deep shadows. He must have fallen asleep.

“Nahash, did you put me to sleep?” he grumbled. He leaned his weight on her as he felt her long arm curl around his shoulder. Her original task when she had been assigned to him by Orobas had been to help him sleep, and whether by association or through her insidious magick, he always seemed to get drowsy whenever they were sat together for long enough. It was like her fleece was laced with sleeping powder.

She curled her fingers around his head and guided his face into her chest, pressing it into the soft wool, her bare breasts scarcely an inch beneath his chin. They hung free, large and heavy enough that they would have snapped the spine of a mortal woman, but Nahash carried them easily on her massive frame. Besides, her weight was ... wrong. She should be far heavier than she actually was, judging by her immense size. It was as if her body wasn’t entirely solid, or like she was able to modulate it through magickal means, the weighty globes held aloft as if by some invisible force. These were certainly physical manifestations, their mass such that he would have needed two arms to lift one, her supple flesh deforming and yielding wonderfully beneath his hands like putty when he kneaded them.

She was so warm and inviting, her skin as smooth as glass and as soft as velvet where it wasn’t covered in her white fur. He took the liberty of wrapping an arm around her waist, letting his fingers sink deep into the plump flesh of her hip as he breathed in her earthy scent, the delicate strands of her wool tickling his nose. She smelled a little like wet soil, bringing to mind images of droplets of dew clinging to blades of grass and the sprawling forests that she called her home.

They would be headed off to bed soon, and Seirim were creatures that reveled in earthly pleasures. In the weeks that they had been together, they had made love every night, usually more than once. Tonight would be no exception. He looked forward to sharing a bed with her again from the moment that he was forced to leave her side each morning.

Chapter 2 »