Prologue

“This is my resurrection day, nothing’s gonna hold me in the grave” Resurrection Day, Rend Collective Experiment

Riverview Abbey Crematorium, Portland, Oregon, January 30^th

The cars that clustered around the were all of an ilk; sober, expensive, heavier than they’d been when they’d left the factory due to the solid plating inserted into the bodywork and the bullet-proof glass. The people that emerged from the cars were similarly weighed down by an assortment of defences, from the dark glasses and flesh-toned ear-pieces to the bulky hand-guns distorting the line of their expensive suits.

Cory Lennon, hired from a private security firm to keep the outer perimeter while these people went into the service knew better than to stare or comment. Portland wasn’t the heart of the underground conflicts that went on, but it was a major city, and it had its fair share of criminals. And their masters.

Unlike the films, funerals weren’t very often a good place for an ambush. These sort had all sorts of suspicions, and as much as it irritated them if you killed one of theirs, if you disrupted his funeral you might as well lie down with him. He straightened as a cluster of mourners plodded past him, surrounding a corpulent little man with a face like a weasel and a limp moustache.

These people hadn’t hired him to defend them from attack, they paid better money than that to people willing to put more on the line than Cory Lennon was. He’d been hired to keep out prying eyes and expensive cameras out of the way, and that was a relatively simple task.

The slight drizzle made his task, if anything, a shade easier. Both his tasks, in fact. Checking over his shoulder, obviously and visibly, unconcerned as it was his job, he made sure no-one was watching him and darted into the undergrowth at the north end of the crematorium’s grounds. A gaunt, familiar figure appeared at the metal barred auxiliary gate, an alternate entrance to allow the groundskeeper to come and go without disrupting the visitors that used the main entrance.

“Cory,” he nodded a greeting.

“These are some scary mother-fuckers, Dion.”

“The price?”

“It’s got to be three hundred. These guys’d put their own mothers on the slab, you know.” Dion counted the six bills out, smoothing them between his fingers for a few seconds.

“This has to be a two-way ticket, Cory. I want to get out as unseen as I got in.”

“Not a problem. Just hang around until they move into the ceremony. We’re not invited in, so I can let you out then.” The bills changed owner, and Dion slipped into the grounds as Cory punched in the code. “Give me a minute to get clear. If you’re caught, I don’t know you.”

“If I’m caught, Cory, they’re going to wonder why a piss-ant like you’s carrying six Franklin’s in his pocket but still taking shit-for-pay jobs like this. You got greedy, that’s your watch.”

Muttering under his breath, Cory walked off on his patrol, stopping briefly to stuff the now crumpled bills into the sole of his shoe. It made for uncomfortable walking, but his stomach unclenched a little. Only a little.

Back in the undergrowth, barely heard, came the whirr of an automatic camera as guests began to arrive through the main gate. With their arrival the small gatherings of mourners and visitors to the garden of remembrance began to disappear, and the grounds took on a darker, more sombre tone. The man he’d met when being hired beckoned him over, asking in a terse, unhurried voice if the grounds were clear.

He resisted the urge to look at the bush in which Dion was hidden, and nodded his confirmation not trusting his voice and painfully aware of the bills in his shoe. The pall-bearers appeared at the back of the hearse looking uniform but anonymous in black suits, white shirts, black ties and dark glasses. The coffin was hurried into the chapel, trailed by a thin, harsh-faced woman who didn’t appear upset enough to be a wife or mistress, but too concerned to be a distant relative.

Cory shook his head and went back to his rounds - he wasn’t paid to ask, after all - and shuffled past the bush where Dion was hidden to ensure no-one else would come by and do the same thing. He wasn’t there.

No click of camera shutters, no asthmatic breathing from too many cigarettes and not enough exercise. They’d made an arrangement and the damned fool had double-crossed him. Tense and nervous beyond what he’d thought possible, Cory continued his patrol, eyes and ears peeled and pricked, desperate for some sign of the photographer.

The service was quickly over, the music over the tannoy drawing quiet, and the slight roar from the chimney as the fires were stoked.

“Come,” someone bluntly commanded, stepping out from the chapel.

“Who, me?” Cory turned slowly, swallowing hard against the dry throat.

“Come!” This time the tall figure beckoned, blond cropped hair and dark-glasses showing out the door, the bulk of the pallbearer still inside the building. Unable to frame an excuse to stay outside, Cory’s fear sent a thin, awkward trail of cold from his armpit down his ribcage. He was strangely grateful when it reached his waistband just as he emerged into the chapel, and found where Dion had gone.

Impaled on a long knife - long enough to plunge into his back on the platform the bier rested upon and still jut out of his chest - he feebly gasped out meaningless pleadings. Cory felt his hands start to tremble, and tried to back up a pace.

“Where are you going?” The woman he’d seen before appeared from one side, walking into view calmly, unperturbed by the scene.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Cory tried to feign innocence, and a single meaty hand grasped the back of his neck lifting him clean off the floor.

“We are performing an important rite to recall the spirit of our fallen leader,” the woman gestured to the open door where the coffin would have disappeared. “We are also wondering why you chose to betray the trust - and the generous payment - you were given to guard this site.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spluttered, and the woman’s open-handed slap rocked his head back with surprising strength.

“I don’t have time for this. How many did you let in?”

“I...” he started again, but this time she drew her hand back and lunged into his stomach with it. He expected the impact of a punch, and knew he couldn’t stand up to the power she’d show with her casual, tooth-loosening slap. Instead, though, he felt hot, slicing pain.

Her nails ripped into his flesh, and would have drawn a scream of agony and terror had not a meaty hand clamped over his mouth. In the pit of his abdomen he could feel the hand moving about, seeking and searching until it grasped something. His bowels voided, and he felt a trickle down his leg, dripping to the floor unheard beneath him. Tears blurred his vision, and he felt himself shake as she twisted something in his gut.

“You can release him, now.” The meaty hands let go, and he fell to the floor, clutching at the thin trail of blood on his shirt that was the only sign she’d touched him at all.

“I’ll ask you once more. How many did you let in?” He ripped open his dress shirt, heedless of the fifteen dollars it would take to replace it, and stared at the flawless, unmarked skin beneath it. “How many?” The voice demanded again, closer this time, and he looked up as she took a step closer.

“I don’t...” he began, and something caught fire in his chest, burning and branding him, searing his lungs and organs, pitching him face forward onto the floor.

“I’d recommend against lying, it will be painful. How many did you let in?”

“I didn’t...” he managed, getting a little further before the pain started again and he pitched to the floor, eye to eye with Dion. Dion still shivered against the knife’s blade, despite the volume of blood slowly pooling around his quivering form. The pain didn’t quite die away completely this time, although it did give him enough control to wonder if Dion were suffering more or less than he was.

“The sooner you tell me, the sooner your companion is released from the knife.

“Why should I care what happens to him?” Cory asked, with genuine feeling, which drew a wry chuckle, but not sufficient amusement to prevent a sharp heel stabbing into the back of his calf.

“FUCK!” he screamed, trying to reach around and grasp at the limb, but she twisted and the pain stopped him in his tracks.

“Last chance. How many did you let in?” The heel drew out, slowly, grating against a bone and pulling and tugging at his muscle with each millimetre, the pain and sensation preventing him thinking clearly as he tried to draw up a plan.

“Just one!” he finally gasped out, as the heel rested on the muscle of the other leg, the implicit threat enough.

“Good.” she muttered, and with a gesture the fire started up again and burnt its way out through his chest, leaving a ragged, charred hole in the midst of his torso.

“Am ... what ... can I go?” he wondered, dumbly, staring down at the damage, unable to comprehend what had been done.

“Go?” the woman laughed. “I think not. Now you serve.” She turned away towards the cremation tunnel, from where a ferocious heat began to flow until a pillar of flame jetted forth, consuming Dion in a single, screaming instant. “Master, you return. I present to you one who betrayed you that you might be born in vengeance, and one that was your enemy that you are reborn in victory.”

The flame billowed, turning slightly blue at the edges, and then with a flash of heat and light, Cory was no more.

Trans-European Express, nr Dusseldorf, February 2^nd

Finishing another beer, Helmut Rummenigge folded the sheets of his newspaper up neatly and arched his back a little, feeling the joints click slowly back into place as he did. After the third can it had been a little difficult to focus on the stories, and after the fifth he’d pretty much given up trying to read, flipping through to the cartoons and the quiz section.

Across from him, the slim red-haired woman that had shared the carriage since they both climbed on at Essen sat with her head back against the headrest, her legs crossed at the knee, one foot keeping time in the air with the vaguely heard tinny beat coming from her headphones. He’d become attuned to her now, he could feel the power emanating from her. He couldn’t believe his luck when she’d stepped in front of him on the platform, for a moment he thought the last nail was finally being driven into his coffin. First the Circle had found that he’d been delving into what Ernst had euphemistically called ‘questionable’ texts, then Torsten had found his ritual candles ... then, he figured, they’d called someone after him

Turning his head towards the window he briefly took in the outskirts of the city, the low winter sun emerging from the side of the window as the rails turned in towards Dusseldorf proper. Behind his darkened glasses he turned back to appreciate the long legs, confident that she couldn’t see where he looked as he drew the last can out of his pack. She wasn’t an enforcer, he’d realised after a while, she wasn’t searching for him - she possibly wasn’t searching at all. So far as he could tell, she was just an untapped wellspring; he could see no signs of any defences, no tell-tale signs that any of the magic she radiated was directed at anything in particular.

Well dressed, he thought, imagining the body beneath the clothes. Martje had been growing distant, of late, forcing him to jump through more and more hoops - or, perhaps, if he was honest, the same hoops, but with increasing reluctance on his part - and he couldn’t find it in himself to try harder. If they were going to break up soon anyway, and it seemed likely now that he’d been ejected from the Circle, he might as well start looking elsewhere. His first thought, once the panic had subsided, had been to just drain her dry, but as he started to get a feel for just how much power was there he started to think ahead. If he could bind her, tie her magic to his own, he’d be able to walk back into the Circle at will, ‘questionable texts’ or not - power spoke more strongly than any of the codes and conventions that mediated between feeble equals.

Perhaps he’d been staring a little too long, perhaps the glasses weren’t as effective a screen as he thought, but she stared pointedly at him for a second then reached into her bag and drew out her own newspaper.

English, he noted. He could speak and read it, but he wasn’t familiar with the publication and couldn’t draw any conclusions from that at first. American he realised, noting the headlines, and then turned back to his own paper.

The train slowed, he noted vaguely, passing one imaginary scenario after another through his mind - she having some object of power that he couldn’t detect, a guardian spirit trailing her, her turning out to be one of the five Equerries ... he just couldn’t believe any of them. No-one could be that good an actress, surely.

The announcement that they were due into the station came over the tannoy and people up and down the carriage began to pack away, some standing to drag bags down from the overhead racks. His own pack was nestled between his feet, and he stuffed his paper into the front pocket, looking up to see she was staring at him again.

“Kann ich ihnen helfen?” he asked, amazed at the opportunity that appeared to drop into his lap.

“I don’t speak German.” she noted in a soft, American accent - not that you could count on that for much, people across the world learned English with an American accent when they were learning from films and tv.

“Can I help?”

“Yeah,” she folded her paper hurriedly at the page she’d been focussed on, and tapped him on the forehead with it. “I’m pretty sure it’s rude to stare, even here.”

He flushed deeply, knowing his pale complexion would make it even more obvious. He started to try to garble a denial, started again trying to translate it into English, but she stepped past him and into the growing queue to get off the train. The embarrassment slowly bubbled to anger inside as she walked away; another in a long line of snide, superior bitches slapping him down...

He took a quick look around to check he had space and swung the pack onto his back, shaking his head to himself as he joined the queue. He could see her shock of red hair ahead of him, all of them waiting for the doors to open, and started to berate himself for being so obvious. The longer they waited, the more his self-aggravation turned to annoyance - he was only looking, and she had to be used to it looking like that, she was going to get stares wherever she went. It wasn’t his fault she was attractive ... she should realise it for the compliment it was ... he was going to be a titan, and she was going to see it all with him ... of course, once she was bound she’d appreciate him as he felt she should.

It wasn’t his fault she was attractive, and he was a health, straight man. This was the sort of nonsense that Torsten had been speaking about at university - Helmut had been wary of the men’s right’s group’s reputation, but maybe they were on to something.

She’d been just plain rude, all things considered.

The queue started moving, and he watched her slip a broad, soft, green hat over her hair as they approached the door, the gap between them growing as people stopped the queue to let others join.

Finally he stepped down from the carriage onto the platform, spotting the green hat easily ahead of him and hurried after her not wanting to risk having to Scry for her later, pausing briefly to pick up two of the empty cans that spilt noisily from his pack.

Cans in hand he followed through the ticket barrier, seeing her pause briefly to toss the newspaper into the waste bin. Weaving through the crowd he tossed his empty cans in, and glanced briefly at the story she’d presumably been so fixated on - an obituary for an American businessman.

Perhaps she’s lost someone? He thought, struggling through the slight fog of the alcohol to put that into a context, to imagine what it might do to her during the binding, how he could tie that emotion in - grief was powerful, fresh grief was very powerful, but if he could harness it...

In the city the sun was low enough now that the buildings were casting long shadows, some of the narrower streets virtually dark, but he was confident she didn’t see him, and he managed to draw a little of the deeper shadows around him, to gather the darker patches to his benefit.

Turning into a narrow alley that led behind an office building towards his student accommodation, he heard a scuffle up ahead, something moving in the shadows around an open fire exit - cleaners throwing waste, perhaps, or someone having a quick smoke-break. He shifted to the other side of the alley and carried on, keeping a sideways eye on the open door as he past.

So it was a complete surprise when a solid blow thumped into his rib-cage from the darkness opposite, four long claws piercing between his ribs and into his lungs in an instant. Terror flooded his system with adrenaline, countering the alcohol a little as he skidded to a halt, gasping for breath from the impact, and turned to see a twisted, deformed, humanoid shape with a distended skull leering down at him before the impossibly large jaw stretched wide and clamped down on his head. The teeth pierced through the lenses of his glasses, the last memory he formed before his skull caved in under the pressure.

Bembridge, Isle of Wight, February 3^rd

It wasn’t the most secluded of beaches, but Helen was somewhat surprised to see anyone late in the afternoon at this time of year. Calling Cracker back she tugged glove off with her teeth, hurriedly snapping the cold catch on the leash back on to the spaniel’s collar whilst taking a look.

During the summer the beach was packed with all sorts; locals, day-trippers, holiday-makers from the assorted B&Bs and caravan parks around the area. When the regattas and boating events were running there were usually an assortment of spectators pitched out all day, but with the freezing wind coming in off the Channel it was unusual to see anyone, and certainly not a group that looked like this.

Helen had spent a few decades in insurance, in and out of London every day before retiring to the island, and she recognised the ‘uniform’ of city types, smart three-piece suits, high-end phones and even a lap-top, but they were definitely out of place here. Without any further reason to stay she carried on her walk, around the headland and up the rocky path to the grassy scrubland overlooking the sea, turning back towards her house.

Up above the beach she could look back down as she walked back towards her home, calling ahead as she did to have Kevin put the kettle on ... and, she added hurriedly, to dig out the binoculars. She passed a small collection of expensive cars clustered in the little informal car park as the first drops of rain began to patter down, and half-ran half-walked the last few hundred yards to the house shaking her head.

“What do you want the bins for?” Kevin wondered, helping her out of her coat as she hustled inside the undersized cottage door.

“There’s something happening down on the beach,” she explained, towelling her hair off briefly before dropping the towel onto Cracker. Kevin passed her a warm cup and leant down with an old man’s groan to rub the dog down. “Load of people in suits...”

“Surveyors? New project?” Kevin asked, and she shrugged.

“No idea, that’s why I need to see.”

“Fair enough.” he nodded, letting Cracker dash off to his bowl in the kitchen and turning his chair back towards the lift. “I’ll see you up there. Race you!”

She chuckled and took a moment to hang her coat up from where he’d dropped it in the hallway before clumping up the narrow stairs. Kevin appeared from the lift a moment later with the binoculars, and she took them over to the window, kneeling on the worn loveseat built into the bow.

Out on the beach, things had definitely taken a turn for the strange. If the suits and laptops had been out of place, the seven flaming torches jutting up from the shallows of the choppy waters were another level. Most of the figures she’d spotted earlier were out of sight, a few could be seen patrolling the headland and the last dying rays of the sun showed what looked like guns in their hands.

“Bodyguards?” Kevin asked, training his telescope around beside her.

“Can you even get that focus?” she asked, not taking the binoculars away from her eyes.

“Well enough.” he grunted, after a second. “Is that ... what are they, druids?”

“No idea.” she took a sip of her tea, the image blurring a little as her left hand shook - she kept meaning to get it checked, it was happening more and more often, now. “Isn’t that a midsummer thing?”

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