style="font-size:15px;"> He was talking about the figure in the generator, Nathalie knew, a by-product of the Annunaki wombship that had somehow been granted a second life, one fractured into separate bodies, broken away from the wheel of life and death and rebirth. Nathalie did not know the full story, had only pieced together hints of it from what her priest, Hurbon, had told her. When he was a younger man, Ezili Coeur Noir had appeared on the Earth amid the debris of a spaceship that had been destroyed outside of the atmosphere. But, driven mad by the damage that the accident had inflicted upon her body, she had come to the société’s temple in the Louisiana swamps and demanded blood sacrifice. That sacrifice had been wild and desperate and had involved dancing and fornication and, ultimately, the shedding of limbs in her name. Papa Hurbon had lost his legs to his goddess in those crazy days of debauchery, and in return she had brought him a brief taste of paradise as she set about eradicating all life on Earth. Her plan had failed when a group of self-designated protectors of humankind called Cerberus had intervened, petitioning Hurbon’s aid before forcing the broken aspects of Ezili’s body to combine in the heart of the fusion generator. Hurbon had helped, employing his arcane knowledge to draw the fractured aspects of Ezili’s body to one location. And, in so doing, he had gained a hold on Ezili Coeur Noir, weaving her spirit into his fith-fath and so momentarily controlling the uncontrollable. She was unstable even now, locked inside the generator, but at least she was where Hurbon could contain her.
“Death must be bypassed,” Hurbon continued, “and to do that we must first embrace it.”
“Do you...intend to kill yourself, Papa?” Nathalie asked, her tone wary.
Hurbon turned to her at last, a golden canine tooth in his top jaw glinting in the flickering candlelight, dark gaps in his lower jaw where other teeth were missing entirely. “That would be foolish, Nathalie child,” he said with that easy smile of indulgence. “Even if I gained immortality, using the dragon’s teeth, what would that be worth if I lost myself in the process? No, we have tested the teeth in Spain, in Italy, in the Congo—”
Nathalie inclined her head, stopping Hurbon in midspeech. “I am still awaiting the results of the Congo test,” she said.
“Where the locals see Heaven’s Light,” Hurbon muttered to himself, shaking his head sorrowfully. Then he looked up at Nathalie once more, piercing her with his dark-eyed stare. “To keep oneself...well, there are risks, as we have seen. Ereshkigal failed, the body never fully holding. Charun and Vanth failed, their portal collapsing.”
“And them with it,” Nathalie interjected.
“The risks of using the dragon’s teeth have been made clear,” Hurbon said, “and can be bypassed with a little patience. There is just one risk left. And to counter that I shall need someone from the société, someone loyal.”
“I know just the person,” Nathalie assured him, thinking of a desperate member of his parish whose loyalty was beyond question.
“Bring them,” Hurbon instructed, “and together we shall spring the trap that brings Cerberus down forever and grants us immortality and eternal reign over this beautiful mud ball we call Earth.”
Brigid Baptiste awoke with a start.
The sounds of the Cerberus redoubt filtered through the walls and door of her private apartment, faint but offering a reassuring background, reminding her that life goes on. The apartment was located on one of the upper levels, away from the operations rooms, testing labs and other facilities housed within the redoubt, an old military complex that dated back to before the nukecaust and had been retrofitted to accommodate the Cerberus operation.
It was usually quiet here, whatever the time was. The staff at Cerberus worked in shifts, and people respected that someone was always sleeping no matter what hour of the day it was. But the sounds of talking, of laughter, seemed to echo through her door today.
Brigid shifted, turning onto her side and reaching for the lamp. She squinted her eyes as she brushed the lamp’s side, switching it on with her touch. Beside the lamp, the notebook she kept at her bedside had been moved. Brigid had an eidetic memory, one that was photographic, and it remembered details like that. The book had been rotated twenty degrees from where she had left it. Her incredible memory could make her a little precise sometimes in the things she did.
She was a beautiful woman in her late twenties with an athletic body and long locks of red hair that curled past her shoulders to a point midway down her spine. Her eyes were emerald green, bright with a fire of curiosity. Her assessing gaze suggested a voracious intellect, while her full lips promised passion; Brigid was indeed intelligent and passionate and much more besides. An ex-archivist from Cobaltville, she had been expelled from the ville when she had helped uncover a millennia-long conspiracy designed to subjugate humankind. The conspiracy dated all the way back to the presence on Earth of the alien race called the Annunaki, who had posed as gods from the heavens and been worshipped and adored by primitive humans. Their intrigues had become legend, their infighting the basis of many of humanity’s myths—but the Annunaki were all too real. Brigid could assure you of that fact because she had been there when they had returned to the Earth in the care of their dragon-like wombship, Tiamat, and been reborn to subjugate humankind once more. They had failed, not in the least due to the concerted efforts of Brigid and her companions in the Cerberus organization, a military-style group dedicated to the protection of humanity and its freedoms.
Brigid had joined Cerberus after her expulsion from Cobaltville along with two disgraced Magistrates called Kane and Grant, and a feral child called Domi who had been living as a sex slave for a beast called Guana Teague. Their lives had moved on an awfully long way from that early meeting.
Brigid reached for the notepad, saw in that instant that there were words written upon it. She turned the pad slowly, looking at the words. There were two words—“emit part”—written in her hand, albeit shakily. The words were written not on a line but in a circle, like so:
Automatic writing, Brigid realized as she looked at the strange words, presumably written without conscious thought while she was asleep. Well, that was new.
But what did it mean? Obviously, something had disturbed her in the night; something had caused her to write those words on her notebook, an item that often seemed a redundant indulgence when her memory was such a keen tool and yet could sometimes elicit the answer to a nagging problem from the day before. After all, what would a woman with a photographic memory ever need to write down?
She lay in bed, the covers pulled up high to stay warm, holding the pad and gazing at the topmost sheet.
Emit part.
It meant nothing to her. What was the part? What did it emit? It was dream writing, the kind that adheres to the logic of the subconscious, whose meaning is lost when the waking mind takes over.
Brigid held the pad before her, stared at the letters until her eyes lost focus and stared beyond it into the whiteness of the page, turning the letters into a blur. From outside her suite, Brigid heard familiar voices raised in a friendly discussion peppered with joyful laughter, but the sound barely registered on her consciousness.
Eventually, she set down the pad, pushed back the covers and got out of the bed. The new day awaited, whatever it might bring.
