Episode 14. Invader (6)
A gentleman in a top hat smiled faintly. When I looked into his grey eyes, I opened my mouth in surprise.
“Liam,”
“Shh.”
Liam Moore pressed a finger to his lips and sat to my left as if he had always been part of our group. To my right sat a man in his fifties, with strands of grey in his black hair.
His thick eyebrows and sunken cheekbones gave him a tough appearance. The grey hair, which seemed to form a pattern, made me suspect that his black hair might be dyed. If so, he was a person meticulous about self-care with a keen sense of aesthetics.
His index and middle fingers were calloused, and there was a slight ink stain on his sleeve, suggesting he was a writer, though 19th-century writers rarely lived so luxuriously. From head to toe, he was adorned in the finest attire, and his movements exuded elegance.
A single large ring adorned his wrinkled fingers, and a wedding ring graced his left ring finger. So, he had a wife.
This was the man who had accompanied Liam Moore. He smiled kindly at me.
“Oh, forgive me. I should have introduced you to this brilliant young lady,” Liam said.
Given our location (we were possibly infiltrating the headquarters of a cult), revealing identities was too risky. We didn’t know who might recognize us. Thus, throughout our conversation, we refrained from revealing names and referred to each other with terms like “you,” “this person,” and “we.”
The clock struck midnight, interrupting our conversation. The lights dimmed, and a figure ascended the platform.
“Brothers of Turc! The great endeavour we’ve long awaited is about to begin!”
Cheers erupted from all around. When the figure in a black cloak raised a clenched fist, the noise stopped. It was like watching a well-coordinated machine. People exchanged glances filled with excitement and anticipation for what was to come.
“The sacrifices of our brothers, their long dedication, have finally paved the way to the Great One. We will become one with the stars. Let us praise the song that echoes through London.”
“Praise be.”
“The last piece we couldn’t find for so long has finally revealed itself. Pain will open the way for us. His pain will be our blessing!”
At that moment, someone was being dragged forward, their head covered with a sack. They looked around in fear, but couldn’t see anything. Bound by ropes, they seemed to have lost the will to resist, appearing almost devoid of life.
I reached for my thigh and recalled Lucita’s letter. The missing part is the heart. I began to understand what they intended to do.
“But before we commence the ritual, I have something to share with you,” murmured the man who was fiddling with a dagger.
“The numbers are far too few. We tried to gather the purest and most beautiful, but it wasn’t enough to quench our hunger. Our Father demands much. We must fill his empty stomach with many things. So, I thought…”
At this point, I felt a growing sense of dread.
“Isn’t there enough sacrifice right here?”
Someone stood up and shouted, banging the table.
In this tense silence, speaking out was either foolish or a show of confidence in their strength. I thought it was foolish, as did Liam and the middle-aged man to my right.
“Weren’t we told the ritual would be at Big Ben! This is not what we agreed on!”
“Ah, yes. That’s what we said. But that was a lie. We had a spy within the Brothers of Turc. So we told them… that it would take place at Big Ben. But think, brothers. Could we commit our act in the Queen’s domain? Victoria is quite the picky lady.”
To speak of a nation’s queen in such a manner! I was appalled, and so were the others. If the door wasn’t locked and the windows were uncovered, the protests would have continued.
There was the sound of a bolt sliding shut. Wooden planks covered the windows. The man clasped his hands and replied sorrowfully.
“The sacrifice was insufficient. But isn’t today exceptionally crowded? Your flesh and bones, blood, and brains will sate the hunger. Father King will be pleased and praise you. This one poor offering won’t complete it. No, no, no!”
Wow, a complete cultist.
“So rejoice. You will become one with the stars…. Salvation is not coming. Only the end. I’ll use you joyfully. You’ll be excellent offerings. But it doesn’t matter if we fail…”
His teeth were bared in a bright smile. He was truly mad, speaking without regard for the audience.
He laughed, saying it didn’t matter.
“There are many people, and you are always replaceable.”
Bang!
Liam and I simultaneously drew and fired our guns. I aimed at his shoulder, and Liam at the altar.
The altar, struck by Liam’s bullet, cracked and crumbled into rubble. I was shocked that a mere revolver could cause such destruction. It felt like a sniper rifle had been fired.
As I shot the man, chaos erupted. People pounded on the doors, screaming to be let out. But the windows wouldn’t open. They would remain closed until opened from the outside.
The man, hit by the bullet, staggered and collapsed. The sacrificial victim, seizing the moment, began to crawl away. The man’s eyes fixed on Liam, who had fired the shot.
“You, you, you! You!”
It was a grotesque sight. The man, covered in blood, screamed in agony as if he were melting.
“How dare you! How dare you interfere with us!”
He muttered something in an unintelligible language, and suddenly, the people in the room began to attack each other frantically.
We were not exempt. Liam, his companion, and I ran, avoiding the crazed attackers. Each one had immense strength, foaming at the mouth, and eyes devoid of focus, like people on drugs or possessed.
“Oh, Jesus, Buddha, Allah….”
“Jane, your head!”
“Oh!”
Someone grabbed my hair. I groaned, swinging my parasol.
Who is it? Let me see your face!
I retracted my thoughts within three seconds. It was like watching a zombie movie, surrounded by madness. It felt like a Halloween theme park. Eyes rolled back, inhuman growls, a symphony of chaos. We were being pushed towards the altar.
My parasol was half broken from fending off the onslaught.
Ah, life. I muttered.
Damn it. Mother, what original sin did I commit to deserve this?
In one hand, a broken parasol, in the other, a revolver. My dress was torn and tattered, my hair half pulled up and half loose. I looked like an executioner about to behead a criminal.
“Did the person who attacked you look like this?” I panted, asking.
I didn’t really want an answer, given the state of the mansion. In one corner, people were biting each other. In another, a finely dressed lady was strangling a gentleman with twisted legs. Elsewhere, someone was banging their head against a wall, screaming incoherent words. Pagan? Paganini? Whatever. Soon they’d be calling for Chopin, Liszt, and Rachmaninoff.
Even the musicians weren’t spared. Priceless instruments were being used as weapons. Clang! Bang! Smash! It was a spectacle. They were bashing heads on piano keys, slamming the lids down.
Liam Moore skillfully redirected attackers towards new targets.
Is that ethical? I pondered. It’s better than being torn apart, but selling others to save oneself feels deeply unethical!
Someone grabbed my shoulder. A mouth foaming with spit came towards my neck. Just as I thought I’d be bitten, Liam shot the attacker in the arm.
I retract my statement. Sometimes, it’s okay to lack a conscience. Conscience doesn’t feed you. Let’s be pragmatic.
19th-century London was testing me. My course of action was clear.
I had a conscience, but it just disappeared.