Crucible, Page 3

  The eight assailants—all men—wore black robes with crimson silk sashes tied across their eyes like blindfolds. But from their manner and stealth, they plainly could see through the cloths.

  Eliza Guerra stepped forward, ready to defend her library. “What is the meaning of this? What do you want?”

  An unnerving silence answered her.

  The assailants parted to reveal a ninth man, clearly the leader. Standing well over six feet, he wore a crimson robe with a black sash over his eyes, his garb a mirror image of the others. He carried no weapon, only a half-foot-thick tome. The worn leather binding was the same crimson as his robe. The gold gilt lettering on the cover was clearly visible: Malleus Maleficarum.

  Charlotte shrank back, hope dying inside her. She had prayed this was merely a high-stakes heist. Many of the library’s volumes were priceless. But the book in the man’s hand threw her into despair. It appeared to be a first edition, one of only a few still in existence. One copy was preserved here at the Joanina Library. From the deep frown on Eliza’s face, maybe it was the very same edition, snatched from the stacks.

  The book was written in the fifteenth century by a Catholic priest named Heinrich Kramer. The Latin name translated as The Hammer of Witches. Devised as a guide to identify, persecute, and torture witches, it was one of the most reviled and blood-soaked books in human history. Estimates put the number of victims attributed to this book at more than sixty thousand souls.

  Charlotte glanced at her companions.

  And now there will be five more.

  The leader’s first words confirmed her fears.

  “Maleficos non patieris vivere.”

  Charlotte recognized the admonishment from the Book of Exodus.

  Suffer not a witch to live.

  The man continued in English, though his accent sounded Spanish. “Xénese must never be,” he intoned. “It is an abomination, born of sorcery and filth.”

  Charlotte frowned.

  How did he know what we’re attempting this night?

  Still, the mystery would have to wait. Pistols were leveled intently at the group as two men carried forward a pair of five-gallon tanks. She read the lettering on the side: Querosene. She didn’t need to be fluent in Portuguese to recognize the content, especially after the men upended the tanks and oily fuel flooded across the floor of the confined space.

  The smell of kerosene quickly grew suffocating.

  Coughing, Charlotte shared a look with the other terrified women. After working in tandem for the past six years, they knew each other. No words were needed. They were not tied to wooden stakes. If this was their end, these particular witches would die fighting.

  Better a bullet than the flame.

  She sneered at the leader. “Suffer this, asshole!”

  The five women splashed through the pool of kerosene and dove into the gathering of men. Pistols fired, explosively loud in the confined space. Charlotte felt rounds pelt into her, but her momentum still carried her to the leader. She lunged and clawed at his face, gouging her nails deep into his flesh, tearing down his cheek. She tore his blindfold free and saw only fury in his exposed eyes.

  He dropped the accursed book and shoved her away. She landed on the stone floor at the edge of the pool of kerosene. Propped up on one arm, she glanced across the room in horror at the other four women sprawled and unmoving on the floor, their blood mixing with the oil.

  Weakening rapidly, she slumped to the floor herself.

  The leader swore and spat orders in Spanish.

  A half-dozen Molotov cocktails were removed from robes and quickly lit.

  Charlotte ignored them as her body grew cold, draining any fear of the coming heat. She stared back into the room, where motion drew her fading eyes. On the computer screen, the Bruxas pentagram spun rapidly, far faster than before, as if agitated by all that had transpired.

  Designed by the author

  Mystified, she stared at the blurring image.

  Was Mara trying to signal her somehow?

  Molotov cocktails were tossed into the room, shattering against the walls. Flames splashed high. Heat washed over her.

  Still, she stared into the heart of the fire.

  The symbol on the screen spun faster for another breath—then stopped abruptly. But the center could no longer hold. Fragments broke loose and scattered away.

  Designed by the author

  The leader stepped closer to her prone form, likely studying the same mystery. Though she could not see his face from where she lay on the floor, she sensed his bewilderment. All that remained of the pentagram were two prongs of the star, like the horns of a devil.

  Designed by the author

  As if recognizing the same, the man stiffened, clearly offended. He stumbled back, an arm lifted. He shouted in Spanish, “Des . . . destroy the computadora!”

  But it was already too late. The image changed one final time, a full quarter turn.

  Designed by the author

  Pistols cracked, and bullets pierced the fire. The computer screen shattered and went dark. Charlotte slumped and followed that darkness, searching for the promised light at the end, praying for Mara’s safety.

  Still, one image accompanied her into the depths. It shone brightly in her mind’s eye. It was the last image on the screen. The circle around the pentagram had vanished, leaving only a new symbol that grew to fill the monitor before it shattered.

  Designed by the author

  It looked like a Greek letter.

  Sigma.

  She didn’t know what it meant, but the purposefulness of it gave her hope as she died.

  Hope for the world.

  First

  Ghost in the Machine

  1

  December 24, 9:06 P.M. EST

  Silver Spring, Maryland

  As the coin spun through the air, Commander Grayson Pierce felt a growing sense of dread. He sat on a stool next to his best friend, Monk Kokkalis, who had tossed the quarter high into the air above the mahogany bar.

  Fellow patrons of the Quarry House Tavern gathered around them, drunk, rowdy, and loud, awaiting the fall of the coin. From across the tavern, a small band knocked out a rockabilly version of “The Little Drummer Boy.” The heavy thud of the bass drum reverberated through his ribs, adding to his tension.

  “Heads!” Monk called out as the quarter flashed brightly in the dim light.

  It was the thirteenth toss of a coin.

  Like the other twelve times, the quarter landed flat on the flesh of Monk’s palm. The silhouette of George Washington gleamed for all to see.

  “Heads it is!” Monk acknowledged, his voice slurring at the edges.

  A mix of groans and cheers rose from the crowd, depending on whether they had bet with or against Monk. For the thirteenth time in a row, his friend had tossed and called out correctly how the coin would land. Sometimes head, sometimes tail. With each successful toss, Monk and Gray were rewarded with a free refill.

  The barkeep ducked under the tavern’s mascot—a mounted boar’s head that currently sported a red Santa’s hat—and carried over a pitcher of Guinness.

  As the dark beer rose in their mugs, a bull of a man shoved between Gray and Monk, almost knocking Gray off his stool. The guy’s breath reeked of whiskey and grease. “It’s a trick . . . a fuckin’ trick. He’s using a fake quarter.”

  The man snatched the coin from Monk, inspecting it with bleary eyes.

  Another patron—clearly a friend of the accuser—tried to pull him away. They were a matched pair: late twenties, same blazers with the sleeves pushed up, same trimmed haircut. Lobbyists—maybe lawyers—Gray assessed. Either way, they all but had FORMER FRAT BROS stamped on their foreheads.

  “C’mon, Bryce,” the less drunk of the pair cajoled. “Guy’s used a half dozen different quarters. Even a nickel once. Can’t be a trick coin.”

  “Fuck that. He’s a con artist.”

  In an attempt to free himself of his friend’s restrain
ing grip, Bryce lost his drunken footing. As he flailed, an elbow swung toward Gray’s face.

  He leaned back in time and felt the breeze of the limb across his nose. The wild arm struck the side of a passing waitress encumbered with a tray balanced on her shoulder. Glasses and plates and food—mostly tater tots and french fries—went flying.

  Gray sprang up and caught the young woman around the waist. He kept her upright and shielded her from the shatter of glasses striking the bar.

  Monk was already on his feet and stepped chest-to-chest with the drunken man. “Back off, bub, or else.”

  “Or else what?” Bryce demanded. He was plainly not intimidated, especially as Monk’s shaved head reached only as high as the man’s shoulder.

  Monk had to crane his neck to glare at the other. It also didn’t help that the thick woolen sweater he wore made Monk look pudgy, hiding the solid physique honed by years in the Green Berets. Of course, the jaunty Christmas tree embroidered on the garment’s front—a gift from his wife, Kat—certainly was not going to persuade Bryce to back down.

  Recognizing the escalating tension, Gray let loose the woman in his arm. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded as she backed away from the standoff. “Yeah, thanks.”

  The barkeep leaned forward and pointed toward the exit. “Take it outside, guys.”

  By now, more of Bryce’s pack of bros crowded around the pair, ready to back up their companion.

  Great.

  Gray reached past Bryce to extract Monk from the situation. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Before he could reach his friend, someone pushed Gray from behind. Likely one of the pack who believed Gray was trying to grab their friend. He collided into Bryce, which was like poking an already irate bull.

  Bryce bellowed and swung a roundhouse at Monk’s jaw.

  Monk dodged and caught the man’s fist in his hand, stopping it in midair.

  Bryce sneered, his shoulders bunching with gym-honed muscles, ready to yank his arm free. Then Monk squeezed. The man’s sneer of contempt turned into a grimace of pain.

  Monk tightened his fingers, driving Bryce to one knee. Monk’s hand was actually a prosthesis, engineered with the latest military tech. Nearly indistinguishable from the real thing, it could easily crush walnuts in its grasp—or, in this case, the bones of a drunken lout.

  Down on the floor, it was now Bryce’s turn to crane his neck to stare at the other.

  “I’ll tell you only once more, bub,” Monk warned. “Step off.”

  One of Bryce’s group tried to intervene, but Gray blocked him with a shoulder and fixed him with an icy glare. Unlike Monk, Gray’s six-foot frame was not hidden under a thick sweater but was accentuated by a tight jersey. He had also not shaved in the past two days. He knew the dark stubble made the hard planes of his face stand out even harsher.

  Plainly sensing the predator in their midst, Bryce’s protector backed off.

  “We done here?” Monk asked his captive.

  “Yeah, man, okay.”

  Monk released his grip on Bryce’s fist, but not before knocking him to the side. Monk stepped over him with a glower but winked at Gray as he passed. “Now we can go.”

  As Gray turned to follow, the only warning was a darkening of Bryce’s complexion. After being humiliated in front of his group, the guy obviously needed to save face. He lunged up, fueled with a toxic mix of whiskey and testosterone. He dove toward Monk’s back, intending to blindside him.

  Enough already . . .

  Gray caught Bryce’s wrist as the man bowled past him. Using the attacker’s mass and momentum, he expertly wrenched and trapped the limb behind the guy’s back. He lifted Bryce up onto his toes and held him there, careful not to rip out his rotator cuff.

  With his target subdued, Gray prepared to lower the man to his heels. But Bryce was not done. He struggled, trying to throw an elbow at Gray, all but spitting with rage.

  “Fuck you. My friends and I are gonna mess you—”

  So much for judicious restraint.

  Gray yanked harder on the arm. The shoulder popped, loud enough to be heard as pain choked off the rest of the man’s threat.

  “He’s all yours!” he shouted and shoved Bryce into the embrace of his friends.

  No one bothered to catch him.

  With an agonized cry, Bryce sprawled headlong to the floor. Gray stared down the others, silently daring them to come forward. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. His lanky ash-brown hair was disheveled. His face was shadowed and dark, making his ice-blue eyes seem to glow with threat.

  Recognizing the danger, the group retreated into the depths of the bar.

  Satisfied the matter was resolved, Gray turned and headed out. He met Monk on the stoop in front of the bar. His friend, who had a notorious bottomless pit for a stomach, eyed the glowing sign of the Indian restaurant next door.

  Without turning, Monk asked, “What took you so long?”

  “Had to finish what you started.”

  He shrugged. “Figured you needed to let off a little steam.”

  Gray frowned, but he had to admit the brief altercation had succeeded in distracting him far better than the many pints of Guinness.

  Monk pointed to the restaurant sign but Gray cut him off. “Don’t even think about it.” He checked his watch as he stepped to the curb. “Besides, we got four ladies waiting on us.”

  “True.” Monk joined him as Gray hailed a cab. “And I know two who will not go to sleep without a good-night kiss.”

  He was referring to his two daughters—Penny and Harriet—who were being babysat by their significant others. Monk’s wife, Kat, had brought the girls over to Gray’s home in the Takoma Park suburb of D.C. Monk’s family was staying overnight in order to spend Christmas morning with Gray and Seichan, who was eight months pregnant. The two men had been chased off earlier in the evening. Kat had used the excuse that the women needed to wrap presents, but despite Captain Kathryn Bryant being a former intelligence officer, Gray could easily read the subtext of this excuse. Seichan was unusually tense, clearly overwhelmed by what was to come, and Kat wanted to talk in private with her—from experienced mother to expectant mother.

  Gray suspected the outing this evening had as much to do with calming his own nerves, though. He reached over and squeezed his friend’s upper arm, silently thanking him. Monk was right. He had needed to blow off some steam.

  As the cab pulled to the curb, the pair piled inside.

  Once they were under way, Gray leaned his head back with a groan. “I haven’t drunk that much in years.” He cast a scolding look at Monk. “And I don’t think DARPA would be too keen to learn you’re using their latest hardware to scam free beer.”

  “I don’t agree.” Monk made a coin appear as if out of nowhere and flipped it in the air. “They encouraged me to practice my fine-motor control.”

  “Still, that drunken frat bro was right. You were cheating.”

  “It’s not cheating when skill’s involved.”

  Gray rolled his eyes, which only made the inside of the cab spin. Monk had undergone a procedure five months ago to have an experimental brain/machine interface surgically implanted. Dime-sized microelectrode arrays had been wired into the somatosensory cortex of Monk’s brain, allowing him to control his new neuroprosthesis by thought alone, even “feel” what it touched. By being able to better sense and manipulate objects in space, Monk was able to fine-tune his motor control, so much so he could flip a coin with enough precision to know how it would land.

  At first, Gray had been amused by this “trick,” but with each toss, a vague sense of misgiving had grown. He could not say exactly why. Maybe it had something to do with the loss of a woman he once loved, who died upon the flip of a coin that had landed wrong. Or maybe it had nothing to do with the coin flip, but simply his own growing anxiety about his impending fatherhood. He never had a great relationship with his own dad, a man who was always quick to anger and who
stoked the same in his son.

  He again heard the pop of that lout’s shoulder. He knew deep down that he could have subdued the bastard without real damage, but he couldn’t help himself. Knowing that, he was plagued with doubts.

  What sort of father will I end up being? What will I teach my child?

  He closed his eyes to stop the cab from spinning. All he knew at the moment was that he was glad to be headed home. He pictured Seichan. Eight months along, she was a sight to behold. Pregnancy had only made her more beautiful, even seductive. He had heard of the glow that pregnant women exuded but only came to believe it as each month passed. The almond complexion of her skin—marking her Eurasian heritage—now shone with a luster that took his breath away. Her emerald eyes smoldered; her black hair shimmered, like a raven’s wing in flight. And all the while, she maintained a rigorous regimen of exercise and stretching that left her body strong and capable, as if toning her entire being to protect what she grew inside her.

  Next to him, Monk whispered, “Tails.”

  Gray opened his eyes and watched the quarter land in his friend’s hand. George Washington’s silhouette shone from the palm. Gray lifted an eyebrow at Monk.

  Monk shrugged. “Like I said, I need more practice.”

  “Or the promise of a free beer.”

  “Hey, quit complaining. You better start saving every nickel, dime, and quarter.” He flipped the coin again. “Cuz Pampers ain’t cheap.”

  Whether it was his warning or something about the coin toss, Gray again felt that flicker of anxiety. Still, they soon turned onto his street, which helped settle his nerves.

  To either side, an idyllic mix of quaint Victorians and Craftsman bungalows lined the road. The evening had turned cold, misting the air with an icy fog. Stars shone weakly overhead, failing to compete with the chains of Christmas lights, the glowing reindeers standing in yards, and the shine of bright trees in windows.

  As the cab pulled up to his bungalow, he stared at the porch lined by icicle lights, softly twinkling. Monk had helped hang everything a couple of weeks ago. Gray tried to picture raising a family here, playing catch in the yard, bandaging scraped knees, admiring report cards, and attending school plays.