Chapter 1. Ascol
My name is Holocaust
Their name is Legion
They love the death so much
They like to watch
The heavens and the flame…
(Louna - Burned Alive).
He knew they'd come for him some day.
All those six long years he knew.
Standing on his knees near the first row of lousy benches and pretending to pray, he waited for his eyes to accustom to the darkness.
At least they were not doing it in broad daylight.
A part of him didn't even want to resist. It was inevitable, after all. Nobody can run and hide forever.
The door creaked. Two pairs of feet walked towards him.
They didn't even try and mask their presence. Why bother? Six long years passed and they knew that each year made him weaker. They had no reason to hurry…
"Father Katt," Someone said with a horrible accent.
He hesitated for a few more precious seconds, unable to make a decision.
One more little step…
The last shreds of doubt disappeared as his patience ran thin.
The first Key penetrated the wall with a deafening clang, precisely at the spot where the tall figure in purple clothes stood about half a second ago. The second guest managed to push his comrade to the floor at the last moment and then opened fire from his laughably small silenced pistol.
The attacker was obviously afraid of damaging the altar, which stood in the twilight. Such a fear could be exploited: Ascol's hand flashed with unbearable pain as its owner called upon his old power. That pain was something akin to a protest of a tired human body – a protest against something that was waking up after six years of slumber. Against the old power he hoped he'd never have to use again. A short blade grew on the hilt he took from the folds of his robe a couple of seconds ago.
He made it just in time: it took the gunman only a few moments to empty the whole clip, and so he was busy reloading his puny pistol. A thin silvery beam, gleaming in the darkness, relieved the assassin of his pea-shooter. The broken gun fell to the ground along with the severed fingers of its owner. A barely contained scream pierced the night. Ascol was ready to finish him off with his last Key – which meant he'd have to snap the other assailant's neck with his bare hands. The shooter retreated, wobbling, raising both his hands and muttering something under his nose: though the maimed fingers on his right hand only dripped blood, he was conjuring a flickering violet pattern which radiated menace with his left palm.
The last Key left its master's hand.
The mage's whisper turned into a deafening roar, but it didn't help him one bit – the last words of his spell drowned in hoarse gurgling. Ascol was far away by the time the sound of his foe's body crashing against the floor reached him – he preferred retreat to engaging the third attacker after his last Key was used up.
He knew these narrow corridors like the back of his palm. He also knew that a car was waiting for him at the rear exit…
He heard screams behind him, roaring engines and clanking armor suits outside.
Too bad. Seems like they were serious this time.
Thoughts raced in his head, one after another. What the hell? If they bothered to gather that many people, why send those amateurs?
Ascol grinned as the answer came to him: the relationship between his brass and the Association haven't changed during the last six years. So if it were a joint operation of two equally monstrous organizations, ready to tear at each other's throats, everything would make sense. Association must have sent some greenhorns as spectators, thinking they won't have to engage in fight. Ascol should have been served to them on a silver plate, thoroughly trashed by a squad of knights. And same as always, those arrogant mages were easily tricked into believing that their opponent was weak enough even they could take him down. Who knows? They might even have volunteered – after all, capturing a living legend such as Ascol would catapult them through the ranks of their hierarchy. Well, whatever their motives, they had it coming.
The door was so close he could feel the freedom. Keys glinted in his hands.
They won't catch up to him. They'd never catch up.
The door swung open. Chilling wind blew in Ascol's face…
And the light of a dozen headlights blinded him.
Ascol blinked for a while – there was obviously nowhere to hurry now – as he counted four old all-purpose army transporters as well as more than a dozen people in old army uniforms. They were armed heavily enough to instill a certain respect. A couple more walked towards him. One of them was a lean thug, packed in a full suit of armor with a crest on its breastplate, which, unfortunately, Ascol couldn't make out because of the blinding light. Yet it wasn't the thug that scared him. It was the second one – a little man about 50 years old by the looks of his partially gray hair. He was three inches lower than the knight and had a tired wrinkled face. His eyes were like two windows into the emptiness of the Universe and his lips were twisted with a grimace of irritation.
"Julian?" Ascol tried to hide his surprise.
The old man just spat on the ground angrily and turned to the giant, who stood next to him. "His Eminence Julian Vert, if you don't mind," he said with palpable delight, enjoying Ascol's reaction.
"No..." Ascol backed down, pressing his back against the wall. "You couldn't…"
It was terrible. It… damn, it just couldn't be true. Because if he really was a cardinal now, it meant…
"Yes, Ascol," The small man grinned. "The House of Slaughter belongs to me now. Corporal, handle this putrid trash."
The knight of the Church stepped forward, armor clanking. Ascol knew numerous ways to defend himself against such brutes, but it was what Julian said that robbed him of hope and broke his will to fight, the words ringing loudly in his ears.
The House of Slaughter belongs to me now.
Julian the Raving achieved his goal at long last and Katt Ascol felt personally responsible for that. He ran away, leaving Julian's way up clear and free. He stopped being a problem…
Raising his eyes, Ascol tried to catch the knight's gaze through his visor. Tried to find something besides dull obedience in those eyes.
The House of Slaughter belongs to me now.
It was all over. Everything was meaningless now.
Armored fist crushed his stomach, but the knight thought it was not enough – he followed up with a kick to the shin. An elbow to the chin was the last accord. After indifferently kicking the body on the wet grass once more, the thug walked away.
"He's ready. Load him up."
"What about that idiot from the Tomb?"
"They'll patch him up."
"Oh really? He had his bowels spooled on that damned pike!"
"They'll manage."
"Did you have to send him ahead?"
"Yes. He was too insolent and I don't like insolent people," said Julian. "And people I don't like don't tend to stay alive very long."
A dirty and smoky small flat. Its windows were covered with heavy sullied drapes, swaying slightly in the draft. Julian decided against turning on the ceiling lights and used a small lamp. His men seated Ascol by the table, at first trying to handcuff him to the flimsy chair, but then they removed the cuffs and left the room after their superior gave them a look of disapproval. Ascol immediately started massaging his numb hands and his face returned a defiant smug Julian knew and hated so much.
"Cavaillon. Was it necessary to crawl that far?" Julian's long withered fingers drummed on the table surface which was long since clean or smooth. "Might as well run all the way to the northern pole. I have a tight schedule, you know. Had to put on a damn show to get out here for a couple days."
"Didn't look like you were in a hurry," said Ascol in a rasped voice. "I expected you to show up in a year or two, not six. Not that I don't understand you have lots of work, mind you. Oh, and your preparations were shitty as always. Throwing nothing more than two mages at me was a borderline insult."
Peering into Julian's dull angry face, covered in pink scars, Ascol noticed he's got a second chin and his dreadful eyes under the heavy gray brows were darker than usual.
Julian Vert intimidated or bribed everybody in Vatican, who stood in his path to the seat of power. And still, the department he desired most was beyond his reach.
Until now.
Now, if only this monster wasn't lying (which he wasn't – Ascol already noticed a Cardinal's signet ring on his finger), even that bastion fell before his feet.
"Thank your friends from the Assembly," rasped Julian. "If not for them, you'd be rotting by now. I'd make sure of that."
"Well, if it had been for me to decide, you'd have bit it a long time ago". – replied Ascol. "There's nothing else in my life I regret more than rescuing you on that day."
"You've ruined the whole operation."
"It was doomed to fail from the start, you know. Being planned by a clinical idiot and all that."
The third man, sitting in the corner laughed quietly and covered his mouth with a sleeve. Tall, but none too handsome, with a clean shave and dusky skin, his hair was dark dirty color, his bilges were sharp. He was twirling was something resembling a thick white pencil in his hands. At some point the device clicked, ejecting a long sharp needle.
"Not here, Koss," frowned Julian.
"Why do you care?" drawled the man, stretching himself.
Ascol gazed at the embroidery at his sleeve, recognizing the symbol the Atlas Academy, the Association most accursed branch, lost somewhere in Egyptian sands. That moment the mental picture he placed together with such effort crumbled before his eyes.
He understood perfectly what his erstwhile colleagues wanted from him. Yet the fact that there was a mage from the Wandering Tomb in the capture team, the one who got skewered on Ascol's Keys, was already suspicious. No less suspicious than such an awful lot of trained knights, tasked with bringing down a single old fool. And now Atlas turned out to be mixed up in all that. But the most interesting part was that Ascol was still alive and the another living legend, Julian the Raving was sitting on the other side of the table and, despite being most displeased and cursing all along, it didn't seem to plan on killing him just yet. Ascol was brought along alive, so there was something they needed him for. That alone gave him some leeway to bargain. And, Ascol had no intention to sell himself cheap.
"Well, I hope you forgive me for not wanting to recall the good old days," said Ascol. "Why did you need me all of a sudden?"
"Why do you think we need you?" Julian replied angrily.
"Because I still lack extra holes in my skull," Ascol shrugged.
"That can be rectified."
"Yes, but you won't do it. You're not allowed to," Ascol took a calculated risk.
"The time when someone could not allow me to do something has passed," Julian replied immediately. "Now everyone dances to my tune, Katt, so I guess I could stop wasting my time with you, considering that's the one thing that is always in short supply. But to miss your detention – oh, I'd never do that. Years passed while I brought down everyone who covered you. I made them my allies, my pawns. To tell the truth, they asked me to leave you alone, they pleaded all the time and I have to admit – I honored their wishes. But now…"
Julian fell silent as if he struggled with words. It was obviously hard for him to discuss the true reason for this meeting.
What could have happened?
"If you want to know, we really can kill you here and now. Just like that. And get rid of all the evidence. And you know how glad I'd be to give that order. But we shall only do so if you refuse to cooperate."
"Aw, I have always been good at negotiating," Ascol tried to smile with his bruised lips. "We might actually come to an agreement. Still, you have already lowered your odds, haven't you? I'm a lot more willing to talk when people are not trying to beat the shit out of me, you know."
"Insolent as always, I see," said Julian in a tired voice. "Regardless, let's get to business. As you probably know, you were captured by…"
"Can I have my cigarettes back?"
"No. I hate smoke."
"And I hate your guts, but I bear with it. Give me my smokes or tell your stories to the wall over there."
"Hope you choke on it," Ascol caught a wrinkled pack before it hit his face.
"So he gets away with it, but I don't?!" Koss jumped on his seat. "To hell with you!"
"Don't you dare…" began Julian, but the alchemist had already jerked his sleeve up and stabbed his throbbing arm with a needle.
"He does that every few hours," spat Julian, his face distorted with anger and distaste. "I thought nothing would disgust me more this filthy sight, but I was wrong, Katt. You're worse in every aspect."
"Always at the top, huh," Ascol exhaled smoke and dropped the matches on the table.
"You were, long ago," Julian lightly clapped his palm on the table. "In the seventies, maybe. Now you're you are nothing more than a worthless old drunk. You are a wreck of a man. And please, don't look at me like that. I've been watching you for a few years now. Or did you seriously believe that we couldn't reach you?"
"But…"
"We really didn't have time to spare for the likes of you. I had my hands full at the Vatican. Even with all the surveillance I started forgetting about you after a while. I'd forget about you completely, but a little while back they told me someone among the top brass wants you."
"What for?"
"Well, we had an… incident," Julian answered after a short moment of silence. "Which was followed by an order from the top, which said, and I quote, "bring that fucker Katt Ascol in immediately and break him a couple of bones if you really have to". Of course, the said order came through me and I just couldn't help myself."
"So what exactly happened that made you seek help from a drunken old burnout?" Ascol burst into a coughing fit. "And do me a favor, don't play dumb. You can't be oblivious to what's happening, especially when some dirty deeds are underway. And this is exactly the case"
"Koss. Enlighten him."
"Whatever you say," the alchemist clicked his "pencil" once more, sheathing the needle back inside and tried to focus his eyes on Ascol. "You see, we have a very delicate situation here…"
"Get to the point," answered Ascol angrily.
"We need to neutralize an extremely dangerous subject," Koss spoke very slowly, dragging out every word.
"And how does it concern us?"
"As I've said, the situation is delicate," Koss continued. "There is a number of reasons why the Association cannot deal with this problem, at least for now. But the clock is ticking for both our organizations."
"A different question, then. How does that concern me?" Ascol put his elbows on the table, leaned forward and stared into Julian's dreadful eyes. "You have nothing that would make me want to go back."
"I'm afraid you're gravely mistaken," smiled Julian. "We have quite a few coercion methods at our disposal, some of which are unknown even to you."
"Am I expected to be afraid now?" smirked Ascol.
"Have you ever been tortured?" asked Koss.
"Indeed I have, and by far worse scumbags that His Eminence. Tortured, interrogated…" Ascol sighed. "So will anyone tell me already why did you have to tie me up?"
"Not today," answered Julian after a second or two. "Maybe tomorrow, if we get there in time…"
"Where are we going?" Ascol asked.
"Where do you think?" Julian grinned again. "You probably still don't realize just how bad your situation is. People are taking interest in you. People above my station, too. The scale is far beyond what you can imagine… Regrettably, even I don't have all the information; however I suppose it concerns some old business of yours. Then, after you outlive your usefulness, we can finish you off. Don't you worry, though; we still remember your past services, so it will be clean and quick."
"How generous of you," Ascol took another cigarette from the pack. "I assume it's not an offer one can refuse, is it?"
"You understand me perfectly." Julian stretched his fingers with a creak. "You will go with us, answer whatever questions you are asked and you won't lie. If you don't cooperate, our corporal Andrie, whom you already know, will break you something. Oh and I almost forgot… Koss?"
"Should be right about now," the alchemist looked at his watch. "Father Katt, how do you feel? Nauseous, maybe? Head spinning?"
"What…" Ascol started.
Koss raised from his seat and took a used syringe from his pocket.
"I gave you a shot of my special something," said the alchemist.
"Poison?" wheezed Ascol. "That just reeks of your style, Julian."
"No, it's not," smirked the old man. "You see, we can't let you into the Vatican looking so miserable. I mean just look at yourself, Katt, you look absolutely disgusting."
"You are the last person to throw stones."
"I injected you with my latest brainchild," said Koss. "It will flush all the shit you've been torturing yourself with for the last six years out of your system. Or at least it is supposed to. In all honesty, I've never used it on human subjects, so your input would be welcome."
Ascol tried to respond in kind, but he couldn't: he was struck by seizures. He tried to hold on to the table, but lost his balance and fell to the floor. His whole body burned from inside.
And then he started vomiting.
"I think we can leave for about half an hour," Koss said, looking indifferently at the man that was writhing on the floor. "He is going to leak filth, which is not a pleasant sight as you can understand. Let's get him afterwards… assuming he survives the process, of course."
The chair creaked at the push. Ascol choked on his bile, blood and what was left of his meager dinner. He stretched out his crooked arm, trying to crawl away, but Julian stepped on it with his heavy boot and crushed it under his heel, smiling.
"I told you you'd pay your debts. Consider this your first reimbursement."
Julian picked up his robes squeamishly, trying not to soil them, and left the room.
Katt Ascol assumed the position of the full executor at the age of twenty two years. Now, he was already past forty, but regardless of his age, he always realized that he had no say in the matter since birth. He couldn't wish for anyone to be born in a family initiated in the Eighth Sacrament, because nobody deserved such a gruesome fate.
And still, someone had to do it. He was told so on numerous occasions. Later he learned to tell the very same thing himself – this time to the other people like him, those who shouldn't have existed. The ones welcomed by the House of Slaughter.
Officially, they didn't even exist. Unofficially – that department didn't even have a vague name to hide under, like the Inquisition did, fading into obscurity as the "Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith". It was where Julian Vert had originated from, who later gained notoriety as Julian the Raving. An alias few dared to speak aloud. Ascol was once a part of this group.
Long ago…
Indeed, he used to be once an exemplar to look up to, a perfectly greased cogwheel in a complex machine, doing his dirty, bloody, yet surprisingly holy work. Because someone has to do it…
From an outsider's point of view, there were barely any differences between Julian and Ascol. Especially so, if one would compare them now – after an exhausting flight and equally exhausting grooming and licking into shape session Ascol just went through. Julian, on the other hand, had dressed himself for the occasion long before, wearing his crimson mantle, which, to Ascol, made him look even sillier than usual. Katt himself put on what was brought to him by his escorts: a dark suit, silk shirt with a stand-up collar and squeaky clean shoes. Of course, they gave him time to take a bath and see a barber – even thought he was watched at every step by the omnipresent corporal Andrie. It goes without saying that his broken fingers were healed – soon after the incident in fact, when they were still in France. Now Ascol's reflection in the mirror was a tall, slim and confident man. His eyes were alive, brimming intense awareness and his face was intense and flawlessly shaved. He didn't have much in common with the Vatican clerks, who preferred gray colors. He didn't look like a member of the aristocracy either – there weren't any symbols of high station on his person: neither a cross, nor a signet ring. But an uneducated onlooker would not spot many differences between Katt and Julian, even though in reality, those were quite significant.
Julian Vert avoided personally engaging in bloodshed. The scars on his face were a reminder of an old assassination attempt. The attempt to get rid of this meddlesome person failed miserably, mainly because the killer was barely prepared. Nowadays, however, Julian was well protected in all aspects. Being a Prince of the Church, he could not be removed from his office by any means short of death. He was supported by the Pope and owned him his position. Julian was a citizen of the smallest, yet a very powerful state. He belonged to the most rigid branch of his organization and, as many have heard, was delighted to bring out the most terrifying tools of torture mankind ever knew. That being said, he was capable of shutting people up without a drop of blood spilt, which made him a valued and respected member of his rank. His authority was supported by the ruthlessness and urgency he showed in his work. Indeed, the Inquisition was now hidden and no witches were burned at stakes, but Julian remained useful nonetheless. Intellectual defamation, excommunication… he had no shortage of ways to make his targets suffer. He became a master in the art of victimizing and smearing people. Indeed, Vert was formidable as ever, no need for the bonfires. Ascol had vivid memories of the people who fought the corruption in Vatican a little too eagerly and risked uncovering terrifying truths about the vast money sinks and the projects they fed. Such people were quickly kicked out from their offices, no matter how high. He remembered a clueless bank CEO, who uncovered some such things and committed suicide just three days after being introduced to all the compromising material Julian had on him. He remembered priests, protesting against Vatican policies, whose every mistake, each transgression, no matter how petty and small was brought to the light by Vert, who drove them to despair. Those who didn't personally earn Julian's ire, were stripped of their rank and excommunicated, but if someone caused problems, didn't cooperate or simply had resilience to stand up to his usual methods – such people were treated much more harshly. Death squadrons knew their trade excellently: people who crossed Julian's way would usually ended up in a roadside ditch, with a bullet in the head. Vert's alias was indeed well-earned.
There was nothing surprising with the fact that such a man was initiated in the Eighth Sacrament, the darker side of the Church. Nor was it strange that even there he managed to get his greedy hands on whatever could be deemed useful. The House of Slaughter, created by the collective efforts of one hundred and twenty cardinals, proved a powerful tool in Julian's hands on his way to the seat of power. Of course, he probably wouldn't reach the papabili title, no matter how steady his career was, but even having the executor department at his side was a significant achievement. In due time it might allow him to seize the control over the most monstrous of the Church's departments – the Burial Agency. Although nobody could muster enough power to take it under personal control so far. But what if he could succeed? If one could imagine it for a brief moment – Julian the Raving, ruling over this den of sin – it would mean he has the entirety of the Church in his hands. Would he risk it turning his gaze to it in the future? The moment Ascol heard about the new head of the House of Slaughter, he stopped doubting it. Julian Vert will risk everything to get there.
Yet, for all that Julian the Raving was a dark living legend – Katt Ascol was no different in his time. His hands were dripping with blood after the infamous "Blizzard" operation, which spelled the abrupt end of his career. Julian, who was overseeing that affair, was only probing his ground, carefully searching for ways to topple the erstwhile curators of the House of Slaughter. Ascol could erase Julian from the face of Earth once and for all that day, yet chose to save him from almost inevitable death, only to be backstabbed in return. The operation was a failure indeed, but not because of the one who was chosen as a scapegoat. Ascol had to go into hiding, into the exile – and even that miserable fate was better than what would have happened, if not for the Assembly of the Eighth Sacrament. They might have simply dispose of him the quickest possible way otherwise.
In the end all he got was a brief respite and now he was hastily fixed and dragged to meet his fate.
The House of Slaughter had no clear division of labor. Anyone who attained the rank of executor was by definition able to vanquish all kinds of abominations or, at the very least, engage them in combat with a chance of victory. Nonetheless, people often development unique sets of skills as their careers progressed: some were more proficient in eradicating the vampire kind, some hardened their souls enough to exorcise demons, others were a bane of mages…
Father Katt Ascol belonged to the last group. His hands were soaked with blood, but it mostly belonged to the once-noble progenies of the magus dynasties, who slipped on their treacherous way. Life of a magus was a hard one and Ascol would never call it pleasant or happy after learning what they have to go through. Not even close. Life of magecraft was a never-ending struggle for power and knowledge which could grant this power. Nothing was forbidden as long as said struggle was safely hidden away from the eyes of the mundane folk. It was a cruel game, one that magi had to play simply by the virtue of having been born with certain aberrations. Katt Ascol had seen enough to tell the fundamental difference between the magus and the human. He saw the rituals designed to end the world or worse. He saw old documents, describing the "Holy Grail wars" – complex rituals performed by power-hungry mages. The mad and raving, dancing around the fabled diabolical wish-granting device. He saw what inhuman experiments were performed on the mundane folk, which a typical magus considered to be livestock. Ascol saw brothers and sisters eagerly murdering each other to earn the right of attaining the family's magic crest, which holds the collective memories and experience of its past owners. Katt remembered the parents, praising the opportunity to vivisect their children and study the anomalies in the Magic Circuitry growth. He both saw how they summoned horrors from Beyond and knew what it took to send those horrors back. Saw far too much to keep his faith, but thankfully not quite enough to lose it completely. Katt knew his mission well. Yes, the life of a mage was a never-ending struggle, for they were always balancing on a razor's edge. A mage is ready to die since childhood – and those who were too reckless to keep in line were picked off quick and clean by Katt Ascol and his colleagues – the ones whose job was to burn away most wretched and dangerous outcasts with magic circuits in their bodies. They were ready to tear apart anyone the top brass deemed dangerous.
Some of his peers thought themselves saint, others were zealous fanatics. Katt was neither and, as he often joked, if he happened to be a knight, the motto on his shield would be "For the people and a nice salary". After all, he's never had a say in the matter. After all, someone just has to do it.
Julian, Ascol and Koss arrived to the Apostolic Palace in the cardinal's snazzy limousine, enjoying the luxury such a way of transportation offered. The drug-addled magus sat between Ascol and Julian, as if suspecting the old enemies might try and throttle each other at any moment, and so giving them both a target they could enjoy hating together - himself. It was a wise decision on his part as the Atlas academy was, no matter how special its standing with the Church, an easy and convenient scapegoat. The guards saw Vert's glum face and saluted with their halberds while he strolled past, not even bothering to look back. Koss and Ascol were not as welcome here: wary looks were the only greeting they got. Katt was very surprised to know that the mage was going to participate in the coming audience with the top brass. That fact itself was enough to keep him on the edge.
What could happen for a magus – from the Atlas academy no less, damn it – to be invited to a meeting of such a high level? What calamity made the Church and the Association officially join their forces, and not for something as simple as a single joint bloodbath?
The meeting was appointed for half past six in the morning, but the clock showed 5:20 a.m. – Julian always had a habit of getting a little nervous about being late so he decided to go early. However, there might have been another reason behind this, and Ascol hoped that Vert dragged him here so early to explain the details of the case.
The spacious hall had no lighting besides a window to the garden, which let only pale gray light inside. It was raining. Ascol recalled seeing this room once – these bookshelves as well as these walls and ceiling, painted by some unknown artists…
Besides those who arrived, there were only four people in the hall. Katt recognized only the Archbishop Rayle, whose dribbled and wrinkled face always seemed to form a grimace of boredom and contempt. Such a face was hard to forget. The other two were presumably from the Assembly and one of the official departments, which provided the formal cover for the Church's darker side. Julian here was the official representative of both the House of Slaughter and the oldest congregation of roman curia. Koss represented the Atlas academy, obviously…
The fourth person stood near the wall to the left from the Vatican clerks, sitting at the table, his face covered with a cowl.
"Don't you dare utter a single word in English within an earshot from that creature," Julian whispered to Ascol while passing him by and taking a seat by the table.
The Atlas alchemist dropped casually into the armchair near the wall. Only two people remained standing: Ascol and the one Julian called a "creature".
"We are glad to meet you again, father Katt," said Rayle in a weak rasping voice, as his eyes showed no sign of hospitality. "Let me introduce you to…"
Ascol's hunch proved right – the thin, balding man to the right from Julian was the representative from the Assembly of the Eighth Sacrament. The other one, who looked weary much like Rayle – was one of the many overseers of the knight orders, whose hideouts were scattered across the whole Europe. When Katt turned his gaze towards the hooded figure, which, as he was told, didn't tolerate any language besides Italian, it moved a little and said:
"Classe de funerailles, numero de l'agent 7."
Hearing those words, Julian made such a face he might as well have taken a bite of a particularly bitter lemon. Others whispered between themselves. Ascol studied the Narbareck's hound with his eyes, realizing how serious his situation was and just how much he had underestimated it earlier. Koss said they needed to urgently dispose of somebody. But who could alarm both the Wandering Tomb and the Atlas academy that much, making the Vatican request assistance from the Burial Agency, to boot?
"Let's get straight to business," said Rayle while digging through the papers on his desk. "Father Katt, answer our questions quickly and precisely so we can finish the formalities soon. I have to inform you that we are authorized to implement the additional coercion methods up to eighth level of severity in case you refuse cooperation. Is that clear?"
"Yes," said Ascol in a tired voice, already remembering how to play that old game, which he went through more than once. "It's just that after the eighth level of coercion I probably won't be able to answer your questions anyway."
"You don't need to say anything besides what's asked of you," Rayle continued. "So. Father Katt, in the early seventies you have been serving in a… special task force, which is currently being overseen by His Eminence Julian Vert…"
"Sir, yes sir," – replied Ascol coldly, imitating a military manner of speech.
"You had an excellent service record," Rayle mumbled without taking his eyes of the papers. "You took part in the operation "Blizzard" in the ninety eighty seven…"
"As if there was anyone who didn't," grumbled Ascol. "Or have you forgotten already, just how massive that horde we had gathered was? Or maybe you hadn't…"
"Yes or no?"
"Yes."
"Under your command the "Dogma" squad had successfully completed all the main objectives, including reaching the very heart of the so-called "Second Compound" of the…" Rayle frowned, barely containing his disdain. "Leningrad Club. However, when presented with an opportunity to capture the key object…"
Ascol clenched his teeth. He knew what was coming next.
And he even guessed right almost each word Rayle spat out till the end of his tirade.
"The ensuing internal investigation helped to find out that not only you have given an order to retreat and thus you were found guilty of the loss of the key object, but also you have personally…"
"The odds of successful capture were zero," spat Ascol, as if returning to that day six years ago. "The only alternative to retreat was the complete elimination of my squad, including the spectators."
"You have violated the direct order from the operation overseer."
"I have done so in order to save his life."
Julian's face remained opaque as if he hadn't been the overseer in question.
"I see no reason to dig through the old cases," He said. "Father Katt was deemed guilty long ago, now we have more pressing concerns at hand…"
"Indeed," Rayle quickly changed the topic. "I will be as explicit as possible, father Katt. The situation we have on our hands demands desperate measures, including calling a temporary alliance with the Wandering Tomb research facilities for the purposes of sharing intelligence, as well as requesting assistance from the Atlas academy. The Clock Tower seems indifferent to this incident for now, but we have no doubts about possibilities of London's involvement at a later date."
"May I ask what actually happened?" exhaled Ascol.
"We were challenged, father Katt. A certain… person openly declared a war against the Holy Church in a way we cannot ignore."
"So how was that declaration made?"
"During the last two weeks the Church has lost six members of the highest circles, who were involved, one way or the other, with my department," said Julian in a cold voice. "Each of them was murdered in an extremely violent way in their own house. The guards, whenever present, were also annihilated to the last man. Silencing the journalists and stray witnesses is becoming very costly and if the murders continue…"
"Do we have our suspects?"
"A mage from the Wandering Tomb," Koss spoke, startling everyone. "He got his hands on an artifact of colossal power. The very possession of such an item makes him comparable to some of the Twenty Seven. At least that is the conclusion some of our experts came to."
"Those "experts" of yours are drama queens alright," snorted Julian.
"He is a progeny of an ancient European family – this is the main reason the Association still hesitates to issue an elimination order," continued Koss. "The other possibility is that they simply cannot believe he is now in the possession of the said artifact. But as soon as London gets the proof, the Clock Tower will make its move."
"The Wandering Tomb is preparing for a global operation. – Julian continued. – They won't leave a single stone unturned in the whole Europe to obtain that item…"
"And the desire to acquire the secret of its activation will make them hurry and spill as much blood as necessary. Of course, we are not going to sit idle either," Koss resumed speaking. "That item must end up in Atlas' possession. When the Tower enters the scene, the risk of an open global conflict will become almost certain and, according to our analytical department…"
"So you have a psycho mage, who got his hands on some unbelievably dangerous shit, which made him comparable to an Ancestor in terms of power," summarized Ascol. "He wasn't afraid to openly go against the Church, as well as to draw attention from each of the three branches of the Association, who also want that trinket so badly they are going to rip each other's throats to have it. His actions will provoke the war within the magus society and compromise the Masquerade on the global level, but even that is of no concern to him. And you don't have a clue as of where he's going to strike next. I have a lot of questions, but the first one is… what does this have to do with me?"
"You've met him," replied Rayle.
"What?" Katt couldn't hide his surprise. "This is bullshit, I don't know anyone on that level…"
"He knows you, though." Rayle threw a photo to Katt. "This is what he left at the last murder scene."
Ascol caught the photo in the air and pierced it with his gaze. Written in blood, how trivial… he saw it so many times…
He examined it thoroughly and felt… no, not exactly fear. It was a feeling he got into a very nasty business. A feeling he couldn't brush aside that easily any longer.
"WHO IS HOLLOW NOW, FATHER KATT ASCOL?
STOP ME IF YOU CAN"
"God, this is…" Ascol had a fit of nervous laughter. "Wait, it's nonsense! It can't be him!"
"Explain yourself immediately, father Katt," rasped Rayle. "Who left this message?"
"Albert Blach," Ascol exhaled. "Also known as the Hollow Blach. The most worthless magus I've ever known."