Gabriel left the trial room, closing the door carefully behind him. A decision had been reached and the judges, and Hastings, had already gone. He sighed.
As the room had emptied, Gabriel had stepped forward. He was been the only member of his team who had received a subpoena, and he had not been surprised. Carl's decision to speak up in Hastings' defense had not surprised him either, thought a part of him wanted to say that it had. He had seen the medley of emotions directed at the friar from the moment he began to talk; sympathy and a willingness to listen, but also darker sentiments, including confusion and deep anger.
What had surprised the hunter was that he was the only one who had been ordered to attend. It made sense upon later contemplation; all of Hastings' other detractors were either dead, or an ocean away. Carl and Lamar had already had the opportunity to speak in as much depth as they desired.
Jinnette, Bharat, Gaspar, and several other members of the Order, had been seated in a row, arrayed in order of superiority. Ricardo, the man overseeing all ongoing projects in the catacombs, had nodded to the hunter. Deacon Ceslovas had winked at him. The head gardener for the Vatican might not seem a likely choice for a panel of judges, but the man had worked for the Order his entire life, and was both intelligent and fair. He had been a member of the higher panel for years now. The ten men sitting in front of the hunter were all known to him; however, whether they knew him was another matter. These were the ones who were truly in control within the Order. Gaspar might be the most powerful and visible, but he was by no means alone in making his decisions.
As soon as the door had clicked shut, Gaspar had turned to the hunter with an expectant look on his face. "We are ready to hear the evidence you have against Derek Hastings," he said, any true emotion locked as always behind a formal façade for these weighty proceedings.
Gabriel nodded, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the most telling piece. Or pieces, as the case were.
The parchments were very fragile, and he handled them with a gentleness that many – though the majority of men in this room were not among their number – would be shocked to see him display. Carefully, he unfolded the human-skin vellum so that the writing on each of the five parchments was clear. The cuneiform writing still spiked oddly in the light, wiggling on the page out of the corner of the eye.
Gabriel gritted his teeth, and began to read, in English. "From far-off realms of smoky fire, where spirits mingle and moan in the glorious home of Lelwani, I call and bind thee, strong spirit. By blood I offer, and with blood I receive, the binding of your soul to this pentacle that I have created. With the gift of Kingu, blood-father of my people, I summon thee. You are forevermore called to do my bidding, heed my word and no other. Child of Angra Mainyu, I name thee -" He had to stop here, and swallow hard. The words held an unnatural power that stilled the air in the room, searing his throat and bringing a cold sweat to his skin.
Several of the men before him released relieved breaths when he stopped. "I found these five papers within each of the human sacrifices dedicated at the points of the pentacle," he said quietly. Flipping the first sheet over, the name of one of the men of Acton was clearly visible. "In accordance with Persian magic, the true name of the sacrifice is given, as should be that of the summoner, and that of the creature being summoned. The last two required names are missing – from all of these incantations." Arraying each of the papers next to one another, the hunter continued. "These should each be identical, but there are several places where even the untrained can see that they are not." He pointed out clear variations in the cuneiform, so that the differences in the lines of spiky writing were evident. "There are clear errors in these incantations, and each mistake is different."
A few of the scholars looked at one another in distress, the true danger of the situation in Boxborough hitting home. "As I am sure you all know," the hunter continued lowly, "such inaccuracies are infinitely dangerous. At first, I believed that was all these were – mistakes of an inept mind, grasping at a difficult, dead language to produce even more difficult incantations. But I remembered something, given the time to more closely examine these parchments.
"If one does not give a name when binding a summoned demon, that person risks annihilation, and complete destruction. They have no means of controlling what is called up. But there is a means of ensuring that the creature will be bound to an individual. That person does not even have to give their name. Instead, they must make a substitution in the incantation. Instead of using the sacrifice's blood, the summoner substitutes his own blood everywhere the pronoun 'I' appears. It has an equal or greater binding power, forcing the creature to submit to the one bound into a blood-pact."
"That is true," came a precisely accented voice. Gabriel raised a brow, seeing the man for the first time. It was Father Inderpal, whose Indian heritage made him more familiar with the Middle Eastern histories and magicks. He was foremost a scholar, one of the most renowned within the Order. "There is a side-effect to this, however," the man frowned. "It binds the demon to the caster, and should something be amiss in the incantation, the caster is then doubly in the demon's power. A blood pact is heavier on the soul than a binding that is focused simply on names."
"The mistakes in the written incantation make it almost certain that the binding would fail, releasing the demon into the world," Gabriel said softly. "Then, the first thing it would do would be to turn on the one who had entered into the blood pack."
"Joseph Hastings," Gaspar nodded.
"Yes," Gabriel responded. "But one thing struck me as strange. While listening to the incantation, it was clear to me that Derek Hastings had a much better grasp of the Persian language than his father. The warlock made many mistakes," Gabriel said bluntly. "But they were small. Enough to put him at the mercy of what he called up, but not enough that the summoning would fail completely. When one does not have complete grasp of a new language, such . . . precise mistakes are more than mere chance."
His point was valid, but the hunter had more undeniable evidence. "Why should there be any mistakes at all, especially if Derek Hastings was more proficient than his father? If he was indeed, as he claims, subjugated by the warlock and forced into serving him, then any failure on his father's part would also mean consequences for him – after all, they share both blood and name. It would be in Derek's best interests to help, if his story is true – he would not risk the town and family he purports to care for by loosing a demon on the world." The hunter's words were cold and unforgiving. He eyed Hastings in some disgust. The man, gifted by right of his birth with the choice to control his own destiny, claimed to spurn that choice, and all remorse he showed was no more than a persuasive lie. The former mayor's focus was entirely on saving his own skin, truth and justice be damned.
"I – I didn't know . . ." Blinking, the accused could do no more than feebly stammer a defense. Hastings was staring at the hunter in shock. Van Helsing's bloody reputation made it certain that when most people came across his name, the only thing they thought him capable of was killing; certainly not using his mind. The hunter preferred it that way, although he found himself occasionally annoyed by it. But the benefits outweighed any momentary irritation, and it was much better to be underestimated by your opponents. Despite the care Hastings had taken by drugging him, shackling him, having his men attack him, separating his team and keeping him under surveillance, he had still underestimated Gabriel.
The mayor took a deep breath, however. "I will admit that I did not always act wisely," he said reasonably, very controlled. "I will admit to drugging Van Helsing under my father's command, and seeing to it that he was also drugged by his hosts. The man's mind and body was continually inundated with very potent herbs, designed to confuse and fatigue him. My father was amazed that the man was still on his feet, day after day. No doubt he believes what he's saying, but the truth of it is that what he says is false," Hastings protested volubly.
"I very much doubt it," Gabriel snapped, his patience at an end. His next words were icily controlled, his anger tightly reigned. "I do not deny that yes, I felt the effects of the herbs. But the writings, and their mistakes, cannot be denied. If you feel the need, any scholar can verify what I am saying. However, all the evidence I bring against this man is corroborated by the rest of my team – who were, need I add, not impaired in any way. In addition," his tone now was scathing, "I am not the one on trial at this moment."
There was a thoughtful silence, before Jinnette nodded to the hunter to continue. Gabriel's anger was sitting beneath the surface, matched only by the utter disgust he felt whenever he looked at Hastings. The man was a lying murderer. All he had to do now, was prove it. Given what had already been said and done, it was a relatively simple task.
He took a breath, and stepped away. "Hastings," he continued, more levelly, as he turned to face the man. "Would you repeat where it was you were when your father began to sacrifice Lamar Al Ghamdi?"
Hastings stared at him warily. "My father told me to take the position of dedicator, and I stood at Lamar's head."
With those words, words that he could not deny because he had already admitted to them in his testimony, words that Carl had unwittingly repeated and Gabriel had quietly emphasized during the previous half-hour, he condemned himself. But he did not know it yet. Still, still his confidence in his own intelligence surpassed all else. Despite what he had already seen, he believed what Gabriel knew – that the Vatican and the Order were composed of men who, after all, were only men. And men did not know everything.
"But those who stand at the head are not the dedicators," Gabriel contradicted him softly. A few of the men nodded in understanding; the eyes of several lit up as they understood the point he was about to make – the one that would seal Hastings' fate. "The dedicators are those who spill the blood, kill the sacrifice and dedicate the victim's life to the opening of a portal between the worlds. The one who stands at the head is the summoner, no matter what blood bonds may have been entered into the pentacle. You must have known this – in fact, there is no way you could not have known this. If you had not, you would not have said the proper words to open the portal, and the summoning would have failed." In the teaching of such magic, much had been lost. Books had burned, tablets had crumbled to dust. The little information that remained, preserved by history and spared by time, made clear that every detail of a summoning was important. Position and words, enunciation, rhythm and preparation all played an equal role. There was a small margin for error, but the failsafe held true – too many mistakes, and the summoning would fail. It would not unleash horrors into the world, it would simply take its toll from the blood spilled, and refuse to work.
Hastings had sucked in a breath, caught. He tried one more time. "But I didn't know – I only did what Father told me to do -"
"And he told you to proceed with events that would result in his death?" Gaspar asked, coldly reasonable as he pierced the heart of the issue.
Hastings floundered, searching for words, and Gabriel calmly condemned him. "Perhaps Joseph Hastings did not know that while blood, and the giving of a life, would bring the demon into the world, it would require more sacrifice, more blood, to keep it there. All in all," he turned hard eyes on Derek Hastings, "your summoning worked very well."
Hastings opened his mouth, a hot retort ready to fly off his lips, but Van Helsing wasn't finished yet. "It also didn't make sense to me that Ancell would sit in on a conversation with Pardoe and Schoen and know that the pentacle was one of confinement, and then never tell you," the hunter mused softly. "He gave up his life at your order; his dedication to you was never in question. I doubt very much that he would neglect to tell you something of such import, especially if he knew that you believed differently. The only conclusion I can come to is that you knew all along; that you manufactured the fight to rid yourself of a potential threat and place yourself in the proper position for the true summoning."
With each word, Hasting's expression changed. Discarding the mask of a harmless, somewhat cowed and remorseful man, real emotion charged the air, blackly malevolent. If looks could kill, Gabriel was certain he would be dead several times over. Hastings' face was mottled red, eyes glittering with violent fury.
"You were the summoner, but you bound your father into the blood pact, manufacturing mistakes that would be easily missed by someone who did not know the language well. You share his blood, and his name, which would guarantee that the demon would listen to you. Yet all responsibility would fall on Joseph Hastings, and he would be the one to suffer should anything go wrong, which you ensured. At once you rid yourself of a rival, and bound the demon with a direct sacrifice."
"Bastard!" Hastings swore at him. "You're a dead man." The man's voice, low and ragged, was a promise of retribution. Gabriel resisted the urge to sneer derisively; Hastings' very existence turned his stomach.
"Clever," Jinnette murmured lowly. The men at the panel were muttering to one another, and Hastings did not miss their glances and the tone of their voices. The man's temper snapped. Growling lowly, he began muttering several words in an indecipherable tongue, his voice raising and lowering with the incantation. He finished with a shout, confident of the result.
The words had been gratingly painful, scraping along the sanity and senses of the listeners. But the room only shuddered faintly around them. Hastings' face registered shocked dismay, and sudden, ugly fear. He had obviously expected something much more destructive.
Gaspar was scowling, and all the members of the panel of judges were infuriated. "That," Gaspar snapped, "was a small example of the protections in place on the Vatican, which your father so coveted and you, apparently, know so little about. You cannot strike at us here."
Hastings was not to be deterred – even as Gabriel stepped forward to gag him, he snapped out a phrase and directed it, with a gesture, to the men in judgment over him.
But the hunter got in the way. The words bounced harmlessly off him, to ricochet off the walls and spear the air throughout the room, growing ever more powerful as they echoed in the closed space without release. Gabriel said one quiet word, more certain of the Ancient Persian dialect he was speaking than Hastings could ever be. There was no substitute for experience. The bolts of fire and water coursing dangerously through the air disappeared, nullified – their existence erased.
Hastings gaped at him once more. "What are you?" he growled.
"Well trained," Gabriel answered, eschewing the dramatic answer for something that he knew was guaranteed to frustrate and anger the man. He stepped close, and in a trice had gagged the former mayor of Boxborough. Hastings scowled at him. Gabriel turned his back dismissively.
"I would like to know how you were able to read so much of the incantation without being blasted to kingdom come, or prevented by the protections we have in place." The curious speaker was, unsurprisingly, someone Gabriel had never met before. He was a thin and balding oriental man, young despite his lack of hair.
"Practice," Gabriel replied blithely. That was not exactly true – but this man would not believe the truth. Gabriel had been the one to place the indomitable protections about the Vatican, over a thousand years ago. The place had always been different, special somehow. Since laying the protections on this place, he had repaired and modified them; and as creator, he was able to do more within them than anyone else. "I also left quite a lot out."
His answer had been easily accepted, intended as it was to placate. It had been only a short time later that both a decision and a verdict had been reached. The pronouncement was not a surprise to anyone in the room. Derek Hastings, for his crimes of murder, black sorcery, betrayal and perjury, was sentenced to death. The sentence would be carried out three days hence.
The sorcerer, eyes spitting fiery hatred, had been led away, and the panel had dispersed. Gabriel's dismissal was unspoken, and an understood factor of the announcement of the verdict before the panel and accused. News would reach the rest of the Order quickly. Van Helsing was told, before their departure, that Gaspar intended to speak with Carl and Lamar separately, and soon.
The hunter realized, upon seeing a deserted corridor when he left the room, that Gaspar had decided to immediately deal with the other members of his team. There was nowhere else they would be, despite their feelings on the trial. They wanted answers, and because he had stayed in that room, Gabriel would be the only one to give it to them. But Gaspar had gotten there first. He had a short reprieve then, from Carl's emotions and Lamar's questions. He would use it well.
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I didn't really want to write this chapter, but a faithful reviewer nearly begged me to see what was going on behind closed doors, so here it is.I just wantedyou to know that I AM done;please review, and help me reach my goal of 200! Besides, the more reviews I get means I'll post the last 2 chapters (yup, 2, you heard right!) much faster!