Las Vegas

The silence emanating from the office building on Las Vegas Boulevard South had an almost eerie quality about it, only exacerbated by the never-ending maelstrom of sound pouring forth from the main strip less than a mile away. Evening had transformed Vegas from the desert hell that paid homage to its nickname, into an ocean of sparkling lights, endless potential, and of course, temptation. This building, however, was as dark as the barren landscape surrounding it, save for a single flickering glow, barely making itself known through the large paned windows of the penthouse office. A fire crackling in the middle of a record-breaking desert summer would seem, at the very least, an oddity to anyone noticing its light as they passed, but it did not seem to concern the room’s sole occupant.

A man stood before the window, his back to the flames, contemplating the beast coming to life before him as strange shadows flitted around the room, courtesy of the erratic light. He was tall, although not abnormally so, with both posture and demeaner that exuded the confidence befitting the founder of one of the most profitable entertainment businesses in the country. His lithe figure coiled and rippled beneath his expensive fitted suit as he surveyed the city, an almost feline grace present in every slight movement. His features were, of course, as flawless as the rest of him: chiseled jaw, perfectly straight nose, slightly turned up, and eyes of the purest silver, although without any warmth at all. He had been called the most handsome man in Las Vegas on more than one occasion, accepting the compliment with false humility, as was his way. The man’s lips curled up in a smile that did not quite reach his cold, lifeless eyes as he watched the night’s debauchery begin. He had visited a lot of cities over the years – Paris, Kowloon, Dubai, Mexico City. He had partaken in their depravity, and he loved them all, but there was just something about this little desert oasis that just spoke to him in a way the others did not. Vegas was where the masses came when they wanted to check their morality at the door and really indulge in their desires. After all, he mused, without the sin it would just be another city.

“Hello Lou,” a voice rang out behind him with an almost musical lilt, shattering his peaceful musings. “Still going with the domineering décor, I see. But honestly, don’t you think the fire is a bit much? It is a desert, after all.”

“Gabriel,” the name came unbidden to Lou’s lips, his smile vanishing as he slowly turned to face the source of his disturbance. Just inside the doorway of the office, another man stood, taking in the décor, as he called it. In any other room, the man would have “stolen the show”, so to speak. He had long, white-blonde hair and pale, almost friendly blue eyes. He was Lou’s equal in height with broad shoulders and a strong, solid build. A long, tan duster was draped over his large frame. He had an amicable look about him, with just a hint of danger in his eyes. Unfortunately, he still paled in comparison to the other occupant of the room.

“How good of you to stop by. Won’t you sit down?” Lou almost hissed as he indicated a chair on the other side of his desk. “And here I thought it was going to be another uneventful night.”

“Oh please, Lou. You don’t want me here anymore than I want to be here, so why don’t we skip the reunion, eh?” Gabriel chuckled, not moving from his spot by the office door. “I do appreciate the civility, of course. But I would just as soon conclude our business quickly if it’s all the same to you.”

Lou regarded Gabriel silently for a moment. What he said was true. There was no love lost between the two estranged men. So why then was he standing in Lou’s office? He had not violated the accords with the Triune, nor had there been any council business that required his presence. So what…Lou’s gaze sharpened and something vaguely akin to fear crossed his face as a suspicion began to formulate in his head.

“Well. That did not take nearly as long as I thought,” Gabriel frowned slightly as he watched the realization dawn on Lou’s face. “It really is a shame how things turned out. You would have been a great asset- ”

“Enough. Why are you here Gabriel?” Lou cut him off abruptly, knowing that he was going to have to leave soon. Now it was Gabriel’s turn to stare at Lou, just for a moment, as he prepared to unload his burden.

“I have a message for you. Will you receive it?” The words came in a formal, almost ritualistic tone. Lou responded in kind.

“I will.”

The fire sputtered before winking out. The silent room stilled further. The world itself seemed to pause as Gabriel began to speak, his voice almost ethereal.

“The hour is at hand. The council of 12 must convene and choose their champions. The Tribulation is nigh. They come.”

**************************************************

Kerlingarfjoll, Iceland

The cold summer rain finally drew to a close in the highlands as the sun set behind the Langjökull glacier, the massive formation of ice cutting an impressive figure across the Icelandic landscape. East of the frozen behemoth, a steamy mist was rising from the hot springs in Kerlingarfjöll. As the clouds began to dissipate, the light of thousands of stars gave the rising mists an otherworldly look, as if the springs were somehow sacred. Or cursed, as the locals once believed, a land of dark creatures and darker people. No one clung to those superstitions anymore, however. The old ways were all but forgotten. But not to everyone.

Without even disturbing the mists, a shadow moved among the pools of steamy water. It glided along at a leisurely pace, taking in the heart stopping beauty around it until it came to a particular spring, emerging from the mists and coalescing into the form of a warmly dressed man. Thick furs covered his body from head to toe, fashionably cut to show the man’s impressive physique. A hood covered the man’s bald head, and an impressive beard protected his face from the cold winds of the valley. Everything about the man screamed savage. Everything that is, except his eyes. Their pale grey spoke of both wisdom and control. They brought a kind of balance to his otherwise chaotic appearance.

As he stood, patiently waiting, the night sky suddenly erupted in color to the north, bright lights tracing fire across the black void. Blues, greens, yellows and purples created a stunning show which brought a smile to the stranger’s face. Aurora Borealis, he thought as he allowed the beauty to distract him for a moment. What an enticing world this was! Local legend was that the lights were the reflection of the Valkyries’ armor as they brought home the souls of warriors to Valhalla. Having been a warrior himself, he appreciated the sentiment. The lights were certainly magical. Even for one such as he, it was nice to take a small break and enjoy some of the wonders of this world. His smile turned to a frown as that line of thinking brought him quickly back to his purpose for being here. He took his eyes from the lights and returned them to the pool, only being mildly surprised when he noticed a gorgeous woman smirking up at him.

“Heil og sæll, Hermóðr,” The traditional Icelandic greeting dripped from her tongue like silken honey, her lilting, exotic voice only accentuating her beauty. He noted with some amusement the title she afforded him as well. He supposed he was both a son and a messenger, so it was not inaccurate. Of course, judging from the laughter dancing in her emerald-green eyes, she most likely meant it as a tease more than anything. That’s perfectly fine with me, he thought to himself. Better to keep her amicable than provoke her this early in their interaction.

“Heil og sæl, Völva,” he replied in flawless Icelandic, the irony of the words not lost on him as he considered his purpose for being here. Be healthy and happy indeed.

“Oh, come now Hermóðr,” she almost giggled, as she began to rise from the pool, her eyes alight with mischief. “We both know neither my health, nor my happiness is what brings you here tonight.”

She eyed him up and down from the pool, catching her bottom lip between her teeth suggestively. Her beauty was undeniable as she stood under the shifting lights, her bare, pearlescent skin shining brightly against the dark, runic tattoos flowing around her torso and down her arms. Water trailed down her toned flesh as steam began to rise from her warm body. She was a vision of dark seduction as she admired his physique.

“Unless you are indeed here to bring me happiness,” She winked as she laughed again, slowly sashaying her curvaceous hips as she made her way out of the pool. When she reached the bank, the steam rising off her seemed to settle around her naked body coalescing into a sheer gown that all at once seemed to both cover her and accentuate her nudity. “In that case, I have more than a few ideas.”

“You know exactly why I am here, mistress. Your unique insight into fate will have no doubt long forewarned you,” The man called Hermóðr eyed the Völva almost warily as she approached him, which was not lost on the woman. She began smirking again as she reached out to touch his fur-clad shoulder, trailing her hand along his upper back as she slowly circled him.

“Do I make you nervous messenger? Or perhaps that is excitement in your eyes. Maybe a little curiosity. Are you curious, Hermóðr?” She trailed her hand up along his jaw before giving his beard a playful tug. He stoically ignored her ministrations, instead adopting a bored expression bordering on annoyed.

Oh, fine,” she withdrew her hand and rolled her eyes, adopting a pouty look as she stepped back from the unyielding man. “Straight to business then, I suppose, even if it is slightly disappointing.”

The messenger’s mask almost cracked into a smile at this. While the woman in front of him was among the oldest and most dangerous creatures in this world, he had to admit she had a flair for the dramatic. “Mistress of the Völva. I have a message for you. Will you receive it?”

The teasing smile disappeared from the woman’s face, her sultry demeanor replaced with ironclad resolve. “I will.”

The man known as Hermóðr suppressed a shiver as he prepared to deliver his message. Gone was the seductress only moments before lounging naked in a hot spring. In her place stood the Witch of the North.

**************************************************

Alamut Region, Qazvin Province of Iran

“Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah,” The final words of the Fajr echoed off the ancient crumbling stone walls as the first signs of dawn began to appear on the horizon. The caretakers of the once mighty castle rose from their mats to continue about their duties, a small sense of pride visible in their movements. A few still came to visit these old, failing halls, some believers and others, infidels. Most, however, were happy to let this relic of a bygone age drift into obscurity. But the caretakers remembered. They remembered the once mighty men of great renown that roamed these halls, a testament to their great culture. This was once the home of the great Nizari Isma’ili, and their descendants were not quick to forget.

The elements had not been kind to the old castle, wind and rain slowly wearing it down over the centuries. Many of the walls, parapets, and towers had slowly crumbled and collapsed, leaving it but a shadow of its once former glory. Still, it stood tall and proud, overlooking the Alamut valley and the nearby city Gazorkhan to the south. To the east, distant Alam Kuh, the Throne of Solomon, towered over the region. The view from the ramparts of the castle were unparalleled. And yet, one soul arriving at the castle did not even pause to look out over the countryside before entering.

He strode through the gates as the sun rose over the castle, a definite purpose to his gait. He wore a tunic and pants of white cotton, his keffiyeh partially covering his face, wanting to avoid as much attention as possible. He quickly passed through hall after hall, some decorated lavishly, restoring a modicum of the castle’s former glory, while some were barren and fallen into disrepair. He had not come for finely woven tapestries or intricately decorated stone. He had not been sent to poor over the ruins and divine the history or one of the most controversial sects in Islamic history. He had come to share secrets, not gather them, and so he ignored it all as he pushed deeper into the fortress.

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Finally, the man arrived at a large open room deep within the castle. Here, there were no fancy decorations. There were no tourists. This was an area off limits to the public. It was also in a much better state than most of the castle, having been well preserved. Antiquated equipment and weapons dotted the room, all organized, cleaned, and polished. What appeared to be some kind of agility course lined the left wall. In the center was a slightly raised section of stone littered with cracks, burns, pits and the like. But it was the far side of the room that interested the trespasser. There, three large devices sat equally spaced. They were made of obsidian glass, tall and mostly cylindrical in shape, flared out at the bottom. There was a small tray at the top of each, with four hoses branching off just before the devices flared out. A middle-aged man dressed in caretaker robes sat with his back to the newcomer, toking deeply from one of the hoses.

“Ya Ali Madad, hashshashin,” the stranger broke the silence, using the traditional greeting of the sect who once owned this castle. The caretaker took a long, deep toke and held it for a few seconds before exhaling and slowly climbing to his feet.

“Shalom, ben elohim,” the man quietly replied in Hebrew. “You honor me.”

The man addressed as hashshashin for the first time in a long time turned to face the man in white, inclining his head slightly. He was an unassuming man of average height and build. He had light skin for the region, although not light enough to stand out, with dark hair and eyes completing a rather plain looking man. A deeper look at the eyes, however, would dispel this illusion for anyone who knew what they were seeing. Those eyes held cunning, ruthlessness, and lethality. They were the eyes of a practiced killer.

“How may this Old Man help you? Raphael is it not?” the man asked with an innocent smile.

Raphael nodded curtly. “It is. I have a message for you. Will you receive it?”

The Old Man nodded serenely. “I will.”

**************************************************

Prague, Czech Republic

The Baroque style windows and balconies of the infamous house stared out over historic Charles Square with apparent disdain, unimpressed by the view that drew thousands of tourists every year. Sinister shadows concealed dark secrets as they waged a silent war against the bright lights scattered throughout the square. The small playground near Karlovo námĕstí could just be seen through the trees, empty as a void at the late hour of the night, only the ghostly laughs of the children who had been playing just a few short hours before remaining. Indeed, an unsettling quiet seemed to have fallen over the entire section of Charles Square surrounding the Mladota house, befitting for an aging landmark with a troubled past, now closed to the public. That silence was soon broken, however, much to the curiosity of the few late-night revelers still skulking about, as cars began to pull up to the house.

One by one the sleek, black sedans stopped in front of the entrance to the mansion, each disgorging one passenger before disappearing again. Lights were now flickering from within the harsh looking windows, as well, another curiosity added to an already bizarre night. An elderly gentleman, well dressed, but with wild looking eyes and stringy, fly-away gray hair manifested from inside the doorway, beckoning to the eclectic group now waiting patiently out front. They entered, the door closing behind them without making a sound, and Charles Square, one of the largest and most beautiful city squares in Prague, and the world for that matter, fell silent once more, the strange gathering in a forbidden locale all but forgotten.

**************************************************

Contrary to the gossip surrounding Mladota house, the interior had not fallen into disrepair, thus rendering the house unsuitable for tours. As the small amalgam of, quite honestly, strange guests made their way through the halls and rooms of the home, stunning architecture and décor presented itself flawlessly for inspection. The entryway with its gaudy chandelier, hand carved staircase, and large archways gave way to a long, narrow hallway. Candles burned in elaborate sconces at odd intervals throughout the hall, casting malevolent silhouettes on the walls and velvet, blood red carpet. Glimpses into other rooms as the group traveled showed rooms typical of the architectural period: a library filled to bursting with books so old it appeared that a mere touch would cause their disintegration, a study with a large desk made of deepest mahogany, what may have been a ballroom with its large open floor. But there were also some out-of-place rooms, such as the one containing an assortment of glass beakers and containers, and several shelves with all manner of bizarre and grotesque ingredients. The iron circles and arcane symbols set directly into the floor were certainly odd decorative choices. It was the strange writings all over the walls, however, that truly tied beauty and horror together. Funeral scripts had been scrawled all over the house, supposedly a gift from one of the final occupants of the house.

Finally, the guests arrived in a large dining room, a long, large wooden table sat in the center of the room surrounded by intricately designed chairs, each one sporting a sigil representing one of the guests. Crystal glasses sat at each placement, filled with a dark liquid. A man waited at the far end of the table, eyeing the guests with a cold smile as they entered.

“Welcome, my old friends! It has been too long,” There was no welcome in the man’s tone. Pomp and circumstance were never his strong suit, and the façade of this evening was cutting into his research. Still, he supposed his old acquaintance did have a point. Certain protocols must be observed. They were not mindless demon spawn after all.

“Faust!” Lou cheerfully greeted the host as he entered the room. “I think we might make a gentleman out of you yet! Of course, you really should learn how to hide that sneer.”

Faust snorted in spite of himself as he indicated for his guests to be seated. “We are not all masters of deception like you and the Old Man. Some of us would prefer to skip this nonsense and get on with our tasks.”

Lou smirked in a way that was both irritating and disarming. “In order to do that, old friend, we need to meet. And you cannot have a meeting of the Twelve Cardinals of Sin without at least a few minor indulgences.”

A few of the others nodded as they took their seats. They exchanged what passed for pleasantries as they became reacquainted with one another. Gatherings like this did not happen often, for a host of obvious reasons. Any one of them was a calamity upon the earth. Together, they were annihilation given form. Even so, what a gathering it was!

At one end of the table sat Lou, or Lucifer, probably one of the most famous entities present, and certainly one of the most influential. Satan. The Old Serpent. Morning Star. The Devil. The names went on and on, as did the stories surrounding his exploits. To his left sat Vlad Dracul, the Son of the Dragon, who’s thirst for blood and death had given rise to a reputation rivaling that of his neighbor. On his other side sat Whiro-te-tipua, the demon of the islands, who’s scorn for anything good and decent was the stuff of legend, and had earned him the moniker, the embodiment of evil, from islanders in his sphere of influence. Quietly sitting next to Whiro and observing the feigned festivities was the Old Man, who’s cold eyes sparkled with an ageless wisdom. All but forgotten in today’s world, save by locals and historians, he was death, an ageless assassin preying on the world without discrepancy. Rounding out the left side of the table was the Avatar. Chaos given form. When the Triune created the universe, he was the price of that creation; the answer to the Order which allowed the universe to function. He was also an enigma, even to those present tonight, always working toward an agenda only he was aware of. Like the Old Man, he chose not to interact with his colleagues, instead sitting motionless, waiting for this business to be concluded. Next to the Avatar, and rounding out that side of the table, sat Balor, a giant of a man with an eyepatch over one eye, who’s gaze unleashed chaos and fire whenever the patch was removed.

At the other end of the table, Faust was idly sipping from his cup. The mad alchemist and demonic warlock was not ready for the events that were all too quickly overtaking them, and wasted time, as he viewed it, was making him quite irritable. To his left, and currently engaging him with polite conversation about his work, was Loviator, the Lady of Pain. Like a poisonous fruit, slowly rotting on the inside and yet flawless to behold, she was beautiful, and utterly insidious. She was a blight upon the world, and she reveled in it. Beside her, two other women were laughing and toasting. Freyja, the Witch of the North, wore a sleek, revealing dress lined with exquisite furs. She was swapping stories with a woman in a stunning black sari with two ceremonial swords strapped to her waist. Kalí was every bit the warrior goddess, her lithe body always slightly tense, poised like a cat ready to strike. She, too, was hungry to begin the work ahead of them all.

The last two members of the council were both quietly observing their colleagues, having exchanged greetings. Papa Legba, the chosen spokesman for this meeting, was a tall, dark-skinned man with a neat beard. On his head rested a weathered top hat, in his hand a cane decorated with human skulls. The guardian of the crossroads prided himself in being both problem and solution to his victims, making bargains that always seemed to work out in his favor. The last member of the group was a stunning woman, her beauty unparalleled, even in present company. She did not appear soft and sweet, the kind of woman to melt a man’s heart. No. Her beauty was unnatural and intimidating, compelling those around her to acknowledge her superior qualities. She was Lilith, the Queen of the Night, a demoness whose depravity was matched only by her insatiable desire to destroy. A desire that, very soon, she would indulge. This thought brought a smile to her lips as she watched Papa Legba stand up.

“It seems ill-fitting to address you all as friends, considering our nature,” Papa spoke in a deep voice, thick with an island accent. “So, I will simply call this meeting to order. Each of us is here because we have a part to play in upcoming events. We have been summoned by the messengers to begin our preparations for the opening of the Seals. It is time to choose our champions.”

There was a general murmur of agreement from around the table. Each of them had known this day would arrive. A plan had been formed in the beginning and an agreement struck. Now all that was left was the follow-through. The Old Man quietly stood.

“The Council recognizes the Old Man,” Papa said, nodding politely.

“Thank you,” the Old Man spoke in a calm, flat voice. “The messenger that came to me did not divulge a timeline for the opening of the First Seal. Perhaps our next order of business should be uncovering that information.”

Several heads nodded, some turning toward Freyja, while others eyed Kalí. Before any further questions could be asked, however, the candles in the room began glowing brighter. The light changed from the normal flickering orange-yellow to purest white, so bright it was impossible to see, even for the immortals present in the room. Finally, the light coalesced into a humanoid form and began to recede, leaving a man behind encased in white, full-plate armor. He surveyed the room, his eyes roaming over everyone present before finally coming to rest on Lou.

“Michael,” Lou said, hatred evident on every inch of his face. “You’ve got balls coming here, even with the backing of the Triune. Don’t you know suicide is frowned upon for a messenger? Or did you miss me that much, brother?”

Lou hissed that last word, making his contempt for his former sibling all too clear. Much to his surprise, Michael took the bait. In a flash of light, he was across the room, standing on the table, his sword at Lou’s throat.

“You will hold your tongue serpent, or I will remove it,” He threatened. Lou did not even move. He just smiled coldly.

“Tsk, Tsk. Wrath is a sin, old friend. It can cause you all kinds of trouble,” Lou gestured around the room, where eleven demigods now stood, bloodlust appearing in many of their eyes. It had been eons since any of them had killed a messenger. Much too long. Michael, to his credit, did not even flinch.

“You’re lucky, Deceiver. If I had the blessing of the Triune—”

“But you don’t,” Lou cut him off before he had to listen to endless posturing. “In fact, I’m betting you’re under strict orders not to harm any of us. Which begs to question why such a stand-up guy would be in a den of iniquity? Is there something we can help you with?”

Lou could see the conflict in Michael’s eyes as he struggled with his desire to remove Lou’s head. He had always been a creature of action. Lou had even hoped that Michael would join him when he left the Order, but he had flat out refused. The war that followed had ripped apart whatever bond they had once had. That was life, he supposed.

The fire slowly left Michael’s eyes as his weapon dissolved into motes of light. He stepped down from the table, the look of disgust and betrayal never leaving his eyes.

“Lou, you always provide the very best in quality entertainment,” the soft, musical voice came from Lilith. She looked Michael up and down, licking her lips hungrily. “And you keep such…delicious company. Hello Michael.”

Michael looked as if he was about to respond to her teasing, but ultimately decided against it, addressing the room at large instead.

“A year from tomorrow, the First Seal will open, and the war will begin. As agreed upon in the Accords, the Triune will provide a gift to aid in this war: two witnesses. These two will aid your forces in their endeavors and will arrive in their own time. The rest of the preparations will fall to the twelve of you. Do not fail.”

Michael did not wait for questions or linger. As soon as he finished speaking, the room grew unbearably bright once more. When the momentary blindness passed, Michael was gone.

“Well. That was…dramatic,” Vlad was first to break the silence, soon followed by laughter from several of the room’s occupants.

“Looks like our pawns will have their babysitters after all,” Lovi sneered.

“Aye, it does indeed,” Balor agreed in his thick brogue. “Which really just leaves one question. How’re we gonna choose these pups?”