Chapter 7 Number of the Beast
NUMBER OF THE BEAST
A low whistle breaks through the silence.
“Impressive.”
I freeze at the sight of a man materializing from the dark, an unknown variable. Is he friend or foe? Is he from the Fathom?
As he nears, I let out the breath I was holding, and the parking lot lights, which had gone out with the rest, come flaring to life. His cherubic face glows with an enthusiastic grin. “I knew you could do it,” he cheers.
“Who are you?” I manage to rasp out.
He puts out a well-manicured hand, nails painted a vampy shade of merlot, signet pinkie ring sparkling. It is marked by a twisting dragon, eerily reminiscent of the symbol at the bottom of my note card. “I’m Brennan.”
It’s then that I notice we match in our all-black clothes—well, nearly all black in his case. A tiny silver stripe runs through his expensive silk shirt, silver buckles shining on his shoes. I don’t shake his hand. “You’re one of them.”
“Indeed,” he says, smiling, craning up to see the top of the Space Needle, lost to the night. He squints as he examines my work, and whistles again. “Did you have to take out the whole thing? Overkill, don’t you think?”
I glare at him.
He leans back. “Easy. Clearly you passed your test. I’m supposed to give you this,” he says, pulling another black envelope from where his waistband is encircled by an expensive black leather belt.
“I want answers,” I say, crossing my arms. “Where is she? The woman from the other night?”
“Who? Arla?” He winks at me. “Whoops. Wasn’t supposed to let that slip.” He adds in a low voice, “Our little secret.”
I scowl. He’s teasing, jovial, but I don’t trust it. I don’t trust any of them. “Who is she?”
“Have a little crush, do we? She has that effect on people.” He appraises me for a moment and says, “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you. Not yet. But Arla was the first.”
“The first?” I peer at him.
“The first to be called. The first to be initiated.”
If Arla was the first member of the Fathom, then who called and initiated her? I breathe in through my nose, trying to steady my pounding heart. “What are you exactly—the Fathom? She called you a ‘circle,’ but I don’t know what that means. Are you like a secret society?”
His eyes widen like a child’s as they roll. “Secret societies are so last decade, all capitalism and conspiracy. We’re way cooler than that. More like a coven, but less Anne Rice about it.” He trails off, thinking. “Although … maybe we should be more Anne Rice about it. She’s a definite vibe.”
For a second, I almost relax. He’s so inviting, so approachable, I could be talking to Aaron at work.
“Anyway, you’ll just have to be satisfied with me tonight, I’m afraid. We’re a circle, remember?” he says, twirling his finger around. “Arla is only the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?” I whisper.
His grin turns wicked, transforming his face. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He pushes the envelope at me. “It will get harder from here, but I’m rooting for you.”
I reach out to take the envelope, but he holds on and leans in. “Tell the dead I said hello,” he whispers, winking again.
He lets go and I snatch the envelope away, staring at him with wide, intense eyes.
Brennan smiles. He has a handsome, boyish face, eternally young and deceptively friendly when he isn’t grinning impishly.
Dimpled like Brad Pitt, but rounder, doughier.
A face I could get used to if I wasn’t so afraid of what hides behind its lines.
It’s topped by a whirl of hazelnut hair.
“A tip,” he informs me. “You’ll thank me later. ”
“I highly doubt that,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “You have three days from midnight. Oh, and watch out for the twins,” he says. “They have an unhealthy obsession with pain.”
For a moment, I think he’s kidding, but his mouth flatlines and I realize he’s serious. “The twins?”
He grins. “You’ll know them when you see them. If you see them.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask him. “Why are you helping me?”
“I like you,” he confides with a shrug. “And I am an excellent judge of character. Besides, our little family of five is growing a bit stale if you ask me. We need some new blood. But I don’t make the rules, I simply follow them.”
I manage a small smile despite the earlier Anne Rice reference, disarmed by the compliment. “Who makes the rules? Arla?”
He grins coyly. “Oh, honey, we’re all just slaves to the beast.”
I feel my brow wrinkle with worry, the flash of his dragon ring catching my eye. What beast? Swallowing, I ask, “What happens if…”
He cocks an eyebrow.
“If I fail?”
All the youthful charm of a moment ago dwindles as Brennan’s round face seems to lengthen in the dark, his large, light eyes creasing at the corners. “I don’t recommend that.”
I swallow my dread down like cold spit.
“Until we meet again, Judeth.” He waggles his fingers at me as he backs away and points at the Space Needle. “Maybe turn it back on. You know, for the normies.”
I glance behind me. “How?”
Brennan smiles. “The same way you put it out, I presume. Magic. But don’t ask me, you’re the fire rover.” He turns to leave, fading into the night.
I stare at the Space Needle, bewildered, a bemused smile snaking over my face.
Closing my eyes, I see it as it was a moment before, feel the way the force ripped through me, and try to counter the effect.
But the lights remain stubbornly out. Unlike with the parking lot, I can’t seem to work the power in reverse.
Maybe because it’s been so long, or because the object is so massive.
Maybe I’m too exhausted or never had that much control over it in the first place.
But I’m too elated over the first success to let this setback get to me.
Either way, it’s probably best if I leave.
I look down at the envelope still clutched in my shaking hands. Carefully, I flip open the flap and slide the card out, expecting another verse, a riddle for me to solve, but the text is impossibly, maddeningly simple. In the middle of the card, in the same golden ink, is printed only this:
666
AV
WORK IS COLD this morning. Not exactly hostile, but tense.
Everyone is keeping their head down, pretending the drama of a few days before didn’t happen.
I’m used to being ignored, it’s the life I’ve courted.
It’s why I went from dreaming of being an author like Woolf and Plath to settling for being a copywriter.
After what happened, I couldn’t afford a career in the public eye.
But today the withdrawal of my coworkers feels intentional.
Even Aaron sticks to his desk as I come in, winking across the space when our eyes meet.
I notice Sue is out, but don’t ask about it.
I hope she’s with her son, getting him the treatment he needs.
I suppose I should be grateful for the quiet, even if it vibrates with barely concealed stress.
At least they haven’t fired me. Yet. Not that they have any proof.
But they wouldn’t need it, not really, not if they wanted to get rid of me bad enough.
They could just let me go. I’m hardly indispensable around here.
I try to act busy, to not draw any more unwanted attention, but my throat burns like I swallowed fire and the night before races through my mind on repeat.
Driving in this morning, I heard them discussing it on the radio: “A complete power outage at the Space Needle last night has left electricians scratching their heads and Seattleites wondering if their beloved icon is failing them.” My mind replays the events over and over like a fresh wave of PTSD.
The voice. The scream. Feeling my power course through me.
The man in the darkness. The new note card.
666 AV.
What can it possibly mean? I only have three days—a bit less than that now—to find out.
I’m no Bible scholar, but the number seems obvious.
Six, six, six, the number of the beast. Is it the same one Brennan mentioned?
Is the Fathom some kind of satanic cult?
Am I about to be their next sacrifice? My mind hobbles over countless Hollywood movie scenes from Rosemary’s Baby to The Exorcist to The Omen, imagining cups full of blood and talking goats and children with hellfire in their eyes.
That last one hits a little too close to home. I spend twenty minutes in a bathroom stall trying to breathe my way back from the knife-edge of a panic attack during lunch.
I consider stopping. I could burn the note cards.
Refuse to show up to the next deadline. I could just not play their game.
But Arla’s voice is like a purr in my ear, menacingly close.
She knows where I work, where to find me.
She knew what bookstore I shop at, for Christ’s sake.
Down to what book I’d pick. If she gives Calvin whatever footage she has, it won’t just be a matter of finding another job.
There’ll be a criminal investigation. Into security tampering at the very least, my own embezzlement at most. And that will dredge up a whole boatload of history and horror.
Because I’m like an aquatic plant—I’m not just what you see on the surface. Underneath is a mess of tangled roots.
I can’t escape Arla, and I’m not sure I want to.
The memory of my power rushing to the surface haunts my veins in the light of a new day.
What I feel is mostly akin to an aftershock, the subtle traces of its presence gone.
Has it fallen dormant again? I want to test it out, stretch it like a muscle.
But I don’t dare while I’m at work. The memory of what happened the last time I truly trusted myself with it is still too strong.