Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams by Damian Huntley Page B

onto the short grass.
    “Can Agents
Carmichael and McMahon come out to play today?” West spoke the
words softly, and in response, he heard the soft clicking of
useless buttons, the tapping of useless screens, "Asspérges me,
Dómine, hyssópo, et mundábor; lavábis me, et super nivem dealbábor,
…” West whispered the words from the rite of extreme unction, and
the response from inside the van was unmistakable. West could taste
it on the air, that heady mix of adrenocorticotropic hormone,
cortisol, and epinephrine … fear, and anger, in almost equal
doses.
    The rear door
of the van opened slowly, and the two men stepped out onto the
street, weapons holstered, hands held with palms facing forward at
waist height. This signal, their welcoming of hand to hand combat
was an empty gesture; each of the three men knew there would be no
exchange of gunfire. West didn’t move, offered no countersign, no
genuflection, no kowtow.
    “We have no
quarrel.” The man on the right spoke. West recognized him from his
file as agent Carmichael, forty-two years old, single,
Episcopalian, of Irish descent, and a recent transfer from Jersey
to the D.C field office. Except for the fact that he had
transferred from Jersey, none of this was true, of course, but it
added flavor to West’s perception of the man behind which the
monster lurked. West thought of Sun Tzu, know other, know self,
hundred battles without danger. Recently, he’ had to acknowledge
that he was struggling a little with his self-awareness, but by Sun
Tzu’s math, this meant that he should have at least a fifty fifty
chance of coming through this little fracas unscathed.
    McMahon raised
his eyes to the morning sky, “Their concerns are not our concerns
friend. Leave us in peace, and go about your business.”
    West narrowed
his eyes, and knelt in the grass, watching the two men closely.
“You, the two of you were born of the Void Garden, and so, there is
a possibility that your making was not of your own volition. You
have chosen names which suggest Gaelic ancestry, so perhaps you are
Sentinel of Aífe, or else of Bé Chuille, or possibly you’re Tuatha
Dé Danann? It’s of little consequence … It could be that your
chosen names are merely an affectation. Whatever is true of your
ancestry, on this day, you walk in to battle with unsound
reasoning, a dogmatic and uneducated adhesion to a woefully corrupt
morality, and an entirely misplaced confidence. Their concerns are
the only concern.” West spread his arms to indicate the surrounding
houses. “Their needs are our needs. To carry yourself without
concern for others, you are completely without self. Opinions can
change, and the defects of thought can be untaught, but you have
chosen your side. You were born of the Void Garden, and of your
unmaking, I shall fertilize the Void Garden. I was once her
scourge; I am now her groundsman.” He grinned malevolently, and
lowered his voice, almost to that of a growl, “We’re painting the
roses red.” He watched Carmichael and McMahon’s expressions,
wondering who would be rattled more by his words. McMahon.
    West leapt
across the space between them, mouth aiming at no particular
target, but finding a hold on McMahon’s left eye socket, digging in
quite firmly to the curve of bone which formed his left eyebrow. He
wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, swinging his legs to the
left so that McMahon’s neck twisted almost to the point of
snapping. Alarmed by agent McMahon’s screams, and suddenly aware of
the trajectory on which West’s feet seemed to be traveling,
Carmichael stumbled backwards, but his action came too late, and he
felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. His arms flailed at the
air in front of him, hoping to catch the assailant’s legs, but he
was disoriented. By the time he’d managed to work out where the man
had landed, there was already a blur of motion from below, a hand
punching up towards him with disgusting certainty, thrusting