The Devil's Prayer: A Supernatural Thriller (The Books of Jericho Book 1) Read online

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  Other books from J.D. Oliva

  Hawk Hallow

  Harvest Moon

  The Books of Jericho (coming soon)

  Conspiracy Theory

  The Devil’s Prayer

  Nightcrawler

  Snowblind

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  IL

  ILI

  ILII

  ILIII

  ILIV

  ILV

  ILVI

  ILVII

  ILVIII

  ILIX

  L

  LI

  LII

  LIII

  LIV

  LV

  LVI

  LVII

  LVIII

  LIX

  LX

  LXI

  LXII

  LXIII

  LXIV

  LXV

  LXVI

  LXVII

  LXVIII

  LXIX

  LXX

  LXXI

  LXXII

  LXXIII

  LXXIV

  LXXV

  LXXVI

  LXXVII

  LXXVIII

  LXXIX

  Ethan Jericho will return in Nightcrawler | Available November 19th on Amazon.

  I

  “That depends. I’m always willing to make a deal.”

  In the year our Lord, 1238, Herman the Recluse found himself with a choice. The Monsignor discovered him with the girl. She was beautiful and kind with the voice and smile of an angel. If he were a normal man, he would have taken her as his bride. But Herman wasn't a normal man. Herman was a Benedictine monk, and he'd broken his vows. The first time Herman looked upon her, he feared those sacred words would be tested. The first time they shared a kiss, he saw them broken. As he lay there, gently caressing her hand, he knew it was worth every moment. In this life and the next.

  This was, of course, before they were found. The Monsignor took her away. Herman wasn't sure what would happen to her, but when the Monsignor sent down his decree, Herman knew she was gone.

  Standing before the Monsignor, Herman expected the worst. He would face his crimes and look on to his maker, asking forgiveness not for his mistakes but for bringing his stain upon her. That was his greatest sin.

  "Immurement," the Monsignor proclaimed.

  Herman lowered his head, accepting his fate. Immurement, an old punishment from an era much crueler than this thirteenth century. Herman would be locked away inside of his room while the masons laid brick after brick outside his door, so he and his sins would be walled away from the world. The hunger would eventually waste him away. His life would fade, and his body would rot until the bones crumbled and became one with the surrounding dust. Then his soul would burn in the Lake of Fire.

  Make a deal, a voice spoke deep within his mind.

  "Wait!" Herman spoke. "I have an idea!"

  Herman was a weak man, but his skill as a calligrapher was quite revered. Herman and the Monsignor struck a deal. He would create the most exquisite rendition of the Holy Bible this world had ever be seen. One that would be sought after by kings and tyrants for centuries. A book etched in the finest vellum and bound to leather and wood and fastened by the strongest metals. This book would cement their order's glory for millennia. A book worthy of God's word.

  "You have an agreement," The Monsignor said. Herman exhaled in relief. "The book will be completed by tomorrow morning."

  Shocked and speechless, Herman tried to fight back. But before he could utter a single word, the guards rushed him off. Banished to his room, the solitary monk was locked inside with over four hundred sheets of the finest vellum, skinned from the hides of one-hundred-fifty donkeys. Before Herman realized what he had done, the door closed, and he was left with little recourse. So he began to work.

  Ten hours passed. It was near midnight, and though the draftsmanship looked uncanny, Herman had only just begun Leviticus. Tears trickled down the broken monk's face. What had he done? What kind of deal did he make? As much as he missed her, the thought of slowly withering like a dead tree in late autumn terrified him.

  The prayer, said a whisper inside his mind.

  Of course! The prayer!

  Herman came from a wealthy family but grew up a sickly boy. To comfort her child, his mother read him books from across the world and told him stories of the Great Library at Alexandria. Herman dreamed of a place with so many books. As an adult, Herman read everything he could get hold of, even books he most certainly should not.

  In one such ancient tome, Herman found a prayer from another time. A prayer directed not to the Lord, but to something much darker. Even as a young man, Herman knew he should put the book down and move along with his curiosities, but he couldn't. Worse, his mind never allowed him to forget those words, though he spent many cold nights praying for the strength to let them flee his memories. Those prayers were never answered, but that evil oath stayed with him, harvesting in the dark corner of his recollections.

  Maybe it was for this reason? That infernal whisper spoke again.

  Perhaps the voice was right. Why else would he have not been allowed to forget a simple passage read a decade ago. Herman had forgotten more written words than most men would ever read, so why were these words ones that always stayed with him? Perhaps a moment of intervention from the Divine? Such could be the conundrum of omnipotence?

  More likely, Herman tried to justify his next greatest sin.

  Herman cleared his throat and spoke words unheard for centuries. Warm, red light filled a room that would soon be his tomb for eternity. The stench of brimstone filled his nose and before him stood a man dressed in the most beautiful silk with a neatly trimmed beard. His teeth shown white as the clouds on a cool spring day. The traveler's hair was as dark as his soul.

  "I understand you are in need of help, good sir," Mephisto spoke.

  Herman told him the tale of the girl and the Monsignor, of the wall and the book, and begged the Morning Star for aid.

  "That depends. I'm always willing to make a deal," the traveler said. "I'll create your book. Not only will it have the testaments, but I will also add the greater works of the historians Josephus and Constantine Africanus, the Etymologyiae of St. Isidore, and so much more. This will be a book so great the name Herman will be sung forever."

  "And what do you get?" Herman asked. "My immortal soul?"


  Mephisto broke into a fit of laughter that tightened the monk's spine. A sound so vile and shrill, it almost made him tear again. But his eyes did not well. Herman would not show the Beast weakness. Or at least not anymore.

  "No, good sir," he spoke. "That is already mine. No, I want something else."

  Mephisto smiled and placed two fingers on Herman's eyes. The disgraced monk blinked, and the golden sun rose over the horizon. His guest was gone, but at Herman's desk was a marvel. Three feet long by two feet wide, bound in wood and leather.

  As Herman flipped the elegant vellum pages, he read letters scrolled in blood-red ink. Everything seemed there. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, the Prophets, the Gospels, Acts, Epistles, and the horror of the Revelation. Plus the other works, as promised. This was indeed the greatest book ever created, but as Herman continued to run his fingers through those incredible pages, he paused. On the two hundred-ninetieth page was an illustration of a creature with jagged red claws, bird-like talons, a green face with a forked tongue and two red horns. The Devil had signed his work.

  "How's the book, Herman?"

  The monk turned to find the Monsignor standing in his doorway, a skeptical smile etched across his face. The fool did not understand the majesty and horror Herman birthed that night.

  The Codex Gigas was completed. May God show mercy upon us all.

  II

  Otterlo is a small, unremarkable burg in the central Netherlands. A city barely a footnote in the history of Western Civilization. Except for being the home of Helene Kröller-Müller, an early twentieth-century art collector who's credited with being the first to recognize the genius of a Dutch painter called Vincent Van Gogh. Today, an art museum bearing her name sits inside the confines of the Hoge Veluwe National Park. The museum houses the world's second-most extensive collection of Van Gogh works.

  Luther Rains learned much of this on the evening train coming in from Amsterdam. He didn't fashion himself much of an art collector. It's safe to say he didn't know anything about the art world, other than knowing Van Gogh was a psycho who cut off his ear to impress some whore. Luther was in town for business, and as he stepped out of the cab, he took in the view. The park was lush and green, a unique environment for a museum, something usually found in a more urban setting. The museum was a small, gray building with many windows. Too many for what Luther needed to do.

  Unlike the Louvres in Paris, the Kröller-Müller didn't have many floors. That had advantages. A large bike path cut through the sculpture garden leading up the entrance. Interesting. Luther walked the path, scoping out his options.

  The Van Gogh Gallery is located near the main entrance, just past Expo Hall number four. But with the museum being the center of a national park, extraction could be an issue. Luther knew that going in, but actually being on-site and seeing it with his own eyes made him nervous. This museum wasn't the Louvres. It didn't have the same tight security. Getting in and out would be easy. Getting away is another story.

  Luther stood in line, like everyone else, waiting to see the master's work. It was early June, but Luther was dressed in a thick, black hoodie more appropriate for winter. The sunglasses and AirPods made him look like another hipster tourist, which was the point. When Luther reached the front of the line, he placed his phone, wallet and AirPods into a bin that wouldn't follow him into the metal detector. He stepped through the barricade and was surprised to hear the loud beep. Luther shrugged his shoulders toward a short security guard with an unkempt beard and slight potbelly.

  "Stap naar voren," the sloppy-looking security guard said.

  Luther didn't move.

  "Stap naar voren!"

  Luther shrugged again. "American?" He said in a confused tone, letting the guards know he's just an idiot from overseas.

  The guard sighed and shook his head.

  "Step forward," he said with a thick accent.

  Luther nodded and lifted his arms as the guard swiped the metal detecting wand across his body. He clicked his overly long fingernails together as the wand moved over his shoulders. No out of the ordinary beeps or alarms followed.

  "Go ahead," the guard motioned.

  Luther picked up the phone, wallet, and AirPods and shuffled his way across Expo 4. Just before the entrance to the Van Gogh Gallery, he pushed open the large white lavatory door. Business before business.

  Luther knocked on the first stall door.

  "Bezet!" The Dutch word for occupied.

  Luther understood what that meant. He took a step and knocked on the next door. Nothing. He pulled the door open and took a seat on the toilet. His cellphone vibrated. Luther checked the screen and saw one word. Commence.

  He pulled the black hoodie over his chest and gently placed it on the floor. Velcro straps ran across his chest, securing the Liberator.

  In 2013, one of the great security nightmares was unleashed upon the world when blueprints for the world's first 3D printed gun hit the internet. Luther was by no means an expert on this particular firearm, but it was the one the client requested for this job. The Liberator was more trouble than it's worth, in his opinion. They were unreliable, and some early versions had a tendency to explode in the operator's hands.

  In theory, they may have been untraceable by metal detectors, but it didn't mean they weren't a risk. The most significant risk being they were not completely free of metal. A regular steel nail still needed to act as a firing pin. Sneaking one past the detector is the challenge. But this is what the client wanted, so in the last two months, he forced himself to learn the Liberator inside out.

  Luther pulled off his left shoe. A small metal circle slightly stuck out of the backside of the sole. Luther's long middle fingernail pinched down along the equally long thumbnail, catching the edges of the ring. Luther jokingly referred to them as his coke nails the past month. A few twists and jerks later, Luther pulled the pin from the bottom of his shoe and slid it right into place. The Liberator was ready to live up to its name.

  His fingers clicked the letters G and O and hit send. He hooked the arms of the sunglasses around his ears, while the rest of his head was swallowed by the black hood.

  Luther pushed the door open and found two other men in black hoodies armed with Liberators of their own. He nodded and checked his phone one last time. 9:27 in the morning. They had three minutes to meet with the driver.

  "Go time."

  III

  Rugged Grounds is a coffeehouse in Provo, Utah. A quiet place meant for people who like good coffee but hate corporatism and prices of the mega-chains. Every morning at 9:15, the same customer came in and placed the same order. A large cold brew and a side of avocado toast. The toast cost three times as much as the coffee. Good thing he owned a place up in the mountains just outside town or this new addiction could prevent homeownership. At least that's what he read from some clown in The Economist. He never even heard of avocado toast before, so, of course, he had to order one. Turns out the damn thing tastes pretty good. But it did make his morning trip a little more expensive.

  The extra carb intake started making a slight impact on his physique. The six-pack was gone, and though he was far from fat, Ethan Jericho was getting soft. Physically speaking. He still possessed the same look with his massive shoulders, tied-back dreadlocks, and ever-present sunglasses.

  It's not just the combination of high-fat fruit and whole wheat bread responsible for the extra fifteen pounds. His training wasn't as demanding these days. Mornings used to start with five hundred free squats and one hundred burpees. He needed that kind of discipline in his life. But that was in the past. He still trained, but forty minutes on the rowing machine followed up by heavy weights wasn't the same. He was still in good shape, but the elite edge had dulled. Not that he cared. Ethan Jericho was retired and loving life.

  "E?" The barista shouted into the crowd of the four patrons.

  Jericho grabbed his cold brew and plate of overpriced toast, no longer a dish eaten to spite stupid people.
He walked to his usual spot, a corner section with a booth bench on one side and chair on the other, a simple wooden table between. Perched atop the table was a chess set. He never played the game, not that he couldn't. Back in the day, he was actually quite good. These days, he just preferred to keep to himself.

  Rugged Grounds was the perfect place for a guy like him. Someone who spent most of his life living what most would call a rugged lifestyle. There wasn't anything particularly rugged about this place. It did have a nice, wooden-rustic decor he dug. Not exactly rugged, but comforting. A suitable vibe for what he was looking for these days. Quiet. After seventeen years in the game, he earned it.

  Jericho took his seat on the cushy side of the table and took his first sip of the bitter, icy brew. Pulling out his phone and unlocking the screen with his face, he clicked on the New York Times App. Drinking his coffee and reading the paper, just like he remembered his grandpa doing back in Chicago with his huge porcelain mug and a fresh copy of the SunTimes. Granddad always seemed so old back then. Life catches us all.

  "Son of a bitch," called a voice he hadn't heard in a long time.

  Jericho looked toward the front door and saw a forty-something white guy with a plaid shirt and pair of Wranglers, masking a body chiseled from granite with a mid-morning five o'clock shadow. His neatly tussled hair gave the impression he didn't care how it fell. Of course, Jericho knew it probably took a good five minutes to achieve the look.

  The man trying to blend into the background of a Provo coffee shop smiled a grin of perfectly aligned teeth and stuck his hand out to Jericho. The last thing Jericho wanted was to touch his hand, but this isn't the time for old wounds. Jericho nodded and faked a smile back and shook, but made sure not to get up from his seat. That would've been too much work anyway.

  "Daniel Prince. What brings you to Utah?"

  "You're not as hard to find as you'd like to think, Ethan—"

  Jericho put up a finger to stop the man called The Prince by anyone who ever worked for him from saying a last name that died a long time ago.

  "Jericho?" Prince raised an eyebrow.

  The man in black shrugged a shoulder. “Not anymore.”

  Prince nodded, expecting an invitation to sit. That didn't happen. Taking the hint, Prince looked down to the chessboard.