Children of the Prophet: Book 1: Demon Plot

By J.G. Stevens

In the Mid-1800's Lonny Berry, a new convert fresh from England, joined the ranks of Mormons who had established a presence in the far west territory of deseret. The devil concocted a plot to destroy this religion by using Lonny as a tool and sent one of its demons to possess him.

Angels then set out to foil the devil's plan.

Lonny escaped a Band of Brigands who had taken him captive and a missionary of the Mormon Church took him in. Lonny, under the influence of his inner demon, began teaching his own brand of religion. In the process he became convinced he would become a God and began murdering people to capture their souls as servants for when he attained the Status of a God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796065138

J.G. Stevens

Joe Stevens spent seven years in the Navy serving in Cryptographic Communications in Japan, France, and at sea. He graduated at the top of his class from The University of Redlands in California. He and his wife live in Brush Prairie, Washington State.

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Children of the Prophet

Book 1: Demon Plot

J.G. Stevens

Copyright © 2019 by J.G. Stevens.

ISBN:                        Softcover                        978-1-7960-6516-9

                                  eBook                            978-1-7960-6513-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 10/09/2019

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

666

The Affiliated Federated Lamias, AFL, a sub-group of the Committee for Investigating Options, CIO, had been called into full session by the Master. A black robed and white wigged moderator hunched over an elevated desk with bone inlay. A huge iron shod gavel descended.

!Crunch!

!OWWWW!

Don’t stand so close next time, idiot. Now you know how the bone got inlaid. (There would be a next time. Death is a renewable resource in Hades.) Someone clean this off my desk and let’s get to work.

There was a slight pause while the Senior Assistant Sanitation Imp, SASI, trotted out with a coal scuttle and a push broom.

Nice to see you again, Sassy.

Thank you, your Judgementalness.

!ENOUGH! GET ON WITH IT! I HAVE PLACES TO SCREW UP AND SOULS TO COLLECT! AND KEEP IT QUIET!

(The great beast is not given to swearing. That’s mostly a human vice. But it is constitutionally incapable of speaking without exclamation points.)

!SENIOR DEMON’S ASSISTANT! HAVE YOUR ASSISTANT D.A. SEND A COUPLE DOZEN SLUTS DOWN TO MY SUITE!

Upon the Master’s departure there was an eruption of do this’es, do that’s, no do it this ways, no that’s impossibles, overturned desks, and some bumps thumps and owwws.

At this point it is advisable to withdraw from the proceedings. Bureaucrats are not as inefficient down there as they are up here, but time is a bit…skittery?…in Hell’s rock bound cavern. A meeting of minds could take decades…and the paperwork!

So the short version.

The bottom line is that an attempt was to be made at subverting a whole religion. Following the formulation of that possibly overly ambitious plan a huge demon was chosen as the main player. The demon was not too long on brains, but was big on gross appetite as well as powerful, cunning, devious, and all the stuff that demons are supposed to be; a truly exemplary example of its species. That’s it. That’s what the devilish convocation took three decades and approximately one million pages to accomplish. Obviously they had been taking lessons from the G.O.P. or Grandees of Procrastination.

666

^V^V^V

Unbeknownst to the devilish convocation a small band of Angels had managed to establish a listening post in the rocky cavern.

You heard it guys. said Angel Top Sergeant Spiakov, the leader of the band. Angel Hepzibah made a loud harrumphing sound in the background. And gals, amended Angel Top Sergeant Spiakov hastily. We have to get this info upstairs quickly. Things have gone forward to fast for us to do anything about it, besides we don’t have the horsepower.

The other angels nodded in total agreement.

^V^V^V^

CHAPTER 1

1838 - Wexford County, England

I am late beginning my journal. My father would be vexed. He used to say that a man’s life is nothing without a record of his existence. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose when told of an unlikely curmudgeon, one Dr. Johnson, saying that allowing another to write your biography was tantamount to giving your life away—only an idiot or a peasant would do such a thing. In that, I am much in agreement. As I said, I am late starting, but am determined to take my life into my own hands.

Despite my father’s stern admonitions, hitherto I had no desire to relate the mischances of my sordid prior existence. Now, through the good offices of Elder Crowley, I have metamorphosed from a mindless waif into an avenging angel of the Lord. Perhaps had I known my fate in advance my path would have been easier. But that is not the Lord’s way. All I have borne, those hardships thrust upon me, were merely His way of testing my mettle.

Throughout my travails, to my credit I endured; drawing on an inner strength vouchsafed me by my forbearers. From my tutor’s lessons (all too untimely interrupted) I learned that my esteemed ancestor, the second Duke of Wexford, was a witch finder. He is said to have sought out and purged these vassals of evil throughout England and the Continent. His ability to wring confessions from these soulless fiends, when others had failed to do so, was legendary. His credo was that all women must be suspect as they are weak and given to folly. In this observation he was most wise.

My few years have been filled with justifications of the good Duke’s philosophy. His was a full and a Godly life. Content with his success, and much revered he died at the ripe old age of fifty-nine. In earnest of his faith he bequeathed to his Chaplin a coat he had made of tresses shorn from the heads of witches; a powerful talisman. Whosoever wears the coat need fear neither hex nor enchantment.

Fortunately for my soul, but all unknowingly and impelled by events thrust upon me, I have patterned my existence in the second Duke’s image. My discussions with Brother Crowley, a Missionary of God, have provided further vindication for my actions. No longer must I endure the niggling discomfort of undeserved guilt. Rather I exult in the knowledge that I am embarked upon doing God’s work. I have always known that evil must be expunged from the world. Now, what I learned haphazardly I will apply diligently. Abetted by my faith and the sure knowledge that I am chosen, I shall pursue female perfidy and expose it. I shall attack female uncleanliness and destroy it.

Wearily, but with a deep sense of satisfaction, Loniel Edward Phearson Berrigan VI, heir to the Duchy of Wexford, laid down his quill. Aside from the fact that he was long out of practice, writing his journal was even more difficult than he had imagined it would be.

Nothing worthwhile comes easy, he reflected, wiggling the cramps out of his fingers. Would that I had been able, I perhaps could have saved myself some heartache. But things happen as they happen and none can gainsay God’s will. I thank him for the opportunity to receive Elder Crowley’s teachings. Those teachings have been my salvation. Use of my friend’s precepts is helping me to bring my life into perspective. It is imperative that I continue my journal. Father spoke nothing but the plain truth; writings must follow words and actions if truth is to be passed on as a legacy to future generations. Else how can hard won knowledge be perpetuated? God’s way is my way, and I must chronicle my days that others may follow. But there is much to be caught up and very little time, for the Mary Star sails on the morning tide. I pray shipboard life will provide the solitude I need.

Pinching the bridge of his nose with ink stained thumb and forefinger, Loniel rose and walked to the lead paned window of his well-down-at-the-heels room. Space at this old dilapidated inn, situated well away from Southampton’s more reputable sections, was the only lodging he and Elder Crowley could afford. Peering out through the sooty glass he became lost in reverie, the rowdy noisome ally below serving as a thoroughly appropriate counterpoint to his memories. Then, with a last twitch of his hand to get the blood flowing, he returned to his labors.

That evening, after a supper of watery potato soup, weevil infested bread, and moldy cheese he lay awake and restless, remembering his travails as vividly as if they had happened only yesterday.

In 1838 the worst of the plague in Europe was past, but it was still wreaking havoc on isolated pockets of humanity. It had descended upon Wexford like a demon in the night, breathing its last misery laden gasps on that unsuspecting village—a final surge of terror—a last spate of dying. Sickness and death decimated the village despite all precautions: scented pomanders hung on lintels and powerful sigils scrawled in red paint on doors and windowsills. Having finished with the village, the Black Death struck at the Berrigan manor house invisible and swift. Those servants who were able ran away. The rest stayed and died with his father. His mother was the last to die. Remembering his mother’s promise as his father’s body was carried off in the dead cart Lonny relived an agony of utter helplessness. Mere days ago, holding a nostrum to her nose, she had given him a hug, ruffled his hair and promised she would never leave him. Later self-pity overcame grief as he stood dry eyed, watching as she lay gasping her life away.

Lying on his pallet of straw filled ticking in the stifling little room hard by the docks Lonny again saw his mother’s face, her torment framed on crumpled silken sheets. The betrayal of that thrice damned female struck at him anew, but now as then there were no tears. Anger sustained him as it had sustained him while the treacherous woman expelled her last breath.

Outside the inn the watchman making his rounds shouted All’s well. Inside, Lonny tossed and turned, lost in fevered memories, trying to find sleep. At last, with a murmured You promised. You promised. he drifted off, only to relive in his nightmares his final dreadful day at home.

Again he felt the weight of her body pressing down on him through the mattress, her lifeless presence only slightly less oppressive than the sickly stench of decay and death that permeated the bedroom air. Had there been time he would have chosen a different hiding place. As it was he was barely able to wedge himself under his mother’s large silk canopied bed before the looters spied him. Afraid to make a sound his body trembled, fingernails raked the floor, tears of fear sluiced down his cheeks.

The French windows stood open and he could just make out a plume of smoke curling over the trees, a swirling pyre for the village dead. His mother had been struck down on his birthday, but he was more frustrated than grief stricken. He thought she was different, that he could trust her, but just as his father and tutor had warned him about all female kind, she had deserted him in his hour of need. Often he had heard his father refer to her as a bitch, and that she was. Lonny wanted to throw her into the ground with his own hands, to see dirt clods fall on her face, to exact what revenge he could in payment for her desertion. He cursed the fate that had allowed her to leave just when he needed her most. He cursed the lowlifes infesting his father’s halls because there was now no way he could take vengeance on the faithless female. When the intruders saw marks of the plague they would set fire to the house and her remains would mix with the ashes.

He would be cheated once again.

^V^V^V^

Angel Herman called a council of war to strategize a defense against what he considered a threat to humanity through direct hellish intervention. Included was Maj. Gen. Washington, Area Commander of the Western Hemisphere (ComWestHem), Lt. Gen. Eisenhower, Divisional Commander of the continental areas lying above the equator in the western hemisphere (ComNorCom), as well as those angels the commanders felt could make pertinent contributions.

Angel Herman harrumphed the meeting to order.

Gentlemen, you have all received your briefing notes, and as you know, we are here to formulate a defense against the latest satanic direct intervention. Let it be known at the outset that I will entertain no complaints about why they can do it and we can’t. The fact is that they are doing it and we have to find a way to stop them. Please pass that on to your troops.

A series of, ‘Yes, Sirs’ floated around the table, and then the big wigs got serious with the matter at hand.

Meanwhile the troops referred to by Angel Herman were whiling away the time waiting for something to be decided.

"Whadd’ya thinks gonna happen Sarge? Where do ya think they’ll send us?" asked newly minted Second Lieutenant Angel Holloway. The Angel Top Sergeant in question, who had led a small company of men at the siege of Troy, mumbled to himself and shook his head. Man! Some things never change. AOTS, Angel Officer Training School, still issues those silver bars wrapped up in stupidity.

Then aloud "Well Sir, I don’t rightly know where they’ll send us. As to what’s happening your guess is as good as mine. I only know that wherever and whatever, we’re going to get a load of sh…uh…stuff dumped on our heads, and no matter what that stuff might be we’ll have to dig ourselves out.

^V^V^V^

CHAPTER 2

1835 - Wexford County, England

The band of brigands had found the estate unguarded and were gleefully whooping and rummaging through the manor. At the sound of approaching footsteps Loniel stiffened. Unable to scoot any further under the bed he tried to bury his face in the floor.

Ere now wots this? came a deep throated female voice. As Oi live and breathe a truly honest to goodness Lordling. An idin’ under the bed like a bloomin’ chamber pot. Come ter Tabitha littul Lordling.

Thick-fingered hands fisted in his hair. Struggling and crying out, he was dragged bodily from his hiding place.

Yer might as well quit carryin’ on so, it won’t help yer a cat’s worth.

Yanked roughly to his feet Lonny stared up at a mountain of a woman with craggy peasant features. Aided by a wild mop of greasy frowsy black hair she towered at least two feet over his head. From Lonny’s perspective she appeared to be just as wide as she was tall. The whole mass of enlarged femininity shook alarmingly with the effort of holding onto her squirming captive. To Lonny she was a vision from Hades and he fervently wished his ancestor, the witch finder, was there to help him.

The gargantuan woman had crammed herself into one of his mother’s ball gowns. It was much too small for her. Pendulous breasts strained and split the red satin fabric, escaping in odd places. They resembled two mounds of dough being pushed through a sieve. Forced apart over her navel, and riding halfway up her thighs, the dress exposed pocked legs, and knees all but hidden in folds of flesh. She looked like gift-wrapped death, but she spoke kindly.

Yer a cute one ye are, she gave a gap-toothed smile, chucked her captive under the chin and leaned closer. Sod me but I think yer done peed yer breeches. Well, no matter. Come with Aunty Tabitha, she’ll ‘ave yer spit polished in no time.

At that moment a stick thin man appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. He was draped in Lonny’s father’s military uniform complete with medals and sash, waving a wine bottle in each hand. Evidently the thieves had found a bonanza in his parents’ closets.

Blimey Tab old gel. Looky at wot Oi found. Kept a posh cellar the old coot did. Ere ave a pop. Squinting through red-veined eyes he caught sight of Loniel. Gor Blimey! Wot yer got there?

Oi found me a littul Lordling Oi did Erbert, said the oversize Tabitha proudly.

Herbert was visibly unimpressed, but he stifled any further comment as he became aware of the bed and its contents. Then he sniffed loudly and a look of alarm wrinkled his face.

Well bloody ‘ell. Slice ‘im and throw ‘im back. Can’t yer see wots on that there bed? Smell the air! This ‘eres a bleedin’ plague ‘ouse. We got ter fire this bloody cess-pit! As far as Oi’m concerned ye kin leave ‘im ‘ere ter roast.

Well ‘e ain’t got the plague an Oi ain’t gonner let ‘im burn an Oi ain’t turnin’ ‘im loose. Oi’m keepin’ ‘im for a bloomin’ pet Oi am. Sausage like fingers groped Lonny. Na. Ye don’t got no bumps in yer crotch an ye smells real good."

Well, spat Herbert. Suit yerself ye bloody old tart. I knows wot ye want ‘im fer. Happens maybe the rest of the boys ‘ull get some sleep for a change. Snickering he left the room.

It ain’t like that at all ye wicked creature, Tabitha called after the cynical Herbert. Then, grabbing Lonny by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants, she frog-marched him out of the house.

Throughout the whole exchange Lonny had been in a state of shock. Only when his toes scraped on the gravel drive in front of the manor did he begin to comprehend what was happening. He began struggling violently and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Ere now ye scut! Fetched me one on the shin roight proper ye did. Oi guess there’s only one way ta keep ye quiet. Saying which Tabitha open handed him on the side of his head. It was like being clubbed with a mallet. The last things he saw before passing into unconsciousness were yellow tongues of flame writhing from the dormered windows of his home.

Something deadly evil entered him that night, something that nurtured itself on hatred.

Dreams of suffocation became reality when Loniel opened his eyes. He was lying partly on the side of a grassy slope and partly on the huge woman who had kidnapped him. She sprawled there clutching him to her bosom, her large meaty arms wrapped tightly around him, his face squashed between her breasts. Tabitha, it appeared, was not overly fond of bathing. Lonny’s struggles for a breath of fresh air roused her. She loosened her hold slightly.

Ah, Oi been a waitin’ for ye to crack them peepers. Now Oi know’s yer upset, but don’t ye worry none. Auntie Tabitha ‘ull make it all better for ye. See if she don’t.

Lonny squirmed and tried to push away.

Now, now, me luvly littul Lordling. Just relax an Auntie Tabitha ‘ull help ye ferget yer troubles.

Murmuring endearments she dragged him back to her massive bosom. Again he was virtually surrounded by unwashed body, a muffled squeal all he could muster by way of protest. Dimly he heard a voice from the other side of the clearing.

Ye got yerself a nice juicy piece there Tab old gel. Might be yer could save a little for me and the boys?

Hearing this Lonny renewed his struggles, but Tabitha only squeezed him tighter until he became semi-comatose for lack of breath. Luckily, more shouted comments distracted the large lady causing her to loosen her hold or the luckless lordling might well have smothered. Cork up yer gob Erbert Nobbel! she snapped. E’s mine! Poor littul orphan. Oi’m gonna’ take good care of ‘im Oi am, an if one of ye gutter minded Gaol rats dares to lay a ‘and on ‘im Oi’l rip out yer liver with me teeth!

Patting and crooning she swayed from side to side, but far from calming him down her efforts had just the opposite effect. Her clumsy pats jarred his teeth, and the strange sounds emanating from her mouth sounded like a cross between a snore and the snarl of a hungry lioness crouched over her kill.

Unable to draw a decent breath, and afraid that at any moment he was going to be torn limb from limb, Lonny’s immediate reflex was a scream immediately followed by his second reflex, a spate of choking and gagging as his mouth was filled with billowy flesh. In despair he bit down…hard. There came a numbing blow to his head…then oblivion.

He regained consciousness shivering in early morning cold. Disoriented, groggy, head splitting, he sat up and looked dimly around. The flimsy blanket someone, presumably Tabitha, had thrown over him in the night had become soggy with dew and now lay dampening his lap. Gingerly he touched his nose dislodging some crusted blood. A high volume rumbling sound that seemed to originate from a large crumpled mound nearby caught his attention. As he watched the mound ponderously shifted position, slowly resolving itself into the horrible creature that had kidnapped him. Immediately all his outrage and hatred focused on Tabitha; Tabitha, his abductor, Tabitha, the embodiment of perfidious womanhood. The cold, his discomfort, his pain, all merged into a growing need to strike out, to avenge his pride. But most of all he wanted to get something of his own back from women in general. A likeness of the mother who had betrayed him briefly overlay that of Tabitha, the female that was tormenting him. He growled deep in his throat and rose to his feet. Yowling wordlessly, fists flailing, he flung himself at Tabitha…only to come crashing down on top of her, the soggy blanket wrapped firmly about his feet. The large woman’s nerve endings were too well insulated by layers of fat for her to appreciate the frenzy of his assault, but after a moment she did take notice of his weight. A beatific smile lit her homely face.

Ah. Come to warm yerself have ye. Well cuddle closer, yer Auntie Tabitha’ll take good care of ye. With a contented rumble she wrapped her arms around the irate lordling and went back to sleep.

Against all reason Lonniel found her bulk comforting. Horrified at himself he drew back, only to have