They were silent in the taxi until they reached the destination they had talked about. A flat near the harbor which was still in the process of being furnished. It looked more a construction site than anything else. His Dad had given him the keys so he could let the guys renovating it in, and then he had forgotten about it. This said everything about Simon’s father, that he forgot his flats because he had too many to remember.

“There’s a mattress in what was once the bedroom. I'll get you food, painkillers, and all that.” Simon said.

“I’m okay. Whatever they gave me still works,” Brockmann said, though it was only half the truth. It hurt badly. But he felt at least safe now. This was a good hiding place. There was no way the monster could find them here. Simon nodded and watched the injured old man walk over to the bedroom. He took the cheap plastic chair that was about the last thing they had left here and followed him.

“I have questions, actually,” Simon said.

“Yeah, I can imagine that,” Brockmann allowed himself to fall onto the mattress and gasped in pain.

“Can we talk? Or do you want to sleep?” Simon asked.

“Slept enough.” Brockmann sighed and took the bullets out of his pocket, slowly starting to reload his gun. He had eleven shots left. The gun had not been very effective so far, though.

“You said there are no monsters, but this one. I get the feeling it wasn’t the first monster you’ve ever seen, is it?” Simon asked.

“It was not,” Brockmann admitted. “We need to get to my flat.” He then said. “It could be waiting for us there, but there are a few things I need.”

Simon nodded. “Okay. Maybe in a few days, when you feel better.”

“Now. It is looking for me right now. When it can't find me, it might take position there to wait for my return.” Brockmann sighed. “Get me there and I’ll answer your questions.”

Simon sighed. “Okay, I’ll call an Uber.” He shook his head.

“A what?” Brockmann asked. Simon got his mobile out and typed.

“Kind of a cab,” Simon said and sighed. He pressed the send button. Brockmann looked as if he were waiting for him to do something.

“What?” Simon asked. “I just called it.”

“Without making a call?” Brockmann asked suspiciously.

Simon looked at him and held up his phone. “With the app.” He saw that Brockmann didn’t know what he meant. “A program on my phone calling it over the internet.”

Brockmann grunted. He lay his head back. “Probably take forever,” he said.

“Four minutes,” Simon said as he put his phone away. Brockmann grunted again.

“Did the internet tell you that?” he asked.

“Yeah . . .” Simon stared at the old man in disbelief.

“What else did the internet tell you? Where the monster is?” he asked.

“Sort off,” Simon said. “It is a collection of information, you know? The internet? Contains a lot of data. You should try it.” He shook his head. “Then again, it’s only been around for a decade or two.”

Brockmann grunted again. He felt like it would be the most common sound used to communicate between them.

****

No police, no monster. They got into the flat without anybody seeing them and Simon closed the door behind him.

“It stinks here,” he said, “Maybe a body?”

“Had no time to do the dishes,” Brockmann said and sighed. Simon raised his eyebrows and opened the window. Brockmann leaned against the wall and then made it to the fridge. He took out a bottle of vodka, this time a big one. With a sigh, he filled a glass.

“Hospitality is not your strong side, is it?” Simon asked.

Brockmann turned halfway towards him. “Want one?” he asked.

“Hell, yeah.” Simon sat down at the kitchen table. Brockmann took a second glass and filled it too, putting it before Simon. Then he took his own and he kept standing.

“So tell me,” Simon asked and Brockmann looked at him.

“Tell you what?” Brockmann asked.

“About the monsters.” Simon looked at the vodka. “You don’t have Bitter Lemon, do you?” He asked. Brockmann grunted again.

“Why did I know you would say that?” he asked and took a sip of the pure vodka. He made a grimace and set the glass down.

“What do you want to know?” Brockmann said.

“What monsters are there?” Simon asked.

“Nothing,” Brockmann said and took a drink himself, it calmed his tense nerves. He sighed and admitted to himself the boy deserved better. “There were plenty. Before 1999 we hunted them, studied them, often contained them when necessary.” He looked up. “Then they were all gone.” He snapped his finger. “Like that.”

“What happened?” Simon asked.

“We don’t know. Nobody seemed to know. For six months we investigated it, then we gave up. We went to sleep,” Brockmann said.

“And missed the 21st century, got it,” Simon said. “What are we talking about? Were they all like this thing?”

“No, this is a bad one. You know the stories, don’t you? Everything you heard and saw in a damned movie’s got a grain of truth to it,” Brockmann said.

“Vampires?” Simon asked, laughing. Brockmann nodded.

“Ghosts?” Simon then asked. Brockmann drank again and nodded again.

“You gotta be kidding me. What else? Werewolves? Demons?” he asked.

“Never met a demon,” Brockmann said, “The Vatican branch swore they existed though.” Simon stared at him.

“Nonsense,” he said.

Brockmann eyed him. Then he spoke. “Vampires existed in Europe’s folklore since the Dark Ages, called Strigoi in Hungary in the medieval times. That's six hundred years. Goethe wrote about them. Stoker did. Even older texts exist. Werewolves are even older, and you found them in all cultures. Pick an Asian country and they got a version of those. The native Americans worshipped them. You can find cave drawings depicting half men-half beast creatures. Greek mythology is full of them.” Brockmann got up. “You think none of this exists? Nothing but the fantasy of men?” He went over to the cupboard.

“I find it hard to believe in them,” Simon admitted. “Simply because nobody seems to have ever seen one.”

Brockmann went to his cupboard, opened it, and nodded. “Did you ever see a dinosaur?” he asked.

“We found their skeletons, so we know they exist,” Simon said, and Brockmann turned and put something right in front of him.

“I see,” he said. Simon stared at the skull with two long teeth that looked like animal fangs.

“Is that real?” he asked.

“Took him out in 1994 in Leipzig. He had a habit of reproducing,” Brockmann answered and sat down again, feeling both his wound and back hurt simultaneously.

“Wow.” Simon said and looked at Brockmann. “What else? Aliens?”

“Define Aliens,” Brockmann said.

“Little green men in flying saucers,” he answered. Brockmann laughed and Simon laughed with him. “What, this sounds funny to you?”

Brockmann nodded. “There are things from other worlds visiting ours. But none of them uses a ship. Not that I know of.”

Simon drank from his vodka again and slowly got used to it.

“Alright, what is it we’re hunting?” Simon asked. “Or what is it that's hunting us, more likely?”

“Hard to say. We classified a lot of these kinds of things, but there were always those that defied classification. We referred to them as Unidentified Subjects. Unids. This is nothing I have ever seen. I believe it was human though.”

Simon nodded. “A mutation. Like in Lovecraft. Yeah, I had the same thought.” Brockmann looked at Simon and nodded. He was not ready to go into Lovecraft. That brought up especially bad memories.

“Enough for a day. Under my sink, you’ll find a crowbar. Get it.” Brockmann said. Simon emptied the glass and did as he was told. Brockmann slowly made his way to the living room and sat down on the old worn-out couch. He pointed to the floor.

“Third and fourth panel. Take them out,” he said. Simon looked at him and then decided the man was serious.

“You’re gonna get in trouble with your landlord,” he said, but still rammed the crowbar into the ground, before moving the upper end down, making the panel crack. Brockmann was surprised that the boy knew how to do this.

“Helped renovate flats for my Dad,” Simon explained and did the same again with the other panel.

“There's a bag in there. It's heavy.” Brockmann said and leaned back. The boy struggled to get the large black bag free and took it in both hands to force it onto the table.

“What’s in there? Guns?” he asked.

“Among other things.” Brockmann leaned forward, which caused him pain. Simon held up his hand and opened the bag. Inside he found various small leather etuis and what looked like a disassembled rifle. He also saw a handgun, which he took out. It looked old.

“You ever used one?” Brockmann asked. Simon shook his head. He was too young to serve in the obligatory military service that had been so common in Brockmann’s days. The older man sighed. He took it from the boy and threw out the magazine of the automatic, checking it. Then he pushed it back inside and put the gun in his coat. He moved forward slowly and dug in the bag. He finally got out a revolver with a short barrel.

“That one is easy to use. Just point and pull the trigger. Got six shots, and usually a shot or two should be enough to stop anything that breathes and is smaller than a cow.” He handed it over to Simon.

“Thank you,” Simon said and took it. Brockmann pointed the barrel away.

“Never point it at anyone if you don’t want to shoot him. This thing is not one of your fancy computer phones. It kills people.” Brockmann looked at Simon, who nodded.

“Got it.” He put it aside, not pointing it at Brockmann.

Brockmann sighed and then took out a hand grenade, putting it into his other pocket.

“You plan to throw this at it?” Simon asked, watching the man, fascinated.

“Not really. It’s too quick for that. If it gets me, I trigger it and take the thing out with me.” Brockmann dug further on. He saw Simon stare at him and then looked up.

“You still got a way out,” he said. He almost hoped the boy would take it.

“There’s no way this thing killed Sandra,” Simon said. Brockmann gave him a sad smile. Not really, he thought. But he said nothing. He sighed and then leaned back, now looking at the boy.

“This is not an adventure trip or a safari, Bleicher. This is a hunt and if we don’t kill it, it will most certainly kill us. You understand that? You did good back in the motel, really good. You outsmarted it. It will learn. Next time your mobile won’t save you.” Brockmann adjusted his position, but the pain didn’t get any better. “Sure you wanna do this?”

“If we don’t get it, it will kill again. Right?” Simon said.

“Almost certainly,” Brockmann said.

“Okay, then you got one of those for me too?” Simon asked, looking at Brockmann. He looked at him and then reached into the bag and took one out.

“You take out the pin, let go of the grip, and you got three seconds,” Brockmann said. Simon nodded. He took it from him and looked at the grenade, before putting it into his coat.

The boy was so brave it was almost stupid.

Brockmann smirked and nodded.

He could respect that in a man.

****

They took the bag and some clothes, and Simon had a hard time carrying it, as it had only gotten a little lighter. He pulled it into the trunk of their cab, and they got back to the flat. Brockmann had taken a book out of it. A leathery journal that was thick with thin paper. Someone had scribbled stuff with a pen in it. Almost every page was filled with texts, with only some rare exceptions.

In the cab, Brockmann began to scroll through it, until he found something and began reading.

“What is that? Your diary?” Simon asked.

“No, it is a notebook of an old colleague of mine. Watch the street and make sure we’re not being followed, Bleicher.” Brockmann said. Simon could see he was a slow reader.

“Simon,” Simon said. Brockmann looked at him. “Call me Simon.”

“Call me Brockmann,” Brockmann replied. Simon nodded. “You don’t have a first name, do you?”

“Everybody’s got a first name,” Brockmann replied, but kept on reading. Simon looked out the window and got out his mobile, checking for messages. Alex asked if he was at home. Then he finally sighed and turned to Brockmann.

“What is it? What you reading there?” Simon asked again. “Maybe I can help?”

Brockmann looked at him and sighed. “Sure. I found an occult tome recently, and the monster seems to have stolen it. The signs within, Fornby says they are Aramaic, but I think he's wrong. They are Enochian. Easy to mistake, the book says.”

“Enochian?” Simon said and nodded. Brockmann nodded and turned back to the book.

Simon finally sighed. “Like Enoch, first son of Seth and sixth human? Founder of the first city? The language of the first city is rumored in occult circles to hold great power. That kind of Enochian?” Simon asked. Brockmann could not hide his surprise.

“You know about these things?” Brockmann asked.

Simon shook his head. “No, I just did a quick search on the internet.” He held up his mobile.

“You found that one on the internet?” Brockmann asked. Simon nodded.

“Sure, it’s full of occult stuff and lore and sites about these things. Actually, Enochian seems to be associated with astrological and magical practices and was used by John Dee or the Golden Dawn in the Victorian age,” Simon said. Brockmann stared at the boy. He hated him for this moment, and he hated him for what he said next.

“Does it say anything about cannibalism in regards to this?” Brockmann asked. Simon sighed.

“Let me check,” he said, and began searching. Brockmann watched him type on his mobile and closed the book, which he already knew held no such information. He had read the journal a hundred times.

****

They arrived at the flat and found a six-pack of water bottles and cold Chinese takeaway food hanging from the doorknob in a plastic bag. Fornby had to care to wait for them.

The plastic bags contained strong painkillers, antibiotics, and some other meds. Brockmann took a wild mix of them and downed them with another shot of vodka, which he had brought from his flat too. Simon took a box with Chinese food and two sticks. He was admirably good at eating with those and changed from his mobile to his laptop.

Brockmann sat there, watching the boy.

“Nothing?” he asked finally, with a triumphant tone in his voice. Simon looked at him and shook his head.

“No, way too much. There are several occult practices involving cannibalism,” Simon said, “Ever heard of Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī?” He asked.

Brockmann shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

“A Muslim scholar in Persia, who died in 1210. He seems to have described a ritual that involved a lot of praying, marking and murder, and cannibalism,” Simon said.

Brockmann shrugged. The drugs made him a little hazy. “What is the connection to Enochian?” he asked.

“Persia is where Enoch was. The land east of Garden Eden, which was in today’s Iraq. Fakhr was known to have commented and translated old tomes.”

“What for?” Brockmann asked, and now pulled the chair closer to Simon, who sat on the floor.

“He believed in a multi-verse. He defied the Greek philosophers’ idea of a single universe and strongly believed in an outer-verse, that encapsulated our universe,” Simon said.

Brockmann raised his brow. “He might have been right about that one.” Simon gave him an irritated look.

“Anyway, he described some sort of orgy, that included murder and cannibalism, which he believed to grant a man supreme occult power. He described it as an alternate path to human perfection.” Simon smiled. “Sounds about right, does it? Whatever you consider perfection to be.” Simon shrugged. “Been among the first hits on the topic, so that means people must have looked it up.” He turned to Brockmann. The older man stared at Simon.

“You got all of that from the internet?” Brockmann asked.

“Yeah,” Simon replied. “Welcome to the 21st century, old man.” He grinned and Brockmann would have probably slapped him for that remark, had he not been so tired, drugged, and injured.

“We need to find out more. Has he left any books?” Brockmann asked.

“He must have, they study him in London at the Center for Islamic Studies. I contacted the guy doing it. Michael Dawson.” Brockmann looked at Simon.

“Just like that?” Brockmann said.

“Over the internet, yeah. We skype tomorrow at ten.” Simon smiled. “Don’t ask what Skype is, please,” Simon then added, to which Brockmann bit his lip. Simon laughed.

“You are gonna love it, it’s like magic,” Simon said.

****

Dawson was in his mid-thirties and had a hipster beard. He smiled and greeted Simon with a heavy British accent. Brockmann stayed out of sight, but indeed he looked utterly surprised to see the man on the screen. Simon greeted him back.

“Simon Bleicher, from the University of Hamburg. Thanks for having me,” he said. His English was fluent.

“Sure, how can I help you? I must say the field I study usually doesn’t get a lot of attention outside my own academic circles. What do you study again?” Dawson asked.

“Law and Cultural Sciences as a second degree. The latter is what brought me to you. I look into Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī and his idea of theology and the development of Islam in the thirteenth century.” Simon smiled. “I think I bit off a little more than I can chew. My Prof. demands a primary source and now I need to find one. I was hoping you could help me.” Brockmann had to raise a brow at how skilled he was as a liar.

“Certainly. I can send you a digital copy of his commentary. You will need to sign some papers, but that would not be a problem,” Dawson said.

“Actually, I read somewhere that he left books that used older languages which he translated into Arabic, is that true? I read somewhere he was working on Aramaic and Enochian texts,” Simon said. Brockmann wondered if he was not too offensive. Dawson laughed.

“Oh yeah, those legends are pretty popular among scholars. Truth is, we’ll never know. The main body of the collection associated with him was regrettably lost,” Dawson explained.

“Lost? That sounds interesting. How did we lose them?” he asked.

“Stolen. In 1998, a large number of ancient texts were stolen from our university, among them several texts attributed to him,” Dawson said.

“I see. What a shame. Any idea where they ended up?” Simon asked and smiled at Brockmann.

“Some say they were shipped to South America, but I guess we would be better suited to look somewhere in the Arab world,” Dawson explained.

“South America? Any idea where there?” Simon asked.

“A stupid rumor claimed a professor in Buenos Aires had seen a copy. A rumor, really. I had contact with him, and he laughed at it. Some Professor Mendez.”

“Fascinating,” Simon said. “Actually, one more thing, if you can spare another moment of your time,” he asked politely.

“Sure,” Dawson said. Brockmann saw that the mention of South America had done something to Simon.

“You gave a seminar about Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī and his belief in a certain orgy with cannibalistic tendencies. Did he ever do this?” Simon said, “Could be a killer point to bring it up in my paper.”

“We’ll never know. But such rituals were considered heretical in these times. The ritual he mentioned was probably a spin on a much older ritual associated with Aka Manah, a Persian demon. If he did it, he would have risked the wrath of his sponsors for certain.”

“Thanks Dr. Dawson, you were an incredible source of inspiration. I will contact you for the commentary. You have been a great help, really!” Simon smiled. Dawson ended the call with a number of pleasantries himself. Simon opened a browser and entered Aka Manah.

“The many armed demons of sensual desire and evil intentions,” he said and turned to Brockmann.

Brockmann nodded. “What was that about South America?”

Simon looked at him.

“Sandra came from South America. She moved here a year ago,” he said. Brockmann raised his brows.

“Buenos Aires?” he asked, to which Simon nodded, staring at the computer.

Brockmann leaned back. “There was a banker called Landau, who used a cookbook to make meals of human flesh, which was written in ancient letters,” he said.

“The dead serial killer, I read about him,” Simon said.

“I think . . . I’m pretty sure Sandra was the one putting me on his trail,” Brockmann said.

“What does that have to do with the Nocturne Society?” Simon asked.

Brockmann gave it some thought. London.

“We had our headquarters in London. I guess we might have stolen those books if they contained occult knowledge. We did things like that.”

“Was there a Nocturne branch in South America?” Simon asked.

“Sure,” Brockmann replied. “A small operation, but we were present on all continents after the Cold War ended.”

“What happened to them?” Simon asked as he closed his laptop.

“No idea. We gotta ask Fornby about that.”

“Forgot, you were asleep,” Simon said.

“A sleeper,” Brockmann corrected him.

“Sleeping anyway.” Simon sighed. He looked at his closed laptop. “She knew all of this from home, probably.” He looked at Brockmann. “Why did she not tell me?”

“She didn’t want you to get involved. She didn’t want you to get killed.” Brockmann stood up. The pills did a good job of suppressing the pain. He stumbled over to the improvised bedroom. Simon stayed, sitting on the floor.

“Well, she did a great job there, didn’t she?” He said, but when he turned, Brockmann was lying down and already asleep as his head hit the pillow. Simon opened the laptop again and checked the cryptozoology board. He found a whole conversation he never had.

****

Simon let Brockmann sleep for three hours, before going out and getting them two cups of coffee. When he returned, he woke the old man by gently kicking against his leg. Brockmann was sleeping in full clothes, including his coat. It had to be terribly warm. He sat next to the mattress and handed him a coffee. Brockmann took it, not totally awake as usual. The drugs made him slow, and he knew that was dangerous.

Simon watched him angle a small vodka bottle from his coat and put it into the coffee. He decided against addressing the man’s alcoholism, or the side effects of alcohol with painkillers, and instead talked about what was really on his mind.

"There is a girl called Alex. I think she's spying on me,” he said.

“Oh yeah, forgot to mention it. She does. Saw her sniffing around in Sandra’s flat the other night and followed her to you.” Brockmann sighed as he drank a sip from his extra-strong coffee.

“You forgot to mention it?” Simon asked disbelievingly.

“Yes. Sorry. Was busy not falling apart and all that,” Brockmann said. Simon stared at him.

“For who?” Simon asked. Brockmann looked at him.

“No idea,” he answered. “Someone with an interest in Sandra, the monster, or both.” The uncertainty was hard for Simon. Brockmann was used to it. Nothing was ever certain in his world.

Simon nodded. “Maybe we should talk to Fornby then.”

****

Brockmann was irritated seeing Fornby on the screen, but it seemed his boss was well aware and familiar with the thing called “skype”.

“Can he hear me?” Brockmann asked Simon. Fornby sighed.

“You are a dinosaur, Brockmann. Yes, I can hear you.” He folded his hands. “What can I do for you gentlemen? I hope you got my gifts?” Fornby asked.

“Yes, thanks,” Simon said.

“South America, what can you tell us about Nocturne’s activities there?” Brockmann asked directly.

“I have not heard from them in . . .” Fornby began.

“Twenty years, yeah got that. Who was running the show before that?” Brockmann asked.

Fornby looked at him, slightly mad about the interruption.

“Gustav Sebastian Manninger,” Fornby said. “Son of a German asylum seeker after World War Two.”

“We let a Nazi run a Nocturne Chapter?” Brockmann said.

“The son of a Nazi, and besides, Manninger never showed any political affiliations in that area,” Fornby said. “He was very competent, leading several expeditions into Peru and Chile himself.” Fornby leaned back. “Why?”

“Just an idea we’re playing around with,” Brockmann said.

“Can you get us everything you got on Manninger? Especially his family and stuff?” Simon asked.

Brockmann let him hide their theory. He owed Fornby nothing.

Fornby looked at them and then nodded. “Not sure how much that will be, but . . . Sure. Is that all?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Brockmann said. Simon waved goodbye, pushing the red button on the screen.

“Can he still hear us?” Brockmann asked.

Simon looked at him in disbelief and then shook his head. “No.”