Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Soloman knew Marcelle was too intelligent to be persuaded one way or another. The priest had too strong a mind and too formidable a will. But he felt the need to say something encouraging.

  “Maybe you’re right about one thing, Marcelle.” He met the priest’s troubled eyes. “Maybe I am in this for a reason. Maybe all of us are in it for a reason. And maybe that reason is Amy. Maybe she’s the only reason we’re still alive.”

  Soloman waited and resisted the surge of emotion as he remembered his dead child, so much a part of his life. “You might want to think about that.”

  Maggie stared at Soloman, and her eyes revealed that she saw his pain. But he resisted the impulse to share it. One day, he knew, he would. But not tonight.

  Tonight he had to stay focused.

  After a tense moment, all of them lost in the heavy silence, Mother Superior Mary Francis rose, walking slowly and purposefully to the priest. Without permission she took the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and his lighter. Then she lit one, drawing a single breath and expelling before she handed it to him with a smile. She patted him on the shoulder, a grandmotherly gesture that said simply, “Let it be.”

  “There is good food here,” she said, turning away. “I hate airplane food.”

  Marcelle smiled faintly, watching her sit calmly. And Soloman knew the worst of the tension had been defused. He glanced at Maggie before coldly setting his mind against what he knew was coming with night. He drew the Grizzly, ensuring that a round was chambered, and Maggie followed the move with sudden concern.

  “You’re certain they’ll come after us tonight?” she asked.

  “Yeah. As soon as they get a tactical plan.”

  “But how can you fight two of them?” She rose. “You said earlier that there were probably two. Or even more.” She looked at the shotgun. “Give me that. I know how to use it.”

  “Where’d you learn to use a shotgun?”

  “My father used to take me duck hunting when I was Amy’s age.” Lifting the M3 without hesitation, Soloman set it on semi-auto for rapid fire. He showed her the safety, the lever that switched it to pump action.

  “You’ve got eight rounds,” he said. “One’s already chambered.”

  She hefted the shotgun, feeling the balance. “Okay.” Fear vanished in her fierceness. “I’ve got it.”

  Soloman stood. “Keep the lights on. And if anything comes in the door or window just start firing and keep firing until it goes down.” He watched her to determine if she could actually kill a man. “You understand what I’m saying? Don’t stop shooting until you’re sure they’re dead. They might be wearing vests.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going outside. I’m going to try and take them out before they can get close.” Soloman turned back as he put on his jacket. He stared at all of them in turn, felt an eerie tension.

  Marcelle was grim. Mother Superior Mary Francis had her hands on the table. She didn’t move at all. And Maggie was also unmoving, her mouth locked in a determined line beneath green eyes.

  “We can win this,” Soloman said, raising his chin toward Marcelle. “It’s been won before.”

  ***

  Beneath the Castle of Calistro, Cain rose from a well of dark water rushing silent and hidden, flowing out of the cliff far beneath the edifice to meld land to sea. His left arm, swollen with the herculean effort of raising the treasure chest from the deep, bulged even more with the effort of lifting it onto glistening black stones.

  Torches burned in a walled circle to illuminate the abysmal depths from which he’d descended only to rise again, dragging with him the treasure he had coveted, the treasure that would give him the power to launch his claim over this resistant dominion. Then he lifted himself from the flood, alone in the deep tunnels hidden beneath the dungeon.

  He shattered the lock easily, breaking the rusty chain with a hand. As he lifted the lid the torchlight struck fire from the heavy mound of gold secured within – gold hidden and relocated from monarch to monarch for thousands of years only to be secretly concealed here in the end, below the rushing black water that no man would dare to defy. And there was much more concealed beneath these stone towers – enough gold to build a hundred armies, a hundred nations, a hundred continents.

  It was a memory that struck him as he had stood over the child, staring into the current. And when he beheld the castle walls outlined against the gray winter sky, broken battlements standing like skeletal sentinels against storm clouds, he had been certain.

  After a thousand years the Castle of Calistro was as formidable and impervious as it had ever been with huge granite slabs resisting weather and time together. The interior was ravaged and rotten, leaving nothing but cold stone to line the edifice in the dust of deserted years, but it was still sound, built on a foundation laid as deeply as his purpose. Nor did he prefer more luxurious accommodations, for this haunt was old with blood – a companion to the black rage that burned within him.

  Already he had sent three of The Circle into New Castle to obtain necessary items: food, clothing, and the ever-vigilant bodyguard that would serve as his unsleeping guardian. When they returned he could begin rebuilding the castle to a level of relative comfort, eventually recreating the splendor of a lost and glorious age.

  Reaching out, he lifted the medallions, pentacles, amulets, and denarius marked with the seal of Caesar. He saw the gold pendant of Ostelli of Regnarald, lost to the world for two centuries, and gently touched the enormous diamonds sunk deeply into the crest – diamonds that flowed in a sharp white line to encircle the ruby eye locked in the center.

  With a dark laugh he threw back his head.

  Yes!

  This was the wealth he would need to begin, though he would certainly gain more and more. Eventually he would become the richest ruler of this world, and these sheep would beg him to direct their lives. For the fools cared more for money than anything, rarely realizing that the price paid in the end was greater than the gain. Yes, they would enjoy the day and night and not live to see the dawn. And, best of all, the wealth would return to him in their deaths, to be used again. Then, frowning, he thought of Soloman and The Circle.

  He knew two of the assassins were already at Birmingham airport, awaiting, for Kano had discovered the destination of the flight after contacting servants secreted inside the Vatican. Nor was he surprised at the discovery. He had been certain that Soloman would pursue just as David had pursued so long, a battle the warrior-king won by the matchless skill of his arm and that great sword taken from the dead hand of slain Goliath .. .

  Yes ...

  Soloman was an enemy worth fearing. But now he had The Circle to serve him, to protect him.

  Warlocks, they called themselves.

  How fascinating, he mused. They held a small understanding of life and death and unseen powers. But they knew nothing of the true scope of his galactic might. No, in that knowledge they were merely pawns in a contest greater than they could ever imagine, though he would use them well.

  Still, they were supremely skilled in their secret devotion. They could kill like lightning only to vanish into night without casting a single shade in the darkness. And although they preferred to use the straight swords of Elohim Gibor, those used by Hebrew masters of sorcery, they bolstered the blades with modern weapons.

  He smiled, amused that they had discovered the ritual in the sacred pages of the Verum; Thou shalt take a sword – a tapered blade thirty inches in length with a hilt of seven inches, and polish it on the Day of Mercury at the first or fifteenth hour, and thou shalt write upon the side the divine names Yod He Vau He, Adonai, Eheieh, Yayai; that thou preservest me in adversity against mine enemies …

  Recounting the ritual, he was again troubled that his memory was so uncertain. Some things he remembered well and had begun to perceive things about Soloman himself; hi
s past, his sins, knowledge he would use against him should the moment come. But he could not remember what he truly needed.

  He could not remember all the secret alliances, the dark pacts that would give him the advantages he must yet possess. Though he still had Archette – yes, Archette who had worked with the Family for so long to lay the groundwork, preparing his coming.

  But it was as if The Old One were somehow intervening, frustrating him, causing him to forget so much. He shook his head, despising the thought.

  By tomorrow night he would know, for certain, all that he had ever known. And it would begin.

  He would lay the child upon the west-facing altar for the ritual, her head pointed north, her feet south, according to specifications described in the Grimorium Verum. Then at midnight on sacred Samhain when the barrier between dimensions was narrower than at any other time of the year he would drink her blood slowly, feeling her life in his veins, correcting the virus, healing him. And as she died he would find her soul in her blood. And with their essences merging he would reach out with the very essence of her soul to that dimension where soul and spirit so mysteriously melded. He would find the void he’d crossed, the spirits inhabiting the Realm. He would speak with his brothers, his children, to know what he must know. It was not a communion that would last forever – no, not in this flesh – but it would last until she died.

  And she would die slowly – he would see to it – drop by drop. Yes, it must be slow. And when she fell finally limp on the altar he would be perfect in knowledge once more. He was certain that his cosmic mind could absorb it quickly enough; it was a faculty of what he was, a mystery these pitiful mortals could never understand.

  “Ira mea Dominum superabit,” he mumbled. “Yes, that my wrath would overcome the Almighty.”

  He reached down to caress the gold, imagining the child’s blood.

  Yes, he thought.

  Tomorrow night.

  ***

  Soloman moved silently down the deserted corridors of the hotel. He had left the room on an encouraging note, but in his heart he felt a fear he couldn’t lock down. It was as if they stood no chance at all, not against the force that had come against them. Then he remembered Amy and knew that, win or lose, he’d fight this thing to the ground.

  He knew what he was going to do: He would walk these halls and grounds all night, searching with a white-hot instinct to identify the killers. If he found them first, he’d kill them quick. If they found him first and attacked, he intended to kill without mercy—a message to Cain.

  It was a fight he savagely anticipated, and when he went into it he would hit full speed, holding nothing back. And if they were good at the job they might actually last a few moments. But he wouldn’t be surprised, considering his utterly lethal mindset, if he didn’t kill them outright.

  Everything was bright and alive with movement as he walked so casually, scanning doors and corners and shadows with an alertness he hadn’t known in seven years, alive again. Then he thought again of Amy, and a sudden rage made him want to lash out. He gritted his teeth, frightened for her, but instantly shut it down with brutal control.

  He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by emotion. Emotion was his enemy until the fight began. But as surely as he lived, he knew, men would die for this. One of them ...

  Two of them...

  All of them.

  ***

  A tomblike light split the darkness above Amy, and she opened her eyes. It took her another moment to reorient, and then she saw something crouching in the shadows beside her, something ... monstrous ...

  A hideous roar tore a scream from her throat, and she felt her hands fly across her face, screaming still as she scrambled back over the cot knowing nothing but terror as the roar continued, a hideous bestial bellow that made her light headed with fear.

  A series of explosive grunts followed, and Amy tried to catch her breath, crying. Her eyes closed tight as she pressed her face into the mattress, begging aloud to God ...

  “Do you like my pet?” the man whispered.

  Shaking her head into the softness of the mattress, Amy moaned. “No ... I don’t like it ... Please take it away ...”

  “But it is so beautiful,” the man murmurred, and Amy turned her face to see the monstrous beast so close to her. It was massive, apelike, and frightening with a blue-red face gaping and jagged white fangs as long as knives. It seemed like a cross between an ape and a leopard.

  She didn’t know what it was and saw that the man held it on a chain, like a dog. It was covered with coarse dark brown hair, bristling along itshead and neck and back. Its jaws gaped.

  “I had my servants obtain it for me,” he said, and Amy looked up to see him towering over her, smiling. Then the beast at the end of the chain lashed out at her again, and she cowered against the wall, screaming and screaming, begging for him to take it away.

  “It is a mandrill – a species of baboon,” he said. “And a rather magnificent member of its kind. Not half so powerful as its ancestors, but still a proud representative for this age. I am keeping it for Soloman.”

  “No! Please don’t—”

  “But Soloman will come for you, child.” He smiled. “Yes, for certain, Soloman will come for you. And then he will face a beast that is feared even among its kind. For this one is malevolent and strong, and were it free to roam the West African forest, it would certainly be lord.”

  “Please ...” Amy cried. “Please don’t—”

  “Hurt Soloman?” he finished. “No, Amy. I will not hurt Soloman. I will have no need to hurt Soloman because he will not live to face me. Nor will your mother with her pitiful weapon. In fact, they may already be dead.” He nodded as Amy buried her face into the bed. “No, Amy, I will not hurt Soloman. And when I drink your blood tomorrow night I will reclaim the power to become Lord of the Earth ... as is my birthright.”

  The mandrill swayed on long monstrous arms thick and powerful, grunting, seemingly brought under control by the man’s will. Then, laughing, the man turned and walked slowly from the chamber, the huge hunched beast loping beside him.

  In the frightening darkness that followed, Amy couldn’t think of anything but Soloman and her mother. And her hand closed once more over the rosary, and the crucifix.

  Her life.

  CHAPTER 24

  Searching shadows with effortless skill, Soloman used a stairwell to reach the first floor and entered the lobby. He waved casually at the desk clerk. “Got to get some fresh air,” he said, smiling.

  Soloman read everything, measuring the man in the space of a step. Too young for extensive military experience, too small for significant strength, hands soft, slow to react ...

  Not a hitter.

  The man nodded, faintly friendly Then Soloman was outside and glanced up to see the lights of their room. He knew from early reconnaissance that there was no balcony, no means of climbing to the window. Also, he was certain that if anyone came through the door Maggie would instantly open fire with the M3; a messy thing.

  He shook his head.

  No, a direct attack on the room was the last thing they would do because they didn’t want to attract attention. If they were professionals they would do the job quietly, waiting until the darkest hours before dawn to make a silent entry.

  Or, if they were truly desperate, they would use a room service cart or whatever it took to get Maggie or Marcelle to willingly open the door. But he knew Maggie and Marcelle were too smart for that, as the hitters probably suspected as well, though they would certainly rig the car with some manner of explosive.

  Walking slowly enough to attract attention, Soloman removed a cigar from his coat and took his time to light it. He had the air of a man who was easy prey – an out-of-shape Marine who’d grown careless with the years. He listened intently for the soft, faraway click of car doors, of soft footsteps behind hi
m. But he heard nothing, saw nothing.

  He ignored the cold sweat on his spine, the disturbing sensation that something was close. But he trusted his instinct, and knew he was sharp and alive to everything around him, and he was slightly confused because he knew they were there, though he couldn’t see them.

  He tried to appear casual as he glanced at the sky, using peripheral vision in an attempt to read movement in the shadows. He didn’t search for shape because shape would rarely reveal forms in the inky blackness; it was always color distortion that betrayed angles of attack.

  To look directly at movement in the night would often cause the red-green color receptors in the eye to miss the action altogether. That’s why he’d trained special warfare commandos to stare at the ground slightly to the left or right of where they sensed movement, letting the unfocused peripheral ability monitor shading, thereby finding the attacker’s angle of approach.

  Soloman concentrated a long time, but saw nothing and became increasingly disturbed. He gritted his teeth in frustration because he wanted to take them on man to man, outside the range of Maggie and the rest.

  Revealing no emotion, he continued to walk along the sidewalk in front of the building. Strolling toward the stairway closest to their room, training alerted him to method. Usually, when hitters surrounded a target, they would take out the first one separated from the group unless, of course, they had a strong reason to avoid a confrontation.

  Then he felt something.

  He didn’t know what it was, and it disoriented him. And, catching the faint scent, he stopped in place. He tilted his head, as if mesmerized, staring at the building, intuition rising. There was nothing there but a sensation that had begun somewhere inside his mind, yet it gained momentum quickly and he started to—

  Darkness!

  It struck the hotel into shadow black as pitch and Soloman snarled, knowing instantly. His hand found the grip of the Grizzly before he took the first step.