Soloman nodded slowly to indicate his agreement. "Have you ever read this book? Do you know what Cain might want it for?"
"I have examined it," the priest replied quietly; he obviously didn't want to remember the experience. "But it is a vast work. There are any number of things Cain may desire. Right now we don't have enough information to even couch the question."
Studious, Soloman turned it in his mind, thinking half-aloud. "So Cain apparently needs this book to ensure that he correctly evokes some sort of spell, or the spell is useless.”
"It would seem so," the priest said, expelling a long stream of smoke. "But no man can say with absolute certainty whether there is any truth to it. All we can say is that Cain apparently believes that it contains something he seeks. That is why he so mindlessly mentioned it in front of the child; a mistake born from obsession. Though ... I can say that whatever the purpose, it will probably involve a sacrifice of human blood."
Soloman frowned. "Why do you say that?"
"Because virtually every page of the manuscript contains such an incantation." Marcelle bowed his head as he continued, "There is human sacrifice for the gain of wealth, for knowledge, for the death of an enemy. And it was for that reason, more than any other, that the book was archived by Pope Innocent III. You can certainly understand that there are deranged persons who would have taken it and committed atrocities that have been easily avoided by its suppression."
Soloman sensed his heartbeat quicken. It was the first moment of encouragement that he'd felt in the hard battle to bring Cain to the ground. And in the moment he considered the priest as a colleague, compelling him to ask, "Who are you, Marcelle? I mean ... really."
Marcelle's faint smile faded to nothing, then a frown, and he leaned back more deeply in the opulent chair. Smoke from the cigarette floated up to cast a thin white veil between them.
"You're an exorcist," Soloman said.
There was another long cloud of smoke released. "I am a priest, Colonel," Marcelle answered calmly. "And I serve the Church in many capacities that I am not at liberty to discuss, even if I should feel inclined. I hope that is sufficient. But, to add, I will say that there are probably few who understand Cain as well as I."
"And what do you understand?"
"I understand that, because of what your people have done, Cain may be the purest of his kind." He concentrated his tone. "He is undead and yet un-living. And although I have dealt with occult phenomena, I have never confronted anything like this. Regrettably we are both cast into a strange and unknown arena. And, to be honest, I do not know if my faith or skills will avail us anything at all. In fact, I doubt it."
"Still, maybe we can help each other," Soloman said. "You seem to have insight that I could use."
"Perhaps," Marcelle paused. "But I am not under military command, Colonel. My jurisdiction is delivered by the strong right hand ... of a superior realm."
Soloman nodded with respect. "As it should be, Marcelle. But that doesn't change the fact that you do have insight into Cain. You might even be able to understand him better than me because you understand the occult better than I do.”
Marcelle took a long drag on the cigarette, eventually turned his shadowed face to the flames. His brow hardened in concentration. "I can say, Colonel, that it would be an unusual alliance."
"It would be a useful alliance, Marcelle, because I have access to everything that can track Cain. And you have the psychological insight that I need to predict his moves. Together, we might stand a chance of hunting him down before ..."
Marcelle gazed back. "Before, Colonel?"
Without moving at all, Soloman said, "You'll have to trust me. Right now I want your best guess on Cain's next move."
A concentration as impregnable as a fortress solidified the priest's face. His black eyes gleamed, reflecting shadow and flame together, and his frown became deeper, the cigarette burning forgotten in his fingers. "Cain has lost the child," he said finally, "so he will attempt to claim a copy of The Grimorium Verum. Then he would logically attempt to obtain knowledge of the child's whereabouts and come for her once more."
"Why will he immediately attempt to obtain this book?"
"Because he fears time."
"How do you know that?"
"Because of things I have not yet told you." Marcelle's confidence was contagious. "But have no doubt, Soloman, Cain indeed fears time. And so he will come for the book. Perhaps even tonight."
With an angry aspect Soloman glanced at his watch; six hours remained until daylight. He hesitated a single breath before he rose, staring down at the priest.
"Let's go to the museum," he said.
*
CHAPTER 11
A night of shadow surrounded Soloman as far as he could see or sense. It was an azure haze of street light that cast a dead-air atmosphere over the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History. And the building was Soloman's focus; one of the three surviving copies of The Grimorium Verum was secured inside the steel doors.
Leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the rear parking lot, Marcelle at his side, Soloman surveyed the back of the monolith, lamenting the fact that they were so far away. There was probably three hundred feet between them and the building, but Soloman's night vision was adequate for the task; he could see clearly enough.
Traffic had thinned on surrounding side streets but heat hovered, carried through the night to smother them in fumes. And Soloman remembered that he had always hated this city with the traffic and traffic and traffic, the noise and pollution and five seasons of Hell. Even Death Valley or White Sands was better than this. Then he shook his head at the thought, amazed that it occurred to him in this perilous situation. He concentrated again on the building.
Cain would attempt to make entry as covertly as possible, taking all precautions against another confrontation. And not because he couldn't easily kill whoever came against him; it was because he didn't want the complications of another escape.
Soloman grimaced, remembering how he'd only narrowly defeated the monstrosity in the tunnel. And at the thought he lifted the heavy shotgun beneath Marcelle's frowning gaze, sliding back the ejection shield to ensure that a round was chambered; it was. He was glad that he'd exchanged the .00 rounds with Malo for exploding .12 gauge three-inch slugs.
Filled with mercury and a small measure of C-4, the magnum rounds impacted with the force of a small grenade. Capable of blowing a wooden door in half, they were only issued to elite counterterrorist teams like Force Recon or Seal Team One. Soloman was mercilessly determined to see how Cain could survive one of them.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that only four hours remained until daylight, and shook his head with fatigue. Then he cast a glance to see Marcelle so stoic, so infinitely patient as he calmly smoked another cigarette, and felt a measure of respect at the composure. Truly, the priest was an exceptional man. He had not even shown fear when, an hour ago, a trio of street thugs wearing red bandannas stalked down a nearby alley. Immediately threatening, they had retreated quickly when Soloman casually raised the SPAS from behind his back, saying in a deathly cold voice, "I'm busy. Maybe later."
They never came back.
Since then, he and Marcelle had been quiet together, each understanding and respecting the other's discipline and patience. But the combined silence also seemed to reinforce to both of them that the darkness was lending cold reality to their fears.
Slowly, night became deeper, morning stars sliding slowly across the sky. And Soloman still didn't move, hoping to find the hated silhouette of Cain against a wall. But there was nothing.
Eventually the night lessened, a distant dawn hazing the horizon beyond the glaring street lights. Yet Soloman continued to see nothing but shadows, as day crept closer. And despite his previous convictions he began to wonderer if they were wrong ...
Movement.
A faint shadowing of dark within dark. It was all there was, but it was what Soloman had been awaiting. He locked
on it instantly as he heard Marcelle's composed whisper, "There."
"I see it," Soloman said, and suddenly felt the kind of respect for the priest that comes only when one man has finally measured the other in the field. With one word Marcelle had suddenly come to a new level of regard, as far as Soloman was concerned.
Soloman focused keenly on the darkness and then, again, saw the shadowy outline; a gigantic human form highlighted by streetlight against a slate-gray wall. It was there in the distant sound of rending steel for the briefest moment and then not even Soloman's superior night vision could find it again. It was gone as clean as the wind – nothing at all.
Marcelle didn't move.
Soloman shifted, reaching back to grasp the shotgun. And, very slowly, brought the weapon in front, holding it close as he stared without breath into the blackness.
No, nothing.
Marcelle stood away from the wall, squinting, and Soloman could tell from the priest's frustrated face that he also saw nothing. The priest scowled, staring, but he was obviously confused; it was as if he had seen an apparition appear and disappear in the same breath. After a moment he shook his head. "I see nothing, Colonel."
Frowning in gathering anger, Soloman withdrew a cellular phone and dialed Malo, giving terse instructions to descend on the parking lot. Then he turned to Marcelle. "Stay here," he said. "I'm going in."
Marcelle gripped his arm. "Perhaps we should wait for more men, Soloman." He spoke with concern. "We know he is inside the building and, in this situation, time is to our advantage."
Soloman pulled away. "This is personal, Marcelle," he rasped. "That thing has killed a lot of good men and tried to kill a little girl that I happen to care for. I'm not going to give it another chance to escape."
Marcelle stared as Soloman ran in a loping combat crouch, closing on the building. He crossed the empty parking lot as covertly as possible, using separated shrubbery and largely decorative trees, and then he was at the door Cain had compromised.
Looking down at the portal, Soloman saw that the stainless steel knob had been sheared away like wet paper. Ragged threads were all that was visible where the lock had been, and Soloman knew from the absence of an alarm that it had been disabled.
Bending, he went through the exit and melted instantly into the dark. Sliding against a wall he listened, hushing his breathing as he searched the faint gray light of the museum, but he detected nothing.
Soloman's racing heart and almost silent breath sounded terrifyingly loud to him in the gloom, but he knew that was a fear-generated illusion, for not even Cain could hear his pounding heart.
Soloman held the SPAS close as he moved carefully down the hallway, knowing the giant would be involved in searching for the book. But Soloman had no idea where it was either, so he was forced into a random search-and-destroy.
When he found Cain he knew it would hit like lightning and escalate into a raging battle that would likely leave this building on fire. But Soloman knew he was ready for it; he had the grenades and the .45 and was wearing a vest with a steel shock-plate reinforcing his chest.
He was heavily armored enough to last for a few moments before either he or Cain went down. And even if he did go down, Soloman was hatefully determined to injure Cain badly enough to at least cripple the giant. Something was driving Soloman that he didn't understand and didn't try to understand, sensing only that it was something deep and quick and becoming more and more alive ...
Silently he crept through the museum, turning his head minutely to detect movement or sound, but there was only silence. Cain, wherever he was, was working quiet as a ghost in the gloom to find the— Blood.
A rivulet of red moved slowly over the marble floor.
Soloman turned his head to glimpse a gray uniform extending beyond a corner; the legs of a doomed security guard who had obviously happened upon Cain when he entered the building. But Soloman didn't take time to examine the body; it didn't matter how the man died. He was simply dead, another life taken by this thing that should have never seen the world.
Death after death after death; it was all there was.
Soloman stalked forward using solid cover. He searched the wide square balcony above lit with faint light but he saw nothing, heard nothing, detected nothing and was becoming increasingly frustrated. He knew that he had to hit Cain while he was preoccupied with the theft. He had to hit him from behind and continue to hit until he fell. Then he would hurl one of the antipersonnel grenades secured on his belt, which he hoped would separate Cain's head from his shoulders.
Sweating furiously, swiping perspiration from his face with a free hand, Soloman walked along a rear wall, his combat boots making no sound on the marble floor. He was tempted to leave the shadows and then it occurred to him that not even Cain could have perfect night vision, especially if he were standing in light, because his eyes would be apertured to the greater light instead of the lesser. And it was something that not even Cain could undo because it was an optic reflex no more changeable than unconscious breath. The more light, the more effective the shadows.
Soloman had taken a dozen more steps when he suddenly halted, not knowing why. It had seldom happened without any visible or audible warning, but over the years he had come to trust it.
Something dangerous was close beside him, he realized.
Something unseen … and silent.
The last time the instinct had struck Soloman so strongly he had been in Beirut tracking down a senior member of the jihad. Not even knowing why, Soloman had halted in an alley and dropped fast to the ground as an AK-47 opened up from a window less than ten feet away.
He had never been able to determine what made him stop and fall to the ground a split-second before the bullets passed over his head; he had simply done it. Nor did he know why he stopped now; it simply happened. Alarmed, he turned his head minutely to detect anything as— Cain …
Emerged from darkness.
In a rumble of haunting thunder Cain stepped from the deepest shadow less than ten feet away. Galactic and gigantic and ultimately menacing the beast took a single slow stride into the light. His smile was malevolent, mocking. His red gaze fixed on Soloman with baleful intensity.
He was dressed utterly in black, his head already covered with thick dark hair that swept back from the broad, fearless forehead. And he had acquired a long cloak that made him seem even more mammoth. His long fingers tapered to wicked black talons.
A bright-white flood of horror and adrenaline had rushed from the center of Soloman and he couldn't catch his breath as he backed up, matching Cain slow step for slow step. He knew his heart had somehow skipped a beat, and he had to glance down to ensure that the SPAS was centered on the giant's chest.
Soloman retreated another stride and didn't know why he hadn't fired the shotgun. It was as if they were both awaiting some unknown signal to initiate the oncoming battle. Then Soloman realized the entire confrontation was shockingly wild and uncanny – a spellbinding battle to the death that had begun without a single blow being thrown.
With a warlike glance Cain regarded the SPAS as nothing, his dark face distorted by a contemptuous frown. Then he stopped in place, poised as powerful as death. And Soloman saw an ancient manuscript clutched in his right hand: The Grimorium Verum.
The book was bound with a thick wooden latch, the spine comprising a row of wide leather straps.
Soloman realized with spiraling horror that Cain had probably seen them watching outside, had known what they were planning to do. That's why he'd made himself visible; he'd wanted Soloman to follow him into the museum and played him perfectly.
With a slight tilt of his head Cain regarded Soloman and his weapons as if, together, they posed no more threat than a child. Then he spoke in the volcanic voice Soloman had heard on the tape, a voice that gods would envy. It was human thunder rumbling with power never used and never needed, fearing nothing. On the tape it had been enraged and lordly and imperious. Now it was cold and contemptuou
s.
"So," Cain said with an indulgent smile, "you are my great adversary – the one who wounded me." He laughed. "That was a blow well dealt, butcher! You enjoy the blood as much as I."
Frowning, Soloman moved to the side, knowing Cain's superhuman speed could close the gap between them in the blink of an eye and also knowing that with his first shot an all-out war to the death would erupt. He froze his finger tightly around the trigger of the shotgun.
He didn't want to engage Cain in battle like this because if the first shot didn't kill, then Cain would be all over him raging and rending, finishing him in seconds.
An amused smile crept over the fiendish face as Soloman shifted, sweating and glaring and watching with hair-trigger alertness. "You came for the child," he rumbled. "Yes, you came for her."
Playing for time so that Malo and the Delta commandos could close on the museum with the two choppers, Soloman frowned. He tried to keep the fear out of his voice as he said, "And for you."
Cain lifted hands from his sides.
"I am here."
Soloman shifted, his hand tightening on the trigger of the SPAS until no slack at all remained in the trigger; a half-ounce more pressure and the weapon would discharge. Then Cain bent, laying the manuscript on a small mahogany table. He murmured something in Latin – something that held a deathly intonation – and as the taloned fingers lifted it happened.
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