After ten minutes, he stood. His gray eyes narrowed in a primitive pleasure rarely observed in so august a face. "At last," he said quietly as he stared down. "At last ... we have found this fell creature."
Barth stood, swayed by the impact of the news. He leaned against the vault wall. "Are you certain, Aveling? Do you know where Cain has taken the child? There is no time to be deceived!"
"Yes," came the exhausted reply. "I know exactly where he has fled. It is as I surmised. He has taken her to the ancient land of the Druids. To the land of Samhain."
"What is this place?"
"The Castle of Calistro. It was claimed by the Church in the fourteenth century after the renegade Cathars and Druids ran amok with human sacrifice. It is located in the Northumberland region of England." Aveling released a deep breath. "It is a forbidding fortress that towers on the eastern sea cliffs of Lifanis, a cold and desolate place. Though the Castle itself is Roman in design, no one is certain who constructed it. It is a place I know only by bureaucratic privilege as Superior General, and there is much I cannot tell. Though, vowing you to restraint, I can say it is a place rumored to contain mysterious forces. The single road leading to the cliffs of Lifanis has been barricaded for many years. Nor do we allow tourism within its walls."
"Forces? What manner of forces?"
"Perhaps scientific, perhaps magnetic or even geological." Aveling shook his head tiredly. “Perhaps even divine forces, though I had thought myself to have given up belief in such things. Suffice it to say that we do not understand them. But Cain ... He will understand."
"Then this deed that he has stolen—"
"Grants him legal possession." Aveling was gloomy. "Whoever possesses the deed, signed by Edward I, will have little problem settling affairs with English authorities. There will certainly be suspicious questions, but nothing that Cain, with his great wisdom, cannot deflect."
"Do you believe he intends to make this castle his home?"
"Even birds of the air need nests," Aveling replied. "Cain is the same. And if our perceptions are correct, then he will want a place old with blood and shadow and cold. He will not want a place devoid of what he knows so well." A pause. "Yes, I believe that Cain intends to make this his home while he consummates his plan."
"And the child?"
Silent, Aveling frowned.
"If those who fight for us cannot rescue her, then she will surely die," he replied finally. "Cain must have her blood to correct this curious scientific malady in his system. But even if he did not need her blood, he will kill her. He is a creature of mindless annihilation, of senseless evil without meaning or even true design. It would be destruction for the sake of destruction, the heart of evil. So yes, old friend, he will murder the child."
Barth rose. "And now? Now what is our course? Can we not call in the English authorities to intervene? Surely Marcelle and Soloman are outmatched, alone against this fiend."
"Yes, but alone they must remain. For no one would stand beside them if they knew the meaning of their struggle."
Barth said, "They will need a miracle."
"We have no time for miracles, divine or otherwise" Aveling answered. "Now I must call Marcelle and tell him that the final conflict is upon them. I must tell him to pursue Cain to the Castle of Calistro where, by the grace of God, they may yet destroy him."
Aveling's face fell. "Before he destroys us all."
*
CHAPTER 23
Amy awoke to a cavernous silence, a stillness of air. She didn't think of anything at all as she rose on one hand, staring at faint distant angles of light framed by gloom. It seemed that she was somewhere different; she couldn't be sure. But as she gazed she began to perceive distinct lines within the somberness, lines that joined, level upon level, rising ...
Stones ...
Stones joined close about her, and she realized that she was in some kind of building, distant light shifting through an entrance to ... to this room. She shook her head and sat groggily on the bed, raising hands to her head. She had a headache, a sharp pain in her temples that reminded her somehow of ... the man.
And she remembered.
He had come to her, had made her drink something pasty and bitter that made her gag. And then she knew no more, only the nightmare continuing, always continuing. But she had known so much of it in the past two days, it seemed like all there had ever been.
She thought of her mother – and Soloman who had promised to always, always protect her. Then she remembered the pain on his face as the man had moved her down the stairs, saw Soloman reaching out, and for a faint, fading second she had known hope.
She prayed that Soloman and her mother would be coming for her, that they would find her, even as something else said that no one would ever find her, and that she would die here. Then she was afraid again with a night known too long.
Bowing her head, she desperately clutched the rosary beads and the crucifix of Mother Superior Mary Francis—to give you comfort—still wrapped closely about her neck, her hand tight with a last hope.
Tears fell, but she made no sound at all.
***
Soloman snatched the curtain of the Lear cockpit.
"Can't this thing fly any faster?" he snarled.
The pilot of the Lear turned his head. "We're already going five-fifty, Colonel!" He was clearly exasperated. "That'll put you in England in two more hours and it's the best I can do! This isn't an F-16, you know. We can't go Mach 2! We can't even go supersonic!"
Without replying Soloman jerked back the curtain and moved angrily down the aisle to see Maggie holding a fist to her teeth, staring worried and silent out a window. He passed her without words and crouched at the back for an equipment check. And again he was satisfied.
Yeah, he'd brought everything.
The .50-caliber Grizzly semi-auto was in the sack with ten fully loaded clips for a total of 70 rounds, each capable of shattering the engine block of a car. The armor-piercing rounds would penetrate a quarter-inch steel panel, he knew, and just might penetrate Cain's internal armor plating.
The Bennelli, termed the M-3, was a shotgun specially designed for the military. It fired either slugs or buckshot and operated on semi-auto or pump. It carried seven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. And Soloman had loaded it with double-ought buck, each shell containing 9-mm shot. They couldn't penetrate Cain's armor but they'd devastate flesh to put that infamous healing ability into overdrive.
Last, Soloman checked the grenades, twenty of them, and a waterproof daypack filled with almost twenty pounds of dynamite and homemade napalm concocted from gasoline and non-detergent cleanser.
The dynamite was wrapped around a waterproof bag holding the napalm, and he would use the dynamite as a catalyst. A twenty-second fuse was located in the top and once it was lit he'd have to get clear fast because the explosion would create a holocaust of mushrooming flame over 150 feet across. But if he had to, he had already decided, he'd put the pack on his back and throw himself on top of Cain for a final embrace. Either way, he had determined, Cain was going down.
There are worse ways to die.
He sensed Marcelle beside him and looked up to see Sister Mary Francis sitting beside Maggie, seemingly in prayer. With a quick movement he closed the duffle and rose. "Are you sure we're not going to have any trouble getting my weapons through customs, Marcelle?"
"Yes," the priest replied confidently. "Aveling has made arrangements with certain members of MI5 – old friends of his, it seems. They have pledged to keep your arrival a secret for a short time and will escort us through customs without preliminaries."
With a grunt Soloman looked over the plane. "It's going to long odds, Marcelle, this team against Cain." He paused. "Maybe you and the rest should let me go in alone, take him down myself."
"Everyone needs an ally, Soloman."
The warrior in Soloman, never far from the scholar, rose to the surface. He had felt it taking more and more control since Amy
had been taken. Realized his attitude altering more and more as they got closer to the confrontation. His killing instincts were fresh and alive, flowing from his heart hot with quick strength, a hair-trigger alertness.
"Well, not everyone has to go up against this," he replied. "And it's not going to be a dancing contest. It's going to be a throw-down without mercy from beginning to end, and once it starts there's not gonna be any place in that castle that's safe."
Marcelle smiled faintly. "But we do not fight alone, Soloman. We do have God on our side."
"You're a brave man, Marcelle. But don't get too brave. There's no future in it."
Marcelle truly enjoyed it. "What we face, Soloman, may require all of your skills and mine combined."
"What skills can you offer?"
"Counsel. There are unknowns that we must consider. Plus, I doubt that Cain remains alone. If he is half as cunning as I believe him to be, then he has recruited followers from intergenerational cults that are secretly dedicated to worshipping him. They are the most dangerous force in Satanism. I told you earlier that I did not think we were dealing with Satanism. That is because we were dealing with Cain, who is Satan himself. But I believe the game has changed, somewhat. The circle has enlarged."
Soloman looked away. "The big conspiracy theory, Marcelle? That Satanists are responsible for Hitler, Watergate, pornography, abortion, the Pentagon and Iran-gate?"
Marcelle enjoyed the moment of humor. "No." He smiled. "That is a fallacy of the paranoid and simpleminded. It is a delusion, for such an act would be impossible to sustain. However, the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit publicly admits that there are, indeed, multi-generation families that are secretly dedicated to Satanism. These families are highly protective and leave no clues of crimes. They would be a formidable ally for Cain."
"So," Soloman pondered, "who would Cain recruit? That is, if he's really who you think he is." He still had trouble saying it out loud.
Taking a breath, the priest said, "If Cain is who we suspect him to be, he will have recruited vassals from almost anywhere. There are many who truly practice Satanism and are equipped to assist him with money and re-sources."
"Is that really possible?"
"Yes," he said flatly. "It is possible."
"Well, I'm not worried about Cain's goons." Soloman suddenly checked the Grizzly, breaking out. "I'm in a hot damn mood to kill somebody, so it might just as well be them. What I'm saying is that I don't want to see Maggie or you or Mary Francis get hurt by the flak. 'Cause once this thing starts I'm not going to be able to fight Cain and protect all of you at the same time. To finish Cain, I'll have to go all out. Which means there's gonna be a firestorm. And these grenades and bullets aren't particular about who they find."
"I am in this to the end," Marcelle said gently, but firmly. "As is Mother Superior Mary Francis. Nor, I think, will Maggie let you go into the castle alone. She has great affection for you."
Soloman said nothing, then glared out the window. He saw distant ground beneath, the sea behind. Soon they'd be landing at Birmingham and a new game would begin.
"All right, Marcelle, you can ride it out to the end. Just remember one thing. When we hit the deck, the rules have forever changed. I'll be in a combat mode and all of you will do exactly what I say, when I say. And if I say drop, I want everybody to drop. I respect your judgment, but don't question me in a combat situation. Not ever."
"We will follow your commands, Soloman. Be assured. But there may be something that we, too, can offer. If we fight with courage and hope and determination, we will be stronger together than alone. A three-strand cord is not easily broken."
"Yeah," Soloman answered. "Ecclesiastes, chapter one. But there's going to be blood in this, priest – enough blood to drown in. And I want a promise from you."
"Ask."
"Once Amy and Maggie are together, when it's just Cain and me, I want you to get them out of there. Then I won't be worried about any of you getting hit by flak. I can go full out. No hesitation. 'Cause I'm telling you right now, that if I have to, I'm gonna bring that castle down on him and me both."
There was a long pause, and finally Marcelle nodded. "I understand," the priest said. "But know this, Soloman. You were brought to this child for a purpose. It was meant to be by a power higher than this world. You did not choose Amy. You were chosen for her. It was your destiny. Ordained, and concealed. And now, I think, there is one less mystery in your life."
Soloman stared. His face was too fierce in a combat mode to show anything but heat and fighting rage, and after a long moment he turned to look out at the night.
"And now," Marcelle said, "if you will excuse me, I must pray. While there is still time."
"Hey, Marcelle."
The priest turned back, waiting.
"Do you really ..." Soloman paused. "I mean, do you really believe in prayer?"
Marcelle laughed softly.
"Well, it certainly can't hurt, Colonel."
***
A gigantic granite throne of majestic age dominated the torch-lit chamber, embracing Cain's powerful form with godlike dimensions, casting an unearthly aspect.
Black candles, staggered in levels, lined his back with a single large white candle in the center. A hexagram—a six-pointed star—had been etched in red on the floor. Warlocks stood silently at each point, two on the crest of a pyramid drawn in the center.
Dark and haunting, Cain stared over the men before him, each waiting silently for his words. And a smile came to him slowly as he saw the disciplined faces void of emotion or sentiment or mercy. No, there was only cold remorseless will, dark purpose.
Each was dressed in a long black cloak that made them all resemble medieval monks. And all, he knew, were consummate killers, silently dedicated to the art of protecting their Church. And he would need them, for limited as he was in this flesh, he required servants who could execute the more mechanical aspects of his master plan.
It was only a small army to begin, but it would grow little by little until they were as numerous as grains of sand. Yes, as the Old One said, do not despise the day of small things. It was a necessary place to begin.
He laughed.
He always enjoyed using that great wisdom against the very hand that created it, duplicating even the symmetry of that cloud-crested kingdom when he created his own—a dark reflection of what was truly perfect, and perfect in its own counterfeit aspect. Not the same, no, but no less because it mirrored the best and highest realm of this universe.
Pleased, he stared over The Circle and knew with certainty that they could accomplish any task.
Yes, the vassal Archette had been careful when he recruited them, had used wisdom to hide them in the secret corridors of power where they had used their magnificent skills to protect the Family, which oversaw his highest affairs in this dimension. Between them, he was certain, the deaths they claimed would count into the hundreds.
And he had fiercely retained knowledge of their existence when he'd seized this corporeal form, knowing he would eventually need them. Just as he had known that he would eventually need Archette, who sat upon the council of the Family. Yes, Archette … always faithful.
It was time.
He spoke with a voice of inhabited stone.
"Our task is simple, and dedicated to a single goal," he began. "First, you must ensure that I am not distracted from the Black Mass to be completed tomorrow night. Samhain cannot, it must not, be desecrated by the wrath of my enemy. I trust you to defend holy ground."
Talons tightened on granite.
"The glory you have known is but a reflection of the glory you shall know in the days and years and eons to come. For, despite your honorable service, the memory of true celestial might has been lost to this world, now to be revealed only by my return. I, your Lord, am among you. And I shall bring a glorious revival of those days when we tread down dominions of the Earth. Yes, now we will reclaim the land we have lost. Continents will be crushed by might a
nd mammon. And soon the world shall once again worship the one true god.
"Remember this hour when you were the first to stand before the Lord. Remember the hour when you were chosen as the first to enter the land promised to us so long ago and taken by that tyrannical hand that knows neither justice nor mercy. But now there is a new beginning, and we will yet conquer the evil of that heavenly wrath. Our cause is just, our hearts are true, and our victory is assured if we only stand with courage."
He paused, his aspect darkening.
"Only one danger remains," he intoned. "There is a man. His name is Soloman, and he is the same who hunted each of you in the past, though you escaped him. And now he hunts me. He will come for the child, to take her. But it must not be. I have already dispatched Cassius and Raphael to intercept him. But, should they fail, and if Soloman reaches the castle, then you must destroy him. And make no mistake: Soloman is to be respected, for fear has its own wisdom. But might is on our side, and he is only one."
He gazed at them and continued. "So great is your individual strength that even one of you should be sufficient for the task. But standing together against a single man, you cannot be defeated. I give you the honor of slaying him because I will be involved in the ritual, so it is a task you must complete. Do not disappoint me. Do not allow my faith to fail. Nor should you fear martyrdom, for if you die you will only be reincarnated, reborn in this world and elevated to become an Overlord of my Church."
Silent and cloaked, they bowed.
"Go and prepare." Cain raised an arm. "An enemy approaches."
***
Quietly met on deplaning and ushered through Birmingham customs by a very elderly man who moved with the understated authority of a retired spy, Soloman loaded the duffle bag in the back of the car and surreptitiously removed the Grizzly to lock it in a right-side hip holster.
He'd placed four extra magazines in clip holders on his waist and two grenades behind the holster. The tanto was secured tight on his left side.
A waving, slicing sheet of rain swept over them and Soloman bent his head, wincing at the cutting cold. The English weather was so savage and piercing it was almost like culture shock, for he was accustomed to the dead heat of L.A. and the airless atmosphere of the desert.
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