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 mind-set, 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 its head 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 M-3; 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 him. 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 vi-sion 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.
No, they weren't going to attack him. They'd realized somehow that he was too hard a hit. So they'd thrown the circuit breakers to throw the hotel into darkness and now they'd be moving fast for the room, knowing Soloman would be coming even faster to intercept them. It was the oldest rule of hunting; it was far easier to lure in a kill than stalk a kill.
With a curse Soloman leaped the hood of a car and went into the stairwell, expecting to be hit instantly. But he didn't give a damn because he was in a hot mode to kill anything that got in his way regardless of what happened to him in return. He ascended the first steps quickly and as he reached the fifth he dropped sharply into it with breath fast, eyes tunneling. He angled the Grizzly through the darkness, toward the railing above.
Nothing.
Heart pounding in his ears, afraid that he had lost a measure of alert-ness in the volcanic adrenaline rush, Soloman moved more slowly, feeling for the faint movement of air that would reveal another presence, hoping to kill here and now, to control the situation. Then he reached the landing and started up the stairs of the second flight, knowing they would probably have night vision.
Cold perspiration streaked his face as he flattened his back against the door leading to their floor. Then he took a second to thumb back the hammer of the Grizzly, eyes closing briefly in sweat-soaked shock. He was tempted to open the door hard but decided to do it slowly, inch by inch.
He revealed nothing of his body, gave them nothing. And in a moment he'd opened the door enough to slide through, but hesitated. He glared into the hallway and saw nothing but black. He couldn't even see the door to their room, less than six feet away.
"Damn," he whispered, shaking his head.
Not good.
He knew without doubt that they were close to him, probably less than twenty feet away. Just as he realized that their tactics would be brutally simple and effective. Probably, one of them would be waiting in the hall, night vision set for infrared, an M-16 on full auto. And as soon as he walked into the hall, blind as a bat, the hitter would open up.
"Christ Almighty," he whispered as he bent, blinking sweat from his eyes in frustration.
He cast a single glance into the darkness behind him, toward the downward flight of stairs. He knew another hitter could be moving up directly behind him and he wouldn't even be able to identify the threat. But he couldn't stand here all night. He had to do something and do it quickly, before they trapped him in a cross fire. Breathless with fear, he knew there was no easy way out. He had to make a suicide move.
Move!
Create the situation!
With a hard jerk he threw back the door and stepped boldly into the hall, instantly leveling the Grizzly as if he could see everything, though he could see nothing at all. He moved silently step by step toward the place where the door should be and froze listening.
Waiting.
He heard nothing but adrenalized breath, his own.
He reached out to grasp the doorknob, felt the wall.
Damn!
He'd gone too far!
The door was behind him, somewhere to the left. He slowly eased back, glaring into the hallway, searching, sensing, feeling. Then the cur-rent shifted behind him and he spun to— Hit!
He roared at the pain and twisted.
Knife!
Soloman howled as pain sliced his shoulder, and he swept his left arm around violently, slamming the attacker massively against the wall. The blade was torn from his muscle and Soloman felt a hard hand gripping his neck, a vicious curse. Desperately he head-butted, stunning the attacker, and in the next split-second he kicked out to throw himself back across the hall, raising the Grizzly to fire as he sailed back.
The blinding strobe lit the corridor and Soloman glimpsed a black-cloaked figure rolling wide to the side, expertly evading the round. But Soloman caught the direction and retargeted instantly, knowing the hitter could move only so fast in a roll. As the man reached his feet Soloman spread a figure-eight pattern of deafening rounds.
Stunned by the blasts of the Grizzly, Soloman half heard Maggie screaming his name over and over from inside the room. Then there was a wounded grunt in the hall, a staggering.
Tracking, Soloman fired twice again.
Heard something thick strike the floor.
Breathless, faint and sweating, Soloman dropped the clip and reloaded, glaring left and right. He didn't know if he'd killed or not but he was ready to set something on fire to find out.
Alive with fighting instinct he moved down the hall, the Grizzly held close, his other hand high. His shoulder burned but he ignored it. He knew he'd been stabbed and that a knife wound could cripple in seconds if it cut a nerve or major artery. But the fact that he was still on his feet and vividly alert told him it was a minor injury. The hit-man had missed.
Gingerly Soloman swept a foot, searching.
Touched something.
A foot.
Killer instinct decided and Soloman aimed down at the body to fire five times, knowing from the sound of impact that he had hit the torso. He had no compunctions against shooting a dead man, and if the man had been alive trying to lure Soloman in for a kill, he wasn't anymore.
Trying to control his out-of-control spiraling stress, Soloman dropped the half-empty clip and inserted another in a tactical reload. With one down and at least one to go, he wanted a full magazine. Then he moved backward toward the room, not even bothering to look behind himself because he couldn't see anything anyway.
Frantic, Maggie's voice howled through the door.
"Soloman!"
Freezing in place, tilting his head, Soloman didn't answer.
Something ...
Was there.
Beneath her scream he'd heard something, a whisper of sound ...
Now no sound at all.
Something had crept to him, something silent and chilling. And slowly Soloman turned, the Grizzly close, feeling the air, the shadows, all of it in absolute silence.
Drops of perspiration fell from his chin, his face. Blood steadily soaked his shoulder, a lot of it, and he tried to keep his concentration off the pain. If he could only identify a direction he could— Movement ...
Soloman stopped breathing, listened.
His hand locked blood-wet on the Grizzly.
There was something there. He felt it, sensed it close too close and
he gritted his teeth in tension, raising the Grizzly to shoot from the hip. He couldn't level to aim because if they were using swords, which he had felt in the struggle, he would lose an arm.
Turning his head, cold in sweat, he tried to find the faintest alteration of darkness but there was nothing, only endless dark that made this seem like another world, and his grip tightened even more on the pistol. He was about to get hit again, he knew. There was no way out of it. But he was determined to return it in full and take out whoever was moving before him.
Hearing Maggie's voice in the background and trying to shut it out, Soloman waited, but nothing came. Nothing but a surreal invisible presence that made his skin crawl.
You don't have time for this!
Move!
A thousand combat situations from Force Recon missions made the decision for him. Soloman had been here so often that doing it was a reflex.
Teeth clenched in tension, he moved forward, toward the last place from which he had heard a sound, knowing the man was wearing night-vision goggles and was probably already on top of him. But he felt somehow that the second assassin was also using a sword; he would have already opened fire if he were using a gun. Emboldened by fatalistic courage, Soloman took a second step into the hall, moving toward the stairwell.
He knew the attack would come when the space to his back was greatest, when he left an opening. And since the man hadn't hit him yet, Soloman reasoned that the hitter was in front of him, waiting for him to turn.
Slowly, Soloman turned, triggered to react.
As soon as he gave the hitter an opportunity, he would move close to strike for Soloman's neck, the surest killing point with an edged weapon. But with that, at least, Soloman felt an advantage. Because he had the Grizzly, if he could only see what to shoot.
Soloman wasn't sure anymore of his bearings.
He tilted his head in the obscure gloom of the hall, listening, stilling his breath. Sweat fell from his lips and he tried to get a fix on a man that he knew was standing only feet away. His hand tightened on the pistol as he trembled, knowing it could come at any— NOW!
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