Grimacing, Cain raised a hand to his chest as if it could help him heave a heavy breath beneath the blood flooding his lungs.
"All I need," he whispered, "is blood."
Blinking slowly, Marcelle spoke.
"Life ... is in the blood."
A harsh laugh, and Cain bowed his head. Slowly he fell still, and black blood dripped from the fangs.
Turning his gaze, Soloman saw that Marcelle was staring at the ravaged figure resting so closely beside him.
Soloman held Amy tight, waiting, knowing there was nothing to be done. He was so exhausted and amazed and overwhelmed by the struggle that he could say nothing. Then without a word Marcelle also bowed his head, and his hands fell limply from his heart.
Death claiming death.
***
Holding Amy in an arm, Soloman bent over Maggie and helped her rise from the stone floor. In shock and half-conscious, she cast a horrified gaze at Cain's monstrous form, beheld the great black head bowed in stillness. Then her eyes turned to Marcelle and her face twisted in grief. She lowered her head and moaned. Soloman held her gently.
"Come on, baby," he whispered. "It's over. He's dead."
"But Marcelle . . ."
"Died as he chose to die," Soloman said. "It's over."
She leaned heavily on his arm and he held them both, finding all the strength he needed flowing into him. And together they walked out, silent in their mutual pain, the flame that binds.
Amy's hand bled from the warlock's blade, the redness flowing in red rivulets over Soloman, joining them. But as Soloman stepped over Cain's monstrous form he took a single moment to turn, gazing with contempt as he felt Amy's arms clutching him hard.
Soloman knew that he'd fought for all of them: the dead, the living, for every life ever destroyed by the dark force lying silently at his feet. And although he could feel no victory, he knew he'd finally claimed the victory. Staring down, he was moved by the sensation. And with the thought Soloman nodded, feeling its truth.
"Thus sayeth the Lord," he said.
*
CHAPTER 27
Soloman had never seen him, but he knew.
Cloaked in white, the priest stood in the center of the Vatican's majestic circular entrance, the dome of Michelangelo towering far above. Patiently, he watched an old woman pour water on cobblestones for the pigeons, affectionately feeding them grain, oblivious to scorn.
Soloman walked up, stood in silence.
Aveling did not turn, and when he finally spoke, sensing the presence behind him, he seemed indifferent. "You know," he began, "I often wondered why she has spent so many years in this circle. Caring so selflessly ... for so many. Yes, it was a mystery to me. Until now."
Aveling turned slowly and Soloman beheld the keen gray eyes, the bald head that reflected the dying light of an angry sun. Around them the plaza bristled with tourists and photographers, those who didn't know.
"You are well?" Aveling asked.
"I'm all right," Soloman said. "Ben got in some trouble. But political maneuvering decided it, in the end. He's going to take early retirement with full benefits. I just wanted to thank you."
Aveling nodded, hands clasped behind his back. "I am happy to hear that General Hawken is well, Colonel," he replied, staring again at the old woman. "I suppose that she does what she does because she must. As all of us do. Don't you think?"
Soloman cast a glance.
"Like Marcelle," he said.
"Yes," Aveling said, pausing a long time. "Like ... my son."
"I want you to know," Soloman said softly, "that Marcelle stood his ground. And he was the one who finally brought Cain down, in the end. With his own life."
Aveling nodded. His voice was so quiet Soloman could barely hear the words. "Yes," he said. "That would have been him."
Soloman saw that the aged form was bent, and he wanted to say some- -thing. He had come so far to say this face-to-face, but beyond a few words there was simply nothing more to say
"I'm sorry," Soloman whispered.
The woman threw seed on the ground, poured water. The pigeons settled, surviving and continuing.
"Did you know," Aveling said in a stronger voice, "that she is probably not even aware of her sacrifice?" Then the old priest turned back to Soloman. "Yes," he continued. "She lives as she must. And she will die as she must. She does not understand it. Nor do I, in truth. But it is the only life she knows, if she would truly live at all."
Soloman studied the old woman. She was dressed in rags, but selflessly caring for the flock that fed and lighted on her with such a lack of fear, knowing her love. She didn't seem to care what others thought about her task. Aveling was right; she would do what she must do.
"One thing, Colonel," Aveling said.
Silent, Soloman looked up.
The old man's eyes were suddenly piercing, mesmerizing. Hands clasped behind his back, he stepped forward, head bowed until he was close. Until he held Soloman's gaze.
"Marcelle, who was your true friend, once told me something," he said quiedy. "And I believe that he was truly concerned. He said that you could not forgive yourself for the death of your wife and child."
Struck, Soloman said nothing.
With a sad smile, Aveling glanced at the old woman. "Marcelle cared a great deal for you, Colonel. I have known similar friendships, and they last longer than we anticipate. So I say this for him because I know he would have said it for you." The old priest paused. "Forgive yourself, Soloman. Yes, remember their love, and forgive yourself. It is what your wife and child would have wanted. For love always forgives."
He turned to stare a last time at the old woman.
"Yes," he said softly, and began walking slowly toward St. Peter's.
"Nothing is so strong."
***
Soloman reverently removed dead leaves from the graves.
It had been two years.
Two years of forgetting the horror however they could, living with the fear that they never would. But, as one, they had built a new life and lived it together with devotion and purpose, comfortable in this small mid-western town where they had come to live.
His last daughter and wife were buried here, as together in death as they had been in life. And he came here often now to remember, and to speak, and to embrace what he had known once and come to know again.
Amy knelt beside the tombstone of his daughter, Lisa, arranging the flowers as she always did. Her movements were tender as she placed the roses, removing the old ones to lay them aside before she gently set the new bouquet in the polished urn.
It had become a ritual for them, something that had brought them closer and closer. And from the first Amy had insisted on accompanying him, always wanting to arrange the flowers in memory of Lisa herself, as if for her own sister.
Soloman stood, staring down a long moment as Amy finished her meticulous work, settling the flowers just so, as always, so they caught the last light of a descending sun. Then, reverently blessing herself with the crucifix of Mother Superior Mary Francis, which she constantly wore,
Amy stood and quietly brushed off her knees. Silently she reached out and gently grasped Soloman's hand.
"I think she's fine, Soloman," she whispered. "I think she's just fine."
Soloman felt his face twist, resisted it. He continued to hold her hand, and together they turned, walking slowly to where Maggie stood with a patient and compassionate gaze, golden in the fading light of day. She smiled sadly as they neared.
Amy spoke, looking up into his face. "You know," she began, "I don't think that I'm going to call you Soloman, anymore. I think I'll call you something else."
Amused, Soloman gazed down. "You are, huh? And what are you going to call me?"
Her face was serious. "I think I'll call you Daddy."
Soloman bowed his head as he took another step, seeing nothing and everything at once. He felt the small hand wrapped tightly around his, returned its warmth with all his heart. The
n he released her grip and gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Amy gazed up, smiling.
"Daddy," Soloman whispered. "Yeah ... I like the sound of that."
THE END
James Byron Huggins emerged from the cobwebs of Alabama in 1993 and literally stunned both the American East Coast and West Coast with multiple million-dollar movie and book deals to create some of the most admired story lines and characters in recent fiction.
After creating his allegorical first novel, “A Wolf Story,” Huggins switched to the counterintelligence genre with the ground-breaking, “The Reckoning.” Long hailed as the first true thriller with the backdrop of a profoundly religious plot, “The Reckoning” remains a favorite of actions fans. Then Huggins wrote “Leviathan” – the story of a Komodo Dragon transformed into the biblical Leviathan and the havoc it wreaks upon those who must destroy it before it destroys the world.
Million dollar deals were immediately signed for “Cain,” and “Hunter,” before Huggins could even finish the books and overseas rights were sold before the novels were even released in the United States. Even now Huggins remains one of the most sought-after action screen writers in Hollywood.
Raised in a small Alabama town Huggins grew up to become involved in fantastic adventures that took him to the far side of the world and so very far from his beginnings. After spending several years in Europe smuggling people and materials in and out of the Iron Curtain to assist those suffering religious and political persecution in nations doomed to war, Huggins became a decorated police officer in Huntsville, Ala. But he resigned from police work in 1993 after publication of his first novel.
Huggins continues to write and to speak and frequently holds writing seminars for libraries, book clubs, colleges, high schools and churches. Anyone wishing to have Huggins visit your group or edit your work before publication or theatrical production need only contact him through this site.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 26
Cain Page 45