Mind you, no one much cared for the old Nazi. He was a cold, calculating, mean son-of-a-bitch who had a streak of bile a mile deep. I’d shed no tears for Professor Klaus von Andor, former employee of the Sicarri. Had I been given the job, I would have gladly killed him myself, but the Voice was more than capable of eliminating those in his employ.
“Anyway,” the Voice continued. “Don’t sweat the small stuff, Olivier, I will take care of that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now … I have a very positive feeling about you, young man. If you keep your eyes open and survive the next few years, I think you and I shall become close. Yes, close indeed.”
That thought nearly stopped my heart. “Thank you, sir.” I don’t think I was capable of saying anything else at that point.
“Good. Good.” Click! The line went dead.
“That’s that,” Julian muttered, lips pursed.
Redeemer, Liar … prophesies of restoring balance to the world? I slipped the pages back into the manila envelope, more confused than ever. What the heck had I gotten myself into?
I looked over to the other bed and saw that Jude was fast asleep, snoring softly. A flick of a switch and the bedside light went out. For what seemed like hours, I lay in the dark wondering what terrible things might await us at journey’s end.
Chapter Eight
Jude
After scrubbing away my morning breath with a toothbrush, I dressed in black jeans and a black Cabo Wabo t-shirt, along with black Converse sneakers. What can I say? I like black.
Speaking of which, when I exited the bathroom, Mike had on his black uniform, if you can call a priest’s outfit a uniform. Still, he looked pretty snazzy for a big guy with a handlebar moustache.
I didn’t bother to ask how much he’d read; he’d tell me when the time was right. The knowledge that would unfold for him, if it didn’t drive him nuts, would allow me to see how far the Church’s forgiveness extended.
Despite the Rio Grande only a few hundred yards away, the air was dry enough to suck the moisture right out of my skin, such a contrast to the turgid humidity of Omaha.
Maybe it was the contented lull that had slid eel-like through my brain, or the mental fatigue of being on the run, or even the lack of constant training, but five steps into the parking lot, my eyes fixed on the Corolla, I stepped into a puddle of water.
Where that puddle had come from, I don’t know, but there it was in the middle of the otherwise bone-dry asphalt parking lot, soaking into my sneaker while dread clamped cold hands into my guts. Unlike with the shower I had taken earlier, I hadn’t used Avoidance to mask myself from the element.
Water talks.
I shouted, “Mike! We gotta go! Now, man!” Without waiting for an answer, I ran to the Corolla and made ready, trusting Mike would sense the urgency. A few seconds later my trust was rewarded as he opened the rear door and tossed our duffels in the back seat.
“What’s going on?” he panted, snapping the seatbelt around his waist.
“It’s Water,” I grunted as the Corolla fired up. Tire marks followed us out of the lot as we sped away. “I told you that Water was looking for me; what I didn’t tell you was how motivated Water would be in its search.”
“Mind explaining?”
“When God created the world, He gave life to the elements, Earth, Air, Fire and Water, to help keep the world in harmony. Four original elements, the Four Old Ones, the Primals. Legend says they had no Language, only the feel for their kind. For millennia they were the caretakers of the natural world.”
“Four old elementals. I would hazard a guess that they are powerful.”
“Yeah, you could say that. Like the ocean is ‘pretty powerful.’ ”
“Then where did the other elementals come from?”
“All I have is conjecture, gleaned from various sources.” I turned onto the 10, racing north toward Sunland Park and Las Cruces. To our left, Juarez was revealed in all of its squalid and rotten glory, a gritty shame of a border town.
“Conjecture away,” Mike urged.
“Okay. It seems that when an elemental becomes large, or great in power, it … buds, or splits, shearing off a part of itself, a new elemental. Mitosis on a magical level.”
“So how did he find this Primal Water, if it so powerful?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
We passed quite a few miles of flat dry land in easy silence; then, just as we put a little town called Anthony in the rearview mirror, I felt a trembly sort of rumble from the front of the car.
“Damn,” I swore through gritted teeth.
Mike jolted out of his meditations. “What?”
“Left front tire is about to go,” I grumbled angrily as I braked and steered the car to the shoulder.
A quick inspection revealed a bubble in the sidewall of the tire, seconds away from blowing wide open. “Damn,” I swore again.
“Don’t worry, I have a spare,” Mike commented as he came around the car. “A rubber donut.”
A few minutes later saw us struggling with lug nuts rusted tight to the steel rim. Grunting and straining, we tugged on the lug wrench, shaking the little car back and forth.
Just as the third nut groaned loose, a voice hammered our ears, carried on the dry, dry breeze, “You gents look like you could use a little help.”
Mike and I stood staring at the stranger in the light of the morning sun. “Just changing a tire,” said Mike, extending a dirty hand.
The stranger was a big man with small piggy eyes, a red bulb of nose, an enormous belly that strained his green t-shirt and dirty jeans. A much-crumpled cowboy hat rested on his round head. “A priest, really?” He ignored the hand and began to laugh, round gut jiggling and jaggling.
“Yeah,” Mike replied, puzzled, and slowly lowered his hand.
Still laughing, the stranger raised a fist the size of a dinner plate and, faster than I thought a big guy like that could move, punched Mike in the stomach. The priest folded like a bad poker hand around that big fist. Still laughing, the stranger lifted Mike by the back of his shirt with one hand as if he weighed nothing and threw him clear over the car to disappear on the other side.
A Word burst from between my lips, bringing the acrid stench of burning insulation: Force. I had summoned a two-by-three foot pane of energy, which was hurled with a velocity in direct proportion to the volume used. I had shouted at the top of my lungs.
And nothing happened.
Oh, a pained look spasmed across the stranger’s face, but then he smiled, revealing teeth that were all canines. “Ouch.”
“Demon,” I spat, fists bunching.
The Hellspawn laughed again, human vocal cords ripping asunder beneath the vocal assault. “And they said you’re a smart one. Can’t see it, really.” It spat a gobbet of blood onto the asphalt, as its eyes began to glow a venomous red.
No time for pussyfooting around. Strength and Vigor brought the smell of ammonia and peanuts. For the next ten minutes I knew I could lift a Volvo over my head, run miles without a hitch and, like Tony the Tiger would say, feel Grrrrreat! Smiling in glee, I leapt forward and threw a punch at the demon’s midsection.
Craaaack!! It wasn’t just the iron-like stomach of the demon that broke the small bones of my hand, but also the sudden deceleration as my hand stopped cold without budging that infernal asshole an inch.
Pain, like red-hot razors slicing through my flesh, stunned me for a brief moment, giving the demon a chance to deliver a blow to the chest that flung me into the Corolla’s bumper hard enough to snap my spine. Shock, agony, an awful feeling as if my personal universe was collapsing in on itself condensed into a tiny, dense spot of spiritual matter that winked out in an instant.
“In the name of the Lord, I abjure thee!” A roaring, echoing voice brought me back, expanding that universe so that it encompassed my surroundings once again.
Ouch … that hurt … a lot.
“In God’s name, I banish t
hee, Unclean Beast!” the voice hollered and I felt compelled to broach the spear of fire that transfixed me and opened my eyes.
My God, it was Mike! Filled with the fury of the righteous, he seemed to blaze as he held a crucifix in one hand and a bible in the other. Blood slid down his temple and his shirt was torn in several places, revealing skin scraped raw, but he paid no heed.
“You go, boy,” I croaked feebly, drooling blood. It was then that I realized that the Corolla’s bumper cradled me in a sitting position, that my arms lay lifeless at my side. “What the-” I began before sudden realization nearly made me pee my pants.
I couldn’t feel my body. If it hadn’t been for a car I would have fallen over. The one thing I did feel the throbbing ache high up on my spine.
Healing and cinnamon floated on the breeze, bringing with it a lessening of pain. Again … and again … the Word slowly restored sensation as my skin registered the hot asphalt and wasn’t it odd to be in a place where January felt so bloody warm? Despite my mind’s meandering, I uttered the Word a few more times and the ache in my back faded like a bad dream.
While I attempted to rejoin the world of the ambulatory, the demon, who by that time had black, chitinous spikes growing out of its forearms and shoulders, roared its hate at my friend. “Fool worshipper of a decrepit God,” it hissed balefully, backing away from the crucifix. “Your time is coming to an end.”
Mike took a deep breath, raised his arms to the sky, and shouted, “I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me by some sign your name, and the day and hour of your departure. I command you, moreover, to obey me to the letter, I, who am a minister of God despite my unworthiness. Neither shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, nor the bystanders, nor any of their possessions!”
In stunned disbelief I watched the demon fall to its knees, fear and loathing writ large on its face. I felt the bones of my back shift slightly as my legs twitched with new life, pins and needles tickling the skin while Mike, face beatific, continued his exorcism by reciting the King James version of Mark 16:15–18:
At that time Jesus said to His disciples: ‘Go ye into the whole world and preach the Gospel to every creature. He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be condemned! And these signs shall follow them that believe: in my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents, and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover!’
Hands to its head, the demon gibbered madly, red eyes rolling in their sockets as Mike lowered the crucifix, touching the thing’s forehead. With a final cry of misery and dismay, the demon collapsed facedown onto the ground. Black steam rose from the body and blew away in the slight breeze. Within moments its flesh began to bubble and sizzle, liquefying into a foul-smelling goop the same color as the asphalt.
“Jesus!” I breathed softly, then mentally apologized in case He had been paying attention.
“Don’t blaspheme, Jude.” Mike sounded exhausted, as if the juice of his life had bled out.
“Won’t happen again,” I muttered as I slowly heaved myself, groaning and grimacing, to my feet.
Despite the weariness that tugged at his face, Mike managed a tiny smile. “Don’t lie, it’s not nice.”
“Right, got it.” Pop, pop, pop went the bones of my back as I stood. “I’ll do the best I can, Mike.” Magical overload, backlash, ripped at my muscles, the result of too many Words used too quickly. I flogged my memory and realized that I’d used Healing at least ten times. With that came the cold awareness that I had come a gnat’s whisker from death.
“You okay, Jude?” Mike asked, taking me by the elbow.
“I think so,” I replied shakily, while taking mental inventory. Back … fine, arms, legs … fine and fine. Well, as fine as could be after kissing a bumper at full speed. “You should see the other guy.”
His lips twitched for a brief moment. “I have.”
Surprising enough, there were no other cars in sight. The highway was free and clear of impediments, the only vehicle a beat-up and dusty black Pontiac Grand Prix. Of the stranger/demon, only his clothes remained, floating in a puddle of noxious fluid.
“We have to go, Mike. I suggest we take the other car.”
Mike worried at his lower lip. “That’s stealing, Jude.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like he needs it anymore, Mike. The man who owned that car died the second the demon took him over. It ate his soul.”
My friend’s eyes opened wide in shock and dismay at the horrible thought. “How-”
“Greater demons only have the capacity to eat souls that are corrupt and evil enough to act as a bridge between this world and Hell. I don’t know who that man was, but he was no sweetheart, I can assure you.”
We transferred our duffels and the metal box to the Grand Prix and made tracks as if the Devil himself dogged our heels.
Chapter Nine
Mike
Go to any town in America with a population of over three thousand and you can always find franchise hotels. Like weeds, they sprout up everywhere. That’s where we ended up, beat down and worn out from the events of the day, though it wasn’t yet noon.
Jude looked terrible, pasty white and drawn, the kind of terrible you see in cancer victims. When I asked, he shook his head and said, “The price of using too much Magic, Mike. It takes the starch out of you. It’s called Backlash.”
Funny, when you think of magic and all those fantasy books out there, you don’t think of magic as having a cost to the magician unless it’s misused. Maybe it wasn’t the providence of Satan; maybe Jude was right and it was neither good nor evil, but a kind of natural force to be harnessed, like sunlight or wind.
Before my philosophical musings could distract me from the present, I helped Jude into bed. He hit dreamland before his head hit the pillow. Deciding that food was my personal priority, I headed out and purchased a couple of pizzas. Pepperoni for myself and a meat lover’s for sleeping beauty, along with a two-liter of cola to wash it all down.
Back at the hotel, I set the pizza on a sideboard and took a slice, my stomach rumbling at the smell of cheese and grease. Before I could take a bite, Jude spoke up.
“Lord, Mike, that smells incredible.” His voice was roughened by fatigue.
I set the box containing the meat lover’s pizza next to him. “Try to breathe between bites,” I cautioned.
Later, content and belching, Jude said, “What was that, Mike? I’ve never seen the like, man. What sort of spell did you cast to dismiss the demon?”
“It was a Roman Catholic Rite of Exorcism, from De Exorcismis et Supplicationibus Quibusdam, or Of Exorcism and Certain Supplications.”
“So not a magic spell?”
I sighed. “No, Jude, although I can see how you’d think it could be.” Taking a sip of cola, I shot him a glance. “When that … demon threw me over the car, I think I blacked out for a second because the next thing I knew you hit the Corolla so hard I heard bones break.
“Jude, I saw red like never before, not even in Iraq during Desert Storm.” Another drink from my cup. “It was the wrath of the Lord, Jude. His Spirit filled me and I knew what I had to do, what would drive it out. No spell required, only the glory of God.”
Thanks to the food and rest some color finally crept back into his face. His hands, which had been shaking, had regained their customary steadiness. He licked his lips once, then twice before he said, “You were magnificent, Mike. That was one of the most incredible sights I’ve ever seen, man.” Before I had a chance to reply, his eyes closed and he began to snore.
I grinned. “Lovely. Well, sleep tight.” With that, I regard
ed the envelope next to me and realized it was a good time, as my younger parishioners might say, to ‘get my read on.’
A Knife Worth Having
Three years passed quietly, or as quietly as time ever passes in my Family. Henri died shortly after my introduction to the Voice, choking on his own vomit after one of his customary heroic bouts of drunkenness. His death was so cleverly arranged that I could hardly believe the twins had done it.
When Julian II and Philip died a year later, their fishing boat capsizing in the Gulf of Bothnia, I realized that Burke had been a very naughty boy indeed. Those deaths certainly hadn’t come at my hand. It didn’t take long for me to realize that Burke wanted Julian to think that it was I who provided the three with their exits so that when I met with an untimely death, Julian would have to turn to him as the next Family patriarch. I felt the big DayGlo bullseye reappear on my back and heightened my vigilence.
When I turned eighteen, Julian, in a demonstration of paternal pride at my survival and my apparent ‘terminal dismissal’ of my siblings, put me in charge of a small underground research facility outside of Livingston, New Jersey, where nothing of great note had ever been produced. Run by an abhorrent little scientist by the name of Gillan, it provided me the perfect shelter from Burke’s machinations, at least for a while. I’m not ashamed to admit that he scared the shit out of me.
My job was to make the facility productive, a test of my abilities and I wanted, no … needed to achieve something monumental, so I put millions into a few pet projects. Those projects, while potentially valuable, provided one more thing I desired above all else: power to take control of the Family.
When Gillan called and informed me that one of my projects had paid off, I immediately drove from New York to the lab. After I arrived at the complex (located beneath the Commonwealth Water Company Reservoir Number Three) I parked at the Cedar Hill Country Club (Family owned and operated) and entered the complex, where I dismissed the staff for the evening. I’d taken a golf cart down a steeply sloping tunnel to an elevator that was the main entrance to the compound. The three-story re-enforced steel facility had been started, and, nearly forgotten by, Julian. For me, however, it offered a glimmer of hope.
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