“Between that comforting fire and warm quilt, you will find that night passes most satisfactorily.”
I nodded, noting that he stood a good head taller than me. “Didn’t think early man would grow so big.”
Once again those teeth blinded me with reflected firelight. “In the beginning, God crafted the first men well. My own father topped my own height by a handspan.”
I translated that into at least five or six inches. Added to Cain’s own six-five, possibly six-six, Adam would have been close to seven feet tall. “Holy shit!” I blurted.
“Indeed, we were all giants in those fabled early days,” he said. “And long lived. Most men had the capacity to live well past twenty-five score years, although I am the current record holder in the category of longevity.”
Five hundred years? Maybe God crafted men too well back then. Cain appeared to be not a day over forty. What must his life have been like, all those years of wandering, knowing that everyone he cared about would die long before he met his own fate? The loneliness must have been overwhelming, the strain of such longevity eating at his sanity for millennia. Or maybe that was the real curse God inflicted, forced sanity in an insane situation. Suddenly his archaic, perambulating speech patterns didn’t seem so odd; perhaps it was a defense mechanism that helped him cope with the sheer weight of time.
“Cain, I have to ask …”
“Why do I encumber my visage with sunglasses?”
“You have to admit, it’s a little odd, unless you live in the Matrix, man.”
“That is not the first time I have heard that interrogative.” Cain pursed his lips, as if considering some internal landscape and then removed his shades.
Whoa.
Ever see a Siberian Husky? A beautiful creature with a nice thick furry coat, well suited as sled dogs. Many of these dogs have white-blue eyes that give them a ferocious, almost alien, appearance. Cain’s eyes were like that, the whites blending seamlessly into white-blue and centered with the fathomless black of the pupil.
A small gasp escaped my lips as I felt the remorseless heat of his gaze, the stress of his attention that was like a constant pressure wave from an eternally exploding bomb. I took an involuntary step backward and the sofa’s edge hit the back of my knees, dumping me unceremoniously on my butt.
That insidious pressure abruptly cut off as the glaciers slipped back over Cain’s eyes and air rushed back into my lungs because I’d finally remembered to breathe. “Damn.”
Once again he flashed a smile. “Quite correct, Mr. Deschamps, I am damned for as long as the Lord desires me to be so. Despite the excessively extended lifespan, not to mention the near ceaseless wandering, I am content that my punishment is a just one.”
“Ceaseless wandering?” I inquired. “Looks like you’ve put down roots here rather well.”
Cain handed me the bedding. “No matter how remote the locale or friendly the neighboring folk, circumstances always arise that force my evacuation from whatever plot of land I have called home. The Mark of Cain assures it. My tenure near Gunnison has endured for nearly two years-long by the standards of my curse-so it is with heavy heart that I recognize the imminent end of my stay.”
I didn’t bother to debate the merits of his punishment. There were murderers aplenty-the Family and myself were prime examples-but maybe it was because he was the first murderer that caused God to punish him so severely. That, and his attempt to lie to God about his crime. Whatever the reason, I could see in his half-hidden face that even after thousands of years, he still had not forgiven himself.
What stopped him from committing suicide? I marveled at his discipline.
Cain turned and walked to the door of his bedroom, stopping only for a moment to say, over his shoulder, “My circumstances presented me with the most difficulty those years preceding the twelfth century. It was then the Chinese invented sunglasses, mere smoky quartz lenses to assist in concealing their expressions in court. That simple device has brought me more peace than any other in the countless millennia of my travels.” His voice dropped to a near whisper, his sadness clutching at my throat. “That was the last time I prayed to God, to thank him for his infinite capacity for creativity.”
“Good night, Cain.”
“Good night, Mr. Deschamps.”
As I lay down, snuggling into the blankets and enjoying the warmth of the fire, Cain’s door opened a crack.
“Did you really destroy my Tablet, Mr. Deschamps?
“Call me Morgan. And yes, I’m afraid so, but it wasn’t on purpose.”
An infinite sadness colored his face for moment. “Pity. I should have liked to have held the old stone once more, if only for a moment.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mike
Wake, eat, pray, talk to Julian. Boris would beat me to a pulp, then send me back to the room so I could be Healed by a man I never saw because most to those times my eyes were swelled shut.
Not what you’d call a summer vacation.
Each day I managed to endure the bone-breaking sessions with Boris and each day I prayed to God to give me the strength to do so because each day I survived meant that Morgan remained free. If it hadn’t been for the Healings, I would’ve died the second day, but I guess Julian wanted this to last and last. His reputation for cruelty was well deserved.
I wondered if his entire family were sociopaths from birth, or if their criminal insanity had been carefully nurtured. Either way, it was a miracle that Morgan remained sane.
Julian had read Morgan’s memoirs and seemed unimpressed, calling them “the ineffectual ramblings of a weak-willed man.” If he really understood Morgan’s willpower, he would have been very afraid. I just hoped my friend wouldn’t do anything stupid, like try to affect a rescue. Unfortunately, I knew better. In any case, he had not bothered to take them away from me.
One day Boris didn’t come for me, a reprieve of sorts, or Julian wanted to concentrate his efforts on his wayward son.
So, with nothing to do but pray, I pulled out the tattered memoirs from my ripped and torn Danzinger’s jacket and began to read.
My Life No Longer
The angel had given more than food for thought; he’d supplied a banquet, which I dined on as I waited, hidden under another spruce. Julian expected the rest of the SS hopefuls to wander in after the next three days, so I had time to meditate on my situation.
What should I do? What were my options? If I returned to the mansion after the allotted time, it would spur Annabeth and Burke on to new heights of plotting. They couldn’t afford to let me live and if I did return, I could not afford to let them live. As much as I craved revenge, what the angel had revealed undercut my thirst for blood.
The Voice (I couldn’t bring myself call him Satan or Lucifer) would eventually know of my change of heart and his response would be the same as Burke’s, just more immediate and efficient.
There was only one option that really worked for me: run away.
Do it soon, I thought. Then, do it before anyone makes it back. Grab what you can and sneak out like a thief in the night. And then it hit me. Thief. If Julian could have seen my smile at that moment, he would not have recognized me.
Only a few hours had passed since Burke used the ballistic knife on me, perforating my back, and the blood had frozen to my white jacket, leaving three ragged red splotches to mark the impact points. It did not matter, I wouldn’t need the jacket anymore, but what I did need was a good read on where the mansion lay.
Exiting my shelter, I began a look around and spotted the perfect tree. An old growth eastern Hemlock big enough that two people couldn’t span it with their arms. It towered high above the other trees, even the old-growth maples, a pillar reaching high into the sky before branches erupted like woody fingers.
Reaching into a thigh pouch, I removed a plastic vial, thankful that it hadn’t broken when Burke attacked. It was my ace-in-the-hole. The liquid inside swirled with reddish brown flakes, the potent mixture somet
hing I had never attempted before, something I thought might be new under the sun.
A mixture of toadflax, wintergreen, bamboo, chili pepper and poke root, herbs used in the making of anti-magic unguents. I had added sage white for cleansing and gum Arabic for purification. The potion had taken over two months to brew, the herbs steeped in water melted from 3,500-year-old ice. I worried that the mixture might be magically toxic and kill me quicker than strychnine, but … desperate times and all that. Taking a deep breath, I unscrewed the vial and downed the contents.
Actually not bad. The chili pepper gave the mixture a nice kick. It would do quite well as marinade if I added honey.
One minute … two … I still lived. Very nice. I let Vigor past my lips and reveled in the feeling of well-being and energy that flooded through me along with the smell of peanuts..
Yes, I cheated. In my Family, that’s worth bonus points.
Checking my compass, I located east and softly muttered a word … Strength. The sharp, chemical smell of ammonia assaulted me and I began to climb, fingers easily gripping the hemlock’s gnarled bark, gouging handholds. Halfway to the first branch, my boots began to split and tear as I kicked toeholds into the tree, seeking purchase in the soft wood. If I had chosen a hardwood, I might have had some difficulty.
Strength, however, did not mean I could ignore the splinters the slipped under my finger and toenails and the sticky resin that began to coat my hands. Just before my hands started to bleed in earnest, I reached the first branch, levering myself up with my magically enhanced strength. Sitting on my precarious perch, I teased splinters from my stinging fingers and mumbled a Healing, watching the flesh re-knit.
High enough, the old-growth conifer gave me an advantage I had so desperately needed. While my cousins hunted each other (knowing Burke, he wouldn’t try to find the mansion until he had bagged his limit), I would wend my way back. There were things I needed to do to ensure a good head start.
Scanning the horizon above the spiny spikes of beech, cedar, ash and hawthorn, I eventually spotted what I thought was the clearing that housed the mansion, its roof buried behind the barren branches of the forest.
As I reached the ground, hands and feet a bloody mess, someone let out an “ahem.”
Heart beating wildly, I turned just in time to take three shots to the chest, green paint spattering my face. “Bloody hell,” I groused.
Fergus laughed. “Saw ya up in tha’ tree, cuz and decided t’ be a mite sportin’ and wait till ya reached bottom before shooting ya’.”
“Mighty kind of you, Fergus.”
The Scotsman laughed and I pounded a Forgetting into his brain, almost gagging at the licorice odor. Fergus’s pupils dominated his eyeballs as he stared blindly ahead.
“Turn around, Fergus, and forget you ever saw Olivier,” I said in slow, even tones. Forgetting placed the subject into a mild hypnotic trance. “Travel west for ten minutes and start searching for your cousins.”
Fergus nodded dumbly and turned around, slowly shambling west.
An hour later I found myself on the Mansion grounds, silently slipping into the servants’ entrance. Only one chef was in attendance in the kitchen, no doubt whipping up something tasty for Julian and Boris.
One Forgetting later and I was ghosting to the second floor, reaching my room-which, fortunately, was empty of any cleaning staff-and finding that my suitcase had remained untouched.
As befitted a scion of the Judas Line, my room was plush, 1,400 square feet of white harp seal fur carpeting and a four-poster bed big enough for a battalion, coated with navy blue silk sheets. Satiny fur swished between my toes after I ripped off the remains of my boots and discarded my much-abused outerwear. The desire to shower pulled at me, but time pulled harder. Donning designer blue jeans, a black turtleneck and Timberline boots, I almost felt human enough for travel.
I did not need much, just some basics, but first, a little preparation. Two jars had been secreted in a compartment of my suitcase. One contained a whitish paste, which I smeared on my chest and forearms under the turtleneck. The other went into my front pocket.
From another compartment in my case I found my cell phone. I flipped it open and dialed.
A tinny voice answered. “Vance, this is Olivier Deschamps.” I kept my voice smooth and urbane despite the thudding of my heart. I wiped sweat from my brow. “Yes, thank you. I need you to liquidate some assets for me …”
Once my exit finances were taken care of, I eased down the obscenely long hallway to Burke’s room. Julian, knowing full well the animosity between Burke and me, had always made sure we were quartered far apart. Not out of any consideration for our welfare, I am sure, but to keep the mayhem to a minimum.
His door was locked, of course, but that proved a minor obstacle. The molecular knife made short work of the lock plate and bolt. Burke’s accommodations were nearly identical to mine except for the Panda-skin rugs strewn almost carelessly across the floor.
Burke was paranoid and cunning, an almost perfect assassin, so where would a perfect assassin keep his secrets? The armoire? Nope, empty. Next I tried under the bed and came up empty. Chest of drawers … nothing. Same for the toilet tank and all the ventilation registers. I cast my eyes about as I considered what hidey-holes that Burke would use. Where, where, where?
Eventually I focused on the armoire, an enormous cedar-lined affair about seven feet tall, constructed of white oak and covered in beautifully intricate scrollwork. However, it wasn’t the craftsmanship that drew my attention, but the space between the bottom of the armoire and the floor. The thing must weigh a ton, I mused. Muttering Strength, I crossed to the wooden monstrosity and heaved, lifting it high and settling it down onto one of the panda rugs. Nothing.
I cursed and was about to move the armoire back when another possibility occurred to me. Lowering the armoire down on its back, I inspected the underside. Stuck to the wood with silvery duct tape was a padded manila envelope.
Bingo.
Ripping it free, I eagerly tore at the seal and emptied the contents onto black and white fur. A CD in a thin plastic case, one black credit card, one of his prized ballistic knives, and four strips of photo negatives in protective plastic sleeves.
I held the negatives up to the light. Annabeth … me … the shower. Crap. Cursing, I stuffed the negatives into one pocket while the rest of the items went into others. I wanted to kill Burke and I wanted to hurt Annabeth like she’d hurt me-run the knife in and twist-but I had bigger fish to fry.
Seconds later, I headed upstairs to Julian’s office, small duffel the size of a bowling bag in one hand, a black leather jacket under one arm and fear hammering spikes through my temples. The audacity of what I planned had me shaking in my boots. I took no notice of the teak flooring save to walk carefully to avoid telltale sounds. After an eternity of climbing, I reached the third floor and Julian’s room, which was located behind double doors made of oak; their intricately carved panels sported scenes from a bacchanalia and polished bronze knobs.
I placed the duffel and jacket on the floor and knocked softly.
Boris opened the door, craggy face impassive as a death mask.
“Hello, Boris. I need to speak to Julian.” I was surprised how nonchalant I sounded.
He shook his head slightly.
“He is busy?”
A barely perceptible nod.
“Ah, well tell him this.” As loud as I could, I hit him with Force.
It was a risky shot, one that could backfire if the big Russian carried protection. Which he did. With a grunt that sounded like an echo from the Abyss, he took two steps back, flinging one large, knobbly hand up in front of his eyes to ward off splinters as both doors were torn apart.
Leaping, I hit him in the solar plexus with the heel of my right boot. I might as well have hit a tree. The big man didn’t even grunt; instead he gripped my leg and pulled me through the doorway, throwing me ten feet in the air, over a settee and into a heavy as hell coffee ta
ble made of polished redwood. I felt ribs break as I bounced and landed hard on the floor.
The first bullet hit the coffee table, throwing up a shower of burgundy splinters. The second grazed my ear, the bullet passing with a flat crack to gouge a furrow in the hardwood floor. The shot itself had been a quiet shht, the sound dampened by the best suppressor that money could buy.
I kicked the coffee table on its side just in time for it to catch the third bullet, my boot absorbing some of the shock, but a fragment of pain flashed through my ankle. Another bullet thudded home and I thanked my lucky stars that Julian loved heavy wooden furniture.
Boris was on the move-I could hear his patent leather shoes swish along the wool carpeting-so I ground out another Strength and heaved the coffee table upright, as I stood, using it as a shield.
Before the giant Russian could score a lucky shot, I straightened my arms, hurling the table at him with my augmented strength. The table flew straight and true, hitting Boris flat and hard, knocking him back to smack against a wall, a 9 mm flying out of his hand.
For the first time I saw emotion register on Boris’ face, and that sight sent a cold worm of fear wiggling its way through my bowels. Those hairy brows had drawn down and thin lips settled themselves into a savage snarl that shone redly through the blood that ran from a newly broken nose. Boris was pissed and I knew that if I didn’t do something quick, I’d soon be on my way to my final descent.
Silently, I charged, fists jabbing. I parried a fist hurtling toward my jaw and drove two knuckles into his solar plexus-like hitting an anvil. Even with Strength, I could barely keep up. I took a knee to the hip while I connected with an elbow to the point of his chin. Boris’ head rocked back maybe an inch, and my elbow screamed at my stupidity.
The Judas Line Page 20