The baron’s tongue had swelled inside his mouth, blocking the words that would summon his guards from just behind his bedroom doors. Why wouldn’t the words come? He heard only a soft whimper escape his quivering lips.
The beast before him laughed softly—a sound like that of a funeral dirge.
“Where, dear baron, is your boasting now?” the shadow rasped. “Perhaps your courage is still asleep?”
Gregory attempted to stumble out of his bed, but with a speed defying all belief, the creature spun around, slapping the baron against the chest with the palm of his hand and shoving him back onto the warm comfort of his pillow.
“No. You’re going nowhere for the moment, De L’Ombre,” said the Djinn. “I have something most important to say and you’ll sit quietly and listen.”
Summoning at least some control of his faculties, the baron whispered hoarsely, “W-what do you want?”
“Just what I said…I want you to listen.”
“All I need to do is call out. My guards will be in here in seconds.”
“That’s more than enough time to cut your throat.”
Gregory contemplated that. It was true. The creature had immeasurable speed. He could kill him and climb out of the balcony before his guards had even unlocked the door.
“Besides,” said the Djinn. “The sentries at your door…they’re already here.”
The creature stood from the bed, unblocking the streams of moonlight pouring in through the open veranda. A gasp escaped unbidden from Gregory’s lips as his vision cleared. Four armored and well-armed guards lay in a heap on the floor near the balcony’s entrance. They must have heard the creature enter his room, come in and tried to stop it—and had failed miserably. The baron hadn’t even heard a sound. A chill shivered down his spine at just how dangerous this creature really was.
“Don’t worry. They’re still breathing.”
“What do you want?” asked Gregory. He couldn’t care less about the wellbeing of his incompetent sentries.
“You’ve already asked that.”
“And you never answered.”
The Djinn spun around, his cloak swaying behind him as if shades of night clung to his frame. The cold green glow of his eyes bore straight into Gregory’s heart, threatening to rip out whatever was left of his defiance.
“I said that I wanted you to listen,” the creature hissed as he leapt forward, clamping his clawed right hand around the baron’s neck. “And so far, you’ve done nothing but flap those venomous lips of yours. Now…are you ready to hear what I have to say?”
Gregory attempted to speak, but the Djinn’s grip squeezed tighter around his throat, effectively warning him not to say another word. He responded by closing his eyes and giving a curt nod.
“Good. This is your last warning, Monsieur De L’Ombre. After this, there will be no others. If you do not do as I say, I will hunt you down, find you, and string you up by your ankles in front of all Jerusalem. You will beg for your life, m’lord…that I can promise you.”
The creature moved his shrouded face closer to Gregory’s. He reeked of brimstone and it was all the baron could do to keep his dinner down. The black falcon perched itself on the baron’s headboard, peering down at the Djinn’s prey—ready to attack at any moment.
The baron struggled to swallow. His bedclothes had already been stained with urine the moment he saw the foul spirit in his room. His heart pounded like war drums in his chest. He had never felt so helpless. Or so afraid.
“I know what you are up to, Baron. I’m here to tell you to stop now. You still have a choice. If you continue down your path, you will destroy an unimaginable number of lives…including quite possibly, yours and your lovely daughter’s. It is madness to attempt to revive Rakeesha’s golems. Even more insane to create your own army of the creatures. They cannot be controlled, no matter what you might believe. The forces that bring them to life are corrupt. Their very nature is to destroy. And they do not care who their fell swords cleave.”
Gregory stared back defiantly at the Djinn. He didn’t care about anyone other than himself—and naturally, his daughter. The lives his golems would snuff from this world mattered little to him at all. No. Soon, he would establish himself as king of the entire Outremer and he would finally have the means to the revenge he had sought his entire life. No one—whether Saracens or Jew—would be safe from his wrath. They would all fall before his might and the world truly would be a better place because of it.
“Doing this will not bring her back, Gregory,” the creature said, sorrow strangely evident in its voice. Suddenly, it was a voice that sounded oddly familiar to him, though he couldn’t place it. Worse still, the creature knew what no other could possibly know…his true motive behind his plan.
Gregory had never been sure who had murdered his beloved Christina. Some said it had been a lone Muslim raider consumed with hatred toward the Crusaders who’d invaded the Holy Land. Others claimed it was a Jewish merchant, who had lusted after his wife for years. It really didn’t matter. He hated them all. And they all would pay.
Suddenly, recognition struck him. The voice. He knew it. In another life, in a different world, he would have felt completely betrayed. Yet here and now, it made a certain kind of sense. He should have suspected. He had done so much for the soul that hid behind shadows and superstition—and this was how he was to be repaid.
Rage welled up from deep inside the baron’s soul, squeezing out the fear that had only recently overwhelmed him. Slapping the Djinn’s hand away from his throat, Gregory roared with anger.
“Take your filthy hands off me!” He sprang from the bed in a moment of mindless abandon, grabbed his sword, and whirled around to face the dark form enveloped in the shadows of his room. The falcon screeched a warning.
The Djinn’s curved blade was already unsheathed, glinting in the pale light of the moon.
“How dare you!” Gregory spat. “How dare you show sympathy to me? Not after what you’ve done. This is not about Christina. This is about what is right and you know it. Those people do not deserve to live, and I aim to see an end to them all.”
The baron moved slowly forward, his blade at ready, testing the metal of his opponent. He wasn’t sure how his opponent would react to an all-out assault. Gregory knew that he had no hope to win in an open and fair fight if push came to shove. He’d have to find a way to even the odds.
“You cannot win, old man,” hissed the creature. “And I don’t want to fight you. At least not yet.”
From behind the Djinn, Gregory saw two of his men stirring. They moaned softly as they attempted to untangle themselves from the limbs of their unconscious comrades. Knowing he had to keep the creature preoccupied to allow his men time to awaken, the baron lunged forward, his sword singing through the air.
His foe spun right, blocking the thrust with the scimitar. In a single motion, the Djinn ducked down, curling into a ball, and rolled backwards toward the recovering guards. Springing into the air, he swung around with one heavy boot slamming into both guards’ jaws, causing them to collapse once more into unconsciousness. As the creature glided down to the bedroom floor, a single dart flew from his fingertips, imbedding itself into Gregory’s right thigh. He screamed in pain as he collapsed to the floor.
The baron’s hands probed for the projectile in his leg and yanked it out. Blood seeped from the open wound as flesh and tissue tore free. The blade of the dart was serrated, Gregory observed as he tossed the thing to the ground.
The creature backed slowly to the balcony doorway.
“I never wanted this, Gregory,” he said. “But I will finish what I started if you don’t give up this obsession of yours. I can’t let you succeed in this.”
The baron writhed in pain, clamping down on the gash in his leg to stop the bleeding. Looking up at the Djinn, Lord Gregory couldn’t help but laugh, but there was no mirth in it.
“You have no choice, boy. There is nothing you can do now to stop it. I know who y
ou are…your reign of fear is at an end. Soon, I will awaken Rakeesha’s golems. I will recover the Book of Creation and I will recover Solomon’s Seal from your dead hands. You have lost this night, traitor. And you have been stripped of all your power.”
The Djinn had edged his way to the railing of the veranda.
“Perhaps. But I know you will not out me. Not yet, anyway. To do so would eat away at any confidence your men still have in you. In the meantime, I will do everything I can to stop you. Next time, I won’t be merciful. Next time, if you continue on your course, I will have to…” the creature hesitated. “I will have to kill you.”
Without another word, the Djinn vaulted over the railing and into the night. Its wretched bird flew from its perch and followed into the shadows.
Gregory limped toward the edge of the balcony and peered over. No sign of him. The creature was gone. But he would be found soon enough.
“Guards!” he cried as he hobbled down the stone staircase from his room. “Guards!”
He would send his men to scour this city for the Djinn despite the sudden dread that plagued his thoughts. His enemy was right about one thing: once the Djinn’s identity was revealed, the humiliation would be unbearable. His reputation would be ruined. The betrayal would be revealed and it would be discovered that the Baron Gregory De L’Ombre could not keep his own house in order. If a man couldn’t manage his own people, how could he possibly rule an entire land?
No. Despite his misgivings, the creature simply had to be found. Gregory was much too close to fulfilling his plan. He could not allow his betrayer to succeed. But, Gregory decided, he would keep the truth a secret until the very end. He would not tell a soul what he knew…at least not yet. If he planned this just right, he might find a way to turn the situation around.
A weak smile crept onto his face as he descended the staircase in search of his guards. Yes, this just might turn out all right after all.
12
Guards scrambled through the streets surrounding Gregory’s chateau, searching frantically for the Djinn’s trail. As usual, he had disappeared as efficiently as a mist evaporates at dawn. The creature had simply melted into the shadows of the Jerusalem night as if made of the same dark substance, and it infuriated Gerard.
He had heard the clanging of the alarm bells just as he had ascended from the dungeons. He had no need to be told what the commotion was about. The dark spirit’s presence had already been felt within the dungeon walls. The idiot squire, Samuel, had vanished from his cell—not only the barred doors, but the iron manacles that had restrained him were still insufferably fastened. To add to the mystifying disappearing act, Samuel’s dungeon rags were folded neatly on the dirt floor as if the vile spirit had merely whisked him magically away to his otherworldly abode.
That was the second reason that Djinn would pay. He had still not yet recovered from his encounter with the creature in the nomad camp. Not only had he lost the Ring of Aandaleeb that day, but the damage to his ego and the loss of respect from his men were potentially irreparable. And now, the demon had rescued the simple little squire right from under his nose as well.
Gerard thanked the lord above for having given him the good sense to move the Essene nomad to a different section of the prison when that Saracen physician had visited the whelp earlier that day. Otherwise, the Djinn might have taken him as well, and all truly would be lost.
One of Gregory’s personal guards rushed past the seething mercenary. Gerard clutched his arm and twirled him around mid-stride.
“What news is there?” he asked the man who was wheezing from his exhausting search.
“None, sir. The foul thing is nowhere to be found.”
“Keep looking. He has to be here somewhere. As far as we know, he hasn’t sprouted wings.”
The young guard stared slack-jawed at Gerard.
“What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?” Gerard asked, already annoyed with the buffoon.
“Um, sir, it’s just that…it’s just that the creature’s supposed to be a s-spirit. Can’t they pretty much go wherever they want?”
Heat rose up the mercenary’s neck. With a growl, he spun the sentry around and placed a good square kick to his rear, pushing him down onto the dimly lit, stone paved street.
“Keep looking anyway,” he spat.
The guard, picking himself up, dashed off around a corner. He didn’t even bother to dust himself off.
Gerard sighed. One man. One man had done this—made all his men, as well as Gregory’s, look like a gaggle of henpecked geese. Oh, the mercenary was sure it was no ordinary man—those eyes, for one, gave testament to that. He could never forget those strange, glowing green eyes. He had suffered from incurable bouts of night terrors because of them. But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that their prey was still just a man—more than likely possessed by some foul spirit, but nonetheless flesh and bone just as anyone else. He could feel it.
And if the Djinn was a man, then he could bleed. And Gerard was betting he could bleed quite well. It was a wager he’d made to himself, and he aimed to collect very soon.
The mercenary strolled around the corner of the baron’s stately home deep in thought. Torches in their sconces provided decent enough light, but he wasn’t interested in catching the Djinn now. Such a search was futile. Someone that good would not be easily tracked. It was a waste of time and energy to run around the city half-crazed looking for an almost ethereal creature. It hadn’t prevented him from stopping the young sentry earlier because it had just been too entertaining to watch him scramble nervously away.
He chuckled at the thought as he stopped and leaned against an ancient cedar that grew in the courtyard of the chateau. He reached into a pouch on his belt, brought out his pipe and tender box, and began puffing on the very expensive blend of charas he had purchased in Persia three months ago. He’d discovered the intoxicating substance seven years before in an excursion into Asia and had been indelibly dependent on it ever since.
Exhaling the smoke from his lungs, his watery eyes followed the smoke rings that drifted into the air above his head. Of course, he had no interest at all in the rings. It was past them that now held his utmost interest. Four levels above, just past an opulent veranda, was the bedchamber of Isabella.
The Lady Isabella.
He had been utterly enraptured with her since the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, though she’d been a child of a mere thirteen years at the time. On more than one occasion, he’d tried bargaining with the baron for her hand, but had been flatly rejected. The pompous Gregory had even had the audacity to laugh at him in his face at the mere prospect.
In days past, before coming to Jerusalem, he would have simply taken the wench, had his way with her, and sold her to a Nigerian slaver he’d been acquainted with from years ago. But now he simply had too much to lose. He’d already invested more into Gregory’s scheme than he’d ever intended. To pull out now would be disastrous.
His eyes scanned the balcony for signs of the lady who made his loins burn with desire. The door stood tantalizingly open and the dancing glow of candles flitted around her bedroom as if beckoning him to come to her. But she was nowhere in view. There was nothing but empty space.
He pulled another toke from his pipe and savored the sensation. He closed his eyes and thought of the lady’s exquisite beauty and the many ways he could force her to be his. He visualized how he would mark her. Scar her so that no other man would ever desire her again. He would make her his and then, when finally sated, he would cast her aside for the mongrels.
He smiled at the images flashing through his mind’s eye.
Soon, Gregory would have his indestructible army of clay and his mission would be over. He’d be paid handsomely for his part in the whole affair. Then, after all was complete, he would wrench her from the protective grasp of her peacock of a father and carry her off to Egypt, or better yet, Constantinople. It was said that the laws of Byzantium wer
e much more lax when it came to absconding with women. They were, after all, considered mere property in that region and had no rights.
Yes, Constantinople. He liked the sound of that.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open; his reflections severed by a sound high above on Isabella’s veranda. Crying. She was weeping. But what on earth could cause such anguish—especially at this time of night?
He moved around the tree in which he’d been leaning and peered up into the night, remaining out of the torchlight. Effectively hidden. The beauty glided out of her room onto the balcony, her head in her hands, wracking with sobs.
Gerard’s muscle’s tensed. From out of the bedroom, a shadow slithered toward her. A human shaped shadow. One that the mercenary knew all too well.
With Isabella’s back to the creature, she had no idea of her danger. Gerard drew his sword and stepped out from behind the tree to shout a warning at the witless girl.
The Djinn’s clawed hand slowly reached out to land a blow that never came. Gerard gasped. Instead of attacking Isabella on the balcony, it had laid its misshapen fingers upon her shoulder, turned her around, and pulled her tight against its stout frame. The baron’s daughter dug her head into the creature’s chest and let the onslaught of her tears pour out of her.
This couldn’t be happening. The baron’s very own precious child had not only sided with his fiercest enemy, but seemed to have some sort of relationship with it. A relationship of some unholy affection.
Gerard crept closer to the chateau’s wall, craning his neck to hear what was being said four stories above.
“Will you kill him?” Isabella asked between choking sobs. “Will you really do it?”
The Djinn (The Order of the Knightshades Book 1) Page 11