Judgment Stone (9781401687359)

by Liparulo, Robert

  “Impressed them? With what?”

  “My credentials as a doctor, a theologian, a criminal investigator . . .”

  “All those things? That would make me suspicious.”

  “I didn’t just say them. I rambled a bit. You know, a quick run-down of the pros and cons of finitum capax infiniti versus finitum non capax infinitum, stuff like that. So they’re willingness to believe us isn’t the problem.”

  “What is?”

  Owen smiled. “I’ll show you.”

  [ 71 ]

  “You still have the vision?” Owen asked.

  Jagger showed him the fragment in his palm.

  “Stay here,” Owen said. “Tell me what you see when I come back.” He looked around the back of the room: a museum-quality desk, bookcases, stacks of hymnals and Bibles, flags on poles in stands . . . He headed for three heavy wood armoires in a row.

  “What am I looking for?” Jagger said.

  “Me.”

  Jagger looked back at the children, their faces turned toward him. He smiled and nodded, and a few waved.

  Owen opened the first armoire. It had been fitted with shelves, standing books and reams of paper on them. He closed it and moved to the next one. Black and white robes hung inside. He slid them to one side and stepped inside.

  The children laughed.

  Owen smiled out at them, reached for the doors, and closed them. His God-beam extended out of the top and rose into the ceiling high above. An angel grabbed hold of it and followed it down, feet up. His head and shoulders disappeared into the top of the armoire, and he stayed that way, half in, half out, as though satisfying a curiosity. Then he dropped into the armoire just as Owen was opening the doors again. Owen stepped out and walked quickly to Jagger, who nodded.

  “Isn’t there anything that will block the beams?” Jagger said.

  “Like what? Lead? Kryptonite? Wherever they go, their lights will give them away.” He held out his hand. “May I hold it, the fragment? It might give me an idea.”

  Jagger dropped it into his hand. “Those lights are going to get them killed. The beams go straight up. If we can get them into a locked room, the Clan won’t see them once they’re inside.”

  Owen shook his head. “All Bale would have to do is station someone outside to tell them where to go.”

  “What are we supposed to do, let the Clan get them?” He looked at the kids and thought of the slaughterhouse the Clan made out of the barn. God, no, not these children.

  “We have enough weapons to arm the adults,” Owen said.

  “Take a stand?” Jagger pictured a firefight, the Clan picking them off one by one until no one was left to defend the children.

  “I can’t think of anything else.”

  “Then let’s take a stand,” Jagger said, trying to keep his thoughts from entering a pitch-black mental shadow where whispers said he would never again see his wife or son. “Because we have to do something, and we’re out of options.” He turned, already thinking which weapons he’d disburse and which he’d keep for himself.

  “Wait,” Owen said. His gaze drifted over the sitting kids. He looked straight up, the blue beam now appearing to flow from his face. “It’s far from ideal . . . and it may blow up in our faces, but . . .” He grinned. “I have an idea.”

  [ 72 ]

  When the deck support struck Jordan’s temple—Tyler putting everything he had into it—the older boy flew sideways, hit the wall of the excavation hole, and crumpled. His flashlight rolled out of his hand. Tyler picked it up and switched it off, tilting his ear up to listen. Nothing at first, then: “Jordan!” It was Phin.

  A light, diffused by distance, spilled into the hole, panned across it, slipped out. Phin was up on the wall where Jordan had been. The angle prevented him from seeing into the first ten feet of the hole.

  Tyler grabbed Jordan’s booted feet and tugged, quietly dragging him closer to the wall nearest Phin. He heard a loud stomp, then the clattering of wood and stones. Phin had jumped off the wall and was scattering the deck pieces, making sure no one was hiding underneath.

  Tyler stepped over Jordan and rolled him so that he lay in the corner formed by the hole’s wall and floor. He crouched at the boy’s feet and waited, setting the flashlight on the ground and holding the deck support in front of him. He rubbed his throbbing knee.

  “Jordan!” Phin called, closer. His boots clomped over rocks, making a clicking-hissing sound that reminded Tyler of movies about robots taking over the world. The light flashed into the hole again. It was brighter and lingered longer. Phin jumped diagonally over the hole, landing on the ground that ran between the two holes. Tyler could see the back of his head as he scoped out the other hole. If Phin turned, he could shine his light right at him. Tyler crouched lower, pushed himself against the dirt wall, wishing he could press himself right into it.

  Phin raised his hand to his cheek. “They’re not here.”

  Nevaeh’s voice over the radio: “What do you mean, they’re not there?”

  “Jordan and Tyler, they’re both gone.”

  “Jordan must be chasing Tyler.”

  Phin said, “I found Jordan’s radio on the rocks by the wall, smashed.” He turned in a circle, passing his gaze over Tyler, and stopped when he was facing the monastery.

  “Well,” Nevaeh said, “find them.”

  Phin’s head rotated toward Tyler, then the other way, up the mountain. He seemed to hop, then went flying high and arcing out of Tyler’s view, jumping over the upper hole. He called, “Jordan!” And again half a minute later, farther away. Tyler pictured him heading up the Siket El Basha trail toward the peak.

  He shifted to face Jordan. He set the length of wood down and felt the boots. Hard, with buckles, like ski boots. Their soles were at least four inches thick. He stood, looking in the direction Phin went, and ran his gaze over the top of the wall. Seeing no one, he picked up the flashlight, covered its lens with one hand, and turned it on. The leg braces attached to the ankles, went up to disks at the knees, and disappeared under Jordan’s T-shirt.

  He switched the light off and used both hands to unsnap one of the buckles. As he felt for the second buckle, Jordan’s foot moved, turning and pulling away. The boy groaned, his head rotating left, then right. His hand went to his head and rubbed.

  Tyler picked up the wood with both hands, raised it over his head, angled back to keep it from poking out of the hole. Jordan looked at him, sat up, scooted back until he was pressed against the wall of the slope that allowed the archaeologists to walk into the hole without jumping. He rubbed his temple.

  “You clobbered me.”

  “Be quiet or I’ll do it again.” He didn’t like not being able to see Jordan very well. Dad had taught him to watch people’s eyes; you could tell what they were thinking, what they might do, by the things they looked at and the things they didn’t want you noticing they were looking at. Keeping the wood raised with one hand, straining to do it, he felt for the flashlight. He turned it on and set it upright on its lens, letting a pebble tilt it up slightly. Another Dad trick. It provided enough light for Tyler to see Jordan’s eyes, but he thought it was too dim to shine out of the hole.

  Jordan said, “You’re not going to hit me again.”

  “I will if I have to. Take off your boots.”

  “They won’t do you any good,” Jordan said. “You don’t know how to use them.”

  “At least they’ll be off you.”

  “See? You’re not going to hit me.”

  Tyler swung the support beam down at Jordan’s leg. Jordan gasped and pulled his legs up, but not far enough. The wood stopped before making contact. Tyler raised it again. “I’ll pound them to smithereens with you wearing them if you don’t take them off.”

  Jordan thought for a moment, then finished unbuckling the boot Tyler had started on. Without looking up he said, “Nevaeh only wants to talk to your mom.”

  “She can do that without taking her.”

  �
��You don’t know Nevaeh.” He turned something on the ankle and the brace sprung free. He tugged the boot off, tossed it at Tyler’s feet.

  “The braces too,” Tyler said.

  Jordan sighed and unclamped two metal loops attached to the brace, over and under his knee. He started fiddling with something under his shirt, reached his hand around back.

  “Stop!” Tyler said in a harsh whisper, threatening to bring the wood down on Jordan’s head.

  “There’s a belt,” Jordan said. “And two clamps around my hips.”

  “What else?”

  “What, ‘what else’?”

  “A gun?”

  Jordan shook his head. “I can’t put a gun back there. Not with the belt and battery pack.” He leaned back against the wall. “Anyway, I wouldn’t shoot you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Same reason you’re not going to hit me. You might kill me. You don’t want to do that.”

  “You’re immortal,” Tyler said.

  Jordan looked surprised. “You know?”

  “My father told me everything.”

  “Everything?”

  Tyler nodded.

  “Then you know I’m not going to hurt you and you’re not going to hurt me.”

  “I hit you once already.”

  Jordan shrugged, rubbed his head. “You were scared. I was after you. This is different, you looking me right in the face, the two of us talking like this. Besides . . .” He smiled. “It’s not what brothers do to each other.”

  [ 73 ]

  Lilit waggled her hand at Bale. “Let me touch it again,” she said.

  He slapped her hand away. “You just did.”

  “I need to get charged up for the assault.”

  “You’re fine. We’re almost there. When the vision starts to fade, let me know.”

  They were riding in the back of a commercial minivan—no side windows behind the driver and passenger seats, no rear seats, just a black rectangle of space. It was the only vehicle available at the sorry excuse for a rental car agency in the airport. But what did he expect? Aeroportul International Sibiu displayed a cheery banner proclaiming 176,000 passengers served last year—about the number that passed through JFK in New York in a single day.

  The rental agency hadn’t had any GPS units—and they lost cell coverage a few miles outside sibiu—so Hester was sitting in the passenger seat with a crumpled paper map, giving Cillian directions. Simple enough, except the deeper they went into the foothills of the Transylvanian Alps, the more little roads branched into the forest and the fewer road signs there were. Despite continually checking the map and the lights in the sky, they’d found a number of dead ends, and Hester and Cillian had exchanged more than a few choice words in the ninety minutes they’d been on the road.

  Bale sat behind the driver’s seat, his back to the bare metal side of the cargo area. He had his Salvatore Ferragamos propped on a bag of weapons and his fedora tipped over his eyes, arms crossed. Lilit sat beside him, getting on his nerves. Artimus sat on her other side, nearest the rear doors, growling and huffing at Therion, seated across from him. It was their ritual, getting into combat mode. It wasn’t nearly as irritating as Lilit’s constant nagging to hold the Stone and breathy descriptions of the demons riding with them.

  Early on, one thing had interested Bale: the demons Lilit saw looked different to her than they did to him. She’d admitted there was something attractive about them but described one as “an ugly little cuss, isn’t it?” And another as being “frightening, in a vampire sort of way, the fangs.” None of the ones Bale saw had fangs, except the cute monkey, but that was Lilit’s ugly cuss, not her vampire. Bale had tucked the information into his memory and settled back to get some rest before the festivities.

  Hester had other plans. She said, “Hey, hey,” and tapped the brim of his hat. He pushed it up. She was turned in her seat, smiling at him. “It should be just up here. Look.” She pointed through the windshield, but he didn’t see anything. Then the van started around a curve, and the light slid into view. A thick, throbbing conduit, like the universe’s largest gem sculpted into a column.

  “Wait,” she said. “What’s it doing?”

  As he watched, moving to kneel between the front seats, strands of light broke off from it and moved away. It was coming apart.

  “Hurry,” he told Cillian, elbowing him in the ribs.

  They turned again, and the column of light was up ahead on the right. They drove on a straight road, and Cillian slowed as they approached the entrance to the Mondragon Home for Boys and Girls. A sign mounted to a wall beside the drive announced it in several languages. Tall iron gates could block the entrance, but they were open.

  The column of light had narrowed by half. Strands, most looking like fine bright threads, moved away in all directions, except toward the road on which the Clan was stopped. There must have been over a hundred of these glowing threads fanning out from the larger central one.

  “What does it mean?” Hester asked.

  “The children were all together,” Bale said, guessing. “Now they’re not.”

  “What do we do?”

  He watched the threads sliding away through the night sky, thought about the children walking in the forest, scattered all over. What were they doing? Some kind of exercise: Hey, kids! This Wednesday, join us for our semi-annual moonlight prayer hike! (BYOFL—bring your own flashlights. Ha ha!)

  They could hunt them down one at a time, but what a pain. The alpine forest was rough terrain. It would take them all night. He said, “That central column looks mighty mouthwatering to me. Must be a good number of Bible brats are still in one place. Let’s get them.”

  Cillian drove up the driveway and parked in front of the stairs leading to the big main doors. Therion, Artimus, and Lilit poured out the rear; Bale followed Hester out the passenger door. They dropped two bags on the ground and geared up: weapons, ammo, flashlights . . .

  Artimus unzipped another bag, tugged out a bulky black vest, and held it up. “Who wants body armor?” he said.

  “For kids?” Therion said, turning back to the shotgun he was loading.

  “The web page said they employ a full-time staff,” Cillian said.

  “Armed?” Hester said, pulling on her leather mask, zipping it up tight. Through the canister hanging down from her mouth, she said, “These guys haven’t seen a gun their whole lives.”

  Artimus waited another moment for someone to speak up, then pushed the vest back into the bag and zipped it closed.

  The front doors were locked. Therion pushed through the small group, cleared them away, and kicked it. Like kicking a stone wall. He tried again, bellowing out a guttural roar. The doors rattled, nothing more.

  “I thought that roar was going to do it,” Lilit said.

  “Back away,” Artimus said, hitching his .50-cal machine gun into position. Therion grumbled, stepped off to the side. The gun showed him what a real roar sounded like. Artimus could have been operating a jackhammer, he shook so much, using the weapon to tear a splintery seam along the line where two doors met. Shells flew through the air and tinked down on the stone patio like metal raindrops. The blasting stopped, and Artimus stepped through a haze of nostril-stinging smoke. He pushed the doors with his palm. They creaked open.

  He stepped back, bowed, and addressed Therion: “After you, m’lady.”

  Therion shoved him and went inside. The others joined him in a marble-floored entry hall. Before them, two arching staircases rose to the second floor. An oak-paneled wall stretched between them, a settee and round table with flowers in a vase in front of it. A wide hallway to the left, and one to the right.

  Hester’s gas-mask canister said, “Did you see where the lights were coming from?”

  “About in the middle,” Cillian said. “Maybe a bit toward the back.”

  Bale pulled the Stone from his jacket pocket and held it out in his palm. The others touched it, each immediately stepping back, looking aroun
d, gaping at the beings that had popped into view. Bale pointed. “Lilit, Artimus, Cillian, that way. Therion, Hester, come with me.” He lead them into the right hallway, once again wondering about those threads breaking away from the central column of light and fanning away.

  [ 74 ]

  Aleksandar heard the sound of the machine gun and stopped to look back. The manor was barely visible through the trees. Another minute and it would be lost from sight altogether. He’d been holding Rayna’s hand, and now the two exchanged frightened glances.

  He said, “Haide”—Come on—and they continued their trek over the untamed terrain. A rock rolled under his foot and he stumbled, pulling her with him. She let out a quiet yelp and braced herself against a tree.

  “Scuzati,” he said. Sorry.

  They continued down a gentle slope, heading away from the home. All the children were to go alone into the forest except the youngest, the ones who could get lost or hurt; they went with someone older. Mr. Stanga had explained that bad people were heading to the home, and everyone had to leave until they heard the school’s hand-cranked air-raid siren, left over from World War II. As each child filed out of a rear door, Mr. Stanga would point using his entire hand, giving him or her a small compass—used in their wilderness training—and issue a true north compass bearing: 070 . . . 267 . . . 135 . . . Aleksandar heard a few of the others’ bearings and understood that Mr. Stanga determined them based on each student’s ability to navigate various terrains. Aleksandar’s direction was fairly mild because of his hiking with Rayna. The worst of it would be crossing a five-foot-wide stream, nothing, really. All the students were familiar with the surrounding woods; small groups of them, eight years old and up, camped monthly within five kilometers of the manor.

  He considered his last few thoughts and made a correction: the worst of it wasn’t the stream. It was how scared they were. Even the older kids had flashed round saucer eyes as they waited in line for their compasses and directions. Despite the number of kids—211—they felt like family. Their morning prayer service consisted of praying out loud for the others. You were expected to talk to the kid whose name you’d drawn the day before to find out what you should bring before God. Then for weeks afterward, you’d check with him to see if God had answered your prayers.