Mike
“It seems that my son does not value your life,” mused Julian as he paced around the room, glass of red balanced in one elegant, manicured hand. “For your sake, let’s hope I’m wrong.”
Boris hadn’t bothered to tie me to the ugly steel chair this time; instead he handed me a glass of whatever Julian was having. I took a sip—Petite Sirah and a very good one, too—and waited for Julian to clarify.
I didn’t have to wait long. “I’ve offered Olivier your freedom if he hands himself over to us.” Eyes dark and deep with hatred stared into mine. “He refused.”
“There’s no way he’ll consider it, Julian; he knows you’ll kill me anyway.”
Julian whirled, striding forward and stepping close, his face a bare inch from mine. I could smell the wine on his breath, sour and acidic. “What makes you think I’d go back on my word, priest?” Malice and loathing suffused his voice, the first deep emotions I’d detected in him. “Why do you think you know me so well??
Something snapped inside me, most likely my patience. That can happen when you’ve been brutally beaten and healed too many times to keep track of. My snarl matched his ounce for ounce. “By now everyone knows I destroyed the Silver, so you can’t afford to let me go,” I whispered, my tone scalding. “You have to kill me or lose the respect, the fear, of your troops.”
A twitch told me I’d hit home. “Also, you have in your possession a man of God who banished two demons, proving that the Lord God is mightier than your so-called Patron.”
I’ll give Julian one thing; most people would’ve slugged me by then, but he just smiled slightly and said, “Can’t you call him by his name, priest? Or is fear of his wrath stilling your tongue?”
“Satan, Lucifer, Abaddon, The Adversary, Little Horn, The Dragon, The Beast, The Serpent … It doesn’t matter. He is the Liar, not my God.” What was that? The muscles around Julian’s eyes tightened slightly and suddenly I knew! “But you know that, don’t you? Not like the rank and file, who believe all that Lying God foolishness, you know!
“What? Was it something you learned when you became head of the family, the dirty little secret of the Sicarii? That’s it, isn’t it? Did that make you feel foolish, weak? Did all your vaunted dreams come crashing down around your ears when your father told you the truth? Ha! The truth, that’s rich! You found out about the Patron and you peed your pants, didn’t you?”
For a man in his sixties, he could still hit like heavyweight. His fist took me square in the breadbasket and I doubled over. At least I splashed my wine on his $3,000 suit.
“You pissant!” he screamed, olive complexion mottled with fury. “You are nothing! Your precious god weakened himself so much by creating reality that he is but a shadow of what he once was! On the other hand, my lord Lucifer has grown strong, mighty beyond comprehension and is ready to assail Heaven to throw down the weak Throne!” It cost him, but he finally, with visible effort, brought himself back under a semblance of control. “He keeps his promises, our Patron does, and the promise of sitting at his right hand when the battle is won will be kept. That is the Covenant of the Sicarii, foolish priest of a weak god, that is what sustains us, gives us the will to go on and achieve victory.”
Gagging and retching, I sat in that damn ugly, cold chair, curled around my bruised muscles. Dimly I heard Julian say, “Boris, continue your instruction. He needs to learn a lesson about who is mighty.”
With a grunt, Boris went to work.
It’s never the beatings that make me feel puny, afraid. It’s after the beatings when the bones creak and the muscles pop, sending glassy shards of pain up and down my spine. My teeth wiggle loose and the hot, coppery blood slides down my throat to nestle warmly in my stomach. The feeling of flesh so badly mortified, the assault so blatantly horrid that I lie on my mattress, curled up in a ball, trying to deny those sensations—the hurt, the gut-wrenching humiliation of it all.
When Boris dumped me back on the air mattress, I lay there softly weeping while the blood bubbled from my nose. Eventually the tears dried as reason slowly stole upon me.
For a split second, one infinitesimal moment, I had hoped Julian would have me killed, just so I could go to my God, to Heaven, and know a perfect peace, but a stubborn part of my soul refused death. I had too many things yet to do, people to guide to God’s love and glory. I had never been one to shirk responsibility before and I wasn’t about to start.
I took a sip of tepid water from a plastic bottle left for me and tried to relax, but the pain was too much. Every which way I tried to turn brought more shards of glass scraping across my nerves—a symphony of agony and Boris was the conductor.
Heck with it, I thought, reaching under the mattress for the papers hidden there. It took a few tries—my eyes refused to focus—but soon I was able to pick up where I left off.
My Life No Longer
Sobbing in relief, I swung around and put two rounds into Boris’ ankles, spraying bone fragments and blood across the floor. He had stopped screaming, instead curling himself into a ball, body hitching and spasming as he wept.
Cinnamon wafted to me as I heard Julian grate out, between clenched teeth, one Healing after another. My own Healing took the bite out of the burns covering my chest and arms.
My eyes swung back to the leader of the Sicarii in time to see bloody bullets spit from his body. The barrel of the 9 swung up. “Don’t,” I mumbled unsteadily, the constant use of Words hitting me with a rush of fatigue. “I’ll just shoot you again.”
Eyes so much like mine regarded me from the floor as he snatched back a hand that had been reaching for the scattered Silver. “You may not believe me,” he replied evenly. “But I am actually proud of you, son.” A tongue flicked out to lick blood from his lips.
“Be a good boy, Julian, and scoot over to the wall, under the Chagal. There you go, good.” Muttering The Walls (and inhaling the smell of pine) I knelt and began scooping Silver with one hand. Words, foul and slimy, tried to force themselves into my mind, but with the added strength of The Walls, I kept the loathsome things at bay. Eventually I had all thirty and placed them in the pouch Julian had dropped on his desk.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Do you have a Zippo, you know … for your cigars.”
“You do not light a cigar with a lighter. You use wooden matches to preserve the flavor; I have told you that before. Why?”
Matches. Right on the desk in a crystal cup. Feeling the looming presence of time at my back, I vaulted Boris’ writhing body and grabbed my leather jacket from where I’d placed it next to the door, whipping around, pistol raised, before Julian had a chance to commit mischief. The angry glint in his eye told me he had been planning just that.
“Ah-ah-ah,” I admonished as he glared cold death. “Stay seated and I will not shoot you through the head.”
“You kill me, boy, and another will take my place.” Julian’s chest heaved with fury. “There is always another.”
“Yes, I know,” I muttered, surprisingly sad as I placed the small crystal cup of matches in my pocket. It was time to … tie up loose ends.
Not more than ten minutes later I walked toward the large detached garage that housed everything the Family needed to motor about in New Hampshire. I wore a new shirt, black silk this time, under my jacket.
I had left Williams, Julian’s chauffer, trussed like a Christmas goose with the chef to keep him company. The cleaning staff also had been detained, albeit in Burke’s bedroom. Hoped they liked the bed; it sure looked comfy.
As for Julian and Boris, they were in a bedroom closet, bound and gagged and none too happy with yours truly. Instead of wasting a Word on the Russian, I smeared his ankles with a salve designed to promote swift recovery. It took longer than Healing, but I had begun to feel the first nibble of Backlash at the edges of my mind and did not want to push my luck.
The garage lights flickered on the second I entered, revealing a variety of automobiles, motorcycles (my favorite bei
ng the 1922 Indian Chief in satin black), and a few snowmobiles.
I examined the keys hanging on a pegboard mounted to the far wall and smiled when I found what I needed: a brand new Land Rover, perfect for the snowy weather, smooth, comfortable and, better yet, it was Burke’s.
Once I had the garage door open and moved the Rover, I poured a small puddle of gasoline in the middle of the garage floor and struck one of the matches I had pocketed. The puddle flamed up instantly.
The Language of fire crackled from my throat and was answered almost immediately. “What do you need, watery one?” As usual, the fire elemental sounded ravenous.
“Do you know where you are?” I asked.
“Fire knows well the machine it drives,” it answered. “Is not Fire what man needs to make these Earthen contraptions move?”
“Well, what do you see here? Sixteen, no … seventeen cars, plus some bikes and such. You look hungry, so take them all and feed well.”
“What do you wish in return, generous one?” I could almost feel the elemental’s eagerness.
“Nothing yet. Just keep your feeding confined to this building. Nothing else but this garage and its contents.”
“Done!” it chattered gleefully, growing to the size of a bonfire.
I put the burning garage in my rearview mirror, speeding down the road away from a life no longer my own.
In Portsmouth I found a pet store that sold just the plastic container I required. Next I stopped at a Catholic church and helped myself to just enough holy water to fill the container and drown the cry of the Silver. That would confuse any who would use it to track me to ground. Avoidance was used to thwart scryers.
Penn Station, the next day … the Rover safely ditched and money wired to an account at Chase Manhattan Bank under an alias I’d established long ago, Jude Oliver. Enough to start me out in luxury. A hard bench beneath my butt offered no ease as I stared at the train schedule in my hands, not really seeing the words printed there. My mind was brimming with chaotic thoughts.
My only problem was deciding where to go. LA? Chicago? Miami? All good places, plenty of people to hide among, but not quite right for the purpose I had in mind. All the major U.S. cities were rife with Sicarii agents. I had to go where no would think to look.
“You look lost.”
I started. A pretty brunette, brown curls covering her shoulders, stood just behind and to the right. Sensible flats, dark no-nonsense skirt and white blouse. A fair face framed with dark horn-rimmed glasses. She had nice dimples, too. “What?”
“I said you look lost. You’ve been sitting there for a half hour staring at nothing.”
My lips curled in what some might call a smile. “I am a bit lost, I guess.”
The woman leaned forward and I smelled … hyacinth. “What are you looking for?”
What indeed? “A place big enough to lose myself in, but not too big. Big enough to have the comforts of city life. Some place forgotten by man.”
Her laughter reminded me of sleigh bells. “Are you running from the law?”
“No, just from Family.”
“Omaha,” she said brightly. “Yes, definitely Omaha.”
“Omaha? You mean Nebraska?” I scratched my chin. “Really? Nebraska?” Who the hell lived in Nebraska?
“See? Even you are surprised at the thought. Don’t worry; it’s a nice, peaceful place, a good place to raise a family, if a bit boring.”
“Nebraska? Omaha?” I rolled the words around in my mouth a few times. Yes, that just might work. I put on my best smile. “Thank you. Yes, that should work. Thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said over her shoulder, heading toward the exit.
I called after her. “I didn’t get your name!”
She turned around, walking backwards, and said, “I didn’t give it.” With that she strode purposefully toward the door.
For some reason, as I watched her depart the station, I heard the sound of bells.
I smiled as the last page slipped through my fingers to float gently to the floor. What a story. Angels, Words, Satan, The Silver, everything Morgan had endured and the family that had twisted him. It was amazing that he was relatively sane.
My eyes closed and I fell into the most peaceful, deep sleep I’d had in weeks.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Morgan
Next stop, Omaha, (the irony was not lost on me) where we boarded a private jet. Cain spent the entire trip on the cell, calling several people in what I realized was his huge organization, and by late afternoon we landed in New York, where a stretch limo waited for us as well as plenty of fine food. The ride was smooth enough that we didn’t spill a drop of the cabernet, which went quite well with the venison.
By the time the calamari vanished into my growling stomach and the bottle surrendered its last drop, we had arrived at our destination, an old warehouse in Clinton near the water. Cain led the way in and the limo silently rolled away, sticking out like rose in a compost heap in the former Hell’s Kitchen.
“What do you use this place for?” I asked, following Cain up a steep set of stairs to the second floor.
“Truth be told, I am not sure,” he answered, keys jangling in one hand. During the second leg of our trip his attitude had changed; he had become more commanding, almost imperious and businesslike.
Cain found the right key and inserted it into the lock of a plain white door marked OFFICE. We entered a largish square room roughly twenty feet on a side, containing several old wooden chairs and an oak desk. Sitting at the desk was a youngish man with coal-black hair cut short and a ridiculously cleft chin. His unibrow rose in surprise when he looked first at me then at my companion.
“Cain, thank God,” he said, striding forward to engulf the man in a ferocious hug. “I was getting bored out of my mind.”
“It does my eyes good to behold you again, my friend,” Cain said, returning the hug hard enough that I heard ribs creak. “Come, give a hale welcome to a new friend discovered mere hours ago.” He disengaged to gesture my way. “This is—”
“Morgan,” I finished, shaking the man’s hand. “Morgan Heart.”
That earned me a strange look, but he smiled brightly and in a slight southern twang, “Alan. Alan Mendomer, good to meet you.”
Cain took a seat behind the desk. “Alan is apprenticed to me, a magus of no small talent. He has agreed to assist us on our perilous quest in exchange for a Word.”
Alan snorted. “It’s about time y’all gave me another Word, boss. Been a dog’s age.”
“And earn this Word you will, Alan. But let us attend to other matters.”
I leaned in close to the southerner and whispered, “Does he always talk like that?”
“Ever since I met him,” he whispered in reply.
Cain ignored our byplay and asked, “The supplies that I had ordered en route, have they reached this facility? And where, pray tell, is the lovely and fearsome Maggie?”
“Yeah, boss, they got here an hour ago. I had them placed. As for Maggie, we all got ourselves a gen-u-ine problem.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Maggie?”
Cain nodded. “Yet another apprentice who toils to earn more Words.”
“Maggie’s got herself in a patch of trouble with that ijit crowd she hangs with,” Alan said. “Talked to Haime and he says he’s not givin’ her up. Says she owes big time.”
“She has angered the League? That news bodes poorly for our venture.”
“The League?” I asked.
Alan shot me a glance. “The League of Valhalla. Bunch of damn-fool boneheads who like to dress up as Norsemen, fronted by a bigger bonehead named Haime.”
“Haime? Really?”
“S’what he calls himself.”
“Well, let us tarry no longer, lest we grow roots through the soles of our boots.” Cain rose and stretched. “Alan, do ready our supplies and weaponry for a battle most dire. We shall return shortly with the d
electable Maggie.”
“Sure, gotcha boss. It’ll be a laugh riot.”
“What’s the plan, Cain?” I asked, following the tall man back down the stairs and out into the street.
He sighed. “You will have a rare opportunity to meet a god.”
I had the feeling that things were spiraling out of control. Fortunately, I was used to it. “So, where to?”
“We have the good fortune to find ourselves in the same locale as the gathering place of the League. Our dear delicate Maggie is a long-standing member of the League and it is that very reason I chose this warehouse as our staging point.” We walked down the canyons of Clinton, the old buildings a testament to a craftsmanship lost to those who now constructed buildings of glass and steel. “It had occurred to me that she would be otherwise occupied, but of all my apprentices, she is the most capable of undertaking highly dangerous tasks. Make no mistake, Alan will be an asset, but Maggie ... well, you shall see.”
I nodded absently, feeling a little uncomfortable. New York City affected me like that, its vibrancy and ferociousness eating away at the slow paced, smaller town comfort I’d grown so used to in Omaha.
Before long we found ourselves on the waterfront, amid more industrial looking warehouses. Our destination proved to be a plain, whitewashed affair complete with loading docks and several glass doors with signs that read: USE OTHER ENTRANCE. All the doors sported the same sign. Cute.
Cain made straight for one and knocked on the aluminum frame. A man like a monolith in a bad black suit with a nasty look plastered to his pug ugly face answered, blocking the opening. “What you want,” he rumbled from some deep dark place.
“My good man,” Cain began with one his patented smiles. “I have come to this location drear to enjoy the hospitality of your employer, who, I am sure you know, has been a good and true friend of mine since time immemorial.”
We waited while the rock that talked deciphered Cain’s complex dialogue. Apparently the effort proved to be too much because he swung that massive head side to side and said, “No.”
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