by Graham Brown
“I beg of you, Bishop, give this task to others. My target should be the demon that killed Simon. The blond one who enters our churches and lives in blasphemy by calling himself Christian.”
“For what purpose? Revenge? No one wants revenge on this demon more than I, but I refuse it. Vengeance is the providence of God. We have another purpose.”
“Not revenge,” Henrick insisted. “Protection. The blasphemer is a threat. Our greatest threat now. And then once he has been sent to Hell, I will find Drakos and dispatch him as well. And then—and only then—the curse shall be broken!”
“Do you think it will be that easy?” Messini asked. The question was rhetorical. “To destroy the King of the Fallen or even the one who almost killed you already? Don’t let confidence blind you to the difficulty of the task.”
“I’m not blind,” Henrick said. He spoke angrily, perhaps because he was, in fact, half blind now, or perhaps because the words brought him back to the prophecy he disagreed with. “I move forward with eyes open. Throwing off Simon’s myopic vision. That’s why I bring you these new weapons and ideas.”
Henrick’s face was red with rage, and suddenly Messini saw what Simon had feared. Henrick was strong, but he had little self-control.
“Simon’s myopic vision,” the Bishop repeated sadly. “So quickly you speak ill of the dead. You, Henrick, are alive only because of him. He saved you years back and it seems you have resented him for it.”
“It’s not resentment; it’s-“
“Enough,” the Bishop said, cutting off all further conversation. “You will do as ordered, or I will rescind your appointment of command and remove you this instant.”
Henrick fumed and for a second looked as if he would explode, but after a breath or two, he calmed himself enough to speak. “And if I find this angel,” Henrick said with disgust in his voice, “then what? One by one we cleanse the filthy demons? Forgive them for all the lives they’ve stolen?”
“If God chooses to send them mercy, who are you to deny it?”
Henrick could not respond to this without denying his very faith and revealing himself as unfit to be in the order and, perhaps, the church itself. But the Bishop could sense it already; Henrick didn’t want the demons to be forgiven, even if God did.
“His will, not ours,” Messini reminded.
Henrick nodded slightly. His face still contorted.
“If there is no angel, you will not find one,” Messini said. “But if one exists, not only will we be able to undo the mistake we made seventeen hundred years ago which started this war, but we’ll be able to save hundreds of thousands whom the demons have tricked into a life of darkness, whom they’ve turned with fear, intimidation and cunning. Not all who’ve fallen wished for that life—even you know that. Our true business is the saving of souls. And those who’ve been confused and tormented and tortured into darkness need salvation more than any other. But first we must determine if this miracle exists. And if so—if this proves to be the task God chooses for us—then we must not fail Him.”
Henrick stared at Bishop Messini for a long, drawn out moment. It was the gaze of a man willing to live and die for a cause, the gaze of a man would choose to face a demon, even the King of the Demons, and not back down. That much Messini was certain of. Henrick was a solider forged from molten rock, turned into iron by the pain he’d experienced and sharpened by years of struggle. But even the greatest warrior was of no use if he could not follow orders.
“How am I supposed to find an angel that doesn’t even know what it is?”
“Proceed to the Bernese Highlands. At our hospice in Interlaken you will find your brother in arms Aldo Gruvaleu.”
“Aldo?” Henrick said with surprise. “Surely you must be kidding. His mind was taken by a demon in the mountains of Croatia. He’s been dismissed. He can never re-join us again. That is the law.”
“I know the law, Henrick. But you will do as I say. And if my instinct is true you will find him useful.”
“How is that possible?”
“He claims he can hear the voices of the dammed,” Bishop Messini said.
“Of course,” Henrick scoffed, “It’s happened before. But they’re just echoes.”
“If they were echoes of the demon who possessed him, they would have ended by now. Instead he has filled journals with the thoughts he hears.”
“Journals?”
“Hundreds of them. Rantings of pain and anger, of greed and lust. Many speak of acts that have occurred in the time after you and Simon dispatched the demon that possessed him. They cannot be echoes.”
“Madness then.”
“Perhaps,” Messini said.
Henrick’s gaze sharpened. “How is this possible?”
“When the demon possessed his mind, part of Aldo was dragged into the void. The demon died without releasing him. A final act of bitterness. But if it’s true, then it’s possible that part of Aldo’s mind was caught there. Stranded on the other side.
“And if it’s just a derangement?”
“Then Aldo is to be mourned even though he lives.”
Henrick nodded, he seemed to understand. And finally he seemed to be in agreement. “But if he can hear them…”
“Then he can find those whom the angel is calling,” Messini said. “And you can find the angel, if it exists at all.”
Henrick sighed and nodded. “I don’t agree with this approach,” he said. “But I will obey your authority. However, if Aldo is mad or this seems fruitless after a time, I will renew my request to go after our enemies. And if necessary, I will go above you, to the Quorum of Five for permission. For even you serve your office at the pleasure of others.”
Chapter 11
New York City
Red and blue light painted Kate’s face as she sat in the corner of her darkened motel room. The wallpaper was dingy, the carpet old and tired. It reminded her of a crime scene. Fortunately the light wasn’t coming from police cruisers parked outside. It was a flashing neon sign just beyond her window.
She stared at it for a while. Red, then blue, then red and then blue again. An endless beacon, forever shining in the night at a dingy refuge for the unwanted of Manhattan. It called to the pimps and hookers and the addicts and the lost. At forty dollars an hour the rooms were always full. Kate paid a hundred for the night, no questions asked. And since the flimsy door provided little safety, she’d un-holstered her weapon and placed it on the table beside her. Since then, she’d stared out the window, waiting for someone to come for her, and hoping it wouldn’t be the police or FBI.
“Where are you?” she whispered to the night, thinking of the blond man. She’d sensed he was in New York but now that she was here it seemed nothing more than insanity.
A knock at the door startled her. She put a hand on her Glock. “Who is it?”
“Who the hell do you think it is?” a voice called back. “Open the damn door.”
Kate unlocked the door and let a skinny man, wearing wire rimmed glasses into the room. Barton Hall, an informant of hers. He wore an old suit from J.C. Penny. His hair was thin and greasy. He looked like he hadn’t showered in days.
Kate had busted him years ago when he was a small-time hood trying to go big time by purchasing guns in the US and shipping them to countries where the right to bear arms was limited to the police and military.
Since then, the FBI had used him to stop a half-dozen similar operations before giving him immunity. Instead of witness protection, they’d faked his death and snuck him out of LA. He’d chosen to come to New York and apparently—almost inconceivably—had picked up right where he’d left off. Although he now ran a smaller, more discreet operation. Maybe that’s why he was still alive.
“What’s with the no lights?” he asked. “You staking someone out?”
“Don’t ask questions, Barton. Just show me what you’ve got.”
He flicked a switch and the crummy room revealed all its defects. To Kate’s surprise the light
didn’t bother her eyes.
“You alright, agent?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t look well,” Barton said. “Unless you’re going for some new Goth image or something. I mean don’t get me wrong; I find it kind of hot myself. And if you wanted to frisk me or strip search me, or something, I might not be unhappy about it you know, but—“
“Barton,” she said, interrupting. “I haven’t killed anyone today. But I’m not above starting right now. Do you understand me?”
“Sure,” he said. “Sure.”
He turned to the duffel bag he carried. “Look, I couldn’t find everything you asked for on such short notice. So I brought the best I had.”
As Kate watched, he unzipped the bag and removed the contents.
“First, I brought you a modified Taser. This thing will stop a charging bull or a meth addict whose mind has been blown to the moon. Next, I have the biggest machine gun I own, an M-16 with grenade launcher.”
“And what the hell am I supposed to do with that? I can’t just walk around New York carrying an assault rifle with a 40 mm launcher on the bottom rail. This isn’t Baghdad, you dumb-ass.”
Stunned, Barton looked into the bag.
“You said heavy weapons. I figured you were looking to set up a fake buy, not arm yourself. Besides, this is all I had on two hour’s notice. Look, if you don’t want it, I can come back tomorrow, maybe by late afternoon. And next time be more specific. You can’t get what you want if you don’t ask for it. In fact, sometimes even if you do, even then problems crop up, issues, supply constraints…”
“I told you to bring me a nine millimeter Mac-10. Two of them, if you had them. How much more specific do I have to be?”
Kate tuned Barton out as he went on and on about the hardships of illegal gun running. An image of the blond man had flashed into her head. She froze. The image was powerful and she could see the surrounding area. Tribeca. He was walking the streets in the old meatpacking district.
The image faded as Barton’s babbling voice returned.
“…and that’s just here in America. You can’t imagine what it’s like overseas.” He stopped. “Are you even listening to me? What Kind of Fed ignores an informant when he’s spilling his guts out.”
“Time to go,” she said. “I’ll take both of them. You have any ammo for this monstrosity?”
“I do, but hold up,” Barton said. “I need some cabbage before I hand this stuff over. And to be honest, I’d like to know what you’re going to do with this? I don’t want to be part of anything weird here. You know, FBI agent goes postal or something.”
“Is that what you think this is?” she asked, wondering if he’d heard about her fugitive status.
So far the FBI had refrained from blasting it all over the national news, probably because they were embarrassed or confused and would rather capture her themselves than tell the whole world one of their own had gone rogue.
“I think… you’re undercover,” he managed.
“And what happens if my cover is blown?”
He thought for a minute. “My cover gets blown.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Word of my location gets out, I’m not going to bother having you arrested. I’m just going to let the wrong people know you're alive and where you can be found.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “I was never here. And neither were you.”
“Just leave the stuff and get out,” she said. “Your money’s in the drawer over there.”
As he went to the dresser Kate picked up the rifle, testing the weight. She held it firmly, with the butt pressed into her shoulder. “This will do nicely, actually. Good work, Barton.”
He looked up from counting the money and seemed to look right through her for a second. His face was a little white. “There’s more here than we agreed on.”
“Lucky for you,” she said. ”Now leave.”
He held up a hand and backed out the door, shutting it behind him. Kate sat and loaded the weapon. Tonight, she thought, tonight she would get her answers. Tonight she’d find out what the hell the blond man had done to her.
Chapter 12
The fluorescent lights flickered above Christian as he rode the B train downtown and the subway cars rumbled from station to empty station. The flickering made Christian think of himself and all the other members of the Fallen, caught between heaven, hell and the earthly domain. He lived in no-man’s land. He flashed in and out, just like the lights. And his life was one empty station after another for seventeen hundred years.
As the train pulled into another station and stopped, Christian noticed some graffiti written on the wall across the tracks. It was the title of a book, a biography about Jim Morrison. No One Here Gets Out Alive.
That statement was true as well, even for an immortal. Even he and Drake would have to meet their maker one day.
Christian turned his eyes from the window in an attempt to shut his brain off from the endless questions it kept asking. He controlled his breathing and cleared his mind trying to meditate, but the quieter his thoughts got the more one image kept coming back to him. It was the image of a woman filled with anger. The sensation reminded him of the brief glimpse he’d had into Anya’s soul.
Finally the train arrived at his stop, and here Christian felt the presence more acutely. He stepped from the subway car and glanced around. The platform was empty. The walkover that crossed the tracks to the other line was vacant. Not a soul could be seen at three in the morning, but Christian knew he wasn’t alone.
The doors shut behind him, and the train pulled away heading down the tube, on about its business, but the sensation did not leave. He wondered if Anya was stalking him, if her presence in Boston had been part of the trap. Certainly her warnings had made him feel strangely overconfident. If she wasn’t to be trusted, perhaps she was back here to finish the job.
He tried to stretch his mind. To feel the shape of the image the way one reaches around in a darkened room to find the walls. The truth came slowly. It wasn’t Anya. It was Kate.
He climbed the stairs quickly and stepped out into the night and turned to see her waiting for him. He could feel her anger, confusion, and loss.
“I can help you,” he said.
She stepped from the shadows carrying a military rifle with a grenade launcher attached. The rifle was locked and loaded. A laser sight illuminated his chest. “I’m not going to miss you this time.”
“You didn’t miss me last time,” he said. “In fact, you ruined one of my best shirts.”
“You think that’s funny?” she said stepping forward.
“No,” he replied. “But it was expensive.”
They stared at each other for a moment like alley cats meeting on a midsummer’s night, taking inventory of each other. Gauging each other’s condition.
“You’re troubled,” Christian said. “Let me help you.”
“And you’re wounded,” she replied. “Maybe I should finish you off.”
Obviously Kate had begun to discover some of her telekinetic powers.
“I am wounded,” he said. “Don’t be foolish enough to think it will stop me from taking you.”
“What did you do to me?” she yelled, her voice echoing down the alleyway.
“I’ll explain, but this is not the time or place.”
She pressed the rifle to her shoulder. “I say it is. Now tell me what you’ve done.”
He sighed with frustration. He would try to explain. But he knew it would only lead to more questions. “I did what you asked,” he replied. “I healed you. I can see that was a mistake. I should have let you die.”
“Is this some trick?” she asked. “What’s happening to me? Is it radiation? Poison?”
“No trick,” he said. “I told you there were darker things in this world than what you were after. To keep you from dying, I had to turn you into one of them.”
“One of what?”
H
e let a raft of images drift from his mind. Things he’d seen, places he’d been. She picked up his stream of consciousness.
“This isn’t possible,” she said, starting to shake with rage and confusion. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
“I’m sorry, but it is.”
Her eyes narrowed. Her voice firmed. Her grip on the rifle constricted. “I don’t believe you.”
“Then pull the trigger,” he said.
A part of her wanted to shoot; he could feel that. But she was conflicted. As she struggled with the anger he saw the truth. She was on the run and not interested in drawing attention to herself. For another, she was a soldier of law and order, not given to shooting people without absolute cause. But above all else, she was afraid. Afraid she’d kill him, but more afraid that she wouldn’t.
So he pressed her.
Aim for my heart.
The laser dot dropped to his exact center of mass.
Pull the trigger.
She shook her head.
Pull it!
Almost instantly she responded. The rifle cracked twice. The strange feeling of matter passing through his body took Christian’s breath away. Instantly, two clouds of dust exploded out of the brick wall behind him, but he stood, unmoved by the attack.
“Soon you’ll be like this,” he said. “You’ll appear to be alive, but it’ll be a deception. Your body is slowly dying. Your humanity is slipping away. Before long you’ll feel nothing except pain, then your transformation will be complete. You will be one of us. The undead. The Nosferatu. A demon of the night.”
“Turn me back!”
“I can’t.”
“Turn me back, I said!”
She was coming unglued as the truth hit. Her thoughts were jumping all over the place. Her son. Her mother. Her dead partner. The gate closed in her mind; the switch went off and she attacked.
He dove to the side as she opened up on full auto, blasting away at him, and trying to track him with the weapon. She was accurate, but he was way too fast. She couldn’t keep up. Across the street, vacant storefronts took the brunt of the assault as shop windows were blasted out and mannequins riddled with bullets.