Trapped.
The fairies suddenly lost all importance.
Bran backed away. The unnatural hound’s large paws were silent on the gravelly pavement as it crept toward him, its muzzle pulled back against canines. Sweat broke out in hot beads over Bran’s body, infusing him with wildfire.
The only thing he cared about was escape.
The dog boomed a bark, spraying saliva everywhere.
Manically, Bran ripped the area apart, looking for a weapon or escape. Two doors with steel screens were closed and locked, the windows nearby covered in bars. A dumpster pushed against a wall wafted its damp contents. Freed bricks, wet cardboard, and a scurrying rat were his only other options.
There was nowhere to go. It was over.
The beast knew it. Eyes burning like coals in the darkness, it took slow steps forward. It grinned its intentions, pointed ears twitching in eagerness.
Dread threatened to overwhelm Bran. Alone and without a weapon, it was only a matter of time before the huge demon creature rent him asunder. Rather than cower in fear, fierce anger as he had never known rose within him like a tidal wave. It swelled until it crested, setting him in motion.
He grabbed up the only items he found at all useful. Two broken bricks.
And waited for the beast to attack.
“Get away!” he screamed, brandishing the weapons.
“No,” it growled lowly.
“You speak?” Bran asked, surprise mingling with his fear.
“As thou do, child of man,” the creature mocked darkly.
“What do you want?”
“Thy death,” the creature salivated.
From a window ledge above, the fairies watched what transpired, goading the beast forward with squeaky voices and glee in their eyes.
“But why?!” Bran yelled, his heart pounding.
The animal stopped. The light in its eyes dimmed briefly before flaring anew.
“Because I must.”
“Come then,” Bran growled shakily, and raised his bricks like boxing gloves.
Ready for the coming battle, Bran’s heart froze in his chest when a new shadow entered the alley behind the hound.
“Not. Another. Step!” a man’s voice thundered.
Eyes narrowing, the canine spun, ears flat against its head.
“Knight shyte,” it snarled. “I know thee, thy stench.”
The man stepped deeper into the alley, unafraid, his hands balled into fists, his clothes ragged. He appeared the same as the last time Bran had seen him. Richard. The Old World Tales visitor from the previous night.
“Help me!” Bran shrieked.
Richard said nothing. The man was wholly fixed on the dog.
“Why protect him?” it whined. “He is nothing.”
“He is innocent, cu sith,” Richard said. “You are not.”
“Thou knowest nothing,” the dog growled low.
“The fairies above have twisted you to their will, cu sith,” Richard shot back. “And you will not attack this boy nor survive to try.”
A spark of hope entered Bran, although how a homeless man planned to defeat such an obvious threat, he didn’t know.
The barrel-chested dog gave its enemy a final glance.
Then leapt at Bran.
Bran barely had time to bring his bricks to bear.
Before the hound could reach him, a powerful burst of blue light pummeled into the thing’s hindquarters mid-jump, sending the beast reeling against the wall. Bricks and mortar broke free from the impact. Bran shrunk from blast. The green foe yelped shock and pain as it tumbled to the wet pavement, its fur disheveled and eyes surprised.
It was slow to regain its paws.
Bran pressed up against the rear alley wall, breathing hard. Richard stood on the other side of the animal, a flaming sapphire sword in his right hand. His eyes burned with conviction, fixated on the struggling animal. With the fairies raucously cursing from above and shaking their wings in fury, Richard charged and brought his weapon up, driving its blade at the struggling dog, his ferocious intent unmistakable.
The canine jumped aside the last moment.
The sword cut into the wall as if it were made of paper.
With dexterity that belied any injury done to it, the dog jumped at Richard. It raged against the blue fire that accosted it, the smell of burnt hair filling the alleyway as it fought to reach the homeless man. Gritting his teeth, Richard backed away before the assault, the snapping jaws and massive paws of the cu sith returning the fight. Bran could barely see Richard, the man lost in a swirl of sapphire. The two continued to tear at each other, one with protective fire and the other, quick and shredding teeth. The time for words had passed.
The victor would be left alive and the other dead.
Bran wanted no part in it and awaited his chance at freedom. As the minutes wore on, the dog appeared to be failing. Both hind limbs limped as it circled its foe. The man followed the hound’s movements, steady in his steps, poised to take the advantage. Whatever damage had been done to him Richard did not show it. He was as indomitable as a mountain, moving fluidly, the muscles of his neck, shoulders, and arms corded knots. No growls emanated from the two enemies; with the exception of the angry chittering from the fairies above, the world had gone still.
Weakened and harried, the green beast leapt at Richard.
Richard moved like silk.
He stepped to the side with nimble ease—and rammed the blade of his flaming sword through the side of the hound’s chest.
The dog gave a weak yelp as it landed limply on the ground.
It didn’t move.
Richard did not stop. In one fluid motion he raised the sword above his head, hilt first, and brought it down with pure vehemence. The blade hammered through the neck of the canine and continued into the asphault of the Bricks like a knife through warm butter. Blood and gore spurted, sizzling from the heat.
His arms splattered with crimson, Richard straightened, breathing hard.
“Who are yo—”
Before Bran could finish question, Richard sent the fire of his weapon skyward.
The fairies tried to leap away. They were too slow. Screaming rage, they erupted into ash that sifted down like snowflakes.
The sword disappeared.
Richard and the carcass were all that remained.
“Bran,” Richard said flatly.
“Who the hell are you?!” Bran questioned, suddenly angry.
The rail-thin man walked toward him, his haunted eyes growing darker with each step, his lips a severe line. Even in the darkness Bran could see Richard was tired. With pale skin and shaggy hair, the homeless man barely looked alive, a walking zombie.
“I am no one to worry about.”
“No, seriously,” Bran pushed. “Who the hell are you and what was that thing?”
“It was a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“Yes, thank you,” Richard scoffed. “No more, at least.” He peered down at the dead body of the cu sith. “The cu sith got lucky once. Not tonight though.”
“What were those things?” Bran reiterated, pointing where the fairies had been. “And that dog thing?”
“That is none of your business.”
“The hell it ain’t,” Bran hissed, still fueled with adrenaline. “I want answers!”
“Answers, huh?” Richard mocked. He offered his hand. “Leave the Bricks, boy. Get your things and get out of that store. You are safe, for tonight. But not from Merle.”
An unidentified chill swept through Bran. Merle’s visitor smiled in assurance but there was no warmth in it, the offered handshake a mechanical act. Bran sensed danger in touching the man’s hand. He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.
Bran rebuffed the hand.
“Why shouldn’t I trust Merle?” he said instead.
“Don’t come back down here—at night at least,” the disheveled man said, ignoring Bran’s rejection and turning to leave. “Mark my wor
ds. Stay away from that old man. He is nothing but trouble.”
“Hey! Wait!” Bran shouted.
“Go back to your street friends,” Richard said over his shoulder as he left the alley. “They are safer than Merle ever will be.”
Leaving the dead cu sith behind, Bran chased after. “Stop, you assho…”
But out on the sidewalk, Richard had vanished.
Still leery of the night around him, Bran hurried the last few blocks to the bookstore. He didn’t know what to think. Creatures that looked like fairies had attacked him. A giant green dog had spoken to him and then tried to kill him.
Either he had been drugged or it had really happened.
And Richard, a friend of Merle, possessed a sword that became vapor at will.
While unlocking the door, Bran peered through the night back the way he had come, angry at the fear still rushing through his veins and his inability to uncover what had truly happened.
For an instant, he thought he saw a flash of brilliant azure light.
Then darkness fell once more.
Cardinal Cormac Pell O’Connor sat in the warm glow of several lamps and placed the phone receiver back onto its cradle.
He was not pleased.
Through the arched window, the silver light of the pregnant moon bathed the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica and its neighboring Vatican buildings in frosty relief against a sky of diamond chips. Rome had a peaceful majesty at night that transcended its hectic daytime hours. It was rare for the Cardinal to watch the sleeping city with nothing but the tranquil view—he tended to retire early and, as so many others, rose with the sun—but it was rarer still to sleep within his Vatican City apartment and be awakened by a phone call made half a world away with such dire complications to his life.
Cormac sensed turbulent days ahead.
Picking up the receiver again, he dialed four numbers into the old phone. The click of connecting lines followed by a loud squeal met his ear.
He sighed and hung up once more.
The Cardinal leaned back in his chair, waiting and thinking, the simple red robe he had thrown on a smear like drying blood in the window’s mirrored image. Rome glimmered outside but his superimposed ghost image stared back, face carved deep with wrinkles and hawkish blue eyes surrounded by heavy bags of darkness. The man within the glass looked haggard. He barely recognized his own reflection anymore, his disheveled red hair whitening, the apparition exuding weariness and grown older than he could account for.
But a fire still blazed in his heart despite the early hour, a driving need to fulfill his duty.
There just never seemed to be enough time.
Cormac turned away from the aging man, thinking how best to counter the information he now possessed. The call from the archbishop watching over the Seattle portal disturbed him; it forced his hand in a way with which he was not entirely comfortable.
The consequences of his decision could undo him and the power he had spent a lifetime acquiring.
The possible dominion likely gained though made it worth it.
While waiting for his summons to be answered, he picked up a framed photo that sat at the corner of his desk. Black and white, it displayed a smiling middle-aged man bearing a striking resemblance to Cormac, his arms wrapped around the shoulders of a woman and a girl in her teenage years. In front of the trio stood a grinning boy, his hair chaotic.
The background desert met the horizon and nothing else.
The Cardinal smiled sadly, remembering. The Middle East had been a harsh climate filled with a hardened people; Cormac had been a boy on the adventure of a lifetime, bringing the Word to new regions around the world.
The Cardinal Vicar of the Vatican barely remembered that boy.
The day to come would be like all others—filled with a mass, multiple meetings with delegates from around the world, and writing letters of import for the Church and its denizens. The Cardinal Vicar oversaw the daily spiritual operations of the diocese of Rome, a position once held by the Pope before his duties expanded to encompass the wellbeing of the greater Catholic world. Cormac was one of the youngest Cardinal Vicars in the history of the Church, and at fifty-eight years of age, he still had several decades to bring light to the darkest places.
After twenty minutes, a sharp knock came at his office door.
Cormac straightened, letting the full authority of his mantle settle back on his shoulders before clearing his throat.
“Enter please.”
The door opened and a tall man with short blonde hair strode into the room. Unlike the Vatican Swiss Guards he commanded, Finn Arne wore black pants with matching thick sweater devoid of symbols. The dead orb of his left eye peered at the Cardinal like a phantom moon. No evidence of disrupted sleep touched him. He was a captain with daily duties similar to all Swiss Guard but like the Vicar, Finn Arne had secret functions he carried out.
“Captain Arne,” Cormac greeted.
The visitor inclined his head and sat in one of the offered chairs. “Your Eminence.”
“It is early,” the Cardinal said. “I apologize for waking you.”
“The Lord knows neither sun nor moon,” Finn said, his accent shadowed by Germanic. “How may I best serve you, Cardinal Vicar?”
“I have received a disheartening phone call.”
“From?”
“Seattle, Washington, in the United States.” Cormac folded his hands within the sleeves of his robe. “There has been a breach of the portal there.”
Finn frowned. “You seem rather unworried.”
“It was contained. The knight did his duty.”
“I see,” Finn said, smiling. “Then what has stolen me from my warm bed?”
In his many years serving the Church, Cormac had never met a more bold and coldly calculating man than Finn Arne. He was the best trained of hundreds of Swiss Guards who protected the Pope. He had a predisposition to moral flexibility, making him a useful tool. His appetite for young women every night took him, however, down an unholy path Cormac had a hard time overlooking. Finn knew this but made no apology for it.
Cormac knew the captain’s warm bed had a warmer female body still in it.
“The attacked is the son of Ardall,” Cormac replied instead.
The smile dropped from Finn’s mouth.
“Do I have your attention now?” Cormac questioned, gratified at the captain’s change.
Finn Arne sat straighter. “Does His Eminence know?”
“The Pope has other pressing matters to contend with. It is best he know nothing of this—at least, not until it is finished.”
“And the others?” Finn Arne asked.
Cormac thought about the Vigilo. The other Cardinals were all devout and strong, entrusted with most Vatican secrets. The Pope led the Vigilo but the Vicar was its true leader. It oversaw the portals, prepared for any attempt by those on the other side to return from Annwn. The Church led the Yn Saith knights as best it could despite the machinations of the old wizard, but over the centuries the Vigilo had lost much of its power. Cormac breathed deep. Beyond this new situation there was an opportunity to gain a power the Church had had only once in its long past.
Including the other Cardinals could disrupt what chance Cormac had of gaining that power.
Finn Arne would know the truth, as would the Seer.
That would be it.
Cormac returned the man’s icy stare. “You alone will know of this.”
“The portal here is safe?”
“It is. Cardinal Seer Ramirez and Ennio Rossi protect it. If it were not safe, I would know.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Bring young Ardall here,” Cormac ordered. “This must be done discreetly and quickly.”
“How did you learn of this? Certainly not from McAllister.”
“From a spy in the employ of Archbishop Glenallen at my behest. I have had a certain bookstore in Seattle watched for some time now. Even if the old man avoids capture i
n one of his places of business, the Vigilo knows what transpires there,” the Cardinal said. “I have spies in all places, Captain. Never forget that.”
“Did the knight remove—”
“The boy’s memory? No, he did not,” Cormac grunted. “There is more going on here than what lies on the surface.”
“What of McAllister, should I encounter him?”
Cormac fought the distaste in his mouth. Richard McAllister. He was one of the older knights, a man whose past haunted him. While Cormac knew that past to be a hard one, the knight had lost the capacity to rise above it, for the role he was asked to play. He was an infected wound the Church could not afford to turn gangrenous.
“He should pose no threat. Of the seven Yn Saith, he is the weakest. I doubt he has the constitution to challenge you or your men. Leave him be. His time of reckoning is coming.”
“Then I will fly at once.” Finn Arne pushed away from his chair.
“Sit down, Finn,” Cormac commanded sharply.
The captain lowered back into his chair, his dead eye an agate in a harsh face.
“Be wary, Captain,” the Cardinal said. “Don’t run back to your warm bed too quickly. There are other forces along the Seattle waterfront you should be reminded of. The Kreche still lives and the old wizard is adept at calling on aid from all quarters.”
“The Kreche…” Finn Arne scowled.
“It lives longer than most halfbreeds, nigh on ninety years now,” Cormac reiterated. “It is not a factor to be taken lightly, Captain Arne, especially if Myrddin Emrys is pressed into a fight.”
“I will be cautious, Your Grace.”
“One more thing,” the Cardinal said, leaning forward. “The Ardall boy may have a seed of some kind on his person. It will be unlike anything you have seen before. Search his home, search his person. Search anywhere you think it could be and bring it to me unchanged.”
“You believe the old man has plans for the boy then.”
The Dark Thorn Page 4