Twice more he had to waste precious minutes avoiding guards by stepping off the gauntlet of twisted pathways and into the undergrowth. The cemetery was enormous, and Grey cursed his maimed left leg and the man who had damaged it. It had to be close to midnight. He felt as if Viktor’s life were an hourglass in Grey’s hands, each second whisking away the remaining grains of sand.
He kept going until he saw a strange sight: an arched entranceway set into a high stone wall, next to a pair of obelisks disappearing into the gloom above. Ornate pillars flanked both sides of the entrance, and the iron gate had been left ajar. Grey couldn’t see what lay on the other side of the archway, but he could hear the faint murmur of voices coming from the other end of what Grey assumed was a tunnel.
He moved forward. Just before the archway he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, from the top of the wall. Grey spun to the right, but a tornado of pain erupted along his left arm, and he saw the hilt of a knife sticking out of his arm below the shoulder. If he had not moved at the last second, it would have struck his heart.
Grey dove into the undergrowth, yanking out the knife as he rolled. It wasn’t lodged into bone, but it had torn into the muscle, and deep shudders of agony rolled through him. He could hear his assailant jumping off the wall, and Grey willed his mind clear, knowing if he let the pain affect him he wouldn’t live through the next minute. He might not anyway, since he had dropped the gun when the knife struck him.
He scrambled to his feet and saw Dante stalking him from ten feet away, searching for an opening to throw another knife he was balancing in his hand. Grey moved like a mix between a boxer and a cat, stalking forward to close the distance, bobbing and weaving to give Dante a moving target. Both knew that if Dante threw the knife and missed, or struck a glancing blow, then Grey would have a temporary advantage. As Grey drew closer Dante shifted his body from a throwing posture to an infighting stance and withdrew another knife. He held both knives in front of his body, weaving them through empty air as Grey closed the final few feet.
If Grey were healthy, Dante’s knives would not have bothered him. Knives were an excellent choice of weapon for hand-to-hand combat, but for a jujitsu master, nothing equaled the versatility of a pair of human hands. From close range they could execute multiple strikes, manipulate and break digits and limbs, block and strip a knife or gun, stop a forward thrust at the wrist and continue on to scrape out an eye.
But Grey’s wounds were serious, his ability to fight gravely compromised. He now had a useless leg and arm, and against an expert knife fighter like Dante, those two injuries would likely be his death knell.
As the gap between them closed to nothing, Dante grinned beneath the macabre tattoo. He knew of Grey’s injuries, because he had inflicted them. And Grey knew that unless he somehow disarmed one of Dante’s knives on the first clash, Dante would strike a fatal blow, and there would be no second round.
Dealing with two knives, especially from a trained wielder, centered on a strategy called defanging the snake: executing a well-placed strike that would either send the first weapon flying or immobilize the striking hand, quick enough to then deal with the second knife. The moves were extremely difficult to execute, requiring years of practice as well as perfect timing.
And they required two hands.
Grey would have one shot, and he didn’t think it was enough. Dante came in with the first thrust, a diagonal overhand slash, and Grey could tell from tracking his movements that a second thrust from the other knife was on the way. Grey couldn’t block both knives, and if he turned or retreated he was finished.
Grey had no other options, so he utilized the first principle of jujitsu.
Cheat.
As the first knife swooped downward, Grey spit in Dante’s face. Dante flinched, slowing him down a fraction, allowing Grey to slip to the side of the first knife. The second knife was already on the way, and Grey knew he couldn’t avoid the strike. So he took it.
Defanging the snake entailed striking with both hands on opposite sides of the attacker’s hand, crushing bones and sending the weapon flying. Since Grey had only one hand, he used his body instead, taking the knife with his injured shoulder.
The pain from Dante’s strike almost ended the fight, but adrenaline and sheer force of will carried Grey through. He didn’t waste time or words. He yanked the knife out of his shoulder and whipped it at Dante’s face. It struck a glancing blow, but caused Dante to flinch again as Grey closed the gap. Dante recovered in time to execute a forward thrust at Grey’s stomach, but his move was done in haste, and Grey again slipped to the side of the thrust, this time catching the wrist with his good hand. Had he had both hands free, the fight would have ended with Grey snapping Dante’s extended elbow. Instead, he gripped Dante’s wrist with the force of desperation, and took Dante to the one place Grey knew he didn’t want to go.
Dante was a knife fighter, not a ground warrior. Grey executed a simple foot sweep and dragged him to the ground, keeping the hold on the wrist.
They ended up facing each other, side by side. Dante abandoned the knife in his trapped hand and reached into his overcoat. Grey saw a flash of silver, and he lunged to head butt Dante in the eye, thrusting with his hips as hard as he could. He heard the crack of bone, and Grey head butted him three more times in the face, at the same time moving his knee up to pin Dante’s free arm to the ground, the one that had been reaching for the weapon.
Grey moved his other knee upward, now sitting astride Dante’s chest and pinning his arms. Looking at Dante’s destroyed face, Grey knew he had crushed the orbital bone structure around the eyes, broken his nose, sliced him up with his own piercings, and knocked him senseless. With a reserve of will that impressed Grey, Dante freed one hand enough to extract yet another knife, going for Grey’s injured thigh, but Grey caught his wrist, prying the pinkie loose and bending it backwards until he heard the crackle of snapping phalanges. Grey took the knife off the ground, trapped the arm again with his knee, and held the knife to Dante’s throat.
Dante whispered between flat and hardened lips, his face a balloon of blood and swelling. “Maintenant.”
Grey wanted to take his time, to smash his bones and break his spirit, to leave him drowning in a lake of blood. He wanted to inflict the same pain on Dante that Dante had inflicted on Grey and countless others, many of them helpless innocents. But he knew it was not lack of pain or feeling that had made Dante who he was, but an abundance thereof. He also knew that to cross that narrowest of lines was to erode the distance between them.
He flipped the knife, twisted and drove it through the center of Dante’s right foot. Dante jolted as if he were having a seizure, and Grey reversed the weapon and struck Dante in the temple, watching as his eyes dimmed and his face sagged against the earth. The wound to the foot was insurance in case Dante woke up too soon.
Plus a little bit of payback.
A cell phone had slipped out of Dante’s pocket, lying next to Grey on the ground. Grey swooped it up and checked the time.
Midnight.
Grey lurched to his feet, dragging his crippled body towards the archway, blood seeping through his bandages and pouring from the new knife wounds on his arm. Three steps later he swooned and collapsed in a heap, his body depleted from loss of blood.
Someone kicked the back of Viktor’s legs and pulled down on his shoulders. He fell to his knees. A noose was placed around his neck and tightened. Viktor looked up, following the length of rope to the branch of the giant cedar tree that stood on the mound.
The same tree Eve had used.
The rope had been looped over the branch, and three men behind Viktor held the other end. “Stand him up,” Darius ordered.
They pulled on the rope and Viktor was dragged to his feet, the rough fibers cutting into his neck. As his feet left the ground, he felt an immense pressure constricting his windpipe, stealing his air.
Darius signaled by putting a hand out, and the men eased th
e pressure, allowing Viktor’s toes to touch the ground. “She died alone in this place,” Darius said. “Can you imagine? Walking in here at night, alone with the spirits that roam these grounds, driven here by Him, climbing this tree and looping a rope around this branch, casting herself into darkness with no one to bear witness.”
“She was driven here by her madness.”
Darius stepped closer. “No, Viktor,” he said softly. “She was not.”
“What is it you have planned for the pope?” Viktor said. “What’s the all-powerful secret?”
“Rome will fall regardless of what happens to that silly man. Do you understand what’s happening? Everyone longs for change, for something real, for something that speaks to their true needs and wants. They flock to me.”
“They’re flocking to a house of lies,” Viktor said. “You’re the flavor of the week.”
Darius eyed a watch poking out from the sleeve of his robe, then waved his hand. “Bring her!”
From somewhere behind Viktor a man came towards them, dragging a young woman behind him. She was dressed in a white robe similar to Viktor’s. When she turned Viktor’s way he saw a mass of striking blond hair and gasped. It was, of course, not Eve, but the woman bore more resemblance to the girl he had once loved than anyone he had ever seen.
Darius addressed her. “Caught searching the temple like a rat digging through garbage. Most unbecoming, my dear.”
She tried without success to wriggle free of her captor’s arms. “Let me go.”
“I’d prefer you by my side,” Darius said, “alive and willing, rather than burning alive as you hang beside Viktor. But so be it. I do admit the scenario has a certain symmetry.”
She took a step back, and the man holding her tightened his grip. “You wouldn’t,” she said.
“You betrayed me, love, and in my religion betrayal has consequences.”
She shrank into her captor, and Viktor forced himself to peel his eyes away from this beautiful creature, this doppelgänger of his lost love. He laughed at Darius, pouring scorn into his voice. “So you’re trying to conquer the world because you can’t conquer love? Eve denies you now, as she did then.”
Darius stared at the woman as he spoke. “Not even the Creator can force love.”
“Let her go, Darius,” Viktor said.
“You think she’s an innocent? If you knew the deeds she had done, you’d kill her yourself.” He stepped to Viktor, inches from his face, close enough for Viktor to catch his musky scent and observe the smoothness of his face. “You do understand you’re going to burn before you hang? They say it’s the worst way to die, painful beyond imagining. You’ll beg for your neck to snap.”
Viktor’s lips curled upward. “Will I? Do you remember what I told you, that I had a secret for you?”
“There’s one last thing I want you to see before you die,” Darius said. “Perhaps we’ll make a man of faith of you at last, a thief on the cross.” Darius extended a robed arm to Viktor, the sleeve falling away from his manicured hand. “Touch my hand.”
The men holding the rope eased the pressure by a fraction, and Viktor’s heels touched the ground. He looked at the hand Darius had extended, palm downturned, fingers limp, as if he were an emperor waiting for a sign of allegiance. Viktor looked Darius in the eye and grabbed his hand. He felt the smooth skin merge with his own, then the hand, and the man it belonged to, simply ceased to be.
Viktor found himself looking at nothing but air.
The woman beside him gasped, and a murmur of awe rippled through the crowd. A voice called to Viktor from the darkness to his left. He swiveled his head and saw Darius sitting cross-legged atop one of the tombs.
“How’s your faith now, Viktor?” Darius said. “Any improvements?”
He disappeared again, reappearing a foot from the cedar tree. He placed a hand on the tree, bowed his head, and whispered something Viktor couldn’t hear. Then he approached Viktor and stood in front of him. “Shall we continue? I’ll give you this, you maintain your composure well. After what you’ve witnessed, you should be groveling at my feet to spare your life and teach you my secrets.”
Viktor ignored what he had just seen, forced away the thought of burning alive, and corralled his will into a hardened shell, coating his words with conviction. “That’s because I know something you don’t.”
“Let me assure you there’s nothing you could possibly know or say that can save you now,” Darius said.
“Your pride was always your Achilles’ heel,” Viktor said. “Why didn’t you kill the priest in Sicily? We both know why: You left him to bear witness to what you had done. You wanted to see me lie prostrate before you in awe, and you still do. As they say, pride goeth before the fall.”
Darius lifted his arms, and Viktor raised his voice. “Go ahead, Darius. Burn me. Everyone’s here. Everyone’s watching. Let’s see these great powers you possess. But know this: Your time is done. Ahriman favors me now, and you’re second-best once again.” Viktor grasped the rosary at his neck. “Don’t you recognize this?”
Darius stepped closer and squinted. “That dying fool’s trinket?”
“Father Angelo read the grimoire,” Viktor said. “He transcribed another copy.”
“That’s forbidden.”
“It’s forbidden to followers of Ahriman,” Viktor said. “Father Angelo memorized the grimoire to learn how to fight you should the time come, but I used it for a different reason. Ahriman did make a believer of me, you know. Once long ago, and again in Gareth’s chamber.” Viktor pressed his face forward, the veins in his neck bulging. “I know what you’ve done for Ahriman, the consumptions you made. I’ve made them, too. I also know there can be but one disciple of the grimoire, and my will was always the stronger. Ahriman knows this. Why would He have you, when He can have me?”
“You’re desperate,” Darius said.
“Burn me, then, and we shall see who has His favor.”
Viktor bellowed a phrase in Old Persian, and Darius’s eyes widened. His handsome features contorted into a snarl, and he whipped his hands at Viktor. “Then burn!”
A huge flame sparked from Darius’s outstretched hands, leaping to Viktor’s robe. The flame sizzled and died, and another ripple of sound came from the crowd, this time one of confusion. Darius’s face turned from rage to disbelief. “That’s not possible.” He flung his hands at Viktor a second and third time, each time the flame sparking but failing to ignite.
Viktor raised his arms and shouted, “Behold the power of Ahriman!”
The murmuring in the crowd swelled, and Viktor saw Darius close his eyes and then open them. Nothing happened.
“It can’t be,” Darius whispered.
Viktor gathered his will again, producing the most chilling smile he had ever mustered. “Your time with Ahriman is done.”
Darius’s scream shattered the silence of the stunned crowd. “Pull the rope! Hang him! Hang him!”
Viktor was jerked off his feet. He tried to work his fingers beneath the heavy rope to relieve the tension, but it was too tight, snapping his head backwards and blocking his air. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, and he forced himself not to flail his limbs, knowing that would only hasten his demise.
Darius walked underneath him. “Save yourself, then. If you’re the favored one, save yourself.”
The pressure on his neck was immense, and Viktor already felt light-headed. His eyes roved the cemetery in desperation. He had played his last card, and played it well, but the set, and the match, were going to Darius.
Viktor saw the light of confidence appear once again in Darius’s eyes, and Viktor felt his last hope slipping away. It was appropriate, he thought, that he should die in this place, at Eve’s side. He could think of no place better.
Viktor kicked his legs, praying the rope would snap or the tree limb would break. His movements only tightened the noose. He gurgled and choked as the oxygen seeped out of his body, and the conscious world began slipping awa
y.
Darius’s eyes regained their brightness, his face returned to that of a messiah. He raised his arms and then pitched forward, his back arching as he fell. Viktor saw the hilt of a knife protruding from between his shoulder blades.
Darius screamed again, this time in agony. He managed to rise to his elbows, his shrieks punctuating the moans of the crowd. With a final reserve of will, Viktor lifted his eyes to where the knife must have originated, and saw Grey atop the wall above the circle of crypts. As Viktor watched, Grey swayed and pitched forward, falling to the path below. He didn’t get back up.
Viktor yanked on the rope, a final desperate act, but the rope held tight as the last ounce of air left Viktor’s lungs.
Grey spat dirt, struggling to retain consciousness as colored spots swarmed his vision. He tried to push to his elbows and failed, his movements as feeble as a baby bird’s. A cold sweat slicked his palms.
For a moment his vision cleared, and he saw Viktor hanging from the tree, convulsing at the end of the rope. Grey made another futile attempt to rise, then tried to croak out a plea for someone to help Viktor. No sound left his throat, and he could only watch in despair.
He saw Darius pulling himself along the ground as if he couldn’t move his legs, he saw people whirling in confusion, he heard sirens and megaphones. The sirens and megaphones surprised him, and for a second he thought he was hearing trumpets at the gates of heaven. Then he saw a squadron of policemen rushing through the cemetery, towards the circle of tombs.
At the vanguard of the police force a man in a full-length wool coat was pointing at Viktor and shouting. Now Grey knew he was having a deathbed vision, because the man looked exactly like the assassin in the photo Viktor had texted Grey, the man who had pursued Viktor across the globe.
Grey felt utterly drained of energy, aching for water as if he had just crossed the Sahara on foot. He knew his dehydration was a very bad sign. He had lost far too much blood. With a torpid gathering of his will he focused on the scene atop the mound above him, watching his friend swaying back and forth under the tree branch, his fingers clinging to the rope around his neck, his face completely white.
The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) Page 34