She walked over, turned his head so he could see the sacrificial victims, and said calmly, “The Bible says, ‘For judgment is without mercy to one who has shown no mercy.’”
Then she stood up and said to Steve, “I do hope that you’re not having any moral qualms about eliminating these bastards.”
Steve just shook his head, unable to speak, and then both of them turned to watch Carlos. It was clear that his monster persona wasn’t conflicted by the slightest reluctance to kill. Steve wondered how much this differed from his drug lord persona. In the end, the cadejo turned and used his rear feet to kick what was left of the two men in an arc that passed above the torches and the horrible central bowl and smashed into the opposite wall. His eyes still gleamed with rage, but he shook his head as if to clear it, stamped his hoofs in a vain attempt to clean them, and walked to where Steve and Ace were standing.
Send Money vibrated. When Steve pulled him out of his pocket, he could see a single symbol on the screen.
義.
As he watched, it changed.
JUSTICE
Barnaby’s voice came from the speaker. “It probably is justice, my little Chinese friend, but remember what a great American once said: ‘It is hard to tell where justice leaves off and vengeance begins.’”
“A great American?” Steve said. “Who?”
“Chuck Jones, the man who did all the Bugs Bunny cartoons,” Barnaby said. “Now, let’s see if we can find out what this was all about. Steve, Ace did a superb job as bad cop; could you play good cop?”
Steve went over and knelt by the man who was still groaning and writhing in pain. Steve had a suspicion that the man had already realized that his injuries might not be fatal. There was just a bit too much drama in his anguish.
Steve brought the Fool card to the forefront of his mind. Once again, the pack had changed and this image was of a tall man with some sort of rattle playing gently with two children. Steve concentrated on the object in the Fool’s hand and decided it was a toy, a source of soothing comfort. He Studied the object and felt the familiar pain rip down his arm and deep into the pit of his stomach.
When he’d caught his breath, he placed his hands on the acolyte, a golden glow spread like a thick liquid, strongly reminding Steve of maple syrup on pancakes. The man’s agony seemed to recede and his eyes locked on Steve as the spell spread to his legs.
“Feel better?” Steve asked.
The relaxation of the man’s facial muscles indicated that he did, but he remained silent.
“Thought that might help. I’d give you a cigarette if I had one. Seems traditional.”
The man looked disappointed.
“Yeah, I guess if you’ve been alive since tobacco came to Europe, all of today’s frenzy about no smoking must seem silly. Let’s just try to make the best of it, OK?” Steve took a deep breath and forced a smile. “You know, I can tell that you weren’t one of the ringleaders of all this. You’re just not that evil; I can see it in your eyes.”
Steve carefully pulled the robe aside and placed his hands on the man’s bare chest. “Your heart is untainted as well.” In fact, Steve was picking up a small thread and then a flooding wash of the acolyte’s thoughts–a dreadful unfolding of this twisted and vengeful little man’s centuries of petty crimes, reprisals for perceived slights, and knives slipped between ribs in the dark of night. It was like biting into an apple and finding not one worm but hundreds spilling out of the center.
Steve bit his lip to help hide his revulsion. “So, what were your bosses doing here? They forced you to participate; I can tell. Tell me about it and I’ll make sure you’re treated like a hero when they’re finally caught.”
In the noisome miasma of thought that was now flowing into him at full force, Steve could feel a furtive slyness as the man sensed a chance for survival.
“Let’s start with something easy.” Steve took a deep breath and began. “What’s your name?”
In a soft voice, the man answered. “Frank Zwack.”
“‘Zwack’?” Steve chuckled. “My, you must have had a hard time in school with that name.”
Aristocratic fury swept through Zwack’s mind. “Oh, it was von Zwack, was it?” Steve thought. “Well, I can use that.”
“You’re German, right?” he asked. “Too bad you couldn’t have gotten one of the cool names: ‘Von Zwack’ would have sounded so much better. Although I’ll bet a nobleman would have been ‘zwacked’ after the Nazis lost–hell, some GI would have shot him by accident while he was falling all over himself with laughter.”
Now, raw fury filled the prisoner’s mind. Perfect.
“So, I’m sure you’re not to blame for all this. No, don’t worry; I can’t read your mind. I can feel it in your heart.” He could feel how the surge of panic was quickly supplanted by a sneering sense of superiority. “What were they trying to do? I mean, you guys made a mess here. Now, my friends got all excited about that but I know all about eggs and omelets. None of those people on the floor look like they’ll be missed.”
He had to fight down another surge of nausea. When he’d glanced over at the carnage–trying to be casual–he’d seen the face of a little girl. Terror had been carved so terribly deep into that tiny face.
His face was calm, even slightly amused when he turned back. “Hah,” he thought. “It’s just like interviewing a banker or a Congressman. Just keep him believing you’re buying his bullshit.”
The second the word passed Zwack’s lips, his entire face crumpled in pain, and he began to convulse violently. Steve felt agony surge up his arms–as if he’d just plunged his hands in acid– and he jerked away.
“I think Herr Franz Xaver von Zwack has nothing more to say. The aspect of the Chariot has been passed to another.”
Adam Weishaupt was leaning against the wooden doorjamb. No one had noticed the door reopen after Ace had closed it with such finality. Steve’s eyes were drawn to his right hand–it had the pink and soft skin of a newborn, but it was there.
“Oh, you like my new hand?” Weishaupt held it up in front of his face and rotated it, obviously pleased by Steve’s surprise. “When you’re an immortal, either you learn how to make the odd repair from time to time or you end up walking around in a body made of wood and plastic. I know that an enlightened soul shouldn’t be concerned with such things, but I do like to look my best.”
Zwack gave a final violent spasm and was still. Weishaupt continued. “Of course, there are some things that none of us can really go without. Air is one of the vital essences, and I’m afraid Herr von Zwack has used up his ration. I will miss him.”
Ace pulled the sword from her belt and began to advance. Weishaupt appeared momentarily curious. “My dear Ms. Morningstar. I see you have acquired le Glaive sacré de la Libératrice. We lost track of it about a century ago and I believed the replacement was just a piece of earthly metal–used in a vain, almost unforgiveable, attempt to imitate a weapon forged by primordial gods in the depths of time.”
“Wrong,” Ace said. “Again.”
“Ah. Then I can’t allow you to come much closer. I’ve heard that you’ve been developing magical talents in clear violation of the new laws of nature. We thought that would be impossible for anyone who hadn’t made preparations to protect their powers during the Dies Regis Draco.”
“Again. Wrong.”
Steve and Carlos, still in his cadejo form, were slowly closing in behind Ace, but both were still a good six feet to her right. Weishaupt made an abrupt chopping gesture and the wooden door next to him shattered into a hundred needle-sharp pieces. They hung in the air and slowly revolved to point at Ace.
“As much enjoyment as I get from sparring verbally with the Ace of Swords, I’m afraid that, as the next Emperor, I can’t afford to waste any more time. So, in one of my last acts as the Ace of Wands…”
There was an orange flash as the wooden shards leaped towards Ace and burst into flame. Steve only had a second to react. He knew that th
ere was no way even Ace could block that many, that fast. With a desperate effort, he created a shield bubble around her and attempted to expand it to cover all of them, but there just wasn’t enough time. He felt a hammer blow to his chest and a searing pain in his arm.
Something was wrong. Something missing. He stood swaying for a moment and then realized that it was his heartbeat. As he fell, he was slightly bemused by the thought that he never noticed it beating until it stopped.
Then his head snapped against the stone floor and black mushroomed through him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Wham!
Someone punched him in the chest.
Wham! Again.
Steve considered whether to complain about this mistreatment but decided it was simply too much effort.
Another blow.
This was really unfair; you simply didn’t kick a man when he was down. “I’ve been in more than my share of bar fights,” Steve thought indignantly. “There are rules.”
Wham!
OK, that was it. Steve said, “You know, that’s not fair. Hitting a man when he’s down, I mean.”
There was a stunned silence. He opened his eyes to see Ace leaning over him. It was interesting to see how her face went from intense concentration to deep relief with perhaps a hint of affection and then back to her usual irritated impassivity in a matter of seconds. Steve thought he’d have to watch her more closely in the future.
“You asshole!” she said.
“Me?” Steve was genuinely surprised. “What did I do?”
“You know damn well what you did.”
“No.” He started to shake his head, but pain shot up his neck and he settled for his most sincere look of denial. “I really have no memory of doing anything unusual at all. We just walked into the place under Meridian Hill, didn’t we?”
“Nope. We’ve been in here for about thirty minutes, found a ritual sacrifice, and had a chat with Joe Illuminati himself. Any of that sound familiar?”
Steve tried to put his hand up to rub his aching head. That effort resulted in a flare of pain in his arm, so he decided that a calm, perhaps not quite serene but definitely motionless, approach was in order. “Well, now that you mention it, I guess some of those things did happen. But I still don’t see how any of them makes me an asshole.”
“You saved my life,” Ace said. “You asshole.”
For a moment, Steve couldn’t even speak. Then he sputtered. “Wait a minute; I don’t save your life. You save mine. We have an excellent relationship based on that principle and I have no intention of changing it.”
Ace scowled–which he noticed suddenly was really something to see on a face as pretty as hers–and said, “That’s exactly what I meant. You’re not supposed to save my life, but you did and in the process put the life of someone far more important into danger.”
“Who?”
“You. Jerk.” Ace stood up and began to pace. Steve tried to keep her in sight, but gave it up when it would have required twisting his neck. He could wait.
“Hah! Another point of information,” he asked. “I’m really all that important?”
“Sadly, yes,” she said as she came back into his line of sight. “You’re the damn Fool, you fool! You’re supposed to protect yourself with your limited powers, not waste them protecting me!”
“Oh wait, I remember. Weinerwurst shot an entire door at you and I threw a shield to save your ungrateful butt. Then someone hit me with a knife and a sledgehammer at the same time–which seems unwarranted overkill.” He thought for a second, “Maybe that was the wrong choice of words–”
“Oh, shut up,” Ace said. “You were hit by two slivers of the door–either one of which could have killed you.”
“Would you have been able to defend yourself against all that firepower?” he asked.
“No!” She was almost shouting. “I’d have been dead, but that’s not the point! It’s my job to take a bullet for you and I will not allow you to just wander in and haphazardly decide to shield me! Do you understand?”
“No. Not really,” Steve said, thinking how lucky he was to have kept the little scuffle in Bladensburg a secret. “You’re angry because I saved your life? I think that’s completely ass-backward.”
Carlos, still an enormous dog, came into Steve’s view on the opposite side from Ace.
Steve appealed to his fellow male. “I mean, Carlos, do you agree with her on this?” Carlos began to shake his head but froze at a glare from Ace and backed away, one hoof at a time.
“Lot of good you are,” Steve grumbled, and then carefully shifted only his eyes to Ace. “OK, for the sake of argument, I’ll agree to let you die the next time the situation arises. If it makes you feel better, I’ll even promise to administer a death stroke if you get a hangnail or stub your toe.”
There was a fascinating mix of satisfaction and embarrassment on Ace’s face.
“Now, can we discuss something else?” Steve said. “How is it that I’m alive if I was turned into a human pincushion?”
Ace was still looking away, but she didn’t appear interested in continuing the argument. “You only took two shards. One is still stuck in your upper arm–we haven’t taken it out because it’s doing a fair job of holding your blood in–and the other struck you directly over the heart.”
Steve was astonished. “The heart? Then I’m dead and if you two are the only angels available, I’m complaining to the management. Unless, of course, you’re my personal demons… That might make more sense–”
“Oh, shut up.” Ace cut him off and bent over him again. She removed Send Money from his breast pocket and held it up. The screen was filled with a cartoon medal engraved with the words “Cell Phone Hero.”
Ace glanced at the picture and said, “Don’t blow a circuit patting yourself on the back, Ghost in the Machine. It was that milspec cover I made him buy for you. He took the shock, but the flaming shard bounced off the metal sheathing.”
“Thank goodness.” Barnaby spoke from the cell phone’s speaker. “There were a few nanoseconds there when our calculations showed that Send Money might have been damaged. Steve would have lived in all possible scenarios, but as I’ve explained, the loss of this cell phone could have been catastrophic. However, once the number crunchers confirmed that the tip of the object had charred sufficiently to render it incapable of penetrating the case, it was tremendously exciting to watch.”
“So why were you punching me? Send Money flashed the word “NOT” in a violent combination of red, black, and purple.
“So why were you punching me?” Steve asked, “Insult to injury or simple rage?”
“Commotio cordis,” Ace said. “Gesundheit.” Steve responded.
“No, that’s when someone’s heart stops due to an impact on the chest at the precise moment the heart is between beats. Usually happens to athletes when they’re playing baseball.”
“So you decided that the best thing for a man whose heart had stopped from being hit was to beat him up some more?”
“It worked.” Ace moved to deal with the injury to his arm. “Also helped with my emotional reaction.”
“Glad I could be of service,” Steve said. “Hey, what happened to Weltschmerz? Shouldn’t we be chasing him or something?”
“I doubt ‘we’ are about to chase anyone. Anyway, he did a standard ‘black smoke and tiny lightnings’ disappearance.”
“That’s in the manual?”
“Of course. Magic Wielders: Evasion: Subtype: visible vapor and electrical discharge. OTN Appendix 13-B.”
“Of course,” Steve said. “Ow. Hey. Careful with the arm, OK?”
“I could leave the charred piece of door in it.”
“No. Get it out. Just be a bit gentler, regardless of how foreign that may be to your nature.”
Barnaby’s voice came from the phone. “While this delicate medical operation continues, I wonder if Carlos could help me with a close examination of the ritual area. I think that wi
ll work better if you’re back in human form, Carlos.”
“You guys go ahead and have fun playing tourist,” Steve said. “I can see that the Master Chief is preparing to use the serrated side of her K-Bar knife for this, so I’ll be passing out until it’s over.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“The ceremonial bowl itself contained an etching of a male principle pentagram with three unicursal hexagrams, one in each of the points that wasn’t in the down position. Mystically speaking, of course.”
“Of course,” Steve said with a heavy sarcasm that Barnaby completely ignored.
They were back in the BMW and Hans, after once again extruding plastic covers to protect his precious leather seats from bloodstains, was driving back to the alien ambassador’s residence. As they left the Illuminati’s underground fortress, Ace had turned and tossed the sword up in the air in the general direction of the statue of Joan of Arc. The sword soared at least fifty yards and the mounted knight reached out, caught it, and flourished it aloft. Ace bowed deeply.
Now Barnaby was explaining, in great depth, what the NSA computers had divined from the markings cut into the floor of the Illuminati’s ritual chamber. “What’s interesting is what wasn’t there.”
“A minibar?” Steve asked.
“No. There wasn’t an enneagram gateway structure that would have allowed the Rose ankh to transmit the etheric energy out to the object. If you consider that the Enochian Senior had been constructed along with the proper Lunar Mansions and a mystikon for each point of the Pentagram of the Masculine Aspect–”
“Hold it,” Steve said sharply. “I’m picking a definite whiff of bullshit. Does the combined intelligence of half the silicon on the planet have any idea what these Extra-Long-Life Light Bulbs were up to? Yes or No, please.”
“No, not really.” the computer said in a subdued voice.
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