With the hiss of the ventilator and the beeping of the heart monitor for company, Duncan got down on his knees in the middle of the room and began to pray.
“Heavenly Father, I come to you now with a heavy heart…â€
After some time, Duncan finally came to a decision.
* * *
He dreamed.
Dreamed of a cold, grey sea that lapped at the shore of a grey beach, while a grey sun sank slowly down through a grey sky. He stood near the water’s edge, looking out over that grey expanse, waiting; though he knew not for what. A sense of expectation rose in his heart, an emotion that was certainly out of place in a setting such as this, yet it was undeniable and one he couldn’t ignore. He’d come here, to this time and place, wherever here might be, to…meet someone? See something?
He didn’t know.
But whatever it was, it was coming.
As surely as he knew his own name, he knew that.
And so he stood on that strange shoreline, stood and stared and hoped, as the sun sank below the horizon and darkness claimed the sea in its inky grasp.
Still he waited.
Still he watched.
And when a light shone out across those dark waters, a light that shone with a sense of living vitality that could not be denied, his heart leapt in recognition.
Unfortunately, his time had run out.
Behind him, a snarling cry rose up into the night air and it was quickly echoed by others.
Dozens of others, so many that the night seemed filled with their cries.
He spun around, reaching for the sword strapped to his back before he fully registered doing so on a conscious level.
He knew that cry; had heard it often enough on his journeys here to recognize it as the hunting call of a pack of corpse hounds, one that had cornered their prey.
He braced himself for the fight ahead.
They came at him out of the fog, charging across the stony shoreline toward him. Now that the pack had been gathered, there was no need for their hunting cry and they swept forward in an eerie silence that had a weight all its own.
Cade met the first one without hesitation, sidestepping and slashing its body in half as it leapt for his throat. He did the same with the second, then plunged his sword through the chest of the third, holding the carcass with his foot as he dragged his weapon free once it had expired.
By then the rest of the pack was upon him.
He twisted and turned, slashing with his sword at any hound that dared to get too close, keeping them at bay only through the sheer ferocity of his attack. The bodies began to pile up at his feet and still they came on, bounding over the corpses of their brethren to try to reach him.
When the press of their numbers became too great, he had no choice but to retreat backward, out into the water. He kept his back to the ocean, his attention fixed on the ravenous horde that now covered the beach as far as he could see. He held his sword up before him like a talisman, waiting to taste the salty tang of his enemy’s blood once more.
But the hounds refused to follow.
They wandered back and forth at the water’s edge, howling in voices that ripped and pulled at his soul, but they would not enter the water. The edge of the surf became a barrier that they would not or could not pass and their frustration was clearly evident.
Cade was just wondering what the dark waters might hide, what would keep the blood-thirsty pack from daring their depths when a pair of hands wrapped around his ankles and pulled him off his feet.
He went under, spluttering in surprise and swallowing a mouthful of water in the process.
Before he could do anything he felt himself being pulled through the water at an incredible speed, moving deeper out to sea with every second.
He frantically began to kick his feet and twist his frame, doing what he could to fight his way free, knowing he had only seconds before his lack of oxygen would doom him.
The second he felt the hands on his feet let go he shot for the surface, sucking in great whooping lungfuls of air once his head had broken clear of the water. He glanced around frantically, noting that he’d been dragged dozens of yards from shore. His sword was gone and the hounds still paced the shoreline in the distance, but he didn’t have any choice; he’d have to swim for it and deal with each issue one and a time. Remaining in the water was out of the question.
He took a deep breath, preparing for the swim ahead, but before he could set out the hands returned.
This time there was more than one pair of whatever they were. He felt their rock-hard grip take hold of his lower legs, cold, clammy hands that grasped his feet and ankles and calves while others tried to lock his legs together at the knees.
They yanked him downward for a second time.
This time however, as he sank beneath the waves, he could hear a voice calling him, shouting his name, but he couldn’t respond, couldn’t open his mouth without filling it with the brackish water that surrounded him, and he was certain that doing so would be the death of him. His mind screamed at him to breathe but he fought against it, clamping his jaws tightly shut as the hands below dragged at him, pulling him deeper, fingers wrapped tight about his ankles, his calves, his thighs.
A shadow passed overhead, obscuring what little light there was, and in his mind he screamed I’m here, I’m here, but only the greedy voices of the dead answered him as they dragged him deeper still, whispering that he would be here, with them, for eternity. His arms flailed above his head, frantic now, as he felt himself dragged down into the darker depths where hope was replaced by despair and the light never shone.
A hand grasped his wrist.
His heart pounded in his chest and his pulse throbbed in his head, starving for oxygen, but he had enough awareness left to understand that the hand came from above, rather than below.
As the darkness closed in he felt himself being drawn upwards, his ascent shocking, violent even. He was hauled from the grasp of the dead with seeming effortless ease. A moment later he was pulled from the water, but his body was telling him it was too little, too late.
He’d swallowed too much of that vile liquid, had pulled too much of its poison into his system, and now he would have to pay the price.
The voice continued calling to him, shouting his name, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle and he gave in to it at last, too tired and worn out to fight any longer. A figure bent over him, a dark, hooded figure that should have scared him witless but only vaguely registered on his conscious mind as his sight tunneled down to a narrow window and the darkness came to claim him.
In that last moment, before the world fell away and he tumbled down into oblivion, there was a sudden flash of light and in its glow he caught a last, fleeting glimpse of his rescuer.
Inside the hood of the long robe she wore, his dead wife, Gabrielle, smiled her grim reaper€™s smile at him and mouthed his name, the white of bone gleaming through the ravaged side of her face a harsh contrast to the smooth skin on the other…
Cade awoke.
A soft voice echoed in the back of his mind and a hauntingly familiar scent lingered in the air, but both were gone by the time he struggled back into awareness of his surroundings.
He was in a hospital bed.
His body ached as if he’d been laid out and beaten for hours with a broom handle, but his thoughts were clear. He remembered his repeated trips across the Veil, his fruitless search for Gabbi’s spirit, his growing despair as he came up empty with each and every crossing. How he got here, wherever here was, he didn’t know, but he could make an educated guess or two.
The room around him was stark, austere, and he knew it wasn’t a public hospital by the fact that he had the room all to himself. Which meant he was probably in the hands of the Order. Exactly where was still up for grabs, though. Maybe the view from the window on the other side of the room might tell him
something.
Pulling back the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He did it slowly, gingerly, not expecting to succeed, and so was surprised when he did so. Despite the soreness, his body responded without any problems.
He glanced down, remembering the sight of his wasted body as he’d gazed at himself in the mirror just before his last trip, and was astounded by what he saw.
It only took him a moment or two to come up with an explanation, however.
Duncan.
His teammate had healed him.
Confident that he was now medically out of danger, he reached down and pulled several sensors off his chest, knowing as he did so that it would likely bring several nurses running, but he didn’t care. He’d been in bed long enough; it was time to get moving again.
Last but not least, he carefully pulled the IV out of his right wrist, knowing the small drip of blood would clot in a moment. He tossed the sensors and the IV tube onto the bed behind him.
Forgetting the window, he crossed to the small wardrobe and found a change of clothing inside.
He was in the midst of getting dressed when the first of the doctors burst in through the doorway to his room.
CHAPTER FIVE
BRIEFING TIME
Just before Vespers the three sergeants from Echo reassembled together in a secure conference room awaiting the arrival of Preceptor Willem Johannson, the man who had taken over after Michaels had perished in the commandery assaults three weeks before.
Riley and Olsen arrived first, with Duncan wandering in a few moments later. Echo’s newest member was quiet, withdrawn, but no one thought anything of it, considering Ca-de€™s current condition. A moment or two after Duncan’s arrival the Preceptor arrived.
With him was a short, barrel-chested man in standard issue battle dress uniform, or BDU, with a Captain’s insignia on the shoulders. They settled into seats opposite the members of Echo and the Preceptor didn’t waste any time in getting down to business.
“We’ve got a dangerous situation brewing that needs to be dealt with quickly and decisively. Bravo and Delta are off cleaning up that mess in Argentina. Alpha is at half-strength and Charlie is still enroute from Moscow. That leaves you. I know your team leader is currently unavailable, but Echo is all I’ve got.â€
Johannson was tall and thin, with long arms that moved restlessly about whenever he spoke, reminding Duncan of a praying mantis. The man’s regal attitude and obvious sense of self-importance reinforced the comparison, causing Duncan to take an instant dislike to him. The transfer to Echo had been difficult, there was no question of that, but in the long run he suspected that working for a man like Johannson would be a kind of slow torture all its own and he was glad that he was no longer in the charge of the Preceptor’s security detail.
Riley ignored the thinly veiled distaste in the Preceptor’s tone when referring to Commander Williams and simply nodded his acceptance of the situation.
The Preceptor indicated the man seated beside him, “Captain Mason here is with the unit on the ground. He will conduct the briefing and answer any questions you have. Captain Mason?â€
Mason was the physical opposite of Johannson and he projected an air of experience that commanded authority. He stood, saying, “Thank you, sir.†He stepped away from the table and over to the podium. Removing a small remote from his pocket, he used it to trigger the ceiling projector. A photograph of a smiling man dressed in the black clothes of a Catholic priest appeared on the screen. He was in his late forties or early fifties, with a full head of dark hair and the tanned complexion of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors.
“This is Father Juan Vargas, a Jesuit archeologist. He has spent his entire life shifting the dirt of the Holy Land through his hands, looking for physical evidence of the life of Christ.
Many considered him one of the finest expedition leaders of our time and his work has uncovered priceless artifacts supporting Biblical scholarship. From discovering the home of Pon-tius Pilate just outside of Jerusalem to excavating the secret tunnels discovered beneath the fortress of Masada, Vargas has been at the forefront of some of the most important archeolo-gical discoveries of the last four decades.
“He’s also had his share of failures, however. Entire expeditions that were based on nothing more than rumors. Wild goose chases that bled the coffers of many a foundation dry, with nothing to show for it in the end but handfuls of dust. From Noah’s Ark to the Ark of the Covenant, Vargas has chased them all.
“A little over three years ago, Vargas abruptly disappeared after a failed dig on the shore of the Dead Sea. Some say he deliberately went into hiding, unwilling or unable to face the wrath of his creditors. Others believe that his health was failing and that the constant strain of the expeditionary life was finally too much for him. Whatever the reason, he disappeared and no one has seen nor heard from him since.
“Until nine days ago, that is.â€
The image on the screen changed. The new photo showed a man in a hospital bed.
Though his face was badly sunburned and he had several days overgrowth of beard, it was clearly Father Vargas.
“Vargas was found wandering in the desert outside of Santa Limas, New Mexico last Wednesday. From his condition, it was clear he’d been exposed to the elements for several days. He was badly sunburned and dangerously dehydrated. There is no hospital in Santa Limas, so the locals brought him to the parish priest. When the priest discovered the injured man was a fellow member of the clergy, he contacted his bishop. The bishop had actually met Vargas at a seminar several years before. Recognizing him, he arranged to have him transferred to St. Margaret’s, a private Catholic hospital in Albuquerque. Once he was stabilized, we…â€
The door to the conference room opened and Mason stopped in mid-sentence, his expression of surprise clear to those seated at the table.
As one they turned to see the source of the disruption.
Knight Commander Cade Williams stood framed in the doorway.
Duncan and the others stared in disbelief.
Two hours ago Cade was lying immobile in a hospital bed, so weak he needed an intra-venous line to feed him and an oxygen line to help him breathe. His physician had predicated it would be a month, maybe more, before Cade had recovered enough to move about on his own, never mind return to active duty. Yet here he stood, seemingly healed. His face showed signs of weariness and there was a dark, haunted look in his eyes, but his flesh no longer looked stretched taught over his bones and the sickly yellow hue was gone from his skin.
He crossed the room and took a seat in the empty chair next to Riley. He nodded to Captain Mason and then addressed the Preceptor, “My apologies for being late, sir. I was briefly detained on another matter.†His voice was a harsh rasp, like that of a twenty-year smoker, rather than its usual even tone, but that seemed to be the extent of his troubles.
Preceptor Johannson stared at Cade with a horrified expression on his face, as if Ca-de€™s very presence proved that all of the dark and dangerous rumors that were whispered about him were true. Several times he opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again before doing so, unable or unwilling to give voice to what he was thinking.
The silence stretched like a living thing.
Duncan stared down the length of the table at his commanding officer. Like the others, he was startled by Cade’s appearance. He’d wrestled with his conscience long and hard beside the man’s hospital bed, but in the end he’d done nothing more than get down on his knees and pray for the Knight Commander’s recovery. While he’d been sorely tempted to lay his hands on him, he’d resisted the urge, believing that his gift should be used only in the direst of circumstances. While Cade’s injuries had been bad, he’d certainly passed beyond the life-threatening stage once he’d arrived at the hospital a
nd so Duncan had refrained from taking any action beyond simple prayer.
Yet here Cade was, seemingly healed and ready to join Echo on its forthcoming mission.
Thoughts of prayers and powers and destiny itself chased each other through Duncan’s mind.
It was Captain Mason who finally stepped into the gap, breaking the silence. He coughed into his fist, said, “Good to have you with us, Knight Commander,†and went on with his briefing as if nothing unusual had happened.
“The circumstances being what they were, the Order was called in to investigate. A three-man team, including myself, was sent out to speak with Father Vargas. When we arrived at St. Margaret’s, we found him to be alternating between spells of manic activity and near catatonia. When he was lucid, if you could call it that, he would rant and rave, screaming and crying and mumbling, throwing himself against his restraints, until the hospital staff was forced to sedate him to keep him from hurting himself.â€
Olsen spoke up, “Was anything he said coherent?â€
“Not much. Most of it was gibberish, odd phrases and sounds that seemed to mimic a language, but unlike anything we’d ever heard before. We’ve since had the tapes analyzed for linguistic continuity and similarity, thinking it might be a dialect we simply weren€™t familiar with, but came up dry. If it was a language, it’s one we’ve never heard of.
“We had Vargas transferred to the custody of the Church and took him to our medical facility in New York. There we were able to monitor him twenty-four hours a day and every second of it was caught on video. Upon reviewing the tapes, we discovered this.â€
Mason touched a button on his remote and a video began to run on the screen behind him. In it, Vargas was flat on his back on an adjustable bed and was secured with restraints.
He was tossing his head from side to side, a endless stream of nonsense pouring from his mouth, his eyes tightly closed. This went on for a full minute or two and Duncan was about to ask why this was relevant when Vargas stopped moving. Very slowly he turned his head to face the camera and his eyes popped open wide. Then he spoke with deliberate clarity.
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