by Mel Odom
“Not everyone has forgiven me,” Simon said as he stood. He reached down for his helm. “I haven’t forgiven me. Four years isn’t even long enough.” He turned and walked to the door. Then he paused. “Tell the others to give up trying to make me out to be anything more than I am. Let me serve as I can to save those we can and fight the demons when we’re able. That’s all I ask.”
Simon left the room and headed for the barracks. He had to get some sleep before he fell over.
Wake up!
Merihim’s command exploded inside Warren’s head and yanked him up from blissful slumber. He’d slept on his back, with Naomi’s cheek against his and one of her horns pressed to his forehead. The pain of the demon’s voice drove him from the bed to his knees.
What do you think you’re doing? Merihim demanded. You’re supposed to find Fulaghar’s lieutenants.
“I will,” Warren said.
Across the room, a pair of eyes opened on the book. They regarded Warren in silence. But as soon as those eyes made contact with his, some of the pain in his head dissipated. He got control of the nausea cycling through his stomach.
You’re wasting time.
“I don’t know how to find them.”
Then come. I’ll show you.
The pain dragged Warren to his feet and out onto the balcony. He hated being there. Toxic rain fell from the leaden sky masking the moon and spattered across his naked shoulders. The drops left chemical burns behind.
Below in the city, the demons prowled and some of the braver humans hunted for enough food to get them through another day or two. Warren feared that he would attract a demon’s attention, and he kept imagining that he heard claws clicking against the rooftop overhead.
A Blood Angel swooped through the street in front of Warren. She never turned in his direction.
Her, Merihim said. Use her. She can find Knaarl.
Warren recognized the name as that of one of Fulaghar’s lieutenants. “How am I supposed to use her?”
See through her eyes. Just as you use the other Blood Angel eyes you have.
Warren wanted to point out that he’d bound those eyes to him, and that he’d spent days doing it. But he knew it would be no use. It was better to try and fail.
Unless Merihim killed him out of frustration.
“He won’t kill you,” the voice said. “Not yet. He needs you too much.”
The pain inside Warren’s head exploded again. He almost dropped to his knees and reached out to the balcony railing for support. His vision turned red—
Then it cleared, and he realized he wasn’t seeing through his eyes any more. As he stared, his head pounding somewhere far away, he watched the London cityscape spin by below him. His vision was incredibly sharp, even clearer than it was when he enhanced it. For a moment he saw himself standing in the rain on the balcony. The rain drummed down on him and he felt burning sensations, but they were so far away they seemed more irritating than harmful.
The Blood Angel saw everything with more color and vibrancy than anything Warren had ever experienced. There were colors that he had no names for. And seeing prey was simple.
Warren watched in amazement as the Blood Angel spotted a man edging through the darkness near a tube station. Heeling over, the demon went in pursuit, dumping altitude like a fighter jet as it whipped through the city.
The man never knew what hit him. He was alive one moment and dead the next. Hooking her rear claws into the dead man, the Blood Angel flew her prize to the nearest building and tore the corpse to pieces to feed to a nearby group of Stalkers.
The Stalkers growled and fought among themselves for the remains.
Overcome by revulsion, Warren vomited. He was weirdly aware of being in two places at the same time: on the balcony and inside the Blood Angel’s head.
Knaarl, Merihim said.
Warren knew the Blood Angel heard the name as well. Her perspective changed as she peered around. Then she took wing once more and Warren’s sight rode along with her.
THIRTY-EIGHT
W hile he stared at the city below him, Warren wondered why Merihim didn’t simply use demons as his servants instead of him. They would have gotten around much more easily and been less noticed.
“Because they don’t have the untapped power that you do,” the voice said. “And because other demons would eventually resist Merihim’s control because he has no right in this place to command them. The Blood Angel is a deadly foe, but she’d be no match for Knaarl. She wouldn’t have lasted against Hargastor either.”
“But if Merihim could bind more than one demon to his will—”
“He can’t. Not without losing a measure of control. As you can see now, even you have your secrets from him. It helps that you have my protection, but Merihim isn’t as invincible as he’d like you to believe. Not in this place.”
Warren couldn’t get the night of destruction that Merihim had arrived in London out of his mind. Cabalists had died by the dozens. Invincible or not, the demon was deadly.
“If he isn’t so invincible,” Warren said, “then why don’t you confront him?”
“Because I’m not strong enough to defeat Merihim. As I’ve told you, I’m bound. All that I have open to me is subterfuge. My powers will grow just as surely as yours are. It will just take time.”
Time was one thing Warren wasn’t sure he had, though. He was surprised that Merihim didn’t say anything about the way he looked. To him, his appearance had drastically changed.
“He doesn’t see you,” the voice stated. “He only sees the power you can wield for him.”
Minutes later, the Blood Angel glided to another building, this one overlooking the British Museum. The demon held her position there and studied the structure.
Knaarl is here, Merihim said. Doing his master’s bidding.
“Why is he here?” Warren asked. He drew back from Merihim’s instant anger and almost lost touch with the Blood Angel Merihim had enthralled. “I need to know if I’m going to hunt him. Will Knaarl be here long? If not, will he be here again?” He waited silently for the blow he felt must surely be coming. Even out of his body, he knew he would feel agony if the demon wanted him to.
Merihim stayed his hand, though. As Hargastor did, Knaarl hunts for an artifact that Fulaghar wants.
“What artifact?”
Teeth.
“What kind of teeth?” Warren asked.
In Greek myth, Cadmus sowed dragon’s teeth and mighty warriors sprang up from them.
The answer astounded Warren. His mind reeled for just a moment. “Dragons never existed.”
“Yes they did,” the voice said. “Humans have just never recognized them for what they were.”
It doesn’t matter, Merihim replied. All that you need to know is that Knaarl will be here looking for the dragon’s teeth. You have to come here and kill him.
In the next instant Warren stood once more on the balcony of his sanctuary. Pain from the acid rain ate into his shoulders. He grew conscious of Naomi pulling at him.
“Get in out of the rain,” she pleaded.
Warren turned and walked back into the room.
“What were you doing out there?” Naomi retreated to the bathroom and returned with towels. She mopped at the rain that still covered him and sizzled against his flesh.
“Merihim summoned me. I had no choice.” Warren seized her hands in his and stopped her toweling efforts. She was only spreading the caustic liquid. Blisters rose on his skin.
“You need to take a shower before you’re poisoned.” Worry pinched Naomi’s features.
Instead, Warren concentrated and tapped into the energy that filled him. He found each of the burns and healed them swiftly till he was once more whole and pain-free.
Naomi gazed at him in a mixture of envy and admiration. She ran her hands along his unblemished skin. “I can’t believe you do that so effortlessly.”
The healing wasn’t effortless, though. Warren felt the drain and knew
that he would have to rest to replenish what he’d lost.
“What did Merihim want?” Naomi asked.
“He’s found one of the other demons. I have to destroy it.”
“When?”
“Soon.” Warren thought about the British Museum and how hard it would be to sneak up on the place. There was only one approach to the building, and the road to it was narrow and winding. The slim entrance to the courtyard was a perfect place to be ambushed.
“I can help you find a way,” the voice said. “There are secrets that even Merihim doesn’t know.”
Warren didn’t doubt that. The voice had its own secrets. He just wondered what the voice would do when their desires and needs no longer paralleled. He was just as much at the mercy of one as he was of the other, and he didn’t know which offered the greater threat.
Simon worked out on the gymnasium floor. He flowed through the unarmed katas his father had started training him in since he could walk. It was there, on whatever space he had available to him, that he felt closest to his father.
He wore only sweat pants, went bare-chested and barefooted. Perspiration dappled his body and heat filled his muscles. His head was clear and he was more focused than he had been in days.
All he had to do was close his eyes to see his father standing at the sidelines or beside him. They’d often worked out together, going through the forms, then battling each other with empty hands or practice swords till one or both was rubber-legged and could no longer stand.
It was also during these times that Simon missed his father most. No matter how hard they pushed themselves, or how long they had been at a session, Thomas Cross had always seemed to have enough breath to speak.
Sometimes his father had offered only further instruction, or bits of history about the Templar Order and the various Houses. Hundreds of years of history—filled with wars and subterfuge and feats of derring-do—waited to be brought to life with Thomas Cross’s natural storytelling ability.
Simon had been held enraptured as a boy and a teen, and sometimes even as a young man, by those stories. No one, it seemed, knew as many stories as his father. Even the ones he told over and over again, to illustrate a virtue or put a fine point on a lesson, held Simon’s attention.
But it was the ones about Simon’s mother that Simon treasured most. He had never known Lydia Cross. Despite Templar technology, she’d died in childbirth and had held her son for only minutes before death stole her away. Simon’s father had told him that he favored her, and sometimes Simon would catch his father gazing at him and see the pain and loss in his father’s eyes.
Finished with the latest form, Simon stood and drew in a breath. He was aware of some of the other, younger, Templar watching him. A few of them were barely in their teens, and their youth had troubled him.
When the first of them had shown up in the care of other Templar, Simon had wanted to send them back. They’d slipped away from the Templar Underground, and Terrence Booth and the other Lords and Ladies of the Order had been understandably upset.
Taking the fugitives back had proven problematic. The first few that had been returned had quickly run away again. A few of them hadn’t made it through the demon patrols the second time.
Simon had also found out that all of the young Templar coming to join him had been orphaned by the Battle of All Hallows’ Eve. Booth and the others protested the loss of the young Templar, but they’d been determined to come once they’d found someone that could guide them to the hidden fortress.
None of them had come without sponsorship, and Simon had given up trying to find out who was responsible. Wertham and the others had remained closed-mouthed in the matter. In the end, Simon had stopped sending the young Templar back and had chosen instead to let them live among his group.
His group.
The thought stuck in his head and he recalled Wertham’s argument that they should start a new House. He was torn. It would be a fine tribute to his father. Thomas Cross had been one of the most loyal Templar ever to wear the crimson cross of the Order. Everyone knew that. Whatever problems the Templar had with Simon weren’t visited on his father.
“Lord Cross,” Anthony, one of the teen Templar, called out.
Simon wasn’t used to being addressed as such. His father had been Lord Cross of House Rorke, and even Thomas Cross hadn’t often gone by his title, choosing instead to be known by his station as a Knight of the Order. The Cross lands and holdings had been meager, grown so by the constant and unswerving service of the family to their House and to the Order.
“Yes, Anthony.” Simon also made it a habit to know everyone in the fortress. The boy preened at the mention of his name, then quickly hid his reaction. Simon picked up a towel from his gym bag and wiped his face and upper body. He was surprised at how many of the young Templar—boys as well as girls—stood in attendance. There were at least forty of them, almost enough to fill the gymnasium floor.
“I would ask a favor of you, Lord Cross.” Anthony was dark-haired and blue-eyed. He might have been all of eleven years old.
Simon was conscious of the attention of the rest of the group on him. A few adult Templar stood nearby and watched.
“What do you wish?” Simon asked.
“Would you lead us in the Way of the Sword?” Anthony replied.
Simon looked at the youthful faces. “There are others more skilled than I am in the sword.”
“I’ve heard that isn’t true, Lord Cross. I’ve been told that none are as skilled as you.”
Embarrassment flushed Simon’s features with sudden heat. “Did Nathan put you up to this?”
“No, Lord Cross.” Anthony looked pensive. “I’m sorry if I offended you. I offer my apologies.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” Simon felt even more awkward. He’d only come into the room to stretch out a few kinks and limber sore muscles. And to forget that Leah hadn’t yet gotten in touch with him. “You haven’t offended me.”
Anthony bowed and started to leave the mat. The other young Templar stepped back as well.
Danielle stepped from the sidelines. “Don’t you dare let them leave this floor feeling ashamed,” she whispered. “It took quite a lot for them to get the nerve to ask you.”
“‘Them?’”
“You don’t think Anthony went to the others, do you?” Danielle asked. “They forced Anthony to ask you.” Her eyes flashed. “All they want is some of what they perceive to be your strengths and courage to rub off on them.”
“That’s foolish,” Simon said.
“Not to them. To them you’re Simon Cross. Lord Cross. And you’re the bravest Templar they’ve ever seen. You fight demons on a regular basis, and you win. They want to know that they can be part of that.”
“I’m nothing special,” Simon protested.
Danielle stared at him fiercely. “To them, you are. It’s hero worship.”
“It’s misplaced.”
“Who else should they put their faith in?”
“Themselves.”
“They’re not ready to do that yet. Don’t you remember what it was like to be their age?”
Simon did.
Danielle nodded over Simon’s shoulder. “Are you going to let them just walk away?”
Simon wheeled and looked at the young Templar. None of them looked back. All of them were walking away without a word.
“Anthony,” Simon called.
As one, the young Templar stopped and turned back. All eyes focused on Simon.
“Yes, Lord Cross,” Anthony said.
“I have to apologize for my behavior,” Simon said in a formal tone. “I’ve done you a disservice. All of you.”
“You’ve done us no disservice, Lord Cross. We should not have bothered you.”
“I should have listened to you better, little brother,” Simon said. “You asked for instruction. I’m bound by my honor to teach you what humble skill I have in the Way of the Sword.”
Anthony grinned.
“On the mat,” Simon said. “All of you.”
Quickly, the young Templar lined up in four rows of eight with two stragglers in the fifth row. They moved with military precision and gave themselves plenty of room. All of them carried palladium swords smithed to a size that properly fit their hands. New swords would be forged as they grew.
“Take up your swords.” Simon took up his own and stood in front of them. Instead of holding it in his left hand, he held it in his right. He was naturally left-handed, and his father hadn’t tried to correct that as so many Templar fathers did. Instead, Thomas Cross had taught him to fight with either hand. Thomas Cross had also trained himself to be ambidextrous.
“Lord Cross,” Anthony said, “you’re left-handed.”
Simon was surprised they would know that about him. When he did forms, he kept all the exercises balanced. Battlefield conditions changed constantly. Not everyone could make adjustments like that.
“I can wield a sword with either hand,” Simon replied.
“So can we.” Anthony presented his sword and switched it to his left hand. As one, the other young Templar did the same thing.
Stifling a grin, shocked that he could be amused while still aware that the young boys and girls before him might one day fight and die while using the same skill set they were preparing to exercise, Simon shifted his sword back to his left hand.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s begin.”
Leah woke when the locking mechanism activated. She didn’t move from the bed and kept her arms crossed behind her head while she lay on her back.
Instead of the six-man guard unit Leah expected, only one woman stood there. She was of medium height and had fair hair chopped at shoulder length. Green eyes regarded Leah coolly. Thin and athletic, she looked as if she was in her mid-thirties, but only because Leah automatically assumed the woman was older than she was. Her right temple and cheek held a faded webbing of scars. She wore black armor and carried the hood tucked into her belt. She carried no weapons outside of those built into the suit.
“May I come in?” the woman asked.
Leah smiled. “Politeness from the jailer?”