I put the unicorn around my neck. I kept the note in my pocket.
From there, it took fifteen days, some luck, and a little help from the Guardians, but Ed Regis and I finally managed to locate a God-slayer sect that would hear our proposal.
Our meeting came with conditions: We would approach them unarmed, openly wearing metal chains to prove that we were drained. We would speak to them at gunpoint. And if they didn’t like what we said, they would execute us then and there. All this I agreed to. Honestly, it felt pretty trivial.
“Adrian?” said Ed Regis. “Adrian!”
I looked up from the chains around my wrists. “Are they here?”
“They’re here,” confirmed Ed Regis, finally cutting the engine. “Step out slowly.”
We carefully opened the doors and got out of our car.
I saw five men standing side by side at the end of the alleyway. Ed Regis and I spread our arms out wide and slowly walked toward them.
When we were twenty paces apart, the man in the center called out, “That’s far enough, demons. Get down on your knees.”
We did, keeping our arms spread wide and our chains in plain sight. Ed Regis, being non-psionic, had no reason to wear the chains, but the Slayers didn’t know that.
The men cautiously walked toward us, pistols drawn and aimed at our heads. I kept my eyes straight forward. The man who had spoken walked around us once in a wide circle. Then he said quietly, “You two have an appointment with Father Stanton, and later with God.”
Adjusting the position of our chains, the men painfully handcuffed our wrists behind our backs, blindfolded us and loaded us onto a vehicle. Nobody spoke a single word as we rode for what felt like an hour, and then we were led into a building. They took us down two flights of stairs.
By our echoing footsteps on the concrete and the familiar dank air, I knew that we were right where I wanted to be right now.
“Kneel,” commanded a voice.
I did. My blindfold was removed from behind and I found that I was no longer with Ed Regis. An elderly man was standing before me, dressed in a simple black suit. He had a gangly form and curly blond hair that reminded me just a little of Ralph.
“I’m Adrian Howell,” I said, looking up at him.
“I am Father Stanton,” he replied, a predator’s smile on his lips.
“Where is my friend?”
“He is safe in another room,” said the Slayer priest. “Please forgive my caution, Adrian. I have never welcomed any lesser gods into my home. Not like this, anyway. What brings you to us?”
“The will of your greater god,” I informed him. “Probably.”
“And what do you seek?”
I looked him in the eye. “Death.”
“Then speak your piece, and let the Lord judge your words.”
As he listened to my carefully abridged story and why I had come to him, the elderly priest’s bright blue eyes shifted from disgust to astonishment, and finally to jubilant excitement.
“Let me see if I fully understand what you’re proposing, young demon,” said Father Stanton, unable to keep the sick little grin off of his face. “You want us to surgically implant a voice-activated bomb inside your body so that you can kill the Angels’ last master controller and end the unholy tyranny that is threatening our world?”
I nodded, adding, “And, as an extra bonus, I die too. That means you have nothing to lose by letting me go.”
“Your demon blood disgusts me,” said the priest, “but perhaps this is the Lord’s way of absolving you of your sins.”
“Nothing will absolve me of my sins,” I replied evenly. “Not after this. So, do we have a deal?”
“If we can make this work, then we have a deal,” he said. “You will remain in our custody until we are ready.”
“Then I expect acceptable living conditions here,” I said. “Drained in the basement is fine, but you will at least provide some bedding and proper meals.”
Since I had no hiding protection, remaining drained and two stories underground was necessary to keep me out of sight from the psionic world. But Father Stanton was exceptionally accommodating in all other regards. The Slayers furnished one of their concrete cells with a carpet and proper furniture, including a desk, a table and two beds so that Ed Regis and I could share the room.
Ed Regis was still uneasy about putting our fates in the hands of religious fanatics, but I told him to get over it. “Relax, Ed Regis,” I said to him. “The worst they can do is kill us.”
Father Stanton had even given us permission to leave our cell with an escort and visit other parts of the basement. The underground area wasn’t just for storage or keeping psionics. It was almost as extensive as the gathering place under the former New Haven One building, with a shooting range, training gym, and living quarters for many of the Slayers. This was a fairly large Slayer sect, and the above-ground living areas were strictly for the high-ranking members.
Ed Regis and I lived in Father Stanton’s basement for over a week as the Slayers prepared the device. Despite my continued hatred of this sick religious cult bent on exterminating psionics worldwide, and despite their equally vehement hatred of us, over the sunless days and moonless nights, slowly, we got to know each other just a little.
We eventually managed to convince Father Stanton that Ed Regis wasn’t a psionic, the logic of our argument being that if we really didn’t want to be found, which we obviously didn’t, then Ed Regis wouldn’t agree to remove his draining chains. And just like that, Father Stanton stopped calling Ed Regis a demon and apologized for his mistake.
I discovered that the Slayers, at least among themselves, were pretty civil people. They rarely shouted, never swore, said grace before meals and prayed before bed. They ate simple, primarily vegetarian food and lived a frugal life. At first glance, they looked like hardworking model citizens.
But that didn’t change the fact that they despised psionics with every fiber of their being. Father Stanton often sat me down after lunch or dinner and made me read selected passages from his Bible, after which he would explain to me how these words clearly justified the cold-blooded murder of all psionics. This was the same holy book that Mark had always used to preach tolerance and love. I found it amazing how easily Father Stanton could twist around its words. Still, I hadn’t come here for a debate on theology, so I nodded and smiled at him, which probably annoyed him even more than if I had argued.
“You are truly strange, young demon,” he said to me, clearly frustrated at my refusal to give him more reason to hate me. “I can’t imagine what you are thinking.”
“I get that a lot,” I told him.
The next day, Father Stanton visited our cell just after breakfast. He was carrying a round metal ball the size of a small apple. It was finally complete.
“Here it is,” said Father Stanton, handing the ball to Ed Regis. Ed Regis looked at it for a moment and then passed it to me.
“It’s a little high-tech compared to what we usually work with,” explained Father Stanton as I studied the thin lines on the casing and tried to figure out how it opened. “As per your request, it comes with a voice-activated detonator.”
“The yield?” asked Ed Regis.
“Comparable to a hand grenade,” said Father Stanton. “And I’m told that once implanted, the microphone power will last at least ten days, maybe twenty.”
“I’m not about to wait around,” I said.
“Go ahead and test the voice activation,” said Father Stanton. “It won’t explode.”
“What do I say to it?”
Father Stanton smiled. “You say to it, ‘Let there be light.’”
I heard a little click inside the ball which I assumed was the detonator switch. I frowned. “It answers to any voice?”
“Yes,” confirmed Father Stanton, “and the voice recognition may not be entirely accurate. We’ve found that it responds equally well to, ‘Get bears to fight,’ and other similarities. But the good par
t is that since it will be implanted under your flesh, the command will have to be given in a fairly loud voice for the detonator to hear it. It’s unlikely to be set off accidentally by background chatter.”
“Can it distinguish sounds from under flesh?” asked Ed Regis.
“We have, of course, tested that to make sure it works,” said Father Stanton, and then added hastily, “With a pile of steak meat.”
“Then let’s get this over with,” I said, tossing the bomb back to Father Stanton.
They operated on me that very afternoon.
The Slayer doctor gave me a towel to bite on, but nothing else for the pain as he cut open my lower left side. I clenched my fists and kept myself from letting out even the slightest whimper, knowing that the Slayers would enjoy seeing me in pain. Besides, I knew that I deserved this pain. The Slayer doctor did a fairly good job stitching me up, and in three more days, though the cut still throbbed when I moved, I was fit enough to travel.
So now I’m a human bomb, I thought to myself. A suicide bomber just like the crazies in the news sometimes. But this time it’s me. And strangely, or perhaps predictably, I felt perfectly normal with that now.
I even found it funny (in a sick sort of way) to think that I was most likely the world’s first agnostic suicide bomber. Just about anyone crazy enough to do something like this had to also be crazy enough to believe that they were following the will of some angry god. But not me. I was just following my own will. I wasn’t looking for any heavenly rewards. Far from it. If there was a heaven and hell, I was certain that I would end up in the latter. My only consolation was in the poetic justice that I would die first, if only a microsecond before my sister.
In the middle of the night, Ed Regis and I were once again blindfolded and taken out of the Slayer house. Again we rode in silence as we were taken across town to a parking lot where the Slayers had brought our sedan. When our blindfolds were removed, I discovered that Father Stanton himself had come with us to bid us farewell.
“Don’t expect me to thank you, Father,” I said to him. “You wanted this as much as I did.”
Father Stanton nodded.
Ed Regis opened the car door for me, helped me in, closed my door and then walked around to the driver’s side.
Once Ed Regis started the engine, I rolled down my window and looked up at Father Stanton, forcing a smile. “But thank you anyway, Father.”
Father Stanton shook his head and sighed. Then he said hesitantly, “If you don’t mind my asking, young demon, how do you really feel about what you are doing?”
“I feel nothing,” I told him.
“I see,” he said, shaking his head again. “Well then, may the Lord and the Devil be with you, son.”
I gave Father Stanton a wry smile. “I’m sure at least one of them will.”
Ed Regis put the car in gear and slowly backed out of the parking space. I looked at Father Stanton one last time through the windshield, catching the triumphant look on his face. Perhaps we had far more in common than either of us was willing to admit. I didn’t like that idea very much, but at least I got what I had come for.
The last step of my journey was pretty straightforward. I needed an audience with Queen Cat, and I had to make it look like I was caught as opposed to simply turning myself in. I had given up on the Royal Gate. While waiting in Father Stanton’s basement, Ed Regis and I had weighed several other options. We could return to Lumina and get caught trying to kidnap Cindy. We could return to Wood-claw to take revenge for Terry. We could even attack a random Angel settlement. Ed Regis overruled them all as being too risky. Even though the Angels were still trying to take me alive at all costs, all of these plans could wind up getting me shot and killed by accident.
Thus it was that after two uncomfortably long days on the road, Ed Regis pulled our sedan up onto the curb of a narrow, slummy road at the edge of a small coastal city. The dashboard clock showed that it was still only 7pm, but the dark, graffiti-covered walls and flickering neon lights made it feel much later.
“This is where I leave you, Adrian,” said Ed Regis. “Go down to the end of this block, turn left, two blocks, turn right, two blocks. You’ll see the sign at the corner. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks for being there,” I said, shaking his hand.
“It was my pleasure,” he replied solemnly.
I was glad Ed Regis had stopped trying to talk me out of doing this. I didn’t want to imagine the pain of having my bomb removed.
“Keep an eye on Candace for me,” I said quietly. “Make sure she keeps her promise. Help her if she needs it.”
“I will,” said Ed Regis.
I opened the door and stepped out of the car.
“Be careful you don’t start any fights you can’t finish in there,” was Ed Regis’s last warning.
Then he drove away.
I stood on the street for a moment, steeling myself for what I had to do.
Out of sheer habit, I gave Alia’s pendant a light tap, and remembered the little note from Candace still folded neatly in my jacket pocket: “Don’t forget to believe in miracles, Addy.”
It’ll be a miracle if I can pull this off, I thought to myself.
The cut on my left side was still a little red and swollen, but I could walk without too much pain. Soon I saw the double doors on the street corner, and the red and blue neon sign above them: The Dog’s Gate.
Self-conscious about my height and the fact that nothing about my appearance properly fit into a bar setting, I warily approached the entrance, expecting at any moment to be stopped by someone. Two tall men in black leather jackets eyed me curiously, but let me pass unhindered.
Inside was surprisingly clean and orderly. It looked more like a restaurant than a bar, though there was a long counter at the far end. Only about half of the tables were occupied, but it would probably get more crowded later. I saw two pool tables to my right, and for a second I pictured myself there with Terry, just having fun together like we used to in our old penthouse. Though she was horrible at it, Alia had liked playing pool too.
“Hey, kid!” called one of three men standing around the pool tables. “Where’s your mommy?”
The other two laughed, but I ignored them and headed toward the counter.
The whole bar was under a psionic hiding field, but as I passed by the tables, I could sense a few destroyer powers of the people drinking and chatting away. Some of them looked up at me, but I wasn’t sure if they recognized me or if they were simply wondering how old I was.
The barman was a burly redhead with eyes that looked like they had seen it all. He took little notice of me as I sat on a stool at the counter.
I telekinetically tugged a little on his right sleeve.
“What do you want, kid?” he asked gruffly.
“A beer,” I replied as casually as I could. “And I was hoping you could point me toward someone I could talk to about the Royal Gate.”
“Listen,” he said in an annoyed tone, “I don’t point people here. They come in and they talk. As for this Royal Gate, whatever it is, I can only tell you that you’re at the wrong gate.” He filled up a beer mug with tap water and smacked it down in front of me. “This one’s on the house. Drink it and get the hell out.”
“I thought I ordered a beer,” I said evenly, telekinetically sliding the mug of water back toward him.
The barman grabbed it before it slid off the counter. “Don’t do that in here, kid,” he said warningly under his breath. “Normal folk sometimes come in for a drink too.”
“If you’re not going to point anyone out for me, then maybe you can help,” I said.
“I told you already,” said the barman, “I don’t know nothing about no Royal Gate.”
“Okay. Then how about you tell me where I can find Randal Divine?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said I want to find Randal Divine,” I repeated loudly. “You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
A hush fel
l over the bar. I didn’t turn around, but I could almost count the number of eyes that were on my back. Even the pool players had stopped their game.
The barman chuckled. “I’m afraid I haven’t, kid. Randal Divine? Sorry. Never heard of him.”
Standing up from my stool, I gave the barman a smile and a nod. Then I telekinetically grabbed him by his hair and slammed his face down onto the counter. I released him, and he staggered back upright, holding his bleeding face.
“You broke my nose!” he yelled through the blood.
“Another cute word and I’ll break your neck!” I snapped.
I rounded on the crowd behind me and said furiously, “Has anybody else here not heard of Randal Divine?!”
Nobody moved. They just stared at me. If anything, they looked like they were amused by my performance.
Ed Regis had warned me not to start a large fight, and I wasn’t planning to. The basic rule of neutral ground at the Dog’s Gate was this: Anyone who struck anyone first would risk the wrath of the one and only true god among psionics. No one here was going to cross the Historian over me. Only the barman had the right to strike back, and if he did, I was prepared to lose.
But he didn’t strike back. When I turned to him again, he was carefully wiping his face with a wet paper towel. His nose was still bleeding but clearly not broken.
He said irately, “You’re heading into a world of trouble, you know that?”
I shrugged. “Believe me, sir, I’m already there.”
The barman narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell are you, kid?”
I looked at him in surprise. Did he honestly not know? I had assumed that a man like him would recognize me on sight.
“I’m Adrian Howell,” I told him.
“Yeah, and I’m Teresa Henderson,” the barman sneered.
I couldn’t help laughing at that. “You are nowhere near man enough to be Terry.”
Finally the barman seemed to notice my disparately colored eyes. “You’re really him?!”
I nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“There’s a bounty on your head, Adrian Howell.”
“So claim it,” I challenged icily. “Claim it or help me. Take your pick.”
Guardian Angel (Psionic Pentalogy Book 5) Page 30