by Jim Butcher
Sanya slipped the assault rifle into an over-the-shoulder sports bag, but kept one hand on the stock. Michael nodded to me, and I took the lead. We circled around the building until we could see some of the planes. Ground crews were rushing around in confusion, and several guys with orange flashlights were waving them at flight crews, directing the wallowing jets away from the ramps to the concourse.
We had to climb a fence and drop down a ten-foot retaining wall to get behind the concourse, but in the dark and the confusion no one noticed us. I led us through a ground-crew door and through a room that was part garage and part baggage storage. Emergency lights were on and fire alarms still jangled. I passed a section of wall covered with calendar pinup girls, pictures of trucks, and a map of the concourse.
“Whoa, stop,” I said. Sanya bumped into my back. I glowered at him, and then peered at the map.
“Here,” I said, pointing at a marked door. “We’ll come out on this stairway.”
“Midway through,” Michael noted. “Which way do we go?”
“Split up,” Sanya suggested.
Michael and I said, “Bad idea,” at precisely the same time.
“Think,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “If I were an arrogant psychotic demon–collaborating terrorist out to trigger an apocalypse, where would I be?”
Sanya leaned over to look at the map and said, “The chapel.”
“The chapel,” said Michael.
“The chapel,” I echoed. “Down this hall, up the stairs, and to the left.”
We ran down the hall and up the stairs. I pushed open the door and heard a recorded voice telling me to be calm and proceed to the nearest exit. I checked my right before I did my left, and it saved my life.
A man in nondescript business wear stood watching the door and holding a submachine gun. When he saw me, he lifted the weapon, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and started shooting.
The slight pause was enough to let me reverse my direction. A couple of bullets went right through the steel fire door, but I stumbled back into Sanya. The big man caught me and spun, putting his back between me and the incoming bullets. I felt him jerk and heard him grunt once, and then we hit a wall and sank down.
I knew the gunman would be coming. Right then, he was probably circling out to the far wall across from the door. Once he had a clear line of fire down the stairs, he’d move up and gun us down.
I saw his shadow in the crack under the door, and I struggled to regain my feet. Sanya was doing the same thing, and the two of us managed to do little but keep each other down. The gunman came closer, his shadow moving in the little space beneath the door’s edge.
Michael stepped over me and Sanya, Amoracchius in hand, and shouted as he lunged forward, both hands driving the weight of the sword at the closed steel door. The sword went through the door, sinking almost to the hilt.
An erratic burst of gunfire sounded. Michael drew the sword back out of the door. Blood gleamed wet and scarlet along the length of the weapon’s blade. Michael put his back against the wall of the stairwell. The gun barked a couple of times more and fell silent. After a minute, blood seeped under the door in a spreading red puddle.
Sanya and I got untangled and got up. “You’re hit.”
Michael had already moved and stood behind Sanya. He ran his hands over Sanya’s back, grunted, and then held up a small, bright piece of metal, presumably the round. “It hit a strike plate. The vest caught it.”
“Progressive.” Sanya panted, wincing.
“You’re lucky the bullet had to go through a steel door before it got to you,” I muttered. I readied a shield and pressed the door slowly open.
The gunman lay on the floor. Michael’s thrust had taken him just under the floating ribs, and had to have hit an artery to kill him so quickly. His gun lay in his hand, and his finger was limp on the trigger.
Sanya and Michael slipped out of the stairwell. Sanya had his rifle in hand. They stood lookout while I bent down and pried open the dead gunman’s mouth. He didn’t have a tongue. “One of Nicodemus’s boys,” I said quietly.
“Something is wrong,” Michael said. Blood dripped from the tip of the sword to the floor. “I don’t feel him anymore.”
“If you can feel him, can he feel you? Could he know if you were getting close to him?”
Michael shrugged. “It seems likely.”
“He’s cautious,” I said, remembering how Nicodemus had reacted when Shiro came through the door. “He doesn’t take chances. He wouldn’t wait around to start a fight he wasn’t sure he could win. He’s running.” I stood up and headed for the chapel. “Come on.”
Just as I got to the chapel’s door, it swung open and two more men came out, both of them slapping clips into submachine guns. One of them didn’t look up in time to see me, so I checked him in the forehead with a double-handed thrust of my staff, getting my whole weight behind the blow. His head snapped back and he dropped. The other gunman started to bring his weapon up, but I batted the barrel aside with a sweep of my staff, then snapped the end of it hard into his nose. Before he could recover, Sanya stepped into him and slammed the butt of the Kalashnikov against his head. He fell on top of the first guy, tongueless mouth lolled open.
I stepped over them and into the chapel.
It had been a small, modest room. There were two rows of three pews each, a pulpit, a table, and subdued lighting. There were no specific religious trappings to the place. It was simply a room set aside to accommodate the spiritual needs of worldwide travelers of every belief, creed, and faith.
Any one of them would have felt profaned by what had been done to the room.
The walls had been covered in sigils, somewhat similar to those I had seen on the Denarians so far. They were painted in blood, and still wet. The pulpit had been leaned against the back wall, and the heavy table laid along it, so that it lay at an angle to the floor. On either side of the table was a chair covered in bits of bone, a few candles. On one of the chairs was a carved silver bowl, almost entirely covered in fresh blood. The room smelled sickly sweet, and whatever was in those candles made the air thick, languid, and hazy. Maybe opium. It had probably accounted for the slowed reaction of the second two gunmen. The candles shed muted light over the table’s surface.
What was left of Shiro lay on it.
He was on his back, and shirtless. Torn flesh and dark, savage bruises, some of them in the clear outline of chains, lapped around from his back. His hands and feet were grotesquely swollen. They’d been broken so badly and in so many places that they looked more like sausages than human limbs. His belly and chest had been sliced up as I’d seen before, on the real Father Vincent and on Gaston LaRouche’s corpse as well.
“There’s so much blood,” I whispered.
I felt Michael enter the room behind me. He made a soft, choking sound.
I stepped closer to Shiro’s remains, noting clinical details. His face had been left more or less untouched. There were several items scattered around him on the floor—ritual implements. Whatever they had intended him for, they’d already done it. There were sores on his skin, fever blisters, I thought, and his throat was swollen. The damage to his skin probably hid many other such marks of pestilence.
“We’re too late,” Michael said quietly. “Have they already worked the spell?”
“Yeah,” I said. I sat down on the first pew.
“Harry?” Michael said.
“There’s so much blood,” I said. “He wasn’t a very big person. You wouldn’t think there could be so much blood.”
“Harry, there’s nothing else we can do here.”
“I knew him, and he wasn’t very big. You wouldn’t think there would be enough for all the painting. The ritual.”
“We should go,” Michael said.
“And do what? The plague has already started. Odds are we have it. If we carry it out, we only spread it. Nicodemus has the Shroud and he’s probably out looking for a full school bus or something.
He’s gone. We missed.”
“Harry,” Michael said quietly. “We must—”
Anger and frustration suddenly burned hot and bright behind my eyes. “If you talk to me about faith I’ll kill you.”
“You don’t mean that,” Michael said. “I know you too well.”
“Shut up, Michael.”
He stepped up next to me and leaned Shiro’s cane against my knee. Then, without a word, he drew back to the wall and waited.
I picked up the cane and drew the wooden handle of the old man’s sword out enough to see five or six inches of clean, gleaming metal. I slapped it shut again, stepped up to Shiro, and composed him as best I could. Then I rested the sword beside him.
When he coughed and wheezed, I almost screamed.
I wouldn’t have thought that anyone could survive that much abuse. But Shiro drew in a ragged breath, and blinked open one eye. The other had been put out, and his eyelid looked sunken and strange.
“Hell’s bells,” I stammered. “Michael!”
Michael and I both rushed down beside him. It took him a moment to focus his eye on us. “Ah, good,” he rasped. “Was getting tired waiting for you.”
“We’ve got to get him to a hospital,” I said.
The old man twitched his head in a negative gesture. “Too late. Would do no good. The noose. The Barabbus curse.”
“What is he talking about?” I asked Michael.
“The noose Nicodemus wears. So long as he bears it, he apparently cannot die. We believe the noose is the one used by Judas,” Michael said quietly.
“So what’s this Barabbus curse?”
“Just as the Romans put it within the power of the Jews to choose one condemned prisoner each year to be pardoned and given life, the noose allows Nicodemus to mandate a death that cannot be avoided. Barabbus was the prisoner the Jews chose, though Pilate wanted to free the Savior. The curse is named for him.”
“And Nicodemus used it on Shiro?”
Shiro twitched his head again, and a faint smile touched his mouth. “No, boy. On you. He was angry that you escaped him despite his treachery.”
Hell’s bells. The entropy curse that had nearly killed both me, and Susan with me. I stared at Shiro for a second, and then at Michael.
Michael nodded. “We cannot stop the curse,” he said. “But we can take the place of its subject, if we choose to do it. That’s why we wanted you to stay away, Harry. We were afraid Nicodemus would target you.”
I stared at him and then at Shiro. My vision blurred. “It should be me lying there,” I said. “Dammit.”
“No,” Shiro said. “There is much you do not yet understand.” He coughed, and pain flashed over his face. “You will. You will.” He twitched the arm nearest the sword. “Take it. Take it, boy.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not like you. Like any of you. I never will be.”
“Remember. God sees hearts, boy. And now I see yours. Take it. Hold it in trust until you find the one it belongs to.”
I reached out and picked up the cane. “How do I know who to give it to?”
“You will know,” Shiro said, his voice becoming thinner. “Trust your heart.”
Sanya entered the room and padded over to us. “The police heard the gunfire. There’s an assault team getting ready to—” He froze, staring at Shiro.
“Sanya,” Shiro said. “This is our parting, friend. I am proud of you.”
Sanya swallowed and knelt down by the old man. He kissed Shiro’s forehead. Blood stained his lips when he straightened.
“Michael,” Shiro said. “The fight is yours now. Be wise.”
Michael laid his hand on Shiro’s bald head and nodded. The big man was crying, though his face was set in a quiet smile.
“Harry,” Shiro whispered. “Nicodemus is afraid of you. Afraid that you saw something. I don’t know what.”
“He should be afraid,” I said.
“No,” the old man said. “Don’t let him unmake you. You must find him. Take the Shroud from him. So long as he touches it, the plague grows. If he loses it, it ends.”
“We don’t know where he is,” I said.
“Train,” Shiro whispered. “His backup plan. A train to St. Louis.”
“How do you know?” Michael asked.
“Told his daughter. They thought I was gone.” Shiro focused on me and said, “Stop them.”
My throat clenched. I nodded. I managed to half growl, “Thank you.”
“You will understand,” Shiro said. “Soon.”
Then he sighed, like a man who has just laid down a heavy burden. His eye closed.
Shiro died. There was nothing pretty about it. There was no dignity to it. He’d been brutalized and savagely murdered—and he’d allowed it to happen to him in my place.
But when he died, there was a small, contented smile on his face. Maybe the smile of someone who had run his course without wavering from it. Someone who had served something greater than himself. Who had given up his life willingly, if not gladly.
Sanya said, his voice strained, “We cannot remain here.”
I stood up and slung the cane on its strap over my shoulder. I felt cold, and shivered. I put a hand to my forehead, and found it clammy and damp. The plague.
“Yeah,” I said, and strode out of the room and back toward the blood-spattered stairs. “Clock’s running.”
Michael and Sanya kept pace. “Where are we going?”
“The airfield,” I said. “He’s smart. He’ll figure it out. He’ll be there.”
“Who?” Michael asked.
I didn’t answer. I led them back down through the garage area and out onto the airfield tarmac. We hurried down along the concourse, and then out onto the open acres of asphalt that led from the concourses to the landing fields. Once we’d gotten out there, I took off my pentacle amulet and held it aloft, focusing on it in order to cause it to begin to shed a distinctive blue light.
“What are you doing?” Sanya asked.
“Signaling,” I said.
“Who?”
“Our ride.”
It took maybe forty-five seconds before the sound of a helicopter’s blades whirled closer to us. The aircraft, a blue-and-white-painted commercial job, zipped down to hover over us before dropping down for a precise if hurried landing.
“Come on,” I said, and headed for the craft. The side door opened, and I climbed in with Michael and Sanya close behind me.
Gentleman Johnny Marcone, dressed in dark fatigues, nodded to me and to the two Knights. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Just tell me where to take you.”
“Southwest,” I said, yelling over the noise of the chopper. “They’re going to be on a commercial train heading for St. Louis.”
Michael stared at Marcone in shock. “This is the man who ordered the Shroud stolen to begin with,” he said. “You don’t think he’s going to work with us?”
“Sure he will,” I said. “If Nicodemus gets away with the Shroud and pulls off this big curse, Marcone’s spent all that money for nothing.”
“Not to mention that the plague would be bad for business,” Marcone added. “I think we can agree to help one another against this Nicodemus. We can discuss the disposition of the Shroud afterward.” He turned and thumped the pilot’s shoulder a couple of times, and yelled directions. The pilot glanced back at us, and I saw Gard’s profile against the flight instruments. Hendricks leaned in from the passenger seat, listening to Marcone, and nodded himself.
“Very well then,” Marcone called, leaning back into the cabin. He took a large-caliber hunting rifle down from a rack and settled into a seat, buckling up. “Best strap in, gentlemen. Let’s go recover the holy Shroud.”
I settled in and told Michael, “Now, if only we had a bit of Wagner to send us on our way.”
I saw Gard’s reflection in the chopper’s front windows look up at my words. Then she flicked a couple of switches, and “Ride of the Valkyries” started thrumming through the helico
pter’s cabin.
“Yee-haw,” I said as my elbows and knees started a nagging ache. “As long as we’re going, we might as well go out in style.”
Chapter
Thirty-two
After a few minutes, the ride got bumpy. The chopper started jouncing at random, lurching several feet in any given direction. If I hadn’t been strapped in, I probably would have slammed my head against the walls or ceiling.
Marcone put on a headset and spoke into a microphone. He listened to the answer and then shouted to the rest of us, “The ride may be a bit bumpier. The stabilizers are run by the onboard computer, which has failed.” He gave me a direct look. “I can only speculate as to why.”
I looked around, picked up another headset, put it on, and said, “Blow me.”
“Excuse me?” came Gard’s somewhat outraged voice over the intercom.
“Not you, blondie. I was talking to Marcone.”
Marcone folded his arms in his seat, half smiling. “It’s all right, Miss Gard. Compassion dictates that we must make allowances. Mister Dresden is a diplomatically challenged individual. He should be in a shelter for the tactless.”
“I’ll tell you what you can do with your shelter,” I said. “Marcone, I need to speak to you.”
Marcone frowned at me, and then nodded. “How much time before we reach the southbound tracks?”
“We’re over the first one now,” Gard replied. “Three minutes to catch the train.”
“Inform me when we reach it. Mister Hendricks, please switch the cabin headphones to channel two.”
Hendricks didn’t say anything, and it made me wonder why he had bothered with a headset.
“There,” came Marcone’s voice after a moment. “We’re speaking privately.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said.
“Tell you that I hadn’t sent Mister Franklin for you?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you have believed me?”
“No.”
“Would you have thought I was playing some kind of game with you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why waste the time and make you more suspicious? Generally speaking, you are quite perceptive—given enough time. And I know you well enough to know that I do not wish to have you as my enemy.”