Ghosts of Manhattan (32 page)

The Roman looked longingly at the armor in the case behind the inspector. "I remember when it was made for me, as if it was yesterday." He sighed. "It still fits, you know. Just as snug as it did all those many years ago."

Donovan just stared at him, clutching the grip of his gun.

The Roman seemed to shrug off the reverie. "I see Gideon failed me once again." He regarded Donovan through narrow eyes. "So be it. He's an impulsive fool, full of self-import and theatrics."

"He's also dead," Donovan replied laconically, trying to prevent his hand from shaking.

The Roman nodded slowly, accepting this information without even a flicker of emotion. "How interesting. Did you enjoy his death, Mr. Donovan? I hope very much that you did. It's important to take at least some satisfaction in the killing of another, don't you think? Otherwise it's such a waste of a life."

Donovan didn't know how to respond to such heinous logic. Instead, he indicated the glass case with the nose of his gun. "It's quite a collection you have here. But I don't see the marble wheel you stole from the museum the other night. Where is it?"

The Roman's expression changed. All of a sudden he looked hard, serious, dangerous. His ire was up. Donovan repressed a shudder. The timbre of the man's voice had altered, too, becoming stern and commanding. "The item you refer to, the marble `wheel,' belongs to me. It was stolen from my house in Pompeii over eighty years ago, taken by a cadre of amateur grave robbers. They sold it to your precious museum, and I decided it would serve me well to leave it there until I needed it. Circumstances have changed. Now I want it back."

Donovan offered the Roman an incredulous stare. Was he really claiming to have owned a house in Pompeii? That this armor-this centurion's armor-was originally his? Donovan nearly lost his composure. The Roman was clearly insane, so wrapped up in his fantasy that he'd begun to believe it himself, begun to adopt the personality and history that his assumed moniker implied. Only ... the man's eyes were sharp and appraising, and he lacked the maniacal qualities of Gideon Reece. He didn't look insane. The artifacts in the room, too: none of them would have been easy to acquire, unless he'd been there at the time they were made ...

But Donovan knew that was crazy talk. Nobody lived that long. Most likely he'd acquired the items through nefarious means, exploiting his criminal network to obtain the treasures he desired, and was now so addled by the power he'd attained that he'd been swept up in his own myth, convincing himself he was a reincarnated Roman foot soldier.

Donovan actually found himself feeling sorry for the man, right up until the moment he swept into the room, catching Donovan off guard, and twisted his wrist so sharply that he dropped the gun on the hardwood floor and fell to his knees, croaking in agony. Then he remembered just who he was dealing with. But by then it was too late, and the Roman was calling for guards, who appeared moments later in their droves, armed and ready to serve their insane master.

Upstairs, the Ghost was having trouble restraining himself. He'd been lurking around the corner at the top of the stairs for nearly five minutes, concealed behind a wall, patiently watching two goons as they paced back and forth along the landing, shooting the breeze in a relaxed fashion as they guarded one of any number of white bedroom doors.

He fought the urge to step out onto the landing and shoot them both dead. He much preferred the direct approach, but he needed to know which of the rooms they were watching over, and besides, he had his principles. When the time came, he would let them be the first to raise their guns in anger. Then he would kill them both and find Celeste.

Standing there, deadly still, was beginning to take its toll on him. As long as he kept on moving, he was okay, but now his muscles were starting to protest and the aches and bruises of the previous few days were starting to light up his nerves with pain. The moss man at the power station had given him a severe beating-more severe than he'd let on to Donovan-and he was starting to fear that the blow to his head had left him concussed. He was tired and sick to his stomach. But he recognized that could also be to do with the fact that he hadn't eaten that day, or a symptom of his reticence to discover the truth about Celeste. He had to save her-of course he did-but just as powerful as his desire to do so was his fear over what he might find. And even then, there was the terrible secret she had kept from him. Was it connected to all this? Did she know something about the Roman that she hadn't been able to tell him?

The Ghost watched the two mobsters as they reached the far end of the landing, tuned, and started back. As they did so, the one on the left flicked a quick glance at one of the bedroom doors, the same door he'd glanced at as he passed along the landing in the opposite direction. That was it, then. That was the door to Celeste. To his future. To whatever lay ahead.

The Ghost readied his flechette gun and strode out casually into the passageway, facing the two goons as they strolled toward him. The one on the right saw him first and started, recognition flaring in his eyes. He scrambled for his gun. The other, who'd been talking, took a second longer to realize what was happening, and by the time he'd reached for his weapon he was already dead, an explosive round in his throat. The Ghost had seen him go for his gun. That was enough. He couldn't help it if the goons were slow to the draw.

The other opened his mouth to call out and just as quickly a flashing blade embedded itself in the back of his throat, passing between his teeth to pierce the soft tissue behind his tonsils. His head detonated on the count of three, spreading brain matter across the walls, just as the other body toppled to the floor beside him, a hole where its throat used to be. The sounds of the explosions echoed in the confined space, and the Ghost hoped they wouldn't be heard elsewhere in the house. He kept his weapon at the ready just in case.

The Ghost strode on down the hallway, his heart hammering in his chest, his palms sweating inside his leather gloves. He faced the door, tried the handle. It was locked, of course. He glanced down at the pulpy mess of the two goons by his feet, had to look away in disgust. He backed up, careful to avoid tripping over the bodies, and then kicked out at the door, crunching the lock and bursting it open, the top hinge splintering away from the frame to come to rest at a jaunty angle. He pushed it to one side and rushed forward into the room.

Celeste Parker was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. He didn't see anything else, didn't pay attention to the room around her. She looked immaculate, untouched. Her auburn hair fell in a perfect wave about her shoulders, framing her pretty, pale face. She was dressed in a short blue dress that revealed her shapely legs, and to the Ghost she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He ran to her side and she leapt up, flinging her arms around his neck. Then she pushed him away, grabbed at his face in both hands, and kissed him deeply on the lips. "Oh, Gabriel. You brave, stupid fool. What are you doing here?"

The Ghost grabbed Celeste by the shoulders, holding her firmly, as though scared that he might somehow lose her again. "What do you think I'm doing here? I've come to rescue you. I have a car outside. We need to make a run for it."

She gave a minute shake of her head and pulled away from him. The look on her face was of someone grieving, distraught. "No, Gabriel. You don't understand. I can't go." A pause. "Haven't you worked it out yet?"

The Ghost grunted impatiently. "No, I haven't. I haven't worked anything out. What the hell is going on here? We need to go." Celeste was weeping now, and he clutched her to him, holding her head against his chest. "Celeste, we can talk later. Whatever it is, whatever you think you can't tell me, we'll work it out. We'll fix it, together. But right now we need to get out of this house before someone finds the bodies I've left in the hallway."

She beat her fists against his chest, as if trying to drive him away from her, as if trying to fight against some terrible enemy that only she could see. He grabbed her by the wrists. Her body was wracked by sobs as she poured out the emotion she had bottled up for so long. She looked up into his face, her mascara running in long tributaries down her cheeks; black rivers that coursed all the way from her heart. All he wanted to do was hold her, comfort her, but he needed to get her to safety. He felt his heart rending in two.

"Celeste ..." His voice was a whisper now. "Celeste-"

"I love you, Gabriel, but you have to know something."

"Tell me. Anything."

She sucked at the air, trying to regain her composure. "Gabriel, I can't be with you. I'm going to die."

The words were like ice to him, causing him to stiffen in fear. He forced a smile, confused by her sudden outburst. "No, Celeste. You're safe now. I'm going to get you home."

She shook her head. "I only wish it were that simple. But the lives of thousands of people depend on it." She dropped to the bed and the Ghost glanced at the door, anxious that they didn't have very long before the alarm would be raised and they suddenly found themselves with unwanted company. Her words slowly registered through the haze.

"Celeste, you're confused. Look, come on. We can talk later."

"No!" She was suddenly furious with him, frustrated that he seemed not to be paying attention, hearing what she had to say. "This runs deeper than you think, Gabriel, deeper than the mob, deeper than the Roman and Gideon Reece. This is a story that spans centuries, and there's no other way of ending it."

The Ghost stared at her, dumbfounded. "What are you talking about?"

"The Roman. That's who I'm talking about. Do you know who he is? Who he really is?"

The Ghost shrugged. "He's a mob boss, a plague on the city. A madman. He needs to be eradicated."

Celeste was shaking her head. "He's all of those things, true, but he's something else, too. He's a Roman centurion from the first century. His name is Gains Lucius Severnius."

The Ghost didn't know whether to laugh, or to break down. Her mind had snapped. The shock of her abduction, of the way she'd been treated: it had taken its toll on her, and she was caught up in some terrible fantasy regarding her captor. He considered bashing her on the head and carrying her out to the car over his shoulder. But there was Donovan to think of, too; he needed her capable so she could drive the car.

He wondered if Celeste could see the disbelief in his eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, measured. Disconsolate. "I knew you wouldn't understand." She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, and then continued, trying again. "There are more things in this universe, Gabriel, than you could possibly imagine. The Roman made a pact with one such thing. Now it's time for him to do so again. I have to be here to stop him."

Gabriel frowned. "I know more than you think, Celeste." He thought back to the farmhouse in France; shuddered at the unbidden memory. He knew about the things that lurked in the darkness. Could she be telling the truth? She clearly believed it herself. He felt as if he were trapped in some sort of terrible waking nightmare.

He reached out; put his hand on her arm, as much to ground himself as to comfort the woman before him. "So you're saying the Roman has walked this earth for nearly two thousand years, that he's mixed up in some sort of supernatural union that extended his life?"

Celeste shrugged. "Not supernatural, no. These entities, they're all around us. They're here, now, in this very room, just out of step with us, inhabiting a different dimensional space. We cross paths with them all the time, but neither is aware of it happening. Do you understand?"

The Ghost shrugged. "Yes, I think I understand."

Celeste continued, "The Roman discovered a means to collapse those dimensions together, to give those creatures a physical presence in our own space and time. And they rewarded him for it. A hormone they secrete from a gland in their abdomens, it arrests the aging process in mammals. It slowed his aging for nearly two thousand years, kept his body repairing itself, over and over. But now he's started aging again, and he needs to bring another entity through if he wants to live."

It all made a terrible sort of sense to the Ghost. The things he'd seen in France, the monsters he'd encountered when he was alone and delirious following the crash. The sights that had made him the man he was. Could this be the explanation? The hair on the nape of his neck was prickling, standing on end. "How do you know all of this, Celeste? And what has it got to do with you? Why does it mean you're going to die?" He almost choked on the question.

She fixed him with an intense stare. "Because I'm the only one who can stop it. The Roman cares only for his own life. That much is obvious. He'll gladly sacrifice the city to the creature, give it up and move on. When you've lived for two thousand years, other people's lives, they must seem small and unimportant, flames that flicker briefly before going out. The creature is dangerous, Gabriel. It will hurt people. A lot of people. And I can stop it."

"If what you're saying is right, then we'll stop it together." He hefted his flechette gun as if to underline his point. "There's no need for anyone to die."

Celeste sighed. "Your weapons won't stop it, Gabriel. But my blood is poison to it." She wiped away the remains of her tears with the edge of her palm. "I've always known this might come to pass. I come from a long bloodline, reaching all the way back to those first days, when the Roman Empire was at its height and the world's religions were being born. My ancestors stopped that first creature, back in Rome, sacrificed themselves for the greater good. And ever since, my family-a large, extended family, with branches all over the worldhas kept watch on Severnius and others like him, patiently waiting, observing. It's just my damn bad luck he's chosen this place, and this time, to act." She reached out, took his hand in hers. They were damp with her tears. "I love you, Gabriel Cross. Never forget that." It sounded final.

The Ghost's heart was hammering in his chest. He felt dizzy, confused. He couldn't let her go through with it, whatever she was planning to do. He had to find a way to help her. And then a thought occurred to him. "So why does the Roman want you here, if he knows the truth about you, about the risk you pose to his plans? Why didn't he just kill you like the others?"