Authors: Mark Everett Stone
Boris howled his agony to the ceiling, a raw animal cry that raised the hair on the back of my neck. His knee had
cracked
violently, bending the wrong way.
I rolled away, out of reach, as he collapsed onto his good knee, holding the other out to the side, crooked in all the wrong ways. My hand brushed something hard, cold and I reflexively grabbed hold, risking a look to see what it was.
Boris’ 9 mm. Hallelujah. The weapon swung around, impelled by a force that seemed not to be my own and pointed right between the big man’s eyes. To this day I still do not know if I would have pulled the trigger; there was a split second of hesitation as I held his eyes prisoner with the barrel’s cavernous hole. I had him dead bang, he was mine and he knew it. I could see it in his eyes, in the little twitch at the corner of his mouth.
A wash of burning agony in my ears, my mind, my chest and arms. A Word, spoken behind me, compressing my brain with the savagery of its power, my mind shrieking in protest as a black force swept over me. It drowned my soul in a miasma of spiritual sewage right before the chest and arms of my turtleneck exploded in blue flames. The unguent I’d smeared on my skin had overheated from absorbing too much power.
Twisting, the flames slapping at my throat and hands, I turned to see Julian with the Silver in one hand, a bright sheen of sweat on his face. He’d used one of the Thirty Words on me—Enslave, I believe—trying to turn me into a brainless automaton.
The fire ate at my skin. I could only ignore it for a second before the blistering pain became all-consuming. I saw Julian sway slightly, one hand braced on a mahogany desk as his mouth began to form a Word that would blast my brains into jelly. The 9 mm swung up, spitting bullets that stitched Julian up from thigh to shoulder. The Silver fell from his slack fingers, the heinous metal bouncing in a delirious dance across the carpet.
Frantically, I ripped the turtleneck from my body, along with a few patches of skin; the pain was so nerve-tearing, so awful that I sobbed like a child. The burning garment fell unheeded to the floor as I blurted one Healing after another, a soothing balm flowing along my seared chest and arms.
Sobbing in relief, I swung around and put two rounds into Boris’ ankles, spraying bones fragments and blood across the floor.
A knock on the door interrupted me before I could continue and I stuffed the pages of Morgan’s memoir under the air mattress.
The door opened to reveal Boris’ large frame. He gestured briefly for me to follow. Nodding, I stood and bowed my head in brief prayer. A beefy hand on my bicep interrupted me.
I stared down at the sausage-like digits encircling my arm and I felt something I thought long-since purged from my soul. Fury.
His grip slipped off as I suddenly raised my arm high and a slight look of shock appeared on his face. I decided to add to it by hitting him with an overhand right to the face.
The big man dropped and I snarled down at him, “I’m not tied to a chair now, Boris.” Panting and flushed with heat, I gritted my teeth in an effort to control the rage within. Not since Al-Qurnah, during Desert Storm—bullets buzzing around thick as bees—had I felt anger so hot, so pervasive that it threatened to slip from the chains of my self-control.
“Next time you interrupt me at my prayers, Boris,” I snarled as he stood, looming over me with ham-hands clenched. “Bring a weapon.”
Six, seven, eight seconds passed as the red slowly faded from the Russian’s eyes. Finally, with a grudging nod of respect, he once again gestured for me to follow.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Morgan
“Are my ears deceiving me?” Cain whispered in amazement as he poured imitation maple syrup on his pancakes. “Did you impart to my shell like protuberances that you have designed an artifact of small puissance using naught but Botanical Magic?”
I nodded. “My belt buckle alarm. Took me six years.”
“And you undertook such an endeavor without the benefit of the Word Create? With such an utterance, that commission would have cost you but a few minutes.”
A plump middle-aged waitress arrived to refill our coffee. Cain gave her one of his brilliant smiles that had her blushing like a schoolgirl. The man was far too handsome for his own good. He may have been an eternal wanderer, but I had the sneaking suspicion that he hadn’t lacked for company.
That morning he’d woke me up by whistling a merry tune. He was far jollier than a person ought to be at six a.m. and it took every iota of willpower not to curse him up one side and down the other. Despite the loan of too-big clothes, forgiveness came only with the first cup of coffee at the Dove’s Egg in downtown Gunnison.
I tapped my head. “All twelve Words known by the Sicarii are nestled in here, big man, and Create isn’t one of them.”
“All twelve, you say?” Cain grinned into his steaming cup. “All twelve?” He began to laugh.
“What’s so funny, Methuselah?”
Cain shoveled a good heaping of pancake into his mouth and chewed noisily before answering. “The very world teems with amusement for my pleasure, my young friend, but what tickles my fancy to the extreme is the knowledge that the Sicarii have a paltry twelve Words when there are total of twenty-five.”
I choked on a piece of syrup-drenched buttermilk pancake. Twenty-five Words? The concept was mind blowing! How could there be twenty-five Words when the Sicarii magi only had access to twelve?
“Ponder upon the origins of these Words of power, these pale reflections of the Word God employed to bring reality as we understand it into being. Now consider … what magus created these verbal instruments? How did he or she create such wonderful utterances?”
“She?”
“Ah, are the Sicarii so gender-biased? By your question it must be so; however, very little could surprise me when it comes to your kinsmen. Let’s us harken back to the topic at hand. Consider this, the Lord created the world and all therein, so if magic is part and parcel of creation …” his voice trailed off.
“Then magic comes from God? The Words, too?”
“Indeed there remains hope for you, yet. When my legendary parents partook of the Fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, the Words sprang new born into their minds, a mighty power they were unable to appreciate or utilize with sufficient wisdom. It was Pandora opening the box of lore, or Prometheus bestowing fire upon a shivering mankind. It was not only for disobedience that God banished man from the fruitful Garden, but for tapping into a power they were not ready to wield.”
My whisper was fierce. “Adam and Eve were the first … first …
magi
?”
“Yes.”
“And they passed these Words off onto you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are the Twenty-Five less powerful than the Thirty provided by the Silver?”
“My young friend, God employs a screwdriver, not a sledgehammer.”
I would’ve commented further, but I saw a man at a booth across the way reading a paper, the front page facing me and featuring a large color photo.
The photograph was of me; taken so long ago I almost didn’t recognize myself. “We have to leave, man,” I said slowly, peeling off a couple of twenties for our breakfast. “Now.”
To his inquiring look, I said, “Trust me.”
Fortunately, there was a newspaper dispenser outside the diner, so I purchased the
Denver
Post
and read the article while Cain peered over my shoulder, a big grin on his wide face:
Swiss billionaire philanthropist Julian Deschamps announced yesterday that his son, Olivier, has disappeared while on vacation in the U.S.
A spokesperson for the Deschamps family announced that longtime friend and spiritual advisor, Father Michael Engle of St. Stephen’s Catholic Church in Omaha, Nebraska, flew to New York to meet Mr. Deschamps to offer spiritual and emotional support.
Although no ransom demands have been made and no group has taken credit for Olivier’s disappearance, authorities are not ruling out foul play.
There was more, but it didn’t matter. It was a message meant for me, confirmation that they had Mike.
And they were taunting me.
Before I could crumble the paper in my furious hands, Cain deftly snatched it from my grasp. “Look here, Mr. Heart, an 800 number, a hotline for information as to your whereabouts.” A long finger stabbed the paper under the number.
I muttered a spiteful curse that caused Cain to raise an eyebrow. “They
want
me to call in. They’re messing with me, man.”
“If that indeed is their nefarious plan, perhaps you should establish communication to ascertain what it is they desire.”
“My Family is rich and powerful enough that they could trace even a cloned phone, and Avoidance doesn’t work on tech.”
Cain just smiled and led me back to the Wrangler, fired it up and started out of town. Before too long we passed the turn to his cabin, and before I could comment, he reached into the pocket of his black leather jacket and tossed me a cell.
“What your father and his Dagger Men fail to realize is that I am the oldest man in all of history, which has not only given me a unique perspective on life, but has allowed me to, with a touch of foresight, amass a fortune of almost inconceivable magnitude.”
I looked at the phone, the newest and best from Apple. “So what you’re saying is that you’re bucks up?”
A flash of teeth. “Bucks up? My good man, such a term does not do justice to the resources available to me. Why, if Julian were to know the true extent of my resources, no doubt he would suffer from an immediate and quite fatal stroke.”
“If you’re so damn rich, why haven’t you taken out the Sicarii long since? You could have hired thousands of mercenaries.”
We drove in silence for so long that I thought he wouldn’t answer, but finally he spoke. “I have beheld your kin and have been content to let them be. It is not for me to steer mankind in the right direction as End Times approach. Besides, throughout the millennia, I have been responsible for enough death and am not eager to add to that burden on my soul.”
“Then why help me?”
“I pondered that very question as I lay in repose last night. I have come to one inescapable conclusion.”
“You don’t really know?” I guessed.
“I don’t really know,” he agreed. “Despite the reasons I disclosed earlier. Perhaps my curse tugs at its leash and I must again go a-wandering. But that is neither here nor there. It is imperative you use the cell phone. Not to worry, I have invested quite a sum of capital to obtain a phone that not a soul on this earth has the wherewithal to track.” His grin almost blinded me. “It is good to be rich.”
Why not? I dialed the 800 number, the phone rang and an androgynous voice answered, “Deschamps tip line; what do you have for us?”
“I’d like to speak to Julian Deschamps, please.” In my mind’s eye, I saw a voice recognition program chugging away in an effort to study and verify my vocal patterns as well as tonality from the sample taken when I was younger—compensating for the differences that age and environment would have wrought.
Must have been a match, because the androgynous voice asked me to “Hold, please.” Less than a minute later a voice I never wanted to hear again came on the line.
“Hello, son.”
I licked my lips. “Hello, Julian. The newspapers, very subtle, so what do you do for an encore? Set fire to the Pentagon?”
“We needed your attention and subtle does not do the job. Your priest is here.”
“Funny, I don’t have any ownership papers. Must not be mine.”
“Very droll, son. If you want him back, you must come to me.”
“You know what, Julian,” I smiled savagely into the phone. “Keep him, man.”
“How American you sound, son. Do you think you sound like John Wayne? Gary Cooper?”
What a perfect straight line. What? He never saw
Die Hard
? “Everyone wants to be the Duke, but I kind of like Bruce Willis. You know, yippie-ki-yay, motherfu—”
“Enough!” shouted Julian, his normally calm voice thrumming with anger. “You are beginning to tire me. Come back and I will let your Liar’s pet go. Stay hidden, and I will hand the white collared boy-lover over to Boris for some face-to-face time.”
I could feel the phone-casing tremble in my clenched fist, but eased back before the glass facing could shatter. “Go ahead, give him to Boris. I hope that Russian maniac chokes on him.”
“You are quite serious, aren’t you?” Julian asked in surprise.
“As a heart attack.”
“I do not believe you.”
“And I don’t believe you will let the priest go if I turn myself in, so it looks like we’re at an impasse, Julian. Oh, and don’t bother to trace this call, you won’t be able to.”
“You have some impressive technology, boy, and a bad attitude.”
“Keeps me young. Tell you what, Julian, you let the priest go and I don’t come and kill you, Boris and everyone else. Just like I killed Burke.”