Book and Blade: Book One of the Hand of Perdition (10 page)

Christopher realized why the Librarian had brought him here.

"And you think that Rath's name is on that book on the pedestal don't you?" Christopher asked.

The Librarian appeared to nod, although the hooded cloak made it hard to tell for sure.

Christopher put the book back on the shelf and went to the volume on the pedestal. It was open to the beginning of a chapter. Rath's name was listed above a drawing of a tall man. The picture was vague and blurred, but there was no mistake it was the tall man from the cemetery.

"Why is there no detail about his past or the picture of when he was alive?" Christopher asked.

"That is odd," the Librarian said and looked over his shoulder. "I have never seen that before."

"What does it mean?"

"I have no idea."

Christopher flipped the page. There was a narrative of his encounter with the hitmen and of his first meeting with Rath.

"Did you write this?"

"No, the words will appear as you experience them. But I am puzzled as to why there is nothing about his past in the book. That has never happened. I will do some research."

"So I’m supposed to kill him right? That's my first job?"

"Yes. However, you don't need to hunt them down in order. You can simply flip to another chapter in the book if you like, but eventually you will have to go after this Rath."

"Was this the soul my predecessor was hunting when he was killed?" Christopher asked.

"I am not sure, but since the book was open to this page I assume it is."

"When I talked to him, this Beast, he mentioned that the soul he was hunting had something called a Relic? Does that mean anything?" Christopher asked.

"Perhaps. I have come across mention of items called Relics. Although I do not have the details, they were weapons and other devices that had particular effect on supernatural foes, particularly those from heaven and hell. I will do some research."

"Great, I have an academic for a sidekick. How does that help me now?"

"It doesn't," the Librarian said calmly.

Christopher wished he could see his face. He wanted to see if there was a smug smile under that hood.

"Really? All these books in this library and you don't have anything useful for me?"

"I apologize. I seem to have misplaced the card catalog for all the knowledge in the universe," the Librarian said and this time Christopher didn't need to see his face to hear the sarcasm.

"I have enough to think about trying to stop Ambros. I'll get no peace if he keeps trying to kill me. I'll have to worry about Rath later."

"Ah, Ambros I can help you with," the Librarian said. He pulled a small note book from his sleeve.

"I took the liberty of doing some light research on this man. I thought it might help."

Christopher took the small book.

"What is this?"

"Layout of his house, number of men that he has for security, what they are armed with, what times he will be home. That sort of thing."

"Where the hell did you get this info?" Christopher asked, flipping through the book.

The Librarian sighed. "Do I really have to mention how this is a storehouse of all the knowledge in the universe again? Because it is becoming tiresome."

"Yeah, yeah. Can I take it with me?"

"No, nothing can leave this library. It is just a concept remember? A way for you to understand this place."

"Okay, got it. We'll have to work on it though because this is a great resource to have, especially if I can take it with me out there,” Christopher said.

He studied the book more closely, making note of how many men he should expect. Mostly they were armed with pistols, but quite a few had assault rifles. He tried to memorize the layout of the house, looking for an entry point, but he was no military man. He was a college student, technically a dropout at this point. Frankly, he didn't have a clue what he was doing. He would have to do this like he’d done everything else. He'd have to wing it.

"A word of advice?" inquired the Librarian.

"Of course. I need all the help I can get."

"So far, your experience with your new abilities has been out of desperation and accidents. I suggest you do some specific analysis to explore your capabilities."

"What do you mean by specific analysis?"

"I mean practice," said the Librarian. "While you are charged with hunting down powerful escaped souls from Hell, there is nothing to stop you from hunting down or stopping other mortals, as you are doing with Ambros."

"Stop other bad people? What, like a superhero? I thought you didn't like my Superman analogy." Christopher said with a chuckle.

"I was merely suggesting that you start with someone a little easier than an underworld kingpin and his supernatural henchman."

Chris had to admit, the idea made sense. A thought occurred to him.

"You said all the information in the universe right?"

"Yes," the Librarian said warily.

"So you could give me stock tips? Maybe a lotto number or two?"

"You are hell on earth, about to do battle with beings most humans don't even know exist, beings that could destroy you very painfully, and you are worried about money?"

"Good point," Christopher said, suddenly less sure of himself.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Librarian was right about one thing—he didn't know the extent of his newfound abilities, and he could use some practice. But he wasn't even sure he wanted to use them anyway. He had to stop Ambros, the desire for revenge burned inside him too strongly not to. But the rest of it? Hunting down these black souls? Christ, he was almost killed by a bunch of zombies.

He was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling and trying to think this through, his iPhone playing a mix of alternative and classic rock through his stereo.

The seed of hell deep down inside of him burned with an angry warmth and whispered hatred into his ear. He could feel it compelling him to hunt, to rip souls apart.

The anger over his parent's and sister's stupid deaths, his anger over his girlfriend dumping him, the frustration of almost being killed several times, all added fuel to the fire that was burning.

It flared up and before he knew it, he was standing by his window. It was repaired, but unfinished—just a plain wooden frame, drywall edges exposed. An ugly mark on what was otherwise a beautiful home.

He had made that mark, true, but only because of that bastard Ambros. The seed inside him craved blood, and Christopher wanted to give it some.

In seconds he pulled the shadows to him, forming his hood and coat. He slipped the Book into a shadow pocket and the Weapon, still a pocket knife, although now vibrating with power, into his other pocket.

But he couldn't just walk down the street like this. He could feel the dark tendrils of force emanating from his body. One good look and he would have the people on the streets running in fear and eventually calling the cops. A swat team trying to take him out was the last thing he needed.

He looked at the buildings across the street. The people in those houses and tall towers looked down on people. Literally, not figuratively. He, himself, had done it a thousand times from this window. Looking down at other people as they moved through their lives, wondering what was going on in their heads, what lives did they live and was it a better one than he had?

These people rarely looked up.

Besides, this would be a good time to work on accuracy, he thought, as he climbed out onto the tiny ledge outside his window. He couldn't stay long on the ledge, he didn't need some neighbor reporting a suicide attempt the night after somebody died in the streets.

Gathering the energy from inside, he leapt, aiming for the top edge of the building across from him.

He missed.

He cleared the edge and overshot it by a lot. He managed to land on the roof with a thud, almost barreling over the other side, and caught himself on the wall. A few more feet and he would have missed the building entirely.

He paused for a moment to see if an alarm was raised. He heard no one yelling or raised voices calling for the cops.

Across the street the next row of house roofs were the same level as this one. He jumped again, this time aiming for dead center.

Almost. He crashed into a large air conditioner. The metal squealed and groaned under him as he pulled himself out of the twisted metal.

Now that made a lot of noise
, he thought,
time to get out of here
. He brushed himself off and jumped to the next one with slightly better accuracy.

He moved through the city like this, silently for the most part. Although he did hear the occasional exclamation, mostly from vagrants, he moved on immediately. He never stopped long enough to gather any attention.

He found he could move fairly quickly. His running speed was enhanced with his power, and the jumps covered great distances. He found he moved faster than any car or train could in the city since he could travel in straight lines.

And it felt good.

The power flowed through him easily. It burned in a good way and the more he embraced it, the better it made him feel. It burned away his fears and concerns and left him feeling strong and powerful.

He was fucking flying through the city! Well almost. But it was at least as cool as Spiderman.

Christopher smelled the man long before he saw him. It was a smell he was only now beginning to understand. It stole his attention and drew his focus like a wolf who smells the kill. It was the smell of evil.

He had stopped on a building in the Bronx to take a break and get his bearings. Flying through the city at that speed can be disorienting.

A car drove down the street. It was a restored 70's-style car. Christopher was not a car buff and didn't know the make and model. But he could smell the man driving.

It was not an escaped dark soul like Rath, his was a distinct overpowering stench. No, this man was mortal, but evil nonetheless. The desire that leapt up from the pit of hell inside him was almost overpowering.

The car rolled slowly down the street as if waiting for something. A shadow detached from an alleyway and moved towards it. The driver stopped the car and rolled down the window. A quick verbal exchange, then they passed each other something.

A drug deal, Christopher guessed. As the car drove off, he followed. It was easy to keep up with it, jumping from rooftop to rooftop. Eventually it pulled into a garage. It looked like a body shop.

Others entered the shop and the smell seeping out of the place reeked. If only the police had this ability to smell evil.

It was a gang meeting of some sort, Christopher thought. From the auras he could see that not all of them were on the extreme side of bad as the driver in that car was, but all of them had black marks on their souls, and not just petty theft. Christopher was not sure how he could tell, but it seemed with the combination of his nose and the auras he could get a vague idea of what had put that mark of evil on their souls.

The power inside of him didn't care. It wanted to harvest. And before he could think, Christopher found himself jumping to the street below and walking towards the building.

He could almost taste their souls, and he wanted to grin at this reaping. It was like a blood lust, only nothing so banal. Souls were the only sustenance that would sate his desire.

The garage door was closed, but a man stood nearby. When he saw Christopher approaching, he opened the side door and yelled inside.

"Yo. Some fool out here. He's steppin’."

Then he walked towards Christopher.

"Mothafuka better get the fuck out of here," the gang member said.

Christopher knew the man couldn't see his face, at least not clearly, not in the shifting darkness of the shadows draped about him. But it didn’t matter, Christopher was looking at the man's aura. Then to his surprise, as much as the man's, he started sniffing him.

"What the fuck?" The man said and pulled out a gun.

"You have killed," Christopher said.

"Damn straight, mothafuka and I'm gonna kill your ass too."

"You have raped." It was a rhetorical statement, Christopher could see it plainly on his soul. "You have killed the innocent for your own gain, your own pride."

"The fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?" The man said.

Others had come out of the garage, about four guys surrounded him.

"You in the wrong place little bitch," one of them said.

"We gonna fuck you up little bitch," another said.

Christopher felt no fear. That alone should have caused him to be afraid. But the fury and hatred powered him and confrontation made him stronger. He couldn't hold it back any longer.

A powerful energy seeped out of him, electrical crackling radiated from his body.

"Holy shit," the first gang member said and pulled the trigger.

The Weapon, somehow already in Christopher's hand, made an upward slice, cutting the gang member's body neatly in half. His gooey soul ripped out of its shell and was slurped up by the Weapon in Christopher's hand.

It was chaos now. The gang started firing weapons and Christopher danced. He danced because he had no choice, the fever of hell was on him. He spun in a circle cutting, severing, dicing into their flesh. They were all corrupt souls and the Weapon drank freely.

He jumped across the street to carve into one and then sprang back thirty feet to catch another by the neck, where he held him up as he gutted him. Bullets slammed into his body, but he was quick enough to avoid being hit too many times and when he was, his body healed itself.

He reveled in the death, in the slicing and dicing. It was over in seconds, body parts lay scattered about. Christopher had claimed their souls, but the piece of hell inside him was not satisfied. He could smell others inside the building.

He grabbed the large garage door and wrenched it up, breaking the internal locking mechanism. He was greeted by screams and more gunfire.

Despite the slaughter outside, he had caught them by surprise when he broke open the door. He used this to his advantage. He had been shot several times and despite his accelerated healing and the driving force of the rage inside him, the gunshots were taking their toll.