Nightbringer (20 page)

"Yes?"

"Do you want to live?"

"Long enough," he answered simply.

"Long enough for what?"

"To know."

He wasn't going to answer that one, she realized. As silence drew, Gina lifted her chin to the cave-like opening in the back wall. "So what's down there?"

"Something I'm going to bury once more."

"So why don't we just throw a few antipersonnel grenades down the stairway and be done with it?" That seemed to Gina, at least, like the most sensible idea she'd had yet.

"I would, but I have to make sure it's there, first." He glanced at the monk. "Okay, Melanchthon and Barnabas aren't coming around. So this is what we're going to do. I'm taking all of you out. Then I'm going to get you and your kids on a helicopter and come back to finish this. If the Nephilim are down there, they're not going anywhere."

"No," Gina said in a dead tone.

"What?"

"No, Cassius." Cassius stared upon Gina as if she'd angered him, but Gina knew he was only confused.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not letting you go down there alone," she answered, unblinking. When he didn't reply, Gina thought carefully. "I'm not going to let you face them alone."

With a frown Cassius stood and Gina was with him, facing off with him. He seemed to search for words, then, "You have your children. They're your first priority."

"I'm not forgetting my children," she replied steadily. "I'm not forgetting myself, either."

Cassius wasn't looking at her anymore. He was staring at spans of centuries he had lived by hard rules.

"You're not dead yet," Gina said. "Don't act as though you are."

"Do you realize—"

"I'm not scared, Cassius." Gina searched his eyes. "At least, not as scared as you."

After a time, Cassius' face revealed thoughts, feelings, fears, and doubts that Gina could have never imagined on the face of the ultimate warrior. Then, as if he had longed for something he had been too frightened to think, Cassius nodded. But it took a moment longer before his thoughts could find words.

"If we survive," he said quietly
, "I would like to know you."

Even now, he was so formal, and Gina couldn't prevent her smile. But she didn't regret it, and then he smiled too. "Yes," she replied as quietly, "I'd like that
, too."

They turned as Melanchthon sat upright with a bearish groan, as though he had been dead and they had disturbed him. He rubbed his head a moment, growled, and winced as he searched his surroundings, looking first at the sleeping Barnabas next to him. Then he saw Cassius and Gina and nodded.

"Ah," he gasped, "I am not dead."

Cassius laughed and looked at Gina.

"That makes two of us."

* **

Chapter Ten

After leaving Gina, Melanchthon, and Barnabas in the Great Hall, Cassius elected to make a last quick circuit of their surroundings, insuring they would at least have an un-imposed beginning into the storm. Holding a torch in one hand, the Colt .45 in the other, he walked openly through the catacombs, alone.

There was no way to catch this creature unaware. He couldn't move silently enough, nor were shadows that inked the corridor more than shades of gray to its keen eyes. At least with the light of the torch Cassius could see it when it closed—a small advantage because it was a small distance, but better than no reaction room at all.

Hyper-alert to react—like a boxer inside his opponent's reach—Cassius prevented his mind from wandering. But after he had made the first circuit of the closest corridor—empty and secure—he began to surrender to the mistake every sentry makes when the night is cold and silent and dead but for wind and stars. He began to think—only fleeting shadows of thoughts at first—of what had brought him to this hour of reckoning.

He stood upon Golgotha, always upon Golgotha, for he would never leave Golgotha
... but he stood in another place— an unexpected place—as well. He stood in the Castille de Matisse with the woman who knew him and loved him, Julie de Lespinasse.

And
... more ...

He stood before the grim and implacable Cotton Mather arguing a defense that, at last, brought a hard ending to the hysterical persecution at Salem. And then there was Cedric the Great, who almost defeated him in that titanic duel that lasted an entire night on the steppes of Russia.

In all his years, Cassius had never known a man of such great strength. Sword after sword shattered in his hands, and as fast as Cassius could measure his last wound, he received another while giving three in exchange so that it was all lost in the speed of giving damage faster than he received it. He used all he had ever learned of fighting—from the sword-shattering blows of Musashi to the finesse of La Boessiere—but the battle had been decided not by strength or endurance, in the end, but by the will to win.

As Cassius fell to his knees over Cedric's slashed, titanic form, he knew he should have died from his wounds, as well. But he had built strength upon strength year upon year and it had been enough for him to stagger numbly from the hill.

It took a full year for his injuries to heal. Nor, for a time, did he think they ever would. He thought that at last he had suffered more damage than even he could endure. But after a year he stood once more. And then he began the hunt once again.

A thousand faces of a thousand men who had trampled kingdoms and continents—men who had executed millions for nothing more than savage delight—had died because he decided they would terrify the earth no more. Nor was there anyone to tell him he was right.

He had fought his way through the darkness of war after war with no light to guide him but his own. And for centuries he had prayed that God would give him some fleece to confirm the choices he made again and again, but there was no fleece.

He had asked a thousand times. Then, after a battle he could barely remember—so fierce was the collision and the bloody end—he had risen up, wounded and exhausted in a field of dead men, horses, and chariots—the only survivor— and knew he would ask no more. He knew his purpose, and it had to be enough because answers would not come in this world.

He noticed the flames burned lower in the passageway before him. He wasn't concentrating.

Concentrate
!

Cassius searched every space illuminated by the torch, but there were entire canyons of darkness.
But the darkness was not such an advantage against him—not like the others – for his senses were acute to react to what others would not notice. Also, the strangeness of the corridors affected him.

He had overseen construction of this tunnel system almost 1,400 years ago but it had been altered and rebuilt a hundred times
– not unusual because Cassius had hidden far more than bones in this refuge.

Also, the Knights Templar, which Cassius began, had kept a guard in these quarters until their numbers grew too few. And word of their habitation had spread so much that entire nations whispered of the hidden treasures buried at what became known as Saint Gregory's. Cassius could have issued orders that the abbey must never be abandoned but
such an order would have drawn suspicion even within the Knights.

The shadow rose tall against a wall.

Cassius swung the .45 to the left and fired—that simply.

No emotion, no anger, no fear. Then the shadow was attempting to move behind him, and Cassius swung the pistol smoothly—no flinching, no dramatic turning or spinning— and fired again. He fired from behind his left hip, bending
slightly at the waist to get the best point-shoot aim as possible, and the explosion cracked in the corridor.

Hit.

The Nephilim snarled in anger.

Cassius didn't fire again, as most would have emptied the clip. He was turning into the pistol and took a moment to bend his face, letting peripheral vision read the edges of what was around him. It was the perfect tactic to draw his attention to one line of attack so that another line opened. And, like a great chess player—or a great fighter—Cassius never forgot to keep his alertness scattered. When he finished turning he was facing back the way he had come, but he didn't rush forward. He took a step backward, negotiating for room to slip, turn, be thrown, or brace—head still bent, still searching
, which was fortunate, because the death that came upon him made no sound.

If Cassius had not wisely taken a step backward, he would have been facing the first image and firing, both blinding and deafening himself to the threat much closer at hand. And when he dropped, passing the .45 under his outstretched right arm—his right hand settling over his left, his right hand grasping the hilt of the katana—Cassius fired five full rounds point-blank into...

Raphael!

No time!

Raphael smothered Cassius with the next rushing stride, and then they were on the ground again. And although Raphael had been hit, Cassius knew he hadn't hit low enough because Raphael had barely staggered at the shots.

At the first twist, Cassius instantly released both the katana and the .45, grasping Raphael's neck and chest, holding the
fangs and claws at bay. It was still superior in brute strength but Cassius hoped desperately that its earlier wounds had bled away some of its prehistoric might.

***

"Melanchthon!"

Gina had not needed to scream. The old priest had spun and was gesturing largely for the others to gather on the dais of the Great Hall while holding aim at a half-dozen tunnels.

"Go!" he shouted.

Gina was already running, covering the Hall in seconds to reach the north corridor. She couldn't determine exactly where the shots originated but knew she would find it in seconds because there would be more—she prayed.

For the next few seconds she ran in the direction Cassius had selected and heard the suppressed snarls of a struggle. Then the beast howled again—they were 150 feet in front of her. Breathless already, Gina didn't flick off the safety on the machine gun yet. She didn't want to accidentally fire too soon and hit Cassius.

Duck
!

It was like an immense white cloud that emerged from nowhere, something moving quickly, and Gina sensed rather than saw part of the cloud extended like a layer of cotton— beautiful in its own way. And she dove and rolled underneath the blow that would have killed her whether the claws struck or not. She gained her feet, extending the MP-5 back in the direction of the blow and fired.

She turned into the weapon, pulling the barrel down as she screamed and backed up, searching the corridor for a sign and felt nothing as she realized the corridor ...

Was empty.

***

"We battle our last!" Raphael spat as Cassius placed a boot against the Nephilim's chest.

Cassius made certain his foot was secure and tightened his leg while retaining his hold to hurl the Nephilim back—much like a pilot will rev an engine before letting off the brake. Then he released his hold, and the Nephilim slammed into the wall behind it.

Plates of stone broke at the impact, light brown d
irt cascading through the rivulets and Cassius reached his feet, recovering even quicker than the Nephilim. Taking no time to wipe sweat from his eyes, Cassius picked up the katana and leaped forward.

He feinted a blow—something high that Raphael would take because it was easily blocked by his tree-trunk arms— then the katana dropped in a sharp arch, and Cassius' arm straightened as he twisted low and to the right, putting all his weight, all his strength into the edge of the blade.

Still, quick as Cassius was, Raphael was no student of war— he was a master. The Nephilim whipped his body back at the waist so that the katana barely cut flesh, and Cassius knew he was in a bad position. He was within Raphael's striking distance and the katana was too far to the side. He tried to bring it back across for a return blow but Raphael had already lashed out.

Sometimes there's
simply nothing to do but take a blow.

Unwounded, Cassius had supreme confidence in his ability to receive the most brutal blow to either the head or body. Now he wasn't so certain. Then he had no more time for
even the most flashing thought as Raphael's hand—wide open, claws separated, fingers hooked like steel talons—was but a foot from his chest.

With a shout Cassius turned into the Nephilim, hoping to take the impact on his shoulder, and he did. But the blow was
worse than he anticipated, both in brute force and the wicked effect of the claws. Raphael caught the side of his arm—the best Cassius could have hoped—but the impact sent a shock-wave through his bones and he felt his spine crack along the full length.

Cassius made a doomed attempt to catch Raphael again with the katana as he was blown to the right, dragging the sword to at least make contact with the Nephilim. But if it did, it had no effect—Raphael didn't even grunt.

Cassius was staggering—the worst possible reaction.

If he had been retreating, the blow would have blasted him twenty feet to the side. Yet surrendering to the force would have also passed the force through him. But since he could not surrender to the force, he had to stop the force.

As Cassius staggered to the side, his entire body felt dead, only his head retaining any sensation. Retreating, his hand tightened on the katana, though he knew he didn't have the ability yet to strike. With a sharp curse, Cassius leaned back— the best he could do—to shift his weight, hoping his legs would follow.

He staggered back and fell awkwardly against the wall as Raphael closed far more slowly.

Familiar thoughts assailed him—each Nephilim was different, just as each man was different. Some preferred to attack from ambush, some liked a stand-up, forthright fight in full armor. Some had fangs surpassing a tiger’s, some appeared almost human although all could alter their shape for periods of time and were the original inspiration for the American Indian's terrifying "shape-shifter."

"You surprise me, Centurion."

Cassius blinked, trying to focus, and realized that he wasn't recovering fast enough. Gasping and streaming blood, Cassius extended the katana, as if to threaten.

Laughing, Raphael paused. "So this is how the great Cassius ends—holding his sword like an old woman."

Unseen, Cassius' left hand withdrew a poniard with its slender dagger blade concealed at the small of his back.

"No, there will be no peace, Cen
turion. You began this war! But I shall end it!" Raphael smiled widely. "I actually feared you, Cassius. Yes, feared you because I had heard so many stories of how the great centurion had killed this brother or that. How you burned down the temple of Tel-Gedi, killing a hundred of my kind at once. How you were the supreme hunter. How none could escape you. How great was your strength, your skill. Did you know you have become a legend? Even among my kind?"

Cassius' extended right arm began to drop and he groaned in pain. Raphael's mirth knew no bounds. It took another stride, its right hand drawing back once more. "But now it ends!"

Twisting hard, Cassius spun and struck with the dagger in his left hand, but Raphael wasn't caught off guard.

"Fool!" The Nephilim shouted as his right hand swept down to swipe the blade aside. "I saw it!"

"I know!"

Cassius let the poniard spin-wheel through the corridor as both hands found the hilt of the katana, and the blade flashed out and straight down—the samurai's most powerful blow. It struck Raphael's extended right arm cleanly, deeply, and Cassius
twisted, his full strength locked into the perfect technique, and the katana sank deep into the muscle to strike the bone.

With the katana buried deep in his forearm, Raphael howled as he had not howled until now.

Yes, he had been struck before, but none of the blows had done this measure of damage. This blow severed muscle and nerve and the critical radial artery so crucial to arm strength.

This time it was the Nephilim that staggered back, reaching up with his left hand to rip the katana from his arm and Cassius bent,
searching for the .45.