The Dark Path (8 page)

Eventually it came to him. Vain went to the motel’s pool and searched the pump room, finally locating the chlorine he needed beneath a large bucket. Next, the assassin went to Viktor’s car and found a half-full bottle of brake fluid and a funnel. Satisfied, he returned to the room and checked the Russian’s pulse to ensure he was still alive. Finding a weak heartbeat and the man still breathing, Vain satisfied himself that the Russian merely slept and had not died. Slapping him awake, he whispered into his ear, “Wake up, little Russian, or you’ll miss out on all the fun.”

First, he ripped the stitches that had held Viktor’s lips together, leaving them bloody and raw. Before the Russian could yell for help, Vain forced the funnel into his mouth and began to pour cup-fulls of chlorine down his throat. The Russian began to gag and vomit, but enough of the powder still got through. Removing the funnel, Vain made to pour the brake fluid down his victim’s throat.

“Why?” Viktor managed to gasp.

The Dark Man paused momentarily before shrugging. “I don’t know,” he murmured casually, emptying the brake fluid into Viktor’s mouth.

At first there appeared to be no reaction. Suddenly Viktor convulsed into spasms and opened his mouth to scream. Instead of sound, however, a great plume of smoke poured forth and his eyes bulged in pain. Intense heat spewed from the dying man before deep crimson froth dribbled out of his mouth. Several minutes passed before Viktor Romolov died. Once finished, the Dark Man calmly collected his things and vanished into the night.

* * * *

The man on the bed sobbed for the first time in many years. The memories returned to him in a torrent and the pain proved almost too much to bear. His strength had always laid in his immunity to emotions; now he knew he had been wrong.

He adored Angelique. Again he pictured the callous way he had wrenched the knife from her dead body and his spirit wailed with grief. His beloved Catherine, who had died in anguish because of his vanity.

After several moments he managed to regain his composure and glare with undisguised malice at the black man who had rekindled his torments so long locked away.

“Martin–” Priest began, but Vain quickly and maliciously cut him short.

“Wrong, black man, there is no Martin here.”

For the first time since the ordeal had begun, Priest looked flustered. “But, you remember now. There’s no point in denying who you are.”

“Your powers aren’t as strong as you think Priest. If they were, you would have known all along that Martin is gone forever. All you have done is remind me of the pain I erased along with his death. All you have done is fuel my rage.”

Suddenly Priest understood what the Dark Man meant, and he cursed himself for a fool. Tobias had been right; they couldn’t save this one. To save a person something good had to remain within them.

At first, Priest had thought Vain simply a shield Martin Roberts hid behind. Now he realized the Dark Man existed as a completely altered personality, almost a separate person who lacked any memory of the man he used to be. Priest had reminded him, however, and the world’s most lethal assassin was now very, very pissed off.

Priest felt no fear for himself. He worried the Dark Man would become so enraged he wouldn’t listen to his appeal. If Vain refused to help them in their quest, all would be lost. Death at the assassin’s hand would seem merciful compared to the alternate finale. 

Priest had hoped that in reminding the Dark Man of his past, the good part of Martin Roberts would resurface. Unfortunately, he’d greatly misjudged the situation. Martin Roberts had indeed died, though his body still walked and breathed. He had been the first victim of the assassin named Vain and possibly the most tragic. If Priest had succeeded in resurrecting Martin as he’d hoped there might have been a chance in the coming battle. Now there seemed none.

Priest collapsed into a chair beside the bed. He placed his head into his hands and wept.

“Why do you cry, black man?” whispered Vain malevolently. “Do you envision your death at the hands of the Dark Man?”

“No, Dark Man. I cry for the boy who will die because I have failed.”

A hint of emotion flickered across the Dark Man’s face, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.

“What boy?” asked Vain strangely.

“What do you care assassin? After I am dead I’m sure there will be hundreds more innocent victims for you. Consider them instead.”

“Who is the boy?” Vain repeated.

Priest conceded defeat and appeared to crumple in on himself even further.

“The boy is the one I have devoted my existence to. He is the next golden light to arise from the darkness. I have searched for him my entire life and now that I’ve found him I am too weak to save him. He is the
Avun-Riah
: the child of rebirth–the one who would make things true. With the turning season he will die by the hand of evil and you–or rather Martin Roberts reborn with your skills–were to be my last chance to save him.”

Vain contemplated the words. Most of what the man had said made no sense to him, but he understood enough to know that a child would die. Little Angelique still seemed to be calling him, had been calling throughout the long empty years of death; her cries were all the more clear now.

“Who plans to kill the boy?” asked Vain.

Priest peered at him with teary and bloodshot eyes. A look of utter amazement lit his face like an explosion of fireworks and he smiled.

“You’re going to save him,” he said in disbelief. Not a question so much as a statement.

“Do not make the mistake of reading my thoughts too deeply black man. I still plan to kill you before I’m finished, and the images of that will burn your fragile little mind to cinders. Now answer my question.”

Priest quickly sobered and closed his mind to the Dark Man’s thoughts. Though his death seemed imminent, the knowledge did not frighten him. Without knowing the exact time or method, it felt more like a dull aching he had come to relate with pain and mortality, rather than a definitive incident or time.

The talents Priest possessed were far from precise. He could not predict the winning lotto numbers, nor could he determine the exact actions required to ensure the future might unfold the way he hoped. He likened his talent to steering a boat through thick fog during a hurricane, lacking compass or radar to guide his way. All he had was a single light in the distance winking in and out of view. His current predicament made these limits all too obvious, with the only light he could see, held by a merciless assassin. He took a deep breath before beginning.

“The people after the boy call themselves the
Souls of Sordarrah
. An ancient cult from the Babylonian era, they believe that if they sacrifice the Avun-Riah on a certain night of the year in the middle of a lunar eclipse, darkness will cover the Earth and death will stalk the planet in the guise of the demigod known as
Sordarrah
.

“Sordarrah was a fallen angel thrown down with Lucifer after the Great War in Heaven. Essentially he was Lucifer’s lieutenant, and from all reports an extremely nasty character. After the original war, it’s believed a second war occurred, this time between the forces of Sordarrah, and the armies of Lucifer for control of Hell. The second war has continued for thousands of years with no victor thus far. The Souls of Sordarrah hope to tip the balance in favor of their Lord by winning over the mortal realm for him, a feat Lucifer has never managed.”

Vain stared blankly at Priest from the bed where he still lay shackled.

“What-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about?” He mouthed the words slowly, scorn dripping from every syllable. “Wars with gods in Heaven and Hell. Are you an idiot, or do you simply take me for one? Undo these straps now so I can choke you to death and piss in your mouth for talking such crap.” Vain looked away disdainfully.

“Whether you believe in Heaven or Hell is irrelevant Dark Man,” continued Priest with a note of irritation. “The result is the same. The Souls of Sordarrah will kill the boy with the coming of autumn unless you save him.”

Vain sighed and wondered if he would ever be the same again. Although he had never truly enjoyed his former life, it had been blissfully empty of petty things like emotion and conscience. Unfortunately, deep down, what Priest said rang true–regardless of the religious babble. He didn’t care why these people wanted to kill the boy. He didn’t care that Priest believed the youth was some Christ-reborn blah, blah, blah. He cared only for the child, and he knew that if he had a chance to save him he would try.

“Undo my bonds, Priest,” Vain said quietly. “Don’t worry; I don’t think I’ll kill you today.”

After a moment, Priest nodded and moved to comply. He undid the strap restraining the assassin’s right arm. Proceeding to the left, he instantly found himself choking in the vice-like grip of the Dark Man.

Vain drew Priest’s ear to his mouth and whispered, “Just don’t forget, black man, your death rattle will sound once this is all over.” He flung the man away from the bed like a rag doll, unfastening the remaining straps himself.

Priest lay stunned on the floor of the cell. It wasn’t so much the actions of the Dark Man that surprised him, but rather that he hadn’t anticipated them. All he had sensed from Vain had been empathy for the child. Even now, when Priest tried to probe the Dark Man’s mind, he could see only the faceless image of the boy. His powers seemed blocked, and he wondered what the assassin’s next move would be.

Vain sat unfettered on the edge of the bed, staring at Priest while he gathered himself from the floor. He appeared completely at ease, with no sign of tension in his being. If somebody walked into the room at this moment, they would find it hard to believe that up until this point the man on the bed had been a virtual prisoner in this white cell.

“Get up black man, and tell me everything I need to know.”

Priest took a few moments to compose himself before gradually recounting everything he knew of the Souls of Sordarrah. Existing in secret for centuries, the cult revolved around a man named Empeth. He had organized the group into a deeply hidden society of demon worshippers, following a set of commandments similar to those of the Catholic Church. Entitled the
Plekshaw
—roughly translated as
The Words of the Demons
—the edicts were carved into Pope John IV’s tombstone after it was stolen from Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. The Plekshaw were also said to have been soaked in the blood of thirteen catholic priests who were kidnapped and forced to carve the ancient words before they were killed. Additionally, thirteen demonic rites were recited in an ancient language over the tablet before the speakers too were killed and drained of blood.

Vain looked on impassively while Priest listed the thirteen directives of the Souls of Sordarrah. Roughly translated from their original Romanian, the stone read:

The blood of the innocent must flow free.

The pure must be made to suffer.

Beauty must be unmade.

Hatred shall rule your heart.

Weakness must be destroyed.

None shall be spared to love, except to love Sordarrah.

Sordarrah is the only true answer.

Lust with the animals of Sordarrah.

Be joyful in the anguish of others.

Life is nothing without Sordarrah.

Kill the enemies of Sordarrah’s will.

The Avun-Riah’s blood must feed the altar of Sordarrah.

Sordarrah shall be reborn.