The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead 2 A Post-Apocalyptic Epic (28 page)

It was only a matter of a few more passes and the man would be hit again and probably wouldn’t be able to recover, and that meant Jack had a tough choice: should he kill the man or let him go free?

He was bogged down in the dilemma and didn’t see the cold calculations behind the sorcerer’s remaining eye—he wasn’t about to go down so easily. Their swords rang out with a fury as they clashed and then for a moment they were pressed almost chest to chest, and here again was another reason Jack thought he would win: he was also bigger and stronger than the smaller Asian.

In his mind’s eye, he saw how the fight would end: with a grunt, he would throw the man back and before he could recover his proper footing, Jack would beat down his Katana and slash him across the throat.

Reality wasn’t quite so simple. Unexpectedly, the sorcerer bit down on his tongue and with a bloody mouth breathed: “Kru vah ah-tan.” The words came out in a black cloud of paralyzing poison going directly into Jack’s face which froze in a corrupted mask of fear.

Jack could see, but only through his squinted lids, and he couldn’t move his eyeballs side to side, so he was forced to torque his shoulders back and forth to catch a glimpse of anything on his periphery. His ears felt as though they were stuffed with cotton and his mouth seemed welded shut. He had managed to hold his breath before the cloud struck, but now the poison was crawling up his nostrils and into his sinuses and down the back of his throat. If he dared to take a breath he knew that he would suck the residue of the poison into his lungs and then it would be lights out for Jack.

Frantic, he thrust out with all of his strength, sending the sorcerer reeling backwards. With his sword arm swinging back in forth in a pathetic attempt to keep his enemy at bay, Jack dug for the last vial of Holy Oil. Just as he popped the top off, he saw the dark form of the sorcerer coming at him, his blade held aloft like a black hammer.

Desperately, Jack flung his sword up, taking the blow on the flat of the blade with a flash bright enough to blind them both as he put all of his magical strength into the lightning dancing on the steel. The power shooting from the edge of the sword caused the sorcerer to step back for a moment, giving Jack enough time to splash himself in the face with the oil.

The effect was less than miraculous.

He could see once again; however, everything was a blur of oil and tears within a background of utter darkness. The sorcerer was only a shifting black shadow with a terrible black sword that came down again and again, smashing without any art or skill. He hammered relentlessly straight onto Jack’s blade, so that with every blow the black sword came closer and closer to Jack’s flesh.

In desperation, Jack flailed with his left hand and caught hold of the sorcerer’s robe and pulled him in close. They were too close for sword work and everything was still too blurry for him to see. The sorcerer’s fist seemed to come out of nowhere to crack him beneath the jaw, knocking him to the ground and sending his sword clattering away, it’s magical lightning draining uselessly into the ground.

At first all he saw were stars and all he tasted was copper blood, but then the sorcerer’s face swam into view. “Will you beg for your life like a coward?” he asked, leering again now that he had won. “Or will you beg to die like a man?” In answer, Jack spat into the sorcerer’s face, speckling him with black and red. It wasn’t just out of anger that he spat, the taste of the old poison in his mouth was foul.

“I won’t be begging for anything,” he answered in a bit of a slur. His tongue was swelling where he had bitten it.

“For that, I’ll make sure you beg, but not for your life, but for the life of the woman. If you kiss my feet and lick my shoes, I might keep her alive. You two have been useful in stirring things up and keeping prying eyes from me. So beg me and I might keep her alive for a while longer.”

Jack took stock of his situation. He was flat on his back with his arms straddled and his sword too far away to be of any use. The fact that he couldn’t move meant cutting himself was no longer an option and so effective magic was out of the question. He had no choice but to beg for Cyn’s life—except he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He loved her and feared that even now she was trapped in the wreckage of the downed helicopter, and would be easy picking for the sorcerer and yet, every time he opened his mouth to beg, his swollen tongue would freeze as if it was still paralyzed.

This odd feeling gave him an idea that was nearly driven out of his head when the sorcerer produced a knife so quickly that it was almost like magic itself. He held the point over his palm, delicately touching the scarred flesh there. “I know magics that will turn you grey with fear. I know magics that will have you tearing out your own bones.” He moved the dagger away from his own skin and brought it closer to Jack’s face, hovering it just above his right eye.

“You want me to beg?” Jack asked, trying to see beyond the knife. “You want me to beg like a dog?”

The sorcerer nodded and there was a strange light in his eyes. It made Jack think that there was more to this concept of begging than he knew. Was there power in it? Was this how a stronger sorcerer gained power by defeating a weaker one? By stealing his dignity and debasing himself? Jack hoped he would never find out.

“Fine, I’ll beg,” Jack growled and then clamped down on his aching tongue until his eyes watered and he felt his blood flowing warm and salty. He smiled, showing bloody teeth before he said: “Kru vah ah-tan,” the breath from his lungs erupting in an acid fog that burned as it came out.

Too late the sorcerer saw that Jack had turned the tables on him, spewing his own paralyzing spell back into his face. Spastically, he threw himself off of Jack and tried to cover his face with his hands. He partially succeeded, so that he was blind in his remaining eye and the left side of his mouth ran downward in a slant as if his lips were melting; the partial success came at the cost of paralyzing both of his hands.

The knife dropped from the sorcerer’s wooden fingers, landing next to Jack’s cheek, who ignored it as he stood and went for his sword. It felt good in his hand. It felt natural and he knew that what he had to do with it was just as natural. The sorcerer would have to die. He was evil. He was a danger, not just to Jack and not just to the girl he loved, but he was also a danger to the entire world.

Jack turned back to the sorcerer and saw him huddled over his own sword and already there was blood in his palm. He was trying to work another spell—yes, he was dangerous and yes, he would have to be put down. That’s how Jack had to think of it. He was a rabid dog and had to be put down.

And as a reward he would gain from the man’s death. What didn’t kill him only made him stronger, and he had to get stronger. Robert was gaining strength every day and Jack had to keep up.

These were the excuses he made as he advanced on the sorcerer, coming up from behind, his sword raised. The blade was no longer blessed; now it was the tool of an executioner.

The sorcerer, even inches from his death, was a dangerous thing. Blood dripped from his slack hand as he spoke magic: “Kru vah…”

He wasn’t quick enough and Jack took his head from his shoulder, with the spell half spoken. Sadly, it felt good to Jack. The swing had been one of those perfect swings that ballplayers talked about. The blade had hit that beautiful “sweet spot” and the sorcerer’s head flew.

Chapter 27

Tours, France

Cynthia Childs

The last clear thing Cyn remembered before the crash was seeing Jack jump out of the helicopter. The sight stopped her heart dead in her chest, while her skin flared with a thousand electric pin-pricks—she had just watched her love throw himself to his death.

Her mind couldn’t understand what her eyes had shown it and was still trying to make some sense of what had just happened when her body reacted on its own. Without concern for the danger, she threw herself to the edge of the copter and for a moment had to search for Jack, sure that he’d still be falling, and sure that she had been only quick enough to see him splat on the ground.

Except he wasn’t falling or splatting, or dying. He was far below her already standing with sword in hand. It was as if he hadn’t been sitting in the helicopter the moment before. She remembered saying: “What the hell?” And she remembered blinking in confusion as she tried to make sense of what was happening, and she remembered Jack fighting against someone who was full of shadows.

And the next thing she knew, the little priest who had been on the copter with them was smiling into her eyes. He seemed to float above Cyn.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hazy and yet able to cut through the sound of alarms blaring from all around them. There was something wrong with the helicopter, but she couldn’t see what. Her view of her surroundings was strange and dark as if she had been put in a box.

“Cynthia, are you okay?” Gomez asked, again, louder, now. She should have been asking him that question. The priest…Father Gomez was bleeding from a gash in his scalp. Blood had drenched the side of his head, and his face, in contrast seemed very pale.

Cyn thought that she was fine, only the second she tried to shift from what was beginning to feel like a very awkward position, a bolt of electric agony went up her spine. The pain was so unexpected that it made her cry out and she really looked around for the first time, well she looked as much as she was able to.

The copter had corkscrewed into the ground and was now laid over, not just on its side, but also with its nose pointing downward. Cyn found herself in the cockpit, stuffed in the footwell of the copilot’s seat. Where he was, she didn’t know. The pilot was next to her, still in his chair, his head caved in on one side. One of his eyes dangled from its socket by a ribbon of something red and gory. It stared at her.

“My back,” she gasped. The pain had her eyes watering, but in spite of the agony, all she could think about was Jack…and the co-pilot; where were they? And what was the red mess all over the control panel. And where was everyone else? She tried to pull herself up, but then she saw that her right wrist was cocked at an ugly angle; she stared at the fracture as if seeing someone else’s hand.

Father Gomez touched her wrist, lightly. “You are injured and in need of the Lord’s blessing.” He closed his eyes and his touch became warm and soothing, taking away the pain that was grinding along her nerves. His lips moved in prayer, and it was a moment before she realized that he trying to heal her.

That wasn’t something she could allow. Jack was out there, possibly fighting for his life, possibly injured…possibly dead. She couldn’t let the priest use up his strength on her, not until she knew what was happening with Jack. “Stop! Don’t. Just give me a hand out of here, okay?” When he hesitated, she growled: “That’s an order!”

Since she never knew exactly where she stood in the ranking of things, she had never tried to “order” anyone about before, and so she was pleasantly surprised when the priest reluctantly agreed. “Try to slide me out of here,” she asked.

Her position in the footwell could only be described as “knotted.” She had arms and legs going this way and that, while her body was bent and contorted and in hellacious pain. And it was with a mental strength she wasn’t normally known for that she came out of the crushed-in spot without screaming. The pain was immense, but she knew that one peep out of her and the priest would heal her, wasting his precious power on her instead of saving it for Jack or any of the others.

As far as she was concerned, she should be the last person healed. Everyone else had important jobs within the squads, while officially all she ever did was act as bait for demons, which was something a chimp could be trained to do. Yes, it was true that she was also the only person who could keep Jack safe from himself, and it was also true that she was the only person who could keep the world safe from Jack. And yet that could be done with a stiff back. When she tried to stand, she realized that her condition was beyond simply being stiff.

Fainting from pain was a key indicator that intervention was needed.

She woke a minute later with Father Gomez kneeling over her, a warm, white light spreading from his hands. “…and through his blessings, the Lord heals all wounds. Stand, Cynthia Childs and know that you are healed and whole through your faith in God.”

Instead of saying thank you, she asked: “What about Jack?” The priest shrugged and Cyn leapt to her feet and swayed for just a second. Her back and wrist were completely healed but her head swam from everything that had happened in so short a time.

“Where is Ja…” She stopped as she saw the destruction around her for the first time. The helicopter had spun into the ground out of control only two minutes before and there were chunks of flaming metal and debris everywhere. And there were bodies.

There had been fifteen people in the helicopter when they had taken off—now there were only four, and one was the dead pilot. The force of the spin had flung men in all directions. They looked like little crumpled heaps of clothing with a hand or a face sticking out.

Captain Vance was limping from man to man, his face, cut and bloody stony with anger. He paused over one of the French crewmen who was crying in pain. His screams went right to Cyn’s heart. “Come on,” she said to Gomez, and ran through the wreckage to Vance’s side and stared down at the soldier, her stomach doing turns.

The man was broken in so many places and his limbs so obscenely bent that he seemed to be made of rubber. Immediately, Father Gomez knelt down and started making the sign of the cross.

“No,” Vance said, shoving the priest away. “Find Jack. See if he needs help. He’s our first priority.” The priest hesitated and Vance yelled over the wounded man’s screams: “Go! Now!”

Even Cyn, who loved Jack more than life itself, had trouble leaving the poor man. His pain was so great. Slowly, she stood and looked around for her shotgun—it was lost in the rubble, but there was another nearby and there was a sword that the priest picked up and held with weak hands.

“He’s our first priority,” Gomez said in a whisper, giving his head a little nod, as if he needed to convinc
e
himself before he could move.

Cyn wanted to ask when had Jack become anyone’s first priority and what that meant, but Vance’s urgency had caused her fear for Jack to ramp up. She picked her way through the rubble, hurrying to a side street that ran straight to St. Martin’s Basilica, which was only a block away.

In seconds, she was at the edge of the main building with the found shotgun poised at her shoulder and Father Gomez right behind her. She had seen the sorcerer from the helicopter and guessed that he had brought down the machine—and that meant he was strong, stronger than Jack.

And yet, she wasn’t shocked when she peeked around the corner and saw Jack standing over the kneeling sorcerer. It wasn’t a surprise at all. She knew her Jack was tough, just as she knew what was coming.

Quickly, she turned to Father Gomez. “Go back and heal that man. I have this under control and Jack’s fine.” Both were not completely true.

“He’s going to kill that man,” Gomez said.

There was no question that he was. Cyn wanted to make excuses for Jack, but none would come. “Just go,” she said. “Do something good.” She turned from the priest and walked toward Jack, just as he swung his sword. The head came off the sorcerer’s body and bounced and rolled; just like her stomach.

Purposefully, keeping her eyes up, she went to his side. He didn’t turn but must have felt her presence. “I had to,” he said in a whisper.

“Yeah,” she answered, not knowing what else to say because a part of her didn’t believe him. He was covered in dirt and grime and what looked like oil and yet, he seemed strong and the sorcerer seemed so weak now that he was headless. Maybe there could have been another way.

“No,” a voice said at her elbow, making her jump. It was Father Gomez who couldn’t take his dark eyes off the headless body. “Jack is not lying. I don’t know why he did what he did, but he’s not lying.”

Had he read her thoughts? Flustered that her mind was open to the priest, she stepped back from him and pointed the way they had come. “Go and heal that man like I said.”

Gomez nodded, cast his eyes once more back to body of the sorcerer, and then left. Cyn watched him go as an uncomfortable silence fell about the battlefield, which was crisscrossed with blood and oil, scorch marks and ash.

“I had to,” Jack said again. He wouldn’t look at her or the dead sorcerer. The setting sun held all of his attention, although Cyn guessed that he wasn’t seeing that either.

“I believe you,” she replied. In answer, he made a noise; a short laugh that was more misery than mirth, and she realized he hadn’t been trying to convince her, he’d been trying to convince himself. “Come here,” she said. “Let me see what sort of mischief you’ve put my favorite body through.”

She spun him around and inspected his numerous nicks and cuts, but saw that most of the damage he had suffered had been psychological. Beneath the gruff exterior and the growing power of a sorcerer and the sharp intellect was the innocent boy she had met a year and a half ago. It was this boy who was constantly being wounded.

“He threatened you,” Jack said, still trying to convince himself that he had been right to cut the head off the sorcerer.

“It shows how weak he was,” she answered. “Threatening a poor defenseless girl. Now, stop dwelling and tell me what that nutter was after in St. Martin’s tomb.”

Jack turned from the distant horizon to look back at the basilica, what appeared to be a large decorative church. “He wouldn’t say, even after I threatened him. He was more afraid of the Mother of Demons than he was of my sword. So…so what kind of shape is everyone in?”

“Not good,” Cyn answered. “But we have a priest and there are more in the other choppers.”

His face sank. “He was strong, Cyn. His magic was very strong.”

“I noticed. Come on, let’s go see what Robert was after.” Hand in hand they began walking toward the basilica but had only taken a few steps when Cyn found her eyes drawn to the head of the sorcerer. She noted the burned out eye. “It was him,” she said. “He was the one spying on us. It was the Mother who did that to him.”

Jack, who had yet to sheath his sword, used it to turn the head slightly so they could see the blackened hole better. “It’s a wonder that he lived. Well, you know, lived longer.” Neither of them could stand to look at the face and so Jack turned it back toward the ground.

They were both glad to leave the sorcerer behind them as they went to the basilica with a choice of going in through the open front doors or around to the side where a tunnel had been literally clawed into the ground. “I say we check the bones,” Jack said, indicating the front doors, “though I don’t have much hope that they’re still there.”

In this he was wrong. They went into the church which was quiet, cool and growing darker with every passing second. The tomb, an elaborate construction of polished granite and marble columns sat in its own separate alcove. Or it had, at least. Where it had once stood, there were now only chunks of rock, dust, and debris.

“So much for resting in peace,” Cyn remarked as they went up to the remains of tomb and looked in at an old casket. Its lid had been torn open and inside, resting on yellowing white silk, was part of a skull, a bit of rib and two long bones; there wasn’t enough to raise.

“Okay, Robert didn’t get what he wanted here so why does he suddenly decide to dig under the place?” Jack asked, picking up one of the leg bones and giving it a sniff.

“The original tomb was destroyed centuries ago,” Cyn said, reciting what she remembered from her research. “In 1860, the bare outlines of it were re-discovered and the basilica was built over the original site. I’m guessing Robert suspected that something or someone was buried down there with the remains.”

Jack tossed the femur back in with the rest, thought for a moment, leaning on the casket, and then said: “Or he was desperate and was looking for more bones. Maybe he was hoping that a few had been overlooked. Either way, let’s go see what there is to see below.”

They left the church just as a helicopter came to hover over the crash site; soldiers began to repel down from the machine. Some went over the side nervously making Cyn think that they were priests, unused to the more adventurous side of God’s calling.

The copter disappeared from view as the pair went around the side of the basilica to where mounds of dirt two-stories high marked the entrance to a demon-made tunnel. It was tall and wide enough for them to walk side by side without stooping. It was also dark and damp and the prints in the earth were mostly odd bone-prints.

Seeing them gave Cyn the shivers that spread throughout her body. They went up her back and across her shoulders. They were in her belly, making her queasy, and her chest and suddenly it was hard to breathe, and then the shivers were in her hands and it felt as though they were no longer hers to control.