The Judas Line (38 page)

“Mike, you mind, man?” I was half-afraid he’d fall over despite the Healings.

“If you trust these people, then it’s okay with me. Do what you must do. I’m pretty sure Julian is on the opposite side of the building, well past the elevators.”

“Thanks, man.” To Cain, “Be careful, Boris is the most dangerous non-magus I’ve ever met.” That earned me a smile at full power. I was about to run out, but an impulse that had nothing to do with danger seized me. Grabbing Maggie by the shoulders, I laid a big one on her moist lips.

For a moment I thought she’d clean my clock right there, but instead her arms encircled me and she returned the kiss with interest.

When we both finally came up for air, lights sparkled in her baby blues. “Let’s go, gorgeous.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, Blondie, but this is a Family thing. I have to fly solo.”

She scored quite a few points by nodding, instinctively understanding. “If we survive this, handsome, you’re taking me someplace nice.”

I kissed the end of her nose and she dimpled prettily. “You got it, Blondie.” And with that I ran out, looking for Julian. I had to put an end to all this before New York paid the price.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Mike

Morgan was dressed like an SAS commando, all in black, with a black knit cap and blackout makeup on his face. He bristled top to bottom with weapons. The other man, a lean, strong figure, towered over him. He gave the impression of solidity, so much so that you would imagine the Washington Monument crumbling before he did. He wore the kind of sunglasses favored by skiers, and when he spoke, the lilting style was a mixture of colonial and southern formal that made my ears want to pack it in for the evening.

The woman was dressed the same, but looked like she’d be more comfortable with a sword in hand, collecting the souls of the dead from the battlefield for transport to Valhalla. When Morgan kissed her, I saw a real spark there between the two, a glimmer of something … divine.

After Morgan ran off, the woman turned my way and gave me a once-over. “Get a good eyeful, tall, dark and priestly?” she asked sourly.

I rubbed my moustache. “Was it at first sight? Or while you were planning this little shindig?” It was a random shot, but by the look of her, it scored.

“How did you—?”

“I may be priest, but I’m not blind.”

The long, lean man broke in. “As illuminating as the new-found romantic nature of my apprentice may prove, I do believe that introductions are in order. The lovely lady whose resemblance to a Valkyrie is more than coincidental is Maggie. I, sir priest, am Cain.” At my startled look he nodded. “Yes,
that
Cain. Brother of Abel. And while I realize that a priest may be brimming with questions both practical and philosophical for a gentleman such as myself, we have other, more pressing, concerns.” He waved a pistol at the Russian, who had remained seated throughout.

Cain?
Cain?
A few weeks ago the revelation would have had greater impact. Considering everything that had happened, it now seemed par for the course.

“Okay … Cain. Let’s tie him up.” What I wanted was to fillet Boris into Russian cutlets, but I was still a man of God.

The tall man flashed a huge smile. “When I arrived upon the scene, young … Morgan was in the process of providing you several Healings. Would it be incorrect to assume that you have suffered most egregiously at the hands of the infamous Boris, the Mad Russian?”

“If you’re asking me if he beat the living daylights out of me, then yes.”

Maggie cut in. “He looks nasty.”

I snorted. “Nastiest piece of work I’ve ever come across.”

She aimed a Tec-9.

“Stop!” I shouted, appalled. “We don’t kill prisoners.”

Her look told me I was a few cans short of a six-pack, but I just stared her down until she lowered her weapon. “What do we do with the bastard, then?” she asked.

Before I could answer, Cain stepped forward, coming within three feet of Boris. “I have been informed that you are a force to be reckoned with, an extraordinary fighter of incalculable skill.”

It took Boris a moment to digest that, but when he did, he tipped a spare nod.

“Wonderful!” Cain replied. “In my time I have studied the manly arts of the squared circle and consider myself a pugilist of no mean ability. To this end I have but one question.” He stepped back, lowered his weapon and smiled like a shark sizing up its breakfast. “Do you want a shot at the champ?”

Boris stood, his smile matching Cain’s mean for mean. “Oh, yes.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Morgan

Down the hall, past the elevators, not slowing, not stopping, I had to go in straight and quick, no hesitation. I was twenty years younger than Julian, but I was certain he’d be no pushover. He’d be aware that we were in the building and therefore on guard.

I skidded to a stop in front of the door to the suite and, as loud as I could, summoned Force. The metal door burst from its hinges, flipping end over end into the room; I followed right after.

Crack!
A hit to my right thigh and I went down, blood spraying.

Crack!
Another shot to the thick meat of my left thigh.

Crack!
My right arm sprouted gore and the pistol fell from nerveless fingers.

Crack!
My left arm became an unfeeling lump of meat dangling from my shoulder. Blood trailed down my chin from where I’d bitten my lip and fire consumed my thrashing limbs.

“I have to say, I very much enjoyed that.” The voice, snide and gloating, came from behind.

Healing/cinnamon, Healing/cinnamon again and again. Bullets spat out of my body in rapid succession and the awful pain of torn flesh and shattered bone faded quickly, a sweet relief.

“Well, Oliver,” said Julian from somewhere out of sight. “Not very original, charging into the fray like that.”

“Oh, man … that smarts.” I slowly rose to my feet to see Annabeth at the broken doorway with twin 9s pointed at me, both barrels still smoking, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. The sight of her made me livid with rage and sick to my stomach. She must have seen my anger because she smiled even wider, with even more cruelty.

“Take off your Kevlar, Olivier,” Julian said. I turned to see him lounging on the stairs leading to the second story. He was dressed immaculately in a dark Saville Row suit, every stitch, every hair perfectly in place despite the earthquake. In fact, the whole suite looked untouched by violence, a haven of normalcy in a mad world.

Slowly, I shrugged out of the vest.

Julian took a step down. “You know, I have read that silly little memoir your friend the priest was carrying with him.” He laughed, an ugly sound. “You certainly think the world of yourself, do you not? No, do not bother answering. I was much amused at your conclusions, wrong as they were.

“You believe you are the last of the Line? And that that little fact will afford you some measure of protection? Let me set the record straight, young man.” All trace of amusement fled his face as he stopped ten feet away and drew a pistol from a shoulder holster. A Sig Sauer P229. “You are not the Redeemer, you are just a talented magus who thinks too much of himself. Now shed your weaponry. Slowly.”

I complied. “Then how come I knew all thirty of the Terrible Words the Silver offered?”

Julian shook his head dismissively. “It is not the quantity of the Words, it is the ability to use them without killing yourself.” At my puzzled look, he sighed. “The Words the Silver offered exacts a toll from a body, depleting it of vital energy. The Redeemer would be the magus who could use the Silver without slowly killing himself. Is that not that correct, sir?”

From hidden speakers all around came a familiar voice. “Correct, Julian. Hello, Olivier.”

Well, hell. The Voice. My stomach took a plunge.

The speakers squawked, then that same terribly beautiful voice continued. “Trust me, my boy, you are
not
the Redeemer. You are
not
the last. There are always others. Tell him everything, Julian.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Mike

Cain stripped to the waist after handing me a pistol, a Glock. I liked a heftier weapon, like a .45, but at that moment I would have been happy with a peashooter.

The Russian kept grinning like a wolf and it took every ounce of self-control not to unload, but I sent a prayer to the Lord for strength and remained true to my calling. Besides, I’d already killed a man that day and that was burden enough—more terrible than I could explain.

Boris stripped off jacket, tie and shirt, revealing a massive torso covered in black hair. Scars crisscrossed skin stretching tight over great slabs of muscle that moved like greased ropes. Black tattoos, Cyrillic characters, covered shoulders and belly. He looked like a fair-skinned gorilla with a bad attitude.

In contrast, Cain looked puny, almost skinny, but almost anyone would next to Boris. If you took a close look, you could see the sharp definition in Cain’s muscles.

Then he took his sunglasses off. I longed for a rosary but had to be content with crossing myself. It was driven home to me
that this man was
the
Cain, the first murderer. Off-white, slightly blue irises centered with pitch-black pupils. A cold shiver ran up and down my spine, matched by the freezing wind entering the suite.

Cain started removing his boots and that’s when Boris attacked, leaping like a gazelle, great fist slashing forward toward Cain’s skull.

It never connected.

If it had, Cain’s neck would have no doubt snapped like a twig, but the tall man had simply flickered as if he had been edited from reality for a moment. The knobbly fist swished past Cain’s nose by a whisker. Boris almost overbalanced, but righted himself quickly. That didn’t stop Cain from taking advantage. One long arm shot out and tagged Boris on the nose, a tap, or so it seemed.

Blood gushed from the big man’s nostrils and he recoiled in surprise. Clearly getting tagged was a rare experience for him. He licked the blood from his lips and waded in, fists and feet flying.

Cain didn’t give him a chance to score. Moving like mercury across a plate, he rolled and slipped everywhere, always one step ahead of the increasingly furious Russian. Every now and then he’d throw a jab—nothing painful, but after a couple of minutes they began to tell. Boris started to slow, his own jabs becoming more and more wild and unfocused as rage and exhaustion began to take their toll.

“Stop moving!” he yelled, face red with fury, spit flying from his lips.

Cain did, his smile unwavering, and spread his arms wide. An invitation for Boris to do his worst.

The two stared at each other for a few tense moments; Boris, harried, wild, and Cain, calm, collected. “You fight good,” Boris panted, unfazed by the other man’s eyes.

“I’ve had time to practice,” replied Cain almost amicably, lowering his arms.

Boris nodded and casually placed his hands in his pockets. “Why should I fight, then?”

“Because if you don’t—”

Swift as a snake, one of Boris’ hands whipped out, holding a knife. Before Maggie and I could blink, the blade sprang free with a hiss, flying faster than thought toward Cain’s throat.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Morgan

“There are … crèches all over the world, places where the direct descendants of the Founder are raised,” Julian said behind the safety of his Sig. Annabeth leaned against the wall beside the doorway, a smirk on her lips and the glint of madness in her eyes. “You thought Henri, Julian II and Philip where your only brothers, but the truth is you have dozens. You have met several, including Fergus and Burke.”

“B-Burke?” I killed my brother? I committed fratricide? Nausea assaulted my belly.

“Quite. The truth of the matter is you have no cousins. Every one of those you’ve met are your siblings. Including Annabeth.”

I couldn’t help it … I puked all over my shoes while my sister stood there and laughed. The Voice joined her, sounding like sugarcoated shit.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Mike

In the milliseconds before Boris pushed the button on the ballistic knife, Cain said a Word.

The blade, that paper-thin projectile, bounced off of thin air ten inches in front of Cain’s unprotected throat and shattered with a faint
tink.
My mind boggled. What was I seeing? Beside me, Maggie breathed, “I gotta learn that one … smells like honeysuckle.”

Again and again Boris pushed the button on the ballistic knife, two more fine blades springing free to pierce the air toward Cain. Twice more the blades shattered musically in front of Cain.