Authors: Mark Everett Stone
More wood splintered around Mike as he turned, the Grail in one hand, the other still stretched out before him. I thought he was a blazing pillar of wrath in New Mexico, exorcizing the first demon we encountered, but that was a flickering candle compared to the bonfire that burned behind the shattered remains of the altar.
His black flattop fairly gave off sparks as it waved slightly, as if affected by an unseen ocean current. Thin shoots of silver colored his otherwise night-black hair at the temples, while his presence, always a commanding one, drew the eye like a magnet and gripped the mind with implacable golden fingers.
Behind me an SMG roared and I knew I was a dead man, but the only thing that happened was the formation of new craters as the bullets slammed into the wall behind Mike.
“What the fuck!” Annabeth breathed from behind me.
I couldn’t help grinning, although she couldn’t see it. “Kind of puts the Patron into perspective, doesn’t it?”
Mike’s eyes bored into mine and I felt an electric thrill. “Run.”
I stepped forward. “Hey, man, I can’t do that!”
His voice became a Command. “Run, my friend. They will not stop you.” His smile filled me with hope. “Go now, out the back.”
My feet refused to obey my orders, instead following Mike’s. I risked a look behind to see Annabeth and three more commandos; all staring in rapt fascination as Mike slowly descended the stairs to the aisle toward them.
Out the back, still taking the lead, my sneakers slapped on asphalt then dry, brown grass. A couple hundred feet directly ahead was a fence, a barrier between the church property and track housing, and from behind and above, the helicopter, a UH-60 Black Hawk.
Heart thudding, I ran toward the fence line, hating myself for abandoning my friend but knowing I had no choice. At fifty feet from the church parking lot, the first round grazed the outside of my left thigh, leaving a burning trail of blood. The second powdered the earth in front of me, throwing up a softball-sized divot.
Face and chest hit the ground at the same time as 50 mm rounds stuttered across the area around my body. Whoever was firing was either playing with me or had orders to bring me in alive. Since mercy wasn’t in Dagger Man, or Family, vocabulary, my guess was on the former.
With a growl, I rumbled into grass, the Language of Earth tumbling from my lips like stones and the smell of hot metal overcoming the scent of dry grass and dust. Faster and faster I gabbled, pleading, begging as the helicopter circled above me. I could almost feel the 50 cals sights on the back of my neck.
Surprisingly, Earth responded much quicker than I had anticipated with an interrogative shake of the ground around my navel.
Thwap, thwap, thawp
… The copter started to land and I risked a glance. A helmeted commando sat at the open port training the muzzle of a 50 cal at my head, the three rotating barrels ready to spit a quick and messy death. I tried not to piss myself.
Earth rattled, shaking under my prostrate form, demanding a startling price. A steep price, but at that point I was in no position to negotiate. Firing back an affirmative, Earth shook harder as the Black Hawk landed not more than twenty feet away, spraying me with sand and grit.
Suddenly, the ground swallowed me whole.
BOOK TWO
Second Man
Chapter Twenty
Mike
I opened the manila envelope once more with every intention of finishing Jude’s, now Morgan’s, tale. I wondered if he was well.
A Forest of Trouble
Of course, back before I stole the Silver, I didn’t know the term Anti-Christ; that came later after Mike gave me a copy of the Bible. Instead, our prophecies spoke of the Redeemer, the vessel for the Patron and I knew there was no way I wanted to be anyone’s damn vessel. The thought of losing my free will was abhorrent to me. I would tolerate it no more than a parent would put up with an unrepentant, enthusiastic child rapist teaching in a grade school.
Eyes full of the Words that thudded against my gray matter, I held out the Silver to Julian, arm shaking with the stress of holding the coins. Julian took them from my hand and poured them back into the pouch.
The moment the Silver left my palm, the Words oozed away, all thirty of the malignant things, flushed free from my overburdened brain. Let me tell you, I nearly swooned with relief. Apparently those Words were too powerful to be permanently placed in the mind of man. “S-six,” I stammered, eyes glued to the floor. “Six Words.”
Please, please, please
, I thought.
Please be satisfied with that.
Not quite a prayer, more of a desperate plea to anyone but the Patron.
Julian beamed, the first time he’d ever thrown a smile my way. The Voice was conspicuous in its silence.
“Well done, Olivier,” Julian said, sounding … happy. That alone nearly made me wet my pants. “Your grandfather controlled the Reich with just four, the weakest four at that. With six you can destroy nations.”
The Voice spoke up sounding mildly disappointed. “I had expected more, Olivier. I expected so much more.”
“Sorry to disappoint, sir.” Please, oh please, be content with six Words!
“Oh, well, Julian, there’s always Burke.” If that was meant to provoke a reaction, it didn’t work. I’d half expected the response, so I managed to school my expression into something resembling rage and frustration.
Julian moved his lips into an unkind smile. “Don’t worry, Olivier, you have so much to offer the family. With all twelve lesser Words at your command you will rise far in the Sicarii, most likely to the rank of Dagger Man Grand Commander.” He sounded as if he were throwing me a bone instead of informing me that I could be the leader of all our forces in the world, second only to him. However, in his eyes, anything less than top dog was unacceptable and I knew that if Burke became head of the Family, my time on earth would be severely … limited.
My answering smile was as close to absolute zero as I could manage. “Thank you, Julian.”
As soon as I could, I bowed out, but not before hearing the Voice say to Julian, “Send for Burke.”
Andre, Julian’s driver, dropped me off at the estate, mercifully vacant except for Annabeth. Her mouth, hot and hungry, greeted me with enthusiasm as I walked through the front door.
“Hello, lover,” she purred when we came up for breath.
“Hello yourself, beautiful.” Again I dipped my mouth to hers and for a long, long while we forgot about the world around us.
Later, caught in the tangles of post-coital bliss, we held and stroked each other. A small island of peace in the ocean of my life.
“What are you thinking, Olivier?” she breathed while nuzzling my neck, a caress I’d always found irresistible. “Something’s bothering you.”
“I may have to kill Burke.”
The nuzzling stopped. “Why?”
“The Patron and Julian are looking to him, now. They’re going to test the Silver on him.” No one from the female side of the Line had ever been tested with the Silver before. Only direct Line members were guaranteed to survive the experience, while those from the more distant branches tended to die gruesome deaths. Somehow I knew that Burke would survive.
“Why don’t they look to you?’
“They tested me,” I said, running my fingers up and down her arm. “I only drew six Words. I think they were hoping for more.” The lie slipped easily from my mouth. I lusted for Annabeth, but that didn’t mean I would trust her with a secret.
She propped herself on one elbow and looked deep in my eyes. I saw gold flakes in the brown of her irises and it struck me as unusual that I’d never noticed before. “But you have all twelve Words and are a natural at the other two branches of magic. Why would they choose him over you?”
“Burke has the respect of the entire Family, from the assassins to the bureaucrats. He’s a natural leader and as ruthless as they come. I think Julian sees me as too … soft.”
Her hand dipped under the covers. “You don’t feel soft to me,” she grinned as her lips met mine. I responded immediately to her touch.
My troubles disappeared. At least for a little while.
New Hampshire, just outside of Durham on an estate at the edge of Great Bay, near the Adams Point State Wildlife Refuge. It was Julian’s favorite place outside of Switzerland, the only place in the United States he could tolerate for more than a week.
The night of one of the worst blizzards to hit the region found me, Annabeth, Burke, cousins Fergus, Anton and Simone in a Huey copter flying over the white bones of trees, the snow so thick it seemed a swirling fog of white. This was the final test, the final toughening point. If I survived, I would be part of an SS Team, a member of an elite brotherhood of assassins that only the most lethal and skilled Family could join.
Two days earlier, I had received the summons from Julian, a summons I couldn’t refuse and one that surprised me. As the last male in the direct Line, it was understood that I would not have to undergo the rigorous final test. I guess my inclusion was a testimony to the Voice’s displeasure. What really piqued my interest was Burke’s involvement. He had never evinced any interest in wet work, preferring to run his highly successful R&D department of Wellington Arms Manufacturing—one of the Family’s largest companies, in fact—which was producing his design of the new repeating ballistic knife prototype that had been touted as the next big thing in urban warfare.
The mission was simple: all of us would attempt a high altitude drop at night and must survive the next four days in the forest on our own. If we encountered another, we attempted a ‘kill’ with a paintball gun. Those who struggled back to the estate alive were SS. Words were not allowed and the Professor supplied potions we were forced to drink to block our access to all magic, so for the next few days, we were effectively “normal.”
Fergus, a wild-haired blond from a distant Scottish branch, grinned sourly at us just before leaping out of the helicopter. Next came Burke, then Annabeth, Simone, myself, and Anton.
I gave my French cousin a cheeky grin, which he returned with enthusiasm. A short twenty-year-old, he had an infectious good humor that made him my second favorite cousin after Annabeth.
On a summer’s day twelve thousand feet slaps your face with a chill you won’t soon forget, but in winter—with the winds approaching 50 mph, in the dead of night where the demons of imagination roam—it is like having your skin removed, layer-by-layer, by a sadist with a cold iron knife. The wind’s passage clawed at my ears and I was extremely grateful for the thin plastic goggles that shielded my eyes, certain that they would otherwise have frozen solid on the way down.
At three thousand feet the altimeter automatically deployed my parachute and the world became silent except for the gusting of the blizzard. After the terror of the fall, even the storm was a relief.
No night vision, no magic, no relief from the fear of not being able to see where I was going as the parachute was buffeted remorselessly by frigid winds. Not for the first time I cursed Julian for his sadistic streak.
Branches and twigs slapped and scratched me, tearing with woody fingers. A ragged piece as big around as my thumb punched into my left bicep, not ripping though my protective clothing, but hitting with enough force to sear the muscle with a pain that momentarily paralyzed the arm.
I flexed my knees just in time to absorb the bone jarring impact that even a foot of snow didn’t lessen. My right hand slapped the chute release as the shock of my landing traveled straight up to my balls and set up shop for a few painful moments.
Teeth gritted, I unclipped a glowstick, bent it to break the glass capsule inside and shook it hard, letting the phosphorescent chemicals mix. A cool green glow lit the immediate surroundings. Stark sentinels—beech trees bare in the harsh winter climate—surrounded me along with tall hemlock and creek maples. Not what I needed. If I were unable to find shelter, all that would be left would be my corpsicle.
Not wanting to abandon any resource or leave telltale signs of my arrival, I searched for and found my ’chute, tugging it out of a grasping hemlock. With the white fabric tucked under one arm, I went in search of shelter, flexing my left arm to work out the pain of the growing bruise.
By the green light of the glowstick I finally found what I was looking for—a white spruce, its bottommost branches so heavily laden with snow that they touched the ground. Perfect. Imitating a snake, I slithered underneath the branches to find myself in a sheltered cone next to the trunk, a spot safe from the clawing wind. Withdrawing a small packet from the pocket of one arm, I worried the plastic apart and unfolded a thin Mylar blanket. That along with the ’chute would keep me alive until morning. Rolled up like a burrito, I took calm, even breaths to ease the burning in my lungs, the plumes of frost from my mouth hanging like the spirits of the dead in the eerie light of the glowstick.
Despite the howling wind and freezing cold, it was surprisingly easy to fall asleep.
Footprints, poorly hidden and leading west. The diffuse morning sunlight oozed through the wooden bones around me, faintly illuminating the drag marks that failed to fully conceal the passage of what I assumed was one of my cousins. Slowly, carefully, I followed those drag marks, alert for the possibility of ambush.