Angel Souls and Devil Hearts (20 page)

And then another sound joined the others: that of a bolt being drawn back, large and rusted. The wood of the door seemed to have swollen tight with moisture, though Allison thought it quite dry
at that moment, and though it scraped both floor and ceiling, the figure behind drew it open without any trouble.

And the tip of a long sword rested on lohn Courage’s throat.

The holder of the sword was dressed all in a sort of linen, with a scabbard hung from his leather belt. On his feet he had leather shoes, which Allison immediately recognized as having been
handmade, and probably not in this century, or the last. Over the linen pants he had wound some cloth around his legs, for what reason she could not guess.

He was not an attractive man. Though obviously clean, he had a scraggly beard and wild hair which, when combined with his thin lips and wide, flat nose gave him a bestial appearance.

Not to mention that sword.

John Courage spoke again in that language, which sounded familiar to her, fluid like Italian or Spanish, yet guttural as well. He spoke in calming, friendly tones, but the holder of the sword
barked something in return, and Allison was discouraged.

“Can’t you disarm him?” she hissed, and the warrior’s eyes flicked to her for the first time, examining her as if he were window-shopping at the butcher’s.

“Unnecessary” was Courage’s only reply.

If you say so
, she thought, but didn’t speak again, because she didn’t like the way the man with the sword looked at her. He barked something else and shook his head, and John
continued to speak in that soothing voice. And then the voice changed suddenly, became deeper, older. Though she couldn’t see him clearly from behind, Allison could tell that John was
changing. His head seemed longer, his body thinner; his hair hung, now, long down his back, and she could see even from behind that he had a light edge of beard. His skin had darkened
significantly, to almost an olive color. In short, though she couldn’t see his face, she knew that John Courage looked nothing like the shadow she had come to know.

The sword fell clanging to the stone floor inside that door, and a moment later, its wielder was also there, prostrate on his knees, eyes downcast, hands together as if pleading for forgiveness,
which was obviously what he
was
doing. When John leaned forward to urge the man to stand, Allison caught a good glimpse of his face in the firelight he himself generated, but his features
had returned to those she knew.

Clearly, John had been here before, and had worn a different face, one the guard, for she was sure that was what he was, had not only seen before, but respected, even feared.

Allison wasn’t sure she liked that idea.

The warrior turned now, and led them through a stone tunnel and to a set of stairs, which eventually opened into a large cavern. The stairs went down and down, with John’s fire lighting
the way, and before long Allison realized that there were two more of the warriors behind her, following them.

“What language was that?” she asked John.

“Frankish.”

“Uh-hmm,” she said and nodded. “They seem to know you.”

“Oh, they don’t know me much better than you do,” he said.

“Which is not at all,” she said archly. “Never mind that I haven’t yet prostrated myself before you.”

John was quiet for a while, so Allison voiced the question currently on her mind.

“Why won’t you tell me your real name?”

John stopped, turned and looked at her, studying her a moment. Allison was defiant, unintimidated, but not petulant. She needed to know what the hell was going on. The guards around them stood
still, waiting for John to continue. He smiled at her kindly, without any trace of menace, and she felt somewhat more comfortable.

“You thought you had a story with Venice,” he said. “Wait till you get to the bottom of this one.”

Then he chuckled and turned away, and they continued down the stairs for a good five minutes more. Finally, the stairs ended at the floor of the cavern, stretched out far before them. Allison
thought she could see still forms on the ground around them, but her eyes would not focus much past the circle of light thrown by John’s flaming fist.

“Here we are,” he said to her.

“Here?” she asked. “How ’bout some light?”

Courage said something quickly to their companions, and the one who had confronted them pointed ahead to the right. John walked forward, leaving Allison in the dark, but she was nervous about
doing anything that might set off their guards, so she waited for him to give the word. He didn’t. But she could still see him as he moved to the wall of the cavern. As he moved farther from
her, but closer to the wall, she saw a huge iron chain hitched by a single link to an iron spike that had been hammered into the wall. John said something, and the two who had been following
Allison rushed to him and, pulling the chain from the spike, played out two dozen rusty feet of slack that had been coiled on the stone floor.

Above them, Allison heard a creaking and rattling as a huge weight descended. It drew her attention but also made her suddenly aware again of the sound of running water, which had disappeared
for a while but now was back, and louder than before. Courage, with his light, came closer to her, and they both craned their necks to see whatever was rattling its way down to them. As it came
lower Allison began to make out a huge circle of iron, more than twenty feet in diameter, and through its center the elaborate network of chains that held it aloft. In seconds it hung six feet
above the floor, and John walked over and stood under it.

And Allison finally realized what it was: a chandelier.

John turned in a circle, his fiery touch reaching out to the huge candles melted onto the iron. Allison wondered how long it had been since those candles had been lit, but she didn’t need
to worry about whether they would still burn. Moments later, the two guards were hoisting the chandelier once again toward the ceiling of the cavern, and Allison looked around, nearly overwhelmed
by what the light had revealed.

She thought back to what John had told her, to his vague words:
The king sleeps in the heart of the mountain with one hundred of his most loyal soldiers, and when Europe needs him most, and
the ravens no longer fly at the summit, he will return
.

She had been able to pass off the dead ravens; after all, they might have been some sign of Mulkerrin’s return, his influence. But now, in the heart of the mountain, Allison Vigeant was
looking at one hundred sleeping soldiers in linen and leather, covered in furs, with swords at their sides. Far to her left, an underground stream ran through the cavern, above her the candles
burned on, and across the huge room, opposite the stairs they had walked down, was what might have been an altar. On top of it was a bed carved of stone, and upon that bed lay the creature of
legend. Even in that repose, he looked like a king.

“Come,” John said, taking her by the hand and leading her across the room. They moved carefully around the dead-looking forms of the soldiers, and the three who had escorted them
followed behind and kneeled at the base of the stone upon which their leader lay. But she and John continued up those steps, and in a moment, she was looking down upon his face.

His eyes were closed, but there were bags under them and his face was deeply lined. His long hair and equally long beard and bushy mustache were a reddish brown, streaked with gray. His nose was
aquiline, his cheekbones high and proud, and his skin was the white of ivory, as had been the skin of the sleeping men behind Allison. He was dressed very much like his soldiers, save for the blue
cloak that was wrapped about him, the silk edges of his tunic, and the pure gold belt and scabbard he wore. His crown sat next to his head on the stone bed. It was gold, encrusted with jewels, and
had a cross on top. Only when John Courage touched her arm was Allison able to tear her gaze away. The man was fascinating to look at.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” John asked, and she thought that was a pretty stupid question. She’d come all this way, and the life of the man she loved, not to mention so
many others, hung in the balance.

She raised a sarcastic eyebrow, a comment he’d become used to in the short time they’d known each other, and no other reply was necessary. The blood of a willing human female was
needed. As far as she could tell, she was the only female at the party, not to mention the only human!

John reached behind him, and one of the soldiers kneeling there stood to hand up his sword. He took Allison’s hand and lay the sword in her palm, and then before she had time to think
about it, he drew the blade across her flesh. She flinched, wanting to pull her hand away, but his strength held her there as her eyes began to water.

“
Mother of God!
” she hissed, but that was all, as she bit her lip. John curled her hand into a fist and kissed her knuckles before handing the sword back to its owner. He
nodded his approval of her strength, of her determination, and yet Allison could see the sympathy he felt for her pain.

“Let it drip on his lips,” John said, and she turned, held her hand above the old king’s face and bled.

His lips parted slightly, and Courage told her it was enough. Allison stepped back as the king’s eyes opened and he smiled. His tongue slid out and cleaned his mouth of her blood, and she
couldn’t help but shiver. She watched as John Courage helped him sit up, and then stand. They exchanged greetings in a language she recognized—Latin—but again she could not
understand. The old king had known John immediately, not needing the shapechange that his soldier had, and to Allison’s incredible surprise, attempted to kneel before him. But Courage
wouldn’t have it, looking around at Allison with an almost annoyed glance, muttering something to the king.

Finally, the old warrior’s eyes rested on her, and then he smiled benevolently and took the few steps toward her. One hand on the pommel of the sword hanging at his side, he made a deep,
regal bow and then looked at John Courage for assistance.

“Your Majesty,” John said in English, “it is my pleasure to present Allison Vigeant.”

“Allison,” he said, finally turning his attention back to her. “I’d like you to meet Carolus Magnus, whom some have called the father of Europe. Better known to you, of
course, as Charlemagne.”

And behind them, an army began to rise.

Salzburg, Austria, European Unson.
Wednesday, June 7, 2000, 5:01
A.M.
:

Hannibal was many things, but foolish was not among them. He was perfectly aware that every ranking officer, and probably most of their subordinates, involved with Operation:
Jericho suspected him of duplicity. When they separated, he had earned several suspicious and even fearful glances, and certainly every member of Commander Jimenez’s strike team had been
prepped for his possible betrayal.

No, Hannibal was no fool, but he suspected those around him, human and vampire alike, were fools indeed. Did they actually believe he would side with Mulkerrin? Such a concept was ridiculous.
However, Mulkerrin’s presence did provide Hannibal’s own plans with a perfect diversion. If the sorcerer managed to defeat the forces arrayed against him,
then
Hannibal would
step in and finish the job. In the meantime, he would use the opportunity to set his plans in motion. Hannibal was crafting a new future for the world, and though some might disagree with him, he
vowed to become the savior of his people. One day, they would revere his name.

For the moment, Hannibal sat calmly in the back of a troop carrier, along with his deputy, Rolf Sechs, six other shadows, and a crowd of human soldiers including UNSF Commander Roberto Jimenez.
Jimenez was making inquiries and delivering orders over a complicated communications system that each member of the United Nations security force carried in the collar of his or her uniform. Even
the agents and marshals of the Shadow Justice System had been given uniforms with these collarcomms for Operation: Jericho. Though unadorned, the uniforms of each unit were different colors, all
dark variants on green, blue and brown. The shadows wore gray, and the rest of Jimenez’s strike team wore black.

The collarcomms interested Hannibal only in that he was privy to every conversation among the UN commanders. Each unit’s leader, in this case each commander had two channels, one on either
side of the head. The left side was for general communication within the commander’s own unit, the right for communication with the other commanders and with Jimenez himself. Some of the
seconds, including Rolf, had both channels as well, but Hannibal was not concerned. Rolf could listen, but not speak. And Hannibal had a third channel, which he could switch to whenever he wished
by depressing a button on his collar, and which cut off communication to all SJS agents who were not on his handpicked team.

“All units have reported arriving at preliminary rendezvous, Chief Marshal,” Roberto Jimenez said. “We are the last to reach our position. Everything proceeds on
schedule.”