Cain (14 page)

Marcelle was stoic at the words. Yet when the old man fell silent he
looked up. "Were these the words you have brought to me from Rome, noble Aveling?"

"Yes, Marcelle, and more than these. For I have seen the photos of the crime scene, just as you have. I have studied the names scratched into the wall—Mawet, Resheph, Ashtaroth, and Beliyy'al." He paused. "Mawet, whom the ancients teach us made a covenant with Death, then Resheph, the great and unconquerable demon-lord forever at war with the one who cursed him. Ashtaroth, the angel of death who brings about the end of the world. And finally ... Beliyy'al, the dark angel who lords over all other fallen angels and brings them into subjection by the strength that is his
– and his alone."

"Yes," agreed Marce
lle, "I have seen these things, also."

"And so ..." Aveling paused, frowning. "Yes, and so here we stand, Marcelle. And I must ask you this last discriminating question. Who is it, my son, that we face in battle
this final time?"

A moment passed in dark silence.

Marcelle finally stood and walked slowly to the fireplace. He waited a long time, his face grim while the merciless holocaust rose before him, consuming all that could be consumed. He stared into the flames, and none could say what he saw there.

His voice was hushed.

"One who was once a prince," he said.

***

His iron hand gripped the steel rung on the ladder as the water cascaded past him and he roared as his strength endured. Then, groaning inch by inch, he overcame the flooding force and began to haul himself from the flowing power of the underground river. The rusted rung bent at the combined pressure of his great weight and the torrent, but his hand would not release, was locked solidly as death.

Ancient curses twisted his face as he brought himself to air, fighting to find breath and life in this cursed tomb of dark and cold that had carried him so helplessly. Yet the deep steel of the rung held this time and he shouted, viciously lashing up to find purchase, hauling his chest from the flow.

Grimacing, growling, he climbed foot by foot to claim a hateful escape, ascending to the slender shadow of false light that haloed the manhole cover above him.

His wounds were agony, even worse than the wounds he'd suffered in the battle at White Sands where he'd escaped into the night to kill, and
kill, and kill. He didn't know the man that had attacked him—he'd only glimpsed the face in the chaotic eruption of light that threw him back, blasting him into the river—but he knew he would find him one day, yes, he would find him and then he would deliver terror seen only once since the beginning of all things.

In time, yes, if I can only claim the blood of the child!

He gazed up at the manhole cover.

Light!

How he'd hated it! And now it was life!

He laughed as his feet cleared the river and then he was in the cold misty haze, climbing quickly upward. He hesitated briefly as he reached the last rung, pois
ed close to the steel cover, listening. But he heard no traffic, saw no shadows passing overhead.

Silence was all.

He knew the Army could not have foretold his destination, for they couldn't have known where he would finally find a grip to climb from this sewer. But he did not want any witnesses that could attest to his emerging from the pipe, witnesses that might in turn report to the police who could create another secured perimeter. No, he needed time to heal, needed time to overcome the grievous injuries inflicted upon him by this unknown attacker who had come to defend the child.

With a single titanic blow he shattered
asphalt cementing the manhole over to the road. Then he hurled the heavy steel plate aside and climbed from the underworld like a blood-drenched gargoyle emerging from a bone-littered tomb, raising black-taloned hands to embrace the glorious night.

Recovering, drawing hot breath, he searched for witnesses and saw only one: a lonely figure silhouetted on the sidewalk beneath the light of a lamp. The figure had a grocery cart in front of him. His mouth hung open in shock.

Cain smiled as he turned and walked quickly forward.

For at the sight, he knew . . .

He needed his blood.

***

"And, now, what will the Golem do, my son?" Aveling's bald head glistened in the somber light with his question. He repeated it again as if he knew there could be no answer. "Yes. . . that is the question we must answer. What will the Golem do?"

Marcelle was seated again and his face hardened as the moments passed. "Did the Librarian Superior of the Archives come with you from Rome, Aveling? Is he in the Archives as we speak?"

There was assent.

Marcelle nodded, turning his mind with an effort to analysis. "Yes, that is the place to begin
, for Father Lanester was probably slain only because he held the combination to the vault. Surely whatever this fiend desired was sealed within its walls."

"But you forget that I also hold the combination to the vault, Marcelle," Barth interrupted. "I also have means of entering the Archives."

With the words Marcelle stared, his brow hardening like flint. Then he rose, striding again before the fire. He turned back sharply. "And where were you at the time of Father Lanester's murder?"

Barth shook his head, searching his memory. "I
... ah ... I was at Imperial Funeral Home to conduct an all-night vigil for the death of a beloved donor to the Church. I did not arrive again at the cathedral until this morning, after I had been summoned by the police."

Marcelle nodded with each word. "Yes
… Of course . . ."

"What is it, Marcelle?" Aveling asked. "What do you perceive?"

Moving away quickly with a single stride Marcelle spoke. "Yes! I should have thought of it before! Did you not even ask the question yourself, Father Barth? Of course that is it!"

"What
!" gasped Barth. "What are you saying?"

Crossing an arm over his chest, Marcelle marched like a soldier before the flames. "Our enemy is too wise not to know he must do us harm at every opportunity! And is it not better to strike at the head than the body? Yes, surely. So, if this beast could have, he would have waited for Father Barth to return so that he could have taken a general instead of a captain! But he could not! So this tells us much! Our enemy fears something!"

Aveling's gray eyes narrowed. "Yes, Marcelle, I follow your reasoning, but what is it that he fears?"

"He fears
time
," Marcelle replied as he leaned suddenly upon the fireplace, becoming utterly still with concentration. "The Golem's needs could not be delayed. He fears that, for some reason, his time is short and so he hurries and forsakes the blood of the master for the blood of the servant. Yes! Father Lanester's death was a victory for him! But it was a far lesser victory than he would have preferred!"

Barth shook his head. "I would have had it another way."

"We know that you would," Marcelle said without hesitation, "because you are a father of the Church, and a noble man. But the battle that has been joined is in the hands of God and we have no time, nor should we have compulsion, for regret. We must continue the struggle with courage and strength and whatever meager means we have at our disposal because the price of defeat may be greater than the value of all our lives combined."

At the words Barth rose from his seat. "And what is before us now, Marcelle? You, better than anyone, understand the mind of this evil. You say that time is not on his side? Is it on ours?"

Marcelle turned to gaze dismally into the flames. He shook his head and without permission withdrew a cigarette. Once it was lit, he expelled a thick, meditative cloud of smoke. The gathering silence in the room seemed to hang on his unspoken words.

"I do not know," he said, implacable once more. "But there is nothing we can do, yet. Because we do not yet know this monster's intentions. We must give Father James, the Librarian Superior, time to complete his search."

"And then?" Barth asked as Aveling released a faint smile.

"Then we will see how wise and strong our enemy truly is," Marcelle
said, utterly calm. "We will see how great is this strength he so cruelly used against a gentle man of peace."

There was an ominous tone to the words.

"But are we not all men of peace, Marcelle?" Barth asked. "How can mortal men defy immortal force?"

Marcelle took another long breath and released smoke in a cloud that,
rising before the fire's light, covered him in a haunting white haze. He stood utterly alone and somber, as if he were surrounded by the ghosts of ancient battle, spectral faces of defeated heroes.

"Peace, Father?" he answered. "There has never been peace in this
world. It has been war since the Beast was created. Now, the only life we have is to fight ... To fight until we die."

* * *

CHAPTER 10

Chatwell wandered in at 11:00 P.M., gazing about the room until he sighted Malo's heavy BDU jacket laid across a chair. He winked at Soloman and Maggie as he limped over, carefully searching the pockets. Then from the front right he took a long black cigar that looked to be the finest Cuban and slipped it quickly into his shirt.

Turning back, he said, "We'll have everything secured in a few minutes, Colonel." Then he smiled, clearly glad to be back in the field. "Malo was smoking one of these, so I thought I'd try one. God bless his miserable, crooked black heart."

Soloman laughed. "Semper fi, sarge?"

"Semper
fi, Colonel."

And was gone.

Maggie smiled. "He obviously stole that cigar from Malo." She laughed. "What does semper fi mean?"

Soloman
shook his head at Chatwell's antics, taking a sip of coffee before answering. "Semper Fidelis. Always faithful. It's a code of honor, the motto of the Corps. I'm Marine and Chatwell's Army, but everyone understands that it really means we take care of each other. We fight together until we win or die. And there can be even more to it than that."

"Like?"

"Well," Soloman took a deep breath, "it's military, but it's more than military. It's ... like, when you make a commitment to someone, you're there to the end, life or death. You never leave them alone, no matter what. If you've got food or ammo or cigarettes, you share it. What's yours is theirs. And as long as they're alive ... you never leave their side when they need you."

He bent his head with the words, clearing his throat, and she saw that something about the statement troubled him. She let it go.

"I understand," she said. "It's in everything you do, Sol. In everything you say and don't say. And the rest have it, too, to a degree. They show it by how they fight. Like the way Malo was searching for you in the tunnel. He was absolutely frantic."

Soloman
cast her a glance.

"Yeah," she nodded, taking a moment. "I heard all of it. I was listening in on the chopper headset. Malo, as mean and uncaring as he seems to be, would have gone through Hell itself to find you even though he knew what you were up against."

"Malo's a brave man," Soloman said, grimacing. "He isn't half as cold as he acts. But it's his way of dealing with things." He paused. "Yeah, he'd stand behind me, no matter what."

Smiling sligh
tly, she was suddenly more beautiful. And as Soloman stared at her he began to warm to her. This woman, he knew, was unique. Perhaps she was the kind of woman a man would die for. He had only known one other like that.

Strange, he
realized how quickly friendships were forged in the heat of conflict when people had to find what was truly important to them.

Wondering at it, he gazed again at his coffee. He wanted to say something meaningful but he'd built such a huge wall between himself and his
feelings that he had no clue how to do it anymore. Yet inside, he knew, a part of that wall was crumbling.

They turned together as Malo stalked in the door. He moved with his
MP-5 slung over his back, not even looking at them. "We got heat sensors in a crossover pattern, Colonel," he said absently as he reached his coat, searching the front right pocket. "Got motion detectors set five feet off the ground to avoid trippin' 'em on bear, but I still got to—"

He frowned, abrup
tly removing all his cigars from the pocket, counting with severe displeasure. He counted them again as Soloman watched from the corner of his eyes. Then the big Delta commando turned to both of them. "Who took one of my cigars?" he asked.

"Huh?" replied
Soloman, raising his face.

Maggie shook her head, raising hands. "I didn't see a thing, Malo. I
was in the kitchen making coffee."

Malo's black eyes narrowed in suspicion. He shook the black cigars. "Uh-huh," he nodded. "Well, I'll find out who it was. 'Cause if they took it, they're gonna
smoke it
!" He stuffed the rest in the leg pocket of his BDUs. "Let's see 'em take one out of here!"

Soloman
was smiling openly as Malo stalked out of the house and Maggie joined him, her open laughter the most beautiful music Soloman had heard in a long, long time.

***

Archette's black limousine delivered him to the isolated Long Island manor at midnight and a wordless servant, tall and gaunt, opened the oak doors to grant his expected entrance.

Head bowed, Archette stepped into the expansive foyer crowned by majestic high ceilings and a winding staircase that ascended to a walkway shrouded in darkness. Beyond him, surrounding chambers were also shadowed, as if to conceal things he was not meant to know.

He waited, not raising his eyes to search the rooms until a tall black man dressed in a long, flowing black robe approached. The man's head was hooded, his pale face barely visible. His waist was tied with a stout rope and a polished short sword with Hebrew inscriptions burned cryptically into the blade hung from his left side.

Muscular and intimidating, the man stood in silence, as if his unspoken command should be understood. And Archette moved quietly forward, resisting the impulse to wipe beads of sweat from his brow. In seconds he passed through the long corridors to finally arrive at a subterranean chamber that was almost void of decoration.

There was a large round table comprising thick oak planks, and seven chairs, now empty. Built with rough-hewn wood, the table was Celtic or Roman in design; it had the aura of great age.

A large fire roared in a hearth, and before it a single man stood in silence, resting an arm on the mantel. His face was turned away and his white hair flamed out in a crescent from his bald head, shaved in a dome, according to his custom. He wore a black shirt of loose-sleeved, fourteenth-century glamour. His loose black pants were crafted from leather that appeared soft and comfortable. He did not move.

Archette waited, and sensed rather than saw the cloaked servant moving silently into the shadows, though he knew the bodyguard would not venture far. For this was a place of power, and secrets, and was heavily guarded.

"Things have not gone according to our plans," the man said finally, still unmoving. There was an impatient intonation to the words.

"No, they have not," Archette replied, holding place. "There were too many complications, I believe. And the outcome of the ... the
experiment
remains in doubt. We are not sure yet, Lazarus, whether we have actually succeeded."

"We have succeeded," Lazarus spoke, convinced. "That is not my concern. But
he
is out there, Professor. He is out there and he is apparently confused. Or he would have already come to us." A pause. "Do you have any idea what price you will pay for failure?"

"I believe, yes, I believe ... that I do." Archette hesitated. "But there are, indeed, great complications
because we cannot find him. He is here, yes, among us. But where?"

"That is for you to discover." Lazarus frowned. "But tell me of
Soloman. Does he again prevail against us?"

"
Soloman will be eliminated," Archette answered. "I must move carefully but, yes, Soloman will be eliminated. He will not endanger our plans as ... as before. Perhaps it would have been wiser if we had killed him in the past, Lazarus, instead of his family."

The man known as Lazarus turned fully at the words and Archette
once again beheld the commanding face, diamond-black eyes set deep in a saturnine countenance that seemed to know neither mercy nor weakness. His high cheekbones, sharp and intelligent, accented a face and jaw that were almost perfect in strength. His frown was terrifying.

"If we had killed
Soloman, then he would only have been reborn," he rasped. "I am an Overlord. Do you think that I do not understand the power of martyrdom?"

"
Of course not!" Archette swayed. "I only meant that—"

"I will not have
Soloman reborn to exact vengeance upon either myself or The Family," he said, black eyes blazing. "The death of Soloman's wife and child broke his mind as it does with all chattel. And that was sufficient because he no longer pursued those we recruited to serve us within The Circle. But to kill an enemy as powerful as Soloman ... can be a dangerous thing." He turned again to the flames. "Unless we had utterly destroyed his body, his death would have made him even more powerful in his next world. Then one day, many years from now, he would have again threatened us."

Archette stood in silence, hands clasped.

"No," Lazarus continued, vaguely disturbed. "We will only kill Soloman at the Master's words, for he is the God who would be, and cannot be threatened by flesh – not even by Soloman."

"Yes, of course. It will be as you say."

"The Family is displeased, Professor," he said with colder emotion. "We have cultivated you. We have trained you. We have given you what you could never have gained for yourself. Then we asked for this – for you to bring the Master to us, and you failed. But you will fail no more. You will find him. And then you will assist him in whatever he requires. Or there will be no forgiveness. Or future."

"I will not fail," Archette whispered. "I will not fail."

"Do not." Lazarus turned back again. "Or you will hear serpents hissing in the halls of your house."

Suppressing a trembling he had known only rarely in this place— trembling excited by the sacrifices and the dark blood running into water that washed it from the altar—Archette crept away, hoping no more words would be said. Then he heard the soft voice call after him.

He paused. "Yes?"

The man was concentrated.

"If the Master comes, remember that you must not tremble."

Archette suppressed his racing breath.

"I would never tremble."

Lazarus laughed.

"We will see."

***

"Oh, lord!" Ben shouted as he tore off a report from the JDIIS telefax, abruptly handing it to Soloman.

Sipping a cold cup,
Soloman took the message and responded wearily, "What is this, Ben?"

"It's from the FBI!" Ben answered, swaying. "They've got a wheelbarrow-load of dead bodies with the blood drained but this is something different! I think he finally made a mistake!"

Soloman quickly filtered out pertinent facts and he saw that a priest, Father Lanester, had been murdered in a cathedral. It was a particularly bloody killing that amazed even veteran homicide investigators. No autopsy had been ordered because virtually nothing remained of the body.

Soloman
's eyes narrowed as he read the report, translating ancient words that had been written in the priest's blood. And he knew some-how that the killing was related. Not just because of the phenomenal strength required for such wholesale murder but because of the malevolent meaning contained in the words themselves.

He stood quickly, walking and speaking, "Have the county homicide units color-fax photos of the crime scene. I want to make sure they've got this stuff right. Then heat up the Loach and arrange for a car to meet me at LAX. I'm going to this cathedral."

Clenching his teeth as he stood, Soloman felt something awaken violently, something that told him he might not be facing an indomitable foe. For if Cain had made a mistake – even a single mistake – then he could make two. And a second mistake could put him in a killing field.

He turned with new energy to Maggie, suddenly remembering that they hadn't yet spoken about what Cain had said to Amy in the tunnel. The shock of combat had driven the thought from
Soloman's head but now it was back and wide awake.

"Maggie," he began, "we haven't talked about what happened with Amy in the tunnel before I arrived. Did Cain say anything to her? Did she repeat anything that Cain said?"

"Amy said he was going to kill her," she said quietly. "She said that he talked about the moon and water. And maybe some planets. She couldn't remember which ones. Then she said that he mentioned something that sounded like ... verus, or verum ... or maybe grim verum." She paused. "I don't know what it means and I didn't question her too hard."

Soloman
was still as stone, searching his memory for anything that sounded like ‘grim verum.’

For a long moment he concentrated but nothing came. He shook his
head; there was no way to know. But he had a suspicion about the planets, the moon, and the water. Studies he'd done on the Dark Ages made him suspect it was probably a spell and maybe even related to Satanism, which led him deeper and deeper into a hypothesis that he hadn't spoken aloud to anyone – nor would he unless he was sure because it was too fantastic.

"All right," he said, staring into the composed green eyes. "I appreciate everything you did. I know it wasn't easy."

She nodded, smiling faintly. And something inside Soloman responded to it – feelings and need rose within him with surprising intensity but he instantly hardened himself against them.

This was
n’t the time.