The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead 2 A Post-Apocalyptic Epic (27 page)

She paused for a time, her eyes scanning the pages. When she was done, she made a face of disgust. “That’s about it. The only thing that’s of note in my opinion is that he was related to thirteen of the previous Bishops of Tours. They sort of had a monopoly in that field.”

“That could easily be chalked up to nepotism run amok,” Jack said, coming to stand hovering over her shoulder, squinting down at the screen. The article on Gregory was just as she had said, and none of it looked helpful. When he finished reading it from top to bottom, he scowled first at the phone and then in at the crypt, which was shrouded in shadow. He wasn’t afraid of what lay beyond the broken doors. He knew there was no ghoul version of St. Gregory within it. All he could sense was the residue of the spell, reminding him of what he carried around in his head.

“Let’s go inside and check it out,” Jack said, unable to come up with a better idea. “Maybe we’ll find more clues.”

The soldiers went first, crouched behind their tactical shotguns. Jack and Cyn strolled in after Vance had declared the room to be: “Clear.” It was, sadly, not clear. On the floor in the middle of the room was a fresh corpse, a child with a face forever warped by pain. Around the child were the blotted remains of the twin circles.

Just beyond that was the tomb of St. Gregory; it had been torn open by something strong enough to break a five-inch slab of granite into chunks. Vance moved up to the edge of the tomb and glanced in with a quick peek. “He ain’t here, not even scraps.”

Jack came up next and glanced in. “Can you point your flashlight inside the tomb?” he asked Vance. “Yes, right there. You can see the faint outline of where a body used to be and that odd substance that looks like mold isn’t mold, it’s hair. Gregory was definitely here until very recently.”

“And now Robert has him,” Cyn said. “Ol’ Greg must know something, but what?”

“Perhaps he knows something about someone else,” suggested the slim priest. “He was a hagiographer. Maybe he knew something about one of the saints. I say we check out Saint Martin since his tomb is the closest.”

Everyone agreed and, after another Google check showed that St. Martin’s tomb was two miles to the west, they called down their hovering chopper, which came to land once more in the parking lot. Quickly they were buzzing above the pretty trees and the strewn corpses and pools of blood.

They were there in just over a minute. As the pilot gazed down and saw that there was nowhere to land within the vicinity and everyone else was checking out the destruction of St. Martin’s tomb, Jack was peering between moments in time.

Their sudden appearance had surprised a sorcerer. It was a man dressed in velvety clothes of black. They swam around him, making Jack think he was wearing a long, flowing a cloak. He ran up out of a huge hole that had been dug under the north end of St. Martin’s mausoleum. Only Jack saw him and he did for just a blink; the sorcerer was there for a second and then in the next second, time changed.

The sorcerer slowed time to a crawl so that he seemed to blaze away in an impossible blur. “Son of a bitch!” Jack seethed, knowing that if he waited for the chopper to nose about for a place to land, the sorcerer would be long gone, and he couldn’t take that chance. He had to catch the man and find out why he was at the tomb and what he knew about St. Martin and if he was working for Robert in some capacity.

It would mean a fight, but only if Jack could catch him first, and there was only one way to do that: he leapt from the helicopter…from a hundred feet up.

Chapter 26

Tours, France

Jack Dreyden

Scientifically, Jack knew that the velocity of a free-falling object was not static. A falling object accelerated at thirty-two feet per second, and then doubled that speed
every
second. Meaning that in the first second an object fell, it would travel thirty-two feet and during the next second, it would fall an additional sixty-four feet and in the third second it would travel a hundred and twenty-eight feet.

There would be no third second for Jack. He would be just a smidge into that third second before he struck with a sickening thud on the street below, becoming just another corpse in a city full of them.

However, Jack possessed both magic and the knowledge that the speed at which he fell was dependent on time, something he could control. “
Phra-isth rath em
,” he said as he dropped, slowing time to a tenth of normal speed. It was a strange sensation, dropping away from the side of the helicopter and seeing the blades spinning above him, moving in long sweeps like a clock with four “second” hands. The noise of their passage was distorted in his ears, sounding like a long low rumble among a background of distortion.

The edges of the world and everything in it blurred; everything except Jack’s sword, which he whipped out of its sheath the moment he landed at a tenth the speed he normally would have.

Thirty feet away, the sorcerer, another Chinese sorcerer, spun about just as time snapped back. The man stood only as tall as Jack’s chin and seemed wiry within his billowing cloak. He was somewhat ageless; his tan skin smooth and his hair black as jet, and yet there were wrinkles at the corner of one of his eyes.

The other eye was simply gone and in its place was a charred black crater from which an oily pus dripped. It looked as though someone had recently used his face to put out a torch.

“Go your way, Visha Ra-aye and I will go mine,” he said, his hands disappearing within his cloak.

“I just need to know what you were doing in that tomb?” Jack demanded, moving to his right, the sorcerer’s blind side. He would strive to attack from that angle if he could.

“I said: go your way, Visha Ra-aye and I will go mine. Do not question me and I will not question you.”

Any other day he might have gone his own way, he might have been able to put aside the hyper-aggression that seemed to come over him in the presence of another sorcerer. He might have ignored the
need
to do battle, but just then he had a stronger need.

“You will tell me and then I will decide if I let you go or not.”

Anger flared in the one eye left to the sorcerer. “You are a fool. You do not understand the gift I give. I am counted among the waters. I am the Master of the Eastern Rivers.”

Clearly Jack was supposed to be impressed by this, but wasn’t. “Maybe I am a fool since I really don’t care what you’re the master of.”

“You should care, Visha Ra-aye, because I am allowing you to live. My power is far greater; my magics far more subtle, my knowledge vast compared to yours.”

“Your magics are subtle?” Jack asked. “That hole in your head doesn’t look all that subtle.” The sorcerer glared and ground his teeth, inadvertently showing Jack his “hole card” so to speak. “I see now. You’re not ‘letting’ me live. The truth is you’re hoping I don’t kill you. You tangled with something too big to tangle with and now you’re weak, so weak that some nothing like myself might just wipe the floor with you.”

The sorcerer didn’t reply to this, perhaps because he knew that Jack would see through his lie. “That’s what I thought,” Jack said. “Now, since I don’t give a rat’s ass about what river you’re the master of, you’re going to tell me what I want to know right now or you’re going to tell me once I have my sword run up through your guts.”

“No,” the sorcerer answered, and then in a blur, he cut himself, spraying blood and hissing: “Kru vah ah-tan!” The droplets of blood falling from the cut on his wrist suddenly changed from red to black, and from rounded drops to sharp angles. Before they struck the street, they changed course and darted at Jack so fast that he only had time to thrown himself to the side. He was too slow and a dozen of the black darts struck him. Eight of them hit his armor with the sound of bacon sizzling and leaving holes in the Kevlar.

One hit the inside of his right elbow; there was a sharp pain and then complete numbness that spread to his bicep. Another hit his wrist paralyzing everything from the spot down to his fingertips, causing the blessed sword to drop with a clang onto the street.

The third and fourth of the little darts struck him on the neck and on the face, making his head cant over and his mouth droop as though he’d just had a stroke. Now, even if he knew some sort of counter spell, he wouldn’t have been able to use it.

Unable to wield either his spells or his sword, Jack was out of the fight practically before it started, and yet the sorcerer didn’t stop. He cut himself again and another dozen black blood-darts shot at Jack, who could only throw his left arm over his face and try to turn away. The arm went dead as did his left leg.

He fell to the ground and tried to crawl away, looking over his shoulder as the sneering Master of the Eastern River came on, his face screwed up with evil delight. He had won and now he wanted to punish Jack for his insolence; he wanted to hurt him. Before he could; however, a rattle of machine gun fire erupted.

The French helicopter carrying Cyn and Captain Vance had dropped down so that it was forty feet above the street and now the door gunner fired at the sorcerer, but with seemingly no effect. The air shimmered around the man in a glowing bubble that sparked gold every time a bullet struck it and there was enough strikes to cast shadows and make Jack squint against the glare.

With a growled spell, the sorcerer shot a bolt of lightning up through the bubble at the chopper, hitting it in the tail rotor and causing it to begin spinning out of control. Two seconds later, the helicopter dropped out of sight and crashed with a great deal of breaking glass and shrieking of metal. Jack’s heart was in his throat as he waited for what he thought would be the inevitable explosion signaling the death of the woman he loved, but thankfully none came.

Jack sagged, both in relief and defeat, and tried to say
Stop, please
; however what came out of his paralyzed face was: “Shnap fees.”

This only made the sorcerer sneer all that much harder. “I am Master of the Eastern Rivers. You will now learn what that means and where you rank.” More black darts shot out from his bleeding fist and Jack could do nothing but try in vain to roll away. He was too slow and all he did was expose more of himself to the strange numbing venomous darts.

They stung down his back, across his left kidney and his hip. Most struck his armor but enough hit him to leave him nothing but a rag doll, and yet that did not stop the sorcerer. He hit Jack once more with the paralyzing spell—but it was one too many. One of the sharp projectiles hit neither his flesh nor his armor. It hit one of the vials of Holy Water he wore at his side. There was a crack, a flash of silver light and then the air was suddenly filled with a fine mist that rained down in gentle curtains.

Wherever the mist fell, it neutralized the venom and washed away the black holes in Jack’s skin leaving him completely unmarred and able to feel every inch of his body once again.

He found it glorious, while on the other hand the mist perplexed the sorcerer, who backed away from the droplets as if afraid to get any on him. This allowed Jack enough time to roll over and snatch up his sword. He attacked without hesitation and without warning. The black darts and the lightning bolt had been proof that he had seriously underestimated the sorcerer’s reserve of strength and his magical ability.

The sword cut a silver arc as Jack went on the offensive. The sorcerer countered by slowing time by half and dodging the thrust by the barest of margins. Jack swept his sword in a shining deadly arc once again, saving his magical energy and using his skill and speed advantage in an attempt to wear down the sorcerer; however his opponent unexpectedly pulled a sword of his own out from within the folds of his billowing robe.

It was a slim katana and one that was a bit shorter than most. He raised it assuming a fighting stance; however instead of attacking, he hissed: “Kru vah ah-tan-rahe.”

This sounded so much like the last spell that Jack darted in, lunging at the sorcerer before more of those strange blood darts flew at him. The spell wasn’t the same. Instead of turning his blood into poisoned darts, it darkened his blade, black as coal.

At the sight of it, Jack hesitated, appraising the new magic and not quite understanding it. “Seems like a bit of a waste of energy if you ask me,” Jack remarked, turning his head side to side, trying to see the blade fully. “I mean, if you can run me through, don’t you think the poison is a bit of an overkill?”

Jack was fishing for information before he committed to another attack, only the sorcerer was too cagey and remained silent. Strangely, he also stayed on the defensive; a mistake, or so Jack thought. Before his enemy could come up with another, perhaps more effective spell, Jack darted in, looking to stab over his opponent’s blade, which was held invitingly low.

Showing some skill, the sorcerer blocked the attack, but for some reason he didn’t follow up with a riposte which was normal in fighting sword to sword. Frequently, a blow was only landed after a few passes as each fighter looked to gain an advantage in position.

The sorcerer was content to block and leap back. Again this seemed foolish as Jack was obviously the quicker of the two. It was clear that eventually one of his attacks would get through the defense. Surely, the sorcerer had to see that; instead he was watching Jack with glee in his eyes.

Jack was suddenly very nervous. The sorcerer was fully expecting something bad to happen, but what? He hoped that he could kill his enemy before whatever was going to happen, happened; however as Jack brought his sword up, he saw that the shining metal was no longer shining. It was turning black from the tip on down to the handle.

“What the hell?” Jack cried, struck by indecision. He saw what was going to happen: the sorcerer’s paralytic spell would travel right down the blade and into his skin. The only question was: would it only affect his hand or would it completely numb him head to toe?

He couldn’t take the chance to find out and so he dropped the sword with a yelp. This had the sorcerer laughing which, for Jack was at least better than being attacked. It gave him precious seconds to dig out another vial, this one was of Holy Oil.

As quick as he could, he poured it on the blade and was happy to see the poison dry up and once again the sword shone like silver. The sorcerer calmly pointed out: “You have one left, only. You will lose.” Then he repeated his spell, feeding more poison into his blade. He beckoned Jack to come at him, but Jack declined with a shake of his head.

How could he attack? He would be paralyzed within a second of their swords touching, something that couldn’t be avoided. What he needed was some way to drain the sword of its magic, or neutralize it in some way. The idea of throwing his last vial of Holy Water at the sword crossed his mind; however, he knew that would be a very chancy throw of a small amount of precious fluid.

“What if I burned it out?” he wondered, as a plan began to brew. As the sorcerer started advancing with the tip of his blackened sword held far out in front of him, Jack didn’t have time to consider the repercussions. After learning from Truong, Jack had embedded razors in his armor at strategic points and he used one to cut his arm, hissing: “Shishin Ighn,” and then adding “Rahe,” as the sorcerer had with his spell.

Lightening suddenly lit up his blade with a crackling white light. Like the sorcerer, Jack held his blade out ahead of him, although for him it was because he was afraid of getting a little of his own medicine in the form of mild electrocution.

The sight of the glowing sword caused the sorcerer to hesitate, but only for a second, and then with a cry, he sprang forward. Their swords met and the magical energy flashed, alternating dark and light as each tried to gain the upper hand.

Jack was amazed to find that they were very nearly evenly matched, at least at the moment. The Master of the Eastern Rivers had a far deeper capacity of energy; however, judging by his cratered face, he had already gone through some sort of trial that day and was weak.

Three times they crossed swords, the light and dark battling as ferociously as the metal that rang out. On the fourth pass, Jack’s lunge was the quicker and his blade sank deep into the left shoulder of his opponent. The cut was deep and yet it was the lightning exploding into the sorcerer that did the most damage. The man was lifted off his feet and blown back to land within the doorway of St. Martin’s temple.

“Give up,” Jack urged, striding forward.

“No,” the sorcerer growled, climbing to his feet. “You fight the Mother. You pit yourself against the Queen of Souls and you will lose and you will suffer, and so will everyone who helps you. I will not help you. I will defeat you and gain everlasting glory. Kru vah ah-tan-rahe!” His blade went black again.

In answer, Jack said: “Shishin Ighn-rahe,” although he said it with some reluctance. He knew that he was not only quicker than his opponent, he was a far superior swordsman. The sorcerer was a magician first and foremost and a swordsman a distant second. He was sloppy in his defense and slow in riposting. He had obviously relied in the past on slowing time to gain a speed advantage over his opponents, and yet Jack could equal him there.