The Judas Line (15 page)

I laid my forehead on the table. “Aww … Jiminy Christmas … I’d hoped this would be easy.”

“Easy? Easy?” blurted Mike. “You think what we’ve been through is easy? Elementals, serial killers and Nigel the British Mike Tyson? Not to mention that fresh notch in your ear.”

My felt like a lump of lead. “Yeah, Mike … considering that my Family is involved, this has been a cakewalk.”

“Which means?”

“It’s only going to get harder.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“You guys sound like Danny Glover and Mel Gibson in
Lethal Weapon
, you know that?” Leslie hid her smile behind a slim hand.

The bloom must have faded from the rose of Mike’s teenage crush because he gave her a rather crusty look. “Thanks tons, that’s so comforting.” He snorted. “At least I get to be Danny Glover.”

“Okay, as amusing as this is, let’s get back on topic.” I pierced Leslie with my own hard look. “The brooch … the Grail. Nigel said you don’t have it anymore, so where is it?” It wasn’t as if I was surprised. For most of my life, Murphy’s Laws have been a constant I’ve never been able to escape or dodge. Believe me, even Words are of no use in avoiding them.

Nigel bowed his head and Leslie toyed with her teacup for a moment before saying, “My son stole it.”

Mike goggled. “Your son stole the Holy Grail?”

Nigel bristled at his tone while I just put my head in my hands. “What? It did not look like the bloody Holy Grail.”

“All right, all right, everyone. Chill out,” I said into the palm of my hands. “Tell me what happened, please.”

Leslie sighed. “My boy, Alexander, came ’round about six months ago in an old ’82 Pan Head that his father had given to him for his fifteenth birthday, said he wanted to come to see his mom, but what he really wanted was to take whatever he could fit in his backpack.”

“Of course.” Artifacts like the Grail have an unsettling habit of eluding those who search for them. I think God reckons that man should not muck about with them, at least not the ones who know their power. I passed my thoughts on to the group.

“So you think God made my son take the Grail?”

I phrased my reply carefully. No need to irritate mama bear. “I think God provides the opportunity and lets us talking monkeys decide if we want to take advantage.” The last of the tea slithered its way down my throat. “But let me put it to you this way: there are dozens of powerful artifacts in the world, all loaded with their own special powers, so why doesn’t mankind know about them all? Why hasn’t there been an amazing discovery, documented and publicized?”

Nigel squinted at me. “Because they don’t want to be found, do they?”

“Got it in one.”

“So what now?” Mike asked.

“Now we go have a word with Alexander.”

Leslie bristled in full mama-bear mode. “Don’t you hurt my boy! He’s not perfect, but he is mine.”

I donned my most sincere look. “Not a problem, ma’am. Just want to have a word or three with him. If you want, I’ll let Mike do the talking.”

Nigel patted Leslie’s hand. “You won’t find the little bleeder without his mother. He rides with a motorcycle gang. Moves around like a gypsy.”

“Do you know where Alexander is now, Leslie?” Mike asked gently.

She nodded. “I can find out. He gave me a number to call if I needed to get in touch. But first I want reassurances.” Her face shut down hard and fast.

Looking at her, I knew she wouldn’t budge and from Mike’s expression, he knew it too.

“What do you want?” I asked cautiously.

She held up a fist and her pinky rose. “One: I want your promise you won’t hurt my boy.” Another finger joined the pinky. “Two: I want to see that Silver you’ve talked about.” The third finger made an appearance and she leaned toward us. “Three: I want to
see
some more magic.”

Mike and I exchanged a look. “Done and done,” we said in unison. Strange that the spontaneous Healing of Nigel hadn’t been enough for her.

“Bloody
Lethal Weapon
, indeed,” muttered Nigel under his breath.

I ignored the comment, but inside was pleased. Obviously I was the Mel Gibson character, Riggs. Dipping into my backpack, I pulled out a plastic liter bottle, empty except for a little dribble at the bottom, and the cardboard cylinder containing the Silver. I removed the top, the camouflage tablets and pulled out the fishbowl. Only a few drops of black fluid rolled around on the bottom like maleficent mercury. Just looking at it prickled the hairs on the back of my neck.

Nigel peered at the bowl. “That bag? That’s it?”

“It’s what’s inside that will shrivel your
cojones
.” I held the near empty bottle out to Mike. “Can you bless some more water? This is all that’s left.” He nodded as he grabbed the bottle and headed toward the tap.

Leslie took a deep breath. “What’s that black liquid?”

I considered the foul fluid. “Denatured holy water. Call it unholy water.”

Behind me I heard a clatter as Mike dropped the plastic bottle. “What do you mean ‘unholy water’?” Nigel asked.

“When the Silver comes in contact with holy water, it begins to transform it, turn it into something that doesn’t ... irritate it, I guess. As its nature is infernal, it changes it to something that suits its nature.”

“What is it, exactly, then?” Leslie asked.

A private part of me wanted to tuck the Silver back in its cylinder and shut down that line of inquiry, but a promise was a promise, no matter how annoying. “It’s exactly what I said it is, Silver.”

“Okay, that … Silver thingy is bad, evil, but why keep it in holy water? Does that neutralize its power?” I could tell she wanted to touch the bowl, but I kept it out of reach.

“Kind of,” I replied slowly. “Mainly it’s to keep my Family and the Voice from sensing it, and thereby finding me. You see, I stole it from them.”

Mike began to speak softly, blessing the tap water, I guess.

I got a wide-angle view of Leslie’s eye as she stared through the bowl. “How powerful is it? What does it do?” Nigel stood very close to her and I hid my smile by half turning away. Oh yeah, those two were going to hook up or I was a blind man.

“The Silver had been the … crux, I guess, of my Family’s power for the past two millennia. When a Family member who’s a magus holds it, he has access to very powerful, even devastating Words.”

“What kind?” asked the butler.

I met Nigel’s eyes and something in mine gave him pause. “Trust me, mate, you don’t want to know.”

“So the Grail—” Leslie began.

“Will destroy the Silver, I believe,” I finished, setting the bowl down. Mike walked over, pressed the now full plastic bottle into my hand and gave me a reassuring pat on the back.

“Well, kids, it’s been a swell ride,” I grinned, hoping it would hide my fatigue. “But we really have to boogie.”

“You’re not going to tell us any more, are you?” For some reason Leslie looked a little sad. I guess she wasn’t comfortable with a little mystery.

“Some things are best left unsaid and some things are best left unknown. ‘Ignorance is bliss’ is not just a catchy phrase, man.”

Mike nodded. “He hasn’t even told
me
what the Silver is.”

I nodded. “But he’ll find out soon enough.”

Chapter Thirteen

Mike

Despite the strange and unusual circumstances, not to mention the outrageous story Jude and I had spun, Leslie was a gracious hostess. Heck, if it had been me, I might have called the nearest mental hospital for a brace of straitjackets and a pair of big Iowa farm boys to help strap them on.

I must admit that, upon first meeting Leslie Winchester, my adolescent fantasies from the early ’80s dimmed somewhat against the harsh light of reality. Even so, she remained a fine figure of a woman, lush and emanating enough sex appeal to make my collar feel tight. It was the first time in a long while I heard the siren call of the opposite sex.

Leslie was kind enough to offer us a bed for the night, but we declined, our business being too urgent for us to lose any more time. Sighing, she found her smart phone and tapped an icon. Obligingly, she hit the SPEAKER
and let us listen in.

A clicking noise as a gravelly voice answered, “Ma? Is that you?”

“Yes, Alexander, it’s me,” replied Leslie with a melancholy smile.

“Look, if it’s about the glass rose, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” Alexander, despite his deep, gruff voice, sounded petulant and childish.

I looked at Jude.
Glass rose?
I mouthed silently. He nodded once, affirming that the Grail’s camouflage capability was at work.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Leslie purred. “It’s not about that. Where are you?”

“At our place in Bend.”

“Good. Honey, a couple of friends of mine want to talk to you. It’s important.”

Alexander’s voice became even rougher. “I don’t wanna talk to anyone, Ma.”

“Sweetie,” she soothed. “It’s all right. They’re good people. One’s a priest.”

“And the other one, Ma, is he a slim, darker man, dark like an Ay-rab or Jew?”

I felt a prickle down my spine. Jude shook his head, eyes hooded with concern. This wasn’t going to end well.

“Yes, his name is Jude. I believe he’s a good man.”

“Ma, I see either that priest or that Ay-rab Jew up here and I’m gonna put a hole in ’em. That also goes for that uptight Limey bastard you got waitin’ on you hand and foot.”

Leslie’s face became a study in apprehension. “Alexander, please!”

“The name’s Baphemaloch, Ma.” Behind me I heard Jude swear softly. Later, I’d have to talk to him about his language. “Me and the Demons are going to Keep the Glass Rose Safe.” I could hear the capitals in his voice. “So if you see your two pals, tell them Baphemaloch is waiting.” The line went dead.

“Shit,” Jude muttered while Leslie moaned and began to weep, laying her head on Nigel’s shoulder.

“Language,” I admonished. Still, I couldn’t put any heat into the rebuke because of the creepy feeling skittering over my skin. Alexander/Baphemaloch’s voice had carried a diamond-sharp edge.

“What? What’s going on?” Nigel said, perplexed and angry.

Jude sighed. “Alexander is under the influence.”

Nigel raised an eyebrow through the curls of Leslie’s hair as she dampened his tux with her tears.

“What, Jude?” I kept my tone neutral. “What kind of influence? Drugs?”

He shook his head, avoiding our eyes. “Who are the demons he was talking about?”

“The biker gang he belongs to, Demon’s Blood,” Leslie’s voice was muffled by the stiff fabric of Nigel’s jacket.

“Mate, the priest asked you a question. What influence is Alexander under?” Nigel inquired calmly, features set in stone.

He fingered the notch in his ear. “Drugs, man. Probably meth.”

Jude’s lie caused a wave of nausea to sweep through me. His terrible poker face was visible only to me because he was half turned away from Nigel. He knew I’d caught him out.

Leslie sobbed harder as Nigel stroked her hair.

A few minutes later the couple escorted us through the front door/garage/drawbridge affair all the way to the wrought-iron gate. Jude turned to the shaken Leslie and said, “I’ll do what I can to help Alexander.”

A spark of hope caught behind her eyes and blazed. “You promise?” she begged in a little girl lost voice.

“Hey!” Jude said suddenly. “I still owe you some magic.” He turned to Nigel and me. “Give us a moment, gents.”

Obligingly we moved away, watching curiously as Jude leaned in and whispered into Leslie’s ear.

I looked at the butler. “Nigel, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

He grinned impishly “You want to know what a former SAS chap from Liverpool is in the States acting like a proper butler to her nibs?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Not too ruddy hard to figure. I retired from service and was dithering around my flat when a chum of mine who runs an employment service calls and informs me that
the
Leslie Winchester was looking for a real gentleman butler.” He sighed, staring at the woman talking softly with Jude. “My friend knows I have it something bad for the lady, always have since I bought my first
Cinnamon Relic
back in the ’70s. So I donned my best high-end accent and he puts me into the job. That was six bloody years ago and I’ve been happy bugger ever since.”

One thing puzzled me. “Why the upper-crust dialect?”

“Americans expect the snooty, snide type of talk they see in Merchant Ivory productions,” he said as if that explained everything. At my look of incomprehension, he said, “I must of watched
Remains of the Day
at least a dozen times so I could sound like Anthony Hopkins.”