Soloman said nothing, then glared out the window. He saw distant ground beneath, the sea behind. Soon they’d be landing at Birmingham, and a new game would begin.
“All right, Marcelle, you can ride it out to the end. Just remember one thing. When we hit the deck, the rules have forever changed. I’ll be in a combat mode, and all of you will do exactly what I say, when I say. And if I say drop, I want everybody to drop. I respect your judgment, but don’t question me in a combat situation. Not ever.”
“We will follow your commands, Soloman. Be assured. But there may be something that we, too, can offer. If we fight with courage and hope and determination, we will be stronger together than alone. A three-strand cord is not easily broken.”
“Yeah,” Soloman answered. “Ecclesiastes, chapter one. But there’s going to be blood in this, priest – enough blood to drown in. And I want a promise from you.”
“Ask.”
“Once Amy and Maggie are together, when it’s just Cain and me, I want you to get them out of there. Then I won’t be worried about any of you getting hit by flak. I can go full out. No hesitation. ‘Cause I’m telling you right now, that if I have to, I’m gonna bring that castle down on him and me both.”
There was a long pause, and finally Marcelle nodded. “I understand,” the priest said. “But know this, Soloman. You were brought to this child for a purpose. It was meant to be by a power higher than this world. You did not choose Amy. You were chosen for her. It was your destiny. Ordained, and concealed. And now, I think, there is one less mystery in your life.”
Soloman stared. His face was too fierce in a combat mode to show anything but heat and fighting rage, and after a long moment he turned to look out at the night.
“And now,” Marcelle said, “if you will excuse me, I must pray. While there is still time.”
“Hey, Marcelle.”
The priest turned back, waiting.
“Do you really ...” Soloman paused. “I mean, do you really believe in prayer?”
Marcelle laughed softly.
“Well, it certainly can’t hurt, Colonel.”
***
A gigantic granite throne of majestic age dominated the torch-lit chamber, embracing Cain’s powerful form with godlike dimensions, casting an unearthly aspect.
Black candles, staggered in levels, lined his back with a single large white candle in the center. A hexagram—a six-pointed star—had been etched in red on the floor. Warlocks stood silently at each point, two on the crest of a pyramid drawn in the center.
Dark and haunting, Cain stared over the men before him, each waiting silently for his words. And a smile came to him slowly as he saw the disciplined faces void of emotion or sentiment or mercy. No, there was only cold remorseless will, dark purpose.
Each was dressed in a long, black cloak that made them all resemble medieval monks. And all, he knew, were consummate killers, silently dedicated to the art of protecting their Church. And he would need them, for limited as he was in this flesh, he required servants who could execute the more mechanical aspects of his master plan.
It was only a small army to begin, but it would grow little by little until they were as numerous as grains of sand. Yes, as the Old One said, do not despise the day of small things. It was a necessary place to begin.
He laughed.
He always enjoyed using that great wisdom against the very hand that created it, duplicating even the symmetry of that cloud-crested kingdom when he created his own—a dark reflection of what was truly perfect, and perfect in its own counterfeit aspect. Not the same, no, but no less because it mirrored the best and highest realm of this universe.
Pleased, he stared over The Circle and knew with certainty that they could accomplish any task.
Yes, the vassal Archette had been careful when he recruited them, had used wisdom to hide them in the secret corridors of power where they had used their magnificent skills to protect the Family, which oversaw his highest affairs in this dimension. Between them, he was certain, the deaths they claimed would count into the hundreds.
And he had fiercely retained knowledge of their existence when he’d seized this corporeal form, knowing he would eventually need them. Just as he had known that he would eventually need Archette, who sat upon the council of the Family. Yes, Archette … always faithful.
It was time.
He spoke with a voice of inhabited stone.
“Our task is simple, and dedicated to a single goal,” he began. “First, you must ensure that I am not distracted from the Black Mass to be completed tomorrow night. Samhain cannot, it must not, be desecrated by the wrath of my enemy. I trust you to defend holy ground.”
Talons tightened on granite.
“The glory you have known is but a reflection of the glory you shall know in the days and years and eons to come. For, despite your honorable service, the memory of true celestial might has been lost to this world, now to be revealed only by my return. I, your Lord, am among you. And I shall bring a glorious revival of those days when we tread down dominions of the Earth. Yes, now we will reclaim the land we have lost. Continents will be crushed by might and mammon. And soon the world shall once again worship the one true god.
“Remember this hour when you were the first to stand before the Lord. Remember the hour when you were chosen as the first to enter the land promised to us so long ago and taken by that tyrannical hand that knows neither justice nor mercy. But now there is a new beginning, and we will yet conquer the evil of that heavenly wrath. Our cause is just, our hearts are true, and our victory is assured if we only stand with courage.”
He paused, his aspect darkening.
“Only one danger remains,” he intoned. “There is a man. His name is Soloman, and he is the same who hunted each of you in the past, though you escaped him. And now he hunts me. He will come for the child, to take her. But it must not be. I have already dispatched Cassius and Raphael to intercept him. But, should they fail, and if Soloman reaches the castle, then you must destroy him. And make no mistake: Soloman is to be respected, for fear has its own wisdom. But might is on our side, and he is only one.”
He gazed at them and continued. “So great is your individual strength that even one of you should be sufficient for the task. But standing together against a single man, you cannot be defeated. I give you the honor of slaying him because I will be involved in the ritual, so it is a task you must complete. Do not disappoint me. Do not allow my faith to fail. Nor should you fear martyrdom, for if you die you will only be reincarnated, reborn in this world and elevated to become an Overlord of my Church.”
Silent and cloaked, they bowed.
“Go and prepare.” Cain raised an arm. “An enemy approaches.”
***
Quietly met on deplaning and ushered through Birmingham customs by a very elderly man who moved with the understated authority of a retired spy, Soloman loaded the duffle bag in the back of the car and surreptitiously removed the Grizzly to lock it in a right-side hip holster.
He’d placed four extra magazines in clip holders on his waist and two grenades behind the holster. The tanto was secured tight on his left side.
A waving, slicing sheet of rain swept over them, and Soloman bent his head, wincing at the cutting cold. The English weather was so savage and piercing it was almost like culture shock, for he was accustomed to the dead heat of L.A. and the airless atmosphere of the desert.
Frowning at the gale-swept night, he gathered his waist-length, tan leather coat more tightly, wishing he’d brought gloves. He buttoned up as Maggie and Mary Francis approached.
They carried small bags that Soloman took and quickly tossed in the trunk. Then Marcelle got behind the wheel and gesturing for Soloman to sit on the left side. Maggie and the old nun settled in the backseat.
“We must go north,” the priest said as he pulled into traffic
. “The Castle of Calistro is far from here on the coasts of Northumberland. But since it is almost dark I suggest we find a place to stay overnight and proceed in our attempt to rescue Amy tomorrow.”
Soloman turned to him. “Tomorrow is Samhain, Marcelle.” He thought of Maggie but couldn’t temper his words. “Amy dies tomorrow night.”
“But we cannot reach the castle tonight,” Marcelle grunted. “We must take the M3 highway to Lancaster, and that will be as far as we can travel before we’re too exhausted. But from there it is only a four-hour drive to the castle. We can arrive by early afternoon. That is the most sacred hour of sacrifice, and Cain will not violate the ritual of the Black Mass. We will have time to reach her, and we will have the advantage of reconnaissance.” The priest paused, measuring Soloman’s hard gaze. “But if you do not wish to take time for this approach, we can be flown to Newcastle in the morning. It’s only an hour’s drive from the castle.”
Soloman said nothing as he stared out the windshield. He didn’t like a lot about this. For one thing, he felt they were already being followed, and Cain shouldn’t have known that they were arriving. He turned his head, scanning, searching, waiting for his intuition to help him.
Yeah, something was wrong . . .
It came to him more solidly moment by moment, though he didn’t know why; it simply felt like a trap.
“Soloman?” Marcelle asked. “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you, Marcelle.” He concentrated, trying to find the faint danger, sensing it in front of him. “Marcelle, who knew we were landing in Birmingham?”
“Only Rome and their old friends in the intelligence community,” he answered, his brow hardening. “But Aveling would not have used them if they were not of the highest possible trust.”
“And at the Vatican?”
“There is Monsignor Balcanza. He is also an old friend of Aveling’s. They fought together in World War II against the Nazi regime, and most effectively.”
“He can still be trusted?”
“Yes,” the priest answered quickly. “Completely. But ...”
“But what?”
“But the Vatican is a house of cards,” Marcelle said. “It is a shadow waiting for someone to turn on the light. There are many forces which fight within, although they maintain a divided house with remarkable skill. If Balcanza has lost any of his old skills, if he made a single mistake, then there may be many who are aware of our flight.” A pause. “What do you perceive?”
“I don’t know.” Soloman’s gaze roamed over the crowd as he drove out of the airport. “I just feel like someone’s on us.” He scowled. “Cain will anticipate us, but he shouldn’t know where we’re landing. He could find out, but he couldn’t do it alone. He hasn’t had time to get wired in.”
“As I said,” Marcelle replied, “I do not think Cain is alone. I believe he has recruited help from someone. Those who will begin building the army he needs to fulfill his dream. As powerful as Cain is, he must still have vassals to execute what he considers beneath his princely standing.”
“Maybe. But he’s—”
It was Soloman’s killer instinct that made him spin, snapping his head around at the last second to catch a glimpse of the face he’d already seen three times inside the crowded corridors of the airport. He glared between Maggie and Sister Mary Francis, watching as the man casually hailed a cab.
Soloman studied the man, memorizing every detail.
He noted a pale face, close-set eyes above a long, straight nose, dark hair, muscular but lithe. Large hands, strong. About six feet, one-eighty. He was wearing a black sweater beneath a black overcoat, no discernible style, as if he wanted to blend into the crowd, utterly unmemorable. The man reminded Soloman of someone he’d seen in his past.
Then he entered the cab and was lost from sight, hidden by traffic. And Soloman knew the cab wouldn’t be following. If the man was really a hitter, there would be another vehicle waiting outside the airport, a second member of the team who was probably even now in communication with the man in the cab, receiving a description of their car. It would be the second man that picked them up.
Soloman turned in the seat, scanning the road, feeling it deep in his gut, where it mattered, and he knew it was coming. He felt a spiraling rage but shut it down immediately because it was too early for adrenaline or rage. Rage had a place in battle, but not before. Excitement was the enemy of tactical thinking.
“What is it?” Maggie asked. She had turned her head to follow his hostile glare. He said nothing.
“What is it, Sol?”
“Find a place where we can hole up for the night,” Soloman said quietly to Marcelle. “Find something isolated. In the country. We’ll go north for a while, then we’ll settle in. We need some rest and food before tomorrow.”
“Why should it be isolated?” the priest questioned. “If we find something more prominent, it may deter an attack.”
“I’m not trying to deter an attack,” Soloman replied. “They’re already following us, and we’ll gain a little bit of advantage if we can weed ‘em out before we reach the castle.”
Maggie leaned forward. “How do you know they’re following us, Sol?”
“I saw that guy three times inside the airport, and it’s too big for that,” Soloman answered. “He left by the same door we used, and there’s more than twenty doors. He didn’t have any luggage. No briefcase.” He paused, convinced. “He’s somebody. I can feel it.”
“An assassin?”
Soloman searched the rearview mirror. “Probably, and there’s no doubt more than one. They’ll try to kill us at the first opportunity because they’ll think we’re easy prey.”
“What are you going to do?”
Soloman’s laugh was frightening.
“I think I’ll give ‘em a wake-up call.”
***
At midnight they checked into an isolated hotel beside a shallow river on the edge of Luvern. From there, if they took the M3 and then the narrow English backroads that ran through the thick, dark woodlands of Northumberland, they could reach the castle in three hours.
The night was shrouded in a cold English mist as they drove through the iron gateway. Then, while Marcelle made arrangements for a suite,
Soloman took care of the trunk. Maggie and Mother Superior Mary Francis were close beside him as he laboriously carried all the luggage at once, not daring to leave anyone alone. After they checked into their room they were graciously provided with a late meal.
Leaving the suite, always keeping the door in sight, Soloman made a quick reconnaissance of the halls, the fire escape, all windows and possible points of entry. Then he returned quickly to find Maggie finishing off a bowl of cream of parsley soup. This pleased him: she had eaten so little since Amy had disappeared.
As always, Marcelle was pacing, a cigarette burning in his hand. He had a troubled look on his face as Soloman removed weapons from the duffle, placing four grenades on the belt at his waist. “What is it, Marcelle?” he asked, chambering a round. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I have seen a demon, Colonel.” Marcelle’s tone was not friendly, and Soloman had expected that it would come sooner or later. This ordeal was getting on their nerves, wearing all of them down.
He remembered Karl von Clausewitz’s instruction in On War. In essence, the lesson stated that, as a battle wore on and on it was fatigue and domination of will that decided the outcome. Tactics were inferior to the iron resolve of an indomitable opponent.
“Stay cool, Marcelle,” Soloman said quietly. “We’re closing in on this thing, and it’ll be over soon.” He paused. “One way or another.”
The priest turned and looked at him solemnly. “I have something to tell you, Colonel. Yes. Something to tell all of you.”
Soloman stared, instantly nervous; this was no time for su
rprises.
Marcelle’s pause was so profound that Soloman began to wonder whether the priest had snapped. Maggie was also watching him nervously, though Mary Francis retained composure. Then, after a hauntingly silent moment that continued far too long, Marcelle bowed his head.
“I do not know,” he began, “whether I precipitated this tragedy or not. But I feel that I am responsible.”
“How can you be responsible?” Maggie asked. “I’m the one who created Cain. I’m the one who created this virus. If anyone is guilty, it’s me.”
“Perhaps in the realm of science,” Marcelle conceded. “But there is more than science, as we have all seen.” He shook his head. “Many years ago I discovered a skeleton in the desert of Megiddo. It was buried beneath the Temple of Dagon. It was the skeleton of a giant – a warrior. And the grave had been sealed with a Hebrew curse that warned men not to violate it at the peril of mankind. But I did not heed. I broke the seal and descended to find the dead man laid upon a huge stone slab. It was then, and remains to this day, a phenomenal archeological discovery – indisputable evidence of an empire lost to this world for five thousand years. The bones and armor were perfectly preserved, but the head had been severed with the curse of a dead man that lives, the Golem, carved deeply into the forehead.”
Marcelle glanced at Soloman. “In the battle within the basilica in New York, Cain told me that I had released him in the reckless moment when, in my intellectual arrogance, I feared neither God nor man. And . . . and I believe his words.” He shook his head. “It is my shame. I was not a godly man, though I presented myself as such. No, in those years I was too proud to be godly or to even serve God. And I feel that none of this might have happened if I had heeded that sacred warning, sealed by the mark of David. But these, then, are questions that man can never answer – questions that can only haunt.”
His hands clenched as he looked vaguely around the room. “I apologize for my lack of control. Forgive me. My guilt is my own. And make no mistake: I adamantly stand behind all of you, and Amy, to the end. God alone will decide my guilt.”
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