All of it had seemed like a big pain in the rump when Aleksandar had first come to Mondragon five years ago. But he had done it because he was so thankful to be away from the abuse he’d suffered at his previous orphanage. And he’d soon found that praying for other people, cooking for them, taking care of them when they were sick did something strange inside him: instead of being jealous and suspicious of others, not wanting to share his food or his feelings, he grew to trust the others and didn’t mind sharing or helping. He found himself hurting when they hurt, smiling when they were happy.
Now he was scared, for himself and for all the others.
He helped Rayna over a fallen tree, and they continued on their 243-degree course. He squinted into the darkness, trying to make out obstacles on the ground and the spindly branches that threatened to scratch his face and snag his hair, communicating the dangers back to Rayna. Whispering in his own tongue, he prayed, “Lord Almighty God the Father, Lord Jesus Christ the Son, Lord Holy Spirit, everything You have given me is enough, but if it is Your will, see me through this night. Walk with the other kids, hold their hands, keep them safe, guide their paths. Blind the bad people who’ve come to hurt us. Make the men who came to help us strong. Give them sharp eyes and let them shoot straight.”
Behind him, something exploded.
[ 75 ]
Bale, Therion, and Hester had navigated the hallway, working their way toward the back and center of the manor. They peeked into each room they passed, finding no one. They turned a corner and faced a hallway that stretched all the way to the opposite side of the building—Artimus, Cillian, and Lilit at the far end, making their way toward them. Halfway down, a set of double doors was cracked open in the center, blue light spilling out. Angels had congregated in front of it, swords out, sparkles forming shields and odd-shaped projections arching over their shoulders. Bale didn’t know what these shapes were but assumed they were piercing weapons of some sort.
You could drive a tractor-trailer down the hallway without clipping any of the decorative tables or chairs that lined the walls. It allowed them room to progress shoulder to shoulder, and Bale couldn’t help but feel he was back in the Wild West, striding with his gang into town for a showdown. Oh, those were good times.
Too bad this one was going to be more like picking off gophers from a rocker on the front porch. He wondered what the children would do when the Clan started in on them: run screaming . . . pray in quiet acceptance . . . fight? Wouldn’t that be something?
The Clan’s demons bounded down the hall to engage their enemies. Bale smiled at the futility of the angels’ efforts and continued toward the doors. He stopped after ten paces. The angels had dispatched the demons within seconds, slicing them with their swords and sparkling . . . whatevers, leaving piles of demon-ash on the floor or hurling them through the ceiling and back wall.
He said, “The force is strong in these little ones,” and chuckled. The others didn’t seem to get his allusion, and that irritated him; how could they not? The power of prayer—or at least one’s connectedness to the spiritual realm—was so obviously the basis for the “force” in Star Wars. Bale knew it, and he was certain Satan did too, loving the way people embraced things they didn’t understand. It made his job much easier.
He shook his head at their ignorance and hurried to reach the door before the other three coming toward him. He walked into the clutch of angels and suddenly felt nauseated. Chalking it up to the presence of creatures from a heaven he’d never seen, nor ever wanted to, he ignored the sensation and waited for the others to reach the doors. He gave a thumbs-up and watched as each of his team responded with the same. He turned, kicked the doors open, and stepped inside, the rest of the Clan crowding around him in the entrance.
No kids, not a one.
In the center of the big room, Owen sat cross-legged on a colorful mat. His arms were raised, palms tilted up, a posture of worship. His eyes were closed. A blue light flowed not only from his head but from his entire body. It was as wide as a thousand-year-old redwood, bursts of golden light like small explosions appearing throughout it. What looked like molten gold flowed over his head and shoulders, onto the floor, where in a blink it formed into an angel, then another. At the same time, different angels melted into the gold stuff and whisked up into the light. A continuous cycle of appearing and disappearing angels.
Owen opened his eyes, looking directly at Bale. He lowered his hands to his lap. The light narrowed, becoming the size of a rope extended from the top of his head. Bale could have sworn he felt a change in the atmosphere, a drop in air pressure, the way huge fires pull and consume oxygen from the air, but in reverse.
He felt a momentary twinge of doubt, maybe even fear. The others must have felt it as well, because beside him Therion tensed. He sensed the others edge back ever so slightly. But in Bale the feeling was gone as quickly as it came. He reminded himself that the Stone showed him the invisible, but when it came down to it, the room was empty—save for a single man, a fool waiting to die.
A few feet from Owen, a heavy desk rested on its front, showing Bale its top, scarred with repaired gouges from countless slips of pens and letter openers over the years.
Bale thought, Now why would that be there, in that position? He doubted the kids, in their rush to leave, had knocked over such a substantial piece of furniture. So it had been situated like that, and for only one reason: someone was hiding behind it. He scanned the rest of the room, which he realized was a large chapel: a cross at the front. On a wall, a framed picture of Jesus praying, holy light washing over His face. He spotted a couple armoires in the back where more people could hide.
He slapped his palms together, again and again, clapping slowly. “Bravo,” he said. “You got us. How fervent your prayers must be to replace those of so many children, and we know how bright a child’s light can be. I’m impressed, Owen—and why did you change your name again? Not ashamed of who you are, are you? But I am impressed. Not only did you not lose your faith over time, as so many do, but apparently yours has gotten stronger and stronger. And yet here you still are, cursed with the rest of us, stuck here on earth instead of lounging around the pool up in heaven. You must be so frustrated.”
Owen simply stared. Something dawned on Bale, and he turned his head slightly to look at Owen out of the corner of his eyes. “How did you ever find us? I didn’t even know I was coming here until hours ago.” He rubbed the trimmed goatee on his chin. “Extraordinary luck? Divine guidance, perhaps?” He held up an index finger. “Ah . . . I remember now.” He grinned. “You sly devil. You figured out what I was doing with the Stone, didn’t you? Did that archaeologist . . .” He snapped his fingers a few times, thinking. “Oliver—did he tell you what it revealed? And once you knew that, it wouldn’t have taken you long to figure out how I’d use it. Of course, you’d think of this place, wouldn’t you? Such a beacon of godliness. Thanks to you . . . Mr. Mondragon.”
Slowly Owen smiled. His hands came out of his lap, and he tossed an object along the floor toward Bale. Clattering over the polished wood planks, rolling, spinning.
Bale squinted at it.
A grenade.
He jumped back—catching a glimpse of Owen rolling behind the desk. Bale scrambled against the others to get out of the doorway, away from the open doors. He saw a figure at the far end of the hall lobbing what had to be more grenades. They landed short and rolled to the Clan’s feet. Bale spun, grabbing hold of Therion’s massive shoulders, and turned the big man with him back into the chapel. He wrapped a leg across Therion’s lower shins and shoved from behind. Therion dropped onto the grenade Owen had tossed. Bale jumped on his back, crouching. The explosion, its sound muffled, lifted Therion, and Bale jumped off before he fell.
Another explosion from the hall—Bale watched a body tumbling in the air, sailing past the open doors. Lilit, he thought. More explosions, mingled with screams and yells. Artimus’s machine gun began firing.
A clattering sound
behind him, familiar. He spun to see a grenade dancing across the floor toward him. He considered picking it up, tossing it back, but knowing Owen—not a stupid man, old enough to have done this sort of thing before—he would have certainly held the grenade a few seconds after pulling the pin, specifically to avoid having it returned to him. Bale leaped over it and ran all out for the desk. Before he reached it, the grenade exploded. Heat washed over him, shrapnel peppered his back, and the blast sent him tumbling over the desk.
[ 76 ]
The blasts in the corridor tore away wallboard and plaster, sent bits of carpet runner into the air, shattered a door on the opposite side from the chapel, and left plumes of smoke pressing against the confines of the physical space. Jagger couldn’t see a thing. Shadows shifted in the cloud. He debated between throwing another grenade and firing a mini-Uzi into the swirling gray haze.
A loud rattling kicked up, and things around him began rupturing in a spray of tiny explosions. In front of him the carpet and floor beneath it popped and churned, as though an invisible madman were using a tiller on them. The tilling approached him, and he dived behind a wall, into the corridor that ran perpendicular to the hallway, toward the front of the manor. The wall behind where he’d been standing began to disintegrate. He thought of the commando guy with the massive .50-caliber machine gun and felt disappointed that he of all of them hadn’t tasted the bite of his grenades.
He pulled another grenade from the pocket of a vest specially designed for grenadiers. He pulled the pin, counted to five, and tossed it around the corner without looking. The explosion shook the floor, and another billow of smoke rolled down the hall and around the corner.
Jagger peered along the side corridor. He could run to the front of the manor, cross to the opposite side, and come at the Clan from behind. But it was a pretty sure bet that they’d already thought of that and were heading for him from around the front.
The machine gun had stopped. They were waiting down past the smoke or coming around. He glanced around the corner. The smoke was clearing, blowing apart and away from the double doors at the center of the hallway. A chilly breeze skimmed over his skin, and he realized one of the blasts in the chapel must have shattered a window. He could see the wall at the far end, but no Clan.
The Uzi hung from a strap around his neck. He wished RoboHand were capable of holding and firing the Uzi without assistance from the other hand. That would have allowed him to carry both a grenade and the Uzi in a firing position. He’d have to look into an Uzi-holding-and-firing attachment for the prosthetic. He gripped a grenade in his hooks, slipped a finger through the pull ring, and rolled around the corner. Crouching low, staying close to the inside wall, he ran through the smoke—hovering over the floor now like mist—and stopped by the open double doors.
The grenades’ destruction to the hall here was massive: charred-rimmed craters in the floor and walls, splintered furniture and doors.
He listened. Something was happening in the chapel. Banging around, huffs and grunts. People fighting. One of them had to be Owen. He pulled the grenade’s pin and tossed it the rest of the way down the corridor. If anyone was around the far corner, it would chase them off or kill them. It exploded without flushing out any of the Clan. Jagger lifted the Uzi off his belly, gripped the front stock with RoboHand, and got his other hand around the grip and trigger.
He looked through the chapel’s entrance, pulled his head back. Owen and Bale were struggling on the floor near the desk. He hadn’t seen anyone else. He stepped into the room and over Muscle Man’s body—Therion, he remembered from Gheronda’s scrapbook. He rushed toward the two men. They were rolling, Bale on top, then Owen; Bale’s hand gripped Owen’s throat, and Owen had a fistful of Bale’s hair, pulling it back and away from him. Bale held a pistol in his other hand, and Owen was gripping the wrist under it.
Jagger raised the Uzi, waiting for Bale to roll back around. He heard a squeak behind him, spun, caught movement in his peripheral vision before he was all the way around, and raised RoboHand protectively across his face. An arrow thunked into the prosthetic forearm.
Steampunk was running directly at him from where she’d been hiding when he’d entered: just inside the door against the wall. He swung the Uzi around and fired. Too late: she kicked the gun as he pulled the trigger. The bullets stitched a dotted line up the wall and across the ceiling. She kicked again, this time a power thrust into his stomach. He’d seen it coming and pulled his belly away, minimizing the impact. It still knocked most of the wind out of him. He pushed aside the pain and panic, ducked a haymaker she was throwing at him, spun with a roundhouse kick, and planted his heel in her sternum, thinking, Commotio cordis!—a blow to the chest that causes cardiac failure. One in a million chance, but a guy could hope.
Steampunk staggered back. As she did—ever the 3,500-year-old pro—she pulled a sword from a sheath mounted with brass studs to the outside of her thigh. She halted her backward momentum and charged him, sword high over her head. A tinny radio-scream issued from the gas-mask canister bobbing below her chin.
Jagger used his real hand to grab the Uzi’s grip, slipping his finger over the trigger. He backpedaled away from her, swung the gun up, and pulled the trigger. A single round punched into her chest. She froze, a grisly figure from a horror movie: stitched and zippered leather mask, black-glassed goggles, sword in ready mode. He pulled the trigger again. Nothing happened. She staggered toward him. The sword came down, and he ducked and spun away from it. He yanked the arrow out of his fake arm and plunged it into her shoulder. She fell, straight back onto the floor.
Jagger checked the Uzi’s magazine: empty. The duffel bag contained at least six more, but it was back at the junction of the hallways. He slipped the weapon’s strap over his head and dropped it. He hurried past Steampunk’s body and picked up her sword.
Owen and Bale remained locked in a tussle that would have exhausted professional wrestlers. They rolled and flipped, kneeing and head-butting each other. Owen’s forehead looked as though it had been skinned. Bale rolled on top. “Do something,” Owen said to Jagger through clenched teeth.
Jagger raised the sword. Bale rolled away from him, putting Owen between them. Owen released his grip on Bale’s hair and punched his jaw. Bale’s head snapped sideways, came back grinning, teeth bloody. Owen began a series of rabbit punches to Bale’s chest. Bale threw him off. As Owen tumbled away—keeping his grip on Bale’s gun hand—he grabbed at Bale’s jacket. His fingers snagged a pocket and ripped it off. The God Stone hit the floor.
Jagger moved in, reaching. Owen’s hand shot out. Bale grabbed the Stone first, his arm extended along the floor. Owen clawed at Bale’s clenched fist.
“Owen!” Jagger yelled. “Pull in!”
Without looking or hesitating, Owen pulled his arm back.
The sword thunked into the wood floor, severing Bale’s hand.
[ 77 ]
Jagger stared at the sword stuck into the floor.
For a moment it looked like a magic trick: an arm stopped at the wrist by a gleaming wide blade, a hand on the other side. Then Bale screamed and lifted his arm, blood pumping from the stump, flying everywhere.
Owen scrambled up, and while Bale was momentarily distracted by pain and shock, Owen kicked the man’s gun hand, sending the weapon spinning away on the floor. Then he shifted and kicked Bale in the head. The man’s head snapped sideways again, but this time it stayed that way. He was out. Owen picked up Bale’s hand, peeled the fingers back from the Stone, and dropped it into his breast pocket, buttoning the flap. He dropped the hand to the floor.
He was breathing hard, bleeding from his lips, nose, cheek, eyebrow, forehead. His beard looked like roadkill. He ran his open palm over his face, smearing it all into a film of glistening red. He held out his hand. “Give me the sword.”
Jagger looked at the bodies on the floor—Bale, Steampunk, and Therion—and imagined their heads severed from their bodies, their miserable lives snuffed out . .
. finally. “I’ll do it,” he said, stepping toward Bale.
Owen stopped him. “My hands are already bloody. You’re a family man. Don’t taint that with this.”
Jagger hesitated.
Owen said, “It’s not an action any sane man can forget.”
Jagger nodded. He held the sword out to Owen.
Something clattered in the room. Jagger turned, saw a grenade rolling toward them. “Down!” he said. He dropped the sword and tackled Owen, who tripped over Bale, and they fell behind the desk. Jagger felt the blast’s concussion in his skull.
From around the entrance in the hallway, Artimus’s machine gun began screaming, spitting out half-inch-diameter bullets at a rate of 850 per minute. The right-hand doorjamb began flying apart, splinters and chunks of wood exploding out from it. The door itself tilted, then fell.
The machine gun’s fire angled into the room, away from the jamb, and walked along the wall, turning everything in its path into dust and confetti. Artimus would soon be at the entrance, panning his firepower across everything inside.
Jagger patted his hand over his vest. He was out of grenades. “Come on,” he said, lifting Owen by the arm.
“The sword! Bale!” Owen yelled.
“No time!” Jagger tugged Owen over Bale’s body and shoved him toward the broken windows. He raked RoboHand over the fang-like shards of glass jutting up from the sill. The ground was twenty feet below, bushes and lawn to land on. He pushed Owen into the sill. “Go. I’m right behind you.”
Owen climbed up, rolled onto his stomach, hung, and dropped.
Jagger swung his legs over the sill, turned, and dropped onto his belly. He had to look: the muzzle of the machine gun was poking into the chapel doorway, flames sputtering out of it. Two more steps would give Artimus the entire room as a target.
Judgment Stone (9781401687359) Page 30
