by Brian Fuller
He knew how to use a sword.
Reverently, Dolorem lifted one katana from the drawer. Trace took the handle and swung the blade as if born to it, grinning. Not as good as a gun, but going all samurai on some Dreads suddenly sounded more appealing. Dolorem grabbed the other katana, smiling at him like a parent would at a toddler who’d just discovered ice cream. “I didn’t put much strength into the Impart, so it will only last for a few hours. Let’s call this Cassandra of yours. Phone’s this way.”
Dolorem apparently didn’t believe in wireless phones, either. As they crossed to the doorway into the chapel, the sounds of the approaching SUVs grew louder. The chapel was a simple affair with a small pulpit at the front and three rows of white benches in two halves. Pictures of motorcycles lined the walls instead of the icons of saints, but a cross behind the pulpit left no doubt as to the focus of the congregation. The phone waited on the wall across the chapel, a phone so old it had a squiggly cord. They ran toward it as an SUV’s engine surged outside, headlights casting a brightening light through the single window at the front.
“Dolorem!”
The front wall of the chapel exploded inward as the vehicle rammed its way inside. For several seconds, splintered wood and debris peppered them, throwing up dust to mix with the beams of the headlights.
A hurtling bench took Trace at the knees and knocked him to the floor. Dolorem dove behind the pulpit. Arms flailing, Trace extricated himself from the debris and brandished his sword. Four Dreads struggled to get out of the vehicle as the remains of the front wall leaned into the car doors. Trace pressed his advantage.
Leaping clear of the debris, he landed on top of the SUV and began thrusting downward through the thin metal roof, the sounds of swearing Dreads rewarding his efforts. Dolorem stepped out from behind the pulpit, but the Dread in the passenger seat blew out the front windshield with a blast that sounded too big to be small-arms fire. Dolorem dropped for cover.
Trace shifted his focus and brought the blade down on the front passenger side, feeling the blade sink into something meaty. A blast of the gun aimed upward blew off a chunk of the roof and took part of Trace’s shoe and his two pinky toes with it. Trace fell hard to the roof, and the Dread driver threw the SUV into reverse, Trace tumbling over the top and onto the floor as it extracted itself from the debris.
Scooting forward, he helped a battered Dolorem up. The two SUVs sat purring in a swirl of dust in the parking lot, Dreads indecisive, the man on the motorcycle watching the conflict from the curb. Trace and Dolorem took cover out of sight near the door into the garage as the second SUV followed the example of the first and plowed into the chapel, guns ready. Trace pushed Dolorem into the garage. Their swords were no match for the guns. They ducked behind the heavy toolboxes as shot after shot from the powerful Dread weapons tore holes the size of dinner plates in the wall.
“Let me touch your blade,” Dolorem yelled over the racket. Trace extended his blade to meet Dolorem’s hand, a flash of Virtus coursing along the steel. He repeated the same process on his own just as the firing stopped.
“Look,” Trace explained. “If I get torched, you’re going to have to leave me. Call Cassandra and get the satchel to her. The number is—”
The Dreads blasted the door open, and the first Dread charged through, Dolorem cutting his gun cleanly in two before he could train the weapon on them. Trace beheaded the Dread a half second after. The next Dread, close on the heels of the first, lost his arms at the elbows when Trace chopped them off, the Dread stumbling backed into the other Dreads in an attempt to get away. Dolorem Hallowed the floor, white aura spreading outward. The injured Dreads writhed, and the rest backed off. Trace kicked the half-ruined door shut and hit the ground as the Dreads returned fire, randomly blowing holes in the wall again
“I’ve exhausted my Virtus,” Dolorem yelled, pieces of cinder block collecting in his dirty-blond hair.
Trace nodded. “Those are NOT small-caliber weapons!” Huge chunks of the wall skittered about the concrete floor. Dolorem pointed toward the other side of the garage, indicating the door they had come in. On hands and knees through a hail of gunfire, they scooted themselves and their swords across the grungy, oil-stained floor. As Dolorem opened the door, another SUV plowed into the closed automatic garage door, a move almost as ill-advised as crashing into the chapel. The heavy metal door draped itself over the front of the vehicle, and Trace and Dolorem slipped outside and slammed the door before the Dreads could back out and recover.
Using the beat-up dumpster as cover, they crouched and moved backward to the rear of the building, the Dreads finally holding their fire. Walking with two missing toes took some getting used to.
“Do either of those two bikes by the dumpster work?” Trace asked after they had turned the corner and leaned against the back wall of the building.
“I wish.”
The rear of the Redemption Motorcycle Club was a weedy, graveled area littered with pieces and parts of torn-down motors and frames. A head-high chain-link fence encircled the back lot, but even in the dark there was nowhere to hide. The side door banged open, and the cautious tread of boots approached their position. Dolorem motioned that they should return to a crouch, and the move paid off.
A Dread rounded the corner and fired off a blind shot that went over their heads. Dolorem separated him from his legs, ensuring he couldn’t use the gun by chopping down on it, the divinely blessed blade cleaving it and its owner in two.
The Dread behind him took bead on Dolorem, but Trace bounded forward and sliced down, katana hacking between the neck and shoulder and diving into the chest cavity. Spine severed, the Dread collapsed.
A blast from a Dread behind the dumpster took Dolorem in the left shoulder, slamming him prone on the gravel. Dolorem rolled toward the building to get out of the line of fire, useless left arm flopping around awkwardly. Trace leapt to his side as another volley tore his shirt and scratched his ribs. The Dreads, incapacitated and in pieces, twitched in impotent anger. At least two others waited behind the dumpster.
Taking a chance, Trace used his sword to fish one of the Dread weapons nearby and scoot it within reach. In structure it was very much like an Ash Angel Big Blessed Rifle, but more angular and less refined. He checked the magazine, finding three shots left.
“Take the satchel,” he said, handing it to Dolorem.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if I can put an end to this.”
Sliding the katana carefully in his belt and taking the gun in both hands, Trace offered a silent prayer and flooded his legs with Strength. As if rebounding off a trampoline, he shot up into the air angling slightly forward. From his elevated vantage point, he spotted three, not two, Dreads huddled against the wall behind the dumpster. Balance off, Trace unloaded the three remaining shots in their direction, the recoil altering his trajectory. The first shot banged harmlessly against the tin metal wall, but the second and third decimated two Dreads, caving in their exposed skulls.
The third Dread tried to pull his gun up as Trace arced down, but Trace’s uncontrolled freefall terminated on top of him, mashing him to the ground. The Dread wrapped him in his arms, pinning the rifle to his body. Trace kicked and rolled, trying to break free of the Dread’s grip. The Dread’s aura brightened. Trace awaited the return of the mental torture that had incapacitated him twice, but his body suffered instead. His skin wrinkled, his joints ached, and his hair grayed. Trace groaned. He looked and felt like a ninety-year-old man.
The Dread rolled away and grabbed his gun only to be taken down by a surging Dolorem relieving the Dread of his head with his katana before the weapon could be brought to bear. Dolorem rolled Trace over, eyes concerned.
“Well, old man,” he said, “rough night? You think that’s all of them?”
Trace shrugged and sat up, aching. “What did he do to me?”
“It’s an Affliction,” Dolorem said, scanning the space around them. “It’s actually a more comm
on Bestowal for them than Spirit Shock. Fortunately, they have to touch you for it to work. Let’s see if we can borrow one of their nice vehicles.”
With his one good arm, Dolorem hauled Trace to his feet and leaned him against the wall. In his emaciated state, Trace was barely able to heft the gun. It was empty, anyway, so he dropped it and grabbed another.
Cautiously, Dolorem pushed open the door. The SUV sat idling in the garage. Out on the street, the man waited on his motorcycle, barely a shadow to Trace’s aged eyes. Trace took a potshot at him with the rifle anyway, the fierce recoil knocking him down. His dad often said he’d rather have a heart attack at sixty than grow old, and Trace was beginning to understand why. He felt helpless.
The rider pulled off his helmet, reaching for his gun.
“Get in the SUV. Now!” Dolorem yelled.
As they bolted for the SUV, the gray-suited man dismounted his motorcycle, gait disjointed. Trace was glad he’d kicked his knee. Shuffling as fast as he could, Trace crawl-climbed into the back seat of the SUV. A red aura flowed along the ground away from the man. He was a Dread, all right. A Blank Dread.
“Here he comes!” Dolorem warned, popping it into reverse before the doors were even closed, tires squealing. Trace struggled against the inertia to get upright. His aged joints ached like a storm was coming. The man fired the pistol as they whipped past, blasting out the back window and pinging holes in the SUV. Dolorem flinched when a bullet nicked his already injured shoulder.
Their backward retreat ended with a lurch as the SUV’s back bumper decimated the bullet bike. Dolorem floored it. They were out.
“They can probably track this thing,” Trace speculated by the nice GPS unit diligently updating their location on a map.
“Yeah. I’ll see if I can fix that. You see that rider back there?”
“I’m not seeing much right now. I think his motorcycle’s toast.”
“Good.”
After a quick run down the street, Dolorem parked behind a grocery store, killing the engine and popping the hood. After several minutes and some clanging noises, he returned with a box that had seen the sharp end of a blessed katana.
“I think I got it. Where do we go? St. Mary’s?”
Trace thought for a moment. “The Dreads would have to be watching that place. We need to find a phone so I can call Cassandra. How much longer till dawn?”
“About three hours. I’ll see if one of the Dreads left a phone, but we’ve got to move.”
Dolorem searched the vehicle. Trace grabbed the satchel from the front seat, where Dolorem had dropped it and opened it. He sincerely hoped it didn’t just have Girl Scout cookies in it. What he found in the expensive leather case allayed his fears. There was the large circuit board lined with rows and rows of memory chips. Wires dangled from one end, and it was strange to think how much trouble such a light, fragile thing had caused.
“Got one!” Dolorem announced after rummaging through the console.
Trace knew exactly two Ash Angel phone numbers, Cassandra’s and Lear’s. He dialed both as Dolorem drove back out into the night, eyes sharp for the rider or more black SUVs. Neither person answered, and Trace wondered if the whole organization had gone dark, assuming that their secrets were now in the hands of enemies.
“They used to have a hotline back when I was in service,” Dolorem suggested. “1.800.ASH.ANGL or some such.”
Trace tried it, surprised when a voice recording came back.
Please enter your AAID and press pound.
“I’m not in the system!” Trace felt like yelling. How were they planning for him to be of any use at all when not having an AAID crippled him for all practical purposes? Then a thought struck him.
“Dolorem, do you remember your Ash Angel ID?”
“How could I forget it? I needed it every five minutes.”
Trace redialed and entered Dolorem’s number.
Please wait while the help center is reached.
“This is the Ash Angels help desk, Aurora speaking. How can I help you, Talisman? I have you listed as inactive/missing.”
Trace really didn’t feel like explaining that he wasn’t Talisman, so he said something that would get their attention.
“I have Primus. I need to get a hold of Cassandra.”
“Really?” Aurora answered, shocked.
“Really. Please hurry.”
“One moment, please.” Trace was subjected to the light airy tones of elevator jazz until Aurora returned. “She’s not answering her phone. Her phone tracks to Lake Pleasant. Do you wish to contact the Medius?”
“No. I’ve got a Dread phone, and I’ve got to ditch it so they can’t track us. Inform Archus Magdelene that I have Primus and am on my way to Cassandra. We’ll contact her in another couple hours. If we don’t, then something has gone wrong.”
“Okay.”
Trace tossed the phone out the window.
“We’ve got to see if there’s anything else they can track in here. I suggest you make a few weird turns. We need to get to Lake Pleasant.”
Chapter 24
Forms
Dolorem zigzagged a nonsensical path through town to foil anyone searching for them on their last-known route. They stopped for a while behind a gas station so they could search the SUV more thoroughly. Trace clambered around in the cabin, groaning every time he twisted his old, stiff back. He searched under seats and in pockets to make sure nothing remained that might allow the Dreads to use GPS to find them. Dolorem checked the engine compartment and the undercarriage for any other signs of tracking equipment. They both came up empty.
The cargo section of the SUV was loaded with enough Dread rifles and ammunition to start a small war. Dolorem whistled through his teeth when he saw them. “Times are changing,” he said.
Trace settled into a seat, fumbling to find the seat belt in the low light. “I wouldn’t know. It’s been hell ever since I showed up.”
Once convinced they were clean, Dolorem drove away at a conscientious speed. “I don’t think I could explain to a cop why a geek with a bullet crater in his shoulder and an old guy are traveling around with two katanas and a bunch of guns in the middle of the night.”
Trace chuckled. “It’d be fun to watch you try.”
The pinks and blues of dawn spread their wings above the horizon as they skirted around the empty guard station at Lake Pleasant and headed toward the public-use beach where Cassandra had taken him after saving Prescilla. Ahead in the parking area sat Cassandra’s Caddy, Goldbow’s Taurus, and Lear’s Buick. Even with his poor eyes, Trace could make out the silhouette of all the vehicles’ owners on the beach, facing east. They briefly glanced at the new car before resuming their vigil.
Then it hit him. They were mourning his passing.
Trace grinned and situated the satchel over his shoulder. This would be fun. Dolorem parked the SUV and helped him out of the car, offering his arm for support as Trace’s hunched frame negotiated the rocks in the predawn gloom. Again, Trace’s Ash Angel friends turned but then continued talking among themselves in low tones Trace couldn’t make out with ears as bad as his eyes. Dolorem’s face was split in a wide grin, and they walked up and stood at the end of the line facing the lake.
As they approached, Trace thought his eyes might have failed him completely: Cassandra was leaning her head on Goldbow’s shoulder.
“Anybody here missing a gigantic hard drive?” Trace asked, sounding so old mannish he hardly recognized himself. He tossed the satchel to the ground. Prescilla, Goldbow, Corinth, Lear, and Cassandra gaped in disbelief.
Cassandra left Goldbow to stand in front of him, her face brightening with wonder. “Jarhead? No way!” She hugged him fiercely, popping his ancient bones, before stepping back. “But that is the best morph you’ve ever done, you jerk!” She wiped her eyes while trying to look like she wasn’t wiping her eyes.
“It’s not a morph,” Dolorem explained. “A Dread afflicted him with old age.”
&nbs
p; “Who are you?” Goldbow asked Dolorem while Lear, Prescilla, and Corinth came over to hug Trace. He needed Dolorem’s one functioning hand around his arm to keep from falling under the weight of all the affection.
“Call me Dolorem.”
Everybody except Prescilla understood what the name meant.
“But how did—” Cassandra began.
“It’s a really long story,” Trace deferred, anxious for the dawn to cure his old age. “Turn on your phones. The Medius should know we have it back by now. We need to know where to take it.”
Nebraska.
Cassandra commandeered him for the car ride, arguing that only her car was worthy to carry the mighty Trace and the precious hard drive. Dolorem agreed to ride with Lear and Prescilla, while Corinth and Goldbow rode together in the Taurus. Cassandra dearly wanted to wring the story out of him, but for the first five hundred miles of the trip, Trace was on the phone with a virtual who’s who in the Ash Angel Organization answering a myriad of questions. The most pressing: if he thought the Dreads had been able to decrypt and read the drive, which he answered in the negative.
In light of Trace’s information, the Archai elected to leave tight security precautions in place until the tech team had a chance to give the drive a once-over, but they would halt the contingency plan put in place for a massive security breach.
Once Cassandra had him to herself, Trace related the story to her, and even her jaded exterior couldn’t veil the surprise at some of his revelations. He explained his failure to treat Dahlia in such a way that she would see him as normal, and Cassandra laughed at him.
“So she was gorgeous, but all you saw was red,” she said.
“Yeah,” he answered. “I didn’t realize how hot she was until Dolorem—who I didn’t know was Dolorem at the time—came over to tell me he was doubting my heterosexuality because of my uninterested behavior. He was trying to warn me, of course. I was too stupid to pick up on it.”
“Well, don’t beat yourself up about it too much, Jarhead. One of the hardest things to learn as a Gabriel operative is to treat Dreads like they don’t have an aura. Newbies have a hard time looking Dreads in the eye or joking with them, or, in your case, being a flirtatious pig when you should have been. It still doesn’t explain why she gave you guys a head start. That makes no sense to me unless you’re holding back part of the story.”
