by Mel Odom
“What if Booth has the vid checked out?” Nathan asked. “Will he be able to tell it’s a fake?”
“Whoever looks at that broadcast would have to be some kind of specialist to tell it’s not real,” Leah said. “I don’t think the Templar have anyone good enough to expose that because you people—quite frankly—haven’t been interested in those kinds of applications. You may have the lock on personal defense systems, but there’s still a lot you’re not familiar with when it comes to other programming and uses for it.”
“Not only that, but Booth doesn’t want to believe the Goetia manuscript is destroyed,” Danielle added. “He wants it to be real.”
“If the manuscript actually leads to some kind of permanent protection from demons,” Nathan growled, “it would make him some kind of bloody hero.”
“Let’s just see if we can’t keep him from becoming Simon’s murderer,” Leah said. “For the moment, I’ll settle for that.”
* * * *
Wake.
Wearily, Warren woke and peered into the darkness of his bedroom. Across the room, the seeds he’d gotten from Knaarl’s sword lay beneath the warm earth in a terrarium and considered germinating for the first time in thousands of years.
“What’s the matter?” Naomi asked from beside him.
“Merihim,” Warren said.
Fearfully, Naomi clutched the bedsheet to her bosom and leaned back against the headboard.
Come. We must go. Fulaghar and Toklorq are closing in on the book Fulaghar has been searching for.
Warren climbed from the bed. Although he didn’t want to, his own gaze strayed to the book on his desk. It was still there.
“Where are they?” Warren asked. When he looked at the balcony window, he saw that from the pink sky that sunrise was only minutes away.
At the Tower of London.
Cold dread balled in the pit of Warren’s stomach. He’d been there before. Located in the London Borough of Town Hamlets, the Tower of London had always been an auspicious place. Public executions and royal imprisonments had taken place there, and the White Tower—which was actually the whole complex—was the supposed site of a number of supernatural events and powers.
It wasn’t a place for demons to congregate.
“Go,” the voice said in the back of his mind. “I have seen the future of this. Everything is as it should be.”
Warren sincerely hoped so. “I thought you needed me to kill Toklorq before you confronted Fulaghar,” he told Merihim.
The demon stood out on the balcony in the waning night. He looked fierce and terrible, his trident clenched in one hand.
It’s too late for that. As it turns out, Fulaghar’s search for the book Goetia wasn’t foolishness after all. The book exists, and at present it’s in the hands of the Templar. Fulaghar has gone there to get it back. Merihim turned to face Warren. You and I are going to put an end to him so that I can claim my rightful place as a Dark Will.
In seconds, Warren joined the demon.
Merihim slid the trident across the air and sliced open a hole. Warren felt the energy pouring forth from it. Then Merihim pushed him into it and followed.
* * * *
Simon stumbled and nearly fell as one of the Templar dragged him up the steps from the Tower Hill tube station. His jaw pained him terribly, and from the way it wouldn’t move properly when he tried to work it, he suspected that it was broken. It was everything he could do to keep it clamped shut so that it didn’t produce even more agony.
He was dressed in his armor, but it was powered down by Booth’s command. For the first time ever, the armor felt heavy and unwieldy on him. It also felt dead because the suit’s AI was off-line. They’d shackled his arms behind him and left his helm open because they’d wanted Nathan to identify him.
Despite everything that had happened, Simon still hoped that Nathan’s better sense had returned and he had decided not to pay the ransom anyway. If he had, it was probably going to get them both killed. Simon was certain that Nathan hadn’t had the real manuscript to show Booth.
“Lord Cross.”
Carefully, still having to match the stride of the Templar who had hold of the chain around his neck, Simon turned around. His head felt so heavy that he almost fell over his own feet.
Professor Archibald Xavier Macomber trudged in Simon’s wake. Booth’s Templar marched in single file order along Tower Wharf. The Burn had eaten into what had once been beautiful landscaping and trees.
Macomber looked worse for wear. Evidently Booth hadn’t been overly gentle with him either. Bruises marked his face.
“I’d heard that you were here,” Macomber said tiredly. “I have to admit, I’d hoped that you were still free.” He smiled a little. “I’m not a big believer in last-moment rescues like on the vids and holos, but I’d held out for that one.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Simon’s words were thick and slow through his managled, swollen jaw.
“My God,” Macomber said. “Your face looks horrible.”
“It can’t look as bad as it feels,” Simon assured him.
The Templar pulling Simon yanked on his chain, nearly driving him to his knees from the pain.
“I was told that Booth is going to be getting the Goetia manuscript,” Macomber said.
“It was burned,” Simon said. “What he’s getting is a… fake.”
Macomber looked troubled. “Then it will probably be bad for both of us.”
Simon didn’t bother to disabuse the professor of that notion.
“Booth ordered me along to prove the veracity of the manuscript,” Macomber said.
Simon nodded, but kept up with the Templar ahead of him. He gazed around at the grounds. The Tower of London held a lot of the city’s history.
It had first been erected in 1078 when William the Conqueror had the White Tower constructed. The other buildings had followed, but so had the places of execution and prisons.
During its lifespan, the Tower had provided space for an armory, treasury for the Crown Jewels and more, an observatory, public records offices, and menageries. The most famous animals that called the Tower home were the Ravens of the Tower.
For hundreds of years, there had always been at least six Ravens in the Tower. A saying had sprung to life that if the Ravens ever left the Tower, it would crumble to rubble and disaster would befall England.
After the battle at St. Paul’s, Simon had heard that the Ravens had left the Tower. He’d also been told that Blood Angels had stalked them and killed all of them. He didn’t know which to believe. The Ravens’ wings were kept clipped to keep them from flying away, and they’d been under the care and scrutiny of the Ravenmaster, one of the people selected from the Yeomen Warders.
As they walked along the river, Simon peered into the depths. Only a few inches of foul water remained, and already familiar white shapes could be seen in the mud and the shallows.
“Are… are those bones?” Macomber asked.
“Yes,” Simon said. There were bones, cars, boats, and ships all mired in the vestiges of the once-mighty Thames. In another few years, possibly only a handful, the Burn would drain it completely and leave it only a cracked and broken ruin.
“I’d heard when the moat that had been around the Tower was drained in 1830 human bones were found.”
Simon didn’t know if that was true or not. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and not falling down. Ahead of him, safely ensconced between four Templar guards, Booth set the pace in full armor. The High Seat’s steps were a lot easier with operational armor.
“I was also told that the mortar used on the stones was mixed with the blood of sacrificial animals. The way the Romans were said to do things.”
“I don’t know, Professor,” Simon said with effort.
“If it’s true, that might make these buildings more in the demons’ purview than the human races.”
* * * *
Only a few moments later, Simon was gratef
ully brought to a halt at the outer perimeter entrance across the moat. It had been drained years ago, as Macomber had mentioned, and now remained totally dry. But broken bodies and refuse filled the moat. Evidently the demons had taken to using the area as a dumping ground for carcasses of their victims.
“It appears your friends are running late,” Booth said irritably.
Silently, Simon hoped they didn’t come. He didn’t know if Booth would kill him in frustration or not, but it would be better to die than to be the reason his friends died.
The stench of the Burn was heavy on the air. So was the thick, sweet scent of old death. In the distance, demons heeled over in the sky. So far none of them had taken interest in them.
But it surely wouldn’t take much time.
* * * *
When Warren stepped through the rift Merihim had created, he found himself on a tower. It took him a moment to recognize where he was and realize that he was on the Middle Tower on the Tower of London where it overlooked the outer perimeter entrance.
A group of Templar stood on the wrought-iron railed bridge that crossed the moat. They appeared to be waiting for something.
Merihim stood at Warren’s side. The demon tilted his head back and scented the air.
Reaching into his shoulder bag, Warren freed one of the Blood Angel eyes under his control and sent it aloft. When he closed his eyes, he could see through the charmed eyeball.
“Go carefully here,” the voice told him. “You’re on very dangerous ground this morning.”
Warren already knew that. But he also felt the power lurking in the nearby graveyards. All manner of poverty-stricken prisoners had been buried in those graves, but a few of them contained members of royalty as well.
It was an army lying in wait for him and his skills. He concentrated on the arcane forces and got it ready. At a word and no more than a moment or two, he would be able to raise them. Four years ago, perhaps even only four days ago, such a thing would have been even harder.
The power within him was growing. He flexed the demon hand, knowing that much of the dark magic he’d been using was concentrated in it.
“But you’re growing from within as well,” the voice told him. “You can sense that as well.”
Warren was and he could sense that. “Will I ever know who you are?” he asked.
“Soon,” the voice promised. “Very soon now.”
Warren was surprised that Merihim still wasn’t aware of the voice inside his head. There didn’t seem like there would be room enough for them both in there.
“I’ve protected myself from him,” the voice said. “Just as I’ve protected your thoughts from him.”
Thinking about that made Warren realize that whoever the voice belonged to was much more powerful than Merihim.
“Once,” the voice said, “but not yet again. Soon, hopefully. I need to be free. You would have your vengeance against the Templar that took your hand, and I would have my vengeance against the one that bound me.”
Look, Merihim said. He pointed one razor-tipped claw at another group of Templar who were approaching from the other end of the bridge across the moat.
“Where’s Fulaghar?” Warren asked.
Merihim scented the air again. Nearby. We’ll see him soon.
Warren watched the two groups of Templar. One of them—the one with his helmet open—looked familiar. When he nudged the Blood Angel’s eye closer and looked down, he saw that it was Simon Cross. Anger boiled up inside him.
I see him too, Merihim said. And I would have my pound of flesh from him as well after what he did to me four years ago.
Back then Merihim had learned about the train the Templar had used to get so many of London’s survivors out of the city. The demon had intended to sacrifice the lives aboard it for his own reasons. Simon Cross had grievously wounded him. Warren had been surprised that Merihim hadn’t tracked the Templar down and killed him for that alone.
But he hadn’t.
“The Templar is one to be watched,” the voice said. “He’s going to be extremely powerful soon.”
Simon Cross didn’t look so powerful now, Warren thought as he stared at the man with his hands shackled behind his back.
Forty-Seven
Leah watched from hiding down in the moat as Nathan and Danielle crossed the bridge to meet with Booth and his group of Templar. Her suit’s camouflage ability blended her in with dried mud, dead vegetation, and refuse that lined the moat.
It also protected her in this instance from Booth’s Templar. And that let her know that the programming she’d altered in her suit was working as it was supposed to.
Now if only the rest of it worked.
She brought up the application on her HUD and tried the communications channel. “Nathan. Danielle. I’m in place.”
“Affirmative,” Nathan replied. Neither he nor Danielle broke stride as they walked over to meet Booth. In addition, the High Seat and the Templar that followed him didn’t register the communications either.
“Werfham,” Leah called.
“Yes,” the old Templar responded.
“You should be shielded too.”
“Understood,” Wertham said. “We’ll begin moving in.”
Now for the really scary one, Leah thought. She tuned in the comm channel on Simon’s armor and whispered, “Simon. This is Leah. Can you hear me?”
* * * *
When Simon heard Leah’s voice in his ears, with his helmet open, he couldn’t believe it. He glanced at the Templar beside him to see if they’d heard it too. With her voice in the open like that, their suits’ audio receptors should have picked it up if their comms didn’t.
“Don’t act suspicious,” Leah said. “Don’t look around.”
Simon focused his attention on Booth. The High Seat would be the key. Beyond Booth, Danielle and Nathan walked along the moat bridge.
“Booth and his Templar can’t hear me,” Leah said. “I’ve jammed their AIs to this frequency. Nod if you understand. If you speak, they’ll hear your voice. I can’t mask it.”
Simon nodded and worked his jaw as if he was trying to find a comfortable position for it. Unfortunately that didn’t seem possible.
“Good.” Leah sounded almost relieved. “Remember aboard the ATV when I mentioned that the comm relays among your armor might be a vulnerability?”
Simon nodded again.
“Welcome to the proof of that.”
A small smile pulled at Simon’s lips. If he survived this situation, he definitely had some work to do on the armor of the men at the stronghold. The first priority was going to be to dump all the House protocol. They weren’t going to work against the Order, but they weren’t going to be confined by it either.
“Nathan told me Booth’s first step in holding you prisoner would be to neutralize your armor,” Leah said.
Simon nodded.
The Templar to his right looked at him. “Is something wrong with you?”
Simon looked at the man as if he were daft. “My jaw is broken,” he said hoarsely.
The Templar watched him a moment more, then turned away to watch Danielle and Nathan’s approach.
“I think I can put your armor back under your control,” Leah said, “by neutralizing Booth’s hold on it. But Nathan said as soon as I do that your armor will recognize that it’s in a hostile environment and button you up.”
Simon nodded again.
“So I can’t do that until we’re ready. We’re going to need you to hang on just a little longer.”
Grimacing, Simon lifted his chin and lowered it slightly. If he didn’t black out from the pain of his nose and jaw, he was going to be fine.
“That’s far enough,” Booth ordered.
Nathan and Danielle stopped less than ten feet away. In the armor, the distance was nothing.
“Let’s see the manuscript,” Booth said.
Nathan reached over his shoulder and produced a protective metal tube.
Booth rea
ched for the tube, but before he could get it a scaly demon’s arm flicked out from a hole in the air, seized it from Nathan’s hand, then backhanded the Templar in the face.
Nathan shot backward as if he’d been propelled by a cannon. He tore through the railing and plunged over the side into the moat.
* * * *
Now! Merihim ordered. Do you see Fulaghar?
Warren only saw part of the demon, but he knew where the rest of Fulaghar was.
Anchor him here to this place, Merihim commanded.
Holding on to the arcane energy that filled him, Warren stretched out his hand. A shimmering wave sped across the intervening distance as the Templar on the bridge started pulling weapons.
When the wave hit Fulaghar, it rocked him and drew his attention at once. Warren concentrated on hooking into the demon like a fishing line. He imagined that the demon couldn’t go anywhere without breaking an invisible steel cage around him.
Fulaghar squalled in fury. He beat against the invisible barrier. Warren felt the blows of the demon’s struggles as if they were blows against his body. He held on despite the pain.
The Templar had unlimbered their weapons. All except Simon Cross, who shuffled back out of the way.
Beside Warren, Merihim leaped out into open space. For a moment he thought the demon had taken leave of his senses. Then Merihim sprouted silver wings from his back and flew toward Fulaghar.
Hold Fulaghar, Merihim said. Don’t let him get away.
“Look for Toklorq,” the voice reminded. “Fulaghar wouldn’t have gone far without him.”
Warren’s brain felt as if it was going to shatter has he held the demon. By that time the Templar were firing away with their pistols. Greek Fire and explosive rounds detonated against Fulaghar’s body and inflicted massive wounds. Merihim slid his trident forward and sped straight for Fulaghar.
Then someone—something—materialized beside Warren.
“Look out!” the voice warned.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Warren heard Naomi scream.
* * * *
Leah couldn’t believe the demon had shown up when it did. Of course the Goetia manuscript was important to them too if it held the power that Macomber hinted that it did.
