L A Banks - [Vampire Huntres Legend 12]

by The Thirteenth (pdf)

  Not lingering, Cordell rushed up the steps and entered the abandoned grand hall. Nothing was locked; people had fled, the power was out. He didn't need lights. The vision guided him, pulling him around corners, taking him down stairwells, making his breaths labor as he wielded his heft at a frantic pace. But as soon as he entered the chamber that held the four armored knights, an immovable force gripped him and held him firm. Terrified, he struggled against the supernatural hold, his heart pounding in his ears. It had been a trap! He wasn't armed; had to be that way in case he got stopped by military street patrols. The younger Guardians had been right. Now the darkside had him!

  To his horror, a sword unsheathed from the scabbard of the western standing knight just as the force thrust him onto his knees. The weapon flew at him, but didn't cut, hovered only an inch away from his neck, then gently lowered to his right shoulder and then his left, before clattering to the floor. When he looked up, the warrior-priest of his vision stood before him with a sad smile. He had on the same medallion with a heart on a cross pierced by a dagger and crowned by a ring of thorns.

  "Only a Templar knight can know our secrets," the priest said. "I am Patrick. Memorize the maps. Use them to feed the remaining teams. You may pass. Ex Orient Lux . . . ex Occidente lex. From the East comes Light, from the West comes law. Follow the Light for knowledge as you head west toward the mountains to establish new laws."

  Within the span of a blink, the apparition of the priest was gone. Carlos rubbed the perspiration from his face with his forearm and waited in the shadowed hallway with Damali. The cool sanctuary, while beautiful and still, put him en garde. There were columns and shadows everywhere. Corners he couldn't see around, obstructions of view, and a hundred places something could slither out from. The fact that he was standing on hallowed ground brought little comfort. He'd seen Father Patrick attacked by the Ultimate Darkness with his own eyes while standing in a cathedral. Who knew if this particular church's history or the behavior of the presiding clerics would be enough of a barrier? He didn't have that information. And that was the overall problem—the lack of information. But he was sure that his side seemed to be losing.

  Father Patrick had been attacked by the Devil and sacrificed by the Light. Imam Asula had been murdered at the hands of ignorant men.

  Rabbi ZeitlofF had been assassinated by possessed creatures.

  Monk Lin was on the run.

  The Covenant was no more.

  A three-year-old baby and her grandmother had almost been killed. A warrior's parents were in flight with the remnants of a Guardian squad. There was a wanted dead or alive bounty on his team's heads.

  And he was stuck just outside the Bermuda Triangle during U.S. martial law with Hellfire bearing down on him, his wife, and his squad. This was bullshit. His heart broke for the elderly clerics. The loss was so visceral that he was beyond pain, simply numb. Those guys went all the way back to his beginning, his first steps toward redemption when Father Pat first found him. Their deaths tore open a fresh wound just remembering that. Now they were gone, their lives lost in the foulest way possible.

  Carlos allowed his head to drop back for a moment and he took in a deep breath before opening his eyes. It disturbed him no end that, at a critical time like this, his gut instinct was way off by a long shot. He should have gotten those horrible images, not her. He should have been the one to intercept them and filter the transmission of information to her verbally, not have such gore taking root in his pregnant wife's mind.

  But right now, for whatever reason, Damali's second-sight was ridiculously strong, just like it seemed as though the other female seers on the squad had increased in their ability to pick up the subtlest changes in the environment. But he and his boys were missing everything. That was not good. Not at a time when they should have been on point protecting precious cargo.

  He looked at his wife, a deep sense of reverence overtaking him as he watched prisms of sunlight 'wash over her beautiful, cinnamon-brown skin. Her eyes were closed, her thick natural lashes dusting her cheeks. She bit her plump bottom lip, an endearing nervous habit that just made her expression prettier in his eyes. Shards of stained-glass color dappled her face and played over her shoulders and throat, splashing against her white tank top.

  The delicate cleft in her throat fluttered with each long inhalation and exhalation that she drew in while trying to sense who and where their contact for a charter would be. Her breasts were full and her face was beginning to round ever so slightly, although she wasn't showing yet. Even her aura was different. . . more serene, stronger. He could envision her nude with her broad, white wings out, belly full and slowly moving with life, her graceful hands covering her breasts ... his angel... his reason for existence.

  And they'd taken her stage away from her, making her a fugitive so that she couldn't sing for the world. Could never perform live in concert. . . couldn't jam with the team band to the thunderous applause she so rightly deserved. That was a high crime, if ever he witnessed one. It just wasn't right that he and the baby would probably be her only audience from now on. He only hoped that would be enough, and he'd try his best to make up for the darkside's robbery.

  Though he did not want to disturb her mild meditation, it took everything within him not to reach out and allow his fingers to trace her butter-soft cheek or to gather her into his arms. Yes, they were both warriors and he respected her as such. But damn he wished he could take any-and everything this cold hard world had to throw at her for her. If he could just spare her some of it, to hell with destiny and fate. She was his wife.

  Her thick ropes of velvet-soft brown hair were swept up in a ponytail that he wished he could set loose just to see it cascade to her shoulders. That was what he could never seem to make her understand. To him, she was more important than the Armageddon. What she carried within her was even secondary to her. He loved their child with all his might, all his heart. . . but she owned his soul. There wasn't even a definition for that. Maybe that's why he couldn't ever fully describe for her how he really felt. Women sometimes didn't understand that words were inadequate. There simply were none.

  If anything ever happened to her, air would cease to fill his lungs. If anything evil broke her heart and took their child again, his hands would be useless in picking up the shattered pieces of her. But he would try. He would bloody himself to make it right, even knowing that it wouldn't help. What did a man do who had the entire world trying to destroy his heart?

  Didn't she understand that after all they'd witnessed, and for all his strength and all his power, he was helpless when it came to her . . . and perhaps more than anything, having that Achilles' heel mirrored and magnified times six Guardian brothers . . . watching them also struggle with their new weaknesses, with their eyes looking to him as a squad leader, made any vulnerability within him all the more intolerable.

  People had died on his watch. Clerics had succumbed— hadn't made it to the end. Men of faith; men of valor. Guardians had been ground to dust. Innocent humans had been collateral damage in Detroit and DC. There were families in mourning, people's lives irrevocably changed by monstrous injuries. Hellish diseases now swept the land. Fear permeated every living thing. And he and his squad had been helpless to avert this catastrophe when the Unnamed One came to call. What would he do when the Unnamed One came for his wife?

  Heaven help him; Carlos looked out at the pews where his fellow team brothers waited for word of the next move with their heads bowed. It was no act. He knew each man, no matter what his faith, was deep in prayer—each praying the same thing, God, don't let anything happen to my pregnant wife. God, what do you want from me? God, how can I protect my family and do your will at the same time, be a warrior, when the world is coming to an end?

  Carlos lent his own prayers to the collective, adding one more, God, please don't let me have to choose between saving my wife and child and that of another man . . . I am not that strong.

  Montrose Sinclair simply stared at the
screen in the empty confessional. There would be no tours, most likely no clerics. Everyone was holed up in their homes, hoping the Black Death never reached Bermuda's shores. This was nothing like what he'd planned for his life, nothing like what he'd thought his golden years would be.

  He closed his eyes. First cancer had taken Eleanor, his beloved wife of thirty-five years. In hindsight, he would have gladly traded more time with her for the wealth he accumulated working like a fiend, only to have that wealth totally eviscerated on the London Exchange. It all seemed so pointless. All such a wickedly evil game. Then, again, what did it matter? The money was naught. There was no one to leave an inheritance to in order to give his life any semblance of meaning. If he died today, who would bury his remains? Like the old days of London, would the dead wagons come to fling his corpse in a mass rotting grave?

  His son had lost his life in Iraq. His beautiful daughter gone at the hands of a panicked driver when the plagues began to hit.

  A single tear slid down his weathered, brown face. God help him, grant him peace. Monty folded his hands tightly and bit his lip to hold back a sob. What was his purpose? Just show him a sign that his life had had some meaning. An ex-patriot of Britain, what did he have left but a small house he'd saved and saved for but never had a chance to enjoy, and a boat that was way too big for a man without a family or surviving friends to enjoy it with. Everyone on the mainland was gone. The things being broadcasted on the news made his blood run cold. If an angel of mercy would just set his direction, he would never question God again.

  "Mr. Sinclair," a soft female voice murmured through the screen. He jerked his attention toward the sound and pressed his hand against the carved wood. He'd thought he'd heard a slight rustling, but had been so absorbed in his own thoughts. "Yes," he said in a garbled voice, embarrassed that it hitched with raw emotion.

  "You don't know me, sir ... but I heard your prayer." He pressed his fist to his mouth and dragged in a deep breath.

  "We need your help . . . and your life has meaning. I asked if you were the one who would help us, and if I had the right to approach you like this, and I received word that I could. All is in divine order, sir. I'm not here to mock your pain, just to give you some comfort and possibly a new start. Please hear me out."

  "Who are you?" he whispered, shaking.

  "I am a Neteru."

  Lilith waited at the entrance of her husband's war room, watching him sit on his dark throne in quiet contemplation, staring at the globe. As it turned slowly on its axis before him, a blue marble hovering in midair, he made a tent before his mouth with his fingers. The look on his face was one of calm confidence. But still she hesitated, never sure of what a summons by her Dark Lord could bring.

  "You sent for me," she said as evenly as possible, waiting for him to invite her over the threshold.

  "I did," he said quietly, not looking up. "We have made progress. I want your opinion."

  Lilith didn't move. He looked up with a smile. "My apologies. I should have said that to you in Dananu." He allowed his seductive gaze to rake her and then chuckled as she gasped from the pleasure jolt he gave her.

  "My opinion?" She stepped forward, her eyes never leaving his.

  "Yes," he said in Dananu, issuing her a slightly fanged smile. "You have been in touch with the female Neteru's weaknesses from the beginning. . . which led to the creation of our heir. You knew she'd attempt to save the host in Nod and have earned my respect. Therefore, now that we are in the final, delicate stages of the game, I would be remiss to overlook your input." He rubbed his handsome jaw and stood, allowing his raven-black wings to unfold to their full thirteen-foot span as he walked.

  "I am at your service, as always," Lilith replied in Dananu with a slight bow, but still on guard for entrapment. To ask her opinion in the language of barter meant that he was unsure of his next move. If she chose wrong, his full wrath would fall on her—but if she chose correctly, her power would increase exponentially. He chuckled, having read her conflict within her dark eyes. "There are always consequences, darling," he said in a mellow tone. "Care to wager on a strategy?"

  "What's your dilemma?" she replied with a sly smile, pressing a forefinger to her lips, waiting.

  He let out a long sigh. "After seventeen hundred years, the humans found the Coptic version of the Gospel of Judas. Of course I did everything I could to play a shell game once raiders lifted it from an Egyptian tomb in the seventies ... it went to Switzerland, then the United States in the early eighties—greed is a marvelous thing. It sat in a bank vault until the late eighties, and finally got sold in ninety-nine," he added, walking around the globe as he mused. "But I broke up that sale—checks bounced," he said, chuckling. "The books were broken up, and finally given to a credible source, but I tampered with the translation, completely reversing the meaning."

  Lilith cocked her head to the side and frowned. "I fail to see your dilemma then. You were successful in making the humans think there was a possibility that Judas was a hero. And?"

  "Those who see through it will know the true name of my most cherished and powerful demon. The Thirteenth. He is the one that the original Coptic text says held sway over Judas Is-cariot. In the bad translation, they call him by his origin, a daimon—but think it means spirit—albeit you and I are the wiser. It means what it means—demon—and he is the one who made Judas trade the one I refuse to name for a few pieces of silver."

  "Yes," Lilith said flatly. "I do recall the incident—which is when silver gained power as a weapon to be forever used against us as a result."

  Her husband waved his hand to dismiss the loss and kept talking. "This text that came out of Coptic Ethiopia was hidden in the Valley of the Kings and protected by the Kemetians until the grave was robbed. My goal then was to have the graves disturbed by mortal men, knowing we were coming upon the end of days . . . and then have the manuscript with the secret name burned. I had to get it out of the hands of the Neteru

  Council—because as you and I well know, if anyone with a soul knows a demon's true name, they can rebuke it. At a time like this I can ill-afford to have the two Neterus come into such knowledge. Their Neteru Council in spirit cannot say the name of the Thirteenth, cannot tell them, as no being of Light can outright call a demon's name. That was the beauty of my plan to have the manuscript stolen." He let out another hard breath. "I thought I had procured the manuscript, but as you know, human will and human greed is a very fickle thing—a double-edged sword that cuts both ways. Greed led those humans to try to profit from me and then attempt to sell it for three million dollars, rather than listen to my whispering and bring it to me. Damn free will! Although I punished the troublesome fools, that information is still out there in general circulation."

  "But it is out there in a mistranslation . . . and with all that is going on, and with almost all of the Covenant clerics gone, who shall interpret obscure texts for the Neterus, hmm?" Lilith soothed.

  "When I release laldabaoth upon the earth, his job is singular—to dry up the Euphrates and cause havoc in the region so that I may release my four dark avengers, which he will then lead . . . the ones who have been prepared for an hour, a day, a month, and a year to slay a third part of men. The Thirteenth will ready my troops during the year long drought and then release my four dark angels, those most loyal to me when I fell from grace."

  He turned to Lilith, excitement shimmering in his bottomless black eyes. "His horsemen will number two hundred thousand thousand. They will wear brimstone breastplates and fire and brimstone will issue from their mouths ... it will be beautiful."

  "It will come to pass ... I do not understand your concern." Lilith said, walking to stand before the globe. She stared at the Euphrates basin that encompassed Turkey, Syria, Iraq, and Iran.

  "Look at all the hell that's breaking loose over there as we speak. Why would you doubt that one of the four rivers that flow from the original location of the Garden of Eden would not dry up in the end of days as prophesized?
It is in the Old Testament, even in some of the hadiths of the Prophet Muhammad that this will happen . . . that when the riverbed dries, men will fight over the riches they find there, and ninety-nine out of a hundred will die."

  Concern knit her brow as she studied her unresponsive husband. "After the sixth seal is broken, the Light gets to do the Rapture—fine, fine, so they get to take all their goody-two-shoes people up to wherever . . . and then the world is ours. We get to break the seventh seal and just become ridiculous ... six great plagues come after that. You know we'll have something particularly dreadful planned by then . .

  . like a coming-out party for our son. He'll bring order to the chaos, once we're finished having a little fun with the left-behind humans, and he'll seem like the dark prince he is. He'll have them eating out of the palm of his hand, just to have their old creature comforts back— principles and moral compasses be damned. Humans are so gullible. Don't worry. They're weak. Easy to guide and tempt." She opened her arms, going to her husband when he still didn't answer her, his eyes fixed on the globe. "You are winning, darling," she murmured, hugging him.

  "The mark of the beast is only a matter of time—humans are afraid of the virus carried on currency worldwide. Survivors will have to embed a chip in their bodies to buy or sell, to eat, to survive. What brings this unusual bout of melancholy to you at a time like this?"