Lightbreaker

hands working at his sides as if he couldn't wait to take a swing at me but still very aware of what I might do to him if he tried. 'Goddamnit, Markham. Not like this. I don't-'

I pointed across the street, through the thick stalks of the steel forest of downtown Portland. 'There,' I said, interrupting him. 'That's where they are.'

He looked, following my arm. Peeking over the flat roof across the street was the tip of a black building-a hill filled with metallic ore. Its triangular peak was topped with a neon circle of red light-the bloody eye within the pyramid, the fire within the mountain.

The Tower. At the peak was Bernard and his unholy mirror.

XXVI

Eglanteria Terrace-named, as so much of the city was, after a species of rose-was the flagship of a new millennial architecture. Forty-plus floors of luxury condominiums were stacked on top of eight floors of restaurants, shops, and essential human services. Every need of the residents could be fulfilled without leaving the sanctuary of their building. Self-contained, climate-controlled arks. The only thing it was missing was a petting zoo on the roof.

Placards and posters on the ground floor advertised condominiums available on all floors-'Occupancy at 75 %, buy now!' — and the central atrium, open to the fifth floor, allowed us an upward view of the partially filled mall. There were as many blank walls festooned with 'Coming Soon!' signs as there were glass and wood storefronts. The property management was clearly having trouble filling this new ark. Humanity wasn't quite ready to return to the medieval castle lifestyle-hidden behind walls in their own private communities-even if the sanctuary had two massage therapists, an 8-screen movie theater, and an Irish pub.

Glass-edged walkways circled the central courtyard, decorated with strands of white lights that made the walls glittering rings of ice; murals suspended from the distant ceiling were painted in an abstract Impressionistic style with a nod toward Audubon's naturalism. Ducks in flight, their beaks pointed north.

The whole place was deserted, filled with frozen light. Nicols said it, his voice a dull whisper that died as it left his mouth. 'Like a tomb.'

Beyond the elevators, standing like basalt crypts with marble portals, was the security office. The door was sealed, locked from the inside, and, as we approached the small room, the security officer inside slowly banged his hands against the glass.

His eyes and mouth were black holes in his shriveled face. The body had no soul, filled only with the seeping darkness of the Qliphoth.

'Shit,' Nicols sighed. 'Well, we're in the right place.' He looked like he couldn't decide if he should laugh or cry.

'They'll be at the top,' I said, pulling him toward the elevators. The building's systems were still fully functional-technology rarely noticed the disappearance of human operators-and all fourteen elevators had power. Four of them serviced the mall levels only. The remaining ten were evenly split between the lower and upper halves of the residential apartments. We called a couple of cars, and they all had magnetic strips for key cards on their inner panels.

Nicols set down the duffel bag he had brought from the trunk of his car, blocking the door open on one elevator, and thumbed several of the buttons for the upper floors. None of them lit up. 'We're going to need a card.'

He unzipped his bag and started laying out the contents on the floor of the elevator. 'The security guard will have one. I think retrieving it is your job.' Mossberg shotgun with a combat grip, a pair of Sig Sauer pistols, an extra box of shells for the shotgun. After the guns and ammo came a bulletproof vest, a pitted conquistador's helmet, three plastic soda bottles, and a red-and-white-striped bandana with kamikaze-style rising sun. 'What?' he asked when he noticed I hadn't moved.

'No rocket launcher?'

He shook his head as he began to load shells into the shotgun. 'Don't be a smart-ass. You know the paperwork involved in getting one?'

I took the hint and went to retrieve the security officer's key card.

As the elevator ascended, Nicols adjusted the helmet, pulling it down over his ears. The bandana wrapped around the dented dome so that the bloody sun was right in the center of his forehead. An engorged third eye. Pistols on either hip, shotgun slung across his back, he got down on one knee and offered me one of the plastic bottles. 'St. Mark's,' he said. 'It's been a long time since I've been to church, but they've always been pretty accommodating to wayward children who come back.'

The Chorus quivered as I touched the bottle, reacting to an electric tingle.

'It's holy water,' Nicols said matter-of-factly.

'I know what it is,' I said. 'I'm just wondering what you want me to do with it?'

He looked up at the digital display on the elevator wall. The number was already in the low 30s. 'Come on. We don't have a lot of time. Bless me already.'

'I'm not recognized by the Catholic Church.'

'Doesn't matter. I'll believe anything you tell me.'

And I got it finally: why he was still with me, why he sought to keep me from running. Why his wife's death was both the impetus and the curse of his continued life.

Was I any different? How had I found direction? Even now, freed from the Qliphotic taint, how was I being driven?

I shook the bottle, flushing the Chorus into the water. They made a cheap theatrical flourish of light as they energized the sanctified water-a visible marking that would further give credence to what Nicols believed I could do for him. I spun off the top of the bottle and shook water on him.

He closed his eyes and raised his face to receive the blessing. I took a mouthful of the holy water, changed it to fire in my mouth and spit it over him. He didn't flinch as the fiery spume changed to steam when it struck his water-dappled face. I leaned over and carefully kissed him on either eyelid, the Chorus leaving glittering imprints that sank into his skin. 'See True, my son,' I whispered.

Like a punctuation mark to the blessing, a pleasant voice suddenly spoke the number of the top floor: '52.' The car slowed.

'Drink the rest.' I gave him the half-empty bottle.

He looked at the bottle for an instant, delight shining in his face, and then tipped it in my direction. 'Thanks.'

I turned away from him so that he couldn't see my expression. The void in my gut was an emptiness with presence and weight. These holes are filled by faith, by the things we choose to believe. I heard Nicols sigh as he finished the water.

We believe our faith makes us strong. But that is the Fallacious Illusion of our existence. What assurance do we have that our faith is correctly given? Is it just the fact that we have given it that makes us think it is right? I believed the whispers of the Qliphoth. John believed I would keep him safe.

If the only vice of the soul was ignorance, then the only virtue was faith. Like good and evil, black and white, light and dark: this was the dichotomy of our existence. How close one was to the other. How dependent.

And how much a vacuum was left when one was bereft of ignorance and of faith.

The elevator opened onto a marble-floored foyer. Three panel-back chairs were lined up against the wall on the left like tired sentries. Flanking the middle chair were two narrow stands crowned with peace lilies in fat Grecian-style amphoras. A large pair of white doors was the only other exit.

The psychic vacuum of the mirror was palpable. A heavy static laced the air, a taste of burnt wire at the back of my throat. The suction was a wave pattern that had an amplitude of a few seconds, a rhythm that throbbed at the base of my skull. The Chorus groaned like an old building settling.

Nicols tapped the conquistador helmet three times with the handle of the shotgun, shoving the metal cap even lower on his head. 'You ready?' A vein throbbed in his neck, an unconscious physical echo mirroring the drag of