“But not scars,” Haggarty agreed. “You’ve even maintained your sensitivity in those areas.” He reached over and touched Warren’s arm.
Warren felt the physician’s warmth through the scales, and the softness of Haggarty’s flesh. The man was weaker than he was. On some subconscious level that he didn’t understand, Warren knew that was true.
“You can feel this,” Haggarty said.
Warren said nothing, but removed his hand from Haggarty’s touch.
“You’re looking at this wrong,” Tulane said. “What you’ve gotten, Warren, it’s a gift.”
“It’s not a gift!” Warren shouted. His voice filled the physician’s office. “The demons don’t give gifts! I’ve seen them. Up close and personal. No one else in that room that night received a gift. They were murdered. Horribly and mercilessly.”
“They were,” Tulane said in a soft voice. “But not you. You were—for whatever reason—spared.”
Warren’s thoughts turned more desperate. “What about arcane energy? Can this be eradicated by a spell?”
Tulane slumped back in the chair. He rubbed his face. “I don’t know. But we’re learning. More and more every day, Warren. Give us time. If we can help you, we will. But you have to stay with us. Can you do that?”
Warren wanted to tell Tulane no. In fact, he wanted to leave the cave at that precise moment. But he knew he couldn’t. He was trapped. More than that, he knew he’d been cursed. He heard Merihim’s laughter in the back of his mind and knew that somewhere the demon was mocking him.
Thirty
T he house stood three stories tall, squeezed between two other houses. It was made of brick, with a series of bay windows that thrust out the front. A wrought-iron fence was curled around the corpse of a motorcycle that something had picked up and launched into the poles. The motorcycle had caught fire and burned as well.
Scanning the front of the house, Simon found that the address matched the one they’d been given.
In quick, terse sentences, Derek placed the Templar in a security perimeter around the house. Simon was one of the men that Derek wanted with him inside the dwelling.
Drawing his sword and Spike Bolter, Simon followed Derek and the four other Templar up the short flight of steps to the door under a low-hanging alcove. Despite the sheltering darkness, Simon felt like someone was watching him. He glanced around, using the telescoping imaging available through the helmet.
Nothing moved on the street or in the shadows.
Someone had already broken into the residence. The door had been closed, but the lock had been shattered.
“Somebody’s been here before us,” Derek whispered.
“I’ll bet it wasn’t Goldilocks,” Bruce replied. He led the way into the building.
Derek went next, followed almost immediately by Simon. Using the light-multiplier function built into the HUD, Simon saw that the foyer had been opulent. Shelves had showcased miniature Asian statues and pottery that now lay smashed on the floor. Delicate rice paper watercolors hung crookedly on the wall. Most of them showed fantastic dragons and chimeras.
“Who lived here?” Bruce asked.
“A fantasy writer,” Derek replied. “Robert Thornton.”
“I read him,” Kyle, one of the younger Templar, said. “He writes good stuff.”
Blueprints of the house’s interior, broken down by floors, ghosted onto Simon’s HUD. He oriented himself as they passed along the hall toward the stairs.
“So where’s this book supposed to be?” Bruce asked.
“Thornton’s study,” Derek answered. “Third floor. The information we have is that he’s supposed to have a collection of occult books and objects in a vault there. He used them as research for his novels.”
“Where’s Thornton now?”
“Gone. He was in the United States on a book tour when the demons struck.”
“Lucky him.”
Simon looked around the large living room. His father had told him that Chelsea had once been Bohemian, home to writers and artists, but that had given way to the families of military officers and wealth.
A large fireplace nearly filled the living room. Broken glass let the cold night air into the room. Snow frosted the floor and the expensive furniture. Home wasn’t going to be the same when—and if—Thornton ever returned.
The picture above the mantel caught Simon’s attention. It showed a man, a woman, and two young children.
“What about Thornton’s family?” Simon asked. “Were they in the United States with Thornton?”
“I don’t know.”
Simon had to pull his gaze from the picture. He hated to think that the woman and her children had fallen prey to the demons. But it was a grim reminder of what he was fighting for.
The second floor contained bedrooms and bathrooms. They found the study on the third floor.
It was a large room filled with bookshelves and a computer center. Framed pictures of the author and some of his books occupied wall space. Models and toys of fantastic monsters paraded across the desk. None of the windows on the third floor were broken.
“Give me a hand.” Derek stood beside the bookcases.
Simon joined him. “Behind the bookshelves?”
“That’s what I was told.”
Simon checked the blueprints on his HUD. There was a void behind the bookshelves.
“Trite,” Bruce said.
“It only has to be functional,” Derek replied.
Simon trailed his fingers along the shelves.
“Gang way!” Bruce called out. “I’ve found the switch.” He stood at the desk with one hand under the edge.
Simon and Derek stepped back.
“There’s not any power,” Derek said. “We’ll be lucky if it operates. Go ahead.”
Bruce pressed the button. Nothing happened.
“All right then,” Bruce said. “We’ll do it the hard way.” He reached under the desk and grabbed a fistful of wires. Another tug popped them free of the wall, tearing them free of the Sheetrock and paint that had covered the wires. They peeled out of the wall like the seal on a sardine can.
The wires went up to the ceiling, across the ceiling, and to the bookshelves. Hunkering down, Bruce traced the wires to a release switch. He laid a forefinger against the switch.
“Let’s see if I can tickle it open,” Bruce said. He loosed a burst of electricity through his armor.
The latch sprung and a section of the wall popped free
