The Judas Line

“Tell you what, amigo,” I retorted, slapping the envelope back into his hands. “You go ahead and read what’s in here. If you can handle it, if you think we still can be friends, then call me. The number to my new disposable is in there.”

The fear that Mike would hate and revile me after reading the contents of the envelope blazed up inside, causing my stomach to clench. Nothing for it, however, but to trust him and hope for the best.

He clutched the envelope in one hand and stroked his ridiculous handlebar moustache with the other; something he always did when perched on the horns of a dilemma. “Okay, Jude,” he said, folding and unfolding the envelope. “You got it, but I have to ask … what’s going on?”

My eyes trailed up the side of Woodman Tower to where wind sprites frolicked on high. “What about the holy water I asked for, Mike?” I hedged.

“Having a courier deliver it to your place. Should be there sometime this afternoon. I don’t know why you keep asking me for ten gallons of holy water every six months, but the donations are appreciated. Now … answer the damn question.”

“What’s going on? Well, I have Family business to take care of soon.”

Chapter Two

Jude

My place was a little white ranch-style affair on 61^st near L Street, smack dab in a quiet middle class neighborhood where the houses are small, but the backyards are large. The kind of place you find newly married couples and the retired.

Omaha in winter is only slightly less windy and cold than the Ninth Circle of Hell, the frozen lake trapping the traitors to mankind. The previous day saw a wind chill of -65? F, cold enough to shatter the plastic quarter panels on my neighbor’s blue Saturn coupe. I didn’t mind the deep freeze, as long as the blessed cloak of anonymity covered me.

Before the keys left the ignition of my red Hyundai Sonata, my belt buckle vibrated slightly, sending a small thrill through my navel. The car filled with the aroma of lavender. Someone had tripped one of my many alarms. I had a guest.

“Damn.” Just what the doctor hadn’t ordered. My best guess … Family visit.

Magic was out of the question. If I used a Word, it would be detected, a scent that any mage within a hundred feet would pick up. That suited me fine. I could do without, and I’d spent a great portion of my Family’s vast fortune on alternative methods.

Molecular thread, one of my best, most enjoyable toys. Linked iron molecules held rigid by an inch-long magnetic bottle attached to a six-inch slim cylinder. Not great as a weapon-having such a short blade-but perfect for detail work.

You may have seen movies where the canny thief uses a circular glasscutter on a windowpane, removing a perfectly round piece in just seconds with hardly a sound thanks to clever editing and the audience’s willingness to suspend disbelief. The molecular blade requires no such flouting of physical laws. It cut through my bathroom window in a moment, allowing me to unlock it and slither in quietly.

With just the slightest whisper I drew my K-bar from its ankle sheath, readying it my left hand, right hand carefully opening the door to my bedroom, staying low. One of my few indulgences was fine furniture crafted out of heavy, sturdy wood and polished to a high gloss. If you look hard enough, you can find someone in any good-sized town who specializes in woodworking. I had found an elderly gentleman who had been crafting furniture for decades and commissioned several pieces to the tune of several thousand dollars. The centerpiece of the collection was a queen-sized sleigh bed made of stained red oak. The auburn wood gleamed to perfection and smelled faintly of the lemon oil I used to polish it. When I stepped into the bedroom, I detected evidence of a new smell-thus a new occupant.

It was the blood that confused my eyes, enough that it took several seconds for me to recognize Eliza, my next-door neighbor. A round, happy woman, the kind that minded everyone else’s business. As long as she was awake, the block didn’t need a neighborhood watch. Her short, frizzy blond hair was crusted in red; blood covered every inch of her naked, flabby body, as if a particularly twisted artist had painted it on. That same artist had ripped open her ample belly and festooned my bedroom with her guts.

The smell was horrible.

“Goddamn it,” I whispered, tearing my eyes away from the corpse. She’d been dead for quite some while-the blood had coagulated, turning black-so why had my alarm tripped only a few short minutes earlier? There was only one answer.

Whoever did this wanted me warned. It was an invitation to a private horror show and I had front-row seats. This was Family work. From the violence and the brutality of Eliza’s death, I knew which Family member waited for me.

Burke.

Shit, out of all of them, it just had to be him, the one guy I actually feared a little. Carefully, I lowered myself to the carpet next to the hall door. “Burke!” I shouted.

Four bullets tore through the door above my head, showering me with splinters and imbedding themselves into my oak armoire. There went another two grand.

The voice that drifted through my holy door dripped with contempt and amusement. “Did I get you, Olivier? Or should I call you Jude? That is the name you use now, is it not? Are you hurt?”

Sarky twerp. Family protocol dictated that no Family member commit violence on another, restricting assassinations to poisons and magic. Looked like things had changed in the last fifteen years. Burke was a cousin on the distaff line, unlikely to inherit the Big Title, but the only male of that branch in the past three-hundred years who had any real magical ability. That made him valuable to Julian, my father. That made him valuable to the Voice.

“You’re still a lousy shot, Burke,” I hollered back.

Four more shots, four more holes in my armoire. I gritted my teeth.

“You think you are oh so clever, don’t you Jude? Always Daddy’s little sm-”

My body blurred into motion as I voiced a Word that shattered the door into a thousand pieces, flinging the shards down the hallway. The woody projectiles caused Burke to raise his gun arm across his eyes for protection. The smell of burning insulation filled the air.

I was halfway down the hallway, legs pumping, empty left hand extended ready to grab, K-bar filled right hand held back, ready to stab the life from Burke’s body. His gun hand came down, and his eyes widened at the sight of me barreling toward him like a defensive end going for the sack. I noticed a splinter cut on his chin. Thin lips skinned back from his teeth as he brought his gun to bear, certain in the knowledge I’d never get to him in time. He was right, I was too far away and not fast enough … but my K-bar was plenty quick.

My arm flashed forward and the knife flew true, entering his shoulder with enough force to dislodge the silenced Glock from his hand. Grunting, I planted my shoulder in his breadbasket at the same time the 9mm hit the carpet. Both of us exploded into the living room and slammed hard into the couch, which flipped us over onto the coffee table. It gave way with a loud crunch under our combined weight.

Fortunately for my personal aesthetic, the living room furniture was little better than department-store specials, cheap cloth and pressboard, camouflage for a rich magus on the run.

Grunting, we stood staring at each other, me nursing a pulled groin muscle and Burke pulling the K-bar from his shoulder, letting loose a gout of blood that pattered to the floor. He spared the wound a quick glance and spoke a Word that sealed his injured flesh. A waft of cinnamon floated in the air.

I had to admit, he looked good for a man in his late thirties. Fit and trim, an inch over my own five-ten. Long lean muscles rippled under olive skin covered in a designer black t-shirt and silver/gray cotton slacks that swirled like liquid silk. Black handmade Crockett amp; Jones loafers caressed his feet while a Louis Moinet Meteoris tourbillion watch circled his wrist in a show of sinful steely opulence. He looked like a guy trying too hard to look cool and rich at the same time.

If someone were to see us together, they might mistake us for brothers … the same unruly midnight hair,