The Rabbi rubbed out the first letter of the word “emet” from the golem’s forehead, leaving the Hebrew word “met,” meaning “dead.” Thus the golem was deactivated and stored in the attic of the Old New Synagogue, where it has remained all these years.
When Rabbi Judah died, he took with him the secret of how to create golems. It looked like he wasn’t the only one privy to that secret.
“So am I to assume by the reaction so nakedly writ across your face upon beholding my countenance, that you are truly aware of my provenance?” Cain remarked as he poured himself a shot of Glenfiddich.
Seated in the kitchen area of his cabin, the golem’s large iron paws still clamped to my shoulders-albeit with less force-I nodded. Provenance? Really? Who talks like that?
“So am I to assume that when you embarked upon the path leading to my humble abode you had not a whit of a notion as to whom you would meet?”
I shook my head.
“May one inquire what business brings you to my house?” he asked, sitting down and taking a sip of scotch. His glasses winked in the soft lamplight.
I stared at my twin reflections. Glacier sunglasses are popular with the skiing crowd, keeping the sun’s harsh glare from reaching the eyes by placing pieces of leather between the sunglasses and the corners of the eyes along the stems. Instead of leather, Cain’s glasses seemed to be constructed of densely woven metal mesh. “I was told Second Man would help me.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Second Man? That name has not reached these delicate, shell-like ears in centuries. I must conclude then that this person, or persons, who put you on the path to my doorstep, are powerful indeed, but unable to aid you in your endeavors. So, my newfound guest, who sent you?”
“Earth.”
“Earth?”
“Yeah, man, Earth.”
Cain took another sip from his shot glass. “What would drive an elemental to have you enlist the aid of the most notorious human in history?”
Since I wasn’t going anywhere-the golem had made damn sure of that-I plunged in. “The Sicarii have Primal Water. Earth wants it freed to restore balance and if I can’t retrieve the Primal, Earth will swallow New York to make sure it doesn’t remain in Sicarii hands.”
From his reaction, you would’ve thought we were talking about the weather. “And?”
Despite the heavy iron hands enclosing my shoulders, I managed to lean forward. “Are you nuts, man? Or should I say, ‘Do you find yourself in the mouth of madness, surrah?’ ”
His laughter startled the hell out of me. Deep and booming, it sprung like a tidal wave from his lips, breaking against the rocks of my surprise. A minute or two later, as the laughter ebbed, he turned his head and wiped his eyes, saying, “It is a joy to my ears to hear the heat of your response, young man.”
“You wanted me to lose my temper?”
“Indeed. The truth of your statements needed verification and the dismay painted on your face gave me proof of your candor.”
“So can you call off your metal pet, please?”
Cain’s smile quickly evaporated. “Not until I am apprised of the fullness of your story.”
Mind racing through my options, I realized I didn’t have any. How Cain would react to the story of my origins, I didn’t know, but considering the Sicarii had been trying to kill him for two thousand years … probably not well.
I glanced at the giant’s hands and sighed. This was going to suck.
“Well, man, it all started in Omaha …”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mike
Despite being in the clutches of Satan’s earthly minions who viewed me as a lackey of a lying God, I was being treated pretty darn well. Three hots and a cot until the next day, or what I assumed was the next day (the room had no windows), when I was bound, gagged, and a black bag lowered over my head. A short car ride later and the lot of us were airborne. By the soft texture and spaciousness of the seat, I assumed we flew by private jet. Too bad about my trussed-up condition, I could’ve used a nice comfy ride.
Maybe they were afraid I’d call down the wrath of the Lord to blast us out of the sky because shortly after takeoff I felt a sharp jab to my neck and it was light’s out for the priest.
If I had dreams, they didn’t travel with me to consciousness, but pain sure did. My eyeballs screamed at me as pressure forced them deep into their sockets. When I began to struggle and moan the pressure eased.
“Wake up, Mr. Engle.”
“Wha-?” Holy moley, that hurt! My eyes watered fiercely as I shook the cobwebs out of my head.
“Boris, if you would.” Once again large calloused thumbs rammed into my closed eyelids and the pain ricocheted around my skull. That time I screamed. Loud.
“Ah, good to see you awake, Mr. Engle,” the voice said as the pressure eased. I was learning to really hate that voice. Belatedly, I realized I was bound to a chair that was none too comfortable.
Focusing proved difficult-my eyes were still smarting and everything was all light and shadow-so I shook my head once again to clear it. Slowly the world came into focus and I saw, standing in front of me, an elegantly dressed older man perhaps in his fifties with streaks of white in his once dark hair. He bore such a startling resemblance to Morgan that I knew it had to be Julian.
His smile contained enough wickedness frighten angels. “You do not look like a priest, Mr. Engle.” Julian began to walk slowly around my chair. “More like truck driver. Yes, a truck driver. It is that ridiculous moustache. Is that not right, Boris?”
The mountain of well-dressed muscle named Boris (whose expression registered no signs of humanity) grunted once, the sound seeming to come from the depths of some lightless cave.
I stole a look at my surroundings. A large art deco space with a white baby grand that Liberace would have loved to play, a black leather sofa and loveseat, natural wood surfaces and a plush carpeted staircase leading to a second floor. What really took the taco was the floor to ceiling windows with a panoramic view what I believed was New York City. From the scale, I guessed we were at fifty plus stories up. Outside the rain sheeted down-a perfect counterpoint to my mood and aching eyes.
Drinking in the full kitchen and dining room behind me, I cast my eyes to Julian and kept my trap shut.
Morgan’s father, still smiling wickedly, stopped inches away. Boris loomed like only the massive can loom, the flat, soulless chips of his eyes conveying the message that any misbehavior on my part would be dealt with harshly.
“Mr. Engle, you delayed my people with your rather … potent magic in order for my wayward son to make his escape. What I want to know is …” He leaned forward, his breath washing over me as he whispered, “Where is he?”
“I really don’t know,” I sighed, not meeting his eyes. “The Lord provided the opportunity for his escape, but where he went was up to him. But I
Instant, remorseless pain, like an iron spike slowly pushing into my throat. My muscles contracted as I tried to veer away from the digging thumb, but Boris’ huge hands kept my head steady as a rock.
When he let go I almost sobbed in relief. It took a few moments, but I managed to control my labored breathing.
“Where is he, Mr. Engle?”
I screamed into Julian’s smug and wicked face. “I don’t know!”
Another nod to Boris, another round of pain for me, but this time digging under the other ear.
By the time the former Spetznaz finished, I had given up being brave and shrieked my agony to the uncaring
