The Judas Line

“Ceaseless wandering?” I inquired. “Looks like you’ve put down roots here rather well.”

Cain handed me the bedding. “No matter how remote the locale or friendly the neighboring folk, circumstances always arise that force my evacuation from whatever plot of land I have called home. The Mark of Cain assures it. My tenure near Gunnison has endured for nearly two years-long by the standards of my curse-so it is with heavy heart that I recognize the imminent end of my stay.”

I didn’t bother to debate the merits of his punishment. There were murderers aplenty-the Family and myself were prime examples-but maybe it was because he was the first murderer that caused God to punish him so severely. That, and his attempt to lie to God about his crime. Whatever the reason, I could see in his half-hidden face that even after thousands of years, he still had not forgiven himself.

What stopped him from committing suicide? I marveled at his discipline.

Cain turned and walked to the door of his bedroom, stopping only for a moment to say, over his shoulder, “My circumstances presented me with the most difficulty those years preceding the twelfth century. It was then the Chinese invented sunglasses, mere smoky quartz lenses to assist in concealing their expressions in court. That simple device has brought me more peace than any other in the countless millennia of my travels.” His voice dropped to a near whisper, his sadness clutching at my throat. “That was the last time I prayed to God, to thank him for his infinite capacity for creativity.”

“Good night, Cain.”

“Good night, Mr. Deschamps.”

As I lay down, snuggling into the blankets and enjoying the warmth of the fire, Cain’s door opened a crack.

“Did you really destroy my Tablet, Mr. Deschamps?

“Call me Morgan. And yes, I’m afraid so, but it wasn’t on purpose.”

An infinite sadness colored his face for moment. “Pity. I should have liked to have held the old stone once more, if only for a moment.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mike

Wake, eat, pray, talk to Julian. Boris would beat me to a pulp, then send me back to the room so I could be Healed by a man I never saw because most to those times my eyes were swelled shut.

Not what you’d call a summer vacation.

Each day I managed to endure the bone-breaking sessions with Boris and each day I prayed to God to give me the strength to do so because each day I survived meant that Morgan remained free. If it hadn’t been for the Healings, I would’ve died the second day, but I guess Julian wanted this to last and last. His reputation for cruelty was well deserved.

I wondered if his entire family were sociopaths from birth, or if their criminal insanity had been carefully nurtured. Either way, it was a miracle that Morgan remained sane.

Julian had read Morgan’s memoirs and seemed unimpressed, calling them “the ineffectual ramblings of a weak-willed man.” If he really understood Morgan’s willpower, he would have been very afraid. I just hoped my friend wouldn’t do anything stupid, like try to affect a rescue. Unfortunately, I knew better. In any case, he had not bothered to take them away from me.

One day Boris didn’t come for me, a reprieve of sorts, or Julian wanted to concentrate his efforts on his wayward son.

So, with nothing to do but pray, I pulled out the tattered memoirs from my ripped and torn Danzinger’s jacket and began to read.

My Life No Longer

The angel had given more than food for thought; he’d supplied a banquet, which I dined on as I waited, hidden under another spruce. Julian expected the rest of the SS hopefuls to wander in after the next three days, so I had time to meditate on my situation.

What should I do? What were my options? If I returned to the mansion after the allotted time, it would spur Annabeth and Burke on to new heights of plotting. They couldn’t afford to let me live and if I did return, I could not afford to let them live. As much as I craved revenge, what the angel had revealed undercut my thirst for blood.

The Voice (I couldn’t bring myself call him Satan or Lucifer) would eventually know of my change of heart and his response would be the same as Burke’s, just more immediate and efficient.

There was only one option that really worked for me: run away.

Do it soon, I thought. Then, do it before anyone makes it back. Grab what you can and sneak out like a thief in the night. And then it hit me. Thief. If Julian could have seen my smile at that moment, he would not have recognized me.

Only a few hours had passed since Burke used the ballistic knife on me, perforating my back, and the blood had frozen to my white jacket, leaving three ragged red splotches to mark the impact points. It did not matter, I wouldn’t need the jacket anymore, but what I did need was a good read on where the mansion lay.

Exiting my shelter, I began a look around and spotted the perfect tree. An old growth eastern Hemlock big enough that two people couldn’t span it with their arms. It towered high above the other trees, even the old-growth maples, a pillar reaching high into the sky before branches erupted like woody fingers.

Reaching into a thigh pouch, I removed a plastic vial, thankful that it hadn’t broken when Burke attacked. It was my ace-in-the-hole. The liquid inside swirled with reddish brown flakes, the potent mixture something I had never attempted before, something I thought might be new under the sun.

A mixture of toadflax, wintergreen, bamboo, chili pepper and poke root, herbs used in the making of anti- magic unguents. I had added sage white for cleansing and gum Arabic for purification. The potion had taken over two months to brew, the herbs steeped in water melted from 3,500-year-old ice. I worried that the mixture might be magically toxic and kill me quicker than strychnine, but … desperate times and all that. Taking a deep breath, I unscrewed the vial and downed the contents.

Actually not bad. The chili pepper gave the mixture a nice kick. It would do quite well as marinade if I added honey.

One minute … two … I still lived. Very nice. I let Vigor past my lips and reveled in the feeling of well-being and energy that flooded through me along with the smell of peanuts..

Yes, I cheated. In my Family, that’s worth bonus points.

Checking my compass, I located east and softly muttered a word … Strength. The sharp, chemical smell of ammonia assaulted me and I began to climb, fingers easily gripping the hemlock’s gnarled bark, gouging handholds. Halfway to the first branch, my boots began to split and tear as I kicked toeholds into the tree, seeking purchase in the soft wood. If I had chosen a hardwood, I might have had some difficulty.

Strength, however, did not mean I could ignore the splinters the slipped under my finger and toenails and the sticky resin that began to coat my hands. Just before my hands started to bleed in earnest, I reached the first branch, levering myself up with my magically enhanced strength. Sitting on my precarious perch, I teased splinters from my stinging fingers and mumbled a Healing, watching the flesh re-knit.

High enough, the old-growth conifer gave me an advantage I had so desperately needed. While my cousins hunted each other (knowing Burke, he wouldn’t try to find the mansion until he had bagged his limit), I would wend my way back. There were things I needed to do to ensure a good head start.

Scanning the horizon above the spiny spikes of beech, cedar, ash and hawthorn, I eventually spotted what I thought was the clearing that housed the mansion, its roof buried behind the barren branches of the forest.

As I reached the ground, hands and feet a bloody mess, someone let out an “ahem.”

Heart beating wildly, I turned just in time to take three shots to the chest, green paint spattering my face. “Bloody hell,” I groused.

Fergus laughed. “Saw ya up in tha’ tree, cuz and decided t’ be a mite sportin’ and wait till ya reached bottom before shooting ya’.”

“Mighty kind of you, Fergus.”