The Judas Line

balanced in one elegant, manicured hand. “For your sake, let’s hope I’m wrong.”

Boris hadn’t bothered to tie me to the ugly steel chair this time; instead he handed me a glass of whatever Julian was having. I took a sip-Petite Sirah and a very good one, too-and waited for Julian to clarify.

I didn’t have to wait long. “I’ve offered Olivier your freedom if he hands himself over to us.” Eyes dark and deep with hatred stared into mine. “He refused.”

“There’s no way he’ll consider it, Julian; he knows you’ll kill me anyway.”

Julian whirled, striding forward and stepping close, his face a bare inch from mine. I could smell the wine on his breath, sour and acidic. “What makes you think I’d go back on my word, priest?” Malice and loathing suffused his voice, the first deep emotions I’d detected in him. “Why do you think you know me so well??

Something snapped inside me, most likely my patience. That can happen when you’ve been brutally beaten and healed too many times to keep track of. My snarl matched his ounce for ounce. “By now everyone knows I destroyed the Silver, so you can’t afford to let me go,” I whispered, my tone scalding. “You have to kill me or lose the respect, the fear, of your troops.”

A twitch told me I’d hit home. “Also, you have in your possession a man of God who banished two demons, proving that the Lord God is mightier than your so-called Patron.”

I’ll give Julian one thing; most people would’ve slugged me by then, but he just smiled slightly and said, “Can’t you call him by his name, priest? Or is fear of his wrath stilling your tongue?”

“Satan, Lucifer, Abaddon, The Adversary, Little Horn, The Dragon, The Beast, The Serpent … It doesn’t matter. He is the Liar, not my God.” What was that? The muscles around Julian’s eyes tightened slightly and suddenly I knew! “But you know that, don’t you? Not like the rank and file, who believe all that Lying God foolishness, you know!

“What? Was it something you learned when you became head of the family, the dirty little secret of the Sicarii? That’s it, isn’t it? Did that make you feel foolish, weak? Did all your vaunted dreams come crashing down around your ears when your father told you the truth? Ha! The truth, that’s rich! You found out about the Patron and you peed your pants, didn’t you?”

For a man in his sixties, he could still hit like heavyweight. His fist took me square in the breadbasket and I doubled over. At least I splashed my wine on his $3,000 suit.

“You pissant!” he screamed, olive complexion mottled with fury. “You are nothing! Your precious god weakened himself so much by creating reality that he is but a shadow of what he once was! On the other hand, my lord Lucifer has grown strong, mighty beyond comprehension and is ready to assail Heaven to throw down the weak Throne!” It cost him, but he finally, with visible effort, brought himself back under a semblance of control. “He keeps his promises, our Patron does, and the promise of sitting at his right hand when the battle is won will be kept. That is the Covenant of the Sicarii, foolish priest of a weak god, that is what sustains us, gives us the will to go on and achieve victory.”

Gagging and retching, I sat in that damn ugly, cold chair, curled around my bruised muscles. Dimly I heard Julian say, “Boris, continue your instruction. He needs to learn a lesson about who is mighty.”

With a grunt, Boris went to work.

It’s never the beatings that make me feel puny, afraid. It’s after the beatings when the bones creak and the muscles pop, sending glassy shards of pain up and down my spine. My teeth wiggle loose and the hot, coppery blood slides down my throat to nestle warmly in my stomach. The feeling of flesh so badly mortified, the assault so blatantly horrid that I lie on my mattress, curled up in a ball, trying to deny those sensations-the hurt, the gut-wrenching humiliation of it all.

When Boris dumped me back on the air mattress, I lay there softly weeping while the blood bubbled from my nose. Eventually the tears dried as reason slowly stole upon me.

For a split second, one infinitesimal moment, I had hoped Julian would have me killed, just so I could go to my God, to Heaven, and know a perfect peace, but a stubborn part of my soul refused death. I had too many things yet to do, people to guide to God’s love and glory. I had never been one to shirk responsibility before and I wasn’t about to start.

I took a sip of tepid water from a plastic bottle left for me and tried to relax, but the pain was too much. Every which way I tried to turn brought more shards of glass scraping across my nerves-a symphony of agony and Boris was the conductor.

Heck with it, I thought, reaching under the mattress for the papers hidden there. It took a few tries-my eyes refused to focus-but soon I was able to pick up where I left off.

My Life No Longer

Sobbing in relief, I swung around and put two rounds into Boris’ ankles, spraying bone fragments and blood across the floor. He had stopped screaming, instead curling himself into a ball, body hitching and spasming as he wept.

Cinnamon wafted to me as I heard Julian grate out, between clenched teeth, one Healing after another. My own Healing took the bite out of the burns covering my chest and arms.

My eyes swung back to the leader of the Sicarii in time to see bloody bullets spit from his body. The barrel of the 9 swung up. “Don’t,” I mumbled unsteadily, the constant use of Words hitting me with a rush of fatigue. “I’ll just shoot you again.”

Eyes so much like mine regarded me from the floor as he snatched back a hand that had been reaching for the scattered Silver. “You may not believe me,” he replied evenly. “But I am actually proud of you, son.” A tongue flicked out to lick blood from his lips.

“Be a good boy, Julian, and scoot over to the wall, under the Chagal. There you go, good.” Muttering The Walls (and inhaling the smell of pine) I knelt and began scooping Silver with one hand. Words, foul and slimy, tried to force themselves into my mind, but with the added strength of The Walls, I kept the loathsome things at bay. Eventually I had all thirty and placed them in the pouch Julian had dropped on his desk.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Do you have a Zippo, you know … for your cigars.”

“You do not light a cigar with a lighter. You use wooden matches to preserve the flavor; I have told you that before. Why?”

Matches. Right on the desk in a crystal cup. Feeling the looming presence of time at my back, I vaulted Boris’ writhing body and grabbed my leather jacket from where I’d placed it next to the door, whipping around, pistol raised, before Julian had a chance to commit mischief. The angry glint in his eye told me he had been planning just that.

“Ah-ah-ah,” I admonished as he glared cold death. “Stay seated and I will not shoot you through the head.”

“You kill me, boy, and another will take my place.” Julian’s chest heaved with fury. “There is always another.”

“Yes, I know,” I muttered, surprisingly sad as I placed the small crystal cup of matches in my pocket. It was time to … tie up loose ends.

Not more than ten minutes later I walked toward the large detached garage that housed everything the Family needed to motor about in New Hampshire. I wore a new shirt, black silk this time, under my jacket.

I had left Williams, Julian’s chauffer, trussed like a Christmas goose with the chef to keep him company. The cleaning staff also had been detained, albeit in Burke’s bedroom. Hoped they liked the bed; it sure looked comfy.

As for Julian and Boris, they were in a bedroom closet, bound and gagged and none too happy with yours truly. Instead of wasting a Word on the Russian, I smeared his ankles with a salve designed to promote swift recovery. It took longer than Healing, but I had begun to feel the first nibble of Backlash at the edges of my mind and did not want to push my luck.

The garage lights flickered on the second I entered, revealing a variety of automobiles, motorcycles (my favorite being the 1922 Indian Chief in satin black), and a few snowmobiles.

I examined the keys hanging on a pegboard mounted to the far wall and smiled when I found what I needed: a brand new Land Rover, perfect for the snowy weather, smooth, comfortable and, better yet, it was Burke’s.

Once I had the garage door open and moved the Rover, I poured a small puddle of gasoline in the middle of the garage floor and struck one of the matches I had pocketed. The puddle flamed up instantly.

The Language of fire crackled from my throat and was answered almost immediately. “What do