The Judas Line

built up to a point where I just exploded.

Nothing wrong with Annabeth’s reflexes, I soon discovered. As I sprang toward her, she put two rounds into my midsection that ripped through both intestine and stomach. The acid pain of it nearly took my breath away.

As my knuckles connected to the point of her chin, another round ripped through my torso, shredding a lung. Feeling her sag, I screamed a Healing, and as I pulled her away from the wall, twisting my body behind hers, I screamed another. One of her 9s hit the floor with a thud, but I had the other in my grasp before it could slip through her limp fingers.

Julian’s Sig barked three times in rapid succession. All three found Annabeth’s torso without penetrating her Kevlar. Had she been conscious, the shots would have hurt like hell.

I returned fire. Like Julian, I squeezed the trigger three times. One round clipped his ear, coloring his graying hair red. The other two bullets missed. At least his ear now matched mine.

Eyes wild with fury, Julian fired again, this time hitting Annabeth between the eyes, a shot that exited the back of her skull. The flattened and fragmented bullet scraped across my cheek and decorated my face with blood, bone and brain.

What had been a semi-conscious handful was now dead weight, and I had to snap off a Strength to hold her upright as my shield. The beginnings of Backlash tugged at my muscles, warring with the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

We both fired again simultaneously, his round catching me in the knee with sickening force and mine taking him in the groin, ruining his chances for future good times. As I folded, dropping Annabeth in a heap, I shouted another Healing. The cracking pain of my shattered kneecap had nearly made me lose consciousness.

From Julian all I could hear was a whistling whine, high pitched and agonized, while I watched the bullet pop out of my knee. The shards of the patella shifted and flowed together as it healed and I bit my lip at the itchy pain of it.

I rose jerkily to my feet and moved to where Julian writhed and bled, too agonized to mouth his own Healing. My vision went in and out, blurring as Backlash started to take hold, the pull of unconsciousness almost too strong to withstand.

“Stop right there, Olivier,” the Voice piped up with a screech of feedback. “We can arrange something equitable here. Don’t do anything stupid.”

I didn’t take my eyes off Julian. “I’m way past intelligent. Stupid is all I got left.” Backlash sweat coated my cheeks and forehead and I realized that I was a far cry from okay. It was absurdly easy to fall to my knees at Julian’s side and grab his lapels.

“Where is the Primal, you son of a bitch?” I snarled.

All he could do was gasp and cry.

“What do you care about a Primal, Olivier?” The Voice said casually, as if ordering breakfast.

“If I don’t get the Primal back, Earth will swallow New York whole to retrieve it.” Things went sideways for a moment as I almost succumbed to oblivion. Sheer force of will kept my eyes open.

“Between you and me, Olivier, we can take care of Earth. Just put an end to Julian and you can assume the mantle of the Patriarch.”

Just the thought of that made me want to puke up my shoes. Instead of answering, I mouthed a Vigor and the rush of magic stabilized the world around me. I knew I’d pay for that later.

Taking a deep breath, I directed Truth at Julian and inhaled garlic. “Where is Primal Water, Julian?”

I watched as his eyes went from a pain glaze to the glassy look of the half-asleep. “Jacket pocket,” he slurred.

Of course he would have it on him.

Chapter Forty-One

Mike

From Maggie’s reaction, I could tell she had never seen Cain angry. For my own part, I never wanted to see it again.

Cain and the Russian came together swift and hard. I fancied I could feel the thunder of their impact down to the roots of my teeth.

The two heaved, twisting their bodies to and fro for leverage, the muscles of their torsos and arms standing out like cables. Grunting and sweating, they remained fused together in combat, neither achieving the upper hand.

When the end came, it was as brutal as it was swift. One second the two combatants were locked together like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, the next Boris was flying across the mat to slam headfirst into drywall, cracking the sheetrock and leaving a red smear. He fell to the floor in a stupor.

“You must realize, Boris,” panted Cain, slowly wobbling toward the fallen man. “While I am indeed a murderer, a man who despicably slew his own brother and who had the audacity to lie to God about it, I never in all my long history on this fertile earth have ever tortured another human being. I find the notion loathsome, repugnant.”

“Cain-” I began. A raised hand stilled my tongue.

“You see, Boris,” he continued as if I had never interrupted. “I regret what I have done, not because of the curse I find myself under, but because it was wrong, evil. I choose to shy away from evil, to set my feet upon the path that God has laid down for mankind. God may never forgive my worthless soul, as is his right, but that will never stop me from seeking forgiveness.

“You, however, have willingly chosen the road to darkness.” He loomed over the Russian, who lay moaning. “Evil is your choice.” He fastened his big hands onto Boris and heaved.

Maybe Cain used Strength, although I didn’t hear him actually say the Word. Whatever the means, the outcome was the same; he lifted Boris like a sack of wet cement over his head, swaying slightly with the strain.

“It is … a war … between good and … evil,” he gasped, turning slowly. “In …war there are … casualties.”

With that he threw Boris screaming through the shattered window.

Being a priest, I should have felt horrified by the act, but Cain was right about one thing: in the war between good and evil, there’s bound to be casualties.

Chapter Forty-Two

Morgan

Jacket pocket. Check. Something hard and cold met my fingers. A vial. A simple vial made of black plastic. So small. How could something so devastatingly powerful reside in such a small space?

I guess size doesn’t matter after all.

A wave of dizziness swept over me as the Vigor started to fade around the edges.

“Put that back, Olivier,” the Voice said equably. “Don’t make me stop you.”

I stood, running the cold bottle over my steaming forehead, the sensation almost as pleasurable as an orgasm. “Oh, why don’t you shut up?”

“Olivier!”

“Go pound sand.”

A hand like granite with joints clamped around my ankle, squeezing, and the world went white as bones shattered like glass.

A voice like crushed gravel rattling in a tin box came from Julian. “You should have listened, little meat puppet.” Eyes black as sin stared out from a familiar yet distorted face. The face of a demon pressing through Julian’s flesh.

Oh shit …

The Julian demon smiled with a thousand needle teeth, a grisly grin of hate and dark joy that I could feel even through the world of agony in my ankle.