Ehyeh-asher-ehyeh (I am that I am)
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and in any other bellicose conflict he could find. But the glory days, the days of real power when he spoke and an entire people trembled, when it had taken princes and grand dukes to bring him down—those days were long gone. And he missed them, missed them terribly.
of influence. Until today. The dark presence filled the room. She was, of course, an Immortal, and she was glorious, a vision dressed in black, with flaming red hair and eyes that glowed with fire, knowledge, and passion. And with power. She floated in the air, a half-meter over his Bokara rug, and she was wonderful! Every other woman he had ever met paled before her like milk before a fine burgundy. "Who are you?" he asked her, knowing only one thing—that he would make this woman, this majestic being, his, right now, tonight. He reached for her, but could not touch her, could not bring himself to touch her. She was too fine, too good for him, this Madonna. Surely she was not of this world, she had the touch of the divine, he thought. He'd never met a woman like this, a woman he could not take. He was, for lack of a better word, totally stupefied.
soul. "I am Lilitu. And you, Rasputin, are mistaken. I am not yours. Instead, you will soon be mine." He didn't know the name Lilitu, but he wondered how she knew what he'd been thinking. "Your lust for me is all over your face. And more. Your lust for power is in your bones. It's in your blood. I can hear it! It called to me in my dark place!" He couldn't touch her or smell her, but she was as real as he was. And she understood him. "Yes!" he said, tears in his eyes. "I have a lust—" "Which cannot be sated. Because my dear Rasputin, you lack a vision. You need someone to lead you. Someone to serve. Someone with a vision." Rasputin knew he could never be a leader. He did need someone to serve. Could this be her? Could this be his new tsarina? "I am that person. I am your new queen, your new mistress, your new Goddess. You will be great again in my service. We will kill all the great Immortals until only those who serve me are left. And you will be chief among them. At my side."
knelt before her, overwhelmed with awe and tears. ====================================
March 26, 2013 Very few people knew about the room inside St. Peter's Cathedral. It was a secret place inside Holy Ground. The perfect place to hide and to rule the Catholic Church. The only piece of furniture in it was a straight-backed wooden chair, occupied by a tall, bronze- skinned man in an immaculate red Cardinal's robe. His boots were planted squarely on the floor and his hands were folded neatly in his lap. He was silhouetted against the moonlight that poured through the window behind him, but nothing in his posture indicated the slightest trace of tension or fear. The great wooden doors at either end of the room were barred from the outside, and the walls were featureless and white. A candelabrum, marred by the wax drippings from countless tapers, swung silent and black from its chain. If legends were true, Lilitu couldn't enter this patch of Holy Ground. A hollow wish, because Cardinal Felucca felt the strong Immortal presence right in front of him as he heard her voice. "Here you are," her graceful accent echoed shrilly through the empty room. Almost instantly, Lilitu walked out of the shadows like Venus rising from the waves at Cyprus. The darkness flowed off her, leaving her facing her prey alone. Her hair was tied back with a simple black leather cord. "I'm disappointed in you, Felucca, hiding on Holy Ground. I thought you'd know better. No one is safe from me. As you can see, I found you here after a thousand years, still playing the protector of the Church I see, while waiting for me. Tired of existence?"
confess to waiting for you. I heard about holy Bhaktivedanta in Nepal. Have you been looking for me long?" His voice bore traces of African burr, long since washed away by centuries away from his homeland. "Naema loved you, in her bizarre way. You were her Immortal protégé," Lilitu said as she nodded primly. "You shouldn't have turned your back on me." Felucca blinked. "You're going to destroy me because I have Naema's affection? That hardly seems fair."
inside Holy Ground. The fact that I think you're ridiculous, worshiping Christ—just like Darius used to do before I sent my Hunters to kill him—is entirely beside the point. You never should have strayed, Cardinal. Sanctity doesn't suit you."
the choice." He tugged at the patterned cloth of his robe. "The wardrobe is a small sacrifice." "A poor one to make. You look like a clown. It matters not, though. Your story ends here. Your Quickening would destroy the Vatican. I will let you pray for a minute, if you wish." Felucca gave a tight smile. "I'm not quite ready to die yet. Are you?" He clapped his hands once. Nothing happened. "Hmm?" Lilitu said. "Were you expecting someone?" Clearly angry, Felucca clapped again. There was again no answer but silence. He leapt to his feet, knocking the chair over backwards with a loud clatter, and screamed, "God damn it, where are you? Get in here! She's in here with me!"
twenty men, the well-trained Swiss Guard you had waiting outside, yes? The ones who were supposed to charge in here when I approached you and then overwhelm me by weight of numbers, yes?"
little accident. Hell itself came for them." Lilitu paused and appeared to reconsider. "I must correct myself. The ten through that door," and she pointed to her left, "had a terrible accident. They died between my shadows. The ten through that door," and she swung her arm around to her right, "died even worse. Now, does that clear everything up? I think the next step is for you to attack me in a blind rage, and for me to kill you. Then I leave to prepare myself for my next target. Yes?"
A tendril of shadow darted out of her hand and with whip-like speed slashed the back of Felucca's calves. He collapsed. Lilitu gave a cluck of disapproval, and then walked over to where her prey writhed on the floor, still struggling to reach the door. "You disappoint me, Felucca," she said. "Showing your back to the enemy? I'd thought Naema taught you better. How did you manage to spread the doctrines of the Catholic Church with that poor tactic?"
Lilitu ignored them in either case. Finally, after a long minute, she leaned down close to Felucca's ear and whispered. "My child," she said, "I want you to know something. It does not matter to me at all that you die now. Your death is necessary to limit the Ancient Gathering's ability to fight against me. Without hope in your Christ, the world is nothing. I will be the new Goddess. On the other hand, you have wasted my evening with your posturing. You make a terrible holy man. The role never suited you and you would have done better to stay where you were." She dropped to her haunches. "You are so naive, and a coward, and I dislike both of those things intensely. That is why I am taking this moment to speak to you, rather than putting you out of your misery immediately." With a snarl, Felucca tore his hand free from the floor and clawed at her throat. Lilitu danced out of the way, easily avoiding the strike. The Cardinal flipped himself and got to his knees, but as he did so she struck his nose with an open-fist punch. Felucca gurgled and fell over backwards, fear in his eyes as Lilitu took a step toward him. She raised her hand for another strike, and he toppled as it caught him in the throat.
she said softly. "I won't play with you anymore." The Cardinal's eyes, wild with terror and hatred, stared up at her as his ruined legs flopped desperately. He threw up an arm to defend himself, but she slapped it out the way. Then, with slow deliberation, she cupped her hand below her mouth and blew him a kiss.
a candle. Felucca's face exploded. Lilitu failed to blink as bits of it spattered on her legs. With her second exhalation, an invisible force cut off the Cardinal's neck, and the head rolled to one side, dripping gorily.
pity to leave Christ's believers around to pollute her new world, her eternal night. Moments later, the Quickening and the earthquake began as Lilitu disappeared into the shadows one more time. ==================================== Watcher's Headquarters Vienna, Austria March 26, 2013 The desk, large as it was, barely accommodated the stacks of books and papers piled all around the computer. The lamp nearby performed its duty even less adequately. Darkness threatened to swallow the desk, as well as the figure behind it. Joe Dawson, however, seemed to take no notice of its environs. One piece of paper, held in his fingers, held all his attention. —Original Message— From: Pat Flores To: Joe Dawson Subject: Vatican City is gone All hell broke loose. This evidence is starting to look like ropes. According to reports, a Quickening occurred somewhere near the Cathedral of St. Peter. Next a terrible earthquake shook the city. Just as in Mexico back at 1985, remember? Thousands died. We can assume Cardinal Felucca is dead. Who did this, why and how? We don't know. Waiting for orders. Pat Flores —End of Message—
Monastery of Santo Tomas de Avila Avila, Spain 1498
These were some of the words used to describe Tomas de Torquemada, this First Inquisitor of Spain during the reign of their most Catholic Majesties, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. He certainly deserved the accolades, Torquemada thought, as he lay in his bed, dying. In spite of the fact that his own grandmother had been born a Jewess and had subsequently converted to the True Faith, and in fact was a Marrana, Torquemada, as confessor to the Queen, felt it his God- given duty to cleanse Spain of the Marranos and those other questionable converses—converses from Islam, the Moriscos, and follow the cult of sangre limpia—pure blood, for his country. To that end he had pursued all so-called Christians, who were really enemies of the state, of the Church, and therefore of God. After their trials, their punishments had ranged depending on their crimes severity from public humiliation/flogging, immurement, community service and forceful enrollment in the holy crusade, all the way to the autos da fe, the public burnings of confessed heretics, eventually culminating in the 1492 Edict of Expulsion, which exiled all non-Catholics from the Holy lands of Spain.
Avila. It was the year of our Lord 1498, and this simple Franciscan friar, who prided himself on having reformed the abuses of previous inquisitors, organizing the courts and especially of having no high honors or preferences in the fulfillment of his holy task, was on his deathbed. The unicorn horn, an antidote against poison, lay by his bedside, and he could hear the priests muttering as they applied the consecrated oil on his body, starting with his eyes and working their way down to his loins, one by one: "Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed—quidquid deliquisti—through sight," Then, "through hearing, smell, taste, touch, walking, and finally by way of carnal delectation." After they were done, he was still alive, although his breaths were labored and the pain in his chest had increased. Sometime later he heard his name being called from faraway, and with some difficulty—he could hardly breathe now—opened his eyes to mere slits. Standing over him was Padre Julian, a youngish Franciscan priest who Torquemada had taken into his wing in the last few years. Loyal and true, Padre Julian bent down to whisper what Torquemada thought would be a last comforting prayer in his ear. Instead, the priest said something that set Torquemada's heart to a wild beat, even in his extreme state: "You will die, my brother. But you will live again."
was awestruck by this blasphemy from a man he trusted and loved. To hear such words at this time, and in his last moments, put his holy soul in peril. He wanted to protest, to get this man away from him, but found he had not the strength even to speak. He could only weakly watch as Padre Julian looked around the room. Then, with a small smile, Padre Julian took a pillow and pushed it down over Torquemada's face. A futile weak struggle, which lasted less than a minute, and Torquemada breathed his last.
himself in an unknown dim room. His body felt cold, but the room itself seemed ablaze with light, and he closed his eyes against it. He heard an unearthly sound, a woman's mocking laughter, and, overcome by curiosity as to what this afterlife he'd dreamed about and hoped for was, he opened his eyes and saw—the devil. "My God, my God!" he cried out. "It's Satan, and I'm in hell! It's eternal torment for me!" he sobbed. The devil came closer to his bed. Satan was a woman. Her eyes were green, her hair red, and her smile mocking. "I am not Satan. I am stronger than he is. I am the Mother of All, the Mother of Life and especially, the Mother of Death. And you are not in hell—not yet," she said, almost with a giggle. "I'm …" he couldn't comprehend this, where he was, who this woman was, why she exuded such power, why she caused him such dread. Even though she seemed to be wreathed in flames, there was a coldness about her that chilled him to the bone. He took deep gasping breaths and said a prayer, which made her laugh even more. Finally he spat out, "Am I dead?" "No. You are alive, although at some point you may wish to be dead—especially if you do not obey me."
"You're not with God, and I doubt that that time will ever come. No, I believe you have killed too many in His name, and enjoyed it a little too much, to ever come into His presence." "But … I confessed my sins … I was shriven … I—" "I don't care about such useless rituals," she replied, with a snap of her fingers. "I am Lilitu, and I am greater than all those things. I am your new mistress. What's more, Tomas, I believe I always was your mistress—you just weren't aware of it. Until now."
You—"
such a talent for causing suffering, fear, and death and who gets such joy from it too, can be very useful to me and my cause." "But no! I didn't … You aren't … what I did was for Spain, for God, for his Holy Church!" he denied desperately. At this she laughed again. "Do you really believe that? I want you to remember, Tomas de Torquemada. Remember what it meant to you. The torture. The pain. The fires. The deaths." She leaned over his bed until he could feel her hot breath on his cheek. Instead of disgusting him, it thrilled him. "Yes!" she said, whispering triumphantly. "I know who you really are," she said, "and now you will too." She looked deeply into his eyes, and they turned into two pools of fire. And amidst those flames he saw visions of the many who had died in the hogueras—bonfires, in the holy fires reserved for heretics, unbelievers, blasphemers, and traitors. He saw them 'all' die, saw them in their last agonizing moments, screaming, praying, blaspheming, begging, burning, burning at the stake in autos da fe all over Spain and even in the Spanish colonies in Mexico, Lima and Cartagena, where he'd never traveled. He saw them all, men, women, children, and every single one dying in front of him, in his vision of fire and pain, until only charred remains were left. At first he was horrified at the litany, at the sheer numbers, at the suffering … but they were heathens, they deserved to die. He'd believed it then, and he still believed it. And somewhere after the first few hundred, Tomas de Torquemada came to a realization. He enjoyed it. God help him, he did enjoy it. He enjoyed watching them burn. No—he loved it. He gloried in it—not just because they were heretics, but because they were burning, and burning by his, Torquemada's, command. By his word.
burning. On fire, he was on fire! He looked down in horror at his bedclothes, which were smoldering, and realized that he was dressed in a sleeping gown, and that it was on fire! "Aaaah! Aaaaah!" he screamed, trying to writhe in agony, to try to put the fire out, but finding he was paralyzed, unable to move, unable to escape this terrible torture. "Aaaaah!" he screamed again. Through the agony Torquemada heard Lilitu's voice, saying, "Burn, my servant. Burn like you burned so many, so that you know their pain, so that you understand in your own body what you've done to others. And when you're cleansed, when you're purified, then you will become truly mine!"
Church of San Nicolas Madrid, Spain March 26, 2013
simple wooden stool, contemplating a chessboard. A smattering of white pieces, including a handful of pawns, and a single bishop, had been removed from play. So had a few black pawns, but that was all. White had castled and was concentrating on establishing a strong defense, while black was on the offensive but seemed oddly disorganized, and one of its knights was in imminent danger.
servant arriving. Now he looked up from the board, a beatific smile on his face. "Ah, Ken. It is good to see you here, my son. You are well? The trip was not too arduous?"
impeccable." He eased his long frame down onto the stool opposite Torquemada. Ken was bony and angular, with a face that denoted perpetual resignation like a hound that has just seen the fox vanish once and for all. His cola black hair and young features made him seem no older than thirty. He was one of the main competitors to take Torquemada's place one day among the Headless Children. Torquemada wore a simple priest's robe, and sandals that flapped against the floor as he tapped his foot, contemplating his next move. "Unfortunately, Darius, my opponent in this game, has been dead for years. Mother and I took care of that." He looked up with an expression of mock concern. "And you seat yourself in his place! Truly, my son, I thought you were on my side in this matter." Ken rose and bowed. "Forgive me. I shall, of course, come over to your side immediately, and beg your humble apologies for my treachery." He answered in the same manner, following the jest. Torquemada chuckled, a thick, sloppy sound. "No, no. Sit. I just find that too many of the young ones these days have a dreadful tendency to get wrapped up in chess metaphors. It's lazy thinking. Anyway, this particular game is going to remain as it is. I like to spend my time wondering: what would Darius' next move have been?" Ken nodded. "Wasn't Darius the old priest who used to live as a monk in Paris? The warlord who abandoned the warlike days?" "The very same. A gentle soul in his final days. However, he was foolish enough to cross Lilitu's path, even though he had served her in the past," Torquemada commented frowning as he looked at the chessboard.
chessboard, I'm not surprised the privileged few who see it are whipped into a tizzy by it. Mother?" he said, indicating the piece he held.
marvelous masterpiece, do you not agree?" "Yes, I do." Torquemada gave a delighted laugh. "Your courtesy is greatly appreciated." He looked at the chess piece, and then replaced it on the board. "You would like to know why you are here, yes? The pleasure of your company is, while something I do not get nearly enough of, not sufficient to cause me to summon you." Ken kept a poker face. "I trust not for confession, then?" "We should make time for that soon, my son. I have faith that you will perform the task I've set out for you without flaws, and of course, see to your own safety as well. However, I have more faith in other things. God is merciful, but only if we avail ourselves to that mercy. We Immortals are damned for a reason within God's scheme of things, but that does not excuse or prevent us from obeying those of God's laws that He has left to us."
Felucca in the Vatican and others around the world. And now she is calling me. God chose her as His avenger. The Endgame is at hand"
commanded me to go to her. And I must obey." "But you don't trust Mother," Ken said almost in a whisper. "She burned you." "That's exactly why I must go. Although I fear her, although I've seen in her hellish eyes the flames of eternal damnation burning my soul, although I've felt the heat of her gaze, I must stay with her until the end of time in order to take my rightful place as the Holy messenger of our Lord Jesus Christ. Only at her side will I be able to create the Inquisition anew. As you see, I have my reasons. I want you to take care of everything while I'm gone," Torquemada finished with an air of finality.
==================================== Village of Nishi on Taketomi Island, part of Okinawa, Japan March 26, 2013 Twenty-five year old Ueshiba Miyu was confused. She'd never seen her Sensei, Master Hosokawa Hiroshi, retreat before, and it confused her. When the redheaded woman had appeared out of a rare morning mist in front of the Hosokawa compound, Sensei, apparently surprised, had put down his glass of Awamori and stepped outside to meet the woman. Miyu didn't hear what was said, but a moment later he had come back into the house, taken Miyu by the hand, and both of them had walked—quickly walked—to the Jinja, the Shinto shrine set apart at the edge of the village. She had to run to keep up with his rapid pace, past coral limestone buildings with red-orange tiled roofs, many with a traditional Seesa, a lion, on the roof keeping guard. Miyu hadn't even had time to put on her sandals, and her bare feet scuffed on the white sandy paths. Sensei was in such a hurry; he didn't pause to greet the elderly man, a tailor in the village, who bowed to them as they almost ran down the white street. Once they were inside the sacred grove in front of the Jinja, Sensei slowed down. They went down the tree-lined path that led to the entrance to the shrine, and when they entered it Miyu noticed two white robed priests kneeling in front of the Heikaku, the stand with colorful paper cloth strips, which represented Kami, the Shinto deity. Sensei gave her a few coins. "Go to the altar," he whispered absentmindedly, still looking back over his shoulder at the door. Who was he expecting? Miyu wondered. If he'd come to Holy Ground, perhaps an enemy. But surely not that redheaded woman, who had been mysterious enough- looking, to be sure, but only a woman, and an alien, a barbarian gaijin, at that. What could Sensei possibly have to fear from—ah, Miyu thought, perhaps the woman was an Immortal! That had to be the answer. Of course. The year before, Sensei and Miyu's grandfather had sat her down and explained to her about Immortals; now Miyu knew Immortals hunted each other, and fought duels, and that Hosokawa was an Immortal. So was someone else she'd recently heard from, a woman Miyu had come to love deeply—Elena Duran. The Argentine had called just a few days ago and had a long conversation with Miyu's grandfather, the current head of the Ueshiba family of Aikidoka, and then with Master Hosokawa. Finally Miyu had spoken to her, and the first thing the young woman had asked Elena Duran had been, "Are you an Immortal?"
years, Duran-sama?" Miyu had asked next, feeling betrayed, wanting to say more but not quite daring and surprised at the depth of her own pain.
convent. That's like a temple, for women. I was hiding from ... from my own pain. So many people I loved had died. I spoke to no one, not for two years. I ..."
had no right to accuse you—!" "Please, Miyu. I love you. I just wanted to make sure you're all right." Right after that conversation, Sensei, without any explanation, had brought Miyu here, to this isolated island of Okinawa. Now Miyu wondered if Elena's phone call had had anything to do with their sudden departure. Was it possible that they had run from this Immortal and were hiding on Holy Ground? Her master, the great Japanese samurai, running and hiding from—from 'anybody'?! Miyu could not bring herself to believe—
altar and sounded the bell. She threw the coins, clapped her hands, and bowed several times to alert Kami that a worshipper was present. That was as far as she got when she was alerted to a new presence in the Jinja. Coldness seemed to creep through the long, low room and grip Miyu, making her shiver. She turned back to see the same redheaded woman at the door. Dressed in thin skinned-garments, her face and arms had strange tattoos covering them. Between Miyu and the door, standing stiff and proud, was Hosokawa Hiroshi, a samurai since the nineteenth century, a student of the legendary Miyamoto Musashi, and the bravest, noblest man Miyu knew or would ever meet, she was sure. His presence alone, his stance against the intruder, made Miyu swell with pride. They were safe from harm. "Be gone, devil!" he ordered the apparition with a wave of his left hand, leaving his right hand, Miyu noticed, inside the voluminous sleeves of his kimono, free to draw his katana if necessary. "You may not enter this holy place."
the cold sound coming from her throat. Miyu was again surprised when the woman answered Sensei in flawless Japanese. "You call me devil? Impudent child, I am Lilitu. You know nothing of what I am, but let me inform you, Hiroshi: I am the Mother of time, and I have the right to be anywhere in the world I choose."
Immortal? Miyu wondered, more curious than frightened. She could never recall being frightened of anyone or anything while in the presence of the samurai. Surely he'd kill this Lilitu woman, but not on Holy Ground. That was the golden rule—never kill on Holy Ground. "I know enough about you to realize you don't belong here," Hosokawa answered calmly. But Miyu had known this man for ten years, and reading his expression and body language had saved her from many a punishment, extra duties and exercises. Studying him from behind, she could see the tension in his shoulder blades, although Miyu doubted that the woman could see it. The young Japanese woman had never seen her master fight another Immortal, although she doubted he would permit her to be present.
Ground. There is a quiet place—" "What place could be more quiet than a beautiful Shinto temple?" Lilitu said, smiling in a way that made Miyu shudder. Lilitu didn't miss it; her eyes on Miyu, the redheaded demon intoned, "Holy Ground is no protection for our kind, Hiroshi. And it won't save the little girl, either. Have you told her who she is? No, I see that you have not." With those words, she walked inside the shrine. For the first time Miyu was afraid, although she couldn't see Sensei's face. The woman was undoubtedly a demon—it was visible in those blazing green eyes that with a single, mocking glance had burned into Miyu's eyes painfully, as if hot pokers had blinded her. Miyu cried out and covered her eyes. Standing his ground, Sensei said, "Elena warned me about you. But I cannot believe that even the most evil among us would dare attack on Holy Ground." His voice was so soft that Miyu wasn't sure what she'd heard. Out of the corner of her eyes the girl noticed that the two Shinto priests were now paying careful attention to the conversation by the door. Lilitu laughed and advanced, saying, "You should have listened to that Mapuche whore. For once, she knows what she's talking about. I am the new Goddess, and hell is coming with me. Before you die, I want you to know that the little bitch you tried so desperately to protect, the one you've spent so many years training, will die as well. It was all a waste, Hiroshi. With both your deaths, bushido, the way of the warrior, will die in Japan, and your lifelong dreams along with it." She threw her head back and laughed nastily, seemingly most amused by this concept. Her laughter filled the small shrine and echoed in Miyu's bones; she shrank from it. "You should have sent her away from you, not kept her with you. Your pride has killed you both," Lilitu stated. Obviously startled, Hosokawa took his arms out of his sleeves. "No! You cannot do this! Stop!" he ordered, in a voice that Miyu would not have dared disobey. But the demon simply moved her hand toward the warrior. Whatever she had done, Sensei stiffened suddenly, then called out over his shoulder, without turning, "Run, Miyu! Get away, now!" But before Miyu could even obey what would be her master's last command, the demon met the girl's eyes once more, and in those ancient and evil green eyes Miyu suddenly understood two things. One, that the reason her grandfather and Elena Duran and Sensei had taken such interest in her was that she, Miyu, was somehow fated to become an Immortal, an Immortal, like them! And two, that she would never survive to become an Immortal. Miyu's death was in those startling green eyes. The witch's malevolent gaze immobilized her, making her feet feel like the deep roots of an ancient bonsai.
prophesied, and Miyu, frozen in terror, had no doubt that it would happen. But before that, something equally terrible happened.
follow. The blade caught the light from the sky in bands of yellow and gold. But Lilitu didn't duck out of the way. Instead, she took a quick step back and extended her left arm, palm out. The blade smacked neatly into her hand, slicing through her palm and out the other side. Lilitu smiled, but made no show that the impact affected her. Thick blood dripped down her hand onto the ground, but her hand did not fall off as it should have. "Care to try again?" she said, as the hole in her palm knit itself shut. Sensei snarled a curse and attacked again. Lilitu laughed, taunting him. She circled right. Then a tendril of shadow shot out from her hand and wrapped around Sensei's foot, pulling him, hard, to the ground. Miyu was too well trained to scream with fear, but seeing the darkness scared her down to her bones. Wanting to help, she drew her own practice katana. As she did so, the demon merely gazed at her, and Miyu found the muscles in her arms failing her completely, and the sword, now heavier than she could lift, fell to the ground. Further, the young woman found herself unable to move. Out of the corners of her eyes she saw the priests run out of the temple, but Miyu had an idea that they would not escape, and nothing would save any of them. Turning back to the Samurai, Lilitu smiled and made a come-hither gesture. In response, the tentacle of darkness started dragging the Japanese warrior toward her. Then Lilitu called more darkness to attack Sensei.
and, to Miyu's horror, another shadow tendril joined the others. The third tendril wrapped around Sensei's chest and hauled him upright. The others still held his ankles, pinning him against the ground. The samurai struggled, but to no avail. Lilitu strode purposefully to where her prisoner waited. Sensei's gaze narrowed just a little—he had turned in his attack, and Miyu could now see his face. As she expected, even helpless as he was, he showed no fear. "I may not be able to defeat you, but 'someone' is going to destroy you," he whispered. Lilitu shook her head. "I don't think so." Then her nails sank in the Samurai's neck. An instant later, the head was detached from the body. "No!" Miyu screamed, wanting, wishing she could rush to Sensei's side, but still unable to move even the slightest muscle. Frozen, unbelieving, Miyu could not believe that the man she had obeyed and loved all these years was gone so quickly, and that now Hosokawa's head lay on the ground beside his kimono-clad body, blood pouring out from both, creating a rapidly-spreading dark red lake in the center of the shrine floor.
At that moment, rays of energy flew out of Sensei's body, while behind Lilitu, a whirlwind of darkness opened and she entered the dimness, disappearing.
into the bloody patch of ground, not knowing whether to cradle her beloved master's head or his body. He couldn't be dead! He couldn't be! Keening in such pain she could hardly catch her breath, she barely noticed the ground shaking underneath her, but the floor began to buckle and the walls to tremble, and she noticed that. Only then did the cries and screams from outside finally penetrate, and she glanced out the still-open double doors of the shrine and toward the beach. What she saw there made her stand, blood dripping from the knees of her kimono down and from her hands. When Sensei had died, Miyu had wanted to die with him. But then when Lilitu had vanished in such an unearthly way, Miyu had thought for a wild moment that the evil one would not make good her promise to kill her, Miyu. But then she remembered the demon Immortal had also promised that the entire island would sink into the sea.
made her stumble, and the roar of the very visible approaching tsunami, at least fifty meters tall and by now only three kilometers offshore, filled her head with the last sound she would ever hear. As the giant wave, traveling hundreds of kilometers an hour, hit the shore of the tiny island, Ueshiba Miyu, student of Hosokawa Hiroshi, dried her tears. Determined to die as a bushi, as a warrior, and to make Sensei proud, she knelt by her fallen master, bowed her head, and prayed. ====================================
Vienna, Austria March 26, 2013
continually-arriving e-mail reports. This was wrong. Very wrong. First, the leaders of the Watchers had disappeared without a trace two days ago. By now, he could expected that Anton Blanchard—head of the Watchers in Eastern Europe; George Kross—the African representative; Harley Taylor—tribune in command in the U.S.; and Adrian Cohen—tribune of Asia, were dead. Sadly, his gaze flew over the computer and read the e-mail he had just received. —Original Message— From: Linda Bennett To: Joe Dawson Subject: Taketomi Island Elena Duran's friends are gone, along with the whole island, which literally sank into the sea under a gigantic tsunami. I know we always thought no Immortal could kill Sensei Hosokawa Hiroshi, but apparently we were wrong. And inside his Shinto Temple—Holy Ground! I just watched on TV the other strange events around the world. I think is time to revaluate our situation. Obviously these attacks are following some kind of pattern. But whose? And please Joe; don't tell me to calm down! Stop and think about this, ok? Call me. I want to talk to you about this. Linda Bennett —End of Message—
March 26, 2013 In the dark room, the blond man heard the wind calling his name. Unusual, yes. Unexpected? No. He had been waiting this call for a very long time. Slowly, he turned glanced at the window. The wind entered his comfortably room, carrying omens in an ancient language. The man smiled, pleased at the sound of his name in the night. It was a glorious name. One that humankind shouldn't have forgotten.
than that. He was more than a man. He was immortal. Therefore, he was living God. Just as he had always suspected since his time as a breathing deity, almost two thousand years ago.
eyes and remembered… ==================================== Rome, outside the Emperor's Palace 41 C.E.
where he'd been buried. He'd been only half-cremated, then hastily buried in the Lamian Gardens, but why he had risen from the dead? There could only be one obvious explanation, he thought,—he was a God, exactly as he had proclaimed himself a year earlier. He had been right all along. And Now they would see that the temples and statues he'd built to honor himself had not been the work of an indulgent child or a madman, but of a man destined for Godhood. And what better way to prove his power than by appearing alive in public even after having been cut to pieces, burned and buried. To come back from the dead to dispense his vengeance on those who had betrayed and plotted against him. Yes, he would claim back his throne in all his divine glory and annihilate his enemies. It was the middle of the night when he awoke, and he immediately set out to find his murderers, M. Arrecinus Clemens, co-prefect of the Praetorian Guard, and the military tribune of the Guard, Cassius Chaerea. Gaius, or Caligula as his detractors knew him, knew there were also Roman senators implicated in his death. No matter. They would all pay. Gaius was wheezing, clearly out of breath and thirsty beyond measure. He was covered in dirt—not at all like the emperor-God that he should be, and he had taken so long to get out of his shroud he believed he'd died at least once more. Oh, there was no mistake about that—Gaius knew he 'had' died. He'd seen too many men die, -many by his own command, some by his own hand-, not to know what Death was like. But he had come back to life—resurrected! A new God for the pantheon: Gaius Caesar Germanicus. Swollen with that vision, he stumbled, full of righteous fire, toward his palace. But he hadn't gotten very far when another kind of vision invaded his head. Pain; it was a deep ache, a throbbing sensation, as if there were a vise clamped around his temples, combined with a definite sense of deadly peril. He put his head in his hands, trying to protect himself. I am a God! I should not feel pain! he thought, trying to keep from crying out. As soon as he got to the portico and was able to hide under the columns, a tall figure appeared in his path. Could it be the Praetors again? he thought, gasping at the notion. But the man did not try to attack him. Instead he merely said in a soft respectful tone, "Emperor," and Gaius thought, As it should be! "Well, we know who I am," Gaius, forcing himself to come out from behind the pillars and speak normally but still clutching his head with one hand. The pain had started to slowly subside. "Who are you?" he asked suspiciously, and then regaining his confidence added, "And how do you dare block my way?" "I am your servant, Emperor, and a friend. I am here escorting my lady," he added, then stepped aside to reveal a much smaller, bent-over figure. Even in the dim light given by the waning moon, Gaius could tell by her rich robes she was a patrician woman. There was something familiar about the way she stood… But this was certainly not the time for him to be concerned with a woman. Before he could say anything, however, she spoke.
The voice, the attitude, the look, the tone of dry amusement was unmistakable, and Gaius' blood froze in his veins. He clutched at his heart, certain that it had stopped beating. She was the only person who had ever managed to frighten him with only a look: his great grandmother, Livia Drusilla, wife to one Roman Emperor and mother to another. Gaius had lived with her for two years as a child, but he'd seen her many times before and after that at the court. But it wasn't possible. She was dead, dead and buried over ten years ago. "Yes, I am dead, and you have died also," she said, moving conspiratorially closer, "and if we don't get you hidden—" "Hidden!? I will not hide!" he declared, almost succeeding in keeping the trembling out of his voice. "Then you will die, and possibly permanently this time," she said softly. "I cannot die, woman!" Gaius exclaimed. "I am a God!" He could see the amusement etched in her old face. Gods, she was old. "Yes, I thought so too. That I was a Goddess. I wanted so much to be a Goddess, you see. But then matters were … explained to me. Neither of us are Gods. We're Immortals." "You're insane!" he spat out, trying to move past her, but prevented by her servant, who seized his arms and covered his mouth. The man was strong—Gaius couldn't get away, no matter how he struggled. When he did get loose, he'd make sure this man died horribly—and the old woman, too. Livia! How could she be alive?! "Funny you should call me insane," she quipped, "as so many have called 'you' that. But no matter. Your life begins anew now, my dear. Come with me and I will help you." Gaius continued to struggle, and she asked, "Is there something you wish to say?" He nodded as well as he could. "Do you promise not to cry out and give us away?" she asked, looking furtively around them. He might as well cooperate with the old hag until he could get away from her and prove his Godhood. Then her would kill her for good while he was at it. For now, Gaius nodded and felt his mouth, although not his arms, released. "Why would you help me?" he asked her.
self-interest he understood. Still … "I have to go kill someone," he stated. She nodded. "The Praetorian Guard who cut you down. They also killed your wife Caesonia and your little girl, did you know that? I know you want your revenge; and you shall get it, I promise you. But first you and I must talk and plan. There's a place and time for bold action, and this is not it."
Her face took on the stern look that had scared him as child. It still scared him. "I know a lot more than you might think, boy. And if you still have a brain in your head, which I doubt, you'll come with me." "And if I refuse to play your game?" he asked her, full of false bravado. Livia was as calm as he'd always known her to be. "Then I will have Quintus here take out his sword and decapitate you on the spot. You will 'not' revive from that, I assure you." Gaius thought it over. Livia was perfectly capable of carrying out her threat, and he knew it. Plus, he had the idea that she was telling him the truth. He had nothing to lose by going along with her, for now.
before they die." "I'm sure that you do. We'll arrange it somehow. But first—" "We talk, yes, yes. I have a lot of questions, great grandmother," he said calmly as he looked forward to the prospect of what he would be able to do. She'd said, 'Immortals. Wasn't that the same as being gods? Or just as good?
==================================== Caracas, Venezuela March 26, 2013 Gaius, now known as the Blond, could still remember the look on Arrecinus' and Cassius' and Senator Marcus Vinicius' faces, just before they were cut down, he regarded those as some of the most wonderful moments in a long life filled with wonderful moments. Even remembering it now made him smile. Although they'd had to leave Rome, he and Livia had cut quite a swath through Europe, Africa, and the Orient since the first century C.E., and although he could have beheaded the old hag many times over, Gaius was clever enough to realize that he was not smart enough to stay alive on his own—as Livia was not physically strong enough to stay alive on her own either. Together, however, they were unstoppable. Not that they were always together. At one point, in the beginning, they had separated for quite a while, at his insistence. He'd felt burdened by the old hag, always telling him what to do, always doing his planning for him. He was young and strong and intelligent, and even if he was not truly a god, he might as well be, considering. Though he'd trained diligently to learn to decapitate his enemies, it had taken only two close calls with true swordsmen for him to realize that he himself would never be a true swordsman, and that his best bet sometimes lay in 'avoiding' challenges rather than issuing or even accepting them. This was easier said than done, and almost one hundred fifty years to the day after his death in 41 C.E., Gaius had gone in search of someone who was smart enough to keep him alive, and who wanted to. His great grandmother, the old hag, Livia.
The island of Corsica, off the Italian coast 191 C.E.
frail woman reclining on a couch, having her noonday meal. Behind her, as always, were two skilled bodyguards. These were the latest, and like all her other bodyguards before them, were ready to kill and die for her. Livia, at almost ninety, was unable to fight Immortals herself, but her hired help was very well trained and loyal, and Gaius was sure they could and would decapitate him at a word from her.
Immortals. I can protect you from them." He wanted to reinstate their relationship with him as the leader. But that hope was dashed immediately when she cackled. Gods, she sounds just like a witch.
amused. "So, just like before," she added, laughing again, "while another Immortal attacks you, I can get away!" He hated it when she called him 'my little emperor'. But to her credit, Livia had never abandoned him to fight an Immortal she didn't think he could handle—and she had always been a good judge of that. Much better than him. Still, the main reason Gaius wanted to be with her was to take advantage of her wiles in avoiding challenges, not fighting them. She laughed long and hard, her mostly toothless mouth open, tempting Gaius, one more time, to take her head. But he couldn't—he's the one who'd come to her, after all. "I suppose you've gotten past that stage where my 'old' body would amuse you," she ventured, her eyes sparkling. "Yes." Gaius had been his own great grandmother's lover when he was in his teens and Livia was sixty, when she'd thought he'd be emperor someday and wanted to please him. But now she was more than 'ninety'! Even if he'd wanted her, he had no leverage with her. Or did he? Why else hadn't she had one of her bodyguards decapitate him, as she'd threatened when he'd first become an Immortal? He was young then, but now … would she accept him as her partner? "I assume you still don't want my head," he ventured. "No," she stated, all trace of humor gone. "I don't consider you a threat. And you haven't come back for mine, have you?" she asked dangerously. "No. Of course not. No." "It will be nice to have someone around me from Rome as it was," she said, her dark eyes looking off into the past. Then she shook herself and came back to the present. "I will then assume we can be… partners. Like before."
Gaius insisted. Livia smiled. "Not quite equal, my boy. I have something to show you first." Turning to rise to her feet—which she did very slowly and laboriously—she murmured, "You're very tired from your trip." Her already grave somber voice lowered in pitch. "In fact, you absolutely must sit down right now."
even though he hadn't felt the slightest need to. A moment before he'd been energetic, full of life. But now that she'd mentioned it, he was indeed, tired. Exhausted, in fact.
what he wanted—no, what he 'needed' to do. She stood and came to him, standing over him. "Good. You may get back up now." Gaius blinked in disbelief. He was standing again, and couldn't remember what had happened except that he'd wanted to do 'exactly' what Livia had asked him. In fact, he couldn't have done anything differently, even if it had been harmful to himself. He was frightened, more frightened of her now that he'd ever been before—but he had to ask, had to know. "What in the name of all the Gods was that?
boldness. Most men would have run from the room screaming—but you're still here, asking questions. Bravo."
done to him, how she had completely overcome his will. Before he could ask again, she explained, "That was the Voice, my dear. And tonight I will introduce you to my mistress, the one who taught the Voice to me." "Your mistress?" he asked, even more frightened, if possible, than before. His legs felt so weak he thought he might have to lie down again. Livia had never called anyone master or mistress—not even her lord and her husband, Caesar Augustus. "Who—"
the Titans before them. In fact, she is truly … a goddess." Livia's voice was filled with awe. "She's … an Immortal?" Gaius ventured. Livia laughed. "Of course. But she's much more than that. She's …" The old Roman woman paused, then added, "… the most powerful being I've ever known. It is an honor to serve her." Gaius was thinking furiously. "Then I will have to … serve her also." "If you intend to stay with me, and stay alive, you damn better well serve her. But you'll see when you meet her—you'll be honored to be her slave. Honored." Livia smiled. "Perhaps, if you're very, very lucky, Lilitu might even permit you to touch her 'old' body." And with that, she cackled again, throwing her carefully coiffed head back in wild merriment. That night, when the goddess Lilitu arrived, she graciously permitted Gaius to touch her, but even if she hadn't, the young Roman was totally and completely ensorcelled, and became her willing slave at once and forever.
Caracas, Venezuela March 26, 2013
had certainly been right about Lilitu, enchantress, Goddess, the beginning and the end of everything, a power like none other. Mistress of the world. He soon called her all that too, and had been serving her well for two millennia. Now Lilitu had called on them again for one last battle against mankind. And as always, Gaius Caesar Germanicus Caligula, the young Roman emperor, and Livia Drusilla, the aged Roman empress, Immortals both, obeyed Lilitu's call. ====================================
March 26, 2013 The 'City of Peace', the legendary three times holy metropolis slept in peace. But suddenly, a whirlwind opened in the desert streets as Lilitu exited the Dream once more. She opened her green eyes as a lonely dog barked at her. With just one move of her hand, the canine dropped dead. She sniffed the air, and narrowed her gaze. She had been to the Holy Land several times, and she could say with reasonable certainly that it was not as sacred as most people thought. As if in ironic response, the sky opened for a moment, above Lilitu, forming the shape of a huge cross-outlined in yellow and white fluorescent lights that cast a sickly glow over the city. She smiled. Once upon a time this place had been a curiosity for her, an inspirational amusement park for the mortals. But that had been centuries ago, and now it was only a hunting playground for her. Lilitu stopped for a second and gazed at the sky, surprised that a mild twinge of anger still roiled in her gut at the sight. She had long ago left Christ behind—her powers had seen to that—but still, she found this petty sacrilege irksome. She'd seen evil—to some, she was its very personification— and this tribute to what some idiotic and false God thought belittled what she'd seen and done. Her gaze turned black. "You won nothing," she whispered to the sky. "You just bought them time, no more. And now, I'm here, and their time is over." Now it was time for business. God and His Son be damned—she had a mission. She needed to kill Abd al-Malik, Franciscan friar Devaney and Rabbi Benjamin bar-Joaquin, the leaders of the three religions gathered in Jerusalem.
known as the Dome of the Rock, where millennia before Abraham had almost sacrificed Isaac, the same place where Solomon had built the first Temple and from where, according to tradition, Muhammad had ascended toward the sky. Lilitu grinned and continued her walk purposefully. Inside the yard, she saw identifiable things that were scattered everywhere on the ground. A less cautious hunter would have been betrayed by the crunching of the omnipresent little rocks under her feet, but Lilitu had taken certain precautions. She smiled again. Even if she hadn't known that her prey was here, she would have guessed that he'd pick someplace like this to go to hide. She looked around. Nothing stirred outside the Temple. Lilitu pursed her lips in an almost-frown, the light from the moon above her making her appear almost jaundiced. She'd have to flush her enemies out. Oh, someone was there. Of that she had no doubt. There was an Immortal's presence all around. Well, there was no time like the present to begin. Lilitu dropped to her haunches and concentrated. The light from the moon, far from being the bane her enemy would have expected, instead helped her. Shadows sprawled behind every rock, and crawled out from each of the surviving displays of crumbling piety. It was very simple, really. The Immortal she was hunting was nowhere in the light. He couldn't move, for fear of being spotted. That meant he was hiding somewhere in the shadows. No matter how tough or learned he might be, it was certain that the shadows would not hide him from Lilitu's attentions. She closed her eyes and listened through the darkness. The sounds of the Temple and the wind coiling between the displays faded. Instead, Lilitu's world filled with darkness. She cast her consciousness about from one place to another, seeking the faintest buzz, the slightest movement… There, there, and over there. The three bastards were there, all doing their very best not to be seen! It meant that they'd been expecting her and knew who she was. She had an idea who had warned them, but it wouldn't help them, and in fact, it would make her work simpler! She pulled back from the shadows even as she sensed the three moving to the attack, and spun to meet them.
miracle of the shadows, and was rewarded by a pair of muffled crunching sounds as the blades cut into the darkness. She could see the three of them were here, with Franciscan friar Devaney and Abd al-Malik leaping to the attack and Rabbi Benjamin bar-Joaquin hanging back. He looked as if he couldn't tell whether to help his friends out or run, and that indecision was exactly what she needed.
rammed her fist into his gut with enough force to crumble a car door. Friar Devaney's scream abruptly transformed into a gasp as she felt something in his entrails give, and he suddenly sat down hard with a stunned look on his face. He tried to scramble to his feet, and Lilitu lashed out with a kick that collapsed his cheekbone and eye socket. He fell over with astonishing speed. Farther back, Rabbi Benjamin bar-Joaquin seemed to have finally made up his mind. He ran. Abd al-Malik charged, and Lilitu shoved the body of friar Devaney by his ankles un into the air toward her opponent as hard as she could. Lilitu could lift cars if she put her mind to it, so the cadaver went flying toward her assailant so fast that Abd al-Malik had no time to leap over it and out of the way. Instead, he fell crashing to the ground as the dead weight of his friend took his feet out from under him. The Muslim's jaw hit the hard ground with an audible crack, and before he could scramble to his feet, Lilitu brought her foot down on the back of his head. Abd al-Malik's skull collapsed messily, as Lilitu's foot went through his skull and nearly out the other side. She stared down at the corpse for a long second, then shook her foot free and took off after Rabbi Benjamin bar-Joaquin.
and covered Rabbi Benjamin bar-Joaquin. He was alone and lost as if he were in the middle of the Sahara. Then, she strode purposefully to where her prisoner waited. "A pleasure to see you again, child."
on Holy Ground."
other."
think you are."
Joaquin couldn't really turn his head far enough to see her. "Well, as always, you religious men are mistaken. According to tradition, Armageddon will start in this very place. I am here to fulfill that prophecy!" Moments later, the earthquake began as Jerusalem was engulfed by a sandstorm that seemed to appear from nowhere, devastating everything in its way. Lilitu smiled disappearing into the shadows of the Dream once more, as the blue and green rays of the Quickenings of her three enemies killed on Holy Ground destroyed all that had been standing, and obliterated the entire city. The lightning rods spared nothing and nobody. In seconds, everything disappeared.
Watcher's Headquarters Vienna, Austria March 26, 2013 Joe Dawson shifted in his wheelchair. It was so difficult to find a comfortable way to sit. He returned a sheet of paper, a brief report noting his suspicions about certain events. He had added a comment about the latest assassinations to one of the stacks of books and folders on his overcrowded desk. He skimmed another report—the latest from Jerusalem—and then turned and sighed in despair. —Original Message— From: Rick Evans To: Joe Dawson Subject: Unexplained What the fuck! Most of the city of Jerusalem is gone! And I mean gone for good! Under a huge sandstorm! Needless to say, the Franciscan friar Devaney, Abd al-Malik and Rabbi Benjamin bar- Joaquin—the Immortal leaders of the three major religions in the city—are dead! Inside Holy Ground! What the hell is happening? Rick Evans —End of Message—
March 26, 2013 The dark-suited man tapped at one of his cellular phones. It was the newest model, sleek and wafer-thin with sophisticated programming options that allowed him to perform any number of acts of amazing communications wizardry.
brow furled even more deeply and his intense, angry eyes bore upon the black device. He straightened it and with a few deft moves realigned it with the other two cellular phones atop his massive, antique red cherry desk. He greatly preferred things to be strutted and dependable, but something was definitely amiss. His face relaxed a bit as he gazed swept over his office. The ivory decorations on the desk were almost fluorescent in the darkness. The perfectly polished and meticulously organized stands of oriental weapons cast strange shadows on the tables to either side of the enormous leather couch. Each end table held a set of matching katana and wakizashi, and the pommels of all four weapons pointed toward the sofa. Above the divan, two original Ottoman swords hung in frames painstakingly aligned at the height of the huge Toledo broadsword that hung behind his main chair and between the absolutely spotless windows that overlooked the Kremlin.
wrinkle-free and wound tightly about his neck. Diamond-studded cuff links were positioned to be perfect mirror images of one another, and fabulous rings of white gold and diamonds were bound around each ring finger. He was Vlad Tepes, the Eternal Dragon... ==================================== Wallachia In what is today Transylvania (The land beyond the forest) 1459 C.E.
force that had taken Constantinople. The same Pope had noticed that for the leader of the aggressors, every triumph against Christianity became merely the stepping-stone to another region, and then another, until he cast down the gospel of the true God and His son Jesus, and imposed the book of his false prophet Mohammed upon all the world.
was that they were too embroiled in civil strife of their own to launch a holy war against the Turks, nor would they have wished to do so, in any event, unless the looting was assured.
rivals. The Voivode—Warlord—took seriously the oath that both his stepfather and he had sworn as members of the Order of the Dragon. He would lead the Pope's new crusade against the Infidel, and so, Vlad's reign of terror would continue! But suspecting his intentions, the Sultan Mehmed had sent three envoys to attempt to dissuade Vlad.
warlord inside his castle. "From your old friend and rightful Lord, the Sultan Mehmed II."
throne. "I take it that your master wants me to come to heel again?" the Voivode's voice flew over the immense chamber.
terms, milord…" The man made a pause, choosing his next words carefully. "Yet, surely you recall that it was my Sultan's father who first placed you on the throne of Wallachia."
zebra.
requested, for our Janissary corps, milord." The man waited a moment, hoping to catch the Prince's attention. As Vlad showed no response, he continued. "Your domain is some 30,000 ducats in arrears on its tribute to Constantinople…"
friends," he said as a sinister grin appeared on his face. "You are in the presence of a Prince—yet your heads are covered, as if I were some simple Turkish peasant." The Prince moved forward. "Pray, doff your turbans. Do it for me." The third man gasped uncomfortably. "I—I fear our practices are not as yours, sire," he said swallowing hard. "We never remove our turbans, unless ordered to do so by our Sultan. We are certain you understand and respect our customs."
them." His gaze flew behind the three envoys. Eight guards took the envoys from behind, immobilized them immediately. "What is more, I shall help you keep them…" the Voivode finished as a huge eunuch entered the chamber, holding in one hand an ax, and in the other, three sixteen- inches metal-stakes.
comrades? Do you waver in your respect for your traditions?" The man managed to pleaded once more. "Pl—please! My Prince—!" Scratching his chin, Vlad raised an eyebrow. "I merely wish to strengthen this most worthy of your customs, so that you need never remove your turbans again." The first man's head came off and was promptly impaled on the metal stake. Blood spread all over the floor, making a tapestry of crimson colors in front of the remaining two horrified envoys. As the body of their comrade hit the ground, Vlad looked at them. "You're next." ==================================== Moscow, Russia March 26, 2013 Vlad sighed. His face was clearly of Middle Eastern extraction, and the fullness of such ethnic traits as his gypsy skin, long black hair and handsome face made it probable that he was not too many generations removed from his homeland. He wore a mustache that helped fill his narrow face, and his hands were clasped with index fingers projecting and pressed together against that line of hair above his lip. Although he was five hundred years old, his features made him seem no older than thirty. His hands were his most remarkable feature: they were long and slender, and the fourth finger on each was longer that the middle one. Long ago, Vlad had once been accused of being a werewolf because of those remarkable hands. He rubbed them slowly back and forth, while his dark eyes glittered in the greenish light of the desk's banker's lamp. Though in repose now, he looked like a predator, a man who was thoughtful in his stalking patience yet could ambush with extreme speed and purpose if the situation required it.
pondering unwanted and mysterious intrusions. But Vlad was no ordinary man. Beyond the fact that the blood of the most powerful warlocks flowed in his veins; beyond the fact that he had risen toward the top of the Russian Mafia years ago, and that he ruled his underground world with an iron hand, merciless, as every Mafia leader should be—beyond all that was the fact that his name was well known to the world as a monster thanks to that crazy Irishman Stoker... And beyond that, was the fact that he still enjoyed tormenting and killing mortals by impalement, just as before. For above and beyond all these facts, and likely others to be noted, Vlad, was an Immortal. Not a vampire as legends said, not a werewolf as fairy tales whispered or claimed. Just one fact was true: he was eternal, Immortal. He only could meet death if another of his kind took his head, and with it, his power, his Quickening. Moreover, he was a Headless Child, and a very special one, because he was one of the few who knew for fact the existence of Lilitu and worshipped her as the source of the Game. Few other Headless Children trifled with Vlad, as he had a rare mixture of substantial intelligence, devilish good looks, ungodly wealth, raw physical power, and eternal depravation. Of course, there were other Immortals who possessed many of these advantages as well, but they were not from the Order of Dracul—they were not him, the mythical Dracula—and to Vlad's thinking at least, that meant a lot.
was living in exile in Transylvania. The Impaler had had an older stepbrother, Mircea, and a younger stepbrother named Radu. His early education had been left in the hands of his mother, a Transylvanian noblewoman, and her family. But his real education had begun in 1436 after his father succeeded in claiming the Wallachian throne and killing his Danesti rival. Young Vlad had been trained in the style typical to a son of European nobility.
enemies of Christ. However, more than anything else Vlad had been known for his inhuman cruelty. Impalement had been his preferred method of torture and execution, because impalement was one of the most gruesome ways of dying imaginable. Vlad usually had had a horse attached to each of the victim's legs as he hung by his arms, and a sharpened stake was gradually forced into the body. The end of the stake was usually oiled and care was taken that the stake not be too sharp, or else the victim might die too rapidly from shock. Normally the stake was inserted into the body through the buttocks and was often forced through the body until it emerged from the mouth. However, there had been many instances where victims were impaled through other bodily orifices or through the abdomen or chest. Infants were sometimes impaled on the stake forced through their mother's chests. Some were impaled so that they hung upside down on the stake.
the stakes arranged in various geometric patterns. The most common pattern had been a ring of concentric circles in the outskirts of a city that was his target. The height of the spear indicated the rank of the victim, and the decaying corpses were often left up for months. In 1461 Mohammed II, the conqueror of Constantinople, a man not noted for his squeamishness, returned to Constantinople after being sickened by the sight of twenty thousand impaled corpses outside of Vlad's capital of Tirgoviste. The warrior sultan turned command of the campaign against Vlad over to subordinates and they returned empty handed. Impalement had been Vlad's favorite but by no means his only method of torture. The list of tortures employed by this cruel prince could be read like an inventory of hell's tools: nails in heads, cutting off of limbs, blinding, strangulation, burning, cutting off of noses and ears, mutilation of sexual organs—especially in the case of women—scalping, skinning, exposure to the elements or to wild animals and boiling alive.
dying, their pleas for mercy. Many times Vlad had thought that such joy couldn't be gained again. More often he had doubted such power could be his once more. Until now.
or excellent, depending on one's point of view. The Watchers had been practically destroyed. The Hunters existed no more. Powerful Immortals were disappearing throughout the world without a trace. Some of them inside Holy Ground. The answer to the riddle was clear. Just one being was that bold: Vlad's mistress, the eternal being Lilitu. The Endgame was at hand.
sometimes scared of the power of Lilitu. Even he, a powerful member of the Headless Children, suspected only slightly the extent of the supremacy and influence Mother wielded over the world.
with all his expensive equipment. Now that dawn approached, Vlad continued to wait patiently but with rising ire to see if more information would be revealed. Whoever the caller was, he was clearly immensely confident because the phone rang yet again. Vlad looked at the phone, and he made certain the lines were acceptably oriented before picking up the phone after its fourth ring. "Yes." It was not a question like the previous three times he'd answered. Instead, it was a familiar but with a slight bite of anger, for Vlad wished the caller to believe he now knew the caller's identity. There was silence on the other end. Vlad did not speak again, waiting silently to press a potential advantage, but also so that he might detect the slightest revealing noise. The connection clicked dead. Vlad knew he'd gained ground. If there was another call, then Vlad believed this time he could track the caller. After all, he had reached his present position largely because he was a skillful negotiator with death as his only advisor. He didn't know the law particularly well, unless law meant death, and he didn't have a grasp of the subtleties of international economics, unless they meant narcotics, but he did know people. Not what gave them joy. Not what they might want. But what they did not want. What they feared. Once Vlad knew that, he broke them, often seeing them capitulate without the need to raise his voice or make subtle indirect threats. He knew, of course, that the calls were on purpose. A misdialing caller might have inadvertently tapped the numbers for his left-most phone, with its Los Angeles area code, or his right-most phone with its Amsterdam area code, or even his wireless desk phone with its Madrid area code. But the 666 area code existed only for use by his Mafia, and that was the prefix of his central cellular. It was his most important communications device, for it put him in immediate touch with other Dons, and they would know the call was an important one if it required the use of 666. Regardless, he turned off the other two cellulars. The ring of the 666 phone was singular in its tone, so there was virtually no chance Vlad was mistaking the ring of another phone for it, but this was becoming worrisome, so he took no chances.
was too great, so Vlad began to tabulate possible responsible parties. No member of his family would have such lack of respect for this secret area code to play games on a 666 line, but Vlad did not know who else might posses the secret. Of course, there could be scores of others who did.
Of those who might posses the secret, he could only imagine a stinking Headless Child playing such games. None of his mortal enemies could have possibly managed to crack the security precautions that protected his phone and its communicating bandwidth from unwanted intrusion. No one accidentally overheard conversations over the 666 line. Whatever cannot occur through happenstance will not occur through intent. Most certainly, no one accidentally misdialed the 666 area code. There was no triple-digit area codes, and the only double-digit beginning that was close on a keypad was the one from Shangri- La.
he stuck to that tactic. "Why now?" he asked of the unknown party. He spoke with some insistence but also with a hint of concern or befuddlement so the caller might perceive ad advantage and strike from it. There was silence, but the connection remained. Something more, Vlad thought. He or she needs some bit more evidence that I've seen through this charade. He wanted to press the game to the next stage, beyond the bullying that seemed to give his assailant pleasure, but he might also dramatically weaken his position if his blind guessing revealed a complete lack of credible suspicions. Therefore, after a moment, Vlad added. "I'm waiting. Why now?"
from Borneo, as the area code showed now, though it was foolish for Vlad to imagine his caller was indeed there. It was this clarity, though, that somehow kept Vlad for panicking, or at least from revealing any panic in his voice. If the voice from the past had been muffled and revealed the speaker's identity to Vlad over the course of seconds instead of instants, then he suspected the surprise and fear would have shown. There was a chuckle first. "How could you know it was me? If only you'd seen through things so well a couple of centuries ago, Vlad." Vlad's eyes narrowed. "You used subtlety then. Now carelessly you reveal your bullying nature." It was a quick quip of a response, and thank goodness words came easily to him, for he'd have otherwise been lost.
disconnecting. Vlad allowed the phone to clatter from his hand onto the desk. His sense of anger was such that several minutes passed before he straightened it's position and the others, which it had disturbed as well. After that first hesitation, though, Vlad reacted calmly and thoroughly. First, he buzzed his present secretary, Ms. Moreau, a beautiful platinum blonde. "Sir?" "Cancel my plans for Kiev but do not reopen that time for appointments." "Of course, sir." Second, he buzzed the head of building security, his strong-willed chief Valdost. "With particular attention to my own suite, double building security until I can speak with you about more specific and applicable plans."
specifics for later." Then he hung up. Vlad reclined in his plush leather chair and was momentarily aware of the unconscious gesture to bring his index fingertips to his mustache again. He'd best be vigilant for all such events normally invisible to him.
==================================== Watcher's Headquarters Vienna, Austria March 26, 2013 For the past forty-fives minutes, Joe Dawson had stared into the dark recesses of the room and tried to calm himself. Still, he could not stop his hands from trembling. Upon receiving the news, he had managed to clack out the relevant data on his computer before succumbing to the nervous palsy. Reading the understatements recorded in ink did little to soothe him. The solution to a puzzle that had dogged him for hours might very well be revealing itself to him, but at what price? His fingers flew over the keyboard in front of him. —Original Message— From: Joe Dawson To: All Watchers Subject: Urgent All Watchers everywhere—field, research, historians, and telecommuters—are instructed to retreat until new orders. Do NOT approach any Immortal. I Repeat: Do NOT approach any Immortal. This whole mess started six days ago in Australia. Stay out of everything. Joe Dawson —End of Message—
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