Ehyeh-asher-ehyeh (I am that I am)

DUEL OF THE FATES

"And the righteous one shall arise from sleep,

shall arise and walk in the paths of righteousness,

and all his path and conversation shall be in eternal goodness and grace.

He will be gracious to the righteous and give him eternal uprightness,

and He will give him power so that he shall be endowed with goodness and righteousness.

And he shall walk in eternal light.

And sin shall perish in darkness forever,

and shall no more be seen from that day for evermore."
Book of Enoch 92: 3,5

Apocrypha

Island of Nod

Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean

March 29, 2013

Lilitu walked through the rain-slick shadows. The cave towered above her in colossal glyphs of

pitted stone. The jungle of arcane signs and sigils that assaulted her senses seemed haphazard.

The cave's ground was piled high with half-forgotten ambitions rendered in mineral and raw

altitude.

This was her reign, a dragon's graveyard—the place where lumbering souls of Immortals came to

die. Lilitu could feel the weight of old sins, ancient whispers looming over her.

She ducked through a low stoned-archway and found herself in the midst of a vaulted colonnade of

rib-like rocks. Each of the gently curving monoliths was grooved and pitted through long exposure

to her mere presence. She absently ran a hand down the nearest pillar. Its surface was encased in

a nearly invisible envelope of cold water, tricking over the pocked surface in dozen of miniature

fountains, cascades, waterfalls. As if of their own volition, her fingers searched for and traced out

the letters in the arcane language—the sacred name that the faithful had carved into the obelisk all

those centuries before.

The New Goddess.

She smiled at a distant memory. After only a brief contact, her hand fell absently to her side and

she moved on. In the rigors of the hunt, there was little room for nostalgia.

Through careful scrutiny, she began to discern that hers was not the only sign of life among the

ruins. She was amazed that the castoffs of thirteen millennia of avarice and ambition were not

content to lie still and be dead. All around her, the darkness of the Dream manifested itself, clawing

its way upward, trampling upon the shadowy sinews in its rush. The blackness seemed to shift

under her gaze, as if made of liquid,, flowing upward toward some unknown sea in the night.

Experimentally, she put one hand out and broke the mirrored surface of the nearest tendril of

darkness.

The tingling was not the expected rush of cool feelings, but something different—the insistent,

irritating scurrying of thousands of tiny legs across her skin. They were the touch of the new

Dreamer.

The vision shifted abruptly as the attack of her Headless Children erupted all around her. The

United Nations suffered under the wrath of her warriors. A heap of combustible material rose like a

great pyre all about the building. There were figures among the flames—long, lithe, gibbering

figures. They danced through the primacy of the flames. They were—the Ancient Gathering.

She smiled a little, remembering her own credo. In the beginning, there was the flame. And the

flame was with the Goddess and the flame was the Goddess. The same was in the beginning with

the Goddess. Through her all Immortals were made; without nothing was made that has been

made. In her was life and that life was the light of Immortals. The light shone in the darkness, and

the darkness comprehended it not.

Lilitu could feel those flames reaching out to embrace her, to engulf her. Her eyes became narrow

slits as she threw an arm over them to block out the light and heat. They bore into her skull.

Immediately there were hands beneath her arms, steadying her. The ancient chant that formed the

chorus of Vlad's ritual reasserted her. The distant voices rose to a worried crescendo. Although the

singers were all miles away, secluded within the walls of hell, the voices imposed themselves upon

the vision. She could see the individual voices, distinct and radiant, like strands of colored light.

They wrapped themselves around her, supporting, caressing. Where they touched her, the pain

burned away.

She recognized something familiar in the bright but tentative strand of amber light—it was Zarach.

Lilitu smiled. She felt the blond Immortal fighting against an unexpected tug from no discernable

source. Lilitu could almost see her most beloved two-colored eyes Immortal combating wildly inside

the United Nations, trying to catch his balance and momentarily losing the rhythm of the chant. The

amber light flickered and vanished, but immediately there were five more to take its place.

Her eyes narrowed again. She was exalted, bathed in their light. Her previous disciple, Kadosh, the

one known as Methos nowadays, was a pillar of smoke and fire, rallying and guiding the chosen

ones. Though Kadosh was now fighting against her, Lilitu could not quite stifle a smile of

amusement and pride in her former protégé.

But where was Aylón? She took a quick headcount of the forces. There he was! Along with Myrddin

and Heru-sa-aset, killing her children. Rasputin was gone. Vlad was still fighting. A small matter.

Her plan had worked perfectly.

Lilitu gathered the varied and multicolor strands of light to her. She stroked each one reassuringly,

drawing from their strength. Her entire body thrummed like a taut string, twisting, turning. There.

She was again in perfect pitch with the pulsing lifelines of the eternal night. The Dream was almost

hers.

But even as the Ancient Gathering closed upon her, she was already conjuring up her defenses. A

vast pyramid of hate and sin was taking form around her soul. The vengeful thrust of hell crashed

against the sides of her essence. Nothing could avail against it.

Lilitu broke from the press of voracious feelings like a predatory bird rising above a forest canopy.

Suddenly, she could see for miles in every direction. Any minute now... Where was the Dreamer?

She needed to find him, now that the main forces of the Ancient Gathering were distracted in New

York. The Dreamer was alone, unprotected. She sighted every Immortal in the world along the

burning river of her vision and swooped down upon them. She could now pick out individual figures

capering through the flames. Her prey was there among them. The Son of the Wolf. Corazón

Negro.

A blaze of incandescent red erupted in front her. The light pulsed and beckoned like a pillar of fire.

It was almost immediately joined by a streak of ethereal silver light. A pillar of smoke. She

recognized it as incense... near a cabin.

The Dreamer' soul shone like a prism. A dozen searing strands of colored light shone through him.

The air was filled with liquid melody. It coursed over and through his body.

Lilitu felt heat, worry, responsibility, all burning inside Corazón Negro's heart before the purity of

that searing light. Damn him. Damn his power and damn him to hell! The acrid black smoke blinded

Lilitu. And when she fought her way back clear of the deadly cloud of holiness, the shadow was

there for her. Patient, tenacious, reproachful.

She had seen the future. She knew where the Dreamer would be. Her eyes stung with salt and

smoke, and her ears burned with the echo of her own distant laughter.

====================================

The electronic voice of the PC broke in upon Torquemada's morbid reverie. He checked a start that

nearly precipitated another avalanche of books and papers. From his perch atop the precarious

throne of books, he could see the PC.

Even here, within his sanctum sanctorum in the island, there were implicit perils and poisons. With

exaggerated care, he descended. Despite his precautions, a small wave of papers broke in his

wake. He seemed for the moment a classical figure emerging from the sea and shrugging off a

mantle of foam. Before the cascade of papers had subsided, Torquemada was struck with more

than a vague premonition that the news was not good. From long habit, he braced himself for the

worst.

It is New York, was his thought. Rasputin and Vlad had failed.

It was not the two Headless Children he feared for. He knew them too well already, and they were

lost, damned—a casualty of the ongoing massacre that raged through the entire Immortal world.

What bothered Torquemada was that the Ancient Gathering was crashing over the bulkhead, as

inevitably as the tide. There was hardly any point in denying that they were, even now, firmly in

control of the world.

It was not a reassuring thought.

Damn it. This could not have come at a worse possible time. It appeared that all had already been

decided from further up the chain of command. He had no choice but to shore up the defenses as

best he could here on the island. However, there was always opportunity in such high-profile

assignments. The trick was, of course, to avoid an equally high-profile demise.

Events in the council chamber had taken a dramatic and unexpected turn for the worse. He had

been caught badly unprepared. He had not anticipated such opposition from Vlad.

Livia's claims had been patently ridiculous, of course. Torquemada was a keystone in the Headless

Children pyramid. One simply did not rise to that level of influence without learning some hard

lessons. It was, the Inquisitor realized, exactly what the others might expect of such an influential

and unscrupulous Immortal powerbroker.

However, he needed Cartiphilus to fulfill his personal agenda. For now, at least.

====================================

"Say again?"
"The Ancient Gathering destroyed most our forces in New York."

Yep. Torquemada had said what Cartiphilus thought he'd said, and the words were no less shocking

the second time for being less unexpected.

"Rasputin? Vlad?"

"Vlad escaped. Right now he is preparing another attack. Rasputin is divided in two. Literally."

"Shit," Cartiphilus sat down in the chair across the table from Torquemada. To say he didn't like

this turn of events would be an understatement, but he didn't want to show the extent of his

disappointment to Torquemada, whom he didn't trust in the least. Deceive your enemies—that he

understood. But the Headless Children should have been working toward a common goal, not

scheming for individual power. That's how it should be. Fuck them, he thought. He knew it didn't

work that way. But it should. The problem was, they were no friends, only allies. Unholy allies of

convenience. Too many possibilities, and none of them as urgent as what he was doing at the

moment. "Have you ever met them? The Ancient Gathering?"

Torquemada shook his head.

"Me neither," Cartiphilus said in low tones. "And you know what? I don't know that I want to."

"I quite agree."

"Shit," Cartiphilus said again. "They took care of Rasputin and Vlad, along with their elite forces,

regardless of Lilitu's powers. You're sure?"

"As sure as I can be." Torquemada sighed. It was his turn to sit across from Cartiphilus. "Details

are sketchy. We're not sure exactly how it happened, but the sources are reliable. The Ancient

Gathering doesn't brag about jobs they don't really do—bad for business in the long run."

"Shit."

The name Rasputin and Vlad might not mean anything to mortal men, but the two of them went

back a long way in the Immortal's circles. Real badasses. They were probably two of the most

powerful members of the Headless Children—or had been.

Cartiphilus pulled out a cigarette, struck a match and lit up. He couldn't tell from watching

Torquemada if the Inquisitor knew more than he was letting on. Maybe, maybe not. Torquemada

did not fluster easily. In facing down a hostile mob of refugees and eventually winning their

acquiescence, if not their trust, he had kept his cool.

"I think we have reason to be afraid," said Cartiphilus blandly.

Torquemada's eyebrows rose, then he shrugged off the comment. "War is like that."

"Yes it is." Cartiphilus laughed to himself. Torquemada wasn't about to tell him if he was afraid.

Screw him. On to more important matters—survival. "Does Rasputin and Vlad going down have any

effect on us?"

"It might. However, it can only help."

Cartiphilus nodded. "Hmm," he rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Yes. It might help us. Can't hurt.

Do you think the Ancient Gathering will push toward us as hard?"

"Harder. They smell the blood in the water, and they know this is their last, best chance."

"How long before they discover this place?"

Torquemada shrugged. "A couple of hours maybe."

Cartiphilus thought about that for a moment, compared it to his own calculations, and finally

nodded.

"After that," Torquemada continued. "I'd guess... another three hours to reach us here. Is that

enough time for what you need to do?" he asked, although Cartiphilus knew the cleric wanted to

ask, 'What are your plans and how can they help 'me'?'

Cartiphilus rose from the table and moved distractedly toward a nearby table with a crystal

decanter. He removed the stopper and took in the peaty aroma of strong single-blend whiskey,

Scotch. Probably the favorite drink of one of their many enemies, the MacLeods, the former

Centurion considered. He poured himself a glass, then raised it to his mouth, just enough to wet his

lips. Still holding the glass before his face and gently swishing the liquid, he closed his eyes and

took a deep breath.

"Five hours," he said, eyes still closed. "I need five hours from this point. Can you guarantee me

that?"

Torquemada paused before speaking. He wasn't one for promises and guarantees, but the plan he

and Cartiphilus were attempting to see through to its conclusion did require certain absolutes.

Timing was important. Torquemada was walking a thin line between holding back the Ancient

Gathering and leading the Headless Children. Cartiphilus had other responsibilities that were as vital

and was undoubtedly the best judge of how much time he needed.

"You need five hours, you got five hours," Torquemada said.

Seemingly reassured, Cartiphilus returned to his seat. He took another small sip of whiskey, then

placed the glass on the table. "How about Livia and Caligula—excuse me, Gaius? Are they proving

easy to work with?"

"Easy enough. They don't try to interfere with the island's defenses, really, since we included them

in the original planning. I know about as much about Mother as they do now. They have

suggestions now and then. I listen and nod and then do whatever I was going to do as it was

planned in the first place."

"So becoming a Headless Child hasn't gone to Caligula's head?" Cartiphilus asked, going back to the

sobriquet he knew the ex-Roman emperor hated.

"Oh, sure it has. But it doesn't bother me. He likes to walk around and look like the God he thought

he was. You know, mix with the troops once in a while, and give them a pep talk. That kind of

thing."

Cartiphilus leaned forward on the table. "So tell me. Just out of curiosity, what scraps did you toss

Rasputin to convince him to go toward New York with Vlad? Because I know you had him lined up

before he suggested himself at the council."

"I merely impressed upon him the importance of unity of command in these trying times,"

Torquemada said with a straight face.

"And..."

"And I assured him that he would have my full support when the time came for a successor to

Lilitu."

Cartiphilus nodded and sat back in his seat again. Betting against the longevity of Rasputin seemed

reasonable enough, and the monk would be easier to kill than Lilitu.

"You know," Torquemada said, "the title could be yours for the taking."

"Hmm. Like I needed that pain in my ass. And if I ever did want to be like Mother—and I don't—I

don't plan of having myself nominated by you. Jesus-fucking-Christ!" he exclaimed. Then he

drained his whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table loudly. "Anything else?"

"Just one thing. I think Lilitu is going to keep us both near her on the island, but she is going to

send Caligula and Livia against the Dreamer. I've heard about some grumbling among the rank and

file."

Cartiphilus stood. He stretched, popped his knuckles. "Let them grumble."

"Fair enough."

"Fair enough," Cartiphilus echoed, and headed for the door. He stopped just before leaving and

turned back to face Torquemada. "Oh yes, with our perimeter shrinking, there's going to be more

of a chance that some fucking Ancient Gathering asshole might get farther into the island and come

gunning for somebody. I should assign a team to you for more security."

"Don't bother," Torquemada said. "They're better spent on patrol. Besides, I'm not planning on

going anywhere."

Cartiphilus frowned. "Whatever you say." He shut the door behind him.

====================================

"All of them, Livia?" Lilitu asked.

"I don't... I mean, it's a questing..." Livia broke off, but recovered herself quickly. "It seems that

way," she added hastily, forestalling the next order.

Lilitu looked at her, and then dropped the finger that was raised to instruct Livia on this very point.

She smiled. "Better. Tell me, how would you say they died?"

"Something went wrong, Mother. The protective circle of darkness had been effaced in places.

We're lucky the Ancient Gathering didn't attack us instead—"

"They can't, but go on," Lilitu interjected.

Livia looked questioningly at Lilitu, but as no further information seemed forthcoming, she

continued her speculation. "The ritual went wrong. Something... stepped through. Surely Vlad did

something wrong. Rasputin tried to assure his escape and was killed."

Lilitu shook her head slowly. "You're rushing ahead, my child. And perhaps you don't appreciate the

danger. We're dealing with death here—the Ancient Gathering. Do you understand? When you hunt

common Immortals, you can be ravenous. If you are to have a contest with death, however, you

must be dispassionate. Against the Ancient Gathering you must be disciplined. You must be patient.

The Ancient Gathering—just like death—is so very ... patient." Lilitu's eyes narrowed, as if receiving

an inner vision Livia could not. She sighed. A strange grim look crossed her face. "As long as the

Dreamer lives, I cannot control the Dream at will. He must die. Only then will I face the Ancient

Gathering... personally."

"Maybe when Vlad returns—"

"You really do not yet understand?" Lilitu's tone was menacing. "I understand well enough. I have

been slow in coming to that understanding and it has cost me dearly. You have broken my trust.

Maybe you should pay for that."

"Mother, please!"

Lilitu shook her head. "There is a morbid humor in the air down here. A fetid reek of melancholy,

distrust, self-pity. I can feel its breath through the broken teeth of these neglected crypts. You are

quite right to warn others away. But you are mistaken if you really think that I would want you

dead. You are my protector, my benefactress."

"You are my Goddess," Livia said. "And I am a foolish old woman. You are as omnipotent and

inevitable as death."

Lilitu recoiled as if struck. "I am death, my child. Never forget that." She seemed about to retort

angrily. Then she visibly calmed. "Relax, I have another mission for you. You will have brought

death into the Ancient Gathering."

"Now you are frightening me. Please, Mother, let me leave this place at once."

Lilitu ignored her pleas. "His blood will slip between my fingers. I need the blood of the new

Dreamer..."

Livia opened her mouth to speak, but Lilitu continued before she could interrupt. "Take Gaius with

you, and bring me the head of Corazón Negro."

Livia stared at Lilitu in open disbelief. The Roman seemed to be caught midway between concern

for herself and fleeing to get help.

"Who are you?" Lilitu asked her pointedly.

Livia was silent a long time. When at last she found the words, her voice sounded soft and far off.

"I am yours."

Without turning to see if Livia followed her, Lilitu led the way into the deeper darkness

inside the ancient cave.
====================================
New York

March 29, 2013

Almost four hours before the attack, Heru-sa-aset's YF-25 Serpentarius-VI—with a length of 70

feet, height of 15 feet and wingspan of 50 feet—had touched down at La Guardia International

Airport. Inside it, everything was in place. Unlimited funds had their advantages. An advanced war-

armored car named M-7 Chimera built by the United States Army—a laser-based de-mining

method, able of clearing mines left on airfields and roads during battles or by retreating enemy

forces—had been transported to the airport earlier that day. The construction crews, following

orders, had left it inside the plane. It had cost millions in bribes to get both units moved and

installed, but Heru-sa-aset had money to burn. Designed to protect the occupants from the

destructive power of a nuclear explosion, the armored car would serve as the Ancient Gathering's

last line of defense against Lilitu.

They were on board the YF-25 Serpentarius-VI and situated comfortably again, relatively speaking.

The engines were humming gently. After days of constant toil and strain, Heru-sa-aset was almost

ready to relax, even if just for a few hours.

That was when the pilot buzzed the hold. "We're denied clearance from the tower," came the

static-riddled voice over the intercom. "We can't take off."

Heru-sa-aset fleeting optimism quickly reverted to Methos' number one rule: anything that can fuck

up, and most things that 'can't', will. The Prince jabbed the intercom button. "Take off. Now," he

said standing up.

"Sir?"

"I said take off ... now."

"We don't have clearance. The USA Government implanted martial law. Any unauthorized flight will

be shot down."

"I heard you. That means nobody else will be in the air, right?"

"Sir, there are Air Force planes in holding patterns ... circling, waiting to attack anything—"

"If you don't take off now, there will be people here, probably in less than a minute, who will blow

this whole plane—and us with it—to Kingdom Come. Take off vertically if you must." There was a