2 The Judas Kiss (4 page)

             
“What happened?” he asked, his voice groggy as though he’d spent those long hours asleep.

             
Mark rubbed his face angrily, taking a step back from the corpse.  “I don’t know.  You didn’t notice him standing there?”

             
Jude gave a shrug, his face devoid of any emotion.  He rose, first to his knees, his eyes staring down at the body.  He stretched his arms up as he climbed to his feet, and when he spoke, his voice was indifferent.  “I was thinking.”

             
Mark gave a frustrated growl, throwing his hands into the air.  “I can’t be around every second to protect you.  They’re going to take you if you refuse to protect yourself.”

             
“Let them,” Jude said in that same dead tone.  He walked off without waiting for Mark’s reply.

             
Mark buried the body in a hole so deep it wasn’t likely anyone would ever find him.  He contemplated looking into who the man was, but Mark didn’t want that on his conscience.  Death was part of the game now, and any human who could succumb to the god’s possession would have to be taken out.  Mark couldn’t let them get the upper hand again.

             
They moved shortly after, heading off to the Spanish coast where it was hot and flooded with tourists that time of year.  Mark acquired a small property overlooking the water, the old wood and stucco walls keeping the villa warm in the spring sun.  There were a couple of bedrooms upstairs and a small secluded cellar off the kitchen where Mark stored several wines. He thought that maybe, with so many people around, they would be safe.

             
It was three weeks before they were found again.  Three weeks, and this time, Mark was home.  He was upstairs with a book, in the little reading nook built into the wall beside the window.  The sun was shining fierce into the room, heating up the wooden boards beneath Mark’s feet.  He enjoyed the temperature on his skin, reminding him of home just a little, when he was a child.  The humid Alexandria summers, the air rich with salt water, the sun unforgiving. 

             
Mark was half-way through the novel when he heard the crash in the kitchen.  He listened, just for a moment, but heard nothing else.  It was only a moment later when he felt it, felt
them
, that he dropped the book and sped down the stairs.  There were two of them, a man and a woman, standing in the kitchen with Jude at gunpoint. 

             
The woman, old with a wrinkled face and hair nearly all grey save for a few black strands here and there, was holding Jude’s arm with strength impossible for her age.  The man, young, barely older than a teen, turned to Mark with a lopsided grin.

             
“Don’t move,” he said in English.  “I know this gun won’t kill you, but it will hurt, and it will slow you down.”

             
Mark froze on the last stair, his eyes trained on the old woman who had a hold of his companion.  Jude stood there without struggle, his eyes gazing far off, his movements sluggish. 

             
“What now?” the old woman asked, her English so accented it was barely understandable.  “We can’t keep them on the plane like this.”

             
The man checked his watch with his free hand, the gun steady at Jude’s temple.  “We don’t have a choice.  She’s going to be in San Francisco in five hours and if we don’t return with these two…” he trailed off, the skin on his face going a little green.

             
Nike, Mark thought to himself.  They’d escaped her once, but she was strong, and Mark wasn’t sure they’d be able to escape her again, especially on his own with Jude refusing to defend himself.  He had no other choice, he had to act immediately, and he had to let Jude get hurt in the process.  There was no other way.

He
jumped at the old woman, his movements quicker than the human eye could see.  Taking her by the hair, he brought her head down hard on the banister with a sickening crack.  He flinched as the other man reacted; pulling the trigger on the gun that had been pressed against Jude’s skin.

             
Mark felt Jude’s blood splatter across his face as Jude slumped over, his eyes wide, hands twitching.  The old woman lay to Jude’s side, her head bashed in, and blood was pouring out all over the floor.  Mark wrestled with the still-standing god and managed to get the gun in a rather anti-climactic struggle without getting shot.  He didn’t flinch as he pulled the trigger twice, sending two bullets into the god’s forehead.  The bone split, and Mark tried not to look at the contents of the boy’s head spilling out onto the Maplewood floors.

             
Drawing his hand across his sweating forehead, Mark surveyed the damage.  Jude wasn’t breathing, but he’d been in a worse state before.  He would survive; it was just a matter of healing time, and having a place to recover. 

With a resigned sigh, Mark picked up the body over his shoulder and grunted as he started up the stairs. 
Jude’s dead weight was heavy, but Mark managed to get him upstairs and into the tub.  He wasn’t sure how long a bullet to the brain would take to heal, but healing time wasn’t the big problem.  There had been three gunshots, and it wasn’t likely they went unnoticed.

             
Peering outside, Mark saw people looking around, confused, a few of them on their phones.  There were others out back, laughing and cooking on their outdoor grills, not appearing to have noticed the gunfire, but it only took one person to call the police.  Rubbing his face with his hands, Mark started to panic.  There was no way he was going to be able to flee with Jude’s current state, and he was sure it was going to take him at least a day to recover.

             
He started pacing, and it took him nearly a full minute to remember the cellar in the kitchen.  The door was under the scrubbed wooden table and it was barely big enough for a full-grown man to fit in, but he could make it work.  Moving as quickly as he could, Mark wrenched up the door in the floor and with careless abandon, shoved both dead bodies down the stairs, into the small compartment.

             
With the table back in place, Mark looked around at the living room that was covered in blood from the woman, the young man, and Judas.  The wall and wooden floors were covered, and there was no way Mark was going to be able to clean it up with enough time.  He had spotted a few rugs in the cupboard beneath the staircase, and as he dragged them out, he realized they would only cover the streaks of blood where Mark had dragged the bodies across the floor.  He managed to clear up most of the streaks with a towel and warm water, but the biggest problem was the splatters along the wall and stairs that had already begun to dry.

             
As he stared around, Mark heard the distant sounds of sirens approaching.  He was running out of time and he was wracking his brain to come up with a reason for the blood and the loud sounds from the gun.  It had to look like an injury to his own person; it was the only way to keep the police from searching the rest of the house.  He looked around frantically until his eyes came to rest on a massive cabinet made of metal and iron that was up against the wall.  It was far too heavy for an ordinary human to move, but with Mark’s strength, it would be possible, and the police might believe it was responsible for the noise if it toppled over. 

Taking the
corner of the heavy, metal cabinet, Mark gathered his strength and pulled, toppling it over.  Several decorative vases on the top went sliding down, shattering into hunks of glass, spreading across the bloodstained floor.  The shards of glass could explain the blood, he thought as he stared at them, though he wasn’t quite sure how he would explain such a messy wound.  But it was all he could come up with at the last minute.

             
Picking up one of the shards, Mark braced himself, squeezed his eyes shut, and dragged the jagged edge along his forearm, making a deep gash.  Blood pooled out and onto the floor, and Mark watched, trying desperately to ignore the pain, as the wound spread open.  He gasped a little as he wiped his hand on the blood and smeared it over the splatters along the wall, trying to make it look less like gun spatter.

             
The sirens grew louder as the police cars pulled up in front of the house, and Mark started to grow lightheaded.  He slumped down against the toppled metal case, his arm falling to the side, and he let his eyes slip closed.  Far off, Mark heard banging on the door, and eventually a breeze as the officers broke in, storming into the room where Mark lay.

             
“Señor!” the officer cried, shaking Mark by the shoulders.

             
Mark forced his eyes open and when he spoke, his words hissed out in an exhausted whisper.  “Fell.  Hurt…”  He displayed the open wound on his arm.

             
After that it was a blur for Mark, as the officers called paramedics.  He hesitated, and only agreed to let them take him to a hospital when he was certain the officers weren’t looking further into the house. 

             
Mark was treated at the hospital with stitches and heavy medication.  He was urged to stay, the doctors wanted to make sure there was no major nerve damage, but once he was bandaged, Mark insisted on taking a cab back to his place. 

             
The flat was quiet now, the metal shelf still on its side, glass still spread across the floor.  Mark shook off the effects of the pain medication as best he could, taking the stairs two at a time to the bathroom door.  Peering inside, Mark saw Jude still lying there, his eyes closed now, chest rising and falling with some struggle.

             
At the base of the tub lay the bullet, Jude’s body having rejected it, and the wound was closing, albeit slowly.  Mark knew it would be hours before Jude was conscious and coherent enough to move, so he left him there, turning out the light and closing the door.  He went back to his bedroom and glanced at his book which lay abandoned on the floor just under the window.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mark picked at the bandage on his arm, pulling the gauze off the skin and
stared down at the ugly black stitching digging into his skin.  He’d heal by morning, most likely, and the stitches would be forced out on their own.  With a sigh, he looked out the window at the darkening sky, wondering if this truly was the end to their peace.

             
Mark knew that they couldn’t run anymore, and with Jude refusing to protect himself, Mark needed allies.  He hadn’t called on Ben since just before they left, and the Detective was refusing his calls, so Mark had taken his leave of everyone who had taken part in the initial rescue.

             
Mark glanced over at the little phone on his desk.  It hadn’t made a peep since they fled overseas, which Mark was grateful for at first, but now he felt lost.  Now he realized he had to go back and ask for help, whether anyone wanted to hear from him or not.  He picked up the device and scrolled through the contacts.

             
Ben’s name was there, bold, the little phone icon next to it, begging Mark to tap the screen and call.  He scrolled down further and fell on Greg Asclepius’ personal number.  Below his, just a few spaces, was Stella.  Stella, the detective with her own secrets, madly in love with Ben, and the only one who really offered any true help, even if she was part of the gods’ mysterious world.

             
“Hello?”  The voice was groggy, and Mark realized he hadn’t considered the time difference.

             
“Is this Stella?”

             
“Who the hell is asking at this hour?”  Her voice was rough, irritated, and not the Stella Mark knew.

             
Hanging his head, Mark said, “I need to speak to the er… the
other
you.”  He fumbled a little, scratching the back of his head.  “Can you… I mean, is she… available?”

             
There was a pregnant pause.  “Not right now.  I guess I can leave her a note.  Or something.”

             
The line went dead and Mark groaned, setting the device back on the table.  They were going to have to head back to the States, to San Francisco, whether or not Mark was able to make contact.  It had been three months now, since he’d spoken to anyone, and he was suddenly afraid that all of his resources had gone dry.

             
By the time Jude woke from his injury the following morning, Mark had an apartment ready just down the street from Abby’s old place in San Francisco.  He tapped into one of his pseudonym accounts and secured a rental car for their arrival, and by the time Jude had showered and stepped out of the bathroom, Mark had two plane tickets on hold at the airport.

             
Mark stared at the naked form of his friend who stood there in the center of the room, absolutely unconcerned for modesty.  Mark looked out the window and realized that even if some stranger was looking, Jude wouldn’t care.  “Are you still hurt?”

             
“Aches a bit,” Jude said as he rubbed the center of his forehead.  There was still a mark there, but barely noticeable.  Jude crossed the room and pulled out a loose pair of jeans and a hideously bright purple button up shirt.  He shook the water from his head as he did up the buttons and briefly paused in front of the wall mirror.  “So we’re going again?”