The Judas Line (28 page)

One day Boris didn’t come for me, a reprieve of sorts, or Julian wanted to concentrate his efforts on his wayward son.

So, with nothing to do but pray, I pulled out the tattered memoirs from my ripped and torn Danzinger’s jacket and began to read.

My Life No Longer

The angel had given more than food for thought; he’d supplied a banquet, which I dined on as I waited, hidden under another spruce. Julian expected the rest of the SS hopefuls to wander in after the next three days, so I had time to meditate on my situation.

What should I do? What were my options? If I returned to the mansion after the allotted time, it would spur Annabeth and Burke on to new heights of plotting. They couldn’t afford to let me live and if I did return, I could not afford to let
them
live. As much as I craved revenge, what the angel had revealed undercut my thirst for blood.

The Voice (I couldn’t bring myself call him Satan or Lucifer) would eventually know of my change of heart and his response would be the same as Burke’s, just more immediate and efficient.

There was only one option that really worked for me: run away.

Do it soon
, I thought. Then,
do it before anyone makes it back. Grab what you can and sneak out like a thief in the night.
And then it hit me. Thief. If Julian could have seen my smile at that moment, he would not have recognized me.

Only a few hours had passed since Burke used the ballistic knife on me, perforating my back, and the blood had frozen to my white jacket, leaving three ragged red splotches to mark the impact points. It did not matter, I wouldn’t need the jacket anymore, but what I did need was a good read on where the mansion lay.

Exiting my shelter, I began a look around and spotted the perfect tree. An old growth eastern Hemlock big enough that two people couldn’t span it with their arms. It towered high above the other trees, even the old-growth maples, a pillar reaching high into the sky before branches erupted like woody fingers.

Reaching into a thigh pouch, I removed a plastic vial, thankful that it hadn’t broken when Burke attacked. It was my ace-in-the-hole. The liquid inside swirled with reddish brown flakes, the potent mixture something I had never attempted before, something I thought might be new under the sun.

A mixture of toadflax, wintergreen, bamboo, chili pepper and poke root, herbs used in the making of anti-magic unguents. I had added sage white for cleansing and gum Arabic for purification. The potion had taken over two months to brew, the herbs steeped in water melted from 3,500-year-old ice. I worried that the mixture might be magically toxic and kill me quicker than strychnine, but … desperate times and all that. Taking a deep breath, I unscrewed the vial and downed the contents.

Actually not bad. The chili pepper gave the mixture a nice kick. It would do quite well as marinade if I added honey.

One minute … two … I still lived. Very nice. I let Vigor past my lips and reveled in the feeling of well-being and energy that flooded through me along with the smell of peanuts..

Yes, I cheated. In my Family, that’s worth bonus points.

Checking my compass, I located east and softly muttered a word … Strength. The sharp, chemical smell of ammonia assaulted me and I began to climb, fingers easily gripping the hemlock’s gnarled bark, gouging handholds. Halfway to the first branch, my boots began to split and tear as I kicked toeholds into the tree, seeking purchase in the soft wood. If I had chosen a hardwood, I might have had some difficulty.

Strength, however, did not mean I could ignore the splinters the slipped under my finger and toenails and the sticky resin that began to coat my hands. Just before my hands started to bleed in earnest, I reached the first branch, levering myself up with my magically enhanced strength. Sitting on my precarious perch, I teased splinters from my stinging fingers and mumbled a Healing, watching the flesh re-knit.

High enough, the old-growth conifer gave me an advantage I had so desperately needed. While my cousins hunted each other (knowing Burke, he wouldn’t try to find the mansion until he had bagged his limit), I would wend my way back. There were things I needed to do to ensure a good head start.

Scanning the horizon above the spiny spikes of beech, cedar, ash and hawthorn, I eventually spotted what I thought was the clearing that housed the mansion, its roof buried behind the barren branches of the forest.

As I reached the ground, hands and feet a bloody mess, someone let out an “ahem.”

Heart beating wildly, I turned just in time to take three shots to the chest, green paint spattering my face. “Bloody hell,” I groused.

Fergus laughed. “Saw ya up in tha’ tree, cuz and decided t’ be a mite sportin’ and wait till ya reached bottom before shooting ya’.”

“Mighty kind of you, Fergus.”

The Scotsman laughed and I pounded a Forgetting into his brain, almost gagging at the licorice odor. Fergus’s pupils dominated his eyeballs as he stared blindly ahead.

“Turn around, Fergus, and forget you ever saw Olivier,” I said in slow, even tones. Forgetting placed the subject into a mild hypnotic trance. “Travel west for ten minutes and start searching for your cousins.”

Fergus nodded dumbly and turned around, slowly shambling west.

An hour later I found myself on the Mansion grounds, silently slipping into the servants’ entrance. Only one chef was in attendance in the kitchen, no doubt whipping up something tasty for Julian and Boris.

One Forgetting later and I was ghosting to the second floor, reaching my room—which, fortunately, was empty of any cleaning staff—and finding that my suitcase had remained untouched.

As befitted a scion of the Judas Line, my room was plush, 1,400 square feet of white harp seal fur carpeting and a four-poster bed big enough for a battalion, coated with navy blue silk sheets. Satiny fur swished between my toes after I ripped off the remains of my boots and discarded my much-abused outerwear. The desire to shower pulled at me, but time pulled harder. Donning designer blue jeans, a black turtleneck and Timberline boots, I almost felt human enough for travel.

I did not need much, just some basics, but first, a little preparation. Two jars had been secreted in a compartment of my suitcase. One contained a whitish paste, which I smeared on my chest and forearms under the turtleneck. The other went into my front pocket.

From another compartment in my case I found my cell phone. I flipped it open and dialed.

A tinny voice answered. “Vance, this is Olivier Deschamps.” I kept my voice smooth and urbane despite the thudding of my heart. I wiped sweat from my brow. “Yes, thank you. I need you to liquidate some assets for me …”

Once my exit finances were taken care of, I eased down the obscenely long hallway to Burke’s room. Julian, knowing full well the animosity between Burke and me, had always made sure we were quartered far apart. Not out of any consideration for our welfare, I am sure, but to keep the mayhem to a minimum.

His door was locked, of course, but that proved a minor obstacle. The molecular knife made short work of the lock plate and bolt. Burke’s accommodations were nearly identical to mine except for the Panda-skin rugs strewn almost carelessly across the floor.

Burke was paranoid and cunning, an almost perfect assassin, so where would a perfect assassin keep his secrets? The armoire? Nope, empty. Next I tried under the bed and came up empty. Chest of drawers … nothing. Same for the toilet tank and all the ventilation registers. I cast my eyes about as I considered what hidey-holes that Burke would use. Where, where, where?

Eventually I focused on the armoire, an enormous cedar-lined affair about seven feet tall, constructed of white oak and covered in beautifully intricate scrollwork. However, it wasn’t the craftsmanship that drew my attention, but the space between the bottom of the armoire and the floor. The thing must weigh a ton, I mused. Muttering Strength, I crossed to the wooden monstrosity and heaved, lifting it high and settling it down onto one of the panda rugs. Nothing.

I cursed and was about to move the armoire back when another possibility occurred to me. Lowering the armoire down on its back, I inspected the underside. Stuck to the wood with silvery duct tape was a padded manila envelope.

Bingo.

Ripping it free, I eagerly tore at the seal and emptied the contents onto black and white fur. A CD in a thin plastic case, one black credit card, one of his prized ballistic knives, and four strips of photo negatives in protective plastic sleeves.

I held the negatives up to the light. Annabeth … me … the shower. Crap. Cursing, I stuffed the negatives into one pocket while the rest of the items went into others. I wanted to kill Burke and I wanted to hurt Annabeth like she’d hurt me—run the knife in and twist—but I had bigger fish to fry.

Seconds later, I headed upstairs to Julian’s office, small duffel the size of a bowling bag in one hand, a black leather jacket under one arm and fear hammering spikes through my temples. The audacity of what I planned had me shaking in my boots. I took no notice of the teak flooring save to walk carefully to avoid telltale sounds. After an eternity of climbing, I reached the third floor and Julian’s room, which was located behind double doors made of oak; their intricately carved panels sported scenes from a bacchanalia and polished bronze knobs.

I placed the duffel and jacket on the floor and knocked softly.

Boris opened the door, craggy face impassive as a death mask.

“Hello, Boris. I need to speak to Julian.” I was surprised how nonchalant I sounded.

He shook his head slightly.

“He is busy?”

A barely perceptible nod.

“Ah, well tell him this.” As loud as I could, I hit him with Force.

It was a risky shot, one that could backfire if the big Russian carried protection. Which he did. With a grunt that sounded like an echo from the Abyss, he took two steps back, flinging one large, knobbly hand up in front of his eyes to ward off splinters as both doors were torn apart.

Leaping, I hit him in the solar plexus with the heel of my right boot. I might as well have hit a tree. The big man didn’t even grunt; instead he gripped my leg and pulled me through the doorway, throwing me ten feet in the air, over a settee and into a heavy as hell coffee table made of polished redwood. I felt ribs break as I bounced and landed hard on the floor.

The first bullet hit the coffee table, throwing up a shower of burgundy splinters. The second grazed my ear, the bullet passing with a flat
crack
to gouge a furrow in the hardwood floor. The shot itself had been a quiet
shht
, the sound dampened by the best suppressor that money could buy.

I kicked the coffee table on its side just in time for it to catch the third bullet, my boot absorbing some of the shock, but a fragment of pain flashed through my ankle. Another bullet thudded home and I thanked my lucky stars that Julian loved heavy wooden furniture.

Boris was on the move—I could hear his patent leather shoes swish along the wool carpeting—so I ground out another Strength and heaved the coffee table upright, as I stood, using it as a shield.

Before the giant Russian could score a lucky shot, I straightened my arms, hurling the table at him with my augmented strength. The table flew straight and true, hitting Boris flat and hard, knocking him back to smack against a wall, a 9 mm flying out of his hand.

For the first time I saw emotion register on Boris’ face, and that sight sent a cold worm of fear wiggling its way through my bowels. Those hairy brows had drawn down and thin lips settled themselves into a savage snarl that shone redly through the blood that ran from a newly broken nose. Boris was
pissed
and I knew that if I didn’t do something quick, I’d soon be on my way to my final descent.

Silently, I charged, fists jabbing. I parried a fist hurtling toward my jaw and drove two knuckles into his solar plexus—like hitting an anvil. Even with Strength, I could barely keep up. I took a knee to the hip while I connected with an elbow to the point of his chin. Boris’ head rocked back maybe an inch, and my elbow screamed at my stupidity.

Too close. I should have stayed outside the range of those monkey arms because those two rock-hard limbs shot out and pulled me to him, crushing me to his chest and driving the air from my lungs.

No air, no Words. Big and ugly doesn’t mean dumb.

Next thing I knew my feet left the floor and he
squeezed
. What breath remained made a quick exit and black spots began to form in my vision. In desperation I brought my knee forward and connected.

Boris coughed, gagging through the pain that must have burned from his testicles, freezing muscles all the way to his throat. The two pythons crushing the life from my torso loosened their grip and I rammed my head forward, my hairline meeting the bridge of his nose with a sickening
crunch,
smashing his least attractive and already mangled feature into a pulpy mess. Blood spurted from both nostrils, wetting my chest.

Once again those great arms loosened and breath rushed back into my oxygen-starved lungs, allowing me to break free. I dropped to a kneeling position and swung an elbow into the side of Boris’ left knee.