The Judas Line (41 page)

There in the shaft was a turbulent column of water, and emerging from that column was the figure of a giant sculpted entirely out of translucent pale blue liquid, a water-man whose subtly shifting features were hauntingly familiar.

With a feeling of dread I recognized him. Morgan. My friend was … water? Beside me, I heard Maggie gasp as she recognized him as well.

“That is not something you see every day,” breathed Cain in wonder.

Maggie’s voice was full of tears. “You got that right, boss.”

Bellowing, Mephistopheles bounded to its horned feet, tearing even more clothing from its bluish-gray flesh. “I am the right hand of the Morning Star!” raged the demon. “I am an Arch-Fiend of Hell, monkey. You can’t possibly hope to stand against me!” One great claw flashed and passed harmlessly through my friend, who frowned at the demon.

“You were the Arc Angel Maphriel,” burbled Morgan calmly, his voice like water rushing over rock, “one of the Powers who chose to side with Lucifer. That makes you pretty much an asshole.”

The demon bellowed in defiance, slashing again and again, even chomping at Morgan with its needle-like teeth, to no effect.

“You are a Duke of Hell,” Morgan said, sounding almost bored. “But you are
my
world now.” His smile was a gash of disgust. “Here I rule water, like the water in your body.” He made a small gesture.

The demon began to scream, then screamed louder, the noise piercing and vibrating in my skull. All three of us clapped our hands to our ears as Mephistopheles sank to its knees, pain racking its body. Its skin grew glassy with fluid as it threw its head back, bellowing in agony, more and more liquid building up. Its skin, defying gravity, became a watery shell.

It shrank, but only a little at first. As the fluid shell grew, the demon continued to … collapse, shrink in upon itself, the bruised-looking skin becoming wrinkled and shriveled.

One drop flew from the demon’s shell, then another and another until it rained toward Morgan, who absorbed the liquid into … himself, I guess. As Mephistopheles shrank, my friend grew until he had to lean over or pierce the ceiling.

As its body shrank the Julian demon’s voice grew softer, diminishing to a low keening, then a pathetic whine and finally a whimper. When the last drop of moisture pattered into Morgan’s substance, all that was left of the demon was a husk that flopped lifeless to the floor and began to quickly decompose. Its smell was sulfurous, nauseating, the stench of a rotting corpses and vomit, only a thousand times worse.

“You know what his big mistake was?” Morgan asked in a silky voice that flowed like a mountain stream. “Once he took Julian’s form, he was subject to the rules of this world, he should’ve remembered that. Then again, the fallen aren’t that bright.”

I stepped toward my friend, staring up at his watery, blue face. There was a certain ...
contentment
reflected in his features. I reached out and slowly ran a hand into his chest. Cold, like arctic runoff. In the center of his torso rested a soft, glowing pulse.

“That’s the Primal, man,” he remarked, as if reading my thoughts. “It’s quiescent right now, but when I give its power back, it’ll wake again.”

“Morgan—”

“It’s okay, Mike. It worked out better this way, I think.”

Maggie stepped close, tears flying from her eyes and becoming one with his elemental body. “Aw, hell, handsome,” she sobbed.

“Hey, Blondie, I’m sorry I won’t be able to take you out.”

“You’re probably a lousy tipper, anyway.” Her words were brave, but her face had contorted into mask of sorrow.

Morgan looked over my shoulder. “Cain, take care of them both, please.”

The big man removed his glaciers and rubbed his strange eyes. “I will, my young friend. You have my oath on it.”

“Boss,” Maggie whispered, amazed. “Your
eyes!
”

I took a look and felt my legs wobble. A dark, soft brown circled the irises, a sharp border that hadn’t been there before. Those orbs were still unnerving, but the impact of their regard was lessened somehow.

Cain reversed his glaciers, looking deep into their mirrored lenses and gasping in shock, the sound almost a sob.

Morgan smiled. “You weren’t cursed for killing your brother, you know.”

“Huh?” replied Cain, eyes riveted to the mirrored lens.

“God knew you felt true regret at the murder of your brother. What really pissed Him off was the lie.”

Cain nodded.

“The Lord asked, ‘Where is your brother, Abel?’ and you replied—”

“’I know not. Am I my brother’s keeper?’” finished the big man.

“Yes. The first lie. You are its inventor. By telling that lie (and to God, no less!) you gave birth to an evil that warmed Lucifer’s cold and jealous heart.”

“Does this mean I am forgiven?”

“Not entirely, but it looks like you’ve finally made some headway. Cheer up; it only took several dozen millennia to find your answer. The rest should be cake.”

I started to feel overwhelmed. “Morgan, how do you know all this?”

“Easy, man,” he replied with a lighthearted, burbly laugh. “Merging with a Primal has some benefits. Did you know that the Earth’s core is Primal Earth? And that the ozone layer is Primal Air?” He laughed louder with the sound of breakers. “Guess what’s Primal Fire!”

Maggie snapped her fingers. “The sun!”

Morgan winked at her and then lowered his head, as if heeding an internal monologue. “Have to run, guys. Cain, call Fire, burn this place to the foundations, then go to the roof. Air will give you a lift to the nearest building. You’ll be safe.”

“Did you arrange it?” I asked.

He nodded. “The elements are grateful for the return of Primal Water. Balance can be restored. And this world needs a
lot
of balancing.” Once again that internal monologue. “I have to go, but first, Mike … take this.” He held a silvery cylinder in the palm of his watery hand.

The molecular knife. I took the device and the metal was cold, so cold. “Morgan!” My throat tore at the lump that had formed there.

He took me into an all-enveloping, liquid, embrace.

[You’re the best man I’ve ever known, Mike] came his voice into my head. He sounded like his old self again. [I don’t want to go, man, but I have to.]

I know, but I don’t want you to go!

[I’m going to be fine. Going to miss you, man.]

Aw, heck.
I could barely think, I felt so alone, so empty.
Love you.

A sob splashed against my mind. [I love you, too, Mike.]

And, like that, he was gone … away down the elevator shaft and out of my life. A horrible spasm tore at my chest, as tears dripped off my chin. Beside me, Maggie surrendered to her own grief, a long low keening that raised the hair on the back of my neck with its abject sorrow. I gathered her into my arms for what comfort we could share. We sagged to our knees, tears mingling.

We stayed like that for a while lost in the labyrinth of our mutual grief until Cain gently lifted us to our feet and led us away. Acrid smoke curled about us as Cain led us to the roof, where Air gently lifted us to safety.

Fire burned the hotel down to its foundations, erasing all evidence of the conflict that had taken so many lives. We watched into the wee hours of the morning until the building collapsed in on itself, burning so hot that no firefighter would risk drawing near. By midday we were on a private jet bound for home.

That was two months and a lifetime ago. I resumed my duties at St. Stephen’s, Maggie left for parts unknown, a little sadder, perhaps a little wiser. As for Cain, he’s decided to stick around for a while, claiming that Omaha’s pace suited him just fine. I think he wants to stay near me, to see if I hold the key to the forgiveness he seeks. I don’t have the heart to tell him that he should seek forgiveness from within. I doubt he’d listen anyway; he’s got a blind spot the size of Montana when it comes to introspection.

The newspapers and other media never followed up on the “big” Missing Heir story. Cain thinks the Sicarii are licking their wounds, keeping their collective heads down. I think they’re truly afraid, perhaps for the first time ever. Good, they should be.

Sometimes, late at night, I think about why God sent an angel to save one, lonely, corrupt man and I remember what Cain said to me recently, that He uses a screwdriver, not a sledgehammer. Maybe God knew that young Olivier needed a push in the right direction, all so he could make the decision to save millions of people from Earth’s fury and return Primal Water to where it belonged. Maybe.

Whatever you may think of Olivier Deschamps, he did try to do some good in this world.

And in the end, that’s about all anyone can ask.

* * * * *

Born in Helsinki, Finland,
Mark Everett Stone
arrived in the U.S. at a young age and promptly dove into the world of the fantastic. Starting at age seven with the Iliad and the Odyssey, he went on to consume every scrap of Norse Mythology he could get his grubby little paws on. At age thirteen he graduated to Tolkien and Heinlein, building up a book collection that soon rivaled the local public library’s. In college Mark majored in Journalism and minored in English. Mark’s first book,
Things to Do in Denver When You’re Un-Dead
, was published by Camel Press in July of 2011.
The Judas Line
will be released in 2012. Mark lives in Denver with his amazingly patient wife, Brandie, and their two sons, Aeden and Gabriel. You can find Mark on the Web at www.markeverettstone.com.