They stared at him, and the room-perhaps the world-was utterly silent.
“You have been brought here to be the holy weapons of God on earth. Do you hunger? Then know why: you were meant to feast upon the blood of the pagan and the heretic and the infidel. Do you seek shelter in the darkness? Then understand this: the darkness is yours. Use it. Let it heal you and hide you. Become the darkness and let it become you.”
He stepped back from them and signaled to one of his monks who came hurrying over with Sir Guy’s sword laid ceremoniously across his folded arms. The monk knelt and offered the handle to Nicodemus, who drew it with a ringing rasp. The priest turned and held the sword aloft, letting firelight flicker along its wicked edge.
“This sword,” he intoned, his voice deep and grave, “has drunk the blood of countless enemies of God. In the service of the king of France, in the cause of the Knights Hospitaller, and in the war of shadows we have fought with the Saracen and the Jew and other enemies of Christ.”
He turned and offered it to Sir Guy. “My son, my friend, take your sword.”
Sir Guy’s trembling fingers closed around the handle of the weapon he had thought he would never hold again. The touch of it lent some power to his withered hand and he held it out toward the Upierczi. The tip dipped for a moment but it did not fall to the ground.
“Sir Guy, Grand Master and Scriptor of the Holy Red Order, defender of the faith, servant and soldier of God, I entreat you to bestow upon these sacred warriors the title and privileges of knights of Ordo Ruber. ”
Sir Guy flicked a surprised glance at Nicodemus. This was nothing they had ever agreed upon. This was unexpected and strange, and he knew that it was wrong.
And yet, Nicodemus stood there, eyes burning and mouth smiling.
“I…” began Sir Guy. But he could not endure that stare, that will. “Y-yes,” he gasped. “Yes.”
One by one the Upierczi came toward his chair and knelt before him, and one by one Sir Guy LaRoque touched their shoulders with the sword, blessing them in the name of Michael the Archangel.
When it was done, so was the last strength in Sir Guy’s arm. Nicodemus took it from him and handed the sword to a monk, who bowed out of the chamber.
Nicodemus ran a fingernail along Sir Guy’s cheek. “You have served me well for many years, my son.”
Sir Guy looked wearily up into his face, and his heart seemed to freeze. The old priest stood with his back to the Upierczi so that only the knight could see him. The priest’s eyes underwent that process of change which Sir Guy had seen before, the colors swirling and changing, but this time the process did not stop until all color was completely gone, leaving eyes with no color, no whites. Eyes that were totally black. And the face also changed. It was not the wrinkled countenance of a priest grown old in the service of his God and his church. This face was both younger and older, timeless, endless; and endlessly wrong. It was a mask of a bottomless corruption and deception. The nose was still long and hooked, but the nostrils were more like slits; the mouth was lipless and lined with scores of needle-sharp teeth. Even the skin was mottled to an ophidian texture like a diseased toad. Worst of all, Sir Guy knew this face. It was the face of all the evil in the world. The face of the trickster. The enemy of God.
He screamed.
Sir Guy screamed and screamed and screamed until spit and blood flew from his mouth.
The trickster laughed.
Then Father Nicodemus turned away, his face once more that of a wizened priest. He swept a hand toward the screaming man.
“My knights,” he said softly, “my Red Knights. Sir Guy offers up his blood as a sacrament to seal our new covenant. Show respect for his sacrifice. Quick, while he still cries out for God’s own mercy.”
The Red Knights smiled with their jagged mouths. Their eyes were filled with tears and the light of joy as they rushed forward to partake of God’s mercy.
Chapter Sixty-Three
On the Street
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 1:23 p.m.
Violin was on the move, getting closer to Joe Ledger, and finding terrible wreckage along the way. It annoyed and angered her that Ledger wasn’t taking her calls, but it also frightened her.
Oracle provided her with the locations of likely safe houses where Ledger might go to ground. She had gone to the first one too late. All she found were Ledger’s footprints in the blood of a living room awash with dreadful pain.
The Red Knights had left their signature on every inch of that small house.
Seeing the carnage, Violin had braced herself against the possibility that one of the mangled figures was Ledger, but neither was. An old man and his son. She could tell at least that much from their faces.
Standing in the living room, Violin considered pulling the old man down from the wall, but it would take more time than she had.
She ran out the back and got into the car she used while in Iran. The car appeared to be sedate and slow, but that was all exterior illusion. A much fiercer creature dwelt under the hood, and the suspension was rigged for high-speed pursuit and hairpin handling.
Even so, she stayed within legal limits as she navigated the traffic toward the second safe house. One run by the CIA. She passed it and saw nothing untoward. Around back there were two parked cars. She circled the block looking for backup and found it.
Violin parked her car in the shade thrown by a tall stuccoed warehouse. Across the street a pair of white vans sat in the shade. She recognized them. Not those specific vans, but the type. And she knew what they signified.
Sabbatarians.
Her lip curled in cold contempt. Those maniacs should have died out years ago along with their blasphemous Inquisition. It offended Violin to her core that they continued to prosper and had even found some private source of funding in recent years. Their numbers were growing and the threat they represented was no joke.
She accessed Oracle.
“Oracle welcomes you, Violin.”
“Quick field update. Please mark this urgent and make sure my mother sees it right away.”
“Noted. Please proceed.”
Violin explained about the slaughter rendered by the Red Knights and the Sabbatarian strike team she was currently observing.
Instead of the placid computer voice responding to her update, a very similar but far more intimidating voice barked, “Do you have Captain Ledger under active surveillance?”
Violin froze and had to take a moment to find her own voice. She looked down at the small screen on her computer and saw a face that was as ageless and beautiful as it was stern and humorless. Black hair shot with snow white streaks, cat green eyes, a full-lipped mouth compressed into a stern line.
Lilith. Cold as the moon and equally remote. It was difficult enough speaking with Lilith on the phone, seeing her on the computer made Violin instantly feel like a naughty ten-year-old again.
“Hello, Mother,” said Violin, her voice immediately small and contrite.
“Don’t ‘Mother’ me. Answer the question, girl.”
“No, Mother. Ledger went into the wind after leaving his hotel, though I think I know where he is.”
One eyebrow arched high on Lilith’s forehead. “You ‘think’?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Why are you wasting time talking to me instead of verifying his location?”
“Because there is a Sabbatarian strike team positioned near-”
“Did I ask for an excuse as to why you can’t accomplish a simple task?”
Lilith’s tone was subzero. Colder even than usual.
“No, Mother, I-”
“And are you about to apologize instead of taking appropriate and immediate action? Is that the end result of everything I’ve taught you?”