If I had to fight Difethwr without Saint Michael’s sword, there might be no second chance at all—for Tina or for me.
From the weapons cabinet, I chose two swords: another falchion and a cutlass, which had a slightly shorter blade. I needed to try each of them out to see which felt better, but I’d have to do it at Lucado’s place. No time now. I packed them in my bag, then grabbed a taxi and told the driver to floor it to Commodore Wharf.
He did, and we got there at two minutes to seven. I ran into the lobby, expecting to tangle with Rosie the doorman again, but tonight a different guy was on duty, one who actually looked like a doorman instead of a hitman. He checked the list, nodded, and called Lucado to let him know I was on my way up.
Lucado was waiting for me at his door, in a bad mood. “Well, good God—you actually decided to come to work,” he said.
“Nice to see you, too, Frank.”
“I’m busy tonight. So don’t bother me.” Judging by the smell of his breath and the way he slurred his words, he was busy getting drunk. None of my business. I didn’t want to sit around chatting, anyway. “I’ll be in my study,” he said. “Long as you leave me alone, you’ve got the run of the place.”
“Okay,” I said, heading for the living room. “Have fun.”
Falchion in hand—my left hand—I made a quick sweep of the condo: living room, hallway, kitchen, up the stairs to Frank’s bedroom and the guest room, and all two and a half bathrooms. Roxana’s amulet stayed clear and colorless. Back downstairs, I stood outside Frank’s study, shifted the sword to my right hand and, left-handed, pressed the amulet against the door. Nothing. As I returned the sword to my left hand, my right arm passed a little too close to stone, making it a pink so pale it was almost white. I hoped that tinge of color wasn’t enough to affect the scrying mirror. No point in putting the coven on the alert when it was just little old me.
“Um, hi, witches. Everything’s okay,” I said, just in case.
Back in the living room, I tried the falchion, then the cutlass, then the falchion again in my left hand, making cutting and thrusting motions through the air. The falchion felt better balanced to me, more like the sword of Saint Michael. It was the same kind of sword, after all, except that its hilt was steel, not gold, and its blade a half-inch shorter. The biggest difference, of course, was that unlike the archangel’s sword, it wouldn’t burn with holy flame in the presence of a demon. And I didn’t know whether anointing its blade with sacramental wine would be enough to kill Difethwr. A lesser demon, yes. But a Hellion? I hoped I’d get Saint Michael’s sword back before I had to find out.
I used Lucado’s kitchen phone to call around about Tina again. It looked like she’d skipped school completely tonight, and she hadn’t gone home. As much as I was furious with her for taking my sword, I also hoped she was okay. There are a lot of real nasties roaming around Deadtown—and Tina, really, was just a kid.
The clock on the microwave read 8:02. It was shaping up to be a long night. I wandered back into the living room, feeling restless because I was so frustrated. It seemed like the walls were pressing in on me, imprisoning me in this condo. There was so much I had to do: find Tina, get my sword back, make up with Kane—or break up, if he really had tried to have me kidnapped. Most of all, I wanted to send Difethwr back to Hell. But I couldn’t make any of that happen right now. I was stuck here, waiting. Damn it all, I wanted to act.
I wandered back to the living room, where I paced back and forth across Frank’s expensive Persian rug, burning off some of that nervous energy. If I kept that up, I’d wear a track into the rug. I looked around. Okay, if I couldn’t spring into action, there was always TV. The room held leather club chairs, a fireplace, a bar, a round dining table in the ell—my God, there was even a bookcase. So Frank did know how to read. But there was no television. It seemed un-American somehow.
Then I spotted a remote on a table next to one of the club chairs. I went over and picked it up. It was a television remote, but where was the TV? I pressed the power button and heard a whirring noise behind me. I spun around, jumpy. The mirror over the fireplace was lifting to reveal a forty-two-inch plasma screen behind it. A clever disguise—I wouldn’t mind something like that to hide Juliet’s monstrosity at home. I pressed some more buttons. The screen moved out from the wall, and I could turn it to the perfect angle for viewing. Cool. I flopped into a leather chair and dangled my legs over the arm.
It was set to a sports channel that, right now, had one of those superfake pro-wrestling shows on. I watched it for a few minutes. They threw each other into the ropes, did somersaults together; one flipped the other out of the ring. Did anyone really believe this stuff? It was so choreographed it was more like dancing than fighting. I flipped through the channels. Shopping. Click. An infomercial about time-shares. Click. Some cheesy science fiction movie from the 1950s. Click. Cartoons, cop shows, political commentary. Click, click, click.
Two guys fighting on the screen. I sat up straighter to watch. Even though it was a movie—a seventies kung fu movie, from the look of it—the fighting looked real. More real than the pro wrestling, anyway. The combatants were fast, skilled, and graceful. And their eyes—each guy looked like he really wanted to kill the other.
The plot was a simple one. A warlord had terrorized a village, and the hero was out for revenge, making a steady advance on the warlord’s heavily guarded palace. Nothing the warlord tried could stop him. The warlord sent his best warrior; the hero killed him. The warlord sent a troop of archers; the hero dodged their arrows and mowed them down. The warlord sent a seductive female assassin; the hero killed her, too. Increasingly panicked, the warlord gathered the best fighters in the kingdom. In a long fight scene, they attacked the hero hand to hand, with nunchakus, with swords. Nothing could slow the hero down. In the end, he killed the warlord.
Nothing about the story was any different from a hundred other king fu movies. But it moved me. The hero knew he couldn’t set things right. He couldn’t bring back the villagers that had been killed or take away the survivors’ pain. But he could restore the balance of power. That was the problem: the warlord had all the power; the villagers had none. And it shouldn’t be that way. Power not held in balance would always lead to tragedy, to exploitation and abuse. Juliet was wrong in thinking that tapping into Difethwr’s power would be a rush. The Hellion’s power was excessive. It wasn’t in balance. It could never create or build up, only destroy.
With the Destroyer in Boston, it was up to me to restore the balance of power. Not because I was the best or even all that good. But because I was willing. And because, win or lose, I was the only one who could.
The movie’s big battle scene had some interesting sword techniques I wanted to try. I turned off the TV and moved a couple of chairs to make room. I rolled up the Persian rug, then picked up my falchion. The sword felt good in my hand. My arm felt good, too—stronger, not sore. Concentrating, I played back the sword-fighting scene in my mind, then slowly started to follow the hero’s moves.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lucado’s voice came from the doorway.
“Practicing.” I didn’t even glance at him. That was good; left-handed fighting was going to require absolute focus. “Don’t worry, Frank. I’ll put the furniture back when I’m done.”