Matches. Right on the desk in a crystal cup. Feeling the looming presence of time at my back, I vaulted Boris’ writhing body and grabbed my leather jacket from where I’d placed it next to the door, whipping around, pistol raised, before Julian had a chance to commit mischief. The angry glint in his eye told me he had been planning just that.
“Ah-ah-ah,” I admonished as he glared cold death. “Stay seated and I will not shoot you through the head.”
“You kill me, boy, and another will take my place.” Julian’s chest heaved with fury. “There is always another.”
“Yes, I know,” I muttered, surprisingly sad as I placed the small crystal cup of matches in my pocket. It was time to … tie up loose ends.
Not more than ten minutes later I walked toward the large detached garage that housed everything the Family needed to motor about in New Hampshire. I wore a new shirt, black silk this time, under my jacket.
I had left Williams, Julian’s chauffer, trussed like a Christmas goose with the chef to keep him company. The cleaning staff also had been detained, albeit in Burke’s bedroom. Hoped they liked the bed; it sure looked comfy.
As for Julian and Boris, they were in a bedroom closet, bound and gagged and none too happy with yours truly. Instead of wasting a Word on the Russian, I smeared his ankles with a salve designed to promote swift recovery. It took longer than Healing, but I had begun to feel the first nibble of Backlash at the edges of my mind and did not want to push my luck.
The garage lights flickered on the second I entered, revealing a variety of automobiles, motorcycles (my favorite being the 1922 Indian Chief in satin black), and a few snowmobiles.
I examined the keys hanging on a pegboard mounted to the far wall and smiled when I found what I needed: a brand new Land Rover, perfect for the snowy weather, smooth, comfortable and, better yet, it was Burke’s.
Once I had the garage door open and moved the Rover, I poured a small puddle of gasoline in the middle of the garage floor and struck one of the matches I had pocketed. The puddle flamed up instantly.
The Language of fire crackled from my throat and was answered almost immediately. “What do you need, watery one?” As usual, the fire elemental sounded ravenous.
“Do you know where you are?” I asked.
“Fire knows well the machine it drives,” it answered. “Is not Fire what man needs to make these Earthen contraptions move?”
“Well, what do you see here? Sixteen, no … seventeen cars, plus some bikes and such. You look hungry, so take them all and feed well.”
“What do you wish in return, generous one?” I could almost feel the elemental’s eagerness.
“Nothing yet. Just keep your feeding confined to this building. Nothing else but this garage and its contents.”
“Done!” it chattered gleefully, growing to the size of a bonfire.
I put the burning garage in my rearview mirror, speeding down the road away from a life no longer my own.
In Portsmouth I found a pet store that sold just the plastic container I required. Next I stopped at a Catholic church and helped myself to just enough holy water to fill the container and drown the cry of the Silver. That would confuse any who would use it to track me to ground. Avoidance was used to thwart scryers.
Penn Station, the next day … the Rover safely ditched and money wired to an account at Chase Manhattan Bank under an alias I’d established long ago, Jude Oliver. Enough to start me out in luxury. A hard bench beneath my butt offered no ease as I stared at the train schedule in my hands, not really seeing the words printed there. My mind was brimming with chaotic thoughts.
My only problem was deciding where to go. LA? Chicago? Miami? All good places, plenty of people to hide among, but not quite right for the purpose I had in mind. All the major U.S. cities were rife with Sicarii agents. I had to go where no would think to look.
“You look lost.”
I started. A pretty brunette, brown curls covering her shoulders, stood just behind and to the right. Sensible flats, dark no-nonsense skirt and white blouse. A fair face framed with dark horn-rimmed glasses. She had nice dimples, too. “What?”
“I said you look lost. You’ve been sitting there for a half hour staring at nothing.”
My lips curled in what some might call a smile. “I am a bit lost, I guess.”
The woman leaned forward and I smelled … hyacinth. “What are you looking for?”
What indeed? “A place big enough to lose myself in, but not too big. Big enough to have the comforts of city life. Some place forgotten by man.”
Her laughter reminded me of sleigh bells. “Are you running from the law?”
“No, just from Family.”
“Omaha,” she said brightly. “Yes, definitely Omaha.”
“Omaha? You mean Nebraska?” I scratched my chin. “Really? Nebraska?” Who the hell lived in Nebraska?
“See? Even you are surprised at the thought. Don’t worry; it’s a nice, peaceful place, a good place to raise a family, if a bit boring.”
“Nebraska? Omaha?” I rolled the words around in my mouth a few times. Yes, that just might work. I put on my best smile. “Thank you. Yes, that should work. Thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said over her shoulder, heading toward the exit.
I called after her. “I didn’t get your name!”
She turned around, walking backwards, and said, “I didn’t give it.” With that she strode purposefully toward the door.
For some reason, as I watched her depart the station, I heard the sound of bells.
I smiled as the last page slipped through my fingers to float gently to the floor. What a story. Angels, Words, Satan, The Silver, everything Morgan had endured and the family that had twisted him. It was amazing that he was relatively sane.
My eyes closed and I fell into the most peaceful, deep sleep I’d had in weeks.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Morgan
Next stop, Omaha, (the irony was not lost on me) where we boarded a private jet. Cain spent the entire trip on the cell, calling several people in what I realized was his huge organization, and by late afternoon we landed in New York, where a stretch limo waited for us as well as plenty of fine food. The ride was smooth enough that we didn’t spill a drop of the cabernet, which went quite well with the venison.
By the time the calamari vanished into my growling stomach and the bottle surrendered its last drop, we had arrived at our destination, an old warehouse in Clinton near the water. Cain led the way in and the limo silently rolled away, sticking out like rose in a compost heap in the former Hell’s Kitchen.
“What do you use this place for?” I asked, following Cain up a steep set of stairs to the second floor.
“Truth be told, I am not sure,” he answered, keys jangling in one hand. During the second leg of our trip his attitude had changed; he had become more commanding, almost imperious and businesslike.
Cain found the right key and inserted it into the lock of a plain white door marked OFFICE. We entered a largish square room roughly twenty feet on a side, containing several old wooden chairs and an oak desk. Sitting at the desk was a youngish man with coal-black hair cut short and a ridiculously cleft chin. His unibrow rose in surprise when he looked first at me then at my companion.
“Cain, thank God,” he said, striding forward to engulf the man in a ferocious hug. “I was getting bored out of my mind.”
“It does my eyes good to behold you again, my friend,” Cain said, returning the hug hard enough that I heard ribs creak. “Come, give a hale welcome to a new friend discovered mere hours ago.” He disengaged to gesture my way. “This is-”
“Morgan,” I finished, shaking the man’s hand. “Morgan Heart.”
That earned me a strange look, but he smiled brightly and in a slight southern twang, “Alan. Alan Mendomer, good to meet you.”