"What are the chances of getting a Desert Eagle?" Victoria Baron asked, one hand tapping out a melody on her thigh.
"A what?" Alec asked.
"A Desert Eagle. It's a hand gun," Vic answered. "You point it," she continued, gesturing with thumb and forefinger extended, "and it goes boom."
"I get the idea," Alec growled. It probably wouldn't do much to tell the woman he was an artist before he was an undead vigilante, and thus had almost no knowledge of firearms. Vic Baron was a highly trained CIA assassin; guns and explosives were her bread and butter. And, judging by the ease with which she handled Alec's .45, she was an expert.
"Just what kind of connection is this friend of yours, kid?" This was from Jones, the dark haired, scruffy looking Immortal who seemed to be out of favor with Perseus, the lord of the manor, and a few of Perseus' allies.
"He's..." Alec hesitated. He was supposed to be helping the other two find weaponry for the coming assault on Franklin Enterprises, home of the Narrow Cult and the place of Alec Scott's death. To that end, Alec was prepared to contact his friend the Jamaican, a member of the New Orleans underworld who dealt in weapons, heroin, and less savory items. The Jamaican wasn't the nicest person Alec had ever met, but he was one of the few friends he could ever claim to have had. Telling these people too much would constitute selling him out. "He's human," Alec finally said.
"Sounds good to me," Vic remarked. "I'm starting to feel seriously outnumbered."
Understandable, Alec thought. Victoria Baron was the only normal human being in the entirety of Perseus' rambling mansion. Everyone else was either an Immortal, a Nightbane, undead, or psychic. Vic had no edge, no special tricks to keep her alive in a war with the supernatural, so the need for weapons was largely an effort to give her a means to stay alive.
Not that Alec's abilities were all that great in a fight. Sure, he could heal quickly, even mortal wounds couldn't faze him, and the spider gave him a sort of sixth sense, but he couldn't do the things Kurt or Hazard could do. He didn't have their supernatural strength, speed or abilities. Kurt could do things... Alec had seen him use some bizarre tricks against the Carnifexi. Few of them did any damage, due to the special enchantments the Carnifexi possessed, and in the end, Kurt was forced to use simple, ordinary combustion to destroy the undead demons. Maybe there was something to be said for guns and explosives after all.
"So," Victoria said, shattering Alec's reverie, "we know we can get some auto pistols; some big bruisers like yours. Lots of stopping power, but shitty rate of fire. Probably some shotguns; those should tear apart the bad guys no matter how tough they are. But if they're as quick as that demon that killed Calatin, we'll need something automatic or at least semi- automatic. Preferably with armor piercing or explosive rounds."
Alec had no idea who Calatin was, but he had an inkling of what Vic meant. "I have a 9mm something or other back at my apartment. I think the Jamaican has access to sub-machine guns at least. Probably not assault rifles, though, if that's what you're hoping for."
Jones nodded, while Vic said, "Well, yeah, that's what I was hoping for. Uzis will work, though." She turned to Jones. "Right?"
"Right," he agreed. "We could probably do with some grenades, dynamite, or something of that nature. Worse comes to worse, we can make some old fashioned Molotovs, but that could get messy."
"Explosives. Right," Alec said. <Maybe we should ask for a tank while we're at it?> he thought. The spider chittered on his shoulder.
Rachel Van Horn slipped a large silver key into the lock of the service door of New Orleans' city hall, where she worked as part of the deputy mayor's staff. She wouldn't have that job for very much longer if her boss found out what she was doing there that night, or the night previous. Mayor Richard Williamson would not be pleased to learn his smartest and prettiest aide was stealing government documents.
"Hurry up, girl," Selura Shea hissed at her elbow. "It's bloody cold out here."
"I noticed," Rachel said dryly. "And the cold is making the lock -- ugh -- stick." She wrestled with the key, but the lock refused to budge.
"Here, let me," Selura offered, pushing the younger woman aside and grabbing the key. She pressed against the door, and tapped the key. Rachel saw a shock of light travel from Selura's fingertip to the key, and then the Immortal turned the key. With an audible click, the door popped open. Selura withdrew the key and handed it to Rachel. She pressed her finger against her nose. "It's all in the Quickening," she joked.
Rachel showed her appreciation for the attempt at humor with a snort of contempt. She stepped past the blond woman and into the darkened interior of the building. It was only slightly warmer inside, but Rachel felt better.
Selura sighed, signaling her own approval of the shift in temperature.
"This way," Rachel said, leading Selura through the dimly lit corridors of city hall. Rachel tried to forget that the last time she was here, she was attacked by a band of demonic zombies. She fervently hoped that there would be no repeat performance; all they needed to do was find the blueprints for the Franklin Enterprises compound. With that in hand, Perseus would be able to come up with a serviceable plan to raid it, and hopefully end this bizarre winter and save the planet from the Elder God Chibbikukk.
Just another day's work. Right. Though Rachel knew she should have found the level of the threat to be preposterous, her own tortured dreams were enough evidence for her to believe it wholeheartedly. Her dreams, too, had warned her that the threat could not be surmounted; it would crush Earth's defenders easily.
Rachel was psychic, gifted with precognition, empathy, and some small ability to manipulate physical objects with her thoughts. Those dreams that had haunted her for weeks, dreams of a vast, red darkness that swallowed the world and nine silver angels, were part empathic and part precognitive. She knew her own fears and emotions made them imprecise: the details were uncertain.
It was that small assurance that gave her hope. Hope that, somehow, Perseus or Bran or Selura could find some way to defeat that red darkness. It was a small hope, however.
Selura and Rachel took the stairs two at a time, and within moments they reached the second floor, heading for Rachel's office. Rachel wanted to check the conference room, where the night before she and Alec had spread out the city's maps. With the weather acting so strangely, impeding transportation so severely, she reasoned that no one would have arrived to clean up after them.
If the maps weren't there, she and Selura would have to hunt for them. Rachel wasn't intrigued by that prospect. She wanted to be done and out of there as swiftly as possible.
Selura dropped a hand on Rachel's shoulder. Rachel gave her a quizzical look, and Selura answered by producing that huge claymore of hers.
"I can sense at least two of my brethren," Selura whispered.
<Shit,> Rachel thought. If she could sense them, then they were sensing her as well... "Here we go again," Rachel muttered.
Selura shushed her and then began to lope down the hallway, holding the large sword as if it weighed nothing. Rachel debated whether to follow or to wait for Selura where she stood.
Selura paused in the middle of the hall. "Well?" she hissed at Rachel.
"I'm coming," Rachel grumbled, moving to follow.
The Belvedere Hotel collapsed in on itself. One moment, the ramshackle building stood watch over Lafontaine Avenue, and the next, it simply fell apart. The windows exploded outward, the walls shattered and fell in, and the roof shuddered and dropped as well, smashing every floor as it journeyed to the ground. A careful observer -- had there been one -- might have noticed strobes of blue-white light flickering within the aged structure.
No explosion.
That same observer, had he been anywhere near the Belvedere, would have stared in awe at the wreckage. Buildings, even in a New Orleans gripped by a supernatural winter, do not simply collapse. Still, with the cold wind biting at one's body, and the show over, the observer might have quickly wandered off, leaving nothing behind but sifting rubble.
Shifting rubble. Something beneath the shattered building still moved.
Something muttered an oath in a language that had been dead when Rome ruled the world. Something pushed against several tons of wood, stone, and mortar, and prevailed. Bricks tumbled free from the mountain of refuse as a figure, covered in dust and blood, emerged from the wreckage.
The Kurgan dragged himself free, and screamed at the dark sky. "MacLeod!"
In the distance, a wolf howled a mournful cry.
Alec and Victoria found Perseus in the dining room, loading dishes into Kurt's hands. "Hey, Perseus," Alec began, drawing the dark man's attention to him.
"Alec," Perseus nodded, adding a gravy boat to the growing mass of china in Kurt's hands. "Gravy boat?" Perseus said, apparently just realizing what he held. "Who puts gravy on chicken?"
Kurt shrugged, and the dishes shifted ominously. "Barbarians," he said, grappling with the plates in a desperate attempt to keep them from getting free. "I think I'll take these to the kitchen."
Perseus clapped Kurt on the back, and Kurt swore at him. "What can I do for you Alec? Done with the list?"
"Yes," Victoria answered. "Now we need a phone. And that blank check you promised."
"Ah," Perseus said.
"Not exactly a check," Alec interposed, glancing at Vic. "The Jamaican will only take cash. Which may be a problem... unless you know a bank run by elves or something."
Perseus shook his head. "The Sidhe have no use for money," he said, smiling slightly. "But I have plenty of money stashed here, for emergencies. There is more than enough," he added, and then shifted tone, matching Alec's perfectly. "Unless you're planning on buying a tank or something."
"No," grumbled Alec.
"Let's see it," Vic said.
"What? The phone or the money?"
"Both."
Perseus seemed bemused. The corners of his mouth kept threatening to curl up. "Very well," he said, as Kurt returned, seeking more dishes. "I'll be right with you, Kurt. I just need to show these two something."
Kurt nodded, and then began to grab silverware.
Perseus stepped past Alec and Vic, heading for the main hall. They followed him to the hall, and then further into the house, past a dozen other closed doors, until they came to one that Perseus popped open. Perseus stepped inside and then flipped a light switch on.
It was a study. Small, cozy looking, with a fireplace in one wall, a huge mahogany desk with an impressive looking computer perched upon it, and walls lined with bookshelves. A deep carpet muffled their footsteps as they entered the room. An original Gaugin hung over the fireplace. "The phone is by the computer," Perseus announced.
"And the money?" Vic pressed.
Perseus crossed the room, and reached for the painting. With a flip of his wrist, the painting swung open, revealing a safe set inside the wall. He unlocked the safe, and reached inside, withdrawing a small white bag. He tossed the bag to Alec.
Alec caught it, and grunted. The thing was heavy. Damn heavy. Alec loosened the drawstring and looked inside. "Jesus!" he said, and the bag slipped from his fingers. It crashed to the rug, its contents spilling out into the room.
Dozens of gold coins winked under the light from the desk lamp.
"Are those real?" Vic asked, bending down and scooping a few into her hand.
"Yes," Perseus answered. "And there are five other bags, just like it. About one hundred-fifty thousand dollars. Will that be sufficient?"
Alec nodded, unable to find his voice. Small wonder then, that Perseus could own such a beautiful home, or wing to far off countries at a moments notice. He wasn't just rich. He was Midas.
A door burst open, and despite herself Rachel screamed, "Look out!"
She needn't have bothered, she realized in an instant. Selura was prepared for the attack, perhaps even anticipated it. The Immortal brought her claymore up in a lazy arc, catching the attacker's blade with ease, though sparks still flew as the metal weapons connected.
The attacker pushed himself into the hallway, using his leverage to force Selura backward. Selura moved slowly, and Rachel scampered back as well, not eager to be crushed between the combatants.
The attacker was a tall man with wavy blond hair and a dark tan, dressed in a carefully tailored suit and wielding a straight, single edged sword. He was taller than Selura by several inches, and looked to be a good deal stronger.
Selura held him back, however, not yielding an inch as the man pushed towards her.
The man grimaced in recognition. "Selura Shea. What brings you here?" he asked in an even tone, betraying none of his body's strain. Selura answered just as lightly, though Rachel had to admit Selura's nonchalance seemed less forced. "I wasn't looking for you, Gordon, that's for sure. Who's your little friend?"
Behind Gordon, a shadow from behind the door stepped into the hallway; a tall, thin man with dark hair and menacing eyes. His black trench coat seemed to swirl about him, while his red scarf all but hid his thin lips. He smiled genially at Selura and Rachel, and then put a hand on Gordon's shoulder. "Leave the woman be, Flash. We're hunting larger prey."
Gordon eased away from Selura, but didn't lower his sword. Selura's eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. "Cranston," she spat. "I thought I smelled something decayed and old."
The man in black refused the bait, instead answering, "We haven't time for any nonsense, woman, so be about your business and leave this building quickly. You shouldn't tarry here for long."
"Uh-uh," Selura said, shaking her head. "I'm not letting the two of you off that easily. Two members of the Mystery Council, here in New Orleans on this most un-hallowed of eves is enough to give anyone pause. What are you doing here?"
Gordon and Cranston shared a look, and then Gordon turned to Selura and said, "We're waiting for the Wyrm."
Selura's eyes widened in shock. "The Wyrm is here?" she gasped.
Cranston looked at her coolly. "Yes, it is. It was chained beneath this very building one hundred years ago. Here it sleeps. And here will come its brothers to free it; we're going to stop them."
Selura laughed without humor. "You're mad, Cranston. The two of you are going to stop the Scarecrow and the Fool? And what if the Gohlem is free as well?"
Gordon shrugged. "We have to try, Selura. Besides, dying at the hands of one of them is preferable to -- "
Cranston cut Gordon off, grabbed his elbow and pulled him backwards. "Enough," he barked. "I would advise you to take care of your business quickly, Miss Shea. When the Horsemen arrive, we won't be able to protect you." With that, the two Immortals brushed past the women and jogged down the hall.
Selura watched them leave for a moment, and then sheathed her sword. "And who will protect them, I wonder?" she muttered.
Rachel suddenly found her voice. "What the hell just happened?" she asked.
Selura looked at her sharply. "We just ran out of time," she said. "When the Wyrm awakens, our desperate little gambit will be pointless. We need to get those plans to Perseus posthaste. Come on."
The Kurgan dropped his sword in the snow and knocked the dust from his leathers. He peeled his gloves from his hands and massaged his temples. The aftershocks from absorbing Viracocha's Quickening were intense. It almost felt as if his head was going to explode. Memories and images from the old man's seven thousand years of life flashed in his brain, and it was a struggle to maintain the Kurgan identity in the face of it all. The power of Kronos acted as a buffer, but the feeling was intense. Frightening.
And utterly worth it. The power of the Quickening sang in the Kurgan's veins. He could feel the electricity burn through his every cell, firing his every molecule with energy and strength. This was as close to the Prize as he had ever come; he felt like he might be able to do anything with the Quickening his body now housed. He could tear down buildings, peer into the hearts of men, blast his opponents to atoms with a breath.
Finally, the Kurgan was a god.
"About damn time," he muttered. He felt stronger now, more in control. The moment of weakness had passed. He reached down and picked up his sword, gripping the cold metal tightly in his bare hand.
Once more he heard wolf howls. They sounded closer.
The Kurgan stretched and slashed the air with his sword. His breath steamed from his mouth as he added his own voice to the howls in the distance.
Behind him, the rubble that used to be the Belvedere Hotel shifted. The Kurgan whirled, bringing his sword up in a defensive stance. He had not had the chance to decapitate Bran Mac Lyr, and he knew the Celt was still buried under there somewhere. Buried deep, probably. Not likely to dig himself free anytime soon. But still, it paid to be wary. If the noise he heard was caused by the Celt...
But it wasn't. The building was just settling.
It suddenly occurred to the Kurgan that the street was very quiet. After the explosion Viracocha's death caused, he expected sirens at least. A few fire engines, police cars, and ambulances. People from the neighborhood. Well wishers. Rubberneckers. But there was no one. The street was empty, save for fallen snow and bits of blasted wood and stone. Even the buildings nearby were dark and silent.
The howls came again, suddenly, and from the end of the street.
"Wolves? In the city?" the Kurgan mumbled. <Idiot!> he cursed himself silently. He looked around, hoping to locate a good spot to make a stand, but saw nothing except the shattered hotel, still settling its weight onto the street.
"Fuck," the Kurgan growled. He stepped into the middle of the street and hefted his broadsword. It was a feather in his hand; light and quick.
Two wolves appeared out of the darkness, padding through the quiet snow into the range of a streetlight. They were huge animals, too large to be natural wolves; one stood nearly five feet high at the shoulder, while the other was nearer six feet tall. Powerful muscles were sheathed beneath thick, grayish fur, and their huge jaws opened up to reveal rows of sharp, yellow teeth.
The Kurgan was struck by a sudden wave of weakness, as another ripple of Viracocha's psyche passed through his nervous system. He shuddered, and his sword dipped.
This was all the invitation the werewolves needed. They burst into action, bounding forth with mouths agape, naked tongues lolling, and golden eyes gleaming with malevolence. One growled, a rumbling noise from deep within its throat that sounded like an angry hornet's nest.
The Kurgan fought to recover his equilibrium as death ran toward him on eight legs. The smaller wolf was almost upon him when his eyes refocused and the familiar strength flowed back into his limbs.
The wolf leapt toward him, jaws open, reaching for his throat. He eviscerated the beast with one sweeping motion of his sword, and as the body flew past, spraying him with blood and other fluids, he launched an attack on the other wolf. It reared back, checking its assault in time, and the Kurgan's blade whistled through empty air.
The wolf scampered away to reassess its opponent. The Kurgan took a threatening step toward it, and the animal suddenly shifted, its flesh and fur flowing like molten wax. Bone and muscle and skin rearranged in a matter of heartbeats, and then it was the Kurgan who took a few steps back.
The werewolf was an impressive beast in its middle form, a man-wolf. It was easily eight feet tall, shaggy, and heavily muscled. Its wolfish face and muzzle were slightly smaller than its full wolf form, but the Kurgan did not doubt that the creature could still snap his head off in one bite. The long arms ended in huge hands with curving claws.
And though he could not see anything beneath the dense layer of fur, the Kurgan's heightened senses, super-charged by Viracocha's Quickening, detected vicious sores pock-marking the Lycanthrope's massive. A servant of the Wyrm, then. Savage, brutal, and possessing some measure of psychic ability. A deadly opponent, even for an Immortal as powerful as the Kurgan.
Or was it?
As the werewolf tensed, preparing to pounce and slash the Kurgan to ribbons with its talons, he concentrated -- not on the beast or his sword, but within himself. He searched through the echoes of Viracocha's memories, searching for an expression of power that would cripple the beast.
The wolf leapt, and the Kurgan suddenly stiffened as he found what he was looking for.
Tongues of electrical fire flew from the Kurgan and slammed into the werewolf, shattering the still air with a thunderous rumble, and blowing the werewolf to pieces.
As the chunks of flaming flesh rained down around him, the Kurgan let loose a victorious bellow that could be heard for miles around.
<-- Previous | Table of Contents | Next -->
PoT_Ch34.php -- Revised: January 27, 2021.