The snow began to peter out finally, as the storm began to lose some of its strength. The development brought little comfort, however, as the strange winter continued and the cold deepened.
The effects of the cold were hardly felt by the creatures that inhabited the tower of black stone standing on the grounds owned by Franklin Enterprises. The broad, six story building was carved from a single piece of basalt rock and transported to its present location; the hard stone absorbed the frigid temperatures outside, keeping it from reaching the occupants who were gathered within.
In the uppermost level, in the central chamber, the Narrow Cult prepared its final victim. The room was huge, with a dark, high vaulted ceiling and a scattered number of torches to drive the darkness away. In the center of the room, on a raised dais, squatted a t-shaped altar carved from the same basaltic rock that made up the tower itself. Channels were carved into the sides of the altar, channels that were now permanently stained red and led down to the ground, where two long pits were cut into the floor. Carmine fluid bubbled and seethed in these pits, kept warm by burning coals packed into niches flanking each pit.
The stench of blood was heavy in the air.
A dozen cultists hunched around the altar, clad in snow white and blood red robes from head to foot; a careful observer would have noticed that the arrangement of the cultists around the altar formed a sort of pentagram. Stretched across the altar itself was a naked man, bound and gagged, a thick cloth blinding him. And standing above him, spattered from throat to groin with red, was Huixopochtli, the Aztec Immortal. In his hands he held an obsidian knife.
Huixopochtli glanced away from his victim, looking toward the end of the room directly across from him, where the massive throne of Mephistopheles stood. Unlike the altar and the tower, the throne was marble, and it seemed to shimmer in the torchlight. It was empty now, as the dark prince had yet to return from his trip into the city, but Wotan, now fully blinded, stood beside it, and on the opposite side of the throne stood Adam Franklin, the man behind Franklin Enterprises.
Adam was a singular specimen. Sallow skinned and dark eyed, he stood nearly eight feet tall, and the muscles of his flesh bulged with every movement he took. His heavy musculature was hidden by a carefully tailored Armani suit, but he exuded an aura of strength and power regardless of what he wore. Adam's massive arms were crossed against his chest, and he appeared to be biting one black lip.
Huixopochtli turned back to the whimpering human stretched out before him. With one dripping hand, he traced a line down the man's chest, smiling grimly. He shifted his grip on the obsidian dagger, preparing to drive it into the man's chest, but froze as the heavy door to the chamber crashed open.
Mephistopheles, Lord of the Demons, strode into the room. He had discarded his facade, and his skin glimmered like molten lava. The short horns on his forehead looked sinister, but it was Mephisto's vulpine grin that sent a chill down Huixopochtli's spine.
"Well, everything proceeds according to plan," Mephisto announced. "The Wyrm is awake and setting the government district ablaze, while the human nations feel the effects of his cognizance; strife is spreading rapidly. My most hated foe has deigned to show his shining face again, and the Lycanthropes have gone positively insane."
Franklin grunted something noncommittal, while Wotan grumbled about being blind. Huixopochtli set the knife down at the edge of the altar, staving off the human's end for another moment.
Mephisto approached his throne, waving his hand in the air. Sparks lit up the dark suit he was wearing, and his clothing transformed from the drab garb of a human into the Baroque, silver and black armor of a Demon Prince. Mephistopheles took his throne, and turned his attention to Huixopochtli with blazing eyes.
"You may proceed," he said.
Huixopochtli picked up the knife once more.
City Hall exploded in a shower of masonry and glass. Fragments of the building were sent spiraling through the frigid air, crashing to the street where they made explosions of white powder, and into the buildings surrounding City Hall, where they shattered more glass, brick, and stone.
Out of the shattered hulk of City Hall emerged the Wyrm. The head was massive, twenty feet from the tip of the muzzle to the back of the head, with ten more feet added by the ring of thorn-like horns that erupted from its skull. The eyes gleamed cold and red beneath heavily armored brows, and smoke spiraled up from each nostril. The mouth opened in a casual yawn, revealing several rows of teeth, each tooth eight inches long and serrated. The Wyrm sighed, a rumble like an airplane's engine, and dragged its bulk out into the air.
Two spindly limbs, ending in ineffectual claws, sprouted from the side of the Wyrm's tubular body, but they were purely vestigial. The Wyrm moved like a snake, the powerful muscles of its stomach contracting and expanding with such speed that the Wyrm, for all its massive size, seemed to glide across the snow. As the monster slithered from the wreckage of City Hall, more and more of its length was revealed.
Green scales glittered in the glow from the streetlights; scales as small as a bottlecap and packed tightly, showing not a gap between each. The scales were a bright emerald on its back, fading to a dull yellow as they approached the belly.
When the Wyrm had extended two hundred feet from the wreckage of City Hall, it reared up, forming an "s" with its coils. The jaws opened once more, and liquid fire jetted from the Wyrm's mouth, spraying the street and the buildings lining its expanse.
The city began to burn.
Two blocks away, standing atop a snowy rooftop, Bran Mac Lyr and Gabrial the Archangel surveyed the scene. Bran's jaw had dropped open as soon as the Wyrm emerged, and his eyes were bugging out of his sockets. "That thing is huge," he gasped. "How big is it?"
Gabrial kept his eyes locked on the beast. "The Wyrm was a thousand feet long when I locked it away. I think it has grown some in captivity."
"And you expect me to kill that thing?"
Gabrial looked askance at his shorter companion. "Are you not up to the challenge, Bran Mac Lyr?"
Bran shook his head. "Don't try that shit with me, Gabe. There is suicide, and then there is *suicide*. This situation brings to mind the latter more than the former." Bran held out his ensorcelled sword. The runes along its length glowed faintly. He cursed under his breath. "Even at this range, the sword can feel the Wyrm's magic." There was a new note in the Celt's voice, holding the blade in his fist. Fear?
"But?" Gabrial asked.
Bran looked at the Angel sharply. "The sword... is eager. I think it actually wants to engage the Wyrm." He cursed again, in Gaelic this time. "I hate it when the sword starts to think..."
Gabrial chuckled. "I had hoped, of course," he said, almost to himself, "but I wasn't sure."
"You expected the blade to act this way?"
Gabrial nodded. "More or less. I wasn't sure if it would remember what it was created to do; I fashioned it quite a long time ago."
Bran was taken aback. "You made my sword?"
Gabrial nodded, smiling slightly.
"But, why? Why tell me? I mean, now? All these centuries I've had the blade, and now you claim the sword is yours? Pretty damn convenient, if you ask me."
Gabrial shrugged. "Believe what you will, Mac Lyr. I've been preparing for this night for millions of years. And I stacked the deck in my favor; I knew Mephisto would unleash the Wyrm. I needed a way to negate that agent. Hence, the sword."
Bran shook his head angrily, his red mane whipping in the wind. "Bullshit. Don't try the omniscient shit with me, Angel. I'm no gullible Christian. Since I've known you, you haven't been anything more than an extraordinarily powerful drunk. Don't start any tales now; I have no stomach for them."
Gabrial sighed. "As I said, believe what you will, Mac Lyr. But trust me, I need you to handle the Wyrm. I have another agent who will take care of the rest of the Horsemen, but I need the bearer of the Ray of Indra to deal with the Wyrm. If that isn't you, than I need that sword so I can give it to someone else."
Bran frowned and looked away. His eyes fell on the great beast as it spat fire on the buildings around it. "Bloody hell. I'll slay your gods bedamned dragon, Angel. But don't ask me for any other favors."
Hazard spread the Franklin Enterprises blueprints across the dining room table. He set a piece of silverware at each corner to keep it from rolling up on itself. "What are we looking for again?" Hazard asked.
"Weak spots. Places to take advantage of or look for. A way in, as well," Victoria said, from Hazard's left, her eyes animatedly poring over the map.
"Right," Hazard grunted. "What about this tower of Serpico's? Wouldn't that be the place to look at? And it isn't on the map, is it?"
"Settle down, Michael," Kurt admonished. "Any information we can get from the blueprints is worth it; no matter how minor. Remember who died for them."
Hazard grimaced. Of course he hadn't forgotten. Rachel's death was what was making him edgy. He could feel the bloodlust, so long contained, beginning to well up within him. And he was dying to unleash it on something, someone. Anyone.
He ignored Gold's surreptitious smile. The bastard could rot.
"Well," Victoria spoke up, "Alec mentioned the tower to me. I pressed him for details while we were drawing up our wishlist. From what he said, I think we can expect it to be here," and she pointed to an empty section in the northeast of the map. "So the trick, really, is to get to that spot without being seen."
"No problem," Hazard said. "We'll all wear dark clothes; its night out. No, wait -- the snow. We'll wear white clothes. No one will see us."
Victoria snorted. "Okay. Right. Jones, you want to tell Mission:Impossible here why that is stupid?"
Jones shrugged. "If you look closely, Hazard, you'll see that some of the security measures are noted on the prints. Looks like they have electrical fences, some kind of motion detectors, and a security force that patrols the grounds on quads. That's just the legitimate stuff, of course. They could have some kind of magical detection system as well. And dark clothes won't help us get through any of these measures."
"Now, Jones and I," Victoria said, "could slip in here on our own pretty easily. And I'll bet you Vampires could do the same thing. But what about the big guy and the little girl?"
Kurt smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I have some experience with these matters."
Victoria shifted her attention to Shelley. The girl met the older woman's scrutiny with a steady gaze. "My first mentor was an accomplished cat burglar. I know my way around security systems."
Victoria chuckled softly. "Looks like Perseus knew what he was doing when he threw us all together. Okay, then. Let's start working on this."
"Well, Gold and I can easily vault the fences. And we can handle any human guards with a modicum of fuss," Hazard volunteered.
"And I can shadowshift us into the compound," Kurt said. "I'm not sure how close I can get to the tower, though. And it is possible that any kind of mystic defenses will cancel out my tricks..." Kurt frowned.
"Then we should go with the mundane way to circumvent the system," Victoria said. She unrolled another sheet of blueprints. "Now, see, here and here are the control mechanisms for the fence," she said, tracing her fingers along the map. "Hazard and Gold can short them out with a swift kick or two. I'll guess that you two are as strong as Vampires are supposed to be..."
"Stronger," Gold interjected. Victoria ignored him.
"Then Jones and I can saw through the fence with wire cutters. Or we can all just hop over them like we're on the run from a busted kegger."
"You had a very interesting childhood," Hazard said. "I can tell."
Victoria rolled her eyes. "If the two undead would please refrain from lame quips, we might get this done with quickly."
"Touche," Hazard grinned, not bothering to hide his canines.
"Sounds good to me," Kurt said.
"What?" Jones asked. "The plan so far or the Vampires keeping silent?"
"Both."
"All right, boys, settle down," Victoria admonished. "Okay, we're in the perimeter. Hazard and Gold are our scouts; you guys seek out any trouble and eliminate it quick and silent. We'll follow closely behind. Can't do much against the motion detectors, not at this late date. Hopefully, the snow will play havoc with 'em."
"Or the extreme cold will short them out," Jones said sarcastically. "Better if we expect them to be fully functional."
Victoria nodded regretfully. "I know, Jones, but still...," she looked at Kurt. "Any tricks that might disable the motion detectors?"
Kurt shook his head. Shelley spoke up, startling almost everyone. "Do we know where these things are located?"
Victoria checked the two sheets before her and shook her head. She pulled out a few more and went over those, and eventually found a sheet that gave some clues as to where the motion detectors might be placed. She shrugged. "They're pretty much scattered all over the grounds."
"How do they differentiate between intruders and patrols?" Shelley asked.
"I don't see what you're getting at," Victoria said.
"Well," Shelley began, "I'm just wondering how effective these things are if there are guards on quads four wheeling all over the place. Does some kind of alarm go off, or flashing lights or something?"
Victoria shrugged. "Probably some kind of silent alarm, routed to an ops security center within the Franklin building proper. The detectors might even be programmed to recognize the mass or silhouette of a patrol..." Victoria trailed off. "I wish I had thought of that, Shelley."
Shelley smiled. "I wasn't sure it would work."
Victoria shrugged. "I'm not sure it will work. But it's worth a try."
"Please pardon the Vampire for intruding, but what if I just grab some guards and mindscan them?" Hazard interjected. "I can find out where the motion detectors are and then we can zig and zag our way around them. Just like walking through a minefield."
"That's a thought," Kurt offered by way of support. "Not much of one, admittedly."
"Gee, thanks," said Hazard sourly.
Bran hefted the "Ray of Indra," as Gabrial had called it, in his hands. As always, the sword was light, too light to be made of ordinary steel, and it felt like an extension of his arm, his will. He slashed the air experimentally, and tried to imagine the sword slashing open the side of the Wyrm as easily as it cut the air. Somehow, it didn't seem possible.
"I have to get going," Gabrial said. "Mephistopheles is waiting for me. And I have to finish something I started a long time ago. You'll do fine, Bran; trust me. Before I go, however, I'll leave one more talisman to help you against the Wyrm." Gabrial handed his round, golden shield to Bran, who took it with ginger hands. "It will be able to hold off most of the Wyrm's fire," Gabrial added, unnecessarily. With that, the Angel extended the metal wings on his back, and rose into the night sky.
"Blood and ashes," Bran mumbled, shifting the shield onto his left forearm. It fit comfortably. "Oh well, it couldn't possibly be worse than fighting Trolls." He shrugged out of his duster, and left it on the rooftop; he would need to be able to move quickly when necessary, and the long coat provided too much bulk and air resistance. Besides, it wouldn't help him a bit against the Wyrm's breath weapon. Not unless he soaked it in water first, and given the temperature of the air, that would hardly be advisable.
The Celt found the fire escape, and dropped down to it from the roof, grunting slightly as his heavy boots clanged against the metal rails. He began his descent, hopping as much as walking, but being careful not to slip on the ice-slick metal.
The Wyrm suddenly roared, letting out a baleful growl that echoed for blocks, a noise like the scream of a Boeing 747 taking to the air. Bran shivered, and he couldn't even lie to himself and claim it was due to the cold. He was afraid, pure and simple.
He reached the bottom of the fire escape, and dropped lightly to the ground. The runes from the sword cast an eerie blue glow along the length of the alley. There was magic in the air, and the sword could smell it. A soft golden glow emanated from the shield, almost as a counterpoint to the sword. Bran thought he could sense the magic as well; the hairs on the back of his neck and along his arms were rising, and his stomach was doing cartwheels. Only magic made him nervous; even while fighting the Kurgan, he had not been as anxious as he was when he slew the Witches Three. Magic was unpredictable, with no way to counter it. The shield gave him some security, but he wouldn't trust it too much. Gabrial was notorious for making promises he couldn't keep. Bran tried to find comfort that Gabrial's unreliability was an element from the old days, though, when Gabrial and the bottle were never separate. He seemed sober enough now.
Perhaps he was on the level.
"Hell and damnation," Bran swore again.
He stepped out into the street. Down the block, buildings were burning like kindling, and the Wyrm was slithering into an intersection, crunching cars and snow beneath its belly, a symphony of destruction accompanied by the roar of flames. Bran hoped fervently that the buildings on fire were offices, and not homes. Though he had no doubt many innocents would die before the night was through, he hoped such carnage would take its time in arriving.
Bran eased his way between two snow covered humps that he took to be automobiles, and walked to the middle of the street. The sword and the shield were glowing like torches now, and the blade seemed to tug at his hand, as if seeking to bury itself in the Wyrm's hide.
The Wyrm paused to spit more fire on the city's architectural heritage, and then reared up again, as if surveying its progress.
"Hey you!" Bran shouted at the top of his lungs. He hoped the serpent would hear him over its own noise and destruction.
The Wyrm's head swiveled, and the crimson eyes came to rest upon the Celt standing in the middle of the road. Bran shifted his stance nervously. Apparently, the Wyrm had excellent hearing.
A voice like shattering bones and talons rending flesh echoed within Bran's mind. <A human champion, armed with a nail and a mirror.> Something like a sigh came to Bran through the Wyrm's mental projection. <You always try this trick, Gabrial. And you always lose.>
Bran steeled himself, raising the shield to hopefully check the coming onslaught of flame. He held the sword up too, in hopes it might stave off his destruction a few more seconds.
"I think you'll find me different from all the other champions you've faced, Wyrm. I do not die easy." Bran hoped the Wyrm wouldn't recognize the note of bravado in his voice.
<We will see about that, insect,> the Wyrm chuckled. And then the fire came, erupting from the Wyrm's open mouth and jetted down the street like water from a hose, to splash across the upraised shield like napalm.
As Bran's skin blistered and his eyebrows burned away, he had a moment to think, "Beowulf had it easy."
Then the battle was joined in earnest.
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