Morgan
Down the hall, past the elevators, not slowing, not stopping, I had to go in straight and quick, no hesitation. I was twenty years younger than Julian, but I was certain he’d be no pushover. He’d be aware that we were in the building and therefore on guard.
I skidded to a stop in front of the door to the suite and, as loud as I could, summoned Force. The metal door burst from its hinges, flipping end over end into the room; I followed right after.
Crack! A hit to my right thigh and I went down, blood spraying.
Crack! Another shot to the thick meat of my left thigh.
Crack! My right arm sprouted gore and the pistol fell from nerveless fingers.
Crack! My left arm became an unfeeling lump of meat dangling from my shoulder. Blood trailed down my chin from where I’d bitten my lip and fire consumed my thrashing limbs.
“I have to say, I very much enjoyed that.” The voice, snide and gloating, came from behind.
Healing/cinnamon, Healing/cinnamon again and again. Bullets spat out of my body in rapid succession and the awful pain of torn flesh and shattered bone faded quickly, a sweet relief.
“Well, Oliver,” said Julian from somewhere out of sight. “Not very original, charging into the fray like that.”
“Oh, man … that smarts.” I slowly rose to my feet to see Annabeth at the broken doorway with twin 9s pointed at me, both barrels still smoking, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. The sight of her made me livid with rage and sick to my stomach. She must have seen my anger because she smiled even wider, with even more cruelty.
“Take off your Kevlar, Olivier,” Julian said. I turned to see him lounging on the stairs leading to the second story. He was dressed immaculately in a dark Saville Row suit, every stitch, every hair perfectly in place despite the earthquake. In fact, the whole suite looked untouched by violence, a haven of normalcy in a mad world.
Slowly, I shrugged out of the vest.
Julian took a step down. “You know, I have read that silly little memoir your friend the priest was carrying with him.” He laughed, an ugly sound. “You certainly think the world of yourself, do you not? No, do not bother answering. I was much amused at your conclusions, wrong as they were.
“You believe you are the last of the Line? And that that little fact will afford you some measure of protection? Let me set the record straight, young man.” All trace of amusement fled his face as he stopped ten feet away and drew a pistol from a shoulder holster. A Sig Sauer P229. “You are not the Redeemer, you are just a talented magus who thinks too much of himself. Now shed your weaponry. Slowly.”
I complied. “Then how come I knew all thirty of the Terrible Words the Silver offered?”
Julian shook his head dismissively. “It is not the quantity of the Words, it is the ability to use them without killing yourself.” At my puzzled look, he sighed. “The Words the Silver offered exacts a toll from a body, depleting it of vital energy. The Redeemer would be the magus who could use the Silver without slowly killing himself. Is that not that correct, sir?”
From hidden speakers all around came a familiar voice. “Correct, Julian. Hello, Olivier.”
Well, hell. The Voice. My stomach took a plunge.
The speakers squawked, then that same terribly beautiful voice continued. “Trust me, my boy, you are not the Redeemer. You are not the last. There are always others. Tell him everything, Julian.”