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Our Paranormal Chernobyl The elevator door opened. Jonathan could clearly see the checked linoleum floor outside the elevator, the pale green wall opposite him, and the short expanse of hallway to either side. But overlaid on the material world were the fires he'd see before. He knew, even with the intervening walls of the elevator shaft, that there was someone about thirty feet away, walking down the hall toward him. There were other lights as well, dimmed by distance and intervening walls. But by far the most dazzling object was the flame he'd seem from above—the one that he'd guessed to be the baby. It was burning like a flare sixty feet away and a little to his left, surrounded by three other, lesser flames. The next brightest light in this mystical topography—the one he thought must be Woodbridge—was twenty more feet away and a slightly to his right. It was moving toward the flare, and it was closer to it than Jonathan was. "Stokes, take me around that corner, fast!" Jonathan had the words out before he could finish getting his arm up. The chair lurched left and Jonathan fought hard to keep his body upright. He wasn't sure what kind of aim he'd have with his aura vision (he fought the urge to add a 'dum-de-de-dah!' out loud) so he closed his eyes and opened them again. At the end of the hall was the knight in the black armor, the familiar sword in his right fist and a gold chain dangling from his left. The armor was of course bulkier than the slim, boyish Woodbridge, and the full helmet hid his face and eyes. But there was no mistaking him: it was the same armor that had flashed over Woodbridge at the art institute, the same armor Jonathan had seen the night of his parents' deaths. Pender led the Quebecois scientist back into the hospital. Chaos still reigned, but no more than it had the rest of the day; she'd just about gotten used to it. There was something of a quiet corner beside Stranger's improvised exit, though, and here she stopped and turned to Maggie. "The baby," she began. "He and a nurse and a security guard are holed up downstairs, in the boiler room, with one of our Brick-Breakers. I know that sounds odd, but there's something about that baby… someone or something is interested in him, apparently. A nun tried to give him this cross, but—damn." A few seconds of fumbling in her pocketless surgical scrubs failed to turn up the cross. "That security guard still has it. It's not important. The point is, I have a very important baby hidden in a boiler room, and I don't even know if I can turn to PRIMUS to help him right now. Between you, me, and Q-Ball, I think we can get him and his mother to relative safety, or at least safe harbor. Who knows—they might somehow have another piece of the puzzle." "Maybe you ought to hand that baby over to Hammersmith's care," Maggie offered. "Say you think PRIMUS has more important things to deal with right now if you need a pretext. That won't be difficult to believe." Maggie rubbed her chin and blew a bubble. "Otherwise, we can always fly him to New Orleans or something. What do you think?" "I think the Chicago PD might not be able to guard this baby effectively," Pender replied immediately. "Nothing against Hammersmith and the rest, but this is a metahuman containment and protection situation. Normally it'd be a PRIMUS job, but even if I can't trust PRIMUS right now, I still wouldn't turn it over to the police. They know less about metas than a newbie Fanboy. This calls for discretion and sensitivity, so the cops are out as far as I'm concerned. Besides, those two androids may be down and out, but that's no guarantee there aren't more of them out there, and I doubt some cop's .38 Special is going to put much of a dent in them." "Point taken," Maggie said. "Crossfire knows something about this," Pender added. "I don't know what or how, but even with a half-severed leg he was worried enough about the kid's safety to mention it to me. I may not agree with his methods, but he's no idiot." The blonde-haired girl thoughtfully blew a bubble until it popped. "You can ask him once he gets out of surgery," she offered. Pender sighed resignedly. "I don't usually ask metahumans for help, but I have to say there's nothing 'usual' about today. I'm through with official channels; I can't go to PRIMUS and I can't turn to the police. I can't even talk to Raj about this damn thing, because I have no way of knowing who else is in that goop with him. But I can honestly say I trust you, Ms. Thorin, and DuFord—you're about the only people I feel like I can trust in this right now." "I appreciate your trust," Maggie said, "and I don't disagree about PRIMUS being compromised." Pender chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. "The first place PRIMUS or whoever will look for the kid would be the CPD, but if we can get him and his mother away with Q-Ball's help, without incident, we'll stump them long enough to figure it out. Maybe you're right—maybe New Orleans is the answer." "I'm not really equipped to defend against metahuman attack in New Orleans either, truth be told," Maggie said. "But we have other options. For one, there has to be some government agency with metahuman-combat abilities. Or if we're going to fly the kid out, we could send him up to Canada to stay with friends of mine up there." "I'd prefer New Orleans. Both of us know the town, and I have more than a few useful connections there." She thought back to Howe, her last partner there; when she'd left, he'd been well on his way to becoming a respectable PRIMUS agent—that'd never sounded ironic to her until now. It was possible he could still be trusted. Failing that, there were other, less-orthodox allies to call upon, but with a little luck that wouldn't be necessary. "Yes. The more I think about it, the better New Orleans would be. I'll get the kid if you'll contact DuFord—please." "Okay," Maggie acquiesced. "I do have some friends in that area that can be trusted and can keep the kid safe, too," she added, thinking of Ultraviolet, JusticeMaker, and her other friends. Pender nodded, and headed deeper into the hospital. Maggie flicked on her radio. Jonathan didn't entirely trust his new way of seeing the world. "Stokes? Tell me you see a guy in armor standing there." "I see a guy in armor standing there." The detective made a sound like a cough. "Fuck—you said he was a valedictorian." "Inside the tin can, he's a regular geek. Besides, I don't completely vouch for him. Like you were friends with the valedictorian at your high school?" "Blake," the knight said, surprised. "What are you doing up?" The voice was the same as that night as well, distorted and made harsh by the metal grill. The mild, cultured voice Woodbridge had used earlier was gone. "You look half dead." "Cut me some slack, I just got the bill." The archer reached beneath the blanket and took the folding bow in one hand while the fingers of his other read the notches at the end of his arrows the way a blind person reads Braille. Reflex and memory found the ones he wanted. "You shouldn't be here, you're scaring the patients. Mind telling me what you want?" "I'd say that it was no concern of yours, except that is." He glanced down at the short length of gold chain in his hand, which swung like a pendulum. Jonathan couldn't tell if the knight was moving it, or some other force. "The child is nearby. He is in danger, and I intend to make sure no harm befalls him." "Since that's the case, put the sword away. I don't think the baby's mother will appreciate your good intentions as long as its out. Nor will I." His hands shifted under the blanket, one finger poised on the button that released the bow from its folded state. Jonathan watched the gold chain. The way it moved suggested that it sought something. From how it yearned and leaned towards the door, that could only mean the baby. He knew in his heart that Woodbridge's idea of protecting the baby would be a corruption of what was truly for the best, just as the murder of his own parents had been for some twisted greater good. "This is a hospital. You and I have a huge score to settle but it won't be here or now. Unless you don't leave now, then I won't have much choice." "Blake, you can't even stand. Leave your hands under the blanket, if you must, or let your squire hold your weapons until you're ready to use them, as I do. But don't interfere. The baby's welfare comes first." The knight walked forward, sword still ready, left hand outstretched. The chain was pointing the door where Crossfire had seen the baby's light. "Ah." "Did you go to Arch-Villain School?" The blanket fell clear as Crossfire's left arm came up straight holding his bow. He pressed the button on the handle and both limbs of his custom bow snapped into place, the wheel cams at each end quivering as the fifty pound Kevlar and Dacron blended weave string drew tight with a hum. "It's just so easy to hate you." He drew the two arrows he'd selected and laid one bare-back over the other across the rest. This was normally a shot Jonathan reserved for competitions when he used aluminum-carbon competition shafts with aluminum points at full- draw weight in a perfect, relaxed stance. The circumstances here were far different, far from ideal and far more important. The nocked shafts flew simultaneously, yet with different arcs. One flew straight and lower than the other so it would reach the target first while the second arrow curved slightly higher as it, hopefully, had a little ways further to go. The sword in the knight's hand flickered into motion, and Jonathan saw a flash of the peculiar light he'd come to recognize. He had a feeling that if he'd still been immersed in that new form of sight, the flash would have been brilliant. The shafts careened off the side of the blade and detonated against the walls. White glue splattered a section of the right-hand side. The taser arrow, however, left only a scorch mark on the opposite wall. "You're trying my patience, archer," the armored figure said. He hadn't moved from his spot. "This isn't the time to 'settle the score,' as you put it, but if you interfere with my duty to save the child, I may be persuaded." The knight leveled the blade so that it pointed at his chest. The steel seemed to pulse with a faint light. "Stand down." "No thanks, I'm already sitting." Crossfire drew three arrows this time. He didn't much care what the first two were, but managed to grab hunting broadheads, their vanadium triple points gleaming. The third was the one he really wanted. He laid them across the bow and fired. The first two flew straight, and the third one's fletching bounced across the bow string, sending it careening sideways. The knight flicked the hunting arrows out of the air. "Enough of this, Bla—" The third arrow struck the wall beside the knight and detonated. The magnesium flash made Jonathan wince, even from fifty feet away. "Sparklers, Blake?" The knight lowered the blade to where it had been a moment ago. "What next, music? Dancing?" Jonathan wished he could see the man's eyes beyond the grill of the helmet. "You're running out of toys, and you're not looking well, Blake." He nodded in the direction the gold chain had been pointing. "You know, one drop of the child's blood would heal you." Jonathan had figured that one out already but didn't see the point in letting Woodbridge know. It wasn't like he wanted his respect, just his head. Still, having the knight think he was foolish might be just the trickshot he needed. "How?" He let his hand fall away from the bow and grasped the wheel, inching the chair forward. The knight didn't change his stance. "You don't have to know how. He merely is. His veins flow with the blood of angels." "That's genetics, Woodbridge. Bio-engineering. No angels, no God. Just science. That is the how. Is that why you're here? For him?" Jonathan wheeled closer. "I've told you why I'm here, to protect the child. Despite his gifts, he is merely an infant." The knight hadn't shifted his position; the blade was still pointed toward Jonathan. "The child is, Blake. The 'how' doesn't matter." The knight shook his head. "Bio-engineering? Perhaps—this rash of metahumans certainly seems engineered. Science? Undoubtedly. Do you think God is so small that he can't use anything for his purposes? Your family has its own gifts. Does that somehow prevent you from using these technological toys of yours?" Jonathan continued to inch forward as the man went on. The knight still hadn't shifted the blade, or moved toward him. "As a modern man," the harsh voice continued, "you think that science somehow negates the existence of God. Men, especially of the Church, have for centuries feared science for exactly that reason. They fear all change. The child is a threat to them." "Believe it or not, the child is my first concern." Jonathan folded the bow back, placed it in his lap. Both hands went to the wheels and propelled himself forward, slowly. The archer counted the faded linoleum tiles beneath him as they passed as a way to concentrate and calm the anxiety he feared would betray him as he spoke. "So you're saying that the Church can co-exist with science?" The knight lifted his blade, moving for the first time in almost half a minute. "Coming to me, are you?" He strode forward. "Throw down the bow, Blake. And tell your friend to put away his gun, before something happens to his un-bandaged hand." Jonathan spun one chair wheel and pivoted slightly. "I don't need a bow if I can't fire arrows at him." He held the bow out to him. "And I doubt the bullets would get through anyway. Besides, we need you handy." "Handy. Very funny," Stokes said. He tucked the Glock into the holster at his back, and took the bow. The archer kept his chair where it was and watched the knight move towards him. "So, what now?" He kept his hands very still. "Want to try explaining to me what you plan to do with the baby? "I could try." He stepped forward, and swung the sword over Blake's head. He struck with the flat of the blade, and the bow flew out of Stoke's hand and tumbled down the hallway. "Fuck!" the detective said, and stumbled back. "Next time you have your opponent blinded, Blake, I suggest you continue your attack." Crossfire's right hand closed on the one arrow he had complete confidence would work while having absolutely no idea what it would do. Darius would be proud. "Next time you know something your opponent doesn't, I suggest you shut the hell up." He thrust the arrow into the knight's side. "Q-Ball, this is Magnitude. Please come in." There was a short pause, and then DuFord answered. "Maggie! I've been monitoring radio traffic—is everything all right? Is PRIMUS out of the area yet? Is Stranger really incarcerated?" The sound of the PRIMUS helicopter taking off drew Maggie's gaze to the hole in the wall, through which she saw the double-rotored aircraft fly off. "PRIMUS is leaving just now—most of them, anyway," Maggie said. "They are hauling Stranger away, and I'm not complaining—the man went psychotic on the people in the van, tortured them somehow—he isn't stable, I'd rather he stay out of this until everything's cleared up about him. It wasn't pretty." She chuckled ruefully. "We're not having good luck with our comrades today, are we?" "He went psychotic? Like Ed? But Stranger saved my life! Couldn't we—never mind. What's our next step?" "How quickly can you get to New Orleans?" "Uh, New Orleans? About three hours or so. Why?" "We have a civilian that needs to be taken away from here and out of the reach of 'official' PRIMUS," Maggie replied. "New Orleans seems the best option, I have a good safehouse there and friends who might help." "Excellent idea. Be there in the parking lot in two minutes." The arrowhead passed through the armor as if it wasn't there. Jonathan's fist banged against the metal plate; if he hadn't been holding the arrow, it might have plunged all the way through the man. The knight gasped and fell away from Jonathan. The shaft was buried almost up to the fletching. "What have you—?" The knight stumbled backward, and fell to the ground. "It burns. What sorcery is this?" "You got me," Jonathan said. Which wasn't a cryptic ploy; he really had no clue. His uncle had said that it would dispel magic. If that were the case, Woodbridge's armor and even the man himself were magic! "Hold tight while I think about it." Blake picked out another glue arrow and threw it down hard at the armored figure prone and writhing before him. The glue covered the armored form, pasting him to the floor. "Grab my bow for me Stokes, we're not out of this yet. Woodbridge doesn't travel alone and we still have to get the kid clear from here." The detective ran back to get the bow. "You're making a mistake," the knight said. He hissed in pain, and the echoing sound from the black helmet made Jonathan think of Star Wars. Jesus, maybe Woodbridge was going to tell him he was his father. "The child must be protected. The future of the Church is at stake." "You made the mistake in not being straight with me. I'd start correcting it by telling me everything." "Have your parents told you nothing? The child is—" The knight's voice broke off. He coughed loudly, and the sound was was wet, as if his lungs were filling with liquid. "The child is destined to resurrect the church—the true church. I have been waiting centuries for him." He seemed to be fighting for breath, but paradoxically, his voice grew stronger. "I have kept to the true path, even while the Church descended into corruption and compromise. They thought I was unworthy, because of an accident of my birth. I, unworthy! But I was chosen by God, and the false Church has no dominion over me. Your ancestors buried me, and concealed the mantles of my office, trying to avert this day. But the child is born. God's will be done." Blake wasn't sure what the arrow was doing to the knight. He was torn by the burning desire to see the man dead and the knowledge that such an act would make Jonathan no better than Woodbridge. One thing he was certain of, however. Woodbridge was a fanatic. Yet he had to wonder if parents may have been fanatics as well, jury-rigging his birth to fall on April 23, the Feast of St. George. Darius had made it clear that the true Champion was to be born on only that day. How had he gotten caught up in all of this strange religious fervor? But all that mattered now was… "The child—how was his birth forseen? How will he lead the church? Is it the Champion's job to protect him?" "The Champion's duty. Which I've failed." The knight coughed again, and the echoing voice dropped to a ragged whisper. "It seems you've learned to kill, Contender." The helmet dropped back against the floor. "Use the knowledge wisely. Protect the child." Blake stood waiting for more. There had to be more. Woodbridge couldn't be gone, it couldn't have been that easy. Anyone could have stuck an arrow in him and walked away. Was this what all the training was for, the sacrifice of his normal life and countless friendships? Why had he funneled all the rage and anger at his parents' murder to pursue a course of revenge if it all it left him with was… this? All this time, he'd not known for sure if he would want to kill Woodbridge, but perhaps he secretly did after all. While aloud he questioned the arrow's ability, did he know subconsciously all along that it would kill him? Did all he want was Woodbridge dead? Was Woodbridge dead? The idea startled him, but he knew there was more to reality than simple perceptions. He was just now coming to understand the layers. The knight might be faking his death, in exactly the same way he'd pretended to see while blinded. "Stokes, I'll take my bow if you've got it. There's a baby we have to protect—Woodbridge still has friends." And enemies even he's worried about, Jonathan added to himself. "They should be in the room next to us. You're the cop, start explaining what we know so far. I'll stay out here." The detective handed him the bow, the expression on his weathered face serious. "If you killed him, you know I can't…" He shook his head. "We'll have to talk later." "Can't what? Can't let me protect an innocent child? Just like I couldn't protect two innocent people from being killed by him before my eyes?" Blake looked down to the knight and back at Stokes. "I'm not even sure he's dead yet, but if he is it won't be what I wanted. But I'd also have to agree with Mick Jagger on wants and needs." Stokes frowned, trying to parse the sentence. "Oh." Jonathan pushed his chair closer to the fallen knight. Was Woodbridge dead? He needed to be sure. Jonathan wheeled around the prone body, massed in white expanding foam, and extended the tip of the bow to the helmet. The other hand gripped a taser arrow, ready to stab out with it, just in case. He flipped up the visor. Darius sat in the back seat of the limousine, propped up in the corner of the seat like a stuffed teddy bear, his hands and legs bound, his mouth gagged. It wasn’t the first time he’d been caught and tied up by the bad guys—hell, it used to happen every other week when he was running around with Simon—but he was getting a little too old for this. Maybe he shouldn’t have tailed them so closely. He’d followed Woodbridge and his hench-persons—the dame, Purity and the geezer, Sir Austen—to the hospital, where they’d somehow convinced the administration to give them a tour. Darius grabbed a lab coat and made like a doctor, trailing yards behind. The group had visited the morgue, where the metahuman dragon and its fellow victims had been taken. After a long time in there, the group had headed for the parking lot. Darius was sure he hadn’t been spotted, until he turned a corner and got whacked in the back of the neck by the dame, Purity. They’d tied him up and taken him with him, and wouldn’t tell him what they had planned. Where they going to dump in the river? Give him the Grand Inquisition? Use him against Jonathan? Or worse, make him say fifty Hail Mary’s? Then, before they’d driven a mile, Purity had gone all stiff and spooky, and told them to go back to the hospital. All she said was, “He is born.” Real melodramatic, that. Woodbridge and the geezer seemed to understand. Darius's gag, unfortunately, prevented him from adequately expressing his confusion. They parked in the underground garage again, almost in the same place they’d left. Purity got out and vanished in the direction of the hospital. So Darius sat there in the back seat next to the old man, with the teenage-looking Woodbridge in the seat across from him. The chauffeur stayed quiet behind the tinted glass divider, and refused to turn around even as they bound and gagged him. Darius admired his discretion. Who said you couldn’t hire good help these days? He wondered how Jonathan was doing. The last time he’d seen the boy, he was trying to resuscitate a 400-foot-tall naked man. Too distracted to look for his own uncle. Well, if he died, he’d just have to haunt the lad. After about twenty minutes, Purity came back to the car, and climbed in next to Woodbridge. “The child is inside,” she said. “I couldn’t get close without a fight. Other parties are interested in the child and its mother, and there has already been a battle.” She nodded to Darius. “Your nephew was hurt, but he is in surgery now. I am sure he will recover.” Darius, bound and gagged, could only grunt in shock. “I wasn’t able to get the cross around his neck,” Purity said, turning her attention back to Woodbridge and the old man. “But I did get it into the hands of one of the people guarding him. If God is with us, the cross should still lead me to him.” “You’re going back in?” the old man asked, alarmed. “The child must be saved. We can’t allow him to be harmed, or taken to someplace even more inaccessible. But this time I will go in prepared for battle. Squires, I have need of my sword, and the armor as well.” Woodbridge bowed his head. “At your service, my Lord.” Squires? Darius thought. My Lord? He was trapped in a remake of the Black Shield of Falsworth. Next up would be Tony Curtis to inform them that yondah lies the castle of my faddah. The three of them—Purity, Woodbridge, and Sir Austen—closed their eyes as if in prayer. Then Woodbridge suddenly became a knight in black armor. The thick plate surrounded him, ghostly at its edges where it touched the upholstery. It was exactly like the armor in the painting of St. George and the Dragon, except that Woodbridge’s face was covered by a helmet. This, Darius thought, must have been what Jonathan had caught a flash of at the Art Institute. Then Purity grasped Woodbridge’s hand. The armor seemed to flow from the man’s body, onto her own. It slid from his arms and torso like oil, coalescing around Purity. Last, the helmet melted from Woodbridge and flowed up to cover the woman’s head. Nifty trick, Darius thought. Purity turned to the old man. She simply reached into his chest, and drew out the sword. It came out of him silently, without resistance. Sir Austen sighed as if he were setting down a great weight. “God speed,” he said. “Thank you for your service,” she answered. And then she stepped out of the car, graceful despite the bulky armor and long weapon, and stalked toward the hospital. Woodbridge drew his eyes away from the knight’s retreating form and looked at Darius. “You should pray that she succeeds.” Darius grunted, which was Hostage for I’d love to ask you why, but there’s a damn gag in my mouth. Woodbridge pulled aside the tape holding the wad of cloth in his mouth. Darius spit out the cloth and hacked a while longer, just for effect. Finally he looked up. “She’s the Champion Knight?” Woodbridge laughed good naturedly. “The Church had trouble accepting it as well. They thought it inconceivable that the Hero of Christendom could be a woman. Bear in mind, this was the same Church hierarchy that burned Jean D’Arc a hundred years before. But Purity, like Joan, was chosen by God. They had no say in the matter.” Sir Austen spoke up. “But one difference. Saint Joan is dead, and my Lord is not so easily killed.” We’ll see about that, Darius thought. Woodbridge smiled. “Nor could she be so easily silenced. She had no patience for the cowardice of the bishops, and the endless bickering of Order of St. George. And of course, the Church could not accept this from a woman. So the Order decided that she must die, so that the next Champion, a pawn more amenable to them, could be chosen. They dared not murder her directly, of course. Her death could not be literally by their own hands.” Woodbridge leaned back in the soft upholstery of the limo. “So they buried her alive.” “What?” Darius said. “You see, they merely imprisoned her in the coffin. It would be God’s will if she died there.” “But God did not take her,” Sir Austen said. Darius glanced toward the entrance to the hospital where the armored figure had disappeared. “Uh, how long was she down there?” “Centuries.” “Ouch. So, you’ve been waiting all this time? Why didn’t you dig her up before now?” “Watch your tongue,” the old man said. “It’s all right,” Woodbridge said, raising a hand. “I tried. I hunted for her, but I was hunted as well, by the Order, most energetically by your sister-in-law’s family. For a very long time I could not even enter the continent of Europe without being detected. The Order would not let me rest, not with what I carried.” “You had the sword.” He nodded. “My lord knew she would be captured. She gave the sacred weapon, and I fled. When finally I returned, I hunted for her tomb, but the secret of its location was buried as well. Then the Order found me again. Your brother and his wife succeeded in capturing the sword, but I escaped with my life.” “Wait a minute,” Darius said. “How did you know she was still alive?” Woodbridge blinked. “Because I still breathed. Since the moment I accepted the commission as her squire, I have been tied to her. I knew she wasn’t dead, because I was still alive. It was my duty to resurrect her. To restore her to office. “When I finally succeeded in finding her, the centuries had changed her. They had buried her in the armor, you see. Such an instrument of grace leaves its mark. It is too pure, too holy. Continuous contact makes one… unearthly. Angelic." Darius stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "I hadn't noticed." "Oh, but such a mark is very noticeable to ones who have the eyes to see. Purity goes to great pains to keep her light under a bushel, when she can: there are certain rituals that help obscure her presence. But when she wields the sword, and dons the armor, she is like the burning bush. There is no hiding her light." Darius laughed. “I bet. She probably sets off Geiger counters." Woodbridge didn't seem offended. "In a manner of speaking. It’s why the squires bear the mantles of office whenever possible. Not only can we take on some of this 'spiritual radiation' on her behalf, we may also protect her. If we can deflect attention from her, even a little while, then that is the squire’s job as well. “Right... so you two wear the goods all day and pretend to be the big rich guys, and she pretends to be the lowly servant girl.” “In some ways, it’s no act,” Woodbridge said. “My Lord is the servant. Her vows prevent her from owning property, not even the clothes on her back. It is the squire’s job to provide that. If her enemies misapprehend her nature, so much the better. She is a woman. She is used to being underestimated. A few contenders have learned that lesson too late.” “Okay, what does the baby have to do with this?” Woodbridge frowned. “You really don’t know, do you? Didn’t your brother tell you?” “He didn’t have the chance,” Darius said levelly. “The baby is the key to the rebirth of the true Church. Over the years the Church has strayed from the true teaching, grown soft. The baby is prophesied to bring a new sacrament that will transform the world. He will raise an army of Christian soldiers, bound to him by blood, and we will finally reclaim the Holy Land, destroy the Muslim nations, wipe the pagans and atheists from the earth. The world will be set to rights ” Darius gaped at him. “You’re crackers.” Woodbridge smiled sadly. “No. It's the world that has gone crazy. Over the centuries, my lord has has not strayed. She has not forgotten. She has not compromised. The name she chose for herself in this new life is no accident: She is pure.” Darius rolled his eyes. “Pure nuts, you mean.” “Enough!” the old man said. “Put the gag back in his—Woodbridge?” The young man looked suddenly older. His skin had turned chalky white, and his eyes were wide and staring. “Something is wrong,” Woodbridge said quietly. Darius stared. The boy was aging before his eyes. His skin turned dry and translucent, like paper. He fell back against the seat, clutching at his heart. His fingers, already bones, disintegrated and powdered the front of his jacket. “Uh oh,” Darius said. He pushed himself back into the corner of the seat. Sir Austen wasn't looking too hot either. The teeth had fallen from his mouth, and his eye sockets were empty. Darius blinked, and the old man’s skull collapsed in on itself like a log reduced to ash. A moment later Darius was alone in the back of the limousine with two sets of empty clothes. From behind the glass divider, the driver stared in horror. Discretion, ladies and gentlemen, had left the building. The chauffeur suddenly opened his door and leaped out. He ran pell-mell into the depths of the dim parking garage, not even looking back. "Come back here!" Darius called after him. What a ninny. Now who was going to untie him? He shook his head sadly, then looked down at Woodbridge's shiny black shoes. The leather looked soft, and expensive. He nudged one shoe with his foot, tipping it over, and dust spilled out. He placed his feet next to it. "Hey, size nine!" Darius said. "This must be my lucky night." A woman's face gazed out at him. Her eyes, under half-closed lids, were unmoving. Her mouth and chin were smeared with blood. It was Purity. "Son of a…" Blake's voice trailed off in a whisper. Blake looked down at the face of the woman in the black armor and tried to recall something useful from the sensitivity training class he'd had to take when he was down in Silicon Valley. Nothing came to mind. She was dead and Blake had caused it. He hadn't known what the arrow could do, but that hadn't stopped him from using it. Even the fact that "he" was a "she" was a terrible shock. He also felt enraged at Woodbridge; the archer felt he had to blame the man for somehow duping him. Jonathan knew he'd been completely fooled on the pecking order their trio represented. The brief vision of Woodbridge in the armor had him convinced that he was the knight. The knight's comments on squires had led him to believe that Purity was the second. The old man was maybe an advisor of some kind. The lineup had changed and Purity was a scratch. The mantle might now fall to the squire, but who would that be? And between Woodbridge and the old man, who was actually in charge? Jonathan didn't know but he could only get the answers from one of them, and he had an idea he'd find them with a long black limo. And he knew he had to assume the same mantle as the one his parents had chosen. He had to get that sword and safeguard it from use. He pulled a small canister out a side pocket on the quiver and sprayed the contents out onto Purity. The chemical catalyst started to spread like a virus and the sticky foam began to harden and crackle. Soon it would turn to powder and fall away. Crossfire turned to Stokes while he waited for it to finish. "Okay, the knight is dead. If you need to arrest me, then go ahead. But here's the thing, this isn't over yet and I'm the only one who can piece it all together. If my guess is right, there's going to be someone else down here soon and anxious to continue on where she left off. We need to get the kid, we need to take whatever we can from the knight for no other reason than to keep the bad guys from using it and we need to all get away from here." "I'm sure you're having a moral dilemma here, but consider it like being undercover. Sometimes you have to let an arrest go by so you reel in a bigger fish. If we don't, I promise you can land me anytime you want. But I need to do this, with or without you." Blake extended his hand, "I'd prefer with." Stokes stared at his hand for a moment, and then sighed. "Dude," he said finally. "I'm a cop. You just offed someone, and it wasn't even the Wood-guy you said you were after." He glanced at the door to the boiler room, where the child was hiding. "I'll help get the kid to a safer place. But I'm calling down CPD to take care of the body. No field stripping it, no moving it, no tampering, period. And then, if the knights of the fuckin' round table haven't stormed the building, I gotta take you in and file my report." Jonathan didn't want to screw with the law, but he wasn't going to jail. Not that Stokes needed to know that now. "Fine, and thank you. The child must be protected. If you don't want the body touched, fine, but I'd call a lot of cops down here. She had a squire, and the first thing he or she will be coming for is the armor and the sword." "Well, we've got half the squad here already, so it shouldn't be a problem." "Yeah, and I heard the same thing the night I went in with the DEA to get those agents out. Well, as long as we can get enough of them down here. I'll wait here for you while you talk to the mother." "The mom. Right. Any clue what her name is?" "Honestly? I can't recall." Stokes frowned again and turned toward the door. He stood to the side of it and knocked hard. "Ma'am? This is Detective Stokel! Are you in there?" There was no answer. Then a male voice yelled back, "Where's Agent Pender?" Stokes looked at Crossfire, his eyebrows raised. "Can you take this one?" "Last I saw, Pender was topside trying to get me to kiss the baby. If that's a PRIMUS agent…" Crossfire motioned to the fallen knight. "…get him out here to see for himself that it's not safe here." Stokes stepped aside and waved him toward the door. "Be my guest." Crossfire wheeled closer to the metal door. "Last I saw of Pender," he said more loudly, "I was on a gurney headed to surgery. This is Crossfire. I take it there's a PRIMUS agent inside? If so, you might want to have a look out here at what I just stopped from getting to the baby." There was a long silence. "Okay, listen carefully," the man behind the door finally called back. His voice was simultaneously gruff and quavering. "Put your hands in the air. Both of you. Stand in front of the door, not off to the side. Did I mention that your hands should be up? They should be up, where I can see them." Stokes looked at Crossfire, and shrugged. "Better do what the man says before he says it again," Jonathan said to the detective. "No problem," he then called out loudly. And it wasn't he thought, kicking himself back from the door jamb with his one good leg. After all, he was already sitting. The two men watched the doorknob slowly turn. The door opened inward an inch, two inches... then suddenly flew open. Jonathan caught a glimpse of a black hospital security guard holding a very large PRIMUS rifle. Then the door bounced against the inner wall and shut again. "Damn," the guard said. The door swung open again, more slowly this time, and the guard planted a foot to stop it from closing. He brought up the gleaming rifle to point at Crossfire's chest. "Freeze!" he yelled, even though neither Stokes nor Crossfire were moving. "Frozen," Crossfire said. "Now, can we talk?" The guard—Lenny? Carl? Jonathan couldn't remember—glanced sideways at someone inside the room, then back to Crossfire. "Okay, talk." Jonathan wasn't sure how well this would go. The guard seemed hesitant and nervous; not a great candidate to be making decisions on his own. "I know you have a baby under guard in there, but this area is not safe. We've stopped someone out here in the hallway, someone who wanted to take the baby. Somehow she knew the baby was here, so others must as well. Do you know where Agent Pender is?" "Maybe." He licked his lips. "She told us to wait here, and don't leave with anybody but her. I remember you from upstairs, even without the mask." He nodded at Stokes. "But who's he?" "He's the police. Can you please show him your badge, Stokes?" Jonathan didn't bother to look if Stokes did or not; he closed his eyes. It didn't look like they'd be going anywhere soon. If there were others coming, Jonathan wanted to know about it before they showed up. He tried—no, he thought, don't try. He relaxed, and let his surroundings wash away. He opened his eyes. He could see the same bright flame as before, burning just yards away, on the other side of the cinderblock wall. Another light—its mother?—was adjacent to it. Less bright, but very clear, were the essences of the guard, Stokes, and another person who seemed to be standing near the child. Blake turned his head left and right, looking up as he did so. Whoever else might come wouldn't already be in the basement. The floor directly above him was crowded with life signs. The intervening ceiling and floors obscured the "view," but there didn't seem to be any brilliant flames like the ones that had emanated from the baby and Purity. As he turned his head toward the north end of the hallway, though, he did pick up a strong signal. Whoever was stepping out of the elevator was projecting an aura that was stronger than Stokes and stronger than the security guard. Someone not normal, someone like… "Agent Pender!" the guard said. She stood for a moment in the elevator, taking in the scene. Dead person in armor, resting on a bed of white foam. The security guard—Lenny or Carl, it was a detail she'd deemed insignificant moments after she'd met the two of them—with the brick-breaker. Crossfire, conscious and nearly ambulatory, the sight of which caused a cascade of several unique types of relief to flood her mind, and Stokes, which immediately countered every one of them; his presence was neither required nor desired. Nobody seemed to be freaking out too much besides the security guard, so things probably hadn't gone to Hell just yet. Odds were that Crossfire, despite his Ironsides status, had killed the knight. It was just the way things usually went. Besides, that white gunk had come from somewhere, and she was willing to bet one of the archer's arrows was responsible. Unless Stokes had decided to chuck the whole "police" thing, Crossfire had likely just stepped onto the official Wrong Side of the Law in front of a bona-fide cop, which complicated her plans considerably. Even so, it wasn't the worst thing that'd happened in the past twenty-four hours. Not that this level of analysis was really necessary. It was just a knee-jerk reaction, really, but she didn't let the details distract her from her goals. The elevator door started to shut; she put out a hand to stop it and stepped out into the hall. "I've come for the baby." |