The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (64 page)

“Oh, really?” Paul roared, standing to his feet. “Let’s test that theory.”

“
Hey, lads! Listen up!”
Total silence. Crickets. That in itself was a major miracle for any Blarney Stone in the world on St. Patty’s Day.

“I’m very sorry to inform you all that I haven’t been completely honest in regards to our sacred objectives. In fact, our ancient ancestors had a hand in Christ’s demise and now those O’Neil cunts are looked upon more favorably by the big man upstairs than my humble self. All that being said, I need to know…
are you still with me?
”

“
LONG LIVE THE KING! LONG LIVE CLAN KELLY!”
they shouted deafeningly.

“Thanks so much for your support, lads! The next six rounds are on me!”

He sat down, smoothed his hair back and smiled. I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he held a blunt finger to my lips.

“Yes, I know. I’ve answered so many of your questions, only to raise a thousand more. But there’s one thing I need to know too.” He paused, taking a deep gulp of whiskey.

“Do you want it bad enough, Billy? Are you ready to claim your legacy?”

“What exactly does that mean…my legacy?”

“You will rule by my side as you always have. After you kill that stupid cow in front of the Guardian, of course.”

“I have to kill her in front of Martin? He’ll rip my fucking head off!”

“You underestimate your own power. When the time comes, you’ll hold your own. You must kill that rotten shank while he watches so Martin will fully surrender to his fate, to his clan, to his king and to his vow. All love and the hope of love must be annihilated in him completely, as I have done at every fork in the road. Now it’s your turn. You must cut his last tether to this world. He must turn fully to our side, and against Sophia and her foul spawn.”

“Why don’t you take me instead of Martin? I’ll trade my body for Rose. It’s not like I’m doing much with it anyway. We both like the same stuff…well not all the same stuff, but you know what I mean.”

“You’re a little soft for my tastes. Martin is a thoroughbred. Blood, bones and muscle. He’s got what I need to reach the finish line. All that clean living, don’t you know? I appreciate your generosity, though, if not your motivation. Still, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”

“Don’t you want a pound of brains to go with the brawn? Talk about horsepower. Martin is not exactly…”

“You don’t have the right to carry that boy’s dirty laundry, let alone besmirch his abilities!” Paul shouted, instantly livid. “You know nothing of him whatsoever! If you did, you’d know he has just as fine a gearbox as you. Besides, I’ll be doing all the thinking for both of us soon…and you’ll have your hands full with Tetron.”

He was trying to tempt me again. It was starting to work. But some stronger part of me came rushing out, surprising Paul and even myself. “I won’t do it. Not for you, not for me, not for all the money and power in the universe.”

“If you won’t do it for me…” he began softly, growing louder with every word. “And you won’t do it for yourself…then do it for something that really matters…”

Then he raised his glass and shouted to the rafters. When he shouted a second time, the whole crowd joined him, raising their drinks and angel-head rings to the ceiling:

“
DO IT FOR THE GLORY OF CLAN KELLY!!!”

When she saw that Martin had disappeared, Rose shrieked like Jamie Lee Curtis in the first
Halloween
movie.
“Marrrtiiinnnn!”
Then she ran around the corner.

“Oh, God! There you are! You scared the shit out of me!”

Martin was crouching outside the white door, staring at her like a pistol-packing Cyclops, a finger on his lips. When she crept over to him, Martin handed her the Beretta, told her to go back into the bedroom, lock the door and stay there.

“No fucking way,” she whispered, shaking her head violently. “You are
not
leaving me alone again.”

Martin grimaced like her response was causing him physical pain, then turned his attention to the door, twisting the brass handle. It was locked. He fired a bullet directly into the keyhole. It still wouldn’t open. Rose cowered beside him, praying the door would stay locked and Martin would flee with her to the elevator. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not if he thought Paul was in there.

Martin fired again, the
bang
so loud she covered her ears with both hands. Still the door refused to budge. He was about to empty the rest of the clip into the lock, when he heard something on the other side of the door that was even louder than his pistol.

Boom!!!
Then again.
BOOM!!!

“Holy Shit. What the hell was that?” Rose asked, trembling.

Martin shook he head. He didn’t have a clue.

But it sounded like a wrecking ball.

The Striker rolled toward the altar just as Paul leapt into the air and crashed his boot heels where his head had been resting. Loren snatched up the big iron mallet, his other hand still gripping his own trusty ball-peen hammer.

Ca-ching!
“I’m so glad you arrived on time, old friend,” Paul purred, wiping his face with the dull side of his sickle. “To every beginning an end, to every end a beginning.”

“You will fail without me,” The Striker replied, circling around Paul in a wide orbit. “William cannot protect you as the Guardian,” he said, pointing at my inert body. “But I can. Together we’ll be more powerful than all the Clans combined. Honor me with your glory.”

“You tryin’ to sweet-talk me now?” Paul chuckled, pacing around him in front of the altar, tightening his circles with every lap. “Do you really think I need a traitorous Dutch boy to turn the Great Wheel?”

“So be it,” The Striker said.

Paul stopped moving. “You know something, Loren? I’ve always admired you.”

“And I you,” The Striker replied honestly, still circling around him.

“So, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Paul said, his body now perfectly aligned with the lectern, the Book, the altar and the angel. “I’m going to let you keep your head.”

Whooooosh!
The Striker swung the iron mallet in a blinding four-foot arc. Paul tilted his body to the side at what would have been the precise moment of impact, wheeling around with his blade while the force of Loren’s swing and the weight of the hammer pulled him off balance.

Clang!
Paul sliced the handle of the ball-peen hammer neatly in two, the head falling to the floor, the haft a useless stump in Loren’s grip. Loren regained his balance just in time for Paul slam his fist into his face, smashing his long, aquiline nose. Not easily deterred, Loren quickly countered, connecting a solid blow to Paul’s shoulder with the iron hammer.
Crunch!

I propped myself up on my elbows, finally able to move again. But I didn’t know where to go or what to do. Should I start shooting? The gun was still in my grip. And if the answer was yes, who should I aim at first? The two of them were going at it like rock-em-sock-em robots, only six feet away from me. The way their fists, hammers and sickles were flying, I could get killed just trying to stand up. So I crawled behind the altar, peeking around the corner. So much for Mr. Triumphant.

Clannnnnng!
The sickle lodged itself in the handle of the giant iron hammer. The Striker punched him in the throat.
“Aaack!”
Paul gacked, hitting the floor with a thunderous
boom!
Loren dove on him, both fists scrunched together, targeting Paul’s solar plexus. Paul lifted both knees to his chest and kicked his leaping adversary in the gut with so much force that he landed on the altar with another resounding
boom!
Then Paul charged to the altar like a juggernaut, grabbed Loren by the throat and crotch, lifted him over his head and slammed him down on the altar again in a bone-crunching thud.
Boom! BOOOOOM!

Paul pummeled him against the sacrificial slab again and again, lifting his limp, bruised body over his head one final time and flinging it to the base of the angel’s cross where his head slapped against the wood with a sharp, wet
crack.

The Striker lay motionless at the foot of the cross, the back of his skull bleeding, propped against the wood like a hard pillow. His long, skeletal frame sprawled across the floor, his feet pointing toward the altar, his blue-veined arms spread akimbo in a crude parody of the glorious white wings poised directly above him.

Paul laughed like a madman and grabbed the handle of his fallen sickle, yanking it from the mallet with a wine cork
pop
. He drew his arm back like a baseball pitcher warming up, then threw his sickle straight for Loren’s neck like a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball.

Chiiiiiingg!
The blade lodged on either side of his throat, the long, curved arch forming a razor-sharp collar around The Striker’s gasping trachea. A thin red stream trickled from the lump of his Adam’s apple, until it gathered at the blade’s anchor points, anointing the cross with its first taste of blood. The wood sucked it up like a straw.

Paul looked at the knife and the spikes on the altar, then shook his head and reached under Loren’s loincloth. What the fuck was he doing? Looking for nails. There was pouch full of them—a nice assortment of lengths and gauges. Paul used them quickly and judiciously: long, thick nails for his hands and feet, pounding the steel mercilessly through the yielding bone and muscles into the floor; small, thin nails for his eyelids. He nailed them to his brow.

“There, that should hold you awhile,” Paul said, rubbing his hands together. “This momentous occasion requires a proper witness, and I can think of no one more qualified for that vital role than you, dear Loren…my faithful wizard!”

The Striker said nothing. Saw nothing. Paul was so happy he didn’t care. He was staring at me as I stood by the door, turning the handle. “Whoa there, Nellie!” he shouted, raising the hammer, letting me know how accurately he was prepared to throw it at my quivering face. “Judging from the way you took me down before, and your treasonous negotiations with that slithering snake, I can only come to the conclusion that you mean me bodily harm. And while we’re on the subject of unvarnished betrayals, how could you let that stinking harlot live? Cocktail trays? Are you still numb to the threat she represents? Or are you so sick with your tainted affections that you’re willing to trade punches with me rather than send her off to Hades? Is that the God’s honest truth? Do you really want a piece of…me?”

I shook my head vigorously.
No! No! NO!

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Paul grinned, clenching his bloody fists, one finger curled and beckoning. “Let’s see what you got, then. Come to poppa, Billy boy!”

Wham!
Martin punched a hole through the wooden door like Bruce Lee, reached inside and turned the door handle. He shouldn’t have bothered. I had just unlocked it. He threw open the door, ready to fire. When he saw us, he watched instead.

“Holy Fuck!” Rose blurted out, peeking around the doorframe.

Paul and I were too preoccupied to pay much attention to either of them. He was coming at me like a giant Kodiak bear, his nailless hands raised like claws. I tried to think, but a voice inside my head issued a different command, “Shoot first, think later.”