The Judas Line (31 page)

My lips curled in what some might call a smile. “I am a bit lost, I guess.”

The woman leaned forward and I smelled … hyacinth. “What are you looking for?”

What indeed? “A place big enough to lose myself in, but not too big. Big enough to have the comforts of city life. Some place forgotten by man.”

Her laughter reminded me of sleigh bells. “Are you running from the law?”

“No, just from Family.”

“Omaha,” she said brightly. “Yes, definitely Omaha.”

“Omaha? You mean Nebraska?” I scratched my chin. “Really? Nebraska?” Who the hell lived in Nebraska?

“See? Even you are surprised at the thought. Don’t worry; it’s a nice, peaceful place, a good place to raise a family, if a bit boring.”

“Nebraska? Omaha?” I rolled the words around in my mouth a few times. Yes, that just might work. I put on my best smile. “Thank you. Yes, that should work. Thank you very much.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said over her shoulder, heading toward the exit.

I called after her. “I didn’t get your name!”

She turned around, walking backwards, and said, “I didn’t give it.” With that she strode purposefully toward the door.

For some reason, as I watched her depart the station, I heard the sound of bells.



I smiled as the last page slipped through my fingers to float gently to the floor. What a story. Angels, Words, Satan, The Silver, everything Morgan had endured and the family that had twisted him. It was amazing that he was relatively sane.

My eyes closed and I fell into the most peaceful, deep sleep I’d had in weeks.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Morgan

Next stop, Omaha, (the irony was not lost on me) where we boarded a private jet. Cain spent the entire trip on the cell, calling several people in what I realized was his huge organization, and by late afternoon we landed in New York, where a stretch limo waited for us as well as plenty of fine food. The ride was smooth enough that we didn’t spill a drop of the cabernet, which went quite well with the venison.

By the time the calamari vanished into my growling stomach and the bottle surrendered its last drop, we had arrived at our destination, an old warehouse in Clinton near the water. Cain led the way in and the limo silently rolled away, sticking out like rose in a compost heap in the former Hell’s Kitchen.

“What do you use this place for?” I asked, following Cain up a steep set of stairs to the second floor.

“Truth be told, I am not sure,” he answered, keys jangling in one hand. During the second leg of our trip his attitude had changed; he had become more commanding, almost imperious and businesslike.

Cain found the right key and inserted it into the lock of a plain white door marked OFFICE. We entered a largish square room roughly twenty feet on a side, containing several old wooden chairs and an oak desk. Sitting at the desk was a youngish man with coal-black hair cut short and a ridiculously cleft chin. His unibrow rose in surprise when he looked first at me then at my companion.

“Cain, thank God,” he said, striding forward to engulf the man in a ferocious hug. “I was getting bored out of my mind.”

“It does my eyes good to behold you again, my friend,” Cain said, returning the hug hard enough that I heard ribs creak. “Come, give a hale welcome to a new friend discovered mere hours ago.” He disengaged to gesture my way. “This is—”

“Morgan,” I finished, shaking the man’s hand. “Morgan Heart.”

That earned me a strange look, but he smiled brightly and in a slight southern twang, “Alan. Alan Mendomer, good to meet you.”

Cain took a seat behind the desk. “Alan is apprenticed to me, a magus of no small talent. He has agreed to assist us on our perilous quest in exchange for a Word.”

Alan snorted. “It’s about time y’all gave me another Word, boss. Been a dog’s age.”

“And earn this Word you will, Alan. But let us attend to other matters.”

I leaned in close to the southerner and whispered, “Does he always talk like that?”

“Ever since I met him,” he whispered in reply.

Cain ignored our byplay and asked, “The supplies that I had ordered en route, have they reached this facility? And where, pray tell, is the lovely and fearsome Maggie?”

“Yeah, boss, they got here an hour ago. I had them placed. As for Maggie, we all got ourselves a gen-u-ine problem.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Maggie?”

Cain nodded. “Yet another apprentice who toils to earn more Words.”

“Maggie’s got herself in a patch of trouble with that ijit crowd she hangs with,” Alan said. “Talked to Haime and he says he’s not givin’ her up. Says she owes big time.”

“She has angered the League? That news bodes poorly for our venture.”

“The League?” I asked.

Alan shot me a glance. “The League of Valhalla. Bunch of damn-fool boneheads who like to dress up as Norsemen, fronted by a bigger bonehead named Haime.”

“Haime? Really?”

“S’what he calls himself.”

“Well, let us tarry no longer, lest we grow roots through the soles of our boots.” Cain rose and stretched. “Alan, do ready our supplies and weaponry for a battle most dire. We shall return shortly with the delectable Maggie.”

“Sure, gotcha boss. It’ll be a laugh riot.”

“What’s the plan, Cain?” I asked, following the tall man back down the stairs and out into the street.

He sighed. “You will have a rare opportunity to meet a god.”

I had the feeling that things were spiraling out of control. Fortunately, I was used to it. “So, where to?”

“We have the good fortune to find ourselves in the same locale as the gathering place of the League. Our dear delicate Maggie is a long-standing member of the League and it is that very reason I chose this warehouse as our staging point.” We walked down the canyons of Clinton, the old buildings a testament to a craftsmanship lost to those who now constructed buildings of glass and steel. “It had occurred to me that she would be otherwise occupied, but of all my apprentices, she is the most capable of undertaking highly dangerous tasks. Make no mistake, Alan will be an asset, but Maggie ... well, you shall see.”

I nodded absently, feeling a little uncomfortable. New York City affected me like that, its vibrancy and ferociousness eating away at the slow paced, smaller town comfort I’d grown so used to in Omaha.

Before long we found ourselves on the waterfront, amid more industrial looking warehouses. Our destination proved to be a plain, whitewashed affair complete with loading docks and several glass doors with signs that read: USE OTHER ENTRANCE. All the doors sported the same sign. Cute.

Cain made straight for one and knocked on the aluminum frame. A man like a monolith in a bad black suit with a nasty look plastered to his pug ugly face answered, blocking the opening. “What you want,” he rumbled from some deep dark place.

“My good man,” Cain began with one his patented smiles. “I have come to this location drear to enjoy the hospitality of your employer, who, I am sure you know, has been a good and true friend of mine since time immemorial.”

We waited while the rock that talked deciphered Cain’s complex dialogue. Apparently the effort proved to be too much because he swung that massive head side to side and said, “No.”

“Wait, wait, hold on a minute, Ralphie!” shouted a voice with a thick English dialect. Squeezing around the giant, a skinny man in a gray suit with a dog puke colored tie dusted himself off and offered us an insincere smile. Lank brown hair hung to his lapels. “It’s grand to see you again Mr. Canus. Please don’t give Ralphie here no mind.” He patted the giant on the shoulder.

Canus? I raised an eyebrow at my companion who just smiled blandly and turned to the newcomer.

“Oh, I understand Ralphie must suffer from an over enthusiasm for his profession and his dedication to his employer, which I find quite commendable. Thank you all the same, Stephen.” Cain replied smoothly, his smile not slipping a millimeter.

Stephan continued to grin, the strain of it visible in every line of his pockmarked face. His dishwater hair was swept back from a high forehead that helped to balance a potato-like protuberance of a nose. “Well, Mr. Canus, it is always an honor to have you join our little group. Mr. Haime’s awaitin’ for you in da smoking room with brandy and cigars and whatnot. You and your guest will follow me, please?” With that, Stephan did his best to lever the reluctant Ralphie out of the way. The big man obliged, but I think mostly to avoid getting hair oil on his cheap suit.

As we walked down a long, dark, wood-paneled hallway, the sounds of a raucous good time originating from far off in the warehouse assaulted our ears. The noise up close must have been deafening. Bright blue, red, and yellow banded the carpet that covered the hall floor, lines of cheap shag color leading us to the heart of the warehouse. We eventually came to a plain wooden door with a silver knob. Stephan knocked three times.

“Enter,” said a deep voice from the other side.

We entered to find a largish man sitting in an overstuffed leather recliner, sipping brandy from a snifter and smoking an expensive cigar in front of an electric heater designed to simulate a fireplace. The room was done up in Warm Wood Library circa 1875, all toasty and comfy. The only light radiated from the flickering electric fire that lent the room its air of cut-rate cheeriness.

Dressed in a burgundy-colored smoking jacket and jeans, the man rose gracefully from his recliner. His short beard sparkled honey in the dim light. “Thank you, Stephan,” the man said, sounding like a weary, down-on-his-luck British lord.

Stephan turned without a word and closed the door behind him.

“Cain, good to see you. Want a brandy?” The blond man turned a slightly battered sideboard to fetch a decanter, showing us a long golden braid that hung to his waist.

“As much as I enjoy your fine liquor, Heimdall, my companion and I are here for reasons that are not social.”

Heimdall? “You’re Haime?” I asked.

“That I am, as well as Heimdall. I have so many names.” He tossed me an inquiring look, his irises winking with gold.

I took in his hair, his height and the slight gold hue to his skin that didn’t come from the faux fireplace. The pieces clicked together. “You’re an angel.”

Heimdall/Haime nodded with a rueful twist to his lips. “Fallen, but one of those who decided
not
to rule in Hell.”

“Let me guess: you and your brothers and sisters were worshipped as gods in your own right.”

Heimdall smiled, showing over large teeth. “Of course. Hell is so dreary and mankind is so accommodating to me and mine. We were still mighty then.” A faint look of sorrow flitted across his face. “Earth provides so many comforts, but we still remember Heaven and curse the day we heeded Lucifer’s silver-tongued arguments.” He shook his head. “And who might you be?”

“Me? I go by Morgan Heart.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Would you like a cigar? They’re Dominican.”

To me, most cigars smell like burning turds. “No, thank you.” While it was surprising to find the fallen in NYC, it only made sense. They had to go
somewhere
and why not the City That Never Sleeps? “So, if you’re the mythical Heimdall …”

“I am,” he interrupted smoothly, his teeth shining with enough wattage to rival Cain’s. “Trust me.”

“Quite. Then what is this warehouse? Asgard? Valhalla? If I remember, Heimdall guarded the Bifrost, The Rainbow Bridge, the only entrance to Asgard. I take it that ugly shag outside represents the Bridge?”

The fallen angel turned to Cain. “Look who’s the bright penny. Where did you find this one?”

“This intrepid lad located me. I merely tolerate his company because we have formed an unlikely but mutually beneficial alliance.”

Those golden brows shot up. “Since when do you
ally
yourself with anyone?”

“Since now.” All the humor had left Cain’s face. “I do hate to be a bother, but we have urgent need of the fair Maggie. Please produce her.”

“I can’t do that, old friend.”

No smile, no humor, remained on Cain’s face. Instead, his expression was so neutral that it scared me more than a show of anger. “And why, pray tell, can you not?”

Heimdall stuck a cigar between his teeth and the end flared to life. “Because she broke the rules in a fight. She used magic, the stupid twit.”

“Are you not a lord of Asgard? Can you not, with a snap of your perfect fingers, set her free?”

“I’m just a broken-down old angel, a Potentate who’s had his wings burned off. No one really believes in Asgard anymore.” He waved his snifter around the room. “All this is window dressing. If I let her go, the League will lose faith in the Council have to shut the place down.”

I raised a hand like a third grader in class. “And the League is what exactly?”

It was Cain who answered. “The League is comprised of mortals disenchanted with today’s hustle and bustle world. They wished to be a part of an atavistic society unburdened by the confines of technology and, unfortunately, good hygiene. The Asgardians wished for worshippers and these disaffected souls proved most malleable to persuasion, forming the League of Valhalla.”