Victory of Coins (The Judas Chronicles, #7) (21 page)

At first, he regarded me with a perplexed and scornful look. Then, as I expected, he found the whole thing quite humorous. An uneasy snort erupted into full laughter, and then he let go of my throat while encouraging the dark throng to chime in with their cacophonous voices—like a cartoonish convention of cackling, old-hag witches.

But then he stopped laughing and suddenly his hands were around my neck again, the tissues of my throat and neck collapsing beneath his powerful fingers.

“You are wrong, William—Hate DOES win!’
he shrieked.
“ALWAYS!”

This was it. I began to black out. I didn’t fight to breathe, as I was resigned to begin my journey out of this body, to drift quietly into the emptiness of purgatory, and then finally into my familiar nakedness someplace else—likely in a different part of the world and perhaps a few years from now.

My ability to see disappeared first. But just before I could no longer hear Viktor Kaslow’s shrieks of bitter rage or feel his spit upon my face, the demons’ disharmonious roar quieted and I heard a woman’s angry battle cry followed by Kaslow gasping for air.

A rush of coolness embraced my lungs as his hands fell away from my throat, and as my body responded to yet another chance to stay alive, my vision returned. First as a hazy blur, I soon could make out the frozen stare of Kaslow’s lifeless face, less than a foot from mine.

He was dead.

A glowing crystal shard the size of my palm rested on my chest, along with the wicked bastard’s foul smelling, shriveled heart. Likely the organ had died the day he should’ve been carried off to Hell, nearly five years ago.

Rachel stood above me, her bloodstained hands holding a Byzantine blade of sharpened iron that once had graced the end of a kataphraktoi warrior’s spear.

Oh my God—She did this?

The woman whom I had perpetually scorned smiled at me with compassion while pushing Kaslow’s corpse aside. She offered her hand to help me get to my feet.

“It’s finished,” Rachel whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “You’re finally free.”

––––––––

K
aslow was dead... but I was far from free.

All I knew for certain, after watching Cedric and Roderick tossed to the ground before Bochicha’s Emissaries fled in a squalling flock from Fanari Castle, was that Kaslow had been correct. I was no closer to finding the Damascus Coin than I had been the last time I looked for it in earnest, shortly after the turn of the nineteenth century.

The coldness in the old fortress was warmer than the hope that remained within my heart.

“Perhaps the Lord will fully pardon your trespass this time,” Rachel suggested, as we trudged back to the Jeep. “If you hadn’t bravely faced Kaslow’s best shot, the rest of us likely would have perished in there.”

Her wounds had completely healed and disappeared, and the staggering loss of blood had not left her severely anemic, as I expected. Then again, I am not an expert on the stigmata phenomena, and find myself amazed by what little permanent damage the experience of sharing Jesus Christ’s wounds creates.

Cedric and Roderick both suffered cuts from the demons’ talons, which they seemed to hardly notice in their joy to still be alive. I envied their ability to cherish life itself—the one truly amazing gift all of us experience by The Almighty’s grace. Life and love are eternal.

My recognition of those facts notwithstanding, I remained in a veritable hell since both life and love for me meant an ongoing existence without Beatrice and Alistair. Yes, I did have Roderick, and I cherished our ancient bond more than ever. But as I looked back at the dying torches surrounding the castle, I realized the fading firelight was ironically similar to what was happening to the passion inside my soul. I, too, would soon be a deserted edifice—filled with memories of a glorious but distant past. Destined to become a ruined shell of my previous self in future years, and a mere specter of the man who once embraced hubris and each day as if both were mine alone to enjoy.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Roderick whispered to me, once we were back inside the Yukon and preparing to head back to the airport in Istanbul. “You should learn to share all of it—the hubris, pain, love—everything you feel with those who care about you, Judas. Too often you are an island to yourself.”

Of course I shot him an irritated look, since I was in no way ready to leave my self-pity. And, in fairness to my broken heart, I needed time to figure out how to live without the prospects of seeing the woman and offspring I cherished above all others. Yet in fairness to Roderick, Cedric, and now Rachel, I needed to not be so selfish as to cut them off. They deserved the best I could muster from within.

“That’s the spirit, Judas,” said Roderick, compassionately, keeping his voice low while Cedric and Rachel discussed how to backtrack along the road we had taken while avoiding the treacherous pitfalls that had nearly sent us tumbling a few hundred feet into a ravine on the way to the castle. “It’s exactly what I resolved to do for you so long ago. Trust me that it works, and know that I will be there for you, always.”

He patted me on the shoulder, and I caught Cedric looking back at us from the front passenger seat. Surely he was aware that another dreaded half-talk/half-thought conversation was going on between Roderick and me. But this time he merely smiled, as surely his gratefulness to still be among the living overrode all pettiness.

“How are the cuts on your arms coming along?” I asked him, motioning to where he held one of my son’s crystals against the deepest one. It already looked significantly better in the short time that had passed since we exited the castle. I had a better mental picture now of how he had recovered from the injuries he sustained from Kaslow in Ethiopia. “It looks like the crystals are working wonders for you.”

“They are,” he said. “But, man-n-n-n, what I wouldn’t do to spend an hour with that giant sucker that came out of Kaslow’s chest.”

Rachel gave him a scornful look. “It’s probably best that we find a place to bury it, since no doubt it has been tainted by Kaslow’s wickedness.” She glanced to the rear of the vehicle, where the larger shard’s glow illuminated the area behind the back seats.

“Speaking of which, you never finished telling me what happened back there,” I said to her. “You left off at the point of waking up in your blood. And, even though you felt a sudden surge of powerful energy, you didn’t immediately come to save my ass. You really cut it close.”

I smiled to let her know I was teasing, although she had yet to finish telling us what happened. I thought Cedric and Roderick could share what they had witnessed, but as Kaslow sought to strangle the life out of me, the demons were preparing to dine on their bodies as well, moving them away from being able to see what was happening to Rachel and me on the foyer floor below.

“I wasn’t sure if I would be allowed to save you, Judas,” she confessed, casting a sorrowful glance my way through the rearview mirror as we began our trek back to the city. “I saw what was about to happen to Cedric and Rod, and when I moved to grab a spearhead to throw at the demons, five swooped down toward me. For a moment I feared they would attack, until I saw they were keeping a safe distance from me. It was a major change from how they had reacted to me before, and I became brave enough to snatch the weapon from the wall.

“The mere waving of it caused them to retreat, and when I pointed the weapon’s tip at the guys, Rod and Cedric were suddenly moved to the front, as if Bochicha’s demons were offering them to me as peace tokens. Just to make sure they weren’t going to be harmed or used as human shields, I threatened to throw the blade, and that’s when the demons dropped them both on the floor.”

“I believe the timing of what happened is what saved Cedric and me from being filleted,” added Roderick. “It was as if they were waiting on your death, Judas, which I worried would happen at any time. I’ll take a thirty foot drop anytime over that alternative.”

“And, that’s what gave me the courage to approach Kaslow, who had almost succeeded in strangling the life out of you.” Rachel regarded me via the mirror again. “I intended to hit him hard on the neck or head, and irritate him enough to release you and come after me instead.”

I had a hard time picturing this description, since the images of Kaslow’s dead stare and his rotted heart resting on my chest didn’t speak to head or neck trauma.

“I doubt you will believe what happened next.” She shook her head, smiling weakly.

“Try me, please,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like an ass.

“All right... I’m a pretty good aim, as you know from the past,” she said. “But not that time. I aimed for Kaslow’s head, and it was almost as if an unseen hand pushed the spearhead down to where it not only struck him between his shoulder blades, it cut through the flesh, as if his powerful muscles had been weakened or tenderized. As you know, Kaslow had been impossible to hurt since gaining his immortal status. So, I was stunned to see the luminescent green glow from the crystal as it exited his chest along with his unholy heart.”

“It definitely smelled unholy,” I deadpanned.

“Did any of your blood touch the spearhead before it pierced him?” asked Roderick.

“Yes, my blood had to have touched the spearhead, since I was completely covered in it,” she said. “You saw me—I was drenched. I would still be drenched in blood if not for the towelettes and a change of clothes I brought with me tonight.”

“Do you always travel like that—ready for the inevitable mess?” I teased, encouraged that my sharp tongue seemed to have survived.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” she replied, her widening smile telling me she liked my outer mood. Hell they were all smiling and I did feel a little better—mainly because I wasn’t thinking about my fate. However, I knew it and the pain it generated would be waiting for me once the clowns packed up the circus and went home.

“I think your blood is the reason Kaslow is dead and we’re all alive,” said Roderick. “I would wager that’s why the demons backed away, too.”

“How so?” asked Cedric. “Are you suggesting Rachel’s blood is special, like it’s holy or some shit?”

“Only when she bleeds from the wounds of Jesus Christ,” said Roderick. “Otherwise, she’s just a common bleeder like the rest of us sots.”

We needed a good laugh... but there was also plenty of seriousness to this. I took the opportunity to pepper Rachel with a few questions pertaining to her condition.

“Do you still stretch the truth conveniently like you used to do?” I asked her, ignoring possible consequences for throwing a wet blanket upon the flames of our improving camaraderie. Fortunately, she must’ve sensed where I was going with this. After her initial surprise, she nodded and smiled again.

“Do you mean like what happened between you and me on that Dutch ship, and everything else we went through back then?”

“Yes,” I said, pleased I wouldn’t have to spell it out for Cedric and Roderick. “That, and also the story about how you became immortal. I confess, the tale you spun five hundred years ago never made sense to me. I mean, you were seriously executed for stealing clay figurines in Judea and selling them as your own? You might’ve been maimed for that crime, but since you are a woman, you would’ve been forced into a slavery arrangement or had your hands cut off.... But strapping you down and letting you boil in the sun until death? That’s Roman barbarianism—not the laws of Judea.”

Again, she could’ve become angry—especially since Roderick eyed me as if I had just struck a blow to his previous image of her. I suppose he can’t always deduce the truth from a person’s thoughts.

“It’s always tough with another immortal,” he said, a covert attempt to answer my question without alerting Cedric that we were at it again.

“Tell you what, Rachel. If you’ll come clean on how you became an immortal, and also tell us when your bleeding problem started, I will spare you ridicule and questions forevermore in regard to what happened during our ill-fated sixteenth-century misadventure,” I said. “What do you say?”

“It was my sister’s fault,” she said, after readily accepting my offer.

“What sister?” asked Roderick, eyeing her with suspicion. “I thought you had five brothers?”

“I did have five brothers,” she said. “I told you I came from a very big family, Rod... does five brothers sound enormous to you, given the era we were born in?”

He shrugged his shoulders and offered an amused grin. “I guess not.”

“For the record, I had eight sisters, too,” she said. “Fourteen children, counting me, qualifies as a very big family, no?”

“That’s a lot of kids,” I agreed. “I had two brothers and a sister....” Not sure why, but I started to choke up. I hadn’t thought of anyone other than one brother, Joseph, and my mother and father in many centuries. We might even be talking a millennium at least. But I pictured Mara and Matthew, my youngest siblings, who were twins, as if I had just spoken to them yesterday. I had loved them more than anyone growing up, other than my mother, who died when I was fairly young.

“I had two brothers,” said Cedric, nodding thoughtfully. “They’re all dead now.”

“Perhaps we should talk about something else,” Roderick suggested, deftly avoiding his own upbringing. Since I was certain he wouldn’t divulge anything in the Yukon, I will state here that he has spoken of a sister he was quite fond of, and a brother who was much older than him that died in the war against Roman occupation of ancient Britain. He rarely spoke of his parents, and I suspected his childhood and teenage years were not happy for him. “Like whether or not we wanted to return to Rome before heading back to the United States.”

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” I agreed. “But first, I have one last question for you, Rachel.... Since you weren’t executed in the manner you had long purported to be true, how did you become one of us?”

She paused to study me through the rearview mirror—long enough for Cedric to reach over and steady the steering wheel when the Yukon began to veer off the road.

“I was cursed for not believing in the divinity of Jesus Christ,” she said, finally, to which Roderick sat up, his towering torso leaning toward her to learn more. Cedric’s response was similar, while I relaxed and waited for the truth I had once been highly curious about. “My youngest sister, Mary, was a free spirit that my brothers and father worried would someday shame our family. In truth, she was born two thousand years too early, as she would have fit in well with the hippie culture of Haight-Ashbury in the 1960s.... But back in our time, it wasn’t acceptable.... Was it, Judas?”