Cain (23 page)

Hidden in the basement dark, he gen
tly felt his oozing wounds, wet to the touch. Needles pierced his skin at the soft pressure and he leaned his head back, teeth clenched, enduring what he was forced to endure before he could return to the hospital far above. He had taken only enough blood to leave his victims unconscious. He had killed no one because he did not want attention drawn to the building.

No, he needed
absolute solitude so he had taken just enough blood to begin the transformation – the healing. Doctors would be confused, he knew, and investigate. But they would probably not see the needlelike marks. And by routine procedure—so predictable—they would prescribe medication and transfusions and tests and wait until tonight to see the result of therapy.

Tonight, yes.

When he would emerge . . .

Even in the ravaged aftermath of the battle he had known it was too
early to battle again. First, he realized, he must reconstitute. He must enhance his strength through the long day with the molecular synthesis.

And then, tonight, he would kill them all one by one to regain strength
and renew his battle with . . . with . . . Soloman.

Fangs emerged in a growl.

Somehow, despite his immeasurable rage, the name struck him with a fear he would never reveal. And his eyes glowed in the subterranean depths as he remembered the savage confrontation, seeing once again the fierceness of the warrior as they battled inside the museum.

Yes, in that moment he'd realized that there was no fear in this one; no, this one was different from the rest. He knew only attack, at
tack, attack, like the cursed desert king of old who struck and struck and refused to retreat until victory was finally won.

David
…

How he hated the name.

A warrior-poet, they called him; a warrior-poet who slew tens and tens of thousands; who wrote the Psalms; who conquered the most savage empires the world had ever seen and brought the tribes together at last to unite the priesthood and kingship upon a single throne, something not done since the days of Aaron and Moses.

His endless hate gave him strength as he clenched his fists, feeling skin splitting in blood. And he promised the pain to another, vowing it, feeling it already delivered. For David had returned to the dust from which he came, and was beyond even his reach. Yet here was another, an equal, to take his place. Yes, an equal who could receive the vengeance he'd failed to deliver against the Hebrew king's raging, defiant strength.

Volcanic pain made him twist, contorting him for a long, spellbinding moment and he moaned as he endured. Then it lessened little by little and he finally rested, utterly still, and he was more certain that he would recover soon.

Yes, very
… very soon.

Then he would ascend with the night to deliver his dark, fatal touch to those lying so helplessly above, to those who still had hope . . .

Hope ...

It made him laugh.

No . . . Not tonight
...

Tonight there would be no hope.

***

Marcelle went over the facts, leaving nothing out. He spoke quickly and Aveling's aged visage revealed that he followed. Sometimes the elder priest would nod to himself, discerning and sifting and eliminating what was irrelevant to the more important causes.

"Yes," Aveling said finally. "Yes, Marcelle, I know vaguely of this spell. It is from the old country of the Druids – a place of new sorcery and old where those forest priests still worship the world of the dead."

"But what does it mean?" Marcelle pressed. "I must know, Aveling.
Why does our adversary seek to evoke this incantation?"

The old priest stared away. "The scope of all possible universes must be remembered in this, Marcelle
. Can you remember the cosmology?"

"Yes," Marcelle replied without effort. "The vastness of all conceivable universes is ten raised to the Antonian Abstract
– or ten to the fifteenth power raised to the two-hundredth pi with depth equal to the radius of the visible universe that we know as our own, or twenty billion light-years with mass to the tenth power being the mass inside each sphere."

"Succinc
tly put," Aveling nodded. "And you are familiar with the Omega Point Theory and the Quantum Mechanical Argument?"

For Marcelle, it was elemental. "Yes. Omega Point Theory says that
there is a place where all universes converge at the R-concept zone of alternating light and space. And the Quantum Mechanical Argument hypothesizes that it is possible for two molecules to be exchanged without untoward damage to either universe as long as the replacement molecules are non-injurious to the space-light continuum comprising each. It is a foundational tenet of physics."

"Precisely," the old man said, squinting. "And what implications do
the laws of the Omega Point and Quantum Mechanics have upon the theory of resurrection from the dead?"

Marcelle was stunned. "It
... it is uncertain what—"

"No," the old man broke in sternly, "th
e laws of physics are not uncertain, Marcelle. Reality is, and remains so. Physical laws are unchangeable. So what postulates rise from the certainty of the Omega Point and the possible quantum exchange of molecules from one universe to another?"

"I, ah, are we speaking of an actual, physical resurrection from death,
Aveling?" Marcelle s tone was shocked. "Are we speaking of the brute force resurrection of a human body? The actual resurrection of a human being who has literally died?"

With a laugh the old man answered,
"Why must everything relate to this physical universe, Marcelle? Why, when someone speaks of resurrection, must man relate it to our own flesh?" He laughed again. "It is only the hubris of man that compels him to place himself at the center of the universe, my son."

A pause.

"So," Marcelle began, hesitating as he saw again the monstrous image of Cain growling before him, "this exchange of molecules, or light, can occur between two dimensions that are unknown to us?"

"That is irrelevant, Marcelle." The old gray eyes were as piercing as lasers. "One dimension may be known. None may be known. The question is: Is it possible for this exchange to occur between
one dimension that is seen by us and one that is not seen by us? And yet, when it happens, the unseen becomes the seen because it enters our world?”

Marcelle considered it against the backdrop of established physics. He pondered it quickly, his mind analyzing the concepts against mathematical laws. Finally he looked up. "Yes, Aveling. I believe it is possible. But what are the implications of such a theory?"

"A single stride less than the infinite," replied the old man. "But it is a Rock of Gibraltar theory that these borders of parallel universes are filled with a kind of slashing tide of molecules, as the sea colliding with the shore. And we could even at this moment exchange atoms with other dimensions if we could somehow filter out the static that fills the void. But this is the crux, my son. This static, this roaring of colliding universes, fills the barrier so completely that an accidental exchange of molecules is impossible except when . . ."

Silence.

"Except when what, Aveling?"

"Except when the cosmos is in sufficient arrangement to dilute the static," the old man
answered flatly.

"For instance?"

"It is at the time when Saturn and Mars are conjunct with the water, or the Northern Pole, of the moon – a time that comes only once a year."

"When?"

"On Samhain."

Darkness, silence.

"Samhain," Marcelle repeated. "Five days from now."

"Yes."

"But what does our enemy wish to gain in this?"

"There is no means of knowing. But did you not say that our adversary is somewhat
confused? Did you not say that he cannot remember all he knew?"

"Yes, Aveling
, I am certain that he cannot remember all that he knew." Confusion was evident in Marcelle's eyes. "But how could that be, Father? Why does Cain not remember all that he knew?"

“I
t is simple, Marcelle. Because Cain, as you name him, has just opened his eyes to see."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that a man who has been blind since birth is sometimes healed by miracles of science. But upon seeing for the first time he does not know how to process information gained through his new-formed brain. He cannot see and identify what is 'square,' even though he knows what is square through his other senses. He cannot identify something so simple as a tree or even himself. He knows what a tree is, but if you were to show him a tree, he would not be able to identify it. He must feel it with his hands as you tell him that this is a tree and so he learns little by little. Yes, he learns as his brain discerns itself – until his mind is accustomed to this flesh, and the gaining of it. Not a thing so difficult to understand – even to be anticipated. And Cain is obviously suffering a similar phenomenon. But he will learn, Marcelle. Yes, he will
certainly
learn. He is too terribly intelligent to fail in this task."

"So you are saying that Cain is attempting to acclimate himself to this body? To this brain? Is this the singular reason for his confusion?"

"Nothing is singular, Marcelle. We do not know what forces fight for us. No one does. But that is the essence of Cain's confusion, I believe. He is seeking to acclimate himself to this corporeal form, undead and yet un-living."

Marcelle went into it, Jesuit intelligence flashing keen in his concentrated glare. "Let us use sequential logic," he said.

"Proceed."

"Cain cannot remember all that he knew," he began. "He seeks
The Grimorium Verum
. But for what purpose? He also seeks the child. We know already that he needs her blood to correct his anomaly. But there must be another reason or he would have killed her in the tunnel before Soloman reached them. Why would he delay? Why did he hesitate? Tell me, old friend. What is the sum of these things?"

The old priest folded his hands before his severe face. His eyes narrowed, gazing forward as if reading an invisible page.

"Cain's pride reveals him, Marcelle. If he is, indeed, our adversary – if he is the Prince of the Air, as we suspect – then he seeks to be worshipped even as God is worshipped. So we can logically deduce that he is trying to remember the names and locations of those who worship him. Yes, and so he may be seeking to remember these and others. And to continue that line of logic to its end, as we must do, he may also be attempting to remember secret pacts with princes of the Earth – to remember those in power that he has cunningly won by deception, or even remember the location of hidden treasures or empires dedicated to serving his cause, for even our adversary, in this human form, will need vassals to execute his plans."

"And the spell?" Marcelle asked. "
The Grimorium Verum
?"

"May be the means of obtaining such lost memory."

Marcelle stared. "My God, Aveling. Is such a thing possible? Can . . . can memory be transferred from one universe to another? I hold you with the deepest respect, Father. But that seems impossible."

An indulgent laugh. "Remember, Marcelle, that ions and electric impulse, and thus memory, are as real as physical life or
lightning itself. Soul cannot be defined, it's true, but the physics of memory are readily understood. And nothing physical is ever lost, even in death. It is only transferred, as science has indisputably proven."

"And when Cain obtains this memory?"

"If Cain possessed such memory, his wisdom would be supreme. His purposes would be laid deep and pursued with the advantage of cosmic cunning that no mortal could overcome." Aveling pondered the theory. "That is, if he could remember. And that is apparently what he seeks through the spell. As I said, my son, his words reveal him. He cannot remember all that he knew, but he seeks to remember, and I conjecture that he seeks
The Grimorium Verum
to assist him in this task. So, if you combine all these hypotheses you have a logical conclusion. It is mathematical, a line that is not broken." He paused. "Cain seeks this child's blood to correct the strange disintegration of his own form. That is accepted as fact. But he also seeks to use her in this spell that will allow him to remember all that he knew. Thus he seeks to use her to obtain dominion over this world. Or destroy it."

Marcelle was suddenly fierce. "We don't have much time, Aveling. Cain must be destroyed
before he destroys this world. How prepared is Rome to stand behind what I must do? My terms may be extreme."

Aveling nodded. "With any means necessary."

"Good. Then we must move with purpose. Will you use all your power to make arrangements for me as I describe them?"

The old man removed a sheet of paper from the desk.

"The weakest ink is better than the strongest memory."

***

A silhouette in shadow awaited Marcelle as he exited the cathedral and he turned his head, immediately identifying the bent, cloaked form of Sister Mary Francis standing silent and shadowed in the foyer. She stood with centuries-old patience, unmoving. But he felt the impact of those hard eyes and knew she had been searching for him. Holding the artifacts in his hand, he approached her in grim silence.