Fifty One
25 June, 2002, Los Angeles
Loki sat still and reverent in the pew of the cathedral. He waited. He hadn’t come here to confess. There weren’t names enough for the things he’d done. Besides, he told himself, religion held no appeal for a specter. Religion was grounded on the promise of eternal life. That promise didn’t apply to Loki. At least, not yet.
He didn’t need to look to know that she had come in. She, the object of his desire. The tool he would use to make that promise extend to him again. Wherever his soul was – wherever that unique sense of consciousness had been taken, assuming it still existed, it wasn’t in this dimension. But he hadn’t come here for her. She wasn’t ready for him yet. Though that wasn’t to say the game hadn’t already begun...
As she and the young priest made their way to an unused doorway, Loki smiled. He rose and followed them. They would be going to see the priest’s life insurance policy. There was no way that Wethrin could know his scheme had been compromised. If the offices of Wolfram & Hart were Wethrin’s superiors, then either they didn’t care about the priest’s well-being, or they knew Destiny was on Loki’s side: The barrier preventing the hordes of demons and vampires from reaching the surface was no longer under their control — no longer keyed to Wethrin’s death. The young priest was now on borrowed time.
Waiting in the deep shadows until the two had left the tunnel, Loki strode confidently past the intermittent torches to the opening of the cavern. The barrier was holding: an invisible force of powerful magic which blocked the tunnel entrance to all forms of life. Loki had erected his own identical shield before obliterating the old. But it would not hold forever. Loki lifted the solution from his duffle bag and lifted it to eye level in the demonic red glow. “Let’s give you a little more oomph, shall we?” He stroked the large black sphere, caressing it with sparks which flew from his fingers. “That’s better,” the conjurer smiled. “What’s that?” He held his ear closer to the sphere. “You want me to hurl you into that pit of monsters? Well...” he cocked his head disapprovingly, “just this once.”
Like a shot put, he lobbed the sphere through the barrier and as it arced gracefully into the air and began its long descent into the midst of the demonic army, it began to glow. The snarling and hissing of the legions below grew to shrieks and wails as the glowing ball exploded with sunlight and sparks before it touched the ground.
Not a creature, damned or otherwise, was left alive or undead in the great cavern after the sunlight and sparks had faded. A few moments passed before the grey smoke lifted from the now empty and unlit pit. The barrier blocking the tunnel entrance flickered visibly as it vanished.
Dawn’s eyes were wide with terror as the green entity burst from her chest and threw the young priest over his desk. Needle points of pain pricked her as the green energy crackled over each grain of demonic sand Wethrin had sprinkled over her in his attempt to exorcize what was within her.
She rose from the chair and dashed from the room, pausing only long enough to tell the older priest that Wethrin was hurt.
Wethrin groaned. That had obviously not been a great idea. When his employers had told him who would come to visit him, he had thought taking the Key would be an excellent opportunity to move up the corporate ladder. Obviously it was not meant to be.
The priest slowly lifted himself from the scattered books and pages and stood behind his desk, massaging the arm he had landed on. He bent down to retrieve the demonic text he had been reading from and when he straightened again, an unwelcome face stared back.
It took the priest half a second to realize what was going on. Then a small smile of gallows humor appeared on his face. “Today?” he asked with a trace of regret. Loki made a small nod, his face stoic. Wethrin returned the nod, then after a small sigh, suddenly turned and leapt straight for the stained glass window. He was caught, however, just after his feet left the ground, by an invisible fist which closed around him like a child’s grip on a favored toy. Before he could even draw breath to scream, he was driven against the floor with such force as to break nearly every bone in his body. He managed a moan, however, before the life finally left him.
“Goodbye, my friend,” Loki said with a nod of respect. “I’m not sure if you’re lucky or cursed that the first soul you traded was your own.”
26 June, 2002, Amsterdam, Netherlands
The woman awoke from death screaming. She was no volunteer. She was the stuff business was made of. Rich men with sick minds payed great fortunes, favors or services to find that a certain person in their lives was now open to whatever kind of control they could dream up. Indris was happy to provide that kind of control. Death was a necessary side effect for the one being controlled.
The woman continued screaming as the servants carried her naked form out of the tastefully decorated work room. Indris leaned back with a satisfied grin. It was always nice to hear his work was appreciated.
Suddenly his grin faded. Something was wrong. One of his servants had been cleaning the collection room and— Indris stood from his work stool and the two servants by the door opened it for him. The lights beyond were on.
The necromancer and his two servants moved cautiously into the collection room, eyeing the frozen figures and their unique backdrops with growing discomfort. Indris swallowed. He felt sweat beading up under his long robe. They were dead, he told himself, well; nearly dead.
Soon the three came upon the very dead body of the servant. All of Indris’ servants were dead – facilitating his control over them. But this one... Indris had lost his sense of this servant’s sight when the servant had been removed of his head. The head lay nearby, gazing blankly into the carpeted isle between the rows of figures.
Indris turned quickly around, his heart beating wildly. The kill had been clean, as if done with a sharp blade. Over a dozen collection pieces included blades – but all were still secure in the hands of the figures. If someone had broken into the collection room, they could be hiding anywhere. There were more than seventy pieces to Indris’ collection, and many of them were completely disguised in cloak or armor. The necromancer looked wildly from one frozen face to the next.
The two servants fanned out, moving — looking where Indris was not. With his three pairs of eyes, the necromancer scanned his collection for signs of anything out of place. The witch. The Pope. The ghoul. The Queller. The three pairs of eyes moved down the carpeted isle past where the servant had been decapitated. As Indris moved on, one of the servants paused at the mail-clad warrior, drawing up close to see what appeared to be blood on the sword. The servant looked up into the knight’s face. Blink.
Indris whirled around as the second servant’s skull was cleaved in two. The body fell to the ground with a splatter of brain matter and fluid. Alexius raised his sword high over his head with both hands as he stood upon his pedestal, framed by his backdrop of a charging crusade. With the song of a still vibrating long sword, the knight cut the last servant nearly in half from armpit to shoulder.
Indris raised his hands, beginning the deep chant of a sudden-death curse, when a calm, rational voice spoke up from behind him. “Can I make a suggestion?” The necromancer turned around and suddenly stumbled back, falling to the floor on top of the two mutilated bodies of the servants.
Whistler stood calmly on the carpet between the rows of now empty display stands. Every creature and hero stood behind him, each with a distinct memory of their time spent on display and of the man who came to pose them. All eyes were on the necromancer.
“I suggest,” the demon went on, “that you say your prayers.” And the hordes fell upon the red robed man cowering on the floor, soon drowning out his terrified shriek with snarls and the sounds of teeth in flesh.
26 June, 2002, Cape Spear, Canada
A smile spread across Loki’s face. The necromancer was getting a taste of his own medicine now. Too bad no one would be around or inclined to bring him back to life. The conjurer thought about all the creatures and persons he had just released from the brink of death. Would they all kill each other? Would Whistler survive? Would Alexius? The conjurer shook his head. It wasn’t his problem. They had killed the player. He had other players to deal with now.
He stood in the tall swaying grass at the top of the cliff. The sun would be setting soon. The Atlantic ocean pounded at the base of the cliff face, grinding away at it, incessantly.
Soon she would be here — ready for him. They would meet for the first time as Dawn Summers and Loki. Student and teacher. Specter to specter. Nothing more.
The cool ocean breeze whipped and snapped through his silk shirt. The silk that had carried him along as his archetypal identity. His reputation had grown from the shirt. His shaggy blond hair streamed away from his brow and temples as the wind picked up.
She would be here soon. Then she would come to know — really know what it was to have a soul... Loki shook his head. It seemed almost sad; leading her on this way. His desires led him in a direction which offered her no benefits, though they both desired the same thing.
For the first time in a long time, Loki wondered what it would be like to have his soul back. Could he ever really find peace? Could he afford redemption after all he had cost the world in pain? Would anyone forgive him? Would Hanna? He shuddered: Would Rachel? Would he see them again?
He slowly turned his head, locks of blond hair trailing across his face. Dawn lay sleeping in the thick grass, like an angel plucked from some exquisite dream. Loki peered at her from behind his tossing hair. Finally he tore his gaze away and sighed. Soon she would awake. And then they could begin.
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