drained away some of that strength. He bit into his gag and strained to catch a glimpse of something through the thick black fabric tied around his eyes.
Nothing but darkness.
Wherever he was, the place smelled like shit. Well, shit and mold and water. And dirt and rock and sweat. He had a sense of people, lots of them, moving into position all around him.
Metal rattled on metal.
Swords being drawn?
Swords.
You gotta be kidding me .
He knew only one group of warriors who fought with swords, and the six huge assholes who’d jumped him tonight in the alley were definitely not good-looking women in leather bodysuits.
Sharp, cold steel pressed against the back of his neck.
Great.
He’d survived childhood in the rural South, seminary, the Army, a nightmare in Afghanistan, leaving the priesthood, then years as a black ops agent hunting demons—and now he was about to die in some New York City sewer, thanks to a bunch of sword freaks he didn’t even know.
Cloth rustled.
The space around him went grave-still and tomb-silent, and a new smell made him try to lift his head even though the blade bit into his skin.
Rosewood.
A trickle of blood flowed down his back, drenching his best T-shirt, but John ignored that. Rosewood reminded him of his grandmother, of everything regal and formal and really, really old.
Cloth whispered in front of him again, stirring against the stone where he had been forced to kneel. The sword at his neck moved once, slicing through the gag. It fell away from his face. Another slice of the sword, and his blindfold fell away, too. The blade didn’t return to his neck, and the hands restraining him turned him loose.
John Cole found himself staring at feet. Very small feet, withered and ancient, clad in sandals beneath a flowing silver robe.
He raised his head.
The first thing he registered was the fact he was in a candlelit stone chamber roughly the size of a football field, and it was full of silent men standing in straight lines, arms behind their backs like soldiers at parade rest.
After his time in the Afghan mountains, John didn’t much like stone chambers. Too temple-like. But at least he didn’t see any fire marks on these walls. As for the soldiers or whatever they were, most of them looked vaguely foreign, with dark hair and dusky skin, like they might have come from a desert nation. Each wore modern-day jeans and T-shirts, but their overshirts barely concealed scabbards holding broadswords. Arched tunnels led away from the chamber, and more men lined those tunnels. They were probably in some forgotten offshoot of the Old Croton Aqueduct. The masonry looked to be from the mid-1800s, around the time the aqueduct was built.
The second thing John registered was the small elderly woman staring down at him with completely white eyes. Blind , his mind told him, and he knew she had to be, yet he sensed she was seeing him more keenly than a sighted person might. She had dark brown skin and a cloud of short hair as silver as the strange robe she wore. The robe and her hair seemed to glitter even in the dim light of the stone chamber. Strange pinkish scars covered all of her that he could see, forming no particular pattern, almost like somebody had dipped her in hot wax or oil, then left her to burn. Supernatural power frothed in the air around her wrinkled skin, and his entire being prickled as he sensed her probing into his essence, his energy—and his thoughts.
“Fight me if you wish,” she told him in a clear, strong voice. “You won’t stop me from taking what I want to know, demon.”
“My name is John Cole.” John kept his gaze on her reflective eyes, forcing himself to allow her invasion into certain areas of his mind—but definitely not all of them. His new body had reflexive knowledge of mind talents, and John put that to use, protecting what he didn’t want anyone to see, yet careful not to push the woman’s energy away from him. He was outnumbered, but also he sensed
Nothing but darkness.
Wherever he was, the place smelled like shit. Well, shit and mold and water. And dirt and rock and sweat. He had a sense of people, lots of them, moving into position all around him.
Metal rattled on metal.
Swords being drawn?
Swords.
You gotta be kidding me .
He knew only one group of warriors who fought with swords, and the six huge assholes who’d jumped him tonight in the alley were definitely not good-looking women in leather bodysuits.
Sharp, cold steel pressed against the back of his neck.
Great.
He’d survived childhood in the rural South, seminary, the Army, a nightmare in Afghanistan, leaving the priesthood, then years as a black ops agent hunting demons—and now he was about to die in some New York City sewer, thanks to a bunch of sword freaks he didn’t even know.
Cloth rustled.
The space around him went grave-still and tomb-silent, and a new smell made him try to lift his head even though the blade bit into his skin.
Rosewood.
A trickle of blood flowed down his back, drenching his best T-shirt, but John ignored that. Rosewood reminded him of his grandmother, of everything regal and formal and really, really old.
Cloth whispered in front of him again, stirring against the stone where he had been forced to kneel. The sword at his neck moved once, slicing through the gag. It fell away from his face. Another slice of the sword, and his blindfold fell away, too. The blade didn’t return to his neck, and the hands restraining him turned him loose.
John Cole found himself staring at feet. Very small feet, withered and ancient, clad in sandals beneath a flowing silver robe.
He raised his head.
The first thing he registered was the fact he was in a candlelit stone chamber roughly the size of a football field, and it was full of silent men standing in straight lines, arms behind their backs like soldiers at parade rest.
After his time in the Afghan mountains, John didn’t much like stone chambers. Too temple-like. But at least he didn’t see any fire marks on these walls. As for the soldiers or whatever they were, most of them looked vaguely foreign, with dark hair and dusky skin, like they might have come from a desert nation. Each wore modern-day jeans and T-shirts, but their overshirts barely concealed scabbards holding broadswords. Arched tunnels led away from the chamber, and more men lined those tunnels. They were probably in some forgotten offshoot of the Old Croton Aqueduct. The masonry looked to be from the mid-1800s, around the time the aqueduct was built.
The second thing John registered was the small elderly woman staring down at him with completely white eyes. Blind , his mind told him, and he knew she had to be, yet he sensed she was seeing him more keenly than a sighted person might. She had dark brown skin and a cloud of short hair as silver as the strange robe she wore. The robe and her hair seemed to glitter even in the dim light of the stone chamber. Strange pinkish scars covered all of her that he could see, forming no particular pattern, almost like somebody had dipped her in hot wax or oil, then left her to burn. Supernatural power frothed in the air around her wrinkled skin, and his entire being prickled as he sensed her probing into his essence, his energy—and his thoughts.
“Fight me if you wish,” she told him in a clear, strong voice. “You won’t stop me from taking what I want to know, demon.”
“My name is John Cole.” John kept his gaze on her reflective eyes, forcing himself to allow her invasion into certain areas of his mind—but definitely not all of them. His new body had reflexive knowledge of mind talents, and John put that to use, protecting what he didn’t want anyone to see, yet careful not to push the woman’s energy away from him. He was outnumbered, but also he sensed
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