After all, he wanted cooperation from the creature.
Colin took his eyes off the road again, just long enough to look over at the Deil and lift his left hand, middle fingers down, thumb and little finger extended, and waggle it. It was the horns, the sign of the cuckold, but also the sign of the devil, and he hoped the Deil would realize that they knew who he was. Then he turned back to the motorway ahead, ready to flank the police car all day, if need be.
I n the police car, the Prisoner's decision took only a fraction of a second. Here were some who knew who he was, and weren't shooting at him, or blasting flamethrowers through their car window. He was intrigued, even more so when he had shot out a bolt of pure thought at the driver at a range of only a few yards and felt no contact whatsoever. Such men were rare. Most he could at least touch, if not affect, but there was a barrier around this one.
"Pull over here, please, Officer," he told the policeman, who obeyed immediately. The Prisoner got out of the car, as did the four men inside the other car. The policeman merely sat there, waiting.
"Is it him?" the driver, a tall, red-haired man, asked another in his party, a man shorter than himself.
The little man nodded. "Aye, it's him, all right."
"You're Scots," the Prisoner said, hearing the burrs in the Rs. Scots, like the twelve Scots who had dogged his contacts, followed his works over the centuries, the Templars.
The red-haired man nodded. "Aye. And we have a proposition for you. Deil."
"What kind of deal?" said the Prisoner.
"No. Deil as in devil."
"Ah. You'll forgive my ignorance of the vernacular. It's been a . . . lang time since I've had any contact with Scots. Eighteen-oh-four, when I was held in Inverness for a few months. A wet and nasty country, I recall, but picturesque. At least, that was the feeling I got from those whom I could . . . communicate with. Physically, I was . . . incommunicado."
He shot thoughts like quick bullets of lights at the other three men. It took only an instant for him to realize that he could easily control two of them, and reach the third with some slight effort. There was nothing to fear then. "Perhaps," he said, "we could continue this conversation as we ride." He nodded toward the Scots' car. "I see you're also heading east."
"We'd be glad for your company," said the tall man, who then nodded toward the policeman. "And what about him?"
"Well, normally," said the Prisoner, "I'd have him wait a few hours and then blow his brains out with his service revolver, but since some passing motorists might have noticed your car here, I'll just have him drive on."
"He won't remember you? Or us?"
The Prisoner smiled at the thought. "No." He went back to the police car and spoke to the officer, who drove away. "He won't remember his own name. Nothing. He's born again as of today." He looked at the car. "Shall we?"
Chapter 8
C olin Mackay loathed the creature sitting next to him. He thought that he had never before been in the presence of any man who seemed so completely amoral. He had spoken of killing the copper so casually that it made Colin's skin crawl. He couldn't understand it. Life was a gift, and death was a tool that you could use to further your ends, to advance your cause, and under those conditions you had to be callous. But to kill for bloodlust alone, to kill because you could, was the act of a barbarian.
But somehow, he was going to have to talk this barbarian into killing for him.
"My name is Colin Mackay, though it's not a name I go by," he began. "And I know who you are because of the things my father told me. He is Sir Andrew Mackay, and I don't know whether he's alive or dead at this point. Frankly, I don't much care. But he told me who and what you were, and what you could do."
"And what did he tell you I was?"
"He said you were the Antichrist, and that he and the rest of the twelve surviving Knights Templar were supposed to try and keep the world
Colin took his eyes off the road again, just long enough to look over at the Deil and lift his left hand, middle fingers down, thumb and little finger extended, and waggle it. It was the horns, the sign of the cuckold, but also the sign of the devil, and he hoped the Deil would realize that they knew who he was. Then he turned back to the motorway ahead, ready to flank the police car all day, if need be.
I n the police car, the Prisoner's decision took only a fraction of a second. Here were some who knew who he was, and weren't shooting at him, or blasting flamethrowers through their car window. He was intrigued, even more so when he had shot out a bolt of pure thought at the driver at a range of only a few yards and felt no contact whatsoever. Such men were rare. Most he could at least touch, if not affect, but there was a barrier around this one.
"Pull over here, please, Officer," he told the policeman, who obeyed immediately. The Prisoner got out of the car, as did the four men inside the other car. The policeman merely sat there, waiting.
"Is it him?" the driver, a tall, red-haired man, asked another in his party, a man shorter than himself.
The little man nodded. "Aye, it's him, all right."
"You're Scots," the Prisoner said, hearing the burrs in the Rs. Scots, like the twelve Scots who had dogged his contacts, followed his works over the centuries, the Templars.
The red-haired man nodded. "Aye. And we have a proposition for you. Deil."
"What kind of deal?" said the Prisoner.
"No. Deil as in devil."
"Ah. You'll forgive my ignorance of the vernacular. It's been a . . . lang time since I've had any contact with Scots. Eighteen-oh-four, when I was held in Inverness for a few months. A wet and nasty country, I recall, but picturesque. At least, that was the feeling I got from those whom I could . . . communicate with. Physically, I was . . . incommunicado."
He shot thoughts like quick bullets of lights at the other three men. It took only an instant for him to realize that he could easily control two of them, and reach the third with some slight effort. There was nothing to fear then. "Perhaps," he said, "we could continue this conversation as we ride." He nodded toward the Scots' car. "I see you're also heading east."
"We'd be glad for your company," said the tall man, who then nodded toward the policeman. "And what about him?"
"Well, normally," said the Prisoner, "I'd have him wait a few hours and then blow his brains out with his service revolver, but since some passing motorists might have noticed your car here, I'll just have him drive on."
"He won't remember you? Or us?"
The Prisoner smiled at the thought. "No." He went back to the police car and spoke to the officer, who drove away. "He won't remember his own name. Nothing. He's born again as of today." He looked at the car. "Shall we?"
Chapter 8
C olin Mackay loathed the creature sitting next to him. He thought that he had never before been in the presence of any man who seemed so completely amoral. He had spoken of killing the copper so casually that it made Colin's skin crawl. He couldn't understand it. Life was a gift, and death was a tool that you could use to further your ends, to advance your cause, and under those conditions you had to be callous. But to kill for bloodlust alone, to kill because you could, was the act of a barbarian.
But somehow, he was going to have to talk this barbarian into killing for him.
"My name is Colin Mackay, though it's not a name I go by," he began. "And I know who you are because of the things my father told me. He is Sir Andrew Mackay, and I don't know whether he's alive or dead at this point. Frankly, I don't much care. But he told me who and what you were, and what you could do."
"And what did he tell you I was?"
"He said you were the Antichrist, and that he and the rest of the twelve surviving Knights Templar were supposed to try and keep the world
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