The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead 2 A Post-Apocalyptic Epic by Peter Meredith Page A

twelve feet of littered floor between them. Although Jack was tired and almost drained, he felt as though he could win the fight. Cyn was groaning and Captain Metzger was groping for his shotgun. Time was on his side.
    Magical power was on his opponent’s side. In a blur of speed that only magic could have caused, the man leapt in the air with his glowing fist raised and then brought it down as though he was trying to destroy the building. There was a flash and a crack of thunder—this was followed a fraction of a second later by another flash.
    Jack had been expecting the move and even though he was slightly slower, he managed to release the magical energy pent up in his fist almost at the same time. The two bolts raced at each other in a blink and then there was a third flash as they collided. The room was saturated in a strobe of light that dazzled the eyes momentarily. Jack turned away, grimacing and thus didn’t see that his weaker bolt was overcome and that his enemy’s bolt raced across the floor and then ran up his legs.
    The pain was harsh and bitter, but also relatively weak. Jack’s bolt had drained it of some of its force. It traveled up his legs to about mid-thigh and then lost its power. Jack fell forward, with a strangled cry, unable to feel his feet. Everything was numb from his knees down, while north of his knees, his legs felt as though they were on fire—but he was alive and what was more, his enemy was spent.
    They both were. There was no more magic left in either man. Two steps away was Jack’s sword. He crawled to it as his opponent looked around for a weapon of his own. He had not prepared himself for every contingency; he was backed into a corner with a furious but ice cold man in front of him.
    At that moment, Jack was, in essence, soulless. He was the demon in the room now. He lurched forward, his feet coming alive with the feeling of a thousand burning needles jabbing him; it didn’t help his mood, which was altogether black.
    “Where’s my cousin. Where’s Robert Montgomery? And before you answer, know this: I want you to lie to me. I want you to give me an excuse to slide this blade into you. So go ahead and lie.”
    From behind him, Cyn said: “Jack, please take a step back. You’re not yourself.” This caused the Chinese man to give Jack a sly smirk.
    “Don’t let him hurt me,” the man said, his accent suddenly thicker. “I give up.”
    He lifted his empty hands; they shook as though with fear. Jack knew the man wasn’t afraid, though he should have been. “I asked you a question,” Jack demanded.
    “Please, Jack,” Father Jordan said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
    That was the wrong choice of words. Jack leapt forward, swinging the sword. Without his magic, the man wasn’t nearly as quick as he had been and he could only save his face by sacrificing his left arm, which he raised in a defensive move.
    Jack’s razor sharp blade was three and a half feet of heavy steel; he could have hacked off the man’s arm if he wished. Instead he felt that death by a thousand cuts was more appropriate. The blade went a half inch deep into the man’s ulna just below the elbow.
    It had to have hurt like a bitch, but the man only snarled a foreign curse as the arm fell limp to his side, bleeding without any of the telltale silver. Behind Jack, he could hear Cyn’s gasp and could feel the priest’s outrage. But Jack didn’t care and he was just getting started. No gasp was going to tear down the mountainous rage within him.
    “One more time, where’s my cousin? Only he has access to the glyph that you sold to Bob Chapman.”
    There was a pause; too long of one for Jack in his state and he again attacked. Just as he did, Cyn cried out again: “Jack, no!”
    She was his anchor. She was his soul when he didn’t have one. He turned the blade so that it struck with the flat instead of the edge. It wouldn’t draw blood but it would leave a healthy mark since he didn’t pull the