by Nene Adams ©1999 - All rights reserved

This story contains graphic violence, adult language/situations, and the graphic depiction of a romantic relationship between two mature, adult women. Reader discretion is advised. No reproduction or duplication, electronic or otherwise, is permitted without the express, written permission of the author. 

CHAPTER ONE

No one who survived the horrible events at the Mors Ab Rosa would ever forget that night.

The door to the nightclub opened, allowing a cloud of cigarette smoke, a blast of pure thumping noise, and the smells of stale sweat and alcohol to assault the otherwise quiet night.

In the semi-gloom of the large converted warehouse, a group of twenty people were gathered around a collapsed couch in the rear of the room. All around them were swirls of other men and women, few over the age of thirty, all dressed in vintage black costumes and wearing heavy white make-up that gave them a death-like pallor. They styled themselves the "Children of the Night" - and the Gothic nightclub, Mors Ab Rosa, was their favorite hunting/preening ground. 

Sitting on the couch were Lord Silvernail Nightshade - during the day, he endured the embarrassment of his existence as Kenneth Coombs, inventory clerk - and his current favorite, a scrawny girl with an unhealthy complexion who called herself Sylph. Her eyes showed no animation whatsoever, no soul, no life. Those flat brown orbs stared glassily ahead when Silvernail caressed her thigh; occasional twitches were the only sign that Sylph was not already dead. 

Silvernail gave a thin, cool smile to his congregation of twenty. "Are we ready?" 

They nodded. 

Silvernail's hands trembled as he unwrapped a brown paper package, tearing at it impatiently. At last, he revealed the prize he'd read about in an old occult book he'd found at the second-hand bookstore. That most sinister grimoire, chest of demons, religious instruction and code to unlocking eternal life and god-like power, all rolled into one. 

The Necronomicon. 

"This is the real deal!" Silvernail breathed, running his fingers reverently over the thick leather binding. In the center of the front cover was a golden pyramid inset with a human eye - which was closed; the back cover sported a silver plaque covered in a complex diagram of lines, swirls, geometric shapes and strange symbols. 

Silvernail carefully opened the book, holding his breath in excitement. This was it! A real, honest-to-the-dark-Gods untainted copy of the Necronomicon. His excitement grew and he felt the palms of his hands growing damp from excitement. All around him, music pulsed and throbbed; clusters and knots of people shouted at one another in a vain attempt to communicate; his Inner Circle was gathered close, waiting for the moment their leader would put his grand plan into action. 

"Once we raise the Wyrm," Silvernail said, "we can command it to do anything. Bring us riches, destroy our enemies... even make us immortal!" 

The Inner Circle shuffled even closer to their leader. Their eyes gleamed. This was the stuff of legend. The more sober among them were torn between doubt and wonder. All of them were, at the very least, eager to participate in what they viewed as yet another rejection of established morality; their parents, bosses and community would have been shocked speechless at the notion of dabbling in demonology. And this wasn't going to be your typical, marijuana-and-beer soaked, heavy-metal half-assed Satanic ceremony conducted by drunken losers with crude ballpoint pen tattoos. 

They thought of themselves as an Arcana Major, serious scholars who continued the precious work begun by Paracelsus, Aleister Crowley, Madame Blavatsky, Heinrich Himmler - the exploration and subjugation of the unknown. They were mages... even if the bulk of their occult knowledge came from the backs of role-playing game trading cards. 

Silvernail was going places and they were privileged to be allowed along for the ride. 

A collective sigh of appreciation rose. 

Silvernail gestured, drawing his group closer and tighter around him. Turning to a specific page, he began to chant in a loud voice, guiding his eyes across each line of text with his forefinger. 

"Vermis Mysterius!" he called loudly. His chest felt tight. "Lu kutu! Lu kutu!" 

He continued to chant in the strange tongue... and bask in his follower's admiration.. 

At some point, Silvernail suddenly felt as if control of his own body has been taken over by someone - or something - else; his lips formed words and phrases that he wasn't even able to read. When he reached the end of the page, he was unable to turn the leaf over - he was paralyzed. Muscles and nerves failed to obey his conscious commands... but he could feel that something within him - a dark presence - was beginning to stir. To his horror, he continued to chant the tongue-twisting phrases in a rising rhythm. He tried to stop but couldn't. Something was using him as a conduit; he felt an oozing pressure wrap around his brain in tighter and tighter coils until he'd have screamed from the pain... if he'd been allowed.. 

Screaming, "Yog sogoth! Io! Io! Ia! Lu kutu!" he felt something erupt into the air around him, some fiery presence that streamed from the abyss within him and ripped its way out of his quivering flesh. Blood spilled over Silvernail's lips and he convulsed; beside him on the coach, Sylph touched a fingertip to the crimson flow and hesitantly smiled for the first time in memory. 

Silvernail's eyes rolled up into his head; he choked on the clots of dark blood that were welling up into his mouth and spilling down his shirtfront. Around him, he could dimly sense the screams from his Inner Circle, who were staring in fascinated terror as Silvernail's body jerked, joints cracking apart as his arms and wrists were forced into impossible positions. His ribs popped and splintered; his internal organs were crushed into a slurry by some unseen, powerful force; his belly was felt as if it were gripped in a vise, squeezed mercilessly, muscles ripping and tearing. Liquid feces mingled with urine dribbled down the leg of his pants. His hair began to smoke, smolder, and then shockingly burst into flames. 

Released at last from the coils of his invisible tormentor and writhing as fire began to spread along his entire body, Kenneth Coombs forgot his learned, all-powerful mage pose and howled in agony for his mother. 

The Inner Circle broke and fled, screaming, shoving their way across the crowded nightclub in a frantic attempt to reach the door and get away from whatever force they had inadvertently set loose. 

Before the first could get more than a few paces away, however... they, too, began to convulse and bleed. 

A complete panic set in as two hundred patrons tried to reach the single exit simultaneously. The couch in the rear of the club which contained Kenneth's blackened corpse began burning uncontrollably. The fire spread and there was a veritable stampede, a fear-maddened rush as pure survival instinct took over, people clawing at one another like animals in their attempts to leave this deathtrap. The weak were trampled underfoot, crushed by the wailing, cursing mob. 

By the time the fire department and police arrived, there were already over thirty dead and twice as many injured. 

The nightclub blazed merrily, defying all the fire fighter's attempts to put it out. 

In the confusion, no one noticed a fiery thread escape the general conflagration and streak across the sky, resembling a falling star but infinitely more deadly in purpose. 

The nightclub burned until the wee hours of the morning. For once, the Mors Ab Rose earned its nickname as the "hottest club in town." 
 

Chapter Two
 

"I knew there was going to be trouble," Jo muttered. "Bad things always happen in threes."

Evan's tangerine colored hair had been pulled into a ponytail and fastened at the nape of her neck by a wooden slide; she wore her usual costume of a T-shirt and a pair of black leggings. "Oh, aye?" she asked, glancing at her taller partner. "Are your thumbs prickin'?"

"What?"

Evan pitched her voice low and quoted, "By the prickin' of my thumbs, somethin' wicked this way comes."

Jo rubbed a hand through her buzz-cut, platinum blonde hair. Her dark blue eyes shone with good humor. "I dunno. I just got one of those weird, ass pucker feelings." It was clear that whatever her foreboding, she wasn't worried. 

The two women continued walking up to the blackened shell that was once the Mors Ab Rosa, a popular Gothic nightclub. Evan surveyed the charred remains. Police officers, firemen and other official personnel scurried about their business. Curiously, none of them noticed the petite Irishwoman and her tall partner. "Did Mister Melmahay specifically say to meet him here?" 

Jo nodded. "Yep. You sure he can scope us out when he gets here? This 'no-see-'um' shield you got around us is totally cool, but I don't want Melmahay to shit his ethereal britches 'cause he thinks we're blowing him off with a no-show." 

"He'll be able to see us." Evan sighed. "As I explained before, colleen, the Shield of Unseeing is actually more of a psychic suggestion that tells people we aren't here. They don't see us because they've been 'told' we don't exist. Melmahay's expectin' us, and besides, he's a..." 

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Jo interrupted. "I know exactly what Melmahay is. So do you. Maybe that's why my sphincter's doing the 'speak no evil' bit." 

A figure was approaching them. He appeared to be a short, stout gentleman of around the age of fifty; his head was balding and greasy with sweat. He wore a gray jogging suit that fitted his round body like the skin of a sausage, and as he came closer, both women saw that his eyes resembled small pebbles of coruscating flame. 

Melmahay, First Lieutenant of the Watchers, had arrived. 

"Gee, thanks kids, for comin' down so quick," he said in a rumbling bass that seemed totally out of odds with his looks. "I gotta problem." 

"So I gathered," Jo said dryly. "What's shaking, Mel? And what's with the borrowed flesh? You couldn't find a bodybuilder or something, so you hadda grab one off the rack?" 

Melmahay grinned. "It's called unobtrusive, Tate. You oughta try it sometime." 

Evan cleared her throat. "What do you want from us?" she asked. The Watchers were the second wave of angels to fall from grace; unlike their 'cousins' who were led by Lucifer Morningstar down into Hell, the Watchers lost their place among the Host not because of pride or envy, but out of lust. The race of giants they had spawned from mortal women had been the direct cause of the Great Flood; now, having been banished to the mortal plane of Earth, they involved themselves in human affairs with Byzantine stealth and cunning. 

They were immortal wheelers and dealers whose agenda was unknown. They headed the sharpest, most widely spread and secretive organization, with figurative fingers in who knew how many world-wide pies, and frankly, they made Evan nervous. 

Melmahay gave the Irishwoman a charming smile. "You got class, lady. Dunno what you're doing hanging out with Bitch-On-Wheels over here." He jerked a meaty thumb at Jo. 

"Get to the point!" Jo growled. "I got better things to do than being jerked off by a cherub wanna-be in a bad suit." 

Melmahay shrugged, not taking offense. "You're right, Tate. Let's cut to the chase. What went down last night wasn't an accident... exactly. You two got contacts in some of the right places; we wanna know who done this and why." 

"I was under the impression that your group knew everythin' that went on in the mortal world as well as the OtherSides," Evan said. "Your contacts are much more extensive than ours. What do you need us for?" 

"Let's say, we have suspicions that we'd like confirmed or denied. Yeah, I grant you that we can put our hands on a ton of information, but there are certain places we don't have access to, certain people we can't interview. That's where you come in." 

Jo jingled some loose change in the pocket of her black leather jacket. "Lemme guess... you're talking about Up There," pointing a finger to the sky, "and Down Yonder," stabbing the same finger towards the ground. 

Melmahay nodded. The flames in his eyes whirled a little faster. "Got it in one. Let's face it; eons of enmity between the three groups hasn't lessened over time and we don't see the situation changing anytime soon. Only mortals can have contact with the Above, the Below and us. The Watchers are out of the celestial loop, so to speak, on this one." 

Evan rolled her eyes. "Look," she said impatiently, "this is nonsense. You've got mortal agents; get some of them to do your dirty work for you." 

"We want you." The Watcher's borrowed flesh deflated a little, then ballooned out again alarmingly; his eyes seemed about to pop out of their sockets. With an effort, Melmahay got himself under control. "Hey, you got no beef with us, right? Can't we all just cooperate on this one without all the back and forth?" 

Jo snorted. "You're one slippery bastard, Mel. If we say no, you're gonna call in your cards, huh?" 

"Got no choice, Tate." The Watcher spread his hands wide and shrugged. "Orders are orders." 

Evan turned to her partner with a questioning look. Jo scuffed her feet and refused to meet her eye. After a moment, the tall blonde said, much to Evan's annoyance, "Okay, Mel. We'll look into it. No promises, but we'll check it out and see." 

Melmahay blew out a breath. "Thanks, Tate. You still got my card, in case you need to contact me?" 

"Yeah, yeah," Jo answered. "Now get outta here before you attract attention. Your skin's slipping." 

Melmahay looked at his hands and muttered something; the flesh was drooping, almost wilting off the bones. It was a side effect from the Watcher's habit of slipping their non-corporeal forms into dying mortal bodies. The fat man turned on his heel and walked away, giving the women a wave over his shoulder. 

"Jeez, that's so gross," Jo murmured. "On the other hand, a much cooler effect than you usually get in a cheapie zombie flick." 

Evan's nostrils flared and her gray eyes seemed more stormy than usual. "Would you kindly be tellin' me the reason why we've agreed to help?" she asked angrily. "You know I don't like havin' anythin' to do with Them." 

Jo sighed. Evan was the immortal repository, so to speak, of the old Irish gods, the ones who had been driven out of their home by the Christian faith. Still, the followers of the Crucified One didn't make her itch enough to climb out of her own skin - the Watchers did that. They reminded the Irishwoman too much of the Inquisition and the Star Chamber; she mistrusted their secrets and the way they operated in the shadows. 

"Look, baby, I'm sorry but I owe Mel, okay?" Jo made a sour face. "He helped me out once when I was in a jam." 

"Oh? When was this, colleen? And what did that thing do that puts you in his debt?" 

"A while before we met. I was stuck on this case, a real bitch of a problem, and Melmahay introduced me to a contact - no charge." Jo focused her gaze on the burnt ruin of the nightclub again, and Evan prompted flatly, "No charge 'cept for a favor to be determined at a future time." 

"Yeah." The platinum blonde sighed again. "Okay, so I didn't exactly sell my soul but I came mighty damned close. My case was real important, baby. If Mel hadn't given me a hand, I'd still have my thumb up my ass and a lot of people would be dead now. So... I owe him. After this, we're quits. If you don't wanna help, that's okay. I know the Watchers creep you out." 

"Nay, we'll face this together," Evan replied. Her frown faded at the chagrined look on Jo's face. "Worry not, colleen. We're a pair, you and I. I'll fight at your back, as always; never would I leave you to face such as Them on your own." 

Jo looked doubtful but the set expression that Evan bore was enough to convince her that her partner was resolved in the matter. 

"Okey-dokey," the platinum blonde said, ruffling her fingers through her short quiff of hair. "How long's this shield of yours gonna last?" 

The Irishwoman replied promptly, "As long as needful." 

"Great." Jo eyed the extensive wreckage of the nightclub. "Well, let's get cracking. I'll take this side; you mosey on over to the other." 

"What are we lookin' for?" 

"I dunno. Something big, bad and full of ass-biting black magic." 

Unexpectedly, Evan smiled. 

Jo looked at her sharply. "What's so funny?" 

"Naught. Only I wondered..." Evan cocked her head to one side, eyes sparkling with good humor. "How tight's your arse puckerin' now?" 

Jo snorted. "Let's put it this way, baby... I don't think my sphincter would make a flea's girdle at the moment." 

Evan laughed out loud until she choked. 
 

Chapter Three
 

Jo decided that their first course of action should be, in her words, to "have a serious convo with the white hat dudes." To that end, she and Evan drove across town, ending up in a rundown area on the outskirts of the city's Japanese sector of Little Edo - a claustrophobically clustered series of apartments and shops called Gethsemene Gardens. 

Most of the shops had steel shutters in place of windows; more than a few were closed. Every clear surface of each building bore its stigmata of graffiti in a kaleidoscope of colors, gang signs warring with artistic expression mated with declarations of love, lust and despair. When the Gardens had been built in the 1960s, they'd been envisioned as a utopia for the poor, an area where they could dwell without fear and in comfort, living off the largesse of the State and working towards their betterment. Instead, the area had quickly degenerated into an urban jungle of drug dealers and gang wars, corruption and hatred; a place where two generations of children had been trapped by "good intentions gone horribly wrong" into shedding their innocence quickly and taking up the only tools of power they could comprehend - guns, knives and blood money. 

The police rarely interfered in the Gardens; too much money and too much manpower had already been sacrificed on that altar of bone-deep hopelessness and rage. These days, the authorities only stepped in to clear away the bodies and wash away the blood. 

Jo and Evan, cruising along in their turquoise and pink '57 Chevy convertible, were as out of place as an emerald in the ear of a swine. 

Looking around at the cracked concrete sidewalks, the looming apartment buildings, the knots of young men and women who stared with slitted suspicion at these intruders into their territory, Evan couldn't suppress a shudder. Suddenly, she longed for the open air, to be surrounded by trees and green leaves, far away from this oppressive and heartless atmosphere. 

Jo laid a comforting hand on her arm and said softly, "Chill, baby. We ain't gonna be here long." 

They stopped outside one of the better preserved buildings; this one actually had a few window boxes where bright geraniums struggled to overcome the wretchedness by a brave show of scarlet, pink and brilliant orange. 

They walked up the steps together, Jo remarking, "I agree it ain't pretty during the day but at night, this area lights up like a knocking shop on payday. If you can't get your poison on the streets here, it ain't available no where else. The Garden is a junkie's Disneyland and heroin's the current fave; come sundown, there'll be so many Rolls Royces and Porsches prowling around that you'd think there was a gynecologist convention going down. Capitalism's a beautiful thing, huh?" 

Evan didn't answer; she was too busy withdrawing her abused senses behind a protective mental screen. Like no where else in the city, the Gardens seemed to her a dead place, a steel and concrete corpse so foul that she wanted nothing more than to run away. Her skin crawled, her hair prickled and she felt sick to her stomach; she controlled herself with an effort and followed Jo inside. 

Jo escorted her silent partner to a creaking, reluctant elevator, which they rode to the twelfth floor. When they got out, the platinum blonde took Evan by the hand and led her down the quiet hall to a door marked STAIRS. The carpet underfoot was bilious green, greasy and rotting; huge stains and long, flaking rips testified to years of hard use and abuse. Evan's nostrils twitched; the air smelled of boiled cabbage, stale urine, sweat and fear. 

The muffled sound of a baby's wail followed them down the hall; it was cut off abruptly when they walked through the STAIRS entrance and the heavy steel door slammed shut behind them. 

To Evan's surprise, instead of climbing up or walking down, Jo walked across the narrow landing and placed her palm against the wall. For a few seconds, nothing happened; then a door slowly appeared. Switching to her OtherSight, Evan was astonished to see that the door had been concealed behind a complicated magical veiling; the work was so good - and so subtle - that it must have been done by an Adept, at least. 

 She gave Jo a questioning look. The tall blonde shrugged. "The building's bigger on the inside than it appears on the outside. There's an extra floor but this is the only way in or out." 

"Wait!" Evan called when Jo put her hand on the doorknob. "Who are we goin' to see? A mage of some kind?" 

"Not exactly," Jo replied. "I'll explain later." 

Evan frowned but closed her mouth against further questions. Sometimes her partner's love of surprises and secrets could be exasperating, but she trusted Jo as much as she loved her. 

Opening the door, the two women entered a large, badly lit room. Candles were stuck to every flat surface; long stalactites of wax reached to the floor and formed spiky puddles of the hardened stuff. The furniture was a crazy mixture of antiques with more modern pieces, all juxtaposed without rhyme or reason. Evan recognized a Rembrant hanging next to a Warhol lithograph; a Louis XVI gilt chair paired with a cracked leather ottoman; a round 70's 8-track player sitting on a Beidermeyer coffee table, surrounded by jeweled snuff boxes and cheap plastic water globes. The whole place resembled the grandmother of all salvage yards and junk shops; a bastardized Sargasso Sea of cultural detritus and kitsch culled from the ages. 

The stench of stale cigarette smoke was nearly overwhelming and Evan's queasiness increased. 

There were no windows, only several doors that were closed. Jo stood in the middle of the room patiently, obviously waiting for something - or someone. Evan resigned herself to patience as well. They didn't have to wait long. 

One of the doors opened slowly and a man shuffled into the room. He was bent and twisted like a wind blasted oak; his fringe of silver hair was yellowed with nicotine. "Who comes?" he croaked. 

Jo answered promptly, "A child of Eve called Jo Tate and a child of oaks called Evan Reilly." 

"Welcome," the old man said, pushing his round spectacles up on his forehead and peering at them with bloodshot brown eyes. "Child of oaks, eh? Haven't had one of those." 

"Yo! Good to see ya, yadda yadda yadda. Small talk over. Is the Mother home?" Jo asked. 

"Do you seek Her to abate suffering or for the forgiveness of sin?" 

"Neither," Jo replied, rolling her eyes. "I need some advice." 

The old man appeared to think this over. Jo jingled the loose change in her pocket, curbing her impatience. 

"Did you bring a sacrifice?" he asked finally. 

Jo bit back a curse - she'd forgotten to bring something for the Mother's collection. Fumbling in the pockets of her black leather jacket, she came up with her keys. A rabbit's foot dangled from the collection. Unclipping it, she presented the furry object to Adam. "It's a good luck charm," Jo explained as the old man fondled the rabbit's foot with his gnarled fingers. "Very valuable." 

Adam thought about it and nodded. "The sacrifice is acceptable," he said, caressing the foot once more before dropping it casually into a Ming vase. "I will announce you to the Mother. Wait here for Her pleasure; do not stray lest ye be lost forever in outer darkness." 

"Yeah, yeah," Jo answered, waving a hand. 

As soon as he shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind him, Evan turned on Jo with a disbelieving hiss. "His name is Adam? Don't tell me this Mother of yours is..." 

"Naw, it ain't Eve," Jo said. "All her mortal servants are named Adam; She's got a kinda hard-on for the name. And this sacrifice business is just one more way of keeping herself amused. She don't really care what you bring; I mean, look around you. There are huge rooms absolutely full of this shit. Every few hundred years she clears out the lot and only keeps the pieces she really likes, but for an immortal she's got some screwy fuckin' taste..." 

"An immortal? Not another goddess!" Evan cried, ignoring Jo's efforts to hush her. "It's bad enough having to do business with that Babylonian hussy, Astarte!" 

A female voice answered her: "Do you know my several times great-grandchild, then?" 

Lilith, first wife of the first man Adam, Mother of Nightmares and Consort of Demons, had arrived. 
 

Chapter Four
 

Evan whirled around. 

At first glance, Lilith looked like an ordinary matron in her late forties who'd gone to serious seed. She was dumpy and pudgy, with silver-streaked black hair wound into a sloppy knot at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were a bottomless black, streaked with rainbow iridescence like an oil slick. She wore a long brown skirt paired with several moth-eaten sweaters; her support hose had fallen around her ankles and hung in folds down to her house slippers. Lilith looked like a bag lady; if she'd been pushing a cart full of trash on the street, no one would have looked at her twice. 

That would have been their mistake, and possibly a fatal one. To Evan, Lilith radiated the unmistakable aura of immense power, of a life stretching back into antiquity and beyond, of knowledge and magic that could not be defined or tamed. She was dazzled and repelled, all at the same time. 

Lilith seemed to sense the Irishwoman's discomfort. "I'm not as bad as all that, really," she said. Her voice was deep, almost a baritone. "I just got a lot of bad press because I said the wrong thing to the wrong person a long time ago." 

"Oh?" Evan asked with a raised brow. "You're not the Mother of Demons, then?" 

"Not exactly." Lilith seemed amused. She sat down in a rocking chair and indicated that her visitors should sit as well. "I've birthed some strange children to equally strange fathers over the millennia, but I can't be held responsible for everything bad in the mortal realm." 

Jo leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You heard about what went down last night at the Mors Ab Rosa?" 

"Of course. I make it my business to stay informed." 

"We've been contacted by the Watchers..." 

Lilith drew back. "Those rapists?! What's their business in all this?" 

"They want info, that's what I was told." Jo scratched the side of her head. "You got another angle?" 

"No," Lilith replied thoughtfully. "Although I'd be very careful where they're concerned. The Watchers don't have a reputation for honesty." 

"Like any fallen angel does?" Jo said. "Anyhow, I wondered if there was some word on the celestial grapevine. Seems there's bad mojo involved and frankly, if whatever happened in that Goth nightclub makes the Watchers nervous enough to drag us into it, there must be some super heavy shit on the way." 

Lilith considered the request. "If I tell you what I know," she said, reaching for a pack of cigarettes, "what will you give me in return?" 

Evan made a scoffing sound. "Are you so far reduced that you need to bargain with mortals?" 

"Value for value," Lilith answered, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. Smoke trickled from her nostrils. "One hand washes the other. That's the way of the world, as well you know." 

Jo leaned back and wrinkled her nose as smoke swirled in her direction. "What do you want?" she asked frankly. 

"For myself, nothing. However..." Lilith took a few more puffs before continuing. "There is more behind this story than you can guess. I don't think even you, child of oaks, have an inkling as to what's truly at stake." 

"I don't," Evan confessed. "Then again, the religion of the Crucified One interests me not." 

"It should." Lilith crushed out her cigarette and her black eyes glowed. "I'm in a unique position, you see. I remember Eden; I was the consort of Adam and created by God's own hands from the same clay. I don't practice magic - I am magic, flesh and bone. Adam died in time because God chose to impose mortality on human kind when He took my husband's rib and shaped Eve. I, on the other hand, will live forever and I like it that way." 

"Is there a point to all this?" Jo asked. 

Lilith frowned. "The point is, I'm the only one who can help you. I used to talk to angels when I was young - they told me all their secrets. Likewise, I've consorted with a fair number of demons since I left Eden. I've had a long time to sit down and sift through information, piecing the story together one shred at a time. Only the Watchers can equal my knowledge, but they've been sitting on this story since they shed their radiance and fell to earth. I don't think they're likely to confide in you. Therefore, what I have to share is  priceless and I personally know of at least a dozen people who'd cheerfully kill you to possess it." 

"Okay, okay, we got it already," Jo said. "Which pound of flesh do you want and where do you want it delivered?" 

Lilith chuckled. "I'm not interested in flesh. What I do want is the promise of a future favor." 

"Absolutely not!" Evan said forcefully. "That's how we were involved in this mess." 

Lilith shrugged. "Then see if you can squeeze answers from the rocks, child of oaks. They will surely be more talkative than I." 

Evan made a noise of frustration deep in the back of her throat. Jo touched her shoulder. "I'll pay. It was my fuckup that got us into this." 

The Irishwoman shook her head, tendrils of wild tangerine hair flying. "Nay, colleen. I told you before - we face this together." She focused on Lilith. "Very well, we agree to your bargain. Your knowledge in exchange for a future favor." 

"Good choice," Lilith said, lighting another cigarette and relaxing back in her chair. "You know why the Watchers were banished from Heaven, I assume?" When the women nodded, Lilith continued, "Well, when they got here, they were given another job." 

"I thought they were exiled from Heaven and barred from Hell," Jo said. "Who could've been passing out employment to former angels?" 

"Call it Fate, or Destiny, or the Universal Constant or whatever. There are more forces than that of Good and Evil in the OtherRealms, you know. The same is true here. Anyway, the Watchers were entrusted with the most important task of all. To make sure the Balance is maintained." 

"The balance between good and evil?" 

"And love and hate, and war and peace, and any other opposites you care to name. But primarily to keep the balance of power between Heaven and Hell as equal as possible." Lilith tapped some ash off her cigarette. "If one or the other gains a serious advantage and tips the scales... poof! Armageddon." 

"You mean like, the end of the world as we know it?" 

Lilith nodded. "Bingo! Now here's part two of what you need to know. The battle for supremacy between Heaven and Hell is nothing more than a reflection of a much bigger war. Chaos and Order, mother and father of all gods, have always been in conflict, and its their slow duel that keeps the universe running. If the Balance is broken, then not only does this world come to a screeching halt, but all other worlds as well. As above, so below." 

Evan's gray eyes were wide. "All things are connected to one another. If either Heaven or Hell were to gain supreme dominance over the other, that would be enough to start a cataclysmic reaction that would rip apart everythin'. By Kernossus! All worlds, all Realms, all of everythin'... just gone." 

"Right." Lilith took a puff on her cigarette. "How does this all fit into last night's little misadventure? I can't tell you." At Jo's blasphemous shout of disapproval, she amended, "Or rather, I won't tell you. It's better that you hear it from the mouth of someone who was there; get the first-person details, as it were. I'll be sending her along to you later today." 

"Who should we be expectin'?" Evan asked. Having realized the implications of Lilith's story, she was more than eager to get to the heart of the truth. "The survivors of last night's fire weren't exactly coherent in their stories." 

"That's because they're mortal," Lilith answered with a smile. She put out her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. "My daughter isn't - and she was perched at Ground Zero when it happened." 

When Jo and Evan stared at her, Lilith's black eyes glittered with amusement. "Her name's Sylph. And she's a Mormolae." 

Evan shuddered while Jo looked at the Mother of Demons in shocked alarm.

Chapter Five
 

Late in the afternoon, when the sun's brilliance had mellowed to a pale crimson smear that hovered over the hills, Jo and Evan received their visitor. 

Lilith's daughter walked into their living room uninvited, slipping a fur coat from her shoulders and saying in a breathless little voice, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything." 

Jo let out a muffled shriek and stood up, tossing Evan off her lap and onto the floor. She panted, a hand on her heart and eyes wild, for several moments before catching enough breath to whisper fiercely, "Don't you people know how to fuckin' knock?" 

The Mormolae just stared at Evan, who rolled over and stood up, rubbing her hip. The Irishwoman spat angrily, "Is such a lack of manners common to the blood drinkin' kind?" 

"Do you really enjoy that?" the Mormolae said, ignoring Evan's question and cocking her head to one side. "That mouth on mouth thing you mortals do all the time." 

"You mean kissin'?" Evan made a face at Jo, who mouthed Sorry and put an arm around her shoulders. "Of course we do. T'is pleasant, with the right person." 

Lilith's daughter shivered. "Looks disgusting." She tossed her fur coat onto a nearby chair and slid off the dark sunglasses that concealed her flat brown eyes. The Mormolae wore a skin-tight scarlet sheath dress that revealed quite a lot of her scrawny frame, and she was perched as easily on her stilt-like stiletto heels as if she were balancing on air. 

"About as disgusting as drinking boy's blood," Jo retorted. She sat back down on the sofa and pulled Evan down next to her. 

It was the Mormolae's turn to make a face. "It's not like it was in the old days," she whined in her breathy voice. "We were gods then. But immortality's a bitch and then you can't die." 

Both Jo and Evan greeted this sally with rolling eyes. The Mormolae added, "You can call me Sylph," before floating over to a chair and sitting down with a flounce. 

"What were you doin' at the Mors Ab Rosa last night?" Evan asked, deciding to get the ball rolling as quickly as possible. Having a vampiric Mormolae in their home made her uncomfortable, even if she and Jo were the wrong sex and the wrong age to be of interest as a victim. Truth to tell, she could deal with demons or even ghouls without flinching but for some reason, the Mormolae's blood drinking habits filled her with atavistic hatred, a xenophobic reaction that she found difficult to control. 

"My sisters and I seek sacrifices among the Children of the Goth," Sylph breathed. "The rule has changed, of course. We no longer kill unless to cull the dying, but there are those who come to our embrace willingly." 

"Of course," Evan replied dryly. These days, the Mormolae's victims usually survived being deprived of a pint of blood; furthermore, the teenage boys sacrificed themselves willingly. "Still tradin' on that vampire nonsense, eh? Sellin' eternity and a vampire's powers when you know good and well it doesn't work that way." 

Sylph aimed her dead eyes at the Irishwoman and for a few seconds, an invisible force seemed to sizzle between them. Finally, just as Jo was about to interfere, the Mormolae backed down and stared at the floor, saying, "Mortals believe what they wish, even if it is untrue. We use the myths they already believe, a comfortable illusion that lulls and soothes. If it feeds my sisters and myself, what harm is there in a lie?" 

Evan pursed her lips angrily and bit back a sharp retort. 

Jo ran a hand through her platinum hair, making it stand up on end. "How about we drop the finger pointing, 'I'm righteous and you ain't' game and concentrate on what we're here for, okay? Now, Sylph... Lilith said you were at Ground Zero when the shit hit the fan. How about spilling the whole story while we sit here and listen politely." 

This last was aimed at Evan; the Irishwoman glared at Jo but subsided reluctantly, acknowledging with a curt nod that her partner was right. Now wasn't the time or the place to get into an ethical pissing match with the Mormolae. 

::I like this not:: Evan sent via her mental bond with Jo. ::Still, the potential destruction of the world takes precedence over my own dislikes. I'll be mortal happy when this monster's away, though. Blood drinkers weave my hair in knots.:: 

::Glad you're being so mature about it:: was Jo's sardonic reply. ::I'll be happy when this case is solved and the world don't blow up in my face. Now hush and pay attention.:: 

Sylph tossed a lock of black hair out of her eyes. "As I said before, my sisters and I seek willing sacrifices among the Gothic Night-children." She waited to see if Evan was going to protest, and when the Irishwoman didn't, the Mormolae continued, "I was cultivating one called Kenneth Coombs, who styled himself Lord Silvernail. He was responsible for... what happened." 

"And how old was this kid? Did you know anything about his family, his life outside the club?" 

Sylph wrinkled her nose. "He thought himself an Adept Mage, though truthfully, he had but a little knowledge gleaned here and there. Kenneth was a child, barely haired and beardless for all that, playing in the shadows of forces he didn't understand. Like all his kind, he felt cheated by fate and hated his life. But somehow, despite his inexperience and youth, he found a copy of the Book." 

Evan held her breath. Jo asked the burning question. "What Book would that be?" 

"The Necronomicon." 

Jo snorted, then unexpectedly broke into laughter. "Aw, c'mon, pull the other one!" she chuckled. "That story's so old it's got a freakin' beard. Everybody knows the Necronomicon ain't no ass kicking grimoire; it's nothing but Lovecraft messing with people's heads." 

Evan shushed her partner. "Actually, you're both right and wrong," she explained. "The author Lovecraft did indeed create a false Necronomicon, as well as the myths surroundin' it. T'was a case of hidin' in plain sight that which needed to be hidden. The real Book was written by the Archangel Raphael and contained all the wisdom of the Incorruptible Ones as well as Morningstar's kin. Semjaza and Armaros, two of the Watchers, stole the Book when they were banished from Heaven. It was later stolen by King Solomon and then lost, save for poppin' up every now and again, usually in the hands of dark-souled mortals." 

Jo stared at Evan in astonishment. "I thought you weren't interested in Christianity?" 

Evan shrugged. "I'm not. But the Book was being written about and debated by occultists when Egypt was young; havin' magic myself and learnin' from so many disciplines, I could hardly have closed my ears and ignored what was goin' on around me." 

"The Book tells of the First War," Sylph offered. "When Chaos and Order first clashed. Order created the myriad gods, the mortal universe and the OtherSides to be their battlegrounds; Chaos birthed the Ancient Enemy, the Wyrm." 

Evan opened her gray eyes wide and gulped. "The Wyrm?" she asked in a hushed voice. "We have to battle the Wyrm?" 

"Sounds like a job for the early birds," Jo cracked. When Sylph and Evan gave her a dirty look, she muttered, "Just kidding. Jeez, don't be so serious!" 

"This is very serious," Evan said, and the Mormolae added, "The Veil has been pierced and the Wyrm stirs. That's what Kenneth did last night. I was too far in blood trance to notice until the Wyrm killed him; he was too weak to provide a suitable conduit for its escape, but his death created a hole in the Veil that protects this world from the Wyrm's prison." 

"It's tried before," Evan said. "The Wyrm is pure hatred and t'will side with Morningstar's forces knowing full well that if the Balance is destroyed, so are all the realms. We must stop it from takin' corporeal form and emergin' into this plain; failin' that, we must force it back and repair the Veil." 

Jo looked nonplused. "Shit. Shades of Cthulhu and friends." 

"Where do you think Lovecraft got the idea?" Evan turned to the Mormolae. "Did you take the Book with you?" 

Sylph shook her head. "I hadn't time. Things happened too fast... I barely managed to fly out of there. The last time I saw it, the Book was with Kenneth, in the back of the nightclub." 

"We saw no trace of it in our searchin'. And if the police had found it, we'd know." Evan rubbed her temples. "We need the Necronomicon to repair the Veil and stop the Wyrm. There was another copy in the Bodleian library but it was stolen in 1934; it fell into Hitler's hands and Rudolph Hess was tryin' to return it when he flew to England in World War II. Or so the story goes. The Nazis weren't the first mortals to think they could harness the Wyrm to their desires," she continued darkly. 

"Ooookay," Jo said. She'd had time to think about it and she was feeling annoyed. "Can somebody tell me why in the hell did Big Celestial Poobah Raphael put a freakin' 'get outta jail free' card for the Wyrm into the Book? I mean, if this thing's as big a mother fucker as everybody thinks, why be so goddamned stupid as to give every Tom, Dick and Harry a key to letting it out?" 

"I don't know." Evan sighed. "No one knows. Anyway, most Necronomicon copies are corrupted and useless. Then there's Lovecraft's edition, also meant to confuse; he was in the pay of the Watchers, or so I've heard..." 

Jo snapped her fingers. "That's it! I'll give Mel a call, give him the skinny. Maybe he can point us in the right direction; it's his dime, after all." 

"Good idea." Evan turned her attention to the waiting Mormolae. "You can go now," she said coldly, plainly relieved that Sylph's departure was imminent. 

Sylph took no offense at this abrupt dismissal. Standing up and retrieving her coat, she swayed gracefully to the door. "If you need the help of Lilith's daughters, we will stand with you," she said in her breathy little voice, startling Evan. 

The Irishwoman nodded slightly. "If there's need, we'll be callin'." 

Sylph exited, shutting the door behind herself so quietly that the latch didn't even click. 

Jo popped up and stretched, working out the kinks in her muscles from sitting so long. "Let's go find a phone, baby." 

Evan, in desperate need of fresh air, didn't have to be asked twice. 
 

Chapter Six
 

The reason why Jo didn't use the telephone at home became apparent very quickly. The women cruised around until Jo pulled up next to a public phone booth that had been trashed. Someone had yanked the receiver cord out of the box and it dangled uselessly, exposed wires twisted and splayed. 

While Evan waited in the car, Jo calmly picked up the broken receiver and tucked it between shoulder and neck. Pulling out a business card from her wallet, the platinum blonde dialed a nine-digit number and waited. This was a bit of sympathetic magic; as a non-corporeal entity, Mel wasn't listed with directory assistance and couldn't be contacted by conventional means. However he could - and did - use the telephones lines in some mysterious way to stay connected to his mortal agents. 

There was silence; then a prolonged hiss and finally, Melmahay's rumbling bass. "Go for it." 

Jo gave Evan a thumbs-up and said, "Yo, Mel! It's Tate. We got some news, pal, and it ain't good." 

She quickly related what they had learned from Lilith and Sylph, adding, "We gotta get a handle on the Book. Evan says we can't do fuck-all without it. Coombs' copy has disappeared..." 

The Watcher interrupted, "We know." 

Jo fought the urge to pound the telephone receiver against the phone booth wall. "If you knew all about it, mother fucker, why'd you call in your marker and drag me n' Evan into this shit storm?" 

Melmahay sighed. When he answered, his tone was filled with the put-upon patience of a parent explaining something to an especially obdurate child. "As I've already told you, we don't have all the necessary contacts..." 

"Bullshit!" Jo hit the side of the booth with her fist for emphasis. "Don't give me that shuck-and-jive again, Mel. Give me the straight scoop or we're outta here, I swear." 

The platinum blonde was bluffing; she and Evan couldn't turn their backs on this potentially apocalyptic situation. But Jo had a feeling that Mel's reasons for involving them in the business had nothing to do with "contacts" and everything to do with more of the Watcher's secrets. Her partner concurred; hence, the ultimatum. 

There was silence on the other end of the phone and Jo was smart enough not to break it with useless chatter. She let the silence stretch on until it was on the verge of becoming oppressive. Never play chicken with a Tate, she thought. I'm too goddamned stubborn to blink; rather let my eyeballs dry up and blow away.

Finally, Mel flinched first. "All right," he said heavily. "You win. But I can't talk about it over an unsecured line." 

Unsecured line? Jo stared at the broken phone receiver in her hand and decided to let it pass. "You sound like one of them CIA covert-ops cowboys. Whassa matter... afraid some old lady's got her police scanner on?" 

Mel ignored this sally. "Go to 1141 Grace Street. You'll find your answers there." 

"You'd better not be blowing me off, pal, or I'll... hello? Hello? Goddammit!" Jo exclaimed, flinging the dead receiver down on the floor. "He hung up on me!" 

She exited the booth and swung back into the car. Evan looked at her. "Where's Grace Street?" she asked. The Irishwoman had listened to the whole conversation via her mental link with Jo. 

"I dunno. Somewhere downtown, I think," Jo answered, revving the Chevy's engine. "Between Kelly and Allen." 

As they peeled away from the curb, Evan said, "Do you really think we'll find any answers there?" 

"Baby, we'd better," Jo replied grimly, steering smoothly around a spluttering Pinto and paying no attention to the angry honks of other drivers behind her. "Otherwise, I'm gonna rip Mel a new celestial asshole; ex-angel or no friggin' ex-angel." 

Evan was too busy hanging on to the suicide strap to think of a suitable reply. 

Meanwhile, the fiery spark which had escaped the Mors Ab Rosa conflagration was busy with an important task of its own. 

It had dwelled for millennia in the shadow of the Wyrm and its purpose had not changed in all those years. The Herald was the cup bearer and chief priest of the Wyrm; when the Veil was pierced, as had happened before, and no suitable vessel for its master's might could be found, then the Herald would prepare a place of power and raise the Wyrm to the mortal realm. 

To do this required much magic... and cataphracts of rich, red blood. 

The Herald set about its task as it had done before. Remaining, for now, in its misty, ethereal form, it cast about like a hunting dog, extending its senses to detect every trace of darkness, every stain of murder, every shadow of mortal evil. It found exactly what it was looking for and glided silently in that direction. 

Riding a hot, sooty wind, the Herald soon came to a non-descript building whose windows had been blacked out. A neon sign over the entrance buzzed and flickered in poisonous pink and lime, "The Bone Yard." A few cars were parked in the dusty lot. 

Inside, loud music blasted from concealed speakers. On the middle stage, a bleary-eyed woman with more silicone than cellulite swayed mechanically, her heavily made-up face set in a blank stare of boredom. A scattered handful of men sat at the edge of the stage, nursing their drinks and never taking their eyes off the woman's big, firm tits, but they didn't look excited. Instead, their carefully bland expressions mirrored the dancer's. 

The Herald stopped a moment, confused; there were many sins here but this didn't seem the den of filth and darkness it had detected before. Then it searched further... and found the jackpot. Beneath the building was a basement, and it was here that so much evil had been committed that the place fairly reeked of horror and death. 

The Herald easily passed through walls and floors until it arrived in the basement. Here it found a woman, swathed in scarlet satin robes. She was on her knees before a black draped altar, surmounted by an inverted crucifix. A man's naked body was on the altar, his flesh showing clear signs of torture; his throat had recently been cut and the blood drained into a silver cup. The woman gobbled some incantation in doggerel Latin and drained the cup, licking her lips. 

Probing her mind, the Herald discovered that her real name was Carolyn Lunt, although she preferred the self-appointed identity of Lamia. She considered herself a high priestess of the Morningstar and craved all things dark and demonic; the bar above was a flesh trap, baited with scented females and intended to lure sacrificial victims down to Lamia's hungry god. Truck drivers, barflies, lonely bachelors and divorced businessmen - those without family, the dispossessed, the unnoticed and unwanted. She took them all for the greater glory of her god... and herself. 

The Herald fluttered around Lamia's shoulders, intoxicated by the insanity it sensed in the woman. What potential for destruction! What hatred, what horrible perfection of evil was locked in this frail mortal flesh! It knew that its search was over. This dank and gloomy place, filled with the trappings of an ignorant worship, would become a vortex of true and fearsome power such as the world had seldom seen. 

Lamia was blind to real magic; she'd fallen in with a pseudo-Satanic crowd when she'd run away from her sadistic father long ago. The rituals she performed had never brought her a scrap of occult power, but she derived a great deal of personal, almost sexual satisfaction in making strong men weep and beg for mercy before killing them in Lucifer's name. 

Some long dormant, inner instinct of self-preservation made the hair on the back of Lamia's neck stand up and shiver. Vaguely, she sensed a brooding, demonic presence. She immediately assumed that her prayers had been answered; after years of searching, so many deaths, so much blood... Lucifer had come to reward her! 

Lamia scrambled up from her crouch, saying, "Dark Lord?" Her voice was ecstatic and her eyes wide with excitement. "Dark Lord... your servant... I am here." 

At that precise moment the Herald struck. 

Lamia struggled feebly but the battle for possession of her flesh was over almost before it had begun. 

The Herald ran her hands down her new body, feeling mortal warmth for the first time in centuries... 

And smiled. 
 

Chapter Seven
 

Evening had descended in full force when Jo and Evan pulled up at the address they'd been given by Melmahay. 

"1141 Grace Street," Jo remarked, squinting at the worn numerals carved into the stone of the building. "It's a friggin' church." 

The church was small and built of stone blocks which had settled over time, giving the building a definite slump in one direction. The windows were little more than slits filled with a haphazard collection of stained glass; a light shining from inside made the colored glass glow, a few pitiful beams of scarlet, azure and gold reflecting against the night. A massive wooden door in the front was closed. 

They approached the door and Evan sniffed. "I smell incense," she said. "Candlewax and beeswax and people. Generations of people. This place is very old." 

"No kidding." Jo glanced at the door; lettering had been incised into the wood. "Chapel of the Holy Rood," she read aloud. "Do you think it's Catholic?" 

"I don't know." Evan put a hand on the door handle. "Let's go inside. We aren't solving anythin' by standin' out here with our thumbs up our arses." 

They went inside, the Irishwoman leading the way. 

A small foyer led to a big room with an arched, vaulted ceiling supported by small buttresses. Wooden pews were lined up precisely on either side of the room; iron candlesticks were affixed to each end of each pew, supporting fat candles that sweated and sputtered, providing illumination enough to read by. 

More candles had been placed in niches along the wall. On the right side near the altar there was a multi-tiered rack that held votive candles, each one aflame, as well as fresh flowers, fruits, loaves of bread and bottles of wine. The altar itself was covered by a splendidly embroidered cloth depicting the Virgin Mary and the crucified Jesus. 

The two women began walking down the aisle. Jo bumped the marble font near the door with her hip and nearly knocked it over. Holy water sloshed over the sides, wetting her jeans, and Jo let out a whispered obscenity. Evan frowned; her partner shrugged sheepishly. They continued towards the altar but were stopped by a voice that rang out in challenge. 

"Who dares disturb the house of God?" 

A man emerged from behind a curtained area to the left of the altar. He was dressed in a black, hooded robe with a scarlet cross embroidered on the breast, and a cord was wound around his waist. "Enter if ye be friends," he said breathlessly, as if he'd been running, "if your intent is evil, you are not welcome." 

Jo opened her mouth to speak but was forestalled by Evan's elbow digging into her ribs. 

"Who aided the Widow in her flight?" the Irishwoman asked calmly. 

The priest looked at her suspiciously. "The Architect of the Temple," he replied slowly. 

"The Sword of the Son." 

"The Breastplate of the Widow's Dream." The priest let out a long, slow breath. His eyes, a peculiar caramel color, gleamed with relief. "You know of the Mysteries?" 

Evan shrugged and smiled. "I've heard of them." 

The women having been established as friends by sign and counter-sign, the priest returned her smile. "Are you seeking shelter, protection or knowledge?" 

"Knowledge." Evan held out her hand. "I am Evan Reilly; this is Jo Tate, my partner. We were sent to you by a Watcher named Melmahay." 

The priest clasped her hand briefly; his palm was dry and cool. "Father Joseph." He nodded at Jo, who was fairly jiggling with impatience. " Please join me in the inner rooms where we can speak without being interrupted." 

He motioned through the curtained entrance near the altar. The inner rooms proved to be a series of tiny chambers interconnected by a twisting corridor; Jo had to hunch over slightly to avoid banging her head on the ceiling beams. Father Joseph plucked a candle from a nearby sconce and led them confidently through the claustrophobic warren. 

"From the little black cord of the Templars, God grant us mercy," Evan muttered. 

Directly behind her, Jo snorted. "Templars? Jeez, Ev! I'm gonna kill Mel when I get hold of him. More friggin' secrets, I bet. This case makes me feel like I'm wandering around in a maze, waiting for some godawful booger to jump out and make me shit my Calvins." 

Evan whispered a hasty explanation as Father Joseph marched on. "The Knights Templar was established by the Watchers in 1118. During the Crusades, their real mission was to recover a lost copy of the Book, which had turned up in the hands of an Arabic magician, Abdul Alhazred. The Templars killed Alhazred and recovered the Book, but it was stolen by King Phillip the Fair during the persecution of the Order. Or that it was hidden and the knowledge of its location lost when Phillip's prisoners were burned at the stake in 1314. No one knows for sure; the Order is famous for keepin' secrets to the grave." 

"Ooookay," Jo said. It was clear that the history lesson didn't impress her. "Hey teacher, is there gonna be a quiz later, 'cause I forgot to take notes." 

Evan shook her head and refused to be baited. 

Father Joseph made an abrupt right turn and suddenly, they were in a well-lit, comfortably appointed room that looked like a library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls; each shelf fairly groaned with heavy volumes and broken-spined tomes. Chairs and tables formed both conversation and study areas. Unlike the church, this room used electric lights in place of candles. 

An unusual sculpture immediately caught Jo's eye. Crafted of heavily gilded bronze and silver, the full-size image was in the shape of a woman's head. The eyes were set with turquoise; the slightly parted lips were carved carnelian; pearls, diamonds, rubies and sapphires formed gleaming ornaments for her upswept hair. 

"Bet that's worth a pretty penny," Jo said, nudging her partner and indicating the sculpture. "Those eyes are spooky, though... it's like they're following me wherever I go." 

Evan, eyes locked on the sculpture, said shortly, "They are." 

Jo bent over until she was within inches of the sculpture's face and took a closer look. 

Shockingly, the eyes blinked once and the lips moved. A voice like the piping of a flute came from the head's throat. "Did not your mother tell you it was rude to stare?" 

Jo squawked and leaped backward, nearly knocking Evan over. "What the fuck?" 

The head frowned. "Such language is forbidden in the library. Be respectful, young woman, or I will ask you to leave." 

Father Joseph placed a fond hand on top of the head. "This is our librarian, Helen." 

"So this is the brazen head the Templars were accused of worshipping!" Evan was fascinated. "I always thought that was one of the excuses Phillip used to persecute the Order!" 

"I am not an idol,"  Helen said primly. "I am a librarian." 

"Whatever you wish to know, Helen can provide." Father Joseph drew a chair over to the table where the head was placed, and sat down. "Please rest yourselves, my friends. Tell me why you have come." 

Evan outlined the facts, emphasizing their need for an uncorrupted copy of the Necronomicon. 

Father Joseph sat up straight in alarm. "The Wyrm has been wakened? Sweet blesséd Mother!" He crossed himself vigorously. "If that is so, then even now the Herald prepares a place for its master." 

Jo roused herself; she had been staring at the brazen head out of the corner of her eye and now felt a headache coming on. "Speak friggin' English, will ya? What the hell's a Herald and what's that got to do with the price of ice in Alaska?" She glared at Helen, daring the sculpture to protest her language again. 

Taking no offense at Jo's rudeness, Father Joseph explained the nature and tasks of the Herald. "It will have taken the Book that was used to rouse the Wyrm; when it has pooled enough power, it will use that Book to finish tearing the Veil apart and free its master to this realm." 

"How will it get that much power?" Evan asked; even as she voiced the question, she had a sinking feeling that she already knew the answer. 

"Blood sacrifice," Father Joseph answered promptly. "To raise the Wyrm requires the blackest magical arts. If that happens..." 

"The Balance will be lost and all worlds destroyed." Evan's gray eyes were slitted in thought. "So we must either stop the Herald before it gains enough power to raise the Wyrm entire, or we must somehow locate a copy of the Necronomicon and battle the Wyrm when it arrives on this plane.  I much prefer a pre-emptive strike, myself." 

"Even if the Herald is defeated in its aim, the Wyrm may still rouse itself enough to do great damage before it subsides," Father Joseph said. "This is a two-fronted battle. You must find the Herald's nest and destroy it, and you must also have the Book in hand in order to quell the Wyrm." 

::Great:: Jo grumbled mentally. ::It don't rain but it freakin' pours.:: 

::Have hope, colleen:: Evan answered. ::T'is a challenge but no greater than we've faced before.:: 

::Yeah, yeah, says you. We ain't never had Armageddon hanging over our heads before. This camper is NOT happy.:: 

::What ails you, woman?:: Evan looked sharply at the tall blonde. ::You've not been actin' yourself recently.:: 

::Nothing:: Jo's mental "voice" was distinctly sullen. ::Ain't a goddamned thing wrong with me that a nice cold beer wouldn't cure.:: 

Evan tried a small probe but Jo slammed her mental shields shut and stared at her with cold blue eyes. She shook her head and decided to get to the bottom of her partner's behavior later. 

Aloud, the Irishwoman asked the brazen head, "Where might we find an uncorrupted copy of the Book?" 

Helen's turquoise eyes closed. "Raphael's original text was in the angelic script; this volume was taken by the Watchers when they Fell and was later stolen from them by Peter the Apostle. Four Latin translations of the Book were made; due to a plethora of causes, these volumes were scattered over the centuries. The original edition currently resides in the Vatican..." 

Jo interrupted with a snarl, "If I hear any more history I'm gonna barf, swear to God! Just answer the fuckin' question, will ya?!" 

Helen's eyes snapped open. "Have I not already warned you about the usage of foul language in the library?" 

Jo grimaced. "Look, I ain't an immortal, I don't got decades to sit around and wait for you to get over yourself. Just the facts, ma'am, okay? I want a lesson in obscure trivia, I'll get off my ass and be a contestant on Jeopardy." 

The brazen head's reply was beautifully enunciated, every word bitten off precisely and dripping with venom. "Your point is made, madame. I shall endeavor to be as brief as possible." 

Evan ground her teeth together and sent to Jo, ::Can you not at least be polite?:: 

Jo refused to answer; she shifted in her seat, rolled her eyes and let out a hugely exaggerated sigh of patience. 

Helen's eyes closed again. It was clear that they were going to get the full version of events - whether they liked it or not. "Of the four translations - the Wormius edition was hidden in a slate mine in Wales in 1944 and its current whereabouts are unknown.  Dee's translation was stolen from the Bodleian library in 1934 by German agents; it disappeared when Rudolph Hess was arrested by the British government and is believed to be in the private collection of a former MI6 officer. The Pickman edition vanished in mysterious circumstances along with the artist R.U. Pickman from his home in Salem, Massachusates in early 1926. Finally, there is the Gaza volume which was supposedly destroyed in a fire in San Francisco earlier this century. It was, in fact, discovered by a Chinese immigrant and successful shopkeeper named Jiao Han, who moved to this city in 1976. Following his death in 1989, his entire book collection was donated to the local library." 

"That must be the copy Kenneth got his hands on. The Herald has that one now." Evan tapped her chin with a fingenail. "So... we can hardly go to Rome and ask the Pope for his copy." 

"I could," Father Joseph said modestly. "Or anyone of the Order - if the Watchers so decreed." 

"I don't think we're goin' to get much more help from the Watchers," Evan replied. "I get the feelin' that we're on our own in this." 

"That is only as it should be," the priest answered. 

Jo broke in. "Can we get our mitts on the Dee translation? That seems to be our best shot." She turned to the brazen head. "What's this MI6 dude's name and where does he hang his hat?" 

"His name is Sir Rowan Ashmole," Helen replied. "He is currently retired and lives at his family's country estate in Sussex." 

Father Joseph cleared his throat. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance in this matter. If you ladies will undertake to discover the whereabouts of the Herald, I will journey to England and obtain Sir Rowan's copy of the Book." 

Jo looked at him askance. "Whatcha gonna do? Hit him with your rosary when his back's turned, grab the swag and run like hell?" 

"Not exactly." The priest rose from his chair and smiled. "While the Order works with the Watchers, we have power in our own right. I assure you that I'm not without influence in that part of the world; as soon as I explain to Sir Rowan precisely what's at stake, I'm sure he'll be happy to help." 

Father Joseph radiated such confidence that Evan couldn't protest his decision. "Very well," she replied. "Once you return with the Book, we'll meet here for a council of war. By then, I'm hopin' Jo and I will have sniffed out the Herald's lair." 

The priest clasped hands with each of the women before leading them back to the church proper. 

As they crossed the threshold, Father Joseph called, "Go with God, my children!" 

Jo muttered darkly, "I should be so lucky." 

Despite Evan's efforts to find out what was wrong with Jo, the platinum blonde brooded with black intensity all the way home. 

When the Irishwoman pressed too hard, her partner turned to her and snarled, "Leave me the fuck alone, okay? Just get off my goddamned back! I think you got enough to worry about without jumping down my throat every ten minutes." 

Stunned, hurt and feeling very put upon, Evan lost all desire to discover why Jo had been behaving so childish lately. In a cold, silky voice, she replied, "As you'll have it, colleen. When you wish to talk, I am here." 

No other words were exchanged on the way home. Evan withdrew into her own private world of hurt feelings, prickly pride and pain; Jo drove like more of a maniac than usual, taking insane chances as if she were already tired of life. 

In point of fact... she was. 
 

Chapter Eight
 

The Herald had wasted no time in preparing a place for the Wyrm. 

It had possessed Lamia and expanded her cult of one into a thriving temple of pain and death. The Herald cast wide a psychic net and was able to sense those mortals whose souls were already corrupted. It used its powers to lure them to The Bone Yard; once there, it played upon their fantasies, crafting illusions of power or wealth or beauty that dazzled their eyes and senses. Those who accepted the Herald's dreams joined their fellows in ecstatic worship, believing they had glimpsed the might of a dark and glorious god and would be rewarded by their hearts' desires. 

If the cost of such rewards was bloodshed, then so be it. Told to provide sacrifices to prove their worth, the cult members eagerly brought family, children, spouses, friends, co-workers and employees to the Herald's altar. Mothers offered their babies to the knife; husbands cheerfully held their wives and mistresses down on the stone. Deaf to screams, hardened against mercy, believing only in the promises of their god, the cult was sent out night after night to find more victims. 

The establishment of the Wyrm's temple happened almost overnight, so swift was its growth. Spending its personal magic recklessly, the Herald transformed the basement into a whore's nightmare of crimson velvet, black satin and leather. Indulgent orgies of every deviance and vice took place there, rivaling the worst of Caligula's Rome. So complete was its hold on the thirty-six members of the cult that at the Herald's word, they would have cheerfully cut their own throats. 

The bar above the basement was still in operation, but the girls who danced were in the cult, and they used their bodies to entice men to their doom. 

The Herald was careful to shield its operations from the mundane authorities; too much attention could prove fatal to its plans. Although the newspapers and television commented nightly on the rash of disappearances and whipped up public hysteria to near frothing proportions, neither the police or FBI had any leads, thanks to the Herald's delicate mage work. 

Due to the dedication of the cult, in three short weeks the Herald had an incredible amount of occult power at its disposal... but it needed more. More pain, more deaths; a sea of mortal lives would hardly be enough. 

But how? The work went well but too slowly for its liking. 

Seated upon its throne, its arms still drenched in the blood of the last sacrifice, the Herald pondered and planned. It caught sight of an advertising flyer that had been brought in by one of its followers and suddenly, the Herald knew what could be done. 

By the Eye of the Wyrm, what would be done! 

Quickly, it cast a simple summoning spell to bring its followers home. 

There was much work to be done before the final slaughter could begin. 

As the days stretched into weeks, Jo became increasingly sullen, sarcastic and withdrawn. Evan decided she had no time to deal with her partner's black mood; instead, she threw herself into increasingly complex castings, trying without success to pinpoint the Herald's hideaway. 

Newspaper headlines and television broadcasters screamed about the strange disappearances; theories ranged from dimensional vortexes to alien abductions. Even more disturbing was the flight of supernatural creatures from the city. Ghouls, ghaneeshi, nagas, satyrs, dryads, the wolverkin - even the usually level-headed Babylonian goddess Astarte - had all packed up and fled for parts unknown. The situation reminded Evan of rats deserting a sinking ship and only served to confirm her worst fears. Lilith and the Mormolae remained behind but their presence was small comfort to the Irishwoman. 

Evan knew the Herald had something to do with all the madness; what drove her to distraction was her inability to locate either the monster's lair or the blood magic it had raised. The city was criss-crossed with false trails, confusion spells and magical mazes, all liberally sprinkled with traps to catch the unwary. It was slow going and Evan was exhausted, irritable and her raw nerves were stretched to the breaking point. 

After spending nearly an entire day laboriously tracing a trail of magic, untangling each thread with breathless caution, disarming several nasty traps and still ending up nowhere, Evan was ready to scream with frustration. Glancing about, she spied Jo, who was slumped on the sofa drinking a beer. 

"Why are you sittin' there, fillin' your gullet with spirits?" Evan's tone was hard and unfriendly. "I though you were goin' to see Helen at Holyrood and ask to borrow the Father's copy of the Liber Loagaeth. You know I need it to break a cipher spell of the Herald's." 

"I didn't feel like it," Jo answered sullenly. She turned a pouting face to her partner. "That freaky rustbucket's too mouthy for me." 

Evan drew a sharp breath. "That 'freaky rustbucket,' as you call her, is Helen of Troy. Aye," she continued hotly when Jo's brow raised in disbelief, "did you think the Greeks warred with the Trojans for ten years over a common woman? She's the font of all knowledge and a good ally besides. You'd do better to give her respect rather than cheap insults. I think you still owe her an apology for the way you treated her before." 

"Whoop-dee-doo," Jo said snidely, turning away and nursing her beer. "I couldn't give a rat's ass. You want this Liber whatsitsname, you can get it yourself. And I ain't gonna say 'I'm sorry' to an ILM reject. What I'm gonna do is have another beer and watch As the World Turns - which is a helluva lot more interesting than all this end of the world shit - so fuck you, lady, and the bunny slippers you rode in on." 

Evan trembled with barely suppressed rage. She'd had enough of her partner's sarcasm, unhelpful attitude and childish remarks - the camel's back had finally broken. 

"I cannot believe you!" she shouted, making Jo start in surprise. "You ungrateful, selfish, black hearted wench! I've borne enough of your spleenish temper, woman; I've had my fill of you walkin' about, whinin' and whingin' like a beggar's cur and snappin' at every friendly hand. I'll no more indulge you, by Kernossus! If you're so determined to turn your face to the wall and strive no more, then spare me the sharpness of your tongue and get you gone!" 

Jo sprang up off the sofa. Her face was stark white except for two spots of hectic red that burned on her cheeks. "Goddammit, don't bitch at me! You don't know shit about what I've been going through lately!" 

"You?" Evan laughed, an ugly sound that made Jo's eyes darken with anger and tears. "What of your little troubles, colleen? The world trembles on the knife edge of destruction and instead of puttin' your soul into the savin' of it, you cry a litany of your own woes. Pardon if I cannot join you in useless weepin'; I've enough burdens to bear without addin' you to the load." 

Jo's lips twisted. Suddenly, she hurled the empty beer bottle at the wall; it shattered, spraying the room with bits of glass. "Fuck you!" she choked, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You think you're so goddamned smart... I got news for you, babe! You ain't gonna have to put up with me much longer anyhow..." Her voice trailed off in a sob. "Fuck you." 

Evan rolled her eyes and sighed. "Go then; take what you wish and leave." Through her anger, she could already feel the aching void of loss. She loved Jo and could hardly bear to think of life without her, but she hardened her heart and put sadness aside. Their shattered relationship was unimportant beside the possible destruction of the realms; there would be time to grieve later. 

Jo's shoulders shook. She glanced at Evan with swollen, reddening eyes and croaked, "Fine. You want me gone? I ain't gonna let the doorknob hit me in the ass on the way out." 

Drained of anger and energy alike, her emotions numb but heart aching, Evan watched Jo stuff a few pitiful possessions into a duffel bag. 

Shrugging on her leather jacket, Jo slung the bag over her shoulder. Wiping her wet face with the back of her hand, the platinum blonde let herself out of the apartment and shut the door behind her. Not another word was exchanged between the two women. 

Evan roused herself long enough to send a mental message. ::Let me know where you're stayin'. I'll send the rest of your clothes and things.:: 

Jo didn't reply. Instead, she deliberately smashed the psychic link between them, severing that intimate contact. 

It was an act almost as final as death. 

Evan caught her breath with a sob, then controlled herself with an effort. Sitting down at the desk, she opened a notebook and attempted to study several spells she'd copied at Holyrood... but tears welled up in her eyes and blurred the script. 

Staring blankly at the page, all Evan could see was Jo's face. The harsh words they'd exchanged echoed and re-echoed inside her mind. 

You ain't gonna have to put up with me much longer anyhow.

Suddenly, those words of Jo's took on a much different meaning than they had before. 

Heart beating wildly, hope warring with despair, Evan abandoned her studies and ran out of the apartment, hoping to find Jo before it was too late. 

Despite her admirable intentions, the fate of the world now seemed far less important than her lover's life.

Chapter Nine

With all the trails and webs of magic encircling the city, Evan couldn't use a spell to locate Jo. Also, she didn't know how to drive; since arriving in the city, she'd relied on Orestes, the satyr taxi driver, or her partner for transportation. She found complex mechanical devices - such as automobiles or VCRs - completely baffling and had barely mastered the arcane art of cooking on the electric stove in their apartment. 

The city was large and searching every inch on foot would take days, if not weeks. The only logical option was to use four feet and keener senses to hunt down her lover. 

As she hit the doors and flung herself outside, Evan activated her inborn gift and transformed to her ShiftSelf - a big female wolf whose wild tangerine coat was a match for her own hair. 

The wolf ranged back and forth in front of the apartment building, ignoring fearful pedestrians who gasped and beat a hasty retreat out of the huge animal's path. Panting and snuffling, Evan soon caught Jo's scent and was off, loping down the sidewalk with her tail streaming behind her like a banner. 

Bystanders scattered out of the wolf's path like chickens before a hungry fox... 

Including an anemic looking gentleman in a business suit whose eyes were coruscating pebbles of flame. 

Jo stumbled along in a daze, unsure of her destination but wanting to put as much distance as possible between herself and the total freak she'd thought she was in love with. 

Jeez, Tate! What kinda perv are you, anyhow? she thought. She's always on your case, nag, nag, nag, day and night, always got a hair up her ass about something. You're better off without her.

What the hell were you thinking? The chick's a bitch, and it ain't all just an attitude problem. I don't need a girlfriend who thinks she's friggin' dictator of the world AND turns into a poor man's version of Lassie. Forget cracker crumbs in the bed... I get goddamned fleas!

It was the utter unfairness of Evan's accusations that bit to the bone. 

Shit, I got problems, too, Jo whined to herself. It was amazing how quickly rationalizations and justifications for her actions came to the fore. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that giving her heart to Evan had been a huge mistake. 

Always bossing me around, acting like she knows better than anybody else... I'm just as good as she is, goddammit. I'm just as smart. I can take care of myself; I don't need her hanging over my shoulder, criticizing me every ten minutes over little shit that nobody cares about.

Who needs her?

Let the Wyrm eat the world; I don't give a good goddamn. Hope the bastard gets terminal indigestion.

I need a beer.

Jo stopped outside a small bar; the place was nearly deserted, except for a couple of old soaks who were trying to cadge drinks off the bartender. 

She dropped her duffel bag near the bar and climbed up on a stool. When the bartender glanced her way, she waved a fifty-dollar bill at him and said, "Beer with a bump. Keep 'em coming." 

Plucking the money from her fingertips, the bland-faced man pushed a glass mug of beer and a shot of schnapps in front of her. With a flick of her wrist, Jo downed the schnapps, grimacing as the sickly sweet peppermint liquor burned her throat. She cooled the fires with a long draught of beer, throat working as the level of liquid in the mug dropped with alarming swiftness. Slapping the mug down on the bar, Jo gestured for another. 

And another. 

And another. 

The next couple of hours was a blur, punctuated only by a stumbling trip to the restroom, more beer and more schnapps. 

The more she drank, the more her thoughts turned to death and the dreams she'd been having. 

I mean, death ain't such a bad thing. Hell, I been dreaming about death - my death - since the day we started this fuckin' case. Looked pretty nasty, too. Lessee... I've dreamed I got dismembered, disemboweled, decapitated and generally de-everything'd. John Carpenter ain't got nothing on my imagination.

But that wasn't the worst of it. 

Night after night she'd watched herself die in agony, screaming and writhing, begging for mercy, as she was slowly torn apart by a shadowy thing that she knew instinctively was the Wyrm. She'd seen Evan confront her destroyer and be annihilated in turn. She'd watched the world erupt in flames, billions of people consumed in a flash of brilliance brighter than the sun; when the light faded, only their smoking, flaking, grinning skeletons were left behind. 

Jo had seen the universe consumed bite by bite, leaving nothing but a howling wasteland of living darkness behind. 

The pure hell of it was that her psychic senses all told her that the visions were true - her death, Evan's death, the death of everything and everyone was inevitable. Fate was about to sucker punch the world and although Jo could see it coming, she couldn't stop it anymore than she could have hoped to halt a runaway train by stepping in front of it. 

The more she tried to fight, to deny, to find any spark of hope to lift her out of despair, the worse the visions had become. She wasn't able to articulate her fears; each time she'd tried to tell Evan about the visions, the words were snatched from her lips and instead, the rantings of a sullen child were substituted. At first this had bothered her, but bludgeoned by nightmares, Jo stopped trying and didn't even think about it anymore. Lashing out with sarcasm or insults became the only mode of expression she was allowed. 

A feeling of utter and complete hopelessness engulfed her. The Wyrm couldn't possibly be defeated; it was too powerful, too strong. It was a god and what was she? A pitiful bag of blood and bones that would be crushed beneath its might. She was going to die and there wasn't a goddamned thing she could do about it. At this low ebb, death was looking better and better. 

Peace and quiet, Jo thought, tossing a handful of bills at the bartender and staggering off the stool. No more nagging, no more dreams, no more swallowing other people's shit. Just a nice, deep grave that I can crawl into and pull the sod over my head.

Don't wait, a voice whispered inside her mind. You don't have to. Why suffer if you can slip quietly into oblivion? 

Jo nodded, agreeing with this inner whisper. This was the most sense she'd heard in a long time. 

Damn straight! Why should I stand there with my thumb up my ass and let the Wyrm rip my head off? Goddammit, if I have to die, I'm gonna do it MY way.

With that thought firmly in mind, she staggered away, leaving her duffel bag behind. 

As she made her shambling way out of the bar, Jo failed to notice one of the winos watching her progress with keen interest; the old man's eyes glowed with whirling sparks of fire. 
 

Chapter Ten
 

The tangerine-furred wolf searched for her mate, oblivious to every distraction except the faint and elusive scent that she knew so well. 

Natural blonde perfume, Evan thought, racing across a street and dodging traffic adroitly. The first time I told Jo how I perceived her scent in my ShiftSelf, she laughed until she was sick.

Pedestrians shied away as the wolf followed Jo's trail straight into a bar that had seen better days. 

The only customer was a ragged old man who lay face down in a puddle of stale beer, snoring. The bartender was picking his nose and reading a racing form, and didn't notice Evan as she stepped inside. 

A duffel bag lay near a stool; Evan immediately recognized it as Jo's. She could smell no blood, and for a moment debated whether or not to shift back into her SkinShape, so she could search the bag for possible clues. She swiftly discarded the idea; from the strong scent markers, Jo had sat there for a couple of hours, drinking heavily, and it was clear that the blonde hadn't opened her duffel since leaving the house. 

Within a few more moments, the wolf discovered something that made her heart pound. Jo had left less than fifteen minutes before! Evan shot out of the door. Kernossus! She's so close! Nose to the ground and tail tucked between her legs, Evan sniffed deeply, scouting back and forth, trying to pick up Jo's trail. Out of so many different threads of odors that criss-crossed the streets, one strong strand stood out as if lit by fire. 

Jo!

The wolf raced away, muzzle so close to the concrete sidewalk that she was in danger of scraping her nose. 

Jo wandered unsteadily down the sidewalk. She had ended up in a section of town devoted mainly to warehouses and big storage facilities; trucks whizzed up and down the four lanes of the street, bawling horns and belching diesel fumes, some ferrying their loads to the highway and others returning home. Despite the noisy traffic, the area was virtually deserted; office workers had already gone home for the day and the little sandwich shops and cafes were closed. 

The voice in her head kept hammering the point home: Better to die now by your own choice than suffer. Better to die now...

Jo stopped, her senses reeling. A truck blurred past, engine roaring, the hot wind of its passage kicking grit and old food wrappers into her face. 

Better to die now...

Another truck was coming. 

Destiny was calling. 

The humming in her ears grew louder and louder as she edged closer to the curb. 

Evan skittered around a corner, paws scrabbling for purchase on the concrete. 

Big fenced warehouses and office buildings were illuminated by the pale, golden glow of the late afternoon sun, lending the otherwise unaesthetic structures an almost otherworldly aura. Waves of heat shimmered off the dark asphalt, burning her pads, but the wolf ran on. 

Jo was standing in the middle of the street, a bemused expression on her face. A semi-truck was bearing down on the blonde; the driver was already braking, shattering the air with ear-splitting wails of his horn, but it was clear that he could not hope to stop in time. Glimpsed through the sun-crazed glare on the windshield, his bearded face bore a look of horror, mouth and eyes open wide as he struggled with the steering wheel, torn between smashing the suicidal woman into blood-soaked rags or driving his cargo into a building, killing who knew how many others, including himself. 

There was scant time for choices. It would be over in a few heartbeats, one way or another. 

Evan put on another burst of speed, cutting across the street and aiming straight for Jo, her path as unerring as an arrow in flight. 

Her heart trip-hammered in her chest, her tongue hung from the corner of her muzzle, her lungs worked like bellows as Evan sought desperately to save her partner from certain destruction. 

Time seemed to slow into a syrupy trickle of disconnected moments. Jo, the truck, the reddening sky, tiny pebbles buried in the hot asphalt... the most insignificant details came suddenly and sharply into focus. 

One final convulsive effort forced from muscles that burned and bled and tore... and the wolf leaped, knowing that if she failed, the darkness that waited for her beloved would claim her, too. 

Jo stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to her plight but actually welcoming it. She was going home at last; this truck was a savior, a heavenly messenger sent to end her suffering, ease her pain into eternal peace. Even the gleaming chrome grill looming closer and closer appeared more like a grin of welcome than a grimace of threat. 

Better to die now...

A small smile curved her lips as she watched salvation approach, blue eyes glazed as if mesmerized by the furious squeal of the truck's brakes, the acrid scent of burning rubber that seemed like the precious odor of sanctity, incense and music to her desperation and madness. 

It wouldn't be long now. 

Jo held out her arms, threw back her head and waited, glorying in the sense of freedom, the absolute rightness of her actions. 

Warm and waiting, wrapped in shadowy wings of despair that were even now lightening to joy, Jo closed her eyes and laughed - 

Until something impacted straight into her chest, knocking the breath out of her and sending her down, down to the street, hands clutching, rolling over and over in a blind, bone-wrenching, tooth-jarring ride that lasted only until her head struck the concrete curb with a solid thud. Her mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood, her senses reeled with confusion and shock, and a starburst of brilliant lights flashed inside her skull... 

And Jo knew no more. 
 

Chapter Eleven
 

The wolf crouched over her partner's limp body, panting. The truck roared past and she squeezed her eyes shut, the scorching wind of its passage blowing her luxurious tangerine fur backwards, diesel fumes and ozone-scented smoke burning her nose, ears screwed back against her skull as the driver leaned on the screaming brakes one last time, bringing the big vehicle to a shuddering halt a couple of hundred yards away. 

A heartbeat later and Evan changed to her SkinShape. Her hands shook as she delicately probed Jo's body with her mage senses, then used her dwindling store of magic to heal the blonde's physical injuries. As she was assessing and healing, the driver of the truck leaped out of the cab and ran over. He was a big, brawny man whose wild eyes and stammering tongue indicated nervous shock. 

"S-s-she was right in front of me, swear to G-g-god!" the driver bleated. "I didn't have n-n-no choice! Swear to God! Oh, Jesus!" 

Evan glanced up at him, sparing a moment's concentration from her task. With a sigh, she crooked a pair of fingers at the man and murmured the Rann of Full Cleansing, wiping away his short term memory of the event. As he stiffened and stared straight forward, his face blank, Evan reached within his mind and substituted false memories, swiftly tying them into reasonable explanations drawn from his own experience. It was a rough, patchy job of psychic manipulation, but more subtle methods weren't required. As she withdrew, he blinked, licked his lips, turned around and walked back to his truck, the incident already forgotten. 

The problem of the driver disposed of, Evan sat back on her heels and looked at Jo thoughtfully. Her partner's wounds, internal and external, were completely healed, but she was keeping her unconscious while she tried to figure out what had driven Jo to such insanity. 

She acts as if she were bein' influenced, Evan thought. It can't be an enchantment; I'd have sensed such magics through the link we share. And Jo's shields are of the best... I should know, I taught her to create them! So, unless my poor colleen's gone completely mad, there has to be another explanation.

She wrinkled her brow as an idea came to her. The use of pure magic was as different from pure psychic ability as night was to day; telepathy or clairvoyance required no mage skills, were inborn talents that drew upon the user's mind for power rather than outer magical sources. So what if the attacks on Jo's mind weren't magical in origin? What if... 

Evan sucked in a breath, berating herself for a blind fool. What if someone's been trackin' through Jo's mind, the same as I just did to that truck driver?!!

It had been a long time since she'd checked Jo's mental shields; after rigorous training, she'd figured her partner more than capable of marshaling and maintaining her own psychic protections. As soon as she touched Jo's shields, however, she knew something was wrong. 

Thin as tissue paper, the Irishwoman thought with alarm. The merest semblance of strength, meant to fool a casual touch. No real protection at all.

It was child's play for the Druid-trained woman to push back those crumbling shields and survey the damage to Jo's psyche. It was clear that someone - or something - had left its mark, burned like a brand in the other woman's mind. 

Like a booted foot trompin' on eggshells, was Evan's horrified evaluation. A cursory examination revealed loops and twists of malign influence which had been knotted into Jo's own psychic abilities. Poor colleen. Whatever false notions were fed to her, she'd have believed them. My sorrow that I taught her to trust those instincts. T'was that unthinkin' trust that led her down this path - and I never paid heed to her troubles, much to my shame.

The damage had been done, however, and needed to be repaired. Evan couldn't do it here; despite the lateness of the hour, the place was far too public for her liking. She needed to get Jo off the street and into a place of privacy and concealment, a sanctuary where she could work on restoring her partner's shattered mind. Taking her back home was impossible, not when Evan suspected that their apartment was being watched, if not physically then with psychic "eyes." The moment that Jo's tormentor knew that its hold on the woman was broken, it might be provoked into an attack, and Evan's magical reserves were too low to provide much of a defense. 

A public telephone stood in solitary splendor a few paces away. But who could she trust? After some deliberation, Evan made her decision and conjured up a quarter from thin air. 

About twenty minutes after placing her call, a car glided over to the curb. While she'd waited, Evan had called upon the last of her reserves and placed a bubble of Unseeing over herself and the comatose Jo; although darkness had fallen and there were few pedestrians in this section of the city, the Irishwoman had decided that discretion was the better part and acted accordingly. 

The car was an antique Rolls Royce painted gleaming black, and as it came to a halt the rear door opened invitingly. Evan squatted, gathered Jo's limp body into her arms and stood with a muffled grunt. Although much shorter than her partner, Evan was powerfully muscular; still, the dead weight she carried was a burden, and the few steps to the car made her knees feel watery and weak. 

Sliding Jo into the car and clambering inside herself, Evan was too weary to be startled when the door closed of its own accord and the Rolls Royce purred smoothly down the road. 

"How is she?" asked a deep voice politely. 

Evan sighed, leaning against the seat back, Jo's head propped up in her lap. "Physically, she's healed, but her mind's a mess." 

A dim light flickered on, revealing the voluptuous form of Lilith. "Can I do anything to help?" the Mother of Demons asked. 

"You already have," Evan answered. "I'd not involve you more than necessary, and besides, you've done enough as t'is." 

Lilith leaned over, placed a cool hand on Jo's forehead. "You mean you'd rather keep the debt you owe me as small as possible." Her dark eyes met the Irishwoman's and it was Evan who dropped her gaze first. 

"Aye," Evan said wryly. "Blame me not for caution, Lilith. I've learned the lesson of it almost too late, and see how my beloved has suffered!" 

Lilith smiled slightly. "It wasn't my intention to criticize. In fact..." She fumbled about her clothing, finally coming up with something that glittered in her fist, and offered it to Evan. "Perhaps this will help. It's all I could come up with on short notice." 

Evan took the object. It was a gold medallion, embossed with a fair representation of Lilith's face on one side and a multi-rayed sun emblem on the other. The thing fairly pulsed with power; with a growing sense of astonishment, Evan realized that this coin held enough magic not only to replenish her dwindled reserves, but leave enough left over to shift the earth on its axis without much effort at all. 

Or scribe my name in the stars themselves, came the giddy thought unbidden.. 

"A little something I've been saving for a rainy day," Lilith explained. "I've been putting a bit of magic aside for a long time. You never know when it might come in handy." She spoke as casually as if she'd been a thrifty housewife saving her pin money. 

Evan stammered her thanks, overwhelmed by the gift. Although Lilith was clearly delighted, she waved aside the Irishwoman's gratitude. "Just keep the Wyrm from upsetting the Balance and I'll consider myself well paid," the Mother of Demons said as the car halted. 

The door opened and Evan stepped outside. They were on Grace Street, directly in front of Father Joseph's church. As the Irishwoman bent back inside the car, muscling Jo onto her shoulder, she heard a male voice directly behind her. 

"Blesséd Virgin! Let me help you, child!" 

It was Father Joseph himself. 

Although Evan was surprised to see the priest - the last she'd known, he was still in England, trying to charm a copy of the Book from Sir Rowan Ashmole - she welcomed his assistance. Together, they got Jo out of the Rolls and into the church, carrying her through the maze of corridors that led to the library. 

As they walked, Evan quickly explained Jo's condition. 

"A grave problem indeed," Father Joseph panted. "It's just as well that I returned this morning." 

Once inside the library with Jo stretched out on a battered sofa, Evan sank down on her knees beside her partner and began the delicate process of removing the alien influence from Jo's mind. 

It was psychic work and the medallion given to her by Lilith, though an object of puissant power, was useless; she would have to rely solely on her inner resources and pray they were enough. 

Evan worked without faltering, labored until she was nearly blind with pain, head throbbing to the beat of her pulse. What had been done to Jo was like the systematic application of a slow poison, bearing all the hallmarks of the Herald - or one of its servants. 

Desperation piled upon despair and married to death but gradually, so gradually - little by little the subject's own fears were distorted and blown up out of all proportion, and the whole thing had been tuned specifically to the blonde's own psychic abilities. Whatever nightmares the controller had sent to gnaw at Jo's disintegrating sanity would have seemed like true visions of the future. Then, the coup de grace - a suggestive nudge towards suicide, which by that time must have been a relief. 

The Irishwoman cursed the Herald's cleverness, subtlety and ability. No spider ever wove its web as cunningly as this servant of darkness.

After what seemed an eternity of unraveling knots of baleful psychic influence, Evan at last reached the core of the spiritual infection. It was a swirling vortex buried deep, with a strangely glimmering cord stretching away; presumably, at the other end of this cord, Evan would find Jo's tormentor. Despite her weariness, the Irishwoman never forgot caution; she stealthily seized the line in a gossamer grip, careful not to alert or alarm, and followed it through the astral plane to its ultimate origin. 

She felt pulled as thin as wire, almost disconnected from her own body, by the time she reached the mind beyond. Evan did not enter it; she had no wish to find herself in a battle which she could not win. A superficial examination on the surface revealed strong traces of insanity - insatiable bloodlust, twisted sexual desires and fantasies, overtones of sadism and bright scarlet threads of hate. 

Evan gathered her strength, almost weeping in frustration when she realized it would not be enough. Just when she'd begun to despair and consider withdrawal, she felt a surge of power pulse through her; with relief, surprise and joy, she recognized Father Joseph's presence. 

The priest sent a mental message - ::Do what you must; I will lend you what strength I have. With both of us set to the task, I do not think we can fail.:: 

Evan sent an acknowledgment and wove the strands of glittering power into a familiar shape. In moments, she held a shining spear. As the weapon of Lir in legend, she thought, welding more power into the diamond bright spearpoint. Fail not to strike into the enemy's heart and roar as you claim victory in righteousness.

With all her might she cast the psychic spear straight at the dark mind, exulting when the weapon pierced her enemy's defenses and drove deep, exploding with a shattering, crystalline scream, echoed by a wail of pure pain and fear from the mind. Then the evil psyche blew apart beneath the attack, lines of force and personality and memory sheared away, blowing past Evan like ashes from a bonfire. A few struck, affording her brief glimpses from the other person's memories, sudden flashbacks in a dizzying kaleidoscope of images and visions, smells and sounds. 

Only Father's Joseph's grip on her astral body kept Evan from becoming lost in the storm as the enemy's mind convulsed, imploded, died. 

As soon as she was able, Evan returned to the physical. She was drenched with sweat, felt weakened to the bone, and the headache was making her nauseous. 

Still, when she forced her eyes to open and focus, when she was at last able to quell the ringing in her ears, the sweetest sight and sound in the world greeted her efforts. 

Jo was awake, staring at her with a look of utter confusion and rubbing her forehead with one hand. 

"Jeez, babe, what's up? Where the hell are we? And what the hell happened to you? You look like I feel... like poor old Tokyo after a major Godzilla square-dance stomp. Oy, my achin' head! Hey, why're you crying? What's with the waterworks? What's going on? Ev? Ev?!! Ooof!" 

Father Joseph beamed at the couple, the Irishwoman's arms locked around Jo's neck, smothering the blonde in kisses and tears. 

From across the room, the brazen head named Helen sniffed and quoted, "Oh, that the desert were my dwelling place, with one fair spirit for my minister, that I might all forget the human race, and hating no one, love but only her!" 

The priest nodded his head. "You are quite right, my friend, and so was Byron. Let's give them a bit of privacy, shall we?" he replied, walking over to Helen and firmly turning his back on the two women, which incidentally blocked the brazen head's own view. "I fear such moments will be altogether few and far between in the days to come." 

Across town, in a basement below a strip bar, the Herald stared down at the twitching, drooling remains of its pet psychic and frowned... 

And for the first time in its long existence, felt a chilling splinter of doubt lodge behind the breastbone of the woman's skin it wore.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jo's memory of the past three weeks was fuzzy. 

"Like going to a party, getting totally blasted and having the time of your life... next morning, you wake up with a lampshade on your head, a shaved gorilla with dragon breath clinging to your chest and goddamned if you can remember much of anything past that sixth margarita." Jo gave her partner a rueful smile. "I recall bits, here and there. A few things are clear, but a lot of the time, it was like I was doing a slow dance in molasses, you know? One step removed and slow as hell to catch on." 

Evan nodded. "I should have known somethin' was wrong," she said bitterly. "Magic and mages are not the only powers on the earth. Had I thought to check, even once..." 

"Hey, Ev, don't beat yourself up over it." Jo slid closer to Evan, putting an arm around the other woman's shoulders. "It's okay. You were distracted by all that all-mighty Wyrm and end-of-the-world jazz. Hell, even I didn't know I was being manipulated, and it was all going down in my head! Talk about thick as a brick!" 

Evan sighed, putting a hand on Jo's knee. Her gray eyes were still troubled. "Do you remember how it started?" 

"Some weird fuckin' dreams. I don't remember any details, just that they made me want to crawl out of my skin, barf up my toenails and run screaming for the hills. For some reason, I thought they were going to come true. But details...? Can't help you there. It's all a blur." 

"It was the Herald," Evan said, twisting a lock of wild tangerine hair around her finger. "One of its servants. A truly deranged mind, tho' that's a mild way of puttin' the sickness I saw there. There was somethin' else as well. I saw..." Her voice trailed off and she caught her lower lip between her teeth 

Jo leaned forward, dark blue eyes searching her partner's face. "What didja see, babe?" When Evan didn't answer, Jo frowned. "Do you really  want to go there, Ev? Sure you wanna do an instant replay of that psycho's psyche? Sounded pretty goddamned nasty from what you told me." 

"I..." Evan shook her head. "I'm not sure. But I need to find out." Abruptly, she stood and walked across the room, sinking down to sit cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed in concentration as she initiated a deep meditation trance, trying to recall that one glimpse out of so many confusing images she'd been bombarded with when she'd destroyed the  Herald's servant. 

She wasn't sure why she felt such sudden urgency, but her instincts were rarely wrong. Druid training had given Evan perfect recall; now she sat within the quiet of her own mind and sifted through all she'd seen and felt in her attempt to rescue Jo, examining each detail minutely and listening to the promptings of her inner voice. 

Father Joseph joined Jo on the sofa. "It could be important," he said softly. 

Jo glanced at him then lowered her eyes. "Look, padre, I figure I owe you an apology," she began with some degree of embarrassment, "I don't  remember exactly what I might've said to you, but it was probably  bitchiness squared..." 

The priest interrupted. "You were not yourself," he said. "And that's all I'll hear on the subject!" He beamed at Jo and patted her shoulder. "I'm glad you're back to normal, my child. Each defeat which evil suffers, each victory of the light, brings us closer to restoring the Balance." 

They were sitting near Helen; the brazen head pursed her lips. "Er-hem!" 

Jo looked up and caught Helen's turquoise glare. "Yeah, I know," the  blonde said, "I owe you an apology, too. Sorry I was so mean to you.  Honest! I really don't think you're a freak or anything like that. In fact, I think its kinda cool, and anytime you wanna give me an update on obscure historical facts, I'll not only listen but I'll take notes!" 

Helen didn't seem mollified, so Jo added hastily, "Pax, okay? I kid around sometimes but I really, really, honest to God, cross my heart and hope to die, wanna be friends, and I'm truly, truly sorry I insulted you and called you names and stuff." She grinned at Helen hopefully. 

Father Joseph crossed his arms and tapped a foot on the floor. "I think that's a handsome apology, Helen. Don't you?" he asked pointedly. 

The brazen head's frozen expression softened somewhat. "Not exactly a courtier's flowery speech, but it will do." 

"Phew!" Jo whispered to the priest, "Evan'd have my head if I screwed  this up. She's really ga-ga over Helen. Not," she said loudly when the brazen head turned in her direction, "that I'm not head-over-heels  myself! Only, Ev's the brains of this outfit; I'm just the magical  muscle, too friggin'... I mean, too darned bone-headed to appreciate  Helen's, uh, intelligence and uniqueness. I guess." 

Jeez, Tate, why don't you just eat a shoe-leather sandwich and get it over with? Jo thought as those pale turquoise eyes stared down at her with what she imagined was a cold expression. For some reason, the  librarian's good opinion of her was a matter of importance; she wasn't just trying to make friends for Evan's sake. 

Helen sniffed but made no complaint. Instead, her bronze lips quirked in what might have been an almost undetectable, secret little smile, then she arched her brows and turned her face away, the gilded and bejeweled head moving smoothly on its base. 

Father Joseph eyed Evan's seated form. "Shall I tell you where I've been or do you think it wise to wait until she's finished?" 

"Naw, go ahead and gimme the skinny," Jo said, profoundly relieved that  Helen hadn't taken further offense. "I think my red-headed baby's gonna be a while." 

The priest's caramel colored eyes were magnified by the round-lensed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. "I was unable to reach Sir Rowan Ashmole in Sussex; according to his staff, he had gone to Cairo for a private auction of antiquities. They could not tell me where, however; the sale was being held at a secret site and was invitation-only. Fortunately, the Order has contacts in that part of the world, so I arranged a charter flight and met with Father Orlando, head of the Egyptian Temple. I also took the precaution of sending instructions to our Vatican office to begin negotiations to obtain the original text of the Book in case I met with a refusal from Sir Rowan." 

Jo scratched her head. "For a super secret society nobody's ever heard of, you guys are pretty damned... I mean, pretty darned connected." She gave Helen an apologetic smile. The brazen head studiously refused to look at the blonde. 

Father Joseph looked ever-so-slightly smug. "We have members everywhere." 

"So how come the Templars haven't been featured on the X-Files?" Jo asked with a twinkle in her eyes. 

The priest chuckled. "Because Mulder and Scully are in on the conspiracy, too." 

It was Jo's turn to laugh. "Okay, okay, you got me!," she conceded, waving a hand in surrender. "That's what I deserve for being a smart ass... I mean, smart butt. Anyway, how'd it go in Cairo?" 

"I was able to meet Sir Rowan without problem. Getting the Book was an exercise in diplomacy and, frankly, bribery; I obtained his permission to retrieve the Book only after I made arrangements for him to visit the Bibliotheca Arcanus in Rome." 

"The what?" 

"The Library of the Mysteries in the Vatican. During the Inquisition years - and after - the Church not only burned occult manuscripts, they saved copies as well. There are a great many rare and unusual texts being kept there and the only individuals allowed to access these archives are specially appointed custodians, certain high officials of the Church and those with the express permission of the Pope." 

"I scratch your back, you scratch mine," Jo replied. "Tit for tat - or in this case, Book for books. Everything went hunky-dory, right? No problems getting His Holiness to give the thumbs up?" 

"His Holiness was happy to oblige," Father Joseph said. "It just took time for our representatives in the Vatican to forward me the necessary documents. Once that was in hand, Sir Rowan accompanied me back to Sussex and the exchange was made successfully. For this task, at least, it was not necessary to beg the influence of the Watchers." 

"Geez, sounds like one of those friggin'... I mean, darned spy books that Evan's hooked on. Personally, all that techno gobbledy-gook, 'the name's Bond', secret weapon in the cufflinks, martini and bikini of the moment shit... I mean, stuff, makes my eyeballs itch. It's too complicated and I just can't believe half the plot, anyhow." 

Father Joseph nodded. "Understandable." He removed his spectacles, polished the lenses on a corner of his robe, and perched them back on the end of his nose. "The Book is locked in my safe. Would you like to see it?" 

Jo blinked. "Um, not right now. Evan'll want to get her mitts on it, so I'll just take a pass." 

They sat together in silence for a moment, then Jo cleared her throat. "Padre, I gotta burning question and I really don't wanna upset Ev. She's got enough crap... I mean, stuff on her mind." 

"Anything you tell me will be in confidence. I will even consider your question under the seal of the confessional, if that makes you any easier." 

"Whatever, just don't tell Evan, okay? I was wondering... I mean, how come the Wyrm picked on me? Why not Ev? She's the big kahuna when it comes to magic working. Wouldn't it be, I dunno, a better strategy to take out your enemy's big guns first?" 

Father Joseph considered. "I can think of two possible explanations. First... knowing that Evan is a considerably powerful Adept with one weakness - you -  the Wyrm thought by attacking and destroying her beloved, it could undermine Evan's concentration, determination and strength, devastate her emotionally and leave her vulnerable. To put it in military terms... why waste power in a futile attack against a strong and well armed army when you can create havoc and undermine morale by targeting civilians in their homeland?" 

"Yeah, that makes sense." 

"The second explanation is that you are more important to our cause than Evan." 

"What?" Jo shook her head, grinning. "No way, padre. I'm still pretty wet behind the ears when it comes to a lot of this magic jazz. I got some knowledge, yeah, but comparing me to Ev's like measuring the difference between a fart and a big momma hurricane. 'Scuse my French, but still, you gotta see how ridiculous that is." 

"Not necessarily." Father Joseph held out a hand to stop Jo's protests. "I'm sure you know that this is not the first time the Wyrm's come close to getting free." 

"I think Ev mentioned something about that but I wasn't really paying attention." 

"Down through the centuries, the Wyrm - Child of Chaos - has sought to break free of its prison and precipitate the final battle, that which the followers of Christ know as Armageddon. Sometimes it attempts a direct confrontation, other times its plan is more subtle. But always there has been a Herald, one who labors on behalf of Chaos. The Herald may be an incorporeal but powerful manifestation which must then take on flesh, or it may be a mortal whose mind has been influenced by the Wyrm. The Herald known as Adolph Hitler was an example of the latter case." 

Helen now joined the conversation. "History does repeat itself, over and over again. There have always been two sides in this battle - the Wyrm and Chaos versus the forces of Light and Order. There has always been a Herald... and Order, too, has its own special servant." Those uncanny turquoise eyes settled on Jo and the woman felt a sudden chill. 

"While the struggle will hinge on both magic and mundane weapons and folk, the confrontation will, ultimately, not be decided by armies but upon the strength of one individual," Father Joseph said. "Someone who is willing to die to save the Realms." 

"The Sacrifice," Helen said. "The Wyrm is self-absorbed and selfish; it is Chaos' only weapon and therefore, too precious to lose. Self-preservation is deeply rooted within the Wyrm and it will seek to survive at any cost. This is its only weakness." 

"The Wyrm cannot be defeated solely in the physical Realm," the priest said. "Only a soul which willingly sacrifices itself can stand between the Wyrm and its goal. The Sacrifice is not chosen by lot nor fated to die; it is simply one individual who has enough strength and will to embrace death at the right time, in the right place." 

At Jo's puzzled look, Father Joseph added, "In other words, although there must be a Sacrifice if we are to win, it does not necessarily follow that you, or I, or anyone are required by God to do this. It must be a voluntary action or the gesture is worthless." 

Helen looked both startled and outraged. Her mouth opened and the priest made a gesture with his fingers. Her mouth closed with a click; a few more gestures from Father Joseph and Helen sighed, giving an imperceptible nod. 

Jo missed this bit of by-play; she was still trying to absorb the information she'd been given. 

Helen said in a strained voice, "Jo, the circumstances dictate that there must be a death to overcome Chaos; free will demands that there must be a choice." 

Helen looked up at Father Joseph appealingly; his fingers flickered and danced for a heartbeat. With an air of grim resignation, she continued, "No one will force another to bare his throat to the knife - it isn't our way. Anyone who has the courage to die for another - or in this case, for every being in the mortal plane and all the other Realms - is potentially a Sacrifice. In answer to your question, however... if the Wyrm believed that you might be a strong candidate, it might seek to destroy you before the fullness of your time." 

The brazen head looked as if she'd like to say more, but Father Joseph made another abrupt gesture and Helen fell silent. 

Jo blinked and croaked, "Does Ev know about this?" 

"If she does not - and I suppose that is possible although I doubt it, given her extensive knowledge - she will have to be told." Father Joseph sighed. "I do not mean to frighten you, Jo, or have you believe that your death is foretold and inescapable. You may not be the Sacrifice, after all. It 
could be me, or Evan, or anyone else who chooses to stand with us against the Wyrm." 

"But somebody's gotta die, right?" 

"Jeanne d'Arc, Eva Braun, Alexander the Great, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Janis Joplin... they were all Sacrifices, and with that unselfish act kept the Wyrm at bay for a little longer." 

Jo frowned. "Gotcha. Thanks for the help, padre. You, too, Helen. I gotta think about this for a while." She got up and walked over to Evan's side of the room, hands clasped behind her back, watching her partner for signs of awakening. 

Helen opened her mouth but Father Joseph shook his head. His fingers danced in subtle gestures as he used the secret sign language of the Order to caution her to speak in an hushed undertone. 

"Is a lie told for a good cause such a sin?" he asked quietly. 

The brazen head frowned. "You know the truth!" she hissed. "I cannot believe you lied to trick that young girl... or that I helped you do it!" 

"She has been through enough already," the priest said soothingly, glancing at Jo's back to make sure she hadn't overheard their quiet argument. "Would you have her terrified of the future all over again? What good would that do our cause?" 

Helen said bitingly, "The snow-white ox was given drugged grain the night before the sacrifice, so that he suffered not, nor did he protest, when the priest raised the ax and split his mighty heart." 

"She is the one," the priest insisted, "so don't bother quoting Smyrnaeus at me. I refuse to feel guilty. What we're doing is necessary, can't you see? Do you want to frighten away our only chance of victory? The Wyrm gave her the truth and see what happened!" 

Helen shook her head. "She was confused and frightened before; her manipulator was a ham-handed idiot with no sense of subtlety. Had you told them earlier that you suspected Jo was being influenced by the Herald and what that might mean..." 

"It makes no difference." Father Joseph removed his spectacles and rubbed them on his robe. "Do not tell Jo or Evan the truth. Or anyone else, for that matter. I command it!" 

Helen subsided, muttering, "I still think..." 

The priest rolled his eyes. "On this subject, I order you not to think." He bent down and whispered in Helen's metallic ear, "Just do as I say and all will be well. You have only to repeat what you've heard me say - that the Sacrifice is not pre-destined. Hammer that point home as often as possible." 

The brazen head protested weakly, "I hate lies! And isn't the truth what we're fighting for?" 

Father Joseph looked down at Helen, his caramel eyes full of sympathy. "No, my dear," he said, not unkindly, "We are fighting for survival. Obey me without question; that's the purpose of your creation. Jo's is to be the savior of us all." 

Helen reluctantly nodded. 

The priest turned to go, then stopped and said softly over his shoulder, "The burden of my destiny is to stain my conscience with the blood of another." He sighed. "Amen. Selah. So be it. Let not this cup pass from my lips, O Lord, if I be strong enough to bear it." 

As Father Joseph walked away, the brazen head muttered, "From the little black plots of the Templars, God save us all." 
 

Chapter Thirteen
 

After an hour, Evan began to rouse from her trance. Jo was at her side with a cup of hot herbal tea and an energy bar. 

Evan devoured the sticky, honey-coated fruit bar, then clutched the mug in a white-knuckled grip, trying to control the tremors in her hands. "So cold," she whispered through stiff lips, and Jo snatched a chenille throw from a nearby chair to wrap her in. 

"You were out there for a long time, baby," Jo said. She knelt on the floor, took Evan's icy bare feet between her hands and rubbed them briskly. "Want me to warm you up the easy way?" 

Evan nodded, teeth chattering on the rim of the mug, and Jo concentrated briefly, mumbling something beneath her breath. The spell was a bit of earth magic which drew upon the elements of Fire and Air to create a pocket of warmth around Evan. After a few moments, the Irishwoman began to thaw and stopped shivering so violently. 

"Almost as good as a Beltane bonfire," Evan said, beginning to relax as the heat penetrated her frozen skin. 

"Well, I'd get nekkid and cuddle to share heat but we've got an audience," Jo replied with a grin, nodding over her shoulder at Father Joseph and Helen. "Feeling better?" 

"Much." Evan finished her tea and laid the mug aside, smiling at her partner. 

The priest came to stand behind Jo. "Did you learn anything?" he asked. 

The Irishwoman's smile faded, replaced by a worried frown. "Yes," she said. Pushing aside Jo's eagerly extended arms, Evan rose by herself, allowing the throw to slide to the floor. "I know the Herald's plan." 

She walked across the room and stood in front of a bookcase, staring at the volumes blindly. Taking a deep breath, Evan continued, "What I saw was an advertisin' flyer. There were garbled strands of memory attached, bits and pieces of conversation, but I was able to recall enough to make sense of it. The Herald plans a great slaughter to raise enough blood magic and release the Wyrm. It's in a hurry, you see, because it knows we're on its trail." 

 "What's going down, Ev?" Jo asked. 

"The Feast of the Innocents," the Irishwoman replied in a rush. She turned around and Jo caught her breath at the look of distress on her partner's face. "The Herald plans to be there with its followers on the morrow. It will seal off the park and kill everyone at the festival, includin' - nay, especially - the visitin' choirs." She gave the priest a significant look. 

Father Joseph's voice cracked as he said, "Sweet blesséd Mother! All those children..." His face was suddenly pale and greasy with sweat. 

Evan nodded. "In the end, with so much innocence lost, the Herald would have enough power to raise the Wyrm. And we wouldn't have a prayer of stoppin' it!" 

Jo cleared her throat. "Will somebody please explain to me what the hell... I mean, what the heck is going on?" 

Father Joseph shook his head. "There is no time," he said crisply. "We must begin preparations immediately. Evan and I will study the Book; you call Lilith and tell her to be here tomorrow morning at the latest." The color was already returning to his face; he seemed more confident, like a general discussing battle plans with his officers. "Have her summon the Mormolae as well as anyone else she thinks may be of use. When you're finished with that, there's a list of possible allies on my desk; contact them all and explain the situation. 

"We'll be in my study," he finished as he turned away, grabbed Evan's arm and whisked her out of the room, leaving a stunned Jo behind with her mouth open and an expression of sheer disbelief on her face. 

A heartbeat later, Jo closed her mouth, blinked, then summoned up her feelings in two simple words, pronounced with savage precision: 

"Well... shit!!" 

While this obscene pronouncement still echoed from the room's four walls, Jo put her hands on her hips, turned to Helen and said, "Okay - you got nowhere to run, so how about throwing the dumb blonde a bone, huh?" 

Helen pursed her gilded lips. "Do you want all the facts or would the highlights alone satisfy you?" 

Jo sighed. "Better stick with the diet plate instead of the whole surf-and-turf," she replied wearily, plopping down on a chair next to the brazen head. "General Padre's just promoted me to chief bottle-washer of this chickenshit outfit, so I'd better get down to the friggin' dirty work ASAP." 

"Very well." Helen's eyes closed. "The Feast of the Innocents is held in a different city each year. It is a festival which combines the elements of a Renaissance Faire and a high holy feast day of the Church. Passion plays, minstrels, costumed knights re-enacting Crusader duels, pilgrims, strolling monks, gentlemen and ladies dressed as members of the Middle Ages nobility, speeches by scholars on the early Catholic rituals, debating theologians and philosophers, games, food and merchandise. The highlight of the Feast is a special performance of Bach's Matthaus Passion by a select number of children's choirs - this year, there will be twelve such choirs, each possessing between twenty-six and thirty youngsters, all of whom are typically under thirteen years of age." 

Jo let out a long, slow whistle. "Fuck me!" she exclaimed. "If the Herald manages to kill all those kids..." 

"It will most certainly gain enough magical power through the shedding of innocent blood that raising the Wyrm will be a foregone conclusion," Helen concluded. 

Jo jumped up. "No wonder the padre went whiter than a vampire's ass." She took a few steps towards the door that led to the priest's study. "I'd better hustle my bootie and get my fingers a-walking, see if I can drum up some support before all hell breaks loose." 

She was almost at the door when a thought occurred to her. Turning around, Jo eyed the brazen head and said, "You know... I just realized that I've been cursing like a sailor's parrot and you haven't said a word about it." 

Helen's eyes opened and, much to the tall blonde's astonishment, the beautifully sculpted face smiled widely, showing carved ivory teeth. "I decided that your colorful use of language was not quite as offensive as I first believed," she said, then added more primly, "provided there is less of it than before." 

Jo chuckled. "I'll try my friggin' best." When Helen gave her a mock scowl, Jo raised her hands and said, "Just kidding! I swear! And now, I'd better quit with the small talk and get my butt to work." 

"So shall I," Helen replied. "Good luck." 

"Right back atcha, my friend," Jo said, flashing an impish grin and disappearing through the door. 

Helen watched her leave. 

Slowly, the brazen head's smile changed to a frown of pure and profound sorrow, and she sighed, mourning already the loss of such a brave and spirited woman. 

We each have our duties, Helen thought. And lying while keeping up a brave front is the most unpleasant duty of them all.

Lilith showed up at the church before dawn. She brought with her all twenty-four of the Mormolae; each of the immortal women was identical to the others, differing only in clothing choices and hairstyles. 

Sylph was dressed in the same scarlet sheath dress she'd worn to Jo and Evan's apartment. "Nice place," she said in her breathy little voice, those flat brown eyes soaking up every detail of the library. "Much nicer than our cave. More... atmosphere." 

"Yes, but we have color TV," piped up one of Sylph's sisters, this one clad in a rubber catsuit that covered her from head to toe. "I hate books. They're so boring." 

Some of the other Mormolae began squabbling amongst themselves, the arguments spreading until the small room seemed filled with cackling, fluttering hens, each intent on pecking the others to death. 

Lilith rolled her eyes. "Girls! GIRLS!," she roared. "Enough! Shut up and settle down... or I'll close your mouths permanently." 

Instantly, the bickering ceased and each of the Mormolae was at least an arms length away from any other. The women perched their scrawny frames on shelves, the backs of chairs, even on top of the bookcases; the mirrored expressions of fear on their thin, pinched faces betrayed their awe of the Mother of Demons' wrath. 

"That's better. So," Lilith said, turning to give Jo and Evan each a kiss on the forehead, "the Herald's got big plans, eh? Your partner was a big cagey over the phone but I gathered that this was going to be a council of war rather than a cocktail party." 

Father Joseph had sent an underpriest of his organization to the women's apartment for fresh clothing; now Evan was informally dressed in a pair of denim shorts, an oversized T-shirt and had battered bunny slippers on her feet. "Aye," she replied. "The Herald's plannin' on usin' the Feast of the Innocents to top off its blood pool and finish tearin' the Veil aside for the Wyrm." 

Lilith's forehead crinkled as she grimaced. "I hope you've got a brilliant counter-attack planned." She glanced around the room, giving a wide-eyed Father Joseph a nod. "Is this everyone or are we expecting more allies?" 

Jo snorted. "Everybody else jumped ship, including - I might add - the local members of the Satanic church. I got in a call to Melmahay but the Watchers are doing what they do best. Which is watching, I guess, since they sure as hell aren't doing anything about it." 

"The Watchers are forbidden to involve themselves directly," Father Joseph offered, coming closer but staying a wary distance away from Lilith and the Mormolae. "At least, that's what I've been given to understand." 

"Wonderful!" Lilith snapped. "Trust those high-handed outcasts to sit on their celestial butts and play canasta while the world ends with a bang." 

"I was able to round up a few brave psychics," Jo said. "They're supposed to meet us at the fairgrounds. Some of them are kinda weird - hell, who in this shebang isn't? - but they're fairly stable and reliable. They know the score, too." 

Evan shot her partner a glance; as soon as Father Joseph had told her about the Sacrifice, she'd had a talk with Jo. She wasn't happy about the priest's revelations - in fact, she'd suspected he was holding something back but Helen had corroborated his story one hundred percent. Despite these reassurances, Evan's gut kept insisting something was wrong, so the Irishwoman was keeping a cautious eye and ear on her partner. 

The sooner this is over, Evan promised herself, the sooner I can take Jo away for a nice healing vacation. Somewhere nice. Ireland, perhaps.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Lilith. "You do have a plan of your own, don't you? Something brilliant and guaranteed to end the Wyrm's threat without getting us all killed?" 

Evan threaded her arm through Lilith's and led her to the sofa. "Sit down and I'll tell you all about it," she said. 

One of the Mormolae tugged Jo's shirt sleeve. "Hey, any way I can get a drink around here?" she whispered hoarsely, licking her lips. 

Jo unhooked her garment from the Mormolae's claws and said, "Does it look like we've got teenage O-positive on ice? Chill, girlfriend... we live through this, I'll treat you to a bloody sundae with a cherry on top." 

This clever sally didn't cheer up the Mormolae at all. "I'm thirsty!" she whined. 

"Look!" Jo exclaimed, "Nobody's making you stay. You wanna bug out for a quick bite, go ahead. Only don't blame me when you get scragged 'cause you weren't paying attention in class." 

Everyone settled down when Evan cleared her throat and all eyes were fixed on the short, muscular figure as she paced up and down the room, explaining her plan with broad gestures and plain language. 

When she finished, Father Joseph glanced around the room, light glinting from the spectacles perched on the end of his nose. "Any questions?" 

Lilith looked faintly amused. "Just one..." She took a drag from her cigarette and allowed tendrils of smoke to trickle from her nostrils before continuing, letting everyone squirm in suspense. 

When Evan was fairly jiggling with impatience, the Mother of Demons asked with a sly grin, "Where in my Creator's name are we going to find twenty-seven nun's uniforms at this late hour? Holy Orders R' Us?" 

Even the normally stoic Helen laughed until she choked. 
 

Chapter Fourteen
 

The day of the Feast of the Innocents was clear, bright and sunny. The five-acre Lon Chaney Memorial Park in the center of town was awash with brilliant colors and muted roars as tents, booths, stages, pennants and people crowded the normally quiet, grassy expanse. 

Actors and actresses strolled the grounds, clad in a bewildering variety of garb ranging from simple gowns and cone-shaped wimples to the peacock splendor of Elizabeth the First's court. Groups of monks representing Benedictine, Franciscan, Beguine and other orders entertained visitors with history lessons and chanted litanies. In certain locations, passion plays were being performed and a mock battle between mailed Crusaders and Saracens was taking place every hour. 

The concert stage had already played host to several children's choirs; those who had already participated in the Matthaus contest were free to wander the fair and sample the delights of the games booths and snack mongers. The remaining contestants sat on benches at the back of the stage, waiting their turns and infuriating their directors with spitball fights, bickering over Game Boys, whining and eating forbidden sweets. 

No one noticed the arrival of a group of traditionally dressed French nuns led by a tonsured mendicant monk in a coarse woolen robe. 

Father Joseph rubbed the bald spot on the crown of his head. "I feel naked," he complained. 

Evan gave him an amused glance; her bright tangerine locks were hidden beneath a tight fitting black and white headress sporting enormous curved wings. "You hadn't all that much to lose," she pointed out. 

Lilith snorted. "You were the one who insisted on authenticity, Father," she said. "Think of your hair loss as a little revenge for putting us in these awful penguin suits." She smoothed her hands down the sides of her loose-fitting dress; made of crisp black cotton, it covered her from throat to toes, the stark color relieved only by a starched white collar and cuffs. 

"I feel like the friggin' Flying Nun," Jo grumbled. She shook her head, making the wings of her headress flap wildly. 

The Mormolae were also dressed in nun's costumes. The full, rich crimson color of their lips seemed inappropriate to the austerity of the clothing they wore, and from their slouching postures and pained expressions, they felt far from comfortable. 

The psychics that Jo had contacted drifted over. There were four of them - a hand-holding androgynous couple who were so alike in appearance they might have been twins, a plump and nervous young woman dressed in layers and layers of fringed shawls, and a middle-aged man with feathered braids who chain-smoked incessantly. 

"Okay, folks," Jo said, "This is Zoe and Stringfellow Garvey," nodding to the couple, "and Miss Penelope and Jason Whitehawk." 

The Garveys were tall, thin and blonde with patrician features and multiple-piercings. They were clad in matching khaki shorts and sleeveless leather vests that showcased the bright tattoos on their arms, shoulders and chests. Zoe blinked, moistened cracked, dry lips with her tongue, and mumbled, "Some party." 

Her husband echoed her sentiment in a high-pitched whine. "Too weird, man. Reminds me of parochial school." He picked his nose absently, wiping his finger every now and then on the front of his T-shirt, and he stared hungrily at Evan as if he were assessing the lines of her body through the loose costume she wore. 

Miss Penelope gathered her shawls more tightly around her person and nodded politely to everyone, head bobbing comically, wisps of thin brown hair escaping from the unfashionable bun scraped together at the back of her neck. She reminded Evan of a hen who has outlived her egg-laying usefulness, knows she's destined for the pot, and adopts a desperate sort of cheerfulness in the hopes that it will save her from the axe. 

"Good to see you again, Jason," Miss Penelope said in an artificially bright voice. "I hope you're feeling better after that dreadful flu." 

Jason grunted; his oily black eyes were narrowed in suspicion, as if he were almost, but not quite sure, that people were secretly laughing at him. He worked the smoldering cigarette in his lips to the corner of his mouth and didn't reply. 

Jo cleared her throat. "These guys are gonna help us track the Herald," she said to the group in general. Lilith raised her eyebrows, clearly unimpressed. 

Evan explained, "Due to the confusion spells, traps and mazes the Herald's been spinnin' to cover its tracks, findin' it will be a problem - we can't use even the simplest locator spell. That's where you come in," she said to the waiting psychics. "I have a good idea of the Herald's mental aura. We need you to scout the grounds, scannin' for any sign of the Wyrm's servant or those under its influence." 

Stringfellow Garvey examined the end of his finger, wiped snot onto his shirt and said, "Sweet deal, man. So we, like, get a picture of this guy's psychic makeup from you, then cruise the fair and try to, like, get a lock on the target? Not a bad plan for a muscle chick who's seriously into church fetish. Hey, pretty mamma... wanna play Spanish Inquisition after this gig? Zoe does a pretty gnarly Torquemada impersonation." His murky green eyes flicked up and down Evan's body and he gave her a nasty smile while Zoe giggled. 

Jo flowed up beside Stringfellow; she was a couple of inches taller than he was and in considerably better physical condition. "Yo, motormouth!" she said, her hand slamming into his crotch, fingers clutching in a steely grip that made him bite his lip against a scream. "Mess with my girlfriend again and I'll seriously fuck you up! Understand?" 

Zoe scurried away with a shriek, lime-colored eyes wide with fear and more than a bit of excitement. 

Beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip as Stringfellow's hands locked around Jo's wrist, but his strength was no match for hers and she easily resisted his efforts. Twisting her hand and squeezing until his face turned white, she barked, "I said, do you understand, asshole? Or do you want to find out what a bad motherfucker I can be when I'm pissed?" 

He gasped, "I gotcha, boss. I gotcha! I'm sorry, okay?" 

Jo released him and stepped back to Evan's side. "Here endeth the lesson, dude," Jo said. "Forgiven and forgotten... but don't disrespect my baby again or I'll tear your head off and shit down your neck." 

"Yeah, yeah," Stringfellow said weakly. Zoe moved to his side again and smoothed his hair with the flat of her hand while he fidgeted. "I hear ya loud and clear on that one, boss." 

Evan rolled her eyes at Jo, who gave an unrepentant shrug. "Guy's gotta learn to keep his lips sewed shut," she muttered then said aloud, "Okay. We're gonna split up in teams of seven; me, Evan, the padre and Lilith will each head a team and there will be one psychic per group. The leaders all have cell phones; if anybody gets a hit, call the others and wait for backup. Don't pull no hero shit and try to take down the Herald by yourself; that dude is one nasty bastard who eats folks like us for breakfast. Wait for the calvary - got it?" 

"What is this, a spiritual SWAT team?" Jason sniped, lighting a new cigarette from the butt in his mouth. His black oily eyes darted here and there, finally resting on Jo. "I don't remember electing you chief either, white skinwalker." 

"Do as you're told or get the fuck outta Dodge," Jo said sweetly. "Ain't nobody making you do this; you volunteered, remember?" 

Jason subsided, sullently sucking on his cigarette. 

Evan closed her eyes and rubbed her aching temples with the heel of her hand. "I can't believe I thought this was a good idea," she whispered. 

Jo grinned. "Don't sweat it, baby. At least if we screw the pooch, we probably won't be around to suffer the consequences." 

"Don't remind me!" Evan moaned. Opening her eyes, she squared her shoulders and gave her long dress a tug. "All right," she said to the four psychics, "Let's all step behind this tent and get to business. While we're gone, Jo will divide up the teams. We've already got maps marked off for the search; we don't want to miss a square inch of this fair, not when the Herald's likely to be anywhere and in any guise." 

Twenty minutes later, the teams were bustling through the fairgrounds, keeping themselves alert for anything out of the ordinary. 

Pushing their way through the crowds of chattering, laughing visitors, nodding to other groups of nuns and keeping together only with great effort, the teams began their methodical search. As she shouldered her way through a rapt audience watching a group of monks perform Gregorian chants, Jo began to appreciate Evan's nun disguise. 

Anyplace else, we'd stick out in these goddamned costumes like a pimple on a supermodel's million dollar nose, she thought, following the bustling Miss Penelope while six Mormolae cruised directly behind. But here we're practically invisible.

That had been one reason for the nun outfits. With so many people dressed in imaginative clothing and role-playing to the hilt, their group was unremarkable and blended perfectly into the scenery. The other reason was equally simple - the tight fitting headresses with their floating wings, as well as the flowing dresses which obscured their figures, made the women seem identical. Their individual features were so blurred and changed that Jo had had a hard time recognizing herself in the mirror. 

The Herald sure got a good fuckin' look at everybody, including Ev, when its asshole buddy was squatting in my head, Jo thought. Even if it's got lookouts on every corner ready to blow the whistle if the God Squad shows up, they ain't gonna know it's us. Groovy!

The cellular phone in the pocket of Jo's robe chirped. She snatched it out, flipped it open and said, "Yeah?" 

It was Lilith; the immortal woman sounded breathless. "We found it!" she said urgently. "A booth on the west side of the fair, near..." The connection crackled and snapped with static, obliterating the sound of Lilith's voice. 

"Yo, Lilith! What's going down?" Jo said loudly, screwing a finger into her free ear to block out the sounds around her. "Where are you exactly?" 

She could only hear hissing for a few moments, then faintly, "...hurry! It's start..." Lilith's voice faded out again and Jo gestured to the Mormolae. "Your momma's in trouble," she said. "West side of the fair, don't have an exact location. You guys better boogie." 

She turned to the open mouthed Miss Penelope as the Mormolae started off through the crowd, moving at such speed that their figures were blurred. "Sounds like the shit's about to hit the fan," Jo said. "You'd better take cover and or the hell outta here." 

The remainder of her sentence went unfinished when there was an explosion of light, sound and color that snatched Jo off her feet, tumbling her through the air like a loose-jointed doll and slamming her into a booth, knocking the breath out of her body. The flimsy structure of the booth collapsed around her and plaster Virgin Mary statues poured off their broken shelves, bouncing off her chest and head. 

Jo blinked rapidly as brilliant fireworks burst like gunpowder chrysanthemums inside her skull and a tearing pain ripped through the left side of her chest. Dazed, she groped for the cell phone she'd had in her hand and came up instead with a headless plaster statue. It was a few minutes before her battered brain comprehended what had happened. 

"Fuck!" she spat, tossing aside the statue, struggling out of the debris and ignoring the agony of broken ribs. She staggered free and looked around; tents had been flattened, booths destroyed, people injured but the majority of the fair's visitors and staff were picking themselves up off the ground and wandering in circles with confused expressions and hysterical weeping . Several horses with hooves the size of dinner plates had gotten loose; they raced past, adding to the melee and forcing screaming people to scurry out of their way. 

Miss Penelope was calmly directing the mobile victims towards the exits; her round face was dirty and she'd lost about half a dozen shawls. She reached out and grabbed the arm of a young woman whose brown eyes were completely blank. "You're in shock, dear," the plump psychic said. "You follow these nice young gentlemen to the exit, go home and have a nice cup of camomile tea." 

Spotting Jo, Miss Penelope clucked her tongue against her teeth and said, "Oh, dear... weren't you going to the west side?" 

"Yeah, right, west," Jo mumbled. "Shit!" She found the mobile phone on the grass; it had been trampled by one of the loose horses and was now nothing more than a handful of useless parts. 

Miss Penelope pointed and said firmly, "Go west, young woman!" 

The tall blonde looked at her with startled recognition... and then the full horror of their situation penetrated the fog in her brain. Without another word, Jo snatched up her skirts and made for the other side of the fairgrounds at full speed, heart pounding as she wondered if Evan was okay, sick with rage and worry that her beloved Druid was not.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

As she sprinted through the fairgrounds, Jo noted the incredible amount of damage and grew more worried by the second. 

Looks like a fuckin' A-bomb went off, she thought, swerving to avoid a cluster of bawling women in medieval wimples. What the hell happened?

The west side of the grounds was the worst; there were several fires burning out of control, filling the air with acrid smoke. People were milling around, faces black with soot, hair singed, clothing torn and stained. Jo didn't have time to spare them more than a sympathetic look. 

She scrambled through the splintered remains of a wooden cart and came to a skidding halt, sucking in her breath then whispering, "Fuck me..." 

There should have been a gated wall directly in front of her, the west exit that led visitors out of the park and back onto 1st Street. Instead, a shimmering wall of opalescent flames more than fifty feet high stretched north and south as far as the eye could see, completely concealing the park's wall.. 

Jo reached out a tentative finger and immediately snatched it back. The pale fires were so cold they burned; she had no doubt that anyone attempting to enter that field would be dead in a heartbeat. 

Probably pop out of the other side looking like a frozen TV dinner. Shit! We're boxed in but good. That big bang must've been the Herald throwing up this wall.

She'd still seen no sign of Lilith or her team, nor the six Mormolae she'd sent here moments before the blast. Where the hell is everybody?

"Jo!" It was Lilith; the dumpy Mother of Demons was limping heavily and being supported by two of her daughters. A trickle of blood ran from her nose and dripped down her chin. "It's begun! The Herald and its disciples are on the center stage, getting ready to make the first sacrifice." 

"Goddammit!" Jo shouted, now thoroughly angry, both at herself, circumstance and the enemy who'd proven so clever already. "Have you seen Evan?" 

"I called her before you," Lilith said. "She knows. She and Father Joseph have already left to confront the Herald. I suggest you get there as quickly as possible." 

"I'm on my way. Are you okay?" 

"A minor injury." Lilith's black eyes radiated concern. She shook off the Mormolae's support and stood as tall as she could.  "Jo... answer me one question," she said. 

"I don't have time..." 

"Yes you do." Lilith might have looked like a battered bag lady but the power and sheer aura of command she radiated could not be denied. 

Chafing at the delay, Jo snapped, "Okay. What's so fuckin' important?" 

"Georgia Tate," the Mother of Demons said, startling Jo with her knowledge of the blonde's real name, "is today a good day to die?" 

"What?" Jo was startled. "Are you nuts?" 

"Just answer the question, step-daughter," Lilith said, referring to all mortal women's connection with Adam's second wife, Eve. 

Jo tore off her nun's headdress impatiently, scraping her ear, and tossed the heavy fabric construction over her shoulder. She looked at Lilith defiantly. "Yeah," she said slowly. "You bet. It's a mighty goddamned good day to die." 

"My Creator go with you," Lilith said with more than a trace of sadness in her voice. 

"You keep right on praying," Jo said, turning away and heading towards the center of the fairgrounds. "I gotta feeling we're gonna need all the help we can get." 

A strong wind, scented with the nauseatingly sweet aroma of corruption, buffeted the concert stage, fluttering clothing and causing the long black dresses of the Mormolae to swirl out behind them like mourning banners. 

Father Joseph and Evan were face to face, their hands wrapped tightly around each other's wrists; the Irishwoman had lost her nun's headdress and the glory of her wild tangerine curls whipped around her head in a fiery tangle. In the cradle of their arms rested the copy of the Necronomicon that the priest had retrieved from England. Curiously, although the Book was open and the force of the hot wind rising, the pages did not so much as quiver; it was as though the Book was surrounded by an invisible bubble of calm. 

The Mormolae hissed and opened their mouths wide, almost unhinging their jaws and allowing the thin retractable fangs hidden behind their canines to spring out in a frightening display that made them resemble venomous serpents, swaying and bobbing to martial music only they could hear. Their dead black eyes were fastened on the stage, where the Herald and its minions were preparing for a feast of blood that would, after eons of impatient waiting, release the Wyrm to claim the rightful inheritance of Chaos - utter destruction of the Realms it had hated so passionately and for so long. 

No one could get near the stage; the Herald had blocked access with a spell similar to the glacial wall it had raised around the park. This shield was not visible but it was just as deadly. Two of the Mormolae had tried to penetrate the barrier; their bodies were now encased in green ice that was harder and less penetrable than a mountain's stony heart. Evan didn't know if they were dead; in her own experience, those gifted with immortality could suffer pain and injury but never succumbed to injuries that would have killed a mortal ten times over. 

Still, the fallen vampire's sisters itched for revenge. They circled the stage like hungry jackals, hissing and snarling, seeking any breach in the Herald's defenses. 

Rubbish skittered across the grass yard, impelled by the wind. A sheet of song music wrapped itself around Father Joseph's hairy calf and then was gone, swept away by a foul smelling gust. Evan had to shout to make herself heard. "What are we waitin' for?" 

The priest squinted and hunched his shoulders. "Not yet!" he insisted. "The timing must be perfect or the incantations won't work!" 

Up on the stage, the Herald continued its preparations. With a broad gesture, braziers filled with smoking incense appeared, as well as an altar carved from blood-red stone. Terrified children huddled on benches in the back, weeping and clutching one another for comfort. There were over a hundred youngsters on the stage; the adult choir-masters and chaperones stood in a group over to one side, guarded by a pair of the Herald's servants. Although some of the children sobbed their names, the adults' faces were blank and devoid of expression; they were caught in the grip of some paralyzing spell. Their unblinking eyes shone with unshed tears, despair and soul-destroying fear; although their bodies were useless, they were still capable of thought. Trapped and utterly helpless against the evil that threatened to consume them, their minds sought refuge in madness and denial even as they anticipated the scorching flames of hell. 

Chanting, "Yog Sogoth! Io! Io!" the Herald shook back the sleeves of its dark crimson robe. Its occupation of Carolyn Lunt's mortal body had taken a terrible toll; the woman's flesh had softened, darkening in places and sagging off the bone. Her face looked half-melted, as if her skin and the muscle beneath were made of molten glass, and one of her eyeballs rested on her cheekbone, the milky-blue, blind orb staring grotesquely into space. Lunt's hair had once been silken soft and the color of burnished amber; now it was thin, dry and resembled sun-scorched hay. Sores had bubbled up on forehead, chin and cheeks; whenever the Herald spoke they burst open, staining her skin with trickles of black, stinking pus. 

A half dozen Catholic priests were already dead, including the saintly and much beloved Father Wulflac; the Herald has used their life forces to construct the shields around the park and concert stage. 

The light of the sun began to dim as the Herald chanted, gobbling its incantations in a horrid, burbling voice, as if it were speaking through liquid filth. The children began to scream and Evan shuddered. 

"It's almost too late!" she shouted, the wind snatching the words from her lips. "We must do it now!" 

"We must wait!" Father Joseph cried. "It is not yet time!" 

Just as Evan opened her mouth to argue further, Jo skidded around a corner. At the sight of her beloved partner, looking scraped and sore but unharmed, the Irishwoman let out a sigh of relief. 

Jo fought her way over to the swaying pair, bent almost double against the wind. "Glad you didn't start the party without me!" she gasped. 

Father Joseph's face was a study in profound thankfulness. "Thank God you've come!" he said loudly. 

Jo squinted up at the concert stage. "Looks like the main show's about to swing into action," she observed. "You guys better make with the mojo. Ev, is there any way you could get me up there? If I could sneak the kids off and get them somewhere safe..." 

Although Evan knew the danger involved in such a scheme, she had no choice but to agree. She and Father Joseph would have to use the Necronomicon to seal the Veil and banish the Wyrm - they could do nothing at the moment to stop the Herald's murderous plan. The Mormolae couldn't be trusted to keep their minds on the mission and forsake personal revenge. 

At the priest's nod, he and Evan broke their grips on each other's arms. While Father Joseph held the Book, Evan tugged at a chain around her neck. Fastened to the chain was the medallion which Lilith had given her. 

"Get to the back stairs," Evan said. "Let me know when you're ready and I'll blast the shieldwall. You'll have to work quickly, colleen; the Herald will know when his shield's been damaged and you'll probably have to fight your way out." 

Jo nodded. "Story of my friggin' life." She bent down until her face was level with Evan's; her dark blue eyes captured and held the stormy gray orbs of the woman who owned her soul. "I love you, baby," the platinum blonde said simply. 

"Be careful, my beauty, my heart. Come back to me." Evan kissed Jo briefly, a timeless moment when the two women felt the sheer strength and passion of their love knitting them together even more closely than before. Then they parted and Jo cleared her throat, her eyes shining. 

"With my shield or on it," she quipped with a lopsided smile. "Okay, enough mushy stuff. Gimme a few seconds to get into position before you set off the mystical TNT." Flashing another smile, she turned away and loped around the side of the stage towards the back stairs. 

Evan's heart was in her throat and she felt a sudden fury at her helplessness, unable to confront the Herald because her part in their plan was too important to risk. She felt like a general who must command his troops from safety lest the battle be lost with his life. Father Joseph had made it perfectly clear - her sole responsibility was to use her knowledge, magic and skill to seal the Veil and nothing more. 

During that meeting in which he and the Irishwoman had discussed their strategy, the priest had said solemnly, "What do a few lives matter against the billions who will be lost if the Realms are destroyed?" 

Against that cold assessment she could make no argument, then or now. 

She set aside her anger and schooled herself to calm. Jo's plan was logical and seemed like the only way of thwarting the murder of innocent children. She could only hope that her partner would succeed. Holding the silver medallion in her hand, Evan closed her eyes and concentrated, tapping into the well of magic. Instantly, she felt power welling into her veins, a rich flood of white-hot energy that made her feel as if her hair were sizzling. 

::Hurry, love!:: she sent through the link she shared with Jo. ::I can't hold it much longer!:: 

::Yeah, yeah, where've I heard that before?:: Jo sent with the mental equivalent of a cheeky grin. ::All righty, Mission Control. The Eagle has landed. In other words... blow me, baby!:: 

Evan didn't hesitate; she released a stream of pure power at the Herald's shield.

With a mighty roar and a flash like a thousand suns exploding in an instant, the shieldwall was breached, and Jo was gone. 
 

Chapter Sixteen
 

The moment the Herald felt the concussive blast of its shield being ripped open, it snatched a knife from its robes and made a hooking gesture with its free hand. 

Immediately, four of the entranced choirmasters lurched forward like zombies, shuffling across the stage towards the nightmarish figure in dark crimson robes. The Herald's servants chanted in a sing-song fashion, "That is not dead which can eternal lie... and with strange eons even death may die." 

The Herald looked past the remaining shield on the front of the stage and saw Evan, Father Joseph and the Mormolae, exactly the same group of people who had been there from the beginning. As it watched with narrowed eyes, Lilith and two more Mormolae came limping up to join them. It had not seen Jo and had no way of knowing she'd already made her way up the back stairs and was creeping silently towards the children. 

To the Herald, the strike against its shield was a hopelessly futile gesture made by a desperate enemy. It knew that the fatal moment had not yet arrived - only when the Wyrm was on the threshold between the worlds would it be vulnerable to attack. Its own position was unassailable; who would dare lay siege to its magically defended fortress when it held so many hostages in the form of children? 

The fact that those same children would be sacrificed as fuel to the Wyrm's escape did not make them less valuable; in the Herald's experience, humankind's pitiful attachment to their offspring, as well as their unfathomable ability to find hope in even the most despairing circumstances, was its enemies' greatest weakness. 

The Herald was confident that it could exploit those weaknesses to the hilt. 

It sneered and a dollop of melting flesh slid down its chin. "You will fail," it gurgled, projecting its voice so that its enemies could hear. "After day cometh night; man's day shall pass and Chaos will rule again, as it was before accursed light imprisoned its perfection in darkness. The Wyrm will rend the Realms asunder in a holocaust of freedom and ecstasy... and that time has come now!" 

As soon as the first choirmaster was within reach, the Herald grabbed his hair, hauled his head back and sliced deeply across his throat. Gouts of blood splattered across its robes, spurting in time to the final frantic beating of the victim's heart; a fine crimson mist filled the air, speckling the faces of the chanting servants. 

The disciples of the Wyrm wore black hooded robes embroidered with a writhing, multi-armed symbol that the eye refused to focus on clearly. While their faces bore beatific expressions, their eyes were empty and soulless. 

"Vermis Mysteriis," they sang, "Undimensioned and unseen! Shub niggurath! Io!" 

The Book which the unfortunate Kenneth Silvernail had used to crack the Veil was lying open on the scarlet stone altar. The murdered man's blood had pooled on the pages; as the servants continued their chant, the blood began to disappear, soaked up by the Necronomicon as if the Book had become a sponge. 

In rapid succession, the other three choirmasters shared the first victim's fate. 

Meanwhile, Jo was squatting unnoticed in a shadowy corner at the back of the stage, near the benches where the children were being kept. There were two guards at either end of the front benches; the rest of the servants were chanting and their only focus was the Herald. 

Shit! she thought. I can take out one of those guards but I'm pretty damned sure I can't get both, at least not without somebody noticing. They raise the alarm and I'm dead meat. I gotta get these kids outta here somehow... where's John friggin' Rambo when you need him?

An idea came to her. She concentrated on the guard furthest from her position; his mind was completely unprotected. 

Typical bad-guy attitude! Fuck the help - they're just cannon fodder. On the other hand, that's good news for me. 

Swiftly but carefully, she established a link with the guard's mind, then acted without hesitation. 

Jo leaped out of her hiding place and attacked the first guard, locking her arm around his throat and squeezing his airway shut. Simultaneously she sent a devastating mental "scream" down the link she'd established with the other man. He convulsed, brain overloaded and synapses scrambled by Jo's psychic attack, and slowly sank to his knees, fine threads of blood trickling from ears, nose and eyes. He died quietly a few seconds later. 

The guard in her arms was turning purple, tongue protruding, eyes nearly popping from their sockets as he struggled to breathe. Jo put her free hand on his forehead, exerted more force, and neatly snapped his neck. The sound was unpleasant, like a green twig being cracked apart, but the noise was drowned out by the enthusiastic chanting of the other servants. 

Jo eased the guard's body to the floor and took a deep breath. From beginning to end, the dispatching of the two men had taken about twenty seconds but she felt as exhausted as if she'd run a marathon. Sweat dripped from her forehead and stung her eyes; she wiped it away impatiently. 

The children were staring at her with round eyes. She put a finger to her lips and walked over to the back row, kneeling down beside the bench. "I'm gonna get you guys outta here," she whispered to the closest children. "But you gotta be quiet and do what I tell ya, okay?" 

They nodded silently and she continued, "First twenty on this row, tip-toe out, don't make a sound, and go single file to the back. Go down the stairs, turn left and haul ass to the main park exit - don't go to the front of the concert area 'cause that'd be a real bad idea. When you come out, don't sneeze, don't cough, don't fart, okay? You gotta be quiet as mice. I'm counting on you not to give the show away to the bad dudes 'cause then we'll all be in deep doo-doo." 

The kids whispered among themselves for a second, then twenty of them filed past Jo. She watched the front of the stage where the Herald was busy feeding bursts of magical energy to a rapidly expanding rift above the altar. 

At first seemingly composed of glittering black opal particles that swirled on invisible currents of air, this tiny hole in the Veil began to fuse and grow into a flat black line that pulsed and vibrated. The Herald was using its store of magic to widen a hairline crack in the very fabric of reality... and through this portal something awful was beginning to emerge. 

Clouds of mist, strangely scented with hot iron and brimstone, began pouring out of the rift; strange flashes of black light crawled and tumbled through the hot, foul-smelling steam. 

Forty children had gone and another twenty were on their way down the stairs when the Herald sent a final surge of power crackling into the rift. 

The Herald's robes dripped with blood and it stood in a pool of the sticky, crimson liquid. It raised both arms and screeched, "Vermis Mysteriis! The maze of time is thine! The labyrinth of thy confinement is ended! Enter this Realm on a tide of innocence defiled, child of Chaos, and claim thy birthright!" 

It turned and immediately spotted Jo, as well as the fact that more than half its intended victims were gone. 

Jo muttered, "Shit!" as the Herald screamed, "Stop her!" 

Servants began to converge on the tall blonde. 

She planted herself firmly in front of the benches, determined not to allow any of the children to be harmed. "Run!" Jo yelled at the terrified kids. "Get the fuck outta here now!" 

Black robed disciples descended, snatching at her arms and legs. Those children who had obeyed Jo's shouted order to run were swiftly caught and hauled back to the benches, weeping in terror. 

The Herald's good eye narrowed. "Be careful to take her alive," it commanded. 

"Goddamn you mother fuckers to hell!" she shouted, punching and kicking, even biting, inflicting as much damage as she could, but Jo knew it was only a matter of time before she was overwhelmed. 

::Make the bastards pay!:: she sent to Evan. ::Don't let...:: 

Her last words were blotted out in a rush of pain and red-tinged darkness as one of servants punched the side of Jo's head, sending her down into peaceful oblivion. 

Father Joseph shook his head. A gust of wind made him stagger but Evan's grip on his wrists kept him from falling. "It's up to Jo!" he hollered back. "We cannot sacrifice ourselves..." 

Her perception flip-flopped suddenly and his words took on a different meaning. Evan felt the hairs on the back of her neck shiver and rise. She stared at the priest incredulously and finally said, "This is what you intended all along, isn't it?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Jo is the Sacrifice!" she screamed, fury rising with the chilling realization. "You lyin' bastard!" She could not believe that she'd been so blind. 

"It was necessary! Would you have allowed Jo to go up there alone if you'd known her fate?" the priest asked. "One life balanced against so many... isn't that a reasonable price to pay?" 

Enraged, Evan tried to send a mental message to her partner and to her astonishment, found that Father Joseph had blocked that line of communication... so skillfully she'd never even noticed. "What are you doin'?" she cried. "We have to warn her!" 

"No!" the priest said forcefully. "We must wait until the Wyrm is vulnerable!" 

Desperately, Evan tugged at their joined hands and was unable to break the connection. "And until Jo is already dead. Go nithe an Bhadhbh do bhall fearga!" she said bitterly in her native language. 

"Not a pretty sentiment," Father Joseph commented. Before Evan could reply, he called to Lilith, "Go around to the back of the stage. Jo will be sending the children down - make sure they get to safety." 

Lilith nodded. Gathering the Mormolae around her, the Mother of Demons limped away, leaving Evan alone with a man she now hated more than anyone else on earth. 

Her gray eyes were darkened by anger. "I will not forget or forgive," she promised. There was deadly purpose in her expression and rigidly controlled hatred in her tone. "If we succeed and Jo is lost... you will be the next to die, I swear by the Morrighan." 

Father Joseph looked at her sadly. "Do what you must," he replied. "I am willing to die in the service of my masters." 

"The Watchers?" Evan spat. "They have no stomach for battle. And think not that you can hide behind their skirts, Father Turncoat. If Jo dies, even your almighty God can't protect you from me!" 

Just then, there was a commotion on stage. Even called loudly, "Jo! Jo!" and struggled to separate herself from the priest. 

He held onto her firmly; Father Joseph was much stronger than he looked. He shook his head. "Its almost time," he said. "Wait for my signal. And don't think to use the magic Lilith gave you to rescue your lover," he added. "I can block anything you try and besides, she's already as good as dead. Obey my instructions for now; when it's over and the Realms are safe, you'll be free to act as you please." 

Evan's eyes were filled with tears of frustration. "Damn you!" she hissed. 

"Possible but unlikely," he returned calmly. 

At that moment, Evan received a fleeting message from her partner. ::Make the bastards pay!:: she heard in her mind. ::Don't let...:: Then it was cut off and there was only silence. Evan tried to reply but couldn't; the priest was still blocking her from sending. "At least let me tell her good-bye!" she begged. 

Father Joseph, taller than the Irishwoman, could see events on the stage clearly. 

He replied with a frown. "Get ready. The moment is near." 

Wishing she could bury her teeth in the priest's throat instead, Evan prepared as best she could for the coming struggle. 

Up on the stage, a tentacled horror was slowly pushing its way out of the rift. 

The Wyrm was crossing the threshold. 

Chapter Seventeen
 

Two of the Herald's servants went to the benches and grabbed a young girl by both arms. She was perhaps ten years old, with a round face and big, frightened brown eyes. Her yellow braids swayed as she was hauled over to the altar; although her mouth was open, she was too terrified to scream. The servants held her up, the toes of her sneakers trailing in a pool of blood. 

When the Herald turned towards her, she took one look at that nightmarish visage, sucked in a breath and let out a deafening howl. A gush of urine flowed down her leg and she howled again. 

Jo hung limply in the grip of two burly servants. A dark purple bruise blossomed on the side of her face and there was a crust of blood on her mouth where she'd bitten through her bottom lip. She was only pretending to be unconscious; in fact, she watched the proceedings through slitted eyes and planned her next move. 

::Ev?:: she sent. ::Yo, sweet Irish momma! Do you read me?:: 

Her blood chilled when there was no reply. 

Evan fought to keep standing; the wind was even stronger than before and the sky had turned the dull yellow of sulfur. The sun shed a weirdly muted light upon the landscape, making everything seem that much more blurred and unreal, as if viewed through a veil of thinnest gold. 

She and the priest cried out together, 

"Bind the venomous claws below the thunders of the deep, 
Send the child of Chaos to a void of dreamless sleep; 
Form abideth not within that veiled and slumberous cell, 
Seal the gate 'gainst dreaming death and angels' gallows-fell." 

A blue-white light was collecting in the air above the Book that was balanced across their arms. As they continued to weave the incantation, the potent magic gathered there began to spin and turn, growing brighter and brighter until it resembled a fiery St. Catherine's wheel. 

One of the Mormolae came dashing around the corner, a fierce and feral smile on her face which did not reach her eyes. "Lilith said to tell you to get stuffed! There's still kids up there and she's gonna let us fight." 

Father Joseph broke off the chant. "She can't! That might ruin everything!" 

The Mormolae shrugged. "She doesn't want any more of her stepchildren to get hurt. She's pissed and hurting, God-boy, and I wouldn't try anything if I were you." Her breathy little voice was unaffected by the howling wind and she flexed her claws as if already anticipating the shedding of blood. 

The priest looked at Evan, a clear appeal in his eyes. If Lilith were inclined to listen to anyone, it would probably be the Irishwoman. 

His effort was in vain. Evan glanced at him coldly and shook her head. "We must stay here and not risk ourselves," she said mockingly. "My hands are tied." 

The Mormolae snickered at the anguish and frustration on Father Joseph's face. 

Evan jerked her head to draw the vampire closer. "Have you news of Jo?" A slender threat of hope flared up; could it be possible that the priest was wrong and her beloved yet lived? 

"I don't know. They've got some young blonde female on the altar; the Herald's about to kill her. Look, I have to get back or I'll miss the fun." The Mormolae was chafing to go. 

"Could it be Jo?" Evan asked desperately. 

The Mormolae shrugged again. "I guess so. Probably is; we only got about fifty kids out of the area and the rest are still up there. Don't think she'd quit unless she had to." 

Her wild, impossible hope withered with the vampire's words. If Jo was free, if she'd been able to act - even against impossible odds - the children would not be in such danger. Evan drew a deep breath. "Do what you must," she choked. 

"Yeah, sure," the Mormolae said. "Whatever." Without waiting for any further reply she turned about and fairly flew back around the corner, where presumably the rest of her sisters and her immortal mother waited. 

The priest said gently, "She's already dead. They can't possibly rescue her in time. Accept her death and rejoice; Jo's sacrifice will save us all, and I have no doubt she will be well rewarded in the life to come." 

Evan's gray eyes were as hard and cold as river stones as she turned her regard on Father Joseph. Her heart was breaking, cracking and shivering into freezing splinters that stabbed and gnawed at her breast but she gave no sign of her pain; she would mourn Jo's loss later... after she'd finished licking the priest's heart's blood from her lips. 

"Never speak her name again," Evan said flatly. 

Only the rigorous training she'd been given by the Druids kept her in control now, otherwise Father Joseph's corpse would already be cooling. 

Faced with the Irishwoman's almost palpable hatred and scorching gaze, the priest shivered. 

"Let's continue," Evan said. "I'm not wantin' my lover's death to be in vain." 

Facing the stage, they chanted, 

"Into the cauldron, cast ye be, eternal waiting lie, 
Age and ages scrolling past 'till time itself shall die. 
Destroyer, Serpent, Dragon, Wyrm, 
The pale beyond shall hold thee firm. 

"Seas abysmal, clutch him tight, this prison is his lot, 
Seal of Five and Seven, Nine, ensure he is forgot. 
Depart and rest ye, Chaos child, within the starless night, 
Arrest thy shade, resist no more the power of the light." 

Forgive me, my Jo, my heart, Evan thought as the words slipped automatically from her lips. Forgive me for making you die alone.

Although her eyes were dry, within the depths of her soul Evan wept and grieved in ceaseless rivers of tears for the loss of the woman she loved. 

Jo swallowed. A gush of fear sweat soaked her armpits, stood out in fat beads on her face, arms and neck. I ain't gonna get out of this one alive, she thought. 

As if in answer to that thought, a flash of illumination and calm descended upon her; it was as if Jo suddenly stood alone on a vast, light-saturated plain that stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. Turning around, she could see crystalline spheres bobbing up and down as if tethered to invisible anchors. Each of those bubbles contained an episode of her life, replaying again and again like a movie, pictures that captured every joy, every pain, every love and hate, each petty sin and each moment of glorious love. 

Somehow she didn't find this strange world the least bit curious or unnerving. Looking down at her feet Jo could see smaller bubbles; they contained the present, just as the previous ones had presented the past. As she watched, the spheres grew until they broke free with a silent sigh, then floated back to join the others, lined up as neatly as beads on a string. She recognized the Herald, the horrified face of the ten-year old girl, Evan's frown of total concentration as she mouthed some incantation. All growing, maturing and slipping into the past heartbeat by heartbeat. 

Bemused, Jo looked ahead and saw... nothing.. 

This is what you were born to do, said a voice inside her head. This is your destiny. It had a dry, sexless and dispassionate tone, sounding like a dedicated scholar who knows little of life outside his studies. 

"Do I have a choice?" she asked. 

Yes, the voice replied. There is always choice. There must be choice.

Jo glanced down at the spheres near her feet. The vast form of the Wyrm was continuing to emerge from the rift in the Veil; Father Joseph and Evan were screaming phrases from the Book in the teeth of what appeared to be a howling gale; more children were being brought towards the altar by the Herald's servants, kept clustered together like sheep in a slaughterhouse. 

"Who are you?" she asked, already knowing the answer. 

I am the Creator, the voice said simply. 

Not the Christian god, nor any other god; they were just representatives of a more powerful, cosmic force. The Creator of All - every Realm, every life, ever star, every universe, everything. The ultimate Magna Mater and implacable enemy of that old destroyer, Chaos. Order spoke, and when it commanded, worlds wheeled in their orbits and sentience was born from the sea. 

Do you accept? the voice asked. 

Jo understood what this question implied. She'd known it all along and denied; the Wyrm had played upon her fears, amplifying doubt and despair. But now her head was clear, her blood sang and her bones vibrated with the knowledge that she was the one. Father Joseph may have tried to deceive, tried to soothe her with the false comfort that she was not pre-destined for this doom, but now she knew the truth. He had not lied about one thing, however - the Sacrifice must be willing to die. 

Sometimes, all the paths of fate led in the same direction, but not today. At this precise moment in time, the future lay in two distinct and separate paths; her choice - and no one else's - would determine the fate of all worlds. 

There was no further need for hesitation or questions; Jo had known what she would do the moment she arrived in this place. 

She stood tall and said firmly, "I accept." There were no more doubts, no more fears and no regrets. As soon as she finished speaking, she felt a profound sense of relief sweep through her and her knees almost buckled. It was as if she'd been unknowingly smothered beneath a huge weight for so long, that when the burden was finally lifted, she nearly collapsed at the sudden sensation of freedom. 

So be it. 

Jo looked once again at the spheres close to her feet. The Herald had its knife raised above the girl's chest; the servants were staring with rapt faces at the horrible apparition that was slowly, almost gingerly inserting itself into the mortal Realm. The chanting reached a peak; Evan's face was white and greasy with sweat; several shrieking Mormolae swam into view; the knife began to descend... 

And the light faded as Jo was sent reeling back to reality to face her destiny.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Mormolae, led by Lilith, came swarming onto the stage, attacking the Herald's servants. The Mother of Demons shook wild locks of silver-streaked black hair away from her face, snatched the lit cigarette from her mouth, pointed a finger at an opponent and spat a phrase in a gutteral, snarling tongue. The robed man convulsed, blood suddenly gushing from every orifice... and then dropped bonelessly to the floor, dead before he hit. She took a deep drag off her cigarette and contemptuously blew smoke at the fallen servant. 

"Hope you enjoy Hell," Lilith said with a sneer. 

As her daughters engaged some of the other servants, Lilith began hauling children off the benches and herding them towards the back staircase. Anyone who got in her way quickly regretted it - if the Mother of Demons didn't impatiently crush his heart with an almost casual gesture, the Mormolae swooped down and savaged him with fangs and claws. 

The servants who held Jo were astonished when the woman they'd thought was unconscious suddenly surged against their grips. Jo tore herself away from them in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy, shaking off their holds and virtually flying across the small space that separated her from the Herald. 

Jo's vision narrowed to a tunnel; her sole focus was the blood-stained knife that was continuing its descent. Time slowed until the steady beating of her heart thundered in the her ears. Obsidian clawed tentacles whipped towards her but she eluded them easily, moving like quicksilver straight towards her goal. With an effort that nearly wrenched muscle from bone, Jo leaped towards the altar, arms outstretched as if she was diving from a great height... or reaching out to eagerly embrace her fate. 

Jo grunted as she landed face down on top of the girl who was stretched out on the altar... 

The Herald's good eye went wide with horror as it realized what was going to happen but it was too late to stop its actions. 

More tentacles slipped and slid in tumbling, knotted heaps over the edge of the rift as the Wyrm hastened to complete the transition before it was too late. 

The knife completed its arc. 

The girl shielded by Jo's body let out a muffled screech. 

And the knife buried itself to the hilt in Jo's unprotected back, slipped between her ribs and finally - fatally - stilled the frantic beating of her willing heart. 

The glowing circle of blue-white light above the Book in their arms had grown to immense proportions. Evan and Father Joseph no longer had to fight against a howling wind; within the vicinity of the counter-portal they'd created, everything had grown calm and still. 

Despite the relative peace of their surroundings, they still had a battle on their hands. The energy sphere was as difficult to control as a bucking, unbroken stallion. Evan and the priest both sweated heavily as they struggled to keep the wild magic leashed with their wills. 

The Irishwoman could feel herself weakening; it was as if her bones had turned to jelly, her blood and bowels to water. She could barely force herself to stand erect; all she wanted to do was collapse - mentally, physically and emotionally. Instead, she dredged up the last vestiges of strength she possessed and bent to her task, uncaring of the heavy penalty in pain and exhaustion she would later pay. 

A smaller cost than my Jo's, she thought numbly. 

Father Joseph's head was cocked to one side, as if he were waiting for some signal only he could hear. 

Suddenly, Miss Penelope, Jason Whitehawk and Zoe and Stringfellow Garvey came walking calmly onto the grass. Evan had thought the psychics gone, fled with the rest of the fairgoers, but as they approached, she realized that she'd been mistaken about them  - for these people were clearly much, much different than they'd first appeared. 

The four people had shed the small illusions they'd layered over their appearances... and now their eyes betrayed the tell-tale swirling flames that identified them as Watchers. 

Stringfellow Garvey nodded to Father Joseph. "The time is near," he said in Melmahay's distinctive rumble. 

The priest nodded back. "I recognize you now," he replied. "Evan, this is Azazel, who taught mankind the making of weapons of war." 

The woman she'd known as Zoe Garvey grinned. 

Miss Penelope cleared her throat. "Semjaza, teacher of enchantments." 

"Armaros, who taught the resolving of enchantments," said Jason Whitehawk. 

The four Watchers arranged themselves in a semi-circle around Evan and the priest. Their faces were upturned, eyes fixed upon the swirling, glowing ball of pure magic that emanated from the Book. 

The muted sounds of commotion came from the stage, muffled by the barrier still erected around the structure. The fallen angels listened and Melmahay held up a hand. 

"On my sign," he said. 

Evan's nerves were stretched taut and fraying further by the second. She felt like her entire body had been wrung out, beaten to a pulp, sieved through a fishnet and dried in the summer sun. The beginning of a fierce headache pulshed behind her left eye; her arms trembled and ached with the strain of holding up the Book for so long. 

There suddenly came a moment of complete silence and stillness; it was as if the world itself was holding its breath, halted in its orbit and waiting in eerie patience for some resolution that would tell it where and when and how to turn. 

Melmahay barked, "Now!" 

With a sob, Evan released the twisting, blinding bolt of blue-white power. It seemed to gather in upon itself for a second, then it streaked towards the stage as swiftly as an arrow in flight. The Irishwoman pulled her hands away from Father Joseph and slowly sank onto her knees, resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands and weep. 

The energy bolt flew truly, aimed precisely at the heart of the rift... 

Then shockingly, it swerved abruptly, missing its target by inches. 

Evan scrambled to her feet. "All in vain!" she screamed hoarsely at the priest. "My Jo's blood is on your hands and it was all for nothin', you motherless bastard!" 

"Look!" Father Joseph choked. 

Evan turned... 

And saw Jo. A second glance was confirmation enough; her lover was truly dead and that terrifying figure of beauty and power that stood upon the stage was not flesh but soul alone. Jo's spirit was returned to the mortal plain, transformed by the willing sacrifice of blood and life, baptized in the sacred fires of the Otherworld and now the Champion of Light in truth. 

The magic of the Book streaked across the stage like a maddened comet. 

Tears filled her eyes. "Oh, my love," Evan whispered. 

The ghost that was Jo caught the ball of energy easily; it glowed between her hands, pulsing waves of blue-white light that looked hot and cold by turns, spilling a waterfall of sparks between her fingers.. Her figure was opaque and unclear, blurred around the edges; skin like milky glass, hair like thin spikes of silver, the dark blue of her eyes washed out to the pale hue of glacial ice. 

Jo's body still lay upon the altar, limbs cooling and stiffening, the hilt of the Herald's knife jutting obscenely from her back. The ten year old girl she'd shielded had squirmed from beneath the corpse and sat near the altar, face blank with shock. 

The Herald raised both hands and sent bolt after bolt of flaming, black-tinged sorcery at Jo's spirit. The malign magic sparked against her figure and then blew away, scattered into nothingness. 

The Wyrm sought to grasp the ghost; as soon as its sickly white tentacles touched the opaque figure those limbs were blasted and sent flopping back down upon the floor, charred and smoking. The Wyrm let out a shriek of dim rage and its limbs writhed in futile threat, but it did not attempt to capture Jo again. 

The power in Jo's hands began to whirl faster and faster. Those few servants who had survived the Mormolae's attack tried to flee; with vengeful spite the Herald spent some of its dwindling magical resources to make its unfaithful disciples burst into flames. The fiery figures, screeching in agony, staggered around the stage, setting props and curtains alight. 

In the midst of this holocaust, Lilith and the Mormolae swiftly gathered up the rest of the children and the surviving choir masters and retreated, leaving the stage to the Champion of Light and her enemies. 

As soon as everyone was clear, Jo slowly drew her hands apart, stretching the blue-white energy and molding it with her fingertips. In moments she had fashioned a sword whose blade was composed of pure, sizzling energy that shed a shower of sparks with each movement she made. 

The Herald seethed with thwarted fury. "You cannot stop my Master!" it howled, causing a veritable avalanche of flesh to cascade off the bones of its skull. "It is too late! The Wyrm is here!" 

Dimly, as if glimpsed from an unimaginable distance, a vast yellow eye loomed in the center of the rift. It drew closer and closer; the air was shattered with a sound like the shrill shrieking whistle of a locomotive as the Wyrm abandoned all caution and made for the edge of the rift with all the speed at its command. 

The expression on Jo's face was almost kindly. "It's never too late," she replied. Her voice was hollow and echoed strangely, as if she was speaking from the bottom of a well. 

She swept the blazing sword up, then down, chopping at the Wyrm's tentacles with all the casual, workmanlike skill of a lumberjack at his trade. Her spectral face bore just a hint of a smile as she hacked and slashed, bending to scoop up the spurting, severed tentacles and hurl them back into the rift. The Wyrm whistled again, this time in pain, and its single yellow eye burned with hate. 

The Herald danced about, flapping its hands and sending weak bursts of energy that fizzled out before they reached Jo. It dared not touch her but finally, as Jo continued her grisly business, galvanized by its Master's screams, the Herald rushed forward and tried to grab her. 

Its clutching fingers passed straight through Jo's indistinct form and emerged burned to cinders. Still smoldering chunks of flesh and bone scattered on the floor as the Herald futilely scrabbled to come to grips with the enemy that was destroying its Master. 

Without pausing, unaffected by the smoke and flames that roared around her, Jo carried on hacking and slashing; dark green ooze splashed up from the Wyrm's wounds but did not touch her. 

As soon as the last of the tentacles had been severed and tossed back to the other side of the Veil, Jo stepped back a pace, scanning the floor to see if she'd missed anything. At that moment, the Wyrm thrust part of its massive head through the rift. 

Jo stood there unmoving as the Wyrm glared at her with its hellish eye. Beneath the vast staring orb, a ridiculously tiny beak clacked and ground together, the sound reminiscent of fingernails scraping across a chalkboard and just as hair-raising. 

The ghost tilted her head and stared straight at the Wyrm. Impossibly, a slow grin spread itself across her face as she hefted the blazing sword in both hands and said, "Go directly to jail." 

The sword swept across the Wyrm's face, making it flinch back hastily. 

"Do not pass GO," Jo continued with another swipe of the fiery weapon. 

The look in the Wyrm's eye changed rapidly from hate and anger to fear and disbelief. It began to retreat further into its shelter on the other side of the Veil. 

The sword flourished again. "Do not collect two hundred dollars," Jo said. 

The Herald cried out in terror as a pair of tentacles shot out of the rift and wrapped themselves around its stolen body; the Wyrm's gleaming obsidian claws shredded its servant's rotting flesh and stinking black fluid splattered the floor. 

Legs wide apart, sword cocked over her shoulder, the Champion of Light sucked in a deep breath and shouted, "BEGONE, ASSHOLE!" 

Screeching in pain and fright, menaced by Jo's flaming sword, the Wyrm fled back into exile. The Herald, clutched tightly in its master's tentacles, was dragged across the floor and hauled into the rift. 

Screaming, "No! Master! It wasn't my fault! Don't, please!" the Herald disappeared into the black void of the rift. As soon as its squirming, pleading form disappeared, the roiling mist was sucked in behind it, as well as the flames that were consuming the stage. Clouds of gray smoke followed... then with a deafening explosion, the rift collapsed in on itself, shrinking and thinning until it resembled a long, worm-like thread. 

The thread vibrated, dancing on air, until it was drawn down into the pages of the Book on the altar. The cover snapped shut hungrily... 

And the sudden, shocking silence was only broken by the sound of Evan's weeping. 
 

Chapter Nineteen
 

On the stage, the opaque figure of Jo was staring ruefully at the ruins of her physical body. The great sword she'd created of pure power was gone, sucked down into the Book. The leather cover now bore a new seal of interlocking pentagrams and strange, shimmering symbols that bound the front and back together. The seal looked as if it had been crafted of white gold, but deep down within the surface of the metal, currents of silver-blue magic surged and swirled in never-ending patterns, constantly renewing the mystical lock that kept the Wyrm at bay. 

Evan started to approach Jo, one hand outstretched, but Father Joseph yanked her back. "Are you mad?" the priest hissed. "Let me deal with this." 

He cautiously walked up to the spirit by the altar, keeping a respectful distance. "The flesh has been Sacrificed to gain power and knowledge," he said. "Thus was the Ancient Enemy defeated. Go now with our thanks; the Gates of the Blessed await your triumphal entry." 

"What?" Jo's ghost replied in its hollow, echoing voice. "Lemme guess... legions of fat-kneed cherubs bawling hymns of praise, brass trumpets, a ticker-tape parade, rose petals in every orifice and more incense than you can shake a Buddha at. No thanks, pal." Her arms crossed over her chest and she leaned down to thrust her face directly at the priest, who shrank back. "I ain't going nowhere." 

"But... but..." the priest sputtered. "You can't stay here!" 

"Watch me." 

Semjaza, Melmahay, Amaros and Azazael joined the others on the stage. Semjaza, still clad in Miss Penelope's plump flesh, came up behind Evan and put her hands on the Irishwoman's shoulders. "Can you heal this?" the Watcher asked, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse on the altar. 

"No," Evan said hoarsely, wiping her tear-stained face with the tail of her shirt. "I cannot. She's been... gone too long. But perhaps there is one who can." 

"Who?" Amaros asked in Jason Whitehawk's voice. 

"Brigid." Evan pulled Lilith's medallion out of the pocket of her jeans and rubbed it thoughtfully with her thumb. "A powerful goddess. She took back the Cauldron of Rebirth after the death of Matholwch and has it still. The Cauldron could heal Jo's body, bring her back to life." 

"Doesn't Brigid live within you, as do all the other Celtic gods?" Semjaza asked. 

Evan shot the fallen angel a suspicious glance. "Aye, but how do you know that?" 

"We're not called Watchers for nothing," Melmahay answered with a hint of irony. 

"If I use the magic in this medallion, I could release the gods," Evan said. "Brigid could bring Jo back..." 

"And you'd be killed in the process," Semjaza said. "Releasing the gods would destroy you. You're talking about nothing less than suicide." 

"Your gods wouldn't survive very long after, either," Melmahay said. "Only belief sustains the existance of gods; there aren't enough faithful believers in the world to keep the Irish dieties alive. They'd dwindle and fade in a short time, joining all the other forgotten ones who starve and suffer on the fringes of the Upper Realms. You would condemn the ones you've protected for so long to a shadowy and painful existance." 

"You would be breaking your oath," Amaros said. "Betraying the memory of all those who sacrificed their lives so that you might live beyond the normal span of years." 

"So be it," Evan said. "I cannot... I will not stand idle and watch them put my Jo into the ground. This is the only way to bring her back. Whatever the cost, I'm willin' to pay." 

"Your life and the lives of your gods in exchange for one mortal?" Semjaza asked. 

"Aye. Seems fair enough to me." 

"Do you love her so much then?" Amaros asked gently. 

"More than breath, life and light," Evan answered. She looked at Jo's ghost, who was still arguing with Father Joseph. 

She clutched the medallion in her fist and took a deep breath. She could feel the immense power stored in the relatively small receptacle; it would be more than enough to free Brigid and the others. Evan had been a living refuge for them for two millennia; surely they would understand her reasons and be willing to grant her this favor for all those years of faithful service. And perhaps the picture painted by the Watchers wasn't quite so bleak; Evan had noticed a rise of interest in ancient Celtia and other pagan cultures, so it might be possible for her gods to survive. 

Fresh tears sparkled in her eyes as she looked at Jo's spirit. For no other would I forsake my vows, my people's memory, my honor, my dieties, my own life. Only you.

She didn't notice the four Watchers moving closer to her, arranging themselves in a circle and staring at her avidly. 

Jo's ghost stared at the priest in disbelief and mounting anger. Tiny bubbles of ectoplasm dripped from the edges of her form, reminding Father Joseph of ice cream melting on a hot summer's day. 

"Look, bubba," the spirit said in her hollow, echoing voice. "I had to save that kid. Hell, I had to save the whole goddamned universe. No problem; I'm a pretty generous type of gal. I knew the score before I made my choice. It just pisses me off that now the party's over and the shit went wide of the fan, you wanna shove a harp in my hands, slap a halo over my ears and say 'aloha'. Geez, I have the feeling that I'm getting fucked and you didn't even buy me dinner first." 

Father Joseph impatiently pulled the glasses off his nose, polished them on his robe and shoved them on his face again. "What would you do if you stayed?" he asked. "You don't have a physical presence anymore. You'd be nothing more than a lost spirit; no substance, no purpose, nothing. Do you really think you can ever touch Evan again? Feel the texture of her skin, taste her mouth, smell her hair? All of this is lost to you and cannot be regained. Why torture yourself by staying? And what about Evan? How do you think it will make her feel - seeing you as you are, never able to touch you, always reminded of the love you shared and never again able to act upon it. If you care nothing for your own welfare, then at least consider your lover." 

The ghost was silent for a moment, then sighed. "Okay, okay. You gotta point. I may not like it - and I sure as hell hate admitting it - but you may be right. No... shit! You are right. It wouldn't be fair to Ev." 

"Exactly." Father Joseph looked smug. 

Jo glared at him. "I hate a sore winner," she muttered hollowly. Turning around, she spotted Evan, who was kneeling on the scorched stage; the four Watchers stood around her in a circle. 

"Yo, Ev!" the ghost said, waving an opaque hand. "C'mere, babe. We gotta talk." 

There was no response; it was as if Evan hadn't heard her. 

"Hey! Ectoplasmic entity to Ev! Hello!!" 

There was still no response. 

Suddenly, the ghost had a chilling thought. "I'd swear somebody was walking over my grave, only I ain't buried yet," she murmured. "Uh, Ev... don't go doing anything stupid right now, okay?" 

Evan had something in her hand. With a start, Jo realized it was Lilith's medallion. 

She began drifting towards her lover, moving across the floor as quickly as she could. "Ev! Don't!" the spirit cried. 

The Irishwoman looked up; there were tears in her gray eyes. "I love you," she said simply. 

Father Joseph sucked in a breath. 

Evan made a twisting gesture with her free hand. 

Jo's ghost made a eerie, wailing sound. 

And the world exploded in rippling waves of brilliant blue-white light. 

"Ev-aaaaaaaaan," the ghost groaned, her voice weirdly distorted. 

As soon as Evan released the magic contained within the medallion, the Watchers acted. Instead of plunging into the kneeling woman, sundering her immortal flesh and releasing the Celtic gods, the magic was snatched away by the fallen angels and redirected... 

Straight towards the body of the woman on the altar. 

Evan screamed, "No!" and tried to regain control, but it was too late. The energy warped and twisted away from her, flowing in a continual, sparkling stream into Jo's body. 

The Watchers joined hands; the whirling flames in their eyes spun faster, glowing brighter and brighter until their borrowed flesh flaked and fell away, burned to cinders by the power they were releasing. To Evan's dazzled vision, they appeared as beings of living fire, naked but sexless, each perfect line of their bodies composed of leaping, red-gold flame. Vast wings stretched out behind them, each fiery feather sporting an unblinking eye, and each of their four faces - man, ox, eagle and lion - bore similar expressions of fierce joy. 

Evan raised her arm, sheltering her eyes against the blinding brightness of the Watcher's true forms. 

The medallion in her hand grew hotter and hotter until it began to burn her hand. Evan dropped it and shouted, "What are you doin'?" 

The body on the altar began to smolder and jerk grotesquely as more and more magic poured into its lifeless tissues. As it flopped, it turned over completely, giving the horrified Evan a good look at the distorted features of Jo's dead face, those blank blue eyes. 

"Stop this!" the Irishwoman screamed, struggling to rise. "You're destroyin' her! If you burn her body she can never be healed!" 

The Watcher's mouths opened and they began to sing, a strangely harmonized melody without words. Jo's ghost was suddenly siezed in an invisible grip. 

"Hey! Leggo!" the ghost hollered, struggling against the unseen hands that gripped her. 

"What are you doin'?" Evan tried to grab one of the Watcher's hands and ended up with second degree burns on her palm and fingers. "Stop!" Tears of frustration trickled down her cheeks; she could feel the hair of her eyebrows beginning to crisp and sizzle from the heat. 

The strange melody continued. Jo's ghost began to distort and fade, flickering like a bad flourescent bulb, features bulging and receding, mouth and eyes yawning to enormous proportions then shrinking to near nonexistance. The spirit screamed, a shrill cry that made her ectoplasmic form shimmer and ripple in sympathy. 

The music reached a crescendo; within the circle of the Watchers, Evan curled up into a ball with her hands covering her face, barely able to breath the superheated air. It was like being in the midst of an inferno; she could feel blisters popping up on the back of her neck, her cheeks and wrists. 

There was a final high note that went on and on, reverberating until Evan's ears were ringing. As she huddled on the floor, biting her lower lip to bloody shreds in an effort not to cry out with pain, she heard Melmahay's rumbling bass voice, so close it seemed like he was speaking inside her head. 

"There's already been one sacrifice today; no need for another. What you cannot do, we will... for against Chaos and Order we may not act directly, but in this matter we may do as we see fit. What the two of you have together is too rare and precious a thing to allow to die. Consider it a gift for the sake of love, or perhaps payment for services rendered. You won't see us again - but we will be watching." 

The flames rose until they licked the ceiling; the song of the Watchers began to die... 

And then suddenly, there was no more fire, no more music. Evan pushed herself up from the floor, shoving scorched orange hair out of her eyes. The Watchers were gone, leaving behind only patches of heat-blackened floor as evidence of their existance. Evan looked around frantically; there was no sign of Jo's spirit - it had gone as well. 

For a moment, despair nearly overwhelmed her. Her first thought was that the fallen angels had destroyed Jo's soul, or sent it beyond the mortal realm, or any one of a hundred increasingly improbable scenarios that spun themselves out in her head in dizzying fashion until she felt as if she was choking on sheer emotional distress. Just when she felt as if she was going mad, a single shred of hope cut through the pain so abruptly she was made breathless. 

Evan wanted desperately to believe it was possible but did she dare? 

Could it be? Did they... would they...? Was Jo...? 

She could not voice the thought aloud. 

It wasn't possible and yet... 

Father Joseph had taken shelter underneath the altar; he came crawling out, coughing and spitting. "Are you all right?" he asked. 

Evan shook her head. There was a pressure in her chest that was getting tighter by the second and a huge lump in her throat. She fixed her eyes to the top of the altar; Jo's arm hung limply off the side, fingers splayed, skin streaked with soot and dried blood. Freezing chills made her shiver, the skin on her exposed arms rose in goosebumps, her elf-locked tangerine hair stirred on her shoulders. Evan held her breath, waiting, watching, concentrating all her hopes with a lover's single-minded desperation. 

As she watched, Jo's hand twitched once, then twice. There was a low groan and Jo licked her lips, head moving slightly from side to side. 

Heart almost bursting, feeling warm tears gather in her eyes, Evan scrambled over to the altar and grabbed Jo's hand between her own. The flesh was warm... alive. 

Alive!!

"Jo?" Evan searched her lover's face. "Colleen, can you hear me?" She checked Jo's pulse; it was steady and strong, thrumming against her fingertips with a rhythm more familiar than her own. 

Jo's eyelids trembled, then to Evan's eternal relief, they opened fully, revealing the bright blue orbs she remembered so well. The platinum blonde coughed and said hoarsely, "I ain't deaf, you know. Just a little well done." 

Evan cradled Jo's hand to her cheek and burst into a near hysterical fit of relieved laughter and tears. 

Jo was alive - and all was right with the world once more. 
 

Chapter Twenty

"Police and fire department officials have released an official statement regarding the disaster which took place at the Feast of the Innocents, held last Saturday at the Lon Chaney Memorial Park." Steve Holland, the airbrushed news anchorman of Channel 5, gave the camera a vapid smile and shuffled his papers. 

"Incidents of mass hysteria, triggered by an electrical fire on the central stage, sparked a riot which ended in half a dozen deaths and more than twenty seriously injured fairgoers. Ten-year-old Shelly Spears, the only child to have suffered massive shock and hysterical hallucinations following the incident, was released today from King Children's Hospital and is now in stable condition. 

"Reports of mysterious women who calmed down the crowd and led a large group of children to safety are still under investigation. Although many eyewitnesses have come forward with descriptions, it has proven impossible to confirm their identities. Anyone possessing further information about these samaritans is requested to contact your local police department." 

Steve Holland's perfectly moussed hair gleamed beneath the harsh studio lights like a golden helmet as he continued with his report, clearly reading from the teleprompter. "Archbishop Gregory McKinnon will be attending a memorial service for the victims of the fire on Friday. Charges of gross negligence have been dropped as a result of the official investigation, which found no fault with the Church's arrangements or safety protocols." 

The news anchor peered at the camera again. "The Church is offering free counseling, grief therapy and financial renumeration for those who suffered a loss due to last week's disaster. Please contact Archbishop Gregory's office at 555-9999 for more information. 

"In other news, the mass disappearances which have taken place around the city were solved yesterday when police received an anonymous tip which sent them to an exotic dancing club called the Boneyard. Dozens of skeletons were found buried in the cellar; identification of the victims and notification of next-of-kin has already commenced. The owner of the Boneyard, Carolyn Lunt, is suspected of the murder of these individuals and possibly more in satanic cult rituals. Police are continuing their search for Lunt, who has disappeared herself without a trace, along with a number of her employees..." 

Jo clicked off the television and tossed the remote control onto the nightstand beside the bed. "The Archbishop's freebies are gonna cost a few widow's mites; do you think it's a P.R. gag or something?" 

Evan stretched, wiggling her toes, and snuggled closer to her lover. They always watched the evening news together but the Irishwoman rarely paid any real attention to the broadcast. She preferred to rest her head on Jo's shoulder and let her fingers caress the other woman's soft, warm skin, luxuriating in the sheer physical presence and closeness they shared. 

With a reluctant sigh, Evan let go of her comfortable mood and raised her head. "T'wasn't exactly Gregory's doin'. I heard that Father Joseph made the arrangements." 

"Oh, really?" Jo snorted. "Weren't you going to eat his achy-breaky heart for breakfast or something like that?" 

Evan bared her teeth in a not-quite smile. "I've decided to let him live... for now. He did help us get out of the park - you were so weak, colleen, and two of the Mormolae were hurt - so I owe him some small favor for that. But someday..." She didn't finish the sentence but the look in her eyes was so fierce that Jo winced. 

"I kinda feel like I owe him something, too - preferably a swift kick in the ass. On the other hand, you can't really blame the guy. He was just following the Watchers' orders." 

"So said those they hanged at Neuremburg," Evan muttered darkly, good mood vanished completely. "I know he was not entirely at fault. He did nothin' wrong, really, save the keepin' of secrets. I know t'was more the fate that chose you to weave that work but still... I cannot help but feel anger towards the man. Perhaps because he makes a most convenient scapegoat - I can hardly rail against Heaven or Hell and t'is easier by far to hate a human than a faceless force." 

"Look, don't forget that it was my choice, baby. You can't blame Father Joseph for my... er, death. The Powers That Be needed me to put things right and I was given a choice. I could've said no. Nobody held a gun to my head." 

"Oh, aye. Die to save the world or watch it be destroyed. Small choice that." 

Jo swallowed hard. Even after a week, it was difficult talking about what had happened to her. She didn't remember dying or much that had happened after; from the moment she'd jumped on top of the altar, there was a complete blank until she'd opened her eyes to see a crying Evan and an astonished Father Joseph. The entire experience was so surreal that she had difficulty believing it had actually happened - all except her conversation with the power called Order. That part was vividly clear. 

"Hey." Jo stroked Evan's cheek with a finger. "You'd have done the same. We're both pretty wired for self-sacrifice, I guess. It's one of them hero thingys." She forced a grin. "Besides, I heard you were fixing to fry yourself and give your gods the old heave-ho 'cause you thought they might bring me back. So let's quit bitching and moaning about what happened and who's to blame. I'd just as soon forget the whole thing and get back to living for a freakin' change." 

Evan searched Jo's face for a second then relaxed against her. She's right, the Irishwoman thought. I shouldn't hold on to my anger. T'will weaken me in time, for such negative emotions are damagin' to the soul.

To let go was rational and logical - after all, what had she lost? Nothing, really. She'd made some new friends and allies, Lilith and the brazen head Helen foremost of all. She'd been an important part of the effort to hold back Armageddon - which had succeeded. She'd added to her store of knowledge and kept her gods safe. She hadn't even lost her beloved Jo. 

As if reading her partner's mind, Jo said, "What've we got to complain about? I'm back and good as new. No psycho psychics screwing up my psyche, no squid monsters trying to destroy the world, no horrors carving up the citizens of our fair burg, no more of that fate shit. Hell, I don't even have a friggin' scar to show for it." She suddenly brightened. "And we've got... pizza!" 

Evan had to laugh as Jo reached a long arm over to the nightstand and retrieved a cold, soggy slice of double cheese, double pepperoni, mushroom, onion, garlic, hot pepper and olive pizza from a cardboard box. Orange grease dripped onto her chin as Jo took an enormous bite, rolling her eyes with pleasure. 

"Aw, man - how can you still be pissed when there's pizza like this in the world!" Jo crammed the rest of the slice in her mouth and chewed blissfully. 

Evan wiped the grease off her lover's chin with her fingertips. "How can I still be angry when there's a Jo Tate in the world?" she asked softly with a smile. 

Jo belched contentedly. "That's right, baby. The one and only, built to last, satisfaction guaranteed." She rolled over on her side and scooped Evan closer. Her breath smelled of garlic, onions and spices but Evan didn't mind. "I got a serious question for ya." 

"What's that?" Evan laid her head in the crook of Jo's shoulder, loving the sensation of warm skin on skin. 

"Do you think we should try pineapple on the pizza next time or is that just too weird for words?" 

Evan giggled. "Have I lately told you how much I love you?" 

"More than breath, life and light," Jo replied. "And I love you, too, you wicked, wild, wonderful witchy woman!" 

Even drew back a little and looked at her lover with a slight frown; Jo shrugged, winked and wrinkled her nose while the Irishwoman laughed softly. 

Their lips met in a sweet and tender kiss that soon turned passionate... 

And they did not notice a pair of eyes watching them from a shadowy corner of the room - eyes that were composed of swirling, dancing flames. 
 

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library