The night sky was clear as glass, and the darkness of space shone like velvet upon him, the stars glinting with the purity of diamond. Beneath his feet was the cool sand of the desert, and before him, looming like the leviathan itself, was the heaving bulk of Devil's Table. Devil's Table was an imposing mesa located deep within the Navajo reservation. The Navajo had their own name for it, of course, but on U.S. maps the mesa was known as Devil's Table. For good reason.
Structurally, Devil's Table was frightening enough. The mound of rock rose eight hundred feet into the air, and nothing -- not even the hardiest desert plant -- could gain footing on the mesa's slope. Nor, without a considerable amount of climbing gear, could any sane man or woman hope to scale that slope. The climb up Devil's Table was shear. A nearly perfect ninety degree angle; the sides of the mesa looked like their primary bulk had been shorn off by some gigantic sword. Split, perhaps, by Paul Bunyan's ax before he dragged it across the Arizona plains and carved out the Grand Canyon. Not even rainwater could affect that shear face. No gullies existed on Devil's Table. No sediment piled at its base to fashion alluvial fans. No trails led to Devil's Table's summit.
The Navajo had their word for it. Roughly translated, it meant "the hill of light and shadow," and no traditional Indian set foot near the place. Ghosts and witches and worse were said to make the mesa home. It was said that an ancient witch woman had cursed the region and worked her home so that no man could approach it. The anglo geologists liked that story. But they also knew that Devil's Table had remained geologically sound for over fifty million years. And while they still couldn't come up with a good reason why Devil's Table didn't erode like every other known geologic feature on the planet, they were quick to discount the Navajo explanation of supernatural transformations.
The geologists were stupid. Gabrial knew this because it was he who had created the mesa that a nineteenth century Presbyterian minister would name Devil's Table. He had carved it out of the living rock eons ago, using the fantastic science of the Kherubim to create, for himself, a place of sanctuary. A place for the Archangel to retreat to in order to escape the demands of his people and his station. A fortress of solitude, so to speak.
For several millennia, Devil's Table was Gabrial's home. Eventually though, as more and more human beings settled in the region, he was forced to abandon it to retain its secrecy. When human beings learned to fly, and turned to mountain climbing as a sport, Gabrial's sanctum lost its value. Instead, when he needed to ignore his responsibilities or relieve some stress, he turned to the bottle. He sought solace in alcohol.
Now, especially, Gabrial felt the need for a drink. For the first time in sixty years, he had come home. His shoes crunched on gravel as he approached the massive hump of rock, and his hands shook so terribly that he had to shove them in his pockets. His throat ached with thirst, and his tongue felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. Every fiber of his being cried out for liquor, cried out for the sweet oblivion alcohol would give him.
But he ignored it. This far out in the desert, he had no chance at finding food or drink. And, to be truthful, the last thing he needed now was something that would befuddle his wits or make his reactions slow. But that knowledge comforted him little. Withdrawal at this juncture could be just as devastating as drunkenness.
He sighed heavily, and once more tried to ignore the aching need for alcohol. He should have expected this. Should have been prepared. A century of constant inebriation could not be shaken off in weeks. And yet that was what he must do, if he was to have any chance at thwarting Mephisto's mad plans. Gabrial's only hope was that the objects he would unearth here, in his ancient sanctum, would give him the strength and will to continue without succumbing to his addiction.
Just one sip. That was all he needed. One sip to fortify himself, and then no more. And yet a single sip would certainly undo him. Destroy him as surely as if he'd given himself up to Mephisto. For one sip would lead to a long draught, and a draught to a bottle, and then on into oblivion.
The Archangel grappled with himself for a moment, and then, as if it fought his decision, his right hand shakily adjusted the buckle on his belt. He shuddered involuntarily as his Facade crumbled, and he stood revealed to all the world in his True Form. Not even his drab, mortal clothes took away from his natural splendor, the majesty he wore like a mantle. Tall, perfectly proportioned, with skin and hair that shone like white gold, and teeth like pearls. His eyes glimmered in their sockets like diamonds. Were any mortal man or woman to see him like this, they would have fallen to their knees, convinced he was a messenger from God.
Gabrial was affiliated with no deity, though. He wasn't divine by even the most liberal use of the term. He was, indeed, immortal by human terms. And he possessed powers and abilities that made him seem godlike, but he himself was nothing special. Just an old man. A tired old man who had seen more strife in his lifetime than most worlds witness. He had been privy to horrors that would flay the skin from a lesser man's bones, participated in more than his share of atrocities as well. Like most of his people.
Was it a surprise at all that the Angels had deserted this dying ball of mud? Taken themselves away, hiding in the dark and secret places, away from the mortals and their appetites. The Kherubim were marooned on this Earth. Nothing could change that. But in their despair and their weakness, the Angels had abandoned Earth as surely as if they had departed it for some distant star.
Mephistopheles and his pack remained, intent on destroying this world. Mephisto still cared for the ancient war that the Angels had tired of. He still fought and schemed and raged. Somehow, while all the others of his race were fading into nothingness, Mephisto had remained. Sustained by hate.
And what kept Gabrial tied to the mortal plane? What rooted him here when every instinct he possessed urged him to consign the watery world to fate? Why did the Archangel stand here, outside his ancient home, trying somehow to resist Mephisto when he knew in his heart that all measures were hopeless?
Guilt.
Gabrial had created Mephistopheles and his dark hunger. As surely as if he had fathered the Demon himself. This terror, this peril that the Earth faced was Gabrial's fault. All those dead worlds spinning in the void, remnants of a forgotten war, were laid at his feet as well. Gabrial was responsible for Mephistopheles, and he had to face the consequences for that. He couldn't allow himself to run and hide like so many of his brothers and sisters. No, guilt drove Gabrial to attempt the impossible. To fight, one last time, to stop Mephistopheles once and for all. No matter that he had no chance. Not without his legions to defend him. Not when he had spent the better part of the last few hundred years drunk and out of his mind.
Gabrial adjusted his belt buckle once more, and he rose into the air, gliding on invisible currents. As he drew near the summit of Devil's Table, he withdrew a small chunk of silvery metal from his coat pocket. He brought it to his lips and blew gently across it, frosting the mirror-like surface of the metal. The metal chimed softly, a high note. Somewhere above him, in the darkness, a boulder shifted, revealing the secret entrance to Gabrial's lair.
In a heartbeat, he alighted softly on the mesa's summit. Five steps away, in the shadow of a massive rock, gaped the secret door. There was no more time for doubts or insecurities. Numbly, he approached the entrance and stepped into it, dropping the three feet to the floor of the lift. Automatic scanners recognized his aura, and with a whine of servos he began to descend into the bowels of his fortress. Above him the boulder once more settled into place.
Almost at once the lift halted and a door irised open. Stepping through, Gabrial at last entered the sanctum proper. Lights blinked on as he walked across the entrance chamber. Like most of the interior chambers of the fortress, the walls of the entrance room were covered in machinery, cables, panels, and glow lamps that were all cunningly designed to look like ordinary rock.
The computer, roused from its long slumber, chirped at Gabrial. He answered it in the same tongue, ordering it to remain on standby. He did not wish to linger here. Gabrial planned to get what he came for and get out as quickly as possible. He ducked down an access passage, disdaining the main thoroughfare and avoiding the central rooms. As he moved, the lights before him winked on, and the lights behind him blinked out, creating the illusion that a single pool of light followed him on his way. He followed the access passage for several minutes, as it curved through the rock of the mesa, until it ended in a deadend.
Gabrial examined the rock face before him, weighing his choices. Once more, the irrational urge for gin or vodka or beer welled up within him. He fought it down, and then waved his hand, palm outward, before the rock wall. Hydraulics activated, and with a hiss of escaping air, the Vault shifted open. Gabrial stepped inside, and blinked at the explosion of light. Immediately he ordered the computer to dim the lights, and it complied.
Now able to see, Gabrial could make out the interior of the Vault. It looked just like the hallway, or the entrance chamber, or any other room in the fortress. A mortal eye would have mistaken it for a natural phenomenon, a cave of simple rock and stone, created by natural processes. It was all a smokescreen, the camouflage of an advanced race that did not care to share its secrets. The room was walled with technological items, but it also housed a dozen storage compartments.
The contents of one interested Gabrial. Once more, he chirped at the computer, and a crack of light appeared in the floor as compartment doors slid open. Gabrial dropped to his knees before the opening in the floor. He reached one trembling hand inside, and drew it out. He shuddered, not in fear or with the weakness of a drunk, but in ecstasy. In his hand he held the symbol of his office, the weapon that he had wielded for time immemorial. A tool that was as much a part of him as his arm or his heart.
The Archangel's sword of fire. It was a slender rod of gold, three feet long, with a grip at the base bound with copper wire. Gabrial concentrated, and the length of the rod was enveloped in orange flames. His skin glowed with vitality, reflecting the bright flames, and his diamond eyes mirrored the hunger of the fire. With the sword, all his strength returned. All his doubts fled. With the sword, and the golden shield that still rested in the compartment, Gabrial felt up to facing the challenge of saving the world. He knew they would give him the strength to conquer his addiction, to face Mephistopheles as an equal again. That was all he asked.
Just one chance to absolve himself of his great sin.
The Immortals came to New Orleans. Dozens of them answered an internal call, an inner voice that urged them to find some way to reach the Big Easy. The Gathering, it seemed, was drawing to a close. That which had begun with the Kurgan's death in New York City approached its final stages. And no man or woman who controlled Quickening could refuse the call. Kassim, the great Muslim soldier, abandoned his sacred duties to answer a higher power. Henri Valjean, the last living scion of Rebecca Horn, came looking for blood. Kiem Sun, reluctant and weak, no match for other Immortals better trained them he, could not refuse the call that reverberated in his bones. Felice Martin came to the Big Easy with anger in her heart and murder in her eyes. Kenny, deceptively young and innocent, and still very fragile compared to the deadly warriors he often faced, came as well, fighting panic. Cage, haunted by his past and tired of lies and weakness.
Kit O'Brady, sly and bombastic and certain his luck would give him an edge. Xoxa, the beautiful and mysterious lady of Kush. Teresa Boniface, driven mad by too many years alone and hunted, determined to go out in a blaze of glory. The Celt Cierdwyn, bitter and vengeful, hoping to meet the Kurgan and repay him for recent losses. Carl Robinson, alone and on the run. Marcus Constantine reluctantly took up his gladius once more, though his heart remained in Paris, with his museum. Zoltan Laszlo, hungry for fame and the Prize. Angelo Braddisario, the Florentine pirate and artist. Warren Cochrane, out of luck and out of hope. The Pathfinder, the nameless Sioux who had wandered the length and breadth of the Americas for untold centuries. Grace Chandler, running once more, her haven of safety an illusion shattered by her need to be in New Orleans, to witness the culmination of the long struggle among the Immortals. Benny Carbassa came as well, driven by fear and self-loathing. Herbert Gris, shedding his current alias like a snake's skin, once more assumed the role of predator. Kurowa Akisara, last link to an ancient and dead ninja clan. Cornelius Orlando, with his macabre trophies and unholy hunger, and on his heels his greatest enemy, the Hindu Mitra. Robert and Angelina de Valicourt, who had hoped for some peace and felt it ripped away from them. Thora Norsdottir, returning to the West after so many centuries in the East. Gregor, the young doctor who's instincts were to heal and not to fight. Boyer, thin and unassuming, and yet capable of a ruthlessness that belied his slim frame. Ogbanna, the emotionless servant of Ramses. Louis Fortier, who had lived all his life in New Orleans. And Lamont and Gordon, members of the Mystery Council. Conventional wisdom suggested the other Council members could not be far behind. Bran Mac Lyr. Selura Shea. Wotan. Huixopochtli.
So many Immortals in one place, even a place as large as New Orleans, could not hope but to lead to total chaos. For whenever one Immortal met another, be they friend or foe, violence was certain to ensue. This close to the Gathering, no one could be trusted to stay her hand, no one could expect another would give him mercy. And so, as the torrential rains hammered New Orleans, an occasional arc of lightning would illuminate the sky; lightning that came not from the clouds.
Elsewhere in the city, other kinds of chaos raged. With the deaths of the Witches, the disparate factions of New Orleans' Underworld were free to unbalance the careful equilibrium that the Witches had maintained.
The Lycanthropes of the city hunted amongst the human populace. It was easy to find them. The terrible weather kept the humans confined to their homes, like rabbits or mice in burrows. Easy pickings for the werewolves and weretigers and werepanthers that made New Orleans home. And even if the police were alerted, with the roads flooded, rescue was all but impossible. Humans died and Lycanthropes feasted.
Only one small group stood in the Lycanthropes way. The Gargoyles shared no love for humanity, but the desire to protect, to guard the city against the mindless rampage of supernaturals, was too entrenched within the Gargoyle psyche. The winged grotesques hampered the Lycanthropes as much as they could, striving, always, to maintain their own existence as secret. Sometimes they failed, and humans or Gargoyles died. And sometimes they succeeded, and Lycanthropes paid the ultimate price for their own folly.
The handful of Nightspawn in the city kept their peace.
The Vampires, the strongest and weakest faction at once, sat out of the conflict. They were the weakest because their numbers were minuscule compared to the other supernaturals in the city, and yet at the same time a single Vampire was a match for any dozen other supernaturals, be they werewolf, Gargoyle, Nightspawn, or Sidhe. And everyone, especially the Vampires, were well aware of that fact. Most of the lesser creatures looked up to the undead -- out of devotion or fear, the Vampires cared not -- and so many of the lesser creatures would often follow the Vampires' lead.
The Vampires held all non-Vampires in disdain. As long as their own affairs were left unimpeded, they cared little how the Lycanthropes, Immortals, or Gargoyles fared. But the Vampires did feel the dark influence of the chaos building in the city. And it made them careless. Where once they had fed in secrecy and in moderation, the Vampires now feasted on the humans, draining them dry and leaving few of them alive. The morgues filled with the dead.
Elsewhere, independent movers shifted the currents of the Underworld. The Scarecrow and his companion, the gaily garbed Fool, were searching high and low for the remnants of the Wyrm and the Gohlem. When their allies were awakened, more chaos, more horror, would undoubtedly ensue.
Mephistopheles schemed his dark schemes and laughed.
Kurt Densmore and his allies, the Wraith Alec Scott and the human psychic Rachel van Horn, fought for their lives against the servants of Mephisto.
New Orleans was a powder keg waiting to blow. All it needed was a spark to light the fuse. A s park that traveled, even now, on a non-stop flight from the island of Taiwan, carrying four very dangerous passengers. Perseus, Michelle Glover, Doctor Henry Jones of the Mystery Council, and Victoria Baron.
Two other planes traveled on parallel courses. From distant Peru came the ancient and wise child of the Sun, Viracocha, leaving the quiet solitude of the Andes for the darkness and violence of New Orleans. The Concord fueled at Heathrow airport in London, while the Kurgan waited and anticipated the carnage to come.
Hazard piloted the red Lotus into the city. He had to make a circuitous route through the city streets, however. Most of downtown was flooded, and the hill of a graveyard near Jackson Street had fallen apart under the force of the rain, spilling caskets and bodies into the road. City vehicles had Jackson shut down while they recovered the runaway coffins and tried to clean up the mess.
Hazard wondered if he had known any of those people. Almost as soon as he thought it, he dismissed the notion. He didn't know anyone too poor to afford the security of a tomb. Though he might have put some of them in the ground himself. He guided his car through the rain that fell like sheets, and he knew that only his undead nature, his Vampiric reflexes, enabled him to keep the vehicle on the road. The surface of the road was too slick, and puddles like lakes formed all to easily on the narrow lanes of the Big Easy. He should have been hydroplaning, skidding out of control, or paralyzed with an engine too waterlogged to work correctly.
But Hazard's eyes saw everything, noticed where the road dipped or rose, where the deepest parts of the puddles were, which street was safest to take. His Vampire eyes pierced the fogged windshield and the muddy darkness beyond as if it were lit by the sun at high noon. Dark did not exist for Hazard. And by concentrating on the road, he could avoid all of the questions that nagged at his consciousness. Hazard had been struck down by the Witches, put out of commission by a fire that had ravaged his undead body. He had expected to be hibernating and healing for months, weeks at best. But somehow the Immortal blood Hazard siphoned off of Bran had worked a singular wonder. The damage caused by the fire disappeared in mere days. And Hazard awoke from his healing sleep without even the slightest hunger pang. Hazard determined that he would try to drink more Immortal blood in the future. If he could.
Still, though Hazard was physically ready for any challenge he might face, he had no idea how his companions had fared in the last few days. He possessed no way of knowing if any of them still survived, or if any of them were able to make progress against the "Narrow Cult" that sought to bridge the gap between dimensions. And Hazard had no idea what the repercussions of the Witches' deaths were; the Underworld's reaction was a complete mystery to him. He feared that some kind of supernatural gang war would erupt soon, if it hadn't already, and that would complicate matters immensely.
He should have tried to reach Bran or Kurt, or even called Rachel. But he did not. Rather, the Vampire went to the theater. A specific theater, naturally, and one controlled by the Vampiric community of New Orleans. Hazard usually made a habit of avoiding anything related to the other Vampires of his city, but with the situation as dire as it was, he felt he had no choice. He and his allies needed help, that much was certain. From what circles that help came from, Hazard himself didn't much care. Not anymore. Kurt might have a fit, of course. No, he definitely would. But Hazard was out of ideas. If the Witches Three could be corrupted by Hazard and Kurt's enemies, if the sisters could actually be made to serve some other power, than the opposition Hazard faced was very powerful indeed.
To face that threat with some measure of strength, some chance at victory, Hazard was prepared to seek the aid of Paul Gold and his brood. No matter that it might cost Hazard his self-respect and his freewill. And what was left of his soul.
Gold was an old Vampire. Two thousand years ago, the Vampire Prince Azmodeus the Dark created Paul, transforming a young Scythian warrior into his most trusted aide and companion. Gold had supped at Azmodeus' veins, and he brimmed with the ancient power of the Prince. Azmodeus was six thousand years old, a true Prince of the Undead, and Gold was his second.
Gold was sent to the Americas to secure Azmodeus' hold on the continent. He brought with him the mission of the Dark Prince -- to subjugate humanity slowly but surely -- and dozens of lesser bloodsuckers to aid him in his crusade. In only a few short decades, Gold had transformed the New Orleans Vampires into a force to be reckoned with. Gold deferred to the Witches, but he made it plain that such was a business decision; New Orleans was too volatile a city, supernaturally. It served as an excellent base of operations for Gold's thrust into the continent, precisely because of all the background noise of Lycanthropes, Gargoyles, Nightbane, and others.
Gold and his Vampires appeared to be just one more minor faction in the Underworld. And as far as the Three Witches were concerned, so Gold would always be within the boundaries of the city. But beyond New Orleans... that was where the real power lay, where Gold focused most of his attention. His agents were seeded in California, Mexico, Washington, D.C. and New York City. And he controlled them all from his little theater in New Orleans.
In many ways Gold was Hazard's twin, his other self that might have been had he allowed his Vampiric passions to rule him. Had he given in to the predator that writhed inside of him, had he compromised the basic scruples that kept him sane and whole. Gold's strength and ambition could easily have been Hazard's own. But Hazard chose a different path.
Or rather, another path chose him. Just as Gold received the Kiss from Azmodeus, the foulest of the Vampire Princes, Hazard was created by the scholar Archimedes; Archimedes was a Prince as well, but one who did not flaunt his power. Millennia ago, he had set himself up as the yin to Azmodeus' yang. Archimedes opposed Azmodeus and the Dark prince's attempts to enslave the tides of humanity.
Seven hundred years ago, Archimedes gave Hazard -- then Jansip Hazrczy, Wallachian mercenary -- the Kiss. And from that point on, Hazard had served the scholar. Fought Gold and Azmodeus. In 1856, Hazard and his sister MacBeth destroyed Han Yuan, one of Azmodeus' most powerful servants.
Gold had no cause to give Hazard audience, or even to trust him. Nor did Michael Hazard truly believe Gold could or would ever aid him. Yet it was a measure of Hazard's desperation that he sought Gold out. Hazard needed allies. And with the terror threatening New Orleans, Hazard was willing to deal with Lucifer himself, if by so doing he might gain some advantage over his foes.
Still, he was surprised when Gold agreed to see him.
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