Ghosts Of Manhattan Part 13

The Ghost appeared behind him. "It's not far from here. We can be there in twenty minutes."

"Shouldn't we call for backup first? Or at least take a few minutes to formulate a plan?"

The Ghost shook his head. "The police will only get in our way." He glanced back up the gangway, a meaningful gleam in his eye. "Prevent us from doing what's necessary." He put a hand on Donovan's shoulder. "Besides, we don't have any time. I need to get to Celeste. Reece said we were already too late, but I can't give up on her."

Donovan nodded. He could see the look in the other man's eye; the need to keep moving, to keep fighting for the woman he had lost. Donovan searched the floor for his abandoned handgun, found it, and hefted it in his good hand. "You better lead the way, then."

re you sure this is the place?" Donovan sounded decidedly unconvinced as the Ghost pulled the car to a stop before a set of ornate iron gates. Beyond the gates-which, when drawn together, depicted a scene of a man fighting a raging bull-a gravel driveway led up to a large, rather ostentatious mansion, set back from the surrounding buildings in its own private grounds. The Ghost had parked the car in the shadow of a large tree while they took a moment to reconnaissance the area.

The Ghost regarded Donovan coolly from the driver's seat. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were aching and he was dying for a cigarette. He tried not to sound too weary as he framed his response. "Yes. This is the place. Look at the row of armored cars parked out front, and the wire frame on the roof. That's where the electricity is being pumped in."

He watched Donovan strain in his seat, trying to get a better look. The midday sun had given way to an overcast, gloomy afternoon. Brooding clouds hung overhead like oily thumbprints smeared across the sky.

The Ghost regarded the building at the end of the driveway. It had an ominous quality to it, dark and foreboding. It had been built in the cla.s.sical style: a square central block approached through a portico and surrounded by towering Corinthian columns. Two identical wings adjoined the main building to either side, tall sash windows looking out across the grounds in long, symmetrical rows. A wire tower erupted incongruously from the roof of the mansion, taller than its chimneys, reaching up toward the sky as if trying to scratch the underside of the clouds.

This was the Roman's lair, that unseen enemy whose shadow had stretched so far and wide over Manhattan these last few months, who presided over the actions of Gideon Reece and his small army of golems and goons.

The Ghost hoped they weren't hurtling headlong into a trap. Even if they were, it was his only hope to save Celeste. That was all that mattered to him, he realized, the thing that drove him on. Donovan could have the Roman, could deal with the mob boss in any way he chose, just as long as he allowed the Ghost to get Celeste to safety first. He felt his pulse quicken as he thought of her, imagined the terrible pain she might be in. If she'd suffered ... if the Roman had harmed her in any way ... well, that would change things. But for now he would concentrate on getting her back. He had to believe she was still alive, that Reece had been toying with him back at the power plant. Even to consider anything else was unbearable.

He turned to the inspector. "Are you ready?"

Donovan shrugged. "Will I ever be ready for something like this?"

The Ghost laughed. "Now there's a question. Come on. We have work to do."

The two men clambered out of the car. The Ghost was thankful there were no guards on the gates, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be seen. They had to tread very carefully.

The gates were too high to scramble over, so instead they took the wall, Donovan hoisting the Ghost up first and then allowing himself to be pulled up behind him. They dropped into a tree-lined bed of shrubbery, ducking into the shadows, watching the great house for any signs of movement. There were none. The gardens seemed to be deserted. The Ghost couldn't help feeling suspicious at the lack of guards. It was either a sign that they were, indeed, walking into a trap of some kind, or else that the Roman was so arrogant as to a.s.sume that he didn't need to post guards in the grounds of the mansion. He hoped it was the latter.

The Ghost beckoned to Donovan, and together they set out, clinging to the flower beds and the shadow of the redbrick wall, which appeared to run around the entire perimeter of the property.

As they drew nearer to the side of the house, Donovan pulled gently on the Ghost's sleeve, drawing his attention. He followed the line of Donovan's finger, seeing a man in a gray suit emerge from behind the big house, carrying a snub-nosed tommy gun under his arm. So he'd spoken too soon. There were guards, after all.

The Ghost considered his options. Too much trouble now would almost certainly get them caught. He didn't want to bring the Roman's whole household down on them, at least not until they were well inside and had a measure of where they might be holding Celeste. But if they didn't get rid of the guard, there was no way they were going to make it across the lawn to the house without being seen. The net effect was the same: either way, there would be trouble.

Carefully, the Ghost reached up and flicked the lenses of his goggles down over his eyes. Suddenly, everything was red. He twisted the dials, zooming in on his target. The man was heavy and overweight. He had one arm in a sling beneath his suit jacket and he was sweating profusely, out of breath from his walk around the gardens. The Ghost smiled to himself. It was the man from the bank, the mobster he had allowed to live, the one he had sent away with a message for the Roman. Well, here was his chance to take another message to his employer. The Ghost dropped to his knees, squelching in the soft loam. He raised his arm, sighting along the barrel of his flechette gun. He grabbed the rubber bulb that served as a trigger and gave it one short, hard squeeze, opening his palm to let it fall away again. A single flechette whistled away into the air. Seconds later, the fat man gave a short, stifled cry, dropping his gun and glancing down at his belly. Confused, he lifted his jacket, revealing a small tear in the white fabric of his s.h.i.+rt and a tiny sickle-shaped stain of blood. He looked as if he was about to cry out, but then the little blade exploded inside his belly, blowing a fist-sized hole right through him, scattering offal and blood over the gravel path with a sickening squelch. The man folded and collapsed into a heap.

The Ghost didn't bother to look over his shoulder at Donovan. He simply got to his feet and ran for the house, bursting from the cover of the trees and hurtling across the lawn toward the cover of the walls. He heard the thunder of Donovan's footsteps behind him. He tried not to look down at the body of the dead mobster as they rushed past, rounding the corner to the back of the building and finally coming to rest in the shadow of a large awning. Donovan was panting for breath. He looked as if he wanted to say something, to comment on the Ghost's actions in taking the guard's life in such a peremptory fas.h.i.+on, but the Ghost silenced him with a stare. Now was not the time for squeamishness or morals. Now was the time for action.

As the Ghost had antic.i.p.ated, there was a rear entrance into the house, through a set of gla.s.s double doors that opened into a large solarium. Inside, the solarium was filled with exotic plants; large leafy specimens, covered in bright green foliage, along with lemon trees and colorful orchids, as well as a plethora of other flowers he could not identify.

That was their way in. That was their chance. They risked encountering more guards, hidden behind the foliage inside, but if they did, he'd just have to deal with them at the time.

The Ghost crossed to the solarium doors, ducking beneath the sill of a tall window to avoid being glimpsed by anyone inside. Beyond the window the room seemed to be a refectory or dining room laid out for a large group of people; no doubt this was where the Roman's men-or at least the ones he kept closest to him-took their meals under his watchful gaze.

He tested the doors, was surprised to discover they were unlocked. Again, that cold sense of fear and doubt. It felt too easy.

The solarium was hot and humid, even now, in the midst of a freezing November. He felt p.r.i.c.kles of sweat stand out on his forehead as he worked his way inside, snaking through the leafy avenues of plants and vines, the columns of fruit trees and beds of orchids. He kept the barrel of his weapon raised at all times, scanning the s.p.a.ces between the flora, alert for any sign of danger.

The solarium opened out onto a dayroom with gleaming, polished floorboards the color of amber and thick Turkish rugs in myriad hues and patterns. Landscapes-of Europe, he supposed-lined the walls, and a walnut sideboard was covered with a plethora of antique items, from a golden carriage clock to a silver letter opener in the shape of a miniature sword. There was one door-currently closed-that would presumably take them deeper into the house. The room had a musty smell about it, of dust and neglect. The fireplace told the same storyit had not been used for months, perhaps longer. The room evidently now served only as a corridor to the solarium and gardens.

The Ghost turned to Donovan, who was still extracting himself from amongst the maze of plant life. "Once we go through that door, we should split up. I'll look for Celeste, you look for the Roman."

Donovan frowned. "Are you sure that's a good idea? What if we run into trouble?"

The Ghost's expression was serious. "We've come here looking for trouble, Donovan." He let that hang for a moment, then continued, "I'll locate Celeste, get her out to the car, and come back. If you find yourself in a tight spot, try to hold them off until I can get to you. This way, at least one of us has a chance of success, even if the other gets caught. We'll end it, here, today. All of it."

Donovan didn't look happy with the arrangement. His face took on a dark and brooding expression, but he nodded in acknowledgement.

The Ghost crossed to the door, pressed his ear up against the panel. No sound from beyond. He guessed the door would open into a hallway connecting the refectory with the rest of the house. He waited for a moment, glanced up at Donovan to ensure he was ready, and then turned the handle and eased open the door. His heart was in his mouth as he readied himself for a shooting match.

But he was greeted by silence. The hall beyond the door was quiet and dimly lit by the watery afternoon sunlight that was streaming in through a gla.s.s dome in the ceiling. There was a grand staircase leading to the upper floor, with sweeping bal.u.s.trades and a sumptuously carpeted tread. A small oak side table housed an old holotube unit, and a great, s.h.i.+mmering chandelier hung low over the marble floor, set with long strings of gla.s.sy stones. Five other doors radiated out from the large s.p.a.ce: the main entrance, the door to the refectory, and three others leading to unknown destinations.

The Ghost would start with the upper floor, work his way back down. If Celeste were here, as he hoped, they'd most likely be holding her in one of the bedchambers. He'd leave the ground floor to Donovan for now. He looked at the policeman, who was glancing nervously out into the hallway, clutching his borrowed gun. Was it really fair for him to send this man into the lion's den alone? He knew it wasn't. But then ... Celeste. Celeste was here, and she needed his help. At least the policeman could look after himself in a fight. He clapped a hand on Donovan's shoulder. His voice was low and soft. "I'll take the upper floor. When I find her, I'll get her out quick and come after you."

He slipped into the hallway, moving lightly so that his boots made hardly a sound as he crossed the marble floor. He reached the stairway; looked back to see Donovan inching across the hall toward one of the other doors, and then ran on up the stairs, the soft maroon carpet m.u.f.fling the sound of his pa.s.sing.

The Ghost had no idea what he was going to find up there, but he hoped-beyond all reasonable hope-that he would find Celeste, and that she would still be alive and well.

Donovan was still aching from his fight at the power station, from the gunshot wound in his shoulder, and from two sleepless nights spent tossing and turning in a strange apartment, worrying about his wife. His entire life had been suddenly turned upside down, seemingly on the toss of a coin, and he was still trying to make sense of what had happened. The death of Gideon Reece had lifted a heavy weight from his shoulders-regardless of how it had happened-but he wasn't so naive as to a.s.sume the problem had gone away. Reece was simply the Roman's mouthpiece, the man who did the dirty work, and Donovan needed to tackle the problem at its core. He needed to take down the man at the center of the web.

The only thing was, when it came down to it, he didn't know if he'd be up to the job.

He supposed it didn't matter how he felt. He was there, with a gun in his hand, creeping around inside the mansion of a murderous mob boss. He had a job to do, and he needed to keep the mobsters busy while the Ghost got the girl away to safety.

He eyed the three doors on the other side of the hall. He had a suspicion that the door on the far left, behind the stairs, would lead to the kitchens. Of the other two he was unsure. One could be the drawing room. The other a library or study. There was only one sure way to find out.

Donovan decided to try the middle of the three doors. He crossed the hall, glanced once at the stairs to discover the Ghost had already ascended out of sight, and then, drawing a deep breath, opened the door and stepped into the room beyond. It was dark, and he scrabbled for a light switch on the wall behind him. He found it, flicked it, and then stared in awe at the wondrous scene that stuttered to life before him.

He'd been wrong on all counts. The room beyond the door did not house a library or study, nor was it set out as a drawing room. Rather, it was a fantasia of bizarre artifacts and oddities from all over the world, a cornucopia of priceless artwork and treasures. Donovan tried to take it all in: a Michelangelo-an original-housed in a rough wooden frame. A Rembrandt, the same. A collection of ancient swords from all periods of history; a Saracen blade, a machete, a European broadsword-even a cavalry sword from the last war. Jewelry, pottery, papyrus scrolls. A set of leather-bound Latin tracts from Old Europe. A statue of Isis from Ancient Egypt. The model of a small wooden boat, a stone tablet engraved in an ancient language, a marble statue of a Greek or Roman G.o.d slaying a bull. All of these things and more. And to top it all, a gla.s.s case containing a tailor's dummy dressed in the armor of a Roman centurion, carrying a long spear and a tall, curved s.h.i.+eld.

It was a treasure vault, filled to the very brim with items of unimaginable value. The Roman must have been h.o.a.rding them for years. How long had his criminal network been in operation? How many priceless artifacts had he stolen from vaults or museums around the world? Donovan couldn't believe the gall of the man. He was clearly an egomaniac, a collector who had taken his obsessions to a ridiculous extreme.

He moved further into the room, awestruck by the scale of the h.o.a.rd. He approached the gla.s.s case, leaned closer to examine the centurion's armor. It was probably the best-preserved example in the world. It was near immaculate. Scarred, yes, where the man who had originally worn it had been struck in battle, but it gleamed like burnished gold, its decals and detailing still vivid. The chest bore the engraved head of a lion, the mouth fixed open in a fierce roar. He examined the spear. Surely the wood must have been replaced? Its long, st.u.r.dy shaft was the height of a man, tipped with a razor-sharp head of iron. The s.h.i.+eld was a beaten panel, dented from successive blows, but still ablaze with color: bright, fiery red, crossed with flashes of yellow lightning. From the helmet, a plume of jet-black hair erupted.

Donovan heard someone laughing, softly, in the doorway behind him. And then a voice: "Remarkable, isn't it? I come here every day to look at it, to remind myself of how far I've come. Sometimes it saddens me, to think of home. But mostly it gives me the resolve to carry on. I don't suppose you'll understand, Inspector Donovan, but I miss those days. I miss the urgency of it all, the danger. Rome was such a jewel, a bright, s.h.i.+ning light of civilization in a barren, heathen world." The voice was warm and gentle, thickly accented with a somber Italian lilt.

Donovan whirled around, his handgun by his side, his finger already twitching on the trigger. The man in the doorway was of average build, middle-aged, with olive-green eyes and coa.r.s.e black hair that was turning to gray around the temples. He was holding his hands out before him to show he was unarmed. He was dressed in a neat black suit with a black tie, and he had a stately air about him, the air of a man untroubled by something so mundane as an armed intruder in his home. He seemed to accept the situation with grace, as if he'd seen it all before and knew the incursion for what it was.

The Roman looked longingly at the armor in the case behind the inspector. "I remember when it was made for me, as if it was yesterday." He sighed. "It still fits, you know. Just as snug as it did all those many years ago."

Donovan just stared at him, clutching the grip of his gun.

The Roman seemed to shrug off the reverie. "I see Gideon failed me once again." He regarded Donovan through narrow eyes. "So be it. He's an impulsive fool, full of self-import and theatrics."

"He's also dead," Donovan replied laconically, trying to prevent his hand from shaking.

The Roman nodded slowly, accepting this information without even a flicker of emotion. "How interesting. Did you enjoy his death, Mr. Donovan? I hope very much that you did. It's important to take at least some satisfaction in the killing of another, don't you think? Otherwise it's such a waste of a life."

Donovan didn't know how to respond to such heinous logic. Instead, he indicated the gla.s.s case with the nose of his gun. "It's quite a collection you have here. But I don't see the marble wheel you stole from the museum the other night. Where is it?"

The Roman's expression changed. All of a sudden he looked hard, serious, dangerous. His ire was up. Donovan repressed a shudder. The timbre of the man's voice had altered, too, becoming stern and commanding. "The item you refer to, the marble 'wheel,' belongs to me. It was stolen from my house in Pompeii over eighty years ago, taken by a cadre of amateur grave robbers. They sold it to your precious museum, and I decided it would serve me well to leave it there until I needed it. Circ.u.mstances have changed. Now I want it back."

Donovan offered the Roman an incredulous stare. Was he really claiming to have owned a house in Pompeii? That this armor-this centurion's armor-was originally his? Donovan nearly lost his composure. The Roman was clearly insane, so wrapped up in his fantasy that he'd begun to believe it himself, begun to adopt the personality and history that his a.s.sumed moniker implied. Only ... the man's eyes were sharp and appraising, and he lacked the maniacal qualities of Gideon Reece. He didn't look insane. The artifacts in the room, too: none of them would have been easy to acquire, unless he'd been there at the time they were made ...

But Donovan knew that was crazy talk. n.o.body lived that long. Most likely he'd acquired the items through nefarious means, exploiting his criminal network to obtain the treasures he desired, and was now so addled by the power he'd attained that he'd been swept up in his own myth, convincing himself he was a reincarnated Roman foot soldier.

Donovan actually found himself feeling sorry for the man, right up until the moment he swept into the room, catching Donovan off guard, and twisted his wrist so sharply that he dropped the gun on the hardwood floor and fell to his knees, croaking in agony. Then he remembered just who he was dealing with. But by then it was too late, and the Roman was calling for guards, who appeared moments later in their droves, armed and ready to serve their insane master.

Upstairs, the Ghost was having trouble restraining himself. He'd been lurking around the corner at the top of the stairs for nearly five minutes, concealed behind a wall, patiently watching two goons as they paced back and forth along the landing, shooting the breeze in a relaxed fas.h.i.+on as they guarded one of any number of white bedroom doors.

He fought the urge to step out onto the landing and shoot them both dead. He much preferred the direct approach, but he needed to know which of the rooms they were watching over, and besides, he had his principles. When the time came, he would let them be the first to raise their guns in anger. Then he would kill them both and find Celeste.

Standing there, deadly still, was beginning to take its toll on him. As long as he kept on moving, he was okay, but now his muscles were starting to protest and the aches and bruises of the previous few days were starting to light up his nerves with pain. The moss man at the power station had given him a severe beating-more severe than he'd let on to Donovan-and he was starting to fear that the blow to his head had left him concussed. He was tired and sick to his stomach. But he recognized that could also be to do with the fact that he hadn't eaten that day, or a symptom of his reticence to discover the truth about Celeste. He had to save her-of course he did-but just as powerful as his desire to do so was his fear over what he might find. And even then, there was the terrible secret she had kept from him. Was it connected to all this? Did she know something about the Roman that she hadn't been able to tell him?

The Ghost watched the two mobsters as they reached the far end of the landing, tuned, and started back. As they did so, the one on the left flicked a quick glance at one of the bedroom doors, the same door he'd glanced at as he pa.s.sed along the landing in the opposite direction. That was it, then. That was the door to Celeste. To his future. To whatever lay ahead.

The Ghost readied his flechette gun and strode out casually into the pa.s.sageway, facing the two goons as they strolled toward him. The one on the right saw him first and started, recognition flaring in his eyes. He scrambled for his gun. The other, who'd been talking, took a second longer to realize what was happening, and by the time he'd reached for his weapon he was already dead, an explosive round in his throat. The Ghost had seen him go for his gun. That was enough. He couldn't help it if the goons were slow to the draw.

The other opened his mouth to call out and just as quickly a flas.h.i.+ng blade embedded itself in the back of his throat, pa.s.sing between his teeth to pierce the soft tissue behind his tonsils. His head detonated on the count of three, spreading brain matter across the walls, just as the other body toppled to the floor beside him, a hole where its throat used to be. The sounds of the explosions echoed in the confined s.p.a.ce, and the Ghost hoped they wouldn't be heard elsewhere in the house. He kept his weapon at the ready just in case.

The Ghost strode on down the hallway, his heart hammering in his chest, his palms sweating inside his leather gloves. He faced the door, tried the handle. It was locked, of course. He glanced down at the pulpy mess of the two goons by his feet, had to look away in disgust. He backed up, careful to avoid tripping over the bodies, and then kicked out at the door, crunching the lock and bursting it open, the top hinge splintering away from the frame to come to rest at a jaunty angle. He pushed it to one side and rushed forward into the room.

Celeste Parker was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. He didn't see anything else, didn't pay attention to the room around her. She looked immaculate, untouched. Her auburn hair fell in a perfect wave about her shoulders, framing her pretty, pale face. She was dressed in a short blue dress that revealed her shapely legs, and to the Ghost she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He ran to her side and she leapt up, flinging her arms around his neck. Then she pushed him away, grabbed at his face in both hands, and kissed him deeply on the lips. "Oh, Gabriel. You brave, stupid fool. What are you doing here?"

The Ghost grabbed Celeste by the shoulders, holding her firmly, as though scared that he might somehow lose her again. "What do you think I'm doing here? I've come to rescue you. I have a car outside. We need to make a run for it."

She gave a minute shake of her head and pulled away from him. The look on her face was of someone grieving, distraught. "No, Gabriel. You don't understand. I can't go." A pause. "Haven't you worked it out yet?"

The Ghost grunted impatiently. "No, I haven't. I haven't worked anything out. What the h.e.l.l is going on here? We need to go." Celeste was weeping now, and he clutched her to him, holding her head against his chest. "Celeste, we can talk later. Whatever it is, whatever you think you can't tell me, we'll work it out. We'll fix it, together. But right now we need to get out of this house before someone finds the bodies I've left in the hallway."

She beat her fists against his chest, as if trying to drive him away from her, as if trying to fight against some terrible enemy that only she could see. He grabbed her by the wrists. Her body was wracked by sobs as she poured out the emotion she had bottled up for so long. She looked up into his face, her mascara running in long tributaries down her cheeks; black rivers that coursed all the way from her heart. All he wanted to do was hold her, comfort her, but he needed to get her to safety. He felt his heart rending in two.

"Celeste ..." His voice was a whisper now. "Celeste-"

"I love you, Gabriel, but you have to know something."

"Tell me. Anything."

She sucked at the air, trying to regain her composure. "Gabriel, I can't be with you. I'm going to die."

The words were like ice to him, causing him to stiffen in fear. He forced a smile, confused by her sudden outburst. "No, Celeste. You're safe now. I'm going to get you home."

She shook her head. "I only wish it were that simple. But the lives of thousands of people depend on it." She dropped to the bed and the Ghost glanced at the door, anxious that they didn't have very long before the alarm would be raised and they suddenly found themselves with unwanted company. Her words slowly registered through the haze.

"Celeste, you're confused. Look, come on. We can talk later."

"No!" She was suddenly furious with him, frustrated that he seemed not to be paying attention, hearing what she had to say. "This runs deeper than you think, Gabriel, deeper than the mob, deeper than the Roman and Gideon Reece. This is a story that spans centuries, and there's no other way of ending it."

The Ghost stared at her, dumbfounded. "What are you talking about?"

"The Roman. That's who I'm talking about. Do you know who he is? Who he really is?"

The Ghost shrugged. "He's a mob boss, a plague on the city. A madman. He needs to be eradicated."

Celeste was shaking her head. "He's all of those things, true, but he's something else, too. He's a Roman centurion from the first century. His name is Gains Lucius Severnius."

The Ghost didn't know whether to laugh, or to break down. Her mind had snapped. The shock of her abduction, of the way she'd been treated: it had taken its toll on her, and she was caught up in some terrible fantasy regarding her captor. He considered bas.h.i.+ng her on the head and carrying her out to the car over his shoulder. But there was Donovan to think of, too; he needed her capable so she could drive the car.

He wondered if Celeste could see the disbelief in his eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, measured. Disconsolate. "I knew you wouldn't understand." She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, and then continued, trying again. "There are more things in this universe, Gabriel, than you could possibly imagine. The Roman made a pact with one such thing. Now it's time for him to do so again. I have to be here to stop him."

Gabriel frowned. "I know more than you think, Celeste." He thought back to the farmhouse in France; shuddered at the unbidden memory. He knew about the things that lurked in the darkness. Could she be telling the truth? She clearly believed it herself. He felt as if he were trapped in some sort of terrible waking nightmare.

He reached out; put his hand on her arm, as much to ground himself as to comfort the woman before him. "So you're saying the Roman has walked this earth for nearly two thousand years, that he's mixed up in some sort of supernatural union that extended his life?"

Celeste shrugged. "Not supernatural, no. These ent.i.ties, they're all around us. They're here, now, in this very room, just out of step with us, inhabiting a different dimensional s.p.a.ce. We cross paths with them all the time, but neither is aware of it happening. Do you understand?"

The Ghost shrugged. "Yes, I think I understand."

Celeste continued, "The Roman discovered a means to collapse those dimensions together, to give those creatures a physical presence in our own s.p.a.ce and time. And they rewarded him for it. A hormone they secrete from a gland in their abdomens, it arrests the aging process in mammals. It slowed his aging for nearly two thousand years, kept his body repairing itself, over and over. But now he's started aging again, and he needs to bring another ent.i.ty through if he wants to live."

It all made a terrible sort of sense to the Ghost. The things he'd seen in France, the monsters he'd encountered when he was alone and delirious following the crash. The sights that had made him the man he was. Could this be the explanation? The hair on the nape of his neck was p.r.i.c.kling, standing on end. "How do you know all of this, Celeste? And what has it got to do with you? Why does it mean you're going to die?" He almost choked on the question.

She fixed him with an intense stare. "Because I'm the only one who can stop it. The Roman cares only for his own life. That much is obvious. He'll gladly sacrifice the city to the creature, give it up and move on. When you've lived for two thousand years, other people's lives, they must seem small and unimportant, flames that flicker briefly before going out. The creature is dangerous, Gabriel. It will hurt people. A lot of people. And I can stop it."

"If what you're saying is right, then we'll stop it together." He hefted his flechette gun as if to underline his point. "There's no need for anyone to die."

Celeste sighed. "Your weapons won't stop it, Gabriel. But my blood is poison to it." She wiped away the remains of her tears with the edge of her palm. "I've always known this might come to pa.s.s. I come from a long bloodline, reaching all the way back to those first days, when the Roman Empire was at its height and the world's religions were being born. My ancestors stopped that first creature, back in Rome, sacrificed themselves for the greater good. And ever since, my family-a large, extended family, with branches all over the worldhas kept watch on Severnius and others like him, patiently waiting, observing. It's just my d.a.m.n bad luck he's chosen this place, and this time, to act." She reached out, took his hand in hers. They were damp with her tears. "I love you, Gabriel Cross. Never forget that." It sounded final.

The Ghost's heart was hammering in his chest. He felt dizzy, confused. He couldn't let her go through with it, whatever she was planning to do. He had to find a way to help her. And then a thought occurred to him. "So why does the Roman want you here, if he knows the truth about you, about the risk you pose to his plans? Why didn't he just kill you like the others?"

"I'm his insurance policy. If it goes wrong, if the ent.i.ty won't cooperate with him, I'm his loaded gun."

"Then it's clear what I have to do." He spoke with a firm resolve, but inside he was dying, shaken to the core by this confession from the woman he loved, the woman he had vowed to protect with his life. "I have to kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d before he gets anywhere near to summoning this creature."

Celeste stood, then, clutching him to her, her face so close to his that he could smell the sweetness of her breath. "Then we'd better be quick. He's planning to do it today."

The Ghost kissed her again, long and hard, and then turned toward the door. "Stay here," he commanded, knowing full well that she would not. Then he ran for the hallway, her soft footsteps falling in behind him.

The Ghost could hear voices from the hallway down below. Waving for Celeste to keep back, he leaned cautiously over the banister, using the targeting zoom of his goggles to take a better look. Donovan was there, held by two moss golems who lumbered along behind a middle-aged man in a black suit, a man with jet-black hair and a bronzed, tanned complexion. Mr. Gardici. The Roman.

The small group approached a posse of mobsters who were waiting near the foot of the stairs. The Roman had his back to the stairs. "Take him down to the Mithraeum. He's inquisitive, and I'd like him to see what we're doing here. Bind his hands so he can't get up to any mischief." The Ghost imagined the Roman grinning as he continued: "And besides, he'll make a rather interesting morsel for our visitor."

The Roman watched as the moss men dragged a subdued Donovan out of view. He dusted down the front of his immaculate black suit, apparently pleased with himself. Then, turning, he disappeared after the others, a wide grin splitting his face.

The Ghost flicked his lenses back into place and turned to Celeste, pus.h.i.+ng himself away from the banister. "I'm going down there after them. Find somewhere safe and stay out of sight."