Free Dark Heart by Margaret Weis;David Baldwin Page A
Authors: Margaret Weis;David Baldwin
Tags: Fantasy
Dragon-sent visions. He would see the death of his next victim, and he would see himself as the slayer. He would see where, he would know when it would happen, and he would feel their blood on his claws.
And then he would awaken and execute the Dragon’s command.
Most of his victims had knowledge the Dragon could not permit to become public. The master didn’t allow anyone who was a threat to his security to walk the world for long, and it was part of Justin’s allegiance to ensure these people died.
When the Dragon or one of its disciples saw a problem, Justin was required to eliminate it, just as he had killed Jack Madrone. He had not waited for a dream to do it. The Wyrm had known what was required of him and had carried out the mission, no matter how Justin had felt about it.
It was only when Justin was unaware of the possible threat that the Dragon would cue him through the mirror or through a vision. If someone in a small town in Montana had somehow stumbled across evidence that might lead him to discover the master’s secret, Justin had a vision. And when he awoke, he would travel through the mirror and deal with the problem.
Madrone’s image now joined the throng of the dead surrounding Justin—his victims. The security guard, Baxter, stood beside him. Both stared at him, accusing, causing a pain in his heart that threatened to devour him.
The deaths were necessary. Justin knew that. He told himself that over and over again. But he never ceased to regret his part in them. From the Dragon’s very first order to kill that first hapless priest, a part of him had rebelled at what he was asked to do.
But the Dragon required blood and death as the payment for the boon of endless life.
And the price of his service was rapidly rising.
The cost might soon be out of his reach.
Justin opened a small drawer in his black lacquer night stand. He pulled out a tiny crystal vial of white powder. He tapped a bit of the powder into a sterling silver cup above an ebony lamp inlaid with ivory. From a jade decanter, he poured a few drops of water into the cup with the powder. With a twist of his fingers, the lamp sparked to life.
Loathing himself even more than usual, Justin withdrew a syringe and rubber tubing from the drawer. Sitting in the soft chair beside the cabinet, he looped the rubber around his upper arm and pulled it tight with his teeth. He looked at the powder. Slowly, it began to melt and dissolve. When it was liquid, he sucked the heroin up with the syringe.
It was a vice that he knew better than to indulge. His immortality and healing abilities spared him from the degradation and death that awaited virtually all junkies among normal humans. He wouldn’t even feel the terrible side effects of addiction—the wrenching pain, the chills, and the grinding need of withdrawal. But what was left of his self-respect died a little more every time he resorted to the needle to banish his ghosts.
Their images hovered before him. All of them, ancient ones and recent ones. Detective Madrone’s incredulous gaze watched him, as did Baxter’s. Then there was Becky Johnson, and the Italian priest who had fought so hard to live almost seven hundred years ago. A young bride, still in her wedding dress. Blackie Rogers, the cowboy. There were hundreds of them, thousands, and each one stared at him with burning questions in their eyes. Why? And why them?
Justin closed his eyes. His hand cradled the needle with its promise of a few moments of blessed peace, of relief from his haunted past. He was strong enough to resist the need, he knew it. He just had to find that strength where it was buried in him, somewhere deep down under the centuries of regrets.
The ghosts were stronger this time.
He plunged the needle into his arm.
Then something in the darkness moved. The other ghosts parted for it. It was the form of a woman, young and beautiful, looking away from him at something only she could see.
“Gwendolyne…”
Her
And then he would awaken and execute the Dragon’s command.
Most of his victims had knowledge the Dragon could not permit to become public. The master didn’t allow anyone who was a threat to his security to walk the world for long, and it was part of Justin’s allegiance to ensure these people died.
When the Dragon or one of its disciples saw a problem, Justin was required to eliminate it, just as he had killed Jack Madrone. He had not waited for a dream to do it. The Wyrm had known what was required of him and had carried out the mission, no matter how Justin had felt about it.
It was only when Justin was unaware of the possible threat that the Dragon would cue him through the mirror or through a vision. If someone in a small town in Montana had somehow stumbled across evidence that might lead him to discover the master’s secret, Justin had a vision. And when he awoke, he would travel through the mirror and deal with the problem.
Madrone’s image now joined the throng of the dead surrounding Justin—his victims. The security guard, Baxter, stood beside him. Both stared at him, accusing, causing a pain in his heart that threatened to devour him.
The deaths were necessary. Justin knew that. He told himself that over and over again. But he never ceased to regret his part in them. From the Dragon’s very first order to kill that first hapless priest, a part of him had rebelled at what he was asked to do.
But the Dragon required blood and death as the payment for the boon of endless life.
And the price of his service was rapidly rising.
The cost might soon be out of his reach.
Justin opened a small drawer in his black lacquer night stand. He pulled out a tiny crystal vial of white powder. He tapped a bit of the powder into a sterling silver cup above an ebony lamp inlaid with ivory. From a jade decanter, he poured a few drops of water into the cup with the powder. With a twist of his fingers, the lamp sparked to life.
Loathing himself even more than usual, Justin withdrew a syringe and rubber tubing from the drawer. Sitting in the soft chair beside the cabinet, he looped the rubber around his upper arm and pulled it tight with his teeth. He looked at the powder. Slowly, it began to melt and dissolve. When it was liquid, he sucked the heroin up with the syringe.
It was a vice that he knew better than to indulge. His immortality and healing abilities spared him from the degradation and death that awaited virtually all junkies among normal humans. He wouldn’t even feel the terrible side effects of addiction—the wrenching pain, the chills, and the grinding need of withdrawal. But what was left of his self-respect died a little more every time he resorted to the needle to banish his ghosts.
Their images hovered before him. All of them, ancient ones and recent ones. Detective Madrone’s incredulous gaze watched him, as did Baxter’s. Then there was Becky Johnson, and the Italian priest who had fought so hard to live almost seven hundred years ago. A young bride, still in her wedding dress. Blackie Rogers, the cowboy. There were hundreds of them, thousands, and each one stared at him with burning questions in their eyes. Why? And why them?
Justin closed his eyes. His hand cradled the needle with its promise of a few moments of blessed peace, of relief from his haunted past. He was strong enough to resist the need, he knew it. He just had to find that strength where it was buried in him, somewhere deep down under the centuries of regrets.
The ghosts were stronger this time.
He plunged the needle into his arm.
Then something in the darkness moved. The other ghosts parted for it. It was the form of a woman, young and beautiful, looking away from him at something only she could see.
“Gwendolyne…”
Her