Julio never knew what hit him. He had scarcely realized the reason for his brother’s terror when the woman had begun to swing her sword in a deadly arc. It cut through Julio’s neck, decapitating him in one fell swoop.
Hector emitted a high-pitched scream and took off running, the sight of his brother’s head flying through the air etched into his mind’s eye. He sprinted into the darkness, not knowing or caring where he was going. This was God’s Vengeance, manifested in human form. Or was it Rosalita’s spirit, come to claim her revenge?
The wraith-like woman was suddenly in front of him. Hector tried to stop but he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, rolling until he was almost at her feet.
The woman knelt in a smooth motion, catching Hector’s throat between two blades — the curved sword with which she’d killed his brother and a smaller knife that gleamed in the moonlight.
“Please!” he begged, feeling the cold touch of the weapons. One of them pricked just deep enough to draw blood.
“Did you listen when Rosalita begged?” the woman said. Her voice was as cold as the steel she wielded.
Hector closed his eyes. “Madre de dios, please forgive me.”
“There is no forgiveness for you.”
Hector looked into the woman’s mask, as dark as the night that surrounded them both.
“You dug your own grave, Hector. All I’m doing is shoveling the dirt on top.”
Hector’s life ended quickly, as the twin blades snipped together, tearing through everything in between.
Gravedigger stood up, pulling a dark cloth from one of the pouches on her waist. She cleaned her weapons and sheathed them. There was no joy in her heart over this victory. She had arrived too late to save the girl, despite her best efforts to trace her kidnapper. But she’d heard enough of the brothers’ discussion to know what had to be done.
She left the corpses where they lay, entering the house and examining the oven’s contents. Julio hadn’t been quite as good as his word — there were plenty of bones that were identifiably human, as well as scraps of cloth that came from the girl’s dress and underwear.
Again her hands darted down into the pouches at her belt. She retrieved a miniaturized walkie-talkie and turned it on. Static filled the room but she depressed the talk button and said, “You can contact the police. Send them to 142 Bloch Avenue.”
“Any survivors?” a man asked in reply. His words were spoken with a clipped British accent, which always surprised people in Sovereign when they saw him. Mitchell was a massive black man with a shaved head and a menacing face. But he had been born in London and had a heart of gold.
“No.”
Mitchell heard the sound of disappointment in Gravedigger’s voice. “You can’t blame yourself for this, luv. Nothing can undo that little girl’s death but at least you made her killers pay.”
“I’m sure that will help her parents sleep at night.”
“It just might.”
Gravedigger ceased communications and put the walkie-talkie away. She knew that Mitchell would be along soon, driving his plain, unmarked sedan. She didn’t feel like talking any more about this but she had a feeling he wasn’t going to let the matter drop.
A calendar on the wall caught her attention. Someone had drawn red x’s through all the days of the month, all the way to today. A chill ran down her spine before she whirled about and left the house. Time was like an unstoppable juggernaut. Every second grew into minutes, then hours, then days.
Three years was not so much.
Chapter II: Everyone Has Secrets
Josef Goldstein wore a dark suit and an open-necked white shirt. He was a thin old man with round glasses, thinning hair and a trim white beard that framed a wide mouth. He leaned heavily on a walking stick as he moved through his house, a large red ruby shining on his ring finger. “Charity?” he called. “Are you up?”
“I’m in here,” she answered.
Goldstein ambled into the room that had become Charity’s personal gymnasium. She was doing chin-ups with a bar attached to one of the walls, her athletic form glistening with sweat. She wore loose-fitting pants and an undershirt. Her shoulder-length brown hair was tied back into a ponytail and her eyes, chocolate brown, regarded Goldstein coolly.
“Mitchell says that you were upset about the mission last night.”
“Mitchell has a big mouth.”
Goldstein found a chair and sat down heavily. Charity continued her exercise routine. “You’re doing quite well, you know.”
“Why? Because I’ve killed ten people in the past three months?”
“Twelve, actually. You always forget Big Eddy and his friend.”
Charity dropped to the floor and put her hands on her hips. “What do you want?” she asked testily.
Goldstein smiled softly, revealing a set of teeth that were a little too perfect. They were fake and, to Charity’s eyes, were indicative of his entire persona. “If you ever want to talk about things, I’m here for you. Like I told you on the night we met, I was once a Gravedigger myself. I know the stresses that you’re under.”
Charity nodded, as if remembering something. “Oh, yes, the night we met. I think that was when you shot me and buried me alive, wasn’t it?”
Goldstein’s smile widened. “I killed you, Charity. You know that.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Charity responded, turning away from him. She picked up a couple of weights and began doing a set of repetitions with them.
“You accepted The Voice’s offer. Just like I did. Just like all the Gravediggers have done, one after another. But you’re the first woman to ever receive the honor.”
Charity paused in her actions. “The honor?” she repeated, quietly. “How many Gravediggers passed the test, Goldstein? How many were pure after three years of murder and mayhem?”
“I was judged worthy.”
“And how many others?”
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Charity sighed. “It doesn’t matter. It is what is.” Resuming her workout, she asked, “Are you just here to counsel me or do you have something else to talk about?”
“There’s someone else in Sovereign who needs your attention.”
Charity set the weights down on the ground and wandered over to where Goldstein was sitting. She preferred it when they talked business. It was the same with Mitchell, though she knew he was a nice guy. Goldstein, though, she wasn’t sure about.
She was discovering that she had a tendency to hold grudges against men who tried to kill her.
Goldstein reached into his jacket and pulled out a newspaper clipping. He unfolded it and handed it to Charity. It was from the society section and showed a rather smug looking man shaking hands with the mayor. “That,” Goldstein said, “is Arthur Meeks.”
“I’ve heard of him,” she answered. “He runs a dairy plant, right?”
“That’s where his fortune comes from, yes. He’s the chief supplier of milk not just for Sovereign but also for most of the surrounding tri-state area. That’s not what concerns us, however. Our focus should be on his unusual interest in rare books. He has spent a considerable amount of money acquiring a series of grimoires that would be the envy of anyone outside of The Illuminati.”
Charity sat on the floor, looking up at Goldstein. “I’m still hearing the ‘evil’ part of things.”
“Are you familiar with The Necronomicon?”