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He braced himself, knowing it wouldn t do any good. How many pieces would he be
blown into upon impact?
He felt the blood in his system healing the gashes in his hands; multiplying to give
him back his strength. He had absorbed it like lightning, the salt like a magical salve in
his body. Good enough. It had to be.
He held his breath as the plane slammed down.
* * * * *
Michael did not bother hiding. He opened the unlocked glass door of the old Watson
Building and walked out onto the wooden floor boards. They creaked loudly beneath his
feet, but he would not have bothered being quiet anyway. He knew the door had been left
unlocked for him. He knew, at this point, that Anson was waiting for him.
Abbie s vision could only mean that Wasim had been found out on the plane.
Anson s followers knew that Jessie and Abbie were both still in town. They d known
about the gym. They d known about the Ashmore.
The only logical explanation was that Anson had visions, on top of everything else.
Michael wondered what other nasties the vampire had up his sleeves.
Whatever they were, he was going to have to face them head-on. Apparently, there
was nowhere to hide from this man who believed he was Jesus.
-202-
Heather Killough-Walden
In Michael s life time, there had been hundreds of second comings ; people who
believed they were the children of God, the chosen messiahs, the returning champions of
Christianity s cause. And Islam s. And Buddha s. And so forth.
However, unlike most humans, Michael actually knew.
He knew.
He knew that Anson, for instance, was most definitely not Jesus of Nazareth. If
anyone had asked Michael how he knew this, he would have told them he had his
reasons. In fact, that was what he d told Wasim. It was true.
He had his reasons. They were good reasons.
Victor Anson was a vampire bent on world domination through the relentless
infliction of fear and pain. He was a dictator in the making, a militant, a misguided zealot,
and most frightening of all, he had the power to back up his dogma.
For some utterly unknown and extremely insane reason, he felt threatened by, and
therefore wanted to kill, a two-year-old child. What next? Would he wake up in the
middle of the night, covered in a paranoid sweat about little old ladies?
Victor Anson s mind was gone. Either he d lost it upon digging himself out of the
grave, or his power had literally taken him over. Either way, he was nothing more now
than a vessel for miss-directed magic and chaotic revenge.
And he knew that Michael was there, in the building, at that very moment.
Ah, the prodigal son has returned.
Michael stopped in the center of the first floor of the large building and held still.
The voice had seemed to come from all around him. He waited.
Have you truly not figured it out, brother?
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Redeemer
The voice echoed against the walls. Michael turned in place, his blue-eyed gaze
piercing the shadowed recesses of the building s interior. As far as he could see, he was
alone.
But his vampire senses were telling him something else entirely. There was so much
latent, unused power in the atmosphere that the air almost hummed with it. There was
something familiar about its particular feel.
And if he could feel him and hear him, but not see him, then Anson was far more
dangerous than Michael had even previously thought.
Turn around, brother, the voice instructed.
Michael whirled and peered into the darkness.
And face me.
A few feet in front of Michael, the shadows swirled, ebbing and receding, and then
coming together into a relatively recognizable shape somewhere between five and six feet
tall. The shape stretched a little more, grew a little darker, and then stilled. And solidified.
Invisibility. That was a bugger of a power.
Michael s gaze narrowed as his opponent stepped out of the darkness and was
illuminated by a shaft of moonlight from overhead. In every physical sense, the man
standing before him was the long-accepted white Christian representation of Jesus of
Nazareth. He was dressed from head to toe in robes of blue and white. Long chestnut
brown hair fell in soft, shining waves to his shoulders, and he sported a brown beard that
looked effortlessly not-trimmed, yet was somehow the perfect length.
Michael had to admit that, for a man who appeared as he did, Victor Anson had
certainly picked the perfect town, in the perfect country, in which to make an appearance.
-204-
Heather Killough-Walden
Anson walked forward slowly and stopped about three feet away from him. He gazed
at Michael through soft brown eyes that reminded him too much of Abbie s. And then
Anson smiled. There was something so obscene in that simple smile, it made the hairs on
the back of Michael s neck stand on end.
He did not smile back. And he did not speak. Michael had learned long ago not to be
the first to talk. There was something about waiting, remaining quiet and letting the other
move before you, that managed to waylay weakness and stupidity most of the time. So,
he held his ground and simply stared back as the air around them fairly crackled with un-
tapped power.
I know who you are, Anson said softly, managing to make the statement sound like
both a gentle proclamation of awareness and an accusation.
Michael waited.
Anson laughed. It was not a harsh sound. Only amused. I see. He turned then and
began to pace around Michael in a slow, wide circle, his attention seemingly turned to the
ground in front of him. Have you come to crucify me, then?
Michael smiled at this. If only I had a hammer.
Anson laughed again, this time stopping to shake his head, a wide grin on his face.
He turned back to Michael and regarded him a moment. You haven t changed.
Michael s brow furrowed of its own accord. Some ancient beast, sleeping deep
within him, slowly opened one glowing eye. You ll have to elaborate, he said. I ve
never met you before this night. He wondered at the words immediately after he said
them. There was an uncertainty burgeoning in the pit of his stomach. It was like staring at
a puzzle that is missing one piece and not being able to figure out what the picture was.
-205-
Redeemer
His body and mind hummed with the latent energy in the air, and it felt all too
familiar for his comfort. He watched Anson carefully as the man cocked his head to one
side, still smiling. In fact, he appeared, for all the world, as if he were fighting the urge to
giggle. This was all just too much fun for him.
No? He took a step toward Michael. Are you so certain?
Michael s body prepared to fight. He had many gifts. Most of them, he never used.
But they raced to the forefront of his consciousness now, lining up like an internal armory
role call, as he watched and waited for Anson to make the first offensive move.
But even as he primed himself, he gazed into Anson s eyes, and the man drew nearer
still. Alarm bells sounded in Michael s brain. Something in that very time and space was
so fundamentally wrong that its identity escaped him. He couldn t put his finger on it. But
that beast inside of him was fully awake now, sniffing the air cautiously, extending claws
it hadn t used in eons.
Anson took a final step that closed the distance between them. Michael held stock
still as the man then leaned in, bringing his face a mere few inches from his own.
It s been a while, but come now. We changed the course of history together,
Anson whispered, his breath caressing Michael s lips. How could you ever forget?
At that, Anson drew back a little and his eyes began to change. Michael watched as
they went from light brown to dark brown to nearly black.
Michael stared into those eyes and his heart stopped beating.
Was it possible? He blinked, feeling dizzy. He took a step back.
The man now standing before Michael was no longer draped in robes. Instead, he
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