It was not a library. It was an abattoir. The remains of the two
would-be thieves were scattered over an eleven-foot section of the library.
Blood had even reached the chandelier, glittering droplets hanging from the
crystal, giving a red tint to the room. There wasn't a piece left that was
big enough to identify the fallen.
This was not how the virus worked. The lungs would fill with fluid and the victim would drown. No muss, no fuss. Ian scanned the room, unmoved by the blood and bits that had once been human. He could not afford to be distracted; inattention could lead to the same fate. Besides, Nottingham had seen worse. He'd even done worse.
Ian continued to scan for the source of the violence, although his senses detected nothing but the passing whiff of ancient power, like ions after lightning. The glass he had heard shatter had been the bay window that overlooked the courtyard, not one of the display cases. In all likelihood, whatever had attacked the thieves had already escaped the mansion. Nottingham checked the room thoroughly anyway.
Books that had been old when the first pilgrim stepped from the Mayflower were a wet black in the changed light, their spines absorbing blood and spreading it outward to the text. Irons was going to be furious. Many of the books were one of a kind. Irreplaceable.
Ian did not spend enough time in here to know every text by heart, but there were certain books that contained very dangerous knowledge indeed. Had there been another thief? One who had succeeded, but had been surprised by the other two? A special anti-personnel device could have been responsible for the rather spectacular mess. The military's Research and Development people were very creative.
Given the night, the location, and the lingering taint in the air, Nottingham did not think so. Much more likely, the intruders had attempted to steal an artifact that should have been left undisturbed. Now that he thought about it, Ian could feel it, nagging like the hole where a tooth should be.
Nottingham closed his eyes to better focus on the sensation. A pull led him to the left of the exploded flesh. Something had been.here. An empty spot in an open display case throbbed with it's recent void. A simple curving blade had rested there. It had been made of an iron and gold alloy referred to in the ancient Persian text that also resided in the case, called Avesta.
The book was still in its place, still open to the page that referred to the forging of such metal. Ian did not need a translation for the passage. He knew the language well enough. Nottingham had read a copy of this book as a young adult. Irons had explained that the Vatican had once thought this the source of the Witchblade until further study proved otherwise.
Blend iron's edge with the sun of gold.
Could gold alloyed or admixt be...
Fired-white and chilled in wine-dark blood,
Thus is born the thirsty Blade, never dulled
The weapon was a relic recovered on one of Irons' many expeditions. Kenneth had been pleased to acquire the blade, as they were extremely rare. He placed it in the display case with the original text and showed it off for a few months, allowing no one to touch it. Ian had stared at it, traced its image on the cold glass, fascinated by the gleaming short sword.
Nottingham even found himself in front of it in the middle of the night, but he had never laid his hand to the hilt no matter how tempted he had been. Ian was glad he had never yielded to the siren call, if such was the reward. Come to think of it, Nottingham had never seen Irons touch it either.
Whatever it was, it was free now.
This was not how the virus worked. The lungs would fill with fluid and the victim would drown. No muss, no fuss. Ian scanned the room, unmoved by the blood and bits that had once been human. He could not afford to be distracted; inattention could lead to the same fate. Besides, Nottingham had seen worse. He'd even done worse.
Ian continued to scan for the source of the violence, although his senses detected nothing but the passing whiff of ancient power, like ions after lightning. The glass he had heard shatter had been the bay window that overlooked the courtyard, not one of the display cases. In all likelihood, whatever had attacked the thieves had already escaped the mansion. Nottingham checked the room thoroughly anyway.
Books that had been old when the first pilgrim stepped from the Mayflower were a wet black in the changed light, their spines absorbing blood and spreading it outward to the text. Irons was going to be furious. Many of the books were one of a kind. Irreplaceable.
Ian did not spend enough time in here to know every text by heart, but there were certain books that contained very dangerous knowledge indeed. Had there been another thief? One who had succeeded, but had been surprised by the other two? A special anti-personnel device could have been responsible for the rather spectacular mess. The military's Research and Development people were very creative.
Given the night, the location, and the lingering taint in the air, Nottingham did not think so. Much more likely, the intruders had attempted to steal an artifact that should have been left undisturbed. Now that he thought about it, Ian could feel it, nagging like the hole where a tooth should be.
Nottingham closed his eyes to better focus on the sensation. A pull led him to the left of the exploded flesh. Something had been.here. An empty spot in an open display case throbbed with it's recent void. A simple curving blade had rested there. It had been made of an iron and gold alloy referred to in the ancient Persian text that also resided in the case, called Avesta.
The book was still in its place, still open to the page that referred to the forging of such metal. Ian did not need a translation for the passage. He knew the language well enough. Nottingham had read a copy of this book as a young adult. Irons had explained that the Vatican had once thought this the source of the Witchblade until further study proved otherwise.
Blend iron's edge with the sun of gold.
Could gold alloyed or admixt be...
Fired-white and chilled in wine-dark blood,
Thus is born the thirsty Blade, never dulled
The weapon was a relic recovered on one of Irons' many expeditions. Kenneth had been pleased to acquire the blade, as they were extremely rare. He placed it in the display case with the original text and showed it off for a few months, allowing no one to touch it. Ian had stared at it, traced its image on the cold glass, fascinated by the gleaming short sword.
Nottingham even found himself in front of it in the middle of the night, but he had never laid his hand to the hilt no matter how tempted he had been. Ian was glad he had never yielded to the siren call, if such was the reward. Come to think of it, Nottingham had never seen Irons touch it either.
Whatever it was, it was free now.