Read Online Objects of Worship by Claude Lalumiere - Free Book Online

kill you?” He stares at me
with his empty skull eye sockets, and I feel his gaze pass
through me. “You’re not Kurtz. You’re one of his whelps.
Good. It’ll save me the trouble of hunting you down.”
    I lunge at the monster, hoping to snap his neck.
Dismissively, he slaps me with the back of his hand, and
I crumple to the ground. He keeps me pinned down under
his foot. My rib cage is slowly shattering.
    “You don’t even have the power — the power your father
stole from us. You’re just another subhuman Jew. Not
worth my time.”
    He lifts me up with one hand, his bony fingers ripping
through the fabric of the jumpsuit, scratching the flesh near
my heart. Without another word, he tosses me away. I soar
through the air over several city blocks and crash through
the glass window of a skyscraper. Only the pain is keeping
me conscious. That and the fact that the helmet protected
my head from the worst of the impact. But I’m dying anyway.
Blood is filling up my lungs, and more blood is staining Dad’s
uniform from several open wounds. My ribs are broken, the
bones of my hands splintered, my legs — which I can’t even
feel anymore — twisted at impossible angles. I’m slipping
away.
    “You always were such a romantic fool, Gordon.”
    Bernard?
    My brother lays his hands on me, and I feel my body
repair itself.
    In no time, I’m fully mended.
    “Bernard . . . What . . . ?” I close my eyes. A momentary
feeling of gratitude at being whole and alive is quickly
crushed by my still-fresh grief. Yet, my brother is here, and
that, too, provokes a rush of strong, conflicting emotions.
I open my eyes and look at him. “Thank you. Thank you. I
know this is a big sacrifice for you.”
    Bernard is crying. “Thanks for saying that. For
recognizing that. Now you must stop the Herald of Hate.
He’s a rodef. A stalker. A killer.”
    “I can’t. I tried. He killed Dad. And there are others
like him picking off The Mighty overseas. I don’t know if
anyone can stop him. Or the rest of the Hegemony. He’s
going to destroy the entire city. It took him less than two
seconds to massacre me. He called me subhuman. Flung me
away like a piece of trash.”
    “He won’t this time.”
    Bernard enfolds me in his arms. And . . .
    “I never wanted this power. This filthy, filthy power. But
you, you don’t see it like that at all. You see it the same way
Dad did. As a way to mend the world.”
    “You . . .”
    “It never occurred to me before that I could do this . . .
but after you stormed out of my house I thought about
how Dad’s energy slipped into my body. And I knew that
this was possible. I knew how to do it, and it would solve
everything. I could give you the energy. All of it. You’re now
more powerful than Dad ever was, Gordon. You have his
power and mine, combined, amplified exponentially. Go.
Kick that monster’s ass. Make the world a better place. For
Dad. For Mom. For me.”
    Clinging to the memories and experiences of my father
and my brother — which cascade through me, changing
me — I hold my twin tight. “I missed you.”
    “Go,” Bernard repeats.
    I fly away.

THE SEA, AT BARI
    In Bari, the pizza marinara was more delicious than in
Rome. Not only did some Roman pizzerias add melted
cheese to this classic cheeseless pizza (probably to satisfy
the expectations of tourists), not only did most of them
skimp on the garlic (again, no doubt to avoid offending
tourists’ underdeveloped tastebuds), but the oregano was
not allowed the time necessary to flavour the tomato sauce;
it was simply thrown on top of the pizza.
    But in Bari . . . the pizza marinara surpassed Mario’s
expectations: heavily laden with garlic and covered in
tomato sauce from which wafted a strong yet delicate
aroma of oregano.
    Whenever
Mario
remembered
Bari,
a
complex
emotion — part nostalgia, part loss, part happiness, part
dread — nipped at his heart. Perhaps, Mario thought, some
emotions did not have names — at least, not in