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score.”
“I work on compassion,” I said.
“I know you do,” she said. “I know. You put it into action. It’s not an abstract principle or idea with you. You practice it. It’s your path. You’ve got that whole Bodhisattva thing going and you bring that energy into the world. It’s a gift. People are grateful you do it…most wouldn’t or couldn’t deal with the things you have to deal with every day. You get big power, you get big challenges. You work on compassion, but you have a fiery temper. Your work is to heal and protect, but you love a good fight. So there you have it.”
“How do I take him out, Sabrina?”
“Do what you do best, Marius. You won’t be able to depossess him. He won’t give his permission. But you can draw him and his demon out and in the confrontation, the Law of the One gives you the absolute right to self-defense…you can do whatever you need to in defense of yourself…or others. He’s coming after you in any way he can. He’s coming. In every possible way.”
Chapter 9
When I have people coming for me, which is, unfortunately, a common occurrence in the life of a Warrior of the Light, there’s one place and one person I reach out to.
Dillon and his lair.
Where I sat right now, watching my friend prepare for the event we both felt hanging out there. When I’d shown up, he’d already been getting ready. He just pointed me at a chair and went about his business.
I watched him run a silicon cleaning cloth over the metal and plastic furniture of a folding stock Yugo AK-47. When he handled weapons, or was working in harm’s way, he had a certain look on his face, an intense, almost studious face while he dealt with the problem at hand. His energy, and the guides around him, invisible to him but not to me, were both of the most intense warrior kind. He’d been a special operations soldier in the Army’s Special Forces, since he took particular care to distinguish between special operations, Special Forces and other special operations capable organizations. Those distinctions were lost on me till I’d met him; I’d never been in the military—in this life, anyway—though a part of me and my past lives resonated with that. Dillon and I had a past life there, too—the easy familiarity with which we worked together, in harm’s way or not, was testament to that.
He set the cloth down on his work table, then adjusted the simple sling and hung the AK around his neck. He swung up a few times, aligning the sights with the short rifle punched out taut against the sling. With it hanging down, he could swing it up and punch it out and align the sights almost as well as if he’d extended the stock.
“How you going to conceal that?” I said.
He grinned, put on a three-quarter-length leather car coat, bulked up in the shoulders, over his black turtle neck. You could see the black strap of the rifle if you were close enough, but it didn’t draw your eyes, it just faded into the black. The rifle hung down but the coat was long enough to conceal the short muzzle.
“You look like an extra in Saturday Night Fever ,” I said.
Dillon stepped smartly into a disco step, pointing his finger at the sky and began to sing, “Ah, ah, ah, staying alive, staying alive…”
“I sure hope so.”
“We will be,” he said. Paused. “No lycans on this, are there?”
“I hope not. Cabal has some for their special forces.”
Dillon considered that. We’d tangled with lycans before. Not pretty.
“Standard ammo we’re running in this is brass and lead, steel core and an exposed steel tip. That will knock down any Dark Siders that react to iron.”
“No Faery in this. They don’t work this way or with demons.”
“I wasn’t thinking of them,” Dillon said. He shrugged. “I’ve got silver made up in a separate mag if any Lycans show up.”
“You rolled some silver bullets?”
He tilted his head at the Dillon loading press (spelled the same way) over in the
“I work on compassion,” I said.
“I know you do,” she said. “I know. You put it into action. It’s not an abstract principle or idea with you. You practice it. It’s your path. You’ve got that whole Bodhisattva thing going and you bring that energy into the world. It’s a gift. People are grateful you do it…most wouldn’t or couldn’t deal with the things you have to deal with every day. You get big power, you get big challenges. You work on compassion, but you have a fiery temper. Your work is to heal and protect, but you love a good fight. So there you have it.”
“How do I take him out, Sabrina?”
“Do what you do best, Marius. You won’t be able to depossess him. He won’t give his permission. But you can draw him and his demon out and in the confrontation, the Law of the One gives you the absolute right to self-defense…you can do whatever you need to in defense of yourself…or others. He’s coming after you in any way he can. He’s coming. In every possible way.”
Chapter 9
When I have people coming for me, which is, unfortunately, a common occurrence in the life of a Warrior of the Light, there’s one place and one person I reach out to.
Dillon and his lair.
Where I sat right now, watching my friend prepare for the event we both felt hanging out there. When I’d shown up, he’d already been getting ready. He just pointed me at a chair and went about his business.
I watched him run a silicon cleaning cloth over the metal and plastic furniture of a folding stock Yugo AK-47. When he handled weapons, or was working in harm’s way, he had a certain look on his face, an intense, almost studious face while he dealt with the problem at hand. His energy, and the guides around him, invisible to him but not to me, were both of the most intense warrior kind. He’d been a special operations soldier in the Army’s Special Forces, since he took particular care to distinguish between special operations, Special Forces and other special operations capable organizations. Those distinctions were lost on me till I’d met him; I’d never been in the military—in this life, anyway—though a part of me and my past lives resonated with that. Dillon and I had a past life there, too—the easy familiarity with which we worked together, in harm’s way or not, was testament to that.
He set the cloth down on his work table, then adjusted the simple sling and hung the AK around his neck. He swung up a few times, aligning the sights with the short rifle punched out taut against the sling. With it hanging down, he could swing it up and punch it out and align the sights almost as well as if he’d extended the stock.
“How you going to conceal that?” I said.
He grinned, put on a three-quarter-length leather car coat, bulked up in the shoulders, over his black turtle neck. You could see the black strap of the rifle if you were close enough, but it didn’t draw your eyes, it just faded into the black. The rifle hung down but the coat was long enough to conceal the short muzzle.
“You look like an extra in Saturday Night Fever ,” I said.
Dillon stepped smartly into a disco step, pointing his finger at the sky and began to sing, “Ah, ah, ah, staying alive, staying alive…”
“I sure hope so.”
“We will be,” he said. Paused. “No lycans on this, are there?”
“I hope not. Cabal has some for their special forces.”
Dillon considered that. We’d tangled with lycans before. Not pretty.
“Standard ammo we’re running in this is brass and lead, steel core and an exposed steel tip. That will knock down any Dark Siders that react to iron.”
“No Faery in this. They don’t work this way or with demons.”
“I wasn’t thinking of them,” Dillon said. He shrugged. “I’ve got silver made up in a separate mag if any Lycans show up.”
“You rolled some silver bullets?”
He tilted his head at the Dillon loading press (spelled the same way) over in the
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