Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Binah (Understanding) ❯ Too Many Secrets ( Chapter 18 )

Margarethe Bonn had a deep yearning for a good, stout German beer right at the moment. Sapporo was a decent substitute, but it wasn't the same. And currently her stomach wanted German food, food that it knew and recognized—potatoes and sour cream, sausages and black Bavarian beer. Solid food. Food you ate with a fork and knife. Stick-to-your-ribs fare. Not Japanese food.

She was at home, with a woefully bare refrigerator, and a laptop that remained open and bright though her mind was shuttered and dim. Writing the report on what had happened in the Walled City was an exercise in creative omission. How much could she tell them? Miss Doujima, she knew, had already fled the country. This was not long after a warehouse in the Walled City had inexplicably burst into flame, leaving the body of a single man inside. Although it was the Walled City and STN-J had naturally been asked to investigate, Tokyo PD was claiming it as their case. The body found inside the gutted building was the victim of a point-blank range bullet to the back of the head, execution style. Tokyo PD was betting that it was a yakuza hit, with an attempted evidence cover-up in the form of arson, perhaps with the hope that the crime would be blamed on Witches. Margarethe had a nagging feeling that the Walled City fire was related to Robin, and that it had something to do with the fact that Harry's had not opened since she'd last seen Kobari. If she was right, things were already a hell of a lot uglier than she had previously imagined, and she didn't like it one bit.

Margarthe knew all too well what she'd placed on the line in helping Robin Sena and her warden. Should Solomon discover her treachery, punishment would be swift and merciless. Her actions could be interpreted as Witch-sympathizing, a phrase which could be extrapolated to justify her ultimate execution at the hands of Hunters like herself. This was all aside from the fact that she had seen two ex-Hunters previously thought dead, and had not said a word to Solomon. When her superiors in the agency learned of this particular fact (and they undoubtedly would, for even with her faith in Amon Nagira's abilities, she knew that things would come to a head with Robin Sena still alive), she would have serious questions to answer. Until this point she had never considered herself to be on one side or another. It was obvious that the others at STN-J, and perhaps even Administrator Kosaka himself, were on the side of their friends, Amon and Robin. But the pair weren't necessarily Margarethe's friends.

She respected them, of course. That was the nature of her feelings for them, respect. She had Hunted Amon Nagira all the way from the grave, only to discover that he was not what he once was. His new identity as a Witch was only the beginning. The man who was so profoundly affected by Robin Sena was no longer a man that Touko Zaizen knew. But he was no less a man that Margarethe could appreciate as a Hunter, tactician, and a person. And inadvertently, she had placed herself on his side. And his side was Robin's side. And war was coming.

Margarethe sat back in her chair and reached out a hand. The bottle of Sapporo, just beyond her reach, drew slowly to her grip. She wondered suddenly if she'd been on this side all along.

***

Karasuma and Sakaki were staking out the offices of an ambulance-chaser lawyer with a record that was just too good (they suspected he was causing the accidents himself) when Karasuma finally brought it up.

“Where do you think Doujima went?” she asked.

“Who knows?” Sakaki replied, a twist of irony in his voice. Both of them knew exactly where it was most likely for Doujima to be. “Probably the spot where she's most likely to get in trouble, knowing her.”

Miho gave a small laugh. “Yeah, you're probably right.”

Sakaki pulled himself away from his binoculars. “Do you wish you were with them?”

She looked at her folded, gloved hands. “I don't know,” she answered. “Maybe. It seems so romantic—they're off on a quest, and we're just sitting here.” She sighed. “We'd probably just get in the way. Robin would worry about us, and that means Amon would do the same.”

“It's probably not exactly all Roman Holiday over there, either,” Sakaki put in. Miho laughed a short, coughing laugh. “What?” he asked.

“I never pegged you for Audrey Hepburn movies.”

“Come on! She's gorgeous!”

Miho's eyes lifted heavenward. “You're even more of an American than Michael.”

***

Doujima woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed, a scream dying in her throat. In her dream, she was Robin. Or rather, she saw with Robin's eyes. And Tenchou, who had been so good and kind and understanding, was being shot—over and over. She had no way of knowing what Robin had actually seen, so her subconscious mind's construction of the event was almost absurdly gruesome: blood everywhere, endlessly spattering, staining everything. In her dream, Doujima was so close that she felt that blood on herself, warm and sticky, and somehow, utterly her own fault.

“It's okay, baby,” Syungi murmured beside her, reaching across her stomach. He drew her reluctant body down beside him. She nestled against him. “It was a bad dream, honey. It can't hurt you.”

“I know that,” Doujima said, a trifle edgy—she couldn't tell if it was patronizing tone that annoyed her or the fact that she really had been so scared.

“What did you dream?” her partner asked, his voice thick with sleep.

“Tenchou, dying,” she answered. “It was awful. The blood…”

“He did what he thought was right,” Syungi said, smoothing her back in little circles. “You have to remember that.”

“I know, but…” She pressed herself against him, even tighter. “He was such a good person, he didn't deserve that. And I feel like…like if we had done a better job, protecting Amon and Robin, then…”

“Then he wouldn't be dead,” Syungi finished.

Doujima nodded against him. “Yeah.”

“Zealots come in all shapes and sizes,” he said. “And somehow, they always find a way of taking the best people out of the world, before their time.” He hugged her. “He wouldn't want you to blame yourself.” He laughed dryly. “Who wants their last blaze of glory ruined by other people trying to take the blame, anyway? Stop trying to steal the guy's thunder. He did what heroes are supposed to do. So let him be a hero. Don't try to make it your responsibility.” He kissed the top of her head. “On to happier subjects. What the hell is up with Amon and Robin?”

Doujima pulled away. “How should I know?”

Nagira wagged a finger at her in the darkness, grinning. “Don't you give me that, you little brat. I know you women. You tell each other things. So spill.”

Doujima crossed her arms under her breasts, which happened to be bare. Nagira was temporarily distracted, and his smile broadened. When his eyes found hers again, she said airily, “Even if Robin had told me something, I couldn't go telling you. It just wouldn't be…proper.”

Nagira's eyes widened. “Proper?” he asked. “Proper? I'm your boyfriend, for Christ's sake.”

Doujima rolled her eyes, and calculated her next move, adjusting for potentialities, attempting to find her best advantage. “The day Amon tells you something, then I'll tell you. That's if Robin tells me anything.”

Nagira flopped to his back with a gusty sigh. He had lost, and knew it. “You're no fun at all,” he whined.

Doujima gave him a little slap across his stomach. On his taut skin, it had a satisfying, sharp sound. She smiled, pleased with herself. Then she crawled on top of him. “No fun, huh?” she asked. “I'll show you.”

“I sincerely hope you do,” Nagira replied, and kissed her.

***

It was not long before Amon was brought up to speed on the security staff and their procedures around the compound. Soon he had the location of each security camera memorized, and found himself to be familiar with the guns kept in the family arsenal. There were other items, too—tasers, expandable truncheons, pepper spray. He was perhaps most surprised at the amount of weapons in his own room; there was a trick bookcase stocked with a Glock, a Garibaldi, and a Desert Eagle, and the ammunition to go with each, all in a secret compartment. “Shit,” he had said frankly, staring at it.

Robin was standing beside him. “I don't think I have those, in my room,” she had responded.

“You have less need of them, than I do,” Amon said. “And the recoil on that Desert Eagle would break your arm.”

They had found the compartment together while searching for books. Monica's talk of the Templars had ignited a curiousity in Robin, who wanted to learn more. So, they went digging. They found mostly myths and legends in Amon's room, however. Documents pertaining to the Templars and their possible relationship to the Craft were more likely to be in the subterranean library that required card-access, or so Amon thought.

“I know,” Robin said tiredly. “But it's creepy, down there.”

“Says the girl who has faced off with all manner of dangerous Witches and Witch Hunters,” Amon chided.

“I just don't like being underground,” Robin said. “I can't explain it.” She sighed. “I don't want to go by myself…”

Amon's face softened. “What made you think you were going alone, in the first place?”

***

While the basement level of the compound was indeed a bit eerie, it was decidedly cooler than the rest of the house. And for this, Amon was grateful. He followed Robin, her sandals slap-slapping on the concrete floor. Here there were no security cameras. The security staff was not aware that this place existed.

Robin found the door she was looking for, and patiently waited for Amon to stand beside her before she undid the lock. Once inside, they found the room just as they had left it—aside from the man in black waiting there at a little table, his head bent over a scroll, covered with a little black yarmulke. He was murmuring something aloud in a throaty, guttural tongue. His head did not rise to look at them.

“I'm sorry, we didn't-” Robin began, but the reader put a single finger up to silence her. She straightened, and looked at Amon. He shrugged. He was equally mystified. The other man trailed off, his voice sounding puzzled. He shook his head at the text. Then he regarded Robin and Amon, and nodded to himself. He wore a thick salt-and-pepper beard, and his face above it was deeply lined.

In heavily accented Japanese, he said, “You must be Robin. And your friend?”

Before Amon could say, “I'm her warden,” Robin had answered: “That's Amon,” without further explanation.

“Amon,” the other man said. “A fine name. Egyptian, and German, but still a good name; it has a nice ring to it.” He smiled warmly at Amon.

“Thank you,” Amon said stiffly. “And yours?”

“Rabbi Malachai Benjamin Diotallevi Murano,” he answered. “But you can call me Malachai. Or Rabbi. Whichever you prefer.”

“Rabbi…” Amon put the pieces together. “A rabbi and expert in Kaballah, I imagine?”

“On good days, I like to think of myself as an expert,” Malachai answered, his palms opening. “But the Torah is like a woman. You think you know what she's saying, and it turns out you were completely wrong—you didn't hear the tone. That's a bad day.”

“Are you a Craft-user, as well?” Robin asked.

“Can't you tell?” Malachai asked, raising one wild, unkempt eyebrow at Robin. “You should be able to sense it now, in others.”

Robin looked at the floor shyly. “It's a personal truth,” she said. “I thought it would be better if you told me yourself.”

“How very mannerly of you,” Malachai observed. “Well, then, I suppose I am compelled to tell the truth. Yes, I am a Craft-user. It's nothing special, just useful in libraries.” He held his hand over the scroll, and it began rolling itself up. “You take Vincenzo, and Monica. They have a real gift.”

Robin nodded eagerly. Amon looked at her. “Monica, too?”

She continued nodding. “Like Miho,” she said. “But even stronger.”

“Stronger than Miho?”

“She was never oppressed, only encouraged,” Malachai said sagely. “That is, after her father found her in the most secret and highest-paying card games in Europe at the age of seventeen.”

“She was a card shark?”

“She was the card Jaws,” Malachai groaned. “Oy, the trouble her father gave me, then… `What have you taught my little girl to do, you soundrel?' and so on. But wisdom eventually prevailed.”

“Once he realized what an asset she was to the family business.”

The rabbi nodded. “You're a clever young man, Mr. Amon.” He moved his hand, and the scroll levitated, and glided through the air to an empty space on one shelf. “You may stay, during Robin's lessons. You also have much to learn.”

“You're my new teacher?” Robin asked.

“A bookworm like me doesn't just get into rooms like this for free, you know,” Malachai retorted. “I could be out in the world making an honest living. Thankfully, I avoided it.” He smiled. “Yes, I'm your new teacher.” He turned to Amon. “And yours as well, it seems.”

Amon made a little bow. “Thank you.”

“You can start with refreshing my drink,” Malachai said. He pointed at a glass carafe of water precariously perched near some books on another table, in one corner of the room. “It condenses, even down here. If you wouldn't mind…” He gestured.

Amon frowned. “How did you know…?”

“Details, details. Where is my icewater?”

He looked doubtfully at the room around them. “If I make a mistake, water will be everywhere. I'll ruin the texts.”

“Then I suppose you had better not make a mistake.” Malachai crossed his arms, and nodded at the carafe.

Amon crossed to the pitcher, and put his hand over it. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, gathered the tension of the past few days, and attempted to expel it all in one steady release. Almost immediately, he heard Malachai behind him: “Not the entire pitcher, you fool; now I'll have to wait for it to melt!” He crossed to Amon, and slapped his Craft-hand away. “Go work some of that off on the firing range, or whatever it is young men do these days around here.”

Amon looked at the pitcher. Indeed, it was almost frozen solid. He had been under more strain than he knew. “If it helps,” Robin began, somewhere behind him, “I can melt it, a little…”

“Oh, no you don't!” Malachai said, brandishing an index finger and wagging it in the air. “His mistakes are his, not yours. Don't you go trying to make up for him.” His finger found Robin's nose, and pointed directly at it. “And the last thing we need is you trying anything funny in here. These volumes are invaluable. Water, we can try to salvage something from that. With fire, everything is gone. So don't even think about it, while you're in this room. Do you understand me?”

Robin nodded, her eyes round. “Yes, sir.”

Malachai nodded once, decisively, and looked at both of them. “Out,” he said abruptly, making a shooing gesture. “I have more to do. Come back tomorrow. It was nice meeting you and all those pleasantries. Tomorrow.”

Suddenly Robin and Amon found themselves outside the room. She looked up at him. “We came down here for something.”

“I think it had something to with the Templars.”
Robin nodded to herself. She looked at the dark, cool hallway around them. “Monica says that security has a kennel full of dogs. Is that true?”

“Yes. Alsatians.”

“Can we go see?”

“They're not pets, Robin. They're trained to hurt intruders. They're mean.”

She smiled, and began walking down the hall, hands clasped behind her. “Old dogs learn new tricks all the time,” she said, her voice ringing on the concrete.

***

Gabriel Koushon watched the Tuscan hills roll by under the wheels of his car. He was not driving, however. A Solomon chauffeur was at the wheel. Gabriel was used to this—his work for Solomon involved flying all over the world and being driven to various locations to act as Inquisitor—the arbiter of a Craft-user's fate. Of course, it was not merely he who made the decision; he was simply the asker of questions. But those questions were his gift. He was not a Craft-user, not a particularly skilled man otherwise. Intelligent, yes, but only in one capacity. But in that capacity, he was the best.

He was hoping that his talent would serve him today, when he spoke to Juliano Colegui.


“Juliano,” Gabriel said softly.

Father Colegui turned slowly, the folds of wrinkled skin in his neck twisting gently as he moved. Somehow, he reminded the old Inquisitor of a bird of prey, turning at the sound of an observer just beyond the bars of a cage only to regard the other with complete disdain. In the afternoon shadows, Juliano's blue eyes burned with an unremitting intensity. He remained silent.

“I know you've taken the vow of silence,” Koushon said. “May I sit?”

Julian continued staring at him. Koushon sat on the hard uncomfortable cot where Colegui doubtless slept. “It was good of you to receive me like this,” Koushon continued. “Of course, I expected decency from a friend, especially a friend of as many years as we've known one another.”

Juliano blinked. His face did not change.

“I'm not here to break your vow, Juliano,” Gabriel told his old friend. “I went through the Hunter training with you. I know that I can't break you. No one could.” His lip twitched. “Although I also know you well enough to know that you don't believe I could visit you simply because I miss my friend.” He sighed. “That is the life of an Inquisitor, to constantly be second-guessed. No one believes I have the capacity to be honest, to honestly want a few moments with a friend.”

Juliano's face held no sympathy. The betrayal that lay between them ran far too deep for that. It was a chasm whose sheer, sharp walls fell to the pit of their friendship, a rift that a shattering tremor had caused, which only death might repair. Juliano needed no words to articulate his accusation. It burned there in his eyes, was writ there in the hard line of his mouth. It was not spoken, only felt.

“You were my friend, even before the Knights of Solomon,” Gabriel said. “In those first days, when we were green and ignorant, we were always together. Those were the good days, weren't they? If only we knew how few we had left.” He took a breath. “We were brothers-in-arms, do you remember that? Good apart, but even stronger together. Oh, the things we could do, how our commanders loved us…”

The look Colegui gave him now was utterly different, although the man's face had changed only fractionally. Gabriel knew that face well enough to tell a change of expression from even the tiniest of movements. Juliano's face now spoke of nothing but utter contempt—not merely for Gabriel, but for himself as well.

“And then I had that injury. I thought I would be blind forever. I waited in that bandaged darkness for weeks, praying that the God who had given me such work would at least give me the sight to continue it.” He smiled wryly. “Of course, I was healed, and returned, happy to see you. But while my eyes were shut, while I lay healing, you were falling in love. You were not so happy to see me.” His eyes searched Juliano's face. “Why did she have to be a Witch, Juliano?”

If possible, his friend's eyes sparked still further, and the lines of his face tightened. What was once contempt was now seething anger. Gabriel, who had spent the most recent portion of his life asking questions and evaluating their answers, now valued the fact that the man before him had promised God never to answer another question again.

“Love is love, I suppose,” Gabriel said tiredly. “You didn't choose it; it chose you, and all of that. But surely you must have known the dangers… And then, to get her with child… I've known you longer than anyone else, and I still don't understand your decision. You had an order. You disobeyed it. And then, as though that weren't enough, you turned your back entirely on Solomon's directives. You made a life with her. A life imbued with the Craft. Your Maria.”

He opened his hands. “Of course, you saw the error of your ways. After she was born, you came back to us. You joined the priesthood. You became a Hunter trainer, one of the best, and thus you even became a true Knight of Solomon. You joined the order, took the vows, not only to seek out Witches, but to seek out the secret of their power.” His eyes narrowed as he watched his friend. “Was it curiousity that brought Maria back to you? Is that why she returned? She wanted to meet the father she had never known? Of course, you discovered she was a Witch, too. But by then it was too late; she had met Toudo, hadn't she? And it wasn't long after that, that Robin was born…”

At the mention of his grand-daughter, Juliano's countenance darkened. Here was a wound that was fresher, perhaps scarring over slowly, but only just. Koushon pressed on. “Of course, you didn't tell me about Maria, or Robin, at first,” he said. “And I your friend of uncounted years, who had done no more than love you and serve at your side, in all our travails. You couldn't tell me the truth. I found out through rumors. I wish you had seen the way I defended you from those poisonous words, in the beginning—thinking that they weren't true, could never be true, not of you.”

Koushon was warming to his story. “You never truly advanced in the Knights, thanks to those rumors, of course,” he said. “But I did. I gained the upper eschelons. At those heights, there are no lies.” He stared at Juliano. “And so when you told me the truth, I told it to them.” His felt his face harden with its own bitterness, a smoother mirror of Juliano's. “Of course, you neglected to tell me of her Craft, although you knew of it. You were educating her, culling from the greatest resources at your disposal, pulling strings from your position as a trainer. And all to teach an untested Witch.” His mouth tasted sour. “A lie of omission is still a lie, Juliano. You knew what she was, and you hid it from me. Of course her trainers knew, but you paid them well to keep quiet, didn't you?” His lips pulled back into a sneer. “What was I supposed to do, when I found out? Not give her an Inquisition? Disobey Solomon, as you had done?”

Koushon had shown his hand too soon. He was growing vehement, displaying an anger which he usually kept tightly controlled. Juliano's face had attained a degree of serenity, as though he were looking down on Gabriel from a great height. His eyes said that disobedience was not truly so much to ask of an old friend. They both knew the end to that story—Gabriel had told Solomon everything, had Inquired Robin, had named her gift as forbidden fruit, the fire of Prometheus, creation and destruction forever entwined—too dangerous for one human being. But Gabriel had also seen her usefulness, her malleability. There was the grand-child of an excellent Hunter trainer, instructed for years in techniques handed down by the masters. If only she could be diverted to the proper purpose… “I protected her,” Gabriel intoned. “You know that. I protected her, for you.”

Not for long. The message in Juliano's eyes was unmistakable.

“She over-reached herself, Juliano,” Gabriel said, arguing with the silent man sitting before him. “She became dangerous. Everyone saw it. Even that heretic Zaizen saw it, in his own way. She was colluding with other Witches. She didn't bring back the Arcanum as assigned, she attained it, began to use it. She killed someone. Everyone saw that. Everyone but you, and that foolish young Seed of a Hunter.”

There was real effort on Juliano's face, now, not merely to restrain his rage but to conceal his hurt. Despite his monk's habit he was still a proud man, not given to outward displays of feeling. Even as a youth, when Gabriel had first known him, he rarely smiled. He would give no ground, now, not while the memory of his grand-daughter was in play, not when his only weapon was his silence. His grief was only apparent in his effort to hide it.

“Of course, when we in the upper hierarchy of the Knights told you what Toudo had done, what he had created, you knew what had to be done.” Koushon delivered the crushing blow simply. There was a dark twist of pride in his heart. He was not the only betrayer in the room. “You told that Hunter so yourself, when he came to see you, bleeding and confused. You told him, and he returned to kill her.”

Juliano almost flinched. Almost. He caught himself before the movement could happen. His old Hunter training would not allow him even that much instinctive motion. Afternoon shadows were lengthening in the little cell. Only his eyes remained bright, staring at Koushon, his oldest friend, and most bitter enemy. “He didn't kill her, of course,” Gabriel said softly. “But you know that. She died in the Factory, or so the story goes.”

Koushon saw his old friend will himself not to allow his interest to be piqued at that last statement. But he continued as though it had been. “You know, of course, that the replacement Hunter was Hunting Robin and her partner, Mr. Nagira. She even asked you for help. Not that you could help, of course, having taken your most recent vow.” Koushon smiled thinly. “What you likely don't know is that Miss Bonn has abruptly ceased her investigation. It seems to roughly coincide with a large fire at a suspected Witch stronghold in the Walled City region of Tokyo, the Witches' ghetto, and a rash of other fire-related deaths. It's said that the body of a Seed was found there—an informant for the STN-J. The area authorities are saying that it was probably a mob execution of some kind, but we know better, don't we? We weren't made Knights of Solomon for our inability to discern the truth between facts and interpretation.” He stood, and placed a hand on his friend Juliano's shoulder, let it rest there, feeling the ropy muscles and hard bones of the other man's frame. He curled his fingers gently.

“You can't help anyone, my friend,” the Inquisitor whispered. “You made a promise to God.”

Gabriel left the room. Juliano's eyes followed him, and his silence made Gabriel's steps echo on the dry floor. Outside, Gabriel withdrew a tiny cellular phone from his pocket, but didn't make the call. He knew what he had done. In his long years as an Inquisitor, he'd learned that the most poisonous gift for a dying man was hope.

He flipped open the phone, pressed buttons. “Watch his movements,” he instructed the operatives on the other end of the line. “I want to know everything. What contacts he makes, when, and how. Tell me how much he knows.” The orders were confirmed, and he flipped the phone shut. Now, the waiting began.