DeMorrell purposefully strode down the cavernous halls of his home with ground-eating strides. Outside, thunder rumbled somewhere, still far off, but growing closer. He stopped in his second floor study, opened the vast glass display case filled with a wild assortment of weaponry. The most powerful man in the world made two quick selections and darted from the room, heading out the other doorway and down the back hall. Yes, he had the stone. The stone was all the weapon he should need. Extra armaments were superfluous. Still, if his last wish had been granted in the manner he feared, it might be best to rely upon more conventional methods of dispatching his hated foe. Wasn't this situation the perfect example of how an ill-worded wish could be distastrous?
After a minute of quickly and quietly gliding past a long row of doors on both sides, DeMorrell turned a corner and paused. The next hall had huge windows along one wall. He would be exposed to whoever might be lurking outside for the entire length of the hallway. Best to do it quickly.
Exploding into a burst of phenomenal speed, DeMorrell darted to the far end of the hall incredibly faster than could be reasonably expected for a man of his considerable height and heavy muscles. He hit the shadows at the end of the hall, tumbled, rolled, and came up legs braced wide, weapons ready. There was no attack. No gunshots. No blade out of the dark. No shattering of glass. No thump of an intruder's feet in the hall behind him.
DeMorrell slowed his breathing, but not his movements. Moving again, he turned another corner and came to vast double oak doors, big enough to admit a baby grand piano when fully opened. He ran at it full speed, slamming both doors open with right shoulder and left elbow. The ancient wood creaked under DeMorrell's superhuman strength.
On the upper patio, he paused. Two highly shocked members of DeMorrell's security forces spun to face him. He was pleased to see they had guns in hand. He became less pleased when they holstered their guns upon realizing his identity and made to salute. DeMorrell scowled. He didn't have time for such ceremonial nonsense right now.
Breezing past them, DeMorrell spared each a glance.
One was a scarified African mercenary DeMorrell had hired while touring Arabia, searching for the lost city of Al-Aedan. The guard's adoptive parents, Anglican missionaries, had been killed by rogue national militia forces and the boy was forced to become one of Africa's numberless boy-soldiers. It was a testament to man's ruthlessness that he had survived to adulthood and was clever enough to murder the commanding officer that killed his parents without being caught. A counter revolution forced he and many of his comrades to flee to new jobs as mercenaries in other parts of the world. His smile was rich and warm, but it never touched his eyes.
The other was a heavily tanned Creole born deep in the swamps of Louisianna, a toothpick drooped from the corner of his mouth. English was his second language, his first tongue some strange swamp patois only spoken by blood-kin. He was a former hitman, but he hadn't started out as a for profit killer. His first victim had been when he was just twelve, the older cousin he had loved more than she had loved him. DeMorrell had been referred to him by a mutual friend while he conducted some business in New Orleans. After successfully eliminating the man who had referred DeMorrell to him, DeMorrell put him on permanent retainer.
"Fall in," was DeMorrell's curt order and they obeyed instantly, almost instinctively. DeMorrell commanded respect by his mere presence, an alpha male if there ever was one thanks to the stone.
"Where are we headed, sir?" the African intoned in a low voice, redrawing his sidearm.
DeMorrell's mind immediately flashed upon a spot he had not visited in some time, the gardens of his private estate. Inevitably, a second image was conjured, that of his favorite spot in those gardens, but a place he had not visited in even longer.
"The Fountain."
A monstrosity of statuary and waterworks, the fountain was a newer addition to the gardens' many attractions. Inspired by the legend of Ponce De Leon and his search for the Fountain of Youth, DeMorrell commissioned an expert sculptor to fashion it for him. The secene depicted was suprisingly violent and unromantic, De Leon's conquistadors cutting down Suwanee tribesmen. DeMorrell had seemed quite taken with upon its initial completion or so his staff had gathered, the ones ignorant of its true significance. How could they know it had not been truly built over the weeks and months, but rather wished into being in a instant by their employer?
Others of DeMorrell's hirelings suspected what the fountain truly was, and especially what was beneath it, but they had no proof. One or two knew of the stone, that it could change reality as easily as it changed their memories, but this was nothing admissiable in a court of law. How would a judge even know, much less understand, how DeMorrell now made the world according to his slightest whim? Not that the new King of the World would ever allow anything to get as far as the courts even if someone were foolish enough to accuse him of anything. They could simply cease to be and to have ever been.
Only one other knew the fountain's secret and DeMorrell had only allowed her to see it once. DeMorrell had felt that dear sweet Jonni deserved to know the final resting place of her troublesome grandfather. Before she had been placed on complete bedrest by the illustrious Dr. Hoerning, Jonni had been taken for short walks about the grounds. Usually a pair of "orderlies" accompanied her, though her absentee husband sometimes deigned to relieve the silent guards of their duties and walk with her. It was on one of these walks that DeMorrell had brought his young wife to the Fountain and told her what it meant, why it was made.
Jonni had taken the news well enough. One loud sob, which she dutifully gulped back, then a few quick, tearful questions. Her last question had been, "he didn't hurt you, did he? Were you in any danger?" It had amused him to see how quickly his wishes were changing Jonni's behavior, rewriting her mind. She seemed genuinely concerned, indeed, she had to be. DeMorrell had decreed that she never do anything to hurt him, that she desire only him, and stay with him always for the sake of their children.
Merlin had dared to give the stone to his grandson as if it weren't stolen, as if it had been his to give. Now Merlin's heir was his barefoot and pregnant plaything. It pleased DeMorrell to reduce him to the simpering and submissive mother of his children by stages. One means of breaking the stubborn spirit his new Jonni had inherited from Merlin was to bring her here. Of course, he had been somewhat irritated by her lack of a full response. Yes, her solicitude for his well being proved the behavioral modifications were proceeding apace, but he had hoped she would weep more openly, beg to know exactly how her grandfather had met his end.
Passing through the wrought iron gates, his men at his heels like loyal hounds, DeMorrell stalked down the winding pathway until it debouched into a vast open area dominated by the fountain he had come to inspect. All appeared well. DeMorrell had to be sure though. His wish could not undo the wish that created the fountain, but it could have moved the body interred beneath it. Was Merlin alive and free once more, even if only for a day?
Not a brick was out of place. Rills of water shot into the air and splashed back down from above into a series of several pools, each one overflowing into the next. The entire mass of it was set upon a low two step platform, itself surrounded by a low wall and half submerged by water. It occurred to DeMorrell that the fountain could still exist without Jack Merlin's corpse being interred under it. The question then became if Merlin was not under the fountain where was he?
DeMorrell felt rather than saw his guards exchange a confused glance behind his back. He didn't blame them. His behavior must seem somewhat erratic to ingorant eyes. They were not members of his inner circle. They could not possibly suspect the unlimited power he was considering putting into play. But how to best use it? He didn't want to uproot the entire fountain, just confirm the body was there without bringing it back to life. Perhaps he could enhance his senses in some manner? Yes, some form of ground-penetrating radar or x-ray vision would suffice. DeMorrell's broad hand began to dip toward the inside vest pocket of his expensive suit.
A tremor ran through the ground, nearly knocking him from his feet. DeMorrell fell back against his men, sweeping them away from him with an angry swing of his powerful arm when they tried to help keep him from falling. The fountain visibly trembled before his eyes, the stone statues standing amid the spray shaking as if in sudden terror. A sudden storm was brewing in the sky above as if heaven was mimicking in the turmoil beneath it - - as below, so above, DeMorrell thought to himself.
Then the time for thinking ended. Lightning crackled up from the ground all around the fountain. It briefly raged through the clouds above, crackling from one thunderhead to another like a hurried conversation, and surged back down, coursing into the elaborate construction of stone and water - - and blowing it apart.
There was a noise like the end of the world. The fountain exploded into a thousand fragments, hurtling through the air with deadly speed. A hunk of stone the size of a cinderblock clipped DeMorrell's head with enough force to decapitate an ordinary man. The trillionaire's body was thrown backward into an ornate topiary bush made to resemble a gigantic coiled serpent. Entangled in the carefully manicured branches where he was thrown, he did not get back up and lay unmoving.
His last thought, the very last image to etch itself upon his brain before the block of stone came tumbling at him, bringing the darkness of oblivion, was that of a shape rising up from the explosion. It was a bent thing, ragged and twisted, clods of dirt clinging to its pallid, gray flesh. It was not just rising up from the earth, it was flying and its face was the face of a skull.
Death had come for him at last.
