The scream was drowned out by the thunderclap, rendering it inaudible.
Dropping the sabre he'd brandished into a pool of water, the large policeman crumpled to the stone pavement. He screamed like a woman because his hand had been broken completely and was twisted at a weird angle. As he slid backward trying to escape the shadow slowly edging toward him, the deadly weapon cocked and turned, directly hitting his chin.
Water splashed high where the huge body fell onto the street with a silent scream. The scattered showers, which hadn't ceased since sunset, suddenly got much stronger. As the rain intensified, the evil shadow with uncannily flashing green eyes darted through the dark after a fresh victim, finding one more policeman in his path.
The cop slid his hand toward the location of his handgun. His eyes bulged in wonder as he tried to pull the trigger, but the long iron staff that the shadow grasped revolved, cutting through the rainy night more quickly than the cop had expected. "C-crazy! T-too fast!" he stammered.
Thunder rumbled as though heaven had fallen, casting a white glow on the dark streets. Against a backdrop of only light and shadow, the evil weapon gleamed as it reflected the lightning's flash. By the time the thunder's echoes had disappeared into the night air, the handgun that had been launched from the cop's hands was rolling on the stone pavement.
"Argh!" Having lost his only hope, the policeman, still clumsily sitting on his butt, gnashed his teeth. He widened his eyes in horror as the iron staff raised high above his head. If he took one blow from the weapon on his crown, his skull and all its contents would be crushed. As he struggled to vocalize his overwhelming terror with a scream, the policeman felt a gust of wind rush over the top of his head. He timidly raised his eyes, wet with tears, to discover that death hadn't visited—the iron staff had stopped as if stuck in the air.
In the face of the evil shadow that revealed itself with a lightning flash, dark green eyes burned like phosphorescence. "Disappear—and don't follow me again. The next time we meet, I'll kill you for sure," said Hugue in a low, corpselike voice as he crept into the depths of the night.
"Eek!" cried the policeman. Compared to the sound of the rain, which was cascading like a waterfall, his voice was rather quiet. Finally picking himself up from the ground, he scurried down the street, stumbling along the way. He continued to run desperately, sighing faintly as he kept an eye on the figure behind him. Casually combing back his soaked blond hair, the cop peered down in horror at the victims on the ground. Ten policemen were unconscious, each with arms or legs broken. Regardless of whether they regained consciousness, his comrades wouldn't be able to do anything except scream.
A look of pity dwelled in Hugue's green eyes as he surveyed the cruel sight. But as he spun the iron staff in his hands unemotionally, he walked off through the streets as though nothing had happened. Stopping, he glanced at the wall next to him, narrowing his eyes slightly. A notice with the photograph of a young man was posted on the wall. '"Invasion of Antwerp Police Commissioner's Mansion—Hugue de Watteau. Reward for whomever captures him, dead or alive," read Hugue. His throat rumbled softly as he looked at the notice more closely. Between the sparsely sprouted beard stubble, his thin lips twisted as if mocking somebody. "Terrorist? Yeah, it's just like they say."
Hugue shredded the notice, mercilessly grinding it into the wet stone pavement with his foot before once again embarking into the rain. He had no destination and traveled at that kind of unreliable pace maintained by those whose sole objective was to wander.
What interrupted Hugue's stride this time was a strangely monotone voice that belonged to a short shadow that was blocking his way forward. "What are you doing here, Father Watteau?" asked Tres.
Hugue's eyes, which had grown as large as glass balls, intently fixed on the man's thin, haggard face.
The priest, donning a clean cassock without one chink, gazed expressionlessly at the silent man as he repeated his question. "I asked what you were doing in a place like this, Father Watteau. Your duty doesn't have anything to do with the city of Brussels. If you have a special reason to be outside your operation zone, I request you disclose it," Tres urged.
"It's none of your business what I'm doing, Gunslinger," Hugue replied firmly, raising his shadowed face. Hugue had been camping for the past week and was far from meals. He hadn't gotten much sleep, either, which had caused his normally pale face to turn a ghostly stark white. Still, his low voice resounded clearly in spite of the fierce rain. "I'm investigating an incident in Amsterdam now. My current business is connected to that investigation, so I came to this city. Please don't interfere, Father Iqus."
"Negative. You've been relieved of your duty to investigate the old church incident in Amsterdam and have received alternate orders. I request that you leave Brussels at once and return to Rome," Tres directed.
A dry laugh escaped from Hugue's throat. "Return to Rome? Return?" he asked. Glancing back at the other priest, who was still staring at him blankly, Hugue laughed once more—but his truthful eyes certainly weren't laughing. Composing himself, he said earnestly, "There's nowhere for me to return to anymore." A wild light still brightening his eyes, he thrust out his jaw. "I can't go back to Rome anymore—and I'll quit AX, too. Go back and tell the Duchess of Milan, Gunslinger."
"At present, Brussels is under martial law," Gunslinger— Father Tres Iqus—replied, lacking warmth. As if announcing the result of a chemistry experiment, he added, "The vampires in this city, including an individual named Thierry Darsus and his clan, are wary and sense your approach. They've mobilized all the city police. The probability that you can capture or destroy Darsus is at most no more than point zero six percent. Operation actions are meaningless as well as fatal."
"I know—I'm not so much a fool that I don't know that," Hugue replied, screwing his mouth self-mockingly. Turning around, he gazed gloomily at the policemen he'd defeated earlier. They'd been strictly ordered to use any means necessary to capture Hugue, and the struggle to deplete his battle strength without killing him caused extreme exhaustion. It already had been one week since he'd arrived in Brussels and Hugue's mental and physical strength were weakening as a result of a lifestyle that meant rarely eating or sleeping. He could already see his future.
Hugue's body had been soaked by rain and his survival instincts had been paralyzed. As he tried to sort through his thoughts, the young man's eyes went blank like a dead man's. Family, castle, fiancée—I have nothing. He'd lost everything—both a place to go home to and the meaning of life—and felt he had no reason to go on living. He didn't expect to live an unreasonably long time, but he was rather afraid of doing so after carrying out his revenge. Hugue was afraid of spending his life alone and in mourning with no place to go. "Let me go, Father Iqus." Turning his back on his silent comrade, Hugue exhaled heavily, declaring over his shoulder, "I have nothing to do with the Duchess of Milan or the Vatican anymore. I'm already—"
"Securing you is the Duchess of Milan's top order," Tres interrupted with no sign of hurt feelings in his voice. At the same time, there was a small, unmistakably metallic noise—the ring of a handgun's firing hammer being lifted. "Leaving you alone more than this will prove to be a big disadvantage to the Duchess of Milan's political situation. If you insist on refusing to go back with me, it's possible that I'll choose to shoot you to death."
The faint water noise Hugue heard in the background was the sound of ruin bouncing off the handgun pointed at him. As he listened over his shoulder to Tres' flat, somewhat inhuman pronouncement of punishment, his mouth relaxed slightly. Barely gripping his iron staff, Hugue teased, "Shoot me to death? Can you kill me, Gunslinger?"
"This is the final confirmation, Sword Dancer," Tres pronounced.
Beyond the screen of rain, Hugue heard the sound of the safety catch being released.
Tres' voice no longer sounded cold and as if he were reminding Hugue of his fate—it instead rang as if prideful for following the proper procedure. "Will you return to Rome with me, or do you intend to keep refusing my order to return and stay in Brussels? Disclose your answer."
"I can't return to Rome . . . again," Hugue mumbled with little emotion. With his blond hair stuck flat against his head, he turned and flashed a gruesome smile. "Go back and tell the Duchess of Milan that Sword Dancer will kill all of them—and will never see her again."