by D B Nielsen
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Description
SEED: Part Two | WISE ONE
THE GAME
ANAKIM
DUSK
THE GRIGORI
MISSING PIECES
LITTLE SEEDS
BLACK FRIDAY
REWARD
WINTER WONDERLAND
THE WOODS
AKITU
WANT MORE?
About the Author
Also by the Author
Praise for SEED
Acknowledgments
BrixBaxter Publishing – Experience New Worlds
Copyright
SEED: Part Two of the Keepers of Genesis Series
Copyright © DB Nielsen 2017
First published in Great Britain as a paperback and ebook by LBLA Digital in 2015
Republished by BrixBaxter Publishing in 2017
Cover Design by XLintellect Pty Ltd
Photograph Copyright ©
Coka/Shutterstock.com;
Michal Ninger/Shutterstock.com;
Captblack76/Shutterstock.com
Cover Image Copyright © A. Brix-Nielsen / XLintellect Pty Ltd
The right of DB Nielsen to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form, or with any binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locals is entirely coincidental.
Description
“You still think that you have to protect me from who – what – you really are ... But it doesn’t matter to me what you are or what you think you are because I’d still love you...”
The SEED has awakened ... and so has Sage Wood’s feelings for the enigmatic and sexy St. John Rivers. Despite the mixed signals which he has been giving her, Sage experiences a profound bond to him – though even she does not know the extent of this connection nor how it will impact on her life; placing her in imminent danger.
Caught up in a deadly game between supernatural foe, Sage is determined to know the truth and choose her own destiny – uncovering a twisted history of secrets, passions and obsessions; at the heart of which lies the ancient artefact ... and St.John.
But what happens when she no longer has the ability to choose but, instead, is the chosen?
SEED: Part Two is the second book in the Keepers of Genesis Series
SEED: Part Two
WISE ONE
CHAPTER ONE
The muted light of mid-afternoon eventually woke me and I realised I’d slept the morning away; hours that time had stolen from me unawares. The bed showed the effects of my restless night, a tempest of wrinkled sheets. One feather-filled pillow had fallen on the floor, abandoned beside a quilted waterfall of golden satin. I’d fought all night with hospital-tucked corners, feeling imprisoned by their smooth starched linen – though, more likely, I’d been wrestling with the haunting images conjured in my head.
I could barely recall the walk back to the Le Meurice in the small hours of morning. I’d been dead on my feet and the painkillers I’d taken earlier had, by then, worn off leaving me with a dreadful headache. Somehow, I’d managed to change into my pyjamas before falling into bed. The clock on my bedside table now read two twenty-three. If I didn’t get a move on, an entire day of my limited time in Paris with St. John would be lost.
Diving under the hot shower, I replayed in my head last night’s revelations. It was true what they said – that in the cold light of day things seemed different. I could almost convince myself that it had all been some wild dream, surreal, make-believe, but knew that I’d be lying. Despite the fantastical nature of last night’s revelations I realised that I’d been half expecting all along something that defied all logic and reason. I almost welcomed the knowledge of such things in my otherwise ordinary life – almost, but not quite – because I knew that this would further complicate my relationship with St. John.
And I made no mistake as that’s what I saw myself as being in – a relationship. His commitment to me might be that of a protector, a knight to a damsel in distress, but my commitment to him was something else altogether. If I was smart about this, I might have decided that it was all too hard – him being older than me was one thing, being half mortal something entirely different – and that could only mean avoiding him, pretending I didn’t have – had never had – any feelings for him. But that was impossible. The very thought of pretending that I had no emotions for him was painful to me, and I rejected the idea outright.
That meant I had to deal with his “otherness”. Knowing what he was didn’t change my feelings for him. Knowing that he was only half human didn’t make me fear him, nor did I think of him as some sort of biological experiment that would be fascinating to understand. To me he was still ... St. John. And, let’s face it, he had always been complex.
But knowing that he was bound to a duty as the Keeper of the Seed – well, that, that changed everything. I didn’t know how I would react to St. John now that I knew his extraordinary secret or what it would mean for us. I loved him; that much I knew without doubt. But his duty to the Seed would always take priority over any life he would choose for himself. And as a mortal, I would grow old and die while he would remain eternally young and beautiful.
I could only compare this to Aragorn and Arwen in Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings – but Arwen gave up her immortality, choosing a mortal life for love of Aragorn. I doubted that St. John had the ability to do this – his life was bound up in his quest to see the Seed safely returned to its origin. A quest that could take more than the span of my life permitted.
I felt helpless and way too vulnerable because I loved him. I loved him and couldn’t leave him. Leaving him wasn’t an option – I could no more leave him than the earth could stop circling the sun. But I had to accept that he was different and not just in the usual way from all the other guys I’d met before, but different because he was ... half angel.
The thoughts kept going round and round my head until I felt like I was giving myself a headache. All I knew was that I needed to see him, to speak with him, that it would make all the difference. I needed some answers.
Wrapping a towel around my slight frame, I walked back into the bedroom to find an envelope had been thrust under my door sometime earlier. I continued to towel dry my hair as I picked it up and crossed back to sit at the end of the bed.
Sliding a finger under the flap, I tore the envelope’s seal open to find St. John’s message in his distinctive hand. He had made a reservation for us to take afternoon tea at Mariage Frères at three thirty before our visit to the museum. I gave a delighted laugh, surprised that he remembered my wistful comment of the other day in the light of recent events – my intention to pay a visit to the teahouse had completely flown out of my mind replaced by issues of greater urgency.
As I was to meet St John in the hotel’s foyer at a quarter past three, I decided to take some care with my appearance. I almost felt like I was donning my armour for battle. I’d brought with me a simple but stunning A-line dress in white, which ended just above the knee, which I had never worn before because I was always afraid of getting dirt on it. I teamed this with sheer stockings and a pair of hi
gh heel shoes which were highly impractical to walk in but made me feel tall and willowy. A long finely-spun cream woollen jacket and clutch purse completed the ensemble and with a little makeup to cover my scar and hide my pallor and my hair twisted into a French knot, I felt incredibly elegant and confident enough to face anything.
Entering the hotel foyer exactly on time, I saw St. John leaning against a column, reading a newspaper. He looked up as I approached and, with deliberation, folded his newspaper, tossing it onto a nearby seat. His jade green eyes never left me, their brightened hue showing his appreciation.
I waited for him to speak as I was uncertain what note to strike after last night, hoping he was going to be more open and candid now that he had exposed me to the truth. But his tone was as light-hearted and charming as always.
‘Well, Mademoiselle Woods, you certainly look both refreshed and refreshing,’ he said with a teasing glint in his eye.
I blushed in response, saying, ‘You don’t look half bad yourself.’
And it was true – he looked like a model out of Gentlemen’s Quarterly magazine in another of his custom tailored suits, this time matched with a pale blue shirt and deeper toned silk tie. He looked devilishly attractive, and nothing like an angel at all.
Holding out his arm for me to take, my hand trembled infinitesimally as I placed it on the superfine wool of his suit. It didn’t go unnoticed.
Raising his eyebrow just a fraction, jade green eyes showing concern and a trace of hurt, he asked in a low voice, ‘Sage. Look at me. Would you rather I left you alone?’
I shook my head in denial, my eyes going wide at the thought that he’d leave me. ‘No! No! I was just a little nervous, that’s all.’
‘Why?’ Eyebrows contracted in a frown as if I was some puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. ‘Are you afraid of being with me?’
‘How could you think that?’ I protested incredulously.
‘Is it true?’ he insisted, his voice low and deep, stopping in mid-stride to face me.
‘No!’ I answered hotly, a trace of anger in my voice this time, ‘I’m not afraid of you at all. I ... I ...’ Oh for God’s sake, tell him the truth! ‘I’m afraid of me – of how I react to you whenever you’re near. I know this sounds stupid but is it normal that you should have this effect on me?’
I’d surprised him with my candour, his eyes mellowing to an emerald green in response.
‘Is it normal? I don’t know,’ he explained, slowly, ‘I’m not sure whether you’re reacting to the mortal in me or the other part.’
‘How can I tell the difference?’ I asked, intrigued, as we began walking again, making our way onto the street to the hired car awaiting us.
As he assisted me in first, he said flatly, ‘There’s that clichéd phrase of being touched by an angel. As I understand it, human beings feel a sense of overwhelming peace and clarity around us. I’ve heard it likened to a spiritual communion.’
That was close to the sensation I’d felt in the cathedral on viewing the silhouette of his wings.
But then another thought stole upon me. Thankfully the chauffeur had closed the door behind St. John as I began to blush outrageously, holding my hand up to my face to keep my expression from his view.
He looked at me quickly, startled at my change in composure. ‘What’s wrong?’
I was almost too embarrassed to tell him but felt compelled to be honest. ‘I can’t say that I’ve ever felt peace and clarity when you’re with me. My emotions have been far too complicated ... too turbulent. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that my reaction to you is purely, um ... corporeal ... but it isn’t wholly spiritual either.’
‘“Corporeal?”’ He began laughing; the sound vibrant and rich.
‘Yes “corporeal”; meaning physical, of or for the body. As in sexual attraction in this context,’ I said defensively.
St. John laughed even harder, ‘Yes, I know what it means.’
‘Then why are you laughing at me?’ I challenged, feeling mortified.
‘Because, Sage,’ he said, ‘you are ... refreshing.’
My eyes narrowed in warning. ‘You said that before.’
He lifted my chin to plant a light kiss on the tip of my nose. ‘You’re really very sweet. I don’t know if you realise that you’ve just admitted to being attracted to both the angel and human in me.’
‘Right now I feel like kicking both the angel and human in you,’ I said frigidly.
His eyes flickered up at me under his lashes, the hint of a smirk on his face. It was lucky for him that we arrived at our destination in the Marais district because I wasn’t impressed.
Directly inside the entrance of this Parisian institution was the store; its walls of wooden drawers stacked to the ceiling with exotic loose leaf teas and distinctive black and gold tins of fragrant herbs and flowers and, beyond this, the Salon with its intoxicating aromas. The Salon was majestically inviting and it seemed as if we’d stepped back to the nineteenth century and the time-honoured social ritual of taking tea – to a world of waiters garbed in immaculate white bearing trays of delicate pastries, fine porcelain teacups and steaming teapots, of airy palms in intimate corners, and ladies and gentlemen dressed to the nines in their finery.
Our waiter escorted us to our table dressed in its virginal flush and adorned with its menu of over four hundred selections of tea from Assam to Rouge Ruschka imported from far-flung territories such as the plateaus of South Africa to Argentina. After being seated, St. John summoned the Tea Sommelier for a lengthy consultation as he explained the menu’s intricacies to help us make our choice. I finally settled on the Lune Rouge – a green tea infused with rose, gingerbread and honey extracts – while St. John ordered the Earl Grey Imperial.
While we waited for our tea to arrive, I spotted a solitary male diner dressed decadently in Baroque costume, one of the Salon’s regulars. Resting near his cuff, dripping with Belgian lace, lay an ornate feathered fan.
I nodded discretely in his direction, asking St. John with a hint of mischief, ‘I don’t suppose he’s one of your brothers?’
St. John merely raised an amused eyebrow in response.
‘Just kidding,’ I said, ‘but he could be – he looks like a contemporary of Handel or Bach. He could have danced the Allemande at one of the king’s balls.’
‘I don’t think so, he looks too fussy, but I could be wrong considering he’s out in public like that.’ St. John disagreed, looking at the man a little more closely, ‘Handel was considered a wit by all who knew him – he had a great sense of humour. I only met him the once. If I remember correctly it was at a party on the Thames when he gave his first performance of Water Music.’
I paused in the act of adjusting the napkin on my lap to look up at him. ‘When was that?’
‘The summer of 1717,’ he replied casually, as the tea arrived at our table in fine white porcelain teapots and was meticulously poured by the waiter.
‘How old are you?’ I found myself asking after the waiter had left.
‘In this century, I’m claiming to be twenty-five,’ he answered promptly.
‘O-k-a-y,’ I drew the word out, wheels turning in my head as I did the mathematics, ‘and how many previous centuries have there been? Four? Five?’
‘More than a few,’ he admitted with a slight smile.
He was being evasive. And I didn’t like that one bit. Maybe I was becoming a lot more like my twin, but I pinned him to the seat with a look, demanding, ‘Would you care to be more accurate?’
He sighed, taking a sip of hot tea as if to gather his thoughts. ‘There are at least two ages of the Nephilim recorded in the annals of man – before the time of Noah and after. It’s after the time of Noah that’s a little vague. It’s hard to explain, but the truth is that angels have appeared frequently on earth, yet the Nephilim are accounted for in only two periods in the history of humanity because those were the periods when the angels acted as a collective – when they decided to rebel and
have sexual relations with human women.’
He smiled, but his face bore shame and I instinctively reached out to touch his hand.
‘I cannot tell you what you want to know with any certainty, Sage. My mother was born to a family of sheep-herders and her dishonour led her to be ostracised amongst her tribe. She died shortly after giving birth to me and I was left to die on the road to Canaan. I was found by other descendants of Anak who dwelt in the south of Canaan, in the neighbourhood of Hebron, east of the Jordan River. I was lucky. Many of my kind were killed out of ignorance and fear.’
Even as my mind did rapid calculations, I gave his hand a small squeeze and said, reassuringly, ‘But you survived amongst others of your kind, like your brothers.’
He looked at me and smiled, his mood shifting. ‘Yes, I did – but that’s another story for a later date. To answer your question, Sage, I have lived since the time of Moses, nearly three thousand four hundred years.’
I was speechless, robbed of all words. His perfect face unmarked by the vicissitudes of time met my gaze. It was only his eyes which held a wealth of knowledge and human suffering. This time it was St. John who took my hand in his and gave it a squeeze.
‘It’s a little more than the age difference between Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester,’ he murmured.
Three thousand-years-old! Three thousand!
I don’t know what I was expecting to hear but, obviously, it wasn’t that. I don’t know that it made things better or worse that he was three thousand years older than me and not just eight. He looked not a day older than twenty-five and, though he carried himself as a man who bore a greater maturity and wisdom, in looks alone he could have passed for slightly younger still.
I wondered what he had experienced in his lifetime, what he’d seen, what changes in the world and in society. But, most of all, I wondered how many women he’d been with.
Better not to think of that!
‘It’s so not fair,’ I whispered.
He stiffened in his seat, looking at me intensely, and his expression was pained. ‘I’m sorry, Sage. I wish ... I wish things could be different. This is wrong, I know.’
