A Pale Horse

by Wendy Alec

  Maxim bowed his head, his lips moving in prayer.

  “Creatorem caeli et terrae . . . ,” he whispered.

  Dylan Weaver watched, mesmerized, as luminous white fire emanated from Lawrence’s fingertips.

  “ . . . et in Iesum Christum, Filium Eius unicum . . . ”

  Lawence’s entire body started to metamorphose. Dylan had seen it only once before; it was the most astounding thing he had ever witnessed.

  Dylan closed his eyes in respect, then, unable to stop himself, opened one. The brightest light he had ever seen was illuminating Liam Mercer’s entire body. Liam’s blond hair fell to bare muscular shoulders.

  Nick walked back into the room, then fell to his knees, shaking, covering his eyes with his hands to shield them from the incandescent light. The last thing either Dylan or Nick saw before Liam disappeared was a pair of enormous wings rising from his shoulders.

  ”Oh, my God!” Dylan muttered, terrified. “It’s Batman!

  * * *

  “Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine . . . ”

  Lawrence’s entire body started to take on a luminous, otherwordly glow as the spry five-foot-eight old man transformed into an eight-foot giant. Dylan stared in disbelief.

  “ . . . passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus, mortuus et sepultus . . . ”

  Dylan turned to Maxim, who himself now stood over eight feet tall. Dylan stared up at Maxim’s long white hair and beard that swept the floor.

  “ . . . descendit ad infernos, tertia die resurrexit a mortuis . . . Credo in Spiritum Sanctum . . . ”

  Lawrence and Maxim—or rather, Jether and Xacheriel—raised both hands to the sky.

  There was a loud clap of thunder; then a ferocious cobalt blue lightning bolt struck through the crypts and through the video screen.

  Nick stared in trembling awe at the glorious form six thousand miles away, walking on the waves of the Atlantic.

  “He’s here,” he whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Mont St. Michel, Normandy

  Adrian turned from the French doors and sat back down at the dining table.

  “Dessert, Mr. President, sir?” Anton, the abbey’s head steward, asked.

  Adrian gave a slight smile and held up his hand.

  “Coffee. Espresso.”

  Anton turned to Lorcan De Molay.

  “Your Excellency?”

  De Molay waved him away. As Anton walked out of the dining room, De Molay picked up his dessert fork. He paused and stared across the table at Adrian’s trembling fingers.

  Adrian picked up his wineglass and sipped once. His right hand started to tremble uncontrollably. He stared in horror as the glass fell from his hand and smashed in pieces on the oak floor.

  Gasping for breath, he tried desperately to undo his top shirt button. His throat was constricting so fast that his face was turning blue.

  He clutched at his windpipe, then slid in agony from his chair onto the polished oak floor.

  De Molay sat opposite him, suffocating, grasping at the clerical collar around his neck. In agonizing pain, he collapsed to the floor, the collar in his right hand.

  With immense difficulty, he clawed his way over the few feet across the Savonnerie rug toward the open French doors, then dragged himself up to his knees, shielding his eyes from the strange blinding light blazing from far below the cliff edge of Mont St. Michel.

  It was like a nuclear explosion.

  “It’s a terrorist attack on Mont St. Michel.” Adrian clutched his chest in agony. “Small nuclear device. No . . . bioterror. It has to be the botulinum toxin. It’s the only thing that has these effects.”

  “Did you see the gunships?” De Molay hissed, his teeth chattering so hard he could scarcely speak. “Did you see a missile?” he screamed, staring over at Adrian in disgust.

  Then he retched onto the carpet.

  “To us, the Fallen, it’s worse than botulinum toxin,” De Molay hissed.

  In agonizing pain, Adrian struggled desperately to drag himself nearer to the balcony. Slowly, he raised his head and stared toward the blinding light over the cliff. It was expanding in pulsating concentric circles over the Atlantic Ocean. The blazing rainbow overshadowed the entire mount. The floor started to shudder.

  Far in the distance, on an outcrop of rock in the Atlantic, two tall figures were in intense discussion.

  Lorcan De Molay’s face contorted in hatred. “My brother Michael,” he hissed.

  Adrian fell back, clutching his chest. “The second figure—who . . . Astaroth?”

  De Molay nodded, his eyes dull. He managed to lift and point his ringed finger. “The third form, to the west. Walking on the Atlantic.” His face contorted with intense, unbridled hatred. “On the waves . . . ”

  Adrian lay pinned to the floor by a monstrous invisible force. “Who . . . who?” he whispered, shaking uncon- trollably.

  De Molay turned his face to Adrian’s in a mixture of hatred and dread. “It is Him!” he cried in terror.

  “It is the Nazarene!”

  Then the entire world of Mont St. Michel fell into utter darkness.

  * * *

  Atlantic Ocean, Mont St. Michel, Normandy

  Michael and Astaroth stood facing each other on the rocky outcrop a mile out into the Atlantic.

  Astaroth removed his helmet and shook his long blond hair free from its bands. Michael did the same. They stood facing each other—nine-foot lean, imperial angelic forms, their mammoth angelic wings outstretched.

  Both their gazes locked on the majestic figure in white robes walking across the raging waves of the Atlantic. Suddenly, the figure vanished.

  “She is safe,” said Astaroth. He sighed and stared down at his helmet.

  “They will note your abscence.”

  “I am past caring,” Astaroth murmured. “Both Adrian and the prince will be suffering from the Nazarene’s presence.”

  “And yet,” Michael whispered, “you, Astaroth, once my close and trusted companion, commander of my armies—yet you do not suffer . . . ” Michael frowned. “ . . . from the nearness of His presence.”

  Michael stared in wonder at Astaroth before him.

  “No.” Astaroth wiped a lone tear from his cheek. “I do not suffer. His presence is the only respite from the great torments of my soul. To look upon Him once again has been my greatest longing.”

  “Yet your entire existence is with the prince of the Fallen and his cunning wizard.”

  “I chose to follow Lucifer, and I will pay the penalty for all eternity. Yet it will never stop me from loving Him who used to be my entire being.”

  Michael sighed. “Astaroth,” he whispered.

  Astaroth shook his head. “Don’t, Michael. I am doomed. I followed Charsoc through the Portal of Shinar. I will spend my days in the guise of one of the Race of Men, but unlike you, I cannot maintain my angelic form. The longer I am on Earth, the more I lose my ability to maintain my angelic body. I will be Neil Travis forever, except that I cannot die. And the Lake of Fire is my eternal destination.

  “I know where you go,” Michael murmured. “It has not been hidden from me.”

  “You know?” Astaroth faltered.

  Michael nodded. He raised his palm.

  The Atlantic disappeared, and suddenly they were surrounded by the gnarled ancient trees in the Garden of Gethsemane.

  Astaroth was now in human bodily form: six feet two, muscular, with close-cropped brown hair. He felt at his side for his firearm.

  “Automatic reflex.” He smiled wryly at Michael. “Welcome to the life of Neil Travis, ex-SAS.”

  Travis stared at Michael in wonder. He was now six feet one, with cropped blond hair and a close-fitting black suit. They could almost be twins.

  “Liam Mercer, bodyguard extraordinaire. Ex-navy SEAL.”

  “I was here, Astaroth,” Michael whispered. “The night before He died. We were bequeathed one of the greatest privileges in heaven
. We came with Jether to minister to Him before His crucifixion.”

  Astaroth nodded. He fell to his knees under a tree. “It is here—only here—that I find His comfort. Only here.”

  “They do not know?”

  Astaroth shook his head. “I will yet find a way to repay some of the debt for my rebellion.” He quickly looked up at Michael and raised his hand. “I know there is no redemption for me. That is not my motive. I do it because I would make amends somehow, some way, loving Him even though I committed high treason. I am content with my lot, with my punishment. “I will find a way, Michael, to make partial amends.”

  “Charsoc knows the state of your being?”

  “He may guess, but he does not know. He himself may wrestle. I do not know.”

  Michael nodded. He clasped Astaroth’s arm. “I am truly sorry it has come to this.”

  Astaroth stared at him blankly. “No, Michael. Don’t. There is no return. I am a slave of the King of Lies. And yet, I find that my soul is imprisoned by the King of Love. I take responsibility for my own actions, as you and Jether taught me.

  “I must return, Michael.”

  Astaroth removed himself from Michael’s grasp. He vanished, leaving Michael alone.

  In the Garden of Gethsemane.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Gramercy Apartment, New York

  Four hours and three minutes had passed since Adrian phoned Julia with the news that no mother should ever receive—the news she would never recover from. The phone call at 9:17 that morning had changed the course of her life irrevocably.

  Lily.

  She looked down at the photographs that lay scattered on the bed. Lily at six, smiling and carefree. Lily at nine. Lily at twelve, thirteen, sixteen . . . She closed her eyes. Her chest was sore, so sore, from sobbing.

  Julia stared blankly at the bottle of sleeping tablets clutched in her left hand. With a great effort, she opened the lid and shook out a handful into her palm.

  Slowly, one by one, she dropped nine tablets back into the plastic container. Then she took a deep breath and washed the remaining three down with a glass of water on the nightstand, willing the blackness of sleep’s oblivion to descend on her swiftly and take her out of the cruel, desperate pain that felt as though it was tearing apart her entire being.

  She fell facedown onto the carpet, screaming silently. Screaming, screaming. Clawing at the Aubusson carpet beneath her, her matted blond hair fallen over her face, until she fell into a tormented, restless slumber.

  She was still there, sprawled across the carpet, as the gray New York dawn seeped into the room.

  * * *

  Monastery of the Archangels, Alexandria, Egypt

  The helicopter hovered above the grass helipad in the center of the monastery gardens.

  Nick and Lawrence watched intently as the chopper landed and the rotor blades slowed to a standstill. The door opened, and Pierre, Adrian’s chauffeur, climbed down the steps, carrying a metal briefcase, followed closely by Lulu, Jason’s ridgeback.

  Lawrence nodded to two monks, who ran toward the helicopter with a stretcher, followed closely by Nick.

  Lawrence made the sign of the cross as Pierre walked toward him and handed him the briefcase.

  “He saved her,” Pierre whispered. “Literally.” The tears welled in his eyes. “The tides came in. I was too late. I watched her drown in the quicksand. I couldn’t get to her. She was gone, Lawrence. Completely submerged. Washed out to sea, well below the surface.”

  “But He came.” Nick shook his head in wonder.

  Pierre nodded, deeply moved.

  Nick stared down at Lily as she was loaded onto the stretcher. She was pale—oh, so pale. But her breathing was even. Lawrence and Nick exchanged a euphoric glance.

  “Jason?” Nick looked at Lawrence.

  “Don’t wake him. Let him sleep.”

  Lawrence bent over Lily and brushed her matted dark hair off her face.

  “Take Lily to the sanatorium,” Lawrence instructed Father Benedictus. “Nick and I will stay with her through the night.”

  “He . . . He . . . ” Pierre wiped a tear from his cheek. “I saw Him . . . walking . . . on the water. A hundred, a hundred fifty yards out. He was walking on the raging Atlantic.” He took a deep breath and bowed his head.

  “You . . . you actually saw Him.” Nick’s eyes searched Pierre’s face hungrily.

  “I had never seen Him before,” Pierre whispered. He stared at Nick, tears streaming down his face. “He was so beautiful.” He stopped, overcome with emotion.

  “It is hard for the human soul to behold such beauty.” Lawrence placed a gentle hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “Go on, Pierre,” he said with a gentle smile.

  Pierre nodded. “The next thing I knew, He . . . He was on the shore. With her.” He choked up in emotion.

  Everyone waited in reverent silence until he regained his voice.

  “He lifted Lily up in His arms, then held her to His breast. Then stroked her hair and kissed her, right on her forehead. Like a father . . . like a mother.”

  Pierre clutched his crucifix and kissed it fervently.

  “We serve a compassionate savior.” Tears fell unheeded down his face. “I’m not sure what happened next, only that when I found her, she was warm and alive. And breathing.”

  “You know you can’t go back, Pierre,” Lawrence said softly. “This is it, old friend.”

  Pierre looked up in alarm. “But Hilde . . . Hilde’s still there. All these years. She has no idea what I do.”

  Lawrence smiled as a short, plump figure came running toward them from the direction of the kitchen, her gray plaits flying.

  “Ah, but I do, my darling Pierre.” Hilde sobbed and flung her cumbersome frame into her spry husband’s arms. “They told me everything.”

  Pierre looked up through Hilde’s sobbing and stroked her plaits. “So this is it, then. The end of the road.”

  “This is it.” Hilde dried her eyes with her apron.

  “I want to be of use, Professor,” said Pierre. “To protect the De Vere family is all I’ve ever known. I promised James De Vere—gave him my eternal word.” He bowed to Lawrence.

  Lawrence smiled “You’re on the team,” he said. “You’ll work under Liam Mercer. Wait till you see our comms setup. Hilde’s already started; she’s helping Brother Castigliano in the kitchens.”

  The sound of raised voices echoed from the monastery kitchens.

  Hilde pursed her lips. “A good, solid frying pan on the head is what he needs!” She rubbed the tears from her eyes, then glared at one and all, then at Pierre. “You need to clean up!” She pursed her lips. “You need a shave!”

  Pierre raised his hands in the air.

  “Nag, nag—always nagging.” He winked at Lawrence, then followed Hilde meekly toward the kitchen door. “I’m the only one who can keep her under control!” He grinned as Hilde glared at him.

  Nick watched in amusement as the squabbling Pierre and Hilde disappeared into the monastery. He frowned. “Where’s Liam? I haven’t seen him.”

  “He’s on his way.” Lawrence clasped Nick’s arm. “Nicholas, I’m afraid I have disturbing news.”

  Nick looked back at Lawrence steadily. “It can’t wait?”

  Lawrence gazed at him in silence.

  “Okay, Lawrence.”

  “It concerns Gabriele Alessandro and Project Ice- man.” Lawrence paused. “It concerns Kurt Guber and his mercenaries.”

  “Guber . . . ” Nick shook his head. “No . . . you’re not saying Guber . . . ”

  “I’m afraid I am.”

  Nick looked at Lawrence in shock. “Dead?”

  “The entire team of Project Iceman.” All forty-five scientists—executed, along with all security forces and intelligence operatives at the Lake Vostok base.”

  “Gabriele Alessandro?”

  “Executed.”

  Nick stared at Lawrence in horror. “And . . . and the . . . the cargo?”
>
  “Now in the biocontainment centers of Mont St. Michel.”

  Nick stared at Lawrence, his mind reeling. “How many?”

  “Over a hundred. A hundred and six, to be precise.”

  “It’s our worst nightmare.”

  “No, Nicholas,” said Lawrence evenly. “Our worst nightmare, regrettably, has only just begun.”

  * * *

  Jason woke. He stared groggily around the monastery cloister, then swung his legs out over the iron bed.

  Where was he?

  Lily. Yesterday’s events came rushing back at him like a runaway truck.

  He closed his eyes. The pain hit him like a heavy iron weight in the pit of his stomach. He sat paralyzed; his head fell heavily onto his chest.

  Lily was dead.

  He had watched his own daughter drown. Before his eyes. Helpless. He would never forgive himself . . . or Adrian.

  Slowly he walked over to the small porcelain sink and stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror.

  He looked haggard, unshaven, and unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot. He picked up his razor, but his fingers shook so hard, it slipped from his hand.

  Lily . . .

  He closed his eyes.

  A loud knocking disturbed the silence.

  “Leave me alone,” he muttered.

  The knocking grew more insistent.

  “I said leave me alone!” he shouted.

  The door opened. Maxim stood in the doorway

  Unable to talk, Jason waved at him to go, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “Go away, Maxim,” he rasped.

  “The professor is waiting for you,” Maxim said. “I need you to come with me, Master Jason. Urgently.”

  “For God’s sake, Maxim!” Jason looked up at him, tears falling down his unshaven cheeks. “Let me grieve in peace, man.”

  Lulu the ridgeback bounded in, making a beeline for Jason. She jumped onto him with her forepaws and licked his face liberally.

  “Lulu?” He stared at Maxim, dazed. “How . . . what’s Lulu doing here?”

  “Jason.” Lawrence stood in the doorway, looking fresh as a daisy, in pressed trousers, linen shirt, and cravat. He gestured to Maxim to leave.

  Jason stood in his vest and shorts, staring blankly at Lawrence.