by D B Nielsen
I groaned. Could things get any worse? This was the last thing I needed on top of everything else.
‘I’m fine,’ I tried to sound appeasing as I switched on the hallway light and the central heating, ‘I’ve been out with Gabriel and haven’t had an opportunity to call you guys yet. But everything’s okay. You don’t need to worry.’
‘Of course, I’m worried! Why wouldn’t I be?’ From her tone I could tell she was equal parts angry and defensive. ‘Honestly, Fi, I should have gone with you to Lyon! What was I thinking?’
I rolled my eyes, knowing very well that Sage couldn’t see me, and flopped down onto the king-sized bed in St. John’s guest room.
We weren’t back to that again!
‘I’m fine!’ I insisted, rolling over onto my stomach as I held the phone to my ear. ‘Stop panicking! Nothing happened! Renauld asked me the usual questions – When did I last see the artefact? What did I know about the artefact’s significance? How did I know it would be in Conservation? That kind of thing – and then he gave me a boring lecture on international art theft ... Though he did comment that I take really crappy photographs after viewing the photos you took!’
My last remark was touched with a degree of asperity that Sage couldn’t have failed to hear, even over the phone.
‘Oh. Right. Well, I suppose you’ll give a full account to me later.’ Her voice was so low, it was almost inaudible and I figured that I’d taken the wind out of her sails. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that it went well ... That’s all right then ... Um, I think Mum wants to have a few words with you...’
I could hear her quickened footsteps on the wooden floorboards of the upstairs landing and the creaking of the fifth step on the back stairwell, so familiar to me, as Sage made her way downstairs to divest herself of the phone. There was a moment of silence followed by some fumbling and then my mother’s warm, anxious voice came onto the line.
I kept the conversation deliberately brief, finding myself repeating much of what I’d already told Sage. But I did hasten to reassure her that my ordeal at Interpol was nothing to be concerned about and embellished a little on my outing with Gabriel, Vianne and Adele which made my Mum wax prolific about St. John’s charming “brother”. Finally, when I’d just about heard enough of her views on Gabriel, she reiterated the typical maternal advice to keep warm, get some much needed rest, eat healthy and regular meals, and take care before she hung up the phone.
I carelessly dropped my mobile on the bedside table and rolled once more onto my back, staring blankly for a moment at the hand-cast plaster ceiling medallion decorated in the style of the French Regency period that encircled the etched crystal and brass ceiling light. At some point I must have fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion as hours later, when I awoke, it was to the dim half-light of early morning. I was still fully dressed and lying on top of the striped pale blue and cream satin duvet. I glanced, disoriented, at the clock on the bedside table – it read five-thirty four.
Groaning, I rolled over onto my stomach and buried my face against the satin smoothness of the bedcovers. I briefly contemplated crawling under the covers and getting back to sleep. With my face pressed against the satin coverlet, I let my thoughts drift ... until I became aware of a persistent clicking noise that seemed to emanate from within the apartment walls or beneath the parquetry flooring.
Click, click, click...
I tried ignoring the sound, knowing that it was simply some repellent insect, but its incessant and irritating ticking chafed across my senses, and I felt compelled to investigate.
Heaving myself out of bed, I attempted to trace the origin of the ticking sound, moving stealthily into the corridor.
Click, click, click...
Tick, tick, tick...
As I stood there in the hall, undecided about which direction to take next, wondering what I would do when I found the insect, the thought came to me that perhaps this wasn’t a bug at all, and I was filled with a vague disquiet. I should have turned round and gone back to bed. I should have called Gabriel. I should have done a hundred things ... but, typically, curiosity won over.
Tap, tap, tap...
Click, click, click...
I was not familiar with the layout of St. John’s apartment but knew it well enough to realise that the sound was moving towards his study. Supposing this sound was a thief or, worse still, an Emim or Rephaim. There were valuable things in the study; antiquities and artefacts, and potentially manuscripts, scrolls and cuneiform tablets that might hold some clue as to the whereabouts of the other half of the map. I had a sudden rather terrifying impulse to creep there now and go into the room to see for myself.
I hesitated, glancing down the long corridor. The apartment seemed very still and quiet but for the clicking noise; the sound echoing in the empty hall. I began to walk down its narrow length. My heart was beating in a queer, excited way.
I found myself outside the study where I had stood that first evening. I had not been in there since, except to take a peek at Gabriel’s repair work, nor had I wished to venture inside.
The muted glow from the still-operating streetlights streamed in from the top floor windows and made dull gold patterns on the dark panelling.
There was quite suddenly no sound at all.
I was aware of the rapid beating of my heart and a certain musty, stale smell – the smell that rare books and ancient papyrus give off after decades and centuries of being stored in an airless atmosphere and dim lighting. It was dark in the study as I felt for the light switch on the wall and turned it on.
My first impression was one of shock because the room was almost exactly as it had been that first evening. The antique French Ormolu clock on the mantelpiece which I had accidentally broken had been replaced with one that was, at a glance, identical. But, quite unlike my expectations, the room was empty of any occupant. For one desperate moment I thought that something had happened to my mind; that I was looking back into Time and gazing upon the room anew.
I waited.
Nothing happened.
I walked slowly into the middle of the room and paused.
Click, click, click...
The ticking started up again. Louder now than before.
Click, click, click...
I scanned the room for its source. It seemed quite close, within the study itself. Self-consciously, I had the hysterical urge to laugh as the scene reminded me of the film, Aliens, where the Marines and company representatives barricaded themselves into the colony complex only to find that they had failed to check the ceiling access and, dangerously, aliens were now in the crawlspace over the ceiling panelling, directly above them.
I began to berate myself about my overactive imagination. But it was then that I saw it.
Crawling across the floorboards in the furthest corner of the room, its dark rotund form drew my fixed gaze.
The Death Watch Beetle.
I knew it immediately from my interest in Gothic art and literature since Mum had read Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart to Sage and me when we were little. I remembered the narrator hearing the beetle’s tapping in the walls while he watched his victim in his bedchamber dying – pretty gruesome stuff to read to children, but I loved it.
I knew the Death Watch Beetle never normally came out at this wintry time of year. Instead, to attract a mate, these woodborers would make a tapping or ticking sound – a sound that could be heard in the rafters of old buildings especially during quiet summer nights. As a result, they were associated with restless, sleepless nights and named for the vigil, or watch, kept beside the dying or the dead. The superstitious saw the Death Watch Beetle as an omen of impending death. Luckily, I was not superstitious. But I was curious.
I watched, intrigued, as the beetle traced its path, following the furred edge of the Persian rug, and scuttled under the solid wood bookshelf where there was a crack in the floorboards, disappearing from my sight. Rushing over to where it had vanished, I got down on bended knee and
placed my eye against the crack to look furtively down into the hollow beneath. But to no avail. The Death Watch Beetle had gone.
Sitting back on my haunches, I gave a drawn-out sigh, castigating myself for not acting quicker, when I just so happened to notice that a small piece of parchment – merely a corner – poked out from beneath the bookshelf’s skirting. I wondered if an old piece of paper, an important document or some valuable manuscript had slipped beneath the edge of the bookshelf and had lain there long forgotten.
I felt rising excitement and a surge of daring.
I knew what I had to do.
At first, I tried to tug at the exposed corner of the parchment but, fearing that I might tear it, looked around for some implement to assist me in working it free from where it was imprisoned. Not even pausing to think, I dashed to the kitchen to collect a knife from the cutlery drawer and wedged it beneath the bookshelf. Working the knife back and forth, I felt the skirting board give way and slip free from its anchors. In fact, it didn’t take much effort at all, and I realised that this section of the bookshelf was meant to be easily removed to hide a small compartment, storing whatever valuables the owner wished to keep secret.
It didn’t even occur to me that I might be violating St. John’s privacy, so focused was I on my task. I just was not thinking at all. Instead, acting instinctively, I reached into the dark cavity and extracted the single piece of parchment from where it had been placed ages ago and was gathering dust.
It crackled between my fingertips as I tried to handle it as gently as possible and it smelt of the unmistakable mustiness of age. I knew enough about handling old documents and artworks to realise that I should have been wearing gloves to protect the parchment from the sweat and acid on my fingers, but I was far too excited to pay attention to the little voice in my head that advised caution. My parents would have been horrified at my lack of care but it didn’t seem to matter when compared against the urgency of my need to see what the parchment contained.
It slowly came away from where it had been stored, gradually revealing colour and form.
I recognised the artist and subject instantly. Being the daughter of an artist had its advantages, such as a prolific exposure to great works of art from different periods, artists and mediums.
I was holding an original artwork by William Blake in my hands; the missing fourth print. The large colour monotype print with additions in ink and watercolour depicted Nebuchadrezzar II, which had been inspired by The Book of Daniel where the great ruler emerged as an unbalanced and imprudent character, punished for hubris by being condemned to live in the wild. The English mystical poet and artist worked on his vision of the wild man-beast of Nebuchadrezzar II, graphically showing the Babylonian king’s madness during his banishment in the wilderness; imaginatively interpreting the meaning of Daniel’s words: “He was driven from among men, and ate grass like an ox; and his body was wet with the dew of heaven till his hair grew as long as eagles’ feathers, and his nails were like birds’ claws.”
I had made a study of Blake once for a school assignment and knew that he believed that Nebuchadrezzar II was connected to the Christian Apocalypse. From a very young age, Blake claimed to have seen visions, believing that he first saw God from his bedroom window at the age of four. The visions persisted and when he was around ten-years-old, Blake claimed to have seen a tree filled with angels and their “bright angelic wings bespangling every bough like stars”. Throughout his life, Blake believed himself to be a conduit for the divine where he was personally instructed and inspired by the archangels to create his artistic works. In fact, he was obsessed with all things angelic and holy.
I wondered why it had never occurred to me before now as I gazed upon this arresting image that Blake may have had a greater understanding of the Apocalypse and the secrets of the Nephilim than most mortals. I’d never even thought to look at artworks or artists for clues, despite my affinity for art. But I should have known better.
I knew that I’d have to dig deeper than I had previously, and had already decided to start with Blake’s fixation on the land of Albion – commonly associated with England, though I first heard of it when Nicholas Hoult starred in Jack the Giant Slayer – which had a Garden of Eden quality. If this was the case, it might imply that the second part of the map was located somewhere in Britain. While most of Europe after the Industrial and French Revolutions had fallen into a state of decay, suffering war and the terrors of philosophical reasoning, Blake inferred that the end of all this desolation was marked by the appearance of the sun of Eternal Day over the hills of Albion.
The universe was meant to be in balance; creative energy and imagination combined with the power of logic and reason were able to bring harmony and stability to the world. As I gazed in wonder upon Blake’s Romantic depiction of the visionary, mad ruler of Babylon, it finally dawned on me that this was the true meaning behind my role in the quest to see the Seed safely back to its origin. Sage and I balanced each other out – her reason combined with my creativity. Alone, we would not be able to find the Garden of Eden, and we would fail. Together, we formed a complete whole and, between us, nothing was impossible.
Deep down, I had always known this for the truth. But it was as if I needed a sign, like the Wise Men following the Star of David, to show me the way...
AN UNEXPECTED DELAY
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The steady ticking of the newly-replaced French Ormolu clock on the mantelpiece above my head and the sounds of daily life – the traffic of early morning, street cleaners, and the bustle and grind of business workers and tourists – outside the curtained window, arising from the street below, gradually awakened me to my surroundings. I don’t know how long I had been sitting back upon my haunches on the floor of the study with Blake’s artwork in my hands, but I now felt stiff with cold and the muscles of my left leg had gone completely numb, feeling like a leaden weight. Easing my frame into an upright position, wincing with the familiar sharp tingle of pins and needles as the blood rushed back into chilled muscles and ligaments, I hurriedly restored the print back in its hide-hole, covering it from view as I replaced the wooden skirting board by latching it to its anchors at the base of the bookshelf. I did not want to alert St. John to the fact that I had been prying into his personal affairs, especially knowing that Sage would be furious with me if she found out.
A hot shower and a change of outfit was the first order of the day as I had slept in my clothes from the night before and now felt slightly seedy. As the water coursed over my chilled limbs I felt, if not completely refreshed, at least warmer. I almost didn’t want to leave the sanctuary that the shower provided, knowing that the bathroom’s temperature would be a few degrees cooler, but I forced myself to do so because I was certain that Gabriel would be making an appearance soon with breakfast, bought hot and fresh from the local boulangerie.
Grabbing a fluffy Egyptian cotton towel off the heated towel rack, I quickly dried myself, shivering slightly as I stepped back into the guest bedroom, smelling of Rose de Mai shower gel. With the towel wrapped like a turban around my long wet hair, I perused the contents of my suitcase and quickly threw on some warm clothes from the limited selection I had brought with me to France.
Without the need to wear Sage’s rather boring, conservative suit again, I opted for more fashionable clothes, an outfit much more like myself; a short neutral-toned, slate coloured woollen skirt that rested mid-thigh complemented the over-the-knee black leather boots and opaque tights that were always in fashion, and a splash of colour was added with the chunky knit top in an emerald green tone, which brought out the green in my eyes. I blow dried my long hair allowing it to curl naturally around my face and then put on some make-up; taking particular care not to press too heavily on my swollen bottom lip when layering it with lip gloss. It still stung from last night’s passionate assault and now gave my lips a sensual fullness, a pouty, Botox-injected look that Hollywood actresses often paid good money for.
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br /> After completing my toilette, I was in the kitchen having finally worked out how to use St. John’s gleaming copper-brass, state-of-the-art Italian espresso machine when I heard the rattle of the key as it was being placed in the lock and the front door to the apartment opening. I stiffened in wariness for a second or two until I heard Gabriel call out a greeting as he made his way to the kitchen, the aromatic smells of freshly brewed coffee and freshly baked bread mingling together and filling the air.
‘Bonjour, Saffron! Que fais-tu? What are you up to?’
Gabriel’s cheerful tone as he poked his pale gold head round the doorway belied our tense parting of the previous night. I was not fooled into thinking that he had forgotten the events of yesterday. Yet despite my resolution to remain immune to him, he had me blinking like a hare caught in the headlights under the full force of his charismatic personality as, on entering the close quarters of the kitchen, he flashed me a singularly charming smile.
Again, I was struck by the thought that it would take a lifetime to comprehend the exact nature of the Nephilim. Both Gabriel and Finn hid their true selves behind virtually impenetrable façades and I had only glimpsed – once or twice and, I was certain, quite unwittingly – what lay beneath. It was not difficult to believe that their ancient lineage was angelic – one only had to look at them to realise that there was something otherworldly about them – yet there was something so terribly human about them too, which added far greater complexity to their nature. I had little experience of such creatures and, even less, their feline, predatory traits. I might have prided myself on possessing some small skill in deception, but the Nephilim were masters in the art by comparison. I found them as difficult to understand as ancient Greek but was resolved – somehow – to master this particular language as a linguist might, if only to be in a position to hold my own around them.
